A/N: For markcampbells, who requested #13 "Kiss me". I used angel-princess-anna's A/B timeline to get a few pesky details since it can be a nightmare trying to figure out the timings. The next part will deal with series four to six.

Disclaimer: I don't own Downton Abbey.

"The mouth is made for communication, and nothing is more articulate than a kiss." – Jarod Kintz

Nothing is More Articulate

May, 1914

The very air crackles with electricity when he takes her hand for the very first time. They've brushed against each other before, of course, but nothing like this. Anna's breath catches in her throat, lost to her forever. Mr. Bates' fingers are works of art; calloused from years of hard labour and harder hardships, yet somehow velvety despite it all. They rub just softly over the backs of her own fingers, setting her on fire and making her shiver all in one go. She doesn't know where to look. His eyes are turbulent caramel fire on her as he gazes at her with such overt longing, and she feels as if she's swimming in the honeyed warmth. When she glances down, she is almost hypnotised by the sheer difference in size between their hands. He is a mighty, majestic bear, she the cat. It shouldn't work. But somehow, it does.

Anna notices that Mr. Bates' eyes have dropped to their joined hands too. He's only holding her fingers—enveloping them entirely—but the sheer intimacy of the gesture is almost overwhelming. She hasn't had physical contact in years, not since her time as a tweeny when the hall boy three years her senior had misread her tentative friendship and kissed her. The slap had stung her hand and marked his face and she'd sworn to herself that she would never trust a man again.

And yet here she is, her heart pounding not in fear but in deep, aching yearning, and she is dizzy with it all. Kiss me, she thinks desperately. Please, kiss me.

And he leans towards her and she stretches up towards him and she can smell his raw, masculine smell, the mix of light sweat and soap, feel his hot, uneven breath on her mouth and her head reels from it all—

The sound of the crates crashing to the floor makes them spring apart. Anna glances up into Mr. Bates' eyes for reassurance. In that split-second she reads the world: his exquisite, self-loathing, his resignation, the bleak future ahead of him. It would have been a kiss goodbye. The realisation sours her delirious longing of a moment previous, and her hand slips loose from his. He does not try to take it again. He does not try to stop her. She turns on her heels and flees, like the baby colt from the jaws of a predator.

Her mouth tastes of ash from a phantom kiss that she's never even known.

August, 1914

She finds him outside with his head tipped back to contemplate the stars. The loud babble from the young men filters from inside, a jarring merriment to his obvious discomfort.

"Are you all right?" she asks softly as she approaches.

"I will be," he replies with a painful, guarded smile.

"I imagine it's hard for you, hearing this. After what you went through."

"It is," he agrees, but offers no more than that. He shuffles to the left to give her room to sit next to him, his reply to her unanswered question. She takes the seat, all too aware of how her leg presses against his injured one in the small space. If he finds the contact uncomfortable he does not let it show.

At last Mr. Bates breaks the silence between them. His voice is hesitant and quiet, as if he is betraying himself to speak of these things. Anna counts it as a victory, turning her head towards him so she can look into his eyes. So he knows that he has her full attention, no matter what he has to say.

"What's hardest is knowing that they have no idea of what's coming to them." He speaks slowly, as if each word causes his throat to burn. "They're all so young, what could they know? They think it's some great adventure. It's not." Automatically, his hand moves down to rub against his knee. It brushes against her clothed skin. For long seconds she can't catch her breath.

"I was young when you were fighting the Boers," she blurts on a whim, hating to draw attention to their age difference—she's sure it figures into his reasons why they can never be more than they are—but needing him to understand. "I don't know anything about war. But I understand pain and fear, and I know what it must have been like for you." Her mouth twists against the memories that threaten to overwhelm her, of breath stinking of whiskey and hot, clammy hands on her body. "I know that battles aren't glorious."

