A/N: Thank you to Kymby, BJMccoy, Joel Shell, and Elena! I hope you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed reading this chapter! It's kind of a long one!
Charles entered the O.R., having scrubbed for his designated 7.5 minutes. He'd began to pull his surgical gown over his arms, preparing for it to be fastened in the back. His gloves were lying on the tray along with his surgical mask. He could see the surgical tools laid out under the bright lights, the metal glistening, the handles exactly parallel.
It was then that a pair of hands pulled his gown taut behind him, fastening it in place with Velcro. He knew those hands; those were not the hands of Nurse Hays or Nurse Brown or some silly nurse possibly hired for her looks and nothing more. Those were the hands of Margaret.
Once his gown had been fastened, Charles turned to look behind him then. There was Margaret Houlihan, already clad in her surgical gown, a cap covering her blonde hair, a mask hiding her expression. Clad entirely in bright white, she looked like an angel. He beamed at her then, his entire face transforming at the sight of her. She was his nurse now—not Pierce's, not Potter's, not Hunnicutt's. He would have to ensure that he booked many surgeries in his schedule so she would remain his.
After gloving and masking, Charles turned to look at his patient, a young woman presenting with coarctation of the aorta, the repair of which would take many hours, involving both a resection and an end-to-end anastomosis. The patient already been prepped and was currently unconscious, positioned carefully on the operating table, a sodium thiopental drip maintaining the anesthesia. Now he could sense Margaret's presence beside him but no accompanying smell of perfume. Had she heeded his words about her fragrance? Or was it merely because the temperature of this O.R. was controlled and thus did not need masking?
He could not help but thank the heavens that Dr. Jackson or some other surgeon did not feel the need to assist today. Certainly there were other important people assisting in the O.R.: the anesthesiologist and the circulating nurse, for example, but he took no notice of them.
"Scalpel."
"Scalpel," Margaret repeated, and instantaneously the scalpel was in his hand, ready to begin opening.
The blade ran through the flesh effortlessly, sinking into the underlying tissue and creating a smooth line down the woman's chest.
"Retractor."
Though he'd hadn't specified a rib spreader, Margaret had handed him just that, a Finochietto retractor. He smiled behind his mask; it was exactly what he'd needed.
As the surgery progressed, Charles could not help but take in the view of his and Margaret's bloodied gloves working in concert to retract the tissue around the coarctation, the delicate movements of the surgical tools: the retractors faithfully maintaining his open field, Margaret's forceps pulling back delicate connective tissue, hemostats applied carefully to reduce blood loss. At the first sign of hemorrhage, Margaret was there with suction to remove the gathering fluids, skillfully positioning sponges to maintain access and soak up excess blood and interstitial fluid.
His larger hands and her smaller hands seemed to belong to one individual as they worked together for a common purpose in this patient's chest cavity. Unlike his previous surgeries at Boston Mercy, he was calm and collected, his mind at ease as he observed the deliberate actions of the four hands, warmth radiating from Margaret's body as she stood beside him.
Surely heaven was not an operating room, but right now was about as close as he'd ever felt to achieving a state of utter contentment. He was Chief of Thoracic Surgery in Boston, with the best nurse he had ever known having happily chosen to work beside him. It was almost a shame that the surgery was proceeding so smoothly, namely because it would be finished sooner and he would have to wait until his next scheduled procedure on Friday for the next visit to paradise.
Before he could even ask for suction on a minor seepage of blood, Margaret's hands had brought the suction device to the area of tissue and had again teased away some fascia with a pair of forceps, revealing the nearly complete resection.
Now he was to draw the other end of the aorta together and complete the end-to-end anastomosis. Margaret had already applied more sponges and retraction to expose the other end, shifting a hemostat slightly to allow better access to the descending aorta. For a moment, Charles shut his eyes in ecstasy; this was exactly what surgery should be. Margaret understood him perhaps better than he understood himself. If every future procedure could proceed in this manner, he would gladly forgo the other responsibilities of chief surgeon and commit himself to performing multiple surgeries a week. And yet, he had to remain chief surgeon and suffer through the paperwork, because in doing so, he would possess the power to assign himself to particular lengthy and complex cases.
"Beautiful job, Dr. Winchester," Margaret said smilingly, after the resection and anastomosis had been completed, several minutes after he'd begun to close.
"Please, Margaret," he murmured quietly, "call me Charles. Everyone else does around here."
"Of course… Charles," she replied, her voice giving him goosebumps. She moved closer to him now, her voice not much louder than a whisper. "I'm glad you were my first."
