A/N: Thank you Elena, guest, and my other story followers—kymby, Joel Shell, BJMccoy, Lillepus, etc etc! I appreciate you all! This is a pretty long chapter—I added a bunch to it kinda last-minute, so here goes!

Charles lie panting on his back, the sheen of sweat on his chest as he watched it rapidly rise and fall, Margaret now shifting her body off of his and snuggling up alongside him. Though his body was now fully uncovered, the blankets having been flung to the floor, he paid himself no heed, instead pondering the intensity of his ecstasy and how it had in fact increased with each ensuing encounter. The thrill and energy the amphetamines had given him so many months ago were nothing compared to the drug that was Margaret.

"That was incredible," Margaret whispered now, the proximity of her voice to his ear eliciting gooseflesh. She quickly propped herself up on an elbow, her body facing his. "And now I get to take in an unobstructed view of Charles Emerson Winchester the third."

Now he frowned self-consciously, feeling his face heating up.

"Would you prefer I cover myself?"

"On the contrary. There's not many who can say they saw you like this. The front page of the Boston Globe, being one."

"Ha," Charles spat, recalling his walk of shame from the showers, requiring him to cover himself with the newspaper. Now he flipped to face Margaret, mirroring her stance. He watched as she unashamedly scanned the entirety of his body, her smile never wavering.

"You were trying to tell me something before I interrupted you about the coffee," Margaret said, having finished taking in the view. "I didn't mean to cut you off like that. What were you trying to say?"

"I was attempting to tell you my reasons for eschewing a furtherance of our relationship. As I told you before, my only goal was not to lose you."

"I recall you saying that."

He was still not accustomed to such blatant female nudity and he could not help but react viscerally to it, making it difficult for him to explain himself as he had planned to do.

"If we are to enter a relationship," he began, pulling a corner of sheet to cover himself, "I am concerned that it will end just as our past romances have—that being, abruptly and acrimoniously. Our respective track records do not bode well for a long-lasting relationship."

"So let me understand what you're saying—you're saying we shouldn't be in a relationship because our past relationships have all failed."

"I am simply being pragmatic, Margaret," he said, his face expressing uncertainty. "Should we break up, it will do great damage to all of our future interactions, perhaps compelling one of us to leave Boston altogether."

"Oh, you mean, like you almost did?"

He blinked then, taken aback at her perfect parry.

"Touché."

"You forget, Charles, that this would be different than those past failed relationships."

"In what way?"

"We know each other very well. We've worked together, eaten together, played together, laughed together, and cried together for the better part of two years. Those little flings—they were mere distractions with people that momentarily caught our fancy."

Charles looked thoughtful as he considered her words. It was true that they each knew each other very well and now intimately and yet, he did not feel the urge to bolt as he had with Donna Parker, the woman he'd presumed he'd married, for one.

"I suppose you're right," he admitted, again acutely aware that he had made his entire argument while disrobed. "What an odd time to speak of such things, while we are lying here like this."

"It's kind of symbolic, really," Margaret commented, her intense gaze back on him, brazenly scanning him once again as he felt his face heat up. "In fact, I don't see a single scab on you, Charles. I'm seeing you."

He recalled the scab conversation they'd had in the Paramount, her alluding to his Major Ego persona as a type of cover. He had told her of his deepest emotions in the last twelve hours or so and now he was devoid of all physical coverings as well.

"And do you… like what you see?" he asked, now vulnerable in more ways than one.

Now Margaret reached out and gently stroked the side of his face, lacing her fingers through his short-cropped hair.

"I love what I see."

All of a sudden, Margaret's phone rang, making them both jerk involuntarily. Charles frowned at the interruption, as Margaret flipped to face her nightstand, picking up the receiver on the third ring.

"Hello?"

Charles gulped. Had Hawkeye Pierce been given her number as well and had just decided to call her for the first time since Korea? Or could it be Clyde, having spied on them in the pub last night?

"May I ask who's calling, please?" Margaret asked, Charles silently staring at the symmetry of her back, the curve of her backside, as Margaret faced the other way.

"Mrs. Winchester?" she said, now sitting up in bed, her feet now on the floor. "I don't understand why you—"

Now Charles's eyes went wide as he gasped, quickly rolling onto his back and pulling the sheets back over his body.

"Why do you ask?" Margaret continued. There was a pause of thirty seconds or so, while Charles's mother presumably explained her reason for calling.

"He is. I only answer that because, as you say, he has been rather down lately. Don't worry; he's perfectly safe."

Another pause, in which the caller seemed to be perturbing Margaret, which he gathered from the obvious clenching of her jaw in portrait.

