My father always says war is inevitable. I remember being a little girl, sneaking out of bed and sitting on the landing, listening to him talk to his friends. They all agreed that nothing important ever comes without a cost, and some sacrifices are worth making. I never understood what those sacrifices were, exactly. I understood that soldiers could get wounded and die, but that was shrouded in so much glory that it didn't seem like such a terrible thing. I understand the sacrifices now, all of them. Dad and his friends talked about the glory, the battles and the land won, but never about what happens afterward. When the canons and guns grow silent, when the battlefields turn into just fields again.
Peace. Armistice. It's beautiful and wonderful and everything we've longed for; we are all beyond happy. We are also finding out that happiness hurts. My father and his friends never talked about that. I wish they had.
"Are you crying?"
"No."
Margaret sniffled and did nothing to wipe away the tears trickling down her nose. She was lying on her side, looking out over her tent. It didn't look like her tent anymore, though, it just looked like a tent. All of her things were packed, all of her clothes, and personal belongings. All the useless little knick-knacks you accumulate during three years. All the little trinkets that have absolutely no value, except your heart would break if you threw them away. All the things she brought back from Seoul, Tokyo, and Manila to try and make her tent feel more like a home. The decorative pillows, the scarves in happy colors, anything but green. The small dolls in traditional clothing, the liquid-filled globes that snowed if you turned them upside down. The one with tiny cherry trees inside was her favorite. The bottles of perfume, and the makeup she spent so much time applying simply because the routine of it made her feel human. Like a woman and not only a nurse with blood up to her elbows and the stench of young men turned inside out in her nose. With all of it packed away, it was clear her tent was never truly hers, just four flimsy walls and a roof that leaked. She had left no imprint whatsoever.
"Of course, you're not. It's just another case of eyeball leakage. Seems to be a lot of that going on, isn't it just our luck to have an epidemic on our hands right before we get to go home? Come here."
He kissed her bare shoulder and pulled her closer. She sniffled again and wiped her nose.
Yes, much eyeball leakage had taken place that whole evening. It had been surreal, almost like being back in school, at one of those parties that was about to go from fun to out of control, when there were too many emotions brewing that needed an outlet. The mood of the farewell dinner had felt just like that after a while, an almost hysterical kind of happiness that could shatter at any moment. Big chunks of melancholy mixed in with the giddy laughs and excited voices. It was almost impossible to think that come tomorrow, there wouldn't be a 4077 anymore, no more personnel, just people, scattering everywhere.
Everyone had talked about their plans for after the war, as if they would come home and the stage would be swept clean, and they could all just step into the third act of their lives. There was a before the war, a during, and now – there was an after. An after they could reach out and touch.
As if they all hadn't changed in ways they couldn't even comprehend. Twisted, and stretched into new forms that might not fit into the old, familiar play anymore.
Margaret didn't even know her own form anymore. She felt thinner. Not just from pounds lost due to hard work and bad food. There was no more armor forged of iron and ice. The thick, heavy coat the army had enshrouded her in since birth had been getting thinner and thinner, was it perhaps lost completely by now? She wasn't sure. Underneath, it was just her. About to step onto the stage of a play where she didn't know one single line. She felt thinner, but heavier, somehow. Heavier with memories, with the people that would always cling to her. The ones lost, and the ones that became friends. No, closer than friends. Family.
Her eyeballs kept leaking as she lay in the cot that was only hers for a few more hours, Pierce's arm around her, his breath against her hair. Doctor Pierce of Crabapple Cove. It felt so strange to think that she wasn't even going to get to know him.
It was a moment between, but she couldn't rest in it. She was so excited, filled with pure joy that the fighting was over, there would be no more wounded, the brand-new life waiting for her, the lives waiting for all of them. But time moved differently in Korea, and three years equaled an eternity. How were you supposed to move on from an eternity? She had never had one before, and letting go hurt, no matter the circumstances. She needed to pry her hands off it, but she had held on to it for so long, and her hands had turned to stone.
"So," he said, his voice low and close to her ear. "A hospital in the States, huh?"
She sighed and sniffled again.
"Yeah."
"When did that happen?"
