The truck engine filled the gaping silence with enough noise Margaret could almost forget where she was and what she was doing. But she couldn't ignore him. She never could. Her fingers worked nervously at a loose bit of thread in her skirt, twisting and untwisting. Milton passed by in an odd blur, and she realised she was crying again. Or it was raining again. The light drops spattered gently over the window, pulled into blueish lines streaked with the silver light of the street lamps. She raised a finger and traced the rippling tracks across the window. The truck slowed, the blinker clicking in the roaring silence. A beat, a flash, red to green. With a turn the city quickly disappeared behind them. She gently wiped her cheeks and leaned her forehead against the cool glass, grateful for John's silence. For once.

The growl of the engine changed as it sped up, merging onto the motorway. It was still early afternoon, and there were only a handful of cars. She watched them without really seeing them, fast moving flashes of blue, red, black, and silver. The rain had nearly stopped, the sky brightening. She allowed herself to look over at John, and frowned.

"Seatbelt."

His face hardened and her stomach lurched. She turned quickly away, her cheeks hot, and kept her eyes on the blurring flash of trees, wishing she could take back her ill-timed words.

"What?" He demanded with a heavy sigh.

"Seatbelt."

"I'm not five—"

"Please just put the bloody thing on." She interrupted. He scowled at her. He hated when she fussed, but ever since he'd been shot, she couldn't stop herself. "You're going to get in an accident and then you'll die, and it will be my fault because I didn't say anything."

He made a face, his thinning patience written in every line. "I'm not going to die, Maggie," he grumbled softly.

"You almost did." They'd never really talked about how lucky he'd been. But her guilt still pulled at her and she wasn't about to let him get himself killed. Not if she could stop it this time. She raised her chin and folded her arms, blocking the open truck door. "Please, just do it."

"Fine," he shifted awkwardly, and buckled himself one handed, his left arm still useless in its black sling. "Happy now?"

"Yes," she stepped out of the way and shut the truck door. "Drive safe," she called.

John rolled his eyes, but she knew he would. For her. The whole thing was oddly adorable and it made her want to kiss him. Her hand jerked forward to knock on the glass to stop him, but she quickly stepped back, absently rubbing a hand over her slowly expanding belly. Her eyes followed his truck until it turned the corner.

"Be safe."

She hadn't meant to say anything. It just slipped out, an old habit even Jack hated. She would've smiled if she wasn't so tired. She didn't have the right to say those things to John anymore, or to care if he ignored her. Silence piled up between them again. She closed her eyes, and tried not to care. It was silly and none of her business. He'd lived a long time without her to nag him about his seatbelt, and survived just fine. The thread on her skirt snapped as she yanked at it. She didn't want to think about those years.

She didn't know what to think or how to feel when she heard the sharp click of his seatbelt a moment later.

For the first couple of hours, John tried to simply ignore her and drive. He kept his eyes on the damn road, on the sparse traffic, his hands clamped painfully on the wheel. Every muscle in his back, shoulders, and arms coiled with the torture of having her an arm's length away, smelling exactly the way he remembered.

"What's that smell?"

"What smell?" She frowned, sniffing. "I don't smell anything—" He tugged her closer. "John, what are you doing?"

He bent and traced the soft line of her shoulder with his cheek, burying his face in the perfect space just under her jaw, "This smell," he breathed, kissing the spot.

"D-do you mean my perfume?" She asked primly. She was so stiff and awkward whenever he touched her, even now. Like she didn't want him to. But sometimes the stiffness would disappear, and she would settle against him, perfect and soft and his. "Or my shampoo?"

"Both," He grunted, brushing gentle fingers over her hair. He breathed in again, every task demanding his attention forgotten. The only time he felt right was right here, with her. With her he could forget everything, for one damn perfect moment, and simply be. And it was enough, even if she was as skittish as a deer in the headlights.

"It's lavender."

"Then I like lavender."

"Do you?" she laughed softly, and it was like ice cold water on a hot day. She relaxed a little more and he leaned his cheek on her hair.

"I do now."

He grit his teeth, eyes stubbornly focused on the road. He tried not to think about it, about anything, except the flashing broken white line in the center of the highway. But their earlier conversation played over and over and over in his head, like a burr stuck in his boot. A mess of words and anger and hurt that meant nothing and everything. It started raining again, the clouds covering the sky in thick sullen gray. He shifted, his shoulder aching, like it always did when it rained.

