This was inspired by the Song "Heart of Mine" on the soundtrack of "Keeping the Faith", *g*. Less by the lyrics than by the tune which really set the mood.
Do you wanna know/ if everythin' glitterin'/ will turn into the gold/ I see in your hair/ Feel it could be there/ Somehow tonight/…
The song's good for one more story or two.
Thought of making it Hawkeye/Trapper first, but then changed my mind.
Archive: mash-slash…somebody *please* resurrect it before I die??? And it can also be found
at T'Len's & Lady Charena's place.
Disclaimer: none of it's mine, they belong to FOX, all eleven seasons (and don't I hate them for it)
and I'm just borrowing them for a little fun. No profits are made.
All that glitters tonight are the snowflakes falling from a starless sky. Occasionally, irregularly, and
sure too often for anyone's liking, the thick cloud-cover is lit by exploding shells, the wrong kind
of shooting stars. The heavier the shelling, the harder the snow falls, and soon shapes and objects
are distorted by the billowing curtain.
They're reflecting the eerie glow of the artillery fire in the hills, pinpricks of light against a
background of slate-gray, and they are filling the air all around us.
One might think they *are* the stars…getting shot out of the skies by friend and foe alike…or
abandoning their position up on high to seek refuge in the company of people who, after all, claim
to provide the best care anywhere.
Who are we to deny them?
Thousands of snow-stars are dancing in the yellowish light of the oil-lamps, swirling and dipping
like icy, pale fireflies to a tune no one can hear, and when they tire of dancing and rest, they cover
the frozen ground, the drab olive of tents and jeeps, and us mere mortals who pause in our
hurried trek across the compound.
Casualties are due in ten minutes, but we snatch one moment, one snowflake, for ourselves.
Unlike the stars they once were, snowflakes aren't permanent, too beautiful and too fragile for the
place they're falling down on.
We are just like them, fragile things, all of us, as we now stop at a barrel and warm our freezing
hands over the fire while exchanging a few, scarf-muffled words with two nurses also heading for
the OR. A strange sight we must be, four shivering figures inside a life-size souvenir of Korea that
someone is shaking a little too enthusiastically.
Countless glittering snow-stars are swallowed by the flames, fire meets ice, others catch in
woolen caps and parkas. With chattering teeth, I look up and across the fire and see fragments of
the Big Dipper and Orion melting in your mustache.
I can't help but smile and keep looking. Even a starless night has its moments of beauty,
suspended in ice as they may be.
"What's wrong, Hawk? Do I have icicles hangin' from my nose? Certainly feels like it. You can
tell me. What's the matter?"
Who will convince this man, ridiculous mustache, big feet and all, that here and now he's all that's
the matter? "Just a little stargazing, Beej." And when this is all over, who will put the stars back
where they belong?
"I'm also wondering if I could borrow your mustache during surgery. My face is frozen…"
"Lunatic. C'mon, let's scrub. Radar said something of at least fifty wounded, and a hundred more
And some of them would never see the stars again, nor snow, nor anything glittering.