"Margaret, I would like to spend this evening with you. If a bottle of wine is not in your department. Perhaps you'd care for a game of chess?"

"I'd love it," she smiled.

Winchester would never admit it, but he had been terribly jealous, wishing it was his own lap that Margaret had stumbled into last night. It made him realize that the Winchester fortunes and destines had not been merely produced by chance, but action. And action was what he was going to have to take if he wished to bring Margaret home to Boston after this was over.

Pierce was in Post-Op that night, and Hunicutt was working on reports in the lab. It was an ideal night to have Margaret over. He had put on a record of Bach, the ideal music to such an evening, as Margaret knocked on the tent. Next to it, he had a carefully chosen stack, each symphony meant to elicit passion, and romance. "Hello Margaret."

"Good evening Charles."

"Have you ever played Chess before?" he asked as they sat at the table he had set up.

"Of course. My sister and I played all the time when we were younger. It would give us something to do until we could make friends."

"What a shame you never made it to Boston. It's such a lovely town," he said, and started to weave a tapestry of an old, dignified city where events that shaped the world took place. Cobblestone streets, and charming pubs abound, a city of history and excitement. Margaret never knew he could be so poetic as he eloquently described the pleasure of sitting in Symphony Hall, and walking down the street where Paul Revere had once made his daring midnight ride. They spoke well into the night, of poetry, of culture, of things they had in common that Margaret had never seen under his aloof exterior.

Margaret began to throw herself into her work, training the nurses in triage, and making her nursing staff the pride of the Asian Theater, drawing even more attention from Major Winchester.

He would often come to her tent bringing fine foods and wine, and they spent many evenings together laughing and chatting. However there was no talk of a relationship. She'd learned from Frank Burns that having a relationship with anyone in camp made you a walking target for ridicule, and jokes. But someday they'd all be going home, and every now and then, she would think about what it'd be like to work in Boston.

Hawkeye had also started paying more attention to her as of late. He wasn't as direct as Charles in dropping by, but he always asked her to dance in the Officers Club. They danced like they had been partners all their life. She knew his moves and streams of communication flew between the two of them when they were on the floor. She started to pay more attention to her appearance, and subtly adjusted the duty roster so that she would work with him more. Every now and then there were glances, across a patient in OR, or across the mess tent that made them wonder what was going to happen, and Margaret would think about what life would be like in a small town.

The peace talks were imminent. Everyday there were valid news reports that would have them going home by sometime mid-summer. It was a warm day in May when Hawkeye knocked on her door. "Major I need to talk with you?"

"Which patient?"

"No, none of the patients. You."

"Me?"

He kissed her. This time without confusion, but a clear desire for the woman he wanted as his own. It was the kiss of a man who did not want to back down.

"No one has ever kissed you like that. Not Frank, or Donald or even Winchester."

"Let me go," she struggled weakly. Part of her wanted to drop it and just give in, and part of her couldn't surrender.

"I want you to marry me."

"What?"

"I can't keep waiting to catch you in between Majors. We work well together. The passion is there. What do you say? Once we get home."

"Pierce, you're kidding."

"No, I'm not."

"Pierce, I'm not sure if I'm ready to be married again."

"Margaret, I love you. I promise I would never do anything to hurt you. Besides we can wait until we get home – to the States. That way we don't have an army in between us."

"Hawkeye, I – I don't know. I don't know if I like being married."

"Margaret, you went after Frank because he's a Major and Donald because he's a Lt. Colonel. Why don't you try for love?"

"I don't love you."

He grabbed her.

"Look me in the eye and tell me you don't love me."

She looked him in the eye, but couldn't do it. He kissed her passionately, leaving no room for her to say no.

"Incoming wounded. Get em' while they're bleeding," the announcement came over the PA. "Think about what I said," Hawkeye told her breathlessly before running out of her tent.

Automatically, Margaret threw herself into the task of triage. If there was one thing she prided herself on it was the fact that her personal life, no matter how tumultuous, never interfered with her work. One thing she was careful of though, was to avoid either assisting Hawkeye or Charles. She needed time to think. She would have that later when the wounded were recovering in Post Op, and they were all out of surgery. She couldn't wait. It was only a ten hour shift, but it had never seemed so long before.

The first rays of dawn were stretching across the sky by the time she finally left the OR. The surgeons had gotten to leave earlier, but her job involved the aftermath, insuring the wounded were in the right places and all were resting comfortably. She slept the entire day, and when she awoke there was just enough time to shower before dinner.

After dinner, she realized that the next week's duty rooster hadn't been posted yet. That wasn't like her she chided herself as she went to her tent and get that done. As she was figuring out which nurses should be on duty with which doctors, there was a knock at her door. "Come," she said distractedly as she adjusted the schedule of the newest nurse. She always tried to put the more experienced ones alongside of the greener nurses, and she had scheduled her for Wednesday, with another nurse that only had a week more experience.

"Ahem," she heard someone clear their throat. Looking up, she saw Charles holding a bottle of wine. "Charles, I didn't expect you tonight," she said in surprise, her duty rooster completely forgotten. "I thought you have Post Op tonight."

"I was, I mean, I am, but I'm not due for another hour. Margaret, there is something I must discuss with you."

"What is it?" she asked with a queasy feeling hidden behind her bright smile. 'Please don't let him ask about Pierce', she thought. Tonight was going to be light, breezy conversation, simple, nothing he could mistake later on. "Here is a simply lovely bottle of Cognac. I had Klinger procure it just for me for what I wish to discuss with you," he said as he filled the two glasses he had brought with him.

"Thank you Major. What should we toast to?"

"How about to us," he said

"To us," she replied as her glass clinked against his, and they took a sip.

"Margaret, it can't have escaped your attention that I posses some – quite strong- feelings for you. Normally I would read you a poem or something that would more eloquently express my thoughts; however lack of culture being what is in this camp, I guess I must speak from my heart. Margaret, you are a breathtaking woman. A talented and lovely woman such as you is what I am seeking in a wife. Margaret, I want you to come back to Boston with me when this war is over, and become my wife."

"What?"

"I want you to be my wife."

"Charles, I'm flattered, but –" she started to say, but then stopped. She couldn't tell him no. Her mind was a mess of doubt. Now she not only had Winchester's proposal to think about, but Pierces too. "I can't give you a yes or no right now," she said.

"I need some time to think."

"I appreciate your honesty my angel," he said. "I will make you happy Margaret," he said as he kissed her hand, and walked out the door.