The Soldier's Tale (4 page)

"You want to know all this or what?"

Curiosity won over his hatred of gossiping, especially gossiping where his patients were concerned. "I want to know."

"Anyway, he and Will keep in contact, meet up again at college, then Will comes here and meets Diane. Your man in there gets out of the Army, invalided out so I seem to remember. He saw action overseas, got really badly hurt, came back to his dad's old house. Will has asked him to be best man, but he seems unwilling to stand up for his best friend."

"So that explains Steeple Westford and why he's here."

"And you are okay with him staying here?"

"For tonight, yes. I assume he'll want his own home from tomorrow."

"I'm staying to keep an eye on it all."

"And you're sleeping where?"

"In your double bed with you."

"You stay to your side, and it'll be fine." Sean smirked. They had shared a lot worse than his huge oak framed bed before.

"We can talk ghost stories," Phil added and then said, "Sean?

Phil had a definite gleam of mischief in his eyes, and it left Sean feeling wary. "Yeah?"

"Did you ever wonder—" Phil made a gesture, indicating something between them.

"You and me?"

"Yeah."

"Bloody hell, no."

They both dissolved into laughter, and it was good. For a while Phil seemed to relax, and for a while Sean could forget the gorgeous sexy man who was sprawled across his sofa bed.

Just for a while.

Chapter Four

When Daniel next woke he was alone, no guardian sat in the chair watching him, and the pain in his leg now just focused on his knee. That was pain he could manage; he was used to that. He flexed the knee experimentally, and other than the general crunch of metal and ache, there was no extreme spasm. He knew he wouldn't be able to walk yet, but
Jesus
he needed to piss like a racehorse. The room had two windows, one on each end, and two doors, one that had the appearance of a main door, the other an internal door. Somehow he needed to get from here to there, else he was going to disgrace himself.
Shit.
That wouldn't have been a first, either. Hospital staff may have "seen it all," but Daniel had been mortified when, post catheter, he hadn't reached the bathroom in time. He still remembered the feeling as another layer of his identity had been shaved away as he'd become more "the invalid."

He levered himself up on his elbows, blinking away sleep and dizziness and waiting until he could focus again. The clock on the wall showed a little after six in the morning, but he wasn't sure what day it was. He only guessed it was morning by the filtered light through the small leaded windows. Cautiously he pushed himself higher, breathing evenly and fighting yet another wave of nausea and light-headedness until finally he was actually sitting upright. Curses filtered in his head, however gritted teeth meant none of them spilled into the quiet of the room. Using both hands, he supported the weight of his knee and his lower leg, shuffling as best he could to the edge of the low bed, only now realising how low to the floor the thin mattress actually was. That didn't help much, but finally he managed to at least half stand, half lean against the back of the sofa, thanking God it was clearly old and totally solid.

Ten minutes later and he had traversed the width of the small space and had his hand on the door. He was feeling stronger with each step, consigning the pain to the box that he kept it in and willing his body through the barriers it had tried to put up to stop him from moving. He turned the handle and pushed the door open, finding himself in a kitchen, clean and tidy and clearly also very old. It held carved cabinets with an air of permanence and a faded butler's sink. He leaned on the scarred table in the middle of the room and took note of the three doors. One led outside, and there were two possibilities for a bathroom of some sort. God help him if there was only one bathroom and it was upstairs.

"Daniel." He would have turned to face the owner of the voice, but that would mean spinning on his heel, not something he was really up to now. "Do you need the bathroom?" Cautiously Daniel began to shuffle around. Well, at least he hadn't had to face histrionics and the whole "what the hell are you doing out bed?" shit. That was one step up on the Army nurses.

"Do you need some help?"

"Just need… just show me where it is."
Otherwise I will just use the sodding sink.
The doc opened what was the second door that Daniel would have tried, and with some relief, it was the closest. Doc didn't interfere or hold out a hand making placating noises that meant nothing. He just held the door open and let it swing close behind Daniel.

