Hawkeye did his best to ignore Charles' triumphant humming as he packed a bag for his trip. He tried to curse BJ for taking a day off, but his mind pictured his best friend huddled down at Battalion Aid dodging shellfire, and he deflated. He diverted his energy into hopeful thoughts of a quick return even as Charles' concerto crescendoed.
"Charles will you shut it?"
"Little anxious about your trip, Pierce?" the Major chuckled. "I, for one, will relish the few hours of peace and quiet that will be afforded me until Hunnicutt's return." Charles closed his eyes and let his hand float around in front of him in time to the music. Hawkeye shoved a spare shirt into his medical bag and closed it, slinging it over his shoulder as he offered his bunkmate a half-hearted smirk.
"Yeah, well, don't clean up around here. We finally got the grime just the way we like it." He pushed the door open and tucked his helmet under his arm. Klinger had gotten him a jeep and parked it just outside the Swamp, and Hawkeye stowed his bag and helmet in the passenger seat as Potter, Klinger, and Margaret came out of the mess tent to bid him goodbye.
"Good luck son," Potter clapped him on the shoulder. "The replacement surgeon should be there by tomorrow afternoon, so just keep your head down and stay safe."
"Will do, Colonel. Klinger, thanks for the jeep. I'll be sure to wash and wax before I return it."
"Just be careful, Captain. Come back soon." Klinger gave Hawkeye an encouraging smile and joined Potter on his trek back to the office, leaving Margaret standing alone with Hawkeye.
"Potter thinks I'll be back by dinner tomorrow," he told her quietly, "though that's not necessarily comforting."
"Don't," she snapped at him for the joke, her eyes still not quite meeting his.
He took one small step closer and slipped his hand around hers. "Hey, it's gonna be okay." He squeezed her fingers lightly, and she stiffened at his hollow attempt at comfort. They both knew how dangerous this really was without having to say it aloud.
"Just come back breathing and in one piece, we'll call it even."
"Deal. See you tomorrow, Margaret." He let go of her hand and climbed into the driver's seat. The engine sputtered for a few seconds before roaring to life, and only under the cover of the noise did Margaret whisper goodbye.
"Be safe, Ben."
He waved once more and shifted into drive. She stood there in front of the Swamp and watched him go, but he never looked back. She waited until she couldn't hear the dull purr of the engine, then stared for a moment longer. Only when she felt eyes on her did she force herself to resume her duties. If Battalion Aid thought they needed a surgeon soon, then she had a Post-Op to clear and an OR to prep.
...
It was worse than he'd expected, and he'd expected hell. Already he'd patched up too many young bodies, tagging the worst cases for the 4077th. BJ, Charles, and Potter were the finest surgeons he'd ever scrubbed with, and the nurses were unmatched. His heart lurched as Margaret's face filled his mind, and he glanced over to the abandoned will he'd begun. He hadn't accumulated many worldly possessions (being thrust into the middle of hell tended to cut back on one's shopping sprees), but each item he'd bequeathed to his friends had much more than just intrinsic value.
In a rare moment of silence, he re-read what he'd written over the past day. He knew those he'd written to wouldn't care much about the items he'd left them. But as he wrote each name, images kept flashing through his mind of all the times they'd made hell just a little more bearable. He just hoped that when his will was read - and he hoped that it was a long time from now - they'd remember him just as fondly.
One name in particular kept catching his eye, and suddenly a few sentences didn't seem like enough. He'd left so much unsaid, and suddenly he couldn't bear the thought of leaving her with little more than a handshake and a hasty goodbye. She deserved so much more than that, and if he couldn't tell her in person then he would have to tell her in writing. He unclipped the stack of paper he'd been writing on and flipped it over to write the words he vowed to tell her very next time he saw her. He spent the next ten minutes scribbling furiously, taking care to keep the words legible just in case...
"Captain Pierce! I need your hands!"
Twelve grueling hours later, he slumped into the driver's seat. Captain Rackley had things under control, so Hawkeye pointed his jeep toward the 4077th and didn't look back. He'd only had to make the trip to Battalion Aid a handful of times, and each time he hoped he'd never have to return. He thought about the surgeons who worked there around the clock and made a mental note to remind himself about Rackley and the others the next time he was feeling just a little down.
