Quite A Day
By: OneSongKatie
Disclaimer: I don't own Hawk or Margaret, although I do feel very close to them at this point in my life. It's a beautiful relationship, frankly.
AN: This is the first story in an arc I've written concerning my own version of the events following Comrades In Arms Part 1 and 2. Lots of angsty HM.
Chapter 1
Margaret sat motionless at her desk, staring blankly into space and wondering what precisely had become of her plans, her life—her entire existence in the war and the world. And, more importantly, when it had all gone completely out the window.
She'd had a rotten day.
Even more so than usual.
Right now Margaret wanted to curl up in her favorite pink bathrobe, maybe read a little. And try like hell to somehow forget today.
She wrapped herself in the bathrobe, feeling its familiar fuzzy material momentarily calm her churning thoughts. Sitting at the desk, running her fingers over rivets in the wood, Margaret tried not to think about…everything.
Unfortunately however, it wasn't working.
Margaret began to wonder grimly if perhaps this moment was, in fact, ignition of the biological time bomb that had been ticking dangerously close to her heart for some time now. But, try as she might, she could not fool herself into believing that getting older was the only issue weighing upon her weary brain.
Margaret Houlihan did not have many friends.
She frowned, thinking that sounded vaguely pathetic. But, she honestly hadn't meant to elicit sympathy. No, Margaret asserted, it was just an impassionate fact of her life.
Margaret smiled a little. Not much better, she thought grimly.
Shrugging inwardly, Margaret reasoned that it had, in her life, generally seemed easier maintaining a certain amount of distance from people rather than breaking character long enough to actually be familiar with them.
Margaret paused at this, questioning her choice in words.
Break character?
In retrospect, she supposed she had always considered herself to be two, the Major and the woman, though, of course, never both simultaneously.
She wasn't entirely sure why this was. Margaret thought that maybe she had always regarded her real self as weak. Weak and emotional.
And the worst of it was, Margaret thought, that that wasn't entirely inaccurate anymore.
Margaret suddenly realized how utterly depleted she was. Although, now that she really considered it, she could certainly understand why. It was absolutely exhausting exuding this gruff, sturdy, unflappable, superhuman—everything—exterior all the time.
Margaret grudgingly guessed it made sense. If she made herself unapproachable, well, then, she wouldn't have many friends, would she? Oh, Margaret knew it was difficult—damn near impossible, she corrected—for others to really know her. But then, what did it matter in the long run?
She smiled. Anyhow, there were always a few who managed to break through the toughness and the staunch militarism to, well, whatever was truly at the heart of Margaret Hoolihan.
She honestly didn't have strength enough at the moment to figure out exactly what the hell that really was.
Margaret's fatigued mind turned to her most recent…well, she wasn't sure what to call him, actually.
Pierce.
She smiled in spite of herself thinking of the one person at this hellish place to remind her of humanity—her own, and possibly the world's at large.
He would make her tell the truth—to him, and more importantly, to herself—he had an exasperating knack for knowing when she needed that.
Margaret never failed to see the irony in his ability to both infuriate her beyond belief while simultaneously bringing out the human being in her. Tonight was no different.
She suddenly wished urgently that he were here right now.
And then again she didn't.
Margaret sighed. Everything was absolutely complicated with him.
Sometimes—not very often, but occasionally—she wondered what would happen when the war ended. If it ever ended.
For a moment she considered it seriously. What would they do? She'd always assumed, realistically, they would go their separate ways and happily forget everything about the war.
But now?
Did she want to stay with him? She asked herself honestly for the first time. For that matter, did he want to stay with her? And, ifhe did, and she did, would their relationship—and she used the word loosely here—change outside of the 4077th? She knew, rationally, that the war was going to end—it would have to end sometime. But she just couldn't see it. Or rather, she couldn't see beyond it. She sighed, feeling he pain throb a little more severely behind her eyes. Too confusing to think about right now.
