A/n: Kisses and loves for all the responses to the cat chapter. It was far out of my comfort zone and I appreciated the feedback. All the love to a certain holy amphibian for beta flails. We are straying slightly into M territory. We'll say T+. Don't get too excited. T/w for memory of physical and emotional abuse.
John Bates spent the day distracted and fumbling. He reached the point of needing to take a step away from the multitude of saws, drill presses, and nail guns. He opted to hammer dovetail joints with a rubber mallet and still hit his thumb twice. The first time was because he was considering her freckles and how they spilled down her shoulders onto her breasts. He hated his own, but Anna's freckles were perfect - pinpricks of honey, scattered like tiny petals.
The second time, he'd been enjoying the sensory memory of her nipple, taut in the center of his palm.
It throbbed a bit, his thumb, but he didn't mind. It served as a welcome reminder of why he was distracted, of the ways she'd shared herself with him. He lingered over thoughts of luminous skin, her searing mouth, wet hair clinging to the curve of her breasts.
Closing time came none too soon. Most evenings, he was the last person out, but for a few nights, he'd left Sarah O'Brien still hunched over her workbench. She'd heard him curse at the drill press earlier (he'd nearly lost a fingertip) and remarked snidely to watch his language, that they weren't working in a shipyard.
That time he'd been thinking of the cascade of hot water over their bodies, and the way Anna gripped his bare thigh and held his gaze when she'd dropped to her knees.
He'd never seen a woman look at him like that. He'd never had a woman make him feel like that. Oh Lord, her mouth on him...
"Everything alright, then?" Sarah O'Brien asked, knocking him out of his reverie. She was carving out a custom inlay for Lady Grantham's new armoire. It was undeniably beautiful, with looping, arcing art-nouveau inspired scrollwork.
He shoved his keys into his pocket and nodded. "Bit preoccupied is all," John said, not trusting her concern. He ducked his head at her project. "That's looking very well."
"It should," she said. "For all the hours I've put into it."
"Right, then," he said, expression as neutral as he could hold it. "Have a good weekend. Don't work too late."
"Oh I won't," she said. "Drive safely."
"Will do," he replied automatically, picking up his cane and walking out as quickly as he could. It was hard not to scowl back at the woman. He didn't like her, but she was a genuine talent and Lady Grantham loved her work. So, he was stuck working with her. He treated her with the same professionalism he afforded everyone, even if some days she was tiresome.
He had taken care of quite a few things on his list after leaving Anna off at the train station that morning. All the shopping had been tended on his way back to pick up Dink. He'd tidied and built a ready-to-be-lit fire of twigs, kindling, and newsprint.
It was official, he decided; he was turning into his mother. After learning that Anna had forgotten to eat the day prior and didn't have any proper food in the house, he took it upon himself to stock her fridge. If she didn't know how to cook, couldn't be bothered, or was forgetting to eat, he could help. If nothing else, he was good at feeding people.
With everything he prepared in the morning, all he needed was to go home, shower and get himself put together. Then off to return the cat and set the scene at Anna's house.
Thankfully, his mother was asleep in her chair when he arrived, so he was in and out of the shower before she came knocking. She played the innocent again, giving the cat report and the news report. She moved onto the weather report for the west coast of Scotland — where it was mild and calm apparently — when he finally lost his patience.
"Mum!" he interrupted.
"Yes, love?" she lilted sweetly.
"Mum, could you please let me get dressed? I need to go. I don't want to be stuck in traffic on the drive to Knaresborough."
"Oh that's right, you're collecting Anna from the station."
"Mum! You know I am. I told you when I brought Dink over this morning."
"I know," she said. "I just like to see you all flustered and agog. She's special, that one. Besides, you have plenty of time, her train doesn't arrive until quarter past seven - I checked."
"Mum! Please, go away. I need to change."
His mother grinned at him, reached up and patted his cheek. "You need to shave."
"She likes it," he said, a touch defensively.
"She does, does she?"
"Mum! Go!"
He could hear her laughter even after he shut his bedroom door. Feeling about fifteen years old, he shook his head and sighed. This was a maddening new experience, though not entirely bad. His mother had despised Vera from the start.
