A/N: Hello again darlings! I am so sorry for the delay; college has been kind of a hot mess since I published the last chapter. I ended up getting tonsillitis in the middle of my first finals week, and then just barely scraped through second semester Chem with a C (which isn't doing my GPA a whole lot of favors, but at least I passed).
But, at last, it's over! And I can get back to writing for all of you lovely people. Thank you so much for your kind words in reviews, and your support in favorites, follows, reviews, etc.
Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Anything thing you recognize from M*A*S*H or any other source is the property of its rightful owner. I lay no claim on the characters, settings, plotlines, etc. found in M*A*S*H, although I am honored to have to opportunity to work with them throughout this fanfiction (emphasis on the "fan" part). All I own is my OCs and whatever original plotwork is related to them and their stories.
"Hey, Trap, whatcha thinking about?" Hawkeye asked, plopping down next to his comrade-in-scalpels (which was, on second thought, perhaps not the best one-liner he had ever come up with).
"I found Sam," the man replied bluntly, taking a sip of the coffee he had been nursing for a good half an hour.
Hawkeye blinked, needing a moment to process what he heard. All it took was that moment, though, for any hope of frivolity to go rushing out of him like a river, leaving him with the unpleasant sensation of just having swallowed a pound of gravel. "How bad is she?"
Trapper grunted, taking another sip. "Nothing too serious. Flesh wound in the arm, no major damage. Should be okay."
"Oh," Hawkeye nodded, going back to processing. "Nothing that will get her sent home, though."
"Nope." Trapper shook his head. "You know what the first thing she asked me was?"
"What?"
"If I knew how her friends were doing."
"Yeah," Hawkeye sighed, staring at Trapper's coffee. He wondered absently what it was made of. Perhaps, he mused, we ought to run a lab analysis on it one day. Whatever the hell it is, it sure isn't coffee. "She's a good one. We all knew that."
Trapper hummed thoughtfully, also considering his coffee. "This was after she got done telling me that her bullet wound didn't hurt."
Hawkeye whistled. "Tough kid."
"Yeah." Trapper was silent for a moment before continuing. "Look, you wouldn't happen to know what happened to a Randall Curtis or a Trevor Ryans, would you? I told her I'd ask."
"I'm not sure I'd be able to tell you my own name right now, let alone some kid's whose insides are more familiar to me than his face," Hawkeye replied morosely. Damn war.
Trapper was quiet for another second, before pushing the mug of dark mystery liquid away. "Well, I suppose we can just ask around in post-op tomorrow." He stood up, moving as if to leave.
"Hey, hey," Hawkeye stood up next to him, grabbing his arm. "Where are you going?"
"Back to the swamp. I think I'm in need of a little liquid amnesia tonight." Trapper shrugged off his friend's arm.
"Aren't you going to tell Radar?" Hawkeye asked. "Or Henry?"
Trapper paused. "Let's let them both get a little sleep before we bring this up, okay? It's been a long day. For everyone."
Hawkeye nodded. He watched as Trapper walked out of the mess tent, wishing that there was something more that they could do. He hadn't wanted to bring it up, but he did recognize the names of the kids that Trapper asked him about.
But that was also a conversation best left until everyone had had a little time to recover from the worst of this latest deluge.
He was in a concert hall of some sort, sitting in the audience. All around him were men in top hats and women in evening gowns. It made him feel rather out of place, and he shrank back in his seat, hoping no one would notice his incongruous green fatigues.
On the stage was a ballerina with vivid red hair held back by sparkling rhinestone clips. He watched, stunned, as she spun around in a graceful pirouette. He was amazed at how she could balance her entire weight on the toes of a single foot, particularly the foot that she herself had told him had only recently recovered from a serious injury…
He noticed with trepidation that the dancer was not alone on stage. In the background, shadowy figure were moving about, darting across the stage and dodging in between the artificial bushes and trees dotting the fake landscape. He noticed, worriedly, that the girl on stage didn't seem to notice their presence, a smile glued firmly on her face. Glancing around him, he saw that no one else in the audience seemed the least bit surprised at what was happening. In fact, some of them seemed rather eager to see what happened next.
All of a sudden, one of the figures materialized behind her. It raised the weapon in its hands, locking her in its sights. She continued with her routine, whirling around the stage, dodging bullets by sheer magic and chance. It felt like something had glued Radar's feet to the floor; when he looked down, he could see paperweights on his toes, holding him in place. He kicked at them, trying to dislodge them so he could rush forward and pull the dancer out of danger.
He looked up again. The girl had finally noticed the figure. She stood completely still, staring at it, eyes wide, her mouth still pasted into its unnatural grin. He watched as she moved her hands, gesturing frantically. With a jolt, he realized that she was trying to communicate with the figure. She held her hands up by her shoulders in the universal sign for surrender; she gestured at the figure and at the audience and at herself; she pressed her hands together, prayer-like, and held them in front of her heart.
The figure was still for a moment. Its gun lowered. Radar held his breath, hoping. Then he began to kick harder against the weights on his feet as the figure raised its rifle again and shot a single bullet directly at the redhead.
