The second chapter! I hope it isn't too contemplation-heavy. The plot will advance a lot in the next chapter, I promise ;). Thanks to purple-words-roses-and-love for betaing.
Shelagh came awake because Teddy had started mewling.
Patrick's arm was slung over her belly. He was heavy, warm, anchoring her to the bed. She gently moved his arm to the empty space between them so she could pick Teddy up and feed him before he woke properly and started hollering for his breakfast. A frown of discontent flitted over Patrick's face, and for a moment she feared she had woken him, but he merely sighed, then snored a little, and slept on.
"Hello, darling Teddy," she murmured as she held her baby in her arms, quickly moving back to the bed before the cold got the chance to nestle in her feet and crawl its way up from there. She thrust her legs under the blankets, Teddy balanced in her lap as she undid the buttons of her nightgown, sighing as the pocket of warmth trapped in their bed enveloped her, sighing louder when she could bring Teddy's face to her breast and he latched on.
She felt his forehead, smiling as she noted that he was as warm as a baby should be, and not a bit too hot. His nose was still a bit runny, his eyes soupy, but he had conquered his cold and these were merely fading symptoms. She pressed a kiss to his scalp, inhaling his scent, his black hair tickling her lips and cheek. His little hand closed around her finger as he drank. She kissed the little digits, blowing on the silky skin, pressing his soft palm to her lips again and again. She could never help herself with her children; she wanted to touch them whenever she saw them.
Patrick murmured something incomprehensible and flipped to his side, his hand instinctively reaching for her. A nightmare had made him cry out her name last night, his arms thrashing. Shelagh had shaken him awake, then held his trembling form as tightly as she could. He had tried not to cry in front of her, limbs shaking with the effort, until she'd cupped his face and kissed it, murmuring that it was alright if he wept. He'd cried a little, then, his weight heavy on her as she'd draped her arms around him, rubbing circles between his shoulder blades until the intervals between his soft sobs became longer and longer.
"I'm sorry I tried to hit you with an umbrella," he'd slurred, just before his breathing had evened out, and he had slept, legs tangling with hers, breath warm on her chest.
"It's alright, darling," she had replied, kissing the shell of his ear.
Shelagh cradled Teddy in the crook of her arm as he fed, then took her husband's hand in hers, stroking the fleshy pad of his thumb with her fingertips.
His hands were big, rough. On their wedding night, when they'd both been nervous, he maybe even more than she, he had apologised for them. "They're a labourer's hands, like those of a dockworker," he'd said, fiddling with his wedding ring. She'd been overcome with tenderness for him, a new wave of love that lapped the shores of her mind, temporarily stilling her nerves strung high with uncertainty of what this night would bring. In a moment of bravery that had taken them both by surprise, she'd taken his hands and placed them on her breasts, declaring that his hands were perfectly shaped for cupping her, and what was a doctor, if not a labourer of flesh and blood and bone, anyway? He had smiled at that, and kissed her before both could be plunged back in their previous nervousness. He had shown her that his hands were large, the skin dry, but his touch kind. A doctor's hands should be gentle, but they needn't be soft and small to be good.
"Hm," Patrick sighed as she rubbed the skin between his index finger and thumb, stroking it with her nail. He smiled, then inhaled deeply as he came awake, eyelids opening just a little. "Good morning," he murmured, then sat up.
"Good morning," Shelagh replied, adjusting Teddy slightly so Patrick could tuck her under his arm. He kissed her hair, then stroked Teddy's head, his weight warm against her back.
"How are you?" Shelagh asked, eyes snapping up and meeting his dark ones.
"Still a little tired, but what parent isn't with a teenager, a toddler, and a baby?" he quipped. He wiped the smile off his face when she didn't break eye contact. "I'm all right, Shelagh. It was just a bad dream, nothing more."
She looked at Teddy. Her baby boy was fighting against his sleepiness. His eyelids had slipped to half-mast, and his drinking had slowed. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, stroking Teddy's cheek.
Patrick was silent for a moment, fingers absent-mindedly playing with one of the buttons of her nightgown. "It was a silly dream."
"But it scared you." She thought about joking about umbrellas attacking them, but decided against it; she didn't want Patrick to feel as if she trivialised his fears.
