Italics implies a character's thought.
You Send Me – Sam Cooke
Her hair is the color of honey, his mind quirks as he spies at Sister Bernadette from his perch against the door jam. A tear of sweat from the heat of the sterilizer draws down the curve of her neck. He stares at it until it disappears underneath the weight of the dark wool. The tiny strand of blessed hair that is sinfully poking out from her habit curls under the stress of the stream rising up. And it's curly.
I should not be staring at a nun of all people, but their physical features are hidden from us mere mortal men and, just to gain a glimpse, is exciting enough.
His heart, curiously galloping at such a fast pace, nearly halts when she starts to lowly hum a song. Closing his eyes, he takes a small drag from his cigarette as her sweet voice fills his ears. Sam Cooke, he soon realizes from his numerous hours spent in his car or in a home with a radio tuned in to a station for the younger crowd. Sister Bernadette has soul, opening his eyes, he smiles, and rhythm and blues.
The clinking of china shakes him from his idleness, as well as from her song, and kicks him from his hiding place to make his presence known.
Hearing the knock on the door, Sister Bernadette's vertebrae straightens into a steel rod as she opens the lid to the sterilizer. The steam crawls along her skin as the heat quickens her heart beat.
They are cordial, briefly talking of instruments and autoclaves before Nurse Franklin's heels click in a timely manner to where they are chit chatting.
The silky, sweet voice of the young nurse asks if the Doctor will be staying for tea and cake and, for the briefest of moments, Sister Bernadette's lungs ceases to operate. He would be placed next to me, her mind screams as she buries her hope into the darkest part of her soul. Where is this coming from, she silently asks with the grit of her teeth.
His excuse of spending time with his son allows her to breathe once again, yet the butterflies that line her stomach still flutter as if it is springtime in a distant meadow. While the sound of the telephone rings in the distance and the gentle perfume of Nurse Franklin floats past, Sister Bernadette asks about his sweet, sweet boy.
For the most part, he has been able to keep his fears at the upcoming holidays at bay from most of the people who realize that it is their first Christmas since his wife died, yet, for some reason, he confesses them to her. Afterwards, he will blame it on both his lack of proper rest and parenting skills, but, for now, he is soothed as the weight of his worries lifts from his shoulders.
She takes his concerns to heart and, for an instant, she is transported back in time to her first Christmas without her mum; the shame at burning the Christmas ham, the tears that streamed down her face at the emptiness her mother left when she had passed, but, most of all, the weight of her father's hand on her shoulder when he told her that she helped make Christmas bearable for him that year. If I can get though it, then so can the Doctor and Timothy. The memory of her mother's beautiful face swims by as she tells him of her past.
The idea of the loss she had suffered at such a young age endears her to him. He is sure, pretty damn sure, that others at Nonnatus House had a similar childhood, but her words of resiliency helps him become a tad bit more confident in his fathering skills. Not necessarily my cooking skills though. "He's made his opinion about my cooking rather clear."
His eyes twinkle in mirth as he takes another drag from his cigarette, and the butterflies come back in full effect. The idea of both father and son sharing fish and chips from its thin wrapping infiltrates her mind making her smile. Yet, the ideal picture is completed with another person there – a womanly figure with glasses sliding down her nose in laughter – and she shoves it down with all of her might. This is ridiculous! I need to stop with these silly thoughts.
Nurse Franklin comes back and informs him that his work is never truly finished, not even with Christmas around the corner. Without another word, he steps up to Sister Bernadette to gather his bag of medical instruments and once again sees the little pocket of hair poking out next to her ear. Curling his fingers around the cloth bag to keep himself from tucking away the errant wisp of curl back to its rightful place, he smiles at her and quickly makes himself disappear.
From her perch of where he left her, she watches him leave with a smile still playing along her lips as the butterflies flutter throughout her chest.
"Come, Sister, for there is cake to be eaten and prayer to be sent for our bounty." Sister Monica Joan slips her fingers along the palm of her youngest sister and tugs her towards the kitchen.
"Did the Doctor just leave?"
Glancing up at Nurse Franklin, Sister Bernadette nods her head. "He said something about getting fish and chips with Timothy." Her words come out as a sigh, yet with Sister Monica Joan's enthusiasm over the size portions of cake, it was quickly drown in a sea of flurry.
