Whatever they thought retirement would be, they were wrong. Back in London, all their juniors had insisted that neither of them would be able to handle having nothing doing every day and that they'd be back within the first year, bored to tears. They'd laughed at the time, she and he; the backbreaking pace they'd been keeping as department heads at the most prestigious hospital in the city was precisely the reason they left. The appeal of a laidback life in the countryside was what brought them to Yorkshire, and they've never looked back.
There hasn't been time. They'd known, in theory, that renovating a pre-Victorian cottage would present its challenges, but not the extent to which Historic England would be a thorn in their proverbial side. They've become unnaturally good at filling in the Listed Building Consent form, requisite as it is for things as trivial as replacing a cracked window pane. It's worth the headaches to see the cottage restored to some of its former glory, to say nothing of putting a stamp of their own on the place, but it has occupied the better part of their resources since moving up north.
And that was before the COVID-19 pandemic began its reign of terror over the world. Initially it was little more than an inconvenience. Renovations ground to a halt for a time, but it was the middle of winter anyway and most projects weren't slated to start till the spring. Grocery delivery as far out from York as they are isn't a thing, so they'd taken it in turns to mask up and go into town every couple of weeks for essentials. When the NHS, in its campaign to mobilise medical professionals, asked retired physicians to consider returning to work, she'd felt, more so than did he at first, a compulsion to answer the call. He argued that they were already doing their part by keeping young George when Matthew and Mary had to go into the office and overseeing his online learning when schools were shuttered. She insisted that, seeing as doctors were paying with their lives in the effort to treat the hundreds of new cases daily overwhelming hospitals countrywide, they had an obligation to volunteer their services. He ended up doing telemedicine visits from home through the local clinic, and she was temporarily assigned as a senior registrar in Maternity Services at York Hospital. For months they were ships passing in the night, and it began to feel as though they'd never left London at all.
All the while, the virus tightened its grasp. They were good sailors right up until she was sidelined by pneumonia and landed herself on the other side of a hospital bed. Whilst they waited to hear whether she'd contracted the coronavirus, he rang Regents Park directly and told the parties responsible to revoke their credentials, both his and hers; they'd put in their time and this virus was not their fight. She was livid when she heard, particularly as it ended up that her illness was secondary to bronchitis and not corona at all, but he maintained that he hadn't given forty years of his life to National Health to die alone, without her, and, well. He wasn't given to dramatics, having long since determined which battles were worth fighting, and she found she really couldn't argue, given her own widowhood. Having found love together in the autumn of life was why they'd chosen to forge northwards and leave the bureaucracy behind at all, and she wasn't about to risk missing the chance to grow old with him.
It took the better part of a month for her to come anywhere close to feeling like herself after her illness, and in that time they did slow down, inasmuch as the two of them could be expected to do so. Elsie Carson and Beryl Patmore kept the fridge and freezer stocked with home cooked meals. The hiring of contractors and meetings with the local housing council were mentally placed on a shelf labelled 'later,' replaced by nights in front of the fireplace bingeing all the dramas they hadn't had time for in years. Three weeks into her convalescence, they discovered the true meaning of 'Netflix and chill,' and suffice it to say that was the catalyst for a new tradition.
It's closing in on a year now since she fell ill, and there've been no negative long-term effects. The house is once again demanding to be the centre of attention and their grandson is still in online learning, but they are no longer breaking their necks for any reason. She can't risk it, belonging as she does now in a high-risk category, and he refuses on principle, given recent events.
She despises being coddled. For twenty years she got by on her own and did far more than simply manage; she was the portrait of success. He (mostly) trusts her to know her own limitations, but he worries about the things that are outside her control. On good days he has a laugh thinking how the tables have turned. For years it was him telling her she had no reason to fear losing him. On bad days he works it out over a pint or two with Charles, who has been where he is and listens well and gives it to him straight when he needs it.
Still. He perceives any threat to her well-being as an enemy combatant and his hackles are always raised slightly. And because she loves him, and because a part of her secretly thrills at the notion of him defending her honour, she (mostly) allows him his doting.
