Reconnection

(A response to the prompt "mine." Post-war story.)

Floating. The impression that someone is stroking my hair… slowly, tenderly. I don't have the energy to open my eyes. No sound, no sense of place or time. I feel heavy, like I'm weighted down. Everything's too hard… except for falling back to sleep.

So I do just that.

Floating again, and this time there is sound. Faint bells, distant voices. It sounds like the hospital. Should I be working? Did I fall asleep in the on-call room?

No, there's something wrong. My body is heavy, my mind is fuzzy. I still don't seem to have the ability to open my eyes. It would be too hard. I shift a little, but every movement hurts, and I utter a small groan.

Then a voice, soft, at my side: "Beej?"

There's only one person on earth who calls me that. But he… no, that's not possible. I haven't seen Hawkeye in nearly a year. Not since we split up. He went running back to Maine, and we've barely spoken since. A few short phone calls, that's all.

"Beej?" he repeats, and yes, this time I'm certain it is Hawkeye. He's here? It takes tremendous effort, but I force my eyes open.

"Hawkeye?" Well, I try to say it, but I can't. My voice doesn't want to work. It's barely a whisper.

"Yeah, it's me. I'm here." He reaches out and squeezes my hand. "Do you know what happened to you?"

What happened to me…? No, I don't… wait… a fragment of memory seems to recall screeching tires.

"You were hit by a car. Pretty damn nasty, Beej, but you're going to be OK. It'll take some time, but you'll be fine."

I try my voice again, and this time it's a bit more cooperative. "How did you—"

"Erin called me," he says, understanding the question. "I came right away."

I'm numb and tired. Probably drugged to the hilt. My eyes close. He came right away? It's remarkable. We'd parted ways all those months ago, but I for one had regretted it, kept hoping he'd call and want to fix things. His coming across the country because I'd been hurt… it means so much. It means everything. In the midst of my pain and drug-fueled haze, I feel buoyed by his presence at my side.

Never stopped loving him. Probably never will.

With that thought running through my head, and with Hawkeye holding lightly onto my hand, I drift back to sleep.

Six Weeks Later

Ragged breathing. Small grunts and groans. The rustle of clothing being removed and cast aside. The creak of bedsprings as we tangle, roll, gently wrestle. Slow… slower… both of us making an effort to slow down though neither one of us says anything.

Slow and sweet. A reconnection after so long apart, a relearning. I shut my eyes. Oh, I can't wait to learn him again.

My recovery was long and difficult, and he was at my side through all of it. He tended to me and helped me mend. He wiped the sweat from my brow and the tears from my cheeks; he made me laugh when I felt more like screaming. He held me and encouraged me and comforted me.

We never once talked about it, but when I was released from the hospital, he came home with me. I don't want him to go back to Maine. I don't want him to ever leave me again.

The room's dark and I can't see his face, so I reach over and snap on the lamp.

"Hey?" he says, drawing back to look at me, breathing hard, his eyes bright.

"I want to see you," I tell him, and reach up to run my fingertips over his jawline. "I need to see your face."

He rewards me with a beautiful Hawkeye Pierce smile. "You romantic, you," he says with a purr just before he leans down and kisses me, long and passionately and with lots of tongue. It both takes my breath away and makes me laugh against his mouth. His lovemaking is often like this, sexy and sensual and intense but playful and fun too.

Yeah, we're relearning each other, all right. Together again, after all this time… it's wonderful to feel his arms around me and taste his mouth. Should've never given this up… should've never let him go.

He breaks the kiss and rubs his nose against mine. It's such a small, chaste act, but it makes me tremble.

"I missed you… God, I missed you," I murmur.

Then he's kissing me again, swallowing my words and driving coherent thought from my brain.

The rest of our clothes are unceremoniously discarded, hands move and press and grip. Moans turn to whimpers turn to growls. I buck against him and he matches my movements.

It's so good.

I want this to be a beginning, a renewal, but does he want the same thing I do? We'd been apart for far too long. I don't even know anymore why we split—it's not important. It was a mistake. Nobody on this earth fits my body and my mind better than Hawkeye.

In a way, my accident was a blessing. It brought him back to me.

"Forever," I mumble, and if he hears it, he doesn't ask what I mean. He kisses me again, his tongue sliding against my own, and finally he reaches down and blindly touches the places he used to know so well. He hasn't forgotten.

We sink deeper into the sheets.

Floating again. This time the joyful, exhilarating kind of floating that follows a night of amazing sex. I gradually drift awake, and when I open my eyes, I discover Hawkeye's long fingers encircling my right wrist, clutching lightly. I stare at them, marveling at the simplicity of the gesture and overwhelmed by how it makes me feel. Secure, loved, connected, bonded.

I've dreamed of this, waking up with him again.

I shift a little and the movement stirs Hawkeye.

He opens his eyes a slit and first he looks at the connection of our hands, then at my face. His mouth curves into a sleepy smile. "Mine," he says softly. "Forever this time."

There's some kind of indefinable lump in my throat. All my questions and worries are gone now. Erased by four words. "Yeah" is all I can manage to say.

"Yeah," he whispers. Then he closes his eyes, and I lie there and watch as he falls back to sleep.