"I thought this camp was awfully quiet for a lull," Margaret quipped as she surveyed Hawkeye's tower of tongue depressors. He acknowledged her with a noncommittal grunt as he continued to glue the little sticks to the base he'd constructed.
"Have you been here all day?" she asked, trying to get some response from him.
He sighed and set his brush down before running a weary hand over his face. He sat back on his haunches and surveyed his work; the base was done, but he had no idea how he was going to turn the three inch high structure into a monument. He felt a hand on his shoulder and stood up, turning to face Margaret for the first time.
"I'm sorry, I'm just…thinking." She nodded and let her hand fall to his. He grasped it lightly and smiled tiredly.
"You missed dinner."
"What was on the menu tonight? Spam on a shingle?"
"Meatloaf," she grimaced, and he mirrored her expression.
"Then I'll consider it a blessing. What time is it?" He led her to a pile of crates and sat down, only mildly surprised when she took a seat next to him still holding his hand.
"Just after ten; you should get some rest."
He jumped up just as fast as he'd sat down, letting go of her hand. "I can't," he told her. "I just have too much energy." He paced around in a small circle before coming to rest beside her. "Besides, I have to figure out how this," he gestured at the small base, "is going to become a tower. I can't just keep gluing these things together, I'll go crazy."
"How about those old sign poles we replaced last week?" They had constructed new signs for the entrances into camp using thicker wooden posts, and the old thin rods had been pitched into the garbage pile. His face lit up as he kissed her forehead.
"You're a genius. Be right back!" He dashed off before she could stop him and came back moments later toting six seven foot poles. She watched as, using glue and rope, he constructed a seven foot three tower in mere minutes.
"You can't fix an engine but you can build a miniature monument?" she joked, earning her a withering glare. Using a saw he'd retrieved from the motor pool he cut up the remaining poles to create horizontal support beams around the tower.
"Now what?" she asked as he took a step back to survey his work.
"Now, I need a list of every wounded man that's come through here." There was a look in his eyes she was only partially familiar with – it was the same look he had whenever he had a particular grueling task in front of him and nothing short of the end of the war would stop him. She stared at him a moment and took in his sunken features and his tired eyes.
"Okay, I'll get it on one condition," she crossed her arms over her chest in what she hoped was a no-argument stance.
"What's that?" he grinned, recognizing her attempt at control.
"You'll only run yourself into the ground if you keep going tonight. You can start first thing in the morning, but I want you to go to bed." She reached forward and tugged on his hand, using the motion to direct him to his tent.
In the two weeks since her father's visit, their relationship had only been a bit more definable than before. They both knew there was more than friendship, but neither seemed in a big hurry to jump in with both feet.
He collapsed onto his cot as she shook out his blanket. He rolled over enough to pull off his boots, jacket and pants, leaving him in boxers and the thin Army undershirt. BJ was in post-op and Charles was already snoring, so no one witnessed Margaret tucking him in to bed.
"Goodnight Margaret," he murmured.
"Goodnight Ben." She waited until she heard his breathing even out before she retreated back to her own tent.
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The next morning found Hawkeye hard at work securing his tower and gluing more depressors to the frame. She couldn't catch his eye as she exited her tent, so she detoured quickly to Klinger's office to get the list he wanted. It took almost half an hour to gather all the reports and, after promising Klinger they were returned as soon as possible, she dashed out the door with the clipboard.
"Here you are," she presented it to him with a smile and he returned it tenfold.
"Thanks Margaret, you're the best!" he grabbed it from her eagerly and tucked it under his arm as he glued another stick to the tower. "You're on overnight duty tonight, right?"
"Yes," she said, her surprise evident in her voice. She hadn't known he was keeping up with his own schedule, much less hers.
"What do you do when there's no one in post op?" he wondered aloud, his hands continuing their task. She stammered for a few seconds, momentarily surprised that anyone was taking an interest in what she did.
"Well, I'll probably take inventory of the medicine," she responded. "There's usually not enough time to take a full stock, but right now there is so I'll take it. You want to join me?" She realized what she said the moment came from her mouth – or perhaps it was the moment the lecherous grin lit his face. Either way, she adopted a stern expression and shook her head. "Nevermind."
"No, no," he held up his hands. "I'll be good, I swear. As soon as I'm done here tonight I'll head over."
"Good, then I'll inform Major Winchester you've graciously decided to take his shift tonight." The defiant look in his eyes almost made her lose composure, but she checked herself just in time.
"Just a second, Margaret –" The minute he started in on her she lost it and started laughing. He stopped short, realizing he'd been had, and laughed with her. "Very funny, Margaret."
"The look on your face was priceless," she admitted. "Seriously, though, three people is two too many in that small stock room. You don't have to come." He waved her off.
"Nah, that's okay. Tell Charles he's got the night off; I might as well do something productive. What time?"
