Monday : May 1, 2006

Margaret quickly discovered that however wrong he was about most things, John Thornton was entirely correct about one thing—the day after Fanny Thornton found out they were dating, everyone she ran into seemed to know. And what she hoped would be a stressful but fairly focused week of taking her final examinations devolved into a kind of surreal chaos of questions, stares, and gossip.

"So what's he like?" Jill Parkinson demanded. It was still early and they were ensconced in a quiet corner of the library. Jill was supposed to be studying for their stats exam, while Margaret was carefully rewriting her biology notes.

"Dr Lang? Bit of a bore—"

"Not him," Jill rolled her eyes at the idea that she cared about Margaret's new boss at the computer lab. "I meant John Thornton."

"Well I—I'm not sure, exactly. He's just—we've only been on the one date."

"When's the next?"

"I dunno—"

"Oh come on, surely you've got something planned."

"Yeah, sort of. But I—"

"Have you kissed him yet?"

"What?" Margaret spluttered. "No!"

"God, why not?"

"He—he's not exactly a warm and inviting person, Jill."

"But you're dating."

"So?"

"So, he's so hot and you've got exclusive access to all six feet six inches of him." Jill sighed in a dreamy way that made Margaret frown, annoyed. When Hannah Thornton had boasted that her son was quite the desirable young man, Margaret had almost laughed in her face. Apparently the older woman wasn't entirely wrong. "If that man took me out, I'd be all over him," Jill continued. "Hard."

Margaret's eyes widened and she blinked. She didn't know what to say, but the idea of Jill plastered all over John made her stomach clench. "Well, I—"

"Wait," Jill gasped, a shocked smile stealing over her face, "Is he your first?"

"My first what?"

"Boyfriend."

Margaret felt a blush creeping up her cheeks and she determinedly turned back to her work, "I've got to finish these notes."

It was nobody's business if John Thornton was her first real boyfriend or not and she had no plans of divulging that information—or any other intimate details—to anyone. Margaret's face flamed as the thought of kissing John settled in the back of her mind, a teasing drifting slip of a thought that almost itched. She shook her head, shivering. Of course she wouldn't be kissing John Thornton. Ever. Not at all. They might be dating but kissing was not part of the bargain. She pressed her lips together, a strange tingling feeling making them twitch. She furiously copied the next sentence, forcing her lips to form the words.

Margaret had been kissed before and it wasn't exactly all that exciting. Other than dating long enough to get through Edith's wedding and the Gala they didn't really have a bargain at all—except to tell the truth.

"Fat lot of good that is," Margaret grumbled under her breath.

John had said they would talk about what they were comfortable with but how the bloody hell was she going to ask him about this? Margaret swore quietly as her pen tore a hole in her notes. This was exactly why they needed a concrete set of rules, she thought angrily. 'No kissing' should definitely be a rule. Jill sighed and Margaret clutched her pen. If anyone would be kissing John Thornton it would be her, not Jill Parkinson—

"Oh, for heaven's sake," she hissed, snapping her notebook shut. She left the library without another word, trying to ignore to feeling that everyone was watching her.

Thursday: May 4, 2006

The days dragged on, each passing moment making her anxiety worse. After her awkward conversation with Jill, it seemed nowhere was safe from the open stares, the whispers, or the startling questions. People she'd never even glanced at in her classes were suddenly far too interested in her and her relationship status. It was enough to drive a person mad. She expected John's usually forthright manner in scheduling their next date, but after almost an entire week of silence she finally concluded he'd forgotten about it. The thought took her by surprise and she'd straight up in bed that morning, suddenly annoyed. The whole mad scheme of dating for real was his idea, not hers, and well—he'd bloody forgotten.

"Wanker."

"Is that you Margaret?"

"Hi dad." Margaret tossed her pack on the floor and collapsed onto the couch in the sitting room. Now that her exams were over she ought to feel relieved. But all she felt was nervous as she pulled her mobile from her bag and switched it on. She'd spent the day determined not to waste another brain cell thinking about John and his inability to remember his girlfriend. And then she'd promptly panicked when her mobile had rung within ten minutes of her last exam.

"How was your exam?" Her father puttered into the room and settled down into his favourite chair.

"Fine," Margaret flipped the phone open and stared at the bold text blazing on the pixelated screen.

One missed call.

Her thumb hovered over the keypad. It was probably Edith calling—again. Yes, that was it. She opened the notification and swallowed.