It wasn't until she felt cold fingers brush along her ear did her mind finally let the image of the Doctor's twinkling eyes and kind smile drift away. Sister Bernadette looks up to see Sister Julienne gazing down at her with her own brand of kind eyes.
"You must be careful when standing around the sterilizer. The heat made some of your hair fall out from it's place." Making sure perfection is once again shown, Sister Julienne smiles before taking her place at the head of the table. When she sits, however, she notices a flood of red covering Sister Bernadette's cheeks. "Are you okay, Sister?"
Did he see? Did he notice my hair out of place? Her mind quickly thinks back the few minutes before Doctor Turner made his presence known. Did he hear me humming a not-so-secular tune? What would he think of me? Swallowing down the lump of fear that is caught in her throat, she wills her mind to think of other things, other important things, before answering back. "I, uhh, must have spent too much time over the sterilizer."
Plopping down in the chair next to the dazed Sister Bernadette, Sister Evangelina barks, "Hopefully we shall see our new autoclave before the end of next Christmas."
Hearing the choruses of agreements, Sister Bernadette makes a promise to herself to spend an extra hour in silence – on call permitting of course – to take in His advice as to what to do with these thoughts of the Doctor.
..::..::..
Idle hands are the devils handiwork.
It is Christmastime at Nonnotus House, her favorite time of the year. Yet, instead of observing silence in her room or in the church – where I should be – Sister Bernadette uses her idle hands for cooking. The idea of Timothy Turner – and his father, her mind sneakily supplies – without a Christmas supper seemed slightly more depressing than the burnt ham she had made for her father and brothers after her mother died.
Better at cooking than at the young age of eight, the heavy smell of sausage and potatoes attacks her senses as she takes out the baking dish from the oven. This was the dish papa always wanted me to make, every Wednesday, like clockwork. Slipping the mittens off of her hands, the memory of her mother's death on that rainy Wednesday night claws through her mind.
Shaking her head, she covers the dish with the lid and places it in the box next to the Christmas cake she had made a few hours prior. Making sure to bypass Nurse Miller who is on call - and who also believes that I am making this food for a family in need - Sister Bernadette shuffles towards the front door.
Gathering her coat and scarf from the chair, she bundles herself up before making her way to Mrs. Ailbhe's shop. Her plan, rather quick to form when she watched the good Doctor jog into the Parrish hall just in time to see the Nativity play, is depending on the little old shopkeeper to keep her promise not to tell where the food is coming from. She is rather a gossip, though.
Rolling her eyes, Sister Bernadette trudges on. There are others who could have brought the food to the Turner home, however Mrs. Ailbhe had kindly offered her the sausage needed to make the casserole. She had also offered to bring the food since the Doctor's home is not to far from her own. With her hands tied, she agreed only with the sole purpose for the shopkeeper's discretion.
Knocking on the door, Sister Bernadette bobs back and forth on her feet to keep her body warm from the slurry of snow falling around her.
Opening the door, Mrs. Ailbhe smiles as she opens her arms to take the box. "Not a word, Sister."
When the door closes, Sister Bernadette twirls around and looks up towards the light breaking over the night sky. She allows herself a minute – one tiny minute – to allow the butterflies to overtake her chest. The feeling of their fluttering wings enraptures her heart as a small smile dances along her cheeks.
An extra hour of penance is worth all the butterflies in the world.
That thought, that one singular thought, frightens her into moving quickly back to Nonotus House. Such a thought is sinful, yet the silence of His answer to her prayers deafens her defenses on the matter.
As she patters up the stairs, she resolves herself to rid her mind of any thought pertaining to the Doctor that is not professional. I don't need to hear His thoughts on a matter to know that it is wrong.
Quietly closing the door, she slips off her jacket and scarf to hang them on the hook and then slips off her shoes. Without a sound, she tip toes back up stairs and into her room being careful to step over the floorboard that creaks rather loudly in the silence before the dawn breaks.
It is not sneaking about if I have a good cause to be out, she silently reasons against her guilt, the spirit of those in our community is just as important as their health. The image of the Doctor and Timothy eating together as a family dances through her mind. A smile stretches along her lips before she reminds herself of the oath she took not even fifteen minutes ago that she would no longer have Doctor Turner occupy her thoughts.
