Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Brian hisses a curse as he overruns past the junction he needs.  He lets the Jaguar roll to a stop and sighs.  He is too busy letting his mind wander as he travels down roads he has never used before.  He ought to concentrate.  He crunches the gears as he forces the car into reverse, his foot not quite flat on the clutch.  He winces at the jarring noise.    

His companion mumbles something under his breath from the back seat.  The engine whines reluctantly, apparently in agreement with the blond.  Brian catches sight of the frown on his companion’s face when he wraps his arm around the headrest to look through the rear window as they weave uncoordinatedly back to the junction.  ‘Sorry, I missed the turning,’ he says, sparing his passenger a tight smile. 

‘How much longer?’ Roger asks quietly, ensconced within a number of blankets. 

Brian pulls into the junction and stops next to a road sign, the first he has seen for miles.  It is starting to get dark.  If they lose the light, it will be much harder to find the property they have been driving hours to get to.  He has never been there before.  ‘Only a few miles to the village, the cabin is another mile and a half from the centre according to the map.’ 

‘About half an hour’s drive if we get lost then,’ Roger jokes breathily.  Brian catches sight of him trying to sit up and he promptly stops the vehicle. 

‘No, stay! For God’s sake, Rog. You shouldn’t be out of the hospital, let alone sitting up unaided.’ 

Roger squeezes his eyes shut and snorts a laugh.  ‘Relax, Dr May, I can barely sit up unaided even if I wanted to…just trying to get some feeling back in my legs.’ 

He is telling the truth.  Now that Brian has fully turned in his seat, he can see clearly that Roger is only stretching against the pillows.  He looks pale in the fading light, bruising on his face exacerbated by shadows, but the faint grin on his lips is welcome and earns another in return.  ‘You’d have had more room if you’d let me use my car,’ Brian argues, frowning again.    

‘But it would’ve taken us twice as long to get here,’ Roger grouses weakly, pulling at the sling that restricts him.  His movements are uncoordinated and sluggish, his words slurred.    

Brian shakes his head, exasperated as he presses on.  ‘You’ve been asleep for most of the trip, so would it have mattered?’  Unconscious, more like it, he thinks. 

He is once again reminded of how poorly he has thought this journey out.  Neither of them is in a fit state for travel.  Brian has not slept properly for nearly a week and a half.  Not really since the accident two weeks prior.  Roger, despite the air of nonchalance he has tried to present, is a fragile cargo.  Parts of him healing slowly.  Parts of him will not heal at all, but his head injury means he is not aware of that, yet.  Brian sighs at the grim task he has ahead of him.  ‘Just rest.’            

Roger’s answer is quietly defeated.  ‘Wake me when we get there, doc.’ 

Despite Roger’s pessimism, it only takes Brian another fifteen minutes to find the gate to their accommodation.  He is only marginally surprised that Roger has managed to fall back into a deep sleep.  The blond stays under even when the car rumbles over a low timber bridge and up a patchy shingled driveway adjacent to a large lake. 

Brian gives the younger man a closer look as he turns off the engine and cracks open his door, flooding the interior with a hazy yellow light.  Roger is out for the count, breathing deeply with his mouth open, the smooth features of his face belaying the fact he has that year celebrated his fortieth birthday.  Brian decides to venture up to the cabin with some of their luggage and make sure everything is in order without waking his friend.  It will be harder once the convalescing man is in the house with him, of this he is certain.  He desperately needs the sleep.      

This secluded property is just the thing they need to ensure Roger is left to recover in peace.  Even in the private hospital room, Roger’s patients had found a way to get messages to him about their treatment.  Plastic surgery that could wait, in Brian’s opinion.  The esteemed neuroscientist could see the conflict on his friend’s face when he politely refused to respond to the private notes he was constantly being passed.  Some of his patients had been angry, as though it had been Roger’s fault that he had been knocked off his bicycle on his way to work.  Brian has been sure to constantly remind him that his patients are crazy.  He has a feeling this is not news to the younger surgeon, despite his weak protests to the contrary. 

Brian lugs the heavy suitcases up the winding stone path to a sturdy wooden door framed by two large stained-glass windows.  The caretaker in the nearby village has left the lights on for their arrival after much persuasion.  It cost Brian an additional fifty pounds to convince the old codger to lay out a truck load of kindling and logs for the fire and even then, he has only left them by the bridge.  The other villagers Brian had tried before had been reluctant to even cross the bridge over to the cabin.  Something about the property has them spooked, much to Brian’s annoyance.  The help would have been gratefully received.  He gathers up as much kindling as he can carry and drops it on the threshold of the cabin.

He feels as though he is being watched as he collects the remaining logs.  He pauses, listening closely but hears only the sound of water lapping against the underside of the bridge in the brisk wind.  Too dark to see anything amiss other than the dim lights of another property a few miles across the valley, Brian continues with his work.     

On his fifth trip back to the car, Roger is starting to stir.  He looks around with interest, rubbing his eyes with one hand as Brian positions the hospital acquired wheelchair next to the car door.  ‘Lean forward while I open the door,’ he orders, waiting for Roger to carefully comply. 

The wheelchair is only a precaution.  Roger has not had to rely on it too much since he has regained consciousness, choosing instead to limp unsteadily wherever he pleases which doesn’t help his fuzzy head or his broken ribs.  Stubborn fool.  The wheelchair was Brian’s non-negotiable condition of his early release from hospital.     

Brian struggles with it up the path, opting to drag it backwards, much to Roger’s languid amusement as he uses one leg to assist.  ‘I don’t see why we couldn’t have stayed in the Hilton,’ he suggests breathily.   

‘Because,’ Brian groans, lifting the chair over a particularly jagged rock.  ‘Your patients stay there before they go to Harley Street for surgery, and they will not leave you alone.  You need rest and your patients need to learn some boundaries.  They cannot expect you to be available while you’re recovering, especially with your memory as it is...’ 

Roger sighs, rubbing his sore head.  ‘It’s always nice to feel wanted.’ 

‘Their tummy tucks and breast implants can wait until you’re back on your feet, Rog,’ Brian says sharply.  ‘Just because they have money, doesn’t give them the privilege of your undivided attention at all hours of the day.’  He does not get a response and he doesn’t expect one. 

Roger makes no attempt to get out of the chair once they are in the wooden structure that passes for a home away from home and Brian is thankful.  He does, however, lean back and suck in a breath when he catches sight of the diving suit by the front door.  It is not the only nautical themed piece in the small building, but it stands out magnificently, looming over the seated man.  ‘Are we near the coast?’ he asks, bemused.    

Brian wheels the chair along the more manageable oak flooring with ease, leaving muddy tracks in its wake.  ‘We’re at least fifty miles from the nearest beach,’ he replies guardedly.    

Roger shifts his weight in the wheelchair, closing his eyes as Brian snaps on every light in the long room.  ‘Smells like Brighton promenade in here,’ he says softly.   

‘We’re not in Brighton.’

‘Clearly,’ Roger replies, squinting at where his watch should be.  It is not on his wrist, broken in the accident.  He must have forgotten again, judging by his scowl.  ‘We’ve been travelling for hours,’ he guesses correctly.    

Brian fumbles with some switches by the fireplace that appear to serve no purpose.  ‘I’ll have to get an electrician out this week to make sure this place is actually habitable.’  He glances over to Roger before hastily adding, ‘of course, it was lived in by the previous owner up until last month, so it should be fine.’  Roger does not respond.  It looks like it is taking all his effort to simply stay seated in the wheelchair.  ‘I’ve got your bed made already.  I’ll help you wash and change, then we’ll get you settled for the night.  We could both do with some sleep.’ 

‘A private room and a turn down service,’ Roger says quietly.  ‘I’m honoured.’    

------------------------------------------------------------------------

It takes a whole day for Roger to realise the bath is situated on the opposite side of his bedroom.  It is not until he hears the water gushing from the tap, that’s louder than it should be, that he looks up and spots it.  He has been dozing for most of the day, continuing in the familiar pattern of his hospital recovery.  His circadian rhythm is way out and shows no sign of returning any time soon.      

His slurred question is barely audible above the sound of running water.  ‘You don’t expect me to bathe right here, do you?’

Brian sighs.  He has been waiting for the question to come up.  He was beginning to worry that his normally observant friend had been too caught up in the pain to notice that they are in a three-room cabin.  One bedroom for himself in the main room, one for Brian in the rear and a small kitchen.  He is almost relieved that Roger has finally made the observation.  ‘There’s a shower in my room that you’re welcome to use once you’re steady on your feet.  Until that time, I’ll assist you in the bath.’ 

Roger does not respond.  He seems more alert than when they first arrived and Brian braces himself for the barrage of questions he has come to expect as the blond gazes out of the leaded window.  ‘Did you bring my sunglasses?’

‘I brought your prescription glasses.’ 

‘Sunglasses would help my headache more,’ Roger replies, rubbing the side of his head, wary of the stitches.  He frowns at the apparent shortness of his hair, probably unable to recall when he has had it cut.  He shifts carefully in the bed, holding his breath with a grimace. 

Brian watches.  He has become an expert at watching his friend for the slightest change over the last two weeks.  ‘Forty minutes until your next painkiller is due, if you can wait that long?’ 

Bloodshot eyes meet his, the left eye still almost completely red following the accident.  The bruising on his face is still prominent in colour but the swelling has finally subsided.  Roger is starting to look like himself again, or at least a new, paler version of his old self.  Brian is doubtful he will see the confident, carefree man he once was ever again, no matter how many horses and men he enlists to put him back together again.  ‘Let’s get it over with then,’ the blond says, resigned to his fate.  

Getting the shorter man into the deep enamel bath is tiring work for both men.  Brian is forced to take practically all of his friends’ weight as he carefully lowers himself to sit in the churning water, eyes squeezed shut.  He nods once when Brian checks the water is not too cold, unable to speak.  The tall man turns off the tap.         

Roger is breathing heavily as he allows Brian to hold him upright until he gets the bath pillow into position, the fingers of his free hand splayed against the bruising on his ribs.  No time for embarrassment at his nakedness.  He has long since given up trying to argue, his broken ribs and collarbone rendering him practically useless in his own care. 

His head injury torments him constantly.  He knows that without help, his hair will remain unwashed as he is incapable of lifting his left arm at all.  He has been unable to get his head wet since the stitches went in.  Brian has known him long enough to know how much he must desperately want his hair clean.    

‘I’m just going to dampen your hair with a jug of water,’ Brian says, using a voice normally reserved for children or the elderly and infirm.  Roger grunts, statue still as the water flattens his hair to his tender scalp and runs in tendrils down his upper body.  He grasps the lip of the cold enamel tub with his good hand.   

There is a pin holding the broken clavicle together, a row of stitches running along the curve of his shoulder from the invasive operation.  Red, raw and angry-looking once the dressing has been removed.  Brian is a fellow doctor, but it has been a while since he spent so much time with a living patient and he cannot help the way his stomach does a flip each time he catches sight of the healing wound.  His usual domain is a sterile laboratory where he does not have to deal with pain, blood, and gore.  He does not know how Roger does it on a daily basis and remains so cheery in his profession.              

He tries to distract the younger man as he helps him sit up so that he can carefully lather shampoo into his hair, wary of the knot that is still present where his helmet cracked against a car bonnet.  ‘I can make a start on something to eat after this if you’re hungry?’ 

Now it is Roger’s turn to sigh.  His appetite has been non-existent since the accident because of the nausea from his head injury and the constipation from the tablets he takes for the pain.  ‘Maybe you could go spear fishing for trout in that lake,' he suggests huskily, a hint of playfulness playing on his lips.                

Brian laughs.  A sweet release from the worry.  ‘Best I can offer is some sardines on toast.  I won’t have to don any of this equipment to fish as I’ve bought some tinned supplies already.’  There is a tense moment of silence as the shampoo is rinsed.  Brian knows Roger will hate this part of the process because it pulls on all his injuries at once.  He tips forwards compliantly and allows his caregiver to pour water over his head.  He groans under his breath.  His equilibrium has been off kilter since the accident, and any shift from being upright can be agony. 

After a couple of minutes of Brian’s careful ministrations Roger snorts a soft chuckle, eyes still closed as he carefully leans back into the soft bath pillow with a ghost of a grin brightening his pale features.  ‘I can just imagine you in that bloody diving suit, helmet and all.  The weight of it would sink you; we’d have to dredge that lake to find your body.’ 

Brian takes in the smile with one of his own.  It has been a while since his friend has been lucid enough to hold a full conversation, let alone crack jokes.  It is a relief to hear him speak without slurring every word, even if his voice is breathier than usual. 

Brian takes the opportunity while Roger has his eyes closed to examine him more closely.  The bruising on his face is certainly evolving into some impressive shades of green and yellow, as is the area over his ribs and knee.  He needs a shave. 

His broken collar bone is bothering him the most right now, if the way he is holding himself is any indication.  It is healing too slowly for both of their liking, and that is only a slight indication of the internal damage that will take much longer to heal.  He has not lost weight in so much as he has grown slightly softer around the middle while being laid up for two weeks.  He was ill prior to the accident, only he does not know this yet and Brian has not thought of a way to tell him.  Coward, he thinks.      

‘Your breathing sounds better today,’ he observes, hoping his voice is not as shaky as it sounds to his own ears.   

Roger cracks an eye open, his good one, water clinging to the dark lashes.  ‘It’s getting a little easier, as long as I remember not to move or try to inhale too deeply.  Feels like I have lungs full of wet sand.  Saying that, I’d still kill for a cigarette.  Did I bring any with me?’ 

‘You might as well give up, Rog.  You managed without for over two weeks now.’  Brian hands him a flannel to deal with his intimate areas.  He leans back and looks at the short and slightly auburn facial hair the blond is sporting, patchy in places with grey coming through.  ‘I can give you a shave if you like.’

The blond shakes his head and winces.  ‘Maybe tomorrow, if my head stops pounding.  I have a tablet for nausea, don’t I?’ 

Brian nods.  He has tablets for everything.  Well, nearly everything. 

Getting the patient into his bed is only marginally easier than getting him out of the bath, his limbs loose and pliant from the soothing warm water.  Towel drying his short hair flares up pain in his scalp and Brian makes quick work of getting him back into a pair of silk pyjamas and his sling while he is still grumbling.        

Despite his initial reticence, Roger does manage to eat most of his supper.  Maybe he figures the sooner he regains his strength, the sooner he can look after himself.  Maybe he is just hungry.  Brian watches him as he scratches at the scars in the crook of his elbow, still sore from the intravenous fluids they had him on in the hospital.  He should still be there, a little voice is persistent in Brian’s head. 

Roger has not really complained, but Brian is certain he is not overly happy about having to undergo the humiliation of being bathed, dressed, medicated and fed by his oldest friend.  Normally he would grouse at the unwanted attention.  Instead, he has been unusually submissive and indifferent over his convalescence.              

He tires easily, despite doing very little.  Brian can see his head nodding from the corner of his eye as he studies nearby.  He wordlessly helps his friend lay against stiff, downy pillows to keep pressure off his healing lung, tucks him in tightly so that the damp air of the cabin cannot get to him.  It has just gone nine o’clock.

The neuroscientist is happy to turn in for the night himself; he has read the same paragraph several times and cannot recall what on earth it is about.  Travelling and settling in to the new surroundings has taken it out of them both, even if all Roger has done all day is nap intermittently while Brian sets out the cabin for their stay.  Lugging heavy rugs and strange nautical paraphernalia into the corners of the room was tougher than it should have been on his own. 

After accidentally setting off a coughing fit by sweeping dust from the hard oak floorboards with too much gusto, Brian feels guilty about the current state of his companion.  Roger is still wheezing now, even in sleep.  Brian watches the unsteady rise and fall of his chest with concern before he snaps the light off.            

The complete darkness is startling at first when Brian wakes much later.  It takes him a moment to remember that he is no longer in the city, where a streetlight is positioned inconveniently right outside his bedroom window.  Pitch black.  It takes another moment for his sleep-ridden mind to catch up.  Unsure of what has woken him, Brian lays for several minutes until something catches his ear.  A moan.  Roger!  Brian kicks his legs from under the blankets, searching for his slippers in the dark.  He bangs his knee on the bedside table in his haste and curses. 

He fumbles for the light switch as another moan rips through the still of the night.  It does not sound like the injured man is in pain, and he shouldn’t be.  The painkillers he is on should be sufficient to last through the night.  When Brian makes his way over to the bed, he can see the blankets are in disarray on the floor, along with the sling.  He picks them up, recoiling as his hand comes away wet.  ‘Oh, Rog,’ he says softly, wondering if the other man had needed to use the toilet.  He closes the large skylight window above the bed with a long pole, unable to recall if he left it open.    

He makes quick work of replacing the bedspread with a spare without waking the other man, the sheets are mercifully dry as are his silk pyjama bottoms.  The tall man blushes when he spots the tell-tale bulge of an erection through the lush material.  Roger mumbles something in his sleep, his lips twitching into a half-smile as Brian hurriedly covers him with the fresh bedspread and braces a pillow against his bad arm to stop him moving it accidentally. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

‘I can leave a bed pan nearby in case you need it in the night,’ Brian offers the next morning at breakfast. 

Roger pauses in the task of stabbing his overdone eggs one-handed and glances up.  ‘Okay.’

‘I’ll get those bedcovers washed.  The wind will certainly help dry them today.  You know you could have called me, if you needed help getting to the toilet.  I wouldn’t have minded.’ 

‘I don’t follow,’ Roger says, the furrow between his brows deepening as he glances down at the blanket covering his legs.   

Brian is hesitant to elaborate.  ‘You had a bit of an accident.’ 

Roger scoffs.  ‘That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?’ 

‘No.  Last night, you had an accident in bed.  I had to make do with the spare blanket as it was the only item still dry.’ 

The fork clatters on the plate.  Various emotions flash over the blonds battered face before he settles on disgust.  ‘Fucking hell.’   

‘Really, Rog, it’s not a problem, I just thought you’d like to know.’ 

The surgeon rubs at his sore head.  ‘I had a strange dream about being back in the cathedral choir.  The roof had come clean off during a storm and it was raining inside.  Everyone got soaked…I thought I heard water dripping.  Did it rain overnight?’

‘I don’t believe so,’ Brian says.    

‘Maybe there’s a problem with the plumbing, then.’  Roger stops, drumming his fingers on the tray he has been eating his breakfast from.  He frowns.  ‘I don’t think it was another fit.  My pyjamas weren’t wet, or you would have woken me to change. You didn’t wake me, did you?’ 

It is hard to miss the vulnerable way the question is phrased, as though Roger is unsure either way.  He has had three epileptic episodes in the last week but he has been able to recall the aftermath of each one with some clarity not long after.  Each one is a further reminder that the long road to recovery might not lead to where he wants it to if his head injury has caused any irreversible long-term problems.  He is a surgeon, after all and he’d like to return to his profession if at all possible.  Brian does not have the heart to tell him that he may not be returning to the profession, even if his broken bones heal well.  He will wait until he is stronger to break the news.                 

The tall man nervously clears his throat.  ‘Actually, I think you might have tried to wake me.  I didn’t hear you at first, so maybe you got up and went as far as you could towards the loo.  I don’t think you had a fit because you’d managed to put the bedcovers to one side.’  Brian is startled by the clattering of the plate on his companion’s tray as he slams his hand down on it in irritation...or embarrassment.     

‘Oh God,’ Roger moans.  ‘To think a month ago I was mingling with the rich and famous, my biggest worry being whether I was getting a Ferrari or a Rolls, now I’m worried I can’t even go to sleep without pissing the bed and I’m actually relieved if I don’t have an epileptic fit.’  He barks a humourless laugh, rubbing at his eyes.       

‘That particular party was three months ago, and you went with a Jaguar in the end.  Completely impractical and almost impossible to park in central London.’ 

‘Fat lot of good the Jag did me when I was hit by that black cab.  Though why the hell I was cycling across central London on a Tuesday morning for the life of me I don’t remember.  Reed said my memory would sort itself out by now.  It’s been nearly three weeks.  I’ve got to get back to work, I can’t afford to be taking sabbaticals like you.  No rich uncle left me any mysterious properties in…wherever the hell we are.  The monthly rent on my office is more than your bloody mortgage is per year and I can’t expect poor Crystal to hold the fort.’  He stops, breathing heavily and frowning as he tries to recall a memory.  In the low light of the cabin, the bruising, along with his prominent cheekbones and hooded eyes give his damaged face a ghost-like quality.     

Brian removes the tray from his patient’s lap, sensing that Roger has finished with his meal.  ‘Reed said your memory issues might resolve given time.  He was quite adamant that we shouldn’t try and press our luck by over-exerting you.  It will take time, and you know it will.  The progress you’ve made in just a week is very promising.  Skull fractures can be dangerous, we don’t want to rush your recovery.  The brain is an endlessly complex organ-’

Roger scoffs, running his hand over his face.  ‘I know, I know.  I don’t need a neuroscience lesson, even if I am but a lowly plastic surgeon.  Besides, they said it was only a hairline fracture.  I’m sure my head shouldn’t feel this fuzzy…’  He carefully probes the stitches.  Grimaces.  ‘You know they say doctors make the worst patients, and all that, but they make much worse nurses, Bri.  Believe me when I say I don’t need another patronising explanation from you about the bloody human brain.’  He scratches at his stubble as he stutteringly catches his wheezing breath.  ‘I seem to recall you offering a barber service last night?’ 

Brian watches him warily.  ‘I did,’ he says.  

Roger hums, apparently pleased that his short-term memory has not failed him completely.  The flash of anger is gone almost as fast as it appears now that he is certain he has not had another fit.   

Brian continues to watch him carefully.  ‘Let me do the washing up, then I’ll sort you out.  If I lay your clothes out, do you think you can dress yourself?’

Roger gives him a thumbs up with one hand, seemingly distracted again by the view of the lake from his window.  A layer of mist hangs over it.  Brian lays out his clothes, removes his sling for him and retreats to the kitchen while the blond grumbles about his fashion choices.  ‘I haven’t worn these jeans for bloody years.  You must have dug deep to find them at the back of the wardrobe.’       

When Brian returns from the kitchen, he finds Roger sitting shirtless on the edge of the bed.  He’s caught sight of himself in a mirror on the opposite wall and doesn’t look happy with what he can see.  He has removed the dressing on his shoulder.  ‘Where are my glasses?  I want to see what that butcher has done to my shoulder.  They wouldn’t let me see in the hospital.  I’m sure they only kept it covered so I wouldn’t kick off.’ 

Brian cannot see how this will end well.  Roger is a skilled and meticulous surgeon, going above and beyond to ensure his work is discrete and clean.  The surgical incision on his shoulder is anything but discrete.  He will not be happy.     

‘I’ll give you your glasses after I’ve taken your blood pressure and carried out some other checks.’  Brian kneels, in front of his patient, breaking the view.  ‘You might want that shave first too.  You look…different.’  

Roger tuts.  He silently allows Brian to take his blood pressure and check the swelling around his face and injured arm.  ‘Head still aches like a bastard,’ he mutters as he has his heart and lungs listened to.  ‘But my ribs are feeling a little less tender this morning.  That bed is marginally more comfortable than the hospital bed.’     

‘Any blurred or double vision?’  Brian catches the head tilt in response to his question.  He sighs.  ‘Aside from needing your glasses to see more than ten feet ahead, how is your vision today?’ 

‘You know you don’t have to continue with the full neurological checks now that I’m no longer in the hospital; that’s why they released me.  All I have is a permanent headache, a patchy memory and a few epileptic episodes which will hopefully die out.’  He closes his eyes as his private physician probes the painful area around the knot above his ear.  ‘When was the last time you used that stethoscope?  I’m surprised you remember which end is for listening in to.’  

‘Shhh, open up,’ Brian says, holding out a glass thermometer. 

Roger huffs.  ‘This is completely unnecessary; I can already tell you what it will read and it won’t make any bloody difference to my recovery.  I’m sure I’ve got medication for it; I have pills for just about everything else.  I’m surprised I don’t rattle like a pair of maracas every time I move.’   

‘It’s important to monitor your temperature while you’re healing, Rog, you know it is.  I know what you’re like, you’d sooner have a leg fall off before telling anyone it’s painful.  They weren’t going to release you without permanent supervision, especially after the fitting.  We both know you’re running a fever; I just want to make sure it’s within safe parameters.’  Brian pauses in his ministrations, keeping a hand on Roger’s battered face as the other man grimaces.  ‘I only want to help.  You know I just about had a heart attack when they told me about the accident.  Please, let me help you.’          

Roger finally meets his eyes, the sour expression on his face softening.  ‘Okay, okay.  I’m sorry.’

This time it is Brian who sighs.  ‘You don’t have to be sorry, Rog…just let me look after you until you’re back on your feet.  You did it for me…well, I appreciate just what you did for me when I was under the weather last year.’ 

A nice turn of phrase for what was essentially a nervous breakdown.  Months of feeling inadequate at work and a recent failed marriage had pushed Brian over the edge.  He snapped, refusing to leave the house when it all became too much.  Following a concerning phone call, Roger had stopped by after work every day for three weeks to make sure Brian was washed, fed, and entertained. 

He had even lied to Brian’s laboratory placement and told them that he had been seconded to his practice for an important assignment so that Brian did not lose his research funding.  It hadn’t gone unnoticed that his bills had all been paid while he hadn’t been earning a penny.  Sometimes Roger was too nice for his own good.  It wasn’t the first time he had put his career on the line by lying to help out a friend.           

The blond looks concerned that the episode has been brought to light once again and Brian feels an immeasurable amount of remorse for it.  ‘I know I’m in good hands, Bri.  In fact, I can’t think of anyone more qualified to watch over me.  You might be a tad overqualified, even by your own impossibly high standards.’  Roger grins as he takes the thermometer and places it under his tongue, missing the flash of guilt on Brian’s face as he turns away.

Chapter Text

On their fourth day in isolation Brian must go into the nearest town to refill a prescription.  It’s not that Roger is pleased to see him go, but he relishes being left alone after too many days of being scrutinised under Brian’s keen eye.  He does not need his friend’s constant reassurance that his body is healing because he is fully aware of that fact. 

The pulse in his head is constantly throbbing, his breath stutters with each too-deep inhale he takes and his collarbone still aches sickeningly if he dares move his arm or neck.  The stitches pull, stinging as the tender skin tries to fuse back together.  Each morning he has awoken with sodden pyjamas and a fuzzy head, something strange lingering in the back of his mind.  A memory that won’t quite come to the surface.      

Oh, and he’s still constipated because of the pain medication he has to take.  Really fucking constipated.  He feels too full but cannot do a thing about it except pray to a God he does not believe in for blessed relief.  If he doesn’t get some soon, he’ll have to take matters into his own hands…literally, with the help of the bar of soap he spotted on the side of the bath.  Imperial Leather relief.  He hopes Brian remembers to pick him something up for the constipation so it does not come down to that particular home remedy because Roger is not sure he can even twist that far in his current condition.  The pill he took earlier has not yet taken effect; despite the sharp pain he can feel in his abdomen.            

Brian is barely ten minutes out of the door when Roger pulls himself out of the chair.  Waiting a moment for his equilibrium to balance, he gingerly shuffles over to the chest of drawers and sifts through the remaining clothing Brian has packed for him.  Some he recognises but some of the clothing is unfamiliar, even to touch.  He guesses the neuroscientist has been to his flat while he was in hospital.  He may have told him; he has probably forgotten.  Roger’s memory of the last few months has more gaps than he is comfortable with.  He tries to remember how long his friend said he will be in town for.  Less than half an hour, there and back.  Does that sound right?  Yes.  No.  Maybe?   

Roger spies a dusty telephone by the kitchen door.  He is disappointed to find silence when he lifts the receiver.  He longs to speak with Crystal, his trusty right-hand man in the Harley Street practice, to find out why Brian has whisked him away from the city under such mysterious circumstances. 

Thinking of Crystal puts Roger in a strangely melancholic mood, and gives him a sudden overwhelming need to get some not-so-fresh air.  He needs a smoke.  He and Crystal would usually take a couple of smoke breaks together at work, hiding from visitors on the roof of their prestigious building.  A cigarette might do his nauseous stomach some good and loosen his bowels.  Something has to work.  Something has to give before his mind does.               

Roger shuffles over to the front door, eyeing the diving suit warily as he pulls on a jacket, not one of his judging by the sleeve length as he pulls it to hang loosely over his sling.  Sharp and unignorable pain forces him to pause for a second.  He clings to the slatted wood of the doorframe, swaying on his feet.  Stubbornly ignoring his own stucco breathing, he gingerly pushes his feet into a pair of wellies, also not his judging by their size.  He digs around in his sling to find the pack of cigarettes he’s managed to hide from Brian for the last few days.  Bless Crystal and his wily ways, he thinks, knowing his friend must have snuck them into the hospital for him. 

Roger knows he will have to call his partner in crime soon to reassure him that Brian hasn’t gone completely barmy and kidnapped him from his hospital bed, even if that’s exactly what the older man has done.  Crystal will be worried sick.  The thought of Crystal worrying makes Roger concerned.  He isn’t quite sure why he is so anxious for Crystal and his wellbeing, but he is.  He has a vague recollection of having to reassure him recently after he received some bad news.  A flash of hurt cuts through the fog.  He cannot for the life of him recall just what the bad news was.  It must have been awful for it to make him feel so miserable.  A sharp pain slices through his head as he overthinks.          

Roger hopes Brian has had the decency at least to let Crystal know where he is.  He wouldn’t have let him go without a fight.  Maybe Brian is concerned about the level of care Crystal will provide especially after the disastrous ski trip they’d taken last winter where Roger had managed to collide with a tree and nearly broke his neck.  Crystal had found two particularly sultry French nurses to help monitor his condition overnight and for the following three days and nights while they shared several bottles of medicinal cognac in front of the chalet fireplace.  Bliss.    

It had certainly been a memorable trip for all concerned, especially Brian when he found out he had been abandoned by his ski companions on the slopes.  He was fuming, but then he normally is where Crystal is concerned.  Brian and Crystal have not seen eye to eye for a while now and Roger has had enough of it, that much he does recall with some clarity.  He knows he desperately wants the two men to get along.                 

He puts the French cigarette in his mouth and sighs around it, lighting it one-handed with difficulty, thinking of the lecture he is bound to get from Brian, his oldest friend, if he finds out about the illicit package and who it came from.    

Stepping out into the front porch makes him realise just how hot and stuffy it has become in the cabin with Brian’s insistence on keeping the fire and range cooker lit both day and night.  It is a particularly chilly autumn day.  The fresh breeze perks him up a bit and he limps down the gangway to the water’s edge, his loosely fitting borrowed coat flapping in the breeze.  It does feel awfully brisk, especially by the water’s edge.  Dank and damp.       

The lake must be at least two hundred yards wide and four times as long.  It reminds him of the lochs in Scotland where he and Brian had spent a few days battling hangovers years ago following a medical conference in Edinburgh.  It smells like the coast, almost peaty in nature.  He expects to hear gulls crying overhead but all is quiet outside, only the wind rustling through the trees makes any real noise.  Strange.  No birds singing, no deer calling, not one sign of animal life nearby.  Roger squints, wishing he had his glasses on him. 

The lake should be teeming with wildfowl.  He can see that the area behind the cabin is rich with woodland.  No birds chirp.  Not even a pheasant crowing.  Where the hell is all the wildlife?  Roger carefully treads the boards of the slippery jetty, spotting an upturned boat on the bank to his right, partially hidden under a worn tarpaulin.  It would be nice to sit and have Brian row him around the calm water, especially if they get some nice weather.  Sunshine in October should be manageable, even for whatever part of the English countryside Brian has brought him to.           

Failing to see anything other than a faint blur in the centre of the lake, Roger leans over the edge of the dilapidated decking to see if he can spot any sign of life.  A lake this big will be practically overflowing with fish, especially with the lack of predators about.  Maybe he can look for some angling gear in the cabin once he has gotten some of his strength back. 

He peers into the murky water while blowing out a lungful of smoke.  A rush of warmth blossoms in his stomach, far from unpleasant but surprising in its strangely arousing nature.  A faint buzzing bothers him and he hopes it doesn’t mean what he thinks it does; he doesn’t welcome the prospect of having an epileptic fit by the water’s edge, and Brian would have a fit of his own if he did. 

Roger has limited experience in dealing with epilepsy, but Brian has made it his sole concern, researching every book, paper and pamphlet written about the cause and effects of it.  Roger just hopes it will fade away along with the swelling and bruises.  Wishful thinking perhaps, but it is all he has to cling to in the hope he will be able to continue with his career.  Part of him wonders if the fitting is why Brian has whisked him away from the city.  Into hiding until he recovers. 

His fellow doctor has been acting strangely all week.  He is hiding something and is not a good liar.  Normally the younger man would be able to trick his friend into revealing what has him on edge, but it is taking far too long for his head to clear following the accident.  He feels as though he is missing an important puzzle piece.              

Roger absently flicks ashes into the water with a sigh as a pair of eyes peers back at him from the mirrored surface.  He initially thinks they are just his watery reflection until they blink out of sync with his own then disappear completely with a splash.  That was no fish.  White light flashes behind his eyes. 

‘Fuck!’  His cigarette falls from his fingers as he stumbles back, feet slipping on the rotten wood in his haste to get back over to dry land.  He falls.  His back cracks against the rotten deck, breath driven from his lungs in a wheeze.  He lays paralysed, winded, scared.  He hears his name being called frantically as he loses consciousness. 

He comes to slowly, trembling, gasping for air on his bad side.  Brian is crowding over him, his hands too busy as they work over his pounding head.  The wheelchair is beside him, looming menacingly.  ‘It’s okay, you’re fine.’ Brian says, infuriatingly calm.  ‘You’ve just had an epileptic episode.’  Roger groans faintly.  On the plus side, he is no longer constipated.  He has, in fact, shit himself.  He tells Brian this in a voice so weak he can barely hear it himself.       

Brian mutters something under his breath, but kindly refrains from the lecture Roger dimly knows is simmering below the surface.  The blond gasps feebly as Brian manhandles him to his feet and he is barely conscious for the arduous journey back up to the house.  

He is grateful that Brian helps him straight to the shower, stripping him off and guiding him under the lukewarm spray to get him cleaned up with as little fuss as he can.  The mortification of having soiled himself makes his vision swim even though he knows there is nothing he can do about it.  He clings onto the discoloured shower screen with weak fingers, pressing his forehead against it as the water runs down his back.      

Mere minutes later he is shivering back in the wheelchair, loosely grasping a towel wrapped around his waist while another is haphazardly draped over his shoulders.  Brian puts more wood on the fire, refusing to even look in his direction until he must.  He is clearly livid, or maybe just as humiliated.  Rightly so.    

The taller man gets him to his feet.  ‘Lift your arm,’ he orders curtly, slipping the sling back into place over a silk dressing gown before letting him sit in the armchair by the fire.  ‘Do you think you hit your head?’

Roger glances up from his shaking hands and whispers, ‘I’m not sure.’  He can’t quite recall what made him fall but he knows it was something important.  He manages a wan smile when Brian returns the pack of cigarettes and the lighter he must have dropped out by the lake. 

He looks towards a window, catching the last reflected light as the sun sets over the valley.  The lake is shimmering invitingly, the water choppy despite the lack of any real breeze.  Something about the lake makes his stomach drop sickeningly.  He wracks his brain, trying to remember.  He catches sight of his reflection in the glass and recoils at the hollowness of his own eyes.           

'If you must smoke, stay on the porch,' Brian says, carrying out his medical checks with trembling hands that betray his calm exterior.  'Or next time I'll leave you out there and you can walk back in by yourself.  Don’t think I didn’t already know about the cigarettes and who they came from.  You’re not that wily.  You could’ve just waited and I would have let you smoke out on the veranda.’     

The blond man, pale against the dark red fabric of the plush armchair by the fireplace, nods minutely.  He wasn’t even aware that there was a veranda.  His hands are still shaking, his heart stuttering.  'I didn't mean to go so far,' he says breathily, clenching his hands with a grimace.  'Something about the lake enticed me.  I think I saw something in there...'  Did he see something, or was it just an illusion brought on by the impending seizure?     

Brian, scribbling something furiously in his leather-bound journal, looks up sharply as his companion unconsciously shudders.  'Let me know if you're cold,' he says, softening his tone.  'I didn't see much point in getting you dressed again.' 

Of course, it's easier to ensure he doesn't make any more external excursions if he's only wearing a silk dressing gown, clean cotton underwear and bright red socks.  A flash of memory returns of a night spent drinking and smoking while wearing the same attire.  It’s gone as quickly as it arrived, a grey space hidden in the depths of his broken mind which means it must be a more recent recollection.     

Roger ducks his head lower, frustrated as the memory moves on like tendrils of smoke in the breeze.  'I'm not cold,' he says sullenly.  He reaches around to pull at the knot of the sling with his good arm, struggling to free himself from the irritating contraption.  'I'll be happy when this can come off permanently, both of my shoulders are killing me.  It’s like being stuck in traction all day.'  

Brian helps him remove the offending item.  He places a pillow on his lap to rest the injured arm against, giving Roger's hand a quick rub to aid the circulation as he fumbles with the knot digging into his shoulder.  Accidentally brushing a thumb over the healing scar on his other shoulder as he unfastens the sling, Brian shakes his head. 

Roger closes his eyes as an unexpected rush of pain and anger washes over him so suddenly at the inadvertent touch it makes him dizzy.  A low-level drone rings in his ears, similar to the one he felt out by the water.     

Brian is infuriatingly calm again when he suggests, 'maybe we can keep the sling off when you're off your feet.  It might relieve some of the pressure on your other shoulder, and the movement will help the cyanosis in your fingers.  Hopefully the fit didn't do any internal damage.  What do you think?'

'Are you actually asking for my medical opinion?'  Roger asks, bristling heatedly at the patronising tone Brian insists on using.  'I mean that would be a first.  I'm the last person you ever ask for an opinion because you already seem to know everything there is to know about fucking modern medicine.'  He snaps his mouth closed with an audible click, wincing when he realises what he just unexpectedly said.  Confused at the unexplained flood of emotion, he feels his cheeks flush with embarrassment.          

The room is silent for a long moment save for the crackling of the fire and the radio Brian has purposefully left on some classical station, probably to punish the injured man since he knows he hates it so. 

'That's not true,' Brian eventually protests, too hurt at the remark to simply let it go.  'I've asked for your opinion plenty of times.' 

Roger opens his eyes, finds his friend still leaning over him, fussing.  Anger clouds his senses, makes him nauseous with its strange intensity.  'Oh yes, you've asked me which secretary your office needs to hire, how often you need to meet with your colleagues to keep them happy, or which sales rep you need to speak to so you can order a new bloody coffee machine for your department.  You haven't been desperate enough to ask me about anything vaguely medical related since we were at university.'   

All of it is true, but Roger has never brought it up before and he is not sure why it's coming out now.  None of it usually makes him angry.  He has never been bothered by their differing medical opinions before, finding it easy enough to brush off Brian’s disapproval with a grin and a joke, confident in his chosen path.  Not today.  The buzzing in his head is so loud it drowns out the radio completely.  His heart is racing and he’s glad Brian is no longer holding the stethoscope over it.  Something is terribly wrong, but he cannot fathom what it is.       

'I-of course I value your opinion,' Brian stutters, clearly unsure how he has managed to get into such a heated argument in such a short amount of time.  

'Pfft,' Roger scoffs as his ears ring, clanging along with his heartbeat.  'You've never liked that I chose to go into cosmetic surgery and you make a point of telling me at every given opportunity.  You even tell Crystal, and he works for me.'  

