This takes place during S5E5 (The Nurses), with references to S3E15 (Bombed). Much of the dialogue is similar for accuracy sake. Dream sequences and memories are italicized, though I find that to be an annoying way to delineate that they're happening. Feel free to review and comment. It's been a long time since I've taken to writing.

It was 0600 hours.

Early morning.

The early hour usually reserved for breakfast on some poor farmer's table in Oklahoma.

Margret couldn't remember the last time she thought about the passage of time in 12 civilian increments. Her morning shift didn't start for another hour, barring an incoming of casualties, but Major Houlihan wanted absolutely nothing to do with another person. All she wanted was a lousy cup of coffee.

Klinger came through on the coffee. It was lousy. Terrible. Terribly burnt, that is. She couldn't sip it. She forced a few gulps of the acrid stuff down her throat and cringed. At least it was hot. The only thing hotter was the weather—103 degrees of throat-choking heat. By the time she walked across the compound to the post-op she was already starting to sweat.

Midday arrived, and the sun kicked the furnace up from miserable to torrid. She circulated from table to table during surgery, trying not to think of how unsanitary the theatre was—no one had been able to shower for nearly a week because they were rationing water. The mixture of body odor, rotting flesh and humidity made her queasy. And it rendered her temper volatile.

"Margaret, my brains are on fire."

Pierce whines an awful lot for a man so smart, she thought to herself. She grabbed the towel off the tray next to Nurse Baker, making sure to give the nurse a glare for shirking her duties. She dabbed at Hawkeye's forehead and went to toss the towel in the laundry when she saw how unorganized the instrument tray looked. It reminded her of her mother's knitting basket.

"Baker, get that tray organized. It's a mess!"

"Just the way I like it," Hawkeye countered, winking at Nurse Baker.

"It's the maid's day off!" BJ added from across the room.

Margaret tossed her towel angrily into the pile of used supplies in the corner and crossed her arms as she continued to circulate around the room.

"Well, it's not procedure and I'll thank both of you to stop interfering with my staff!"

"I wouldn't touch your staff with a ten-foot nurse. Hemostat."

She glared at Hawkeye's back but chose to turn away and offer her assistance to Frank instead of engaging the surgeon in an argument. This was her last level-headed decision of the morning. Morale quickly deteriorated, eventually falling to the level of shouting between doctors and putting multiple nurses on report. The evening wasn't much better. Between her increasing workload and Baker accusing her of being a gray-haired old woman, she didn't have time for a positive thought before her head hit the pillow. She kept a stiff upper lip, though, and didn't let a single tear slip down her cheek before she drifted off. That would be foolish—she wouldn't allow it.

"I need help. The door to the supply room door is jammed!"

"I'll help you! Let's go!"

She ran out of the office, supply room keys in one hand and helmet in the other. People swarmed chaotically toward any outbuilding that offered shelter. The debris from exploded shells filled the air, thick enough that she could feel the dirt grit between her teeth. Halfway across the compound she lost her footing, followed by her hearing and her sense of direction. She slammed face first onto the ground, rocks scraping her bare arms. The ground was still vibrating from the exploded shell. She blinked her eyes, trying to regain control of her faculties. But she couldn't move her body. He'd thrown himself on top of her.

"Margaret? Margaret?!"

Margaret sat up in a cold sweat. Her hands sought anything to steady her body, but all she could find was her flimsy sheet. She clutched it tightly to her chest and tried to steady her breathing. In the eerie quiet of the night she could hear her pulse pounding in her ears. He'd been gone for months.

John…

She threw her legs over the side of the bed and pushed her fingers through her hair. Why was she dreaming about McIntyre? She was stressed out and angry—she should be dreaming about Donald. He was her Comforter-in-Chief. Trapper was… just an old friend. Even though she knew it wouldn't be much cooler outside her tent than inside, she put on her light robe and slipped outside into the night. She needed to clear her head.

