To Hell With Trouble (The Rhythm Of Life : Chapter Seven | John Fixes the Hale's Dryer)
Friday: September 15, 2007
"Mr Thornton, what are you doing?"
John Thornton shifted enough to pull his head out of the innards of the Hale's dryer to look at Margaret. He'd arrived about two hours ago to check on Richard Hale and found the older man puzzling over the machine in mild distress. John promptly rolled up his sleeves, shoving aside the nagging list of things he needed to get done at the office, and disassembled the machine into more than a dozen pieces that littered the tiny kitchen floor. He was now sprawled out on his side, trying to splice a frayed wire at the bottom of the machine.
"Your dryer is a piece of shit," he grumbled as Margaret dumped her backpack onto the table, eyeing him warily.
"I know," she sighed, and rubbed her forehead. "It's more trouble than it's worth."
John scowled as he studied her. There were dark circles under Margaret's eyes and she looked like she could use a decent meal, her blouse hanging a little too loosely on her.
"Did my father ask you to do that?"
"No."
"So why're you—"
"I offered to have a look." John grunted. He returned his focus to the pesky wire.
"If you break it, I can't afford a new one."
"I won't break it," he insisted, his voice bouncing off the metal.
"Such confidence." She flopped down at the table and John heard her rummaging around in her backpack.
John rolled his eyes, "I wouldn't have offered to fix it if I wasn't certain I could."
"Have you always been so useful?"
"Depends on your definition of the word. I've always liked tinkering with machines. I took apart my mother's favorite iron when I was seven."
"She let you—"
"No. She was so pissed she couldn't even speak. I had to wait for my father to come home to deal with me."
"What happened?"
John swiped the back of his hand across his forehead, remembering. He was always causing his mother a world of trouble but his father always laughed it off, which had only made his mother more angry. John smiled a little.
"He told me to fix or he'd kick my ass. So I fixed it." John growled, snatching up his wire cutters. "I never met a machine I couldn't take apart and put back together better than it was before."
"Brilliant for you. Do you want a ribbon for that?"
"Shut up."
Margaret snorted, her voice laced with annoyance. "If that blows up, I'll hold you responsible."
"If it blows up, I'll buy you a new one."
"You don't have money for that. Besides I wouldn't let you."
"Like hell you wouldn't," he grumbled as he screwed the plastic cap on the wire. It was a miracle the damn machine hadn't caught fire. But then that could be said about half of the appliances in the Hale home. "I'd have this thing out of here and the new one hooked up before you could open your smartass mouth."
"You—you—" Margaret's voice trailed off. "You called the man about the air conditioner, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"You shouldn't have done that—"
"Yes, I should." He tossed his wire cutters into his tool bag, snatched the motor cover, grabbed a screw driver, and began to secure the cover into place. "How long has this thing been fried?"
"Don't you dare buy us a new dryer—"
"I'm not offering to," John sat up and wiped his face with the hem of his shirt. "Answer the damn question."
"A couple of weeks."
"Specifics, Maggie."
"Why does it matter?"
"When shit like this breaks sometimes there's a warranty still in effect," John grunted, tightening a bolt.
"Do you really think my father knows where the paperwork for the warranty is?"
"Fair enough." John shifted, his irritation growing.
When he'd taken Margaret shooting right after her mother's funeral, he'd hoped the state of Richard Hale's home was a temporary disaster, brought on by his wife's death. He knew Richard wasn't the most mindful person—it was why John had called the HVAC company without even asking the older man. Still, the more time John spent with Margaret and her father, the more he saw just how much responsibility she carried. And he didn't like it.
"Why didn't you call?"
"The same reason I didn't call the man about the AC. The service fee is too expensive—"
"No," he interrupted. "Why didn't you call me?"
"You? Why on earth would I call you?" Margaret pointed out, her voice annoyed as she hauled herself to her feet. "You're too busy to eat or sleep half of the time, and the other half is spent managing Fanny or your mother or a hundred other things that people think they need you to do for them. I would never ask you for help."
John bristled at her words. They were a slap in the face and he felt his temper bubble to the surface at their sharpness.
"How the hell do you know if I eat or sleep?"
Margaret had marched to the fridge and had her back to him.
"I manage just fine." He continued, gathering the remaining bits scattered about the floor, popping them back into place. "If anyone needs to eat, it's you, not me."
"That's none of your business," She slammed something on the counter, but John wasn't paying attention.
He pushed himself to his feet and lifted the drum back into its cradle. "Like hell it's not. I've got eyes—"
"Mr. Thornton—"
"John." He turned and crossed his arms. "My name is John, Maggie. Would it kill you to use it?"
"My name isn't Maggie," she retorted, turned to face him, holding a plate of food in her hand. "Now stop growling at me and eat."
John stared at the plate she held out. On it were two meat and cheese sandwiches cut in half and arrange around a pile of potato chips and cut vegetables in the center.
"I'm not done with the dryer," he said finally.
"You are for as long as it takes you to eat this," she shoved the plate at him and he grasped it when she started to let go. "Go on then."
"I'm not—"
"Damn it, John, just eat. Please."
He stared at her for a moment longer, before he shrugged, sat on the floor, and took a bite. The second he started, his stomach complained so loud that Margaret raised her eyebrows and gave him her superior math face.
John rolled his eyes, "Shut up."
"I didn't say anything. Shall I make coffee too?"
"Your coffee sucks."
