Gotta keep that leg off the ground, so I can't just throw his arm over my shoulder and walk him there. I could always put him on my back and fireman's carry him…but his torso injury…damn. Huffing out a resigned sigh, Hawkeye knew he'd have to carry him in his arms. Like a couple on their wedding night. Like the leading lady swept up into the arms of the dashing lead. Taking a deep a breath as he could, already anticipating the pain, Hawkeye steeled himself for this next hurdle.

"Why couldn't you have been a 5'6" petite brunette?"

With one arm beneath Trapper's knees and one arm slid under his back, Hawkeye strained upwards. He forced himself to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. He couldn't give into the pain threatening to topple him every step of the way.

10 feet to go.

Trapper still hadn't roused in his arms, but his stomach wound was bleeding freely again. Hawkeye's vision blurred as he limped closer to the OR.

7 feet.

His breathing was coming in short, pained gaps. His ribs were moving sickeningly in his chest, compressed by holding Trapper so close to his body. The blinding pain from his head and chest morphed with the ache in his left leg. Every step was excruciating.

4 feet.

Hawkeye wasn't sure if he was going to make it. He had rounded the corner and the door was so close. Where was the swell of nurses and corpsman that had been out here earlier? Was there seriously no one around that could help him? But truly, he knew that even if someone was there, he wouldn't give Trapper up. He was his friend. His best friend. Trapper had tried to push him away from the blast. Right before the shell hit, his last thought was to protect him.

He could tell from the blood trail that Trapper had crawled to the far side of the building, presumably to get under some cover. It was why Hawkeye had missed him the first time around, he hadn't even thought to look behind the OR. If he had, maybe Trapper wouldn't have lost so much blood.

2 feet.

Hawkeye stumbles up to the door frame and, as gingerly as he can, maneuvers Trapper's body through without jostling him too much. His actions catch the attention of the medical staff inside the room and they all rush to his side.

"I need a gurney. Prep him for surgery, nurse. He's got multiple lacerations to the abdominal cavity, with a deep wound near his liver, bleeding freely. There might still be shrapnel from the explosion in the wounds. He's got a fracture to his right tibia that needs to be set immediately. Where's that damn gurney?!"

Hawkeye barked his orders and the nurses rushed quickly from the room. A gurney was wheeled in and he tried not to look so relieved at putting his charge down. Trapper was still thankfully unconscious. And he was alive. He was alive.

With a steadying breath, Hawkeye pushed away from the gurney and hobbled towards the scrub station. He had a stubborn set to his jaw and a determined look in his eye. Like hell if anyone but me is going to cut into Trapper.

Lieutenant Holmes, the blonde nurse who Hawkeye ran into earlier, emerged from the OR with another nurse in tow. She glanced at Trapper and then at the retreating form of Hawkeye. She could tell he was limping, almost walking like he was drunk. His arm was protectively holding his torso and there was a nasty gash on the back of his head, matting his dark hair, neck, and shirt with blood. Lieutenant Holmes caught the eye of her companion.

"Go get Colonel Blake. Now!" she whispered agitatedly.

The other nurse nodded in response, her eyes wide with fear and concern.

Hawkeye scrubbed painfully at his hands, leaning heavily against the sink. You only have to make it through surgery, fix Trapper up good as new, and then you can lie down. He was so tired. He was used to the exhaustion that came with working in a MASH unit. But there was a new kind of weariness that clung to his bones and hunched his shoulders, pulled at his eyelids and dulled his brain.

Just breathe, you're almost there.

It seemed like for the past few hours (or was it minutes?…days?…he really couldn't tell) he just kept telling himself, you're almost there. One more thing, and you'll be done. One more step. One more try. One more look.

He watched the stains of grime and blood wash away from his hands and swirl down the drain. Hawkeye willed the pounding in his head, the nausea rolling in his stomach, the sharp pains in his ribs, and the ache in his leg to just go away for a few hours so he could work on Trapper. He had to make sure his friend got the best care and made it out of surgery. There was still a chance something could go wrong, a missed injury or a mistake in surgery that could leave him here, alone.