Just as the glorious light a Christmas morning breaks through her window, she takes her bible in hand and settles upon her bed with the fullest intention to start her morning prayers.
..::..::..
Nervously taking a puff from his cigarette, Doctor Turner looks up to the door for the millionth time willing it to open with a particular nun at its heels.
Glancing down at his watch, he realizes that thirty seconds has passed since the last time he looked. Shame tinging his cheeks at his urgency, he tries to refocus his attention back onto the case notes at hand.
Just as his eyes scamper along the fifth word, the door swings open to the muffled clicks of worn down shoe. Looking up, a burst of sunshine brightens a piece of his soul that has remained dark since cancer took his wife.
Ignoring that last little bit, he stands to greet her, "Sister Bernadette. I hope you have had a happy Christmas."
It's his smile, always his smile, that makes her falter in her step and in her thoughts. Clutching her cross as if it is a talisman to help her mind find the way back to her prayers, she pleads for the butterflies to leave her stomach. "It was beautiful," her smile strains and she hopes that he cannot see it, "like it is every year at Nonnatus." Rubbing the pad of her thumb along the backside of the wood, she asks, "I hope you have been having a good new year so far?"
With the excitement of the holidays over, he had not seen her since the Nativity play. Now as January is just about to slip into February, he was surprised to see her name as part of the roster for the maternity home. "Yes, it has been jolly good, other than the slight outbreak of influenza that has turned this maternity home into a haunted house."
"No fear, Doctor, reinforcements are here to help with whatever you need." She clasps her hands in front of her and gives him a genuine smile this time.
"With you, Sister Bernadette, I never worry." His words rush out of his mouth without so much as a thought and, by the scared look cast upon her normally bright eyes, he knows he has said the wrong thing. "I meant," he tries to retrace his steps, "you are a great asset to this home and community, as with all of your colleagues." You're a right, ol' idiot, Patrick.
"That is very kind of you to say, Doctor." Her palms begin to sweat as she tries to clear her mind of all thoughts pertaining to him.
Clapping his hands together, he bends down and pulls the Christmas bag from its hiding spot under his desk. "Before we begin, I wanted to return this to Nonnatus House." Placing the bag between them on his desk, he opens it for her to peek inside.
Leaning over when her curiosity gets the better of her, she yelps in surprise at the clean baking dishes she had sent his Christmas meal in.
"Timothy is a bulldog when it comes to mysteries. When Mrs. Ailbhe dropped this off, he used his boyish charms and she confessed in under a minute that it came from Nonnatus house." He gives her a crooked smile. "I knew that just from the dishes themselves. I remember the pattern when Sister Evangelina brought us dinner when… well, just over a year ago."
Sister Bernadette gives him a kind smile. When his wife died. I helped bake those casseroles, but the thought of the present came from all of us during those dark days.
He glances down at the worn dishes as thoughts of his wife invades his mind. Yet, he finds solace in the fact that the image of her sweet face doesn't pain him as much as it has in the past. "While Timothy's curiosity was appeased and his appetite satisfied, I came to the conclusion on my own that it was you who had made our Christmas dinner." He glances up to see her brow furrowing in confusion, yet her cheeks bright red with apprehension. "You are the only one – apart from Tim – that knows of my debilitating skills in the kitchen."
Fish and chips. Closing her eyes, she sighs, "I couldn't, in good conscious, let you both eat fish and chip on Christmas."
"It was marvelous." Her quiet confession has him grinning like an idiot. "Both Timothy and I – along with our stomachs – thank you for your kind generosity." Pulling his side of the bag towards him, he casts his eyes down, "There is something else in there just for you."
Biting down on her lip, she leans forward expecting to find a card. Instead she finds a clumsily wrapped gift with a hand drawn card attached. Gently picking it up, she lets it rest in her palms as she murmurs, "You didn't have to. You know as well as everyone else around here that I cannot accept personal possessions."
He stares down at the package that nearly took him just over an hour to wrap and says, "I figured as much. You can keep it here or give it to one of the nurses if you like and the card can be stowed away inside a book." When she refuses to move, he hastily adds, "You did not have to make us Christmas dinner, but you did. Please accept this as our thank you for keeping us fed on the only night where fish and chip stands close early."
