A/N: Thank you so much for your continued interest, BJMccoy, Joel Shell, Kymby and Elena! You make the writing process so much better just by being here!
Now the mystery blonde was being led to her table, just as Charles had been more than nearly half an hour ago. The hostess's body partly blocked his view of the woman as she was led past the bar, back towards the more sparsely populated booths on his side of the room. Before he could really know for sure that the woman wasn't Margaret, she had been given a seat in the far corner booth to one side of the bar.
His shoulders slumped now as the waiter finally brought over his Irish stew and fish-and-chips; he'd never know who the woman was. The only way he'd be able to see her now was if she'd decided to dance or play a song on the jukebox… or perhaps if he had to cross the restaurant for some reason. Where in the world was the restroom in this place? He leaned out of the booth, scanning the walls for an alcove or a sign, but he saw none.
Charles sighed, frowning at his food. He might as well eat and leave as was his original intention. Now "Stardust" was finished playing and someone had picked a Perry Como song, and he began shoveling the stew into his mouth, wanting to leave as soon as possible. Of course, he could not help but internalize some of the lyrics, something about too many stars and moons and love dying in the daylight and blooming at night. Well, love had died altogether for him, had died before it had even had a chance to be born.
Having finished his meal, Charles stood up abruptly, waving his arm to signal the nearest waitress. He quickly paid and placed his fedora low on his eyes, deciding to walk around the outskirts of the dancing group in the direction of the mystery blonde who'd just been seated down the row of booths.
Charles shoved his hands in his pockets and attempted to look as casual as possible, though he could feel sweat pooling under his armpits and his heart thudding in his chest. Slowly he turned his head now, to peek over at the corner booth—
"Charles?!"
"Margaret," he spat, freezing in place, his stomach clenching on his hastily-eaten food. So he'd found her.
"What the hell are you doing here?" she spat, looking up at him with a mix of suspicion and confusion in her eyes.
"I could ask you the same," he replied, squirming in spite of himself.
"I don't have to explain myself to you," she shot back. Charles looked utterly ashamed now, and lowered his head.
"You're right," he murmured, keeping his eyes on the ground. "My apologies, Margaret."
At Charles's contrite expression, Margaret softened her tone.
"I live around here now… but you already knew that." Suddenly her anger altogether dissipated and she looked up at him shrewdly, narrowing her eyes. "Wait… you came looking for me, didn't you?"
Now he could only gape at her, unable to formulate any sort of reply. This was all the answer that Margaret needed. When she spoke next, her voice was much softer, barely discernable over the strains of Nat King Cole's "Unforgettable."
"Why don't you sit down for a minute and we can talk?" she said, looking at her watch first and then out towards the growing crowd of dancing couples.
"I was just leaving," he muttered, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot as he pulled his hand from his pocket and checked his watch. When he'd begun his quest to track down Margaret, he'd had the entire conversation mapped out in his head, but upon entering the pub in his defeat, he'd let it fade.
"Please," she said, voice ever softer. "Just for a minute. I won't keep you."
"Why didn't you leave your address?" Charles asked as he and Margaret sat across from each other in the corner booth of the pub, the hurt still evident on his face by the events of the day. "What if you'd forgotten something and—"
"Well, we'll still see each other at work, won't we?" Margaret replied in a high-pitched voice, her eyes darting about anxiously as she glanced at her watch again.
"I suppose," he replied, swallowing but seemingly unaware of Margaret's own uneasiness. "And yet, I just don't understand why everything's suddenly become so… convoluted. That first day in the O.R. together was about as close to paradise as an O.R. could ever be."
"Wow—I didn't know the patient was that close to dying," she said with a little smile, then seeing the seriousness on his face, licked her lips and rendered her expression serious as well. "No, I know what you mean—it was perfect, like a well-oiled machine."
"It was more than that," Charles murmured, his earnest eyes now locked on hers. Margaret was taken aback by his intensity and broke the gaze early.
"Right, so we can't expect that every time," she replied, feeling flustered. "Obviously our argument from last night carried over into our work today. That was not professional and I can assure you that I won't do that again."
"It was I who was in the wrong, Margaret, both today and last night," he murmured. "And you were completely justified in pointing out my sutures, which would never have held. You've no reason to apologize for anything you did. I have behaved boorishly."
"Thank you, Charles. I appreciate that."
"I wished I could assure you that I won't do that again," Charles began with a sigh, "but I'm not entirely certain that I can."
Margaret blinked rapidly now, seemingly confused.
"What exactly do you mean?"
Swallowing, Charles reached across the table and placed his hand on hers. Margaret's eyes locked on his hand now and her mouth dropped open in surprise. Now he could tell her about his misdirected jealousy and hope that she would be understanding.
"What I'm trying to say, Margaret, is..."
"Shit," Margaret suddenly muttered, shutting her eyes momentarily. Charles was taken aback by the reply and began stammering.
"I—I, uh, beg your pardon?"
Margaret's eyes were wide now, focusing off somewhere at an angle behind him as she fidgeted in the booth. Charles turned his head to follow her gaze, realizing Margaret's focus was on the hostess stand which was situated in a small alcove extending from the far side of the large room. That bright orange mop of hair and big round glasses—it was none other than Clyde O'Rourke standing there at the hostess stand! Thankfully he wasn't currently looking towards their table—had he witnessed the two of them together?
