#the silkie baby had severe wry neck

[homeofhousechickens]

Hotdog is a good mom she was like, give me that sad baby

[naughty-teddy-innit]

An Ed Sheeran Oneshot, AKA Couch Fluff. 💙💙💙

So I stumbled across THIS Gif a few days ago, and the comment about imagining Ed stroking his fingers up and down your arm, and underneath your sleeve totally got me and it spiralled into a Cuddly oneshot that I'm kinda in love with. Hope you guys like it, and no Smut this time around! 

“Edward Christopher….” Your voice is soft, yet a touch of wry exasperation flavours the words you aim in his direction.  “You’re absolutely NOT helping, you know.”

You’re splayed across one end of the overstuffed, navy blue sectional that occupies your living room, well-worn plush throw pillows propping your legs up.  Your MacBook is open in your lap, textbooks, mounds of handwritten notes and references stacked beside you. You were thisclose to finishing your last semester of school, and this last, final paper, along with your final exams, had consumed every moment of your time and energy for the past 2 weeks. The topknot that resides atop your head probably hadn’t been let down in days, and your ever-present sweatpants were probably becoming a little TOO well-worn.  You’d abandoned your contacts 4 days ago, and resorted to the glasses that Ed so lovingly referred to as your “Potter Specs”.  You were BEYOND ready to be done, and to rejoin the world of the people that slept. And bathed. That’d be a good idea.

Your eyes were beginning to cross as you attempted to keep focus on the screen in front of you, and your fingers were beginning to forget how to spell.  A deep, exhausted sigh falls from your lips, and only a moment later, you feel his weight shift from his position to the side of you, on the opposite side of the sofa, to now against your hip.  You feel, suddenly, warm fingers gently tracing along the outer bend and crease of your arm.  They drift slowly upward, gently, softly stroking under the sleeve of your jersey.  Slowly up and down, a soft, soothing pattern drawn against the warm give of your flesh. A soft hum of contentment rumbles in your chest, the slow stroke of his slightly calloused fingertips sending waves of warmth and relaxation through your tense, exhausted body.  However heavenly his fingers were though, they were NOT helping your already stretched-to-capacity brain to prove your hypothesis. Hence, your half-hearted protest.  

“Sooo not helping me concentrate, Teddy.” You sigh.  “Feels SO nice, but I gotta finish this SOMEHOW, and soon.”

You feel his weight suddenly shift again, and he’s sitting up and facing you with a full pout on his face, and you can’t help but laugh at expression. So very your Teddy.

“What’s that face for?” You laugh softly.  Reaching just slightly, you comb your fingers though the scruff on his jaw, allowing your thumb to gently swipe the outline of his pillowy lips. He captures your hand before you can pull it back, his fingertips twining with yours, and lifts it to his lips. He dots soft, supple kisses along the bump of each knuckle, and then sighs as you smile ruefully and pull your hand back, tenderly brushing his cheek before straightening your laptop.

“I am a sad, neglected Ginger Man.” He pronounces with dramatized woe in his voice.  “I only want attention.”

You can’t help the laugh-snort that escapes as you take in the puppy dog eyes that he’s oh so skillfully aimed in your direction.

“Neglected???” You tilt your head and give him your own pretty little pout, loving the sparkle in his blue eyes at the mischief in yours. “My poor sweet Teddy. How in the world have you survived this long?? 2 WHOLE weeks.”  

“Can’t help it.” He says stubbornly. “I miss my cuddles. And your cooking, cause fuck knows I can’t feed myself. Oh, and also, I miss getting you naked. You have such a pretty bum.” He sighs.

He says this so plaintively and earnestly, you can’t help but fall to pieces, until your shoulders are shaking and you have to pull your glasses off to wipe your eyes. That BOY.

“Baby, believe me, I KNOW it’s been a rough couple of weeks. I have ONE exam left, and this last fucking paper to submit, and then you can have at my pretty bum and every other part of my body, for as LONG as you want. And then again after that.” You cock your head as you finish that thought, and let your fingers drift to cover his. You shoot him a mischievous smirk, and whisper, “If it helps, there are several parts of YOUR body I’m desperate to reacquaint myself with.” You catch his gaze and grin at widening of his eyes.

