Patsy Mount loved every version of Delia Busby. Sometimes, lying in her bed at night after a long shift, lulled by the sounds of Nonnatus House settling, Patsy would play a game with herself. Try to decide which Delia was her favourite. It made the separation easier, dulled her acute awareness of Trixie's gentle snoring and allowed her to imagine that it was Delia sharing the space with her. Sharing the bed with her.
There were so many different Delias that sometimes she didn't know quite where to begin. She would let her mind drift over the course of the day, think about which Delias she'd encountered. Patsy loved them all, adored every kaleidoscope facet of her wonderful Welsh girl - but she liked some of them better than others.
Recklessly brave Delia both excited and terrified Patsy in equal measure. She would push boundaries, take risks, expose them both to the danger of discovery. She was the one who held Patsy's hand in the dark cover of the cinema, sat too close on the bus, laughed too loud when Patsy snuck into her room at night. She was the one who would challenge Sister Winifred on her rigid morality, argue with Tom about outdated views, say all the things that Patsy wished she were brave enough to say.
She was the one who ambushed Patsy in quiet places, eyes sparkling with mischief. With exquisite timing she would take advantage of any empty space, kiss and kiss and kiss Patsy until she could barely stand, until her chest was heaving with want, her limbs heavy. Then as carefree as a lark she would step back, wipe Patsy's smeared lipstick. Wink, before skipping away.
Timid, obedient Delia only appeared when Mr or Mrs Busby were in town. Patsy was grateful that their visits were infrequent, because she didn't much care for timid Delia. The Delia who accepted what her mother said without question and didn't stand up for herself. Or for them.
She incited in Patsy a deep seated need to protect, to shelter. To control. Because timid Delia didn't seem like she had autonomy. But Patsy didn't like that dynamic at all. Patsy loved the equality in their relationship, the way they worked together. And while she would go to the very ends of the earth to protect her beautiful girl, she did not like feeling coerced into the role of protector.
Nervous, brilliant Delia was a wonder to behold. Patsy cherished those rare times when she got to observe Delia in action, when the nursing took over and Delia was a creature of instinct and nurture. The redhead only wished that Delia could see herself as Patsy did, that the nerves and lack of self-confidence could give way to the calm, collected, self-assured professional that she knew Delia to be. Patsy had been so incredibly proud when Delia had talked Roseanne Dawley through her labour over the Nonnatus phone. Delia had clutched the phone so tightly, looked so panicked until she'd heard the baby's cry, until Roseanne had gasped that it was a girl. Patsy had felt like her heart would burst through her rib cage with delight. Knew that her face gave away entirely too much of what she was feeling but completely unable to school her features into anything short of a beaming grin. That lasted for days.
Calm, serene Delia was the rock against which her grief broke. Patsy had learned over the years, through the internment camp and boarding school and her father's guilt-ridden absence, to suppress her feelings and put aside her emotions. To simply get on with business, as father would say. And on the most part she did and it worked. But sometimes... Sometimes the events of the day would be just too much. The loss of a baby, or a mother. The evidence of abuse. The gnawing concavity of malnutrition and starvation. Occasionally something would trigger a memory, a reaction to a distant past she tried so hard to repress. And Delia would be there.
Delia with her warm arms and security. With her lilting lullabies and gentle assurances. With her endless kisses raining down upon Patsy's head. Patsy would clutch at Delia's waist, anchoring herself as the shudders wracked her body. Let Delia's presence seep into the broken parts, soothe the jagged holes pierced by grief. Until she was whole again, the fractured parts knitted together all the more tightly with Delia's love.
Loose-limbed, deeply sleeping Delia was usually insensible to Patsy's presence. On the rare nights that both Trixie and Barbara were out on duty, Patsy would skulk down the dim hallway, clamber gingerly into Delia's bed. Press herself tightly against the warmth of the smaller girl's body. Thread her arms around Delia and just hold her and hold her and hold her. Breathing in the scent of her skin, letting the peace override her fear at being caught. Sometimes she'd lay there for barely five minutes, other nights Patsy would doze with her beloved. Until the sense of dread drove her back to her own bed. Cold and lonely.
