The Soldier's Tale (5 page)

Chapter Six

Sean waited before visiting Daniel at home. He waited exactly ten minutes after Jack and Mark had left, and then he had his jacket and boots on and was tramping down the side roads between the surgery and his house and the Francis family's cottage. There was stuff unfinished between them, something indefinable that had sparked between them, and he wasn't sure why, but he wanted more and wanted to know more. There was only one way to do it. The cottage was neat and small, and beyond the wrought iron gate, the garden was a tumble and tangle of cottage flowers—chrysanthemums, nasturtiums and late roses, mingling with the scent of rosemary. Passing through the gate, he then walked the short path. The knock sounded loudly on the heavy oak door, and he glanced up at a thatched roof and tiny windows in the whitewashed house. Daniel's cottage was typical of the chocolate box dwellings that dotted the periphery of the village.

He wondered as he waited for the door to be answered if it was Daniel who did the gardening.

The door opened, and Daniel glared at him angrily. Sean didn't actually blame him, realising he couldn't really defend landing on the guy's doorstep for absolutely no reason.

"I was waiting for you," Daniel finally offered, and turned to retreat into the cool interior, leaving the door wide open. Sean stepped in.

"You were?" he asked curiously. Why would Daniel be expecting him?

They ended up in the kitchen. Daniel leaned against the sink, staring out of the small crooked window, seemingly intent on gazing out over the similarly cottage-themed back garden.

"In my experience doctors always want the whys. You didn't get them this morning, hence you followed me to the one safe place I have so you can criticise, poke, prod, force, and generally make a nuisance of yourself until you crack me open like a nut."

Ouch, that was harsh.
Clearly Daniel had had enough of it all and describing this cottage as his one safe place was telling. Sean bit his tongue from snapping back that he wouldn't be here if Daniel hadn't fucked up his medications.

"How about… Jeez, look, I'm not your doctor, not officially, but I wanted to talk to you about some of the stuff you are taking."

"I'm not taking advice from some kid who plays at doctors and nurses." Irritation and anger spiked in Daniel's voice, and he finally turned from gazing at the garden to face Sean. His features were composed into a mask of indifference.

"My dad may have thirty years on me, but don't for one minute think I don't know my job," Sean snapped back with just as much anger and irritation in his own voice. It was hard enough being taken seriously in this village as the
young
Doctor Lester, let alone having that same crap shoved at him by someone he had bloody well helped.

"I apologise," Daniel offered softly, "that was uncalled for. You clearly knew how to help me. I thank you for that. Now is that all?"

"No. Your meds are contra-indicating."
Shit.
He hadn't meant for it to sound like he was countermanding his father's recommendations, but hey, it was out there now. "The prescription that helps you sleep, the pain killers, and the anti-inflammatory aren't working together properly. I think we could get together a better regime."

Daniel looked at him suspiciously and raised a single eyebrow. "And my doctor didn't suggest changes because?"

"Dad—Doctor Lester—inherited the prescription from when you were probably at your worst. No disrespect, but he's old school. Look, can I be frank with you here?"

"Go on."

"I have new evidence that I'm pulling from. For instance, I'm guessing that the meds you take make you lethargic?" He waited expectantly for an answer, tilting his head in question.

"Like a mist around my mind," Daniel finally admitted with a small nod. "I feel like I can't make decisions or even make sense of what is going on around me. It's why…" His voice trailed off, and Sean saw the naked pain in Daniel's eyes.

"It's why you don't take them all, because they make you feel out of control."

"Like an addict, desperate for my next hit. No better than that kid in the surgery. I won't allow that; I'm not that person." Daniel's voice resonated with the strength of the words as though they'd been ripped from inside him, and Sean nodded gently.

"Put the kettle on, Daniel. Let's talk."

* * * *

They sat opposite each other at the small kitchen table drinking tea, and Daniel listened carefully, as he always did, to what the doc was telling him. His head worked best when he knew every reason why things were happening. Sean explained about his pills. One was the "upper," one was a sedative, and the third contra-indicated both. It was no wonder he felt like a zombie. He hated them all.

"It isn't a bad thing to be taking these, Daniel." Sean was so damned patient even as Daniel cringed inwardly. "PTSD is nothing to be ashamed of."

"I don't have PTSD. The docs at the hospital signed me off. These are for anxiety." Daniel was lying to himself. He was damned sure that, whatever this nebulous PTSD was, he had it. He just wasn't ready to accept it.

"Have you thought of counselling? To lose your friends like you did—"

"Been there done that. Look, Doc, guys who are on bomb squads have their own front lines. We only had each other to look to. Every move, every step, could be the last one. We were brothers, but we couldn't be. There had to be distance between us, 'cause we knew not all of us were going to make it home."

