A/N: Thank you so much to Elena, Joel Shell and Kymby, for your continued support! You all make me so happy!
At six in the morning, Charles cheerfully emerged from his bed and began preparations for a long day at work. There was a new energy about him this morning, not driven by caffeine or some other stimulant, but by a renewed hope he had for the future.
Margaret had told him last night that she would in fact apply for a nursing position in his department, a decision that overjoyed him far more than he'd ever imagined it could. Now he could tell his colleagues of her multitude of qualifications and hopefully the decision would be made rather quickly with his ringing endorsement. Margaret was to bring her resume to the hospital later on in the day and sit down for an interview, and it was a distinct possibility that she could start her new job in a mere day or two.
By Margaret committing herself to Boston Mercy, and to him by association, the anger he felt towards his own sister's deep betrayal had been greatly lessened. Were it not for Honoria inviting Margaret to Boston, none of this would be possible. Perhaps he should in fact thank his sister for what she'd done; that is, after he first gave her the impression that he was unforgivably angry with her. Yes, that would be appropriate, he thought, adjusting his tie in the bathroom mirror, a devious little smile on his face.
Margaret had already informed him that upon getting hired, she would be finding her own apartment, and today she would be beginning a search for a place to live. Charles had graciously recommended the neighborhoods of Back Bay, West Roxbury, or Longwood, which were all less expensive than Beacon Hill but still relatively safe, upper-class neighborhoods that valued education.
When he'd finally made it to his office on the seventh floor of Boston Mercy Hospital on a beautiful Monday morning, Charles caught himself whistling a song from La Traviata. Perhaps this was what he was missing from his life—a human connection.
Life was certainly looking better with each moment. Margaret would soon be standing next to him in the O.R., their hands and instruments working together in perfect harmony, much like the baton of a conductor presiding over an orchestra. He could not help but anticipate the end-of-day meeting in which he'd be assigning surgeons to cases for the week. No longer would he sit alone in his office for long, uninterrupted stretches; if Margaret was to work here, he wanted to be standing right beside her.
"Good afternoon, Charles," Daniel Jackson commented, at watching what seemed to be a different man stride into the conference room at the Monday afternoon department meeting. Dr. Charles Winchester strode into the room at his full imposing height, his shoulders back, a new twinkle in his eye and a pleasant smile on his face. He easily looked ten years younger, full of renewed confidence and poise.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," Charles replied in his upper-crust Boston drawl, his smile spreading, light blue eyes scanning the room. All but one of the surgeons in the department were present. Dr. Daniel Jackson seemed to be far less nervous now than he'd been in previous meetings, seated beside a confident-looking Dr. Clyde O'Rourke and slouching Dr. Harold Baker. On the other side of the table sat Dr. Thomas Steinberg and Dr. Henry Fitzgerald. Though each of them was a slightly different height, some with glasses and some without, the hairstyles, hair color, and degrees of male pattern baldness varying greatly between them, they appeared as a sea of smiling white coats anxiously awaiting his next words. The only member of his department he was even vaguely familiar with so far was Dr. Jackson. Perhaps today he could start really connecting with his other colleagues.
"I have examined last weeks' postoperative reports in full and am quite pleased with our success rate, in combination with an extremely low complication rate. To begin, that difficult hiatal hernia case from last Monday turned out beautifully. The patient in follow-up on Friday said it's the first time in years he hasn't experienced heartburn. Congratulations, Dr. Steinberg."
"Tom, please," Dr. Steinberg suggested, lowering his glasses with a little smile.
"But my name's not Tom," Charles said with a little guffaw, eliciting some nervous laughter. Who was this jovial man standing at the head of the conference room table and where had he hidden the somber, grim-faced Chief of Thoracic Surgery?
"Right—now, as for the Ravitch technique performed on the young pectus excavatum patient on… Tuesday," he said, peering down at the report in his hand. "There was some suspicion that the patient had begun to develop adhesions… but in fact it was simply that his gauze had been wrapped too tightly! A very good outcome from a complicated procedure, Dr. O'Rourke. We must ensure our nurses aren't overzealous in applying the dressings next time."
Dr. O'Rourke smiled then, the surgeon of reference.
"Certainly, Sir. And please, call me Clyde, Sir."
"I certainly will, Clyde-Sir," Charles remarked, his eyes twinkling with amusement, cheeks pink and face wholly transformed from his wide smile.
"Now we come to Wednesday's cases," Charles said, picking up the next report. "Dr. Meisner's aortic aneurysm repair was a resounding success, in spite of a rapidly-growing pericardial effusion. Did anyone happen to get a good look at the aneurysm?"
Several of the surgeons shook their heads; the ones who hadn't shook their heads simply sat awaiting his comment.
"I suppose that's one benefit of being chief surgeon, being called in to see such… peculiarities. I must say, the bulge in that man's ascending aorta was nearly the size of a walnut! I've no idea how Dr. Meisner finished the procedure in less than five hours." He shrugged good-naturedly, placing the report on the table and shoving his hands in the pockets of his white coat. "That may be why he isn't here; perhaps he is still working on it as we speak!"
Now the surgeons were relaxing a bit in spite of their superior's abrupt about-face, apparently precipitated by the events of a single weekend. The five men smiled more now, leaning back in their chairs and crossing their legs in a more natural fashion. These afternoon meetings had been positively funereal these past three weeks and now it seemed as if their Chief Surgeon had been replaced with a jolly body double!
Suddenly, Dr. Arthur Meisner, the missing surgeon, entered the room, ducking down quickly as he shot Charles a sheepish look.
"Ah, Dr. Meisner," Charles commented as the surgeon entered the room, "I just finished reviewing your aneurysm repair from Wednesday. You missed a rather lavish heaping of praise, but I expect you will receive it again if you are able to maintain that level of care."
