A/N: Part I of a birthday fic for EllieRoberts. I've never quite written anything like this before! I was aiming for fluffy cuteness and this happened instead, but I don't believe the birthday girl will mind. ;)

In two parts because I've already made her wait long enough and I owe her at least a piece of cake at this point. I considered all the elements: her status as a stressed-out uni student always under a looming deadline, her ability to write conflict between our babies in a believable way, our differing styles (hopefully I've landed somewhere between hers and mine) ... and a request of hers that will be fulfilled in Part II. Wink, wink.

As always, thank you to all of you who faithfully support my writing. I hear that reviews are back up, so if you leave me one I promise to respond forthwith!

xx,

~ejb~

Say, my love, I came to you with best intentions
You lay down and give to me just what I'm seeking
Say love, you drive me to distraction
-Dave Matthews Band - "Two Step"

oOo

Richard Clarkson was in a quandary. While he was no longer employed by Downton Cottage Hospital, it wasn't as if retirement meant no continued involvement for him in the field of medicine. In fact, he was currently operating under a deadline, attempting to complete a journal article on pulmonary tuberculosis in the elderly by the submission date. He had compiled decades' worth of research to support his argument - that the symptoms of tuberculosis in older individuals often manifested in mild and commonplace discomforts when compared to the acute onset of the disease in younger populations, thereby making the elderly unrecognized carriers of infection. His difficulty finishing the piece was not due to a lack of credible information or to the weakness of his argument. No, indeed, his was a problem of focus; more specifically, the lack thereof.

It had begun that morning. He'd awoken before his wife, late enough that the sun was up but still early enough that she wouldn't stir for at least another hour. He'd crept quietly downstairs to make a small pot of coffee - not much; he'd make it fresh again for her later, as she abhorred the taste of it after it had sat on the burner. He'd fetched his notepad and some reference material from his desk before returning to bed to read and jot down any pertinent thoughts.

It had all gone quite well for some time. The bed was delightfully warm, the coffee hot and strengthy, the research providing pivotal support to a critical point in his argument. He'd made satisfying progress and could easily see himself walking the article to the post before the day was through.

That was until she turned over. She had been sleeping with her back toward him, but as it neared 8 o'clock she began to rouse and rolled onto her back with her left arm outstretched. It was as if she needed the security of some part of her body touching him, because when the back of her hand came into contact with his chest a contented sigh emitted from her lips.

The cool metal of her wedding ring brushed against his nipple, sending a jolt of electricity straight to the base of his spine. He put down his papers and turned to look at her and his breath caught at the vision she presented. Her long, golden-brown hair was fanned out in wild waves across her pillow, her dark lashes impossibly long against her cheeks. The white cotton nightdress she wore stood out in sharp contrast against the warm olive of her skin. Her lips betrayed the barest hint of a smile and suddenly all he could think of was taking her into his arms and kissing her beautiful mouth, ridding her of the nightdress and feeling every inch of her warm skin pressed against his.

This will not do, he chided himself. Yes, Isobel was lovely and yes, he would indulge those baser urges, but not until the article is off to the editorial department. But no sooner had he cemented his resolve than she awakened, arching her back off the bed in a manner that presented the tops of her breasts to him as she stretched. Then she opened her dark eyes, blinking sleepily at him and smiling in earnest.

"Good morning, sweetheart," she said, her voice husky.

She looked so pure, so warm and sweet and inviting, that he could not resist touching her.

"Good morning, beauty," he replied, gathering her against his chest. She kissed him right over his heart and he knew he was a man in trouble. "Did you sleep well?"

"I did, rather," she said brightly, looking up at him from beneath her lashes. Oh! Doesn't she know what that look does to me? he thought. "And you?" she asked. "Have you been up long?"

"Hour or so," he replied, fingering the shoulder strap of her nightdress. Oh, how easy it would be to slip it off, to roll her beneath him, to— "Did some work on the article … you know."

"Ah, yes!" She was genuinely enthusiastic about the assignment and it made his heart soar. "How is it coming along? You are going to let me read it before you send it off, I hope."

"If you wish," he demurred, still unaccustomed to having attention called to himself. "It's progressing well enough. I'd hoped to post it by the close of business today, but that's looking like less of a reality now." It came across in an aggravated manner and she frowned slightly.

"Whatever do you mean by that? We've nothing on today, Richard. Is it something I can help you with?"

Oh, heavens, no! The last thing I need is her so close all day, looking delectable and smelling sweet and— To her he said, "No, my love. Are you ready for coffee? I'll go fix it."

"Well, let me come down with you. I'll make breakfast. I've no grand plans myself for the day - Cora has George and Sybbie with her so I thought I would read, perhaps catch up on some correspondence. I'd love to help you in any way I can, you know."

At this he had to smile. That was his Isobel, so intent on being useful, on lessening the burden for others. What she didn't know, however - what she couldn't possibly guess, was that far from easing the burden of finishing his article, her presence was driving him to distraction.

