A/n: If you are new to the fic go back and read the chapter one disclaimer. Gratitude to everyone who has been gently nudging me about continuing this fic. We are now solidly in M territory. This will also probably be the last chapter for a long time as I want to turn my attention back to WW&B. Who knows though, muses are fickle. Also. I make no money doing this: reviews are deeply appreciated.

Anna stood a while later and shrugged away from John's reaching arms. He felt cold without her warmth filling them.

"I'll carry the tea and nibbly bits," she stated, smirking. "Dinner can wait."

He hooked his cane on his arm and gripped the banister for support, after tripping and nearly stumbling headlong in his rush to follow her up the stairs.

They were both giggling like school children by the time they made it to the top, though once at the door to her bedroom he hung back, wide-eyed and timid. Anna set the tray on her dresser and faced him, his naiad returned, her gaze dark, sensual. He earned a grin and an eye-roll for his reticence, before she strode over to him and tugged him into the room by the wrist. Then she was on him, stealing kisses, fumbling him out of his clothes, tugging her own jumper over her head. John helped her with clumsy fingers and shaking sighs, until he was stood, stripped bare. A charged sense of enormity, anticipation and inadequacy held him up, made him hyper-conscious. Electricity arcing between them where her skin touched his. He hissed her name. Swaying up onto her tiptoes, she nipped his shoulder, kissed one corner of his mouth, then the other before pushing him to sit on the edge of the bed.

Her leggings were richly soft - he sought them out when she crawled over him with slow care. Smoothing his palms over her flanks, he squeezed strong calves and gripped her bottom. The feel of her mesmerized and focused him, honed his desire. He ran his finger-pads up over the slope of her back, she made a rough noise and ground against him. Then she stopped short.

"Wait," Anna said in between rushed breaths. He paused, motionless. The next words to tumble from her lips were confusing in his panic.

"I don't want to hurt you," she said. "I'm not, am I? I mean, I know where the scars are, but I don't know what is and isn't sore. Am I too heavy?"

And slowly he understood that he hadn't hurt her. Anna was worried about causing him pain. That concern etched her face, was palpable in the way she touched him. His ears flushed under her scrutiny.

John blinked. The words "bloody cripple" echoed about his brain, alongside Vera's hard stare, her mouth twisted in derision. He could feel the brusque way she'd bustle past and "accidentally" knock into the back or side of his knee, how she'd snicker, low and calculating when she could make the breath hiss from between his teeth. More often than not she lashed out like that when they were in public, making his world throb, white hot. After rendering him a grimacing and gasping spectacle, she'd turn and fret over him, affecting the appearance of a devoted wife. He resented that most of all, despised her for it. She knew he hated to call attention to his injury. The stupid stick was enough of an admission of weakness. Vera fully understood the upper hand she claimed, that a crowd left him powerless, that he couldn't even glare at her without making himself seem cruel and boorish. That woman was all hard edges and calculating spite.

Not Anna. Anna was fearful of causing him the slightest pain. Enfolding her in his arms, John shook off old memories and rubbed his cheek against her shoulder, marveling at her tenderness and blinking away his tears. A small hand lit on the nape of his neck. That was Anna, offering her comfort and strength in the most unconscious of ways, without even realizing she was doing it. She held him as tightly as he held her. After a minute or so, she shifted her hand to cradle his cheek.

"John?"

Leaning into her touch, he smiled at the sound of his given name, at the emotion he heard in the single syllable.

He cleared his throat and laid his hand over hers.

"I'm fine," he said. "It's a long story. One I'll save for later, if you don't mind. And no, you aren't hurting me. You're very different from my ex-wife, is all."

Frowning, she looked at him intently, but didn't pry. He pressed a brief peck to her lips, took her hand and guided it behind her, closer to his knee, not far from her heel, to the scars, the multitude of small keloid-covered entry wounds.

"That's where the shrapnel went in. I was lucky. I had most of the armored lorry I was driving between me and the blast that knocked the other vehicle into us. The muscles and tendons were pretty chewed up, but not the femoral artery or any major nerves. Had that happened - well, I wouldn't be here, most like. They were able to repair a lot of the damage and remove all but one piece of shrapnel. It's stiff and sore, and I can't straighten it properly, but it works. I survived. Two of my patrol weren't so fortunate. I'll take a little pain and a limp. This part's tender and hurts when someone bumps it, but it's not that bad.

"I don't know how closely you looked at the inner side or if you saw the back of my thigh, above the knee, but it's not pretty," he continued. He had to look somewhere besides her eyes to keep speaking. The physical disfigurement and need for the occasional accommodation (things as minor as walking slower, the need stop and get his weight off of it both in public and in private) had disgusted Vera. She hadn't disguised that fact, was more than vocal.