“Tease.” he says drily, with no preamble and a raised invisible blond eyebrow. “I suppose Little Ed can wait a little longer…”  He sees your own raised eyebrow and the gleeful giggle that’s about to escape your lips and cuts you RIGHT off. “OI. NOT so little Ed, then. Massive Ed. GIGANTIC ED-“

You give him the most knowing look you can muster, and pat his knee. “You just keep telling yourself that, babes. He’s gargantuan. Mythological, even. Overshadows any other penis I’ve ever see - Wait, ED NO!! AHH-“

You SHRIEK as he suddenly launches himself from his sitting position, and you find yourself flat on your back, face to face with a pair of large, twinkling sea blue eyes, and the ENTIRE length and weight of his soft, warm body squashing you into the couch cushions. You’re positively shaking, belly laughs wracking your body as he simply lays there, innocence etched on his face as he covers your body with his.

“Hi,” he says with a massive grin. “Got your attention now, Love. Gimme kisses, and MAYBE me and my neglected, mythological, man parts will let you get back to your laptop. Maybe.”

“You think ATTACKING me gets you kisses, you MEAN man??” You’re gasping high-pitched giggles as you try to wiggle him off, but he’s not remotely having it. Little bugger; he’s not even moving, he’s all out planking with you pinned beneath him, a giant satisfied grin plastered across his face. Damn those scruffy dimples. And he smells delicious, traces of laundry soap and cologne and just…Teddy. Dammit.

One colourful arm suddenly lifts up and he props himself up, one inked up forearm on either side of your head, and he hoists, almost slides, his body right up over yours. One leg is drawn up, soft flesh and firm muscle pressed up against your outer thigh and hip. He’s NOT letting you go, and the utterly pleased-with-himself smirk that’s NOT left his face is just far too cute. It is NOT fair.

“You may have ONE kiss.” You solemnly acquiesce. “One kiss, and then, sir, you need to UNSQUASH ME-“

His lips are on yours before you can form another thought, and…Oh. God, there is never a time you don’t love his kisses.  His lips, so soft and yielding and yummy, you’ve missed these slow, tender kisses. He has a habit of infusing every embrace, every graze and caress with meaning and intent. Whether it was a joyful, loving smooch, or deep and carnal, his kisses were never a wasted thought.

“Mmmmmmmm…” you hum, losing yourself in feel of his body pressed against yours, and the delicious tickle of his beard as it gently chafes your sensitive skin.  He’s all about the slow, lingering kisses this time aroun; catching your upper lip, then a gentle tug to your bottom lip. For the first time in over a week, you can feel the tension leave your body, all thoughts of hypothesis’ and arguments and due dates, a distant and fuzzy memory, and it’s so just what you needed. You manage to extricate your arms from beneath the weight of his, awkwardly sliding them up and over the slope of his shoulders and back, your fingers winding through the silky curls at his neck.  A contented rumble rolls through him at your touch, and he presses his body as tightly against yours as he can, drawing out more and more warm, melty, kisses that you wish would never end.  He slows suddenly, his lips tracing a gentle new path as he tenderly marks the landscape of your jawline, your forehead, even the tip of your nose, and it’s just so heavenly, and in this moment you’re not sure you’ve ever felt so cherished.

He pulls back, and his eyes crinkle into an affectionate smile. His fingers and thumbs brush along the curve of your cheek, tucking a loose tendril of your hair behind your ear before he drops one last kiss on your lips. He grins, and lifts himself up off of you, plunking himself into a criss-cross applesauce position. He proffers a hand, and you yelp out a giggle as he yanks you back up into a sitting position.

“I missed those lips.” He says affectionately. “They might be my very favourite thing.

“They missed you too. I didn’t realize how much I needed that.” You tip your head back, letting your head fall softly against the soft padding of the couch. “I feel like I haven’t be able to BREATHE lately…I’m so sorry if felt like I forgot about you.”  You reach for his hand, entwining your fingers with his in a grateful squeeze.

“Nah. I could never feel like that, love. You know I like to dick around, but it’s all in fun”, he chuckles. He adjusts himself, leaning forward, and his fingertips are slowly tracing those warm, soothing patterns into the soft inner crease of your arm again, just the way you love it.  “I’m so fucking proud of you for all this. I never did Uni, I could never pull all this off. You’re gonna kick the shit out of these finals, innit?? You kick the shit out of EVERYTHING.”

This man. Your heart seems to be connected to that lump in your throat again, you just…love him.  He always has your back, and always seems to know exactly what to say, or do, to pull you back from the brink. He is a keeper, and if you have anything to say about it, you’re not ever letting go.

