by Ruby Moone
“Major?” Simpson murmured.
“I’m here.”
“Thank you.” He whispered. “Thank you so much.”
Oliver swallowed the lump in his throat. “My pleasure, old chap. My pleasure.”
He managed to get him into a clean nightshirt and held him up while he poured more of the doctor’s draught down his throat. Simpson moaned, screwed up his face, and coughed. Oliver replaced the glass and patted him on the back. To his amazement, Simpson leaned a little and slid under his arm, placing his head on Oliver’s shoulder. Oliver shifted so that he could hold the man and tentatively slid his arms around him. Simpson sighed and settled against him. His breathing slowed and Oliver could tell he was asleep, so he carefully settled them both back against the pillows and rested his cheek on the top of Simpson’s hair.
Chapter 3
It took three days for Simpson to emerge from the fever and quell Oliver’s icy, creeping fear that he might succumb. On the third day Oliver entered the guest room first thing, as had become habit, to check on his patient and found the man sitting up in bed watching him with eyes clear of fever, but filled with wariness. Oliver stared for a moment and then turned to close the door. He needed to give himself a moment to find some composure that would stop him from striding over to gather him close. The relief was overwhelming, but hard on its heels came the realisation that he wouldn’t be able to hold him and touch him anymore. He swallowed.
“Simpson. You are looking much better. How do you feel?” He walked briskly to the bed.
“Major?” Simpson was staring at him, clutching the sheets.
Oliver reached out and gave the man’s shoulder a friendly clasp. He couldn’t help it. “You have been ill, old chap. Fever. I found you in the streets. Do you remember?”
“Yes…I…” Simpson scratched his head and looked around. “I…thank you. I should…I should get up, get dressed…”
“I’d be happier if you stayed there until you feel quite well. I will have breakfast sent up.”
“I’d rather dress and join you,” Simpson said looking around the room. “Where are my clothes?”
Oliver hesitated. “I am afraid we had to burn them. They were in a dreadful state so I arranged for some replacements. I hope they fit.”
“You burned them?” Simpson was rubbing the back of his neck. “You burned them?”
“My dear chap, they truly were irretrievable. Lost cause.”
Simpson’s breath shortened. “I can’t pay you. I haven’t…I can’t pay you.”
He started pushing back the covers as if to get out of the bed. Oliver caught his arm in a gentle grip. “Please don’t. Please stay there and get well.”
“I can’t. I can’t.” He pushed at the covers again and this time got his legs out. Oliver moved back, but as Simpson got out of the bed he promptly crumpled to the floor. Oliver caught him and held him tightly. For a moment, he thought Simpson pressed his cheek against him, but he moved so quickly he couldn’t be sure.
“Here,” Oliver said as he sat them both on the edge of the bed. Simpson was trembling against him. “Please lie back and rest. Please.” He moved so Simpson could roll back against the pillows, and when the man didn’t protest, he pulled the covers up over him. Simpson closed his eyes and left them closed.
“I will get you something to eat,” Oliver murmured.
* * * *
Simpson stayed in bed so Oliver kept away in the hope that if they didn’t argue he wouldn’t feel compelled to leave, but by afternoon he couldn’t keep away. He tapped at the door and entered to find Dixon settling the new coat on Simpson’s shoulders. Oliver found it hard to breathe for a moment. Simpson’s hair was clean and brushed, shining gold in the weak afternoon sun. He was dressed simply, but elegantly. Cravat tied to a nicety and blue cutaway coat that sat well. Dixon, bless his heart, had found a walking stick with a gold handle and Simpson leaned on it as he stood.
“You look well,” was all Oliver could manage.
“It would be hard not to in these clothes,” Simpson said, gesturing down his body. “Thank you very much.”
“No need for thanks.”
Simpson turned to the mirror and inspected himself. Oliver came to stand beside him and he couldn’t help but compare them side by side. He stood a few inches taller than Simpson, and where Simpson was slender and elegant, he was bulky. Where Simpson had glorious golden hair and blue eyes, he had nondescript brown hair and equally nondescript brown eyes. He smiled weakly at their reflections.
