A/N: I may have had every intention of keeping this ball steadily rolling when I started, but it's high summer and I have three kids. And also the dirt has been calling my name, and I've spent every moment I'm not needed by the munchkins digging out new flower beds, keeping after my vegetable garden, cutting stuff up with a Sawzall (So much fun! I highly recommend this as a form of stress relief), and spreading mulch and manure. Most of this was written straightaway after the last bit. I've realized that as I'm working they are what I'm thinking about, and it's too hot this afternoon to work until closer to sundown, so I polished up what I had and tried to make it cohesive (and coherent). I've got so much more written in my head. Hopefully it'll make it to the page soon, but my mum is coming back with me when I go to Maine with the kids next month and before she arrives I've got 147 projects to finish, because I want things around here to look like my vision when she sees them and not so much a work in progress.

Lots of flashbacks here, but they are in keeping with the theme of physical separation and "absence makes the heart ..." Or it's absolute shite and I've cracked. Anyroad, thank you to those who faithfully support my writing, no matter how sporadic it is. All of you and all of your kind words are what keep me going!

xx,
~ejb~

Previously:
She hadn't been going to watch him drive away, but as it happened she stood in the drive, waving until he reached the road. In fact, she watched him make the right turn onto Cherry Tree Avenue, her eyes trained on the headlamps until he went round the bend and out of sight. Tears were streaming down her face by then and she wiped her eyes on her sleeve and laughed at herself. "Well I can't change it," she said aloud to nobody, "I miss him. I believe I've earned the right."

That was the moment she resolved that no matter what she felt in the next few days, she would do exactly that: feel it; not bury it beneath endless task lists or mask it with a cheerful façade like she'd done after Reg died. No; she may once again be alone, and that not by choice, but she had nothing to hide, no reason to pretend. If she missed her husband, then —by God— she was going to miss him, and if it made her cry, she was going to cry. And if, similarly, she found ways of passing the time that brought her joy, then she would ride that feeling for all it was worth. If there was a singular theme to the wisdom Richard had imparted to her over the course of their relationship, it was that he loved her just exactly the way she was: big emotions, heavy baggage, sharp tongue and all.

She had just undressed for bed when he rang at ten that evening. Unbeknownst to him she'd snatched up his button-down shirt from yesterday when he'd taken it off in the evening. She stripped herself bare in the bedroom and closed her eyes as she pulled on his discarded shirt, breathing deeply the scent of him. She winced as a frisson of fear raced along the length of her spine at the sight of their bed and the thought of sleeping in it all alone, but the ringing of her phone interrupted.

"Hello?"

"Hi, baby," came his greeting, carefully chosen for the effect he knew it would have on her.

"Richard." She was sure that her voice betrayed her smile, as well as her relief. "How was the drive?"

"It was alright until I got just outside the city. You know; Sunday night, everybody rushing back for work. But I'm here, and only slightly worse for wear."

"Oh? How's that?" She played with the hem of his shirt where it hit her mid-thigh.

There was just the tiniest pause, and she could see him shrugging, the way the tops of his ears turned pink. "You're still there," was his answer. He cleared his throat.

She smiled, tears stinging her eyes. "Well, there is that. You'll be glad to know that I was most industrious this evening. Tell me again about your mum's Belleek. What mark is it?"

"I believe it's the second black mark … why?"

She giggled at the perplexity in his tone. "They're coming to hang the new cabinets tomorrow, so I've been clearing out. I've unearthed a lot of Belleek that belonged to my grandparents. Same pattern and mark. I can't wait to show you."

"Have you done? Seems we might be turning into collecting types!"

She groaned in mock horror. "Oh, that makes us sound terribly old!"

He laughed heartily. "Nah. What's it they say? 'Sixty is the new thirty,' or some such bollocks. Besides, you don't age, my love."

She wasn't about to tease him, for she could hear the sincerity in his voice. Could picture the earnest blue of his eyes. "Oh, you wonderful man. You know, I reckon I'd collect all sorts if I were doing it with you." She paused as she turned down the bed, smoothing her hand across his pillow.

"Still there, beauty?"

"Oh yes, just … Just not excited about the prospect of sleeping without you." It was a big admission on her part. Not so many years ago she'd been sleeping on the couch in her office at the hospital to avoid the cold, empty bed at home. They'd worked together for nearly a decade when he caught her, and at that juncture she had denied her reluctance to face her ultimate fear.