Mr. Bates looks at her strangely, but she shakes her head. She won't even tell him. Instead she keeps her gaze level, willing him to see the wisdom. It dawns on his face like the grey sunlight on a new day, silvering his reaction. He says nothing, but Anna knows he understands. Tentatively, she reaches out to touch his hand, still curled around his cane. He flinches just slightly at the contact, but he doesn't pull away. A victory. With fingers that tremble despite her best efforts, she uncurls his from around the handle and replaces the smooth wood with her own hand. She's never felt the full effect of his hand in hers before, with the broad, strong meat of his palm pressed snugly against hers, and her heart very nearly explodes in her chest at the perfection of the moment. He does not shake her off. Anna watches the lump in his throat bob as he swallows hard, his eyes drawn inexplicably to hers. There's so much at war in his gaze; self-loathing and longing and want, and yes, love. Love shining through like the sun's rays through murky water. Her heart jolts as if it's freefalling through the air, seconds away from falling at his feet. It's up to him now. To save it, nurture it. Or to let it smash before him into a thousand jagged shards, never to be glued together again.

"Anna," he breathes.

She draws nearer, pressing her spare hand to the back of his. Surrounding him. She's close to him now, closer than she has been in a long time. In the faint light from the back door she can see a myriad of colours in his irises, an explosion of patterns from an artist's brush. Love comes in at the eyes, she thinks giddily. Mr. Bates takes a shaky breath and tries to extricate himself. She tightens her hold.

"Anna," he says again. A warning? A plea? She leans in closer, so close that now she can smell that powerful masculine smell, the one that has haunted her dreams for the past two months. She needs him more than she needs air. This time, she won't run away.

"Kiss me, Mr. Bates," she whispers. "Please."

The words linger, pressing down upon them. For long moments neither of them move. Anna watches the conflict chase across his face, the shadows battling for dominance. She squeezes his hand within both of hers and prays for the safety of her heart. She can't take another rejection. Not now.

"I can't," he says.

"You can," she returns. "You can."

"I'm a married man. People will talk. People will judge. It's not right or fair to give you false hope when there is none to have."

"I know the situation," she says quietly. "I don't expect things to be resolved for Sunday. I just want you, Mr. Bates, in whatever capacity that might be."

"I can never be more than your friend."

"But you love me." It's a statement. She won't give him the chance to deny it. His eyes can't lie.

He looks away, ignoring her words, face a mask of exquisite agony.

"What sort of man would I be," he whispers, "if I tied you down to something that can never be?"

"Are you selfless enough to let me go?" she returns. "Can you stand by and watch me make a life with another man?"

Something in his stony façade crumbles, his face breaking apart like majestic ruins. The hand that she isn't holding finds his face, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"God help me," he says. "I'm not. I'm not."

The invisible weight crushing her chest lifts suddenly, and she takes a deep, deep breath in gratitude. "Thank God. Because I'm not selfless enough to let your final decision stand. I love you. I don't care about what we have to do to be together. All I want is you."

"I love you too, Anna," he whispers. Desperate. Afraid. "I tried my damndest not to. But I am a weak, weak man."

It's all she's ever wanted to hear. She doesn't care about the rest of it, not then. Those are worries for other days, for more uncertain times. Happiness is a fleeting thing. She plans to grab it with both hands and hold it as tightly as she can. Whatever comes, he can't take this back. He loves her, and she loves him.

"You've got to kiss me now," she murmurs.

Mr. Bates gives a painful little chuckle, looking down at their joined hands. "I don't suppose I have a choice, do I?"

"Of course you have a choice. I just assumed this is the course of action you'd want to take," she says coyly.

"God, yes," he agrees. But he's surprisingly shy, and she is surprisingly bold, and it is down to her to close the gap between them and press her mouth to his for the very first time. No interruptions.

The shock that jolts through her system at the contact is the most incredible thing that she has ever felt in her life. Her hands drop from his to scrabble at the shoulders of his jacket, and she tries to shuffle closer to bring them even further into contact. She's never kissed anyone else—her stepfather ensured that she never looked at another boy—and she has little clue about what she's doing. All she knows is that she's following some primitive need that awoke the moment her lips came into contact with his. It encompasses her. A kind of sneaking madness that she knows she'll never be able to escape again. She needs this, the cool pressure of his mouth against hers, more than she's needed anything before.

