James had always despised being the second son of a family that no longer had a first son. But never more than now.
It had all started with that cat. It had been curled on the stoop, drenched with rain, and mewing its little head off. James had been trying to go to sleep, but he couldn't block out that blasted mewing! So he had gotten up and tromped out to the front of his small apartment.
It had been his father's idea, that he travel, see the world, before he came into his inheritance. So he had been in a good many places around the world, eventually ending with this apartment in America, at the age of twenty-one.
He walked out, and, seeing the pitiful creature's wide blue eyes, was unable to resist reaching down to pick it up, intending to carry it inside. It scampered away, across the lane. James chased after it, worried it would get hit by a cab.
He caught it up in his arms, and was just turning to walk back to his home, when he himself got knocked senseless by the edge of a four-wheeler. He saved the cat, though. And that was good.
But he ended up with some broken ribs and developed quite a serious illness—there was over a week of time he did not remember thanks to the fever. His breathing was short and painful, and it left him bedridden for quite some time. He sent a line to his father, and got an answer back that he should come home.
He was quite weak, and, with only the cat to keep him company, he was unable to travel. He put an advertisement in the paper, for a man willing to help an infirm master on a journey to England for good pay and a paid passage over. He got a response in the form of two men, one fairly senior, the other only slightly older than James himself.
"You advertised for a man?" asked the older of the two. He seemed… quite firm. A military man, perhaps.
"Yes," said James, coughing slightly, "I did. Please, come in."
He stepped back, wobbling, and the two followed him inside. He braced himself with a hand against a doorway, "I'm James Williams."
The older man elbowed the younger, who growled in discomfort, "I'm Gregory. My Father here says England would straighten me out, like it did him."
James nodded, and quickly offered two seats, in the hopes that they would take them, and he would not be impolite to sit. The younger man went to sit, but the older gripped his shoulder, and James could tell it was hard enough to bruise.
Gregory sighed, and moved back to stand straight. Something in his otherwise unreadable eyes seemed to react to James's discomfort, and he stepped forward, taking James's arm. The older man growled something under his breath, but James was extremely grateful for the help, and leaned into the stronger man's grip.
"I… thank you," said James, and found his vision fading in and out. "I think I had better start now," said Gregory, amused. James smiled, faintly, "if you wouldn't mind…" Gregory actually smiled, at that. "Gregory," said the older man, "mind your place." Gregory sighed, and started to let go. James shook his head, speaking faintly, "no, please. I…"
James groaned, opening his eyes. He was being carried. Then set on what he recognized as his bed. "My father left," said Gregory, as James looked around somewhat nervously for the bulkier man, "he figured I couldn't screw up too badly with an unconscious person." James laughed, quietly. Gregory looked nervous.
"Look," said James, quickly, "please don't get uncomfortable. As much as I need someone to help me through the trip with my…" he gestured at himself, "obvious infirmity, I'm looking for a companion, not a servant."
Gregory grinned, "well that's good," he said, with half a laugh, "because I'm bad at being a servant. According to my Dad, that's my worst quality. Aside from being an ass, and not agreeing with his every word, and showing up two minutes late for mealtimes, and quite a variety of other traits and shortcomings…"
James smiled. "I think we'll get along quite well," he said, coughing slightly, and pushing himself up against the cushions, "you're hired." Gregory nodded. "Well," he said, looking James over, "when's the last time you've eaten?"
"Erm," said James, sheepishly, "breakfast." Gregory looked at his pocketwatch, "it's almost three. No wonder you fainted." James flushed, "I'm not… usually a big eater…"
"Well, you're sick, so you'd better start being one." James laughed. Then he coughed. He kept coughing, one arm around his chest, the other covering his mouth with a handkerchief.
The spasms eventually ended, but they left him exhausted and weaker than he had been before, each breath coming with a pained effort, as he shivered slightly in the cold apartment. Lighting a fire made him cough almost constantly, from the smoke.
The quilt he had folded up at the end of his bed unfolded itself, and wrapped around his shoulders. He pulled it close, as he continued to sit and breathe. "Thank you," he murmured.
"Kind of my job, isn't it?" James smiled, weakly, "thank you." Gregory shrugged, "you'd do a lot better if you didn't keep this place as cold as an iceblock."
"The smoke… even if just a little escapes the chimney, I can't stop coughing."
"Ah," said Gregory, and ruffled through the drawers next to the bed, eventually pulling out a thick, warm sweater. He handed it to James. James smiled, letting the quilt fall as he struggled to get the thing over his head. He managed, with a few helpful tugs from Gregory.
