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Margaret always felt like a languid cat in the warm, humid heat. She moved through the afternoons as if the heat had hands, as if it pressed against her shoulders and coaxed her down into stillness. Ever since she moved to Southern California, there was a quiet, hot, and humid insistence that settled into her joints and made a home there. Her bones felt steeped in it, softened, heavy as if they might dissolve if she stood too quickly. Her eyelids followed, lowering in slow surrender, the world dimming not all at once but in gentle, permissive stages.
The apartment encouraged it. There was that window behind the couch, tall and patient, where the light came in honey-thick and unbroken. It spilled across the cushions and stayed there, warming the fabric until it seemed to breathe. By midafternoon, the couch became something else entirely, not furniture but an invitation. Margaret would sometimes stand there for a moment, glass of ice water sweating in her hand, a bowl of sliced fruit dripping sweetness onto her fingers, and feel the pull of it like gravity.
She told herself it would only be a minute. Two, at most. Just enough to rest her eyes.
She would lie down carefully at first, as if she might disturb something delicate, arranging herself on the warm cushion with a precision that belonged to another life. The cold of the fruit would still linger on her tongue, the sugar dissolving slowly, and the chill of the water would sit bright and fleeting in her throat. Sometimes, if she felt indulgent in a way that bordered on defiance, there would be ice cream instead, eaten standing at the counter, straight from the carton, the cold so sharp it almost hurt. That, too, would soften into something languid once she lay down, the contrast between the heat and the cold blurring until it was all just sensation, distant and unimportant.
And then she would sleep.
Not a sharp fall into unconsciousness, but a drifting. The light would press through her eyelids in a dull orange glow, her thoughts loosening, unspooling, until they no longer held shape. Time thinned there. It stretched, it folded in on itself. She never felt the moment she slipped under, only the slow erasure of the need to stay awake.
When she opened her eyes again, it was always evening. The sun withdrawn, the room dim and cooler, shadows lengthening along the walls like something reclaiming its space. There was always a brief, suspended second where she did not know where she was, where the day had gone, or who she was supposed to be now. Then it would return to her in pieces. Work. The hospital. The uniform folded neatly over the chair.
She never minded the lost hours. Not really. There was something merciful in them, something clean. Sleep did not ask anything of her. It did not demand precision or composure or the steady, unflinching competence she had once worn like armor. It took her as she was and asked nothing in return. It was, she thought sometimes, the closest she had come to herself in a long while.
The hunger came with it, as constant and as quiet as the heat. It lived somewhere just beneath her ribs, a low, steady ache that never quite resolved. It was not delicate. It did not concern itself with restraint or propriety. It wanted, and it wanted without apology.
She fed it gladly.
There was a kind of reverence in the way she ate now, though she would not have named it as such. Food was no longer an afterthought, no longer something taken quickly between obligations. It was the center of the day, a small, reliable pleasure that did not shift or vanish. She thought about it often. Planned it. Anticipated it with a patience that bordered on devotion.
Savory things first, most days. Soups that clung to the spoon, thick and salted just enough to make her drink more water afterward. Stews that filled the apartment with a slow, steady scent, something grounding, something that made the space feel occupied even when she was alone. Potato salad, macaroni salad, simple things, but made carefully, each ingredient deliberate. Even coleslaw, which she had once dismissed without thought, had become something she returned to, the sharpness of it cutting cleanly through the heaviness of the heat.
And then the sweetness. Always the sweetness. Chocolate cake, dense and almost too rich, the kind that lingered on the tongue long after the last bite. Pies with fruit softened into syrup, their edges browned just enough to give way under her fork. Cobblers that steamed when she broke them open, paired with ice cream that melted too quickly in the warmth of the room, running into the fruit and pooling at the bottom of the dish.
She ate slowly when she could, stretching the experience, letting it last. Other times, she did not bother pretending at restraint. She ate with a quiet urgency, as if something might take it from her if she hesitated.
It never quite filled her. There was always more space, it seemed, an endless hollow that welcomed everything and remained unchanged. She could have kept going, she thought, indefinitely. Another bowl, another slice, another spoonful. The idea of stopping felt arbitrary, almost unnecessary.
She wondered, occasionally, where it all went. Not in any practical sense, but in a way that felt larger than that. How something could be taken in so completely and leave so little behind. How the body could absorb and absorb and still ask for more, as if it were trying to replace something it could not quite name, but she did not dwell on it for long.
Margaret would sit with her plate in her lap, the window glowing behind her, the air heavy and still, and feel suspended in it all. The heat, the light, the softness of the cushions beneath her, the slow rhythm of her own breathing. Nothing pressing, nothing demanding. Just the faint awareness of time passing somewhere beyond her, and the gentle, persistent sense that she could stay like this a little longer. Just a little longer.
By the time August came, Hawkeye had already threaded himself through her year four separate times, arriving like something seasonal, something that did not belong to her but returned anyway. Margaret began to measure the months by him, not by calendars or shifts at the hospital, but by the anticipation of his knock at the door, the particular rhythm of it, careless and familiar. She loved when he came. The apartment seemed to wake up around him, or perhaps she did. It was difficult to tell the difference anymore.
He laughed at her, often, but never with cruelty. It was a kind of quiet astonishment, as though he had stumbled upon something he could not quite explain. The first time, he stood in the doorway of the living room, jacket slung over his shoulder, watching her stretched along the couch in the full spill of afternoon light.
“You’re asleep again,” he said, not disapproving, only curious, like he was naming a phenomenon.
Margaret squinted up at him, the sun pressing gold against her eyelids. “I was resting.”
“You’ve been resting since I got here.”
She had felt a flicker of something then, something small and sharp. Guilt, maybe. He had come all that way, crossing states and time zones and whatever else lay between them, and she could barely keep her eyes open long enough to greet him properly. There was an expectation buried somewhere deep in her, an older version of herself that insisted she should be upright, attentive, composed.
But the heat pressed down, and the couch held her, and even the sound of his voice seemed to lull rather than stir.
“I’m listening,” she murmured, which made him laugh again, softer this time.
It lingered, that feeling, for a while. The sense that she was failing at something unspoken. Until the afternoon, he stopped moving.
She had woken briefly, the way she often did, surfacing just enough to notice the shift in the light. The room had gone hazy, the edges of things blurring into shadow. Hawkeye had been sitting at first, one arm draped along the back of the couch, talking about something she could no longer recall. Then his voice had slowed, the spaces between his words stretching wider and wider until they broke apart entirely.
When she turned her head, he was asleep. Not in any deliberate way, he had simply folded into it, chin dipped toward his chest, one hand still loosely curled as if he had meant to gesture and forgotten how.
Margaret watched him for a moment, something warm and private settling in her chest. Then, without thinking too much about it, she nudged him over, creating just enough space for herself. He made a small, indistinct sound but did not wake.
She arranged herself against him, not carefully at all this time, one leg draped over his, her head finding the hollow between his shoulder and neck. He was warm, warmer than the sun-soaked cushions, and solid in a way the rest of her life was not. She fell asleep almost immediately.
After that, she stopped apologizing for it. If he noticed, he didn’t say anything. Or if he did, it was only to fold himself into her rhythm, to meet her where she had already settled. They spent whole afternoons like that, drifting in and out of consciousness, the world outside reduced to light and heat and the distant, unimportant sounds of the street.
He brought other things with him, too, not just himself. The kitchen changed when he was in it. It became something alive, something in motion. Margaret would sit at the small table or lean against the counter, half-watching, half-lost in the cadence of it. He moved easily, without hesitation, as though he had memorized the space in the few short hours he’d been there.
