(no subject)

[fwibble]

TITLE: The Hands of Lazarus (4/?)
RATING: PG. Just for the swears
FANDOMS: The Coldfire Trilogy.
SPOILERS: All three Coldfire books. Big spoilers at that. Be warned.
NOTES: Damien. Doesn't. Cuddle.
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He was awake for a few moments before he opened his eyes.

Every part of his body was aching as if it had been exerted in physical combat instead of trying to drive out a Fae-strung fever. That was probably why his eyelids didn’t open at first. Too vulking tired for it, and too dry by far.

Forcing himself to ignore the ache, Damien tried to take stock of his surroundings; soft bed under him, sheets rumpled against naked flesh, sunlight warm on his skin and not as painful as it had been when he had last been awake.

Somewhere beyond the room he was in, he could hear muffled voices and the sound of bustling business. It was muted, but he could hear birdsong outside clearly, a fresh breeze indicating a window was open somewhere.

That was when he became aware of a body pressed snugly against his chest, tucked against him, its legs curved against his, its long, soft hair trailing over his left arm, while his right was holding a narrow waist. His hand was spread on smooth skin on a chest that was notably flat and he shifted his fingers, mentally frowning.

There was a faint, drowsy sound that could have been a sleeping yawn or a waking sigh, and it was definitely far too deep to be any girl. And thinking of that, where would any girl have come from?

It was if someone flicked a switch in his mind.

Long, silky hair trailing against his arm and chest. A narrow waist and flat, smooth chest. A memory of flashing dark eyes that should have been grey staring down at him from beneath that dark hair and above that pale chest.

“Vulking hell!”

He was halfway to upright and his bed-partner had been tipped rudely onto the floor before he realised that the arm which had been resting under vulking Gerald vulking Tarrant’s head was still tied to the post of the bed. And he only realised that because the force of it against his momentum almost jerked his arm out his socket.

“What was that in aid of?” an irate voice demanded from the floor a moment before Gerald’s hands appeared over the edge of the bed and he pulled himself upright. His shirt was open and rumpled beyond recognition, his eyes ringed with shadow and there was a day’s worth of stubble dusting his chin in a way that he would never have allowed in the past, but there was no mistaking the glare as he rubbed his arm.

“What the vulking hell were you doing?” Damien demanded furiously, kneeling on the edge of the bed and reaching across to tug the cords free from his wrist. For some reason, his fingers wouldn’t comply and he swore again.

“What was I doing?” Slender fingers pushed his hand away and easily undid the knots. Damien scowled, rising from the bed and pulling his arm towards him. He winced, rubbing the bruise that was circling his wrist. “Until you decided to have what I can only presume to be a seizure, I was sleeping as best I could.”

“Sleeping,” Damien echoed, looking down at the broad bed, then back at the man on the other side. Gerald arched a brow at him, his arms folded over his chest. “You’re saying you were just sleeping.”

“Yes,” Gerald said, exhaling a sigh. “I was just sleeping. In the bed.” He unfolded one arm and raked a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face. “Dare I ask why you felt I needed to be woken up so rudely?”

Damien drew a breath, trying to force down the rising outburst. “Because,” he said, rubbing his wrist vigorously, his voice terse. “When I said I’d let you... when we... when we did what we did, I don’t remember cuddling being in the fine print.”

Gerald stared at him.

“What?”

“What?” Gerald repeated. “What?” He shook his head, a disbelieving look on his face. “You wake up with your arm around me, and you presume that I wanted to be pinned against your chest all day and night?”

Damien blinked heavy eyes at him, squinting. “You... what?”

“You instigated it, Vryce,” Gerald replied, though the sharp irritation on his face was giving way to something else, his lips twitching. “You honestly don’t remember?” Damien felt a flicker of panic and shook his head. “I was trying to untie you, to let you get some rest.” There could be no mistaking the widening grin. “And as soon as your hand was free, you grabbed me around the waist and tucked me up against you like I was some kind of stuffed animal.”