He pulled a few shirts from his wardrobe, caught sight of himself slouching in the mirror. Hunching exaggerated his belly, rounded his back. He was starting to look like an old man. His skin was pale, awkwardly delicate looking where the sun didn't touch it. His hair was beginning to grey. The baby face of his teens and twenties had thickened and roughened into wrinkles, old man jowls, and drink-burst capillaries. At least he didn't carry the extra stone-and-half he gained tying one on night after night. When exactly all this aging had happened, he had no idea.
Still, her desire was not a figment of his imagination, nor the way she'd smiled and giggled softly, reaching for him in the low light. Somehow, she saw past all of it, and wanted him anyway. She'd traced drowsy shapes connecting freckle to freckle, and teased trails of gooseflesh along his back and arms. She'd pulled him to her, wrapped herself around him in the darkness. He hadn't stopped her, even when his arm went numb. And, then, when she had rolled over in her sleep, he lay cuddled with her cat, blinking back tears of gratitude. He fell asleep with the length of her back warming his.
John shook his head and stared at the man in the mirror. She more than liked what she saw, if her actions were any indication. He shook his nerves off and studied his wardrobe. It took too long to decide and in the end he just wore a crisp-looking
black teeshirt and a dark green button-down that'll made his eyes look forest green and grey, and his best jeans and dress shoes. The grey peacoat that he found at the Harrogate shop when he was first out jail was distinguished looking. Especially paired with the matching flat cap his mother had given him.
Thankfully, Anna's cat was friendly. He was able to scoop Dink up and get him into the carrier without any problems. His mother made a show of saying she wouldn't be waiting up, that she liked a bit of independence.
He was distracted enough that he almost forgot the bag of plastic votives that were his mother's donation to the cause when he explained his plan that morning. They were stupid, but he couldn't well light a hundred candles and then leave them unattended. At least with fake candles, there would be no risk, and if she decided on a sit down dinner on the way back, he wouldn't be worried about taking too long.
He hated to admit it, but as he scattered the votives his mother was right, they were just the thing.
Traffic was unruly, and he did in fact get caught in it, but the train was delayed because of it. So, he didn't leave her waiting.
Every time he saw Anna, he was surprised by how beautiful she was. It was as if he couldn't hold all of her in his mind's eye. She smiled when she saw him waiting and picked up her pace, which made him grin stupidly. The wordless connection being forged between them felt like it shone in the darkness. He stood where he was and opened his arms to her.
"I'm disgusting from the train," she said, hesitating, her nose wrinkling, her expression apologetic.
"You say this like it will stop me," he said, unable to hide his mirth. He hummed when she stepped into his embrace and held onto him.
"Hello, sweet man," she said, only loud enough for him to hear.
She'd whispered it to him this morning, too, — sleep roughening her voice — as they sighed and stretched awake. It made his throat constrict to hear it again. He slid his knuckles up her back and delighted in the shiver he elicited.
"So what's the plan?" he asked, after basking in her arms for a minute or so.
"I'm knackered and filthy. There's a chippy over there. Let me skip off to the loo and wash my hands, we can share some chips on our way back to the house. Once I'm showered, we can figure out where to go from there?"
"A masterful plan indeed," he murmured. Just being with her made him smile.
She'd eaten half the bag of chips before they were five steps away from the chippy, so he turned around and bought another one. He was glad she liked vinegar on her chips, because it meant he would have someone on his side next time he made fish and chips for his mother, who hated even the smell of the vinegar.
"I was so late," she said after wolfing down a large portion of the second bag of chips. "I worked through my lunch hour. The curry was delicious, but I left it in the staff fridge and someone — very possibly Gwen — ate most of it."
"Please don't tell my mother; she will hold it against Gwen for a long time," he said, in all seriousness. Anna had such a bright and beautiful laugh. It warmed him every time he heard it.
Not surprisingly the drive back to Ripon seemed much quicker. Anna talked most of the time, to his surprise. She told him about their upcoming job, the one she would start designing on Monday. He learned that she had known Mary since the Earl's daughter was a teen. Anna had been twenty, a local girl, finishing her design degree at uni, she had responded to an advertisement to be the peer's tutor. They'd formed a close friendship, one that Mary hadn't forgotten when she took over the custom part of the cabinetry business three years later after she quit Cambridge midway through her first year.
