by Harper Fox
“What, another one?” Flynn grinned. “Thanks, but you’ve had enough mud slung at you for one night because of me. If I end up spending the night in Sankerris…”
“I don’t live in Sankerris,” Thomas told him. “I live in a half-derelict watchtower on the cliffs near Morvah. It’s got a comfortable sofa and all-round views. It’s peaceful. You’ll be safe for tonight.”
“I… Thomas, Robert’s not dangerous, you know.”
You could’ve fooled me. Thomas bit it back. If he was, the only person who could find out and have it mean anything useful would be Flynn himself. Probably the hard way. “Whatever you say,” he said again quietly. “So, where to, sir? Bunk two, or Zillah Treen’s B&B—which I believe has garden gnomes—or…”
Flynn laughed. “The derelict tower sounds good, if you’re sure. Thank you.”
The Land Rover’s headlights sturdily probed the night ahead. The creaking, road-rattled silence within it was not awkward, though it had prevailed for the last ten miles. Flynn had left his jacket behind in the pub. Seeing him shiver, Thomas reached to notch up the heater. He wasn’t used to finding anyone other than Belle in his way when he made that move, and his wrist brushed Flynn’s knee. Neither flinched, and Thomas sat up again, repressing a smile at himself. It was one step off a comedy grab for his knee while changing gear.
And that was not the worst of it. In the cab’s increasing warmth, Thomas found himself involuntarily noticing Flynn’s scent, which was warm and real beneath his aftershave. He smelled of his life, of the sea, a faint tang of engine oil sometimes prickling through.
Soon they would be home. Thomas wondered why the prospect of having a stranger in his orderly home overnight was not triggering all his alarms. In fact he felt weirdly serene. His knuckles throbbed, showing him a connection, and he smiled.
“That was quite a punch,” Flynn suddenly observed, as if reading his thoughts.
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“Don’t be. Like I say, it was a bit of a work of art. And he had it coming.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
Another silence fell, briefly this time, fraught with Flynn’s tension. Thomas waited. “All that stuff he came out with,” Flynn said eventually, “about me, and the flying, and… Aren’t you gonna ask?”
Thomas shrugged. The watchtower had appeared on the horizon, its western flank lit by the growing moon. “Assume you’ll tell me, when you’re ready. Will you get that gate for me?”
Chapter Four: Deeper
Flynn stood in the centre of the round living room. Belle was at his side. Thomas saw him reassessing her size, now that he was seeing her against domestic objects, as he had done himself on first bringing her home, her great shadow rising silently on the watchtower’s walls. She liked Flynn, to Thomas’s relief. He hadn’t yet asked her to accept a visitor, but when he had unlocked the door to let them in, she had come to greet him as she had at the air show, her big head down, stringy tail waving. She was carefully sniffing Flynn over. Flynn looked flattered and nervous in equal measure.
Thomas smiled. “Are you two all right?”
Flynn glanced up. He did look a bit thrown, Thomas thought. More than could be explained by the attentions of Belle. “Yes, fine.” He flashed him a smile. “I miss animals, actually. I used to work with sniffer dogs before I started search and rescue.” Thomas waited for him to elaborate on this, but his expression became abstracted once more. “God, it’s quiet here, isn’t it?”
“Mm. Very. Scared the crap out of me at first.” Thomas saw him nod, as if in gratitude for the permission to be unnerved. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Please.”
“Make yourself comfortable. Have a look around.”
There wasn’t much to see, but when Thomas emerged from the kitchen, Flynn was wandering around the room with some of the distracted awe he remembered from his own first sight of it. It had felt—not churchlike, but perhaps the way a church would feel to a religious man. He hadn’t altered it much, beyond a couple of bright rugs, some whitewash on the walls, and such bookshelves as could be sensibly arranged against a curving surface. A bare space, old flagstones cool underfoot. In the winter, freezing. A small electric tank had been fitted to provide his hot water, and other than that, he had been too numb to care.
He held out the glass he was carrying. An ordinary white wine, though crisp and cold. It had been that, vodka or PG Tips, and on some level he couldn’t quite yet understand, Thomas felt he wanted to make a good impression. “Here. Only civilised thing I’ve got. Do you like the place?”
