A/N: Hello, everyone! I am SO sorry that it took me so long to write this chapter—I had about 95 percent of it after Christmas, and I"VE LOST MY MEMORY STICK with the only copy of it on January 5th! Then I had to overcome an awful depression after losing all my WIPs (I know, I know, I should make copies—and I will, I promise) before I finally got myself to write: but anyway, here it is, and I hope you find it amusing :)

It really hadn't dawned on me that it might be the last chapter until I wrote the last words, and decided that, well… it might have been a nice conclusion. Thank you all for devoting your time to this story, and I promise to bring you some more of H/M love in future :)

Reviews are love, as always.

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"Think positive," BJ said, leaning back in his summer chair. "Think optimistic. And for God's sake, stop sulking! It doesn't suit you."

"Yeah, well, what would you do if you were me?" Hawkeye snapped back, pushing a straw-hat down on his eyes. He'd spent three nights nursing Kim, letting Margaret take the day shifts, and right after the child got better he had to perform thirteen straight hours of surgery. His morale was as low as it could be.

And there was the tiny-weenie small detail that turned his world upside down a couple of hours before, when he noticed it while helping Margaret out of her scrubs—she was wearing her wedding ring, openly. The sight made his jaw drop, and he briefly considered demanding some explanation from her, but his body was already winning over and urging him to sleep, for one thing.

So he didn't say anything. He simply wouldn't take the responsibility for whatever words he might have uttered—and just as well, too, for in the very next minute Kellye ran over to Margaret with some papers.

"Major Houlihan, would you please sign these?" she asked, panting, obviously already two hours late with something. Margaret took the pre-offered pen and scribbled something at the bottom of the first page.

"It's 'Pierce' now, Kellye," she said softly, turning the page, just as Hawkeye was about to close the scrub room doors behind him.

This put him off even more, and dragged away any chances for decent sleep, which was why he found himself in a summer chair next to BJ, sulking, instead of on his bunk, under a lousy blanket, regaining his physical and mental composure. His best friend, who wasn't present at the time of the said conversation, took a martini glass away from the Chief Surgeon, and proceeded with a pep-talk that didn't do him any good, so far.

It was strange. Troubling, even. Margaret didn't talk to Hawkeye during Kim's sickness, not unless you counted all the 'She's better today's, that they'd exchange over their evening coffee. She didn't ask Hawkeye to kiss her again. She never as much as mentioned that particular request of hers.

And it troubled him, much as he didn't want to admit it, even to himself.

Which was precisely why BJ's suggestion to think optimistic and take it slow didn't amuse him in the least. Hawkeye was tired of taking things slow. What he needed—what they needed—now, was a decent, sincere conversation. The one thing he was deadly scared to give Margaret. There were far too many dangerous 'what if's, starting from the 'What if she leaves me?', that he wasn't exactly ready to face.

BJ gave him a sidelong glance and smirked under his moustache. "Look, if it bothers you so much, and you don't want to ask her about it, why don't you just go and spend some more time with her? You do have a baby together, you know."

Hawkeye groaned and rubbed his eyes. "We don't have a baby together, we're raising a baby together, and that's one hell of a difference. Besides, you know the deal—Margaret wanted something out of it, but I wasn't it."

The Californian briefly considered how long it would take his brain to deteriorate that much from drinking home-made gin, and decided he still had some time left. Hawkeye, on the other hand, was a lost cause. "Hawk, can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"How long have you known Margaret?"

The Chief Surgeon blinked at him, smelling a rat in the air. "Almost two years," he volunteered hesitantly, casting a suspicious glance on his best friend.

"And how many times during these two years have you seen or heard her give out any personal information to people uninvolved?"

"Not too many, no."

"Alright then, let me give you another one: did Margaret ever let anything about her go public if she found it repulsive, wrong, or a reason to be ashamed?"

"No, never."

"Then why do you think she decided to wear your ring in the open?"

Hawkeye gaped at him with open mouth. "I—don't know."

"Did you occur to you that she might be fine with the idea of being your wife, and treat it as more than just a 'business agreement'?"

The black haired man shrugged. "Well, even if she is… what am I supposed to do about it?"

"Spend some time with her, and Kim? Maybe she'll open to you some more? Come on, Hawk, she ain't going to bite you! It's Margaret, remember? She helped you out when you needed it the most. She's always been there for you and Kim when you needed her. Don't you think that counts for something?"

