10. 10.
10.
H ot peppermint and honey filled Folke’s lungs with every deep inhale. His fingers burned on the glazed mug, the stove’s fire almost too hot on his back. Darach had asked him if he wanted to warm up by the fire and, since the shivering hadn’t died down even when he entered the kitchen, Folke thought it a good idea. So now he sat there atop someone’s sleeping bag, curling his toes into firm cotton, his free hand stroking the felted wool lining.
The shivers had dwindled, now only an occasional tremor rocking his body. Mostly, they happened whenever Folke remembered the feel of Darach’s breath rushing into his mouth. He tried not to think about it, but couldn't help returning to that moment. Constantly. His imagination conjured up additional details, too. Like delving his tongue into Darach’s mouth for a more perceptible taste.
Every time the thought occurred, his stomach clenched. And every time his stomach clenched, Folke was overcome with the need to grasp at himself.
He’d not touched himself in such a long time. The impulse never sprang up.
“Oi! You asleep?” Thomas bellowed.
“No’ so loud, Thomas,” Darach said at a more tolerable volume. The two had been discussing vegetables in the kitchen. Something about keeping a garden and if now was the right time to plant potatoes.
Folke sighed. “No.”
Feet stomped down the hallway. From the doorway, “He’s awake!”
He grimaced. “I did say.”
“Speak up then, bloody hell.” Thomas tromped away again.
Folke rubbed his cheek with the base of his thumb, exhausted. It had to be well past bedtime by now.
Finlay’s voice came from the back of the room, “What goes on in that pretty head of yours?”
Running his tongue over Darach’s to steal the taste of tea and bread.
Wanting to touch himself because of it.
A whirl of confusion, since Folke didn’t know anything at all about the man .
“Just wool gathering,” he replied.
“The point of tea is that you drink it, not just sniff it.”
Folke set his lips to the mug, its imperfect glaze reminding him of the other things he didn’t know about. That strange glassy texture in the earth. Who Finlay, Darach, and Thomas truly were. Why they had been out on the hills during that storm.
“That’s it. Now draw it into your mouth and swallow—just in case you forgot.”
“I can and will kick you out of my cottage,” Folke snapped. He set the mug down on the flagstone floor out of spite.
Finlay’s scoff suggested he didn’t believe him capable. He had to be wearing socks, his footsteps muffled. Folke hadn’t heard him come in before, but the pungency of smoke was now a giveaway. Stoneware scraped across the floor near his feet. Folke reached out to a plate with bread and. . .
“Cheese?”
“Nothing wrong with your sense of smell, either.” Finlay groaned, lowering himself right beside Folke. “Eat up. You’ve missed too many meals by the looks of you.”
Folke brought the plate up to rest it across his knees, its edge pressing against his breastbone. The scent of oats and yeast sent another shiver down his spine and heat past his stomach.
He didn’t feel great about eating their food when he’d paid nothing towards it, but Finlay’s threat of eat it or wear it would likely apply to this, too.
“Now take off your sweater and shirt.”
“Why?”
A drag of fabric across the floor, then rustling. Glass clinked. “I told you I wasn’t a very good medic, right?”
“I’m sure you’d be fine if it weren’t for your lamentable bedside manner.”
That seemed to amuse Finlay, his bark of a laughter as harsh as everything else about him. “Yeah, probably.” A brief pause, during which Folke took a large bite of bread. Then, “I forgot about your foot. You stepped on a nail, right?”
Folke struggled to swallow. “Yes.”
“And it was in the barn, right ?”
“ Yes .” He would need to pick up that tea and drink it at this rate.
“A barn full of shit.”
He jerked his head to the right, into Finlay’s direction. “I keep that barn clean!”
“For fuck’s sake— Tetanus . I need to give you a shot. You’re lucky,” Finlay continued, nudging Folke in the arm, “this shot is only available to soldiers, and I happen to have some on hand.”
“Oh.”
