Disclaimer: do I really need to do it again?
A/N: You may now all die of shock because I just posted! victory dance I'm sorry this took so long, but I really don't think you want to hear my excuses. Anyway, the drama continues and I hope it doesn't disappoint. Oh, and if I haven't mentioned it before, I changed the timeline for this story. Instead of the bridge incident happening before the aide station episode like it originally did, in this story Hawkeye, Margaret, and Klinger have already made their trip to the aide station before the exchange ever happened.
Read. Please Review. Enjoy. --Thank you--
--back at the 4077, Trapper's POV--
chapter four- COLORS OF EMOTION
Two weeks. He'd been gone for two god-damn weeks, and the still hadn't gone a day without going dry for nearly that long. I wasn't the only one drinking it dry either. Henry, Klinger and even little Radar kept me company most days.
In fact, the entire camp was slowly drowning in alcohol.
Booze seemed like the only option there was. We needed to forget. Not only did we need to forget Hawkeye was gone, but without him there we needed something else to make us forget the War itself.
OR sessions were fifty times worse than ever before without Hawk's well-timed interruptions. Mess tent food seemed more off-color and even less appetizing when Hawk wasn't there to distract us with his odd sense of humor. Even the drinking wasn't as much fun as it was necessary. When Hawkeye was around, he'd be the first one drunk, and the rest of camp would watch in amusement as he carried out his drunken stunts. Sometimes the rest of us even tried to stay partially sober so we could remember just what he had done.
Somewhere around the beginning of the second week I tried to pick up the slack in the humor and morale department. After two days, I gave up. Every time I cracked a joke, it was followed by a length of silence as we waited for Hawkeye to chip in a response. Every time I threw on some wacky outfit or another, people would smile then look around for Hawk to see what he was wearing. I started a song in OR once, but it sounded hollow and flat as we waited for Hawk to join in. One day I even attempted to pull a prank on Ferret Face. It got a couple chuckles, but it just wasn't the same without Hawkeye's cackle in the background.
Even the Majors seemed to miss Hawkeye, a sure sign that all was not well at the 4077th. The cause of Frank's sudden change of his non-existent heart was fairly obvious; once the camp knew the reason behind Hawk's absence, Frank's subzero approval rating plummeted to new, subterranean levels. Hot Lips was harder to figure out. It was expected that even she would feel a little twang of loss and worry for one of her fellow officers in enemy country, but the extent of her emotion took us all by surprise.
Hot Lips matched me drink for drink most nights and drank me under the table the rest of the time. She hadn't yelled at her nurses once since the exchange, and she wouldn't speak to anyone about anything other than work. She had even taken to avoiding Frank, not that anyone blamed her.
It took me the full two weeks to realize that there was something wrong with our Head Nurse. It would have taken me longer, but she'd been almost permanently assigned to work with me in OR.
--Flashback: eleven days after the exchange--
Routine. The Army is all about routine, and today is no different. New faces, same age, same blood, same wounds, same war.
Today's victim: a nineteen year old Private, chest wounds.
Margaret's assisting as she always does on the serious thoracic surgeries, but I'm the surgeon. This is wrong. Hawk's the chest cutter, not me!
Get a grip, Trap. Hawk's not here, and you sure as hell don't want the ferret anywhere near this kid. Henry either for that matter. Not with the way he's been dropping instruments today. Focus.
"Scalpel." Come on, Houllihan.
"Scalpel."
Too damn quiet. Why can't I get used to a quiet OR? OR was always quiet in the States… Yeah well this ain't the States is it, McIntyre? Damnit, I'm talking to myself again. Talk out loud at least; I'm driving myself crazy…
"This kid got lucky." Is that my voice? Of course it is! Shit, maybe I'm already crazy.
"How so?" Sarcasm? In Hot Lips' voice? Yep, I'm crazy.
"This wasn't a normal sized gun. Look, there's less powder burning. And the wound's just a little smaller than the ones we usually see. Definitely from a smaller weapon. Maybe one about the size of that one of Frank's." That last sentence came out a bit bitter. So? I'm still pissed; I have a right to be.
Did Hot Lips' face just go pale?
"Sponge."
Come on, Houllihan. Hot Lips…? Hot Lips…?
"I need a sponge, Hot Lips."
"Sorry."
I look over at the Head Nurse as I take the sponge. Major Hot Lips just apologized? First she slips up in OR, then she admits it? Maybe I'm not the only crazy one.
There was something wrong with Hot Lips all right. And I was just bored enough, and suicidal enough, to try to find out what.