"Are you alright?"

He hated that question, and he hated the guilty pity he saw in her eyes. He didn't want her pity. Or her guilt. She'd done nothing wrong. He wished she'd just let it go and leave him alone. His first day back at work had been hell, and he'd survived. Barely. And he hated himself for it. Hated how much he'd wanted to come home and collapse into bed. Hated how much he wanted her. He needed her, now more than ever.

"I—" he threw his hat down. "I still can't take off my damn clothes." She stood there a moment, a strange look on her face. He ran a hand through his hair and swore. He started for the door. This whole thing was stupid. "Forget it."

"John." She stepped forward, placing a hand gingerly on his chest. "Stop."

"I hate this," he half whispered. Everything hurt, everything was a goddamn mess at the Depot, and he couldn't fix it.

"Sit down." She pushed gently until he walked backwards and sat on the edge of the bed. "Sling first?" He nodded and started to help her, but she pushed his hand away. "Tell me if I hurt you."

"I'm fine."

"You're not."

He wanted to argue with her, but instead he leaned forward and rested his head against her. Slowly, she wrapped her arms around him and just held him. He sighed. Now he was fine.

He yanked his phone from his back pocket and tossed it into the cup holder, flinching at the radiant pain in his hand. The screen lit up for a moment, and his frown deepened. One missed call. Unknown number. He picked it up and thumbed it open, eyes flicking quickly over the unfamiliar collection of digits. A foreign number. The hell? He swallowed and slowly set the phone back, unable to stop himself from stealing a quick look at Margaret. She was staring out the window again.

"You've reached the phone of Margaret Hale. Leave a message and I'll ring when I can, yeah? Have a lovely day…"

"Maggie," John had lost count of how many times he'd listened to that happy recording. He sighed, leaning his head against the cold glass of their bedroom window. It was almost Christmas. "Please." Snow was starting to fall, gilding the dirty yard into a glistening white. "I—I don't know. I've got nothing," the words cut into him. "Maggie, I'm sorry." His hand tightened on his phone. "Please call me." But he knew now she wouldn't. Maybe that's why the next words fell out, all too easy now that she'd never hear them. "I love you."

He slapped his phone shut and threw it at the wall. He slid down to the floor and sat listening to the snow. He didn't call her again.

John frowned. Had she called him? And if she had, what did that mean? He didn't know what to make of it. He didn't know what to make of any of this, and it pissed him off. He wrenched his eyes away, his foot pressing harder on the accelerator. The truck whined as it sped up. Minutes passed. Maybe an hour?

"What happened to your other truck?" Her voice sounded tired and flat in the space between them. "The blue one?"

He didn't answer right away. Why was she even asking? She folded her arms around herself when he still didn't say anything. He shook his head, and sighed.

"Sold it for parts. Seven, maybe eight years ago." He cleared his throat, forcing himself to loosen his grip on the steering wheel. "You can only rebuild an engine so many times before you can't anymore."

"Oh." Silence again. It stretched out so long, he almost jumped when she spoke again. "I liked that truck."

"Will you teach me to drive it?"

"You hate my truck."

"I don't hate it. I hate the way it smells."

He grinned, studying her slowly from head to toe. She was starting to really look pregnant, her stomach a sharp rounded contrast to the rest of her. Smells still bothered her, but she didn't puke quite as much as she had in the first three months. "Have you ever driven a car?"

"No," she blushed, and raised her chin under his teasing scrutiny. "It's can't be that hard, can it?"

"Depends."

"Well, I like hard things."

"Good," he said, swallowing a laugh. He stepped closer. "Because I'm always hard when you're around."

"What?" Her eyes widened, and he started laughing. She shoved him, sputtering, and blushing. "Could you please not—not here, for God's sake. You— all I wanted was a bloody driving lesson and—never mind, I'll have Williams teach me, you impossible man." She shoved him again. He caught her hand and stepped forward again, pressing her against the door of the truck, until his hips were tight against hers. She sucked in a sharp breath, her face bright red. "Oh."