The fire crackled behind him, hot against his bare skin once Folke finally removed jumper and shirt, laying both articles nearby. He drew his legs further up against his chest and picked up a piece of cheese. Gave it a tentative sniff. It didn’t have a strong smell. Didn’t taste of much, either. A very young cheese, if nothing else.
Be grateful.
Rationing was still in full effect.
Folke gasped at the sharp jab in his shoulder.
“Hold still,” Finlay grumbled, slamming a hand down on the crook of his neck.
He did his best, not willing to find out where else Finlay would stab him, otherwise.
The needle withdrew from his arm, more painful than going in. A rough hand grabbed his left and yanked it across his body, forcing him to hold cotton wool against his shoulder.
“It’s a jumper , by the way,” Folke hissed in retaliation.
“God damn it.”
Finlay tugged at his leg next, the grip on his calf painful as his foot was robbed of its sock. The injury must have bled several times over. The bandages and dressing stuck to his skin, peeled away in quick, harsh movements.
“I. . .owe you an apology,” Finlay said, and his handling of him eased.
“What for?” Folke tried not to squirm at the gentle swipes of a damp, alcoholic cloth near his toes.
“I’ve seen plenty of injuries in my time. Some so bad, the only thing I could do for the poor bastards was give them a cross to hold and tell them it was okay to let go.” His voice had softened now, too. “Some injuries weren’t as visible. They were more up here.” A tap to the side of Folke’s head. “Here.” Warm fingers tapped his chest next, just over his heart, leaving a lingering impression against his bare skin. “I’ve seen enough of that to know better. I should have recognised it.”
Folke’s heart skittered. “What should you have recognised?”
Don’t say it.
“Your fit. Outside the doctor’s, and the one near the brook.”
Darach had told him. Folke felt a pinprick of betrayal, although didn’t know why when the man owed him nothing.
“I’m just not used to—”
“I asked the old geezer what happened to you.”
Thick swallow.
“What did he say?”
Finlay’s hands returned to his feet, unfurling bandages. “He told me I should mind my own business and treat you with the kindness you deserve.”
A breathless chuckle escaped Folke.
“I should have recognised that for what it was, and I’m sorry.”
Folke took a moment before he answered. “It’s fine.”
Probably.
Fingers roamed up the arch of his foot and settled along his ankle. A thumb stroked over the bone. Once. Twice. Several times more. Often enough for Folke’s mouth to run dry, his foot moving into the touch on its own accord.
His mind replayed shared breaths. Only now, he tasted the scent of tobacco leaf, earthy and herbaceous. And instead of wood at his back, the heat of fire threatened to consume him.
He licked his lips, longing for a drink.
Just a sip. A taste of smoke.
“You can let go now.”
Folke jumped at the nudge to his hand, still pressed to his shoulder. He wrenched it away. Rolled and squeezed the cotton wool in his palm. Drying the sweat that built when Finlay’s hand settled on his other ankle. Slid up under the pipe of his trousers, fingertips connecting with bare skin. Grazing. Up and down.
Finlay’s noise of amusement trailed down Folke’s spine. “You shake like a leaf in a windstorm when I touch you.”
The words made his shoulders hunch as he drew in on himself. He rubbed the length of his thumb across his mouth, hand once again trembling, much like the rest of him.
Not again.
“That just–it just happens.”
Don’t stop touching.
“Does it?” Conversational, with a hint of sarcasm. Finlay didn’t remove his touch, only kept stroking his legs. Up the shins. Down to his ankles. Languid circles around his calves, pulling the hems of his trousers tight.
“You have no idea, do you?” A gruffness had taken hold of Finlay’s voice.
“No,” Folke murmured. Because he truly didn’t have the faintest idea—about any of this.
This need, this longing. This terrible ache in his chest that pushed him to part his legs so he could lean forward. Close enough to hear the man swallow harshly.
He wanted to taste Finlay’s breath too.
Fingers squeezed his ankles hard. Then Finlay sucked in a breath, as though in pain, before the touch left. So abruptly, Folke reached out without thinking. His hands connected with nothing.
Fabric draped over his outstretched arms.
“Put that back on.” Barked like a command.
