"Charles!"

The second time Major Houlihan attempted to wake up the sleeping Charles Emerson Winchester III from his cot, she accompanied her loud whisper with a forceful shaking of the shoulder.

The tall man moved his arm to clutch his face, groaning at the intrusion.

"Charles!" Margaret exclaimed again in her whisper, the noise not quite loud enough to take up the sleeping Pierce and Hunnicutt. "Wake up!"

"Ugh—what is it?" he grumbled, his eyes still shut.

"Shhh! Keep it down! It's Ignazio," she began, eyes wide in the darkness, her voice no more than a harsh whisper. "He's come back and he won't take no for an answer!"

"Ignazio?" Now Charles opened his eyes, his face that of utter confusion. Margaret was wearing her silk pajamas, her face twisted with alarm. His mouth felt dry as he continued questioning her. "What in the world are you saying?"

It had been a couple of months since the Italian corpsman Ignazio De Simone had been brought to the 4077th with a leg wound, and in that time, things at the 4077th had gone completely back to normal, aside from a sharp decrease in infections due to the new cement floor in O.R. Ignazio De Simone had arrived back at the 4077th as an apparent guest observing M.A.S.H. procedure, having insisted he'd gotten permission from the C.O. This could not be confirmed; Colonel Potter had been called away for the last couple of days, making Pierce the de facto doctor in charge. And yet, Margaret hadn't gone to Pierce about this at all.

The tall mustached Italian corpsman had received a Dear Giovanni letter from his love Angela during his stay at the M.A.S.H. and Margaret had tried to encourage him with compliments, compliments that he had taken a bit too far. Ignazio had become obsessed with her to the point of going AWOL and returning to the M.A.S.H., only for Margaret to tell him that she was in love with another man, that man happening to be Charles.

"I'm saying," she hissed, "that Ignazio has returned here on a mission, and no matter what I've said to him, he won't listen."

"Ignazio, you say?" he grumbled, rubbing his eyes. "What, is that some kind of… exotic new disease?"

"You could describe him that way, I guess."

"Ah." Charles had nothing more to add.

"Really, you don't remember him at all?" Margaret sighed. "He's the Italian corpsman that confronted you about my, uh… loving you. It was the night we all redid the O.R. floor."

Charles pulled himself up onto his elbows, squinting up at her. He recalled that day quite well. In fact, it had been a rather odd day, having some random man storm into the room and insisting in some ridiculous accent that Major Margaret Houlihan was in fact secretly in love with him, only to have her immediately refute it before he could even process any of it.

"Ha. And to think, I'd almost forgotten that completely," he muttered disappointedly. "Thank you for the reminder of that most… interesting run-in. Though, why don't you take it up with Pierce?" Winchester countered, pointing across the Swamp at the fast-asleep surgeon. "After all, he is the commanding officer as of this moment."

Now Margaret gave Charles a sheepish smile.

"I don't want to get lots of people involved in this. Ignazio is misdirected, but I don't want him to get into trouble with his unit. He insists he has Colonel Potter's permission, but if he doesn't and he's actually AWOL, he could be in serious trouble."

"Please remind me how his going AWOL is our problem," Charles drawled.

Margaret gave him a tight grin.

"Well, ever since he showed his face here about two hours ago, he's been following me around like a lost dog. He won't leave me the hell alone."

Now Charles's eyes grew slightly wide with realization.

"Wait—am I to understand that he is just outside the Swamp, listening to every word we say? You didn't think this out very well, did you?"

"No, he's not," she shot back. "Right now, he's sitting in front of my tent, waiting for me," she muttered through clenched teeth. "I had to sit in the latrines for more than a half an hour to make him go away, but now he's blocking me from sleeping in my own damn bed!"

Now Charles smiled.

"Ha. Well, you are certainly welcome to the extra cot there," he indicated, gesturing at the empty corner of the Swamp. "I imagine Hunnicutt's cot is also available, being as he is on the night shift at present."

Her face reddened with exasperation.

"So you want him barging in here and disturbing your sleep? Fine. Just say the word."

Now she crossed her arms, looking resolute. There was a silence that followed in which Charles squinted up at her with bewilderment. It was nearly two in the morning, a time in which his brain was typically at rest. When Margaret made no move to take the cot or even to reply, Charles was reminded of the sleep he was losing with each moment of this ridiculous exchange.

"What exactly is your goal here, Margaret?" Charles spat, getting more irritated by the second.

"I want him to give up on pursuing me and go back to his unit."

"Can you not, ah, just simply tell him that? Surely he knows rudimentary Englis—"

"I told you, he won't take no for an answer! He won't listen!"

"I believe the word for no in Italian is in fact also no, so I'm not understanding this alleged language barri—"

"As you recall, the only thing that worked to make him go away last time was telling him I was interested in you."

Charles gaped at her, his smug expression fading to that of annoyance as he thought about her words.

"Yes, followed by your instantaneous retraction of the statement." He rolled his eyes, clucking his tongue. "That was very convincing, Margaret."

She shrugged.

"Well, it was still enough to convince him, at least, for a while. Can you please play along again, to make him go away for good? If he sees that we're… together, that should discourage him forever."

Charles collapsed heavily back on his cot, shutting his eyes with annoyance. Margaret frowned at his very clear response. Charles wasn't willing to help her.

"What are you doing?" she asked him, panic rising in her throat.

"I am going to attempt to recoup the sleep I have lost."

"What about what I just said? Are you not going to help me?"