He looked at the older man, "Gregory, was it? I'm sorry, I forgot your surname…"
"No, actually, I just forgot to tell it to you. Hawkins. The man before was my father, John, who is in the firm belief that I am the worst thing that could possibly have come out of my mother's womb, and is probably quite glad to be rid of me. The feeling is mutual, I'm afraid. I'm twenty-seven, and I've been a doctor's assistant for quite some time, but unfortunately, he slipped off a bridge, and I lost my employment. Which is what brought me here, in response to your advertisement, and at my father's instance."
James nodded, "You obviously already know my name, but I'll give you my history. My father is a member of the upper class, in England. I was quite free to do what I wanted with my life, until my older brother's disappearance, at which time I was charged with carrying on the family's legacy. My father did, however, tell me I should travel, before it was time for me to come into my inheritance. Which is how I ended up here, in America."
James paused, and looked around the room. He gestured towards the closet, out of which a tail was protruding. "There was a cat on my doorstep. It ran across the road, and I followed it, worried the poor thing would get hit by a cab, or trampled. I saved the cat, but got hit myself. I took ill after that, and have been confined to my apartment and mostly my bedroom for the past month. My father told me I should come back to England, so I advertised in the paper for someone to help me on the journey. Which brings us up to present."
Hawkins nodded, "well," he said, walking over to the closet and scooping up the creature in his arms, "at least you saved the cat."
James smiled, laughing. The cat mewed, and Hawkins gently handed it to James, who smiled more broadly, and started petting it.
No, decided Hawkins, this was not going to be a difficult job. And it wouldn't matter if he was decent to James, since the younger man was in all likelihood never going to see him again for the rest of their lives—and being decent was kind of part of the job, he supposed. It wouldn't be the same as what had happened before.
Within a week's time, they were packed and ready, and on their way down to the docks. Hawkins had loaded everything they were taking with them into a cab, and sent it on ahead. Then he had gone back inside, and wrapped a thick coat around James's shoulders, as the younger man held the cat that had started the whole mess in his arms.
Hawkins had his arm around James's shoulders, as the younger man stood. James was unsteady on his feet, and wobbled a good bit going down the steps. Hawkins held on to his charge, until James was safely in the second cab.
By the time they got to the docks, James was asleep against Hawkins's shoulder, the cat purring on the younger man's lap. Hawkins shook James's shoulder. He stirred, and straightened, looking out the window of the cab. The driver came around, and opened the door.
James picked the cat up, and handed it—her—to Hawkins. Hawkins waited until the driver had helped James wobble his way out of the cab, then handed the cat down to the younger man, and got out himself. James paid the cabdriver, and they headed towards their boat.
It was a steamer, with three massive decks. James stared up at it, his eyes wide, "I've only been across once," he whispered, "and it was a long time ago." Hawkins shrugged, gripping James's shoulder, as the younger man started coughing.
"Come on," he said, as James regained control. The cat mewed, in James's arms. Hawkins looked around, then led James to a bench by the edge of the docks. "Stay here. I'll get everything unloaded. Don't need you standing for that." James smiled, weakly, and nodded, petting the cat. She mewed at him, and nuzzled against his chest. He smiled.
Hawkins came back, and walked with James to the boarding ramp. It was a long, wide wooden ramp, with rails on either side and horizontal boards every foot or so for traction. Or tripping ill young men, thought Hawkins.
A cabin boy came over, and offered to carry the cat. James handed her over, somewhat reluctantly, and Hawkins gripped his arm firmly, as they made their way up the ramp. James seemed to have a lot of trouble getting his legs into the right place, and to hold, even when they were positioned correctly.
James had a coughing fit halfway up, and sank to his knees. Hawkins sat in front of him, and gripped his wrists to keep him from falling backwards, as he coughed. Eventually he stopped, and Hawkins pulled him to his feet.
He stumbled, a lot, on the second half, and by the time they got on the ship, he was wheezing and out of breath. Hawkins had him sit against the wall of the deck, and took the cat back from the cabin boy. James smiled weakly, as Hawkins handed him the cat.
Other people boarded past them, as James sat, face pale and sheening with sweat, breath coming unsteadily and painfully. James leaned his head against Hawkins's shoulder, as the older man rubbed his arm, awkwardly.
"Thank you," he rasped, and his large brown eyes told Hawkins he really meant it. "It's what you hired me for," said Hawkins, rolling his eyes. "Thank you," said James, again, before breaking out into another fit of coughing.
