A/N: The soaring highs and cavernous lows of the second installment of Patsy's years as a midwife. After this, I may have to wait for a few more episodes to come out, as I've rather caught up. I hope you enjoy, and do let me know what you think if you would like to.

Three Trimesters

November, 1960.

Patsy knew that Delia was no longer upset with her, if her anger had ever truly been directed towards her in the first place. Yet she couldn't help but concern herself with the other woman's thoughts and feelings, as she made them so blatantly obvious in deep contrast to her own reserved manner. She tried to keep reminding herself that Delia's frustrations had been placed with their situation, and not Patsy – Delia had even reiterated that in the wake of their little tiff. But it was impossible not to feel like the other woman's increasing lack of ability to cope with their circumstances was something to do with her. It wasn't that Patsy found it any easier, but Delia had made an astute point in saying that she was better at pretending to be all right about it. Of course that was absolutely not a comment on how she felt about her, on the contrary really, as someone had to keep them safe otherwise they wouldn't be allowed to just be at all, but she could see how it might seem that way to Delia.

She still remembered how her breath had hitched in her throat, how she thought everything that meant anything to her in the world was slipping away from her in a back street of the East End, how she thought she couldn't possibly survive this – one heartache too many, one final nail in the coffin of her capacity endure anything that came her way. Of course, that wasn't true, not entirely. A part of her would have survived it, the part of her that she put out for the world to see, the part that smiled and persevered and got on with things with all the efficiency of the well trained nurse that she was. But the part of her that was beaten and bruised, her shriveling capability to love, to trust that good things would happen to her, to even dare to hold hope, that had been reanimated by Delia, tended to and handled with all the care in the world, would be gone. It was testament to the dilapidation of her optimism that she had even believed, for one short and agonising moment, that Delia just couldn't do it anymore, that she would marry, have children, probably move to the country, and live her life as if they had never been, as if they were ghosts. For a few seconds she had berated herself for ever having assumed that, as difficult, near impossible, as things were, Delia was a constant, something that wouldn't be brutally pulled from beneath her feet. And then she had felt guilty for even doubting her.

Of course she knew that Delia loved her, she had known it for a very long time, even daring to interpret it from the look in the other woman's eyes, from the way she stroked her hand, before the words had even quietly escaped from her lips, and she had returned the sentiment with a sigh of relief that this was more than just a wild episode of the Welshwoman's life, more than just a misplaced flirtation she didn't understand and didn't intend to keep up for much longer. But their time together was so limited now, and Delia's patience clearly was as well, so for the other woman to say that she wanted to marry her – well, that meant the world. It was so affirming, and filled her with such indescribable feelings of joy. But it was also damning, because it was impossible. They were destined to love each other in a way that could not be realised, not fully. Still, Delia's confession meant one thing – it meant Patsy was determined to find a way. They would never kiss outside in the rain like in the movies, she would never be taken to Wales in a flurry of post-engagement excitement and be introduced to her intrigued village as her exotic London beau, they would never glide onto the floor after a first dance at a wedding only to cheekily be asked if they were next. But one day, hopefully soon, they wouldn't live as they had been. Perhaps someday they could get a flat, live subtly, with no one willing to see what was right at the end of their nose. Maybe in twenty years, ten even, people would realise but not say a word, at least not to them, having lost their appetite for the upset and upheaval of their unfair persecution. And maybe even one day it would be okay, like so many other things once despised and denounced. And until then, if that day were to come, they would simply have to love each other in each and every way that was possible for them here and now.

It was on the high street while picking up some new nylons that Patsy's gaze was drawn into the windows of the many shops and their colourful displays. A dress shop, a tailor's, a furniture outlet, and more recently a spice store and a Caribbean restaurant she thought might look exciting to pop into one day, never one to shy from new and interesting tastes. And when she passed a jeweler's she didn't know what it was that made her stop, but stop she did, glancing at the fine necklaces, bracelets, and finally the rings. Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip as she was caught in her thoughts – thoughts of how wonderful it would be to slip one of those on Delia's finger. She was, in some way, tempted to go inside, to enquire about prices and styles. She supposed she could say that her gentleman had suggested she pick one out for herself, as that was becoming a theme of modern relationships, but she was so very bad at pretending to have any interest in men that she feared she wouldn't pull it off. Not to mention she likely couldn't afford something that Delia would deserve. There was, of course, always the option of taking her father up on that allowance – and it would be an opulent one – and putting that aside for a while, but he would wonder why her change of heart, and then it wouldn't really be her buying something so special for Delia. She walked away from the shop, resolving to put a little more away each week from her wage packet.

