This is set just after the end of Series 2 Episode 3 when Isobel and Cora have been having their scrap over who is going to be in charge of the convalescent home. I wrote it because I think we often over-romaticise Richard and Isobel (not that that's a terrible thing) and because of that we often miss quite a lot of the antagonism that can exist between them at times. Saying that, I really really hope this is in character.
By God, she had been getting to him lately, he reflected a long time afterwards as they lay haphazardly entangled in each others bodies and the thin whiteness of the bedsheets, the skin of her sleeping chest touching and leaving his with the deep and gentle breaths she took. It was a trying time. At moments he had hated her, and her domineering, demanding, busybody, insufferable, oblivious ways. His face lay pressed into her hair- undone and wild- with the top of her head just gracing his chin, contacting comfortably. At moments he had been awed by her, and the glimmering kindness she always showed to the officers despite how busy she was; how she cared for them unquestioningly even when she had so many cares of her own. He had to admit that in those moments he loved her, he loved her beyond question. Even in sleep her arms wrapped securely around his bare body, her forearms lying up and down his back, her hands resting under his shoulders, holding him to her. Other moments when he would catch sight of her alluring figure in her slim, black nurse's dress; when he would see her turn her head sharply and smile; when she walked with her capable sway. Moments when, in his increasingly worn state, he could almost hear her call out to him. When he loved her beyond question.
That was, he concluded, the best way of describing how they had ended up here; lying closely beside each other in order to be able to fit into the narrow bed in the corner of his office; where, increasingly, he spent his evenings when he couldn't be spared to go home. Usually it was the patients who could not spare him, this time it had been her, and only her.
It was understandable, he thought, even at their ages, that this should happen. They were both under a lot of pressure and their nerves had been running sky high for weeks. That was partly due to each other, he conceded. There were times when she certainly didn't make it any easier for him, he reflected ruefully, like all of this absurd nonsense with Lady Grantham over who would be in charge of the convalescent home. It was perfectly understandable, maybe even natural, that they should fall- or throw themselves- into each others arms one warm evening in his office. Maybe it wasn't exactly right, he knew, he realised now that he should have taken his time a little bit more with her, but it had been completely natural.
He hadn't been in the best of moods when he had walked into his office anyway, having had a day that was awful in every way in could manage to be, but to find her there, hands on her hips, obviously waiting for a confrontation had almost caused him to snap right there and then. Isobel Crawley was the person he relied upon for the comfort, the friendship, that she and only she knew how to extend to him. When she chose to. When she didn't he found her almost unbearable, especially when he needed it like he did now.
Isobel, however, was apparently oblivious to his mood, and launched straight in to what she had obviously been planning to say for some time.
"How is Lady Grantham, then?" she asked, her eyes dangerous, one hand resting authoritatively on the top of his desk, her false air of nonchalance not fooling him for a moment . Obviously she knew where he had come from, but was disinclined to allow him any sympathy in view of that, "Is her Majesty having an easy rule over her precious convalescent castle?"
If any of his other nurses dared to speak to him like that, he'd have her out of his hospital before she knew what had hit her. Her eyes were wide, waiting for an answer.
"Mrs Crawley-..." he began wearily.
She cut him off. For some reason, she was furious with him. He sensed that he was shortly to be enlightened as to the reason, and braced himself, pretending that anger didn't bring out the physical beauty of her even more.
"You know, Major Clarkson," she returned his title icily, with the definite air of a woman who'd long had a bone to pick, "It might have been nice to think that a shred of the hard work, of the countless temperatures I've taken, of the hands I've held over the past three years, or during the four before that when I've worked with you, has been valued. Up until now, I had allowed myself to think that it had, but obviously I have been very foolish. Obviously," she continued, her voice steely, her stare deadly, "Because I am not a Countess, that automatically decreases the worth of all these years' working together."
Oh God, she was back on to this, but much more vehemently so that she had ever been before. It was extremely difficult not to roll his eyes. Instead, he took of his hat, lying it on the edge of his desk, and throwing his gloves into it a moment later. For a moment he contemplated asking her if she'd had as difficult a day as he had to cause her to go on like this.
She was still watching him, waiting for a response. He did not have one that was not anger to match her own or utter capitulation, and he did not know which one to give. He remained silent.
"I'm not one to complain, Major Clarkson," she told him bluntly, "But I'm afraid I can no longer remain silent. I feel bound to speak. Lady Grantham has gone too far in her petty vendetta against me in order to make someone else suffer for the loss of her precious house, and I am astonished that you, of all people, should humour her."
"Lady Grantham knows that house," he replied, trying to keep the terseness out of his tone. The very last thing he needed at the moment was for her to shout at him.
"Which hardly compensates for the bare minimum she knows about medical care!" Mrs Crawley, declared triumphantly, eyes flashing, "Major Clarkson, do you have any idea how it feels to think that you rank me less capable than her?"
"Both you and Lady Grantham are in equal charge of the convalescent home," he reminded her.
"Despite the fact that Lady Grantham know next to nothing about medicine!" she repeated, as if he had just confirmed her point.
"Really, Mrs Crawley, don't you think you are over-reacting just a little bit?"
It was the wrong thing to say, evidently.
"I don't know how else I'm supposed to react," she replied finally. He thought he heard a tremor in her voice, but her face betrayed nothing expect the anger she'd shown in the past few minutes. "Dr. Clarkson," she spoke much more softly and her slip up with his title did not escape him, "I had thought, before the war, that we had a good working relationship. I thought you valued me almost as an equal. Either I was entirely wrong, or your opinion of me has somehow changed since then."
