Wednesday: May 10, 2006

"So how was it?"

"How was what?" Margaret absently flicked on the tap and filled the sink with hot water. The dishwasher had stopped working three days ago and her hands were already chapped and sore.

"Oh come on, Marg," Bess threw her banana peel at the bin and missed. "Your hot date."

"It was..." Margaret paused, watching the soap suds build into a soft foamy mound. Somehow she'd managed to avoid talking about it with Bess for almost a week. Between Bess's first out of state haul, end of term house cleaning, starting her new job at the maths lab, and Edith's daily rings, Margaret barely had a spare moment to really puzzle it out for herself. She shifted, feeling the outline of the two polaroids in her back jean pocket.

The startling truth was that it hadn't been nearly as awful as she expected. They'd argued and bickered, but still managed to have a halfway decent time. The garden was the most unexpected bit. She wasn't sure which was more surprising; the fact that John Thornton knew of such a beautiful place, the fact that he clearly enjoyed being there, or the fact that he thought she would too. Margaret's hand twitched suddenly, the skin almost remembering the feeling of his hand in hers—

"Earth, to Margaret Hale."

Margaret gasped as the hot water spilled over the edge of the sink and started trickling onto the floor. "Bloody hell." She slapped off the tap.

"I suppose that's a good sign." Bess chuckled and joined her in mopping up the floor. She nudged her shoulder. "Did he kiss you?"

"No," Margaret snapped, suddenly angry at Bess, and the hot water, and the messy kitchen, and her own inability to stop thinking about that stupid date.

Bess snorted," You know I can tell when you're lying."

"Fine. We kissed. It was delightful," Margaret pushed herself to her feet, slapping the soaking rag onto the countertop. "Tongues and everything."

"Bullshit." Bess peered at her with a funny look. "He did kiss you, but you didn't kiss him. No wonder you're all hot and bothered—"

"How the bloody hell do you do that?" Margaret demanded.

"Magic. Now fess up."

"It was a peck on the cheek." Margaret emptied some of the water from the sink and began scrubbing the stack of dirty dishes. "No big deal."

"Then why are you blushing?"

"This dishwater is scalding," Margaret flicked a fistful of soapsuds at her friend. "There. You know all the dirty details, Bessie Higgins."

"Except why he kissed you," Bess grabbed a kitchen towel and began drying the growing stack of clean dishes.

"Dad wanted to take a picture of us to commemorate our first date. I thought it would be nice and instead of smiling he—well, he just—he gave me a kiss. On the cheek. Like I said, it wasn't anything special."

"Show me the picture."

"Later," Margaret ducked her head, focusing on a bit of dried cheese stuck to a fork. The thought of that kiss had niggled her for five nights in a row, making falling asleep rather difficult. She jumped with a little shriek as Bess slid two fingers into her back pocket and pulled out the polaroids. "Bessie! Stop that—"

"I noticed these when I got here," Bess giggled, scooting quickly around the table, holding them out of reach. "I wondered why...oh my God," Bess's voice morphed from teasing into a soft high-pitched whine. "You two are so damn cute. Shit. It almost hurts." She scurried backwards as Margaret tried to snatch the pictures back. "You should give him one of these."

"John doesn't like pictures—"

"He doesn't like pictures of himself," Bess corrected, finally relinquishing the photographs. "Offer him one. Bet he chooses the kissy pic." She let out a dramatic sigh, and batted her eyelashes at Margaret who scowled, sticking out her tongue. "Oh, I'm sorry, did you want that one for yourself?"

"I have to get some work done on Dr Lang's data," Margaret drained the sink, and began to gather her things. "I'm going to the library. Want to come?"

"And die of boredom while you fiddle with statistics?" Bess shook her head. "You're on your own, Math nerd."

"But I work better with company."

"Terry will keep you company."

"Not funny."

"He's got a thing for you. A sexual thing."

Margaret shuddered, "Oh God, please don't—"

"Tell me I'm wrong."

"He's a heterosexual male computer programmer who happens to now be working in close proximity with a moderately attractive single female."

