Friday: May 19, 2006

Hannah Thornton peered over the community section of the newspaper as John walked into the kitchen, grabbing a cup from the cupboard. For the fifth day in a row, rather than joining her at the table to read the paper, as he usually did, her son poured himself a cup of coffee and drank it standing.

"You have a meeting today," She said, setting the paper down.

"Mr Bell's in town."

"Lunch at DePrisco's?"

John nodded, rolling his eyes, "With potential investors, and Bell wants to kiss some serious ass."

"That explains the suit and tie," Hannah said dryly, "but it doesn't explain why you feel obligated to cart Margaret Hale around town every morning for the last week."

"News travels fast."

"Fanny told me."

"Surprise, surprise."

"And what's this about you attending a wedding New York City? For a week?"

"Mother," John warned, bristling at her thinly veiled disapproval. "What I do with Margaret is my business; not yours."

"John—"

"Stop." He interrupted, "I really don't have time for this." He absently started to run a hand through his combed hair, made a face, and hastily brushed it back into place. "Don't make me be rude to you."

"I can't understand what you see in that girl—"

"Margaret," he said sharply. "You understanding why I like her isn't important. What's important is that I like her. Would it kill you to try? For my sake?"

It was all the answer he would give and she knew better than to press him. She crossed her arms and nodded once. "You ought to bring her for dinner," she said, returning to the paper. "If you're serious about this girl."

"Serious enough," he smiled into his cup. "But I wouldn't get too far ahead of yourself."

"I won't if you won't" she said sarcastically. "Patience isn't a virtue with you."

"We're still figuring ourselves out."

"Happy to hear it."

"Give it time, Mother," He smiled, bent down, and kissed her cheek. "She's prickly but she's not so bad."

"Perhaps you deserve each other then," Hannah muttered and made a shooing motion with her hand as he let out a low laugh. "Go on."

"Don't wait up."

"It's open," Margaret called when she heard John's familiar knock. She quickly grabbed a mug, pouring a generous portion of steaming hot coffee, grumbling under her breath. She'd meant to have the coffee done before he arrived. "Be right there."

Every day for the last five days, John had showed up exactly on time; and every day she'd made them late. But not today. Today they would be on time, and she could stop feeling that niggling twinge of guilt every time he dropped her off in front of the lab. Margaret hoped the coffee might pass as a sort of peace offering.

She shoved the pot back into place, turned quickly towards the doorway, eyes on the coffee, and walked straight into John as he stepped into the kitchen. She let out a little yelp as the scalding liquid splashed over them, dropping the mug onto the floor. John jumped back, swearing loudly.

"Mother of pearl," Margaret hissed, pulling a sharp breath through her teeth. Her hand was stinging, the skin now bright red. "I'm sorry—bloody hell that hurts." She glanced up and felt the blood drain from her face.

"Goddamnit," John growled, wincing, pulling his shirt away from his chest.

"Bollocks." He was dressed in a sharp navy suit, his white shirt and burgundy tie covered in a growing brown stain. "John, I'm so sorry—truly, I—"

"You got a rag?"

"Hang on," she began to rummage about the kitchen, pulling out the first-aid kit and towels. "Here," she tossed a hand towel at John, and hurriedly turned on the kettle. "Why the bloody hell are you dressed like that?" Margaret demanded, her eyes filling a little. The skin on her hand began to throb where the coffee splashed her.

"Fancy lunch date—shit," he flinched as he scrubbed at his shirt, "—that's still hot."

"Never mind that. Take off your shirt."

"What?" John's eyes snapped up and he frowned, "No—"

"It will permanently stain if I don't treat it, and it'll be ruined, and then I'll feel fifty times worse than I do right now." Words were pouring out of her mouth in a continued stream as she knelt and began picking up shards of crockery. "Well done, Margaret Ann. Try to do something to help and you half boil him to death," She glared at John as he knelt and began to help her. He'd obviously showered this morning too, his hair neatly combed, face freshly shaven. "Get that shirt off."

"Forget the damn shirt," he said. "We need to get our asses out the door."

"No, I will not forget that I just dumped boiling coffee all over your nice clothes, burning you and myself in the process, and probably ruining a suit I can't afford to replace," her face flushed with embarrassment. Why did this man always throw her so bloody off balance? She shoved his hands away, and stood, dumping the pieces of broken mug into the bin. "Give me twenty minutes and I'll fix this."

"Fine," John let out a heavy sigh, and shrugged reluctantly out of his jacket, "It's not like we're ever on time." Margaret winced at the sharp comment. He pulled his tie loose and handed it to her along with the jacket. "I doubt my suit is ruined."

