Summary: Intrigued by his new concierge doctor, Boris schemes on how to more fully integrate Hank into both the Hamptons and Boris' own life. One plan after the next leads to mixed failure and success. Poor Boris!

A/N: Just a short part of Plan C. The next chapter will be longer (and rated M) . . . Let me know how the first part of the chapter works; I was trying to enmesh real time with almost-but-not-quite nightmares: Boris is still halfway awake, but his mind keeps throwing all kinds of nasty images at him.

By the way, for this story, I originally thought Jill Casey was a doctor. However, the last episode of Royal Pains left me thinking she wasn't. Thus, for this story, assume it is a bit AU: Casey is a doctor, though maybe she hasn't practiced in some time. And despite the description of her as a succubus, I actually do like her . . . I just imagine Boris wouldn't, under these circumstances!

Finally, sorry it's been a bit long between postings. Real life was demanding my attention. How dare it!

Chapter Four

Plan C:

Stop the Nightmares

With an annoyed sigh, Boris stared at his clock and growled. Angrily, he cursed. After a moment's attempt at calming himself, the German noble at last concluded it was a lost cause and reached down to the floor. He threw his slipper at the abominable device, watching it slide to the ground. Its glowing numbers still mockingly informed him that it was 12:13 a.m.: just fifteen minutes after the last time he had looked.

Those fifteen minutes were straight from the depths of hell, from what Boris could tell, complete with horrifying images replaying constantly in the turmoiled landscape of his mind.

Wanting to bang his head against the wall, Boris instead pounded his fist into his pillow. It did little to make him feel better. Minutes later, he threw himself back onto his bed. Getting to sleep seemed impossible. He hated nights like these, when he could not rest no matter how tired he was. He was exhausted, and he had a full day scheduled for tomorrow. He had several appointments with lawyers, not to mention research into new investments. He could ill afford another night of sleeplessness.

Sleepless nights seemed to be increasing exponentially since he met Hank, his worry for the man keeping him up all too often. It was even worse now that Hank was ill. Thus, despite the late hour, the recluse found himself unable to sleep. There was too much on his mind. All he could hear, repeating over and over in his mind as if he were still in the guesthouse, were Hank's painful coughs. They sounded like he had glass coating his lungs, his words sandpaper against the throat.

Cursing, Boris combed one hand through his already messy hair. He closed his eyes and ran his hands over his face. Surely, Hank would be all right now, given that he was resting. He had made sure of this, asking Dieter to tell him if the younger man left the guesthouse. Hank had not, and according to Dieter, the guesthouse looked quiet, which seemed to indicate that Hank was, indeed, sleeping.

Unfortunately, sleep still laughing scornfully at him, Boris found his eyes slipping open again. Today's events had done nothing to make him sleep better. Hank's image would not disappear from the German's fatigued mind. Why had Hank not simply told him that he was ill? Despite their differences and sometimes somewhat heated arguments, Hank had to know that Boris was his friend or, at the very least, his ally. He had to know that the German noble would not want him working when he was ill. Boris had a solid work ethic, but so did Hank; this did not include, however, working when one was close to passing out on Boris' floor.

Boris sighed, forcing himself to shut his eyes and relax. He tried counting down from 100, which someone had told him worked. 100 . . . 99 . . . 98 . . . he wondered what time his call to Japan was supposed to be . . . 97 . . . 96 . . . maybe Hank's fever was higher than it had been . . . 95 . . . perhaps he should go see Hank, make sure he was still breathing . . . 94 . . . 93 . . . he wondered how many seconds there were in a year . . . 92 . . . 91 . . . maybe he should get the dining room redecorated, something in light green like Hank's eyes . . . 90 . . . he should drag Hank to Cuba . . . 89 . . . this was obviously working well . . .

Several minutes ticked by before his eyes flew open again, his heart beating quickly. Every time he shut his eyes, his mind insisted on brutally dragging before him, in annoyingly vivid technicolor, images of the alarming scene from earlier that afternoon. Only now, those images were much worse, much more ominous. This last scene had been the worst of them all.

