Time to return to some classic Turnadette this week. I hope you guys enjoy; reviews are always appreciated ;). Thanks to purple-roses-words-and-love for betaing!
Doctor Turner enveloped her hand with his own, larger ones. His skin was work-roughened and calloused, but his grip was very soft, gentle.
Sister Bernadette daren't look at his face, afraid that the lines there and his burning eyes would suddenly become a map that she could read. She curled her free hand into a fist, letting her nails dig into her palm with such force that they left little half-moons of white that took their time turning red.
"May I?" he whispered, voice low and thick. His index finger caressed the little fold of flesh that was neither palm nor finger, which caused shivers to climb along her vertebrae.
"Yes," she intended to say, but only air escaped between her lips. She snapped her eyes up and met his hazel ones. They were searching her face for permission, and they looked so lost and loyal, almost dog-like, that it made her want to cry.
She couldn't wait, then, didn't want to stand shivering till something happened or nothing did. Instead, she stepped into his arms, placing her free hand against his throat, letting her fingers fan out till they met his jawline. He swallowed, and she felt his Adam's apple bob under her palm.
"God forgive me, but I am in love with you, and I can't help myself," Doctor Turner murmured, tilting his face downward so he could look at her.
She looked at him through her lashes, eyes half-lidded from the simple pleasure of standing with his arms bracketed around her, ensconced in his warmth and scent. "I love you," she whispered. She stood on tiptoes, closing the distance between their faces till the tips of their noses touched. Another thrill shot through her, and warmth nestled itself in her belly.
His mouth met hers, and his kiss was as gentle as his hands. He snaked one arm around her waist to keep her close, his hand on her back, causing more heat to radiate through her body, prodding the fire inside her till it roared and demanded more, so much more.
"Oh please, Doctor Turner," she moaned as he kissed her neck.
His hand trailed through her hair, fingertips tickling her scalp.
Where did our clothes go? she wondered, and then the hand on her back travelled lower, cupping her backside, pressing her hips to his, and…
Sister Bernadette awoke gasping, a thin sheen of sweat coating her skin and causing her nightgown to cling to her body in a way it certainly wasn't supposed to. Her heart was beating so fast that her blood hummed in her ears. Her lungs felt too large for her chest, or maybe her chest was simply too tiny; either way, her breathing was rapid and shallow, painful, even.
She pressed a hand over the cavity where her heart beat, wincing at how clammy her skin was, forcing herself to take deep, steady breaths. She tried to ignore the sensation in her belly, which was fire and emptiness and ache, mercilessly pressing it down, as if she were crushing a weed underneath her shoe, robbing it of light and space till the sickly thing died.
When her breathing had evened out somewhat she got up, almost stumbling to her washbasin, wetting a flannel and pressing it against her brow.
She felt feverish, weak.
Had she really dreamed about embracing Doctor Turner? Of allowing him to kiss her, of his wandering hands invading places that they had no right to touch?
His hands had been gentle, and even though her cheeks now burned with something that was surely guilt, in her dream, she had not wanted him to stop. A small part of her still wished that he hadn't stopped, not in her dream, and not in the Parish hall several days ago, when his lips had kissed her wounded palm.
She looked at the scrape. It was no longer an angry red line; instead, it had crusted over, and was busy knitting itself together under the dark scab. She repressed the urge to press her fingers against it – or, heaven forbid, her own lips– instead roughly rubbing her face with the wet flannel till her skin was red.
Sister Bernadette looked at the clock. Half an hour to go till Lauds; no sense in climbing back into bed. She looked over her shoulder, at the green spread she had pushed to the end of the bed as she dreamed, and felt a questing flame crackling along her nerves. Resolutely she turned away, dragging her nightgown over her head and giving herself a sponge bath before getting dressed.
She then picked up her Bible from the night stand and slipped out of her room, intent on going to the chapel and praying a little before her fellow religious sisters joined her. Perhaps the coloured windows and smell of incense would scourge her mind; sleep certainly didn't.
It was still dark outside, but the hallway downstairs was illuminated by light spilling underneath the door of Sister Julienne's office. Sister Bernadette halted in front of it.
Part of her wanted to pretend her dreams hadn't happened, that she hadn't fallen in love with the doctor, wasn't falling still. Another part wanted her to confront her feelings head-on, and not cower under her blanket or on her knees in the chapel, praying for a miracle. It was the same part that insisted she'd be honest with herself, and with Sister Julienne. She knew her mentor was so very concerned about her…
Resolutely, Sister Bernadette pushed the handle down and stepped inside.
Sister Julienne's eyes snapped up, surprise and something else writ large in her eyes. "Sister Bernadette!" she said, and dropped the book she was holding. It landed with a soft thud on the carpet, spilling sheets of paper and dried flowers.
"I'm sorry!" Sister Bernadette exclaimed, dropping to her knees to help her fellow religious sister gather the waxed paper and pressed plants.
"I can manage," Sister Julienne mumbled.
"I didn't mean to startle you," Sister Bernadette whispered, voice low, suddenly afraid that her outcry would have woken the nurses. She picked up a glossy photograph, carefully holding it between her fingertips so it would not smudge.
It showed a young woman with a bob and a fringe, laughing, eyes squinted in delight, and a young man sitting next to her.
That's Sister Julienne, Sister Bernadette thought, brows knitting, but who is that man?
"Thank you," Sister Julienne said, taking the photograph from her, snatching at the sheets still on the floor, almost crumpling them in her haste to get them off the floor.
Not off the floor; away from you, Sister Bernadette realised.
She stood up, straightening the folds in her habit.