A walk will do me good, she thought, and it did—for a bit. The crickets didn't seem to know that there was a war going on; they chirped on as if it were just another warm summer night. A rare breeze passed through, ruffling the edge of her robe. She clutched it to her body out of habit and tucked her hands into her pockets. As soon as her fingers brushed the edge of the envelope in her right pocket her feet slowed to a stop. Donald's messy handwriting crested across her memory.

I had a great birthday, babe. We all had a great time. I would have saved you a piece of cake but I was a little too tipsy to remember… We'll celebrate sometime…

"Major Houlihan, are you alright?"

Margaret turned around, clutching her robe to her body. It took her a moment to recognize Father Mulcahy in the moonlight. He was also clothed in his robe in slippers, his rosary hanging out of one of the pockets.

"Oh, yes, Father. I'm just… out for a walk, I guess. I couldn't sleep."

"Well, you couldn't have picked a nicer night for a stroll. Look up at the stars," He gestured upward and smiled, "As Willis would say, there they stand, the innumerable stars, shining in order like a living hymn, written in light."

She hadn't even bothered to look up. She'd been too busy looking at the dusty road in front of her toes. The sky was absolutely breathtaking. She was sure Donald was looking at the same stars from his bedroom window in Tokyo. At least she hoped he was. It would be a kind gesture to a newly engaged person.

"You know, Major, I find that when I can't sleep I walk around our camp, praying for people as I pass by their tents… It helps take my mind off my own troubles. Is there anything I can pray for, for you? You seem distracted as of late."

She passed her finger over the torn edge of the envelope in her pocket.

"I'm sure there are people here who need your prayers more than I do," she said softly.

"We're all God's children. He doesn't play favorites, you know."

She almost told him. About her frustration with her nurses. About her loneliness. Her paranoia about her engagement. Dreaming about John—

"Just for a good night's sleep. I can handle the rest."

She had a rare light shift the next morning, and rather than spend the morning dealing with a pack of women who wanted nothing to do with her, she left her nurses in charge of post-op and took some of her paperwork to the mess tent to finish during breakfast. She wolfed down her eggs (extra salt and pepper) and sausage (overcooked, but full of protein) before settling down with her folders, pencils and lousy cup of coffee (with enough sugar to add an inch or two to her hips). She found the lull of the mess tent to be incredibly effective; she got more work done in those brief moments than she would have trying to complete it over in the office. As the mess tent emptied, so did her reserve of work ethic, and she found herself staring at the empty seat across from her.

She was surrounded by people, but she was alone. She was a military pillar for many to lean on in times of need, but the only person she could lean on for support was herself, lest everyone discover that their pillar had a fallible psyche—an oasis in the middle of the desert that cannot taste its own cool, refreshing water.

No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't keep the tears in anymore. Her head was pounding, her ribs ached, and she was trapped inside the supply tent with no way to get supplies back to the OR. It started as just a little hiccup, a little hitch in her breath, but it wasn't long before her shoulders started to shake and the tears cut a trail through the dirt on her cheeks.

"Come on, honey. Take it easy."

"I'm so embarrassed."

"Why?"

"I outrank you!"

Hours of panic and anxiety came to a head. Her tears turned to sobs. Trapper wrapped his arms around her and held her, shushing her softly.

"Easy, honey. Easy. Easy…"

He tucked her head against his chest and stroked her hair until her crying quieted.

"Everybody thinks I'm so hard and tough and here I am crying like a baby!" She looked up at him and wiped her tears from her cheeks. "Do you mind?"

"No," he said with a laugh. "It's the first soft water to hit my body in a year."

"You're so understanding, John…"

He smiled at her, but it only took a moment to fade into his trademark smirk. She should be looking him in the eyes, but she couldn't look away from his lips. He pulled her tight to his chest and leaned in to kiss her, but hesitated. In that brief pause, Margaret's brain clamored to gather any sense of rationality it could muster, but the warmth of his embrace, the touch of his soft hands on her arms, the scent of his breath, laced with the essence of gin…

"N-no," she stammered, turning away from him. "We shouldn't…"

Trapper rolled his eyes, pulling back from her face.