Charles's eyes remained closed, his face impassive.

"No."

Margaret's face turned a shade of red, her fists balling at her sides.

"How can you say that," she growled, "after all we've—"

"Margaret, the answer is no," he interrupted. "I don't have the patience or the time to play along in your attempts to fool that poor deluded man into believing some… fantasy. It is clear you must have led him on at some point."

"I didn't! The problem is, he doesn't take no for an answer!"

"Is that so?" Charles snapped back sarcastically. "Well, you and your Italian beau have more in common than you think."


Now Margaret had pulled the extra cot across the floor of the Swamp, rearranging Charles's furniture as she parked the cot right next to his. During this time, Charles had remained still with eyes closed but as she settled in next to him, his eyes shot open, head rolling to the side to see his new bedmate.

"What in God's name do you think you're doing!?" he exclaimed, a little too loud. Now Pierce was stirring.

"Shhh! Please, Charles. I can't go back to my tent alone," she spat, sitting up abruptly and crossing her arms. "Last time, he forced his way into my tent; if his leg hadn't been hurt, who knows what he would have done!"

That was something he hadn't known, and he felt an odd twinge of rage at the thought of it. He sighed in an attempt to defuse his growing ire, knots forming in his stomach.

"What would you have me do?" he said, pulling himself back to a seated position and swallowing at their close proximity. "Accompany you back to your tent? Fine. I can then bid you goodnight in full view of him and you can be assured that he will n—"

"No," she blurted.

"No what?"

"I want you there, with me."

"There where?"

"In my tent. I don't want to be alone. I don't trust him."

Now Charles saw the wrinkles in her forehead, the tightness at the corners of her mouth, the very real vulnerability this tough-as-nails woman was expressing to him. Margaret Houlihan did not feel safe. She was trying to tell him that she was afraid. He might have been one of the only people who even knew she could feel fear. He and Margaret were certainly good friends, but there were aspects of her that he knew nothing of, such as her relationship with other men. As a rather tall, burly man, he hadn't considered the perspective of a woman, a woman being pursued by a sizable man who had already gone AWOL once before. He was losing this argument and his sleep at the same time.

"Can't you stay in the nurse's tent?" he suggested. "Surely there is strength in numbers."

"And have that ass keep all the nurses up all night long with his caterwauling? They will lose all respect for me when they see that I can't rid myself of him. Or maybe he will latch himself on to one of them and they will have to go through this crap. I just want as few people knowing about this as possible."

"Why me?"

"Please, Charles," she said, grabbing his hand, her expression that of pure desperation. "It's just for tonight. If he doesn't get the message by your staying in my tent, then I will have to talk to Pierce about getting him taken away or maybe Klinger could radio his C.O. or—"

"Where will I sleep? On the floor? I am not sacrificing the alignment of my verteb—"

"In my bed."

He gulped at the implication of it, at the sheer desperation Margaret must be feeling to do this. It was more than a year ago that he'd attempted to bring his cot into her tent simply to sleep, only to have her rebuff him and send him on his way. And now she was inviting him to sleep on her very bed?!

"Your bed?!"

"Yes, my bed. It has a real wooden frame and everything. Way more comfortable than the shit cots you all have to sleep on here."

He winced, a sigh quietly slipping through his gritted teeth. He'd blown his chance to go back to Tokyo to protect her; getting to sleep in a real bed on a real mattress to ensure her physical safety was nothing in comparison.


Charles groaned as he stood up in his blue pajamas, stretching his back as he watched Margaret stand up beside him and then wordlessly move the surplus cot back to where it belonged.

"Now, I think it would be best if we were chatting when we get over there," she quietly instructed him. "We should laugh and smile at each other. I think holding hands would really—"

"Holding hands?" he spat with amusement. "What are we, grade schoolers?"

Margaret looked hurt.

"Well, what do you suggest?" she shot, raising her eyebrows. "Would it be more adult for you to pin me against the side of my tent and—"

"Holding hands, it is," he interrupted, quickly clamping his mouth shut. With that, he held out his large hand to her, grimacing all the while. "Here, let's just get this over with."


"And then Ellie played on the accordion, all the while Brandy stuck her leg in your face!" Margaret said loudly, laughing as she strode directly towards her tent, Charles smiling alongside her. He could not help but laugh; the USO troupe that had visited the M.A.S.H. several months ago had been quite the entertaining bunch, with Fast Freddie cracking jokes that somehow made him double over with laughter over and over again in spite of himself.

"I thought she was going to kick me!" Winchester replied, his toothy grin almost painful at this point, spotting a dark sitting figure by Margaret's tent. They'd taken the long way around in this silly state, only raising the volume of their voices these past twenty steps or so in the hopes that Ignazio would be the only one made aware of their shared faux joy.

"And Fast Freddie—man, did he know how to get to you! That Winchester bullet joke! Wowee! Something about a man of your caliber, right?"

"Yes, he was quite the jokester," Charles replied, recalling. He'd laughed so hard at those stupid jokes, that tears had been brought to his eyes. If only Fast Freddie were here now; he'd have no trouble looking ridiculously amused.

"I heard Ellie really got you," Margaret commented now, giving his hand a squeeze. Interestingly, Charles's hand was already sweaty, even though they'd only been holding hands for perhaps three minutes.

"What do you mean?"

"I heard she played Beethoven on the piano in the O Club. I'll bet you were shocked."

"Quite," he recalled, "but then she helped me to forget her talent by immediately playing a stirring rendition of the Beer Barrel Polka. In fact, I danced with Kellye for that one."

