Saturday: May 13, 2006

"So you and Margaret?"

John shot Watson a look, "What about it?"

"How the hell did that happen?"

"Hell if I know." John finished his set, sat up, and wiped his face with the hem of his t-shirt.

"She's hot."

"I know."

"Isn't she seventeen?"

"Shut up, Watson, before I beat your ass." John growled. "She's eighteen."

Watson gave him a flat look, "Because that's better?"

"You're nine years older than my sister."

"True, but Fan's not a teenager." The two men switched places, "I thought she hated you."

"Margaret is legally an adult." John reset the weights for Watson. "If she hates me she's got a shit way of showing it."

"Lucky bastard."

"Is this you asking or my little sister?"

Watson shrugged, "Fan can do her own digging."

"So why the hell do you care?"

"I don't."

"Then drop it and finish your set. We're burning daylight."

Watson pumped out four reps and then sat up, "Got somewhere to be?"

John rolled his eyes, and began to add weight.

"JohnJohnJohnJohnJohn," Fanny came scurrying through the weight room, hair flying, face flushed with excitement.

"Fanny, what are you doing?"

"Not you, Watson." She grabbed her brother's arm, bouncing happily on her toes. "Since when are you going to a wedding? With Margaret?" Fanny squealed, started to hug him, then promptly changed her mind. "Yuck, you're soaked."

"Fan—"

"Why didn't you tell me about this wedding?"

John scowled at his sister, "Who the hell told you?"

"Margaret, of course."

"The hell she did."

"Well, she told her dad who told Bill Sloan and he mentioned it to Jill Parkinson 'cause she works there now, did you know that? Anyway, Jill was chatting with Anne, who told me. Which is the same thing. Duh. But a wedding in New York City—"

"No."

"Oh, come on, John-John—"

"I'm not taking you." John grabbed his towel and scrubbed his face. Now that the cat was out of the bag, he'd never hear the end of it, and he really didn't want to be having this conversation. "You're not invited."

"I could just tag along by myself."

"No."

"But it's New York—"

"You couldn't pay me to take you."

"But if you take me I can help you make Margaret fall in love with you."

"Fanny, knock it off—" Watson interjected.

"Shut up, Watson," both Thorntons snapped, not taking their eyes off each other.

"That's rich, coming from you, Fan. If you want to go to New York, just go."

"Oh, come on, John," Fanny said in a sing-song voice. "Aren't you even the tiniest bit curious? I can guarantee your girlfriend will fall head over heels."

"I think you're full of shit," He traded places with Watson on the bench. "You can't make someone love you, Fan."

"Oh yeah?" Fanny waved a stapled set of printed papers in front of his face, "This article would disagree. It lists three dozen questions scientifically proven to make strangers fall in love. And if anyone needs help, it's you."

"Bullshit," John grunted working quickly through his set. "I don't need a scientist whose never been laid giving me dating advice."

"Like you can do better on your own," Fanny muttered, but John ignored her. His sister huffed and tried again, "So what's your brilliant plan then? For Margaret?"

"Fan," John growled. "Go. Away."

"You know, I'd really like to be an auntie someday, John Thornton, and that ain't gonna happen if I leave you to your own outdated devices."

"I'll donate to a sperm bank."

"Gross," Fanny made a face and shivered. "Please don't. This article is scientific, big brother. Meaning, it works. I used it on Watson."

"You did what?" Watson said.

"If you don't leave, I will," John sat up and checked the clock. "Shit, look at the time."

"Asshole." She swatted at his head with the papers, landing a solid blow.

"Fanny," John snatched the article from her hand. "I don't want or need help."

"Says the man who's been on a grand total of twenty-seven dates his entire goddamn life."

"Twenty-nine," John snapped back, grabbing his bag from the locker. He didn't actually know how many dates he'd been on, but Fanny probably did. He shoved the rolled up article inside and yanked the zipper closed. "Tonight makes thirty."

