#settle for me = frank at margaret

[variousqueerthings]

every day avoid making amvs of MASH using crazy ex girlfriend songs, but I should at least make a list....

[mash4077confessions]

Do you think trapper went back home and resumed his life? Any headcanons you have about why he never wrote hawkeye?

In coming Trapper stuff:

I think that when Trapper (and pretty much everyone else) went home, they did do their upmost to try and resume where they had left off, as any of us would.

The war definitely did have impact on Trapper. Most notably, when he was on that plane going back to the states, he was shaking like a leaf and holding onto his arm rest for dear life. If they served alcohol on that flight, you could bet he was knocking them back, as they crossed the Sea of Japan (R.I.P Henry).

When arrived at the airport in Boston, Louise and the girls were there waiting for him holding up a big sign that said, "Welcome Back Daddy!"

And he cried tears of joy as he held Becky and Kathy, which didn't go unnoticed by Louise, who he kissed very passionately (and took her by surprise).

He threw himself headlong into being a father again, and I'm not going to say that he completely stopped cheating (as its heavily implied he was cheating before the war), but he definitely toned it down a bit...was a bit more there for Louise. They also had more kids.

Trapper developed night terrors. When he was awake he was all loving a jokey and "Nah, it's cool. The war couldn't touch me." but when he was asleep, the truth came out. Louise would wait till it was safe to touch him, and then she'd hold him real close and tight. She'd remind him over and over again that he was safe.

I believe that Trapper did leave a note for Hawkeye. He left it inside his hat, but when Frank decided to clean The Swamp, he chucked it. I don't think Frank even saw the note, he just didn't want Trapper's stupid hat there anymore. (It would be in character for Frank to know about the note being in the hat and have that be his motivation for throwing it away, but Frank also can't keep secrets or lie very well, and he would have eventually said something about it to Hawkeye or Margaret with his attempt at an evil laugh).

Trapper also wrote to Hawkeye pretty soon after he settled back at home. Unfortunately, that was right around the time that the army declared Hawkeye dead. Trapper got his mail sent back to him, saying that Hawkeye was dead.

So Hawkeye thinks that Trapper didn't care about him

and Trapper thinks his wartime bestie was killed.

[becauseicantthinkwritings]

Angel of Small Death

A Halloween mini series!

Part 2

Dark Priest! Billy Russo, Dark Priest! Matt Murdock, Dark! Frank Castle

Warnings: Injury, mentions of exorcisms, blasphemy.

The last time you'd seen Father Russo, you'd both been playing down at the nearby creek.

He was just Billy then, searching for rocks to skip while you dipped your toes into the cold water.

There were much more people living at the monastery, so much that no one missed two teenagers that had simply wandered off to explore.

You'd been listening to him talk about all the places he'd hoped to see on his travels, feeling your heart crack a little at the thought of losing your friend to faith.

You tried to be happy for him, this is what he wanted after all, to make a difference, to bring guidance and support to the wandering souls out there. 

When you watch him leave later that week, it's with red eyes and his lingering scent on your cheeks where he'd squeezed you tight into his chest for just a moment.

The sister caring for you at the time had allowed it, despite the inappropriateness of two teenagers embracing in front of the monastery. She had truly understood what he had meant to you.

Now, you almost don't recognize him.

The crown of his head is wrapped in thick gauzy bandages, his hair is different, cropped short where he'd worn it at his shoulders in his early life.

“Billy?!”

His face has changed too, that pretty cleft chin now hidden beneath stubble. He blinks slowly at you, barely responding when you say his name in surprise.

“You know Father Russo?” The sister besides you asks in surprise.

Right, Father Russo was his name now, not Billy.

“Yes, apologies, he grew up in the monastery alongside me for a few years.”

She nods in understanding.

“We need to get him to the healer inside.” Someone says behind you, and you nod, stepping back to let them through.

“Does anyone know what happened?” You ask, looking around at the small group of people that had arrived with him.

Another priest steps forward, a cane in his hand, and a pair of red tinted spectacles over his eyes. You try not to react to the way your heart quickens its pace at his handsomeness, doing your best to avoid studying his mouth as he speaks.

“He had a fall,” The man answers, “We were- performing an exorcism, and just as the demon was banished, it lashed out, threw us backward, Father Russo hit his head when he fell.”

Your lips part in shock, dread and worry mixing for your longtime friend.

“And you? Are you hurt?” 

He gives you a soft smile, one that makes you feel like a petulant child.

“Just a few cuts and bruises, nothing that time cannot heal.”

You nod.

“Sister Margaret, can you help these men get settled? I'll escort Father-?”

“Murdock.” He supplies.

“-Father Murdock to the infirmary to be checked.”

She nods, introducing herself to the men, before beginning to point out the stables for the horses.

You wait till everyone is far enough away, before you turn to look at Father Murdock.

“Do you require guidance?” You ask.

“Yes, unfortunately I am almost entirely blind.” He answers.

“Very well.” You allow him to hold your arm, and you both begin heading in the direction of the infirmary.

Something doesn't feel right, you can't put your finger on it, but it feels as though you're being observed from the shadows, as if the very walls have suddenly sprouted eyes that follow you.

“How long have you known Father Russo?” You ask, trying to fill the silence, a welcome distraction from the way you feel right now.

A stray wind blows, and you catch the scent of sandalwood, maybe from the man beside you, or maybe it's the incense from the church. Either way, you take another slow breath, delighting in the smell of it, allowing it to relax you.

“I met Billy around five years ago off the coast of Spain, a small island in the Balearic Sea, where a little girl had been taken hostage by an evil spirit. He was good at tracking, and I was better at performing exorcisms, and we began that way.”

You nod, smiling, deep in thought about your childhood friend.

“And, do you perform exorcisms often?” You continue, feeling the warmth of his palm through your sleeve.

“Yes, very, there is an abundance of evil in the world.”

You swallow, dropping your head.

“Oh.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what is your title here? I find it odd that you would be charged with escorting me. Where is the Mother Superior?”

You blink.

“That would be me.” You answer.

He stops in his tracks, and you do as well. You turn your head to look at him.

“You?” He asks with an incredulous tone.

Displeasure bubbles in your throat.

“Is there a problem with that, Father Murdock?” You ask softly, a hint of defiance in your tone.

“How old are you?” He continues rudely.

“I’m old enough.”

“I doubt that. You sound like you’re barely out of leading strings.”

“I find that comment offensive, Father. I am old enough and more than capable.”

“Are you?” he murmurs, stepping in close, “I can feel your heart beating faster the closer I draw to you. You have very limited control on your inner desires.”

“How dare you-” You pause, taking a deep breath, finding your anchor as you feel a surge of emotion. Sure, he might have been right, your heart had been pounding, but you were very much capable of keeping yourself in check.

“Regardless of your opinion, I am Mother Superior here. I am in charge of the dealings of this monastery until an abbott can be appointed. I was selected by vote, and I will do right by the people under my care.”

He pauses, as if realising there was no winning when it came to challenging your capacity to be in charge.

“I understand,” he says, beginning to walk once more and leaving you to catch up with him.

You grit your teeth, noting that he hadn't even apologised for his disrespect.

.

You wring the cold cloth between your hands, water dripping into the bowl for a moment before you press the cloth to his head.

His eyes are closed, but he makes a low humming sound as the cold cloth touches his feverish skin.

“It'll be alright, Billy.” You whisper to him, his eyes moving beneath his eyelids for a moment, responding to your voice.

He'd been like this for a few days now, coming in and out of consciousness, a low grade fever creating a red flush on his skin occasionally.

You pause, looking down at him, his stubble having grown a little longer in the time. He was so beautiful that you found difficulty in looking away.

Your eyes drop to his neck, and you feel something overcome you. You dip your cloth into the frigid bowl of water once more, squeezing half heartedly, before pressing the cloth to his chest.

You want to be thorough, tugging the sheets covering his bare chest lower, so that you can study him. 

He's not the first man you've seen in such a bare state, but he's definitely the first one to make you feel… aware.

You drag the damp cloth over his skin, fingers dragging along his chest, you tilt your head to examine the small speckling of hair.

You bite down on the inside of your cheek, trying not to think…

You breathe out a small laugh.

“You wouldn't believe the thoughts I once had about you, when we were younger, I would sneak off and crawl into the little space in the rafters above the baths in hopes that I would catch you bathing. What a wild one I was, Billy. I had thoughts of begging you to run away with me, the way you might react. I was such a child back then, I'm sorry I hated you for so long after you left. I'm not a child anymore.” You confess to him softly, dabbing at his forehead again.

You stay a little longer than necessary, and when his fever breaks fully, you decide that enough is enough, dropping the damp cloth into the bowl, and standing.

You gasp when he grabs your hand, you turn to look down at him, his eyes blinking in and out of focus.

“Billy?” You say hopeful, cupping his cheek to examine his eyes.

They're unfocused at first, but when they finally settle on you, his lips part in surprise.

“Beautiful.” He murmurs, his fingers rising to push your veil behind your shoulder, his fingers tracing your cheek gently.

“What's your name?” 

.

.

.

[popentertainment-moviereviews]

WICKED (2024)

Starring Cynthia Erivo, Ariana Grande, Jonathan Bailey, Marissa Bode, Ethan Slater, Michelle Yeoh, Jeff Goldblum, Keala Settle, Bronwyn James, Bowen Yang, Aaron Teoh, Guan Ti, Adam James, Colin Michael Carmichael and the voice of Peter Dinklage.

Screenplay by Winnie Holzman and Dana Fox.

Directed by Jon M. Chu.

Distributed by Universal Pictures. 160 minutes. Rated PG.

Have you ever wondered what came before Dorothy and the yellow brick road? Wicked answers all of these questions and more in the most spellbinding fashion. Jon M. Chu’s long-awaited film adaptation of Winnie Holzman and Stephen Schwartz’s hit Broadway musical, Wicked, gives audiences an inside look into how Elphaba Thropp became known as the Wicked Witch of the West, and how Galinda Upland became Glinda the Good Witch.

For those who don’t already know, Wicked is the musical prequel to L. Frank Baum’s 1900 novel The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (my fellow musical theater geeks know that Elphaba’s name is derived from Baum’s initials). Baum’s novel took the world by fire and earned its very first film adaptation in 1939, The Wizard of Oz, starring Judy Garland, Jack Haley, Ray Bolger, Bert Lahr, Frank Morgan, Margaret Hamilton, Billie Burke, and Clara Blandick. Unsurprisingly, the film quickly became a cult classic which led to numerous sequels, retellings, and, you guessed it, prequels.

In 1995, Gregory Maguire’s novel Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West was published, a prequel to Baum’s award-winning tale. The novel tells the previously untold story of how Elphaba and Glinda’s complicated relationship came to be, exploring themes of Good vs. Evil, Identity, Discrimination, and Friendship. With the success of Maguire’s novel, further conversation sparked about translating the story into a musical.

In 2003, Wicked made its Broadway debut at the Gershwin Theatre with music and lyrics composed by Stephen Schwartz and script by Winnie Holzman. The award-winning original cast featured Idina Menzel as Elphaba and Kristin Chenoweth as Glinda, making the pair household names.

Being lucky enough to have seen Wicked twice on Broadway, I, as well as other theater enthusiasts, had extremely elevated expectations for its highly anticipated film adaptation. Recent movie musicals have let me down, so I was curious how Wicked would fall on my wickedly misguided to thrillifying rating scale.

Needless to say, my expectations were defied.

The film begins exactly as its musical counterpart does, picking right up where The Wizard of Oz film left off, with the Munchkins of Munchkinland celebrating the melting (death) of the Wicked Witch of the West, belting opening number “No One Mourns the Wicked.” Glinda (formerly GA-linda) floats down in her iconic pink bubble to “rejoicify” with the Munchkins. Glinda’s sudden appearance prompts one of the Munchkins to ask Glinda if she was ever friends with the Wicked Witch, to which she responds that she was. Glinda then goes on to tell the origin story of the green witch (Elphaba,) and the trials that she endured as early as a newborn baby.

The story continues as Elphaba grows up and enrolls in Shiz University, with Galinda as her roommate. The duo become unlikely best friends, even after expressing that they equally “loathe” one another. Over the course of the girls’ first semester at Shiz, the talking animal professors of the university begin to lose their voices, reverting to their animalistic bleating, mooing, selves. As Elphaba has such a passion for the rights of all living things, she seeks out the help of the great and powerful Wizard of Oz to serve justice to the animals. Elphaba and Glinda make their way to the renowned Emerald City, not knowing that their adventure is just beginning.

I was concerned that Elphaba and Glinda’s characters would get lost in the mix of Wicked’s star-studded cast, but this was not the case at all. Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande transformed into the film’s iconic pair on the screen before me. Be prepared to see Erivo and Grande as you’ve never seen them before – their chemistry and talent are unmatched. Wicked is a true masterpiece and Erivo and Grande are coming for those Oscars.

Between Jonathan Bailey’s charisma playing Fiero, Michelle Yeoh’s mesmerism as Madame Morrible, and Jeff Goldblum’s allure as the Wizard, every single person in this cast carried their weight and more.

Alongside the incredibly brilliant cast, Wicked’s cinematography is another massive contributor to its success, in my book. The film is jam-packed with breathtaking landscapes including Munchkinland’s radiant tulip field (including nine million real planted tulips,) the effulgent Emerald City (which was actually a physical set,) and the ethereal Shiz University, complete with its very own lake and stone academic buildings (surprise – another physical set.) Aside from the sets, the vibrancy of every shot in the film is unrivaled.

Regarding the film’s musical aspect, I am still speechless, even after departing the theater. Not only can this cast act, but they can sing. Beautifully. It is rare for a film adaptation of a musical to hit the mark with its soundtrack, but Wicked did much more than hit the mark, it smashed it with a giant broomstick.

Stephen Schwartz, who wrote the entirety of Wicked’s original songs, co-wrote the film’s musical score alongside John Powell. The scoring evoked such emotion and tied the whole feature together with a pink and green bow. 

After watching Wicked, I can confirm that pink does go“good” with green.

Kayla Marra

Copyright ©2024 PopEntertainment.com. All rights reserved. Posted: November 20, 2024.

[atmilliways]

Wrong On The Money (41)

part 41 of ?? | 936 words | Teen+

Blackmail fic on Ao3 | on tumblr

Summary:

It seems only right that Eddie makes it his mission to get Steve to believe him. Boost him up, drive home that this really was a great day, make sure he’s smiling for the rest of the night.

