Author's Note: Sorry it took me so long to get this out. The generic excuse, of course, is Life.

On another note, I find it so amusing that the first spell-check option for Houlihan is "hooligan".

And thank you very much for all your feedback so far!

Chapter Four – Rolling Clouds:

Colonel Potter folded his glasses on top of his desk and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. He was tired, bone tired. He sighed, chest rising and falling slowly. It had been without a doubt one of the most emotionally taxing thirty-six hours of his life.

"Colonel Potter, sir?"

"Come in, Radar." The door was already swinging shut behind the boy, eyes hidden behind his smudged glasses, cap slightly askew atop his head. "It's Daniel Pierce, sir –"

"Jumpin' jompers, if I didn't forget all about that. I'd better send the man a telegraph, if that didn't beat all the insensitive ways of telling a man his son's fighting for his life in post-op –"

"I've got him on the phone now, sir," Radar interrupted. "I mean – I only thought that maybe – since you've been so busy I thought I'd –"

Colonel Potter smiled to put Radar at his ease, "Not at all, son. It's good to know at least someone around here is still thinking straight. I'll take it in here…. And Radar?"

"Yes, Colonel?"

"It's a mighty fine thing to think of."

"Thank you, sir."

Colonel Potter breathed deeply before picking up the receiver inside its canvass bag, trying to compose himself. He'd had many a conversation like the one he was preparing himself for, too many, but it never seemed to get any easier. Especially when it concerned a doctor and man as fine as Pierce…and his father who could only be as fine as his son. Colonel Potter couldn't recall that he'd ever had the pleasure of talking to Daniel Pierce before. It was a shame that the first time had to be over something like this.

Colonel Potter took another deep breath before placing the receiver up to his ear. "Dr. Pierce? Colonel Sherman Potter, here."

"My God, Colonel. Your company clerk just rung me. What's wrong? Is Hawkeye alright?"

Colonel Potter sighed. The man certainly had a way of cutting straight to the chase.

"I know this might come as something as a shock –"

"Colonel, don't bother with any mollycoddling. Tell me. Is Hawkeye alright?"

Colonel Potter cleared his throat. "That hard truth of the matter, Doctor, is that your son came in here the other night with a very serious chest wound, partially torn aorta, pulmonary laceration –"

"Oh God," whispered Daniel Pierce.

Colonel Potter felt his stomach twisting. He could only imagine what it might be like to have an unfamiliar man call him out of the blue to tell him that it was his own son who'd been injured, who was fighting for his life – heck, he hardly had to imagine it. From the beginning Hawkeye had always been more than just one of his Colonel Potter's subordinates.

"What happened? How's he doing?" The fear was evident in Daniel Pierce's voice, the unasked questions painfully clear in the pauses between the syllables: is my son alive? Is he going to stay alive?

"The Aid station your son was at was hit by an attack. It was a mortar. Caught Hawkeye in the chest just as he was trying to get out."

"Colonel, is he alright?" said Daniel Pierce fiercely, low, insistent.

"He…one of our surgeons just had to open him up again. He was going into heart failure. His lung had collapsed."

"Oh God," Daniel Pierce whispered. His voice was rough. Colonel Potter wondered if the man had succumbed to tears.

Colonel Potter pressed on. "That was all about an hour ago. He's unconscious in post-op now. His blood pressure's seventy-seven over forty. His temperature's reading 104.5. Heart-rate's up."

Daniel Pierce breathed heavily. "Infection?"

"He's on period doses of penicillin. Got a chest tube in. Seems to be draining well."

They spoke for several more moments. Daniel Pierce, a doctor himself, asking all the hard questions and Colonel Potter having to answer him.

"They'll be cutting us off any second now," said Colonel Potter. "I'm sorry the news couldn't have been any better."

Daniel Pierce sighed, weariness evident even through the crackling of the phone lines, "I know it isn't your fault, Colonel. A doctor can – there's only so much you can do."

"Your son's about the finest man I've ever had the privilege of serving with, and all of us here feel the same."