Margaret's jaw dropped as she looked at him—was that genuine surprise on her face, or was it excellent acting? They were now less than thirty feet from the silent Ignazio, who had since stood up. "You can dance the polka? Now that is surprising."

"I am capable of many things, some far more shameful than others."

"I'd like to see some of those," she countered, using her free hand to rub along his arm good-naturedly.

Now it was Charles's turn to be surprised. In fact, Margaret was playing the role of interested girlfriend quite well. In fact, she was a natural at this play-acting.

"Margherita, what is this?" Ignazio exclaimed, gesturing wildly at the pair.

"Don't you remember him? This is Dr. Winchester," she replied easily, releasing her hand from the sweaty handhold and putting it around his waist.

"This-a Winchest, the man with the bocce ball head? You say you love him so big but then tell him no you don't?"

"Well, as you can see, I finally won him over," Margaret replied, to feel Charles's body stiffen beside her. Now both of her hands were touching him, running softly down his back, his arm. "Now, if you'll excuse us…."

With that, she shoved past Ignazio, planting a firm hand on Winchester's back to push him through as well.

"Are you telling me you love this man?!" Ignazio said.

There was no delay.

"Yes, I am."

"Do you not realize how much I risk coming to steal you away?" Ignazio whined. "This-a man, he make you figli that are going to lose hair on their heads. Margherita, you should have bambinos that grow and keep hair!"

Rolling his eyes, Charles opened her tent door, moving into the small space as her hand disappeared from his back. Would she follow him and shut the obnoxious Italian out, or would he have to add some choice words to drive the man away?


Once inside Margaret's tent, Charles felt his way carefully through the darkness, eventually finding her lamp and turning it on.

"Margherita, I have been pining for you night after night, day after day," Ignazio continued outside the door. "I steal away in the night with a note from your colonel to show me surgery," he said, pulling a folded document out of his chest pocket. "I come through enemy territory in the night with only this note to protect my heart."

"I can't help it if you—"

"Now, this-a man you call Winchest, when he see danger, he say not a word and run away; you see? He go hide like a pappamolle."

Though it had been spoken in Italian, Charles understood the meaning of Ignazio's insult. This would not do.

Taking a deep breath, the tall surgeon pushed his way out of Margaret's tent, his fists clenched at his sides. Margaret was standing in front of the door and moved to accommodate him, but he moved behind her, placing his hands on her arms.

"Accept that she has chosen me and be done with it," he growled at Ignazio. "Go back to your unit and find someone who will appreciate lots in the way of hair and little in the way of brains."

Ignazio's face twisted with confusion; last time he'd had a run in with the Boston surgeon, Charles had not exactly given Margaret an encouraging reply.

"Do you love this woman?" Ignazio asked, pointing at Margaret.

"I fail to see how that is any of your business," was Charles's reply. "No one here need answer to you. Now get the hell out of here, before you become my next surgical patient."

Without waiting for a reply, Charles leaned behind Margaret, his hands moving down her arms, mouth next to Margaret's ear. "Now, Margaret, let us go to bed, Dear."

He felt Margaret shiver beneath his hands as he gently turned her around, and together they entered her tent. Of course, the damn flimsy door didn't lock, but perhaps the message had been received. Only time would tell.


Once Charles and Margaret were inside her tent, everything became extremely awkward. Gone were the faked laughter, handholding, and intimate whispers. How much longer would they have to keep up the guise of a relationship? The walls were slightly reinforced with paneling, but Ignazio could open the door at any moment and see that it was all a sham.

With a cock of the head and a raising of the eyebrows, Margaret gestured to her bed, watching as Charles slipped off his slippers and sat down on the mattress. Where would she be sleeping? He watched the head nurse standing motionlessly above him as he shifted his long legs under the blanket, his pajamas suddenly damp with sweat.

The weather was hot and humid, so why had Margaret shivered?

Margaret moved to her lamp, clicking it off. Charles swallowed in the quiet darkness, just beginning to appreciate the firmness and support of Margaret's mattress, a mattress on a real twin bedframe and not some army-issue cot. The bed smelled of her, of her perfume and shampoo, and yet, he did not find it inappropriate as he did at the O.R. table. Was Ignazio still just outside the tent? He hadn't heard the rustling of clothing or the sound of footfalls—the damn man was probably going to sit out there out night waiting for him to leave.

He would smell like Margaret tomorrow, so he would have to figure out some way to get to the showers without anyone sniffing him. This was going to be a nightmare to hide.

And yet, it wasn't until Margaret sat down on the mattress next to him that he truly jumped out of his skin.

"What are you doing?!" he whispered, eyes wide and mouth gaping in the darkness.

"What do you think?!"

And with that, she slid under the covers next to him.


"Margaret, the bed is far too small for two—"

"Shhhhh. Just scoot over a little."

Charles shifted toward the other side of the small bed facing Margaret, his backside flat against the wall, legs bent just enough so that he could fit his entire body on the small mattress. Now he could feel Margaret flipping around and then filling the hollow his body had created in front of him, her hair nestled under his chin, backside very close to his groin.

Margaret had snuggled up right against him in her very own bed. He broke into a cold sweat at the implications of this act: what would people think if he was found in such a state, with the head nurse of the 4077th, of all people!? He'd always been so careful not to get involved with the nurses, least of all the nurse with the most clout and power to make life truly miserable for him, should he misstep! God forbid he touch her inadvertently during the night and face a retaliatory court-martial or worse yet, castration!