You grin at him, and tug his scruff, guiding his face to yours. “I love you too, Teddy.”  You press a kiss to those lips, feeling the smile that’s spreading across his face, and you’re both giggling as the kisses turn into silly pecks and smooches.

You press hand to his chest and push him back to his side of the couch, and reach for the forgotten MacBook that’s fallen to the floor.

“I need a shower.” You stretch as you flick the screen back, reminding yourself where you left off. You glance at the adorable, scruffy man across from you, and raise an eyebrow.  “Give me another half hour, and maybe you’d care to join me…?”  

He face scrunches up and his eyes widen, and you can tell he is ALL about that invitation.  

“Only if I get to wash that pretty bum…” he says with a naughty grin.  

You lean forward and catch his lips in a quick kiss, before whispering “You can wash whatever you want, Teddy.”

COMMENTS/FEEDBACK are Loooove! 

*MASTERLIST Here*

[punk-in-docs]

You Were Always Mine, Chapter 11

AU Tom Hiddleston - Romantic, Historical Romance, Victorian Fic. Based off the imagine; ‘Thomas spying on you after your divorce and doing anything to get you back. Including threatening your new beau.’ credits go to the lovely ladies at Tom-Hiddleston-Imagine.Tumblr.com. Link to the imagine here…. http://tom-hiddleston-imagines.tumblr.com/post/158156795440/gif-lokihiddleston-imagine-thomas-spying-on-you Chapter number: Chapter 11 Author: Punk-in-docs 
Triggers/warnings: mentions of nursing. Injuries. Limb loss.

~

Thomas Sharpe sat alone in the Royales expensive, elegant and low lit dining room. Candlelight the colour of champagne splashed up the walls, and doused the ceiling. Silent waiters skated dextrously through the room, gliding from table to table. The rooms atmosphere is underlined by sheer elegance, and class. Baroque, golden mirrors, that seemed to ooze and drip gilding down the middle, lines each wall. Multiplying the room out on itself for what seemed like eternity.

Gold chandeliers cast soft lighting around the antique, ornate ceiling. That too was ostentatious in it’s seventeenth century extravagance. Everything was flawless. The food. The wines, the champagnes. It all promised to be luxurious and immaculately sublime.

He sat, alone, at a white, linen clothed table that was laid as flawlessly as an iced cake. Set for two, with gleaming silver cutlery, the finest china, adorned with sparkling wine glasses, crystal, glinting in the light. Like amber sherry in the firelight. It was a dinner service so fine that it could be served to royals at Buckingham palace should it need be. Though he himself admitted he wasn’t exactly the kind of gent to get along with all members of society. Tonight, he looked undoubtedly suited to this environment. Pressed black tails, black waistcoat, and a scarlet red ascot tie. His hair was neatly brushed back, and most of the curious men and women about the room were drawn to his mysterious aura, and the beauty of this elusive, dark, lovely creature.

Men wondered who he was, this abstruse, dark outsider. And women wondered what on earth an eligible, stunning, dashing man like that could possibly be doing, dining alone.

He and Vianne had an outstanding reservation this evening, to dine. She had been volunteering all afternoon at the Hospital. He had been surveying some possibilities of striking up business with a local engineering company. So their days had been separate. But he had pledged to her that their evening, most certainly would not be. If at all possible, he wished to spend the evening as entwined as was possible. He couldn’t keep his mind off what happened between them the other night.

Whenever he shut his eyes, he could smell and feel her skin under his hands. Her lips on his neck, and her small hands raking into his back. He could picture her, utterly naked, laying in bed next to him. Doused in moonlight, that red hair a copper mess and her lips all bruised from him as she lay under him. Enchanted in his hold.

He opened his eyes. Trying not to let his body grow roused at the thought as he sat there. He blinked, jolting himself back to reality. He adjusted and refolded his legs under the table, shifting his restless body. Glancing once more at pocket watch. They’d agreed to meet at eight o'clock sharp. And now it was a quarter to nine.

He watched it go from ten past, to twenty past, and then half. His eagerness to see her not fading. He could only hope the next few minutes would bring her to him. But. To no avail it would seem…

He had his eyes glued to the doors, waiting the familiar sight of her to walk through those doors at any second. Most probably flustered, and wearing that pinched expression of empathy for being so late to their dinner. His eyes diligently watch the doors. Waiting. For that red hair. That shapely figure that was wholly and uniquely her. His eyes are blessed with no such luck tonight.

