A/N: Updated 11/7/2019. I haven't written a word in ages, and then suddenly last week new ideas started coming. I put them down fast and furious and was uncharacteristically thrilled with what I'd done. And thennn I went back to make sure it flowed with the three chapters previously written ... and discovered I'd switched to present tense in the new bits. Oh, I was fuming. I wasn't about to change the new parts in order to make them match because they needed to take place in the present, so that left only one thing to do; namely, go back and put the first three chapters in present tense. It was a slog. I spent several days hating life. Just when I thought I'd gotten them all, I'd find an inconsistency. But it was good, in the end, because it gave me a chance to go back and perfect some rough spots in the original story. So I'm posting a new chapter, yes, but I'm also updating the existing first three. The story has not changed; only the tense is different. The whole thing sounds better this way, so it was all for the best. There should be another update (Chapter 5) coming very soon. I've got to give a shoutout to my friends, kouw and ChelsieSouloftheAbbey, for bearing the brunt of my bitching when I discovered my predicament. Writers supporting writers is fanficcing at its best!
xx,
~ejb~
He leaves it Sunday for as long as possible, holed up beside the fire with her and MacTavish. They drink tea, read the paper and doze until half past four.
"I hate to say it," she tells him as her head rests on his shoulder, "but you ought to be making a move. I don't relish the idea of you driving after dark."
"Yeah." He draws her closer, kissing her forehead. She catches his face in her hands and kisses his mouth. He returns the kiss, drawing her bottom lip between both of his own. She sighs softly and he pushes her back against the arm of the couch, resting his weight on top of her.
"Richard," she protests as they break apart, "you've got to go, sweetheart." God knows she doesn't want him to. In fact, she can feel the telltale lump forming in her throat. She also feels him against her, warm and masculine and just beginning to harden. She swallows hard. "I've got to let you go."
"I know." He moves off her and holds out his hand, helping her up. "Five more minutes." His voice holds the sort of rasp that speaks of longing and of emotion he tries in vain to rein in. He pulls her onto his lap; she tucks her face into his neck. She can hear him breathing, feel his chest rising and falling. Moving her lips to his pulse point, she relishes the steady throbbing beneath them.
"You'll remember to lock the doors at night," he insists. "I know we're in the middle of nowhere up here but do it anyway. And take the lad along when you go out walking."
At this she giggles. "Yeah, some watchdog! 'Stay back or risk death by dog drool!'" She glances over at MacTavish, whose tail thumps against the wood floor. "He is clever though. Knows we're talking about him." She lets Richard hold her for another moment, memorising the feel of his hands warm on her waist.
"Shall I send you off with some coffee?" She slides off his lap and holds out her hand.
Nodding, he rises, engulfing her hand in his own and trailing behind her to the kitchen. "Makes a change from that rubbish they sell at the petrol station."
"Go and put your bag in the car and I'll fix it."
He whistles for MacTavish, who follows him out into the drive and tries to jump in when the passenger door opens. "No, lad, sorry; not this time. Need you to look after Mumma for a few days." He scratches between the dog's ears and picks up his favourite ball, tossing it across the lawn. MacTavish takes off like a shot after it. When he brings it back, Richard throws it again.
Isobel watches from the kitchen window as the kettle comes to a boil, committing the scene to memory. When she sees him heading back towards the house she turns again to her task.
She feels it when he enters the room, even with her back to the door. Feels his eyes on her, drinking her in. Making memories of his own, she suspects. She senses him coming closer and her heart begins thudding wildly. Then his hands are on her hips, easing her back against his body, and her knees nearly buckle. He brushes her hair aside and kisses her neck, lingering on the spot just south of her jawbone that is always her undoing.
"God," she breathes, and he chuckles. "You make it awfully hard to send you away." She pours the hot water into the French press, then leans her head back against his chest. He nudges her forwards and she braces her hands on the countertop as he presses closer to her.