I found our resident blonde bombshell in the mess tent idly stirring a cup of our latest batch of blue coffee. I took a seat across from her without saying anything.
She didn't look up for several minutes, but when she did there was a strange look in her eyes. "Well, get on with it," she said tonelessly.
"Get on with what?"
"You're going to ask what the hell happened in OR, so just do it."
"Actually, I was going to ask why that wound bothered you so much. It's nothing we haven't seen before, and you've dealt with far worse."
"I'd rather not discuss this with you," she said as she stood up.
I put a hand on hers as she reached for her cup. "Sit. You'd rather not, but do it anyway."
She sighed, "I won't discuss this here."
"Then where will you discuss this?"
"Is Frank in the Swamp?"
"No, he's got post-OP."
She just nodded and looked me in the eye before walking out of the mess tent. I followed.
Once we were both seated with martinis in our hands, I cautiously asked again, "Now, will you tell me what's wrong?"
Hot Lips didn't look up at me. She hadn't actually met my eyes since we'd left the mess tent. She was currently staring into the contents of her glass, swirling it gently. "I suppose. I really don't have a choice do I?"
"You did, but you chose when you suggested we talk here."
"Yeah."
"So…?"
She closed her eyes and sighed heavily, "You're not going to like this." I watched as she took a drink from her glass and then continued in the same toneless voice she'd been using all along. "You said that wound was made by a smaller gun… one like Frank's."
"Yeah."
"It's not Frank's."
"Who'd Ferret-Face steal it from?"
"He didn't steal it. I gave it to him." I could see her tense as she said it, but I couldn't figure out why.
"I don't think I understand. Just because you gave Frank a present, shouldn't cause you to freak out when you see a wound from the same kind of gun."
"No, you don't understand." She tightened her grip on her glass, but her voice remained neutral. "I gave the gun to him the day of the exchange."
"But you didn't—" I began.
She cut me off, her voice rising slightly, "I gave it to him to take with him." She stopped and took in a steadying breath. "It wasn't a present. Well, it wasn't until after I knew what happened. Then I never wanted to see it again."
"You—" I think my jaw dropped, though I can't really be sure. I couldn't finish the sentence in my shock and growing anger.
"Me," Margaret agreed in quiet bitterness. She stood and began to pace. "Everyone's angry at Frank. Do you think they still will be when they find out? Of course not. Look at you. You're about ready to throw me in the mine field. Not that I blame you. I mean, I'm about ready to throw myself in the mine field. Sure Pierce is a troublemaker and thoroughly unmilitary, but this camp needs him. These past two weeks have done nothing if not shown me that." Her voice continually rose through her speech until she sounded nearly hysterical. Then she spun around to look at me. "Damnit, McIntyre! Aren't you going to say something? I'm sure you can think of plenty. Lord knows I have."
I just continued to stare at her, my shock steadily growing and drowning out my anger before it truly took hold. I had never seen this much emotion from the Major. I wasn't about to interrupt the display. Besides, she was obviously a damn sight better at punishing herself than I could ever be.
She glared at me, daring me to say something, for several seconds, but in the silence that filled the Swamp she eventually turned away. She quickly dropped her gaze to the floor after seeing just what she had turned to look at: Hawk's empty, and unnaturally clean, side of the tent.
Finally, after the silence had stretched far too long, I cleared my throat. "Hot—Margaret… Margaret, look at me."
She did. I could see the lone tear on her cheek that she had obviously tried so hard to keep from falling.
"Margaret, this isn't your fault." I didn't realize until after I said it that it was true. It had slipped out as the only thing I could think of to say in some sort of comfort, but as it did, I knew it was the truth.
"Of course it i—" Margaret began.
"No, it's not," I repeated more firmly. "Yes, you gave the gun to Frank. It was Frank, though, that chose to take it, chose to pull it out."
"But I knew he would take it. Everyone knows he doesn't think for himself. I knew—"
"You did not know what would happen. You think you did, but hindsight is 20/20, you know. And Frank did think for himself, as much as he is capable with a brain the size of one of the shriveled 'peas' they serve in the mess tent. No one is in control of Frank's stupidity but Frank. This is not your fault."
To my surprise, Margaret burst into tears. She sank limply into the chair next to Hawkeye's bunk and hugged herself, trying to gain some control and preserve some dignity.
