Work Text:
The Wrong Type Entirely
It had been a long few months of delivering babies who seemed to have no regard for their due dates, arriving at all hours, early, late, but never when expected. Between the three of them there had been night calls, early mornings, and more tea than any reasonable person ought to consume in a lifetime, so when a rare evening off finally came into view it felt less like free time and more like a small, hard earned miracle.
It did not take much persuading for Trixie to declare that the occasion called for celebration. She announced it once, loudly and with great conviction in the maternity home, and then again over dinner with a more deliberate air, as though repeating it might lend the whole idea a sense of ceremony. Barbara, to both Patsy and Trixie’s surprise, seemed genuinely delighted at the prospect of sampling Trixie’s latest cocktail experiments, and Patsy, who had every intention of refusing, found herself agreeing after about ten seconds of Trixie simply looking at her with quiet, hopeful expectation.
Now they were gathered in the shared room, which for the evening had been turned into something between a lounge and a very informal salon. Shoes lay abandoned near the door, uniforms and stockings slightly askew, as they sprawled across the twin beds with a sense of relief that was almost tangible.
The lamps were turned low, casting everything in a soft golden glow, and the room carried that warm, easy atmosphere that comes with the promise of a weekend off, easy laughter, more drinks than strictly sensible, and good company. A record played quietly in the background, and stories were passed around and retold with growing enthusiasm, each version a little more dramatic than the last, until accuracy became far less important than enjoyment.
Patsy had settled against the headboard, one leg tucked beneath her, cigarette in hand, watching the others with quiet amusement, joining in when required but otherwise observing from a careful distance. Trixie, meanwhile, had taken full command of the drinks trolley, moving with the firm confidence of someone convinced she was performing an essential duty, refilling glasses whether they needed it or not.
Barbara, who had begun the evening with firm intentions of moderation, had abandoned them somewhere between the first and second drink and now leaned forward with bright, attentive eyes, fully invested in anything involving romance, scandal, or Trixie’s opinions on either.
Somewhere between the second and third round, Trixie paused mid pour, glass in hand, and turned to Barbara with a look that was just a touch too earnest to be entirely sober.
“Barbara,” she said, her voice softening with sudden sincerity, “I really am happy for you and Tom. Truly. You make far more sense than we ever did. I mean it, I always thought that, even when I was being completely unreasonable about it.”
Barbara flushed at once, clearly touched and a little overwhelmed by the direction this was taking. “Oh, Trixie, that is very kind of you. I do think things are going well, but admit I have felt a little odd about it at times. I would never want things to be strange between us, your friendship means such a lot to me and-”
Patsy, sensing immediate danger as a distinct mistiness began to gather in both their eyes, lifted her cigarette with quiet urgency, as though it might serve as a perfectly reasonable form of intervention.
“Ladies,” she said lightly, cutting in before either of them could go any further, “it has been quite a week, and as lovely as Tom undoubtedly is, I do think we might consider changing the subject before he becomes the central theme of the evening.”
Barbara, who had clearly been on the verge of saying something far more heartfelt, stopped short and let out a small, slightly embarrassed laugh instead.
Trixie stared at Patsy for a beat, visibly thrown by the interruption. Then the moment gave way all at once and she burst into bright, unrestrained laughter, her head tipping back as the tension dissolved completely.
The laughter finally ebbed, though it left the room brighter and looser than before. Trixie wiped at the corner of her eye, still smiling as she looked back at Patsy, amusement clear in her expression. “Still not an admirer then?”
Patsy did not bother to answer. She simply gave a small, knowing smirk, rolled her eyes, and took a long, unhurried drag of her cigarette, as though the question had been dismissed entirely without need for discussion.
Barbara blinked, curiosity instantly reignited. “What do you mean? Am I missing something?”
Trixie leaned in as though she were about to share something far more scandalous than it was. “It is nothing dramatic,” she said brightly, “only that Patsy once said Tom is not her type... at all.”
She paused there, clearly waiting for reaction, then added with a faintly affronted air, “And I still don’t know what Patsy thinks is wrong with him, because I always thought he was very handsome.”
Barbara’s eyes widened in mild disbelief as she turned to Patsy. “You really don’t think Tom is handsome?”
Patsy, who had been in the process of taking a sip, paused mid-motion and blinked at them both, caught rather more off guard than she would have liked, her thoughts moving just a fraction too slowly to assemble a suitably vague reply. “It’s not that I don’t think he’s handsome,” she said carefully, choosing each word with the precision of someone stepping across a very narrow bridge, “Objectively speaking he is… well put together, I suppose. I simply don’t… fancy him, that’s all.”
Trixie and Barbara exchanged a look of immediate, identical curiosity, the sort that suggested their attention had found something far more interesting than Tom himself.
“Is there anyone you do fancy, Patsy?” Trixie asked at once, seizing on the new topic with far too much enthusiasm.
Barbara leaned forward, eyes bright with delight. “Oh, do tell us. In all the time I have known you, I don’t think I have ever heard you mention anyone at all, not even in passing.”
Patsy looked between them, her expression settling into something carefully neutral, though her thoughts were anything but. It was a simple question on the surface, yet it sat uncomfortably close to things she could never put into words.
“I,” she began, then stopped, buying herself a moment while she searched for something suitably harmless and rejected each option in turn. “I’m not sure there is anything to tell, really. I have plenty to occupy me as it is without looking for anything else. I’m perfectly content as I am.”
She kept her tone light, but to her quiet frustration it did very little to close the matter.
Trixie and Barbara fell into a brief silence, exchanging a look that suggested the answer had only made the question more interesting.