"I don't say things that aren't true." He winked. Then pulled his keys from his pocket and held them out. "You break it, you buy it."

"Really?" She brightened. "You'll teach me?"

"Sure."

He shook himself. They drove in silence for a long while after that, the day finally fading away. The sky through the streaked windshield was resplendent in glorious burnt hues of red, orange, and a bluish purple, gilded in a burning gold. John watched the sunset without really seeing it, his thoughts still a tangled mess. He could almost feel her eyes on him, but he refused to look at her. It didn't really matter. Even when she'd been thousands of miles away, he couldn't make himself forget a goddamn thing. He swore softly and tossed his hat aside.

"John?"

"John," a whispered gasp in the dark. Her hips tilted, and he swore as he slid deeper. He didn't notice the biting cold of her tiny bedroom or the hard wood underneath them. He didn't notice the creak of the house around them or the soft muffled tick of her wall clock. And he didn't notice the rough scrape of her fingernails on his arms and back or the sharp tug when she buried her hands in his hair. How could he when he'd just lost himself inside her?

"Maggie."

His words disappeared into her mouth as she kissed him, a deep and desperate thing that blurred any space left between them. His fingers dug into her hip. She gasped, lifting her head, clutching at his neck. They moved together in a clumsy rough way, perfect in its imperfect humanity, all sweat and skin. He watched her, stunned at the raw glimpse of the woman she kept hidden from everyone else. She hid from everybody, even herself. So why was he here? He swallowed. What good thing could he have possibly done to be here, with her, in this stolen moment? He paused, bringing their heated rhythm to a halt, his forehead pressed against hers, breath and bodies heaving.

"Maggie, I—"

"Don't," she panted, squirming. "Don't stop."

The hand braced above her head curled into a hard fist as she moved against him. Tight, warm, and perfect. He swore between clenched teeth. "I shouldn't be here."

"Yes," she clutched his face in her hands and rolled her hips, a soft breathy exhale slipping from her lips. "You should."

He shook his head. He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve her.

"I want you—here."

He stared at her. "Why?"

"Stop," she covered his mouth with hers. Goddamn, she tasted like heaven.

He groaned. "Maggie."

"Shut up, John."

"Fuck this."

He jerked the steering wheel, turning off the highway in a sudden swerve. He ignored her small gasp, and pulled into the closest gas station. The truck shuddered as he shoved the gear shift into park, and yanked the keys out of the ignition. He slammed the door closed behind him, breathing hard through his nose, trying to concentrate on the dirty smell of diesel and gasoline, the oppressive too bright fluorescent lights, the hiss and shift of a semi as it grumbled past. He ran a shaking hand through his hair, and snatched up the gas pump. He flipped open the metal gas cover, yanked out the cap, and shoved the pump inside. He had to think about something else—anything else— had to get her out of his head, out of his soul. But it was damn impossible. She was always there. Always.

"John?"

He flinched, and turned sharply away from her, fumbling for his wallet.

"I can pay—"

"No." He snapped.

"Why won't you let me bloody pay for something? Anything? You're being so bloody stubborn."

"We're married, Maggie." He said, hard and slow. How many times were they going to fight about who paid for the goddamn gas? Or her classes? Or any of it? "It doesn't matter who pays for it, it's all the same anyway."

"It's not the same. This matters to me."

"I can't fucking figure out why. I don't care who pays for any of it—"

"But I care. I'm so bloody tired of taking your money."

"You're not taking anything from me," he growled. "It's all yours too. Would listen to me for five seconds and—"

"It's not," she snapped. "Everything in my bloody life is yours. Your house, your bed, your truck, your money—"

"It's not mine," he interrupted, trying not to shout, trying for all he was worth not to let her words gut him. But she constantly pushed him out, pushed him away, sorting everything in their life into 'hers' and 'his'. He hated it. "We could have an actual life if you'd stop fighting this so damn hard."

"God, you're such an asshole."

He stared at her for a long terrible second, her words making him feel sick to his stomach. He couldn't say anything else. She wouldn't listen anyway. So he left.

He finished the transaction and punched the appropriate button on the pump.

"Fine." She sighed. "Thank you."

He couldn't stop himself from watching as she slowly walked towards the station, a warm gust of wind scattering litter across her path. Her arms were wound tight around herself, as if she were cold. She looked beaten. Alone.

