Sara (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
scripted_sra) wrote2009-03-04 02:49 am
scripted_sra) wrote2009-03-04 02:49 am
M*A*S*H | The Way The World Turns | PG | Peg/Charles; Hawkeye/BJ
Title: The Way The World Turns
Fandom: M*A*S*H
Rating: PG
Pairing: Peg/Charles; implied Hawkeye/BJ
Summary: Charles meets someone in a bar who makes a lasting impression.
Word Count: 1,780
Disclaimer: All copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. This work is not created for profit and constitutes fair use.
A/N: Well, see, it all started with an MST where there were Peg/Charles overtones. I was trying to write Hawkney, but this happened instead. Thanks for the beta, Kelly.
Charles sits in a dimly lit bar, finishing the last of his scotch. The jukebox in the background is playing something appropriately melancholy, as though it's cognizant of his mood.
He's usually above these sorts of establishments, with their mediocre liquor, cheap decorations, and tawdry customers, but they do afford him the one thing he craves right now: anonymity. There is no chance to be anonymous at the posh bars where country club members gather and socialize. One has to be constantly smiling, exuding a sense of slight arrogance, superiority. Everyone is watching, waiting for the smallest failure. Everyone knows who everyone is and carefully mingles while silently hoping for the demise of those around them, or for a way to get ahead. It is a quiet, bloodthirsty game, tiring and exhilarating at the same time.
He excels at the game, of course. Winchesters do nothing less. They are simply the best and everyone wishes for the day that they will no longer on top. Charles smirks, an expression tinged with bitterness, as he motions to the bartender for another drink. That day will never come. He won't allow it. He can't allow it.
The war has been over for three years now. Did they ever actually refer to it as a war? Charles wonders briefly, even though it doesn't matter. It made no difference then and it certainly makes no difference now. It was a war, a horrifying, ultimately pointless, and endlessly bloody gash on a nation that's only just begun to scar.
Charles finds himself traveling often these days, taking advantage of a generous sabbatical. He feels aimless, as much as he despises the idea; it's something he only thinks to himself. His family thinks he’s scouring the country for new business opportunities.
He allows himself an entirely undignified snort at that thought. What business opportunities could possibly arise in this run-down little town—Tiburon, California? He's willing to wager not many people have even heard of it.
Looking up at the sound of movement, Charles notices that an attractive blonde woman has settled on the stool next to him. A quick glance around the bar tells him what he already guessed: she's not a regular, and the scum who frequent this establishment are soon going to be vying for her attention.
He's not surprised; this woman appears far more lovely than any this riff-raff has probably ever laid eyes upon, though he supposes she would be even more beautiful if she were smiling.
Charles can't help himself; he asks her what's wrong. Perhaps he merely requires a distraction from his own troubles, or perhaps he is genuinely concerned—since having been forced to share quarters with the likes of Pierce and Hunnicutt, he finds himself sincerely caring more often. He doesn't know for sure which this is, but he suspects it doesn't matter.
The lady stiffens and replies, “Nothing.”
He always wonders why people bother to lie when they do so unconvincingly. “Pardon me, my dear lady, but it seems otherwise from my point of view.”
She really looks at him then, slight surprise evidence in her eyes. “You’re not from around here.”
“You're correct. I'm from the unparalleled city of Boston. Charles Em–” He stops himself. He's so used to giving his full title. “Charles,” he says, holding out his hand.
She looks uncertain before shaking it. “Peg,” she adds before taking another drink of her beverage. “So, Charles, what brings you all the way out to California? You seem like a man who has a lot of important things to do.”
Charles takes a moment to mentally commend himself for exuding such superiority even when he is unknown to his audience. “I am,” he responds. No need to hide such a thing, after all. “I'm here on business.”
Peg smiles, though it’s slightly twisted. “Just like there’s nothing wrong with me,” she answers, taking another sip of her drink—gin, Charles notes.
He regards her curiously. Something about this woman is intriguing. “I'm here because...” He pauses. Why is he here, in this small-town bar, conversing with a complete stranger? “Because I do not know where I am supposed to be." It's the first time he’s admitted it—to himself, or to anyone else.
“I’m here because my husband is in love with someone else,” she tells him matter-of-factly, taking another drink from her glass.
Charles’ eyes narrow. “Men who are so loathsome as to take on a mistress while wed do not deserve the privilege of marriage.”
Peg laughs, but it’s not a happy sound. “Oh, he doesn’t have a mistress. He’s completely faithful. Except where it matters.”
Ah, now Charles understands. Someone too cowardly to admit the truth so they carry on a facade and hurt themselves and others in the process. “I think that may be worse.”
She looks into his eyes. “It is.”
What foolish man could stop loving this woman? “If I may say so, my lady, your husband is an utter imbecile.”
