He closed the door behind him, and the night was suddenly mercifully silent, the voices inside just a mumble. He took a deep breath and held it, trying to exchange the cigarette and perfume ladened air in his lungs with the soft night that was scented with something sweet. There were big bushes full of yellow flowers all around the balcony, and as he walked over to the railing and leaned against it the scent became stronger. The garden was silent below, the gravel paths and well-trimmed bushes lit by gaslights that looked like they belonged in another century.
Down on the lawn, he could see a couple of bunnies running around. Of course there were bunnies. The lake was probably full of swans too, polished and groomed to look their best, an unkempt swan would just be a travesty! He scoffed and scratched his neck, loosening his tie a little.
The evening had been very nice, actually, the whole day. Charles had greeted him with a handshake and a smile that felt sincere, his bride had looked starstruck as she gazed at Hawkeye and shook his hand, breathing a "so you're Hawkeye Pierce". That made him feel kind of like a celebrity, and it also proved his father right.
The hotel was beautiful, the guests extremely well-polished and posh, the food amazing.
Seeing Margaret had been surreal. He first caught a glimpse of her when she walked in, blue dress, heels, and hair up, and something inside of him had clicked. The same thing that had clicked inside of him that night in the hut. Clicked and held.
Then he saw the man whose arm she was holding, and the clicking stopped. His name was Peter, he was a lawyer, great at making small talk, and held his hand firmly around Margaret's wrist except for the short moment she hugged Hawkeye and kissed his cheek.
That was not how he had envisioned their reunion. Ever since he got back, he had spent quite a lot of time daydreaming about what it would be like. Running into each other in the street. In a bar in the back alleys of New York. A beach in Hawaii. One night, a couple of months after coming home, he had a very vivid dream, one that had stayed with him. There had been a knock on the door, and there she was. Standing on his porch dressed in white, with the sun lighting up her hair. A big smile on her face and an adorable toddler on her hip. A toddler with icy blue eyes and thick, dark hair.
As the months rolled by and there was no knock on the door, he had felt... not disappointed, that was too strong a word. Melancholy, maybe. And not terrified.
But this was how it happened, on the wedding of Charles Emerson Winchester III, where Hawkeye had clearly been invited as a curiosity for Mrs. Charles Emerson Winchester III to gawk at, and Margaret was with someone else.
Of course she was. Of course it wasn't Margaret that had asked Charles to invite Hawkeye. Not that he had ever thought that, absolutely not.
He had spent the better part of the evening watching her, like a stalker in the background, his mind jumping around from one memory to another.
Now, he jumped a little when he heard a voice behind him.
"Well, there you are. Tired of the festivities already?"
For a moment, it was hard to connect the Margaret of his mind with the Margaret standing before him, but he managed to get his brain to cooperate.
"Yeah, there is only so much fanciness I can handle before actually imploding."
"I thought you were gonna ask me to dance."
"I was waiting for a lindy; waltzes make me nervous."
She smiled and tilted her head to the side.
"I think it's gonna be a long wait, I doubt a lindy has ever echoed through these halls."
"But" she continued, her smile growing bigger, "you are in luck because I bring liquid courage."
She held out a bottle she'd been hiding behind her back.
"My my, Margaret, you certainly come prepared," he said with a big grin.
"Is that very fancy gin?"
"Yup. I wanted to have a toast with an old friend, and gin seemed appropriate, don't you think?
I borrowed the whole bottle when the bartender wasn't looking."
His let his grin grow even wider.
"I like your style, Major, I always have."
She scoffed.
"You have not always liked my style, Pierce."
"Did I say style, I meant ass. That I have always liked."
She chuckled a little, and the sound made that thing click again, deep inside of him.
Made something flutter.
"That I can believe. You want to go down to the lake?"
He held out his arm, and she took it.
"I'm sorry your girlfriend couldn't make it."
He tensed up.
"Yeah, it's a shame, but she had to go with the team to the competition."