"Better safe than sorry," She quickly glanced over the material, briskly scrubbing at a few splashes. The tie had taken the worst of it, but the dark material wouldn't easily stain. A small mercy, but she'd take it. "These ought to be dry cleaned. I'll give you some money for that."

"No, you won't."

"Yes, I will," Margaret growled, turning around. "You really are the most—"

The rest of what she was going to say died on her lips as she watched John strip off his shirt, quickly followed by his undershirt. Margaret felt her breath catch in her lungs. Her eyes dipped to his chest and she sucked in a sharp breath. A fist-sized patch of skin glowed angry red underneath a thin dusting of dark hair.

Bloody hell.

"Like what you see, Hale?"

"I—no—shut up," she cleared her throat, snatching the shirts from his hand. "What I see is a nasty burn and—"

"I've had worse."

"There's burn ointment in the kit." Margaret continued, ignoring him. "I've got some larger adhesive bandages in my bureau upstairs."

She forced herself to turn away, shook out the oxford then the undershirt, and draped them over the sink. Once the water boiled, Margaret worked quickly, pouring it through the stained fabric, smiling as the brown mark disappeared, almost as if it had never been there.

"That's a neat trick," John had come up behind her and was peering over her shoulder. Margaret flinched a little, the back of her neck sweating. Her nose flooded with the spicy scent of his shampoo and aftershave, mingling with whatever deodorant he used and the cool undertone of the cream on his chest.

"How's your—burn?" Margaret shifted, waiting for him to move so she could slip by. He didn't.

"I'll live," John leaned closer, his arm snaking around her to pick up the now clean oxford. Margaret jumped as his arm brushed hers, the heat from his chest close enough to make her entire body flush.

"Sorry—I'll just—" She awkwardly shimmied around him, trying not to touch him, and failing miserably. "I'll just pop these into the dryer and fetch those bandages."

"Knock yourself out." He watched her go with a small smirk, his eyes glinting with mischief.

Margaret sucked in a deep breath and hurried up the stairs, scolding herself for this nonsense. "Get a grip, Margaret Ann," she muttered. When she got back to the kitchen, she found John pouring himself a cup of coffee, and for some reason she felt even more self conscious. Would he like it? She held up several sealed bandages, "Found the plaster."

He grunted, took a sip, and scowled, spitting the coffee out into the sink. Margaret glared at him, her mouth opening in indignation as he dumped out the rest of the pot.

"Is the coffee really that bad?"

"Did you try it?"

"No, but—"

"Trust me. It sucks."

"Well, you didn't have to spit it out. You could've just—oh never mind." Margaret flounced down into a chair, willing the dryer to hurry. She needed John to put his clothes back on and soon, or—

John pulled out the chair next to her and held out the burn cream. The dryer rumbled on filling the thick awkward silence. "Sorry about all this," she said forcefully, gingerly spreading the ointment on the angry red skin on her hand. "I've made you late again." She winced as she tried to peel one of the bandages open, the movement making her skin ache.

"Let me," John plucked it from her fingers and started to open it for her.

Margaret snatched it back. "I got it, thanks." She eased the plaster over her throbbing skin. "Stop laughing, it bloody hurts."

"You sure you're okay?"

The dryer beeped, saving her from answering. She held out the now clean shirts, "They're a bit damp but—"

"It's fine."

Margaret busied herself gathered her things, trying to find somewhere—anywhere—else to look as John dressed. She scowled at the wall clock, her hand still aching. They needed to hurry, and her ridiculous reaction to this entire situation wasn't helping.

"For future reference, there are easier ways to get me to take my shirt off," He said, pausing in doing up his tie, his eyes still dancing with mischief. "They're a hell of a lot more fun too."

"Any amount of pity I felt for you is rapidly disappearing John Thornton." She turned and marched out of the house, feeling the urgent need for fresh air. What on earth was wrong with her today? She'd seen John without a stitch on him so why was now any different? Her skin pricked all over with gooseflesh when a new thought wormed its way to the front of her mind. Why shouldn't she watch him? She was his girlfriend and—

Enough.

John sidled up to the truck and opened the passenger door, watching her with a funny expression.

"What?" she snipped, blushing hotly.

"Did you make that coffee just for me?"

"I did," she said, digging an envelope from her pack and holding it out. "This is for you."

"What is it?"

"Gas money."

"No."

"I appreciate you taking me to work this week and I want to pay you back—"

"I said no."

"I don't care what you said," Margaret insisted, following him around to the driver's seat. "Take it, please. I already feel awful about your shirt and—"

"You asked me for a favour—"

"For which I'm trying to thank you, asshole."

