A/N: First of all: I want to say thank you to everyone who read and reviewed The Second Spring. It really means a lot to me that people took the time to do so and is so very encouraging to this newbie fic writer. I'm feeling more inspired than ever before to write A/B fic and it's in no small part thanks to the lovely reviews. So hugs to you all *squeeze*
This is a mini-fic, filling in the space before I embark on my next multi-chapter piece. The idea is owed to and the fic itself based on the gorgeous Snow Patrol song The President. Everytime I listen to it, I think of John – to me it just seems to characterise him to a tee, and the last verse is so poignant when I think of his separation and possible return to Anna. So I guess this is what's termed a song-fic…? Excuse my newbieness (though lyrics aren't directly included in stories, rather just incorporated into the narrative …I'd really advise readers to go and seek the song out somewhere in the wide spaces of the internet, it says everything far more succinctly and beautifully than I ever could).
This was written in the space of two days, and there are parts of it I'm not completely sure about…but I had to get it out of my head and onto the screen and I didn't want to overthink it too much. I hope you enjoy.
Disclaimer: All rights for Downton and its characters are owned by Julian Fellowes/Carnival/ITV. They're the ones with the final say; I just like to explore the possibilities.
Credit for the story inspiration goes to the lyrical talents of Gary Lightbody, who is a songwriting genius.
The first thing he felt on leaving, stepping once more into a world that had become alien to his eyes and consciousness, was neither a refreshing rush of air nor the sweet and edifying breath of freedom. Instead, the sharp wind's blast stung his face and his blood ran thick and cold in his veins. His damn leg throbbed with a relentless intensity as he stumbled along; the pain more excruciating than any he had ever experienced in that weak spot, but it wasn't isolated there. Aching was at the centre of his very being, was what he was composed of completely. In his bones, in his heart. There in the left side of his chest it was at its pinnacle; with each thud the ache grew stronger, unbearable. There was no remedy on earth that could be taken to alleviate it; it would be there for eternity, a scar to add to all the others, hidden from view but never able to heal.
The daylight, naked and unrestrained, at its full force rather than barely glimpsed through the bars of a window the size of two bricks, made him dizzy and disorientated. He shielded his gaze from the yellow glare, nearly blinded. The sun wasn't entirely at fault for the strange sensation he was feeling. Looking out on the horizon, ahead towards a place he should be able to recall but couldn't – or perhaps, wouldn't – bring to mind, he realised he felt utterly lost, with no clue of where to go next. It's not that he wasn't glad to be out here; he still couldn't fathom the turn of the tide, the unbelievable twist of fate, the luck that should by all means have deserted him long ago. How many second chances could he be afforded? He'd lost count years back, but he hadn't stopped being inexpressibly grateful for them.
But that place, as wretched as it was, had become embedded in him and it was going to be hard to adjust, to shake off the shackles that had fixed tight his body but more possessively his mind. He had slipped back into routines known from his previous tenure quicker than he had expected to, did so almost unconsciously; everything he had thought he would have to conscientiously relearn appeared complete to him once more. Maybe you could never really forget certain things. That thought made a chill run down his spine. All those days and nights he sat with his back against the cold hard wall, on the bed that may as well have been made of stone, he was comforted and disturbed in equal measure by the structure his thoughts had taken on, reflecting the regimented atmosphere around. It was not foolproof; gaps remained for the chaos to crawl through, as well as sweeter things, which although his heart cherished and grasped onto, his head sought to brush away lest they – she – be tainted. It was not where she belonged; a beautiful dove should not be caged because it dared to fly towards darker skies, lured inexplicably to the clutches of a weathered bird of prey. However, it was exactly where he belonged. How could he have ever fooled himself into thinking that he was worthy of anything more? Those eight years spent in relative grandeur and happiness, for the most part, was by rights someone else's, the property of a better man than he. All of his life he had been stealing opportunities, and in this new harsh light every flaw was exposed. An ultra-bright ray blurred his vision and pierced his skull, splitting and splintering the carefully organised formation within. Now there was nothing, only a blank space, and he was terrified of what it was to be filled with.
