A/N: I've been wrestling with this update for some time. It was all the usual suspects: self-doubt, no time, fear that I write exactly the same thing over and over. And then, out of nowhere, a huge loss. My favorite uncle was in an accident at work and the result was toxic lung poisoning. He died three weeks ago. I can't even believe I just typed that.

I've decided not to care whether I repeat myself. I'm proud to have got to a place where I can break chapters and I will not apologize for the M-ness. My dear friend (who patiently bears the brunt of all my writer-angst) says I shouldn't change what I do, so I won't. Life, as I have been reminded lately, is way too short.

xx,
~ejb~

PREVIOUSLY:

She isn't trying to avoid Richard, not exactly, as she tidies the house in the afternoon. It's only that there are conversations coming that she's not keen to have. Not because they're going to row necessarily (though they have got one to resolve, thanks to her). No, it's wonderful being known by him, being seen for who she truly is. She would never choose to go back to a life without him. But there's a price to pay for being so damned self-revelatory all the time. She doesn't like all of the Isobel that he sees, doesn't want to be forever grieving for her first love and the children they lost. Not when she's happily remarried and freshly retired with a beautiful, brand new grandson.

She used to think it was exhausting to put on the mask of the polished professional every day, to do and do and never feel. And that's the crux of it, right there: she's always had all the feels. She could disguise them before. Her façade made her feel shallow and disingenuous, but it was … neater. Prim and proper and English and hers. But she never could hide her true colours from Richard. That isn't his fault and, in fact, it's why she loves him. Not that he has ever forced her to talk about anything; to be sure, the man could easily go for days without uttering a word. She just wants the Isobel he sees to be as pure and uncomplicated as he is.

He knows that she's upset, but not the extent of it. It must involve him somewhat by the distance she's putting between them. He was prepared for the difficulty of separating from George, but there's something more, something deeper at work.

How to broach the subject is a mystery. He could turn a blind eye to it (which is the action she seems to favour) and risk her thinking he is ignoring her. He could try to make light of it, but she might interpret that as ridicule. He runs a hand through his hair in frustration. Or he could handle it according to his inclination and stop walking on sodding eggshells. She's no little girl; she's the former Chief of Obstetrics. A bit of confrontation won't break her and besides, he's hardly the lecturing sort.

He approaches her as she is doing the washing up. "I'll take over if you like. Or I could dry. Make room on the draining board." He rolls his shirtsleeves to the elbows. She doesn't look at him, but that gesture earns him a tiny smile.

"Yes, alright … if you'd like to dry it's … um … Thank you." She is guarded but cordial, which is less than he hoped for but better than several possible scenarios he'd imagined.

"My pleasure," he answers. Just last evening she had told him how much she appreciated his plain-spokenness, so he reckons he'll (delicately) give it a go. "You're not singing, love. There's something amiss." Not a question; it's an observation. An exceedingly gentle one.

"I'm … Pardon?" It has the desired effect of catching her on the back foot without offending. Thus far, anyway.

"Well, you sing to yourself as you go about cleaning the house."

"I do?" She'd never realised. "Well, what do I sing?" That's got her looking at him, an almost-smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

"Oh, all sorts. The Hollies are popular. The Beatles, The Byrds. One day it was the whole of the Tapestry album."

"Oh now you're just having me on!"

"I'm not, you know. Anyway it's quite nice. And the absence of it is felt."

She drops the tea towel she was fiddling with. "I'm sorry I was ratty before. It's— … I'm— …" How does one quantify something she doesn't understand herself?

"I wasn't angling for an apology," he tells her.

"Well, that's fine, but you're owed one." She reaches for the scrub brush; perhaps keeping to her task will render conversation moot. His hand covers her own. No such luck. She looks up at him, her expression a mixture of indignation and embarrassment.

He blinks, obviously taken aback. "You know I'll never insist that you talk to me, but I can't presume to know what you're thinking. I'll leave you to it, but it bears telling you that I love you—"

"I wish you wouldn't!" she cuts in.

He reels. "Sorry?"

"I wish you wouldn't love me so unquestioningly all the time! Richard, I'm not like you."

There are several remarks in varying degrees of sarcasm that spring to the tip of his tongue, but he settles for, "Would you care to qualify that assertion?" Backing up from her, arms folded across his chest.