"There's soft tissue damage, scar tissue where some of the muscle and skin got infected and had to be excised. It makes it look disturbing. I needed skin grafts. The scar tissue, the stiffness changes the way I use my hips and leg muscles and exacerbates the limp. Because of that, the cartilage in my knee has degraded, is non-existent in some places. That's what causes me the most pain. It's more internal. I can't properly bear weight on it. As long as you don't accidentally kick me or put all your weight on it I should be fine. My doctor wants me to have a full knee replacement, but that would mean six weeks of recovery time, and for now, it isn't worth it. It won't change the limp. I just can't be bothered."

She made a face at that. An alarm klaxon sounded in the depths of his brain and he knew without doubt that he would be ambushed by her and his mother on the topic sometime in the immediate future. For the time being, she kept her consternation to herself, simply considered him with a slight scowl.

"You'll tell me if I'm even close to hurting you?" she finally asked in earnest.

"I will if you will," he said, raising his eyebrows.

Anna chuckled at that. "Deal," she said.

Surprisingly strong arms curled about his neck. She held him for a long time, not moving from his lap, occasionally easing her hold on him to slide her fingers through his hair, over his throat, his chest. He shivered and sighed deeply more than once, simply accepting the attention, relaxing into her embrace, elated.

Without preamble, she rose up and off of him and with a defiant look, unclasped and shed her bra. It didn't feel right, struck him as off. When she stepped between his knees and back into his arms, she fairly radiated tension, hesitation.

"Anna? Talk to me."

She sighed heavily, rested her chin on his head.

"This is all new," she whispered and leaned into him. "It's not been like this before, not with anyone. I was a mess all day, wanting you, wanting ... this. And I hate it because I never know how it'll be, how I'll be, if I'll need us to stop."

"Of course," he said, his voice thick. A tight, helpless feeling settled in his gut. She deserved so much more than to be haunted by a dead man. At the same time John was perversely proud that somehow she found him worth digging up and mucking through her past. He held tightly to her words, heard what she was trying to say - that she'd had other men before, but she'd never made love.

"And I probably won't...," she continued and cringed. "Since it happened it's hard for me to..." She took a steadying breath and finished in a rush. "I usually only come when I'm alone. You shouldn't think ... It feels good, and I can get close, but ... Please, if I don't ... Just know it isn't you."

Holding his breath, conflicting emotions worked out an equilibrium. The trust she placed in him had grown into one of the most sacred things in his life; it was not lost on him how much strength it took to be this vulnerable, this forthright. The knowledge that she still suffered because of that bastard gnawed at him. It also left him ashamed of himself for how readily and clearly he pictured her climaxing at her own hand. He swallowed and returned to the present, feeling base, vulgar. Smoothing his hands up and down her back, then her arms, he tried to clear his mind.

"I'm sorry I'm such a complicated mess," she said, before he could speak.

"Oh god, Anna," he said, his words crumbling in his mouth, his self-loathing leaving a bitter taste at the back of his throat. "Please don't apologize; we're all complicated. This is nothing you have any control over. It doesn't make you a mess. Remember who you're talking to, the biggest of all messes, even half cleaned up. When I say you aren't one, I know what I'm on about."

That earned a short, quiet, near-laugh, and — he was guessing — a smile. He risked a peek and was relieved to see that he was right. With each subsequent breath, more and more tension eased from her muscles, her grip on him loosened.

"What's your middle name?" he asked.

Her peal of laughter was easy, honest. "May."

"You, Anna May Smith, are the loveliest human being I have ever met, just as you are. I'm here, and I'm with you and that alone is more than I ever dreamed. Can we agree that you set the pace, and let each other know what is and isn't working?" He was decidedly out of his depth, but taking heart in the tender set of her eyes, the way even her small smile radiated when she nodded. He was aware, all at once, of bare breasts that rose and fell with her inhalations, of lips that she wet with the tip of her tongue, of how she watched him, took in his reticence, his desire, his worry, his ridiculously eager, burning love. He recognized it in the way her gaze changed. It nearly cleaved him in two, how she looked at him. It was as if she could see into him, could read the history of his life playing out behind his eyes. Maybe it was just a recognition of demons, of wounds not dissimilar from her own. Then she pulled an exasperated face at him.

"Stop thinking and kiss me, Mr. Bates," she said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

He wasn't about to argue, it was far better a choice, he decided, to let her push him back, to lay and let her map the contours of him with a hungry mouth. She sussed out fault lines, places that made him heave and quake when she traced over them with her fingertips, her tongue.