John Thornton.

So maybe he hadn't forgotten about her after all. Which meant she'd have to call him back—eventually.

She couldn't decide if she was surprised, relieved, or nervous. She huffed, snapping the device shut.

"Margaret, are you alright?"

"Hm?" She looked up. Her father was smiling, his blue eyes fixed on her. "What is it, dad?"

"Well, I—I've heard a bit of news today," Richard Hale coughed a little, the same fond smile still on his face.

"Oh?" Margaret's attention had dropped back to her phone.

"About you...and John."

She swallowed, tossing her phone aside and trying to smile. "Have we flunked Ethics then?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Richard said. "You both did quite well. Top of the class, actually."

"Who was? John or—"

"Both of you. Tied for top marks." His smile widened. "But, no, I was referring to—"

"We're sort of dating." Margaret said quickly. "Is that what you mean?"

He nodded.

"I'm sorry I didn't say anything. I know I should've told you myself but—" she stopped and began picking at a loose thread on the sofa. "Are you cross?"

"Just a little surprised." Richard chuckled softly. "I've never thought of John in that way I suppose."

"What way?"

"I always forget he's rather a young man, even if he's a clever one. Young men enjoy the company of young women, especially lively pretty ones like you."

"Oh hush," Margaret squirmed a little. John was many things, but he definitely wasn't fond her company. "Do you think he's too old for me?"

"Lots of people would say you're very young, too young, to be dating him. Your mother would, anyway," Her father scratched his cheek, and shrugged, "I've always thought you were an old soul, Maggie, and you're not a child. If you really like him then who am I to stand in the way?"

She managed a weak smile, fingering her mobile. For all John's insistence that they tell the truth, this felt very much like lying.

"I suppose I'll be seeing all the more of John then, now that you two are together."

"No," Margaret said quickly. "I mean, he's terribly busy and we've agreed to take this quite slow so, yeah, probably no more than usual."

"It's alright to be nervous—"

"I'm not."

Her father chuckled, raising his eyebrows at her hurried reply. Margaret tried to smile again but she failed.

"He's a good man, Margaret." Richard said, leaning forward to pat her hand. "One of the best, in my opinion."

"Yeah?"

"A bit rough around the edges, but still." He sighed contentedly, picking up his book. "Try and have a little fun. It'll do you good, my dear. Both of you."

Friday: May 5, 2006

Margaret shifted her shoulders and frowned at her reflection, turning first to the right and then left. The purple dress was one of her favourites, but was it too short?

"Are you sure you don't want a shot or two before you do this?" Bess asked, absently flipping through a magazine while she lounged on the bed.

"I don't need alcohol to get through one date."

Bess snorted, "You're wound tighter than a tangled fishing rod."

"I am not," Margaret raised her chin and leaned closer, inspecting her makeup. Acceptable. Her hair was marvelous, of course, thanks to Bess. Her pleasure was short lived as her mobile began to ring again. Margaret pressed her eyes closed with a groan.

"Are you going to answer that?"

"No," Margaret turned and flounced into the chair at her tiny desk and twisted open a bottle of nail polish. "It's my cousin. She's called me twenty-seven times in the last ten days." She glanced at the clock. "I've only got eight minutes to get this on and Eds can bloody well wait."

"Is that nail polish?" Bess bounded off the bed and snatched at the bottle. "Good God—"

"I need that—"

"You're so fucked and you don't even know it."

"Bessie Higgins!"

"You so like him." Bess set the bottle back on the desk and folded her arms, looking triumphant. "And this proves it."

Margaret glared at her friend and then shook her head, turning back to her nails.

"Cat got your tongue, Marg?"

"Oh shut up. So what if I put on nail polish and perfume? It's for a fancy date, nothing more."

Bess leaned on the edge of the desk, picking up the polaroid camera. "So where's he taking you?"

"He didn't say and I didn't ask."

"What are you going to do?"

"I didn't ask."

"Make out?"

"No," Margaret snatched the camera. "Don't. I need it for tonight."

"Why?"

"He asked me to bring it. He didn't say why—"

"And you didn't ask? Got it."

"I asked, he just refused to tell me," Margaret grumbled. "I swear he does it just to take the mick out of me."

"I still think I should come as insurance—"

"No."

"—I'll make John behave himself."

"You need a babysitter more than he does."

