Chapter 33 - Golden Throne

Not only did Margaret respond to Charles's kiss by returning it with equal enthusiasm, but she wrapped her arms around his body as well, rendering the two of them into a single entity.

When at last they broke the kiss, Charles and Margaret could only look at each other as the music continued, their eyelids heavy, faces pink with color. They were still in the middle of the dance floor in the Irish pub, unmoving, with Margaret's arms wrapped around him and his arms around her, bounded by a dozen or so other patrons. Charles had become completely unaware of his surroundings; all that he was aware of was Margaret. Now he could see that a smile had slowly spread across Margaret's face and was continuing to spread, her white teeth all on display.

"Does that mean you'll stay?" she asked, her eyes sparkling as she beamed up at him. The raw hope in her eyes sent chills through him.

"Apparently we are able to communicate quite efficiently in multiple languages, none of which we'd attempted until now," he replied with a little smirk.

"Better late than never, I say," Margaret replied. It was now she who moved her hands to Charles's jaw, bringing their faces together again for another kiss. This time Charles wrapped his arms around Margaret, pulling her tightly up against him. Another chill went through him in spite of the intense warmth of their embrace. How could he feel such powerful emotion in the midst of an Irish pub in Southie, no less, surrounded by the public, a mere jukebox belting out tinny pop tunes? How had he suppressed this intense longing as well as he had? Now his feelings were exposed to Margaret and yet he was strongly encouraged by her equally eager response to him.

After the second prolonged kiss, Margaret again looked up at Charles, her hands shifting down to hold his arms as he kept his own on her back.

"Do you want to dance more?" she asked. "Or do you wanna get out of here and go back to my apartment?"

Now Charles was staring at her with narrowed eyes, his smile having faded.

"You had suggested that earlier today, in my office. Did you know what was going to happen here tonight?"

Her smile, on the other hand, only widened at his question.

"I know you better than you think I do. And yet, I'm still besotted with you. Wild, huh?" she said, chuckling.

"Inexplicable, in fact," he replied, grimacing.


Margaret held onto the crook of Charles's arm as they strode slowly down the street towards her apartment, a brisk fall wind billowing through the comparatively empty streets of the evening. The lighting in South Boston was not nearly as effective or as charming as it was in Beacon Hill, but all Charles could think about was what was to come with Margaret, both tonight and in the more distant future.

"I'm so sorry I didn't give you my address sooner," Margaret muttered, as they strode past lines of parked cars. "I was in such a hurry that I—"

"You needn't apologize, Margaret," Charles cut in. "If in fact we are to spend the evening confessing our wrongdoings, the night will be over without you having uttered a single word."

"Well, to be honest, I had an entirely different idea for what we're going to be doing tonight," she replied, grinning up at him.

The gulp she heard from him in reply made her acutely aware that he'd understood her meaning, and yet he did not so much as slow his pace.


"Welcome to my apartment," Margaret said with a big smile, putting her keys and purse on a table as he slowly made his way across the threshold into the small combination living room-kitchen, an entire living space that could have fit neatly into his bedroom at home. On the wall in the living room were Margaret's posters of war heroes, her father's picture in a frame on the coffee table. A vase of fake flowers sat on her kitchen counter. She could see him scanning her small abode and felt self-conscious, touching her hair as she spoke.

"Here, take off your suit jacket. I can always adjust the heat if you're cold."

"Are you absolutely certain about this, Margaret?" he interrupted, shrugging off the expensive black suit jacket and draping it over a chair.

"Very. Here, let me get us some drinks."

With that, she went to the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of white wine. She could see that Charles was still glancing about her apartment, his hands in his pockets, eyes reflecting uncertainty. She could sense his reluctance, and began babbling as she placed the wine bottle on the counter.

"That gold couch there—I got it for a steal at a local department store," she commented. "You wouldn't believe how little I ended up paying for that. They even delivered it right to where it's sitting. Pretty nice, huh?"

"Is that—Patton there?" Charles said, squinting to see the large framed picture on the end table by her gold couch, a picture that notably was not part of the collage on her tent wall at the 4077th M.A.S.H.