John might have been the one to profess his love aloud, but she had been laying a silent, unmistakable sort of claim on him from the the beginning. That thought seared through him. From the beginning. Despite what had happened to her. With every touch she had professed herself, reassuring him in ways words wouldn't. He could think of a dozen small kindnesses she'd visited upon him in the last few weeks alone. He decided in the dark of that morning, with her cat — a sweet and sizable little loaf purring at his chest — that if she never wanted to make love, if she couldn't share that physical part of herself, he'd agree to it gladly. It would be enough just to be in her life, to be as close with her as she'd let him. Even in that she seemed to know his thoughts, and guided his hands to her breasts, her hips, and finally — thank god, because he couldn't bring himself to touch her uninvited — she pulled his fingers down her belly, under the waistband of her leggings and between her thighs. When he felt how wet she was, he growled, and she caught him up with kiss after kiss. Her breasts hung from her body like fruit, ripe and full. God help him all he wanted was to skim his lips over her, to breathe her in, to feel her surrounding him like this, slick and burning. She knew it, too, if her smirk was any indication.

Anna had told him that she wasn't made of glass, but stripped bare she looked like porcelain, and he had to remind himself. It was fresh to him, not to her; she'd done her level best to prove that to him, to reassure. Once her secrets were all told out she seemed at ease. For all his hesitation, she was eager and responsive, even now — especially now — with his finger dipping inside of her, ringed by trembling muscles. There was no dampening or disguising of her enthusiasm. He pulled out to slide a wet knuckle over her folds. Letting out a low moan, she clenched deep beneath his touch and he palmed her under her knickers, proud to be coaxing such stirrings. He needed to stop thinking about what happened. The confidence with which she kissed him helped. So did the way she ran her fingernails down the middle of his torso and slowly rocked against his hand. What he wanted was to stay rooted in the blissful and unfathomable present. A present in which he was making love to this incredible woman. He hadn't fucked it up yet. After all he had ruined and shattered with Vera, he wasn't deserving of a second chance, but one had been given to him, regardless. He fully intended to make the most of it, painting his intentions on her skin, telegraphing his love into her nerve endings, and doing everything in his power to make her feel cherished.

He rolled them, sending her into a squealing burst of giggles. Somehow he managed to find purchase on the carpet, and support himself with his good leg. He took a moment to revel in this turn of fate, in the gentle soul lain bare before him. He covered her in tiny kisses, as though he were drinking little sips of her skin. She whimpered — a soft, high, whining noise — when he flicked his tongue over one tightly swollen, pale-pink nipple and then the other. Shying away, he watched her, smiled when she squirmed in frustration, dipping his head back to her breasts, drawing her pleasure out with his lips, with gentle, testing teeth, and fingertips. He teased juddering moans and ragged breath from her throat to distract himself from his own need. The catch and scrape of his stubble over her cheek felt obscene. So did the softness of her hand as she wrapped it around his erection, pulling him, stroking. He let his head loll forward for a moment and simply basked in sensation. Soon enough, though, he caught her wrist. It took a few moments to gather his breath and his wits, and start speaking.

"You already had your way with me, Miss Smith," he said. "And you have me at a disadvantage." He tugged gently, but pointedly at the fabric of her leggings. "If I remember correctly, I was promised my turn tonight." He heard her breath catch and felt it in his groin. "A turn that I am not finished taking."

"Is that so?" she asked with a tart lilt, her grin wide. "Do you have something particular in mind?"

A chuckle rumbled through him.

"I do."

He kissed the tiny mole on the apple of her cheek, the corner of her jaw. Then he searched out her lips until he was catching her sighs and exclamations in his mouth, until they were both trembling and panting. Abruptly he stood and moved away from her. The speed with which she had both leggings and knickers shoved down to her ankles made him chuckle. He pulled them the rest of the way off with an authoritative tug, and the look she gave him in response was hungry. He kissed her, near drunk at the feel of her bared to him, pressed to him. Drawing her knees up to hold his ribcage, she dug heels into his lower back, wouldn't let go when he tried to move down her body, to lower himself to his good knee.

"No," she whispered, tugging him back to her lips, urgent in her desire. "Please, first I need you. I want to feel you." She reached out and scrabbled a bit in the bedsheets, coming up with a condom. He hadn't the faintest idea when she tossed it there, but he'd been distracted. She tore it open with her teeth, in a way that throbbed through him and handed it over, flashing a sheepish grin.

"I'm rubbish at getting them on," she admitted.