"Look, we're stuck in here and I sure as hell don't wanna take inventory! We've got cots, blankets and a lot of extra plasma…"

Margaret pushed him away from him and ran to the door. She snatched the crowbar off the floor and wedged it in between the boards. If she busied herself with an escape effort, maybe Trapper would blame the blush on her cheeks on her physical effort to pry the door open.

She shouted for help, twisting the crowbar and kicking at the door. She shouted a few more times, but it was too noisy in the compound for anyone to hear her voice. She could feel his eyes burning holes into her back. She wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand and turned to face him. He was lying on the stack of army blankets that had fallen off the shelf.

"All that energy wasted on a door."

That damned smirk.

"Come here..."

"You look contemplative, Major. Reading the coffee grounds again?"

Margaret blinked and looked up from her mug. BJ gestured to the seat across from her with his own coffee mug.

"Mind if I join you?"

"Of course not," she said quietly. "Have a seat, captain."

They made small talk for a few minutes, casually sipping and adding sugar to their cups as needed. Hunnicutt led her through the standard topics of surgery and home life, picking little details from the folders she'd left open on the table. Her answers were lackluster but he seemed to find them acceptable. They were both tired. Tired people gave tired answers to tired questions.

"Everything alright with Donald?"

Margaret sat back, her shoulders straight. She frowned at BJ over the edge of her coffee cup.

"Yes, not that it's any of your business. Why does everyone feel the need to pry into my personal life lately?"

"Probably because you've been a hotheaded blowhard the past few days," BJ said, before he took the last swig of coffee. "And that's just not like you."

"Organization and adhering to military code is hardly being a hotheaded blowhard," she replied angrily. She didn't need to defend her actions to a subordinate officer. "Maybe if we all followed regulations a little more regularly I wouldn't come across as a blowhard!"

"The only regularity we have in camp is when Klinger puts prunes in the morning oatmeal," BJ said. He grimaced as he stood up, stretching his arms above his head until his fingers nearly brushed the roof of the mess tent. "Everyone respects your leadership, Margaret, no matter how often we connive and joke around. The army may be a machine, but it's a machine composed of both regulation and humanity—we have to let that humanity breathe once in a while between the turns of the cog. Just try to remember this… people reveal their true selves when they feel comfortable, when they can trust another person. Your nurses trust your leadership… do you trust them enough to show them your humanity?"

Trust.

What a fallacy.

She knew Hunnicutt had good intentions with his little inspirational speech, but it just gnawed at her nerves throughout the afternoon. It even followed her into the scrub room.

Trust, she scoffed, scrubbing fiercely at her fingernails. How was she supposed to trust anyone around here? Even BJ himself was scheming with Pierce today, trying to convince Colonel Potter that the man quarantined in her tent had schistosomiasis—or was it the plague or typhoid? She shut off the water with her elbow and shook the water from her hands with a vicious jerk before slipping her hands into a pair of gloves. Doctors lied to her, her nurses were insubordinate… trust was just a form of weakness.

"I don't trust you," she said, eyeing Trapper suspiciously.

They were huddled together underneath a blanket. She'd caved and joined him—a bit quicker than she'd liked to admit—after realizing they'd be stuck in the supply room for a while. She was tired. He was tired. Exhaustion usually fueled poor decisions. But she was too mentally exhausted to care anymore.

"You don't trust me? John Xavier McIntyre? When we handed out graham crackers for snacks in the third grade I was elected crumb manager."

She laughed and shook her head at him. His humor could disarm the foulest of moods. She was sure it was one of the reasons his wife had married him. His wife… she cleared her throat and looked him straight in the eye.

"I'm going to lay down now because I'm cold and tired; you have to promise me no hanky-panky."

