A/N: Yes, I changed the name of the story to something I think is more suitable, a name that of course has a double meaning. I hope it doesn't make it more difficult to find, if you've bookmarked it. Thank you as always to Elena, Kymby and Joel Shell!

The phonograph and picnic basket now stowed safely in the trunk of her rental car, Margaret sat next to Charles on the picnic blanket as they watched the river together. Now they were on their second bottle of expensive wine, sipping from their glasses idly as their eyes followed a passing tugboat.

"I never thought I'd do something like this again," Charles muttered wistfully, his eyes locked on the river. "And certainly not with you."

"A picnic?"

"Coming here, in particular. Massachusetts General is within walking distance and yet, I've no further connections to it. In fact, I'd resigned myself to spending all my breaks in Boston Mercy cafeteria, staring out at an expanse of pavement day after day."

"Wow—that view sounds just delightful," she commented sarcastically. "Well, now that you've seen what your lunch could be like, do you think you'll come here again?"

"If it were up to me, I'd say no…"

She made a face of disappointment, which incited him to continue clarifying.

"…which admittedly would be a mistake, though perhaps if you were to work at Boston Mercy, then I might be convinced to make this foray every once in a while."

Now Margaret was smiling at him, sitting ever so close to him on this beautiful Sunday. He felt a strange longing at meeting her eyes, a magnetism that seemed to inexplicably draw his face toward hers. And yet at catching the barely evident movement towards her, he quickly turned his head and straightened his shoulders again, petrified at his apparent lack of bodily control. Margaret could very well be a permanent fixture in his life in due time, if he could only avoid spoiling it with imprudent acts such as this. Promptly Charles stood up, clearing his throat and shoving his hands in his pockets.

"What's wrong?" Margaret asked.

"I really should be getting back, Margaret," he said, sliding his hand out of his pocket to glance at his wristwatch. "It's now nearly three in the afternoon. You will consider my offer to work in my department, will you not?"

"Your sister tells me you've worked every day since you started," Margaret said. "And I am telling you that you should take a break. You've already worked six hours today. Just sit down a bit longer—we can watch that barge float by."

Thankful that his unexpected amorous urge was now gone, Charles sighed and swallowed, lowering himself back onto the blanket to sit next to Margaret once again.

"I in fact did not work today and instead fell asleep, rather unintentionally," he said, rubbing the back of his sweaty neck self-consciously. "If I am brought back to my office too late in the day, it's quite likely I'll fall asleep again."

"If you're tired, why don't you close your eyes?" she said, peering over at the awkward, bent-kneed way her companion was sitting, his long legs ill-equipped for such a position. "Lie back, Charles. Is taking a little break going to kill you?"

Charles looked over at her insistent smile and sighed, straightening out his legs and allowing himself to slowly sink back onto his elbows.

"There," Margaret replied with a growing grin, "it's not so hard, is it?"

"My shoes," he grumbled, pointing at his feet, which, because he was so tall, were not on the blanket. "They're Italian. They'll get ruined in the grass."

"I thought you couldn't stand Italians," Margaret commented with a chuckle. "I recall you being horrified when you learned your sister was engaged to one."

"I very much regret my past preconceptions," he replied, wincing. "They do make damn good shoes, after all."

Now Margaret was scooting her body across the blanket, saying nothing as she reached out and grabbed one of his feet. Charles's eyes went wide—what in the world was she doing?

He watched in stunned wonder as Margaret smoothly removed each of his shoes followed by a rapid, wordless removal of his socks. It was quite freeing, to feel a gentle breeze where there was once stifling heat. And yet, he was concerned. Though Margaret had done so in the spirit of relaxation, the fact that she had, for all intents and purposes, undressed him, was having quite the opposite effect on his mind.

His feet newly bare, shoes and socks positioned neatly on the picnic blanket, Charles rolled over to face Margaret, who had now returned to her side of the blanket, reaching down to remove her own shoes. He could feel his face flush and breathing quicken as he observed her actions, culminating in the revelation of her small feminine feet. He'd certainly seen Margaret's bare feet before in Korea, and yet, it had not been during the various times they'd spent alone together.

Now that Margaret was free of her shoes as well, she lie back down, turning on her side to face Charles, who was more than a bit flustered. Did she realize what she was doing here, first hugging him and now removing his clothing?

"Close your eyes," she said, her voice amiable and soft—far too soft. The sounds of the Charles River, the environment around them—the other picnickers, the cars slowly driving past, birdsong, the wind—had faded into nothingness in his mind. His thoughts on music, Korea, Bob Sullivan, the mistakes he'd made at Boston Mercy, including the fact that he should be there at this very moment, were gone. All that he could sense was that he was now lying beside his friend Margaret in a partial, albeit negligible, state of undress.

"Come on, Charles; play along," she said, reaching out and touching his arm from across the blanket. "It'll do you a world of good."

"Play?" he muttered, mouth suddenly dry. He blinked several times in an attempt to clear his head, watching Margaret move her hand back to her side of the blanket. Did she truly not see what she was suggesting here?

"Just close your damn eyes, Charles!" she said again, more forcefully this time. "Here, I'll go first."

It was then that Margaret folded her arms daintily under her head, placing her head atop the makeshift cushion and shutting her eyes peacefully, a smile on her lips. So she had indeed intended on having them both relax. Charles was simultaneously relieved and disappointed by the fact.

