A/N: Once again many thanks to John for editing with me, and rosiesbar for adding some dialogue :)

Also, I put together a floor plan of the Pierce house, which you can see on my tumblr (asinfreedom tumblr com/tagged/map) if you're interested!

By the time Daniel got home Hawkeye was asleep, the living room was clean, and Margaret was sitting on the couch, staring at a magazine she had long since stopped reading. Lost in thought, she didn't hear Daniel until he was walking into the room. Startled, she pulled her feet out from under her, slipping them into her shoes before they hit the floor. The two had already met, as Margaret's first stop in Crabapple Cove had been to the surgery.

"Don't get up on my account," Daniel said with a smile. "Is he upstairs?"

Margaret stood regardless. "Asleep. Although he wasn't very happy about it."

Daniel collapsed heavily into his usual chair, nodding to his guest to do the same. "I'm sorry you had to do that." He sighed, knowing that Hawkeye's behaviour would have been far from ideal.

"Oh no, it wasn't a problem. I am a nurse, you know, I've had my share of uncooperative patients." It was clear that he was unhappy, so Margaret slid closer to him along the couch. "He's very strong, Sir. I'm sure he'll make it through this."

Daniel stood slowly, not looking at her. "Would you like a drink, Margaret?"

Without waiting for an answer he disappeared into the kitchen, returning with the decanter of scotch Margaret had left on the bench, and two clean glasses. Not a word was said, and the two sat together in silence as the drinks were poured. Only when Daniel was sitting comfortably again did he speak.

"He was one hell of a kid, you know." His eyes focused on the table before him as the memory of past smiles lingered on his tired face. "Nobody knew what to do with him at first. He was always getting himself into some scrape or other, nothing I could do to stop him, and the school - ha - I don't think they'd ever seen one like him. Smart as anything though." His smile faded. "He still is. All he ever wanted to do was laugh."

Margaret sipped slowly at her drink, keeping her true emotions from reaching her face with practiced ease. The man slowly revealing himself to her was familiar in more ways than one, and in his grief she saw a clear reflection of his son.

After pausing to sift through his thoughts, Daniel looked up at her. "What was he like, over there? Was it... always like this?" He pictured the son he had said goodbye to all those years ago; a young man, eyeing the air hostesses, still laughing even as he boarded the plane. He knew it was his Hawkeye that had landed in Korea, but what he could not be sure of, was that it wasn't his Hawkeye who had boarded that same plane home.

Margaret didn't hesitate with her reply, "Oh no, he was just like you described." This was a question she had spent much of the day thinking over, and her answer was prepared. "An overgrown schoolboy with too much confidence, and no respect. He was an absolute horror to his superiors, but not many people could say they didn't want him around, particularly when things were difficult."

Daniel fiddled absentmindedly with his glass on the arm of the chair, a look of concern still in his eyes. Margaret's expression became more serious, and she almost reached out to him, before thinking better of it. Cautiously, she spoke, "Sir… Daniel, how much did they tell you, before he came home?"

The question was vague, but he knew exactly what she was referring to. "Hawkeye wrote to me, but not until he was back at the unit. He told me where he'd been, but he didn't say why, didn't tell me anything that had happened." He paused, finally taking his first sip of scotch. "Then after he'd been home a couple of days, I got a letter from BJ. It explained… a lot of things. I think that letter told me more than Hawk's ever going to."

"He was like this long before he came home," Margaret spoke quickly and bluntly. "It started a long time ago, and it just grew over time. I think most of us were too close to see what was coming until it happened." She finished her drink. "Would you like me to make you something to eat?"

"No, thank you," his voice was soft with gratitude. "I think I'll go to bed. Make yourself at home, Margaret. Just let me know if there's anything you need." Daniel finished his drink and put the glass on the table, pushing himself up with an effort. It was still early, the sun was only just beginning to set, but exhaustion was taking over, and finally he felt he could let it.

Once upstairs, he found himself outside Hawkeye's door, the peaceful silence behind it almost mesmerising. Carefully he turned the handle, pushing the door open just enough to see inside. There was his son, curled up in the mess of blankets, his face calm among the chaos. But as he watched, the scene felt all too familiar.

"You made it home, Benji. You're here," he whispered, as much to himself as to Hawkeye. "You're alive." He stepped back, closing the door. "So why do I feel like I'm in mourning?"

Margaret sat up in bed and fumbled to turn on the lamp beside her. She closed her eyes for a moment in the bright light, taking the opportunity to slow her breathing. She regulated each breath, counting them in her head, hoping that it might stop her heart from rattling the bars of her ribcage. Slowly she opened her eyes, looking to the clock at her bedside to see if there was any point in trying to go back to sleep. With the knowledge that she still had at least three hours until she would normally be up, Margaret threw off the blankets and put her feet on the floor. Experience had taught her that it was useless to stay in bed and just wait for sleep to come.

Leaving her room, the darkness of the hallway was as blinding as the light had first been, and she made her way to the bathroom with a hand on each wall. She stopped in her tracks when the wall to her right was suddenly gone, her own situation immediately forgotten.

She moved into the open doorway and whispered into the darkness. "Hawkeye? Are you alright?"

Her words were met with silence, and without another thought she flicked on the light. It was too early in the morning to play games. In the light she found an empty room, blankets tossed across the bed haphazardly. Wherever he was now, at least she could tell he had slept deeply, if not peacefully.

Margaret turned off the light and closed the door behind her and moved as quickly as she could down the stairs in the darkness. At the bottom she found the living room dark as well, though the light streaming through from the kitchen helped her avoid any serious injury on the table corners. The cold air didn't hit her until she'd reached the doorway to the kitchen and found it empty, and immediately her attention turned to the back door, standing ajar in the still night.