The camp was eerily quiet as he parked the jeep in the motor pool. Rizzo was snoring away in an old stack of tires, and Hawkeye wondered if he even had a bunk. Deciding that signing the jeep in could wait until morning, he gathered his things and trudged toward the Swamp. As he passed Margaret's tent he paused for just a moment, the urge to go to her almost overwhelming him. He thought about his will and the words he'd poured from his heart onto the page, and he had to force himself on to the Swamp before he slipped into her tent and into her bed.
BJ was sleeping, and based on the way he didn't even budge when Hawkeye walked in the Chief Surgeon guessed they'd just finished with all the wounded he'd sent them hours ago. Charles was snoring softly on the opposite side of the tent as Hawkeye slumped down into the chair next to BJ's bed. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, reveling in the silence and the peace that flooded his senses. After being constantly shelled for nearly 36 hours straight, the 4077th was nothing short of heaven.
"When I wake up, remind me to give you a kiss." BJ's voice was filled with relief, hidden carefully behind the glib remark. It was technique he'd probably picked up from Hawkeye himself to cope with the devastation and horror of the war that raged on around them daily.
"Go back to sleep, you're dreaming." Hawkeye watched as his best friend settled back down, then he reached over and carefully grabbed the photo that BJ kept pointed at his bunk at all times. It held two people Hawkeye had never met but knew as well as his own family. Suddenly he knew what he needed to do, for both BJ and those he'd left behind.
His legs took him to Post-Op first, where Colonel Potter and Nurse Kellye welcomed him back with hugs.
"Damn glad to see you, son," Potter clapped him on the shoulder. "We were more nervous than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs waiting on news of you. Hunnicutt's the one who told us you were alright. Found some of your handiwork in a boy you sent us."
"Yes, well, I made sure only to put my initials."
"I'm glad you're back, Captain," Kellye said quietly. "We all are." Something about the way she said it made Hawkeye wonder, but Potter's hand slapped his back lightly again and the thought was gone.
"Get some rest, son," he told his Chief Surgeon. "Winchester's going to Seoul tomorrow for his day off, and you need to recuperate."
"Yeah, thanks. Hey listen," he said quickly, keeping the CO's attention for a moment longer. "Can I use your office for a while? I've got some things I need to finish up."
"Sure, sure," Potter waved him through. "Just be quick about it. You look like you've had about three all-nighters in a row."
Hawkeye waved his thanks and slipped through Post Op quickly, stopping only once to check on a boy he'd sent down ten hours ago. He was stable, and a quick glance at his chart told him that BJ had worked on him. After making sure the boy was comfortable, he continued on to Potter's office.
Exhaustion left him as he set to his task, and a few more dark hours passed by as he wrote name after name. Finally, as he reached the last one, he flexed his fingers for one more paragraph. Erin Hunnicutt didn't know it yet, but her father was a hero. Hawkeye was going to make sure that, even if no one else knew, this little girl would never doubt her father's courage, compassion, and dedication.
"Captain, you really are alive." Klinger's voice made him look up, and he found the younger man in his pajamas and pink bathrobe.
"Nah, it's just a vicious rumor." He glanced back down at his own signature, a feeling of relief and sadness coursing through him.
"What are you doing?" Klinger asked.
"Um," he took a breath and tightened his fingers around the paper, "catching up on some overdue paperwork."
"Get some sleep," Klinger told him firmly. "There's one thing I've learned about being company clerk. There's no paperwork that can't wait until tomorrow."
Hawkeye gave him a half-hearted smile in return. "I used to think that, too." Klinger disappeared then, probably back to his bunk to get a few more hours of sleep before the sun came up. Hawkeye gathered all the pages together and made sure they were in the right order. Then he came to the page he'd written last at Battalion Aid – the letter he'd been so careful to keep neat. After staring at it for a few moments he set it aside and stuffed the remaining pages into a folder, then sealed it. He'd have to get with a JAG to finalize it all, but that definitely could wait until tomorrow. Right now, he needed some sleep.
With the letter folded carefully in his pocket, he slipped back across the compound. This time, when his footsteps slowed near Margaret's tent, he didn't resist. As quietly as he could he opened her door. Moonlight cascaded through, illuminating the figure sprawled rather ungracefully on the bed. Her blonde hair was almost white, and her fair skin was pale and perfect. The door closed silently behind him, throwing the tent back into darkness, but he knew his way around her tent as well as she did.