When they break apart, shy and exhilarated, she peers into his eyes. They're warm as honey in the darkness.

"How was it?" she whispers, biting at her lip, only slightly afraid of his reply.

Mr. Bates chuckles, his hand moving to brush a strand of hair that has escaped her bun away from her cheek. Her skin crackles where he touches her. "Better than I ever imagined."

"So you have imagined it, then?" she says, unable to stop the cheeky comment, and he laughs, low and rich.

"More than I should ever admit."

They remain locked together for a few minutes longer. Anna relishes the contrast of his heat with the cold air, his bare skin against hers. She wants to kiss him again, but resists for the moment. There is something playing on his mind, she can sense it in the furrow of his brow.

"This isn't going to be easy," he says quietly.

"I know."

"I can't court you properly. I can't walk out with you in public."

"I know."

"I don't know where my wife is."

"I know." She pauses for a moment, plays with the lapel of his jacket while she gathers her courage. "Can I ask one thing of you?"

"If it's in my power, I'll try to fulfil it for you."

She lowers her voice, keeping her gaze steady. Fearless, even if her heart pounds beneath the reams of black fabric. "Will you look for your wife?"

Mr. Bates doesn't answer for several long seconds. So much time passes that she almost feels uncomfortable with it, but she never lowers her gaze. And, at last, success: he reaches out and takes her hand again. Squeezes it. Breath that she hadn't even been aware of holding rushes from her.

"I'll explore every avenue that I can. I promises, Anna."

"That's all I ask for," she whispers.

The crinkles around his eyes deepen, and he kisses her sweetly again.

November, 1916

The words still reverberate in her head. A proposal. If that was what she wanted to call it.

As if he even needed to ask. There was nothing else on earth that she wanted to call it.

He'd kissed her softly and sweetly in the aftermath, tugging her body close to his so that he could envelop her in his arms. She'd clung to his broad, thick shoulders, burying her face in the crook of his neck and breathing in the warm, spicy scent of his skin. The air was cold, but it hadn't been the reason that she shivered so violently. It was him, all him. His big hands running up and down her back had never felt so perfect.

It's past midnight now, and everyone else has gone to bed. The bright electric lights would feel too inappropriate in such a moment, so Mr. Bates has lit the oil lamp and set in burning lowly in the middle of the table. They sit in their usual seats, chairs turned towards each other, knees brushing intimately. Anna can't stop smiling as their hands hold tight beneath the line of the table.

"I can't believe it," she whispers; to speak any louder would break the spell. "We're engaged."

Mr. Bates chuckles lowly, sweeping his thumb along the line of her knuckles. "We are." His tone is filled with wonder, as if he can't quite believe it has come to pass. To be truthful, she can barely believe it either. Her heart aches for the fact that it's been his dear mother's death that has brought them their good fortune in finding Vera, but she hopes that somewhere up there, Mrs. Bates is pleased that her son is finding the path to happiness once more.

"I have to say, I was expecting a more romantic proposal than that," she teases, savouring the way that his big hands cradle her. It is so hard not to lean forward to capture his mouth again. He's her fiancé now.

"I wasn't proposing," he teases right back. "You were the one who wanted to call it that."

"Oh, charming. What a way to treat the woman you love."

His eyes soften. "But I do love you, Anna May Smith."

"I'm glad," she says.

"Whatever happens, never doubt that."

"I won't. I promise."

They sit quietly by for a few more minutes, the cups of tea in front of them slowly cooling in the cold air of the servants' hall. Mr. Bates' fingers move up to brush against her cheekbone. She stirs at the touch, feeling it right in the pit of her stomach. He's smiling that special, rare smile, the one reserved for her, the one that makes the creases around his eyes deepen and his eyes shine with love. It's a beautiful expression on his face. She wishes she could bottle it, take it out at will in the darkness of her room. The words spill from her lips before she can stop them.

