42. 42.
42.
F aint, ceramic rattling drew Folke toward consciousness. Were it not for the savoury scent of bacon and the clink of a teaspoon, he might have dreaded the inevitable approach to wakefulness. Rousing meant an increasing awareness of the awful throb radiating through his chest, and he groaned. Miserably.
“Morning, Precious.” For once, Finlay had the courtesy to sound sleepy, the twang of his accent as potent as the smell of smoke.
“Good morning. You sound unlike yourself.”
While Folke’s own voice was wretched, as though he’d been struck in the throat. He flexed his fingers, gone numb, his arm pinned under Darach still snuggled against him. Breathing slow and hollow. A milder version of Beithir’s.
“I don’t normally get this much sleep,” Finlay mumbled, now on the bed’s left side.
The great weight marginally lifted off Folke, allowing him to reclaim his arm. He ran his touch over Darach, finding the shell of an ear to caress. “Is he alright?”
“He’ll sleep it off. The last Barghest did a number on him.”
“Christ.” Folke shifted to sit up with Finlay’s help. “How big are they that they even stand a chance against a dragon?”
“Three times the size of you.” Said so casually, yet it left Folke fighting for a coherent response.
“How on Earth did I survive?”
“Fortunately for us, they’re not especially interested in killing things so much as burying them.”
He swallowed against the persistent dryness, remembering. “I would’ve been buried alive?”
“Probably.”
Concern for Thomas, unfed and cold in the barn, promptly withered. Now knowing Thomas would have been happy for him to suffocate, Folke refused to allow himself to care what state he might be in. At least for now .
“Here.”
Hands guided his own around a mug. Breakfast tea steamed over Folke’s lips. Burned his tongue as he took a careless sip. He muttered his thanks, forcing out all thoughts about Thomas before Finlay got wind of them.
With a weary groan, Finlay heaved into bed. Along with a tray, set across Folke’s lap. The faint sulphuric stink of ersatz eggs drifted upward. Rather than eat, he kept hold of his mug. Risked another scalding sip.
Despite the clinch in his chest, despite not wanting to know the answer, “What happens now?”
“Now, we eat breakfast.”
“And after?”
Weariness burdened Finlay’s sigh. “A couple more days, a week at most.”
Folke slid his finger across the nick near the brim of his mug. A fruitless effort to transfer the pain wreaking havoc on his heart.
He’d known this would happen. Had fretted over it, endlessly. Yet somewhere along the way, he had managed to convince himself that what he shared with his lovers wouldn’t be so fleeting.
Saying goodbye would end him.
He knew it now much like he’d suspected from the very beginning and all throughout that briefest of weeks. Questioned whether he’d even be able to let them go. If he would chase after Darach and Finlay and plead for them to stay.
Or would he accept what he’d been given and be grateful for every sweet gesture and tender kiss? Cherish this gift he now possessed and refuse to allow himself to fade away again?
A firm touch stroked down his nape. “Eat.”
It would be rude to let breakfast go cold. The only thing permitting Folke to pick up his fork.
Darach scarcely stirred beside him. Even as, once done with breakfast, Folke ran his palm over a bare arm and back, taking note of the many bandages and dressings. He settled down again. Kept his right arm across Finlay’s thighs, fingers on a knee to toy with hairs. Only for a moment, he’d let himself rest, to bask in the way Finlay set a hand along the side of his head, thumb idle in the way it stroked Folke’s cheek.
“I’m going to have to tend to my Garments soon.”
He would have to find a way to get rid of Thomas, too. Bring him his belongings, maybe something to eat, and convince him to leave.
Lips delivered a kiss to his forehead. Finlay murmured, “I’ll see to them in a bit.”
“No,” Folke said, too quickly. “I need some sense of normality. I won’t overdo it, I promise.”
“Well, some movement is advised.”
Was it as simple as that?
“Although, if it’s Thomas you’re hoping to shield from me, you’re too late.”
“What?” he croaked.
Finlay snorted. “Heard someone take a piss inside the barn, distinctly human.”
“Did you—”
“I didn’t kill him. Only strongly recommended he fuck off.”
Folke remembered to breathe, grateful for Finlay’s lenient nature, and to feel remorse over not trusting him better. “He seemed convinced you’d get over it.”
“I’m not sure what goes on in that kid’s head.”
“Better we dinnae ken, lest we go mad ourselves.”
Caught in the surge of relief, Folke swung his left arm to hold Darach. Regretted it immediately. Strained, “You’re awake. I was worried.”
“Be gentle wi yersel, mo leannan.” Darach remained motionless. Only his hand shifted across Folke’s stomach, a consoling caress. “I’m glad ye’re alright.”
“Same to you,” Folke murmured.
