Author's Note: I never intended for this story to become so…involved. Rather, it was supposed to be a short, humorous collection of one-shots that would be over before July. But then Hawkeye and Mr. Johnson decided otherwise, elevating their conflict to a point that I actually had to do some serious thinking about how to resolve it. But here we are, anyway, at the end.

I felt very somber writing this last chapter. The idea of this story came to me during a dismal time in my life. Over the summer things have picked up, but writing this has many times heartened me during difficult times. Subsequently, I've grown quite attached to Mr. Johnson and the teenage Hawkeye Pierce. I'm going to miss them very much.

June

Pierce's height and wiry build, rather than being hidden beneath his draped graduation robes, seemed to be even more exaggerated by the flopping, baggy fabric that was cut short around his ankles. He had the appearance of a scarecrow covered in a plastic bag, billowing in the wind. He stood in line between two girls, also clad in robes of the school's colors and wearing caps on their heads and who barely came up to Pierce's chin.

Johnson fanned himself in the hot sunlight, feeling beads of sweat form at his hairline. Principal Thurston stood at the podium in the center of the stage, calling out each name of the graduating class and handing out diplomas to the recipients as they came up on stage.

From his seat with the rest of the teachers, near the back of the stage, Johnson stared at the football field covered in folding metal chairs that glinted in the bright sunlight. The chairs were speckled with smiling faces of parents, grandparents, and friends of the graduating students, who kept up an almost endless stream of applause as each name was called.

"Benjamin Pierce," said Principal Thurston.

Pierce loped up to the stage and accepted his diploma from Thurston with a wide smile.

Thurston shook his hand, "Congratulations, Ben."

"Thanks, sir. It's been a long walk but I've learned some very valuable things – like next time I think I'll take the bus."

Johnson could see Daniel Pierce, sitting in one of the back rows of chairs, but clearly visible because his head peaked above the other spectators. He was applauding his son energetically and beaming with a very familiar grin.

Pierce was moving toward the other end of the stage and another student took his place in front of the principal. His robes flapped around his ankles as he walked, throwing cheerful smiles to the teachers as he past them, waving at Mr. Wilson, winking at Ms. Hawthorn, and nodding to Mr. Johnson – who didn't exactly know how to respond so ended up staring blankly and feeling ridiculous until Pierce had turned and traveled down the flight of stairs that led to the field.

Johnson had attended many high school graduations in his teaching career. He had never found them particularly enjoyable affairs, as usually they consisted of a lot of insincere congratulations, forced conversation with parents, and mulling in the background on very hot summer afternoons. He had, after all, never before grown close to any of the students and, consequently, never had a student that he felt particularly inclined, nor proud to see graduate.

This graduation ceremony was alike to the others in many ways. He had his hand wrung countless times by students he wasn't particularly fond of, and by parents who didn't exactly know who he was. He wasn't, after all, a teacher that his pupils were likely to boast about at home. It was a hot day and Johnson felt uncomfortably scratchy and warm in his suit.

He longed for the celebrations to be over quickly, so that he could return to his home and begin plotting what to do on his toiling months off during summer vacation, and also how he was going to supplement his absent salary.

And then Pierce approached him.

"Hello, sir."

"Ah, hello, Mr. Pierce. I believe congratulations are in order."

"Thank you, sir." Pierce was wearing his customarily pert grin. His black hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat and he swung his graduation cap absently on his finger.

"Well," said Johnson, finding the confrontation curiously awkward. "Whoever will you antagonize over the summer, Pierce, as you won't have me and my class to entertain yourself with?"

"I'll find someone else," said Pierce. "Don't you worry."

"I shan't," said Johnson. "Although I will pity the poor soul you set your sights on. You are certainly a force to be reckoned with."

"Well, you weren't too shabby yourself, Mr. Johnson," said Pierce.

Johnson felt his eyebrows tug at his forehead. "Thank you. From you that's quite a compliment."

Pierce fidgeted. He tossed his cap from one hand to another. "Anyway – before I left, I just wanted to let you know – trying to destroy your credibility in your classroom, well, it wasn't anything personal."

Johnson almost laughed in spite of himself. The boy looked so convincingly earnest. "Not to worry, Pierce. No offense taken. At least not anymore."

"Oh, good," said Pierce. "I mean – you actually turned out to be not half-bad. And I wouldn't want you harboring any lingering grudges against me, you know? You might come after me with a knife in the middle of the night."

"I – er – don't think you'll have to worry about that, Mr. Pierce."

Pierce smiled. "Good, I also wanted to make sure that you knew that I wasn't – you know – all that bad, either."

"All's well that ends well, Pierce," said Johnson.

"And all's wet at the end of a well," Pierce agreed.

"Yes, I suppose that is one way of looking at it," said Johnson.

"Hey," said Pierce delightedly, "I think you're finally warming up, Mr. Johnson."

"Oh – well – yes," said Johnson, and hastily searched for another subject to turn to. "Mr. Pierce – I've been meaning to ask you. You're friends call you Hawkeye, correct? Am I to assume that's derived from the novel by James Fenimore Cooper?"

"You know, you're one of the few people who get that on the first try," said Pierce.