Oh, now she's just being cruel. Look at him; kind, wonderful man. Those eyes; so hurt. You did that, you mad fool. "Richard, I'm sorry," she whispers, her voice cracking as she begins to sob. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. You deserve so much better than me."

He puts his hands on her shoulders. "Love, sit down," he tells her, and ushers her to a chair at the table by the front window. He sits down opposite her. "Now, walk me back to where it went awry."

"When he wouldn't take the bottle for me … well, for starters I felt like a first-year blundering about in front of the senior consultant. It's like … what? Rolling a vein during a blood draw. You incompetent twat."

"I do hope you know that thought never crossed my mind—"

"Oh yes, of course I know it. For just a moment I forgot that I haven't got to impress you." That doesn't sound right. "No, wait, I mean—"

He puts up a hand as if to say, Easy, now. "You've nothing to prove to me. You're my wife and I love you. I've been impressed since we met fifteen years ago."

Her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes, but he can see she's calming. Thawing. "That's what vexes me. Times when I'm icy and vile and you just forgive and forgive when I'm so undeserving."

He rolls his eyes magnificently. "Would you rather I held a grudge, then? Need I remind you it's the national sport where I came up?"

"Thanks just the same," she answers with an eye roll of her own. She reaches for his hand and wraps their fingers together. "You've lived through the same sort of things I have —worse, even, with having been to war— but you're not given to the same streaks of darkness as I am. I want to be better than that. For you. Because you are."

"But our experiences haven't been the same, love. I adored Jess, but I didn't spend half my life with her. As close as we were, it's nothing approaching what you and I have. I've mourned for our daughter, but I didn't even know of her existence until she was gone. You grew up alongside Dr. Crawley, and carried four of his children to see only one of them survive. I should like to have spared you losing all you lost, but it's made you who you are. You look at life in ways I don't; ways I can't."

She still can't manage to shake the feeling that he's got his thumb on the button that magnifies her peculiarities and she feels … squirmy. Like a specimen under a microscope. But it isn't his fault, not his fault, not his fault. It's her, and it's like she can't stop it. She sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of her nose.

He reads the agitation in her body language: the tension in her shoulders, the averting of her eyes. Times when she gets like this, it's easiest to reach her while she's attending to the work at hand. He flips on the radio in the kitchen and returns to the washing up.

She watches for a moment, hears him humming, notices how perfectly his bum fills out his jeans. Where did that come from? You see, it isn't him. It isn't him; it's her. He's wonderful and he's here and he's hers. She rises, joining him beside the sink.

"Richard," she says softly. He pauses to look at her. "I'll dry," she offers, and he nods, handing her a saucepan. "Richard, I don't know what's come over me. I'm sorry. I wish there were better things I could say, but I am sincere. I had no reason to be so wretched. I love you."

He smiles gently. "I never doubted. Shall we try and puzzle it out, or would you rather we didn't?"

She pauses thoughtfully before answering. "I'd sooner we waited if it's all the same to you. You deserve objectivity, and clearly I can't offer any just now."

"Very well," he tells her. Through with his task, he dries his hands and leans against the side, hands on his hips. "Is there anything I can do to help?" He has an inkling what her answer will be if she's honest with the both of them.

She doesn't feel right asking him, not after the way she's behaved.

Gold Radio comes to her rescue. "Originally released in 1963, our next song —and its lead singer— made a cameo appearance in Eddie Money's 1986 hit entitled 'Take Me Home Tonight.' Here's Ronnie Spector and the Ronettes with 'Be My Baby.'"

He eyes her, grinning.

She smiles back. "Ironic, that."

"Rather," he agrees.

"I remember watching my mum and dad dance to this song," she tells him fondly. "Oh, but they were marvellous!"

"Mmm, as were mine. It's a lost art, I think. The young ones now just stand there looking like zombies."

"I think we muddle through alright, you and I," she says.

"Shall we?" he asks, arching an eyebrow.

She nods, moving into him. He loves dancing with her —the elegant set of her shoulders, the fluid grace with which she moves. She's never been much for following in the shadow of a man, but dancing is different: if one doesn't follow, the other simply can't lead. And there is a not-so-secret part of her that loves being held and coaxed along. By him, of course.