Hawkins sighed, and rubbed the younger man's back as James coughed. The cat jumped out of his lap, and curled up between the two, purring. James eventually regained control over his breath, and Hawkins helped him up, scooping the cat into his arms. It climbed up, and sat on his shoulder, claws digging into his shirt, vest and coat, but not into flesh.
Hawkins watched James warily, as they made their way towards the cabin, which was in the second deck. James curled on one of two bunks in the small room, breathing laboriously, hand on his chest. Hawkins gently detached the cat from his shoulder, and put her on the bed next to James. She curled against his stomach, and lay down, purring as he petted her.
Hawkins sat down in one of the two chairs, pulling it around to watch James, as the younger man drifted
off to sleep, his hand still draped over the cat, who continued to purr until she herself fell asleep as well.
Hawkins sighed, and divested James of his shoes, socks, and tie. He unbuttoned the younger man's cuffs, and the top few buttons of his shirt. James coughed slightly, in his sleep. Hawkins pulled the blanket over the younger man, making sure he didn't cover the cat.
James unconsciously pulled the blanket tighter around himself as he slept. Hawkins couldn't help a small smile. Being away from John was an incredible relief, being able to do something like what he had done under Dr. Turner was refreshing, and the man himself was quite pleasant.
James woke quite a while later. He crawled over to the porthole by his bed, and peered out. Then he turned to Hawkins, who was reading a leather-bound volume, "have we already set sail?"
Hawkins nodded, "about two hours ago." James yawned, and looked around, "where'd the cat go?"
"Under your bed." James leaned over the side, and smiled when he saw the cat. Then he wobbled a bit, as the ship swayed, tumbling head first off the bed. Hawkins watched him with a raised eyebrow, as James climbed back onto the bed.
"So…" he said, yawning, "you've got a younger brother… is your mother still alive?"
"I… how did you know I've got a younger brother?"
"Well, unless you were talking in your sleep to a younger sister named Mathew…" James blushed, "oh. Yes, my mum's still alive. Is yours?"
"No. She died a while ago." James nodded, "I'm sorry." Hawkins shook his head, "like I said, it was a long time ago." James shrugged. A knock sounded on the door and Hawkins got up to answer it.
It was someone informing them that lunch was being served on the top deck. James stood, stumbling with the motion of the ship. Hawkins grabbed his arm, as he threatened to fall, "Jesus. You really are unsteady."
James blushed, slightly. Hawkins shrugged, and lifted James's arm over his own shoulders. He didn't usually like touching strangers—or non strangers, for that matter. But helping James was both his job, and not that awkward.
James held on to him, as they made their way up the steps. Two old ladies passed them, and James flushed, looking at Hawkins apologetically. Hawkins shook his head, "let's just get you up there, okay?" James nodded, weakly.
They were almost to the dining room, when James had a coughing fit, as a cloud of miasma—Hawkins couldn't tell if it was smoke or steam—from the great stacks blew their way.
He sank to his knees, holding himself around the chest as he coughed and coughed. Hawkins knelt, and put an arm around the younger man's shoulders, giving him support as the ship rocked to and fro.
Several people passed, asking if James needed help. Hawkins shook his head each time, and watched James's face, as the younger man continued to cough. Eventually, long after the cloud had blown in another direction, James managed to stop coughing.
He leaned against Hawkins's shoulder, struggling to catch his breath, "this was a bad idea," he rasped, "I should have rested longer."
"Yes," said Hawkins, "you probably should have. Too late now, though. Come on, you've got a doctor's assistant to help you. That should cheer you up at least a little." James smiled, weakly, as Hawkins stood, and heaved the younger man to his feet, walking close together as they made their way the short distance to the enclosed dining room.
There were quite a few people already there, probably all the passengers of the second deck. James gripped Hawkins's arm, looking slightly green.
Hawkins took the younger man by the shoulders, and led him out, just in time to allow him to lean over the rail and vomit. James eventually finished, but his weakened body had had enough, as he slumped down to the deck, with only Hawkins's quick catch to keep him from cracking his head on the boards.
Several people on the way to the dining room crowded around, as Hawkins tried to rouse his charge. "James,"he said, shaking the younger man's shoulders, "come on."
James groaned, but did not wake. Hawkins sighed, and looked up, reassuring the crowd that had gathered that James was simply exhausted and had been weak of health well before boarding. Someone helped Hawkins lift James onto his back, and carry him down to the second level.
Hawkins loosened James's buttons and removed his shoes, then went to get food for both of them from the dining room.