John's hands shook and he nearly lost his erection, but somehow rolled the latex all the way down. Then he was holding himself just off of her. For a moment there was nothing in his world beyond wide, stormy-grey eyes looking up at him. It surprised him how nonchalantly she reached between them and took him in her hand again, as though she did it every day, cupping him against her vulva. She rolled her hips, eyes not leaving his. He was convinced he'd go mad; the heat of her sex was searing comfort and silent, unspoken promises. She guided him — just the tip of him — inside of her. Sealing her mouth to his, they kissed until he lost himself. The way her tongue circled his drew a thrust from his hips. She gasped. On fire from the feel of her rippling around him, he panicked and went deer-still. The one directive he'd tasked himself with was to avoid hurting her. It terrified him almost to weeping that he might have already failed.

Her breath was sharp and loud. Clawed fingers pulled him closer. "Don't stop! Go on, sweet man," she said in as intimate a tone as he'd ever heard. "You're lovely."

She tilted her pelvis, took him deeper, and he was eclipsed by the feel of her, yielding and wet, gripping him. When she began lifting her hips to meet his, he (finally, cautiously) moved within her. Thought stopped.

The sounds that slid from her throat were a siren's song, beckoning him, punctuating his movements. The near-silent noises she made, the keening sighs, the whispers, they sank into his skin, tore away at the last of his resolve. Growing around him, coiling, clasping him to her, reckless in her desire, she awakened a wildness he'd forgotten - not just awakened, encouraged. She rooted it out, with tongue and tooth, urged him on in feral growls, until finally they moved together, creatures of sensate abandon, seeking release, body straining into body. They caught one another's gaze and it became a sort of anchor. Neither could look away. His face was wet, but he couldn't be bothered to care - her eyes were brimming as well. Eyes that squeezed shut suddenly, spilling tears from their corners. Her body stiffened, constricted around him, until he let himself over to shaking instinct, to her sex wringing his release from him. It was undulating, a seismic pulse, white hot, blinding. Slumping against her, he buried his face in her skin.

"God, Anna," he said, trying to catch his breath, and pretend his voice hadn't just broken as he whispered her name. Weak, clumsy, he fumbled to push off of her, which only served to tighten her hold on him.

"Where'r'you off to?" she murmured, barely audible. "Stay."

"Aren't I hurting you?" he asked.

"Only in the loveliest of ways," she said. "Come here."

Humming, she pulled him tighter, accepting the weight of him, her muscles strong, then languid. He felt her movements, her words, even her heart, acutely, deliciously. And for the first time in a long time, pure, cool relief lapped over him like fresh water. He grinned like a fool, laughing and wiped first her tears, then his own. Watchful and silent, calming her own breathing, she accepted his grateful pecks when he offered them, her smile genuine, as languid as her limbs.

"It was alright then?" he asked, rather smug about just how hard and long she'd rippled around him.

"Cheeky beggar!" She swatted his arse, and gasped as he moved within her. "Yes. It was alright. I told you already, you're lovely."

"What was that about not usually being able to..."

She swatted him again and chuckled. "I'll never hear the end of that will I? Feeling pleased with ourselves, are we? Not too puffed up?"

He raised his eyebrows at her, his confidence burgeoning, and trailed two fingertips along the inside of her palm, inducing a full-bodied tremor.

"Right, yeah," he said. "I'm rubbish at this. Guess I'll just go back to being a woodworking monk at the Abbey."

She swatted him again, bubbled over with sated laughter.

Laughing with her felt like nourishment, full, sweet, like fresh-turned soil, without barbs or thorns, not soured by festering wounds or salt. Not yet, he prayed. Not ever.

He had to lay down, his good leg was shaking. Slowly, he straightened, stepping away from her. She juddered and held her knees up to her chest for a moment, crossing her ankles. Then she uncurled her limbs, and gracelessly rolled and scooted properly onto the bed, leaving plenty of room for him. Something low in his chest ached when she pulled a crocheted blanket around her waist and patted the mattress. Nude, makeup and hair hopelessly mussed, posture an undisguised invitation, he'd never witnessed a more perfect sight. Settling next to her, he reached out, reverent in the way he brushed his open hand up her body, from navel to neck, finally tucking her hair behind the shell of her ear. "You brilliant, beautiful woman, what could you possibly see in me?"

Anna's mouth quirked. She touched his eyebrows, his laugh lines, fanned her fingers across his jowls, traced over his lower lip with her thumbs.

"You may not have been born a lord," she said, quiet yet clear, like a bird. "But you are a true gentleman, John Bates, and I never knew a finer one."

Her words made him smile.

"Is that so?" he asked.

"It is," she answered and kissed him as though that was all she needed to prove her point.