She leans her head against his shoulder, lightly scratching the short hairs at the nape of his neck, humming softly. His body is warm in a way that reassures her, soft in places that comfort —the rounded corner where his neck and shoulder meet, for one. He is solid and masculine in ways that make her want him. His chest pressed against hers, she can feel the beating of his heart. He is vulnerable like this, and she muses that this is why they're alright. So perhaps he doesn't openly grieve his losses. He leaves his heart completely unguarded before her. He needn't advertise its contents; they're available to her at any time. All she needs to do is look. That's trust, and he does not give it cheaply.

"Do you know what I love about you?" His lips brush the side of her neck as he speaks, sending a shiver down her spine.

"Hmm?" she answers, her hand leaving his neck to smooth down his back.

"You've a fondness for this song that goes beyond just happy memories, haven't you?"

"Mmm, maybe," she answers coyly. She knows where he's going (the cheek!) and, well, he isn't wrong.

He kisses the sensitive spot where his lips rest, exhaling hot breath against her skin. "It's a wonderful secret, really: that a woman of your stature, a leader in her field, is so swiftly turned to mush by a four-letter word …"

She utters a sort of half-laugh, half-groan. "Richard," she whinges.

He laughs, the vibrations rumbling through his chest where it touches hers. "So sorry. I promise I shan't be cruel … baby."

"Stop," she whispers, her protest unconvincing.

"You're beautiful when you're like this," he grins.

"Like what, hmm?" she challenges, one eyebrow raised.

He kisses it back into place. "Oh, you know, all … hot and bothered."

She leans away from him. "Is that what you think?"

Faux-mollified Isobel is hilarious to him. "It's what I know," he whispers in her ear.

She feels her knees going and tightens her grip on his shoulder.

"Go on then; tell me I'm wrong," he teases.

She can't, of course. It's maddening, the way he gets her to throw off her inhibitions. "When you say that," she begins, eyeing him, "I always think …" She cups her hand around his ear and leans in. "... Lay me down right now."

He groans softly in response, his arm slipping to her waist. They've all but abandoned the pretence of dancing now, as he rests his forehead against hers and she traces the topmost few buttons on his shirt. She works open first one, then another; a third and she lays the palm of her hand on his heart.

The steady thump-thump beneath her fingertips is the gauge by which life is measured now. She lives for that heart. Kissing him there, she looks up. "Still mine?"

"Always," he answers. Just like that, all animus is forgiven. After a moment he turns the conversation back to her last remark. "Come to bed with me."

oOo

It's thrilling to be asked, she thinks. To be pursued. Especially after she's hurt him, and whilst they're still somewhere in the middle of ironing it out. He told her very early on that he didn't believe in make-up sex, as the very nature of a row communicates the exact opposite of "I want you." She is grateful to him now for interpreting (correctly) that the current discord is not a case of things gone wrong between them; it was, at best, a misstep in communication and at the worst her pride getting the better of her. Either way, she needs him. His warmth, his wooing of her. The life that courses through him: the blood in his veins and the heat of his skin. His whispers in her ear, sharing confidences, things he wants to do with her. To her.

Her stomach flutters in anticipation as they climb the stairs. One would assume from the fact that they find themselves in this position so frequently that they'd have developed a modus operandi of sorts, if not routine then at least typical of them. Still, somehow, one always manages to surprise the other, and this time is no different in that regard.

She starts to turn down the bed but he stops her.

"Isobel."

The way he says her name makes her breath catch. She answers him with a look.

He approaches her, stepping close, cupping her cheek. She leans into his touch. "It's wonderful, the things I know about you that nobody else does." The pad of his thumb brushes across her lips, the lower one trembling. He leans in and she holds her breath. He smiles. "Sweet girl."

She is equal parts expectancy and impatience as she awaits the first brush of his mouth against hers. She can already taste the Hennessy on his lips, and she could just do it —lean in and steal the kiss—, but the pleasure of receiving it from him is worth the wait. At last the tip of his tongue touches her bottom lip, just a tease, and he slants his mouth against her own.

She opens to him and he kisses her fully. Her fingers twist in his hair as his hands move from her shoulders to the collar of her blouse. She watches their movement, the fascination written on his face as he reveals her torso. As the garment falls away his fingertips repeat their journey, this time smoothing over bare skin and the sheer white lace of her bra.