Silence and heavier breaths suggested Darach had drifted off again. Folke almost wished he hadn’t, longing to spend as much time as he could with both men. He laboured upright, only for a hand to find its way to his shoulder to keep him in place.
“Your sheep are fine. I’ll let them out as soon as it’s light out.”
Slender lips left a firm impression against his cheek before Finlay settled beside him under the covers. Warm and snug, pressed into Folke’s side.
He didn’t think himself tired enough to sleep so soon, yet stirred to murmurs nearby. Words he couldn’t comprehend, and it had little to do with his sleep-addled head, or the slog of a dream quickly forgotten. For once, the words exchanged weren’t angry. It was a true, relaxed conversation.
“If you’re both going to keep conversing in Gaelic,” Folke slurred, “you will have to teach me how to speak it.”
Too late did he realise he was asking for time they wouldn’t have together. He worked to sit up, glad to have strong hands help prop him against the headboard, and a pillow behind his head. He reached for Finlay, unwilling to let him leave, wherever he intended to go. His fingers tightened into a jumper. A silent request.
The mattress pinged under musclesome weight as Finlay lowered beside him. A warm clasp enclosed his hand, easing it away, but didn’t let go.
“We were discussing the possibility o’ staying a wee bit longer, if ye can tolerate us for more than a few days.”
In the midst of holding his free hand out to Darach, Folke stilled.
Forced himself to breathe.
Hating the shudder in his voice, “Don’t joke about that, please.”
“We’re not,” said Finlay.
“But. . .your duties?”
Darach huffed in an echo of Beithir’s otherworldly breaths. “Well,” he began. Slowly, as though weighing his words with care. “I telt ye there are none like me. What do ye reckon anyone will do, if I say na?”
“I honestly don’t know.” He wasn’t certain he wanted to find out what lengths this secretive military was willing to go, if they treated the lives of unsuspecting civilians so callously. “You’ll be safe?”
“Aye.”
“It won’t cause us any trouble?”
Finlay mumbled something, and Darach hesitated.
“Whatever trouble comes, we’ll deal with it,” said Finlay, gruff. More nonchalant, “If you’d rather we leave, though, then—”
“No! I want you to stay for as long as you’re willing.”
And let that willingness be forever.
“Right, then.” The mattress transformed into the restless sea. Folke, a boat rocking along its waves as Darach slithered back under the covers to press into him. If he’d intended to say anything else, it fell away with sleep-heavy suspirations.
Folke twitched his head to the right in askance. “Is this normal?”
A faint, humoured grunt. “As normal as things get with us, sure.”
“You’ll stay, truly? You won’t change your minds?”
“We won’t change our minds.”
Fingers caught his chin in a firm hold. A smoky mouth closed over his. Savoury notes clung to Finlay’s tongue, sliding along in a deliberate flourish as if to imprint the answer. Seal it away inside Folke’s mouth for him to repeat until he believed it.
He wanted to, so fiercely it hurt worse than any inhale.
All the same, each time he awoke from yet more rest, the first thing to bolt through his thoughts was whether now was the time they'd need to leave. Even as Finlay allowed him to get out of bed, to wash, to eat, to visit his sheep, anticipation of their sudden departure strung his shoulders into permanent rigidity.
“It’s been three days,” Finlay said to him as Folke occupied the space between him and Darach on the settee. “And we’re still here. Stop fretting.”
“Sorry.”
He welcomed the head that settled in his lap, Finlay’s groan that of weariness. He’d only recently returned from doing a shop in the village, which he’d done after tending to and walking the Garments, and cutting firewood. Running his fingers through wavy tresses still free of oil, the tide of worry that had been so persistent slowly ebbed. Each crackle of the stove’s fire and the warmth of Finlay’s hand on his knee a comfort.
To his left, Darach dozed. He’d intended to read, but the rumble of his voice would lower, his words would slur. He’d fall silent and breaths would deepen. Then he’d startle awake. Carry on reading. Only to drift off again.
Folke did his best to help where he could. He’d started a stew, and changed the dressing on Darach’s wounds. Five were deep enough they had required sutures, the skin surrounding long abrasions still swollen. Overall, he’d counted twenty-seven injuries, the least serious ones already on the mend. Finlay certainly knew what he was doing.
“All done.” He brushed his lips over the side of Darach’s head. Allowed to do so only because his lover was tall enough, despite perching on the tub’s edge.
“Thank ye.” Darach sounded more alert, at least. Virile, in the way his hands glided up the back of Folke’s thighs and settled on his rear. Kneaded, pulling him closer.
Folke failed to stifle the grunt of discomfort, kissed Darach’s hair again at the murmured apology. “I’ll go check on the stew.”
His fingertips slid across a calloused palm, held out for him to touch on his way out. Too long since they’d been intimate. Fractured ribs or not, he longed for those palms to run over his unclothed body.
