Chapter Text
Tuesday : January 15, 1988
John Thornton first heard the soft voice in his head right before he took his little sister’s cupcake. Fanny was only one. She didn’t care about the cake really. He’s was helping her eat it.
It’s not yours, the voice had said. That’s stealing.
John blinked, his fingers a hair’s breath from the sticky dessert. The woman’s voice was firm, yet gentle. He scowled, glancing over his shoulder. Mother wasn’t looking and besides, the voice sounded nothing like her. The sounds were all wrong; clipped and funny. John turned his attention back to his baby sister. He knew he shouldn’t take the cupcake, but—
Stop that. She’s a just baby.
Exactly. Babies like Fan didn’t need desserts. He picked up the cupcake anyway, just as Fanny looked away.
You’re not even hungry, the voice continued. You’re angry because your daddy yelled at you.
John growled under his breath. “Shut up.”
At that moment, his dad turned to look at him, his face hardening with displeasure. John dropped the cupcake back on Fanny’s highchair tray and scrambled away, ignoring the outburst of anger his dad flung after him, finally hiding himself under a corner table in the library. Daddy never looked there. He’d stopped looking for John a long time ago.
You should tell him you’re sorry.
John kicked at the wall, scrubbing away the burning in his eyes. “I’m not sorry.” Stupid soft voice.
He loves you. Even when he yells. And you love him.
John squeezed his fists into his eyes until the temptation to cry faded. He stayed there, until the shadows grew long and orange, and he heard his mother calling for him. When he snuck up to his dad’s office and mumbled his apology, John was glad he’d listened to the soft lady voice. His dad stared at him for a second and then pulled him into a rough hug, ruffling his hair. “Don’t do it again.”
John nodded and hugged his dad harder.
Tell him you love him.
“I love you, Daddy.”
Jonnie Thornton stared at his son, sudden tears making his eyes shiny. John squirmed. He hated when he made Daddy cry. It made him feel lost.
“Yeah, John-John. Yeah, I love you too.” His dad swiped at his face. “Go to bed.”
Sunday: April 13, 1992
Margaret Hale was only four years old and she wanted to fetch her favorite yellow ball, with purple polka dots, from the street. Except Daddy had said ‘No, never go into the street.’ He was very stern. But no one was there, and Daddy would never know. She lifted her pudgy foot and inched onto the asphalt.
Don’t.
The voice was scratchy and big; not like Daddy’s which was soft and comfortable. But Margaret wasn’t scared of it. She looked around, and, seeing no one, lifted her other foot and set it on the street.
Don’t!
The harsh growl startled her so much, Margaret stumbled backwards landing hard on her bum as a motorcycle whizzed by from around the corner, knocking her yellow ball even further down the road. Her little eyes widened and she blinked away tears. She scrambled around to the back garden, and into her father’s office.
“Hello, dearest.” Richard Hale smiled softly at the serious pucker of her lips and sturdy frown on her face. “What’s wrong?”
“Daddy, does God talk inside my head?”
“What do you mean?”
“I wanted my ball. But it was in the street.”
“Did you try to go in the street?” Her father looked very stern.
“Almost.” She dropped her curly brown head, ashamed. “But a Very Big Voice said ‘don’t’.”
“That sounds like your conscience.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a gift.” Richard chuckled and folded his hands on his desk. Maria always scolded him for talking to Margaret like she already understood him, but it wasn’t in his nature to change what he thought was true, even if he wasn’t certain the four-year-old would completely grasp the idea. One day, he knew, she would. “It’s—well, I suppose your conscience is like a voice that tells you when you’re being naughty. But not quite.”
“Is it a real person talking?”
“No, dearest, I think not. But the world is an odd place and we don’t know very much about it, do we?”
Margaret’s frown deepened. “Why does he talk to me?”
“He?”
“He’s got a nice voice. I like it, even though he was very cross.”
Richard chuckled again and pulled his daughter into his lap. “I suppose we all need help sometimes to be our very best.” He smiled. “Don’t you think so?”
