A/N: I was supposed to be writing a chapter of Look After You from Richard's perspective as he faced the weeklong separation from Isobel. I thought I was doing, but something distinctly different emerged from those writing sessions. This can be thought of as adjunct to that one (which I will get back to. Honest).

You know when you listen to a song a hundred times and you like it but nothing about it particularly stands out? I have a playlist entitled Yorkshire Love Song (which, incidentally, is how I'm starting to think of the whole modern retirement AU) and one of the songs on it is "Lead On" by Phillip Phillips. The other day it suddenly leapt out at me as being perfectly applicable to Richard and Isobel's romance. There's an edge to it. I love me an edge. Have a listen if you haven't done.

There can be more of this if you guys are interested. I'm thinking of a his/hers two-shot, maybe. Let me know.

xx,
~ejb~

He remembers the days when he thought their professional relationship was all they'd ever have, when it seemed that the more he tried to be there for her, the farther she pushed him away. Remembers thinking, then, that if friends were all that ever became of them, it would be enough. That it had to be, because he couldn't bear not to be near her. From their first meeting he had thought her beautiful; from their first row (over a patient, naturally) he had found her formidable.

Fate was kind and, with time and persistence, they had become the best of friends. She challenged his mind; he quieted hers. He waited long enough, faithfully enough, that he had won her heart as well (though now she readily admits there was hardly a time when she didn't love him). They fumbled their way towards happily ever after, nursing one another's old wounds as they went along.

Every one of his initial impressions of her had proved to be true. She was indeed beautiful, and she grew more so all the time. She was confident, yet riddled with self-doubt; she was exacting, but she was kind. He can scarcely believe now that he had ever feared she might not return the love he had for her. She loves him with everything she possesses; he would go so far as to say that she is love.

He also remembers back to the time when he tried to convince himself that it would be enough to hold her (and, to be sure, it was far more than he'd ever allowed himself to dream he might have). But with every bit of herself that she shared, he dared to hope for more. She kissed him and he felt like the king of the world; she fell asleep in his arms and he was sure that he had died and gone to heaven.

It was very early days when the subject of becoming lovers was brought to the table. Bless her forthrightness; ten years he had been on the brink of madness wanting her, and she was the first to say the words! They were proving to be as well-matched in love as they were in medicine: he thought it; she said it. And it was the way she said it. "I'm sure you couldn't possibly feel the same, seeing as I've only ever been with my husband, but I want you." Those may not have been the exact words, but that was the crux of it. Confidence is sexy, to be sure, but in this instance the opposite went so far beyond. She had no way of knowing it then, but he had not a great deal more experience than she, and just as much angst, if not more. He'd have lain her down right there and then had she so clearly not been ready for it.

He believes —he always believed— that even on the off chance she had been terrible at it, he'd have thought she was magnificent. But he never got to test that theory. As it happened, her apprehension was down to her long abstinence and fears about her body and the ravages of time.

It wasn't long, between his patience and her trust in him, and every one of her inhibitions fell by the wayside. And now he knows the glorious truth.

She is a fierce lover, and fiercely his, and while he had to have known that she would give her all to him, both in and out of bed (when has she ever done anything halfway?), still it took him by surprise at first.

The best kind of surprise. Like when she had deliberately written it into her wedding vows: "I give myself to you with utmost joy: heart and mind, body and soul." She is his. She is so very far from being his. She had stood on her own for half of her life; all that she is and all she's accomplished are of her own making. But she wants —she chooses— to belong with him. To him.

He flips through the photos in his phone and grins, shaking his head a bit; mystified. The photo that encompasses her essence would be innocuous to an outsider. In it she is stood in the back garden amongst the sunflowers. He had been watching her deadheading them, admiring the sweet smile on her lips and the fluidity with which she moved. He used to wonder how she did it: gardening in a crisp white shirt, looking for all the world as if she were cut from the pages of the Anthropologie catalogue. She laughed and told him that she was on her third shirt of the day, that she wore white because she could bleach it, and that if he were to look in the bathroom he'd find draped over the edge of the tub a row of dirt-stained flannels she'd used to wash her face. On the day he took her picture, she had bent over to pick up her favourite secateurs. Presented with the contour of her perfect bottom, he groaned softly. It was just loud enough that she heard it, however, and as she righted herself she turned to look over her shoulder at him, gracing him with a smile that was part silly, part self-effacing, abundantly sly and wholly seductive.

