Chapter Text
Brian hisses a curse as he overruns past the junction he needs. He lets the Jaguar roll to a stop and sighs. He is too busy letting his mind wander as he travels down roads he has never used before. He ought to concentrate. He crunches the gears as he forces the car into reverse, his foot not quite flat on the clutch. He winces at the jarring noise.
His companion mumbles something under his breath from the back seat. The engine whines reluctantly, apparently in agreement with the blond. Brian catches sight of the frown on his companion’s face when he wraps his arm around the headrest to look through the rear window as they weave uncoordinatedly back to the junction. ‘Sorry, I missed the turning,’ he says, sparing his passenger a tight smile.
‘How much longer?’ Roger asks quietly, ensconced within a number of blankets.
Brian pulls into the junction and stops next to a road sign, the first he has seen for miles. It is starting to get dark. If they lose the light, it will be much harder to find the property they have been driving hours to get to. He has never been there before. ‘Only a few miles to the village, the cabin is another mile and a half from the centre according to the map.’
‘About half an hour’s drive if we get lost then,’ Roger jokes breathily. Brian catches sight of him trying to sit up and he promptly stops the vehicle.
‘No, stay! For God’s sake, Rog. You shouldn’t be out of the hospital, let alone sitting up unaided.’
Roger squeezes his eyes shut and snorts a laugh. ‘Relax, Dr May, I can barely sit up unaided even if I wanted to…just trying to get some feeling back in my legs.’
He is telling the truth. Now that Brian has fully turned in his seat, he can see clearly that Roger is only stretching against the pillows. He looks pale in the fading light, bruising on his face exacerbated by shadows, but the faint grin on his lips is welcome and earns another in return. ‘You’d have had more room if you’d let me use my car,’ Brian argues, frowning again.
‘But it would’ve taken us twice as long to get here,’ Roger grouses weakly, pulling at the sling that restricts him. His movements are uncoordinated and sluggish, his words slurred.
Brian shakes his head, exasperated as he presses on. ‘You’ve been asleep for most of the trip, so would it have mattered?’ Unconscious, more like it, he thinks.
He is once again reminded of how poorly he has thought this journey out. Neither of them is in a fit state for travel. Brian has not slept properly for nearly a week and a half. Not really since the accident two weeks prior. Roger, despite the air of nonchalance he has tried to present, is a fragile cargo. Parts of him healing slowly. Parts of him will not heal at all, but his head injury means he is not aware of that, yet. Brian sighs at the grim task he has ahead of him. ‘Just rest.’
Roger’s answer is quietly defeated. ‘Wake me when we get there, doc.’
Despite Roger’s pessimism, it only takes Brian another fifteen minutes to find the gate to their accommodation. He is only marginally surprised that Roger has managed to fall back into a deep sleep. The blond stays under even when the car rumbles over a low timber bridge and up a patchy shingled driveway adjacent to a large lake.
Brian gives the younger man a closer look as he turns off the engine and cracks open his door, flooding the interior with a hazy yellow light. Roger is out for the count, breathing deeply with his mouth open, the smooth features of his face belaying the fact he has that year celebrated his fortieth birthday. Brian decides to venture up to the cabin with some of their luggage and make sure everything is in order without waking his friend. It will be harder once the convalescing man is in the house with him, of this he is certain. He desperately needs the sleep.
This secluded property is just the thing they need to ensure Roger is left to recover in peace. Even in the private hospital room, Roger’s patients had found a way to get messages to him about their treatment. Plastic surgery that could wait, in Brian’s opinion. The esteemed neuroscientist could see the conflict on his friend’s face when he politely refused to respond to the private notes he was constantly being passed. Some of his patients had been angry, as though it had been Roger’s fault that he had been knocked off his bicycle on his way to work. Brian has been sure to constantly remind him that his patients are crazy. He has a feeling this is not news to the younger surgeon, despite his weak protests to the contrary.
Brian lugs the heavy suitcases up the winding stone path to a sturdy wooden door framed by two large stained-glass windows. The caretaker in the nearby village has left the lights on for their arrival after much persuasion. It cost Brian an additional fifty pounds to convince the old codger to lay out a truck load of kindling and logs for the fire and even then, he has only left them by the bridge. The other villagers Brian had tried before had been reluctant to even cross the bridge over to the cabin. Something about the property has them spooked, much to Brian’s annoyance. The help would have been gratefully received. He gathers up as much kindling as he can carry and drops it on the threshold of the cabin.