"Kiss me."

If possible, his smile widens. "I kissed you outside."

"That was hours ago," she points out. "And we're alone here."

"We certainly are," he murmurs. "Thank God for that." His thumb glides lower, brushing against her lower lip. She closes her eyes at the sensation. The feeling in the pit of her stomach tightens further.

Mercifully, he does not make her ask again. Closing the space between them, he moves his mouth slowly and softly over hers. Outside, when anyone could interrupt them, their kisses had been tempered and chaste. Now, in the witching hour, squirrelled away in a world of their own, she feels more adventurous. Anna opens her mouth beneath his, hears the groan that rumbles in his throat when her tongue slips out to meet his own. They've only risked this a handful of times in their long courtship, when they'd both been sure that no one could come across them, but each encounter had left Anna dizzy with longing. This is how a man should kiss his wife, she thinks dizzily. If only they were married.

But they're taking steps in the right direction. Vera has been found. Mr. Bates is confident of getting a divorce. Within the next year they should truly be husband and wife together, in every sense of the word. She burns with longing, but she can be patient. She has waited this long. What's another year compared with a lifetime of his presence by her side?

April, 1919

The door clicks closed behind them. They are alone.

Anna faces Mr. Bates—John—from the other side of the room. For a moment, they stare at each other. The only discernible sounds are the crack and pop of the fire as it roars merrily in the hearth and the laboured rush of air that signifies their own breathing.

"Mrs. Bates," he breathes, and she giggles. A childish, free thing, but she doesn't care. They are the words she's longed to hear for more than five whole years. She's going to savour the moment.

John loiters uncertainly, before crossing the room to her side. His hand trembles as he reaches out to brush his thumb along her cheekbone. He's as nervous as she is, despite his years of experience.

"Anna," he says this time. His eyes rove over her face. She feels herself blushing pink under his scrutiny. With the wedding being at such short notice, and the wedding night even shorter, she hasn't had the opportunity to buy herself a nice trousseau. Instead she's clad in the same worn nightgown she's had for the last three years. It's distinctively threadbare.

But Mr. Bates—John—doesn't seem to mind at all. His eyes darken and soften, and he leans forward to press his lips to her forehead.

"You are so beautiful," he tells her. "So beautiful."

When she'd been preparing herself for the night, she'd thought she might feel more comfortable already undressed, to have that intimacy between them. Now she feels shy and awkward clad in only that flimsy cotton. She plays with the lapel of his jacket. He chuckles hoarsely.

"I didn't think it wise to roam the house in just my pyjamas," he tells her. "I didn't want to give any of the poor women a shock if they happened to find me stumbling around in the dark."

Anna swallows hard, but says boldly, "A pleasant shock, Mr. Bates."

"John," he whispers into her hair. "John tonight. Please."

"John," she repeats. It feels foreign and strange on her tongue, but she has the right to that intimacy now. In time, it will come easier.

"I'm going to undress now," he says, the faintest hint of a tremor in his voice. "But it doesn't have to mean anything. I don't want you to feel pressured just because it's an unexpected gift. I am beyond happy for the chance to hold you in my arms."

"I want to," she reassures him. It's been one of her closest guarded yearnings for so long. For years she's imagined what he looks like beneath the layers of starched clothing, and now she'll finally know for certain. She swallows hard. "Can I help you?"

"Of course you can," he answers at once, his hands falling back to his sides.

He lets her take the lead, undressing him in her own time, allowing her to acclimatise to this unfamiliar routine. It's so very different from undressing a woman; different layers, different buttons, the material thick and unfamiliar compared with the sheer silk and delicacy of the women's dresses. With every inch of new skin uncovered to her, Anna feels her heartbeat pick up, her breath quicken. His chest is a forest of thick, curling dark hair, and the sensation of it against her fingertips makes her ache in places that have lain dormant for longer than she's wished. He is wide and broad, a true man.