"Would you like me to stay on the line until you fall asleep?" he asked her.

"Oh, no, I can't ask you that. Not when you've got to be up with the sunrise." She thought for a moment. "Would you … would you just … talk to me for a few minutes?"

"What would you like to talk about?"

"Oh, anything, really. I just want to hear your voice."

"Alright then. Are you in bed?"

She climbed beneath the covers, holding the phone with one hand and his pillow to her chest with the other. "I am," she sighed.

"Very good. Well I don't suppose it'd do to talk about how much I wish you were here, or I was there. I hated leaving, you know."

"Oh?" she grinned, closing her eyes to focus on the sound of his voice.

"Don't be coy." He smiled, and she could hear it. "Do you remember the morning I came into your office to drop some paperwork by? I'd managed to set my alarm incorrectly, so that it woke me up at three a.m., and then I started thinking about all I had on that day and I couldn't get back to sleep. So, I thought an early start was in order. I expected I'd just leave my forms on your desk and send someone after them later. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I walked in at half past four and there you were."

She giggled. "The look on your face was priceless. Never have we ever had a shortage of things to say to one another, but you froze stiff and stark and I couldn't help laughing."

"Ah, yes," he murmured. "Well you see, there was a reason for that. Besides shock, I mean."

"Really?" She was beginning to feel almost as relaxed as she did when he was right beside her.

"You were breathtaking, wearing your Take No Prisoners suit, all cool and elegant. Nobody has the right to look that good at such an ungodly hour."

She couldn't believe her ears. "Wait … what? You've got a name for that suit?"

"Oh yes, quite! It deserves one, for all you do for it!"

She felt her cheeks flush and was certain he could tell. It was still so thrilling to know she was capable, at her age, of turning his head. The novelty hadn't worn off even now that they were wed. She hoped it never would.

"I remember it well," she told him, returning to the subject. "You saw that I was under it, preparing for my presentation to the donors, and you stayed. Brought me coffee and made me eat. Thus began our tradition of having breakfast together before work."

He had been alarmed (horrified was closer to the truth, but he hadn't let on) when he had asked her how long she'd been there, and she told him she'd not been home from Saturday. When he'd inquired as to the last time she'd eaten, and she couldn't answer, the decision had been made for him. He said he was getting coffee across the street and would she like one, and she had smiled gratefully. He returned twenty minutes later with the promised beverage and a selection of pastries and fresh fruit. She'd been gobsmacked, told him it was too much. His response had been to fold his arms across his chest, fixing her with a look that said he would hear none of it.

He pushed a bowl of grapes and strawberries across the desk to her. "Eat," was all he said.

"I was thankful to have you there, glad of the way you handled it. And me," she said softly.

"Can I tell you something, Isobel?" The tone of his voice changed, softening, and she knew that he was about to reveal something very close to his heart.

This is why I love being his wife. "Please," she answered.

"I saw you that morning, so strong and polished; a leader at the top of her game, yet so human and fragile and I … I wanted nothing more than to hold you. To look after you, be a safe place. To tell you that you didn't have to try with me, that you were enough." She gasped, and at the same time he scoffed at himself. "As if I had anything to offer that you would have needed."

"Richard!" she admonished him. "Mind the way you talk about my husband! You most certainly did have what I needed. You're the only person I ever allowed to get that close. And I knew, I've always known, that I haven't got to pretend with you." She paused, squeezing his pillow. "I was so very much in love with you then. I wish I'd said the words."

"I felt them, you know," he said quietly, and in his fatigue, it came out as 'ye ken.' She couldn't help but smile. "And anyway, ye did say them not long after." He was silent for a long moment, so that she began to wonder if the call had dropped. "Ye ken, it never was evident to anyone else that there were chinks in your armour." Oh, that heavenly burr. "If that matters tae ye. I'm pretty sure that it does."

"It certainly would have mattered to me then," she agreed. "Tell me more? Just a little more." His voice had worked a trick in relaxing her, but she was loath to let him go.

"I lived for our breakfasts together. Sometimes we would talk, others we'd argue, and then there were the times we were just quiet together. I think those were the ones I enjoyed the most. Very few people have been comfortable with my affinity for companionable silence. Ye've always respected me for it."

She smiled, running the tips of her fingers over her phone as if trying to touch him. "I'd never dream of trying to change you, my darling."

He sighed on his end of the line. "It'll be hard going, sleeping without you," he said, once again employing that hushed tone he reserved for her alone.

