A/N: You guys blew me away with the reviews and support of the direction I want to go in with this fic. Wow ... just. Just ... WOW. Thank you!

xx,
~ejb~

His day passes in a whirlwind. There are surgical consults: a young boy with a compound fracture of the radius that failed to heal properly; a soldier with fragments of shrapnel still in his shoulder from the War. His students are filing in one after another to discuss summer placements. He owes four hours to the clinic and finds himself performing an emergency appendectomy. And at the end he's got to chart it all.

He is shattered by the time he walks out the door, and he thinks he might fix coffee before getting dressed to see Isobel, but then it occurs to him: perhaps she's just as much in need of a lift as he is. He rings the guesthouse and waits for her to come to the telephone.

"Hello, Richard?"

"Isobel. Are you alright?"

"Much brighter now, thank you. Don't let it get out, but I'm glad I took your advice." They share a laugh. "How did the day go?"

He sighs. "It was … long. I've only just got in the door. I'm glad of the work, to be sure, but it's caught up with me today. I rang because I was about to fix coffee, but then I thought perhaps you could use some as well. There's a cafe I'm quite fond of; we could stop off there first if you like. Then I was thinking of the Golden Ball for dinner. They've just done it up inside and I'd like to look in on the place, if you're agreeable."

"I think a coffee is definitely in order if I'm to make it through the great reams of revisions I've got for us. Are you sure it's not too much, after the sort of day you've had?"

Bless her. Exhausted though he is, he can think of nothing he would rather do than spend the evening with her. If that doesn't speak volumes about how far we've come. He cannot yet begin to hope for a future in which they might be close again, but he can enjoy the camaraderie that the coming hours may bring.

"It beats dropping off to sleep in the armchair! I'm being honest when I tell you I look forward to it. So I'll come by in half an hour, then. Is that enough time?"

"Can you keep a secret?" she asks. He likes the impish tone of her voice.

"Cross my heart." If only you knew.

"I've been ready since half past three!"

They're both laughing, the tension easing. He finds it a job to breathe properly as he listens to the musical quality of her laughter.

"Well then! I'll change clothes and come straight over."

"I wasn't exaggerating about the raft of books and papers you know. It's in three boxes. Are you sure you've got room in the boot?"

"We'll manage, alright? Now let me go so that I can get there."

They ring off and his spirits are higher just for having spoken with her. He is at once giddy at the prospect of spending purposeful time with her, and chastising himself for being so easily swayed. He changes his bow tie for a regular one and his coat for a soft cotton jumper and realises he's preening. For her. Should he shave? Steady on; that's getting ahead of oneself.

oOo

The guesthouse is as nice a place as one could hope to find in York, but it isn't her, he thinks as he parks his car alongside the front. He's brought her by here a few times now and each time he's had some kind of low-level misgivings about it, but he hasn't been able to pinpoint what it is that seems off. Until now. He supposes he never realised it, but there is an association in his mind between Isobel and home. Which is strange, considering that he saw her back in Downton as often at the Abbey or the hospital as at Crawley House. Perhaps it's symbolic of a larger oddity: Isobel had a solid grounding when he knew her before. Now she lives the life of a transient. Her entire existence has been in a state of upheaval for several years, and whilst she's always been highly adaptable to change, he'd be willing to bet she's growing weary of it. He files it away; he isn't sure they're on the sort of footing now that would allow him to broach the subject. But he is curious to see whether she does.

She is waiting just inside the door when he arrives, a consideration he appreciates. There is an element of discomfort in meeting her like this, subject to the disapproving scowl of the proprietress; feeling almost as if he needs permission to take his friend to dinner. There's no changing it, so he'll get by, but it doesn't feel right.

It isn't until they arrive at the cafe that he feels free to look at her, address her. Let it sink in that he and she are out together. When it does hit home, that's exactly how it comes to him. She. And I . Are out. Together. Blimey. Should he offer her his arm when he hands her out of the car? Will it be seen as an assumption that she is weak, unable to navigate on her own, in need of a man? Will she think him rude, distant, insincere if he doesn't make the overture? He always knew precisely how to be with her. Why is he floundering so now?

He opens the car door for her, and she accepts his hand without hesitation. It's a sizable step up and out. When she is stood beside him, he does offer his arm, tagging the gesture with, "If you like." But she's already reaching for him before he gets the words out, and if he had to guess by the look on her face what she's thinking, he'd put it down to something along the lines of, You dear, strange, silly man. Isn't this what we do? Perhaps she doesn't perceive the effects of time and distance on the relationship between them like he does.

The cafe is quiet, which is the reason he frequents it. They are shown to a tiny booth tucked away in the back corner.

