AN: It was time this story got a massive edit. That's why it's jumped up to the top of the feed. This story was my first dive back into fanfiction after a long extended break back in 2020. Please give her a read (or a reread).

The door to the main office jerked opened and the Depot manager stepped inside. John Thornton growled at the interruption, but Tucker Williams ignored it, as most of the drivers worth their salt always did. They'd worked together too long for the crusty old truck driver, turned operations manager, to give a shit if Master was in a bad mood—which he usually was. Williams should've poured himself a cup of coffee and gotten the hell back to work but he didn't.

"What is it, Williams?"

"Someone here to see you, Master."

John bristled at the use of his old trucker handle, but habits die hard, and Williams was too damn old to change. A good twenty-five years John's senior, Williams got away with more than anyone else at Marlborough Shipping.

"No," he didn't even look up from his spreadsheets, making a note to check on the Pellor Contract. They were behind by almost a day. Williams didn't move. John kept working, shoving the pencil behind his ear as he turned to the computer. "I don't have time for unscheduled appointments. Now get out."

"You got time for this one."

John looked up, frowning.

"Trust me." Williams had worked for Marlborough Shipping since John started with only two grungy trucks and a crazy idea. He'd been there every step of the way and he'd only changed John's schedule once against his will. "You got time."

Williams marched into the office, "Someone to see you, Master."

"No."

"Yes." He jerked his head at the door. "You've got time for this."

She stood just outside the door, clutching her backpack to her chest, eyes wide, face pale. John almost jumped out of his seat. Something was wrong.

"Out," he muttered at Williams, and walked over to the door, locking it behind the old man.

It had been two weeks since he'd seen her. Two weeks of hell, living on the memory of that one night spent with her. With the strike he barely had time to eat or sleep. When he did pause to catch his breath, he'd thought of her. Now she refused to look at him as he gently led her to a chair. Or when he sat back down at his desk and waited. His stomach tightened. Something was very wrong.

"What is it?"

She leaned forward, uncurling her fist, and placed a small plastic stick in the middle of his desk, her face white, hands trembling. He didn't need to look at the pregnancy test to know it was positive. He tossed his hat on the desk and picked it up anyway.

"Fuck."

Williams motioned for the visitor to come in. The kid was tall and gangly, over six feet, with thick unruly black hair which probably hadn't seen a barber in months. His sharp blue eyes were set under a pair of intense black eyebrows. Everything about him, from his stern jawline and prominent nose to his lanky posture, was oddly familiar and strange, like hearing your own voice on a recording. John blinked, his stomach turning over. An awkward silence stretched between them until he sighed, pushed back his hat, and turned to Williams.

"Cancel any other meetings I've got today, and move Higgins over to the band. Slouch and Wolf can manage the bays. I'll need an update tonight."

Williams chuckled, "There's scotch in my locker." He glanced at the boy, "You're gonna need it."

"Get the hell out," John said, resigned, tossing the old man a dark look for good measure. He turned his attention back to the boy, taking another good look at him. Damn. Thornton genes were strong. "Does your mother know you're here?"

A slow grin pulled at one corner of the boy's mouth, "She's knows I'm in America, but I'm not sure if she knows I'm here in Milton." His voice scratched and ground through the flat northern British vowels. His voice would eventually be much deeper—like John's—but soft.

"I'm Jack, by the way," the boy grinned, looking a bit sheepish, and held out his hand. "Not sure if you knew my name."

"John," he stood and they shook hands across the desk. "Not sure you knew my name either," he added with a grim smile.

"Not until a couple of months ago," Jack shrugged. "Sorry."

"Have a seat, kid."

Jack pulled up a chair and sat, setting his backpack on the ground next to him, his easy posture at odds with the frown worrying his forehead. One leg bounced up and down with nervous energy.

John took off his hat, ran a hand through his hair, and settled it back on his head. He couldn't keep himself from staring, drinking in the sight of his son. He sighed, "There's no easy way to do this, kid. Start talking."

"Well, aye," Jack rubbed the back of his head and then unzipped a pocket on his backpack. "I found this when I was eight. Pulled it out of the bins."

John took the faded polaroid and glanced at it. The picture was of John, shirtless, working on his truck. He frowned. When the hell had she taken this? "You found it where?"

"Mam's Aunt Shaw was doing 'season cleaning,' while mam was away. She probably just wanted to toss out stuff mam never does. A bit high handed. Anyway, there were loads of photographs. I managed to nick the lot when she wasn't looking, like. I had a strong suspicion you were my dad. Well, look at the picture, yeah? Anyway, when I asked, mam said you were. And she let me keep the lot."

John set the picture down, his breath tight in his chest. He cleared his throat. "Did your mom say anything else about me?"

"Not really," Jack opened the larger pocket of his pack and pulled out a stack of papers held together with a large binder clip and set it on the desk. "Last term one of our assignments was to look ourselves up on the internet. They was blatherin' on about internet safety and all that. Total rot, but look where it got me, like. Turns out we have the exact same name. After this lot popped up, it didn't take long to figure out the rest, especially since you were still in Milton."