Peg’s smile is at least slightly genuine this time. “You may say so. And it’s Peg, not ‘my lady.’ My, you’re formal, aren’t you?”
“I do apologize. I am merely a product of my upbringing. It included many the lesson on how to properly treat a woman.”
“Don’t apologize,” Peg replies, smiling again. “It’s nice, if unnecessary.”
Charles gallantly offers a half bow. “I do try.” He notices that Peg has finished her drink. “Allow me to purchase you another beverage. Gin, correct?”
“Oh, you don’t have to.”
“Of course I don’t. I merely want to,” he responds, signaling the bartender. He sees Peg smiling at him again. “Have I said something amusing?”
“You’re incredibly pompous, but you’re up front about it. That’s refreshing,” she says, smirking.
He could be offended by that comment, he supposes, but he knows it's absolutely true. As it is, he merely smirks back. “Like I said previously—I do try.” The bartender serves Peg her second drink and the conversation lulls for a moment.
“Are you married?” she eventually asks.
“I'm not, unfortunately,” he responds. “I wish to be, someday,” he adds, wistfully—that is, if Winchesters are ever wistful.
Peg smiles sympathetically. “I hope that wish comes true for you,” she says.
Charles nods politely, realizing, with a mild amount of surprise, that she means it. Of course, hopes and wishes don't get one anywhere—he knows this from experience—but the sincerity is pleasant. “What are you planning to do about the situation involving your husband?”
Peg shrugs, staring into her drink. “What can I do? I have to live with it.”
“You don't deserve that.”
Peg looks up at him again, her piercing blue eyes searing straight into his. He cannot look away. “You don’t even know me. How do you know what I deserve?”
Charles scoffs. “I know a lovely woman when I meet one. A lovely woman does not deserve to be trapped in a marriage with a man who is in love with someone else. Do you know the identity of the woman who has his heart?”
The noise Peg makes is strange. “I know who it is,” she says finally.
“Is she someone close to you?” he wonders, trying to understand her strange behavior. It's an uncomfortable situation, of course, but her reaction to that question seemed a little out of the ordinary.
“I’ve never met them,” she answers. “Him. I’ve never met him.”
Charles blinks, thrown off guard. Suffice to say, he had not been expecting that. “Your husband is–”
“Homosexual?” Peg shrugs. “I don’t think so. I think that the circumstances of where they met are the only reason it even happened. But it doesn’t matter, because my husband is carrying on, pretending nothing is wrong even though I know it is. And I'll do the same thing, because I don’t have any other option.”
“You could–”
“Divorce him? No, I couldn’t. My mother and father would never understand. They’d treat me as though I were the reason. They’re very old fashioned.”
“There must be something you can do,” Charles insists.
“There is, apparently,” Peg answers, smiling. “Driving a few miles to a small town, finding a bar, and ending up talking to a Bostonian stranger. It seems to help.” She finishes the last of her drink and stands up. “Well, I do need to get going. It was nice chatting with you, Charles.”
“Please, allow me to walk you to your vehicle. The vagrants who inhabit this place are not to be trusted, especially in their intoxicated states.”
“Thank you,” she replies.
Charles leaves money on the bar—enough for himself and the drink he bought for her—before following her out. It is a cool, fall evening—the wind rustles and blows colorful leaves around the parking lot. They reach a small, green car, and Peg turns to face Charles. “Thank you,” she whispers, repeating her earlier pledge of gratitude.
He does not expect the kiss.
“My lady,” he says, after they pull apart. He's rarely completely shocked, but he's sure he appears so now. “I am sorry," he says, and realizes he means it. "You're married. I couldn’t possibly–”
She smiles. “I didn’t expect anything more. One thing I can tell is that you’re a man of principle, Charles. I just wanted to properly express how you’ve helped me.” She opens her door and slides into her car.
“You are a lovely woman,” he tells her. “If the circumstances were different–”
“Yes, only if that were so,” she answers, sighing. “But they’re not, and I suppose we have to live with the way things are.”
Life is not fair. Charles knows that. He was taught that at a very early age. Still, he cannot stop himself from voicing the thought that has entered his mind: “It's not fair.”
Peg smiles sadly. “No, it’s not.” She pauses, and they share another long glance. “Well, goodnight, Charles. And remember—it’s Peg.”
He stands in the parking lot watches her leave, not looking away until her tail light is finally out of sight. Peg. He doubts he’ll ever forget.
It’s a lovely name for a lovely woman.
Charles sighs to himself before going back into the bar to call for his car. Ten minutes later he's entering his chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce. Charles Emerson Winchester III is not a man who is easily swayed by hopes and daydreams because work and reality are the only things he can count on. However, as they drive back to the hotel he is staying at—it’s in San Francisco, not this city—he cannot help but wish circumstances were different.
