Family Matters
Author's Note: I am not a doctor – I beg indulgence from any medical professionals reading. Medical terminology glossaries when necessary will be at the end of chapters.
Many thanks to my beta, ggo85, who has provided eagle-eyed editorial skills, invaluable suggestions, encouragement and good advice. I am particularly indebted to her for her medical know-how and her insights into what would and wouldn't come naturally to our favorite characters. This story is immeasurably better for her generous attention. Any errors that remain are my fault exclusively
Disclaimer: Doc Martin is the property of Buffalo Pictures and I make no claim to anything other than my rather over-excited imagination.
Chapter 1 - Sanctuary
Martin opened his eyes on a cold, grey Sunday morning, grateful to be snug inside in a warm bed with Louisa curled beside him. He rolled to his side to face her and put his arm around her waist, pulling her more securely against his bare chest. Oh how he enjoyed touching her, feeling her warm body pressed against his, inhaling the scent that was all hers though he could never place what it was. He thought she looked gorgeous - relaxed and tousled, with her eyes closed and a faint smile on her soft lips, clad only in his pajama top. As his hand slipped lower, he realized that her nightclothes, such as they were, had hiked up around her hips leaving her lovely bottom and shapely legs uncovered. This brought a smile to his face, a more common occurrence these days.
Louisa sighed in her sleep and snuggled closer, burrowing into his chest and nestling her head against his shoulder. He sighed himself, contentedly, and then glanced past her to the video monitor on the bedside table to reassure himself that James too was still sleeping soundly in his nursery across the hall. It was cozy and peaceful and he was glad it was Sunday and he had no reason to get up just because the clock said it was morning.
If you had told him a year ago, when he was still reeling from their mutual jilting, that today he and Louisa would be living together, sharing a house, a bed, and even a pair of pajamas, he would have immediately ordered a neurological exam to rule out psychosis. But here they were, with James Henry to boot, building a life together in Portwenn. And happy. Happier than he had ever known he could be. The people of Portwenn still irritated and exasperated him on a daily basis, and he was still in a kind of mourning for his surgical career. But on balance, living here with Louisa and James had its own rewards that in fact did make him happy.
He pulled the duvet more tightly around them, like their own personal cocoon holding in their warmth and their love and keeping the world at bay. Before Louisa, bed had been a place for necessary rest and sometimes for tortured dreams, but not a source of comfort. A place to leave upon waking and retire to only when exhaustion overcame him. Now it was a refuge, a place for them to just BE – together, away from his patients and her students and the well-meaning, if often annoying villagers and even from their son on occasion. He counted it among the many improvements in his life over the last few months.
When Louisa had first moved in after James's birth, just being together in the same house, the same bed had been enough for him. Of course he had desired her, but in her sleep-deprived post-partum state, he had insisted on keeping his distance. It was only right after all. And he'd managed to do so as long as he was awake.
But all his good intentions had flown out the window in his sleep. However much he had tried to ignore his reaction to having her so tantalizingly close after yearning for her in the long months of their separation, he simply couldn't. Even after drawing childish imaginary lines in the duvet and wearing his buttoned-up pajamas like a suit of armor and intentionally NOT touching her even innocuously, his conscious self couldn't keep his sleeping self from wrapping his arms around her, touching her smooth and silky skin, inhaling her scent, stroking her hair. Morning after morning he had awakened to find himself holding her, touching her, chagrined at his inability to live up to his expectations of himself and embarrassed at the reaction of his body to hers. He could do nothing but mutter good morning and then skedaddle to the lavatory for a cold shower and more self-recrimination.
Just remembering it made him shudder. He couldn't express how relieved he was that this period was over. Now, he knew for certain that he was invited, even expected, to touch her, to hold her, to reach for her in the night and to have her reach for him. Louisa had made him feel welcome in his own bed. He thought about last night and how they had come to be sharing a single pair of pajamas and he softly kissed the top of her head, reveling in the memory and grateful for the ease that had crept into their relationship.
It hadn't happened overnight. The first time they made love after James Henry's birth things had not gone to plan, which had upset them both. The Saturday night before the Louisa had gone back to work, before she'd become fed up and left him again, he had been caught completely off-guard when she'd emerged from the lavatory wearing a lacy nightdress he vaguely remembered from the time of their engagement. With her wider hips and rounder breasts, the effect was even more lascivious than before, and his mouth had gone dry at the sight. She had very determinedly kissed him and pulled him to the bed, making her intentions known in no uncertain terms.
