A/N: Here's my first fanfic of 2012. Um...not much else to say right now, heh. There are spoilers for series two, so bear that in mind if you haven't seen it yet.

Disclaimer: Downton Abbey ain't mine.

New Year Resolutions

He watches her sleeping by his side, his arms holding her body loosely to him, her head resting beside his on the pillow. He traces the lines of her face with his eyes – the lines that are just perceptible around her mouth, the crow's feet around her eyes, all relaxed as she sleeps. Her hair, usually swept back slackly in a bow during the night, has come loose, delicate curls spilling over the pillow like dark tongues of fire in the softly lit room. The candle flame flickers against the walls and sends shadows dancing across her features, leaving her face half-hidden, a puzzle that he'll never quite be able to fully work out. He brings a hand up to gently ghost along her bare collarbone and, although she does not awaken, she stirs under his touch and burrows closer to his body. It still amuses him that even now, after all this time, she still prefers to sleep beside him naked whenever they have made love. He calls it her strange American nature with too much affection; she merely raises her eyebrows and says that it feels more intimate. After all, she points out, he still shares her bed; why should they have to redress themselves after such a moment when they're just going to sleep in each other's arms anyway?

He never concedes that he privately enjoys the way it feels to hold her in the afterglow, watching her fidget until she is comfortable and then proceed to wrap her arms around him to anchor herself to him. He never concedes that he secretly loves the way that her bare skin brushes up against his own, making him feel alive and needed – needed to keep them afloat, needed to keep them whole.

Unfortunately, he has been a terrible husband to her as of late.

During the war, he had been blinded by lust. Lust and the need to feel wanted. Robert had been all too painfully aware of the fact that his wife, although still loving him (that was clear in the way that she would wrap her arms around him and snuggle close to him at night, desperately trying to mould her body to his, two pieces of a jigsaw that didn't quite fit anymore, but not without her valiant efforts to click them together), did not need him in the way that she had done in the past. The war had changed her along with everyone else, and he wasn't sure that he liked the consequences of that.

So he had sought comfort from Jane, a woman as fragile as Cora had once been before his mother had toughened her up. With Jane he had felt needed, wanted. Perhaps it hadn't been love – a few snatched moments alone between her housework and his scheduled meetings had hardly afforded either of them the chance to get to know each other better, for deeper feelings to emerge – but there had been a desperate kind of desire between them, and that had forged a bond strong enough to make him consider – more than just consider – losing himself in her. During those final months, he had barely given Cora a second thought. He'd still loved her, but it had been a mandatory sort of love, borne out of duty rather than out of a mutual affection. Something in his mind told him that he was terrible – worse than even when he'd married her, because at least she had known the whole story then – but a bitter, lonely part of him that had hated seeing her adapting so easily to the changes that the war had brought whilst he floundered, chasing the shadows of yesterday, had secretly blamed her for this. If she hadn't chosen to throw herself into a new life, perhaps they would still have been untouched. But a few obligatory lovemaking sessions in the darkness of her room hardly equated the relationship that they had enjoyed so much before.

Of course, everything had changed with the Spanish flu epidemic. Just as Matthew had lost Lavinia, Robert himself had almost lost his entire world, had almost watched it slip through his fingers without even realising just what was occurring.

At the time when she'd been lying there…he'd been…

Even now, months on, when he knows that his wife has made a wonderful recovery (his mother declaring that perhaps her foreign blood is stronger than she'd originally thought), he cannot think back on those dark hours without being overwhelmed with a soul-destroying grief. He tightens his hold on her and breathes in her scent – the light touch of perfume, the heavy musk of sweat entwining together to create the familiar aroma of their lovemaking – closing his eyes tightly against the sheer ache that recalling his behaviour brings.

His wife had been on her deathbed and he'd been sneaking around next door – next door – with the maid.

And somehow, despite their pretences and despite the fact that she couldn't have known, she'd known. She'd sensed the changes between them, and that had hurt more than anything.

A sight to gladden my heart, he'd told her as she'd reclined there in recovery, with her eyes too large in her head and her skin too pale and her hair plastered against her forehead with a shiny sheen of sweat.

Her voice had been weak and slight but there had been a dreamy quality to it, as though she'd been thinking too much.

Is it?

Just two words. But those two words had been enough to make his blood run cold.

Is it?

