Title: Hope Traversed at Night

Author: Lynn Saunders

Rating: R / M for sexual situations

Classification: Downton Abbey, Anna/Bates, Romance

Summary: A new spring brings hope and healing. Contains hot sex, but more than that. A vignette that explores Anna's intimate self-healing following her attack and the couple's separation. It is not angsty. Even so, Anna's rape is alluded to, and this may trigger some readers. See Author's notes at end.

Archive: Yes, but ask first, please.

Contact/Feedback: lynnsaundersfanfic at gmail, lynnsaundersfanfic on Tumblr

Date Completed: 02.15.2015

Disclaimer: Oops, not mine. Sorry.

Hope Traversed at Night

by Lynn Saunders

"Spring drew on...and a greenness grew over those brown beds, which, freshening daily, suggested the thought that Hope traversed them at night, and left each morning brighter traces of her steps."- Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

Tonight the evening air is thick and heavy with the scent of wet earth, a new spring at hand. Trees that were barren and leafless just days ago are beginning to bud as life awakens all around. Anna sighs and leans against her husband as they walk arm-in-arm toward their cottage in the twilight. Earlier, a glance shared between them escalated to a jostling, stolen moment in the pantry, leaving her short of breath and rumpled, already soft from his kisses. And is it any wonder? This man reaches easily into her darkened corners, beyond her polished and proper facade, to the part of her that she's spirited away.

He holds her left hand as she unlocks the door with her right and follows her into their home. He watches as she hangs her coat, coming to stand behind her, large hands on her delicate waist. Her eyes catch and hold his in the hall mirror, daring. He smiles and leans in to her, lips parting in a whisper, breath against her neck sparking and stirring what lies in wait deep within her, reserved only for him.

"I love you, Anna." His warm fingers trace the line from her tailbone to the cream of her neck, conditioning her to his touch anew.

Slowly, a fragment at a time, the lingering trepidation she feels in intimate moments, flashes of pain and fear and broken glass, has been chipped away and replaced with new memories, bursts of vivid color, bright and hot. He does not possess the means to heal her, but he can help her repair herself in time. That this tall and physically imposing man handles her so gently only makes her more eager to feel his body slide against hers, solid and warm.

His lips brush her ear as he whispers softly to her. "Shall I take down your hair?"

Her eyes give their consent as she leans into his caresses, and he gently removes the pins, letting the golden tresses fall free. She smiles at his reflection, gaze unbroken.

His rough fingers stray to her collarbone, following the curve of her shoulder. "Tea?"

"No, thank you."

He brushes the hair from the back of her neck and places a kiss just under her collar. "What would you like, Mrs. Bates?"

"Just you." She turns in his arms, running her fingers under his lapels, spreading her hands flat across the warm wool that smells of shaving soap and peppermint, of home.

He presses close in the small entryway, easing her back against the wall, taking both of her hands in his left and kissing each knuckle in turn. "You want me?" He hesitates, resting his forehead against hers, their lips perilously close. "Tell me what you want, Love."

Her delicate hands push his coat over his shoulders, and it falls to the floor, forgotten. "Touch me, John. Please."

His eyes burn hot and steady, and her heart quickens with it. They're panting open-mouthed, noses pressed together while her small fingers make quick work of his tie. "I've suffered from the want of you today," he confides, stooping to mark her neck with his lips as he gathers her to him with relief in the lamplight.

She aims to release him from the shackles of his desire, to watch him come apart in their familiar bed while the world outside begins to bloom and grow, to show him the full force of her own want, open and pure. Through the flush and haze of their bruising kisses, her hand finds his. She leads her husband to bed, pausing only to light a candle so that she may look upon his face as they come together.

In the candlelight, he chuckles as she impatiently tugs at his remaining garments, while he trails his lips over the soft skin behind her ear and eases her out of her clothing in turn. She presses his thumb to her lips, wetting it with her tongue, and guides the sensitive pad across her cheek and down to skim the hollow of her throat, where his mouth eagerly follows. His lips venture lower and seek out her perfect peach nipples as she rises above him like a goddess, afire.

This is the best way, his favorite way, allowing his ethereal wife to find her own pleasure and give him his along with it. She sighs and tosses her head, closing her eyes for a moment against the sensation of fullness as she rides him up and down, their fingers linked and pressed against his chest. He stretches back against the pillows, and her eyes snap open at the new sensation. He untangles their hands so that he might stroke the side of her face. Weeks from now, he thinks of this moment as he absently tucks her hair behind her ear during their breakfast, while Anna blushes and Mr. Carson clears his throat from the head of the table.

Afterward, they lie on their sides, slick bodies pressed together under warm quilts as he moves his hands across her back. She buries her face against his chest and succumbs to the seductive pull of sleep while he holds her in wonder and the night quiets outside, silent with anticipation.

An end.

"If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant: if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome." - Anne Bradstreet