"Well…"

"Then go, ask her out for lunch, a drink or a walk, whatever you find suitable. Talk to her. I do remember you were quite good at talking to women."

"You won't let it go until I do, will you?"

"You know me. I'm all in for happy endings."

Hawkeye stood up and stretched, feeling dirty and heavy from lack of sleep. "There's nothing remotely resembling a happy ending about all this," he pointed out and yawned. "Gonna shower and sleep a bit. Potter said we should be expecting casualties later in the afternoon."

"Sure," BJ answered, returning Hawkeye's emptied martini glass to its owner. "Sleep tight."

"Yeah," the Chief Surgeon snorted, still unsure whether he'd be able to fall asleep. Shower was a necessity, though, and a shave, too.

The hot water helped him a little. Apparently a man wouldn't die from being dirty, but removing the layer of sweat, dirt and rough facial hairs could do wonders to a tired person. Wrapping a wet towel around his neck, Hawkeye exited the shower compartment and frowned at the bright, July sun.

"You look awful."

Raising his eyebrows, Hawkeye turned on his heel and faced his wife, wearing a sandy shirt tied up under her bust and carrying Kim on one arm and a picnic basket on the other.

"Gee, I thought my looks might have improved after being sprinkled with some water," he joked, trying to make his mind focus on what Margaret was saying to him—not the way soft tendrils of hair slipped out of her ponytail and touched her cheekbones. Or how lovely she looked with a child hoisted in the curve of her arm. Or how sweetly she smiled.

"You need to get some sleep. Any doctor would recommend it," Margaret said firmly, and rolled her eyes at Kim, desperately trying to reach her father with extended hands. Hawkeye smirked and took the baby from the blonde woman, holding her high in the air and pretending that she was an airplane. Kim shrieked with laughter, which made her father follow suit. Margaret sighed.

"Were you going to have a picnic?" Hawkeye asked, lowering the laughing child to his hip. "May I join you?"

"Only if you promise to get some sleep while we're there. A couple more hours, and you could actually drop her."

"Don't worry, mommy, I'll be careful," Hawkeye mocked her and gave her the child back, starting off towards the Swamp. "I'll meet you there in ten."

Margaret looked at his retreating back with a thoughtful expression on her face, before she shook her head in amazement and went her own way towards the sunny hill slope where she and Frank used to camp not so long ago.

"Your father in one extraordinary man," she told Kim on their way there, thinking about how different Hawkeye felt in comparison to Frank Burns. Well, she'd already known that even before Frank left, and even compared the two men on several occasions (the Christmas kiss having been the first one, admittedly), but never had those differences seemed more vivid than at the times when Hawkeye really acted as if they was a family—joking with Margaret, calling her sweet names or petting Kim while she was around. Some time during their marriage a certain bond was formed between them—one that Margaret had yet to experience in her life.

She felt needed, accepted, and respected. All this because of a half-crazy man, obsessive womanizer, who could just as easily make her rampant with rage… He was different, no matter whether she compared him with Frank, Donald (now, that never failed to amuse her) or any other man she'd known.

"Extraordinary," she repeated, kissing Kim's head as she kneeled in high grass and spread the blanket on the ground, carefully depositing baby in the very middle on it.

"She is, isn't she?"

Margaret jumped to her feet and gave Hawkeye a nasty glare. "Why do you always have to sneak upon me like that?!"

He smiled apologetically. "Sorry. Didn't know that overhearing you saying that Kim was extraordinary would make you angry."

Margaret blushed and bit her bottom lip. "I wasn't talking about Kim."

"Oh?" Hawkeye tilted his head playfully and gave his wife a knowing smile. "Was it about some guy I don't know yet?"

"There's only one man in my life now, as you surely know," she retorted, turning away from him and sitting next to Kim who instantly extended her arms to her in a plea for more cuddling. Hawkeye smiled: this child could actually be his daughter, judging from the way she clung to Margaret. She reached out and tugged on Margaret's hair, making her laugh and release the clasp holding it: golden locks fell down Margaret's shoulders, and Hawkeye found himself stuck in the moment.

"Are you going to sit down?" he winced and looked at Margaret, brought rapidly back from his daydreams. Nodding, he slipped off his shoes and sat crossed-legged on the other side of the blanket. Margaret, busy with taking Kim's long sleeved shirt off, gave him an absent-minded smile.