"What are you—"

"Here, put your arm here," she whispered, reaching back and pulling his right arm over her body. As soon as she'd draped his arm over her body, she moved his hand up towards her face and held it between her own hands.

"Have you been drinking?" he asked her now, his voice small and full of terror. "I can't imagine you will be accepting of this in the light of d—"

"I'd rather it be you than him," she snapped back. "Please."

"But Margaret," he whimpered, only to find her pulling his hand under her warm neck.

"Shhh. Goodnight."


Charles lie behind Margaret for what seemed like an eternity, wide awake in the darkness. He could hear the Italian doing something outside the door—it sounded much like he was sharpening something.

In this situation, he was unable to talk this out with Margaret and yet, he felt very much in the wrong being nestled behind her on her own bed. But was he not ensuring her safety? Protecting her from a person who scared her? He was not doing anything wrong, so why did this feel so wrong?

Now he was sweating through his pajamas and he could smell his own body odor, his own sweaty stench intermingling with the soft feminine odors of her sheets, her pillow, the blanket he had since kicked off the end of the bed. Delicately, he began tugging his hand away from its hot trap, feeling his fingers sliding between her hands with each minute muscle movement to free it.

"What are you—?" she muttered in the darkness, reaching for the hand that was no longer there.

"Margaret, I am overheated."

"Then take off the blanket."

"I already did that."

"Well, I can't sleep without a sheet." She tugged at his sleeve. "Take off that top then. You are way overdressed. No use getting us both sweaty."

It was now Charles's turn to choke on his spit.

He sat up with alarm, coughing at the suggestion, and pinched his arm to find that it hurt. How could this be happening? Did Margaret realize that this was no way to—

"Please, just do it." She sat up beside him now, leaning to whisper into his ear. "It'll look more convincing, too."

"You can't be serious, Margaret. For one, I cannot imagine you telling Pierce to take his shirt off and get into bed with you."

"That's because I would never do that," she said, chuckling lowly.

He was taken aback, blinking rapidly at her curt response.

"Then, ah, why me?"

"Because," she said, leaning again close to his ear, "I've come to realize that you are the only man on the compound with no interest in me whatsoever. And that makes you the perfect fake boyfriend."

His breath caught in his throat at her reply, gooseflesh erupting down his neck. Is that what Margaret truly thought of him, as some sort of inert placeholder? Did she not recall those earliest days at the M.A.S.H. when he very deliberately flirted with her, sharing his most expensive food with her by candlelight, staring very closely into her eyes in the scrub room, their discussions of music and art that would sometimes go on for hours? Yes, she had been married at the time, but he had been reasonably bold with his advances, and she had rebuffed him countless times, more than he could count. Perhaps guilt was causing the feeling of wrongness as he lie behind her just now. He wasn't an inert placeholder, a mere puppet that had been created to keep another man at bay. Even so, it was true that he was no longer actively interested in her, so how exactly did he feel about her now?

"Just take off the top. I don't want you to be miserable all night."

"Too late," he muttered.

"Let's make a deal then," she shot back. "Obviously just being here is torture for you, so what kind of incentive can I give you to make this okay?"

"Don't worry about—"

"How about my upcoming three-day pass to Tokyo?" she blurted. "It's two weeks from now. I'll make sure Colonel Potter gives it to you instead."

Now his eyes were agog. She was willing to give him her R&R time at that Pearl of the Orient Tokyo? It was inconceivable to give up that time, the very-much earned time, the much-needed reprieve from the hell that was Korea. She had busted her butt to earn that time and yet, she was willing to give it to him for a night of sleeping beside her. It all sounded so odd, so completely pitiable.

"You don't have to give up your well-earned—"

"It's already done," she interrupted. "Your reward for doing this for me. Please say yes."

He rolled his eyes.

"Yes."

"Now, take that off," she said, tugging at his sleeve. "We don't need to wake up drenched in sweat."

With a sigh of irritation, Charles began to unbutton his long-sleeved pajama top. This was going to be quite the strange experience. He had plenty in the way of chest hair to brush up against her back; did she not realize that?

Margaret watched Charles as he reached the last button, shrugging the garment off his shoulders. Quickly she took it from him and threw it over her chair across the tent.

He lie back down, feeling his breaths quickening, his hands resting on his hairy abdomen. Had Margaret ever actually seen this aspect of him before? Perhaps she would wake up in the morning thinking Ignazio had in fact snuggled up behind her, his hairy Italian chest pushed up against her. He would be elbowed in the face and kneed in the groin before he could even fully regain consciousness!

"Roll on your side," she said, reaching out to touch his arm. "This bed is too narrow for us to lie on our backs."

This time he rolled away from her, facing the wall and curling in on himself. He could feel her attempt to snuggle into him, finding only his pajama-clad backside.

"What are you doing?!" she whispered harshly, facing him now. "I want you to put your arm around me. You get three days R&R for this!"

"Are you certain about this?" he murmured. "Because I don't want you awakening to believe that Italian is next to you—"

"Why would I think that?"

He fell silent, rolling onto his back.

"Why would I think that? Hmm?"

Now he reached over, tentatively taking her hand and placing it on his chest. Yet, rather than jerk her hand away, she spread her fingers out, touching his hair and moving her fingers through it.

"Ah," she said, smiling into the darkness, her hand still on his chest. "I'd no idea. Charles, you beast! Woof!"