She nodded slowly, a jerky uncertain movement that betrayed that she didn’t quite understand. But because she was only four, Margaret didn’t trouble herself too much about her conscience again until the first time she decided to tell her mummy a lie, a few weeks later. Mummy was standing in the kitchen demanding to know if Margaret had taken the lemon blueberry scone she’d been saving for her after-work snack. Margaret hadn’t known the scone was her mother’s but she knew Mummy would be very cross. So she took a deep breath, and—
Don’t.
Margaret would’ve gasped except there was no more room in her lungs. She sort of choked and glanced at the ceiling. The growling voice was back.
“Margaret,” Her mother said impatiently. “Did you eat it?“
“No, I—“
Liar.
Margaret’s fists tightened around the hem of her jumper, her eyes widening as she suddenly remembered what Daddy had told her about the voice inside her head, helping her to be good. This deep, grumbling voice must be her conscience. Margaret wasn’t certain, but she swallowed, looked at her mother, and—nodded, eyes stinging with shameful tears.
“I did eat it.”
“Oh, Margaret Ann.” Her mother sighed exasperatedly and flopped down into a chair at their tiny table.
Apologise.
Margaret frowned. She decided her conscience was very rude and—and—very very bossy. But he was also right. Her mother was tired and hungry after a long day. Guilt burned Margaret’s cheeks.
“I—I’m sorry, Mummy.”
Margaret went to her room without complaint when her mother sent her to bed early, an odd feeling in her chest. She wasn’t sure she liked that firm growling voice, and yet—it felt safe. And she was glad she’d told her mother the truth. She promised herself she would never lie again.
Wednesday : December 31, 2003
It didn’t take Margaret long to learn the gruff growling voice of her conscience wasn’t quite normal. When she gathered enough courage to ask a nun at her girl’s school about the voice, the poor sister looked utterly startled. Apparently a conscience wasn’t supposed to actually be a man’s voice inside your head. It took all Margaret’s convincing to keep Sister Bridget from calling her mother and a psychiatrist after that horrid conversation. But that didn’t stop the whispered rumours from circulating school about Nutty Meg and her conscience.
It hardly mattered.
The voice became one more miserable thing to add to her already miserable life. He?—It?— continued to pop up when she least wanted a reminder of what was sensible and right. He didn’t always talk to her, even when her real conscience pricked her, and it wasn’t exactly a conversation. He never answered questions or said much at all. Whatever it was, sometimes Margaret wished he would just leave her alone. Tonight especially. It was her first real New Year’s Eve party alone with her new American friends. She was nearly sixteen, she’d had a truly awful week, and she just wanted to have a ruddy drink and a proper snog with someone—anyone really. She wanted to feel something other than miserably alone. Was that too much to ask?
This is stupid, the voice said for the hundreth time.
“You’re stupid,” she grumbled. “Leave me alone.”
“Hey, you’re cute. You’re Margaret, yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Thirsty?”
Margaret smiled grimly at the cute boy—Lily Peters said his name was Rowan or Roman or something—who handed her a red plastic cup full of a bright blue liquid that made her nose sting when she sniffed it.
“What’s in this?”
“Liquid fun,” he shouted over the blaring pop song. He grinned and drained his cup. “Try it.”
Don’t you fucking dare.
Margaret flinched. He’d never sounded more angry or more scary. Consciences shouldn’t swear and hers did all the time. Prolifically. She sniffed and quickly gulped a large mouthful, choking as it went down hot and burning, ignoring the gruff remark in her head.
Dump that shit out and go home, kid. Now.
God, she hated when he called her ‘kid’. Margaret blinked very hard and took another swallow, shoving aside her own discomfort and the prick of fear running over her skin. She wanted to be here. She did. Anywhere was better than her mother’s tiny flat reeking of antiseptic and sick and Dale Dixon. Especially after Edith and her stupid boyfriend and his stupid brother had humiliated her at Christmas. And especially after Matt Morris had called her a bitch. She wasn’t, and she would prove it.
“Like it?” The boy yelled over the music.
“Love it.”
Liar.
“I like you too.” She added for good measure.
He’s a punk kid and he’s using you.
“Yeah?” The boy slipped a rough hand around her waist.