"Very well," gently pulling off the card, she opens it to find a hand drawn picture of the Turner men eating at the table, with a Christmas tree next to them, and the words 'Merry Christmas' scrawled in red and green letters. "That is very kind of Timothy. I will cherish this without the confines of a book." Not daring to look up at the Doctor, she places the card on the desk and gingerly opens the present.
As the paper gives away, an album – brand new by the looks of it – stares back at her. "Songs of Sam Cooke." She looks up to him and asks, "Who is Sam Cooke?"
His eyebrow quirks as he asks with an outreached hand, "May I?"
Nodding her head, she gives him the album.
Tipping it out of the case, he turns and places the vinyl on the turntable. Placing the needle on the edge, the first song – the song I heard her hum so many weeks ago – begins to play.
Embarrassment, like none she has ever felt before, stings her cheeks as the familiar song reverberates along the walls of his office down to the darkest part of her soul. She had heard it once through the radio that was playing from one of the Nurse's rooms and for the life of her, she could not get the song out of her mind. Not during my prayers, or our mealtime, or the birth of Mrs. Mason's little boy, or when I had to clean the Doctor's medical instruments. "It took me days to get this song out of my head," her hips begin to slightly sway on their own accord.
He rewards her pluck with a boyish grin. "And now you can hear it as much as you want." Stepping around the desk, he gathers her in his arms and sweeps her around in an easy waltz.
Feeling dizzy from both the sudden movement and the heat from his palm radiating along her lower back, a small giggle escapes her lips as he twirls her around. As the steps she had learned so long ago comes back to her, she dares a glance up with a smile tugging against her blushing cheeks.
When their eyes finally meet, time slows to an infinitesimal rate. Their lips, oh-so-close, part at the sudden rush of proximity. Both know that they need to look away, or pull apart, or something, but they stay rooted; their bodies too stubborn to leave the warmth and comfort that they both can provide.
Their dancing comes to a standstill as the music continues to the next song.
Her tongue darts out to moisten her chapped lips, subconsciously – sinfully, her mind screams – wondering what were to happen if she would lean forward.
His hand on her back makes the choice for her when pulls her closer towards him. For him, everything around him blurs to the point of obscurity. There is no music, or work, or habit. Just two people wanting to feel something different, perhaps. This pull, magnetizing and blinding, begins to close the distance between their lips inch-by-delicious-inch.
– Ring, Ring –
The cold ring from the telephone on his desk slices through the dense air throwing them apart from one another as if the sound itself electrocuted them. Clipping the side of his leg with the corner of the desk as he rushes to pull the needle off of the record, he turns to answer the telephone with a disgruntled, "Turner here."
As one of the nurses on the other side fills him in on a woman in a difficult labour, he notices that Sister Bernadette is turned away from him. A chill, far more brutal than the dark winter nights settles along his chest as he swallows his guilt, "Very well, I will be here within ten minutes." He hangs up the phone and reaches over for his bag. "I will be going to the McShay residents. Bonnie McShay is going into her thirteenth hour of labour and is tiring very quickly."
Praying for His forgiveness at the lapse of judgement, she opens her eyes and let's go of her cross. Taking a deep breath in, she turns to give him a comforting smile – one that has no hopes of reaching her eyes – and clears her throat, "Very well, Doctor. There will be no need to return back here unless there is an emergency." Gathering the notes from his desk, she piles them into her capable arms and turns towards the empty desk out in the reception hall.
Following her out, he passes by her for the door when he hears her calling out his title.
She winces as he turns back to her with a hopeful gleam in his eyes. I should have let him go. I need to let him go. "Tell Timothy thank you for the card." Returning back to her work, she does her best to ignore the heat from his stare.
He silently begs her to look up at him, to acknowledge that something happened between them, that he is not crazy, but she continues on with her work and he eventually gives up. Without another word, he pushes the door out and takes his leave.
Collapsing into the seat behind her, she rebukes the need to pull her knees up to her chest and instead clasps her fingers around her cross. As she silently asks for forgiveness, she wishes with all of her might that she did not accept the night shift at the maternity home.
Yet, a small voice – the smallest in a sea of prayers and questions and confusion – wishes that the telephone had never rang.
Let me know what you think! I'm rather new to the fandom. :)