"Yup. I guess spending so long in the Army Nurse Corps these past couple of wars had made me incapable of decorating like most women my age," she said, grabbing the wine glasses. "Ah well."

Now Charles had turned around to look at her. She'd since slipped off her heels and was even shorter than usual in her bare feet and ravishing red dress. He watched her intently as she poured both of them a glass of wine, and gently pushed his glass across the counter to him with a toothy smile. Charles's breath caught in his throat at the sight of her looking at him in such a way. Never did he think he'd ever be the recipient of Margaret's charms, her incredible perfect smile and that husky come-hither voice. It was no wonder men went wild for Margaret Houlihan; she was a siren, a goddess.

His hands trembling, he took the glass and lifted it up as a toast.

"A toast to you, my dear," he began, the words of his toast flowing from him effortlessly, even though it had been months since he'd last read through the sonnet book he'd gifted to Margaret. "For thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak, and placed it by thee on a golden throne… next to a picture of Patton."

"Bravo, Charles; you have an incredible memory," she replied, beaming at him, amused by his double entendre in reference to her couch. "That's one of my favorite sonnets of hers, you know."

Now Margaret lifted her glass to her lips and drank the entirety of the glass in mere seconds. He gulped and lifted his own glass to his lips, taking a bit more time to imbibe the ice-cold alcohol. In the meantime, Margaret moved from behind the counter and was now standing beside him.

"You know, there's one room I haven't shown you yet," Margaret said, holding out her hand. "Would you like to see it?"

"I do not need the lavatory at the moment," Charles immediately replied, watching Margaret burst out laughing in reply.

"My bedroom, you goof!"

His eyes wide and mouth agape, Charles could scarcely believe what he was hearing. Gulping, he pinched his thigh from inside his pocket, feeling the sting of the contact. So this was not a dream in which Margaret was playing duel roles as an angel of mercy and as a seductress. Soon he'd lose the opportunity to really tell her about how he felt. It appeared that she didn't require a confession out of him, but he desperately wanted to explain himself.

"I would argue that first, I owe you an explanation for my earlier behavior," Charles blurted, putting his empty wine glass on the counter.

Now she crossed her arms, looking interested in what he had to say.

"I'm listening."

"Right," he began. "My silence was driven by a complete lack of comprehension for how you can feel anything for me but the utmost contempt, after all I've said and done to you this past month." He watched her carefully as he spoke, and thankfully she still appeared to be calm. "You have been extraordinarily patient with me and my many… problems, and in response I've belittled you, insulted you, and attempted to control your interactions with others." He sighed, looking troubled. "If I cannot even handle being your friend, Margaret, how in the world could I ever expect to be your—"

Margaret's lips again met his, and he was silenced, her arms wrapping around him now as his soon followed. Now she was moving them both backwards, through the nearby door, and into her bedroom.


The honking of a car horn outside made his head shoot up, encountering nothing but darkness and warmth in a rather stuffy small space. Charles felt a chill run through him as the blankets shifted downwards on his body, and it was shortly afterward that he realized he was completely in the nude.

This wasn't his canopy bed. Where the hell were his clothes? This room didn't even smell like him.

Finally his eyes began adjusting to the darkness of the room. On the pillow next to him, her eyes shut, mouth curled into a rather feline smile, was Margaret Houlihan.

Charles's eyebrows rose in surprise, his mouth falling open. So they'd consummated their relationship last night—twice, in fact. He thought back to how he had ended up in bed with such a goddess.

Margaret had led him backwards into her bedroom and had begun slowly unbuttoning his dress shirt, stripping the layers of clothing off of him one by one as they'd continued to kiss. He hadn't even allowed his French lover Martine to see him in all his glory, though they had been in the private VIP tent and would have been afforded total privacy. Yet now, here he was, completely naked and lying beside a woman he was wholly unworthy of in every sense of the word. And now that he knew her other charms, it tipped the scale even further in that direction.

With the utmost of care, Charles rolled over onto his side, watching Margaret sleep, a mixture of worry and hope welling up inside him. What would she say upon awakening? Would she regret what they had done?

Now Margaret was beginning to stir, smacking her lips as her arms emerged from under the covers to stretch, bare as his own. He froze in place, unable to look away as she opened her eyes and… smiled at him.

