A/N: Thank you to those who reached out after the last update. I wasn't sure whether I'd lost some of you. I still don't know for certain, but I do know that those who have stuck with me are amazing!

xx,
~ejb~

He awakens to the sensation of butterfly wings flitting across his face. It feels strange, but not at all unpleasant, and he has no desire to fight it, so he lies half-awake, unmoving. Gradually he registers movement beside him, warmth emanating from the side of the bed that is always stark and cold.

The gossamer essence touches his lips and his eyes flutter open. He finds himself enshrouded in a web of soft silvery-gold. Blearily he reaches out his hands towards the source and encounters silken hair, and beneath it flesh; deltoid muscle, firm beneath supple skin.

"Isobel," he proclaims.

"Mm-hm," she murmurs close to his ear, "the very same."

"Come here," he rasps, which is silly; she can't get much closer. But she understands; without either one of them having to speak, she stretches long against him, reaching out to kiss him.

Butterfly wings once again. That was her! "You didn't leave." He is astonished, his mouth hanging open a moment in shock before he remembers to close it.

She makes a sound he thinks of as warm, a low hum of laughter from deep in her chest. "One generally doesn't, when one is asked to stay the night."

Her words pull him firmly from the last grasping tendrils of slumber. He tries to sit up and finds he can't; there is a weight upon him, holding him firmly to the mattress.

Her.

"Easy now. Hold on a tick." Her voice is soothing. She sits back on her knees and he plumps the pillow, leans his back against the head of the bed.

He blinks rapidly, bringing into focus the strange and beautiful creature before him. She is bare still, brilliantly backlit by the sunlight. She looks like he remembers her feeling under his hands last night; more delicate than he had imagined: slim shoulders, slimmer waist. Sun-dappled skin; fine architecture. Muscles, bones and tendons sharply delineated. Small breasts high and firm, their dusky peach blooms tightly pebbled. She is cold, he thinks, though the sun is high. He can feel its warmth on his face. No, no; not cold. She is hot; watching his eyes on her body. He feels a stirring below his waist in response, but he could close his eyes and open them again and find her gone; himself alone.

He finds his voice. "I asked you to stay?"

She moves closer, her weight in his lap, warm palms on his shoulders. "Mm-hm."

"And you stayed?"

Gentle fingertips brush his cheek. "Yes."

"You stayed," he repeats, half to himself, incredulous. Then his brow knits in confusion. "But you don't feel like this in the dream. You don't speak to me."

"Have you dreamt of us, together?" There is what sounds like wonder in her question, and not a trace of the mockery he'd feared.

"Yes," he answers her, "for ages. And in the dream, you always leave me."

She takes his face in both her hands. "Richard," she says in a tone of voice that gets his attention. He meets her eyes. "This isn't a dream, love. And I am not. Leaving. You. Alright? I'm not."

He wonders how she can say that with such determination when they've so much yet to decide, but then again she's never gone back on her word. Every oath he's ever known her to make, she's kept. Some of them may have torn his heart from his chest, but keep them, she has done.

"No?" he asks, tangling his fingers in her hair.

She is close, and leaning closer, her mouth hovering near his. "No." She nudges his nose with her own, brushes her lips against his.

He moans into the kiss, letting her lead. She nips at his lips and he whimpers; it's maddening, the way she kisses him. She drops her head into the curve of his neck and kisses her way up to his earlobe, nibbling, sucking gently at his skin.

"I love you," she whispers hotly in his ear. He wants to cry; it still feels so unreal. So unlikely.

"Isobel?"

"Yes." Her hands are on his face as she kisses her way back to his mouth.

"Isobel."

"Still me." She stills in his lap, running her hands over his chest.

"You were kissing me before?" He feels like a lad bumbling along, so ungainly beside her elegance.

"While you were sleeping? Yes. Did I wake you?"

"Yes."

She smiles, pleased with his answer. "Good. I lay awake watching you for the longest time. At first it was lovely, but I started to get lonely."

He winds a flaxen curl around his finger, captivated by its softness. Captivated by her. He cannot believe the words he says next, not even as they form on his lips. "You can kiss me awake like that every day."