That was the moment he'd captured on camera. His wife; his beautiful woman looking up at him, dark sultry eyes beneath the fringe of her lashes; innocence with a wild streak running right down the middle. Her wonderful golden-olive skin set off by the stark white fabric; the topmost button open to reveal the barest hint of what lay beneath. Sweet Lord, he was growing flustered just thinking about it.

oOo

"Didn't your mother warn you that it's impolite to stare?" She feigned admonition, but it was an exercise in futility trying to erase the smile from her face, from her voice.

He grinned back. "Aye, and she also told me that a thing of beauty was not to be taken for granted. And you? Did your mam not tell you that a proper wife doesn't seduce her husband in the garden?"

She laughed heartily, tipping her head back. "Oh, yes, I'm quite certain she must've done, proper as she was! Probably whilst she was stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Daddy, catching babies." She paused, her eyes trained on his. He came closer and she caught him by the belt loops of his trousers, pulling him in. "What did you see while you were watching, hmm?" A whisper; hot breath on his neck and her hands on his hips. He caught a glimpse down the front of her shirt at the lace edge of her bra.

Cupping the back of her head in his palm, he sank his fingers into her hair as he pulled her to his mouth. He kissed her roughly and she answered just as aggressively, her teeth scraping his bottom lip as she pulled the hem of his shirt free from the waistband of his jeans.

"Beauty," he answered her. Breathed it into her mouth as their lips parted. At certain times an appellation, at others a modifier; it was her identity, as he saw it.

She tipped her head back, her face upturned, and laughed, the sound full and joyous and sexy. "Oh, my love," she sighed, "how did I get so lucky?"

In answer, seeing his chance, he ducked his head and kissed her neck, nipping at the tender skin. "Are you quite through out here?" Warm, moist breath in her ear that achieved the desired result of making her visibly shiver.

"Jesus." He watched her lips form the imprecation, inaudible though it was (a fact that made him snicker —he loved seeing her undone by him). "I reckon I'd better be, hadn't I?" She smoothed a hand through his hair, a tiny smile pulling at the corners of her mouth as an equally minuscule flash of wickedness moved across her eyes.

"Let's go to bed."

Grinning, he raised his eyebrows at her. "So that's how it's going to be, eh?" She had not said, "Take me to bed," a deliberate choice she knew would not be lost on him.

She was not disappointed. "Come on. I want you."

There were many times they never made it to the landing at the bottom of the staircase, and he'd have her on the couch or —as had been the case on the night of their engagement— against the door. At other times she'd throw a look at him over her shoulder, trailing a hand behind herself, and he'd follow her up. Tonight, she made it clear that they would share the lead, slipping her hand inside of his own as they took the stairs together.

Share it, or else fight for it. Probably a good deal of both. He grinned again as he realised how very like her it was to push and to pull, to acquiesce and demand; to give until she was spent whilst simultaneously taking all that he had. She was so blessedly predictable in this way, and yet at the same time he was always on his toes, wondering how she'd surprise him next.

They paused at the doorpost and she sized him up. "Something must be terribly amusing," she teased, "or else the heat's made you giddy."

He took hold of her wrists and pinned them gently above her head, against the door casing, bringing her chest flush with his own. "You're nothing and everything like you seem; that's all. It's hardly the first time I've noticed, but I never get used to it." He kissed her hard and she hummed against his mouth.

"Well, I should hope not!" She twisted out of his grasp and her hands went immediately to his shirtfront, working open the buttons as she continued, "You, on the other hand ... you're always the same. Nothing and nobody changes you; not even me when I'm at my worst." She met his eyes. "And that's a good thing." She shook her head as she stripped him of his shirt, murmuring softly, "You're so unshakable."

Then her hands moved to his belt, and before he knew what was happening his trousers had pooled around his ankles and she was touching him through his shorts.

"I love the way you feel," she breathed, reaching inside his waistband.

"Baaaby," he moaned, trembling at her touch. If only she knew the power she held over him. "You sure you don't want to take back that 'unshakable' bit?"

She shook her head, laughing. "Mm-mm. I just want to touch you. I love you so much, Richard."