“You have nothing in here,” he told her once, opening a cabinet and finding it nearly bare.
“I have enough.”
“You have canned soup and a jar of peanut butter.”
“I said enough.”
He shook his head, but he was smiling when he did it. The next day, he came back with bags of groceries that crowded the counters and filled the small refrigerator until it hummed with the effort.
What he made with it felt excessive, almost unreal. Sauces that simmered and thickened, deep with flavor, layered in a way she could not begin to unravel. Steak seared just enough to hold its juices, cut open to reveal something tender and exact. Even the simplest things seemed transformed under his hands, elevated into something that demanded attention.
Margaret gave in willingly. She ate more when he was there. Not out of obligation, not even out of indulgence, but because it felt like the natural extension of everything else. The heat, the sleep, the way her body had softened into wanting. His food fit into that space perfectly, as though it had been designed for it.
“This is ridiculous,” she said once, halfway through a meal she had not meant to finish.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is.”
He watched her with that same quiet astonishment, chin resting in his hand. “Where does it all go?”
She swallowed, considering the question as if it might have an answer. “Nowhere,” she said finally. “It just disappears.”
He laughed at that, but there was something else in his expression, something softer, almost thoughtful.
Mornings were the best of it; she was not a morning person, had never been, but with him there, it became something else entirely. She would wake slowly, surfacing from sleep in layers, aware first of the light, then the faint clatter from the kitchen, then the smell.
Coffee, rich and sharp, cutting cleanly through the heaviness of the air. And beneath it, something sweeter. Batter hitting a hot pan, the quiet sizzle of it, the scent of it turning golden. She would follow it without thinking, drawn from the bedroom into the kitchen, still wrapped in the last remnants of sleep. He would already be there, sleeves rolled, moving with that same easy certainty.
“You’re up,” he’d say, glancing over his shoulder.
“Barely.”
“Good enough.”
The pancakes were always perfect. She did not know how he managed it, how something so simple could come out so exact every time. Fluffy, impossibly light, stacked high on the plate. He poured syrup over them without restraint, the sweetness pooling, soaking in. She ate them slowly at first, then faster, chasing the warmth of them, the way they seemed to fill something deeper than hunger, and the coffee. It made no sense. It was the same machine, the same grounds she used, and yet his tasted different. Better. Fuller. As though he had coaxed something out of it she could not reach.
“What are you doing differently?” she asked once, watching him measure it out.
“Nothing.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is,” he said, shrugging. “Maybe you just like it more when I make it.”
She didn’t argue with that.
He stayed a week this time. Longer than before. Long enough for the apartment to forget what it felt like without him in it. By the second day, the thought had already taken hold, stay.
It came to her in pieces at first. While she watched him at the stove, while she woke to the sound of him moving through the other room, while she felt the steady rise and fall of his breathing beside her on the couch. It threaded itself through everything, attaching to small, ordinary moments and making them feel suddenly precarious. By the third day, it had sharpened into something she could no longer ignore; she wanted him to stay. Not for another week, not for another visit circled on some distant calendar, but indefinitely. Permanently. The word felt too large, too fragile to say aloud, but it sat there anyway, undeniable.
It wasn’t just the food, though, that alone might have been enough to persuade her. It was the way he filled the space without overwhelming it, the way he made her laugh without trying too hard, catching her off guard until the sound of it surprised them both. It was the way he held her, not tentatively, not as if she might break, but as though she had already proven she wouldn’t. It was the kisses, too. Not hurried, not demanding. Lingering, patient. The kind that seemed to exist outside of time, stretching moments into something softer, something that did not need to end.
That afternoon, they were back on the couch, the light slanting in at an angle that made everything look suspended. Margaret lay half on top of him, her cheek pressed against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm there.
“Hawkeye,” she said, her voice quiet, almost lost in the heat.
“Mm?”
She hesitated, the word catching somewhere between thought and speech. Stay hovered there, heavy and uncertain. Instead, she shifted closer, her hand curling into the fabric of his shirt. He responded without question, his arm tightening around her, pulling her in just a little more.
She did not ask him to stay; the words lived somewhere inside her, fully formed, pressing faintly against the back of her teeth, but she would not let them out. There was something almost indecent about the asking, a kind of exposure she could not quite bear. It required a softness she had spent years training out of herself, smoothing over, disguising beneath precision and control. To want something so plainly, and worse, to say it aloud, felt like stepping into open air without knowing if the ground would be there.
Margaret had never trusted emotions, not entirely. They were unreliable things, prone to swelling at the wrong moments, to breaking through when they were least convenient. She had learned early to keep them contained, to press them into smaller, more manageable shapes. Duty had been easier. Discipline had been safer. Even loneliness, in its own way, had been predictable. Love was something else entirely.
She could not say when it had begun with him, only that at some point she had looked up and found him there, already settled in, already familiar. It was disorienting, the way it had happened without her noticing. Hawkeye Pierce, of all people. Careless where she was careful, irreverent where she had built her life on structure. He should have unsettled her. He should have passed through her life like everything else, temporary, contained.
Instead, he had found the quiet spaces she did not even know she had left unguarded, and now he was there.
She thought, sometimes, of all the ways she had tried to keep herself intact. The careful boundaries, the distance. How fiercely she had protected that small, essential part of herself, as if it were something that could be stolen if she were not vigilant. She could not quite understand how he had gotten past all of it.
But he had, and so she did not ask him to stay.
She let the week unfold as it would, let the days soften and blur into one another, let the small routines settle into place without naming what they meant. She watched him move through her apartment as if he belonged there, felt the quiet rightness of it without daring to examine it too closely.
When he packed his bag, she did not stop him. There was a moment, briefly, where she thought she might. He stood by the door, jacket in his hands, the late afternoon light falling behind him in that same honeyed way it always did. The room felt suspended, held in that thin space between before and after.
“Margaret,” he said, not as a question, not quite.
She looked at him, steady, composed. “You’ll miss your train.”
A flicker of something crossed his face then. “Yeah,” he said after a second. “I will.”
He kissed her goodbye the way he always did, warm and certain, as if nothing had shifted. As if everything was exactly as it had been. She let herself lean into it for that brief, contained moment, memorizing the shape of it without admitting that she was doing so.
Then he was gone, the apartment changed almost immediately, though nothing in it had moved. The air felt different, thinner somehow, as if something essential had been taken out of it. The quiet returned, but it was not the same quiet she had known before. This one pressed in, heavier, more insistent.
She stood there for a while after the door closed, not moving, not thinking, just listening to the absence of him. It settled slowly.
That afternoon, she lay down on the couch out of habit, positioning herself in the warm square of sunlight. The cushions held the faintest trace of him, something she could not quite identify but felt all the same. She closed her eyes, waiting for sleep to take her the way it always did, easily, without resistance, it did not come.
She drifted at the edges of it, hovering just outside that familiar surrender. Her body was heavy, her eyes tired, but her mind would not loosen. It circled, restless, returning again and again to the same small details. The sound of his voice in the kitchen. The way he laughed was sudden and unrestrained. The weight of his arm around her, steady and thoughtless, she turned onto her side, then onto her back, adjusting, searching for something that would settle her.
When she finally slept, it was shallow and uneven, filled with fragments that dissolved the moment she tried to hold onto them. She woke more tired than before, the kind of tired that sat just beneath the surface, unreachable.
