A/n: Should have had this Beta'd but couldn't wait.

He hadn't kissed her that night, nor had she kissed him. She liked him — fancied him, even — and more than suspected he fancied her.

Still, they hadn't kissed that first evening and they hadn't kissed the Saturday following when he and his mother brought Snatch round to her gran's house. Nor the afternoon he came by with a jar of strawberry preserves that Mrs. Bates had made (along with apologies that it was from the summer previous when the local berries produced a bumper crop) and stayed for a cuppa and a walk about the rainy property in a borrowed pair of her grandfather's boots. That time she thought he might, there was a moment when she felt his look like a pulse, but he frowned and began rattling on about how beautifully constructed the old barn was. He was talkative when he was nervous. At least she thought he seemed nervous.

She didn't know what to do with any of it. It had been too long since she'd even half-fancied someone. And it wasn't as if the few false starts she'd made in the last five... Had it been seven years since it happened?

She would need to tell him. She couldn't leave him to guess. He would assume he had done something. That much she knew. He had to understand, she had to make him understand that it was just unavoidable but resolutely not him. And it was not something she wanted to talk about any more than was strictly necessary. Nor did it make her fragile or wounded or weak, (even though some days she felt all of those things). She wasn't in need of saving. It just was. And sometimes it made itself known at inopportune times. She hadn't told anyone except for her gran, though she knew at the very least that Mary had suspected something. Mary had noticed how nervous Anna had become while they were working on designing the cabinetry for Tony Gillingham's vacation home. She had gone so far as to ask Anna about it. Anna couldn't even remember what excuse she had rattled off, only that it sounded hollow and strained. She was less jumpy once she'd heard the news of Mr. Gillingham's personal assistant's sudden passing. She suspected Mary noticed that too, but thankfully said nothing. She felt a touch guilty for being as relieved as she was at the bastard's death.

It was such an odd discussion to have to have. How does one even begin. There was no seven year coin for her to pull from her pocket.

So she ignored all of it but the warm feeling she got with Mr. Bates' texts and the contentment she felt when visiting with his mother.

Anna had taken to the woman, and soon they were thick as thieves. If she finished with her designs early in the day, she more often than not sought out Mrs. Bates. It started one afternoon when Anna popped by unannounced with a book she'd enjoyed and some shortbread biscuits from the nearby bakery. They got on swimmingly.

Over the course of a handful of visits Anna learned that Margaret Bates was not terribly infirm. She had been a young girl during the Second World War and had weathered it all in a small village in Ireland and liked to tell stories of her experiences. She had mild cataracts, but was too afraid of the surgery to correct them. She suffered more than her share of ear infections and had trouble with her sense of balance. The time Anna stopped by with a catnip plant and a few audiobooks procured at the thrift store, Mrs. Bates admitted to a stumble or two while still living in London. She hadn't told her son, as she'd not been hurt. "And don't you go telling him about it, either! It's bad enough that I can't see well enough to drive, and I've gone wobbly on the stair. He has no idea I fell beyond the proper fall, the one that made him insist on bringing me up here."

"Do you feel all right pottering about here on your own?"

"Oh yes, there's only the one step up from the living room to the hallway and kitchen. It was the stairs that did me in at the London flat. "

"So long as you don't give me reason to worry and you feel safe, mum's the word." Anna gave her hand a squeeze.

"I whinge about being here sometimes, about the fuss he makes over me, but I don't mind. Not truly. He's had a patch or two of trouble along the way, but he's a good boy, grown into a fine man. It's easy enough to put up with his henning about. He takes good care of me and if I'm honest I'd gotten lonely living on my own. Growing old is a rather ridiculous state of affairs if you ask me," Mrs. Bates grumbled.

"Isn't that the truth," Anna said with a sigh.

Mrs. Bates laughed. "What would you know of it? Are you even this side of thirty?"

Anna hated admitting that she nursed her grandmother to the other side. No one ever knew how to respond, it was depressing and sucked the air out of the room. What could she do but answer?

"I lived with my gran," she said finally. "While she was dying. Before that."

"Well that's a wretched business," Mrs. Bates stated.

"I was glad to do it, but it was wretched," Anna said, nodding. She frowned. "I don't like to think on it too much. Changing diapers, helping her bathe, folding and unfolding wheelchairs. She was a proud woman. It was terrible seeing her like that."

"But it's what happens, isn't it," Mrs. Bates said kindly. "And it's what you do, and everything you do eventually becomes normal, if you do it long enough. It's a struggle having that be your norm. It takes a while to rejoin the living once it's all said and done. But I don't have to tell you that, or how lucky your gran was to have you."

Anna liked that she didn't see pity in the woman's eyes. She never wanted special consideration, certainly not for tending her own grandmother. "I was lucky to be able to help her."

"John's father was years going, with the cancer. Bloody cigarettes. You'd think it'd be the lungs, but no, it got to his bladder of all things. Poor man and those terrible catheters."