She hadn't fought him at all today when he'd come to her in the midst of her battle to subdue the rugosa roses, a damp flannel in hand to wipe away the streaks of blood on her forearms. She'd even gone so far as to let him remove the thorns, rather than trying to do it herself. She'd agreed when he'd urged her to have a bath, watched while he filled the tub, let him undress her slow and reverent, head tipped back at the warmth of his touch. And that had been the last he'd seen of her, having left her to soak with a hot cup of coffee, a fluffy towel, and her favourite dressing gown. Meanwhile he'd read the roses the riot act and burnt off the brush pile, having decided she'd shed enough blood for one day.
He'd not seen her since, having cleaned up in the other bathroom when his chores were finished, but she's a long bather, now that she can afford to be. She fancies running the water as hot as she can stand and staying in until it cools to the point it's unpleasant. He likes to kid ("I'd started to think you fell asleep in there!"), but in truth it thrills him to see her prioritizing self-care.
He's just coming in from tossing the Frisbee out in the yard for MacTavish when he catches sight of her. She's sat at the piano in her dressing gown with her back to him. Her hair is still pinned up at the nape from her bath, her feet bare and delicate on the pedals as she plays, completely lost in the music.
He comes and sits on the bench beside her, moving carefully to avoid startling her. She must feel his weight shift; he watches her eyes blink open slowly and focus on him.
And that's when he notices the tears. He bites down hard on the instinct to panic, thinks again of her trust and how it was won with his constant, steady presence. "Baby?" he asks at last, raising a gentle hand to sweep away the teardrops from beneath each eye with the pad of his thumb. "What's this, then? Hmm?"
She lifts her fingers from the keys to bury her face in her hands momentarily, huffing out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "Oh, it's nothing … I heard a song in the bath and, well, you know me. I had to sit down and work it out."
"Like you do," he says with a nod, encouraging.
She smiles again. Sighs again. The colour of her eyes shifts with her mood. "Yes, well, it came to me straightaway, mostly. Haven't got all the lyrics yet, but …"
He hesitates a moment before asking, "Play it for me?" She'd once been a virtuoso, world class, but since giving it up for medicine she hadn't made a habit of playing in front of others. Privately she'd kept at it nearly every day, but her practise time had long since become a sacred thing, a means of exorcising her own personal demons and carving out peace. These days she plays whenever the mood strikes her, impervious, almost, to his presence, but he's never stopped feeling as though he's witnessing something precious when she does.
She doesn't answer him, just turns back to the piano and flexes her fingers. It never ceases to amaze him, the way that she can hear a song once and play it perfectly with only a few moments' practise. She's ethereal as he watches, lit from within, singing along softly where she knows the words and humming the melody where she doesn't, and it's a struggle for him to remember that it's the song he's meant to focus on; not her.
When she finishes, she looks at him, wet spots dotting the satin of her robe and a stream of fresh tears running down her cheeks, and swallows hard. "Sorry. It um … Feels rather … autobiographical. You and me; me and Reg … and all of it gets stuck," she raises her hand, fist to her chest, "right here." She's not embarrassed, not exactly, for him to see her this way; not anymore, but she still feels that tears are a weakness, a character flaw to judge herself on, particularly since her illness.
He knows. "Shh, beauty. You never have to explain yourself to me." He opens his arms and she comes to him, head on his chest as he rocks her, kisses away the dampness at her temples. He has never known anyone who loves like she does: thoroughly, recklessly. She loves like she breathes, so much of it inside her that it cannot be contained. She loves until she chokes on it, till it leaks out of her, and it brings him to his knees to know he's the object of so much of it.
He's here for whichever Isobel shows up on any given day, at any moment. This particular version, soft and vulnerable, does a number on his self-control, the compulsion to wrap her up and secret her away a strong one. It's neither what she wants nor likely will allow, but there are certain overtures she's never been able to refuse.
"Let me take care of you?" he asks when she raises her head to look at him with wet, pretty eyes. It is a question, not a demand, because it requires sacrifice on her part. Never is she more powerful than when she yields her strength to him, but it's asking a great deal of her to do so.
She nods, eyes wide, and gives him her hand as he helps her to stand. "Please." It's all she needs to say. He trails a hand behind him as he leads her up the stairs and she never lets go.
