A/N: Thank you to atperhach and bobcatwriter for your thoughts on this most recent chapter! And thank you to the past and present readers/reviewers for all your encouragement and ideas so far.


CHAPTER 11 - SMITTEN

"A clamp, if you will," Charles murmured, Margaret standing across from him in the O.R. under the bright lights. Quickly her gloved hand moved across the field, placing the instrument he was requesting firmly in his hand.

"Clamp," she echoed.

"Thank you, Margaret," he said, placing the clamp in a particularly difficult location to hold the tissue away from the vessel of interest. Though he could not see her mouth behind the mask, he could see that she was smiling at him in reply.

"You're quite welcome, Charles."

Upon placing the clamp, he did not immediately continue the operation, instead lifting his head up to catch a glimpse of Margaret, who was seemingly unaware of his intense gaze.

Charles's mind was swimming in a strange fuzzy pool of joy. Not only had Margaret known exactly what he'd needed to quash the feelings of shame that had arisen from yesterday and somehow by extension much of his previous shame, but he'd been thrilled to reduce her to a quivering, shrieking wreck afterwards, watching her thrash about in bed with wild abandon, nearly kicking him in the face several times. The world was again a place of hope and wonder, and the woman standing across from him was the sole source of it. Thankfully she could not see him drooling behind his mask, and yet he didn't exactly try to hide his physiological responses to her.

Now Charles inserted a pair of forceps into the surgical field to pull back some adventitia, a steady stream of crimson blood seeping from beneath the flap of tissue. Margaret was instantly aware of this and turned to fetch the proper instrument for fluid removal. Rather than continue focusing on the surgical field, Charles now looked at Margaret once again.

"May I say, your mask is quite… white," Charles commented, then, his eyes glistening mischievously.

"I could say the same of yours," Margaret replied, having fetched the suction tool, her eyes moving briefly to the circulating nurse.

Her hand moved inside the surgical field now, suctioning out the seep of venous blood, her tool mere inches from Charles's gloved fingers. As the fluids disappeared into the tubing, again revealing the surgical field, Margaret could see Charles's hand gently releasing the forceps he'd been grasping, his freed fingers slowly closing around her hand. Thankfully the drapes obstructed this view from the anesthesiologist and the circulating nurse. Margaret made a face of bewilderment as Charles continued to hold her hand inside the body cavity, her eyes lifting to see his eyes smiling unabashedly at her.

Perhaps Charles was right about his losing control. He'd done something completely unexpected in that restaurant yesterday, then last night he'd willingly gotten on all fours and allowed her to whip him, and now he was brazenly flirting with her in the operating room. What was next, him bending her over the operating table in the midst of surgery?

"Do you need something, Doctor?" Margaret murmured, jerking her hand away from his to remove the suction tool.

"What I need, you have given me in abundance, Margaret."

Margaret's eyes widened now. How much further was he going to take this flirtation today?

"May I speak to you in the hallway, please?" she suggested, her voice stern through her now gritted teeth.

"'Course, Margaret."


"What the hell are you doing in there?" Margaret whispered harshly, crossing her bloodied arms across her chest. "Practice some discretion, Charles."

He squinted at her, confused.

"Whatever do you mean, my dear?"

"The anesthesiologist would have to be blind not to see you making eyes at me every couple of seconds. We have to maintain professionalism."

"Yes, well, the policy manual doesn't dictate either way, does it now?"

Though she was wearing a mask, it was clear that what he had said had caused Margaret's jaw to drop.

"Am I really hearing this from you, of all people? I don't give a damn what the policy manual says! I have always behaved with utmost professionalism and I'll be damned if I'm going to change now!"

"I admire your restraint," he replied, briefly shutting his eyes in admiration. "Though I suppose I might require… correction later, to really drive the point home."

Margaret's mask nearly fell off of her nose as her jaw dropped further.

"You can't talk this way," she whispered again. Now she pointed at the doors of the operating room. "You need to get back in there and do your job; do you understand me?"

"Yes, Madam," Charles replied, nodding eagerly, his voice husky. And with that, he gave her a little bow and turned around to re-enter the operating room.


"What is going on with you?" Margaret blurted, as she sat beside Winchester in the Cadillac, having suggested they eat today's lunch away from the hospital grounds. "I've never seen you act like that before."

"Yes, well, I cannot help it," Charles said, smiling sheepishly now as he placed his hand on hers. "Knowing that you will be staying with me at the Langham Hotel for the foreseeable future, our life together lain out before us like a banquet, we will all the pleasures prove."

Margaret was taken aback by this new smitten Charles, a Charles unencumbered by the usual facets of his personality that normally obscured the expression of such deep emotion.

