#thornton

Somehow, in the blur of tears, street lights, and sheets of early spring rain, I find myself standing on the doorstep of the Thorntons, clothes and skin soaked to the bone, shuddering, though I can’t tell if it’s from the chill of early March or my own nervous system. I try to make guesses at why I’ve found myself here, for it surely wasn’t a conscious decision. Thornton was my friend, a confidant, nothing more. Nothing that could excuse something as impulsive as this – unless there was something my own heart knew that my conscious mind didn’t yet. 

The heel of my palm bangs several times against the solid wood of the door, and I press myself under the overhang in an ineffective attempt to escape the relentless rain. It isn’t late – only a quarter past nine – otherwise I certainly wouldn’t have knocked.

I wait minutes, each feeling like an hour. After several of them, I decide this idea was silly in the first place, and with a hand shielding my eyes, I turn and set off from the doorstep.

“Y/N.” 

I hear his voice through the drumming of rain, sounding a little caught off guard. My cheeks flush hot and pink as I pause, then slowly turn back around. I lower my hand so I can see him and the unforgiving rain mats my hair to my forehead. 

“Well, come inside before you get sick,” he urges, holding the door open as I hurry inside. I can tell that the confusion, the surprise, and maybe that little flame of excitement is masked by his facade of annoyance at my appearing on his doorstep. But I know he can’t pretend to be angry at me, or even annoyed in the slightest. Still, I feel guilty.

I shiver as I walk in, shedding the ineffectual overcoat from my shoulders. It’s slid gently off my arms from behind by John before I get the chance to finish the job myself, and he walks it to a coat rack to dry.

“I’m sorry, I—” I begin, realizing that it must be very apparent now that my eyes are red and strained from crying. I cast my gaze to the floor in embarrassment. “I didn’t know where else to go, I’m sorry to have woken you.”

“I was awake,” he murmurs, lingering a moment on the other side of the room before meandering back over to where I stand. The tile floors beneath me suddenly become extremely interesting.

“Hey,” he whispers, and I look up into clear blue eyes that have an inquisitive look to them. “I’ve told you before, any time. Day or night.”

I sniffle, and an ocean of tears threaten to fall once more. I know. And I hate that I’ve actually taken him up on his offer. 

Then as my nervous eyes avoid his gaze, he hugs me. Not like he has before—the platonic side-hugs, or even the silly bear hugs when he’s had a bit too much to drink. No, this is different. It’s gentle, and there’s not a lot about John Thornton that’s gentle. It’s strong arms forsaking their tendency to discipline his workers, and instead find a quiet, slow purpose wrapped around me. Hands that have seen bloodied knuckles and hard work are so unmistakably soft, their fingers curling around my trembling shoulders, and coming to lay flat and steady against my soaked back.

I’m frozen for a moment, and I don’t breathe. It’s such a strange feeling in its unfamiliarity. I’ve known the feel of his fingertips in the touching of hands, affectionate pats on the head, even how they feel pinching my chin between them with a smile when his amusement at me is too much to express with words. But not like this, not so…

“Do you want to tell me,” he whispers. His head is so close above mine that I can hear the deep reverberations in his throat. “Or shall I guess?”

He knows. He’s always known. When it began, I told John all about him. But as the months turned into years, he’d always notice when I didn’t say anything at all. When my excitement about the love slowly dimmed… and then when my excitement about all other things also dimmed. When I lost who I was entirely, and yet John still remained. As little time I gave him between the fighting and the control, he stayed. And now here he is in front of me, and I’ve nothing to say.

I shake my head. “It’s too much to bear,” I whimper, my voice muffled in the damp cotton of his shirt, soaked with my own tears.

“Mm,” he mumbles. “It’s alright—another time then, but I’m sure I can figure out enough for now.” He releases me, holding me out in front of him as he looks into my eyes. I can see the controlled fire in his irises. He’d never tell me how much he truly hated that man—how he couldn’t stand the way he spoke to me, the way he touched me. How even being near me when I was with him made his blood boil, ready to bleed his knuckles like he was so used to doing. Then it’d be taken care of, then I’d be safe. But he knew if he did that, if he struck too soon, he’d lose me. So he hid it. And even still, he hides it well—the anger. I feel a pang of guilt in my chest. I’m the one that put the anger there, I’m the one who brought this to him. It isn’t fair.

But he’s unbearably gentle, unfairly forgiving. Who am I to cry in his arms about another man—especially one whom I allowed to linger so long even when I knew it wasn’t right, even when John warned me?

His thumbs on my cheeks pull me out of the guilt spiral, softly swiping away tears.