He feels as though he is being watched as he collects the remaining logs. He pauses, listening closely but hears only the sound of water lapping against the underside of the bridge in the brisk wind. Too dark to see anything amiss other than the dim lights of another property a few miles across the valley, Brian continues with his work.
On his fifth trip back to the car, Roger is starting to stir. He looks around with interest, rubbing his eyes with one hand as Brian positions the hospital acquired wheelchair next to the car door. ‘Lean forward while I open the door,’ he orders, waiting for Roger to carefully comply.
The wheelchair is only a precaution. Roger has not had to rely on it too much since he has regained consciousness, choosing instead to limp unsteadily wherever he pleases which doesn’t help his fuzzy head or his broken ribs. Stubborn fool. The wheelchair was Brian’s non-negotiable condition of his early release from hospital.
Brian struggles with it up the path, opting to drag it backwards, much to Roger’s languid amusement as he uses one leg to assist. ‘I don’t see why we couldn’t have stayed in the Hilton,’ he suggests breathily.
‘Because,’ Brian groans, lifting the chair over a particularly jagged rock. ‘Your patients stay there before they go to Harley Street for surgery, and they will not leave you alone. You need rest and your patients need to learn some boundaries. They cannot expect you to be available while you’re recovering, especially with your memory as it is...’
Roger sighs, rubbing his sore head. ‘It’s always nice to feel wanted.’
‘Their tummy tucks and breast implants can wait until you’re back on your feet, Rog,’ Brian says sharply. ‘Just because they have money, doesn’t give them the privilege of your undivided attention at all hours of the day.’ He does not get a response and he doesn’t expect one.
Roger makes no attempt to get out of the chair once they are in the wooden structure that passes for a home away from home and Brian is thankful. He does, however, lean back and suck in a breath when he catches sight of the diving suit by the front door. It is not the only nautical themed piece in the small building, but it stands out magnificently, looming over the seated man. ‘Are we near the coast?’ he asks, bemused.
Brian wheels the chair along the more manageable oak flooring with ease, leaving muddy tracks in its wake. ‘We’re at least fifty miles from the nearest beach,’ he replies guardedly.
Roger shifts his weight in the wheelchair, closing his eyes as Brian snaps on every light in the long room. ‘Smells like Brighton promenade in here,’ he says softly.
‘We’re not in Brighton.’
‘Clearly,’ Roger replies, squinting at where his watch should be. It is not on his wrist, broken in the accident. He must have forgotten again, judging by his scowl. ‘We’ve been travelling for hours,’ he guesses correctly.
Brian fumbles with some switches by the fireplace that appear to serve no purpose. ‘I’ll have to get an electrician out this week to make sure this place is actually habitable.’ He glances over to Roger before hastily adding, ‘of course, it was lived in by the previous owner up until last month, so it should be fine.’ Roger does not respond. It looks like it is taking all his effort to simply stay seated in the wheelchair. ‘I’ve got your bed made already. I’ll help you wash and change, then we’ll get you settled for the night. We could both do with some sleep.’
‘A private room and a turn down service,’ Roger says quietly. ‘I’m honoured.’
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It takes a whole day for Roger to realise the bath is situated on the opposite side of his bedroom. It is not until he hears the water gushing from the tap, that’s louder than it should be, that he looks up and spots it. He has been dozing for most of the day, continuing in the familiar pattern of his hospital recovery. His circadian rhythm is way out and shows no sign of returning any time soon.
His slurred question is barely audible above the sound of running water. ‘You don’t expect me to bathe right here, do you?’
Brian sighs. He has been waiting for the question to come up. He was beginning to worry that his normally observant friend had been too caught up in the pain to notice that they are in a three-room cabin. One bedroom for himself in the main room, one for Brian in the rear and a small kitchen. He is almost relieved that Roger has finally made the observation. ‘There’s a shower in my room that you’re welcome to use once you’re steady on your feet. Until that time, I’ll assist you in the bath.’
Roger does not respond. He seems more alert than when they first arrived and Brian braces himself for the barrage of questions he has come to expect as the blond gazes out of the leaded window. ‘Did you bring my sunglasses?’