"This is new," he says, fingering the edges.

"Mm-hmm," she affirms. "See anything you fancy?"

With a feather-light touch he skims the backs of his fingers over the filmy gossamer that lies between him and her flesh. Her knees buckle and she sways as he edges closer and closer to her nipples.

He can see the effect he's having on her. "Rather! Are there more where this came from?" He cups her breasts, the peaks of them hard as pebbles in his palms.

Breaths coming quickly now, she pants as she answers him. "I'm sure it can be arranged, since you asked so nicely." She giggles, and it turns into a gasp when his fingers slip beneath the lace. She arches into his hands.

"It's perfect," he tells her, all sincerity. Then, pointedly, "Oi. You're perfect." He knows what she's been thinking, and she knows what he means —You're perfect for me— as well as why he's chosen not to say it that way. Perfect for one another is the benchmark; it should go without saying.

She lowers her eyes and he catches her wrists in his hands. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he brings her to stand between his thighs. "Isobel. I love you." He kisses her below the band of her bra; her belly flutters. Her skin is so soft, and he smells the traces of verbena that linger there. For him, for him. She wears it because she loves it, because it reminds her of childhood summers (he knows this because he asked her once). But she wears it there for him alone. More kisses, feeling the quivering of muscle beneath sweet skin as his mouth moves towards her belly button and then back up, teasing her, open-mouthed kisses to her breasts through the lace.

She wants him, to be held against the warmth of his skin, her breasts in his hands and the hard heat of him deep within her. He is nuzzling her, the boundary of flesh and fabric and she guides his hands to the clasp at her back, pressing kisses to his head, his ear. She trembles as he drags the straps of her bra down her arms, giggling when he steps away from her momentarily to lay it on the chair.

"Wouldn't want to risk a casualty," he explains, winking at her.

"No," she purrs, "we can't have that." Swiftly, before he can sit back down, she pulls the hem of his vest from his trousers and works open the button and zip. It's his turn to shiver: small, proficient hands on his hips, pushing his trousers down. Hands and lips gliding over his belly, his chest, lifting his vest over his head and tossing it to the floor.

The rasp of his chest hair against her nipples makes her moan. She needs this, this, this. She clutches at his shoulder blades, holding him to her, frantically kissing him wherever she can reach: his shoulder, his collarbone; the pulse point in his neck beckons to her. He works her trousers off and lifts her out of them, squeezing her bum. Then he lays her down gently, a pillow beneath her head, and slides his arms under it as he nestles his body against hers.

"How did I do?" he asks, his eyes bright with mischief even as he grinds his erection softly against her pubic bone.

She makes a funny little sound, half a giggle, half a moan. "Darling," she says breathily, pushing up against his circling hips, "did I miss something?"

He bends his head to kiss her collarbone, sucking at the hollow at the base of her throat. The rasp of his afternoon stubble burns a little; she aches to feel him like this at her breasts. No sooner does the thought pass through her mind than he does it —scrapes his chin across her nipple, then soothes the sting with his tongue.

"Oh, Christ, Richard!" She clutches at his head, dimly registering the fact that she asked him a question; rather, he asked first and then she. "Darling!" she gasps, rapidly leaving go of her capacity to reason.

He grins, lopsided and wicked, his eyes darker. "I believe your exact words were, 'Lay me down right now.' So, have I carried out orders to your satisfaction?" He leans down again, tracing the shell of her ear with the tip of his tongue.

She reaches down in answer, slipping her hands beneath the waistband of his shorts and grasping his buttocks, rocking her hips up sharply as she pulls him tightly to her. "Solid execution, Major." She laughs and kisses him hard.

He leans up, kneeling on the bed to slip off his shorts, her hands joining his. As he tosses the offending garment to the floor she caresses him, ghosting the edges of her fingernails over the muscles of his lower abdomen, lifting his penis from beneath. Holding him gently in her palm, she traces the index finger of her other hand along his length. He twitches in her hands, his head thrown back. It makes her wet, stroking him. Makes her ache.

His hands are on her hips, tracing the edges of her knickers. He kneads her bum, teasing the cleft. She mewls, her sex clenching.