Margaret dared to ask herself the most crucial question yet.
Was it possible for her to continue her life without him?
Also too complicated to think about.
At the same time, though, Margaret mused, there were times when, with him, everything seemed so perfectly simple…it scared her.
Memories of the past few weeks flooded through her mind…that night in the abandoned hut…
She'd thought she was going to die that night. Honestly, sincerely thought her life was ending.
The shells fell for what seemed like an eternity. Though, it had actually only been a few minutes, Margaret calculated now.
That night, however, the world existed only in the giant, deafening blasts exploding—directly above their heads as far as Margaret could tell.
Time seemed to crawl. The walls of the hut were collapsing in around them, raining debris everywhere. Margaret recalled vividly the choking smell of burning thatch, and the dust stinging her eyes.
She'd pretended then that the dust caused the tears running down her cheeks.
But, he'd been so near.
In her terror, Margaret forgot all about hating his guts. She forgot the wisecracks, the biting humor, the pranks. She forgot how much she despised his lack of regard for the military and his utter contempt for the war.
Hell, she even forgot to be terrified for a minute there.
When she'd first felt his face close to hers, all she could think was, well, this was it.
And, if thiswas the end, why the hell not?
Margaret almost laughed. She had forgotten to hate him for the slightest of instants, and everything had gone to hell.
The next explosion had sealed it. The earsplitting roar of the shell brought all the frenzied thoughts racing through her mind to a blinding halt, as the adrenaline pumping violently in her veins took control.
She didn't think she'd ever kissed anyone that…hard.
Like her life depended on it.
As long as she concentrated on how his mouth felt—how he felt—she could pretend the world wasn't ending.
Then she stopped caring altogether.
After that, Margaret didn't remember thinking anything other than how much she desperately didn't want to stop—how much she couldn't stop. She wanted only to live long enough to kiss him for at least the next few minutes. Then the next few after that.
But they hadn't died that night.
She almost wished that were the case, remembering the coldness of the next morning. Margaret shuddered at the memory.
Everything was so strange—he was too strange, too frustrating, too much. Something inside of her panicked. She'd had to resort to the classic Margaret Houlihan stand-by: deny deny deny.
An oldie, but a goody, Margaret thought dryly.
Margaret tried to recall what in particular was the worst part of that horrendous morning. Was it that she'd slept with another officer with whom she worked? She grimaced inwardly, remembering the fiasco that was Frank Burns.
Margaret smiled thinly. Add another notch to the Hot Lips tally of crummy relationships.
Actually, though, this was an interesting point. What was the pattern here? Was she still, in some bizarre fashion, trying to win her father's approval? Although Margaret supposed she would always strive—probably unsuccessfully—to finally make her father proud of her, she didn't think in this instance it was really the issue.
Pierce was definitely not her father.
Margaret almost laughed out loud at that. He wasn't even really an officer, when you got right down to it.
She remembered a time when his ambivalence for all things military really irked her. Margaret realized affably it was because she valued it so heavily, and he, somehow threatened her faith in the institution. Maybe she just didn't like being proven wrong.
She didn't care much now, though.
Which seemed to be more and more the case.
When Margaret thought about what bothered her most about the horrible morning with Hawkeye—honestly—in her heart she knew the truth.
It wasn't him.
It was her.
But then, wasn't it always?
It was the uncharacteristic reaction she so energetically displayed. Margaret rested her head on her hands on the table, sadly.
How undeniably familiar the entire scene was, Margaret thought bitterly. She finally finds something unprecedented, untainted, and of course, immediately panics. Then morphs into this…well, whatever the hell it was she changed into that morning.
Margaret sighed into her arms. The person moving around in her clothes that morning was not at all who she wanted to be. She knew it wasn't. But, then she was probably the only one.
And that was the problem. Margaret experienced a new wave of exhaustion with the realization.
She felt so drained.
Margaret remembered that morning again, feeling a little sick to her stomach. She'd felt then as if she were watching the entire scene unfurl from somewhere else. Maybe she'd only wished it.
