He was here. He wasn't supposed to be here, but—

"Bloody hell," Margaret stood on shaking legs, his shirt falling out of her lap onto the floor. Somehow he always managed to catch her at her absolute worst. God, what would he think of her? "Don't throw up," she muttered as she wiped the tears from her cheeks and straightened her shoulders. There was nothing to do but gather the pieces of her shattered pride, walk downstairs, and talk to him. Oh God. She was going to be sick.

She was here. She was here and he'd almost—

"Fuck."

He didn't care if he shouted. He wasn't ready for this. He threw his hat onto the counter, fingers raking through his hair. His hands were still shaking.

When she stepped into the kitchen, she found him rummaging in the cabinet over the fridge where he always kept the alcohol. He pulled out a dusty bottle of whiskey and set it down on the counter next to where he'd dumped his keys, wallet, and mobile into his hat. Then he took out two tumblers, slammed the cabinet shut, and placed them next to the bottle with a firm crack. He yanked out the cork and splashed generous servings into both glasses. He left the bottle out.

"John."

"Don't." The word snapped out of his mouth and she flinched. "If we're going to do this, I need a goddamn drink," he picked up his glass and pushed the other in her direction.

"Fine." He was right. She didn't want to think about the conversation they were about to have. Her stomach heaved a little, but she ignored it and picked the glass up, "Slàinte." She choked on her first sip, and coughed, "God, that's awful."

"It gets the job done." He finished his drink in one swallow, set the glass down, and poured another. But when he picked it up again, he just stared at the glass in his hand, like he didn't know what else to do, or what to say. That made two of them.

A long moment of silence hung between them, and she shifted. The storm continued to beat against the windows, colouring the kitchen in an eerie gloom. The whiskey slid down her throat like silk now that she'd had a couple of sips. She took a breath and tried to be brave.

"You have a beard," Margaret said at last.

She ran the razor over his jaw, trying to be careful. He'd been home from the hospital less than two hours. He was irritable and looked awful. She'd insisted a wash and a shave would make him feel better. He couldn't shower with his stitches, so she did her best to help him undress, being careful of his shoulder, and then washed his hair and face in the bathroom sink. Or tried to. His large lanky frame nearly filled the tiny bathroom and it was impossible to move without bumping him. It would've been funny if they both weren't so bloody exhausted. He flinched as the razor nicked him.

"Sorry," she set the razor down and pressed the hem of her shirt to the cut. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," he growled. His face was pale, and sweat shone on his forehead.

"Did you take your pain medication yet?"

"Just finish please."

"John, you have to take it."

"I hate pills and I hate hospitals," he grumbled pressing his eyes closed. He leaned his head against her, the shaving cream smearing on her shirt. "And I hate my shoulder."

She didn't know why it made her smile, "Anything else?"

"I hate shaving."

"You could stop," she murmured, picking up the razor again. "Maybe grow a beard, yeah?"

"Do you even like beards?"

"I'd like yours."

She did like it. He didn't say anything then took a swallow of his drink. She cleared her throat, "You're supposed to be at Helstone with Jack."

"You're supposed to be in England with Henry."

She flinched at the unconcealed anger in his words. "I had a work trip." She knew he was watching her over his glass. "To Boston." She paused, the glass half raised to her lips, and forced herself to look at his face; and almost dropped her drink. She'd hoped raising Jack would've given her enough practice to face him now, but nothing prepared her for the clawing sick feeling that cut through her. He was exactly the same, and yet so different. Every muscle and nerve in her body tightened. She set the glass down, her hands shaking. "I don't think I should be here."

"No." His glass clattered onto the countertop. "Fuck that."

"I'm sorry I—"

"You don't get to do that now. You've had sixteen years," he said slowly, the words grinding out of him, hard, sharp, and demanding. "How many more do you need before you can look me in the eye and tell me what the hell happened?"

"I don't know."

"That's fucking bullshit and you know it."

