Thursday: June 1, 2006

"Run me through it again," John sat on the Hale's kitchen floor listening to Margaret ramble on about the plan for Edith's wedding next week as he fiddled with the broken dishwasher. At least he was trying to listen. "Slower."

"Weren't you paying attention the first time?" Margaret huffed, pushing her hair out of her eyes. She stood by the stovetop, hair in a messy bun, alternating between stirring a pot of boiling noodles and scribbling notes in her itinerary binder. She kept biting her lip, which kept John's attention on her lips more than anything else.

"It's not my wedding, so I don't really give a damn," he said, still distracted by her mouth. He could've had the dishwasher done a lot faster if he could just keep his damn focus on the motor. "Even if it was I still wouldn't care that much."

"You're impossible," she nudged him out of the way with her foot, setting a strainer in the sink. "I pity the woman mad enough to marry you. Well, if you ever get married, that is."

"If?" He pushed back his hat. "What makes you so sure I won't get married?"

"Because you're you."

John frowned, and pointed, "Your water's boiling over."

Margaret yelped and hurried to snap off the burner.

"Are you sure you don't want help?"

"I can make spaghetti—"

"Your sauce is burning."

"Bloody hell," She quickly moved the pan to the back of the stove, sauce splashing onto the still-lit burner, hissing angrily. John couldn't hold back a low rumbling chuckle, and she whirled around, "Shut up," Margaret pushed his hat off his head, and snatched a rag from the sink. "This whole thing was your idea in the first place—"

"I offered to fix your broken dishwasher," John yanked his hat back on and selected a wrench from his tool bag. "You're the one that insisted on cooking. I was just trying to be nice—"

"So am I." She snipped. "Obviously."

"It's not my fault you're wound tighter than a spring about this stupid-ass wedding."

"I am not—"

"Maggie, I've seen thoroughbred race horses more relaxed than you." He grunted, tightening a bolt on the dishwasher's motor. "It's just a wedding. What's the worse that could happen?"

"It's not just a wedding." Margaret snapped. She threw her spoon into the sink and sighed, shoulders slumping. "You don't understand, and—it's fine, I don't really expect you to care."

John tossed his wrench back into his bag, and then grabbed her hand, tugging gently.

"What are you—"

"Sit."

"Not on the floor—"

"Sit down," he pulled until she reluctantly joined him, leaning against the cabinets, bits of machinery and tools scattered around them. John laced his fingers through hers. "It's just a wedding," he said firmly.

"But—"

"Maggie," John interrupted, tightening his grip. "You're the maid of honor, not the wedding planner. It's not your job to make sure everything goes off without a hitch."

Margaret glared at him, "You're just saying that because you want me to stop bothering you about it."

"Maybe a little."

"Shall I just write it all down for you then? Make an idiot proof chart, yeah?"

"Knock yourself out," John grinned. "I won't read it."

"Are you quite finished?" Margaret elbowed him and started to get up, but he slid an arm around her shoulders, keeping her where she was.

"Sit for a minute."

She sighed and poked him, but he didn't let go. She was still jumpy as hell whenever he tried to touch her, but John didn't mind too much. "Who told you the dishwasher was broken anyway?" She asked.

"I noticed the last time I was here." He stretched out his legs, enjoying the warm press of her against his side. "You need a new one."

"We can't afford it." She said with a huff, squirming a little. "Will you please let go now?"

"Do you have to be so prickly all the damn time?"

"Prickly?" Margaret squeaked, stiffening. "I'm not prickly, I just—I'm not used to—It's just awkward, alright?"

"It's only awkward because you make it awkward," John leaned his head against the cabinets and closed his eyes. "Relax for two damn minutes, woman. It'll do you good."

"Don't call me woman."

"You're missing the point."

"Do you want some spaghetti or not?"

"Is it burned?"

"Not exactly."

John snorted and cracked an eye. She had her arms crossed and was glaring at him, looking disheveled, angry, and beautiful.

