A/N: Thank you thank you so much Kymby, BJMccoy, Joel Shell, and Elena! A tureen is what soup is carried in-it's a big bowl. And now, for chapter 24! It's another long one! Hope you don't mind! ;)

"Tell us what you did today, Charles."

Charles managed to stifle a wince as his father officially began the dinner conversation over a tureen of hot creamy lobster bisque at 7:15 sharp. Margaret sat to one side of him at the long table, Honoria on the other. His mother sat across the table from them and his father at the head of the table.

"Well, as you may be aware, Margaret has taken a job as a nurse in the department of thoracic surgery at Boston Mercy. Today she—"

"What you did today, Charles," his father interrupted. "She will get her time to speak."

"I was just getting to that," Charles muttered, stifling his irritation at the almost mechanical way conversations proceeded between him and his father. "As I was saying, as today was Margaret's first day, she was assigned to work with me on a coarctation case—"

"W-what's that?" Honoria blurted.

"A congenital narrowing of the aorta," Charles said, turning to his sister with a smile. "It requires not only a delicate resection but an end-to-end anastomosis to repair. The surgery was a success and I expect the patient's symptoms to resolve quickly."

After his explanation to his sister, Charles faced forward once again, dipping his soup spoon into the bisque and saying nothing more.

Now the table had fallen silent, the highlights of Charles's day having been summarized well before the salad had arrived. When it came time for Margaret to speak, she couldn't help but exchange a look of anxiety with Charles. Would his father cut her off for repeating a story similar to Charles's?

"So as Charles said, today was my first day," she began carefully, making eye contact with each of the Winchesters. "I performed my first surgery with Charles in the morning and then in the afternoon I worked with another surgeon on a lobectomy."

Afterwards, Margaret fell silent, picking her soup spoon back up and scooping up one last spoonful of the thick bisque.

"And how did that go, pray tell?" Charles asked. Now Margaret glanced over at him, taken aback by the very questioning nature of the Winchester dinner table tonight. She had eaten with them previously but the questions were certainly more pointed and numerous today.

"It went very well. Clyde is a very competent surgeon."

"I see," Charles said, now ignoring his other family at the table as he continued to face Margaret, his hackles rising at the mention of his first name again. "Is he chatty? A jokester? Or does he behave appropriately in the O.R.?"

Margaret's eyes momentarily widened at the question. Was Charles… jealous?

"He is a bit of a jokester, though not as seasoned as Pierce," she admitted. "He certainly tries, though."

"And were his jokes… appropriate? I certainly wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable—"

"He was the perfect gentleman, if that's what you're asking," she quickly replied, having forgotten about the three silent figures around them. Margaret leaned back in her chair, perturbed by Charles's disapproving gaze. "Anyway, I think I've gone on long enough."

Now Margaret looked around the table to see Honoria watching their exchange with great interest. Charles's mother and father were looking alternately at each other and toward the kitchen to await the third course. And just like that, the previous awkward silences had been vanquished by the sheer tension of this last exchange.

"Mind if I join you?"

Charles looked up from his table in the Boston Mercy cafeteria to see Margaret Houlihan standing above him with her tray. He hadn't assigned himself to any cases today, and had been curious about Margaret's day. Now he could ask her directly. He gave her a polite smile and gestured to the empty seat across from him.

"Please."

"Thanks, Charles," she said, sitting down. "How has your day been? I take it you didn't have any surgeries today."

"You are correct in your assumption. I've assigned myself to an aneurysm repair tomorrow, so perhaps we will work together then. What cases did you do today?"

"I worked on an aneurysm repair with Dr. Baker today and then after lunch, I have a diaphragmatic hernia repair with Clyde."

Charles felt a wave of anxiety of the level of familiarity between Margaret and Clyde O'Rourke. She'd called Dr. Baker by his professional title but not the well-built Irishman who had apparently been given his blessing to date Margaret. He could only sigh and attempt to think of a reasonable reply.

"Ah, and did your case with Dr. Baker go well?"

"There was a bit more bleeding than normal as he finished, and Dr. Baker ended up needing to reopen, where he found the most miniscule of leaks from a single suture. Anyway, he definitely isn't used to taking suggestions from a woman, but he handled it well enough." Now she leaned forward, her voice a harsh whisper. "I just can't get over how damn short he is!"

"Yes, well you're certainly not used to that, working with Pierce, Hunnicutt, and me," Charles commented. "Perhaps Colonel Potter."

"Dr. Baker's even shorter than him, if you can believe it. My back is killing me after having to lean so far down to work on his patient. I didn't even know the operating room table could be adjusted so low!"