Outside, Hawkeye was sitting with his feet up on the old wooden table. His red robe was wrapped around him against the cold, his arms crossed over his chest, as he stared up into the infinity of the night sky. He heard the creak of the door clearly in the silence, but it wasn't until his visitor was almost upon him that he lifted his head, turning to face her.

"I'm sorry, Margaret." His voice was soft, and it felt strange to finally speak after sitting mutely for so long. "For before."

She took the seat across from him, letting his words resonate for a moment in her tired mind. Before she could respond, his voice broke into her thoughts.

"Are you alright?"

"Of course, I just came out looking for you. You should still be in bed."

He didn't take his eyes off her. "Those pills you gave me got me into the sack alright, but they sure as hell don't make me want to stay there."

Margaret frowned. "Dreams?"

"I'm not sure I'd call them dreams. More like reality on steroids." He leant his head back against the chair and turned up to face the stars once more. "Go back to bed, Margaret. You need your sleep." The emotion he had greeted her with was gone.

After all they had been through together, Margaret was not so easily dismissed, and she answered him sternly. "That 'woe is me' routine might work on your father, but don't think for one second it's going to work on me. Do you really think you're the only one who has nightmares?"

Had their been even a hint more anger in her tone, Hawkeye's response would have been very different, but as it was, a sudden realisation filled him with concern. "I didn't… I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry." As he spoke, he brought his legs down from the table, and sat up properly in his seat. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Margaret's face was closed as she kept a tight grip on her emotions, though she turned away from him anyway. "It's nothing, really. I'm fine." Memories of the images that had woken her pushed against her control, and she was glad for the darkness. "It's just a dream."

Hawkeye leant in closer, reaching out a hand across the table in a sign of support, he knew well enough not to touch her before she was ready. "Tell me?"

"There's nothing to tell." Her strength was clearly forced. "Sometimes I wake up in the night. Then I roll over and go back to sleep, because it's just a dream."

"'Just a dream' is what has me looking like this. Talk to me, Margaret. Things aren't so scary when you get them out in the light." Though he could only see part of her face, he knew she wasn't buying it, and to be honest, neither would he. This time he tried a different approach. "It'd be nice to hear I'm not the only lunatic in this asylum."

"You're not a lunatic." Her tone had softened now, though she still refused to face him.

"Is it always the same?" He spoke softly, his voice thick with understanding.

A comfortable silence surrounded them as Margaret took long breaths, waiting until she was confident she could answer him calmly. "Yes," her answer was barely more than a whisper, but as she continued, her volume grew. "It always starts out so well. I've just served dinner in a lovely dining room, and- and I'm about to sit down with my husband and two beautiful children." Hawkeye raised his eyebrows suggestively, but Margaret's face was still turned away. "And then the doorbell rings-" She took a shaky breath. "And when I open it-"

"Wounded," Hawkeye finished the sentence for her.

Though tears were beginning to well in her eyes, Margaret faced him, comforted by his knowledge of her fear. "And I turn back to my family… they won't start without me… but all I can hear is the screaming and I- I have to go…"

The only sound then was her uneven breathing as she fought to keep what little control she had left. After a moment, she tried to speak again, "I'm sorry… I don't usually-"

Then Hawkeye was standing behind her, a steadying hand on each of her shoulders, and she gave up her explanation. For several long minutes they stayed there, unmoving, until rhythm was restored and Margaret's tears had dried.

"Come on, Margaret," Hawkeye said as he took her hand to help her from her chair, "let me take you back to bed."

As he lead her back through the dark house and up the stairs, Hawkeye felt a familiar ache building in his chest. When he'd opened the door to her that afternoon she had been the picture of strength. She spoke reasonably, she wrote letters, she was well adjusted, and above all, she seemed to be functioning perfectly in a world he could no longer understand. He hadn't even stopped to think that things might not be going as well as they seemed.

He stood aside when they reached her door, holding it open for her to walk into the room still softly lit by the bedside lamp. Once inside, Margaret turned back to him, looking up at his ragged face. The shadows cast by the lamplight gave him a ghoulish look, and her personal troubles were replaced once again by a deep seated concern for his. Though he was standing strong now to comfort her, there was no denying that he was a very sick man, and she squeezed his hand as the sorrow of his situation washed over her.

Hawkeye stepped across the threshold, closing the space between them until his face was mere inches from hers. More than anything he wanted to help her, to protect her from a pain he knew all too well. But it had overcome him, and with no way to fight it in himself, he was utterly helpless to fight it in her. As the ache inside him grew, he stared down into her eyes and returned the short squeeze of his hand with one intended to last much longer.

Then he kissed her, in a way he had never kissed her before. There was no flaming passion, no overwhelming desire; he was not forceful or overpowering; his arms were not even wrapped around her. This kiss was soft, slow, filled with a desperate plea for emotion. Through it Hawkeye was trying simultaneously to save her, and to give himself up to her in a way that he could only hope would save him.

For a moment, Margaret was kissing him back, letting herself fall into the safety of his lips. But all too soon it became clear to her what he wanted, what he was trying to do, and she forced herself to take a step back. She kept a hold of his hand for a moment longer, doing her best not to dwell on the despair growing in his eyes. She squeezed it one more time before she let it go.

"Goodnight, Hawkeye," when she spoke her voice was filled with tenderness. "Thank you."

He stepped back through the doorway without a word, his mind still reeling from everything he had thought, everything he had felt, in the space of only a few seconds. Even after he had pulled the door closed he stood outside in the dark hallway, listening to the sound of her climbing into bed, turning off the light, and then, silence.