Margaret gripped the stained coffee mug in both hands, feeling the eyes of the two men on her, as Higgins and Williams poured themselves cups of coffee. The office still smelled of burnt coffee, cigarettes, diesel, and grease.

"You need a shower," she wrinkled her nose.

John's face grew hard, his tired eyes firing with his temper, "Hello to you too."

She flinched as he tossed his hat on the ground and slumped into his chair, leaning his head back. His face twitched as he rolled his shoulder. He'd been out of the sling for only a few weeks.

Something in her chest pricked as she realized how exhausted he must be. Margaret got to her feet. She wanted to do something, to make him rest, to climb in his lap and kiss him no matter what he smelled like.

"John," she hadn't meant to whisper.

She looked closer when he didn't answer.

He was asleep.

Margaret glanced up and took a large swallow when she saw Nick Higgins staring at her with a grim smile.

"What you doing here, Miss Margaret?" He asked, setting his own coffee aside.

"I was in Boston for a maths conference, and—" Margaret glanced down. "I decided it was time to see the old place."

"It's a little late in coming," Higgins said.

"Slick," Williams leaned against the coffee counter.

"It's alright, Tuck," Margaret set her coffee on John's desk, her eyes darting over the stacks of paperwork, the stickie notes, and the desk calendar all covered in his bold scrawl. "Nicholas is right." she stood and brushed out her skirt. "I should've come sooner."

"You should've called," Higgins said with a laugh. "Master won't thank you for coming without notice. And him not being here to give you a piece of his mind."

"There are many things I should've done, Nicholas," Margaret walked over and pressed a hand to his arm. "I'm sorry I wasn't here when Bess—when it happened."

Higgins's eyes clouded over and he cleared his throat. "It was bad luck, and that's that. But I won't hold it against you. Bess wouldn't want me too."

"How long are you in town, Miss Margaret?" Williams asked.

"I leave tonight," Margaret sighed, rubbing her arms.

"So you're not staying?"

"No," she pulled out the handle on her suitcase. "I just wanted to see Milton again, and," she glanced at John's desk, "settle things."

"You thought you could settle things between you and Master in one day?" Higgins rubbed his chin. "You always were a crazy slip of a girl." He smiled ruefully and shook his head.

"Perhaps it was for the best," Margaret said softly, brushing her hand over the old oak wood. "It's been a long time. Maybe too long."

Margaret fidgeted, drumming her fingers on his desk. He'd asked to meet her for lunch before she left for England, even if he hadn't sounded all that pleased about it. But he wasn't here. He was probably just trying to piss her off again.

Like always.

She swiped angrily at her tears.

If that's what he wanted, then maybe it was time he did the waiting.

She stood, grabbed her suitcase, and marched out the office door.

"It was good to see you, Miss Margaret," Williams said, his voice rough. "You sure you can't stay a bit?"

"Maybe until Monday?" Higgins added, a mischievous glint in his eye.

Margaret tried to smile and she shook her head, "I'll see myself out."

"I'll walk you, Miss Margaret," Williams fell in step with her, taking her suitcase gently from her hand. "He wouldn't want you to be out alone."

"Thank you, Tuck," Margaret said, blinking back soft tears.

"You alright, Miss?" He asked as they walked up the drive.

"I will be," she glanced back over her shoulder at the old building.

"I know it's a long shot, but you might try calling him," Williams busied himself with her suitcase, as the bus pulled up to the stop.

"You know his phone won't be on," Margaret said with a sigh. "Take care."

Williams nodded, waiting until the bus pulled away.

John let himself into the sanctuary through a side door. The low light and whisper of the wood and stone were always a bastion of peace for him. He eased himself into the back pew and took off his hat, settling it on his knee. He ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes.

"I want you to marry me," John said folding his arms agains the seesawing of his stomach. "We both know what it's like to grow up without a dad. I won't let that happen."

Margaret shoved herself away from him, "Contributing two tablespoons of genetic material doesn't make you a suitable father."

John followed her as she rushed to the front of the old sanctuary. He grabbed her arm.

"Let go."

"Like or not, I'm this kid's dad. I'm not asking because I have to," John growled, running his hands through his hair. "I'm asking because I want to."

"Well you shouldn't, because I don't want to marry you."

John crossed his arms, and watched as Margaret's gaze darted around the room, looking anywhere but at him.

"Think about it," he said, pulling his hat back on.

John shook his head. At the sound of footsteps, he glanced up. The old priest standing in the aisle nodded.

"Father," John nodded back to the priest and stood.

The old man gave John a kind smile that reminded him of Richard Hale. "Please," he gestured for John to sit, "don't leave. You're welcome to stay as long as you need to."

John frowned, his eyes darting to the pew he'd been sitting on. It was newer than the others. The priest laid a hand on the pew and chuckled, recognition sparking in his eyes. "You're the young man who bought this pew, aren't you?"