"This afternoon. Two weeks ago. Two years ago, I don't know. I just want to… I think I want to stand still for a while. I want to work, and I want to help, but I need to stand still."
"I know what you mean. I'm sorry I haven't been around. If you wanted to talk about it, I mean."
"No, I'm sorry," she said and turned her head towards him as much as she could. "I'm sorry I couldn't help, that I didn't see. I didn't understand."
"That makes two of us. And I am so, so sorry about the changing room, I never meant to…"
"I know," she interrupted him. She didn't want to talk about it, not think about it, never go back to that horrible day. The fear and helplessness had been dreadful, feeling her own and seeing his. How he went from menacing to a lost little boy in just seconds, the terrified confusion in his eyes. She could feel her heart start beating faster when her thoughts, against her will, slipped back to those dark moments on that black afternoon.
She spun around and faced him, suddenly anxious to see that he was just him, not the wolf anymore.
"It wasn't you," she said, "I saw it in your eyes, you weren't there." She pushed his hair out of his forehead and caressed the side of his face, clean-shaven and soft. "You are now, that's all that matters."
It was not entirely true. The way his eyes wrinkled when he smiled at her was the same, the blue was deep like the sky on a September morning. He really was there, but not all of him. Something in him had been lost along the way, swallowed up by the wolf, maybe, before it left him.
He let his fingers run over her arm, down over her hip. His touch was so light, it felt almost like a butterfly against her skin. Her skin that wasn't cast in iron and ice anymore.
For a while, they looked at each other in silence.
It was like a new part of him looking out at her, but it wasn't the wolf anymore, not the wild thing.
It was someone older, tired. Like she was getting a preview of the old man who would one day sit on the porch back in Crabapple Cove, with the lilac bush blooming, and think back on his life. Of the surreal, crazy years he spent in Korea. The people he helped, the ones he grew close to. Would she know him then, even a little? Would they stay in touch at all? Call, or write? Christmas cards, maybe.
'Merry Christmas, Hawkeye! Hope you, Jenny, and the kids are doing great! Lance and the twins say hi!'
The thought of the future made her head spin. A future where their everyday endeavors wouldn't be intertwined. It was only natural, of course, but for a moment the pure vastness of the future made her breath catch in her throat.
Would there be someone for him? A Jenny, or an Elisabeth, or a Lucy. Someone sweet who would make him pancakes for breakfast and kiss him goodnight. Someone kind, who didn't push his buttons just because it made her feel better for five seconds, who didn't talk back and start fights. Someone who would listen to his stories of a place far, far away and hardly even believe them.
Would there be someone for her? A Lance, or an Eric, or a Thomas? Someone with kind eyes who would pick her up from work, and take her on vacations to the sea? Hold her when she had a nightmare. Someone calm, who didn't get on her very last nerve just for the hell of it. Someone who didn't always have to have the last word, someone who wouldn't talk and talk and talk til she thought her ears would fall off. Someone who would shake his head in disbelief when she told him about the people she once knew.
Would there be children, would his and hers play together? Tiny terrors, running around wreaking havoc during a reunion, maybe, while their parents sat in the shade having iced tea, making polite conversation.
She looked into the blue eyes of the man in front of her and thought about making polite conversation with a version of him she didn't even know anymore, and her head spun even faster. It felt like she was caught in a maelstrom, tossed between happiness and uncertainty, between what she had known for three years and what had not yet happened, her hands still not willing to let go of the eternity they had gotten used to holding on to.
"What are you thinking about," he asked, his fingers drawing patterns over her hip.
"Jenny and Lance."
"Who are they?"
She sighed. "I don't know, we haven't met them yet."
He frowned. "Okay, that's weird. You're weird, Houlihan. And I know weird. Insane. I'm the king of insane."
"Such an ego! You're more of a court jester."
He laughed, and the sound of his laugh was all familiar. Just the man she knew.
"I'll take that, the court jester of insane," he said and moved even closer. The narrow cot moaned in protest, creaked under the shift of weight, and she had to grab his arm not to fall backward and tumble off it.