"It must have been... I can't imagine..."

"That is the long and short of it. He smoked from the time he was a wee lad. I never saw him without a fag in his hand. But then we didn't know how bad it was and by the time we did ... well he never could quit. I nearly killed John when he started."

"Does he still? Smoke?"

"Oh no, he left off years ago, well before his father died." She sighed. "And he quit good and proper. That boy never does a thing halfway."

John Bates first unsolicited text to her came through just after midday on a Thursday in March.

"It's a bit dreary, do you fancy a cuppa?"

"I'm home, working. I've missed a deadline, but I'd not mind a bit of distraction. Fancy coming 'round my gran's? I don't feel like battening the hatches and cat-proofing my work space."

"Fab. See you in a bit."

"I'll put the kettle on."

He arrived sleek and freshly shorn thirty odd minutes later with a pot of daffodils in the crook of one arm and a plain brown pastry box tucked under the other.

"What's all this?" she said, not bothering to hide her delight. She took the daffodils from him and breathed in their subtle fragrance.

"I've noticed you have a sweet tooth, and these are worth trying."

"The daffodils? I've heard they are rather bitter."

"No, I mean..."

She made a face at him and he rolled his eyes when he realized she had him on.

"What's the occasion?" she asked after setting the pot atop a ceramic saucer in the middle of the kitchen countertop.

"You."

"I'm the occasion?"

"I wanted to thank you for the time you've been spending with my mother," he said. He spoke with disarming sincerity. "Why didn't you tell me you had been visiting her? She only just mentioned how often you pop by during the week."

"She's a dear woman, your mother." She picked up the tea tray and beckoned him with a head-bob to follow her to the living room. Dink did his best to weave in and out of her legs while she walked and she had to stop speaking to focus on keeping her balance. When the tray was successfully deposited on the coffee table, she scooped the grumpy-faced grey cat into her lap and ruffled his fur. "I didn't mean to be keep it from you," she continued as Mr. Bates settled himself next to her on the sofa. "It wasn't a secret. Maybe I liked having her to myself for those moments, if that makes any sense."

"It means a great deal to her."

"It means a great deal to me."

She sipped her tea. Blinked at him, willing him to speak. What she didn't say was that she didn't want to put pressure on him. She didn't want him to feel obliged to thank her because she was kind to his mother. She tried to ignore the vibrant yellow of the daffodils glaring from the countertop.

"Regardless, thank you," he said after reaching for his own mug and pouring a bit of milk in it. Dink made his way off of Anna's lap and rubbed against Mr. Bates' elbow. He smiled and scratched under the grey cat's chin. "Hello, little man."

Anna cooed at the contents of the pastry box. Two beautiful treats that Mr. Bates explained were called apple slippers, with all the flavor of apple pie but with a light, flakey pastry shell dusted with confectioner's sugar. She ate hers in three large bites, realizing only then that she hadn't eaten since dinner the night before.

"Is it some sort of runway show?" he asked, after swallowing the last of his apple slipper and wiping his fingers on a napkin. He nodded in the direction of her drafting table.

Decoding his words took a moment longer than it should have. Her blank look prompted him to expound upon his original statement.

"Your sophisticated London fashion designs? The deadline you missed?"

It took a moment until meaning clicked into place. "You think I design clothing," she stated and laughed. "Oh no, no, Mr. Bates. I design high-end, custom cabinetry: kitchens, walk-in closets, that sort of thing."

He looked at her incredulously. "You don't happen to work for the Earl of Grantham's eldest daughter do you?"

"Mary Crawley? I do... But how...?"

It was his turn to chuckle.

"Has my mother — in all this time — not bragged about her son running a cabinetry shop for the Earl?"

"You run the Grantham Board Room?"

"Only according to my mother. No, I oversee the high-end line; Mr. Carson runs the place. We finished our job early, and since your designs aren't finished just yet, I gave my workers a half-day."

"Of all the things, how's that for a small world. I don't know if I should apologize or say you're welcome," she said shrugging her shoulders sheepishly. "I almost never miss a deadline, but the client kept waffling on the final decisions for the wood, stain, types of cabinet doors, and then threw out my first design entirely. By the time they gave me approval to do the final drafts, it was already too late. You will have to apologize to your crew for me."

"I doubt they are terribly put out about taking a half-day. I'm curious, how have we never spoken or emailed?" he asked. "I've only ever dealt with a Ms. Dawson. I just assumed that she was the designer."

"Oh, yes, Gwen. She renders the approved designs into the computer," Anna explained. "All of the high-end line are designed by hand, which is my job. I tend to work more with Lady Mary and the clients directly, while Gwen plays liaison between design and fabrication. I'm a bit hopeless with technology, but Gwen's brilliant at it. She always has the latest gadgets and phones and apps, her finger is on the tech pulse. It has all run much more smoothly since she was hired. And she is a good friend. She comes up here from time to time to share the office gossip and keep me in the loop."

