A/N: Hello, lovely readers! I have missed you. Life is ... a lot, recently. Summertime, kids around, big changes on the horizon. My time has not been my own since June 3rd. Sure, I've published bits here and there since then, but I've not had the hours of writing time several days a week to which I'd grown accustomed.

This is a fic I've been working on for the better part of a month. It was inspired by a migraine headache, of all things, that took me out of commission for several days. A few months ago I wrote a Chelsie piece for the "In Sickness" Tumblr prompt and since then I've been pondering how Richobel would handle an illness, being the medically-minded folk they are. Having a sister who is a nurse working in pediatric oncology, I know that in her experience sick kids are one thing when they are her patients ... there is protocol; this drug treats that cancer, and there are antibiotics for pneumonia and transfusions for sickle cell. But it's quite another when one of her boys is ill. We have had many conversations in which she, with an RN and nearly 10 years' experience in the field, is every bit as much the paranoid mama as I am.

So I've taken that premise and applied it to Richobel. Ultimately this is an angsty-fluffy exploration ... no characters were harmed in the writing of this fic. It was going to be one long piece, but I've taken a liking to shorter multi-chapter works lately. And if I'm honest, I'm just really itching to get something off the shelf and published. So this will (hopefully) all be wrapped within a week's time, because I've got a Chelsie piece to finish and Brief Encounters bits that keep popping into my head.

Title was inspired by the Natalie Merchant song that wouldn't leave me alone once I started contemplating how Richard sees Isobel. Chapter titles are also taken from song lyrics; this one is from Howie Day's song "Collide."

Rating starts out low and will climb. We're headed for NSFW territory in a couple of chapters, folks. Fasten your seatbelts. ;)

As always, a word or two in review would set me up forever.

xx,

~ejb~

He has been watching her all day. She would laugh if he told her so. "Of course you have," she'd say. "Whenever don't you?" And she'd be correct; for years now she has been in his eyes, subtly and from afar at first, and with less discretion now that she is his wife. He makes no apologies for it and she makes only a cursory pretense of it upsetting her. The fact is she can feel his eyes on her. She always has done, and it gives her life.

But not today. There is something not quite right about her, though she'd be horrified if she knew he'd noticed. All day she has made the rounds, going from bed to bed and checking patients' vitals, chatting to them about how they are feeling and gracing them all with her calming, assured presence. She has inventoried supplies and verified with her nurses that their charts are current, and to all appearances it seems a typical day in the life of Nurse Isobel Clarkson.

The signs are subtle, so that unless one has made a careful study of her they'd miss them. But he had seen it … the way she'd hung onto the doorframe after she and a junior nurse transferred a patient from the wheelchair to his bed, the way her fingers kneaded the back of her neck as she stood reviewing charts.

It is at the end of their shift, when he walks into their office to find her sat at her desk reviewing paperwork in the fading light of evening, that he can no longer deny she is unwell. He switches on the light and she cries out as if pained.

"No, Richard, shut it off! Please!"

He does so and comes to her side, dropping to his knees. He takes her hand in his, feeling for her radial pulse, which is a bit too rapid for his liking. Pressing his palm to her forehead, he finds her skin clammy, and when he lifts her chin to look into her eyes, he can see dark smudges beneath them.

"Isobel, what is it? Is it your head, love?"

She nods minutely, wincing in discomfort.

"How long?" he asks. She glances at him uncomfortably. "Isobel, I said, how long?"

"Since this morning," she replies quietly.

"This morning?!" he roars, and his volume makes her grimace. Lowering his voice, he continues on. "Fool woman, why didn't you tell me? Have you taken anything?"

She gives another tiny nod. "I took a powder before we left the house, and another just after luncheon. And I didn't tell you because you'd have insisted I stay in bed, and I know how shorthanded we are. Oh, Richard, please don't let's argue. I'm afraid I haven't the strength."

That gets his attention, and he looks her over carefully. "Your vision … is it obscured?"

"Yes, it's as if there's something in my eyes and I can't blink it away."

"I see. And you're quite reactive to both light and sound."

"Yes, and love, please don't take this the wrong way but if you'd be so good as to talk a bit … less … It's all rather much at the moment."

He smiles ironically, knowing that she must be in absolute agony for his words to be grating on her. "It's a good job I love you so or I might take offense at that," he teases lightly.

"Richard," she says sadly, leaning forward to press a kiss to the center of his palm and then resting her cheek in it. "I love you. I'm sorry I didn't say I was unwell this morning but you know how I hate to let you down."

"Darling," he whispers out of consideration for her head, "you could never let me down. Not ever. I'm going to go for the car, because you're in no condition to walk home." He rises and goes to the cot in the back corner of the office, turning back the covers. "And I want you to lie here until I return." He helps her to her feet and maneuvers her to sit down on the cot, removing her shoes. Cradling her head in the crook of his arm, he eases her back until she lies down and then pulls the covers up over her. He goes to the sink and comes back with a cold cloth, wiping her face with it before folding it in thirds and laying it across her forehead.

"Is there anything else I can get you before I go?" he asks gently, crouching down next to her and pressing his lips to her temple.

"Is there a clean basin about?" She blinks up at him painfully. "I'm sorry … my stomach …"

He presses a finger to her lips. "Shh … of course." He rummages through the supply closet until he finds one, placing it on the floor beside her. "I shan't be more than twenty minutes, love. You lie still and rest."

She lies in the dark, silent room as her stomach churns and pulses of blue and silver light sizzle behind her eyelids in time with the beating of her heart. One moment she is chilled to the bone and the next she feels as if she's burning up, and when she sits up to kick off the covers the world seems to tilt on its side. She grabs the basin just in time and retches until she can no longer stay upright. As she falls back onto the thin mattress, tears spill from her eyes unbidden and she prays for relief, caring not at the moment what form it takes.

It is in this state that Richard discovers her upon his return, and turned away from him as she is he can't be certain whether she is conscious until he hears her tiny, plaintive sobs.