"Oh, no, lovely, I'll be all right. I'm afraid I'll just need to seclude myself until I finish, that's all."

She was a bit put out by that remark, but she was nothing if not forgiving, overlooking the shortcomings of others almost to a fault in her zeal to see the good in all people. She bit back the retort that had been on the tip of her tongue and smiled at him as she retrieved eggs from the refrigerator. "Have you brought in the milk yet?" she asked him.

"No, it hadn't arrived when I came down earlier. I'll fetch it now if you like."

"Oh, no, no. You carry on with what you're doing. I'll just step out the door and get it." As she turned her back on him to walk toward the front door he was mesmerized by the sway of her hips, the shapeliness of her calves visible below the knee-length hem of her summer nightdress. He watched as she bent to pick up the milk bottle, admiring the curve of her bottom and imagining it filling his palms. When she turned toward him once more, the way she was backlit by the light streaming in through the glass in the door gave him a delightful view of the contours of her breasts beneath the thin cotton.

"Oh, heaven help us—" he muttered. This would not do at all. Never mind finishing the article, at this rate he was never even going to get the coffee made!

She looked at him quizzically. "Sorry, my darling, did you say something?" she asked, beginning to crack eggs into a mixing bowl.

He felt his cheeks flush and tossed off a quick, "Oh, you know, a watched pot. Or kettle, in this case."

"Oh, yes," she agreed with an accommodating smile. He returned to his task and she to hers and all was well until she began to twist her hair up out of the way, exposing the back of her neck to him.

If he stepped up behind her now, if he kissed her just there where her neck and shoulder met she would gasp in delight and tilt her head, granting him better access. He would grasp her hips and pull her back against him and—

No! Infectious disease, you damned fool man, remember? "Ah, Isobel, the coffee is ready. Would you mind bringing breakfast to me in my study?"

She spun around, regarding him curiously. As if the request itself weren't strange enough - they always took meals together - absent from it was his characteristic inclusion of an endearment of some sort: sweet girl, beautiful, my love.

"Richard, you really are in a right state over this article, aren't you?" she remarked, shaking her head.

"Hmm?" he replied, trying not to look in her direction, then, "Oh. Well, yes. Yes, I suppose I am."

"But why, darling? It's hardly the first you've written."

"No," he agreed, thinking quickly. "But it's the first since I've retired and I don't want to come across as if I'm past it." He prayed she'd be satisfied with that explanation. He should have known better. This was Isobel, after all, she of the unfailing determination to always have the last word.

"Not possible," she said. "Your research skills are unparalleled. And you're an eloquent writer. You'll do wonderfully." At this she stepped close, wrapping her arms around his waist. She swayed them both gently and smiled beautifully up at him and she was warm and sweet and—

And he had to get away from her. Immediately. Or he'd be in serious trouble.

"Thank you," he said. "I'm afraid I won't feel better about it until it's complete and out of my hands. So you see, it's best if I finish as quickly as I can. Surely you understand."

She took a half step back from him, frowning slightly. Once again there was missing any endearment from his statement. In fact, it lacked any manner of warmth whatsoever.

"Quite," she responded flatly. "You go. I'll bring breakfast along presently." And she did. Without fanfare, without a word, without so much as a glance at him, she deposited the plate on his desk and turned to leave. Surely he won't let me walk out the door without at least acknowledging I was here, she thought. But he did exactly that.

She spent the morning at her desk in their bedroom, returning correspondence from her nieces and nephews in Manchester and trying her best not to think about her husband's peculiar behavior. She had little success. He had been so distant, his behavior so out-of-sorts and she found she didn't like the turn her thoughts were taking. She was not the sort of woman who allowed her worth to be determined by the off-color comments and inconsiderate actions of others toward her, nor did she need praise or platitudes from anyone else in order to feel she had value.

Except that her strength and her natural self-assuredness did nothing to render her impervious to the comments and actions, the praise and platitudes of one man. She hated herself for it at times, but so strong was her love for Richard Clarkson that she did, in fact, look at herself through the lens with which he perceived her. It was this ugly truth that, by luncheon, had her blinking back hot, angry tears as she wondered whether he'd grown tired of her. While it was true that he'd granted her a moment in his arms upon her awakening that morning, he had otherwise kept her quite literally at arm's length, and he'd never behaved that way toward her before. Even in the aftermath of their most heated arguments, he had always been very tactile in demonstrating his affection for her, and she'd come to crave his touch, to absolutely need it.

She ventured downstairs and hesitated outside the half-open door to his study. She wanted so badly to see how he was getting on, but all day so far it had seemed as if her presence did nothing but irk him.

She went into the kitchen instead and prepared chicken sandwiches for them both along with fresh cherries from the cherry tree out front. She was normally averse to food in the bedroom, but she made for the upstairs with her plate, calling to him as she passed by the study, "Richard, there's a plate for you on the counter." She did not wait for a response, and it was just as well for none was forthcoming.