"God, I miss real beds," he said with a sigh. "I'm gonna fall into mine and stay there for weeks, just have dad bring me all my meals there. What do you miss the most?"
A sense of being in control. A world that actually made sense, where there was right or wrong, not endless gray zones. The way she used to see herself, back when she was someone who didn't question everything, who just played her part and accepted the rules of the game. A time when her dreams weren't quicksand. She chose an easy answer, though.
"Couches. I miss sitting on a couch."
"Yeah, couches are good. The deep ones, where you can pull your legs up, or just tip over and take a nap, those are great."
"And stairs," she said, "things are so flat here. Except for the helipad, everything is on the ground. I miss walking up a regular flight of stairs, not running, just walking. No hurry."
"You know, I haven't walked up normal stairs in forever, whenever I was in Tokyo or something, I always took the elevator. I bet I'm not even gonna make it up to my bedroom, I'm just gonna stand in front of the steps up to the porch and not know what to do."
"You probably should stay away from that porch, with the badgers and everything."
"What badgers?"
He leaned his head in his hand and looked down at her.
"You told me about the badgers, remember? During the bug out?"
"Right, when we stayed. That was some night. Hey," he said and patted her hip, "did I ever thank you for staying?"
"No, you didn't."
"Well, thank you. I never understood why, though. I mean, I get why Radar stayed, I was his number-one favorite and everything, but you? I was never your favorite. Except during fun, sexy times."
Margaret drew in air between clenched teeth and made a face.
"Yeah, not during those times either. Especially not during those times."
"Shut your mouth, Houlihan!"
He poked his finger into her side, making her squeal. Out of habit, she threw her hand over her mouth to keep the noise down, but really – who cared? From what she had heard when she made her way back to her tent earlier, they weren't the only ones saying goodbye in this way.
"I mean, sure, I'm no Frank Burns," he said, and she snorted a laugh and shoved his hand away.
"Oh," he continued. "So, am I right in assuming you are not settling down anywhere near Fort Wayne?"
"You are correct. I'm heading to Richmond, actually."
"Yeah?"
"Mhm. The VA Hospital, I have a friend who is stationed there too. I think it will be good."
It was gonna be good, it was a good step to take. A smart one. A brand-new stage, a brand-new play, but if Margaret Houlihan knew anything, it was how to improvise. Adapt. It was a very smart decision. One she hadn't told her father about yet; she did not look forward to that at all. He wouldn't think she was ungrateful, would he? He would be happy she was in control of her life, took charge. Of course he was gonna be happy, proud even. He was such a wonderful man.
"Well, that's great," Pierce said. "Good for you, and good for Richmond. And you know, if you need some expert help, you can just give me a call, and I'll head down there and impress everyone with my incredible skills."
She smiled. What would that be like, to meet Doctor Pierce of Crabapple Cove, the civilian? Work together in a real hospital, have lunch together. Talk about ordinary patients over a nice chicken salad in the cafeteria. Again, the thought of a polite conversation with Doctor Pierce, the stranger, made her feel very uncomfortable.
"Wouldn't it be great, though" he continued, "to work together on a sprained ankle or a case of pink eye?"
"Why in the world would I ask you to come all the way down there for a sprained ankle or a case of pink eye?"
"Well, it would obviously be a ploy to get into my pants. I know you, Houlihan, you're sneaky like that, you little vixen you."
He gave her a very lecherous grin that took her all the way back to the first time they met. It was kind of nice to see it, a quick little stroll down memory lane.
"Sure, you keep telling yourself that everyone wants to get into your pants," she said, patted his arm, and rolled over on her back. The frame of the bed pressed into her shoulder. Yes, sleeping in a real bed would be wonderful. To have a real nightstand with a nice reading lamp and a big stack of books on it. To wake up slowly and just lie there knowing there would be no footsteps in the gravel outside, no 'Major Houlihan, we need you right now.' Get out of bed, make a big pot of strong, hot coffee. Drink it slowly while standing in the window, looking out at the world outside. A world moving leisurely, waking up with a yawn and a stretch and the sound of birds singing, not to the sound of choppers and running feet.
Pierce let his hand slide down to her lower abdomen and lightly touched her scar.