The hunger changed, too; she ate that evening because it was what she did. After all, the rhythm of it had been established, and she did not know what else to replace it with. She made something simple, barely paying attention, the motions automatic. When she sat down to eat, she expected the same quiet satisfaction, the same steady pleasure that had carried her through the long afternoons. It wasn’t there; the food tasted flat, indistinct. The textures were the same, the temperature was right, but something essential was missing. She took another bite, then another, as if repetition might correct it, might bring back what she had lost.
It didn’t, she set the fork down after a while, the plate still half full. For a moment, she considered getting up, making something else. Something richer, sweeter, more deliberate. She thought of the cakes, the pies, the slow, indulgent meals she had come to rely on, but the thought of it felt distant, unconvincing.
The apartment was quiet again, properly quiet now, without interruption or variation. It stretched out around her, familiar and unchanged, and yet it no longer fit in the same way. There was too much space in it, too much room for things to echo.
Margaret sat there for a long time, her hands resting loosely in her lap, her gaze unfixed. She did not say his name. She did not say stay, but the absence of both lingered, steady and undeniable, filling the room in a way nothing else could.
The weeks passed without distinction, each one folding quietly into the next until August thinned and gave way to September without ceremony. The heat did not leave so much as loosen its grip, easing only slightly, as if reluctant to surrender its place. Even at night, it lingered, clinging to the walls, settling into the floors, waiting for her when she came home in the early hours.
Margaret moved through it all with a kind of muted awareness, as though something essential had been turned down inside her. She missed him. It was not a sharp ache; it lived lower than that, deeper, woven into the fabric of her days in a way that made it difficult to separate from anything else. It was there when she woke, when she ate, when she lay down in the long, quiet afternoons and found sleep slipping further and further out of reach.
She missed his smile first, the particular crookedness of it, how it never quite aligned with itself. Then his laugh, which came easily and often, filled the space around her without effort. His voice, too, threaded through her memory at odd moments, saying things she could not quite recall but recognizing the cadence of them all the same, and his hands, the way he held her, had not been careful in the way she might have expected. It had been certain, unthinking, as though it had never occurred to him to do anything else. At night, half-asleep, she would reach without realizing it, her body remembering before her mind did, searching for the solid warmth that was no longer there; she missed all of him, though she rarely allowed herself to think it so plainly.
The heat had returned in full, suddenly in the middle of September, excessive and misplaced, pressing down with a stubborn insistence that felt almost unnatural for the time of year. The air was thick, unmoving. Even the dark offered no relief.
Margaret came home at three in the morning, the hour settling around her like something unfinished. She had taken to working nights more often, arranging her shifts so that her days remained open, available for the sunlight she still chased out of habit. The hospital at night was quieter, though not fully. It held a different kind of tension, one that hummed beneath the surface rather than rising above it.
By the time she reached her apartment, she carried that hum with her. She closed the door behind her with a soft, deliberate click, sealing herself into the stillness. For a moment, she stood there, her hand resting against the wood, as if orienting herself, as if the act of arriving required confirmation.
Then she stepped out of her shoes, one and then the other, leaving them slightly askew near the door. The coolness of the floor beneath her feet was brief, almost imagined, already fading under the weight of the heat that had settled into everything.
The apartment felt larger at that hour, emptier. The shadows stretched differently, less defined, pooling in the corners without shape.
She moved into the kitchen without turning on the overhead light, navigating instead by memory and the faint spill of streetlight through the window. The glass sat where it always did. The faucet turned with the same quiet resistance.
Water rushed out, clear and steady. She filled the glass to the top and added ice without thinking, the cubes cracking softly as they met the surface. Condensation formed almost immediately, beading along the outside, slipping down in slow, uneven trails.
Margaret lifted it to her lips and drank deeply, the cold sharp enough to startle. It spread through her in a clean, immediate line, a brief interruption to the heaviness that had settled there. She stayed like that for a moment, the glass still in her hand, the kitchen dim and quiet around her.
There was a memory attached to it, sudden and unwelcome, him, standing in the same place, leaning back against the counter with that careless posture he always seemed to fall into. Watching her over the rim of his own glass, amused by something she had said or not said. The ease of it. The unremarkable intimacy of sharing space without thinking about it.
She set the glass down a little too quickly; the sound echoed more than it should have. Margaret exhaled slowly, her fingers still curved as though they held something. The air felt thicker now, harder to move through. She reached for the glass again, taking another drink, slower this time. The cold had already dulled, the edge of it softened into something less distinct; nothing lingered in the apartment the way it used to.
After a while, Margaret pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down at the table, the movement slow and absentminded, as though she had drifted there rather than chosen it. The apartment remained dim around her, lit only by the weak amber glow filtering in from the street below. It softened the edges of everything, turned the room hazy and dreamlike, as if she were sitting underwater.
She wasn’t tired yet. Or perhaps she was too tired, exhausted past the point where sleep came naturally. That had begun happening more often lately. She could sleep for hours beneath the afternoon sun, could sink so deeply into it she woke disoriented and heavy-limbed, but nighttime resisted her. Darkness sharpened her thoughts instead of dulling them. It made her restless in strange, quiet ways.
The irony of it wasn’t lost on her.
Most people slept at night and lived during the day. Margaret had somehow slipped into the reverse of it, becoming something soft and nocturnal, drifting through warm daylight half-conscious and lying awake beneath the dark with her mind stretched open.
So she stayed at the table. The empty glass sat in front of her, and the last fragments of ice melted into clear water at the bottom. Her fingers traced the condensation ring it had left behind, following it in slow circles without realizing she was doing it. Outside, somewhere far below, a car passed through the street with a low rushing sound. Then quiet again.
The clock ticked steadily on the wall. Three-fifteen. Three-seventeen. Three-twenty. Time at that hour felt detached from consequence, loose and floating. The whole city seemed suspended in it, paused between exhaustion and morning.
Margaret rested her cheek against her hand and stared vaguely toward the window. Her thoughts wandered without structure, slipping between memories and fragments of sensation. The smell of coffee. The warmth of his chest beneath her cheek. The sound of him humming tunelessly while he cooked.
Then came the knock. It startled her so sharply she sat upright immediately, her pulse jumping hard enough to make her chest ache.
For a moment, she thought she had imagined it. No one knocked on her door. No one came by unannounced, especially not at this hour. The apartment building itself seemed asleep, sealed shut against the lingering heat of the night.
Then it came again. Three soft knocks.
Margaret stared toward the door. A strange feeling moved through her then, not fear exactly, but something close to unreality. As though the sound had emerged from a dream rather than the hallway outside. She stood slowly, the chair scraping faintly against the floor.
She crossed the apartment, each step quiet against the floorboards. The hallway light filtered dimly beneath the door, pale and thin. For a second, she hesitated, her hand hovering near the knob without touching it.
Then, almost despite herself, she leaned forward and looked through the peephole. Hawkeye.
He stood there with a worn duffel bag hanging from one shoulder, hair slightly disheveled, tie loosened and crooked beneath the collar of his shirt. He looked exhausted. Not casually tired, but deeply, completely exhausted, like a man who had outrun his own thoughts all the way across the country.
And yet there he was, Hawkeye, her Hawkeye. She opened the door before she could think too much about it.
The moment there was enough space between them, she reached for him. Without any of the restraints, she usually clung to so fiercely. Her arms wrapped around him, pulling him against her with enough force to make him stumble slightly into the apartment.
She kissed him. Deeply. Completely. Like something starved, finally being fed.