Dixon bowed and left silently leaving them alone.
“I can’t thank you enough for all this,” Simpson said after a moment’s awkward silence. “I have no money, nowhere to go, I simply don’t know how I’ll repay you.”
“You don’t have to. You can stay here as my guest for as long as you need to.”
“I can’t…”
“For God’s sake, man,” Oliver exploded. “You saved my life. You dragged me from the battlefield and saved my life. The least I can do is give you a bed and a set of clothes until you find your feet.”
“I didn’t…”
“Yes, you did. And apart from anything else, I missed you.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Oliver held his breath.
“You missed me?” Simpson glanced at him warily.
Oliver cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. “We were friends. I miss my friend. I don’t know why you are behaving like this. As though you don’t know me, or as though we are just acquaintances.”
Simpson’s throat bobbed as he nodded. He stared at his feet. “You were my commanding officer.”
“Is that all? I considered you a friend and thought you did too.”
Simpson looked up and nodded.
“Let’s start again,” Oliver said briskly. He shook himself, stood tall, and smiled. “Simpson, old chap. I haven’t seen you in an age. How the hell are you?” He stuck out his hand.
Simpson stared at it, then a small smile curled the corner of his mouth. “Damned good to see you, Major.” He shook hands. “Frankly, I’ve been better. How are you?”
“Well.” He shook Simpson’s hand and didn’t let go. “But so much better for seeing you.” He smiled and Simpson smiled back, but it was a watery smile. Oliver wasn’t sure who moved but they fell into each other and clung together. Oliver buried his face on Simpson’s shoulder, and felt the warmth of the man’s breath against this neck. Simpson patted his back.
“So good to see you, sir,” Simpson whispered. “I am so glad you are well.”
“You too. You too.” Oliver tightened his hold, and Simpson squeezed back. They stayed that way for a moment or two until they pulled apart.
“Well,” said Oliver briskly, straightening his waistcoat. “As you are up and dressed, let me show you around the place.”
Simpson smiled. It was more of a grin really and it did strange things to Oliver’s stomach. “Lead on,” he said with a wave of his hand. Oliver grinned back.
* * * *
Simpson had quite a bad limp. He leaned heavily on the cane that Dixon had found for him. Oliver showed him the house, but as it was quite small it didn’t take long. They retired to the parlour and Mrs. Dawsley brought tea and a plate of cakes and fancies that Simpson made short work of.
“Aren’t you having any?” he asked as he swallowed his third one.
Oliver smiled. “Not for me. You eat them.”
“You are missing a treat,” he said around a mouthful of cake.
They sat in companionable silence for a while as they drank the tea and Simpson ate the cake until Oliver nodded at Simpson’s leg.
“You have a bad limp. What happened?”
Simpson wiped his mouth with a napkin and laid it on the table. “I was wounded at Waterloo.”
“After you got me out?”
“No, before. To this day I don’t know how I managed to get you to the medical tent.”
“Good God,” Oliver gasp
ed, staring at the man. “How on earth did you manage? What happened afterwards? I was unconscious for some time and when I came around you were gone.”
“I got you to safety and apparently passed out. I woke up with a sawbones thinking about amputating my leg.”
“Christ.”
“I…ah…dissuaded him.”
Oliver stared at him and then they both laughed. “I was out for weeks,” he said. “They patched me up and dispatched me back. I must admit, my leg isn’t the best.”
A short silence fell.
“So do you live alone?” Simpson said, changing the subject. “I seem to recall your old man pressing you to marry.”
Oliver shuddered. “He was.”
“So are you?”
“What?”
“Married.”
Oliver shook his head. “No. Narrow escape. She married my brother instead and they are busy filling their nursery.”
Simpson smiled, a question in his blue eyes. “Didn’t you mind?”
“Not at all,” he said, looking at the floor. “Not really the marrying kind.” The silence seemed to stretch between them. Oliver searched for a change of topic. “Would you like to eat here tonight or go to my club?” He glanced up. Simpson was watching him with an unreadable look. For a moment Oliver thought he might have betrayed himself. Betrayed the truth about his deviant nature, but then Simpson smiled.
