Chapter Text
Patrick came home to silence.
Not the ordinary, comforting silence of a house settling for the night, but the suspicious sort — the kind that suggested somewhere, just out of sight, something had been left to its own devices.
He hung up his coat slowly, listening.
Nothing.
No voices. No clink of glasses. No cheerful chaos. Only the faint tick of the mantel clock and, from deeper in the house, a soft rustling sound like paper being worried between fingers.
Patrick followed it.
The sitting room was dim, lit by the lamp beside the sofa. The remains of the evening lay everywhere in soft evidence: a plate with a lonely slice of cake, several glasses lined up on the sideboard as if awaiting inspection, and a few napkins scattered like fallen petals.
Shelagh was on the floor.
Cross-legged. Barefoot. Hair slightly loose. Concentrating with the solemn devotion of a woman attempting surgery.
Around her was a small sea of balloons — pink, white, and one silver one that had begun to sag like it, too, was tired. She held a tea towel in one hand and a balloon in the other, turning it over and over as if the right technique might reveal itself through patience alone.
Patrick stopped in the doorway.
"Shelagh?"
She looked up at once, eyes bright and affectionate, as though he were the answer to a question she'd been puzzling over.
"Patrick!" she breathed, delighted. "You're home."
"I am." He stepped further into the room, careful not to tread on the balloon rolling by his shoe. "What are you doing?"
Shelagh lifted the balloon with quiet pride. "Tidying."
He glanced at the room. "I can see that."
She nodded as if he'd paid her a great compliment. "I thought it might be helpful, seeing as everyone has gone. It would be awful if you came home and it was… untidy."
Patrick's gaze flicked to the feather boa draped over the armchair, the golden hula hoops he had watched her painting the week before scattered everywhere. Then to the empty bottle on the sideboard, its label turned outward like a confession.
He crouched beside her. "Have you been here long?"
Shelagh frowned, thinking. "Only a little while. I was going to do the dishes, but the water sounded… judgmental."
Patrick opened his mouth, closed it again, and chose a safer question.
"And the balloons?"
Shelagh's eyes widened with a seriousness that made his chest ache a little. "They are very slippery."
She picked up another balloon, attempted to fold it in half, and it sprang away with cheerful defiance, bouncing gently off her shoulder and rolling toward the fireplace.
Shelagh stared after it, personally offended. "It's escaping."
Patrick retrieved it and handed it back. "Perhaps it's had enough of the party."
Shelagh accepted it with gratitude. "Yes. We should all know when to stop."
Patrick's eyebrows rose. "Mmm."
She looked at him suddenly, her expression softening. "Did you enjoy your peace at Nonnatus House?" He had gone there to catch up with work, allowing the women to be in his house for the duration - he had come home when the rabble had returned, laughter and joy beaming from them all.
"I did," he said, though he couldn't quite keep the smile from his voice. "Did you have a nice… evening?"
Shelagh's face brightened further, if that was possible. "Oh, yes. It was very kind of them. And Nancy looked so happy — you know she pretends she's terribly tough, but she's terribly soft underneath."
Patrick hummed. "I've noticed."
Shelagh held up the balloon again as if demonstrating a medical specimen. "We had games. And there was singing."
"Singing," Patrick repeated carefully.
Shelagh nodded, then leaned in conspiratorially. "Trixie taught me a song that is absolutely not suitable for public performance."
Patrick's lips twitched. "Did she."
Shelagh clasped her hands together. The balloon squeaked. "I didn't sing it. I simply… listened."
"How disciplined of you."
"Yes," Shelagh said with dignity, then immediately giggled. She pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes widening. "Oh dear."
Patrick's smile softened. "How much have you had to drink, Shelagh?"
She looked down at the balloon as if consulting it. "Only a little."
He waited.
She sighed. "Perhaps not only a little."
He nodded slowly. "Liebfraumilch."
Shelagh flinched at the word like it was a rebuke. "Patrick, it's deceptive. It tastes like… like cordial."
"Yes," Patrick said. "That's how it gets you."