"It's edible," Margaret insisted. "You're the one that insisted on staying to fix the dishwasher—"

"Which I did." John stood and held out a hand, pulling her to her feet. He quickly loaded the machine and started it, smiling as it purred like a kitten. "Good as new. For now anyways."

"Brilliant," Margaret dished out some noodles onto two plates. "I'm not sure this spaghetti is sufficient payment."

John eyed his portion, then shrugged. "It'll eat." They settled easily around the kitchen table, pushing stacks of papers, books and other piles of junk out of the way. "What time is your flight Sunday?"

Margaret glared at him, her fork halfway to her mouth, "So you were listening?"

"I got the basic outline."

"I'm still making you a list."

"I'm still not reading it."

"Do you enjoy being the most unreasonably stubborn person on the planet?"

"When it suits me."

She rolled her eyes, "My flight's at eleven but you don't have to be there until Monday evening."

"For the wedding party mixer thing?"

She nodded, grabbing a pen, "You'll need a suit for that. Not too formal, mind." Margaret chewed on her lip, scribbling on a bit of paper, talking all the while about the acceptable parameters of his clothing. John frowned, his hand hovering over his plate. He knew she didn't wear much makeup, but somehow her lips always looked like she'd just kissed someone.

"John?" Margaret reached over and tapped her pen against the bill of his hat. "Do you have more than the one suit?"

"I—,"He blinked, clearing his throat, "I've got four suits."

"Excellent. What colors?"

"Normal ones," he rolled his eyes. "I'll make sure I'm presentable."

"Somehow you're not inspiring much confidence."

"Smartass."

"Your fault, not mine," she retorted, tossing a mischievous smile over her shoulder as he took their dirty dishes to the counter. John was about to reply when the doorbell rang. He trudged out of the kitchen, ducked under the hall chandelier, and opened the door.

"Package for Margaret Hale." The delivery man held out a receipt for John to sign. The box looked fancy, white with silver edging, and an embossed silver fox on top. "You got something."

Margaret didn't look up. He watched her for a moment, and then grinned. She jumped with a little yelp when John dropped the box onto the table with a sharp thump.

"Why do you do things like that?" She demanded.

"Because you're too damn easy to tease," he flicked open his pocket knife and set it on top of the box before returning his attention to the mess of tools on the floor. "You're funny when you're mad."

"I wish you'd bloody tease someone else, thanks."

"Where's the fun in that?" John tossed a screwdriver back into his bag, pocketing a few screws, "So what is it?"

"Nothing." He glanced up at the funny little choke in her voice. Margaret held a fistful of tissue paper for a split second before hurriedly replacing it. "I'll just pop this upstairs."

John stepped in front of her, blocking her path, a sly grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, "What is it, Maggie?"

"My bridesmaid dress." She squared her shoulders. "Now move."

"Can I see it?"

"Absolutely not—"

"Why? Is it really that ugly?"

"It's not ugly, it's just—"

"Liar." He tugged the lid up enough to catch a flash of pink. "Pink?"

"Shut up," Margaret backed away, but John followed. She bumped into the wall, clasping the box to her chest, her chin raised in superior defiance. "You're not supposed to see yet. Not till the wedding."

"It's pink and fluffy."

"Pink is delightful—"

"You hate pink."

"Is this you teasing me again because you find it funny?"

John grinned, "Maybe."

"Stop grinning like an idiot. Honestly, it's like dating a five-year-old." Margaret tried to wriggle past, but John slid his arm around her waist, pinning her.

"Is it?" he asked, his voice low.

They stood there for a moment longer, the large box the only thing keeping their bodies separate. She licked her lips and shifted against him, "Please let go." But John was no longer paying attention.

The soft floral scent of her hair, the warmth of her back under his arm, and the curve of her lips, now wet from her tongue, had all stolen the lightness of the moment and transformed it into something unexpected. When they first started dating, it was almost a game to him. He'd wanted to play just to see what might happen. But now the game had changed. A new stirring hunger for more—more of her body, more of her smile, more of her dry humor, her intelligence, her fight, her fire, more of her—almost took his breath away.