"Ma'am, Charles is a grown man. He's free to stay here as long as he wants."

A pause, as Margaret balled the fist of the hand that was resting on the bed.

"—I appreciate your hospitality and all, but he and I are adults, Ma'am, and he—"

Several moments later, she put the receiver back on its cradle, her hand unclenching. When she turned to face Charles, he was sitting bolt upright on his side of the bed, having pulled the sheets up to his neck.

"Was that my mother calling?" he blurted, his face pale and sweaty. "What in God's name would compel her to—"

"She told me that your sister had informed her of your recent change in behavior," Margaret replied, sliding her body back under the covers and leaning against the headboard. "Apparently, they were worried about you when you didn't return home last night."

"Why did you have to tell them I'm a grown man?"

"Is that not the truth?"

"It is, but that's my mother you're speaking to. You don't understand—she and my father have the power to, to…. Ugh, I can already hear the wheels of my disinheritance beginning to turn."

"You wanted to leave all this, remember?" Margaret said, her temper now flaring up. "You were ready to leave Boston altogether."

"Yet I am still very much in Boston, within their sphere of influence," he said, nodding as he swallowed loudly. "Moreover, my plans to leave were not for the express purpose of shacking up, as this would appear to be."

"You know," she began, raising her eyebrows, "you could always half-commit to your original charge."

Now he could only stare at her quizzically, attempting to elucidate the meaning behind her words.

"What are you suggesting, Margaret?"

"Move out of your family home."

"Are you mad? Beacon Hill is where we Winchesters are born and where we die."

"I'm just saying—did your parents keep close tabs on you in Korea? I would guess not."

"Margaret, what you are insinuating is utterly ludicrous," he remarked, sitting bolt upright in bed while remaining fully covered. "Most assuredly, I could explain my need to establish myself outside of Boston, but I could not ever hope to make an argument for living on my own while presumably playing house with you!"

"How old are you again?" she asked now, squinting at him.

"Thirty-six," he muttered, clearly taken aback by the random question. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"You are a grown man, Charles. Yet you've been acting like a child, terrified to share your feelings, more than happy to let your family control your every whim, and don't get me started on your jealousy!"

"How can you say that?" he raged, eyes widened with irritation. "Do you think my father would approve of what I have been doing—what we have been doing since last night?! Was I not every bit a man mere moments ago?!"

"I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head now. "You're right; you were. I shouldn't have said it that way. But what now?" she added, shrugging. "If you don't find yourself regretting this because of what they think, it'll be because—"

"I don't regret being with you," he blurted. "In fact, it's been utter agony trying to… control myself when I've been alone with you this past month."

"Oh," she said, her eyebrows raising, curiosity piqued. "Is that so?"

"Yes," he replied, feeling his face heating up. "That picnic, when we sat watching the river—it took incredible resolve to stop myself from… well, I'm sure you can imagine. That embrace we shared when I'd told you you'd gotten the job. Even when you burst in on me in my chambers after I'd gotten out of the shower. The fact that the latter two occurred in my family home wasn't enough to dissuade me from what I could have done. Even our first day in the O.R. together," he continued, chuckling, "I could have shoved the patient right off of that table and… well, I think I've said enough."

"Mind telling me what you had to resist doing?" she said, leaning over now, her eyelids heavy and voice low. "Perhaps we could do a reenactment of those moments; only this time, you don't have to control yourself."

His jaw dropped and eyes widened at her brazen reply, and now he was practically panting with exertion, sweat beading on his forehead and running down his temples. He could only look over at her now, his mouth slightly ajar, completely flustered by the suggestiveness of her request. Even so, his mother's phone call only minutes ago had sent shockwaves that still coursed through his body, making him aware of the importance of his future decisions regarding Margaret and his place of residence.

Margaret could see Charles's gaze focusing off in the distance now, his initial keen interest in her turning to a look of trepidation.

"What's wrong?" Margaret queried.

"I… just have to consider my next steps very carefully, Margaret, especially regarding your suggestion of… moving out of my family home. We Winchesters are not prone to impulsivity."

Now he could see Margaret rolling her eyes and shaking her head once more as she leaned back against the headboard.

"Yet it only took you a week to decide you wanted to leave Boston behind forever. If that's not impulsive, I don't know what is."

"You forget I had mentioned it a month ago, upon your arrival to Boston. In fact, I have been pondering it ever since I was chosen for the position at Boston Mercy, courtesy of what I perceived to be an act of cronyism," he responded.

