Delia and Barbara sat on the bus. Quick thinking, perfect in a crisis Delia, had managed to get Barbara out the door before she realised, that she had in fact, shared a drink with a lovely lesbian in a gay bar.

"Let me take you home, Barbara" Delia had commanded, tone masking the absolute panic she felt inside. "I'm sure Patsy and Trixie would like to speak somewhere perhaps a little more private." She had given Trixie a stern, knowing look and squeezed Patsy's arm as she quickly led Barbara to the exit. Patsy had been too struck by fear to protest Delia's gesture. Words and actions failed her.

Barbara, in her politeness, was sure to say goodbye to Lara. Barbara had failed to see the disappointment in the blonde's eyes as she sauntered out, arm in arm, with the cute Welsh brunette. Delia, however, had noticed. It had provided a brief moment of relief from her rising fear. If only the blonde had also heard her say 'let me take you home, Barbara,' she thought.

But that moment had passed. Sitting next to Barbara in a near empty bus had caused Delia's anxiety to increase once more. She sighed and watched the rain soaked streets from the back of the bus. It would be at least forty minutes until they reached Nonnatus house.

Delia wondered whether she should confront Barbara and ask why the hell they had followed her. But no, she thought, that would lead to further questions she wasn't sure she could answer.

Barbara fidgeted in her seat. The warmth from Delia, as they sat next to each other, only served to remind her that she had invaded her friend's space. Figuratively and now physically. She shifted closer to the edge of the seat, feeling the harsh breeze on her legs.

Barbara and Delia looked to each other and smiled – Barbara awkwardly, Delia with a hint of emotion that Barbara couldn't quite decipher. Anger? Embarrassment?

Uncomfortable with the eye contact, both women diverted their gaze. Both searching for words but unable to find them.

Barbara sighed. She wondered whether she should confront Delia and ask why she had been keeping secrets, why she failed to trust in their friendship. She too had a gentleman friend, they could have swapped stories, ventured on double dates even. Barbara had found the concept of 'couple dating' rather exotic – unaware the term 'couple dating' had more than one meaning. But no, she thought, that would lead to further questions she wasn't sure she could answer.

Delia could see Barbara's reflection in the bus window. Between the quiet sighs and picking at her woollen stockings, Barbara made brief glances toward her, mouth opening slightly, then closing again. The poor dear desperately wanted to talk about what had transpired, thought Delia. Her stomach turned. She wasn't sure whether there would be an apology or confrontation. She was sure, however, that she wouldn't dare risk finding out.

Delia took a moment to think rationally. Though she was sure that Barbara had been unware of her surroundings, she also sure that Barbara could sense that something was amiss. Barbara was naïve but not stupid. Surely, though, she was polite enough to avoid the goings on of the night? She was a Catholic girl after all.

Delia needed a distraction.

She was well practised at avoiding delicate conversations. She had years of practice. Christmas with the extended Busby family was a nightmare of pronouns and forced smiles as her Mam reassured relatives that Delia was a career girl, simply working too hard to settle down. If ever a conversation risked veering toward her personal life (When will you start a family? Any nice Doctors?) Delia would pretend to be so invested in the mundane, everyday life of others to warrant mention of herself. Nursing and London was nothing compared to small town antics. Delia was convincing too, nodding in feigned interest to talk of the latest sponge recipe or the beauty of the Welsh language. Asking all the questions any good, social, normal girl would ask of good, social, normal women. And how exactly do you get the sponge to be so fluffy? Seen any good films lately?

And it was with this reminiscing that Delia thought of how she could steer Barbara away from any incrimination.

She laughed. Suddenly. Convincingly. Just as she had learnt over decades of awkward Christmas dinners.

Barbara looked at her, concerned it was the kind of hysterical laughing people did when they were incredibly upset. 'The vapours' her Dad had called it.

"I'm sorry," said Delia, placing her hand on her mouth, in a mock effort to keep her giggling inside. "I just got the joke."

Barbara was intrigued, "the joke?" she asked.

