(no subject)

[swing-set.livejournal.com]

A little MASH gen, a ficlet rather than a drabble, but who's counting?


Title: Grey
Rating: PG
Warnings: The death of something small and fluffy.
Feedback: I live for it. :) boobookittyfuhq@hotmail.com or alternatively, leave a comment.


“Colonel!”

Frank saw Henry's shoulders hunch defensively as he walked up behind him, squinting in the sunshine. His steps lost their purpose as he got a little nearer, and he came to stand by Henry, looking down.

A small patch of blood and fur was staining the dust red, a paw curled up towards the sky.
“Oh.” He looked again. “Is that..?”
“Yep.” Henry shaded his eyes a moment, quickly scanning the camp. “Hand me your shirt a second, willya Frank?”

“My shirt?”
“Your scrubs, Frank. To put el squisho here in.”
Frank considered refusing, but then handed it over without a fight.

“Ambulance get her?”
He didn't know why he was so interested. Maybe it was because he'd had one once too. Black and white. He'd called her Mitsy till his brother laughed, and after that it was George.

“Nope.” Henry bent and placed her carefully in the white material. “I think she ran away.” He straightened up and kicked dust over the stain, holding the bundle gingerly.
“Right, Frank?”
Frank had his mouth open to argue before he caught the look Henry was throwing him.

Light dawned.

“Oh. Oh, right.” He smiled, nodding quickly. “Ran away. I didn’t see anything at all.”
Henry gave him a funny look. For some reason no one ever smiled back at him.

“Okay. Thanks Frank.” He looked around again. “I'm gonna go get rid of this.”
Frank was still grinning, usually no one ever let him in on anything that was going on around here.

“Oh and Frank?” Henry turned back towards him, head a little to one side, eyes hard. “You tell him and I'll hang your keyster from the flag pole.”

He walked off then, and Frank stood in the compound staring at a spot of scuffed dust till the bang of a door and a “Scaring crows, Frank?” told him Pierce and McIntyre were finished in surgery and starting on him.

He stomped back to the Swamp and sat down to re-read his copy of the rules of military conduct, everything laid out in neat little numbered lines, black on white, not a trace of grey or red. He'd never understood why people always, always thought the worst of him.

Later, he let it slip, and watched O Reilly's face turn hurt and dark, seeing in it the reflection of his own, feeling a certain bitter triumph.