A/N: I am so thankful to Kymby, Joel Shell, BJMccoy, and Elena, for sticking with this story through all its twists and turns! I appreciate you all so very very much! This chapter has a change in setting!
Charles stood in the O.R. on Friday morning, having scrubbed for the designated time, his arms in the surgical gown, waiting for his nurse to fasten it in back.
A pair of hands quickly tugged the back of his gown together, velcroing the edges in place. The speed and force that this yet unknown nurse was applying to his garment made it clear who was standing behind him now and he felt a chill run through him.
"Turn around so I can glove you," Margaret remarked, her voice laced with impatience.
Head bowed, he felt a lump in his throat as he turned to face Margaret and the shame of last evening's conversation.
"There you go," she said, expertly sliding the gloves on. Now he took his place at his patient's side, the skin prepped and drapes positioned perfectly, the lights so bright that they hurt his eyes. He could sense Margaret now moving beside him, the metal tray with the instruments at her side.
"Scalpel."
"Scalpel," she said immediately, handing him the tool.
"Suction—"
"Suction."
He looked over at Margaret now, her eyebrows angled downwards in a frown. All the while, she kept her eyes locked on the surgical field.
What had happened to his starry-eyed angel, the woman who'd by her very presence made his life worth living? Who was this bitter lookalike who'd replaced her, an aloof woman with a penchant for myopic Irishmen and blue-collar neighborhoods, a woman who'd barged in on him while he was barely dressed just to berate him? This was not the same woman with whom he'd fallen asleep along the esplanade, the woman he'd been almost compelled to kiss mere days ago. Had he lost Margaret Houlihan in the span of a single conversation? He had to address what had happened, and fast.
"Margaret, I sense some unresolved—"
"Now is not the time nor place," Margaret interrupted, handing him the retractor just as soon as it occurred to him that he needed it.
"Lunch then?" he proposed.
"I have other plans for lunch," she spat, taking the retractor from him and passing the forceps to him just as they were needed.
"A picnic?" he murmured, trying to make eye contact with her but failing miserably. "Or are you—"
"Must we talk about this now?" she said, sighing as she briefly looked over at the anesthesiologist, who was trying his best to ignore them. "Here's your hemostat."
Charles peered down into the chest of his patient to see that there was a bleeder now in dire need of a clamp, and he swiftly applied the hemostat.
"I hope you're not preparing to close," Margaret snapped, just after Charles had used a tiny pair of scissors to cut the end of the knot he'd placed, followed by his removal of several of the retractors holding the field open.
Charles frowned at the nurse now, his gown covered in blood. It had been a difficult procedure, its challenging nature compounded by the fact that Margaret, though just as efficient and skilled as ever, was being extremely terse and taciturn with him. And now she was suggesting that he not close?!
"Why the hell not?" he blurted. "Has the silence not gone on long enough?"
"Because your sutures are crooked," she replied behind her mask. "Those last four you put in won't hold for long; I'm sure of it."
"Bite your tongue, Margaret," he snapped back. "I have repaired aneurysms in children; have you ever sutured the brachiocephalic artery of an 8-year-old? This is a trifle."
"And yet, your sutures are still as crooked as a politician. Just take a look—you'll see what I mean."
"Nonsense," he muttered, removing another retractor.
"Are you kidding me right now?" she blurted. "You know damn well I speak my mind—why did you encourage me to work here?"
"What I need are your hands, Margaret. I need you to anticipate my next instrument, when retraction or suction is needed, without my explicit instruction—"
"Is that so? Fine, then," Margaret said coldly. "…but only after you recheck your sutures."
Charles's eyes widened at the particularly poor job he'd done on the sutures lining the anterior border of the grafted artery. Margaret was correct; those sutures would not hold for long; in fact, they may very well have given away this very night, leading to death by massive internal hemorrhage.
And yet, was he not driven to distraction by her new aloofness, thus causing him to make such an error? He couldn't decide if he should be angrier with her or with himself for this mistake. Sweat dripped down his forehead into his eyebrows and he blinked away the sting of it as he frowned at his poor work.
Fortunately, Margaret said nothing as she stood beside him, and he'd never been more thankful for a lack of 'I told you so.' Frankly, he was mortified by his performance and yet, before he'd even requested it, Margaret had already begun reapplying the retractors to open the field again.
All he could do now was give her a little nod of the head, and the room was rendered completely silent once again as the pair worked together to fix the error.
Charles sat in his office during lunch, frowning deeply. This was now the second time in a matter of weeks that he'd made a mistake in the O.R., compounded by the fact that he'd only performed a mere six surgeries since beginning at Boston Mercy.
Perhaps he should commit to his charge and leave Boston, as he told Margaret he would be doing at some point. In a new town, he would not be distracted by his family, cronyism, or Margaret. And yet, she'd only been in Boston for six days—in fact, she was beginning her apartment lease this very day—how could he even think such a thing? What was wrong with him?!
In encouraging Margaret to work in his department, he could only see the paradise that was their shared work, their hands moving together as she seemingly read his mind. He would never have predicted he'd be so… envious of her time spent with others. Last night she had alluded to his jealousy but had never outright accused him of it. Now he wished she had simply called him out for it and they could have worked through their difficulties.
Had he and Margaret not worked together for the better part of two years, with no major issues arising? Of course, they'd all been forced to remain at the 4077th all the while—perhaps he'd be handling himself differently if there were no other options for him.