Brian cannot argue, he knows he hasn't been as supportive as he could have over the years.  And as for Crystal…  'I was only pointing out to Mr Taylor that you're very good at what you do...but you could do so much more, help so many people who actually deserve it-' 

'Like you, Dr May?  Researching delicate neurons in the brain in the hope that you can make a difference to patients you probably won't even see in your lifetime.  Saving humanity?  Listening to classical music, like some pretentious arsehole because God forbid a respectable doctor should listen to decent rock music like we used to.  Urgh, you weren't always like this,'

Roger rubs his head, slumps lower into the chair as he groans.  'I swear sometimes I think the only reason we're still friends is so you have someone to advise you on constructive human interaction, like I'm just your bloody conduit to the real world.  Is that why you’ve insisted on making me your number one patient?  Well, good.  It’s about time you actually speak to some living patients for a change for practice; it's amazing how much of a difference it makes when someone thanks you for helping them, unlike the specimens from cadavers you keep on a shelf in the fridge of your lab.  Better yet, get yourself someone who’s really alive, like Crystal, who will call you out when you’re being a pretentious dick.'     

Brian's silence is an invitation for Roger to continue.  The firelight reflecting in his bad eye gives him an almost maniacal air as he gestures with his good arm.  His tirade is not over.  'So next time I have a patient ask for rhinoplasty to repair damage inflicted by her abusive husband, should I just turn her down and tell her that her cause isn't altruistic enough for my friend to accept?  My act of repairing the damage so that it’s practically invisible to the naked eye won't benefit society as a whole, therefore I really shouldn't bother.  Should I go into research instead, like you?  Will that make you happy, Brian?  Or perhaps you think I should just quit medicine altogether and become a fucking recluse.  Will that stop your incessant need to invalidate all the years of medical training I went through and the awards I’ve won just because my particular career path and lifestyle doesn't meet your ridiculously virtuous criteria for anyone ever becoming a doctor in the first place?  Jesus.  You make me feel like I’ve wasted my entire profession to date.'   

‘Oh, Rog.’  Brian looks devastated by the heated admission.  'Do I do that? I don't mean to.'  

Roger looks away, breathing unsteadily from his tirade.  He doesn’t have the lung capacity for this much enthusiasm.  He presses a hand against his ribs.  He hasn't mentioned to Brian that he fell flat on his back before the seizure earlier and he vaguely wonders if he's done his head more damage by cracking it off the jetty.  The words coming out of his mouth hurt him as much as they do his friend and he's not quite sure where they are coming from. 

It is as though something has severed the tenable connection between his brain and mouth.  He feels like he has just been used as a puppet, because even though the sentiments are his own, he would never use them to hurt his best friend.  Because dear Brian hasn't asked for the unenviable task of having to nurse his oldest friend through injury, and deep-down Roger truly knows that nothing the other doctor does to annoy him is ever done with any malicious intent. 

Roger groans inwardly.  He needs to get the phone reconnected so that he can speak to Crystal and get an honest opinion that is not entirely based on medicine.  Crystal would tell him to stop being such a twat.  Roger breathes as deeply as he dares, forcibly biting his tongue before choosing his next words with extreme caution.  The buzzing noise finally subsides leaving him exhausted.  He clears his throat, the sound of the radio returning.  'I know you don't do it on purpose, Bri.  I...well, I really shouldn't have said that.'  The apologetic tone he was hoping for comes out instead as simply dazed and confused, which he is.    

Brian does not say a word as he collects up his books and retreats into the kitchen area. He stays there for the next two hours leaving Roger in classical music purgatory.  

---------------------------------------------------------

Roger awakes from a fitful sleep with a banging head and bursting bladder.  The fire has burned down to embers, still throwing off enough light to see by so he knows it cannot be much later than midnight.  He rolls onto his side and manages to get his feet onto the floor beside his bed, shuffling over to the screened-off toilet with the gait of a much older man.  Sitting on the toilet to urinate is undignified, but much favoured over passing out and having Brian find him sprawled out on the floor.  After his earlier rant, he might just leave him there.  

Roger flushes the loo before washing his hands, knowing the noise from the cistern and hot water pipes will probably wake Brian in the other room since there is only a thin partition wall separating them.  A little voice in his head, that sounds a lot like Crystal’s, says ‘good, that will show him his constant help isn't completely necessary.  You’re still a grown man, even if you are a little damaged.’  Roger frowns.  His ill-feeling towards Brian had ebbed away to nothing following his tirade, but appears to have returned, as has the faint buzzing noise in his head.  He presses his hand against his middle, frowning at the strange feeling he has in the pit of his stomach.  It feels almost pleasurable.         

Making his way back to the bed, his foot meets a damp patch on the wooden floor and he skids, sucking in a breath as he grabs at the bedside cabinet with his one working arm to try to stay upright.  He lands awkwardly beside the bed, his back on the wet floor as an empty plastic cup rattles noisily next to him. 

Pain shoots through his shoulder and ribs.  The low-pitched hum makes his head throb as he catches movement above him in the shadows.  He squints.  Something is watching him from the rafters.  The translucent eyes he sees looking back at him are horrifyingly familiar and yet he is overcome with an odd sensation of pleasure.  The creature growls intensely.         

Roger feels arousal tug in his nether regions.  He yelps with surprise and scrambles painfully backwards, hearing his name being called from the other room as his companion awakes with the noise.  He glances over to the door where Brian is searching for the light switch.  He hears the creature thump as it leaps onto the next rafter.   

'No, wait!'  Before he can tell him to leave it, the room is flooded with light.  Roger desperately seeks out the strange form that had been above him, but is blinded by the lights and betrayed by his poor eyesight.  He belatedly remembers to breathe, sucking in a stuttering breath when he feels Brian's hands on his face. 

'Easy,' Brian says, holding tighter when he feels the younger man try to pull away.  

Roger is trembling again, his eyes wild.  'What the fuck was that?' he asks in a tight voice.  'Where did it go?'   

------------------------------------------------------------------

Breakfast is a tense affair.  Roger is obsessing over the rafters above his bed, peering up with fatigue bruised eyes as he chews on the toast Brian forces him to eat with his medication.  'I'm not crazy,' he mutters, spitting crumbs onto his duvet.  He may not be crazy, but he is finally wearing the thin framed glasses Brian made sure to pack.  He refuses to take them off.    

'I didn't say you were crazy,' Brian says.  'But you have to admit, what you saw last night might have more to do with your head injury than some monster hiding under your bed.  You’re sure you didn’t have another fit?  You haven’t exactly been yourself since the last one.'  

It’s true.  He has been insufferable and argumentative.  He still feels like being insufferable.  'Brian, the floor was wet.  It wasn't wet when I went to the bathroom, I would’ve noticed.'  

'You'd dropped your drink of water.  The cup was on the floor when I came through and your pyjamas were drenched.  You were shaking like a leaf.'  

'The cup was already empty and it didn’t end up on the floor until after I slipped in the water.'  Roger takes off his glasses and rubs ineffectually at his eyes, wincing as he pulls on his injuries.  He flushes with indignation.  'And a measly cup of water wouldn't account for the amount that I slipped in. And what about the thing I saw?'  

'Roger, you weren't wearing your glasses and I didn’t see anything.  It was probably just a reflection in the window.'  Brian stops himself and sighs.  It is clear he doesn't want to argue.  He has had very little sleep, having sat with his friend waiting for him to calm down in the early hours.  Not to mention thoroughly mopping the floor, which was drenched.     

Roger puts down his half-eaten toast and brushes ineffectually at the crumbs on his bed.  'Well, then you sleep in here tonight and I'll take your bed.' 

Brian immediately calls his bluff.  'If it means we both get some sleep, then I don't have a problem with that.'  

Roger sighs and glances over at the telephone.  If he could just speak with Crystal.  An impartial ally.  ‘Might I be permitted to make a phone call, let people know that I’m alive.’ 

‘The phone line is disconnected until I can get the GPO man out.  I called your mother, and Clare, before we left London.  They thought this was a wonderful idea.  They both agreed that you’d been working too hard recently and needed a break to recover.’

Roger sips at his orange juice, tries to add nonchalantly, ‘and Crystal?’ 

Brian’s eyes give away whatever lie he plans on telling.  ‘I informed your office, of course.  They’re referring your existing patients to Dr Staffell, although many of them said they would prefer to postpone their treatment until your return.’  

‘And Crystal?’ Roger presses.  ‘Brian, unless you specifically made a point of telling Crys what your plans were, he’s going to be out for blood until he knows exactly where I am.’ 

‘Well, he ought to accept that you’re convalescing and need to be left alone.’ Brian bristles.  ‘I really don’t know what you see in that man.’ 

‘He’s rather good company I’ll have you know!’  Roger chuckles to himself, imagining just how much more entertaining his convalescence would be with Crystal around.  ‘Just because he doesn’t meet your benign requirements for companionship doesn’t mean he isn’t a decent chap.  I really don’t see why you two don’t get along.’  

‘He’s hardly the best face to greet your patients, is he?  And his telephone manner is, quite frankly, rude and abrasive.’  

‘That’s funny,’ Roger says, his grin widening as he brings his glass up for another sip of orange juice.  ‘He says exactly the same thing about yours.’ 

-------------------------------------------------------------

Roger spends too long peering out of his window, boring a hole into the lake down below. He gives himself a headache.  He has spent the last twenty minutes of the afternoon meticulously peeling an apple with an extremely sharp knife.  Brian glances up every so often to make sure he still has all his fingers.  Twice his fellow doctor has offered to slice up an apple for him, initially unaware that the delicate procedure is not for food but a test of his dexterity, or lack of.  The surgeon has pricked his fingers too many times and now he is in a bad mood.       

Roger soon decides he has had enough of sitting in bed contemplating his uncertain future.  Aware of Brian's weary eyes tracking his every movement, he shuffles unaided to and then back from the toilet, continuing past the bed, apple peel sticking to the blanket he snags on his way.  He stops at the bookcase by the fireplace at the other end of the long room. 

He wheezes audibly, struggling to catch his breath, gripping the decorative astragal moulding by the bookcase for dear life until Brian nudges the back of his legs with the wheelchair.   He hates feeling so out of shape, but he makes a point of keeping his mouth shut just in case what comes out is uncomplimentary as he sits.  It appears he currently cannot trust his mouth around his oldest friend, so he chooses to stay silent. 

'Would you like to read something?' Brian asks.  'I bought some of your books from home.'  Another reminder that Brian has gone above and beyond to ensure he is comfortable during his recovery.   

'One of these will be fine.'  Roger tilts his head, trying to make out the strange calligraphy on the side of the leather-bound books on the shelf above his head.  It looks like they are a series of diaries from the forties.  He points to an early date and Brian collects, wheeling him to sit in front of the fire as though he knows just how sick the other man is of sitting in the bed all day.  Roger manages to settle himself in the large wing tipped armchair with a little help from his friend as he tucks the blanket over his legs. 

‘Thanks.’  He gives Brian a generous smile and immediately catches the moment when the tension leaves his friend’s shoulders.  They have not mentioned yesterday's tirade but then they have not really spoken much at all other than to lightly argue about Crystal.  They did that before the accident though.  Nothing new there.   

‘Aren’t you going to eat this,’ Brian asks, indicating the dissected apple that has been left beside the bed. 

Roger shakes his head.  ‘I’m not hungry, but I’d murder a cup of tea.’   

'I'll put the kettle on,' Brian says, conveniently forgetting about the strict low caffeine diet Roger is supposed to be following.  All must be forgiven, for now.    

Roger opens the musty book, delicately turning the first page to see what secrets it holds.  He props it against his knee so he can turn the pages with his good hand.   

He skims over the first few pages, reading about the life of a rather dull merchant seaman called James Beach.  There are a few doodles in the margins and a rather good pencil sketch of a grand three-masted sailing ship being attacked by some sort of squid in the centrefold of the diary. 

The entries are mostly about the weather and Beach's early battle with sea-sickness.  Roger has skimmed through to the end of the first diary when Brian returns with refreshments. He asks nicely for some more copies to be bought to him and by the time the evening has drawn in, Roger is getting to the good stuff, immediately prior to the second world war.  He even manages to ignore his persistent headache for the first time since they arrived.    

'Did you know, they found a stash of gold coins in a hollowed-out cow bone and young James actually used some of the loot to purchase himself a full diving suit so he could go exploring like Jacques Cousteau off the coast of Portugal.'  Roger glances up to make sure Brian is listening.  'Do you think it's the suit by the door?  What was the chap's name who left you this property, was it James Beach?'  

'Hmm?' Brian asks, looking up from his work when he hears the questions.  'Oh yes...Jim something-or-other.  He didn’t leave it to me, he left it to my uncle.  My cousin asked if I wouldn’t mind seeing just how habitable it was before he arranges to sell it.  Perhaps the local sea-scouts will want to use it as a recreational facility.'

‘I thought you said we weren’t near the coast?’   

Brian looks up sharply at his friend’s quick observation.  ‘There’s a naval school at Greenwich, and that’s not near the coast.’ 

Roger looks back down at the diary in his hand.  ‘Crystal was a medical officer in the Royal Navy, you know.’ 

Brian frowns.  ‘I thought he was a nurse.’

‘Oh no, that’s just what we tell the patients,’ Roger grins.  ‘There’s much more to Crystal than meets the eye.’ 

Brian looks troubled at the revelation.  He has perhaps underestimated Crystal.  ‘Were you related to this Beach chap then?’ Roger asks, purposefully bringing him back to the current conversation.    

Brian shakes his head.  ‘I think there was a letter somewhere that said why he’d chosen my uncle.  Something to do with his oceanic research days during the war.  My uncle can’t quite remember his navy days, not since he had that fall last year.’   

‘Strange that he would leave this property to him then.’ 

‘Maybe they hadn’t seen each other for a while.’  Brian gets up to put some more logs on the fire.  Embers spark as he uses the poker to get it to take.  They will need more wood soon, as well as apples.  He needs to refill some of his companions’ prescriptions too.  ‘From how the locals talk, it seems as though this Beach fellow was a bit of a recluse.  By all accounts, no one had seen him for several years until he turned up in the village last month to collect a food parcel that was supposed to have been delivered.  The phoneline was down following a storm and he couldn’t call through to chase the order once he’d run out of supplies.  Poor chap had a stroke in the greengrocers and died instantly.’

‘And here we are, no phoneline, with a convalescent who may need help at any time,’ Roger gests, moving on to the next book.  ‘Utterly irresponsible, if you ask me.’    

Brian sighs.  ‘The phone is working fine, I just disconnected it so you wouldn’t be tempted to call your office.’ 

Roger wants to roll his eyes, but he knows how much pain the action would cause him.  Instead, he just huffs and silently returns to his reading. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Later in the afternoon there is a loud knocking at the door.  Brian spares a quick look at Roger, but finds him napping in the armchair, snoring lightly.  Setting aside his work, Brian makes his way to the door sharpish, before the noise wakes his companion. 

The pale man doing the knocking takes a step back and smiles as the door opens.  He is dressed rather oddly, wearing a black cape over a dark, burgundy coloured suit.  He is also wearing a fedora.  Brian cannot recall the last time he saw anyone wearing headgear out in public since the practise all but died out in the early sixties.  It’s odd. 

‘Good afternoon,’ the man says.  ‘I’m your neighbour, an old friend of the previous owner and I thought I’d better come and say hello. My name’s Mercury, Freddie Mercury.’ 

‘Hello. I’m Brian, Dr Brian May,’ Brian stops himself from sharing more and manages a tight smile.  Roger is far better suited to small talk, he thinks.  ‘You’re the first local who’s bothered to come and introduce themselves,’ he adds.   

Mercury nods as though this isn’t news to him.  The brim of his hat hides his eyes as he adds, ‘well, the last inhabitants were rather reclusive.’ 

‘Inhabitants?’ Brian frowns.  ‘I thought the last occupier lived alone?’ 

‘Oh yes, of course. All alone.’  The mysterious stranger smiles tightly.  ‘And yourself?’

‘I’m here with a friend,’ Brian quickly adds.  ‘He’s recuperating following an accident, else he’d come and introduce himself too.’ 

The smile falls from the stranger’s face as he looks up sharply.  ‘Oh, the poor dear.  Bed-bound, is he?  This isn’t the right place for recuperation.  Oh no, no.  If he is injured you must take him to the village, or better yet back home.  You haven’t been here long, have you?’  Dark eyes look beyond his shoulder, to the dimly lit living area where Roger is napping. 

Only the mop of blond hair is visible from the doorway where the injured man is leaning precariously over the armrest.  He does not look comfortable and Brian itches to go and wake him to ensure he hasn’t exasperated his injuries.             

‘He would probably have been better behaved if I had let him stay in London,’ Brian mutters.  He explains himself when the dark-haired man gives him a questioning look.  ‘He had a fit yesterday down by the water, could have fallen in and drowned.  He suffers from epilepsy, post-accident you see, a nasty head injury.  He needs peace and quiet to recuperate.’ 

The stranger gasps, his already pale skin losing colour completely, and Brian worries that he has overshared.  Mercury looks over his shoulder at the still water below.  ‘He went down by the lake, you say?’ 

‘Yes, he snuck out for a cigarette when I went to pick up our food parcel from the village yesterday.  Oh, but he’s okay,’ Brian hastens to add.  ‘Bruised his ego more than anything.’ 

The stranger doesn’t laugh along with him, instead he leans in conspiratorially.  ‘In that case, you mustn’t let him leave this place. Tsk, I wish I’d gotten here sooner.  No one told me you’d moved in until this morning.  I was keeping an eye out for signs of life.’  Mercury grimaces.  ‘Promise me you’ll keep him in the cabin, won’t you?’  

Brian is unsure if he heard correctly.  ‘Pardon?’ 

‘Please, you must make sure he stays inside.  I will help you.  God knows, I tried to help Jim but he wouldn’t let me until it was too late.’  He nods, almost to himself as though he’s coming to a decision.  ‘I will do all I can to help, just keep your friend here.  I’ll be back soon.’ 

Brian looks around uneasily.  ‘Well, thank you for coming to introduce yourself, Mr Mercury.  I’d better get back to my work.’ 

‘Please, do call me Freddie,’ the other man says.  ‘I have a feeling we’re going to become very good friends, Doctor.  Please keep your friend where he is, won’t you?’

‘Oh, he’s in no fit state for travel right now,’ Brian admits, frowning at the satisfied relief on the other man’s face.  He thinks that even Roger on a good day would have trouble following this particular conversation.    

‘Excellent.  In which case, I will see you both very soon.’  

Brian is still pondering over the strange conversation when he returns to his chair in front of the fireplace. 

‘Who was that at the door?’ Roger asks groggily, trying to work the knot out of his neck without flaring up the pain in his collarbone.  A fruitless endeavour if the pinched expression he is sporting on his face is anything to go by. 

‘One of the locals.  Strange fellow, I think you’d like him.’  Brian shakes his head, recalling the way the conversation had changed as soon as he said he wasn’t alone.  He looks to his companion.  ‘I thought you were sleeping.’ 

‘I was until somebody let all the cold air in,’ Roger grumbles, struggling to do up the top buttons of his pyjama top with one hand.  He pulls his dressing gown tighter around his neck.    

Brian apologises, stokes up the fire with another log and moves to the window overlooking the bridge.  He can just about make out a figure on foot in the distance.  ‘I think that chap must have walked all the way from that house up there.  He certainly didn’t have a car with him.’ 

‘Hmmm,’ Roger hums.  ‘Maybe I’ll go for a walk myself before dinner and introduce myself.’

Brian laughs sharply.  ‘I can push you in the wheelchair along the porch and veranda if you need to smoke, but if you think I’m letting you out of my sight after what you pulled yesterday then you have another thing coming.  You shouldn’t be smoking at all, mind you.  It’s not good for your head or lungs.’ 

Roger sniffs.  ‘Yes, mum.’ 

Brian is true to his word.  Once he has dinner in the Range, boiling broccoli on the hob to go with it, stinking up the kitchen and steaming up the windows in the process, he does take Roger out onto the narrow balcony and allows him one of the foul cigarettes.  He tucks a blanket over Roger’s knees and wraps another around his shoulders.  Roger huffs but sensibly keeps both in place.  It is chilly and he is not completely senseless to his ailing health.        

Roger inhales too deeply on the first drag of the French cig and coughs painfully for nearly a full minute under Brian's reproachful eye.  His lungs burn and his eyes water but he is determined to smoke the cigarette right down to the filter.  He cannot waste them when he knows Brian won’t buy him any to replace them once they are gone.  Crystal would, he thinks with a surprising pang of longing in his heart.         

The sun setting gives him the barest indication of which direction the cabin faces, but not the location of their hideaway.  Roger watches the last light fade to grey over the expanse of water before breaking the silence.  ‘Don’t you think it’s strange?’  He does not elaborate until he knows Brian is listening.  He has learned from experience that unless Brian is looking in his direction, then he is probably lost in thought and not hearing a single word being uttered.  Too many times he has had to repeat an entire conversation for the other man.  He cannot spare the air today.  He only continues when he is sure he has Brian’s full attention.  ‘There are no birds on that lake, nor have there been since we arrived.’ 

‘Nonsense, I saw a goose land there this morning,’ Brian says dismissively. 

Roger falls silent for a moment, frowning.  ‘Well, where is it now?’  He waves a hand out towards the expanse of water, the one that isn’t trussed up against his sore ribs.  ‘Remember when we were in Scotland?  There were hundreds of bloody geese, shitting all over the bank, over every footpath, on my bloody car.  Here, not one single piece of slimy excrement to be seen.’ 

Brian looks out towards the water.  ‘I can take a closer look for bird droppings in the morning if it will put your mind at ease,’ he jokes.  Roger’s head snaps round at the remark. 

‘Don’t go down there by yourself,’ he says sharply as his heartrate races. 

‘I’ll be careful,’ Brian says.  ‘I’m not likely to slip off the jetty, if that’s what you’re worried about.’ 

Roger is breathing more rapidly, gripping the armrest of the wheelchair with his free hand as he pales at the thought.  ‘I mean it, Bri.  Don’t go down there, will you?’ 

‘Alright, I won’t.’ 

‘No, really.  It…it’s not safe.’   

Brian laughs uneasily.  ‘I said I won’t, Rog.  Let me go check on dinner, then I’ll take you back in.  I think that’s enough fresh air for you for today.’ 

Roger nods and leans back slowly, looking back towards the dark water below as he takes the last few drags of his cigarette.  With his glasses on he is just about able to make out ripples forming in the centre of the lake.  He knows it is not fish making the ripples.  He does not want to think too long about what else it could be.  Or where the goose went.                       

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

The phoneline is down the next afternoon.  It must be for real this time because Brian is reluctantly going to drive to the nearest neighbour or phone box to report it.  He has spent the morning torn between wanting to leave Roger to rest and needing to take him along for the ride to keep an eye on him.  It’s raining.  Pouring, in fact.  The tired blond is giving a great impression of the old man snoring.  Well, he had bumped his head and it was a struggle to get out of bed in the morning.  He wasn’t quite sure if he’d rather be Humpty Dumpty or the Old Man in this particular nursery rhyme. 

‘Are you sure you don’t feel up to the drive?’ Brian asks for the umpteenth time.  ‘I don’t feel I ought to leave you here alone.  That odd chap was going to return and I have a funny feeling about his mental state.’ 

‘He can’t be madder than the husband of Mary Hatcher-Blythe,’ Roger snorts.  ‘He stabbed me last year with a fountain pen when I refused to give her breast implants.’

‘You never told me about that!’ Brian exclaims. 

‘Oh, didn’t I?’ Roger asks innocently.  ‘It must have slipped my mind.’ 

‘Were you hurt?’

‘He wasn’t a very good shot, he caught me on the forearm.  Crystal put in six stitches for me, after he threw Mr Hatcher-Blythe out.  And I mean bodily picked him up and threw him right out the door.  It was terribly exciting.  Are you sure I didn’t mention it to you?  I’m sure I showed you the scar.’  He twists his good arm, trying to see the site of his previous injury. 

Brian gapes at the pale scar he can now see in the light.  ‘I think I would’ve remembered!  I told you your patients are unhinged.’  

‘Mr Hatcher-Blythe wasn’t a patient, his wife was…only she didn’t want the damned implants but didn’t want to disappoint him,’ he pauses, losing his train of thought.  He lowers his arm, unable to twist it enough to see the scar without hurting himself.  ‘I’ll stay here while you sort out the phone.  Just leave me a biro for a weapon and I’ll be fine.’ 

‘Roger, be reasonable.’ 

‘Oh, I’m being perfectly reasonable, I think you’ll find.  After all, I let you bring me to this godforsaken place to start off with.  It’s not my fault all it takes to cut us off entirely from civilisation is the bloody phone line to fail.  Maybe you should’ve left it connected when we first arrived.’  He sighs too deeply and winces, a daily ritual now.  He’ll be pleased when he’s able to move without aggravating an injury.  ‘Don’t you trust me?’ he asks innocently, nearly breaking into a grin when Brian looks set to blow his top.  Trust is something he has recently lost the rights to.          

Brian complains, but he eventually relents and makes the journey alone once the rain passes.  He doesn’t give Roger any speeches about staying put.  He won’t waste his breath.  He does tell him to be careful and stay out of trouble.      

The blond is on his feet before the dulcet throb of the Jag’s exhaust has faded away.  He grasps tightly to the back of the wing-tipped chair for a moment as he staggers over to Brian’s room.  Unclear on why he has the urge to snoop, he rummages through the chest of drawers with no real purpose.  This is where his medication is.  Spare dressings for his shoulder.  He counts far too many prescriptions for just broken bones and healing wounds. 

His hands still as he comes across an envelope stuffed with correspondence and x-ray films with his name on them.  He holds one of the films up to the meagre light filtering in through the window but finds it too difficult to make anything out other than a dark mass on his healing lung.  He places it back in the envelope with a frown.  It is not common practice for the medical records to be taken from the hospital.  He hopes Brian has a good reason for keeping them. 

With a jolt, he realises that some of the dates on the hospital correspondence appears to pre-date his accident by about a month.  His hands shake.  He cannot force himself to read them.  Something in the back of his mind screams at him to stop.  Overcome with nausea, he hurriedly stuffs the letters back in the main envelope and pushes them back into the drawer, recoiling his trembling fingers as though they have been burned.  He needs to get as far away from the room as he can.  He staggers back into his room, glancing at the front door.          

He pulls on the same oversized coat and wellington boots to make a break for it.  He warily stays away from the path that leads to the lake and instead climbs up into the woods behind the cabin.  It is slow going with his healing lung and aching knee, but he makes it to the perimeter fence in about ten minutes.  He breaks out into a cold sweat as he thinks about the letters.   

He stops for a breather, leaning heavily against a pine tree for support as the world spins sickeningly.  The lake shimmers between a gap in the trees, seemingly watching his every move.  He groans breathlessly to himself when he thinks of Brian racing to the nearest phone box.  The car is too much for him.  One corner too fast and he will be crawling the rest of the way with his arse-cheeks pressed firmly together.  He hopes he is careful.     

The injured man waits for his vision to clear, his heartrate slowing to something nearer normal as his initial panic dissipates.  Once it does, he pushes off the tree and limps towards a brick structure jutting out of the ground a few feet away, similar to one he has spotted in the middle of the lake.  Curious.  It looks like a stubby chimney and has a heavy metal grate on top.  It is just short enough that he can stand on tiptoes to look down it. 

He stretches uncomfortably, sniffs the musty air coming from the wide chimney and pulls a face.  It smells like death and decay.  Reaching down with as much care for his aching ribs as possible, he scoops up a handful of mud and twigs, throws them into the top of the chimney and listens.  It is not deep.  It does not take long for the echoes to reach his ears.  He gingerly pulls himself up further to see if he can make anything out in the darkness.           

‘Should you be out here by yourself,’ a female voice startles him.  He stumbles against the brickwork with a groan as he loses his grip.  There is a dark-haired woman leaning against a gate, arms folded in languid amusement as she watches him recover.  ‘I think you ought to get back to the cabin, don’t you?’     

Pushing away from the chimney, Roger clings onto the low boundary fence instead, lightheaded, and weak.  ‘Just taking an afternoon stroll,’ he wheezes, taking a good look at his new companion through his blurred vision.  She is rather pretty.  A knockout in fact.  He wants to hear her speak again, wants to know her name.  Her accent is beautiful.  French or Belgian, perhaps.    

He must be staring for too long because she frowns at him, uncrossing her arms.  Her voice seems to come from underwater as she moves towards him and he desperately wants to ask her to repeat whatever she said, but his own voice is muted, the air thin and growing thinner with each passing second.  He cannot breathe.    

Everything goes dark for a second.  He blinks heavily and finds himself with his good arm wrapped around the woman’s shoulders as she half-carries him down the track back towards the cabin.  She does not know the best place to support him like Brian does.  The pain in his ribs alone is near unbearable.  He tries to pick his feet up, finding his legs lead-heavy. 

She knows her way around the cabin, leading him directly to the bedroom.  He gasps as she removes his jacket and boots and gets him on his back.  She is gentle yet firm in her ministrations, much like Brian is.  ‘Who are you?’ he whispers as she tucks the blankets around him.

‘A friend,’ she says, giving his good shoulder a squeeze.  ‘You can call me Dominique, but please stay right here, at least until we decide how best to help you.  You mustn’t leave this cabin.  It would have been best if you’d never been brought here at all.  Though, I’m glad I finally got to meet you.’

He must pass out because the next thing he is aware of is Brian looming over him asking why he is in his bed and why his hands are covered in mud.   

Brian has given up asking questions, instead he listens to Roger’s excited rambling with half an ear as he helps him into his own bed.  ‘It must be a mineshaft or something.  Why else would there be all these chimneys dotted about the property?’ 

‘I thought you could only see the one chimney over in the lake?’ Brian asks, able to get a word in when his friend has to stop to take a breath. 

‘The diaries,’ Roger replies succinctly as he squeezes his eyes shut to ward off the pain while Brian scrubs his hands clean.  He catches the dishcloth and pulls it from Brian’s grasp with a huff.  ‘The diaries had plans for a cell or prison for something.  I think it could be in the woods or under the lake.  There was a woman here earlier-’

‘A woman, here?’ Brian interrupts.

Roger sighs.  ‘She said I needed to stay in the cabin.  She was quite persuasive and positively stunning.’      

‘And what did this woman do then, hmm?’  Brian takes the dishcloth back, gives his friend an unreadable look.  ‘A looker, was she, this figment of your imagination?  She would be.’    

‘I’m not making this up,’ Roger says, anger brimming at the surface.  He rubs at his head, scrubbing his hand over his face.  His headache is becoming unbearable again.  He hopes that it is just a headache.  ‘It wasn’t a bloody hallucination, Brian.’       

Heavy rain thrums on the tin roof of the cabin, the white noise sending the men to bed earlier than ever.  The radio does not pick up a signal in the storm, and Roger can tell Brian’s research is not enough to keep him awake.  He hopes it isn’t.    

He is vaguely aware of Brian tucking him in.  He can practically feel his friend watching him as he forces the air in and out of his healing lung to appear as though he is already deep in sleep.  He opens his eyes as the light snaps off, listening as Brian readies himself for bed in the other room.  It does not take long for the cabin to fall silent. 

Roger uses his good arm to get himself seated, swinging his legs to the floor with a muffled groan.  He sways, breathes for a moment to ensure he has not woken his friend before getting to his feet.  Moonlight beams through the skylights in the sturdy tin roof, interrupted only by the streams of rain that runs down them making them seem alive. 

The injured man limps unsteadily to the door, cracking it open.  The spray of water from the pouring rain mists over his face as he pulls on the heavy raincoat and slips out into the night.  He foregoes the wellies, choosing to pad along the porch barefoot as he descends the timber steps down to the jetty.  He clings to the handrail with his good hand.  Something is calling him down there, too clear above the drumming rain to be real.  Roger pulls apprehensively at his hair, the sharp pain in his scalp proving that he is not dreaming. 

He spies the water churning near to the shoreline.  His feet move of their own accord, taking him to the water’s edge, the cold mud squelching through his toes as he skirts along the bank, away from the timber structure.  He wipes at his eyes as a dark shadow emerges from the lake.  He wants to recoil as it approaches, but he finds himself glued to the floor.  His heart thumps, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps as his skin prickles with goosebumps.  The creature reaches out phosphorus-looking talons that glow with a pulsing green hue.  Something warm wraps around his bare ankle and runs up through his veins.   

The buzzing in Roger’s head is back.  He pants, eyes fluttering as he feels himself becoming inexplicably aroused.  He stumbles forward, drawn to the glow of the creature as it stands before him, half-submerged in the deeper water.  He sucks in a deep breath, filling his lungs with air for what feels like the first time in months.  His stomach muscles tighten, his nipples chafing against his damp pyjamas as the borrowed rain jacket flaps open in the wind.  He can feel the creature deep within him.  He raises his face to the pounding rain.     

It whines.  The noise alone is enough to push Roger over the edge, his untouched erection erupting against the sodden fabric of his pyjamas and underwear as he stumbles back.  The tendril around his ankle is released, leaving him a hollow quivering wreck.  He keens as the creature slips back into the dark water, his voice loud in the night.  Overstimulated and exhausted, with darkening vision, he sobs once with barely contained relief before falling back against the mire and blacking out. 

He wakes sluggishly as daylight is breaking through the skyline above.  He is soaked to the bone and muddy from a night on the peaty bank.  Turning onto his uninjured side, he can hear Brian frantically calling his name from high above.  He stands, listing to one side, his head swimming as though he is drunk.  The ground beneath his feet is cold and wet, but his skin feels too warm to the touch as he carefully climbs back onto the jetty.  He recoils as Brian appears in his eyeline; his voice is too loud in the silence of the early morning.  ‘What on earth are you doing out here?’

Roger grasps his arm tightly as he helps him back to the house.  In very little pain, the injured man turns to his friend with only one burning question on his lips.  ‘What’s wrong with me?’ 

‘Aside from being a stubborn idiot?’ Brian grouses, hurriedly stripping Roger of his damp clothes.  ‘God, you’ll catch pneumonia if we’re not careful.  How long have you been out here?’ 

Roger shakes his head.  It no longer hurts as it did the previous night.  Nothing does.  He feels numb.  ‘I think I might be seeing things, after all,’ he says quietly, swaying on his feet.    

Brian’s hands still, Roger’s dirty pyjama top gripped firmly between his fingers.  He swallows thickly.  ‘Let’s get you into the shower, then you’re coming with me into town.  I think a little time away from this place will stop this cabin fever, don’t you?’                            

Chapter Text

Brian is not a fan of driving his friend's powerful car.  He cannot seem to get the fine balance in speed, either giving it too much or not enough acceleration for a smooth ride.  He sees Roger shifting beside him as they rumble over the rickety bridge, probably biting his tongue.  The blond has been far too quiet this morning, showering and dressing for a trip into town with minimal fuss.  Brian would welcome a snide comment or heated exchange over the silence he has been subjected to for the last hour.       

He inadvertently crunches into third, coasting while he tries to change up into fourth instead.  He glances over to apologise, frowning as he finds his passenger rubbing his chest and grimacing with his eyes screwed shut behind the sunglasses he has insisted on bringing.  He is pale against the crisp white shirt he is wearing.  ‘Alright, Rog?’ Brian calls his name a few times before getting a response.  

The blond turns his head, his lips pulled in tight thin line.  'Huh?'  

'Do you need me to stop?' Brian asks, slowing the vehicle.  'It’s not far to the town, just a few miles.'  

'Keep going,' Roger says breathlessly, waving him off.  ‘It’s just a stitch.’     

He is worryingly silent for the next ten minutes, squirming in the seat the further they get from the cabin.  Brian makes haste and parks precariously in the quiet town centre, half in a space.  He turns to find his passenger in some discomfort as he struggles to take an even breath.  He now regrets forcing the injured man along for the ride when he should be in bed.  Maybe he ought to have stayed in the cabin, he thinks. 

‘Did I do something or hurt someone?  Did something happen with a patient?’  Roger asks, his voice feeble as he massages his free hand against his aching ribs with a wince.  ‘Is that why we’re hiding out here?’ 

Brian double-takes when he realises what his friend means.  How close he is to the truth, yet how far too.  ‘No,’ he replies firmly.  ‘You haven’t done anything wrong, Rog.  None of this is your fault.’    

Roger pulls off his sunglasses with an unsteady hand.  ‘But something’s not right, is it?  I saw the letters, Bri…they were addressed to me from another hospital.  Has a patient of mine been referred because they’re unhappy with how I’ve treated them?  Did I make a mistake?’  

‘No, that’s not it.’  Brian sighs, squeezes the leather steering wheel.  Roger has always been a stickler with the quality of his work.  Tell him.  The older man balks as he spies the worry on his friend’s face.  'Wait here, I'll only be a minute.  Your prescriptions should hopefully be ready today.  I’ll explain everything when we get back to the cabin, I promise.'       

Brian jogs to the pharmacy, cursing inwardly as he holds the door for an elderly lady who immediately usurps his place in the long queue.  He rocks on his heels, wondering why it is so busy on a rainy Tuesday afternoon.  Even though it takes him mere minutes to pick up Roger’s new prescriptions, it feels like an age.  He does not relish having to confess to Roger why they are there but it is clear the younger man is struggling, especially since he has found the letters Brian has so carefully kept hidden from him.             

He is alarmed when returning to the car to find the passenger door wide open.  Roger is wheezing noisily, gripping the edge of the door in a death grip as he struggles to stand.  He turns to Brian, his face sickeningly grey as he gasps, 'something's wrong.'  His legs give way.    

Brian grasps him tightly under the arms, twisting awkwardly to get him back in the passenger seat as he makes a quick assessment.  It does not look good.  Roger can barely breathe.  His stomach expands stutteringly beneath his shirt, trying to assist his lungs in taking in air as he shifts in the seat with a grimace.  His late-night excursion may have done more damage than it first appeared.                

For him to have taken such a turn for the worse in the few minutes that Brian has been away is more than alarming.  The whistling accompanying each breath can only mean one thing.  'Rog, I think your lung has collapsed, but it's okay.  I know the way to the local hospital, made sure of that after we got lost on the way here.  They're already aware of your previous pneumothorax and other underlying health conditions.  We'll be there in no time, just stay calm, everything will be fine.'  The words would be reassuring if Brian was not firing them out at such a rapid pace.    

Roger nods tightly, his face contorted in pain, eyes flashing briefly with panic, ribs expanding unevenly as he struggles to draw in enough air with only one lung.  'M'ears are ringing...' he slurs.  Brian slams the passenger door closed before the ailing man can say anything more, fumbling for the keys in his pocket as he races to his side of the car. 

He has just managed to get the driver’s side door open when the keys are pulled free from his grip.  It is the strange, moustached man who visited the house the previous day with his bizarre predictions and warnings.  Brian’s stomach drops.  'Please,' he says, wrestling with the stranger.  'I need to get him to the hospital.  He’s not well!' 

'Hospital is the last place he needs to be,' Mercury replies, grasping hold of Brian's forearm and pushing him away from the vehicle.  The shorter man is much stronger than he looks.  ‘You didn’t listen to a word I told you,’ he scolds, his black cape catching the wind as he turns and slides onto the driver’s seat. 

Brian falls awkwardly, watching with dismay as the dark-haired man drives erratically away with his ailing friend, bumping up a kerb and knocking over a sign advertising the local butcher’s specials.

Brian immediately looks for help, finding no one around on the rain-soaked street.  He spots a vehicle with an open passenger door and wipers squeaking against the windscreen.  'Please, I need your help,' he cries, sticking his head through the open door.  

'I'd say you do,' the dark-haired female driver says, motioning for him to get in.  She puts the small car in gear and pulls away without the urgency Brian hopes for.  The woman grimaces.  ‘Freddie doesn’t even have a driver’s license.  I just hope we’re not too late.  I thought we were both quite clear with you and your friend about staying in the cabin.’    

The penny drops.  'Oh God, Roger told me about you.  I hoped you were just some fever-induced dream from the painkillers.  Both of you are crazy,' Brian says, leaning forward in his seat.  The roads are wet and the rain is now coming down in sheets, but he thinks he can just about make out the other vehicle in the distance.  'If he dies because of your interference.  God, it doesn't bear thinking about.' 