Damien wanted to protest, but it was ringing horribly true. He hadn’t felt threatened by his surroundings. He’d been warm, safe and tired, not to mention lost in the tide of Karril’s influence. When his brain had switched off, his body had automatically grabbed for the source of the pleasure and held onto it.

“Vulking hell...” he groaned. He didn’t want to look across the bed and didn’t even want to consider what kind of expression Gerald would be wearing. His eyes fastened on his bruised wrist, examining it carefully. “You’re all right?”

“I’ve survived a lot of things in my lifetime, Vryce,” Gerald replied dryly. “I think I can manage to survive being... what was the word you used...? Cuddled?” Damien glared at him, his jaw clenching, and Gerald raised his hands. “I’m fine. Fortunately, you didn’t have any nightmares this time.”

Sinking to sit on the edge of the bed, Damien felt like every ache and pain in his body had flared up again, and he drew a breath. “That’s got to be a first,” he muttered, more for himself than Gerald.

If Gerald thought anything of it, he didn’t say it, and Damien was grateful.

It took him a few minutes to realise that Gerald wasn’t standing behind him. He had crossed the room and was opening the windows that lined it, letting more fresh air in, pausing at the middle one.

“How are you feeling, Vryce?” he asked abruptly, though he was looking out of the window, his palms resting on the sill. He looked so stiff and formal, but Damien saw his hands trembling.

Damien looked back at his wrist. “Better,” he replied quietly. “Feels like someone’s beaten the seven kinds of hell out of me, but I can breathe and move and hell, even throw you out of bed.” He half-laughed but it was humourless, tired. “Definitely a hell of a lot better than I was.”

If he hadn’t been listening for it, he wouldn’t have heard the faint, relieved sigh.

“Next time,” Gerald said, and though his voice was cold, Damien couldn’t hide the faint smile. “Be more careful. I won’t always be around to save you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, struggling to his feet. He drew a sharp breath as muscles that had been overexerted for hours on end were put to the proper use and joints cracked and popped into place. “Damn...”

By the window, Gerald’s head had swung around. “What?”

Damien shook his head, rolling his shoulders back. His spine clicked noisily, another breath hissing through his teeth, and he risked taking a step on legs that felt like they were on fire from pain.

“Vryce?”

“Just stiff.” Damien managed to catch himself against the wall of the room when his thigh muscles cramped up. “God damn it!” A warm hand was suddenly on his arm, helping him upright again, and he looked up to find dark eyes watching him with open concern. “I was resting.” he muttered defiantly.

“And last night, you didn’t cuddle me like a little girl would her ragdoll,” Gerald countered, pulling him towards the bed and forcing him to sit down. Damien spat an epithet at him, but it lacked venom and Gerald rolled his eyes. “Rest.”

“I did...” Damien started to rise.

“Well, stay there,” Gerald said firmly, a warm hand on Damien’s shoulder making him sit again. “I’ll have them draw a bath for you and get you some food. Posturing for no reason isn’t going to help when you’ve exhausted your body to the state its in.”

Damien looked away. He knew he was acting like a child, but he was tired of not being able to do anything on his own out of his own body’s weakness. Before Gerald had stepped into his life, he had been alone a lot, injured frequently and he had dealt with it by himself. And while he did appreciate Gerald’s presence, it wasn’t his nature to let himself be cosseted and nursed.

“I’ve had worse,” he muttered.

It was a lie, and judging by Gerald’s raised eyebrow, he knew it too.

Lifting his chin imperiously, he gazed coolly down at Damien. “You are a stubborn fool, Vryce,” he said. “But I give you this promise; if you move from that spot before I get back and I have to drag your pitiful carcass off the floor one more time, I will tie you to the bed again and leave you there.”

And without so much as a look back, he turned and strode from the room, the threat and promise hanging in the air.