His voice suddenly felt very strained, very shrill. It was so stupid; the lie had just left his mouth earlier. Margaret's beau had asked if Hawkeye was there alone, and it had felt so important to not look like a loser, to be someone coveted, normal, and suddenly he had a girlfriend back home. She was a teacher, apparently, 23 years old, coached the dance drill team she had been on only years before. Couldn't make it to Boston because she was away with the team on a very important drilling competition up in Halifax. Yup, lots of important drilling going on in Halifax this weekend. He had hoped Margaret would look heartbroken at the mentioning of a girlfriend, but she had only smiled politely. Disappointing.
Now, he quickly changed the subject.
"What about you, won't your boyfriend miss you?" He tried to sound very casual as they made their way down the stairs.
She shrugged.
"I told him I had a headache and needed some air. He was talking about the prize of sorghum or buckwheat or something with Charles's uncle, he barely noticed I left."
"Well, that's his loss because now I'm eloping with his pretty girl and I don't plan to give her back any time soon!" He did his best evil cackle, which earned him a chuckle and a slap on the arm. He wasn't really joking, though. "It's so great to see you. I missed you, you know."
He wanted to tell her much, much more, but those kinds of words were tricky and needed to be put in order, and that he couldn't do. It was too important.
"I know. I missed you too."
She squeezed his arm and then squealed in delight as a bunny ran over the path in front of them. This really was a ridiculously magical garden. And it really was ridiculous how nervous he felt. It wasn't like the two of them hadn't been alone before.
He cleared his throat for no reason and loosened his tie a bit more.
"So, fancy gin, huh. I bet that gets you drunk in a very dignified way."
"I don't know. Charles wasn't terribly dignified when drunk. You remember that Halloween in the O-club, it was so late, and Charles was just out cold? And we made…"
She stopped and laughed. Her laughter felt like sunshine and Saturday mornings.
"We made those vampire teeth out of tongue depressors and stuck them under his lip."
"And he looked nothing like a vampire but every bit like a walrus." He was laughing too, grabbing her upper arms, and through the laughter, he could feel how soft her skin was.
Yes, he remembered that night. Operating with his Superman outfit underneath the scrubs. The drinks later. Charles stomping in, raving about moronic marines, and getting plastered in no time at all. The vampire teeth and laughing uncontrollably with Margaret as they made their unsteady way across the compound and into her tent. Charles, sans fangs, had been snoring in his cot when Hawkeye snuck back into The Swamp, and BJ had mumbled a question if it had been a happy Halloween.
"You know what else I remember? That geisha-girl dress you wore." He leaned in close, waggling his eyebrows.
She scoffed.
"I remember you feeling me up under the table."
"I remember you not being terribly upset about that, as it turned out. Did you ever fix the zipper?"
She shook her head.
"No. It's like a memento. I get nostalgic over the strangest things."
"It was a good night. Part of it, at least."
They found a bench near the water, and he made a big deal about brushing it off for her.
"So, let's drink to good nights and nostalgia," she said with a smile while she opened the bottle, sniffed it, and took a swig. "Oh, wow. I suddenly feel the need to go fox hunting."
She handed it over and watched him drink.
"Meh, weak and lacks character, but I guess having the nectar of the gods within arm's reach every day just spoils you."
She grinned. And looked at him. Really looked, her ice-blue eyes seemed intent on drilling deep. It was the look that could coax truths out of him, even when he was perfectly happy living the lie.
It was a look he couldn't deal with. He took another swig and scratched his neck.
"So, Houlihan, this is strange, isn't it? You and me at old Chuckles's wedding. His old nemesis and his old crush, who would have guessed."
She took the bottle back.
"I am neither old nor his crush, thank you very much. Maybe he just got nostalgic too. Beatrice seems nice. She kept asking me if the stories she heard were true, she couldn't believe it."
"Sometimes I can't either." He poked the tip of his shoe into the gravel. "It's like so much time has passed, but also none at all, and all of it seems like a dream sometimes. But then the real dreams happen and it's all too clear that it really, really happened."
She kept looking at him the way only she could, sort of slow, and it made him uncomfortable.
He cleared his throat again and scratched his neck, where the ants were gathering for maneuver, apparently.
"But this, on the other hand, is a wonderful dream come true! You cleaned up really well, Houlihan."