Barely had his hand squeaked across the railing at the bottom of the staircase, and he heard Finlay shuffle and grumble about in the front room like some crotchety old man.
“I think it may be this cottage,” Folke mumbled for Finlay to overhear. Froze, at a loud knock on the door.
And the cock of a rifle.
Gusts swept a fierce chill through the hallway. “I told you,” Finlay snarled, “we’re not coming back.”
“Hell’s bells!” rattled an elegant, masculine voice. “I’m only here to have a conversation!”
“Are ye now?”
Folke startled, although didn’t move out from under the hold that had come to settle on his shoulders.
“Leave, or I’ll demonstrate why ye should’ve.”
“Or we can let my rifle do the talking.”
The stranger tutted with impatience. “If you could stop threatening me for perhaps a–a minute, I might inform you that I’m here with an offer!”
“Counter offer,” Finlay snarled, “Get lost.”
“Come now.” Feet tapped the wood flooring just before the runner. “We all know that there is too much at stake for you to simply abandon your station for this. . .” A pause. “Very well, I see why.” The stranger cleared his throat. “I insist you hear me out. Or give these tired walls a dash of colour with my blood, and the blood of the many who will come after. One or the other!”
“Please, not the latter,” Folke groused.
The hands on his shoulders gently squeezed.
“Fine, make it quick.” A thunk suggested Finlay had set the rifle down nearby, and the front door slammed shut with an intimidating bang. “Through here.”
Folke followed the three into the dining room, his brows untangling at the strong, citrusy fragrance. It was rather lovely, if not a bit too strong. Although not a scent that would ever suit either of his lovers.
“How the fuck do you know about Folke?”
Hearing his name from Finlay, for what had to be the first time, surprised Folke so much he huffed with a laugh. “At this point I prefer ‘Precious.’”
“I’m Sergeant Barnaby Davies of the Third Battalion, Transhuman Regiment. I’m told you have directly disobeyed commands by allowing a civilian access to prohibited knowledge.”
Folke’s brows purled again. Bloody Thomas .
“Fucking Thomas.”
“Yes,” the Sergeant mused. “An interesting young man. We appreciate your warning about Private Chattaway’s rather tender age and have sent him home.”
Seemed Finlay had gotten a lot done in the past few days.
“State yer business.” Darach’s nigh growl kept Folke lingering by the doorway. Should the men exchange something other than words, he didn’t fancy being in the middle of it.
“Right.” Barnaby must have invited himself to sit, as a chair thrummed across the floor. “How about a spot of tea first?”
“Get to the fucking point!”
Another tut. “You Americans are all the same. Loud and impudent. The only thing more vulgar than your language is your taste in fashion.”
“Tell us why you’re here,” Folke snapped, ire stirring at the insult, “or get the fuck out of my home. I’m sick of your cologne and I promise you that no amount will cover up the stink of your personality.”
“There he is,” murmured Finlay, amused. His heavy stride moved past. Underbreath, “I almost miss that.”
Folke’s lips strained under a smile.
“Oh, very well! The Field Marshal is sympathetic towards your predicament and wishes to extend a compromise. You both return to your duties and in exchange you can keep that rather fetching lover of yours. No harm shall come to him, so long as he keeps quiet, of course.”
Finlay, dubiously, “Just like that, hm?”
“Just like that.”
Folke bristled, being spoken about as though he weren’t right there. Didn’t much care for the overstrung silence, either, unsure what it meant but knowing that this was the trouble his lovers had forewarned. How many more strangers would arrive at his doorstep to make demands?
“Is that all?” asked Darach at length.
“You can threaten us as Beithir all you want, Corporal Whyte, but might I remind you that we’ve long since developed the means of fighting back. In any case,” Barnaby continued, “I do rather hope you’ll be reasonable. Your talents are required elsewhere, already. There are rumblings in Spain and we’d rather your focus be there than on needlessly fighting us.”
“I’m sure there are,” Finlay said with disinterest.
“It’ll be a difficult journey, of course, what with the fascist regime still in control. And you’ll be needing a replacement for Private Chattaway.”
Another chair scooted across the floor. “We’ll see about that. Ye can leave now.”
“Very well.” Barnaby’s refined footfalls drew nearer. Folke barely remembered to remove himself from the entryway as the scent of citrus overwhelmed. Those footsteps didn’t move further.
Finlay, “Go on then, off you fuck!”
“Best of luck to you, sir,” Barnaby said, perhaps only for Folke to hear. Left with a faint click of the front door .
As the last strands of wind vanished from the hallway, forest fire and wilderness surrounded him. Folke melted into their embrace, regardless of the sharp jab in his chest, or the heaviness that formed within his stomach.