When their coffees are brought to the table, she cradles hers in her palms, closes her eyes and leans her head against the back of the booth as she takes the first sip.

"Good?" he asks, pleased by her enjoyment.

She nods. "Superb. And very much needed. I'm glad you had this idea."

He is glad as well. There is something about sitting down with her as an endless day finally draws to a close. For a fleeting moment he feels oddly at peace, yet simultaneously energised, and it's little to do with the coffee. This is it, runs through his mind. She. And I. And this. But he mustn't allow himself to dwell on it.

He looks up and notices her watching him. She cocks a pretty eyebrow at him. Pretty. Steady on, old man.

"You'll excuse my silence, I hope. Today was very … constant. I find I don't quite rally like I used to," he tells her.

"Don't apologise. You haven't changed, you know. That's what I was just thinking." She smiles fondly, and he guesses she's remembering distant evenings like this one.

"Haven't I?"

She shakes her head. "No. You've always been reflective. It's nice, really."

"It used to unnerve you!"

"Yes, and I would talk to fill the silence. I know! Many a good row was begun that way." She looks wistful about it, which is precisely how he feels.

"You've become rather circumspect yourself, it would seem," he observes. He doesn't know what to make of the look that comes over her.

"Mm," she affirms. "I've had nothing but time."

"Of course. That was insensitive of me—"

"No. No, it wasn't. Of the two of us, you are not the one with anything to be sorry for. We used to do this all the time. Being here with you makes me realise how much I've missed it, and I needn't have done. If I hadn't cut you off …"

"Forget all of that. Just talk to me. I want to know what your life is like now."

"I haven't got much of one, I'm afraid. I was Reginald's wife and Matthew's mother and Dickie's … bloody saviour …" her face reddens, her chest heaving with heavy, angry breaths. "And now I'm nothing. I have nothing. I haven't even got a home."

"I had wondered if that was troubling you," he says quietly. He was not expecting the conversation to delve so deep, so quickly, but it's the natural next step in the progression of this tenuous connection they've begun to restore.

"I've been in stasis from the day Matthew died, only I wouldn't face it. And now I think I'm finally beginning to wake up, only to find I've lost ten years. All of the questions are still unanswered; putting them off did nothing but delay the inevitable." She scrubs her hand across her face. "Goodness. Listen to me. This is not what you came out for."

"I came out," he counters, "for an evening with my oldest friend. Time was, there was no subject we couldn't address, and I see no reason why we couldn't pick back up like that again. I've not got time, at this juncture, for trivialities; have you? It was always a great relief to me that I could be myself with you. Don't say that's changed." He didn't know it was in him to articulate his thoughts so openly with her anymore, but the freedom he feels is immediate and total.

"I'm glad you think it hasn't," she divulges. "I'm so tired of pretending." She sighs and he feels the deep place it comes from. "I'm one massive, walking regret, Richard. Do you know what that feels like?"

"I do, actually." He looks at her hand as it rests on the table, itching to lay his own on top of it. They are moving forward towards something, inching along one moment; skyrocketing the next, but it's not the time for that. "It's alright, you know. We are alright. And you're doing fine."

The corners of her eyes are wet. "Am I? What am I doing, Richard?"

Oh, sod it. He lifts her hand, places his own beneath it. Lays hers back on top, their palms touching. He will ignore the tingling feeling in his fingertips, the way he can feel her ulnar pulse. Intimate.

"You're breathing new life into the surgical department, for one. Surely you can't think that's a small thing. Do you know I could go walkabout now and count on you to keep the place running? And this after ten years away from it. Just think how it'll be when you're teaching!"

She gives him a watery smile.

"You think I'm flannelling! You come by it like it's second nature, you know. Are you sure you wouldn't like to go for the MBChB?"

Her smile widens, and with her free hand she swipes at the tears that have escaped. "Oh, you."

"I'm not having you on. You want to know where your impact is felt, and that's it. If ever a person were born to do something …"

She indulges him. "If I were a younger woman, perhaps, but not now."

"No?"

She shakes her head. "I'll be seventy this year, which I'm sure comes as a shock to a lad like you.* We both know that at best, I'd be looking at eight years in training. As it is I can practice, actually use the lifetime of learning I've amassed. Believe me, if the choice had been there when I was twenty … But no, I'm afraid that particular ship has sailed."

He looks admiringly at her. Smiles.

"What?" she asks, cocking her head inquisitively. Seventy, bollocks, he thinks.

"There's still fire in your belly. You've lost nothing, you know."

"I've lost you."

Oh, God. It's like all the air has been sucked out of the room. Of all the things he thought she might say. He aches physically. Viscerally.

