SIGHT LINES

 

By Mason-Dixon

 

 

 

I would like to thank N for her wonderful editing skills and for time spent helping to catch all the little errors.  I would also like to dedicate this to those who write about Knights, yet still are unable to defeat the most important one.  Rest assured that he will be defeated one day.  And, as always and most importantly, this is dedicated to B.     (Dixon)

 

 

Sometimes when we are lost and hurt, even our friends don't understand. They see us as weak and selfish and self-serving. We go out into the world and we lose ourselves in crowds, pretending we are like the others, going about our business. I've lost myself in the Persuaders and thinking I was losing myself among strangers, I was pleasantly surprised to realize....I was finding myself among friends. This one's for you guys...The Persuaders.    (Mason)

 

 

He boxed you in and drew straight lines to you.

He cut you down a bit and made you fit.

Poked some holes in you and gave goals to you.

Chalked you up and talked you up.

He folded you in place and you were his grace.

He stapled you to his side and you were his pride.

Emptied you of bitterness and cleaned up your mess.

Pulled you apart and put back your heart.

He wasn’t your author, so why should he bother.

He saw something in you along his sight line.

Love is a gaze in a fine, misty haze---that knows only ways to help make you shine.

(from the Lines of Demarcation)

 

 

 

 

 

Vincent Cade stared out the window to the street below him, actually at the small group of protestors who had been chanting for the last four hours.  It was eleven a.m. and the chanting was starting to grate on his nerves.  He absently wondered how the people on the lower floors, closer to them, were handling it.  Anxious to return to the peace of the countryside, he gathered his papers and materials, hoping to finish his business today.  He smiled to himself; when he had first purchased the rambling estate just outside the village of Salisbury, he had been desperate to return to the hustle and activity of London.  That had been six months ago.  Now, he found the traffic and the crush of people chafing his nerves after a few days and longed to get back to the quiet of the estate. 

 

Several years before he retired from the military, he had fallen in love with a rundown country house and property.  It had been dumb luck really, or fate as he liked to imagine when he was feeling more generous to the gods, that he had found the house.  He was already planning his retirement, scouting out areas to live in all over the world.  Already deciding he wanted to be someplace where English was the primary language, his choices were limited.  There were several areas of the United States that were in the running, but nothing that spoke to his soul. He was in London for a brief vacation visiting an old friend when on a lark had decided to drive to Bath on the coast. He had rented a car and armed with a map and a general idea of where he was going, set off.

 

He remembered his first glimpse of the house clearly. It was raining and cold.  Some tour bus heading to Stonehenge or Salisbury or Bath was up ahead going slowly.  Bored, he glanced to his right and caught site of the house, it spoke to him in a loud clear voice that said ‘home.’  It had taken him twenty minutes to find the right road and then the house.  It was set on ten acres of land, most of which were wild plains.  It was a large house, really too large for a man alone, the logical part of his brain said, but it pulled him in.  Getting out in the drizzle, he walked around.  The house was boarded up, the grounds in disrepair, but the structure seemed sound and well built.  It was a stone house, painted---at least one time---white with dark wood trim.  At that moment, Vin knew he had found his house. 

 

Now, the restoration and renovation were almost complete on the house.  The grounds were still in terrible condition, but he was looking forward to working on that himself.  His mother had been an avid gardener and he had grown up loving the feel of dirt on his hands and the sense of growing things.  It was an activity he had little time for in the army.

 

An especially loud cry from the protestors jerked him back to reality and he renewed his conviction that he was heading home tomorrow.  At least, he thought to himself, the next time I'm in London, I won't be staying at a hotel.  The same firm that handled the purchasing of the house was also handling the purchase of a small townhouse in Kensington for him.  His contract work with several private security companies required that he come to London at least once a month and he had grown tired of hotels.  There were miles of red tape and reams of paperwork involved with a non-citizen purchasing property, but by listing the firm and himself as co-owners, most of those had been solved.

 

Stepping into the elevator, he smiled at the operator, "Garage, please," he said.

 

"Yes, sir," the lift man said, pushing the appropriate button, then added, "The protestors are out in force by the main entrance, you might do better going out the Hyde Street entrance."

 

As the elevator reached the garage, Cade nodded, "Thanks for the advice," and stepped off.  Reaching his car quickly, he unlocked it and placed his briefcase on the floor of the passenger seat.  Taking a minute to mentally prepare himself for driving on the ‘wrong' side of the road, he smiled to himself.  It still felt funny to him and he was always slightly worried that he would forget and cause an accident.  Starting the car, he slowly pulled out and headed toward Hyde Street and hopefully less protestors.

 

 

 

 

 

Damien St. Claire sighed and buried his hands deeper into his pockets.  He was cold, nauseous and all around feeling like shit.  He had not been able to shake the cold that had seemed to settle into his chest.  Shivering slightly, he wished he had been able to stay at the hotel and in bed.  When he had slightly voiced that opinion, citing the fact that he was sick, Jason Grabowski, the group's leader, had not seemed too supportive.  So, at the crack of dawn, along with the forty other young people, he had dressed as warmly as possible and now stood outside the Crowne Plaza Hotel voicing his disapproval. 

 

CEOs from large Natural Resource companies headquartered all over North America and Europe were meeting this week to discuss the development of a new standard for the treatment of natural resources. Earth First's followers were staging a small, but vocal, protest over the new standards all week.  Yesterday two of their members had managed to get on the roof of the hotel and hang a sign proclaiming "Earth Rapist" with an arrow pointing to the meeting room below.  They had been quickly arrested and were now in custody awaiting deportation. 

 

None of that really mattered to Damien.  He supported the group, believed in what they were doing, but at that moment was more concerned about breathing and quieting his stomach than some abstract standards some rich old guys were writing.

 

"You know, St. Claire," a voice dripping with barely contained sarcasm said behind him, "if you aren't going to participate, maybe you should go home---all the way back to the U.S.   We really don’t need you around here."

 

"Jason, I'm sorry," Damien said turning around, "I told you I was sick.  I feel horrible and I really think I'm running a fever," he finished weakly, desperately trying not to whine.

 

"Well, what those guys are doing up there is much sicker than you are.  You better get with it or you're out.  I don't care what's your excuse."  With that final announcement, the determined leader stalked off to rally his followers into a greater frenzy of chanting and sign waving.

 

Wondering for the hundredth time what he was doing here, another coughing fit hit him, bringing him almost to his knees.  When it subsided several minutes later, he was queasy and feeling in desperate need of a bathroom.  Looking around, there was no place besides the hotel that looked promising, the street was lined with small quiet shops that did not look like they welcomed protestors off the street.  Judging by the extra security around the front entrance, he knew he would have little if any hope of getting in there.  He remembered a secondary entrance and exit around the side and hoped that it would be easier going there.  Just as he was turning in that direction, a hand shot out grabbing his arm.

 

“Where you going, St. Claire?” the name coming out like a curse.

 

Damien stared into the angry eyes of Grabowski again.  Thinking quickly, he said, “I was heading over to the side entrance.  I bet some of the guys try to slip out the back way and get past us and the press,” nodding to the small cluster of reporters that had gathered, hoping for some sort of confrontation. 

 

The protest leader nodded slowly, seeing the wisdom of what the other man was saying, but somewhat leery as to whether he was being told the truth.  “Good idea, man, but,” he paused, “take Rita with you and she can help.”  He motioned for a slim, black-haired girl to join them.

 

She handed her sign to someone and bounded over, pleased to be singled out by a man she worshipped.  “Yes, Jason?  How can I help you?” she asked, her voice rough and hoarse from days of constant chanting. 

 

Inwardly, Damien groaned.  The girl was weird, he had decided after a few days with the group.  Her eyes shined with that fevered look that cult members always seemed to have---cult members that killed to prove how faithful they were.  He had tried to stay as far away from her as possible.  Outwardly, he smiled.

 

“Why don’t you head over to the back entrance with St. Claire here and make sure none of these weasels try to go slink out the back,” Jason explained.

 

“Sure!  Great idea!  We want to make them face the public and answer to us for their crimes against Mother Earth!” she agreed, her eyes shining with loyalty to the cause.

 

As his stomach did another slow somersault, Damien grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the back entrance.

 

“Come on,” he urged, “don’t want to give them a chance to escape.”

 

Once safe from the watchful eyes of Grabowski, he felt sure he could offer some plausible excuse for visiting the inside of the hotel---more specifically, their bathrooms.

 

“This is such a wonderful idea, Damie,” Rita gushed as they hurried down the street.

 

“Umm  yeah, glad you think so,” he mumbled, trying not to cringe at the nickname.

 

As they hurried down the street---one driven by the call to protect nature, the other driven by the call of nature---they attracted the attention of two of the more bored news reporters.

 

Seeing two protestors hurrying down the street, their curiosity was piqued and they followed.

 

As Damien and Rita reached the entrance, they slowed and peered through the security fence into the garage.   Damien had let out a soft painful groan when he saw the barrier between him and his goal.

 

Mistaking his anguish for the evident failure, Rita patted his arm, ‘It’s okay, Damie.  We’ll get ‘em when they start to come out of the gate.”

 

Ignoring her, he rested his throbbing head against the cool bars and prayed for death.  He didn’t even turn around when the two reporters joined them and began to question Rita on what they were doing.  Tuning out her voice, he lazily watched a sleek, navy-blue Mercedes slowly wind it’s way around the parking aisle, heading in the general direction of their gate.

 

Rita was more alert.  At the sound of the car, she stopped the memorized propaganda she was reciting to the reporters and hurried over.  Grabbing his arm and shaking him excitedly, she squealed in his ear, “Here they come!  Get ready!”

 

“Get off!”  Damien growled at her, his temper which rarely showed itself rearing up as his head and stomach protested the movement.

 

Seemingly not to hear him, she dragged him closer to the opening as the car rounded the last turn and paused at the security gate, punching a button to open the gate.

 

Damien’s only thought as he watched the gate slowly open was slipping inside and finding a bathroom.  Rita had other ideas.

 

Inside the car, Vince Cade saw the two young people standing by the gate looking at him.  They seemed to be part of the protestor group in front and were probably handing out literature or wanting donations he decided.  Determined not to be delayed or even look their way, he accelerated, aiming for the clear street ahead of him.  The opening of the garage emptied onto it’s own private street and Vin knew he would not even have to slow down for traffic before he hit the road.

 

The girl saw the car accelerating toward the opening, determined not to let the evil man inside get away, she took action.  Damien was slowly making his way toward the opening, intending to slip inside before the gates closed behind the car.  As the car quickly approached the opening, she leapt into action.  Pushing Damien in front of the car, she screamed, “Get him, Damie!  Don’t let him get away!  Jump on him!”

 

Damien felt himself falling into the street, directly in the path of the car.  He heard the tires begin to screech as the driver slammed on the breaks.  His instincts took over, his brain only understanding the need to get out of the way NOW!  He leaped.  He might have made it, might have actually landed on the hood of the car, he reasoned later.  He had played sports and was agile and fit.  If only he weren’t dizzy and sick from his cold, if only the front bumper of the car had not plowed into his legs as he was going up, knocking him off balance, if only he had a second’s warning before that psycho girl pushed him.

 

He hit the hood hard with his shoulder and rolled.  The car slammed into a side pole of the exit, knocking him into the windshield and then off onto the pavement in a tangled heap of arms and legs.

 

Rita was frozen in place, then seeing potential newsworthy material, bolted off to find Grabowski.  The two reporters were stunned but quickly regained their composure and snapped pictures of the wrecked car and Damien.  Only the driver seemed concerned about the body lying on the ground.   

 

Vin hesitated in the car for the briefest of moments, but it was long enough for his mind to start chanting, "Oh my God, I've killed a child."

 

After struggling with his seatbelt and the inflated airbag, he flung open the car's door and stepped out.  The boy had rolled near the driver's front bumper and was moaning softly.

 

Thrilled that he was not dead, Vin crouched down, "Shhh," he murmured, "Lie still for me and don't move.  You may be hurt badly."  Glancing up at the two reporters, he snapped, "Call an ambulance. NOW!" His eyes warned them that this man’s patience was spent.

 

The quicker of the two fled, leaving his companion to deal with the angry man.

 

Turning back to the boy, he was more than a little angry to see him sitting up and attempting to stand.

 

"What are you doing?  SIT BACK DOWN THIS INSTANT, YOUNG MAN!!" he roared loudly and with more force than he had intended.  Years of dealing with foolhardy young men who knew in their heart of hearts that they were invincible had left him with little patience for such stupid measures. 

 

A flash of defiance that the other man would grow to know so well flashed across the younger man's face.  It was quickly replaced with a more puzzled look mixed with pain. 

 

Stepping closer, Vin put a supporting arm under Damien's saying gently, "Come here, son, let's get you back down before you fall down."

 

Damien looked up at the older man, opened his mouth as if to speak and promptly threw up on his shoes.  His stomach deciding it had had enough rough treatment.  "Oh my God, I am so sorry," the boy said before swaying backwards and passing out. 

 

Vin caught him and gently lowered him to the ground.  Taking off his suit jacket, he placed it over the prone figure, seemingly unconcerned about his ruined shoes or his suit.  Smoothing back the messed up hair, he said softly, “That's okay, son, don’t worry about it.  Not your fault." 

 

Within five minutes, the police had shown up followed by an ambulance a short time later.  As they loaded Damien in, still unconscious, Vin asked where they were taking him.

 

"St. Michael’s just down the street," one of the attendants answered.

 

"Is that a public or private hospital?"  Vin asked.

 

"Public, I doubt this boy's got insurance and he's not a citizen,” the other attendant answered, his voice trailing off as if that explained everything.

 

"No, I'll pay for him, but I want him to get the best care,” Vin said shaking his head.

 

The two attendants exchanged looks that, at least to Vin, seemed to imply that they thought his interest with the boy was more than with his health.

