Tachikawa U.S. Air Base, Tokyo - September, 1951

The plane hit the runway in Tokyo, and Hawkeye only noticed that he'd been asleep when his body slammed forward and there was a stab of pain in his middle as the seatbelt pulled tight across his lower abdomen. There was a screech of tyres, and they began to rumble to a standstill, shaking him a little in his seat. His fingernails dug into the armrest. He hated flying: the claustrophobic tension of being trapped in a cramped, aluminium cigar tube several thousand feet above the ocean was just about bearable, but the buffeting and noise during take-off, landing, or turbulence was just enough to push him squarely into his discomfort zone. At last, the aircraft came to a halt.

The journey had been less than pleasant so far: the driver had refused to help Hawkeye with his footlocker, and so, with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he had been forced to drag the heavy thing across the airfield himself. The clerk in the M.A.T.S office seemed more than a little irritated by his late arrival, as the plane was due to depart any minute.

"Where the hell were you?" he'd demanded, glowering at the sweaty, dishevelled doctor in the grubby Class As and jabbing at the departure board with an accusing finger. "It says seven o'clock!"

Hawkeye had smiled as he'd presented his papers. "I'm sorry, I'd have thrown myself out sooner, but the army wanted a second opinion."

The joke didn't work. The clerk scowled at him and thrust his papers back towards him like they were poisoned. "Out on the runway."

"Can I get some help with–?"

"Out!"

Now safely (more or less) ensconced in Tokyo, a fraction more help was forthcoming. His footlocker was transferred over to his connecting plane, and Hawkeye was requested to check himself in for the flight to Travis, San Francisco.

It was strange – in any other circumstance, he'd be excited. He'd dreamed of going home for months. He'd be reaching Boston just as the leaves were about to start turning, and he always loved that time of year. For months he had planned on getting a train to Maine as soon as he hit home turf. He'd see his father, his friends… Now, the future was uncertain. He hadn't even told his father to expect him home. How could he? The idea of returning to Crabapple Cove with a soiled record and a less-than-honourable discharge turned his stomach. He couldn't even think about it! His mind was fogged, swimming with countless possibilities, and none of them good. He trudged on as if on auto-pilot, staggering through the plane, through the plane, his duffel bag weighing him down at one shoulder.

Even Tokyo felt strange and hostile. He had wandered through Tachikawa Airfield on various occasions, and in various states of intoxication. The vibrant, bustling city beyond the chain link fences had become his and Trapper's favourite (well, only) real sanctuary against the horrors of war. Drinking in Rosie's bar and necking in the supply closet was a pleasant enough way to pass the time, but only once they were safely out of Korea did they ever really feel they could relax. Here, life was normal, or as close to it as they could get. The last time they were here, they'd been booked two rooms for their three-day period of leave. They'd only used one.

He would have given anything to have Trapper by his side for this journey.

The office and waiting room at Tachikawa was small and inconspicuous – almost civilian, save for the army crest on the wall. It reminded Hawkeye of numerous bus stations in the States. Rows of uncomfortable benches lined up facing a desk, where a clerk was processing travel papers with flourished efficiency. He bellowed an announcement for a flight to Seoul, and the majority of the waiting passengers stood and began to make their way to their plane, bound for Korea.

'Poor buggers…'

Hawkeye approached the desk warily, like a child sent to the principal's office clutching a 'bad behaviour' note. The clerk smiled at him. "What can I do for you?" His accent was as broad as his smile – Brooklyn, Hawkeye placed – and he seemed friendly. It felt almost criminal to ruin their pleasant rapport…

"Uh… checking in. Pierce, Benjamin Franklin. Flight for San Francisco."

The clerk beamed. "Hey, goin' home, huh? You lucky, lucky devil! Lemme see… Pierce… Okay, gotcha. Looks like you're gonna be outta here in less than an hour. Now if you wouldn't mind showin' me your papers, an' then you can just take a…"

He glanced over Hawkeye's papers. The smile vanished from his face, and Hawkeye got a distinct sinking feeling in his stomach.