Inside the doorway of their bedroom he crowds her against the wall, cages her in with forearms braced one either side of her head, and watches her watching him, her eyes all heat. His fingers curl into the hair at the nape of her neck, soft breaths passing between them, and without preamble the tip of his tongue darts out to lick at her bottom lip. She gasps, pushing her own tongue past his lips and licking into his mouth. He can't help but moan as she nips at his lips and he leans into her, pressing himself against her from chest to groin and trailing his fingertips over the ridges of her spine, down, down, down, taking hold of her thigh and drawing it upwards to wrap round his waist.
He digs his fingertips into the curve of her arse … and yelps. "Christ, woman, you're freezing! First order of business is to get you into the shower."
"But Richard, I've just had a bath! And you've only just showered yourself!" She looks at him like he's gone mad as he lets go of her and heads into the ensuite, opening the taps.
"Can't have you catching cold, my love," he counters, indulge me written in the look he gives her. He knows, like she knows, that there's no truth to the old wives' tale, but it's a concession she can afford to make. Besides, in her haste earlier she did jump out of the bath and into her dressing gown without drying herself first and she will admit that she's a bit chilled. And five minutes later, when she's pressed against the shower wall, cool tile against her back and him at her front, between her legs, all hot, wet skin and teeth and tongue and everywhere, she's glad the lady didn't protest too much.
She goes pliant in his arms, lets him turn her beneath the spray and leans back against his chest, rolling her hips into the heat of him, half-hard and pressing into the cleft of her bum. They grind together, unhurried, one of his hands on her hip and the other over her heart.
She certainly isn't cold anymore, he realises as his lips graze the top of her shoulder, her chest rising and falling beneath his palm. He is loath to move, though, the slow circling rhythm of her hips lulling him into a trance-like state in which everything is Isobel, warm, wet, skin, fuck, yes.
She makes the decision for him when she reaches back to grasp his hip, pull him tighter to her. "Richard," she calls, "want you."
He pushes his hips forward, tight against her arse, and splays his palm across her lower abdomen. The sharp edges of his teeth nip at the tender skin just where her neck and shoulder join. "Got me, love." He growls, low and gentle with just enough of an edge to make her shiver; he feels the tremour as it ripples up her spine.
She forgets to breathe when he guides her out of the shower, stands her on the rug, and begins to dry her. Every swipe of the towel is followed by the caress of his lips and he lingers in all the places that make her squirm and clench and cry out for more, darling, please.
"Gonnae make you feel so good," he promises, giving himself a quick once-over with a towel before he secures it about his hips and leads her to the bedroom. The thrall in which she holds him is a heady thing; that she follows him at all; doesn't simply push him down on the bed and take her fill has got him mad with wanting her and he's sure he's never been so hard in his life. He lays her down and takes in the sight of her: honeyed skin against the stark white of the sheets, her knees falling open, arms stretched out across the pillows waiting for him. Her satisfied sigh when he comes to her has heat flaring in his belly.
"Richard," she breathes, "feel so good against me." As if she's never felt him like this before: on her, above her; as if they haven't been here innumerable times. He's addicted to it: her wide-eyed wonderment. "Wanna touch you." All breath and dark eyes and so earnest he aches.
"Yeah?" he holds himself on his forearms above her; when they breathe his chest and her breasts touch. "Put your hands on me, baby." Their eyes lock as she presses her palms to his chest and he slips for a moment at the warmth of them smoothing over his skin, pads of her thumbs brushing his nipples. Forgets that he wanted this to be about her. Warm, her touch skims his abdomen, fingertips following the trail of soft hair below his navel and his breath catches. Her index finger traces his length, thumb swirling around the head. He moans, and so does she, the sound making his balls pull up tight.
"Wet for me," she whispers, playing with him, spreading the moisture she finds.
"Fuck, yes." He whimpers, no dignity in it, and she laughs, and he laughs.
"I know what you want this to be, but you forget it goes a long way, knowing all this …" she wraps a hand around him, palms the sensitive head, "is for me."
He groans, pained. "Love, I'm not gonnae last if you—"
She giggles, arches up to kiss him, swiping her tongue at the inside of his upper lip. "Hush, baby. Just love me." Baby. His stomach swoops and dips, his cock twitches at the sound of it.
"Ooh, seems you fancy that every bit as much as I do," she giggles wickedly. "Baby."
"I'm a weak man, Isobel." The look he sends her is plaintive.