Bess gave her a blank face. "Meaning he has the hots for you because you have breasts and a—"

"Yes, something like that," Margaret elbowed her, and grabbed her book bag. "It'll pass."

"It would pass a lot faster if you told him you aren't single. Or did you forget?"

"I did tell him." Margaret shrugged. It had been a fairly awkward exchange, the kind that's so embarrassing it's almost painful. "I dunno, I think I did it all weird and I don't think he believed me."

"He probably thinks you're playing hard to get. Asshat." Bess tapped one of the polaroids Margaret still held, "Put one of those on your desk and he'll get the hint."

"I don't want to—"

"You should change the background on your phone too. I'm sure you could talk John into holding still for one more kissy Kodak moment."

"Bess, the whole idea is to make me feel less uncomfortable at work, not more. We've barely been dating for three weeks—"

"He's kissed you—"

"On the bloody cheek, like a—a nice uncle."

"Ew. Please never say that again."

"It was nice, but we're breaking up in six months anyway."

"Forget that bullshit and focus on the current problem."

"I don't have a problem—"

"Fact; Terry makes you uncomfortable. Hell, he makes me uncomfortable and I haven't even met him. I bet he needs to get laid. Like for real. Maybe you should find him some babe with no standards."

Margaret glared at her.

"What? I'm just calling it like I see it. Terry's weird and you should—"

"You're not my bloody mother!" Margaret snapped. "Please, just stop."

An awkward silence fell between them at the mention of Margaret's mother. Bess followed her as she locked the door and strolled to the bus stop.

"How's your mom doing?"

Margaret pushed at some loose gravel with her shoe, shrugging. "Not great."

"Hospice?"

Margaret nodded. "Dixon called yesterday. Dad doesn't know yet."

"Shit."

"She's been in hospice once before and pulled through," Margaret said with forced cheerfulness. "It'll be fine." The bus hissed and the doors swung open. "Aren't you coming?"

Bess shook her head. "I'm catching the seven."

"To The Stray Stone pub? Again?"

"You're not my mother either, Marg. Enjoy your math-date with Terry."

"Very funny."

Thursday: May 11, 2006

"Hey there, Mags,"

Margaret jumped, cursing under her breath as she smacked her hip into the edge of her desk. "Terry," she said with a stiff smile. It was nearly seven in the morning and she'd hoped the maths lab would be empty. It should have been empty at such an ungodly hour. "Fancy you being here so early."

"I saw your name on the schedule so I came in."

"Oh," Margaret blinked. "How nice. So Dr Lang is coming too?"

"No. Just me. Dr Lang has me working on a bit of code that's been a real slut—"

"Actually, sorry to interrupt, got to run, I just came to pick up my—my, um—"

"But you're due to process your analysis data through SCRAP, right?"

Margaret gave a half hearted laugh. She'd put off the computer processing of her data so long that even Dr Lang had noticed. "Yeah, about that, you've got those drives ready yet?"

"Yeah, I cranked it like a boss yesterday. Yours is in your desk. You've got a lot of junk in there for a new hire."

"You went through my desk?"

"No, I—"

A loud ringing made them both start. "That's mine." Margaret dug her mobile from her bag, almost relieved to see Edith's name on the screen. "Excuse me, I need to take this." She tried to move past Terry but he followed her into the main computer room. "What now, Eds?"

"Migs, I absolutely must have your opinion on the appetizers." And with that, Edith was off and running, rambling on about gluten-free, vegan, and vegetarian conundrums. Margaret barely got a word in, but it didn't matter. She began to grow more and more uncomfortable as Terry continued to hover nearby. She caught him looking at her intently, an odd shiver pricking at the back of her neck.

"Now, I've you both down for vegetarian," Edith continued.

"I marked beef for two, not veg."

"Yes, but you forgot Henry's a committed vegetarian now and it'll be easier on the staff if you both have the same order."

"Why would I give a toss about Henry's dietary preferences?"