Just breathe, Hawk. Just breathe.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he stumbled towards the bins with the masks and gowns. The room around him seemed to dim, a grayness tinging the edge of his vision. He didn't even realize he was falling until he collided with the unforgiving ground, and darkness took him in its sweet embrace.

Nurse Holmes, followed by Colonel Blake and Major Houlihan, were all striding up behind Hawkeye as he washed at the sinks. There was a hint of anger in Henry's expression, but once he took in Hawkeye's slumped form, his head injury, and tattered clothing, it was instead concern that etched lines around the man's eyes.

It was a miracle the younger surgeon was even on his feet.

Frank had been frustrated with the disappearance of his two best surgeons. But someone had to go get the supplies, and the two friends dashed out between patients as the nurses were all busy. It wasn't until the explosion rocked the OR, lights flickering and dust falling from the ceiling, and the two surgeons failing to run back through the door, that Henry allowed himself to be afraid. He and Frank had taken care of the rest of the surgeries, thankfully there had only been a handful more, and still Trapper and Hawkeye didn't return. Henry looked for them in the sporadic waves of wounded coming in from their own camp, but they were conspicuously absent. He couldn't think the worst. He just couldn't. And when a nurse had come running up to him to tell him Hawkeye and Trapper were in pre-op, Henry felt his cheeks flush with anger. Back in pre-op? He barreled towards the door, prepared to give the two surgeons a piece of his mind. But his irritation dissipated as quickly as it rose once Nurse Holmes explained Trapper was injured, and disappeared completely when he saw the state Hawkeye was in.

Henry sighed as he strode closer to Hawkeye, already anticipating the verbal sparring match that would ensue surrounding Trapper's surgery. He knew Hawkeye would want to be there, be the one taking care of his friend, ensuring nothing would go wrong. But with the outward appearance of the blue-eyed surgeon, there was no way Henry was letting him into the OR. Major Houlihan would be taking him straight to a full examination.

Just as the group reached the doorway, they saw Hawkeye stumble away from the sink and list dangerously to the side. His knees buckled and he slumped heavily to the floor, hitting with an unceremonious thump, and lay there unmoving. Henry and Margaret were at his side in an instant.

"Pierce, you idiot," Henry whispered as he and Margaret turned the unconscious surgeon over.

He heard Margaret gasp, and he had to swallow the emotion building in his throat. Hawkeye was a mess. His face was littered with superficial cuts and coated with dirt and blood. The neck of his undershirt was stained crimson from his head injury. Large tears in the shirt revealed more lacerations, quite a few deep and seeping blood, as well as a sickening display of bruises on his rib cage. His left pant leg had a growing stain starting from the knee down; a chunk of wood grotesquely embedded in his calf.

"How did he even manage to get Trapper here, let alone carry him?" Margaret managed, a look of surprise mixed in with worry.

The CO and the head nurse sat there for a beat, looking down at Hawkeye. He seemed so young, so vulnerable. If it weren't for the streaks of grey in his hair, Henry could have sworn he was 20. Margaret shook her head and let her training take over.

"Lieutenant Holmes! Get me a gurney and a corpsman, we need to get Captain Pierce into the OR to assess his injuries. Colonel Blake will be working on Captain McIntyre, and you and I will be handling Captain Pierce. Let's move!"

They all moved quickly. Henry gave one last look at Hawkeye before heading towards OR. The best thing he could do for the younger surgeon right now was save his best friend's life.

Margaret and Lieutenant Holmes got Hawkeye onto a gurney with the help of a corpsman. The surgeon didn't regain consciousness with all the movement, and the two nurses shared a concerned look.

As they were wheeling him towards the OR, Margaret took a steadying breath. Though they were usually at odds, she had a soft spot for the captain. It was unsettling to see him this way; pale, injured, too quiet and too still. She couldn't believe it, but she was wishing that he was awake and perfectly fine, telling her a dirty joke in the OR.

"Just hold on. You're going to be just fine."