The cup of tea turned into an afternoon together. He sat and chatted with her while she worked. He was rather helpful; he pointed out a few flaws in her design, ones that would have caused him and the installation team more than one headache. She liked his suggestions and took advantage of his drafting skills to sketch out his ideas into the plans. They worked efficiently together and were able finish in just a few hours. She took some high resolution photographs and emailed them directly to Mary.

"You saved me from an all nighter," she said, touching his arm, feeling his warmth through the sleeve. She'd been doing that as of late – almost without her own volition – touching him in subtle, innocuous ways. She would clasp his forearm, his shoulder, nudge him with her foot or knee, find herself grasping his hand. "Thanks ever so, it was a lovely afternoon."

"The changes will make life much easier for my installation specialists. Thank you for considering them and for not minding being pestered by this old man."

"You don't really imagine that's how I feel, do you?" The thought of it bothered her.

"Surely you have better things to do than have a cuppa with me," he said, glancing her way, sporting a self-deprecating smile. "I worry sometimes that my texts and I are a bother."

She couldn't hide her frown.

"You and your texts are never a bother. There is nothing I'd have rather done today," she said in her adamant and soft soprano. "Is it such a strange notion that I enjoy spending time with you, Mr. Bates?"

"Not just with my mother?" he asked.

She glanced at him and rather viscerally felt how he was looking at her. The only thing about it that made her uncomfortable was how much she liked it. And even that wasn't terribly troubling.

"Can't I be fond of both of you?" she asked. She tried and failed to stop looking at his lips.

"Of course," he said softly. He always spoke softly, at least with her and his mother. "As long as I fit somewhere."

Emotion welled up in her with surprising abruptness. She blinked and looked away. "You do. Surely you know that," she said quietly enough that it was almost lost in the patter of rain against the windows. She glanced sidelong at him.

They stood, everything yet unspoken charging the air between them, and he blushed. "It's late. I should get back to my mother. I need to fix her dinner."

"She loves that you tend to the cooking, that you moved her here," she said affectionately, breathing again, turning her attention to returning pens and pencils to their respective jars. "She's bursting with pride. You know that, don't you?"

He rolled his eyes, "Does she tell you that? She has the forgiveness of a saint."

"Maybe so, but mothers are good at forgiving their sons," she said with a smile before turning her attention to shuffling and tidying papers. She was due for a trip to the office and would deliver the originals herself the next day. She sealed them in the waiting cardboard tube. It was early enough that Gwen would be able to start entering the dimensions and measurements into the program before she clocked out for the day.

"Well then, that's all sorted, we had best get you on your way," she said, awkwardly aware of how much she didn't want to see him off. "I would send you back with something, but all I have is three-day-old take-away and a half-eaten jar of her preserves."

That made him laugh. "Thank you, but perhaps not."

He had such kindness in his eyes. She liked how his smile always reached them.

"Go on then. Be a good son," she whispered, holding his warm gaze a moment or two too long, before running her hand up and down his arm.

"Join us?" he asked. "It's not a glamorous offer, but you'd be very welcome. And I guarantee it will be better than your three-day-old take-away. Bring Dink if you want. I'll drive. It'll be no trouble at all to nip you back here after dinner."

"I shouldn't like to intrude." She said the words, and while she meant the sentiment all she could hear was the falseness of them. She would love nothing more than to be privy to their supper time rituals, to see their routine, listen to their banter and arguments.

"You wouldn't be. You know she loves to see you," he insisted. He shifted his feet and held her gaze even as he lowered his voice. "I'd like it if you'd join us. I'm not quite ready to say goodnight. Not yet."

His whisper made her wet. He heard her breath catch; she could see it when the lines at the corners of his eyes deepened and his mouth tipped into a shy smile.

She stepped into him before she could think better of it, lifted onto the balls of her feet. The tilt of her chin and her palm flat on his chest to steady herself were all it took. With a maddening slowness he pulled her flush against him, pressed his cheek to hers. She felt the rush of his breath, the brush of his thumb over her collar bones almost more intimately than the tentative way his mouth found hers. He kissed her with a fragility that all but broke her heart.

He rested his head on her shoulder when they parted to catch their breath. She wound her arms tightly about him and just held on.

They were stood long enough together that she apologized aloud. "I'm sorry," she said in the dim afternoon light of her living-room-turned-office. She stepped backwards, wide-eyed at the feel of him still rippling up her spine.

"Whatever for?"

"You have dinner to make," she offered, hotly aware of her ruddy cheeks and ears. "And I don't seem to be helping."

"You are if you're coming with me."

"So long as I haven't scandalized you," she said and pressed her lips together, shocked at how responsive her body was to him.

"You'll have to try a bit harder than that," he rasped warmly. "Sterner stuff and all."

She turned her face away from him again and grinned. "I'll leave the cat, if it's all the same to you. One less thing to worry on."