 

“I am his uncle for God’s sake,” he barked at them, unsure of why he felt the need to lie to two complete strangers over another stranger.  Reaching into his wallet, he pulled out a business card giving his Salisbury address and the name of his representatives in London.  “Here, give this to the hospital and tell them his bills will be taken care of.  I’ll follow you as soon as I’m finished here,” he explained, indicating the waiting police officer.

 

“Yes, sir,” one of the attendants said, taking the card and putting it in the boy’s newly started medical file.

 

“Go down three blocks, turn left and you will see St. Michaels Hospital about 2 miles down on your right.  Old brick buildings, you can’t miss it.”

 

After standing by assuring himself that there was nothing more he could do for his injured patient, watching the unconscious young man secured with IV’s and monitors, Vin turned his attention to the police.

 

Forty minutes later, after a long explanation from him on how the accident occurred, interrupted often by Rita, he was allowed to go.  Giving the police his room number at the hotel and his new London address, he assured them he would stay in town until they gave him the okay to leave.

 

“I can’t imagine, sir, that it should take any longer then a day or so, but just to be safe,” the officer had explained.

 

Waving off any explanation or apology, Vin said simply, “Don’t worry, it’s fine.  I want to make sure the boy is all right, anyway.”

 

One hour after the accident, Vin found himself pulling in front of the hospital.  He had called his solicitor to reschedule his appointment and inform him of the accident and that he had volunteered to pay the boy’s medical bills. 

 

 

 

 

Damien St. Claire pulled the covers up to his ears as he turned on his side. His bruised body protested the effort, but the drugs were kicking in. He felt at peace, contented, and warm.  They had even given him a shot to help settle his turbulent stomach.  The elderly doctor was kindly in his ministrations, but very paternal in his attitude. Several times he looked into the hazel eyes, grabbing their attention, then proceeding to chastise the foolish young man.

 

“I hear you threw yourself in front of a car, laddie. Not a smart move. I’m afraid your ribs are bruised and you’ve earned yourself a badly sprained wrist. There’s a pretty deep gash in your thigh from the bumper, but I’ve stitched you up nicely. You shouldn’t have much scarring.”

 

“Thanks, Doc, I guess I owe you.” Damien always promised remembrance, but as most people merely said it in passing, few realized that Damien St. Claire meant it.  Gestures of consideration were far and few between in his world, and any offerings of good will were well noted and documented.

 

“You don’t owe me. I’d say you owe the poor sod who hit you. Bet he’s due a few sleepless nights. You also owe that uncle of yours. Private rooms are not given to most anarchists,” the old face wrinkled at the image.

 

“I don’t have an uncle,” Damien said, stifling a yawn. Wishing the chart was filled in and the doctor would just leave him alone. He wanted to sleep right now that’s about all he was able to think about.

 

“You’ll survive your injuries, me boy, but it’s the cold you’ve been ignoring that has my dander up. How long have you had the congestion in your chest?”  The elderly doctor stood by his bed waiting for an answer.

 

“It comes and goes in the last week. I’ve been to the doctor. I’m just tired, that’s all.”  Damien snuggled deeper into the pillow, surely the educated man could take a hint.

 

“I’ll be prescribing antibiotics for you to make sure your leg doesn’t get infected, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll finish them---to the very last one, laddie. Do you hear me?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I hear,” Damien heard, ignored and decided to sleep, the usual modus operandi of Damien St. Claire.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Vincent Cade entered the hospital with the usual direct approach of a man used to being attended to. Demanding the location of the emergency room, he was quickly shown to the busy area.

 

Seeing an elderly doctor writing on a chart at the nurse’s station, he beelined it to the man in charge.

 

“Excuse me, but there was a young accident victim brought in here about an hour ago. Do you happen to know where he is and his condition?”  Standing tall, elegantly dressed, he was quite impressive, but the stench of vomit made the doctor and the nurse at the station look him over from top to bottom, slightly wrinkling their noses.

 

“Yes, I would assume you are speaking of the young man with the queasy stomach. He expressed his feelings for hospitals the moment they brought him in here.”  The old eyes still checked him out. “And who might you be?”

 

“I’m Vincent Cade. I’m listed as his next of kin,” Vincent told the half-truth with certainty, the best way to pass off lies. “I should be on his chart. His uncle.”

 

“Odd,” the doctor, smiled, perusing the chart, “I see your name listed here as his uncle, but the lad says he has no uncle.  From the smell of you, I’d say you’ve had a run-in with the lad.” The doctor and nurse both chuckled now apparently pleased with the play on words.

 

“Okay, Doctor…”

 

“Harrod,” the man extended his hand.

 

Vincent shook it, smiling. “You’ve got me, I’m the driver who hit him.”

 

“Lad’s right lucky, by my guess. Not too many men would see it your way, seeing how he threw himself in front of your car, according to the ambulance drivers.”

 

Vin’s face paled. If the boy was lucky, he must surely be bad off.

 

“How bad is he, Doc?” Vin asked almost in a whisper, not wanting to hear the news.

 

The doctor laughed, “No, my boy, he’s fine. The bruises and cuts he sustained are not all that serious. Badly shaken up, a few lacerations, a major gash on his thigh, a badly sprained wrist, but all in all he’s a damn sight lucky lad. I mean the congestion. He’s apparently not one to follow orders. He has a bad virus that’s been going around and by not getting enough rest, staying warm instead of harassing businessmen, and no doubt ignoring his medication, he’s more at risk from that than his injuries.”

 

“May I see him?” Vin asked, a bit nervously. Still wanting visual confirmation that he had not killed the boy.

 

“Sure, come with me.” The doctor smiled at the nurse as he handed her the chart. “I want to keep him overnight but he should be released tomorrow. We’re busy and he doesn’t warrant hospital care except to watch for head injuries. I’d strongly recommend that this boy be taken home to bed and kept there for at a least a week.”

 

“Well, uncle,” the doctor chuckled as they reached the closed door, “I’ll leave you with your nephew.”

 

As he entered the room, the late afternoon sun fell upon the sleeping form. All that could be detected from the doorway was the soft blond hair, disarrayed.  Crossing the room, Vin came around the bed to face the sleeping form cuddled deep within the folds of the pillow, hugging the warm blanket to his chin as though protecting himself from intrusion. Vincent Cade caught his breath as something pulled along his heart. He chalked it off to relief, the realization that the day could have ended differently, horrendously, had he not stopped the car soon enough.

 

Stirred out of his musings, he realized the hazel eyes were watching him. Fine golden lashes fluttered in a desperate attempt to stay awake.

 

“Hi, how are you feeling?” Vin asked gently.

 

“Tired. Just tired.” Not remembering in his drugged state where he had seen this man before, Day thought him a constable or doctor.

 

“When can I go home?”

 

“Not yet. You just need to rest a bit. What’s your name?”

 

“Demon San lair,” the words came out through uncooperative lips.

 

“Demon?” Vin asked, saying the first thing he thought he heard.

 

“DAY ME ON Saint Claire.” The name was said harshly, almost in disgust.

 

“Damien.” He let the name settle on his tongue like chocolate, melting into remembrance.

 

“When can I go?” The litany brought back memories of army hospitals and the constant chant, the desired dream of all wounded, to go home.

 

“Not until tomorrow.  I’m going to make a few phone calls. I think you need looking after.”

 

Damien huddled deeper, not sure what he had just heard, but somehow content that all was being taken care of and he was somehow in trusting hands.

 

 

 

 

 

The road was dark and mostly deserted.  Vincent Cade handled the car with the deft ease of a man long accustomed to night maneuvers. The radio was tuned to a classical music station, more for some sounds to fill the night air than for any great passion. The night was softly fashioned in gray patterns along the way, the cooperative moon bending low with a warm and clear glow.

 

Looking to his passenger, the seat of the Mercedes adjusted almost flat, blankets tucked up around him, the boy looked young and vulnerable. Cade sighed, released the tight grip he held on the wheel and allowed himself to relax back against the leather interior. It was touch and go, but with the help of his solicitor, Samuel Walther, his friend, Quentin Lyman, who also happened to be Chief Constable of Kensington, and Dr. Harrod’s own interest in the lad, and they were all able to pull off the threats and ultimatums.

 

The boy’s eyes had widened unbelievably upon hearing the sentence of deportation for his little stunt, plus Mr. Walther’s threats of a heavy-duty lawsuit claiming damages to the Mercedes front bumper had Damien near tears this morning. In his weakened condition, miserably uncomfortable, he was a soft touch for any threats made. No spirit remained in him, very little cocksure attitude. True, he had put up a good front in the beginning, but Vincent’s connections proved more than the boy could handle.

 

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Damien had raged when the negotiations for leniency were brought up, Mr. Walther and Lyman standing by quietly gauging the strength of both opponents.

 

“I’ll bloody well take deportation with Evers and Busch than work off any damages. I have funds to pay for the damn car,” Damien mimicked the Brits who stood around him, showing his contempt for their laws.

 

“Look, boy, I’m offering you a place to rest and get better first. I’m not going to work you in your present condition. I’ve done some checking. You’ve been sharing a loft with those protestors, moving about looking for trouble. You had no business being out in the damp spring air with the virus you’ve contracted.” Vincent tried to show the young man reason before he used the strong-arm approach.

 

“Mr. Cade is right, Mr. St. Claire,” Chief Constable Quentin Lyman said.  “We’ve had a nice long chat, me and your Mr. Grabowski. He’s putting the whole thing off on you as it is. Said you were the mind behind the whole protest. Said you were bragging about risking your life if called for.”

 

“Mr. Cade is offering you a very fair deal, here, my boy,” Mr. Walther added, “and I might add against my better counsel. Mr. Cade feels it’s a fair deal for you to mend at his estate and seeing how it is in disrepair, he can use some strong, young hands around to help get things in order. If Mr. Cade presses charges, you might find yourself in jail serving your sentence before deportation, as well as a hefty settlement due when you get out.  You don’t seem to have many people willing to testify on your behalf right now, and if your living arrangements are any indication of your finances, you wouldn't be able to pay the fine anyway.”

 

Vincent watched as the hazel eyes moved from face to face. The pale skin, the haggard lines drawing downward, the flushed cheeks still fevered, the boy barely could add two and two in his present condition, let alone make choices. Vin felt a moment of guilt over the less then honest deal he was making, but his conscience would not allow him not to see that the boy was okay; but he also needed to get back to Salisbury. This was the only way he could do both, or so he reasoned with himself.

 

“Two weeks to mend or so, then one month of labor and we’ll call us even. Come on, Damien, I don’t really see you have much choice,” Vincent pressed, watching the eyes tire and flutter.

 

“Okay, damn you. Damn you all,” Damien said, surrendering just to get them off his back.

 

Mr. Walther walked forward quickly placing a document on a legal pad near Damien’s hand. “You’ll need to sign this agreement. Chief Constable Lyman will take it to the courts and once Mr. Cade signs off in one or two month’s time, the deportation papers will be negated. It will all be as if nothing happened.”

 

Damien let out a disbelieving grunt and signed quickly, feeling his stomach rise up on him again.  Turning quickly away from Mr. Walther he found the silver tray pushed under his chin. Vomiting into it, he turned up red and grateful eyes to meet the brown ones of Vincent Cade.

 

Now as they traveled along, Day, exhausted from the last two days and the shot that Dr. Harrod had given him, slept soundly. A bag of medicine - antibiotics, Tylenol and cold medicine – was in the back, along with the boy’s suitcase.  Grabowski had dropped the case off at the hospital that morning.  The virus was a nasty one, according to the good doctor, and Day could very well be in for a long recovery. The foolish young man had let it go too long.  Vincent’s own doctor in Salisbury made house calls and he made a mental note to have the young man re-examined in the morning.

 

As Vincent pulled the sleek car around the porte-cochere along the front entrance, the sleeping form next to him was softly snoring. The full lips parted, making puffing noises as though caught in some soft whispering game. The velvet lashes locked securely the hazel eyes; no admittance into the slumbering soul, the secrets of the dreamer. Vin sat for several moments watching the smooth features in almost quiet repose. Whatever fevered demons walked the halls of this mind, they were steadfast and familiar. He was surely a runner from his fears, for they had yet to catch up with him. Vin hoped he always could stay one step ahead. A man all too familiar with walking hand in hand with his nightmares, Vincent wished better luck for his companion.

 

Coming around the passenger side, he opened the door and bent over the figure, touching his shoulder. “Damien, come on. We’ll have you in a nice warm bed before you know it.”

 

The golden head jerked up. The eyes fluttered open, seeking the familiar.  Catching and locking full force with the brown eyes bent low, recognition calmed his fears. Then seeing the warm light beyond the door, Damien realized they had arrived at their destination.

 

Phoning ahead, Mrs. Coltrane had prepared the front bedroom for his guest. Knowing that she had 4 sons of her own, her maternal instincts would, no doubt, be in full force.  Vin hoped that some home cooked meals were awaiting him in the freezer and refrigerator. He sometimes hated the intrusion upon his privacy, but she was also a godsend by any single man’s standards. Most times she was there when he needed her, but quietly slipping away when her presence was obtrusive. Finding any woman in creation with such subtle instinct was amazing in Vincent Cade’s book. He did not look up this particular gift horse’s mouth.

 

Damien stood up shivering slightly against the small breeze that skipped along stonewalls of the porte-cochere.  Vincent pulled the blankets from the car and wrapped them around the small, trembling figure.

 

“Isn’t there a cemetery you can just take me to,” Damien asked, half-jokingly. “I feel like I’m the living dead, might as well pick me out a spot.”

 

“You’re not dying, yet, young man. You have a debt to pay and I’ll be damned if I don’t see you pay it off,” Vin said, angered by the flippancy and attitude towards his health.

 

“Oh, yes, mustn’t forget my debt. You rich men are all alike. You’d pay for a man’s heart transplant only to work the poor guy to death in your fields,” Damien said with contempt as he leaned against the door jam, waiting for Vin to unlock it.

 

“I’m a man who believes in justice. I didn’t come looking for you. It was you and your daffy girlfriend who were playing in the street, little boy, so don’t get on any high horses with me.”

