This chapter has many invented parts because in episode 7 we see very little about Patrick.

Chapter Text

X.

"Dad."

He was counting the days, like a man in prison. They were more than twenty. And seven letters.

"Dad."

He wondered why she didn't answer. The side effects of a tuberculosis treatment calmed him down, even if it was a bit cruel to feel calm about it. She didn't answer because she felt bad.

"Daaaaad! Can you, for once in your life, listen to me?!"

He turned, startled. Timothy looked at him furiously, sitting on the other side of the table, with something in his hands.

"Son, you scared me."

Tim rolled his eyes, visibly annoyed.

"That's because you never remember that I'm here. Surely you thought of one of your patients, they are always more important than anything I tell you."

"Hey, stop there young man!"

His son was right. He was thinking of a patient, a very important one. And Tim was also right that he sometimes forgot that the boy was there, sharing a house with him, needing his attention. It hurt him that his own son spoke to him like that, Timothy was a sweet child and he must be very tired of having him as a father to speak to him that way.

Tim snorted, shaking his head.

"I'm sorry." He said when he saw that his son was even more angry. "What did you need, Tim?"

"I found this butterfly. It's dead."

"Oh, ok." He answered without giving it importance.

"Dad, it's dead, and it's very pretty. Don't you think it's weird?"

He was going to tell him that animals, and people, were dying no matter if they were pretty or not, but that would be too much for a child.

"What do you think happened to it?" Tim extended his hands. He carefully held the butterfly. "It was on the window sill."

He looked at the butterfly. It was a fairly common butterfly, although he knew nothing about insects. He never paid attention to those things, like most things around him.

But his son insisted.

"Can you check it?"

"Tim, I'm not a veterinarian, or a biologist, or a forensic surgeon."

"But you are a doctor."

He looked again at the insect. What could he tell him?

"Possibly died of old age."

"I don't think so."

This time he was who rolled the eyes.

"Then I don't know, Tim."

The boy sat back in front of him. He seemed very worried about the situation.

"You said that Sister Bernadette is in the sa...in that place."

"Sanatorium." He replied swallowing. He did not expect his son to mention her.

"You said that in the sanatorium there are experts in curing diseases."

"Yes."

"Do you think that if I send the butterfly…?"

"No, Tim. Definitely not."

"But I will send it to Sister Bernadette. She can ask the doctors there."

"You can't send her a dead butterfly."

"Why?"

"Because it's a horrible gift."

Timothy blinked. He felt that once again he had just ruined everything with his son.

"It's not a gift, I will send it for an autopsy. And I will do it even if you don't give me permission."

Tim ran to his room, still taking his dead butterfly very carefully.

He sighed, and instinctively his hands searched for his cigarette case and the lighter. He should have behaved differently with Tim. He was a curious child, who sought explanations for everything. He must be proud, other parents complained that their children were only interested in being in the street.

But the truth is that he could not concentrate. He had a hard time doing it at work, without her calming presence around him. He had a hard time doing it at home, when his concern for her health, and for his feelings, seemed to haunt him even in dreams.

He set the cigarette case and lighter on the table, and instead took a sheet of paper and a pen from Tim, which was on his school books.

He started another letter. He would tell her about Tim and the butterfly, omitting that they ended up fighting. He wanted to tell her good and beautiful things, although in Poplar, and in his life, those things were scarce. She deserved good things, and she was sick, he didn't want to worry her.

Work, as always, was his lifesaver. He found himself attending to more patients than he should, filling his head with diagnoses, treatments, condolences. He kept counting the days and the letters. He calculated that by now, the treatment was working and she would be strong enough to take a pen and a sheet of paper. In fact, she was. His ear seemed to have perfected to the point that he could hear her name anywhere and in any mouth that named it. Therefore, he knew that letters came to Nonnatus, addressed to several people. However, no letter arrived at his house.

She was definitely offended with him. Or what was worse, she didn't care about him.

Trixie entered the kitchen with a pile of cloth, complaining as she used to. He realized that he had been there for at least half an hour, holding a cup of tea now iced, and a cookie without eating. Sometimes eating cost him a lot, there were days when his body only accepted the smoke of the cigarette.

While Trixie spoke, he counted what was happening to him: he could not eat, could not concentrate, could not sleep. Was this what they called being sick of love? He hoped to heal soon before he died, and at the same time, he hoped never heal.

Her name appeared in Trixie's complaints and he looked up at her. It was his opportunity to ask, to have even a minimum amount of information about her.

Indeed, she wrote, and told news and novelties. He felt envious that Trixie could visit her, she didn't care as much as he did, however, she went, she wrote and had answers from Sister Bernadette...

He sent his regards. He was sure that Trixie would not forget that, but he wondered if Sister Bernadette would care.

The rumble of the cup in the sink took him out of the turbulence of jealousy and envy in which he fell. He left, fleeing from the nurse's sharp gaze.

"Are you sad, dad?"

Sometimes he wondered how Tim tolerated him. It would not be easy for a child to have a father like him. But his son had a noble soul.

When he answered, he answered sincerely. He couldn't be sad having a wonderful son like Tim, the greatest gift he received in life. But he couldn't help feeling bad. The days passed slowly and slowly, and his head was filled with questions without answers. He even prayed sometimes: for her improvement, for a letter with his name.

She hated him. She didn't want to answer him, or maybe she didn't even want to read the nonsense he sent her.

And if she didn't hate him, she saw him as a colleague and nothing else, nobody important to share correspondence.

He thought again and again in her frightened eyes, in her eyes asking for help when he left her in the sanitarium. She seemed so close to him in that moment, and now she kept this terrible distance.

He didn't blame her. His behavior was not the best and she would feel fear, or apprehension towards him. He understood her, he really did, but...nothing? Not even a note asking him to stop bothering her?

He felt lost, not knowing how to proceed. Things were so easy with Marianne, they just met, fell in love, and got married. There was never a difficulty, or prohibitions, beliefs, or other people among them.

Now everything was as different and as strange as what he felt for Sister Bernadette.

Of course he was sad. But he couldn't convey that to his son.

While they ate fried bread in the little bar they frequented, Tim seemed to observed him carefully. He had probably inherited that from his father. Patrick decided to distract him.

"What happened to your butterfly, son?"

Tim looked away, nibbled the food.

"I sent it with Trixie to...Sister Bernadette."

"Oh, very good."

"Aren't you going to get mad at me?"

"Why I should do that? It seems good to me that you look for answers."

Tim looked at him suspiciously, but continued.

"Before, I looked in the school library until I found the exact name of the butterfly. I thought it was good to send all the data I had, that will facilitate the diagnosis."

"Very well, I congratulate you." He smiled, and Tim seemed to leave his suspicion.

"I wrote a note to Sister Bernadette explaining everything. She likes insects and animals, and since she now lives there, it seemed like a good idea to send the butterfly with her doctors."

"Surely they will know how to give you an answer. You're done with your food? Come on, you should take a bath."

Tim complained, though he didn't mean it. Stroking his son's hair, they left the bar.

While Timothy was taking a bath, he took another sheet of paper and a pen. He didn't know why he kept writing, he supposed this as the only connection he had with her, it didn't matter if she threw them in the trash as soon as she received them. Telling her about his things was a bit like telling himself.

Taking a breath and drawing a smile, he began.

"Dear Sister Bernadette:

Today with Tim we went to eat fried bread… "