A/N: This was going to be a summer fic, and that didn't happen. Then it was going to be a Christmas fic and that didn't happen either. I figure we're still close enough to New Year's that this'll be acceptable.
Here we have Richobel set in the modern AU that starts with Rewrite This Tragedy and continues with Nocturne in Shadow and Light. If you've not read those, I would suggest you do so before embarking upon this one. Chronologically, this takes place after the fourth chapter of RTT. If it helps, I picture my modern Isobel as looking the way Penelope Wilton did in Kavanagh QC: Time of Need. My modern Richard resembles David Robb in the photos from the BAFTA Celebrates Downton event.
I anticipate roughly half a dozen chapters for this fic, but that is subject to change. As is the rating.
Reviews are a treasure!
xx,
~ejb~
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true
- Alfred, Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam, [Ring out, wild bells]
oOo
"We'll go to dinner. Anywhere you like," he promised as he smoothed his hands over her shoulders, winding a strand of hair around his fingers.
"Someplace quiet. I fancy not having to bother with cooking or washing up, but what I'd like best of all is solitude."
"Of course, darling. I know just the place." He pulled her in close. She leaned her forehead against his shoulder, losing herself for a few glorious moments in the warmth of his embrace; the still, sure susurrations of their breathing.
"Oh, Richard …" she sighed. He felt the weight that settled upon her, hearing her unspoken thoughts. Would there ever come a day when she emerged from the spectre of her son's death? In her grief, had she lost the objectivity needed to fulfill her oath?
"Isobel," he said, gently but firmly breaking through her thoughts. "Today is today. You'll get by one hour at a time. One minute at a time if that's what it comes to. And then you'll be through it and we'll sort all the rest. I shouldn't try to carry that mantle, alright? Not today, and not alone."
oOo
It is half six when she calls him with the news. It's the first break she's had since her arrival on the ward shortly before noon, this after having spent the morning seeing patients in her office across town. She takes the lift up to the rooftop to make the call, as cellular reception inside the building is abysmal. From the helipad, she watches as night falls on Notting Hill. Buses and taxis crowd the streets in numbers even greater than usual. Christmas lights burn cheerily in the windows of the shopping precincts. Queues are forming outside the doors of restaurants and nightclubs. The city teems with life; noise; energy.
Up here, Isobel hears none of it. The wind whips her hair and steals her breath. It is cold and turning colder, and she has forgone her coat. The frigid air stings her cheeks and she lifts her chin, turning her eyes skyward. It feels like snow is coming, but in the darkness, she can't tell. She isn't often one for the cold, but for the moment she embraces it. It reminds her that she can feel.
She dials his number, closing her eyes as she listens to the line ringing.
"Richard," she manages when he answers, "I can't meet you, love. I can't leave here until I can get someone to relieve me." She pauses, swiping angrily at the tears that sting the corners of her eyes. "I'm so sorry."
"Isobel." By the tone of his voice, she knows he is wise to her emotional state. She never could put anything over on him. "It's alright, love. This flu mess …" He sighs. "Hazards of the job and all, but I've not left the office yet either, and I couldn't break away to let you know."
"Yeah," she snorts, "hazards of the job. I don't know anymore, Richard …" She pauses, shaking her head. "... But we'll sort that later. How hard were you hit?" Opposite to her, he had begun his day at the hospital, proceeding to his office across town in the afternoon.
"We lost two junior docs and an attending before I got in. Three nurses were sent home at lunch, and my replacement failed the RapidFlu. I didn't make it over here until just after three. How's it on your end?"
"More or less the same," she sighs. "Thank heaven for midwives. I've called in every one of them who've got privileges here. I've just sent a junior and a nurse home. All told, we've lost seven staff since I got in. Three docs phoned in sick for the overnight shift. I hear A&E's had an even harder go than we've done."
"Cor," he exhales. "Have you found someone to relieve you?"
"I called in a favour from an old friend of Reg's," she tells him. "He practises at King's College but he's got privileges here as well. He's in surgery till late but he thinks he can be here by half nine. When do you expect you'll break away?"
"We're shut now. I've got another hour's worth of charts and I'll call it a night. Look, love, seeing as I'll be done first what say I just come to you?"
"You needn't put yourself out like that," she protests.
"I want to see you," he answers simply. His words make her heart begin to pound.
"Well," she demurs, "when you put it like that … But we were going to have dinner, darling—"
"I've got it well in hand; no worries. I'll be waiting for you when you finish. Go take back your ward, eh? Kick it in the arse!*"
Isobel's response is delayed as she collects herself following a fit of laughter. "Ohh! I needed that. Are you going home before you come over?"
"You're going to want to change when you're through." He interprets her meaning.
"Yes; I'm afraid my 'regimental blues' don't exactly say, 'dinner date.' You know best what you'd like to see me in."
"As well as what I'd like to see you out of," he quips. She shrieks; he chuckles. Their banter gives her life.
"You'll forgive me the lack of snappy repartée," she tells him. "This head won't quit. I promise I'll be in top form later."
"So I'll bring you suitable attire," he says, "and caffeine, yeah? And you'll take something in the meantime?"
"I will. And yes; I know it's late but a coffee would be heaven, thanks." Her tone softens, roughens, and he pictures her in the firelight, her hair splayed across his pillow. "I'll see you later. I love you, Richard."
"Go lead, fearless leader. It's almost over. I love you."
She rings off and casts one final glance at the city below. If only it appeared so peaceful from every vantage point! Remembering Richard's directive (Kick it in the arse!) she grins, squaring her shoulders, and heads back inside. For three more hours, she delivers babies (six) and juggles staff (sending three more home; calling in two from other hospitals) and reminds herself that having worked every holiday all year automatically earns her (and him!) a respite tomorrow, no matter how much chaos might try to intervene.
*"Let's kick it in the arse!" is the creation of Kim Manners, producer and director of The X-Files. It just ... fit here.