A/N: Oh my goodness, I just love the thoughtful reactions and suggestions in response to my last two chapters! It's giving me great ideas and perspectives on how this story (and perhaps future stories!) can go. I'm so excited and I appreciate all your feedback! Thank you nursejoh, Elena, Jakegajowski, atperhach, bobcatwriter, Michelle Marie R, joel shell and Guest for making this all possible!

And now, for the Charles-Charles confrontation! I recommend listening to Mozart's Lacrimosa 7th movement! It's a long chapter but I didn't want to stretch it between two separate chapters. Hawkeye officially enters the picture in chapter 12, in case you were wondering! It is coming, I swear it! But first there are some Winchester complications and Margaret's unique suggestion for dealing with shame!


CHAPTER 8 – LACRIMOSA

Charles sat in his bedroom, peering back at the door he'd now locked to keep out his own sister. He'd been far too brusque with Margaret just now and yet it was entirely possible someone from his family or their staff could have picked up a receiver and listened in to a more detailed conversation. It was something he had to do to prevent further scrutiny; surely she would understand once he'd explained his reasoning.

He stood up now, looking at his library of bookshelves, which were now punctuated with gaps from where he'd taken the most important medical tomes. Downstairs he could hear that his mother was playing the pianoforte, a thought that made him frown. His closets were mostly bare, aside from a smattering of blazers and lesser-used ties, along with his collection of swimming trunks, ski outfits, jodhpurs, his red and black Abercrombie and Fitch hunting coat, and long unused sporting equipment stuffed in a hope chest.

What would he say to his father, to his parents? The fact that his mother was in this very house and yet was keeping their distance from him hurt him deeply. He'd have to seek out his father for an audience; the man would certainly not deign to come to him.

His shoulders slumping, all the fight leaving him, Charles trudged over to his door, unlocking it to reveal an empty hallway. At least the servants hadn't been pressing their faces up against the door to eavesdrop on his telephone conversation.

Sighing, Charles headed back down the stairs, his hand gliding along the smooth railing, a glistening brass chandelier high above his head as he thought of the splendor he was missing in Margaret's tiny apartment, the threadbare carpet, the inaccessible living room and stuffy bedroom. It was only three days ago that he had confronted his father, had given all of this up in exchange for lewdness, for the brazen expression of primitive emotions and drives that equated him with every other Joe Schmoe in Boston. And yet, he was not intending on relinquishing the relationship with Margaret; it was all he had and it had certainly changed certain aspects of his life for the better.

When he finally reached his father's study at the end of the hallway, the doors were shut. Charles swallowed loudly, lifting a fist to knock upon the large set of doors, his mind in agony as he attempted to work through the logistics of this fateful conversation.

"Come in," a voice called out from behind the door.

Charles bowed his head low as he entered, his eyes scanning the room that he'd usually only entered for a sound reprimand after one of his particular schoolyard pranks was discovered. He recalled now that most of his scant memories of this room were in fact of the Persian rug in the center of the floor, from when he was placed over his father's knee and struck with a belt until he wept.

His father did not rise from his seat, his own balding head shining like a beacon with the reflection of the sun on top of it. Instead he sat, his fingers threaded together, his face expectant and stern. His father was currently playing an album in his study, the seventh movement of Mozart's Requiem. As Charles concentrated, he could hear the voices now, speaking of guilty men being judged out of the dust: lacrimosa dies illa, qua resurget ex favilla, judicandus homo reus, the words amplified in his head as he approached the large mahogany desk. Surely his father had purposely played the album for this very moment, the butler's rapid trek down the hallway at his entering the home now making sense. The butler had been tasked with warning his parents of his arrival.

"Charles," the man said emotionlessly. Charles could not help but conjure up the conversation he'd had with Pierce several months ago regarding Pierce's close relationship with his dad. He and his own father did not exchange words easily nor did they possess any affectations of nearness or familiarity. He'd been a boarding school boy, a boy with no shortage of nannies, therapists, and governesses to fill in the role of his largely absent parents; his father had merely been the busy man behind the double doors at the end of the hallway, the strict man who doled out punishment for particularly egregious offenses, the father who granted him a mere fifteen minutes to speak of his day at the start of the evening meal.

"Father."

Charles shoved his hands into his pockets now, realizing he'd applied a bit too much cologne in the car. He winced at his father's cold piercing gaze.

"So, get on with it," the older man grumbled, folding his arms expectantly in front of him. Charles lowered his head, nearly rendering his face parallel with the floor.

"I come here today to ask you for your reconsideration and for your mercy," he murmured.

"Why?"

Now Charles raised his head again, dona eis requiem swelling around him like whispered gossip. The question was so curt that it threw him off balance.

"Because I have been impetuously thrust into a life of destitution."

"Ah, yes, Mr. Calligaro told me he spoke with you yesterday," his father said, standing up to place the needle at the beginning of the Mozart album again. "I had figured it wouldn't take long for you to realize the grave error of your ways and return home."

