A/N: Thank you so much kymby, Elena, and joel shell for your feedback! Also for all the others who have been reading along with the story!

"How did last night go?"

Charles continued picking at the toast on his tray as he sat in the Boston Mercy hospital cafeteria on Monday afternoon, glancing up at a concerned-looking Margaret.

"Thankfully my parents and sister were asleep," he replied. "This morning, however, as I was leaving the house, my father made it a point to wake up if only to confront me, to warn me against returning home if I'm to continue this… dalliance."

She crossed her arms.

"And what did you say back, hm?"

"Nothing, in fact, due to my proximity to the door," he said, with a little grin. "I suppose I'll have to face my father at some point, but I was able to escape his wrath for now. How was your surgery this morning?

"It went just fine—a hiatal hernia repair. Just as smooth as could be. Are you going to start scheduling yourself for surgeries again? I miss seeing you in the O.R."

"Indubitably," he replied with a smile. "I miss you as well."

"Do you want to come over tonight after work?"

Now he looked unsure of himself, his eyes darting around the cafeteria for Clyde or some other spy.

"I suppose that would be alright," he replied halfheartedly.

"Wow—already?" she remarked, the volume of her voice raising as she spoke. "Don't tell me I can only hold your interest for a mere, what, three days?"

"It's nothing like that; I assure you," he murmured quickly in reply. "I am just overcome with how much has changed in my life now, both the positive," he said, moving his hand to cover hers, "and the negative, that being my father and his pending diatribe about tradition and family expectations. My mother will, as usual, have nothing to say on the matter."

"How interesting," she remarked, her eyes focused in the distance. "Clyde has the exact same issues with his family—their conventionality. Maybe it's a Boston thing."

"Nonsense," he snorted. "An Irish family from Southie cannot possibly relate to the Winchesters of Beacon Hill."

"You forget, Charles—they are an Irish Catholic family—I think that speaks for itself."

Now he fidgeted in his chair, his envy flaring at the thought that Margaret had had such deep conversations with the ginger surgeon who seemed to be actively attempting to steal her away from him.

"Did you happen to, uh, meet the O'Rourkes?" he asked her then, grimacing as he awaited her response.

"I did," she said. "His parents still have their thick Irish accents. They're first-generation immigrants directly from Carlow, Ireland. They couldn't believe how blonde my hair is. Guess they've never heard of peroxide, huh?"

"I see," he muttered, his eyes darting around the cafeteria. So even though she and he had pledged exclusivity with each other, the fact remained that Clyde O'Rourke had already introduced Margaret to his family. And unlike his own parents, Clyde's Irish Catholic parents would surely be thrilled to have their son settle down with an Irish Catholic girl.

"Anyway, thank you for explaining your reluctance," she said, smiling at their stacked hands on the table. "I'm so glad you are being open with me. I have a case here in about twenty minutes so I'll probably have to get back soon."

"Does it happen to be with… Clyde?"

"That's right," she said, her smile fading to that of disappointment. "You've got nothing to worry about, Charles! Sheesh—I can see that look on your face. I'll see you after work, okay? I'll be home after six."

Margaret usually clocked out around five, so for it to take her an hour to get home was absurd. Was she going to spend that first hour with Clyde? He could only reply glumly to her, his murmur barely audible above the din of the cafeteria around them.

"Certainly, Margaret."

Charles left work shortly before six, pulling the Bentley into the alley next to Margaret's apartment and peering up at the brick façade of the building looming above him. He'd not seen Margaret's rented Buick Roadmaster anywhere; how had she gotten home from work? Perhaps he could bring up the subject once he'd gotten to her apartment.

Still clad in his work clothes, he strode up the sidewalk and into the front door of the apartment building and was soon knocking on Margaret's apartment door, a lump in his throat.

"Charles!" Margaret exclaimed with a big smile, opening her door. "Come on in!"

"Margaret," he said, giving her a bow of the head as he shut the door behind him. She reached up to kiss him, and when their lips met, Charles pulled away too soon. He knew he'd made a mistake as soon as he'd done it, and instantly moved his hand to wipe the back of his neck, wincing.

"What the hell was that?"

Now he could only gape at Margaret's hurt expression, his reasons for his hesitancy stuck in his throat. There was still the issue of Clyde, the lack of Margaret's rental vehicle on the property, his father's upcoming harangue, and the long-standing consequences of this relationship on his extended Winchester family.

At his lack of verbal reply, Margaret strode away from him angrily, throwing her arms up in rage.

"What is it with me, anyway?" she fumed. "Do I have a kick me sign on my back or something?"

He was rendered momentarily speechless by the comment. Now he could see her pacing back and forth in her small kitchen, throwing her arms up in exasperation.

"I'm not certain what you—"

"Let's see," she said, striding quickly back over to him, counting on her fingers, "Frank wouldn't leave his wife for me, Donald was done with me in days, and Hawkeye regretted it the very next morning! And now you're done with me! That's it! I'm swearing off all men from now on!"

"I don't know about the rest, Margaret, but I'm certainly not done with you," he replied, shaking his head. "It was a simple mistake—"

"—What, being with me?" she cut in, her voice shrill now. He cringed at her ever-increasing anger, which had reached a fever pitch.

