Scene: The Kitchen

She cannot tear her eyes from his dear, rugged, wondrous face any more than she can dim the smile of pure and utter joy which shines from her own. He is gazing at her with an intensity and a reverence which she has never encountered before, a look which makes her feel safe and untethered, both at the same time.

She feels his gentle grasp on her hand tighten as he glances quickly at the ring he has just bestowed on her finger and then back up at her beaming face.

"Do you think...?" he begins hesitantly. He clears his throat and tries again: "Would you mind if...?"

Her smile widens in delight; she has never seen him so tongue-tied, so adorably flustered.

"Yes?" she prompts gently, equally curious as to what it is he is trying to say.

He seems to find his resolve in her smile and fixes her with an earnest gaze. "Would it be all right if I were to kiss the bride-to-be?"

The words steal her breath away. She finds herself taking a step forward to steady herself and then she is in his arms as he moves to meet her.

She braces herself against his chest and his arms snake around her waist. Looking up at him like this is an entirely new proposition. The earnestness of his gaze has not waned but his breath, puffing down softly on to her cheek, is as shaky as her own. Tentatively she reaches up to lay her palm flat on his cheek. His eyes flutter shut at her touch.

"Patrick," she whispers, imbuing his name with all the emotions coursing through her in that moment; awe, wonder, adoration, love and - most thrillingly of all - desire.

Emboldened by being in his embrace, she feathers her fingers and strokes them down to his lips. His eyes fly open; she brushes her thumb across his full lower lip.

"Patrick?" she repeats softly. "The answer is yes. I want you to kiss me. I need you to."

The fire-flecked depths of his rich brown eyes seem to blaze at her entreaty.

Wordlessly he moves his hands up to caress her face and her vision becomes filled with the sight of his lips moving towards hers.

The first touch of his mouth against hers is feather-light, hesitant. Maddeningly slowly, he kisses first her top lip, then her bottom one, then each corner of her mouth in turn before finally closing his lips completely over hers. The movement of his mouth is gentle, reverent, achingly tender. It makes her feel weak, trembly, but then - all of a sudden - it isn't enough and she presses upwards against him, seeking more contact. His hands move back down to circle her waist and she slides her hand up from his cheek to clasp the back of his neck, her other hand still trapped between them, her fingers splayed where she can feel the steady thrum of his heart.

Her actions elicit a soft groan from him and he accedes to her wishes by tightening his hold on her, drawing her closer still. She feels him part her lips with his own, sighing into her mouth and deepening the kiss.

She stands on tip-toe, eager to experience more of each wonderful new sensation; his taste - tea and toothpaste and a hint of tobacco mingled with a tang which is unmistakably him; his touch as his hands roam restlessly from her hips to her waist to her back and round again and his mouth speaks silent words of love to her; the sight of him which her eyes afford only in brief snatches - his own eyes tightly shut as he worships her with his kiss; the sound of their breathing; synchronised, hitching, sighing, quickening.

Her hand moves further up into his hair, pulling his head down to hers as she feels her legs begin to give way. He breaks contact briefly to steady her and then returns to his ministrations with renewed intent, his lips moving softly yet insistently, claiming her for his own, her lips parting once again to allow him to do so.

For endless moments they kiss. And they kiss, and they kiss, and they kiss. Months of unspoken longing and denial and despair and solitude are erased as they move together, perfectly attuned and in perfect synchronicity.

Finally they part and she blinks open her eyes to find his adoring gaze magnified a thousand-fold.

"Shelagh," he murmurs, "Oh, Shelagh. You are..." His words taper off and he grazes his knuckle against her cheek tenderly.

"Yes,"she whispers back in acknowledgement of all he is trying to say but doesn't need to. "So are you."

Her hand still rests in his hair and, as she withdraws it, she lets out a quiet giggle."I'm afraid I've rather mussed up your hair, Patrick." She reaches up again to try to smooth it back into place but his hand catches hers and draws it to his lips.

"Darling, it doesn't matter. I want you to leave your mark on me. You already own me, heart, body and soul."

Her thousand-watt smile returns and she moves her hand back into his hair, stroking it where it flops over his forehead and then drawing his head down towards hers again. Just before their lips meet once more he hears her say "In that case Dr Turner... Where were we?"

THE END...?

Dedicated to my friends on tumblr and inspired by Dr Turner's mussy hair. :-) Reviews are like manna from heaven! All gratefully received and devoured.