“Oh. Ta.” Flynn took the glass, said suddenly, unguardedly, as if unaware he was voicing the thought, “I love it. I’d move in tomorrow.” He blushed to the hairline and ran a hand into his fringe. “Oh God. I can’t believe I said that.”
I can’t believe I’d like to ask you. Thomas let his own surprise become a snort of laughter, which let them both off the hook. “Nor can I, but don’t worry. It had a weird effect on me, as well.”
“Really? Not that weird, I shouldn’t think.” He shook his head. “Makes me think of—being free, or happy, or…”
He trailed off, but Thomas, wanting to pursue the revelation rather than repress it for their mutual comfort, said quietly, “When does that happen?”
“What—free and happy?” Flynn glanced at him in surprise. “When I was flying, I suppose. Taking one of the Sea Kings up at first light.” He swallowed. “Not that I—well, Rob told you. I don’t anymore.” This time when he fell silent, Thomas could see that a push for more would have hurt him. He nodded, waiting for him to find his way past the moment. His shadowed gaze found the piles of books that had not yet made it onto shelves. Thomas wasn’t sure himself why he let them gather dust in piles on the floor, except that their disorder, unlike every other kind, was somehow bearable to him. Flynn said, smiling, “Did you just move in?”
“No. I…I’ve been here for two years. You’re just my first guest.” They exchanged a look, in which Flynn acknowledged the honour and Thomas some gratitude at not being taken for some lonely lunatic or serial killer. God, it had been two years, and in all that time he had never admitted anyone but electricians and plasterers beyond the vast black-oak door of his fortress. “Is the wine okay?”
Flynn, who appeared to have forgotten about it, lifted his glass. “Yes, great. Where’s yours?”
Thomas smiled. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I have an alcohol problem, as so well advertised by Robert Tremaine. It’s mostly under control, but…I have my moments. I have to take care. Having said that, I will have one glass with you over a meal, if you’re hungry.”
Flynn trailed him into the kitchen. It was small, and for the first time Thomas found himself troubled by his visitor’s presence. He supposed that when he came out here he was very focused—efficient, getting through the business of feeding himself because he needed to, not because it brought him any pleasure. Flynn’s occasional comments, undemanding as they were, unsettled him, distracted him from his efficient assemblage of garlic, onions, chicken fillets. Here too, as in the Rover, he could not get away from his physical reality. Could not turn without his senses flaring to the sight of him, the clean vivid scent…
The second time he dropped his vegetable knife, Flynn shut up and took himself out of Thomas’s way, as if sensing the disarray he was causing. He settled in a corner chair by the kitchen table and picked up the newspaper Thomas had left there that morning. Belle’s gentle, inquisitive nosing around the room, back and forth between them like some mute messenger, kept their silence from becoming awkward, and Thomas began to relax. By the time he was ready to put down the two fragrant plates on the table, his hands were steady again, and he could find a real smile. “There you go.”
“My God. A doctor, and he cooks.”
Thomas gave this thought. He didn’t really think of his meal preparations as cooking. He rotated six or seven basically nutritious recipes, that was all
. But when he tried the chicken, it did seem to have a real flavour for once. He smiled at Flynn over the table, and poured him a fresh glass of wine. “Mmm. Highly eligible, apart from those few flaws your mate pointed out. Can’t think why I haven’t been snapped up.”
“Oh, God. I’m so sorry. I dragged you there and…”
“And he’s not your responsibility. Neither am I. We don’t even have to talk about him.”
“Don’t we?” Flynn looked as if the possibility of not doing so came as a revelation as well as a relief. “You know, that would be nice. He’s been in my face a bit lately.” He applied himself to the food for a few moments, then glanced around the kitchen, back into the living room’s round cavern beyond it. “Okay. This is very good. I like your dog. I like your…I’ve already made it painfully clear that I like your house. How did you find it? It doesn’t look derelict to me.”
Thomas gave him a glimmering look. “Well, you haven’t seen upstairs yet. As for how I got it—very cheap, is the answer. There’s actually a demolition order on it.”
“You’re kidding. Isn’t it listed?”