If you're serious about this girl, bring her for dinner.

"John?"

"Have dinner with me."

Margaret frowned, "We literally just had dinner."

"With your mother?"

"Fanny might make an appearance too." John pressed closer. He knew he should let her go, could feel her stiffen in her discomfort, but— "Please?"

She hesitated, "I dunno, John—"

"I promise not to laugh when I see your bridesmaid dress, if you come."

"So this is blackmail, is it?" Margaret raised an eyebrow. But then she smiled, "Yeah, alright."

John reluctantly let go. "Can you come Saturday?"

"This Saturday?"

He nodded. "Might as well."

"Fine, but if you laugh at my dress at the wedding, I swear to God, John Thornton, you will regret it."

Saturday : June 3, 2006

"I can't believe I let you blackmail me into this," Margaret tugged at her skirt, and ran her fingers through her hair as they walked up the front stone steps of the old Thornton home. "First I had to have tea with her, then you wanted me to ring, and now you want us to have dinner and a chat like everything's all fine and tidy and—"

"Stop," John turned and took both of her hands, his hands steepled over them. "Her bark is worse than her bite."

"Like mother like son, yeah?"

A slow, strange look passed over his face. Then he grinned wickedly, "How do you know I don't bite?"

Margaret felt a hot blush creeping up her chest, neck, and face. "Wi-will Fanny be joining us?" She cleared her throat.

"I don't know." Margaret tried to disentangle herself, but found her right hand still firmly grasped in his. John had been doing that more, and she couldn't decide how she felt about it. Right now, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

As they stepped into the front hall, her grip tightened, and he glanced down. "Everything's fine."

"That's easy for you to say," Margaret whispered. "I might puke."

"Don't puke on me." John chuckled. "Or the carpet."

Margaret glared at him, swallowing her sharp retort when Hannah Thornton appeared in the hallway, looking as stern and severe as she always did. Her sharp blue eyes swept over them both, lingering on their joined hands for just a moment. The older woman blinked and Margaret managed a tight smile.

"How was work?"

"Fine," John tossed his hat, keys, and mobile onto the small entry table.

A thin awkward silence fell over them. Margaret shifted a little on her feet. John's thumb lightly brushed the back of her hand, a small encouragement, and she straightened her shoulders. She'd managed to date this man for a month and they were still in one piece. She would manage this too.

"Thank you for having me, Mrs Thornton," Margaret began. "It smells delicious."

Mrs Thornton nodded stiffly and led the way into the dining room. John mercifully carried the conversation until they were settled, asking his mother about her shift at the hospital, and other such small details that served to fill the glaringly awkward atmosphere created by Margaret's presence. They'd just bowed their heads to say grace, when a spurt of high pitched giggles interrupted Mrs Thornton. Fanny burst into the room, followed by a slender brunette with sparkling grey eyes.

"I thought I heard you, John," Fanny started, then she squealed, rushing around the table to awkwardly hug Margaret around the shoulders. "Of my Lord, you didn't say she was coming! Margaret, have you met my friend Anne Latimer?"

"I—no, I haven't," Margaret nodded politely at Anne. "I've heard you mentioned."

"Miss Latimer is the daughter of John's banker, George Latimer. They're old family friends," Hannah supplied.

"We'll join y'all for dinner," Fanny enthused, pulling out a chair next Margaret. "I've been dying to get my hands on you, Margaret Hale. John's hidden you away long enough."

"Fanny," Anne began, politely hesitant, but without real enthusiasm. "We probably shouldn't." She rested a hand on the back of the empty chair next to John.

"Don't be silly," Fanny beamed. "Mama doesn't mind do you?"

Margaret thought she saw the tiniest flicker of frustration in the stern face, but Mrs Thornton nodded, scrupulously civil. Anne, however didn't sit down. She merely flicked a sweet smile at John. Margaret frowned. What on earth was she waiting for?

"Excuse me," John said stiffly, sighing. He stood, pulled out the chair for Anne, and waited while she settled herself. Margaret watched with barely concealed annoyance. "I'll get an extra plate from the kitchen."