He tightens his jaw. Putting his watch away before he had the displeasure of watching it tick over to nine. Sighing inwardly to himself. His eyes flicking back over to the place setting opposite. He watched her champagne fizzing and spitting in it’s glass. Probably warm by now. And he looked on with despair at the velvet jewellery box and red rose he’d sat to nestle on her placemat.

A wry, polite cough at his side alerted him to the dark coated, light of foot, waiter who’d appeared at his side as if he were not human, but rather a spectre made out of thin air.

“Will your companion be joining you to dine, sir?” Comes the enquiring sneer. Hands folded nearly behind his back. Thomas gave him a pointed stare from those piercing eyes. Letting him know his snide contestation did not go unnoticed for it’s poignant sarcasm.

“Evidently, I think by now, we both know the answer to that question…” Thomas answered him. A slight edge to his tone.

The waiter dipped his head in a formal bow. And slid away to attend another table.

He drained his own glass of lukewarm champagne. It was sweet, crisp and the tang of taking so much at a time burned acrid in his throat.

He slowly stood. Scraping the chair back. And coming to a stand. He picked up the velvet box, stroked it with his thumb, sadly, and slid it back into his pocket. He tucked his chair back in under the table. And adjusted his jacket. Smoothing his lapels, and the creases near his elbows. He looked at the docked stemmed, crimson rose on the table below.

He picked it up. And twirled it round in one hand. Feeling the brush of its silky petals ghost over his knuckles. Able to sense it’s sickly, rich fragrance.

When he detects the hefty burn of someone’s eyes boring into him, he looks up. A few tables away, a young girl, no more than ten and six years old, was watching him. Her big, innocent eyes snapping elsewhere when he joined eyesight with her. Her cheeks reddening. He could tell her age by her waif like figure that hadn’t blossomed into womanhood yet. And she still wore little blue ribbons twined in her dark hair. He felt sorry for the poor lamb. Sat in such a stuffy environment was no entertaining experience for any child. All the more potent for the unfortunate girl, as she was being ignored by both her parents. That was no way to treat a child.

He turns to leave. His pride a little sore, dejected, slightly incensed at Vianne for forgetting their engagement for dinner. He cuts through the dining room. Heading in the girls direction. A testament to how little attention her parents were paying her. That they didn’t even notice when Thomas stopped and handed her the red rose. She took it, reluctantly, still as shy as a baby fawn.

He smiled down at her, before nodding kindly and in a gentlemanly manner, before he moved away. Out of the expensive, elegant atmosphere. Away and off into that London night.

~

Usually the wards at night were quiet. Only the sounds of coughs and snores to be heard, and the gentle footsteps of careful nurses, gliding from bed to bed, with oil lamps, to check dutifully on their sleeping patients.

Tonight was no such night…

This evening, the wards were lively. Invigorated by the catastrophe that had all medical hands to be spared on board. Everywhere was chaos. Chaos, blood, burns and bandages. It was all a blur. Shouts and groans of agony. People crying out for their mothers, wives or doctors. The three people whom beheld the highest degrees of comfort, safety and escape from the pain. Her evening thus far was a blur of fractures, deep wounds and sutures. She felt like no matter how fast she stitched, dressed and helped reset splintered bones. She was still behind. Men and their cries, faces gnarled in agony, all were seared, raw, into her mind.

Vianne had never known a night like it. Other than the war, was her instant comparison. The receiving room was crammed. There had been a boiler explosion at the docks from a faulty compound yard. Which meant that every already full ward was twice as busy. Vianne wasn’t a properly qualified nurse. She was busied by fetching and carrying clean linens, changing beds, dressing wounds and tending of those who needed help with feeding themselves.

She must have been a sight for sore eyes, in her high collared, aproned, cobalt blue dress. Streaked with blood, and muck. Her white sleeves she’d left off long ago, after she shed them helping assist in holding down a man who’d sustained severe burns from the Docks explosion. Her hair was unruly, and unkempt now. But even Matron Davis was too busy in her duties tonight, to point out that her buttons were askew and her drooping hair arrangement needed re-pinning.