"Yes," Delia laughed, "To Kill A Moping Bird... how long had you kept that gem squirreled away?"

Barbara joined in the laughter. "Oh gosh, I was dying to tell Trixie ever since I realised we wouldn't be seeing the film. She had just found out about you and the gentlemen. She dragged me, moping, all around Chelsea. So I thought moping, mocking..."

Barbara stopped abruptly, her eyes wide. She realised that she had just raised the elephant in the bus. She was quite pleased with this word-play also. Disappointed that now was not the time to share her semantic-based wit.

So much for the diversion, thought Delia as she turned to the window, avoiding Barbara's gaze. Quickly her panic gave way to confusion. Gentleman? She thought.

Barbara shifted further toward the edge of the seat.

Xxx

Patsy and Trixie had not moved since the revelation. They were at a complete stand-off, each determined that the other would make the first move.

It was Patsy, uncomfortable at Trixie's gaze, who lost the silent battle. She couldn't stand the knowing look in Trixie's eye. One of judgement and terror. She had seen it before.

Patsy envisioned an earlier moment she had been revealed for all she was. Except, in a previous life she had been the revealer – her School chum, Cathy, the recipient. Patsy had been careful. It was only when she was sure that Cathy had not felt ill at the concept, when she was positive that Cathy, with her complete disinterest in boys and growing interest in the pretty new teacher, had felt a similar longing, that she mustered the courage to tell.

Cathy was not relieved to find a like-minded soul, as Patsy had hoped. Cathy was alarmed and terrified. She had screamed that Patsy was a deviant, a sinner, a criminal. Patsy could still see her eyes, eyes that told her she was a disgrace. Eyes that both feared her and feared for her. Eyes that now belonged to Trixie.

Patsy's face filled with grief. She turned and ran toward the back of the club, finding solace in the littered, beer-stenched back alley. The cold startled her. She collapsed against the wall of an adjacent building, head rested against bended knees, hyperventilating.

She did not hear the door swing open, nor footsteps walk to her side. Her senses were filled with an inability to breathe, only confounded by the desperate heartache she felt in her chest. She was positive her heart had been torn out.

A hand on her shoulder only heightened her senses. She knew it was Trixie – the realisation of her closeness engulfed her. She was trapped, like a wounded animal. Angry and afraid.

Refusing to lift her head, Patsy sobbed into her knees, simultaneously sucking in any air she could find. Patsy heaved and cried, unable to find her breath, yet refusing to lift her head to source more air.

"Patsy?" coaxed Trixie, tone of a nurse - unfriendly yet professional. "You need to look up. You need to breathe," Trixie commanded, deliberately cold and clinical.

Patsy sucked in the stifled air. "no!", she found the strength to cry.

Trixie kneeled in front of Patsy and lifted her chin. It was more forceful than she had intended but she did not have the disposition to be delicate. Patsy's head tilted upwards, but still she refused to look at Trixie.

Trixie could see that Patsy's mascara had run, her face blotchy and red. She was the cause. She knew this. But part of her, an ugly part admittedly, had thought, hadn't Patsy bought this on herself? What Patsy hid, what Patsy was...

Trixie gulped , her thoughts interrupted as Patsy shifted her focus. No longer avoiding eye contact, Patsy stared at her pointedly, with what she could only describe as the burning, scorching heat of a thousand atomic suns.

"Why" Patsy sucked air in, "are you even", her chest heaved "here!" she managed to scream, her voice enveloped in a low, husky tone.

It was a question Trixie had never expected to arise. Certainly a question she had never expected to answer. Trixie had thought that she would be asking the questions. She had nothing to answer for. But she had, hadn't she?

Trixie mentally repeated the question – Why. Are. You. Even. Here?

She stepped back, found the wall adjacent to Patsy and slowly dragged herself down. The ground was hard and wet. It would surely leave a stain on her outfit but she was beyond caring.

Patsy and Trixie stared into the abyss of each other. At a stand-off once more.