Hi, all. This is not my first fanfic but my first MASH story, so here goes. Of course, I do not own any of the characters, situations, etc. of M*A*S*H and am not receiving any money or anything else from this story - just borrowing them all for a while. Hope you like it! - Abbie

"Thank you, Hank."

Margaret paused for a moment before looking up to meet his eyes. She wavered for a second, examining his face. In her expression Hawkeye saw something he had seen there only once before - uncertainty. Margaret Houlihan was not a woman given to uncertainty. But here she was, tremulously searching his eyes for some sign that he had understood her - and that he wasn't going to mock her. The only other time Hawkeye had seen that look was in the abandoned hut, when they had pulled back from their initial panicked embrace to gauge the other's reaction before that first kiss. That look had been then, and was now, evidence that Hawkeye's theory was correct - that above everything else Margaret Houlihan was afraid of rejection.

She must have found something in his face that pleased her, because a tiny smile appeared at the corners of her mouth. They looked at each other for a long moment. Hawkeye thought she had never appeared more beautiful. An answering grin spread across his face. "Thank you, Darlene," he said softly to prove that he understood - and appreciated the gesture. Margaret's smile widened - she sensed that she had been once and for all accepted.

He moved, slowly so as not to startle her (and because his leg still hurt like the devil) to sit beside her on the bed. "As friends," he said, stressing the operative word, "would it be permissible for the Captain to hug the Major?"

"Permission granted," she replied primly, with only a trace of a smile to betray her.

Margaret couldn't really account for the fact that Hawkeye's smile faded as he wrapped his arms around her - she simply took it as an indication that he wanted to be serious, and decided to enjoy the rare occasion while she could. Laying her head on his shoulder, she hugged him back as tightly as possible.

"Thank you," he whispered, bringing one hand up to rest on her bright hair and cradling her with the other. She pulled back and he cupped the side of her face in his palm for a moment before dropping his hands to hold hers.

"For what?" she asked curiously.

Hawkeye tightened his fingers around hers. "For reminding me that this infernal war hasn't managed to kill my heart yet."

She tilted her head slightly to one side. "What do you mean?"

He shook his head, and she could almost see him fighting the urge to laugh it off with a joke. Finally he said simply, "If we can care about each other, we're still human."

She could understand that. She nodded solemnly. "It's actually going to work, isn't it?" she asked.

Now it was his turn to be confused. "What is?"

"Us, being friends." He could hear Margaret's normal tone returning. "I mean, if we can sit here and talk like this, without fighting or playacting -"

"Is that what you usually do?" he interrupted.

"Is what what I usually do?"

"Act." He frowned. He had been trying to forget the entire day as much as possible, but. . . "You know that morning, when we -"

"Yes?" Margaret asked anxiously, sensing where this was going.

Well, if he was going to be her friend - here goes nothing. "What the hell was that?"

A little bit of the hardness returned to her face - he hated to see that. "What the hell was what?" she asked in her Major Houlihan voice.

After all, he had to have known this could only get ugly before it got better. "Everything, Margaret - breakfast, and kissing me right and left, and fixing your hair a hundred times -" He could see her face turning to stone as he spoke, so he decided to act fast. He reached for her hands again. "All I'm saying is, that wasn't you. All right? That was not the Margaret I know, who would ordinarily have me court martialed if I so much as looked at her. Now, the Margaret who tried to impale me with the scissors in the OR - that's the Margaret I know and love." At the unexpected word her face suddenly softened into an expression of - well, mostly shock, but at least a little affection. "Look," he continued. "I just want you to know that you don't have to play those games with me. I - kissed you - and everything that happened after - because I cared for the woman in my arms. Because despite our less than amicable past, I have always cared about you. Not because I wanted a trophy girlfriend - do you understand what I'm saying?" She still wasn't giving in, but she gave an almost imperceptible nod. "Okay," he replied. "I just want you to understand that you don't have to be anybody's sturdy hostess - not Donald's, and not mine. The woman I respect - the woman I know you are underneath - does not need to act differently for any man."

Margaret nodded again, and he finally saw why she wasn't speaking. She wasn't angry anymore, he could see that. She was trying not to cry.

"Come here." He pulled her close in another embrace, rubbing her back gently. "Good Lord, tell her she has a great body and she hits you, but say anything with any depth and she goes all to pieces."

Margaret shook in his arms and he realized she was laughing. "I'm sorry," she said, pulling back and wiping at her eyes.

"Don't be." He looked around her tent for a moment. "You know, being in here reminds me of something. You remember when Father Mulcahy had hepatitis?"

Margaret nodded suspiciously, positive he was about to mention his "examination" of her and readying her arsenal just in case.

He surprised her. "I told you that you were magnificent, on the outside and the inside. I meant it. I still mean it. You really are. And one of these days you'll believe it, and stop trying to alienate people before they have the chance to alienate you."

"Dammit, Hawkeye!" she exclaimed, rubbing at her eyes again. "I'm never going to stop at this rate!"

He smiled. "Enjoy it while it lasts. You realize tomorrow I'm going to have to make a pass at you in OR and probably defy your military authority at least twice. I have a reputation to protect, you know."

She smiled back. "I know. Nothing has to change, right?" she said, repeating his earlier words.

He grinned even wider. "Goodnight, Margaret."

"Hawkeye?" she called, stopping him.

"Yes?"

"Did you mean it - when you said that you've . . . always cared?"

The old Hawkeye was back with his trademark mischievous smile. "Why do you think we talked you out of transferring so many times? This place would be hell without Hot Lips Houlihan."

"I thought it was hell already."

"Okay, you have me there." They shared another smile, and Hawkeye turned to go again.

"Hawkeye?"

His hand on the door, he turned back. "Hmm?"

Margaret took a deep breath, realizing that despite her marriage she had little practice with sincere expressions of emotion. "I care about you too."

He surprised her again by crossing to her and, placing his hands on her shoulders, gently kissing her forehead. "Goodnight, Margaret."

"Nothing has to change, right?" she repeated.

He paused and said seriously, "Nothing, except that if you need me, you know where to find me."

"I always knew where to find you," she cracked. "Follow the trail of gin."

He grinned. "That's my girl. Goodnight, Margaret."

"Goodnight."

Halfway out the door he paused and stuck his head back in. "I'll leave the Swamp door open in case you need - anything - during the night," he said with a suggestive look.

She threw a pillow at his head. "Get out!" she shouted, laughing.

With a last loving smile he disappeared through the door. Margaret turned off her light and settled into bed. She was grateful to Hawkeye - her dreams were not of the waves whooshing on somebody else's toes or of her plans to assassinate either Donald or Hawkeye, but of walking comfortably with the roguish chief surgeon through the compound, finally and blissfully secure of having earned his approval - and his friendship.