If looks could earn you a Section Eight, Klinger would have a wall full of framed commendations by now.

He didn’t just walk into an office; he made an *entrance*, even in an active war zone.

Look at him in that image (image_0.png)—hands clasped together, head tilted back, like he’s performing an elaborate dramatic monologue before a jury that has clearly seen it all.

He’s wearing a full, patterned caftan—a masterpiece of swirling greens and purples over his fatigues—and that headscarf. He has absolutely, undeniably committed to the role.

He is pleading for a discharge, but to an audience of exactly one Colonel.

Colonel Potter is right there, leaning comfortably back in his chair behind that formidable desk.

The map of Korea behind him is like a permanent reminder that this whole reality is just *slightly* bizarre.

Potter has his hands on his hips, wearing that familiar ‘I-am-listening-but-also-judging-your- sanity’ smile. It’s a smile that says he has a warm heart, but he’s also not born yesterday, and he definitely has paperwork.

Behind Klinger, through the doorway of the inner office, lingers Radar. He’s standing perfectly still, clipboard to his chest, wearing a look that balances genuine confusion with a strong suspicion that he is witnessing another theatrical disaster unfold.

“Colonel, please! I am *begging* you!” Klinger was telling Potter, his voice rising with theatrical desperation. “This isn’t just about my Section Eight, sir. This is about *art*! About… about fashion! This caftan is screaming for freedom!”

“It’s certainly screaming *something*, Klinger,” Potter replied with a slow shake of his head. “And your dedication to the theater is commendable. But your commitment to the *regulations*, however, remains… well, *absent*.”

Klinger spun around, dramatic fabric swirling, to appeal to Radar. “Tell him, Radar! Tell him I’m an artistic soul, a delicate flower trapped in this… this uniform!”

Radar just blinked. “I don’t think flowers wear purple caftans, Klinger.”

Potter’s smile only widened. “There’s a direct order against delicate flowers that refuse to type my reports. Have you looked at that stack today?” He nodded towards the corner of the room, near the filing cabinets.

Klinger looked back to Potter, his eyes full of exaggerated plea. “It was just a question of *supplies*…” he began, his tone dropping from performative despair to a simple, hopeful request.

“…and I needed a specific colored ink to properly complete… well, certain *requisitions*,” Klinger finally finished.

He stepped closer to the desk, bringing his clasped hands lower, leaning in with a confiding intensity that would have made Winchester proud.

He didn’t want any ordinary, standard issue ink, he explained. No, not blue. Not black.

He needed *purple*.

Klinger was trying to procure a large batch of actual purple ink. “Just a small crate! For… you know, *official* correspondence with the fashion design company. It’s imperative they understand the *colors*!”

For Klinger, it wasn’t about laziness; it was about style.

It was an impossible request. Purple ink? For unofficial, *personal* (very, *very* personal) supply. In the middle of an army base. During a shortage of… everything.

Potter’s smile didn’t move. He leaned in just slightly.

“Klinger, we have a war. We have casualties. We have people needing actual bandages, and penicillin, and whole boxes of things that are absolutely vital. We do *not* have purple ink.”

Radar nodded. “Yes, sir. Just regular blue and black.”

Klinger didn’t move. He just looked at Potter with that unwavering, pleading gaze from the photo (image_0.png). He didn’t drop the hands. He didn’t blink. He stood by the desk like a magnificent, determined statue of purple, green, and complete delusion.

Potter sighed, that fatherly look returning. He could have ordered him to do push-ups. He could have told him to go peel potatoes until he was ready for a uniform. But that wasn’t how things worked here.

He took his hands off his hips and reached for one of the black pens in the holder on his desk.

“You need to procure ink, right?” Potter said softly.

Klinger looked down at his own purple and gold caftan, then back at Potter, his clasped hands still in place. “Yes, sir! Essential supplies.”

“Then *procure* it from the supply room using the blue pens that they *actually* have. And then use it… to fill out these requisitions.”

Potter pointed to the thick stack of papers on his desk, his expression firm but patient.

Klinger stood there, the dramatic fervor slowly dissolving into a look of absolute defeat. His arms fell, his shoulders slumped. The purple caftan looked less like a symbol of dramatic rebellion and more like a lot of extra fabric.

He picked up a pen with profound slowness.

Radar winced slightly. Potter just watched him with that quiet, fatherly tenderness, knowing this would happen again tomorrow, probably with a different colored robe.

“Very good, Klinger,” Potter said, already turning back to his own paperwork. “And Radar? Find me that file on the fuel shipment before it disappears.”

Klinger didn’t make a second dramatic exit. He just took the clipboard Radar handed him through the doorway and shuffled over to the side desk.

As he did, a soft, dry voice cut through the momentary silence.

“Ah, the dramatic Arts. Now with a slight blue tint,” Hawkeye Pierce said, having watched the end from the open doorway behind Radar.

Klinger spun, dramatic fabric flying, to throw an eye-roll that was surely seen from Seoul. “At least *some* of us have color, Pierce!”

B.J., standing behind Hawkeye, just smirked. “Well, you certainly brought the purple, Klinger. I give you that.”

Potter gave a small sigh as he looked at the purple, green, and tired scene unfolding in front of him, and in that moment, in that messy little office, despite everything, they felt like the oddest, most resilient family on Earth.

They kept pleading for things that were hard to find, but in the end, all they really needed was each other.