She'd known something was wrong. She'd sensed it in the way that his kisses were more restrained than they ought to be for a husband bestowing them upon his wife, in the way that he only vaguely paid attention to her, thoughts too consumed by another dark haired beauty, in the way that their relationship was torn through with arguments that should have been too trivial to even exist.

And she had been the one to apologise to him. She'd apologised for getting too caught up in everything, for neglecting him. He'd taken her proffered hand and told her not to apologise, guilt swelling within him. What else could he say?

Cora, you're not the one who should be sorry. I am. I am sorry. I've made a terrible mistake.

But how could he have told her that, confirmed her suspicions, destroyed the world in which she had found her place?

Nothing else had passed between them after that. It hadn't been necessary.

But he'd made a silent vow at the time, to treat his wife with the respect and love that she deserved. God knew that she'd waited for it long enough in the first place.

The departure of Jane had made things much easier. Without her presence to distract him from what was right, he'd been able to throw himself back into caring for his wife. During the first two days after Doctor Clarkson had confirmed she'd live, he had barely left her side, ordering O'Brien to rest so that he could take over himself. The lady's maid had protested – saying that looking after her ladyship was something that she just had to do – but in the end had relented under Robert's stoic stare.

Cora had recovered quickly after that. She'd told him in a low voice, smiling tenderly at him, that it was because of him. That alone was enough to make his heart shrivel with remorse in his chest.

And when she was well enough again he'd taken her in his arms and kissed her breathless and covered her body with his own, trying desperately to bury his guilt in her naked skin, in the familiarity of her movements beneath him, in the rediscovery of what true lovemaking should be like. It hadn't worked. Of course it hadn't. He was forever cursed to hear the soft, Is it? whenever she found her stifled relief in his shoulder, was doomed to recall the way her pasty skin had shone with sickness in the moonlight whenever he gazed upon the sight of her in post-coital bliss.

Even now, months after the event, he cannot let it go.

Sighing into the darkness, he presses his lips against his wife's temple. This time she fidgets in a more pronounced manner, her brow creasing as she mumbles something indecipherable. Slowly, her blue eyes blink open, smoky with the lingering effect of drowsiness. Her hands slide from his back to his front, rubbing reassuringly against his still-perspiring chest.

"Robert?" she mutters. "What's the matter, darling?"

He pulls away enough to gaze into her eyes, slightly confused but still smiling at him. Even now. Even after the way he's treated her.

"Nothing, my love," he says after a pregnant pause, catching one of her hands and bringing it to his lips.

"Now I'm really worried," she teases him. "It's been a long time since you last called me that."

He kisses her again, unsure of how he should respond. She watches him for a few moments before tugging her hand away from his mouth so that she can entwine their fingers together. Giving them a gentle squeeze, she leans in to breathe into his ear,

(We're all right…aren't we, Robert?)

"I love you."

He squeezes her hand in reply, the old feeling of adoration welling up inside him as he does so. How did he almost throw this away? The easy conversations, the mutual affection, the nights they spend tangled up in each other?

He realises that she is still staring at him expectantly, her thumb stroking the back of his hand. With clarity, he knows what she wants to hear. She wants to hear that

(they really are all right)

same phrase repeated back to her, to hear him say the words that he does not often allow to pass through his lips.

He releases her hands to cup her face between his palms. Tenderly, he trails his lips over her forehead, her eyelids, her cheeks, her lips.

"Cora, my dear," he whispers so softly that he barely hears it himself, "my heart is yours."

She opens her mouth to reply,

(Is it? I hope it is)

but no sound comes out. Instead she drifts her fingers down his chest again, her nails scratching at the skin of his side eagerly. He knows that sign anywhere and smiles despite himself.

"It's the best way to open a New Year," she is telling him as she presses herself against his front.

He grunts as she rubs against him just right. "I believe we've already opened it this way, darling."

"Perhaps it will bring better luck if we do it twice," she muses, and then adds mischievously, in true American style, "that's if you feel up to it, Robert."

He rolls them over so that he is on top, his fingers creeping over her breasts as she squeals in surprise.

"Is that a challenge, my dear?" he murmurs between the kisses he is pressing to the delicate jut of her collarbone.

"If you like," she gasps, and he feels her thighs parting beneath him, shifting to accommodate his form.

As he muffles the first of his wife's moans by covering her mouth with his own, Robert resolves that his New Year resolution this year and every year to come will be reinforce his silent vow to treat his wife with the love and respect that she so richly deserves.

A/N: I'd be grateful if you let me know what you thought. :) And a Happy New Year to all! :D