A/N: Thank you to Kymby, Joel Shell, and Elena! I appreciate you all so much! This chapter originally ended at the cliffhangy statement but was a bit too short so I extended it a bit!
The silence between them was deafening as Margaret drove Charles back to Boston Mercy. He'd been considering the implications of Margaret being hired as part of his surgical team and the benefits of such an arrangement certainly outweighed any negatives. And yet, the disastrous end to this evening threatened to possibly change her mind. Tomorrow was Monday and he would not be at liberty to be pulled from his office for an amiable jaunt to the park. Not only that, but he would have to remain at work until late to make up for the lack of work he'd completed this weekend.
In fact, this was perhaps the only moment he'd have in the next 26 hours or so to make his case for her to stay, if indeed he wanted that to happen.
"Margaret, I—"
"Don't even bother," she interrupted, gesturing dismissively. "I got your message loud and clear."
"The message being?" he quickly asked.
"You don't want me here. I'm a waste of your time and apparently also a waste of your money. You couldn't have been more clearer."
"I think clearer alone would suffice," he said, reflexively correcting her grammar and wincing at realizing his stupidity in saying such a thing. When he ended the wince, the glare Margaret was shooting at him was poisonous.
"But no, Margaret, you're wrong!" he said, looking right at her. "In fact, I very much want you to stay. I would not have suggested it had I not meant it."
"That's bullshit and you know it!" Margaret blurted, briefly turning to address him. "It was by accident that you mentioned it yesterday. I in fact forced you to tell me what you said to your colleague. This so-called offer is just hot air, to try to make me feel better."
"It's not," Charles said, shaking his head. "I do want you to stay, Margaret. I simply hadn't considered that you'd want to stay, is all."
"Must we go through this again?" she grumbled, rolling her eyes in frustration.
"I suppose it makes sense now, why you came to Boston," Charles commented, something occurring to him. "You were looking for a job. Boston Mercy is a top civilian hospital, and well, you do have your Uncle Bob…"
"You wanna know the truth? I came here because your sister called me," Margaret blurted, crossing her arms. "She has been worried sick about you. And truth to tell, so am I."
Charles involuntarily gasped at Margaret's revelation, his eyes wide. So Honoria had opened that letter and taken it upon herself to contact Major Houlihan. He'd never imagined his debutante sister to do something so underhanded, so devious, as to betray his trust. Now everything that Margaret had said or done since arriving in Boston he was forced to consider in a different light. Her visit was not borne of greed for a position in Boston Mercy or for a flowery expression of gratitude in him, nor was it due to any sort of latent romantic interest in him. It was borne simply out of concern for his well-being.
He was crushed by her admission, having been systemically reduced to an object of pity and nothing more. Once he was better, Margaret would surely make her way to her goal, that being Captain Benjamin Franklin Pierce. His eyes moved from Margaret's, now focusing on nothing in particular, as he thought of how to escape this car with his dignity intact.
"Margaret, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself," he replied. "Surely you see now that Honoria's concerns are wholly ungrounded: I can drive, work, sleep, and eat."
"Is that really how you want to live, doing the minimum it takes to survive? Living in your office is not living, Charles. It hurts me to see you like this."
He let out a long loud sigh and shook his head, picturing that protracted kiss on the compound.
"Does it, really, though?" she shot back. "I in fact would call what you are feeling schadenfreude. That is all you are getting out of this, is it not? An eyewitness to the unraveling of Major Ego!"
He could see the anger building up in her, the increasing tension in her neck as she prepared to reply to his audacious comment. Instinctively, he winced in preparation for her subsequent fury.
"How can you say such a thing!?" Margaret raged, her face reddening now. "I can't believe I'm hearing this from you, of all people! If you'd replied to my letter instead of your sister, I'd be here just the same!"
Charles had noticeably shrunk in his seat as he replied to her, his voice laced with anxiety.
"And yet, we'll never know that for certain, will we?"
"What do you want me to say, Charles?" she blurted, throwing her arms up in frustration. "That I'm sorry I helped you get a job in Boston? That I wrote that letter? That I care? That I'm here?!"
"I don't expect an apology," he murmured, flinching as he peered at her out of the corner of his eye. "I, for one, am glad that you are here."
She rolled her eyes in reply.
"Well, you could have fooled me!"
"It's true, Margaret," he whimpered. "Now," he said, planting his hands on the car seat on either side of him, "I must get back to work, if I am to get any sleep tonight. You are free to take whatever leftovers the servants have saved from dinner. I assure you that the Winchester fare is far superior to the slop being served at the vast majority of restaurants around here."
"And what about you? I don't want to just drop you off and—"
"I will live, Margaret," he interrupted with a heavy sigh, "contrary to what you and my hysterical sister presume. I hereby free you from your charge to save me from whatever malevolent force you believe to be destroying me."
With that, he reached for the door handle, but his other wrist was promptly grabbed by Margaret.
"Only if you pass my test."
He blinked with disbelief, gaping back at her with surprise.
"Give yourself a compliment," she ordered, her face serious.
"A compliment?" he chuckled humorlessly. "Surely you jest."
"I mean it. A good compliment, not a backhanded one. Then and only then will I be convinced that you are getting better."
He released the handle and faced forward in the vehicle, planting his hands again on the car seat on either side of him, feeling Margaret release his wrist. He thought deeply about the type of comment he could make that could convince her that he was okay. And yet, no compliments occurred to him; instead there was a tornado of the wrongs he'd committed swirling around in his brain, compounded by his current poor treatment of someone who could only look upon him with pity.
