a/n: You can blame this chapter on one thing: Pajamas. Plus, I thought this fic needed a semi-happy ending. This chapter is definitely AU and I apologize for any factual errors about WWII and bomb shelters, as I got everything from Google. Also, none of the characters are mine (obviously) - but I made up Shelagh's maiden name.

Shelagh MacDonald stood in a corner of the basement of the church and looked around at the makeshift bomb shelter that had been set up. After the initial rush of panic, things were finally quieting down. Nearly all the residents had settled for the night, some curled up in old chairs, while others had to make do with cushions and blankets on the floor. Even Timothy, hyped up on the excitement of Christmas and the sudden evacuation, had finally run himself into exhaustion and passed out on a pile of blankets in a corner.

Shelagh stretched, the aching muscles in her neck and back popping in protest. She had been at Nonnatus, taking tea with Sister Julienne when they'd got news about the bomb. Their meeting had been somewhat stilted until that point. Once fellow servants of God, walking the same path in life, Shelagh had taken a sudden turn onto a different road, and now they were unsure how to be with each other.

She had asked about the other sisters, in particular the frail and sometimes capricious Sister Monica Joan. Sister Julienne had assured her everyone was well and asked her about the wedding. Shelagh knew she meant well and answered politely, but the pink dressmaker's box at her feet had suddenly felt too large and conspicuous.

Then news of the crisis came, and with something to occupy their hands besides teacups, they fit easily back into their roles as helpmates. Shelagh may have chosen a different life, but she could still have the sister's friendship and that was something. And it had felt good, after so many months of idle convalescence, to be useful again.

She looked over the groups of slumbering bodies, some softly snoring; others, she wagered, longing for sleep but kept awake by frightful memories. This was 1958; it was only one bomb and no doubt the soldiers and police directing the evacuation had the situation under control, but in the dark, facts and reason didn't matter. In the dark, it could be 1941; she could be 15, in another dark church hundreds of miles away, waiting to be sent to even further away, to the highlands, away from her family and the threat of German bombs.

She shivered and clasped her hands together, feeling her engagement ring cut into her palm. The wedding was in two days and here she was, hiding out in a basement. She could very well be here tomorrow – and the next day, if the authorities couldn't figure out a way to remove the bomb safely. Two days. Hours ago she had felt nothing but giddy excitement, getting the alterations finished on her dress. Now she was exhausted and doubtful of her happiness – what if there was no wedding? Her thoughts came in tired fragments. She took off my glasses and rubbed her eyes. Where had she set down her things? Someone should keep an eye on Sister Monica Joan, to make sure she didn't get confused and wander off in the night. Where was Patrick? She'd only seen him briefly earlier in the evening when he'd passed off Timothy to her so he could check on some of the frailer evacuees.

"Shelagh?"

The shape was a blur without her glasses, but she smiled at the voice. She put her specs back on, and Patrick was there.

"You're still awake," he said, with a tired smile.

"Timothy wouldn't settle. What's your excuse?"

He grimaced. "Just a sprained ankle that needed bandaging. Mr. Peters slipped on some ice, but he'll be fine. Where is Timothy? I didn't see him."

She laughed softly. "Curled up in a corner near the rest of the Cubs. He had to sleep on the floor, but I don't think he minds it. He's too young to remember—" She stopped.

"Yes," Patrick said, finishing her thought. "I guess we should be thankful for that." He cleared his throat. "Sister Julienne said you arrived without any of your things and I thought – it's a little big, but – well, you might be more comfortable if you borrowed this for the night," he said, his voice cracking slightly. He held out a blue-striped men's pajama shirt.

"What will you sleep in?" She tried to tease, but her voice came out small and full of worry and nerves.

"I'll be comfortable enough. Please take it," he said with an imploring look she hadn't yet learned how to refuse.

She took the shirt. "I'll just go change," she said, squeezing his hand as she passed and stilling the nervous tic in his fingers.

She disappeared behind one of the screens set up around a makeshift washroom. She'd worn comfortable slacks that day, thank goodness, so she kept those on and unbuttoned her flowered blouse. It was new – all her clothes were new, less than a few months old – and she folded it carefully before she set it aside. Patrick's nightshirt was thick, soft and worn; it came down nearly to her knees and smelled like him – soap, Brylcreem and tobacco. The scent made her stomach flip pleasantly and she giggled, slightly giddy.

Shelagh recalled that autumn afternoon, when she, chilled and lost on the wrong road, had turned and seen a familiar green MG appearing out of the mist, like a wish in a dream. Patrick had found her. When he wrapped her in his coat, so close to him, she'd felt a sudden rightness. She might not be able to see what was up ahead or what the future held, but she wasn't lost; she was exactly where she was supposed to be. And she told him so.