His paper were handed back, minus the earlier smile. "Go sit over there." The clerk pointed to the far corner of the waiting area, his friendliness gone without a trace.

Hawkeye sat. Alone.

The wait dragged on. He tried in vain to focus on a magazine article, but his heart wasn't in it and his eyes weren't awake. Instead, he sat in silence, toying with his army cap. Other soldiers began to file in, also bound for San Francisco. From his corner, Hawkeye watched as each of them approached the desk, showed their papers, and were directed towards the opposite side of the room, away from Hawkeye. A gentle, warm chatter began to rise, but still, Hawkeye sat alone, a silent pariah in a room full of excited, cheerful activity.

He held back when the flight was called, not wanting to mingle with the strangers on his flight who were already bonding in preparation for the several hours of forced proximity that lay ahead. Instead, he brought up the rear as they snaked out onto the tarmac in a disorderly line.

The seating on the plane was limited, as half of it had been given over to mailbags and parcels being shipped back to the States. The seats were arranged in pairs, too small and too close together. Hawkeye shuddered; the cramped space was bad enough, but the proximity of so many unknown people was making him twitchy. It wasn't like him to be nervous in a room full of strangers, but this particular group of strangers felt more like enemies he hadn't met yet. The past week, with its disturbingly high quota of confrontations with even the most unlikely of people, had taken its toll, and he was suddenly cautious. If he were to get himself into an altercation here, there would be no way of making a dignified exit.

The flight officer in charge of the cabin glanced over Hawkeye's papers, then folded them briskly in two and handed them back to him without a word, gesturing to him to take a seat. But he hesitated in the aisle until duffel bags had been stowed, and bodies seated in their cramped, uncomfortable spaces. At last single pair of seats remained unoccupied right at the front of the cabin. Hawkeye breathed a sigh of relief. He made a beeline for the front.

He was just settling himself into the corner, nice and inconspicuous, with his duffel bag on the empty seat beside him, when there was a kerfuffle near the back.

A large, burly man was hauling both himself and his copious bags up the steps, and getting into an argument with the flight officer.

'So much for getting some space for myself…' Hawkeye rolled his eyes and shunted his duffel bag off the now-not-so-spare seat. The big guy and the flight officer exchanged a few words – hesitant and polite in the case of the latter, while the former bellowed and insisted – and, after reaching a begrudging agreement, he began to make his way to the one available seat in the cabin.

The one next to Hawkeye.

"Thought I was gonna miss the flight!" the man announced to everyone in general, and Hawkeye in particular.

"Well, we wouldn't have wanted that." Hawkeye managed a weak smile and moved over a little so his new neighbour could heave his muscular bulk into the seat beside him. He was as broad as the seat, and then some. A large bicep invaded Hawkeye's already rather limited space, and a grinning face turned to smirk at him.

The man chewed on a piece of gum, making vulgar smacking sounds as he spoke. "Vince Studebaker – y'know, like the auto company." He held out his hand. "Formerly Sergeant Studebaker, but we're all civilians now, ain't we, boys?"

He raised his voice, and the cabin responded with cheers and whoops of delight. Hawkeye smiled tersely.

"Didn't have time to check in with the MATS office, and fly-boy back there got all snippy. Seems to forget he's a glorified stewardess." Vince tossed his head back in the direction of the flight officer, who was now hastily amending the flight roster he'd been handed by the MATS office, and probably hoping he didn't get pulled up for doing so.

Hawkeye glanced back at the young air force man, feeling a pang of sympathy. "Well, you know. The army loves its paperwork."

"It ain't even my fault! I got called up for one last job – on the day I'm s'posed to fly out!"

"Couldn't you just… offer to toss a few grenades out the window as we fly over North Korea?"

Vince laughed a little too loudly at that, and clapped Hawkeye on the shoulder hard enough to shake a few of his fillings loose. "I like you. Nah, I ain't in combat. I drive ambulances for the evac hospitals. I got these muscles hauling stretchers around all day! Boy, is my Mrs in for a shock when I get back lookin' like this!"