"I don't even have a hankie and I left my pankie in my other suit."

She nodded and leaned against the pile of blankets. Trapper snuggled up behind her and put his head on her shoulder.

"You don't gotta worry about me," he yawned. "I'm beat."

Their moment beneath the blanket had been brief, but Margaret could still remember how safe she felt in his arms, the beat of his heart against her back, the soft sound of his breathing in her ear. And she could still remember the look of shock on Frank's face when he saw the two of them together under the blanket. After weeks of interrogation Frank finally conceded that nothing had happened between the two of them and he and Margaret went back to their daily romancing.

But something did happen, she thought to herself. Not physically, but mentally. Those few moments with Trapper in the supply tent made her reconsider her entire relationship with Burns. Why did she pursue a man who was just as married as McIntyre? Why did she push McIntyre away? The man did have a certain je ne sais quoi. Why tell Trapper "no" but tell Ferret Face "yes" night after night? Why on earth did she have feelings for a married man? She was better than that…

She supposed this was what initially fueled her to pursue Donald. After all, why settle for Pinocchio when she could have Adonis? Donald was all man—and a West Pointer to boot. He had a strong grip and a behind that wouldn't quit. And he had lips… the man could kiss. She had a ring on her finger and a promise to share the future together, which was more than Burns could ever give her. But with the arrival of the letter, even her newfound solidarity seemed a bit shaky.

She spent the evening with her nurses, angry with herself that she'd allowed herself to get hopeful that they'd invited her to engage in a little feminine conversation before bed. The tent was already dark when she arrived. She slipped beneath the blanket on the extra cot Radar had set up earlier in the evening and pulled the blanket over her head to try to force herself to sleep. But her mind was running a million miles per hour with thoughts of Donald, a letter from her sister, and the patient Frank had nearly lost during surgery earlier in the afternoon.

Baker stirred on the bunk behind her. Margaret could tell she was trying to be as quiet as possible, but anxiety had blessed her with sensitive, war-time hearing, and it didn't take a detective to tell her that Baker was sneaking out to meet someone—against her orders that she remain under house arrest for insubordination. Just outside the tent she could hear Baker finagle her way past Klinger and walk towards her tent. The tent with the quarantined soldier. Even in the middle of a war zone, Baker managed to find some sort of solace. Margaret was stuck in a tent with four other women who despised her, and a questionable fiancé who was miles away in Tokyo.

She let one tear slip down her cheek. She'd have to comfort herself.

Trapper wasn't there to hold her anymore.

She threw the book at Baker the next morning. Confined to quarters, threat of court marshal. No matter how much the other nurses argued, she wasn't going to budge. She didn't care if the man Baker met with was her new husband. That discovery had rubbed the salt deep in her emotional wounds. There was no stepping back from bitterness this morning.

"Come on, Major, give her a break!"

"You've ruled and regulated us to death! What would you have said had she asked you last night?"

"I would have said no," Margaret said, shaking her duty roster at them. "And not because of the rules, but because of the rotten way you've treated me!"

"The way we've treated you?!" Nurse Preston asked, her eyes wide.

"Did you ever show me any kind of friendship? Ask my help with a personal problem? Include me in one of your little bull sessions? Can you imagine what it feels like to walk by this tent and hear you laughing and know... I'm not welcome?" Her breath caught in her throat. She blinked back her tears and swallowed. "Did you ever once ever offer me a lousy cup of coffee?"

"We didn't think you'd accept…"

"Well, you were wrong."

Radar tried to catch her attention as she flew through the door towards the supply room but she pushed past him. She had to hide somewhere before she fell apart completely. Once inside, she pulled the lock at the top of the door and leaned against the cool sheet metal. She beat her fists on the door and threw her folder across the room, letting out a scream that had been building up inside for nearly a week. She wanted to shake them all by the shoulders, force them to see her somehow. To see her as a human being. She collapsed against the door and slid to the floor, hiding her face in her hands.

