Grounded

Chapter 4: Alchemy

by Lynn Saunders


Wednesday afternoon finds John still grinning over the memory of Anna in the warm glow of the streetlamp, the slide of her small hands across his shoulders as she kissed his cheek softly. He'd managed to articulate his desire to see her again, but hadn't actually succeeded in securing a date, distracted as he was. Amateur, he thinks with a smile.

Beyond the coffee shop windows, the sky is dull and grey, pot-bellied clouds looming low on the horizon. The weather has held off so far, though, and a surprising number of customers have found their way in despite the ominous forecast, obviously preferring to have their caffeine before the weather becomes unfit for man or beast. He wipes down the front counter, and when he looks up again, Anna is coming through the front door.

"Hello," he says softly, and they grin at one another.

He offers her a steaming cup, and she settles into her favorite fireside chair with a book. Customers come and go, making it difficult to wander over for a chat. Typically, there would also be the matter of searching for an excuse to talk to her, but he realizes somewhat giddily that he no longer requires one. She wants to get to know him better. The idea warms him from the inside out.

Finally, there's a sufficient lull in foot traffic, and he's making his way over just as she looks at her watch and begins readying to leave. She's throwing her bag over her shoulder, bending to collect her empty mug, and he thinks he's left a reasonable distance between them for a quick goodbye. Instead, she turns rapidly just as he's about to speak, nearly colliding with him again. Thankfully, she doesn't drop the coffee cup.

"Oh! I'm sorry," she giggles.

He has reflexively caught her by the shoulders, steadying her, and she smiles shyly as he releases her.

"We've got to stop running into each other this way, Miss Smith."

She laughs outright at that, tucking her hair behind her ears with her free hand, clutching the mug tightly with the other. "Is there some other way to go about it, Mr. Bates?"

"Actually, yes." He chuckles, searching her eyes for a moment, finding a warmth there that gives him courage. "You could have dinner with me."

"I would like that very much," she says, and when he realizes she's repeating his words from the night before, his heart does a stutter step. "I'm supposed to be Christmas shopping with a friend tonight, but…"

"I certainly hope you'll not have to be out of doors in this." He gestures vaguely to the darkening sky beyond the glass.

"Knowing Gwen, yes, I'm sure of it. She has notoriously bad timing. I'm a bit late to meet her now, actually." She gives him a wry smile, but her expression softens as she adds, "I'm free tomorrow, though."

"Tomorrow it is." He gently takes her empty mug, and their fingertips meet for a moment. "Should I ring you tonight, then? Once you're home?"

"That would be lovely."

She squeezes his arm as she moves to go, and he watches her cross the street as a steady drizzle begins to fall outside. He feels as if he might wear a smile as he goes about his days from now on, and in the evening, John receives a text from her as he carefully prepares the menu for the week.

Finally headed home :)

He slips his mobile back into his pocket with a grin and washes up, rolling his sleeves for the task at hand. The coffee house kitchen is peaceful, and he enjoys focusing this way, kneading the dough, working with his hands, the attention to detail, making something substantial and real. They've had a slow night due to the poor weather, and his mother has dropped by for a cuppa. She's currently perched on the little wooden stool by the back door, sipping her tea and bestowing advice upon him as he works - two of her favorite things.

"Careful, now."

John gingerly rolls and stretches the dough as his mother supervises, even though they've been making homemade phyllo together since he was a boy.

"Now, nice and easy, then."

The same hovering manner that annoyed him so when he was young and foolish is now only endearing, and he smiles to himself as they work. His mother eyes him over the top of her glasses.

"That Anna seems lovely," she says nonchalantly, and John barks a laugh. She waves her hand in his direction, and he knows if he were close enough, she'd swat his arm. "Well, she does," she insists.

He hums his agreement, raising his eyebrows, and continues to work. He won't meet his mother's eyes, and he knows that she knows. She doesn't hide her smile.


Anna tosses the duvet off with a sigh and sits up against the headboard. The electric green glow of the alarm clock bothers her eyes, and she glares at it until the numbers turn over. It's just past five in the morning. She finally gives in and retrieves her mobile from the nightstand. She's up, there's no getting out of it now, and this infernal cold has her head throbbing. She needs some tea, but she's too miserable to be bothered with making any just now. Castle appraises her cooly, swishing his tail, before curling back up at the foot of the bed.

"A lot of help you are," she complains with a smile.

Yesterday morning, she'd felt a bit dodgy, but chalked it up to the tiredness that often settles in when her schedule changes. She tried to shake it off, but somewhere between shopping and dinner at the pub, a distinct scratchiness had settled into her throat. Why she allowed Gwen to drag her out through the icy drizzle, she'll never know. She's certainly paying the price for it now. She narrows her eyes in suspicion as she remembers the covert sniffling of the cabbie the other evening. Fantastic. This is just fantastic. She never gets sick, and of course it has to be today of all days.

When John rang her yesterday evening, he'd noted the fatigue in her voice and asked if she felt well. She'd admitted rather sheepishly that being out in the weather certainly hadn't helped things. She had bundled into her blankets, assuring him she'd feel fine in time for their plans and promptly downing two cups of echinacea tea with lemon and honey to try to ward off whatever was coming, but it was no use. Now, she's stuck in bed with a raging headache and bleary eyes.

