A/N: And now for something completely different. This is the first chapter of a modern Richobel AU that has been floating around in my head for several months now. As much as my heart beats for period-set Richobel, I find I cannot write it lately without a great deal of pain for reasons I think a couple of you know and understand. I have been admonished that I mustn't apologize for the way I write and so I will not, but suffice it to say I have been struggling.

And so, this. Inspired by canon, particularly the death of Matthew and the Ethel Parks storyline. Inspiration also comes from other sources, such as House, MD and Dr. Lisa Cuddy's "Joy" arc. My mind has always drawn parallels between Cuddy and Isobel Crawley in certain ways, supposing Isobel existed in modern times. They are different women, but they are both brilliant, strong and medically-minded.

My writing of Richobel fic has always been about giving them a better story. We're all acquainted with Julian Fellowes' version of events. I cannot accept it. There's a song with which I've been familiar for many years by Sara Groves entitled "Rewrite This Tragedy," and it includes the lyric "[W]e know how this ends/We know there's a better story." As I was thinking about what to call this piece and its chapters, that song came to mind, because isn't that the essence of Richobel? We know there's a better story than the one they were given.

While this piece does not begin on a happy note, it will get there. I've been watching a lot of Penelope Wilton (I know, I know ... who'd have thought, right?!) and she seems to do so well what most actors cannot in that she tells so much of the story without words, and that even the darkest of her characters is imbued with some deep-seated sense of joy or appreciation of where she is despite circumstance or ... something. It's rather intangible, but it's wholly Dame Penelope. And so I hope to impart that herein.

This is just one fragment of a torrent of writing for both Richobel and Chelsie that I hope to release this week. As ever, your support of my writing is so very much appreciated. There are a couple of you out there without whose cheerleading I'd have given this up a thousand times over by now.

xx,

~ejb~

Sometimes it's hard to tell what to keep and what to kill
What of this makes us who we are?
All that we love the most, all that we cannot let go
How much of change can we survive?

- Sara Groves, "Rewrite This Tragedy"

oOoOo

She drives home through a haze of tears, startled once by the blaring of a horn behind her. The traffic light has gone green, but so caught up in thought is she that she misses it. The impatient clamour brings her back to the present and somehow before she knows what has happened she finds her car in the drive, fingers removing the key from the ignition and fumbling for the house key.

Once inside she throws her bag down on the counter, tossing her jacket haphazardly on the floor. She goes to the kitchen cupboard, dry-swallowing two aspirin between heaving gulps of air, her chest aching. She holds onto the countertop as if her life depends upon it.

Cold. She is so cold.

She makes her way to the bedroom, kicks off her shoes and crawls beneath the covers. She gasps. Shivers. Waits for sleep to claim her, praying that she'll wake up and discover it's all been a terrible dream.

It is surreal already. She recalls it as if watching from outside her body.

oOo

The anesthesiologist nodding a greeting to her, their eyes meeting briefly as he stepped to the side and she took his place. Her mouth forming words, saying things she cannot distinguish. Explaining the procedure to the woman, her patient, as the screen went up. Announcing the incisions as she made each one.

The tiny boy, his perfectly rounded head. His lusty cries of protest, screaming like mad at having been released against his will from the warm, dark haven that had been his home. And she, finding herself talking to him rather than her patient.

"It's all right, love. You'll be warm again soon."

Dark blue eyes opening for the very first time, locking upon hers. An impossibly small fist closing around her finger. Her heart lurching into her throat. Time standing still.

A hand at her elbow, a voice in her ear. "Doctor Crawley."

Turning. Her gaze locking upon the neonatologist's. More blue, nearly blinding her, boring into the deepest reaches of her soul. Both of them looking at the babe in her arms and then into one another's eyes again, conversing wordlessly.

You've got to hand him off. She is your patient.

I can't do it. She's refused to see him at all. He'll become a ward of the foster care system. A number. And he's not … he's not!

Your responsibility is to the patient right in front of you. It'll all be over soon.

But he is her son!

And he'll be raised in a loving home with every advantage. He will be fine. Give him over. See to your patient.

Numb hands relinquishing the tiny boy to him. Turning away, back to her patient, reporting with cool, clinical detachment that her baby is well, that everything has gone just as it should. Years of experience taking over as she sutures. Handing the patient off to the nurses to be taken to recovery. Stepping out of the operating theater. Yanking off her gloves and mask, tossing them into the hazardous materials receptacle. Nodding to nurses and doctors as she passes, a smile plastered on her face.

More numbness. Charting the final details of her morning, saying hello and goodbye to the doctor who is relieving her. Waving to the doorman on her way to the car park. Collapsing into the driver's seat, crumbling against the steering wheel, tears finally free to fall. Making it home by a sheer act of providence.

oOo

She is still cold, shivering beneath layer upon layer of blankets when he arrives. Only the top of her head is visible, so high has she pulled up the covers. Silently he strips down to his shorts and climbs in beside her without disturbing the cocoon she has made for herself.

Wordlessly he gathers her against him, lifting her chin so that their eyes meet.

"Dear God, Isobel," he says, making room for his wife to tuck her face in against his neck. "Breathe, darling. It's all over. Breathe." He traces the length of her spine through the layers of clothing she wears - her scrubs and two cardigans - wanting his touch to soothe her but wondering whether she can feel it at all. It seems counterintuitive when he feels the coldness of her cheek, but he sits her up and begins stripping off the layers until she remains in only her bra and panties. Skin on skin, he draws the covers back over them both as his arms enfold her.

He traces circles over her back as he holds her, pressing kisses to her hairline. Slowly he feels her begin to relax in his arms, the sobs subsiding. He draws back a little to look at her and she gasps as their eyes meet.

That blue again, just like in the operating theater. So blue it nearly blinds her, strips her bare, makes her honest. "I should have recused myself. It was too soon for a case like that." She clings to him, soothed by the beating of his heart beneath her palm.

"It would have been just as hard no matter when it had happened," he replies, running a hand through her hair.

She tries to speak but her voice is ragged, her throat raw. It comes out as a strangled whisper. "She gave up her son, Richard! I will never hold mine again … and she gave hers up!"

He sits up against the headboard, gathering her against his chest. She breathes him in as he rocks her back and forth, back and forth, silently assuring her that he is and will be here.

*"The patient right in front of you" - this is borrowed from a conversation between President Josiah ("Jed") Bartlet and First Lady Dr. Abigail ("Abbey") Bartlet in the West Wing episode Swiss Diplomacy.