For a moment, Charles's expression darkened, and he willed it away, lest he appear angry. Again his father sat down behind his large desk.

"Is it over between you and that woman?"

Here was the heavy question. Should he lie? Or should he tell the truth and try to throw himself on his father's mercy, as his eldest child and only male heir? He swallowed, bowing his head yet again.

"No."

"Then what are you doing here?" his father snarled, rising to his feet now, his finger pointing at the door. "Get out."

Rather than turn around, Charles removed his hands from his pockets, sinking slowly to his knees on the Persian rug, his head bowed, the very picture of humility.

"I implore you to reconsider your blocking my access to my inheritance, Father. Though the decision to remove my name from those accounts was made in haste, the ramifications of your decision will affect me for the rest of my life."

"You broke your mother's heart when you stormed out of here; did you know that? She has barely eaten for days because of you. Why are you here if you continue to go against my wishes—our wishes—in dating that woman?"

Shame again welled up inside of him as the Mozart album blessedly reached its end.

"Her name is Margaret, Father," Charles corrected quietly. "And she's done nothing to warrant your disapproval."

"I can't fault her for wanting to marry up," his father replied, "but I can fault you for being so willing to marry down. So now that you two are on the same level, money-wise, I imagine she's lost interest in you; ergo, you again require access to your inheritance."

Now Charles raised his head from his low position on the rug.

"It was little more than a year or so ago you and Mother met Margaret's parents at that reunion in Manhattan! Remember? Apparently you went so far as to invite Corporal O'Reilly's mother and uncle to the Cape! I don't understand how you can be so… classist!"

"Your mother's impetuous decision to invite those Iowans to our vacation home does not compare to this. Miss Houlihan, or shall I say Ms. Houlihan, may very well be the mother of future Winchester heirs. I stand by my decree."

Charles's expression darkened again, but he did not swallow his feelings away. Instead, he acted upon his anger.

"I have been toeing the line for my entire life," Charles began, rising off of his knees as his father scowled at him from behind the desk.

"Why are you getting up—"

"I ask you to hear me out," Charles said, baring his teeth now, his fists balled at his sides in the now silent room. "I have attended every event, every fundraiser, every lesson required of me, have excelled in my years upon years of schooling, and have now attained a prestigious position at the most prestigious hospital in Boston. And yet—"

"That's enou—"

"—and yet the moment I take my first singular step to find happiness, I am censured, and everything I have worked for, everything I have stood for for my entire life is taken from me. Is that in any way fair, Father?"

"Life isn't fair," the older man scoffed. "But I thought you'd figured out that from your supposedly hellish tour of duty. It couldn't have been too hellish if you were fornicating with that woman every night, eh?"

"We did nothing of the sort," Charles immediately shot back. "In Korea, Margaret and I were merely friends."

"Why didn't you pursue this then, hmm? I would be none the wiser. And it would have been long over by now."

Charles fell silent, unable to answer him. It simply hadn't happened, though there had certainly been moments that could have gone further. Apparently for reasons of his ego alone, a romance had not blossomed between he and Margaret at the 4077th. Charles's father stood up from behind the desk now, a triumphant grin on his face.

"It appears as if you are doing this now simply to bring shame on your family as retribution for my not rescuing you from your duty in Korea. I'll have you remember that that damned commission was all your doing."

Now Charles looked adamant, the blood rushing to his face.

"You told me to do it—do you not remember that?! You told me a commission would increase our standing in society—"

"Does it matter now?" Mr. Winchester interrupted, gesturing dismissively. "All that matters is that you had to sleep on a cot for a couple of years and sew up some wounded GIs and now it's your mother and my turn to suffer for your choices for the rest of our lives."

Charles frowned deeply at his father's reducing the hell that was Korea into an uncomfortable bed and the occasional surgery. And yet, yelling at him about such matters would not help his case. In fact, today's exchange had already been the most he and his father had ever communicated on a single occasion. He was now in wholly uncharted territory.

"End this relationship and it will be as if nothing had happened to your accounts."

"No."

A silence passed between them in which neither man budged mentally or physically from their spot. They had reached an impasse and nothing would change.

"Well, I can see that I have clearly wasted both your time and mine," Charles said. He allowed a moment to pass. "I have a few more items to pack and then I will be going."

He turned around and crossed back to the closed study doors, placing a hand on the handle of one of the doors. As soon as he'd begun to turn it, he heard his father's voice again.

"I will reinstate your access to your two stock portfolios if you agree to cease living with that woman."

Charles hadn't expected such an offer. It intrigued him that the majority of the funds that had been unceremoniously removed from his grasp were now being offered up for a mere change of location, something he himself had considered at length. He turned around slowly, suppressing his look of surprise.

"How long will the reinstatement last? A day? A week?"

"In perpetuity. You will move your possessions out of that woman's apartment and into an abode worthy of a Winchester. Your family name demands it. I demand it."