41.

Steve is smiling back at him, and Eddie almost can't take how good it feels. “You should play with us again sometime,” he adds, and watches as a blush slides over Steve’s cheeks in the relative darkness of the porch.

He’s not saying it for that reaction—although that’s pretty great, makes him feel a little giddy.

He’s saying it because Steve’s next move is to duck his head and rub at the back of his neck like he isn’t sure it’s the truth. WHat is it about those words that make them so hard to accept, huh?

“Nah. I don’t want to come between you and your friends.”

Eddie chews on the inside of his cheek , because fuck. That sounds like Steve did overhear Gareth and Frank mouthing off the other day. Which is so stupid, because they don’t even know Steve, they have no idea what they’re talking about and should not be considered credible sources. Stuck in high school—god, Margaret had nailed it, as usual. Jeff’s the only one who knows why Eddie is as good as dirt compared to Steve (even if Jeff himself keeps trying for some reason to insist that’s not true, the maniac).

It seems only right that Eddie makes it his mission to get Steve to believe him. Boost him up, drive home that this really was a great day, make sure he’s smiling for the rest of the night.

Eddie bumps the back of one hand, the one holding the last of the joint, against Steve’s arm. Offering. The last hit will be harsh as hell, but he doesn’t want to not offer. Steve jumps a little bit but moves to take it, and Eddie waits until their gazes cross paths to reply, “You’re not a problem, Stevie. Seriously.”

Steve starts coughing on his hit . . . and coughing, and coughing, Jesus H. Christ. Not the right time to pilot test a nickname, apparently—but Eddie hadn’t meant to, it had popped out. Felt like a Stevie moment.

Great job, Munson. 

Maybe someone ought to wire his jaw shut. He mourns his lack of impulse control—not that being high helps—while giving Steve a few thumps on the back. 

“Besides,” he says while Steve continues to hack up a lung, “Jeff and Gareth are the only ones still local, and Jeff’s cool. Gareth will warm up, especially if you keep feeding him. It’s fine.” He pauses, the thumping settling into his palm rubbing slow circles between Steve’s shoulder blades. “Trust me, if Margaret had a problem with you, you’d definitely know about it. And Frank’ll be over it by the next time he visits, as long as everybody else is on board. You’re a good dude now, Steve; people are capable of figuring that out.” And he means it. He means every word so fucking much. 

So much for killing that crush. Steve looks up at him with wide, reddened, watering eyes like he’s been given an unexpected gift and Eddie is more head over heels than he’s ever been for anyone in his whole life—and that includes Han Solo.

“Are we friends?” Steve blurts out, and, okay, maybe they both have an impulsivity problem. Or . . . well, they are both high. 

“Yeah,” Eddie confirms, no hesitation. “The Freak and the Hair, improbable friends after the apocalypse that wasn’t.”

Because they have the truce, and they’re basically coparenting (co-big-brothering?) Dustin, and Steve’s friends all like Eddie (even if Eddie can’t say the reverse of all his friends yet). Hell, they’ve even saved each other's lives. That means they actually are friends, right? That they’ve reached that point?

The smile Steve gives him is watery too, and he hasn’t moved away from Eddie’s hand on his back. (Both of these facts have Eddie’s heart in his throat.) “Okay. Cool.”

They go back inside. Wayne is out catching up with some buddies of his, so they have the house to themselves. 

“We still gotta eat dinner,” Steve points out after they crash onto the inside couch, all loose-limbed and closer than Eddie either realized or expected. “I could make, uh . . . that tuna casserole? With the crunched up potato chips?” 

Eddie blows out a deep breath through loose lips, his head lolling back against the top of the couch. This again. “You already cooked today, man. Let’s just order pizza, okay? My treat.”

“I . . . thought that’s why you shared the last of your weed with me?”

“Oh, that wasn’t the last of it.” Eddie smirks up at him from approximately shoulder height, and Steve. . . . God, Steve looks perfect. The hair, and the sparkle of mischief in his hazel eyes that part of Eddie wants to see if he can make ignite into something else. (Now is not the time for that thought.) “There’s more in my room somewhere, I just didn’t feel like getting up to find it.”

“Uh huh,” Steve says, sounding unimpressed. “How about you go get more of that, and I’ll take care of the pizza, call it even?”

Eddie’s grin widens, and he stands up—Steve watches like never seen anyone do it this way before. He goes legs first, then hips, then his spine and upper body following, all a beat behind the other like a Slinky rolling upright. 

Then he punctuates it with a little jump and a tada flourish. “You are so weird,” Steve says, but he’s grinning back as he says it. Which may not mean anything, but to Eddie, in that moment? It’s everything. He floats into his bedroom, not even bothered by how many places he has to look to track down the rest of his stash.

[caffiene-fueled-fuckery]

Whumptober 2023 - Day 1: MASH (Radar H/C)

What if it hadn't been Henry that was trapped in the bombed out latrine that day? What if it had been Radar instead?

Rewrite of S3Ep15: Bombed

The ground shook as the shell hit the compound, knocking nurses and corpsman to the ground and the doctors nearly on top of their patients. Shards of shrapnel exchanged for shards of glass as the windows blew in, narrowly missing a medic’s exposed skin. Dust plummeted from the ceiling while dirt flew in the window, and it was all they could do to keep the patients from having debris lodged in their open wounds. 

“Somebody give me a towel!”

“Somebody put a blanket over that window!”

“Kellye!” Margaret called, directing the nurse to use the blanket in her arms. Another nurse and a corpsman helped her cover the window as the screaming continued, only perforated by the exploding shells not 50 meters away. 

Hawkeye’s voice broke through the din. “All right, keep calm, everybody. This can’t go on much more than forever.”

Frank sneered at Hawkeye, but it merely masked his panic—and poorly at that. “Come on. Give me that glove.” 

“Doctor—” Sanchez tried to say, but Frank cut her off as he shoved his hand back towards her. 

“Get it on! Come on!”

“Margaret!”

The woman turned back to Hawkeye, still leaned half over the patient. “Yes, Doctor?”

He held the patient down with a forearm across his chest, praying that he’d fall unconscious before the next shell hit a bit too close. “We’re gunna need a lot of sulfa.”

“We’ve got plenty.”

The door to the OR slammed against the wall, its noise nearly unheard under the booming of Henry’s voice. “Pierce, McIntyre, Burns—Anyone! Come quick!”

Frank’s head jerked up, voice tight and hands shaking. “What happened?”

“It’s Radar! He’s in the latrine!”

“Hooray for regularity,” Hawkeye joked, though it lacked its usual mirth. 

“It’s been hit,” Henry bit. “He’s trapped!”

Hawkeye moved without hesitation, calling back to Margaret as he left. “Debride the wound.”

He jogged out of the OR behind Henry, Klinger and a couple of corpsman hot on his heels. Henry turned back to them outside the wreckage of the latrine, complete with snapped planks of timber and flaming sheet metal, the panic in his eyes quickly making its way to the rest of his body. “If anything’s happened to Radar, I don’t know what I’ll do. He’s like a son to me!”

“Henry, settle down.” Hawkeye reached for a piece of sheet metal, passing it back to Klinger. “Now, what seat did he normally use?”

“Uh, left, on the far side. Picture window. Here.” Henry crouched down, tugging at the splintered wood and tossing it behind him.

“Radar?” Hawkeye began calling for him, prompting the others to begin calling for him as well. “Radar!”

“Wait a minute!” Klinger stepped forward, holding his hands up. “Hold it! Shh. I heard a moan.” Silence fell over the group. Klinger crouched over the debris, the hem of his dress snagging on a nail. “Radar, if you can hear me, knock three times! If you can’t, knock twice!”

In the dragging silence that followed, Henry shot Klinger an incredulous look, only to be distracted by the shifting of metal. One knock. Two knocks. 

Klinger gasped. “Oh Lord, he’s dead.”

“Radar!” Henry screamed, lifting everything within his reach to get closer to Radar. 

“Radar, you alright?” Hawkeye shouted, passing some more metal to a corpsman. 

The search continued, only halting for a moment when Henry froze, staring at something beneath a 2x4. He tugged at the fraying fabric until it became unhooked from the wood and flung into his lap. “Radar’s hat…” He looked up at the rest of them before diving back into the pile, heaving at the debris. “Radar!”

“I’m… here…” 

Radar’s weak voice barely made it to their ears. Hawkeye and Henry got as close to the sound as they could, moving one more piece of sheet metal before one of the boy’s arms became visible. Henry grasped it and began pulling him out of the pile while Hawkeye waited another moment for his head to be visible. 

“Don’t touch the other one,” he told Hawkeye, his glasses so cracked his eyes were obstructed from view. “Think s’broken.”

“Okay, alright, take it easy. Up we get.”

Hawkeye, careful not to jostle his arm, grabbed around his waist to pull him the rest of the way out. As soon as his foot came free, Henry guided him to sit on an overturned oil drum. “Radar? Are you alright?”

“‘M okay.”

“That’s convincing,” Hawkeye remarked. 

“‘M fine, sir.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” said Henry, though his voice remained gentle. He reached forward and removed Radar’s broken frames, revealing glassy eyes that struggled to focus on him. Henry furrowed his brows. “Gee, kid, you took quite the beating. Let me see your arm.”

Radar hissed when Henry’s fingers so much as prodded at his skin, teeth clenching and eyes screwing shut. Henry stayed focused on examining his arm, but could still hear his laboured breathing. “Easy, Radar. You’re alright.”

“Actually, sir—”

“Just a small break.”

“Sir—”

“Nothing too serious.”

“Colonel Blake,” Radar tried once more, his voice wavering and small. “I don’t feel so good…”

“Hmm?” He looked up, taking in the ashen face before him. Henry released his arm, just in time to move out of the way as Radar’s stomach heaved and his lunch splattered to the ground between his feet. “Oh, geez…” 

“Sor—”

Henry rubbed his back when his stomach cut him off with another heave. “No, it’s alright. This happens sometimes when you get knocked in the noggin.”

“It,” he panted, “it does?”

“Sure does. And you got hit real good.”

“Right.” Radar sat with his eyes closed for another moment before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He cradled his other arm close to his chest, wincing as he adjusted it. Then he jerked his head up, eye wide as he hopped down form the oil drum. “Oh!”

“Woah there!” Henry stepped back, watching as the boy swayed. “Careful.”

“‘M okay, sir. I won’t be a bother no more.”

“You’re not. But you shouldn’t move so fast when you’re unsteady.”

“‘M fine.”

Henry held up 2 fingers. “Radar, how many fingers am I holding up?”

“Four, sir,” he said, eyelids fluttering. “But… you have a really big pinky finger…”

Henry lunged forward just in time to catch Radar as swayed too far and pitched to the left. He collected the boy in his arms, sitting him between his legs on the ground. Radar yelped when it jostled his arm. “Sorry, Radar!”

He could only hiss in response, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. 

“Okay, kid, it’s alright.” Henry looked down when Radar shook his head against his chest. “It is, really. You’ll be okay.”

“‘S not that…” Radar forced his eyes open. “Father Mulcahy… He’s still under there…”

“What?” Hawkeye nearly shouted, still standing nearby. “Why didn’t you tell us this before, Radar?”

“‘M sorry. I forgot.” His voice trembled as he spoke. “I didn’t mean to forget.”

“Take it easy on him, will you, Pierce?” Henry snapped at Hawkeye’s back as he started digging again. “He’s probably got a concussion.”

“Well, where was he?”

“On my left,” Radar sniffed. “He was telling me about his sister.”

“Okay, alright, Radar,” Henry soothed. “It’s alright. Hawkeye’s not mad at you, he’s just worried about Mulcahy. That’s all.”

“I didn’t mean to forget ‘im under there. Honest…”

“I know you didn’t.”

“Ho-Honest… I didn’t mean to—”

“Radar, it’s alright.”

A sob bubbled up as Radar repeated himself again. “I didn’t mean to.”

Hawkeye glanced back at the pair over his shoulder with a frown. Henry gave him a pointed look. 

“Here he is!” Klinger shouted, shoving another piece of metal out of the way.

Hawkeye took one of his arms, beginning to haul him up. “You alright, Father?” 

“Come on, Father,” Klinger said, taking the man’s other arm. Together, he and Hawkeye pulled Mulcahy to his feet as he began speaking. 

“Sis and I picked up these apples from under the tree…”

The two exchanged a puzzled look. Klinger steadied Mulcahy while Hawkeye kept one hand on his arm, using his other hand to check his eyes. He studied them both, watching to see how his pupils reacted to the light, which would have been easier if the man was looking at him. Instead, his unfocused gaze flitted all over the place. 

“I remember I said, ‘You can’t make a pie out of crab apples…’”

Hawkeye felt his ribs for damage. 

“…and she said, ‘I learned how in the Girl Scouts.’”

Hawkeye checked both of his arms before turning back to Klinger, who stared at him with a wrinkled brow and a more than confused stare. “He’ll be alright. He’s just a little dazed.”

“She used brown sugar,” Mulcahy continued, his blue eyes the only part of his body not caked with dirt and dust, “and the crust was just so crispy and nice.”

Hawkeye’s features couldn’t seem to decide between concerned and amused as he watched the Chaplain speak. 

“Well, it was so good, we ate it all before dinner!”

Hawkeye turned to Klinger. “Get him back to his tent. Let him rest.” Klinger only nodded in response, pulling Mulcahy gently away as he continued to ramble deliriously. 

“Mommy came into the kitchen and said, ‘What the hell’s going on in here?’” He turned then, taking in Klinger’s red dress. “I remember, Mommy. You know…” He looked Klinger up and down again. “That was the first time I ever heard you swear.”

Klinger squinted at him before giving a wide-eyed look to the ground. He wrapped his other arm around Mulcahy’s back and led him silently, or so he hoped, to post-op. 

Hawkeye, on the other hand, headed straight back to Radar. He crouched in front of him, watching as Henry ran a hand over the boy’s hair in an attempt to comfort him. Hawkeye reached out and laid a hand on his uninjured arm, just under his corporal’s stripes. “Hey.”

Radar shook his head, causing him to whimper. He kept his eyes closed. “‘M really sorry.”

“It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean it.”

“Is he okay?”

“He will be.”

Radar squinted at him. “He’s hurt?”

“It’s nothing major.” Hawkeye frowned, reaching out to wipe a tear from Radar’s cheek. “Hey now… What’s with the tears, hmm?”