Vianne liked her work. Really she did. She found pleasure in dressing wounds, helping ease pains and aches. Sorting immaculate linen cupboards and organising a spotless ward into it’s functionality. She got along very nicely with patients. She was always requested after, to sit by beds. Read stories, chat idly with them. Both young and old, male and female. She was adored on the wards. Her bedside manner was remarked on as being divine. They always asked for Nurse James.

She was there. Always. For those in need. Helping young girls dress their hair prettily, or getting young boys to eat all their greens under doctors orders. She could comfort the lowliest, foulest, most vile mannered person into easiness. Five minutes talking with her and her no nonsense attitude, and they were cured of their ill temper. No one could deny it. She was a highly skilled nurse. And no exception. Though she wasn’t aware if it, her looks helped her along somewhat too. That made her all the more popular - particularly with the male patients. Staff or not, both adored it when she did her rounds on Wellington, the men’s ward, because that meant that everyone would be obedient if she were there to cause smiles.

She’d just delivered another round of dirty linen to the laundry, and hurried back to the ward. Where Sister Evangeline have her an entirely new set of orders. To redress bandages in beds, four, seven, and twelve.

She nods. Wiping a hand over her dewy brow. Dutifully obeying. There were too many things to keep track of. Her mind going at a million thoughts a minute. She grabs an oil lamp, and heads to Mr. Hewitt. She almost preferred to work at night. It was calmer. But after the catastrophe earlier, the place was still humming with life, and it was all hands on deck. Doctors still flitted about beds, nurses marched from bed to bed soothing where they could, and groans of agony could still be heard. There would be no slumbering silence for a good while yet.

She rounds bed four, and sees the old man within, brighten lightly at the sight of her. He was led back, asleep, his cheeks rosy, and he was perspiring too. She could see it plain as day in the sparse, low, lamp light. His hooded eyes found her as she came to stand by his bed. Her eyes creased as she smiled gently down at him. He groaned, adjusting himself to sit up. Made all the harder by the fact that his left arm was no more than a nub. Having been amputated a week ago for gangrene from a poorly done tattoo. He was baring the loss of it remarkably well.

“Having trouble sleeping, are we, Mr Hewitt?” She asked in a gentle whisper.

“Yeah. A bit. All that rackets keeping me ‘wake. Nurse. D'you think you could tell ‘em to keep in down, for an old man?” He japes lightheartedly.

“… You and me would both be in for the long jump if I let out so much as a peep of that notion to Dr. Warner. He’s busy trying to patch up those poor souls from the docks explosion…” She explained. Straightening and retucking his covers, adjusting his pillows. It was some form of magic she had about her, he decided, because from two mere touches and suddenly he felt much more relaxed and comfortable from the simple way she’d rearranged his pillows and bedcovers.

“Sister told me you were uncomfortably hot earlier…” She adds. Placing a cool, soft hand on his forehead. She then reaches down for his pulse, finding her watch and taking it. Feeling it was a little faster than normal. She then reached for a thermometer and he dutifully allowed her to slip it under his right armpit.

“My temperature always shoots up when it’s youse here to take it, Miss.” He flatters. Vianne smiles. Slyly. Watching him out of the corner of her eyes. Flicking over from where she was still watching her pocket watch.

“Now, now. Mr Hewitt. Do try to behave yourself. Your temperature and your heartbeat certainly aren’t. And we can’t have that. Now can we?” She tells him firmly.

“Would you mind awfully unbuttoning your shirt please, Mr Hewitt. I need to get to your wound. Due for your hourly check I’m afraid. We need to see if there are any abnormalities happening with those dressings..” She tells, helping him slip off his striped hospital wear, nodding when she saw the state of his wound.

It was seeping through the snowy dressing. And when she pressed her hand to it. She found what she thought she would. It was abnormally hot. She unwound it, and found his discomfort was due to that fact the surgical site was slightly infected.

“I’ll speak to Sister Evangeline and Dr. Warner, Mr Hewitt. But it looks to me like there might be an infection. Which means you may need a drain in that wound. We’ll get you comfortable as soon as is possible… I’ll make sure of it. In the mean time. I’ll fetch you a cool flannel and some ice-water to help cool you down. Never worry. We’ll get you sorted.” She assures him. Patting his shoulder. Before recollecting her oil lamp and heading for the desk.

She can barely get her words out. And she had more tasks to be getting on with. It turns out the young rascal in bed three had a friend sneak him in more booze flasks again. Trouble was, booze was not a good thing in trying to cure portal hypertension. Causing cirrhosis of the liver. All of which meant that one should usually give up the cup that inebriates and not cheers. Trouble was. Their patient was a slippery customer. An East Ender who was the very meaning of the word trouble.