"Spoilsport." Bess plucked up a tube of lipstick and applied it carefully smacking her lips. "Promise to call me if he gets too handsy—"

"He wouldn't—"

"—and describe exactly how hot it makes you."

"Elizabeth Higgins," Margaret shoved her off the desk, "Leave. Now."

"But my new show's about to start."

"We are not doing this for your personal benefit," Margaret snapped. She grabbed her things and marched down the stairs. Bess laughed, following close behind her.

"If I can't watch this sexual train wreck in person than I'm going to savor every second of the awkward meet-cute."

Margaret whirled on her friend, "Absolutely not."

"Is that the door?" Bess slid around her and thundered down the remaining stairs.

"Do not open that—"

"Holy shit." Bess whistled, peering through the peep hole. "Thornton cleans up good, Marg."

"Would you stop ogling my boyfriend and leave?" Margaret hissed. She managed to slip between Bess and the door. "He's your boss—"

"And he's hot."

"Please, Bessie."

"I will go on one condition."

"Which is?"

"Admit that John Thornton is sex on a stick."

"I don't even know what that means—"

"You know exactly what I mean, and I want to hear you say it."

"Yes, alright, he's sex on a stick. There. Happy now?"

Bess narrowed her eyes, "Say it like you mean it."

John knocked again, making both girls jump.

"Go," Margaret mouthed.

"Fine," Bess rolled her eyes, "but I expect a play by play after. Every. Damn. Detail."

Margaret folded her arms and held her friend's mischievous gaze. She didn't intend on telling anyone anything about the disaster of a date she was about to endure. John firm knock broke the silence a third time. Bess sighed and flipped Margaret off before grabbing her backpack and trudging out of sight. The back door slammed closed and Margaret took a steadying breath, gripping the knob on the front door.

"You can do this."

She straightened her shoulders, yanked the door open, and almost choked as she sucked in a sharp breath, "Oh."

She'd seen John Thornton in a suit once before, but Margaret realised she hadn't really seen him at all.

"Hi."

Margaret swallowed and managed an acceptable 'hello' as her eyes traveled involuntarily over him. It was hard to believe he was even the same man. The suit wasn't remarkable in any sense of the word, but somehow it transformed him into someone she didn't recognise. From his combed hair, broad shoulders, long legs, down to his polished dress shoes, John Thornton looked—well, he looked—

John Thornton is hot.

Bess's words brought a wave of heat to Margaret's face. For all his prickles and gruff demeanor, he was far more attractive than any man she'd ever met. Margaret's face flamed again and she coughed, slipping by him as he gestured to his truck, realising too late that she'd left the front door wide open. John closed it firmly and followed, completely at ease in his suit as he seemed in his jeans, boots, and plaid.

"Where's the damn fire?"

Margaret jumped, her hands quickly covering her flushed cheeks, "What?"

"I like to run but not in a suit," John said with a wry smile, raking a hand through his thick black hair. The motion made it all stand on end, and Margaret tried not to stare. She'd never really noticed his hair before. He always kept it buried under his stupid cap. Her fingers twitched with the sudden inexplicable desire to run through it. Was it as soft as it looked?

Bloody hell. Margaret flinched and crossed her arms, "Come on then."

He looked at her for a second, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she snapped, trying to pull the truck door open, just to give her hands something to do other than wonder about the texture of her boyfriend's hair. She felt his eyes on her as she jerked at the handle again. "Absolutely fine. Bloody fabulous, actually—"

"Do you want help with that?"

"I can open my own door, thanks."

John shrugged and folded his arms, waiting.

Margaret refused to stare at his reflection in the window, no matter how tempted she was. And she refused to ask for his help. The door didn't budge an inch. He let out a muffled snort and Margaret whirled on him, "Stop laughing." Then she marched around to the driver's side and pulled. Nothing. "What the bloody hell is wrong with your truck?"

"It's locked," He held up the keys. Margaret gaped. John grinned, calmly unlocked the passenger door, and held it open for her. "After you."

"You couldn't have said something sooner?"

"I didn't want to interrupt your strong independent feminist moment."

Margaret shot him a dirty look, "You're such an asshole."

"So you've said." He glanced at his watch. "You're making us late."

For a split second, Margaret considering calling the whole date off and simply going straight to bed. She'd had an exhausting week and didn't think she had the energy to managed this man. A small stab of guilt tweaked at her and she grit her teeth. She'd agreed to this, and at the very least she'd get a free dinner out if tonight, if nothing else. Margaret shook back her hair, got into the truck with as much dignity as she could muster, and stitched her lips together, ignoring when the hair on her arms pricked the moment he slid in next to her.