He gets her knickers off of her and from there it happens as if they are in a dream, their existence compressing into breath and friction, silence contrasting with whispers, moving to the rhythm of two hearts beating. Her arms and legs open to him and he covers her lips, the line of her jaw, her neck and shoulders and collarbones with kisses. She cries out at the feeling of his weight upon her, wrapping herself around him. Heat, so much heat, coiling in her belly, waves of anticipation at the feel of him hard against her.

"I love you," she whispers, and it's an apology and a declaration of sensations and emotions that language fails to capture. Her hands are moving on him, reaching between their bodies to stroke him. She thrills when he grunts and pushes himself into her hand. "Yes, Richard," she coaxes. He twitches, grows harder, and she feels it between her legs, that persistent blossoming ache that only he can soothe.

He laps at the pulse in her neck, rocking into her hand, scraping the edges of his teeth over her throat. "Jesus, beauty … want to be in you," he moans, verging on a cry, inarticulate and vulnerable and she loves him for it. He spoke before about the secret information he has on her, but she's gathered plenty of her own intelligence. She is the only one who sees him in these moments; the keeper of his every confidence.

"Come on. I want you." She eases him inside of her slowly, tipping her hips up. Oh! The stretch, the way her body welcomes him. Her eyes sting with barely-formed tears; it's that good. Their mutual gasps and the way he fits within her, binds himself to her frantically. It's never the same twice and it's glorious, vital and real. "Oh, darling … Yes," she breathes.

He sheaths himself inside her fully, ducks his head. Kisses her hard. "You feel so good, Bel," he rasps.

She whimpers at his words and draws him down so that their chests touch. She rolls her hips into his, pushing him deeper still. He grinds against her softly in answer and she holds his face in her hands. "Just like that," she murmurs, kissing his lips.

She is all around him, tight and slick. Sweet and so sultry; she's everything. It's always been her, he thinks. In her eyes he sees children unborn to them. Wonders how it would have felt to hold her, life moving beneath his hand. Thinks how beautiful she'd have been. He chases away the thought; she's so very beautiful now, moaning beneath him as he begins to move. She kisses him, her cries lost in his mouth.

There has been great pain for the both of them, sacrifice and loss. Lifetimes spent alone and he suspects she's grieving those desert years and all their "might have beens." But they are survivors and here, now, all there is, is love. They do not share the history that each one longs to have had. But to them, in their autumn, is the luxury of choice. Time and togetherness. Life can be exactly as they want it, and that's a freedom they would not have had a decade ago, two.

She touches him where he moves in and out of her. He gasps, bends his head, draws her nipple into his mouth. She keens and he feels it low in his belly. The whimpers that fall from her lips (Sweetheart! … Love me, darling, don't stop! My god, that's good … don't stop!), the long graceful arc of her spine as she clings, desperate to be closer to him. He suckles deeply; she grasps his buttocks, holding on for life. Neither one wants this to end.

There are benefits to being their age, and one of which they are particularly appreciative is stamina. He moves and moves and moves in her, slowly at times and faster at others. She takes it all, takes and takes and gives as good as she gets, arching madly against him. When his shoulders tremble with the effort of holding himself above her, she lifts her legs and reaches for his hips. "Like this, love," she murmurs.

He kneels between her legs, holds her thighs. Thrusts hard; deeper. Throws his head back. "God, yes!"

She gazes up at him and he's perfect here, now, making love to her. It's her epiphany. He isn't without flaws any more than she, and it doesn't matter. He is gorgeous, wholly desirable. The movement of his Adam's apple when he cries out; the breadth of his shoulders. His chest, the smatterings of silver hair and the definition of muscle. His ribs. He hates that scar, and she loves it because it's tangible evidence that her soldier survived. She reaches out to touch him there, reverently. His taut abdomen, the trail of silky hair that runs from his navel to his pubic bone where it darkens and thickens before culminating here. Where he rocks her, fills her. The throbbing within her becomes blissfully unbearable as she watches him.

"I feel that, beauty," he breathes. "So tight. So close."

"You did that," she pants, and he growls, surging forward until he bottoms out inside her. "Oh Jesus," she gasps in response, "touch me!"

He stays where he is, rolling his hips. The palm of his right hand rests low on her belly and with the left he traces his fingertips through her labia, finds just the spot. Long strokes alternating with shorter ones, so gentle. So right. Her breath comes in sharp, punctuated gasps, wanton cries torn from her throat on the exhale. Richard! God … Oh, love … oh, love!