He made a soft sound against her mouth, half surprise and half relief, and his hands found her immediately, one at her waist, the other cradling the back of her neck as though he needed to make sure she was really there.
The kiss tasted faintly of stale coffee and exhaustion and something achingly familiar. Margaret felt the weeks without him collapse all at once inside her chest, folding inward until there was room for nothing except the overwhelming fact of his presence.
When they finally pulled apart, neither of them went very far. Their foreheads rested together, breaths uneven in the small dark apartment.
“I couldn’t function without you,” he whispered against her lips.
The words landed softly, but she felt them everywhere. His voice sounded rough, worn thin by travel and lack of sleep and perhaps something larger than either of those things.
“I never should’ve left.”
Margaret closed her eyes. For one terrible second, emotion rose in her so quickly she thought it might undo her completely. She had spent weeks compressing herself around the absence of him, making herself smaller to accommodate it, quieter, sleepier, emptier. And now suddenly he was here again, warm beneath her hands, breathing against her skin as he had simply stepped back into place.
Her grip tightened instinctively in the fabric of his shirt. “You came back,” she said softly, almost disbelievingly.
“Yeah,” he breathed, his nose brushing lightly against hers. “I came back.”
Neither of them moved after that. The apartment held them there in its sleepy silence, the heat still lingering faintly in the walls, the night stretched wide and endless around them. Somewhere outside, the sky had begun the slowest shift toward dawn, though darkness still filled the windows.
Margaret looked at him carefully. There were shadows beneath his eyes, deeper than before. His hair curled damply at his temples from the heat. He looked rumpled and human and heartbreakingly familiar.
Beautiful, she thought suddenly. Not in the polished and handsome way men in magazines were. Something gentler than that. Worn-in. Loved. Beautiful, she settled on again.
“You look awful,” she whispered.
He laughed softly, breathlessly, the sound warm against her mouth.
“Cross-country travel does that to a man.”
“You should’ve called.”
“And give you the chance to tell me not to come?”
“I wouldn’t have.”
“No,” he said quietly. “You wouldn’t have. But I couldn’t risk it.”
Something in the way he said it unraveled her a little further.
Margaret touched his face then, her fingers moving slowly along the line of his jaw as though reacquainting herself with him. He leaned into the touch immediately, eyes closing for half a second. The tenderness of it almost hurt.
“You’re here now,” she murmured.
“I’m here.”
“Never leave again,” she whispered against his mouth before kissing him once more, slow and lingering, as though she could press the plea into him deeply enough that it would remain there permanently. “I don’t think I could take it.”
The confession slipped out before she could stop it. Ordinarily, she would have pulled it back immediately, covered it with something sharper or lighter, something less frighteningly vulnerable. But it was too late now.
Hawkeye did not laugh at her for it; his expression changed instead, something inside it loosening and deepening all at once. He lifted a hand slowly to her face, his thumb brushing beneath her eye while he smoothed a loose strand of blonde hair back from her forehead with such careful tenderness it nearly undid her.
“I’m here to stay,” he said quietly. “For good.”
Margaret stared at him for a moment as if the words were too large to absorb immediately. They moved through her slowly, warming places that had gone cold without her noticing. For weeks, she had existed inside absence, inside the dull ache of missing him, training herself not to ask for more because asking implied the possibility of refusal.
And now here he was, standing in front of her at nearly four in the morning, looking at her as though there was nowhere else in the world he intended to be.
Something soft and exhausted unfurled inside her chest. Before she realized she was doing it, she leaned fully into him, almost boneless with relief. His arms came around her instinctively, secure and warm around her waist, gathering her close like it was the most natural thing in the world. Margaret slid her own arms around his neck, her fingers brushing the damp strands at the nape of his neck.
“I won’t let you leave my sight ever again,” she murmured.
Her voice had gone sleepy somehow, softened by relief and the lateness of the hour. She rested heavily against him, the full weight of herself settling into his body without hesitation.
“I’ll take you to work with me. To the grocery store. Everywhere.”
A quiet laugh escaped him, warm against her temple. “Is that so?”
“I mean it, buster,” she mumbled. “You’ll just have to follow me around forever.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Will I?”
Margaret lifted her head just enough to look at him then, her eyes still heavy with exhaustion but clearer now than they had been in weeks. There was something dreamy and possessive in her expression, something almost childishly sincere.
“You’re mine,” she said softly.
Margaret rested her forehead against his shoulder afterward, hiding slightly from the intensity of what she had admitted, though she repeated it again a second later in a quieter voice, almost like she was reassuring herself.
“Mine.”
For a moment, Hawkeye said nothing; she could feel his breathing beneath her cheek, slow and steady now. One of his hands moved lazily up and down her back, not trying to soothe her exactly, just touching her because he wanted to. The gentleness of it made her feel unbearably fragile.
Finally, he tipped his head down enough to kiss the top of her hair. “Well,” he murmured, “good thing I’m pretty fond of being yours.”
Margaret smiled against his shoulder, small and tired and genuine. The apartment around them had gone utterly still. Even the city outside seemed quieter now, suspended in that strange hour before dawn where everything softened. The heat lingered faintly, wrapping around them like warm water, but she barely noticed it anymore. Hawkeye’s body against hers eclipsed everything else, solid and grounding and alive.
She realized suddenly that she was exhausted, not the vague perpetual sleepiness she carried through the afternoons, but a deep, full-body exhaustion. Her limbs felt loose with it and her thoughts blurred softly at the edges.
Hawkeye noticed before she said anything, “You’re fading on me,” he said quietly.
“I’m not.”
“You’re asleep standing up.”
Margaret tightened her arms around his neck stubbornly. “No I’m not.”
“You just stopped responding for a full minute.”
“I was thinking.”
“Dangerous activity at this hour.”
She made a faint noise of protest, but it dissolved into a yawn before she could finish it. Hawkeye laughed softly again, and the sound vibrated pleasantly through his chest beneath her cheek.
“There she is,” he murmured. “That’s the girl I know.”
Margaret closed her eyes; she could have stayed there forever, she thought. Standing half-awake in the middle of her apartment with his arms around her while the rest of the world remained distant and unreal. The thought of morning no longer felt lonely, they no longer stretched ahead of her like something empty to endure, they would have him in it.
The realization filled her with such overwhelming warmth that for a second she thought she might cry from it, though she wasn’t entirely sure why. Relief, maybe. Relief so profound it bordered on grief for all the weeks she had gone without this.
“You really came back,” she whispered again, barely audible now.
“I told you,” he said softly. “I’m here to stay.”
“Mmmm,” Margaret hummed softly against his shoulder, the sound low and drowsy, nearly lost in the warmth between them. Her eyes had slipped closed at some point, her entire body slack with exhaustion now that the tension had finally drained out of her.
Hawkeye smiled faintly down at her. “You falling asleep on me again?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re impossible.”
She only made another sleepy little sound in response, something contented and absentminded. Then, after a moment: “Pick me up and carry me to bed.”
He blinked once. “Carry you?”
“Yes,” she murmured immediately, as if it were the most obvious request in the world. “Carry me.”
There was something almost luxurious in the way she said it, unguarded in a manner Margaret rarely allowed herself to be. She was usually so deliberate with her own competence, so unwilling to appear dependent on anyone for anything. But exhaustion had softened all her edges tonight. She leaned fully into him now, trusting him completely with the weight of her body.