The printed pages were a collection of various articles about Marlborough Shipping Depot, including a three page spread about the shooting that had ended the strike.

"You shouldn't be here," John said, grabbing her arm and dragging her towards the front entrance. Tension coiled in his shoulders like a wild animal. He had to get her away from here. He cursed when he saw the growing crowd of angry truck drivers surrounding the bay.

"I was at the doctors' and Mary offered to bring me."

He spun, ignoring her, and marched her back to his office. His mind raced as he pulled out his gun and loaded it. She shouldn't be here. She couldn't be here. Not now. Not today.

"John, what are you going to do?" Her voice was angry and frightened.

"Stay here." He racked the slide and closed the door behind him.

His shoulder burned at the memory, and he rubbed it absently as he flipped through the remaining pages. Towards the end, he found three obituaries; his grandfather, his father, and his mother. He closed his eyes.

His mother refused to see a doctor, refused to believe she was dying, and refused to see her son until it was almost too late.

Fanny stood in front of the hospital room, tears streaming down her face. "You have to talk to her, John. To hell with her last wishes."

He crossed his arms. If she didn't want to talk to him, he sure as hell wouldn't budge.

"Swallow your damn pride, and do something before it's too late."

The kid was still talking.

"I planned this summer trip ages ago with me mates," Jack went on. "We're in New York City for a week now, and the train ride to Connecticut wasn't too bad. So here I am. Wasn't sure what you'd think, but I had to try, like."

John sat back and tossed his hat onto his desk, running his hands through his hair again. He'd known this day coming. He'd waited sixteen years for it, but it was still a goddamn fist to the gut. Williams had been right. He needed a drink.

"So," Jack paused, looking embarrassed. "Did you want to know anythin'?"

Everything. Anything. Sixteen years worth. "When's your birthday?"

"August 31st."

John tried to remember what he was doing sixteen years ago on that particular day. Of course, he couldn't, but he still tried. The baby—Jack, his brain interrupted —had been due mid September. She must've gone into labor early. The kid cleared his throat.

"When's yours?"

"New Year's Eve." John picked up his pencil, found Jack's birthday on his desk calendar, and circled the day, scratching in his son's name.

"Look," Jack said, watching him. "I'm not stupid, like. You and mam have your business and I don't want to be in the middle of it. I didn't come here for money and I don't expect much. But I wanted to meet you and I've got some questions only you can answer."

"I bet you do," John stood and walked to the coffee pot, pouring himself a refill. He'd lost count of all his questions. He'd given up on ever getting them answered. "You want anything to drink?"

"Coffee, if there's enough."

"It isn't fresh and I don't have cream or sugar."

"Black'll do." Jack accepted his cup and took a long slurp. "God, that's awful. Proper nasty, yeah?"

"It gets the job done," John leaned back and put his feet on his desk. "What has your mother told you?"

"The truth," Jack shrugged, examining his mug. "What little of it she wanted to share, like. Which isn't much."

"Ask your questions," John crossed his arms. He always wondered how Margaret saw what happened between them all those years ago. But he wasn't about to ask his kid. What the hell would he know? "You'll get nothing less than the truth from me."

"I know it was a one night stand, and I'll admit I'm curious how you managed that with mam being the way she is."

"But?"

"But you married her. And good for you, like," Jack continued, glancing up, an odd strained look on his face, "So, as far as I can tell, you're still married."

John shifted in his chair, but he didn't say anything.

"Are you?"

John sat back, and pulled his keys out of his pocket, flipping through them until he found the smallest one. He unlocked the bottom drawer of his personal filing cabinet, and pulled it open. In the back of the drawer, under his handgun, sat a large mailing envelope. He slipped it out and handed it over to Jack, along with his pocket knife. Jack slit the envelope, glanced inside, and then started emptying the contents. A battered paperback novel. A wrinkled marriage license. Two faded sets of ultrasound pictures. A baby shower invitation. A USB memory stick. A gold wedding band. John watched his son shift the items around on the desk, studying each one briefly. It was everything John had packed away and told himself to forget. It was a lifetime of ghosts that refused to fully disappear.

"Alright then. So you are still married."

John nodded.

For the first time, Jack stopped smiling. "Why didn't you try to find us?"

"You're assuming I didn't try."

Jack frowned, running his hand through his hair, making it stand on end. John blinked, a curious little catch in his chest as he witnessed the familiar action for the first time. "It took two internet searches to find you, and I'm no whiz at computers, mate. If you wanted to, you could've contacted us a long time ago, couldn't you? Mam's a mathematician, and a professor. She's published papers, and she teaches, gives lectures, the lot. She's bloody easy to find, yeah?"

"Sixteen years ago, she was a college drop out with a family who hated my guts. I tried. And then I stopped." John took a large swallow, swirled the remaining coffee, and then drained it. Those years were not his best. They almost broke him. "I wasn't looking to start a custody battle, kid."