"You're sitting together, of course. Now, about dessert—"

"Edith," Margaret turned sharply and marched back to her desk, grabbing the small thumb drive and polaroids from the drawer. "I'm not sitting with Henry."

"But he's your escort for the week. We agreed."

"You decided that, not me," Margaret snatched a fistful of pens and highlighters. "But since we're on the subject, you should know my boyfriend doesn't like to share."

The line was silent for a moment.

"Boyfriend? What boyfriend?" Edith nearly shrieked. "Good God, Margaret Ann, you—no, you're taking the mick aren't you? That's not funny, Migs."

"I'm not," Margaret hesitated then made deliberate eye contact with Terry, who still hovered a little too close by. Might as well take down two birds with one stone. "I have a boyfriend and he's coming to the wedding. He would like the steak. As would I."

"I don't believe it." Edith murmured. "Since when do you even date?"

"Edith, just because I wasn't interested in the volley of pompous tossers you prefer, doesn't mean I don't date."

"But an American, Migs? Really, you ought to have better taste." Edith let out a dramatic huff, "This is extremely inconvenient, darling."

"Yes, I dare say it 'tis," Margaret shouldered past Terry through the lab door and glanced at the bus stop. A number five sat at the curb, about to pull away. She broke into a shuffling run, waving the bus down. "Got a bus to catch. Talk to you later."

Margaret let out a sigh of relief as she sank down into the musty seat. She hadn't planned on telling Edith about John yet, and the next few weeks would be a complete headache now that they knew but—Margaret felt a giggle bubble up in her chest. Having a real boyfriend was almost worth the trouble.

"Someone here to see you, Master."

John's irritated scowl at being interrupted quickly melted into a confused frown when Margaret stepped into his office, a sheepish look on her face.

"I know I'm bothering you."

"Yes, you are." John leaned back and folded his arms over his chest. "What is it?"

"I need you to do a boyfriend thing for me." She blushed. "If you would."

John shoved down the temptation to sigh, keeping his face placid. So far, he'd had a pretty shit morning. His mother's car wouldn't start so he'd spent an hour working on that so she could get to the hospital. Then Fanny wanted him to look at a loose floorboard and a blown bulb in her bedroom which had taken another hour. Not to mention the idiots in traffic who apparently couldn't drive. He didn't need another distraction; he needed to get some work done.

"I'm listening."

A shrill ringing interrupted them and Margaret swore. "Sorry, I—I'm so sorry." She slipped back through the open door. "Hello, Eds,"

John couldn't exactly hear everything the woman on the other line said, but after about a minute, he concluded it must be the engaged cousin. Margaret didn't even try to finish her sentences under the flood of high-pitched nonsense.

"Eds, darling, I need to go—No—No—I told you I—actually I'm with him now so—yes—he's not—stop, he'll hear you—"

John's ears pricked up.

"Yes, he—yes—he's very handsome—I don't care about—Redo the bloody seating chart then—I'm not sitting with—Eds, please just listen—I don't—"

The conversation abruptly ended. Margaret snapped the device closed and rubbed her eyes with a sigh.

"The cousin?"

"I just threw a Molotov cocktail into her ruddy seating chart and now she's having an epileptic fit."

John snorted, shaking his head. "How'd you manage that?"

"I told her about you. That's why I'm here," Margaret straightened and slapped her cell phone on his desk. "In about five minutes this mobile will ring again. When it does, answer it, and tell Edith I'm busy today."

"No," He pushed the phone back across his desk. "I'm your boyfriend, not your secretary."

"I've got too much to do and she won't listen to me. But if you do that deep growling voice thing—well, Edith is far more accommodating to attractive men than me."

John studied her for a moment, debating whether or not arguing was worth it. He hated the way Margaret's family seemed to push her around. He couldn't quite make sense of it. She was strong willed, independent, and decisive. Yet somehow most of that confidence fell away before her family. And he didn't like it. He almost missed the fact she'd said he was attractive. He sat up straighter, his frown deepening. That was new.

Margaret shifted on her feet. "Please, John?"

