Chapter Text
‘There’s still some dirt from the road around your fingernails. It’s by that little graze. When they next give you a bed bath, just get them to rub it away with the corner of the flannel. A spot of antiseptic wouldn’t go amiss.’
As she makes that observation, meant as a comfort but which sounds concerningly clinical now she’s said it, Patsy is also struck by the fact that she only noticed the remaining dirt after reflexively taking Delia’s hand. A gesture that, in this current context between them, she can’t be certain she has consent for.
No matter how much her heart might be hoping otherwise, her nursing knowledge tells her that – if such a head injury as the scans suggest has been sustained when her darling was dutifully wearing a helmet – recognition is extremely unlikely.
Especially initially.
So she’s surprised when her wife not only doesn’t pull her hand away but seems to grip ever so slightly tighter.
At least until Delia comments, in a very disorientated tone, ‘You sound a bit like a nurse.’
Because the confirmation that she did indeed sound clinical isn’t cushioned by the relief it would carry were she confident that it came from a shared joke. And that means all she can summon is a strangled sort of half-chuckle, half-sob, followed by a feeble, ‘Do I?’
Then Delia supplements her statement with a question that perhaps, in another time or even another country context, might well have broken her completely.
‘Are you a friend of mine?’
In this time and this country context, though, she has the luxury of answering openly (if still stiltedly), ‘I – my name is Patsy Busby-Mount and I’m your wife. Is that okay?’
Part of her curses her constant need to question but, quickly recalling her recent rumination on consent along with the fact that Delia herself has been seeking clarification, she lets it hang. And is promptly at once dazzled and flustered when the revelation is greeted with a grin, a giggle and a shy yet sly, ‘Lucky me.’
Not knowing quite what to make of that response, since it is so delightfully (devastatingly?) in character, Patsy decides to deflect. ‘Delia –’
It isn’t very successful, because her beloved brunette seems as belligerent as ever and presses, ‘Have we been married long?’
The emotion of everything has so clouded her mind that the elder of the two women manages only to murmur, ‘A little while.’
But the vagueness – admittedly very understandably – apparently isn’t enough, because her wife insists, ‘How long?’
So, with a soothing squeeze of their still-clasped hands, Patsy elaborates, ‘Almost two years, but we’ve been a couple nearly seven.’
Delia surprises her – yet again! – by humming, and offering awkwardly, ‘We waited –’
She nods, explaining, ‘We were working, and we were very busy – because of the pandemic,’ before wondering whether she should’ve left that bit out and added in its place that Delia had only been seventeen-turning-eighteen when they first met and eighteen-turning-nineteen when they got together, so wanted to wait until she was at least twenty-one.
But it turns out mentioning work was the right move, because it prompts some rather excited questions. ‘We work together? Where?’
Patsy can’t help chuckling at the enthusiasm, even as she worries that her reply may cause distress. ‘In this hospital, actually. As nurses and then midwives.’
However, as she should possibly have predicted on this decidedly topsy-turvy day, it seems to have the opposite effect, and her wife exclaims eagerly, ‘Oh! So you are a nurse. Does that mean you can tell me what happened, please?’
Willing her voice not to waver, she does as requested. ‘You had a bicycle accident, darling. And hit your head.’
Delia is silent for several seconds, and Patsy almost panics that she’s provided either not enough detail or too much. Then, though, her wife hums again and asks, pragmatically, ‘That’s why it hurts and why I’m struggling to remember things and why I’m in hospital?’
And the request for further clarity allows her to continue – firstly by offering comfort and secondly by posing a potential plan. ‘Yes, my love, I’m so sorry. But, because we’re married and both nurses, the consultant – the doctor – suggested you could come home with me soon. If you’d like that?’
Watching her favourite face warily, she is delighted to be dazzled by another grin, though swiftly saddened when it morphs into a frown paired with a doubtful query. ‘If you don’t mind caring for me?’
So she brings out her own brightest smile, and purrs, ‘Of course, my sweetest heart. Like you care for me. It will be an honour.’
Delia smiles as well, and attempts to agree. ‘Yes please, P…’ Then, as she trails off awkwardly, her wife’s gown shifts as her shoulders sag beneath it with a combination of all too evident relief and embarrassment, and Patsy is half-tempted to hustle the smaller woman out of the hospital and home that instant.
It would be too much too soon, though, and she knows it. Instead, she settles for simply – yet so very complexly – finishing her sweetheart’s sentence, supplying both the forgotten diminutive and its origin. ‘Patsy; Delia, my love. My name is Patsy. It’s short for Patience.’
The younger woman’s smile turns rueful after that, and she quips, ‘You certainly live up to that.’
The elder is helpless to stop a – blessedly brief – burst of laughter. ‘And you certainly still have your sense of humour.’
Delia clearly does her best to giggle along, but it peters out into a sigh which sounds both sad and weary, and she asks, ‘Patsy – could we sit still and hold hands for a minute or two, please? I’m a bit overwhelmed.’
Her heart thumping with pain even whilst it swells with pride – mostly because the request is more like one she’d make than her wife – the referenced redhead readily concurs. ‘We may sit just like this for as long as you need, dearest Deels.’
