Minor editing of format on 18/07/10

Just a short fic that I just rediscovered...

And anyone reading this who read my other 2 MASH fics, I know it's been...forever, but I haven't abandoned them! I'm really busy right now - I've got exams coming up - but I have a free week soon, so I'm hoping to get my writing up to speed. I can't promise anything though.

Disclaimer: No more mine than yours. Unless it is yours, of course.

It's Christmas. It's cold, it's miserable, it's frightening; but it's Christmas, and that brings a little bit of cheer to everyone. She's got a shift in post-op with Frank and they make the short trip across the compound together. Frank's talking; she's agreeing, carrying on her end of the exchange perfectly. But she's not really a part of the conversation. She can't focus on it enough. She's not entirely sure when Frank became mundane. Maybe when the whole camp knew about their 'secret' affair. Maybe when Frank started making the always empty promises of a future together. Maybe he was always mundane. Maybe mundane is what she needs. What she needed, she corrects herself. She can't think of anything she'd like less from a man now. She misses the spark, the excitement that a good relationship, a real relationship, should have. She hasn't felt that in a long time. It can't be helped, though. Frank is what she has, and she'd take a lifetime with him over being alone.

She barely notices the reluctant Captain, and there's no reason why she should. He's leaning against the door of his tent, casually sipping his drink.

He doesn't react when they pass him. But there's no reason why he should.

"Excuse me, sirs." She's shocked when she turns around and sees him so close behind her. Frank looks tempted to keep on walking. She would be too, except he's acting perfectly pleasantly, so, for now, she sees no reason to leave. "Would you hold this, please?" He directs this, and his glass, at Frank, who takes it, too surprised to do anything else. She doesn't have time to wonder at the unusual behaviour, because a second later he's tipping her back, his hands pressing firmly against her back, as he forces his lips on hers. She struggles, but it's a half-hearted attempt, made for appearances' sake only. His mouth is soft, and warm, and tastes like the gin she's just watched him drink. She finally knows how it feels to be kissed by Hawkeye Pierce.

He's only doing this because he's bored, she tells herself firmly. He's trying to get a rise out of her, or Frank, or both of them. But, for a few seconds, she lets herself pretend that he knows all about her wants and needs. She pretends this is all about her, and the way she feels, and the way Hawkeye knows the way she feels. She luxuriates in the excitement. She's never been kissed like this before and she loves it. This is everything she wishes Frank would be, she thinks.

"Captain Pierce!" Frank's outraged cries finally reach her and all too soon Hawkeye has pulled away from her, although not without a quick nip at her bottom lip. He doesn't release her – not that she wants him to. His arms are still wrapped tightly around her, and she can feel the heat of his body scorching her where she's pressed into him. She stares up at him, allowing herself to notice him, really notice him, for the first time. He's attractive, of course: all dark hair and rugged good looks and charm. She can certainly understand why so many of her nurses fell into bed with him, even after they knew what he was about.

"Pierce, are you crazy?" She doesn't pay attention to Frank's shouting. She ignores Hawkeye's responses, too. She concentrates on his arm around her waist and finds herself imagining that he's hers to kiss whenever she wants, and that's she entitled to even just one night with him.

Hawkeye reclaims his martini and finally steps away from her, walking towards the mess tent. She answers Frank's questions without thinking – probably a mistake – too busy staring after the retreating figure.

Later, when Frank lays her down on her cot, she screws her eyes shut tight and pretends not to pretend. She's not thinking of a different mouth pressed to hers, or a different hand caressing her breast, a different body hovering above her own.

She bites her lip in ecstasy, and not so that she doesn't scream out a different name.

She can't help feeling nervous, and not just because of the bombs exploding all around them. She knows it will be good. She's heard enough talk from her nurses to be sure of that much. She knows too many young women who have felt too much for him after a night spent together. He makes a woman feel loved and he makes her feel wanted, and she'll be damned if she lets herself fall for it.

He reaches behind her to release the clasp of her bra, and as she starts to lift her arms to cover her chest, feeling as much the scared virgin as she did her first time, she searches inside herself for her usual strength, all too aware of how vulnerable she's close to letting herself become.

"Margaret," he says her name softly. His hand grasps her arm, long fingers snaking round her wrist as he stops her movement. "You don't have to hide from me." He looks straight into her eyes as he speaks. She knows he means it physically. He doesn't know what she was thinking, doesn't know that she was trying to pull herself away from him, from this, emotionally. But he makes it so easy to believe that he does. He uses his free hand to remove the last barrier between them, and, as he moves her arm down to her side, tenderly locking his fingers with her, he thrusts forwards, filling her completely, and she feels loved and she feels wanted. She lets herself believe that this means something to him like it does to her. That this could be the start of something beautiful, and for a few seconds she feels like thanking the Chinese for giving them this chance.

But then she looks into his eyes and the illusion is shattered. They're burning with need, but not for her. He needs human contact, a warm body next to him to remind him that he is alive.

She needs him.

She wakes up before him in the morning. They've spent the night entwined together. His arms are wrapped protectively around her. She smiles. Actions speak louder than words, or so they say, and this action is practically shouting. Maybe he does love her, after all.

And just like that, she's fallen for him exactly as she promised herself she wouldn't.

It takes most of the day before she finally listens to his words, and she returns to camp offended, embarrassed and as close to heart broken as she's ever been.

It's their last few minutes. It's at the back of her mind as she makes the rest of her good byes. Hawkeye stands away from her, not wanting to intrude on her moments with the rest of their friends. But soon he's the only one left to talk to. He catches her eye and gazes at her for a few seconds before stepping closer.

"So, uh…listen…" He's feeling awkward. She can understand that. She's never managed to establish what they are to each other, so she's uncertain how to act.

"Yeah." She agrees, stopping him from continuing. What she does know is that she doesn't want a few short, meaningless words. Not from him. She thinks she can see the same thought reflected in his own eyes.

At the same time, they make their moves, crashing against each other. His mouth is soft, and warm, and tastes like the gin she's sure he's been drinking, and she remembers the first time they had this moment. She needed it then, more than anything. She thinks she needs it even more now.

She tries to put everything she's ever felt for him into this one kiss.

Hatred. Anger.

Respect. Lust.

Love…?

She hopes he can feel it, because she knows he'll never let her express it any other way. She wonders if that's why he's kissing her: so she won't talk.

When she finally, reluctantly, pulls away from him, she's almost decided to tell him…everything. He won't like it, but how can she leave without him knowing?

How can she leave without knowing if he loves her too?

"Well, so long," he says.

"See ya," she replies immediately.

But when it comes down to it, she can't seem to get out the words.

How can she leave knowing that he doesn't love her?

At least this way, she can imagine. Pretend, her mind corrects her.

So she gets into the jeep, and she waves goodbye, and she watches as her friends get further and further away.

I love you, her mind screams, and she feels her lips silently form the phrase.

For a wonderful few seconds, she thinks he's going to run after her, or call her name, or give her some sort of sign.

All she gets is a flicker of emotion in his expression that she can't quite place, and, even with everything they've gone through together, one painful truth.

He'll never be hers.