Damien had to smile faintly at Gerald’s generosity. The one-time Sorcerer and Prophet understood people. How could he not? A thousand years of experience had to have left some impression, and he could read people’s emotions like other people read books. Clearly Damien’s discomfort was palpable, so he had done the only thing he really could to ease it; treated him like he always had.

That was why Damien was still sitting where he had been directed when Gerald returned, slowly flexing and stretching his muscles, trying to ease the cramps and aches from every one of them.

When Gerald stepped back into the room, his eyebrows arched upwards and Damien saw his lips twitch.

“Couldn’t move if I wanted to,” Damien said flatly. “Nothing to do with you.”

“Of course not,” Gerald replied, kicking the door shut behind him. He was carrying a basket under one arm and a pitcher in his other hand. He placed the latter on the cabinet beside the bed.

Thrusting the basket into Damien’s hands, he made for one of the tables that stood under the windows, retrieving two wooden goblets, which he filled with thick, rich-scented liquid from the pitcher.

Damien, meanwhile, was looking through the basket, which contained a selection of dried meats and breads, plus some unfamiliar fruits. He picked one up and bit into it, his stomach almost growling in relief.

“Take your time,” Gerald suggested, placing the cup down beside him and replacing the pitcher on the cabinet. He was cradling the second goblet in his own hand, though he made no move to drink, nor to take anything from the basket. In the face of Damien’s co-operation, what fire he’d had left seemed to have fizzled out.

Damien scooped up a bread roll and shoved it into Gerald’s empty hand. “If I’m going to eat,” he said flatly. “You’re going to eat. You’ve been exhausting yourself as much as I have.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Gerald retorted, but it was almost habitual, his voice quiet.

“Your hair is a mess, you haven’t shaved and you look like you’ve been sleeping in a ditch,” Damien’s voice was almost as quiet, but doubly firm. “You’re tired. Sit down and eat something.”

It was a sign of how fatigued they both were that when Gerald sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and his knee nudged Damien’s, Damien neither moved his own leg nor protested about the closeness.

In silence, they both ate and drank, though neither of them as much as they probably should have. Damien had managed to drink a second cup of the thick, strong cordial when he next looked at Gerald, feeling marginally more human.

“You look like hell,” he observed. “Did you get any sleep in...” A frown creased his brow. “How many days is it anyway?”

As he swirled the contents of his cup, Gerald’s mouth twitched. A strand of hair slipped over his shoulder and fell to his lap, but he made no move to push it back. “Four days since the fever took you,” he said quietly.

Damien stared at him. “Vulking hell...” he whispered, looking down at his hands with fresh eyes. The bones seemed to protrude more and a glance at his torso showed the same; weight had shrunk from him, burned out by exertion.

As bad as Gerald looked, he was starting to suspect he would look even worse.

“Why do you think I suggested a bath and food, Vryce?” Gerald didn’t turn to look at him, but he could see the gleam of the dark eyes watching his face. “I could hardly let you scare the populace by displaying you in your present state.”

“Bastard,” Damien muttered.

Gerald laughed softly. “On occasion,” he replied. Stooping, he placed his cup on the floor and rose. “I’ll check on the bath.”

Stifling his reply with a mouthful of sweet meat, Damien waited until Gerald had slipped into the next room before scrutinising his aching body more carefully. Ever since the second sea voyage, he had been leaner than he’d liked, but now...

Every breath raised ridges of his ribs against his skin. The dark tan only made his freshest scars stand out in stark relief, pale and ragged. His arms looked wasted, thin, with jutting joints, and he suspected it would be a long while before he was back to full strength.

One hand touched the pattern of slashes on his forearm, the healing tissue still raw and tight. He could remember a day when he would have been able to close such a wound in moments, but things had changed. At least two weeks of recovery before the fever struck and the wounds were still not completely healed.

“Vryce.”

