A/N: Thank you so much for your feedback, kymby!
"Take off your tie! Stay a while!" Margaret said with a laugh, as Charles pulled the stifling piece of fabric from around his neck, placing it on the picnic blanket beside him. He sat cross-legged on the picnic blanket opposite Margaret, the Charles River burbling next to them, as he halfheartedly nibbled at his chicken sandwich, his wine glass containing one of the rarer Winchester vintages somehow remaining upright next to him on the grass. It was now he understood why Margaret had worn a simple pair of trousers, dark-colored blouse and flat shoes. His custom-tailored shirt was surely coming untucked from his pants and he could see a smudge of dirt on the toe of his shiny leather shoes. Not only that, but if the wine glass were to spill, he'd not only be out of such a vintage, but his pants would be rendered blood red.
It was an unseasonably warm day, a beautiful Sunday that, in his days at Massachusetts General, would have been spent along this very esplanade accompanied by a medical tome and his phonograph and records. Those were simpler times, times in which his self-confidence had been unshakable, success had been effortless to achieve, and his thoughts generally alternated between an appreciation for the inner workings of the human form and an appreciation for the delicately interwoven constituents of classical music. Both of these subjects were comprised of a multitude of seemingly unrelated components, that by themselves, were rather unremarkable. And yet, when assembled in the proper proportions by the proper creator, each was capable of producing something far more incredible than the sum of its parts.
"What was your sister referring to when she said you had personal experience with the Charles River?" Margaret asked, stirring him from his thoughts.
"I never told you that story?" Charles remarked, chuckling to himself. "In short, I swam that river in cap and gown the night after graduation from Harvard Medical."
"You? Were you drunk or something?"
An amused little grin spread across his face, a reminder of the Charles she knew.
"In short, I was blotto."
"Lie down—the blanket's plenty big enough," Margaret suggested, patting the picnic blanket, having herself flipped onto her back after finishing her lunch. "It's a perfect day to just relax."
Charles had since rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to elbow level and could feel sweat erupting from every pore. It was far too hot to wear such clothing, and he frowned down at the dirt that had now collected on the heels of his shoes.
"I really should be getting back, Margaret," he said, remaining seated. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was now nearly two in the afternoon.
"You really did an about-face, you know that?" she remarked.
"Care to divulge the nature of this supposed about-face?" he asked, unamused. "I cannot read your mind."
"When you first came to the 4077th, you refused to wake up early and you hated working weekends. Now you're awake at the crack of dawn on Saturday and Sunday for work."
"I would argue that two years of being expected to work at unfavorable times has altered my proclivities. I find that when I work weekends now, my week can then be spent—"
"Sleeping on your desk?" she cut in, smiling knowingly.
"That was an anomaly you witnessed today, Margaret," he corrected, holding up a finger. "The very first time I've done that since beginning work here."
"Which was, what, a couple of weeks ago? You're not making a good argument for working weekends."
"What do you propose I do instead then, hmm?" he shot back, his voice laced with irritation. "I can't very well do what I used to do."
Now Margaret was intrigued. Charles didn't often divulge information about his personal life while in Korea. Certainly she knew his taste in music and food but not necessarily his pastimes in his day-to-day life. Would he allow himself to be more vulnerable to her in revealing the facets of his past existence?
"And what was that?" she replied, cocking an eyebrow.
He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm.
"I suppose it is a bit similar to what we are doing here now, save for lying on a blanket. Weather-permitting, I'd go to the Boston Common or to the esplanade," he continued, his eyes focusing in the distance. "Sometimes I'd bring my phonograph, sometimes a medical text—it depended on the day and my willingness to lug them around. I'd find a bench somewhere and make camp, as it were, spending most of the day in that very spot, taking in Mozart, Tchaikovsky, Gray…."
Margaret blinked.
"Gray?"
"As in, Gray's Anatomy. You know, some light reading."
"Well, I don't have any medical books with me today, but I did bring along a phonograph—it's in the trunk."
