Title: Moving Past Regret
Author: Lisa M
Pairing: Charles/Margaret
Rating: Corporal
Disclaimer: Nope, don't own anything. Don't sue … no money.
Archive: Anywhere, just let me know.
Feedback: Would be appreciated - good or bad.
Spoilers: Minor ones for The Party and Goodbye, Farewell and Amen … they won't ruin the episode for you.
Summary: None.
A/N: Post-war fic. It's sort of an answer to the challenge I posted way back when in which authors were supposed to use the phrase "I still wish I knew what it felt like to kiss you." small And I know that some will argue that they did kiss in "Say No More", but I've seen that kiss, and wouldn't actually consider it a "kiss" kiss … and damn! Now I'm talking like Frank Burns/small
This is dedicated to captain lubey … she of the good 'ship Charles/Margaret, and siggen who really wanted an angsty!Charles fic. This may not be exactly what you wanted, but hopefully you still sorta like it. I apologize for the shortness of it … I sort of ran out of steam. My Charles!muse and my Margaret!muse stopped cooperating with me, damn them!
It has been over a year, but he can still recall that day as if it were yesterday. The smells. The sounds. The joy. The sorrow. The way her rose-scented blond hair shimmered in the sunlight - like a million strands of spun gold, swirling in breeze as her jeep pulled away and disappeared into the dusty landscape of Korea.
He can remember watching her twist back in her seat and their eyes meeting briefly one final time. The expression on her face told him that had read it - the note he'd written inside the cover of the book. The words he had toiled over, struggled with, until he had found the perfect syllables to adequately express to her how he felt about her. How he still feels to this very day.
My dearest Margaret,
This book is but a token, and a small one at that, to show what you have meant to me. Our time here is at an end and I find myself wishing it was not. There is a pain deep within me - a torturous pulling at my soul that I did not understand until the day the war ceased to exist.
In that moment, as we stood side-by-side in the OR listening to the announcement over the intercom, I knew the cause of my pain - after today, I may never see you again. And as we prepare leave this place behind, I have come to the realization that I have but one regret - I will never know what it felt like to kiss you. This one thing will haunt me forever - not the blood, or the fear - but the knowledge that I will leave here without ever knowing your touch.
I want to thank you, Margaret. You have made this place bearable - even pleasant for me. I will never forget you.
All my heart,
Charles
As the memories flood through him, he feels a smattering of tears spill from his eyes. They flow downward, dampening his cheeks. With a quick brush of the fingers, the warm, salty drops are spirited away.
He misses her still. Her face colors his dreams golden. Brilliant rays of yellow that kiss everything, remaking them new. The calming blue of her eyes. Warm and comforting. They pull him in, holding him willingly captive. Her musical voice, calling to his soul with its irresistible siren song. And when he is awake, he sees her in every fair-haired woman he passes. He has even stopped a few, foolishly wondering if it is even possible that she is here, in Boston.
He has one picture of Margaret - and she is not alone. It is from their time at the 4077th. A copy of the photo they'd taken for that party Hunnicutt had planned and his wife had thrown. He received it from the Hunnicutt's just one week ago. They had sent everyone Christmas cards made with duplicates of the photo.
Without thought, he pulls the card from his drawer and glances over it. Pierce in his ridiculous tuxedo. Hunnicutt with that asinine smile. All the others - including Charles, himself. And Margaret. Beautiful Margaret. Charles smiles, remembering that he'd placed his hand gently on her shoulder just as the flash had gone off. Afterward, she had turned, smiling, and slid her hand over his.
It is incredibly difficult for him to look at this photo. The memories it stirs inside of him are unbearably painful. Yet it is almost as if he cannot stay away from it. Over and over, his eyes are drawn back to the picture. It does not matter how hard he tries to avoid it. He's thrown it in the trash numerous times, only to pull it out, brush it off, place it in its envelope and tuck it securely in his desk.
He is preparing to slip it back into its place when he hears the doorbell ring.
"James!" Before he even finishes calling out the butler's name, the bell chimes again. "James, the door please." Then he remembers - today is Thursday. James is not here. Nor is the rest of the staff. Thursday is their off day. Charles is the only person on the property. "Damn!"
The bell tones again. He slides the photo back into its envelope and stands. It is a quick trip from Charles' office to the lower level of the house and as he walks, the chimes echo off the marble entryway and fade as the sound moves down the foyer.
"Coming," he addresses the individual outside, irritation coloring his tone. As he approaches the door, he glances at himself in the beveled mirror that hangs just to the right of the door. The man he see reflected back scares him. He is physically identical to the Charles Emerson Winchester who was sent to Korea. It's his eyes that have changed. They are haunted - filled with many forlorn spirits who refuse to rest. The blue swirls with memories he's tried to erase.
He feels his pulse rising as blood begins to race anxiously through his veins. Squeezing his eyes closed, he forces himself to calm down. Then, with a deep sigh, he disengages the shiny brass bolt and pulls back the heavy oak door. "Can I help …"
"I most certainly hope so."
"Margaret."
"Hello, Charles."
"What … what are you doing here?"
"Well," she says, stepping over the threshold and past him into the hallway. The freezing winter wind ruffles her hair. It still smells like roses. "I received a Christmas card about a week ago. From BJ and his wife." She pulls it out of her pocket - an exact copy of the one he has in his desk - and traces a fingertip across the two of them. "After all this time, it took seeing this for me to make a decision." Margaret glances at the picture one last time and drops it to the floor. She grasps Charles' hand with one of hers, and places the palm of the other against his cheek. The expression of utter shock reflected on his face brings a smile to her lips.
"What decision might that be, Margaret?"
Charles cringes inwardly at the sound of his shaky, unsure voice. Margaret's smile grows in reaction. She slides her hand around to the back of his neck and pulls him down to her waiting mouth. Their lips meet, brushing across each other tenderly - cautiously. The kiss is very brief, but Charles can feel, deeply within him, that this is not going to be their last kiss and he can't help but smile. Margaret opens her eyes and raises them to Charles'.
"I couldn't spend the rest of my life being your regret."
The End