He grimaced as another bolt of pain shot up through him with the taking of a mere step. This time had done nothing to repair or replenish him; in fact, it had only damaged him further. A broken man in every sense of the word; certainly physically but especially mentally, more now than ever. He suspected that the pieces were scattered too far and wide to be reclaimed and put back together, at least not in the form he desired. He could never be fixed, and he was unable to fix everything that he had destroyed. It had been so effortless, come so easily to him, although it was the last thing he had intended – especially then and there. It was just what happened, it was what he did; whenever something came into his hands it was only a matter of time until he lost grip, let it slip, breaking into a thousand fragments. Before he even knew it; before he could determine the purpose and preciousness of what he had let fall. Except this time around he was only too aware of how careless he had been and the ramifications that stretched far beyond him, leaving wreckage that could not be cleared away. This time he'd not only broken his own chance for a new life but had broken so much else too: the trust of those who had shown him their faith and kindness, the promises to those he had admired and respected, the heart of the woman whose love he had tried at first to resist but who persisted and left him totally defenceless, his own heart quickly owned completely by her. Her love being the only force that had ever covered over the cracks, made him feel truly indestructible. Without it in his life, he was content to shatter.
It occurred to him that, for someone apparently so intelligent, well-versed and worldly-wise, he was severely lacking in common sense. He had cursed himself repeatedly over the many months, when he had all the time in the world to ruminate on his numerous mistakes, for his misplaced duty and regard, his dogged determination to stick firmly to the point of view he had always persisted with in the past – even though he should have known he was walking the wrong path, having had his life revolved entirely – and most of all, for not listening to the many voices that had spoken so much wisdom. What gnawed away at him constantly was the fact that deep down he had shared their views, silently screamed at himself to carry out what was being said, yet still he ignored it all; turned the other way like the fool he was and had always been. Now he was paying the price, as he foundered on which direction to take. Why had he not listened to her? Every single word she had said had been undeniably right, not just with regard to this whole mess but when it came to everything, especially between the both of them. Though he had lost any faith he had a long time ago, he found himself pleading in prayer in his head: Oh God, please, let her forgive me.
He suddenly recalled words she had said to him years back, when he was first wrongly accused of a crime far more inconsequential, though it at the time it had seemed to signal the end of the world. If only he could have seen what was to come. With the words, she demonstrated her unshakeable, and wonderful – but what he could have told her then just as fervently as now was ultimately misguided - belief in him.
"I know it's what you're used to, running away when things get hard. I understand why you did it in the past, and I don't blame you a bit. But you have no need to do it any more, not now you are here." Her hand in his, so soft but so firm; her comforting delicacy belying the core of strength in her soul. "Not now that you have me."
All of his life it had been his instinct, a reflexive action in times of trouble, to run. He had never thought he did it in a cowardly way – at least, not in part until this very moment – but had done so because it was the best course of action to take, most certainly for everyone that he came into contact with; he had never stayed long enough or felt strongly enough to call himself close to anyone around him until his last journey. It mattered little to him to go, to take up all of the roots he had established in a place and start the cycle again somewhere else: it was what he was used to, indeed it was entirely natural. Or it had been. Running from Downton, for good this time, would not be easy; it would be the hardest thing he would ever have to do, and he had wrestled with the decision for tortuous hours. Being away before had nearly killed him but perhaps secretly, within the darkest corners of his mind, that fate was exactly the one he wished for. He had pondered every possible route, scrutinising their suitabilities, and they had all led to the same destination; somewhere as yet unknown but away from there, the place he had never expected to leave.
It was unthinkable to ask for help. He had taken enough of it already, unworthy and with so little to offer in return, and most certainly his presence would now be more of a hindrance to everyone. He had never reacted particularly well to being the subject of pity; he was sure it would be the only thing he would see if he was to go back. In the eyes of everyone, on open display when they would believe he wasn't looking and poorly disguised when they did have to face him. In the Earl's eyes, there somewhere as he shook his hand firmly and made a show of bravado, assuring him that all was as it once was, that the whole damn thing was well behind them and had never been a problem anyway as far as he was concerned. Once his speech was finished, a moment of silence and a sideways glance; an attempt to conceal the glint of it, the burning sympathy that would remain unspoken, setting them further apart. In other eyes, the look of renewed suspicion and relished resentment. It did not matter that his name had been cleared; not guilty were just words put together, ones that had shed their connection and meaning long ago. For some people, they would never be associated with him, regardless of what was uttered in a court of law. The judgements made within those walls were far more damning. Eyes wide open, always following him, issuing accusations anew.
