Thank you for your reviews! There was going to be some entirely angsty chapters in between these two, but then I thought "Oh to hell with narrative structure! There is enough of angst in the real world!" So I stuck little bits of it in this chapter and mitigated it a bit. Set in episode 8 immediately after Lavinia's death. Dedicated to Batwings in honour of her birthday.
He stops instantly in the middle of the corridor when he hears her, in spite of himself, but the instinct within him is irrepressible. The sound of her crying- he knows without even having to think about it that it's her- comes clearly through the wall: she is obviously oblivious to the fact that she can be heard. Isobel wouldn't cry like that if she thought she could be heard. It makes his throat constrict. The room is the one that was made up for Mr Swire's arrival for the wedding that will not happen now.
He has already hesitated outside of the door for too long to leave. He can't leave her knowing that she's crying like this. In spite of everything that's happened- or not happened- between them recently; all the bitterness, the resentment, the anger, the awful, awful silences, the irritation with her as recently as when she offered to come and see to Carson with him, the ineffable hurt of having to sleep with her side of the bed conspicuously empty; he does not remember any of it now, it doesn't cross his mind for a second. All he can think of is Isobel, his Isobel- yes, suddenly she is his again- on the other side of the door, crying alone, sobbing into the lonely night. And he cannot bear it.
He taps quietly but firmly on the door, but does not wait for a reply before opening it and entering quickly, closing the door behind him.
She stares at his, her sobs faltering instantly, as he enters, but otherwise does not betray what she feels at seeing him in the slightest. A few seconds pass when they only look at each other, not doing anything else; him hovering by the closed door and her sitting on the side of the bed- the sheets lain over the mattress but the corners untucked and the covers still folded neatly in a pile across the foot of the bed. The she bows her head, and continues to cry silently, her face the picture of the utmost grief.
"Oh, Isobel."
It is more than he can stand and, without thinking about it, he crosses swiftly to the bed, sitting down beside her so that their knees touch, wrapping his arms around her whole body and holding her, her arms tucked softly against his chest. She has noticeably lost weight and he can feel her shoulder blades quite prominently, jutting out over the top of her corset, even through her blouse. It is more than he can stand to think that sensible, level-headed, his Isobel has not been looking after herself properly.
He kisses her face; her cheeks where the dampness of her tears lies, her forehead, the side of her face so that his nose nuzzles against her eardrum. He kisses her softly; only wanting to give her comfort and asking for nothing in return. All the time avoiding her lips. It is her who finally seeks out his lips.
…...
She hardly dares to believe that this is happening as he responds to her kiss and his tongue slips carefully into her mouth as she parts her lips under his. Second chances like this don't happen in the real world. She thought she'd lost him. She thought she'd been foolish enough to let him go. For a moment she remembers herself crying, the night after that awful lunch with Major Bryant's mother, howling into her pillow because she realised she herself could not confront her own grief: she had lost the best lover she had had in her life and she couldn't confront it. Since then, all she'd wanted had been him, only her courage had failed her and she hadn't been brave enough to ask for him back.
But he's back now, and somehow, still wrapped in each other's arms, they're lying down together; bodies entwined and kissing, kissing passionately. She doesn't want to think of anything except him: she's gone for too long without him, and the reality of everything else is quite frankly too awful to contemplate yet. And now he's lying on top of her, and her blouse is unbuttoned, his lips leaving her to latch onto her earlobe in a way she's always found irresistible. Her hips roll up towards his in blissful contact.
She wants him here and now, she realises as his shirt comes off as well. At the moment she doesn't care if this is only a mistake to him, and that he won't speak to her again in the morning. What she wants is him back inside her, so that she can feel complete again, even if only for the last time. She loves him still, in spite of everything. She doesn't care about what he did, that doesn't seem to matter now in the wake of everything that has happened now. She was a fool; she knew he did what he did for love of her and she should have realised that at least she had him, and that was all that mattered. That was all that did matter.
…...
He wants to take his time with her, to make their reunion as long and as pleasurable for both of them as possible, but almost before he's realised it, her corset has come away in his hand, and he's thrown it onto the floor and taken her breasts full in his palms instead. By some hasty, haphazard magic, they are naked together once more, their bodies aligning blissfully, as they kiss more before he touches her briefly between the legs and thrusts into her hard and fast.
His excitement builds quickly as their bodies rock together; dangerously quickly; more quickly than hers. He slips his hand between their bodies, trying to reach and press her nub to help her along. She takes him by the hand and stops him.
"It's alright," she whispered to him, her breathing heavy and laboured, "It's alright, Richard. Let go."
He tried, tried to hold himself back, but before he could take hold of her hand she reached deftly between their bodies and cupped him. He spilled himself inside her with a long and deep groan of satisfaction. She was closer than he had realised, and the motion of his hips bucking franticly into hers only spurred her on, so that as he was slipping out of her, exhausted and sated, she was reaching the peak of her excitement. Lazily, he slipped his hand between her legs, to fondle her, pressing her nub firmly between his finger and thumb and slipping his middle finger inside of her to feel her exquisite wetness. Her hips bucking off the bed, he covered her mouth with his lips to muffle her cry as she came hard against his hand. Once more, the sight of her abandon was branded fresh across his eyes.
As she recovered, her beautiful body limp and trembling, he sat up to gather the bed covers from the foot of the bed, arranging them around her to keep her warm and then slipping under them beside her, holding her against him.
…...
Even after she recovered, it was a long time until either of them spoke. Then his voice issued from close beside her ear.
"I can't believe you allowed me that," he spoke quietly, in a tone of awe.
"Why not?" she asked, equally softly, "It's the least I owe you."
It was like their first time all over again: all of the anger and the grief had been worn away and now there was only the love they felt for each other, and tenderness in incredible measures. His thumb brushed along the side of her face.
"Forgive me, Isobel," he whispered.
"I already have done," she told him, "And I rather think it's me who should be asking your forgiveness this time."
"I love you," he told her, "I was angry with you for what you said to me, but no doubt about it, in the end I cannot live without you. There's nothing I wouldn't forgive you for."
"I love you so much, Richard," she told him against his cheek, kissing him, "And I've been the biggest fool in the world."
"I think we're both fools for the love of each other," he remarked quietly, shifting his head to kiss her back, kissing her in her hairline.
"Probably," she agreed.
They were quiet for a while.
"Are you alright?" he finally asked.
"Yes," she replied, "It's been a few weeks, but you didn't hurt me."
"No, I didn't mean that, though I'm glad. I meant before. The crying."
"I will be," she replied haltingly, "But that poor girl. That poor, poor girl."
"I know," he held her tightly against his chest, "And as soon as you want to talk about it, I'll here. You'll never have to do without me again, Isobel."
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