She held his gaze for a second longer, then took another swig.
"Oh yeah? If I cleaned up so nicely, how come you've barely talked to me all night?"
"I wanted to, but every time I even looked at you, that beau of yours gave me the evil eye, so I didn't dare approach. He kept grabbing your wrist and leading you away, and I didn't want to get you in trouble with daddy."
She frowned.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing, nothing, I just noticed that he kept grabbing your wrist instead of your hand and it looked like you were a child, misbehaving. It was cute."
She still stared at him, but with a different look in her eyes now. A watchful one.
"It's just funny, come on Margaret, he is so much bigger and obviously a lot older than you and it looked funny, that's all. And it's not only with me, I noticed it when you were talking to that Earl or whatever he was, the one with the beard. He kept staring down your cleavage and your beau grabbed your wrist and it looked like he was gonna send you to your room."
He took the bottle from her, trying to keep his mouth from talking by filling it with gin. It was a very temporary solution.
"Really? Are there any more observations about my cute, funny relationship you want to share since you apparently have such great insight?"
Cold voice and eyes flashing frost. Bad sign. How did the conversation take this turn? And yet he couldn't stop himself, for some reason it felt good to keep prodding.
"Well, it's just ironic, isn't it? And also kind of nice to see that some things have remained the same. You still have a taste for vintage, that's all I'm saying, and that's great. Sweet, really."
"It's nice that I amuse you, Pierce. But from what I can tell, you stay true to form too. How old did you say that cheerleader girlfriend of yours was? 22?"
"23, actually. And it's the dance drill team."
"Oh wow, big difference, same skirt size."
Something inside of him clicked again, but not in a good way.
"Really, Margaret, you wanna talk about skirt sizes in that dress? You know, from what I could tell you didn't seem terribly bothered by that creepy furry guy ogling you. Maybe you're hoping that little dress of yours will end up in his bedroom later? Moving on up, lawyer to Earl, in classic Hot Lips-manner? As I said, it's nice to see that some things remain the same."
He could hear the words leave his mouth, but he couldn't stop them, and now they were just hanging in the air, lingering like vicious strands of smoke. How did this even happen, he hadn't meant for it to come out like this, it was supposed to just be friendly teasing. It wasn't like he had any expectations; he didn't have the right to have any. And yet he had hoped. Wanted. And in true Hawkeye-fashion – when he couldn't have things his way, he turned mean. If he could cut his tongue off, he would. And now her eyes flashed ice.
"Margaret," he started, reaching out for her but she quickly got off the bench and backed away.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean that."
"But you did. You did."
Her hard voice felt like a dagger, and he could see how strained the muscles in her neck were.
"And this is good, actually," she continued. "Ever since I got back, I've had these warped thoughts in my head, thinking that we… whatever we were, whatever we had, that it actually meant something. Of course it didn't. It was nothing more than stress release. Just a cheaper way of taking out frustration, right? To keep the bar tab down. Of course it meant nothing and of course it's still the old Hawkeye Pierce here in front of me, better than anyone else, looking down on people who don't live up to his standards, harassing those who are just trying to get through the day. Thinking you were something else, something that even resembled a friend, was obviously just insanity. I guess Korea broke my damn mind too!"
She spun on her heel and started to walk away. He couldn't stand it, couldn't stand to see her like this, couldn't stand himself. His body reacted instinctively. He got up, knocking the bottle over in the process and heard it hit the ground, and ran to get in front of her.
"Margaret, please don't go."
Without even bothering to look at him, she turned and walked in another direction, cutting across the lawn. He wanted to grab her but feared the consequences. Instead, he got in front of her again and spread his arms out, as if she was a wild animal and he was trying to herd her in. It didn't stop her, though, so he kept walking backward, flailing his arms like an idiot.
"No, just listen, that was mean and horrible, and I'm sorry. The old Hawkeye would never apologize for something like that, and you know it. You didn't deserve it and I was being an ass. It's just…"
He slapped his hands against his thighs, hard enough to make it hurt. The words weren't the right ones, and an apology wasn't enough, he needed to make her truly understand. He had been good at this, once, he had been able to weave his words and leave people tongue-tied by the sheer flow of them. The old Hawkeye, that was, the one who had made a quick appearance just to fuck up and go back into hibernation again.