'We're going to save his life!' the lady says sharply.  'If you took him much further, he would already be dead.  You cannot break the bond once she has him, even if you men of science think you know better.  You’re lucky it’s so dark today…'   

They pull around the bend and Brian can just about make out the silhouette of Roger’s Jaguar up ahead against the grey backdrop of the lake.  The passenger and driver doors are wide open but the occupants are nowhere to be seen.  The lady stops her car well before the bridge, much to Brian’s dismay. 

He throws open the door, ignoring her protests as he stumbles over the slippery timber structure, then through the mud towards the abandoned Jag.  He stops short when he spots a body lying motionless by the water’s edge, white shirt plastered against a too still chest. 

‘No, no!’  He is too late.  He takes a step towards his friend flinching as he is grasped from behind by strong arms that pull him down behind the car.  He lands in the mud on his backside with a muted thud.   

The chap that calls himself Mercury holds him tightly.  ‘Stay out of sight, or she won’t come.  If she doesn’t take him, then it really will be too late.  He’s stopped breathing.’ 

Brian struggles against his captor at the alarming revelation, but the other man has him in a strong grip.  ‘What have you done?’ he moans before a hand clamps tightly over his mouth.               

‘Shhh! She’s coming.’

Brian stops struggling, following the other man’s gaze with his own.  A dark shape has risen from the bioluminescent lake and is moving with a fluidlike grace towards Roger’s lifeless body.  There’s a faint buzzing that intensifies as the creature gets closer.  Brian cannot help but gasp as it passes the headlights of the vehicle.  It’s shadow seems to stretch impossibly across the entire expanse of water.    

It has huge, dead eyes, almost sharklike in quality.  Its skin is a pallid grey, dull yet strangely translucent and shimmering with a green hue.  It must be seven foot tall, yet it is lithe and light as it slithers out of the water and uses muscular arms to walk the rest of the way to his friend.  It does not have legs, but a large scaley tail that is suspended in air.  It moves like a circus performer on its tendrilled fingers that appear to reach out like smoke intermittently a few feet before it.  If Brian believed in such things, he would say it was a grotesque mermaid. 

It sniffs at Roger’s prone form, snorting as it nudges him roughly with its head as though trying to wake him.  Roger does not move.    

Brian gives a muffled cry when the green hued tendrils wrap around Roger’s prone form and the creature starts dragging him into the water, but the dark-haired man has not released the hand over his mouth, anticipating this reaction.  The creature does not hear them.    

He sags against his captor as Roger's body is dragged across the lake, disappearing beneath the surface of the water with gut-wrenching finality.  ‘What have you done?’ Brian once again cries weakly. 

‘Come inside, Dr May,’ the dark-haired man says, clasping his hands together as he stands. ‘I think we need to put the kettle on, don’t you?’ 

Chapter Text

Roger wheezes, jolting with surprise as the Jaguar crashes noisily against something.  He blinks sluggishly, lifting his head with a groan when he finds that Brian is not the driver.  The stranger reaches a hand out clumsily to grasp at his shirt, telling him to hold on.  Through a haze of red, Roger struggles to comply.  His lungs are being crushed from within, each breath shorter and more painful than the last. 

This is not the way he imagined he would go. 

The thought unlocks a hazy memory of a conversation describing this very situation.  Slow suffocation.  A flash of Crystal's grief-stricken face as he holds out a letter he has opened mistakenly thinking it was addressed to him.  A heated argument.  The pit of dread in his stomach blossoms as he tries to avoid remembering the painful conversation while knowing he must try to recall it.  Walking out.  Running.  Ending up on Brian’s doorstep in the middle of the night. 

Tears threaten to spill as he finally grasps hold of the memory of being comforted by his oldest friend.  The breathlessness he has felt over the past few months.  The initial blood tests.  The results of a scan.  The biopsy.  A mass on his lung.  Metastasized.  Spread to his brain.  A complex organ, Brian says.  Inoperable, says his surgeon.  Terminal, says the specialist.  Stay, says Crystal.  He does not stay.  He cannot put him through the hurt. 

Roger allows his eyes to slip closed.  The roar of the car engine fades along with his vision.  The motion of the vehicle as it rocks over uneven ground pulls him into a deep sleep.  He does not think he will be coming back.    

There is no pain when he awakens.  Darkness envelopes him as he sinks.  His heartbeat thumps strongly in his head, the only indication that he lives.  He does not breathe, yet he does not die.  When he opens his mouth, it fills with cold liquid so he quickly snaps it closed, still managing to swallow down too much salty water.  Everything is still except for him.  He dares to open his eyes only to find startling blackness all around.  He blinks.  His vision clears. 

A green phosphorus tendril is wrapped around his waist, constricting tightly around his navel.  It pulls him into the depths.  His limbs, with the exception of his sling-restrained left arm, float languorously as he succumbs to the nadir.  The pressure in his head is unbearable for a brief second, exploding with red stars behind his eyes before he is dragged onto dry land.  Reborn. 

Saltwater spews from his mouth and nose, his eyes streaming and stinging.  He coughs, his chest heaving as his lungs fill with the rancid air he recognises from his investigation into the chimney in the woods.  Sobbing with relief that he still lives; he turns his face into the solid ground below, curling into the foetal position.  He is beneath the cabin, trapped in the cavernous space under the property. 

He gasps, his breathing tremulous while he waits for the energy to move from where he has been deposited.  Movement from the corner of his eye catches his attention.  The green bioluminescent hue gets brighter as the creature moves within range.  He reaches out and allows the mysterious light to wrap itself around his aching limbs. 

The now-familiar warm sensation spreads through his veins.  He can feel it thrumming under his skin as it pulses inwards, warming his core.  It gurgles in his belly, rising up under his ribs until it settles within his aching lungs.  He coughs feebly.  He can taste blood.  The creature whines as though it can feel something is amiss.    

'I know,' Roger whispers weakly, pressing his face once again into the sheet of wet rock beneath him.  He shudders as he feels his lungs contract against his will, his trembling fingers feebly threading across his soaked shirt and under his tightly bound arm to press against the damaged ribs as something whirrs within.  Numbness follows.   

The creature makes another noise, the green hue flashing bright as something sharp pierces through his chest.  The sick man blacks out.  

A persistent nudging wakes him.  His eyes feel too big for their sockets, scraping sluggishly as he tries to look around.  He is still in the creature’s den; the prison in which Beach has held it captive for the last forty years. 

Something soft is pushed onto his hand.  He recoils with a croaked curse as the feathery corpse of a white goose rolls away from his touch and settles on the decaying bodies of hundreds of other assorted animals.  ‘Fuck!’  The terseness of his voice scares the creature.  It splashes back into the water, taking the light with it. 

Roger scrambles in the darkness, slipping on the bones, finding little purchase as he tries to find solid ground.  He forces himself to still.  Breathing through his mouth so that his nose is not filled with the stench of decay, he clumsily removes his sling and carefully tests the range of motion in his shoulder.  It twinges, which is a vast improvement over the constant agony he has been in recently.  He can breathe unimpeded.   

He wades through ankle deep water, feeling his way around the cave, following the cold air he can feel blowing in from somewhere above.  Moonlight filters through a tall chimney.  It is too high and too inaccessible for the injured man to climb.  He braces himself against the brick wall.  How the hell Beach managed to build the damned tomb and fill the lake with several thousand gallons of saltwater without raising suspicion with the local authorities leaves him in wonder. 

He shivers, missing the warmth of the creature.  He hopes he has not scared it off for too long.  He needs it to help him out of the lake.  He has no desire to stay in the catacombs longer than he must and he doubts he can swim out unaided, despite his lung functioning better than it has for months.  The diving suit had a purpose after all.  He sits on his haunches, his head in his hands as he waits. 

A flash of anger at Brian and the clumsy way he has tried to avoid breaking the bad news for the last week reassures Roger that the creature is nearby.  At least, he hopes that is why he feels such burning rage at the neuroscientist.  He remembers that his friend has only been acting on orders he gave before his accident.  He sucks in a deep breath through his nose, holds it for a second before forcing it out.  It feels good to have regained control of his own lungs.  He desperately hopes it is more than just a temporary fix.      

It is not long before the water once again glows green.  Roger shifts onto his knees and tries to coax the creature back into the open with a soft call.  He closes his eyes as it gets closer.  Whatever mystical power it produces is dizzying.  He hangs his head and takes a steadying breath, listening as the creature emerges from the water.  Pleasure flushes in his belly.  He glances up to find it pressing against the far wall of the cave, watching him with its dull eyes. 

He forces himself to speak gently, despite the exhilaration he can feel building within him.  ‘I suppose I ought to thank you, for saving my life,’ he says, smiling softly when the creatures dares to creep closer.  ‘My friend will be worried.  Can you take me back?’ he asks, unsurprised when the creature does not appear to comprehend his words.

He wades into the water and points to the tunnel he assumes he was carried in through.  The creatures tilts its head, the tendrils reaching tentatively towards him as he gets closer.  He dives under the water.  Hopefully the creature takes the hint because he does not think he can hold his breath long enough to make it to the shore of the lake without her help.                      

Chapter Text

Brian is brought tea by the young lady who calls herself Dominique.  She places a firm hand on his shoulder as he maintains his vigil by the window, overlooking the spot on the bank where Roger was last seen.  ‘I should call the police,’ he says torpidly, in shock. 

He gets the impression that the Mercury fellow isn’t listening.  The strange man is rummaging around by the fireplace, searching for something in the books Roger has been studying all week. 

‘He’ll be alright,’ Dominique says softly, the trace of an accent on her tongue as she joins him by the window.  ‘She took him, which means he wasn’t far gone, so he’ll be alright.’  The way she is biting her thumbnail is not as reassuring as her words.      

Brian shakes his head.  ‘You’re both mad.’  The shock is starting to really set in now and he feels numb.  ‘He’s ill…he doesn’t have long left.  Months, maybe even just weeks.  This isn’t how it was supposed to end.  I only brought him here to tell him…to try to convince him to let the specialists operate...too stubborn for his own good…’  It is taking all of his willpower not to run down to the water’s edge, wade in and look for his tenacious friend.  He cannot be gone.     

‘I want to tell you about the gentleman who owned this cabin before you,’ Mercury says, apparently satisfied when he finds whatever he was looking for.  ‘I also want to tell you about his companion.’  He passes Brian a detailed sketch of the creature he saw dragging Roger into the lake.  It is as hideous on paper as it is in the flesh.   

‘His companion?’  Brian drops the picture as though it burns his fingers.  He desperately wants to believe that this is all just a bad dream, that maybe he is the one who has been ill recently and is hallucinating.

‘James Beach was a good man, but he took something once that didn’t belong to him and then he hadn’t the faintest idea what to do with it.  So, he kept it hidden.  He kept it captive.  He thought he was keeping it safe from enemy hands, and he probably was once, during the war.  But then the war was over and he held onto it too long, sacrificed any opportunity he might have had for a normal life.  He tried to leave, of course, but every time he made it to the village he was overcome by illness.  When he returned to this place, his ailments cleared up as if by magic.  I suppose it was a kind of magic, really.  It turns out it was he who was being held captive and not the creature he held in the lake.’

‘You’re talking about that creature as though it has supernatural powers?’  Brian turns away from the window to stare at Mercury. 

The mysterious man’s lips twitch beneath his moustache.  ‘Has your friend left the property before today?’ 

‘He’s barely left his bed all week.’ 

Dominique speaks up from the window.  ‘I met dear Roger in the south woods, by the kissing gate two days ago.  He was quite unwell.  I had to quickly help him back to the cabin.  If he had made it past the fence line, then what happened to him today may have happened then and I would have struggled to get him down to the lake for her to revive him if he had fainted.’

This is news to Brian.  He flushes with anger as he thinks of the stupidity and stubbornness of his oldest friend.  ‘The bloody fool can’t keep still long enough to heal properly.  No wonder he’s relapsed.  I should’ve told him why he needs to remain in bed…I’ve been a coward.’  He blinks back tears and clears his throat.    

‘The creature already has her hold over him.  If he leaves the safety of her immediate proximity for more than an hour-’ 

Brian scoffs.  ‘Roger is healing from an accident he had three weeks ago and he’s sick.  It’s hardly surprising he wasn’t feeling well when you found him wandering around outside like an idiot.  I knew I shouldn’t have left him here alone, which is why I made him come with me today.  He should still be in hospital.  He’s really not well.’ 

‘Please, promise me you won’t try to take him away from here,’ Dominique demands.  ‘You must ensure he stays here.  If he leaves, he will die.’ 

‘That’s what you don’t understand,’ Brian says, distraught.  ‘He’s already dying.’ 

There is a noise from outside.  A low-level hum in the air makes the molars in Brian’s mouth ache.  He rushes to the window, cupping his hands around his face to block out his own reflection so that he can see beyond.  The moonlight catches the white of a shirt on a body by the water, balanced precariously on the edge of the boardwalk. 

Brian throws open the door, bundles down the steps and slips and slides along the jetty until he reaches Roger’s side.  He hesitates for a second, dreading what he’ll find.  Roger’s face is turned away and it’s too dark to see if he’s even breathing, even with his soaked shirt clinging to his skin. 

A wet, hacking cough followed by a guttural groan pulls Brian out of his inaction and he pulls his friend’s body further onto the jetty as he spits up water, too frightened to even care if he hurts him in the process.  ‘Rog,’ he chokes.      

He can’t be sure who’s shaking more, but he thinks it might be him.  Luckily, he feels a strong pair of hands guiding the sick man from his arms and into the wheelchair.  He protests weakly as they take Roger back up to the cabin.  He probably should not be moved yet.  He was dead.  Brian’s knees go weak at the thought.      

‘We’ll help you,’ Dominique says as she guides him back up the steps.  ‘Please trust us to help.  We’re the only people who will.’ 

Brian can hear Roger complaining as he is wheeled in front of the fire; it is the sweetest sound he’s ever heard.  Vibrant blue eyes flash as Brian kneels in front of his friend and shakily assesses him for further injury.  He looks no worse for wear, but Brian still pulls out his stethoscope to check his breathing.  Roger lets him, apparently also at ease enough to allow the two strangers to strip him of his wet clothes.  His collarbone no longer appears to pain him, even without his sling.  His eyes are startlingly clear of blood, and more alert than they have looked for weeks.  

The darkhaired woman starts on lighting a fire, snapping at her companion to get the kettle reheated.  Roger pays little attention to anyone but Brian as he fusses over him. 

‘Is this real?’ he asks, eyes shining.  He reaches out when it becomes clear Brian is too distracted.    

‘I don’t know what’s happening,’ Brian says, hurriedly grasping the blond’s trembling hands to ground him.  ‘But it’s definitely real, Rog.’ 

Roger blows out a shaky breath of relief, sitting back against the wheelchair.  Brian resumes his frantic ministrations, pressing against the recently broken ribs.  The swelling and bruising have faded considerably and the blond does not even flinch at his touch.  He eyes the scar on his shoulder, gently daring to run his thumb over it.  The edges are rough but no longer as red as they were the previous day.  It has healed too quickly.  It is impossible.      

‘I’m sorry for what I’ve put you through, my friend,’ the blond says quietly.  ‘I’ve not been the best patient, have I?  I shouldn’t have asked you to take me out of the city; that was cowardly of me.’

‘You’re no coward,’ Brian says sharply and finally meets his eyes.  ‘You remember?’ he whispers, realising what the blond is really trying to say. 

Roger nods.  The light from the fire dances across his pale face.  ‘There are still some gaps…but I remember the fuss I made when they took my driver’s license away because of the epilepsy caused by the tumour.  I remember turning up on your doorstep in the middle of the night and telling you that I wanted to leave London immediately.  That night with the vodka.’  He grimaces at the hazy memory, rubs at his eyes.  ‘I don’t remember how I got to your door.  It certainly wasn’t by bicycle as I don’t think I even own one?’    

‘A black cab dropped you off; I had to pay him as you hadn’t any change on you.  You borrowed my bicycle to head to the bank to withdraw some money to pay me back the next morning,’ Brian says wretchedly. 

Roger frowns.  He rubs at the scar on his shoulder.  ‘The epilepsy wasn’t caused by the crash, was it?’

Brian shakes his head.  ‘The swelling on your brain caused by the tumour was exacerbated by another epileptic episode while you were cycling.  That cab had no chance of avoiding you and vice versa.  Oh Rog, I didn’t want to lie to you.’  The neuroscientist puts his head in his hands.  ‘You already had a bleed on the brain and the swelling was severe, despite the helmet you were wearing.  I accidentally mentioned the cancer in A&E, not realising that you couldn’t remember.  You were devastated.  I felt awful.  You had another fit shortly after they took you into surgery for your clavicle.  You’d forgotten by the time you came around from surgery and I couldn’t break the news again, so I lied and discharged you before someone else did.  It was selfish of me, I know.’ 

‘Not selfish, just a loyal friend who should never have been put in that position in the first place,’ Roger says, putting his hand on Brian’s shoulder.  ‘Did I tell you why I wanted to leave London?’ 

'You said you couldn't be near Crystal.  Rog, I know it's none of my business, and I can't tell you who to employ.  God knows I tried that when you first took him on.  But you've been different since he arrived at your practice.  You'd tell me if he was trouble, wouldn't you?'  

Roger laughs lightly.  He relinquishes his grip on Brian's shoulder.  He rubs at the back of his head, his fingers lingering on the knot that appears to be pain free.  The scar on his shoulder glistens in the firelight.  'I had to get away from Crystal, but not for the reason you think.  Crystal and I have been seeing each other for a while now.  I moved in with him in the new year.  I moved out the night I came to see you.'  

Brian pales.  'He's going to be livid, Rog.  I wouldn't let him see you in the hospital.  We nearly came to blows over it.'         

'Poor Crys.  You’re right; he’s going to be frantic with worry.'  Roger looks contrite.  'Sorry for dragging you into this.'  

‘No need to be sorry,' Brian says with a sigh.

The blond shivers.  He glances uneasily at the strangers as they emerge from the kitchen with hot tea.  The darkhaired lady passes him some dry underwear.  ‘That creature I saw the other night…it’s real, right?’

‘I saw it with my own eyes, Rog,’ Brian says, paling.  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.’

‘Why would you,’ Roger says, a wry smile on his face.  ‘I wouldn’t have believed you if our positions were switched.’           

Roger sobers up.  The darkhaired man presses a cup of tea into his trembling hands.  ‘I’m stuck here now, aren’t I?  Just like Beach was after the creature saved him during the war. I read his diaries.  I think I’ve figured out how this all works.  If I leave…I end up like him, don’t I?’   

‘Fear not, Blondie.’  The dark-haired man can barely contain himself when he answers.  ‘We have devised a way to free you that won’t leave you six feet under.  Although, with the limited resources we have available, myself and Dominique may need some help.  If we can return the creature to her natural habitat – to her own kind, then the bond should be broken, and broken safely.  Yours is not the first case we've had of this kind.’    

Dominique passes Roger his dressing gown, smiling as he uses it to protect his modesty as he takes off his sodden underwear and puts on a clean pair.  His mood appears to brighten, probably with the prospect of being free from a potential curse.  ‘So, we just need to get her to the sea?  That should be easy, right Bri?’

‘Roger, are you suggesting that between the four of us we just load up that humongous sea creature in the Jaguar and take a lovely Sunday afternoon drive down to the coast?’ Brian asks, his eyes wide with disbelief. ‘Because if you are, I may need to examine your head more closely!’ 

Roger pulls a face.  ‘No need to be so pessimistic,’ he mutters.      

‘If I may interject,’ Freddie says.  ‘Myself and Dominique have been studiously preparing for the day Mr Beach would finally relent and allow us to release her.  She needs to be returned to an area near Fortaleza de Sagres, off the coast of Portugal.  We do have the means for transportation, both over land and by sea.  What we do lack is suitable manpower, however.  Some of our associates have not been as patient as we have, and they've moved on.’

‘It’s been rather difficult to convince the locals,’ Dominique adds.  ‘We’ve outstayed our welcome in the village and our funds are severely depleted.  We’ve been waiting for a good number of years to finally be able to free her, you see.  She’s the last one to be returned, that we know of.’    

‘I know someone who will help,’ Roger says, unable to keep the apprehensive look off his face.  ‘And he’ll do it for free.’     

------------------------------------------------------------

Brian paces as Roger calls the one man he has been trying to keep him from contacting all week.  He can hear the cursing down the receiver.  He almost feels guilty.  Roger is as diplomatic as ever when he lies through his teeth and tells Crystal about how Brian has been desperately trying to get the phone line fixed all week so they can call him.  Brian is sure Crystal isn’t easily placated, but soon Roger is speaking softly, conspiratorially glancing his way to ensure he doesn’t hear the full conversation.

‘Brian will give you the directions,’ Roger says, thrusting the phone into his hand before he can protest. 

Brian’s stomach drops as he puts the phone to his ear.  ‘Mr Taylor,’ he greets, wincing at the reediness of his voice.  His nerves get the better of him and he can’t think of a single word more to say. 

Luckily, Crystal doesn’t wait for the instructions.  ‘Look, I’m willing to forgive what you’ve done and put it down to sheer stupidity on your part because Roger says you need my help.  That’s not to say I’m not still pissed off about you discharging him from the hospital before he was ready and whisking him away before I could even speak to him.  You’ve been friends with him a lot longer than I have but that doesn’t give you the right to decide what’s best for him.  He’s a grown man, even if he doesn’t act like it most of the time, so he deserves to make his own decisions, especially regarding his health; I appreciate that, but it doesn’t mean I have to like it.  I also know he’s probably listening nearby, so feel free to answer with a simple yes or a no.  Are you in some kind of trouble?’

Brian swallows.  ‘Yes.’

‘You need my help?’

‘Yes.’

‘How is he?’

Brian hesitates for a second too long, unsure of how to honestly answer the simple question.  Roger is far from okay.  He has apparently been brought back from the dead by some sort of mythical sea creature and they are now confined to a three-room cabin overlooking a lifeless lake in the middle of the countryside until the supernatural bond can be broken.    

Crystal seems to sense his reluctance to answer.  His sigh is clear through the phoneline.  ‘Does he really want me there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you?’

‘I, uh…yes, of course.’ 

‘Ha! Forget I asked,’ Crystal pauses, Brian is aware of the static on the line with the other man's silence.  ‘Has he been much trouble?’

Brian genuinely laughs at that.  ‘What do you think?’  

‘I think he doesn’t need to sculk off like a dog to find a place to lay himself to rest, not when he has us to look after him.  He shouldn’t do this alone,’ Crystal says, surprising Brian with his astuteness.  ‘Don’t you agree?’   

‘Yes,’ Brian chokes out his answer quickly and turns away from the blond who has been watching the entire exchange with the faintest, puzzled grin on his face.  ‘Let me give you the address here,’ he says, feigning a lighter tone.  The thought of Crystal’s impending company brings him out in a cold sweat.  He reads out the address, hearing Roger’s indignant cry when he realises that they’re in the south west, close to his old stomping ground of Cornwall. 

Crystal huffs into the phone as he calculates the journey time.  Before he hangs up, he gives Brian a brief respite.  ‘I’ll play nice for his sake because he’s desperate for us to get along, but if you ever try and lie to me again…’  He hangs up before Brian can argue.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

‘Crystal,’ Roger exclaims brightly when the other man arrives.  Brian looks up sharply from the conversation he has been engaged in with enigmatic Freddie.  It is late, but Crystal has managed to get to the cabin far quicker than Brian expected.  He is not ready for the other man’s questions.  Brian is still no closer to understanding what he has gotten them in to, and Crystal’s arrival only promises to muddy the waters further, especially where Roger is concerned.    

Crystal drops his overnight bag by the doorway, giving Brian a tight nod before making his way over to his employer who has been consigned to his bed, despite his protests that he is feeling perfectly well.  ‘So, this is where you’ve been shirking away your responsibilities while the rest of us slave away making sure you stay rich,’ Crystal says, earning himself a wide-eyed stare from Brian.  Roger simply grins brightly in return as Crystal sits next to him on the narrow bed.  The balding man looks him over, reaches a tentative hand out to touch his knee.  ‘How are you feeling?’ 

‘I’m great!’ Roger chirps, garnering a humourless laugh from Brian which he ignores in favour of collecting up the pile of letters he has been studying for the last few hours.  ‘Feeling better than I was, anyway.  Better now you’re here.’

Crystal folds his arms, eyes the scar on his shoulder that is visible in the gap of his pyjamas, watches the blond as he fails to find anywhere to hide the medical correspondence.  Brian flushes when he is reminded that Crystal has not seen Roger since the night before his accident and probably doesn't know much about the cancer.  Crystal tears his eyes away from Roger's busy hands, ‘What’s this trouble you’re in?’

Roger looks unusually nervous.  ‘It’s going to be hard to believe, Crys,’ he says.  ‘I wouldn’t believe it myself, if it wasn’t for the fact that Brian has been here with me the whole time.  If I’d been here alone, I would’ve thought I was going crazy from the...’  He swallows thickly.  He cannot bring himself to say it.  He misses the look Crystal and Brian exchange.  ‘Maybe you ought to have a cuppa while we explain, or something stronger if you’ve brought it?’ 

Chapter Text

Brian watches Crystal’s interactions with Roger and tries to ignore the jealousy stirring in his gut at the easy way the two have with each other.  Against Brian’s wishes, they are all gathered in the woods to the rear of the cabin.  Roger is behaving himself for a change and is sitting obediently in his wheelchair.  Crystal does not appear to struggle with it on the soft path, much to Brian’s chagrin, especially after Roger mentions their initial struggle getting to the cabin.  His memory of that night is obviously hazy if the colourful embellishments to his retelling of the story are anything to go by.

Crystal and Dominique have been removing the crumbling brickwork of the chimney in the woods.  They have managed to create an opening large enough to enter.  Freddie has gathered climbing ropes and harnesses and is assembling some sort of rig to lower them down.  Brian is torn between wanting to help and wanting them to give up.  He is quite sure he does not want to disturb the grotesque creature, so he is standing well back.   

‘She doesn’t like the daylight so much,’ Freddie says confidently.  ‘She won’t attack while it’s light.  We should be able to sedate her ready to go in the tank.’ 

His words are of little reassurance to Brian as he stands beside the kissing gate.  The fact that the creature should attack at all is alarming news.  The sheer size of it compared to them all puts them at a disadvantage if it should become angered by their attempts at containing it.   

‘Are you alright?’ Crystal asks, drawing Brian’s attention back to the injured man in the wheelchair. 

Roger is sweating.  His eyes are hidden behind his sunglasses as he watches them work and he is slumping lower in the chair with every passing minute.  ‘Peachy,’ he replies, his voice gravelly and weak.  He sits up straighter with a barely contained wince.  His brief respite from the pain seems to be over.  He looks rough.  ‘You’re scaring her,’ he adds quietly.           

Crystal moves away from the metal grated chimney and kneels in front of his partner, wiping sweat from his brow.  Brian listens closely but cannot hear what is being said.  Roger shakes his head in response to something he is being asked and points towards the chimney, his voice barely a whisper.  Crystal does not look happy, shaking his head.  He has not looked happy since they told him of the events of the past week.  Brian wonders if he ever looks happy.  Does Roger make him happy?  He pushes the thought away with a sigh.  Roger would make anyone happy.      

Brian glances over to where Freddie and Dominique are still working.  The pair are steadfast in their task, oblivious to the domestic disharmony within earshot.  The strange couple seem confident in their ability to capture the creature but Brian has a feeling that they are more inexperienced than they have made out.    

‘Brian will take you back to the cabin,’ he hears Crystal say.  He snaps his head back round to find Roger protesting weakly while being wheeled away from the work area.  ‘I’m not arguing, Rog.  Being out here isn’t doing you any favours.  You look bloody awful.’ 

Brian awkwardly drags the wheelchair back down the hill, marvelling at how someone so slim can weigh so much.  He nearly trips as the weight disappears when Roger stands at the threshold and stalks angrily into the cabin.  Brian follows closely, bracing his good arm when he stumbles. ‘Where are you going?’ he asks, bumping into his friend as he makes a hasty u turn.  Roger cradles his sling-supported arm with a grimace, unsteady on his feet.   

‘I should be out there.  They haven’t even agreed on how they’re going to capture her.  How will they get her in the tank?  All they’ll do is scare her, and that’s not bloody fair!’  He stalks into Brian’s room, then into the kitchen stumbling over a rug as he returns to the main room to peer out of the window at the lake below.  His hand is pressed firmly against his ribs again, his breathing laboured.  He whines under his breath, resting his head against the thin single pane window.  ‘They’re going about this all wrong.  I can help if they’d let me.’ 

‘Freddie and Dominique seem to know what they’re dealing with,’ Brian suggests.  ‘And you’re always telling me how capable Crystal is.  You ought to get in bed, Rog.  I’m sure they’ll let us know if they need us.’ 

‘I’m not an invalid,’ Roger says quietly, his breath fogging on the window.  ‘I can help.’    

Brian sighs.  Therein lies the deeper issue.  Roger, the independent man of action.  The innovative thinker who started his own highly lucrative plastic surgery practice against the advice of his peers.  The strongest, most dependable person Brian knows.  A fiery and passionate man when he does not get his own way, but laid-back and carefree for the most part.  He is not an invalid.      

‘Why don’t you get settled in the armchair then and I’ll make you something to eat.’  Brian says, resting his hand on the blond’s shoulder.  ‘I’m sure a cup of tea will perk you up.’     

Roger huffs in annoyance, shrugs Brian’s hand off as he heads towards the fireplace.  He toes at a copy of Beach’s diaries, pushing it away in disgust with his foot.  He discovers the heavy envelope that contains his medical records on the mantlepiece and picks it up, weighing it in his free hand.  Brian watches him for a moment, wonders if Roger is perhaps worried about what the near future holds for him if they actually do manage to capture the creature.  Uncertainty weighs heavily on the neuroscientists mind as he makes his way into the compact kitchen to put the kettle on.      

The occasional shout as the trio works up the hill threads its way on the wind, but otherwise there is silence.  The oil-fed range cooker is always on, but it still takes an age to heat up the water in the kettle to a rolling boil.  ‘Sorry for the wait; I might have overfilled the kettle,’ Brian says, tailing off when he finds the main room empty.  The door to the cabin is wide open, Roger nowhere to be seen.        

Brian scrambles through the woods, up the hill to where the others are working.  Crystal gives him a sharp look as he waits for him to catch his breath.  The tall man searches the area, stumbling when he realises that Roger is not with them. 

‘What’s wrong?’ Crystal asks, pulling Brian towards him.  Before the taller man can respond, Crystal lets go of his shoulders, taking a step forward as he looks down on the lake.  ‘Bloody hell!’

Brian looks over his shoulder and sees what has the other man worried.  Visible through the trees, a small rowboat glides unsteadily over the expanse of still water.   

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Roger grumbles to himself as he pushes the unsteady rowing boat away from the slippery jetty.  He sinks to the seat with a groan as he twists awkwardly to see if anyone has spotted him yet.  Never one for inaction, he prays his reckless impulsiveness will pay off.  Pain has been creeping back as the day wears on and just the recent memory of the agony of it has him rattled.  He rows a short way out into the lake, his shoulder screaming at him for the effort.  Crystal is going to kill him, if he doesn’t drown first. 

He bangs an oar to the side of the boat, the rotten wood crumbling with his effort.  Even that proves tiring.  His head is pounding along with his ribs.  He drops the oar in favour of pressing his hand against his ribs.  His feet slosh in the water coming through the bottom of the knackered boat.  ‘Come on honey,’ he says gently.  ‘I know you’re scared, but we’re just trying to help.  We just want to get you home.’ 

The small boat rocks in the wind and Roger grasps the side tightly to keep his balance.  He squeezes his eyes shut as his nausea rears its ugly head.  ‘You can’t get sea sick in a fucking rowing boat on a still lake,’ he mutters, chuckling humourlessly to himself.  He feels the familiar tug of arousal deep in his stomach, his cheeks flushing with warmth as the feeling gets stronger.  He opens his eyes and spies movement in the water to his left, deep within the shadow being cast from the cabin high above.  She doesn’t like the light, at least that’s what Freddie says.     

Pleasure outweighs pain as the creature approaches the boat.  He makes a noise of encouragement as he watches the dark shape below the water.  His headache dissipates immediately along with the agony of his shoulder.  Whatever power she has is overwhelming.  It makes him feel fucking fantastic. 

‘What are you?’ he asks giddily, allowing his fingertips to skim the water as he leans precariously over the edge of the boat.   

The creature reaches out tentatively with a slender talon.  Roger can make out the tendrils of luminous green matter that flows around the creature where it floats beneath the surface, even in the bright light of day.  He dares to touch it and gasps at the stimulation that makes his eyes roll in their sockets.  He sags over the edge of the boat, babbling nonsense between panted breaths.  He feels remarkably good once again, buzzing with the familiar energy.  The creature jolts at a loud noise and swims hurriedly away.   Roger can hear someone approaching behind, splashing noisily.    

‘What the hell are you playing at?’  Crystal’s angry yell is not enough to bring him around from the blissful stupor as he watches the wake of the creature swimming away.  He smiles lazily as he sees the other man swimming around the boat to grasp at the piece of rotten rope at the bow.  The ex-marine drags the boat back to the jetty, blowing hard by the time Brian wheels the chair down to meet them.  He drags them onto the shore beside the timber structure, pulling the boat out of the water completely.  He must be freezing.    

‘You’re all wet,’ Roger giggles, drunkenly stumbling onto the bank with Crystal’s hand firmly under his good arm.  Crystal meets his eye and shakes his head, furious.  His wet t shirt is plastered to him, his chest heaving as he checks him over for injury.     

‘Pupils the size of fucking saucers.  Probably overdosed on those painkillers,’ he mutters, taking Roger’s chin in his strong grip.  ‘Intent on getting yourself killed.  Always doing things on your own terms, right?’  Roger searches his face for something, sensing he is missing something important.  He wills the cottonwool in his brain to clear.  He sees the worry in his lovers’ eyes as well as something that looks startlingly like guilt.    

‘Crys,’ he says gently, ignoring Brian as he nudges the back of his legs with the wheelchair.  ‘She won’t hurt me.’  

Crystal’s voice is unsteady.  ‘That boat has more holes in it than the bloody titanic.  You’d have sunk before any fictitious sea monster claimed you.’ 

Roger gasps, realisation hitting like a slap in the face.  ‘You don’t believe she’s real,’ he whispers.  ‘But Brian-’

‘He’ll say anything to make you feel better.  God knows how he got those other two to play along,’ Crystal mutters.  He lets go of his chin, studies his flushed face for a moment.  He at least looks repentant for what he has just suggested.  He sighs.  ‘I tried to get along with him, Rog; I really did.  I’ve dismantled a ton of brickwork to keep up the pretence of this fantasy, but you must come home now, please.  This nonsense is just beyond cruel.’

‘I can assure you that it’s quite real,’ Roger hears Brian protest. 

Crystal moves out of his eyeline, his words heated.  ‘I expected better from you,’ he snarls.  ‘I thought he’d be looked after if you were with him.  Why are you encouraging this-this fantasy?’     

Roger steps away while they argue, climbing onto the jetty, hands shaking.  He knows Crystal is only being protective because he loves him.  They have perhaps expected too much of him to believe their tall tale with no proof or evidence of the creature existing other than a few diaries. 

There is only one way to get Crystal on board with their plan and that is to bring him face to face with her.  Seeing is believing, after all.  His feet moving as rapidly as he is able as he hears his name being called from behind, the blond stumbles to the end of the jetty and dives into the frigid water, hoping the creature will rescue him before Crystal does.            

Chapter Text

As soon as Crystal hears Brian calling Roger’s name, he moves.  Wading into the water as far as he can, he dives under and swims to where Roger, most probably out of his mind on painkillers, has just plunged in.  The former Royal Navy man is no stranger to the water, but this does not mean he is immune to the biting cold as it makes his muscles cramp. 

He squints, saltwater stinging his eyes as he searches the murky water for his partner.  Shafts of hazy sunlight filter down around him.  A green hue glows ominously from the depths, a flash of red from the hideous jeans Roger has been grumbling over all day.  Something about Brian and his poor judgement in packing was the cause of his complaint. 

Crystal struggles to catch up, despite Roger not even kicking his legs.  The blond is snagged on something moving too rapidly for Crystal to see clearly.  He pushes deeper, pulling himself through a culvert with his hands, bubbles tickling his nose as he empties his lungs completely so that he won’t get caught on the rough concrete.  He rises the other side of the short pipe and emerges in a cavernous space where his breath echoes noisily off the walls and low ceiling.  He strides into shallower water, aware of an enormous presence unfurling itself in the shadows.  The ominous green glow gets brighter, a large dark mass within.  He steps back in fear when its features become clearer, flinching when hands grab him from behind. 

‘Wait, Crys,’ Roger murmurs in his ear, pulling him away from the shadows and into the natural light.  ‘She won’t hurt you.’

‘What is it?’ Crystal asks hoarsely, instinctively putting himself in front of the blond as the creature growls.  He shivers, his knees weak.  ‘I feel strange.’  He cannot put his finger on it.  He is stuck somewhere between pleasure and pain, his gut churning. 

Roger pulls him close, turns him away from the grotesque monster.  In the diffused light coming in from a shaft above, Crystal can see his face is flushed, his pupils so large his eyes look almost completely black.  His hair is plastered to his head.  ‘Do you believe me now?’ he asks, practically purring.  His hands press against Crystal’s stomach, fingers raking painfully southwards to unfasten the button on his jeans. 

Crystal flinches, snatching Roger’s wrists in a tight grip as arousal rapidly flushes through his nether regions.  He tries not to hurt his partner, especially wary of the broken collarbone but the injured man does not appear to feel a thing.  Something is not right.  He tries to say so, but finds his voice will not come; his lips, parted and ready to protest, are met with Roger’s.  His own erection twitches.  The blond is uncharacteristically rough when he nips at his lower lip and groans.  Their teeth click together as he deepens the kiss, his wrists still held fast.  Static noise fills Crystal’s head as pleasure fills his loins.  He recognises the endorphins for what they are.  This is how he felt when they first made love, spontaneously so many months ago.  But this is not the same.  It feels unnatural and forced.          

Movement in his periphery snaps him out of the haze.  The creature is watching them with dead eyes.  Crystal shudders and squeezes his eyes shut so that he cannot see his lover as he purposely pushes him away.  Breathing heavily, he hears Roger moan miserably at the loss of contact. 

‘This isn’t right,’ Crystal whispers, opening his eyes to find the blond relentlessly inching closer, his hand brushing against the fabric of his trousers, his erection evident against the brightly coloured garment.  Crystal is firm as Roger tries to reinitiate the kiss.  He pulls him in for a hug instead, pressing his face into the blond’s overheated neck.  Roger grinds against him with a guttural noise in his ear that only serves to make him more aroused.  ‘No! Stop, please,’ he growls with frustration, his voice loud enough to scare the creature into diving back into the water, breaking the hold it has over them both. 

Roger pulls away, his face half in shadow, his eyes flashing with pain as he presses his arm against his sore ribs.  He watches the rippling water as it stills, his chest heaving.  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, adjusting himself with a grimace.  ‘I couldn’t think of a faster way of convincing you that I was telling the truth.’  He winces at the bark of humourless laughter as Crystal pulls him close, his feet sliding in the mud. 

‘That certainly did the trick,’ Crystal complains lightly.  ‘And it wasn’t because I thought you were lying on purpose,’ he adds, his voice gentle.  He feels Roger nod and knows he does not have to explain.  He sighs.  ‘You don’t know how happy I was to hear your voice when you telephoned.  God, I’ve missed you.’

He hears the change in Roger’s breathing, feels the way his shoulders tense that has nothing to do with his injuries.  The blond’s head is heavy on his shoulder, his face pressed into his wet t shirt.   