“I have never been in a gentleman’s club, but much as I might like to I am feeling a bit dicky so perhaps we should dine here? I would hate to embarrass you by passing out in the soup.”
Oliver laughed, relieved.
Chapter 4
Dinner was probably the best meal that Oliver had eaten since returning from the continent. Simpson—he didn’t dare think of him as Daniel—sat opposite him, eating and drinking and laughing as though they had never been apart. They had always been on the best of terms despite the difference in rank and status. Daniel Simpson was simply the very best of good fellows. The best of the best. He didn’t mind when Simpson retired early. He was happy to sit by the fire and read for the rest of the evening, though if asked, he would have been hard pushed to say what it was he read. When he retired for the night, he hesitated outside Simpson’s room. It had become that now, not the guest room, but Simpson’s room. He wanted to look in on him, but now he was better and up and about it seemed like an intrusion. He rested his head against the door for a moment and then went to his own room and fell into a deep sleep.
* * * *
For a moment, Oliver thought he was back in France. He could see nothing but the flicker of firelight, hear nothing but the discordant, terrified cries of the injured and dying. As the sound grew louder he jerked upright and blinked in the semi darkness with sweat beading his entire body. Dragging in huge breaths through his nose, he dragged his blanket around him and shuddered with the naked relief that he was in his own bed safe in London. Letting go of the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, he burrowed back into the softness of the feather pillow but as he closed his eyes he heard cries again, soft, distant. He rolled onto his back and listened.
“No, no, no please…Major, Major…” The anguish in that deep voice was painful to hear and it took him a moment to realise who and where it was coming from. He pushed the blankets back, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and when the cry came again it time tore at his soul.
“Oliver, Oliver, Oliver, God, No!”
Oliver dragged open the door of his chamber and ran. He pulled open Simpson’s door and found him huddled in a ball on the bed. The lingering embers of the fire cast a glow over the room, and Oliver could see his blonde hair plastered to his head with sweat, every muscle taught beneath the baggy nightshirt that clung damply. He was sat upright, knees to his chest with his arms on top, face in the crook of his elbows and his arms curved over his head as if to protect himself. He sobbed as he rocked, a harsh juddering sound. “Major…” his voice cracked. “Oliver…”
“Simpson,” he said, sitting beside the man. “Simpson, it’s a dream.” He pulled at the sinewy arms that were corded and tense. He would not budge. “Daniel,” he tried, and pulled at the arms again, resisting the urge to simply hold him in his arms, aching to see that almost silent sobbing and rocking.
“Simpson, at ease!” he snapped, infusing his tone with command. It had the desired effect. Simpson stopped rocking, stopped crying, and the muscles appeared to slacken. Oliver took the opportunity to take his arms and pull them away from his head. “Come,” he said, softer now. “Come on, it was just a dream. I’m here,” he added a little awkwardly. Simpson’s head came up at that and Oliver ran a hand over his damp, fair curls. “Better?” he asked, angling his head to look into the man’s eyes. They blinked, and even in the gloom of the room Oliver could see how blue they were. Blue and filled with an agony that made Oliver sigh and stroke those curls again. “It was a dream.”
“A dream?” Simpson croaked, his chest starting to heave. His jaw worked and those blue eyes filled again.
“Hey now, come on old chap,” Oliver said, stroking his head again.
“I dreamed…God…I dreamed you were…I always dream I don’t get to you in time…” His voice trailed off and to Oliver’s surprise Simpson launched himself into his arms and he found himself gripped in a strong, wiry embrace by arms that trembled. Simpson’s face was buried in his neck. Oliver hesitated and then slid his own arms around the shaking man and held him. Something warm shifted in his chest, reminding him of all the times that they had shared together on campaign, looking to each other for warmth and safety. Simpson was the one man he had always been able to rely on, come what may. Seeing him so distressed was almost worse than seeing him brought low and it tugged at him in a way that hurt unbearably.