Anna talked nearly the entire drive. It pleased him how much she volunteered without being asked. He spent the drive trying to contain himself, over-eager as he was to see her reaction to the lights.
It was a job well done, for when she keyed them in to her gran's house, she gasped out loud.
"Mr. Bates! What have you gone and done?"
She dropped her brown leather bag and walk around, admiring his handiwork. "It's so pretty! And herbs! Fresh basil is my favorite."
Feeling pleased with himself, John shuffled into the sitting room and braced himself against the mantle to light the fire he'd built that morning. It made him feel rather suave if he was being honest.
"It's so lovely," she called from the kitchen. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble."
"It wasn't any trouble, it was just flipping a few switches."
"A few hundred switches more like," she said, walking into the living room, unlooping her tartan scarf. "How did you keep Dink from knocking the lights all about? Is he up in the bedroom?"
"Oh, he just...," he began, and then realized in a moment of sinking panic that he forgot the cat. Not in the car, Dink would have meowed and complained. Fuck. Buggery sodding fuck.
"I forgot him, at my place. I loaded him into the carrier, and remembered the candles. And ..."
"And forgot my furry son?" she demanded. Thankfully, she sounded more amused than concerned. "Inside, I hope? I'm texting your mother."
She pulled her phone from her purse. "Oh look, she beat me to it. 'Did my son forget something?'" Anna read, giggling. "She sent a picture of Dink in his carrier in the entryway. At least you didn't leave him stranded out in the rain, poor kitten. She says, 'I noticed him straightaway, but was wondering how long it would take that fool boy of mine to remember.'"
"Not until he delivered me home and my cat didn't greet me," she said aloud as she typed. "Mind if he stays the night?"
Her phone pinged almost immediately.
Anna read Mrs. Bates' response and burst out laughing. "'My son or your cat?' she says! Honestly, Mr. Bates, it's about your mother!"
John was so relieved that the cat was alright, he didn't even colour at his mother's words. Anna giggled to herself as she typed another response text, then patted his arm and started towards the stairs. "Alright, you're off the hook for now. Make yourself at home. Feel free to watch the telly or put on music. Give me half an hour or so to clean up - I will try to be quick."
"Take your time," he called after her. When she was out of sight he headed to the kitchen to put together some tea and a cheese board.
The abrupt sound of the shower starting was enough to give him an erection.
He could picture her in the morning glare of the bathroom lights, wearing a only a snug fitting, pale pink camisole and the incredibly soft matching pyjama trousers which sported a hideous mauve and lavender floral pattern. She'd apologized when she put them on, explained they were a joke gift from Gwen, but they were so comfortable they immediately became her favorite pair.
She'd pulled her hair from its loose ponytail after she turned on the hot water. He watched her hold it in a tight fist while she raked a brush though it, her breasts swaying with each stroke. She yawned widely. It wasn't until she started brushing her teeth that she caught him staring at her.
She smiled, looked at him with sleepy eyes. Until her gaze turned ... if he had to describe it, he'd say hungry. He picked up his own borrowed toothbrush and scrubbed his teeth with quick efficiency. He spat and rinsed his mouth and when he looked back over to her, her trousers and knickers were on the floor and she was pulling the camisole over her head.
It'd been so long since he'd seen a woman in the nude, he didn't quite know what to do with himself. After all she had told him the night before, he was conflicted. But she'd stalked up to him with a confidence that made him ache, risen up on her toes and kissed him hard, catching his growing erection between their bodies. He tried to move away, overwhelmed at her nearness, at the desire it strummed up in him, very conscious of his state of undress. She snaked her arms around him and held him to her. Slowly, he settled into the embrace, let his own hands fall where they would, juddered at the feel of her. He'd never known anything as soft as her bare skin. When she finally stepped back from him, he felt like he was surfacing after being underwater, breathing hard. Her breath was ragged too, her skin pricked with gooseflesh.
"You're cold," he said. It was all he could think of to say.
Looking up at him, all wide, blue eyes that look slate grey in the fluorescent light, she swayed back and forth for a few seconds. Then she hooked her fingers in the waistband of his trunks and tugged him towards her.