"Thank you, Colonel."

"Call me Sherman."

"Call me Dan."

"Alright, Dan. I'll call you as soon as…" Colonel Potter didn't know what to say. As soon as what? As soon as Hawkeye's fever broke? As soon as it didn't? "I'll call you as soon as there's any change."

"Thank you, Sherman."

Lieutenant Kealani Kellye rubbed the sleep from her eyes and shuffled through the doors of post-op, bumping into a waist-high little figure coming her way as she walked through the door.

"Oops, I'm sorry little one," she said, smiling at the little Korean boy, whose name they had learned to be Jong-soo. He had his little sister, Sook-ja, by the hand.

"Me excuse you," said the little boy, showing a toothy grin. His sister blinked silently up at Kellye with large dark eyes. The cut on her cheek had scabbed over and a light brown colored bruise formed on her forehead, but all other evidence of the accident in the hut had disappeared. They'd obviously just been visiting their mother, who was sitting up in bed half-way down the ward and already impatient to get away from the hospital.

"I fine," she had insisted in broken English to Colonel Potter the previous afternoon. "I go home now."

"There's not much of it left I'm afraid," Colonel Potter had sighed. "Anyway, you're on bed rest for another day until I'm sure your noggin's ay-okay."

"We leave soon?" The little boy asked Kellye.

"Yes, later today you'll be free to go," Kellye answered. "We'll certainly miss you around here, Jong-soo," she ruffled the boy's blue-black hair. "You two, sweetheart," she said his sister, who merely blinked again. She had proved herself to be a timid child during her brief stay at the camp.

With their mother laid up in post-op and the higher ranking officers preoccupied with Hawkeye's condition the care of the children had been dispersed among the nurses and some of the enlisted men. Kelly and Klinger, especially, had taken it upon themselves to watch out for the children.

Kellye looked up when she heard a disturbance coming near the end of the room. She saw Captain Hunnicutt standing with Majors Houlihan and Winchester. From the agitated way Captain Hunnicutt was moving his arms and the frown on Major Houlihan's lips, Kellye could tell they were arguing. She couldn't distinguish individual words in their muffled voices from where she stood but she didn't have to be a genius to figure out what they were talking about.

Hawkeye had been drifting between unconsciousness and delirium for the last day now. He had a raging fever, low blood pressure, and the onset of pneumonia. She didn't blame BJ, as Hawkeye's best friend, for being a little emotional.

Just then BJ threw up his hands, turned on his heel, and stormed out the opposite door, Major Houlihan and Major Winchester staring after him. Kellye sighed.

"Everyone worried?" said Jong-soo, turning her attention back to him and his sister. "Doctor is hurt?"

Kellye smiled weakly and ruffled Jong-soo's hair again. "That's right, honey. Everyone's worried." She hadn't realized their preoccupation over Hawkeye had been so apparent that a child might pick up on it. But, then again, Hawkeye was greatly loved among all the personnel, it was only natural that the stress over his very slow recovery should begin to show through the cracks in their false smiles and shadows beneath their eyes.

"How about you go find Klinger, alright?" Kellye said to the two children. "Ask him to get you something to eat from the mess tent."

Jong-soo nodded and dragged his sister after him as he existed the ward.

Kellye walked toward Majors Houlihan and Winchester, now speaking together in low voices after BJ's abrupt departure.

"I'm here to relieve you, Major," said Kellye.

Major Houlihan looked up and mustered a tired looking smile, "Thank you, Lieutenant. I've just got a few things to finish up here first." Major Winchester nodded to Major Houlihan before drifting off to check a clipboard hanging on the bedpost of one of the other patients. Kellye had noticed the usually snide and presumptuous Major Winchester had been rather subdued of late. She supposed Hawkeye had somehow managed to burrow himself even in the Major's prickly heart more than anyone – indeed, more than Major Winchester, himself – could ever have guessed.

"Of course, Major."

"See to it Corporal Spencer's dressings are changed, Lieutenant. And Private Johnston's due for another shot of morphine."