She heard the jeep horn beep for the third time. If Trapper wasn't careful, the jeep was going to leave without him and he'd miss his plane ride home. She was hiding inside the office, trying to keep herself busy so she wouldn't have to see him leave the camp. She jumped as the office doors swung open. She expected to see O'Reilly walk through them.

It was John.

"I… I remembered one more thing I wanted to tell you."

"What is it, Captain?"

"He isn't worth it."

Her eyes narrowed, but Trapper stared back at her, his eyes clear and serious.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

The grin tried to find its way to his lips, but he settled for a sad smile. He shook his head.

"And you want to marry that idiot."

"Who I marry is none of your business, Captain!"

Margaret turned her back to him and frantically searched for something to do. Luckily for her, Henry had been a disorganized mess and there was a plethora of papers for her to move around in an attempt to look busy. The jeep driver beeped again. She bit her lower lip.

"You better go."

But he didn't. He dropped his duffle by the door and walked up behind her.

"Hey. Look at me."

Margaret tensed as he took her by the shoulders and turned her around to face him. The last thing she needed to do was cry. She pursed her lips and looked up at him, perhaps for the last time. His eyes held no prank, no pretense—just her friend, Trapper John.

"Take it from a man cut from the same cloth as that idiot you think loves you—you're worth more than a war romp. Don't settle for being the other woman."

Before she could muster a reply, Trapper leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

"Goodbye, Margaret."

He patted her shoulder and left her alone in Henry's office.

Don't settle.

He'd meant for her to keep away from Frank. But there was more to that sentiment. Part of her had always been the "other woman".

Not really Margaret.

Just Major.

She was the Army. There was no room for femininity. Her mind wandered back to BJ's comments about her ability to open up, to show her humanity. If her nurses couldn't even see her as a woman, a friend to turn to, how did Donald see her? Did her fiancé love her for who she was, or because she was the model "other woman"? Humanity was a two-way street. To be seen, you had to allow yourself to be seen by others, failures and all. It was easier to hide behind the tough woman façade than let others see her weaknesses, but hiding was settling—unless she allowed others in, she'd be settling for that cookie cutter life, the safe life.

But she was worth more than that.

And for the first time in a long time, she realized that she was still in control of the woman she wanted to be—even if she'd allowed others to tend the reins for a while. She sighed and pushed herself to her feet, dusting the dirt from her uniform.

A woman of worth didn't snivel on the supply room floor.

Worth didn't come easily for her that day, but she tried. She wrote a letter to Donald, wishing him a happy birthday. She sent a telegram back to her sister, congratulating her on the new family car. But the challenge of the day had been handling Baker's midnight romp with her groom. When Colonel Potter asked her about pressing charges on Hawkeye and BJ, she told him it was a private matter between her and her nurses. But it took her a while to answer. It'd been nice to see them sweat for once.

She thought about writing Trapper, letting him know that she wasn't going to settle. She missed his friendship. His honesty when Pierce wasn't around. But the woman in her knew the last thing that his wife wanted to see was a letter in the mail from another woman. He had enough trouble in that department already. Miserable letch. He probably never even learned how to spell "fidelity".

After dinner, Margaret made her way to the nurses' tent and knocked politely. She was happy to see that they were still awake, though she tried to keep her face serious.

"I have your jobs for tomorrow," She glanced at Baker, who was standing in the back of the tent, huddled over a helmet, stirring something dark and sugary. "I hope that isn't what I think it is."

"It is. It's fudge," said Nurse Walsh.

''Cooking in tents is against regulations."

"Yes, Major… Have some?" Baker asked.

Don't settle…

With a small smile, Major Houlihan walked over to Baker and stuck her finger in the helmet. She licked the fudge off her finger and grimaced.

"Oh, that's bad." She laughed and took another taste.

"How about a lousy cup of coffee?''

"I'd love some."