Based on an anonymous ask: "just a Turnadette fic idea, something old school when she's still a nun. I read through the Lips Touch series which led to the one where she has a panic attack, have you thought of writing it again to where there actually is a kiss, maybe more than just a simple peck?;)". I didn't do another panic attack, but we are talking some old-school Turnadette after the TB diagnosis. I hope you'll like it!
Tuberculosis.
The word kept bouncing around in her head till it became almost all-consuming.
Sister Bernadette turned on her back and stared at the ceiling. It was late, and those who were not on call had gone to bed long since. She'd retired hours ago herself, but had not yet fallen asleep. She'd prayed for hours, hoping that the familiar words would allow her consciousness to slowly fall away, but to no avail. God had been silent these past few months no matter how much she begged and pleaded and wept, and he was silent now, too. Instead of blessed rest, her prayers had only brought her a faint twinge of anger, and a powerful surge of despair.
How could she doze knowing that the thing that rattled inside her lungs like a spare penny was an affliction that could very well kill her?
How could she sleep knowing that a potentially fatal disease held her body hostage?
And how could she relax when her mind kept going back to his sweet face?
Doctor Turner had examined her today, but she'd only felt the cold kiss of his instrument, never the warmth of his fingertips. He had been so close to her, and yet she could not step into his embrace and bury her face in his jumper, could not draw a little bit of comfort from him as her mind, still reeling, tried to encompass the enormous truth now before her.
She could die.
She could die without ever having told him that she loved him.
It was unbearable.
She threw the blankets off and sat up, fumbling for her glasses with trembling hands. Her breath was coming in short gasps, but whether from fear or disease, she didn't know.
She smoothed the folds out of her nightdress, put on a pair of stockings, then slipped outside with her shoes in hand.
It was surprisingly easy to leave the convent. Once, on the stairs, a floorboard creaked, and she waited with baited breath, but nothing stirred. Sister Bernadette took her coat, then her bike, and pedalled away.
Soon, her lungs were burning, but she didn't slow till she had reached the surgery.
She knew it was folly, knew he was probably at home, with Timothy, where he should be, but she would check here first. She had to talk to him without Sister Julienne present, had to speak the thoughts that had weighed on her mind for weeks now, before it was too late.
The wind almost tore her cap off, so she plucked it from her head and stuffed it in her pocket.
Maybe God will strike you down for this, a mean voice told her as she parked her bike. She shook her head; she didn't believe in that kind of God.
To her surprise, the door of the surgery was open. The hallway was dark, with splayed shadows on the floor and walls, but warm light spilled from underneath the doctor's office.
Thank God.
Sister Bernadette walked faster, shoes slapping the tiles in an almost frantic rhythm. The door handle was colder than ice as she closed her hand around it, and for one moment, she hesitated. She thought of turning back, but surely he'd already heard her footsteps, and would come to see who would visit the surgery at this time…
She pushed the handle down and stepped inside before her nerve failed her.
"I'm sorry, I…" Doctor Turner said, snapping his head up and tearing his eyes away from the patient's file that lay before him. His voice faltered when he saw who it was. "Sister Bernadette," he whispered, getting to his feet so fast that he almost knocked over his ashtray. Cigarette butts lay curled within, numerous as the petals of a dying flower.
She closed the distance between them and threw her arms around his chest, hugging him to her very tightly. She inhaled the scent of his aftershave and cigarettes, felt his warmth on her wind-chilled cheek, and sobbed.
For a heartbeat, he stood petrified. Then, his arms closed around her. One hand cupped her head protectively, fingers caressing her hair. He kissed the top of her head.
"I'm so afraid," she whispered, tears fogging her glasses, "and I couldn't bear the thought that I could never say this to you out loud." She wanted to say much more to him, but she couldn't find the words, and she was so breathless that she couldn't have spoken even if she'd known what to say.
"I am afraid, too," he confessed. She could feel his voice rumble through his chest.
She tilted her head back so she could look at him, but her glasses were too smeared with her tears. She took them off and pushed them in the same pocket that held her cap. "When you examined me today, I was so ashamed, and… I prayed for you not to touch me, because I didn't know what I would do if you did, but at the same time, I wanted nothing more but for your fingers to slip, because…"
"Because?" he asked, eyes filled with something infinite.
"Because there is something inside me that comes awake when you're near, and it is stronger than anything I've ever known. Because I love you."
"Oh, God," he whispered.
"And now I'm afraid that there's no time anymore," she said, breath hitching as another sob threatened to overtake her. "That's why I wanted you to touch me today: because I might die, and then you'll be left with only the memory of my hand in yours."
"But you can't die," he said, embracing her so hard that it almost hurt.
She took his hand and intertwined her fingers with his, pressing her healed palm against his calloused one. "But I might, and to do it with only the ghost of your touch… I know now that that is not enough," she confessed, not daring to look at him, cheeks flushing.
"But your vows…"
"I believe in a God of love and mercy. I believe that he can forgive when we sin out of love, and what is this if not love?"
"You don't know what it means to me when you say that," he said, voice thick, thumb stroking her knuckles.
She placed his hand on her chest. "Please touch me," she whispered.
He stroked her clavicle, thumb dipping below the neckline of her nightgown. His fingers were rough, but his touch was very gentle as his hands touched her shoulders, skimmed her neck.
Doctor Turner looked at her with something written in his eyes which she could not name as one hand pushed underneath her nightdress and touched her between her shoulder blades, where he had placed his stethoscope before.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
Sister Bernadette wanted to kiss him then, but how could she press her lips to his with this infernal disease coating her tongue?
She tugged at his jumper, placed her hands flat against his chest, feeling his warmth through the layers of clothing he wore. "I am completely sure," she said, and pushed his breeches from his shoulders.
He stepped back from her so he could undo his tie, so he could pull off his jumper and his shirt. As soon as the fabric had pooled at his feet she pressed herself against him, tracing circles on his chest. He was warm, and hairier than she'd expected.
He kissed her throat, very softly, the hand that wasn't on her back touching her hip.
She placed her hand on the nape of his neck, head lolling back as pleasure bloomed in her belly.
He walked her back till her legs hit his desk, then lifted her so she could sit. The wood was hard and cold, but he was warm as he touched her, still so tentatively, as if he was afraid she would change her mind.
She took her nightgown and hitched it up, then slung her legs around the doctor, drawing him close. "Anything less is not enough," she told him, kissing his hand.
She held on to him as they made love, and he held on to her, both afraid that the other would disappear if they let go. Not even when she was overcome with pleasure and felt weightless did she let go.
He almost collapsed on top of her when he reached his completion. She cupped the back of his head with one hand, fingers threading through his hair.
"You can't die," he whispered, and then started to cry, holding her with shaking arms.
She was no stranger to seeing grown men cry; in her capacity as a nurse, she'd seen the toughest of men reduced to tears more than once. But now it was not just a patient she held, but the man she loved, and his anguish almost undid her.
She took his face between her hands and forced him to look at her. "I'm not going to die," she told him, voice almost harsh with determination. "Do you hear me? I'm not going to die. I'm going to come back for you, and for Timothy." She kissed his eyelids, his cheek, then rocked him and hummed a psalm in his ear as he tried to calm down.
There was only room in her head for four words now.
I will not die.