"Oh…" Hawkeye could think of nothing else to say. There was a time when he could have made conversation with another medical man, but the topic felt empty and joyless.

But Vince carried on regardless, addressing the cabin at large, seeking out a more responsive audience to whom he could hold court. "So I'm shipping out this morning, got my bag all packed, and the hospital call, and ask me to head to the airport first thing to pick a patient up for a transfer, drive him to Tokyo General, and then I had to get him checked in on his ward, drop off the truck, and take a cab back to the airport again! I haven't even had a damned cup of coffee!"

Hawkeye frowned and tried to get comfy in his limited space. "Must be terrible for you…"

Another friendly slap, and Hawkeye flinched. "It wasn't so bad. The guy I was driving was okay. Kept me entertained. Told me a real funny story!"

The passengers in the seats across the aisle were listening in now, sensing there would be more to follow.

Noting their interest, Vince turned away from Hawkeye to converse with them. "So I pick this Marine up from the airport – poor guy's got two busted legs…"

Hawkeye felt a cold stab of dread. 'Oh, you've gotta be kidding me…' Surely the world couldn't be this cruel. Surely, out of all the planes in the East-Asian war theatre…

"Just got fixed up by these two weird doctors – kinda kooky. You know the type… And you'll never guess what happened!"

Trying to shut out the nausea churning in his gut, Hawkeye turned away and stared out of the window as the ground crew set up for take-off. The engines began to roar, and he tried to focus on their drone rather than the voice of the man beside him. It seemed his run as the prime entertainment throughout Korea wasn't quite over. Only this time, he wasn't about to voice a protest. He couldn't even bear to listen. He had a good enough idea how this story went, and wasn't particularly interested in hearing it replayed for the amusement of any further witnesses. Instead, he watched the personnel on the ground signal to one another, and the wing flaps on the plane flick up and down as the pilot readied the plane. The plane lurched into motion, and Hawkeye's stomach lurched too.

Vince was still talking. Somewhere through the haze of mental exhaustion and deliberate attempts to drown him out, Hawkeye caught the tail end of the story: "And the first guy goes absolutely crazy! He's screaming: "Don't you dare gossip about my personal life!" And the other guy just loses it! He's smashing the place up, punching walls, breaking stuff…"

Hawkeye gave a derisive snort at the creative exaggeration at work. His response went unnoticed, presumably mistaken for laughter.

"… and then he storms out. The first guy – he starts crying and just… runs off after him!"

Feeling his face flush, Hawkeye turned away again, hoping he wasn't visibly shaking. He didn't have it within himself to defend himself, nor make any corrections to the twisted story he'd just heard. He just pressed himself against the window and tried to make himself as small as possible. He'd had just about as much as he could take. All his fight was gone, and only a quiet, exhausted despair remained.

Across the aisle, more of the passengers continued to gossip, and Hawkeye tried to disappear into the fuselage, trying to ignore that feeling that somebody was sucking all the air out of the cabin.

"You know, I'm not even surprised. Some of those draftee doctors are mighty weird if you ask me."

"I heard a rumour half the guys in the medical branch are either queers or drunks."

There was a ripple of laughter and chatter around the tiny cabin, and Hawkeye pressed himself ever-tighter into his little corner. His salvation appeared in the form Flight Officer – a guardian angel in air force blue, complete with wings – and Hawkeye hoped that the distraction of the pre-flight register might spare him further humiliation. The officer began, with limited success, to go through the emergency procedures and take a final flight manifesto. His passengers, for the most part, paid him little attention.

One soldier prodded Vince in the shoulder with an unlit cigar. "Hey, I can believe that! I took some shrapnel a couple of months ago, ended up in a MASH unit, and there was this doctor out there – real flirty with everybody. Probably thought he was bein' funny or somethin'. Gave me the creeps."