"Bring the wine since you're up," Mrs Thornton added.

"So, Margaret," Anne began, swiveling around to face her as soon as John left the room, "how long have you and John been..." she made a fluttering motion,"...together?"

"That depends on your definition of the word 'together'," Margaret answered. The tone of Anne's question grated on her. "We've been dating a little over a month, but I've spent much of this year in his company on a regular basis."

"When Fanny told me, I almost didn't believe her."

"She really didn't," Fanny agreed, giggling. "I thought her eyes would pop out. Mama's too for that matter—"

"Thank you, Fanny," Mrs Thornton said, with a tiny roll of her eyes that only Margaret seemed to notice.

"John's never really dated anyone besides Lucy Jo Perkins in the twelfth grade." Fanny gasped a little and slapped her hand over her mouth, "Oh shit, did he tell you about her yet?"

"Fanny," Mrs Thornton interjected. "Please—"

"Of course he told me about Lucy," Margaret said, keeping her attention on Anne, "He's very honest."

"Surely he keeps some secrets to himself," Anne purred, sharing a knowing look with Fanny.

Margaret willed herself to smile, "Every person has secrets, of course."

"So how did you meet?" Anne asked, turning to smile at John as he set down a plate, an empty wine glass, a water glass, and flatware."There you are, John. We were just talking about you."

"We had a class together, last term," Margaret interrupted sharply, frowning at the familiar light touch Anne gave John's arm. "We were critique partners."

"Lord, that must have been terrible," Fanny laughed. "How the hell did you manage to catch feelings for my stick-in-the-mud brother while he ripped your intellectual dignity to shreds?"

"Fan," John growled. He handed his mother the bottle of wine, and Margaret caught a small shared look of exasperation. "Knock it off."

"I'm just saying, you're not the nicest person when it comes to correcting mistakes, big brother."

"Well, I—" Margaret stuttered a little, blushing as she glanced at John. She hadn't 'caught feelings' for him. Not in the way Fanny was inferring, but what could either of them say without lying? "It sort of happened on its own."

"Oh come on. It had to be more than that," Anne leaned in, as if to share in the secret. "How did you manage to snag Milton's best catch?"

"I'm not a fish," John grumbled, and Margaret almost spit out her water.

"Would you care for wine, Anne?" Mrs Thornton deftly opened the bottle, the little pop of the cork cutting through the growing tension. "It's a Bordeaux. I believe your father enjoyed this very vintage when you were last here."

"Yes, thank you." Anne smiled pleasantly at Mrs Thornton, accepting the glass of wine she handed her. "Daddy loves a good Bordeaux."

"Margaret?" Mrs Thornton filled another glass, her eyebrows raised in question. Margaret nodded gratefully. She needed something stronger than water if she was going to make it through this dinner.

"You're eighteen, aren't you, Margaret?" Anne asked, taking a sip. "I would never have guessed you were so young. I suppose none of us did," she laughed and touched John on the arm again.

"I've forgotten to ask how old you are, Miss Latimer," Margaret replied a little louder than was necessary, trying to mask the coldness seeping into her voice. She took a deliberate sip of wine, and set the glass down with a delicate click. "How rude of me."

"I'm twenty-three." Anne replied easily, smiling again at John as he passed her the rolls, her fingers brushing his. As if only he could pass a basket of bloody bread so gallantly. Margaret bit her tongue—hard. Why did Anne keep touching him? And why the bloody hell did it make Margaret so—so irritated?

"I would've guessed younger," Margaret muttered under her breath, "based on your lack of manners."

John snorted, then coughed, shooting Margaret a look, half admiring shock, half wicked amusement. "Bread?" He held out the basket Anne had returned to him. Margaret gave him a pointed look, and raised an eyebrow in challenge.

"No thank you," Let him laugh, impossible man. This bloody dinner was his idea, and she wasn't about to let some woman he'd once snogged insult her. "Perhaps Anne would like more?"

