This is written in on the same premise that Bothering was- inside the non-Turnadette AU. I don't know if you'll want more.
Valentine's Day was always something of a mixed bag at Nonnatus House anyway. What else was to be expected from a place where half of the inhabitants were nuns and the other half were perfectly normal young girls, just as eager for romance as the next woman? Too much frivolity on the subject definitely irritated Sister Evangelina, who said it was days like this that assured her she had made the right choice to take her vows. Sister Monica Joan was usually more stoical on the matter, and generally quoted some form of verse- the degree and explicitness of romantic allusions it contained generally corresponding to the ardour of the Valentine received. One year, for instance, when Trixie had received a red rose and a bottle of perfume from a sailor, Sister Monica Joan had produced such a colourful quotation that it had almost quite upset Sister Bernadette, and she had received a sharp warning to behave herself.
So it was that Sister Julienne approached St Valentine's Day with deeply mixed feelings, this year more than ever. But for her mixed feeling were becoming increasingly common. She supposed they would for any nun who happened to have a lover, particularly on Valentine's Day.
It wasn't that she wanted a card, or a present, or flowers. She simply wasn't interested in that sort of thing; nothing could have been further from her mind. Nor was she worried that Patrick would want to make any sort of extravagant gesture that might potentially give the game away, he was far too sensible for that. What upset her about the whole thing was that the approaching day had made her intensely aware of all the things that she could not give Patrick. They could not tell anyone about what they were doing. They could not hold hands in public. They could not even be seen standing too close together inside Nonnatus House in case somebody saw them and suspected. They barely even dared to tell each other how they felt, though from their ardent actions it was obvious, in case the honest, the acknowledgement of what really existed between them led to them being unable to bear the secrecy any longer.
It made her realise what Patrick was giving up to be with her. He was giving up a kind of freedom. He was giving up the family that he could have had with another woman, but not with her. He was giving up the tiny whispers of "I love you" in his ear after making love. It was easier for her to go without such things; she would never, could never, have had them with anybody else anyway, but there was the chance that he could have...
He must be mad, she had fleetingly thought. Who would willingly go through all of this for such a modest offering in return? She could never even lie in his arms for very long before she had to leave.
The night before Valentine's Day, she went to see him, like she usually did, at the Maternity Hospital. As usual, he smiled when he saw her come through the door.
"Hello," he murmured, putting down his pen.
"Hello, Patrick," she replied.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"Why should anything be wrong?"
"Your voice," he told her, "Your face. You're sad. What's the matter? Tell me."
"It doesn't matter," she insisted, "Really."
Standing up, he took a step towards her, taking both of her hands in his.
"We might not live together," he told her, "The way we go on might not be anything like what people call normal, but that doesn't mean I haven't got to know you." He slipped his finger gently under her chin, lifting her head for her to look at him, "And I can tell when something's the matter. So what's wrong?"
She looked at him for a long moment, then, seeing the care in his eyes, lent forwards and kissed him briefly.
"I feel like I don't give you enough," she told him hesitantly, after a moment.
He paused, waiting for more.
"How can you think that?" he asked her, when none arrived, "You give me everything. Everything you can. And it would be very wrong of me to be ungrateful for that."
She was quiet, she could not say anything. She rested her head against his shoulder.
"I know this is so difficult for you," he continued softly, "And that is why it's enough for me, just to have you like this. I couldn't ask for anything more. I don't want to," he asserted firmly, "I don't want more than you."
Gently, she felt his hands pulling lightly at her veil, removing it and her cap so that her hair could fall down. He ran his hands through it, something that always made her shiver. Having her hair bundled away for most of her life, she relished the feel of his hands on it and in it; it was wonderful.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered, kissing her cheek, her neck gently, "I love you."
She let out the very slightest gasp.
"I know I'm not supposed to say it," he told her, "But I do. I love you. I'll never say it again if you don't want me to. But it's true."
"I love you too," she whispered in reply, her voice choking a little as his lips moved around her throat.
"And that is enough," he replied into her skin, "That is more than enough. That's all I could ever ask."
Her arms wrapped around his back, holding him tightly to him.
"Darling," she murmured gently, as his hand began to tug at her habit, trailing downwards over the curves of her body to lift the hem and take it off her.
"Darling."
As they lay together on the examination table, in the few moments they allowed themselves before she had to go, their hearts still not slowed, breathing still erratic and skin still burning into each other, he whispered softly in her ear, pushing the strands of her wild, sandy hair gently aside;
"Darling, will you be my Valentine?"
And for a moment, her thoughts about St Valentine's Day were not mixed; she wanted to weep with joy.
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