A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who commented. Amymimi: That's too funny! No, I had never even heard of that movie before. Now I have to watch it, but not til after I finish this fic so I'm not influenced :)
1955
To go or not to go? It became the subject of a contentious, year-long, internal debate. On the one hand, who was he to turn down a roll in the hay with a beautiful woman? Especially a beautiful woman with whom he could have an intelligent conversation. Especially, especially, a beautiful woman with whom he could have an intelligent conversation that he actually liked. It should be the easiest choice he's ever made, on par with deciding to breathe or allow his heart to beat. So why was it that every time he thought he'd made up his mind to go, some little voice in the back of his head pointed out that what Margaret had proposed might not be the mental-healthiest idea ever?
What he should to do was move on. Get on with his life. Not forget her, because he couldn't if he tried, but put her aside. Store her away in his mental filing cabinet under M. M for Margaret, for Major, for Magnificent, for Might have been. That was what he should do. That was what they both should do.
But in the end, of course, he went. How could he not? Mental health be damned. He only hoped he wouldn't be damned right along with it.
For lack of any better ideas, he decided to follow in last year's footsteps and meet up with her at the reception held the night before the conference began. He put on a suit and tie, made himself beautiful, and took up residence at a table in the corner that offered a clear view of the door. And then he waited. And drank. And waited some more.
Four hours and more scotch than he really wanted to think about later, he was forced to concede she wasn't coming. He felt like a fool, a complete and utter fool. She had probably forgotten all about the conference, all about her note, all about him. She'd moved on, just like he should have. But no, here he was: drunk and alone in a hotel a hundred miles from home, looking like a goddamned stood-up jerk. Hauling himself to his feet, he staggered out of the reception, and up to his room.
The knock, when it came, was tentative and had he been asleep he would never have heard it. As it happened, he was awake, blearily answering the call of nature and trying to decide whether he was sober enough yet to get in his car and drive the hell home. Tripping over his own feet on the way to answer the damned door seemed to settle that question.
"What the hell…" he began, yanking the door open and then stopping in surprise at who he found on the other side. "Margaret. You're here," he said inanely, wondering if maybe he was still asleep. She looked tired. Tired and annoyed and, Jesus Christ... Beautiful. She looked beautiful.
"Brilliant observation, doctor. Can I come in?" she asked, interrupting his daze.
"What? Oh. Yeah, yeah, come in. Come in, come in." He stood aside to allow her to enter.
"My plane was delayed. Mechanical trouble. I just got here," she explained, wandering around his room randomly picking up his discarded clothing, shaking out and folding his pants and shirt. He watched her for awhile, his brain not quite having wrapped itself around this new development. She was here. She came after all. A grin broke out across his face.
"Margaret, cut that out," he said, noting the stiffness in her shoulders and the slight tremor in her hands. "Come here." He opened his arms to her.
She stared for a moment before dropping his shirt to the floor and walking into them. He could feel the tension starting to leave her small frame as he enveloped her into a bear hug. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming," he murmured into her ear as the familiar scent of her perfume played havoc with his self control.
"I almost didn't," she replied. "I was afraid I'd come all this way and you wouldn't be here."
"Wouldn't be here?" he asked, nuzzling her neck. "Of course I'm here."
She pulled back, out of reach of his lips. "There's no 'of course' about it, Pierce. I didn't hear from you; for all I knew, you didn't even see my note, or you did, but you had no desire to ever see me again. And then, when I knew I was going to be late, I thought even if you had come, you'd probably think I wasn't coming, so you'd leave because I know you have no interest in the actual conference and…"
He wrapped his arms even more tightly around her, hoping to help her rein in her agitation before it got out of hand by reassuring her of the reality of his presence. She didn't need to know how close that last part had come to being true. If he hadn't gotten so plowed waiting for her, he probably would have left and missed her entirely. It was an altogether unpleasant thought and, truth be told, the hug was as much to reassure him as it was her.
She permitted it for longer than he expected. Pushing his luck, he slid his hands lower to cup her luscious derriere and put his lips back to work on her neck. He was rewarded with a shiver and when she spoke, her voice was breathy.
"Hawkeye? I think if this thing is going to work we need to set some ground rules." She tilted her head to the side to allow his wandering lips more access.
She can't be serious. "Ground rules? What, now?" he asked between kisses.
Groaning, she reached around and removed his hands from her rump. "Yes, now."
Not liking the sound of that, he let go of her and took a step backward. "I don't know, Margaret; I don't do too well with rules."
"And I don't do too well without them. Pierce, please."
"Alright, alright," he said, waving his hand in mock surrender. "What did you have in mind?"
She walked across the room and sat on the side of the bed, gesturing him to join her. He did, carefully leaving enough space between them that he wouldn't get yelled at, but not so much that he couldn't smell her perfume.
"Well, first of all… If ever one of us can't make it, we have to find a way to let the other one know."