"Well, after having the proverbial rug ripped out from under me at my meeting yesterday with the financial advisor, I should like to see that in writing," Charles countered.

"Done," his father said, holding up an official-looking, typed document. Charles was taken aback.

"I fail to understand how you already have this document in your possession—"

"I had several agreements drafted in case you decided to set foot in here again. I am no fool, Charles; I know you better than you think I do."

Hope had begun to rise in Charles's throat as he took a tentative step towards his father's desk, thrilled at the prospect of his birthright being returned to him in one form or another. Notably, his father had not told him to end the relationship in exchange for access to his portfolios.

"What other agreements?"

"This one," he said, holding up another document, "dictates that you go on a date with a woman your mother and I have chosen for you—Anne Coolidge—her family hails from Cambridge. In fact, she attended Harvard as well, though she is several years younger than you."

Charles could only stare at his father's blatant insistence upon mutually beneficial pairings within the Boston Brahmin class, and suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.

"If you agree to see this woman, you can again have use of my Bentley, if you so wish."

"No."

"Are you so far-gone as to realize that I am granting you unlimited access to a luxury car in exchange for a single date with a woman of our choice?"

"With strings most certainly attached, being as it still remains your car," Charles interrupted. "No thank you, Father; I will be purchasing my own vehicle when I have amassed the proper funds for it."

"Fine then," his father gestured dismissively. "If you agree to go on a date with Miss Coolidge, I will provide the money for you to purchase a new car. Not enough for a Bentley, you understand, but rather a Cadillac or Buick or some such—"

"How can you be assured that a second date will even occur?" Charles interrupted, squinting at his father.

"You'll see," Mr. Winchester admitted. "She's beautiful, well-read, a woman worthy of respect. You won't need to be forced to see her again. Do you agree to my proposal? A date for a car?"

"When would this so-called date be taking place?"

"I'd had it originally reserved for this Sunday," he said, looking down at another paper on his desk. "Yes, a dinner date at the… Oakmont."

As distant as he'd been with his family throughout the years, Charles's parents certainly knew his whims. They'd somehow predicted that he would be returning to the family home within the week, which was exactly what had happened. In fact, his father had been so presumptuous as to reserve a time this very weekend at the exclusive Oakmont, a restaurant with a strict dress code and an incredibly expensive menu.

"Are we in agreement then, Son? You have to decide right now. Move out of that woman's house and regain access to those two accounts. A date this Sunday with Miss Coolidge and you will have the funds to purchase a new car."

"As for the second agreement, again I would require our agreement in writing and not some spoken he said, he said—"

Now his father had opened a drawer in his desk and was peering down at something, his hands moving as he stared intently at his new focus.

"I don't have our amended agreement in writing," Mr. Winchester said, standing up with a handful of cash. "Rather, I have all the money you would need for your purchase right here, four large that will be given to you the moment you solemnly vow that you will uphold your end of the agreement and take Miss Coolidge to dinner this Sunday night to be seated at the Oakmont at precisely 8 pm. You are to meet her here at 7:30 prior to the date."

Charles's mouth watered at the sight of such a hefty sum of cash in one place. Though he'd remained wealthier than others at the 4077th during his tenure in Korea, he had always been wanting for far more. If his lunch tryst was investigated by the authorities, he might possibly be arrested for public indecency and never regain access to those stock portfolios. And yet there sat four thousand dollars in cash in the palm of his father's hand. Surely, practical Margaret would understand that passing on this opportunity would be utterly ludicrous.

"The very moment?"

"Just say it, Charles," Mr. Winchester said, stepping out from behind his desk, picking up the notarized document in one hand, the wad of bills in the other. On his face was a rare little grin, one of hope. "Give me your word as a Winchester, as my son."

Charles was handed two identical copies of the document about his required living arrangements and the stipulations. He was to move out of Margaret's apartment in South Boston within thirty-six hours of signing the two documents and would be expected to purchase or lease his own home within the next two weeks. If a home was not to be found within the designated time frame, a hotel could be substituted until a suitable residence was chosen. The funds would be made available after a week, upon inspection of his new domicile by a third party. The offer would be rescinded if it was suggested that he was still staying in the South Boston apartment. The expectation of absolute compliance wrapped up in this agreement was surely based on the idea that Charles's father, in taking his son over his knee perhaps half a dozen times during his youth, had whipped away any potential for direct disobedience of an order. He'd not known about the many pranks Charles had played on his bunkmates in Korea, the flings he'd had with women that his family would certainly deem unworthy, not to mention his drunken near-wedding in Tokyo. No, this agreement was based on a trust that simply didn't exist between them. And he was the sole beneficiary.

Now Charles's father handed him a pen, the older man's eyes locked on his tall son's eyes, as the documents and the money changed hands.


A/N: What did you think of my characterization of CEW II? I actually looked up the obit of DOS's real dad (there's a pic there too!) and pictured him when I wrote Charles's dad. And yes, DOS's dad is bald as well LOL.