For both his sake and Peg's.
Fandom: M*A*S*H
Rating: PG
Pairing: Peg/Charles; implied Hawkeye/BJ
Summary: Charles meets someone in a bar who makes a lasting impression.
Word Count: 1,780
Disclaimer: All copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. This work is not created for profit and constitutes fair use.
A/N: Well, see, it all started with an MST where there were Peg/Charles overtones. I was trying to write Hawkney, but this happened instead. Thanks for the beta, Kelly.
Charles sits in a dimly lit bar, finishing the last of his scotch. The jukebox in the background is playing something appropriately melancholy, as though it's cognizant of his mood.
He's usually above these sorts of establishments, with their mediocre liquor, cheap decorations, and tawdry customers, but they do afford him the one thing he craves right now: anonymity. There is no chance to be anonymous at the posh bars where country club members gather and socialize. One has to be constantly smiling, exuding a sense of slight arrogance, superiority. Everyone is watching, waiting for the smallest failure. Everyone knows who everyone is and carefully mingles while silently hoping for the demise of those around them, or for a way to get ahead. It is a quiet, bloodthirsty game, tiring and exhilarating at the same time.
He excels at the game, of course. Winchesters do nothing less. They are simply the best and everyone wishes for the day that they will no longer on top. Charles smirks, an expression tinged with bitterness, as he motions to the bartender for another drink. That day will never come. He won't allow it. He can't allow it.
The war has been over for three years now. Did they ever actually refer to it as a war? Charles wonders briefly, even though it doesn't matter. It made no difference then and it certainly makes no difference now. It was a war, a horrifying, ultimately pointless, and endlessly bloody gash on a nation that's only just begun to scar.
Charles finds himself traveling often these days, taking advantage of a generous sabbatical. He feels aimless, as much as he despises the idea; it's something he only thinks to himself. His family thinks he’s scouring the country for new business opportunities.
He allows himself an entirely undignified snort at that thought. What business opportunities could possibly arise in this run-down little town—Tiburon, California? He's willing to wager not many people have even heard of it.
Looking up at the sound of movement, Charles notices that an attractive blonde woman has settled on the stool next to him. A quick glance around the bar tells him what he already guessed: she's not a regular, and the scum who frequent this establishment are soon going to be vying for her attention.
He's not surprised; this woman appears far more lovely than any this riff-raff has probably ever laid eyes upon, though he supposes she would be even more beautiful if she were smiling.
Charles can't help himself; he asks her what's wrong. Perhaps he merely requires a distraction from his own troubles, or perhaps he is genuinely concerned—since having been forced to share quarters with the likes of Pierce and Hunnicutt, he finds himself sincerely caring more often. He doesn't know for sure which this is, but he suspects it doesn't matter.
The lady stiffens and replies, “Nothing.”
He always wonders why people bother to lie when they do so unconvincingly. “Pardon me, my dear lady, but it seems otherwise from my point of view.”
She really looks at him then, slight surprise evidence in her eyes. “You’re not from around here.”
“You're correct. I'm from the unparalleled city of Boston. Charles Em–” He stops himself. He's so used to giving his full title. “Charles,” he says, holding out his hand.
She looks uncertain before shaking it. “Peg,” she adds before taking another drink of her beverage. “So, Charles, what brings you all the way out to California? You seem like a man who has a lot of important things to do.”
Charles takes a moment to mentally commend himself for exuding such superiority even when he is unknown to his audience. “I am,” he responds. No need to hide such a thing, after all. “I'm here on business.”
Peg smiles, though it’s slightly twisted. “Just like there’s nothing wrong with me,” she answers, taking another sip of her drink—gin, Charles notes.
He regards her curiously. Something about this woman is intriguing. “I'm here because...” He pauses. Why is he here, in this small-town bar, conversing with a complete stranger? “Because I do not know where I am supposed to be." It's the first time he’s admitted it—to himself, or to anyone else.
“I’m here because my husband is in love with someone else,” she tells him matter-of-factly, taking another drink from her glass.
Charles’ eyes narrow. “Men who are so loathsome as to take on a mistress while wed do not deserve the privilege of marriage.”
Peg laughs, but it’s not a happy sound. “Oh, he doesn’t have a mistress. He’s completely faithful. Except where it matters.”
Ah, now Charles understands. Someone too cowardly to admit the truth so they carry on a facade and hurt themselves and others in the process. “I think that may be worse.”
She looks into his eyes. “It is.”
What foolish man could stop loving this woman? “If I may say so, my lady, your husband is an utter imbecile.”
Peg’s smile is at least slightly genuine this time. “You may say so. And it’s Peg, not ‘my lady.’ My, you’re formal, aren’t you?”