"It is very exciting, Charles, but I thought we'd agreed upon how we are to behave at work—as consummate professionals. Your… holding my hand today in the O.R. and saying such suggestive things to me right in front of two other people is not exactly what I had in mind."

"I'll bet no one's ever held your hand within mere millimeters of a beating human heart before, hmm?"

"True, but I don't want them talking. Hell, you only began working here a couple of months ago, and me a little more than a month ago. We have to toe the line."

"I understand perfectly, Margaret," Charles muttered, his face suddenly sober. "It will not happen again. You can be assured of that."

"Great," she said, breathing out a lungful of air that she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "So what do you want to do for lunch?"

He looked thoughtful for a moment, staring unblinkingly through the windshield.

"I would say… you," he remarked, turning to face her, an impish smile on his face.

Now she was gaping at him, her face reddening from embarrassment and irritation at this strange exchange.

"My apologies, Margaret," he said, curling his fingers around her hand now. "I was merely joking."

"That sounds exactly like something Pierce would say," she spat, jerking her hand away. "And here, I thought you were above this kind of childish behavior."

"Pierce," Charles muttered, making a face of distaste. There was something about Pierce that was supposed to be bothering him, but in his lovestruck trance, he could not quite remember what it had been.


"Yes, just inside the closet will do," Charles informed the bellhop, as the last of his suitcases had been carefully unloaded into his hotel room at the Langham. He'd had eight suitcases in all containing the vast majority of his clothing, records, and sundries, in addition to a single nondescript footlocker containing a selection of Margaret's clothing and toiletries.

Now that his possessions had been placed inside the sizeable walk-in closet, Charles was free to explore the large multi-room suite that would now serve as his new home for the immediate future.

Margaret could not believe the luxury of the hotel he'd chosen. Her eyes did not know where to focus: the crystal chandelier hanging above his single oversized bed, the bathroom containing both a large shower stall and a large soaking tub, or the massive closet that could easily fit every outfit she'd ever owned. Not only that, but the room contained a combination radio and record player and even, amazingly enough, a color television. The carpet in Charles's suite was rich and soft, the stack of towels and linens available to him pre-warmed and whiter than any sterile dressing she'd ever seen. Charles's suite even had its own functioning fireplace constructed within a mantel of solid marble. A little pamphlet left on the bed spoke of the many amenities of the hotel. Margaret's supposed luxury hotel in Tokyo could not hold a candle to the luxury that was the Langham Hotel in Boston.

Yes, Charles's new accommodations were certainly an upgrade from her cramped, dingy apartment in South Boston. Charles hadn't informed her how much this would be costing him each day, but apparently those accounts he would regain access to contained ample funds for such exorbitant, wasteful expenditures.

Suddenly she was aware that Charles was standing right next to her, also admiring his new surroundings with a smug grin on his face, his hands in his pockets.

"What would you like to do now?" he asked, grinning jollily at her. "I can have room service bring us dinner or alternately, we could take the elevator to the in-house restaurant. I'll have you know that the hotel also possesses a solarium and an indoor swimming pool."

"A pool?" she blurted. "But I didn't bring my—"

"In fact, I packed it for you," he said. "Let me show you."

They strode together to her footlocker as he knelt down beside it.

"How did you find it? I didn't go through my dresser—"

"We'd been going in and out of the apartment when I discovered it. Let's see what we have here, shall we?"

With a smirk, Charles popped Margaret's foot locker open. There was the bag of her toiletries, along with several sets of pajamas. Charles lifted a pair of trousers, exposing the bathing suit.

"Ah, here it is," he said, lifting the garment triumphantly. Margaret was still peering in the footlocker when he'd lifted the item, and she gasped at what he'd intentionally revealed to her.

Now Charles could see Margaret's shocked expression and looked down, knowing exactly what she was peering at, her expression a mixture of suspicion and surprise.

"Oh," he murmured, smiling at the riding crop. "How did that get in there?"

Margaret heard herself gulp. So Charles had made sure to pack the most controversial item she owned in the spirit of making use of it again.


"A toast to you, Margaret," Charles said, beaming at her now, as they sat in the hotel's restaurant sipping on champagne and finishing the final bites of the expensive food he'd ordered for them. Having left all of her dresses back at her apartment, Margaret felt incredibly out of place amidst all the rich patrons of this hotel.

"Thank you, Charles," she replied, clinking her glass against his and downing some of the delicious champagne. "I never expected we'd be at a place like this tonight."

"What, did you expect me to bed down in a dump like the Stanley Hotel?" he laughed. "Now that money is no longer an issue, I shall introduce you to extravagance beyond your wildest dreams."