"Ha. Yes, well…"

"I want you to face me," she said. "Please. There'll be more room on the bed that way."

Soon they had resumed their initial position under the sheet, with Charles lying on his side with his arm around Margaret, his chest now uncovered. Even though Margaret seemed to be intrigued at learning this new fact about him, the fakeness of what they were doing, the reason for it, bothered him.


The next morning, Charles awoke to find himself lying on his back, with Margaret's face on his chest, her fingers entwined in his chest hair. He blinked several times in the dim morning light, attempting to process the last six or seven hours. How in the world could everything go back to the way it was once the obnoxious Italian was gone? How could he pretend this had not occurred? Clearly it was in fact Margaret who had no further interest in anything, to be able to play pretend for a night with no furtherance of whatever this was.

"Good morning," Margaret said with a smile, remaining happily snuggled on Charles's chest. "Did you sleep well?"

"Eventually," he muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Let me go get us some mess tent food. Breakfast in bed for my rescuer," she said, sitting up now, a big toothy grin on her face. She threw a robe on over her silky pajamas and brushed her teeth as he continued to lie in bed, processing everything. He checked his watch—it was now ten in the morning, far longer than he usually slept, though the casualties had thankfully been kept at bay. A strange wistfulness filled him as he watched Margaret prepare to leave her tent. Surely this would be the last time he'd ever be welcome in her tent in this capacity, and the thought of it saddened him.

The moment Margaret opened the door, Charles could hear Ignazio scrambling to his feet.

"Margherita!" he said in his thick accent. "You have come back for me! I knew you would choose—"

Immediately Margaret shut the door in his face, turning back to a floored Charles.

"What in the world—?" he said, sitting bolt upright. "Why in God's name is he still here?"

"He told me yesterday that he has a three-day pass here to observe surgeries, courtesy of Colonel Potter. Can you believe the audacity, to use his R&R time to come here, of all places?"

"You failed to mention this last night," Charles groaned. "Am I to understand that you expect a repeat of this—this arrangement?!"

Margaret could only make a pleading face at him. So another night of shirtless snuggling with Margaret Houlihan, all in the spirit of protecting her from a lustful man. Even so, no good could come of his staying here again in her tent. Surely he would say something foolish or worse, do something foolish, and the nature of their relationship would be altered in perpetuity.

"Margherita," Ignazio called outside the door, "open this door and your heart to me." With that, the mustached Italian began singing an off-tune rendition of 'Volare.'

He could not risk it, could not risk saying something off-color and forever alter Margaret's perception of him. This had to end now.

"Argh! I cannot take any more of this!" Charles snarled, throwing the sheets aside and practically leaping to his feet. His teeth bared, he stomped barefoot to the door of Margaret's tent, throwing it open in Ignazio's face. When the Italian took several faltering steps backward, the angry surgeon followed him out into the space just outside Margaret's tent door. All the while, Margaret remained inside her tent, listening to the exchange.

"Did I not warn you that I would make you a patient here?!" Charles roared, balling his fists. "Why are you still here?"

Ignazio's eyes moved to Charles's shirtless form, but he said nothing about it. Several nurses and enlisted men saw the same sight, that of Major Winchester emerging shirtless and shoeless from Major Houlihan's tent well past early morning, and the gossip began in earnest.

"Because I see now that Margherita is wasting her time with a man who does not love her!" Ignazio yelled back. "You cannot even say the word! Margherita deserves amore!"

"Is that what you think you are doing, showing your love for her?" Charles said, noticing he'd attracted quite a bit of attention from members of the compound, but attributing it to the loud voices and not his own state of undress. "By camping outside Major Houlihan's door and attempting to force her to change her mind?"

"Then you tell me, what is love to a bocce-ball head?"

"That would be Doctor Bocce-ball head to you, Corpsman," Charles growled.

"You tell me what you think love is, Doctor Winchest." Now Ignazio had calmed himself down, crossing his arms and waiting for the reply. Charles was thankful for the welcome decrease in intensity of this confrontation. Perhaps the smattering of onlookers could disperse now that they were not privy to every uttered word.

"In fact, I would argue that love is merely a meaningless word, in the absence of action," Charles began. "Love can only be demonstrated."

"What is this de-mon-strat-e you say?" he asked, butchering the word. "How does one demonstrate amore?"

"I suppose you can only handle four-letter words and nothing longer," Charles said with a grimace. "To demonstrate means to show. There you are," he said with a condescending smile, "a nice little four-letter word."

"How many languages you speak, Winchest? I only hear inglese…"

"As I was saying, Corpsman, there are several things one can do to demonstrate love. Firstly, it involves empathizing with a person and behaving accordingly. Secondly, honoring someone's wishes, especially if those wishes are not in your best interest. Love is doing these things and not expecting recompense. Now, what you are doing, not taking no for an answer, demonstrates nothing but profound selfishness on your part."

Ignazio frowned now, considering.

"And you, you are honoring her wish?" Ignazio countered, gesticulating. "Lying with Margherita is not in your best interest? No recompense, as you call it? A De Simone is not so easily fooled."

A nurse gasped nearby, and Charles felt his face heating up. He swallowed loudly, considering how to respond. Surely Margaret was listening to this whole exchange as well. She would probably be livid if she suspected he felt any more than a friendly obligation to help her last night.

"That woman," Ignazio added, pointing to the tent, "she comfort me when my Angela say arrivederci. She tell me any woman who have me is a lucky woman. I want to make Margherita that lucky woman. Tell me, how that is not love?"