She certainly didn't know that person. She longed now to go back, cut off the silly woman with the insecurity and all the talking, and finally cue Margaret Houlihan. Even now, it was still a tad embarrassing to think about, actually.
Margaret grimaced. She'd behaved terribly that morning
She could it admit now.
Sitting here in her pink bathrobe in the dark of the tent, Margaret could admit it.
Now if she could only straighten things out in daylight.
When everything with Hawkeye went to hell, she could only blame herself. After all, Margaret thought bitterly, she was Margaret Houlihan, awkward and unfortunate relationship extraordinaire. Notch that tally too, she quipped bitterly.
She'd at least made a full job of it.
The way she'd performed that morning, then, for her next act, a downward spiral into complete and utter catastrophe at the 8063rd demonstration. And for her final number, she added grimly, a complete emotional breakdown, culminating with her display when they'd returned home to the 4077th.
Thumping good show. Golf claps all around.
Margaret recalled unhappily how severely she'd reproached herself for letting her guard down.
See? See why you should never allow vulnerability?? This just goes to show you. Throwing trust around like that? It serves you right, she'd thought, angrily.
So, later, when Hawkeye offered friendship, she'd accepted hesitantly, choosing to appear indifferent at first. Really, she was terrified. He terrified her.
He'd managed to break down the defenses she worked so hard to maintain time and again. He always managed to see right through her—he'd proven to be dangerous in that way before. But, in the end she had acquiesced. And why? She knew without asking herself it was for a reason she still could not quite name. Certainly against her better judgment, she added.
That was that, she'd assumed wearily at the time.
But it hadn't really worked—the friendship thing.
Margaret wasn't sure if she actually ever believed it would.
The next day in OR, every word he'd uttered inexplicably made her angrier and progressively angrier. And, once again, Margaret had fired back—with a vengeance. Margaret realized now she reacted so fiercely because she was still feeling—rather deeply—how vulnerable he made her. She was afraid of him.
She didn't like it.
She could say with some measure of reason now, she'd overcompensated that day.
A lot.
Okay, she'd utterly, totally, horrifyingly overcompensated. There. She could admit it. Well, she could hardly blame herself, Margaret retorted defensively. She remembered feeling this intense irritation at every wisecrack, every pun—the singing!
Oh God the singing.
Margaret rolled her eyes in the dim light of the tent. If she wasn't beyond exhausted right now…she could just about feel her blood begin to boil all over again.
It was as if every derisive comment, every joke at her expense finally mixed, fusing to create a lethal bomb with a very short fuse.
And then it exploded.
She distantly recalled being alarmed at her rampant display of emotion, but at the time, she couldn't shut herself up!
Margaret knew without doubt no one had ever infuriated her more than Hawkeye Pierce. It still amazed her, how easily he caused her discomfort. She wondered why, out of all the human beings on the planet he had to be the one to get to her. And furthermore, why the hell she couldn't get rid of him.
Even if she wanted to.
That day, she remembered her anger had confused Hawkeye. At first, anyway. Interestingly enough, though, his puzzlement had only provoked her further.
God he made her livid.
He actually seemed a little hurt, too, she realized in retrospect. Margaret hadn't noticed at the time, but now she felt a pang of regret.
She wanted to hurt him that day. It felt good, easy. Anger was easy.
As the day progressed, the situation only continued to escalate. After four or five hours of sheer hostility, Margaret guessed she finally overdid it.
Boy, was that an understatement, she thought wryly.
She'd never seen him that genuinely angry before, especially in the operating room. She could only imagine what the other staff thought. They probably talked a great deal after about how Hot Lips went crazy in the operating room.
A thing like that would have really aggravated her at the beginning of the war. That gave her pause. She realized dully she didn't cared that day, and didn't much now, either.
Something occurred to her.
Something more than a little earth shattering.
She was the only person who could totally and completely tee off Hawkeye.
