Margaret gripped the stained coffee mug in both hands, the cold ceramic like a lifeline as she stared at the desk in front of her. The stacks of paperwork, the post-its, and the desk calendar were all covered in his awful handwriting. Every letter cut into her. She took a gulp of her water. She could practically feel the stares of Tucker Williams and Nicholas Higgins. The two men said nothing and poured themselves cups of coffee. It all looked the same, smelled the same, like sweat and memories and petrol and regret and burnt coffee.

She shrank away from him, the second he walked into the room. "Bloody hell," She wrinkled her nose, trying not to gag, " You need a shower."

John's face grew hard, his tired eyes firing with his temper, "Hello to you too."

She bit her lip, flinching as he tossed his hat on the ground and slumped into his chair. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. His face twitched as he rolled his shoulder. He'd been out of his sling for only a few weeks and she knew it still bothered him. But he never complained. She stepped closer, his exhaustion clear in every line of his body. He never complained about being tired either. Her conscience pricked her. She really hadn't meant to be rude. She suddenly wanted to do something, to make him go upstairs and rest properly, to cook him dinner and force him to eat it for once, to climb in his lap and kiss him no matter what he smelled like.

"I'm sorry."

He didn't answer. He was fast asleep.

Margaret glanced up. Nick Higgins was studying her with a cold sternness. She tool another long swallow and tried to smile. "Thanks for the water."

"So," he set his own coffee aside. "You want to tell us what the hell you're doing here? No warning, just?"

"I was in Boston this week for a maths conference, and," she glanced down, picking at chip in the rim of the mug. "I thought I—I ought to visit."

"A little late for that."

"I know I should've come back sooner." She set her mug on John's desk, her eyes darting over it again. There were three or four candy canes just underneath a handkerchief in the corner. "But I'm here now, yeah?"

"You fucking should've called," Nick said with a harsh laugh. His eyes were angry. "Master's not even here to give you a piece of his mind."

"Slick," Williams leaned against the door. "Back off."

"It's alright, Tuck. There's loads of things I should've done," she stood and laid a hand on Nicholas's arm. "I know it probably won't help, but I'm sorry I wasn't here. When Bessie—when it happened."

"She's gone and that's that." His eyes clouded over and he cleared his throat. "I can't hold it against you, even if I want to. Bess wouldn't want that."

"How's Mary?"

"Married with three kids."

"Is she?" Margaret blinked, smiling. "And the Bouchers?"

"Why are you really here, Miss Margaret?" He interrupted. It felt like a slap to the face. Her life wasn't part of theirs anymore. "You didn't even bother to call."

She suddenly felt very small, and alone. "I—"

"How long are you in town?" Williams interrupted, stepping between them under the pretense of refilling his coffee.

"My flight leaves tomorrow afternoon." She rubbed her arms. "I'll take the train back to Boston tonight."

Williams and Higgins exchanged a look, "That's not much time."

"No," she pulled out the handle on her suitcase. "I just wanted to see Milton again, and," she glanced at John's desk, "maybe try to settle a few things while I was here."

"You thought you could settle shit between you and Master in one damn day?" Nick barked out a laugh. "You always were a crazy-ass woman."

"Slick," Williams warned again. "Leave her alone."

"I'm just saying what we've all been thinking for the last sixteen years." Nick shook his head. "You did a number on him, woman. You don't fix that in half a day. He deserves more than that."

"I know he does," she admitted softly, brushing her hand over the old oak wood desk. It felt silky and sad. "It's been a long time, Nicholas. Maybe too long."

She fidgeted, running her fingers nervously over his desk. They'd not spoken more than a few strained words since the baby shower. He kept pretending she wasn't leaving, refusing to even talk about it. Her flight for Greece left in less than three hours. But he'd left a note asking her to come by the office today. She glanced at the clock. Of course, he wasn't here. He was never here when she needed him. She pushed herself to her feet, shoving at the stacks of files on his desk. He was probably just trying to make her angry again. Like always. She swiped at her tears, and grabbed her suitcase. If he didn't care enough to even say goodbye, then maybe it was time he got a taste of his own medicine. She would let him wait and wonder, and see how he liked it. She left the office, slamming the door behind her. She didn't look back.

She swallowed. Why had she thought he'd just be here, waiting for her? But he wasn't here and she deserved it. "I should go."

"That's it?" Nick demanded. "You're just going to tuck your tail and disappear again?"