The man—boy, really, as he couldn't be more than seventeen—who had helped Hawkins carry James, was waiting outside. Hawkins went to tip him, but the young man shook his head, "I just wanted to see that he was alright." Hawkins nodded, awkwardly. The fellow was quite clearly an Australian.
"He is. Thank you for your help." The young man smiled, holding out his hand, "I'm Robert. My Dad and me are moving to England."
Hawkins sighed. As it seemed like James was going to spend a good portion of this trip either sleeping or unconscious, Hawkins figured it couldn't hurt to have someone else to talk to. "Hawkins," said, "and it's my dad and I."
The Australian smiled, "sorry." They walked up to the dining room, and at in relative silence. Hawkins got a plate of food together for James, said goodbye to Robert, after confirming where the boy's cabin was, and walked back down to the second deck.
James was awake when he entered, but pale, and leaning against the wall of the cabin, knees drawn up nearly to his chest. Hawkins set the food down on the table, and sat on the end of James's bed.
"I'm sorry," murmured James, "I collapsed, didn't I?" Hawkins nodded, "yeah. It's okay, though." James rested his head forward, on his knees. "Here," said Hawkins, taking the plate off the table, "eat, before you pass out again."
"I'm not really… hungry…" mumbled James.
"Seasick, still?" James nodded, miserably. "Well, that won't improve by being down here."
"I know," said James, quietly, "but…" He leaned his head against the wall of the cabin, tiredly, "I'm exhausted." Hawkins laughed, quietly, "come on," he said, "you won't get better by not eating, and you won't eat by staying down here." James sighed, and dragged himself off the bunk.
Hawkins gripped his arm, and helped him walk to the upper deck. They leaned against the wall enclosing the dining room, and James coughed slightly. Hawkins watched him, curiously. "You don't want to go back," he said, making James look at him with a startled expression, "you'd rather be sick alone in America, than at home with your family."
James flushed, "I… don't… It's not as if they mean it. But my older brother was always this perfect gentleman, everything my parents wanted. And then he disappeared, and…" He shrugged, tiredly, "I'm not my brother. They know I'm not my brother. But on some level… I think they wish I could be. Why am I telling you this?"
Hawkins was silent for a while, then spoke, "at least you didn't have to grow up with those expectations. Maybe that's why your brother left, in the first place." James looked at him, "you really don't get along with your father, do you?" Hawkins shook his head, "not in the least."
James sighed, then started coughing. He ended up kneeling on the deck, Hawkins's arm around his shoulders, holding him up. "Come on," said Hawkins, standing and walking towards the stairs, "you still nauseous?" James shook his head, out of breath. Hawkins went bellow decks, and came back up with the plate. James ate, as Hawkins sat next to him, gazing out over the open ocean.
There were clouds in the distance, but other than that… there was nothing visible on any horizon. James watched Hawkins, as they sat. "There's a storm coming," murmured Hawkins, after a while of silence.
James nodded. He liked being around Hawkins. The older man reminded him of his brother… but he was different, too. David had always cared so much for what the world wanted of him. Had always strived to reach that goal. Hawkins… seemed content to be who he was, and if someone didn't like that, too bad for them.
There was something fascinating about that. Something that made James both wish to be like him, and fear slightly for the man's sanity.
The storm was coming closer… or, James supposed, they were catching up to it. He looked at Hawkins, whose blue-grey eyes reflected the sun bouncing off the water. James had been going to suggest going bellow decks, but…Something in the way Hawkins's eyes fixed on the oncoming storm made him want to see Hawkins in the storm.
Hawkins looked at him, then up at the glass windows of the dining room, as the sea started to roughen, then looked at James, appraisingly, "it'd probably be better for your health to stay below. But you're going to get awfully sea-sick if you do. The dining room might be a good compromise."
James nodded, and Hawkins stood, giving him a hand up. The door was locked, but Hawkins gripped the handle, and jimmied it open. James raised his eyebrows, and Hawkins shrugged. "not exactly meant to keep people out by force. More by suggestion." James smiled, a little, and followed Hawkins in, closing the door behind themselves.
The dining room was all set out for the next meal, tables covered in fresh cloths, napkins, silverware. James stood by the window. He watched the storm growing closer and closer, and the first few fat drops of rain hit the glass sheets. They grew heavier, and the wind started to pick up.
The ship was rocking. James gripped Hawkins's arm, unsteady on the tilting floor. Hawkins stood, perfectly firm and balanced, and kept James from falling.
The wind was whistling into the dining room, now, and they could hardly see out the windows for the sheets of water pouring down them. Hawkins looked at the younger man, as James's hand gripped tighter and tighter on Hawkins's arm. "Hey," he said, "are you alright?"