‘I’ve not been to the practice since you’ve been gone; I gave Tim my notice.  He’s a nice enough chap, but he’s not you, and that place holds too many memories.  I’m going to move away from London as soon as I can sell my flat.  There's nothing for me there now.’ 

He finds his vision blurring with tears as he rubs his thumb over the back of Roger’s neck, his newly short hair bristly and damp.  They had been teasing each other about their hairstyles only a week before the accident, when Roger had been distracted and uncommonly moody.  Crystal had taken him to their local pub to people-watch over scampi and chips and a good few pints of poor quality lager.  The blond had let his hair grow too long around his ears and Crystal had been pressuring him into getting himself booked in to the hairdressers, not understanding his lover’s reluctance to maintain his usual standards in self-care.    

He had not known about the cancer then, but Roger had.  How long he had been worrying about symptoms, invasive procedures and test results?  At what point did he decide to tackle it all by himself?  Crystal still does not really know exactly what Roger is dealing with and is now wary of asking.  The letter he opened by accident was from the hospital inviting him in for further scans following his biopsy and subsequent diagnosis.  Roger had left it unopened for a reason.  When Crystal pushed for an explanation, Roger pushed him away.  Left him.  Ran off to Brian.  Fled so that Crystal did not have to watch him deteriorate.   

‘I was scared I wouldn’t see you again,’ Crystal admits quietly, his heart breaking as the blond unexpectedly sobs quietly into his shoulder.  He hates to feel Roger come undone in his arms but he has a sneaking suspicion that the blond has not yet allowed himself the time to feel sorry for himself.  He knows him well enough to understand that he would do everything in his power to maintain face in front of Brian, even if it crushes his soul in the process.  Stubborn fool.                

They hear voices coming from another chamber, their names being called.  Roger sniffs, loosens his one-handed grip on Crystal’s sodden shirt.  He takes a shaky breath, pulls back and allows Crystal to wipe the tears from his eyes.  ‘I can feel her,’ he says, his voice husky.  ‘She’s in my head, dulling everything.  She’s been controlling my emotions, I’m sure.  Well, most of them, anyhow.’ 

Crystal clenches his jaw, his hands stilling as he looks over his shoulder to the dark water.  The overwhelming feeling of lust he felt as the creature got in his own head makes him flush with humiliation.  ‘She got to me too,’ he admits, bracing the blond as he sways alarmingly on his feet.  ‘How’s your pain?’

Roger takes too long to respond.  He looks as though he does not know where to start, his brow furrowed.    

‘What exactly are we dealing with?’ Crystal asks tentatively, sensing if he lets the moment slip, he will not get an honest answer.  The voices have not gotten any closer, the others still making their way down into the dank catacombs.  ‘Give me the layman’s summary.’

Roger’s lips twitch into a half-smile.  ‘You’re no layman.’   

‘Maybe not,’ Crystal replies.  He glances down at the arm Roger has pressed tightly against his ribs.  ‘Aside from the broken collarbone, those ribs and that knot on your hard head, what are we dealing with?’   

Roger swallows, looks down; dark eyelashes stark against his pale cheeks.  ‘There’s fluid building up on my left lung from the tumour,’ he says.  ‘It’s at risk of collapsing…it collapsed yesterday.  The broken ribs have just accelerated the fluid build-up according to my hospital notes.’ 

Crystal nods, his medical knowledge extends as far as pneumothoraxes.  ‘And your head?’ he presses, aware that this has Roger more concerned.  Brian let slip regarding the epilepsy in the hospital, back when the tall man refused to let Crystal see his partner.  They had come close to blows.      

‘Do you remember when I flooded the bathroom?’ Roger asks, throwing Crystal with the question. 

He frowns.  ‘That was months ago.  You left the taps running and fell asleep.  My house insurance premium has sky-rocketed since.’    

‘I didn’t fall asleep,’ Roger admits.  ‘I passed out…woke up on the floor, bruised all over.  I think that was the first seizure.  That’s when I went to get checked over…’ 

‘That was months ago,’ Crystal says, repeating himself.  He takes a breath to scold Roger for hiding something so important before seeing the sheer agony on his face.  He does not need to reprimand him; he already knows.  ‘I should’ve known there was something wrong.’ 

Roger’s voice is barely audible when he replies.  ‘I didn’t know, so how could you?’

Crystal sighs.  ‘I should’ve made you stay.’    

‘You’re here now,’ Roger murmurs, meeting his eyes.  ‘I’m glad you came.’        

'You're stuck with me,' Crystal says, leaning in for a gentle kiss, one that is fuelled by love and not whatever perverse power the creature has been filling them with. 

This close he cannot ignore the omnipresent wheezing that has plagued Roger for the past few months.  A voice in the back of his mind reprimands him for ignoring it before and turning a blind eye to the way he would frequently hold his side upon breathing too deeply, coughing or laughing too heartily.  They both smoke, but not to excess, or so they believed.  Maybe if he had forced the surgeon to get the pain checked out earlier, along with the unusual fatigue he had frequently complained about.  He is sure Roger has been plagued by the same thoughts.  It is too late now.  If test results tell an uncertain story, Roger’s eyes tell only the devastating truth.              

‘I think you ought to apologise to Brian,’ Roger mumbles softly, acutely aware of Crystal watching him closely.

Crystal knows that he is right.  It does not make him feel better about having to apologise.  He still feels resentment towards the man who dared to keep him from Roger when he needed him the most.  It must show on his face in the dim light.   

'Please,' Roger begs, sensing his reluctance.  'I can't do this if both of you are at loggerheads.  He needs a friend.  He'll need one when I'm no longer here.'      

The thought that they will grieving together when Roger goes stings sharply.  Crystal pulls him close as they gingerly make their way towards the torch light beaming through the darkness.  He senses the creature watching them from the water as they leave.  It would have to be close for the blond to open up as much as he has.  A niggling thought in the back of Crystal's mind wonders just how much of a hold the creature has over the sick man.  He chooses to ignore it, for now.    

Chapter Text

They trust Roger to determine the best way to capture the creature.  As he is being dragged into the cabin for a shower to stop him shaking with the cold, he instructs Freddie and Brian to place the tank in the water at the end of the jetty and to wait for him.  It is the most authoritative he has sounded for a long time.  Crystal does not allow him to delay, practically dragging him into Brian's room and stripping off his soaked clothes.  Roger grunts his thanks.  He is grateful for Crystal's firm hand under his arm as he sways in the cubicle, finding himself getting weaker without the link to the creature.  'If we hurry, we can get her in the tank by dusk,' he says, his teeth chattering.      

Crystal looks concerned when he doesn’t stop shaking after bundling him under the warm spray.  He joins him to save time and to ensure he stays on his feet.  'Just let them worry about that,' he says, scrubbing the saltwater from the blond hair with firm fingers.  ‘If she’s keeping you well, then I fail to see why she must be returned at all.’     

Roger winces at the heavy-handed touch, bracing himself against the tiles with his free hand.  'Beach could've been free of her if he’d just left her there,' he says, his voice tight.  'She's lonely here without her kind.  It’s cruel to keep her here.'  

'You can't possibly know that,' Crystal says, pausing when Roger pushes him away with a tired scowl.  Crystal closes his eyes, annoyed with himself for doubting the blond again.  ‘Sorry,’ he adds, pulling the sick man closer.  He kisses him softly on the lips.  ‘Tell me.’     

'The link works both ways,' Roger says quietly, the kiss placating him.  'The more we connect, the more I can feel of her.  Her feelings.  She's lonely; that's why she keeps taking animals as they pass.  She's a bit heavy handed with them...but she doesn’t mean to be.'    

Crystal shudders.  'Maybe you shouldn't keep connecting with it if it's dangerous.' 

Roger looks sick at the thought, his arm tucked tightly against his ribs.  ‘What she has is stronger than any of the painkillers I’m on.  When I’m under her spell, I feel good.  I feel whole.’ 

Processing the titbit of troublesome information, Crystal presses a gentle kiss on his forehead.  He turns the heat up as hot as he dares, feeling the cold emanating from Roger from where he stands.  ‘Are you getting any warmer?’ he asks, worrying. 

Roger shakes his head.  ‘It’s always strange coming down after she’s been in my head,’ he says, hugging himself.  ‘Feels a bit like shock.’    

‘A hot drink might help,’ Crystal suggests and helps the blond out of the shower, frowning when he stumbles to Brian's bed.  'What's the matter?' 

'A bit woozy. Can’t quite…catch my breath,' Roger replies, sitting heavily on the edge of the mattress.  He rubs at his chest, grimacing as Crystal joins him, throwing a towel over his shoulders.  His breath hitches as he struggles to fill his lungs.  He presses his arm against his ribs, his face screwed up in pain.  ‘I hate this,’ he wheezes, kicking his heel against the hollow floorboards, his knee bouncing.  ‘Like…suffocating.  Drowning.’          

‘All the way out first,’ Crystal instructs, recognising the signs of panic and nothing more serious.  He rubs his back as the blond complies.  ‘Breathing in is harder if your lungs aren’t empty.  In through your nose, out through your mouth.’ 

Roger nods tiredly.  He knows this; Crystal has heard him reassure his own patients with the same words when they come to following surgery.  He waits while Roger’s initial alarm dissipates, his lips pursed as he forces out each breath.  His leg eventually stills.  He calms.       

‘Alright now?’ Crystal asks.  Roger nods, swallows thickly, smiling when Crystal ruffles his hair and finishes drying him with the threadbare towel before working on himself.  He glances at the pile of wet clothes on the floor.  ‘You’ll need a clean sling; that one is ruined.’               

'Brian has more dressings and a stash of triangular bandages somewhere.  Spare clothes from my flat too.  I think some of the clothes are yours,' Roger says distractedly, brushing his thumb against his healing shoulder.  He takes a deeper breath.  ‘Do you think they did a rush job on this surgery because they figured I’d not live long enough to worry about a scar?’

Crystal growls under his breath at the unexpected observation.  He takes Roger’s hand in a tight grip, sitting back next to him on the bed.  He cannot help the lump in his throat as he carefully examines the jagged edges of the raw incision with his free hand.  It does look like a rush job but it is healing well.  The stitches will need to come out soon.  Crystal finds he cannot force the words past the lump as he takes the frail man in where he sits naked beside him.  The breathlessness.  The bruising in the crook of his elbow from the intravenous medication.  The greyish pallor of his skin.  The way he cannot sit up straight.  The shaved hair above his ear.  The ubiquitous fucking wheezing.        

‘Sorry, Crys,’ Roger says contritely, ducking his head self-consciously when he realises that he has drawn attention to his deteriorating health and made his partner uncomfortable.  ‘I didn’t want you to see me like this.’ 

Crystal chokes out a laugh at the unnecessary apology, bringing his clenched fist up to his mouth.  He breathes.  He thinks.  ‘What if that creature can do more than just take away the pain?’ he asks tentatively.  ‘You say you feel stronger under her control.  Maybe you are…’    

Roger is silent for a moment.  He must have had the same thought.  ‘Brian has been monitoring my vitals since we got here.  Perhaps we could compare notes from when we arrived?  Maybe you could monitor them while I’m connected to her?’ he suggests.  ‘Maybe if we break the connection at the right time, I’d be better…’   

Crystal sighs.  He knows it is a grasp that might be out of reach.  ‘Getting your hopes up for a miracle could be dangerous,’ he warns.    

‘Hope is all I have these days,’ Roger replies. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crystal is not surprised when the trio readily agrees to their plan.  He watches Brian as he hurriedly offers up his extensive notes; it becomes clear that he has been watching Roger closely, and for once Crystal is grateful. 

Reading through the notes is heart-breaking.  Brian must frequently interpret his doctor’s scrawl, recalling far more than he has written on each page.  He knows just what mood Roger has been in, what he has eaten, how many times he has been to the bathroom, and for how long.  Roger grumbles lightly over being the subject of his close examination, his cheeks flushing as he recalls the past week.  He sips at the sugary sweet tea Crystal has made for him, his third cup while they wait for Dominique to rustle up something nutritious from their meagre supplies.      

‘You’re lucky you had Brian here to watch you,’ Crystal says, loud enough so that Brian hears.  The tall man quickly looks away, seemingly absorbed in his notes as Crystal updates them.  His cheeks flush.    

‘I know,’ Roger replies huskily. 

They agree on a list of parameters that they will monitor regularly.  Blood pressure.  Respirations.  Heartrate.  Cognizance.  Roger pulls a face when Crystal writes that last one in the notebook.  His breathing is still too laboured for the former Navy man’s liking but he appears in better spirits, clinging onto hope as though it is his last lifeline.          

Despite being unusually self-conscious, Roger is a willing guinea pig.  Crystal hates to see just how desperate they have become in search of salvation for the surgeon.  He knows he certainly will not stop until they have the answers they seek.  He cannot meet his partner’s eye, the look of blind optimism too much to bear in the face of something unlikely to work.  ‘Your blood pressure was shockingly low on Tuesday,’ he says gruffly, paling at the numbers on the page.

Roger pushes his glasses higher onto the bridge of his nose as he reads through some readings Brian noted the night he first saw the creature hanging onto the rafters.  He winces at the words Brian has used to describe his mental state.  Crystal reads the notes over his shoulder, certain words leaping off the page.  Memory unreliable.  Delusional.  Hallucinations.  Depression.     

‘I should’ve been here,’ Crystal mutters under his breath, grasping Roger’s good shoulder. 

‘My blood pressure evened out after she visited that night,’ the blond says, his voice steady as he addresses Brian.  ‘And you’ve written that I only tired during the day, when she was dormant.  The fitting has reduced too – I’ve only had the one since we arrived, and that was before I met her properly.  That fits our theory that we’re interlinked somehow, even when we’re not together.’ 

Brian sits next to Roger, their knees touching as they study the notes. Crystal puts a protective arm around his lover, unable to stop the pang of jealousy that settles in his stomach.  Roger leans into his touch, startling when the door to the cabin opens with a crash. 

‘The tank is in place and I’ve hooked it to your vehicle to secure it,’ Freddie says, brushing his hands on his smart suit trousers as he pushes the door to with his foot.  ‘The last one we caught had to be sedated for transportation once she was in the tank.’

Crystal looks up sharply.  ‘That could prove dangerous if Rog needs her awake.’ 

‘I’m sure she’ll be amenable for travel if dear Roger can persuade her as he believes he can,’ the moustached man counters.  ‘We ought to get her in the tank now, it’s starting to get dark.  I’ve telephoned our reliable captain and he’s getting the papers in order to sail in the morning.  Deaky will help us load her and get underway once we arrive at the harbour.  He’s been expecting our call since I told him of Beach’s passing.’ 

‘Just how many of these creatures have you managed to successfully return?’ Brian asks. 

‘Oh, too many to recall an exact figure,’ Freddie replies easily, helping himself to tea.  Dominique moves into view from where she has been in the kitchen.  She looks pensive.   

‘How many of them were bonded like this one is to Rog?’ Crystal asks. 

‘Hmm?’ Freddie moves to the window, looking down on the water.  Alarm bells ring for Crystal.  He looks across to Brian who obviously has the same concern. 

‘You heard me,’ Crystal snaps, standing sharply.  He pulls the darkhaired man away from the window by his forearm.  ‘How many?’   

‘Leave it, Crys,’ Roger says tiredly. 

‘No, Rog,’ Crystal says heatedly.  ‘I will not leave it.  What happens if this doesn’t work?  What happens if she won’t break this bond you two have?  We ought to stay here until we’re certain this will work.’ 

Roger scrubs a hand across his jaw.  ‘I have to do something.  I’m not spending my final days holed up in this cabin, feeling like utter shit,’ he says wearily.  ‘Let’s get this over with so we can all go home, one way or another.’     

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Roger sits on the edge of the jetty, damp soaking through the tarpaulin Brian laid out for him.  His feet rest on the rope that holds the tank in place.  Crystal is laying on his front, resting on his elbows as he waits, a tranquiliser gun nearby in case their plan fails.  He has been subjected to the silent treatment since his outburst and it is driving him crazy.  The sun is hanging low behind the cabin, a slight breeze ruffling Roger’s hair where he sits stock still.                               

‘I’ll stay with you ‘till the end,’ Crystal murmurs.  ‘Whatever the outcome tonight.’ 

Roger does not respond. 

Crystal presses, ‘if it means we must stay here, then I’ll stay here with you.’   

‘Shhh,’ Roger warns, turning his head slightly.  ‘She’s close.’  

The buzz that precedes the creature is near ear-piercing this time.  Crystal shimmies closer to the blond.  He hears Roger gasp.  He can feel arousal tugging even before the creature appears.  He can clearly hear the wheezing decrease as Roger breathes deeply.  The rigidness of his shoulders softens and he lays his head back, exposing his neck.  Fingers slipping as Roger inches closer to the water’s edge, Crystal grasps his wrist tighter, afraid he is about to do something stupid. 

‘She’s doing it,’ Roger whispers brightly, twisting his hand so that he can grasp Crystal’s and keep it away from the tranquiliser gun.  ‘It’s working.’ 

He is correct.  The creature is willingly getting into the heavy steel framed tank.  Crystal makes a mental note to never doubt his partner again.  He leans over the edge of the jetty and drags the lid over the tank with a clang that rings out noisily.  The creature seems content, as does Roger. 

‘She knows we’re going to help her,’ the blond says, climbing to his feet without Crystal’s assistance.  His voice sounds stronger, and far less breathy and hoarse than it has.  He grins as they climb the steps to the cabin, still clinging to Crystal’s hand.  ‘I want to take her home,’ he says, squeezing his hand firmly.  ‘We need to keep our promise to her.’ 

‘We will,’ Crystal confirms, squeezing back.  ‘If that’s what you want.’      

Freddie greets them at the door, eyeing Crystal uneasily.  ‘I knew she’d be amenable,’ he says oversensitively.

Crystal ignores him, for now.  He searches for Brian, finding the neuroscientist strangely absent. 

‘If you check my vitals now, I think you’ll find they’ve vastly improved,’ Roger chuckles.  ‘I think that is deserving of a toast, don’t you?’                                        

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------  

Brian approaches the water’s edge, drawn by the luminescent tendrils floating around the sleeping creatures’ fingers.  The water is pulsating with light within the steel and glass tank.  ‘So that’s where your power comes from, is it?’ he asks quietly.  He glances back towards the open door above where he can clearly hear Roger laughing and joking with Crystal and Dominique on the deck directly above.  Once they release the creature, they hope it will break the hold it has over Roger without killing him in the process.  Brian will be pleased to see it back with its own kind, but he feels they are wasting an opportunity to do some good with the creature and its unique healing powers.  There is an opportunity to save Roger from his cancerous death sentence.  Brian has a theory and needs to test it to see if it is viable.     

With another furtive glance over his shoulder, he removes a flask from his coat pocket and carefully eases the lid to the tank open.  It is heavy and the steel is already starting to rust even more with the saltwater.  Who knows how long the enigmatic duo have had it waiting in storage.  He catches some of the luminescent liquid in the container and seals it, stowing it safely in his pocket as he lowers the heavy lid.  The possibilities the liquid holds are endless.  It could save countless lives.  It could save Roger.  Brian will do anything in his power to make sure it does.     

The creature stirs.  Brian notices too late, unable to get the tank fully closed before it forces its tail up and out of the water, blocking the lid from being sealed.  Brian scrambles to detain the creature while desperately reaching for the tranquiliser gun.  The creature growls as Brian hangs onto the lid for dear life.  It clearly does not like him.  His trembling fingers grasp the tranquiliser gun and he fires it aimlessly into the tank, collapsing back with a groan as the dart thankfully hits home and the creature falls still, silently slipping back into the depths of its glass and steel prison. 

There is no time for relief when he spies movement behind him on the jetty.  ‘Why the hell is the tank open?’ Crystal asks angrily.  His default mood when addressing Brian is always anger.  He moves to secure the leather straps and peers through the glass porthole.  ‘What did you do?’      

Brian, who has never been comfortable lying, gapes for a second too long, unconsciously protecting his pocket where he sits by the tank.  ‘It just woke up and tried to break free, clearly agitated.’

Any further interrogation is broken by the sound of a glass shattering overhead.  Crystal looks like he wants to ask more, but thankfully he just tests the clasps on the tank for security before hurriedly returning to the cabin.  Brian lets out a sigh of relief and follows, carefully hanging his coat by the door.  His relief is short lived however, when he joins the others on the veranda overlooking the lake and finds Roger in the midst of another seizure.

Crystal has taken his place by Roger’s head, kneeling down, struggling to get his folded jacket strategically pushed under it to stop the blond damaging his already fragile skull.  Either he has already managed to get him onto his least injured side, or Roger has luckily managed to avoid landing on that side.  He deserves a little luck.  The burly man has his hands ghosting the air around Roger’s face as he convulses and he is muttering something unintelligible under his breath as the seizure shows no signs of letting up.  The pale man’s arteries are distended and pulsing in his neck, far too visible in the low light from the oil lamps situated on the narrow rail. 

Brian holds his breath, counting nearly four minutes before the blond finally goes slack.  Too long.  This is the longest and most violent fit he has had to date and Brian has only counted the time he has witnessed.  He wasn’t even there when it started.  His knees weaken when he thinks of what he was doing when it started. 

‘Fuck,’ Crystal exclaims, letting out a rush of air as though he was also holding his own breath.  Roger is far too still.  ‘Here, help me.  God, I didn’t think it was ever going to end.  I bet that’s murder on his ribs.’  He recoils with a curse as he discovers blood on Roger’s lips.   

Dominique gives way to Brian as he drops to his knees and helps reposition the unconscious man onto his side more comfortably now that his limbs are pliant.  Crystal pulls Roger’s knee up, gets him into a recovery position as best he can with his other injuries.  He uses his handkerchief to wipe away excess bloody saliva as Roger wheezes tremulously into the deck. 

Crystal tsks, worry on his face.  ‘I need to turn you over, Rog,’ he says with a wince, glancing up at Brian.  ‘Too much pressure on your good lung.  I hope that’s not where this blood is coming from.’  He motions for Brian to take his leg, counting to three before they roll Roger onto his bad side.  The pale man groans, his face screwing up in pain as his eyes flutter.      

‘I know, I know, I’m sorry.  You’re fine.  Just breathe.  You’re alright, love.’  This close, Brian can just about hear the intimately reassuring words the gruff man says as he carefully cleans up more of the pink foam that drools down the side of Roger’s face.  He gingerly opens his slack mouth to confirm where exactly all the blood is coming from.  Brian hopes it is not a progression of the cancer and he knows Crystal has the same concerns.   

Crystal blows out a shaky breath as he pulls an oil lamp closer and finds the source of the bloody froth.  ‘Oh, thank fuck.  You’re alright, Blondie.  You’ve just bitten your cheek.  Lie there and look pretty for a minute while I give you a quick once over.  I won’t keep you on this side longer than I have to.’  He lightly taps the prone man’s stomach, letting his hand linger over his sternum as he adjusts his limp form, trying to find the best angle to relieve the pressure on his unbroken ribs and good lung.  He looks troubled as he mirrors the recumbent man, putting his ear close to his mouth.  He plucks open the buttons of Roger’s shirt, exposing too pale skin below before placing a hand over his diaphragm and keeping it there.  ‘Breathe a little deeper for me, Rog.  C’mon.  It will come a little easier now, I promise.’   

After a tense moment of silence, he finally looks up, addressing the other medical man.  He keeps one hand on the still form next to him as he uses the other to scrub his face.  ‘Please tell me the fits haven’t all been like this?’

‘No, all the others were relatively short and far less aggressive.  This is new,’ Brian says, worrying silently over how Roger is showing no signs of regaining consciousness other than groaning weakly as his breath hitches.  The neuroscientist doesn’t need to consult his black book to know that he has always come around within a couple of minutes of his other fits.  This one was a different beast altogether.  His breathing is still too laboured and the pressure under Crystal’s fingers feeling for Roger’s pulse tell their own story.          

‘I didn’t have a chance to stop him falling,’ Dominique says.  ‘He was mid-sentence when he just dropped like a stone.  I thought there would be some sort of warning…his drink fell from his hand.’  That would explain the broken glass at his feet, Brian thinks.    

‘Sometimes he’s able to spot when an attack is coming on,’ Brian offers weakly, getting to his feet.  ‘Sometimes there isn’t any warning.  Did he complain of a headache?’  Dominique shakes her head in the negative and Brian is certain the attack happened at the same time as the creature woke.  He flushes at the thought that he is the cause of the fit.      

Crystal is watching him now, his eyes narrowed, one hand still resting lightly on Roger’s exposed chest moving in time with his arduous breathing, the other firm under his slack jaw, his fingers monitoring the rapid thump of his heartbeat.  Brian snaps his mouth closed and wishes Roger was awake to play peacemaker.  He watches the frail rise and fall of Roger’s chest, wary of making accidental eye contact with Crystal as he monitors.  Listening.  Waiting. 

An air of tension fills the silence as he works, loosening Roger’s belt in case there’s a chance it is impeding his breathing.  He puts a hand on the semi-unconscious man’s hip and strokes his thumb against the pale skin in a comforting rhythm as he loosely rocks him back to find a better angle.  He holds the blond still as he sucks in a deeper breath, making a small noise of encouragement as the sick man murmurs weakly under his breath, finally grasping hold of a thread of consciousness.  His fingers curl into a loose fist before Crystal threads his own between them, holding his hand tightly.        

Roger is right, Crystal knows what he’s doing and is good in a crisis.  The intimate touches say more than needs to be said to Brian about the seriousness of their relationship.  This is not some casual fling.       

They wait patiently for the blond to fully wake up on his own, but the air is brisk and even Brian finds himself shivering with the cold after five minutes pass.  Roger’s wheezing doesn’t seem to be abating any further, even with a further repositioning of his limp form on the polished deck.  His face is worryingly grey in the phosphorus light of the oil lamp when Crystal carefully pulls back his eyelids.            

‘We should get him inside,’ Crystal says after he’s tried and failed to rouse the prone man several times.  ‘I don’t like this one bit; he should at least be responsive to stimuli but I’m getting next to nothing, even though his breathing has improved.  That’s not to say I’m not still concerned about his breathing; his pulse is far too thready, heart working too hard.  Mouth is still bleeding, pupils like bloody pinpricks…can’t see shit in this light though.’ 

‘I’ll fetch the wheelchair,’ Brian offers, feeling awkwardly surplus to requirements.  He stumbles back into the cabin, unsteady on his feet.  The stifling heat being thrown out of the fireplace makes him feel faint.  He glances guiltily at his jacket hanging by the door.  ‘What have you done?’ he whispers to himself.     

Returning to the veranda, Brian is relieved to see Roger propped up against Crystal’s chest, frowning softly at something the other man has said.  His eyes are half-closed and his breathing is too shallow, but he’s awake, probing the inside of his cheek with clumsy fingers.  He grimaces at the taste of blood.  His chest is still exposed, but Crystal’s jacket is now draped over his shoulders. 

‘Come on, Blondie,’ Crystal says, groaning as he pulls himself to his feet, maintaining a grip on Roger so he doesn’t fall with the loss of contact. ‘Your chariot awaits.’     

Roger allows them to lift him into the wheelchair, flinching as someone catches his arm against the too narrow doorway.  He softly groans as they get him onto the bunk, settling back against too many pillows for his liking.  His eyes are barely open, the slimmest movement as he groggily lets Crystal fuss over him with the blankets.  He obediently rinses his mouth out with saltwater, allowing Crystal to mop up the excess saliva with the sleeve of his jacket.  Brian hasn’t heard him speak yet and he is itching to check his vitals to ensure he isn’t any worse for wear.        

‘Brian’s going to take a proper look at you,’ Crystal says, squeezing Roger’s hand, leaving the stethoscope and blood pressure cuff on the bed.  He raises one eyebrow at Brian before he leaves them alone in the cabin, returning to the veranda.  ‘I’m going for a stiff drink.  Call me if you need me.’  He shuts the door firmly behind him.   

Brian gratefully watches him leave.  He might be beginning to see what Roger sees in the other man.  A certain no nonsense appeal, perhaps.  Almost psychic.  He does not miss much.      

Roger shudders, groaning breathlessly as he tries to get comfortable.  ‘What did you do, Bri?  You were by her tank…I saw you,’ he says quietly as the door slides shut.  He is slurring every word and his voice is barely a murmur.  It is bad.  ‘I can't feel her...I don’t feel right and I can’t see.’   

Blindness.  An almost inevitable development considering where the tumour in his head is positioned, but startlingly unwelcome all the same, especially when Roger has appeared to be getting stronger recently.  Brian is almost pleased that the sick man cannot see the despair on his face. 

He kneels beside the bunk, rolls up Roger’s sleeve, feeling the tremors beneath the fabric as he fastens the blood pressure cuff.  A quick check of his pulse finds it weak and sluggish, almost as though he has a large amount of sedative in his system.  Brian flushes.  ‘I’m sorry, Rog.  I had to take a sample for research…this is just far too important to lose.  I didn’t think you would get hurt.  I wouldn’t have touched it if I’d known what would happen.’

‘A sample?’ Roger blinks his eyes a few times, his fist unfurling as he grimaces at the pressure of the cuff.  Brian shushes him as he listens to his heart and lungs.  He doesn’t need the stethoscope to hear a tell-tale wheeze and whistle that indicates possibly more damage to his weaker lung.  Another inevitable development.  This is where the cancer is most prevalent.  His uneven respirations tell the doctor everything he needs to know and everything he doesn’t want to.  ‘Trying to save the masses again, aren’t you?’ Roger adds faintly, clumsily rubbing at his eyes. 

‘This could be the most important medical discovery of all time,’ Brian says.  ‘Think of what we could do with the power of resurrection and the ability to heal without conventional medicine.  It’s a scientific miracle, a juxtaposition of words I never would have imagined thinking, let alone saying out loud.’ 

‘Hmm, I convinced you, remember?’  Roger is quietly subdued as he struggles with exhaustion.  He sighs, flinching as he feels Brian’s hands on his face again.  ‘We both know that creature isn’t going to just release her hold over me once she’s back home, so maybe you should just dissect me once this is all over and get all the answers you need.’    

Brian’s horrified look is lost on the prone man as he slides back into unconsciousness.

‘I can sit with him for a while,’ Dominique’s voice startles him from the doorway to the veranda.  ‘I think your other friend needs to speak with you.’  It takes Brian a moment to figure out who his other friend is.         

He hesitantly joins Crystal on the veranda, finding him brooding over the lake in the darkness.  He has found himself a drink, but it looks as though he has not taken a sip from the small bottle of scotch yet.  He does not acknowledge the scientist as he joins him at the rail, but Brian knows his presence has not gone unnoticed.  After a moment of almost companionable silence, the gruff man turns and says, 'I think this is a terrible idea.  He ought to be at home, or in a hospice…somewhere he can go in peace.  Not like this.'  He curses.  ‘Giving him this sort of hope is beyond cruel…but I promised him I would help, so I will.’     

Brian doesn't know how to respond, so he doesn't, prompting Crystal to continue.  'I haven't fared particularly well over the last two weeks and seeing him in pain…well, it makes me see red.  I’ll apologise now for anything I might say or do.  I’ve treated you unfairly just because I blame you for taking him away from me.'   

Brian swallows, guilt making him nervous.  'I should have told you where I was taking him.  You deserve to be with him more than I do,' he says.    

‘I thought I’d never see him again.’  Crystal doesn’t sound as accusatory as he has every right to be, just miserable.  Brian can only imagine how he feels. 

'I'm sorry.' 

Crystal sounds hesitant and far less intimidating when he says, ‘I’m not angry at you for that.  You’re a good friend, Brian.  You thought you were doing right by him; I cannot fault your loyalty.  He’s bloody lucky to have you as a friend.'  

Brian shakes his head at the misplaced praise.  'He came to my flat the night he left you.  He told me he'd had a terminal diagnosis that night and instead of supporting him, I tried to dissect his case.  I picked apart his symptoms like he was just another file in the lab.  I’ve never seen him so angry as he was that night.  He told me he hadn’t come to me for a diagnosis breakdown.  He just wanted a distraction from it all.  He needed a friend.  He bought a bottle of vodka and insisted we finish it while he still could.'  

‘Always dramatic, that boy,’ Crystal laughs once, sobering almost immediately.  He finally takes a long swig of his drink, his voice unsteady when he continues.  'He didn’t actually tell me the tumour was inoperable.  I found out when I opened a letter I thought was addressed to me; he’d accidentally left it on my kitchen worktop, stuffed between some patient correspondence we received in the afternoon post.  I confronted him that evening.  He wouldn’t even talk to me about it, said that perhaps we should stop seeing each other to save us both the heartache that was bound to follow since it was inoperable.  Too proud to let me see him deteriorate.  He's too stubborn.  I told him so.  We argued.  He walked out on me that evening.  I only found out about the accident when someone called from the hospital to check on his ID.  He couldn’t even remember his own name when he first came around, but then you probably already knew that…'     

‘It didn’t look good,’ Brian admits.  He thinks back to how gentle Crystal was following Roger’s fit, the intimate touches and kind words as he took care of him.  He takes a gamble on his devotion to the blond.  ‘I think I can help him, but what I have in mind is not entirely ethical.  I’ve been reading up on those diaries and I think it can be done...’      

Crystal takes another drink.  Nodding once.  ‘Tell me what you need.  I’ve no qualms with dubious ethics if it means he’ll be saved.’     

‘I really do think we can save him,’ Brian says, daring to take the bottle from Crystal’s grip.  ‘But we need to find more of those creatures for what I have in mind.  A lot more.’   

Chapter Text

The journey from the cabin is uncomfortable to say the least.  Brian tries as hard as he can to keep the Jaguar smooth and within close distance to Dominique's van; this proves difficult when he is constantly checking on his passengers.  He is pleased when they finally make it to the sleepy village harbour where the boat for their onward journey awaits.  Not a soul can be seen as he parks on the harbour wall, nestling the Jaguar between empty crab pots and rusty anchors.  He does not know how long it will sit there for and he is sure Roger will not be happy when he finds it has been abandoned, if he is still around when they return.  If they return.       

Brian peers into the mirror as the rear light floods the interior with diffused yellow light.  Roger is sprawled over the back seat, his head and shoulders resting against a pillow placed on Crystal’s lap.  He has not regained consciousness since he passed out in the cabin.    

Crystal meets his eyes in the mirror.  ‘No change,’ he says with a slight scowl, anticipating the question Brian has plagued him with on the journey so far.  ‘I’d tell you if there was.’    

Brian sighs, turning in his seat.  No change could mean anything.  It would probably be conceived as a good thing, by Roger, if he was conscious.  He is dead to the world and has been for hours.  

‘He doesn’t appear to be in any pain. Heartrate and respirations are holding steady,’ Crystal says apologetically, adding with a sigh, ‘I don’t know if that means he’s still connected to her or not.’   

Brian thinks back to the last journey he made with Roger in the Jag.  ‘We didn’t make it this far from the cabin before his lung collapsed.  I think the link is still holding.  That’s good.’

The harbour is silent save for the gentle lapping of the waves against the breakwater.  Brian startles when a man steps out of the shadows, a cigarette held between his lips.  Freddie greets him warmly, his voice echoing across the tiny bay.  ‘John, darling!  I told Dominique you wouldn’t let us down, and I was right.’ 

‘The boat’s loaded up and fuelled, just as you instructed,’ John says, taking a short drag of his cigarette.  He looks at the Jag and hums appreciatively.  ‘You’ve gone up in the world, I see.’  

‘We have some very important passengers,’ Freddie says, glancing at Brian as he climbs out of the vehicle.  ‘Once we have our special cargo situated, we may need a hand getting the rest of our crew aboard.’ 

‘I’ve got the crane ready,’ John says, pointing to a small fixed crane hanging from the sea wall.  Freddie follows him to it, unfastening the rear of the delivery van so that the sedated creature can be removed.    

Dominique pulls Brian to one side before he can get a look at the dormant being.  ‘How is he?’ she asks, looking to the Jag as Crystal carefully extracts himself without jostling his lover.  He unloads the wheelchair from the boot and irritably sets it up, grumbling when it refuses to click into place.   

‘Still unconscious,’ Brian replies, worrying over the ex-navy man who looks close to breaking point.      

Dominique looks worried too.  ‘Hopefully he’ll wake before we reach Portugal,’ she says.  

Brian can only nod his agreement. 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The boat looks too small for something they will travel over the wide-open ocean on, but looks are deceptive.  Brian is surprised to find it has three separate cabins below deck, as well as a large bulkhead where the creature is going to be stored.  He and Crystal agree to share a room with Roger.    

They bundle the sick man carefully into the wheelchair, getting him from car to boat without wakening him.  He does not stir when they carefully lift him onto a narrow bunk, nor when they take his blood pressure.  Crystal takes some readings, noting them in Brian’s black book while chewing the lid of the pen.  ‘Still no change,’ he says gruffly, finding Brian watching him closely.  He removes the pen lid from his mouth and chews his thumbnail instead.  Brian realises that he has not seen the medical man have a cigarette for a while.  He probably needs one.         

‘The creature is still dormant,’ Brian says.  ‘I should’ve asked Freddie how strong that tranquiliser was before I used it.  I don’t know what came over me; I felt as though I was not in control of my body when I approach its tank.  I’m not normally so compulsive.’  

Crystal swallows, fussing with the blankets covering his partner.  ‘It has that effect on people,’ he says.  ‘I have to admit, I’m not particularly looking forward to finding more of them.’  

‘But we must,’ Brian says.  ‘If what I think is correct, then we need to find as many as we can.  If we can just get him well enough so that the tumour can be operated on…’  He trails off, deep in thought as the engines of the boat turn over sluggishly.      

‘What’s your plan then, doctor?’ Crystal asks, listening as the engines thankfully rumble into life.  He leans heavily on the edge of Roger’s bunk as they pull away from the harbour, while Brian sits at the low, study table in the centre of their cramped quarters.   

‘I need you to hit me,’ Brian says, his voice raised over the sound of the various groans and clangs of the leaky vessel as they gain speed.  

Crystal snorts a laugh, barely tearing his eyes off Roger’s pale face while he sleeps.  ‘If you’d asked me a few days ago, I might have taken you up on the offer,’ he drawls quietly, his hand wrapped around the blond’s.  He brushes his thumb along the sick man’s cold hand.  They all miss the warmth of the cabin.        

Brian carefully places the thermos on the small table, steadying it when a wave causes it to slide along the top.  ‘I’m serious.’  

Crystal finally looks his way.  The look on his face must convince him that he is telling the truth.  ‘You want me to hit you?’  

‘It will be a good initial test to set the parameters,’ Brian says, unfastening the lid of the container with a pensive look on his face.  ‘Especially if you can draw blood.’  

Crystal laughs.  ‘You can’t just prick your finger?’  Sensing he is not being tricked, he stands, grasping the rail on the end of the bed to keep his balance as they surge through the choppy seas out into open water.  He makes sure the unconscious man is secured with tightly tucked in blankets before he stumbles across the small room to face Brian.  ‘Roger always said you were unconventional.’  

This time it is Brian’s turn to laugh.  ‘I suppose he’s used worse words to describe me.’  A glance at the pale man asleep on the narrow bunk sobers him.  ‘Pricking my finger won’t tell me enough.  We need some tangible pain to measure and I’m not waiting for him to wake up for that.  He doesn’t need any more invasive tests.’ 

‘Have you ever been punched before?’ Crystal asks, looking up at the marginally taller, yet slender man.

Brian looks pensively at the shorter man’s clenched fist, recalling Roger’s story of how Crystal stood up for him against an armed man and bodily threw him out of his office.  He shakes his head.  ‘Roger and I have come close to blows before,’ he admits, smiling tightly.  ‘But he’s never actually hit me.  He usually just opts for the silent treatment instead.’   

‘That’s because he’s too worried about damaging his hands; they’re his livelihood, after all,’ Crystal says, wrapping the sleeve of his jumper over his knuckles.  ‘Where do you want it?’    

