“Yes, of course.” Alaric’s brow wrinkles. “What’s the big deal? If she’s incapacitated or something, then I’ll exercise the bleeding dog for you. I grew up with two standard poodles, almost as tall as me. I do dogs. Anyhow, you’ll be okay for a short walk in the fresh air yourself in a day or so, as long as you take it fairly easy. Gentle exercise will do you good.”
Last time I checked, performing a cha-cha alongside an energetic border collie doesn’t fulfil the criteria.
“And after the two weeks?” Elsa’s a clever dog. Even if we can’t manage the leaps and overheads, I should be able to walk her through it.
“You can build up to your normal exercise routine again.” Alaric’s blue eyes flick down to my T-shirt and exposed arms. The throw he brought was a godsend; putting on a sweater felt like a lot of effort. “Heaven forbid I don’t oversee your return to that.”
After a painful shuffle from the car to the front door, Alaric shouldering my bag and keeping up an endless unnecessary running commentary ofwatch the stepandonly another couple of feetandyou’re doing really well, I crash into bed. He’s still talking at me through the closed bedroom door, but I don’t have the energy to respond. Finally, he gets the messageand, retreating to the kitchen, informs the toaster and the food cupboard what he’s going to eat for dinner.
There’s far more to Alaric Alvin than a pretty face and a savage motormouth. A kind soul, for instance. Not many people would have brought a pillow and a throw for such a short journey. Or come back to the hospital last night to check on me.
He looked at my arms and admired my abs. Gingerly, I run my fingers down my belly, feeling the grooves between my muscles. My appendix was removed via keyhole surgery; the only souvenirs of the trouble stirred up inside are four small square dressings. I run a cautious finger over those, too. The lowest lies below the waistband of my boxers. And then I half-heartedly fondle my dick (a proper wank would be way too painful), replaying Alaric’s casual comment about my abs in my head.
I know I’ve got a good body. Crafting muscle definition takes time and discipline; I’ve had ample of both. Alaric’s not the first man to comment, though I don’t dress to show it off. Nonetheless, I like to think my body makes up for my face, which no one’s ever going to pen any songs about. My nose is massive, courtesy of my dad, and I’ve never bothered doing anything about my bushy eyebrows. At rest, my expression is naturally unwelcoming; I don’t know if that’s something I’ve cultivated or simply how my face sits. My dad’s face, in contrast, is very open.
At least my teeth are good, thanks to years of orthodontic treatment.
Alaric's on the phone now, in the sitting room, gabbling away to someone. His mum, I think, from the sound of it. He’s telling her about our emergency trip to hospital, making it far more dramatic than it was, and then he runs through every hour of the week preceding it and how keen he is to find somewhere back in the city. She must have the patience of a saint. I picturehim curled up on the sofa, no doubt scattering crumbs from his cheese toasty.
I suppose the place will be cleaner and tidier when he moves out. And a lot quieter, too.
"You know, Gerald, most people wake up when someone watches them sleep. But you don't.”
What the fuck?For the second time in three days,I open my eyes to Alaric standing over me, beaming. The gap between his teeth makes him appear much younger than he is. He should still have scraped knees and scabby elbows.If anyone else woke me with an observation that creepy, I’d scope out an escape route.
“That’s the kind of thing people say who collect hair samples from strangers.”
I stretch and then wince, my belly reminding me that, whilst there isn’t much to see on the outside, inside I underwent a proper operation.
“I’ve brought you some toast and half a tin of Heinz tomato soup,” he says, ignoring me. “Heated up, obviously, I didn’t just tip it into the bowl. Although I do drink it like that sometimes, if I’m really famished. Can’t recommend. And ibuprofen and two paracetamols. I won’t be offended if you’re not hungry, though. I’ve grated a bit of cheese in with the soup, because, honestly, why wouldn’t you? And galoshes are rubber overshoes, by the way. I looked them up. You probably knew that anyway, didn’t you? Don’t force the toast down—I said I won’t mind. But you should absolutely take the painkillers so you can shower more easily, and before you ask, yes, you can take them together.”
Alaric thrusts everything at me, accompanied by a cup of tea and a glass of water, before perching himself on the bed. “Patients query that all the time,” he explains before leaping upagain. “And the dressings are waterproof. Tuck in, before it goes cold. I’ll be back with mine.”
He's exhausting and inescapable, especially as he’s in my bedroom, and I’m too lousy to clamber out of bed. I’m desperately in need of a shower; my hair’s so lank and greasy Alaric can probably see his reflection in it. As if that’s not bad enough, I’m pickled in sweat, iodine, and the unmistakable scent of hospital. Cut grass smells far sweeter. What’s more, the prettiest (and most aggravating) man who’s ever laid a hand on my apparentlychiselledabs is sitting cross-legged and uninvited on my bed, managing to both smile, talk, and elegantly demolish a heaped bowl of?—
“You’re staring at me,” he observes, spoon halfway to his mouth. The pink tip of his tongue pokes out, and he gives his glossy lips a self-conscious lick.
“Yes, because you’re eating raspberry yoghurt with crisps mashed in it.”
Alaric’s blue eyes flick up slowly, meeting mine with a level stare. “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. This combo got me through some tough night shifts. We’re trauma-bonded.”
He’s something, all right.
I reach the end of the soup, every mouthful supervised by my self-appointed nursemaid. The painkillers are kicking in, which means a hot shower beckons. As does a bone-deep craving for quiet, for stillness. I’ve peopled way too much over the last day or so, and it’s catching up with me. And Alaric was right about feeling whacked. I could sleep for a week, despite having snoozed the last few hours away. Strangely, he seems to pick up on it.
“Don’t get up too quickly,” he advises, taking my bowl. “You might feel lightheaded. I can hang around, if you like, see you safely into the bathroom, or I can?—“
“I’ll be fine,” I interrupt. “You must have better things to do than babysit me.” And then, because he’s gone way above and beyond and my early kneejerk opinion of him requires some strong revisions, I add, “I should thank you for the lift to and from the hospital, and… sorry for…um…the fallout before all this happened. I… I guess I’m not cut out for…um… having someone else around constantly.”
“You’re doing great,” he protests quickly. We both know it’s a lie.
I remember something else. “You were supposed to be house hunting yesterday, instead of taking me to the hospital. So thank you for cancelling that, too. Do you think that flat will still be available on Monday? Maybe you could tee up a visit for after work.”
“You must be very keen to get rid of me.”
Fortunately, Alaric carries on before I can think of a diplomatic response. Or explore why the idea of him moving out unsettles me. “Not a chance. That will be long gone. You know what the London rental market is like.” He shrugs as if it doesn’t matter. “It’s fine—there will be others. I’m signed on with several agencies, and I’ve already got proof of the credit checks and references and everything. Being a doctor goes a long way with shit like that. I mean, everyone trusts you, right?”
“Only because they don’t know you watch people sleeping.” My stab at humour surprises the both of us. I’m about to add something else, but hesitate, because then he’ll know I listen to the pointless shit that pours from him when I pretend not to.