"Of course not," he said, stepping forward and placing his hands on her arms. "Margaret, I am here," he said, looking deeply into her eyes, his face serious. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Yeah, until a couple of hours from now," she replied with a sigh. "I saw that look on your face today when I talked about Clyde's family. You still think there's something going on between me and him, don't you?"

"I was simply perplexed at the length of time it requires for you to get home from—"

"Well, for one, I have to take the damn bus!" she exclaimed. "And then I have to shower and freshen up—otherwise, I smell like the O.R.!"

"Why in the world would you opt to take public transportation?" he asked, his voice softening. "Do you not have your rental—"

"I can't afford to pay for a rental right now!" she cut in. "I got my first damn paycheck only yesterday! I have rent to pay, utilities, furniture, not to mention food!"

"I'd had no idea of all of this," he said, quickly backing down. "Why didn't you tell me that you—"

"Why else did you think I invited you to meet me at that pub down the street? It's the only place within walking distance of here!"

Now Charles was ashamed of himself. Rather than simply ask her about the subject today in the cafeteria, he had let his assumptions affect how he'd reacted to her kiss at her apartment today. Charles looked at Margaret contritely, keeping his eyes low and head slightly bowed as he shoved his hands back into his pockets.

"And as for Clyde, you have nothing to worry about!" she added, her voice even shriller.

Now he was intrigued. So she'd brought up the subject on her own.

"I beg your pardon, but how can you know that? He seems quite… enamored of you," Charles admitted, frowning.

"Well, that simply isn't possible," she replied matter-of-factly, crossing her arms now.

"He took you to meet his family, for God's sake," Charles immediately shot back, in disbelief at Margaret's confidence that he was not a threat. "I'm sure his parents are ecstatic that he has brought home an Irish girl who lives in his very neighborhood."

"They were," she replied, raising her eyebrows, "but that was the point."

"The point of what? You've lost me, Margaret."

"Do I really have to say it? Clyde is a homosexual," she murmured, practically whispering the term. "His family, his church, perhaps even Boston Mercy, would kick him right out if they knew. Do you understand now?"

Charles could only stare at her now, his eyebrows knit, mouth slightly agape. Surely the man would not feign homosexuality to gain the affections of Margaret. It was unheard of.

"What, are you some kind of private eye?" Charles muttered, chuckling in disbelief. "You only just met the man a couple of weeks ago."

"It was nothing like that," she blurted, now looking sheepish as she began to blush uncontrollably. "I just—he and I… we—"

"Right," he muttered, letting out of a breath of air he hadn't known he'd been holding. "So what is your role in all of this, may I ask?"

"Clyde is my friend. I want to help him," she replied. "If the other doctors or his family members occasionally see me hanging around with him, they won't ask questions."

"But if what you're saying is true, then Clyde is purposely living a lie."

"He's protecting himself. I mean, it was only this April that Eisenhower signed that order that can get a federal employee fired for being that way. Hell, Frank tried to get a soldier dishonorably discharged for simply admitting to being homosexual," she explained. "Now, Clyde thinks if he keeps up the façade long enough, he'll become established enough at work that his job will be safe if it ever came out."

"But what about his family, his church?"

Now Margaret shrugged.

"It's a real shame, isn't it?" she muttered, shaking her head. "I can't imagine him ever telling them."

"What sort of family forces someone to live a lie, simply to appease them?" Charles continued, unnerved by the subject matter. "Why would they not be supportive of a son who has the intelligence and drive to become a surgeon, simply because of his… proclivities?"

Now Margaret raised an eyebrow.

"They kind of sound like your parents, don't they? Seeking to control their surgeon son's personal life?"

Charles gaped at Margaret, at the parallels between his wealthy blue-blood family and Clyde O'Rourke's immigrant Irish Catholic family. As much as he'd wanted to hate the man, he and Clyde apparently were more similar than he'd thought, both of their families choosing tradition and convention over passion.

"That reminds me," Charles muttered, sighing as his shoulders slumped hopelessly, a grimace on his face. "Perhaps I should speak to my father now, before the evening meal." The look he received from Margaret made it clear that she'd expected him to make such a suggestion.

"I can come along, if you—"

He closed his eyes then, raising his hand in a dismissive gesture.

"Your assistance is not needed, Margaret. I do not need you hearing yet another ignorant diatribe from a Charles Emerson Winchester."

"It's up to you, if that's what you want to do," she agreed, admiration on her face. "I'll be right here waiting for you."

Charles pulled the Bentley along the curb in front of the large brownstone and winced as he peered up at the well-lit house, his family preparing for dinner in forty-five minutes or so. The house was quiet, the expensive chandeliers illuminating the interior quite splendidly on this fall evening. It all looked so peaceful, but it would not be once he chose to walk in the door.

Charles turned the key in the heavy wood door, swallowing as he heard the click of the lock echoing in the expansive foyer. As he pushed the door open, into the foyer strode his parents, side by side, looking cross and concerned. The butler and servants who would normally be waiting in the foyer to receive guests were nowhere to be seen. Charles gulped, his face heating up as his parents stood before him now, shaking their head with disappointment. His reckoning with Margaret had since passed, and it was now that his reckoning with his family had come.