"Come warm me, then," she whispered.
She had him out of them and helplessly bucking into the palm of her hand before they were even in the shower.
He clung to her like his life depended on it.
Her mouth on him that morning had been incredible, her gaze holding his, wickedly sensual. He grinned stupidly thinking about it. He had thought of her as a beautiful siren, naiad, a sort of modern shower nymph, for she had been a creature of such power. With only the warmth of her mouth and the pressure of her hands, she'd rendered him mewling, inert and gasping, seeing only the darkness and pulsing lights that lined his eyelids. He sagged after his release, twisted his knee a little, almost couldn't stand. She braced him for a moment until he could bear his own weight, then held him, stood swaying with him under the spray of warm water.
He wanted to take her nipple into his mouth and roll his tongue over it, to feel the heat of her body around his fingers, to suss out all her pleasure sounds. She pulled his hands to her body, but turned in his arms him every time he tried to dip his head to her breast. He caressed the steaming skin of her hips, but when his fingers brushed down her stomach, she playfully swatted them away.
"Anna?" he asked when she did, frozen, fearful he'd crossed a line, not trusting her smile.
"Tonight," she whispered. "I want to, but if you touch me now, neither one of us will make it in to work." Kneading her hips was permissible, kissing her face and neck, her shoulders. Tonight.
She'd missed the bus to the train station, so he drove her. She almost missed the last morning train.
Rousing from his daydream, cognizant for the first time in minutes that he was in her kitchen, John added a small bowl of dried cherries to the platter of cheese. He cut and plated the Wensleydale, focusing on the pain in his knee to calm the stubborn half-erection that had been plaguing him most of the day. The knee still throbbed a little from twisting it in the shower, had bothered him on and off during the course of the day. Still, alongside the swollen thumb, it was a silent, almost welcome reminder. His blood hadn't risen like this since he was a teenager, and rise it did, like sap in a tree, towards the beckoning golden light of the sun. Shaking his head, he tried to turn his attention back to the tray. It was easy enough to balance it with one hand and use his stick with the other. When the tray was safely set on the coffee table, he nudged the ottoman over so he could sit with his legs up.
Grocery shopping before work had been rushed; he'd made it a sort of game. His favorite shops all featured loads of locally sourced and crafted products. The tray looked pretty, with two tea cups, a pot of tisane — she liked rooibus at night, he knew this because she had given his mother some — and the cheese board. Everything was plated rather artfully, if he did say so himself. Four different cheeses, prosciutto, apple slices, a saucer of small green Spanish olives, some thinly sliced crostini, the wee blue and white bowl of dried cherries, a tiny jar of fig preserves, and a sprig of dill to garnish. He snorted, and felt the pretentious git. But, when it came to food, some things were worth being a snob about.
"Sorry, I hope I didn't take too long," she said from the doorway. He looked over his shoulder, unprepared to see Anna standing there, with sleek, blow-dried hair, and smokey eyes, looking the famous actress or model. She was wearing a loose, dark blue jumper that had slits for her shoulders to peek through, and a pretty silver necklace that suspended a large, pale blue cabochon between her breasts. His eyes followed the lines of her body downwards, drinking in the snugness of her black leggings. They looked soft, velvety, and he very much wanted to feel them. Her feet were bare, and tiny, like her hands. He knew she was beautiful, but he didn't know she could look like this. His gaze met hers once more and he swallowed, mute. She raised her eyebrows, did a little turn.
"Too much, not fancy enough?" she asked. "What did you have in mind for tonight?"
He couldn't find the words to answer her at first. "You..."
"Clean up alright?" She was tilting her head, grinning at him now.
"You look stunning."
"Thank you," she said, looking away, suddenly shy, her smile private. He forgot everything but that smile for a moment. Then she noticed the food and loosed an endearing squawk of delight.
"Oh! You think of everything, Mr. Bates!" Anna exclaimed, swooping on the tray.
She went straight for the Dale End Cheddar and apple slices, and settled on the ottoman, one foot tucked under her bottom, her knee nudging his stocking clad toes.