"Any exciting purchases?" Trixie enquired, as she set her shopping bag down on her bed.

"No new clothes for you to pour over, I'm afraid. Just two pairs of stockings." Patsy replied, producing them and putting them away in a drawer.

"I thought you'd come back laden with checked shirts like last time." The other woman quipped, and Patsy smirked a little, knowing that the other woman bemoaned her tendency to wear only those with a pair of slacks in her down time, bar a particular occasion. She folded the paper bag and slipped it under her bed with the few others that resided there – one could always find a use for such things – and the corner of it nudged against a box. It was then that she had a thought. It was hardly an engagement ring but it was a fine piece of jewelry, she supposed.

She entertained Trixie's chatter, and gladly accepted a glass of Tizer while she turned the idea over in her mind. She was desperate to be polite, but when the other woman left to take a bath after attending a birth that had gone on since the early hours and only just been wrapped up now, she was relieved, diving under her bed and producing the battered box, prizing off the lid. She removed items, one by one, taking particular care with her worn diary, the pages of which were growing brittle, and pausing over the coloured photos her father had sent her of her mother's paintings, pride of place in his home, until she found the small paper packet she was after, thumbing the hard circle inside. Her father, distant, awkward, and without the words to express the grief that they shared, so they were never said, hadn't had it in him to go over the things that had been left of her mother at their Berkshire estate, never producing them, never giving them to her, so she had been left to find things – a stray opera glove here, a monogrammed handkerchief there – as she had wandered lonely through rooms that held no sense of home to her when the garden grew boring, or too cold.

One year, one holiday she had been convinced by her aunt to visit her because the older woman had thought it terribly inappropriate for her to celebrate her eighteenth birthday alone at school, her aunt had pulled her aside. Patience, I have one more thing for you before you go to bed. Now your mother and I, when we were girls, we shared everything, our things would always get muddled up and mama used to say that we really ought to just share a wardrobe. See, the other day I found this. It was then that her aunt had produced a ring, unlike anything she'd seen her mother wear when she was a child, much more modest and understated. Before your father, your mother was the object of many an affection, she had said with the traces of a smirk gracing her lips, and when we went to London one time when we were teenagers a rather roguish young art student took a shining. They wrote for a while, and she saw him once or twice again, but mama and papa would never have allowed it to continue – he was well to do enough, I suppose. After all, he gifted her this, but it certainly wasn't an appropriate match. You mustn't tell your father though, it was rather a forbidden love and I'm not sure he knows about it, but take it anyway.

She opened the packet, the ring slipping out into her hand as she turned it over between her fingers – a silver band with a small diamond. She wished she had her mother's engagement ring, but something that looked like that wasn't destined to stay with her for very long, and it was on the arduous walk to the camp that it had been put to her – the ring was coming off, or her hand was, whichever she preferred, and she had reluctantly given it up. Patsy had once struggled to find meaning in the house, in the things of her mother's that had belonged to her before Patsy and Nancy had been born years later in the Far East, but somehow this little ring seemed perfect. It was symbolic of a relationship that would have never been permitted, never considered appropriate, but in passing it onto Delia she supposed she could say that they weren't doomed, as her teenage mother and artist beau had been, and assign a new meaning to it. She smiled to herself, slipping it back into the small, square envelope and realizing that she really ought to make an effort for her date with Delia this afternoon if she were going to give her this, so she gave herself over to the mercy of the mirror.

"Are you seeing Delia again?" Trixie asked, slipping into the room in her silk robe and eyeing her position in front of their shared mirror. Patsy nodded in affirmation, never giving too much away, even if her enthusiasm for the time spent with the other woman on her days off was hard to quell. "I say, you are good at keeping up with friends, aren't you? It's so easy to fall out of contact, even with phones and cars and the like." Trixie knew she didn't have any other friends though, not that she 'kept up with' in the same way that she did with Delia. She'd seen her father last year, took lunch with her aunt whenever she was in London, responded to the invite of a cousin here or there to a party or to dinner, and she was worried her affection for spending time with Delia was becoming more transparent than she thought it. "I can't begrudge her stealing you away from our nightly natter though, you're always in such a better mood for seeing her. What time will you be back, anyway?"

