Thank you for the kind welcome to the fandom. I just wanted to point out that this series or more or less like a collection of drabbles. They all string together to form a story, but it's more sporadic and less fluid than a typical novella. I hope you enjoy Mary's point-of-view.

There were many a flirtatious glance within the walls of Mansion House. From young men—beaten, bruised, and shot at—adoringly watching equally young nuns and volunteers, to the sisters themselves sneaking peaks at the soldiers; even in times of war it seemed that the human heart beat on.

For one nurse, she was sure she was past those teenaged years. She had been blessed to find a man who shared her love of literature and culture and had been gifted years with him. She had loved her husband with all her heart and when he had been taken away from her so quickly in their matrimony, Mary Phinney was positive that she had no more love to give. She was a widow now, and at twenty-nine years of age there was little chance of rekindling a spark. Of course, the current war didn't help her chances at romantic prospects either.

This war: this awful, disastrous, disgusting war that ripped families apart; took boys from their youth; killed the light in many… This war had been ravaging the souls of everyone it touched and though Mary tried her best to be positive in nearly every situation, today seemed as if it would be the most trying yet.

The heatwave that had hit Alexandria three days past looked as if it would never depart. It had come in with an angry roar as it filled the hospital with a heavy warmth and a pressure on everyone's chest. The air was so thick and full of moisture that even breathing seemed a task the healthy struggled with. It was becoming easier to be short with one another as everyone slunk around in the afternoon sun. Nurses moved a little slower; doctors chastised a little sooner. Everyone was equally miserable and equally aware of each other.

Mary herself almost wished she could fall prey to such feelings, but as she watched the faces of the young (and some old) men come into Mansion House with the tiniest glimmer of hope in their eyes, she knew she couldn't give in.

At ten o'clock in the morning, the front rooms were already sweltering. Mary cast the large windows a quick disdainful glance as she thought of the fresh air they might be getting if only a certain "Queen of Crimea" would have allowed her and Sam to pry them open. Originally, she thought they could have closed the curtains to keep the horrible heat out, but upon realization that this action would also snuff out much of the day's light, she reconsidered. It seemed as if they would have to bear the full brunt of the Virginian summer.

As she made her rounds between the beds, Mary stopped every so often to check on her patients. A young man's hand stopped her mid-stride and her eyes shot down to see a pained expression. Her heart sank (as it still had leave to do) when she saw how young he was. He may have been almost nineteen, but his young face stirred up memories of the young cavalryman who had died in near the same bed months ago.

This particular boy here was recovering well, but from what Doctor Foster had said the other day, he was another that seemed to be suffering from soldier's heart. He seemed well enough on the outside—barely traces on his face and arms from where the debris had cut at him in the canon fire—but whenever he made to get close to the front doors of Mansion House he would immediately become internally anguished and a fear would pale his face. Doctor Hale had been not-so-subtly attempting to have him thrown out into the street to make room for those that were "actually suffering ailment," but Mary continued not-so-subtly tell him off.

She stooped ever so slightly over the soldier's bed as she drew his hands in hers. His eyes were watering as his eyebrows drew up and together in pain. He tried his best to swallow the whimpers, but before long he was openly crying, his sobs causing his shoulders to shake. Mary watched him with sympathetic eyes as her mind was briefly flitted to the last time a man had cried like this in front of her.

Jed…

As much as she longed for her heart to cease itself, it still yearned to comfort, and when she had witnessed something she never thought possible, her first instinct hadn't been to tell the Matron or Doctor Summers as other nurses might do, but to instead reach out a hand in aid.

She had seen him at his absolute worst and yet she wasn't frightened. She knew it was something that could be overcome with time and strict guidance and she had made it a mission of hers to see it through.

She imagined many of the nurses and sisters were startled by his short temper, even more so as of late, but she took it all in stride. He was rather frazzled this last week, but with the suppressive heat and short handedness of staff, Mary found it a relatively reasonable response. He was, she imagined, a rather wild man at heart, with outlandishly forward ideas and strong opinions. As opposed to her leveled tactfulness, Doctor Foster—no, Jed—was all passion and emotion. That wasn't to say Mary wasn't; in fact she remembered quite a few rows with her late husband, though they more often than not were centered around local issues and as the pair were so much alike, there was little to quarrel about.

No, Mary was very passionate about many things but chose instead to place these thoughts strategically, whereas he was more apt to throwing them out at will.

However, she had to admit that no one goaded her quite as well as Jedediah Foster, and she'd be a fool to pretend that she didn't enjoy their squabbles now and again. There was something about the way his dark eyes grew impossibly darker when they fought. The tension that filled the air, practically electric some days, made is seem as if a lit match might cause Mansion House itself to explode. And then there was the way he would try to subtly apologize for any missteps: a gentle grasp at her wrist to get her attention, a kind mouth and gentle eyes. He was such a man of feeling, all his emotions written across his face as if he were an open book. Mary found that rather appealing as if—

Immediately Mary chastised herself. She was supposed to be comforting a soldier not thinking of Jed's eyes and mouth!