“I’ve no idea what to do with him. Nurse James. He’s a menace. As if we don’t have enough to deal with on our plates tonight already… That boy has a smart mouth on him. And he’s as stubborn as a mule.” Sister Evangaline fretted to Vianne, in a quiet hush under her breath whilst she angrily scratched her pen onto the ward report.

Vianne smiles. They were both in the same state. Weary to the bone. Dead on their feet. Aching. Hungry and tired beyond any reasonable measure. Covered in blood and various other fluids that couldn’t be named. Hair mussed. Uniform shabby. It was remarkable, what the toll of a day saving lives took on ones appearance.

“Don’t worry, Sister.” Vianne assures her. “In my own way. So am I.” She smiles. Heading over. All she wanted to do was drop into a hot bath, with a stiff drink, and scrub her day away. But, she sighs wearily, not yet she can’t.

Again. She is off. Barely having time to stand still. She crosses to bed three, where their calamitous patient lay with his bowler hat perched wonkily on his head. His arms were cockily crossed behind his head, and his legs were resting in the same crossed manner. One folded over the other. He lay atop the covers. Smirking at Vianne as she moved closer.

“Evenin’ Nursey…” He drawled when she came close. She stood by the end of his bed. Her hands folded as she looked at him sternly.

“Good Evening. Mr Robins.” She smiles sweetly. “How are you feeling?” She asks pointedly. Rounding the bed. Eyeing him shrewdly as he levelled his hat on his head. When she came closer, she eagerly eyed a spot of a stain on his shirt. It was the colour of toffee. But she had a sneaking suspicion that it was not a confectionary related spillage. He had that wicked gleam in his eyes. One she had seen in him before when she was admitted. And it had not appeared there under the influence of sobriety.

“Can I help you, Nurse?” He asks her cheekily. Vianne says nothing. But narrows her eyes and steps forwards to look through his bedside cabinet. He jumps a little, sitting up in the bed.

“Am I to find any contraband that you are wishing to keep hidden from us, Mr Robins?” She asks. Searching through his folded clothes.

“I’d not dare hide anything from you, Nurse.” He flirts. She drops to her knees, crouching, and runs her hand along the underside of his mattress. He watched her. Those brown eyes twitching in nervousness that he masked with confidence. She could see him fidget in disquiet as she probed around.

“You don’t believe me. Do ya? Oh. I am hurt Nurse. You cut me. Cut me to the quick you ‘ave.” He teases all the more. She stops. And raises an unimpressed brow at him, her smile wry, as her hand grasps for the object that it came into contact with. She gets her fingers around it, and tugs it out. Tilting her head in a silent query as she held a small hip flask in her hand. Still able to hear something sloshing around inside it. She watched Mr. Robins sit bolt upright. Looking severely panicked.

She opened it and swilled it’s contents around. Holding it under her nose to take a sniff. Raising a brow.

“By my guess….I’d say… Scottish…. Single malt, whiskey. Judging by that stain on your lapels. And if I got any closer, Mr. Robins, would I, or would I not, be able to smell that very same spirit on your breath?” She asks him with thinning patience. Still smiling down at him. He averted his eyes. Ashamed under her scrupulous interrogation.

“Just a little tipple to take before bed, Nurse. Nothin’ ‘armful. I can’t sleep without it.” He protested grumpily.

“Mr. Robins. You came to us because though you may be in your early twenties. You have the scarred liver, and abdominal tenderness of a middle aged, forty year old. You’re suffering from alcohol poisoning. Mr Robins… Because that’s what drink is doing to you. Poisoning you. Killing you. And if you keep it up at this rate, you’ll have a lot more strife to deal with than me giving you a sharp dressing down. Do you understand?” She tells him firmly.

He looks ashamed. But seems to perk up and smile filthily at her again.

“Wouldn’t mind you giving me any sort of dressing down, Nursey.” He winks. Vianne sighs and employs her best, well learned, sharp, hard, nurses glare that oft had people jumping to obedience to do her bidding when she employed it. Patient or no.