"Please stop swearing," She hugged her arms to herself and looked away. How was she supposed to do this? She couldn't. She stood there, glancing around the small space as if the right words might be found in a dusty corner, waiting. How many fights had they had in this kitchen? She didn't remember. "You know we can't fix things with a single conversation."

"Not talking for sixteen years sure didn't fix a goddamn thing."

"Please, John."

He stiffened and ran a hand through his hair. His hat lay on the counter between them and she stared at it, instead of him. The red fabric was old, faded into a dusty rose colour.

"Why do you keep this old thing?" She lifted the hat off his head and studied it. "It smells funny."

"Everything smells funny when you're pregnant." He set down the file he was reading and pushed himself back from the kitchen table, stretching out his long legs, "This was the first hat I made."

"It's spelled wrong." She pointed. "It's missing an 'o'."

"I don't care," he grinned, and snatched it back, "I like it."

"You would," she murmured, but she couldn't help but smile back. "Impossible man."

"You married me." His smile widened, then set his hat on her head, chuckling as it slipped down over her face.

Her fingers slid along the edge of his hat and John resisted the temptation to finish his second drink in one swallow, simply to give himself something to do other than stare. It almost hurt to look at her, but he couldn't stop himself, his eyes taking in every single detail. Her hair was darker now, longer. Thick and wavy, like before, with tiny slivers of gray. He folded his arms against the urge to run his hand through it. Her blue eyes had seen more than he remembered. They looked tired and cautious and sad, resigned to a world that was not her friend. Her body was the same and yet different, all the innocence gone, replaced with a sensual confidence. He clenched his fists. She stood there, like a woman who'd fought off the whole damn world and barely survived it.

"Why are you here?" The question felt ripped out of him, against his will. "Why now?" He wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.

She grabbed her drink and took a desperate sip, not because she wanted more, but simply to give herself time. But words refused to come, not without anger, and pain, and tears. She finished her whiskey and turned the glass over in her trembling hands. How could she answer him when she barely knew why she was here herself? She'd lied for so long, to herself, to her family, to everyone. To him. He deserved the truth from her now. They both did.

"I came because," she stared at his hat, "because I had to. I needed to."

"To do what exactly?"

"Remember." She shrugged. "I've forgotten a lot of important things." He said nothing. His silence was unbearable. She swallowed. "I know I shouldn't be here, in your house, but when Williams said you were gone, I—"

"You saw Williams?"

"Yes." She glanced at the glass in her hands, "I went to the Depot first."

He shifted, "Were you looking for me?"

"I was."

"Why?"

"I—" She couldn't stop herself from glancing up. His sharp blue eyes looked like steel. So old, so worn and wary, so tired. His thick hair was still black, with a generous bit of grey sprayed at his temples, and stood on end from where he'd ran his hand through it. Like he always did. Her fingers itched to tidy it. The burning energy that once rolled off of him in ceaseless waves had been replaced with a unyielding endurance. She blinked, her chest aching. He stood like man who had tried to carry the whole world by himself until the weight had nearly crushed him. "I guess I," she stopped, blinking hard. The words were so difficult to say. "I wanted to see you."

"Did you?" Of course he didn't believe her. He didn't trust her and for once she understood why he never really had.

"I don't expect you to believe me." She shrugged again. "You have no reason to." She still wanted to run away, to hide from it all. From him, from herself, from the terrible mess they'd made. "But I came to see you."

"You left me." His quiet words were like a jagged knife to her chest and she almost gasped. She stared back at him, unable to look away. The dark conflicted look on his face made her stomach tighten. It would have been so much easier to hear those words if he'd shouted. "You never said why. You never said anything." They cut right to the raw turmoil inside her. She took a tiny step back. "You were just gone."

"I know."

She couldn't make the right words come. Every thought, every regret, every apology, every bloody word seemed stuck between her heart and her throat. Everything in her body ached. But this pain was something else, something she realised now had always been there; it was why she'd taken his pictures when she left, and never threw them away; it was why she never sold her wedding rings, and wore them whenever she was around Henry Lennox; it was why she was here now, even after too many years of trying to ignore the the truth; it was a pull in her soul, so strong, so terrifying she'd run across an ocean to get away. Somehow this impossible man had grabbed onto her heart and wouldn't let go, even now, haunting her for sixteen years, bringing her back to him. Too late.