“I’m—sorry—”

“Radar,” Henry sighed, tightening his arms around him. “It’s okay. Everyone’s going to be fine. What’s that?”

Radar tried again, though it was still difficult to hear through his sobs into Henry’s chest. “My fault.”

“Oh no it ain’t. You didn’t drop that bomb on the two o’ ya.”

“I didn’t want anyone to get hurt because of me!”

“Well, Hell, Radar,” Hawkeye tried to reason,” you’re hurt, too.”

“But… But…”

“No, not buts. No one here wants any butts, right, Henry?”

“Huh? Oh, right. No butts.”

“Exactly. See? No one is mad at you, Radar. I’m sorry that I snapped at you before.”

“S’okay.”

Hawkeye rose from his crouch and stepped back, chest aching from the way Radar’s kept hitching with suppressed sobs. He pursed his lips. “We should get him back to his quarters. let him rest.”

“Yeah, that’ll be for the best. Help me out, will ya, Pierce?”

With a nod, Hawkeye bent down to help Henry up. “Here, let me help carry him.”

“No, no, I got him.”

“But Henry, your ba—”

“I said I got him.”

Hawkeye opened his mouth to argue, but shut it just as quickly when he saw the look in his eyes. This wasn’t a request. It was an order.

[letters-from-the-4077]

2x06: Kim

Dear Dad,

There are very few things in Korea that I could ever consider missing. Ironically, those few things are probably the only ones that aren’t going to come back to haunt me in nightmares for the rest of my life. 

We see bloodshed and dying kids and shrapnel on the good days, and send off boys with white sheets over their heads on the bad days. Or we would, if the army could afford to lose a few sheets. More often than not, the deceased go away on the same buses filled with the guys that managed to make it out.

Thousands of Korean civilians are getting caught up in this war. This Police Action. Which you’d think would make sense seeing as how it’s taking place in Korea, but nobody’s fooled by that. This isn’t a Korean War so much as it is a war taking place in Korea by chance. Sorry, Police Action. It gets me every time, you know that?

My point is, there’s very little to look forward to. Your letters are one of them, and the supply closet with rotating guests after an OR session is another. Especially now that I’ve managed to consistently sleep again. Consistent is a strong word, actually, but that’s neither here nor there.

I write to you today with almost good news! What a first, right? I can bet you that you weren’t expecting that one. So rarely is there a day that the sun actually feels like it’s shining down in a way that isn’t gunning to give us all horrendous sunburns. Even less so when children are involved, but for once, someone seemed to have taken pity on us for more than a single minute.

A kid came in, no older than eight years old, orphaned, ill, and unable to speak a lick of English. Now now, stick with me, I assure you this isn’t going to be as grim as it sounds. At first we tried to get Henry to track down his parents, and then Radar because we all know that kid’s got some uncanny power to find these things out, but nada. We came out blank.

Again, stick with me.

First of all, this kid was probably the most spoiled one in all of Korea for as long as we had him. The nurses adored him, and hell, even Margaret cooled down that fiery breath of her and showed her maternal side. Frank wasn’t quite as much of an imbecile as he always manages to be, and it’s like every single person in this whole damn camp knew that this kid was the most important thing in the world.

Kim, by the way. I realize I haven’t actually told you his name. A kid named Kim. But it’s not like we’re set up for keeping a kid at the 4077th, and we certainly aren’t authorized for it, so after we couldn't find his parents, the orphanage was the next on the list.

Which is just plain shit. It’s shit, dad. 

And clearly I was not the only one who felt that way, ’cause Trap barely hesitated a second before admitting that he’d like nothing more than to take Kim home and raise him with his daughters. As much as that guy hates being sincere—almost as much as I do—you could just tell he meant it.

Trapper’s a good dad. Not as good as you, don’t start getting insecure on me, but he’s a good dad. Stuck in a place about 9000 miles away from his girls, and yet he still manages to be paternalistic like he never left. It’s the kind of guy that a girl would love to settle down with, you know? 

Anyway, it all went by so fast. Confirmation from Louise (that’s his wife, I’m fairly sure I’ve told you about her before), excitement all around. 

For just a couple of moments, it actually seemed like something good could’ve come out of this war. No no, police action. I’ll get myself there, yet.

Of course, this damn place turns everything rotten in some way or another. Optimism, I’ve found it, is more of an enemy than the guys shooting at us. At least we always know what to expect from the North Koreans. 

That’s not to say it was all fun and dandy. There was a certain trip to a minefield that I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to forget, and if the past two nights have been any indication, I’m sure the nightmares of Trap’s limbs landing on my table aren’t going away any time soon either.

But things were supposed to work out.

Trap and Kim were safe in the end, and everything was supposed to fucking work out. It all was. It actually seemed like it was going to, and I think that’s the worst fucking part about it all.

It’s crazy just how quickly something good can be taken away from you. For a lot of people out here it’s their lives, their brothers, their sons. In this unit specifically, it’d take both of my hands to list the number of daughters that fathers have had to leave behind.

You could snap your fingers and in a fraction of the time for the sound to reach your ears, you could lose everything. Korea keeps humbling us, dad.

And even though I know it could’ve ended so much worse, it still feels like a punch in the gut for Kim to not be on a plane to Trap’s family. Finding Kim’s mother was nothing short of a miracle. It’s a goddamn happy ending if there’s ever been one, and yet I still find myself, selfishly, thinking about the McIntyre’s having a third kiddo running around.

How could such a crummy place give us so much hope? More importantly, how come we keep falling for it? Sometimes I think that’s the most cruel part of it of all.

I’m sorry if I was ever a difficult kid to raise. I’ve always known I got lucky, even with the whole dead mom thing, but seeing the shit out here really makes me wish I could go back in time and slap myself and tell me to appreciate every last thing in Crabapple Cove. Especially you.

I love you. I don’t think I say it enough. I love you, dad.

Hawk

Previous | Next

[shmaptainwrites]

[CH. 1] New Doctor on the Block

Chapter 1: A Warm Welcome

Pairings: Hawkeye Pierce x fem!Reader

Characters: Hawkeye Pierce, Sherman Potter, B.J. Hunnicutt, Radar O'Reilly, Margaret Houlihan, Frank Burns

Summary: Reader is the new surgeon at the 4077th M*A*S*H and finds herself, amidst trying to settle in, constantly butting heads with the chief surgeon.

Warnings: None, (no use of Y/N)

Note: The first chapter is finally up on Tumblr! This is my first MASH fic and I'm writing it as I'm watching the series for the first time, so if there are any major canon deviations that's probably why!

Series Masterlist - NDotB Masterlist

“It’s just when I read your file and saw you were a doctor I thought…” 

“You thought I was a man,” you filled in for the fumbling Colonel. “It’s alright Colonel Potter, you wouldn’t be the first person to have made that assumption, but I’m here to help in any way I can.” 

“What’s your specialty?” he asked, flipping through the pages in your file trying to see if there was anything else he’d missed in his first skim through. 

“Trauma surgery, sir. I worked as a nurse during the last year of the Second World War and when I got back home I applied to any medical school that would have me.” 

“Trauma surgery, must be serendipitous,” he chuckled and you gave him a polite smile. 

“Sir,” the Colonel’s clerk opened the door and stepped inside. 

“Oh Radar why don’t you-,” 

“Bring in Captains Pierce and Hunnicut and Majors Burns and Houlihan to meet the new recruit, already done sir,” 

The door opened wider and the four aforementioned officers stepped inside. The two Captains were both men, one tall with a bright smile and blond hair and the other with straight black hair and tinges of grey scattered throughout. Of the Majors, one was a man of average height and light brown hair while the other, you suspected, was the head nurse with her blond hair pinned behind her ears. 

“Pierce, Hunnicut, Burns, Houlihan, I’d like you to meet our newest recruit.” 

“We don’t normally do meet and greet with the nurses,” the black-haired one smirked. “But it’s a practice I’d love to continue,” he sent a wink at you. “What’s your name, honey?” he took your hand in his to shake but you removed it quickly from his grasp. 

“Doctor,” you responded. 

“What?” The rest of the company looked confused along with him. 

“I am a doctor , Captain. I worked just as hard if not harder for my medical degree and I’d appreciate it if you treated me as such, not like one of your nightly nurse companions.” 

“You’re a doctor?” the head nurse asked. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Her specialty is trauma surgery,” Colonel Potter told the team. 

“Trauma surgery, thank goodness, we couldn’t have handled another Frank,” the blond Captain sighed while the other Major looked like he was about to explode. 

“I take that to be a good thing, Captain?” you asked. 

“Very good. And call me B.J.” 

You chuckled, remembering a faint memory of a young boy named B.J. you'd seen come through the ER for swallowing the key to his father’s new car. 

“Consider it done,” you nodded.

“This is our main team of surgeons in the OR, you’ll be on rotations with them. It’ll be easier if you like them, but if you don’t you still have to work with them regardless.” 

“Work with, we have to live with him on top of working with him.” Pierce pointed to Major Burns. 

“Colonel! Why don’t you say anything to them?! They’re being insubordinate!” 

Colonel Potter sighed and looked over at Major Burns with a hint of contempt. 

“Major, I have better things to do than tell Pierce what to do only for him not to listen to me.” 

“I’m glad I’ve been universally recognized as a lost cause for the army,” Pierce grinned, using a hand to lean on the Colonel’s desk.

“Oh, this is going into my weekly report for the General. If it’s the last thing I do I will get you two in trouble for everything that you do!” 

“That’s a long list Frank, are you sure you can handle it?” B.J. asked. 

Before they could go any further the Colonel jumped in. 

“Captain, since you’re a female officer we’ll have you sharing quarters with Major Houlihan for now. We’ll send out for another tent and set it up for you as soon as it arrives.” 

“Thank you, Colonel, if the rest of you don’t mind I’d like to get settled. Major Houlihan, would you mind showing me the way?” 

“Not at all,” she smiled and placed a hand on your back, leading you out of the room. 

You grabbed your bags and followed the Major out into the camp and around to her quarters which were close to the OR. 

“We’ll get another cot in here for you, but for now you can make yourself at home,” she told you. “I just have to-,” she paused when she saw you pulled out a framed photo from your bag and placed it on one of the empty tables. “Is that your family?” she asked. 

You nodded your head. 

“My husband and kids,” you passed her the frame. 

“They’re adorable, what are their names?” 

“My oldest is Grant,” you pointed to the boy. “He’s eight and my daughter Julia is four.” 

“How precious. It must be hard being away from them.” 

“It is, but they’re in good hands,” you smiled. “You said you had to go somewhere, Major?” 

“Oh, yes, just to… chat with a colleague,” she handed you back the frame and headed out of the tent, leaving you to unpack the rest of your things in silence. 

—

“Hey Frank, nice stitching,” Pierce noted as he walked by the OR table on the way to his own patient. 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, I really don’t think your glove is going to come out this time, you’ve got it in there good,” he teased and you rolled your eyes. 

“Captain Pierce, maybe you can focus on your bleeding patient instead of poking fun at Major Burns,” you commented while elbow-deep in your own patient. 

“Thank you, Captain. Finally, someone who recognizes good surgical talent and not just flash.” 

“I agree Major,” you nodded, “Although I believe you’re probably referring to yourself which I am not. If this is meatball surgery you’re doing meatloaf surgery.” 

“Ha! Hawkeye, looks like we’ve got some competition,” B.J. chuckled. 

“4-0 silk please nurse,” you looked at who was assisting you. It was still early and you hadn’t had a chance to learn everyone’s names, but you supposed it would come soon enough, after all, it wasn’t like you’d be leaving the war anytime soon. 

After a few more gruelling hours in the OR, all the casualties were finally attended to and you could step out to quickly get something for dinner before they cleared out the mess tent, and hopefully, afterwards, you could take a nice shower and wash all of the blood, dirt and sweat off of your body before crashing into bed and not waking up until you absolutely had to. 

You remembered what it was like to work during the Second World War, but this felt different. You were a doctor now, you had more responsibility to your patients and to the others working in the outfit with you, and on top of that you were a woman. It wasn’t every day you saw a woman surgeon let alone in the army. 

When you stepped inside the mess tent was practically empty aside from one familiar body sitting in the back corner with a cup of coffee and what looked like leftovers from yesterday’s lunch. 

You grabbed yourself a tray and served yourself a few things before going to join your fellow surgeon. Even if you were going to eat in silence you could at least do it in the presence of good company. 

B.J. sipped his coffee and spun a pen in his hand as he looked at a partially written-on paper in front of him. 

“Writing home?” you asked. 

“To my wife,” he nodded. “She sent me a letter with this beauty,” he showed you a picture of a small baby girl in a frilly dress with a bright smile on her face. 

“Oh she’s just adorable,” you cooed. “I still haven’t heard from my family, but I’m sure a letter is on its way.”

“You married?” he asked. 

You nodded your head and showed him the ring you had just put back on after leaving the OR. 

“How the hell did you end up here then?” he asked. 

“My husband’s got a medical condition that prevented him from being drafted, but they needed doctors so they took the next best thing,” 

“So your kids are with him then?” 

“Yeah, mom’s the one bringing in the paycheques for now,” you sighed. “How about you? Got a picture of your wife?” 

B.J. nodded and pulled one out of his pocket. A wedding photo, a smiling couple right outside a chapel. 

“She’s gorgeous,” you smiled. “You got yourself a catch there, B.J.” 

“She’s the light of my life,” he tucked the photo away again. “Her and little Erin. I keep thinking that she’s probably grown up so much since I last saw her and I just wish…” 

“You could be there at home, even just one night to tuck her in, give her a kiss, and read her a bedtime story?” 

“Exactly,” he nodded. “You haven’t even been here that long, how’d you know?” 

“It’s different for mothers,” you shrugged. “I could be away from them for an hour and feel like that. I just hope they always remember how much I love them and when the time comes I’ll be back with them again and I don’t plan on leaving.” 

“Me neither. After this I’d be happy only taking out tonsils for the rest of my life,” he laughed. 

“Man, maybe one day,” you chuckled with him. “But it’ll be back to the hospital for me. Only place that really needs trauma surgery stateside is the ER.” 

“That exciting enough for you?” he asked. 

“I found after coming back from the war, it was going to follow me around anyways. I may as well do something good with the experience.” 

“So this is your second round?” 

You nodded your head. 

“Makes you wonder how they can find so many things to fight about. I thought the end of the Second World War was supposed to bring the Great Peace. But war only brings more violence and war.” 