"Isobel." What to say? Her name is all he can manage. He badly wants to hold her. He laces his fingers through hers where their hands rest on the table.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

"We both of us need to decide what we're willing to risk," he begins carefully, "but let's get you through your exams first."

She blinks at him. Nods. Blinks again.

He meets her eyes, holds her gaze. "But you need to know this: you've not lost me."

oOo

They move on to the pub and the mood follows along. It's unsteady ground, but nobody's walked out yet. He never expected them to get this far. Perhaps the hope he hasn't dared allow himself is not such a far-flung fancy after all.

"I'm afraid I've revealed far more than I ever intended tonight," she tells him as they wait for their meals.

"It's good you did, though. I couldn't work out how to get there, and we'd likely have kept dancing round it forever had it been left up to me."

"It's been on your mind then." She is nothing if not tenacious.

She's been so forthright that he sets aside his own doubts about divulging the true nature of his feelings. So much of the old Isobel has resurfaced and he cannot deny that she was his confidante for many years.

"I've thought of little else since that day." He pauses. "I don't want to hurt you."

She snorts. "I deserve it." He gives her a warning look. "Whatever it is, you've every right to say it."

"If you're sure …" He waits until she gives him a nod. "I allowed your marrying Merton to destroy me. I'm not happy you lost another husband, but I can't pretend to have had any warm feelings towards the man. I wanted to hate you for the choices you made. I tried for a very long time to do just that. I couldn't. I can't."

She blinks when he says he tried to hate her. Again when he tells her that he can't. She is being brave, he thinks. Ever stoic. "Alright," she says. Like it smarts, but she can take it.

"I was furious that day last month. Here you'd turned up, out of the blue, after all I'd done to forget the turn of events in Downton. I mean, Isobel, there were days after I left, I drank so much I can't remember them. I could have died choking in my own sick."

"Jesus," she whispers, her eyes wide in shock.

He ploughs forwards. It's getting easier now that he's begun. "I'm sorry for that image but you needed to know. That's how far gone I was. Some of the time I wouldn't have minded if I had died. You were never mine, but I certainly felt it as if you had been. As if I'd lost you. And it wasn't only love I'd lost, though that was a heavy weight. I'm acquainted with many people, but I can count on one hand the number of those who are friends. I hadn't ever been as close to a friend as I was to you. I haven't done since. And then you were his. You were gone from my life."

Her eyes are glistening wet with tears she's fighting to keep at bay. She reaches for his hands across the table.

He allows the contact. There he goes again, thinking that it feels like home to touch her. "So when you reappeared, saying that you loved me after all the work I'd done to fashion a life again from nothing, I was seething. It never would have hurt, wouldn't have broken me down like it did, if I didn't love you. But it's still a hard thing to admit to in the present tense."

"I'm sure it is." Her thumbs run across his knuckles.

He closes his eyes against the sensation. "But that doesn't mean I don't feel it."

oOo

She brightens later, when they're back at his and he gives her the tour. It's not Crawley House, not by a long shot, but it's bright and cosy and, most importantly, his, free and clear. He's got electricity, a refrigerator, and full modern plumbing. No mortgage, and no spectre of the transitory hanging over his head neither. It took a great whack at his life savings to get in, but he can lay his head on the pillow at night knowing that, if nothing else, his little corner of the world is secure.

"It's lovely, Richard, truly. How you've had the time to set up house with your hours is a wonder."

"You mean, how have I managed it without a wife, more like?"

"I've hardly got the right to say that, but the thought did cross my mind."

They have perfected an odd little dance, moving between brutal honesty one moment and half-polite, half-retiring equivocation the next. They'd both declared a moratorium on empty chit-chat and skirting the issues, but each one feels the frailty of their connection and is fearful that the slightest step trod over the line will sever it.

He doesn't find offence in her answer. He could, if he were feeling less charitable, but he considers the bridges they've begun to rebuild. "I had a long time to work out what suited my fancy, and it was easy enough to put money aside and tuck things away for the proverbial 'someday,' as it's only been just me."

There is just a flash of a sting that passes across her eyes at the words, as it's only been just me. But he watches her face blossom into a smile afterwards, beaming with pride. Pride in him, in the life he's made for himself. And perhaps her approval shouldn't weigh so heavily.

But it does. More than anything.

"It's exactly what I would have figured you for," she tells him. "You'll be hard pressed to keep me away now."

A not insignificant part of him wants to say, Do you mean it? Just never leave, will you? "You're welcome here anytime," he manages instead.

oOo

The evening serves to establish a new custom for them, and every night thereafter, so long as one or both of them isn't working, they meet for dinner and then retire to his to sink their teeth into her revisions.