‘I brought your prescription glasses.’
‘Sunglasses would help my headache more,’ Roger replies, rubbing the side of his head, wary of the stitches. He frowns at the apparent shortness of his hair, probably unable to recall when he has had it cut. He shifts carefully in the bed, holding his breath with a grimace.
Brian watches. He has become an expert at watching his friend for the slightest change over the last two weeks. ‘Forty minutes until your next painkiller is due, if you can wait that long?’
Bloodshot eyes meet his, the left eye still almost completely red following the accident. The bruising on his face is still prominent in colour but the swelling has finally subsided. Roger is starting to look like himself again, or at least a new, paler version of his old self. Brian is doubtful he will see the confident, carefree man he once was ever again, no matter how many horses and men he enlists to put him back together again. ‘Let’s get it over with then,’ the blond says, resigned to his fate.
Getting the shorter man into the deep enamel bath is tiring work for both men. Brian is forced to take practically all of his friends’ weight as he carefully lowers himself to sit in the churning water, eyes squeezed shut. He nods once when Brian checks the water is not too cold, unable to speak. The tall man turns off the tap.
Roger is breathing heavily as he allows Brian to hold him upright until he gets the bath pillow into position, the fingers of his free hand splayed against the bruising on his ribs. No time for embarrassment at his nakedness. He has long since given up trying to argue, his broken ribs and collarbone rendering him practically useless in his own care.
His head injury torments him constantly. He knows that without help, his hair will remain unwashed as he is incapable of lifting his left arm at all. He has been unable to get his head wet since the stitches went in. Brian has known him long enough to know how much he must desperately want his hair clean.
‘I’m just going to dampen your hair with a jug of water,’ Brian says, using a voice normally reserved for children or the elderly and infirm. Roger grunts, statue still as the water flattens his hair to his tender scalp and runs in tendrils down his upper body. He grasps the lip of the cold enamel tub with his good hand.
There is a pin holding the broken clavicle together, a row of stitches running along the curve of his shoulder from the invasive operation. Red, raw and angry-looking once the dressing has been removed. Brian is a fellow doctor, but it has been a while since he spent so much time with a living patient and he cannot help the way his stomach does a flip each time he catches sight of the healing wound. His usual domain is a sterile laboratory where he does not have to deal with pain, blood, and gore. He does not know how Roger does it on a daily basis and remains so cheery in his profession.
He tries to distract the younger man as he helps him sit up so that he can carefully lather shampoo into his hair, wary of the knot that is still present where his helmet cracked against a car bonnet. ‘I can make a start on something to eat after this if you’re hungry?’
Now it is Roger’s turn to sigh. His appetite has been non-existent since the accident because of the nausea from his head injury and the constipation from the tablets he takes for the pain. ‘Maybe you could go spear fishing for trout in that lake,' he suggests huskily, a hint of playfulness playing on his lips.
Brian laughs. A sweet release from the worry. ‘Best I can offer is some sardines on toast. I won’t have to don any of this equipment to fish as I’ve bought some tinned supplies already.’ There is a tense moment of silence as the shampoo is rinsed. Brian knows Roger will hate this part of the process because it pulls on all his injuries at once. He tips forwards compliantly and allows his caregiver to pour water over his head. He groans under his breath. His equilibrium has been off kilter since the accident, and any shift from being upright can be agony.
After a couple of minutes of Brian’s careful ministrations Roger snorts a soft chuckle, eyes still closed as he carefully leans back into the soft bath pillow with a ghost of a grin brightening his pale features. ‘I can just imagine you in that bloody diving suit, helmet and all. The weight of it would sink you; we’d have to dredge that lake to find your body.’
Brian takes in the smile with one of his own. It has been a while since his friend has been lucid enough to hold a full conversation, let alone crack jokes. It is a relief to hear him speak without slurring every word, even if his voice is breathier than usual.
Brian takes the opportunity while Roger has his eyes closed to examine him more closely. The bruising on his face is certainly evolving into some impressive shades of green and yellow, as is the area over his ribs and knee. He needs a shave.
His broken collar bone is bothering him the most right now, if the way he is holding himself is any indication. It is healing too slowly for both of their liking, and that is only a slight indication of the internal damage that will take much longer to heal. He has not lost weight in so much as he has grown slightly softer around the middle while being laid up for two weeks. He was ill prior to the accident, only he does not know this yet and Brian has not thought of a way to tell him. Coward, he thinks.