Yet she couldn't pull herself away from that train of thought entirely. As she tried her best to whisper reassurance to the young man, she watched his hands in her own. The soldier's fingers were tanned and slightly rough from his time in the military, quite unlike Jed's, which were a bit smoother and paler with his medical work. It had become an awful habit as of late, but whenever Mary assisted in any sort of procedure, she had taken to letting her fingertips linger on Jed's as they passed scalpels and twine and saws between each other. She had slowly begun to know that part of him and it thrilled her inside, even if she wished for her heart to stop its horrible timing. She had a feeling deep down that she couldn't love anyone again, not like she had with Gustav, but those seconds given to her where she and Jed touched ever so softly—they continued to feed something Mary was a bit afraid of.

Her husband's hands had been incredibly soft and with plump palms as most men of means were. Jed's were longer and thinner, with rough tips and a few scars from handling sharp tools. When he had gripped her wrist that day in the supply closet, Mary had been startled at the feeling of his hand on her bare skin. It had been quite sometime since someone had touched her in that manner. She was used to the hands of soldiers—the taut restraint of a man in pain—not the desperate pull of a superior who has becoming increasingly close to crossing a line on a few occasions (and she with him).

Her heart had been hammering so hard against her rib cage that all it took to stop it completely was his rough voice calling her name, the murmur sending a spark not all that unfamiliar down her spine and through her chest. Just thinking about it now caused a tension to build in Mary's heart and almost surprisingly, the pit of her stomach.

Suddenly the young soldier sniffled slightly, trying his best to regain what little composure remained and Mary dumped her thoughts of Jed the best she could in order to turn her full attention (well, 93% if she was being honest) to him. She offered him a small smile and when he didn't look at her, Mary spoke to him about how he would, he would, get better and go home to his family.

Mary pulled at his folded hands for a moment to let him feel her and remind him that he was still alive, whether or not his mind and soul believed otherwise. It would be a long road for his recovery but she was optimistic. She whispered softly to him, trying her best to bring comfort. As she did so, she silently wished another man might hear them and know that he too would be better in time.

The young man began to slowly pull himself back together. The fear was still there in the small gasps, but the tears were gone. He took a few hiccuping breaths and and when he finally brought his gaze to hers, Mary knew she had done all she could. She gave his hand one more kind squeeze before patting them and righting herself.

Her body felt flushed as she made to pick up a few discarded items from the bedside table. She could feel the sweat at the back of her neck, her cheeks damply kissed by strands of hair. She wanted to blame the awful heat, but as she again (again, really Mary?!) thought of the doctor, she had a horrible feeling that maybe it wasn't just the fault of this sweltering summer. Oh, how she longed for a cool room where she could escape these raging thoughts and feelings.

She gathered the few things and gave one last look to the young man as he laid back in his cot and tried to collect his breath and thoughts. As she turned, she immediately felt the hair on her arms rise as if near an electrical current.

There, across the hall, was the tall form of the very man on her mind. He had been watching her, if the rosy dusting on his cheeks was any indication, and her face began to color with this realization. The humidity had turned his hair into a wild mane, curls reaching in all directions and kissing his forehead. A deep part of her wished to brush them back; to tame that bit of feral instinct in him. Her heart thudded so loudly that she was able to count three precise beats; they shared exactly three beats together before someone near him coughed and he spun to see who it was.

Like a spray of ice water against her overheated body, the break of eye contact startled Mary and she briskly made her way out of the room. She tried her best not to draw attention to herself; it wouldn't do to see her all but sprinting around the hospital when there was no current emergency. She passed a few other volunteers, Miss Green among them, as her legs carried her to the back of the building. She placed the few things in her arms on the ground before placing a hand to her chest as if to quell her quivering lungs.

Mary was immediately filled with a mix of excitement and embarrassment. On one hand, the sight of Jed before her, cheeks pink and beads of sweat collecting on his face and falling into the hollow of his throat, brought a rather animalistic punch to her gut and a heat to her face. On the other hand, she was a woman of practicality and he a man of some standing; it was incredibly unladylike to be having these thoughts of a man… A man with a wife, on top of it all! The tiny flicker of excitement was extinguished completely as she promptly remembered that though Mrs. Foster no longer lived on the east coast, they were still bound by matrimony.

She now felt ashamed with herself. How could she have allowed herself to forget Eliza Foster so quickly? She had left weeks ago, but they had seen each other; they were aware the other existed. Here she was, a woman who had put love aside for honor and duty, and how easy it was for her to cast away those responsibilities because Jed had looked at her in such away. She would never be able to face him in a private room again.

As her mind and heart swam with what ifs and maybes, the sound Emma Green's voice calling her name snapped her from her thoughts. Turning to look back in the door, she caught the sight of a man being held up by two others. Another soldier had been brought in, this one with a rather large rip in his side from what looked like a bayonet. This required the skilled hands of a surgeon and though she fought the urge, Mary left her things and her mixed emotions behind her. Weaving through patients and volunteers, she called for the only man she knew could handle this.

Perhaps later should could stew on why this accursed spark had decided now of all times to ignite, but for now she had to do her job; she had to be a nurse.

A continuation and the emotions are much more intense now! This story is originally from my ao3 account so I'll try to keep things posted over here, too! I haven't gotten back to Mercy Street in a bit so I hope Mary wasn't too far off. I realized I wanted her to really think through these things because I always figured Jed to be a man of action and Mary a woman of thought. I also have a headcanon that she's a little obsessed with his hands because, I don't know... I just do. Please let me know your thoughts! The next chapter (I may have 2 more, or just 1) will at least conclude with these two idiots finally having 'the talk.'

Thank you again for reading!