"I should go," she set her glass down on the counter, pushing it back towards him. She couldn't say anything else. Not today. Maybe not ever. Words were too much and not enough for a whole life lost. And it was her fault. "Thanks for the drink."

John couldn't make himself move. He followed her with his eyes as she picked up her purse and walked back towards the front door. When he heard it open, he sprang after her. "Why didn't you ever call me back?"

She stopped, hand on the knob, and looked back at him. It was an anguished and helpless look that he hated.

"I called you. I called your family. Hell, I even called that dipshit and his brother, trying to reach you. You never called back," he growled. "Not once."

"Would once have been enough for you?"

"No." Of course it wouldn't have been enough. "I had nothing. Not one phone call or email to let me know you were alright." He stared at a spot just above her shoulder. He couldn't look at her anymore. "To tell me about my son," He couldn't finish.

"What do you want me say?" She asked slowly, her voice hoarse. "Could I say anything now that would make sense of what I did to you? Do you want that?"

"Yes," he felt the word explode out of him. "I want some goddamn answers."

"There are no answers. Not easy ones—"

"Fuck easy. I never wanted easy. I want the truth. Tell me why."

"I don't know why I did it," she burst out, stepping closer. "And don't tell me it's fucking bullshit, because I know it is. You think I haven't regretted everything I've done or didn't do? I—" She turned away. "God, I don't even know. I was hurt and scared, and I hated fighting with you, hated what we were turning into, and I wanted it to be your fault and not mine. God—so I left and then for a while it got easier. The longer I was gone the easier it was just to bury it all and forget. But damnit, John, if you didn't haunt me every single day for sixteen years. Jack would look just like you, and sound like you, and act like you." She stopped, breathing hard. "So I didn't call, because you were there anyway and I," her voice broke, "I just couldn't." She slumped against the door, clutching at it like it was the only thing holding her together. "I thought you gave up on me. I was so angry and I wanted to hate you. It didn't work. I couldn't. Not when I hated myself more. "

John looked away, and ran a hand through his hair.

"Say something," her voice trembled. "Please."

"You named him after me."

"Must we talk about this now?" She shifted in bed trying to get comfortable. Her growing belly made her more and more restless, and more and more irritable. "I'm too bloody tired to care what we call this baby."

"We've got to pick a name sometime."

"I told you the names I like."

"I hate those names."

"You hate everything," she huffed and pushed herself out of bed. "Including your own bloody name, never mind that I was trying to be nice to you."

"We already talked about this," he growled.

"No, we didn't. God, it doesn't even matter. Why the bloody hell would I want two John Thorntons? One is bad enough."

He rolled away and glared at the ceiling, angry at the deep cutting sting of her words. He shouldn't give a shit. He wouldn't give a shit.

"I did," She let out a breath and tried to laugh. If she didn't laugh, she'd cry. "That was my one moment of bravery in a long line of cowardice."

She felt her body shaking with adrenaline, and the thought of the long train ride ahead of her made her head swim. The whiskey wasn't helping. She'd known this conversation would be impossibly hard, but they'd barely even talked and she already felt beaten raw. She glanced at her watch, tears filling her eyes, again. God, she was so tired of crying.

"I've a train to catch," she grabbed her suitcase, and straightened her shoulders. "And I don't have enough time to finish this now. You have my number now, so,"

John watched her step through the door. "Wait." She stopped but didn't turn around, her shoulders slumped, head bent. He scrambled for something to say. To make her stay, to make her talk to him. "Did you take the bus here?"

It was the wrong thing to say. She didn't answer and he grimaced at the familiar flare of anger and worry now churning in his gut. Of course she'd taken the bus. She never listened to him, no matter how many times he'd asked her to.

"Do what you want," he growled. "You always do."

She shuddered and then closed front door behind her before he could say anything else.