"I don't know about that," he said. He was pleased that he was only momentarily distracted by the contact. "But I do have a trick or two up my sleeve. I wasn't sure what you would feel like doing, so I wanted to be prepared."
He smiled at the contented noises she made while she ate. Cheeses from Botton Creamery were excellent, and the Dale End Cheddar a simple favorite. So was their Mooreland Tomme. She tried a crostini with soft goat cheese and the dried cherries and hummed her enjoyment as she chewed.
"Prepared?" she asked after swallowing and popping an olive in her mouth.
"Well, neither of us got much sleep last night and it's been a long day," he said. "If you felt like staying in, I wanted to make sure we wouldn't go hungry."
She laughed. "Apparently, you know me and the contents of my refrigerator all too well."
"I hope you don't mind my taking the liberty," he said smiling, knowing full well she didn't. "Now do me a favor and try spooning a bit of the fig and honey chutney onto some of the Tomme. That one," he suggested.
She did and groaned as she chewed. "I've never heard of preserves on cheese. It's fantastic."
"Some Persian friends of mine eat it that way. It's a unique pairing. If you like, I thought that maybe we could cook a simple dinner together. Otherwise, we could drive into town for a bite, get some dessert and watch the Ripon horn-blower."
"Or we could stay here, in the dry and the warm, eating fruit and cheese, and then shag like rabbits." She smirked wickedly.
"Anna," he said and paused, unsure of what he needed to convey. Before he could say a word, she leaned forward. Small hands took and held his large one, fingers traced over a faded scar. She looked at him, her teasing grin gone, replaced by a seriousness, a gravity that made him irrationally joyous.
"I say that," she murmured. "But it wouldn't just be shagging, would it? Not with you."
The upwell of emotion he felt at her admission caught him square in the chest. It expanded in his lungs, burned behind his eyes, threw him off balance. He had to hold himself very still, and even then he couldn't silence it, nor did he want to. There was love in between the lines of her words, in her eyes, in the way she touched him. He drew a shaky breath.
"You've got me every which way, Miss Smith," he said in low rasp, when he was able.
"Have I?"
He cleared his throat. "I'm all swallowed up in you, there's no making heads or tails of anything else."
"That so?" Her voice radiated a quiet power, his shower nymph.
"It is," he replied. "And if I'm honest, I'm nervous as hell."
She looked at him, silently questioning. Her eyes were so large, so expressive. She waited for him to continue.
"It's ... been awhile," he explained before he lost his nerve. "More than awhile. And ... " He gestured vaguely with his open hand. She nipped her smile into a thin line, and watched him flounder for words. Which was oddly reassuring, for he couldn't be doing too badly if she was trying not to smile. He took a deep breath.
"Anna, whatever this is we're doing, it feels ... big. And right. And I ... I don't want to screw it up. I'm notoriously good at screwing things up."
She stood, maneuvered herself so that she sat in his lap, curled to him as though they did it all the time, as though it was the most natural thing in the world to tuck herself into the spaces made available by his seated form. Her hair flowed like water over her shoulder. The smoky eyeshadow made her look ethereal, otherworldly, in a vaguely predatory way. She kissed his temple, the corner of his eye, his cheek.
"You're not screwing things up," she whispered, brushing first her lips over his earlobe, then the tip of her tongue. She touched his jaw, encouraged his mouth towards hers, reassured him with her kisses, her fierce tendernesses. When she leaned against him to catch her breath, it was with a soft humming sigh into his shoulder. The rhythm of her heartbeat made him smile. He liked holding her close enough to feel it. They sat, wound around each other, silent on the love-seat. It tickled him that she seemed to seek out quiet, slow moments, seemed to enjoy just holding him. Vera was never still or quiet, never demonstrative in an affectionate way. He held Anna tighter.
When she finally spoke, it was to voice his thoughts, yet again.
"Do you mind staying in?" she asked. "The horn-blower will be out tomorrow night."
"Night after, even," he agreed.
All credit for forgetting Dink goes to AwesomeGreenTie. Thanks for the brilliant idea, dearheart! And love to the sweet Persian woman in my child, family, and community class for teaching me to eat jam on cheese. It's legit. I think she served strawberry jam on Swiss cheese. It was a potluck in which we were assigned to bring something that we ate while growing up.