Mrs Thornton quickly steered the table conversation to the holiday Fanny and Anne were planning next week. But Margaret barely listened, her temper slowly rising as Anne continued to find ways of touching John, laughing and smiling at him. All the while Margaret's imagination began playing all sorts of vivid scenarios of John and Anne snogging and even—

Margaret blushed, twisting her napkin in her lap, suddenly no longer hungry. He'd admitted snogging Anne was nice hadn't he? So where exactly did that leave her? She picked up her wine glass and took a healthy swallow.

John had endured his fair share of awkward dinner parties, but tonight almost took the cake. He kept a razor eye on his watch and on Margaret. She'd held her own in spite of the prying questions, falling mostly silent after her barbed exchange with Anne Latimer. She dutifully sipping her wine and pushed her food around her plate with her fork. When her silence turned into pointed discomfort, John glanced at his mother, shooting her a silent demand for reprieve. She caught his hard gaze and nodded the tiniest bit, still keeping Anne and Fanny talking. He set his napkin on the table, stood, and grabbed the top of Margaret's chair.

"Come on," he said, taking her hand. "There's coffee in the kitchen."

"Oh, bring us some too," Fanny called after them.

John deftly led Margaret through the house into the kitchen. Margaret skewered him with a dark look as soon as he opened his mouth to apologize.

"Not one word." She dropped his hand and folded her arms. "I don't want coffee."

"Want has nothing to do with it," John lifted down two mugs from the high shelf, and poured them each a cup, "You've had two glasses of wine and not nearly enough to eat." He handed her the mug. "Drink."

Margaret rolled her eyes, taking a dutiful sip, "Does your family ever host a dinner party without it being bloody awkward? Because I'm two for two, John Thornton."

"About Anne—" he broke off at the sound of approaching footsteps. "Shit," he grabbed Margaret's free hand and slipped from the kitchen towards the back staircase.

"What are we doing?"

"Escaping." He clambered up the darkened stairs, Margaret close on his heels. He only hesitated a fraction before shouldering open his bedroom door, kicking it shut behind them. He flicked on a lamp and sat heavily on the bed. Immediately some of the tension of the evening melted away.

"Won't your mother be angry that we've disappeared?" Margaret said, her voice waspish. She glared at her cup as if the black liquid offended her.

"She knows," John took a long sip of coffee and jerked his head to the bed. "Sit down before you fall down."

"I'm not drunk—"

"—Didn't say you were."

"—and the drinking age in the UK is eighteen, thank you."

"I don't care, and neither does my mother. Sit."

"I'm not sitting on your bed, with you, in your mother's house. She might think we—that we're—"

"That we're what?"

"You know very well what."

"That we're dating?"

"I'm fine standing."

"That's what she said."

Margaret choked, nearly dropping her coffee. John barely managed to keep his face blank as he dug his handkerchief from his pocket and held it out. She took it with an angry swipe, wiping coffee from her face and blouse.

"I told you," she growled, "God, it's up my nose—asshole—I said dating you would be—" she made a very unladylike sound in her throat and John snickered. She had to be a little tipsy or she'd never make a noise like that. "Shut up—that it would be a bloody disaster and I was right."

"For dinner with my family, it wasn't half bad."

"I can't imagine Christmas," Margaret grumbled, letting him pull her down next to him on the bed. "Bloody wonderful time that must be. Tell me, does your sister always bring your former girlfriends round or was this a special occasion?"

"Are you jealous?" He was definitely enjoying this looser version of Margaret. She opened her mouth, then frowned, hesitating. "Don't lie to me, Maggie."

"Don't call me 'Maggie'"

"Answer the question," John held her gaze, slurping his coffee loudly, "Maggie."

"Perhaps," she admitted, turning a very bright shade of red. "Perhaps a very little—not really—but a bit."

"Why?" He set his coffee on the nightstand. "I never dated her."

"But you've kissed her. With tongues."

"I have. And?"

"I'm your girlfriend, John, and—well, you've never kissed me—"

"Because you threatened to kick me in the balls."