Patsy bit her lip, thinking carefully about how to reply, taking time over the application of her lipstick. "I think by the time my day off comes around I rather need the break." She settled on, though it wasn't strictly true. Her job rarely wore her down. "I'm not sure." She answered.

"Well, I was up all day and night, so I'll probably be asleep when you come in." Trixie said.

"I'll try to be quiet when I do." Patsy promised, wondering if she should risk changing her outfit or if her sudden desire to dress up would prompt any questions. She relented in the end, picking something appropriate from a hanger and slipping it on, already planning what she would say if Trixie brought it up – that it was a warmer item of clothing, and it was going to get chilly tonight, but the question never came. "I'll let you get some shut eye now. Cheerio!" She said cheerfully, slipping the little envelope into her handbag, gathering up the rest of her things and smiling at her on her way out, practically skipping down the stairs.

She spotted her on the corner, waiting by a lamppost, and glanced both ways quickly before trotting across the street and capturing her in a measured hug. Delia's smile was broad, and she grasped Patsy's hand briefly before releasing it – there was so much conveyed in the gentle squeeze of her fingers, but mostly love. "Silver Buckle, then?" She asked, nodding to their favourite haunt, which was just across the street.

"I thought we could go for a walk – Victoria Park?" Patsy suggested. There was no way she could present Delia with a ring across the table in a tiny, overcrowded café. It wasn't exactly the venue for grand romantic gestures, and she didn't trust Delia to contain her reaction.

"Don't be silly, we'll freeze." Delia chuckled.

"I-I brought you a scarf." Patsy unwrapped it from her neck, having laden herself with two for the journey, suspecting that Delia would say that.

Delia frowned for a moment, trying to work out her game, "If you want to talk to me alone that much, we can just go to the nurse's home." The other woman smirked. "But I will take the scarf, thank you." Her features softened at Patsy's gesture, and she tied it around her neck, smiling at her fondly.

The walk to the nurse's home wasn't too long, no longer than it would have taken them to get to Victoria Park in the first place, so she supposed it made little difference. They probably would have head here for the evening anyway, to share a spot of gin and listen to a record or two in Delia's room if their chatter in the café didn't run away with them for too many hours. When they crossed the threshold into Delia's room, the other woman locked the door shut behind her – something that always made Patsy's breath hitch in her throat – and she turned, her hands on her hips. "Right, what is it then? It's like you've got ants in your pants."

Patsy sat herself down on the other woman's bed, all of a sudden realising then she had no idea what to say. One usually prepared some sort of soliloquy for this kind of occasion, at least had thought about what to say a little bit, and she cursed herself for that not even having crossed her mind. Delia laughed at the dumbfounded expression on her face, and joined her on the bed, her shoulder brushing up against Patsy's. "I-well."

"Well?" Delia grinned. "Come on, Pats. Spit it out."

"Okay." Patsy nodded. "I've been thinking a lot about what you said, the other night."

The other woman's smile faded, "Pats, I've told you – I am sorry. I was just…I was bitter that day. Not at you, but at the world. I want so much to just-"

"No, no, I'm not upset. I'm not telling you off." Patsy assured her. "I said that we wouldn't live as we were, and I meant it. Things are going to get better, in the small ways that we can make them better, bit by bit, and I wanted to show you that." She took a deep breath, rummaging through her handbag and closing her hand around the thing that she sought. "Deels, I love you, and I know that we can't do things properly, that we can't get married like you want, and trust me, I want that too. We can't get married because that's something that someone else has to let us do, has to witness, but this…this can be between us." Patsy said softly, looking up at Delia's attentive gaze, slipping the packet into her hand.

The other woman stared at her for a few moments, and Patsy knew that she could feel what was inside, and saying nothing she let the ring drop into her outstretched palm, her eyes fixated on it for a few long moments. "I know it's not much, it's not even an actual engagement ring, but I want you to have it – if you want it, that is. I know you can't wear it, it might not even fit, but-" Her rambling was all to quickly cut off, one of Delia's palms taking her face, and the other resting in a fist on her cheek, still clutching the ring. She kissed her hard, their lips melting together, and in the longest time all thoughts of matron walking in, one of Delia's colleagues, of the fact the blinds weren't drawn, went completely out of head, and all she could think of was how much she adored the woman before her.