Daniel didn't even bother checking himself in the small silvered mirror on the oddly angled wall. He knew he would see exhaustion and illness, and he was just so damn sick of it. He relieved himself, and splashed cold water on his face, checking his knee dispassionately for signs of swelling. It didn't look too bad in his opinion, and he was used to the signals his body gave him. Clearly Doc had administered something for the pain and probably the swelling. Fucking medicine. He was like some kind of addict, surviving on chemicals, no better than the kid he had taken the knife from.

The knife. Where had he put his knife? He struggled to remember then fear cut through him. Doc had found the dagger, found what could actually be classified as a concealed weapon, and he could be in a world of shit. He'd find out soon enough how deep it was. He shuffled back into the kitchen.

"Have a sit, coffee, tea?"

"Tea," Daniel said firmly. He really ought to be thanking the guy who had clearly looked after him, but the words were a muddle in his head.

"Are you feeling sick still, or do you want some cereal or something?"

"I need to get home. I'll have the tea and go."

"After I check you out."

"I don't need checking out. The knee's fine."

The doc simply shrugged and returned to making that tea, and Daniel was left looking at the man's back. He was a fine-looking man this doctor, shame about the pansy-arsed caring crap that came with it.
Bloody hell.
Where had that thought come from? Finding his medic attractive must be caused by residual medication swimming in his blood. Soldiers do not find anyone of the same sex attractive, particularly meddling medics, not in the Army. It didn't matter if you were bi, gay, or whatever—sex had no place on a battlefield or in the tents and hospital rooms after. It occurred to him that this was actually the first medic who had triaged and handled his injury outside of Army jurisdiction. Maybe finding the doctor attractive was okay under those circumstances.

"Where are my jeans?" He really would need them if he had any hope of getting away before being subjected to medical poking and prodding. Doc turned, a wry smile on his face.

"Gone, I'm afraid. I had to cut them away so I could look at your knee. I'll get you some of mine." Daniel looked at the doc, taller than he, slimmer than he, and wondered how the hell he was going to fit in anything that the doctor could wear.

"Your designer crap isn't going to fit me." He knew he was being rude, unreasonable, and unconscionably bad-mannered, but there was a need to run here, and he always found the best way to leave was to be told to go. It didn't work, much to his disgust, as his unruffled breakfast companion ceremoniously placed a large mug of steaming tea in front of him, followed swiftly by a plate of eggs, bacon and toast.

"Eat," Sean demanded succinctly.

"I didn't—"

"Eat the food, Daniel. The morphine will have left your stomach raw."

Daniel had vague memories of being held whilst he had his head over a bucket, a literal bloody bucket, and shame coloured his face with heat. He wasn't hungry, but he managed to eat a slice of toast and one rasher of thick crispy bacon, washed it down with the tea.

"So…" the doc began, sliding in to sit crossways from him, his face serious, his expression like stone. "You're a bloody idiot."

"I'm sorry?" Daniel couldn't believe what the doc was saying. He must have misheard.

"You. Are. A certifiable grade A idiot. Your doctor prescribed you pain medication, and a script for muscle relaxants, and you don't take either?"

Daniel felt trapped. He really wanted to tell Doc Lester Junior to fuck off and leave him alone and then storm out. But that was not really an option as he had nothing to wear. Carefully, gingerly, he used the table to stand, cursing the lack of muscle tone in his left leg and the surge of nausea that climbed his throat.

"I need jeans," he replied flatly, expectation in him that the doc would stand and get him some immediately. He didn't.

"Can you sit down, just for a minute?" the doc said simply, adding a single
please
when Daniel stubbornly remained on his feet. Daniel waited a breath, but seriously, it wasn't like he was really going anywhere. Finally, with a sigh he sat down, blinking as the doc held out his right hand.

"Sean Lester," he said, introducing himself, and Daniel hesitated. This was a new one—a doc offering his hand after calling him a bloody idiot. Cautiously he extended his own hand and grasped the doc's firmly.

"You know my name. I'm sure you know that and all the other shit there is to know about me."

"I know what's in black and white, what opinions there are that have been made about your condition, and I know what the hospital and then Dad prescribed you in the way of pain management. I know you ignored all the advice and, for some reason, decided you didn't need any pain relief at all." He sounded so damn serious, and Daniel cringed. Doc was using the patented voice that the Army docs used when they wanted to say "what the fuck have you done?" "But… I don't know
you
," he added carefully.

