And Forgive Us Our Trespasses

Rated: K+
Pairings: Clarkson/Isobel
Disclaimer: It could not be less mine. Julian Fellowes wrote Downton Abbey, which is produced by Carnival Films for ITV Network.
Spoiler: Contains spoilers for Season 3 Episode 5.
Summary: Why Isobel only came to the house the next day.
Genre: hurt/comfort, romance

A/N: This is my first real attempt at writing Richard/Isobel, but the scene just begged to be written. It's going to be a two-shot.

For Lavenderandhay, the captain of the Fleet.

They´d offered him the car to take him home, but he had declined, feeling intuitively that the confines of such a small space would only increase how suffocated he was already feeling. Instead he opted to walk, but as the white-brick cottage near the hospital where he'd been living in for the past twenty years came in view, the aching numbness of what had transpired that night washed over him and settled deep in the pit of his stomach. His heart felt too big and too painful for his chest, his throat was raw and his eyes were burning with unshed tears.

It was such a loss. Such a pointless, needless loss. Such a waste of a young life, of a beautiful woman.

He himself was so lost in his feelings of grief and hurt that it wasn't until he had stepped inside the cottage and taken of his coat and hat that he realized things were out of order.
The door hadn't been locked. There was a noise coming from the sitting room and its door was slightly ajar, a soft light spilling out into the hallway.

He couldn't phantom that he was to be burgled at a time like this and the devastation of everything that had happened left little room in his head to worry about anything else. So without feeling or thinking much, he opened the door further and stepped inside, only to freeze in his tracks and stare with an open mouth at the sight that greeted him.

Isobel Crawley sitting at his kitchen table, wearing one of her plum-red dresses, her hair pulled back in a hastily secured, low bun, her tightly folded hands resting on the surface of the table. At his entering the room, her looking up sharply was the only movement she made.

It was a surreal sight. And so very, very welcome that he couldn't find the words to express this sentiment to her, nor did he think he ever would.

She offered him a small, sad smile, mirroring all the pain and grief he was feeling in her brown eyes, before rising to her feet and making her way across the room towards him, never taking her eyes of him. Without saying a word, she took hold of his hand and gently tugged him into the direction of his fauteuil.

He sat down heavily and just then the sheer misery, the heartbreak and the injustice of it all washed over him like a tidal wave, unstoppable and unavoidable. He buried his face in his hands and let out a choked, shuddering breath.

Her arms were around him instantly, one arm around his shoulder, the other hand sliding down his arm, her fingers closing softly around his wrist. He felt her chest press against his back as if she was shielding him with her body and he realized she must be sitting on the armrest of the chair to be able to enfold him so completely.

"Oh Richard…"

It were the first words spoken between them and they broke the dam, his voice finally finding the words to articulate all his frustration, anger and sadness .

"They wouldn't listen to reason…" His voice was hoarse with pend up fury. "Or at least Lord Grantham wouldn't… That damn Tapsell and his ways… He knew, he knew things weren't right with Lady Sybil and he ignored all the signs."

He took another breath, too choked up for a minute before he continued in a voice barely audible. "She was in agony… during the birth and then later. It all happened so soon… She choked to death, that poor, sweet girl and there was nothing I could do anymore. I couldn't even stand to watch it… I was so bloody useless to her."

One of her hands was stroking through his hair, tenderly, placating and he leant into her touch.

"I should have tried harder…" He went on tonelessly. "I should have made them listen. I knew in my heart beyond the shadow of any doubt that my diagnosis was right." He felt her grip him harder, but he pushed on. "I knew in how much danger she was. I should have tried…"

He was sobbing down, blindly twisting in his seat, trying to get closer to her, trying to drawn every bit of strength from her that she was offering him. He buried his face in the arc between her neck and her shoulder as she wrapped her arms around his head and back and held him as he wept.

He cried until he was spend and then couldn't muster the strength to move away from her. Her hand had resumed to stroke his hair and for a few seconds he tried to block out everything else and just concentrate on her. On her scent, on her warmth, on her arms.

Then she spoke again, her voice quiet and clear and deathly serious. "You are not to blame, Richard. You have fought for that girl with everything you had… Matthew told me so himself when he telephoned me. There is very little point in pointing the blame at anyone in any case, but it most certainly wasn't you."

He pulled back a little to be able to look into her eyes, really looking at her for the first time that evening. "Matthew knew what was going on," He told her softly. "Probably before anyone else did. Branson was devastated… I've never seen anyone so stricken with grief. And then that wee baby started crying…"

"Oh God…" She clamped her hand over mouth, her face contorting in grief and he wrapped his arms around her waist and back, pulling her close against him again, him now holding her as she cried.

"It's Sybil…" She hiccupped into his hair. "How can it be Sybil?"

They stayed like this until dawn broke. Nothing else was said between them, they simply stayed in their embrace. When her tears had stopped she rested her head on top of his, continuing to hold him as he drifted off into a fitful slumber.
She couldn't sleep, she couldn't even bear to close her eyes. She just sat there, still as a statue, clinging his head to her chest and quietly marvelling how in the midst of so much agony it could feel so right to be with him like this again.

Although it was so different from the way they had started out. The burning attraction between them when they had first met, eventually escalating into that passionate, frantic first encounter in his office at the hospital. She still blushed when she remembered it. How age and maturity hadn't made her any wiser at all. From there on their affair had continued. Allowing her eyes to drift across the room, she smiled wistfully. Once this cottage had felt like her home, more so than Crawley House ever did. For some reason they always came here and she wouldn't have had it any other way. Here she'd been Isobel as opposed to everywhere else in Downton where she was 'Mrs Crawley, the mother of the future Lord Grantham.' She had loved him then and he had made her so very happy.

But then the war had happened and their world, her world had been uprooted in ways she could never had imagined. Once the first wounded soldiers had returned from France there had been so much to do that they had slowly drifted apart. They had never officially called it off, their times together just became more and more infrequent until they eventually stopped alltogether.
But if she was completely fair she knew she was mostly to blame. When Matthew had gone off to fight she'd been so very afraid to lose him. So much that she hadn't allowed herself to feel or think much anymore. In the end she had ceased to feel more or less anything at all. Instead she had kept herself as busy as she possibly could. Doing things, being useful, fighting for some cause or another… anything to distract her from the all-consuming worry of the welfare of her only son.

She had pushed him out and eventually she had distanced herself. From him, from the hospital and even from her own family. And once the war was over she found that she couldn't go back.

Until this night. Until Matthew called with the devastating news of Sybil's passing. Until the few words he spoke.
"Clarkson had been warning us all along, but Robert paid him no mind. It all hit him hard as well."

Her mind had been made up the instant her son's words had sunken in.

Richard was waking up. He was shifting slightly against her and she lessened her hold on him somewhat as she watched the emotions play across his face. His brow frowned quizzically as he took her and his surroundings in and just as a sleepy smile started across his lips, his eyes clouded with the memories of the night before. He smiled at her nevertheless, although it was heavily tinged with sadness.

"I've been meaning to ask, how did you even get in here last night?" he asked, sitting up more straight.

Distracted and unnerved by the loss of feeling him in her arms, she looked at the floor and mumbled a little embarrassed. "You still keep your key underneath that potted geranium."

They shared a tiny smile, filled with all the memories between them, everything that had been once. He observed her closely for a few moments before asking his next question. "Wouldn't you have rather gone to the house to be with your family?"

She finally lifted her eyes, looking at him with an almost painful honesty. "No. I wanted to be with you."

He reached down to intertwine his fingers with hers. "I'm glad."

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