 

“She wasn’t my girlfriend. And we weren’t playing---we were protesting,” his voice dripping with sarcasm.

 

“I don’t care really who she was and what you were supposedly doing.  Your actions got you into this and around here, there are consequences to be paid for foolish actions, especially with me.”

 

Pushing the door in angrily, Vin passed an impatient hand inward, indicating for Damien to enter. But when the young man tilted suddenly forward, Vin reached out a strong arm and braced the figure.  Vin watched the pathetic effort to right himself and proceed forward, only to veer once again into the doorjamb.

 

Grunting with complete displeasure, Vin bent slightly lifting the bundle in his arms.

 

“Put me down. I can walk on my own two feet,” Day yelled, frustrated by his own lack of strength.

 

“You can shut up and do as I say, I’m tired from a particularly unpleasant few days.  I’d advise you to just keep your mouth shut and let me put you to bed,” and with that, Vin bumped the door wide, entered, and using his heel slammed it shut.  Day flinched at the resounding sound of the slamming door in the huge house. It sounded too much like a jail cell on a particularly long sentence.

 

The large man walked briskly towards the main hall all too familiar with the layout. The wall sconces elegantly lit the hallway and staircase.  Day relaxed his head against the strong shoulder and yielded for the night at least.  There was always tomorrow according to Scarlet O’Hara, and Damien St. Claire was willing to fight a great many more battles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The sunlight streamed through the windows in golden rods of dancing particles. Day watched in contented bliss. Grabowski had had them on a pretty tight schedule and the luxury of sleeping in, in a warm, clean bed, was one he wanted to savor as long as possible.

 

Stretching his aching limbs, he grimaced at the pain that hit every nook and cranny, every joint and muscle. He felt like an old house, badly in need of repair. The gash on his thigh was throbbing fiercely; his ribs shot dull fire with every breath he took. Trying to push himself up, the bandaged wrist hindered any pressure upon the sprained appendage. The only safe movement was a quick roll to his side, facing the door.  The footfalls in the hall were approaching and Damien braced himself for Day One: Battle of Wills.

 

Watching the door slowly open, Day was caught for a moment wondering if he should feign sleep, but somehow his short experience with the man last night made it perfectly clear to him that games were not an agenda appreciated by his host.  He opted for the simple, direct approach.

 

The large man entered, carrying a tray loaded with plates, dishes, and a juice carafe. Damien’s stomach flipped once at the smells of breakfast. He just couldn’t bear the thought of food.

 

“Good morning,” his host said.  He was dressed in finely pressed gray slacks and a dark blue pullover.

 

“I trust you slept well. I checked on you during the night and you were dead to the world.”

 

He put the tray on a small table next to the bed and pulled up a chair that was off along the wall.  Walking to the bed, he helped the younger man sit up, putting pillows behind his back against the headboard.

 

“I slept well. Thanks,” Day finally remembered his manners, “but I’m not hungry if that’s for me.”

 

“Well, the doc said you have to start eating and drinking. You’ll dehydrate in no time. Besides, it isn’t much. Just oatmeal, toast and orange juice.” Vin reached over and started uncovering the various dishes, collecting the silver servers by stacking them on the floor.

 

“I said, NO!” Day said, petulantly. “I feel like I’m going to throw up just at the smell.”

 

Vin rose quickly and went into the adjoining bathroom. Coming back moments later with a small plastic basket, he said,  “Here, use this if you can’t make it to the bathroom. The doctor said you might have trouble keeping food down for the next couple of days, at least until that virus has run its course.  You have some medicine to help settle your stomach.”

 

Vin put the plate of toast and juice glass on the table by the bed. Standing up he walked into the bathroom.  Returning a moment later with several pill bottles and a glass of water.  Sitting back down on the edge of the bed, he shook out the pills and offered them to Day. “Here, take your medication. Three times a day and you’ll be feeling better no doubt by tomorrow this time.”

 

Day started shaking his head, “No, I don’t want pills. I don’t believe in pills.”

 

“Well, I don’t believe in babysitting anarchists, but I’m doing it. So I think you can modify your moral convictions and meet me half way. Besides, you don’t really have any choice in the matter. Just remember, the longer it takes you to get well, the more time you’re here.” Then Vin stared at him with the cold, brown eyes that sometimes looked hollow and barren.  They were now trained orbs, refusing to see too much anymore, a man with a past who kept rigid control over his heart.

 

Watching the icy conviction in the man’s eyes, Day wanted to shiver outwardly. He held himself in check. Battles could be fought for winning when the time was right, but digging a trench was just as good for now.  He reached his good hand up and allowed the pills to be dropped into it. Plopping them into his mouth, he threw a belligerent look at his jailer.  Rearranging the objects in his mouth subtly, he took the glass of water offered him. Throwing his head back, he downed the water and flopped back on the pillow dramatically.

 

“That’s a good lad. Hopefully, you’ll be up to lunch. Mrs. Coletrane left us some very nice chicken soup.  Why don’t you try to get some more sleep. You’ll need to build your strength up.”

 

The man stood and tucked the covers up under Damien’s chin.  The blond young man watched his host pick up the tray and leave.  The door was quietly closed behind him.  Damien reached into his mouth, pulled out the offending pills, and pushed them far up into his pillowcase.  “Battle One is mine, old man,” Damien whispered to the quiet room and all he could wonder at was why he felt so sad.

 

 

 

 

 

Vin spent a good portion of the morning checking the house. He had been gone for almost a week, and he always liked to return home and spend time with the old Tudor. There were times he found it hard to believe it was truly his. He had saved enough money from his years in the service, and combining the consulting fees and the nice pension helped keep him comfortable.

 

The final stop was the old servant’s quarters. Overlooking the back garden when the doors were open, the huge room was filled with art supplies, easels, canvases, and paintbrushes. The tables were littered with palettes and cleaning supplies. Vin drew in a deep breath luxuriating in the smells of oil and turpentine. He loved painting. However, his landscapes didn’t seem to garner any interest among the art dealers he showed them to, so they remained a much-loved hobby.

 

Returning to the kitchen, he smiled to himself. The clean, sterling silver fixtures and expensive appliances welcomed him. He loved to cook and though not a particularly fussy eater, he did like experimenting, trying new dishes. It relaxed him when he needed a break from his painting.  The state of the art appliances were also a wonderful incentive for Mrs. Coletrane to cook for him.

 

Taking a large container of chicken soup out of the refrigerator, he placed a stockpot on the stove and pouring the contents into the pot, he put it on a low flame.  Filling a glass of orange juice he placed it on a tray on the counter. Setting a soup bowl on a plate, he lined crackers neatly around it, trying to make the tray as appealing as possible.

 

Stirring the soup, he looked out over the back lawn and across the rolling wild plains. Lost in thought, his mind turned towards the bright golden sunlight and he saw it in his mind’s eye reflecting off golden hair and hazel eyes. A strange ache filled his chest, as he turned back towards the soup and continued the stirring.

 

Damien heard his name from a distance; he had been running from Thaddeus Williams again. The recurring dream from his childhood days of taunting and abuse had haunted him for years. Now he heard a familiar voice in the distance calling to him. It was a strong, sure voice that offered him something, but he wasn’t sure what. He only knew he wanted to go towards it, find the promised safety that the deep intonations guaranteed.

 

“Damien, come on, boy. It’s lunch time.”

 

Day opened one eye and peeked at his nursemaid. “Not hungry,” he mumbled as his stomach once again lurched at the aroma of food.

 

“Nope, won’t buy it this time, Damien. I want to see some of this soup going into you or I’ll feed you myself.”  Vin rose from the bed and gently grasped Day’s arm, pulling him up into a sitting position.

 

“NO! I’m tired. Just want to sleep,” Day mumbled trying to lie down again, adding a few miserable groans to warrant some sympathy.

 

None was forthcoming and a firm hand kept him upright as pillows were propped behind him. “Just a few spoonfuls, and some crackers to help settle the stomach. I’ve called Doctor Bailey, but he’s over in the next town and won’t be home until late this evening. He’ll come here tomorrow morning to have a look at you.”

 

"I don't want to see another doctor, I just want to be left alone,” he said quietly.

 

Ignoring the comment, Vin put the bed tray over his patient’s legs and rearranged the utensils and dishes for easy access. Day sat there slowly shaking his head, negating the futile attempts.

 

“I told you, I can’t hold anything down. I’ll just throw up if I put something into my mouth.”

 

“You keep talking like that, you will. Don’t think about it. Just concentrate on getting one mouthful down at a time,” Vin insisted, idly moving the spoon around in the bowl before slowly lifting it as an offering to his obstinate patient.

 

Vin shook his head as he watched the petulant lips open to receive the soup.  The young man swallowed. Vin nodded his head approvingly and offered up a small saltine. Day reluctantly took it from Vin’s hand, took a small bite and chewed distastefully. It took almost half and hour before he consumed half the bowl of soup and two crackers, but finally, the young man turned his head to signal he had had enough.

 

Satisfied with the small accomplishment, Vin took the tray to the bureau.  Taking the orange juice he handed to Day the brightly colored pills once again, waiting for the argument. There was none as Day took the pills, placed them in his mouth and took several sips from the glass.

 

Vin took the glass back to the tray, and Day quickly spit the pills into his hand this time tucking them under the mattress on the far side.

 

“Come on, I’ll help you to the bathroom.”  Taking his patient slowly to the bathroom he was not pleased with the pallor of the skin, nor its clammy feeling. The boy was surely running a higher fever than this morning. The hospital doctor had told him to watch for signs of fever, which might indicate an infection starting in his leg or the virus getting worse.

 

Helping Day back into bed, tucking the covers up under his chin, he went into the bathroom and took the thermometer from the cabinet.

 

Shaking it down, he sat on the edge of the bed.  “Here, put this under your tongue for a few minutes.  I think you’re running a fever.”

 

“Go away,” the younger man muttered, sliding down in the bed, “leave me alone.”

 

“I’m sorry, but I want to check your temperature.  Now, open your mouth and stop fussing.”

 

Giving Vin a dirty look, Day’s resolve not to fight crumbled as he snapped back, “I said, leave me.  I’m sick and I feel like shit and you won’t get out of here!”  With that order, he rolled on his side and burrowed his head underneath the pillow and blanket, trying to shut out the world.

 

Vin took a deep breath and said with deadly calm, "I know you are sick and I am going to ignore that outburst.  But," he said, pausing, "if I hear that sort of language from you again, there will be consequences.  Now, I am going to take your temperature.  You have two choices; I can either use the thermometer right here or I can go get some Vaseline and use the generic 'family' one the hospital sent home with you." 

 

When the form in the bed did not move, Vin said, "One."  Pausing again, he continued, "Two."  The form shifted deeper into the bed.  Allowing him a double pause, Vin sighed softly, "Three."

 

Vin stood up and began walking toward the door.

 

Damien bolted up in bed and cried, "NO!  Wait!  I'm sorry, please."

 

Vin looked at him.  "Damien, remember yesterday when I told you that around here there are consequences for your actions?"

 

Day nodded mutely.

 

"Well, you obviously didn't believe me.  Now, I guess I am going to have to show you."

 

"No, you don't have to show me.  I believe you, I promise.  Please, give me one more chance."

 

Vin looked at the young man for a long time.  "Okay, one more chance.  You disobey me again, you give me a hard time about checking your temperature, taking your pills, resting or even eating and I will take the control completely out of your hands.  You could take your medicine by suppository, have your temperature taken rectally, I'll even feed you.  Do I make myself clear, young man? I’m not going to play games with you about your health," he said, leaving no room for argument or disobedience.

 

Day swallowed, thinking of the hidden pills and nodded. 

 

 

 

 

Vin worked away the afternoon in his office. If he budgeted carefully, he might be able to go ahead and get a bid on the new heating system. Though everything worked properly for now, the building engineer had warned him that with winter approaching, the subject of a new furnace and ductwork should be addressed. Now only summer awaited him, but he wasn’t too sure he’d be able to handle more than one renovation this year. He’d best get the heating taken care of first.

 

Hearing a noise out in the hall, he paused to listen. There was nothing, only the usual afternoon sounds of chirping birds, rustling branches outside his window, and the settling sounds of all houses. Interrupted by the thought, his eyes raised to the ceiling as he contemplated his guest. Damien's temperature had been almost 102 and the boy was in a fitful sleep last time Vin had checked on him.  What the hell was I thinking bringing the boy here?  I should have just paid his damn hospital bill and been done with him. The insurance would have covered the damages and I doubt the boy would have been foolish enough to sue me for carelessness, not when I paid his medical bills.

 

The answers that moved along in his head were not adequate; and deep down inside, he knew they were not truthful. There was something about the hazel eyes, the golden hair, and the petulantly pouting mouth that affected him more than he wanted to admit. He didn’t even know anything about the boy, besides his name. Truth be known, he hated the cocky, self-righteous attitude of most young people today. He saw enough young lives lost in war due to acts of foolish bravado, but these young, college-educated brats merely allowed pretense and unenlightened, sophomoric doctrine to lead them towards their causes.

 

A loud crash, Vin rose swiftly as he braced to meet an intruder.   Looking first at the windows as he hurried into the large living room, he expected to see one of them broken.  Instead, standing next to the fireplace, sadly looking down at a smashed figurine stood his patient. Wrapped in a blanket, he hugged it around himself.  Seeing Vin, the hard look he wore for battle, Day took an involuntary step backwards.

 

“I’m sorry, I was bored. I just wanted to see the house.” Then looking down at the broken crystal cat that at one time looked out with green eyes he cleared his throat. He felt like he was about to cry over a damn knick-knack.

 

Vin swore under his breath, hating the lost look, the flushed cheeks, the pathetically small figure wrapped in a blanket, bandaged and wounded and so unsure of himself---crying over a damn, crystal cat.

 

Thinking the anger was directed at him, Damien saw the large man move purposefully towards him.  Stepping back, eager to get out of the way of the twister heading his way, he walked into a large, leather, winged-back chair.  Falling hard on his backside, he jarred his thigh, expelling a curse of his own.