Hawkeye looked at her for a second, amused affection spreading slowly across his face. “You know,” he said lightly, “you could just walk there.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No,” she repeated stubbornly, though the word was muffled against his shirt. “I want you to carry me.”
He laughed quietly then, the sound warm and helpless. “Bossy even at four in the morning.”
Margaret finally opened one eye to look up at him, her expression heavy with sleep and absolute certainty. “You love it.”
“Yeah,” he admitted softly. “I really do.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. Hawkeye simply looked at her there in the dim apartment light, hair mussed from the humidity and from resting against him, eyes half-lidded and dreamy with exhaustion. She looked softer than she ever had in Korea, softer than she probably even realized herself to be. The hard sharpness she carried through the war had melted slowly under the California sun, leaving behind something quieter and infinitely more vulnerable.
Beautiful, he thought as he slid one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back.
“All right,” he murmured. “C’mere.”
Margaret gave a pleased little hum the moment he lifted her, instinctively curling closer against him as though she belonged there. One arm looped lazily around his neck while her head settled against his chest, cheek pressed directly over his heartbeat.
“There,” she whispered. “Perfect.”
“You should probably change before you fall asleep,” Hawkeye said softly as he pushed the front door shut behind them with his foot. The lock clicked into place with a small, final sound that seemed to seal the apartment away from the rest of the world. “It can’t be comfortable sleeping in that uniform.”
Margaret barely stirred in his arms, she had gone completely languid against him during the short walk down the hallway, all the tension and alertness that carried her through long hospital nights dissolving now that she was home. One of her hands rested loosely against his shoulder, fingers curled faintly in the fabric of his shirt.
“I don’t think I have the energy to change,” she murmured.
The words brushed warmly against his neck, thick with exhaustion. Hawkeye looked down at her and felt something inside him ache with tenderness.
Even now, she was still dressed in her uniform, crisp and pale beneath the dim apartment light. The stockings, the carefully fastened buttons, the sharp, neat lines of it all remained strangely intact despite the hour, the heat and the fact that she looked moments away from falling asleep entirely.
“You’re telling me Margaret Houlihan is willingly about to wrinkle a uniform?” he asked lightly.
“Mmm.”
“That serious, huh?”
She nodded once against his chest, eyes still closed. “I’m deteriorating.”
“You poor thing.”
“I’ve suffered terribly.”
“Clearly.”
Her mouth twitched faintly against his shirt, almost a smile.
Hawkeye lingered there for a moment instead of moving further into the apartment. He could feel the warmth of her through both layers of fabric, could feel the slow drag of her breathing beginning to deepen already. She trusted him enough now to let herself drift before she was even fully in bed.
Outside, the hallway beyond the door remained silent. The whole building seemed submerged in sleep, wrapped in the thick stillness of the late night. Inside the apartment, the air held onto the day’s heat stubbornly, warm enough that the faintest sheen of perspiration still lingered along Margaret’s temples.
“You know,” Hawkeye said as he nudged the bedroom door open with his shoulder, “I could help you change.”
Margaret cracked one eye open immediately. “That sounds scandalous.”
Moonlight spilled faintly through the curtains, washing the bedroom in pale silver-blue. It softened everything it touched, the unmade bed, the discarded shoes near the dresser, Hawkeye’s tired face as he stood there still holding her in his arms like he had no intention of putting her down anytime soon.
“It’s a medical service,” he replied smoothly.
“Oh, of course.”
“I’m a doctor,” he continued with mock dignity. “Very professional.”
That finally made her fully look up at him, sleepy amusement clouded her eyes, heavy and warm and unmistakably fond. God, he had missed that look. It transformed her face completely, softened it until she looked younger somehow, almost luminous in her exhaustion.
“You’re many things, Benjamin Franklin Pierce,” she murmured, “but professional isn’t usually one of them.”
Hawkeye placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “Wow,” he said softly. “I’m wounded, Margaret.”
“You’ll survive.”
“I don’t know. That one might’ve hit an artery.”
Margaret laughed, the sound slipping easily into the dim room. Hawkeye felt something in himself relax at the sound of it, he had spent too many weeks imagining her alone here, sleeping through sunlit afternoons and eating silent dinners in this apartment without him.
Now she was here in his arms, warm,sleepy and laughing at his terrible jokes again.
“You’re being very brave about it,” she added.
“Thank you. I’m trying to stay conscious.”
“Should I call a nurse?”
“I’ve heard they’re all mean.”
Margaret smiled against his shoulder, her eyes drifting shut again. “Only to deserving people.”
“Ah,” he said. “So you admit I’m undeserving.”
“No,” she mumbled. “You’re definitely deserving.”
“Cruel woman.”
The room settled into quiet again after that, though not an empty quiet. A full one. The kind built from shared exhaustion and familiarity and the relief of no longer being alone.
Hawkeye finally crossed to the bed and lowered her onto the mattress carefully this time. Margaret immediately stretched out across the cool sheets with a long, sleepy sigh, one arm thrown loosely over her eyes.
“There,” she murmured. “I live here now.”
“You already lived here.”
“I belong to the bed now.”
He stood there for a moment just looking at her. The uniform had begun to wrinkle slightly now despite her earlier precision. The collar sat askew beneath her hair, one stocking slightly twisted from where she’d curled against him. She looked wonderfully undone, as though exhaustion itself had reached up and loosened every careful piece of her.
Hawkeye sat beside her on the edge of the bed. “So,” he said lightly, “about my extremely professional medical assistance.”
Margaret peeked at him from beneath her arm. “You’re remarkably committed to this.”
“I take my work very seriously.”
“You absolutely do not.”
“That hurts after the artery incident.”
She smiled again, shorter this time.
The heat still lingered heavily in the apartment, wrapping around them both in the slow, syrupy warmth of late summer nights that refused to end. Somewhere outside the window, a car moved faintly through distant streets, tires hissing softly against pavement. Otherwise, the world felt suspended.
Margaret watched him through half-lidded eyes.
He looked tired, too, now that he had stopped moving. Truly tired. Travel-worn and rumpled, tie loosened, sleeves creased, hair still slightly flattened from the long flight. The strain beneath his humor showed more clearly in stillness.
“You look exhausted,” she said quietly.
“Yeah,” he admitted.
“Why didn’t you sleep before coming here?”
Hawkeye let out a soft breath through his nose, glancing down at his hands. “I tried.”
The simplicity of the answer settled over the room heavily.
Margaret lowered her arm slowly from her eyes. There it was again, that ache in her chest. The quiet unbearable tenderness of realizing how deeply he had missed her, too.
She reached for him without speaking, her fingers brushing lazily against his wrist before curling there. “Come here,” she murmured.
He obeyed immediately, shifting further onto the bed beside her, the mattress dipped beneath his weight, and Margaret moved instinctively toward the warmth of him, one hand sliding up along the back of his neck. Her fingertips disappeared into his hair, nails lightly scratching against his scalp in slow, absentminded motions.
Hawkeye closed his eyes briefly at the touch. “You know,” he said softly after a moment, “this feels suspiciously intimate for a doctor-patient relationship.”
Margaret’s lips curved sleepily. “I thought you said this was professional.”
“It was. Then the patient got handsy.”
“You’ll document it in my chart?”
“Absolutely. Severe flirtation. Chronic condition.”
“Terminal?”
“Oh, definitely terminal.”
She laughed softly again, but the sound dissolved halfway into a yawn.
The exhaustion was overtaking her rapidly now, pulling at every word, every movement. Hawkeye could feel it in the way her hand slowed in his hair, in the growing weight of her body leaning into his side.
