Hawkeye slumped on a bench in the change room, his surgical gown in the laundry hamper but the stench of bowel and blood clung to his scrubs. The metallic tang of iron filled his senses but it was after midnight and even the jarring scent couldn't quite wake him up. But he couldn't sleep, too exhausted to move.

A hand thrust into his field of view, holding a ceramic cup. The welcome smell of coffee overrode all the bad. He smiled up, surprised to see Margaret looking down at him.

"You need it," she said.

It was luke warm and too sweet but he didn't care. Coffee was life. He was reminded that Hot Lips wasn't all bad. She was exactly who you wanted next to you in the OR. "Thank you. I mean it."

She merely smiled and left him cradling the drink. It was somehow perfect.