Looking up, he wasn’t surprised to see Gerald watching him. “Not used to this,” he said quietly.

“Who is?” Gerald countered dryly, crossing the floor. He hesitated for a split-second before extending a hand, which Damien grasped at once. It was so slender, yet as he was pulled upright, he was reminded of Gerald’s prior form, so delicate yet stronger than any man. “Can you walk?”

A sarcastic response rose automatically, but Damien’s stumbling feet stifled it before he could give it voice, and he felt that narrow body slip under his arm, guiding him towards the bathing chamber.

The tub was large, round and deep, filled with steaming water. Damien could see the shimmer of scented oils on the surface. He slanted a look at Gerald, who shrugged as if the faintly floral aroma had been nothing to do with him.

“I’m good from here.”

The sound that Gerald uttered sounded part hiss, part snort. “Do you honestly think I intend to risk you drowning yourself after I’ve spent the best part of a month keeping you in one piece?” he inquired.

Damien stared at him. “You’re telling me you’re what? Bathing me now?”

“Call it a preventative measure against death,” Gerald said dryly. “You’re weak as an infant, Vryce, and if you’re not man enough to admit it, the fact I could force you into that tub and hold you there should stand as proof enough.”

Damien glared at him. “You could try.”

“I could,” Gerald agreed. “But I’d rather not.” He looked at Damien seriously. “I want to see you refreshed and back on your feet again. The sooner, the better for both of us. We didn’t go to that mountain so we could bicker about baths in miserable wayside inns. ”

Reluctantly, Damien nodded. “You’re going to have to keep my head up,” he admitted grudgingly, wincing as Gerald helped him towards the side of the bath.

With effort, he was tipped into the tub, hissing through his teeth as his body coated with days of dirt and perspiration was plunged into the steaming water, every ache screaming out then fading to a dull roar.

A slender arm was under his neck, supporting him as water lapped against his throat and jaw, but that wasn’t important. He felt like he could stay semi-submerged for hours, days even. Being clean was one thing, being clean and free of the aches that had been jabbing at him since he had woken was another.

Closing his eyes, he felt warm water poured over his salt-crusted hair, and shuddered at the tickle of the liquid running over his scalp, plastering greying strands to his temples and the back of his neck.

Again and again, water streamed through his hair, then he felt thin fingers untangling it. A cool lotion was rubbed through the knotted strands, firm fingertips kneading and rubbing his scalp until he was sure he was relaxing into sleep there and then.

Of course, then a pitcher of water was tipped over his head unceremoniously and he almost jerked upright, spluttering in shock. Wiping his face with a hand, he squinted at Gerald, who was kneeling by the tub, an amused look on his face.

“I said I’d help. I didn’t say I’d let you fall asleep in my arms.” Shaking back his hair, Gerald rose on his knees and retrieved a sponge, ignoring the glare directed at him. “Do you still want help?”

Grunting some half-cogent response, Damien glowered at the other man.

Taking it as acquiescence, Gerald helped him sit up and, in silence, started to scrub Damien’s torso. Underneath the sponge, Damien’s muscles twitched and spasmed with sharp bursts of pain, but he clenched his teeth and made no protest.

Leaning over the side of the tub, his left arm crossed over the front of Damien’s chest and under Damien’s right arm, Gerald seemed focussed entirely on his task, his touches firm, but as gentle as they could be on the wounds that still throbbed fiercely.

It certainly explained why he was apparently oblivious to the fact that his hair was slipping over his shoulders until the long strands were swirling on the surface of the rippling water, causing strange patterns in the oil-hued colours that held Damien’s gaze.

It was almost like seeing the Fae through Gerald’s eyes, eerie light and colour, so ethereal, and to his heavy eyes so utterly beautiful.

One of Damien’s hands uncurled, palm-up, on his half-raised knee, and long strands twined around his fingers, swaying like grass in a breeze.

