A/N: In honor of Penelope Wilton's 70th birthday, it occurred to me to attempt to write a Richobel piece centered around Isobel's birthday. As with most things I write, I began with an idea and it veered dramatically off my original course, but what that means is that this will be a two-shot culminating in the celebration of Isobel's birthday. Rating might increase to a T with the second chapter, but this will not venture into full-on M.

This is the first Richobel piece I've written that is not centered in the universe I built for them in Worthy and True. It's still set in S4, but this is a new exploration of how they may have come together, Julian Fellowes notwithstanding.

Also as with nearly everything I write, this was influenced heavily by song lyrics/titles. If it matters, No More Waiting On Forever is courtesy of the song "Now Or Never" by The Willis Clan. The title of this chapter was taken from "Nothing I Can Do" by Ben Taylor, son of James.

Hope you enjoy and please drop me a line or two by way of review!

xx,

~ejb~


1. Nothing I'd Rather Do

Kissing her was a risk, but one he had calculated for so long by the time he did it that he knew there was nothing to lose but a moment's dignity. In the end it was not the occasion he had always thought it would be, but instead a rather ordinary incident turned momentous. After helping her into her coat one evening as they prepared to leave the hospital, he took her hand in his when she pulled her gloves from her pockets. He pressed his lips to the back of her hand in thanks for her support throughout what had been a long and busy day. She blushed prettily and when she turned to pull away from his grasp he gave her hand a gentle tug, pulling her back in until she stood just a hair's breadth from him. He knew he would never forget the way she stared at his lips, her face impassive but for the rapid half-blinks and the corner of her mouth that quirked infinitesimally.

"Yes," she breathed, an exhale he felt rather than heard. And then his mouth was on hers, just a brush of lips, her fingertips pressing against her own when they parted.

She blinked at him again. "Did you mean that?"

He cocked his head ever so slightly. "Did you?"

"I asked you first!" she huffed, folding her arms across her chest.

"I have wanted that since 1912," he responded.

"As have I," she muttered, blushing to the roots of her hair.

"Beg pardon?"

Her mouth dropped open. He'd heard her and she knew it. He was trying to get her ire up now.

She looked him straight in the eye. "I said, as have I."

And then she kissed him, clutching his lapels and parting her lips just slightly, willing him to do the same. She mewled into his mouth when he did, and at the sound he drew her into the circle of his arms, the palm of one hand resting in the small of her back and the other between her shoulder blades. Her arms wound themselves around his neck, the pad of her thumb running over the short hairs at his nape, and she felt a long-dormant part of herself come alive once again. For twenty years she had been a widow, carrying the name of her late husband with no husband to show for it. A nurse, a mother. But a woman? She had ceased to feel like a woman the day she buried Reginald, and now …

Now she found herself in the arms of a man again, and not just those of any man, but of her friend, her confidant, the only man who had caught her eye in all the years of her solitude. And it felt good; it felt right. It felt like … she chuckled there, in his arms, her cheeks flushing once more. It felt like love.

"What is it?" he asked in a half-whisper. One hand moved to her hip and his thumb absently traced circles there.

"I don't do things like this. I haven't … I was never going to …" She fumbled for words, glancing at the floorboards with a sudden fascination.

"Isobel." He said it so gently. Just her name, and then his hand came up to cup her chin, lifting her eyes to meet his. She looked into their crystalline depths and knew for certain that love was what she felt.

"I haven't kissed a man since Reginald. I'd assumed that was all dead and buried along with him. But I … you … this …" Oh, but she was making a mad fool of herself! She who never had been caught short of words suddenly found herself incapable of stringing a coherent sentence together in the presence of - in the arms of - Richard Clarkson.

"Ah, but it was I who kissed you," he replied, his eyes twinkling. He knew she was nervous, and he was determined to make her feel at ease with this newborn something between them.

"And why? Why did you kiss me, Richard? I know you; there is not an impulsive bone in your body. This is something you've considered, likely for a long while. I—"

"Isobel," he interrupted, taking her hands in his, twining their fingers together. "I kissed you because I love you."

She stood there blinking at him for a long moment. "I know," she replied. "I have known. A man doesn't generally care for a woman who isn't his blood the way you've cared for me … unless he is in love. But why now, if it's as you say and you've wanted … more … for such a very long time?"

He cradled her face in his hand then, and she leaned into his touch. Oh, how long, how very long indeed, had she dreamt of this, and now that it was happening she was nearly breathless with expectation.

"You weren't ready then," he said simply, as if it were the most natural conclusion in all the world. "You may have thought you were, but your heart wasn't your own to give."

She nodded into his palm before placing a kiss to the center of it. "I was Matthew's mother; of course I was still holding on to my identity as Reginald's wife."

"And now?" He knew, or he'd never have kissed her. But he needed her to know, to hear her acknowledge what was true, before taking another step forward.

She sighed then. She supposed that this was part of her new normal; that now that her son was dead even her most joyous moments would forever be singed around the edges with sorrow. But she knew that if he were here, Matthew would have been the first to lend his support to this … this. Whatever it was about to become. "Now?" she echoed. "He's gone, Richard. They both are, and what have I to lose? I could live another thirty years and …" She trailed off, realizing that what she'd been about to say could be regarded as putting the cart before the horse.

"Isobel, you've never been one to censor yourself. Why begin now? Whatever you were going to say, it's me. It's only the two of us here, and I'm made of stern stuff."

His words - It's only the two of us here - reminded her of the lateness of the hour. "It's dark, and I should be off home," she said by way of deflection.

"I'll walk you," he replied, and she gave up the pretense of protest. It was time to move forward, to feel again. To cease denying herself happiness when there existed no prohibition of such.

