His heart was hammering as the Jeep puttered along. The only thing he could think was how unnaturally smooth the road was. The lack of potholes was disconcerting; he almost wished for a sudden rut just so something would make sense. Anxiety churned his stomach to see signs of normality all around, and he was sure, as soon as he was there, he would wake up; ready for the devastating disappointment of realising it had all been a wonderful, terrible dream.

And then...

Doctor Benjamin Franklin Pierce stood in the dusty driveway, his bags under his arms and his cap on a lean that covered only one half of his forehead. His dog-tags were sticking to his chest as he sweated slightly in the heat, uncomfortable in his dress uniform.

He looked up at the aging house. The paint was peeling in places, perhaps it was one sky blue? A drowsy oak tree scraped against the roof. He could almost smell the apple pie in the air.

There was a creak and a bang, and a barefooted woman suddenly appeared on the faded verandah. Her hair was braided softly up the back of her neck; a few wisps had escaped the intricate pattern to frame her face. A sudden rush of breeze swirled down the drive, making the dress that didn't altogether hide the signs of pregnancy flutter above her knees.

She didn't seem to care, instead standing transfixed with wide eyes and tears gathering on her eyelashes. Hawkeye smiled. This woman held his life inside of her; a tiny life that he created. His son, his child. He would be beautiful, like her; like them. At long last, he realised the truth was simple: the war didn't matter any more. It didn't matter what it cost him or what he left behind. He loved them more than anything.

And just like that the spell was broken. She let out a gasp and fled down the stairs; there was a soft flump as Hawkeye dropped his bags and spread open his arms, tears on his own face now. He was home.