And then there was Anna. Oh God, Anna.
He had longed for what had been eons to look into her eyes again, deeply and truly, to let himself be lost in their purity and beauty. They had been his balm, an instant oasis of calm in turbulent moments, of which there had been many; all it had taken was one gaze, one swift glimpse and he would be instantly soothed, assured, restored. Now he feared like nothing else what he would find looking back at him when he met them. They would have altered irrevocably, of that he was sure. The clear blue that had carried the effortless ease and brightness of high-summer skies, that dazzled more brilliantly than the diamonds and sapphires adorning the Crawley girls' finest pieces of jewellery, would now be significantly darker in hue, showing the signs of a storm within; their shine disappeared, perhaps forever. There would be shadows deep set in them; grey, black. Months – no, years – of sorrow, suffering, heartache, all held behind the lids and looking out every second. Dark circles underneath; the marks she would bear for eternity, declaring openly all of the torment he had caused her. Flashes of red; the anger she would never admit to, but mostly betraying the sadness she had tried to keep secret, eyes sore from crying over and over. For certain, he would see all of this, in an instant, and for the rest of his life.
What had he done to her? He knew he had damaged her, he had warned her time and time again that he would, but he never could have imagined it would be to this extent. All she had ever given was her love, honestly and innocently, and now she was to be punished for the rest of her life, repaid with hurt and hate. Everything she had met with in his absence, the stares and whispers, would not halt with his return; indeed, it would only intensify. He was free, but she would always be imprisoned if they were to be together. Part of him wished he had refused her repeated pleas for them to marry; if he had just had the resolve then she would have been spared, would not be burdened as she was now. He had atoned for his past, even for things he had not done, but he could not begin to atone for the future, for everything he had done without thinking to her, and he could never end. This had to be the remedy for both of them, though compensation could never really occur. Yes, there would be more hurt, but it would be temporary this time; this hurt would actually go on to salve her wounds – hers could still yet be repaired – leave the way clear for her to find real happiness, the kind she should have always been afforded. To find someone else who would cast out the darkness and put the light back in her eyes; let them shine on long after he'd gone. The other part of him, the part that selfishly would forever be glad that they had wed, that only wished they would have done so sooner – or at least have run away together, then maybe he wouldn't have to be condemning himself now – reeled at the thought of her with another man. Of not looking deep into her eyes once more, falling fast and blissfully. The thought that he would never do so again, becoming more of an actuality as the seconds passed, made the ache in his heart swell and swallow him whole.
Perhaps it would be a relief. A relief to stop pretending, fooling himself that the course of his life had actually changed. He couldn't quite comprehend how at times he could still possess the naivety of a child at his age. Now he could accept the fate that was always mapped out for him and could do so without caring, giving up any regard he might still have for himself. He could let himself fall for good, crash to earth without having to hide his agony, without anyone looking on to feel sorry for him or worry needlessly. A true release. He could just slide, sink into oblivion without being observed. It felt like he was embracing his real destiny. He thought about resuming his days and nights of drinking. It would be quite simple - even enjoyable - to do, would ease him as he admitted defeat, blot out the pain that persisted and defined him. Even as he imagined himself slumped in some gutter, stepped over by faceless people, he knew he would see her behind his eyes; her eyes and her soul boring into him. He would never go back to that reprehensible state, not even now; he could never do anything that would cause her shame, even when he was miles away from her.
He ambled unsteadily over to the car that was waiting, a man he didn't recognise in young Tom Branson's chauffeur's uniform. So much had changed while he had been gone; there would be so many new faces, all unaware of him but already knowing too much of who he was, what he was. Catching the unfamiliar man's eye and nodding in acknowledgement, he thought of Tom. Sparky, ambitious, determined, teetering dangerously close to the edge at times but not reckless: he'd always had his head firmly screwed on. He had admired the young man, would have liked to have had the same sense of direction when he was that age. Perhaps he would have benefitted from it. Tom certainly had: his life stretching out in quite a different way, the whole world ahead of him now. Anna had mentioned in one of her visits that he had married Lady Sybil in Ireland, that they had a child on the way. How blessed that child would be, and how spirited it would be too, given its parentage. Perfectly placed to enter into a new age, one that was revolving too quickly for him. He remembered how Anna had cast her eyes downwards as she relayed the news, trying desperately to hide, chase away her shattered dreams. Mourning for the children that they would never have. They were more reasons for him to go; he would not let her be haunted any further, he would carry the ghosts away from her. At least it was possible for others to depart Downton and go on happily, to bright and abundant futures. That thought heartened him, briefly; there was a rightful balance in the world still, those who earned their good fortune were justly rewarded and those who squandered what they were loaned were left to languish. It made sense, but not for the ones who were caught in the crossfire, the ones who had to suffer for sins they never committed. Anna. He shut his eyes tight, silently repeating his appeals to a God he did not believe in. Let her forgive, let her forget; let her be saved.