Shelagh nodded as though this were an important medical fact to be recorded. "Nancy said it was the wine of bad decisions."
Patrick glanced at the feather boa again. "I'm inclined to agree."
Shelagh followed his gaze and looked personally startled. "Oh! That's not mine."
"I assumed."
She picked up the boa delicately between two fingers and regarded it with baffled admiration. "It's… so much."
"Perhaps we can retire it," Patrick suggested, reaching for it.
Shelagh held it out obediently. "Yes. Put it away where it can't influence anyone."
Patrick set it on the sideboard, then turned back to find her watching him with warm, adoring solemnity.
"You're very steady," she said.
"It's one of my best features."
"It is," Shelagh agreed with great conviction, then tried to stand.
She got as far as lifting herself on her hands, before wobbling in the way of a person who has suddenly realised the floor has opinions.
Patrick caught her at once, one arm around her shoulders.
Shelagh sighed happily against him. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." He guided her back down onto the rug and sat beside her. "Maybe we leave the balloons until morning."
Shelagh considered this, brow furrowed in deep moral reflection. "Morning is usually wiser."
"It is."
She nodded and reached for his hand. Her grip was warm and a little too enthusiastic. "Patrick?"
"Yes, love."
"I think I might be… a little bit drunk."
Patrick let out a quiet laugh. "I had noticed."
Shelagh's eyes widened in horror. "Have I been dreadful?"
"No," he said quickly, smoothing her hair back. "You've been… very sweet."
She looked relieved, then puzzled. "I've been sweet."
"You have."
Shelagh's mouth turned down slightly. "I don't want to be the sort of woman who makes a spectacle of herself."
"You haven't," Patrick reassured. "Not a spectacle. Just… a little less guarded than usual."
She blinked slowly. "Is that bad?"
Patrick shook his head. "No. It's rather lovely, actually."
Shelagh stared at him for a moment as if that were the kindest thing anyone had ever said. Then she smiled, a small, tired smile.
"I love you," she said, very simply.
Patrick's throat tightened, as it always did when she spoke like that — so plainly, so honestly, as though love were a fact rather than a feeling.
"I love you too," he replied.
Shelagh rested her head against his shoulder with a soft little hum, the balloon forgotten in her lap. After a moment she murmured, "The balloons are still very slippery."
"I'll wrestle them in the morning," Patrick promised.
Shelagh sighed. "You're very brave."
Patrick kissed the top of her head. "Come on. Bed."
He stood first, then helped her up with steady hands. She made it two steps before stopping abruptly.
Patrick turned. "What is it?"
Shelagh frowned at the carpet. "I can't find my shoes."
Patrick looked down.
He stared for one beat, then another, and finally he let himself laugh — a quiet, helpless sound he couldn't stop.
Shelagh looked wounded. "What?"
Patrick gently took the shoes from the floor in front of her where she had obviously kicked them off to 'tidy'. "Nothing at all. Come along."
Shelagh allowed herself to be guided upstairs with the docility of a very tired child, pausing only once to pat the banister.
"It's a good banister," she informed him.
"I'm glad you approve."
By the time they reached the bedroom, Shelagh's eyes were heavy, her steps slow and careful.
Patrick helped her sit, unfastened her dress, dragging it off slowly and folding it without fuss. She watched him as if he were performing a miracle.
"You always know what to do," she whispered as he turned around and grabbed her nightgown from under her pillow, pulling it over her head.
"That's not strictly true."
"It is," she insisted. Then she added, in the same solemn tone: "Promise you won't tell Sister Julienne."
Patrick's smile returned. "I promise."
Shelagh nodded, reassured, and allowed herself to be tucked under the covers. Just before sleep took her, she caught his sleeve.
"Patrick?"
"Yes, love?"
"If I ever drink pink wine again," she said gravely, "you must stop me."
Patrick squeezed her hand. "Understood."
Shelagh sighed, eyes closing. "Good. Because it's very… persuasive."
And then, at last, the house was quiet for real.