I'm sorry, but I felt this had to be written. This is a silly, out of character, alternate universe re-write of that gorgeous scene where he talked about going to bed with a glass of whiskey. It was going to be a oneshot, but now it's a two-parter. It would never, and in fact it didn't, happen, but one can dream. Also, the second part's going to be smutty.

"Goodness," she murmured, aware too late that her eyes had flitted shut- but perhaps that was the best way given the path that her thoughts had taken at his words- "I wondered what you were going to say for a moment."

The moment when she could have hidden those rather untoward thoughts passed like a shot the moment they made eye contact. She knew she had a glimmer in her eye- she wouldn't even have been that surprised to hear that her eyes had darkened with desire, thought goodness only knew it had been a good many years since that had last happened- she never could help it when she was about to laugh, especially nervously. It disconcerted her and pleased her in equal measure when she caught exactly the same look in his eyes. The sound of his warm laughter lingered in the air for a moment, and she smiled a little nervously.

"Gracious," he smiled at her, "I wonder what you can mean, Mrs Crawley?"

Having narrowly avoided choking on her drink, she gave him a very wry look over the rim of her glass.

"I wouldn't have thought you'd try to be coy with me, Dr. Clarkson," she remarked dryly, and received rather a knowing chuckle in reply.

"Really, Mrs Crawley-..."

"Oh, I do wish you'd call me Isobel," she told him, "At least when we're alone together."

"Alright," he smiled gratefully at her, "Isobel. I mean it's very flattering of you in a way, I suppose," he continued, looking a little abashed.

"I haven't embarrassed you, have I?" she asked, only half apologising, her eyes telling his that she was half-seriously testing his mettle.

"Not at all," he replied, "It's just rather an amusing idea, that's all. That I should be off to bed with anything else."

There was a pause.

"Amusing how?" she asked, frowning.

"Well," he elaborated, his awkwardness beginning to show just a little now, "I begin to be feeling, at my age, rather as if I might be past all that by now. Don't you?"

"Certainly not," she replied with conviction, "I shouldn't think I'm past anything."

He raised quite an admiring eyebrow.

"I said that too quickly, didn't I?" she asked.

He smiled at her rather ruefully.

"I admire your spirit," he told her, taking another drink.

"Don't," she told him, stealing herself a little to say something daring, "Look to your own. Why feel old, Dr. Clarkson?"

"I would have hoped that if I'm going to call you Isobel, you'll call me Richard," he told her.

"Alright, Richard, then," she agreed, "But that's not the point. Why should you feel old? I take it there's nobody telling you to. You're not an unattractive man, by any means, regardless of your age."

"Thank you, I think," he replied, a glint in his eye.

"I should say that you're just as likely to be able to have a lover as the next man. More likely, even, if it's me you're asking."

There was a heavy pause.

"Are you trying to tell me something, Isobel?" he half-teased.

She closed her eyes again, trying to recall the exact point at which it had started to sound like she was propositioning him.

"I'm sure that didn't come out quite right," she told him.

He smiled at her understandingly.

"Probably not," he agreed.

"All I mean is," she began again, trying desperately to decide just precisely what it was that she meant, "I wouldn't have thought your best years were entirely behind you," she finished, fairly diplomatically, she thought, given the circumstances.

"Then, thank you," he told her, "That's quite a compliment, coming so sincerely. And from you."

"Meaning that I'm famed for insincere compliments?" she ask, raising an eyebrow.

"No," he scoffed, realising that she was joking, "Meaning that I value any compliment from you. Truly."

They were quiet for a moment. She finished off her drink, putting the empty glass down on the table beside her.

"Would you like me to fill you up?" he asked.

She had to brace herself very thoroughly not to explode at the double meaning. Goodness, Isobel, you haven't been this coarse since you were nineteen!

"No, I'm quite alright," she replied, "For the moment."

"So you don't think of yourself as old, then?" he asked, "If you don't mind me asking?"

"I don't mind, if you tell me truthfully: do you think I'm old?" she asked.

"No," he replied swiftly, "I think you're remarkable."

She felt herself flush a little, noticing how he complimented her just as much with his eyes as his words; unless she was imagining it he appeared to be very much drinking in the sight of her. His eyes alone would have lit up the blackest night like beacons. Feeling her flush deepen she sought to distract herself; she couldn't afford to feel this flustered or she would completely lose her composure.

"I won't ask you to comment on the likelihood of my getting myself a lover," she told him flatly, "Or then I will embarrass you."

He gave her a small smile.

"Isobel," he murmured in a surprising low, and she thought, serious voice, "I'd say you were just as likely to get a lover as I am."

She felt a lump form in her throat.

"Would you?" she asked, her voice surprising, and appalling, her with its high pitch.

"Exactly as likely," he replied.

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