"Your notes said you were one of only two to get out alive," Sean said quietly, and Daniel just found himself nodding, unconsciously replaying the last day in his head. "I can't, for one single minute, imagine what you went through. It's combat on such a personal level that it's almost impossible to understand."

"Survivor's guilt they said at the counselling. I went there. Jesus, I still go even now, Salisbury general, every Wednesday and Friday. I don't know what else they can say."

"How are you…
feeling
… now?"

"I'm doing okay I guess." Daniel was surprised at what he was saying. He would never be okay, not in a million years. Smithy, Whitey, Marston, Emmet… all gone in the flash of a roadside bomb, seconds away from disabling it. Emmet had slipped a single millimetre as shells rained down on them from above, and there it was—over. "The only thing that saved me was Tommy,"
shit,
"a good guy, not some single, gay guy like me, but married to Linda, with two gorgeous kids, Abby and Emily. A semi-detached house in the country, the whole perfect dream. The blast caught him sideways, and his body protected mine. They couldn't move us for two hours because enemy fire was too heavy. I was the only one left awake, and Tommy, his legs were gone. I had him… over me… on me… my… my friend."

"Jesus." Sean sounded destroyed by what he was hearing, and suddenly Daniel wanted to make it better for his audience. It was what he did.

"Yeah, a good man. A good soldier. Believe me, I want to deal with this, but I feel so damn fuzzy, as if my brain can't connect the dots."

"Will you trust me?"

"Can you really sit there and tell me you can help?"

"Yes, Daniel, I know I can. I can talk to my dad and get some of these meds switched around."

Daniel offered a small smile. "Then what are we waiting for?"

Chapter Seven

Sean drove Daniel to the pharmacy in Salisbury in Daniel's small car, his own sadly broken, way past safe driving and he had left it with his mechanic, Geoff, at the Audi garage. He had spoken to his dad, and for the first time ever, the older man had actually sat and listened, but all the time Sean wondered if it had anything to do with his mom who hovered at their sides. She was always a calming influence between them. The prescription was entirely new, although Daniel would need to be weaned off his old meds and onto the new ones carefully. He planned to be the one to help… as a friend. He waited outside of the pharmacy with a good twenty minutes to contemplate what had happened, including the one phrase he couldn't get out of his head. "Not a single, gay guy…" It wasn't like he had a fully functioning gaydar, but it never failed to amaze him how badly he could misjudge people and their sexual proclivities. Being gay must have been hard for Daniel in the Army, on the front lines. There was definite attraction from his side; Daniel was mostly what he looked for in a man—tall, dark, brooding, messed in the head. It was his modus operandi to go for the needy ones. What was he thinking? He wasn't ready to get behind any of Daniel's walls. He wasn't equipped to deal with all the stuff he knew nothing about. He'd made the decision to not go there and was feeling very proud of himself.

That's when the pharmacy door swung open, and Daniel limped out, concentrating on his footfalls, his dark eyebrows drawn together and his face creased in a frown, until he reached the car. Then he smiled. That smile was Sean's undoing. Suddenly this man wasn't damaged, or fragile, or needy. Suddenly he was strong and muscled and capable of holding his own. Suddenly he was the man who put himself between Sean and the knife and who ticked every one of Sean's boxes.

Daniel climbed in, wincing a little as he used one hand to pull his leg into the car, and Sean rapidly looked away, locking his hands at ten and two on the wheel. This attraction to Daniel was wholly unexpected but not entirely unwelcome. It had been three months and counting since he'd seen anything approaching physical intimacy, and since he'd moved to Steeple Westford he'd had none. Apart from the new guys, that psychic and his friend, and Phil of course, it wasn't like there was a lot of tail to chase in this sleepy village. Of course there might be more than he knew, since he appeared to have a malfunctioning gaydar.

"How's the pain?" Stick with the doctor questions. That was the way to handle this.

"You didn't finish the question." Daniel smirked. "Aren't you supposed to add on a scale of one to ten?"

"On a scale of—"

"A three. I can handle that with my eyes shut." Daniel opened the chemist's bag to rummage inside. "Not so many drugs now. Perhaps I can even get an erection." Sean's grip on the wheel tightened momentarily. Why the hell would Daniel say something quite so obvious as to allude to his dick? "I'm hungry." Daniel glanced at his watch. "I'm guessing you have other things to do, but the steaks at the Red Lion are good."

Sean jumped at the chance of more face time with Daniel.

They didn't do much talking. Instead they made a lot of pleased happy eating sounds. They were halfway through a huge plate of steak and chips when Will found them in the corner. Sean was startled as the man stood at their side, and for a moment, he wondered if he needed a doctor or something. Instead it seemed as if the man was here to speak to Daniel. Then he put two and two together. Will wanted Daniel to be his best man, and God did Will look furious.