Margaret grinned. She didn't think Frank Burns, in all his meddling, had even come close. In the entire time she'd been assigned to the 4077th, not snipers, black-marketers, bigots, racists, slavers, drug-peddlers, pompous generals, reporters, politicians, or warmongers, had ever upset Pierce as much her that day.
Although it was only fair, really.
She shivered, thinking of what happened after.
It had been an unbelievably long day—and she felt tired in her bones. When she—literally—ran into him on the way back from Post-Op, she'd barely registered his presence.
It was bitter cold, but his voice cut through the chill night air.
He could always do that.
He'd demanded to know, what was the matter with her today? Didn't they settle all this?
But she'd kept walking.
She was still feeling truly out of sorts that night. The whole experience had really thrown her—more than she liked—and she'd wanted nothing more than to never see him again. He possessed an uncanny knack for getting the truth out of her on occasions like these, and Margaret was having none of it.
Not tonight, she'd thought resolutely.
He'd called after her, Margaret remembered stonily, but she hadn't looked back.
When she finally made it to her tent, she'd fervently—and foolishly—breathed a sigh of relief. It hadn't occurred to her that he might follow her. Hell, at that point she didn't think he was capable of something like that.
Right.
After entering the tent, she'd stopped in the middle of the floor trying to collect herself and cursing her weakness. Cursing the pathetic person inside whose tears threatened to fall yet again—when she'd so recently vowed not to let things like this happen anymore!
She was so angry at everything. Herself, him, her life, this war—it had all threatened to come howling out of her that night.
Margaret remembered how she'd angrily turned to take off her coat. Her plan was to drink heavily, then if all went well, pass out for a while. If she were exceedingly lucky, Margaret had thought earnestly, she'd pass out for more than a while.
But instead, she'd turned only to find him standing there in front of the door.
Margaret smiled faintly, recalling her reaction. Her heart had stopped for a moment. Then it began beating impossibly fast.
But Margaret remembered most vividly his eyes.
He'd watched her then with a strange expression on his face. It had taken Margaret a beat to identify what in particular struck her so profoundly about his features that night.
Then she'd realized it was his eyes.
His usually ardent eyes were clouded in the dim light of her tent. Margaret could recall their peculiar color with perfect clarity, because even in her fury she had marveled at them.
For the first time since she'd known Hawkeye Pierce, his eyes were utterly unreadable.
She'd thought he was going to say something. Yell at her. Anything.
Instead he'd simply cleared the distance between them with one swift movement of his long legs.
She'd tried to speak then, but couldn't. What could she say?
His arms pulled her to him.
His lips were on hers.
Margaret slowly smiled, remembering the warmth of his touch, the feel of his mouth, his strong hands on her body.
Still smiling, Margaret had to admit, his hands were magnificent.
It had been the night in the hut all over again—that same blind, unthinking passion. And the nights following…
Well, she thought wryly, the war had been almost bearable lately.
It was suddenly staggering to Margaret how quickly this month had passed.
In her entire life, had she ever had this much…fun?
God, she'd loved every minute of it—she had to acknowledge, the fact overwhelmed her. Just thinking about him made her desperate to touch his face, feel his long arms encircle her, brush aside his hair and look into the blue eyes that made her weak.
Those eyes that saw through everything she'd ever tried to hide behind.
It never failed to astonish her how every tangled aspect of her life seemed drastically simpler in his eyes.
She wanted to see him.
Right now, if possible. She wanted so badly to stop thinking about today. Her brain howled to take comfort in him, drown her pain in him—forget in him.
She took a deep breath. It didn't look like she would get the chance.
Exhausted, Margaret closed her eyes, wishing her brain would shut up. But, the rational voice that occasionally spoke up inside her knew innately that she had to think this through, had to make sense of it.
After all, she was Major Hoolihan, an "overall sturdy woman," she thought, glowering at the memory of Donald's words. That letter still infuriated her. Even with everything happening with Pierce—whatever that was—thinking about its contents always managed to rankle her.