“You shouldn’t go back out in this,” he says, casting a glance at the dark window by the door, pelted with sleet. Flashes of lightning have begun as well, and the low growl of thunder rumbles in. I nod in agreement.

“If it isn’t too much to ask—” I begin.

“You’ll stay here tonight,” he assures, not a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “And you’ll forget about that bastard altogether. I’m not letting him take anything more away from you, not one more bloody night.”

I sniffle, shrinking a little as his grip on my upper arms tightens slightly. He’s quick to loosen it.

“Come,” he turns me around, a hand on my back to guide me as if I’d get lost further than I already had. “I’ll find you some clothes.”

I follow him by candlelight up the narrow stairs, clutching his hand like a child. It’s funny—you can live your whole life by someone’s side, know them inside and out, yet there will still be times that they feel like a stranger.

He brings me to a spare bedroom where I sit, unsure and awkward on the bed. Thunder rumbles deeply outside. I realize suddenly how long it had been since I was up here—the last time must have been when we were children, playing hide and seek and chasing each other. He disappears briefly from the room, promptly returning with a white nightgown and towel. 

“Stand,” he orders quietly, dropping the items on the bed next to me.

I’m in no condition to be as stubborn with him as I usually am. I do as I’m told. His arms encircle my waist gently and I’m forced to move a bit closer against him. I feel his fingers fiddling with the hook at the back of my skirt, and suddenly that familiar fear—that sick, exposed feeling—rises in my throat. It’s unreasonable, I know that, but my nervous system doesn’t. I place my hands against his chest, pushing away from him with what little strength I have. His hands freeze, catching my waist so I don’t make myself stumble back.

There’s a hurting glow in John’s eyes when he realizes, and sees the way my hands tremble. “What did that bastard do to you,” he whispers, more to himself than to me. I feel yet another pang of guilt strike my chest. I fawn in his arms, mumbling an apology. 

John shakes his head, forgiving. “It’s not your fault. I’m not going to hurt you, I’m not going to touch you,” he continues. “You can’t stay in these clothes and I’m going to help you.” His hands are gentler now as they slip back to my skirt, cautiously undoing the hook as the damp garment falls heavily to the floor.

“Remember years ago,” he whispers, fiddling now with the buttons of my blouse. His eyes are locked on mine, never drifting lower where I was so afraid they might, where I held all my shame. A reminder that he won’t hurt me, won’t touch me, won’t even think about it. A reminder that I’m safe here with him. “When we played too long by the river and got caught in that downpour?”

I nod, my eyes flickering with memory, golden in the candlelight. He continues: “And you caught ill, it was just too long in the wet and the cold. I brought you back here, you were all feverish and coughing. Mother was asleep and I didn’t want to wake her because I feared she’d make you leave.”

He smiles softly at the fond memory. It is more vague to me, more distant.

“And you might have been too sick to remember,” he goes on. My blouse comes free, leaving me in my brassiere and undergarments. I cover my chest instinctually, but he hardly notices. His eyes remain affectionately on mine, crinkling at the corners as he recalls the memory. “But I helped you out of your wet clothes, ran you a warm bath, made you tea. You slept here in this very room, and by morning you felt better.”

I gaze up at him, my arms still wrapped around myself, something out of shame or fear. He pulls me close to him again, a hand pressing my head to his chest, the other wrapped around my back.

“It’s still me,” he whispers now, somehow even quieter, close to my ear. “Nothing’s changed. You don’t have to be afraid. Not anymore, never again.”

I shudder in his embrace, still chilled to the bone from the treacherous weather. Maybe a little from the anxiety, that fear I held so deep in my heart. He steps back, the ghost of an affectionate smile on his lips as he looks at me. I feel pinned under his gaze, but not in a bad way. Moreso in a held way.

“I’m going to run you a bath,” he declares softly. “And I’ll turn away as long as it takes for you to settle in. And then I’ll wash your hair, like I did that night. And I’ll leave so you can change, and make up your bed in the meantime.”

I nod, the faintest smile gracing my lips for the first time that night.

“And then, if you aren’t too tired…” My hair catches his attention, and he carefully lifts his hands to undo the messy pins that are about to fall out, letting the updo fall in loose waves down my back, before continuing: “I’ll sit with you a while and I’ll read to you, any book you’d like, until you fall asleep.”

A warmth blooms in my chest as his hands come to hold my face, thumbs wiping away any remnants of tears that are left. My eyes are wide and waiting like that of a doe, everything else melting in his hands.

“You’re not lost,” he whispers. “Not broken, not changed. Just sick, and the sickness will pass.”