"Yes, Major." Kellye could tell Major Houlihan was about to prattle out several more instructions so she intercut hastily. "Why don't you try to get some rest, Major? You've been up half the night. I'll take care of everything here."

"Yes, of course, I – I'll just take care of –" Major Houlihan wavered. She checked herself and added gruffly, "I'll leave when I'm quite ready, thank you, Lieutenant."

Kellye only smiled. "Of course, Major." She left to see to Corporal Spencer. Out of the corner of her eye, Kellye watched as Major Houlihan glided over to Hawkeye's bedside. After hesitating for a moment, Major Houlihan sat down in the chair beside his cot, fixing her eyes purely on his still and waxen face.

After tending to the wounded on her list, Kellye saw that Major Houlihan had yet to leave Hawkeye's side. Feeling that terrible twisting in her stomach that Kellye experienced every time she saw someone suffering, and indeed, the feeling that had prompted her to become a nurse in the first place, Kellye wandered over to stand beside Major Houlihan, who had Hawkeye's limp hand in her own.

"No change at all, Major?" Kellye asked softly.

Major Houlihan started, even though Kellye had not specifically tried to be silent in her approach. Major Houlihan looked up and hastily released Hawkeye's hand. Kellye tried to smile at her in a way to somehow let her know that it was alright to show compassion, alright to show concern, to be worried, to be weak. Kellye could hardly blame her, after all.

"No," murmured Major Houlihan. "No change. His blood pressure is so low. If we can't –" Her voice tripped and she didn't continue.

Kellye felt heavy dread settle in her stomach. She didn't need any explanations. She already knew.

"Is there anything else I can do, Major?" said Kellye.

Major Houlihan turned her eyes back on Hawkeye. "No, I can't think of anything, Lieutenant. Thank you, I'll – I'll just sit here for a moment."

"Of course, Major," Kellye barely felt like smiling but she did so anyway, wandering over to the desk at the end of the room. It was all very silent. None of the other patients were stirring. Major Winchester was reading a book in the corner, otherwise lost to the world. Kellye envied him his ability of losing himself in a place separate from their own, to depart if only briefly from the troubles near at hand.

Kellye checked over some paperwork, got up to adjust a patient's IV, took down a letter to Sergeant Lederman's wife because he had his right arm in a sling, and handed out oatmeal to the soldiers who could stomach solid food. Major Winchester was relieved by Colonel Potter, who went to sit with a young private who was in a lot of pain and couldn't have another shot of morphine yet. Kellye settled down behind the desk and noticed that Major Houlihan was still sitting at Hawkeye's side.

Kellye watched Major Houlihan carefully. The gray light spilling through the window threaded her bent head with gold. She was watching Hawkeye with a tenderness that Kellye had only ever seen her show to the wounded. Long ago Kellye had realized that Major Houlihan's tough as nails army veneer was really nothing more than just that, a façade – perhaps more for her own benefit than anyone else's.

As Kellye watched, Major Houlihan gave Hawkeye's hand a squeeze. Her lips barely moved as she murmured, "We all miss you around here, Hawk. The place is hardly recognizable. It's so…silent."

Kellye averted her eyes. She knew Major Houlihan's show of affection was a rare and personal thing, and wouldn't have liked it if she'd known Kellye had been eavesdropping. But her voice carried clearly across the silent ward and Kellye found it difficult to keep her mind on her work.

"BJ's really worried about you. So is Radar, and Colonel Potter, and Klinger. Even Charles, although he tries not to show it. And me. I'm worried about you, Hawkeye. I don't know what I'd do if…." Major Houlihan paused to take a deep breath.

"You've been more of a friend to me than many people have, Hawkeye. I know I haven't been the easiest person to get along with and…and the way you just disregarded that, and kept trying to be friendly in that annoying persistent way of yours –" a strangled, watery laugh, "I just want to let you know that it…that means a lot to me. You mean a lot to me."

Colonel Potter, talking to the private about his hometown, served as a gentle, rumbling backdrop to Major Houlihan's hushed voice.

