A/N: There's more drama coming soon after this chapter-I just had to get it to that point so this may not be the most exciting chapter you've seen-they can't always be hills or cliffs, right? Thanks again to Kymby, Joel shell, Elena, BJMccoy and Lillepus-I appreciate you all so much!

"You were right," Margaret murmured, standing next to Charles in the middle of the operating suite on Tuesday morning and watching him make his initial incision.

"About what?" he said, briefly turning to glance at her.

"About being assigned to you. How did you know?"

"Well, being as I am Chief of Thoracic Surgery, I am privy to certain pieces of information that are not disclosed to all."

"Oh—that makes sense," Margaret muttered, beginning to apply retraction to the ribcage. "I guess I hadn't thought about that."

"Yes, well, the position does have its benefits," he murmured in an amused tone.

"So do you know the schedule for the rest of the week?"

"Not yet," he replied. "Why?"

"No reason," she said, promptly applying suction to a small bleeder. Now the tumors were visible and Margaret audibly gasped. "Wow—look at all that," she murmured, her eyes locked on the surgical field. "We're in it for the long haul."

Charles couldn't help but frown at the thought that Margaret was asking the question to find out when she'd be working with Clyde again, and yet, it didn't matter—she knew better than to admit that to him now. Over time, she'd slowly forget about the man, instead being dazzled by Charles's skill and wit in their multiple weekly procedures and occasional lunches together. If her suspicions became more evident, he'd already supposed that the sourpuss Dr. Fitzgerald would have to be cycled into her schedule as well. Anyone but that ridiculous flirt Clyde would do.

"We certainly are," Charles murmured lowly, looking at her and smiling, more meaning behind his words than he would ever admit aloud.

It was now Friday and Margaret had been assigned to either Charles or Dr. Baker for the procedures of the past week. This afternoon, she would be again working with Charles, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing, but the major change from last week's rotations through all the surgeons of the department of thoracic surgery was a bit odd.

Margaret frowned as she left the O.R., having finished a particularly silent lobectomy with the grave Dr. Baker, a crick in her back from having to adjust her stance to the low setting of the operating table.

"Hello, Margaret!" Clyde said, having emerged from his own O.R. at precisely the same moment Margaret left her procedure. "Long time no see."

"I know. Weird, right?"

"It's like the nursing department has something against me," he murmured, his voice low. "Last Friday, as I told you, I made it a point to go to the nursing supervisor, to request you for my cases. I have no idea why they've decided to totally ignore that—I thought I made a great case for why we are perfect together."

"Well, we can only hope it was a fluke—maybe they'd already scheduled the cases for the week," Margaret replied, smiling at him. "Want to get lunch?"

Charles nearly dropped his tray as he entered the cafeteria, having expected to lunch with Margaret for the fifth time this week. Much to his surprise, Margaret was sitting with Clyde O'Rourke, laughing and smiling as he apparently told her the most interesting story in the world.

He rolled his eyes as he collected his beverage and then headed to the seating area.

"Afternoon, Margaret," the tall surgeon said, making eye contact with the blonde, looming above her table.

She looked up from her conversation, a grin remaining on her face. Clyde was sitting with his back to the tall surgeon and only briefly nodded in greeting.

"Good afternoon to you as well, Charles," she replied. "Hey, Clyde," she said, looking back at the redhead doctor across from her. "Why don't you tell Charles what you told me? Maybe he can help."

Now Clyde turned his head to look up at Charles, giving him a half-hearted, closed-mouth smile. Charles raised his eyebrows in polite anticipation of Clyde's reply.

"Ehh, I think it's more a nursing staff issue," Clyde muttered, turning back to Margaret again. "You are certainly busy enough, Charles, then to be bothered with something so trivial."

"Are you having an issue with one of our nurses?" Charles inquired, feeling awkward at having been standing in the same place for more than a minute now. Were they going to offer him to sit down at their little square of a table, or would they force him to stand with his food, unable to eat?

"No, it's not that," Clyde replied, shaking his head. "I'm sure it'll resolve itself in due time."

Now Charles could see that Margaret was frowning. Did this have anything to do with his scheduling Clyde to never work with Margaret again? What else would the perpetually cheery Irishman have to be annoyed about?

"I'm certain it will," Charles said, giving them a little bow of the head. "Good afternoon."

"Wow—you again, eh?" the tall surgeon uttered with mock surprise, as Margaret entered the O.R. on Monday dressed in white.

"Yep, sure looks like it," Margaret said, looking at Charles's extremely amused expression. "How was your weekend?"

"Rather uneventful," he said, smiling wider as she fastened the back of his surgical gown. "Glancing over old postoperative reports. Yours?"

"Mostly furniture shopping for my apartment. Did I ever give you my new address?"

"No."

"Well, remind me after the surgery and I'll get it to you."

"Certainly."

"You know, speaking of postoperative reports," she said in a low murmur, "I just wanted to inform you that Dr. Baker may be the most difficult-to-please surgeon I've ever known."

Immediately he wiped the instant grin off of his face and feigned a grave face as he turned back to her.

"Oh, really? That is unfortunate. I'm not sure what I can do about that, being as the nursing department schedules your cases, but if I could, I certainly would do so."

"Could you please try at least? You are, after all, the chief surgeon," she murmured, low enough that the circulating nurse and anesthesiologist couldn't hear. "Please, I can even show you where the nursing supervisor's office is. Surely there's other people they could schedule me with instead of him."

"What about Dr. Fitzgerald?" he asked, immediately. Now his grave face was genuine. Of course; she still wanted to be paired with Clyde. In fact, she'd probably gone furniture shopping with him this past weekend.