Gradually the trembling slowed and the arms went slack. Oliver wondered if he was drifting back to sleep.
“Simpson?” he said and shook him a little. Simpson grunted and tightened his hold. “Come on old thing, it’s bloody freezing out here,” he said and shook him again.
“No!” the voice was sharp and he was held firmly again.
Oliver rubbed his cheek on the top of the man’s head and marvelled at how good it felt to be held and how little he wanted to release him. He struggled with his conscience for a moment and then gave in. “Come on,” he said and reached down to pull up the sheet and blankets. He pushed Simpson over onto the pillow, grabbing his wrists when he tried to hold onto him again. He ended up almost wrestling the man. “Lie down and I will stay with you a while,” he said and settled himself into Simpson’s bed. He punched the pillow into a more comfortable position and pulled the blankets over them both and was astonished when Simpson immediately laid his head on his chest, held him around the waist with a vice like grip, and then entwined one leg in between his. Oliver swallowed and hesitated, laying for a moment with both arms held out not quite knowing what to do. Simpson rubbed his cheek against him and sighed. Oliver swallowed, and then did what he had wanted to do forever. He put his arms around him. Simpson’s hold tightened, and they lay together as though they had been designed to do just that. Simpson’s smaller, wiry body simply melted into him. Oliver fished about for a moment and then adjusted the blankets so they were both covered and then savoured the warmth of the body that he held, stunned at just how much he enjoyed being held in return and refusing to think about just how right it felt to share a bed with Simpson.
When Oliver roused from sleep hours later it was to find that they had rolled over at some point in the night and Simpson’s chest was plastered against his back, knees tucked behind his. Soft breath dusted lightly over the nape of his neck, a warm hand lay on his hip underneath his nightshirt, which had rucked up around his waist, and a hard cock lay nestled in the crease of his arse. Oliver could barely breathe. His own cock immediately shot as hard as marble and his heart thundered in his ears. He may have moved, or spoken, because Simpson groaned and rocked his hips, pushing against his backside
, and then applied his mouth to the back of Oliver’s neck in a kissing, nibbling action that sent shivers through Oliver’s entire body, making him gasp. When Simpson’s hand moved over his hip and slid towards his groin Oliver couldn’t breathe at all. When those long sinewy fingers tightened around his erection and began to tug in time with the hips that pressed rhythmically against his arse, Oliver actually moaned. “Simpson…Daniel…” he croaked and the start of his orgasm feathered across the base of his spine. He knew if this continued he would spend in seconds. His heart was thumping so hard he could feel its beat in his cock. His lips parted as the sensation grew, a hot flush stole over him, and every muscle tensed as his climax approached but then all movement stopped. Dead.
The sound that escaped his throat was a long low moan of denial. He couldn’t stop now, please…
“Oh my God…” Simpson breathed, his voice trembling. “Oh no, sir…” The horror and embarrassment in his voice was so intense, so profound, that Oliver simply buried his face in the pillow and tried desperately to regain some control over his body.
“I was dreaming,” Simpson blurted.
Oliver pressed his aching body into the mattress, then rubbed his face. “Do you often dream of fucking me?” he asked wearily as he levered himself into a sitting position. Taking a deep breath, he slanted a glance over his shoulder. Simpson was sat up, blonde hair stuck up all over the place, baggy nightshirt wilted to one side exposing a wiry shoulder. His bare feet looked oddly vulnerable poking out of the bottom of the nightshirt. His mouth was open but nothing was coming out of it. Oliver was so frustrated he wanted to weep. Wanted to beg him to finish what he had started, hold him in that tight, fierce embrace again and then the shame that he needed those things almost took him to his knees. In that moment he knew that what he really wanted, what he really needed was to make love with Daniel, what he had always wanted was Daniel, not Simpson, Daniel. He had been with women, made love to them, but nothing had ever come close to the sensation of just lying with Daniel in his arms and that strong hand wrapped around him. He’d known how much he loved him for some time, but he had tried not to think about what it might be like to share a bed with him, to be naked with him, to fuck with him.