"I did not. I said I would kick you, but I didn't say where. I don't even think I could reach your..." she waved a hand at him, blushing furiously, "—you know—never mind. I meant your shins or something...lower—oh God, why are we talking about this?"

"The point is," he chuckled, "you told me not to."

"Yes, I know I did, but—" Margaret shifted, nervously moving her mug from one hand to the next. "W-would you though?"

"Kiss you?"

"I mean hypothetically. If I was a normal girlfriend would you want to kiss me, now that we've been together a month and a bit? Or—or would you wait a bit longer—"

"Maggie, you are a normal girlfriend."

"—Bloody hell, I don't know how any of this is supposed to work—I just meant—"

"The real question is," John interrupted, slowly prying the hot mug from her fingers, "are you asking me to kiss you?" His voice dropped to a deep rumble, not quite a growl, not quite a whisper. "Because I would've done it weeks ago if I thought I could get away with it."

"Oh."

That one soft word was almost John's undoing, but he knew if he kissed Margaret now, he wouldn't be able to stop. Not here, not in his bedroom with the door shut, not with her tipsy enough to let her guard down, not like this. It wouldn't be right. John drew in a steady slow breath through his nose and sighed heavily. Patience wasn't his strongest virtue, but he would damn well be patient for her. "Come on," He stood, holding out his hand. "I'll take you home."

"Home?" Margaret blinked up at him, looking a little dazed. She frowned. "You're just going to take me home after all that?"

"Yes," A small knot of smug satisfaction lodged itself in his chest. It was almost worth not kissing her to see how much she actually wanted him to. At least he hoped she wanted him to, and it wasn't just his mother's Bordeaux talking. He'd been wrong before when it came to Margaret Hale, and he'd be damned if he messed it up now. "Were you hoping for something else?" He teased, taking her hand and pulling her to her feet.

"I—no—shut up." Margaret quickened her pace, and John lengthened his stride, sliding his hand to the small of her back, enjoying how the muscles quivered just a little. "W-we ought to see your mother before we go."

"She'll be in the parlor."

He didn't know what the hell had gotten into him. He knew Margaret wasn't enthusiastic about their relationship. She mentioned their breaking up almost as much as she told him how much she disliked him. Still—she was jealous of Anne and that was something. He wasn't sure what it was, but he'd take it. They said their goodbyes, and drove the entire way to her father's house in companionable silence.

John viciously wrestled with himself, fists clenched in his pockets, as he walked Margaret to her door. It would've been so damn easy to kiss her right there and a lot easier to stop once he started, but—John swore under his breath. She frowned at him, waited half a beat, then said a soft 'goodnight' and slipped through the door.

"Shit." He leaned back against the house, letting out a ragged breath, and raked his hands through his hair, dragging them back over his face. "Get a fucking grip, John."

Not kissing her was going to be a hell of a lot harder than he thought.

"I'm so stupid."

And for the first time in his life, he actually believed it was true.

Hannah Thornton had hoped for a different outcome from tonight's dinner. It could've been far worse, but at least the evening had been informative. She poured herself a small measure of whiskey, and sat at her desk, pulling out a heavy cream colored notecard. From the first time she'd seen her son with Margaret Hale, almost a year ago, there had been an undeniable change in him. And now he'd changed again.

Hannah sighed, and took a small sip. John's behavior tonight was much the same as it always was, but his focus had irrevocably shifted. She could see, even if he couldn't, that Margaret Hale was quickly becoming the center of his world. She'd be a fool to try and stop him now. Better to try and get know the Hale girl, and pray for the best. Hannah sighed and picked up her pen.

AN: First, I know, I KNOW! It's been far too long since I posted on this story. I got very sidetracked. BUT thank you (truly) for everyone who's waited patiently for this and continues to read and review.

Second, the next chapter we dive into the wedding. If you have any fake-date tropes you'd like to see in the wedding chapters, comment and I'll try and work them in and give you credit!

Also : A particular thank you to KMariaJ for suggesting I bring in Anne Latimer to spice things up. It was the catalyst I needed to make this chapter really work. Cheers.