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Klinger was sitting at the desk in his tent, sewing a new dress as he hummed the final bars of ‘My Blue Heaven” under his breath. It had been a few days since everything that had happened with Deborah Clark… no: Debbie. He’d bared his soul to her, told her he loved her, and all he got in return was her lousy admission that she wasn’t looking for anything more than a fling.
Klinger gave a yelp of pain as he pricked himself with the needle. “ Stupid needle ,” he muttered to himself in Arabic as he shook out his hand. Then, a knock came on the door to his tent. “Who is it?” Klinger called out.
“Major Winchester,” came the reply in that familiar, smooth Boston accent.
“Come on in Major,” Klinger shouted as he quickly sucked the blood off his finger and smoothed out his dress.
Winchester entered, carrying his record player and a bottle of brandy.
“Something I can do for ya?” Klinger asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I thought we could commiserate our sorrows one last time about our respective losses,” Winchester said, placing the record player next to Klinger’s half-finished sewing.
“Were Hawk and BJ still ribbin’ ya?” Klinger asked knowingly, knowing Winchester was likely hiding out to avoid more teasing from his fellow Swamp Rats.
“Yes,” Winchester scowled. “I hope that your company will prove to be better. You understand the heartache I am currently afflicted with.”
“I heard ya there Major,” Klinger said, opening up his footlocker in hopes of finding some glasses for the brandy Winchester had brought.
“While we’re wallowing, I suppose I can allow you the privilege of dropping the formalities,” Winchester acquiesced as he fiddled with his record player. “Just this once, you may call me Charles.”
“Woah, I get ta use your first name?” Klinger laughed incredulously, bringing two glasses over. “I oughta be real honored. Call me Max then, just fer tonight,” he smiled, mimicking the formal way Winchester had given permission.
“You may pour… Max,” he said, testing the name on his tongue as he placed a record upon the player and adjusted the needle.
Klinger’s eyes widened in recognition as he heard the familiar sounds of ‘But Not For Me’ pipe into the room. “Ya like Gershwin?” Klinger gawked.
“I do appreciate his work, yes,” Winchester nodded, taking a seat on the edge of Klinger’s cot. “I only have one record of his mind you, but I do listen to other things that aren’t strictly classical.”
“Maybe Sooni woulda stuck around fer a little longer if you weren’t tryna show her all those fancy symphony pieces,” Klinger teased.
“I hardly doubt Gershwin could have convinced her to stay,” Winchester grumbled, holding out his hand expectantly. Klinger filled up a glass of brandy and handed it to him. “She wasn’t destined to be able to distinguish her Gustav Mahler from her Glenn Miller.”
A warm laugh bubbled up from Klinger’s throat as he poured himself a glass and sat at his desk. “Suppose so.”
Winchester downed the amber liquid in a single gulp. “I suppose I was being foolish, trying to culture a mere…” he trailed off, not wanting to have to say it.
“Hey, it ain’t yer fault,” Klinger said gently, finding himself wanting to console Winchester despite the fact that he knew the man would shoot down his words of comfort with his razor sharp tongue. “No one oughta bash ya fer dreamin’.”
“I doubt you feel any better than me,” Winchester replied, holding out his glass for a refill. “What exactly happened with your, ah, ‘Debbie’?”
“I thought we were sorta havin’ a real spark, y’know?” He answered, pouring Winchester a fresh glass. “And so I told her that.”
“And she merely wanted a fling?”
“Bingo,” Klinger sighed, chasing his own glass. “It’s like dames don’t realize how much they can break our hearts.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Winchester raised his glass in a toast.
“You’re already drinkin’,” Klinger laughed. “But message received… Charles.”
“My name sounds almost nice coming from you,” Winchester laughed into his glass.
“Aw, now I know you’re gettin’ buzzed if you’re sayin’ sweet stuff like that.”
“Lightly buzzed,” Winchester corrected as the record began to play “Shall We Dance.”
“Man, it’s a real shame when a girl don’t appreciate a hopeless romantic.”
“Is that how you would define yourself Max? A hopeless romantic?” Winchester asked.
“As hopeless as they come. Hell, I fell so hard I was startin’ to dream us a future,” Klinger sighed wistfully.
“As you so eloquently stated, ‘No one oughta bash ya fer dreamin’,” he said, mimicking Klinger’s Toledo accent as he repeated the Corporal’s earlier words.
Klinger giggled at that. “Gee, you can be real funny! Sooni really missed out.”
“You think?” Winchester asked, dazzling blue eyes filled with hope.
Klinger felt a pang in his heart at that look. “‘Course I do! You’re a real catch. A talented doctor, not to mention all fancy and well educated. Hell, I’d be swoonin’ if I were a lady.”
“Clearly the brandy is reaching you too,” Winchester snorted.
“And did I mention your eyes? Hell, Charles, I might as well be starin’ at the diamonds in the Queen’s crown. They’re all icy blue, but they got a sorta… a sorta sparkle. Yeah, a sparkle.”
“It’s a wonder Debbie didn’t want to settle down if you were speaking to her with such sweet words,” Winchester mused aloud.
Klinger nodded, trying to refill his glass, only to discover that the bottle was empty. “All outta booze,” Klinger sighed.
“Max, may I make a foolish remark?” Winchester said, moved by liquid courage and the comfort of Klinger’s tent, free from prying eyes.
“Shoot.”
“I’ve had a better time tonight with you then I did with the several dates I had with Sooni.”
“Can I say a lil somethin’ too?”
“Go right ahead.”
“I ain’t never said flattering things about Debbie the way I said flattering things about you. Ain’t never thought she had the stars in her eyes quite like you do.”
A silence hung in the air as the record skipped. The two men locked eyes from across the tent, honey brown gazing into brilliant blue.
“Charles, if you don’t get outta here, I’m liable to do somethin’ stupid,” Klinger warned, rising to his feet.
“Just this once, I’ll accept stupid, Max,” Winchester replied, standing as well. The two gravitated to the center of the tent, and somehow, a Corporal in a lacy green dress found himself swept away in the arms of a blue blooded Bostonian Major.
“Another late night for Charles?” BJ raised an eyebrow, eyeing Winchester’s empty bunk. “I thought he just got off the train.”
“He must have hopped back on,” Hawkeye said, filling up a glass of gin. “He even took his record player. Must be really trying to impress-”
“Gentlemen, I do appreciate if you’d refrain from discussions of me when I’m not present,” Winchester said smoothly as he pushed open the door, carrying his record player under his arm.
“BJ, what were we saying about Charles having a large stick up his-”
“That’s quite enough Pierce,” Winchester interrupted. “I’m in a good mood and I do not intend to let you spoil it.”
Hawkeye stuck his tongue out at Winchester in return. Meanwhile, BJ smiled to himself as he noticed the small smudge of lipstick on Winchester’s collar, which just so happened to be in Klinger’s favorite shade.