"I am a hard worker," he finally spat, turning to face her briefly. "There. Now, if you'll excuse me…"
"That's not specific enough to be a compliment," she scoffed. "It doesn't even address the quality of your work or how much time it takes you to finish. In fact, that may be the worst thing I've ever heard you say about yourself."
"Then you must forgive me, for I cannot recall the apparent unspoken clause in your request regarding the level of ambiguity you were prepared to accept." His hand moved back to the door handle. He bowed his head to her, opening the door as he did so. "Goodnight."
"Let me ask you one last thing," she blurted, touching his hand again, "did you enjoy one iota of our day today? Or are you too far-gone to get any pleasure out of anything anymore?"
Charles turned away from the open car door to look at Margaret. On her face was a mix of trepidation and hope. Her hand was on his, her manicured fingers curling around the dorsal aspect of his hand. Was that simply the face of pity personified, or did her look of extreme vulnerability suggest something more? His resolve softened, not only from the hand position, but also from her vulnerable words and her expression. This was not the look he would give to someone he pitied, not the behavior of someone in a position of superiority.
"I did, in fact, enjoy my day with you very much," he began, a troubled smile materializing on his face now, his gaze traveling from their hands up to her face. "In spite of my now knowing your true intention for coming here, I will forever cherish those many hours lying beside you, albeit unconsciously. Goodnight, Margaret."
Margaret's eyes went wide, the anxiety on her face turning to bewilderment. Charles had no intention of giving her the chance to tear down that last bastion of happiness left standing in the wake of her revelation, and promptly got out of the car.
Her mouth ajar, Margaret watched Charles walk at an incredible rate of speed into Boston Mercy Hospital. Just before he reached the front doors, she could see him briefly glancing back at her car, his expression unreadable at this distance.
As he entered the building, Margaret sat unmoving in her vehicle, floored by Charles's impromptu revelation. Was that a confession of love? If not, then what the hell was it?
Margaret Houlihan stood up from her bed at the sound of the front door opening on the floor below. Charles had finally come home from the office at an eye-watering eleven in the evening. After graciously eating leftovers from the Winchesters' multi-course meal, she'd been pacing in the guest room for hours, considering what to say to Charles upon his return to Beacon Hill.
Should she take Charles up on the incredible offer to work in his department, knowing that he might possibly be harboring feelings for her? Or would it be unethical to strive for such a position in light of this new knowledge? Certainly her doomed affair with Hawkeye Pierce had made things quite awkward between them for some time both in and outside of the O.R., but they had both grown past it to remain close friends… hadn't they? In joining the department of thoracic surgery at Boston Mercy, she would be a potential distraction to Charles. But was it a good distraction, a goal to achieve, or a bad distraction, something that could never be attained?
It was only six months or so after Charles's arrival at the 4077th that any burgeoning interest Margaret had had in Charles Winchester III had been promptly extinguished by the fateful encounter they'd had in the stock room. In that encounter, Charles had sided with her now ex-mother-in-law about her inability to be accepted as an associate member of the DAR, and had then proceeded to leer at her as if she were livestock.
And yet, since that time, there had been moments of kindness, moments of closeness and vulnerability, when she'd learned far more about the man she'd sworn off as a pretentious effete blueblood who looked down his nose at anything without a pedigree. For instance, when he'd refused to disparage her at the encouragement of Colonel Baldwin, which would have guaranteed him the transfer to Tokyo he so desired, she'd seen the honorable, loyal side of him. When he'd given her his gloves for those bitter cold days, she'd appreciated his (temporary) generosity. And it was only a couple of months ago that she'd given him a big appreciative kiss on the lips for what he'd done in bringing her hero Dr. Steven Chesler to the 4077th. If she was being completely honest with herself, if the kiss hadn't taken place in the mess tent, she suspected it could have perhaps gone further.
Charles Winchester had certainly changed from the arrogant man who'd first arrived at the M.A.S.H.. Slowly over the course of their tenure in Korea together, the cloak of pomposity had slipped down off of Charles's shoulders, and now that she'd arrived in Boston, he'd lost it completely. He was now dangerously vulnerable, his emotions raw, all affectation gone. And despite his massive mood swings and misdirected anger, she found herself to be utterly fascinated by this vulnerable new Charles.
Now she could hear Charles's footfalls as he ascended the stairs. She gulped, completely unprepared in spite of her hours of pacing. What in the world would she say to him?
Her pulse thudding in her neck, Margaret straightened her silky pajamas, one of the few possessions she hadn't sold before shipping out to Tokyo, and stepped out into the dimly lit, sconce-lined hallway. Charles's head was down, his briefcase in hand, as he unknowingly headed straight for her to the room next door.
"Charles," she finally said, when it seemed as if he was not intending on ever looking up.
Startled by the voice at this hour, Charles's head shot up, and he promptly dropped his briefcase on the floor with a clatter.
"Margaret, you're awake," he murmured, a look of concern on his face. "Is everything alright?"
"I'm glad you made it home," she admitted, feeling foolish addressing him in her pajamas. "I was getting worried."
"I've enough people worried about me," he scoffed, bending down to pick up his briefcase. "No use adding yourself to the list." He opened the room to his door, peering back at her, his expression neutral. "I, uh, imagine you'll be leaving Boston soon," he added quietly. She could see that despite the pretense of serenity, Charles had followed his statement with a gulp, his Adam's apple noticeably rising and falling in his throat.
"Is that what you want?" she countered.
Rather than enter his room, Charles turned to look at her, his shoulders perceptibly dropping in profile. The mask of neutrality he'd applied to his earlier statement had vanished, revealing that of bitter hopelessness.
"No," he replied, his face stricken. "It's not."