James twitched slightly, but did not answer. "Hey!" James jumped, and looked at him. He seemed disoriented, and dizzy, "what… um…"
He stumbled, letting go of Hawkins's arm, and Hawkins caught him by the shoulders. He shook his head, as though trying to clear it. "I need to sit down," he said.
Hawkins gripped the younger man's arm, as James slid down the wall of the dining room, then knelt, fingers finding James's carotid artery, checking his pulse. It was fast and erratic.
"Hey! Hey, look here. Look at me. Calm down." James looked at him, brown eyes wide. Hawkins gripped James's shoulders, "what's wrong?"
James swallowed, "my… uh… my brother… he used to have a little sailboat. He took me out on it when I was little. We got… caught in a storm, and wrecked… on a bit of rock near the shore…" He stopped, and his entire body was shivering, violently.
"Hey," said Hawkins, brushing his fingers along James's cheek, feeling awkward, "hey, it's okay. It's okay." James gripped Hawkins's hand, keeping it pressed against his cheek.
"Come on," said Hawkins, gently pulling his hand out, and pulling James to his feet. They walked to the door, and Hawkins opened it. They slipped and slid towards the stairs, and James nearly fell going down them. He had a coughing fit at the foot of the stairs, and spent a while leaning against the wall, trying to catch his breath.
Hawkins opened the door to their room, and James sat on the bed by the porthole, still trembling slightly, but not nearly as much as before. "How did you get to America in the first place?" asked Hawkins, closing the door, "you can't have not met one patch of foul seas the entire time?" James flushed slightly, embarrassed by his insane reaction to just a simple storm, "I uh… had a… friend… with me. I spent most of the time… in the cabin."
Hawkins nodded, then looked James over, "you really do have horrible luck with your health." James shrugged, coughing slightly, and rubbed the back of his neck, "yeah." Hawkins sat on the bed next to James, sighing.
They alternated between the room and the deck, as James's nervousness and seasickness took turns bothering him the most.
Eventually, James lay down on the cot, drenched and trembling and nauseous. He curled on his side, and watched, trying to think of anything but shipwreck and storms, as Hawkins changed out of the soaked clothes.
He hung his vest on a chair, and yanked his tie off with a hateful look at it, then unbuttoned his shirt.
His back was towards James, and as he hung his shirt on a hanger, James could see scars criss-crossing the well toned muscles and skin. He didn't say anything, though. Hawkins suddenly stopped, and turned around, realizing that James could see them. James didn't comment.
Hawkins sighed, and walked over to sit on the bed next to James. James coughed. "Come on," said Hawkins, quietly, "let's get you out of those before they give you a cold on top of everything else." James smiled, weakly, and started working at his vest buttons with numb fingers.
Hawkins rolled his eyes, and did it for him. The tie came off next, and the shirt. Hawkins left the pants alone, and handed James a nightshirt. James had his arm across his chest, though, and had started coughing. Hawkins gripped his arm, pulling him upright.
James gripped Hawkins's wrist with the other arm, face slightly ashen. Hawkins sat down, and put his arm around James's shoulders, as the younger man started to slump, breath coming in short, erratic wheezes. "Come on," said Hawkins, shaking him gently, "take a big breath."
"Hurts," gasped James, breathlessly. "I know. But you need to breathe. Take a deep breath." James struggled to do so, and clenched his arm tightly around his chest.
"Good. Now take another one." James breathed in. Then, as he was breathing out, started coughing again. Hawkins sighed, and simply waited, until James's breathing finally steadied. He tried to wait until it calmed and slowed, but he was tired, and he fell asleep before that.
James opened his eyes. His head was resting on a bare chest. There was an arm around his shoulders. And a cat sleeping against his hip. He raised his head. Hawkins.
He had been coughing, and Hawkins had been holding him up. He had fallen asleep, and apparently, Hawkins had too. He smiled a little, gently shaking the older man's shoulder. Hawkins sat up, yawning, and looked sleepily, but with good humor, at James.
"Sorry," he said, getting up, "any idea what time it is?" James looked at his watch, "six… probably at night." Hawkins nodded, sitting down on his own bed.
James scratched the cat's head, smiling as she started to purr. "She needs a name…" he said, musing, "what do you think?" Hawkins shrugged, "I never had a pet. Don't ask me."
"Well… how about Sherlock?" Hawkins shrugged, "she is curious." James smiled, and scratched under Sherlock's chin. ?