His shorts joined the pile of cast-off clothing on the floor. "Get on that bed, woman," he told her, his eyes flashing impishly.

She turned with a flourish and walked towards the bed with an exaggerated sway of her hips … and then doubled over in a fit of the giggles. "I'm sorry … How am I supposed to keep a straight face doing that?"

"You're a loony, you do realise." He stepped close and drew his index finger down the row of buttons at the front of her blouse.

"But you love me?"

"But I love you," he answered, working open each button. He gasped when he finished and her shirt fell open. "My God, what's this?" Her breasts were encased in the sheerest blush pink lace. In almost nothing.

She shrugged, all false insouciance. "Something I thought you might appreciate." She cast her eyes towards the coverlet for a moment, then locked her gaze with his. "Was I right?"

He raised his hands to cup her breasts, his thumbs tracing circles around her taut nipples. She gasped sharply; the friction was delicious.

"I love it," he told her earnestly. "It's my favourite." He'd been saying that every time she came home with a new one lately, and every time he meant it. He didn't know whether retirement was to thank for it, or if perhaps she was simply growing more confident in her sexuality, but her lingerie collection had evolved dramatically over the course of their marriage. Each successive bra was less padded and structured, and more diaphanous and natural than the one before.

Unnecessarily he told her, "I mean it, Isobel. You're so beautiful."

She smiled prettily up at him as she lay back against the mattress. "I know you do, my love. Help me with the rest?"

He knelt beside her, watching her as he opened the button and zip of her trousers. Her eyes drifted shut, her breath caught in anticipation. The muscles of her abdomen quivered at his touch. At his urging she lifted her hips and he stripped her of both trousers and knickers.

He paused to gaze at her, letting her see how her beauty captivated him; how very much he wanted her.

"Come, husband. My love." She opened her arms to him and he laid down beside her, enfolding her in his embrace.

She sighed happily, and he felt her shiver. He frowned a little.

"Not cold, are you?"

She shook her head. "Feels good like this. Skin on skin."

He rolled her gently onto her back and positioned himself above her, noting the way her legs parted naturally to welcome him into the cradle of her hips. "It certainly does," he agreed. His chest was pressed against hers and he groaned at the rasp of lace, of her pebbled nipples, against his skin. He slithered above her, grazing his chest and belly against her breasts, a maddening rhythm that made her arch up desperately to meet him.

"More," she breathed. "Please, more, darling."

He smiled softly down at her. "Patience, o wife. All in good time." Resting on his elbows, he ducked his head to kiss her breasts through the lace.

"Oh! God, Richard …" she paused as he suckled. "You make me forget where I begin and you end."

He touched her, himself; between her legs, positioning his excitement at her entrance, and slid against her folds. Her mouth formed a perfect 'o' in pleasure; she loved this. "No beginning," he told her with quiet assurance. "No end. There's only us. Together." He let the head of his penis slip just inside her entrance.

A sob hitched in her chest when he lowered his head and murmured against her lips, "Isobel. Together."

She nodded. "Yes, together. I'm yours." She reached up to hold the back of his head, crushing his mouth against her own. She kissed him frantically and he thrust, hard but shallowly, perfect pressure just where she needed him. She started to unravel, building quickly. Swelling around him, fluttering, tight, so tight, so goddamned tight. He swore against her neck, into her ear and she laughed and murmured her agreement. He would never, could never get past that: her; broken and beautiful beneath him. The embodiment of refinement, cool sophistication clinging to him; clawing at him, streaming curses like a stevedore. Like a Scot. Perfect, wicked, wanton woman. His woman.

He was still just barely inside of her, pressed against her g-spot, when she came. "Richard!" she cried, her eyes widened in astonishment.

"I know, beauty. I know. Let it come, just like that."

He covered her body with his own, sheltering her as she trembled, planting kisses in her hair.

As she came back to herself she reached for him, touching his lips. He kissed her fingers and she drew him down to her mouth. "Oh, darling," she whispered.

"That was beautiful," he told her, his hands resting on her waist. "Are you alright?"

She nodded, blinking at him. "I'm very alright. And you? Are you ready for more?" She pushed at his shoulders, urging him to sit up, and straddled his legs, her knees against the mattress.