Now Charles turned again to face Margaret and he could see now on her face that she was mortified, all the color drained from her already pale skin, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. His eyes immediately fell from her face and down to the table.
"Is that Dr. O'Rourke?" he muttered, defeated, already knowing the answer.
"It's not a date," Margaret blurted, rapidly shaking her head. "He just… lives in Southie as well and he wanted to introduce me to the area."
"I see," Charles muttered, face falling as he withdrew his hand from hers. He stood up, unable to hide the misery on his face. Wincing, he gave her a little bow of the head. "Goodnight, Margaret."
Charles didn't even wait for her reply before abruptly turning around and making his way through the dancing couples, his hand on his head, his fedora his only means of disguise. The tall surgeon pushed through the crowd now, keeping his head down, feeling both relief and rage as he watched Clyde turn away from him now, beginning to follow the hostess to Margaret's booth. As Charles reached the door of the pub, he turned around briefly to see Margaret standing up to greet Clyde. He'd made a fool out of himself and now he had to face an inquisition at home.
Charles sat in front of his house in his Bentley, grimacing at the Winchester house. How could he avoid Honoria and her pointed questions? Surely this weekend would be spent in its entirety at Boston Mercy, but tonight he was in real danger of being interrogated by his sister.
He removed his father's fedora, tossing it into the back of the vehicle yet again and frowning at the silent radio. It was almost ten in the evening and Honoria would still be awake, waiting for him. It was already bad enough that she'd pitied him enough to call Margaret in Tokyo, but now he could picture the nauseating sympathy on her face at the knowledge that Margaret had already moved on with a surgeon from her brother's own department, no less.
He frowned, hating that he was little more than an object of pity now, both to his sister and to Margaret. It was now time to snuff out his weakness completely and be the Major Charles Emerson Winchester III that had been invited to Tokyo General two years ago to demonstrate his surgical skills. Margaret had claimed she preferred the vulnerable Charles, but that hadn't even been enough to prevent her from meeting another man the very first Friday of her new job. Honoria would not see him break down again. Now that Margaret had rejected him, he would be focusing his energy on the restoration of the unflappable Major Ego.
She'd either chosen him or had been assigned to work with him for Monday's surgery. His back to the blonde nurse as she secured his surgical gown, Charles could only smile impishly at imagining the saddened Clyde O'Rourke in his complicated esophagus surgery next door.
Margaret watched Charles carefully as she gloved him, noticing his impeccable posture and the strange smirk that seemed to be painted on his face, thankfully soon hidden behind his surgical mask.
"Where were you all weekend?" she murmured to him, taking her place beside him in the center of the room to the side of their anesthetized patient. "I tried to call your house, but your sister said that—"
"Then you have your answer, Margaret," he quickly quipped. "Shall we commence then? Sodium pentothal doesn't grow on trees."
"Fine," she murmured, taken aback by his apathy, and turned to the instrument tray, awaiting his next request.
"Scalpel."
"Scalpel."
Though he kept his composure, Charles's heart was racing as Margaret reached toward him to apply suction to some leakage of pleural fluid. He could see he'd unnerved her with his behavior—her brows knitted, Margaret moved tentatively, handing each instrument to him with a strange hesitancy. It was an odd sensation; for the last couple of weeks, he had been the uncertain one, and now the tables were turned.
"Charles," she suddenly blurted after a couple of minutes, "I am so sorry about what happened on—"
"No need to apologize," he replied, ensuring that his eyes appeared to be smiling as well as his covered mouth. "I should be in fact thanking Dr. O'Rourke, for ensuring you were not left to your own devices."
"Now, what is that supposed to mean?" she remarked, narrowing her eyes, her voice hardening. "That I can't be trusted by myself?"
"Nothing of the sort," he said, lowering his voice. "In this day and age, especially in a large city such as Boston, a woman alone is at risk. Though he's not… tall, or physically imposing by any stretch of the imagination, I imagine any would-be assailant was discouraged when he at last arrived."
Now Margaret was ignoring the surgical field, looking full-on at the side of Charles's unaffected eyes, the lack of wrinkles on his brow.
"I just don't understand you," she muttered, shaking her head at him.
"Understand that your safety is of paramount importance to me, Margaret," he calmly replied, only glancing at her briefly with eyebrows raised. "Even more so than my own injured pride."
"Retraction here," Charles said after a long tense silence, indicating a flap that had to be pulled away, a smile beneath his mask as he pictured Clyde O'Rourke's operating room and the incompetent Nurse Hays working beside him.
His sutures were impeccable, the surgery proceeding without any issues. Charles was again the consummate, cool-headed professional and Margaret was utterly taken aback by the return of the Charles she'd first met in Korea.
"So, Margaret," Charles stated as he finished up the last of his perfect sutures, "am I good to close?"
She looked up at him then, to see that his eyebrows were raised anticipatorily. Apparently he wasn't being sarcastic, but he wasn't being completely sincere either.
Margaret swallowed as she scanned the patient's sutures a second time, glancing up at Charles as she replied.
"I would say so," she murmured quietly, having been rendered incredibly uncomfortable.
"Very good. Would you mind closing for me, Margaret?"
Now she turned her entire body to face him, and yet he didn't noticeably react to the confrontational stance. When she peered up into his eyes, they were devoid of expression. After several seconds of silence, he raised his eyebrows expectantly.
"Alright," she said.
"'Kyu," he replied, and before she could say anything further, Charles pulled off his gloves and strolled right out of the operating room.