"Are you all right?" he whispers, even that sounding loud in the sacred silence that has stolen over them.

She nods, her throat dry. "I'm all right. I promise." She finds his hand and slips hers into it. She isn't sure which of them has the sweaty palm. "Shall…shall we get more comfortable?"

He smiles at her, the familiar crinkles deepening around his eyes. They give her some security, and she feels bolder as she pulls him towards the bed. The sheets are cool and strange against her naked skin; she shivers violently when his warm, hairy thigh presses against her.

"Are you all right?" he repeats.

"Yes," she manages. "I am. Just…kiss me. Please."

His eyes darken at her words, the eyes of a predator. He leans across the sheets to cup the side of her face in the palm of his hand, and all she knows is heat. Heat as he kisses her mouth with the urgency of years of restrained passion. Heat when his lips slide lower, wreathing a necklace around her throat. Heat when he sucks at her collar, her frantically beating pulse point. And, oh God, heat when his mouth finds the painful peak of her nipple. She throws her head back against the pillows, her breath stuttering in her efforts to keep quiet, fingers threading tightly through the thick locks of his hair as she starts to lose control.

He doesn't stop kissing for even a moment as he opens her eyes to all the pleasures a man and his wife can enjoy.

July, 1920

It's been four weeks since she last heard from him.

Anna sits on her bed with her legs curled beneath her. Piles upon piles of letters in her husband's scrawl are arranged on the bedding. It's organised chaos; she likes them in date order, likes to read them as if they're a page-turning novel. She knows them all by heart now. Some are laced with the sweet ache of dreams that seem so far beyond their reach. Others make her retreat into the garden of her mind, where her memories flower and bloom, as strong as the day they were planted. Still others hold the trademark brooding that she loves and hates in equal measure, though she supposes that he is more than qualified to have such dismal thoughts when he languishes in hell for a crime he has not committed. She picks up the final one now, the one inscribed with June at the top of the page. How have four weeks passed?

The tone of the letter makes his silence now all the more ominous. The words are filled with longing and devotion, of whimsical thoughts of a time they can still only dream of. I kiss you a thousand times over in my dreams, he tells her. It is so hard not to take you in my arms whenever I see your lovely face. Facing punishment from the warders would be a worthy price to pay if I could refresh what it feels like to have you fitting so perfectly against me, to kiss your sweet mouth one more time…

She traces her index finger along the loops and flourishes in his handwriting, closing her eyes to imagine him hunched over his little desk, scribbling furiously, his own mind filled with thoughts of her. If only she could see him now, try to understand the process that has led to this withdrawal. She'd draw him into her arms, tuck herself under his chin in a desperate attempt to let the hope pass through osmosis into his bloodstream, his heart pumping it all around his body. She'd tilt her head up and wait for him to look down on her with those dark Irish eyes, and then she'd pull him down to her level, let his breath mingle with hers and breeze across her face as she showers warm, soft kisses against his cheeks and his nose and his temple.

He'd squirm in her embrace, almost mad for her, and beg, "Kiss me properly, please."

Only then would she kiss him with the intensity to spark his hope back into a full fire.

Futile thoughts. Anna drops the letter back to her bed and pinches the bridge of her nose. She can feel the stirrings of a headache at her temples. She can do nothing else for the night. She needs to at least try to catch a few hours of sleep. Not that she'll succeed; she hasn't slept well since she realised that John was no longer writing to her. His words were her lullaby at night, and now she has none. But if she doesn't want Mrs. Hughes to start pecking at her for looking peaky, she needs to try.

Carefully re-wrapping the letters in ribbon and placing them on her bedside table, she slips beneath the sheets and turns down the lamp. Darkness presses in on her. She squeezes her eyes closed and shivers, but she can't stop the thoughts from preying.