"Tonight? God almighty, John, you can't go like that—" John and Watson exchanged a n exasperated look as Fanny launched into another well intentioned torrent of advice.

"Tell my mother I'll be home late."

Watson nodded, steering Fanny towards the exit as John headed for the showers.

Margaret sighed, tapping her fingers on her desk, watching the digital clock on her computer screen count steadily towards six. She'd agreed to open and close the maths lab today, and every day for the next two weeks to earn her time off for Edith's wedding. She yawned, her eyes itching and stinging with fatigue. The lab took on an eerie quiet, only broken by the whirring sounds of the computer block, the air conditioning, and her own slow breathing. So far the only good thing about today had been the relative silence. Edith had only called twice, which was a bloody miracle. Terry left her to herself, and the lab was all but dead. Margaret switched off her screen.

Her mobile began to ring and she was tempted to chuck it into her pack without bothering to answer. Still—Margaret glanced at the caller ID and yelped.

"Dad? What is it?" She scrambled to her feet, heart pounding. "Is it mum?"

He sighed, and Margaret thought her heart might jump out of her chest. "Margaret, your mother—She's—She's not well. Mr Dixon—Dale called."

"Oh God, is she—she's not—dad?"

"Not yet, but—she's in hospice now, my dear."

"Yeah," she took a deep breath, willing her heart back to a normal pace. "I knew that."

"You did?" He sounded confused. "How did you know?"

Margaret blushed, shame burning her face and neck. "I—Dad, please don't be cross. I know I should've told you but—Dale called me last week."

The line was silent and Margaret bit her lip.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I was going to, dad, I swear—I—"

"Never mind. I'll just— You'll ring when you're on your way. I'll save a plate for you."

"You don't have to—"

But he'd already hung up.

"Bollocks," Margaret swore, slamming her device down on the desk, the sharp impact stinging her skin. She shoved it away and buried her face in her hands, forcing herself not to cry. She sat in the silence for a minute. She knew she should've told him right away, but—

Her skin prickled and Margaret frowned behind her hands. She heard the soft rustle of fabric and she peeked between her fingers. John leaned against the doorframe, hair wet and sticking out at odd angles, like he'd just had a shower. He didn't say anything, he just stood there, waiting. Margaret felt her temper spike and she stood, shooting him a dirty glare.

"Why do you do that?" She demanded without preamble. "You're worse than Terry."

"Hello to you too."

Margaret marched away from the desk and began shutting off the computers and gathering the rubbish bins to empty before she left. "You're like a bloody cat, creeping about, loitering where you aren't wanted. Hasn't anyone ever told you skulking about is rude?" Margaret emptied the bins into a plastic bag and knotted it with a sharp yank, tearing a bit along the top.

"What's bitten your ass?" John asked, frustration lacing his voice.

"Nothing," she snapped.

John tilted his head to once side, a hard look running across his face. He didn't say anything but Margaret could almost hear it. Liar.

"I'm calling off our date," she said, suddenly out of energy. She slumped into her chair, quickly wiping away her tears. "Sorry, but I just can't tonight. I've had a bloody long day."

His frown deepened, but still he remained silent. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and held it out. Something about the simple gesture cracked the last of Margaret's composure and she started to cry silently.

"Please—" she hiccoughed. "Please go away."

"I'll take you home." John grabbed her pack off the floor, glancing around the desk. "You need any of this?" He pointed to the mess littering the welcome desk.

"No, I've got it. Just—just go."

"It's late, and I'm already here." John slung her pack over his shoulder. "The bus won't come for another half hour at least."

"I hate you," she said, her voice cracking, tears spilling down her cheeks again. He was right of course.

"Tell me something I don't know," He took her hand and slowly pulled her to her feet. "Come on."

They walked through the lab, pausing to flick off lights and lock doors as they went. John's truck was parked out front in the fire lane. A cool evening breeze blew through the early leaves, whispering them in a slow dance. Once inside the truck, Margaret leaned out the open window, watching the rustling branches, letting the wind brush over her face, her eyes fluttering shut. She wished the wind could blow all her thoughts and fears somewhere far away. John's grip shifted, and she realised he was still holding her hand.