Still, she looked at him one more time, there was something almost dazed in her expression. Like she still couldn’t entirely believe he was really here.
“You came back,” she whispered again.
The words were quieter now than before, worn thin with exhaustion and emotion. Less a question than a fragile wonder.
Hawkeye brushed his thumb gently along her cheekbone. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I came back.”
Margaret studied his face for another lingering second, as though committing it to memory all over again. Then, finally satisfied, she tucked herself against him with a long exhale.
“You should really change,” Hawkeye murmured, pulling her a little closer against him.
Margaret made a soft sound of protest, though she melted willingly into the warmth of his chest. The bed beneath her seemed to have already claimed most of her consciousness. Every muscle in her body had gone loose with exhaustion, her limbs heavy in that delicious, almost feverish way that came after staying awake too long.
“My nightgowns are in the closet,” she nudged him faintly with her shoulder.
Hawkeye glanced down at her, amused. “You really trust me to pick out your pajamas?”
“No,” she smiled without opening her eyes. “But I don’t think I could hold myself up, and the bed is oh so comfortable.”
The way she said it made him laugh softly under his breath.
There was something almost childishly sincere about her when she was this tired, all the sharp wit and military composure softened into sleepy honesty. She no longer bothered pretending she wasn’t utterly consumed by comfort and warmth and the overwhelming need to drift off in his arms.
He pressed a kiss gently into her hair. “All right,” he said quietly before he groaned theatrically as he pushed himself upright from the edge of the mattress. “God, I’m getting old.”
“You’re ancient,” Margaret mumbled into the pillow.
“Cruel. Absolutely cruel.”
“You love me.”
He paused for half a second at that; the words had slipped out of her naturally, unconscious, buried somewhere inside her exhaustion. She didn’t even seem to realize she’d said them.
Something warm spread slowly through his chest. “Yeah,” he said softly, more to himself than to her. “I really do.”
Hawkeye crossed toward the closet and tugged the door open. Immediately, a faint scent drifted out into the room, clean and soft and unmistakably hers. Lavender perhaps. Soap. Sun-warmed fabric. Or maybe simply Margaret herself, worked permanently into cotton and silk after years of wear.
Inside, everything remained meticulously arranged despite the lateness of the hour and the fact that she could barely keep her eyes open. Dresses hung carefully spaced apart. Uniforms pressed with precise attention. Shoes lined neatly beneath them.
Even exhausted, Margaret Houlihan maintained order like second nature. And there, tucked slightly off to one side, were the nightgowns.
He reached out and brushed his fingers lightly across the fabric. Thin cotton. Silk softened with age. They moved faintly in the warm air drifting through the open bedroom window, pale and delicate in the moonlight.
Something about them startled him a little, not because Margaret couldn’t be soft, but because so few people ever got close enough to witness it. Most of the world only knew the polished exterior she carried so carefully. The sharpness, the discipline, the impeccable posture and impossible standards.
Very few people got to know the woman who slept in flowered cotton nightgowns and napped for hours in warm afternoon sunlight.
“Any preferences?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Mmm.”
“That’s incredibly helpful.”
“The blue one.”
Hawkeye squinted at the closet. “There are two blue ones.”
Margaret sighed dramatically from the bed without opening her eyes. “The soft blue.”
“That narrows it down by exactly zero percent.”
Finally, she cracked her eyes open just enough to squint vaguely toward the closet. “The one with the little flowers.”
“Oh,” he said. “See, now we’re getting somewhere.”
He found it a second later, and the fabric was impossibly soft-looking, faded slightly from years of washing. Tiny flowers scattered across the pale blue material like watercolor brushstrokes, delicate and blurred around the edges.
Hawkeye smiled faintly to himself, of course she owned something like this, not the polished Margaret Houlihan the Army knew. This belonged to the quieter Margaret, the one who ate fruit in bed and slept beneath sunlit windows and curled herself around him at night like she was afraid he might disappear if she loosened her grip. The Margaret very few people ever saw.
He turned back toward the bed, holding it up slightly. “This one?”
Margaret nodded once before immediately letting her head sink back into the pillow again. “Perfect,” she murmured.
She looked impossibly comfortable already despite the uniform still constraining her, sprawled across the bed with her hair spread messily over the pillow and her cheeks faintly flushed from the heat. Now she looked soft with exhaustion, human, warm, and beautiful in a way he thought would probably break his heart if he examined it too closely.
He sat carefully beside her again, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. Margaret immediately turned toward him instinctively, seeking him even half-asleep. One hand slid lazily across his thigh before settling there.
“Do you still want help getting changed?” Hawkeye asked softly, threading his fingers slowly through her hair.
Margaret made a low, sleepy sound at the touch, instinctively turning her head slightly into his hand like something warm and half-dreaming. The sensation seemed to pull what little tension remained out of her body entirely, his fingers moved carefully through the loose strands, untangling them from the collar of her uniform with absentminded gentleness.
“I do,” she hummed. “These nurse whites are too uncomfortable, even when laundered properly.”
“Scathing review.”
“They’re stiff,” she murmured, eyes still closed. “And hot. And whoever decided women should work in starched fabric and stockings deserves prison time.”
“I’ll notify the authorities immediately.”
“You should.” Her voice had grown soft and drifting now, words beginning to blur together at the edges as sleep steadily pulled her downward. Hawkeye smiled faintly to himself.
Margaret opened her eyes just enough to look up at him again. “You’re staring.”
“I’m admiring my patient.”
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Counterpoint,” he said lightly, “you’re adorable when you’re exhausted.”
Margaret looked mildly offended by that. “I am never adorable.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I’m dignified.”
“You’re lying face-down across the bed, complaining about fabric.”
“That can still be dignified.”
Hawkeye laughed quietly, the sound filling the room softly.
Outside, the city remained submerged in darkness. The thick warmth of the night drifted through the cracked window in slow currents, stirring the curtains faintly, somewhere in the distance, a car passed along wet pavement with a soft rushing sound before disappearing again, making everything inside the room feel suspended from time.
“You know,” Hawkeye murmured, still smoothing his hand through her hair, “most people manage to remove their own clothes.”
“I’m choosing to be pampered,” she hummed.
“Ah. Of course.”
“I’ve had a difficult life.”
“You’re very brave.”
“I know.”
Her lips curved faintly afterward, and he wondered if she understood how beautiful she became when she stopped protecting herself so fiercely.
Probably not.
“All right,” he said quietly. “Sit up for me, honey.”
She hummed softly at the touch of his hands in her hair, then pushed herself upright with visible reluctance, moving slowly as though her body had become far too heavy for ordinary motions. The sheets slipped down around her waist, cool against the heat lingering in the room.
Hawkeye steadied herself instinctively the moment she swayed slightly. “Easy there,” he murmured.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re falling asleep vertically.”
Margaret leaned against him without argument anyway, her shoulder settling against his chest while she blinked through the haze of exhaustion. Up close, he could see how tired she truly was now, her eyes had gone glassy with it, movements slow and dreamlike.
He started with her stockings, his fingers moved carefully to the clips of her garter belt, unclasping them one by one with quiet precision. Margaret gave a faint shiver at the sensation, more from the cool night air brushing against newly bared skin than anything else.
“These things are torture devices,” Hawkeye muttered.
“They’re practical.”
“They’re medieval.”
“They make my legs look good.”
He glanced at her then, one eyebrow lifting. “Margaret, your legs would look good wrapped in burlap.”