"Where the bloody hell have you been?" he snapped at Daniel, who dipped his head and looked guilty. "You aren't answering your phone, your cell, you weren't at home—"

"He was with me," Sean interrupted, "at the surgery." He stopped at adding anything about the knee because that was doctor-patient privileged information. Will stopped in his tracks, slumping tiredly in the empty chair next to Daniel and resting a hand on his friend's back.

"What happened to you, Dan?" he asked carefully, and Daniel looked at him pointedly, before cutting another piece of steak and popping it in his mouth. Sean watched the interaction, saw the indecision on Will's face, and decided they probably needed alone time for a little while. He made excuses for more drink, propping up the bar with his back to them and far enough away to give the illusion of privacy but near enough to actually hear.

"I went for a walk," he heard Daniel start.

"A walk?"

"I hadn't taken my meds and—"

"Bloody hell, Daniel, you idiot."

"That's what
he
said."

Sean imagined he was the "he" in the conversation.

"Are you back on them now?"

"I am, well, different ones, better ones."

"Okay, and the pain?"

"Not too bad."

"Not too bad?" Sean could just imagine the look of incredulity that was probably passing Will's face, and he wasted more time asking Josie, the barmaid, about anything he could come up with.

"I'm okay, Will, stop fussing." Irritation coloured Daniel's voice, and Sean winced. He hated being fussed over when he was ill so he could sympathise with the soldier.

"Okay, but I haven't had your answer yet, and I need it."

"To what?"

"Damn it, Daniel, I want you to be my best man."

"No. So you need to find someone else."

"I don't want anyone else," Will replied with a hiss. It wasn't disappointment he had in his voice, but anger.

"You can't want my face there."

"What the hell does your face have to do with this?"

"Diana won't want her photos ruined."

"Diana wants—"

"No." Daniel's voice was determined and low, and then Sean heard the heavy oak door crashing against the wall. Just as quickly it slammed closed. He wanted to turn, but he couldn't. It was a train wreck. The door opened and shut a second time, and finally, he turned. The table in the corner was empty of both men. He sighed and turned back to Josie.

"Can I have the bill?"

* * * *

Will caught up with him quickly, but that was pretty easy considering he was a bloody cripple.

"Dan, wait." Sighing, Dan did as he was told, waiting for the argument, the shouting, the whole being told he was stupid thing. Damn Will and his clever mind. He came at it from an angle that was guaranteed to mean Daniel couldn't think.

"Diana knows how much it means for me to have my best friend stand up for me." Will said the words so softly, so carefully, and Daniel waited for a heartbeat before he replied.

"I'm not the same as I used to be, Will."

Will sighed and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Neither am I. Do you think I ever imagined I would fall in love with one of the Cursed?" Will used the village terminology for anyone from the Fitzwarren family, a playground term that Daniel remembered well. "Di—she's everything to me—but if there's one thing I've learned through all the hell the Fitzwarren family goes through, it's that, at the end of the day, family is important."

"I'm not your family, Will," Daniel tried to explain patiently, but Will just shook his head and placed a hand flat on Daniel's chest.

"You have been my family since you rescued me from Simon McAllister and his cronies in the craft supply room."

"We were six, Will."

"Six and already a bad boy, eh, Dan?"

Daniel sighed. Maybe he should push through this. Maybe he shouldn't listen to the little voice that told him people would stare and point and comment.

"How about I think about it?" It was all he could offer at this point, and Will nodded thoughtfully.

"I want you standing for me, being my best man, two weeks from Saturday. I have your suit all booked. I'll let you think, but I won't leave you alone."

* * * *

Daniel was exhausted, closing curtains at four in the afternoon and climbing into bed, his dagger under the pillow and one hand closed around it as he lay on his stomach. The pills he'd taken were the new regime, but he didn't hold out an awful lot of hope they would be any different from the ones he'd previously taken. The doc meant well, but a sincere green-eyed gaze and a sympathetic word or so meant sod all when the night closed in and Daniel was on his own.

Sleep happened so quickly he didn't have time to toss and turn, and the dreams caught him in their needy grasp way before he had a chance to stop them. The same ones—Belvedere, the knife, the fire. It was horrific, seeing someone burn like that. Flashes of Afghanistan mixed in, his friends dying around him, screaming for his help. Two voices whispered to him, his own and another deeper voice that was sly and insistent.

"You shouldn't have even tried to disarm under fire." The other voice resonated with accusation, and he wanted to say he'd had no choice.

"We had civilians there," he responded quickly in his dreams. "We needed a clear path."

The other voice twisted in a chuckle, derisory, mocking. "You were under fire. You know better. You knew your men had been on duty for seventy-two hours. They needed rest."

"I was following orders," he screamed back, but the other, the presence of the other, was suffocating.

"You'll never stand for your friend. You are a scarred, ugly cripple, useless, the man who couldn't save them."

His conscience never let him rest.

He rolled onto his back and sat upright, ripped from sleep by his fear and his anger, and for a long while, he concentrated on simply breathing through the emotions.