"I dreamed Angela had been taken by fairies, and we went to look for her, and then you were gone, too. Suddenly the garden was a labyrinth, and I could hear you, hear our daughter, but I couldn't see you. You were calling out for me, but your voices grew fainter as I plunged through the twists of that maze, and then you were gone, and I knew I'd never see you again."
His eyes met hers, and she could see a world of pain and longing in them, so much that it temporarily robbed her of her breath. "I'm sorry," she whispered, giving him a small smile.
"Shelagh, were you terribly lonely as a child?" he asked, and she realised that he must have been meaning to ask her this last night, that this had worried him for hours now, poisoning his sleep and spawning nightmares.
Guilt coiled in her stomach, making her feel slightly nauseous. She placed her hand against his face, letting the fingers fawn out, stretching his skin till the worry lines disappear. "Oh dearest," she sighed, letting her forehead rest against his throat, holding Teddy tightly. "No, I wasn't lonely. I was just imaginative."
"But you left Scotland when you were still so young, coming all the way to London to study, and then to become a nun, and you only write Christmas cards to your cousins there…"
Her nipple slid out of Teddy's mouth with a soft plop. She picked her baby up, placing him against her chest, rubbing his back and rocking him, convincing him to burp so that he wouldn't be troubled by wind later. This forced her to let go of Patrick, but allowed her to see his sweet face fraught with worry. "Some people have dozens of friends and still feel lonely, and others know only a handful of people and never feel as if they're alone. You know that," she said.
"Was your childhood rotten?" Patrick asked, the directness of his question stunning her into a temporary silence as she contemplated her answer.
Had it been bad? She had missed her mother abominably, crying herself to sleep on more than one night. Her father had not known what to do with her. They had both missed her mother, but instead of that longing bringing them closer together, it had isolated them. She had been unable to break through his shield of stoicism; he could not reach past it and comfort her. But there were so many who had it worse…
"No. No, it wasn't rotten, dearest," she started, kissing Teddy's forehead as he burped. "It wasn't always easy, but I had my father, and he loved me, and I had my faith and my books and my stories."
"And friends?" Patrick asked.
"I had girls I walked to school with, and classmates I played with," Shelagh said, stepping out of the bed so she could stretch her cramped legs. She stopped in front of the window, looking at the dark street, the lampposts pockets of light in a sea of blackness.
She had gotten in her first and only physical fight at age ten when a classmate called Morven had ridiculed her belief in fairies, claiming that only babies and lunatics believed in them, and certainly not good Christians. Shelagh had been so overwhelmed with anger that she couldn't speak, sight fuzzy with tears.
"I bet your mother told you all those stupid stories. I bet that your mother didn't go to Heaven, but…" Morven hadn't been able to finish her sentence, because Shelagh had roared and tackled her, hands twisted in Morven's unruly mop of black hair, pulling the locks with all her might. They had needed two teachers to drag her away, her hands full with knotted strands of hair by then. The other children hadn't been very keen on playing with her after that.
"But were they your friends?" Patrick asked, coming up behind her, resting his face on her shoulder, arms snaking around her.
"Don't be such a worry-wart," she laughed, turning around so she could capture his lips. "I was perfectly all right back then, and even if I wasn't, I am surely perfectly happy now, with my sweet children and darling husband."
Teddy sighed in agreement.
"And those fairies?" Patrick asked.
"All children make up things like that, Patrick, girls as well as boys. Timothy would pretend our living room was the ocean just a couple of years ago, remember?"
"And what would you pretend?"
"I would have tea parties with winged creatures, and leave a crust of bread or a bit of milk out so they wouldn't have to go hungry at night." She kissed him again, revelling in his warmth and scent, smiling against his lips as he sighed. "Now, let's get downstairs. I need to make breakfast, because I can assure you that our fairies here won't be content with a bit of milk and stale bread, especially the fairy called Timothy."
"No, I don't think so," Patrick said, trying to return her smile. His was a bit strained, though, a bit tight.
He's just tired, and still raw, Shelagh thought, giving his hand a soft squeeze. She'd make his favourite dinner for when he came home, and try to ensure that the children went to sleep early, so that they could make love tonight, if they both felt like it.
"I love you," she said.
"I love you too," he answered, voice soft, like his eyes.
She wondered if she should never have told him about those silly fairies.