Fair enough. That was a good rule, actually. "No stand-ups, got it," he said, spider-walking one hand across the bed toward her knee and getting it slapped for his troubles.
She glared at him and continued. "And if ever either of us wants to put an end to this, we just say so. The other one accepts it, no questions, no recriminations."
He could agree with that one too. "Easy out, got it." After all, who was he if not Dr. No Strings?
"And third, this…" she gestured to the empty space between them, "… has nothing to do with real life. And real life has nothing to do with this. Never the twain shall meet."
"'The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated'," he proclaimed loudly, jumping to his feet.
She startled and looked up at him quizzically.
"Mark Twain," he explained. "Just getting it out of my system. 'Buy land, they're not making it anymore', 'Denial ain't just a river in Egypt', 'Sometimes too much to drink is barely enough'."
"Pierce, I'm serious!" she said. Her words were stern, but her eyes were laughing.
"Alright, alright," he said, sitting back down. "No twains. Anything else?"
She shook her head.
"Good. Can we fool around now?"
She answered by climbing into his lap and kissing him hard.
Perhaps miraculously, they made it through the rest of the weekend without fighting. There were a couple of minor skirmishes to be sure - where to eat breakfast, whether to attend any lectures, that kind of thing - but no casualties and no declarations of war. Or maybe it wasn't a miracle; he thought as he packed up the last of his belongings, maybe coming home had mellowed them both to the point where they weren't so different after all.
Then again, maybe they were just both on their best behavior, afraid to say the wrong thing lest they disrupt this fragile peace they've found. It was true on his part, at least. Margaret was one of the few people in his life who really understood what he had endured over there. He had needed this time with her, for more reasons than one.
"I'm ready to go," Margaret said, interrupting his thoughts from the open doorway of his hotel room. Ever concerned about appearances, she'd slept in her own room both nights, leaving him after he fell asleep. He hated that she felt the need to do that, but understood it just the same. It wasn't his back the housekeeping staff or other conference-goers would be talking behind.
"Me too," he said, closing and fastening his suitcase. "Let's hit the road, schweetheart," he said in his best Bogart voice. Joining her in the doorway, he picked up the suitcase she had set on the floor and started down the hall.
"Whoa, wait a minute, buster. What do you think you're doing?"
He turned around to find her still standing in the doorway, hands on her hips. "I'm taking you to the airport?"
"Oh, no you're not. I'm taking a taxi." As she spoke, she marched up the hall to where he stood and tried to pull her suitcase out of his hand.
"What? Why?" he asked, holding tightly to the suitcase handle. "I drove here, Margaret. My car is in the parking lot. Why would you take a cab when I can just drive you?"
"Would you keep it down," she hissed, letting go of the suitcase and grabbing him by the arm, hauling him back into the room and closing the door. "I can get home on my own Pierce; I don't need your help. And what's more, I don't want it. Once we're outside this hotel, we're no longer anything to each other. Rule number three, remember. My God, Pierce, this is Boston. What if we ran into Charles Winchester?"
"What if we did? We're still friends aren't we? Two friends can't meet at a conference? One friend can't offer another friend a drive to the airport?"
"No! You know he'd never believe that!" She was fast approaching hysteria while he was fast approaching complete and utter confusion. Was he so bad she couldn't even stand to be seen in a public place with him?
He set the suitcases down and approached her, trying to put his arms around her. "Come on baby, Winchester might tease us a bit if he saw us, but he wouldn't tell anyone else. He's too self-absorbed to gossip."
She backed out of his attempted embrace, giving his chest a two handed shove. "Baby! Don't you patronize me, Pierce!"
"Calm down, woman!" he said, exasperated. "For crying out loud, you're worse than an army shower, the way you run hot and cold. One minute you're all over me, the next you want nothing to do with me. I don't know what kind of relationship you have with Sidney Freedman, but I hope to hell it's a professional one. I really think you may be schizophrenic!"
"How dare you!" she cried. "Just because I don't find your misogyny entertaining doesn't mean I'm crazy. You're the crazy one!"
Misogyny? She'd completely lost her grip on reality and all over a simple ride to the airport? He felt like he was back in Korea, talking to Major Hot Lips, and not to his friend Margaret. "You know, it took me the better part of three years to learn when to push and when to pull with you. I really thought I had it figured out."
"Yeah well, you don't. Just let me go, Pierce." All of a sudden she sounded very tired.
"Fine," he said softly. What else was there to say?
"Fine," she agreed, hefting her suitcase and walking out the door.
She was halfway down the hall by the time he walked across the room to the doorway. "So, Margaret," he called after her, "same time next year?"
She stopped and whirled around. For a moment he thought she was going to tell him where to go and exactly how to get there. Instead, she dropped her luggage and stormed back over to him. Yanking his head down, she kissed him, hard and hot.
"Same time next year, Pierce," she agreed when she was finished. Turning away, she retrieved her suitcase and disappeared down the hall.
All he could do was shake his head.
Yeah. Mental health be damned.