 

Sitting there he watched in bewilderment as the master of the house stooped and collected the small crystal fragments in his hand. “You’ll cut your feet. Just sit there. I told you to stay in bed. This house is still too drafty to be walking around barefoot.”

 

The man was sending him mixed signals here. He was angry, yet at the same time concerned only for Day’s well being. Who are you? Damien thought, And what have you done with Mr. Tight Ass?

 

Vin left the room. Day sat there looking about the large room. The fireplace was lit and most of the late afternoon chill was diminished considerably. The English countryside was still cold and bitterly chilly when it rained despite the early presence of spring.  The room was tastefully appointed with large, leather-winged back chairs in hunter green. A large rug covered this half of the room in front of the fireplace, manly colors of black, red, tan and brown.  The paintings were all landscapes, incredibly soft textured, as though the artist were stroking each leaf, branch and sloping hill.  The guy surely had money, big bucks, by Day’s guess.

 

A leather couch faced the fireplace and a similar chair was stationed at the other end of the long mantel.  The opposite side of the room held small clusters of chairs in groupings apparently welcoming friends for games around the small tables, Scrabble, Trivial Pursuit. Nah, Day thought, probably war games, strategy games for conquering worlds and taking no prisoners. This guy doesn’t look like the kind who does parlor games.

 

Remembering his own youth, playing games with his parents, brought a soft ache to his heart. He brushed it away with a hard and cold thought, Don’t go getting soft here, Dayboy, that’s all you need to do around here, drop your guard and this guy will eat you for breakfast. Yet, the brown eyes, the hard chest, the strength of the man, he couldn’t help feel something that at this moment he was hard pressed to admit to himself.

 

Vin returned with a tray. Two steaming cups of hot cocoa, with whipped cream, sat beside a small plate of cookies.  “British have tea time, but I hate tea. I remember in my army days when I would wake up early sometimes, the cook would make me a hot cup of cocoa in those thick white mugs that you rarely see anymore. Used to take it out on the range and watch the sunrise, warming my hands around the heat.” Vin set the tray down on the coffee table before the hearth.

 

Reaching over, he handed a mug to Day. At first he hesitated, thinking of refusing, but the cocoa looked welcoming and even his queasy stomach seemed to need something right now.  Letting the blanket fall from his grasp he took the mug gratefully and immediately took a sip. It tasted divine. His stomach clenched once, but seemed to find the treat acceptable. Slumping his shoulders back against the comfortable, butternut leather, he nursed the mug between both hands and watched his host.

 

“How are you holding up?” Vin asked holding his own cup, sipping and watching, careful of the moment.

 

“So far so good. I guess the walk did me a world of good.” Day just had to add a touch of sarcasm, grabbing the bronze ring he felt he earned.

 

“Well, don't expect another one today.  I know I will have your cooperation here. The doctor said you were to get plenty of bed rest and I intend to see that you do. After you’re done, it’s back to bed and I’ll expect you to stay there this time.” Vin looked at him, the unspoken promise made earlier hanging in the air.

 

“I got lonely and bored and tired of being cooped up. I don’t do sick well. Besides, I’ve got a cold, not a terminal illness.”

 

“You’ve a virus that’s been far too long in your system. Plus a battered body that’s putting added stress on your whole system. You’ll get bed rest the first week, take your medication and then when you’re well enough we’ll discuss your chores around this place.”

 

Vin watched as the hazel eyes lowered to the dark liquid, the golden hair falling down on his brow, making him look about ten years old.  A quick sip of the cocoa, the pink tongue snatched outward the remaining sweetness, savoring it, pulling it back in between the full, pouting lips.  Shaking himself to reality, Vin was shocked by his thoughts. What the hell is wrong with me? Damn boy’s distracting, that’s all.

 

“I’m sorry about the cat,” Day broke the veil, pulling him back behind the curtain of reality. “I just like cats. I had one once, a small tabby, named Perkins. I loved that cat.”  Clouds of memory can be soft and unexpected, they can be charming in their shapes and lightness, but the sadness that overcast the hazel eyes held little sweetness in the memories. There was pain and regret and a lost love.

 

Vin wanted to banish the pain, take the young man up into his arms and return some joy to him. The thought, the hunger and desire to ease this man’s pain scared him. Rising quickly he plopped his mug down on the tray.  Placing both hands on his hips, he spoke harshly, “All right, you've been up long enough now. Back to bed with you. Come on, I’ll help you.”

 

Day looked surprised by the change in temperature and for a quick moment he even glanced at the fire to see if it had perhaps gone out.  Whatever winds blew this man about, Day did not want to be caught in the storm. He gave up his mug and allowed himself to be walked back to his room and tucked into bed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

By evening, Day’s fever was spiking.  The sheets were damp with sweat and the boy had vomited several times into the plastic receptacle.  Vin found himself worn out from running up and down the stairs. Not trusting his patient too long alone by himself, he kept a constant vigil at his bedside.

 

By midnight the fever had broken, at least temporarily.  Vin headed to his room and came back with a big, white, fluffy robe. Sitting Damien up, he peeled off the white T-shirt and boxers. Pulling the small figure up, he wrapped the robe around him, putting his arms carefully through the sleeves. Securing the belt around his waist, he helped the weak figure walk across the room to the chair sitting in front of the fireplace.

 

Tucking blankets around the exhausted man, he turned his attention to the bed. Getting out a clean set of sheets from the hall closet, he stripped the bed hurriedly.  In doing so, he thought he heard something fall on the hardwood floors.  Shaking the pillowcase loose, several small objects rolled out onto the mattress cover.  Vin’s face hardened into a tight mask as realization hit him.

 

Checking the floor he picked up all the small capsules and colored pills. Everything he had given the young man since bringing him home was accounted for. Not one pill had been consumed. Vin started a slow count, concentrating on finishing the task at hand.

 

The object of his fury curled up in a nest of blankets and pillows.  The hazel eyes closed, unaware that his ruse was up.  He awoke slowly as Vin gently shook him and helped him back to his bed. His eyes widened at the new sheets, the possibility of discovery clear in his mind.

 

After sitting him down on the bed, but not tucking him under the blankets, Vin sat down next to him.  “I guess you’re pretty clever. At least you must think so. Isn’t that right?” Vin asked in a particularly soft and gentle voice.

 

“I told you I didn’t want any pills. Besides, I can’t keep anything down anyway,” Day said knowing immediately what the man was referring to, “you would have had more mess to clean up.”

 

“Oh, is that right? You did it all with me in mind. I wish I were as thoughtful,” Vin said.

“But I’m not and I don’t like being tricked.”  Rising quickly, he hauled the smaller man up by his shoulders, almost completely out of the bed.  Sitting back down he pulled the robed figure face down across his knees, sitting far enough back to have the upper torso comfortably supported on the bed, the legs partially hanging out, already kicking in protest. Vin wrapped his legs around Day’s being careful of the injured leg, securing both appendages in place.

 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Day screamed, infuriated, despite his weakened condition.

 

“I’m ill. You’re hurting me.” Day began, trying every plea his tired brain could come up with to no avail.

 

“Not,” Vin said, gritting his teeth, “but I am going to spank you and it will hurt.” He placed a large hand on the boy's back, holding him securely over his lap and onto the bed.

 

Lifting the robe high he exposed the small, perfectly shaped mounds. Checking himself mentally, remembering that the boy was sick, he cautioned the strong arm that came down hard. A resounding swat echoed in the large bedroom, followed by an equally loud wail.

 

“When I give you pills to take, when the doctor prescribes medication, you damn well will take it. I’ll not allow such foolish games with your health under my roof.” Three strikes were delivered in a steady and forceful rhythm to the center of the boy's exposed bottom. Evening out the attention Vin delivered two more swats to the boy's upper thighs. Crying, Day could only kick his legs in disapproval. Even those protests soon weakened, as all his effort was consumed in huge tears and sobs.

 

Wanting to simply impress upon him what disobedience would result in, the spanking was very short. Vin lifted him onto his knee and positioned the robe around him. Day winced and groaned as his bottom touched the hard thighs. Embarrassed, confused, hurt and still miserably ill, Day buried his head against the wide chest, sobbing. He was seeking comfort in the only place offered him.

 

"You hurt me," he sobbed out.

 

"Yes, but your actions and lack of caring about your health hurt me," Vin said calmly.

 

Vin wrapped his strong arms around the sobbing boy. “How old are you?” he asked gently, stroking the golden head.

 

“Twenty-two,” Day mumbled against his shoulder.

 

“A mere babe, like I suspected,” Vin said.  The only answer was the sharper shaking of the head against his sweater.

 

“Yes, a babe. You’ve a lot to learn about life, little boy. I just hope you don’t put it off too long.”  This statement merely brought fresh tears and as Vin slowly rocked the small figure, he felt him relax against him.  Rising slowly, Vin pulled the covers back and helped arrange the semi-conscious boy on the crisp clean sheets.

 

He filled another glass of water and brought out some more pills. Handing them to Day, he merely had to make eye contact for the young man to eagerly grab the pills, place them on his tongue and wash them down.

 

“Let me get you out of that robe, you’ll be more comfortable.” Damien cooperated as best he could, his face reddened, his eyes swollen, barely open from the strain of crying. Vin walked over to the bureau and pulling out pajama tops he helped the blond young man put it on.  Day scooted beneath the covers, wincing as his sore bottom made contact with the mattress. Before Vin could turn around and hang up the fluffy, white robe, Day was sound asleep. 

 

Shaking his head, he walked down the hall into his own bedroom.  Standing in the shower, eyes closed as hot water pounded against him, washing the sweat and weariness from his body, his mind drifted down the hall to the young man.  Damien's lack of concern about his own health bothered him.   That coupled with the fact that he had not asked to call any friends or family and let them know where he was staying was puzzling.  Promising himself to find out more about his houseguest in the morning, Vin stepped out of the shower and back into his bedroom.

 

Wearing only boxers and a robe, used to the chill night air, he quietly went back to the guestroom to check on the younger man one last time.  He had left the door open to hear any signs of distress, and thus was able to slip in and not disturb the sleeping figure.  Damien was curled up on his side, his back to the door.  He had kicked the blankets off and they were pooled on the floor.  Walking in, Vin went over and picked up the fallen blankets.  Sighing, he spread them back over the sleeping form.  Day stirred as the weight settled on him.

 

Opening red eyes, he mumbled, "Thanks."

 

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Vin couldn't help but brush the hair off of the sweaty forehead, "You're still running a fever."

 

"I'm sorry….not worth the trouble, never have been.”

 

"No, don't be sorry.  It's not your fault you got sick.  It is your fault that you are still sick, but I'll take care of that.  As far as trouble goes, I’ve had my share and I can deal with it, but you’d do well not to judge yourself so harshly. I’ve a low tolerance for that. Now," Vin said, stroking the head again, "close your eyes and go to sleep."

 

"I can't.  My stomach is upset and my head hurts."

 

Sighing softly, the older man said, "Here, roll over and I'll rub your back for you.  That'll help you relax.  Just lie still and close your eyes."

 

The boy did and was soon asleep under the gentle hands of his caretaker.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Vin awoke, he stretched himself out to his full six-feet-four inch form. He couldn’t remember sleeping so soundly, so contentedly in ages. Well-rested, he greeted the dawn in harmony. When there were no struggles with the night, one did not rage against the dawn; one melted into it with the rising credence of a good day to come.

 

The dawning awareness of where he was came upon him slowly as he felt a presence beside him.   The boy had awakened both times when Vin had tried to leave last night before he had simply given up and lain down next to him.  Looking down a form snuggled beneath his outstretched arm. Golden hair tickled his chest as the figure pulled into him, knees raised, locking himself into a tight ball.  Slowly easing himself from the restricted position, he covered the boy up. Watching the figure move slightly into the remaining warmth his body had moments ago left. A sigh escaped the parted lips, and contentment creased the ridges of the boy’s brow as he gave himself up further to the remnants of night. Vin touched the boy’s forehead, pleased to see that it felt only slightly warm.

 

Vin showered and shaved. Dressing quickly, he checked his patient one more time before heading downstairs, satisfied that the fever was down for right now.

 

Whistling to himself, he prepared a light, easy-on-the-stomach breakfast. Scrambled eggs, toasted English muffins, orange marmalade. He felt good this morning, unbelievably good as he sat down with the morning paper and ate his breakfast.

 

Taking another tray upstairs, he caught himself singing on the landing. Vincent Cade, what has gotten into you? he admonished himself.

 

Vin set the tray on a small round table near the window overlooking the front drive. Pulling two chairs in he walked over to the bed.

 

“Damien!” he called.  The figure slowly stretched himself out, yawning wide. Vin laughed. “Come on, let’s rise and shine.”

 

A low moan came from beneath the covers, as Day pulled the blanket over his head.  Vin reached down and pulling the covers off completely he urged the young man into the morning.  “None of that. Come on, let’s get you to the bathroom.”

 

This time the figure cooperated, lost in the folds of the over-sized pajama tops, Day looked fragile and small. Assisted by Vin’s strong arms, he was able to relieve himself and wash up.  Vin directed the proceedings from the sidelines and was there the moment he swayed, wrapping his arms around him.

 

When he was situated back in bed, Day wrinkled his nose as Vin took the covers off the tray full of food on the nightstand.

 

“I don’t expect you to eat it all, but at least an effort, that’s all I’m asking,” Vin said, placing the tray table across Damien’s legs.

 

Surprisingly, Day attacked the eggs with some relish and took a few bites of a plain English muffin.  The food seemed to bring some color back into the pale features.

 

“How did you get mixed up with a gang of protestors?” Vin asked as he splattered a thick layer of the orange preserve on one of the muffins for himself.

 

“What do you mean ‘get mixed up with?’ I believe in what they’re fighting for,” Day said, not liking the implications of being a mere tag along.