Her husband.
Margaret wondered why it continued to bother her so much. She'd told herself time and again, stop agonizing over Donald. What's done is done.
She'd idealized the colonel—fictionalized him, essentially—and as a result, well, she wasn't sure quite what to do about the entire mess.
But she didn't want to think about Donald. It didn't matter. Honestly? She asked her heart. Her heart didn't reply.
She forced herself to think. What was all this really about, logically?
Ha.
Logically? Margaret doubted she was capable of logic right now.
After a 14-hour shift in the OR at the 4077th? You might as well ask the Mess Tent to serve a seven-course meal, starting with cold cucumber soup, and ending with sticky date pudding and sherbet—dinner rolls included.
Margaret laughed softly. Somewhere along the way during this war, logic had flown swiftly out the window. Flown away, been shot down by anti-aircraft artillery, and finally atomized by a wayward land mine. Then trampled on.
Still, she rationalized, it was time to come to terms—maybe she could actually get some sleep tonight. Okay, sleep might be pushing it. But, she at least had to attempt inner rapprochement.
All right.
If she was going to be honest with herself—well, try anyway—then she, in point of fact, knew what had triggered this damned contemplativeness.
Someone had come into the OR today. Someone she knew before the war—possibly loved before the war—her heart corrected.
Griffin.
Her face softened at the thought of her old friend. When she'd first joined the army—all those years ago, she added a little forlornly—she'd met him in a training squadron. It was the first day of basic training, and she'd been the only girl!
God, she was so scared that first day.
He'd stood behind her in ranks, and immediately introduced himself when their commanding officer dismissed them. He'd grinned at her with this crooked smile. It was very charming. She'd shyly smiled back. And that was that!
Things were so much simpler then, Margaret thought sadly.
They became fast friends in the days and weeks following. She exclaimed inwardly, hell, he was the reason I made it through basic! Margaret chuckled at the memory of herself those many years ago. Before she was Hot Lips.
She was young, naïve, a hell of a lot blonder, patriotic, she admitted with a grimace. How things do change, Margaret marveled.
Griff was the first person in her life to tell her she was beautiful. He had sandy colored hair and a dazzling smile she'd found positively irresistible, she recalled wistfully. He had a way of looking into your eyes when he spoke…that it moved her to express her feelings only in romantic clichés. Margaret grimaced at herself.
Griff was quite a guy. She'd thought then they would always be together. They would get married and that was it. She believed she was in love with him.
But, that was a long time ago, now, Margaret thought bitterly.
A war, a husband, and one and a half hair colors ago, when she got right down to it.
For a brief moment she imagined what her life would be like if Korea hadn't happened. She envisioned herself marrying Griffin in a big, white chapel while sunshine glimmered through stained-glass windows. They would have two sandy-haired children, and live in a brick house with white picket fences, a golden retriever, a Ford in the driveway, Bingo on Thursdays, cookies baking in the oven, vacations in the country—in other words a long, contented life. Her mother would be delighted. Margaret just felt tired.
How many lives would she be living without the interference of North Korea?
Margaret wasn't sure, but in her heart of hearts she knew the truth.
She didn't really want white picket fences. And now, she realized sadly, she could never have or want those things again, anyway. Not after everything she'd seen and done with the 4077th. Of that she was unreservedly certain.
Margaret wasn't sure how she felt about that. And, she sure as hell didn't know what to say to Griff.
Hi, how you've been? Yeah, no, I've been great. Oh, of course I remember those days in basic. We sure were crazy back then. Married? Check. Am I still madly in love with you? Well, here's the thing of it. When I left you to come to Korea I thought I'd die without you. But who could've predicted I would forget allabout you?! I know! It's absolutely outrageous! And now, I've become a completely different person! I know it sounds ridiculous, but frankly, with everything I've seen out here…well, it's been some time—let me be the first to tell you. So how've you been?