Charles finished chewing his carrots to ask his next question, keeping his face as unaffected as possible in spite of his steadily increasing blood pressure.

"Are you looking forward to the hernia repair later?"

"Yes, I am," Margaret replied, forking some mashed potatoes into her mouth.

Now Charles leaned across the table, his voice low, eyes scanning the room warily as he spoke.

"You must inform me immediately if Dr. O'Rourke makes you uncomfortable; do you understand?"

"Is there something you aren't telling me about him?" she whispered, a concerned look on her face. "Like what, is he some kind of pervert?"

Now Charles's eyes lit up with interest as he replied.

"Is he giving you that impression? As his superior, I cannot tolerate any—"

"Of course not," she said matter-of-factly. "He's a nice enough sort. His jokes are a little punny for my taste, but he means well."

"Well, if anything should change, you be sure to let me know," he murmured conspiratorially.

"Right," Margaret said, attempting to read his expression, which seemed to be a mix of concern and deceit. Was Charles trying to subtly inform her that something was amiss with Dr. Clyde O'Rourke? Or was this entire exchange borne out of jealousy? It would not do to continue gossiping about a surgeon while in the hospital. She would have to bring it up directly with Charles, but did not have much more time to do so outside of work; she would only be remaining at the Winchester home for one more night before her lease officially began on her apartment in South Boston.

Having only finished up his shower a mere five minutes before, the knock on his bedroom door startled Charles and he quietly crept into his main bedroom from the bathroom to check on the status of his door. The knock was far too loud to be Honoria's and yet Margaret wouldn't dare enter his chambers… would she?

His skin and hair still wet from his shower, Charles's eyes found their quarry, the floor in front of his door. Where the hell was his doorstop?!

"Charles, I know you're in there," Margaret called out now, her voice unmistakably stern. He gulped. Now he could feel gooseflesh on his bare skin, and tiptoed back toward the bathroom.

"I'm not decent," he called out, peering down at the towel wrapped around his waist, his voice coming out far less confident than he would have preferred. Now, what in the world was this all about? He knew that this was Margaret's final night in the Winchester household. As soon as her lease began, she'd told him, she would be moving her army cot into the apartment and staying there from then on. He'd not encouraged her to stay until she could purchase more appropriate furniture; they were, after all, colleagues now.

"You can say that again!" Margaret shot back, throwing open his bedroom door. Charles's jaw dropped now as he stood at the threshold of his master bath clad only in a towel, gaping at her as she entered his room and immediately shut the door behind her. What was she going to do?

"Can this not wait, Margaret?!" Charles exclaimed, both of his hands clutching his towel tightly at the waist. "I told you I wasn't decent!" he cried. "What in the world's come over you?!"

"Well, this can't wait," Margaret replied, walking purposefully towards him now, seemingly ignoring his state of undress. "Tonight is my last night here and I'm not sure when I'll get a chance to talk to you again outside of work."

For a moment, his breath caught in his throat. Was she angry at him, or was there another reason for her barging into his bedroom after he'd made it clear that he was not dressed appropriately? His expression alternated between sheepishness and dread as he attempted to read her face. What would he do if she continued to approach? What would he do if she pushed him onto his bed?

"I want you to be frank with me," Margaret said in a low, threatening voice, her hands moving to her hips.

"F-frank?" he sputtered, eyes widening. As in, the infamous Frank Burns? Oh, Lord, is this actually going to happen tonight?

Now Margaret looked flustered.

"Little f," she muttered, briefly rolling her eyes.

So her entering his room was notably not in regards to some kind of irresistible romantic passion on her part. A baffling combination of disappointment and relief flooded through his guts.

"I would be glad to do so… after I am suitably clothed, of course," Charles stated, heading for his bureau to pull out a set of pajamas. "This," he said, gesturing to him and then to her as he raised his eyebrows, "is highly inappropriate, Margaret."

"Funny that you claim to be the authority on what's appropriate," she shot back, crossing her arms.

Now he was confused, and alternately peered at her and at the pajama shirt he'd just pulled out of his bureau.

"What are you saying?"

"Tell me, is it appropriate to try to turn me against the other surgeons?"

"Surely you jest," Charles retorted, forcing a chuckle to follow as he slipped his arm into the button-up pajama shirt. "I have done nothing of the sort."

"Are you kidding me?! Both last night at dinner and today at lunch, you tried to make me believe that Clyde is some kind of pervert!"

Charles blinked and peered at her matter-of-factly.

"How do you know he's not?"

"See—that's just it!" she raged, throwing up her arms. "You forget, I have to work with these people, side by side, every day! What do you have against him, anyway? That he kissed my hand that first day? I don't get it!"