“I’ll drink to that,” 

You clinked your coffee cups together and further engaged in light chatter while you ate and B.J. continued to write his letter. 

“Any plans for this evening? They're showing a film, Trench Foot Through the Ages if I’m not mistaken,” he chuckled. 

“I’m gonna take a nice shower and fall into my bed and hopefully not get up until late tomorrow morning.” 

“If you think you can sleep through Radar’s rendition of Reveille I think you might be mistaken.” 

“We’ll see about that,” you gave him a sly smile before nodding your head and getting on your way, wondering how you’d ever gotten to a point where you were very happy to see an army cot. 

Tags:

@montyfandomlove

[kittylover776]

Runaway Bride

Chapter 2 of Runaway Bride is out! 😁

I’ll definitely try and post this on either Archive of our Own or Fanfiction.net at some point, but for now this will have to do.

Anyways, hope you enjoy! :)

Chapter 2 

Edward felt dread throughout his body as he stood at the alter, staring blankly across the room while waiting for his bride-to-be to appear.

It wasn’t fair. He didn’t want to go through with the wedding, but his father wouldn’t budge about calling off the ceremony. His mother wasn’t much better, only give a sorrowful look his way without so much as saying a word. He could tell she wanted to do more, but she couldn’t go against his father. So regrettably, Edward had no other choice but to go through with it. If he and Margaret were going to be stuck together, he might as well do the right thing and try to be a good husband, for her sake.

Even so, that proved to be difficult. The thought of Stacy still plagued his mind, wishing it was her to be his bride, while also wondering what she truly looked like. It was confusing, to say the least, but Edward knew what his heart wanted, and he wanted Stacy. Bad.

Frank De Luca stood by his side as his honorary groomsman. Edward didn’t have as many friends as he would like, but he considered the butler to be as one of them, so he thought he would be a great choice.

Frank noticed the younger man’s uneasiness, watching him shuffle in place. “Cold feet, sir?” He asked.

The prince’s breath hitched. “Something like that.” Edward responded. “Only with a hint dread to go along with it.”

Frank cocked his head, a knowing look gracing his features. “I’m guessing this has something to do with that mysterious maiden of yours?”

Edward blushed slightly. “Is it really that obvious?”

“Only a little bit.” He countered, then gave him a sympathetic look. “I’m certain this must be hard for you.”

“Believe me, it is. I tried reasoning with my father but there’s just no getting through to him. He just doesn’t understand what Stacy means to me, and what good she could do for our kingdom. I know we hardly know each other, and I know how crazy this sounds, but I want to spend my life with her, get to know the real her rather than the person who she was supposedly pretending to be.”

Frank gave a nod of understanding. “I’m sure Ms. De Novo misses you too, but there’s little we can do about any of this. Your father has requested the wedding must continue, and we must abide his orders.”

“Perhaps there could be, if my mother had an inch of backbone.” He muttered in frustration, sparing a quick glance at the queen. “Don’t get me wrong, I care for Lady Margaret, but we’re just not right for each other. To be honest, I could tell since the beginning.” Edward remembered how cold and closed off the Duchess was at first, willing engage in civil conversation but also being emotionally distant. She hardly came out of her quarters unless requested, and overall tended to avoid him at all costs.

When Stacy had taken her place, he thought she finally decided to open up to him, accepting her role as his future wife for the sake of their alliance, only to have the rug pulled right under him and realize she wasn’t the same woman. Quite literally.

Of course, Edward had been baffled at first when Margaret told him the truth, maybe even a little put off, but as she went on, explaining every detail of their plan and the reason behind it, he grew to realize that perhaps this wasn’t such a bad thing after all, that perhaps this was destiny for the both of them.

He only wished he got to meet the real Stacy sooner. Now he’ll never get the chance.  

The sound of music filtered the room as the crowd started to settle, taking their seats and waiting for Lady Margaret to arrive. 

‘This is it.’ Edward thinks. He’ll never get to meet the woman whom he had immense feelings for. Forever tied to a woman who not only wasn’t for him, but also looked like the girl he loved, which stung him to his very core. Everyone turned as the doors opened, Edward wiping any sort of tears that might have fallen through, and decided to accept his fate. 

Only…fate decided to have other plans.  

The large wooden doors slowly opened from afar, the attendees standing to face the end of the hall. Unfortunately, the bride herself seemed to be missing as the doorway appeared to be empty. Edward arched a brow in confusion.

‘Perhaps she’s just nervous?’ He thought to himself, and decided to give her a minute.

A minute passed by, and Margaret was still nowhere to be seen. The music stopped abruptly, and Edward noticed the crowd starting to get antsy, which meant very well there could be a panic.

His parents did not look much better, with his mother covering her mouth gently while his father looked as if he were about to explode, but kept his cool as he tried assuring the crowd.

“Everyone, please! I’m sure Lady Margaret will be out shortly. No reason to panic!” His words seemed to fall on deaf ears, however,  as the people still spoke in hushed voices, worried if the future princess had bolted, leaving the prince standing there like a fool. 

Edward, meanwhile, could not believe what was happening. A majority of him felt relieved for the delay. He had secretly wished for a miracle to happen that prevented him from marrying Margaret. The sensible part of him, however, was concerned of what this would mean for the alliance between Belgravia and Montenaro, as well as Margaret’s safety. For all he knew, something could have happened that prevented her from making her appearance, whether it be a wardrobe malfunction, or something worse. Perhaps she cut her loses and just decided to make a run for it. Either way, he had to make sure. 

Leaning towards Frank, he discreetly spoke to him. “Frank, go check on lady Margaret. Make sure she’s alright.”

The butler gave a serious nod. “Of course, sir. At once.” He took off in an instant, pushing through the wave of people who had gotten out of their seats in a frenzy. Edward watched the man leave before his gaze traveled towards his mother, who had been dead silent through the whole thing, and noticed her gaze towards him. She looked as if she wanted to say something, but his father proceeded to make a bee-line towards him, his look being a mix of concern and annoyance.

“Edward, what on Earth is happening here?!” He asked his son, a hint of accusation in his tone. “Do you have anything to do with this?”

Edward balked. “What? No! Of course not!” He defended. “Believe me, I’m just as surprised as you are!” 

George groaned. He then started to look around the room as if searching for someone. “Where is Frank? I want him to start looking into this immediately.” 

“Already did that, Father. He is doing an investigation as we speak.” Edward tried to remain civil with his father, but his patience was growing limited. 

“Good. At least now we can get some answers! I’ll be sending a few more guards to do a security sweep, just in case. The sooner we find her, the sooner this wedding shall proceed.” 

With that, he left to try and once again calm down the patrons in the room, Caroline finally getting up in order to assist her husband.

Having enough with all the ruckus, Edward swiftly leaves the room to start his own search, ignoring the dozens of attendees asking him questions left and right. He enters through the doors and notices immediately the discarded vail and shoes. He picks them up carefully, not wanting anyone to trip over them as he continues his journey through the palace.

He first checks Margaret’s dressing room, giving a soft knock in case anyone could be inside.

“Margaret? Are you in there?” He asks gently. Silence reaches his ears as he gave another knock. “Margaret?” He pressed down on the door handle, and was surprised to find it unlocked. Opening the door, he popped his head inside to find the room dark and empty. He flipped on the light and checked around for clues on where she could’ve vanished. He entered inside and walked towards the vanity, his eyes meeting his reflection for a moment before looking down and spotted something shiny on the dresser.

Margaret’s ring lay dormant on the table, a perfect diamond cut fit for royalty just abandoned without reason. He picked up the ring and studied it, his face slightly crestfallen before safely storing it in his pocket.

“Well, seems she’s not here.” He mutters, flipping off the light and leaving the room. There seemed to be no other clues on where she could’ve vanished. Perhaps her quarters would be the next and best option.

Edward continued his quest down the hall until he reached Margaret’s room, noticing immediately the doors halfway open as the sound of footsteps could be heard from within. He started to feel a bit of relief as he quickly walked inside.

“Lady Margaret?” Edward asked hopefully, but he instantly deflated when he saw Frank instead, standing near her bedside while reading a piece of paper with a concerned expression. The red velvet box containing his grandmother’s necklace also sat vacantly on her nightstand.

Frank looks up and notices the prince, folding the note and immediately came up towards him.

“Did you find her yet?” Edward asks. 

The butler shook his head. “Unfortunately not, your highness.” He said in an apologetic tone. “But I found this note attached to her wedding dress when I came in here. It seems as if she wanted you to have it.”

Curious with a mix of concern, Edward takes the note from him and skims the paper carefully, taking in every detail of the letter.  

‘Dear Edward, 

By the time you come across this letter, I would have already departed. It has come to my attention that this whole arrangement between us has been a mistake, and I’m afraid I cannot go through with it. 

As you know, the real reason I was brought here was to marry you, to align our nations in an allying partnership. I had always been hesitant since the beginning, but was willing to put those feelings aside in the name of duty. I knew you were a gentle and kind man, so agreeing was not so difficult, but I couldn’t overlook the fact that while I cared for you, I did not love you like your parents had hoped. 

It wasn’t until I met Stacy that I finally got to decide what I truly wanted: to be a normal girl. I’ve always dreamed of having my own life since I was a child, not having to be tied down by duty and expectations, ones that I just couldn’t keep up with. After switching places with her, experiencing her everyday life and meeting her best friend Kevin, I knew what I had to do.

Please don’t blame yourself over this. This was my decision and mine alone to leave, and I can’t thank you enough for dealing with me these past few weeks. I left my ring on my dressing room vanity should you come across it. You are a wonderful man Edward, and I’m sure you’ll make someone very happy.

I wish you all the best, and that you and Stacy reunite in the future. 

Yours, Lady Margaret Delacourt. 

P.S, Veritas, Honora, Amore.

Edward went over the letter a few times, taking in what she wrote and trying to figure out the last part of the message. Of course, he knew it was part of his family crest, but what did it have to do with her disappearance? Was she trying to tell him something? 

Frank watched as Edward’s features scrunched up in concentration. He cocked his head curiously as the prince continued to study the parchment. 

“…Sir?” Frank asked after a few moments. “What are we to tell your parents?” 

Edward finally looked up from Margaret’s letter, placing it down for a moment along with the veil and heels. He stood back, looking at the whole outfit. “To be honest…I’m not sure. All of this is just a lot to take in.” He then scanned around the (now barren) room. “Is Mrs. Donatelli still here?” 

The butler shook his head. “Afraid not. It appears she went along with her.” ‘Because of course.’ Frank thought sarcastically to himself, but quickly shook it off. “Both their belongings seem to be missing.”  

The prince nodded in understanding. “I had a feeling. That woman is incredibly loyal. She managed to keep the whole switch-thing a secret, so it’s no surprise she’d still stick by her through this predicament.” He folded up the note again before storing it away in his pocket. “I suppose we’ll have to come up with something, won’t we?” 

Frank flinched. “W-We, sir?” 

“Yes, ‘we’, Frank. We can’t tell the nobles the truth otherwise there will be more panic. For now, let’s just keep this between us, and my parents. Understood?”  

Frank gave a serious nod. “Yes, your highness. This conversation will stay completely confidential.”

“Good. Glad to hear it.”

“Although, I’m guessing your father will be less than thrilled by the situation.” The butler gave a slight grimace.

Edward fought back a small groan. “Believe me, I’m already aware. I just hope my mother can keep him from having a full-on fit.” He then started towards the door, already having a plan in mind. “Come on, Frank. Time to go face the music.” His tone sounded less than thrilled as he said it.

Frank nodded once more, following closely behind. “Of course, sir. At once.”

[splendidtext24]

Then again, maybe i won't

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[paulgadzikowski]

Margaret's Engagement has a few sympathetic moments for Frank too. Though now that I bring it up, in contrast with the scenes OP is discussing here in the season finale, Frank's sympathetic moments in the season premiere weren't moments of character development but were insights for the viewers (and the other characters if they'd've followed up which they didn't) into why Frank was Like That.

When he's on the phone with his mother and he says, "I had this friend, and this friend only pretended to like me. You know? Like Dad used to do?"

And at the end when he's talking to the boys about asking out the new nurse in camp and Margaret says "isn't she a little young for you" and he says "I thought a little youth would be nice ... for a change" and Margaret strategically retreats, and she's been so insensitive to him all episode that for one scene he's gotten to be one of the boys.

Now, that second one sounds like character development, and when it first aired I thought the rest of the season was going to have Frank settling gradually and with a natural development into the three-dimensionality which seemed to be every M*A*S*H character's birthright and destiny; the same growth which OP writes above of disappointed expectation after the wedding episode.

<belushi>but NOOO</belushi>

Anyway, I’ve always felt Frank Burns’ character lost dimension in the fourth and fifth seasons of M*A*S*H, his last two, and recently I’ve decided that the cause of this, in-text, is the guilt he felt for assuming command on what ultimately became Henry’s death mixed with the resentment of having that command taken from him after only a week: all the misplaced guilt for Henry's death coming out to be for nothing. Because Frank has plenty of scenes where he's written as a typical or even stereotypical example of what we now call a deplorable, but scattered in there are some scenes where he's just one of their colleagues that no one likes very much. In the first season, "Anyone could have done that," in Sticky Wicket. As late as early fourth season, "I wash my hands of the both of you," in Quo Vadis, Captain Chandler?.

But I've become reconciled to the lack of redemption for Frank: After Linville’s death, in the - I think - 30th anniversary special there was a clip of Linville I’d never seen before, in which he very persuasively addressed this, saying [I'm paraphrasing from memory except the last sentence which I recall verbatim], “I don’t hold with the idea of redemption for Frank. Having him grow up, having him learn to be sensitive. Who do you want him to be - Alan Alda?”

[I redeem him in T*R*E*K anyway. Srank is the Vulcan who abandons kohlinahr to mindmeld with V'Ger. Then at the time of Radar's death he's gotten into the Vulcan Diplomatic Corps and is who shows up on Hawkeye's doorstep to teach him about the katra discipline.]

Y'know... It's the fact that in spite of everything he is, Frank did love Margaret. It shows he has the capacity for it and the capacity for change. This was probably the most if not the only entirely sincere expression he's made during the whole run of M*A*S*H.

He was a complete dick about the break-up: stingy, clingy, sticky, refusing to let her be and constantly asking her to cheat with him. But when the true moment came where he could stunt her happiness by a few minutes, at the wedding during the "speak now or forever hold your piece bit"... he doesn't fucking do it.