"You'd think with all those nurses runnin' around, they'd have enough skirt to keep 'em going!" Raucous laughter and appreciative comments regarding the female medical personnel fluttered around the cabin.

"Yeah, there's more broads in those hospitals that there are in all the bars in Seoul!"

"Maybe it's all the disinfectant – or that sleepin' gas they use to put you under. Maybe it makes 'em go funny."

"This guy was real funny, lemme tell ya…" The soldier prepared to launch into his story, lighting his cigar.

This, however, drew the attention of the flight officer: "No smoking until after take-off!"

The soldier scowled. "Blow me."

In response to this, the flight officer confiscated the cigar, and returned, without further comment, to his flight roster. "Hollins."

The now-cigarless Hollins rose his hand with a despondent reply: "Yo." Sulking, he gave Vince another nudge. "This Marine didn't happen to catch the guy's name, did he?"

"Oh Jeez, I don't know! I think he might have mentioned it. Peterson… Pearson… something like that."

"Wasn't Pierce, was it?"

"Yes! Pierce! That's the guy!"

"Holy shit – that was the doctor!"

"You're kidding me!"

"As I live and breathe – surgeon up at the 4077th. Proper whack-job if you ask me."

"Pierce?"

Suddenly, the conversation ceased.

"Pierce, Benjamin Franklin?"

Hawkeye blinked. The cabin was quiet. The chatter had died down, and in its place there was a hideous silence that crackled like white noise with nervous energy. "What?"

He hadn't realised that his name was being spoken not by one of the gossiping passengers, but by the flight officer. Now he knew – and he also knew why every head in the cabin had turned to face him. Hollins was suddenly scrutinising him from across the aisle, a look of displeased recognition in his angry, narrowed eyes. A moment later, the Flight Officer put two and two together as well, and, with a flourish, tucked his clipboard under his arm and gestured to Hawkeye. "I'm so sorry, I'm going to have to ask you to move to the rear of the cabin right away."

Before Hawkeye could even register what was happening, the air force man had snatched up his duffel bag and was indicating down the aisle towards the back of the plane, where the mail bags were being stored. All eyes were on him now, and, under their accusing gaze, Hawkeye could feel his face flushing. Blood rushed in his ears as he took his bag and began to make his way back through the cabin. He couldn't quite stand upright in the confines of the aircraft, and he was forced to stoop, his eyes downcast. And, this time, it suited his mood. For once in his life, he didn't feel like striding out with his head high; he didn't have a witty retort for these people; he was beaten, utterly bereft of fighting spirit, chewed up and spat out; his spirit broken, not by threats of violence or vicious slurs or accusations of perversion, but by the light-hearted, playful gossip of strangers.

Behind him, he heard the name "Studebaker," being called, and Vince gave a gruff reply as he spread out into the now empty space recently vacated by one Doctor Benjamin Franklin Pierce.

The plane bumped and bounced as it accelerated down the runway, and Hawkeye struggled to keep his balance as he was buffeted this way and that. At last, safely hidden behind the curtain that separated the cabins, he shrugged his bag off his shoulder and onto the floor. There were few creature comforts in this part of the plane – all the chairs and much of the floor were occupied with mail bags – and the only places to sit were in the crew station. Here, at the front, there were just a couple of fold-down seats bolted to the walls, with seatbelts dangling above them, rattling as the plane rumbled along the tarmac, and Hawkeye didn't much like the idea of spending the entire flight in one of those.

"Nice!" He grimaced, kicking his bag into a corner. Not only had he been quarantined in the waiting room, but now he'd been sent to sit at the back of the plane with the cargo.

The curtain was whisked back, and the flight officer emerged, looking flustered. "I'm so sorry!"

Hawkeye shot him a glare. "Is this policy? Shove me in with the cargo so I don't contaminate the other passengers?"

"If I'd been paying attention, I never would have read your name out! I never meant to draw attention like that!"

"My… What?" Hawkeye stopped, stumbling over his words, and he realised that he'd read this situation utterly wrong. "Oh… oh!"