Patsy's heartbeat was awry when Delia pulled away, hammering wildly in her chest, "Darling…of course I want it." She breathed, her misty gaze divided between the jewelry in her hand and the woman who had given it to her. "You-you didn't have to, Patsy. It must have cost an arm and a leg."

"It didn't, Deels. I already had it." She explained.

She paused for a moment, "It wasn't your mother's, was it? Oh, Pats you don't have to-"

"Delia, I want you to have it. Please." Patsy insisted, reaching out and closing Delia's hand around the ring. "I really do." She stroked the other woman's cheek with her palm, thumbing a tear from the corner of her eye for her. "Don't cry on me now, sweetheart." She smiled fondly.

"Come here." Delia wrapped her arms around Patsy, burying her face in her neck and pressing a kiss there that made her hair stand on end. "I know!" She said suddenly, standing up and opening a drawer, pulling out a box. From it she produced a necklace, and gently slipped the pendant from it, setting it down and replacing it with the ring. "Now I can wear it." She grinned, holding her solution out to Patsy, who stood up also, doing the clasp up behind her neck. She admired it in the mirror, and Patsy admired it hanging from Delia's neck with a gentle smile. Things were going to get better, she thought, as they found secret ways to navigate the limitations of their world, to show each other that despite everything, and everyone else, they loved each other.

December, 1960.

Patsy's prediction had been somewhat right – that if Delia were to leave her she would survive. Barely. But that she would. And furthermore, she had been right about what would happen to her inside and out. She soldiered on, as she always did, painting on a brave a face as she could manage, silent tears seeping into her pillow when she staved off the waves of grief all day only for them to catch up with her at night, and then waking in the morning to continue with her work. It wasn't the way she had pictured them being apart though. In her darkest hours she had considered that it would be in the devastation of being found out, of being forced away from each other, or that Delia would no longer be able to take the pain of existing in the way that they did, despite their love, and would call an end to everything. Though of course both fears had waned so much recently, with their increasing devotion to each other, with the privacy of the flat – they had been on the cusp of having everything in place, everything as absolutely perfect as it could be in their circumstances, and Patsy had grown too comfortable. Never, not once, had she imagined that Delia would be taken from her in this way, that Delia as she knew her would be gone.

She thought she ought to be used to having everything she held dear taken from her by now, and she supposed in a way she was. Carrying on was essential, and carry on she did, but inside she felt wrecked, like a shell. The pain that burned inside her everyday was almost unbearable though, like a torch for Delia that wouldn't go out, and she wondered if it ever would. The answer to that she knew – it wouldn't, it would stay with her like every other great loss in her life had. The correspondence that Mrs. Busby had assured her of hadn't come to fruition, and it left her only able to wonder just how bad Delia still was. There was always a chance with these things that her memory would come back, that the seizures would stop, but without any update on her health she could only think the worst – surely Delia's mother would have let her know if she was better, surely she wouldn't want her sitting here in misery. But then she supposed the older woman had no idea how deep her misery ran, how dark and bottomless it was, thinking her no more than a concerned dear friend.

Perhaps Delia would remember, though even then her health may never be the same. Perhaps she would remember and be disgusted with her past self and condemn their relationship, or see no point in returning to London, to Patsy, to resume their secret, illicit and endlessly difficult relationship. Perhaps she would move on, find a nice Welsh boy, do the easy thing, or live out her days with her parents. The silence from Delia and Mrs. Busby's end led to an untold amount of 'perhaps', and she couldn't bear it. She smoothed out her skirt, stepping off the bus at Piccadilly, hating that every moment she had alone, every moment she wasn't busy, Delia was all that she could think of. Of course, it was like that before, but all she could think of then was the last date they had, the last walk in Victoria Park, of how much she loved her, of how she couldn't wait to see her again. She supposed afternoon tea with her aunt was one way to take her mind off things.

She didn't share her family's preference for such luxurious settings, it all seemed a little excessive to her after everything she had seen in her life, in her youth and in her work, but she didn't begrudge them their tastes, their world. So she readied herself as she stepped into Fortnum and Mason's, readied herself to adopt the composure and decorum she knew was expected of her here. Spotting her aunt sipping a cup of tea at a table, she joined her, setting her bag down and shrugging off her layers. "Hello, darling. Oh, come now." Her aunt stood up, holding her arms out, garnering a small smile from Patsy, who accepted the hug gratefully. The older woman pressed a warm kiss to her cheek and sat down. "I was expecting you in your jolly uniform – I've yet to see you in it, though you did send that lovely picture last Christmas."