"Fine." He sighed and grabbed the phone, "I'm only doing this once." Margaret's posture instantly relaxed and she smiled, looking so relieved John felt his temper flare again. "What should I say?"

"Whatever you like, just don't be rude. Be yourself—the nice version."

As if on cue the phone began to ring. "You owe me," he muttered and flicked the device open. "What?"

"I—who is this? I'm ringing for Margaret Hale."

"She's busy."

"Busy? Who is this? I demand to speak to Margaret—wait, are you the American boyfriend?"

"Yes."

"Oh. My. God—"

John hung up, and tossed the phone at Margaret, who looked peeved. "What?"

"I specifically asked you to be nice, John."

"I was civil."

"You hung up on her."

"I just did what you should've been doing for weeks."

"Foregoing the rules of basic decency?"

"If you really want her to leave you alone, quit answering your phone. Better yet, turn the damn thing off."

"Asshole," Margaret grumbled, but John noticed she powered the phone off before slipping it into her bag.

"You're dating me," he gave her a wry smile. "If I'm such an asshole what does that make you?"

"Bloody desperate."

The bitter reply felt like a slap in the face. He pushed himself to his feet and stalked to the coffee machine. "Why aren't you at the lab?" He snapped, scowling at the cold liquid. His question was too harsh, but her words stung more than he expected. "I thought you worked today."

Margaret opened her mouth and then quickly closed it, shrugging. "Change of plans."

"You're lying." John turned and studied her more carefully. "Why?"

"I'm not," She squirmed a little, shrugging again, clearly uncomfortable with his question.

John's frown deepened. His common sense told him to just leave it alone before she got even more pissed at him. They'd managed to halfway get along at the end of their last date, and John didn't want to shit on that, but his gut told him something was off. He folded his arms.

"You're still lying and it's starting to piss me off."

"Could you stop being so rude please?"

"Why aren't you at the Math lab, Margaret?"

"It's none of your bloody business—"

"It became my business when you lied to my face," John growled. "We agreed to tell the truth—"

"Yeah, well it's nothing," she snapped, pulling at a loose thread on her skirt. Something about her fidgeting made John swallow his sharp comeback and simply wait. She folded her arms around herself, shifting on her feet. "I'm probably just being silly, but— there's this bloke I work with. He's alright, just a bit—forward and I—I don't like being at the lab alone when he's there."

"Did he make a pass at you?"

"Sort of. I told him I had a boyfriend," she said, fidgeting with her skirt again. "I don't think he believes me. Terry's nice, just—he showed up this morning because he knew I'd be coming in. Alone."

John slowly uncrossed his arms, walked around to his desk, and pulled out the chair, nodding to it. "Sit."

"Sorry?"

"Do your work here."

"But—I need a computer and—"

"Use mine."

"Really?" Relief flashed across her face. "You don't need it?"

"I'll wait."

"But, it—are you sure?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he picked up a spare folding chair from along the wall and placed it on the other side of the desk. Then he sat, grabbed a stack of files and a pencil, and went back to work. At least he tried to. Having Margaret in the room completely threw off John's focus for a good hour and a half. At first his thoughts were tangled up with the dumb wedding, her demanding family, and the little shit at her work. His hand started to ache and he forced himself to relax his grip on his pencil.

Margaret shifted from the desk to the computer, dragging John's attention away from his work—again. The soft floral smell that always clung to her, not too sweet or cloying, pulled his thoughts back to their date, that stupid kiss he'd given her, the picture they'd taken together, and her purple dress. Would she wear it to the wedding? It was almost worth it to go to the damn thing just for that.

"John?"

He shook himself, realizing she'd said his name more than once. "What?"

Margaret gave him a funny look and held up a memory stick, "Can I load this software onto your computer?"

"Sure."

"You have to—" She pointed to the request on the screen for the admin password.

"Oh," John came around the desk and quickly entered his password, the skin on his arm erupting into gooseflesh when it brushed hers. "Just mark the files with your name so I know what's yours."

"Right." She paused, clicking through the prompts.

