It's actually a serious Clarkson/Isobel fic. Gosh. SPOILERS for S2E7; some missing scenes for that episode, in fact.
All of that day was euphoria; pure bliss, no minor preoccupations or trivialities able to cloud the haze of happiness that she moved in. Her son was going to walk again. Of course, she hadn't for a moment worried about the effect it would have on herself. She would have taken care him, let Lavinia take time off from nursing him, nursed him single-handedly if necessary without batting an eyelid. Her only son, what else could she have done? But he would walk again. He would not have to spend the rest of his life feeling useless, or lame, or any other silly label he cared to throw on himself. She was so happy that she was even voluntarily polite to Cousin Violet.
Since the previous evening, her perception of everything had seemed almost skewed; as if all the time her concentration was just straying of it own accord back towards the persistence of this new happiness. By the evening, she was almost back to normal; but she was smiling to herself in quiet moments, without any reason to. She hadn't noticed herself do that since before the war.
Realising that she had to do something useful, a sudden pang of guilt for having spent the day in idle happiness, she took a stroll along to the hospital to check on things there, just to see if there was anything she could do. She had expected that most of the staff would have gone home by now, but there was a light on in Dr Clarkson's office at the end of the ward. That was something she certainly hadn't anticipated; in fact she had rather been counting on him having left. Biting her lip slightly, she ensured that she trod carefully past his door. She wasn't sure if she was ready to face him just yet.
She had needed some air, just to get her bearings back again. Everything was happening so quickly: the shock; the disbelief; the pure relief; and then the resounding gladness and it was making her rather giddy. She slipped out onto the balcony, away from the merry bustle of the drawing room- there was almost a party atmosphere now- intending only to spend a few moments out there. She did not realise that there was someone else there until she had gently shut the window behind her.
"Mrs Crawley."
She recognised the voice instantly, and knew who her companion was before the doctor stepped into the light from the drawing room windows. It made his brown, thoroughly-unsuitable-for-dinner suit glow dimly golden and his hair glint pleasantly. She did not mind seeing him out here, if she had to see anyone, she was glad that it was him.
"Hello," she replied, feeling the smile in her voice. Everyone was greeting each other cheerfully tonight, "It's wonderful, isn't it?" she asked, rather stupidly.
He nodded with a frank expression of both honesty and amusement.
"Yes, it is," he agreed, nodding, and turning his body to match hers, facing out into the dark of the night, the light hitting both their backs, "You must be so relieved."
It would be impossible to articulate just how much, she thought. She smiled at him over her shoulder in a mixture of wryness and true happiness, and he seemed to understand. He did not say anything either, but she sensed a much contented feeling coming from him too. If they understood anything because of the war, it was the value of good news.
"Thank you, Dr Clarkson," she said suddenly, "I really mean it, thank you for all you've done for Matthew."
"I think anything I or anyone else could have done for him would have been useless if it hadn't been for you," he replied sincerely.
"Oh nonsense," she told him, "I just pottered around in my usual busy-body way. I couldn't have managed without you there, truly."
And with that, in the wave of euphoria that seemed to come over her, she gently raised her gloved hand to his face and planted a kiss on his cheek. Then, she lingered for a second before moving her lips to his and pressing them briefly together. Her hand fell automatically in his and squeezed it. He did not pull away, though that was probably more due to astonishment than anything else.
"Thank you," she repeated, before letting go of his hand and returning to the drawing room.
She made it to the other side of the ward unnoticed. Making her way down the beds, she chatted quietly with the patients, most of whom knew her well. She was just talking to the young lad in the bed at the end of the ward who had come badly of his bicycle and was still suffering from mild concussion when she realised that she was being watched. She did not look up until she could get away with it no longer. Then, she raised her head and saw him clearly, standing in the doorway of his office, watching her closely. The invitation, the request to join him was evident. She crossed the ward as carefully as possible, looking at the floor as she went.
He closed the door behind them. Hovering uneasily in the middle of the room, she waited for him to walk around her and take a seat at his desk, before he launched into an interrogation about what on earth she'd thought she was doing yesterday evening. But he did not; he did walk to stand in front of her but he did not sit down.
"How are you, Mrs Crawley?" he asked. She drew a deep, shuddering breath that he obviously heard, "Isobel," he looked at her rather imploringly as he said her Christian name, "Are you alright; are things calming down a little bit?"
She could not help but laugh a little, perhaps inappropriately; the way he was asking her these questions so earnestly when she had expected a good telling off. She brushed her hand across her forehead, not quite able to take it in.
"Things are quite well, doctor," she told him, "Truly. It suddenly feels like I'm living in an entirely different house. That's certainly not a bad thing."
She saw him smiled slightly. When he did not ask anything else straight away, they stood there for a few moments in quite a loaded silence.
"One thing did occur to me," she admitted suddenly, leaning her head a fraction to the side to survey him, "Why didn't you tell me there was a chance he might walk again? That there was a chance? I understand why you would have told him, or Lavinia, but me? I'd like to think I could have handled being fully in the picture. Surely you realise I understand the nature of slight chances?"
He took a moment before he answered.
"Mrs Crawley," he cleared his throat and started again, "Isobel. I mean to make no slight whatsoever on your intelligence, only I had no wish to induce false hope anywhere. I thought that might be too much for either of us to bear."
"But I-... oh." She fell silent, seeing what he might mean by that in relation to what she had done the previous evening, "Oh."
He appeared to be examining his finger nails closely, avoiding her eyes.
She was suddenly seized by the most rash compulsion. Taking the hand he was pretending to examine carefully in hers, she reached up and kissed him on the lips again, more firmly than last time. She felt a tugging against her hand, and so released his, attempting to pull away from the kiss, only to find his hands cupping her face and holding her closer to him.
When they broke away, and stood, arms around each other, her head resting on his shoulder; she felt her earlier sense of euphoria gradually returning.
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