"Good. We won't be making a habit of it then," he whispers. He traces the shell of her ear with his lips and she shivers. "You feel so good, beauty."
The timer she'd set for the coffee chooses that moment to chime.
She looks back over her shoulder at him and grins. "Like a cold shower, eh?" She turns in his arms and embraces him loosely before filling up his travel mug and sneaking half a cup for herself.
She walks him to the car, hand in his hand, their fingers entwined. She feels the lump rising in her throat again and swallows it down even though she knows that he knows. A mirthless laugh breaks free at the same time two teardrops slide down her cheeks. "The last time I was faced with a separation like this one, I got married."
"Well it's a good job we've already sorted that then." He smiles so that she'll do and pulls her close again.
"You'll ring me when you get in, hmm? It's nothing to do with you; it's all the other idiots on the road."
"Will do. And I'll do my best to phone you tomorrow, though I'm in the surgery all day and then on call from five. Normally I fancy keeping busy, but this time I'm hoping it's slow."
"Last on-call shifts ever," she interjects, squeezing his hands.
"I'll miss the babies, but as to the rest of it … "
"It's time for greener pastures," she finishes for him. "Hey, c'mere." She winds her arms around his neck and draws him down to her mouth, brushing her lips against his. He tastes the tip of her tongue and moans softly. Then his hands are on her face, her mouth opening under his. She backs him into the door of the Rover. He feels her breasts pressing against his chest, her fingers lifting the hem of his shirt, her palms warm on his rib cage. They kiss until neither of them can breathe.
She pulls away and he watches her: all dark eyes, her chest heaving. He touches her cheek, traces the pad of his thumb over the fullness of her bottom lip. "Isobel," he murmurs, "sweet, sweet girl."
"Go on then," she tells him. "Away with you before it gets any later." Her stomach churns, but she smiles in spite of it, opening the door for him.
"Make that lad toe the line, eh?" Reaching up, he runs a hand through her hair. They're both avoiding the words because of the finality they imply.
She nods. "Drink that coffee while it's hot."
"I shall." He pauses, looking at her peculiarly.
"God, we're as bad as teenagers," she giggles.
"Rather." He pauses again, and it's clear to her that she's not the only one feeling out of sorts. She hears him take a deep breath. "I love you."
"I love you too." She grins sheepishly. "Obviously." It has the desired effect of lightening the mood for a moment.
He gets into the car and she closes the door. "Enjoy the time, Isobel," he tells her. "Bye, love."
"I'll try. And don't you have too much fun round the hospital without me." Another rogue teardrop escapes and she sniffs, swiping at it almost angrily. "Bye, darling."
She hadn't been going to watch him drive away, but now she finds herself stood in the drive, waving until he reaches the road. In fact, she watches him make the right turn onto Cherry Tree Avenue, her eyes trained on the headlamps until he goes around the bend and out of sight. Tears are streaming down her face unchecked and she wipes her eyes on her sleeve and laughs at herself. "Well I can't change it," she says aloud to nobody, "I miss him. I believe I've earned the right."
She thinks about the statement she's just made. She has long been the sort to speak first and think about the ramifications later, and now she's obligated herself to something unprecedented. Feeling things —the undesirable, complex ones that had characterised her existence in the days after losing Reginald, at least— is a phenomenon she has become a touch too keen at postponing. Having earned the right to miss Richard entails forcing herself to feel it, not bury it beneath endless task lists or mask it with a cheerful façade. No; she may once again be alone, and that not by choice, but she's got nothing to hide, no reason to pretend. Stood on the front step, she resolves that if she misses her husband, then —by God— she's going to miss him, and if it makes her cry, she will cry. And if, similarly, she finds ways of passing the time that happen to bring her joy, then she'll ride that feeling for all it's worth. If pressed to put her finger on the central theme behind the wisdom Richard has imparted to her over the course of their relationship, it's that he loves her just exactly the way she is: big moods, heavy baggage, sharp tongue and all.