Author's note: This is my take on the Turnadette adoption scene in Ep. 3.7., before and after, in several parts. It is definitely AU now (written before the episode originally aired). First posted on my blog, now here.
Her hands wouldn't stop shaking. With clumsy fingers, Shelagh buttoned her dress, twisted up her hair and put on her lipstick. It smudged, and she had to redo it. Twice.
Lord, give me strength. She glanced at the clock – it was almost half-past – and then at the closed bathroom door. Patrick was taking an awful long time to get ready. The adoption counselors would be here soon. She should go down, get the tea things ready and make sure the house was in order. Patrick and Timothy both had dreadful habits of leaving their things – medical notes, schoolbooks, toys, odd shoes – in the strangest places.
She knocked softly on the door to the bath. "Patrick? It's nearly time."
"All right," he said over the sound of running water in the sink. "I'll be out in a moment."
"I've put a suitable tie on the bed."
Again, his reply sounded muffled and distant, though that could have just been the door between them. "All right."
The downstairs, of course, was already tidy, because she'd spent the morning dusting, sweeping and polishing every surface. Still, she took some time to plump the cushions on the sofa and moved their wedding photo on the top of the piano just an inch to the left before she went to make the tea. She just needed something to keep her hands busy.
She couldn't remember if she'd ever been this nervous – not during her nursing training or her first solo birth or the day she took her vows. When she'd been diagnosed with TB, there had only been dread, slowing her movements and dragging her under. Even on her wedding day – and wedding night – her nerves had been tempered with anticipation. She'd been certain of Patrick, of their love, and of the life they would lead together.
But lately she'd felt certain of nothing. Ever since the surgery and the news she might never conceive, she'd fumbled through life. She'd tried different things, mostly at Patrick's suggestion – working at the surgery, reviving the choir, helping out at Nonnatus – just to keep her hands busy.
More than once, she'd dreamed she was back on that foggy road where Patrick had found her last autumn, trying to walk to Poplar from the sanatorium. Only in the dreams, she wasn't sure where she was going at all, and sometimes Patrick never came.
This adoption interview was the first point of direction she'd spotted, but even it didn't signal a clear path – only more fog, until they were approved. They would be approved, wouldn't they?
All she could do now was wait, and in waiting, came the nerves and restless energy that would not dissipate.
She'd just set the tea tray on the ledge of the kitchen hatch, ready for the interviewers' arrival, when Patrick came downstairs. He was impeccably dressed in the dark suit and tie she'd put out for him.
He also looked somewhat tense, which was change enough. In the past few days, he'd been flippant, dismissive and more distracted than she'd ever seen him. When she'd asked what was wrong, he'd mumbled something about a case with a young mother who'd needed a psychological evaluation, and her heart had gone out to him. He did worry so much about his patients, especially the cases that were harder to diagnose and cure.
But she'd also wished, somewhat selfishly, that he'd worry more about the two of them, this interview and their future as a family.
Now, she took in his tensed jaw and the endearing way he fiddled with the cuffs of his shirt, and felt some of her own apprehension diminish. At least today, they'd be anxious together.
"I think we're ready," she said with a bright smile, though she felt anything but. He nodded but didn't move from his place by the stairs until she walked into the sitting room and took a seat on the edge of the sofa. Then he came in and sat next to her, back straight and stiff, his left foot tapping out a nervous rhythm.
Goodness, she thought. We probably look more like two teenagers on a first date, not a married couple with an 11-year-old.
Come to think of it, their first proper "date" had been in this sitting room. She'd just officially left the order and gotten settled in her new lodgings, and Patrick had asked her over for dinner. Nothing fancy, just pie and mash, but it had been the first time she'd ever seen the inside of his home – their home now.
After dinner, Timothy had not-so-unsubtly left them alone together. They sat on this sofa, drinking tea and chatting politely about medical cases, Poplar and her plans for the week, gradually relaxing and moving closer together. She wanted him to kiss her and had wondered all evening if he would. Toward the end of the night, as he said something about walking back to her lodgings, she gathered all her courage, leaned in and kissed him, somewhat awkwardly, on the corner of his mouth.
When he didn't immediately react, she flushed and pulled away. "Sorry." She looked down at her hands, twisting in her lap.
"No," he said, a smile in his voice. "You surprised me that's all."
Her blush flamed deeper. "I think I surprised myself."
His hands covered hers, pulling her toward him and she looked up at his face again, now very close. "Come here," he whispered.
His lips soft were onhers,and for the first time that night she wasn't nervous or trembling anymore. Everything in her felt still, warm and loved.
Now, she giggled softly at the memory and Patrick looked over at her, perplexed. "What?"
"Nothing. I was just thinking…our first date I think we were sat exactly like this."
He exhaled a long sigh and took his cigarette case out of his pocket. "I think I was less nervous then."
"Quite," she said with a soft laugh.
He flipped the case over and over in his hands and made to open it, but she put a hand on his knee, stilling him.
"They'll be here any moment."
"Right, of course. You're right. Sorry." He swallowed hard, put the case back in his jacket pocket, and the tapping of his foot resumed. He glanced at the clock. "They're late."
"Now I know you're really nervous." On impulse, she reached out, took his hand in both of hers – it was like ice – and pressed it to her lips. "I am, too. But I'm sure we'll do fine."
His eyes softened and he leaned forward suddenly, gripping her hand tighter. "Shelagh, I –
The doorbell rang and they both froze. "That will be the agency," she said quietly.
Neither of them moved. Patrick's fingers trembled slightly in hers and she gave them a quick, reassuring squeeze before she rose to answer the door.