"Yes, it will. I'm dreading it. But I've kept you too long already and you've got to get some rest."

"Let our boy sleep on the bed if it helps, aye?" Normally Richard was adamant about MacTavish sleeping in his own bed beside the fireplace, but if Isobel pouted she could convince him to let the lad snuggle occasionally.

She glanced at the end of the bed, where the dog had long since taken up residence. "Oh, he's already beat you to it." After a short silence she said his name. "Richard?"

"Yes, beauty."

"I'm afraid of it. The empty bed. It's a reminder of things I don't want to face."

"Hey, you're not alone," he soothed. "You'll never be alone again, Isobel. And because I know how you think, it's not some sort of derogatory reflection on our marriage that the time you spent on your own still comes back to you. I never plan on spending another night apart after this week."

"I know, my love. I do." There was a long pause as she smiled, sending a silent prayer of thanks to whatever combination of divine providence and luck had brought him into her life. Into her heart. So close. "I'm going to say good night now. Touch base when you can."

"Of course. And if you're awake in the middle of the night thinking about us, know that I will be as well."

"G'night, darling. I love you." She bit her lip to ward off the tears.

"I love you so much, Isobel. Pleasant dreams." And the line went silent.

She switched off the bedside lamp and pulled the covers up to her chin. Breathing deeply, she recalled his words. I wanted nothing more than to hold you. He had loved her for so many years before she would acknowledge her love for him. He might not have said it in words (though she was certain he would've done if he hadn't thought it would frighten her) but his actions left no doubt.

Snuggled against his pillow with MacTavish snoring at her feet, she drifted off to sleep thinking of the first time he did, in fact, hold her.

It had been such a delicate, tenuous thing: his having caught her sleeping in her office, her having admitted that outside of work she had no life. Her façade had finally cracked, letting him behind the fortress she had built around her heart the moment Reginald died. She'd forced herself to admit, at long last, that she loved Richard, and she'd found, when she could no longer forestall the admission of her feelings to him, that as she fell, he caught her. That he loved her in return, and had done almost from the time they met.

Delicate, like their first kiss. In her kitchen, on the day she had asked him to breakfast so that she could show him her flat. They'd been talking about the night he, uncharacteristically emboldened by a profusion of liquid courage, had brought up the subject of her marrying again. At the time she had brushed it off, figuring him for slightly drunk, but now, upon reexamination, the truth was undeniable.

"Look, Richard," she told him, "I wasn't being fully honest with you that night. If it was the case that you were indeed speaking about the pair of us specifically, then I should have said that of course I've thought of it, but that the only man I would ever consider marrying is my dearest friend and I should hate to lose him if—"

He interrupted her. "Then what you're saying is—"

"That I'm in love with you, yes. And that it terrifies me." Struck by a sudden wave of dizziness, she, who, in all she had been through, had never fainted, thought in that moment that she just might.

"Isobel." The tone and timbre of his voice. She'll never forget the relief she heard, or the astonishment written in his beautiful features.

"Yes?" She had whispered it, afraid that the moment would dissolve if she spoke.

"Come here."

Isobel Crawley took orders from no one. Not even Richard. Or, perhaps more accurately, most especially not from Richard. But in that moment, there was no case to argue, neither one vying to be heard over the other. And so she walked around the island to stand before him, her heart thudding wildly. He held out his hands to her and when she placed her own in them she couldn't help but gasp. She had so very long since written off the possibility of anyone touching her again.

He pulled her in, so close that she felt the warmth radiating off him. "Is this alright?" he asked softly. She was powerless to do anything but nod. "I love you, Isobel."

"You do?" she whispered. Had his eyes always been so blue?

He grinned at her and nodded. "I have done from the time we met."

She reached up without thinking, her hands coming to rest at the nape of his neck, and laughed, the sort of laughter that bubbles up from deep within. It rang of relief, of victory, of rising from the ashes. Her head fell forward, into his shoulder, and his arms came around her waist. In an instant she was yanked —like a weed, mused the gardener in her — out of her stupor, out of a long hibernation devoid of feeling, into a world of pure sensation. The softness of his shirt against her face, the heat of his body beneath the fabric, the safety of his arms enfolding her. For long moments he simply held her, rubbing soothing circles across her back.