‘Your breathing sounds better today,’ he observes, hoping his voice is not as shaky as it sounds to his own ears.
Roger cracks an eye open, his good one, water clinging to the dark lashes. ‘It’s getting a little easier, as long as I remember not to move or try to inhale too deeply. Feels like I have lungs full of wet sand. Saying that, I’d still kill for a cigarette. Did I bring any with me?’
‘You might as well give up, Rog. You managed without for over two weeks now.’ Brian hands him a flannel to deal with his intimate areas. He leans back and looks at the short and slightly auburn facial hair the blond is sporting, patchy in places with grey coming through. ‘I can give you a shave if you like.’
The blond shakes his head and winces. ‘Maybe tomorrow, if my head stops pounding. I have a tablet for nausea, don’t I?’
Brian nods. He has tablets for everything. Well, nearly everything.
Getting the patient into his bed is only marginally easier than getting him out of the bath, his limbs loose and pliant from the soothing warm water. Towel drying his short hair flares up pain in his scalp and Brian makes quick work of getting him back into a pair of silk pyjamas and his sling while he is still grumbling.
Despite his initial reticence, Roger does manage to eat most of his supper. Maybe he figures the sooner he regains his strength, the sooner he can look after himself. Maybe he is just hungry. Brian watches him as he scratches at the scars in the crook of his elbow, still sore from the intravenous fluids they had him on in the hospital. He should still be there, a little voice is persistent in Brian’s head.
Roger has not really complained, but Brian is certain he is not overly happy about having to undergo the humiliation of being bathed, dressed, medicated and fed by his oldest friend. Normally he would grouse at the unwanted attention. Instead, he has been unusually submissive and indifferent over his convalescence.
He tires easily, despite doing very little. Brian can see his head nodding from the corner of his eye as he studies nearby. He wordlessly helps his friend lay against stiff, downy pillows to keep pressure off his healing lung, tucks him in tightly so that the damp air of the cabin cannot get to him. It has just gone nine o’clock.
The neuroscientist is happy to turn in for the night himself; he has read the same paragraph several times and cannot recall what on earth it is about. Travelling and settling in to the new surroundings has taken it out of them both, even if all Roger has done all day is nap intermittently while Brian sets out the cabin for their stay. Lugging heavy rugs and strange nautical paraphernalia into the corners of the room was tougher than it should have been on his own.
After accidentally setting off a coughing fit by sweeping dust from the hard oak floorboards with too much gusto, Brian feels guilty about the current state of his companion. Roger is still wheezing now, even in sleep. Brian watches the unsteady rise and fall of his chest with concern before he snaps the light off.
The complete darkness is startling at first when Brian wakes much later. It takes him a moment to remember that he is no longer in the city, where a streetlight is positioned inconveniently right outside his bedroom window. Pitch black. It takes another moment for his sleep-ridden mind to catch up. Unsure of what has woken him, Brian lays for several minutes until something catches his ear. A moan. Roger! Brian kicks his legs from under the blankets, searching for his slippers in the dark. He bangs his knee on the bedside table in his haste and curses.
He fumbles for the light switch as another moan rips through the still of the night. It does not sound like the injured man is in pain, and he shouldn’t be. The painkillers he is on should be sufficient to last through the night. When Brian makes his way over to the bed, he can see the blankets are in disarray on the floor, along with the sling. He picks them up, recoiling as his hand comes away wet. ‘Oh, Rog,’ he says softly, wondering if the other man had needed to use the toilet. He closes the large skylight window above the bed with a long pole, unable to recall if he left it open.
He makes quick work of replacing the bedspread with a spare without waking the other man, the sheets are mercifully dry as are his silk pyjama bottoms. The tall man blushes when he spots the tell-tale bulge of an erection through the lush material. Roger mumbles something in his sleep, his lips twitching into a half-smile as Brian hurriedly covers him with the fresh bedspread and braces a pillow against his bad arm to stop him moving it accidentally.
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‘I can leave a bed pan nearby in case you need it in the night,’ Brian offers the next morning at breakfast.
Roger pauses in the task of stabbing his overdone eggs one-handed and glances up. ‘Okay.’