Jack looked uncomfortable, his face a war of thoughts, emotions, and embarrassment. "Didn't you want to? Find me, at least?"

John suddenly felt old and tired. He couldn't find anything to say. How the hell could he explain himself? Every answer felt stupid. He should've tried harder. "This might help," He leaned forward and slipped his wallet from his back pocket. He opened it, took out a folded piece of paper that was dingy gray and almost falling apart. It was held together with yellowing tape. "Then again, maybe not." He held it out. Jack carefully unfolded it and stared at the grainy picture. "Edith Lennox sent me that in an email the Christmas after you were born." John swallowed. "After that I decided to cut my losses and wait."

"Wait?" Jack's frown deepened. "For what? Me to come to you?"

John nodded, "I figured you'd make your way here. Eventually."

"That's fucking rot."

"Maybe."

They sat for a minute. Jack shook his head. "I get it, but I still think it's rot," he ran his hand down his jeans, glancing at the picture again. "I always did like cousin Edith best." He laid the paper down, and picked up the marriage license. "Right, if you and mam are still married, how come you never filed for an annulment?"

When John didn't answer, Jack gave him a sharp wry smile, his seriousness evaporating, "So it wasn't just the one-time shag, was it? Hat's off, mate. Mam's no easy crack."

John stood and marched back to the coffee machine, starting another pot. It was late afternoon but he figured he wouldn't be sleeping tonight.

"What's on here?" Jack held up the USB stick.

"See for yourself."

The kid ambled around the desk and plopped himself into John's chair. He popped the drive into the computer and clicked through the files. John focused his attention on the coffee, watching it drizzle into the stained pot. He really didn't want to talk about any of this shit.

"This looks like a proper wedding, like."

John grunted. He'd never wanted to get married. And after he had, he'd never wanted anything else. Then it all went to shit, no matter how hard he tried. His hands tightened into fists.

"Oi, is this my grandad? Mam's dad?"

John glanced up. The image of Richard Hale standing next to his daughter filled the computer screen. John folded his arms.

"That's him."

"You were friends, yeah?"

"We were."

"Even after you shagged mam?"

John poured himself a fresh cup of coffee, and blew on the steaming liquid.

"I'm not sure I understand," Richard said, his mild face wrinkled with a kind smile. "Why are you telling me all this?"

John studied his hands, and took a deep breath. Telling his closest friend that'd he'd knocked up his teenage daughter wasn't a conversation he'd ever planned on having. But it had to be him. He owed that much to Richard.

"Because I'm the one responsible for it."

Richard digested this confession in his usual deliberate manner, sitting back in his chair, murmuring softly, "You and—Margaret?" After a moment he folded his hands on his chest, "I feel as if I ought to land you a facer for that."

"I wouldn't stop you." John said, and he meant it. Part of him wished Richard would beat the shit out of him for what he'd done. But Richard Hale wouldn't and they both knew it.

"Richard Hale was a good man."

"Are all these pictures from your wedding?"

John shrugged, "Fan made me keep them."

"Fan? Who's she?"

John glanced up, frowning. "My sister."

"I've got an aunt?" Jack smiled. "Does she live in Milton too?" He disconnected the memory stick and shoved it in his pocket. "Does she know about me?"

"She does." John checked his watch. "She lives downtown in our old family place."

"Where do you live?"

"Near St. Thomas Street."

Jack nodded. It wasn't just a polite gesture. He was curious. John shifted, shoving his hands into his back pockets. He didn't know what to do next. Jack cleared his throat.

"So you own this place, yeah?"

"I do. Want a tour?"

Jack jumped up from his seat and followed John out of the office. Marlborough Shipping Depot wasn't a large trucking business, but they were successful enough to keep a decent fleet of trucks, and had contracts all over the country. John explained the basics of truck driving, the band radio, the contracts, the time charts, and local deliveries. Old Slick Higgins stood just inside the bay as they passed by. He strolled over when he spotted them.

"Master," He stopped short when he saw Jack, slid a questioning glance at John and then shook the boy's hand. "Nick Higgins."

"Jack."

"Nice to meet you, Jack, " Higgins let the end of his sentence turn into a question, his eyes flicking between them.

"Thornton," Jack said, with a grin. "Jack Thornton."

"I thought so," Higgins chuckled. "All he needs now is a red hat and a beard and he could be you."

"That and a damn hair cut," John grumbled. It was unnerving how much the kid resembled him. He didn't know how he felt about it. Jack's stomach growled, breaking the building silence. "You hungry, kid?"

"Clammin'."

John pulled his keys from his pocket and they swung by the office so Jack could get his bag. The kid repacked the envelope John had given him and held it out.

"Keep it."

Jack shrugged and slipped it into his backpack. Higgins reappeared in the doorway. He tossed a bright red hat at Jack, who caught it and tugged it into place. He grinned, a soft easy look that suddenly reminded John of her.

"Goddamn," Higgins whistled, and looked back at John. "Nice work, Master."

"Shut up, Slick."