“What happens now?” he asked quietly, breaking a silence which had only been disturbed by the splash of water and the sound of their breathing. He felt the sponge still on his arm but couldn’t look up to the owner of the hand that held it.

“Now?” Gerald echoed, just as quietly.

With effort, Damien lifted his head and stared sightlessly up at the condensation-misted mirror. “You wanted to tell me. Didn’t expect us to end up like this.” His fingers uncurled, sinking free of Gerald’s loose hair. “What were you going to do?”

He felt rather than saw the eloquent shrug. “I hadn’t given it much thought,” Gerald replied pensively, his voice quiet. The sponge started to move again, lingering over an impressive new scar that coiled around Damien’s forearm. “And you?”

“Me?”

“Did you intend to stand on that cliff until the next impending end of the world?”

Damien almost smiled at that, but only almost. “Hadn’t given it much thought,” he said softly. After all, where could he have gone? What did he have to do? He had no station, no position, and the last few months he had spent sleep-walking through a bleak existence where nothing had mattered.

The sponge moved over his shoulders and chest. He closed his eyes, stifling a sound of pain. Clearly not enough, though, because Gerald’s touch softened and Damien turned his face away.

“Do you want to go to Jaggonath?”

The question made him flinch, though he couldn’t put a finger on a single reason why.

“I have no reason to go there.”

“Vryce.” Gerald’s voice was close to his ear, and he felt Gerald’s right arm around his back, while the left took over the scrubbing. “If you intend to use that as your excuse, then you have no reason to go anywhere.” Under the water, Damien’s hands clenched in tired irritation. “Everything has changed, not simply you. No one is living the life they were living a dozen months ago.”

Damien had no words. He was too drained to argue, to think.

“I think you should go to Jaggonath.”

Brown eyes flashed with weary ire. “Oh, you do?”

Gerald’s eyes met his. “I do,” he said quietly, casting the sponge aside. “Visit the cathedral again. Pray. Let your soul recover.” He rose, a towel caught in his empty hand. “Its a new world, Vryce. Mourning the old, the lost... commendable, but its no way to live.”

Damien did manage a faint laugh at that. “Mourning the old world?” he whispered, looking up at Gerald bleakly. “That’s not why I was there. What I was mourning... had mourned...” He looked away. “It doesn’t matter.”

A hand pressed between his shoulders, so warm, so real. “I know, Damien,” Gerald said softly. He slung the towel over his shoulder and grasped Damien’s forearm with his other hand. “Though I’ll never understand why.”

Pulled to his feet, Damien could not help looking at him in quiet disbelief. “After everything...”

“Especially after everything,” Gerald whispered. “You should have hated me.”

Helped down from the tub, Damien winced as Gerald briskly towelled the moisture from his skin, which had reddened with the heat of the water. “Should have,” he agreed, though his mouth shifted upwards. “But shouldn’t have trusted you.”

“You just can never do what you are told, can you?” Gerald’s voice seemed harsher than it had been moments before, and Damien saw that Gerald was looking anywhere but his face, the line of his jaw tight, as if trying to suppress some emotion.

Forcing a shrug, he said, “I sat still earlier.”

Gerald laughed, though it was mirthless. “True,” he murmured, his dark eyes rising to Damien’s. “You think you can make it back to the room?”

Despite the tension still searing his joints, Damien nodded. “I’ve walked through hell,” he said, aiming for glib, though the fatigue in his voice belied it. “I think I can manage one room.”

Apparently, in their absence, the housekeeper had slipped in, stripping the bed of its grimy sheets and bedding, replacing it with cleaner versions of the same. Damien sank to sit on the edge of the bed with a sound that was part sigh and part groan.

“Get some more sleep.” Standing by the bed, Gerald gently pressed a slim hand against Damien’s shoulder. “You need it.”

If he had wanted to protest, he couldn’t have.

He sank back on the bed, exhaustion overtaking him long before he closed his eyes and sleep dragged him back to unconsciousness.