"I'm afraid it wasn't really going to do the trick for the occasion." Patsy reasoned. "How is your shopping going?"

"Rather efficiently, I daresay. Though not one of my children offered me bed and board, can you believe it? I suppose Kate is in rather a tight squeeze sharing with that friend of hers." Patsy wasn't sure she would call a four-bedroom townhouse a tight squeeze, but she supposed by her aunt's standards it was. "And as for James, well he has no excuse. I think its because he has a lady friend; London has turned him into something of a cad from what my sources have detected. You haven't heard any chitter chatter, have you?" She wondered when the other woman would quite get it into her head that she wasn't a social butterfly on the London scene, and had no more idea of what her cousin got up to in his spare time than her aunt did.

"Not a thing, Aunt Audrey." Patsy assured her, for all the good it would do.

"I was silly for assuming they would extend an invitation – I thought I may have to come and stay in your nunnery, but luckily I got the Waldorf at short notice." She informed her with a smile, pouring her a cup of tea from the pot on the table. "Patience, take some tea. I'm going to be blunt with you now." Patsy glanced up, "You look god-awful, darling. Absolutely miserable."

Patsy tried to refrain from giving herself away, from chewing on her lip, fiddling with her hands, staring at her lap, and doing all the things she usually did when her façade was slipping. She looked her dead in the eye, feigned mock-offense, and quipped, "You should have seen me before I got changed out of my uniform."

Aunt Audrey rolled her eyes, "Now don't you dare be coy with me, young lady. You look positively wretched. I can see it, in your eyes – don't think I can't. You look like you did when…well, you're putting your brave face on, and it doesn't suit you."

Patsy swallowed, "There's nothing wrong, Aunt Audrey, really. What have you bought for-"

"You're going to make me play guessing games, aren't you?" Her aunt raised an eyebrow, "Very well, Patience, guess I will, just tell me when I've got the ticket. You're not coming home for Christmas, so I've only got a good few hours to get it out of you, because I won't let you wallow in it over what is supposed to be such a jolly time of year." The older woman tapped her fingers on the table, thinking for a few moments as Patsy was filled with dread. "Right, let me see…Is it your work? I know it's rather draining stuff, and the squalor and deprivation you must be faced with every single day, its bound to get you down." Her aunt paused, measuring her reaction. "No? You are made of stronger stuff than that, I suppose. Then I can only think its some contemptible young man that's toyed with your heart, is that it?"

"No, Aunt Audrey. It's not my job, or a man. It's none of those things. I'm fine." She sighed, exasperated with the woman before her, the woman who had tried, and succeeded just a little, in helping her to heal after the war, the only person who came even a tiny bit close to Delia to reading her like a book.

Aunt Audrey sighed in defeat, looking rather unimpressed by her, "Patience, whatever it is – have a scone, darling, they're lovely – listen, whatever it is, whatever's making you look like a sad, stray little puppy, or whomever, for that matter, you really ought to just talk about it." Her aunt was like her mother in a lot of ways, outgoing, forthcoming, and not really all that English in her outpourings of emotion. Perhaps if it were either of the things that her aunt had suggested she might have been able to bring herself to discuss it with her – she trusted her enough for that. It was no question of trust though here – there wasn't enough in the world for her to tell her aunt the truth – it was that there was simply no-one, absolutely no-one, that could know the real meaning behind her sorrow.

"A friend of mine was in a terrible accident." Patsy relented, revealing just a little through clenched teeth. "She lost her memory, I haven't heard from her since she went home, she lives so far away, and I'm so terribly worried." She said with such a tone of finality she made it clear that was all she was going to say about it.

"Oh, Patience. Darling, that's ghastly." Her aunt reached across the table to grab her hand. "Were you close?"

"She was my very best friend, Aunt Audrey." She said, feeling the tears prick in her eyes.