"Please, I need you to sit down."

Still dazed, Hawkeye was lead over to one of the seats, gently settled and strapped in, strangely conscious of the man's hand on his arm. Somehow, that simple touch felt so very meaningful, and he gradually began to piece together that had just happened. The flight officer knew – and he was protecting him. This was somebody who understood; somebody who wasn't treating him like a leper.

His heart soared a little, and his new-found companion seated himself opposite. A few seconds later, the plane left the runway, and Hawkeye's body responded in its usual unfavourable way to the sensation of rising rapidly off the face of the earth. His stomach lurched, his palms sweated, and his fingers gripped the edge of his seat tightly. He pressed his head back against the wall, hard enough to hurt.

Eyeing him with a look of concern, the flight officer frowned. "Do you get air sick?" he asked gently. "Do you want me to get you a bag?"

Hawkeye shook his head. "No, thanks. I could breathe into it, I guess, but only if I could stop my hands from shaking."

The plane climbed higher, its motion becoming smoother, the noise more bearable. Hawkeye found himself relaxing a little, his fingers releasing the edge of the seat and unlocking themselves. His thoughts were scattered and confused, but his gaze found its way to the window diagonally opposite, and he stared, breathing deeply, as Tokyo grew smaller and smaller. Houses shrank to matchboxes, people to ants, and, as the plane crept higher, he was struck by a sense of finality he hadn't quite been able to process when he'd flown out from Seoul: He would never see this corner of the world again. The events which had transpired here would undoubtedly shape his life in ways he couldn't even begin to contemplate, and yet, as the city scape began to blur into a collage of indistinguishable coastlines and land masses, the minutiae of the traumatic past few days ceased to matter. The lost friendships, the judgemental looks, the harsh words – all of them, he could leave behind. Frank Burns could rot forever in Uijeongbu for all Hawkeye cared. He'd never had to see him again. It was like Trapper had said…

Trapper.

Suddenly, the thought hit him like a punch to the gut. Trapper was gone, and all he had now were his memories. He glanced, hesitantly, at the flight officer sitting opposite him.

The man shot him a small, warm smile. "You feeling okay?"

The question took Hawkeye by surprise, but he nodded, then leaned forward, raising his voice as much as he dared. "Were you working on a flight like this one last night? This route? Tokyo to San Francisco?"

"No… No, I wasn't working yesterday. Sorry. Why do you ask?"

Hawkeye shook his head. "No reason."

A nod, and another friendly smile. "I'm Stanley, by the way."

"Hawkeye."

"Sorry for the way I bundled you in here just now. I could just see those guys getting rowdy, and I… well, I couldn't just let them have at you."

Hawkeye breathed a sigh of relief, almost overwhelmed that someone had shown him a kindness after these past few days. "I appreciate it."

Stanley had the most intense gaze – pale, grey-green eyes that barely blinked. He could almost be described as intimidating, were it not for the ever-present, lopsided smile. "You look exhausted," he said.

As if Stanley's words had served to remind him how tired he really was, Hawkeye suddenly felt weighed down by exhaustion, his body sinking heavily into his seat, his arms hanging limply. "I think I've been running on empty for three days now."

"I can tell." Those intensely pale eyes seemed to study his face for a moment. "You spent last night in a cell, I'm guessing."

"How could you tell? Is it my carefully dishevelled hair? The designer creases in my uniform? The three-day-old cultivation of stubble on what passes for my face?"

Stanley laughed and shook his head. "Look, once we level out, I'll get you a pillow and a blanket. You can stretch out in here and get some sleep – I won't mind."

Hawkeye stared at the floor. "I don't know. No offence, but I've seen foxholes that looked more comfortable."

"It's not so bad – especially if you curl up in the mail sacks!"

Laughing, Hawkeye eyed the heap of letters and parcels that took up most of the space. "Are you serious?"