Folke shrugged into the shirt, but was too flustered to button it up and too hot to bother with the jumper.
Socked feet stalked out of the room.
“Thomas! Out front.”
Something clattered to the floor. Quick feet, still in their boots, darted past. The front door opened. It squeaked, but didn’t shut. Folke pushed himself up, nearly made it to the doorway of the front room when someone else ran past. Finlay, the smell of cigarette smoke chasing.
Among the rainfall and yew tree branches swiping the cottage, a guttural snarl rippled. Then the front door slammed shut and a terrifying silence befell the hallway, drowned out only by the harsh bludgeoning of Folke’s heart.
That snarl .
He'd heard it before.
Folke traced across the wall to the kitchen, where his ears pricked with movement.
“Ye should stay where it’s warm.” Darach sounded no different than any other time, and yet. . .
Something was off.
Folke located the back door and slipped into the rubber boots, his injured foot still sockless and shirt unbuttoned.
“Ye need to rest.” Said more urgently.
He grabbed his crook. Reached for the door.
“ Folke .” Fingers wrapped firmly around his hand, pulling it away from the handle. “Please, stay inside.”
“I need to keep them safe.”
He’d done it before. He had no choice but to do it again.
Darach didn’t let go.
Folke uttered, “It’s the only thing I’m good for!”
Silence, vibrating with the tense thrum of his heartbeat. Then a mutter in Gaelic. A curse, perhaps.
“Wait here. I’m coming wi ye.”
It took all he had not to rip the door open and run. Darach didn’t take long, back in those heavy boots. He started to say something, but Folke bolted outside at the first sound of a stressed bleat. Stones crunched under him as he took a risk and jumped down the steps, his foot throbbing in complaint.
“Stay on the path, Folke!”
He hadn’t any plans to stray, yet the snarls of another wolf stopped him in his tracks. Darach came up behind him when Folke took a hesitant step away. His skin prickled, hair standing on end, the air bristling. Electric. In the constant pattering of rain, the growling intake of beastly breath was unmistakable.
The tread of a paw, crushing grass.
Folke’s grip on his crook tightened in terror despite the arms encircling him, pulling him close against a wide frame.
“Dinnae move.” Whispered directly into his ear, yet barely audible over the rain and the burr of electricity.
A deep rumble rolled across the sky, magnifying into a thunderclap. Its uproar deafening, tearing the atmosphere in half as it struck the earth. So close, a spray of charged dirt singed Folke’s face. Another rumble and the hold on him tightened. The only warning before lightning struck again.
Sharp fragments nicked his neck. He cried out, covering his head with both arms. Another strike, quaking the ground beneath him. He clutched at leather and sank to his knees, bringing Darach down with him to heated gravel. Darach held him tight, shielding him from the worst of the sprays.
The sharp malodor of bleach tainted air Folke desperately gasped for. He didn’t realise the tumult of thunder had finally ceased until the ringing in his ears became painful with silence. Darach murmured reassurances against the side of his face, none Folke could comprehend, shaking so violently his breaths audibly seized.
“It’s alright, Folke.”
Roughness and warmth enveloped Folke’s face, thumbs stroking his cheek. He reached up. Twisted his fingers into fur. Craned into the words of comfort. Not until a bleat cut through the ringing did Folke jerk out of the hold. He staggered upright and to the barn, where Socks and Shawl scampered in their pens. As the ringing in his ears ebbed, the downpour resurged, slanting in a strong gust of wind around Folke’s feet. Drowning out the clarity of voices outside. He didn’t care what Finlay was shouting about, anyway, his free hand connecting with thick wool bouncing under his touch.
Folke tried to reassure the ewes, through his own fright. Thoughts spinning into existence didn’t last long enough to be coherent. He took quivering breaths. Lowered to the hay, the back of his shirt catching on the pen’s wooden half wall. Socks and Shawl crowded in, debris covered bodies knocking into him.
Long after they settled down by him and the trickles of blood dried to tighten his skin, Folke remained where he sat. Fingers tight around the crook. Thrashing heart refusing to slow.