"It's already beyond my wildest dreams," she muttered, feeling a bit offended by his reference to the hotel she'd first reserved when coming to Boston. "Any more of this, and I might never be able to wake up."

"Ha!" he chortled, grinning at her as she finished the last of her glass of champagne. "Is this not the perfect end to a perfect day?"

"It certainly is."

"That is, save for the operating room."

"What do you mean?"

"My odious behavior in the O.R. today, of course," he began, his gentle smile evolving into a naughty little smirk. "I imagine there must be some way to ensure I never misbehave like that again. Do you think you can help me?"

Margaret was now gawking at him incredulously, watching Charles giddily cross his legs, popping the last piece of filet mignon into his mouth. His behavior was so reminiscent of Hawkeye Pierce's empty flirtations, and yet Charles very much meant what he'd said and would most certainly deliver on them.

Speaking of which, Hawkeye was supposed to call her apartment tomorrow morning!


It was now nearly ten-thirty in the evening, Margaret deduced from a cursory glance at her wristwatch. Charles most certainly wouldn't be able to drive her back to her apartment in South Boston—a Cadillac would stick out like a sore thumb—which meant she'd have to take the bus. If she left this very minute, it would take at least an hour for her to get home.

"Charles," Margaret murmured, wiping her lips with the cloth napkin from her lap, "I can't believe I forgot this, but… I don't think I can stay here with you tonight."

Charles's dreamy smile abruptly disappeared, his back stiffening in his chair.

"Whyever not?"

"Pierce is going to call tomorrow morning… remember?"

He took the last swig of his champagne, not nearly as disturbed as she feared he'd be.

"So?"

"He's going to call my apartment phone, Charles. I have to be there."

"You can't be serious," Charles countered, his expression darkening. "When exactly is he calling? I can drive you over there in the morning."

"He didn't say—remember? Geez, it's like you've forgotten about this call completely!"

"Perhaps I had forgotten," Charles muttered. "You are welcome to do the same. Pierce will wait for several rings, hang up, and return to his meaningless Maine existence. You and I, on the other hand, will bask in utter luxury until the very instant we leave for work on Monday."

"I can't just forget, Charles. Hawkeye's my friend—and he's yours too."

It was then that Charles remembered the date he was supposed to attend with Miss Anne Coolidge on Sunday night, and he blanched, making a brief face of horror that he was unable to stifle entirely.

"What the hell kind of look was that?" Margaret exclaimed, having seen the flicker of terror in his eyes.

"What look, Margaret?" Charles replied, chuckling nervously. Surely he could not tell Margaret of his planned date and expect her to be pleased. Things were going so very swimmingly between them that there was nowhere to go but down from here, and so he'd have to be extremely careful in his words and actions. Giving Margaret his blessing to take Pierce's damn phone call would effectively convince her that he harbored no more jealous feelings toward other men. And if he could also insist on Margaret's inviting Pierce to Boston on Sunday, by subsequently bowing out of dinner with them, he would prove himself to be free of spite and envy, the perfect gentleman indeed.


"Are you sure about this?" Margaret murmured, having returned to her apartment in South Boston, her ear pressed against the handset of her phone. "You don't have to pretend that you are okay with—"

"Why would I not be comfortable with your inviting Pierce here? Rest assured, I trust you completely, Margaret," he murmured from the comfort of his oversized bed at the hotel. "Pierce's behavior has certainly been… erratic, but you, on the other hand, are a rock, a constant. You may wish to suggest he meet us at the hotel so you are not deprived of my company tomorrow night as well."

"I appreciate that, Charles," Margaret admitted, sighing at the empty bed next to her. It was as if Charles Winchester's relinquishment of self-control yesterday had somehow transformed him from the damaged, insecure man who'd left Korea into her perfect partner, a man all too willing to partake in her unusual fetishes and to please her. And though she knew she should be blissfully happy at the positive shift in his persona, the sheer haste of his transformation was, frankly, a bit troubling, most notably his encouraging her to invite Hawkeye Pierce, a man she had passionately kissed little more than two months ago, to Boston. And yet, perhaps it was another attempt on Charles's part to show that he had changed from the insanely jealous man of a mere couple of weeks ago. Time would only tell if his change of heart was sincere.


Preview for the next chapter:

"So, I think I mentioned in that letter possibly coming down that way some time," Hawkeye cut in. "Not sure if you'd be up for it. A nice little day trip to catch up and address all those Cs."

"Right, yes," Margaret began. "Charles suggested your coming down tomorrow, if that works."

"Yeah, that's not one of the Cs I meant. Wait—are you saying Winchester suggested it? I thought I sent the letter to your place, not Snob Hill."