"Eleven," she replied, congratulating herself on her cunning manipulation. Potter often said getting Hawkeye to do anything was more difficult than milking a bull, and Margaret couldn't disagree. But she'd known and worked with the man for almost two years, and she'd figured out a few tricks.
She turned on her heel and marched off to occupy her time until her shift, and so missed the knowing smile on Hawkeye's face. He watched her triumphant swagger for a second longer than he probably should have, and Father Mulcahy's voice startled him from his staring.
"Anything I can help with?" Hawkeye turned to the priest and smiled charmingly as he held out the report-laden clipboard.
"Yes, as a matter of fact you can, Father. How about you write and I'll glue."
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Hawkeye worked through lunch, only pausing occasionally to check the sturdiness of the structure. Father Mulcahy had finished writing the names of all the wounded on the depressors, leaving Pierce sitting in the dark with a box full of sticks.
Only when Potter arrived with a late dinner did Hawkeye take a break to eat. It was nearly complete, and as he surveyed his masterpiece he felt a sense of pride for his "casual obsession." Klinger's announcement that the Stars and Stripes was going to do a piece on it only served to further spur the Captain into completing the tower as soon as possible. The chill of the night air forced him to don his bathrobe to stay warm, but he continued to work diligently. Just after midnight, a tap on his shoulder pulled him from his intense focus, and when he turned he found Margaret with her hands on her hips looking rather stern.
"Uh oh," he muttered, realizing he'd totally forgotten his promise to help her.
"Uh oh is right," she said. "Have you been here all day?" Her tone was shrill, a good indicator that he should choose his words carefully.
"Colonel Potter delivered dinner some time ago, and then Klinger told me that a reporter is coming out tomorrow to do a piece on this thing. I guess I just got caught up. Here," he set the glue can down, "let's go do the inventory and I'll come back to this."
"Not a chance," she barked. "We'll do the inventory then you're going to bed."
"Margaret, I'm fine…honest." He knew arguing with her was no use when she was like this, but his willfulness wouldn't let her win that easily.
"And what if we get wounded tomorrow? How 'fine' will you be then? You need rest." Her tone brooked no argument and Pierce sighed. Life, he realized, had been a lot simpler before he'd fallen for Margaret Houlihan.
"You know, you're sexy when you're bossy," he told her with a lascivious smile. She rolled her eyes, but there was a hint of a smile as she grabbed his robe sleeve and pulled him along. "Can't wait to have your way with me?" he continued, earning him a whack on the arm for his troubles. Well, he thought with a shrug, at least life would never be boring.
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"I still can't believe you blasted your monument into splinters," BJ laughed as they gathered at the bar in the O Club. Hawkeye was enjoying a very dry martini as he regaled the senior staff of his plan.
"Well I couldn't let that louse use my opus as a recruiting piece, could I?"
"Neither you nor Klinger is qualified to use Primacord," Margaret scolded lightly. "What if something had gone wrong?" She tried not to sound too overbearing, but when she'd heard a corporal announce that Captain Pierce was parading across the compound with a roll of high explosives in his hand, she hadn't really thought much of it; he was always coming up with crazy schemes. Then she'd heard the explosion, and her heart had skipped a beat as she'd very nearly sprinted to the courtyard to make sure he was okay.
"It's fine, Major, nothing went wrong," Klinger answered eagerly. "Besides, we are required by Army protocol to dispose of the stuff, and we did." She pressed her lips together firmly but kept quiet, knowing any further conversation on this topic would only serve to aggravate her. Under the bar, Hawkeye let his hand fall to her leg and squeezed lightly, the move somehow both reassuring and apologetic at the same time.
"Well folks," Potter entered the club with a somber look on his face. "I just got word from ICORPS. The fighting in this sector is on again, so we should see some wounded by tomorrow." He sat between Hawkeye and BJ and ordered a shot of whiskey.
"You really know how to kill a mood, you know that?" Hawkeye downed the last of his martini and ordered another one. "How long until they arrive?"
"ICORPS says tomorrow morning," Potter recited.
"Which means later tonight," BJ answered, just as the first sounds of choppers resonated across the camp. "Or now's good, too." They heaved a collective sigh and stood. Corpsman and the first teams were dashing about getting things ready as the doctors divvied up the duties. Just as they were about to part, Hawkeye grabbed Margaret's hand.
"Hey, you know I'd never do something completely stupid, right?" The looks she'd been giving him earlier hadn't gone unnoticed, and he wanted to make sure she knew he wasn't going anywhere.
"I know," she replied. More passed between them than the simple words they spoke, but neither was ready to voice it aloud. Instead, Hawkeye squeezed her hand once and let go, bounding off to help Charles start the nurses on triage while Potter and BJ scrubbed up. Margaret watched him go, her mind reeling with what had just happened.
"Major!" one of her nurses cried out and she switched into "Head Nurse Mode" instantaneously. There would be plenty of time for contemplation later; right now there was work to be done.
Next up: "That's Show Biz!"