Her eyes snapped open, "Why are you being so nice?" She wriggled her fingers.

"We both know I'm not that nice," he said, slowly letting her tug her hand free. He put the truck in gear and pulled into traffic. They drove in silence for a few minutes until the truck stopped at a red light. John glanced over, "Do you still want to go home?"

"No," Margaret sighed. "Not really."

"Where do you want to go?"

"Anywhere." She shrugged. "Nowhere."

John flicked off his turn signal. The wind picked up, a dull noisy roar filling the empty space making their silence comfortable. After a while, they left the familiar city limits, more trees and winding lanes unfolding before them.

"Where are you taking me?" She asked.

"Nowhere." John drove easily, one hand lightly resting on the top of the wheel. "We're just driving."

"That's a waste of petrol."

"Is it?"

"Do you 'just drive' a lot?"

"Sometimes." He glanced over, "It's good for not thinking. You looked like that's what you wanted."

"Lucky guess."

"Maybe."

"Where do you go when you want to think?"

"Depends on what I want to think about."

"Come on," she pressed, curious. "I'm your girlfriend and I barely know anything about you. Tell me."

"Usually the machine shop, or the graveyard. The shower works too," he shrugged. "The firing range."

Margaret made a face, "I really don't understand your gun thing."

"It's fun."

"So you say," She folded up his handkerchief and held it out. "Thanks."

"Are you okay?"

"It's nothing new," Margaret said dismissively, setting the handkerchief on the seat between them. "Just a long day."

"Tell me."

"You can't fix it," she said sharply.

"I didn't say I could. Try me."

"My mother is dying," Margaret blurted, injecting as much calm into her voice as she could. "She's been sick most of my life, and I've watched it for the last ten years while everyone around her—and I mean everyone—pretends she isn't, and it's so bloody stupid. I'm so tired of pretending everything is fine when it's not fine—" She broke off, brushed angrily at her wet cheeks, staring fixedly out the window. "I try to help but I just made a bloody mess of it all."

"How?"

"I lied to my dad," Margaret folded her arms around herself, still not looking at him, "and now he's cross, and I feel like a bloody idiot and a terrible daughter. I hate feeling like I've failed him, but I can't win, you know? Mum's still dying, and she still hates him, and he still won't grow a bloody pair and try and patch things up from his end. And I just want it all to be over and I hate myself for feeling like that. What kind of a person wants their mother to die?"

John didn't say anything and for once, Margaret was grateful for his brooding silence. She frowned when he turned off the road and into a little restaurant car park.

"What are you doing?"

"Wait here." He reappeared a few minutes later with two milkshakes and a take away bag. "Hold these," he handed the takeaway cups to her, set the bag between them, and started driving again. A little down the road he pulled off into an empty lot. John let himself out, grabbing the bag and milkshakes. He pulled down the back of his truck and sat. Margaret followed him, a dubious look on her face.

"John, I'm not hungry."

"I'll eat what you don't." He held out the milkshakes. "It'll help."

"Food doesn't fix things."

"No, but ice cream definitely does. Vanilla or chocolate?"

"Chocolate." She took the milkshake with a little sigh.

John helped her climb up onto the tailgate, "Chocolate milkshake or french fries?"

Margaret took a small sip, "Chips. Obviously."

"Fries or tea and scones?"

She studied him for a moment, not quite sure what he was doing. Then she shrugged, "Tea and scones."

"Tea and scones or a dozen roses?"

"What are you doing?"

"Play along," he insisted. "Pick one."

She rolled her eyes, "What colour are the roses?"

"Does that really matter?"

"Yes."

"Any colour you want."

"Roses."

John pulled out two boxes of chips and propped them up between them, "Roses or a new box of polaroid film?"

"Film. Duh."

"Polaroid film or new shoes?"

She snorted, "I'm not Fanny. Film."