"Thank you, Sir. Please, call me Arthur," Dr. Meisner said, sitting down now with a confused look on his face.
"'kyu," Charles replied, following his clipped thanks with a tight smile. He picked up the next postoperative report, maintaining his good-natured air through the remainder of the procedures for the week. When last it came to the lobectomy he himself had performed at the end of the week, he held the postoperative report in one hand, a sheepish grin on his face.
"Lastly, I'm certain you've all by now heard of the… incident this past Friday," he began. "I must say, gentlemen, that I hope my unfortunate experience in the O.R. serve as a warning to never skip lunch, no matter how repulsive hospital food tastes," he said with a little laugh, shaking the report around for emphasis. "Because even when your digestive tract is devoid of all nutrition and your head as light as a feather, you will still fall at the speed of gravity at the most inopportune time."
Though they'd gotten progressively more relaxed and willing to laugh with each ensuing procedural review, the surgeons at the table neglected to laugh at the foibles of their superior, and in fact, it was only Dan Jackson who managed a genuine smile of amusement.
"It's not a trap, gentlemen!" Charles explained, his smile steadily growing. "You are free to laugh at will. I can only hope that Friday's incident was the worst thing I will ever do, but I highly doubt it."
The meeting then moved on to the question of additional hires for surgical nurses. Dr. Daniel Jackson stood up shortly after Charles had sat down, holding up Major Houlihan's resume.
"I propose that we discuss this potential hire for a while and decide if she would be a good fit for our department," Dr. Jackson began. "Her name is Major Margaret Houlihan. She was here earlier today to drop off her resume and interview with myself and Dr. Torborg. Not only that, but she comes highly recommended by Dr. Winchester—ehem, Charles—and she has considerable experience in surgical nursing, having graduated from nursing school in..." He peered down at the resume for reference, "let's see here—1942, and then working for the next 11 years in the Army Nurse Corps not only during World War II but for the entirety of the Korean War as well."
"How does Dr. Winchester know her?" Dr. O'Rourke questioned.
Now Charles was alerted to the question, and stood back up to explicate.
"Glad you should ask, Clyde. And it's Charles. She and I worked together for the better part of two years, from '51 to July of '53. We were stationed together at a M.A.S.H. unit in Korea, one that received thousands of casualties from both sides during the war. As head nurse and the highest ranked female at the 4077th, she held her nurses to the highest standards and performed her duties outstandingly. The multitude of casualties seen during that time not only honed her nursing skills to the highest degree, but also those of the many nurses in her charge. It was not us surgeons, but in fact, Major Houlihan who I am certain was responsible for the impressive 98% survival rate of the 4077th M.A.S.H.. With that being said, I am more than happy to answer any and all questions about her abilities."
"Ninety-eight percent? How could a mere nurse be responsible for that survival rate?" Dr. Baker questioned, his face solemn.
"A mere nurse?" Charles replied, eyes wide. "Bite your tongue! Major Houlihan is the finest nurse—the finest medical personnel—I've ever known. The multitude of responsibilities charged to Major Houlihan and her nurses would cause us mere surgeons to collapse in total exhaustion in a matter of days."
"What all did they do?" Dr. Jackson asked, with a look of interest, recalling the obvious frustration Charles had expressed with Nurse Hays only recently. What magic had these nurses performed to make an impatient surgeon heap all of the credit on them?
"I'm all too happy to explain," Charles explained with a little grin. "Not only did the nurses of the 4077th help triage the incoming casualties, but they ensured that the O.R. was ready and that the patients were properly prepped and stabilized. Major Houlihan trained them not only in the duties I've just mentioned, but also to assist in the surgeries and to administer anesthesia, which is something I've noticed the nurses here are not trained to do."
The fact that the nurses of the 4077th were well-versed in anesthesia certainly seemed to impress many of Charles's colleagues, who nodded between themselves.
"But we have anesthetists for that," Dr. Meisner commented, fidgeting in his chair. "That may be something Major Houlihan can very well do, but it's not necessary here."
"The point of my mentioning such things is that Major Houlihan and her nurses were well-versed in every aspect of patient care, from the very second the casualties arrived to the exact moment they departed the compound. We surgeons were merely responsible for a small fraction of their stay: the surgery itself and any necessary follow-up in post-op."
If Pierce, Hunnicutt, or anyone at the 4077th had heard Charles's impassioned speech on behalf of the nurses, they would have scarcely believed their ears. Even Dr. Daniel Jackson was leaning forward, amazed at the complimentary nature of this man who had been so obviously irritated with the nursing staff in their department.
"…But is she good-looking?" the bespectacled redhead Clyde O'Rourke suggested, smiling a devilish smile. The other surgeons in the table laughed in turn.
Charles was taken aback by the comment. Finally, someone had allowed their guard down enough to crack a joke, and yet it was a remark that not only did not elicit laughter from him, but in fact made him very uncomfortable. He hadn't considered that many of his colleagues were single men in want of a wife. He scanned the left hands of the men in the room—Dr. O'Rourke, Dr. Fitzgerald, and Dr. Jackson notably did not wear wedding rings. Of course, they could have been married but simply had removed their rings for surgery. And yet, he could not in good conscience answer the question.
"It does not take good looks to be successful in surgery, as I'm sure you are well-aware," Charles shot back at Dr. Rourke, flashing an equally mischievous smile. Several surgeons in the room guffawed, their amusement now at a fever pitch. Now Dr. O'Rourke was caught off-guard, a fact that thrilled Charles to no end. It had been the perfect day, and things were only set to get better, upon Margaret's hiring.
"May I request only relevant questions from now on, please," he suggested. "Gentlemen."