Supply at the 4077th was less a science and more of an improvised jazz performance.

You just didn’t question what you found in the boxes; you just counted it and tried to figure out how to trade it for penicillin.

The smell was always the same: canvas, dried mud, old cardboard, and a hint of something sterile that always lost the battle against the mold.

Major Margaret Houlihan was standing in the middle of it all, clipboard firmly in hand, conducting her weekly inventory.

Her back was rigid. Her blonde hair pulled back tightly into a bun beneath her utility cap.

Each count had to be perfect, especially when dealing with Klinger.

Corporal Klinger was currently doing his impression of a startled raccoon, crouching low beside a stack of wooden crates labeled ‘R.’

His eyes were wide, and his expression was a silent plea of ‘don’t ask me.’

He was holding the source of the awkward silence: a fluffy, garish, electric-purple feather boa, interwoven with fuchsia accents.

It looked absolutely ridiculous. It also looked absolutely vibrant, defying the dull, khaki reality around them.

The bright colors seemed to hum in the dimly lit tent.

Margaret hadn’t blinked. She didn’t even look at the boa. She stared straight at the top of the clipboard, pen poised over the paper.

“Corporal,” she said, her voice tight with controlled irritation.

“Yes, Major?” Klinger squeaked, his hand involuntarily tightening on the boa.

“This is not standard issue, is it?” she asked.

“Well, Major, standard issue is a bit of a gray area out here…” Klinger began, raising his head slightly.

“Corporal!” she snapped.

Her posture became even stiffer.

“Okay! Okay!” Klinger retreated instantly.

“What is that?” she demanded.

“A gift,” he said.

“A gift. From whom?” Margaret asked.

“Lieutenant Davies… she left it,” Klinger said quickly, trying to stand up, the boa dangling from both hands.

“I don’t recall a Lieutenant Davies,” she lied.

Margaret had been strict on Lieutenant Davies. A young, theatrical nurse who often slipped colorful scarves into her pockets. Margaret had given her a quiet dressing-down just last week about military dress code.

The nurse had been transferred to a safer hospital far south.

“Why is this *here*, Klinger?” Margaret asked.

“I’m keeping it for… safe keeping. She said it was lucky,” Klinger said lamely.

Margaret just kept staring. Klinger’s face crumpled into defeat.

Suddenly, a loud ‘CRACK’ echoed through the supply tent.

Margaret dropped her clipboard. Klinger jumped backward, nearly knocking over a stack of bandages.

It was just the heater, kicking on, but the noise in the silent room had sounded like a gunshot.

The clipboard lay between them on the dirt floor, forgotten, while the purple boa spilled out of Klinger’s hands and coiled in the cardboard box.

Klinger immediately reached down, scooping up the clipboard with one hand, brushing it off, and then holding it out to her like an apology.

He then carefully, almost tenderly, lifted the magenta-and-purple boa back out of the box and clutched it against his chest.

Margaret retrieved the clipboard. She took a deep breath. Her eyes were different now.

“Lieutenant Davies was quite fond of you, Corporal,” Margaret said quietly.

“Yes, Major. She was… nice,” Klinger replied, his voice soft.

“She used to get caught wearing that ridiculous thing around her neck in the cold mornings, didn’t she?” Margaret said, a trace of a smile touching her lips.

“Every morning, Major. She said it made the gray feel less gray.”

He ran his hands over the bright feathers.

“She cried when you transferred her, Klinger.”

“It’s safer down there, Major. Everyone knows.” Klinger squeezed the boa tighter. “I wanted to send it to her, but…”

“But you wanted to keep something of her here,” Margaret finished for him.

Klinger nodded slowly. His usual energy was gone.

Margaret finally looked at the boa. She looked at its electric life in this dreary place.

“It is utterly absurd,” she whispered. “But it is also the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in three months.”

“Major?”

She put the clipboard down on the table, not using it as a shield.

“Klinger, the heater is dying. The wind is coming in.” She gestured with her pen toward the cold air.

“It’s going to be a rough night.”

Klinger stood up, his gaze meeting hers.

“If I had that around my neck right now, Corporal, I believe I might actually be warmer.”

For a long moment, the Supply Sergeant and the Head Nurse just stood there, respecting the ridiculous bit of warmth between them.

A smile blossomed on Klinger’s face, a genuine one that reached his eyes.

He didn’t ask. He just leaned in and carefully looped the bright purple-and-fuchsia boa around Margaret Houlihan’s neck.

She didn’t flinch. She just exhaled, her stiff posture dissolving.

It was incredibly soft. And absurdly bright.

“The inventory is incomplete, Corporal,” she said, looking at the clipboard.

“I’ll fix it, Major. For every missing roll of tape, I’ll count three purple feathers. Everyone will know exactly what you mean,” he said.

Margaret looked at him, and they shared a laugh that was pure, tired affection.

“Inventory on Friday, Klinger. And for heaven’s sake, keep this between us. If Hawkeye sees this, he’ll try to trade my boots for it.”

“Not a chance, Major. You pull off magenta much better than he does.”

Margaret picked up her clipboard, adjusted the bun on her head, and turned to leave.

She walked out into the dusty, gray 4077th air, wearing an absurd, brilliant splash of vibrant purple, looking every bit the commander she was.

Klinger watched her go, a smile lingering. Then he looked at the open space on the shelf where the box had been, finally, perfectly clean.

Sometimes the only standard issue worth counting was the family you kept alive.