John sat in the back pew for less than a second before he was on his feet again, pacing back and forth in the foyer.

September was almost over.

John gripped the pew so hard the wood bit into his hands. The baby was due in September. His arms trembled.

She wasn't coming back.

Henry Lennox made that pretty damn clear.

John shoved the pew in front of him so hard it rocked. He threw his hat down with and shoved it again and again, wrenching it up from the floor in a splintering wreck of wood and upholstery. By the time he was done, his hands were bruised and bleeding, his left shoulder screaming in protest, his throat raw. He didn't realize he'd been yelling.

John sank to the floor and stared at the mess he made.

"I thought I recognized you," the priest said, scooting into the pew and sitting down.

John sat and fiddled with his hat, "I was out of line."

"Were you?" the old man raised his eyebrows.

John nodded and they sat in companionable silence for a moment, the shifting sounds of the sanctuary enveloping them.

"You're welcome to smash every pew in this church, young man." The priest drew in a breath, but kept his eyes on the crucifix hanging over the altar, "For there's no better place to wrestle with God than in God's own house."

"I'm not here to smash anything, Father."

"Then why are you here?"

John glanced over the dark wood, the statues, the stained glass, and the lighted candles. Whenever John felt himself worn too thin, he always came to St. Jude's Cathedral.

"To breathe," John said at last. "And fight again tomorrow."

"Do you think you'll win?"

"Doesn't look like it."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"It is what it is," John stood and pulled his hat on. "Excuse me."

The old man walked him to the door, laying a hand on his arm before he could leave, "There's always hope in every fight."

"Not this one, Father, but thank you."

"Saint Jude is the patron of lost causes. Remember that, young man," He shook John's hand and closed the door behind him.

Margaret stepped off the bus and walked slowly down the old street. Many of the trees were gone, and the houses looked more tired, ugly splashes of graffiti and trash, staining the neighborhood. The old house was shabbier than she remembered, boards nailed over the broken windows and weeds breaking through the old flagstone porch.

Her father loved this place. She dug through her purse until she found the old polaroid of the house.

"Do you have everything, Maggie dearest?" Her father was moving about the room, looking into the empty closet, worrying the fabric of his trousers.

"I'll be fine, Dad," Margaret blinked back tears and pulled him into a fierce hug.

"Of course you will, my dear," Mr. Hale patted her back. "You don't need your old dad any more, eh?"

He said it with a smile, but the look on his face made her cry harder.

"Don't be afraid," her father tapped her nose with his finger. "He's a good man."

"Can I help you?" An older lady peered at Margaret from behind the broken screen door.

"Hello," Margaret nodded, "I'm not trying to be a bother. I used to live here."

"Well, you can't come in," the old woman backed away.

"No, I—"

The door slammed and she heard a chain sliding into place.

John sat on the hood of his pickup, watching the sky blaze towards sunset. It would be dark in a few hours.

He checked his watch.

Time to go.

Margaret's hand trembled as she slid the old key into the lock. It was madness to come here. The bolt turned easily and she pushed the door open and stepped inside the house. The smell of it—of him—poured over her. Margaret gasped and leaned against the wall, dropping her small suitcase.

"Do you like the house or not?" John growled, arms folded. She hated when he talked to her like that.

"It doesn't make me want to throw up."

"Good enough."

He turned his hat around backwards and marched out to the truck to start unloading boxes.

"I'll help you."

"No," He snapped, lifting the first box. "You're not lifting anything heavier than a milk jug."

She slid softly through the tiny hall and clicked it on the floor lamp, and a soft yellow glow lit up the small sitting room. A battered and familiar chair was tucked into the opposite corner, a small stack of books and two empty coffee cups sitting beside it on the side table. She crossed the room and picked up one of the books, flipping absently through the pages.

"You know I don't like novels."

"Don't knock it till you try it," John said with a slow smile. "You just might like it."

Margaret raised an eyebrow and he returned the look, sliding closer to her.

"Don't."

"Don't what?" John leaned in closer. "Am I making you uncomfortable, Mrs. Thornton?" His voice had dropped to almost a whisper.

"Yes," She whispered back.

"Are you sure?"

Margaret snapped the book shut, and picked up the mugs, moving into the kitchen. She turned towards the sink and shivered.

John stood barefoot in just his jeans, pouring himself a cup of coffee, his hat on backwards. The hospital grade sling strapping his left arm to his chest didn't hide the large incision on his back where the surgeon removed the bullet and repaired the damage done to his shoulder during the riot. The ugly bruises and precise stitching only made it worse. Margaret watched guiltily as John stirred sugar into his coffee, stuck the spoon in his mouth, and carried the cup to the table.

If she'd listened to him, he wouldn't have been shot.

But the strike was over.

John was alive.

