Chapter 13, guys! Still exploring alternatives for snogging/kisses on the mouth for the first Turnadette kiss. If you guys have any ideas, let me know ;). I find I work really well with prompts and suggestions.
Sister Bernadette awoke because her hand stung abominably. The Summer Fete was exactly a week ago, and the abrasion should have closed up nicely by now, despite her being slow healer. She kept rubbing it open at night, though, when she thrashed about because of her dreams. Oh, the dreams. Sister Bernadette had always dreamed a lot, but the past few weeks her nights had not been filled with visions of the chapel, her fellow religious sisters, or her patients, but with him. During the day, she could repress her emotions. At night, though, she could resist no more.
This night had been no different. She could still feel Doctor Turner's lips trailing a path along her throat to her chest, felt his breath ghosting over her skin, could feel his hands cupping her… As soon as Sister Bernadette realised that it was her own hand that lay on her breast she shot upright in bed. With the corner of her cotton sheet she first scrubbed the offending digits, then the back of her hand, and eventually her palm. She tried to calm her shallow breathing by focussing on the pain the rubbing caused. It bloomed under her skin, making her eyes sting. "It's sin, it's sordid, it's dirty," she told herself through gritted teeth.
But then she remembered how Doctor Turner had looked at that same hand just a few days ago, and a sob clawed its way out of her lungs and up her throat. He had explored the map of veins at her wrist, caressed the fleshy pad of her thumb, and held her fingers as if they were porcelain. He had been so gentle with her. Her hand throbbed at the memory. As her pulse stuttered through the wound she could feel the ghost of his lips on her hand, every heartbeat another kiss. He had loved the flesh she now sought to scourge. No, not the flesh, she thought, he loves the soul that lives inside the flesh, like he loves the woman that lives inside the habit.
Sister Bernadette took a deep breath and forced the tears back that threatened to spill from between her lashes. That, she admonished herself, is quite enough of that. Going over her own emotions would just lead her in circles; better to get up and do something, like bandaging her hand. She threw her bathrobe on, placed her glasses on her nose, and made her way to the clinical room.
The convent was a strange place at night time. Silence became a sound in those spacious hallways. As the moonlight threw puddles on the stones, cold even in summer, it was not hard to believe in God.
This night, though, the light in the clinical room was already on, chasing away the faint rays of moonlight. The autoclave was purring steadily, but there was no one in sight. Must be one of the nurses, she decided, and gave it no more thought. Nonnatus was rarely completely still. Babies came at all times, and so the nurses and nuns went out at the strangest hours to deliver them.
Sister Bernadette held her hand under the tap. The steady pounding of the icy water brought back more memories, so she cleaned the wound as fast as she could before putting some ointment on the graze and wrapping it with a bandage.
As Sister Bernadette tiptoed back through the corridor she noticed that there was another lamp on, though this one was in the living room. She stepped over the threshold, intend on greeting whoever it was that had just come back from a delivery, even if that meant breaking the Great Silence. She wanted to make conversation, spend time in the presence of someone, anyone, if it could help her get rid of the lingering sensations of her dreams. Instead, it seemed she had stepped right into one of her nightly visions.
Doctor Turner lay on the couch, on his side. The piece of furniture was too small for him, and his feet dangled over the edge. His shoes were lined up neatly beside it.
His autoclave must be acting up again, Sister Bernadette thought. She stood rooted to the spot. For a moment she didn't dare breathe, afraid that he would see her and she would not be able to control herself. It was only when she realised that he was fast asleep that she could release the breath she was holding. A stab of jealousy ran through her for just one moment as she saw him lying there. It was unfair that he could sleep whilst she wandered the hallways of the convent at night like a pale ghost. It wasn't in her nature to be envious, though, and her feelings softened as Doctor Turner frowned and flipped on his back. This was not the blissful sleep of the innocent, but the deep sleep of the exhausted.
Asleep, he looked younger. There were dark circles underneath his eyes, but some of the lines that gave his face expression during the day were smoothed till they were only faint impressions. Sister Bernadette could not help but feel that some of anguish that had become visible in the doctor's face was her fault.
God knows I do not want that. I do not want anything of this, she thought. She bit her lip. Her hand started throbbing again as her emotions washed over her.
She wanted him, oh Lord, she wanted him. His touch had stirred her very soul, and awakened sensations in her that she did not know exist. Men had been distant creatures, abstract in their beauty, and slightly puzzling to her, until he came along. A hole had grown steadily inside her for years. There had been moments in which she felt the presence of this cavity, this absence of something she could not name. It was only in Doctor Turner's presence that the void became an unbearable longing, a need to be filled.
But the fulfilment of this desire was sinful for a nun. If she were to renounce her vows…Don't even go down that route, she ordered herself. It would not do to dwell on such thoughts. She was no stranger to sacrifice, but to leave everything and everyone behind was much to ask. Maybe too much.
Another small stab of envy carded through her. He didn't have to give anything up. If a future that encompassed her dreams were to take place, that future would simply be an addition to his current life. If she decided against such a thing, his life would continue in much the same fashion. But living is not the same as being alive, Sister Bernadette thought. She had seen the pain Doctor Turner was in ever since his wife had died. He tried to juggle a demanding job with the care of his son, and was always rushed off his feet. She wondered how long it had been since he had felt truly happy to exist.
She sighed and pressed the palms of her hands against her eyes. It was all terribly confusing. Her emotions were playing a tug-of-war with her, and it was only a matter of time before something would tear and give way. A hollow laugh brewed inside her lungs. Who could have thought that a simple act of compassion for a hurting child could lead to her current state of unbalance?
Doctor Turner frowned as the laugh escaped her mouth. He turned back on his side and curled up into a ball full of angles and long limbs. A small shiver ran through him; the convent did cool down considerably during the night, even in summer.
Suddenly, everything seemed remarkably simple. Her doubts and envy fell away and her empathy took over. She was, after all, a compassionate creature; caring for others was second nature. Even though she sometimes cursed her profession as a nurse and midwife – she was sure her dreams would not be so graphic if she had been anything else – it was a part of her identity. Right now, Doctor Turner needed to sleep. If she could help him, she would.
Sister Bernadette grabbed a blanket from one of the cupboards and spread it over the sleeping doctor. His fringe had flopped in his face. Sister Bernadette had the overwhelming urge to card her fingers through those strands and push them away from his forehead. She placed her hurting hand on the sofa to steady herself and used the fingertips of her other hand to touch his hair. In the half-light of the lamp the different hues of black and brown were no longer visible. His hair felt soft, but was remarkably stubborn: it sprang back as soon as she let go of it. She pushed the strands back with a little more force, revealing the doctor's lined forehead. Sister Bernadette could not help herself, and pressed a kiss to the most prominent crease.
Doctor Turner smiled in his sleep. His hand twitched and touched hers. Their fingers intertwined, and his thumb caressed one of her knuckles.
His touch set every nerve aflame. Her breathing sped up again and her legs trembled. Get a grip, she told herself. "Sleep well, Doctor Turner," she whispered, her voice huskier than she had ever heard it before. She pulled away from his touch and fled to her cell, cradling her throbbing hand against her chest. Every pulse sent a flutter through the laceration. Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.
Thank you guys for reading! The two remaining chapters will come soon.