When she comes he presses his fingers hard against her. "Beautiful, Isobel," he tells her in an awed whisper. Just as she thinks it's over she catches him watching her, fixated on the point where they are joined. His eyes are almost black. Hungry, she thinks. A new wave crests and she squeezes him again —still?—, all the while chanting.

I love you. I love you. I love you!

He picks up his rhythm again while the aftershocks are still coursing through her, and it feels so good that tears spill from her eyes. He is right above her, supported by his forearms, and he kisses the teardrops away. She caresses his face, nipping at his lips, swallowing his murmured, "I love you" as she wraps her legs around his waist.

"Ohh, that's deep," she sighs. She is so full of him, body and soul, heart and mind. "Will you come for me, darling?"

He kisses her roughly in answer, and when he begins to chase his own end she holds him, as much of him as she can, her hands skimming his flanks. She kisses his temple when he drops his head into the crook of her neck. The way he moves is art, it's sin; it's harder, deeper instead of faster and hoarse, lustful cries in her ear. She flexes her inner muscles when he's close and soothes him, coaxes him, awash in his heat as it fills her.

"Yes, Richard. I feel it!"

"Isobel!" He shouts her name as he comes, pumping his hips for long moments as she grinds up against him. Usually he stays inside her until he naturally slips out, but this time he rolls off, lying next to her, gathering her close.

"Thank you, darling." She is breathless, her voice throaty, most of it having vanished with her orgasm. Turning to face him she blinks slowly, her eyes heavy-lidded, her smile soft and sexy.

He pulls her top leg to rest between both of his, caressing her bum. "I'm the one who should be thanking you." He kisses her, slow and sweet and she hums against his mouth. "You are beautiful," he tells her with indigo eyes full of love.

She rolls on top of him, kissing along the ridges of his collarbones and down his chest. Her legs are spread over his hips, keeping her weight off of his groin. She feels the hot rush of sticky fluid leave her body, spilling from her onto his belly, and she groans.

"Are you alright?" he asks, smoothing his hands down her sides.

She meets his eyes, nodding, looking sheepish. "Miss you already," she confesses, and then adds, "I always go on wanting you, even after we've come." She smiles in that peculiar, self-effacing way of hers.

"I love that about you," he affirms, running his fingers through her hair. They are mostly silent, trading soft kisses for a time. She lets his words work their way down deep as he traces aimless patterns across her back.

When he stills, his arms wrapped around her lower back, she begins to wonder whether he's dropped off to sleep. "When I said 'thank you,' I meant for more than just making love," she says quietly. Whether he hears it or not, she's got to say it. "Thank you for loving me … all of me. Because you do, Richard. Even the wretched bits you don't just tolerate; you love."

He feathers his lips over her forehead. "Your wretched bits are brilliant, beauty. Rest awhile, eh? Later we'll talk."

oOo

She awakens to the sensation of soft lips feathering across her bare back. For a few minutes she lies quietly, savouring his touch, but when he drops kisses on her hip bones, when he nudges her knees apart; when he begins massaging her bum, she can no longer stifle a moan. She thinks of what brought them to bed, of the way it felt when he was inside of her as deep as he could be, and she feels her cheeks flush.

"Mmm … hi," she murmurs, smiling as he lifts her leg to rest on his, opening her to him.

He takes himself in hand, rubbing the head of his penis against her labia. She is still wet and he is painfully hard and he slips against her heat. "Can I have you?" His voice is husky with sleep and she moves against him as he nibbles her earlobe.

She turns over her shoulder to look at him and kisses him fully. "Touch me again," she tells him, her own voice high and tight. "Take me."

He slides inside of her agonisingly slowly until he is pressed against her cervix. She can feel him, them; his pulse along with her own and she gasps, reminds herself to breathe. He circles his hips and she elicits a long, primal groan.

"Yeah?" he asks in answer, kissing the back of her neck.

"Richard," she wails, unable to manage anything intelligible.

His arms come around her and he takes her breasts in his hands. She arches her back, the thrust of her hips sending shockwaves of sensation through her core and his groin. He swears sharply, breathes it into her ear and takes the lobe roughly between his teeth.

