by Scott, RJ
When his cell rang and he checked the screen, he smiled. Saved by the bell. It was Phil. "Hey."
"Hey. Can I come over?" That was odd. Phil Fitzwarren was his oldest friend, and he knew him as well as he would know his own brother. He wasn't normally so straight to the point, so defined. He knew that the family had been under so much stress, Phil's sister-in-law in hospital, her newborn, premature baby fighting for his life. He had been told that little Edward had made some improvement, but the baby was clinging to life like a leaf to a twig in autumn. He was a fighter, a tiny mewling scrap of humanity that didn't deserve to be bound up in this whole curse that followed the Fitzwarren family around. Sean had only just checked on the mother and child by surgery phone, and nothing had changed. He wondered briefly if there had been some news that he hadn't been told. He was actually due to visit with Carol again in the morning.
Carol had almost lost her own life. Sean was her doctor, a concerned family friend who could explain things to her husband, Phil's brother, and he was in the loop on everything that happened, but in the hospital everything was out of his control, and he hated it.
"Is everything okay with Carol and the baby?" Sean asked quickly. "Has the hospital contacted you? Do you need me there?"
"No. Nothing's changed there, no more than you told us earlier. This is something entirely different."
Sean glanced at the patient on his sofa and crossed to shut the door on the front room.
"It's fine, come over. What's wrong, Phil?" Sean winced at the sigh he could hear down the phone line.
"Tell you when I get there."
"I'll get the beer ready."
"Sod beer, I need whisky."
Phil rang off, and for a few seconds, Sean held the receiver to his ear. Phil didn't really drink a lot of spirits, only resorting to it when things were bad. Unfortunately for Phil, his sister Diane, and his brother Charlie, bad things happening were frequent occurrences. He checked once more on the sleeping Daniel and then sat in the kitchen, waiting for Phil, turning over in his head what could have happened to send his friend to drink.
Sean met Phil at the door, worries spinning in his head. His friend looked fine, maybe a little pale, but not hurt, certainly not in physical need for a doctor. Phil didn't say a word, just grabbed at the whisky on the counter and poured way over a double into the crystal tumbler, downing in it one swallow. Sean hadn't seen him like this with alcohol since his Cambridge days. This was serious.
"What the hell has happened?"
"You are not going to believe this. I don't think I even believe it. God, there was no way I was going to sit around in a circle holding hands talking about it. I can't bear that sodding place." Daniel listened to the words. The place, he assumed, was Westford Castle, home of the Fitzwarrens, an old rambling folly with very little left habitable apart from the renovated gate house.
"Start from the beginning," Sean encouraged, pouring another small glass of whisky for his friend. "Just take a deep breath and try and explain."
"Charlie got a psychic."
"Another one?" Sean asked tiredly. When was Phil's brother going to stop with this? He was doing exactly what their father had done, putting faith in the unknown as the reason for all the bad things that happened to the Fitzwarren family.
"Nah, this one is seriously for real, an actual living breathing descendant of the Curtesses."
"What? How do you know?"
"Went under in some kind of trance—guy called Mark Renfrew, nice guy—and connected to something, a presence in the south tower. He'd been bleeding from his nose in the courtyard over the curse stone. Said he saw a man in the tower and had a description that seemed real enough. Breeches and black boots, long hair, the whole thing, wearing lace, with a beard. Mark said it was Sir Belvedere, said the man was trapped there." Sean knew about the curse, the one that Jonathan Curtess placed on Sir Belvedere. Everyone in the village knew the stories, the old tales that were passed from one generation to another. Phil took another long swallow of fiery alcohol and coughed, "I've never seen anything like it."
"What happened?"
"He came out of the fugue, said that what he knew couldn't help with the bloody curse, but Charlie… and Mark's boyfriend… me… We were watching, recording and… Shit." He stopped and pulled out a small video camera from his pocket and fiddled with controls, passing it to Sean, who took it curiously. "Watch this."
He saw a man he didn't recognise, the psychic he assumed, lying back in a sliver of sun, head back and his eyes closed. The scene was odd, maybe because of the light that filtered in through the windows, and he was concentrating on dust motes dancing across the psychic's face when suddenly a burst of static stuttered on the screen
"Who?" the man asked, receiving static in return for his question. "Who?" he said again. More static. Then, surprising the hell out of Sean, a loud cry rang out across the calm of the scene. It was a horrific half scream, becoming lost in static again, and the film finished just as suddenly.
"Bloody hell." Sean felt heat bursting through his body, and he had his hand over his heart at the shock of the sudden scream as he passed the camcorder back.
"Mark, the psychic, he said the whole thing was like this love triangle. He guesses our ancestor lusted after Curtess, got dumped, so he arranged for Curtess's lover to be burnt at the stake, and then Curtess himself."
"Jesus."
"I tell you, man, it shook me up. They left. Charlie went to hospital to visit Carol, Diane went off for a wedding dress fitting, and there was no bloody way I was staying in that place on my own. Can I stay here tonight?"
Sean sighed inwardly, so much for keeping Daniel's presence in his front room a secret. "I wish I could, mate, but there's already someone sleeping on the pull-out bed." Phil raised his eyebrows in question, and Sean shrugged. "I was out in the car last night—"
"Your dad?"
"Dad, yeah." Phil knew him so well, knew that only his dad had the real power to wind Sean up to the point of driving his car off into the countryside at night. "I nearly hit this guy walking in the road."
"Bloody hell, is he okay?"
"Yeah, didn't actually hit him, but he's not so well, so he's sleeping it off here where I can keep an eye on him." Before he could finish, Phil stood and had the door open, peering in to where Daniel was lying. Phil shut the kitchen door with deliberate care and turned to Sean.
"You have Psycho Army Guy in your front room." Sean winced at the summing up of Daniel's character.
"He isn't psycho, just—" There wasn't much he could say without breaking doctor-patient confidentiality so he stopped.
"He threw a tin of beans at Edwin's boy."
"Michael? Little shit probably deserved it."
"And he drinks mad amounts in the pub."
"He's seen a lot, Phil."
"And he is never seen outside of his house apart from the pub and the village shop, and that is rare. He's a bloody hermit."
"He's tired and healing." Sean wasn't sure where all this defence was coming from, but he knew Daniel had reason for what he was going through. He just didn't want to share it with his oldest friend.
"He's a friend of Will Stanton, you know."
"Your sister's fiancé?"
"Yeah, tall, dark, handsome and poor himself. He asked Daniel to be his best man, apparently him and Army Guy go way back."
"How?" It confused Sean to think of any connection between Daniel and Will.
"Psycho lived here until he was, I don't know, something like eight or so, best friends with Will. His mum and dad split, mum took him away, dad died three years ago, brain haemorrhage, nasty." Sean didn't remember that case, but he would have been working at the hospital then, quite apart from the family surgery. "He's one hell of a good-looking guy, dark, brooding, intense, all very tortured Heathcliff."
"You are as bad as an old woman," Sean teased and Phil smiled.
"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.