Trixie tilted her head, studying Patsy with renewed focus, and she was now determined to follow it through properly. “All right then,” she said at last, slow and deliberate, “if you will not tell us who, you can at least tell us what your type actually is. You were rather vague last time, and you clearly have one, even if you are being infuriatingly secretive about it.”
Patsy let out a small breath that almost turned into a laugh, though it never quite got there. She lowered her gaze to her glass, as if it might be able to offer something simpler than the answer the room was pressing her for. A faint sigh followed as she accepted, with quiet practicality, that refusing outright would only invite further questions.
Best to keep as close to the truth as possible, she decided, so she would not end up contradicting herself later.
So she let herself pause, tilting her head as though the question required genuine thought, when in reality the answer was already there, settled and certain beneath her composure. She knew exactly what she liked, and more specifically who she liked, or rather who she loved, and had for quite some time.
“Well,” she said slowly, carefully choosing her words, “I suppose I have a preference for dark hair. Blue eyes are rather striking, and dimples are always a plus,” and here a faint, unguarded smile touched her mouth before she could stop it, Delia slipping briefly and unhelpfully into her thoughts, “and a good sense of humour is important. Someone who is easy to talk to, who does not take things too seriously, but still has common sense. That’s really all I can say.”
Barbara’s face lit up and she sat up straight as though a rather brilliant idea had just landed fully formed. “Patsy,” she said at once, leaning forward, eyes glittering with excitement “does Delia have a brother?”
Patsy blinked, thrown by the question. “I think so…,” she said slowly, sounding more bemused than certain, not entirely sure why she was being asked.
“Oh!” Barbara looked delighted with the discovery. “Well, he could be absolutely perfect for you. Delia is one of the funniest people I know, and she has those lovely dark looks and blue eyes and dimples and that wonderful accent,” she added, warming to her theme as she ticked them off on her fingers. “And she is kind, and clever, and really excellent company.”
She paused only long enough to draw breath, visibly pleased with where her thinking had led, then clasped her hands together in glee.
“Honestly, Patsy,” she went on, beaming now, “if her brother is anything like her, it would make perfect sense. You and Delia are already so close, so if you married him one day you would all be family. It would be simply perfect!”
Patsy had just taken a large sip when Barbara finished speaking. She managed about half a second of comprehension before the full shape of the suggestion registered. The result was immediate and undignified. She spluttered into her hand, coughed hard enough to make her eyes water, and set her glass down a little too quickly, as if distance from it might somehow restore order to the situation.
Trixie was at her side at once, half laughing as she reached over to pat Patsy between the shoulder blades. “Careful, Sweetie,” she said, warm with amusement, “you would think we had said something outrageous.”
Barbara leaned forward at once, alarmed. “Oh dear, Patsy, I didn't mean to startle you. Are you quite all right?”
Patsy waved a hand, still coughing lightly, her face flushed far beyond what could reasonably be attributed to the drink, and she managed a breathless sort of laugh as she straightened herself. “Perfectly fine,” she said, though her voice betrayed her just slightly, “just went down the wrong way, that’s all.”
Trixie did not look convinced. Her hand lingered a fraction longer than necessary before she drew back, her laughter softening into something more thoughtful. She studied Patsy instead, head tipped slightly, her expression shifting as she took in the carefully rebuilt composure, the calm that looked just a touch too deliberate, the smile that did not quite settle properly on her face. Nothing obvious. Nothing that could be easily named. And yet, for a brief second, there had been something in the reaction that did not sit right at all, something that looked uncomfortably like panic quickly shut away.
Her thoughts stayed there as she watched Patsy slip back into the conversation as though nothing had happened. It was not quite suspicion, more a gradual rearranging of details she had once accepted without question. Patsy’s indifference to gentlemen had always seemed simple enough, a matter of focus, of work, of temperament. Nothing too unusual, or peculiar. Yet now she found herself thinking of Delia, of the way Patsy’s whole manner shifted in her presence, something in her loosening as though she could finally breathe a little easier. Happier, lighter, almost unguarded in a way that stood out precisely because it was so rare.
Perhaps, Trixie considered, their teasing had brushed too close to something Patsy kept firmly held back. Something private, something unspoken, and something that, in a place like Nonnatus House, would have to remain exactly that.
With quiet practicality, she decided this was not the moment to pursue it any further. Instead she reached for the bottle and declared, with unnecessary seriousness, that everyone’s glass was in urgent need of attention. She said it as though it were a matter requiring immediate and careful action, not simply an excuse to shift the air in the room.
She noticed, but made no comment, as Patsy let out the smallest, most controlled breath of relief at the change of subject, as though she had just stepped back from something she had not realised she was standing too close to.
Glasses were filled with a flourish and just like that, the moment broke apart, dissolving into laughter, overlapping conversation, and the easy clutter of an evening settling back into itself. The room softened again into warmth and noise, but Trixie did not quite let her attention settle fully with it.
What she had seen remained, not as certainty, but as something she was not prepared to dismiss as nothing. If her inkling was right, then it was not something to be teased or picked at for curiosity’s sake. It was something more fragile than that, something precarious that would not survive careless handling, nor might Patsy's reputation.
Patsy’s happiness in this mattered to her above all else. So Trixie simply decided, with that quiet steadiness of hers, that whatever secret Patsy was keeping, it was not hers to unpick or press at, no matter how tempting it might be to wonder. She would remain exactly as she always had been, a loyal, dependable friend, but she would not seek confidences, or interfere, or add weight to something that already seemed complicated enough.
Instead, she would do what she could in her own quiet way, keeping a watchful eye and ear out for them both as time went on, without either of them ever needing to know.