In his mind, he imagined it was early the next day. He was pacing in his office, glancing up briefly when Dieter entered the room to hand him more important documents to read. A quick glance showed that they were his bank's monthly financing report. He waved Dieter off and looked at the document before staring out the window. Nothing made sense as he perused the material. He found himself reading the same words over and over. Frustrated, he at last decided that the only thing to do was to go see Hank, make sure he was doing well. Perhaps then he could concentrate.

And from there, the images became much more troubling. There was no chance of sleeping, not with these images haunting him. Their disturbing content unfolded before him, and he was unable to stop it.

In his mind, a sleep-deprived version of himself knocked on the door to his guesthouse. He entered the building when no one arrived to greet him. His eyes glanced around the main floor only to find it completely empty. It was actually as expected, for if Hank was doing anything he had told him to do, he was deep asleep in bed.

He trudged up the stairs to Hank's bedroom. His eyes were drawn to the terrifyingly still figure of his love.

An exhausted Boris watched himself gently shake Hank's figure, wanting to see those hazel eyes once more. Hank didn't waken. As he looked closer, he could see blood soaking the pillow where Hank's mouth had rested—and blood darkened his love's chin. Hank was breathing, but barely. The uneven breaths seemed like they were being squeezed out of his body.

It was the most disturbing of images, terrifying in its very repetition. Boris absolutely could not sleep with this image on constant replay. It didn't stop there, of course; no, it continued.

In this dreamscape, panic tore through him, fierce and undeniable. He desperately called for an ambulance. Almost like a dream, where everything was disjointed and no one could approach any given goal, he kept trying to tell them where he was, but they couldn't find him. They kept asking where his estate was, what color its fence was, what road his manor faced, how many cars were in front and what color—absolutely absurd questions, given how well-known he was in the community. They asked and asked and asked, getting nowhere in a repetition of the same questions and answers.

Horrified, he waited and waited for the ambulance to come, clutching Hank in his arms. As he watched this scene unfold, Boris, too, could feel the terror, the lack of hope. He continued screaming as he watched Hank's slim figure struggle to breathe, as he rubbed his hands against the burning hot skin of his love. More blood bubbled out of Hank's lips, dripping once more down his chin, and he wiped the blood away with fingers turned scarlet.

Then, suddenly, inexplicably, Hank was no longer breathing—and terror lit through Boris' mind. He couldn't even tell if the terror was his or merely the mental version of him. It truly didn't matter, though, for the terror was real, was potent enough for sweat to prick his skin and for his heart to race.

The images were increasingly devastating the longer he tried to fall asleep. In one version, Hank was choking on his own blood; in another, he was tumbling down the stairs, unable to breathe. Next, Boris figured that he would probably see Hank's ghost tapping at the window to his room, sent here to haunt him for the rest of his life. Boris simply could take it no longer. Shaking, Boris flung his blankets aside and reached for his slippers and robe. His feet barely made a noise as he sprinted to the guesthouse.

Not even bothering to be quiet, he flung the door to the guesthouse open and purposefully rushed inside. All was silent, hushed in sleep. His eyes quickly flicked upstairs. The scene was disturbingly similar to his earlier imaginings. Boris shook his head, finding the similarity jarring. However, there was one difference, and it filled Boris with at least some hope. From the weak light shining from the hall on the second floor, he could see that the door to Hank's room was ajar. Hank was clearly awake.

On the other hand, no light was required for Boris to hear the hoarse, painful cough that sounded like knives on a chalkboard.

Carefully, he peaked into the open door. It looked like Hank had done as instructed and remained in bed. That was one good thing. However, any relief that he might have had from this was quickly replaced by concern. The wheezing and hacking cough were unmistakable signs that Hank was worse.

Quietly, Boris walked towards his guest, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Hank, you sound worse than you did. Is there anything I can do for you?" Boris asked cautiously.