"Ugh!" Margaret growled, reaching down to the floor to pick up what appeared to be a robe and shoving her arm into it. "I can't believe we are still mulling over that stupid telegram! When are you going to get over—"

"I have, Margaret; believe me, I have," he cut in, holding his hand up in surrender. "What ultimately made me decide to leave was in fact my own unethical behavior regarding the scheduling. I took advantage of my position to serve my own interests. Anyone else would be fired for such behavior."

Now Margaret was looking at him with fear in her eyes, the robe now wrapped around her as she sat in bed next to him.

"You're now planning on staying, though, right?"

"As I said last night, yes," he replied, not smiling. "But I am not certain the best course of action for our… this…" he looked at her then, unable to find the correct word.

"We could make it official, be exclusive," she suggested, raising her eyebrows. "We'd meet up on nights and weekends while maintaining a strictly collegial, professional relationship at work."

"But what if something happens and our relationship sours?" he ventured, looking distraught. "What then? Will we snipe at each other over our anesthetized patients until I am forced to alter the schedule yet again so that we might avoid each other?"

His words had frustrated her, and she crossed her arms now, frowning.

"Do you want to just pretend this never happened then, to prevent this… surefire breakup between us? As you may or may not have known, Captain Pierce and I shared a… moment when we were trapped overnight, after having too much to drink and shells exploding all around us, but we were able to put the experience behind us and resume our working relationship, with none the wiser."

Now Charles looked thoughtful. So that explained her prolonged goodbye kiss with Hawkeye Pierce. His stomach burbled—so she'd been intimate with Pierce, a fact previously unbeknownst to him yet suspected by their final encounter. How could he ever truly believe that Margaret wanted to be his and his alone?

"And yet," he began carefully, "that kiss with Pierce…."

"It was a goodbye kiss, Charles," she interrupted, her voice matter-of-fact. "Saying goodbye to what could have been but never was. That's all."

"I see," he began. "If that's so, why did I not receive one of those?"

"Because I wasn't ready to say goodbye to you. I mean, I sent you a damn letter, what, two weeks later?"

He could only give her a weak nod, his face solemn.

"Have you, uh, sent a letter to Pierce in the meantime?" he asked, feeling a flare of jealousy yet again.

"Does that really matter?" she shot back, shaking her head. "What matters is what we do now. Do you want me to just pretend like this didn't happen?"

"Of course not," Charles muttered.

"Do you want to just forget about all this?"

"A Winchester doesn't easily—I don't easily forget. I can't just pretend this didn't happen. It did, and I, for one, am grateful that it did."

"You are?" Margaret said, raising her eyebrows in surprise. "Wow—could have fooled me!"

Now he turned onto his side, facing her. Margaret had since covered herself fully in the blankets and her robe and her arms were crossed protectively over her chest.

"I'm sorry, Margaret, for what would seem the ninety-seventh time this month," he murmured contritely, bowing his head as he spoke. "Yet, rather than repeat my remorse ad nauseum, I would like to rectify the situation, as it were. What would you have me do?" His face was earnest, eyebrows raised expectantly. "Anything."

Margaret could only look at him in reply, a modicum of disappointment in her expression, her eyes studying his earnest features. After a time, he finally responded to her, an expiration of air accompanying his reply.

"Let us make it official, then, Margaret; that is, if you deem me worthy of such an honor," he murmured. "I cannot promise I will shed all of my insecurities, but I will try my best."

It was now Sunday evening, and Charles had spent the majority of the last two days in bed with Margaret in a state of complete or near-complete undress. The weekend had been like a dream that permeated his reality, a reality of conventionality, of responsibility and familial expectations and propriety, a reality that was quickly approaching with each tick of Margaret's clock as the hands drew ever closer to midnight.

"I suppose I should be returning to Beacon Hill now, to prepare for work tomorrow," he softly murmured into her tousled hair, his arm completely numb under her head, though his level of concern about his paresthesia was surprisingly low. "Due to my previous plans for resignation, I did not schedule any surgeries tomorrow or Tuesday for myself, so perhaps we will see each other at lunch."

"There's always tomorrow night as well," she said, her voice thick with sleep. "Well, in a couple of minutes, tonight."

She could hear him swallow loudly now before replying.

"I very much look forward to seeing you, Margaret."

"And I you, Charles."

Now she watched him sit up in bed, wincing.

"Is everything alright?"

"It's my family," he commented, having extracted his arm as he looked at the ground for the remnants of his suit. "Though I am hopeful that should I arrive home at such a late hour, they will already be asleep."

"Well, if they kick you out, you know where to find me," she said, now sitting up in bed, a big grin on her face, Charles flashing her a little sneer in reply.