"Well," he said, "at least you will have a nice little memento to carry with you. I used my fanciest stitches and everything. Finest kind. "
His fingers danced over her skin, like the scar was in braille and he needed to decipher it.
"You did a wonderful job," she said. "But that was probably only because you feared the consequences otherwise."
"Absolutely true. I still think a snazzy B.F.P. would have been more of a conversation starter, really, but fine."
She felt goosebumps on her skin as he kept circling the scar. It was small, but the piece of pink skin was yet another thing that made her feel heavier. It was like an anchor, one always there to remind her, to keep her rooted. A tether.
"Thank you," he mumbled without meeting her eyes.
"For what?"
"For this. This… thing we've had. The time we've spent together. It's been... important. I mean, great and hot and exciting, and it… helped. You know? I'm sorry, that sounds so very stupid."
"No," she said and touched his chest, "I know. It did help. You were right, it's stupid to have these interlocking bodies and not put them to use."
"Did I say that? Wow, I'm smart!" He grinned at her. "You know, we should have done this from the beginning."
She laughed and rolled her eyes.
"Right, that would have ended well. Can you even imagine?"
"Actually, yes I can. I did imagine it, quite a lot, and my imagination is wild and vivid."
He waggled his eyebrows at her, and there it was again. His old self. Classic Hawkeye Pierce, with the jokes and the flirting and the constant womanizing. The one she had wanted to punch, so very often, but not anymore. Not as much anyway.
"But I know, us hooking up back then would have pushed the world clear off its axel." He grinned. "But it did happen eventually. And come to think of it, Trap owes me some money, actually."
"Why?"
"Well, you see, we had this bet. Which one of us who first would get to know Major Houlihan in the biblical sense. Although we didn't use those exact words, I'm cleaning it up in case Father Mulcahy is nearby. And you can't get mad at me, because it was 100 years ago, and we weren't even the same people back then. And, since I won, I'll take you out to dinner when Trap sends me the cheque."
She frowned.
"How much was it?"
"50 bucks."
"What?" She swatted his hand away from her stomach. "Only 50? That's nothing!"
"Well, excuse me for not being Charles Emerson Winchester III. 50 is a lot!"
She frowned at him again and made a small, angry sound deep in her throat, but honestly – she wasn't angry. Or surprised, of course those two made a stupid bet like that.
Pierce and McIntyre, the thought of them together felt surreal, like characters from a movie she had watched a long, long time ago. They had all been children.
"Come on," he said, "I made a stupid bet; you tried to get me court-martialed. I poured pudding in your pillow; you gave me the flu."
"What?"
"With the shot, remember? I got sick!"
She stared at him, what on earth was he talking about?
"Margaret, the shot! In my butt! I believe that was the first time you got closely acquainted with that beautiful part of my anatomy, and I'm quite offended you don't remember. When we were the only people standing. The vaccine!"
"Oh, right. Well, you deserved it."
That felt like an old movie too, a bad copy with scrapes and no sound, just people running around acting foolish for reasons she couldn't even remember.
"And," she continued, "you better dig deep into your wallet, buster, because when you take me to dinner, I'm ordering two of everything. And champagne."
"Deal."
They shook hands, very officially.
"You know, I…" he started, but then there were steps approaching, running feet in the gravel, and she stopped him with two fingers over his mouth.
Something was wrong, there was an emergency, and they were needed. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up, Pierce did the same.
Then suddenly, the steps stopped, and there was a shrieking laughter.
"Oh my god, Tim, not out here!"
Another voice, a darker one, joined in on the laughter and the steps disappeared into the night, in an off-beat kind of march.
Margaret exhaled and started to laugh too. Yes, apparently others were saying goodbye in the same way as she and Pierce. Pierce chuckled.
"Whew!" he said and exaggeratedly wiped his forehead. "For a second there I thought I was going to have to perform naked surgery, because I don't know where my pants are."
"Right?" Margaret felt the surge of adrenaline course through her body, her heart was beating very fast. Then she gasped and stared at Pierce.
"Wait. Was that Cassidy and Halsted?"
Pierce gasped too, and his eyes grew wide.