Then she'd been too shy to reach up and kiss him, but now…if he was standing with her now –

The image that flashed suddenly and brightly in her mind made her mouth go dry and her whole body flush. What was she doing, standing in a chilly church basement all of places, half-dressed, imagining such things?

"Shelagh, are you all right?"

"F-fine," she said, quickly buttoning up the shirt. "Be out in a moment."

She grabbed her clothes and padded back out into the room, taking the pins out of her hair with one hand, so it fell loose around her shoulders.

"Patrick?" she whispered, careful not to wake the others slumbering around her. She'd heard him just a moment ago, but now he'd disappeared.

"Over here."

She followed his voice to another corner of the cavernous basement, lit softly by the glow of a single lamp. Patrick was rearranging the pillows on an old red and gold sofa.

"I staked it out for you earlier in the evening and put your dress and things underneath. I figured you might…forget." His voice died out as he turned and saw her. He'd removed his jacket and tie, and his shirt collar hung loose and open; she watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. His gaze was very dark and so like the look she'd imagined behind the screen, it made her blush all over again.

She tucked a strand of gold hair behind her ear and looked down at the shirt. "It is a little big, but it's warm. Thank you."

"Of course." He cleared his throat and gestured to the sofa. "There you are. It's a little dusty, but it's better than the floor."

"Where are you going to sleep?" she asked cautiously.

"I'll find a chair or the floor or something, I'll be fine –"

"Patrick, your back – you can't sleep on the floor, you'll be all knots tomorrow," she said. "You take the sofa."

"Shelagh, you're still convalescing," he said, taking her hand. "And what kind of husband would I be if I made my future bride sleep on the floor?"

She sighed, but while he was holding her hand and looking at her in that tender way, she couldn't say no. "Very well," she said, sitting on the sofa. "But at least take another pillow, I don't need three of them."

"Shelagh –"

"Take it." She picked up one of the pillows off the edge of the sofa and playfully swatted him with it. He looked stunned – and then grinned in a mischievous way that reminded her of Timothy. He took another one of the pillows off the sofa.

"What if I don't want it?" he said, hitting her lightly on the arm with the cushion. She tried to feign shock, but couldn't help but grin.

"Take the pillow," she said, swatting him again. He laughed and threw his pillow at her. She ducked, giggling, and threw her cushion at him, aiming for his chest, but instead hit him squarely in the face.

"Oh, Patrick, I'm sorry!" But he was laughing – they both were, collapsing into ridiculous giggles until the sound of shuffling feet and a baby crying reminded them they weren't alone.

"I guess I'll accept defeat," Patrick said, grabbing a pillow and a blanket. "I want to go check on Timothy –"

"Patrick, wait – just a moment." Doubts about the wedding still occupied her mind; they'd been pushed to a back corner by her fiancé's reappearance, but they were still there.

He knelt near the arm of the sofa, his brow furrowed in concern. "Shelagh, what is it?"

She hugged a pillow in her lap and felt slightly childish in her worry. "Do you think it's going to happen?"

"The bomb? Sweetheart, I wouldn't worry –"

"Not that," she said, taking a shaky breath. "The wedding. Our wedding. It's in two days and we're –" she looked around the dark basement and sighed. "We're here. In a basement. There's a bomb outside, and your patients to worry about and then there's all these people that need our help – what if it doesn't happen?" She looked down at her lap, feeling tears prick her eyes.

He reached over and took her hand in his. "Shelagh MacDonald, I love you. And I don't care if there is bomb or a plague of locusts or a line of laboring mothers that stretches the whole of the East End – I am going to marry you. In two days. In this church basement if we have to." He grinned at her. "Nothing is going to stand in the way of this wedding."

How could he do that? How could he look at her and make her feel as if she were the only person who mattered? When he looked at her like that, the world shrunk and things were simple. Patrick loved her. They would get married and, with Timothy, they would be a family. Nothing else mattered.

She smiled shyly at him. "I love you, too, Patrick," she said, through a yawn. "Thank you for marrying me."

"Try to get some sleep, sweetheart." He leaned over and kissed her temple. "I'm going to go check on Timothy. I'll be back." He disappeared into the darkness.

Shelagh lay down on the creaky sofa with a blanket and pulled Patrick's nightshirt tighter around her. The comforting wool, with its scent of soap and tobacco, instantly relaxed her, as if Patrick were still beside her, holding her hand. It was strange, the little unconscious ways her body recognized him now. She could go blind, but she would always know the timbre of his voice, how it made her blush, the sound of his gait that made her heart beat a little faster, the feel of his hand in hers and the thrill it sent up her arm.

Even stranger still to think that soon – two days from now – these little, fleeting moments that made her giddy would be hers always.

How did you stand that much happiness? How did you get used to it?

She didn't want to get used to it. She wanted this happiness always. Always, she thought as she drifted off to sleep.