"Wait, Miss Margaret," Williams interrupted, shooting a hard look at Nick. "You sure you can't stay a bit? Maybe until Monday?"

"Tuck."

"He's coming back." Nick said, his voice rough. "He'll have a fit when he finds out you were here and he missed it."

"Will he?" She tried to smile and shook her head, hiding her tears. This whole thing had been a fool's hope. "It's probably better this way. Thanks for the water."

"I'll see you out," Williams took her suitcase firmly from her. She didn't have the energy to argue. She nodded, blinking back more tears. They walked in silence out the front and up the long winding drive towards the bus stop. A cool wind whipped at their clothes, the afternoon darkening with the coming storm. "Are you alright?"

"No," she glanced back over her shoulder at the old building. Her cheeks were wet. "I thought—I really thought he'd be here." They stood at the bus stop. Williams checked up the road, and then glanced at his watch. "You don't have to wait. I'll be fine."

"Master wouldn't want you to be out alone." He said gruffly. "You could always call him."

"His phone probably won't be on."

"We both know that's a half-baked excuse." He shook his head, "If you don't call him now, he'll never forgive you—or himself."

"I don't deserve his forgiveness." It was true. She knew it and so did Williams.

"Margaret," he sighed heavily, as if making up his mind. "Stop thinking about just you. Maybe think about John, and what he wants, for once."

"I—" she flinched. "Tuck, I—"

"That's just my two cents worth," he handed her the suitcase as the bus pulled up. "You take care of yourself, you hear?"

John eased himself into the small back pew on the right and took off his hat, settling it on his knee. The low light and whisper of wood and stone of the old church were always an escape for him. He ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes. Thunder echoed through the sanctuary. He didn't know how long he sat there. Maybe a minute, maybe an hour, letting the silence wash over him.

"I want you to marry me." His voice echoed through the sanctuary. He'd wanted to ask her when she told him she was pregnant but nothing had gone as planned that day. "Please."

"No," Margaret shoved herself away from him. "Stop."

"Maggie," he followed her as she rushed to the front of the old sanctuary. He grabbed her hand. "Just listen."

"Let go of me."

"I'm not letting my kid grow up without a dad."

"Contributing two tablespoons of genetic material doesn't mean you have to propose."

"I did way more than that and we both know it."

She blushed, but refused to look at him. "I don't want to talk about this."

"Too damn bad. I'm as much a part of this as you are. We have to figure this out."

"There is no 'we'—"

"There is now," he growled, running his hands through his hair. "I wouldn't ask unless I wanted to."

"You shouldn't, because I don't like you and I won't marry you." She snapped. He frowned, f olding his arms against the seesawing of his stomach. She'd curled her arms around herself, looking anywhere but at him. She was frightened and he didn't blame her. He was fucking terrified.

"Just think about it," he said, pulling his hat back on. "Call me when you decide what you want."

John shook his head, turning his phone over in his hands. He wasn't sure she'd ever figured out what she really wanted.

Margaret stepped off the bus and walked slowly down the old street, fingering the business card in her pocket. Many of the nicer trees were gone or sickened, and the houses looked more tired, ugly splashes of graffiti and trash, staining the neighborhood. The house was shabbier than she remembered, boards nailed over two broken windows and weeds breaking through the old flagstone porch. It made her sad to see it. Her father had loved this house.

"Do you have everything, dearest?" Her father was moving about the room, looking into the empty closet, worrying the fabric of his trousers.

"You'll be fine," she pulled him into a fierce hug, hiding her tears in his jacket. "Promise me, yeah?"

"Of course," He hugged her tight. "You don't need your old dad any more, eh?" She heard the smile in his voice, but for some reason it made her want to cry more.

"I'll always need you."

"Don't be afraid," her father tapped her nose with his finger. "John's a good man. He'll take better care of you than I ever did."

"What are you doing?" An older lady peered at Margaret from behind the broken screen door.

"I used to live here."

"You can't come in," the woman backed away. "Get, or I'll call the cops."

Margaret stared, shocked. "No, I—"

The door slammed and she heard a chain sliding into place. More thunder boomed and she glanced up. She turned, hurried back to the bus stop and sat, grateful it was sheltered. She pulled out the business card, and stared at it again, Nick's words niggling her. He was right and so was Williams. She was here, and he deserved to know. She tugged her mobile from her purse, thumbed it open, staring at the digital key pad. "Oh God," she muttered. What was the point of coming all this way if she couldn't even do this? "I've lost my bloody mind." She had to try. She dialed and almost threw up when it began to ring.