She’d not meant to let the nickname slip just yet but, now she has, she’s glad; given that she gets to bask in the glow of another beatific grin, accompanied by a bashful, ‘Deels? I like that.’ At least, she’s glad until the grin slips again, replaced by more doubt in the form of a furtive glance at the door and a hushed, ‘But don’t you have somewhere to be?’
So she soothes, earnestly, ‘With you. Nurses Busby-Mount have a formidable reputation around here.’
She hopes to encourage a laugh, or even just a chuckle, but her darling remains disconcerted. ‘No-one can make you leave?’
Shaking her head, she remembers how details seemed to help just now, and offers emphatically, ‘Nope. I’m your wife and your next-of-kin. Unless you want me to go, to give you a break.’
That point feels pertinent but, from the horror on her favourite face, it seems it might’ve been misunderstood. Then Delia gasps out, ‘No!’ and Patsy can tell she’s about to cry or panic.
Neither of which is ideal.
She consequently pre-empts both, stroking her wife’s soft hand as she counsels, ‘Okay, okay, okay, okay. Could you take a breath, darling? I’ve got you, Deels, I’m holding your hand.’
Thankfully, one breath becomes another and another and another. Then, just as softly as any of the inhalations and exhalations, she hears, ‘Thank you. Sorry –’
Suppressing a smirk, she says seriously, ‘Nope. No sorries. That’s what you say to me when I apologise unnecessarily.’
Any sense of levity vanishes when her reminder is answered with a reticent question. ‘So you meant it when you said about me caring for you?’
She grips as hard as she can without hurting and reassures, ‘Of course I did, darling.’
Delia laughs now, but it is wet, and she whispers, ‘I’m so lucky. I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have you.’
Caught unawares by the intensity of the sentiment, Patsy swallows thickly before responding, ‘I’m the same.’ Then, in an effort to relieve them both, she shifts back to the request that preceded this part of their conversation. ‘Do you still want to sit still and be quiet for a bit?’
Delia smiles that sweet, shy smile. ‘I feel calmer now.’
‘I’m so glad, sweetheart,’ she says sincerely, because she is – and not purely for her sake, or indeed that of her favourite person. There are others to consider, and now seems as good a time as any to introduce their presence. So she goes on, ‘Well then – at risk of suggesting something that might change that, your parents are in the corridor outside. They didn’t want to come in until we’d chatted, and they won’t stay any longer than you can manage this first time, but would you like a moment with them?’
Blue eyes go wide at that, as she’d guessed they would, but her beloved brunette (confronted with a hard, confusing choice) is brave enough to go with what must be, frankly, the terrifying option. With only two (entirely reasonable) conditions. ‘Could – could you stay, please? And remind me what I call them?’
Grinning, Patsy offers immediately, ‘Mam and Tad. And their names are Dilys and Dafydd.’
Delia takes a shuddering breath, but mutters resolutely, ‘All right. I’m ready.’
So the redhead nods, and uses her free left hand to send a message in the relevant WhatsApp chat, silently pleading with the hospital Wi-Fi to work well enough to avoid getting up and breaking the physical contact that has become such a source of solace for both of them.
It behaves, because blue ticks bounce up after barely a second, and then the door creaks softly as the Welsh couple creep in, chorusing, ‘Helo, Delia, cariad.’
Then Patsy feels her face flush hot when her wife blatantly blanks her beleaguered parents, electing instead to lock her own gaze and say, silkily, ‘I know what that means. “Love”.’
Or it comes across as a deliberate disregard for their new company – until Patsy registers that the hand in her own is twitching and realises the true cause of Delia’s apparent break in courtesy.
Bringing up the stopwatch on her phone, she then stretches as calmly as she can to press the buzzer by her beloved’s bed.
Again, barely a second goes by – she knows this because she can verify it on the tiny computer cradled in her lap – before the door bursts open and a colleague rushes in, calling, ‘You buzzed, Delia – oh –’
Then that same colleague stops in her tracks and Patsy has to bite her tongue to hold back a shout of… well, of joy. She succeeds, saying smartly, ‘Yes, I’m terribly sorry, Nurse Smythe; a seizure. I’m timing but I thought it ought to be recorded.’
Then she watches their once fellow student’s face fight with the effort of keeping professional as the young South African murmurs, ‘Ag, Patsy, I’m so sorry –’
Genuinely grateful, she soothes, ‘Dankie, Joy. We’re all right, though – we’re together.’ Then all of their attention is occupied by Delia resurfacing, since she groans, so Patsy stops the stopwatch and shushes, ‘Darling, you’re back. It’s Patsy, my love.’
Her wife blinks, then says blearily, ‘My head hurts.’
She nods, supplying, ‘You had a seizure, sweetheart.’ Which is met by her beloved brunette bursting into tears; the distraught reaction at last giving her the courage to spring up from her seat and increase the contact between them. ‘Oh, Deels – cwtch?’
‘Please,’ her wife heaves out between sobs.
That’s all the assent (and consent) she needs, so she gathers her as close as she conceivably can without causing discomfort to areas she’s conscious are delicate and bruised. Then, whispering into her most precious person’s hair, she pours all the promises she has vowed to keep into a (suitably secular) litany of fidelity and faith. ‘Okay, okay, okay, okay. I’ve got you. I love you. I’ve got you.’
Because she’s got Delia.
Delia has her.
And that means they can get through anything.