"I don't think I could manage…I don't think this camp…any of us, Hawkeye," Major Houlihan seemed to be having difficulty in finding the words. "This place just wouldn't be the same without you. I know Korea hasn't exactly been a barrel of laughs, hardly a place of sunshine, and smiles, and happiness, but you should know that what you…what you did was a miracle, Hawkeye. You brought joy to the middle of the war, you brought smiles to the lips of the hurting and the dying, and with you gone…with you….

"You just can't die, Pierce." Suddenly her voice rose, trembling slightly but as brusque and gruff as Kellye was used to. "It just wouldn't be fair. Think of your father, of BJ, of all the wounded soldiers who you helped bring back to life…you just – you can't let them down, Pierce. You can't let me down. And Charles, Charles, who's done everything he can to pull you out of this. He'd never forgive you if you let yourself die now. You've got to live, Hawkeye. And that's an order of no uncertain terms."

Major Houlihan's voice wavered. She untangled her fingers from Hawkeye's hand and brushed hastily at her eyes before standing from her chair and marching out of the room. Kellye turned back to her paperwork and was startled to realize her own cheeks were damp with tears.

BJ ran his finger around the rim of his glass. He stared at the clear, rippling liquid and the olive at the bottom and couldn't bring himself to take a sip. He seemed to have lost his penchant for alcohol overnight. He sighed heavily and put his glass down on the table with a snap.

The officer's club was practically empty. A few corpsmen were sitting in a corner drinking beer and playing poker. Igor stood behind the bar, staring vacantly at the opposite wall and wiping the inside of a glass with a rag.

Sunlight filtered weakly through the windows. For once it wasn't raining, but Radar had gotten wind of another storm system scheduled to move in in just another couple of hours. BJ shut his eyes, lump caught in his throat. He reminded himself that it wasn't as though Hawkeye was no longer strong enough to be transported anywhere, anyway, now that an ambulance could actually get through.

It was now four days since he had come in from Battalion Aid, a little more than a day after Charles had had to open him back up again to stop him from internally bleeding to death, from suffocating, to make his heart start pumping again because he refused to let Hawkeye die. It was unimaginable that Hawkeye should die.

BJ raised the glass back to his lips and gulped. The alcohol burned going down his throat, but not as much as he was used to. The martinis at the o-club could never hold a candle to the ones from the still. Then again, one probably shouldn't be holding a candle to anything from the still, as much like lighter fluid as it was.

BJ sighed again. It seemed lack of sleep was making him punchy.

Anyway, the still had run dry. BJ just hadn't had the heart to keep it running when Hawkeye hadn't been there to share a grin over a couple of glasses of gin. Hey, that rhymes, thought BJ vaguely, and swallowed another mouthful of his drink.

The door opened and Charles shuffled in. BJ watched the major over the rim of his glass; Charles peered into the corners of the bar before stopping at the counter to order. Igor got him his drink and Charles reached into his pocket.

"On the house, Major," said Igor softly, the same thing he had told BJ several minutes before.

"Oh, well," it was clear that Charles wasn't entirely sure what to say. "Thank you, Private," he said brusquely.

Grabbing hold of his snifter of amber liquid, Charles once again looked around the bar. His eyes fixed themselves on BJ's table and he walked over. "Hunnicutt," he said by way of greeting, even though they had just left each other over Hawkeye's bed in post-op forty-five minutes ago.

"We'll have to make sure to keep his blood pressure down."

"I don't think that's a problem right now, Charles. Getting it back up is the problem!"

"Hunnicutt, please. Hysterics is the last thing we need."

"Charles is right, BJ. Why don't you go get yourself a drink?"

"Charles," said BJ heavily.

The older man pulled out a chair and sat down, setting his cognac on the table. "At least we've seen the end of this infernal rain," he said, as if continuing a conversation they'd already begun.

"Radar says it won't last."

"And what Radar says is surely law," said Charles. He frowned and took a sip of his drink.