“That’s, Nurse James. To you. Mr. Robins. I’ve no doubt out about in the streets you think yourself in charge. But this here’s my domain. And I rule in here with absolute authority… Now consider this flask confiscated. And if I pass by again and find you still awake, I will set Matron on you. And you’ll be begging for a reprieve by the time she’s done with you. I can safely assure you of that.” She promises. Tucking the flask in her uniforms pocket and walking away. Before an idle thought occurs to her. And she pauses…

She walks back to his bed. And smiles, politely.

“Do you not take your hat off, to a Lady? Mr. Robins?” She demands with a cunning smile. Knowing she had him beat. He acquiesced to her request. Plucking his hat and lifting it off his head to her. Careful to keep the inside brim concealed from her sight.

She rolled her eyes and snatched it from his hands. He let out a loud exclamation as she did. But quietened down when she looked into the dome of it, and found yet another flask pinned, hidden up there.

She raises a brow. She unlatched the flask, and with a flick of the wrist, as if she was skimming a stone, she tossed the hat back to him. It landed square on his chest. Emptied of it’s contraband contents.

“Sweet dreams, Mr. Robins. You are a terrible liar.” She smiles before she sidles away to the Nurses desk.

“My dreams aren’t sweet compared to your tender care, Nursey.” He calls sarcastically after her.

She rounds the counter, smiling at Sister. Placing the two flasks in a strongbox. Smiling at her conquering victory. Placing the source of Mr. Robins ill health under lock and key. And putting it out of sight. If only all ailments were so easily cured. She thinks.

“We’d be a sorry ward without your expert touch. Nurse James. I thank you.” Sister Evangaline smiles, looking up for a moment from her ward report. She had a sweet smile that was rarely seen for all the times she was so shrewish and strict. She was kind. But she took no nonsense above it. Vianne had a kinship with her. She saw less and less of her acerbity now. The very same veracity that had most probationers shivering in fear when she passed them by.

“Oh, a Gentleman just left this for you. Nurse… he didn’t leave his name. He said you’d know who he was, and what it was about.” She told. Passing her a small, white envelope.

Vianne swallowed. Looking at the small, rectangular slip of paper in Sister Evangeline’s hand. Her breath came short, and she felt queasy just looking at the dreaded little thing.

For if it was anything alike the note she had received the other day. She didn’t want to go through opening another. She took it quickly. With a false smile. And a nervous, trembling hand.

It had her first name written on it. No profanity’s this time. Which eases her fears, if only by a little. She smiles meekly.

“Have you any other duties for me, Sister?” She asks curtly.

Sister Evangeline met her eyes, smiled. And bid her leave to go and take a tea break for a few moments. Vianne walked briskly away, out of the wards double doors. Which squeaked loudly in her absence. And her footfalls echoed loudly in the empty, hallway. She stalks quickly to the linen cupboard, and shuts the door soundly after her.

She’d hidden the previous one from Thomas. His temper would be volcanic if he thought someone was threatening his Vianne. She’d stuffed it into her dressing gown pocket and forgotten it. But let it instead burn a gaping hole in her brain…

Then she gasps…. Thomas. Oh. God, Thomas.

She is suddenly hit with a wave of epiphany. Aswell as one of guilt and shame. It had just gone eleven o'clock. And she had dutifully promised Him she’d meet for a romantic dinner at the Royale at Eight. She put a hand to her forehead. She felt rotten. She sighs in her abhorrence at her own stupidity. She’d been so caught up in her shift and orders, that she’d quite forgotten the time.

She opened the note with a heavy heart. She have to make it up to him in some way. She’d stood him up, without so much as a note. But when she tore open the letter in her hands, she didn’t find anger in it’s contents.

“Carry on the good work. Dearest Heart. - T”

~

When she is released from her duties, she doesn’t even bother to change from her nurses uniform. She pulls on her coat. Collects her surgical bag. And trudges wearily for a hackney cab. Her aching body bone weary, and miserable. She was tired, hungry and filthy. And to top it all off, she’d let her Thomas down.

She hated letting anyone down, let alone him. Especially not him.

She chides herself all the way home. Wanting nothing more than a scorching hot bath, and to get a missive to him as quickly as was possible. Detailing all the ways in with she was sorry for missing their engagement tonight. She can only hope he’d be forgiving. If she'd have ever done that to Henry, the repercussions of riling his temper didn't bare thinking about. But judging by Thomas's perplexing letter, he had visited the hospital, and found she was too busy to be pried away. That’s what ate away at her worst of all.

The fact he now thought that she would put work ahead of him was just too unfathomable to bear. Given their past history.