Her aunt smiled sympathetically, her thumb rubbing circles as she kept her hand in a tight grip. "I can't tell you she'll recover, or that you'll feel better either, I can only pray for her. I know that means very little to you, Patience, and I know you're probably cursing the world right now with everything you have, thinking why her, why my friend, why me, again." Her voice grew soft then, "When, if, she gets better and comes back to you and you went on as if she wasn't going to, as if she didn't exist anymore, as if she wasn't your very dear friend, then you'll feel so terribly guilty for it. You have to hope, my darling." Patsy glanced down, knowing that her aunt was right. It wasn't as if she wasn't trying to cling onto every shred of optimism she had, but she knew all too well it was futile, and she was finding her already meagre resources utterly depleted. "There's very little in this world that can't benefit from a little hope, and I know you've seen that which can't, but not everything is that same way."

"You're right." Patsy breathed, "Thank you, Audrey." Was all that she could say.

May, 1961.

In some way, Patsy wished that she could tell her aunt she had been right. She could be awfully stubborn sometimes, but on eventual acceptance that another had been right, particularly when it was someone she respected, she was gracious in having been mistaken. Aunt Audrey had told her to hope, told her that she would feel guilty if she didn't, so she had tried. She had hoped and she had continued to love Delia, with every shred of each sentiment that she had, the latter in rather larger abundance than the former, and Delia had come back to her. It wasn't just that Delia had popped back to explain herself, to explain why there had been no letters, to assure her that she wanted her and that she still cared for her, she had returned completely, fighting tooth and nail with her mother in the process. If only Sister Julienne knew quite what she had done for Patsy – she supposed if she did then she wouldn't have been as forthcoming in extending such kindness towards Delia, which would have been rather humourous without the consideration of how very careful they were going to have to be. None of that seemed to matter at the time though, and neither did the wait for Delia to return to Wales for a while before finally coming home. Patsy only had to remind herself of the virtue she was named for when she had grown just the slightest bit agitated around the desire for Delia to arrive at Nonnatus, telling herself just how lucky she was for everything to have come full circle in the way that it had.

It seemed that fate, in its own way, had been on her side recently, particularly when she was called out to a birth that was no doubt going to run into Delia's estimated time of arrival. She didn't trust herself to contain her soppy grin, her utter and unabashed enthusiasm that would reveal itself when she walked through that door. It was probably better that she returned knowing she was there, prepared to control her buzzing nerves, rather than waiting like a loyal dog at the threshold only to loose her marbles when she came in. Still, she hadn't been able to help the tinge of disappointment, but she had waited for this long, and she could wait for however long it took Mrs. Su to deliver her baby. As luck would have it, things didn't take forever, despite it being the young woman's first child, and she was all too happy to leave her in Mrs. Mahoney's very capable hands to bask in the joy that had just entered her life, not for the last time she suspected, by the way her and Mr. Su gazed at each other.

Unpacking with her, flitting around her room, brushing up against each other, finally arranging those flowers in a vase and taking a seat – it felt like the first time she had relaxed in months, and it was. The last time she felt this utterly at ease had been that morning in their flat, waking up early just so they could take their time getting out of bed, shuffling under the sheets, embracing and draping themselves over each other in every possible variation until grumbling stomachs and vocations could wait no longer. And then messing around in the kitchen, flicking dry porridge oats at each other and boiling coffee, hugging Delia from behind while she attended the hob. It wasn't quite the flat here, of course, but it was close – as close as they could get for now.

But that sense of security and contentment was all too short lived, brought to a swift end – as it was every single time – the next time she checked on Mrs. Su. And yet again she was berating herself for thinking that all could be right in the world for just one stupid moment. Dr. Turner had offered her a lift back to Nonnatus house, and she had accepted the offer all too gratefully, knowing that she would be about as stable on her bike as she was in her mind at that moment, dread surging up from the darkest depths of it in tandem with the sick feeling in her stomach. She fiddled with her hands, a little red from the seeing to she'd given them in Mrs. Marney's kitchen sink after sitting with the new mother, unable to erase the image of the poor young woman from her head. She had half a mind to ask the doctor to pull over, lest she throw up, but she clenched her jaw and ordered herself to gain some composure. The doctor seemed to be holding out a little hope that her suspicions were wrong, but she knew typhoid when she saw it, and she thought that he really ought to as well, having worked in the East End for long enough. But then, he must have just seen cases like Mrs. Su's, in time to have them sent straight to hospital, in time to offer them some hope. He hadn't seen it lived out from beginning to end, every waking minute of the day that could be spent by the afflicted's side, in conditions that offered no chance of even a little relief from pain and suffering to ease the inevitability of death. She knew she wasn't wrong about Mrs. Su, and the potential fall out from this was something she couldn't bear to think about.