Wordlessly, he slipped the folded piece of paper from his pocket and placed it gingerly on the nightstand next to her bed. Exhaustion was beginning to creep into his muscles, and he bent over to place a light kiss to her forehead before leaving her to her dreams.
Margaret had always been an early riser even after a long OR session, so it was no surprise when her internal clock woke her just after dawn. She yawned and stretched, ignoring the tightness in her stomach as she remembered why they'd had to work themselves ragged yesterday. Hawkeye still wasn't back from Battalion Aid, though BJ's discovery that he was alive had done wonders on the morale in the OR. She tried to recall her own feelings at the time, but she'd gotten good at pushing her own emotions away when there were wounded to treat. Still, she remembered fighting back tears as news of Hawkeye's status was confirmed. They'd only just begun to settle into something that could almost be considered a relationship; if she lost him now, she wasn't quite sure how she would cope.
She dressed meticulously as always, taking the time to make sure her shirt was tucked in smartly before turning for the door. She was up early enough to make a quick round of post op before meeting the senior staff in the mess tent for breakfast. As she opened her door, a piece of paper fluttered from her nightstand to the floor. She bent to pick it up automatically, wondering who had the nerve to enter her tent at night while she was sleeping.
Margaret
Her name written in familiar but tidy scrawl sent her heart racing. She sank down onto her cot to devour the letter he'd written her, all thoughts of checking on patients gone.
I'm writing this letter from underneath a table, mostly because it's made of sturdier stuff than the ceiling over my head. The shelling hasn't stopped since I arrived, and neither have thoughts of you. In case you find this first, I've written my will on the back of a supply list. There's not much else to do between patients here, though those times are few enough and far between.
I'm not certain how much time I have left. Mortar shells and enemy volleys aside, the replacement surgeon is on his way and I'll be heading back soon. Back to the 4077th. Back to you. Mortal peril has a way of putting things into perspective, and I realized that I've never really told you. We've shared more than most people would in a lifetime, and there's no one else on this whole planet that I'd rather be surviving hell with. But despite how far we've come, how much we've shared with each other, I've never told you.
I've never told you that I admire you. I admire the way you always put others before yourself, even when you shouldn't. I admire the way you don't compromise when it really matters. I admire the fire inside of you that lets you stand up for what you believe in, no matter what. I admire your dedication and persistence in the face of so much death and destruction.
I've never told you that I desire you. Oh sure, I make the crude comment or ten about your body, and no one can deny the passion between us when we're together. But I don't think I've ever told you. Your body, your mind, your spirit - I desire everything about you.
I've never told you that I envy you. I envy the way you effortlessly adapt to any situation. I envy the way you take charge of a room the moment you walk in. I envy the way you can see the good in this hell we're living in, even after all we've seen.
I've never told you that I love you. You are one of my dearest friends, and even if I never see you again I can go with the knowledge that I've known such a remarkable woman. Our friendship was never easy – sometimes it wasn't even friendship – but through it all you've managed to stay by me. I don't have much in the way of family, other than my dad, my aunt, and some cousins. But you and the others at the 4077th have claimed a part of my heart that I never want back.
I've never told you that, somewhere between the yelling and the kissing and the pranking and the eternities in the OR, I fell in love with you. There has never been a woman like you in my life, not since my mother passed away. She was good at keeping me and my dad in line. Like you, she knew when to let us go and when to rein us in. She was the strongest woman I ever knew, until I met you. I'm so grateful you've allowed me to know you – the real you.
I wrote this letter in case something happens and I can't tell you all of this in person. If that's the case, I want you to do something for me. Don't lock her away. There's this wonderful, caring, funny, gorgeous woman I've come to love, and I'd hate to think that she could just disappear all because she believed she felt too much. Laugh, cry, fight, and – above all – love. There's a picture of my mother in my book - you know which one. I'd like for you to keep it as a reminder.
If I do make it back, I'm going to try and say all of this in person. We both know I'm not great with the emotional side of things. We have that in common, I guess. But I am going to try. You're worth it. We're worth it.
All my love,
Ben
She could barely read the last few lines for the tears in her eyes, and a few of them escaped and fell to the page as she blinked rapidly. She had been so caught up in his words that she hadn't stopped to think about how this letter had appeared. For one terrified moment, she feared the worst. Had Colonel Potter left this last night, unwilling to wake her and give her horrible news? The thought fled just as quickly as it had come; Colonel Potter cared about her too much to let her learn the worst from a letter. The only other option she could think of set her heart to racing again, and she folded the letter carefully and tucked it into her shirt pocket before bolting out the door.