‘I’ll get those bedcovers washed. The wind will certainly help dry them today. You know you could have called me, if you needed help getting to the toilet. I wouldn’t have minded.’
‘I don’t follow,’ Roger says, the furrow between his brows deepening as he glances down at the blanket covering his legs.
Brian is hesitant to elaborate. ‘You had a bit of an accident.’
Roger scoffs. ‘That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?’
‘No. Last night, you had an accident in bed. I had to make do with the spare blanket as it was the only item still dry.’
The fork clatters on the plate. Various emotions flash over the blonds battered face before he settles on disgust. ‘Fucking hell.’
‘Really, Rog, it’s not a problem, I just thought you’d like to know.’
The surgeon rubs at his sore head. ‘I had a strange dream about being back in the cathedral choir. The roof had come clean off during a storm and it was raining inside. Everyone got soaked…I thought I heard water dripping. Did it rain overnight?’
‘I don’t believe so,’ Brian says.
‘Maybe there’s a problem with the plumbing, then.’ Roger stops, drumming his fingers on the tray he has been eating his breakfast from. He frowns. ‘I don’t think it was another fit. My pyjamas weren’t wet, or you would have woken me to change. You didn’t wake me, did you?’
It is hard to miss the vulnerable way the question is phrased, as though Roger is unsure either way. He has had three epileptic episodes in the last week but he has been able to recall the aftermath of each one with some clarity not long after. Each one is a further reminder that the long road to recovery might not lead to where he wants it to if his head injury has caused any irreversible long-term problems. He is a surgeon, after all and he’d like to return to his profession if at all possible. Brian does not have the heart to tell him that he may not be returning to the profession, even if his broken bones heal well. He will wait until he is stronger to break the news.
The tall man nervously clears his throat. ‘Actually, I think you might have tried to wake me. I didn’t hear you at first, so maybe you got up and went as far as you could towards the loo. I don’t think you had a fit because you’d managed to put the bedcovers to one side.’ Brian is startled by the clattering of the plate on his companion’s tray as he slams his hand down on it in irritation...or embarrassment.
‘Oh God,’ Roger moans. ‘To think a month ago I was mingling with the rich and famous, my biggest worry being whether I was getting a Ferrari or a Rolls, now I’m worried I can’t even go to sleep without pissing the bed and I’m actually relieved if I don’t have an epileptic fit.’ He barks a humourless laugh, rubbing at his eyes.
‘That particular party was three months ago, and you went with a Jaguar in the end. Completely impractical and almost impossible to park in central London.’
‘Fat lot of good the Jag did me when I was hit by that black cab. Though why the hell I was cycling across central London on a Tuesday morning for the life of me I don’t remember. Reed said my memory would sort itself out by now. It’s been nearly three weeks. I’ve got to get back to work, I can’t afford to be taking sabbaticals like you. No rich uncle left me any mysterious properties in…wherever the hell we are. The monthly rent on my office is more than your bloody mortgage is per year and I can’t expect poor Crystal to hold the fort.’ He stops, breathing heavily and frowning as he tries to recall a memory. In the low light of the cabin, the bruising, along with his prominent cheekbones and hooded eyes give his damaged face a ghost-like quality.
Brian removes the tray from his patient’s lap, sensing that Roger has finished with his meal. ‘Reed said your memory issues might resolve given time. He was quite adamant that we shouldn’t try and press our luck by over-exerting you. It will take time, and you know it will. The progress you’ve made in just a week is very promising. Skull fractures can be dangerous, we don’t want to rush your recovery. The brain is an endlessly complex organ-’
Roger scoffs, running his hand over his face. ‘I know, I know. I don’t need a neuroscience lesson, even if I am but a lowly plastic surgeon. Besides, they said it was only a hairline fracture. I’m sure my head shouldn’t feel this fuzzy…’ He carefully probes the stitches. Grimaces. ‘You know they say doctors make the worst patients, and all that, but they make much worse nurses, Bri. Believe me when I say I don’t need another patronising explanation from you about the bloody human brain.’ He scratches at his stubble as he stutteringly catches his wheezing breath. ‘I seem to recall you offering a barber service last night?’
Brian watches him warily. ‘I did,’ he says.
Roger hums, apparently pleased that his short-term memory has not failed him completely. The flash of anger is gone almost as fast as it appears now that he is certain he has not had another fit.