I know part of that can be attributed to his fear of Donald wrecking his shit, I understand. But it's also because, at the end of the day, he knows he can't give this particular thing to Margaret. Marriage was never an option between them. Maybe it could've been in the early seasons but not anymore. By the end of this season, he genuinely knows he'll never get to be with her again. It's a simple fact. And for one moment... Frank seems to have accepted something. Only to then completely and entirely crumble back into his regular sniveling self and go too far with it.

For one moment there, with that "Bye, Margaret" and that "I've nothing to say," we got a glimpse into what could happen if he grew: how he would look. It was shattered, yes. He regressed immediately, yes. He's still a little bitch, yes. But my god was the season 5 finale something for him. It almost makes me wish for a more dignified ending to his presence on mash. But, alas, a character that exists without dignity going without dignity pretty much tracks.

[thebreakfastgenie]

📕📗📘📙

okay so when people send me multiple emojis I try to do one fic idea for each book so uh. this may get long.

📕

I have this fic idea I'm in love with but haven't been able to take the time to sit down and write because it requires some kind of careful writing to make it work.

After he got home from Korea, Trapper started working as a general surgeon at Boston Mercy. Once he get settled, he wrote a letter to Hawkeye, but it came back marked "recipient deceased." I don't usually use the "Trapper thought Hawkeye was dead because of The Late Captain Pierce" trope but I did this time. So Trapper thinks Hawkeye is dead, mourns, and doesn't talk about him much. A year and a half or so later, the Korean War ends, and Boston Mercy gets a new chief of thoracic surgery. Trapper has to go to this hoity toity reception for him and he's miserable and he's gossiping and one of his coworkers tells him Winchester only got the job because a nurse named Houlihan pulled some strings with Harwell. Trapper says "Hot Lips Houlihan??" and then Charles, who's standing right behind them, says "well, when I knew her, she went by Margaret."

So Trapper and Charles figure out they were both at the 4077th and start talking about it, but Trapper just assumes Charles was Hawkeye's replacement (they have the same specialty after all) and when Charles talks about his annoying roommates he thinks one of them is Frank. This goes on for a while where they're having two completely different conversations (which is why it's so damn hard to write!) until finally Charles mentions Pierce by name and Trapper practically shouts "Benjamin Franklin Pierce???" and Charles says "his friends called him Hawkeye. I did not." And Trapper finds out he's alive and in Crabapple Cove and he's like I have to go to Maine right now immediately.

It will probably end when Trapper shows up at Hawkeye's door.

📗

I want to write about Hawkeye getting Sometimes You Hear the Bullet published. He gets home and mostly he wants to be left alone, he's not ready for all the small town socializing yet, but he goes to see the Gillises. He sits with them and Mrs. Gillis serves him bad coffee and when she leaves the room Mr. Gillis gives him liquor to put in it and tells him it's the only way it's drinkable and he's never done this, not even when Hawkeye visited as an adult, and he realizes Mr. Gillis sees him as a man now in a way he didn't before because he's been to war. Mrs. Gillis comes back with Tommy's manuscript of You Never Hear the Bullet, which was sent back to them along with the rest of his personal effects. She tells him they don't know what to do with it, and they were hoping he could do something. So he takes it home and he tries to finish the book but he can't. So finally he just writes an afterword, explaining who Tommy was and what happened to him and why the book was called You Never Hear the Bullet and isn't anymore. Amy Clark (the teacher friend from Letters) drops by to see Hawkeye and he shows it to her and asks if it's any good and she says it's perfect. She asks him about visiting her class from last year, since they enjoyed the letters so much, but he's reluctant and she doesn't push. I may or may not leave this part in (it may be a separate fic instead) but Hawkeye goes to Boston to see a publisher but panics. He needs to talk to someone who understands both Korea and Tommy, even a little, so he shows up at Trapper's doorstep (they haven't spoken since Trapper left). And Trapper is home and they talk and things are okay with them. Also, Trapper asks "what happened over there after I left?" and Hawkeye says "same war as before" and Trapper says "I mean what happened to you" and Hawkeye tells him he was in the hospital but he doesn't tell him why because he sees Becky and Kathy's baby pictures in the living room and he just can't. He gets the book published as Sometimes You Hear the Bullet by Private Thomas Gillis with afterword by Captain Benjamin Franklin Pierce, MD and he hates that but the publisher insists on it. He doesn't tell anyone else from the 4077th about it, although he does mail Father Mulcahy a copy since he did Tommy's last rites, and everyone else finds out when they see it on the bookshelves.

📘

Changing gears to The West Wing, I always wondered about Stanley talking to the rest of the cast about Josh, but this fic isn't actually that, it's the lead up to that, where everyone kind of gets together and says yes, they're all seeing the same thing, and Leo tells them ATVA is coming. Toby sees Sam after the Oval Office meeting and asks how it went and Sam distractedly says fine and Toby asks if he's sure and Sam says yes and kind of blows him off insisting nothing happened. And then later Leo gathers them all in his office, late, after Josh has left, and asks them what they've noticed and tells them about ATVA and that the ATVA guy will be asking them too. And Toby looks directly at Sam and says "something happened" and Sam says yes and Toby asks why he didn't tell him and Sam says "because if it happened to me I wouldn't want anyone to know and neither would you."

📙

I'm trying to avoid saying too much about this one because it's next if I ever finish ghost AU, but I have a GFA time loop fic in mind, where Hawkeye relives the Fourth of July again and again trying to make it come out right. It's a time loop that resets when he dies, rather than being tied to a specific time.

[derangedrhythms]

any quotes about love?

"As it is, I can’t settle, I want someone who is fierce and will love me until death and know that love is as strong as death, and be on my side for ever and ever. I want someone who will destroy and be destroyed by me."

— Jeanette Winterson, from ‘Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit’

"You do not always know what I am feeling. / Last night in the warm spring air while I was / blazing my tirade against someone who doesn't interest / me, it was love for you that set me afire,"

— Frank O’Hara, The Collected Poems of Frank O’Hara; from ‘For Grace, After a Party’

"To say we were 'in love', that vague weakened phrase, cannot express it. We loved each other, we lived in each other, through each other, by each other. We were each other."

— Iris Murdoch, from 'The Sea, the Sea'

"Love is the one thing stronger than desire and the only proper reason to resist temptation."

— Jeanette Winterson, from 'Written on the Body'

"Love always wakes the dragon and suddenly / flames everywhere."

— Richard Siken, Crush; from ‘Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out’

"There is the heat of Love, / the pulsing rush of Longing, the lover’s whisper, / irresistible—magic to make the sanest man go mad."

— Homer, from 'The Iliad', tr. Robert Fagles

"Falling in love / is glamorous hell;"

— Carol Ann Duffy, Rapture; from 'You'

"…Love’s a grand solace, isn’t it, my friend? Deep and dark as sleep."

— Jean-Paul Sartre, from 'No Exit', tr. Stuart Gilbert

"Love never hesitates to draw blood."

— Rumi, The Forbidden Rumi: The Suppressed Poems of Rumi on Love, Heresy, and Intoxication; from ‘Death Is Life For You’, tr. Will Johnson & Nevit Ergin

"I love him to hell and back and heaven and back, and have and do and will."

— Sylvia Plath, from 'The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath'

"...the Eskimoes had fifty-two names for snow because it was important to them, there ought to be as many for love."

— Margaret Atwood, from 'Surfacing'

"Love alters all. Unblood my instinct, love."

— Theodore Roethke, Words for the Wind; from ‘The Renewal’

"It was the year they fell into devastating love. Neither one could do anything except think about the other, dream about the other, and wait for letters with the same impatience they felt when they answered them."

— Gabriel García Márquez, from ‘Love in the Time of Cholera’ tr. Edith Grossman

"I love the ground under his feet, and the air over his head, and everything he touches, and every word he says – I love all his looks, and all his actions, and him entirely, and altogether."

— Emily Brontë, from ‘Wuthering Heights’

[you-can-be-what-you-want-to-be]

This isn’t me trying to argue or start anything it’s just me explaining why I’m personally fine with them.

i don’t mind Margaret’s earlier treatment ina character sense because it allows for character growth. She starts from totally dependent on this weasel, even threatening to killing her self without him, to having entire episodes about how while she would LIKE a man, she is not taking this fucking treatment, because she has worth for herself now and has friends.

Frank leads to Donald who’s only barely better, which leads to divorce, and then you get hot lips is back in town and Scully. Season one to three (or maybe even later than that) she would’ve settled, she would’ve tried to marry him immediately and talked about how nice it was to be treated like a woman, but because of the men of before it’s “I’m a woman AND a major”.

Without Frank I don’t think she would’ve been able to leave Donald, because she had BEEN the other woman before and knew how it went. Without Donald I don’t think she would’ve said no to Scully, she would’ve just tried harder to impress him but now she KNOWS what marriage is like. And winchesters tries at buttering her up with money ultimately fall flat pretty much immediately bc she’s had those experiences and knows what she’s about.

And I think everyone else’s roles play into this too. In the earlier seasons a lot of flings are with high up older men like her father, then potter comes and acts as a father figure. Because of both a demand from the actors, the appearance of a loyal husband character, and the failed fling of comrades in arms. Hawkeye is less of a creep and they make a genuine friendship where they bond over not being able to get good lasting relationships, and she gets Bj and Winchester as occasional friends, and bonds with Klinger over girly things, and becomes close to the nurses. Before Frank was all she had. Now she has more.

Also the show came out during the seventies when that kind of humor was normal and women’s liberation was just starting. Until the seventies marital rape was still legal. To make a fully fleshed character who went from the butt of jokes as a sex symbol and someone to laugh at for thinking she had any say, into someone who was sexual but not ashamed of it and would punch anyone making unwanted advances and being allowed to play pranks on the guys too and want to have a more “manly” job and also want to be a wife? That’s revolutionary. We still don’t see women this well written a lot TODAY and her being allowed to grow and change and move away from everything she wanted in the beginning of the show (a wealthy husband, army life, military status, all going to just a simple wish to go home and work in a hospital) because she became her own person is everything to me. Characters in stasis are boring and I’m so glad I got to watch her change.

Anyone ever watch pre-season five of m*a*s*h, and Frank will be being a giant asshole to Margret. Or literally lie about Margret's existence in one episode, or talking to his wife, and saying Margret looks like a 'mule' to her, and then that never gets solved. I don't know why, it just shakes me the wrong way. Like, I know it's often used for comedic affect, but how did they figure that out. The next episode, they are just acting normal. I do really enjoy their actual break up episode, don't get me wrong. I just wished Margret's character was given more dignity by the writers earlier on, and her bickers with frank where given better screentime and explanation.

[robinrunsfiction]

To The Vows You Take - Chapter 5

Chapter 4

Nine more weeks of touring across the globe, and the band finally had two weeks off. For (YN) that meant two weeks visiting with family, thoroughly washing clothes, and trying not to get too excited for what was coming up before they left for Pro Rev.

An early Monday afternoon in the middle of July was not the peak of wedding season in Vegas. When (YN) and Frank walked into the chapel, they were greeted by air conditioning and an older woman behind the counter.

“Welcome in, I'm Margaret, how can I help you today?"

"We wanna get married," (YN) smiled.

"Oh excellent. Let me get the paperwork started. How long have you been together?" She asked, making conversation.

"We've been friends since we were kids, but in a band together for about five years now," Frank replied and (YN) had to keep from laughing. She was already full of nervous laughter, and of course Frank noticed and was cracking jokes at every opportunity.

"I meant dating," Margaret smiled.

"We aren't," (YN) shook her head. "Oh, but this isn't like a green card thing, we're from New Jersey."

"Oh, ok," she nodded, clearly a bit confused, but still smiling pleasantly. "Do you need rings?'

"Yea, I guess we do," Frank nodded, looking to (YN).

"Yea, I didn't think of that."

The employee walked them over to the end of the counter with a selection of rings. Some were plain, some were gaudy, but none of them were quite right to (YN).

"See anything you like?" Frank asked.

(YN) shrugged. "Meh, you?"

"I was thinking just a simple one, like that," he said, pointing to a silver ring.

"That will be good," (YN) nodded. "I guess I'll get that one then," she pointed to a similar, but thinner, silver band.

"Are you sure?" Frank asked.

"Yea," she nodded.

Margaret took the rings out of the case and slid an official looking form across the counter for them to fill out. "Will you have any guests joining you today?" She asked.

"Nope, just us," (YN) replied, looking up from the paper.

"Alright, then I will act as your witness," she nodded.

"And Elvis is available, correct?" Frank asked.

"Ready and waiting," Margaret nodded.

"How long has he been marrying people?" Frank asked, leaning against the counter. (YN) loved that about him, how he could settle into conversation so easily and make someone feel like he's known them their whole life.

"We have had an Elvis working since 1976. For a while we also had a Dean Martin and a Frank Sinatra officiating weddings."

"Frank Sinatra!" (YN) and Frank said wistfully in unison.

"That woulda be perfect!" (YN) gushed. "Not that Elvis isn't the ultimate in classic Vegas weddings."

"It's just we're from Jersey," Frank explained.

"Yes, as you mentioned," Margaret nodded.

When the paperwork was complete and everything was paid for, the big moment had finally arrived. (YN) slipped into the bathroom under the pretense of checking her makeup, but she needed a moment to collect herself. She was excited, so excited, not just because she was getting married, but because she was marrying Frank. There really was no one else that she'd want to do this with.

With one last deep breath, she adjusted that same white halter dress, it was going to be her wedding dress regardless of when it happened, and walked in the door of the chapel, bouquet of red silk roses in hand. At the end of the aisle stood Frank, next to a very convincing Elvis impersonator, and Margaret sat in as their witness. That's when she realized that Frank was absolutely beaming. A grin spread across her face as she walked down the aisle to him. To Frank. Her soon to be husband.

When she reached the end of the aisle, she handed off the bouquet to Margaret, took Frank's hands and Elvis began the ceremony. It was all moving so fast and (YN) could barely hear what he was saying because she was too busy looking at Frank and wondering what was going through his head.

"Did you write your own vows?" She heard Elvis ask.

"Oh, umm, we didn't write 'em, we're just gonna wing it," (YN) replied.

"Well go on then little lady."