She knows he's awake; he opens the store at six. And, she reasons, she won't want to bother him at work. There's no way around it- she'll have to cancel. Hopefully he won't think her too rude. She pulls up his name and types a message, her thumb hovering over the send button as she considers her wording. He'd been so obviously nervous the other night under the awning, as if it had ever crossed her mind to turn him down. She'd honestly never considered he might be that timid with her until he looked into her eyes and told her he'd like to get to know her better. She doesn't want to do anything to make him think she's bowing out for any reason other than illness. She doesn't want to back out at the last moment either. She's just about to click send when her phone buzzes. Of course, it's him.

How are you feeling?

She smiles, then sneezes into her tissues and gives a loud sigh. This isn't fair. Resigned, she types her reply. I'm not well at all, actually.

:( I'm sorry to hear it.

She's holding the phone, considering what else to say, when her flat's buzzer rings loudly. She groans and trudges to the door with her blanket wrapped around her shoulders, preparing to tell Gwen to sod off, but when she answers, his gentle voice greets her instead.

"Anna?"

"Mr. Bates?"

"I hope I haven't woken you, but I've brought you something."

"No, I'm awake… just not very put together, I'm afraid."

"I'll bring it up, then be on my way. It will only take a moment."

She takes a deep breath, pushing the button next to the intercom and moving to check her reflection in the entryway mirror. She tries to smooth her hair into place. Oh well. She feels as if they've done everything else out of order, so he might as well see her like this now.

His tap at the door is soft and polite. She opens it, drawing the edges of the duvet closed over her shoulders. He's in a dark wool pea coat and cap, and he smiles warmly down at her. He's holding a basket loaded with homemade food, which he extends to her somewhat shyly. She is so touched that she doesn't know what to say.

"It's chicken soup, my family's recipe. Guaranteed to cure all that ails you."

She smiles and takes the offered basket. "I don't know what to-"

A rattling noise sounds across the hall, interrupting, and Mrs. O'Connell glares at them from her open door before disappearing back inside.

They laugh quietly together, and she grips the basket's handle with both hands, gazing up at him openly. "Thank you," she says softly. "So very much."

"I hope you like it."

"I hope it works," she says, and he laughs again. "I should hate to interrupt our plans."

His eyes crinkle. "No," he replies gently, "we can't have that."

She feels moved to rise on tiptoe and kiss him again, maybe just on the cheek as before, but she doesn't want him to catch her cold. Thankfully, he seems to understand. He gives her a nod and turns to go, glancing back toward the door with a smile before he heads down the stairs.

She lugs the overburdened basket to her kitchen and surveys the contents - two large containers of hot soup, a loaf of homemade bread wrapped in brown paper, a surprisingly large dish of Irish butter, and fresh strawberry jam. Soon, she's nestled beneath her covers again, sipping chicken soup from her favorite mug, pulling the bread apart and dipping it into the cup with a smile. After her meal, she curls up, ready to do some reading on her mobile, but sleep pulls at her once more, and she slowly lets her eyes drift shut.

When she wakes again in the late afternoon, her head is remarkably clear. She takes a tentative swallow of water from the glass on her bedside table. Her throat is no longer on fire. She snuggles back down against the pillow, glancing at her mobile and seeing that she has another text from him.

How are you feeling now?

She smiles as she types. Much better.

I'm relieved to hear it.

Remarkably better, actually.

I told you the soup would fix anything.

She throws off the covers and rises somewhat unsteadily. She's not had a sleep like that in ages. Yawning, she pads to the shower, letting the water run hot before stepping in under the spray. She emerges feeling renewed, if a bit sleepy yet, and she finds she's hungry again. What she really wants, though, is some red wine and good company.

As she towels her hair, she thinks of the warmth in his eyes, his beaming, crooked smile after she'd given him a peck on the cheek. No, there's no mistaking what's building between them, and she knows it's up to her to take the next step. Bringing the basket was a big risk for him. She gets the feeling that he's the type of person who is only sociable with a select few, but once you've won him, you're his forever. The thought gives her a hot flush of anticipation, and she bites her lip as she sends her next message. I suspect it's probably too late to salvage dinner reservations, but I feel well enough for company. We could order in?

His answer is immediate. I wouldn't miss it.


When he arrives at her door again, he has removed his tie, and his dress shirt collar is open. He hangs his coat and cap neatly on the rack by her door as she welcomes him inside.

"Shoes?" he asks, noting her socked feet.

She shrugs. "However you're comfortable."

He toes them off by the door and turns to her in the lamplight. She's absolutely tiny without her heels, and he feels as if he's looming over her. She doesn't seem worried, though. She seems to like it.

He spies the cat from her photo, peering at him from behind the sofa with interest. He clicks at it, and it comes running. Only then does John realize the cat's right foreleg is missing.

Anna laughs. "Well, that's a first."

"No, we'll get on just fine, right mate?" He scratches the cat under its chin, and it promptly flops over, gazing at him lovingly as it kneads its lone front paw in the air.