Margaret couldn't do it. There was too much.
Griff came in earlier that day with minor shrapnel wounds. His injuries weren't terribly serious, but enough to keep him in a hospital bed for a few days. She'd recognized him immediately, even if his face was thinner and his eyes had less…something. She couldn't quite put her finger on what.
It had disturbed her.
When the orderlies carried him in Margaret had instantly seen that smile of his, though. She'd thanked heaven—or whoever was listening—that not even time or war could dull some things.
But he'd been woozy from the painkillers, and not conscious long enough even to focus his eyes on her.
She admitted to herself now that the emotion she'd felt at that moment was relief.
She'd beenrelieved not to speak to him.
In the hours following Griff's operation, Margaret kept a close watch, making sure not to stray far from his bed in Post-Op. When he finally awoke hours later, his confused eyes had settled on her form. She remembered she'd been anxiously writing on his chart next to the bed. "Margaret?" He'd croaked blearily. "Margaret Houlihan, is that you? God it's been--"
He'd startled her more than she liked.
There was something terrifying about suddenly having to talk to him and look at him. She'd had this thick, panicky feeling in her throat. So, she almost franticly shushed him, saying with false cheer they'd chat later; he needed to rest now—get his strength back.
When his eyes finally closed again she'd sighed with a mixture of exhaustion, relief, frustration, and about eight other emotions hovering right above her eyes. The pressure threatened to burst into tears that would not stop.
She'd sat very still for a moment. Margaret noticed new lines on Griff's face, then, wondering suddenly if she, too, showed signs of aging.
She had to brush a single, traitorous tear from her cheek at that point. She'd quickly glanced up, making certain no one saw such an uncharacteristic display of emotion.
But, instead she'd met BJ's questioning eyes across the room. Damn. She'd thought, a little hysterically, wondering how long he'd bee there.
She liked the captain well enough. He seemed a genuinely good-hearted and compassionate friend, anyway. And she had to respect that. But Margaret had inwardly exclaimed this is not the time.
Hell of an understatement, she thought now.
BJ looked then as if he planned to make his way over. Margaret panicked, and, wishing like hell to avoid discussing anything with the tall doctor, walked briskly to the door with her head down.
Margaret grimaced, recalling what happened next.
As if on cue, Pierce had strolled into the Post-Op ward. But then, it was appropriate. Of course he would get there as she was running away. You should've seen that coming, Margaret chided herself.
She remembered painfully how she'd retreated. Just ran away! She really was weak. Margaret thought he might've started to say something as she'd passed, but she hadn't hung around to reply.
He'd looked good that afternoon.
Though she'd only glimpsed him, Margaret could still recall how rested he seemed. She momentarily dared to wonder, was it because of her?
Stranger things have happened, she thought, a little stunned. Well? When she considered it, she realized she didn't think she could remember a time when he'd come to work without signs of exhaustion or hangover. Or both.
Maybe it was.
Hell, Margaret couldn't remember a time when she'd come to the OR and treated the staff pleasantly before the past month. So there.
But it couldn't last, Margaret reminded herself.
Things had been going—did she dare say it? Things had been going well with them these last few weeks. Almost…healthy, even. Well, at least she thought so. But maybe she was only kidding herself.
What exactly were they doing anyway?
Margaret sighed. She shouldn't lie to herself, kid herself that they could really make it. In the end, he'd run or she'd run and they'd both end up burned.
They were too different, and in the worst ways, too much the same, Margaret admitted to herself. It could never work in the real world, away from dire circumstances. She was just fooling herself thinking otherwise.
Still, some part of her wondered why it was then, that her body responded so intensely to his?
When she'd brushed past Hawkeye earlier today, Margaret had genuinely wanted to stop and talk to him about all this. She really had.
But she was already out the door.
And now, here she was. Too tired to sleep. She realized solemnly there was only one choice to be made at this moment.
The scotch or the scotch?