The car set off in motion, rolling along slowly at first but then getting into pace. Even though he had given a distinct order and a different destination from the one first intended, he had no notion of which route the chauffeur had decided to take. Everything was still so unfamiliar, so strange, and he had not reattached himself to the outside world as yet. He wondered how long it would take: days, weeks, months? Maybe he would never be part of it again, would always be detached. A sudden thought made him shudder: would they pass by Downton? Half of him dreaded it, felt his stomach drop as he pictured the house standing majestic, staring down at him as he hid away in the car, refusing to give way, making him feel guiltier than ever before. But half of him hoped for nothing more than one last glimpse, to look at it and hold it in his mind and heart forever; a final and lasting reminder, a crumb of comfort to take away, proving that for a time in his life he did know and feel real and magnificent joy. But then, he didn't have to view it with his eyes to picture it as clear as it had been that day in 1912.
Closing his eyes, a particular vision of the house entered his mind, one he had envisioned many times before. It had never been quite so vivid than at this present second. A lone figure standing outside, small but sturdy, rooted firm. Hands clenched and wringing close to her chest; looking back and forth all around in every direction, at once hopeful and hopeless. Anxiety growing by the second, possibility fading. Still she wouldn't go inside, stayed standing there, staring, waiting. Tears welling up in her eyes; tears that had never dried. In time, she may forgive him but he would never forgive himself, not for causing so many of her tears to fall. She should not know them. She should always be smiling. He willed his mind to remember her that way, to capture the radiance on her face, the light that shone from within her and lit him up too. But all he could see were the tears, spilling down her cheeks; her sadness heartbreaking, overwhelming, piling heavily upon his own. No; he could not consider coming to her in this state: bruised, battered, broken. Not when they were both so wrecked and ravaged by sorrow. He had contemplated being able to return one day, in some distant point in time; come back to her when he had been cleansed, find himself falling into her arms once again, only fully revived with her touch. He lived for that day, but he knew that it would never, could never arrive. He knew that he had to sacrifice what he so desperately wanted to give her what she needed. A fresh start, without him. It was what he would have too, though his would not be so new; instead, a revisiting of ground tread countless times. Taking the road he thought he had long forgotten, again. Trying to forget the one he had travelled down, but knowing that it would never be clear.
The daylight was not as nearly as invasive now, dying away as the afternoon started to fade into evening. The sun began to take shelter and a chill crept across him where he sat, almost totally shaded from view himself, on the platform at the train station – the same one he had stepped down onto all those years back, with little expectation of what was in store for him. Going back to the start. The irony was not lost on him. What was missing was the notion of what was ahead of him now; what he would do, where he would go. If he was unable to fully grasp the expectations in the air back then, they had completely escaped him now. Invisible. Maybe it was a good thing that he had no plans whatsoever to speak or think of; his plans had not been carried out that successfully before, had a habit of unravelling at the seams.
He wasn't quite sure how long he had been there, but it must have been a good few hours. His only barely-formulated idea had been to board the first train that stopped at the station, wherever it was headed. As he arrived and made his way up to the platform, one was pulling away, chugging into the distance. Then, no sign of anything. An hour passed until the station guard came to inform the waiting passengers that there had been quite a serious accident at the preceding station miles away; there would be delays to all of the incoming trains, indeed it could be some considerable time before anything was able to make it through. One by one, people had begun to give up, decided to resume their journeys on foot or by another method of transport, or just return home for the day. None of these options seemed feasible to him; it was at least a mile to the departure point for the bus, and he knew his leg would not last five yards, never mind any further. Neither did he possess the mental energy to continue, having worn himself out with over-thinking. There was still a home he could go to, a voice from somewhere within whispered. Maybe all of this was a sign that he should go back, after all. He gave the thought some weight, for a minute, before letting it fade. No; it was entirely out of the question. It had been hours, everyone would know he was long gone by now. All he was able to see in his head was the look on her face; yet more hurt, and for what? Too tired to think any more, to keep on tearing himself inside out with the disorder that persisted in his mind, he let himself drift, kept staring straight down at the platform, wanting to go as quiet and undisturbed as the space directly ahead of him was.