Anna makes an exasperated sound. "I don't think he's ever that happy to see me. That's Castle, by the way."

She moves into the kitchen and starts setting out plates. He lingers in her doorway with his hands in his jean pockets. He's nervous. "Castle?"

"Castle."

He chuckles. "Are you going to tell me how that name came about?"

She only grins and quickly changes the subject. "I hope you like Italian. Marco's delivers, so I got a variety."

Her smile coaxes him into the kitchen, where he washes his hands, asking how he can help. She hands him a bread knife, and he sets about slicing the rest of the loaf from the morning. Together, they streak each slice with butter, and she pops them into the oven to brown. Besides that, there's not much else to do. Anna takes a sip of red wine.

"Oh, I'm sorry, would you like a glass?"

She's caught him staring at her lips, but it wasn't wine he was thinking on. He shakes his head. "I don't drink, actually." He braces himself for the usual questions, but she senses his unease, and they don't come.

"Tea, then?"

He visibly relaxes. "I'd love some."

Soon they're settled into the sofa cushions, sharing spaghetti bolognese and lasagna and John's homemade bread. She tells him about her small family and growing up in Yorkshire, about her parents, who have long since passed away, a little sister who lives in New York, and Gwen, her best mate from work. He tells her about life in the army and traveling, how he loves both mountains and oceans, but especially those places where they exist together. They talk about Castle's run-in with the neighborhood dog, how she'd taken him in right away after, and John tells her briefly about his own wound and early release from the army, the words falling surprisingly easily between them. As little as fifty years ago, he might've suffered the same fate as the cat, but he leaves that part out for now. He tells her that Castle is awfully lucky to have someone like her. She drifts a bit closer, and so does he.

Eventually, they decide to watch a film, and he takes their plates to the kitchen while she flips through the options. He doesn't even remember what she's selected, or for that matter whether she even pushes play, for as he relaxes back into the sofa, she slips easily under his arm. The overhead light is off, and as he pulls her close in the relative darkness, she puts her head on his shoulder. From there, it only seems right for him to tuck a few loose strands of hair behind her ear. Her eyes meet his, and they both lean in. This is very dangerous indeed. He can feel her breath mingling with his, the faintest brush of her lips as they part, her barely audible gasp of anticipation, and then a loud crash from the kitchen has them jumping apart.

Castle races in, giving a decidedly feline chirp, a telltale streak of tomato sauce obvious against the white of his chin as he stands outlined in the light of the lamp in the hall, and they collapse into laughter. She doesn't leave his arms, though, and as she smiles up at him, he gently traces the rise of her cheekbone with his thumb.

"Mr. Bates…"

"John," he corrects softly.

She blushes, looking down. "I don't want to give you my cold."

"Ah, but I had the homemade soup as well, so I'm all taken care of."

She squints at him, raising an eyebrow. "You're invulnerable, you mean? Because of the soup?"

"Absolutely. You're cured, aren't you?"

She laughs and shakes her head, settling back against his chest with a contented sigh.

He thinks of her in the morning, how she'd answered the door all sleep-rumpled and barefoot, how it took everything he had to tear his eyes away so that he could go to work. She's so soft and warm now, so perfectly fitted to him, and the low light is making him a bit fearless, it seems.

"I wanted to kiss you this morning," he says in a rough whisper, his breath stirring the hair at her temple.

"I feel the same pretty much every morning," she confides.

"From the beginning?" he asks, surprised, sifting his fingers through her hair.

She hums her agreement, and his arms tighten around her, for he's always felt the same as well. She pushes back slightly, looking into his eyes once more. Her arms slip around his neck as he kisses her sweetly, reverently. She smiles against his lips, easing into his lap, and their mouths meet languidly as they learn one another.

She has creamy skin that glides soft under his lips and palms, eyes that flash and glitter in the dark. Her fine collarbones peek from the v-neck of her jumper, and he finds that they are particularly sensitive as he trails soft kisses across her neck and shoulders. She sighs as their lips meet again, and he lets his hands drift to the curve of her waist as she rises up to meet him. It's slow and searching, each movement drawn out and purposeful, and when she pulls at him, he willingly follows.

He settles gently beside her, stretching out against the back of the sofa as she curls into him, and he presses his lips to her temples, her nose, and the flushed skin of her cheeks. The telly has stopped flickering, gone silent and dark, and the room is bathed in deep shadows. The touches that pass between them are careful, comforting. It feels so good to hold her, like coming home, so familiar even though that's not possible.

Presently, a certain large black cat joins them, settling on the the back of the couch and purring loudly. John hugs Anna close then, burying his nose in her hair. Her arms encircle his chest, and they drift together for a long while, until their breathing falls in rhythm. Alchemy, he thinks as his eyes blink closed. It's so strange and so soon, but together they become something more, and he knows she feels it too.


* This fic is for awesomegreentie, who sent me a coffee house prompt.

* Special thanks, as always, to terriejane and giginutshell for beta services.

* Special thanks to froggattcoyles for selected double checking of British phrasing, though any mistakes are 100% mine.