John forced himself to return to his seat, his eyes running mechanically over the report he was supposed to be double checking. After another ten excruciating minutes, he tossed it aside.

"Shut it off when you finish," he grumbled, grabbing his tool bag. He needed to think, and he couldn't make his brain move past Margaret smelling like a spring garden in that damn purple dress—not while he was in the same room with her.

John lost track of time. When he finally checked his watch, it was nearly dinner, his stomach aching. When he got back to his office, Margaret was gone, and in the center of his desk lay a single polaroid from their date. John knew he probably looked like an idiot, smiling the way he was, but he didn't care. He propped the picture up against the phone, turned his hat around backwards, and got back to work.

Friday: May 12, 2006

Margaret stared at her computer screen, tapping through the graphs for the twentieth time this morning. She glanced at the clock, groaning. Today she was in charge of the lab welcome desk, checking people in and out, tending any technical difficulties, and generally being bored out of her mind. She'd forgotten her headphones and her usual National Geographic magazines. Margaret tapped her fingers mindlessly, and shut off the computer with a sigh.

A throat cleared. Terry sat off to the left at his own desk, headphones on, pretending to code. When he was actually coding, he always hummed off-key. So far, he'd managed to walk past the welcome desk a total of eight times in three hours, giving her an awkward wave or 'hey' each time, all while his eyes roved over her blouse. Margaret checked to make sure all her buttons were firmly in place and rested her face in her hands. She ought to have worn something shapeless and ugly. Like a burlap sack. Or perhaps a burial shroud.

"Bloody tosser." She muttered.

"Who is?" Margaret started with a little squeak as John set a large stack of files on the desk. "Hi."

"What—what are you doing here?" She hissed, leaning forward.

"I was in the area."

"And you just popped in?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Why not?"

"John, I'm at work—"

"I wanted to see where you work," John folded his arms. "Can I get a tour?"

"Is this retribution for my bothering you yesterday?" Margaret demanded. "Because it's not funny."

"I'm not laughing," he retorted.

"Hey Mags," Terry suddenly appeared on their left, looking annoyed and a little flustered. He glanced at John, "Who's your friend?"

An odd look ran across John's face as he turned and studied Terry for a brief moment, like he was sizing up a target. Margaret's eyes widened and she bit her lip, suddenly aware of exactly why John decided to pop in. She didn't know if she ought to hug him or slap him for it.

"Terry, this is John," she said, allowing herself a small smile. "My boyfriend."

John's eyes narrowed just a little, but he politely stuck out his hand. Margaret watched Terry swallow, his face paling a bit as he shook John's hand, a wicked part of her feeling more than a little satisfied at his obvious discomfort.

"Cool," Terry yanked his hand back. " I've got some coding to do—yeah, nice to meet you." He hurried back to his desk, cranking the volume on his head phones.

"I know what you're doing," Margaret folded her arms.

"I'm visiting my girl," John replied, grabbing a nearby chair and planting it next to her. He sat, and began sorting through the files he'd brought with him. "After today, he won't bother you anymore."

"I knew it—"

"If he does, I'll beat the shit out of him."

"What utter nonsense—I don't approve."

"Good thing I don't need your permission."

"And I don't need you to waltz in here, marking your territory—"

"I didn't come for me," John took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. "I came for you."

Margaret let out a huff, her eyes flicking to his disheveled hair. They were sitting close enough that she could smell his shampoo—it was spicy and musty and—Her fingers twitched and she shoved aside the sudden impulse to tidy the black mess.

"You can go now," she blurted, pulling a binder from her bag. "I've got work to do."

"So do I." He smirked, eyeing the binder. "What's that?"

"Edith's wedding itinerary."

"That's the itinerary?" John looked incredulous. "It's a damn book, not a schedule."

"She's incredibly detail oriented."

"How's that treating you?"

"Do you want the polite version or the honest one?"

"You've never been polite with me." He snorted. "Why start now?"