"Smart ass," Margaret swatted his hat off his head and started to turn back to the stove, but John reached up, hooked an arm around her waist and yanked her down on the floor next to him. "John! What are you—"
He handed her half of a sandwich.
"I don't want it."
"I'll make the coffee," John said, ignoring her.
It didn't take him long to get the coffee machine up and running. He poured two mugs full and sat back down, scooting one across the floor towards Margaret.
"No, thank you," Margaret said, looking disdainfully at the cup of coffee. "I've had your poisonous tar, and I'd like to keep the rest of the lining in my stomach."
"You liked it." John insisted, slurping his coffee, pleased to see that she'd almost finished her food. He picked up another sandwich half and ate it in two bites. "Admit it."
"I was being polite."
John snorted, licking his fingers, "Polite, my ass."
Margaret elbowed him, but she picked up the cup he'd made for her and took a dutiful sip, holding his gaze as if she were daring him to contradict her. "There. Happy now?"
John held out the plate where one sandwich half remained. Margaret shook her head.
"You're hungrier than I am."
"I can eat at home, Maggie."
"But you won't." She took another sip. "You'll go to the Depot and work yourself to death, like you always do."
John opened his mouth to protest but she was right. He considered her for a moment, her words echoing in his mind. Margaret shifted slightly under his scrutiny and something about their entire heated exchange—about the dryer and who was eating enough and who wasn't—snapped into place in his head.
Somehow they had gone from adversaries to tentative friends to actually caring about what the other person did. He cared about Margaret. A lot. John's eyes widened.
Maybe—just maybe she cared about him.
"What?" Margaret shifted again, folding her arms around herself.
"How do you know what I always do?"
"You do the same things over and over again, like clockwork. Anyone with a half a brain could puzzle out your habits in a month."
"But you're the first person to bother."
Margaret scoffed as she started to climb to her feet, but John grabbed her hand.
"Answer the question, Maggie."
"Why do you keep calling me that?" She demanded, trying to pull away. "I never said you could."
"I like it."
"I don't."
John smiled a little, tugging her closer until she was practically in his lap. "I think you do."
"I think you should go."
"I'll go when I'm done."
"The dryer can—"
"I'm not talking about the dryer," John grumbled, pushing a strand of hair out of her face, sliding his hand into her messy braid.
"Don't you dare try and make this romantic," she snapped, pushing his hand away.
"Who said I was trying?" He demanded, yanking her into his lap. "You'll be the first to know when and where I decide to be romantic."
"You couldn't be romantic if your life depended on it, John Thornton." Margaret said, but her voice had dropped to a whisper as he linked his arms around her waist. "Now would please—"
"Shut up and kiss me, Maggie."
Margaret's eyes flashed with her temper, "Don't tell me what to do."
"You're really ruining this moment."
"The bloody hell I am," she snapped, grabbing his shirt in her fists.
John knew he was in trouble. He almost lost his balance as Margaret kissed him with all the fight and fire he'd fallen in love with since the first day he'd met her. The one kiss turned into another and another and another. If he didn't stop soon they'd both be in trouble. Like a spark catching a bale of hay, he felt her soul light his own on fire. An aching hollowness, half hunger, half desperate, uncoiled itself inside him. Margaret tangled her hands in his hair, pushing him further back.
Shit.
To hell with trouble.
John barely noticed when he bumped his head against the side of the dryer. Or when he rolled over his screwdriver and wrench. Or when Margaret elbowed him in the face. But he did notice when the front door opened. His temper flared for a brief moment before reality washed over him like big bucket of ice cold water. He pushed himself off the floor and scrambled to his feet. Margaret sat up, trying to tidy her hair, running a nervous hand over the new wrinkles in her blouse and skirt.
"John?" Richard called from the hall.
"In here," John hauled Margaret to her feet, snatched his hat from the floor, and tugged it into place just as the older man walked into the room. "Almost done."
"Well done," Richard smiled and nodded at them as he shuffled down towards the small den he used as an office.
John glanced at Margaret.
"I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have done that," she blushed, hurriedly gathering up the tools scattered across the floor. As she did, another realisation snapped into place.
"I'm not sorry," John said firmly. "But you should know two things."
She stiffened and she almost dropped the tools she held, "Wha—what?"
He held up a finger, "I love you." Margaret gasped but he just held up a second finger, "And I'd marry you tomorrow if you'd let me."
"I don't—" She looked a little dazed, her gaze darting from John to her feet and back again. "How the bloody hell did you jump from snogging me to marriage?"
"I don't have time to fuck around."
"John!" Margaret almost choked.
"Would go out with me tonight?"
"Go out where?"
"On a date."
Margaret's eyes widened, "Right now?"
"Right now."
She narrowed her eyes at him, and straightened her shoulders, "If I say yes to this date, it's not a yes to marrying you."
John rolled his eyes, "I know, Maggie."
"Alright then. Yes."
John knew the smile that split his face made him like a damn idiot, but he couldn't help it. He was going to get his other yes if it killed him. It might take a couple of months—or weeks, if their interlude in the kitchen was any indicator. But that yes would be worth every ounce of trouble he put into it.
AN : Thanks for all the well wishes, lads. I forgot to mention that the last chapter (and this one) were specifically suggested by ColleenD, who's a lovely writer herself. Go check out her work. Hope you don't mind another chapter so quick. I get the weekend off and then it's back to the daily grind. Cheers.