I'm back into the fold! I know my updates have been rather irregular (real life has been crazy), but I'm trying to get back into the habit of having a weekly fanfic uploaded on Fridays.

Shelagh had thought she knew what she was up against when she adopted baby Angela. She'd thought she knew it was exhausting, and demanding, and at times even frightening.

She just hadn't realised quite how exhausting, and demanding, and frightening.

She had to restrain herself from weighing Angela every day to make sure she was gaining enough, had to force herself not to put the baby under yet another blanket (the poor thing had been quite red and irritable after the first chilly night, because Shelagh had positively smothered her in hand-knitted blankets), had to keep telling herself a cold or an ear infection or a stomach bug every now and again was not only perfectly normal, but also perfectly necessary to develop Angela's immune system.

As soon as the child was asleep, Shelagh would flop down on the bed and lie there with eyes closed, bathing in the simple bliss of quietude for a while.

And I don't even have to deal with pregnancy hormones and leaking breasts, she'd think. Timothy and Patrick had been absolute dears besides, helping her to feed Angela, setting the table, washing dishes. Neither of them were very enthusiastic when nappies needed to be changed, but this was hardly a thing to be wondered at; Shelagh didn't look forward to sodden nappies much herself, either.

Of course no dirty nappy was a match against her need to keep things clean, and no matter how much Angela fussed and cried and threw up, Shelagh could always remember why she wanted this.

The only thing she missed from before was the time she and Patrick used to have in the bedroom.

She was tired at the end of the day, but Patrick seemed positively dead on his feet. One night, when she'd rolled on her side and had started rubbing his belly and peppering his throat with kisses, he'd taken her hand and stilled it. "I was almost asleep, Shelagh," he'd murmured.

"Yes, well, but now that you're awake I figured there was something else we could do," she'd said, bringing his hand to her mouth and touching his knuckles with the tip of her tongue.

"I'm too tired. I'm sorry, darling," he'd said.

"It's fine. It doesn't matter," she'd said, but he hadn't heard because he had fallen asleep in earnest then.

Well, he's a good deal older than I am, and juggling a demanding profession besides, she'd told herself, listening to the little growl he made at the back of his throat which wasn't quite a snore but on its way to becoming one.

But it simply wouldn't do. Patrick had awakened a need in her, a perpetual craving lying dormant until woken by a simple touch. It needed to be hushed and stilled, and there was only one way to do that.

I will simply have to try a little harder, she thought.

And so she decided upon a plan of attack, and prepared accordingly.

The moment to strike presented itself one cold winter night. Patrick had the afternoon off, and wasn't on call for the evening and night. He had taken a short nap as soon as he'd come home, then sat sequestered in his office doing paperwork for a good two hours. He seemed refreshed after this; he ate hearty meal, helped doing the dishes, and helped Timothy with his math's homework with no complaint. The poor boy was as tired as they all were, and went upstairs for an early night, his eyes thick from lack of sleep.

"Poor Timothy," Patrick said as he scooped Angela up. "Your poor brother. You've kept him awake a lot lately, you know." He took her tiny starfish hand in his and blew on her fingers. She gurgled sleepily.

"She's been awake herself a lot, too," Shelagh said.

"Yes, she does look as if she needs a good night's sleep. I'll put her in her crib upstairs." Patrick smiled at his daughter, holding her in the crook of his arm, his head bent to one side like a flower on a snapped stem, the way he always held his head when something endeared him.

Shelagh waited till the creak of his feet on the stairs faded, then padded after him. When she was at the top of her stairs her breathing came in quick little gulps already. Her belly clenched almost painfully in anticipation. She took a moment to inhale deeply, then tiptoed to the bedroom.

Patrick was standing over the crib, staring at their little girl with a tired grin on his face. God, the things he did to her with that sloppy grin…

He looked up, startled a little. "I didn't hear you," he whispered, his arm already reaching for her.

She let him pull her into his embrace, resting her forehead against his chest, splaying her hands next to her face. He smelled of baby formula, talcum powder, aftershave, and vaguely of sweat. Part of her was happy to stand still like this, her husband's arms around her, his scent and warmth covering her. Another part, smaller but stronger and meaner, demanded she ask for more.

She took hold of his tie and undid it slowly before unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt. Thank God Angela had drooled all over that ugly beige sweater of his, or Shelagh wouldn't have been able to do this. She parted the fabric of his shirt with both index fingers, then pressed her nose against him. The patch of skin between his collarbones was free of hair. She touched it with her lips, lavishing it with small, damp kisses.

"Shelagh," Patrick said, placing his hands over hers. "Shelagh, maybe we should get some sleep."

She tilted her head up so she could kiss his throat. He groaned, one hand automatically falling to the small of her back. "Should we?" she murmured, her breath hot and short.

"I have to get up early tomorrow for work," he whispered.

"I have to get up early tomorrow because Angela will need feeding," she retorted. She cupped his face, the contours of his cheekbones and jaw hard against her palms. "That's not a reason not to. I want you."

"It's all right if we don't do this. You don't have to because you think I need it," Patrick said.

Annoyed she tilted her head back so she could look at him. "Patrick, you're a very daft man if you think I'm doing this just to please you."

He blinked at her in surprise, then grinned a little. "Am I?"

She nodded, carding her left hand through his hair, pressing her fingertips against his scalp in the way she knew made his knees weak. "Very daft."

His hands dropped lower, cupped her arse. "I'd hate you to think me daft," he said, kneading her buttocks.

She moaned loudly, the sound almost a purr.

Angela sighed, then mewled.

Patrick and Shelagh froze, their hearts beating quickly, their breathing a little ragged already.

Angela sighed again before becoming quiet.

Patrick's eyes locked with Shelagh's. "If we're going to do this, we must be very quiet," he whispered, "Or our little Angel girl will wake and leave us with unfinished business."

Another lesson, I suppose. "Understood." She stood on tiptoes so she could touch the space just below his ears with her lips. Patrick's hands dropped lower. He bunched up the fabric of her skirt before slipping both hands underneath.

Startled, he opened his eyes.

She grinned up at him. "What?" she whispered.

"Mrs Turner, I think you've forgotten to wear your knickers today."

"Oh dear," she said.

"Sly thing. Well, I suppose it saves us the trouble of undressing you completely. Very smart, with these wintery temperatures."

But as they rocked and met and intertwined beneath the sheets they grew warm and sweaty anyway.

They didn't make a sound, though.