Daniel didn't say one word in response to that, best not to under the circumstances. Sean didn't know him, and despite an initial attraction to the tall blond doc, Daniel was happy to not encourage further interaction. Sean murmured something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "blah blah idiot blah" and concentrated back on his steaming mug of tea.

Great, now he really was trapped somewhere with someone who thought he was an idiot.

Well, he wasn't. He wasn't an idiot. He had his reasons for what he was doing.

Chapter Five

The jeans were butter soft and baggy, a little long in the leg, but they did actually slide over his knee without causing too much pain. He pulled on a borrowed shirt and grabbed the dagger, pushing it into the belt loop of the denim and pulling the shirt down to hide it. There was some commotion in the kitchen after he'd left, and from what he gleaned of hurriedly exchanged conversation, apparently a guy had been hurt in an argument with a barbed wire fence. He tried not to focus on Sean's low modulated tones, on the calm in his voice and the words he was stating as fact. He tried not to sit and listen, but it wasn't working.

"Bloody idiot, wouldn't sodding listen to me. Climbed the gate, got caught in the barbed wire, and went head-first into the ditch." The first voice was male. He sounded impatient, angry, and worried.

"Mark, it was an accident, these things happen. It wasn't like we could see it coming." The second was calmer, and he had just labelled the first as Mark.

"Speak for yourself," Mark retorted instantly, and then the weirdest thing happened. All three men—the doc, this Mark and the injured man—just started to laugh. It had been a long time since Daniel had sat and listened to men laughing together. In Afghanistan, laughter was rarer than rocking-horse shit, except when it wasn't. Gallows humour they called it, the ability to mask the fear with professionalism and jokes that spoke of death and mayhem, seeing humour in the blackest things. He was an expert at it and had joked in the hospital that his entry in the next Olympics would need to be cancelled. It's what soldiers did. He sat back on the sofa that he'd pulled up to make a place to sit again as opposed to the frankly awful bed it had been for him. Common decency and grudging respect for anyone in the medical arena stopped him from leaving through the main door. He needed to thank the doc.

"There… the cut doesn't need stitching, but the bandage on the wrist needs to stay, and I would like to see it remain elevated for a week."

"A week? Doc—" The third man, the injured one and unidentified voice, was whining.

"Jack, you know I love you, but if you don't do what the doc says then I may have to gag you." Ahhh, Jack was the third man, and Mark loved Jack. Interesting. Brothers maybe?

"But what about sex?" Jack was back to whining.

"I'll still put out," Mark replied, and then there was the sound of laughing. Maybe not brothers after all…

"Phil brought over the video." The doc was changing the subject, and Daniel crossed to the door. Clearly the patient had been seen to, and he could leave. "It scared the hell out of me thinking that Belvedere was in the solar with you."

Belvedere? That name sounded familiar… Daniel wracked his brains for where he'd heard that name. Not the Army… It seemed as if maybe it was someone he had heard of, not actually met. Then just as suddenly, it hit him between the eyes. Belvedere. The man in his dreams. The one who was a murderer. A shiver ran down his spine. He needed air, and he needed it now. The damn morphine was screwing with his head.

Jack's voice drifted into the room. "Not as much as it scared me. Mark was in some kind of fugue, not in the room, and the noise, it was… unearthly."

"Is his ghost still there?"

Ghost? What the hell?
Without hesitation he pushed into the kitchen, startling all three men. Sean stood at the sink with mugs and the kettle. One man sat at the table, nursing a bandaged wrist, clearly the injured man—Jack. He had shoulder-length black hair, pale grey eyes. He was handsome in a gypsy kind of way. Another man sat by him, looking much like a harassed but sexy librarian with curly untidy hair, holding Jack's free hand and smiling.

They all turned to focus on his dramatic entrance as he stumbled over uneven flagstone floor and groaned in pain. Then there was an awkward silence as no one seemed to know what to say. The only one who showed any reaction was Mark, who dropped Jack's hand and stood abruptly.