Brian’s head snaps back as Crystal jabs at his unprotected nose before he can think of an answer.  He stumbles back, feeling the other man’s firm grip under his elbow.  He is grateful that Crystal helps him into the chair, his entire face throbbing as warm blood runs down his chin.  The pain makes his knees weak.  He is certain it was not Crystal’s strongest blow; he is pleased that it wasn’t.      

Crystal sits heavily back on the bunk, shaking his hand out.  He checks on the neuroscientist as he groans pitifully, leaning over on the chair so that his head is between his knees.  ‘Sorry,’ the ex-navy man apologises, handing Brian spare gauze for Roger’s surgical wound to stem the flow of blood.  ‘I figured you’d want me to do it quickly and get it over with.’  

‘Appreciated,’ Brian mumbles, pressing the gauze to his sore nose with a wince.  

Crystal flexes his fingers to check the damage, grimacing.  ‘So, what’s stage two of your plan?’ 

Brian fumbles with the flask, pouring the luminescent liquid into the detachable cup.  The liquid looks duller than it did when he extracted it from the tank.  It no longer glows as brightly.  He puts it under his nose.  Nothing happens.  The neuroscientist curses under his breath, swilling the liquid.    

‘You’re not going to drink that, are you?’ Crystal asks with distaste.  

‘Pheromones,’ Brian says stuffily, swallowing blood.  He wipes at his nose, groaning as he only serves to make it bleed more.  ‘Need the olfactory nerves to stimulate the hypothalamus to see if there’s any change.  Here, you smell it and tell me what you feel.’    

‘What?’ Crystal asks, confused.    

‘He means you should’ve punched him in the mouth instead of the nose,’ Roger’s husky voice is barely audible over the noise of the diesel engines.  

Crystal turns to him with wide eyes, helping him to sit up.  ‘How long have you been awake?’ he asks, acutely aware that the blond has not bothered to open his eyes.  

‘Long enough to hear your idiotic experiment,’ Roger replies, blindly grasping the side of the cot when the boat rocks.  He frowns.  ‘Are we moving?’  

‘We’re sailing,’ Crystal says, bracing him with the pillows.  ‘Somewhere near to Falmouth, I think.’   

The sick man wheezes for a moment, deep in thought.  ‘I made it from the cabin then?  That’s an improvement on last time we tried to leave.’  He tentatively presses against his ribs, wincing.  ‘Breathing’s still a bit shot.’

‘You’re doing alright, Rog,’ Crystal says, ignoring the way the sick man flinches when he grasps the side of his face.  He is far too hot to the touch.  ‘Easy, love.  Just need you to take your tablets; you’ve been out for a while and some of them cannot be missed without repercussions.  Can you open your eyes for me?’  

Roger shakes his head.  ‘No point really,’ he says quietly.  ‘Already tried.  Can’t see a bloody thing.’  He cracks open his eyes anyway, stares unseeingly at the blanket covering his lap.    

‘We’re working on it, Rog,’ Brian says, his voice muffled.   

‘So I hear,’ Roger replies with a tired chuckle.  ‘I’m pleased you’re getting along so well.  Although, this was not what I envisaged when I asked you to make peace with one another.’       

Crystal places the pills into his palm, waiting for Roger to put them in his mouth before pressing a mug full of tepid water into his trembling grip.  ‘We found a common purpose worth working together for,’ he says, looking to Brian.  

Roger pulls a face at the water.  ‘Tastes salty,’ he gasps with distaste.    

‘Drink it all,’ Crystal says, pushing the mug back when Roger moves to lower it.  ‘It’s good for you, full of electrolytes.’  

The blond winces, out of breath as he downs the medicinal water.  ‘Head’s pounding again,’ he says weakly.   ‘But I doubt it’s just from dehydration.’  

‘I really thought this would work,’ Brian says dejectedly as he tips the phosphorus water back into the flask.  He wipes at his bloody nose with another tissue, wincing.  ‘I think you broke my nose.’ 

‘Come here,’ Roger says, pushing his good arm under himself so he can sit up straighter.  He holds his breath, letting it out with a crackling wheeze as he straightens up.    

Brian makes his way over to the narrow bunk, grateful when Crystal helps him kneel by it so that Roger won’t have to move his bad arm.  ‘It won’t stop bleeding.’ 

Roger motions with his hands, hearing the noise Brian makes when he realises what he wants to do.  ‘Kneel down.  I just want to feel.  I’ll be gentle,’ the surgeon says, smiling softly when he feels his friend take his hands and guide them to his face. 

‘But you can’t see,’ Brian whines. 

‘I’ve reset enough broken noses in my time,’ Roger grouses, sounding stronger.  ‘I could do it blindfolded.’ 

Brian hisses when the blond presses the tips of his fingers against the swollen appendage.  He squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing blood with a grimace that exasperates the bruising already forming.  It feels as though his nose is ten times the size and it throbs with each beat of his heart.  The neuroscientist startles when he opens his eyes and finds Roger’s face close to his, the blond’s tongue nipped between his teeth as he feels around the swelling.  His wheezing seems to have improved slightly.      

‘Hmm, I can probably reset it once the swelling goes down,’ he says, his fingers moving delicately over the sore area.  ‘Just pack it with gauze for a few hours until it stops bleeding and don’t do anything too strenuous, like picking fights with sailors.’ 

‘He did tell me to punch him,’ Crystal says defensively, leaning against the small table.  He swills the flask of liquid with a frown, flexing his tender fingers.      

‘I didn’t think you’d hit me that hard,’ Brian admits, embarrassed at the fuss he is making over a bloodied nose.  The injury seems pale in comparison to Roger's plight.      

‘If I can’t reset it, you’ll at least have something to impress the ladies with.  It’s about time you got back out there,’ Roger says, his hands still on Brian’s face.  The neuroscientist makes no move to remove them, studying the blond closely as his lips twitch into a grin, his unseeing eyes crinkling at the corners.  His pupils are dilated, leaving only a thin band of blue visible in the low light.  ‘It’ll give your face a bit of character, not that it needs it,’ Roger adds huskily, carefully brushing his thumb down Brian’s cheek.

Brian sucks in a breath, gently moving out of Roger’s reach.  He glances over his shoulder to find that Crystal is still studying the flask intently, apparently at ease with letting his partner do as he pleases with his oldest friend.  A sharp rap at the metal door breaks the silence. 

Dominique sticks her head through the opening, her eyes lighting up when she sees that Roger is awake.  ‘The creature is stirring,’ she says.  ‘I’m pleased to see that our patient is too.’   

‘Ha, I knew I could feel her again!  Pack his nose, Crys,’ Roger orders, clumsily removing the blanket from his legs.  He feels for the edge of the bunk with his free hand, knocking into Brian as he swings his legs over the edge.  ‘We might be able to convince her to fix it for him.’ 

‘You’re up like bleeding Wee Willie Winkie when that creature wants you to be,’ Crystal mutters.  He drags over the heavy chair for Brian to sit on, stilling the sick man by sitting beside him on the bunk so that he cannot leave.  ‘Just hold it there before you break something.’        

As glad as he is to see Roger awake and in good spirits, Brian pales at the thought of having the creature heal him…     

Chapter Text

The wheelchair is too wide for the narrow gangway separating the tiny cabins from the bulkhead.  Crystal half carries his partner down the steel steps, cursing as they groan under their combined weight.  ‘I’m not convinced this boat is even seaworthy,’ he says, brushing the flaking paint from his hand.  ‘Still with us?’ he asks, feeling Roger grow heavy against him.  

‘I could do without this constant rocking,’ Roger admits, his grip bruising as he stumbles.  ‘How’s Bri?’ 

Crystal glances up the stairs, watching as the tall man descends with caution.  He is breathing noisily from his mouth, his nose packed well to stop the bleeding.  His eyes are already bruising.  He does not look particularly well as he clings onto the handrail.  ‘He’s alright,’ Crystal lies.      

‘How hard did you hit him?’ Roger asks.  

Crystal huffs.  ‘I was very restrained,’ he says testily, dragging the blond through the bulkhead door.  ‘I could’ve hit him much harder.’  He pauses, his head already spinning in the stifling chamber.  No wonder Roger could feel it was awake.  The creature jolts with fear as the men approach, powerfully rocking the tank.  ‘She’s certainly not feeling the effects of the tranquilizer now.’  

Roger grunts his agreement, unable to speak.  He extracts himself from Crystal’s grasp and moves slowly towards her, apparently drawn to the noise.  

‘Careful, Rog,’ Crystal warns, wary that the blond cannot see.  This does not appear to impede him as he reaches the tank, placing his hand against the steel.  The creature growls.  Crystal cannot hear what Roger softly says back to it but whatever it is makes the creature animated, water sloshing as it rises to its full height in the tank.  The lid clangs, restrained by the leather straps.  It growls again.  Roger puts his hand out behind him to stop them from following.  

‘She’s not very happy with you two,’ he says, barely turning his head.  His hand moves across the rusty steel until he feels the glass window beneath his fingers.      

Crystal watches the creature test the straps once again.  The noise the creature makes this time forces him to cover his ears.  The lights flicker before going dark.  ‘I thought you said she was happy enough to go in the tank?’ he growls, feeling Brian close behind him, practically breathing down his neck.  Neither of them are brave enough to move any closer, despite the security of the tank.  

Roger presses his forehead against the glass.  ‘She knows she’s nearly home,’ he says softly, framed by the luminescent glow.  The creature spins languidly in the tank, pushing its smoke-like tendrilled fingers between the gap under the loose lid and the lip of the tank.  Roger reaches his hand up, breathing heavily as the tendril wraps itself around his arm.  It lifts him off his feet so that he is hanging.  He groans, his head lolling as water drips from the creature, saturating his clothes and the floor below.      

Crystal takes a step forward, restrained only by Brian’s tight grip on his sleeve.  ‘Wait,’ the neuroscientist whispers.  They watch as the creature slowly turns the blond around in a circle, his feet barely touching the floor, like a sleeping ballet dancer en-pointe.  ‘Can you see that?’ Brian murmurs, his breath tickling the ex-navy man’s ear.  Crystal looks.  He wonders if what he is seeing is a trick of the light.  He is certain that it is not. 

In the dull green glow of the room, they can see through the sick man.  His clothes are translucent.  His skin merely a transparent mask.  His heart is pumping rapidly.  His lungs expanding and contracting in unison, one more strongly than the other; the fluid build-up around the cancer startlingly obvious.  His circulatory system pumping blood around his body. 

They can see it all as though they are watching through an advanced imaging camera that both men know is not in existence.  Crystal’s eyes adjust to the darkness, finding more detail to behold as Roger is twisted slowly around.  The delicate live map of his arterial and venous circulation.  The network of neurons firing in his brain; the dark spot where the nerve cells are impeded by the tumour.  The various hot spots around his core glow red; blossoming under his arms, between his legs. 

‘How?’ is all Crystal can say.  Brian does not have an answer.         

Roger does not appear to be in any pain until pulsing light thrums from the tendril into his own body, then he writhes with a gasp, his head jerking back, his legs kicking out feebly for purchase.  Crystal breaks free of Brian’s grip and moves swiftly to help.  He grabs hold of Roger’s waist and is immediately stung by what feels like a thousand wasps.  He yelps, his legs giving way.  His head slams against the steel hull, ringing in his ears.  Buzzing fills his head, his breath hard to catch.  Roger hangs above him like a marionette.  Crystal vaguely hears Brian call his name before he passes out. 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He awakens on the cot, Roger looming over him with a worried look on his pale face.  His eyes shine brightly as he watches him groggily stir.  The lights in the cramped quarters are thankfully low.  ‘Easy, Crys,’ he says, easily pressing him back against the lumpy mattress with his palm.  The touch burns his chest.  ‘You had quite a shock.’ 

Crystal gapes, reaches out to ensure that he is not dreaming.  Roger looks too ethereal to be real.  ‘Are you hurt?’ he croaks, swallowing thickly when Roger shakes his head in the negative and sits with him on the bunk.  ‘Am I hurt?’ he adds, bringing his shaking hands to the back of his thumping head and finding they come away bloodied.      

‘She zapped you pretty good.  Brian's gone to find out if Freddie has any medicinal supplies on board,’ Roger says, still concerned as he helps Crystal sit up. ‘I think you scared her.’ 

‘Scared her?’ Crystal parrots.  He keeps his hands on his head and groans.  When he pulls them away, he finds Roger watching him intently, shining brightly in the dim light.  Crystal sucks in a breath, remembering the visage that caused him to act in the first place; he grasps Roger’s wrist, finding his touch far too hot as he turns his arm.  It is not a trick of the light; he is still glowing.  ‘Can you see that?’ he asks, tentatively tracing the Radial artery with his trembling finger as it pulses brightly, moving blood from his heart to his hand.

Roger nods, his dark lashes stark against lustrous cheeks as he closes his eyes at the gentle touch.  He swallows.  ‘I’ve never felt like this before,’ he murmurs.  ‘Nothing hurts anymore, yet I can feel everything.’      

Crystal sits up straighter, wincing as his head pounds.  The constant rolling of the boat does not help his equilibrium; he is pleased Roger is wedged onto the narrow bunk with him, to keep him on it.  He gently pulls the blond’s shirt collar, snagging the gauze over his surgical wound.  All that remains is a pink scar that could be months, even years old.  Crystal shakes his head with a grimace.  ‘Impossible,’ he croaks.        

‘I want to try something,’ Roger says, gently grasping the back of Crystal’s head, his fingers feeling for the knot.  The ex-navy man hisses as something stings at the wound.  It is excruciating, until the pain abruptly stops.  Arousal flushes in his blood, the all-too-familiar feeling from the creature’s catacombs rushing south.  He pulls Roger’s hand away to replace it with his own.  The wound no longer bleeds.  It no longer hurts.  He gapes at the blond. 

‘I don’t know,’ Roger whispers before he can voice the question.  Even he is wide eyed at what he has just done, his chest heaving as he stares at his hand in wonder.  In the soft light, with his skin radiantly glowing, he has never looked more striking.   

Crystal is overcome with want; so, he takes.  Roger lets him, moaning when his shirt buttons are ripped off, his neck nuzzled by the ex-navy man as he pulls him close.  Crystal mouths at his smooth chest as his hands fumble for the buttons on his jeans.  Roger groans throatily, thrusting his hips up to lay flatter on the narrow cot as his jeans and underwear are pushed down to his calves.  His erection springs free.  He breathes deeply, unimpeded. 

Crystal places his palm over the recently damaged ribs and finds no trace of the uneven respirations that recently plagued the blond.  He kisses the unmarked skin, fat tears landing in his mouth’s wake as he presses his lips tenderly against each rib. 

His hand moves lower, brushing across his navel, fingers following the thin trail of pubic hair until he reaches his prize.  He thumbs at his lover’s exposed tip, relishing how it twitches under his touch.  They have not been this intimate for months and knowing why makes Crystal’s determination waver.  Although he struggles to form a cognitive thought, Roger senses his hesitancy to continue without his permission. 

‘Please, Crys,’ he breaths.  He is in no pain.  ‘Please.’     

Crystal does not need telling twice.                             

Chapter Text

Brian stumbles in the cramped shared cabin his ears ringing with Roger’s vehement instruction to find something to help stem the bleeding from Crystal’s head injury.  ‘Rog,’ he starts, a thousand questions on his lips that have little to do with his role as nominated first aider as he hands over a spare dressing from Roger’s own supply of bandages. 

‘Later,’ Roger says from his seat on the cot, brushing his hand against Crystal’s slack face with a wince.  ‘We need something to clean the wound with.  Please hurry.’ 

Brian nods, a throbbing static filling his head at witnessing the gentle touch.  He guesses it might have something to do with his broken nose and not just the pang of jealousy he feels stirring in his gut.  He moves quickly to the door.  Before he closes it, he catches sight of the blond gently trying to rouse his partner, his entire figure still aglow with something strange yet wonderfully vibrant.  Incredible, yet terrifying at the same time. 

The tall man climbs up the narrow stairway, grasping the cold metal handrail with one hand as the boat rocks.  It is still dark outside as they make their way across the vast ocean.  Brian pales at the thought of how insignificant their tiny vessel is in comparison to the deep choppy seas over which they amble.  Having told no one of their trip, they will likely never be found, thousands of fathoms deep in a watery grave. 

He shudders, praying that the weather stays clear during their travels.  He makes the mistake of touching his nose with his free hand, jostling the gauze he has stuffed up his nostrils; the material falls away, bloodied but not wet.  He tentatively feels the bruised area, his eyes watering as he does so.  He is not looking forward to Roger resetting the bone.    

He is still dabbing at the swollen appendage when he finds the captain of their vessel.  John looks him up and down with a frown as he enters the cramped wheelhouse.  ‘What’s happened to you?’ he asks. 

Brian shakes his head.  ‘I’m alright, but I need something to treat a head laceration.  You wouldn’t happen to have any iodine or antiseptic wipes, would you?’

He is surprised, yet thankful when the captain slides a large backpack out from under his controls with his foot.  ‘You’re certainly well stocked,’ Brian says appreciatively, dropping to his knees and rummaging through the brimming backpack. 

‘You’ll find it’s necessary when Freddie’s playing with explosives,’ John replies, barely tearing his eyes away from the controls of the boat. 

Brian’s hands falter in their search.  ‘Explosives?  Why on earth would he have explosives?’     

John glances his way, his frown deepening.  ‘How did you think we were going to get them out?  The authorities won’t be happy to see us again, especially after we tried storming the front gates before.  We're going to try by sea instead of land this time and lead them out.  Why else would we have this distinctively forgettable boat?’

The neuroscientist frowns.  ‘But, we’re just taking the creature back to her kind,’ he says, confused.  He once again wishes Roger were here to decipher the utterly confusing conversation.       

‘We’re rescuing her kind from where they’re being held,’ the quiet man counters.  ‘Don’t tell me Freddie hasn’t told you the plan?  I don’t even know why I’m surprised.’  He sighs heavily, checking over his controls and adjusting some levers before motioning to Brian to follow him onto the deck. 

They find Freddie and Dominique in the rear cabin.  To Brian’s mortification, the captain appears to be correct.  It does not appear that they will be simply dropping the creature off once they reach their destination. 

The pair are surrounded by diving gear, supplies and more explosives than Brian has ever seen outside of the war films Roger insisted he watch with him during the Saturday matinees at the local pictures during their studies.  There are papers and maps lining a bench to the side of the now-overcrowded room.    

Dominique cuts a fine figure donned in a skin-tight wetsuit; a large knife in a holster strapped to her thigh.  She nudges at Freddie’s shoulder when she sees the neuroscientist watching them.  The moustached man turns, his own wetsuit bunched at his waist, a bright yellow cotton muscle vest covering his well-defined hairy chest.  He is holding something suspiciously dangerous looking in his hand, poking at it with a tiny screwdriver. 

‘Brian!’ he calls cheerily.  ‘Oh my! What’s happened to your face?’

Brian gapes at the enigmatic man for a second before his attention is caught by movement on a monitor on the steel desk.  He can see the creature, in a grainy monochrome, floating latently in her tank.  He scowls.  The pair have been spying on them through a closed-circuit television system.  The boat is not as old and dilapidated as it appeared at first glance.  ‘You lied to us,’ he says, furiously, grasping at the rail by his side to stay on his feet as the boat cuts through a particularly large wave. 

‘We’ve not lied, per se,’ Freddie says brightly, carefully placing the tube and screwdriver on the desk where they roll with the motion of the boat.  He quickly stills them with his hand.  ‘We’ve just perhaps not told you the truth in its entirety.’ 

Brian grumbles.  ‘Roger could have been killed getting that creature contained for you.  Something strange has just happened to him down below…a-a medical anomaly.’  Brian cannot find the right words to explain; he does not think he could ever find the right words to describe exactly what he witnessed in the confines of the boat’s bulkhead.  He presses his hand to his mouth, clenches his teeth until the swelling forces him to stop.  The boat’s engines drone noisily below his feet.        

‘Oh, he’s perfectly fine,’ Freddie reassures, ‘here, look.’  He fiddles with the small monitor with his free hand, switching the channels until he finds the right one.  A black and white grainy image of the cabin Brian shares with Crystal and Roger fills the tiny screen, the blurry visage of two naked bodies writhing vigorously on the narrow cot the only movement against the still backdrop.  ‘He might be more than perfectly fine, actually,’ the moustached man adds, leaning closer to the screen with interest before Dominique snaps it off.       

‘Enough,’ she orders.  She turns to Brian, her eyes filled with remorse.  ‘We wanted to tell you of our true intentions, but we were afraid you would not join us if we did.  We need that creature to communicate with the others so that we may free them.’   

John takes a cigarette from a silver case, has second thoughts about lighting it in the confines of the cabin.  He nods to Freddie, his lighter poised.  ‘If we’re on the right course, which I’m certain we are, we’ll be there by noon,’ he says, leaving them to deal with Brian.  He pulls the heavy door closed behind him. 

Brian blinks at the dark screen, the image of Roger and Crystal ingrained firmly in his memory.  He thinks back to how his best friend’s health has miraculously improved only to rapidly diminish again over the last week; an ominous tidemark left with each miraculous event and its subsequent withdrawal.  ‘It’s an illusion, isn’t it?’ he asks quietly, closing his eyes.  ‘He is never healed permanently; we just cannot see the damage until it comes back.  And it will always come back, won’t it?  It will get worse each time it returns until it can no longer be fixed by that creature.’    

Their silence only fuels his despair.  The neuroscientist sits heavily on the bench, crumpling paper, feeling foolishly close to tears.  ‘You let me believe he would be okay just so you could get that creature aboard.’ 

‘We don’t know that he won’t be fine once this is all over,’ Freddie says defensively.  ‘We’ve never managed to get close enough to the other creatures to break them out of their prison, but this time is different.’ 

‘How so?’ Brian dares to ask, watching the darkhaired man place the metal item into a bag. 

‘This time we have a tethered connection to one of them,’ Dominique says, her unwillingness to speak Roger’s name sending alarm bells clanging.  ‘She’ll do anything he asks of her; however dangerous.’

Brian swallows thickly, the tang of blood still evident in the back of his throat.  He wonders how many times the duo has attempted this apparently impossible task.  He hates to ask, but knows he must.  ‘Who exactly are we rescuing these creatures from?’ 

‘Oh, just a few radical scientists,’ Freddie says with a dismissive wave of his hand. 

‘And the Portuguese Navy,’ Dominique adds quietly. 

Brian’s stomach drops with a jolt that has nothing to do with the motion of the boat as it surges over the powerful waves.        

Chapter Text

Brian cannot force himself to return to the shared cabin after witnessing the images on the monitor.  He stands at the bow of the small vessel for hours until grey twilight turns to dawn, clinging to a steel rail that hums and vibrates with every skip of the powerful engines.  At a loss for how he will break the news to Roger, he worries even more about how Crystal will take it.  The volatile man will not be pleased that they have allowed themselves to be used like this.  That Roger is being used.  He will not be pleased with Brian for allowing it.  Putting off the conversation is foolish.  Brian still does not move from his spot.   

‘There you are,’ Roger’s husky voice announces his presence on deck.  Brian cannot bring himself to look at him and see the post-coital contentment on his face.  Not yet.  Not again.  Not ever.  He looks up at the clear sky, searching desperately for the moon.

The smell of the French cigarette precedes the blond as he joins him at the rail.  Brian associates the fragrant smoke with good times long gone; of giddy nights out and lazy mornings after.  He sniffs, aggravating his wounded nose.  At least he has something on which to blame the tears that he can feel spilling over. 

‘Hey,’ Roger coos, bumping shoulders, his face moving closer in the taller man’s periphery.  He no longer appears to be glowing.  ‘Are you upset?’      

Brian shakes his head, grips the rail tighter when he stumbles.  He swallows thickly, closing his eyes.  He briefly contemplates diving over the rail into the dark water below. 

‘Liar,’ Roger says without any vehemence, his hand firm on Brian’s shoulder as though he knows it is needed.  ‘You can tell me,’ he presses.  ‘I’ll probably forget in a few hours anyway.  It’s already starting to wear off, whatever she did to me.’ 

The flippant remark is enough to push Brian over the edge.  He pulls away from the rail only to find that Roger will not let him leave.  ‘Please,’ he chokes, his eyes still firmly shut.  He does not know what exactly he is pleading for.  Does he want Roger to leave him alone?  He does not think so.  Is he feeling claustrophobic perhaps, caught in the middle of too many impetuous personal interests?  He feels like the odd man out.  He only wants what is best for Roger.  Perhaps he and Crystal are the odd men out, together.      

‘Please talk to me, Bri.  I hate it when you get stuck in your head,’ Roger urges, his roaming hands burning against Brian’s sore face as he grasps his cheek.  He hums unhappily, running his fingers lightly over the bridge of his nose.  The touch feels warm, tingling pleasantly.  ‘I meant to fix this,’ he says quietly.    

Brian assumes he is talking about his broken nose, not his aching heart.  He brings his hand up blindly to his face, pleased with the distraction it provides as he aggravates the swelling again.  He focuses on the pain instead of Roger’s gentle touch before his hand is batted away.

‘You’ve not asked how Crystal is,’ Roger says, the lingering smell of smoke on his breath.  He knows.      

Brian opens his eyes, unsurprised to find Roger standing well within his personal space, cigarette held loosely between his lips as he moves his hands back up to feel the break.  In the grey light, his eyes are bright, glistening with their own unshed tears.  The blond does something with his fingers, the bridge of Brian’s nose cracking painfully.  The neuroscientist yelps, his knees going weak with the sharp pain that follows.  His vision swims as he rests his forehead against his arms, dropping to his knees as the motion of the boat threatens to topple him overboard.    

‘All done,’ Roger soothes, rubbing his back.  ‘You might hate me now, but I promise you’ll thank me when you can breathe through it properly.’    

‘I don’t hate you, Rog,’ Brian says, his words muffled.  ‘I really thought that I could help you.  I suppose I actually bought into the idea that this would work, and now I’ve condemned us all.’ 

The blond joins him on the cold steel deck, seemingly startled by the morose words.  ‘Share,’ he urges, wrapping his hand around his friend’s forearm.  ‘Bri, whatever burden you think you have to carry alone, believe me, you can tell me.  We’ve known each other for over twenty bloody years; that’s longer than most marriages last.’

It is longer than my marriage lasted, Brian thinks morosely.  He sighs shakily, the noise urging Roger to continue.   

‘I’m worried about you,’ he says, moving his hand to Brian’s shoulder and squeezing.  ‘I need to know you’re going to be okay when I’m gone.  Don’t…just don’t do anything stupid, will you?’ 

Brian shakes his head, a flash of anger replacing the sadness when he thinks of the injustice of the entire situation.  ‘It’s too late for that,’ he admits, his voice unsteady.  ‘We should never have gotten on this boat, Rog.  We were safe in the cabin with that creature.  We could’ve made it work, you and I.’

‘And Crystal?’ Roger adds, his hand falling away.  The spot on Brian’s shoulder feels cold without it there. 

‘I don’t care about Crystal,’ Brian says truthfully.  ‘I only care about you.’  He raises his head to meet Roger’s eye, knowing it is cowardly to hold the frank conversation with his head hidden in his hands.

Roger appears dejected as he crushes his cigarette out on the steel rail.  The first light of dawn beams across the horizon above the roiling ocean, casting his face in a soft pink glow.  Stunning.  ‘Well, I care for you both,’ he says huskily.  He scowls at the dead end of the cigarette, flattening the stub between his fingers.  ‘You had several chances to have me all to yourself, remember? You didn’t take me up on any of them.  In fact, you were quite adamant that we shouldn’t ever entertain a public relationship, so I don’t think you have any right to be jealous now just because I’ve finally found someone who isn’t afraid to love me.’  He splays his fingers over his ribs, the first sign that the creature’s hold is starting to waver.             

Brian thinks back to the first night that Roger had propositioned him.  The blond was still a teen, fresh faced and arrogant; fuelled by the belief that he could out-romance any of the other students in the smoky dancehall as they half-listened to some jazz trio, way out of their depth, attempt to cover The Who.

He had made an obnoxiously loud bet at the cramped bar; he bet he could take any student home that night, male or female.  Brian forgets who put his name forward; he thinks it might have been him, full of cheap lager and high on whatever the loose hippies on the next table had been smoking.  A dare he had not expected to come to fruition.  A blond he had not expected to like so much.  A night he would never forget. 

‘It wasn’t because I was afraid to love you,’ Brian says quietly.  ‘That’s never been the problem.’ 

‘Too worried about what other people would think,’ Roger grumbles, rubbing at his head.  ‘Did you ever stop to worry about what you want?  What you need to be happy.  Life’s too fucking short.’   

Brian stays silent.  They have had this argument so many times, he knows it word for word.  The stigma and discrimination he feared would kill Roger’s fledgling career when he decided to leave the safety of the hospital he had completed his studies with; the nights out he turned down, afraid he would be unable to keep his attraction to the other man from becoming public knowledge; the ultimate reason for the failure of his marriage.  He was in love with someone else.  He reaches out blindly, relieved when he feels Roger take his hand.   

‘Do something for yourself, Bri, without fear of repercussions or judgement,’ the blond says tiredly.  ‘Or one day you’ll wake up with nothing but regrets and no time left to act.’

A thousand recollections run through Brian’s head.  Repentances of lost opportunities.  The joy he felt when Roger first kissed him all those years ago.  The resilient bond that has developed into their close friendship which was only born from the intimacy they shared as young men, not yet disillusioned by life.  The fledgling relationship he ended for mediocre and short-lived happiness with a woman who deserved better.  The way Roger had known he was needed when the marriage ended in divorce.  The way the surgeon had kept quiet his new relationship for fear of upsetting his best friend.  The painful bitterness of watching Crystal with Roger.          

‘When did you become so astute?’ Brian asks, his hand trembling as he gently squeezes it.   

The ghost of a smile replaces the pensive look on Roger’s face as he squeezes back.  ‘Oh, a few months ago.’    

The reminder of the cancer is sobering as they bask in the light of a new day. 

Roger is quick to break the silence, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand.  ‘I rather hoped you were going to kiss me,’ he says, getting his feet under himself to stand. 

‘What about Crystal?’ Brian asks, glancing over his shoulder guiltily. 

Roger shakes his head, pulling himself to his feet with a groan.  ‘He knows how I feel about you.’

‘That doesn’t mean he’s going to like it,’ the neuroscientist says, fearful of being caught. 

Roger scrubs his hand over his face, before fumbling uncoordinatedly for the handrail.  He makes a soft noise that catches Brian’s attention.  The brisk sea air seems to still, the sound of the engines dying away to silence.  Brian manages to stop him from diving overboard before the fit begins.     

Chapter Text

'Breathe, Rog,' Crystal's voice cuts through the fog as Roger struggles to the surface. He gasps weakly, unable to catch his breath despite the urged instruction.  Something vibrates below him, boring through his aching head where he lays.  Unrelenting breathlessness sends a jolt of fear through him; fear that makes his heart race unsteadily.  He chokes, recognising the familiar tug of the palpitations as his heart thumps weakly behind his ribs.  Fear of suffocation.  Drowning on the fluid in his lungs.

He feels someone's cold hand on his stomach as it heaves, his body desperate for air in any way possible, unable to get it.  Tantalisingly out of reach despite being all around.  He claws clumsily at his tight chest, grasping the fabric of his shirt until his fingers are gripped firmly.  Crystal sounds concerned.  'Easy, easy.  I'm going to sit you up.'  

Roger breathlessly groans, in acute agony all over when he is lifted by more than one pair of hands.  He kicks his legs out, trying for purchase on something slippery until he feels a solid presence against his back.  He sucks in the deepest breath he can, threading his hand clumsily to clutch at his ribs as his lungs stutter unconvincingly back into life.  Lung, he thinks.  Only one appears to be working.  He moans weakly, the only noise he can make as black spots cloud his vision.  Something is missing and he cannot put his finger on what it is. 

Gasping wetly, he would slide back if it wasn't for the firm hands on his shoulders.  

His head meets something soft before he can hear Crystal’s firm voice in his ear, feels it vibrating through his back.  ‘That’s better.  Just lean against me and keep breathing.’  He takes in a small measure of blessed air, the sweetest he has ever tasted.  Each breath is noisy and laboured and painful, but just enough to stem the panic.  Just enough to carry on living.  Just enough.  Soon it won't be enough.  Too soon for his liking.       

He cracks his eyes open, feeling his shirt being unbuttoned and tugged out of his trousers.  Something cold pressing against his ribs makes him flinch.  He glances down, dazed.   His trousers are mortifyingly wet at the crotch.  Roger does not have enough energy to make a sound of complaint at the discovery.  He can hear remnants of conversation in front and behind, muffled and unintelligible.  The light is bright, piercing his fragile head.  He is missing something important.   

Brian's face looms, an unsteady horizon bobbing behind him as he presses the cold end of the stethoscope against still ribs.  His eyes are bruised, his nose cracked on the bridge, fresh blood glistening in the light.  ‘You’re hurt,’ Roger murmurs, snagging at Brian’s sleeve with uncoordinated fingers.  He feels Crystal’s grip tighten on his shoulders.  He whimpers at the pain, hearing Crystal’s flustered apology.  It is unlike Crystal to hurt.  It is unlike him to get flustered.   

Roger feels his eyes rolling with the rocking of the boat, his eyelids far too heavy.  He breathes rapidly, sea spray misting on his face.  He summons up enough effort to reopen and keep his eyes open for longer.  It takes too much effort to keep them open.  They stream in the biting wind that has partially revived him.  Brian is still kneeling in front of him.  He does not look well.  He appears as distraught as Crystal.  Roger looks for signs as to where they are, willing his mind to clear.  He knows they are at sea, but he cannot remember why.  Coiled rope and a bright orange lifebuoy hang nearby, taunting him.  A part of him is lost.         

'Why are we on a boat?' Roger asks, his voice weak as he struggles to recall leaving the cabin.  It must be for an important reason if both Crystal and Brian are both here with him.  Brian does not answer, but Roger is certain his question was heard. 

Squirming as Brian continues to monitor his breathing, Roger wracks his brain.  It hurts.  Everything does.  He clumsily massages his hand against his tight chest, wary of moving the shoulder that feels as though it has been impaled on a red-hot poker.  ‘I don’t remember getting here,’ he wheezes, his fingers catching on the edge of the surgical incision on his shoulder.        

‘You had another fit, Rog,’ Brian says, a look in his eye Roger has never seen before.  ‘Don’t try and force it.  You’ll remember.’

Roger wants to ask when, but speaking is too difficult.  He breathes instead.  The strong smell of urine assaults his nostrils.  His vision wavers.  An engine churns away down below, drowning out his noisy gasps for air.  He feels hot tears pricking at his eyes as he flounders on the deck, a fish out of water.  He hurriedly blinks them away as though if he lets them fall then he will too.  He feels incomplete, like he is missing a limb.     

'We ought to take him back down,' Brian says. 'She can fix him.' 

'Sun's up,' Crystal replies, his words grim and defeated.  'You said it yourself; she will be dormant until it's dark.'  

Brian is silent for a moment.  He looks up beyond Roger's shoulder to where Crystal is, the same unreadable look in his eye.  'She might not know it’s daytime.  It's dark down there without windows,' he says unusually optimistic.  

Roger feels Crystal's grip tighten on his shoulders.  'He really shouldn't be moved until his breathing improves.'  Roger wants to tell him that is now unlikely.  He breathes instead.  He knows now what he is missing; it is her.  She has gone.      

Brian swears, most uncharacteristically.  Roger feels Crystal adjust his position, jostling painfully.  He makes a small noise at his discomfort, sacrificing precious air.  Crystal apologises softly.  The thought of seeing the creature in her lair so that she may soothe his hurts is a comforting one.  He hopes Brian does not back down in his insistence.  He hopes Crystal is not as dogged as usual.      

'He ought to be on oxygen,' Brian says, finally removing the stethoscope.  'His breathing is not improving.  That lung has collapsed again.' 

This time it is Crystal who is silent.  Roger can feel the tremors in his hands. 

'They have scuba diving gear in their cabin,' Brian adds.  'Would that work?' 

The ex-navy man’s grip tightens painfully at the revelation.  'It wouldn't do any harm.  It might do some good, depending on the mix.  If they have a rebreather we could use for a short time, then we'd be in luck,' Crystal says, sounding confident.  Roger feels him shift again.  He groans pitifully as he is dragged a short way across the slippery deck and propped up against something more solid than his partner.  He watches Crystal as he reluctantly leaves his side.  Dried blood is stark on the back of his neck, a trail down his back.  He does not appear to be injured.        

'Crystal,' Brian calls, stopping the ex-navy man in his tracks. 'Ignore what else you see in their cabin; just bring what we need. We'll talk about the rest later.'

Crystal nods.  He does not look too happy with the instruction.  Roger vaguely wonders what Brian is talking about.  He would ask if he could.  Instead, he breathes.    

He feels his eyes growing heavy again.  He knows he is not getting the right amount of oxygen for his heart.  It is struggling.  Sluggish.  There is too much fluid in his lungs.  He has planned for this stage of the disease but that does not mean he is ready for it.  Not again.  Not when he miraculously survived the last time it happened.  A flash of memory returns, of his lung collapsing in the town near the cabin; of being reborn in the catacombs beneath the lake.  Her touch.  He needs her to save him again.  He yearns for her touch like an addict for a fix.  Just the thought of it warms his stomach.      

Brian shakes his shoulder.  'Don’t go. Try and hold on, Rog. Just hold on a bit longer.' 

Roger opens his eyes, unaware that they had closed.  He does not like the despair lacing his friend's words.  He is dismayed to find that Brian is crying, tears brimming against his bruised eyes. 

'Don't be upset,' he wheezes, only causing more tears to fall.   He lifts his hand to comfort, only to find it is already being gripped tightly by his oldest friend.  He squeezes it, pleased when Brian squeezes it back.  The small action unlocks something in the back of Roger's mind.  'Crystal hit you,' he whispers, closing his eyes as the hazy memory surfaces.  'You had a theory...' 

Brian's voice is full of despair when he replies.  'It didn't work, Rog.  I wish that it had.' 

‘It might…’ Roger says, wishing he had the breath to say more.  He was certain that Brian’s theory held some weight; he just gave up too easily, probably disheartened by Crystal’s cynicism.  Roger takes a moment to breathe, his eyes fluttering.  The steel deck beneath him is cold and damp; his legs are dead, pins and needles in his hands as he clings onto Brian like he is a lifeline.     

A metal clang makes him jump.  Crystal is back and he is grumbling under his breath.  There is a loud hiss.  Roger opens his eyes to find his partner fiddling with a mass of tubes, the sun glinting off plastic as his fingers twist nimbly making the blond dizzy. 

'I want you to breathe as normally as you can with this on for half a minute,' Crystal says, Roger struggling to follow.  'If something doesn't feel right, you let us know.'  He turns to Brian with a grimace and mutters, 'what the hell are they planning?' 

Roger nods, his head heavy.  He is unsure how Crystal thinks he will be able to tell if something does not feel right when everything already feels so wrong.  He moans groggily as the mask is held over his face; the air is cold on his sweat-soaked cheeks.  It does not feel like it is making any difference to his laboured breathing.   

Crystal and Brian share a look.  Roger watches them converse heatedly through the clear plastic visor; the hissing of compressed air is too noisy for him to hear what they say.  The motion of the boat lulls him into a stupor.  His eyes close, only to reopen when he feels Brian squeezing his hand again.  Roger blearily squeezes back for fear that if he does not, Brian will do something foolish.  He clings onto the thread of worry he has for his oldest friend to keep himself awake.  

Brian moves the stethoscope to the other side of his chest, leaning closer as he does.  His voice is loud when Crystal pulls the mask up.  'We should at least try to wake her up!' he cries.  It has been a long time since Roger has heard him fervently argue.

