A/N: Thank you to Kymby, Elena, and Joel Shell for your continued interest! Never in my 20 years of writing fanfic have I been so inspired to write so fast!
At ten after seven in the evening, Charles Emerson Winchester III strode into his family home on Briarcliff Lane, grinning widely, his nose filled with the delicious odor of dinner wafting into the foyer. He'd seen Margaret's rented Buick Roadmaster parked outside the house and immediately attempted to guess if she would be found in the dining room with his family, or in her quarters upstairs.
Charles first entered the dining room to find his father, mother, and sister all seated at the table, awaiting the first course.
"Will you be joining us for dinner?" Charles's mother said, seeming to come alive as he stood at the far end of the long table. "I can have the servants bring out your place setting—"
"Where's Margaret?" he asked, his eyes darting about the room to find her absent.
"I th-think she's upstairs," Honoria replied, smiling with disbelief at the change in her brother. Not only was he grinning, but he in fact the very opposite of the sulking, slump-shouldered man who had been merely utilizing their family home for a place to sleep. He hesitated for a moment too long, inducing his father to finally react to his presence at the evening meal.
His father mechanically rose to his feet, planting his hands on the surface of the table. Now the servants had emerged from the kitchen carrying two tureens.
"Son," Charles Winchester Jr. stated, as he gestured to an empty chair, "please, tell us what you did today."
"I've no time for that, 'kyu," the younger man replied, subtly shaking his head. "Now, if you'll excuse me."
With that, he gave his family a little bow and then jogged in the direction of the stairs.
He'd departed the room with such haste that he'd missed noticing his father's dropped jaw and the surprised glances exchanged between his sister and mother.
Margaret had only just lately returned from her apartment search. She had changed out of her outfit for the day into pants and a simple blouse, torn between eating dinner with Charles's family and waiting for him to arrive. She sat on the edge of the bed in her quarters, having paused in her perusal of her book of sonnets for an inordinate amount of time to lightly run her fingers over the address and phone number written on the flyleaf.
"Margaret," the voice suddenly erupted from the door, accompanied by a flurry of knocks. "It's Charles."
Immediately she put down the book and approached the door, opening it to find a positively giddy Charles, his current energy and devilish twinkle in his eye reminiscent of those few days in Korea in which he'd devised increasingly elaborate pranks between her and Captains Hunnicutt and Pierce.
"What is it, Charles? You look so—"
"Happy? Why, yes, yes I am."
With that, he set down his briefcase, shoving his hands in his pockets, a crooked boyish grin playing across his mouth.
"Any particular reason?" Margaret questioned, highly intrigued by his stark change in mood and behavior.
"I have come to tell you that you have hereby been offered a job as a surgical nurse in the Department of Thoracic Surgery at Boston Mercy Hospital."
The smile he flashed her now was positively feline, his lips curled up at the corners.
"Oh My God!" she exclaimed, taken aback. "That fast? How did they decide so fast? You must have said some really nice things about me."
"I simply… described your appearance," he said, shrugging, his mischievous grin growing, "and they were convinced."
"What?" she blurted, her eyes wide with disbelief. "No, you didn't!"
"Course not, Margaret," Charles replied, chuckling good-naturedly. "What do you take me for? I in fact described at length your qualifications and your considerable experience in training the many nurses in your charge. It was all very matter-of-fact and quite convincing, if I may say so myself."
Before he could say or do anything, Margaret wrapped her arms tightly around Charles Winchester, hugging him rather ardently in her doorway. After a moment of surprise, he removed his hands from his pockets and hugged her in turn, feeling her heartbeat thudding against his own chest. Relief flooded him at her response; this could have gone a very different way had she not been completely sold on working in Boston.
He could smell her perfume now, the scent of shampoo in her hair, could hear her breaths entering and exiting through her open mouth. Everything would be alright now; he had Margaret to thank for that. Charles shut his eyes, his body melting in her embrace. And Margaret's palpable excitement at getting to stay in Boston and work with him was intoxicating, to say the least. There was suddenly an overwhelming urge for Charles to move this hug forward several steps into her room, and shut the door behind them, an urge he had to actively fight. And yet, another urge arose within him, an urge to lower his face to Margaret's level, their eyes and lips locking. And yet as soon as he considered this, he froze, a cold fear washing over him at the depth of the desire he now realized he possessed for Margaret, desire that was now expressly forbidden.
