It was all over. At last. He hadn't known how much more he could stand, how much any of them could. Everyone was exhausted, most of them were covered in blood. As best they could, the patients had been tended to and cleansed, and in exchange, it seemed, the hospital staff had been doused in blood. He shuddered a little, shivered in the cold of the dark as he made his way away from the ward and through the night towards his office. It was distasteful to him to think about; him, a surgeon. It hadn't permeated his surgeon's coat, but still, he wanted rid of this uniform, he wanted to feel clean.
He was out of the ward and everything he had suppressed in order to do his job seemed to be welling to the surface. He didn't know what time it was, or if it was nearly morning. For the first time that night, he seemed to reside wholly with himself, but his self was almost lost in fatigue and grief. Treading the path of the wooden boards to his office was the only thing keeping him on course.
But when his office came into view, he saw, through the gap under the blind, that there was a light on inside there. He frowned. And then his frown faded. There was only one person who would presume to let themselves in. The light was certainly on inside that room. His pace quickened and he entered swiftly.
It was.
It was her. Worn, tired, like him. Grace stood there, waiting for him, without her apron, without, to his surprise, her headdress.
She saw the path his eyes followed, saw him notice its absence.
"It became unhygienic when I was assisting Captain Gillan," she told him.
He nodded gently. She did not have to say, it had been covered in blood too.
"I thought you might like some tea," she handed him a steaming mug, "And," she hesitated for the briefest of seconds, "Not to be alone."
He looked at her. Her fair hair was shining in the light from the lamp. Her head was bowed.
"I wasn't sure," she added quietly, "I wanted not to be alone," she admitted.
His eyes were fixed upon her. She looked exhausted, yet still somehow-… so alive. She was beautiful, but then she always was to him. She was the spaces between the hour and the hour, she was there in every moment in this awful place that wasn't inundated with suffering, she pushed the suffering away from him and told it not to disturb them. He let out a low sigh. Her eyes flickered further downwards.
"I should go," she told him, "Let you sleep. I shouldn't have bothered you."
"No, Grace, don't go."
Instinctively, he reached out, arrested her wrist, prevented her from leaving. She stop abruptly, her gaze flitting up to him. At last, he thought. She looked alarmed, though.
"Don't go," he asked her again, "I don't want you to go. I want you here."
There was a moment of silence.
"Do you?" she asked him. Her voice was fragile. Her eyelids seemed to flicker under the intensity of the look they exchanged, but a moment later she seemed to swallow, her jaw set more firmly. She was uncertain but he knew she was not frightened.
"Yes," he answered quietly. Another pause. Again, "I want you here."
Her head tipped back a little way but they were standing so close together that her eyes still lingered on his face. She was looking at his lips. He was still holding on to her lower arm.
His breath left him in another uneven gasp.
"Forgive me," he asked her softly.
"What for?" she asked him equally quietly. When he did not speak; "Roland, what is it? What are you thinking?"
She was reaching out for him, but almost as if she did not know what to do with her hands; the one that he was not holding onto ghosted across his forehead before cupping his cheek. Blinking, he looked up at her.
"I want you-… now," he told her, "I think-… I must have you."
He felt her breath dance across his upper lip as she let out a sigh too now. He had been exhausted, but now he was hyper-aware of every small movement she made as he tried to gage her reaction.
He could no longer look at her face, looked down at the tips of her fingers which were still touching his cheekbone.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his lips ghosting against her hand, kissing her palm, "I shouldn't have-…"
"Don't be sorry," she told him suddenly, her voice was at once firm where before she had been uncertain, "That's what I wanted you to say. I wanted to hear that you want me. I want to-… feel it."
He looked up. Their eyes met. His hand flitted out to her waist and she caught it, clasping it to rest against her dress. Settling it there, her hand left his almost tentatively and rested on his shoulder. Her fingers half-curled into a loose fist.
She was looking at his eyes, searching his face.
"Roland. Please don't be afraid of what you want. Or ashamed, or sorry or-…"
She was looking at his lips. She let out a quiet sigh as their lips touched.
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