Title: Memory is a Funny Thing
Author: Kate/Fire Dancer
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: When I win the lottery, I'm buying my very own Hawkeye. For now, I don't own any of them.
Author's Note: Someone please save me from too many fandoms and too many fanfics and Hawk and Margaret who won't leave me alone. If this story doesn't make sense, blame them. And blame the fact that it was written at 4:30 am.
~*~
When he kissed her, she couldn't remember why she'd ever hated him. Well, to be fair, that wasn't entirely accurate. Because after the kiss, there it was, in his eyes. Traces of the arrogance, the ego, which had so incensed her during the first years of their relationship. (Relationship. What a strange word. The usual connotation was so different from what she had with him – but then, what other word could be used? Maybe there were no words, and she was grateful to not have to speak as his mouth found hers again.)
No, the arrogance wasn't gone. What was different – she decided as his blue eyes searched hers, as his rough cheek nuzzled her skin – what was different (and she almost hated to think it) was her. She wasn't positive when the change occurred – or rather, began occurring. Their stint at the aid station had been what she considered a breakthrough for them, and as their tongues dueled she recalled how safe she had felt sleeping next to him that night. The same feeling of safety was here now, and she disentangled herself from his mouth in order to nestle closer to his body.
So yes, she thought as his hands stroked her hair, the aid station certainly had been part of her change. Part of her realization that there was more to this man than practical jokes and arrogance and disregard for conventions and etiquette. "Chivalry isn't dead," he'd admitted, "it's just been replaced by exhaustion," and she'd understood that he wasn't just excusing himself with that comment; he was letting her off the hook as well. And maybe that night had been the first time she had consciously let herself consider him, consider them, but she had a suspicion that he'd been slowly sneaking his way into her mind (dare she say her heart?) long before then.
He moved one of his hands off her hair and down to her back, rubbing circles she could feel with surprising heat through her blouse. She sighed almost inaudibly and he heard. "Penny for your thoughts?" He dropped his other hand to hers, stroking fingers as he spoke.
She shifted a bit, surprised. Lifted her hand so she could see his. His surgeon's fingers, slender, strong, gentle. "I was wondering how we got here." She brought his hand to her mouth, meaning to kiss his palm but contenting herself with having it rest on her cheek.
He traced her jawbone with a practiced finger before answering. "I believe," he said finally, amusement tinting his voice, "that we walked. You walked from the mess tent and I from the Swamp. And when I came, you let me in." He bent slightly, dropping a kiss on her temple.
That was it, she realized. He came, and she let him in. She almost laughed at the absurd simplicity of it. Could it truly have been that easy all along?
She had no more chance to ponder that particular absurdity. He lifted her chin, blue eyes sparkling with the shared knowledge of their finally realized secret. And when he kissed her again, she couldn't remember why she'd ever hated him.