BJ's grinning face was the first thing she saw as she threw the Swamp door open. He held a finger up to his lips, but his eyes darted to the sleeping form on the cot next to the door. The tears returned to her eyes as she saw him, whole and alive. His arm was settled over his eyes to block out the sunlight, and his mouth hung open as he breathed deeply. He looked horrible, unkempt, unshaven, and his fatigues were splotched with dried blood. Still, Margaret couldn't remember seeing a more beautiful sight than Hawkeye Pierce sleeping in his own bed beneath a standard issue Army blanket. BJ stood and settled a hand on her shoulder, and she accepted the one-armed hug he gave her as they shared their relief.
"Gonna grab breakfast," he whispered. She nodded absently as he left her alone, and her thoughts raced around in her head as she debated on whether to wake him or let him sleep. His words echoed in her mind, and she knew she couldn't wait another moment without making sure he was really there and alive.
"Hawkeye," she sat on the edge of the bed and laid a hand on the arm thrown across his eyes. His mouth closed as he shifted, but he made no other indication that he'd heard her. For an instant she felt bad for waking him; he was probably exhausted from the overtime he'd put in at Battalion Aid. Then his arm moved and his eyes blinked open, and Margaret fell forward onto his chest.
He adjusted immediately, making room for her to share the space even though she was lying half on top of him. Her face was buried in his chest, and his right arm came around her as his left settled on top of her head.
"Guess you got the letter?" his voice was rough from sleep, but she understood him anyway.
"I did," she confirmed, turning her head to lay her cheek against the course material of his jacket. "It's the most beautiful thing anyone has ever given me. Thank you."
"Yeah, well apparently my tongue turns purple when I'm scared out of my mind," he joked. "But I meant every word. I really do, you know."
"I know," she shifted to a more comfortable position on her side, pressed against him. His left hand carded through her hair once before falling limply onto the cot next to him, but his right arm remained firmly around her waist. She let the silence engulf them for a few more moments before she voiced the fear that had been coursing through her for the last few days.
"We thought you were dead," she whispered, and she felt his arm tighten around her. "A soldier came in and said a doctor had been killed at Battalion Aid. We didn't know it wasn't you until BJ found your sutures in a patient."
"Potter said something about it," he answered gruffly. "I didn't have time to call when I got there, and by the time I had a free minute the phones were out. I'm sorry you had to worry for no reason."
"Well, let's just say you weren't the only one who got a little perspective," she told him. "What would you say to making this official?"
"Margaret, are you proposing?" he joked. She slapped him lightly with her free arm, and he feigned injury. "Ow, just kidding! What did you have in mind?"
"A date," she said simply. "You and me and a 3-day pass in Tokyo. I think Colonel Potter owes us."
If her suggestion threw him off-guard, he hid it well. "Yeah, and if not, we can always kidnap and ransom Sophie."
"Pierce," she chided lightly. "Is everything a joke to you?"
"No," he said after a moment. With a well-practiced move and a rather un-Major-like squeak from the woman next to him, Hawkeye twisted them so that she was pressed beneath him into his bed. "This isn't a joke to me, Margaret."
"I'm glad," she squirmed a little, enjoying the groan it pulled from his lips. "Now let me up so I can go eat breakfast. If someone walks by a sees us like this, I'll be taking it out of your hide." She managed to slide out from underneath him, and he fell back onto the blankets with a sigh of exhaustion. "No, stay," she told him as he made to get up. "You need to rest, Ben."
"How the hell am I supposed to sleep after that?" He sat up and gestured to where they'd just been laying. "That moment alone is going to be the source of all my cold showers for the next week."
She stepped back as he stood up, making sure he had his footing before moving to the door. "Alright," she said, "I'll go so you can change into a clean uniform."
"Or you could stay and help me change out of this dirty one," he waggled his eyebrows at her suggestively.
"Just get dressed," she shook her head. "I'm gonna check on post op, then I'll meet you in the mess tent. If Colonel Potter approves our leave, we can talk about what we're going to do for three days in Tokyo." And with that, she was gone.
"Right," he stared at her retreating figure for a moment before letting out another groan. "Make that cold showers for two weeks."