I knelt in front of her carefully and put my hand on hers where it rested, white-knuckled, on her upper arm. She immediately unwrapped her arms from herself and threw them around my neck and buried her face in my shoulder. I had no idea what to do for her. I didn't even understand what was wrong. I rubbed her back and whispered that everything would be all right and prayed that it would be.
"I—I'm so s—sorry…" she whispered a while later as she pulled away.
"Don't be," I answered, not entirely sure what she was apologizing for.
Margaret managed a smile that seemed very sad and a little forced and wiped her eyes. Still avoiding my eyes, as she had been since she began crying, she looked in the direction of Hawk's bunk once again.
When she turned back, there was an empty quality to her that seemed somehow heavier than it had been before. It hit me then. She missed Hawkeye. Really missed him. It wasn't just guilt that had been behind her strange behavior lately.
She looked up and met my eyes and jerked me out of my thoughts. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"Talking, listening, comforting…forgiving. That's more than I think I could do if the positions were reversed. I can see why Pierce is so close to you, trusts you the way he does."
I didn't think I could be anymore shocked than I already was, but this was completely new. True, she had been a little less uptight after aide station duty with Hawk, but this was a side of her I had never seen. Sincere, vulnerable… and more human than the true-blue, all-green-and-khaki American soldier front she normally wore. I thought I understood now what Hawk had tried to tell me in the days after he'd returned from the front.
"Thank you."
"What for?"
"Talking, listening…trusting. That's more than I think I could do if the positions were reversed." I paused before adding the last sentence, debating. "I can see why Hawk has fallen for you the way he has."
She froze. "…Wha—what?"
Finally, I was spreading the shock around a little. I smiled gently and retrieved a notebook from Hawk's shelf. I flipped to the last page he'd been writing on: a letter to his father he'd begun the day we left and never finished…yet.
I handed it to her and gestured for her to read it. She looked down only to look back up at me in confusion as she recognized the handwriting. I just nodded and pointed to the paper again.
Watching her face as she read, I could tell where she was in the letter. I knew exactly what it said; I'd taken to reading his notebook in my spare time. It made me feel a little better to hear his voice again, even from a piece of paper. I hoped it would have the same affect on her.
—the letter—
Dear Dad,
Your unfortunately militarized son here, again. I am as well as I can be given the circumstances and hoping you are better.
I assume you are anxiously awaiting any new news I can give you even if it will be old news by the time this letter reaches you (the joys of US Mail). Unfortunately (twice already—I think that's a record, even for Army letters) there's not much new news to report.
I was sent to an aide station recently. If you believe it, aide stations are worse than MASH units. I may complain endlessly, (you have no idea, only a small portion of my actual stream of vexed verbiage against all things Army gets transcribed onto paper for your eyes… I don't want you thinking your son is even more corrupted than you already do; you might be tempted to wash my pen out with soap) but after an aide station visit, it gets harder not to appreciate the miles between the 4077th and the front.
The only redeeming factor of that visit (besides the dose of reality and the subsequent gratitude) was the company. I was fortunate (once already—I think that's a record, especially for Army letters) to be accompanied by our lovely head nurse and the only slightly less lovely Corporal Klinger. By working together in even more grueling and undesirable conditions than normal, I think we gained a little more understanding and appreciation for each other. I saw a new side of the Major that I never expected (no Dad, not that side; get your mind out of the gutter). Remember when I told you I'd like to put the moves on the Major, but didn't know how to do that and salute at the same time? Well, I might not have to be so worried about the salute. That'll give me more time to worry about how to get past her distaste for all my unmilitary ways without re-enlisting or giving up my distaste for all things military.
Speaking of distaste, I believe I have been shockingly remiss in my duties of transcribing my spectacular one-of-a-kind descriptions and disparagings of the mess they serve us in the mess. I think you completely missed out on the tale of the wonderfully weird and woefully inedible creations during the all-you-can't-eat special of re-greased grease on a shingle, lucky you. The tale alone is enough to make you sick for three months.
—end letter—
Margaret simply stared at the notebook in her hands. I don't think she even made it to Hawk's unfinished food rant paragraph. She couldn't have if the way her eyes froze on one section of the paper was any clue.
After several long moments, she looked up at me. She seemed to be begging for an explanation or something clearer, more decisive than the rather vague references to Hawkeye's feelings for the Major. I assumed, though, that she already knew more than I did what those feelings might be. She must have noticed how his animosity had been focused away from her since their return, how he'd made a point of having at least a couple rather civil conversations with her without his usual level of innuendo.
"I don't understand," she said at last.
"I don't either, but I think you've got something to talk to him about when he comes back."