There is something more to this silence. Anna knows her husband. She knows the way that his mind operates, knows how much time he has to brood trapped within the same four walls. What if he's lost all hope of ever getting released? Evidence has been slow at trickling through, and the visit to Mrs. Bartlett had proven to be futile. She doesn't know where to turn from here. What if he knows it, and wants to set her free, knowing that he'll never be out to spend his life with her? Her blood runs cold. It's something that she can't bear. He ought to know by now that she can't build a life without him. She will never, ever love again. Without him, she is incomplete. But he'd still think it was the best thing to do, and it scares her more than anything.

It's a thought she won't voice to anyone else for a further two weeks, but it niggles there at the back of her mind every single day, taunting her.

Somehow, everything hadn't been enough.

September, 1920

He's home. He's safe. He's free.

And she can't stop touching him. She clings to the lapels of his woollen overcoat as they break apart from the first of many breathless kisses, smiling so wide that her cheeks ache. Seeing the unadulterated joy reflected back at her through her husband's own eyes is the most exhilarating thing. John holds her hand as they walk back towards the car, and he tips his hat towards Mr. Pratt. The chauffeur nods his welcome and waits for them to settle in before setting the engine back into life. As the grim, grey buildings of York melt away into hopeful green countryside, Anna can't help but touch him wherever she can; she runs her fingers over the bulk of his bicep, grips his solid forearm, clings tight to his strong, masculine hands. John alternates between gazing out at scenery that he probably thought he'd never see again and drinking in her features with barely-disguised longing. She looks much the same way. It's still sinking in, that he's here with her. Almost eighteen months have crawled by, and they have finally reached the end of the long, dark tunnel, the world around them bursting into light and life. She wants to kiss him again, to begin making up for the time that they have so cruelly lost, but Mr. Pratt's idle conversation from the front does not allow for the illusion that they are in their very own pocket of space.

They arrive back at Downton too soon, and she laments that they will both be swallowed up by the hustle and bustle of life in the big house before they've even had the chance to spend any time together.

John must feel the same way, for her tugs at her hand outside the entrance to the servants' courtyard, and whispers breathlessly, "Can't we spare a few minutes?"

Anna unhooks the dirty pocket watch that has been carefully wound to count the minutes of his freedom. The others will still be eating breakfast. They can manage a few minutes. She nods. People rarely come out of the servants' gate, and the paperboy has been and gone. They will not be disturbed. She draws him to the side of the entrance, pushes him against the wall, and stands on her tiptoes to reach his mouth again. He moves to cup both sides of her face, cradling her like a child in those big hands, his breath ragged, his mouth moving with scorching urgency. She's not felt the hot silk of his tongue since their wedding night, the throb in her body a harsh reminder. How she wishes that they could lose control. She needs him again.

But John is the one who slowly eases away from her, wild-eyed but mindful of where they are. He runs his hands down her body until he curls them around her waist, easing her against his chest. She presses her ear over his heart and listens to the thunderous beat.

"It's not fair," she murmurs. "I don't want to share you yet."

He chuckles coarsely. "God knows I don't want to share you either."

"I have no idea when we'll get another opportunity to be alone. Mrs. Hughes said she'd dress Lady Mary this morning so I could meet you, but I'll have to take over again once we've had breakfast. And our cottage isn't even ready yet…"

"I thought they might have had a cottage ready for us to move directly into," John admits. "But we've always made the best of sorry situations. Perhaps a certain room will be available to us again…" The comment hangs promisingly between them. Anna's throat goes dry at the mere heady suggestion. She can't think on it now. She'll never make it through breakfast if she does.

"We should go inside," she mumbles reluctantly.

"Kiss me one more time. Just to get me through the morning."

How can she deny a request like that, when he speaks in such honeyed tones? She peels her gloves off for good measure—how long it's been since she's touched his bare skin—and cups his stubbled cheeks in her palms, greedy as she kisses him breathless again.

Sounds from the courtyard break them unwillingly apart, and they turn to face the day. Later in the afternoon they will kiss many, many more times as they wander freely through the countryside, but for now Anna is content with the knowledge that John is right back where he belongs.