Brian continues to watch him carefully. ‘Let me do the washing up, then I’ll sort you out. If I lay your clothes out, do you think you can dress yourself?’
Roger gives him a thumbs up with one hand, seemingly distracted again by the view of the lake from his window. A layer of mist hangs over it. Brian lays out his clothes, removes his sling for him and retreats to the kitchen while the blond grumbles about his fashion choices. ‘I haven’t worn these jeans for bloody years. You must have dug deep to find them at the back of the wardrobe.’
When Brian returns from the kitchen, he finds Roger sitting shirtless on the edge of the bed. He’s caught sight of himself in a mirror on the opposite wall and doesn’t look happy with what he can see. He has removed the dressing on his shoulder. ‘Where are my glasses? I want to see what that butcher has done to my shoulder. They wouldn’t let me see in the hospital. I’m sure they only kept it covered so I wouldn’t kick off.’
Brian cannot see how this will end well. Roger is a skilled and meticulous surgeon, going above and beyond to ensure his work is discrete and clean. The surgical incision on his shoulder is anything but discrete. He will not be happy.
‘I’ll give you your glasses after I’ve taken your blood pressure and carried out some other checks.’ Brian kneels, in front of his patient, breaking the view. ‘You might want that shave first too. You look…different.’
Roger tuts. He silently allows Brian to take his blood pressure and check the swelling around his face and injured arm. ‘Head still aches like a bastard,’ he mutters as he has his heart and lungs listened to. ‘But my ribs are feeling a little less tender this morning. That bed is marginally more comfortable than the hospital bed.’
‘Any blurred or double vision?’ Brian catches the head tilt in response to his question. He sighs. ‘Aside from needing your glasses to see more than ten feet ahead, how is your vision today?’
‘You know you don’t have to continue with the full neurological checks now that I’m no longer in the hospital; that’s why they released me. All I have is a permanent headache, a patchy memory and a few epileptic episodes which will hopefully die out.’ He closes his eyes as his private physician probes the painful area around the knot above his ear. ‘When was the last time you used that stethoscope? I’m surprised you remember which end is for listening in to.’
‘Shhh, open up,’ Brian says, holding out a glass thermometer.
Roger huffs. ‘This is completely unnecessary; I can already tell you what it will read and it won’t make any bloody difference to my recovery. I’m sure I’ve got medication for it; I have pills for just about everything else. I’m surprised I don’t rattle like a pair of maracas every time I move.’
‘It’s important to monitor your temperature while you’re healing, Rog, you know it is. I know what you’re like, you’d sooner have a leg fall off before telling anyone it’s painful. They weren’t going to release you without permanent supervision, especially after the fitting. We both know you’re running a fever; I just want to make sure it’s within safe parameters.’ Brian pauses in his ministrations, keeping a hand on Roger’s battered face as the other man grimaces. ‘I only want to help. You know I just about had a heart attack when they told me about the accident. Please, let me help you.’
Roger finally meets his eyes, the sour expression on his face softening. ‘Okay, okay. I’m sorry.’
This time it is Brian who sighs. ‘You don’t have to be sorry, Rog…just let me look after you until you’re back on your feet. You did it for me…well, I appreciate just what you did for me when I was under the weather last year.’
A nice turn of phrase for what was essentially a nervous breakdown. Months of feeling inadequate at work and a recent failed marriage had pushed Brian over the edge. He snapped, refusing to leave the house when it all became too much. Following a concerning phone call, Roger had stopped by after work every day for three weeks to make sure Brian was washed, fed, and entertained.
He had even lied to Brian’s laboratory placement and told them that he had been seconded to his practice for an important assignment so that Brian did not lose his research funding. It hadn’t gone unnoticed that his bills had all been paid while he hadn’t been earning a penny. Sometimes Roger was too nice for his own good. It wasn’t the first time he had put his career on the line by lying to help out a friend.
The blond looks concerned that the episode has been brought to light once again and Brian feels an immeasurable amount of remorse for it. ‘I know I’m in good hands, Bri. In fact, I can’t think of anyone more qualified to watch over me. You might be a tad overqualified, even by your own impossibly high standards.’ Roger grins as he takes the thermometer and places it under his tongue, missing the flash of guilt on Brian’s face as he turns away.