"I fly long-haul a lot in these crates. I ought to know." Stanley shot him a broad smile. "Trust me." And, for reasons he couldn't quite fathom, Hawkeye did.

Stanley was right: the mail sacks were comfortable. With the addition of a blanket and a pillow, Hawkeye made himself a cosy nest and slept soundly for several hours. He was gently shaken awake when they began their descent into Guam for refuelling, and returned to his seat. He didn't move from it for the time they were stationary – to do so would risk throwing him into the firing line of his fellow passengers – and he was content enough to stay put. He was too exhausted to feel bored anyhow, and soon enough, they were in the air again. As they soared high above the Pacific, bound for San Francisco, Hawkeye began to shake off his sleepiness. Stanley, it turned out, didn't have too much to do on these flights except for organising his rambunctious passengers, and now they were underway once more, he shared a root beer out of his pack – "Non-alcoholic, I assure you!" – and tossed Hawkeye a candy bar.

Hawkeye raised his bottle. "You don't happen to have anything stronger in there, do you?"

Stanley chuckled, and they ate and drank together. The sugar perked Hawkeye up a little more, and, soon enough, he began to feel like himself again.

"I needed that," he said by a way of thanks, draining his bottle.

"I bet." Stanley chewed thoughtfully on a Hershey's caramel. He sat in silence for a moment, as if debating whether to take the conversation further. "What did they give you? Dishonourable or undesirable?"

Hawkeye blinked at him. It felt strange, discussing this with a perfect stranger. "The second one."

"Ah."

"Could have been worse, I guess." He was talking about it like it was all over. He knew deep down that this was just the beginning – that the court martial had just been the wound, and he would bear the scars forever – but it was a pleasant delusion to imagine that the worst was behind him. "Some people might say I got lucky."

Stanley nodded and raised his eyebrows. Looking away for a moment, he paused for a moment, as if debating whether to share his thoughts. In the end, he did: "Some people might say there's not much of a damned difference." Hawkeye's stomach lurched a little at that. His discomfort must have registered, as Stanley frowned. "Sorry. You probably don't need me running my mouth."

Hawkeye thought on that for a moment, worrying at his lower lip. He decided to bite the bullet. "You sound like you know a little about these things."

"I make it my business to get to grips with… relevant information." There was a pregnant pause, and Stanley's eyes flickered in the direction of the closed curtain, and the crowded cabin beyond. He dropped his voice a little. "Look, the short version is this: you're basically holding a blue discharge there. Now, it might not have a felony attached to it, but when your boss sees it, or if anybody in the civilian world sees it, they know it probably only means one thing."

His mind reeling, Hawkeye tried to piece together a future where his sexuality was stamped permanently on his record. How could he possibly explain this to his employers? His father…?

"Did I hear those guys say you were a doctor?"

Hawkeye swallowed, feeling suddenly nauseous. "Surgeon."

"Aw, Jeez…" His tone was sincere and sympathetic, but this conversation wasn't helping. Noticing Hawkeye's discomfort, Stanley changed the subject, leaning forward and patting Hawkeye's knee. "Hey, hey! Let's not go down that road now, huh? I don't wanna drag you down." Another pat on the knee. "Hey?"

Hawkeye looked up.

Stanley beamed at him. "What was he like?"

He was sure the question wasn't meant to sound lascivious, but the man's intense gaze and rascally grin gave the question something of a suggestive edge, and Hawkeye couldn't help but cackle with laughter.

Blissfully ignorant to the sound of his relatively innocuous question, Stanley continued to smile. "Well?"

Hawkeye laughed again and shook his head. "What exactly are you asking me?"

Now it was Stanley's turn to laugh. "I didn't mean like that! I just meant…" He flushed a little and trailed off, realising their raucous laughter might attract attention. He cast another courtesy glance towards the curtain, and then, satisfied that they were still alone, continued in a hushed tone: "What I mean is that anybody who decides to…" He paused, considering his phrasing, and dropped his voice a fraction more. "We all know what the risks are, so when we weigh it all up and decide to go with somebody… well, he's gotta be somebody pretty special. Right?"