He shut his eyes for a moment, feeling momentarily speechless. Was she aware of how much her presence meant to him? How could he maintain appropriate emotional distance with her, when her very existence brought him such pleasure, such joy? He swallowed audibly at her reply, proceeding to suture each layer of the chest wall with painstaking care. Surely he would be assigning himself now to the most complicated of procedures to ensure the maximal amount of time was spent in the O.R. with Margaret. And yet, he didn't feel overwhelmed with this information; he felt invigorated. This was a new beginning, a continuation of the best aspects of his tenure in Korea.
Charles sat in the hospital cafeteria for lunch, absentmindedly chewing on some Salisbury steak as he gazed at a newly published article on practical applications for the new heart-lung machine. If Boston Mercy could develop this kind of machine, the department of thoracic surgery would be able to perform many more cardiac procedures in particular, like the closure of atrial septal defects and heart valve repair.
Just thinking about his next surgical procedures he would be performing energized him. It was as if the sorrowful, insecure man of the last few weeks had been extracted from him with Margaret's warm embrace, replaced with a man brimming with confidence and renewed passion for his work.
Never again would he skip meals or drink in excess. He had to be at his best, not only for surgery but for Margaret. Perhaps his colleagues Daniel and Clyde could accept the whims of a self-pitying masochist, but not Margaret. And it was for this reason that he found himself thinking of his sister Honoria, who had instigated all of this.
He would have to ensure that he properly bring up the subject with his sister. Once Margaret had moved to her apartment, he would be free to address Honoria, firstly with what would be false anger, and once she was in the throes of remorse, he would then hug and perhaps even kiss her!
"Is this seat taken?" a voice asked, and Charles's head jerked up to see Margaret Houlihan looming above him, a gentle smile on her face. In her hands she held a tray with the same sorts of food he had; Salisbury steak, some mixed vegetables, and a beverage cup. Without waiting for him to reply, she sat down across from him, studying his change of expression.
He'd gone from a look of surprise to one of anxiety, by the obvious gulp she heard from him as she put her tray on the table. Of course, he and Margaret had often sat together in the mess tent at the 4077th—the difference was, the table was far smaller and no one else would be joining them.
"Amazing job in there today. I forgot how much I love watching you work," she said, grinning.
"Thank you, Margaret," he replied curtly, eyes quickly scanning the room for other thoracic surgeons.
"I can honestly say I don't think the 4077th repaired one coarctation; can you?"
"You would be correct in your assumption. Such an arterial defect would have rendered those men unfit for combat."
"It's incredible how you're able to adapt to a completely different set of surgeries, after spending two years doing meatball surgery."
"You forget that I was trained in this, Margaret, at one of the best hospitals in New England, and with such training, these procedures are second nature to me, much like… skateboarding."
"Wait," Margaret said, holding a hand up to halt his speech, "are you saying you skateboard?"
"Not anymore, of course, but in my youth I could even perform simple tricks. In fact, I made one myself out of a plank of wood with two pairs of wheels secured to the bottom. My father seemed to be accepting of that particular pastime, arguing that it was far less likely to result in harm to my hands."
"Wow, so your father had decided you'd be a surgeon when you were a child?"
"I imagine it was more a matter of seeing the writing on the wall. While other children were playing with slingshots and pogo sticks, I was dissecting frogs and putting them back together."
"I didn't take you to be a murderer of frogs," Margaret replied with a look of surprise. "I guess there's a lot I don't know about you."
"I didn't murder them, Margaret," he began, "Most of them had been struck by cars on the cobblestone during rainy nights. They aren't the most intelligent life form, to be sure."
Now Margaret had begun to eat, and he watched her carefully. No more was she clad in the white gown of surgery and yet she was not wearing drab Army greens. Would they eat lunch like this every day? Surely something as innocent as getting lunch together would not be frowned upon—would it?
"So, Margaret, are you finding yourself settling in alright?" Charles managed to ask, keeping his face devoid of emotion.
"I sure am!" she immediately replied, some food still in her mouth as she spoke. "Everyone is being so nice to me. The O.R.s here are laid out so well, it's hard to believe we were even able to function at the 4077th! I never thought I'd be so excited to be settling down for the first time in my life. Like really settling down, you know?"
"Where all did you live, growing up?"
"Well, let's see—Fort Benning, for one. That's in Georgia. Ford Ord was next, in California. Fort Bliss in Texas."
"My, so this crisp northern climate must seem—foreign to you," he remarked.