She giggles; he's glad she's taken him for playful. "Can I then? Good to know."

He watches her for a moment, shakes his head a little. He's spellbound by the whole thing. That she's here at all, let alone beautifully naked and in his lap, in his bed. Not two months ago, he was still cursing her, hating her, or at least telling himself that he did.

She catches his chin between her thumb and forefinger. "What is it, hmm?"

He leans in, kissing her deeply, initiating for the first time since waking. "Caught me in a moment of wool gathering," he says.

"You're alright, aren't you? We're alright?"

His heart soars at hearing her refer to the two of them as we. "Awful lot of hashing things out to get through. I'd sooner we didn't have to, that's all." He isn't sure where it's coming from: this sudden outpouring of raw honesty.

"I don't think it's going to break us, surely," she says. He is heartened by her words.

"That's as may be. Still, it won't all be pleasant."

She smiles softly, sadly. "It doesn't have to be miserable."

"You'll think I'm being ridiculous …" he starts to say, and then trails off.

"That's my province, remember? You're many things, Richard Clarkson, but one thing you most certainly are not, is ridiculous."

He'd been going to ask her to lie with him a little while, only with all the other thoughts swirling round in his head he hadn't fallen on the right words. She was always keen at sensing what he needed, and he finds that hasn't changed when she arranges herself in front of him, lying on her side facing away. Turning over her shoulder to look at him, she bids him simply, "Come here."

He cuddles up behind her, her back against his chest. Warm, bare skin and soft, silken curves. Aye, this will do.

"Thank you for that," he says at last, referencing her having pronounced him not ridiculous. She reaches back for his hand and draws his arm around her. When he brings his palm to rest on her belly, she places her own atop it, linking her fingers through his. "And for this," he adds quietly.

"Do you know I've thought of this for years?" Her voice is soft, confessional, but sure.

Something pulls tight inside him. "You've thought?" he sputters. "About us? You and I? Like this?"

She nods. He feels the tremors of a giggle flutter through her belly. "Amongst other things. Oh, yes." She lets go of his hand to run the tips of her fingers up and down his forearm. "Anyway, never mind me. You were saying?"

He was? Suddenly he doesn't remember, doesn't register anything but the fact that she has, at the very least, entertained thoughts of the two of them together in precisely the way they are at the moment. "Ah, I don't …" he stammers, "I can't …"

She looks at him over her shoulder again, an amused smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "What's the matter? Scandalised, are you? Richard, love, breathe!"

He laughs, pulls her closer. Kisses the back of her neck and she arches against him. She pulls his hand to her breast and he moves it over the soft flesh, cupping and smoothing, tugging at her nipple. Her hips roll against his groin.

"Oh, Jesus," she babbles. "Oh, Richard!"

"Christ, Isobel!" He is panting now, the curve of her bum pressing into him and he's responding, throbbing. All the blood rushing swiftly south. "You're so …"

She giggles between moans. "Again with that, eh? Cat got your tongue?"

"More like the cat that ate the canary," he quips. "Shit, beauty, you're so tempting!"

"Is that a problem for you, love?" Her voice is sultry, thick with lust. He'd never have guessed that she would be such a playful lover.

"Not a problem, exactly, only we are meant to be talking today."

She turns over to face him, propping her chin on her hand. "I'm vexing you, aren't I?"

"Not intentionally, I don't believe, but … yes. It's almost like we're speaking different languages."

"I suppose I have the advantage of you in a way," she considers.

"How do you reckon?"

"I don't think it's got to be all one way or another. Reg and I always managed to find a way forward, through the difficult things, without the passion ever falling by the wayside. I forget, you know?" Her hands are on him still, running lightly over his back. Her eyes hold that forthrightness that knocks him for six every time.

"Forget what, exactly?"

She grins. "Now this will sound absurd. I forget that we're so new. I know, go on and laugh."

He doesn't, but it does make him smile. "It was only hours ago!" is all he says.