"I think it was! You know, he was looking quite happy the other day when I saw him coming out of the supply room. Very smug."
Margaret turned to face him and slapped him lightly on the thigh.
"I sent Cassidy in there to start packing up! Oh my god!"
"Oh, my goodness, Major Houlihan, you little unaware matchmaker you!" He grinned at her, and there he was again. The person she had known a long time ago, before heaviness, heartbreak, and sorrow moved in, before he shattered. He looked like he used to when he had some grand prank planned. Once, it had been a sure sign she needed to check under her bed and peek carefully around corners. Back in another lifetime. The happy shine in his eyes was beautiful.
"Well," he said. "Good for them. And good for our reflexes, we would have been out there in three seconds, pants or no pants. We're like Pavlov's dogs, aren't we, trained to react to running feet on gravel, emergency or not. And choppers too, good thing there aren't any in Crabapple Cove, I would just spend my days running after them, yapping at the sky. I wonder if that will ever wear off."
She wondered the same thing. It was impossible to say in which ways it would be different, which quirks she had picked up during the past three years that were just a part of her now. Maybe she would lie awake in Richmond too, woken by the sound of choppers a world away, certain she needed to be somewhere.
He looked out over her tent, and all of a sudden, the heaviness in him was there again, caught up with him in an instant, like a curtain falling.
"Hey," she said and gave his thigh a squeeze. "Are you okay?"
He nodded and turned to look at her again, put his hand over hers.
"Do you wanna head back?" she asked. Maybe he needed to get some sleep, suddenly she felt guilty for not letting him get some much-needed rest. He had a long journey ahead of him.
"No, I don't want to yet. Come here."
He pulled her down on the bed again, his back against the wall, her stretched out in front of him. With his arm around her, she suddenly felt like crying again. The sun would come up soon, and the last day in camp would begin. It was too much to take in.
"I really don't want to go back yet," he mumbled against her hair, and let his hand slide back down to her scar, started tracing circles around it again.
Margaret exhaled, closed her eyes, and pressed back the tears that might be sad or might be happy, who even knew anymore, and allowed herself to relax against him. There were words in her head, many, many words, things she wanted to tell him, but the words were weightless and elusive, they kept fluttering out of reach.
Pierce let the circles grow wider, more insistent. She moved her leg, hooked her foot around his calf, and leaned her hips closer against him, earning her another creak of the bed.
Then words weren't important anymore.
For a little while, she needed to simply rest in the moment between, let her thoughts scatter, and enjoy the touches of the man behind her, nothing more, nothing less. He had won a bet, after all.
She felt him beginning to move behind her, and his breath tickled against her neck as he pushed her hair out of the way for his lips.
In that moment, everything about him was familiar. His touches were the same, light and teasing, but determined. Demanding, just like they had been that first time on the dirt floor. And the times after that, in the secret little nooks of reality that were just theirs. Comradery, stress relief, the thing that had kept the narrow road of sanity a little bit wider, or simply a way to blow off steam to keep your head from exploding. Whatever it had been between them, it was theirs. They knew.
There was no wolf anymore, he wasn't lost, and neither was she. She wasn't afraid of the next act in her life, the heaviness in her body was simply pleasure, not three years of baggage.
In that moment, in the creaking cot in the tent that soon wouldn't be hers anymore, with the man who would soon turn into someone she didn't know, she rested in the familiarity of his touch, fell into it completely.
She didn't have to think, or plan, or miss. Just be.
She gasped and pressed even closer to him as his fingers explored further, deeper, and she could feel his smile against her shoulder. So very smug, that was all familiar too. But it was okay, she could let him have that.
The fire, the flames between them had always burned bright, whether they were flames of hate, reluctant respect, attraction, or friendship, and in those trembling moments just before everything changed, the fire burned bright still.
When words failed, there was always that. Always the fire.
Author's Note:
The kiss between Margaret and Hawkeye when they say goodbye is beautiful, and I just figured that kiss was a continuation of what happened the night before. I really wanted to give them one more scene together, I wanted it to be melancholy but with a bit of humor, both of them aware of how much they had come to mean to each other, and both of them struggling to find the right words.