In that moment she had wanted Delia more than anything in the world, she had wanted to curl up next to the only person who truly knew her, who knew what this meant for her, and to let her run her fingers through her hair and wipe the tears that were begging to fall. She wanted their flat; she wanted privacy, and not the room full of people she'd walked into when she had gone to make tea. Delia had taken in features all too astutely, frowning a little at the sight of her, and she thought that she must be a really picture when it became clear rather quickly that the others had begun to look at her funny too, and then with dread – if it was Patsy looking like this, if it was Patsy that seemed so shaken, then it must be bad. So she had told them, and she had watched from the corner of her eye, as she attempted to address everyone in the room equally, the understanding registering in Delia's features, the sorrow in her eyes. There was a certain look behind her mask of reasonably measured objective concern for the situation, one that Patsy knew signaled Delia's desperate need to take her into her arms.

And then she had made everything worse, chasing away the only person who could possibly make her feel anything but completely and utterly bleak in a way that she hadn't done since very early on in their relationship, when they had been friends and she thought she had been protecting the other woman from her perverse affections, or when she had been scared and unused to baring her soul, attempting to claw back some of the vulnerability she had spilled, some of the secrets she'd shared. Had she been reaching for her arm, her hand, her face? She had flinched before she would ever have found out exactly what Delia was trying to do and say, exactly how far she was willing to go to comfort her in that situation, how much she would test the boundaries. What hurt her wasn't what Delia was going to do in front of others, but what she couldn't. Later, she had heeded Trixie's advice, though not before a good amount of time steeling herself.

Delia wouldn't be angry with her – she never was – and she suspected that when it came to this, when it came to having trauma and pain relived in the way it had been today, the other woman wouldn't bat an eyelid even if she reacted in the most bizarre manner she could imagine. But she was still afraid – more afraid because she knew she would have to talk about it, that she owed it to Delia to explain herself, and even with the woman she loved that was always hard. Off the roster as a precaution, she had the chance to get changed out of her uniform, to fix her hair, to retouch her make up where it had smudged as she'd cried alone in her room, though it wouldn't stay in place for all that long. And then she had slipped into Delia's room, backing herself up against the wall, feeling as though her chest would cave in from the invisible pressure on it, and her apology coming out in a way that rather reflected that. But Delia accepted it quickly, graciously, even though she didn't have to, even though she had every right to think her behaviour foul, muttering something about her not being silly and not having to say sorry for such things before welcoming her onto her bed.

Her touch was tentative at first, not eager to shock Patsy into pulling away again, reflecting a respect for her fears, but now they were away from prying eyes she let the other woman draw her closer inch by inch until Delia had pulled her arms around her waist, and her own hands found themselves divided between Patsy's hair and tracing a pattern up her spine, rubbing soothingly as she closed her eyes tight. She used to do that in the camp, squeezing them shut and urging herself to pluck out fading, almost mystical memories of her father, of the big white house, of the seashore, and trying to pretend she was there. But then, there was nowhere she would rather be right now than here with Delia. Besides, that trick might have worked for a while when she was a girl, but it had stopped serving her after a short time in that hell, and it wasn't serving her now. All that appeared behind her eyes were images of her mother and sister, hair plastered to their porcelain faces by sweat, fingers toying endlessly with their sheets, and the moaning and the thrashing that when it began the nurses would scoop her up and drag her protesting from the sick bay, trying to shield her from horrors there were no point in hiding from her by then.

She didn't know how long she cried on Delia for, but they were left well enough alone in any case, so she was allowed to relax into her and she took the opportunity while she had it, not knowing how long the road ahead of her was, not knowing if and how typhoid would take a hold of this community and leave devastation in its wake, including Patsy's, not knowing when she'd next get a chance to let her emotions pour out onto Delia like this. She felt a fool in so many ways. She had hurt Delia so unnecessarily. She was crying on her like it was nobody's business. She had let herself think that things had gone so right for her again – for a period – that she was untouchable. But she was rapidly readjusting the cogs in her mind, replacing the interrupter mechanism that reminded her not to get too comfortable, not to take anything for granted, to think twice before she relaxed for even one moment. There was one thing she knew above all though – the woman who held her in her arms loved her, and after everything they had been through and everything they had suffered to be together, she felt safe enough to count on that.