With that, he poked Charles in the chest, making him acutely aware of his shirtless state. Oh God. The rumors would never stop now. He'd screwed up badly, fighting this obnoxious man in the light of day. Now everyone would think he and Margaret were together, and nothing would ever be the same again.

"You fail to realize that Major Houlihan does not want that for herself," Charles said, his face reddening, though not from anger. "I've said quite enough. Now, go back to your unit or I will have MPs escort you back."

"But your colonel Potter; he give me permission," Ignazio countered, pulling out a slip of paper from his chest pocket. "I have the letter right—"

Charles snatched the letter off him, unfolding it and shoving it back at the Italian.

"Show me on the letter where you have been given permission to stalk and torment our head nurse."

He had won. Ignazio could only flash him a sheepish smile, and took the piece of paper back, slinking away like a defeated dog. At the same time, Charles turned around and went right back into Margaret's tent.


Margaret jumped at her tent door opening, a guilty look appearing on her face. Charles was far too focused on the exchange just outside her door to notice her expression, and moved past her to grab his pajama shirt from where it had been tossed over a chair.

"He's gone," Charles muttered, gritting his teeth. "He should no longer darken your doorstep."

"I guess now that you scared him off, I can go to the mess tent," she said. With that, she held her arms out for a hug. "Thank you, Charles."

He held the garment slack in his hand, deciding not to step forward to receive her hug, a shirtless, sweaty, dangerous hug.

"I do not wish to sully you with my sweat," he replied unsmilingly. "Perhaps I will get a shower while you are getting food."

"So I'll see you back here in about twenty minutes then?"

"You do realize now that my little fracas outside just now has started everyone talking. If I had just remembered to put my—"

"There will always be rumors flying around a M.A.S.H. unit as small as this one is," she said. "Hell, maybe it'll further convince Ignazio that he is not welcome here."


Ignazio De Simone sat glumly in the mess tent, running a finger through what appeared to be mashed potatoes but what was actually scrambled eggs. He was largely ignored by the incoming nurses and enlisted men, who brought their trays of unappetizing food to the long tables, sitting down and speaking of something very interesting.

Get this; Major Winchester and Major Houlihan are a couple!

He left her tent this morning with no shirt on!

Can you believe it? I would have never guessed they would get together!

You gotta be kidding me; Winchester and Houlihan?

Not one of these people seemed to believe that the two majors were compatible or that the relationship had begun any sooner than last night.

He remained silent but listening, taking everything in. His face grew angrier and angrier, mustache twitching. Perhaps it had been Winchester who had volunteered to protect Margaret against him, thereby taking advantage of her in her time of need. Sure, the tall surgeon's words just outside the tent had seemed convincing and genuine, but now he could see that their so-called relationship was anything but!

There was Margaret now, entering the mess tent to the immediate hushing of the majority of conversations. Rather than focus on this aspect of her arrival, Margaret's eyes shot over to Ignazio, which was just enough encouragement to bring him to his feet, his anger and passion nearly overflowing.


Charles turned on the taps, shrugging off his pajamas and slinging his robe over the hook by the door, a towel over the side of the shower stall.

Perhaps he should have reveled in the scent of Margaret for a bit longer; it was already well-established throughout the camp that he had slept in Margaret's tent last night. Perhaps at some point the masses could be convinced that he'd merely slept on the floor like some kind of bodyguard, protecting her from an unhinged Corpsman gone AWOL. Yes, perhaps that would work.

And yet, what to do with Margaret? Were her flirtations genuine, her touches and snuggles, the excitement she'd expressed when he'd placed her hand on his hairy chest? If her flirtations were genuine, then where did that leave him? He did not want to harm the relationship they currently had, one of friendship and mutual admiration. Was this entire thing a ploy to push him into a passionate, short-lived romp that would signal the end of their comfortable alliance? Then again, if her flirtations were not genuine, then that would imply that she was either terrified out of her wits of Ignazio and doing everything in her power to keep Charles near her, or that she was simply talented in the ways of coyness and feminine games.

Immediately he felt guilty; Margaret would not play those sorts of games. He suspected that in fact she was truly terrified, wanting him to protect her. If it had been Pierce walking out of the medical building that night they'd poured the cement, Margaret would have told Ignazio that she was in love with him instead, and it would be Pierce in this very situation now. He had been in either the right or wrong place at the right or wrong time, and this was the follow-up to that evening; no more, no less.


"Margherita, why you lie to me?"

She hadn't realized how difficult it would be to balance two trays, one in each hand. Perhaps she should have considered making two trips to the mess tent, but the fact that Ignazio had been there, awaiting her arrival with growing scowl, unnerved her.

Although everyone had gawked at her as she left the mess tent with a scandalous two trays, no one offered to help her or to ask her about the man clinging to her side now. Where was Pierce? Hunnicutt was sleeping from taking night shift. Was Charles still showering? Evidently so.

Notably Ignazio did not offer to help her with her trays, instead following beside Margaret as she attempted to carry them unsteadily back to her tent. Perhaps she should have swung by the shower tent to have Charles aid her. No—he deserved a break from this annoyance; this was not his fault at all. She was a tough, strong woman, daughter of Colonel "Howitzer" Houlihan, and she could defend herself against this one man.

"I did no such thing," she growled. "Now, please move; these trays are going to spill."