Now Margaret was flustered, handing him a scalpel for the initial incision.

"Well…."

He had to bite his tongue with all the willpower he could muster to prevent himself from spouting off all the anger he felt towards Clyde O'Rourke and his underhanded ways.

And yet, there was a bit of hope building within him, a hope that Margaret would follow through with providing her address after the procedure as she stated she would. Or was she in fact bribing him with the information, in exchange for getting her schedule altered so that Dr. Baker was no longer one of her main surgeons?

"Beautiful job, Charles," Margaret commented, as he finished his last stitch in his closing of the patient. "Let me get you that address."

"'Kyu, Margaret," Charles said, gesturing for her to leave the O.R. ahead of him in a gentlemanly manner. Perhaps she would forget about Dr. Baker soon enough, once he'd gone and inserted Dr. Fitzgerald into the schedule. It was fortunate that he'd formed the framework of the schedule and merely had to switch around some names to achieve his goal, that of preventing pattern recognition.

"Let's see," she began, holding the door open with one hand as she dug her hands into the pockets of her trousers. "I'll have to get a pencil—"

"Margaret," a voice called out as soon as they'd left the O.R. Charles was startled by the presence of Clyde O'Rourke and his serious demeanor. Clyde did not so much as make eye contact with Charles, instead locking his eyes on Margaret. "May I speak with you for a moment?"

"Of course," Margaret replied, and she was gone, down the hallway and out of earshot.

Charles proceeded to his office and sat down glumly, glaring at his phonograph. Surely the two of them would be getting lunch together again, and more importantly, Margaret had forgotten to give him her new address.

Perhaps it had been planned this way, that Clyde should interrupt the providing of the address; it had now been more than a week since Margaret had fled the Winchester home, never to return. Of course, he could always invite her back, but surely his family would judge him harshly for such inappropriate behavior with a colleague.

He would not bother going to lunch today to witness the two of them chatting away at their table, having a few laughs probably at his expense. His interaction with them could very possibly turn into an argument, based on Clyde's dark look at present. Perhaps he'd figured Charles out by now, the manner in which the schedule had been set up to specifically block Margaret from working by his side. Maybe Margaret would be bursting into his office later angrily demanding an explanation, much like she had two Thursdays ago while he'd been dressed in a mere towel in his own bedroom.

Yes, that was what he most likely deserved: a dressing-down for manipulating the schedule and putting pressure on the nursing staff to ensure that not only would he be assigned Margaret, but that Clyde O'Rourke would notably not be. Clearly Margaret liked the man, liked his compliments and what appeared to be a large heaping of patronizing praise, so why was he still attempting to delay what was destined to happen? What he was doing now with the schedule was beyond the pale, highly inappropriate and perhaps even grounds for firing. Yet as long as no one was the wiser, why shouldn't he, as chief thoracic surgeon, get his pick of nurse?

Charles frowned deeply now, gulping as he looked at the phonograph. What other records had the department purchased for him? He stood up and walked over to the bookshelf, thumbing through the albums. There was Tchaikovsky, the very album Margaret had played at the esplanade. He slid it from his sleeve and placed it on the phonograph, his shoulders rounded and face stricken as he delicately set the stylus on the first groove.

Why wasn't it possible for him to push through society's expectations of him, of his own expectations of himself, and allow himself to purposely be vulnerable to Margaret once again, as he had that day on the esplanade? He could feel his face heating up from the music playing in the background of his reverie—music seemed to be one of the few aspects of life that immediately touched him on a deeper level every time it was played. Why couldn't he be the only man that Margaret wanted? He had had his share of successes, held a prestigious position, and was comfortably wealthy, and yet Margaret had chosen to again lunch with a man who purposely chose to live in Southie and had no taste in dressing himself, or perhaps he was too poor to be very effective at it. Not only that, but their future children would most likely need corrective lenses like their father.

Margaret would be appalled at what he was doing now, perhaps opting to never speak to him again, and he felt an overwhelming wave of guilt as he removed the stylus from the record. It all was too much for him, and he bowed his head, placing his face in his hands as he thought of the failures of his personality that precluded a romance with Margaret.

The week continued as well as could be expected, with Margaret assisting Charles on each and every surgery. Most notably, when Charles received the final postoperative reports on Friday, he looked through the list of assisting nurses and saw that Margaret's other cases of the week involved short, grave Dr. Baker or tall, irritable Dr. Fitzgerald.

It was on Friday, immediately following his afternoon meeting, that there came an insistent knocking on his door. He'd been waiting for it all week and had been surprised it had taken Margaret four days to address what was certainly an unresolved issue stemming all the way from Monday. Surely Margaret had come with ample ammunition to strike him down for what he'd done, what he'd been doing. Clyde and she had not worked together for almost two weeks now. They were not fools; they could see that someone had been manipulating the assignments.

"Come in," Charles called out, his voice softer and higher than he could have preferred.

Margaret stood before him, crossing her arms. He gulped, staying seated behind his desk, forced to look up at her from his vantage point.

"I forgot to bring you this the other day," Margaret said, stepping forward and handing him a piece of paper. On it was her new address and phone number. Charles's jaw slightly fell at the paper and he blinked with confusion. Was she not angry by her stance, the way she held her mouth?

"We need to talk," she said.

There it is. A chill ran down his spine.

"Meet me at that Irish pub tonight at nineteen hundred hours," she said. "I expect to see you there."

Before he could even speak, she turned around and left his office, leaving him thoroughly rattled behind his desk.