Crystal shakes his head, moving into Roger's periphery to make adjustments on the tank.  'And what happens when it gets angry, like it did before?'

Brian does not waver, his grip tight on Roger’s as he maintains his stance.  ‘If I have to go alone because you’re scared of it, then I will.' 

Crystal growls under his breath at the vehemence of Brian's words, watching the tall man rise to his feet.  Even Roger can see by the set of his shoulders that it is true.  It is a surprise; he thought Crystal was not scared of anything.  ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,' Crystal calls crossly.

Roger shudders at the loss of contact, squeezing his hand into a weak fist as he watches Brian stumble away.  Fear for his oldest friend makes him anxious.  His legs twitch as he itches to follow.  He struggles to support himself as the boat rocks on a particularly rough wave.  Crystal fusses, his touch far less comforting as he tugs and braces the sick man with the incoming choppy seas until he hears the small moan of discomfort.  Then he stops with a sigh.

'If he's not back in five minutes, I'll go and make sure he's alright,' Crystal says by way of an apology.  He adjusts something on the bottle of oxygen, fiddling with the tubes leading to the mask.  'I thought you said he wasn't as stubborn as me?'  He fastens the mask on his face before Roger can summon up enough energy to say otherwise.  Roger recalls how he had used those very words the night he left Crystal with the letter from the hospital and half an explanation as to why he could not stay and let him provide palliative care to someone he had only known for eighteen months.  Crystal had not let him leave without a fight. 

Roger swallows thickly, a lump in his throat.  The reminder of that night is just as painful as his physical injuries.  The strained look that passes over Crystal’s face tells him that it hurts him just as much.  He shouldn’t have to watch his lover deteriorate in front of his eyes, not when they had both been so happy just a few months ago.       

The mask is pulled off for a second time, taking strands of hair with it.  'I'm sorry,' Roger wheezes, watching as Crystal hurriedly picks up the stethoscope to check on his failing organs.  To his credit, Crystal does not ask why he is apologising.  He probably does not want to know. 

The boat lurches to one side, the bottle of oxygen almost tipping over before it is caught nimbly by Crystal's quick reflexes.  Roger lets his head loll forward, too tired to hold it up any longer.  He hears the thump of footsteps racing towards them, unable to open his eyes to investigate as he concentrates on breathing. 

‘What is it?’ Crystal’s snapped question has his undivided attention, despite his closed eyes.

‘She’s gone,’ Brian sounds distressed.  ‘The tank was wide open and there’s no sign of her.  Someone’s set her free.  They’re no longer connected.’  Roger thinks he could have told them that earlier, if he had been able to speak.    

‘Oh fuck,’ Crystal’s clipped response is not without emotion; it is the last sound Roger hears before he succumbs into blessed unconsciousness.      

Chapter Text

Crystal is lost.  Brian can see it in the way he falters, his hands forgetting what they must do with the diving mask.  Roger’s face is slack, pale, without animation.  Without life.  No smirk, cheeky grin or pout marring his soft lips.  Hooded lids closed over vibrant blue eyes that one could get lost in.  Brian knows; he has spent many a day lost in their depths and many a night longing to have them fixated on him, watching his every move.  He would drown in them for all eternity if he could.     

The boat lumbers on, the captain and crew oblivious to their grief; Or maybe not.  Brian has a nasty feeling that the entire episode has been closely monitored, and he wonders to what end.  Why would they be so cruel?  

'Should we...should we make him comfortable below deck?' Crystal asks, his fingers pressed firmly against the pulse point in Roger’s neck.  Even the simple question is filled with uncertainty as they both watch the uneven rise and fall of the blond's chest.  The lack of confidence from Crystal is jarring. 

'She wouldn't leave him,' Brian says, his voice quiet, yet firm.  ‘She wouldn’t.’  Although he does not understand how the connection works, he is certain that the creature would not leave Roger to die after so carefully ensuring his ongoing survival.  Their bond seemed firmly unbreakable. 

He moves to the rail, looking out at the choppy seas.  There is a storm drawing in, dark clouds rolling ever closer, contending with the sun behind.  The horizon dips behind the tall waves as they build threateningly.  The boat rocks forcefully, too small to confidently navigate the swell.       

'We need to make him comfortable,' Crystal insists, his voice weak.  He does not sound himself.  Brian ignores him, his eyes searching the vast ocean for a sign.  He hears the hiss of air as the ex-navy man continues with his crude oxygen therapy.  It is not enough.  Anger soon surfaces, as it often does between them when Roger is not around to mediate.  'Brian, he can't stay on this freezing deck.  His lips are already bloody blue,' Crystal snaps.  His lips are blue, but not because he is cold, Brian knows.  He is sure Crystal knows that too.     

Ignoring the problem won't make it go away, Brian thinks, the voice in his head sounding very much like the spirited blond's.  He sighs, squeezing the rail before scrubbing a hand over his face.  Pain pierces the bridge of his nose, a spot of blood dripping from it and disappearing in the sea spray below.  He watches it fall with morbid curiosity.  He cannot watch as his friend…his love dies, but he can hear the death rattle as the blond gasps his last few breaths.  He hums under his breath, unwilling to listen.  Like a child, he wishes he could stick his fingers in his ears and sing obnoxiously until the episode is over.  His vision swells with burning tears he refuses to let fall, not while he is with company.  He does not want to share his grief with Crystal, despite Roger's wishes.  Selfishly, he wants it all to himself.  He wishes it would consume him.  Leave him uncaring and indifferent.  Numb him.        

A familiar green hue catches the light on the surface of the water while he blearily watches the frothy water churn against the boat as it cuts through the water.  His heart leaps.  He gasps, blinking back the tears.  Hope, the cruellest mistress of all, is back with a sting in her tail.  'She hasn't gone,' he chokes, pointing at the dark mass below the water in the shadow of the boat. 'She's here!  She hasn’t left him, Crystal.' 

He turns and sees that Crystal is torn between wanting to see for himself and needing to stay by Roger’s side.  ‘Why hasn’t she come for him?’ he asks, his fingers still firmly on Roger’s neck, seeking out his pulse.  It is clear he struggles to keep his own grief under wraps as he cradles the blond in his arms.     

Brian swiftly turns back to face the water, the image of Roger’s lifeless face clouding his vision; Crystal’s question ringing in his ears.  Roger’s lips are blue.  His face is pale.  Why hasn’t she come for him?  ‘She doesn’t like the light,’ Brian whispers, thinking back to when the creature took him from the bank of the lake at the cabin. 

He turns back from the rail, the sun blinding him as it shines brightly above, refusing to submit to the storm brewing.  He lurches with the boat, grasping Crystal’s shoulder for balance when he reaches his side.  ‘We need to get him in the water.’

‘We’re not putting him in the bloody water,’ Crystal snaps, pushing him away, his free hand over the mask as it ineffectually blows compressed air in the dying man's face. 

‘Crystal-’ Brian has a thought, rash and impulsive.  Crystal will not like it.  Life’s too fucking short, as Roger would say.  As scared as Brian is, he knows he does not want to regret not acting on his intuition, not when he actually has time to act.  This is what Roger would do; stubborn and impulsive as he is...was.        

Crystal continues fiddling with the oxygen.  Brian wants to tell him his efforts are in vain as he watches him place his hand against Roger’s brow to tilt his head up so he can fasten the mask tighter over his face.  He doesn’t need air, the neuroscientist thinks.  God, he knows.  He just needs her.      

Brian swallows thickly before leaning surreptitiously into the bottle with the next lurching roll of the boat against the swell.  The steel container tips and slides, pulling the tubes from the mask.  Crystal launches himself after it, catching it before it can topple overboard, trusting Brian to catch the ailing blond.  He does, of course.  He always will.      

Brian grapples with Roger, hearing a wet wheeze as he drags him towards the edge of the boat.  'I'm sorry, Rog,' he says, hoping Roger is still able to hear him.  

'Stop!' Crystal shouts, scrambling to his feet.  He drags the bottle of oxygen, stumbling, unable to let it go as the boat thumps into choppy waves. 

'He needs to go to her,' Brian says, raising his voice to contend with the hum of the engines as he hurriedly drapes Roger over the low rail.  Sea spray soaks his shirt.  'You need to trust me,' he adds, hurrying when Crystal drags the tank closer. 

Crystal pauses when it becomes clear that he will not make it back in time to stop the tall man.  ‘Please don’t,’ he urges, anguish clouding his expression.   

The blond is dead-weight, heavy and too loose-limbed.  Brian knows he does not have long before Crystal comes to his senses, drops the tank, and stops him physically.  He could be easily overpowered.  A moment of inaction could be the difference between saving or dooming the sick man in his arms.  For once, without fear of repercussions, he acts.     

He hears Crystal curse as he pushes Roger overboard with a grunt of effort, hanging over the rail to watch as his limp body hits the water.  Roger gives no indication that he is aware of what is happening.  Dizzy from watching the rushing water, Brian desperately seeks out the green hue and a sign that he has not just condemned his oldest friend to a watery death.  He spies her large shadow beneath the water.  She thankfully collects Roger, enveloping his body as she glides effortlessly through the waves.  Brian's legs give way in relief as Crystal joins him at the rail. 

The ex-navy man groans, dropping to his knees.  Brian grasps his shoulder, points to the dark mass that is leading the boat in the shadows.  In the dizzying wake, the distinct white shirt is clearly visible.  'She has him,' he says, using all of his effort to sound reassuring when his heart is pounding beneath his ribcage.    

‘I ought to throw you in too,’ Crystal says weakly.  He presses his head against his knuckles with a growl of frustration.  ‘I almost got him killed, if he’s not dead already.’  

Brian glances away from the water.  ‘You released her,’ he says, knowing it to be true by how distressed the other man is.  He has never seen Crystal so flapped before.  It is unnerving.        

Crystal swallows thickly.  ‘He was healed,’ he says, shaking his head with a grimace.  ‘I thought if I broke the connection…’ 

‘I don’t think it works like that,’ Brian says, squeezing Crystal’s shoulder.  ‘But I would’ve done the same, if I thought it would save him.’ 

Crystal chokes out a frustrated laugh.  ‘He’s the one that suggested breaking the link with her at the right time…I honestly thought that was it.  It almost felt right…’

‘We’ll know the right time when it arrives.  When we find more of them, then maybe they can heal him permanently and then we can break the link,’ Brian suggests, only half-believing it himself.  Too many ifs, buts and maybes, false promises, and misplaced optimism.  It is the hope that is dashed each time Roger has a relapse that cuts the deepest. 

He spies cliffs in the distance before the boat’s engines cut out, leaving the deck in silence as they sail gradually to a halt.  The creature does not stop, gliding away at a breakneck pace with her valuable cargo.  Brian prays that she can revive Roger.  He desperately hopes he is not too far gone.  He wonders if it is selfish to admit that he is not ready for his oldest friend to leave, so he would rather see him constantly resuscitated.  He tries not to think too hard about what Roger must be going through each time he accepts that the end has finally come, only to find himself revived to relive an agonising death all over again.  To die over and over again.  Brian shudders as he pushes the thoughts away.            

It is not long before they are joined on the deck by the trio donned in their scuba gear.  Freddie throws a wetsuit and long fins at Crystal’s feet where they land with a slap on the deck.  ‘I hear you’re an expert in the water.  I’m sure your particular skills will come in handy over the next hour or so,’ he says, the bag of explosives hung casually over his shoulder.  ‘I’m sure you can put those to good use.  An extra pair of hands will be useful.’ 

‘I’m going too,’ Brian says, measuring up to the enigmatic man.  ‘We need to find Roger, as I’m sure you’re already aware.’    

Freddie grins imperceptibly beneath his moustache, a sure sign that nothing over the last half an hour has gone unnoticed.  No doubt their CCTV extends to the deck of the boat too.  ‘I don’t believe we have anything in your size, dear,’ he says, smiling toothily when it becomes clear that the tall man is not going to back down.  ‘But I’m certain we can find something that will fit, if you absolutely insist.’ 

Chapter Text

Brian is thankful that Crystal is an expert diver and has been prudent enough to tie a line between them.  The furthest the neuroscientist has ever swum is a couple of hundred yards off Brighton promenade, chasing Roger after one too many gin and tonics.  Or was it vodkas and soda?  Oh, yes.  Vodka, soda, and a wedge of lime that Roger nicked before squeezing out the juice and plopping it back into the other man’s glass with a toothy grin.  Brian falters, his legs cramping in the cold water.  Crystal senses his difficulty and slows his pace. 

Freddie and Dominique have veered off to the left, instructing Brian and Crystal to head for a cave beneath the cliffs somewhere to the south of where John dropped them from the boat.  Brian hopes Crystal knows where they are heading; to Brian it feels as though they are directionless, heading into the dark abyss. The tug of each wave above their heads feels like it takes them off course.  Brian wouldn’t be surprised to surface right now and find they have made no progress from where the cautious captain dopped them off. 

They have been diving beneath the stormy seas for what feels like an age, but it cannot be much longer than half an hour.  Brian groans, gripping the mouthpiece supplying him air tighter between his teeth.  The borrowed wetsuit is too short in both body and leg for the tall man; it constricts in all the wrong places as he propels himself through the silty water with the long fins constricting his toes.  His nose aches terribly, the pressure playing havoc with his sinuses. 

The noisy air in the mask is too reminiscent of Roger’s laboured breathing.  Brian sucks in too deeply and struggles to regain his breathing pattern.  He falters again in the blackness, unintentionally tugging on the line that bind him to his fellow diver.  Light shines in his eyes.  Crystal has switched his torch on and has stopped swimming, now facing the faltering man.  Brian feels his shoulders being firmly squeezed, hard then softer.  Then again; hard then soft.  Whatever pattern the other man is trying to use to communicate is useless to his novice fellow diver who is way out of his depth.  Brian furiously shakes his head, his lungs burning.  

Crystal takes the hint, moving one hand to press against Brian’s chest.  He keeps it there.  Brian uses the firm pressure to ground himself, figuratively speaking, breathing in and out using Crystal’s guidance.  They float languorously, rising with each passing surge high above in the storm until Brian can breathe easily again.  Thankful, he squeezes Crystal’s hand, appreciating his help more than the other man will ever know.  He is a good man; anyone else might have left Brian behind.   

They reach the cliffs, the cadence of the water drawing them in so quickly, Brian worries they will be dashed against the rock and surely killed.  Crystal pulls him lower in the water, using his torch to get them both through a tight opening in the base of the dark cliff.  Brian holds his breath in fear. 

They emerge in a cave, water churning at their feet as they climb what appears to be loose blood-red sandstone.  Crystal pulls off his mask, isolating his oxygen supply.  He removes the cumbersome fins and stretches out his bare feet, motioning for Brian to do the same.  He then helps Brian with his gear, storing it safely to one side so that they may retrieve it upon leaving.  His movements echo noisily in the cavern. 

Brian sits on his haunches, sucking in warm air with his head in his hands.  The muscles in his legs quiver from such sustained and unfamiliar use.  His toes cramp with the cold.  He is beyond exhausted, and they still have the return leg to swim. 

‘Are you still with me?’ Crystal asks, his hand heavy on the back of Brian’s head. 

Brian nods wearily.  ‘Thank you,’ he says, feeling the squeeze he gets in return.  He knows he need not elaborate.  Crystal knows what he did and how much it helped.       

‘Freddie says the lab is a few hundred yards that way.  They’re going to flush the creatures out this way before blowing the lab.’ 

Brian starts.  He has briefly studied the map of the area.  The direction Crystal is pointing to cannot be right.  ‘Impossible.  We’ll be back in the water.’ 

‘Not if we go down, we won’t,’ Crystal says, pulling Brian to his feet with a grunt of effort.  He swallows, looking to the water with uncertainty on his face, no doubt thinking of Roger.  He shifts the bag of explosives on his shoulder.  ‘I hope she’s looking after him,’ he says quietly.    

‘I imagine she’s doing a better job than we did,’ Brian says self-deprecatingly, pleased to see the ghost of a smirk flash on the other man’s lips.  It is a welcome reprieve from the anger.  ‘John said he knew where she would take him.  He seemed certain he could get them back aboard before we return.’      

Crystal glances at his watch with a sigh.  ‘We’d better hurry or they’ll set off their charges and bury us alive.’ 

The thought of getting caught in the blast jolts Brian into action.  He stumbles, following Crystal as he squeezes into tight fissures in the eroded cliffs.  His wetsuit snags on sharp protrusions, crumbling them away as he clumsily pushes his way through.  Red dust floats in the shaft of light from Crystal’s torch.  A red haze they must pass through as they descend deeper.  The air is thin.  The deeper they go, the more they need to rely on the thin beam of light to find their way.    

Crystal pauses, puts his hand out to stop Brian.  ‘Do you feel that?’ he asks, his voice husky from disuse and agitation from the dust. 

Brian frowns.  ‘I don’t feel anything,’ he admits. 

Crystal tsks, glancing back.  ‘You know that only goes to prove your theory was partly correct,’ he says, motioning to his nose. 

Brian puts his hand to his sore nose, crusted up with dried blood.  Blocked solid.  ‘What do you feel?’ he whispers, following closely when Crystal forges ahead. 

‘Let’s just say I don’t feel like punching you,’ Crystal replies weakly.  He stops and braces himself on a shelf of sandy rock, groaning under his breath.  ‘Wait...just wait a minute.’

Brian reaches out, snatching his hand away when Crystal flinches with a disquieting moan.  He waits uncomplainingly for the other man to pull himself together, aware that they cannot delay for too long.  ‘We need to hurry,’ Brian urges.  He checks his watch, finds it is filled with water and inoperable.  A further reminder that he is entirely dependent on Crystal.  If the other man falls ill, Brian is certain he will be unable to set the explosives and find his way back to the boat.  He may not even make it out of the caves in one piece.        

'Okay, okay,'  Crystal growls under his breath.  He gets his feet moving, the back of his hand pressed firmly against his nose as he does. 

Brian follows at a distance.  Without access to the visibility provided by Crystal’s torch, the passage of rock feels even more claustrophobic.  Sweat pools against the thick neoprene of the wetsuit where it chafes uncomfortably; he tugs at the collar, releasing a waft of hot air into his face.  He bumps his head on a low-lying outcrop of rock, cursing as blinding pain forces him to close his eyes.  When he reopens them, Crystal and his guiding light are gone. 

‘Crystal!’ Brian hisses, rubbing his head.  Fear that he has been abandoned is surely unfounded but that doesn’t mean he won’t panic.  Forcing himself to be silent, Brian listens carefully and hears rocks falling above.  A commotion out of place in the silent catacombs beneath the fort on the cliff.  He cranes his neck and spies the light as Crystal scrambles down from the high ledge.  The ex-navy man stumbles where he lands, grasping hold of Brian’s arm and pulling him into a narrow fissure in the soft rock. 

‘I’ve set the first site up, but they’re coming out faster than I expected,’ Crystal whispers, pressing close to Brian as they huddle in the tight space.  ‘We must be ready to blow this shaft once they’re clear.  Hopefully the other two can cover their tracks without getting caught up with the navy.’  The bag of explosives digs painfully between them until Crystal repositions it.  The noise is getting nearer.  They wait in silence, knowing how jittery the creatures can be.        

If Brian thought he was struggling with the heat, Crystal is failing completely; the sweat wicking on his neck and brow glisten in the light.  ‘Your head is bleeding,’ Brian says, noticing the alarming tinge of red in Crystals hair as he looks down to snap off the torch.  ‘How did Roger stop it bleeding on the boat?’  

Crystal sighs shakily.  ‘I can’t explain it, but it had something to do with that creature’s power,’ he says, sucking in a breath as he has a thought.  ‘If it’s no longer healed, do you think that means…?’

‘No!’ Brian snaps, lowering his voice.  ‘He’s alright.  It heals the initial wound, but it’s just not permanent enough…’  Another reversion to prove that the creature’s power is just a temporary illusion that fades over time.  He brushes his hand over his nose, knowing that Roger’s careful resetting of the bone was a permanent solution.      

Crystal is silent.  Brian can feel his breath tickling the hair on his cheek as they wait.  Something rumbles below them, humming in the stale air around them while loose sand falls from above.  Brian holds his breath, reaching out to brace himself when the noise gets closer and pain once again assaults his sinuses.  His hand meets flesh, his fingers sparking as though touching a wire live with electricity as he feels the bare skin of Crystal’s fingers thrumming with power.    

Crystal makes an obscene noise in the back of his throat, leaning against Brian with enough force to knock them both off their feet.  Face to face they lay, Crystal on top, his face mere inches away.  In the murky green haze, as the first of the creatures glide past their hiding place, Brian watches the stimulation flushing Crystal’s features, smoothing out his pinched scowl.  He looks much younger, despite the receding hairline.    

Not for the first time, Brian wonders what Roger sees in the often ill-tempered nurse.  Not a nurse, Brian reminds himself.  There is more to Crystal than meets the eye.  Roger would relish in the challenge of winning over someone he felt was unattainable, especially someone as introverted as the ex-navy man.  He feels Crystal’s breath cooling the sweat on his own face as he pants with arousal.  Brian cannot help but touch his fingers to the possessed man’s lips, wondering exactly how they fit with Roger’s, relishing the way they seem to thrum under his fingertips.  The gruff man squirms atop of him, his eyes rolling as his breathing deepens, caught under the miasma from the creatures as they escape.  His knee comes to rest between Brian’s spread legs, his crotch grinding lightly against the taller man’s thigh.  The green hue pulses rhythmically in time with his thrusts, bathing them both in bright light.      

Brian’s fingers rake through the stubble on the curve of his jaw, brushing against his throat.  He hopes that if Crystal is aware of his curious ministrations, that he will simply put it down to the influence of the creatures.  Brian’s slender fingers map his rival’s features to store away for future wonderings the next time he wants to wallow in the fact that he let Roger slip out of his grasp through inattentiveness and fear of repercussions from his peers. 

Brian’s touch is gentle as he watches the other man.  It is not Crystal’s fault he took the initiative and gained the life Brian threw away too many years ago.  It is not fair to continually blame his own shortcomings on someone else.    

Crystal grinds against him harder and curses under his breath, his teeth gritted as he presses his forehead into Brian’s chest with a breathless moan.  His constrained erection presses against the flesh of Brian’s groin as he writhes higher, urgency in his movements.   

Brian hesitantly rubs Crystal’s back, feeling the tremors through the neoprene wetsuit.  He cranes his neck to watch as the last few creatures drift away, leaving the men in darkness.  He feels Crystal release with a drawn-out shudder, gutturally growling low in his throat as the green light fades along with the noise.  He finally goes lax.  Brian roughly jostles him, afraid that he has passed out.  They cannot afford to waste time.  ‘They’re free,’ Brian says, huskily, hoping his own erection goes unnoticed in the dying light.    

Crystal chokes out a weak laugh, slowly separating himself from the tall man with an apology.  ‘I hope Freddie does not want this wetsuit returned,’ he says, his voice low but the amusement clear rather than any embarrassment.  Brian is grateful he chooses to laugh about the moment they just shared.  He is not so sure he could survive the mortification if the roles were reversed.  Maybe Crystal really is the better man, he thinks; someone who accepts who he is, knows what he wants, and is not afraid to take it...or show his feelings.  His concerned voice cuts through Brian’s introspection when he does not get a response.  ‘Are you alright?  Did I hurt you?’

‘I’m fine,’ Brian breathes, accepting Crystal’s help to stand.  He feels the warmth in Crystal’s grip, sees it in his face when the torch is snapped back on.  The shorter man grimaces, blushing self-consciously as he adjusts the crotch of his borrowed wetsuit; he chuckles helplessly as he catches Brian watching him and the neuroscientist finally sees the man behind the mask.  He has an attractive smile.  Kind eyes.    

‘Fuck,’ Crystal says sharply, glancing at his watch.  ‘Better get a shift on if we want to be clear before the blast.’  He sets down the bag, pulling out the last of the explosives. 

Brian watches with morbid fascination as he sets them up with expert fingers.  ‘You weren’t just a medical officer in the navy, were you?’ he asks.  Crystal chuckles as he motions for Brian to follow.  He does not answer the question, which tells Brian everything he needs to know as he races to catch him.  There is certainly more to Crystal than meets the eye, Roger was right about that.  ‘You do have medical training though, don’t you?’      

‘Enough for Rog to employ me when no one else would,’ Crystal replies, moving swiftly through the narrow crevices still awash with the remnants of the green hue.  ‘I was discharged from the navy after they caught me in a compromising position with a fellow officer.  I didn’t think I’d get work again, not after they refused to give me a reference.  Rog fought for me when others wouldn’t.’ 

‘Roger would’ve enjoyed arguing with his partners to get you on his books.  He’s always been unconventional,’ Brian says, nearly losing his footing on the loose material as he climbs the sandy path.   He gasps as cold water runs over his feet.  The caves are flooding.  ‘The diving gear!’ he exclaims. 

‘The storm,’ Crystal says, pulling himself over an unstable shelf of crumbling sandstone, water running over their ankles.  ‘We’re nearly there.  We’ll make it.’   He stops short, stumbling when Brian barrels into him.  Water surges in the cave, putrid reddish-brown foam clinging to every visible surface.  Each surge seems to suck the air out of the cave before blowing more foamy water in.  

Brian is relieved to see the diving gear on a high shelf but he does not like the look of the churning water.  The visibility was poor on the way in, it will be much worse on the return leg.  How will they see to get to the boat?  How will they get out without being smashed against the walls of the tunnel?  Brian is frozen with fear and too many questions running through his head.  Crystal wades into the waist deep water to fetch their tanks and fins, bringing them back over when Brian does not follow.

The neuroscientist shivers as Crystal helps him with the tank, strapping it firmly over his shoulders.  He tethers a line between them again, making sure Brian sees him securing it.  Brian shakes his head, ‘I don’t know if I can do this,’ he admits, his hands shaking too much to get his mask on. 

Crystal sorts out his air, pulls the mask over his head and swiftly guides him into the roiling water.  ‘Just swim.  I’ll get us out,’ he says confidently, securing the mask in place once Brian takes the mouthpiece between his teeth.  'I'll get us out,' he repeats before pulling his own mask on.  

Brian believes him, but his trust wavers when he feels the first explosions detonate below them, the sandstone falling in great lumps all around as the cave collapses.  Crystal grips his shoulder tightly.  Together, they dive.   

Chapter Text

Roger gags, throwing up saltwater as he is dragged from the churning sea and back onto the boat.  He chokes out a maniacal laugh as he flounders on the deck, soaked to his skin.  Catch of the day!  He is sure he would go down nicely with dill sauce and a nice bottle of Pinot Noir.  Spreadeagled on the cold steel deck, still giggling breathlessly, he fleetingly worries that he is now losing the last grip of his sanity.  It was bound to happen sooner or later.  Something had to give. 

Strong hands pull him away from the edge.  He glances up, his eyes streaming, expecting to find Brian or Crystal; it is neither.  The man is a stranger.  Rain blinds him in the gloomy daylight.  ‘Who are you?’ he croaks, struggling to be heard over the noise of the storm.  He does not get a response from the other man who has a peaked cap pulled low over his eyes to protect them from the thundering rain and errant sea spray.    

The chap is strong.  He easily drags Roger into a cramped wheelhouse, pulling him to his feet so that he can perch on a raised seat in front of the controls.  Rain drips from the wax cape he has wrapped around his shoulders.  He thrusts a towel at Roger.  

‘I suppose I should be glad that Freddie’s experiment is paying off.  I’ve just used half of our fuel chasing after you and that damned creature,’ he says, checking their course on a dark monitor.  ‘You’re lucky I could track the two of you in this bloody storm.’  Visibility outside of the glass wheelhouse is dire.  A thick grey mist of rain and spray.  Roger flinches as a particularly strong deluge of water batters against the thin windows, the lights in the cramped room flickering.  ‘I’m John, by the way.  We didn’t get to formally meet when you boarded.’   

Roger rubs at his eyes, awash with dizziness.  ‘How long was I under?’ he asks, knowing whatever the answer is, it was too long.  He feels as though his mind has not yet surfaced along with his body.  It swills in the deep.             

‘It had you for over an hour and a half,’ John replies, taking a swig from a flask before sharing it.

Roger gratefully swallows the warm tea, his mind drifting.  Ninety minutes in a watery tomb.  Not breathing.  Not drowning.  Lost at sea.  Caught somewhere between life and death, floating in the abyss with her alone for guidance.  He only remembers snippets from being adrift.  The warmth in his belly.  The cold in his blood.  The sensation of soaring through the water and floating in suspended animation all at once.  The dreaded feeling of being dropped from a great height before he was rescued by her.  Brian threw him overboard to stop him drowning.  The implausible apposition threatens to set him off in a fit of giggles again.  He breathes through his nose until the delirium passes.                 

‘Crystal and Brian, where are they?’ he asks, wiping his face with the threadbare towel.  The material smells musty and vaguely of diesel.  His blood runs cold, a chill making him shudder.  He blinks sluggishly, finds himself back under the murky water, a bottomless ocean beneath him, raging waves dancing above.  He opens his mouth and finds it fills with gritty water.  He swallows it down and holds his breath, feeling a series of quakes disturbing the already violent sea.  Two divers emerge from the depths beneath the cliffs in the distance, struggling against the powerful swell. 

Roger comes back to himself with a start, tumbling from the stool and knocking into John as he sucks in air.  He flinches as the other man braces him.  ‘They’re in the water!’ he gasps, certain that what he just experienced was not a trick of his mind.  He saw them.  He actually saw them through her eyes.  His heart thuds faster beneath his ribs.  He can still feel her in his head.         

‘They’re on their way back,’ John says, one hand on the wheel as he follows the light spots on the screen.  His other hand fists in the sodden material of Roger’s shirt, keeping him on his feet as the boat rocks.  He glances at him, troubled.  ‘Although, they’ve drifted off course.’

‘They can’t see where they’re going,’ Roger whispers, pressing his hand against the condensation on the rattling window.  He cautiously allows his eyes to slip closed again, bracing himself as he feels the pressure of the water envelope his entire body.  The green hue flickers in his vision.  He remembers not to breathe this time as he floats, linking with his numinous mistress.  They are as one.  She breathes where he cannot.  He sees what she does not.  The water churns beneath the cliff, a blooming cloud of rock shooting from the small opening the divers appeared from.  He feels the indecision as the creature waits for his instruction.  She is scared.  Find them.  Help them. 

She obeys.  The silty water parts as she swims rapidly, her hue lighting up the seabed as she glides effortlessly towards the lost divers, gaining their attention.  A portion of overhanging cliff thumps into the water behind the two, the shockwave kicking up more sediment.  Blinding.  Grey.  Oblivion.  The creature falters, growling in fear of the sudden nothingness before pushing on at a quicker pace in a direction Roger shows her.  Her tendrils float and tie the divers to her.  She turns, unyielding in her vital task of getting them back to the safety of the boat.  Her strength and speed are a wonder, as is her indissoluble bond.  It thrums between man and creature until Roger breaks the connection, spying the keel of the boat from beneath the water.  His lungs heave as though he has held his breath throughout the rescue.  He flinches away from John’s grip as his vision swims.      

He stumbles from the wheelhouse, hearing the door clatter and John’s concerned yell above the noise of the roiling storm.  Light explodes in the cliff in the distance, the loud boom following a few seconds later.  Roger staggers to the rail, gripping it tightly when a wash of bitterly cold seawater threatens to take his legs out.  He spies the luminous water at the rear of the rolling boat and slides towards it, swiping a hand over his face to clear his eyes of rainwater.  Tears too.  Wind buffets him as he leans over to assist the first diver, his reach impaired by the pin in his collarbone.  There is no pain, but that will come later.  It always does. 

The boat yaws dangerously in the swell, twisting on the surface.  Roger cannot reach when the first diver’s hand is snatched away by a large wave.  He cries out in frustration, losing sight of them.  He is relieved when John joins him on the deck, throwing a line to the men as they scramble to get out of the choppy water.  If they do not hurry, they will surely be struck by the wayward boat as it is tossed about amongst the surge of the relentless ocean. 

Through Roger’s distress, the creature senses their difficulty; it lifts the men simultaneously, recoiling back into the murky water with a screech as they flop onto the deck.  She does not like the light, but she would do anything for the man bonded to her.    

The divers hurriedly kick off their fins; the ocean takes them almost immediately.  A reminder of just how quickly they too can be snatched away by the powerful swell if they are not careful.  ‘Get into the top cabin,’ John shouts, shielding his eyes from the rain.  ‘We need to pick up the other two before this storm gets worse.’   

Roger clings to the line joining the divers, following as they stumble to a cabin at the rear of the vessel.  He seals the door shut behind them, turning in time to see Brian’s legs give way.  The boat rolls dangerously, loose items in the cabin sliding noisily at each change in direction.  Crystal drops to his knees to remove the tank from his fellow diver, glancing up at Roger with bright eyes.  ‘It’s okay,’ he says, a tight smile on his face as he manhandles the unconscious neuroscientist out of his heavy gear.  ‘He’s just exhausted.  That was rough going.’ 

Roger stumbles over to help, finding himself pulled to his knees and into a tight hug by his partner.  He sighs into Crystal’s neck, feeling the fresh water from the wetsuit seep into his already saturated clothes as they sway with the movement of the sea.  A flash of sight from the creature below shows him that the boat is still struggling to make any headway.  He swallows thickly, bringing himself back.  ‘You’d best keep the suits on,’ he suggests, his voice low.  ‘I have a feeling you’ll need them when we capsize.’ 

Crystal fusses doggedly, gently pulling away so he can tenderly kiss his lover on the lips.  ‘We’re alright,’ he says, his hands warm on Roger’s cheeks.  ‘This is the worst of it; the storm is heading south.  I’d rather not keep this suit on for longer than I have to, thanks to those bloody creatures.’

Roger gasps, his eyes wide.  ‘You found them? How many were there?  Where did they go?’

‘I wasn’t in a position to keep track,’ Crystal admits, turning serious.  ‘I hope someone did.  Can you help me lift him onto one of the cots?’

Roger nods.  He is feeling strong, for the moment.  In no pain.  In no pain.  In no pain.  A mantra repeating constantly in his head to stave away the dread of the agony returning.  It is working now.  It will not work forever.  How long does he have before it returns?  How many times can she save him?  When will he have to say goodbye for the last time?  Who will take the blame if he does not live?  He looks down on the bruised face of his oldest friend and balks, frozen to the spot he kneels on, holding his breath.    

Crystal must see the fear plainly on his face because he does not wait at all for Roger to help.  He drags Brian carefully himself, adjusting his footing as the boat rolls.  Securing him on the canvas with a thick blanket, Crystal presses his hand against the damp neoprene covering Brian’s chest; it moves rapidly with each breath, like a startled bird.  Roger watches, his intrusive thoughts drifting away as he witnesses the gentle touch. 

‘His theory holds some weight, you know,’ Crystal says quietly, keeping his hand in place.  Roger’s interest is piqued.  He wonders what he has missed over the last two hours.  Crystal continues, unaware that he has just saved his lover from drowning in his own dark thoughts.  ‘The pheromones from that bioluminescent liquid definitely hold some power.  If we could work out how to use them without the creature…’

Roger crawls over, avoiding discarded crates and loose stationary as he does.  ‘I think it’s the seawater,’ he says huskily, sitting on the bunk and pressing his hand against the back of Crystal’s head, targeting the bleeding headwound.  Disappointment clouds his features when he cannot heal it.  He did not really expect it to work, but he hoped it might.  Crystal is watching him closely, clinging onto both men so that they are not thrown about by the rough seas.  The ex-navy man looks anxious. 

Roger swallows, hoping his own theory holds weight.  He wishes Brian were awake to challenge the shaky concept, debate it until all of the niggling doubts are quelled.  Arguing until it works; they are good at that.  He continues, shakily.  ‘The lake back at the cabin was filled with saltwater, probably from way back when Beach originally constructed it.  Over the years, with the rain and floods, it’s become diluted.  It’s stronger here, Crys.  It’s fresh.  Our bond is different in these waters.  I’m sure if we compared notes from when she previously healed me, to more recently…I feel stronger.  It lasts longer.’  But not permanently.  Never permanently, remember?  Roger closes his eyes as the doubts return.  He feels Crystal’s hands on his face, wiping away tears he didn’t know were falling.  He pushes past the lump in his throat.  Hopeless hope winning out against the doubt.  ‘If the tumour in my lung can be removed quickly, before it grows back, and before it metastases to my brain…’ 

‘The cancer would be gone,’ Crystal finishes for him, his own voice steady, his grip firm as he embraces the sick man.  ‘You’d live.'  

Chapter Text

‘You’d never find a surgeon willing to operate, Rog,’ Brian says weakly, accepting another swig of sweetened tea from the blond.  It is lukewarm, but he won't complain.  He braces himself against the edge of the cot as the boat rolls.  Roger is perched on the other end of the cot, their legs intertwined as they wait for news on the other divers.  Crystal is fiddling with the monitor, trying to find a channel which shows the exterior of the boat.  ‘Any surgeon would take one look at your medical file and refuse to operate.  One already did.’ 

‘What if I used someone else’s name and medical history?’ Roger asks.

'That's illegal!' Brian splutters, appalled at the idea.  ‘And what happens when your current consultant looks you up a year, two years from now and finds you’re still very much alive after refusing all treatment?  Do you suppose they might wonder how you’ve survived the terminal illness they diagnosed you with, or were you planning on forging your own death certificate too?  Even if you could find other records; how do you expect to find someone with your exact blood type, scars and build?  Same age, even, and with a tumour in the exact same place as your own?’  A brief image of the internal light display the creature gave them of Roger's damaged lungs flashes in Brian's mind.    

'Maybe we could make a whole new identity; someone who exists, only on paper.'  The flash of a grin mars Roger’s lips.  If Brian didn’t know any better, he would think the younger man is actually enjoying the argument.  The gleam of desperation in his oldest friend’s eye tells him he is serious.  ‘Maybe we don’t have to use a legitimate surgeon…’ Roger says, biting his thumbnail.  ‘You hear all the time of those back-alley butchers who trade organs for money.’ 

Brian groans and puts his head in his hands.  ‘No,’ he simply says. 

‘I have money,’ Roger says, persevering.  ‘That ought to be able to buy me a better class of butcher.’ 

‘Please tell me you’re not being serious?’ Brian snaps, pulling his hands away to find the blond smirking.  'Even you're not that reckless.' 

Roger sighs, growing serious.  The lines on his brow pinch as he thinks, his foot tapping against Brian's thigh.  ‘We could stop off in Spain on the way home. I could drop by a clinic under the pretence that I’m feeling unwell?  The symptoms will be easy enough to describe...’  He grimaces at the thought, his foot stilling. 

Brian leans over to meet his eye.  ‘And what happens when you do become unwell after you’ve been admitted?  Do you suppose they will allow your creature in during visiting hours to come and revive you?  I hardly think Crystal and I will be able to sneak her in without someone noticing.  If there is a delay to your surgery, the tumour will grow and spread.  It would raise serious questions about the treatment.  It would progress far too quickly.  You would not survive.’

Roger clicks his tongue against his teeth at Brian's tone, looking away.  ‘Maybe if we find a hospital near to water…’  He trails off with a huff when he glances back and catches Brian’s sharp look.           

‘Rog, you don’t have a passport with you, or any form of I.D to gain you access to legitimate healthcare outside of Britain.  The chances of finding a Thoracic specialist at this short notice…one that we can trust not to call for an investigation when you mysteriously disappear following the operation.’  Brian sighs, seeing the younger man’s face fall.  He does not enjoy playing devils advocate when the stakes are so high.  ‘It's not that your theory isn't good, Rog.  It’s just the execution of it that I worry about.  If we spend some time thinking it over, I’m sure we’ll find a solution.’ 