She shakes her head against the pillows, hooks her elbows under his armpits and pulls him down till all of his weight is resting on her. "Not weak. You're lovely. And perfect. And mine," and if her innocence is his Achilles heel, possessive Isobel is the knockout punch that seals his fate.
He kisses her and both of them are well past sweet, attacking one another's mouths until they're panting with it. She's still holding him —just holding him— in her hand and her knees fall farther apart. He reads the invitation, rolling off her enough to lie on his side and freeing up the use of one arm. He caresses soft pearlescent skin, the tender insides of her thighs and she gasps, trembling with sensation. He may already know the answer, but still he asks, "Okay, beauty?"
She clamps her thighs shut, trapping his questing fingers, but it does nothing to assuage the ache. As much as he's asked her to let him have this, make her feel good, she knows that he understands; for her, sex is as much about the speaking and hearing as it is the touching. She can trust him to know what she needs and still tell it to him anyway.
He moves her hair aside to brush his lips along the curve behind her ear. "Come on, baby."
She whinges softly, squirms a little, finds his hand with her own and brings it to her centre. "Need you inside. Touch me."
He presses his smile into the curve of her neck. "That's my girl."
They touch her together, languid and hot, until her hand falls away, clenched, along with its counterpart, into a fist against the mattress. He is two fingers deep in her now and how can one man be everywhere she needs him, all at once? She'll never work it out, and it doesn't matter. All she knows is pleasure and that, unfathomably, it keeps getting better. Every stroke tightens the knot deep in her belly, sharpens the delicious ache, until he feels her start to tighten around his fingers … and stills his touch.
She cries out in frustration, fists pounding the bed beneath her. "Damn you, I was right there. I'm right there, Richard!"
The corner of his mouth turns up in a soft smile. "I know, pretty. Wanna see you ride the edge a little, yeah? It makes you come so hard." He moves in towards her, angles his head. "Want tae feel that," he breathes against her mouth.
A soundless Oh! passes her lips, open and panting. She draws him down, the tips of her nails pressing tiny crescents into the back of his neck, and kisses him. And kisses him more. He strokes his thumb over her clitoris every now and again to keep her there, until her hips rise in counterpoint and her whimpering sounds of more pain than pleasure.
"Need!" she cries, near a whisper, "Richard, need …"
"What, baby? Tell me what you need." His voice is soothing even as his fingers press up sharply inside her.
"Jesus Christ!" She forgets herself for a moment, hands clutching fistfuls of the sheets and her breath sharply indrawn.
"Tell me, Isobel," he murmurs, long steady slide of his fingers out of her and then back in, "come on love."
"Oh … God … damn," she chants, feeling perfect pressure, then empty, then so, so full. "Just … suck me!"
The words go straight to his groin; his cock lurches. She's always described wanting him as an ache too deep to reach and he gets it now. "There's my pretty baby," he rumbles close to her ear. "Love your fucking mouth so much."
Before she has the chance to respond, he's kissing down her neck, biting down where her pulse throbs, sucking hard enough that she feels the bruise forming. "Oh my god," she whispers. His lips follow the ridge of her collarbone, tongue tracing the cleft where her underarm meets the top of her chest. He's high on the scent of her, of them: clean sweat and lavender soap, the heady musk of sex, sharp tang of her arousal.
His lips feather over her nipple and she clenches hard around his fingers. She is breathless, pupils blown wide as he sucks the tender flesh between his lips, rolls it against the roof of his mouth. He fucks into her with his fingers in earnest now and she's close, ribs retracting as she climbs and climbs and climbs. He hums his encouragement around her flesh and draws hard from her breast, pinching the other nipple between the fingers of his free hand as he rubs the flat of it with the pad of his thumb.
She comes in bursts of blinding white behind her eyelids, her body wracked with shudders. She sobs with the strength of her orgasm and he strokes her through it, suckling her. Long minutes pass before her walls stop squeezing him.
Breathe, she reminds herself when he's sprawled between her legs, pressing kisses to the rise of her pubic bone. Every nerve ending is alight with sensation, tendrils of heat coiling low in her belly as she feels the velvety length of him against her hip, the way he's grinding subtly.
"Hey." She tries her voice and it's raspy. He looks up with his lips still on her skin and takes her breath away. "Beautiful," she murmurs.
"Get away wi' ye'," he grumbles, the tops of his ears pinking brilliantly.
