This fic is set soon after the Carter birth and the shared cigarette.  Thanks to my betas for making this more than I thought it could be.

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Sister Bernadette cycled sluggishly through the streets, the late morning sun already hot against her back.  She was grateful the rattle of the wheels against the cobbles drowned out the rumble of her empty tummy. A late night delivery had called her from her bed out to one of the poorest of the neighborhoods Nonnatus covered, and the tea and sandwich she’d packed for sustenance through the long hours had been more needed by the young woman’s family.  It was too bad today was Tuesday. She’d have to settle for cold cereal or toast until the unsatisfying cold lunch they’d set out for themselves several hours from now.

Ahead, she saw a Lyon’s Tea House, and impulsively pulled up to the window.  The room was empty, its early morning rush over, and she felt drawn by the luxury of a quiet cup of tea made by someone else.  The emergency shilling buried at the bottom of her pocket felt heavy against her thigh, and without letting herself think, she pushed open the door.

The bell tinkled as she entered, and the proprietress called out from behind the kitchen hatch, “Mornin’, Sista’! What kin I get ya?”

“Just some tea and dry toast, if you please,” she replied, and she tried to ignore the lingering scent of bacon in the air.  There was no need to compound her transgression with gluttony.

“Just a cuppa?  Comin’ right up, Sister.  You take a seat and I’ll be wif ya in two ticks.”

True to her word, the spry old woman soon placed a steaming cup and toast before her.  “You look done in, Sister. You just put yer feet up and take a nice long break. Me morning rush is finished, but I’ve me taters to peel for me pies.  Anyfink else you need, just give a holler.”

She bustled away and Sister Bernadette released a sigh.  Sister Evangelina wouldn’t approve, but she let the thought go.  This was such a little thing. It wasn’t as if she was treating herself to dinner at the Ritz.  One cup of tea and a few pieces of bread wouldn’t hurt anyone.

The bell jangled her from her reverie, and she glanced up.

“Good morning, Sister Bernadette.”  Doctor Turner stood looking down at her.

His voice was husky, as if he’d already smoked too many cigarettes that morning, and she recognized the lines of weariness on his face.  Like her, he’d not seen his bed that night. She felt a flush rise at the thought. Since that odd delivery at the Carter’s, she’d found him too present in her thoughts, and fought for composure.

“Good morning, Doctor Turner,”  she answered, her voice cool. “Another long night with Mr. Tweedy?”  

“Yes.  There’s nothing more I can do, I’m afraid.  I’ll refer him to hospice, but my receptionist won’t be in until Thursday.  I’m not sure I’ll be near a telephone for the next day or two.”

“I shall tell Sister Julienne, Doctor.  Nonnatus House can manage that for you.”  Equanimity began to return as she focused on the administrative task.  

The café owner appeared at his side.  “Good morning, Doctor Turner, what’ll I get fer ya?”

“Oh, I wasn’t going to order anything, I just wanted to—”  he stopped, uncertain, and then a sense of resolve lifted his shoulders.  “Strong coffee, Mrs. Potter. And maybe a plate of your eggs?”

She winked.  “For you, Doc?  The world. Just sit yerself down and have a nice chat with the Sister.  It’ll be right up.”

He smiled awkwardly.  “Do you mind?” His long fingers gestured to the chair across from her.

“Of course not, please, sit.”  She didn’t mind, precisely. The poor man looked run off his feet.  Yet still she felt unnerved. His chair scraped against the floor, the sound louder than she expected.  Perhaps it was the fatigue that made her senses seem sharper?

“It must be Tuesday,” he joked as he spread his paper serviette across his lap.  He tilted his head to meet her questioning glance. “Mrs. B’s day off? I feel the same way when my housekeeper’s away. Tim and I usually end up at Capriano’s.  A good “English” any time of day—Mr. Swanson never serves anything else.  I cut back on work those days, but somehow it’s still  hard to find a moment’s peace.”

Peace.  Is that what she’d been seeking when she came into the café?  An image of the chapel flashed in her mind and she felt a stab of guilt.  She should be kneeling in prayer, not sitting across from this man.