"Good morning, Charles," Margaret murmured, her voice low and gravelly, eyes still heavy with sleep.

"Morning, Margaret," he replied, his heart already beginning to race at the sound of her voice. "Did you sleep well?"

"Very well," she replied. "Yourself?"

"Quite well, thank you."

Though she was beaming at him, there was still an element of worry, of uncertainty, in Charles's face.

"Is everything alright?" she finally asked, her smile fading. She reached over towards him now, placing her hand on his bare shoulder, and he shivered beneath her touch.

"I'm just a bit… overcome," he murmured, swallowing, his entire body trembling now. "I would never have believed the week would turn out quite this way."

"Are you overcome in a good way or a bad way? I honestly can't tell."

"Most certainly the latter, Margaret," he replied. "Although last night's experience lends further credence to the fact that I am totally and profoundly unworthy of you."

Now she was smiling at him, her fingers now moving to his face to cup his jaw.

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?" she said.

"The fact remains: you are the quintessence of paradise, and I, on the other hand, am a rather prolific sinner."

"Oh, is that right?" she added suggestively, her hand now moving down his neck to his blanket-covered chest, eliciting gooseflesh where it touched. "Are there any particular sins you'd like to show me right now?"

Now she could see that he was blushing, his mouth opening and closing as he gaped at her.

"Are you saying that you would prefer for… this... to continue?" he asked weakly.

"What, don't you?"

His mouth opened and closed wordlessly several times before he was able to utter a single word.

"Of course, but I didn't think it pragmatic, considering our positions."

"Are you married? Am I?" she suddenly blurted. "Are you my boss? Am I your boss?"

Now she awaited his answer, her face impatient as it rested on her hand, her other hand still tracing along his bare arm.

"You know the answers to all those," he began, baffled by her inquiry.

"And since they are all no, then the Boston Mercy policy manual has nothing to say about this."

"It's not about that, Margaret; it's—"

"Don't you dare say it's because you're a Winchester," she cut in. "You were about to leave your name behind, remember? In a whole new city."

"I don't quite know how to put this," he muttered, blushing again. "You and I—we are habitually unlucky in our romantic forays. For the last two years, I have not been in a relationship that lasted longer than two weeks. You have fared slightly better in that department, and yet—"

"Well, if one of them had gone well, we wouldn't be here right now, would we?"

"That's true," he said, immediately losing his train of thought.

"Would you like some coffee?" she asked, sitting up now, the blanket slipping off of her breasts, though she didn't seem to notice. "I need some caffeine."

His eyes went wide at her nonchalance, with other areas responding to the unexpected nudity in kind.

"Alright," he muttered, his voice cracking.

When Margaret rose from the bed, she was completely nude and he could only gape silently at her, his eyes unable to leave her body as she walked to the door, not even attempting to cover herself in the process. Never would he attempt to leave his own chambers in such a state; in fact, because of the broken door lock, he preferred to remain clothed as much as possible in his own bedroom. Margaret was in fact more grown up than he was, a mere boy gifted his job by virtue of his name and influential friends, a boy still living with his parents and driving his father's car, unfettered with the responsibilities of a lease, a phone bill, utilities…

And yet, when she had lie beneath him last night, her perspiring fingers clutching his back with need, calling out his name, he had felt very much like an adult, like a man. In those moments, Margaret had taken away from him the guilt of his actions in Korea, the burden of his bloodline and family expectations, and the diminishing passion he'd been experiencing for medicine in general, while making him acutely aware of the present. All that mattered was that they were both here now, together.

"I know you like your coffee black," Margaret said with a smile, returning with two coffee cups, her lithe body on display as she strode to his side of the bed. "Here you go."

"'Kyu, Margaret," Charles muttered, glancing up at her sheepishly, as he sat up in bed, the blankets falling away from his bare chest and back. "Do you realize you are… unclothed right now?"

Now she looked down at herself and back up at him with a knowing grin.

"Are you saying you want to skip the coffee?"

His mouth went dry at the suggestive remark and yet, he knew what he wanted. His eyes locked on hers, a naughty little smile playing on his lips, he set his cup of coffee down on the nightstand and then patted the bed.