There is something about seeing her sat at his table or curled into the corner of his settee that gives him pause. This is what his life has been lacking. Years spent working by her side; every triumph, every row; watching her walk away from him. Listless devastation; living his work, drowning his heartbreak in amber liquid. Five years in monastic solitude; brick by brick shaping a version of a life he's proud of. The farther he tried to run away from her, the less of him remained. Every moment has been for the purpose of bringing him to this one. He can choose to fight it to futility or he can accept it, the idyllic highs and horrific, yawning lows it promises to bring.

oOo

On the evening before her exams they conclude it's best to go teetotal. He doesn't press her much on the material; they go over the few things that worry her. She talks him through procedures as if explaining them to a student.

"You're going to ace this, Isobel. I've every confidence you'll get a perfect score." They are sat on opposite ends of the settee, a fire in the grate more for atmosphere than warmth.

"Trouble is I won't know anything for two more weeks. I'm not sure I'm cut out for this kind of uncertainty at my age."

"I promise you it's nothing more than management ticking boxes. Just you wait until the it's the middle of next term and you've got classes and surgeries and you're marking exams until midnight. You'll be in your element."

She looks pensive, slightly doubtful. "You're probably right. I don't know, Richard. I was so sure of it before, but now …"

"It's nerves getting the better of you," he assures her. "It'll feel different after it's over."

"Perhaps. It's only that …" She's on the verge of divulging something meaningful, but she stops herself short. "Oh, never mind."

He raises an eyebrow. "You can tell me, you know. Whatever it is."

She smiles. "I've brought you enough trouble already. You're probably right; it's only nerves."

It's his turn to look at her dubiously. "Alright. I'll let it lie so long as you swear it won't wear on you."

"It's a matter of timing," she explains. "The right words at the wrong time would do more harm than good. That's all."

The certainty in her voice and the sadness that passes across her eyes are perplexing to him, but he reads in it an invocation: Please, don't let's go there now. "If you're sure. I hate to end the evening, but I'd better be getting you back. You need your rest." He takes their teacups to the kitchen and fetches her coat from the peg by the door.

"How are you getting there in the morning?" he asks as he helps her on with it.

"Oh, I'll get the bus. There's a five to nine that should have me there in plenty of time."

"Or I could drive you," he offers. "Get some lunch after. What time does it finish?"

"It's open-ended, but they've advised all the candidates to expect it to take until two o'clock. I wouldn't want you giving up your Saturday."

"Don't be ridiculous; you're my nurse. I've seen it through to this point, I can't very well jump ship now. Besides, I know you. You won't eat properly unless you're looked after."

"You are …" She narrows her eyes playfully at him; shakes her head. Smiles that smile that weakens his knees.

"Go on," he teases, "what am I?"

She looks directly into his eyes, his soul. "Far too good to me."

He smiles, reaching for the doorknob. Turns around abruptly, changing his mind. "You speak of timing: the rightness and wrongness thereof. It seems that, where you're concerned, mine has always been wrong. I'm not altogether confident I've got it right now …"

He can't decide whether she looks more fearful or surprised. "Richard, what's … Are you alright?"

He takes her hands in his, moving his thumbs over the backs of them. "I ought to have done this years ago, only I let fear get in my way. Pride. Something. I've nothing to lose anymore. It doesn't have to change a thing, but it means what it means." He closes the distance between them. Moves one hand to her cheek and the other to her shoulder. Looks at her mouth and sees her lips trembling.

"Oh, my God," she breathes, and he feels her breath against his cheek. She moves into him, her hands at the nape of his neck.

He brushes his lips against hers, barely touching. She gasps, open-mouthed into his open mouth. Kisses him back the same way, cradling his face while his hands move to her waist. She is softer than velvet, than feather down, and inescapably sweet. She begins to take over, pressing his back against the doorpost, and he thinks that he might cry. Her hands on him, mouth on his, finally. Finally. After everything. Longtime tender kisses, making up for opportunities lost, healing old wounds.

The wave crescendoes; recedes, kisses softening. Holding one another, foreheads touching, heartbeat to heartbeat. Year upon year of friendship, longing; war and death and heartache and loneliness and fury are met now, each one in the other.

He kisses her one last time, soft but deep, and then pulls away, watching her face, her eyes. "Alright?" he whispers, his thumb sweeping over her cheekbone. Not sure whether he's asking her or himself.

She nods, her pupils large and dark, lips berry-red and swollen, and bites the bottom one. "Very."

"I couldn't very well do that back at the guesthouse and, well …" he shrugs. "You needed to know."

She clasps one of his hands between her own, raising it to her lips. Closes her eyes; kisses the back of his hand, each knuckle. Fixes her gaze on his. "Yes, I believe I did."

* young lad - Penelope Wilton is thirteen months older than David Robb. I hold to the same age difference for Isobel and Richard. Semantics.