"Me first? Oh, okay," she drew another deep breath. "Frank, I'm so glad that when I was 16 I went and saw My Best Friend's Wedding, even though you wouldn’t go with me because you said it was a dumb rom-com. But I'm glad you didn't think I was crazy when I brought up this idea. I'm even more glad we stayed friends so that we could carry it out, and I thank whatever cosmic force is out there that you're in my life like every single day. There's no one else I'd rather live this whirlwind life with," she smiled sweetly, but her throat suddenly felt tight, like she was on the verge of tears. “Love you, Frank.”

Frank squeezed her hands. “(YN), I don’t think you know how much you mean to me and I hope I’ll be able to convey it one day. Any crazy idea you have, I’m all in; I’ll follow you wherever you go. Knowing that we’re gonna be together forever is a dream come true. I love you, (YN).”

(YN) was biting her lip to keep from crying. Something about the way he said he loved her felt different than when they’d casually say it to each other. ‘It’s because we’re getting married! It’s not like he’s in love with me,’ she reasoned with herself. 

“(YN), do you take Frank to be your husband?” Elvis asked, again pulling her out of her head.

“I do!” She nodded eagerly.

“Frank, do you take (YN) to be your wife?”

“I do,” he smiled. His eyes were almost a little watery, and when they exchanged their rings, Frank’s hands were shaking a little. It all made her heart swell. 

"It is my great honor to pronounce you kids hitched! You may kiss!”

(YN) grinned as Frank took a step toward her, his hands found her waist. She wrapped her arms around him as their lips met. It felt different from every other kiss they’d shared, not that there were many to compare it to. But there was a passion behind it that she couldn’t deny. 

"I thought you said they're just friends," she heard Elvis say.

After the ceremony was over, the last of the paperwork was done and a couple of photos were taken, (YN) and Frank headed back to their hotel room. Having decided that they weren’t going to mention publicly what they’d done until they’d at least told their families, they didn’t want to risk running into anyone who may recognize them and put together what happened.

When they reached the elevator to their hotel room, the air between them was thick. When (YN) looked over at him, he was already looking at her. 

“What?”

“I wanna kiss you again,” he breathed.

A smile formed on (YN)’s face, before she reached out, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him to her. He pinned her against the wall of the elevator, before kissing her hard. She let his tongue slip past her lips, deepening the kiss. Suddenly the doors of the elevator opened on their floor.They pulled themselves together before grabbing their bags and hurrying to their room.

When the door was shut behind them, they were back on each other in an instant. (YN) fumbled with the buttons on Frank’s black shirt, and he was not making it easy as he kissed down her neck. She let out a gasp when he hit a spot that made her knees weak as she shoved the fabric off his shoulders. 

“I thought you said we didn’t have to consummate,” he smirked.

“I said we didn’t have to, I never said I didn’t want to,” she replied with a smirk of her own. “Unless you’re not interested.”

“Oh, I’m interested,” he answered, before his lips crashed against hers again, blindly leading her back to the bed.

[mooncustafer]

Recover, Regroup, Roadtrip

Agent Dale Cooper disappeared in March 1989. The case is still open. Agent Dale Cooper disappeared in October 2016. The case is still open.

for @laughingpinecone  /

/ @countdowntotwinpeaks​‘ WONDERFULXSTRANGE 2021

“Diane, I am uncertain of the date and time, or indeed if such concepts have any meaning in this place. Nor do I have my recorder, but I find verbalizing my thoughts helps me to resist the confusion and lethargy. As for addressing my words to you, even though you’ll never hear them— well, old habits die hard.”

It pleased Wally Brando on a profound level to discover that a few pay-phones remained in Philadelphia, that reaching out was not yet the prerogative only of those who could afford a landline or a mobile. He could also have checked his email on a terminal at one of the city’s Public Libraries, and indeed, made a note to do so within the day so that he might catch up on the news of parents and former school friends. The pay phone was also blessed with both the yellow and the white pages, and the number he sought appeared under “F.” Getting transferred to Dr. Albert Rosenfield was a more complex quest, but he was persistent as well as polite, and after a few minutes he was able to speak to Dr. Rosenfield’s voice mail, if not the man himself.

He introduced himself with salutations, and was about the explain the nature of his request when a beep signalled that the allotted time had run out.

“To listen to your message, press one. To re-record your message, press two,” said the voice of the machine.

Silently cursing his volubility, Wally pressed two. This time he simplified the introduction, and asked if Dr. Rosenfield would be good enough to meet him that evening at the Morimoto Japanese restaurant not far from the FBI offices, to discuss a matter of deep concern connected, he believed, with the little town of Twin Peaks. When the beep came this time, he listened to his message and then, satisfied, hung up. The restaurant he’d named was slightly above his means, but he was meeting a friend of his godfather, and wanted to do justice to the occasion, even if the reason for it was one of peculiar anxiety to himself.

“Diane, I have tried so many times to escape— on the last attempt I really did get out into the world, but my plans, I fear, had dire repercussions for you, and to no end— my course still led me back to the Black Lodge. Some flaw in my own nature keeps trapping me in this loop; perhaps it’s what they sometimes call Saṃsāra.”

It was Agent Tammy Preston’s custom, when scraping the internet for information relevant to one or more recent cases, to check her email inbox every seven minutes— to do so every five minutes would disrupt the flow of her work, but ten-minute gaps might let something important go unanswered for too long. Just now the inbox was due another glance, and switching tabs she saw that two minutes earlier Director Bryson had replied to Tammy’s email of that morning with an invitation to come by her desk at her earliest possible convenience.

Tammy locked her screen, paused ‘Soft Fuzzy Man’ on her playlist and removed her headphones. Picking up the folder marked Missing Persons, 1989– Palmer, she slipped back into her pumps and made for Bryson’s office. The door was open but Tammy stopped at the threshold and rapped on the wall.

“Come in,” said Director Bryson, looking up from a folder. Bossa nova music played softly in the background as Tammy entered and pulled up a chair. It sometimes puzzled Tammy that apart from herself and Director Gordon Cole, no one in this particular division of the FBI seemed to have any interest in music recorded after 1979. (The first few times she’d heard ‘Du Hast’ pounding through the walls of Cole’s office, she’d wondered if this taste for metal was the result, or perhaps the cause, of his hearing loss; but after he’d joked to an unamused Agent Rosenfield about how these were difficult times and difficult times called for Dave Brubeck, she’d looked up the reference in case it was a coded message, and then the next day had overheard Gordon whistling ‘Mister Sandman,’ a song she knew primarily from an internet meme, at which point she concluded that the ear wants what it wants, regardless of demographic.)

“You told me you’d found some serious inconsistencies in the records surrounding Twin Peaks and the Palmer case?”

Tammy nodded, hesitated:

“I believe there may be inconsistencies as well in my own perceptions of the case.”

“Well now, that I find a little harder to believe.” Bryson smiled, but then her voice grew serious: “I’ve looked over the notes you made, and it confirms my own doubts about events.”

“Worse yet— the fact that I truly left the Lodge and then returned to it, will enable the beings that inhabit this place to take another twenty-five year turn in my likeness, unleashing even more evil on the world. The only thing stalling them is the doppelgänger I had MIKE make for the Jones family, but I don’t know if he’s still under the White Lodge’s protection.”

After all these months it still surprised Harry Truman there was so little physical pain, and so much boredom, to dying. Oh there’d been pain at the beginning, when he’d started treatment and had had to stop drinking; the memory of detoxing still made him shudder. But now he only felt a tiredness too huge for sleep to make any dent in it; and since he couldn’t sleep all the time, there were a great many hours during which all he could do was lie in the hospice bed or sit in one of the hospice chairs, and think.

At this point dying didn’t even sound so bad— it wasn’t like the past three decades had been all that great. He imagined going to sleep, just filling up a big bowl of silence and darkness and sinking into it, and then he felt bad for thinking that because Frank had already lost enough people without Harry lighting out too. Anyways, with the things he’d seen over the years he’d be a damn fool to think there was anything peaceful about death and whatever came after. So he’d lie awake trying to find some other topic to ponder, and that’s generally when the boredom set in.

Right now, courtesy of the nap he’d had in the afternoon after today’s treatment had left him especially exhausted, he was lying awake in the wee small hours. 3:52 am, said the clock on his bedside table beside the stack of paperbacks Frank had brought him on his visits— Harry wasn’t afraid of e-readers the way Lucy was of cellular phones, but he found the smell of paper comforting. It reminded him of the Bookhouse. The hospice tended to smell of disinfectants and sweat and soup. The food actually wasn’t as bad as the food at the hospital in Twin Peaks used to be, not that any food could be as bad as the hospital food in Twin Peaks used to be, but it made no difference to Harry, whose appetite had been gone for months. Frank always brought a slice of Norma’s pie too, carefully sealed in an old cookie tin to keep it fresh, but Harry could never manage more than a couple of bites, and they didn’t always stay down.

Being awake in the middle of the night in a hospice wasn’t as bad as being awake in the middle of the night when you were alone at home— the occasional voices or footsteps from the corridors beyond were reminders that whatever might be happening to Harry, life went on for the staff; and the lights from the city outside showed that life went on for others outside the hospice walls. When he’d first arrived, those city lights had made it hard to sleep, but now they substituted for the starry sky above Twin Peaks. There were fewer birds to watch in the city, though sparrows, pigeons or a starling sometimes lit on the ledge outside his window and peered in at him, or maybe at their own reflections. The frequent rain pattering against the glass— well, that sounded the same here as it did in a cabin.

Frank had called to tell him about Margaret Lanterman. Harry sometimes wondered if he should have stayed in Twin Peaks and died in his own home like her, instead of lingering in this hospice like the doomed heroine of some nineteenth-century novel. Or like Annie Blackburn. Or Audrey Horne.

The rain was spattering now against Harry’s window, bending the light from the Japanese stone lantern in the pocket-sized garden below. Harry couldn’t remember what the hospice building looked like from the outside, but he guessed it was similar in style to the mid-century one next door where the day-patients came for their treatments. A flash silhouetted the roofline; five seconds later came the thunder-crack. Harry settled back and closed his eyes.

Sleep pulled him into dreams of an espresso machine, like the one in the coffee place down in the lobby next to the gift shop for visitors. This machine filled a whole room, metal pipes feeding back on themselves like some kind of espressouroboros, neither steam nor coffee escaping from the grotesque contraption. Agent Cooper stood wearily before it with two empty coffee-cups. Harry was just wondering who the second cup was for, when Coop looked up and met his eyes:

“What year is this?!”

Harry sat up in bed, listened intently for two full minutes, but he didn’t hear Coop’s voice again. He sighed. Sometimes the mind pulls imaginary sounds out of the background noise. False pattern recognition or something— Coop would have known a word for it. Harry had little hope left they’d ever find Cooper, or if they did, that he’d still be the man he’d known. Yet he’d carried on, more (he told himself) out of habit than any real hope. He’d kept in touch with Agent Rosenfield, even when it meant letting him know about the cancer— not that Albert would blab the secret to anyone in Twin Peaks.

“Hello?”

“Good, you’re still alive.” Albert’s personality hadn’t mellowed with the years, exactly, but familiarity had worn the edges off his jibes.

“Shut up, Albert. So what have you found?” Albert’s calls generally came every three months, but never at nine in the morning, and he’d last spoken to Harry only two weeks back. Something important must have happened.

“Actually, Sheriff Truman, I’m the one coming to you for information.”

“If you hadn’t noticed, it’s not easy to do investigations from a hospital bed. What can I tell you that you can’t get from other sources?”

“I need you to summarize the Laura Palmer case back in 1989, and the actions of Agent Cooper in Twin Peaks at that time.”

“Albert, is this one of your damn cognitive tests? You already know—”

“We’re both too tired to argue, just humor me.”

“How detailed do you want?”

“An outline will suffice.”

Harry took a deep breath and briefly listed the finding of Laura’s body, and the living but dazed and injured Ronnette, and the arrival of Agent Dale Cooper to lead the investigation. He skimmed over the crimes of Jacques Reneault and some of the other peripheral drama that had occurred in the town around that time, noted that Leland Palmer had murdered his own daughter, albeit while not fully himself, and was beginning to recount Cooper’s temporary suspension and Windom Earle’s campaign of terror, when Albert interrupted:

“You’ve still got the unofficial version, then.”

“Unofficial?”

“According to FBI records and your colleagues at the Twin Peaks Sheriff’s Office, Laura Palmer is an unsolved missing-person case.”

Harry began to feel sick.

“Goddammit, Albert, you did the autopsy. I punched you and you fell across her body. You found a broken poker chip in her stomach—” Albert broke in:

“I hadn’t disclosed that detail to anybody I’ve questioned about this.” His voice was a little shaky. “Listen, Harry,” he continued. “Last Friday I was contacted by a young man wearing motorcycle leathers and talking like Jack Kerouac on quaaludes.”

“Wally.”

“Naturally I supposed him to be from your iodine-deficient neck of the woods even before he introduced himself as your godson and the offspring of those lieutenants of yours. He told me he’d come because he wasn’t sure where else to turn. Apparently he keeps in touch with his parents as he rides across the continent, but in their most recent conversation he’d noticed their memories of certain events had become confused. I was about to tell him I wasn’t the least bit surprised, when he added that he’d checked with other townsfolk, including your brother, and they all seemed to have had the same— how’d he put it? ‘The walls of their memory painted over like a childhood bedroom converted to a study.’”

”That sounds like Wally, all right.”

”Eventually he got round to explaining why he’d come to me. The message that had prompted him to call home was from Lucy; she said she’d shot a suspect who was attacking your brother Frank. She’d also mentioned some FBI agents arriving a few minutes later.”

Harry swallowed. He tried to imagine Lucy shooting anyone:

“Frank never said anything about this.”

“And when Wally called home, Andy and Lucy not only denied it had happened, they had no idea what he was talking about, not that I’d guess that to be an unusual state of affairs. Anyway, after I sent your godson away, I began to have contradictory memories myself of what Cooper had told me about the case. I remembered the poker chip after waking in the middle of the night from the worst dreams I’d had since medical school. I’ve been telling myself it was a false memory, maybe a composite of all the young female murder victims I’ve had to examine in my career, but I told myself I’d make one more phone call, just to check. And now you confirm it. Also, in my recall you knocked me across Leo Johnson’s body. Thanks for the correction. Are you still there?”

“Yes,” Harry answered, glad he was already sitting on his bed.

“Now that that’s established,” said Albert’s voice on the other end of the phone: “here’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question: when do you remember Agent Cooper disappearing?”