“I suppose you have the chapel for that,” he mused.

Her eyes darted away from his, surprised he could read her thoughts.  She sipped her tea, unwilling to answer.

Mrs. Potter appeared, the plates and mug in her hands a miracle of balance.  “I had to brew fresh, and here’s a plate of eggs fer ya’, too, Sister. Yer looking peaky.  You need takin’ care of, I’m sure. No, no arguments. Eat.” Just as suddenly, she disappeared into the kitchen.

Doctor Turner handed her a fork.  “Best listen to the lady.” His grin was boyish, and for a moment she wondered what he looked like as a child.  She bit her lip to keep the curiosity at bay and did as she was told.

The eggs were warm and soft, and she closed her eyes in delight as she chewed.   “I had no idea I was so hungry,” she said. “It snuck up on me. These eggs are delicious!”

“Good,” he leant in conspiratorily and spoke softly.  “I’ve never been that impressed by Potter’s Cafe, and I have quite a low bar.  But this morning, it’s very good!”

Unable to resist, she smiled back.   The nervousness she’d felt when he arrived had dissipated, replaced by a burgeoning sense of ease.  For several minutes they ate in companionable silence, the low sounds of a popular song on the radio.  

“Marianne hated when I stopped at a café,” he said suddenly.  “She said the greasy food would make me run to fat.” He patted his midsection.  “She may have been right about that.”

Uncertain how to respond, and unwilling to glance at his knobbly jumper, she sat in silence.  Marianne Turner had not spent much time with her husband’s medical practice, busy with her own pursuits, and later, the needs of a young boy.  Sister Bernadette wondered if that had caused friction between husband and wife. Marriage was a mystery to her, she freely admitted. It was just as likely the Turners had found their own set of rules for their marriage.

“I know little of married life, of course, but I’ve seen enough with our patients to know that a wife often teases her husband out of worry.”  She tore her toast into small pieces, discarding them on her plate.

He picked up the last triangle of toast and pointed it at her, his grin returning.  “You’d be surprised how often a nun shone light on the state of my marriage, Sister.  Something about being on the outside, looking in, I suppose.”

He smiled, but she could see traces of sorrow in the lines around his eyes.  

“We were very different, Marianne and I, but we…” he put the uneaten toast down and sighed deeply. “We filled in the lonely places.”

She felt more than saw his hand clench, thumb agitating against forefinger, and she wondered when she had first noticed that symptom of his unease.  It seemed as familiar to her as his dry grin and the forelock of hair that never seemed to stay groomed. Her lungs tightened uncomfortably, silencing any words of comfort she might have uttered to soothe another’s pain.  The breathlessness pitched her into a moment of confusion, and she struggled to muster a sense of detachment.

She could not.  For years, she had been able to meet the rigorous demands of the Order, accepting her vows with joy and devotion, but in these last weeks–months, even–she chafed against them.  The rigorous training could no longer be relied upon to summon universal Christian love. She did not feel that communal connection with all. Rather, she felt a bewildering connection to this man in all his individuality.  

She forced air into her lungs and stood.  “I must go, Doctor Turner. I’ve tarried from my duties long enough, I’m afraid.  I will advise Sister Julienne of Mr. Tweedy’s condition, and we will handle the matter accordingly.”  Without looking she could see his perplexed expression. She placed a coin on the table. “Good day, Doctor.”

Her feet carried her the few steps to the door, her arms pushed the heavy door open, and she found herself in the over-bright sunshine.  The ride to Nonnatus would banish these thoughts, she told herself. Physical exercise would clear her head of these troubling thoughts and prepare her for the hours of prayer she required.  In Chapel, she would search for the sanctuary she once knew and banish her disorderly yearnings.

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I was nearly finished with this fic when I was reminded by one of my betsas that I had written a coffee shop fic (of sorts) before.  That time I added the bonus of a bit of an unlikely crossover:  Parks and Recreation.  Not sure what I could possibly mean??  Think I couldn’t possibly be so insane?  Oh, friend, here’s the proof:  Wise Words.