A/N: For lala-kate.

She is laughing. She is laughing more than any woman he has ever met. And you have to believe he has seen a lot of women laugh in his time. Her expression is true and honest, her eyes shining in warm delight, her mouth open and showing teeth, letting loose the kind of belly laugh even his male friends hesitate before giving. He's blinking the mud out of his eyes (and his hair and his lips and his clothes) but he can still take in the arresting sight even through his disbelief. She wouldn't – she couldn't – she didn't – she did.

He can feel mud on his cheeks and his lips, thick and sticky and foul smelling under his nose, but he can feel something else – the imprint of a hand, the gentleness of fingertips running from one side of his face to another, fingertips meant for more tender work than this, a tingling trail of heat, unexpected, unwanted, utterly unforgettable.

He glances at her and laughs at the delight of it, of her. What a woman! How could he ever have thought her aloof? Imagined her to be cold or uncaring? She was like an exotic flower that until this moment he had only seen in bud. Now, the petals are unfurling in front of his eyes, pulling back to reveal layers of humanity and personality and naked soul that he could not have imagined before it suddenly blossoms tonight. He cannot believe his eyes to see her, cannot believe his ears to hear the sound of her laugh and as he lowers his hand from his face, he catches her gaze, sees her eyes brighten and then strangely darken. His breath catches and before he knows what he is doing he is reaching for her.

Muddy hand touches muddy arm and the feel of her skin beneath his is intoxicating. How is it so soft? It should be rough where the mud is starting to thicken but he feels nothing save her warmth seeping through her skin and across to his own fingers. Touching her arm, he wants more and when she moves, he closes the gap between them, sliding his other arm round her waist. She comes to him easily, those delicate fingers resting now on his shirt front, those liquid, brown eyes raised to meet his in question.

"Charles," she murmurs, her tone sweet but reproachful and just a little bit intrigued, as he has heard from her so many times, "What have we discovered tonight?"

His heart swells and he feels a burst of panic. It is not meant to be like this! This isn't what happened… But he is powerless against the impulse.

"Mary… I-"

Her fingers trail down his cheek, softer than before, the mud no hindrance now and she is smiling, her lips pressed together, a light of almost painful interest in her eyes. He almost laughs at her beauty because there is nothing more beautiful, nothing more lovely, nothing more delightful to him than she is in this moment…

"You really shouldn't," she replies, her finger resting against the corner of his mouth.

"You started it," he retorts, raising his eyebrows at her and swallowing at the sensation of her finger still against his lips as he speaks.

"Me? The sentimentalist?"

He cannot take his eyes off her mouth as she forms the word sen-ti-men-ta-list. Every curve of her lips is intoxicating.

"Stop it," he breaths at her in agony as he kisses her.

She comes to him eagerly, wrapping her arms round his neck and delving into his hair. She is willing and hot and open-mouthed and passionate and creative and wonderfully wicked. All the time he can feel her smiling as she returns his kiss, the sound of her laugh in his ears, the feel of her skin and the softness of her hair under his wandering hands as he pulls her closer and closer to him until they are almost fused together…

Charles Blake woke with a shudder and sat up straight in bed, his sheets tangled round him. All was dark in his bedroom, but through a gap in his curtains he could see a shiver of a grey London dawn. The ticking of a clock on his mantelpiece was uncomfortably intrusive. Why had he not moved the damn thing out of his bedroom yet? Every night he asked himself the same question and every morning he forgot to do anything about it.

He was breathing rapidly and his hands clenched on the sheets, oddly cool compared to the skin he had clasped only moments ago.

There was nobody else in the room with him. She was not there and yet he could swear he could hear her laughter still. He wished he could hear it.

He flopped back onto his pillows with resignation and stared up into the darkness.

Damn you, Mary, he thought with great bitterness of spirit. He clenched the sheet into his fist, wishing it were her dress, her arm, her hair, her anything that he was holding onto. Damn you damn you damn you.

And then he laughed out-loud to himself because here he was, a grown man of sense and intelligence and character, pining over a woman like a lovesick schoolboy. He could feel her enveloping him as if she really had kissed him… Pathetic, wasn't it? But oh, so delightful!

He should try to sleep, he really should. There was paperwork to be done in the morning. Paperwork would clear his head of this nonsense. Nothing like the depressing facts and figures of departmental budgets to drive a woman away, even imaginary ones. He was quite certain of that. But Mary would be interested in – No, she wouldn't. Nobody was interested in this. It was so boring, such a dull life here in London working and eating and sleeping, all alone here in the flat, wouldn't it be nice if- Which was exactly the life he liked. No need to contemplate changing that any time soon. And dear God, she had a child. What was he meant to do about that? The flat was hardly suitable for – It was perfectly suitable for him. Wonderful flat. He really should move that damn clock. Apart from the clock it was excellent. Who needed anything more? So Sir S thought he should move to a more fashionable part of town? What would he know about fashion? This was an excellent flat. Just the right size for one, not empty at all – see, look how pleasant it is to be able to fling your arms all the way across the bed and feel that space – all for one person! He really should try to sleep again.

But, oh, Mary!