At the sound of footsteps, John glanced up, sliding his phone into his shirt pocket. The old priest standing in the aisle nodded to him. "Father," he nodded back and stood.

The old man gave him a kind smile. It reminded him of Richard Hale. "Please," he gestured for him to sit, "don't let me disturb you." John hesitated, his eyes darting over the pew he'd been sitting on. Even after all this time, it still looked a bit newer than the others. The priest laid a hand on the back of it and chuckled, sudden recognition sparking in his eyes. "You're the young man who bought this pew, aren't you?"

He tried to sit, to think, but he sprang to his feet after less than a second. He paced back and forth, from the narthex back into the sanctuary. September was over. His breathing tightened, quickened. He gripped the back pew so hard the wood bit into his hands. The baby was due in September. His arms trembled. Nothing. He'd heard nothing, knew nothing. She wasn't coming back. He knew that. Henry Lennox made that pretty fucking clear.

He shoved the pew in front of him so hard it shifted. Just a bit. He couldn't find her, couldn't do anything. He'd tried it all. He threw his hat down and shoved the pew again. And again. It rocked. He shoved and yanked and strained, wrenching it up from the floor in a splintering wreck of wood and upholstery. Not enough. Then he half threw it at the confessional. His hands and arms were bruised and bleeding, his left shoulder screaming in painful protest, his throat raw. He hadn't realized he was yelling. John sank to the floor and stared at the mess he'd made. Nothing. He buried his face in his hands. He had nothing left. And it was his fault.

"I did," John flexed his hands. "Several years ago."

"I thought I recognized you," the priest said, scooting into the pew next to him. "Sit a moment."

The ringing stopped, and Margaret bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. Lightning flashed. Her hand trembled. She couldn't do this. Not now.

This is John Thornton. Leave a message.

He sat and fiddled with his hat, "I was out of line. That day."

"Were you?" John nodded. They sat in companionable silence for a while, the shifting sounds of the sanctuary drowned by the crawl of thunder, falling down from the rafters. "You're welcome to smash every pew in this church, young man." The priest drew in a breath, but kept his eyes on the crucifix hanging over the altar, "There's no better place to wrestle with God than in God's own house."

"I'm not here to smash anything, Father."

"You come here often. I've seen you." He turned to look at John. "Why?"

John glanced over the dark paneled walls, the statues, the stained glass, and the lighted candles. Whenever he felt worn too thin, he always came to St Jude's Cathedral. "To breathe," he said at last. "When I can't."

"Catching your breath for the next fight?"

John shrugged. "Something like that."

"Does it help you win?"

"I haven't won in a long time. Maybe it's time I gave up fighting."

"I'm sorry you think that."

"It is what it is."

"I wouldn't give up your fight just yet. There's always hope, even if you can't see it."

"Not this time, Father," John stood and pulled his hat on. "Excuse me."

The old man walked with him to the exit, laying a hand on his arm before he could leave, "Saint Jude is the patron saint of lost causes." He smiled and held out his hand. "Sometimes we need help to keep hoping. All you have to do is ask, young man."

"You'll have to ask for me, Father," John grunted and shook his hand.

"I do. Every time I see you."

Margaret's hand trembled as she slid the old key into the lock. It was madness to come here, but she couldn't leave Milton. Not yet. She wasn't sure if her old key would work, but she had to try something. The bolt turned easily and she almost smiled. A crack of heavy thunder sounded, and then a rush of rain as the storm finally broke. She let out a little squeak and rushed inside, escaping the heavy down pour. The smell of the house, of him, crashed into her. Margaret gasped and leaned against the wall, dropping her small suitcase. She didn't hear the almost animal whimper that escaped her.

"Do you like the house or not?" John demanded, arms folded. She hated when he talked to her like that, but he was trying and that was something. "Landlord said we can move in today."

"It's tiny."

"But?"

"But it doesn't make me want to throw up."

"Good enough for me." He turned his hat around backwards. She followed him out to the truck to start unloading boxes. "You call the landlord, I'll deal with this."

"I'll help you."

"No," He growled, pushing her hands away. He picked up the first box. "I got it."

"I'm pregnant not dying, you ass."

"Which is why you're not lifting anything heavier than a milk jug."

