A/N: For annambates, who requested #32 "I think I'm in love with you and I'm terrified.".

Disclaimer: I don't own Downton Abbey.

On the Precipice

The sound of voices followed John outside as he dragged himself to the courtyard. Every step lanced his entire leg with fresh agony. He resisted the urge to reach down and tug at the metal contraption encasing his leg, knowing that trying to relieve the pain was futile. He had to put up with it. It was for his own good.

Even if that maxim seemed to grow more and more deluded with every day that passed.

Still, he had to persevere. The idea of one day walking normally, of not being tiptoed round or mollycoddled because he did not walk the same as everyone else was too enticing to resist. He wanted Mr. Carson's approval. He was sick and tired of Thomas and Miss O'Brien's pointed comments about his abilities to keep up. He would put an end to it all.

He reached his usual crate and lowered himself down with a hiss, stretching his right leg stiffly in front of him in the hope that it would alleviate some of the pain. Not so. He dropped his head into his hands and took a deep breath.

"I really wish you'd tell me what's bothering you."

Anna's soft voice broke through the haze, and he forced his head up to find her standing in front of him, arms folded across her chest, eyes warm with worry. Worry for him. He wished she wouldn't.

"It's nothing," he said through a forced smile.

"If you say so," she replied, though it was obvious from her tone of voice that she didn't believe him. "Budge up."

He braced himself against the pain as he shuffled to the side to give her room to slip onto the crate beside him. She settled herself down, tipping her head back to look at the stars. He was greeted by the pretty slope of her neck. Swallowing hard, he looked away. Even that didn't allow him to escape from the scent of light sweat and lavender that wafted into his nostrils. He tried not to inhale too deeply.

"What a day," Anna sighed, bringing him back to the moment. "I won't be sad to see the back of the hunt."

"You must be the only one," John said. "Everyone else seems quite enamoured with this Mr. Pamuk character."

Anna giggled, looking away shyly. God, she was pretty when she blushed. He pushed the thought from his mind. It wasn't one he should be having.

"Maybe," she said. "But it's always so busy when we're hosting a shoot. It feels almost like a holiday when things go back to normal! You're lucky that his lordship decided not to participate this time."

"Perhaps Mr. Carson would have delegated my responsibilities to someone else."

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. He winced. That was the last thing he wanted, for her to see him self-pitying and weak. But if she saw him that way, she didn't let it show. Her expression simply twisted anxiously. Her hand hovered as if she wanted to reach out and touch him. John wasn't sure what he'd do if she did.

"What makes you say that?" she asked.

He cursed himself for allowing the words to slip from his mouth. "I don't know. I'm tired."

"Tiredness can prey on the mind, can't it?" she noted. "But I hate to think of you thinking like that, Mr. Bates. Things aren't the same as when you first started."

"Aren't they?" he asked sardonically.

Anna shook her head firmly. "No. You've been here a year now. They understand you. They respect you."

"Not everyone does."

"More do than don't," she said firmly.

He managed a smile. "Your optimism is something to be admired, Anna."

"Someone has to keep you from wallowing," was the sassy reply, and he couldn't stop the bark of laughter that escaped his lips.

She grinned at that. Her mission accomplished, clearly.

"Don't feel disheartened," she said. "Things will improve, whatever the matter is." Her eyes didn't flicker from his face, but he knew she was thinking of the odd tremors that had shaken him at odd times during the last week. "And you shouldn't feel afraid anymore," she continued. "You're well respected, whether you want to believe it or not. The people that count respect you."

"You too," he teased gently.

She blushed and lowered her gaze. "I do respect you, Mr. Bates. More than respect you."

His heart toppled in his chest, held in positon by the slipperiest of sinewy thread. No. She couldn't.

Over the last weeks and months their relationship had grown and deepened, a flower cultivated on inhabitable soil, nurtured by the love of the moon, growing out of sight of everyone else. At times, he'd thought he'd caught flashes of something else in her countenance, something untenable, fledgling, in the bright blue of her eyes. But he had promised himself that he would not allow her to drift down that road; that if things became too dangerous he would nip it in the bud and pull it up by the roots. Was he too late? Had the roots grown stronger than he'd thought, had the flower started to open?

Worse, had he allowed this to happen, so confused by the things that she stirred up within the chambers of his own heart?

"You've been a wonderful friend, Mr. Bates," Anna said after what felt like a lifetime, filled with nothing but the thrum of his pulse in his head.

A friend. He was her friend. A part of him didn't truly know how he felt about that. He told himself he was glad, and prayed it was the truth.

"You've been a wonderful friend to me," he said. "The best I've ever had. Your support has always been appreciated."

For a moment, her hand hovered over the arm of his jacket, as if she was contemplating touching him. He held his breath until he felt lightheaded. But her hand did not fall where he so desperately didn't—or did?—want it to fall. After a heartbeat, she returned it to her lap.

"Thank you, Mr. Bates," she said.

"Anna, are you out there?"

The sound of Mrs. Hughes' voice broke through the tension that was quickly dominating the air around them. John pulled away sharply from watching her, staring straight ahead as she hopped off the crate.

"I'm here, Mrs. Hughes!" she called.

"Lady Mary is ringing for you. You'd better come inside."

"I'll be right there," she reassured the housekeeper. With a satisfied sound, Mrs. Hughes withdrew.

Alone once more, Anna turned to look at him. She offered him a soft smile that made him squirm.

"Please don't worry about your position anymore," she told him. "I hate to see you worrying. They're not going to sack you. There's no reason for you to be afraid."

"How can I be afraid when I have a rallying troop like you at my back?" he joked. "Now, go on, you're needed."

"All right," she said reluctantly. "I'll see you later?"

He nodded. With a last, lingering look back, she was swallowed up by the darkness.

John sighed into the cool night air. She'd certainly given him something to think about. Not to have fear. He'd had flashes of terror in Africa, in those moments before all hell broke loose, when he was faced with the prospect of endless nothing—even with a souring marriage and no real hope for the future, he hadn't wanted to die. At least not until he'd been injured, when the pain in that filthy field hospital had been almost too much to bear. He'd had real fear when he'd been shipped back to England to recover, with no clear path in front of him. He'd been afraid when he'd come to Downton, and Lord Grantham had let him go. But he wasn't afraid of being sacked anymore. He wasn't afraid of the pain he was putting himself through.

There was something far bigger to preoccupy his mind now. Something far more frightening. He remembered her smile, the way he had felt just moments before when she had been so close to touching him, and shivered.

He'd promised himself that he wouldn't. But he wasn't sure his heart was listening.

"I think I'm in love with you and I'm terrified," he whispered, knowing that floors above, separated by brick and wood and unmoveable human impossibility, she would never hear him.