"Yes, but I've loved you for so long, I don't think of us as having begun last night. I mean it in the best way when I tell you that I feel for you like I felt for Reginald. Not that you're the same man, not at all. But the certainty. It's not me bullying you into declaring things you're not ready for, so please don't hear it that way—"

He kisses her lips. "I don't. Alright?"

"Good. Now I know that you've not had the same experience as me, so if you'd rather we didn't …" She meets his eyes, says things that words can't, "... until after we've talked, I understand."

"I'm …" He tries for the words, but he's not sure they exist. She just said, effectively, that she feels as married to him as she was to her husband of twenty-five years. How does he begin to sort through his feelings in response to that? They run the gamut, that's for certain. There's, Well, then what the hell were you playing at with Dickie Grey? And, Think of all the years we could have had. And also, Does that mean that if I asked you to marry me now, you'd say yes?

She is watching him as he turns things over. "You're gobsmacked, clearly. It's alright. It doesn't have to change anything—"

"No!" he interrupts her. "No, it's … it's lovely. Wonderful. I'm just …"

"Lacking a frame of reference," she finishes for him.

"Quite. But I'm not ready to relinquish you just yet." He grins impishly.

"Alright then. Where were we?" She returns his devilish smile, stretching up to kiss him. He kisses back, and they fall into a rhythm, tongues stroking, hands feeling. He can't quite figure out what she likes best; every place he touches elicits a moan, a sigh, a deep gasp. He nearly can't bear the way she strokes him. So bloody good, almost too good. And that she's bold enough to do it for him! It's true; shy violet was never her modus operandi, but it's so …

Intimate.

"Darling, if you don't stop I'm done for," he gasps out as their lips part. She looks up at him, unblemished and wanton. How does she do that? It's magical. "Turn over?" he asks.

"You like that," she observes, dropping one more kiss on his lips before she turns her back to him.

"Mmm," he affirms. "The feel of you, the way you move."

"I love the things you say," she breathes, slithering against him as he rolls his hips. "I love your hands on me. You make me feel …" She pauses when he sucks on the skin at the base of her neck. "Ohh …"

He laughs throatily. "How do I make you feel, hmm?"

She echoes his laughter. "Beautiful. Young. You'll laugh at this one."

"Try me." He kisses that spot again. She inhales sharply. Alright, then, she's clearly partial to that.

"Powerful," she says on a moan.

"Why on earth would I laugh at that?" His hand stills on her hip. He feels her shrug, the lifting and lowering of her shoulders, skin moving over vertebrae. The simple kinetics of her body fascinate him; he could easily be enthralled forever just watching her move.

"It sounds terribly grandiose. Like I think I'm something."

He grins. "Oh, it does not. As if you could ever. And you ought to feel powerful. You certainly are."

"Am I?"

"Love, I changed my entire life for you. Because of you."

She stills in the bed. "Well that was honest."

"I thought that's what we were doing. I don't mean that it's all been for worse. Look at where we are now." When she doesn't say anything he adds, "I thought that you said it needn't be one way or another."

She turns towards him again. "I did. I'm …" she starts, and then falters. "Just … Look, I'm fully aware that we wouldn't be in this bed together now had you decided I wasn't worth the risk. It's nothing to do with me and everything to do with you and I'm grateful beyond words that you've seen your way to forgiving me. It's just that —and maybe I'm being a selfish cow, but— I sometimes feel there'll never be a day goes by when I'm not reminded of how I went wrong." A beat, during which their eyes meet, and then, "I know I'm hardly in a position to dictate anything to you, but you see, it can't be this way going forward. Or we won't go forward."

His shoulders sag, and she holds up a hand. Let me finish. He nods.

"That's not me threatening you; I've no reason to, first off, and even on the off chance you did deserve it, I love you, and I'd never. It's just stating the truth: we may have been meant for this —I believe we were— but it'll die on the vine if we start off on unequal footing."

He hadn't consciously done anything to seat himself in a place of prominence, and the suggestion, at first, knocks the breath out of his lungs. He certainly wasn't saying anything to that effect when he'd told her that she did, indeed, have power over him; enough, in fact, that he'd changed the course of his life because of her. And what nerve has she?! The marital contract —not that he'd ever say this to her (nor has he ever supported it)— still grants men what amounts to ownership of their wives, and here she is demanding equity! (But isn't that precisely what attracted him to her all those years ago?)