"With a name like Radar, he would know," said BJ, he, too, taking another gulp of gin and realized his glass was almost empty.

"I'll buy you another," Charles offered.

"Apparently they're on the house," said BJ.

"Exactly my point," said Charles.

BJ was so surprised he almost smiled. It wasn't every day that Charles made a joke that wasn't a transparent effort to insult someone. BJ stifled a yawn with the back of his fist. He shook his hair away from his eyes.

"What time is it, anyway?"

"A little after oh-nine-hundred, as the army is fond of calling it."

"I suppose it's a little early for this," said BJ, indicating his glass of gin.

"You're point?" said Charles, raising his eyebrows and taking another drink of his cognac.

"I think I'll donate my body to science," BJ mused, tracing the brim of his glass again, feeling the beads of liquid left there. "I'll preserve it in alcohol until they can use it." But that reminded him too much of what Hawkeye would say if Hawkeye was there, but of course Hawkeye wasn't there, because Hawkeye was unconscious in post-op. BJ swore and dug his fingers into his eyes.

"We've done everything we can for him at the moment, Hunnicutt," said Charles, speaking low but with an oddly restrained sound to his voice. Obviously the man wasn't accustomed to offering sympathy.

"It doesn't feel like nearly enough," said BJ, eyes still shut.

"I understand, given your relationship," Charles said hesitantly, "how…distressing it must be for you –"

"Damn it, Charles!" BJ's eyes snapped back open. "Hawkeye has become everything to me. It's far beyond distressing to be sitting here now, sipping gin with him lying in post-op with – with –" BJ became aware of how loud his voice had gotten. Abruptly he stopped, words choking him in his throat.

Like the gentleman Charles always claimed to be, he didn't say anything following BJs outburst. BJ almost wished he would. It would have been a relief to argue, to fight, to tear into something in order to release some of this terrible pent-up pressure inside of his head and chest that had settled into a hard, throbbing lump since the very minute BJ had stepped onto that bus to see his best friend lying there with blood soaking through the front of his uniform.

Having to sit there now, unable to do anything, having had to stand there behind the operating table, watching as Charles cut through Hawkeye's flesh, having to sit there helplessly keeping vigil at his bedside had been unbearable. BJ breathed deeply and gulped down the rest of the gin, almost choking on the olive, which he had forgotten about.

Outside, somewhere in the distance but still sounding much too close, there was a rumble of explosions and artillery.

"At it again," said Charles. "I'm afraid the good weather has some adverse effects."

"It's not as though the rain stopped them before," said BJ.

"I can't imagine why anyone should want to fight in the middle of a hurricane," Charles huffed. "Rainy weather was created by God for man to take a good book before a crackling fire and a steaming cup of chamomile."

"I don't expect the boys doing the actual fighting had much say in the matter," said BJ, absentmindedly poking at the olive in the bottom of his glass with a toothpick. "Someone with a lot of brass on their shoulders, probably sitting in front of the fire with that cup of chamomile, turned a page of their book and said "Go"."

Overhead could be heard the wining drone of an airplane engine. A moment later there was a distant whistle of a falling bomb followed by a muffled explosion. BJ's empty martini glass vibrated on the table as the ground trembled. A bit of dust fell out of the rafters.

"Was that close?" said Charles, evidently meaning, should we be concerned?

"Not too close, yet," BJ answered dully. "I guess it's perfect weather for flying."

There was another distant rumble. BJ wondered, if he listened hard enough, if he might distinguish the faraway gunshots and screams of wounded men. He wondered if – He pushed his glass aside, bracing his elbows on the table and pressing his forehead against his palms.

"Hunnicutt…" said Charles, the discomfort evident in his voice.

"I wanted to thank you, Charles," said BJ suddenly, voice coming up his throat, hitting his ears harshly. "I – I know you did everything you could. I know that, whatever happens now…."