"I assure you; it is best kept where it is at present," Charles replied, suddenly looking anxious. "Voluntarily listening to Doris Day is a recognizable cause of heartburn, especially when supine."
"Ha!" Margaret laughed, recalling what Honoria had said about Charles's newfound dislike of all music. She decided to press further. "Well, what about Tchaikovsky? Or Chopin?"
"Surely you wouldn't bring such music along, so no use conjecturing—"
"In fact, I did bring them with me. Chopin's Etude No. 10 and Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 1 in B Minor—"
"B Flat Minor, Margaret," he interrupted.
Now Margaret rolled her eyes good-naturedly.
"Major, minor, flat, no flat, what's the difference?"
It was the perfect thing to say to entice a response from Charles Winchester. He took a deep breath before replying.
"The B flat minor consists of five flats as opposed to the two sharps of the B minor key. In fact, there is a major difference between the two minors."
"Awww, just let it be, Major!" Margaret said, adding her own quip.
Charles cringed for a moment at his companion's pun and then chuckled, realizing the innate amusement in their exchange. Never had he considered having a conversation about key signatures with Major Margaret Houlihan along the Charles River.
"Just say the word, Charles, and I can go get it."
"The word is no."
"I know your sister said you were off music, but maybe you just weren't listening to the right song in the right place with the right person. Please," she said, her eyes locked on his now. "Music is so important to you—you shouldn't let it go. You loved those albums."
Now she watched his eyes widen and jaw drop.
"Did you in fact purchase the very—"
"You gave me a couple of your own when we left Korea, remember? So I already know they have the Charles Winchester stamp of approval. Want me to go get them?"
"There's already far too much to carry here—the blanket, the picnic basket, our food waste. You needn't burden yourself with lugging a heavy phonograph back and forth to the car."
Of course, it was characteristic of Charles to shun physical labor, even in the assistance of a woman. Of course, she was Major Margaret Houlihan, a woman who would normally refuse such chivalry, so perhaps just as she knew him, he knew her as well.
"Maybe I'd like you to explain the key to me so I don't say it wrong next time. What better way than to play it and you can point out all the flats?"
"It doesn't work like that," he remarked, shaking his head. "Today is pleasant enough without music."
Margaret raised her eyebrows.
"It is?"
"Yes, but unfortunately, all good things must come to an end," he said, finishing off his glass of wine. "I should really be getting back to the office now."
"Please, can we just listen to one song? And then if you want to go back, we can go back."
Now he was gritting his teeth.
"Apparently I do not have the option to refuse," he answered, grimacing now.
"Why would you refuse, Charles? You always loved classical music, and these are your very records. Please, give it a try—if not for yourself, for me."
As the horns descended into the smooth theme of Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 1 in B Flat Minor, Charles shut his eyes and bowed his head, gooseflesh on his sweaty skin. He sat with his hands planted in the grass behind him, his legs stretched out straight in front of him, Margaret sitting beside him on the blanket.
There were the five Chinese musicians in his mind's eye, smiling and waving at him, the mortar striking their jeep and flinging them into the air with each struck piano chord. The accordion and violins exploded into charred burning pieces as the strings swelled around each trio of piano chords, the flute burying itself in the ground like a javelin. Those five men should have been taken to the POW camp immediately, before the ramping up of violence in that last day before the armistice was to take effect. He knew damn well that temporary cease-fires in Korea were marked by increased violence before and after the actual cease-fire. And yet, knowing that the war was quickly coming to a close, he had not insisted they leave as soon as possible. So rather than possibly reuniting with their families, those five men had spent their final weeks of life learning a song under the baton of an impatient conductor in the uniform of the enemy.
Margaret could see Charles gritting his teeth now, eyes tightly shut, looking pained. She had recalled him telling the group that music would always be a reminder of his experience in Korea, but which part exactly he hadn't divulged. Were thoughts of the casualties currently racing through his mind? Or was it the sound of the mortars striking the camp so very close in those final hours of the war? Or was it perhaps the less-than-cushy conditions at the 4077th? She could not be certain.
