Sanchez stared at Dagless, his eyes wide with hurt and anger.
"Succubus?"
Dagless nodded sadly.
"I'm sorry, Sanch. I know this is a terrible shock. But he was a demon, literally sucking your energy – depleting your life force. He had to go."
Sanchez' fists had clenched.
"You bloody fool, Dag! He was no succubus, just a loving young man, friendless and alone in the world."
Dagless reeled back as Sanchez' fist connected with his face, hard enough to loosen a tooth. The doctor clutched at his face, hand raised to fend off his furious buddy.
"I did it for you, Sanch! Your work was suffering. You were tired all the time. We never saw you..."
"You're jealous, you bastard." Sanchez hit him again, harder this time. Dagless attempted to fight back, but the surgeon was enraged, and implacable in his anger: Dagless quickly found himself on the floor and writhing in pain as Sanchez pinned him down, one hand clenched in his collar, the other threateningly hovering over his face, ready to break his jaw.
"What did you do to him?"
Dagless swallowed blood and tried to speak, though with his swollen mouth it was difficult.
"Nothin'. Gave him money, suggested he go to London."
"When?"
"Couple hours ago."
Sanchez slammed Dagless' head down onto the hard ground, pushed himself to his feet, and stood for a second glaring down at his erstwhile friend.
"I ought to beat you to a bloody pulp. Thank your lucky stars I need to find Leslie, otherwise I would."
Dagless tried to speak, but the surgeon ignored him, stalking towards the exit.
"I was only watching your back..." But Sanchez was gone, and Dagless' hoarse words fell on silence...
Sanchez drove back to the flat at speed, thankful the roads were quiet and clear and there were no police around. The apartment was empty of life: Leslie had gone, wearing only the clothes he had been found in, the clothing Sanchez had bought for him hanging lonely in the wardrobe.
There was a note on the bed. Heart pounding, Sanchez opened it with trembling hands.
With a grief-stricken cry Sanchez clutched the note to his chest, tears streaming down his face...
But it wasn't in Sanchez' nature to give in to grief, not for any length of time, anyway. And not when there was a chance of putting things right. After half an hour he pulled himself together, carefully folded the note and slid it into his pocket, grabbed a jacket and left the flat.
Outside he paused, frowning. If Leslie wasn't headed for London, where could he have gone? Sanchez knew he had no family and no home, and he knew very few people...
The surgeon grew cold as a thought struck him. They'd found Leslie on the moor, originally. Surely he wouldn't have tried to go back there? And surely not in this weather? Sanchez glanced upwards as a rumble of thunder and a vicious lightning-bolt cracked the sky. There was a storm only a short distance away, approaching fast.
But it was the only place he could think of. Pulling his collar up against the first drops of rain, Sanchez climbed into the car and headed towards the hills.
Shivering with the bitter cold, Leslie gritted his teeth and pulled himself further under the overhang, trying to shelter from the pounding rain, trying to move his fractured ankle as little as possible. He shouldn't have come up here, it had been a stupid thing to do, but it had been instinct, the instinct of a beaten animal looking for a place to hide. Not that Dagless had touched him, of course, but he felt as though his entire world had caved in on him. He simply could no longer imagine life without Lucien, without his touch, his voice, his loving warmth, the feel of him, moving inside his lover's body... He bit back a sob and pressed his hands to his eyes. Never again...
Sanchez paused at the top of the rise, panting, trying vainly to wipe from his eyes the rain pouring down his face. He'd never known a storm like it: the rain was a solid sheet of water, visibility practically zero, and he was soaked through, as if he'd been swimming fully clothed. He wasn't cold, yet – the effort involved in climbing up here, trying to avoid the loose stones under his feet that threatened to send him to his knees, had kept him warm – but the wind and driving rain were so cold, if he stopped for any length of time he'd be chilled right through very quickly indeed.
Which also meant that Leslie was probably chilled to the bone by now, unless he'd found shelter. And there wasn't much shelter on the moor. Sanchez shoved wet hair back from his face and trudged onwards...
Leslie had stopped shivering. The cold no longer seemed to touch him, and he remembered, dimly, that this was how he'd felt before he'd been rescued that first time. That meant... meant something... what was it? But his mind refused to work. All he could think of was Lucien, all he could see was his love's face...
Sanchez lay on his back, winded and unable to move for a moment. High above him his jacket, caught on the wind-blown tree branch that had slammed into him and sent him tumbling into the small ravine, waved mockingly in the gale. He took a deep breath and pushed himself upright, crying out as the thornbushes that filled the hollow tore at him, gashing his skin through the tattered remains of his shirt and trousers. The tumbling slide down the jagged cliff had lacerated his back and legs, but the bushes had broken his fall: no bones were damaged. Though it was going to take him quite some time to recover.
If, that is, he could actually get out of this place. The walls were very steep... Ignoring the pain from his torn, cold body, he began to climb.
It took him half an hour, and several backslides that grazed his hands and chest, but eventually he hauled himself over the lip of the ravine and lay for a moment, panting. But only for a moment: Leslie had been out in this storm for hours now, and would be close to hypothermic. He pulled himself upright, grabbed his jacket – not for himself, his back was too badly torn to bear anything touching it, but Leslie would need something to protect him from the wind – and stumbled on into the dark.
Sanchez staggered and dropped to his knees on the sodden ground. It was gone midnight: he'd been searching the moor now for over six hours. Exhausted, at the end of his strength, soaked and cold and hurt and aching with loss – how much more could he endure? Could Leslie still be alive...?