Margaret blinked hard and forced herself to set the cups in the sink. She opened the cupboard on her right, and took out a glass, filling it from the tap. Her heart was still pounding but somehow she couldn't leave this house now that she was here. She needed to remember.

The third step on the stairs squeaked as she started up. She flicked on the light and climbed slowly, eyeing the pictures hanging on the stairwell wall. Probably Fanny's doing.

"Do what you want with the house."

"Surely you have an opinion,"Margaret pursed her lips. "You have an opinion about everything else."

"I said I don't care," John repeated, his eyes flashing. "I don't say things I don't mean. What's the problem?"

"The problem is," Margaret snapped, "I don't know you at all. ] Do you like scented candles and throw pillows? Or antlers and stuffed fish on the walls, or—"

"No pillows. Or fish."

Margaret gave him a dark look. John folded his arms.

"You don't make anything easy."

He grinned, "Neither do you."

There were two bedrooms on the second floor. The first off to the left was so small, it almost couldn't be called a bedroom. It was piled with boxes of books, files, and other leavings from John's office. His winter clothes hung in the open closet and Margaret resisted the urge to examine them. She swallowed the lump growing in her throat when she saw the stack of furniture in one corner.

John sat in the middle of the room, cross legged, unpacking the crib while Margaret retrieved the instructions and examined them. After sorting the different screws, bolts, pegs, and slats into neat piles, he began to fit the wooden pieces together.

"I think that's backwards," she held out the instructions. "Look."

John glanced up but he didn't answer. He'd been silent throughout the entire afternoon, after their fight at the baby shower.

Margaret wished he would yell at her again, tell her she couldn't go to England seven months pregnant, that he wouldn't allow it. Then she could tell him he was an ass and she'd do whatever the bloody hell she liked.

And then he would laugh at her, and make her angrier than before and tell her she was sexy when she got mad.

But he didn't say anything.

Margaret shivered as she shut the door and stepped across the hall towards the master bedroom, hand on the knob. It was just a room, even if it was his room. Once it was hers.

Theirs.

Technically, it still was.

She pushed the door open.

The nicest thing John ever bought was his king sized bed. Even then he slept diagonally so his feet didn't hang off the end. Several button down shirts were slung over the foot of the frame, and there was a pile of dirty clothes in a corner. She laid a hand on the bureau, and glanced at the wall where the clock ought to have been.

"Where's the clock?"

John looked up, tossing his socks at his favorite corner. Why he couldn't toss them in the hamper was beyond Margaret.

"I hate clocks."

"Well, I don't."

"So get a watch."

Margaret felt herself tremble even and she put steel into her voice, "Why can't you just be like other people?"

John glowered, and she flinched as he stalked passed her, thundering down the stairs. She slumped against the bureau, telling herself not to cry.

A moment later he was back, still frowning, with a hammer in one hand, the kitchen clock in the other, and a nail in his mouth.

"Where do you want it?"

Margaret sat heavily on the bed, the tears trailing down her face, slowly at first, and then faster as her cries became sobs. She reached out and grabbed one of his shirts, hugging it to her chest. She shouldn't have left, but she knew that the minute she stepped onto the airplane. Margaret shuddered and pulled in a deep breath, wiping her cheeks with his shirt.

"Damn your pride, Margaret Thornton."

John frowned when he pulled his truck onto his street. The light was on in his bedroom. He never left lights on. He scrubbed a hand down his face and tried to think. He'd hoped to shower, pack, and be on the road to Helstone within the half hour. It was probably some punk kid playing a joke, but John was in no mood for jokes. He parked the truck and pulled his gun out of his glove box.

The door was unlocked. He closed it behind him and turned the bolt out of habit. He'd expected to see an open or broken window, but there was nothing but a small suitcase in the hall. John racked the slide on his gun and stepped quietly into the living room. He swept the room, his scowl deepening. The coffee from this morning wasn't on the side table.

"What the hell," he muttered, switching off the floor lamp and moving to the kitchen. A creak above him made him look up as he moved through the kitchen. He cleared the stairwell and then started to climb, skipping the third stair.

Whoever the hell was in his house had been in almost every room. John ground his teeth and resisted the urge to check the spare bedroom, fixing his attention on the master bedroom door, which was cracked open.

He flicked off the safety and let out a slow breath through his mouth. Then he kicked the door open and raised the gun straight at the woman sitting on his bed. She jumped and let out a strangled gasp.

They stared at each other for half a second.

John blinked and lowered the gun. He flicked the safety on, popped out the mag, and pulled the rack, ejecting the bullet still in the chamber. Only then could he take a breath, only then did the adrenaline hit his hands, making them shake. He set the empty gun on his bureau, turned, and walked out.

AN : This was the third chapter I wrote after I got the idea for this story and I've been impatient to get here. Things are about to get interesting.

What do you think? Cheers.