"Fuck." He barely felt when his fist hit the wall. It would hurt tomorrow. He leaned heavily against the wall, angry, and tired, and beaten.

Margaret's knees gave out the moment the door clicked shut, and she heard him shout. She sank to the wet grass, her shoulders shaking. Why did she come? She bit her fist against the sob that crawled out of her chest. Why hadn't she come sooner? She wouldn't need a photograph to remember every tortured line of his face. She pressed her eyes shut against the memory, but he was there anyway, in her head. In her soul. Just as he'd been there since the day she met him. She would never be rid of him, no matter how hard she tried, and for some reason this made her cry harder.

John paced from the front door to the stairs, and back again, three times, before he could force himself to go up and pack for Helstone. He thundered into his room, barely saw what he tossed into his old duffel. He flinched when he stepped on the magazine still lying on the ground next to his dresser. He snatched it up, along with the spare bullet, closing his eyes. He couldn't erase the startled terrified look on her face as he stared at her down the barrel of his gun. His chest hurt, his breathing quickened, too shallow. He dropped the mag and empty gun into his bag like they burned him, and almost threw up.

"Maggie, no!" He saw Boucher's gun before he heard it. Everything slowed, sharpened. He grabbed her waist, her arm, and pulled, almost like they were dancing, curling her against his chest as he turned his back on the rioters, putting himself between them and his family.

crack! crack!

His shoulder and back exploded with black and red and white pain. His knees buckled, feet tangled, falling, taking her down with him. He twisted and the ground slammed into him, solid and merciless. First a roar, then ringing, more pain, then his name.

"John?" She'd landed on top of him, both of his arms tight about her. Keeping her close. Keeping her safe. Was she hurt? If he'd let her get hurt— "John!" A hand clutched his shirt, touched his face. Pain. Everything was pain. Then faded, then gray. She was crying, but she was safe.

He stepped into the shower, letting the ice cold water pound some sense back into him. He'd waited for this day, hoped for it like a goddamn fool, and it still blindsided him, knocking him off balance and leaving nothing but exhausted rage behind. There was so much more he wanted to say, so much he couldn't even begin to find the words for. He was so damn tired of it all. Nothing he said to her made anything better. Nothing he said would bring back what they'd lost.

"Where's Maggie?" John turned on Williams, who stood at the coffee pot. "She's supposed to be here."

"She was a minute ago. Had her suitcase with her, but said she was waiting for you before her flight—"

"Shit," John didn't give Williams a chance to finish and bolted out of the office. "Shit, shit, shit." He had to find her before she left. He'd been an idiot to think she wouldn't leave. She couldn't leave. His eyes darted over the lot and up the drive. There. The bus was idling at the stop. "Wait, Maggie—"

When he reached the street, the bus had pulled away, and was disappearing around the corner.

John swore and slammed his hand flat against the shower wall. He couldn't make her stay, couldn't make her want to, couldn't make her do anything. He slapped off the water and ripped the towel over his skin and hair. He threw the towel into the corner, swept the soap, razor, and deodorant off the counter, and slammed his hands down on the marble, the pain radiating up his arms. He'd let her leave. Again. He glared at his reflection, "God damn you, John Thornton."

Her mobile rang softly, and she drew in a sharp breath. Had John found her number and— She quickly dug the device from her purse and stared at the happy grin on the screen. Not John. She shoved down her confusing disappointment and stood.

"Jack?"

"Mam, you alright?"

She took a steadying breath, "I—what is it?" The line was silent. "Darling—"

"I've got something to ask you." His voice grumbled low, just like his father's and she pressed a hand to her stomach. "Something important, yeah?"

"I'm not going to like it, am I?"

"No, you're not." Jack laughed a little, but it was nervous, cautious, in a way that made her frown. "I know you're in Boston for that Maths thing, Mam."

"How do you know that?"

"Article in the papers. Mr Bell showed me."

"Mr Bell?" She gripped her mobile, and leaned heavily against the house, "Jack, I—I know I should've told you."

"I get it, Mam. Look, before you say anything else, just listen, like. I'm at Helstone, dad's old family place in South Carolina. Do you know it?"

