Under guard in Lisbon

Padstowe saw the gesture, and for the first time Stephen's weariness and pallor properly registered as a fact of concern.

"Are... are you alright? You look to have been somewhere..."

Which again begged the unspoken question of how long he had been here.

His smile widened into a rictus. "Fine. Good." He nodded vehemently.

That was a lie. But he doubted he could get the doctor to confess otherwise. He closed his eyes, breathing out, feeling the constricting pain in his chest, and despairing.

"My chest... it feels wrong..."

Stephen turned over his piece of paper, and struggled to keep his hand from shaking. RIBS: 3 BROKEN 3 FRACTURED. BROKEN COLLARBONE. He held it up.

"Oh s---."

The oath came unbidden.

"The shoulder...?"

Stephen drew a fresh sheet from his bag - treading the line between truth and comfort was difficult in a few easily readable words. CRACKED SCAP SHOULDER BLADE & REOPENED; PAIN BUT NO DANGER. He thanked the Dear for Whiting - the man had truly done an excellent job.

No danger of what? He hoped he meant of infection; but whether it'd ever work again...

Stephen leant forward and pointedly put his paper and pencil down. "Now. Rest."

Rest. Padstowe did not want to rest; but there did not seem to be anything else he could do. And it seemed the doctor had grown tired of talking to him. He turned his head gently to the side, wincing as he rested his bruised and battered cheek against the pillow.

"I was an idiot," he mumbled to no one in particular.

"No." Stephen leaned forward, and shook his head. "No, Jonathan."

Stephen said something, but he still could not hear what it was, and he doubted he wantedto know either. He closed his eyes, letting his head sink into the pillow, which unusually was fairly soft and comfortable.

"A fool."

"No," Stephen said, laying his hand over his friend's wrist. "I was."

He had slept but an hour or so last night, and little enough (but too much, too much) the night before that; he had ridden forty miles today; he had eaten nothing but a hunk of bread in more than a day; he felt so drained, and so raw. And Jonathan was quiet now, finally resting - they would not be able to talk properly until his hearing returned. He let his head fall forward onto his chest, and closed his eyes.

Padstowe opened his eyes again, feeling the doctor's hand removed, and carefully, very carefully turned his head back. Stephen had fallen asleep, his chin sunk down on his breast. He must have been so tired... but Padstowe knew that had he pressed the doctor any further he would not have told him where he'd been.

Not that he'd probably have understood anyway.

He turned back onto the pillow again, let his body relax as much as possible and closed his eyes, though his mind was still buzzing. If only he could remember what had happened...

It was rare, especially these days, that Stephen slept without laudanum, and so it was rare that he dreamt. He dreamt now.

Des Sablières was sobbing, occasionally uncovering his eyes to watch Wellesley stab Richard, or to glare at Stephen, blaming him. He knew that Stephen had hoped that his men would be caught by the irregulars, but when he tried to explain, tried to make him understand that he had not understood what that would mean, would never wish that on anyone, Saint-Laurent had dragged him away, shouting that it was a temporary deafness. But Stephen was not deaf, and he could hear his cello - Jack playing his cello, that scale so wounding but heard so little, the scale that whispered over the strings whenever Jack was disappointed in him. He looked up, and said, "I thought you were my friend," and Stephen tried to assure him that he was, soul, he always was, but suddenly it was not Jack talking, but Jonathan, crucified on a thorn bush-

He woke with a sound between a gasp and a strangled cry, sitting bolt upright in his chair, his hand jerking out to hit Padstowe's chest. "Oh, God, Jonathan! I am so sorry!"

There was an orderly frowning down at him. "Hush!" he whispered.

Padstowe awoke, a pained sob ripping from his throat as a crippling pain spreadthoughout his torso around his heart. It hurt so much that it brought tears to his eyes, and despite the extra pain it brought him he curled up like a child, rolling onto his side and sobbed, shaking.

"No, no more! Please, no more!"

Stephen stood up so fast the chair fell over with a loud clatter; he jumped at the noise, shaking. He reached out to touch his friend's shoulder, not noticing that his cheeks were wet. "Jonathan! I am so sorry - you are all right - you are safe now! I am sorry! Jonathan, please!"

The was the sound of people talking again, but he still could not hear the words. And God, it hurt! It hurt so much...!

"No," he moaned softly, still shaking. "No... no, please..."

"I was going to give him some broth, sir," the orderly said, now recognizing the doctor who had visited before, the same one who had taken off that Frenchman's arm. He hesitated as he watched the doctor attempting to soothe the patient.

"Not now!" Stephen snapped, and then dashed his hand across his eyes. Gently, soothingly, he spoke. "Jonathan, can you hear me at all? Please."

The voice was calming, soothing, and Padstowe gave a sob, forcing himself to silence his moans. He still shook, but the pain was lessening a little now.

He was beginning to relax, to quiet, to tremble instead of shake. Stephen fell to his knees beside the bed, much like des Sablières had done the day before. He patted Padstowe's arm, as he might a frightened horse, and continued in the same tone. "Quiet now, you are safe, Jonathan. Everything is all right. Never fear; be of good heart. Quiet now."

The pain was definitely dying down, the voice he now recognised as Stephen's continuing to calm him, and he began to still, the shaking being reduced to the odd violent tremble. By God, that had hurt... that had hurt so much...

He dared to open his eyes, his breathing still in ragged sobs, and tears stung his vision.

Padstowe opened his eyes. Stephen, who sometimes felt as though he had been put on the earth to endure, could not bear it, and looked at the ground. "I am so sorry, Jonathan. I did not mean..."

Stephen was kneeling by the bed, his face downcast, mortified. He heard his voice, but still could not listen, and just lay there staring at the doctor, his breathing ragged, his eyes damp.