Don’t let him touch you.
She shivered but she didn’t shrink away as the boy pulled her into a corner and pressed his body against hers, kneading one of her breasts. “You like this?”
Run. Kick him in the nuts, and run.
Margaret let out a noncommittal noise as he kissed her. His kisses were sloppy but they made her feel wanted, in a terrible way that tore at her stomach and chest, even as she let her hands roam over his body as his moved over hers.
“Finish your drink,” the boy nudge to cup back to her lips. “I’ll show you a few more things you might like upstairs.”
He started to move through the crowd, Margaret following, clutching his hand loosely, her head swimming.
Get out of there.
Margaret couldn’t move. For twelve years she’d heard plenty of the sharp blunt commands about what she should and shouldn’t be doing but never like this. Somehow it was different this time, almost desperate and pleading.
Please, go. Please. And then, the barest whisper, like a growl— Please, Maggie.
She dropped her drink, the blue liquid soaking her trainers and his trouser leg.
“Oh shit. I’ll get a rag.”
A cold feeling of dread gripped her, followed by a wave of terrifying realisation, like a firm unwavering hand on her back, stubborn but gentle. This was stupid and she should never have come. She needed to leave. Now.
Go. Before that little shit comes back.
Margaret pivoted and wove through the clots of drunken revelers, the warm feeling on her back urging her on until she reached the front door. The shock of biting cold air cut through the haze of her thoughts and she shivered against the wind. Hot tears spilled over her cheeks as she suddenly gagged and vomited the foul drink into the dirty snow, ashamed of what she’d let that strange boy do to her. She wanted to scrub herself all over, to forget, to make it as if it had never happened.
Get a cab and go home.
“Would you please shut up!” she hissed, shoving a handful of snow over her sick. Then she grabbed more snow and flung it into the air. She didn’t need anymore advice—
Go on home, kid.
She blinked, stiffening. Her conscience had never once softened a blow or pulled a punch, but even in the sharp truth he flung at her, Margaret suddenly felt safe and—loved—in a firm unflinching way. She shoved herself to her feet, dug her mobile from her pocket, rang for a cab, and went home.
“Where’ve you been, Margaret?” Dale Dixon sat in the blueish glow of the television set. His question was half hearted, as if he didn’t really expect a truthful answer. Margaret opened her mouth, a sharp retort perched on her tongue.
Be nice.
Her conscience was always admonishing her to treat Dale better than she did. Usually, she ignored him, and Dale. Tonight, her eyes filled with slow tears. In a world where she was used to feeling alone, somehow she didn’t at this moment. Dale had been waiting up for her, even though she’d never treated him with anything more than barely concealed contempt.
“I was—I was at a party, but it was stupid,” she said. “So I came home early.”
Dale blinked at her, his round face somehow looking even rounder in his surprise. Margaret had generally made it a rule not to talk to him.
“I—thanks for helping with my mum, Dale,” she added, before ducking her head and escaping to her room. She showered, turning the tap as hot as she could and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed her skin until it stung, trying to wash off her guilt.
You’re okay, kid. It’s okay now.
The words repeated over and over, while she sobbed her heart out, wishing she’d never done something so stupid.
“Do you hate me?” she asked, but she knew she wouldn’t get an answer. The voice wasn’t exactly a person she could talk to, but she felt it— he— had to be real, somehow, somewhere. “Please don’t hate me.”
It's not your fault.
She knew he wasn't just talking about tonight. He meant her mum. Margaret began to cry again.
Things will get better. You’ll be okay.
“Okay.” She shivered, wrapping her arms around her body, and nodded. She believed him, even when everything else seemed to say otherwise. “It will be okay.”
Saturday: December 31, 2006
When Anne Latimer kissed him that first time, John didn’t know what he felt. Obviously, he could’ve stopped her before she made it to his mouth. But hell, it was nice and she was soft and he was slightly drunk and her tongue was like a drug. He didn’t really like her as a person, but she was hot as hell and she wanted him. Right now, that was enough.
You, sir, are drunk. So is she.