“It was. It’s one of a chain of towers strung all the way round the north coast. They were used to keep a watch out for smugglers—or by them, to lure ships in with lights, depending on whose legend you listen to. Lots of history. But this one’s about ready to crumble into the sea.”
Flynn’s eyes widened. Thomas noted the expansion of their pupils, and smiled. He looked less fazed than allured by the concept of plunging off the cliff in a welter of masonry. Thomas recalled his own first response to the news of his home’s drawback—a stir in his gut, a tug, like gravity, at the idea of life-terminating risk, a vision of the brief sweet avalanche such a conclusion would be—and he wondered at the qualities of a man who would share his moment of excitement. His ultimate indifference. Flynn said softly, “Will it go before we finish dinner, you reckon?”
“Oh, any time over the next century or so, according to the council surveyor. They don’t seem in much more of a hurry than that to knock it down, which is useful for me—though I rent it by the month, just in case.”
Another easy silence fell. “How’s your friend?” Flynn asked suddenly, breaking Thomas’s reverie. “The one you were going to help the other week… Victor, was it? In the boathouse?”
“Oh, Victor…” Thomas sighed. He thought about reaching for the Riesling, but Flynn’s glass was still full, and somehow the impulse was not as strong as usual anyway. “He’s out of the boathouse, at any rate. For now. Vic’s a combat-stress case. Army. Three tours in Afghanistan, and he’s pretty much destroyed. Drinks too much, can’t deal with people. Shuts himself up in his lair every so often. I’m not surprised it looks good to him.” He fell silent. It had struck him that, barring a few hard-won disciplines and social graces, he could have been describing himself, and he was suddenly afraid that Flynn had not missed the parallels, either. His expression was extraordinary. Thomas thought he had never seen such compassion—muted, bright-eyed, fierce—in a human face. He felt some dammed-up thing inside him start to strain behind its walls. “He’ll be okay,” he said roughly. “If the bloody MoD coughs up his compensation, anyway. Are you finished there? Go and sit down and I’ll make us some coffee.”
Flynn got up. If he minded their conversation’s sudden ending, he didn’t let it show. “Okay. Thanks for dinner.” He put out a hand to scratch behind Belle’s ears, and she paced a little way after him as he left the kitchen, then cast an anxious backward glance at Tom and returned to sit at his feet.
Tom was glad that Flynn had obeyed him without question. He needed, fiercely, to be alone for a short time. He had forgotten the pains and joys of serious, significant human interaction—of talking, about something other than the weather, and of being heard. Barely aware of his own actions, he switched the kettle on and turned to start the washing up.
“Thomas?”
He froze. Damn, he should have tried not to let the cutlery clatter. He might have known that Flynn was too polite a guest to leave him to clear up, no matter how much he needed the break. He went through to the living room, wiping soap suds off his hands with a tea towel. Flynn was kneeling between two piles of his uncategorised books, apparently sharing a perusal of them with his wolfhound. “Yes? You okay?”
“Fine. But leave the dishes. I’ll do them later.”
Thomas looked at him. His presence altered the room in ways Thomas could not account for. Always somehow numinous, now lit by a single lamp in the corner, it had even more of a solemn, waiting air about it, as if any moment it would be filled by the song of angels or mermaids. Well, he could hear the sea, a distant, almost subsonic booming in the cliff-caverns far below.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll just run them through now. It won’t take five minutes.”
“This is quite a collection,” Flynn commented, as if he hadn’t heard him. He was carefully turning over the pages of a 1960s account of the Kennedy assassination. Fascinating, practically written on the day. Thomas found himself more interested in the movements his hands made. Capable, deft. Incredibly gentle. Thomas wanted, with a violence that shocked him, to feel their touch on his skin. His mouth dried out. “Henry James, Thackeray, DIY,” Flynn continued, glancing over the wildly eclectic mix. “And yet everything else is so organised and…” he gestured to the well-scrubbed flagstone floor, to the room’s other surfaces, giving back the lamplight without a trace of dust, “…so beautifully clean.”