"You could just say 'thank you'," John insisted his face immovable. "Like a normal person."

"Or you could just swallow your bloody old fashioned pride and accept the money," Margaret retorted. "Believe it or not, I'm trying to be nice."

"I believe you," John said. "But the answer is still no."

"Bloody impossible stubborn man," Margaret spun on her heel and walked back around the truck, jerking the door open before he could do it for her. "Did you ever think that paying for gas is the only way I have of saying thank you?"

"I don't need your money."

"Of course you don't, because you don't need anyone or anything, do you? I never even wanted to date you, yet here we are. And God knows why you're still keen to do this—"

"Because I want to—"

"And I wanted to make you some bloody coffee and look how that turned out? Burned to a crisp and you wouldn't even drink it."

"Are you pissed because you gave me a coffee bath or the fact that your coffee's shit?" John scowled, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Because neither of those is my fault."

"I—I don't know," she was almost yelling, furious that he could just stand there looking like he did, with his combed hair, handsome face, and bloody fit suit. "I don't know how to do this with you," she continued, shifting uncomfortably on her feet. The look on his face was dark, almost angry. She glanced down at the grass. "Please, just take the bloody money. I don't want you to spend any more on me—"

"Damnit, Margaret, this would be a hell of a lot easier if you would just get the goddamn stick out of your ass and—"

"Stop swearing," She snapped, climbing into the passenger seat. "We're late."

"Oh, so now you care about being on time—"

"Shut up."

John took a deep breath, his face lined with frustration. He walked around the truck and slid into the driver's seat with a grunt. They drove in a tense unpleasant silence, Margaret wrestling with herself. They'd both agreed to this arrangement and she wasn't going to give up because he made her blood boil with all his old fashioned nonsense. He was being unreasonably stubborn, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she owed John something more. Margaret raised her chin as he pulled up to the computer lab.

"Look, I know you're cross—

"I'm not angry," John interrupted. "I'm frustrated."

"Pardon me for not knowing the difference. You've so many colourful shades of pissed off sometimes it's hard to tell which is which."

"You," he turned, his face hard and angry, "are a royal pain in the ass."

"You think I don't know that?" Margaret glared back at him. "Because you've told me almost every bloody week since I first met you. I know I'm prickly and haughty and bitchy and whatever else everyone says, but I'm actually trying not to be and you're making it very difficult."

"Maybe you should try harder."

Margaret flinched back, the remark cutting more deeply than she anticipated. They stared at each other for a moment.

"So now what?" John asked, his voice rumbling in his chest.

"We can't break up until January," Margaret replied stiffly. "So we just carry on until then."

"You would really break up with me over gas money?"

She rolled her eyes, "No, of course not, but—"

"But what?"

"I don't want to spend the next six months feeling like you're doing all the work." His frown deepened, looking for all the world as if the thought had never occurred to him. Margaret sighed, gathering her pack and laptop, and muttered "Thanks for the ride."

"Wait," He gently slid a hand around her wrist before she could go. "We need to finish this."

"No, we don't. Not today."

"Tomorrow."

Margaret chewed her lip, and shivered. She'd forgotten that he was still gently holding her, his hand warm and rough and—She shook herself and shrugged, "I'll think about it."

His face twitched, and she frowned. He looked like he wanted to say something sarcastic, but then he nodded and let go.

Saturday: May 20, 2006

Margaret scribbled on yet another post-it note, reading through Edith's itinerary for the twentieth?—thirtieth?—time that day. With John insisting on working forty hours, she was attempting to wrangle their schedules into something manageable for their week in New York City, but it was slowly turning into a tangled mess. She ran her fingers absently over the bandage on her hand. Dr Lang had excused her tardiness yesterday when she explained the burn, but her pride still smarted. Margaret glanced at the polaroid of John tucked into a corner of her desk. She'd spent the last two days trying to ignore their argument but her conscience wouldn't let her.

Maybe you should try harder

Margaret shook her head, his blunt honesty ruffling her temper. She'd agreed to this mad-hat dating scheme, and she was trying wasn't she? The gas money and the coffee were her trying. What else was she supposed to do?

Try harder

"Shut up," she muttered under her breath, forcing her eyes away from John's picture. She frowned, put on the office headset, and dialed, drumming her fingers as she counted the rings.

"Is this an emergency, Marg? Because if not, I'm hanging up."

"Most people answer their telephones with a polite colloquial phrase, the most common being 'hello'. You might try it, Bessie."