“March 1989.” Harry tried to keep his voice steady, as though he was giving evidence in court. He briefly explained about the Black Lodge and Coop’s reappearance and unsettling behaviour and how he’d checked himself out of the hospital and was never heard from again. There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. “Are you still there, Albert?”

“According to FBI records and, up until two days ago, my own memories: Coop disappeared this past October while driving to Odessa, Texas for a case. The last record of him was a credit-card charge at a motel just outside the city.”

“What was he investigating in Odessa?”

“Missing person. I’ve tried looking into that case, but it seems to be a dead end, especially since Coop never seems to have arrived at the diner where the man he was looking for had allegedly been running drugs.”

“Sounds like the kind of establishment where nobody’d admit anything. Maybe Coop did get to the diner.”

“Gee, you’ve cracked it Sheriff, we would never have thought of that. The diner was old-school, but not so old-school they didn’t have a security camera trained on the front counter. We went over three days worth of footage. I admit we can’t be sure he didn’t slip in through the back for some reason; but you knew Coop— can you honestly picture him entering a diner and not ordering a coffee?”

“Not the Coop I knew, but— I already told you he was acting pretty erratically just before he took off.”

Harry heard Albert sigh.

“I’ve been checking with a few of my colleagues who were involved in the original Palmer investigation. I think Gordon knows something, but being Gordon he’s saying nothing, and as loudly as possible. Denise— Director Bryson, now— remembers the unofficial version, and according to her so does Agent Preston— oh right, you never met Agent Tammy Preston, the poker-faced glamazon computer hacker— I’m not sure she was even born yet in 1989, but she was on a case in Twin Peaks in October 2016, and during the course of the subsequent paperwork, she started noticing a lot of records and statements didn’t match up, and then she realized her own memories didn’t match up. Which brings up another problem with trying to reason this out by conventional methods: something in that Salem’s Pacific-Northwest Lot of yours is rewriting memories, documents, maybe the facts themselves. But so far it’s predominantly affected the people who were on the spot this past October.” Albert’s voice rasped a little from the long phone call, and he paused to clear his throat. “Unfortunately, that also means the people most likely to remember the original version of events are people who weren’t in the Sheriff’s Office during the incident that seems to have triggered the change. At the risk of sounding like one of those bullshit shows on the History Channel, we may never know exactly what happened that night.”

“Wait, what even was the case that brought you all back in 2016?”

“That’s the problem— I’m one of the people who was there, and I only have vague and disconnected memories of a British man with a gardening glove, the chorus of Guys and Dolls, Agent Cooper leaving the room with Diane, his secretary who quit the FBI decades ago, and Gordon, and only Gordon coming back.” Albert paused again. “It goes against my personal feelings and medical opinions, but would you be willing to let me visit you in person? I’ve some vacation time and enough frequent-flyer miles that the trip will probably cost less than the long-distance charges if we continue this conversation.”

Harry opened the drawer of his bedside table and took out the key to Coop’s old hotel room:

“Yeah, come by.”

“Diane, I am currently alone. I realize that statement implies that I’m not always alone here, and indeed I sometimes have a companion, who I still think of as Laura Palmer, though I don’t know if that’s her identity anymore; I’d hoped, after my last attempt, that Laura would no longer be in this place at all. She comes and goes, or perhaps we both come and go and our orbits occasionally intersect. I’ve tried to find some pattern to it, but with no reliable way to measure time, I’ve had little success.

The last time we met she told me about a room she hadn’t seen before, all white walls, in which a dark-haired woman was contemplating a mirror with a puzzled look. I can’t help but feel this parallels my own situation.”

“Frank sent me this last month. But when I thanked him the next time he called, he didn’t seem to know what I was talking about.” Albert hesitated before taking the room key:

“Great Northern Hotel,” he read, turning it over. “Twin Peaks. Isn’t the front desk going to want this back?”

“Unless I miss my guess, it’s from 1989 when Coop was staying there.”

Albert’s ears stuck out more noticeably, or perhaps it was his face that was thinner. He’d spent the first part of his visit scrutinizing Harry and questioning him about his case and what the doctors were doing for it, until Harry told him to quit it or he’d run out of time to discuss Coop’s disappearance before visiting hours ended, and anyway weren’t Albert’s patients usually dead to begin with?

The trouble with the subsequent discussion was that it went in a circle— the people who’d been present for the 2016 Unknown Event had uncertain memories of what had actually happened; and the people who clearly recalled the 1989 Palmer case as a murder hadn’t been present for the Unknown Event. The one thing that seemed likely was that there was some connection between the 1989 case and the 2016 case, particularly since both had been followed by the unsolved disappearance of one Agent Dale Cooper.

“I hate to say it, Albert, but I’ve given up hope on ever finding Coop.”

“What’s hope got to do with it?” Albert asked. His tone was not sarcastic.

“Diane, I’ve decided that, if only to keep my mind occupied, I will go looking for the white room and the woman with the mirror. I’d feel happier if I had a ball of twine or some breadcrumbs to leave as a trail back to the waiting room, but I’m coming to terms with the idea that’s there’s no advantage to remaining or returning here— it’s not as if I need food or drink in this place, and I cannot be any more lost than I already am.

So far, I believe I’ve walked down five identical red-curtained hallways, and turned left five times. It therefore seems likely that I’m following a counterclockwise, roughly spiral path, although I’m uncertain if I’m proceeding inwards or outwards.”

“If this search is going to require juggling two sets of memories, then I’d better come along so you don’t get brainwashed again.”

“Sheriff Truman, if you haven’t noticed by now, you’re in a cancer hospice.”

“I just finished a round of treatments, I’ve got a couple of weeks free.” Albert snorted and Harry added: “You can monitor my health while we’re on the road.”

“I’m already thinking of your health. You’re immunocompromised, travel is too risky.”

“We’re crossing a few state lines, not going to the other side of the world.”

Albert pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Fine. I’m driving. Which also means I get to choose the music.”

In fact, they went most of the way by plane, after Albert weighed the odds and decided five hours in a tube of recycled air would still be easier on Harry than a two-day road trip. Some of the passengers threw suspicious looks at Harry’s N95 mask, but they’d cleared it in advance with the airline, and Harry had briefly removed it when he went through TSA, and Albert was prepared to flash his FBI badge, but the flight crew were understanding.

They picked up a car at Midland International. Someone, presumably an employee of the car-rental company, had left a bundle of tourist-attraction pamphlets on the front passenger seat.

“According to these, Odessa has replicas of the Globe Theatre and Stonehenge,” Harry observed once he’d got himself settled.

“Why?” Albert asked.

“Got me there. The pamphlets don’t explain the motivation.”

Albert reached up and pulled down the car’s sunshade on Harry’s side, though the Sheriff insisted his cowboy hat was protection enough for his pale scalp:

“We’re not in the northwest where it rains every fifteen minutes,” he muttered, “and I’ve been looking up the side effects of your meds— you sunburn easily now.” Albert’s driving skirted the city, and they did not pass the Globe or Stonehenge.

The Pearblossom Motel, last recorded location of Agent Cooper, proved to be closed down. They’d noticed the papered-over windows as they pulled up, the sign unlit, not even to say NO VACANCY, but Albert got out to knock anyway. Harry watched him from the car; eventually he clambered out and slowly walked over to join him.

Albert was peering through a spot where the paper had torn away behind the window-glass. He stepped aside for Harry, and the sheriff took a look into the motel’s dim interior. He saw an ordinary, rather old-fashioned registration office, wood-grain panelling on the walls along with a few faded posters for local attractions. Rows of keys still hung on a board behind the desk, and a daily calendar read October 15, presumably the date the motel had closed, or the approximate date— Harry could imagine a concierge might not bother to keep tearing off the pages if they knew it was their last week on the job.

“I now realize that despite everything, I’ve still been harbouring hopes of finding my way back to the waiting room, hence my continual choosing of left-hand turns, as if attempting to mathematically navigate a maze. I must make a true leap of faith if intuition is to guide me, so I’ve closed my eyes and spun around several times in this corridor, first clockwise and then counterclockwise.

Now that I no longer can tell which direction I’ve come from… Diane, can you hear that? Of course you can’t, I don’t really have my tape recorder. I’m going to fall silent and listen for a bit.”

There seemed little else of interest at the motel (Harry, feeling a bit silly, had even tried the Great Northern’s room key on all the doors), so they turned back towards Odessa to look for the diner Cooper had been investigating. The motel was only a mile behind when they saw, ahead of them, a tall woman walking along the highway, her fire-engine-red hair, black t-shirt and pencil skirt out of place in a locale that was rural to the point of emptiness. Albert swore under his breath.

“This can’t be a coincidence,” he told Harry. “Roll down your window, I’m pulling over.” But the woman only threw a glance at the car as it slowed, flipped them the bird, and kept walking, though she stepped gingerly and Harry noticed she was barefoot on the asphalt. Albert leant across him and stuck his head out the window:

“Diane!”

“Fuck off, guys. I’m not Diane, and whoever she is I bet she’d tell you the same.” Harry gently pushed Albert back and leant out the window himself:

“Sorry, ma’am, mistaken identity. Are you all right though? I see you’ve mislaid your shoes.”

“Looks like somebody ran off with them,” the woman answered, her tone mocking despite the tired set of her shoulders. “I haven’t been up to anything illegal, officer. Just a bit of fooling around.”

“We can give you a ride into town,” Harry offered. “If it helps, you’ll be alone in the back seat— means you can get the drop on us if you start to feel nervous.”

The woman narrowed her eyes at the offer, then abruptly barked out a laugh and opened the back door of the car, took a seat and folded her long legs in after her. “Only because I need a lift,” she insisted, rubbing her bare feet. “I knew office romances were a bad idea, but he didn’t have to be a dick about it. Nothing to do now but go home and drown my sorrows in Hallowe’en candy.”

“You’ve still got candy left over from Hallowe’en?” In the mirror above the dashboard, Harry saw Albert raise an eyebrow and the woman in the back seat frowned, insulted:

“No! I may not have a maternal bone in my body, but I’m not going to give the trick-or-treaters candy that’s a year old.”

“Ma’am,” Harry asked, thinking about the calendar back in the Pearblossom Motel office, “what date d’you think it is?”

“Mid-October,” she began. Harry saw her reach into her purse with her black-and-white nails and pull out a mobile phone. Her eyes widened at the date: “No, it’s March. The fuck?—” She ran a hand through her scarlet hair. Harry wondered if it was dyed or a wig. Perhaps she was bald too. “Must be losing it. I was so sure it was October. And it’s not like I’ve could’ve been wandering around this desert for five months.” She tapped her phone screen. “5,230 messages?!” She looked frightened now, raising her head to meet their gaze in the mirror. “Where the hell have I been? And you guys— you’re feds, aren’t you?”

“No,” Harry began.

“I am,” said Albert. “He’s not.”

“Well, can you tell me what’s going on? Or is it classified? God, it’s not aliens, is it? I always assumed alien conspiracies were bullshit to cover up real conspiracies.”

“It’s probably not aliens,” Harry answered, unable to keep doubt from his voice as he remembered Major Briggs, “but I afraid it’s not going to sound any less weird.”

“To start with, we’re in the area investigating a colleague who disappeared in October,” began Albert, “and then you turn up, apparently amnesiac since that date.”

“And with my messages unchecked since then.”

“Yes, but there’s another detail— you look exactly like a former colleague of mine who was close to our missing man. That’s why I called you Diane when I slowed down.”

“I need a smoke.”

“No.”

“Albert,” Harry interrupted, “I’ve already got cancer, what’s the worst that can happen?”

“Do you want me to answer that in detail?”

“No I don’t.” Harry turned to look over his shoulder at the woman in the back: “Just roll down your window first.”

“We’ll pull over and she can step away from the car,” said Albert.

He stopped on a shoulder, and their passenger got out and lit a cigarette. Examining the packet, she called to them:

“Three left. That’s fewer than I remember having on me in October, but not by much.” Albert, meanwhile, had pulled a shopping bag from the back seat:

“You should eat something,” he said to Harry, producing a sealed cup of applesauce and a box of plastic spoons. Between rounds of treatment, Harry’s nausea receded, but his appetite was still pretty weak. “There’s saltine crackers, too.” Harry chuckled in spite of himself as he tore the foil off the applesauce:

“This all makes me feel like I’m home from school with the ‘flu.”

“You’ll have to watch Roadrunner cartoons on your own phone, I’m not paying for the data,” Albert snapped.

“I’m surprised we even get reception out here.” The red-haired woman had strolled back to the car with her cigarette, though she took care to stay downwind from Harry’s rolled-down window. “Guys, is it just me or is this highway really deserted— like, Rod-Serling-voiceover deserted?”

“We were just thinking Roadrunner cartoons.”

“Can’t be, there’s no weird rocks.” She flicked ash onto the pavement, “Though it does feel like if someone painted a tunnel entrance on a wall around here, you might be able to drive into it. If you weren’t a coyote.” She took another drag and glanced at the power lines humming above their heads. “Maybe it’s the hum from those wires that’s giving us brain cancer— oh sorry, dude.” She broke off and looked at Harry in apology.

“It’s all right, ma’am,” he said when he’d finished swallowing his mouthful of applesauce. “I’ve got leukaemia, not brain cancer. And the sound from those lines is unpleasant. Like the whine of mosquitoes in the woods.” As he spoke the hum intensified, becoming a loud crackle. Albert glanced up as a shadow fell over the three travellers and their car.

In the sky a dark, nebulous shape twisted, circled, formed a comma or an apostrophe, and dove towards them.

The first few grackles, out of thousands, came down on the roof and hood of the car. Harry could see one pecking at the windscreen and glaring at him with hard yellow eyes. He suddenly remembered Coop had been afraid of birds; until now, he’d never been able to imagine why. He turned and pushed open the back door as the woman dove inside the vehicle. Around them, the flock blotted out the landscape.

“Hope they don’t scratch up the finish,” Albert shouted over the sound of wing-beats, “or I’m not getting my deposit back.”

“Is this nesting season? I mean, are the grackles round here normally this—”

“Oh fuck, one got in!” came a yell from the back seat. Eardrums ringing, Harry turned to see a small black shape ricocheting around the car’s interior as the woman flailed her long, bare arms. The grackle made for the gap between Albert’s seat and headrest.

And got stuck, its beak not quite touching the back of Albert’s neck.