“I do apologize. I am merely a product of my upbringing. It included many the lesson on how to properly treat a woman.”
“Don’t apologize,” Peg replies, smiling again. “It’s nice, if unnecessary.”
Charles gallantly offers a half bow. “I do try.” He notices that Peg has finished her drink. “Allow me to purchase you another beverage. Gin, correct?”
“Oh, you don’t have to.”
“Of course I don’t. I merely want to,” he responds, signaling the bartender. He sees Peg smiling at him again. “Have I said something amusing?”
“You’re incredibly pompous, but you’re up front about it. That’s refreshing,” she says, smirking.
He could be offended by that comment, he supposes, but he knows it's absolutely true. As it is, he merely smirks back. “Like I said previously—I do try.” The bartender serves Peg her second drink and the conversation lulls for a moment.
“Are you married?” she eventually asks.
“I'm not, unfortunately,” he responds. “I wish to be, someday,” he adds, wistfully—that is, if Winchesters are ever wistful.
Peg smiles sympathetically. “I hope that wish comes true for you,” she says.
Charles nods politely, realizing, with a mild amount of surprise, that she means it. Of course, hopes and wishes don't get one anywhere—he knows this from experience—but the sincerity is pleasant. “What are you planning to do about the situation involving your husband?”
Peg shrugs, staring into her drink. “What can I do? I have to live with it.”
“You don't deserve that.”
Peg looks up at him again, her piercing blue eyes searing straight into his. He cannot look away. “You don’t even know me. How do you know what I deserve?”
Charles scoffs. “I know a lovely woman when I meet one. A lovely woman does not deserve to be trapped in a marriage with a man who is in love with someone else. Do you know the identity of the woman who has his heart?”
The noise Peg makes is strange. “I know who it is,” she says finally.
“Is she someone close to you?” he wonders, trying to understand her strange behavior. It's an uncomfortable situation, of course, but her reaction to that question seemed a little out of the ordinary.
“I’ve never met them,” she answers. “Him. I’ve never met him.”
Charles blinks, thrown off guard. Suffice to say, he had not been expecting that. “Your husband is–”
“Homosexual?” Peg shrugs. “I don’t think so. I think that the circumstances of where they met are the only reason it even happened. But it doesn’t matter, because my husband is carrying on, pretending nothing is wrong even though I know it is. And I'll do the same thing, because I don’t have any other option.”
“You could–”
“Divorce him? No, I couldn’t. My mother and father would never understand. They’d treat me as though I were the reason. They’re very old fashioned.”
“There must be something you can do,” Charles insists.
“There is, apparently,” Peg answers, smiling. “Driving a few miles to a small town, finding a bar, and ending up talking to a Bostonian stranger. It seems to help.” She finishes the last of her drink and stands up. “Well, I do need to get going. It was nice chatting with you, Charles.”
“Please, allow me to walk you to your vehicle. The vagrants who inhabit this place are not to be trusted, especially in their intoxicated states.”
“Thank you,” she replies.
Charles leaves money on the bar—enough for himself and the drink he bought for her—before following her out. It is a cool, fall evening—the wind rustles and blows colorful leaves around the parking lot. They reach a small, green car, and Peg turns to face Charles. “Thank you,” she whispers, repeating her earlier pledge of gratitude.
He does not expect the kiss.
“My lady,” he says, after they pull apart. He's rarely completely shocked, but he's sure he appears so now. “I am sorry," he says, and realizes he means it. "You're married. I couldn’t possibly–”
She smiles. “I didn’t expect anything more. One thing I can tell is that you’re a man of principle, Charles. I just wanted to properly express how you’ve helped me.” She opens her door and slides into her car.
“You are a lovely woman,” he tells her. “If the circumstances were different–”
“Yes, only if that were so,” she answers, sighing. “But they’re not, and I suppose we have to live with the way things are.”
Life is not fair. Charles knows that. He was taught that at a very early age. Still, he cannot stop himself from voicing the thought that has entered his mind: “It's not fair.”
Peg smiles sadly. “No, it’s not.” She pauses, and they share another long glance. “Well, goodnight, Charles. And remember—it’s Peg.”
He stands in the parking lot watches her leave, not looking away until her tail light is finally out of sight. Peg. He doubts he’ll ever forget.
It’s a lovely name for a lovely woman.
Charles sighs to himself before going back into the bar to call for his car. Ten minutes later he's entering his chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce. Charles Emerson Winchester III is not a man who is easily swayed by hopes and daydreams because work and reality are the only things he can count on. However, as they drive back to the hotel he is staying at—it’s in San Francisco, not this city—he cannot help but wish circumstances were different.
For both his sake and Peg's.