"I've absolutely nothing against him," Charles replied, swallowing audibly. "I just want to make sure you are… comfortable."

"With you and you alone, right?"

Now Charles was glaring at her, both of their tempers raging simultaneously.

"What exactly are you implying?!" Charles fumed, enunciating each syllable crisply.

"I am implying that you've been sending me mixed messages ever since I got here. What the hell do you want from me, anyway? I wish you'd just spit it out already, so I know what you think this is!" she exclaimed, gesturing at herself and Charles.

He could only wince now, thinking of the multiple times he'd crossed the line with Margaret, either in his own mind or in something he'd said that could have been construed as suggestive. And yet, he'd felt them all the same. How could he reconcile such conflicting feelings in his mind? It was wrong of him to expect so much of Margaret: she was to be his nurse and nothing more, but apparently, she was also prohibited in engaging in friendships with other opposite-sex members of his department.

Charles was finally able to slip the pajama shirt on and stared down at the ground as he buttoned it all the way to his chin, feeling vulnerable in more ways than one. His bath towel still remained the only object covering his lower half.

"I am sorry for the mixed messages," Charles murmured, bowing his head now. "It was not my intention to confuse you."

Margaret could only blink in reply at the realization that he was admitting to sending mixed messages. And yet, his ambiguous answer did not make his intentions any clearer.

"Well, you're still at it!" she shot back. "You have been disparaging Clyde to me at every chance you get, but then he told me today what you said to him. I can't even wrap my mind around what game you're playing here."

That little weasel. How was it possible that his newfound loathing for the little twerp had exponentially increased in the span of a single conversation? So Clyde and Margaret were gossiping like the members of some high school clique as they removed parts of lung. He gritted his teeth at the thought of that mental image.

"And what did I say to him, hmm?" Charles replied, seething.

"Apparently, you reminded him of the relative lack of policy on workplace relationships, after he'd come to tell you about me. Now, what the hell was that about?"

"Lack of?" he said, blinking with bewilderment. The policy was certainly weaker than he'd predicted, but he wouldn't say there was no policy.

"Have you not read the manual?" she shot back. "It merely suggests that you not mess around with your boss or your married coworkers. I can't decide if you hate the man or if you want me to date him!"

"Neither of those is valid; I assure you," Charles quickly backpedaled.

"So you weren't suggesting he pursue me."

"Of course not. What do you take me for?"

"Well, what if he does pursue me in thinking you gave him your blessing?"

"My statement was unfortunately borne of ignorance for hospital policy. How was I to know just how far Boston Mercy lurks beneath the standards of Massachusetts General?"

"I guess I should apologize again, then, right? Because it's all my fault that you now work here."

"Are you trying to drive me mad?!" Charles blurted now, his face ever-reddening. "Just so you are aware of what happened, that little… twerp came into my office all starry-eyed behind those ridiculous glasses of his, fawning all over your skills and expertise, even claiming you were the whole package! I merely suggested that he review the policy on workplace relationships. A completely innocent exchange."

"He really said all that?" Margaret murmured.

Now Margaret was glancing off into space, seemingly deep in thought. Charles grimaced as he looked at her now. Shit. He hadn't meant to reveal any of what O'Rourke had said, and sought to immediately redirect the woman who was so close to him and yet so far away.

"May I remind you, Margaret," he began, "that just because hospital policy does not dictate the appropriateness of workplace relationships, doesn't mean that you should throw yourself into one."

"Meaning…?"

"Meaning I am well-aware of your many… trysts. The married Frank Burns. The lecher Hawkeye Pierce. That AWOL soldier Jack Scully. Not to mention the U.N. delegate—"

"How dare you judge me, buster!" Margaret raged, her face now bright red, shaking her finger in his face. "I'm not some little French floozy or Korean hooker—I am a skilled surgical nurse who earned the rank of Major and the right to be called head nurse of the 4077th M.A.S.H.!"

Charles was taken aback at Margaret's casual mentioning of his own brief flings in Korea, and his mouth spoke before his mind could understand that he was digging himself further into a hole.

"At least I didn't seek to gain from my attempts at relationships; you, on the other hand, have never explained your fascination with surgeons, not to mention army generals," he shot back mockingly, leveling his face with hers.

"You know what?" she snapped. "Maybe if you tried to actually let someone into your life rather than trying to control them from afar, you wouldn't be such a miserable sack of—"

"That's quite enough, Margaret," Charles cut in, his breaths coming in pants now, blinking with disbelief at how badly this conversation had gone.

"You're right; it is quite enough," Margaret replied.

Charles was left speechless as she promptly turned on her heel and stomped out of the room, shutting the door behind her. What exactly had she meant by all that?