"Shit." He leaned against the truck scrubbing his face with his hands, feeling a sudden sinking conviction that he'd failed her. He'd failed her then, and he was failing her now.

Margaret rinsed her hands in the tiny rust stained sink, and splashed cold water over her face. Her stomach shifted uneasily under the assault of the sewer smell wafting from the open drain. She looked awful. He looked worse. She blinked at her reflection, trying not to think too hard, trying not to wonder what he might be thinking. About her, about all this madness. She shook her head, a small hard sound, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh, echoed in the cold washroom.

"What am I even doing?"

But her reflection didn't have the answer any more than she did.

When John finished filling the tank, he checked his watch and stole another look at the station. He squinted but he couldn't see her inside. He rubbed his eyes and settled himself in the driver's seat, tugging the door shut. It was mercifully silent. The smell of her lingered, like a tantalizing ghost. His gaze flicked to the station, then to his phone. He rolled his sore shoulder, and finally picked the phone up, curiosity winning. He thumbed it open and looked at the call log again. The one missed call had come at midday, from England. He let out a hard breath. She had called him. After sixteen years, she'd actually called him back. And she'd left him a message.

"Fuck."

John was sitting in the truck when she stepped outside, studying his phone. She watched him for a moment, unable to move.

"Hey, Mags, that guy's outside waiting for you again."

She glanced up from her computer, "What?"

Her lab colleague, Terry, shrugged, and pointed to a familiar rusted blue truck idling in the fire lane outside the computer lab. Her heart jumped a little. He'd come. He said he would come, and he had. She didn't know if she was surprised or annoyed or both.

"He's been there for almost an hour." Terry said, watching her. "So what's the deal with you two? Are you," he shrugged, trying to look casual. "Are you dating or what?"

"No," she shook her head, enjoying the strange moment of watching John. He'd pulled off his hat and was singing to himself in the car. She wondered what sort of music he liked. She'd never really bothered to ask and it made her feel guilty. "We're not dating."

"Oh, cool." Terry sounded oddly relieved. "Good."

She turned and smiled a little, "We're getting married."

A low whistle and a little hoot made her blink. She'd not even noticed the two men standing off to the left of the filling station door. She sighed, shot them a scathing look, and started walking.

"Where're you going in such a hurry on them long legs, baby?"

Margaret shivered uncomfortably, dropped her eyes, and pretended not to hear them.

"Come on now, kitten, don't be rude," another voice called out. "Come on back here."

Her steps quickened. A car door slammed and she glanced up. John walked around the truck and opened the passenger door for her, but he wasn't really paying attention. He stared at the two men who had quickly turned aside to their own vehicle. Every line in his body was tight and tense, and she almost reached out to him.

She held her head high, and pushed through the foyer, but she could feel their scrutiny and judgment. Just when she thought she would crumble into irrational angry tears, she felt an arm around her shoulder. John tugged her roughly to him, and held her close. Then she was crying, even as he ducked away from the mingling after-church crowd. It was so unexpected, she couldn't make herself stop crying now that she'd started.

"What did they say?" He demanded. He sounded so angry, but he didn't let her go.

"It's nothing," she said, her voice trembling. She shouldn't cry, shouldn't be upset. "I'm being silly and petty and I hate this place and these people."

"And?"

"And I don't have a white dress and I don't bloody care, but everyone was gossiping about it and—I'm sorry. I know you don't care but I do and I'm ruining your shirt."

"Fuck my shirt," he grumbled.

She almost laughed, comfortable and warm, hidden safely against him. She knew he wouldn't let go until she was ready. She didn't want to think about why. She closed her eyes, and let herself be held, for just this moment. No one would bother her here, and if they tried, John would take care of her.

She fumbled with her purse and held out a small bag of crisps. He frowned at them. "I wasn't hungry but," she stumbled on her words, "but then I thought you might be. Hungry."

"I thought you might be hungry."

He set a plate of plain toast on the nightstand next to a steaming mug.

"Oh." She shifted and sat up, keeping the sheets tucked firmly around her. She could almost feel him studying her. He was always watching her, and it made her feel uncomfortable and exposed. Had he always done that? She picked up the mug, but the thought of eating anything turned her stomach. She swallowed slowly. "Aren't you supposed to be working?"