John took a slow breath and tried to keep his eyes on his driving. It wasn't easy. He kept stealing glances at Margaret as she gazed out the window, staring at the murky gray lines of the buildings as they passed. She absently fingered the polaroid camera in her lap, anger etched into every line of her posture. John shook his head. He should've said something other than 'hi'.

Damn, you look good.

Nice dress.

Purple is fucking fantastic on you.

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Literally anything would've been better than the dumb-nut single syllable that fell out of his mouth after he saw her. Maybe she wouldn't be so pissed. But then again, he was pretty sure his mere presence pissed her off. That and his smart-ass mouth. He sighed and flicked his eyes back at Margaret, catching her just as she stole a glance at him. The space and silence between them almost crackled. She raised her chin and John held back a smile.

Damn purple dress aside, Margaret Hale was hot as hell when she was angry.

"What?" She demanded as he continued to stare at her.

"Nothing."

"You're thinking so loudly, I can practically hear you."

"Good for you."

"Never mind," she grumbled. "Let's just get this over with."

"God forbid you try and have a good time."

"Oh, because that worked so well last before."

"You were the one bitching about who was buying what—"

"Excuse me?" Margaret turned in her seat, her eyes blazing. "Did you just call me a bitch?"

"No—"

"Yes, you did."

John rolled his eyes and pulled the truck onto a side road, quickly putting it in park, "Bitching and being a bitch are two different things."

"Are they indeed?"

"One's a bad decision and the other's bad form."

Margaret opened her mouth to argue, but John had already let himself out and opened her door. She slipped out with a disgruntled huff. "Where are we?" She frowned as she caught sight of a line of large square trucks. "Are those... food trucks?"

"Yes," John began to walk towards the line of brightly painted trucks smelling of street food that sat along the broad street in front of Milton Central Park, but Margaret scurried around and planted herself in front of him.

"You agreed to take me to a fancy dinner."

"No," John gestured to his clothes. "I agreed to a suit and tie. You didn't say anything about dinner."

"You knew exactly what I meant."

"Next time be more specific."

"Do you enjoy being the most impossible man on the bloody planet, John Thornton?"

"You wanted fantastic—"

"And this is your definition of fantastic, is it?"

"Don't knock it 'till you try it."

Margaret snorted.

"Trust me," John extended his arm to her. "I dare you."

He let the challenge hang between them, every muscle suddenly taught. He'd spent the entire damn week debating whether or not to bring her here. He knew dating Margaret wouldn't be easy, but nothing in his whole life had ever been easy. Still, he had the sudden sinking feeling he'd just shot the whole date to hell. John shoved his doubts aside and held his ground, meeting her incredulous stare with one of his own.

"Yeah, alright," she muttered at last. "But I'm not holding your arm."

"Fair enough."

"You do realise we're entirely overdressed for street food in the park." Margaret commented, picking over her food. John grunted, his mouth full, but she didn't mind. They sat on a park bench, silently making slow work of their burgers and chips. She'd hoped to chat with him about the coming wedding, but considering their heated argument at the beginning of the evening, Margaret gave it up. Best to suffer in tolerable silence than burn the whole evening down.

"The clothes were your idea," he countered, licking his fingers.

Margaret tossed the stack of paper napkins at him, trying very hard not to watch his mouth. "Blaming your girlfriend is bad form, Mr. Thornton."

"So is complaining," He ignored the napkins and pulled out his handkerchief, wiping off his mouth and hands. "Are you done?"

She nodded.

"You have to admit." He stood, carefully gathered their rubbish, and tossed it into a nearby bin. "Food was good."

"Good enough," she brushed off her dress and stood. "But I'm still waiting for the fantastic part of this date."

John picked up her camera and handed it to her, his face suddenly unreadable. He hesitated a moment then took her hand in his. She was too stunned to say anything at first as he led her back through the park and across the street towards a high brick enclosure at the back of a spiraling church building. Margaret stared at the church, but her mind was stuck on the feeling of her hand grasped firmly in John's. She knew she probably ought to pull away. She was still annoyed with him for being, well, for being him without apologizing or even trying to be nice. But his hand was large and rough and warm and—oddly nice.

Margaret had never considered how nice holding someone's hand could be.