"Most of the time you deserve it," Margaret snipped, blushing. "Besides, if I have to hear one more sentence about flowers, or seating arrangements, or butterfly shaped hair pieces, or—or bloody bridesmaid dresses needing to coordinate but not exactly match the groomsmen cumberbund nonsense—I swear to God, I'll bloody kill someone with my bare hands."

"I could lend you my gun."

"Your what?" Margaret faltered, staring at him. "Are—you're not serious?"

"Dead serious," John pulled a black gun from seemingly nowhere. He carefully held it out, barrel down, and grinned. "It's a lot more efficient than bare hands." Margaret's eyes widened in horror even as she fought a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. John's grin widened. "All you have to say is 'please.' "

"You ass," she breathed, "That's not funny."

"But it made you smile," John carefully slid his gun back into place and winked.

Margaret elbowed him, shooting a look over her shoulder towards Terry's desk. "Go put that thing in your truck. You can't have it here."

"Sure I can."

"Not on campus property."

"We're not on campus property. Without a posted sign, I can bring it wherever I want."

"But—is it loaded?"

"Of course it's loaded." He nudged the binder. "So how much of this shit am I expected to go to?"

"All of it."

"The hell I am," he reached over and started flipping through it. "A welcome breakfast?"

"Brunch."

"In a ballroom?"

"Lots of people are attending this wedding."

"There's a damn dress code."

"There's a dress code for everything," Margaret shrugged. "I told you it would be an experience."

"Bridal party mixer, bridal party photography test, extended family tea, bridal hen-do," He paused. "What the fuck is a hen-do?"

"Actually, you're not going to that," Margaret grabbed a sticky note and tabbed the line in the schedule. "You're supposed to go stag with the men."

"As fun as that doesn't sound, I will have to work some while we're there. I can't afford a whole week off."

"Can't you?" Margaret frowned, surprised by his admission. She'd just assumed he had more than enough money to do whatever he pleased whenever he pleased.

He shook his head.

"How many hours?" She asked, grabbing a stack of sticky notes. "I'll flag the most important things and we can plan from there."

John thought for a moment, "Sixty, give or take."

"Sixty hours?" Margaret gasped. "You can't work sixty hours in a single week. That's mad."

"Usually I pull eighty."

"Bloody hell," she breathed. "Do you really?"

"Not all the time."

"Well this week you don't," she tapped the binder. "Thirty."

"This isn't a negotiation, Margaret."

"I agreed to date you for the primary purpose of successfully pulling off this wedding. When the gala rolls around I'll happily accommodate your schedule, but right now, I need you to flex around mine."

He drew in a deep breath and sighed, calculating on his fingers, "Forty, and not an hour less." John checked his watch and stood, yanking on his hat. "Are you free tomorrow?"

"Not till six."

"I'll pick you up."

"For what? We've already seen each other twice this week."

John rolled his eyes, "You really are a pain in the ass."

"Your fault, not mine."

He gathered his things, ignoring her muttering. "I'll be here at six."

"Anything else, Master?" Margaret scowled, layering on the sarcasm.

John glanced over at Terry, "Don't let that little shit call you 'Mags.' "

Margaret watched him go, her temper boiling. "I hate that man."

The moment the words were out of her mouth she knew they weren't true. John was blunt, brusque, and opinionated, but there was far more to him than her first impressions. It was an uncomfortable revelation, and pricked her conscience. She slipped her hand into her bag, switched on her mobile, dialing before she could talk herself out of it.

He answered on the first ring, "Miss me already?"

"Shut up," Margaret bit her lip and forced out a terse, 'Thank you.'

"For what?"

"For today."

"You sure you mean that?"

"I—" Margaret heaved a heavy sigh. "Yes, I mean it."

He chuckled and Margaret felt her skin prickle, "You're welcome."

AN: So sorry this took me a while to get done. I'm excited to focus my creative energy here now that "After All We've Done" is finally completed (over at ) Also I'm shamelessly going to request reviews. They really help gauge the pulse of a story and I've been away from this one for a while. Cheers, loves.

**update** There were so many typos in this. Thanks to ColleenD for helping me fix that.