"Thank you," she conceded with a tiny half-smile. She let go of his hands and he passed her gloves to her, watching with fascination as she put them on. He marveled at her hands, so finely manicured and delicate in appearance, yet stronger than his own in many ways. He had watched those hands remove shrapnel from young soldiers' battle wounds and suture deep incisions. Hers had been the hands that had thrust into his the vial full of adrenaline that saved John Drake's life. And that was the precise moment he had fallen in love with her.

She caught him staring and wondered what on earth was so interesting about her hands. She cleared her throat and he looked up, his face reddening. She had the good grace to say nothing and he smiled gratefully.

"Ready, then?" She nodded and he offered his arm, and when she accepted he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow.

They were quiet for a time as they walked along, a sort of companionable silence between two people who had long since given up hoping for the very thing that was now stirring to life like embers slowly fanned to flame. They listened to the cadence of two sets of footsteps. He felt the brush of her elbow against the side of his rib cage and she noted the warmth radiating from him, through his coat and hers and her gloves and suffusing into the tips of her fingers until they tingled.

It was he who spoke at last, breaking them both out of their reverie. "You didn't finish your thought back in the office." She shook her head. She should have known he'd not let it rest. He saw it and continued before she had a chance to speak. "I know what I feel, what we both feel. But you need to be certain, Isobel."

She halted him with a press of her hand against his elbow. As she looked at him, backlit by the moonlight so that his silvery-blond hair fairly glowed, his eyes spoke to her of total acceptance, security and utmost respect. "I was going to say that I could live another thirty years and I don't want to be alone. You have been the constant, the only sure thing in my life since I lost Matthew and when I think about the future, I see you in it. I know the name for the condition with which I am beset." At this they both smiled and his arm went around her waist. "I love you, Richard."

This time it was she who slipped her gloved hand along his cheek and drew him closer, pressing her lips to his. His hands held her hips and he latched onto her bottom lip, nibbling lightly. She sighed into his mouth, her heart beginning to race at the feeling of being this close to him, the object of his affection. The tip of her tongue darted out to trace his upper lip and he groaned, his lips parting to grant her access. He held perfectly still, fully focused on the sensation of being kissed by her after so many years of longing for this very moment. Her lips were soft, so soft, and she tasted of vanilla and bergamot and something sweet that he couldn't place, something he concluded in short order was utterly Isobel.

They only broke apart when he realized she was trembling, and as his lips left hers she moaned in protest. "Whyever did you stop?" She regarded him with slight indignation.

He laughed heartily, drawing her against him. "Darling, don't you know you're shivering? We must get you home."

She shook her head, reveling in his embrace. "I'm not cold. I'm … giddy, I think." And as she looked up at him he found her simply adorable.

"Nevertheless, if I'm to court you properly then I must see you home at a respectable hour and make certain you don't catch a chill."

An expression of amusement passed across her face. "And is that what we're undertaking? A proper courtship?" She linked her arm through his again and they walked on.

"It is if you wish it," he answered. "Of course, I'd like it to be more in time, but we must begin somewhere."

"Indeed we must." His words echoed in her mind. I'd like it to be more in time. They became the beat to which her footfalls kept time. I'd-like-it-to-be-more-in-time, I'd-like-it-to-be-more-in-time. She couldn't hide the smile as they approached Crawley House. Oh, Richard, she thought, as would I. What she said to him was, "You know I've kept after myself for twenty years without incident."

He raised an eyebrow at her. If she was going to tease, then he would give it right back. "Without incident, you say?"

She rolled her eyes at him, jabbing him playfully in the ribs with her elbow. "Perhaps I lead with my heart a bit too often, but I've managed."

They had arrived at her doorstep, and as they lingered she drew close to him again, pressing her palms against his chest.

"I'd say you've done a fair bit better than manage," he said in earnest. "But you needn't any longer if you don't wish it. I'd rather enjoy keeping after you. Trying to, at any rate." He held her at the waist and swayed them gently.

"I'd like that, too," she replied, looking up at him from beneath her lashes. "I don't want to say good night, you know."

"Neither do I, but we've the day off tomorrow. Come with me to York. I've got to call in at the Royal Yorkshire but afterward we could spend the day, browse the shops. Anything you like."

Her stomach flipped giddily at the notion of making plans to see him as his … his what, precisely? What was the term for one who was no longer a mother, who was ready at long last to shed the mantle of widowhood and to embrace the sweet surprise of finding love again at an age when most women resign to existing as but shadows of their younger selves?

He watched her consider this with a curious expression on her face. "Isobel," he said by way of bringing her focus back to the present.

"Hmm? Oh, sorry … Yes, of course I'll come along to York tomorrow! Thank you for asking. Only I was wondering … What am I to you? As it pertains to you and I and … us, I should say."

He grinned, then regarded her with full solemnity and sincerity. "You are my Isobel." It was as simple and as complex as that, and it was the perfect answer. For a long moment she simply smiled at him, allowing herself to be held, beginning to think she could grow accustomed to the feeling of a man's arms around her again.

"I love you," she said at last. He opened the door and she stepped inside, but he took her by the hand and turned her to face him once more.

"And I, you. Good night, Isobel. Sleep well, my love." He raised a hand to the back of her neck and kissed her tenderly.

"And you," she answered, kissing her fingertips and pressing them to his lips. He kissed them, and the back of her hand, and with a wave he closed the door.

She leaned against it with her eyes closed, smiling as she recalled each moment of revelation that had passed between them this evening. Her heart was once again her own to give, and as she reflected upon kissing him she knew that at the precise moment his lips first touched hers, she had transferred in full the ownership of her heart to him. For good.