Delia was such a deep sleeper that she rarely knew when Patsy's nocturnal visitations occurred. But sometimes Delia would stir. Would roll over and snuggle into Patsy's side with a murmured "Love you Pats." And Patsy would smile into the dark. Content.
Quietly sarcastic Delia was a treasure, an endless source of amusement. She was full of quips and witticisms, of pointed comments and perfectly raised eyebrows. She could communicate whole sentences with the quirk of her lips, the tilt of her head, the sparkle of blue eyes. The Welsh girl's ire was often directly at an oblivious Sister Winifred, whose narrow-mindedness was matched only by her tiresomely unending cheerfulness. No one escaped Delia's attention, however she had a soft spot for Sister Monica Joan, and so her barbs were blunted and fond. And Patsy only loved her more for it.
Irritated Delia appeared frequently, but never stayed long. The Welsh girl had a short fuse but was equally quick to forgive, and Patsy was grateful for it. Because she often put her foot in it. Patsy was fascinated by the change that came over Delia in these moments, although she rarely had time to contemplate. The second she saw Delia's expression darken, her mouth tighten, her lips purse - she knew she was in for it. Blue eyes, usually warm like the sky on a clear summer evening, would chill and narrow. Dark brows would draw together. And then Delia would let her have it. Patsy could gauge how badly she'd messed up by the depth of her accent - when the sing song Pembrokeshire came out in force it was bad news indeed.
The time when she'd invited Trixie to see La Dolce Vita with them had been a catastrophe. She hadn't really been thinking, but the second she had opened her mouth she knew it had been a mistake. The sun may have been shining down brightly, tanning arms and legs, but the temperature on the stoop dropped at least 20 degrees. She'd been surprised Delia's glare hadn't singed her to a crisp on the spot. Delia had forgiven her, but she'd certainly made her pay for it later.
Flirtatious, seductive Delia drove Patsy out of her mind. And she knew it. Sometimes she'd stand in the doorway of Patsy and Trixie's bedroom, lean casually against the frame. Look at Patsy with those blue blue eyes and sin on her mind and Patsy would need to sit down. Immediately. Other times she'd wait up for Patsy after her shift. Patsy would walk into the kitchen to the smell of milk warming and see Delia propped against the counter. A coy smile drawing one side of her lips up. And Patsy would feel a visceral pull, feel her whole body tighten, feel a tug between her legs that just wasn't fair. Delia would hold out a hand and Patsy would be unable to resist. Would be tugged until their positions were reversed and Delia was pressing her against the cabinets and doing things with her tongue inside Patsy's mouth that were surely illegal they felt so good.
Patsy loved all of these Delias. But the one she loved the best, her favourite, was the Delia who made Patsy feel like she belonged, like she shared the same soul. When she was in boarding school, one of the matrons had an extensive personal library. It included a healthy smattering of Greek classics, and Patsy had become a little obsessed at the time. She didn't fit in with the other girls, couldn't share their petty joys and squabbles. She found solace in reading, and the matron, knowing Patsy's history, had allowed Patsy access to whatever she wanted to read. And Patsy had fallen in love with Ancient Greece. Reading Plato, she'd been struck by the myth of soul mates, of people split in half and searching for the other half of their souls.
Delia made her feel complete. As if they fit together in ways that no-one else could possibly understand. As if the ragged edges of her past connected seamlessly with Delia's to make a whole, bright future. It was the quiet times, the times that they sat wordlessly in each other's company, the times that they did nothing more than bask in each other's presence, that Patsy felt this strongest. Felt as if her soul had finally come home. As if this was precisely where she belonged.
Patsy loved every version of Delia, but she loved this one best of all.