There was an intensity in the way he watched her: dark eyes with dark expressions. Several of the boys, bed-bound and bored, would comment on the way that the doctor would never fully dismiss the nurse if they were ever in the same room together. If she was dressing a torn up hand or a bleeding leg and Doctor Foster so happened to be passing through, it was noted that he would sometimes linger longer, his gaze subtlety taking in the swift movements of her fingers.

There was one afternoon, as several of the boys in the front lobby could attest to, where it seemed like Doctor Foster practically froze.

It was a rather warm day and everyone was feeling it. With Mary and Samuel's attempts to open a few windows thwarted weeks ago, there was no breeze to bring in any sort of fresh air. The heavy smell of sweat and blood hung around the hospital. The nurses seemed to bristle a little sooner, the doctors a little more aggravated with their patients. No one would blame anyone, for it was a sweltering summer in Virginia and God help them, it was hot and sticky and awful.

Wounded men and boys were turning up at the doorstep of Mansion House tenfold and with shortening supplies, it was difficult to be attentive of everyone in the manner in which (most of) the staff wished they could be. Patients cried out in pain, asking for water, their mother, their beds back home, but it was utterly impossible to give them all they wanted. It was as if the longer the afternoon went on—the more sun that filled the room—the shorter everyone's patience became and it was like the hospital itself was slowly heating up with agitation.

And then, like a splash of cool water, Nurse Mary came walking through on her rounds with a calming countenance and steady hands. She wasn't immune to the heat—in fact a few strands of her hair had come loose from its usual bun to cup her face. Her cheeks and forehead were flushed and slightly damp. Her eyes, scanning patients with a precise manner, gave little away as to whether or not she was feeling the full effects of exhaustion. As she passed a young man, perhaps 19 or so, he reached out a hand to her and immediately, Mary stopped in her steps to try and give a little comfort to the soldier.

In complete opposites, Jed was swiftly walking between beds with little attention to those who weren't utterly dying at his feet. His hair, naturally with a curl, was wild with the humidity and his eyes were slightly bloodshot from late nights and early mornings.

He had just finished a long surgery which, he had a terrible feeling, would end in death merely a few hours later. A boy from Virginia's own backyard had been hit and the shots had ripped apart his stomach, gutshot as they called it. There was little hope that they could properly stem the bleeding, but Jed had given it his best. (Under different circumstances, he would have said he could do nothing, but the boy's blasted resemblance to Ezra pulled at his conscience and he had to try.) As the Union soldier lay sleeping, the effects of the chloroform not quite wearing off, he could only offer a sympathetic glance before a feeling of uselessness crept into the back of his mind and slowly worked its way into his heart. Damn it if he didn't feel like he was fighting a losing battle.

His steps were loud and forceful as he brushed past nuns and soldiers. His world felt like it was careening awfully close to the edge with each passing day. Eliza had not written back to him since she left for California, his mother and brother cursed his existence, and his patients were dying faster than he could patch them up. As he barely scanned his surroundings, his eyes flickered over the bending form of the only woman to know the worst of him and still stand by his side.

Immediately, his footing faltered just a hair and he paused in his movements. The bright afternoon sun, the devilish heat it caused, enveloped Mary in a yellow angelic light as she leaned ever so slightly over the bed of crying man. Her eyes, usually calculated, were full of compassion, at least as much as she allowed herself to show, as she whispered soft and low to the man. She didn't draw close like other nurses might; no, she kept her distance as to not give off any wrong ideas, but even with the gap between their bodies, the soldier seemed to calm just with her presence close to him.

Jed longed to be on the receiving end of such comfort. How many times had he watched her soothe a ragged mind and wish that she would instead ease his own? How many nights had he hoped to hear her voice, a soothing cadence, as he tried fitfully to sleep?

Her mouth lifted at the sides as she offered kind words and a gentle smile. When the soldier gathered himself, Mary uncharacteristically squeezed his hand before patting it and picking up a few things on the bedside table to take back to the supply closet.

In all that time, perhaps a few seconds, perhaps minutes, Jed hadn't moved. His eyes had greedily taken in her form, her mannerisms, the way in which she never made herself higher than any of her patients. His stare roved over her body, her hair falling down at the nape of her neck, the flush rising to her cheeks. He was like a man lost in the desert and she the first pool of water for miles. Deep down, very deep down, he was disgusted in himself. He was still married (seemingly in name only), she just recently widowed, and yet here he was, practically tracing every part of her with dark eyes. Damn this heat!

But when Mary stood to her full height and turned to accidentally catch his gaze, Jed knew he couldn't blame it all on the oppressive summer they were having. There was an even darker part of him, a part he hardly addressed, that had long since felt the touch of a woman—of smooth hands and soft lips—and it called to him every so often. On nights when the rolling clouds blotted out even the light of the stars, Jed might entertain an idea, but he had never, ever crossed any lines in the daylight. (Ok, there was the one time, but as Mary kindly pointed out, the morphine had turned him into someone he wasn't, or at least, someone he didn't want to be. But that was an issue to address at another time.)

He and Mary kept eye contact for exactly three beats of his heart before a soldier coughed, whether intentionally or not, no one ever found out. Like a skittish dog hearing the call of its master, Jed's head snapped to the direction of the sound. Nothing. He quickly turned back to look across the hall. Mary was gone. A heat very different to the warmth of the sun rose to his face and Jed excused himself to all but run up the stairs to the staff's quarters. He wouldn't disappear to his room; no that would not make the right impression, but he needed to get out of the soldiers' stares. He needed to collect his thoughts, perhaps get a glass of water, and make sure the feelings that were so close to boiling over downstairs were bottled up.

He was a grown man, not some rutting teenager, and he wouldn't allow his respectful image of the nurse to be tainted by these thoughts. He sat down on the small bench by the stairs and cradled his head in his hands. He was being so dramatic and that alone drove him mad.

Jedediah Foster was no fool; he knew how his feelings for Mary were growing with each passing day. He knew that his longing for both a partner of equal intelligence and morals, and for a lover with a kind heart and congenial tongue, only ever landed him with one prospect. However, he also knew with equal intensity that there was no way these feelings would ever be reciprocated. His hurled insults and snide remarks about her upbringing and marriage (followed by an untimely death) had all but solidified that fact. Yet here he was, at 36 years of age, pining. Pining! Grown men did not pine! It all brought him to a crossroads which he feared to face:

1. He could tell Mary of his feelings and be damned the consequences.

2. He could hold it all in and hope to God he never exploded.

Neither of these sounded like particularly ideal scenarios. As he continued to mull over observations and potential courses of action, a yell for his name downstairs ripped him from this thoughts. It was Mary's voice and she was calling out. Another soldier, another deadly deadline. Quickly shoving any feelings aside, his mind switched to scientific studies, his learnings from Europe, and what he could do to try and stop another life from ending.

Tonight perhaps, if it wasn't too busy, he could check back in with these hellish thoughts. He couldn't act on these thoughts, but merely observe them. Right now, he had to be a doctor.

Ah yes, I've now joined this fandom head first because why not. I've moved some of my work over from ao3, so it's a bit of double dipping :) This is the first in the series to explain both Jed's mindset and later, Mary's. Please let me know what you think!