Another post series three oneshot.
He found her wrapped up in the covers of their bed, only the bedside lamp still lit, her glasses perched gently on her nose and a book in her lap.
"I thought you were never going to come back," she told him, not accusingly, only a little pointedly, her eyes not leaving her book as he hurried changed out of his clothes and into his pyjamas.
He got into bed beside her, drawing the covers over himself and kissing her temple softly, careful not to dislodge her glasses.
"Sorry," he replied, "I thought I was never going to come back either."
"Was it Mr. Jamieson?" she asked him.
He nodded.
"He wouldn't settle down," he replied, settling his head down on her arm, "But I gave him some more painkillers and I think he'll be alright."
They were quiet for a moment, him finally calming down, her presence and warmth soothing him so that his breathing slowed down and his body began to relax properly.
"What are you reading?" he asked.
Her hand, that had been resting at her side, bent upwards at the elbow so that her hand curled around, weaving her fingers gently into her husband's hair, caressing his head gently.
"Wuthering Heights," she told him.
He smiled.
"Which bit?"
For the first time, her eyes left her book for a moment, and looked sideways at his face. She saw that he was in earnest, waiting to hear, and read to him;
"'It is hard to forgive, and to look at those eyes, and to feel those wasted hands,' he answered. 'Kiss me again; and don't let me see your eyes! I forgive what you have done to me.'"
His hand rested gently on her stomach as her voice undulated softly, soothing him, and he brushed his hand so very carefully back and forth over the blanket over her skin.
She read on.
"'I love my murderer- but yours! How can I?'"
"Don't stop," he told her.
"It's difficult to concentrate," she pointed out, indicating his hand, "With you doing that all of the time."
He grinned at her rather impishly.
"Sorry," he told her.
"No you're not."
"Alright, I'm not. Will you go on?"
"I haven't chosen a very cheerful part. Aren't you finding it morbid?"
"No," he replied, "Not really. I just like to listen to your voice."
He say her smile a little, and his hand squeezed a little where it rested on her middle.
"Go on," he coaxed her gently, "Read some more."
"' They were silent- their faces hid against each other, and washed by each other's tears.' Richard," she broke off, and her voice seemed to waver a little more, "This is reminding me of us."
"Oh, darling," he murmured gently, "I'm sorry," he told her, kissing her face, brushing the sides of her body carefully, "I should have thought."
"It's alright," she replied, "Not all of it is. Just that sentence. That's what it felt like, when we were first together."
And it had been, he reflected. She had been weak and delicate, as much as it was possible for her to be, grieving for her darling son. Compared to most people her strength was super-human. But her tears had washed his face, he thought. That was exactly how it had been. They had hidden their faces against each other, and out of that had been born their first tender, trembling kisses. And she had asked him to make love to her, and he had hesitated, but assented; because love in their case was only waiting to be allowed, it had been made through years of looks and brief touches.
All he could do was murmur again, "Darling, I'm sorry."
Her hand brushed gently against his hair again.
"It's alright," she told him, "Richard, it's alright. Don't worry."
"I haven't upset you?"
"No," she replied, turning her head and kissing his hairline, "Far from it."
Gently, his hands moved over hers and took the book from her, flicking over the next few pages. His head rested properly on her shoulder now, and he could feel her breath on his forehead as she looked down to see where he was reading from.
"There's a line that reminds me of you too," he told her, "I want to find it."
He turned the next few pages.
"Yes," he announced, "Here it is."
She strained a little so she could read what it said.
"Richard," she murmured softly, seeing where his thumb lingered on the page.
"I cannot live without my life," he read in a low voice, "I cannot live without my soul."
Her other hand came from the other side of her body to touch his face gently, holding him to her, sinking a little down her pillow so that her face was beside his, and she could look into his eyes.
"I love you so much," she told him.
"I love you too," he told her, unnecessarily.
"How do you do this?" she asked, "I start off cross that it's ten at night before you come home, and we end up like this. Every time."
"Like what?" he asked feigning innocence.
She gave him a very level look and then, when he did not rise to it, took his hand in hers, and raised it to rest on the area above the bedclothes, over her thin nightdress, where could feel her heart hammering in her chest. Their foreheads rested together as they both looked down at his hand resting just between her breasts.
"My life," she whispered, "My soul."
"Isobel," he murmured, "Can I take your glasses off and kiss you properly?"
She smiled at him.
"Of course you can."
He sat up a little, closing the book and putting it on the bedside table, gently removing her glasses and resting them on top of it. He sank back down to her, drawing her into his arms and kissing her soundly.
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