He and Margaret were now to be coworkers in a Stateside hospital. These were not the lawless, bohemian wilds of Uijeongbu, where a surgeon could sleep with a different nurse every night and maintain a modicum of respect; this was Boston, Massachusetts. People knew him here. Here, he was a Winchester, summa cum laude of Harvard Medical School, Chief of Thoracic Surgery at Boston Mercy Hospital. To be sure, Margaret was an incredible nurse, but she was also "Hot Lips" Houlihan, a woman who had notoriously carried on with a married man, in addition to having numerous flings with countless Army officers. His stomach felt hollow now at the thought of his mind summarily picking apart the oblivious woman who still continued to hug him.
And yet, this cold fear accompanied by the reminders of her past somehow did not smother the numerous pleasurable sensations radiating through him: his noticeable increase in breathing rate, the flushing of his face, the warmth in the areas of skin that made direct contact with her own. He had to stifle these sensations, for, unlike the long working relationship he and Margaret could enjoy for many years to come were they to remain collegial, the passion that had led to his numerous love affairs had waned quickly.
Charles now thought of his highly conventional Republican family sitting downstairs, most likely speaking of Eisenhower and his call for the public censure of Senator McCarthy. As per their correspondence, Charles's father had never fully forgiven Honoria for her marriage to the farmer and her near-wedding to the Italian. Even now, Charles winced at the thought of his father learning of his drunken almost-wedding to Donna Parker, his fleeting affair with the bohemian Martine LeClerc, not to mention his brief infatuation with the Korean prostitute Sooni. Charles would have to uphold the highest standards in his department with respect and integrity. Embraces such as the one Margaret and he were currently enjoying could never happen in the hospital. As happy as he had been only moments ago in telling her of the job offer, these new restrictions for his relationship with Margaret were rapidly decreasing his enthusiasm.
"Have you eaten yet, Charles?" Margaret said, finally loosening the embrace. "Let me take you out to dinner, to celebrate! My treat!"
"Ah," Charles said, backing a step or two away. "About that… What if someone were to see us? I don't want people believing that my intentions for your being hired are anything but honorable."
"But you made it clear that you've known me for years, right? Could we not just be old friends catching up? I don't see what the problem is."
Now his smile was tinged with sadness.
"I just don't know if it's appropriate to be potentially seen in public together—"
"It's just dinner, Charles. I mean, come on, we slept together for the better part of five hours just yesterday, right out in the open!"
He could not help but get tongue-tied with her double entendre. It was certainly true that they had indeed slept side by side on a single blanket in public, but the way she had said it suggested far more to the act. Had something more happened that he could not recall?
"You're saying we slept together?" he murmured quietly with frantic-looking eyes, turning his head to look for anyone in earshot, desperately hoping his family hadn't heard her outburst. "Can we, perhaps… continue this conversation in your room?"
"You're kidding, right?" she said, crossing her arms, her face defiant. "How's that gonna look, Major Virtue?"
"Point taken," he said, sighing. "But we can't talk about what happened, out here in the open. My family could very well hear—"
"Did we not sleep yesterday?" she interrupted. "And were we not together on that blanket?"
"Yes, but the manner in which you said it implies that more hap—"
"You know damn well what happened. We fell asleep. And you even admitted to enjoying it."
"I did, Margaret, but things will be different now. We will be colleagues, with a whole new set of societal rules and—"
"We can drive outside of Boston to get dinner, and if you want, we can talk about this there. In fact, I promise to act like a complete stranger to you, if that's what you'd like."
"Now, that's not what I'm implying, Margaret," Charles retorted, a look of weariness on his face. "Were it not for the constraints civilized society has imposed on acceptable behavior, I'd be more than happy to take you to a restaurant to celebrate, but we are in Boston and I am a Winchester."
"Well, I am starving," she replied. "You know what? I think I'll get a bite in Chelsea—alone. I'm sure your surgeon buddies wouldn't be bothered to go to such a supposed dump."
"Fine," he said, rolling his eyes, "we can go to Chelsea. But we are taking your Buick, not the Bentley. It won't cost nearly as much to replace, should vandals decide to destroy it."