He wasn't supposed to be here.

Margaret stood, his shirt falling out of her lap onto the floor. John always did have a knack for catching her at her worst. What would he think of her? She wiped the tears from her cheeks and straightened her shoulders.

There was nothing to do but gather the pieces of her shattered pride and walk downstairs.

When she stepped into the kitchen, she found him pulling out a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet above the refrigerator. He turned and set it on the kitchen island next to where he's dumped his keys and wallet into his hat. Then he pulled out two tumblers and placed them next to the bottle with a firm crack. He yanked out the cork and splashed generous servings into both glasses. He left the bottle out.

"John."

"Don't."

The word snapped out of his mouth and Margaret flinched.

"If we're going to do this, I need a drink," John picked up his cup and pushed the second cup in her direction.

She picked the glass up, sighed, and took a sip. "Oh God, that's awful."

"It gets the job done." John shot back his drink in two swallows, set it down, and leaned his hands on the island between them, staring at the empty glass.

A long moment of silence hung between them, and she shifted.

"You have a beard," Margaret said at last, the whiskey sliding down her throat like silk now that she'd had a couple of sips.

Margaret ran the razor over his face, trying to be careful. He'd been home from the hospital less than two hours. She'd insisted a wash and a shave would make him feel better. The only problem was, he couldn't shower with his stitches. Margaret did her best to help him undress, being careful of his shoulder, and wash his hair and face in the bathroom sink.

It would've been funny if they both weren't so bloody tired.

He flinched as she nicked his jaw.

"Sorry," she set the razor down and pressed the hem of her shirt to the cut.

"It's fine," he growled. "I hate shaving."

"You could leave it," she murmured, picking up the razor again. "I think I'd like you in a beard."

She did like it. Margaret cleared her throat, "You're supposed to be at Helstone with Jack."

"You're supposed to be in England."

She knew he was watching her over his glass. Margaret paused, the glass half raised to her lips, and let herself look at his face. She thought raising Jack had given her enough practice to face him now, but nothing prepared her for the sick feeling that cut through her chest and stomach. She set the glass down, her hands trembling.

"I can't . . . I'm sorry. . .I should go."

"You've had sixteen years," He growled. "How many more will it take before you can look me in the eye and tell me what the hell happened?"

"I don't know."

"That's bullshit."

Margaret hugged her arms to herself and looked away, casting about for something—anything—to say, "We can't fix things with a single conversation."

"We sure as hell aren't fixing anything by not talking."

"Please, John."

He stiffened and ran a hand through his hair. Margaret fixed her eyes on his hat laying on the island between them. The red fabric was so faded it was almost a deep dusty rose.

"Why do you keep this old thing?" Margaret lifted the hat off his head and studied it.

John pushed himself back from the kitchen table, stretching out his long legs, "It was the first one I had made."

"It's spelled wrong." She pointed. "It's missing an 'o'."

"I don't care," John grinned, and snatched it back, "I like it the way it is."

"You really are a dinosaur," she murmured.

John looked at her, and slapped his hat on her head, laughing as it slipped down over her face.

"You married me."

John resisted the urge to pour himself another drink as Margaret stared at his hat. It almost hurt to look, but he forced himself to take in every inch of her. Her hair was darker, longer. He folded his arms against the urge to run his hand through it. The shape of her was the same and yet different, all the innocence gone, replaced with a sensual confidence. Yet she stood like a woman who'd fought off the world and barely survived.

"Why are you here?"

The question felt torn out of his chest. He wasn't sure he'd like the answer.

Margaret took a large swallow of whiskey. What could she tell him? She couldn't lie anymore—to herself or to him. She owed them both as much of the truth as she could manage.

"I'd forgotten why I left Milton." She stared at his hat, "When Williams said you'd taken a trip to Helstone, it seemed the perfect opportunity to try and remember."

"You saw Williams?"

She nodded, fingering her glass, "I went there first."

John shifted, "Were you looking for me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Margaret steeled herself and met his eyes. They were so old, so wary, and weary. His hair was still black, the barest hint of gray sprayed at his temples. The burning energy that once rolled off of him was replaced with a unyeilding endurance. But he stood like man who tried to carry the world and the weight had nearly crushed him.

Margaret sighed, "I wanted to see you."

"Did you?" He didn't sound as if he believed her.

"I did," Margaret emptied her glass and stared back at him.

The conflicted look in John's face made her stomach roll, but the sick feeling was no longer there. This ache was something else, something she knew had always been there, something that never let her throw out his pictures, something that made her wear her wedding rings around Henry Lennox, something that once terrified her so much she'd run across an ocean to get away.

But it had followed her and brought her back to him. Margaret opened her mouth. Every thought, every regret, every word seemed lodged between her heart and her mouth and she knew she couldn't say any of it.

Not today.

Maybe not ever.

Words were too much and not enough for a whole life lost.

"I should go," she said, setting her glass down on the counter, pushing it back towards the middle. "Thanks for the drink."

John followed her with his eyes as she picked up her purse and walked back towards the door. When he heard it open, he sprang after her.

"Why didn't you ever call?"

Margaret stood with the door open, looking over her shoulder, her face troubled.

"One phone call—just one—to let me know you were alright." John stared at a spot on the wall. "That my son—" He couldn't finish.

"What do you want me say?" She asked, her voice hoarse. "Could I say anything that would make sense to you? Does it even matter now?"

"Yes," John felt the word explode out of him.