"It's just I wanted to talk to you all night, really talk, and I didn't get a chance. It made me angry, this is just anger coming out sideways. Everything has been so polite this entire day, and having polite conversations was not what I thought it would be like. I wanted…"
He groaned in frustration, trying to persuade his two remaining brain cells to cooperate and actually get the right words out of his mouth.
Her face showed no mercy.
"The whole way here, I thought about the things we would talk about, what we would do."
His throat felt very tight.
"We would sit next to each other and make fun of the other guests, plan a prank and make Charles regret ever inviting us. I had this whole script in my head, but no one is following it. You're here with someone and I'm at the losers' table, thanks to Charles no doubt. And I can't remember the name of your cat!"
"What?"
She stopped in her track, frowned, and stared at him with a look he recognized so well. The "what the hell did your mouth just say and what are you up to now"-look. But at least she had stopped walking, so he went on.
"Remember that morning, we were coming off our shift in post-op. There had been this lull in the fighting, which was great, but everyone was just bored out of their mind. We hadn't even had any weather for a week, just this white lid of clouds day in and day out. You saw that cat that used to run around, and we followed it behind the motor pool because you really wanted to pet it. You stood there with that scrawny cat in your arms, and you told me about the one you had when you were a kid. I can't remember its name, Nuggins or something. I started to think about that tonight, and I wanted to ask you, but I couldn't get to you, that beau of yours kept interfering. I'm sorry I can't remember and I'm sorry I'm an ass. Please don't go."
She still stared at him with a frown, her mouth open a little, her whole posture tense. He let his own shoulders sink. This was it; his ramblings would drive her away, back into the arms of her man, and back to live a wonderful life without Hawkeye Pierce. Many years from now, he would still be a sad and bitter bachelor, telling anyone who cared to listen his tale of woe about the one who got away. His fault.
"Goblin."
"What?"
"Goblin, my cat's name was Goblin. He was under the porch the first time I saw him, and he freaked me out because I thought he was a goblin, out of a fairy tale."
Her voice still had an edge to it, but it wasn't all anger anymore. Or so he hoped.
"And your parents didn't want you to feed him, but you did anyway, and you used to hide him in your bag and take him up to your room. He slept on your pillow and destroyed your blue angora sweater."
She shook her head, and maybe it was just wishful thinking but the ice in her eyes retracted a bit.
"I can't believe you remember that."
"I do. I remember you had this sad little smile on your face when you told me."
He dared step closer.
"I have all these memories, all these little snippets of you. You with the cat or feeding that dog when you thought no one was looking or talking to Sophie. You laughing or crying, and the way you would get so worked up about the tiniest things, good or bad. I remember how you would always frown at the first sip of coffee but always go back for more. I remember how you pout your mouth when you're asleep. The way your hair always smelled unregimented, and that made me sad sometimes. I have all these little snippets and they don't add up to the person I've met tonight, the woman I remember isn't here."
He had not planned on saying that last thing, but it was true, it was his heart's truth, free from anger and spite now.
"What are you…"
The anger in her voice was back. But before she could continue, he stepped even closer, grabbed her hands, and pressed them to his chest. If this was it, if this was how it ended, he needed to get these last things out. In the right way, not hidden in insults.
"Please listen. Then you can hit me or walk away, but please listen. That smile of yours. The one that can melt steel and could probably have ended the war if you had gone to the peace talks instead of me, I don't see that smile tonight, not when you're smiling at him. You smile the same way you did at those generals who kept flocking around you. It never quite reached your eyes, it seemed like something you were supposed to do, like it was part of the service, your duty. And I don't want you to smile that way."
He gasped, and his breath felt very shallow.
"Just tell me you're happy, Margaret, just tell me that and I'll go away. I will take all the memories I have of you and put them in a box with a pretty bow and lock it in my heart. Take it out for Christmas and birthdays. Tell me you're happy. That's all I want."