"Polaroid film or a trip to an art museum?"

"Museum," Margaret grabbed a few chips and popped them in her mouth, strangely enjoying whatever this little game was.

"Art museum or a broadway show?"

"I don't know," she said, blowing out a breath. "That's hard."

John slurped his milkshake, waiting.

"Broadway."

"Broadway or a vacation?"

"Depends. Be more specific."

"A vacation alone."

"The holiday, definitely." She grinned a little. "Why are we doing this?"

"A vacation alone, or," John thought for a moment, ignoring her question "A vacation anywhere in the world?"

"Bloody hell, that's not fair."

"Pick one or tap out."

"Oh, I dunno—is it free?"

"Sure."

Margaret pursed her lips, "A holiday anywhere in the world."

"Go anywhere in the world for free or a month without Edith calling you?"

"You ass," Margaret elbowed him. "I'm not answering that."

"You already did." He chuckled. "Give up?"

"Do I have to ask you some either-or nonsense if I do?"

"That's how the game works."

"You're literally making this up as you go along, aren't you?"

"Are you tapping out?" John raised an eyebrow. "Or are you going to answer honestly?"

"Fine," Margaret huffed. "A month without Edith calling me."

"A month without your dumb cousin—"

"Take that back, she's not—"

"—or a day where everyone tells the truth?"

"Oh," Margaret cringed, biting her lip. "Are there lifelong consequences to this truth telling?"

"Hell yes."

"A month without Edith."

"Okay, a month without the cousin or a year without your aunt?"

"That's awful," Margaret shook her head. "I'm out. I want a go at you."

"Take your best shot," he met her eyes with a mischievous smile. "I dare you."

"Vanilla or chocolate?" Margaret parroted back his first question to her.

"Chocolate."

Margaret shot a sharp glance at him, but he just took a long slurp on his milkshake. He'd given her first pick and it made her feel a bit guilty for not even asking what he wanted. "Chocolate or whiskey?"

"Whiskey."

"Whiskey or a book?"

John scratched the back of his head, thinking. "A book."

"A book or a weekend holiday?"

"A book."

"Really?"

"A book is a vacation for me."

"You're such a dinosaur," Margaret shook her head. "Fine, a book or a hot girl?"

"What exactly am I doing with the hot girl?"

"I—well—a date, I guess."

"Depends on the girl."

Margaret rolled her eyes. "A book or making out with a hot girl?"

"That's easy. Make out."

"What?" Margaret scoffed. "You'd just snog some random fit girl?"

"Sure," He shrugged and finished his chips. "Like you wouldn't take a hot make out if you could get it."

"I would not—"

"You would if the timing was right, and the guy was into you. You're human and humans like sex."

"Not all the time."

"Most of the time."

"I resent that."

"Resent all you want," John shrugged. "Doesn't mean I'm wrong."

Margaret turned to face him, "Alright, how about a make out with Anne Latimer or spend a week with just Fanny?"

John looked at her sharply, narrowing his eyes, "Is this a trick question?"

"Why would it be a trick ques—oh my God," Margaret gasped, slapping a hand over her mouth. "Have you made out with Anne? Like actually?"

He cleared his throat, "That's not part of this date—"

"Stop right there, John Thornton," Margaret burst out as his face turned a little red. "You have, haven't you? Oh my God," She started laughing and once she started she couldn't stop.

"Shut up. It was just once—"

"Please tell me you were drunk."

"Maybe a little."

Margaret let out a snort, more giggles making speech impossible. She tried to be serious but every time she looked at John she started laughing again. She'd never seen him look so uncomfortable or embarrassed. Somehow it made her feel better. "How—"she pulled in a sobering breath, "Sorry, how did that even happen? I mean she's fit and all but—" Margaret swallowed a snort, suppressing another giggle.

"I'm glad you're so damn amused," he grumbled.

"Was it nice?"

"Nice enough."

"Nice enough to repeat?" Margaret asked, suddenly serious.