"Yes, but, why that particular name?"

"Honestly," said Pierce, smiling resignedly, "I'm surprised more people don't ask why Benjamin Franklin."

"Why what Benjamin Franklin?"

"Why my name's Benjamin Franklin."

"Oh, is that your name?" said Johnson, marveling at how he had not known that before. "Well, he was an extraordinary man. Quite ingenious."

"Yeah, I've always admired what he could do with a rifle."

Johnson paused for a moment, "I – erm – no longer think we're discussing the same person."

Pierce smiled again but then fell incongruently serious, "Um, sir, I wanted to tell you – I mean - wanted to thank you for breaking up that fight like you did, in April. I mean – Warner's a lot bigger than me. You probably saved my life by stopping it."

Johnson was taken aback, but oddly touched. "You seemed to be holding your own," he said graciously. "Next time you're up against an opponent twice your size, use your speed to your advantage. Tire him out instead of using brute strength."

Pierce's mouth fell open. His eyebrows lowered in curiosity. "Funny, but you don't strike me as a guy who's been in many schoolyard fights."

"Welterweight champion, Cornell University," said Johnson.

Pierce nodded in comprehension.

"Which reminds me, Mr. Pierce, where is it you're planning on going to college?"

"I've been accepted into Androscoggin's pre-med program," said Pierce.

Johnson nodded, "Good school. You'll do well there."

"Thanks, sir," said Pierce, smile pulling at his lips as though he was trying to hold it back. "Next time I get a C on a test, I'll think fondly of you."

Johnson laughed. Pierce suddenly seemed much funnier on this side of the school year, knowing, as he did, that Johnson would never have to put up with the boy in his classroom again. That thought stuck in Johnson's mind for a moment, quivering like an arrow in the ground. It was rather difficult to wrap his mind around. He could not shake the feeling that he would be arriving in his classroom the next Monday to have Pierce tramp in ten minutes late, as usual.

"Anyway," Pierce was saying, "I'd better go. Tom's having me and Dad for supper. Can't imagine we'll taste very good."

"Ah, yes, very amusing, Mr. Pierce."

"I try my best," said Pierce, and took a few steps away. He said over his shoulder. "Thanks for the year, Mr. Johnson."

"You're welcome, Mr. Pierce," said Johnson. "And – Pierce –"

"Sir?"

"Erm – good luck…Hawkeye."

A wide grin tugged at Pierce's cheeks, bunching his eyes into glimmering slits. "Thanks, teach."

Johnson sighed as he watched Pierce jog over to where his father stood, joining the Gillis family. He was met with handshakes and a clap on the back from Thomas Gillis, who had been speaking with Ms. Hawthorn.

Johnson turned on his heel and began walking toward the edge of the football field, thinking he'd stayed long enough to be polite and he might as well make his way to his car. He thought of the wide expanse of summer that lay before him and the distant light at the end of the tunnel that was September. Again he thought of Pierce, who would not be there come the new school year. He told himself he was glad to be finally shot of the boy, who would undoubtedly be moving on to bigger and better things.

He sighed again and made his way onto the red track that circled the field, walking toward the parking lot. Even so, the classroom would seem strangely empty without Pierce there, accompanied by a grin and cheeky quip. Johnson realized he might quite miss it.

Johnson jerked to a stop, mouth falling open.

His car…? What had happened to his car?

It glimmered in the sunlight, covered from headlights to rear bumper in glossy, plastic material. Johnson approached it tentatively, holding his hand out to touch the passenger side door. A thin, sticky material, definitely plastic but…how had it gotten all over his car?

Or rather, thought Johnson, not actually having to think very hard, who had put it all over his car?

Scrawled on the plastic material in red marker, near the windshield wipers, an almost evident aura of good-cheer and mischief about the curves of the letters, were the initials B.F.P.

End

I'm sorry I couldn't think of anything more original than Saran-Wrapping a car as Hawkeye's final prank. Oh, and before anyone brings it up, Saran Wrap was invented in 1933, so Hawkeye technically could have gotten his hands on some. Whether or not this was an active prank in 1939, I'm not sure, but – who knows – maybe Hawkeye was the first to think of it.

A final, earnest, colossal thank you to all my reviewers and readers. You're continued support has meant so much to me. To those readers who have followed the shenanigans of Hawkeye and Mr. Johnson from the beginning but have yet to leave a comment, please do, as I would love to hear what you thought of it. And those readers who have reviewed, especially to those of you who have given feedback on almost every chapter, I would like to thank you especially because your interest in this story is truly something that, at times, kept it afloat.

I'm not too certain how much longer I will be hovering in the MASH fandom (Harry Potter is my main stomping ground) but hopefully I still have inspiration enough to bang out a few more stories. I still have a couple ideas floating around my head for the "Homecoming" series, as well as a one-shot on how Hawkeye met Trapper; I also have a very vague idea of a brief, hopefully amusing story about Charles Emerson Winchester the Third after the war.

Seeing as college is rapidly approaching, not to mention I'm seriously behind on some of my other fics, I'm not sure how many of these will actually reach publishing standards – but keep an eye out just in case :)

Thanks again and God bless.