He'd raised at least a token resistance, asking if she were sure, reminding her that he was more than willing to wait until she was ready. He hadn't recognized it at the time, but in hindsight it was clear that she had been hell bent on proving, to herself as much as to him, that she was healed and whole and back to normal, something he hadn't realized she was unsure about. It hadn't taken much persuading for him to set aside his doubts and join her in bed.
At first it had been wonderful. She had set a fevered, almost frantic pace in their foreplay and he had been more than willing to follow her lead. As he stroked her body, he had managed to palpate her abdomen sufficiently to reassure himself that her uterus had returned to its normal size and place. Relieved to know that making love was not contraindicated by her condition, he had responded enthusiastically, giving in to his instinct to bring her pleasure and satisfaction, mindful of doing so without causing her any discomfort.
But then her whole body had grown tense and she'd begun to cry. Flummoxed, he'd immediately retreated. What's wrong, he'd wondered, through the lust that fogged his brain? He'd stopped, of course, worried she'd changed her mind, or worse, that he'd done something wrong. It had taken fortitude but he'd stopped.
She'd finally admitted, haltingly, that she was frightened and that she was frustrated at her own body's response, or indeed lack of response, to his attentions. Things didn't feel the way they used to.
His mind raced. Was she still not healed? Had she suffered nerve damage in her pelvic region during delivery? Were her breasts too sore from nursing for even his gentle ministrations? Or was it mental? Was she just too tense to enjoy herself?
He gallantly had suggested they wait and try again in the future but she was insistent that they continue. He had wiped her tears and kissed her again, then turned his attentions to her back to see if he could help her relax.
He'd nibbled her earlobes, pushed away her hair to kiss the nape of her neck, and then with fingers and lips and tongue laid a path down the length of her spine, ending at the small of her back. When she'd cried his name -in that way that made him weak with desire, with its hard Cornish R- he'd turned her over to capture her delicious mouth with his own. "Martin, my lover," she'd cried as he kissed her neck, her collar-bone, the valley between her breasts, her navel, and eventually the sensitive skin on the insides of her thighs. He felt an overwhelming sense of relief that he could once again make her writhe with desire, clutching the sheets and calling his name.
When the critical moment came, when they both seemed consumed with need and he'd managed the condom and she'd looked into his eyes and pleaded with him not to stop, he had moved slowly, scanning her face for any sign she was in distress. With every indication that he was not hurting her, he had breathed a sigh of relief and had at last allowed himself to enjoy the pleasurable sensations pulsing through him. Suddenly Louisa had cried out and before he could decipher whether it was from ecstasy or pain, the baby had begun to wail.
Immediately they had sprung apart, still coated in a thin veil of perspiration and breathing heavily from their exertions. She went immediately to the cot and cuddled their crying son against her still-naked body. She brought James back to the bed and arranged the pillows so she could feed him, cooing to him that he was alright, that he was a sweet baby. Without a word, Martin had wrapped his pajama top around her, a more serviceable covering than her discarded lace nightdress, and had taken himself off to the lavatory for yet another cold shower.
It was not until a week after the kidnapping that they'd tried again. The first night they had been more shaken by the events of the day than either of them cared to admit. Neither had been keen on letting James Henry out of their sight and they had spent that night huddled together in the bed at Louisa's cottage watching the baby sleep and reassuring themselves that he would suffer no ill consequences from his adventure.
It took a several nights together back in this room, kissing and caressing each other but not going any further, for both of them to admit they were uncomfortable making love with the baby sleeping in his cot right next to them, particularly after he had so inconveniently interrupted their last attempt. Armed with that knowledge, Martin had led her the next night to the little spare room across the hall and made love to her on the narrow bed that he hadn't used since his parents' visit. It was a joy and a relief to re-consummate their relationship in a mutually agreeable fashion. The very next day, Louisa had busied herself organizing the spare room as James Henry's nursery, an arrangement that they both now admitted served them well.
Martin heard the church bells begin to ring and he looked again at the clock and the monitor on the bedside table. Bravo, James, he thought to himself. Sleeping in until 0800 was a big milestone for a newborn – a whole eight hours since they'd been up with him. He stroked Louisa's back and thought about the neighbors who would be rushing about preparing to go to church, to spend an hour in that sacred space. As a man of science, religion scarcely made an impression on him beyond the rituals of social necessity - it hadn't for years. But as he thought about how he felt in this moment, in this time and place, he felt gratitude for whatever cosmic force had brought him here. Whether it was God or fate or Chris Parsons, he was thankful he had found this sanctuary.