"This-a relationship you have with Winchest; it is nothing but a fake!" Ignazio exclaimed, gesticulating angrily. "I hear it all morning, blah blah blah, from the peoples that come and go from the mess tent. Never have you look at him that way before, let him into your tent. Why you try to trick me?"

Without answering him, she shoved him aside, somehow managing to open her tent door with no help.

"Get back!" she yelled, pushing him with her hip as she brought the trays into the mess tent. She sat them down on her desk with a sigh, glad that she had gotten the food here safely. Yet, when she turned around, she could see that he had followed her inside. She had worked so hard to keep herself from getting in this situation, and now she was internally kicking herself. She could only hope that because it was day time that he would not be so stupid as to try to—

"Get out!" she shrieked. He did not move, instead advancing toward her, his grin growing. No more would she try to protect this predator. "Help!" she yelled.

"Let me show you how a De Simone pleases his amore…"

"No! I don't want you! The answer is NO. Get out of here!"

He did not move from his position, his eyes moving predatorily from her face to her breasts and down to her feet then back up. Seeing that nothing was discouraging him, Margaret balled her fists and ran like a ram toward the door, only to be caught around the waist by Ignazio and thrown facedown onto her bed, Ignazio now behind her, his thighs pressed against hers, his hands on her hips, caressing her backside. She felt angry tears welling in her eyes, her screams wholly muffled by the sheets that smelled strongly of Charles, Ignazio shoving her face harder into the firm mattress as his other hand moved to the zipper of her pants. Her fight or flight reflex kicked in, adrenaline coursing through her. She had to survive, had to get away. She lifted her leg, kicking backward with all her might. Soon her foot found its place in his crotch and he yowled as she used her arms to propel herself backwards off of her bed, staggering out of her tent into the light of day.

Margaret stood outside her tent, terror-struck. Why the hell did Colonel Potter have to be gone? Where could she go to be safe? Everyone was in the mess tent, gossiping about her and Charles when they should be walking around, scanning the compound, helping her! Did she not yell for help?! Why was no one helping her?!

She had to think fast. Ignazio would not be hindered for long. Should she try to get a weapon somewhere, threaten to shoot him unless he leave? Was Pierce in Potter's office? Surely Pierce would think she was joking; she'd never told him about Ignazio. Only one person could help her this very second.

Charles.

Before Ignazio could emerge from her tent, Margaret sprinted across the compound toward the tent where Charles was still presumably showering. She ran straight into the shower tent, to see Charles jerk his head over to see the intruder, eyes widening with concern and irritation as she continued to approach the stalls.

"Charles," she began, panting heavily, "he's… He's after me! He tried to—"

Just then Ignazio crashed through the shower tent, throwing his arms open to grab Margaret and pin her against the stall. Charles stood dumbly in the next stall over, very much naked, water streaming over his half-shampooed hair.

"Help!" Margaret shrieked, the zipper of her pants partly down, terror in her eyes, as Ignazio halted in his tracks just before wrapping his arms around her, his eyes now locked on Charles. Something had happened to Margaret. She'd been just about to tell him. There was no way this woman would be so positively unhinged unless something very bad had happened.

Ignoring his own state of undress, Charles emerged from the shower, nostrils flaring and teeth bared as he moved toward Ignazio, taking Margaret's arm and moving her away from the door as Ignazio continued to back up, his hands now up.

"You wouldn't hit an unarmed man," Ignazio muttered, now pushing open the shower tent door.

"He tried to rape me!" Margaret screamed behind him.

Now Charles's rage had reached a climax and he lunged at the Italian, knocking him into the dirt outside of the shower stall and pinning him down. Ignazio could not move underneath this hulking, naked man, and simply lie there, keeping his mouth shut. Within seconds, Margaret emerged from the tent behind Charles, throwing Charles's robe over his body as he kept Ignazio pinned.

"Let me go get handcuffs. Pierce can have Klinger bring in the MPs."


"What the hell happened?" Pierce asked, jogging out to the spectacle just in front of the shower tent alongside Margaret. "Why are you all wet, Charles?"

Thankfully by this point Charles had managed to wrap his robe around him well enough that it covered what needed to be covered, but Ignazio was already beginning to regain some confidence as he struggled to shove the large man off of him.

"This man tried to rape me!" Margaret cried, pointing at De Simone.

"When, today?" Pierce asked. "Why didn't you say something?"

"Because it literally just happened!"

Hawkeye put the handcuffs on the mustached man, noticing now that Winchester's robe wasn't even on properly. In fact, the entire robe was positioned sideways over Charles's lower half, fashioned much like a towel, and just barely serving to conceal him.

"Who is this guy?" Pierce questioned, watching Winchester delicately move off of him while keeping the robe pressed firmly against his groin. "Wait—is that an Italian flag?"

Margaret rolled her eyes, noticing that the group that had gathered her was uncomfortably large.

"I'll explain later, Pierce. Just take him away, for God's sake. I don't ever want to see him again."


It had been almost an hour since the MPs had picked up Ignazio De Simone and took him away from the 4077th. And yet, Charles could see, Margaret was still edgy, sitting next to him in the mess tent at dinner time, her leg shaking back and forth and back and forth, eyes darting around like a prey animal's.

"Are you quite alright, Margaret?" Charles murmured, reaching over to touch her hand. She jerked her hand away and immediately looked mortified.

"I'm fine," she said, her other leg beginning to shake. "When is Colonel Potter getting back, Pierce?"

"Supposed to get back tomorrow," he said. "I'm sorry I had no idea about any of this until now. He won't hurt you again."