She stepped softly down the cramped hall into the main room, and clicked on the floor lamp. The small sitting room lit up in a soft yellow glow. A battered and familiar leather armchair was tucked against the opposite wall between two overloaded book shelves. Stacks of books and vinyl records were piled on the floor. Two empty coffee cups sat on a low coffee table. She crossed the room and picked up one of the books, flipping absently through the pages. Shakespeare.

"You like poetry?"

"Why wouldn't I?" John asked with a slow teasing smile, sliding closer to her on the sofa.

"Because you're— you're you."

"So?" He leaned in closer, almost looming over her. "I could read you some, Mrs Thornton," his voice had dropped to a growl. "Shakespeare's sexy."

"I—" She tried to swallow, tried to think. But how could she when he did that deep growly thing with his voice? He could read the bloody phone book for all she cared. She shivered as his hand slid up her thigh. "Maybe skip the poetry, yeah?"

He grinned, and brushed his lips against her ear, "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?"

She didn't remember the rest. But they hadn't made it upstairs.

Margaret snapped the book shut. She set it down on the coffee table and picked up the mugs, moving into the kitchen. The lights flickered with a crash of thunder. She turned towards the sink and shivered.

John stood barefoot in just his jeans, his hat on backwards, and poured himself a cup of coffee. The black hospital grade sling strapping his left arm to his chest didn't hide the large incision healing on his back. The ugly bruises and precise stitching only made it worse. Margaret watched him, guilt twisting at her. The surgery to remove the bullet and repair the damage to his shoulder was a success according to the doctor. John stirred sugar into his coffee, stuck the spoon in his mouth, and carried the cup to the table. His recovery would be slow but complete. If she'd listened to him the day of the riot , he wouldn't have been shot at all. But the strike was over. John was alive.

Margaret blinked hard and forced herself to set the cups in the sink. She opened the cupboard on her right, and took out a glass, filling it from the tap. Her heart was still pounding but somehow she couldn't make herself leave now that she was here. She needed to be here. Needed to let herself remember everything she'd tried to forget.

John checked his watch and swore. He'd burned too much time at the church. A gust of wind blew a scatter of leaves as the storm whipped rain across the parking lot. If he was going to make it to Helstone by midnight, he needed to step on it. He tossed his phone into the cup holder and drove away, taking the corner a little too fast.

She finished her water and headed for the stairs. The second step squeaked as she started up. She'd forgotten that. Odd that he hadn't fixed it. She flicked on the light and climbed slowly, eyeing the pictures hanging on the stairwell wall, hand pressed against her mouth. She reached out and ran her fingers along one of the frames. They were her pictures.

"I don't care what you do to the house."

"Surely you have an opinion," she pursed her lips, annoyed. "You've got one for everything else."

"I said I don't care," he repeated, rolling his eyes, "and I don't say things I don't mean."

"That's remarkably unhelpful."

"Damn it, woman, what's the problem?"

"The problem is," she snapped, "I don't know you at all. Do you like scented candles and throw pillows? Or antlers on the walls, or—"

"I. Don't. Care."

She gave him a dark look. "You're bloody impossible."

"So are you," He folded his arms. Then he surprised her, smiling a little, "I like those pictures you take."

"Which?"

He turned, dug around in one of the boxes, and held up a few of her larger photographs she'd brought from New York. "These."

"You like these?" Margaret blinked, her heart and stomach warming unexpectedly. They were her mum's work. "Yeah, alright."

There were only two bedrooms, and a tiny toilet and shower, on the second floor. The first room, off to the left, was so small, it almost couldn't be called a bedroom. It was neatly piled with boxes of books, files, and other leavings from John's office. His winter clothes hung in the open closet and she resisted the urge to thumb through them. She swallowed the lump growing in her throat when she saw the tidy stack of furniture in one corner. "Oh."

John sat in the middle of the room, cross legged, unpacking pieces of the crib while she examined the instructions. After sorting the different screws, bolts, pegs, and slats into neat piles, he began to fit the wooden pieces together. The silence was thick and tense and she hated him for it.

"That's backwards," she held out the instructions. "See here." She wanted him to look at her. To say something. Anything.

He didn't look up and he didn't answer. He flipped the piece over. She almost wished he would yell at her again, like he had at the baby shower. She wanted him to tell her she couldn't go to Corfu, that she was stubborn, and that he wouldn't allow it. Then she would tell him he was a stubborn asshole and she'd do whatever the bloody hell she liked. And then maybe he would laugh at her, make her angrier than before, and tell her she was damn sexy when she was mad. But he didn't say anything and neither did she.