After some time she raised her head to look at him. She had always thought him handsome; now he positively took her breath away. She touched his face, tracing the line of his jaw. "Richard," she breathed, "I love you." She stared at his mouth, wanting to kiss him; hesitating; not sure she remembered how.

He cupped her cheek in his palm. "You can, you know. I want you to."

Her heart had pounded as she drew him closer with a hand at the nape of his neck. Softly, tentatively, she'd touched her lips to his. He had responded gently at first, deepening the kiss as he felt her hands smoothing over his shoulders. He drew her bottom lip between both of his own and a tiny moan escaped her mouth as her lips parted for him.

Falling asleep had proved less difficult than she'd expected, with his words freshly ringing in her head and the memory of their first sweetly-awkward moments of togetherness on her mind.

It was in the wee hours of the morning, when MacTavish woke her to be let outside, that the reality of the situation set in. It hadn't yet gone four o'clock. She suspected the dog was still on "London time," as she and Richard had come to refer to their work schedule.

Speaking of Richard, he must be getting ready to leave for work right about now, she mused. As she climbed back into bed after tending to MacTavish, a thought entered her mind. He could well be showering at this very moment.

Had she allowed that notion to simply filter through her synapses and exit the same way it had entered, she might have got back to sleep in fairly short order.

That wasn't what happened, as one might suspect. As she closed her eyes and burrowed beneath the covers, the image of her husband's naked chest appeared before her. Before she could will it away, it morphed into his naked, wet chest, and the next thing she knew she was in the shower with him, watching him turn his face into the spray while she caught the rivulets of water that ran down his cheeks to his chin, his throat. With her lips. Her tongue. Her mouth. On his skin. Oh, Jesus, I'm in trouble. His skin; such a fascination. So pale, almost translucent. So different to her own.

She was now fully present with him in the shower, in her mind. She'd thought it frivolous —absolutely foolish— the first time he had showered at her place and the notion had occurred to her … You know, you could be in there with him. Oh, sure, she'd done it before. With Reginald, many, many years ago. Sometimes it had been their only chance to be together, amidst the opposite schedules and graveyard shifts and the pressures of running a practice and raising a son. And oh, how they had enjoyed themselves.

But that had been long before the ravages of time and loss and grief, of stretch marks and hysterectomy scars and gravity, had wrought havoc on her body. It was true that Richard had seen her nude when they'd made love, but that was another story. Wasn't it?

As it happened she hadn't the opportunity to worry about it much more. From inside the shower Richard had called out to her in the lounge.

"Richard? Everything alright, love?" She spoke from the doorpost.

"Yes. Sorry to have worried you, only I left my clothes in the bedroom. Would you mind terribly bringing them in?"

"Of course, darling. Hold on a tick."

When she'd returned with his clothes, telling him she'd put them on the counter beside the sink, he had reached his hand out from behind the shower door and caught her by the wrist.

"Isobel. Stay." He said it with enough uncertainty that it almost sounded like a question.

"Stay?" she echoed, in part because she was positive she hadn't heard him correctly, and because, supposing she had done, she'd no idea what he could possibly mean. After all, he was naked. In the shower. In her bathroom.

"Yes, stay," he repeated. "Join me?"

She was gobsmacked. Absolutely flabbergasted. Of all the things she'd expected him to say, this certainly wasn't among them.

"But I … Richard, I can't … Why?" she stammered. To an outside observer, the entire scene would have been hilarious.

He peered through the opening in the door at her, shrugging. "Do it, don't do it; I'm here either way. But you did say you were ready to live again."

Ah, so this wasn't out of character for him at all, she realised. It was him; gently testing the boundaries of her comfort zone the way he'd always done. Throwing down the gauntlet in the most genteel of ways. And, as always, he would accept her whether she took the challenge or not. He was simply raising the stakes, following the progression of their relationship. Would she trust that he loved her —all of her, all of the time?

"Yes, alright," she finally told him. Drawing a deep breath, she loosened the ties of her dressing gown, shrugged it off and stepped out of her knickers, looking him straight in the eye all the while.

He had the good graces to step back, making room for her, and to offer her a hand, but his mouth hung open the entire time.

"Are you quite alright?" she asked him, a grin tugging at the corners of her own mouth.

He furrowed his brow, and a droplet of water ran down his forehead to the tip of his nose.

Chuckling softly, she kissed it away. "You look like a trout, sweetheart!"

Comically, he snapped his jaw shut and she leaned into him, laughing. He maneuvered her to stand beneath the spray, his arms loosely encircling her waist.

