“Why, what do you know that I don't know?” “Nothing.” “And if you did know, you wouldn't tell me?” “It's not my job to tell you. Unless you want to buy a copy of my paper and read it like everybody else.”

Millie smiles, looking around the room. "Nice digs they put you up in." "Good compensation for this trip, which has no doubt taken about five years off my life." "Yours and mine," Millie says, sitting down in CJ's desk chair. "You sure there's nothing I can do for you, CJ?"

“Couldn’t sleep?” Sam asks, watching her line up another shot. “No.” “Me neither. And I couldn’t spend another minute staring at the ceiling, or watching TV. Nothing on at this hour but infomercials and M*A*S*H reruns.” CJ smiles to herself, but it disappears when she finally misses a shot, the 9 ball ricocheting off the corner and spinning away. She gestures to Sam that it’s his turn. “You know,” she says as he lines up his own shot, “I always thought Arnie Vinick kind of looked like Alan Alda.” Sam tilts his head. “Really? I don’t see it.”

"Sometimes feels like I'm the White House correspondent for Vogue or somethin'." "You saying we're all style and no substance?" "I'm sayin' the glitz and glamour makes for a nice distraction."

“If it was Mom. If there had been some surgery she could’ve had.” Daniel raises an eyebrow, before shrugging. “You can’t get there from here.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “It’s all hypothetical. If there had been some way of saving her… but there wasn’t. And further more, even if there was, it would be her decision. Not mine.” “Now who’s suffering from a terminal case of decency?” “Runs in the family.” As they stand up, Hawkeye tossing down money for the check, Daniel reaches over and gently cuffs him. “You know, Ben, you’re really the living end.” “Better that than a dead-end kid. You want to walk me back to the hospital?”

As BJ watches, his book forgotten, Hawkeye – still whistling Cole Porter – hooks his finger under the chain of his dog tag and tugs it over his head, leaving the chain to clink against the vanity. “Uh oh, Andy,” BJ comments mildly, trying not to let his concern creep into his voice. “Scoutmaster sees you without your kerchief on, he’s gonna throw you out of the troupe.” “My kerchief is where it always is – safe and sound in my back pocket.” “Hawk-.” “Don’t worry, Beej, it’s a costume party. I’m going as an unlisted man.”

“I hate to put too fine a point on it, but you never dress up like that for me.” “Yeah, well, I sleep next to you every night.” “You saying the magic is gone, Hawk?” “Or words to that effect.” Hawkeye starts whistling as he runs a comb through his hair – not, BJ notes, to comb it back, but to make it stick up – before giving up and ruffling it by hand. BJ, used to watching Peg get ready (a lump in his throat when he thinks of her), is enjoying the show as Hawk primps and preens in front of the mirror, preparing himself for a night of drinking and debauchery.

“Are you alright?” Abbey asks, pulling away, looking him over, resisting the urge to strip him and examine his entire body for bruises or broken bones, running her hands over his arms. “Abbey-.” “Let me look at you.” “Abbey, I’m fine.” “Are you sure? Really?” “Abbey.” He stops her, and smiles, weary as it is. “I forgot to take my pills.” “Don’t worry about it. You’re sure you’re not hurt, honey?” He grins. “Have I mentioned how sexy you are when you’re in doctor mode?” This startles a laugh out of her, though it wavers into something resembling a sob, as Jed pulls her back into a hug. “You’re alright, Charlie?” he asks, and she forgets that they’ve had an audience to this encounter. “Sure, Mr. President. I’m alright.” “And…” She feels him tense against her, as he pulls away. “What about everyone else?” The soap bubble of joy in relief in her chest pops, abruptly. “I don’t know.”