Rain pounded overhead and she shivered, rubbing her arms. Why had he kept the bloody crib? She held back a sob and pulled the door shut so hard the sound echoed with the thunder. She quickly stepped across the hall towards the master bedroom, hand on the knob. "It's just a room," she whispered. His room. Once it was hers. Theirs. Technically, it was still theirs. She took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and stared. The nicest thing he'd ever bought for himself was his king-sized bed. Even then he'd always slept diagonally so his feet didn't hang off the end. The bed was made, several plaid shirts were slung over the foot of the frame, and there was a neat pile of dirty clothes in one corner. His favourite corner. She laid a hand on the chest of drawers, and glanced at the wall where the clock ought to have been.

"I want a clock in here."

John looked up, tossing his socks at his favourite corner. Why he couldn't put them in the hamper was a bloody mystery. "I hate clocks."

"Well, I don't."

"So get a goddamn watch. Maybe you'll be on time for once."

"John," she felt herself tremble even as she put steel into her voice, "why can't you try to be like other people and just hang a bloody clock on the wall?"

"I don't want to."

"Of course not," she shook her head. He never listened when she talked to him. He didn't care.

"Stubborn-ass woman," John muttered, and she flinched as he pushed passed her, thundering down the stairs. She slumped against the wall, telling herself not to cry. Not to be silly. A moment later he was back, still frowning, with a hammer in one hand, the kitchen clock in the other, and a nail sticking out of his mouth.

"Where do you want it?" She stared at him, stunned. He raised his eyebrows, waiting.

She blinked, then pointed. "There."

When he finished, he bent and roughly kissed her cheek.

Margaret brushed a hand against her cheek and sat heavily on the bed. Tears trailed down her face, slowly at first, and then faster until she was shaking with awful, almost breathless sobs. She rested one hand on the footboard. The soft cotton of his shirt made her cry harder. She tugged it free, pillowing it against her face. How had she let this happen to them? She'd known it was wrong to leave. She'd known the moment she stepped onto the airplane that she was making a terrible mistake. The sick tearing guilt had been there. The anger, the fear, the shame, and the desperation were there too. She'd held on so tight, unwilling to be wrong. She'd wanted him to be wrong first, to say he was sorry first, to bend and break. To be beaten. She'd gotten what she wanted and it wasn't what she wanted at all. All she'd gotten was sixteen years of ghosts and misery and regret. "Foolish, stupid, stubborn woman," she shuddered and pulled in a deep breath, wiping her cheeks with his shirt. "Damn your pride, Margaret Thornton."

John pulled his truck onto his street and frowned. The light in his bedroom glowed in the stormy gloom. He never left his lights on. He scrubbed a hand down his face, and swore. He'd hoped to shower, pack, and be on the road to Helstone in fifteen minutes. Now some punk neighborhood kids were pulling another stupid-ass prank that would cost him hours. He parked the truck and pulled his gun out of his glove box. The front door was unlocked. He closed it behind him, absently turning the bolt. He'd expected to find an open or broken window, but there was nothing except a small dark purple rolling suitcase in the hall. "The hell?" John kicked it to one side, racked the slide on his gun, and stepped quietly into the living room. He swept the room, his scowl deepening. The coffee from this morning was gone and a book had moved.

"Damn kids," he muttered, switching off the floor lamp and stepped into the kitchen. The house echoed with a grumble of thunder. An empty water glass sat on the counter next to the sink. His eyes snapped up to the ceiling when a creak sounded above him. Upstairs. He cleared the stairwell and then started to climb, skipping the second stair. He paused. A picture frame had shifted. He stepped silently onto the landing. The door to the spare room was closed. "What the hell," he breathed. Whoever was in his house had been in every room. He grit his teeth, fixing his attention on the master bedroom door, which was cracked open. He heard them shift, then a soft hiccup. He clicked the safety off, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly through his mouth. Then he kicked the door open and aimed the gun straight at the woman sitting on his bed. She jumped and let out a strangled gasp.

They stared at each other for a terrible half second.

John blinked, his hands suddenly moving with practiced speed as he quickly lowered the gun, flicked the safety on, dropped the mag to the floor, and pulled the rack, ejecting the chambered round. Safe. Only then could he breathe, only then did the adrenaline hit his hands, making them shake so hard he almost dropped the now-empty weapon on the floor. He slammed the gun onto his dresser, turned, and walked out.