Nathan Stern nearly laughed when the man first sat down and asked him if he wanted to talk. Of course he wanted to talk. He wanted to talk to a doctor and find out where Walter was, why it was taking them so long to fix him. The man was no doctor – that much was clear from the way his eyes never drifted from Nathan’s face, as though he could not bear to see his bandages.

No, this man was something else – probably a priest, if he to hazard a guess, but a strange one at that.

Anyway, the man wanted to listen, and that was more than Nathan was used to.

So talk he did.

Then words began to fail him.

And then he began to cry.

There was no denying it: he was a terrible crier. His nose ran, his eyes became swollen, his entire body flushed red, and he made horrendous hiccupping-sobs that shook his entire body. Nothing like in the movies, where tears spilled gracefully and were easily stopped by reassuring words.

Yet the man simply smiled and put his arms around him in a gentle embrace.

And that made it all the worse.

He thought of Walter. How the boy, dwarfed even by Nathan’s on childish build, had called him “friend” even when merely standing too close to him intensified the harassment. How Nathan had cried and been comforted by him in much the same way as this man now.

How his only friend may be well and truly dead while he lies here, crying in the arms of a stranger who should – by no means – feel sympathy for him.

He does not deserve this comfort while Walter’s fate is unknown.

But he cannot bring himself to reject it.

While his suffering is terrible, surely there are those who suffer worse. But why should his pain be constantly held against that of others, as though it somehow made it any less agonizing? Should happiness, too, be denied as there are those happier in the world?

So he lets himself cry and be held. Shame will come later when his mind is whole once more.

Radar is kept in surgery long after he is stitched back up. Hawkeye fears too much to move him away from the life-saving tools. Perhaps he will allow it once the boy wakes up, but not before.

It should not be long now. It cannot be long. Too much time and effort has been spent saving his life for it to have all been in vain.

BJ sleeps on the table beside Radar. His hands twitch as his brow furrows, as though he is stitching in his dreams. Hawkeye pats the hands and they still, but his brow does not relax.

A nap would be nice, Hawkeye decides – a short stint of unconsciousness to clear the fuzziness of his mind and the aching behind his eyes. He leans back in his chair, head resting on BJ’s table.

The light above his head is off – thank goodness – when he opens his eyes. His body aches too much to move, as does his head, but he looks about the room regardless. It is dark, but light from the windows is enough for him to make out shapes around him.

“C’p-n?” is all he can croak; his throat crackles and a metallic taste coats his tongue.

“C’p-n?” He tries to be louder this time, but it is not enough.

His voice cannot take anymore. Focusing his strength, he lifts his hand a few inches and lets it drop, making a soft thump.

A few more tries, and then there is movement around him. Lights are turned on, nearly blinding him, and voices shout at levels he suspects his own will never again achieve. He is mute as hands poke and prod at his body and pet his face. Sturdy but delicate hands run over his hair and he blinks up at Major Houlihan, eyes struggling to focus.

It all proves too much. His eyes close and he falls asleep, but not as deeply as he had been before. No, this time he responds when roused.

“Se’p,” he manages to croak, which has the entire room roaring with laughter, much to his annoyance – can they not understand how tired he is? But he endures it. They sounds so happy, and the familiarity of their voices would make have him in tears, if any remained to be shed.

He feels himself floating. When it stops, he realizes he is somewhere new, and there are more voices. He will get no sleep, it seems, but he finds he is fine with that.

Colonel Potter makes his excuses and slips away to his office, having to practically drag Klinger along.

Calls must be made and paperwork must be filed.

When all is said and done, hours have passed. They return to the others to find their patient sitting up, supported on either side by Hawkeye and BJ. Father Mulcahy had the forethought to retrieve the teddy bear from the Swamp, and it is now being cradled like an infant in its owner’s arms.

Smiling at the boy, Colonel Potter keeps his distance as he thinks of the future. Nothing is certain, but that has always been the case. The army – in its infinite knowledge – will certainly make the going tough as he tries to navigate the red tape, but seeing this child – no – this man receive the justice his nation stands for will keep him going. He knows how simple it is for victims to be swept under the rug, he has been alive too long not to have, and he will not standby passively, like the old man he is expected to be. They are all human beings here, all deserving of respect, kindness and compassion. There is nothing that can make one lesser and deserving of spite or cruelty.

Even Burns, Potter thinks reluctantly.

Comparing one’s sufferings to another’s is the perfect way to loose your mind. Someone will always be more justified in their ways, in their words. There will be those richer and poorer, kinder and crueler, louder and quieter.

That is the way the world turns.

There are too many people on the Earth for all to be as blessed – or as cursed – as the rest. We all go our own paths and bear our own burdens. What matters is that we find people to help keep us afloat and we keep compassion in our hearts for those who would drag us down.