"Would you mind unpacking the basket?" she asked, combing the child's hair. Hawkeye did as requested, finding inside some sandwiches, a bottle of milk and two apples. It wasn't much—definitely not what he was hoping to have in a picnic basket on his first outdoor lunch with his family—but it was theirs, Margaret prepared it, and no cranberry-sauce-chicken-whatever could ever match it.

"Looks great," he offered with a smile. Margaret rolled her eyes.

"Let's just hope it's edible," she said, reaching out for the milk bottle at exactly the same moment when Hawkeye picked it up and offered to her with a helpful smile. Their fingers brushed gently, and Margaret blushed again.

"Thank you," she said and gave the bottle to Kim who began to coo happily. "She really could be your child," Margaret said, casting a sidelong glance at Hawkeye. "She definitely has your appetite."

"I've noticed. And it's not only for the food, you know."

This remark earned him an eye-roll and a snort, followed by a couple of quiet minutes. The sun shone on his face through the leaves, and suddenly Hawkeye felt pretty tired. Sighing, he lay down and wrapped an arm across his eyes, hoping to get some rest while Margaret was feeding Kim. He heard the small noises the child made as she drank, and he could swear Margaret started to hum her a lullaby—but he was fast asleep before he could identify the melody.

When he woke up, he found Kim sleeping soundly in the emptied basket, wrapped in another blanket. Margaret had lain down, too, quite close to him, on her side, with one arm crooked under her head and the other wrapped loosely around her middle. Hawkeye propped himself up on one elbow and smiled, watching the shadows cast on Margaret's cheeks by two sets of eyelashes. He took in her sleeping form (a sight he hadn't been familiar with): the soft, peach-like skin on her face and neck, hair wisps on her neck and nape, half-opened mouth, chest rising and falling with every breath…

"Would you stop ogling me?"

Hawkeye winced, not exactly fancying being caught red-handed. "I just thought you were…"

Margaret opened her eyes and gave him a long, considerate glance, completed with slowly licking her lips. "I was what?" she asked him playfully, half-sitting up and leaning gently into his private space.

Hawkeye wondered for the briefest moment if he might have still been dreaming, but dropped the thought when he looked Margaret in the eye. There was longing there, longing and tenderness he hadn't seen turned towards in for a long time.

Maybe BJ was right. Maybe there was a chance that—

"I was what, Hawkeye?" Margaret urged him and put one slender finger under his chin, forcing him to look back at her.

Hawkeye grinned suggestively and leaned in closer, almost brushing Margaret's lips with his own.

"Delicious," he whispered and heard her catch a breath and move closer, almost touching—

The low, growling sound of a chopper began behind them and rose, wild, dangerous, soon to be followed by another one—and another. Kim woke up and cried, scared of the loud rumbling that appeared out of nowhere. Both Margaret and Hawkeye jumped to their feet; he picked up the basket with the crying baby and started off towards the compound in quickened pace, she rolled the blanket in a haphazard pile and followed him, panting and flushed. Hawkeye turned to his wife and extended his hand, grinning like a madman when she took it.

"So much for romance in times of war," he joked, glad to see her eyes sparkle.

"Maybe we could do it again someday," Margaret suggested, avoiding his eyes. Hawkeye squeezed her fingers and, on an impulse, let go of her hand in favor of wrapping his freed arm around her waist.

"Whenever you want," he said solemnly.

"How about a dinner in my place tonight?" Margaret asked and smiled wickedly. "I'll make you something… delicious."

Hawkeye decided he couldn't smile any wider, unless the corners of his mouth met in the back of his neck. "With pleasure—providing we will still be alive by dinnertime."

"I won't take a rain check on this one," Margaret warned him, getting serious. He nodded and hugged her briefly, before walking into the compound and depositing Kim's basket in the waiting arms of Klinger.

"I wouldn't dare to give it to you," he whispered to Margaret's ear and shook his head in awe, taking in the long, promising glance she gave him before turning away and running for the triage.

Hawkeye followed her, noticed how her wedding ring glittered in the sun. That was strange: he was tired, sleepy, and about to face a long stretch of meatball surgery—and yet, everything seemed… fine.

"Finest kind," he murmured to himself, leaning over the first patient. "Ruptured spleen, I'll take him right away…"

The End