"Not today."

She nodded. Of course he wouldn't work the morning after they got married.

"You're not eating." It was gruff, almost accusing. She couldn't quite tell if he was offended or concerned or—

She put the cup down and turned away, burying herself in the unfamiliar bed. "I don't want it."

She wanted to go back. Back to before, to when she hated him and he hated her, to when everything was simple and easy, to when she hadn't ruined her life and his.

"Maggie?"

"Don't call me that."

She closed her eyes and didn't speak to him the rest of the day.

"Please," she said, awkward and uncertain. "Take them."

He didn't say anything and he didn't take the crisps. He just stood there. Somehow it made her feel worse.

"Right." She blinked away the familiar sting of tears and climbed into the truck, too tired to try anymore tonight. Why had she even bothered? What the bloody hell would a small bag of cheap crisps do for them now? He closed the passenger door with a firm dull thud.

The quiet hours slipped by as the night deepened. The bag of potato chips sat in the small space between them. John stiffened when his stomach suddenly growled, the sound mercifully buried under the rumble of the engine as the truck sped down the highway. Of course he was hungry, but for some damn reason he couldn't take the snack she'd bought for him. He looked over at her.

Margaret had tucked her head and arm against the window, eyes closed, her breathing even and deep. Asleep. He scowled and turned back to the road. The glow of the headlights splashed over the road. His eyes felt sandy. They still had a long way to go. He didn't know how long he drove before a soft sigh made him glance over again. She'd curled her legs into the seat, her shoes discarded somewhere in the dark. Her hair fell in a thick mess around her face.

On cold nights, John would wake up with Margaret curled up against him, like a cat. He smiled and pulled her closer, all their arguments and strained moments disappearing with the sun. He couldn't stop himself from tracing a hand over her hip and waist, following the intoxicating line of her body, up onto her shoulder and down her arm. So damn soft. He brushed her hair out of her face and studied the gentle regal features. Sleep made her seem fragile and delicate.

"Maggie."

She shifted, "What is it?" Her voice was thick with sleep. She wasn't really awake and he hadn't meant to say anything.

"I—" He loved her. So much the words stuck in his throat, almost choking him. He wanted her safe and happy, more than he wanted anything. He wanted her to love him. So much it hurt. He wanted so many damn things that he couldn't ever say out loud.

"John?"

"Nothing." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Sleep."

His fists clenched the steering wheel. The sky was empty and dark, a mellow blue black, without a cloud in the sky, stars glittering above the curtain of trees on the horizon. The small space between him and his wife was so impenetrable, it may as well have been a goddamn brick wall. Maybe she was right. Maybe he couldn't fix them. Maybe there wasn't enough time to say everything that needed to be said between them. His chest tightened painfully and he forced himself to take slow deep breaths, defiant of the panicked shallow ones. There wasn't a single damn thing he could do until the morning. Right now, all he could do was drive.

Except. He reached over and picked up the bag of chips. Sour cream and cheddar flavor. His favorite. He sighed, yanked it open with his teeth, and ate as quietly as possible.

John was dead on his feet when he pulled onto the long drive. He parked his truck alongside Watson's company car and the car hissed. Margaret was still curled against the window, her steady breathing fogging the glass. He sat for a long minute, unable to make himself move. The porch light flicked on, and he stepped out of the truck. It was long past one in the morning and he was done. Jack jogged up to the truck, his face split with a wide grin.

"Hey, Dad."

"Jack," John stared at his son. And then because he was strung out and worn to the edges of sanity from spending ten hours in almost complete silence with Margaret, he pulled Jack into a fierce rough hug.

"You alright, Dad?"

"I'm going to bed," John stepped back, and scrubbed his face with his hands. "Help your mother inside, kid."

"Mam?" Jack sounded confused. "What, is she with you? Now?"

John couldn't answer. He half stumbled through the front door, into the quiet old house, weaving through the rooms, down the long back hall to his parent's old bedroom on the first floor. It smelled like ghosts and misery and home. He didn't even notice. He kicked off his shoes, yanked off his shirt, threw himself onto the bed, and was asleep in less than two minutes.