Radar woke with a jolt, wincing at the awkward position he seemed to have twisted himself into during the night. His face was pressed into the wall near the top corner of his cot, and it felt as if one, if not both, of his feet were dangling off the edge of the opposite side. His arm was pinned against a lump just below his pillow, and he realized with a pang of regret that he had fallen asleep with his bear smushed underneath him.
He sat up slowly, sighing and doing his best to work out the stiffness that had crept into his muscles. He picked up the bear, checking it over to be sure it wasn't hurt. Nope, nothing – at least that was one friend he knew was okay.
He swallowed down the wave of nausea left over from his dream. It wasn't real, don't worry about it, it wasn't real, he told himself, repeating it over and over like one of those mantra-thingies an injured soldier had told him about when telling him about the guy's yoga-loving girlfriend. He felt a blush rising in his cheeks, as that thought lead to some of the other things the man had told him about yoga and girlfriends and the interesting – and, in Radar's opinion, somewhat unbelievable – ways that the two could mix.
And boy, if his mom wouldn't wash his mouth out with soap for just thinking about some of those things, let alone the idea of repeating them . . .
But why was he still so sickened by his dream? Radar remained sitting on his cot, the bear still balanced in his hands. He tried to puzzle it out. It wasn't that nightmares were anything new to him – he lived in a front-line MASH unit, for goodness' sakes. It wasn't even the first time he' had a dream about Sam in the war. Those did tend to scare him a little more, as there wasn't much he could do to make sure she was safe, not like everyone else, who he could just call or write or even just see the next morning trying to choke down whatever imitation food was being served in the mess tent that day. But even those didn't leave him with this same awful feeling afterwards, and whatever dread was there was usually pretty easy to chase away. So why . . .
Oh. Now he remembered. This latest batch of wounded came from Sam's unit. The sick feeling intensified. He still didn't know if she was among them – he had been trying to keep an eye out for her while he was working, up until Hawkeye had seen the look in his eyes and told him in no uncertain terms to go get some sleep and let the rest of them handle what was left.
But he couldn't remember seeing Sam. He hoped desperately that it was simply because she hadn't been among the wounded, that she was okay and fine and someplace safe with the rest of the uninjured men. Or maybe, as a second best, that he hadn't seen her because he simply hadn't noticed her, hadn't had a reason to notice her in the chaos of dealing with so many dying kids where someone with less severe injuries could easily go unnoticed in comparison. Because the alternative – that she had been injured but, for any of a variety of reasons, hadn't made it to the 4077th – was too frightening to consider.
With conscious effort, Radar safely stowed his teddy bear under his pillow, and pulled his glasses off the hook on the wall. He stood up, stretching out his stiff joints. How long was I asleep? He checked the battery-powered clock on the wall over his desk: 3:17 am. About ten hours, wow! It was the most sleep he'd gotten since his last R&R in Seoul.
He hurried through the door into post-op. The beds were all full, and it seemed like no more patients were being brought in. The influx must be over then.
It would explain the silence. Usually when there were wounded, even with breaks in between the shipments from the front, there was a cacophony of activity in the compound. Afterwards, however, it was as if the camp was unconsciously trying to make up for the noise with an equal level of quiet. Perhaps it was due to that lull that Radar had slept so long.
He made his way down the room to the desk of the duty nurse. It was Major Houlihan this shift. "Hello, Major," he muttered, reluctant to break the momentary peace. "Can I help with anything?"
She looked up from the paperwork she had been looking over. "No, thank you, Radar." She took a sip of coffee from the mug sitting on the desk, wincing when the liquid hit her tastebuds. "God, that's awful. Oh, Radar, have you had a chance to see Sam yet?"
Radar knew that his expression must make him look like a deer in the headlights. "S-Sam?"
"Yes," Margaret replied, eyeing him. "She was brought in with the wounded. But don't worry," she said hurriedly, seeing the color drain out of his face at an alarming rate, "she only had minor injuries. She's sleeping now. You can see her, she's got the last bed on the right."
"O-Okay," Radar said. He barely managed to avoid tripping over his feet as he turned.
For the rest of his life, the walk down the rows of beds would seem like a dream. He couldn't feel his feet – it was as if he was floating through the room, his eyes fixed on the form occupying that last bed in the corner. It seemed as if the walk lasted less than a second, and at the same time stretched into an eternity.
And then it was over, and he was standing at the foot of her bed. For a terrifying moment, he thought that she must be dead. Complications happened all the time, and sometimes there was no way to prevent them.
Then he saw the rise and fall of her chest. And he felt dizzy as he realized that she was alive. Alive and safe and there, there she was, right in front of him. He let his eyes roam over her face, the rusty slant of her eyebrows, the graceful curve of her cheekbones, the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. His eyes wandered up to the bright red on top of her head, the hair she'd been so proud of and must have cut herself, the night she left, to save her brother . . .
And it struck him that this girl, this lovely, amazing, strong, courageous girl, was his friend. And how very, very lucky he was to have gotten to know her.
Margaret watched as Radar pulled a chair up beside Samantha's bed and sat down. She couldn't keep herself from smiling as he picked up the girl's hand and held on to it as if she would disappear the moment he let go.
Still smiling, she returned to her paperwork, satisfied that both kids were going to be okay.
Thanks for reading, and I'll see you next time!