She's watching him as he thinks. The line of her shoulders softens along with her voice as she tells him, "Perhaps you're right, and we are too new to make love one moment and face our collective demons the next." She reaches for him, a warm hand on his shoulder, and the bubble of anger rising inside him instantly deflates. Dark, honest eyes fixed on his, she leans up to kiss him. "I love you."

"I love you too, beauty." Such relief in saying the words at long last. "And I'm meant to be feeding you. Late breakfast alright, or should we have a go at an early lunch?"

She grins in a way that makes him think she sees him as something he's never been before. "Breakfast," she tells him, with feeling. "But don't go pushing the boat out. Just toast and tea would be lovely."

"Reckon I can do a wee bit better than that." He winks at her. "Isobel? Alright?" She looks uncomfortable suddenly.

"Only I'm meant to be getting dressed and all I've got are yesterday's clothes."

"You know I don't bother about that sort of thing, if that's what's troubling you."

She smiles slightly. "No, I know that. Only I need to rinse out some things, wait for them to dry, and I doubt you'll want to see that. And I haven't got anything to put on whilst I'm waiting." A pause, and he feels the weight of it. "This is all rather sordid, isn't it?"

"You feel like a mistress, and you've always been a wife."

She nods sharply.

"Isobel, that's not what this is. You do know that, surely?"

She shrugs, and he feels it like a vise round his heart. "You were right. We won't make any headway until we've had a proper chat."

"Which you reckon you'll need to be dressed for."

That gets her to smile. "Bit hard to concentrate like this."

"Then have my dressing gown. Rinse out as many things as you need; you can hang them in front of these windows. Gets the most light in here. And I'll go and make a start on breakfast."

She gives him the once-over and laughs. "In the altogether, you will?"

The tops of his ears flush crimson. She makes to rise out of bed and groans as she gets to her feet.

His brows knit together. "Alright, love?" He rises, coming round the bed to help her.

The expression on her face is somewhere between sheepish and mortified, but she nods, almost imperceptibly. "Feeling a bit …" she meets his eyes briefly, looks down at the floor and then back at him, piteously, "saddle sore."

"Oh, darling." He takes her hand, lifts it to his lips and kisses the back of it. "Come here, you."

She smiles, slipping her arms around him, letting him draw her close.

"I love you," he tells her, half-whispering it into her hair. "You're precious to me, d'ye know that?"

She nods, kisses him, lips on the sensitive spot just where his neck and shoulder meet. The base of his spine tingles.

"Isobel," he sighs happily, holding her, flesh against warm flesh for another blissful moment before they turn to face their new reality. "Would a hot bath help?"

"I'd like that," she replies, drawing level with him. "You're sure you don't mind?"

"Mind," he tuts, "believe her! Course I don't mind. Water should be plenty hot. I haven't any oil or bubbles but there's this …" He steps away from her, into the bathroom, and returns presently with a bar of Yardley English Lavender soap.

She looks at him curiously. "I've used this for ages, but why've you got it?"

He shrugs, feeling his ears getting hot again. "Smells like you," he says quietly, feeling like a schoolboy.

She smiles fully, beautifully, making it a safe place for him to open his heart to her. "Oh, Richard. Lovely, lovely man."

"Oh, go on wi' ye!" His words; his grin are a deflection, but the way that he catches her about the waist, his palm at the small of her back pressing her close, betrays his appreciation of the sentiment. He kisses her mouth, quick but sound. "Have your bath. Use anything you like. Breakfast will be waiting when you're through, aye?"

She nods again, smoothing the hair at his temple. "And we will be alright, you and I. I can't promise it'll be neat and tidy, but we'll be alright."

She starts to walk away, and his eyes are drawn to the curve of her bare bottom, the swing of her hips. Then she turns round by the bathroom doorpost. Catches his eyes on her body; blushes delightfully. Looks up from beneath her lashes at him. "Richard? I love you." Apropos of nothing, just because she can.