A sleepy smile tugged faintly at her mouth. “Flatterer.”
“It’s unfortunately true.”
Carefully, he slid the first stocking down her leg. The fabric whispered softly against her skin as it gathered beneath his hands. Margaret exhaled slowly, and the more she moved downward, like she hadn’t fully realized how uncomfortable she’d been until now. By the time he eased it gently off her foot entirely, some of the tension in her posture had visibly melted away.
“There,” he murmured. “Half liberated.”
“Mmm.”
The second followed just as slowly.
Margaret rested one hand on his shoulder to steady herself while he worked, her fingertips absentmindedly brushing the fabric of his shirt every so often. The gesture felt instinctive, unconscious, like touching him had already become second nature again.
When he finally slid the second stocking free, Hawkeye let his hands rest lightly against her calves for a brief second longer than necessary.
Margaret looked down at him through sleepy eyes. “You’re very focused for someone supposedly unprofessional.”
“I take stockings seriously.”
“That sounds concerning.”
“It should.”
She laughed softly under her breath, the sound quiet and warm in the dim room. God, he had missed making her laugh like this.
“You okay?”
Margaret nodded slowly. “Better already,” she admitted.
“There’s still approximately twelve pounds of nurse uniform left to go.”
Margaret sighed dramatically. “A tragedy.”
“You’re handling it bravely.”
“I deserve a medal.”
“You deserve sleep.”
“I’m staying awake just for you,” Margaret sighed dramatically. The moment I’m in my nightgown, and my head hits the pillow, I’ll be fast asleep, and who knows when I’ll wake up. I might sleep for one hundred years.”
Hawkeye smiled faintly from where he sat next to her, one hand still resting lightly against her knee. “A hundred years?”
“Mhm.”
“That’s inconvenient timing.”
“It can’t be helped.”
“What if I miss you terribly?”
“You’ll just have to pine dramatically.”
“I do that already.”
Margaret gave a soft, sleepy hum of approval at that. Everything about her had gone loose with tiredness now, her posture softened, her speech slower and quieter, as though sleep were gradually pulling her downward inch by inch. Even the heat of the room seemed to cradle her, wrapping around her body until she looked almost molten in the moonlight.
Hawkeye couldn’t stop looking at her.
Not because she was beautiful, though she was. She always would be. But because she trusted him enough to be seen like this. Unguarded. Sleepy. Emotionally, in small unconscious ways, she would probably deny it entirely by morning.
“And I’ll be right here when you wake up,” he said quietly.
Something shifted in Margaret’s face immediately. It was subtle at first, a flicker of surprise, maybe, or recognition. Then something deeper moved through her expression altogether, something vulnerable enough that Hawkeye felt it physically in his chest.
For weeks, she had been living in absence, sleeping alone, eating alone, and waking alone beneath the California sun with no certainty attached to anything except the repetition of her own loneliness. And now here he was saying he’d still be there when she wake up, as if it were the easiest promise in the world.
She shifted closer on the bed, one hand sliding lightly along his wrist before both of her hands rose slowly to his face. Her palms cupped his cheeks with surprising tenderness, thumbs brushing faintly along the tired lines beneath his eyes, and then she kissed him
The kiss carried all the weeks apart inside it, all the lonely afternoons and restless nights and half-finished meals that had tasted wrong without him there. It carried relief, too. Relief so profound it almost hurt.
Hawkeye kissed her back immediately, one hand finding her waist while the other slid gently into her hair. Margaret leaned into him with a quiet desperation she no longer seemed interested in hiding.
“I love you.”
The words came out almost dreamily, soft with exhaustion and absolute sincerity, Hawkeye felt something inside himself crack wide open.
Margaret Houlihan, who guarded her heart like something under military protection. Margaret Houlihan, who buried vulnerability beneath sharp wit, perfect posture, and impossible standards. Margaret Houlihan, who had once rather swallowed glass than say something so naked aloud.
A slow smile spread across his face before he could stop it, soft and almost disbelieving.
“Yeah?” he whispered.
“Yes,” she murmured, as if the answer should have been obvious all along. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” he echoed.
Margaret’s thumbs brushed lightly beneath his eyes again, tracing him gently as though reassuring herself he was still really there. “You took too long to come back to me,” she whispered.
Hawkeye lowered his forehead more firmly against hers. “I know,” he admitted softly. “I’m sorry.”
Margaret studied his face for another lingering second before kissing him once more, shorter this time. Sleepier, a kiss already halfway drifting toward dreams.
“You’re here now,” she whispered against his lips.
“I’m here,” Hawkeye whispered softly, his forehead still resting against hers. “And I’m not leaving.”
Good, she thought immediately. Good.
“Good,” she murmured aloud.
She realized suddenly how close sleep truly was now. It hovered just behind her eyes, thick and heavy and sweet. Her thoughts drifted lazily at the edges, untethering themselves one by one.
Still, she didn’t want him to stop holding her.
“Do you still want help with the rest of your uniform?” Hawkeye asked gently after a moment.
Margaret let herself lean fully into his side at that, her cheek brushing his shoulder. The loosened fabric of her nurse whites still clung lightly to her skin, stiff in places despite the warmth of the room.
“You would still help?” she murmured sleepily, “Even after all I’ve asked you to do tonight?”
There was something almost wondrous in her voice. Hawkeye turned his head slightly to look at her.
Margaret rarely asked for things. Not directly, not without apology hidden somewhere beneath it. Even now, exhausted nearly to the point of collapse, she sounded faintly astonished that someone would continue caring for her without irritation or obligation, the realization made his heart ache.
“I would do anything for you,” he said quietly. “Always.”
She looked at him, god, he looked tired. His hair rumpled from travel and humidity, sleeves creased, shadows beneath his eyes deepened by the late hour. But he was looking at her with such uncomplicated tenderness that it almost frightened her a little. No one had ever looked at her quite like that before.
Without thinking, she shifted even closer until she was nearly folded into him completely, one hand resting lightly against the center of his chest. Beneath her palm, she could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
“You say things like that very casually,” she whispered.
“What things?”
“How you’d do anything for me.” Her fingers curled slightly in his shirt.
Hawkeye smiled faintly.“Well,” he said softly, “I mean them very casually.”
She thought suddenly that she could stay in this exact moment forever if someone allowed it.
“You know,” she murmured, voice slurring faintly with sleepiness, “I was very pathetic without you.”
Hawkeye huffed out a quiet laugh. “Were you?”
“Mhm.” She nodded solemnly against him. “I slept too much.”
“You always sleep too much.”
“I know, but this was different. It was very serious.”
“Ah, very serious,” he repeated
“And food tasted wrong.”
His expression somehow softened even more.
“I kept thinking about your pancakes,” she admitted quietly. “And your coffee.”
Hawkeye felt his heart twist painfully in his chest. “You could’ve called me.”
“I know.”
“But you didn’t.”
Margaret was quiet for a second, then, almost too softly: “I didn’t know if you’d come back.”
Hawkeye reached for her immediately, his hand sliding up along the side of her neck until his thumb rested against her cheek. “Oh, Margaret,” he whispered.
She closed her eyes briefly at the sound of her name in his voice. “I know it’s stupid,” she murmured.
“It’s not stupid.”
“It felt stupid.”
“No,” he said firmly, though still softly. “Missing someone like this isn’t stupid.”
“You’re too sweet,” Margaret mumbled, smiling against his shoulder.