Thomas swallowed. He never spoke to anyone about his compulsion towards order. Barely acknowledged it to himself. But Flynn wasn’t challenging him. His expression was kind, as if he already understood. “I know. I feel as if I have to.”
“Like the washing up.”
“Yes. I feel as if I have to.”
Flynn uncurled from the floor. Not taking his warm gaze from Thomas, he went to the sofa, sat down and stretched one arm along the back of it. Crossed one ankle over his knee. He smiled at Thomas, a long, slow smile that left no room for doubt. “Leave it,” he said huskily. “Come here.”
So Thomas came to sit beside Flynn. It was awkward—Flynn had not moved his arm, and the sofa was not large, but he thought he had made a reasonably casual job of it until he realised he was still clutching at the tea towel. The bloody undone dishes tugged and nipped at his mind, and he shivered, trying to push the compulsion away. Normally it would not matter; normally he would not miss much by giving in to it. Tonight, however, a handsome green-eyed man was sitting with him in his sea-washed eyrie—one of the loveliest things Thomas had ever clapped eyes on, now he let himself know it—and to turn away his attention seemed criminal.
Then where was he supposed to focus it? The sofa was quite small, but still there had been no need for him to settle within six inches of his guest, in flagrant violation of both their sets of personal space. If he looked down, there were Flynn’s lean, powerful thighs, encased in their worn denim. If he looked up—if he tried to meet his eyes—they would be…oh, God, shockingly close, nose to nose, practically, one unthinking inch off a kiss.
He forgot about the dishes. Flynn said, “Look at me,” and his reflexive obedience closed the gap.
Another man’s mouth under his own. Thomas sucked in an astonished breath and felt Flynn laugh and choke as it was snatched up from his lungs.
“Sorry,” Thomas mumbled against Flynn’s smile. God, Flynn tasted of sea salt. He was so warm. He reached up and placed a hand on Thomas’s shoulder—an open hand, no restraint, just a palm circling his clavicle, tenderly round and round the protuberant bone, even when its fingers closed, no restraint. And so the choice was Thomas’s, when the hundred reasons why he shouldn’t flickered like sheet-lightning through his mind and he leaned hungrily forward anyway, into Flynn’s taste of sunlight and salt, the evanescent sweetness of the Riesling.
He moaned, taking hold of the edge of Flynn’s T-shirt. His fingers felt clumsy and damp, but Flynn briefly touched the
back of his hand in a gesture of assent and suggestion, his mouth opening under Thomas’s, slow as a sea anemone. Instinct stirred in Thomas, and he shyly let his tongue press inward, feeling the welcoming flutter of Flynn’s before he could recoil at his own daring.
How long since he had touched human skin not brought to him for diagnosis, healing? How long since he had… Oh God, rhetorical bloody questions. Thomas always knew almost to the minute when he had last had sex. A shudder ran through him. “Flynn… Flynn, no. Stop.”
Flynn had closed his eyes, as if in concentration. Now he opened them in concern. “You’re pale,” he said. “You all right?”
“Yes. No, of course not.” Now that his mouth was off Flynn’s—an inch off, anyway—all he wanted to do was press it back, restore the kiss that had made his heart ache and race. Which, perversely, now he had decided that this was an impossibility, had called up his erection as hot and strong as could be managed in the confines of his cords. God, he ached. He wanted Flynn, wanted to fuck him, be fucked by him—he didn’t much care which. “We can’t,” he said, his voice unsteady with regret. “You’re with someone, and I…I’m screwed up, Flynn, beyond bloody human imagination. Not fit to be with anybody.”
Flynn sat in silence for almost a minute, watching him. He reached up the pads of his fingers and ran them over Thomas’s brow. Thomas knew that ineradicable marks of pain had gathered there, and hated them. He didn’t mind looking older, but not like that. Flynn didn’t seem to mind them, though—was targeting them with his caress. “I know,” he said, gently. “You’ve told me—some of it, anyway. And it takes a nutter to know one. You must’ve gathered that I’m not renowned for sanity myself.” He pushed his fingers back from Thomas’s temple, into his hair. He smiled. “As for Robert—yeah, you’re right. It’s a mess, and it’s not over. But technically, for tonight at least, he…gave me to you.”