"What are you thinking about?" Margaret murmured slightly louder than a whisper.
"I am thinking that it was none other than my meddlesome sister Honoria who put you up to this," he began, now lifting his head and opening his eyes, "and for that, I should shun her in perpetuity."
With that, he reached over and deftly lifted the stylus off of the record, effectively silencing Tchaikovsky.
"Now, just wait a minute, Charles," Margaret said, pulling the device away from him, "I recall you mentioning music now being a reminder of Korea—a reminder of what, exactly?"
"Must you antagonize me in public, of all places?" Charles shot back, clearly perturbed, the volume of his voice steadily rising. He stood up now, looming over Margaret, his face ever-reddening. "Surely Honoria has already filled you in on the relevant information that she gleaned from forcing me to speak of this... this agony!"
"Fine. I'm not going to make you talk about it," Margaret said in a calm nurse's voice. "You don't ever have to talk about it again if you don't want to."
"Kindly inform Honoria of the same. I am forever a closed book to her," he replied, crossing his arms and looking resolute. "The nerve of my sister—" he spat, ire in his voice as he began pacing now, "—in not only forcing me to read the letter you'd written, but then using her… feminine wiles to draw out my pain until I broke down right in front of her! And yet, her mission wasn't complete; now you know all about it!"
"Why don't you sit down?" Margaret suggested quietly as she tapped on the blanket, appalled by how unbridled Charles was behaving right now, speaking loudly of his deepest emotions in a park, of all places! Would he be able to calm down, or was this day now ruined?
"And what if I choose not to?"
"It's a free country," she replied, shrugging, leaning back over toward the phonograph. "You're free to stand up; I'm free to listen to mus—"
Now he strode back over to her, his eyes venomous, interrupting her mid-sentence.
"I swear, if you so much as touch that stylus, I will drop kick that damn phonograph into the river!" he raged. "It is no less than a torture device, Margaret!"
Rather than try again in attempting to get him to sit, Margaret rose to her feet. Now she stood across from him on the blanket, taking in the sight of a man she barely recognized. Charles Winchester stood in his civilian's clothing, his arms crossed and his hollowed-out face mottled red. She could hear his loud breaths as he held his mouth slightly ajar, and his eyes, though under angry eyebrows, were the very essence of misery.
The silent phonograph sat on the blanket between them. Margaret looked down at it, then used her foot to shove it out of the way, taking a step toward Charles.
"I was there, Charles," Margaret murmured, looking up into his eyes now, her calm voice the culmination of her extensive nurses' training. "I saw those musicians."
"Yes, well, you can't see them now," he said with a frown, swallowing as his eyes darted to the ground. "They've been blown to smithereens."
"I saw the joy you gave those men," she said, reaching out and touching the hot skin of his exposed forearm. He flinched at the touch but said nothing, and so she continued speaking.
"I saw the smiles on their faces when you'd come visit them to go over Mozart. It was fate that they found you in the latrines that day, and not Colonel Potter or B.J. or someone else. They found you."
She could see that Charles wanted to reply, but his eyes wouldn't lock onto hers long enough to allow it. Instead, he seemed genuinely troubled by her words, his eyes darting about on the ground, blinking rapidly as his breaths came in shallow pants.
"They were more than just POWs to you, Charles," she murmured barely louder than a whisper, "They were your quintet, your orchestra."
Margaret had to stifle a gasp when she saw the tears brimming in Charles's eyes now. Instinctively, she reached out and pulled him against her in a warm embrace, wrapping her arms around his larger frame.
She could feel him uncross his arms now, his quaking breaths and thudding heart in her ears as she laid her head against his chest. His arms were at his sides, pinned to him by her tight hug and yet he did not contest the hug, did not struggle. It was both surprising and endearing that Charles Winchester was allowing such an act in a public place and yet, he was.
A/N: Have a wonderful Thanksgiving!