Margaret had been absolutely in the right in telling him about the sutures. Regardless of his decision about Boston, he had to apologize for his behavior today in the O.R. Being as he knew she wouldn't be in the hospital cafeteria today, he would have to wait until he returned home in the evening to speak to her.
"What do you mean, she's gone?"
Honoria watched her brother pacing back and forth in the living room, hunched over, his hands in his pockets. Upon entering the Winchester home, he'd immediately proceeded to the second floor to find Margaret but had found the guest room empty.
"Sh-she came by around lunchtime and took her clothes. She said today was the start of her l-lease."
"Did she leave a number? An address?"
"N-no, she didn't."
"Why the hell not?" Charles cried, obviously stricken. Honoria was again worried for her brother. In a mere matter of days, Margaret Houlihan had helped Charles return to a more normal state of being, and now that she'd left without leaving her contact information, he could easily regress.
"I imagine it will take a couple of d-days for the utilities to be—"
"Was she still in the Buick?"
"Sh-she was. Why?"
"I may not be back for dinner," Charles murmured. "Thank you, Honoria."
The streets of South Boston were much grittier and plainer than Beacon Hill's stately cobblestone and historic gas lights lining beautiful redbrick sidewalks. Margaret had purposely chosen to live here, perhaps because of her Irish heritage, but more likely because of the cheaper rent in these parts. He drove his Bentley slowly along each block, searching for Margaret's rented white Buick Roadmaster, but it was nowhere to be found.
Was she already out and about in some other locale? Or was her car in a parking garage somewhere? It was no use; she clearly did not want to be found. By the time he'd decided to give up his search, it was already well past the Winchester evening meal. His stomach growled so loudly that he thought he'd run over some kind of animal in the street. Apparently, Margaret had managed to bring back some semblance of an appetite in him since her arrival, and he was currently famished.
Frowning, Charles began searching in earnest for a place to eat as he drove with deliberate slowness, and soon pulled in front of the only place he could find, an Irish pub with which he was vaguely familiar. After parking the car another block down the street, he sighed at his own lack of preparation for this solo meal. He hadn't bothered to change out of his work clothing, and was far overdressed for Southie. His Bentley was also notably out of place in this neighborhood. Could he do nothing to fit in? His tie—he quickly removed it from around his neck and placed it on the seat next to him, just before stepping out of the vehicle. A dusty, discarded fedora, his father's, sat in the back seat, and he snatched it from the seat and placed it on his head, pulling it low over his eyebrows.
"Just one," Charles indicated with a single finger at the hostess desk, as he was brought into a surprisingly expansive room with polished wooden floors, dim chandeliers, a well-stocked bar, and booths lining the walls on three sides. The pub was crowded, with many people seated at the bar and a couple at practically every table. Thankfully the din of the crowd seemed to drown out the light music that was playing in the background, some current pop tune that made him want to retch.
"Here's your seat, Sir," the hostess indicated, bringing him past the noisy bar to be seated by himself in a corner booth. Of course, now he was made more aware of the background music, but at least he didn't have to overhear all the amorous conversation around him.
"Thank you, Madam," he muttered, sighing as he sunk into the booth and removed his hat. He'd never eaten here before but had heard this place had good food, but would he be waiting forever to eat? The size of the crowd tonight seemed to suggest he would.
After ordering his meal, Charles thought of today's surgical department meeting he'd held just before leaving for home, one in which he'd scheduled cases for the beginning of next week. He would not easily forget how Clyde had looked at him then, his eyes wide behind his coke-bottle glasses, as he purposely assigned his and Clyde's procedures for the exact same time slot on Monday and Tuesday, to be performed simultaneously in two separate operating rooms. Little did Clyde know, but it was his method of seeing whom Margaret would choose. Of course, there was always the chance that Margaret had no say in which surgeon she would be working with each day, but he had convinced himself that this was a good test to see where her loyalties lie.
He sat for a time in the booth, waiting for his food, tapping his foot on the ground, and checking his wristwatch. Why had he chosen to eat at a restaurant tonight, and by himself, at that? Was he secretly hoping that Margaret would also find this venue and come to this sole bastion of sustenance within sight, starving from the moving process and an empty new kitchen? Or was he simply trying to delay the inquisition by his sister Honoria that awaited him the moment he arrived home?
It was then he saw the jukebox, tucked away off to the side of the bar. Charles made a face of distaste at the arch of colorful lights flashing red and green, beckoning sadistic fools to choose a song with which to torture the rest.
As soon as he'd noticed the presence of the jukebox, a happy couple climbed out of their booth and strode over to it, making eyes at each other all the while. He could only sigh and fidget uncomfortably, helpless to stop them from making his day all the more awful with the push of a button.
Ugh, Stardust.
Now the couple was slow dancing in the middle of the expansive space in the center of the restaurant, and he could see other couples now standing up and making their way over to dance near the original couple. Apparently, inhibitions had been lowered enough by the generous supply of alcohol at this late of an hour that people were now comfortable with embarrassing themselves in public. If he'd not been waiting patiently for his food to arrive, he would have left the pub as soon as the very first sound emerged from that damn jukebox.
But then, something else caught his eye. A blonde woman entered the pub alone, standing for what seemed like forever in front of the hostess desk. She wore a monochromatic pantsuit, her hair pulled back off of her shoulders. Surely it wasn't Margaret—was it?