Turkish Coffee
Tiamat's Child
Sophia does not recall how it started. She is not even sure anymore what it is, if her and Dr. Ferguson's ritual of taking a late evening tea together (though tea is not quite the right word, as coffee is more often served, meant to ward off exhaustion on long shifts) is merely that, or if it is what her imagination whispers it might be, something fuller and richer and a little more dangerous.
She hopes it is the second. She has never had that, never had wordless songs and dusky evenings. She gave up much in exchange for this, for blood and torn flesh to mend. She has been alone for a thick span of dusty time, and now she finds that she longs someone to touch her out of love and want, rather than the desperate need of a night terror.
But even if it is not what she hopes for, after all, there is enough in those moments to sustain her. The curl of hands around hot liquid, voices low in talk of sutures and thread, just the right amount of light to encircle the two of them and let them be apart from the world for an instant, these things are enough.
Tonight they talk and smile, and Sophia feels warm and bright and full. But it can't last long, for there are women to be tended and stiched up and made as comfortble as possible. So Sophia stands up and folds her napkin. "Time for my rounds. God go with you, Dr. Ferguson."
"Inshallah," the other woman says, and smiles a trifle shyly. "Call me Beatrice, please, Dr. Sophia."
Sophia smiles back, trying to hide her sudden giddiness. "Just Sophia, please."
And Beatrice's eyes widen and gleam brightly, making her sturdy, firm face far more lovely than Sophia can remember it ever being.
Sophia goes about her rounds, tending and mending, and doing her best to help, if only just a little. And, tonight, all the pain and hate and degradation cannot tear her heart inside out. She has a something that maybe will be more.