"How can you be sure of that? He's with an Italian unit. He's not under U.S. jurisdiction. And if he happens to get wounded again, you know where he'll be brought—right here."

"I'm truly sorry about all this," Charles said, looking ashamed. "Perhaps if I'd been more convincing, I could have dispelled the notion that it was all a ruse."

"It's not your fault," Margaret replied, shaking her head. "It's my fault. I tried to make him feel better after he'd been wounded and his girlfriend left him. I should never have been so—"

"You were just doing your job," Charles muttered. "It is your nature to nurse people back to health. The blame is all his."

"Right," she said, suddenly standing up. Shakily she picked up her tray. "It's been quite the day. Goodnight, everyone."

Charles and Hawkeye watched her deposit her tray in the proper place and walk out of the mess tent.

"Man, is she tough," Hawkeye commented, shaking his head with a little smile. "If she can get a wink of sleep tonight after all that, she oughta be C.O. here. Toughest woman I've ever known."

"Right," Charles murmured, not quite so convinced. He waited another minute or two, and left the mess tent.


"Who is it?"

Margaret spun around from where she was sitting at her makeup desk, her phonograph playing Doris Day at a low volume. She'd since combed her hair and changed into her pajamas, but she could not stop feeling shaky, no matter how hard she tried. And now someone was knocking on her door, sending her anxiety skyrocketing. It was difficult to keep up the façade of a strong, independent woman, when she'd felt so violated, so overpowered only mere hours before.

"It's Charles," a voice said. "May I come in?"

"Yes," she said, smiling now in spite of her nerves. She stood up now, leaving her phonograph on, as he opened her door slowly, poking his head in first and then his body. It was the perfect way for him to have entered her tent, and she could feel the hairs on the back of her neck already start to settle.

Charles stood right in front of the door, not taking another step forward, instead clasping his hands together.

"Margaret, I just wanted to tell you that you deserve that three-day pass. If I'd any idea that he'd… he'd…"

"I want you to have it. You kept me safe."

"I think it's quite clear that I didn't," he said, bowing his head now, his shoulders falling as well. "I insisted upon showering, when I should have remained at your side until that… creature was returned to his unit. My sincere apologies, Margaret."

"It's not your fault. I'm always trying to look so tough, so fierce and unflappable. I thought I could deal with him in my own way, and I was wrong."

Now Charles raised his head again and let out a long breath of air. What was he to say to that? Margaret was here alone in her tent pretending to be coping just fine, but now that he had seen what terror looked like on her face, he could still sense it in her. And yet, as much as she was revealing to him her innate frailty, she would not go so far as to ask anything more of him, even if she wanted it; that he knew.

"Will you, ah, be alright tonight?" he ventured carefully.

Margaret began to nod fervently, though her eyes betrayed her, tears brimming at the corners.

"I can stay here, if that is your wish," he said gently.

"No, no," she said, "you've done more than enough. Truly." He could tell she was trying her damnedest not to cry. "Thank you, Charles. I'll be fine."

He let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. She still had her dignity to maintain; that he respected.

"Then let me put this a different way. May I stay here with you tonight, Margaret?"

She used the back of her arm to wipe away a tear.

"Sorry, I, uh, think I have something in my eye. What were you asking?"

"If I may stay with you tonight in your tent."

"You don't have to indulge me; I'm a big girl."

"No," he replied, face resolute. "I mean it."

He heard her swallow, watched as the obvious thudding pulse in her neck began to slow.

"Alright."


This time, when they lie together on her bed, Charles lie flat on his back, Margaret snuggling into the crook of Charles's neck and shoulder, her arm draped over his bare chest. Initially, he was taken aback by Margaret letting out a low laugh as his chest hair tickled her cheek. He could feel her heart pressed against his own, the beating force of which had calmed significantly since they achieved this comfortable position.

"Thank you for knowing what I needed, even when I didn't," she murmured into the darkness, running her hands over his chest. She felt for his arm, taking his hand, sliding her fingers in between his. "I feel safe with you."

He didn't know what to say to that, and simply let out a quiet sigh.

"I heard what you told that man earlier, outside the tent," she added, her voice deep and husky. "Did you really mean what you said?"

He blinked several times, attempting to recall all that he had said to the malignantly persistent Italian.

"You mean, about demonstrating love?"

"Yes," she cut in. "That was a beautiful, succinct way to explain love. Is that actually how you feel about it?"

"Of course. Why would I lie about something as fundamental as that?"

"It was wonderful to hear you explain it, in your wonderful voice."

"Ha," he murmured, feeling a blush creeping up his neck. "I am not worthy of your compliments, Margaret. I, in fact, failed you quite stupendously in my not being there to prevent what happened to you today."

"Don't say that. You were wonderful."

The pair fell silent for a long minute, listening to the gentle voice of Doris Day as the album began its final track.

"Anyway, thank you for coming by tonight," she said quietly. "I would never have asked you to do this again, you know."

"I know," he replied, gently kissing the top of her head. "And yet, I vow to stay by your side as long as it takes for you to feel safe again."

He was acutely aware of her fingers enlaced with his, her warm breaths on his chest, and yet unlike last night, this didn't feel wrong. In fact, it felt quite the opposite. He drew his arm closer against his body, tightening his embrace with Margaret in effect. And yet, rather than stiffen or resist, she seemed to melt under his touch, her breathing slowing and eyes twinkling as she gazed adoringly at him.

"Thank you, Charles," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you for loving me."