Now that her eyes were closed, Charles could gaze at her openly. He studied her gently closed eyes, the curve of a smile on her full lips, her golden hair somehow perfectly framing her face. Would she follow through and apply for a job in his department? It would be refreshing having a nurse on the team who knew him well, a nurse who knew what he needed. She was the best nurse he knew, a significant statement considering his experience at Harvard and his burgeoning career at Massachusetts General alongside countless surgical nurses for the better part of eight years. Not only that, but Margaret had powerful, outspoken affectations that would not only serve to prevent him from wallowing in his own self-pity, but would also force him to enjoy his life. Yes, life with Margaret here in Boston might not be such a bad thing.

Feeling a smile spreading across his own lips at this new hope, Charles tucked his arms under his head and closed his eyes.

The sound of a bellowing foghorn startled Charles from his sleep. He jerked his head up, scrambling to his hands and knees on the now rumbled picnic blanket as the darkened environment around him came sharply into focus. He wasn't in Korea, cowering behind a rampart only to be delivered new casualties. In fact, was that not the Charles River behind him and Margaret Houlihan mere inches from his body?

"Margaret," he called out in a harsh whisper, peering out at the misty Charles River in search of the source of the sound. He stood up now, squinting into the impenetrable fog floating on the river, his bare feet cold on the dewy grass beside the picnic blanket. The foghorn blasted again, making him jolt. Somehow Margaret was continuing to sleep in spite of the deafening sound—was she alright?

With fresh disregard for the sound of a possible impending barge collision, Charles quickly sank back down to his hands and knees in the dark, to the still form of Margaret.

"Margaret, wake up!" he cried, panic rising in his throat, reaching out to shake her. "Please! Wake up, Margaret!" He peered around at the park around them; the grassy hillside, empty park benches, and tall oaks and willows of the Charles River Esplanade. How had he allowed for them to sleep out in the open like this, where anyone could have come along and assailed them? Not only that, but they'd bedded down a mere three or four yards from the river, where they could have easily been dumped to drown!

Now Margaret was stirring, smacking her lips together as she felt Winchester insistently shoving her, his hands on her arms, her side, even her face.

"Wh-what's wrong?" she murmured, her voice thick from sleep.

"What's wrong is it's now night, Margaret!" Charles whispered harshly at her. "We slept here the whole day!"

Now Margaret pulled herself into a seated position and she peered down at her wristwatch.

"Oh, wow, it's 7:30," she muttered, shaking her head. "We really slept, didn't we?"

"How can you be so nonchalant? We were unconscious in the middle of a damn park, sitting ducks for assault!"

"And yet," she said yawningly, glancing around to see his tie, the empty wine bottle, two wine glasses, and the two pairs of shoes still sitting on the blanket, "we survived. No harm, no foul—well, I do see geese, but no ducks."

"And to think, I thought I'd heard the last of Pierce," he groaned. "We could have been killed, lying out here in the open; robbed blind! Oh my God—my wallet." He stood up again on the picnic blanket, frantically reaching into the back pocket of his trousers in search of his wallet. His sizable wad of money and his driver's license and Diner's Card right were right where he'd left them.

"Are you seriously implying you've never fallen asleep out in the open?" she questioned. "Do you really think the walls of the Swamp, if you could call them that, could have protected you from wild dogs, or hell, I dunno, enemy soldiers?"

"Touché."

Margaret said nothing else, instead pulling her shoes toward her and sliding them back onto her feet. Charles soon joined her back on the blanket, sliding his socks and shoes back on, an instantaneous return to the responsibilities he'd left behind today.

"Well, it's about time for dinner now," Margaret stated, standing up and dusting off her clothing. "Let's go somewhere to eat."

"A question, if I may," Charles replied, holding up a finger of impatience as he stood up, "are you, uh, intending on applying for work at Boston Mercy Hospital?"

"I'm certainly considering it very strongly," Margaret replied, giving him a look of confusion. "Why?"

"Because if you are planning to stay in Boston permanently, these nightly outings are soon to bleed us dry."

As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them. With his statement, Margaret's lackadaisical look instantly disappeared, replaced with exasperation and ire. Her jaw clenched, Margaret forcefully snatched up the empty wine glasses and bottle in one hand, yanking the picnic blanket off of the ground with the other. She stood several feet from him now, glaring up at Charles as she clutched the items in her hands.

"Two nights of dinner is too much for a Winchester? Are you kidding me right now? Like I said last night, I don't expect you to pay for everything, you tightwad!"

"Wait, Margaret," he began, wincing at her hurled insult, "are you implying that you won't come to expect—"

"Do you know how much it cost me to fly here from Tokyo on a moment's notice?" she spat. She threw up her hands in frustration, the glasses clinking together loudly as she did so. "You know what? You wouldn't understand anyway. It's probably peanuts to you."

"What are you saying?" Charles blurted, blinking in confusion as the entire day seemed to crash down upon him in the darkness.

"What I'm trying to say," Margaret began, "is even though I have very little to my name right now, I was willing to spend it to be here with you. It's probably why I'm not rich like you—I actually spend my money!"

And with that, she stomped off into the darkness, her form only dimly lit by the occasional gaslight as she headed for her rental car. Eyes widening with surprise at her sudden decision to leave, Charles picked up the tie that had fallen on the grass before jogging to catch up with her.