1959

He informed her in no uncertain terms, that he would be driving her to Boston to meet her flight.

It should have been a given; instead it seemed like a minor victory when she didn't argue the point. He'd long since learned to take his successes with her where he could find them.

They prepared to leave Crabapple Cove behind soon after sunrise following a sleepless night that had lasted not nearly long enough. Their lovemaking right before rising had been bittersweet - slow and tender and he worried that it felt a little too much like goodbye.

It was a good day for driving, not so sunny that they would be blinded, but the clouds filtering the sun were high and white. It was warmer too; warm enough that they could drive with the windows down and enjoy the fresh spring air. He closed her car door carefully, making sure her feet were inside – she hadn't managed to kill all his gentlemanly tendencies during the years she outranked him in Korea – and then walked around to the driver's side.

After climbing in, he closed his own door and put his hands on the steering wheel.

And he sat there.

"You know, we'll get there faster if you start the car," Margaret suggested gently.

"I know," he said. "That's why I'm not starting it."

She sighed. "We need to talk. I know we do. But can we talk and drive at the same time? Because I really can't miss my flight."

He thought for a moment. Any attempt to keep her here against her will would backfire loudly and spectacularly. "Yeah. We can do that." What choice did he have?

When he turned the key, his father's old Ford roared to life.

"You know," he remarked as he backed down the drive, "this is the first time we've driven together that no one is likely to toss artillery at us."

"And this is the first time that our car has a roof. Let's just hope all our tires stay intact. I'm not dressed to change one."

"Hardy har har," he replied, allowing her the good natured jibe.

They stayed silent for long minutes, only commenting on meaningless things – traffic and scenery and whether to stop for lunch. It was as if acknowledging the need for conversation had lessened its immediacy. As much as possible he stuck to back roads, making the drive a scenic one through coniferous forests and grassy meadows just starting to come back to life after a long winter spent covered in snow and ice. Margaret, ever the city girl, thrilled at each glimpse of wildlife along the sides of the narrow country roads. Each time she spotted a deer grazing or a fox darting in and out of the trees he slowed to allow her a better look.

And if the delay caused by the winding roads and the sightseeing made them late and she missed her flight, well, that was a price he was all too willing to pay.

He had hoped she would begin the conversation they'd been putting off all weekend. All weekend and, if he was truthful, for many years before that. But she did not.

"I was wrong, you know," he said when he could bear the wait no longer.

"Hmm," she said, not looking at him, her attention fully on the scenery outside the car.

"In Korea. I was wrong."

That captured her attention. "Wow, did you just admit to not being infallible?" she said teasingly. "I never thought I'd hear that. When, specifically, were you wrong, Doctor?"

He knew she was just trying to lighten the mood because, arrogant though he may be, admitting when he was wrong had only rarely been one of his problems. He ignored her comment and continued. "I said we were too different, that nothing could ever come of whatever feelings we had for each other. And maybe that was true enough at the time, but what I didn't take into consideration was that the stress of environment we were in. It only served to magnify the worst qualities in both of us and that was where those differences lay. But here, now, in normal life, I don't think we have that same problem. I've mellowed, Margaret. You have too. We have a chance, now. We have a chance. Don't throw it away because I spoke too quickly, too thoughtlessly, too many years ago."

He chanced a glance at her and his heart broke when he saw a tear glistening its way down her cheek. "Margaret?"

She drew in a jagged breath and irritably wiped at her eyes. Looking straight ahead, she spoke. "You hurt me back then, Hawkeye. I know you didn't mean to, and I know I went overboard after that first night together, and I know it was god-awful timing, the war, I was still married, and I know you were right, but still… From then on I felt like I had to protect myself around you. But I'm not very good at it, as you can see. I keep slipping and letting you further in: the night of the red party, the day we left Korea, when I saw you at the conference that first year. When I heard your father had died and I got into that taxi in Boston…"

"And now too?" he asked, torn between hopefulness and regret.

"And now too," she agreed without elaboration and the interior of the car fell again into silence.

More miles passed without comment and he wondered if he had said enough, done enough. The longer they drove without her speaking, the more nervous he became. Why wasn't she saying anything? Finally it dawned on him. Idiot! He's an imbecile. How could she answer a question he hadn't asked? How could she accept an invitation he hadn't extended?

He flicked on his turn signal, applied the brake and eased the car over to the side of the road. Margaret watched him curiously. "Just so we're clear," he said when they were fully stopped, "something can come of this." He took her hand in his. "I want you to come back with me, live in Crabapple Cove. By yourself, at first, if you want, or with me, but either way – I love you. Something can come of this. Something has come of this."

He watched her closely for a reaction and could tell she was fighting tears. With Margaret that could be good or bad, but either way he knew she would prefer him not to acknowledge it and give her the space to pull herself together. Giving her hand a squeeze, he let go and pulled the car back onto the road.

A mile or so passed before she spoke.

"If I lived in Crabapple Cove, I'd have a dog. I always wanted a dog," she said. "A little terrier who would stand on his hind legs and dance for a treat. And maybe a cat, too. And neighbours who stop by for coffee, or to borrow sugar, and bring casseroles during hard times. Friends. A home." She took a deep breath and when she continued, her voice was thick with emotion. "And you. I want you." She paused and looked across the car at him. "The army still owns me for another eight months."

"I can wait," he said, grinning. "I can wait."

1960

He dreamt, as he often did, of Korea.

The generator must have gone out again because it was pitch dark in the OR and he couldn't find his way to his patient. The poor kid was crying out in pain, begging for someone to help him. 'I'm coming, I'm trying to find you,' he called, walking with his hands out, trying to feel his way around. Nothing was where he remembered it being. The room was the wrong size; the wrong shape. He kept bumping into things, strange, out of place things: the piano from the Officer's Club, a jeep, his still. Out of the darkness, a hand landed on his shoulder and he whirled around to find Margaret, gowned and masked, holding a lantern. 'This way, Doctor,' she said. 'I'll help you find him.' She held out her gloved hand and he reached for it, knowing everything would be fine now. As their hands touched, it was as if the sun had risen and he discovered that they weren't in the OR at all. They were home, in their kitchen in Crabapple Cove. Margaret's mask and gown were gone, replaced with an ordinary civilian dress. Her blonde hair shone and she smiled at him. "Can you see now? When we're together, it's lighter."

He awoke to the sun warming his face, his wife curled up at his side.

The End

A/N: Thanks everyone for your kind words. I hope you enjoyed the story. Perhaps we can do it again someday.