John looked at her, his expression odd and strangely soft, "Not with Anne."

Margaret swallowed, her face, neck, and arms feeling flushed as she realised how close they were sitting. She cleared her throat and scooted back. "So is Anne the only girl you've snogged?"

"Kissed? Or made out with?"

"It can mean both, but now I'm curious." Margaret leaned back on her hands and watched the sunset. "Who else have you tongued, John Thornton?"

"Jodie Kunitz in the tenth grade."

"Did you date?"

"No. She wanted to make her ex-boyfriend jealous and paid me to make out with her, and then we kept doing it off and on even after they got back together."

"She paid you? How much?"

"Fifty bucks."

"Man-whore."

"It was one time," John leaned back against the truck and laced his hands behind his head. "I suppose it would've made a good side business if I had lower standards."

"Why didn't you?"

"I hate drama."

"Fair." Margaret grinned, "Who else have you kissed?"

"Lucy Jo Perkins and Heidi Smith."

"Did they pay you too?"

"Nope," He sat up. "Who's on your kiss list?"

"No thanks," Margaret started to hop down, but John grabbed her wrist, gently pulling her back. "You'll just laugh at me."

"Like you laughed at me?" He challenged. "You're not getting off that easy."

"I've never full on snogged anyone," she said quickly. "Not really."

"But you've been kissed."

"Yes," Margaret shifted on her feet, studying the grass in the dying light. "Luke Chapman, Mark Adams, and Matt Morris."

"Were they good to you?"

She glanced up, frowning. It was an unexpected question and she wasn't certain how to answer. "The kisses were fine, I guess. Not brilliant, but not bad."

"That's not what I asked."

"Luke was a gentleman but he kissed like a fish. He didn't know what to do with his mouth except open it." She shivered. It had been quite wet and nasty that one. John loosened his grip, toying with the skin around her wrist, his gaze focused on her. It was unnerving to have someone listen to her so completely. It was odd—and nice. "Mark was a flirt and snogged everyone, the boys and the girls, and I just let him do it a few times because it made me feel nice."

"And the other guy?" John had slid his fingers from her wrist to her hand, and Margaret couldn't decide if she wanted him to stop or not. She took a breath.

"Matt Morris was a presumptuous wanker."

"What does that mean?"

"What? Wanker?" Margaret felt herself blush, "Uh—it means—it's a slur."

"I got that much. What's it mean?"

"It's like a useless pretentious idiot, who...wanks." John raised an eyebrow, and Margaret felt herself turning red, "Masturbates."

He snorted. "So he was a dick."

"A bit of a bellend, yeah. We went to this dance together, and we weren't even together, except my cousin tried to set us up, which gave him the wrong idea. He stole a kiss and—he wanted more and I told him to bugger off. I was a bit nasty about it." Matt had quite literally left a bad taste in her mouth. He'd tasted of tequila and some coconut sweet she couldn't stand. Margaret shrugged. "Anyway, Matt said I led him on, but he was just desperate or drunk or both. He called me a bitch."

John's face hardened, "You should've kicked him in the balls."

"Shut up," Margaret pulled her hand out of his grasp and shoved him. "He wasn't a bad person, just embarrassed. It was mostly Edith's doing."

John grunted, clearly unconvinced. "With shitty kisses like that, no wonder you're so hung up."

"I am not hung up," Margaret retorted, gathering up their rubbish. "And Mark was lovely, thanks. I would've dated him."

"Why didn't you?"

"Well, he never asked." She thought for a moment, "I liked him more than any other boy I've been with."

"But?"

"But I suppose we lacked real chemistry in the end."

"Good thing we don't." John held the passenger door open for her.

"We don't?" Margaret licked her lips as he stepped closer. The tension between them thickened and she tried to swallow. "Don't what?"

"Lack chemistry."

"Chemistry isn't everything."

"It definitely helps," he said, his voice low and grumbling. "Trust me."

"I don't want you to kiss me," she blurted, her heartbeat racing in her ears. "So don't."

