Margaret is little surprised by her not placing in the voting, being new as she is, but that doesn't mean she isn't enjoying the attention that comes with being part of the procession. There's a smile on her face as she walks alongside Father Mulcahy and takes her place at the head table. She feels much more at home in the sleek olive green dress she chose for herself than the puffy pink thing she tried to wear for Scully not that long ago, and there's even something freeing about not having bothered to try and find male companionship that's anything more than friendly to join her.
After her first month here took such an odd and horrible turn, with the nightmares and all that, it's nice to take a day.
"This is all quite lovely, isn't it."
Be Merry
Margaret is far too dubious of the apparent magical teas to touch them, but she's not shy about drinking the wine and she continues to loosen up as she does. The food, of course, is delightful, and while she doesn't overeat she takes her share and can be found over at the chocolate dipping station on and off throughout the day indulging in its sweet offerings.
When she's not snacking or sat at the head table, she's seeking out dance partners—friends and acquaintances first and foremost, but she'll gladly take up with someone else looking for someone to dance with. She just wants to get out there.
(And if she keeps finding herself looking just as often at the well-dressed women around the green as she does the men, during moments of rest, then, well, she's just appreciating all the fashion on display. Obviously.)
Ballad of the Damned
How she hates to cry in public.
Absurd, really, that such a thing is her first thought as the melancholy overwhelms her and sets sudden tears rolling down her cheeks that she has no hope to control. But she always has been so worried about appearances and finding herself all but falling to her knees beneath the force of the emotion, it's the most normal thing she can find in her to think.
Hard to trace all the routes the sorrow takes through her mind. The patients all blur together, young men—boys, really, most of them only boys—who never made it out the hospital doors alive, or left permanently changed, or went right back to the frontlines only to wind up in the OR all over again. The feeling of never quite living up to her father's expectations and legacy, the daughter who should have been a son. Men who love and leave, a piece of her heart left behind every time.
No, no. This can't do. She tries, and largely fails, to pull herself back to her feet.
Major Margaret Houlihan | MASH
Flower Court
Margaret is little surprised by her not placing in the voting, being new as she is, but that doesn't mean she isn't enjoying the attention that comes with being part of the procession. There's a smile on her face as she walks alongside Father Mulcahy and takes her place at the head table. She feels much more at home in the sleek olive green dress she chose for herself than the puffy pink thing she tried to wear for Scully not that long ago, and there's even something freeing about not having bothered to try and find male companionship that's anything more than friendly to join her.
After her first month here took such an odd and horrible turn, with the nightmares and all that, it's nice to take a day.
"This is all quite lovely, isn't it."
Be Merry
Margaret is far too dubious of the apparent magical teas to touch them, but she's not shy about drinking the wine and she continues to loosen up as she does. The food, of course, is delightful, and while she doesn't overeat she takes her share and can be found over at the chocolate dipping station on and off throughout the day indulging in its sweet offerings.
When she's not snacking or sat at the head table, she's seeking out dance partners—friends and acquaintances first and foremost, but she'll gladly take up with someone else looking for someone to dance with. She just wants to get out there.
(And if she keeps finding herself looking just as often at the well-dressed women around the green as she does the men, during moments of rest, then, well, she's just appreciating all the fashion on display. Obviously.)
Ballad of the Damned
How she hates to cry in public.
Absurd, really, that such a thing is her first thought as the melancholy overwhelms her and sets sudden tears rolling down her cheeks that she has no hope to control. But she always has been so worried about appearances and finding herself all but falling to her knees beneath the force of the emotion, it's the most normal thing she can find in her to think.
Hard to trace all the routes the sorrow takes through her mind. The patients all blur together, young men—boys, really, most of them only boys—who never made it out the hospital doors alive, or left permanently changed, or went right back to the frontlines only to wind up in the OR all over again. The feeling of never quite living up to her father's expectations and legacy, the daughter who should have been a son. Men who love and leave, a piece of her heart left behind every time.
No, no. This can't do. She tries, and largely fails, to pull herself back to her feet.
Wildcard
Hit me.