It wasn't empty. He couldn't quite believe his eyes; surely it was a product of his overwrought imagination, his utter exhaustion. How had he not noticed, let the arrival pass him by? Parallel to his own feet, before him stood two dainty ones less than half his size, a bag lying next to each. He wasn't sure he was able to move his head. Slowly and steadily, he raised it, his eye-line following the figure upwards.
"I thought you'd stopped running. I'm not sure you'll ever be able to listen to me."
He suddenly found the energy to get to his feet. A shock to the senses; she always was. He wondered when she would ever stop surprising him; he hoped she never would. Her eyes were fixed firmly on him. He wasn't quite sure what he could discern in them, but they held no tears; no marks of lasting grief. Oh, thank God. Relief. Love. So much of it, all at once, years' worth, the love he had for her before he even knew she existed. Then, an overwhelming rush of remorse. How could he have thought of it, leaving her once more? Now, her look said it all, surely. He wasn't sure, not for the first time, whether she was going to smack or kiss him. They both knew it should have been the former. Instead, she rushed towards him, hauled herself into his arms and wrapped hers tight around him. She clung on for an age, enveloping herself in the embrace.
When she loosened her grip, still with her arms circling him, she leaned back to resume gazing right into his eyes. It was lovely – oh, how he'd missed looking back into those eyes – but ever so slightly unnerving. She still hadn't said anything. He told her he was sorry. Said he couldn't conceive how he could be so foolish – again – and begged for her forgiveness; though he surely didn't deserve it, deserve her. She just kept staring up at him, drinking him in, tempering her thirst.
He said he wasn't sure that he could go back to Downton, not yet anyway, but perhaps never again. Even with her here, and then there, it seemed too much, far too soon. One of her hands rose from his side and touched his face, her touch lighter than the kiss of a feather but reassuring, enriched with her own unique and staggering strength. It didn't matter, she said; so long as they were together, she would go anywhere. To the next village, to the other side of the world; to the moon and back. Wherever he was, that's where she would be too.
But he couldn't do that to her. She'd surrendered so much already for his sake. She had such a good position there; a good life. He wouldn't take it away from her.
"You are my life. I could have everything in the world but it wouldn't be anything to me if you weren't there. So listen to me, Mr Bates…" She held his face in both of her hands, her thumbs caressing his jaw. "I will go with you, and I will be right by your side, always. I am now who I was meant to be, and I am meant to be with you. Forever."
He looked intently into her eyes, so earnest and yet so clear and bright – just as they had been before all of this – and he couldn't help but smile. He took one of her hands away from his face and joined it with his own, placing his other behind her head, stroking her hairline softly before bringing her closer. Their lips were nearly touching, and before they did, he whispered: "Well, Mrs Bates, it will be a pleasure to have you along for the journey." She broke into a giggle, he followed, and then, with any tension between them evaporated, they kissed; tentatively and tenderly at first, then passion and long-kept desire took over them both. They would have continued kissing there long into the night, lost in finding each other again, if it wasn't for the blaring whistle sounding, announcing the arrival of the grand steam train.
As they climbed aboard, her hand joined in his, offering him her unwavering support, he took a glance over his shoulder. So much they were both leaving behind. He was still unsure where the road would lead, but now it wasn't a challenge to be endured but one to be embraced. Now, it was not him, alone. It was them, together, venturing on. Leaving the past far behind on a road best forgotten; looking ahead to one that would be remembered, by them both.
A/N: I know, the ending is slightly (or very) implausible, but I could not leave things on an angsty, unhappy note. I just can't do that to them (and I'm not keen to give Fellowes too many ideas; not that he really needs many when it comes to emotional torture)
FYI, if John did ever actually contemplate leaving Downton again, or if he left without Anna, I would rugby tackle him to the ground. And that would not be easy, considering I am near enough five foot nothing. (I cannot take any more of his departures! Nooooooo *ahem* *composes self*)