"I don't know why," she burst out, turning on him. "And don't tell me it's bullshit, because I know it is, but I—" She turned away. "God, I don't even know. And then for a while it got easier and easier just to bury it all and forget. But damnit, John, if you didn't haunt me every single day. Jack would look just like you, and sound like you, and act like you—." She stopped, breathing hard. "So I didn't call, because you were there anyway and I—" her voice broke, "I just couldn't."

She slumped against the door, and shoved it. "You—I wanted to hate you. But I can't do that either. I can only hate you as much as I hate myself."

John looked away, and ran a hand through his hair.

"Say something," her voice trembled. "Please."

"You named him 'John'."

"Must we talk about this now?" Margaret shifted in bed trying to get comfortable. Her growing belly made her more and more restless. "I'm a bloody whale and too bloody tired to care."

"We've got two months to pick a name."

"Well, we aren't naming him 'John',"She huffed. "I've enough trouble with one to saddle myself with two John Thorntons."

He stared at the ceiling, suddenly angry at an unexpected wave of disappointment that broke over him.

"Yes," Margaret let out a breath and tried to laugh, "My one moment of bravery in a long line of cowardice."

She felt her body shaking with adrenaline, and the thought of the long plane ride ahead of her made her head swim. The whiskey wasn't helping. She'd known this would be difficult, but she felt beaten and raw. She glanced at her watch, and felt tears sting her eyes, again. God, she was so tired of crying.

Time to go.

"I've a plane to catch," she gripped her suitcase, and straightened her shoulders. "When you want to talk, ask Jack for my number."

John watched her step through the door.

"Did you take the bus?"

His dislike of any public transportation system and her stubborn refusal to be reasonable was their oldest argument.

Except his gun. They'd always argued about that too.

She didn't answer and the familiar flare of anger and worry made him grimace. Margaret closed front door before he decided what to do about it.

Margaret's knees gave out under her the moment the door clicked shut, and she sank to the ground, her shoulders shaking.

Why did she come?

She bit her fist against the sob that crawled out of her chest.

Why hadn't she come sooner?

She wouldn't need a photograph to remember every tortured line of his face. She pressed her eyes shut against the memory, but he was there in her mind's eye anyway. Just as he'd been there for sixteen years.

John paced from the front door to the stairwell back to the door three times before he could force himself to go up the stairs and pack. He barely noticed what he tossed into his old duffel. He reloaded his gun and stuffed it into the bottom and then jumped in the shower, letting the ice cold water pound some sense back into him.

She could do whatever the hell she wanted.

Even take the goddamn bus.

He wouldn't make her do anything she didn't want to, even if it killed him to let her go—again.

"Where's Maggie?" John turned on Williams who stood at the coffee pot.

"She was just here, Master."

John frowned, "Did she leave?"

"She had a bag, but she was waiting for you—"

"Shit," John didn't give Williams a chance to finish, as he sprinted out of the office. His eyes darted over the lot and up the drive.

There. The bus was idling at the stop.

"Wait,"

When John reached the street, the bus had pulled away, and was turning the corner.

John growled and slammed his hand against the shower wall. He slapped off the water and ripped the towel over his skin and hair. He threw the towel into the corner, swept the soap, razor, and deodorant off the counter, and slammed his fists down. The pain from the fake marble radiated up his arms. He glared at his reflection and scowled.

"God damn you, John Thornton."

When her mobile buzzed, Margaret drew in a sharp breath. But John didn't have her number. She shook herself, dug the device from her purse, and stood.

"Jack, darling, are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Mam, sorry to call so late, like. You alright? Were you asleep?"

Margaret took a steadying breath, "I wasn't."

The line went silent.

"Jack?"

"I decided what I want for my birthday, Mam."

Margaret pressed a hand to her heaving stomach, "I'm not going to like it, am I?"

"No, you're not."

"What is it?"

"I want you to come to America. To Helstone."

Margaret gripped her mobile, and leaned heavily against the house, "Jack, darling—"

"Look, before you say no, just listen, like. It's just once, yeah?" He fell quiet for a moment. "I know what I'm asking, Mam, but there's nothing else I want. I know my birthday isn't for another week, but—" He continued, his voice getting thick and strained. "I just want my family—my whole family—for once, and that's it."

Margaret felt the war in her chest, and her breath came faster and shallower.

"Mum, you're dying. Aren't you scared?"

"Oh Margaret," her mother sighed. "We all die. Some sooner, some later."

"I'm scared, Mum."

"Of what, my love?"

"I don't know what to do. And of—" Margaret clutched her mother's hand. "Of everything. Everything hurts."

"Be brave, Margaret Ann," her mother squeezed her hand, "Just for today."

"What about tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?" Her mother, closed her eyes. "No one is promised a tomorrow, my love."

Margaret forced a long, slow, deep breath into her lungs, and let it out. "I love you, Jack."

"Is that a yes, then?"

"Yes."

John slammed his front door and locked it. He glanced up the street towards the nearest bus stop, but he couldn't see her. His gut rolled over in protest as he shoved away the impulse to march after her whether she pitched a fit or not.

His fists clenched around his keys as he stalked to his truck, and stopped.

Margaret was leaning against the driver's door, arms folded, staring at her feet.

"I'm going with you," She raised her eyes, "and I don't want to talk about it."

In the fading light he could see she'd been crying. He frowned at a twist in his chest and said nothing. He opened the cab door, tossed his duffle bag inside and slid her suitcase beside it.

Once they were settled in the old truck, John hesitated as he turned the keys in the ignition. He looked over at her.

"We're not done."

"I know," Margaret said, glancing at him and then out the window. "But we are tonight."

He grunted and put the truck in gear, "Fair enough."

AN : My favorite thing about tackling stories like these is the moment two characters have to have really difficult conversations. It's so hard and so fun to write.