"Aah, Daniel, meet Jack Faulkner and Mark Renfrew." Daniel, out of courtesy, shook hands with Jack and then extended his hand to Mark, who didn't respond. Mark, not quite as tall as Sean and slim built, just stood there, his eyes narrowed and his gaze verging on unfriendly, or was that shock? Daniel couldn't tell.

"Mark?" Jack sounded confused and a little wary.
Join the club
, Daniel thought to himself, and dropped his hand to his side. He wasn't here to make friends with these guys, so if Mark was going to be an arsehole then he could easily ignore him.

"You… I'm…" Mark ran a hand through his hair, left it there to tangle, and then his hands clenched, seemingly involuntarily. He rubbed his thumbs over his fingers as though fortifying himself to touch something disgusting. Finally, visibly reluctantly, he offered his hand in return. Daniel hesitated for a split second because an unusual fear flickered through him, then steeling himself, he grabbed the man's hand before he could change his mind.

He should have changed his mind. His body jerked as an invisible current rippled under his skin, travelling across his chest, over his shoulder and down his arm to explode from his fingertips. Mark must have felt something similar because his eyes widened just as a static charge snaked from their joined hands. Both of them lurched backwards. Daniel could do nothing but stare at Mark. He thought he might have stood there all day staring, but a sheepish smile finally skimmed Mark's face.

Daniel rubbed his fingers with his thumb. "Sorry," he apologised, although why he was apologising for static electricity Daniel didn't know. Mark nodded almost imperceptibly.

The other men didn't seem to notice anything unusual, but Daniel could still feel the static charge hovering in the air. He needed away from this man.

"More tea?" Sean offered, but Daniel had seen and had enough human contact these last few days to last a lifetime, and all he wanted was his own house.

"No. Thank you for your help, but I'm going to go now."

"Okay, Daniel. Use your prescription." Sean's last words were faint as the kitchen door closed behind him, and he finally stood in the cold morning air. He glanced down at his hand, flexing it experimentally, and imagining he could still feel static travelling the length of his arm.

Weird. Just plain weird.

* * * *

Jack cosied down under the blanket, milking the injury for all it was worth. So far Mark had made drinks, cooked food, and tidied up the small cottage that Jack had rented. His accident meant he wouldn't be pegging out boundaries on the dig site for the preliminary geophysical survey before the excavations started next summer. Given it was freezing cold, he didn't know whether to be pleased or annoyed at that. Well, he was always one to handle whatever cards life dealt him, and life had dealt him warm comforting thoughts of making love in front of the fire with his boyfriend.

Finally he'd had enough of Mark bustling around him. He caught the belt loop of his jeans as he scurried past with a pile of archaeological tomes.

"Come sit down," Jack encouraged, but Mark just shook his head, attempting to pull himself away. With a hard tug Jack managed to get his lover to topple sideways, his centre of balance off, and with a
hmmmph,
Mark was finally next to him.

"I need to—" Mark began, but Jack twisted his body enough so he could straddle Mark's lap. With only the faintest reminder of pain from his wrist, he captured his lover's mouth in a heated kiss to stop him talking. They kissed leisurely for a long time until the spikiness of Mark's worries had dulled to soft whimpers of need.

"Now. Will you tell me what's wrong?" Jack asked softly, frowning as Mark closed his eyes and pursed his lips. "Mark?"

"That man, Daniel, the soldier… our soldier… Jack—"

"What?"

"He has the knife. God, do you remember I said…" His voice trailed off, and he tugged at his lower lip with his teeth. "When Curtess was in the flames, there was a knife thrown, and it killed him before he could suffer."

"I remember."

"That guy…" Mark paused. "He had the knife that was used under his shirt, in those jeans. I could sense the connection. Somehow he… God, the curse…"

"The curse?"

"When the warrior and the healer stand to swear a sacred bond… This Daniel guy, this soldier, he's connected."

"He's the warrior?" Jack didn't doubt what Mark could see, not any more. "And the doc is what? He's the healer? Should we tell someone?"

"No!" Mark sounded horrified. "They have to find their own path."

"What if they don't?" He couldn't hide the worry inside him, this curse was playing on his mind more than he had realised. Mark huffed a small sigh, closing his eyes and nodding.

"They will Jack. They have to if there is any chance for the Fitzwarren family."