A strong T- it gets out of being an M on a technicality.
To satisfy cookie-moi's liking for Clarkson/Isobel tension.
She might not faint at the sight of blood, but heavens, that didn't mean that she liked it. Especially not like this; grazes, moderate lacerations she could cope with, but not like this, enough to seemingly saturate the sterilised sheet on the operating table. Not drying crisply into the fair sandy hair of a young man that could have so easily been her son. It had been hopeless, really.
As soon as they had brought him in she had been able to see that there was very little they could do for him, he had already lost too much blood. She suspected very much from the look on Richard's face that he realised as much as well. But- perhaps recklessly-, transfixed by the poor boy's eerie resemblance to Matthew, she had found herself moving forward, ready to ignore the fact that he almost certainly wouldn't make it through. She could not be passive in this matter, and a second later she felt Richard beside her, ready to help her. And now he was still standing beside her, with blood all over his hands.
There was almost perfect silence in the room for a good few moments. Then;
"I think we'd better call it a day. There's nothing more we can do for the poor soul," his voice sounded weary, oh so weary, "Time of death," he consulted his pocket watch, "9:17."
In spite of everything, Isobel found she was truly surprised that it was that early. She had expected it to be well on the way to midnight. Behind her, she heard a hitched sob, and turned to see poor Martha standing a few steps back from the table, looking truly horrified.
"Oh, Martha," she was about to wrap her arms around the girl and console her when she realised that her own hands were also covered in blood. She crossed to the basin of water in the corner and doused her hands in it with some carbolic soap, removing her bloodstained apron. "There, there, Martha dear," she placed her hands cautiously around the young nurse's shoulders and hugged her gently, "Haven't you ever seen... before?"
The girl shook her head in distress, and Isobel simply held her there. Looking past the girl's shaking shoulders, she could see Richard, leaning heavily on the edge of the table.
"Dr Clarkson," she said softly.
Thankfully, the sound of her voice seemed to bring him out of whatever he had been in. Slowly, he stood up straight and made his way over to the basin to wash his own hands. Once he had finished scrubbing them, he looked over towards Isobel and Martha.
"Look after," he told Isobel quietly, "See she gets home safely. There are things I'll have to fill in, forms and so on. And I suppose I'll have to notify the police. They'll make sure his relatives know."
As Isobel led Martha away, she felt the suspended wave of grief she had been expecting wash over her at last.
…...
When at last he put the lid on his pen and put it down on his desk, Richard felt thoroughly and utterly exhausted. His face rested momentarily in the palm of his hand and he frowned deeply before making the seeming tremendous effort to stand up. There was little question of his going home this evening; he would only just settle down to sleep- if he did at all- when it would be time to get up again. Half asleep, he shut the door of his office and made his way across the corridor to the on-call room.
And the sight that met him rendered him fully awake in an instant. Isobel Crawley, sitting in the lone armchair in her nightdress and dressing gown, her hair loosely braided and then wound into a knot at the back of her head, apparently waiting for him. She looked up at the sound of the door closing and smiled at him softly, tiredly.
He realised that he was staring at her open-mouthed; wondering which question to ask her first.
"I knew you wouldn't go home," she explained, "I couldn't let you spend tonight alone. Not here of all places."
How had she come to be such an angel?- he wondered. But he couldn't allow her to... Not for him.
"Isobel, I-..."
Obviously sensing his retreat, she stood up hurriedly, walking closer to him quickly, covering his slightly outstretched hands with her own.
"Don't say anything that you don't really mean, Richard, please," she implored of him, "If you were being serious before, then you need me here. And if you weren't, then you owe it to me to be here for me."
He could not say anything, simply bowing his head a little. There was something very humbling in seeing her like this: raw compassion.
"Richard," she lent forward a little, almost whispering it in his ear, "You can lavish me with all the desks in Christendom, and kiss me atop half of them, but it won't mean a jot to me if you don't allow me to care for you in return. I've known you for barely two months, and I love you thoroughly."
He allowed these words to sink into him, slowly, slowly, and then, as soon as he was sure he had heard them correctly, gently let go of her hands to wrap his arms around her back and hold her to him, comforted by her very presence, by her soft, warm body. They remained like that for a few long moments before she whispered:
"I want you to forget," she told him, "I want you to forget all of the horrible things you've seen this evening. I want to be able to forget them myself," There was a pause for a moment. "Come on, I think it's time were in bed."
He looked fleetingly from the bed in the corner of the room to her. To her untying her dressing gown and getting into the bed, leaving the sheets turned over, waiting for him. It was a single bed, but wide considering that, and neither of them was very large. Still, he was uneasy.
"Isobel," he began hesitantly, "I'm not sure that-..."
"Richard," she told him plainly, "I'm not a little girl. I know what I'm doing."
Such was the conviction in her tone, that- for long enough for him to find himself in the bed beside her- it completely silenced his doubts. Even if they did revive themselves a little once he was there, that did not quell the urge in him to reach out and take her into his arms. Or to kiss her forehead. And she had been absolutely right, this was perfect comfort to him.
"Isobel," he began quietly, "I ought to tell you something." He knew she was listening from the kind of silence she offered him, "I love you. And I'm not just saying it to keep you in bed with me, I've loved you for a very long time."
He felt her laugh softly against his chest.
"Oh, Richard," she placed a passionate kiss against his lips. "Thank you."
Was this it?- he wondered, Was this the night when he would finally make love to that beautiful, unobtainable girl who had drifted in and out of his fantasies for the past thirty years? The girl who had grown into the most wonderful woman he had ever known.
He saw her smile at him, very slightly and tiredly, but she was was smiling for him nonetheless. It was only a question of whether she would kiss him or whether he would get there first. Finding their way back into each other's arms, they lay entwined in one another, until he felt his excitement growing and he shifted, worrying that it would alarm her. She, however, only shifted closer towards him.
This was what she had meant, buried in her collarbone, kissing her thoroughly through her nightdress, he found he was able to forget almost everything else in the world. The more he went on, the less he thought, the less he remembered. Caught up as he was in the hurried blissfulness of it all, he massaged her breasts through her nightgown, proceeding down further, raising her nightdress slowly up to her knees- which he was resting between-, halfway up her thighs. It was the sorest temptation in the world, as she lay flushed, wanton almost, beneath him not to hastily release himself from his trousers and bury himself inside her, truly make her his mistress.
He did not deserve her, beautiful, beautiful as she was. She deserved better, than him. Better than any of this.
"Isobel. Isobel, I can't do this."
Had he really just been about to make love to her here, like this, in this narrow hospital bed? To satisfy himself, to chase away the memories of a harrowing night with a quick release. He rolled away from her, her nightdress still lying halfway up her thighs.
"I'm so sorry, Isobel. You deserve so much better than this."
"Perhaps I don't want any better," her voice was quiet but determined.
He allowed himself to look into her face. She looked confused, upset, nearly desperate. With a hint of anger.
"I can't," he repeated, "Twenty years ago perhaps I would have done, but not to you."
"Richard-..."
He got out of bed, hastily buttoning his shirt again.
"I can sleep in my office. It's not too long until morning-..."
"Richard! I love you," she face was set, the anger decidedly beginning to show now, her voice thick with emotion, "And I would have gladly given myself to you entirely. I thought you wanted me?"
"Oh, God, Isobel, I do, believe me! But not like this, not the first time, anyway. Do you understand?"
She was silent for a moment.
"I understand. That doesn't make any easier, though."
As he let himself out and back into his own office, he doubted very much if he would get any sleep at all before dawn.
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