 

“Sorry, but I somehow got the feeling that the girl pushed you in front of my car. Some things I’ve been remembering. You just didn’t seem all that passionate and involved when I spotted you the first time.”  Vin took a big bite of his muffin and slowly chewed. Leaning back in his chair, he eyed his breakfast companion.

 

“Am I right?”

 

“NO!” Day said angrily. “Of course you’re not.”

 

“Okay, then I’m not right,” Vin easily accepted his ignorance and moved on. “Where are your folks? They know you’re running around the world causing trouble?”

 

Day paused for a split second before saying, "Yes, and they fully support me and this cause.  They believe in standing up for what's important."

 

"Do you have any brothers and sisters?" Vin asked, probing ever so slighting into this younger man's make up.

 

"I have a brother, and we are extremely close.  He's an accountant.  No aunts or cousins and definitely NO uncles," he finished, stressing that last part.

 

"No, I guess you don't," Vin said with a smile, conceding the point to him with good humor.

 

"But I’ve got a rich man with connections who apparently knows a good, easy deal at getting himself cheap labor. And I’ve got a jailer for the next month or so,” Day said, putting down his fork, finished with his breakfast and the morning chitchat.

 

Vin sighed, regretting the passing of camaraderie and ‘getting to know you routine.’

 

“And I’ve got a dented bumper, cracked windshield, loads of laundry and a truculent house guest. Seems we’re about even.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

After breakfast, Damien returned to bed and was tucked in with a book. Once again wearied by the efforts of communication, he was soon asleep.

 

Vin had just reached the house after walking down the front drive to retrieve his mail from the box that had built up since his absence.  Flipping through the junk mail and sorting out the things that needed attention paid to them, he was suddenly aware of a car pulling into the drive behind him.  Turning around, he saw Peter Bailey, his doctor slowing down next to him.

 

"Morning, Peter,” Vin called out as the car shut off and the driver's door opened.

 

"Good morning, Mr. Cade.  Doctor Peter M. Bailey at your service," the young man said in a joking manner, bowing slightly.

 

"Oh, I’m sorry, there must be some mistake.  I thought I was calling Doctor Peter E. Bailey.  I don't want some second rate doctor around here,"  Vin teased, laughing at his old friend.

 

"Bastard." Bailey went along with the joke.

 

"So," he began as he followed Vin into the house, "Aggie tells me that you've picked up some street urchin who threw himself in front of your car?"

 

"Well, not exactly.  Here, come into the living room and we'll talk."

 

Sitting down in the two chairs near the fireplace, Vin told the short story of how Damien had come to stay with him.

 

"Last night, his fever must have been extremely high, he was burning up. I was changing the bed because his sheets were wet with sweat and I found the pills I had been giving him all day.  He is supposed to get some antibiotics every four hours, Tylenol every four to six and then he has something else to calm his stomach so he doesn't throw up."

 

Peter nodded again, "Well, if he skipped his medication that would certainly account for why he was so sick last night.  He might be getting an infection in his leg; I'll check it out carefully.  How has he been this morning?"

 

"He ate some eggs and kept them down, as far as I know."

 

"What was his temperature this morning?"

 

Vin glanced down, and then back at his friend.  "I don't know, I didn't take it.  It didn't seem to be high."

 

"Why didn't you check it?  That's something you need to do every four hours or so, you need to keep an eye on it," the other man chided gently.

 

"I know, I know. I just didn't want to get into a fight with him or go back on my word.  I've sort of boxed myself into a corner."

Peter looked at him puzzled.  "What do you mean?"

"Well, I told him yesterday afternoon that if he didn't take his pills and let me check his temperature, I would not give him a choice in the matter.  I would have you prescribe suppository form medicine and take his temperature with a rectal thermometer if necessary," Vin finished, slightly embarrassed.

 

Peter smiled, "Well, unfortunately, you are probably right.  The boy needs his medication and if you can't trust him to take it or if he might not keep it down, then that’s really the best route to go.  It’s either that or through injections and I don't think you want to be dealing with shots.  Plus, if his stomach is as unstable as you say, then oral meds are not ideal anyway.  As for taking his temp orally, you are not supposed to eat or drink anything for an hour beforehand and if he is not eating or drinking…?"  Peter trailed off, looking for confirmation.

 

"No, barely."

 

"Then he needs to be encouraged to eat and drink all the time and not worry about having to check his temperature in 15 minutes after he drinks a glass of cold juice."

 

I just didn't want to get into a fight with him.  We've sort of reached some sort of truce right now and I didn't want him upset."

 

"Well, " Peter said standing up, "I'll break it to him and this way it will seem like it came from me and you don't have any choice.  Might make it a little easier on the both of you.  Now, let's go see your patient."

 

The two men walked up the main stairs and then down the hall to the guest bedroom.  Knocking softly one time, Vin opened the door slowly.

 

Damien lay on his stomach, arm hanging off the bed.  The room smelled of vomit and there were small traces of dried remains around the boy's mouth.

 

"Damn, he seemed to be doing better this morning," Vin said stepping into the room.

 

Going over to the bed and sitting down, Vin gently shook the sleeping figure as Peter picked up the waste container and carried it into the bathroom.  He came back a few minutes later with the cleaned container and a wet washcloth.

 

Damien was awake and sitting up, supported by Vin.  His face was flushed and his eyes were bright.

 

Sitting on the other side, Peter turned the face toward him and cleaned it off.  Holding out a glass of water for the boy to rinse his mouth in and then the container to spit in, he said in his no-nonsense, official voice, "See what happens, young man, when you don't take your medicine like you are supposed to?"

 

Damien blinked at the tone of the voice and leaned closer to Vin. 

 

"Damien, this is Dr. Bailey.  He's a good friend of mine and is going to check you over."

 

"No," said a slightly hoarse voice, "I'm fine.  I just want to be left alone."

 

Vin's voice hardened slightly, "Little boy, that's not going to happen.  I can stay in here with you while he examines you or I can leave, your choice, but you are sick," he said, emphasizing the word, "and I refuse to allow you to continue to get worse."

 

When Damien didn't say anything else, Peter got up and walked to the small table by the window and placed his bag on it.  "Okay, Damien, why don't we get started and get this over with as soon as possible so you can get some more sleep."

 

Vin looked at the younger man,  "Day, do you want me to stay with you?" he asked gently.

 

Across the room Peter had to smile at the tenderness and concern his friend was showing towards this boy.  Mark was going to get a kick out of this---Vincent Cade falling in love.  He heard a small voice say "stay" quietly and he knew the feelings were shared, at least to some degree.  Getting his stethoscope out of his bag and warming it in his hand as he brought it over to the bed, he sat down.  Vin was sitting against the headboard and Day was leaning against him. 

 

Peter was quick, but efficient and gentle as he checked Damien’s breathing and throat for signs of infection.

 

“All right, Damien, I want you to scoot down and lie on your good side.  I want to check your leg for infection and I want to take your temperature."

 

Damien, who had been half asleep up until then opened his eyes, "Why do I have to lay down for you to take my temperature?"  He looked suspiciously back and forth between Peter and Vin.

 

"Because, young man," the doctor said calmly, reaching into his bag and taking out a thermometer and lubricant, "you are half asleep now which makes taking your temperature orally not advisable.  You have also been throwing up which alters the temperature in your mouth and none of these conditions look to be changing in the next couple of days and until they do it is better to take your temperature rectally.  Now, be good and roll over on your side.  It won't hurt and it will be over in a few minutes."

 

Damien shook his head, "No!"  His face was set in a mask of determination.

 

Vin sighed and looked down at the younger man, "Damien,” he said, his voice quiet but leaving little doubt that his patience was non-existent.

 

Tears pooled in the hazel eyes as they looked at both men.  Inching his way down the bed, Damien rolled over and burrowed his head in one of the pillows.

 

Vin reached over and began to gently stroke his hair.

 

Quickly, Peter sat on the bed, lowered the young man's boxers and inserted the thermometer.

 

Feeling the tensing of muscle, Vin began to stroke the exposed arm as he murmured softly words of reassurance.

 

Removing the thermometer a few minutes later, Peter frowned. 

 

"What's his temperature?” Vin asked.

 

"Almost 104.  I think he definitely has an infection starting."

 

After washing his hands, he returned to the bedroom.  "Okay, Damien, I'm just going to check your leg.”

 

Vin smiled down at the form curled up next to him.  "He’s asleep."

 

A quick and careful examination indicated the cut was indeed showing signs of infection. A hot, red ring was weeping near the stitches.  Peter cleaned the area with antiseptic and wrapped a light gauze bandage around the wound.

 

After packing his things back into his bag, Peter motioned for Vin to follow him out into the hall.

 

"Well, the boy is getting an infection in his leg,” Bailey said once they were settled back in the living room. "I am prescribing some stronger antibiotics, Tylenol and Tigan which will settle his stomach.  Since he has had a problem in the past with taking pills, I'm going to give you three days worth of the antibiotics and the Tylenol in suppository form.  The Tigan is best in that form anyway, so I am going to give you a week’s worth.  Give him the Tigan for two straight days and then see how his stomach is.  The dosages and other instructions will be on the bottle.  If he is still not up to taking oral medicine in three days, let me know and I'll extend the prescription.  I want him on the antibiotics for the full two weeks.  Got that? I don't care if he seems all better…"

 

His lecture was cut short by a wave from Vincent, "Yes, Doctor, I know."

 

"Good, old man, just making sure."

 

"I know and I appreciate your concern, and thanks for stopping by on a Saturday.  I’ll bet Mark is none-too-happy about you working on a weekend."

 

The young doctor smiled. "He’s not too thrilled, but since it's you and I swore that I would not be making it a habit, he’s okay with it. But,” he paused looking at his watch, “I will be in trouble with him if I don’t get home soon. I’ve been a good boy these last couple of weeks and am not looking for trouble.” He winked at Vin and laughed.

 

"Keep it that way.  I will have to have the two of you over for dinner as soon as my houseguest is feeling better, maybe in a week."

 

"That would be great."  Getting up to leave, Peter said, 'I'll give you a call on Monday, check on everything and then stop back by on Wednesday.  The boy should be feeling much better by then."

 

As the two men walked back outside to the car, Vin shook his friend's hand, "Thanks again for your help."  Glancing at the closed window of the guest room, one story above them, he said, 'I don't know, the poor kid just seems so lost sometimes and I admit I’m concerned about him."  A small smile graced his lips, as he thought of the sleeping form upstairs.

 

"Not a problem.  Take care."  With a final wave, Peter got in his car and drove off, thinking to himself, "Oh yes, definitely in love."

 

 

 

 

 

Later that afternoon, Vin knocked softly as he opened the door to the guestroom. 

 

Damien was lying on his stomach, asleep.  The sheet pooled around his waist, the blanket kicked off.

 

Frowning, Vin walked over, shaking his head.  It was cool outside and even with the heat in the house going, there was a chill in the air.  Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, he hesitated.  Walking back to the bed, he sat down.  The boy was lying in the middle, sprawled out, oblivious to what was going on around him.  The flushed face indicated the boy’s fever was up again. He gently shook the sleeping figure.  "Damien…  wake up a minute for me."

 

A deep intake of breath and then a yawn as the droopy lids opened, revealing shadows pooling beneath the hazel eyes.  "What's wrong?"

 

"Nothing’s wrong, it's time to take your temperature and give you your medicine.  How do you feel?" he asked briskly, the gentleness and concern replaced by the veil of sternness, ready to take on any objections.

 

"Horrible," the voice said, still heavy with sleep.  "I am achy and my stomach is bothering me; feels sort of queasy."

 

"Well, it's a good thing then that you're not taking your medicine by mouth, isn't it?"

 

Damien didn't answer.  He groaned and closed his eyes, willing his stomach, head, and whole body to stop hurting.

 

"All right, let's get this over with.  We have some medicine if you need it for your stomach; you have to eat in a few hours."

 

"I'm not hungry."

 

Deciding it was not worth a fight right now, Vin vowed to himself to broach the subject again at dinnertime.  Opening the nightstand drawer, he removed a small jar of Vaseline, a thermometer and a box of tissues.  Quickly lubing up the tip of the thermometer, he laid it across the jar's lid.  Turning to the prone figure, Vin tugged his boxers down to his knees. 

 

Damien wiggled slightly in the cool air, but didn't react otherwise.  His eyes were closed and he seemed to be falling back asleep.

 

Picking up the thermometer with one hand, while the other parted the younger man's cheeks, Vin slowly slid the thermometer several inches into his rectum.  Allowing the cheeks to come back together, he patted the bare butt, saying softly to Damien, "Good boy, now just relax and stay still for a few minutes."  He looked at the clock.  As he waited for the necessary 4 minutes to pass, he lubed the tips of the two suppositories and straightened the nightstand of the clutter of books and magazines that had accumulated. 

 

Taking out the thermometer, he read the temperature and frowned in concern, 103.2.  The boy was still spiking high temperatures and it was beginning to concern him.  Deciding to check it again more often, if it was still high tomorrow, he would call Peter to come back out. 

 

"Do I have a fever?" a voice asked.

 

"I thought you were asleep."

 

"I’m miserable.  Do you understand miserable? I feel like someone wrung my stomach out and left it all twisty."  The observation came out as a pitiful whine, the voice taut with weariness and discomfort.

 

"Well, I'm sure the Tylenol and antibiotics will help,” Vin said, refusing to be swayed by the confusing emotions going through him.  Parting the cheeks again, he quickly and efficiently slid the two suppositories far inside of the young man.

 

Day groaned and tried to tense his muscles against the unwelcome intrusion of the objects and finger buried deep inside of him.

 

Withdrawing quickly, Vin wiped his finger on the tissue and pulled the boy’s boxer’s back up.  "Stay still and I'll be right back.” Gathering the thermometer, he went into the connecting bathroom and washed his hands and the instrument with warm, soapy water.  Adding a final wipe down with alcohol, he put the thermometer back in its case, ready to be used again in a few hours.  Walking back into the bedroom, he paused. 