"Thought you loved me for my honesty." She runs her fingers through his hair. "Too far away," she grouses, "come up here."
He takes his time complying, kissing his way up her body and lingering at each of the spots that make her arch and writhe. Her breaths are coming quickly by the time he reaches her mouth. "Hi," he whispers, kissing her slowly.
"Hi," she answers when the kiss breaks, only to take his lips again, sucking on his tongue. They come apart gasping, his forehead resting against her own. "Come on darling. Fill me up."
He huffs a laugh, dropping one more quick kiss on her lips. "Magnificent woman."
She doesn't remember ever having had bad sex —well, aside from her and Reginald's first time, but they were a quick study— but sex with Richard always leaves her wondering how she survived fully half her adult life without him. She passes him the little bottle from the night table, watching him slick himself up with measured strokes while she whimpers at the sight, and then he's pressed against her, sliding in slow and hot. It's just like every other time they've been here and it's better than anything she's felt before.
She catches his hips when he bottoms out and stills him. "Oh, fuck," she whispers, lips against his lips, their foreheads resting together.
"Jesus, sweetheart, you're perfect."
She presses her smile against his own and hitches her legs around his hips, her ankles locking together behind his back. She whispers little endearments and breathless nothings into his mouth between kisses and he holds their position, rolling his hips just enough to press him deep. Tears gather in the corners of her eyes and she arches up to meet him.
"Sensitive," he whispers.
She ducks her head into the round corner where his neck and shoulder meet and nods, flicking her tongue against soft skin dusted with stubble. "Just want to stay like this."
Reaching beside him, he slips a pillow beneath her hips, and oh. Now she can meet his every stroke, rocking in counterpoint and overwhelming them both.
"My God, woman, the way you move," he sighs, picking up a rhythm. Fast is never her pleasure, so he hits her sharp and deep instead.
Her hands are in his hair, cradling his face, gentle fingertips gliding over his features. Her voice is high and tight, the tendons in her neck stretched taut as she half-whispers, "Richard, s'good, it's so good … please keep going .…" She feels him in her blood, every pore of her skin. Feels the way the sensation changes when he inhales, exhales.
He stills, resting a moment on his forearms above her; she feels his pulse inside of her and she's dead to rights. Her orgasm takes her by surprise, rising up strong and sudden, and it's almost too much. "Richard!" she cries in desperation.
"Right here, baby, let go now," he soothes.
"I just …" she breaks off as her body clenches him, "just want to feel you."
His heart. Beating. Inside her. It's everything, all she knows and wants and needs as she comes and comes, chanting love and his name and other incomprehensible wondrous things.
He works her through the waves and aftershocks and she trembles with oversensitivity but refuses to let him go. Her chest is flushed pink and her lips are bruised and she is stunning. Her eyes flash with something wicked when she prods his arse with her heels, like spurring on a horse. "Come on, love," she whispers, raspy and dark. "Give it to me."
"Oh. Fuck. Me," he moans, leaning down to mouth at her throat.
She laughs heartily, baring her neck to him and reaching into his hair to hold him to her. "That is the general idea."
"You," he marvels, shaking his head as he pulls back to look at her.
"Go on then." Her eyes smiling, she bears down on him, squeezing her inner muscles around his length buried deep. "I want it."
And how can he refuse? He curses a blue streak and pulls back his hips, snapping forward with force, but even now his pace is measured.
"Oh my God, you feel so good," she murmurs, the overflow of all she feels spilling from her lips. "Feel you everywhere, so full, my love," and he'll take the piss out of her later for that litany but now it's all he hears, all he knows. Isobel beneath him and surrounding him and the fire inside that's driving him to fuck deeper and cling tighter and touch her as much as he can.
It makes him bold. "Look at you," he rasps, rolling his hips in the undulating rhythm of her own hips working against him, "just taking it. So good for me."
He watches her eyes for any sign of a challenge. None is forthcoming; there is only love. "'M yours, baby," she breathes. "Wanna feel you come."
Inside of a breath she has him on his back, sinking herself down on his length with a gasp. Hands braced on his thighs, she grinds him against her cervix again and again, working her hips in slow deliberation. She stretches to accommodate him and the sting is delicious, makes her throw her head back as her body squeezes him.