Harry reached for the little feathered body, thinking of how to pin the wings against the bird’s sides to avoid injury to it or the surrounding humans, but the moment his fingers touched it, it crumbled. At the same time the din outside the car ceased.

“That— that’s not natural.” Their passenger was covering her mouth with her hand. Even Albert looked shocked. Harry stared at the palmful of ash that was all that was left of the grackle.

“Let me get a sample bag,” Albert muttered. He pulled out a small clear plastic bag, and held it out while Harry poured the remains in. Then he handed him a packet of wet wipes. “You all right, Diane?” The woman in the back seat did not correct him on the name this time.

“Couple of scratches,” she said, examining her right arm. Albert passed her a mini first-aid kit. Got to give him his dues, he prepares for everything, thought Harry, adjusting the brim of his cowboy hat.

“Y’know,” he said, “This could be a good sign. In that it’s any kind of sign. There’s nothing worse than working in the dark, waiting for some hint you’re getting warmer or colder— that’s the kind of thing makes you wonder if the thing you’re looking for is even out there at all. But this—”

“Someone tipped their hand, you mean, when they tried throwing a Hitchcock movie in our faces,” Albert cut in. “But what exactly did we do to worry them?” His glance, and Harry’s, moved to the dashboard mirror’s reflection of their passenger.

“You think the birds were after me, or wanted to break up our merry band?” She raised an eyebrow. “Trouble is I know a token effort when I see one.”

“Or a warning.”

“We found the Pearblossom Motel;” Harry thought he saw the woman flinch at the name. “And then left it, to head for Odessa.”

“Are you suggesting we drive around in circles and see if they attack again?” Albert muttered.

“I think that’d be a little unfair to our passenger.” Harry turned to her: “Ma’am, I believe Albert when he says he knows you; but I also believe you when you say you don’t remember him. We can drop you anywhere you like— your call.”

“Give me a few minutes, fellas. Given all the weird shit I’ve just been through, I’ve got to think about whether I’m safer away from you two, or sticking close by. Plus I’ve got messages to check.” She took her phone out again. Without taking his eyes off the road, Albert pulled his own phone from his suit jacket, passing it to Harry:

“You’d better check mine. Maybe Tammy’s got some news—she’s been looking up everyone connected with events in Twin Peaks, but not living in the area. She even emailed some couple in Japan, though I’m still not sure what they’ve got to do with this.”

Harry peered at Albert’s phone screen, occasionally commenting if something looked to be of interest:

“Gordon’s sent a grudging OK, tells you to be careful. Also tells you to look after me. I’d always imagined he’d type in uppercase— didn’t realize it was him at first. Hm. Do you know a coroner?”

“I know lots of coroners, we get together for an annual poker tournament and lucky draw. And when I say draw…”

“Do you know a Dr. Talbot in Buckhorn?” Harry interrupted. “Autopsied a headless body last September that turned out to be Major— wait, he— is this one of those revised timeline things?”

“Not exactly.” Albert brought Harry up to date as best he could on Major Briggs’ disappearance and decades-later reappearance. “I certainly remember meeting Constance,” he added, after a pause, and cleared his throat again. “According to Tammy, I made a favourable impression on her, which is… unusual among my acquaintances, even those who share my profession. So what does she have to say?”

“Something about a wedding ring and Schrödinger’s Cat?” Harry looked at the message again. “She says Tammy spoke to her, and was going to contact you too… a gold ring they found on Briggs… sorry, in Briggs… keeps disappearing from her office’s records and the FBI’s evidence files, then coming back again?”

Albert frowned in thought as he drove: “Does it have anything engraved on it?” Harry tapped a message on the phone screen, CC-ing Constance and Tammy.

Outside the car, suburbs, or at least car dealerships and big-box stores, were beginning to sprout up along the highway.

Albert’s phone pinged and Harry read the message from Constance:

“Yes, scribbled it down last time I could find the record. This ring any (wedding) bells? TO DOUGIE, WITH LOVE, JANEY-E”

“Janey-E,” said Diane from the back seat, and Harry heard her drop her phone. Turning around he saw her wringing her hands, the nails now robin’s-egg blue. “Albert,” she gasped, “Oh, Albert, I was almost lost again.”

“I believe the change in method may have led to a breakthrough: I haven’t found any rooms leading off of the corridor I’m following, but the decor has gradually changed from black-and-white flooring and red curtains, to dark brown linoleum flooring and institutional green walls hung with large relief maps of different parts of the world. The maps appear to have been manufactured some time between 1954 and 1965, as they show North and South Vietnam as separate nations. I’m just passing the continent of Antarctica, now, and… oh. I think there might be…

Diane, I found the white room, and when I call it that, I’m not simply echoing Laura’s name for it. It was like a cross between a sanatorium and a snow cave, if a snow cave had furniture. There was a bed with white blankets and a white metal frame like a hospital bed. Audrey was sitting on one end of it, wrapped in a white bathrobe and looking at a round mirror that stood on a little white table. She turned as I entered, and her face was older, drawn and, for a moment, frightened. Then she looked at me again and relaxed, saying ‘Oh, it’s really you.’ I fear she must have met one of my nastier doppelgängers at some point.”

At Diane’s request, they stopped to eat at a fast-food chain before approaching the diner Coop had been investigating in at least one timeline.

“I’m hungry, but I’d be too nervous to eat at the place where Dale might have… well, if they’re a front for something, then the food’s either spectacular or terrible, and I’m not feeling lucky right now. I want to be someplace as bland and mundane as possible for a while, so I can regroup.”

“Well this place has a twenty-minute limit.” Albert jerked his thumb at the sign.

“That’ll do.” Diane curled up beside Harry in the booth as Albert went up to the counter to place their orders. She still wore her pencil skirt, but on on of their stops she’d purchased tennis shoes and a couple of fresh t-shirts— the one she was wearing at the moment read NOT TODAY in flowery letters. “Now he’s got two of us to worry about,” she said under her breath. Harry decided to reply:

“Someone needs to worry about him.” Diane nodded, and Harry offered his hand: “Sorry, we never did the proper introductions did we? Harry S. Truman.”

“I know.” Her expression relaxed slightly. “I see why he likes you.”

“Not sure Albert likes anybody, exactly—”

“That’s not who I was talking about.”

Albert returned with a eye-searingly-orange plastic tray:

“Mushroom burger, cheeseburger, buttered biscuit for you, Harry, because they can’t just serve toast like a real restaurant and those things they claim are bagels are made out of lies.”

“Don’t worry Albert, I’ll survive a biscuit.” Harry picked up one half of the baked item and took a bite. It wasn’t too bad, actually.

“Diane, the ring that jogged your memory—”

“My half-sister and her husband. Don’t ask me how they’d be mixed up in this though, Janey-E’s aggressively normal.”

“And her husband?”

“Never actually met him. Janey-E and I don’t talk much,” she explained. “But from her comments he’s… passively normal. Works for an insurance company, drinks too much sometimes, the whole man-in-the-gray-flannel-suit thing.”

“I’ve been talking with Audrey, or the version of her that existed in the white room. You’ll notice I use the past tense. Still sitting on the bed, she raised a finger and pointed to the mirror in front of her, saying:

‘The other me— she ran away from home, like she thought Laura had done. I’m amazed she survived her first year in the big city, but look:’

Diane, I saw Audrey searching records online, tailing suspects, testifying in civil and sometimes criminal courts. It’s a life that can make a cynic of the kindest soul, but there are situations the police don’t or can’t investigate, and those were— are, I suppose— Audrey’s bread and butter, in that mirror world. And they seem to pay well enough she can afford to do some pro bono cases.

‘I wish I were out there,’ she said, and the mirror clouded and shifted. She  patted the bedspread, and I sat down beside her. ‘You know how,’ she began, ‘when you’re a kid, and you’re reading your favourite book, and a little after the halfway point, you start to think ‘I’m getting near the end of the book?’ And really, you’re not— there are pages and pages left of scenes and pictures. You’re always surprised just how much more there is. But it’s not enough to shake the feeling it’s putting off the inevitable. Dawdling before bedtime.’ She stood up suddenly, bent and kissed me on the brow. ‘Say hello to the other me, if you ever run into her.’ And then she was gone, Diane. Not in flame or fadeout, just gone.”

I look up, and Laura is beside me.

The diner, when they found it, was not what Harry’d pictured. Instead of a lonely Edward Hopper tableau, or a grimy spoon where toughs whispered to each other along the lunch counter and cast knowing glances in the direction of the men’s room, “Wispy Dreams Cafe” was a blandly cheerful donut shop, the logo rather obviously altered from that of a national chain.

“Looks like they’re under new management.” Diane observed as they got out of the car. “Or else they got tired of paying for the franchise?” The three of them made their way across the parking lot the cafe shared with the landscaping company next door. Inside, the sound of chattering customers and a hum from the coffee machine both soothed and overwhelmed. Harry steadied himself against a gleaming, cream-colored formica counter. The woman on the other side— not a fresh-faced high-school senior or a kindly-faced matron, just a woman with her hair in a ponytail and circles under her eyes, doing her best to smile— threw him a glance and Harry nodded.

“I’m ok. Albert, Diane, what do you two want?”

A couple of minutes later, they sat by the window, feigning interest in their donuts and coffee.

“Well, we’re living the cop cliché,” whispered Albert. “So, what do you think? Soulless suburban hangout, or den of villainy?”

Harry gingerly sipped the brew in his cardboard cup and eyed the other customers. You couldn’t say the place wasn’t busy; the woman at the counter had already served a family of four in the time it had taken Harry, Albert and Diane to seat themselves with their coffees, and another customer had just come in the door.

“That counter’s been installed recently. Deep-fat fryer’s been replaced too.”

“And they don’t know how to use it yet. You could wax skis with these donuts. That’s hardly a crime, though.” Diane looked around at the blue and yellow walls painted with large trompe l’oeil sprinkles. “Doesn’t seem to be anything else funny about the place— I hate to say it but this place might be legit.”

Harry watched the new customer lean in to the counter. Harry couldn’t quite make out what he was saying— presumably the man was placing his order, but it seemed to be taking a while and there was something tense in the woman’s expression. Beside him he heard Diane swear under her breath, and faster than he could turn his head, his peripheral vision took in that she was getting up. She strode towards the counter and Harry had a glimpse of the angry red scratch on her arm as he struggled to his feet.

Diane was leaning on the counter now, trying to insert herself between the customer and the worker.

“What did you just say to her?” she was asking.

“Look, I come in here all the time, we joke around. What makes you think it’s your fucking business?”

“What seems to be the trouble?” Harry loomed up behind the customer— he might have only half his usual strength but he was still a good six inches taller than the other man. Behind him, he guessed, Albert was approaching. Harry knew the agent was unwilling to use physical force and not exactly skilled at defusing situations through diplomacy, so he turned his gaze on the customer with all the quiet confidence he’d used as Sheriff. In his ear Diane hissed:

“It’s nothing to do with the case, this asshole’s just creeping on the staff.” She must’ve locked eyes with the man too, for he was staring at her now, his bland pink features shifting expression from anger to terrified fascination.

Rather an unimpressive face, thought Harry, and then, what’s Diane doing? He turned to look at her sharp, smiling profile, and saw a tear slide from her eye.

“No,” she said loudly and abruptly, and blinked hard. “Do you want us to escort him out?” she asked the woman behind the counter; but the man was already out the door and running for his car.

“Diane,” Harry whispered.

“Diane,” whispered Albert. Diane was passing one hand across her eyes.

“I could have fried him. Just now. Something wanted me to; but I just wanted him to back off.” She beamed at them as Albert held out an arm for her to steady herself. “I think I’m back to normal. Well, normal for me.”

“Are we the only two left here now?”

“I’m not even here anymore.”

“I don’t know how to get back to the waiting room.”

“It doesn’t matter, the coffee’s cold.”

Somehow, the white room has become even more featureless, despite that being both a logical and a grammatical impossibility. Only the bed, the table and Audrey’s mirror remain. A moment in the glass catches my eye, and I look to see— oh Diane, I’m so glad you escaped! I see you travelling with Albert, and… oh, Harry…

…the cafe’s fluorescent lights flickered as the background hum, noticeable since their arrival, now rose to an ear-splitting volume then died away just as suddenly. As the three of them looked on, an old-fashioned hospital bed, its steel frame painted white, materialized between the counter and the booths, replacing two unoccupied tables. At one end of it sat Agent Dale Cooper, fully dressed in his suit and tie, a look on his face of mild surprise that turned to the familiar joy as his gaze met theirs. Coop had grown older like the rest of them, sharper angles in his face, but he looked hale and well, and his eyes did not have the cruel gleam that chilled Harry’s memories of their last meeting.

“Harry,” he said, as though a quarter-century hadn’t passed. In response Harry silently doffed his cowboy hat, revealing his pallor, his naked scalp. Coop’s smiled wavered a little. “I’m sorry I was gone so long,” he whispered, and rose from the white bed. In the background, the cafe staff and patrons continued to chat and serve and drink and eat coffee and donuts as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on right in front of them. Albert made a hesitant noise in his throat and Coop raised his hand in that just a moment gesture he always used to make, and in that moment Harry knew his friend really was back from wherever he’d been all those years.

“Apologies for being brusque,” Coop said, “but there’s a family in Las Vegas who I’ve reason to believe are in danger right now—”

“Janey-E?” Diane asked.

“Right on the button. For personal reasons which I’ll explain later, I can’t get in touch with them myself. The Mitchell brothers might be able to help, but I don’t know how much they’ll be able to recall of our last meeting.”

“Tammy and Constance are already on it.”

“Good,” Coop looked relieved, and Harry stepped forward, shaking a little in spite of himself, and as if the motion had at last given him permission, Coop sailed forward and embraced him— very gently, as if he feared Harry might break. He’s gauging by touch how much weight I’ve lost, thought Harry, but it’s all right. He’d forgotten how warm Coop was. He became aware of Albert and Diane joining in, arms circling his shoulders and Coop’s. If I died right here and now, it’d be all right.

But this embrace was not an epitaph, or an epilogue. Outside, somewhere else in the city, was an imitation of an ancient stone monument; and a copy of an old theatre where real audiences watched real actors. Somewhere the forces that had sent the dark cloud of grackles prepared another attack, and somewhere Tammy Preston was moving to protect Janey-E and Dougie Jones. Elsewhere Audrey Horne walked the mean streets and was not herself mean. This was an interlude, but let them have it for a while.

A couple of patrons turned their heads to smile at the reunion going in their midst.