When she gets home, she drags her aching limbs out of the cab. Cursing inwardly at the frankly foul nature of the ache in her neck, and back. Pays the driver. And coerces her ailing form up the steps, unlocking the front door, she let’s herself in. And shuts it after her. The house is unlit, and eerily quiet. Tonight was Jeanie’s night off. She often went to see her family in Poplar of a Wednesday night.

She stood, for a second. Looking up at her dark, lifeless house. Never dreaming she’d be the one to be a lowly spinster. Coming home to nothing but a house. A silent house, to a woman of her age, was the saddest thing of all. No husband. No children. Not even an batty, aged relative to keep her company in the next room. Just her. And her monotonous life.

She sighs. Putting her coat on the rack, chucking her bag on the side table. In the foyer mirror, she looks at her dark, baggy eyes. And exhausted face. Un-pinning her nurses cap, and removing her stained, bloodied apron. She crumples it into a ball in her hands. She then detached the stiff, two buttoned collar and threw that down too. Undoing buttons down to her chest, letting some air get to her heated skin. Placing a steady hand on her sternum. She breathes deep and looks in the mirror. She saw the same flawed woman staring back. Looking lonely, tired and despairing.

She’d march herself upstairs. And flop straight into her own bed. She wasn’t even sure she’d spare the energy to pull off her shoes. Of course, her corset was ruthlessly tight. And she wanted to tear it off. But with the little energy she has, she fears the climb above stairs would sap her of all the little motivation she did have left.

She turns to take her bloodied clothes upstairs, when her attention is drawn to her front parlour door. Because there was a sliver of amber light slicing under the door. Standing out like a beacon in the dark house. She frowns.

Walking quickly to the door, she twists the handle and slowly walks the door open. When she saw what was the other side, she gasped. Smiling wholeheartedly at the sight within.

A small table. Set for two. Laden with lit silver candelabras, dressed with a vase of roses, and two silver domes awaiting their attention. And one ex-husband, turned current lover, sat smiling across at her from the settee.

“May I begin with a thousand apologies?” She asks him sincerely. Frowning with empathy at him.

Thomas comes to a stand, and crosses to take her in his arms. One hand to her dainty waist, the other to the back of her neck. And he pulls her into a hungry kiss that conveys how much he had missed her, being parted from her all day. After he’s made her knees weak, and her legs shiver in wanton arousal. He pulls away. Both hands now on her neck as he leaves her gasping for air when he retreats. His hot breath fanning against her lips. She rolls her eyes back in her head in pleasure as he kisses her neck. And then he speaks.

“You may not. And I will tell you why. I came to the ward tonight. Ticked off, and with my nose put out of place because I thought you’d taken the choice to put work before our time together. But then I saw you… I saw you sat talking to that man with one arm as you gave him comfort, and made him smile. I watched you tease and chide a patient for the sake of his own silly good. I knew then you hadn’t chosen your nursing over me… But that I had been selfish once again. There were people who needed your help, more so than I needed your time. How can I be mad at a woman who spent her time today, saving lives?” He asks her.

She smiles. Clutching at his arms. He nuzzles his forehead to touch hers. Closing his eyes. And sighing a moan in pleasure as he held her in his arms.

“… And then. I thought. Well. If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain. The mountain shall come to him.” He smiles. Gesturing to the table behind him.

She kisses him for that kindness. He draws her closer, the hot look in his eyes letting her know he intended to kiss her once more… She pulls back. Gasping a smile as one hand slid south to grab her bottom.

“I should warn you. I’m in dire need of a bath. And I can barely keep my eyes open. I don’t know what I want more, a drink, to rip these clothes off, or some sleep…” She sighs happily. Stroking his hair. One finger sliding lovingly along his pale, sharp cheekbone. Drinking in the sight of that adoring face. Even sans scar. To her, he was still the handsomest man to ever walk the earth.

“Why don’t we start with that drink, then, my love?” He asks. Helping guide her to the table. Helping her to take a seat. She flushed wildly, hot, as she sat down. Because then he leaned in, his warm fingers toying with a curl of hair at her nape. And his lips lowered to her ear.

“And as for the ripping off of clothes, and the bath… I’d quite happily assist you in those ventures…” He flirts. And when she meets his mischievous eyes once again, she can’t help but notice he looked terribly determined in that quest also.

~

@heavymist @totallynotasmutblog @frenchfrostpudding