When they reached the church lot, John opened the iron gate, stepped inside the walled garden, and turned, face expectant. Margaret dropped his hand, her mouth opening slightly at the sight that unfolded around them.

The garden was an veritable explosion of flowers. Tulips, irises, and peonies of varying shades of pastel pink, bright white and soft yellow spread out on every side in messy mounds, the air full of their heady perfume. In the center of the garden was a stone dais with a beautiful copy of Michealangelo's Pieta, surrounded by a low pool and four stone benches. Margaret turned in a slow circle, drinking it all in. Ivy and other creeping flowering vines covered the brick walls, while bursts of clematis and wisteria wound over their heads on the wooden trellis across the entrance, forming a flowery roof of purple hanging blossoms that just brushed the top of John's head.

"This," Margaret breathed. "This is—"

"Fantastic?" John looked very satisfied, flashing her a cocky lopsided smile. Margaret rolled her eyes but her irritation melted away as she wandered down the small path, stopping every few feet to just look.

"Are we even allowed to be in here?"

"The priest is a friend of mine," John slid his hands in his pockets following behind her.

"It's beautiful," Margaret blew on the viewfinder of her camera. "How long can we stay?"

"Knock yourself out."

Margaret lost track of time as she wandered about the garden, admiring the flowers. John had settled himself on one of the benches, and she noticed that he held a book.

"Are you bored?" She demanded, frowning.

He looked up and then back at his book, "No."

"Why are you reading then?"

"I like it."

"But we're on a date."

John raised an eyebrow, "Do you really want me to follow you around like some creep?"

"I—no. Not really."

"Exactly," he turned a page. "Let me know when you want to go."

"So you're just going to sit there and read?"

He didn't answer and she realised she'd whispered her question. But rather than repeat herself, Margaret simply watched him, her frown deepening. In his dark charcoal suit, John cut a sharp figure against the weathered stone and the clouds of soft colors surrounding him, yet he looked entirely relaxed and at ease. He would sit there as long as she wanted, without complaint or needing her to attend to him, while she enjoyed herself by herself—which was surprising and confusing and made this date unexpectedly lovely, in spite of its poor beginning.

Margaret raised her camera before she could change her mind, snapping his picture. The machine whirred and she turned sharply away, hoping he hadn't noticed and slipped the photo into her purse before it finished developing. She didn't understand this man, but for the first time since meeting him, she was actually curious to know more.

"It's literally a dozen meters, you know."

"Humor me." John walked Margaret from his truck to her front door in spite of her stupid protests. All things considered, their second date hadn't been a complete shit show and he was pleased.

"Old fashioned nonsense," she grumbled, fishing for her keys. "It's not even dark."

The door opened, saving John from saying something that was certain to piss her off again.

"I thought I heard your truck, John," Richard shook his hand, practically beaming at the two of them. "Alright, Margaret?"

"It was," she glanced at John, "really nice. We visited a church garden and I got two very lovely pictures."

"Right then, shall I take your picture?" Richard asked. "First date and all?"

"No," John frowned and shook his head, "No pictures."

"Really, John. You'll want to remember this—"

"I don't need a picture to remember—"

"Yes, actually," Margaret interrupted, holding out her camera. "That would be lovely, dad."

John shot her a sharp look, "I don't do pictures."

Richard beamed, holding up the camera. "Come on then."

"Why the hell do you want a picture?" He said low enough so only Margaret could hear.

"I like them, and you're my boyfriend now, so shut it and smile."

"I hate pictures," John growled, but he stopped when she slipped her arm around his waist, a soft floral smell filling his nose. He squirmed as she shot him a challenging look.

"Consider this is payback for calling me a bitch," she whispered, lifting her chin haughtily.

"I didn't—"

"Now smile." Margaret turned and nodded at her father. "On three."

John closed his eyes. Fine. If she wanted to play this game, he would damn well play. "Just so you know," He slid his arm around her shoulder and pressed her close into his side, warmth flooding over him. "I don't smile."

"I want a proper picture—"

"One—two—"

John leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Margaret's cheek as Richard said 'three' and the camera whirred.

"I don't really do proper," He whispered into her ear, keeping hold of her for a split second longer. "Remember?"

Margaret shivered, staring at him. John winked, said his goodnights, and trudged to his truck, a grin stealing over his face. He hoped she liked the damn picture. Because it was the last one he planned to take.

AN: Happy Monday, loves. Enjoy. (And as always, please review. It cheers my heart.)