"Listen, Hunnicutt," said Charles hesitantly. "– BJ – I know I am hardly the person that comes to mind when one thinks of sanguinity – frankly, that is Father Mulcahy's business – but, really, there is no need to…to…"

"Thank you anyway, Charles," BJ cut him off. Thank you anyway, just in case…if things don't turn out right…just in case if, afterward, I forget to thank you, I forget that it wasn't your fault, wasn't anyone's fault and am looking for someone to blame –

Charles cleared his throat. He took a sip of his cognac and coughed again before answering. "Yes, well, you're welcome, Hunnicutt – BJ – I…certainly tried my best."

I know. But somehow the words refused to rise to BJ's lips. He felt exhausted. He stared at the rough wooden grain of the table below him, tracing its every line and scratches in the surface, swirling patterns of wood.

The door to the officer's club swung open and BJ's eyes pulled upward. Klinger stepped inside, skirt swirling and boots clunking on the wooden floor. "Major, Captain –" Something in the Corporal's voice, tight and insistent, and in his pale face immediately made BJ's stomach contract violently.

"What is it? Is it Hawkeye?" BJ realized he had already stood from his chair, nerves raw and battle-torn.

"No, Captain. It's the –" Klinger swallowed, eyes large, obviously shaken, "it's the little Korean girl, the one we got from the hut. She – I was getting her some food from in the mess tent but she collapsed. I think maybe she fainted, or something. She won't – I can't wake her up, sir."

Jong-soo had his sister's still face in his lap, sitting on the dusty floor of the mess tent. His jaw was set in the kind of forced, quivering line that suggested he was trying not to cry. Nurse Baker was kneeling next to him, hand gently on his shoulder. It occurred to BJ that maybe Jong-soo didn't want to relinquish his hold on his sister.

"Hey, kid," BJ said softly, Charles shuffling into the tent behind him. "Hey, will you let me get a look at your sister? Please? I'd like to see what's wrong with her so I can help her. Is that okay?"

Jong-soo didn't appear to comprehend what BJ was saying, but BJ knew the kid could speak pretty good English.

BJ worked his fingers gently through Jong-soo's tangled arms so he could get to the little girl's thin neck. He found a pulse almost immediately. Sook-ja's face was peaceful and pale. Her chest rose and fell evenly.

BJ calmly nudged Jong-soo's arm away so he could get a better look at Sook-ja's head, covered if brownish-black hair, soft like the down of a duck. "Did she hit her head again?"

"Her brother caught her."

"What do you think, Charles?"

"Subdural haematoma?" said Charles.

"It can't be acute, we wouldn't have missed that," said BJ. They shouldn't have missed anything. They shouldn't have let this happen. But the wounded and the rain and then Hawkeye…and BJ shouldn't have missed this.

"Subacute then?" said Charles.

BJ gently prodded Sook-ja's head with his fingers. "Otherwise she seems to be alright."

"Burr hole trephination?" said Charles.

"Let's get her into pre-op."

Kellye was by Hawkeye's side at the merest whisper of sound. His hand was caught in hers and fingers searching his wrist for a pulse even before her feet had remembered to come to a halt. His pulse was thready and rapid. His eyelids flickered. His lips were open, breathing wispy and hoarse.

"No…wait…can't…leave…not yet…." His voice was faint, barely audible over the shuddering of the panes in the windows from the wind that had been kicked up suddenly by another approaching storm.

"What is it?" Colonel Potter appeared behind Kellye's shoulder, voice taught, eyes fixated on Hawkeye whom stirred fitfully on the cot.

"He's delirious," Kellye answered.

"Temperature?"

"104.6," Kellye answered, the colonel cutting her off with a curse before she'd finished.

"No…Private…get to…Beej? Beej, get to…."

"Easy, son." Colonel Potter gently touched Hawkeye's forehead with his hand, his fingers coming away damp with perspiration.

Kellye saw a bead of sweat, looking almost like a tear, slide down the side of Hawkeye's face.

It was unspoken between he and Charles that BJ would be the one to take care of the Sook-ja. Charles offered to assist, even though it was a common procedure, bordering on artless, exactly the type of procedure that Charles usually avoided like the plague.