"Not so much, being as I lived in New Jersey for a couple of years—Forts Dix and Wilmer, to be precise."
"I can assure you; New Jersey and Massachusetts are nothing alike," Charles said with a chuckle, "New Jersey being the blight of the Eastern Seaboard."
"Ehh, it wasn't so bad," Margaret replied with a shrug.
"Just you wait, Margaret. Boston will put all your forts to shame."
An uncomfortable silence fell between them as they chewed their food.
"Do you, uh, happen to have any more procedures today?" Charles eventually asked her.
"I do," she said, almost giddy. "At 1400 hours, a lobectomy with Clyde."
So Margaret and the ginger surgeon were already on a first-name basis. Had the two of them spoken at length after that awkward introduction in which Dr. O'Rourke had taken the time to kiss Margaret's hand? Not to mention Clyde's joke in the afternoon meeting asking if the new nurse was good-looking. Charles was barely able to suppress the look of discomfort that materialized at the knowledge that it had taken him weeks to be on a first-name basis with his colleagues, and Margaret was already there in a single day. Quickly he attempted a smile to cover his obvious discomfort, hoping Margaret didn't notice.
"Well, I wish you the best of success in your endeavor," he muttered, the words tasting sour in his mouth.
Charles sat in his office until five in the evening, wondering if the lobectomy that Margaret and Clyde had been assigned to had been completed. Would it look odd for him to perhaps crack his door open, to hear for the sound of the approaching redhead surgeon? Clyde was not shy nor was he quiet, and he'd certainly hear his colleague arriving back to his office upon the completion of the procedure.
The tall surgeon stood up haltingly, heading for his door in his attempt to spy on the outcome of the surgery. He certainly hoped everything would go smoothly, but he also couldn't help but feel envious that Margaret would be shared with the other men in his department. Unlike him, Margaret was no stranger to romance with not only generals but also with her coworkers—he'd heard of her many exploits with Frank Burns, and of course, the image of Hawkeye Pierce and her kissing that final day was permanently burned into his retinas. Would she follow his lead and obey the Stateside rules on acceptable behavior in the workplace? Or would she seek out a romance with one of his surgeons?
He sat back down in his chair, his guts churning. He'd be so certain that having Margaret in his department would be the best arrangement for his future peace of mind, but now he wasn't so sure.
"Dr. Winchester—oh, I'm sorry—Charles."
A couple of knocks followed the male voice that called out his name.
Charles looked up from the requisition form on his desk, his eyes widening at the sight of Clyde O'Rourke, his flame-red hair still covered by his surgical cap. In attempting to focus on the forms in front of him, Charles had forgotten that he'd left his office door slightly ajar.
"I just finished surgery with our new nurse Margaret," he said with a smile. "I just wanted to say, Sir—wowee, you weren't kidding about her skills. She is really, really good. I think she's spoiled me for the rest of the nurses."
"Ha," Charles spat humorlessly. "She is quite extraordinary, isn't she."
Clyde looked positively starry-eyed behind his tortoiseshell glasses.
"She sure is, Sir. The whole package."
Charles frowned deeply at the comment.
"I do presume you are familiar with hospital policy on workplace relationships," Charles replied, cocking an eyebrow.
Now Clyde was squinting at him.
"Wait—you mean, she's not with you?"
"Course not," Charles immediately replied, his voice flat. "As I stated on Monday in response to your inquiry, she is a former colleague of mine."
"Right! That does make sense," Clyde said, smiling sheepishly. "I'm so sorry to bother you, Sir. I just stopped by to thank you for bringing her here; that's all!"
Now Clyde pulled off his white cap and ran a hand through his thick red hair, taking a step out of the office. "Have a good evening, Sir!"
"You as well," Charles replied, acutely aware of his baldness now, his stomach hollow with despair. And so it had begun.
As soon as Dr. O'Rourke left his office, Charles searched through his file cabinets for the Boston Mercy Hospital employee policy manual. It was only then that he realized it was in fact he who was uninformed—the manual's wording on the nature of workplace relationships was ambiguous at best, mainly discouraging romantic forays between supervisors and subordinates as well as the pursuit of adulterous romances. And yet, it appeared as if the hospital's policy did not openly condemn romances between equals or those in different hierarchies. So what exactly had he suggested to Clyde O'Rourke—that he in fact should pursue Margaret?
Now he had developed a rather throbbing headache, which gradually worsened throughout the day until he left for home, rendering him unable to sign even one more requisition form.