John knew he’d had too much to drink and he also knew he needed to get the hell home. He hated parties, especially on New Year’s Eve. He wasn’t sure how he ended up at the Latimers, but Anne’s body was pressed against his and her tongue in his mouth somehow made him feel less alone. Her hands slid over him and tugged at his belt.
“Do you want to come upstairs?” she whispered against his neck, all hot and enticing.
Do you really want this? A half-drunken sexual encounter with a woman you literally can’t stand?
“I want you to leave me the hell alone,” John muttered.
The soft voice in his head was part of the problem. For almost nineteen years, she’d hung around in his mind, constantly commenting on all the things he should and shouldn’t be doing. Be kinder. Tell your sister you love her. Stop shouting. Hug your mother. Thank Watson for his help. Give Mr. Bell more credit. Compliment your drivers. Coffee isn't food. Try sleeping for more than four hours at a time. For God's sake, eat something. It was nonstop, and annoying, and he was pretty damn sure he might be crazy. Or in love with her voice—or her—whoever she was. For half a second he allowed himself to imagine her in his arms, instead of Anne, soft and smiling, with that damn British accent that sent him through the roof.
Shit.
He was definitely crazy. He needed a real woman, not some soft voice in his head that he’d spun into a fever dream of the perfect partner. John shook himself and let Anne lead him out of the crowded ballroom.
Do you even have a condom? Or a clue what you’re doing?
John swore under his breath. Of course, the voice was right. He didn’t have either, and now he felt like an asshole. He didn’t know if that made him more angry or more determined to prove the soft voice wrong. What was the worst that could happen?
She could get pregnant, and then what would you do? Marry her?
“Fuck.” John stopped on the stairs, pulling his hand free from Anne’s grasp. His stomach churned uncomfortably as his mind finally seemed to snap awake, the drunken haze fading a little. He was not prepared to deal with the consequences if that happened. His mind and head were spinning and he leaned hard against the wall.
Tonight will be easy. Fun even. Think about tomorrow. What will you do then? Will you date her? Or even speak to her again?
“No.” He wouldn’t. And that made him feel even worse.
Is that fair to her?
“Stop.”
“What’s wrong, John?” Anne slid her fingers down his shirt. She giggled and pressed closer. “Should we start right here?”
Be a gentleman and apologize before you go home.
“I’m sorry.” He pushed Anne firmly away before her hand could wander further south, and rob him of whatever was left of his rational mind. “This is a bad idea.”
“You can’t be serious?" She stared at him, her face suddenly red and angry. “I’m practically begging you to have sex with me, and you’re just going to leave?”
“Yes.” He turned and made his way back downstairs. “I’m sorry.”
“No one leaves me.”
“Watch me.”
“You,” she spluttered. “You’re an asshole, John Thornton. ”
“Tell me something I don't know,” he growled. The stab of guilt in his gut was worse than the sharp bitter words Anne was throwing after him. He didn’t need another person telling him he was an asshole and that he’d die alone. He’d known that for years. When he reached his truck, John kicked the tire and ran his hands through his hair. “Damn it,” he shouted. He never should’ve come to this goddamn party.
Don’t drive drunk.
“I won’t,” he snapped. “I’m not a fucking idiot.”
His own words almost made him laugh. He was an idiot, and he’d almost proved it tonight. John swore again and let himself into his truck. He sat in the silence and cold until the alcohol wore off. The soft voice was gone, like it always was, after he’d done the right thing. And he was left with a stupid-ass yawning ache because he missed her.
“I wish you were real.” He hated himself for it.
She’s wrong. You’re not an asshole, you’re a good man.
“I’m not.” John shook his head sharply, his shoulders slumping. He wasn’t a good man but he was trying to be. He’d been trying so damn hard, his whole damn life; trying to make his mother proud to be a Thornton, trying to take care of Fanny, trying to fix his father’s stupid mistakes, trying to prove he was a better man; just trying to survive.
You try. When you fall, you try again. That is what makes you good.
“Get out of my head,” John snapped, and shoved his keys into the ignition, revving the engine to block out the rushing sound in his ears.
He didn't realize that that was the last time he would hear her soft voice of reason echoing inside his head.