 

Damien was lying there, head buried in the pillow, and Vin could tell he was crying softly, trying to hide it.

 

Steeling himself, he walked over.  Giving Day’s back a quick pat, he said gruffly, "Get some sleep.  I'll be back in a few hours to check your temperature again and give you some dinner.  If your stomach is still bothering you, let me know and I'll give you some medicine to calm it down.  You have to eat something."  Picking up the blankets, he straightened the sheet and drew the blankets over the still form with no more outward emotion than if he were making a bed.

 

As he walked out of the room and closed the door, he heard the boy let loose with a half sob before catching himself again.

 

Leaning against the hall wall, just outside the closed bedroom door, he was assaulted with memories of another crying boy.  Closing his eyes, he let the emotions and the memories of that day fill him. 

 

 

 

 

 

1972 - Vietnam:

 

Captain Vincent Cade looked again at Private Mitchell Stepsen.  The boy's silent stillness was bothering him.  Sighing, he rubbed a dirty hand across his face and looked again at the treetops as they skimmed by underneath their helicopter.  He was tired, down right exhausted, yet his mind would not stop replaying the last three, terrible days, the gunshots, the screams of his men, the smell of flesh burning.  He willed himself not to look back in the hold at the two body bags, nor contemplate the four missing men from his unit.  Offering a prayer to a God he found himself having a difficult time believing in more and more, he forced himself not to think of his men---his responsibility---lying out there in the jungle, unburied, unclaimed, dishonored---forgotten and abandoned.

 

Tearing his thoughts away from those he had failed, knowing there would be time later to come to terms with that, he forced himself to pay attention to this one remaining man, his responsibility---vowing not to fail again.

 

Unbuckling his seatbelt, he drew a concerned look from the medic riding in the back. Suicides sometimes happened among men returning from a failed mission.  Nodding his head towards Stepsen, he cautiously walked across the small distance, balancing himself with years of experience. Positioning himself close to his one remaining responsibility, he buckled up, allowing his presence alone to give comfort.

 

The MASH camp was the first stop on a series of junkets back to their home base. As Cade left to give an initial report to his commander, Stepsen was taken off in a daze towards the hospital tent. He looked lost when the orderlies supporting him moved away from Cade. Placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder, Cade gave him strength, "I'll be there in a few to check on you.  Behave and let the docs check you over and I'll buy you a beer when we get out of here."

 

The boy gave him a small smile, apparently more reassured by the simple promise of a life he remembered beyond the shellfire and napalm.

 

His debriefing took over an hour and he was relieved to be released.  Walking quickly out of the office, he hurried to the small hospital to find his man.  Glancing around at the mostly empty ward, he did not see the boy anywhere.

 

"Captain Cade?" a voice behind him asked.

 

Turning he locked eyes with a young doctor.  "Yes, I'm Cade.  One of my men, a Private Stepsen, came in with me on the bird about an hour ago.  Where is he, Lieutenant?"

 

"I checked him out, cleaned him up a bit and put him in a private tent.  He seems to be in shock some, so I've got a nurse sitting with him, but he would not relax in the ward.  Too open I think.  Plus, I think some privacy would be good for him."

 

Cade nodded, "If you'll just point me in the right direction, I'm sure I can find him.  It’s been a rough couple of days and I want to make sure he's all right."

 

"Sure, as soon as I check you out.  Your man had numerous cuts and abrasions and I'm sure you do, too.  As you know, in this God-forsaken country, the smallest cut can lead to infection quickly.  They've got some nasty bugs running around these jungles."

 

"Let me check him out and I'll be back soon, you have my word."

 

"Nope, sorry.  I've got my orders, and," the doctor paused, his tone turning serious, "you know when it comes to medical decisions, rank has nothing to do with who's in charge."

 

Knowing he had no choice, Cade allowed himself to be led back into an examination room.  Quickly stripping down to his shorts, he lay down on the table and allowed the doctor to check him out. 

 

A careful examination and Cade’s cuts and scratches were attended to. Bed rest was prescribed with no argument allowed. A shot was administered, some oral medication doled out, and a nurse assisted Cade out of the unit.

 

"I'm going to put you in the same tent as Stepsen and I'll come by and check on you both every hour, take your vitals and make sure you're okay.  The doctor wants you both confined to the tent until your next check up,” the nurse explained as she wheeled him toward a small isolation tent at the back of the hospital area.

 

“I hope you rest as you have been ordered, Captain,” the nurse said, eyeing him skeptically. “I won’t hesitate to report you to the doctor if I don’t think you are obeying his orders.”

 

"No, this is fine.  Stepsen is my responsibility and I need to watch out for him.  I won’t rest if I’m anywhere else," Cade said in a voice tinged with weariness and sadness.

 

Stepping into the tent, he noticed Stepsen was sleeping soundly on his side, facing the wall, blocking out the outside world in a huddled position of defense.  Stripping quickly out of the robe, he put on the hospital pajamas that were on the bed. Climbing beneath the clean sheets, he nodded to the nurse that he was fine. She smiled down at him, and as if sensing his fragile hold on self-control for this one remaining man, said, “He’s fine, Captain. A little shook up, but he’ll be fine.” He smiled at her, comforted by her words. Finally, after hours of guarding and watching, he succumbed to exhaustion and eased himself into oblivion.

 

Several times in the foggy haze of sleep, he heard the nurse enter, felt his pulse taken, a cool thermometer slid into him; a shot administered; his own physical weariness making the assault seem unimportant, unreal.

 

It was the quiet sobs that brought him fully awake, the desperation of the cries, stifled and hushed.  Rising he saw Stepsen curled into a tight ball, his arms covering his head burrowed into a pillow, desperate to stay quiet.

 

Getting out of bed, surprised at how tired and shaky he was, Cade slowly made his way to the other bed.  Sitting down, he ran a comforting hand down the younger man's back.

 

"Mitch," he said gently, using the man's first name in friendship and comfort. "It's okay.  Let it out, don't be ashamed."

 

The sobs were choked off and the young man turned to face his commanding officer.  "I'm sorry, sir.  I couldn't help it.  I didn't mean to wake you."  Tears flowed from his eyes and his body shook with terrors Cade understood.

 

"Nonsense, boy, I'm not angry.  We've been through a lot.  What you are feeling is completely normal.  I would be more concerned if you weren't upset."

 

The private nodded eagerly, wanting the reassurance,  "I was so afraid and they’re gone---they're all gone except me and I barely have a scratch on me and they're gone! Dead!"  His voice rose in anguish. Cade knew about guilt, but it was not for these shoulders, not for his charge. The guilt was his and his alone.

 

Sitting back against one of the support bars of the tent, Cade pulled the younger man against his chest. The sobs started again, this time freely and unhindered, a cleansing of his soul. Vincent Cade, the strong father figure to young, scared boys not that much younger than himself, now concentrated all his efforts on this one young soul. Strength ebbed from him as he thought of the guilt and failings that this mission would long implant upon his memory.  For now, though, he needed a steel resolve to see this one remaining private back from this mission.

 

Cade was not sure how long they sat there.  At times, Stepsen spoke of how afraid he was during battle, how he was sure he was going to die and never see his parents or younger brother again, how happy he was when the helicopter picked them up and how ashamed he was that he could be happy while six of his teammates lay dead on the jungle floor below.  Other times, the younger man was silent, lost in his memories, replaying the battle, the ordeal he had been through, trying to make sense of it, somehow.  The nurse came to check on them twice, both times leaving them in peace, never speaking or entering the tent. 

 

Eventually, the younger man fell asleep.  He had unburdened his soul and had taken the first few important steps to recovery.

 

Sliding gently from underneath the sleeping man, Cade made his way wearily back to his own bed.  Head throbbing, throat tight with unshed tears and emotions, he had absorbed all of the guilt that Stepsen had felt.  Like any good officer, he had taken on the pain and the fear, leaving his man---his one remaining responsibility---feeling more at peace.  He knew it would be several weeks until he could rid himself of these feelings, but he, too, had someone to turn to and he looked forward to it.  Picking up a pad of paper and a pen from the nightstand, he began to pour out his own feelings to a man who was always there for him. The one man Vincent Cade could turn to, trust with his soul, and unburden his guilt. The circle of descent patterned in the age-old bonding of men in war.

 

Three days later, both men were sitting on another helicopter heading back to their own unit.  Before they had boarded, while they were still in the tent, Stepsen had thanked Cade for helping him.  "Sir, I don't know what I would have done if you had not reached out to me.  I was feeling so alone, so angry, so hurt, so lost; I couldn't imagine living any more.  All I wanted to do was die.  I think if I still had my gun, I think I might have done it, sir.  Thank you for being there."  The two men embraced.

 

While still holding the younger man, Cade said, simply, "That's my job, that's why I'm here."

 

 

 

 

 

Now, standing in the hallway of his home in Salisbury, Vin remembered how important it was to reach out to a suffering, young man. 

 

Returning to the bedroom, he heard the sobbing stop.

 

Sitting on the bed he sighed, "Damien, come here, son."

 

The younger man sat up, eyes red from crying, his face flushed with fever.

 

"What's wrong?"

 

"I don't know.  I feel so bad and you hate me and I'm alone and I'm just scared."

 

"Of what?" Vin asked softly.  "Of me?"

 

Damien nodded, "Yeah, sort of.  You have all these rules and don't seem to like me much and…" his voice trailed off.

 

Rising, pulling his patient off the bed, he held on to him while wrapping the blanket around his shoulders.  Bending down, he scooped the whole bundle into his arms and walked over to the loveseat in front of the fire.  Settling down with the younger man’s head resting on his shoulder, Vin wrapped warm comforting arms around him.  "Shhh, enough of this nonsense," he said gently, "close your eyes and try to sleep.  I like you and I'm not going to hurt you." 

 

"You like me?  Really?" Day raised his head in a comical look of shock.

 

"Yes, I do.  You need discipline and direction, but there’s hope for you,” Vin laughed, “You’re smart and interesting.  Now, " he said, tucking the head back down on his chest, "go to sleep.  You're sick and need your rest."

 

"Okay, Vin.  Thank you.” Day yawned, having worn himself out in tears.

 

Within minutes, Vin felt the smaller body relax into his arms and fall asleep.

 

Now Cade, old man, he thought to himself, what are you going to do with this brat who seems to have gotten under your skin?  No answers came from Halcyon Heights, only the peace and contentment the walls gave him that here it was home and all things could and would fit into place.

 

 

 

 

 

Two mornings later, Vin was in the kitchen preparing breakfast for himself and hopefully his guest.  The last few days had been a battle of wills and thinking back, he decided it had ended in a draw.  Damien had eaten the best last night - almost a full bowl of soup and a half of a liquid drink that Peter had recommended.  Then, pushing the entire tray away in disgust, he had refused to eat another bite, but Vin had been satisfied with his improvement and planned a small reward.

 

Carrying the same tray, now with two plates of biscuits, fruit, juice and the morning paper, Vin entered the sunny guestroom.

 

“Good morning,” he called out cheerfully to the form curled up under the blankets.  Damien had awoken just minutes before since Vin had heard the toilet flush as he was preparing the tray in the kitchen.

 

The figure stretched and yawned and then in a pouty voice said, “I was sleeping.  You woke me up.  Go away.”  With that order, he rolled over, pulled the blankets over his head and tried to shut out the world.

 

Trying to hold back a laugh at the pure brattiness of that action, Vin put the tray down on the table and walked over to the bed.  Without warning, he grabbed the edge of the blankets and yanked it down and off the younger man.  “Come on, let’s get up and eat some breakfast.”

 

“Go to hell.”

 

Vin raised an eyebrow, determined not to allow his houseguest too much freedom and wanting to enforce the rules of the house.  “We don’t use language like that here.”  Then, making his voice cheerful again, he said, “Now, sit up, let’s get your robe on and we will eat breakfast.  Then, later this morning – we are going to go sit outside on the terrace, the sunshine will be good for you.”

 

Damien looked at him, not sure if he was being teased or not. “You’ll let me go outside?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The afternoon had started out pleasantly enough. The sun was shining brightly and Vincent had arranged the garden cushions on the lounge chair and brought out enough blankets to keep any spring chill away from his patient.  Carefully helping the eager young man across the stone terrace, he listed the requirements for this short escape outdoors.

 

“I’ll expect you to sit there and read or sleep. If I catch you trying to get up by yourself, I’ll carry you inside and you’ll be lucky to feel the sun on your face in another week’s time. Here's a bell,” he said, pointing to a small brass object on the table near the chair. “I’ll turn the intercom on by the barbecue pit. You need me, ring it. Do I make myself clear?”

 

Damien smiled happily as he positioned himself on the cushions and watched Vin wrap the blankets tightly around his legs. He nodded in total acquiescence, pleased with the feel of breeze on his cheek.

 

“I’ll be inside working on the books. I’ll be out to collect you in an hour.”  Vin left, but returned shortly with books, magazines and a glass of orange juice for his patient. He stood by and watched as the young blond head eagerly sifted through the literature and smiled contentedly as he pulled the latest Koontz novel upon his lap.

 

Confident that his edicts were going to be followed, Vin returned to his study.

 

 

 

 

 

Damien became instantly engrossed in “The Dark Half.”  Every so often he would look up upon the lawns.  The place was pretty much unkempt and there was landscaping underway on the south side of the house.  Garden tools, bricks, boards, a ladder, stepstool and other carpentry items were cluttered around that end of the terrace. The back lawns curved down towards a river in the distance; several trees dotted the area and a huge Gazebo in disrepair settled in the center of the grounds.

 

A small object in the lawns caught his eye. At first he saw movement in the green, dew-crested grass, but focusing his eyes there was no further sign of activity. Turning his eyes back to the page, he was once again pulled up and away from the words, again focusing on the spot beneath the distant Oak. Something definitely moved in the grass, it was flipping and flopping about.

 

Quickly looking back towards the house, he assured himself that he was not under surveillance. Pushing the blankets away he eased himself towards the end of the lounger and pushing his feet into the slippers, he pulled the sweatshirt down over his sweatpants and moved towards the lawns.