"You are perfect," he told her. "I know that I've seen you ... in bed … but this is different; this is harder for you. You're incredible, beauty. And I know that it'll take time, but I want you to be comfortable … like this, with me."

They shared a look and she smiled softly. "I want that, too." She ran a hand through his damp hair. "Hold me?"

"Of course. Thank you for doing this with me." His eyes held such reverence and she reached out, her thumbs smoothing across his cheekbones, and kissed him, running her tongue along the seam of his lips, catching the droplets of water there. He opened for her, moaning into her mouth when her tongue touched his own. His hands pressed the small of her back … closer, closer; skin on skin, belly to belly.

When the kiss broke she laid her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes, and sighed contentedly. He touched her, running gentle fingertips over her arms, her shoulder blades, tracing the length of her spine.

Her chest heaved, stuttering out a sob she'd been fighting back. He took hold of her chin, lifting it so that he could look into her eyes. She smiled even as tears ran down her cheeks. He returned the smile, his thumbs caressing the indentations of her iliac crest. He knew; he understood, and she hadn't needed to say a word.

She kissed him, his beautiful skin. Nipping at his throat, sucking his collarbones, enjoying the rasp of his chest hair beneath her lips. She traced the indentations of his ribs with lips and tongue, lingering over the scar that marked the place where half a rib was missing. She ran the tips of her fingers over the discoloration, kissing her way back to his mouth, scraping the edges of her teeth across his bottom lip.

"I need you," she told him a moment later, their eyes meeting. Saying it made her heart race.

"Oh, Isobel." Apparently her confession affected him just as much. "So brave. Tell me what you need."

"Touch me," she murmured, "anywhere. Everywhere." Her voice lowered to a whisper, barely audible. "Love me."

He turned her gently, gathering her to him, her back against his chest, fitting himself to her. His arms wrapping around her waist, he swayed their bodies softly. She turned her head to rest her cheek against his. She'd spent so many years —decades, actually— bereft of intimacy, of touch, and now she had it in full measure: pressed down, shaken together; running over.* The rush of warm water cascading over her body, the heat, greater still, of his skin. The rasp of a day's worth of stubble on his face against the smoothness of her own. He was pressing tiny kisses along the contour of her shoulder, the curve of her neck, and she tipped her head to the side to give him better access.

He chuckled against her skin, lapping at a stream of water running off her shoulder blade. "You like this, don't you, beauty? Hmm? You want this."

She nodded.

"You want more."

She nodded once again.

"Mmm, I rather enjoy you speechless," he teased. She glared at him over her shoulder, trying to affect a pout, but he broke into a grin and then so did she and he caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger and nibbled at her petulant bottom lip. His left hand slid to her hip and he rolled his pelvis against her.

"Richaaaard." He was growing hard at the feel of her, and his erection pressed into the cleft of her bum. It. Felt. So. Good. "Oh, Jesus, love!"

He slid against her, cupping her breast in his right hand. She arched into his palm, circling her hips. "Yeah?" His voice was wonderfully raspy, and it sent shivers down her spine.

She nodded, tilting her head to rest against the side of his face. "Just. Like. That."

...

Suddenly she was jolted from her reverie as MacTavish landed in her lap with a force that knocked the breath from her lungs, his tail wagging as he licked her face.

"Oh!" she shrieked. "Yes, alright, Mumma will get your breakfast. Come on then." She shook her head as they made their way to the kitchen. "Your daddy's got you spoilt but good, lad," she tutted. "It's an awfully good job you're cute."

After sorting out MacTavish, she made her way to the conservatory, watching summer's early sunrise paint the sky indigo and bronze. She leaned against the doorpost and stayed there through the duck's egg blues and salmon pinks, recalling the train of thought that had very nearly got her into trouble. Here it was, first light on Monday morning. Richard had left her a mere twelve hours ago and already she'd both fallen asleep and awakened to thoughts of him and her and … sex. Well, very nearly, anyhow. And he wasn't due home until late evening on the Friday.

She growled in frustration as she started the coffee. It was going to be a long week.

*Not mine. It comes from the gospel of Luke, and perhaps it's weird here, but it seemed to me like an in-character stream-of-consciousness thought that Isobel would have had and silently smirked about. Particularly at the irony of it having occurred to her whilst in the arms of her lover. Or at least, it's in character for my Isobel, who was at one time a divinity student, amongst all of her other pursuits.