"Is this going to be a My-Cousin-Is-A-Bitch-And-I-Might-Kill-Her conversation or a My-Boyfriend-Has-Me-All-Hot-And-Bothered conversation?"

"Could you please not? Not today, Bessie."

"Those are the only two emergencies that warrant you waking me up on a Saturday."

"I need advice."

"About?"

"If you had a hypothetical fight with your hypothetical boyfriend and then you decided to talk to him about it, what would you do to show you were—" Margaret hesitated, then said reluctantly, "making a solid effort?"

"Do I even want to know why you woke me up for this shit?"

"Why are you asleep? It's nearly three."

"You'd sleep too if you spent the last week driving a semi from Milton to Sacramento and back again."

"You're the one who quit school—"

"Stop right there, Margaret Hale. This conversation is about you having a sexy fight with John, not about my educational choices."

"First of all, fights are never sexy—"

"They are when John-hot-as-hell-Thornton is involved—"

"—Second, could you please stop lusting after my boyfriend?" Margaret snapped, tossing her pen aside, hand and head throbbing. "It's gross and inappropriate and—"

"And it's starting to piss you off?" Bess chuckled. "Maybe you should do something about it."

"Like what, exactly? He's the one who refuses to let me share the expense of our dates or help with the gas money or—anything really. All I do is sit around feeling guilty because he's not terrible company all the time and I'm actually bloody grateful I won't have to go to this wedding on my own and he's doing far more than I ever expected so what the bloody hell am I supposed to do?"

"Wait, just to clarify," Bess said with a yawn, "you're mad at John because he's been really nice to you?"

"I—" Margaret swallowed. "That's not fair."

"You know what I think? You're not mad because he's being nice. You're actually mad because he's trying and you're not."

"I am trying—"

"Yeah, you're trying to make yourself feel less guilty by paying for gas and dates which has everything to do with making yourself feel better and nothing to do with doing something nice for John."

Margaret sat back, a little stunned. "It's sounds bloody awful when you say it like that."

"It sounds bad no matter how you say it."

"So what do I do?"

"If he was my boyfriend—"

"—which he's not."

"—I'd cook him dinner, light a few candles, make out a little—wait, you can cook, right?"

"Of course I can," Margaret snapped. "I might not be a miracle worker but he won't starve."

"Then my advice is steak, mashed potatoes, and apple pie a la mode. Guaranteed recipe for dinner with a happy ending."

"What do you mean, a 'happy ending?'"

"God, Marg, you really are sexually obtuse," Bess sighed. "Dinner plus candles plus flirting equals sexual activity, preferably of the orgasmic kind, ergo a very happy ending."

"How are we still friends?"

"I tell you the truth and put up with your bullshit."

"Right, go on then kettle and call the pot black," Margaret rolled her eyes, "I'm hanging up now," and she disconnected the call, a flash of lightning pulling her attention to the window.

The sky cast a cloudy half gloom as thick steel-coloured clouds rolled in promising a soaker within the hour. She wrinkled her nose, fidgeting in her seat. John wouldn't back out of their date, would he? Her fingers twitched with the sudden impulse to ring him up at work and confirm. The spluttering patter of raindrops on the window was followed by a growling roll of thunder. Margaret deliberately folded her hands in her lap and began to peruse her notes on Edith's itinerary. She would not ring. If he came then fine and if he didn't then—well, that would be fine too.

Perfectly fine.

"Marlborough Shipping. This is John Thornton."

"How does anyone work eighty hours in one week?"

John sat up straighter at the clipped British accent, "Margaret?"

"That's approximately fourteen hours per day, if you skip Sundays."

"Look at that. You can do math."

"I'm serious, John. How do you even have half a life?"

"I don't," He said, sighing. It had been a hell of a long day and he still wasn't done with the pile of paperwork demanding his attention. "Did you need something?"

She hesitated, "How was your fancy meeting?"

"Fine."

"And?"

"Margaret, cut the shit and tell me why you're calling."

"Do you still want to talk about yesterday?" She blurted, an odd sort of hesitancy in her voice. "Because you said you would come over tonight and—we could attempt to not argue. I mean, I know it's supposed to storm but—I'd like to talk," she trailed off and waited.

John sat back, a little surprised. When he'd dropped her off at work yesterday he figured she'd need a good week or so to cool off before they spoke again. He glanced at the three giant stacks of files on his desk, weighing his options. But if he said no—

"John?"

"I can't come until eight. I'm up to my eyeballs in paperwork."

"Actually, that's perfect. I'm closing the lab so eight would give me enough time to make supper."

John frowned, his mind running in three opposing directions, "You're working today?"