He shivered and shook his head, refusing to even consider the idea of his lover's death. He'd know. Surely he'd know, he'd feel it, if Leslie had died. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists determinedly. He'd keep going, keep searching, until he found his love.
At least the rain was slackening a little.
He dragged himself painfully more or less upright and tiredly shoved his hair back from his face, and stumbled onwards...
Moments later a rock shifted under him, throwing him off his feet. He fell heavily, cutting his temple on a jagged stone, and lay still for a few seconds, dizzy and panting.
And then he saw it, illuminated in a half-hearted flash of lightning from the dying storm. A small figure, curled up in a foetal ball under a lip of rock. A small figure in jeans and a soaked shirt, wet, muddied blond hair covering its face.
Leslie.
With a soundless cry, Sanchez crawled to his lover, pushing the hair back from the ashen face with trembling fingers.
"Leslie? Love? Can you hear me?"
There was no response. Panicking, Sanchez felt for a pulse, slumping with relief when he finally found it, weak and slow but there, definitely there. With the strength of desperation he eased the young man from his shelter and managed to wrap the jacket around his still form. Then, painfully, he pulled Leslie into his arms and struggled his way upright. Through the last of the drizzle he could see the lights of Romford, impossibly far away: taking a deep breath and fixing his eyes on the city, he began to walk, haltingly, Leslie held closely to him...
Dawn wasn't far off when Dagless and Reed found him, stumbling almost blindly down from the moor. The doctor rushed forward, helping to support the half-fainting surgeon: Reed carefully eased Leslie from Sanchez' arms, overriding his moaned objections and seating the unconscious young man in the car, wrapping a blanket around his cold body. Dagless looped an arm around his buddy's waist, wincing at the state of him and ignoring the blood that soaked into his own shirt.
"C'mon, Sanch. Let's get you back. Both of you."
Sanchez forced himself into the seat beside Leslie, holding the young man to him, disregarding the pain spearing through him as the car's heaters restored warmth to his chilled body. Dagless eyed them from the front seat, frowning as he watched Sanchez tenderly stroke the boy's hair back from his far too pale face then press a kiss to his blue lips. Dagless very rarely felt anything even remotely approaching guilt, but even he had to admit, to himself, that he had to accept some responsibility for what had happened to the pair...
Sanchez had refused to be parted from Leslie, or to have any sort of anaesthetic: Dagless was forced to cut off the ragged clothing and stitch the worst of the gashes on his buddy's body while Sanchez was focused on every move the nurses made, piling on blankets and making sure they stayed on the patient. As soon as the doctor had finished, Sanchez limped over to his lover's bed and very carefully eased himself under the covers, moaning quietly as his bruised and lacerated skin made contact with the rough fabric, then curling around the young man. Before Dagless could say anything, he was deeply, dreamlessly asleep.
He drifted back to consciousness to the feel of a hand very gently touching his face. Opening his eyes, he found Leslie gazing at him. The young man smiled tentatively.
"Lucien?" It was the quietest murmur. Sanchez groaned as he tried to move, wincing as the stitches across his back and the backs of his thighs pulled painfully at his skin. Leslie immediately laid hands on his shoulders, trying to hold him still.
"Don't move, love. You're hurt."
"... so're you..."
Leslie kissed him softly.
"Only my ankle. And a touch of pneumonia, but they're treating that. It's you I'm worried about."
Sanchez could barely keep his eyes open.
"... 'm OK..."
"You have a fever, Lucien. They think some of those gashes are infected." Leslie chewed on his lower lip. "They'll scar... Oh Lucien, I'm so sorry... I thought... I didn't mean... I didn't think you'd come after me... I thought I was doing what you'd want..."
Sanchez forced his eyes open and managed to raise a weak and shaking hand to his lover's anxious face.
"Silly boy... why didn't you wait and ask me yourself? Why did you believe Dagless?"
"He's... he's your best buddy, Lucien. It never occurred to me to doubt him."
"He's not my buddy any longer. After this, I don't think I want to even see him ever again."
Leslie stroked his cheek.
"But he did come out to find us, and bring us back here. From what they say, you were close to collapsing after carrying me down from the moor. If Dr Dagless hadn't found us, you might not have made it. Neither of us might have."
Sanchez sighed and ran his thumb falteringly over a high cheekbone.
"He's caused us all this hassle and you're still defending him?"
"I don't want to come between you."
"You are very forgiving."
"I love you. I don't want you to be hurt. In any way."
Sanchez managed a half smile as his eyes drifted shut.
"I'll think about it later. When I'm not so tired."
Leslie kissed his forehead.
"Sleep love. I'll watch over you."
The next seventy-two hours were a nightmare for the pair of them, though at least Sanchez spent much of it unconscious. All Leslie wanted was for his lover to be well again, but between fighting off pneumonia and soothing Sanchez when the fever made him delirious, he was utterly exhausted. When the hospital finally pronounced Sanchez to be out of danger and on the mend, Leslie dissolved into helpless tears, crawling back into bed beside his love and simply holding him close, raining gentle kisses over his face.
Dagless watched from the door to the private room, expression cold. He knew he should be feeling happy, both that Sanchez was recovering, and that he was happy. Because he was happy, that was blindingly obvious. But all the doctor could feel was a horrible grinding resentment, a deep and ugly jealousy. He wasn't proud of it. But he wasn't sure how to fight it. He just knew it gnawed at him, that he couldn't bear to see Sanchez in someone else's arms – especially someone as pretty, sweet-natured, loving and mischievous as Leslie.
He began to ponder the possibility of supplanting the young man in Sanchez' affections...
© 2008 Apr 26th Joules