"Mm-hmm," she sighs, laughing low and seductively. "Indeed."

As they rock together, languid and unhurried, one of his hands leaves her breast to trail downward, past her ribs, pausing to rest firmly on her belly. She has a flash of him cradling her and an unborn child this way, but before the pangs of a longing that can never be fulfilled take hold his fingertips find her centre.

"Oh, right there!" she cries. She feels his lips curl into a smile against the base of her neck. As they move together, she has the idle thought that the motion of their hips is like that of a seesaw.

"I love you, Isobel," he half-whispers. She feels the words on her skin. "I can't have you close enough. Your touch, your heat, your beautiful heart. The way you let me know you." The edge of his thumbnail scrapes against the spot that is her undoing and her body trembles. She sucks in a breath, trying to hold her climax off. "Let it go, baby," he urges her, choosing his words deliberately. "Come for me."

She lets it blossom, lets it roll over her. She doesn't hold back the tears or the shudders or the shouted cries. He asks her if she's alright after she's come down a little and she hums in satisfaction and reaches back to give his bottom a firm squeeze.

"Little minx," he snarls. She giggles, wiggling her hips in a way that makes them both cry out. She is deliciously sensitive now and she would have him inside her forever if she could.

"Mmm … don't ever want to stop," she drawls, pushing back against him and gasping.

"Oh, God, do that again!" When she does, he sinks his teeth into the sweet, soft juncture of her neck and shoulder. His hands come around to clasp her breasts again and it's exactly what she wants, needs, dreams of when she thinks of them together.

Just like this.

oOo

It's wildly decadent, eating pancakes for supper on the couch in the conservatory, both of them in their dressing gowns, having alternately dozed and made love all afternoon. It's snowing, and he watches her watching it, the way her eyes lock onto a singular snowflake and follow it down to the ground. She's mesmerised and it tickles him; in some ways her fascination and exuberance remind him of a child's.

"Thought you hated winter," he muses, drawing her closer so that her back rests against his chest.

"I suppose I'm mellowing with age," she tells him. He can feel the vibration of her words where their bodies touch.

"You, my darling, are ageless," he counters.

She wraps his arms tighter around her middle, folding her own around them. "Surely you're due to visit the ophthalmologist, Major," she teases. "Well I'm mellowing with love, then. How on earth could I be unhappy?"

He grins at this, but he can't stop himself from wondering. "You sure that isn't the afterglow talking?"

"I'm inclined not to give a damn if it is," she tells him, proving his point.

He chuckles, but it's only half mirthful. "Only I know something touched a nerve in you today, and if it's all the same I'd like us to put it right before the day is over."

She sighs, shifting to recline against the arm of the couch, her feet in his lap. "No, you're right," she admits, pausing. "I'll preface this by saying that it was nothing to do with you. You were an easy target for my frustration over things I shouldn't feel. That I don't want to feel. It's juvenile, and I'm mortified."

"Don't let's waste time labelling it. I'll argue that you let me have it because you know you're safe with me. And you are." He reaches for her hand and she graces him with a watery smile. He continues, "What concerns me is your fear of feeling … whatever it is you're feeling. You don't do fear, Isobel. What's that about?"

She lets his words echo in her head. You're safe with me, you're safe with me. She rubs her forehead, trying to smooth her furrowed brow. "We were both of us saying how we'd have liked to have a family together," she begins. He nods and squeezes her hand. "I get angry, Richard. Angry that Fiona's life was over before it ever properly began. I'll always be angry that Reg was taken from me, and I hope you understand that it doesn't mean I'm not in love with you or that you're sloppy seconds. I think you do, but there are moments I doubt. Not because of anything you've done, mind … I just …" She gestures into the empty space as if searching for an explanation that isn't there.

"Darling, of course I know it," he assures. "I know that you love me. I've never felt I'm competing with Dr. Crawley. Never. Not once."

She manages a small, grateful smile before continuing. "I'm angry that I was robbed of a second chance at all of it, with you. It's true I'd have been old, and my track record was abysmal even when I wasn't. But you and I both have seen it happen many times."

"Quite," he agrees. "But Isobel, your heart wasn't yours to give then. You know it's true. You were very much in mourning for your husband, as well you should have been."