John gave her a funny look, "Who said I was going to?"

"I—bloody hell, I didn't—God—of course you're not." Margaret snapped, jerking the door out of his grasp as he started to smile that stupid lopsided grin of his that always made her feel awkward. Why had she said that? "Impossible man."

"For future reference," John slid into the driver's seat and reached over, deliberately taking her hand, "if I want to kiss you, I'll ask."

"I won't say yes," Margaret tugged at her hand, her skin prickling. "We might be dating, but unlike you, I have standards."

"I've got standards too, but mine are lower than yours."

"Meaning?"

"You can kiss me anytime you want." He winked, his smile widening as she rolled her eyes and snatched her hand back. "I won't stop you."

"You couldn't pay me to kiss you."

"I wouldn't have to pay you."

"What makes you so certain?"

"Chemistry's a powerful thing."

"I think with my brain, not my pants."

"You sure about that?"

"Very."

"Is that a challenge, Maggie?"

"Shut up and drive, asshole."

John couldn't shake the stupid grin that lingered on his face as he drove Margaret home. Their date hadn't gone at all according to plan. He hadn't really had much of a plan to start with, and his sister's interference had only made it worse. He'd glanced over the article's stupid list of questions and dismissed it after the tenth question. He'd been prepared to take Margaret home and call it a day after her confession about her mother, but then something had shifted. John glanced over at her. She threw him a cold glance. Damn, she really was sexy as hell when she was riled up. His grin widened. Margaret might be pissed with him for a couple days, but she was too damn easy to tease.

Except he hadn't been teasing at all.

"Stop smiling like you've done something clever," Margaret grumbled. She let herself out with a huff and all but ran to her front door. John followed easily, lengthening his strides so they reached the Hale's front door at the same time. "You can go now," she said, digging her keys from her backpack. "You've seen me to my door."

"I'm not done yet."

"Done with what?" Margaret asked, flinching backwards, her face hardening. "I swear if you try to kiss me I will kick you."

John swallowed a laugh. "I thought I'd visit with your dad."

She blinked, surprise stealing over her features, making them softer. "You don't have to do that," she said. "We'll be fine."

"I know, but it'll help. Your dad likes me."

Margaret nodded, frowning as she studied him, fidgeting with her keys.

"What?"

"Thank you," She said hesitantly. "You don't have to do any of this, especially not for me—"

"You're my girlfriend." John interrupted, pushing a stray lock of her hair behind her ear. She shivered a little, shifted her face away from his fingers and John crossed his arms. "If you need anything, all you have to do is ask."

Her frown deepened and she turned, letting them into the house, John following.

"Margaret, is that you?" Her father's voice drifted from the sitting room

"I'm going to bed, dad," she called. "John's here for a chat if that's alright."

"Oh, yes of course. Come on back, John."

Margaret set her backpack on the floor and began to climb the stairs, but then she stopped. "Do you really mean it?" She asked hesitantly. "All I have to do is ask and you'll just do anything for no reason?"

"Not anything and not for no reason." John tossed his keys and cell phone on the small entry table. "You'd be the reason."

"So if I needed a ride to work on Monday, you'd pick me up?"

"What time?"

"Seven-thirty." She looked away. "The bus is always late in the morning and I can't be late right now—"

"I'll be here."

She continued to stare at him, as if she couldn't quite believe him.

"I don't say shit I don't mean."

"Alright. Half-seven." Margaret ducked her head, trying to hide a small smile, "Just so you're prepared, I'm not exactly a morning person."

"Define 'not exactly'," John said, a sly grin stealing over his face. "On a scale of one to Fanny?"

"If you speak to me you will die."

"So you're a Fanny."

"More like a wet cat made of porcupine quills."

John nodded once, deciding then and there that dating Margaret Hale was the best damn gamble he'd ever made. "Piece of cake."

AN : Happy weekend to you all. Please enjoy. Please review. Cheers, lads.

PS. Thanks to ColleenD for providing much needed typo checks.