He smiled, his hands drifting to her hips. "I was rather hoping you'd say that."

She watched him curiously as she began to draw gentle circles on the tender skin of his inner thighs with her fingertips. "You know that you could just take me. Anytime, anywhere."

"I know. But I love watching you. You're breathtaking when you're like that. There's nothing more lovely."

Her cheeks flushed a pretty pink. "I don't know … You're rather magnificent, Major. I mean, my God, the look of you …" Her eyes as well as her hands wandered over his chest. She circled his nipple with her thumb and he hummed in the back of his throat.

She smiled, and touched him again. "I've always wondered whether that feels as good for you as it does me," she admitted quietly. How could she be like this? he puzzled. Such a vixen one moment: perfectly self-assured, take-no-prisoners, I-need-you-now. And then, in the next breath, so pure and incorruptible and shy. It was dizzying.

It was addictive. He was sure it would drive him to madness, and he was all too pleased to go.

"It feels wonderful," he told her, resting his forehead against hers. "Everything you do to me feels wonderful."

She pushed him back a little and lowered her head to his flesh, her lips following the path she had mapped out with her hands. She rained kisses all over his chest and ribs, taking special care to bless the scar he earned in Beirut. "Thank God he was a poor shot," she breathed.

He caught her face in his hands. "I'm alive, Isobel." Those words were the ones she needed. Soothing reassurances of what he knew she knew, but of which he was always happy to remind her. "I'm alive and I'm here with you."

"Yes." Her hands were on him again, the fingers of one following the trail of silver hair from his belly button down while she gently cupped his testicles with the other. "Yes, you most certainly are."

She watched his eyes close, his head lolling back against the headboard. His abdominal muscles fluttered when she took his length in her hand, swiping the pad of her thumb across the head.

"Beautiful, Richard," she murmured, watching the movement of his Adam's apple as he swallowed hard. She kissed his slightly-open mouth. "You're a beautiful man." She moved to sit astride his legs, stroking him gently, letting him brush against her own wet heat.

"Isobel," he moaned. There was an urgency about the sound and she ran the backs of her fingers across his cheek.

"Yes, my love, what is it?"

He reached around to the clasp between her shoulder blades and then dragged her bra straps down and off. "I need you."

She leant forwards, raising up on her knees again, and locked her fingers together at the nape of his neck, drawing his head towards her to rest between her breasts. She took him inside of her, sinking down slowly, savouring the stretch and the fullness.

"Jesus Christ, woman … goddammit, you're gonna kill me," he rasped, a warm exhalation across her nipple.

She laughed throatily, brushing her lips against the top of his head. "My poor darling. Shall I stop then?"

"No!" he growled. He took hold of her hips roughly, his thumbs pressing white discolourations into her skin.

"What was it you said to me … Patience, o husband. All in good time." She tilted his chin up, her eyes daring him to challenge her, rocking against him all the while.

His own eyes closed in defeat. She had won (but how could he lose?). He let his head fall back into her hands as she began to move, flexing her hips at the bottom of each stroke. "Isobel … what you do to me," he sighed, thoroughly given over to her.

Something about his vulnerability planted the sweetest ache inside her heart, like a lump in her throat that she couldn't swallow down. "I love you," she whispered, and sank her lips to his, "I love you, I love you." Over and over, because she could; because he was, as he had pointed out, so very much there.

He raised his eyes to watch her, the long, graceful arc of her torso, the gentle sway of her breasts. He latched his mouth onto her nipple and she was lost, and therefore so was he. He swore brilliantly as he came and she clutched him close.

"Shh … I know, my love. It's alright; let me feel you." She held him inside of her long after her trembling subsided, and his, and then he eased her back, stretching out and bringing her head to rest on his chest, her legs tangling with his own.

He wrapped his arms around her, drawing patterns on the bare skin of her back, and kissed the top of her head. "You've ruined me, Isobel," he breathed, lying boneless with her sprawled on top of him.

When she raised her head to look at him, she was met with a satisfied smile. His eyes fluttered open, the strength of his love plain for her to see.

She answered him with a smile of her own. "I'd say, 'sorry,' but you did it first," she told him levelly, stroking his cheek.

Reaching for her hands, he wrapped his fingers around hers. "Sorry," he whispered, pecking her lips, "not sorry."