"What's this?" She held up a photograph of a Victorian styled mansion she'd found in a box of old documents. John took the photograph, frowning. But it was a different frown, sad and almost lost. His grip on the photo tightened, leaving a crease when she pulled it free. "John?"

"Helstone." He cleared his throat and turned back to his spreadsheet. "My family used to own it. Mr Bell owns it now."

"This is Helstone? I remember Fanny mentioned it once."

"It's just a house." He shrugged, "It's nothing special any more."

She frowned, confused by her sudden impulse to hug him. He'd lost something there. Something important. "I'm sorry." She didn't know why she said it. But she was.

"I remember it, yes."

"I want you to come visit."

"Me visit Helstone?" She tried to swallow but her throat refused to cooperate. "Now?"

"Yeah."

"Jack, you can't just invite me like this, without warning or permission—"

"Mr Bell said I could." He sounded embarrassed. "Dad's coming too."

"I can't. Not if he's—

"It's just the once, yeah?" Jack interrupted. They were quiet for a moment. "I know what I'm asking, Mam, but you're already here in America and I want—" He paused, his voice turning thick and strained. "All I want is my family—my whole family—in one place. Just this once, and that's it. And you're here now."

Margaret felt the panic building in her chest, and her breath came faster and shallower. He didn't know what he was asking her to do, not after tonight. How could she say yes? After what she'd just been through, she couldn't. "Jack I—"

Margaret stared at her mother, trying to hold back a sob. She wished her dad were here, that they could be here together, just this once.

"This is goodbye then?"

" Mum, I—" She was leaving, and might never see her again. Guilt tore at her. She'd been counting down the days until she could escape this awful place, and see her father again. What kind of daughter did that make her? "I'm so scared. I don't know what to do. And Dad," Margaret stumbled over her words, and clutched her mother's hand. She couldn't talk about her dad to her mum, but she couldn't go just yet. "Are you afraid?"

"We all die," Her mother sighed. "Some sooner, some later. You should go."

"Mum, please. I'm sorry."

"Be brave, Margaret Ann," her mother pulled her hand away, her face tight with pain. "Just for today."

"But what about tomorrow?"

Her mother closed her eyes. "No one is promised tomorrow."

Margaret stood, folded her arms around herself, and left. She never saw her mother again.

Margaret took a deep shuddering breath.

"Mam? Are you still there?

She had no idea what would happen if she stayed. Part of her was sick with dread at the thought. There was too much left to say, and do, and remember. Too much and too late. But she also knew exactly what would happen if she ran away again, and this time, she wanted things to be different. Just this once.

"Mam?"

She straightened her shoulders and took another clear breath. The air was cool, and fresh, scrubbed clean by the storm. "I love you, Jack."

"Is that a yes? Will you come?"

"Yes."

John slammed his front door and locked it. He glanced up the street but he couldn't see her. Almost against his will, he took a step, then two, towards the nearest bus stop. Rain dripped half heartedly from the trees lining the street. His gut rolled over in protest as he tried to reign in the raging impulse to find her again and— And what? His fist clenched around his keys as he turned back to his truck. She could do whatever the hell she wanted. Even take the goddamn bus. He swore under his breath, glanced up, and stopped.

Margaret was leaning against the side of his truck, arms folded protectively around herself, staring at her feet. "I'm going with you." She raised her eyes. In the half-fading light he could see she'd been crying, her face red and splotched. Her skirt was wet and muddy. She looked beaten. "And I don't want to talk about it."

He frowned, a twisting gnawing feeling in his chest, but said nothing, trying to decide what he wanted. Then he sighed. He knew he didn't want her to leave. Not yet. He opened the truck door, tossed his duffle bag inside the back, and slid her suitcase beside it. Once they were settled in the old truck, he hesitated as he turned the keys in the ignition. He looked over at her. "We're not done."

"I know," she said quietly, glancing at him and then out the window. "But I can't tonight."

He grunted and put the truck in gear, "Fair enough."