Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Hell is

loving you in my sleep

and waking up alone.

Somewhere over Asia. October, 1950.

With shaking fingers, Virginia Elizabeth Pierce unfolded the photograph and pressed it against her leg. No bigger than her palm, the picture held worn and faded memories of a foolishly happy time. She ran her finger across the figures in the photo: dressed in their Sunday best, newly married and laughing without fear of the future. Hard creases pressed in zig-zags across the smiling faces revealed the months in which the photo had laid crammed in the bedside drawer, carelessly placed, never quite forgotten. Seeing the photo after ignoring its whispered call for so long brought a lump to her throat. Stinging tears rose to her eyes, and she shoved the photo in her breast pocket. Those foolishly happy days were long gone.

Their parting had been honest in a time when honesty between them was rare. He'd held her close; she'd squeezed his shoulders, his draft card crumpled in her fist. She'd confessed her love over and over, as if to reassure them both that, yes, she still loved him. He'd responded in kind only once, but the emotion swimming in his gray-blue eyes as he said it was enough.

Yet they'd made no promises. Perhaps, in that stolen moment on the station platform, they'd both known the war would sever whatever ties still bound them. Then he'd kissed her, and it was both the first time and the last time, a mixture of sparks and resignation, joy and pain. Her girlish heart had fluttered, hoped beyond hope they could mend the rift, but when he'd pulled away and disappeared into the crowd, she knew her hopes were for naught. Hawkeye—Benjamin—was gone, and she was left to pick of the pieces of their thrown-together life.

The aircraft lurched, and Virginia grabbed her armrest. Her nails dug into the squishy material.

"Nervous?" A voice tore Virginia from her thoughts. She turned to glance at an officer standing in the aisle. He stood tall, his arms braced against the overhead compartment. Cigarette smoke drifted from his parted lips, and an amused twinkle lit his eye.

Virginia shifted in her seat. She sat straighter and released her death-grip on the armrest. "I would be lying if I said I wasn't."

"Where you headed…" The officer's eyebrows rose as he took in her uniform. "Captain?"

"Captain Pierce." Virginia held the man's gaze then amended, "Dr. Pierce, actually."

"A lady doctor." He took a drag of his cigarette and puffed the smoke in her direction. She gritted her teeth against the urge to cough. "Didn't know the army allowed that."

"Well, you learn something new every day, Lieutenant."

He ruffled at her use of rank and stepped back. "You didn't say where you're headed."

"MASH Unit 4077."

"I'll keep that in mind, try and stay clear of there if I get wounded. I wouldn't trust a lady to sew me up."

"I'll keep that in mind if you end up on my table. I wouldn't want to go against a patient's wishes."

The Lieutenant huffed, ground his half-finished cigarette with his heel, and stalked up the aircraft aisle.

Virginia fell back against her seat and sighed. She'd joined the army for a change of pace, a distraction from the lonely apartment and empty bed. War—bloodied bodies and sleepless nights—was sure to keep thoughts of Hawkeye at bay. But she'd also joined the army to do some good. She'd fought her way tooth and nail through medical school. From nurse to surgeon, she'd shown herself capable and competent. Now the army was giving her a chance to prove herself. But prove herself to whom? She wasn't sure—not yet anyway.

Rifling through her pocket, she withdrew her post assignment and ran through the details once more. MASH Unit 4077; she'd committed the number to memory long ago. It would be her new home for the foreseeable future. A nervous bubble of excitement burst in her stomach, and Virginia fought the urge to smile. Once the wheels of the aircraft hit the ground, her life would never be the same. Of that she was sure.