BJ pulled on his scrubs over his fatigues. He tied a mask around his mouth and snapped on a pair of rubber gloves.

"Set up the twist drill," he said to Nurse Baker, who had followed him and Charles into the operating room.

Once again he felt himself fold into the blissful automation of surgery. Thoughts of Hawkeye lying in post-op, of the look on Jong-soo's face when they'd gently pulled his sister away from his arms, of the rumbles of artillery in the distance all disappeared to a dark corner in BJ's mind. All that mattered was the tiny square-inch of skin exposed through the little girl's soft hair and the handle of scalpel biting into BJ's palm.

It was a short procedure, a simple procedure and BJ's fingers moved fluidly. The little girl would live. Of course she would. Perhaps she wouldn't have if the head trauma had been more severe, if they had not caught it when they did, there were so many mitigating factors but, of course – of course she would live.

BJ wondered why his heart was throbbing in his throat. He wondered why his eyes continuously strayed to the little girl's closed, quiet eyes, her soft lips puckered in that youthful way, looking so young, so beautiful, so innocent. If not for the dark hair and almond shaped eyes she might have been anyone's daughter, anyone's precious little girl, might have had blond curls and blue eyes and been named Erin –

"Hunnicutt?"

"I'm fine, Charles. I'm fine."

"If you need assistance, please, do not hesitate to ask –"

Shut up, Charles, you – you –

"I'm fine, Charles. Sponge, Baker."

The little girl's mouth was covered with the anesthesia mask. BJ's pulse throbbed in his wrists and his fingers trembled oh-so-slightly as he inserted the tube into the hole he had drilled into the little girl's skull to alleviate the pressure of the leaking blood collecting against her brain and somehow he had never felt any disgust before toward this particular procedure, systematic as it was, but now he felt curiously nauseated.

War was certainly more terrible than hell because there were no innocent bystanders in hell, and especially no children. All children went to heaven. All innocents went to heaven, BJ was sure of it, although he couldn't for the life of him figure out why he thought of it now.

And it had been Hawkeye who had said that – said that about hell and war and innocent bystanders – and Hawkeye was now in post-op, on the fencepost of life and death, only an innocent bystander himself. And somehow the little girl and Hawkeye had grown curiously connected, had become almost the same person in BJ's eyes and surely their fates were connected and if the little girl lived than Hawkeye would surely live, too, but if the little girl died than Hawkeye would –

But, of course, the little girl wouldn't die. The little girl couldn't die.

And her life was in BJ's hands and that meant Hawkeye's life was in BJ's hands and – and BJ's thoughts were scattered and vague and rambling. The stern, routed-in-reality part of his brain that still worked and fought for control told him to step away from the little girl, put down the scalpel because he was surely in no condition to operate and he couldn't let this little girl die because of some mistake of his own.

Something was stopping the air from coming up BJ's throat but he numbly felt his tongue move, forming the words that asked Charles to please close for him. He pulled off his bloodied gloves automatically, because all of surgery was automatic. Life itself was automatic and not considered a miracle until it was lost.

BJ stumbled out into the compound and felt a light, cool drizzle hit his face. The camp was shrouded with a softly falling mist, the sun once again hidden by heavy, gray clouds. He breathed deeply and slowly, trying to settling his squirming stomach, trying to forget the feel of the little girl's hot blood on his fingers, the look of her small, peaceful face on the table, eyes shut, small, pink mouth partly open, so indescribably precious, innocent, young….

"BJ?"

Almost unconsciously BJ felt his heartbeat begin to accelerate. His palms grew damp with sweat. Margaret tripped out of the mist, eyes ringed with red, hair mussed, lips trembling.

"BJ?"

"Margaret, what…?" BJ's words died on his lips as his throat closed in on itself, refusing to allow any air up to his brain.

Margaret's gleaming eyes searched his face, body tense, lips working soundlessly. "BJ it's –" Her voice moved sluggishly through BJ's brain, hardly recognizes the sound coming from her mouth as words.

"BJ, it's Hawkeye…."