Hawkeye brushed his thumb lightly across her cheekbone, unable not to touch her every few seconds as though he were still reassuring himself she hadn’t disappeared again.
“C’mon,” he said gently. “Let’s get you into that nightgown.”
Margaret sighed theatrically at the idea of movement. “You ask so much of me.”
“I know. It’s a burden.”
“I’m practically wasting away.”
“That’s the tragedy of overworked California nurses.”
“Mhm.”
Her eyes had already drifted half-shut again by the time he reached for the remaining buttons of her uniform. She sat quietly while he worked, pliant with exhaustion now, shoulders loose beneath his hands. The stiff white fabric slowly gave way beneath careful fingers, opening inch by inch until the heat of the room finally reached her skin properly.
Margaret exhaled softly at the relief of it.
“There,” Hawkeye murmured. “Better already.”
“So much better.”
Palm leaves rustled faintly somewhere below. The curtains shifted lazily inward with the warm breeze, brushing soft shadows across the walls.
He eased the uniform carefully from her shoulders, peeling away the stiff fabric with a tenderness so instinctive he no longer even seemed aware of it. Margaret watched him through heavy-lidded eyes while he worked.
“You’re very pretty when you’re concentrating,” she whispered suddenly.
He glanced at her immediately, caught off guard enough to laugh softly. “That’s a first.”
“It’s true.”
“I usually look constipated when I concentrate.”
Margaret smiled faintly. “No. You look kind.”
Hawkeye looked down again for a second, suddenly shy in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.
“You know,” she murmured a moment later, “I used to think you weren’t serious about anything.”
“That’s fair.”
“But you are.”
“About some things,” he said softly.
The uniform slid away fully at last, leaving her in the dim silver-blue moonlight with only the warm night air against her skin. Hawkeye reached for the nightgown draped beside him and shook it out gently before helping her slip her arms and head through.
The fabric settled over her immediately, soft pale blue cotton falling lightly against her body.
Margaret practically melted the second it touched her. “Oh,” she sighed. “That’s heavenly.”
“High praise.”
“I may never wear anything else again.”
“I support this decision completely.”
She laughed quietly under her breath while he adjusted the straps gently against her shoulders. The tiny flowers scattered across the fabric blurred softly in the moonlight, making her look almost unreal somehow. Delicate. Sleep-heavy and warm and luminous.
Hawkeye felt his chest tighten again with that same unbearable tenderness.
“You’re staring,” she mumbled.
“Can’t help it.”
“You say that like I’m doing something.”
“You are.”
“What?”
“Existing very beautifully.”
Margaret’s expression softened immediately at that, her exhaustion too deep now to shield herself from compliments the way she normally might. Instead, she just looked at him with quiet affection clouding her eyes.
“You missed me too much,” she whispered again.
“Yeah,” he admitted easily this time. “I did.”
She reached for him then without hesitation, her hands sliding slowly up his arms until they rested loosely around his neck. Hawkeye moved instinctively closer, his hands settling at her waist beneath the thin cotton of the nightgown.
Margaret leaned forward until her forehead rested lightly against his chest. Then she yawned suddenly against him, long and unguarded.
“There she is,” Hawkeye murmured affectionately.
“I warned you.”
“You did.”
“I’m disappearing.”
“Not before you get under the blankets.”
Margaret made a sleepy sound of protest but allowed him to guide the covers over her as she lay her head on the pillow. The sheets rustled softly beneath her as she curled immediately toward his side of the mattress out of instinct.
Hawkeye looked down at her there, already drifting again. “Comfortable?” he asked quietly.
“Mhm.”
“You sure?”
Margaret opened one eye just enough to look at him. “Get in bed, Pierce.”
He laughed softly under his breath. “Yes, ma’am.”
Margaret’s arms wrapped around him the moment he slid beneath the covers beside her, as though some part of her had been waiting in quiet anticipation for the exact second she could reach for him again.
The mattress shifted softly beneath their combined weight. The sheets still held the lingering warmth of the September night, though Hawkeye’s body beside her felt warmer, steadier, alive in a way the empty bed never had been.
Margaret moved toward him without hesitation, one arm slid across his waist while the other curled high against his chest, gathering him close with sleepy determination. Her leg tangled loosely with his beneath the sheets, her entire body molding instinctively against his as though she had already memorized the shape of him all over again.
Hawkeye let out a quiet breath the moment she touched him. God, he had missed this too much.
Margaret buried her face against his chest with a soft, exhausted sigh. “There,” she murmured faintly.
“There?”
“You’re where you belong now.”
The words drifted sleepily through the darkness, spoken with such uncomplicated certainty that Hawkeye felt something painful twist warmly beneath his ribs.
Hawkeye’s hand slid slowly up her back beneath the thin cotton of her nightgown. The fabric was impossibly soft beneath his fingertips, worn smooth with years of washing. He could feel the steady rise and fall of her breathing already beginning to deepen against him.
“You’re falling asleep fast,” he whispered.
“I told you,” Margaret mumbled into his chest. “One hundred years.”
“That’s still excessive.”
“Mmm.” Her voice was fading already.
Exhaustion wrapped around her heavily now that she finally felt safe enough to surrender to it. He could feel it in the way her body kept relaxing further every few seconds, muscles loosening one by one beneath his hands as if she were slowly dissolving into sleep entirely.
Still, she held onto him tightly. Hawkeye lowered his chin gently against the top of her head and closed his eyes for a moment. The relief of this nearly overwhelmed him.
For weeks, he had imagined her here alone in this apartment, drifting through warm afternoons and restless nights without him. He had tried to ignore the ache of it back in Maine, burying himself in work and noise and distraction, but none of it lasted very long. Every quiet moment had led back to her eventually.
Margaret sleeping alone beneath California sunlight, Margaret eating dinner at the kitchen table in silence, Margaret missing him too stubbornly to say it aloud. And now she was curled against him like she intended to keep him there forever, the thought made his throat tighten unexpectedly.
Margaret stirred slightly against him then, her fingers tightening faintly in the fabric of his shirt.
“You’re thinking too loud,” she whispered sleepily.
Hawkeye huffed out the softest laugh. “That’s not possible.”
“It is.” Her eyes stayed closed. “Your chest changes.”
“My chest changes?”
“Mhm.”
“That’s medically concerning.”
Margaret smiled faintly against him.
For a moment, he simply looked down at her curled against his body in the dim blue darkness. Half asleep already, yet still noticing him in ways nobody else ever really did.
Hawkeye’s hand moved slowly through her hair again, untangling soft blonde strands across the pillow.
Margaret’s breathing slowed another degree after that. He could feel her slipping steadily toward sleep now, drifting downward inch by inch while still clinging to him like an anchor.
He kissed the top of her head gently. “You comfortable?” he whispered.
“Mhm.”
“Too warm?”
“No.” She shifted impossibly closer somehow. “Perfectly warm.”
“Well, that’s because you’re attached to me like a barnacle.”
“Good.”
He smiled into her hair.
The room around them softened further as the night stretched on. Shadows blurred together. The ceiling fan hummed lazily overhead. Somewhere outside, the first faint suggestion of birdsong began threading cautiously into the darkness, signaling dawn still far off but approaching.
Margaret’s voice came one final time, barely audible now. “Ben?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t disappear when I wake up.”
He tightened his arms around her carefully, holding her as close as he could beneath the tangled sheets and warm darkness.
“I won’t,” he whispered firmly against her hair. “I promise.”
Margaret exhaled softly, and finally, she fell asleep in his arms.