His words seemed to resonate within Hawkeye's soul, and now, in spite of everything, a smile crept across his face. "Right…"

"So…?"

Hawkeye dropped his gaze, studying the floor. 'Special' didn't do Trapper justice, but it the absence of a word that did, Hawkeye nodded. "He was."

"Tell me…"

Stanley's voice was barely more than a whisper. There was a youthful glee about him, eager for a daring story of forbidden love, and suddenly he seemed worlds away from the flustered pen-pusher Hawkeye had taken him for when he had first boarded. Hawkeye laughed at the absurdity of it all. "You're serious! With two dozen over-developed lugs just a few feet away, separated only by a very poor excuse for interior textiles, are we really going to sit here and talk about guys?"

"No." Stanley shook his head. Suddenly, his voice was firmer, his expression more steely, but his eyes glistened as he spoke. "You're gonna tell me about your guy, because before you get back on home soil – before you start to deal with all the crap that damned discharge is gonna bring down on you – I want you to remember the good times. I want you to think about everything you shared, everything you did, everything you went through together, how you felt, and how he made you feel… and I want you to tell me he was worth it."

Hawkeye was speechless. There was something alarmingly intense, almost forceful, in Stanley's tone, but the tears in his eyes as he spoke softened his meaning. He noticed only now that Stanley was grasping his hand. Nodding, Hawkeye sniffed. "Okay…"

"Who was he?" The question was a whisper, barely louder than the hum of the engines.

Swallowing, Hawkeye began. "My bunkie. My best friend. He was…" Pausing, he wiped a tear from his eye, then laid his own hand on top of Stanley's. "He made it bearable, you know what I mean?"

Stanley nodded. "I do."

It was daylight in San Francisco. Exactly which part of which day remained to be seen, but Hawkeye figured he'd have time to work that out somewhere between here and his onward flight.

Stanley ushered the rest of the passengers out onto the tarmac, and, at last, Hawkeye pulled the curtain back and found himself faced with an empty cabin. He felt refreshed. Despite his initial hesitancy, Stanley's insistence on storytelling had left him with a pleasantly warm glow of romance in his heart and a smile on his face. He'd relived several dates, multiple evenings in the O.C. and one or two of their more risqué encounters, and it felt good to share them with someone. Now he stepped out into the cabin, and his companion shook his hand.

It really wasn't enough to show his gratitude. Hawkeye glanced about himself for a moment, then pulled the man into a hug. Stanley made a surprised "Oof!" sound as he was pulled into Hawkeye's arms, but didn't seem to object.

"I just realised," Hawkeye declared as they stepped apart, Stanley adjusting his cap, "I never answered your question."

"You didn't?"

Hawkeye took a deep breath, leaned closer, and whispered the words he hadn't truly felt until just now. "He was worth it."

Stanley smiled. The words seemed to have more of an effect that Hawkeye had anticipated. His face creased, and he nodded, ducking his head.

Hawkeye observed his reaction unfazed. He'd learned to recognise Stanley's emotional moments over their brief time as airplane buddies. The young air force man may be keeping a lot of secrets in his life, but he wore his heart on his sleeve, and Hawkeye wasn't stupid. It had taken him a long flight and a long conversation, but somewhere over the Pacific he'd untangled the traumatised human being sitting beside him. He raised a hand and tilted the peak of Stanley's cap upwards. "Hey."

Glancing up, Stanley managed a weak smile.

"Who was he?"

Stanley's eyes darted over to the doorway, lingering on the San Francisco skyline. "His name was Roger."

Hawkeye gave his tearful companion one last hug. He would never know the details of what happened to Roger, nor would he find out how Stanley had escaped the same fate. There simply wasn't time for the conversation, but Hawkeye hoped that, somehow, the sense of solidarity that has passed between them had brought this sweet, kindly man some comfort or closure. Slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder once more, Hawkeye stepped out of the plane, down the steps, and onto American soil.