 

Several times, the world tilted; still not completely recovered, he cautioned himself with each step. Wouldn’t do to pass out and have my keeper find me face down in the grass, he mused, not in the least bit thrilled with even the thought of that happening. Vince Cade, though gentle and understanding last night, had proven himself to be a man of granite. The face of this particular cliff was steep and un-scalable and Damien had a feeling more than one man and many women had failed to even get a foothold.

 

The slow progression towards the tree gave no clues as to what was still moving occasionally in the tall grass.  Damien walked carefully around the base of the tree, not sure of what it was, foe or friend, that now occupied the thick green carpet.  Bracing his hand on the tree for support, he leaned forward, fighting off a wave of dizziness. There, in the blades a small, baby bird flapped its wings in a useless attempt at flight. 

 

Damien listened. He had been dragged on enough camping trips for school to know that the mother bird must surely be nearby.  Sure enough, the eager chatter of a concerned parent soon caught his ear.

 

“Take it easy, little one,” Damien cooed softly.  Looking up he saw a nest directly up above.  It wasn’t high into the Oak, only eleven or so feet off the ground. A ladder would more than allow him access to the nest.

 

Remembering the tools on the far south side of the terrace where the landscaping was temporarily on hold, he moved as swiftly as he could.  It was several minutes before he returned to the base of the tree, positioned the ladder securely against its trunk and looked up to gauge the most direct route for his cause.

 

He tried to stoop, but the stitches in his leg pulled and he grimaced biting off a cry of pain.  His left wrist had been unwrapped and though it still pained him to use, he could surely hold a small bird in his palm. Bending over slowly, gasping for breath as the world pulled him forward, he managed to push the nausea and dizziness away. He slowly cupped the small creature and placed it gently in his left palm, securing it within a harbor of strong, slender fingers.

 

“It’s okay, little guy, I’ll have you safely snug back home in no time.” 

 

Carefully holding the small creature close to his chest, he used his right hand to guide himself up the ladder, bracing himself against the tree trunk. His injured ribs didn’t allow him enough movement to stretch up and deposit the small creature in the nest, so he climbed nearly to the top rung. Raising himself on tiptoes, he released his hold on the trunk and picked the small bird up with his right hand. Reaching up quickly, lest a wave of dizziness overcome him, he put the baby bird in the nest. However, before he could recapture his hold on the trunk of the tree with his good right hand, he brought his heels down and the world spun as he began to descend.

 

 

 

 

 

Vincent Cade leaned back in the leather swivel desk chair.  Turning out toward the driveway, he clasped his hands behind his head, stretching taut muscles and flexing his cramped shoulders.

 

A peace had settled over him these last few days and he was hard pressed for the cause. Halcyon Heights still required major renovations, funds were depleting fast and the young protestor was a constant demand on his attentions…. yet, and Cade wondered why, he felt like Halcyon had become a home.

 

It was not like it never was before. There was always a deep connection between him and the house from the first day he laid eyes upon on her. But now---now it was settling into him---like houses settle into the grounds upon which they are built. The stone and brick and mortar were somehow warming finally. The detachment of structure and concept were melting into one fine picture in his mind of home.

 

Vincent had always driven home to Halcyon with a constant question upon his first sighting: How the hell did I manage such a monstrous structure…far too large for one man alone. Now Halcyon seemed to have shrunk before his very eyes, not diminished, not caved in upon itself like prison cells, but adjusted itself to just the right size. Yeah, Vincent thought, feeling very much like Papa Bear, I’d best check on Baby Bear right now.

 

 

 

 

 

The sunlight struck him immediately as he exited out onto the terrace. Shielding his eyes, he squinted towards the chaise lounge. However, it was movement off in the distance, beneath the shaded grove and one particular Oak tree that made him spring into action.

 

Cade was military trained, as comfortable in command as tired feet in old shoes. His mind kicked in with instinctual action and he was not even registering the events.  He only knew he was quietly dashing across the stone verandah and down the stairs---silent lest his prey be spooked---out onto the dewy lawns. It was fate that brought him up close and personal as Damien St. Claire fell backwards.  Cade dashed ahead, flying for a short span, enough to catch the figure sailing through the air and pulling most of the weight down on top of him as he fell to the earth.

 

 

 

 

 

Damien sat at the kitchen table, the yellow legal pad and a fresh box of pens the only items on the clean surface. Vincent Cade pulled pots from the cupboard and set about making dinner, cooking the chicken potpies that Mrs. Coletrane had left.

 

“What the hell do you take me for? Do you think I’m some kind of child to be treated this way?”  Damien had been ranting for the past five minutes, ever since his savior had carried him inside.

 

After righting himself, Vin had checked out his burden before pulling the young man up and bringing the sorry young bird sitter inside.  Pushing him down onto a chair at the kitchen table, a short command of “Don’t you dare move,” as he left the room. He returned a moment later with a pad and several pens.

 

“Two hundred times:  I will not take foolish chances with my life or disobey orders when I know I am ill and have been instructed to stay put.”

 

Vincent steeled himself to every blasphemy and cuss word. It was a learning experience. While the young man had been seriously ill, he had lost his spunk and natural feistiness. Vincent was willing to be lenient, at least to see how far the attitude would take him. He needed to know just who this houseguest really was and there was no better time than now.

 

“You’re shit, do you know that? I know men like you. I’ve known men like you all my life…hard asses. You think because you have size and muscle on your side you can push other people around.”

 

“I’d start on those lines if I were you. You’re not leaving that table until I see two hundred,” Vincent said gently, his back turned to the tirade, and focusing on the green beans being prepared to go with dinner.

 

The first pen struck him between the shoulder blades. Tensing, he willed himself to count to ten. The second missile flipped off the stovetop hood and pinged itself backwards into the stainless steel sink. Turning, ready to put a stop to the assault, he faced Damien. The color of Vin’s face, the bold, dark hood that now narrowed his eyes, were enough to send a chill through some of the toughest men the army ever enlisted. But the hazel eyes that met his were iced with their own fury.

 

Damien, seeing the trouble he was now in, decided a full frontal attack might work best. He grabbed the pad of paper and threw it with as much force as he could muster against the large figure moving insidiously towards him. Rising from his seat, ready to confront his caretaker, but his leg, the injured wrist, the bruised ribs and jarring he just took made him slow and cumbersome.

 

Vincent grabbed a large wooden spoon off the counter as he neared his target. His full intent to paddle the impudent brat’s backside until sitting would be far less comfortable than this demon could ever imagine.  But, the look in those hazel eyes brought him up short.

 

Those eyes had widened with a look of dread, focusing in on the wooden spoon with a look of terror that dropped the small pouting lips in wonder, causing them to quiver ever so slightly.

 

“No!  Please don't!” The fear in that edict caught the larger man off guard, unhinging him.

 

The brown eyes returned from their murky depths and singled in on the hazel orbs before him. Shattered by the look, his feelings tumbled around him, leaving him stunned and with little resolve.

 

“Do as you damn well please,” he ground out and he angrily pushed past Damien. Moments later the office door resoundingly slammed with the force of his anger.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Slowly, like the aged, he collected the pens from across the kitchen floor.  Turning off the beans, he wrote a short note on the pad.  Not hungry. Please leave me alone. I’m tired and I think I’ll just turn in early tonight.  Then with an exhaustion of heart as well as spirit, Damien headed up to his room.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Damien sat by the window, his bags packed and hidden in the closet.  He looked out at the moon, brightly hanging overhead. The house had been quiet for the past two hours. It was just after eleven when he had heard footsteps outside his door. Jumping into bed, pulling up the covers, he waited, ready for battle, but they quickly walked down the hall towards the master bedroom.

 

Now nearly one a.m. and he was sure the master of Halcyon Heights was down for the count.  He would take the main road and walk towards the thoroughfare.  By morning’s first light he would thumb a ride with one of the many commuters heading towards London.  Grabowski would take him back; he owed him that much for the time and money he had given the group.

 

Now he just needed Jason’s help in putting him up for a few days, enough time for him to make some plans. Returning to the states seemed like a good plan right about now. There was little family to worry about him, some distant cousins and great aunts he didn’t particularly get along with, but America looked pretty good right about now. He wanted to be as far away as possible from the tyrannical man who burned holes into his soul with smoldering dark eyes.  Even if Ryan St. Claire still wanted a showdown with him, he could make himself pretty unavailable if he chose.

 

 

 

 

 

The night was chilly, far colder than he had anticipated. Not able to carry all the possessions that Grabowski had brought from the hotel, Day only took the things he truly valued. Ever since graduating college several weeks ago, he had eagerly followed Grabowski, leaving most of his possessions in storage in Connecticut.  He owned very little upon graduation from college. His parents both perished in a fire at their home in Connecticut in February. Life threw Day a curve ball and, not really prepared to handle his grief, he ran to England joining the first group that caught his eye.

 

He had never really been close to his parents; they loved him and he loved them, but they had their own lives that they had no intention of putting on hold just because they accidentally had a child. When he confided in them that he was gay, his mother chose to ignore it, still setting him up with one friend’s daughter or another. His father had at first been enraged, blaming an easy lifestyle for his son’s experimentation, but later he chose to believe that Day was just being difficult and would soon get tired of this phase of his life. It was then that he started focusing all his interests on his forgotten Ryan.

 

Robert St. Claire had been a happily married man with a ten-year-old son when he met Elizabeth Michaels, Day's mother. He had been completely enamored of her and within one year, he had divorced his wife of fifteen years and wed the young debutante. Ryan St. Claire had been shoved aside, a mere financial obligation, while Robert focused his money and time on Elizabeth and their first and only child, Damien. However, Damien, too, soon learned that time for children was the one thing the St. Claires were always short on.

 

Following the curve of the back road out of the estate, he decided to cut across the plains and make better time, lest the lord of the manor find his prisoner missing and set the dogs upon him. He could well imagine Vincent Cade in Medieval times, passing judgment on his serfs, chopping heads for tithe.

 

The night’s chill began to pierce through his thick cable sweater. He was beginning to wish he were curled up in the soft bed, the fire blazing in the hearth, experiencing the sense of peace he had known the last week under the care of Cade and Doctor Bailey.

 

However, his own stirrings this afternoon were reason enough to leave. He didn’t want to fall in love. People leaving him had hurt him enough. Jeffrey was the first love of his life in college, it was the reason he had finally told his parents he was gay, but Jeffrey left him one week after he had taken him home for Christmas to introduce him to his parents. He had quit school and even taken the stray cat that Day had come to think of as his own…so much for true love.

 

He would not allow himself to be open to that kind of hurt again. Too many people left within the last two years, too many losses chalked up to the realities of life. He could not take one more loss, not now.

 

Crossing the field, the moon was assaulted by the dark and heavy clouds.  A soft, cold drizzle began to penetrate the woolen sweater. Day shivered, hitched his duffel bag higher on his shoulder and half limped/half ran towards the nearest structure he could see along the dark skyline.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Approaching the small fenced-in yard, Day listened for a dog. Surely a dog would have picked up his scent by now. Quietly opening the hasp on the wooden gate, he stealthily moved towards the small garage in back.  The house itself was tastefully and carefully maintained. A small English cottage with ivy growing around it, the two-story structure looked quaint and could have graced any postcard sent home by an American tourist.  He just needed shelter from the rain, he reasoned. He would be long gone before the inhabitants even awoke in the morning.

 

The door to the garage squeaked when he opened it, but watching the house for lights or signs of having been heard, he was soon assured his movements were undetected. The garage was cluttered with old furniture, tables, chairs, a bureau, and thankfully, an old sofa.  A bicycle with a small, straw basket leaned against one wall. A table and potting wares were along one another; no doubt a gardener lived here.

 

Day eagerly moved towards the old sofa, covered with a sheet, placed his duffel bag on one end and was fast asleep as soon as his head hit the canvas.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The sun rose upon Halcyon Heights with little cheer. Doors slammed into the morning quiet, loud voices echoed through her halls, and all evidence showed Vincent Cade was not a happy man.

 

Peter Bailey and his lover, Mark Coletrane, followed their irate friend from office to living room and back again.

 

“He’s sick, he has no business being about on foot in the cold. He’ll catch his death out there,” Vin reasoned, not sitting still long enough to listen to the reason his friends were there to provide.

 

“He’s not stupid, Vin, I’m sure he took shelter when the rain started. Or perhaps he made it to the throughway and he’s riding safely beside some London businessman right now,” Peter Bailey surmised.

 

“Look at it this way, Vin, at least he didn’t steal your car. I’ve no idea what got into you bringing that troublemaker here. You don’t even know this kid,” Mark Coletrane put in his skeptical view of strangers.

 

Peter threw his partner a warning glance. He had told Mark his suspicions that Cade might be falling in love; yet, Mark had chosen to ignore his observations.

 

“He’s no thief,” Cade threw back at him, a cold look added to the rebuke, “a fool, snotty little brat who doesn’t know much about life in general, but no thief.”

 

“Why don’t we just call the constable, have him picked up,” Mark suggested.

 

“No!” Cade roared. Then foolishly realizing he had his own secrets to hide, he blushed, “It's not like I have any legal backing to have the kid here.” Seeing the confused look in both men’s eyes he continued, “We agreed that I wouldn't press charges or make him pay for repairs to the car if he worked it off.  But, it's not like that is truly enforceable under the law.”  Noting the shocked looks on his friend’s faces he added, “I have my damn reasons,” and once again stalked off into the office, no doubt to call his many friends to action.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day was cold, shivering; he was running away again from Thaddeus Williams. Persecuted, taunted, jeered at, always the object of his peers rejection. Damien wanted to be accepted. He always had to prove himself by being the best, by winning, proving them all wrong that he was worth something.

 

The bright light shone squarely into his eyes. Brushing away the beam in aggravation, he mumbled his displeasure. “Go way.”

 

“I’ll do no such thing, young man, seeing how this is my garage you’ve decided to spend the night in.”