"Oh, shit, sweetheart … Just. Like. That," he growls. His hands rest on the curve of her hips, guiding her. Idly he wonders whether he's leaving fingerprints on her skin. The thought of marking her in such a way makes him surge inside her.
"I felt that," she whispers, wide-eyed. He touches the "O" made by her mouth and she kisses the pad of his thumb, sucking it between her lips.
"Oh my fuck, your mouth," he breathes, and that's it for him. He slams his hips up and holds her against him, and this time there's no doubt as to whether she'll bruise. "Isobel!"
"Yeah," she soothes, "I feel you. Filling me up so good. So warm." They're so still that every twitch of his cock, every beat of his racing pulse is intense inside her. She closes her eyes and just feels them, caressing his stomach and chest as his breathing begins to slow.
"I love you," he tells her, catching her hand and bringing it to his lips, kissing the centre of her palm.
She lowers herself down on him carefully, keeping him inside. Settles herself against his chest and meets his eyes as she places a soft kiss beside his nipple. "And I love you. So much."
She rests her head over his heart and breathes, drawing idle patterns in the dip of his clavicle. His fingers trace the length of her spine and dig into the muscles of her lower back. "Yes," she sighs.
He smiles. "Reckon that performance earns you a bit of tender loving care."
"Yeah? Was good?" It tingles where her lips, her breath skate across his skin. Even spent, he wants her.
He rumbles out a laugh. "Oh, baby. It was so good. Make me wild for you." He smacks her arse tenderly and palms her, fingertips digging in.
"Mmm, you can keep touching me," she purrs, snuggling deeper into his chest.
"Oh, can I, indeed?" He teases, slipping his fingers through her folds to touch where they're still joined. "Sorry for this," he whispers as his now-flaccid cock slips from her. Semen starts to run out of her and she whimpers.
"Hey," he whispers, "hey, shhh. S'okay." He lets his fingers slide through the mess, circling her entrance once, twice, three times, and then, gathering as much as he can, he pushes two fingers inside, fucks it back into her. "Better?" he asks, pressing his lips to her hair in a soft kiss and feeling her nod.
Her walls clench around his fingers as she stretches long against him. "'M knackered, but … yeah. Still feeling …" She trails off, searching for the words and failing to find them.
"Yeah. S'alright, I got you." His voice is rough, slurring the edges of the words; he's not unaffected either. She closes her eyes and lets herself fall under the haze of endorphins and it's quiet as he touches her, his hips tilting up to meet her own involuntarily, intermittently.
"I love this so much, afterwards," she sighs, panting now as he works the pads of his fingers against her G-spot. It's the rush without the urgency, fatigue closing in just enough to dull her perception of anything outside of them, to sharpen the awareness of breath and touch and minute movements.
"I'll be wanting to go again, later," he rumbles, silently cursing his refractory period because the heat is rising again, but he'll require a nap and a snack and significant hydration before he can answer the call.
It's the same sentiment expressed in two different ways and it makes her laugh.
"What?" he chuckles.
She can feel the vibrations through his fingers inside her and it makes her gasp. "Oh … ohhoho … Was gonna say … we are ridiculous. Carrying on like this, at our age."
"Mmm, are we? Because I don't rightly care. And it certainly doesn't feel …" he thrusts his fingers in deeper than he's been yet, "… like you do, either." His free hand traverses her spine, knuckles brushing the vertebrae, and he cranes his neck to feather his lips against the shell of her ear. "I love how responsive you are, beauty. 'S sexy."
"Darling," she pants, "you could take me half asleep and I'd come for you."
He chokes on air and she pushes up on her forearms to check he's alright. "All good," he gulps a long moment later. "I just … is that … are you … suggesting?"
She arches a brow. "Have you ever known me to say such things if I wasn't?"
He clears his throat. "Point taken." A smug little grin lifts the corner of his lips.
She pokes him in the ribs. "What?"
"I'm curious … am I just that good, or are you just that hot for it?"
Her jaw drops open in mock disbelief, but the truth is that it thrills her to hear him speak with confidence about his ability to love her well. "Why's it gotta be one or the other, hmm? They're not mutually exclusive, love. You are that good … and, so, therefore; insert adverb of choice … I'm hot for it. Alright?"
"You …" He shakes his head with incredulity as she smiles. "You're just full of surprises. And to think they all said retirement would be boring."