What to do; what to say? Apologising would show that she knew she had intruded on something private, that she knew that photograph was important to Sister Julienne. If she didn't apologise, would her fellow religious sister think that she hadn't realised the photograph's value, or would she think her rude?
"I'm sorry. I should've knocked," she murmured. Her glasses had slid to the tip of her nose; she pushed them back again with her index finger, balling her marred hand into a fist.
"Couldn't sleep?" Sister Julienne asked, a smile plastered on her face as she put the sheets back in her book and returning it to its shelf.
"I had a dream," Sister Bernadette started, then snapped her mouth shut as she realised she had no idea how to continue her sentence. She picked her Bible up from the floor, brushing a piece of fluff from the gold-embossed cover.
"Was it a good dream?" Sister Julienne asked, trying to sound cheerful. She sounded strained, and her face was pinched, pale. She looked drawn and tired.
"I don't… I don't know. I'm confused," Sister Bernadette confessed, rubbing her temples. A headache was brewing behind her eyes. She shivered.
"Why don't you sit down? We still have a bit of time before Lauds begins," Sister Julienne said.
Sister Bernadette lowered herself into a wooden chair, placing her Bible on the desk in front of her and folding her hands into her lap.
"Did you come here to speak to me about that dream?" Sister Julienne asked, folding her own hands and smiling.
Sister Bernadette fingered the scab on her palm as she tried to find the right words to proceed, but found she could hardly speak. Where guilt and shame had reigned before, shame suddenly made itself known, and proved itself superior, closing her throat and making her eyes burn. The warmth spread to her forehead, flushed her cheeks and neck. "Do you… sometimes dream of things you shouldn't?" she asked.
"What do you mean?" Sister Julienne asked, brows knitted.
"I sometimes dream of things I shouldn't want," Sister Bernadette confessed, eyes trained on her hands.
"Temptation is natural, as is doubt. We all encounter it, sooner or later," Sister Julienne said.
"But what if it doesn't go away?" Sister Bernadette whispered, eyes flitting up and briefly meeting those of her mentor before she lowered them again.
"The dreams, or the feelings?"
"I don't know," Sister Bernadette said. Her vision had grown fuzzy with tears. She dug her nails in her palm to ground herself, only to open the scab. She gasped as blood trickled down the ridge of her hand, pooling in her palm. She stood almost as a reflex, ready to take care of herself.
"You've hurt your hand," Sister Julienne remarked, opening a drawer in her desk and extracting a plaster from it.
"It's nothing," Sister Bernadette murmured, fumbling for her handkerchief with her right hand so she could wipe the blood away, sitting down again.
"Does it hurt?" Sister Julienne asked, taking her own handkerchief and dabbing at Sister Bernadette's palm before putting on some salve and the plaster.
Sister Bernadette then turned her hand over and closed it around Sister Julienne's, trapping the hiss that bubbled up from her lungs as her skin threatened to split again. It would definitely remain a scar if she kept opening it like this. A tear dripped down her face, landing on the back of her hand, glistening like a dewdrop before sliding away, leaving only the faintest of tracks.
"I feel so terribly confused," Sister Bernadette said.
"Oh, my sweet girl," Sister Julienne said, taking Sister Bernadette's hand in hers and kissing it. "Please try and tell me what has you so confused. We have started talking; please don't stop."
"But I can't," Sister Bernadette said, frowning. How could she possibly explain that Doctor Turner's face was printed on the inside of her eyelids, so that it was his face she saw when she closed her eyes, and his face alone? How could she confess that he was no longer just a colleague, but was slowly becoming the planet her life revolved around, unbalancing the orbit she had kept these past ten years, drawing her away from her fellow sisters?
"I hate to see you so upset," Sister Julienne whispered, stroking Sister Bernadette's hand with her thumb. "I just want you to know that every nun experiences phases of doubt, of regret. Do not feel guilty about doubting. Even Thomas doubted, and he had seen miracles."
"Do you doubt sometimes?" Sister Bernadette asked as another tear slipped between her lashes.
"Yes, oh yes. When I grew up, I imagined a different life for myself. I dreamed of a husband, and of children."
The man in the photograph? Sister Bernadette wondered, wiping her cheek with her free hand. "But then?" she asked.
"Then I got called, and my calling proved stronger."
"Do you regret that?"
Sister Julienne's eyes slipped sideways as she contemplated this. "When I was younger, I sometimes thought about what might have been."
"Not anymore?"
"It will not do to dwell on the road travelled, the path not taken. I have made my choice, and I know it is the right one. Everything else that threatened to draw me away did not turn out to be unimportant, but paled in comparison to Him," Sister Julienne said, voice strong and steadfast.
But how will I know? Sister Bernadette wondered. Doctor Turner no longer paled in comparison, and that was exactly what had her so confused, because how could a man of flesh and blood compete with an eternal, all-powerful deity? But at least the doctor's hands were soft, and she could read loyalty and love in his eyes, whereas her God had been cold and distant lately. Doctor Turner made her feel loved and wanted, but her God only made her feel shame and guilt now where before there had been only love.
She shook her head to rid herself of these thoughts. "I will need some more time, I think," she decided. Just a few more weeks to create order in the chaos that reigned supreme in her mind, just a bit of time…
"It is time for Lauds. I will pray for you," Sister Julienne said, giving Sister Bernadette's hand a good squeeze.
"Thank you, Sister," Sister Bernadette murmured. Sister Julienne's hand was cool and gentle as it helped her up, and for a blessed moment, Doctor Turner's hands were a mere memory. His touch still lingered, soft and ghostlike, though, and no other hand, no matter how gentle, could make his caresses fully fade.