Roger hums quietly, shaking Brian's neoprene covered shin with his hand.  ‘Maybe you and Crystal should do it.  I’d do it myself if I could.  I studied for two years with that awful pulmonary surgeon before I switched specialities.  You managed three years post graduate with that scatty old brain surgeon before you bailed out into research.’  He rubs at his ribs, deep in thought.  ‘We have enough x-rays and scans to see exactly where it is…I can tell you what to do.  You're good at following instructions.’    

‘I’m not a surgeon, Rog,’ Brian says quietly, leaning forward and reaching out to his old friend, snagging his knee before it is pulled from his grasp.  ‘I truly wish I was, but I'm only a scientist.’ 

‘Only a scientist.’  Roger laughs too lightly, anguish in his eyes as he escapes Brian's outstretched hand, untangles their legs and stands.  ‘I shouldn’t really expect you to do it.  Just thinking out loud, that’s all,’ he admits, clinging to a polished rail to stay on his feet.  Unsteadiness that could easily be attributed to the motion of the boat, if Brian didn’t know better.  Roger falls silent, breathing against the palm spread over his side as the rocking of the boat slowly subsides.  The storm outside must finally be clearing; the one within is only getting started.   

‘What could I do that a specialist couldn’t?’ Brian asks.       

Roger presses his head against the porthole window, apparently fed up with the dispute.  Brian does not normally win so easily.  He watches as Roger sighs, fogging up the glass. 

‘I only saw that one specialist in London,’ the sick man says.  He glances briefly at Crystal who has remained silent throughout the heated debate, intently flicking through the channels on the closed-circuit cameras.  ‘There are plenty of others I can go to for the surgery.  The way I see it, I just need to get fresh scans for a new consultant to look at.  The specialist I saw a few months ago was adamant that it would've been easy to operate if it had been caught earlier.  It's just the lower left lobe.  A quick thoracotomy...’  He digs his fingers into the flesh between his ribs and winces.  ‘Once they see that it’s operable, they’d remove it.  I’d need her close by for the pre-op and op…maybe post-op too, in case there are any complications…’ 

‘Why the sudden urgency?’ Brian asks.  ‘You have your creature.’  He wonders when he started to think of the creature as something that belonged to Roger.    

‘She’s terribly lonely,’ Roger says.  ‘She doesn’t know where the others went, but I don’t think she’d stay if she did…she’s looking for them.  It won’t be long before she finds them.’   

Brian feels the blood rush from his face.  He looks to Crystal who is just as stunned.  ‘I thought you were bonded to each other.  Would she leave you?’ he asks.     

Roger nods tiredly.  Brian does not ask him how he knows, not when it’s clear that he does.  ‘She thinks I am hers now, but she really belongs to them,’ Roger says, sounding weary.  'She'll remember once she sees them.  She'll leave me.'      

‘Well, you belong to us,’ Crystal says firmly, the first time he has spoken up since they began their debate.  He guides the blond to the bench to sit with him.  ‘I know someone who can get you those scans,’ he adds, his hand brushing against the short patch of blond hair.  ‘Someone who owes me a favour.  If we could swing by Plymouth, I can get you an appointment with a radiologist.  A good one; one we can trust.’ 

'That would be helpful,' Roger says, leaning into the touch.  He clumsily grasps Crystal's arm to check his watch, looking troubled.  Brian watches him, knowing Roger has probably left more unsaid for the sake of them both.  Despite his orders for Brian to share his burdens, the younger man appears to shoulder his worry alone.  ‘It will have to be when it’s dark, if we make it back in time.  She doesn’t like the light, so our connection is weaker then.’            

The ex-navy man wraps an arm around his waist, obviously coming to a similar conclusion.  'I could get you an appointment at midnight, if you needed.'  

'It must be a big favour you're owed,' Roger says quietly, rubbing at his head.  'One of your navy pals?'   

Crystal ignores him, looking instead at Brian.  'You had a theory back in the cabin,' he says, snatching up a pack of cigarettes he has been watching slide back and forth across the smooth table.  He tears at the label with his thumb.  'You said more of those creatures would help with your theory.'  

'The pheromones don't do what I thought they did,' Brian admits, feeling his face flush at the reminder of the group of creatures they encountered in the caves.  'I hoped they were what instigated the healing...but I don't think that's it.  They're certainly powerful, there's no denying that.'  

'The pheromones take away the pain,' Roger adds reflectively, prying the box from Crystal’s grip.  'But she does the healing herself, with her fingers.'  

'She doesn't heal the cancer,' Crystal reminds him.  

'Even she has her limitations,' the blond easily replies, flattening the cigarette box with his fist.  The lights flicker off, the engines of the boat falling silent. 

‘Wait here,’ Crystal orders, extracting himself from the bench.  The cabin fills with cold air as he pulls the door open.  Roger scrambles to the porthole to watch.  Brian joins him, his legs weak, muscles quivering as he stumbles over.  The wetsuit creaks as he moves, his bare feet padding on the steel floor.    

The storm flashes in the distance, thunder no longer heard following the sheets of lightning that can still be seen.  Brian squints to see through the darkness, spying a thin beam of light from Crystal’s torch as he passes their vantage point.  ‘Do you suppose there’s something wrong with the boat?’ he whispers, getting no reply from his companion.  ‘Rog?’  

The generator jumps back into life, the lights flickering.  Brian turns to Roger, gasping his name in shock.  The blond is catatonic where he stands, the whites of his eyes showing where blue ought to be; his mouth loosely open, jaw slack.  He does not react when Brian gives his shoulders a firm shake, other than swaying on his feet.  He is practically rigid in his stance, his limbs frozen in place.  He is not breathing, Brian realises, the too still chest glaringly obvious despite the pulsing light. 

‘Rog, please,’ he urges, feeling desperately for a pulse.  He finds one, impossibly thumping strongly within his neck.  The younger man flinches violently and gasps for air, reaching out for a helping hand as his legs threaten to buckle.  ‘It’s okay, I’ve got you,’ Brian says, wondering who will have him when his legs do decide to crumple.  He guides Roger to the cot, joining him on it with a groan.  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks, his hands roaming over Roger’s face, searching for a sign of recognition.

Roger nods, clumsily pulling his hands away.  Brian turns them over, will not let go.  He knows whatever he just witnessed had something to do with her.  That creature.  The monstruous guardian who looks after Roger as though he belongs to her.  She won’t hurt him.  The thought does not quell his fears; not anymore.  Something needs to be done.  This cannot go on.  Roger cannot go on like this.  Brian cannot stand by and let it happen.            

‘I’ll do it,’ Brian says, clinging onto Roger’s hands as though he will lose him if he does not.  ‘I’ll do the operation myself.’ 

Roger grimaces at the firmness of his grip.  ‘It might be a bit late for that now,’ he wheezes.  ‘The bloody navy is heading this way.’                                  

Chapter Text

'There's a ship around the point, heading this way.  John's hoping it will pass us by if we stay close to the shoreline,' Crystal says, blasting the cabin with cold air when he returns.  He drops a bundle of clothes on the table, sorting through them with a look of disgust on his face.  'You have a choice of overalls or what appears to be some sort of rubber fishing suit.  The overalls are snug, but better than wearing this damned wetsuit, I guess.'   

He glances up at the two huddled on the cot, immediately sensing he has missed something important.  Roger appears paler than usual, his face pinched in pain.  'What's wrong?' Crystal asks, unable to keep the alarm from his tone.  

'He had a bit of a turn,' Brian says, too lightly, contradicting the arm wrapped protectively around Roger's shoulder as the boat lurches sickeningly.  

'Another fit?' Crystal asks, dropping to his knees in front of them.  He places his hand on Roger's thigh, frowning when the blond flinches at the action, closing his eyes.  

'Not a fit,' the blond says huskily, opening his eyes but refusing to meet Crystal's.  'Something else.'  

Crystal looks to Brian for confirmation instead.  'I don't know what it was,' Brian admits, motioning to his eyes with his free hand and shaking his head.  

Crystal reaches his palm up to touch Roger's face, understanding why the surgeon sucks in a muted breath of surprise at his touch.  He is blind.  'This isn't permanent, Rog,' he reassures, his stomach dropping.  'You got your sight back before, with her help.  It’s just temporary.'  Yes, until it isn’t.    

'I can see,' Roger says, blinking rapidly against the tears, too stubborn to let them fall.  'I just can't see in here.'   

'What can you see?' Crystal asks, rubbing the surgeon’s thigh in what he hopes is an encouraging manner.  He almost dreads to hear his partner’s answer.     

Roger swallows, his eyes roaming as though he is looking around the cabin.  Crystal holds his breath when the eyes fall on him, without a hint of recognition.  His hand stills.  Roger's voice is intimately low, barely above a murmur.  'We're travelling under the cliffs.  Freddie and Dominique are on the deck, taking off their gear.  I can see that navy ship in the distance...but almost like a fuzzy recollection of it.  It’s chasing something bright in the water.  Not us.  It's not really clear...it's too murky under the water to see much else.'  He looks down at his hands, folding his fingers carefully.  'I see her talons and that green glow.  I am within her; wearing her like a suit as she circles the boat.  It makes a change…’  He shakes his head, his cheek dimpling as he smiles softly.  Too fondly for Crystal’s liking.  ‘She was in my head, and now I'm in hers.  That's why she rescued you; I'm able to control her with just a thought.  I feel like I’m flying under the water.  You know that feeling you get in your stomach as you ride up in a lift?  It's like that, but constant…’  He rubs at his stomach.    

His smile drops abruptly, his brow pinching.  ‘But I think I'm trapped somewhere between us...she's taking too much of me and not giving anything back.  I feel numb up here, but strong down there.  The pressure in my head is agony at times…sometimes I don’t know if I can take it.  One of us must yield and she’s much stronger than I am.' 

Crystal is sure the look on his face matches the startled fear on Brian's at the unnaturally emotionless revelation.  Desolate despair.  Roger does not just sound numb, he sounds broken; flitting between happiness and anguish far too brusquely.  Unnaturally.  He is not himself.  The creature could be using him just as much as he thinks he is using her.  'Maybe you've been connected for too long,' Crystal quietly suggests, pleased when Brian nods in agreement.  ‘You’ll feel better once the sun’s up.’  Or much worse, he worries.  The promise of a new day does not raise much optimism for once.    

‘Brian’s agreed to do the thoracic surgery,’ Roger announces, his previous words forgotten in a haze of smoke as he moves on to a new subject.  Crystal is certain by the startled noise Brian makes, it was not news he wanted broken so abruptly. 

‘Qualified for that, is he?’ Crystal asks, giving Brian a pointed look.  There is a thump as the boat launches over the shallower waters.  Crystal braces the blond by his shoulder when he looks close to crumpling, his hand still on his stomach.   

Roger frowns, his voice holding more emotion with his next words, clumsily grasping Crystal’s wrist, worried.  ‘You know he’ll need your help.  You’ve done it before; you told me so that night.’ 

That night, Crystal thinks; that bloody night, when he had laid his heart bare only to have it cruelly broken.  No, not cruelly, he thinks.  Roger does not have a cruel bone in his body.  Agonisingly.  Reluctantly.  Foolishly.  But not cruelly.         

‘Emergency thoracic surgery due to trauma is not the same, Rog,’ Crystal says dazedly.  ‘You hold me on too high a pedestal.  I’m not a thoracic surgeon, by any means.’ 

The dark cloud lifts from Roger’s head as he slowly smiles again, leaning even closer to Crystal.  His eyes move as though he is seeking him out.  God, they’re mesmerising.  ‘But you finally admit that you are a surgeon,’ he says, losing some of the rigidity in his shoulders.  ‘You wouldn’t let on when I employed you.  It was very mysterious.  I always suspected you were overqualified for the role you took with me…hell, you’re probably more bloody qualified than I am!’       

‘I can assure you that I am not more qualified than you,’ Crystal says.  There is a lot he has not told Roger.  There is a lot the blond has deduced himself over the last eighteen months through careful observation and trickery, but he is a clever man and he knows when not to press a tender subject.  He only asked Crystal about his military career once before accepting it was not something Crystal was happy discussing.  ‘But, you’re right; I do know my way around a chest cavity,’ he says, reluctantly grinning himself when Roger cracks a wider smile.

‘Good,’ Roger says.  ‘Because Brian hasn’t had a living soul under the knife for at least fourteen years and I know he’s worried sick about it.’   

‘I said I’d do it,’ Rog.’  Brian does not deny the blond’s observation.  He looks green to the gills, the shallow waters on the shore choppier than the deeper ocean.   

Roger chuckles throatily.  ‘At least you know if something goes wrong, you can always toss me in the ocean and say I took a trip to Beachy Head and threw myself in.  She’ll take care of the rest.’   

‘Don’t joke,’ Brian chokes out.  ‘Please don’t joke about it.’ 

The engines rumble louder as they increase their speed before Roger can even apologise.   

Crystal returns to the deck, Brian's words ringing in his ears.  The captain must sense that he approaches with purpose because the moment the cabin door closes John asks, ‘What do you need?’

What does he need?  A cigarette.  A shower.  A hot meal.  An operating theatre and an elite surgical team.  A bigger bloody boat.  A time machine to take him back six months.  An end to this madness.

Crystal opts for a cigarette, grunting his thanks when John lights it for him.  Neither of them mentions the tremors in his fingers; Crystal glares at them traitorously, the ash dropping from the end his cigarette.  He worries.  ‘How quickly can we reach Plymouth?’ he asks. 

‘We’re not going to Plymouth,’ John says.  ‘Fred said to drop you back to the harbour at St Mawes.’ 

‘We’re going to Plymouth,’ Crystal says, gesturing at the pair outside of the cabin with the cigarette.  ‘I’ll fix it with those two.  How fast can this tub get us there?’

John does not argue; Crystal appreciates that as he waits for the captain to calculate their route.  He flattens out a well-worn chart, their previous journey marked on it clear enough to show it has been used many times before.  The captain taps a pencil on their approximate location.  ‘We’ll need to refuel once we’re clear of Spain.  I’d prefer to stick to the shallows for a while longer so that naval ship can’t pick us up on their radar.  Once we’re back in open water…I’d say we’ll be there by noon.’ 

Crystal nods.  ‘I’ll need to use your radio once we’re out of range of that ship.  There’s someone I need to raise and he might take some persuading, especially when I ask to borrow his submarine and the operating theatre within it.’  

Chapter Text

The boat’s engines cut out at dawn.  Crystal wakes with a start, recognising the thump of helicopter blades overhead.  He is loathe to move and wake his bed partner but the noise stirs unease in his stomach.  Roger grumbles as he is moved, his hand going straight to his ribs as Crystal braces him with a lumpy cushion behind his back.  Brian dosed him with painkillers before they went to bed, unsure if they have any sort of affect on the pain with the creature’s power.  It does not look as though they are working.  He is wheezing again, pale and drawn.  Too grey in the face, his lips are tinged blue.  His circulation is poor; the fingers threaded through Crystal’s own are ringed with cyanosis.  Too cold.            

Papers rumple on the floor as Crystal carefully extracts himself from the cot.  The ex-navy man looks them over, recognising Roger’s neat scrawl on the page, slightly skewed.  While Crystal has slept, Roger has blindly written a guide on how to navigate the surgery, complete with medication, anaesthesia, pre- and post-op checks required; he has noted that the guide is for Brian.  Crystal wonders where he obtained the writing material; he wonders if Freddie or Dominique had something to do with it.  The pair have been suspiciously accommodating since their successful mission.  Crystal still does not trust them.     

He reads the notes, impressed with the rough diagrams that Roger has drawn.  Knowing the surgeon, he probably has his scans committed to memory, ingrained in his mind each time he closes his eyes; after going over his notes in the cabin, Crystal certainly has.  A shaky disclaimer at the bottom of the third page tells the neuroscientist in no uncertain terms that none of what is about to follow is his fault.  If something goes wrong, it is Roger’s fault, and his fault alone for ignoring symptoms for too long. 

Half-blind, in pain and with his life hanging in the balance, the blond is still concerned over his oldest friend’s welfare.  Jealousy that would normally rear its ugly head, this time does not.  Crystal glances to where Brian is resting on a pile of discarded wetsuits and coiled rope on the other side of the small cabin.  He does not look comfortable, but he is fast asleep nonetheless.  He will not leave Roger’s side until the end.     

After witnessing the lengths the neuroscientist is willing go to for Roger, Crystal no longer resents their close friendship, or the apparent unrequited love the tall man has for his partner.  He is not entirely convinced that the love is as unrequited as he once thought, but it is okay.  He can live with it.  Living with it is favourable to the alternative.           

‘Why are you getting up?’ Roger asks, his voice filled with sleep.  He does not open his eyes.  It is an early morning sight not uncommon for Crystal to wake to.  With an ache in his heart, he prays it is one he will revisit every day until they are both old and grey.  Lazing in on Sunday mornings with nothing to do but appreciate one another between the sheets.  Arguing over whose turn it is to make breakfast.  Crystal hopes he has not lost the opportunity.      

He brushes his fingers through the blond’s messy hair, settles his hand on Roger’s forehead.  It is hot.  It burns in contrast to the coldness of his extremities.  The tightness in his closed eyes tell of an omnipresent headache.  ‘Can you check on the whereabouts of your creature?’ Crystal asks softly, leaning to see if anything is visible through the condensation on the porthole window.

The sky is red; white clouds fluffy and unthreatening overhead.  The helicopter has gone, hopefully just passing over.  Crystal is certain the others would come and find him if they suspected anything hostile was approaching.  ‘Is she still with us?’  Are you?

Roger opens his eyes a sliver, hearing the unspoken question.  ‘She’s scared of the light and noise,’ he says, his voice too breathy.  Far too frail.  The dawning of a new day bringing fresh agony.  ‘She’s deep, but she’s still there.’  

‘How do you feel?’ 

‘Weak,’ Roger easily replies.  Crystal wishes he never asked, especially when Roger unnecessarily rouses himself to reassure him, red eyes opening despite not being able to see.  He leans into Crystal’s touch.  ‘I’ll be stronger when it’s dark,’ he slurs. 

Crystal sighs.  Dusk is hours away.  He does not think Roger has that sort of time left.  ‘You said you can control her.  Maybe you ought to bring her closer, just until we reach Plymouth…’

‘She wouldn’t like that.  I wouldn’t want to hurt her,’ Roger says, his voice low, eyes searching for Crystal in the darkness.  Over the engine of the boat restarting, Crystal struggles to hear him.    

‘You’re hurting,’ Crystal argues, brushing his thumb over the prominent cheekbone, avoiding the grey, fatigue bruised area under his eyes.     

‘Not for much longer.’  The words can be taken two ways.  Following surgery and a long recovery, Roger will no longer be in pain.  Then there is the alternative that Crystal does not wish to consider.    

‘I’m going to make a call on John’s radio.  I hope we’re within range.’ 

‘Your old friend,’ Roger murmurs, his eyes slipping closed.  He winces as he tries to get comfortable, the rough woollen blanket sliding down to his lap.  The agonisingly uneven movement in his chest is too apparent under the thin boilersuit Crystal dressed him in, especially since it has come open at the chest. 

Like watching the aftermath of a car crash, Crystal cannot tear his eyes away from the bruised ribs, no matter how much he wants to.  He reaches out to touch before snatching his hand away at the thought that soon he will be cutting through the layers of muscle, fat and possibly bone to gain access to the diseased lung.  If he dwells too long on the thought that he must operate on someone he cares for so much, he will surely go mad.  Better to try and remain impartial.  It might just stop the tremors in his hands.                

‘Go back to sleep,’ Crystal finally orders, pulling the blanket higher.  Troublingly, Roger almost immediately complies.  Crystal watches him breathe for a moment longer before tearing himself away.    

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------     

The brief radio call goes well.  Not only can he use the operating theatre, the submarine is closer than they thought, docked off Ushant, just off the French coast.  Any euphoria Crystal feels upon securing a suitable operating theatre is dampened when John tells him that they are being followed.  Their luck is never enough, it seems.  ‘Who?’ he asks, his hand still on the radio receiver; shaking again.  Always shaking with adrenaline, or fear.    

‘Not who,’ John replies.  ‘What.’ 

Those damned creatures, Crystal realises.  ‘How fast are they coming?’  He dreads the answer.  If they make contact with Roger’s creature, she will surely abandon him. 

John glances up from his monitor.  ‘I’d say about three hours behind at the rate they’re moving.’ 

Crystal’s stomach drops.  ‘That doesn’t give us enough time.’    

Crystal bustles back into the cabin, waking Brian in his haste.  He moves past the tall man and goes straight to Roger’s side.  The blond does not wake easily; he moans at being roused when he groggily comes around.  ‘I know,’ Crystal says, in too much of a hurry to apologise.  ‘We need to load your creature up, Rog.  Her friends are on our trail, getting closer and I’d feel better if we had her contained.’ 

‘She knows they’re coming,’ Roger murmurs.  ‘She can feel them.’ 

Crystal grimaces.  ‘Can you get her in the tank?’ 

‘She doesn’t like-‘

‘The light, I know,’ Crystal finishes for him, unable to make the blond use more energy than is necessary.  ‘Do you think she will do it for you, love?  We need her on board.’

The ghost of a grimace crosses Roger’s face before he gives a weak nod.  ‘Help me up,’ he says.

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ Crystal says. 

Roger appears to disagree.  He pushes the blanket from his lap, moaning in frustration when he is unable to move his legs without Crystal’s help.  ‘She needs to see me,’ he wheezes.  ‘Or she won’t come up.’  He groans at Crystal’s strong grip as he sits him up. 

‘I’ll carry you,’ Crystal says, getting his hands under Roger’s knees.   

The sick man does not protest which is further cause for concern.  His breath is forced out in a tremulous wheeze as he is lifted.  He struggles to lift his head.  Brian fusses silently, quickly ensuring he is braced securely against Crystal while he holds the door open for them; his black eyes appear haunted as he takes in just how frail Roger is.  They all know that they cannot go on like this for much longer. 

The sun is rising in the east, thankfully giving one side of the boat plenty of shade.  Crystal drops to his knees on the deck with a grunt of pain, quickly checking on his companion when he does not stir at the jolting action.  ‘Get the others inside and tell John to stop the boat for a few minutes,’ he tells Brian, indicating to Freddie and Dominique who are watching them with curiosity.  ‘You know how shy this bloody thing is.  Once we have her, tell him to get going.  He knows where to go.’ 

Brian nods, giving Roger one last look before he lurches off towards the captain’s wheelhouse.  Crystal sits his partner on the deck, wincing when he sees that Roger’s colour is much worse in the natural light.  The relapses are getting worse and returning too frequently.  The blond weakly bristles as he is manhandled against the rail.  He is unable to hold himself up.  ‘You should leave,’ he murmurs, either feeling Crystal’s presence or seeing it through his mistresses’ eyes.  ‘She might hurt you.’ 

‘I don’t care,’ Crystal says, sitting firmly behind the blond as the engines cut out.  He presses a firm kiss to his neck, hearing the sigh of contentment as he does.  ‘I told you I wouldn’t leave.’  

Roger breathes noisily, his legs dangling freely over the edge of the boat as it slows to a silent stop in the water.  ‘This is nice,’ he whispers. 

Crystal laughs sharply at the statement.  None of what they have been through over the past few days has been remotely nice.  He glances up at the pink hued skies, breathes in the salty sea air, feels the gentle breeze ruffling what is left of his hair, listens to the waves gently lapping against the side of the boat.  He must admit, it would be nice, if only…Roger coughs weakly, breaking through his introspection.  Crystal squeezes him tighter, willing the tremors to still. 

He has a troubling thought, stumbling over his words while Roger is cognisant enough to hear and understand them.  ‘You do want this, don’t you?  We’re not pressuring you into something you don’t want because we’re too stubborn to let you go?’  he asks.  ‘If we can operate, I mean.  That’s what you want?’

He feels Roger nod against his shoulder.  ‘Yes,’ he whispers.  The blond reaches out his shaking hand; Crystal takes it with one that shakes just as much.  The tug of arousal fills his belly, the same time as Roger sucks in a deep crackling breath, obviously falling under the same spell.  He feels the full body shudder run through them both as the creature approaches.  It clicks deafeningly as it breaks the water, whining its distress at the light.  Crystal hears the soft noise of encouragement Roger makes, recognises it from their own moments of shared intimacy. 

The creature dips back under the water before propelling itself out and landing on the deck with a screech and a thump.  The boat sways alarmingly in the water.  Crystal must grip Roger tighter to ensure he is not thrown overboard.  The creature does not draw itself up to its full height, instead it crawls over to them, sliding in the large puddle of water it has brought up with it.  The green-hued tendrils are duller in the light, but they are still powerful.  The creature wraps a talon around Roger, managing to thread its way between the two men.  It does not want Crystal, but it is gentler than it has been, no doubt following Roger’s orders; it does not zap him now, instead it buzzes until he reluctantly releases his hold on the blond. 

Crystal follows closely, scrambling to keep up as it drags Roger back down into the belly of the boat.  The tank waits in the darkness, lighting up when the creature deposits fresh seawater into it.  The room becomes saturated with the salty water.  Crystal wades through it to follow as the creature drags its lifeless master along.  It does not relinquish its grip on the sick man. 

Crystal watches in horror as it pulls Roger into the steel tank with it, water sloshing over the lip with the increased volume.  He presses his face to one of the glass windows, struggling to see if Roger is alright.  John mentioned that the creature had him under the water for over ninety minutes while he and Brian were carrying out their foolish errand in the caves.  The memory of their time together pulls at something Crystal cannot put his finger on; a warmth he has not previously felt for the neuroscientist.  He shakes his head to stop his mind from wandering. 

He changes his angle and catches a glimpse of Roger’s face; he does not appear to be in any pain.  He does not breathe, but his lips twitch into a lazy smile as the creature fills him with endorphins that Crystal also feels through the tank.  Roger begins to glow again, his skin becoming translucent in front of Crystal’s eyes.  Skin, muscle, artery, and vein.  A plethora of information he absolutely must map and memorise while he has the opportunity.    

The ex-navy man cannot move.  He does not dare to even blink for fear that he will miss something important.  He takes in every detail, hoping it will help him in the surgery he has planned.  He knows he will need all the help that he can get.  He looks beyond his partner to find the creature watching him with its dead eyes.  Crystal shudders and puts his hand on the glass, sighing with relief when Roger mirrors the action.  He is still in there.                                                         

Chapter Text

Brian hurries to fetch Crystal when they approach the quaint harbour.  Awaiting their arrival is a small contingent of naval officers, dressed in their blues.  Their official welcome is anything but welcoming.  Brian worries that they will be unable to carry out their illegal operation if they cannot get the creature loaded aboard the submarine without raising suspicion.  Crystal tells him to leave it up to him as he emerges from the creature’s hold, his feet sloshing in water.  He appears pale in the daylight, scrubbing at the dark stubble on his face as he squints against the sun.    

The ex-navy man climbs to the deck, sloppily saluting the commanding officer waiting for them.  ‘That’s Phoebe,’ he tells Brian.  ‘Commander Freestone.  He’s in charge.  He’s a good man.’ 

‘Can we trust him?’ Brian asks, sticking close to Crystal as he throws a line in to dock. 

Crystal nods, agilely hopping from the boat.  Brian waits until they have stopped moving before he dares join him on the short section of temporary jetty.  He grasps hold of a rope to steady himself, trying to get used to the lack of motion following their extended stint on the rocking boat.  He hears the end of a short conversation which suggests the Commander looks up to the former navy-man and apparently thinks of him as a superior.  Maybe he was?    

Brian is reminded once again that he really does not know enough about the ex-military man, despite the background check he secretly authorised when Roger first took Crystal on.  He only managed to get the man’s name, former rank, brief overview of his qualifications and his current address, despite paying over the odds for a complete check on his credentials and history.  Fearing he knows less about the man now than he did back then, Brian once again wonders why the apparently highly-decorated naval officer took on the role of porter and post-op nurse to Roger’s patients.  He flushes, fearing he is doing Roger's prestigious practice a disservice; there is a reason it has won so many awards.    

‘This is rather unorthodox, even for you, Crystal,’ he hears Commander Freestone say, watching as the military man pulls off his cap and places it under his arm.  He does not appear as threatening as he did when they first approached.  ‘I've prepped it ready for use, as you requested.  Are you sure you don’t need my help?  You're looking a tad dishevelled.’  

Crystal does not reply immediately, instead looking to Brian.  The look on the neuroscientists face must not be reassuring.  ‘We can trust them,’ Crystal says.  ‘They’re bound by the official secrets act.’ 

Brian laughs at the absurdity of what Crystal is suggesting.  Their predicament is hard enough already without having to bring in strangers and explain.  ‘But what about…her?’ he asks. 

Crystal sighs.  He is just as aware as Brian is that there is little time to waste.  ‘We’ll need to load up some equipment,’ he says, directing his words to the Commander.  ‘We’d like to do it out of sight of your men, if possible, Phoebe.  It’s nothing untoward, I promise.  We just have a shy passenger who would appreciate the quiet.’ 

‘I can send the boys into town if they’re not required, especially if you'd rather not have prying eyes,’ Phoebe suggests.  ‘They’d appreciate the time off.  I’ve had them running all sorts of manoeuvres this past week.  We’ve been posted here following a suspicious disturbance off the coast of Portugal; it’s the first sight of action for months.’ 

Brian cannot help the look of alarm on his face at the news.

‘I’m not one to ask too many questions,’ Freestone says, apparently catching on, ‘but if you’re in trouble, maybe I can help?’

Crystal reaches out to squeeze his hand, first ensuring they cannot be seen by the other officers.  ‘What you’re doing is help enough.  I’ll pay you back for this, somehow.’ 

Phoebe raises his eyebrows.  ‘You already did, love.  Just try not to break anything; they still haven’t replaced the last operating theatre you trashed.’ 

 ------------------  

‘What exactly was your previous role?’ Brian asks, pondering over the Commander's words as they carefully lower the tank into the depths of the submarine.  It clangs off the hatch as it is lowered, the heavy tarpaulin snagging against the metal.  The creature growls at the influx of light before they can adjust it.      

Crystal glances back to the navy men dispersing above to see if they notice.  ‘If I told you,’ he says, refastening the tarp. ‘I’d have to kill you.’ 

Brian is afraid he is not joking, despite the shadow of a grin he spies as the shorter man helps him down onto the narrow ladder.  He carefully follows the tank and its occupants aboard, marvelling at the pulley system in place that means Crystal is able to slide the tank exactly where he needs it.  Brian watches as Crystal removes the crane hook and has John lift it from the hatch.  

The ex-navy man scurries up the ladder, giving Commander Freestone a nod of thanks before he shuts the hatch and seals the four of them into the sub.  He slides down the ladder with the skill of someone who has performed the action many times before.  He presses a walkie talkie into Brian's hand.  'We've got a radio each so that John can contact either of us if there's any trouble.  Phoebe will call us if he needs the sub.' 

'They're not part of our navy, are they?' Brian asks, still pondering over how Crystal knows someone with a submarine.  'They don't wear our uniform.'

Crystal stands before the tank, his hands on his hips.  He shakes his head.  'This is just a training facility.  They used to have several of these docked off the coast, performing endless practice drills and training missions.'  He gets closer to the tank to peer through the window, clicking his tongue as he watches Roger floating within.       

‘He’s been in there for hours,’ Brian says, pressing his hand against the side of the tank. 

Crystal climbs on it to unfasten the leather straps.  He lifts the lid and hops down, still wary of the creature after being attacked before.  Nothing happens.  The creature appears to be content to stay where she is.  ‘We need to get him out and washed.  I dread to think what’s in that water.  I can already feel it…’ 

‘We could all do with a wash,’ Brian admits.

‘First port of call following a recce of the theatre,’ Crystal promises, scrubbing the stubble on his face as he steps away from the tank.  ‘Then we eat.’ 

Brian pales.  ‘I don’t know if I can stomach anything.’ 

‘Hold out your hand,’ Crystal orders.  Brian complies, frowning as it shakes.  Crystal gives him a tight smile before he explains.  ‘We eat to ensure we don’t do more damage.  We’re going to be standing with his life in our hands for hours, with only ourselves to rely on if something goes wrong.  A two man team when we ought to have six or seven.  We won’t get a second chance, not with the other creatures so close behind us.  If she breaks her connection too soon...’ 

‘My God, you’re right,’ Brian says, rubbing at his eyes and wincing at the sharp pain.  He pats down the dogeared envelope under his jacket containing Roger’s medical file, x-rays, and the updated notes the surgeon methodically wrote out for him the previous night.  ‘Do you really believe we can do this?’ he asks.

Crystal ignores the impossible question, motioning for Brian to follow him deeper into the vessel.  The tall man minds his head and manages to trip over the lip to the first compartment, stumbling into Crystal's back.  'Careful,' Crystal says, helping him over the next lip.  'The last thing we need is another injury.'  

Brian stays vigilant as they pass through another compartment.  He accepts a bundle of food rations, biting into them fervently as his stomach reminds him of its neglect.  Crystal swallows them down with as much enthusiasm, pulling a face at the sweetness of the last pack.  They share a large bottle of water that tastes vaguely chemically.   

The circulated air in the sub smells artificial, the air warm as they negotiate the narrow corridor.  The neuroscientist shudders at the thought of diving and being confined within the narrow vessel for days on end; it is bad enough being trapped in it on the surface.  It does not rock as the boat did, which is one consolation. 

The operating room is cramped, but well laid out. They wash their hands in water that smells strongly of a disinfectant Brian cannot identify.  Crystal checks over the equipment and encourages Brian to familiarise himself with the layout of the small room.  'I'll lead,' he says.  'You'll need to have everything you need to hand to help.  You'll need to play a few important roles, I'm afraid.  Once we start, there will be no time or space to move far.'  

Brian stands in the corner of the room, watching carefully as Crystal makes adjustments to suit his own needs.  He accepts the tools Crystal passes to him, eternally grateful that he is not in charge.  He watches as the ex-navy man adjusts the padded table to the right height, closing his eyes when he inadvertently visualises Roger's lax body lying on it.  He snaps them back open, hearing Crystal make a noise of dissatisfaction as he adjusts the table again until it is just right.      

'I'm glad they haven't changed the layout much since I was last here,' Crystal says, his voice cutting through the silence as he checks the range of the oxygen feed.  He switches on a light box that flickers twice before lighting up brightly, reflecting off his emotionless face.  Brian envies how the other man can be so calm and collected in the face of such a monumental task.  

Brian feels as though he is a bundle of nerves as he shakily pulls out the thick envelope and hands it over.  Anxiety settling in his stomach as he worries.  'We need to get updated scans,' he says as Crystal takes out the x-rays of Roger's chest and sticks them to the viewer.  

'I can get some new scans in the next room,' Crystal replies, taking a step back to look at the last set.  'I just need to see how it progresses to ensure we remove enough of it to stop it spreading.  I figure we have to wait an hour for her hold to wear off enough for us to be able to operate.  Too soon and it might not work.  I remember enough from her special light show to know what it looks like at its worst...'  He trails off at the vivid memory.      

In the unforgiving bright light, the uneven dark mass is prominent and all too real.  It covers half of Roger's left lung.  'This was six weeks ago,' Brian whispers, dismayed.  It is not the first time he has studied the scan, but it still feels raw and makes his stomach drop all the same.  The static scan does not match the visual display they were shown by the creature.  The cancer has spread much further since the x-ray was taken.  Too far.         

Crystal steps forward and points to the scan, the tremor in his hand obvious to Brian as he traces the uneven line of the mass and marks it with a red permanent marker.  Crystal stares at it, noisily clicking the pen lid a few times before adding in his interpretation of what they witnessed previously in a much broader dotted red line.  The mass is large; too advanced.  A death sentence marked out in red.  'It's little wonder he can breathe at all,' he says softly, replacing the pen lid with one final click.        

He eventually turns away, his eyes startlingly wet as he swipes a trembling hand across them.  He sniffs, busying himself with mechanically prepping the area.  He falters at the cabinet containing medications and surgical tools, grasping the mesh of the door with a white-knuckle grip, swaying on his feet.  Brian hears him give a shaky sigh.  'We ought to wash now.  It will stop contamination,' he says, his voice tight as he glances at his watch.  'We don't have much time.' 

He moves to leave, flinching when Brian grasps him by the shoulders and pulls him into a tight hug.  The neuroscientist does not bother to reassure the distraught man that everything will be fine, not when he is so unsure himself.  He hopes the contact is assurance enough.  He hums, feeling Crystal trembling as he threads his hands between them to swipe ineffectually at his eyes.  'We don't have time for this,' the ex-navy man groans weakly, clearing his throat as though trying to push away the emotion.  He makes no move to break contact, his head pressed heavily against Brian's chest.

'Oh, Crys,' Roger's soft voice comes from the doorway from where he is clinging to the frame.  His borrowed overalls dripping, he appears as distraught as his partner, especially when he catches sight of the marked-up x-ray film lit up in the corner.

Crystal makes a noise that might have been a sob before he stands straighter.  'Impatient, aren't you?' he says, sniffing as he strides quickly to switch off the light box.  'We were coming to get you out.'            

Roger smiles softly, gladly accepting Brian's help into the cramped room.  His blue eyes are wide as he looks around with interest and takes in as much detail as possible.  His eyes are drawn back to the film, his face falling as he sees just how damaged his lung has become.  He swallows thickly, taking a step towards the film.       

'You're not contaminating my operating theatre with that fluid, thank you very much,' Crystal says gruffly, shooing both men out and swiftly sealing the door behind.  He points Brian to the opposite side of the corridor.  It appears that they don't have far to go to reach a shower block.  Brian manoeuvres his oldest friend into the narrow changing area, helping him sit on a low bench.  Roger looks pensive, no doubt pondering over his uncertain future.    

Crystal fires so many questions at the blond where he sits, Brian struggles to keep up.  He worries that Crystal expects him to remember the answers until Roger finally chuckles, indicating they are in the midst of a private joke.  'I don't ask my patient's that many questions,' the blond says, leaning back as he is stripped of his sodden coveralls. 

He rolls his eyes, grinning at Brian as Crystal prepares him for a shower.  His breathing is good and even, his colour normal.  He looks pensive, but that is to be expected; it’s not every day the opportunity arises when one can be brought back from the brink of death.  Brian dares to return the smile, hope in his heart.      

'You practically force them to tell you their life story before you even agree to treat them, Rog,' Crystal says, his voice still not quite right following the brief moment of weakness.  He presses on nonetheless, as though silence is their enemy.  Maybe it is.  Brian is happy for the ex-navy man to fill it.  ‘Your patients think themselves special because you spend so much time grilling them.  I haven’t the heart to tell them you treat them all equally,’ he adds.      

'I just think it's important to know why they want the surgery,' Roger replies with a sigh, running his fingers along the scar on his shoulder.  His leg bounces with nervous energy, no doubt anxious about what they must do.        

'It's not a bad thing.  You make them all feel significant, which is why they recommend you to all of their friends,' Crystal clarifies.  Brian agrees, finally understanding more about his oldest friend.  Not in the profession for prestige or glory, Roger truly wants to make a difference to the lives of the individuals who grace his surgery door.  All the years Brian has spent trying to convince him to record his expert surgical procedures to develop and use them for a greater good seem irrelevant now.  Preaching about saving the masses seems hypercritical when Brian has spent the past two weeks trying to save just one man.    

Crystal pulls back a flimsy shower curtain, turning a knob on the wall that squeaks, water following shortly after.  He strips, apparently unbothered that Brian watches.  ‘Come on,’ he says, moving under the spray.  ‘We don’t have water to spare and there’s only one bar of soap.’ 

Roger takes Brian’s offered hand.  ‘He says that to all the boys,’ he says, smiling again as Brian gets him to his feet and guides him into Crystal’s waiting arms.  ‘Come on,’ he orders.     

Brian hurriedly strips.  To his surprise, he does not feel self-conscious as he joins the pair in the cubicle.  Any misgivings he has over being embarrassed immediately fall away when he is invited warmly into the fold, nestling between Crystal and Roger as though he belongs there while they scrub themselves and each other clean with the disinfecting soap.  He dares to run his hands through Roger’s hair, a shiver running down his back when Crystal does the same to his.  Pleasure makes his cheeks flush as he gasps.   

