A/N: I continue to be amazed and so encouraged by your enthusiasm for this story. Thank you all for the reviews, reblogs and recs. I have the best readers ever!

xx,
~ejb~

There are those people who, having just heard a confession the likes of hers, would faint dead away. He has never been that sort, but he finds himself wishing that he was, that he could black out and feel nothing instead of the sudden, intense anger that rises up in him.

"What did you say?" he practically roars. They're going to make a scene if this continues. While it wouldn't be the first time, he won't allow it to happen. Not here, on his territory.

"I said that I'm in love with you, and that I always have been." How can she stand there, so calm and self-composed? She has just turned his life upside down!

"No! No, you've no right to say that to me! Not after …"

"After what?" Her voice is a whisper, but she doesn't appear fazed by his reaction.

He scowls, pressing his palm to his forehead, and scans their surroundings. He was never going to have this conversation. (Hell's bells, he was never going to see her again!) He is most certainly not going to have it in a public courtyard. He opens the door to the building and waves her inside reluctantly. Retrieving the key from the pocket of his white coat, he unlocks his office door. They step inside. The door closes behind them, and his stomach churns.

He should suggest she sit down, and there is a chair just across the desk from the one he usually sits in that he placed there for just such an occasion. But he makes no such invitation, instead pacing frenetically between the desk and the door.

She watches him, her brow furrowing. "Dr. Clarkson … Richard, I can see I've upset you. I assure you I didn't come here with that intention. I didn't even know you were here. I—"

"Stop!" he barks. "Stop talking, this instant! You said it all; you didn't know. You don't know anything about me or my life now, because you sold me down the river and ran me out of Downton —my home of forty years— without a thought for anyone but yourself. You don't get to come here, waltz back into my life and say you love me, when every one of your actions points to the fact that you don't!"

He expects her to argue, to have a corresponding rebuttal for each of his points. She doesn't. Instead she stands behind the chair with her hands resting on the back of it, watching him. The next time he walks past, she touches his shoulder.

He stops. Stands toe-to-toe and looks at her.

"I know," she tells him quietly but levelly. "You're right. I'm sure that nothing I can offer by way of explanation will erase the pain I've put you through. I can assure you that I've relived it every day since you left, and I've been just … sick about it. I would take it all back in a heartbeat if I could. I told you what's in my heart because I thought that I'd never have the chance. I never expected I'd see you again, but I made up my mind that if I ever did, I would tell you the truth. I don't expect it to make any difference at all. But you should know that you did nothing to deserve such malice."

He is gobsmacked. He thinks that he sees genuine contrition in her eyes. At least, that's what the sorrow currently reflected in them would have meant when he used to know her.

Does he know her now? Can he; does he even want to? So many questions battle for primacy. He has answers for none of them. Can he forgive her? Can he even allow the conversation to continue? He's got a job he loves now, in which he has a fair degree of autonomy. A house that he owns, free and clear. For the first time in his life, he alone is in control of his fate. None of this would have come to be had the situation not become intolerable in Downton. Perhaps, in an odd way, he has her to thank for his present circumstances. But does that mean that it's wise to let her in again?

He doesn't know, doesn't know, doesn't know. His head is spinning again, and beginning to throb. "I need to sit down," he says, not particularly directed at her.

She scurries around the desk to pull out his chair for him lest he collapse. "Can I get you anything? A glass of water, perhaps a headache powder?"

"Please." He nods, and it occurs to him that he's feeding her hauteur, her need to be needed. And isn't that exactly what created the beast? But maybe, just maybe, it's an entrée; her chance to prove true all that she's just laid before him.

One thing is certain: she knows her way round a physician's office. It helps that he's set this one up not dissimilarly to the one they shared for years in Downton. A quick nip into the supply closet and she's back, setting a glass before him. "I gave it a good stir," she tells him. "It's a pity they haven't hit upon a way to make these more palatable."

"Thank you," he says earnestly, mindful to look her in the eyes. He gasps when he does so. He has caught her extending —and then immediately thinking better of it and withdrawing— her hand to touch her palm to his forehead. Like mothers do. Like lovers do.

He can assume all the ill motives his mind can construe about her, but he cannot put this gesture down to anything but love.

He can't quite believe it when he hears himself saying, "It's alright."

There are miles to go before he will know whether there is any kind of future for them. A yawning chasm of bad blood between them and trust that must be rebuilt brick by brick if they're even to be friends.

But for now, he permits her touch; leans his forehead into the palm of her hand. Instantaneously the years, along with all the pain they've brought with them, fall away.

He does not know what will become of him. Her. Them. But he believes that she loves him, despite all of her faults.

And in this moment, it's enough.