"I know," she says quietly. Her eyes betray her anguish.

"Mind you I'm not saying that your feelings are misplaced. You're you; you know things I don't by virtue of having lived them. But your guilt is. I don't hold anything against you, and I don't need to have known Dr. Crawley to know that he wouldn't, either. Talk to me about George. You say he brings it all back. Tell me about that."

Her eyes are still wet at the corners but her face lights up at the mention of her grandson's name. "When one has a baby, there's so very much that seems so hard in the beginning. You're not sleeping, and some days you can't even shower, and delirium sets in. You think you'll never survive it. There's a tiny, angry thing that needs and needs and until you get to know one another, there's miscommunication. So you miss the wonder of it all. You've created such beauty. Just the weight of them in your arms, the sweet little sighs and the smell of their head. The feeling when the two of you finally click, and suddenly the cries are distinguishable and your voice begins to soothe them. It's easy to see it in hindsight, like so many things." She smiles sagely. "Now I know exactly what I missed, and I'm getting it all with George."

"And because you've been there from the moment he was born, you've bonded with him as strongly as Mary has. More so, I'd say. That girl wouldn't be a mother if not for you."

Caught a bit wrong-footed by his words she nudges his ribs with her foot, blushing slightly. "That's as may be," she demurs. "Without that baby to dote on, I'd never have got through Matthew's accident. But you know, there are times he reminds me of all that I lost. You're his grandfather, of course you are, but so was Reg, and he ought to have known his grandson. I sometimes think of the two of us, of how we'd pass George back and forth and marvel at how much he's just like his father. If, you know. End of."

"If you're expecting me to be jealous then you're going to be disappointed," he interjects when she trails off.

"I only told you a half truth before," she confesses, emboldened by his acceptance.

"Oh? Go on."

"Well I said I let it get to me when I couldn't get him to take the bottle, and it's true, but … But he was rooting to nurse and the floodgates just burst open. There it was, right in my face: everything my body can't do. I'm not a complete fool; I know that at this age I'd naturally be past all of that even if I hadn't lost it all. But it took me back to the days after Fiona. My baby gone, my womb gone. I suppose I could just about have survived it with Reg beside me, but I was alone. I had to do something, Richard. I'd have died without some sort of purpose …"

He has to smile a little at this. Even if she doesn't believe it herself, she's wired to be a survivor. "I'd expect nothing less."

"I've never shared this before … my Aunt Máirín and my doctor —my colleague— knew, but that was it. I kept up a supply … you know …" She meets his eyes furtively, and he nods encouragement, "... for six months. Donated it to the NICU. I'd probably have starved otherwise, without a reason to eat. After a while I just stopped producing … I lost her at eighteen weeks so it's really quite extraordinary that I ever had any at all. Probably because she wasn't my first …"

He probably shouldn't be surprised —she is the most selfless human being he has ever known— but he is blown away that in the depths of her grief she was still thinking of others.

"I know I don't need to tell you how many lives you saved. That's as far from failure as one can get, Isobel." He leaves it at that. Knows she didn't tell him out of any desire for affirmation.

"Perhaps." She hugs her knees to her chest. "Wouldn't you think I'd have moved beyond it all at this stage, Richard? The life we've made together is the stuff of dreams; why can't I leave the past behind me?" She pauses; he watches her eyes as she blinks thoughtfully. "It never was a case of noble intentions, you know. It was all about self-preservation." There it is, finally. The source of her self-reproach brought to light.

He doesn't reply immediately even though the words are there. While he could never condemn her, the last thing she'll accept is a blind rush to her defence. "Will you consider," he asks carefully, "that the intent behind your actions is not so important as the results?" He gives her space to think and adds, "Do you honestly think that Dr. Crawley would fault you for working so tirelessly and for giving life to newborns who, in all likelihood, would not have survived otherwise? It sounds to me like the ideal way to honour his legacy, and your daughter's."

She is silent, thinking. She would like to refute what he said, but in true Richard form he's put to death any possible objection.

Patting her on the knee, he rises from the couch with the tea things. "Just going to stack the dishwasher and pour us a drink. I should ask yourself: would you really want the memory of them to stop following you? Is it not a testament to the significance of their presence? Something to think about."

With a wink he takes the dishes away, leaving her quite a lot to mull over.