‘Rog,’ Crystal sighs, leaning heavily against Brian, his eyes half-lidded in ecstasy as he gestures with the bar of soap.  ‘You were in that tank too long; you absolutely reek of that creature and her bloody pheromones.’ 

‘Do I?’ Roger asks, dazedly, sounding much younger than his forty years.    

‘Oh!’ Brian realises belatedly why he has been invited in.  He cannot believe how stupid he has been.  He should leave before someone does something they might regret.  He really ought to leave.  He must… 

He finds he does not want to leave, despite remaining unaffected by the creature’s aura because of his blocked nose.  He takes in the sight of both Roger and Crystal as they embrace, tenderly kissing each other; drawing each lingering kiss out for as long as possible as though it may be their last.  It might just be their last, Brian thinks with a jolt. 

Roger reaches out and pulls him closer, standing him under the lukewarm water.  Despite his own internal quandary, the blond has a knack for knowing exactly when he is needed.  ‘This is just the creature’s influence,’ Brian mumbles warily, trying to back away.  Roger will not let him, shaking his head, water flying everywhere.  His eyes flash vibrantly as he looks up, reminding Brian of countless arguments they have had in the past.  He looks stunning with his hair plastered to his head.      

‘This is just me,’ Roger replies, huskily.  ‘It’s what I want.’  He threads his hand through Brian’s hair and pulls him in to meet his open mouth, humming in annoyance until Brian relaxes into the kiss.  It stirs something in his gut, taking him back to better times.  Simpler times, brighter nights, and hazier days.  When their main concerns were whether they could afford to go out three nights on the trot, or if they should spend the night listening to records on their temperamental record player instead.  Brian warms at the happy memories.  The water heats up when he does.    

He feels Crystal’s strong arm wrap around his waist from behind as he fully surrenders to Roger’s kiss.  The blond is gentle, remembering not to touch his sore nose, allowing him to come up for air every so often.  Crystal is firm, his fingers raking along Brian’s abdomen, the soap still in his hand.  All coherent thought is lost, Brian’s worries running down the plughole with the soapy water.    

Roger groans, the noise muffled against Brian’s open mouth as his hands roam lower to tug at his erection.  Overwhelmed, Brian allows his eyes to close.  He feels the tug of arousal in his own growing erection.  He can feel Crystal’s pressing into the back of his thigh as the ex-navy man pulls his wet hair to one side so that he has access to deliver a series of nips to his neck that leaves him quivering. 

The pleasure is excruciating and exquisite in equal measure.  If this is what power the creature possesses, then it is little wonder why Roger has not been keen to break her hold.  

Brian pants, unable to breathe through his swollen nose.  He hears the wet slap and breathless moans of both his companions pleasuring themselves with half their attention still firmly on his own body.  He is like a deity being worshipped by his disciples.  He graspingly reaches down and takes hold of himself, raising his face to the spray of water above as he tugs at his firm erection.  Nipping, sucking, breathing into each other’s skin, loving as one, they release together in a cacophony of groans and gasps, leaning on each other for comfort and stability. 

They clean each other up, satiated and relaxed as the water begins to turn cold.  With a renewed confidence coursing through his soul, Brian is certain of one thing; the surgery will be a success.  Roger will live.               

Chapter Text

'Relax, Bri; it's a fairly routine operation,' Roger says, bumping shoulders with the tall man as he leans over to fasten a gown around his narrow frame.  

Brian scoffs, fiddling with the string at his neck until Roger bats his hands away to tie it for him.  'It may be a routine operation for some, Rog, but in the hands of two completely out-of-practice surgeons, and I use the term surgeon very loosely, we're talking about a completely different kettle of fish.' 

Roger's lips twitch into a grin at the unintentional analogy.   

'That wasn't supposed to be funny,' Brian grouses, watching the blond carefully as he swings his legs from the edge of the operating table where he has been seated in his underwear waiting for his link to the creature to dull enough for the operation.  'Where are you going?' 

Roger stills, shrugging one shoulder.  'I thought I'd check on Crystal,' he says, wrapping his arms around his bare torso.  He glances nervously at the door, tapping his bare feet together.  'He might need a pep-talk.  I've never seen him like this before...'    

'Stay,' Brian orders, worrying about the whereabouts of the ex-navy man himself.  'We need to carry out some more checks before we can start.  He won't be happy if we're not ready.'  He presses his thumbs against the recently healed collarbone, following the scar.  It looks alright, much better than the week before.  'How are your ribs?' 

Roger snakes a hand across them, his fingers leaving white patches as he presses firmly against each previously damaged rib.  'Starting to get sore again, but nothing like the agony I was in last week.' 

Brian frowns.  'They are healing faster than normal, even after your creature's power has gone.  That's good, right?' 

'I suppose it is.  It frustrates her that she cannot heal it all permanently,' Roger says.  'I think that's her sole purpose, you know?  Fixing things.  The cancer has her stumped though; she just can't get rid of it.  Maybe that's why she couldn't help Beach?  He might have had something incurable too?'      

The door clangs as the locking mechanism is activated.  Crystal backs in with an armful of paraphernalia, wearing only his underwear.  He presses the fresh x-ray onto the lightbox.  'I think this will do,' he says, peering at the small mass that is clear.      

'Maybe more surgeons should operate in the nude,' Roger cheekily suggests, clumsily catching a bundle of blankets shoved his way.  Brian attributes his nervous energy to anxiety as he helps Crystal into a gown, his eyes firmly on the x-rays that show Roger's seemingly near-healthy lung.  This is how it could have been.  This is operable.  It won't stay like this for long.   

'You managed to get a line into him then,' Crystal says, checking the intravenous tube that has been inserted into Roger's hand and taped securely ready for the general anesthetic to be administered.  'It looks good.'    

'He put it in himself,' Brian admits, blushing. 

'Brian's not keen on blood,' Roger reveals, rubbing at his neck with his free hand.  'Why else do you think he turned to lab work rather than brain surgery?'   

Crystal looks dismayed at the revelation.  'Are you going to be able to do this?' 

'I'll be fine,' Brian says firmly, pressing the tube of the spirometer between the blond's lips so he cannot reveal more.  It is clear that Crystal is already struggling with the concept of operating on his partner, without Roger's constant commentary.  

Roger squeezes his eyes shut as the nose plug is pressed on.  Brian monitors his breathing for a moment, making notes on the chart he has pinned on the wall.  He smiles when he spies a scribbled note beside informing him of the best parameters, in Roger's own handwriting.  His continued reassurances and prompts are more than welcome to the neuroscientist.  

Crystal mutters under his breath, pulling over a stainless steel trolley that is covered with a white cloth to ensure their patient cannot see the surgical instruments on it.  It is probably unnecessary; Roger knows exactly what he is in store for.  The ex-navy man adjusts a vent on the low ceiling, pressing his hand to the back of Roger's neck, his eyes firmly on the felt tipped outline of the planned incision that runs from under his nipple, around his ribs, to under his shoulder blade.  'I need to run through the procedure one more time with you,' he says.  

Roger cranes his neck, still holding the tube in place.  He looks concerned at the admission.    

'Just for my own peace of mind,' Crystal adds, his eyes flicking up to meet Brian's before falling back on his partner.  'Please.'      

Brian removes the nose plug, accepting the spirometer as Roger wipes at his mouth.  The blond leans back on the bed, one hand resting lightly over his stomach. 'You know what you're doing,' he says softly.  'But summarise for me if you must.  I'm sure Brian wouldn't mind hearing it again.'  

Crystal sighs.  'I'm fine with the lobectomy.  That part is straight forward...I ought to remember how to do it.  I've watched it being undertaken so many times and performed it myself more than once, but I'm out of practice.'  He looks at both men, his face falling further.  'I'm worrying you unnecessarily, aren't I?' 

'You're the one who wants reassurance, not me,' Roger says gently.  'Run through it all and I'll stop you if I think you need to know anything important.'  

Crystal sits on the table, slowly pulling on surgical gloves as he thinks.  'First we get you under, intubated, and in position.  You should really have been on antibiotics for the past week, but we'll dose you up following the op and pray that you don't get an infection.  We'll need to put a catheter in as you'll be under for a while.' 

'Your glamorous assistant can help with that, so it's not for you to worry about,' Roger interjects, trying to sound light and almost managing it.  'I'll be a good patient and lie in the correct position when you put me under to save you time.  What's next?'   

'I'll make the first incision on the surface of your skin, before carefully cutting through subcutaneous tissue and superficial fascia.  I know how fussy you are about being able to close neatly, so I'll make it perfectly straight to meet your impossible standards.'  Crystal breaks into a tight smile when Roger kicks at his leg in faux annoyance.  'After, I'll use the electrocautery unit to dissect the muscle beneath.' 

'Slowly, so that any bleeds from the small arteries can be controlled,' Roger interjects.  'It hasn't gone unnoticed that there isn't any blood on this sub, so I can't afford to lose any if you accidentally nick something by trying to rush.'     

Crystal falters, obviously painfully aware of that fact too.  It is only a training facility, after all.     

'Roger's put it in his notes,' Brian says, motioning to the pages he has pinned to the wall.  'I can give you prompts as and when.' 

Roger squeezes Crystal's knee.  'See, you're fine.  Carry on.'

'Once the anterior serratus and rhomboid muscles are exposed, I'll have access to the intercostal space.'  

'Leave some sutures as landmarks as you move through each layer,' Roger suggests.  'It will make it easier to close neatly.  It's easy to get lost if you don't.'  

Crystal nods, watching Brian add that too to the notes.  'Okay, okay.  Once I'm in the intercostal space, I'll need to count the ribs to ensure I cut in the right location to enter the pleural space after dividing the intercostal muscle.'  

'Stay close to the lower rib of the interspace, that way you'll avoid injury to the neurovascular bundle.  It's in the notes; Brian will prompt.  Make sure the incision is pushed as far as possible anteriorly to allow for easy retraction of the ribs.'  Roger digs his fingers under his ribs, wincing as he looks to the covered stainless steel table.  'Then you'll need to spread the ribs with the ghastly rib spreader you've kindly hidden under that cloth.' 

' That I know how to use,' Crystal says confidently.  'Slow and easy.  Done it plenty of times before.'  

'They're already weak from the accident,' Roger says.  'They'll probably break under the spreader, no matter how careful you are.'  

Brian leans heavily against the wall, his blood running cold at the thought.  There is a reason he no longer carries out work with live patients.  Too squeamish.  His subject matter for the past decade can only be identified by serial numbers and vital statistics.  That is how he prefers it.  This is too personal.  He busies himself by pulling on some surgical gloves.     

'I won't feel it; any of it,' Roger adds, sensing the mood in the room has dropped.  'Not 'til afterwards.  I can live with broken ribs.  I have lived with them...'    

Crystal continues.  'I'll need to collapse the lung to remove the lower lobe.  I've performed a few emergency lobectomies in my time, so I know what I'm doing.'  He turns to Roger, frowning as he remembers something.  'Will you need a chest drain when the procedure is complete?'  

Roger sighs, massaging his ribs.  'That'll have to be your judgement, but I'll probably need one for drainage for a couple of days.  Best have one ready to fit.'  

Crystal hops off the bed and rummages through the cabinet.  Roger meets Brian's eyes, managing a smile.  'It will be fine,' he says, his tone light.  Forced.  Brian wants to believe him all the same.  He turns and reads through the notes again, knowing he already has them memorised.  Not as confident now the time has arrived, but aware that Crystal is relying on him more and more.  

'We should get started,' Crystal says, his words tight as he wires the blond up so that his heart rate can be monitored.  It is understandably elevated, belying his outwardly calm demeanor.  The machine beeps noisily, filling the silence until Crystal switches the sound down. 

Roger closes his eyes and breathes deeply, pulling his legs up to lay on his back on the table.  The first time he has been able to lay on his back and still be able to breathe for weeks.  He stares up at the low ceiling.  'It will be fine,' he repeats, sounding small as Crystal braces him with several of the rolled up blankets.  'You ought to put sheets over the blankets to stop any airborne fibres getting in the incision,' he adds. 

Brian watches as Crystal places another rolled up blanket beside the prone man's legs.  Crystal nods.  'We'll put them on and this in place once you've been intubated.  Brian will administer the anaesthetic now, if you're ready?'  

Roger nods, his jaw clenched.  His eyes follow Brian's hands as he hooks up the drip, his feet restless as he waits for it to take.  His sudden silence bothers the tall man as it shows how nervous the surgeon really is.  He squeezes Roger's hand.  'Soon be over, Rog.' 

'For me, maybe; for you it's just the beginning.  You won't be offended if I keep my fingers crossed, will you?' Roger asks, chuckling softly, his eyes flitting nervously between both Brian and Crystal while he waits.  He lifts his tethered hand and drops it with a huff, his forehead pinched.  His words are slurred, growing fainter as he keeps talking to fill the uncomfortable silence.  'I think this could possibly be the worst part yet.  I've no control over what happens next and I hate it...but please look after...look after each other, won't you?'  His fingers grasping the blanket at his side fall lax before his eyes roll back, his jaw slack as he loses the last grasp of consciousness.   

Crystal passes Brian a mask without taking his eyes off their patient.  He swiftly moves to the head of the table, tilting Roger's head back so that he can be intubated.  He has prepared thoroughly, able to perform the procedure without having to move from the spot once he starts because everything is within reach.  He carefully tapes cotton pads over the unconscious man's eyes, brushing his thumb against his slack jaw as his chest rises in time with the hiss of oxygen.  'Keep his airway open while I get him positioned,' he says quietly, sparing Brian a quick glance.  

Brian puts his hands either side of the blond's head, keeping it straight while Crystal turns him onto his side, using the rolled up blankets to brace him front, back, and between his legs.  He follows Roger's advice and covers them with sheets.  He pulls the knee of his lower leg, angling it at the hip before he gets his upper leg braced out straight with the pillow.  He pulls Roger's upper body further over, positioning his lower arm so that his hand is up by his head.  Brian watches as the ex-navy man's own hands still on Roger's upper arm, squeezing lightly.           

'The range isn't great in his bad shoulder,' Crystal says, sounding weary before they have even started.  'That damned pin was a nightmare with the x-ray.  We're going to need more blankets or sheets to brace him to ensure he stays in place if I can't get him in the right position.  I don't know if we have more.  I don't usually prep the patients...'. He falters.  

'Tell me what you need,' Brian says, ensuring he does not sound as dismayed as he feels inside.  'What would you normally do if you can't brace the patient with blankets?'   

Crystal looks up at the strong tone, matching it.  'I can strap it with bandages,' he says, nodding to himself.  'We'll just need to carefully loosen it when it comes time to close.  That will work.'  

'Good,' Brian says, sensing Crystal needs verbal encouragement now that Roger is not able to give it.  He adds a note to Roger's page on the wall to remind them.  'I can put the catheter in once you've finished positioning him.  We're still on track.'  

The words have the desired effect.  Crystal moves with more purpose, carefully strapping Roger's bad arm over the edge of the table so that his ribs are exposed, ready for the surgery.  He takes a moment to get his equipment ready while Brian finishes prepping the patient.  Crystal cleans the area he is about to cut into with a wipe, sparing a moment to press his trembling hand over the ribs as they expand with the hiss of oxygen.  He closes his eyes, appearing emotionless behind the mask.  

Brian knows not to trust appearances.  He is thankful that the ex-navy man's hand is steady when he picks up the scalpel.  'I'm glad you're here,' he says.  'I don't know what I'd do if you weren't.' 

'I was thinking the same thing,' Crystal replies, his voice strong.  He leans confidently in to make the first incision. 

Chapter Text

Brian sets a rhythm with his checks during the operation, finding it easier to focus on what needs to be done rather than worry about who he is caring for.  He settles on six minute intervals, counting it out in his head as he runs through each check regularly.  Methodically.  Pulse, blood pressure, respirations, pupil dilation, oxygen saturation levels, temperature.  He notes the figures on gridline paper to ensure any anomalies can be seen easily.  He has only made the mistake of looking at Crystal’s handywork once, his knees turning to jelly almost immediately upon seeing the dissection of flesh and muscle.  He will not make the same mistake again.  He does not want to throw up in the facemask that is pressed painfully against the bridge of his nose.  He does not want to pass out.      

Crystal keeps him updated on what stage he is at so that Brian can consult the notes pinned to the wall.  His voice is loud in the near silence of the room.  Not as loud as the rib spreader was when it was cranked.  When the lower rib was broken once again.  Brian will never forget that noise.  Pulse, blood pressure, respirations, pupil dilation, oxygen saturation levels, temperature.  The air in the compact operating theatre appears thin, suffocating, a cloying, lingering, burning stench that must be in Brian’s mind because he is still unable to breathe through his nose, let alone smell anything.  He has never thought of himself suggestible before.  He spies the thin tendril of smoke rising in the corner of his eye from where Crystal uses the electrocautery tool to cut through muscle.  You can’t smell it.  Brian swallows, pleased he cannot actually smell the burning.  He continues counting in his head.  Counting and monitoring to keep his troubled mind occupied.    

Pulse, blood pressure, respirations, pupil dilation, oxygen saturation levels, temperature.  Brian frowns at a tiny irregularity in Roger’s blood pressure.  It has dropped slightly.  Not enough for concern.  Not yet.  Perhaps just warranting a quick recheck before he moves on.  Still low, even a second time.  Brian moves on, frowning.  The respirations are firm in the lung that has not been artificially collapsed, with no leakage from the tube down Roger’s throat.  Brian carries on, sinking back into a haze of autonomy.  He places the thermometer in Roger’s ear for what feels like the hundredth time, his frown increasing as it beeps with an unexpected reading, interrupting his meticulously timed checks as he falters.  His temperature has risen slightly.  Not too much, but enough to cause a faint jolt of alarm.    

Pulse, blood pressure, respirations, pupil dilation, oxygen saturation levels, temperature.  Crystal eventually places something in a tray on the table, making a noise of satisfaction as he does, breaking through Brian’s brief concern.  ‘I think that’s all of it,’ he says, his eyes crinkling as he smiles with relief beneath the mask.  He quickly covers the lobe of lung with a cloth, thankfully cautious of Brian’s sensitivity to blood and gore.  Brian does not return the smile, not when he knows they still have to complete the procedure.             

Pulse, blood pressure, respirations, pupil dilation, oxygen saturation levels, temperature.  Brian continues checking.  Noting.  Tending.  He makes minor adjustments to the anaesthetic as and when he feels it is required.  The soles of his feet ache terribly from being on his feet for so long, but he does not complain.  The flash of blue each time he removes the tape holding the cotton pads over the unconscious man’s eyes is enough to still his nerves.  It works for a while.  Pulse, blood pressure, respirations, pupil dilation, oxygen saturation levels, temperature.  This time when he checks, Roger’s eyes are tinged with a slightly pink film.  Not both eyes, Brian realises.  Just the left eye looks sore; the one that was completely red with blood following his accident.  Brian hopes it is just sore from a mild irritation and nothing more sinister.      

Pulse, blood pressure, respirations, pupil dilation, oxygen saturation levels, temperature.  Crystal’s voice interrupts his checks.  ‘A quick break before we close up,’ he says, removing his soiled gloves and taking a hurried sip of water before pulling on a fresh pair.  He encourages Brian to do the same.  ‘More than three quarters of the way there now,’ he says encouragingly, watching Roger as he breathes.  As the machine breathes for him, Brian thinks, worrying about the bruising that has reappeared on Roger’s ribs.  It does not look like it is from the rib spreader.  He quickly looks away and makes a note on his chart while Crystal swipes his sweaty forehead on a towel hanging close by.         

Brian considers sharing his concerns, but the ex-navy man appears tense as he spares a glance over to the notes on the wall, probably worried he has forgotten something without Roger to prompt.  Brian clearly remembers Crystal’s earlier breakdown and decides not to add to his burdens.  It is too late to stop the procedure now, even if something was wrong.  They must keep going.  Pulse, blood pressure, respirations, pupil dilation, oxygen saturation levels, temperature.  He begins his checks from the start as Crystal starts stitching the layers back together.         

It is going reasonably well, for a while.  Pulse, blood pressure, respirations, pupil dilation, oxygen saturation levels, temperature.  Pulse, blood pressure, respirations, pupil dilation, oxygen saturation levels, temperature.  Pulse, blood pressure, respirations, pupil dilation, oxygen saturation levels, temperature.  The walkie-talkie placed on the stainless-steel table chirps into life, interrupting Brian’s careful monitoring.  Freddie’s voice is loud and clear when he announces the arrival of something in the water.  Brian does not need to ask what the something is, especially when Crystal pushes away from the operating table with a gasp. 

‘No, no, no!’ he growls weakly, his back pressed firmly against the wall.  The creature can be heard screeching down the corridor.  She is too close, no longer in her tank.  She does not come for Roger.  Her attention is elsewhere.  The scar on Roger’s shoulder changes from a healthy pink to a dark red, similar to when he was discharged from the hospital.  Brian gasps, looking up to find Crystal has also noticed the regression.  ‘She’s breaking her hold,’ he whispers, his eyes fearful.  The heartrate monitor alarm shrills noisily before it falls back into an increased rhythm.                

A loud clang vibrates through the hull of the submarine.  It rings deafeningly in the small room.  Roger’s notes flutter silently to the ground, disturbed by the sudden shift.  Brian collects them up, his attention caught as he watches Crystal make a move to the door.  ‘Where are you going?’ he asks, his voice hoarse from disuse. 

Crystal moans, clutching at his stomach, his hands slipping lower until they press over his groin.  His problem is obvious against the gown.  ‘I can’t close,’ he gasps.  ‘I’ll end up killing him in this state.  Brian, I can’t…we must get rid of her now before they bloody sink us!  Get him closed up quickly before she leaves, for god’s sake!’  He unfastens the door, staggering through the gap before securing it behind him.  His sharp cry of torment is muffled by steel.    

The oxygen feed hisses in the silence of the room.  The heartrate monitor beeps steadily.  Brian gapes at the door, feeling the submarine lurch unsteadily in the water.  He grasps the edge of the operating table, quickly bracing Roger before another clang resonates through the thick hull.  They are trying to get in.  Crystal has only half finished stitching Roger back together.  One arm free now that it is no longer bound to the edge of the table, the blond is unstable and must be carefully braced as the sub lurches again.  Crystal is right; they will stand no chance of getting Roger out of this alive if they sink.     

Brian holds the patient steady and finally looks directly at the long surgical incision.  Red, raw, and glistening in the overhead light.  He swallows down nausea and the urge to curse Crystal for putting him in this impossible situation.  Roger needs you.  A cold sweat breaks out on his brow, his mouth dry as he picks up the needle discarded by Crystal in his haste.  The ex-navy man had almost completed another layer before they were rudely interrupted.  All Brian has to do is finish closing the last few layers of the wound, a task he has performed in the past. 

The knowledge that he has done it before ought to be reassuring but Brian is assaulted by the memory of passing out during the last surgery he attended shortly after university.  It had been a simple repair to a compound fracture, not even related to neurosurgery, his chosen field.  He had been helping out to get some surgical time under his belt.  He baulks, squeezing his eyes shut as he remembers the humiliation of being roused by smelling salts in front of the other graduates.  

Think of it as an intricate puzzle; that’s what I do.  That is what Roger had told him in the pub later as he recalled the incident with mortification.  The blond had not laughed as Brian thought he would; instead, he was sympathetic and kind, trying to suggest ways in which the young, aspiring brain surgeon could get past his squeamishness.  Just focus on the section you’re working on, not the living person underneath it all.  Don’t give up so soon, Bri.  You’ll get used to it, eventually.  But Brian had never been able to get used to it.  He soon gave up, finding research much easier on his stomach.  If Roger was disappointed at Brian for doing so, he never let it show.  Unlike Brian and his outwardly verbal dislike for Roger’s chosen profession, Roger has always been supportive.  Some friend you are, Brian thinks.  Giving up when the going gets tough has always been easy, hasn’t it?   Well, you’re not bloody well giving up on him now.                 

Brian breathes deeply, adjusting his gloves.  Crystal has already done the hard part.  All that is left is suturing flesh and skin.  Brian has done that before; he can do it again now.  It does not mean he will particularly enjoy the task, but some discomforts must be tolerated out of necessity.  With courage.  

He wishes Roger was conscious and able to give some encouragement.  He snaps open his eyes, using the sound of the forced respirations to ground himself as his mind clears from the turmoil.  Roger is here.  Brian looks down at his prone body.  The sub falls silent save for the persistent beeping of Roger’s heartrate and the consistent hiss of air into his lung.  He is still alive.  He can still live.  Chatter on the radio tells him that the creature has emerged from the sub.  Crystal has set her free.  Brian must hurry.  If their assumptions are correct, the link will be broken.  That could mean disaster for Roger if their plan does not work as they hope it will.         

Brian wills his hands to stop shaking, remembering Roger’s past advice.  Think of it as an intricate puzzle; he likes solving those.  Just focus on the section you’re working on, not the living person underneath it all; he can do that; it is all he has done for the past decade.  Maybe he can do this.  He can at least try.  Don’t give up so soon; he won’t give up at all.  Ever.  

The neuroscientist places his elbows on the operating table to remain stable, pressing his face as close to the wound as possible to ensure precision as he painstakingly stitches.  His fingers are nimble as he threads the sutures through the sub-cutaneous tissue and skin as neatly as he dares while trying to hurry.  He carefully counts the beeps on the heart monitor, making a mental note of the reading.  Monitoring the patient with half his attention, he carefully stitches, taking care around the chest tube Crystal has inserted.  He regains his rhythm.    

He is threading the last row of stitches in when Roger’s free hand twitches.  Brian hurriedly cuts the last suture, dropping the scissors on the table with a rattle as he returns to check over the patient to ensure he has not awakened too soon.  Certain agony awaits if he does.  Pulse, blood pressure, respirations, pupil dilation, oxygen saturation levels, temperature.

The door cracks open.  Crystal returns, apologetic.  Brian spares him a glance as he replaces his mask and gloves.  He does not need to ask if the creature has gone, not when the man on the table looks exactly as he did the night Brian whisked him away from London, horrendously bruised and far too pale.  Well, not quite the same, Brian thinks, looking at the large stitched incision that now runs from under his chest to his shoulder blade.  His stomach does not flip as it would normally; it remains as steady as his hand.    

‘Oh, Brian, you absolute beauty,’ the ex-navy man says, his voice thick with emotion as he checks over Brian’s meticulous handiwork.  His hand ghosts the sutured wound before settling on the unconscious man’s hip.  ‘He’ll be more than happy with that.’    

Brian dares to smile at the unexpected praise.  He glances at the cloth covering the cancerous lobe of lung on the table next to him.  ‘I just hope it’s worked,’ he says, his voice barely a whisper. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do if it hasn’t.’  Crystal makes a small noise to suggest he agrees with the morbid statement.  All they can do now is wait.                   

Chapter Text

Three weeks later…

Brian shifts in his chair to allow a group of young barrister’s passage to the pub’s rear door.  He assumes they are barristers; this part of London is awash with them and they seem to have enough disposable income to afford to drink on a school night.  They are noisy as they boisterously shove each other past the duo.  Crystal glowers at them as he deshells monkey nuts in an ashtray on the flimsy metal table.  It is too cold to really enjoy the small patio area offered by the pub, but they are not there for enjoyment.  They are waiting. 

‘He’s been in there too long,’ Crystal says, his full focus on the mound of shells as it topples with the impact of his palm on the table.  He picks up his pint, putting it back when he finds it empty.  Nerves have made him thirsty.   

Brian pulls his coat tighter around his shoulders, glancing at the tall building on the opposite side of the passage where Roger is being put through a barrage of tests by the cancer specialists.  His hands feel the concealed item in his pocket that burns, waiting to be presented.  ‘I’m sure they have a lot of questions,’ he says, distracted.      

‘I have a lot of questions,’ Crystal mutters.  ‘Only mine cannot be answered by specialists who make more in a day than I make in a month.’

Brian senses it is not financial matters Crystal is worried about.  Having just sold his flat in central London to purchase a property in Cornwall with Roger, Crystal does not have money concerns, if he had any before.  He could be a secret millionaire for all Brian knows.  Nothing about the ex-navy man would surprise the neuroscientist.  Not anymore.      

Brian enters the bustling pub, fights his way to the bar, orders Crystal another drink to keep him occupied.  He senses the ex-navy man has something on his mind but is hesitant to talk about it.  Brian can’t say he isn’t disheartened to find Crystal’s remoteness so painful.  He thought they had grown closer. 

He pushes the fresh drink under the gruff man’s nose as he returns to the table.  Crystal thanks him, sighing deeply.  ‘I haven’t been sleeping well,’ he admits, rubbing at his eyes.  ‘I’m sorry we haven’t had a chance to talk since we got back to London.’        

‘You’ve been busy, as have I,’ Brian says.  He has spent more time in the laboratory in the past two weeks than he ever has before.  He has been working on something important.  ‘How’s your new house?’ 

‘Idyllic,’ Crystal admits, softening at the subject.  ‘Less hustle and bustle than this place, that’s for sure.  Rog is on about opening some sort of retreat in a boathouse at the end of the garden.  Somewhere for his patients to relax and recover following surgery.’ 

‘No doubt charging them an absolute arm and leg to do so,’ Brian adds, smiling. 

Crystal gives him a wry grin in return.  ‘The boy knows his worth; nothing wrong with that.  I don’t tell him he’s right.  His ego is hard to manage at the best of times.’

Brian laughs lightly.

Crystal takes a swig of his beer, staring into the foam head as it slips down the side of the glass.  ‘I keep finding him in the garden at dusk,’ he says quietly.  ‘Dressed in his pyjamas in bloody freezing temperatures…’      

‘I had the same problem when I first took him to the cabin,’ Brian admits, swilling his vodka and soda in a circle to try and surface the wedge of lime that has sunk under the ice.

‘Something’s keeping him awake,’ Crystal says, poking at a stray monkey nut.  He crushes the shell with the edge of his glass, popping the peanut out.  ‘Yesterday morning he was up to his knees in the river.’

‘You don’t think he was planning on going all the way in, do you?’ Brian asks, looking up with concern.  He has spoken to Roger on the phone every day since they were dropped back on the quayside at St Mawes.  The blond had not been particularly coherent for the first days, but he has seemed fine for the last couple of weeks, excited about moving house, talkative and eager to complain about the shocking décor of his new property.  He refuses to speak of the pain he is in, despite Brian enquiring about it several times.          

Crystal finally looks up from the table, his eyes full of distress.  ‘I don’t know how to help him, Brian.  I know he’s struggling to come to terms with everything…’

‘We all are,’ Brian says, daring to take Crystal’s hand.  He has a thought.  ‘He’s probably worried about upsetting you.’ 

Crystal scoffs.  ‘Ridiculous,’ he says. 

‘I mean it,’ Brian says with conviction, certain he has hit the nail on the head.  ‘He was more concerned for you prior to the surgery than he was for himself.  I guarantee he is holding back for fear that you will worry.’ 

‘He’s a fool,’ Crystal says, squeezing Brian’s hand.  ‘I normally can’t get him to shut his bloody mouth…’      

‘I hope you’re not talking about me,’ Roger says breathily, swatting the back of Crystal’s neck with a rolled-up envelope. 

Crystal scrambles to his feet, offering his chair.  Roger shakes his head, motioning to the wall instead.  Sitting down takes effort he does not have in abundance.  He leans against the wall, smiling when Crystal and Brian flank him protectively.  He takes a moment to catch his breath.

‘What did they say?’ Crystal asks, huffing with exasperation when Roger takes a gulp of his beer instead of replying. 

The blond shakes his head when Crystal moves the glass away from his reach.  ‘I’m parched,’ he says.  ‘They had me hooked up to that bloody spirometer for over twenty minutes.  I’ve never been poked and prodded so much in my life.  I’ll need a new filing cabinet for all the x-ray’s and medical notes I have now.’  He wheezes, catching his breath.    

‘Rog,’ Crystal growls impatiently, leaning in.  ‘The tumour?  What about the cancer?’

‘Not a trace,’ Roger replies, cracking a blinding smile.  He flinches when Crystal looks as though he will try to hug him.  He adjusts the sling with a wince.  ‘Sorry, love; I’m in agony after all that prodding.’  Crystal places a gentle kiss on his cheek instead, holding his hand out to vigorously shake Brian’s hand, a grin on his face. 

‘We did it.  Thank you,’ he says, sincerity in his words. Brian pulls him in and hugs him tightly, a small consolation for not being able to do the same to his oldest friend.   

‘I think the good news deserves something stronger than that watered-down lager, don’t you?’ Roger suggests.    

‘Aren’t you driving back to Cornwall tonight?’ Brian asks, aware that their time together will now be painfully short.  He thumbs at the object in his pocket.    

‘Spending the night,’ Roger says, his words clipped.  Saving his breath.  ‘The Hilton by my old practice.’ 

Brian grins.  ‘Not trying to poach any of your patients back from Tim, are you?’

Roger raises an eyebrow, his cheek dimpling when he grins.  ‘I don’t need to.  My patients have a knack of finding me, wherever I am, remember?’ 

‘Unhinged, the lot of them,’ Brian says, chuckling. 

‘Join us for a drink in the hotel bar,’ Crystal says.  It sounds like an offer Brian cannot refuse.    

The ex-navy man fetches Roger’s Jaguar, leaving the blond in Brian’s capable hands.  They both wait at the front of the pub, Roger leaning against the concrete windowsill, his pale face bathed in light from the blinding winter sun.  He does not have his sunglasses with him.  Brian switches places with the healing surgeon when the group of barristers threaten to jostle him as they leave for the next bar on their pub-crawl.  Brian looks Roger over while his eyes are closed.  ‘How’s Crystal?’ he asks, a hole burning in his pocket.    

Roger opens his eyes, staring over towards Brian for a moment.  His lips twitch into a barely restrained bemused grin.  ‘Aren’t you going to ask how I am?’ he questions.  ‘You had two hours to find out how Crystal is.  I thought you didn’t care about him.’  

‘I already know how you are,’ Brian replies.  ‘You’re struggling to comprehend how your creature managed to leave you so easily in the end.  You’re wondering why you should be lucky enough to have survived what so many other, probably more worthy people, could not.  You’re bottling up your emotions so that you won’t worry the one’s you love, unaware that you’re worrying them even more by doing so.  And you’re in pain.’    

Roger blows out a shaky breath.  ‘You sound like Crystal,’ he eventually murmurs, not denying any of Brian’s observations.  He pushes off the wall when he hears the exhaust tone of his car as it pulls around the corner.  He hesitates upon reaching the passenger door, waiting for Crystal to hop out and help him in.  Brian observes the pinched grimace on his face as he is helped into the passenger seat.  Crystal is right to be concerned; it is clear the blond is struggling. 

The drive to the hotel is filled only with the subtle sound of the radio and Roger’s attempts to mask his laboured breathing.  It sounds better than it did, but the lung is still healing.  Crystal drives them directly to the door of the Hilton, ignoring the angry hooting as a black cab gets stuck behind them.  Brian helps Roger out of the vehicle, grasping his good arm tightly once he is on his feet. 

‘Did you forget the wheelchair?’ Roger asks in an attempt at lightening the mood as he clings onto Brian for stability, taking too long to move for the taxi driver who revs his engine impatiently. 

Roger allows Brian to guide him through the lobby towards a smoke-filled lounge area.  They settle in a secluded corner, away from groups of salesmen and tourists crowding around the bar.  The stench of fried onions is ingrained in the polyester curtains by the threadbare armchair Brian helps Roger sit on.  They both pull matching faces at the second-rate atmosphere in the gaudy room.                       

Crystal brings a bottle of red wine from the bar.  ‘They didn’t have any champagne,’ he says, pulling out a bottle of orange juice from his pocket and rolling his eyes at Roger’s crestfallen face.  ‘Don’t give me that look,’ he adds.  ‘You can have one glass of this, then you’re on orange juice.’

Roger shifts in the armchair, holding his breath.  He may be on the long road to recovery, but he probably feels as though he is riding a child’s tricycle along it.      

‘I’m dying to know how you explained everything to your doctor,’ Brian says, pulling his chair closer.  His knees bump against his companions’. 

Roger licks his lips.  ‘I told them I fell ill on a cruise,’ he says.  ‘I had surgery, but for some reason I cannot recall the name of the hospital or the surgeon…they believe the terminal diagnosis I received in July was incorrect.  Hopefully I can get my license back now that the epilepsy has gone.’ 

‘Aren’t they going to investigate further?’ Brian asks.  ‘You’ve gone from stage four to complete remission, Rog.  They’re not going to let you go without carrying out more blood tests, biopsies, scans – you name it.  They might want to write papers on it.’ 

Roger picks at his sling, frowning.  ‘I told them I was so traumatised, I just wanted to forget about the entire thing.’

‘And they believed you?’ Crystal asks, pouring the wine.  ‘No offense, Rog; but you’re not the greatest actor.’ 

‘I didn’t have to act,’ Roger says quietly, looking up sharply at the noise Crystal makes at his frank admission.  Brian knows exactly what he means.  They are all traumatised.  ‘I don’t think we should forget it, though,’ the blond adds.  ‘I do find myself wondering where they are.’ 

‘Somewhere south of the Isles of Scilly,’ Crystal says.  ‘At least, that’s the last place John told me Freddie and Dominique were heading to.’ 

There is a commotion by the bar as someone drops their drink.  People cheer obnoxiously at the sound of breaking glass.  Crystal shakes his head.  ‘Do you think she’ll ever come back?’  Roger’s question is almost lost in the cacophony of noise.

His early morning dips in the estuary are beginning to make more sense.  ‘You don’t need her,’ Brian says.  ‘You told me yourself; she was like a drug.’ 

‘Better than anything I’ve ever had before, but without the awful side effects,’ Roger admits, scratching at his ribs beneath the sling.  ‘I could do with her now, after the afternoon I’ve had.’    

‘You’re already on the strongest painkillers,’ Crystal says.  ‘Half the time you’re slurring so much when you first take them, I can’t even understand you.’ 

Roger pulls a face.  ‘I only took one this morning,’ he admits.  ‘I wish I’d taken two as I was supposed to.’ 

Brian reaches into his pocket, fiddling with the item concealed within.  ‘I’ve got something that will help with that,’ he says, looking conspiratorially over his shoulder.  ‘I’ve been working on an inhaler that can deliver a strong analgesic to patients in acute pain.’ 

Crystal narrows his eyes.  ‘It wouldn’t have something to do with that thermos full of green-hued brine you brought back with you, would it?’

‘It might,’ Brian replies, unable to keep the grin off his face when Crystal laughs.  ‘There’s one tiny problem, in that the prototype has some rather alarming side-effects that I just cannot seem to eliminate.’   

‘These side-effects,’ Roger says, his eyes boring a hole in Brian’s jacket pocket.  ‘They wouldn’t be of a particularly sensuous nature, would they?’

‘They would.  It’s been a bloody nightmare testing the parameters in the lab,’ Brian admits, his cheeks flushing as he recalls how many times he has had to excuse himself from testing the damned pheromone-filled liquid to relieve himself in the communal toilets. 

Roger chuckles heartily at his embarrassment, grasping his ribs.  ‘Crystal,’ he says, breathy exhilaration in his tone.  ‘Bring the drinks.  Brian’s going to take a tour of our suite.’ 

‘It’s not a suite, Rog,’ Crystal replies, picking up the bottle of wine and helping the blond to his feet.  ‘It’s a disabled room on the ground floor with twin queen-sized beds.’ 

‘Ooh, is it one of the one’s with a wet room instead of a shower cubicle?’ the blond asks, his eyes lighting up when Crystal nods.  He giggles at the flush of arousal already tinging Brian’s cheeks.  ‘Oh, that will be perfect!’