Oh, he remembered how she'd been before the war. She had certainly changed over the past few years, there was no denying it- though he imagined she'd probably say exactly the same of him. She had looked less tired by far, and she had worn such bright and beautiful clothes. And he had valued her as an equal, as a confidante, a shoulder to lean on. He still did. But she could be so insufferable at times like this, and before he knew it, he was angry, properly angry with her.
"Mrs Crawley," his tone matched hers in severity now, really, he thought, a good telling off might do her the world of good, "It might have escaped your attention, but I took considerable time in deciding who would be in charge of the convalescent home. I chose both you and Lady Grantham because I value the different skills you each have. And while we're on the subject, I really do think that you should show a little more respect for your cousin," he added in a his, controlling only his volume, "Really, your contempt for her is almost beyond belief at times, it's vulgar not to mention childish and petty. And I don't think you should be so dismissive of her sacrificing her house for our cause. Especially as she's all but given up her youngest daughter. Perhaps if you made a similar sacrifice, you would be a little more understanding."
He realised too late. The was possibly the stupidest thing he'd said in his entire life. Her face had been shocked enough at the way he had suddenly turned on her, but when he uttered that last sentence, her expression seemed to dissolve altogether into one of utter horror and sadness. He moved his mouth to apologise, but not sound came out.
Her voice was so quiet he could barely hear her, but for the fact that she spoke crystal clearly.
"I've given up my son."
Her only son. All she had.
Her arms were no longer bared assertively, propped up by her hips, but folded tightly across her chest, failing to restrain her distressed and shallow breathing. He had really done it now.
She was so beautiful when she was angry. She frightened him and aroused him at the same time. The glint in her eye, the flush of her neck. He needed her and feared her at the same time.
"My son," she repeated, almost helplessly with conflicting sadness and fury.
He had no idea what to say to her.
"Isobel-..."
"Don't."
"I didn't mean to-..."
"But you did anyway."
He took a step closer, determined not to let her intimidate him away.
"I sorry," he told her, "I shouldn't have-..."
"No, you shouldn't."
"ISOBEL!" he roared, "Will you let me finish?"
There was a deafening silence for several seconds. Her lips pursed in a wordless reprimand for his further brash behaviour. Then everything snapped, and he was suddenly next to her and had her in his arms, body pressed flat against his. After a moment's surprise her felt her arms around his neck, her lips responding to him as he kissed her passionately, insistently devouring her mouth, demanding access.
Lost in the hot, delicious feeling of her lips on his he backed them towards the bed at the side of the room. She issued no complaints, in fact she sank down onto the mattress almost gratefully, as if her knees needed the extra support. He wound his hands into her hair, knocking it down so loose curls spilled down onto her shoulders, bowing his head to kiss her neck. Without him noticing, her hands has already unfastened the buttons of his jacket, and she pushed it gently off his shoulders, allowing it to fall to the floor. Her fingers, fumbling slightly, only just succeeded in ridding him of his tie, before he pressed her backwards into the pillows, bearing down over her.
He loved her, he remembered as he deftly slipped the buttons of her dress open to reveal the white expanse of her skin, he loved this beautiful, frustrating woman. He hadn't allowed himself to remember for a long while now, but now that he did the feeling returned just as strongly as it had ever existed. It filled him with awe to hear the unrestrained moan she let out as he caressed the curve of her breast above her corset, but he did not linger; blinkered by desire, he knew he could not restraint himself for very long. Ridding her of her dress, he made quick work of his own shirt, throwing it onto the floor with his jacket, moving back to kneel over her. He gasped as he felt her hands leave his unfastened belt and deal with the fastenings of his trousers.
Bowing back down to kiss her neck, her collarbone, the curve of her breasts before slipping her out of her corset, he illicited some more of the most blissful moans from her, before she took advantage of his momentary distraction with how best to get her out of her slip to take the lobe of his ear gently between her swollen and wantonly parted lips.
"Isobel!" he gasped into her breasts, the first time he'd uttered her name since he'd bellowed it at her.
Running his hands quickly up her parted legs, he lifted her slip, brushing his fingers along the inside of her thighs to find her wet and exquisitely ready for him. Groaning, he felt her hips roll demandingly against his hand. He almost, almost, gave into temptation and thrust deep inside her at that moment, but his desire to possess all of her, to have her breasts in his hands, to feel her whole body against his as she came overpowered it. Helping her to lift her hips from the bed, he whisked the slip over her head and off to revel in the sight of her nakedness. And then he gave in, slipping his shorts down and taking her in one swift motion, thrusting into her hard and insistently, pushing into her and withdrawing repeatedly for the short time that it took for them both to reach a blinding climax. Utterly possessing her so thoroughly that she forgot where they were and that they could be easily overheard and cried out at the height of her rapture.
It was everything he had imagined, everything he'd ever known, and so much more.
They felt back against the bedsheets gasping, exhausted and physically sated. Their arms wrapped tightly around each other, all semblance of their anger forgotten, all having been channelled into the consuming passion between them, and now was only the intimacy, the need for comfort that he had craved beforehand. They clung to each other tightly, protectively, as they slipped into sleep.
This was so much more than lust, he reflected now, lying awake, still feeling the closeness and the instinctive protection of their bodies tangled together. Lust didn't know how to be like this. He knew he loved her. What on earth she would think of that when she woke up he would just have to wait and see.
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