waiting for the argument, the shouting, the whole being told he was stupid thing. Damn Will and his clever mind. He came at it from an angle that was guaranteed to mean Daniel couldn't think.
"Diana knows how much it means for me to have my best friend stand up for me." Will said the words so softly, so carefully, and Daniel waited for a heartbeat before he replied.
"I'm not the same as I used to be, Will."
Will sighed and crossed his arms over his chest.
"Neither am I. Do you think I ever imagined I would fall in love with one of the Cursed?" Will used the village terminology for anyone from the Fitzwarren family, a playground term that Daniel remembered well. "Di—she's everything to me—but if there's one thing I've learned through all the hell the Fitzwarren family goes through, it's that, at the end of the day, family is important."
"I'm not your family, Will," Daniel tried to explain patiently, but Will just shook his head and placed a hand flat on Daniel's chest.
"You have been my family since you rescued me from Simon McAllister and his cronies in the craft supply room."
"We were six, Will."
"Six and already a bad boy, eh, Dan?"
Daniel sighed. Maybe he should push through this. Maybe he shouldn't listen to the little voice that told him people would stare and point and comment.
"How about I think about it?" It was all he could offer at this point, and Will nodded thoughtfully.
"I want you standing for me, being my best man, two weeks from Saturday. I have your suit all booked. I'll let you think, but I won't leave you alone."
* * * *
Daniel was exhausted, closing curtains at four in the afternoon and climbing into bed, his dagger under the pillow and one hand closed around it as he lay on his stomach. The pills he'd taken were the new regime, but he didn't hold out an awful lot of hope they would be any different from the ones he'd previously taken. The doc meant well, but a sincere green-eyed gaze and a sympathetic word or so meant sod all when the night closed in and Daniel was on his own.
Sleep happened so quickly he didn't have time to toss and turn, and the dreams caught him in their needy grasp way before he had a chance to stop them. The same ones—Belvedere, the knife, the fire. It was horrific, seeing someone burn like that. Flashes of Afghanistan mixed in, his friends dying around him, screaming for his help. Two voices whispered to him, his own and another deeper voice that was sly and insistent.
"You shouldn't have even tried to disarm under fire." The other voice resonated with accusation, and he wanted to say he'd had no choice.
"We had civilians there," he responded quickly in his dreams. "We needed a clear path."
The other voice twisted in a chuckle, derisory, mocking. "You were under fire. You know better. You knew your men had been on duty for seventy-two hours. They needed rest."
"I was following orders," he screamed back, but the other, the presence of the other, was suffocating.
"You'll never stand for your friend. You are a scarred, ugly cripple, useless, the man who couldn't save them."
His conscience never let him rest.
He rolled onto his back and sat upright, ripped from sleep by his fear and his anger, and for a long while, he concentrated on simply breathing through the emotions.
Chapter Eight
The day after, Sean showed up at his front door. Armed with fish and chips from the visiting chip van and a six pack of beer, he waited hopefully as Daniel just stared at him.
"Thought you could use some food," Sean offered helpfully.
"Don't you have patients?"
"Nope." Sean sounded way too cheerful. "Not tonight." He inclined his head. "I'm on call for emergencies."
"So no beer for you then." Daniel let him stand there stewing, getting an almost perverse pleasure in watching Sean squirm. "And I can't drink on my meds," Daniel pointed out helpfully.
"One won't hurt." Sean looked around him as if someone might have heard him slip from professionalism. Daniel stood to one
"Diana knows how much it means for me to have my best friend stand up for me." Will said the words so softly, so carefully, and Daniel waited for a heartbeat before he replied.
"I'm not the same as I used to be, Will."
Will sighed and crossed his arms over his chest.
"Neither am I. Do you think I ever imagined I would fall in love with one of the Cursed?" Will used the village terminology for anyone from the Fitzwarren family, a playground term that Daniel remembered well. "Di—she's everything to me—but if there's one thing I've learned through all the hell the Fitzwarren family goes through, it's that, at the end of the day, family is important."
"I'm not your family, Will," Daniel tried to explain patiently, but Will just shook his head and placed a hand flat on Daniel's chest.
"You have been my family since you rescued me from Simon McAllister and his cronies in the craft supply room."
"We were six, Will."
"Six and already a bad boy, eh, Dan?"
Daniel sighed. Maybe he should push through this. Maybe he shouldn't listen to the little voice that told him people would stare and point and comment.
"How about I think about it?" It was all he could offer at this point, and Will nodded thoughtfully.
"I want you standing for me, being my best man, two weeks from Saturday. I have your suit all booked. I'll let you think, but I won't leave you alone."
* * * *
Daniel was exhausted, closing curtains at four in the afternoon and climbing into bed, his dagger under the pillow and one hand closed around it as he lay on his stomach. The pills he'd taken were the new regime, but he didn't hold out an awful lot of hope they would be any different from the ones he'd previously taken. The doc meant well, but a sincere green-eyed gaze and a sympathetic word or so meant sod all when the night closed in and Daniel was on his own.
Sleep happened so quickly he didn't have time to toss and turn, and the dreams caught him in their needy grasp way before he had a chance to stop them. The same ones—Belvedere, the knife, the fire. It was horrific, seeing someone burn like that. Flashes of Afghanistan mixed in, his friends dying around him, screaming for his help. Two voices whispered to him, his own and another deeper voice that was sly and insistent.
"You shouldn't have even tried to disarm under fire." The other voice resonated with accusation, and he wanted to say he'd had no choice.
"We had civilians there," he responded quickly in his dreams. "We needed a clear path."
The other voice twisted in a chuckle, derisory, mocking. "You were under fire. You know better. You knew your men had been on duty for seventy-two hours. They needed rest."
"I was following orders," he screamed back, but the other, the presence of the other, was suffocating.
"You'll never stand for your friend. You are a scarred, ugly cripple, useless, the man who couldn't save them."
His conscience never let him rest.
He rolled onto his back and sat upright, ripped from sleep by his fear and his anger, and for a long while, he concentrated on simply breathing through the emotions.
Chapter Eight
The day after, Sean showed up at his front door. Armed with fish and chips from the visiting chip van and a six pack of beer, he waited hopefully as Daniel just stared at him.
"Thought you could use some food," Sean offered helpfully.
"Don't you have patients?"
"Nope." Sean sounded way too cheerful. "Not tonight." He inclined his head. "I'm on call for emergencies."
"So no beer for you then." Daniel let him stand there stewing, getting an almost perverse pleasure in watching Sean squirm. "And I can't drink on my meds," Daniel pointed out helpfully.
"One won't hurt." Sean looked around him as if someone might have heard him slip from professionalism. Daniel stood to one
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