 

Damien shot up so fast his head spun. For a brief moment he thought he would surely topple over, but he managed to brace himself against his duffel bag.

 

“Please, lady, just kill the damn light. It’s a hell of a way to wake up.”

 

“Watch your language, laddie. I’ll have none of that talk in my presence.”  However, the mystery woman did lower the flashlight towards the floor. Day could make out a rather stout, elderly woman, probably in her late fifties or early sixties. She wore her hair up in a soft bun and she was bundled up in a chenille robe that just topped her toes. She was no doubt at one time a very beautiful woman. Now she carried herself elegantly and had chosen to age with grace and good cheer. Day liked her.

 

A chill sent an involuntary shiver through him. His clothes were still damp from the drenching he had taken.

 

“Boy, you’ve no doubt been out in that rain during the night.” Now tsk tsking like a busy hen, she grabbed his arm. “Come, come on. Let’s get you into a nice hot shower and into some warm, dry clothes. I think a nice hot English breakfast will have you feeling warm and snug in no time.”

 

Damien allowed himself to be guided towards the house, his duffel bag left on the old sofa, his rescuer’s head, as she wrapped a supporting arm around his waste, barely reached his chin. He didn’t feel, however, that size mattered in any battles this woman engaged in, and he was not about to even try.

 

 

 

 

 

Vince Cade thundered from behind closed doors. It was like a storm in the distance, aching to break out and let the heavens open up with a fury to be remembered. The first call was placed to Samuel Walther demanding legal action, anything to assure him that the blond young man did not leave England.

 

“Vince, I’ve done everything I can. We’re not exactly within our rights to keep the boy against his will and without a proper trial. I’ve overstepped my bounds with you, as is, old chum, I think you’re on your own now.”

 

Cade slammed the receiver down, all indication to Peter and Mark who paced the long hallway that their friend was indeed involved with the troublesome young man in more ways than he was willing to admit.

 

The next call was placed to Quentin Lyman. “I’m not asking for him to be incarcerated, I’m asking that you use your authority to find him for me…just find him, keep him in your sights and contact me. That’s all, is that asking too much?”

 

“Vincent Cade, I can only promise you that I will keep an eye out for the boy, if he’s arrested or returns to that group and starts trouble, but I will not put a missing person out on him. You’d best settle matters with the lad quietly yourself."

 

Again the phone returned with a vengeance into the cradle.  Peter pulled Mark aside just in time. The office door opened and Cade stormed out barely giving a glance towards his two friends.

 

“We split up. Let’s hit the back roads. I just don’t think he’d make the main thoroughfare, not in his condition, not with the rain.” Cade continued giving his perspective on the matter as he grabbed a light jacket from the hall closet and the three men left the house.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Damien sat in the small cozy kitchen. It was brick and wood and it smelled like home would smell if his mom and dad had been ordinary people.

 

“Where did you come from, boy?” the elderly woman asked him as she busied herself in the kitchen. Now dressed in a silver gray shirtdress, a white apron shielding the garment as she scrambled eggs, cooked sausages and toasted English muffins, she looked almost elegant. Her silver hair brushed and twisted in a knot behind her head, secured with silver pins.  Damien had stood beneath the steaming hot shower for what seemed like hours, but no doubt was only a few minutes. Warming himself in the divine spray he had reluctantly turned the knob. His rescuer had laid out sweat pants and shirt and warm socks.  They were oversized, no doubt her husbands, but they were well worn and smelled of fabric softener. It was good to be warm again.

 

Now as he hugged a steaming cup of coffee in front of him, nestled snuggly in the oversized sweat clothes, his feet toasty warm in clean, dry socks, he didn’t want to think about where he came from or where he was going. It was too nice here, too easy to fall into a sense of complacency. Women like this did not live in his world. The maids were too busy for lonely little boys and the boarding schools prided themselves on making men out of mama’s boys.

 

“I was on my way to Bath with a tour group. I got separated. Lost my wallet and I thought I’d hitch a ride back to London.” The lies came out easily enough, but the blue eyes that turned towards him glinted with a wary intelligence. He felt as though she could see through the charade and it bothered him, not that he was found out, but that he liked her and he didn’t like lying to her.

 

“Heavens, I know what young men are like. I’ve raised four boys, all men now on their own, but I know a young man’s fancy to see the world, to travel.  Isn’t there someone you can call? Someone in the states who can wire you money?” She busied herself with the sausages and Damien’s stomach started to growl. Skipping dinner last night had not been a smart move.

 

“Lord, my boys were of a wanderlust spirit. I remember Samuel, my late husband. God rest his soul,” she added to the heavens, “I remember many a time Samuel taking off on a rescue mission. Adam had taken a fancy to London. Got himself one of those classy studio apartments like you have on American television shows. Lost his job and was thrown out.  Took him two days to get up enough nerve to call us. Samuel, always an understanding father, took off and collected him.”

 

Piling his plate high with small pancakes and several sausages, she placed it in front of him. He eagerly smeared marmalade on an English muffin and buried himself in his breakfast. Listening to her drone on about her sons, he found her voice soothing, lulling him into a sense that he had somehow come home.

 

Sitting across from him, she wrapped her hands around a cup of tea and contentedly watched him eat.

 

“Adam got quite a talking to from what I heard later during the drive back, but a week at home with Father and I fluffing his wings, he was soon out again on his own. Now he’s a successful store manager on Saville Row. Doing quite well for himself.” The pride in her blue eyes made Day pause a moment, losing himself in the blue pools. If only that look had come into this parent’s eyes, he would have drowned himself in it.

 

“Of course it wasn’t all coddling and fluffing. No, my boy, their father had to paddle their backsides on more than one occasion,” she smiled, holding her own tea cup almost to her lips, savoring the memory, “yes, my boys turned out all right.”

 

“Do you live alone here?” Day asked, not really out of curiosity but feeling he owed her some interest, some sign that he was indeed listening.

 

“Yes, but my son, Mark, lives nearby with a roommate. I’ve become quite fond of Peter as well and they are both merely a phone call away.” Watching him with clear blue eyes, she smiled, “I can assure you, I am more than capable of taking care of myself and any helpless birds that happen to fall in my back yard.”

 

Damien nodded his head in agreement too consumed by the delicious breakfast, but a part of his subconscious was tugging violently upon his conscience that he’d best be careful---a worthy opponent sat across from him. However, he chose to push it aside and there in lay his biggest problem. He didn’t realize that he had already lost.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As the three men headed for their vehicles, Vince’s cell phone rang. Flicking it open, he pressed the talk button and paused dead in his tracks looking at Mark with a sly smile on his face.

 

“What?” the well-built gardener asked, unable to hide the hint of guilt in his voice. Whenever Cade looked at anyone with those cold, dark eyes, they just assumed they were guilty of something. Spirits broke easily under the strain of that look and some just felt it wiser to confess if he just so much as assumed them guilty.

 

Vincent flipped the phone off. “Let’s take my car, boys, I know just where the brat went. Seems your mom attracts more than injured animals and four-legged strays to her door.”

 

Mark’s mouth dropped in wonder, but Peter, who was well aware of Mrs. Coletrane’s fondness for animals and abilities to tame the wildest of creatures with her gentle hand, only burst out laughing.

 

“Mum has a talent, I’ll say that much for her,” he said, patting Mark on the back and ushering him towards the impatient Cade’s car.

 

Ever since the two had joined in a loving commitment a year before, the very proper Mrs. Agnes Coletrane had welcomed Peter Bailey into her heart as she would have any daughter-in-law her gay son had chosen to wed. Peter was instantaneously enamored of the woman, who had taught him a thing or two about bedside manners. He often said that doctors should train a month under Agnes before getting their medical license.

 

“She’s a talent for attracting the most troublesome of the lot, if you ask me,” Mark said holding the door while Peter slid into the back seat.

 

“You haven’t even met the boy, Tarzan,” Peter said jokingly, well used to the straight-laced attitude of his lover.

 

“I don’t know why you brought him out to Halcyon, Vin,” Mark Coletrane said as he settled himself into the passenger seat. “Spoilt Yankee brats like him just looking for trouble, traveling on their parent’s easy money and wreaking havoc anywhere but home. You should have let them ship him back to the States and saved England the hassle.”

 

“Enough, Mark,” Cade said it in the tone both men had grown accustomed to. It was a final edict, gently said, but edged with the fine gilt of his short temper.

 

Mark turned to look out the window, mumbling under his breath, “It’s not your Mum he’s hiding out with.”

Peter reached a hand towards the front seat and batted his significant other sharply across the back of the head, earning a loud “Ow!”  Silence eased itself into the interior of the car as Cade started the engine and the motor purred them out of the long driveway.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day munched happily on the remains of his breakfast. His easy complacency in this warm, cozy kitchen, his trust in this sturdy woman of gentle heart and kind soul, had him totally relaxed. She could have run for President of the USA at this moment and Day would not only have voted for her, but have run her campaign as well.

 

“Your son is a lucky man, ma’am,” Day said, sincerely wishing he were that man.

 

“Agnes, my boy, just Agnes Coletrane,” she set her teacup down sharply and looked out towards her backyard. Then as though realizing something, her face shadowed for a moment, covering the bright features in a veil, “I like you, boy, just remember that, okay?”

 

Before Damien could place much value on the words, the door burst open and a large, muscular young man entered the kitchen. He was in his twenties and he looked like he would take great pleasure in ripping Day apart, piece-by-piece.

 

“Mark!” Agnes cautioned in a no-nonsense voice.

 

“Mum, are you all right?”

 

“What do you think, sweetheart, that your mum can’t take care of herself, that every little helpless creature is a threat to my person?”

 

Before he could answer, two more figures entered the small kitchen. Doctor Peter Bailey and Vincent Cade both dwarfed the room. Now the cozy kitchen seemed small and smothering.

 

Realizing that he had been found, Day opened his mouth, “How…” but a quick look at the guilty red cheeks of Agnes and he knew instantly that she had called them.

 

The blue eyes caught the hazel ones, but instead of melting under the accusation, Agnes straightened all the more, steeling herself with her own self-righteousness. “I recognized a runaway, laddie, and Vincent had told me about his new guest…didn’t take much to put it together. Sorry, but you need looking after and I’d just do it all over again, if need be.” With that, she nodded her head sharply, convincing Day as well as herself that it was the right way.

 

Vin pushed past the two, muscular men and came to stand directly beside Damien.  Folding his arms across his chest, he bit his lower lip as though analyzing a conundrum he just couldn’t figure out. Raising a quizzical eyebrow, he said, almost cheerfully, “Care to explain.”

 

Damien felt a miserable rage inside of him. He was a free entity, he was on his own now taking on the world and all it had to offer him, and he resented this brute, this Lord of the Manor pushing him around.

 

Without any thought to his well being and physical strength, he rose from his chair, grabbed the coffee cup that was still half-full with the cooled, brown liquid and flung it full force into Cade’s insolent face.

 

Peter moved forward stretching a tentative hand towards Vin’s arm, thinking his friend would surely do bodily harm to the impudent scamp. Mark Coletrane moved forward himself, protecting his mom’s cozy kitchen, deciding to throttle the brat himself if he damaged one fine piece of her china.  Poor Damien was now cornered in the breakfast nook, and for one brief moment the fire left his eyes and he looked like he would cry.

 

Agnes moved in with a clean dishtowel, “Here you go, Mr. Cade, seems the lad has explained himself quite well. He doesn’t like you.”

 

“Mum,” Mark said reproachfully, “stay out of it.”

 

“Don’t you go telling me what to stay in and out of, young man, not under my roof.”

 

Mark looked sheepishly at Peter and shrugged his shoulders. Both men knew there was little reasoning with Agnes Coletrane when she took a fancy to someone. They waited silently.  Surely Vincent Cade would take the stance of employer and employee, walls meant nothing to a man like Cade. He held control no matter whose roof he was under.

 

Cade dragged the towel over his face, wiping away all traces of the cool coffee. Damien stood his ground, halfway balanced between the kitchen chair and table, slightly leaning in towards the table for support. The oversized sweat suit made him look all the more gaunt, accentuating the hollows around his eyes and the sunken cheeks.

 

“Mrs. Coletrane, would you like to stay at Halcyon for a few weeks? It seems my patient’s health has taken a turn for the worse and it might prove terminal if he doesn’t improve soon.”

 

“I’ll have none of it,” Mark spoke harshly, puffing his chest a bit and stepping forward, obviously trying to intimidate everyone.

 

“Mr. Cade, I would be honored.  I’ll have Mark drive me over this evening. Won’t take me long to pack the things I’ll be needing.”  Agnes pulled Mark away from the table and with a quick swat to his bottom she ordered him out.

 

“Out with you,” she said as she turned him towards Peter. “Take my son outside, Doctor Bailey. He seems to be having trouble controlling that temper of his.”

 

Mark’s face colored as he gave one final, warning look towards Day. However, the blond, young man was still gazing into the threatening, brown eyes of Cade. He still stood his ground, but anyone could tell there was doubt in his eyes now, doubt and fear.

 

Having cleared her son and his lover out, Mrs. Coletrane came up beside Cade. She stood next to him, placing a small hand on his back, “Why don’t you wait for him outside, Mr. Cade. I’ll wrap him up nice and snug in Samuel’s old overcoat. He’ll be chilled to the bone in this weather.”

 

Cade hesitated, drilling deeper into the hazel eyes with a personal promise of his own, then he backed off. “I’ll be outside…waiting.” The last was added with a small hint of impatience.

 

With Cade’s departure the cozy kitchen actually seemed to sigh in relief, Day could have sworn the floorboards creaked, the coffee pot steamed and small sounds seemed to acknowledge there was more room to breathe. Agnes Coletrane came up close to him. “Well, young man, it seems Mr. Cade gets himself pretty worked up when you run off.”

 

“I’m his hired help for the next month, he wants his due from me,” Day said, sinking back into the chair and burrowing his head in his arms, "but he hates me and I'm scared of him."