"I am," she admitted. She hadn't told him and they both knew she'd done it on purpose.

"You're still pissed about the gas money." It wasn't a question.

"Can you blame me?"

"You usually open." He said, ignoring her reply.

"Yes, and I also close. Today and pretty much every day until June. The poor can't be picky."

"Wait, every day?" He demanded, his voice suddenly harsh. "How have you been getting home?"

"The bus," Margaret replied, annoyed. "Is that a problem?"

"Being lied to is a huge problem for me," John growled.

"I didn't lie."

"Lying by omission is still lying."

"Why the bloody hell would I mention it? I always take the bus. Besides, I already owe you a week's worth of time and gas and I wasn't keen on owing you any more. You're the one that refuses to accept it."

"That's not the point."

"Then what is the bloody point, John?"

"I'm not keeping a score card, but you clearly are and it's starting to piss me off."

"You've literally paid for every single date we've been on, and driven me about like you're a bloody chauffeur. I'm sorry but I'm no longer comfortable with it."

"Too damn bad."

"No, that's not how this works," she snapped. "We agreed to do this dating thing on the condition that we tell the truth. That was your brilliant idea, remember?"

"Which you keep conveniently forgetting—"

"I hate feeling like I owe you something all the time. You're being almost decent to me now that we're dating and what have I done for you?"

"We're not competing, Margaret—"

"It's bloody rotten of me and you know it. So, yeah, I didn't tell you I was riding the bus at night because I knew you'd insist on picking me up and I didn't want you to."

The line fell silent and John took a slow deep breath. "Why is it so damn hard for you to let someone look out for you?"

"I—that's not—" Margaret fumbled. "Never mind. This is so stupid. Why are we even doing this?"

"Answer the question."

"What about you?" She retorted, ignoring him. "Why is it so bloody hard for you to let someone give you something?"

John's hand tightened around the handset, his jaw muscle twitching.

"Say something, please."

"If I take your stupid gas money," he grumbled, "will you please stop riding the damn bus at night?"

"What?" She almost laughed. "Is public transportation really the hill you want to die on?"

"Maggie—" John let out a frustrated breath. "Please?"

"Alright," she said with a sigh. "But if you're going to pick me up at night, you're not picking me up in the morning."

"The hell I'm not—"

"No, you're not. The whole point was to be on time for my shifts and that hasn't exactly worked, has it?"

"Your fault, not mine," John snorted. "You close at six, right?"

"Don't you dare come tonight—"

"You owe me a dinner," John said, a smile growing on his face as he remembered what she'd said earlier. "Do you even know how to cook?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?" Margaret demanded. "I was the primary source of nutrition for my family for years, thanks. So yes, I can—in fact—cook food into an edible state. It might even be tasty if you're lucky." A roll of thunder broke over their conversation, and John glanced out the window. Margaret drew in a breath, "Are you certain you have time—for tonight?"

"I'll make it work."

"That's not what I asked," she said firmly. "The truth, if you please."

"I'm way behind on paperwork," John stood, scowling at the rain pounding hard against the two small windows in his office. "If I don't make a serious dent in it soon there'll be hell to pay."

"I told you we didn't have to go out every week."

"Well," he drawled, grinning. "About a month ago I started dating this pretty girl and she is kind of a hand full."

"Ha ha," Margaret said, and he could almost hear her roll her eyes. "Stop smiling like you've said something clever and see to your work. Never mind tonight."

"What about dinner? I haven't eaten today."

"Put it on my tab," she said with a teasing sniff, and then hung up.

John replaced the handset on his desk, shook his head, and turned his hat around backwards, still smiling as he grabbed a stack of files. About half an hour later, a soaked delivery boy showed up with a large pepperoni pizza.

"I didn't order this."

"Chick on the phone said to give you this." The boy held out a scribbled note.

Only idiots go all day without eating.

"Thanks," John tucked the note into his wallet, tipped the driver, and returned to his desk, chuckling. "Crazy-ass woman."

Margaret lay in bed, staring at her ceiling, a little restless. He'd called her pretty. No one had every done that before and she didn't know what to think. All her mind seemed capable of doing was playing and replaying his voice in her head.

I'm dating this pretty girl...

She fell asleep hoping he ate the entire pizza.

AN : Can I say this chapter was a beast to put together?

Also, how is the pacing treating you? Too slow? Too fast? Any other thoughts for me? Date ideas? (Yes, I'm crowd-sourcing and no, I don't care. I personally think crowd-sourcing is writer's gold.)

As always, you're the best, loves. Cheers.

(Thanks ColleenD for spell checking this mess.)