He moved to Hank's side, alarmed at what he saw. Now that he was getting a closer look at the doctor, it was increasingly clear that he was very ill. His hair was damp against his skin, which was utterly bereft of color. His skin shone with sweat, and he was moving restlessly in his sleep. He had seen simple colds, but this wasn't one. His guess was supported by two containers of medicine—one pills, the other cough syrup—that he saw sitting on Hank's nightstand. They were clearly medicines available by prescription only.

Why on earth had the young man been up when he was this ill?

With a concerned and somewhat exasperated sigh, Boris bent down and placed his right hand across Hank's forehead. Burning heat met his flesh, and Boris stared. This was notgood. His doctor was practically radiating heat, and when Hank's eyes finally opened into tiny slits of hazel, he noted that the younger man's gaze seemed unfocused. He looked miserable, and Boris carefully squeezed his hand, hoping to give support; Boris was pleased when Hank smiled up at him despite the misery, gratitude shining in his eyes. Gently, he began to stroke Hank's hair back, trying to ease the pain and bring comfort to him while he also pulled the blankets closer around Hank's shoulders.

The doctor just seemed so fragile. Boris simply wanted to protect him.

After a moment's thought, Boris moved to the bathroom to find a washcloth and wet it. He returned just as quickly, placing the wet cloth on Hank's flushed face and gently rubbing the younger man's head. "Can you hear me, doctor?" Boris softly asked, trying to catch Hank's tired gaze.

Hank's eyelids fluttered shut, but not before he rasped, "I-I think I might have a-a cold, Boris." He swallowed hard before adding, "Maybe a bit more than a slight one."

Unable to stop himself, Boris simply stared at Hank. He thought he had a cold? Maybe more than a slight one? At any other time and with any other person, Boris would have delivered a snide remark, but not now, not when Hank was so clearly ill. He had to shake his head, though, at the bizarre statement.

Maybe he was delirious?

"I'll stay here, just to make sure your slight cold—" he couldn't resist the heavy sarcasm in his voice, no matter how much he loved and adored Hank "—doesn't make you more uncomfortable." Or more dead, he added silently. He was beginning to wonder if he should call Jill Casey.

Mumbling softly, Hank finally nodded and curled back into his covers, almost like he was trying to hide himself. Boris watched the pain ease from Hank's face, smiling softly when his brown lashes fluttered against his pale skin. He seemed more peaceful, and Boris hoped that his presence made him feel safer. Boris was more than glad to help calm him, to comfort his love.

He just wished that Divya or Casey were here. At least they would know what to do. Boris was far from the best person to watch over someone who was ill; he had rarely ever done so, not even for his past lovers. He usually called in a nurse or a staff member—and completely without regret. Boris was many things, but no one would characterize him as patient or kind. The rare times he had tried to stay when someone was ill, he had gotten annoyed and threatening, only to be semi-politely told to leave the room. He always regretted staying, thinking it was best if he just stayed away.

However, Boris reasoned that he had never truly cared for someone enough to stay when that person was ill: until now. With Hank, he found he wanted to stay—no, that he needed to stay.

Finally, Boris made a decision. He wasn't going to leave, but he also wasn't going to call Jill Casey until absolutely necessary. Instead, Boris climbed onto the bed, sliding in beside Hank's now-still figure. He frowned at the harsh sound of Hank's breath. It almost seemed to crackle inside Hank's chest.

Sighing, Boris made a disgusted face, reaching a rather unpleasant decision. Hank obviously could not continue like this. Thus, Boris would give the good doctor until morning to start improving—or he would call Casey, no matter how he deplored the idea of that woman's greedy little hands on his love.

Boris scowled. Some things were simply unavoidable, though maybe he could fly in a specialist from New York instead. Anything had to be better than that succubus Casey.

Concerned, Boris continued to stroke Hank's hair back from his face, trying to bring comfort to the one he loved. He alternated between stroking Hank's face and gently rubbing his chest in relaxing circles.

Next Chapter: Plan C Continued. Doctor Hank Lawson refuses to behave when sick, and Boris learns that maybe he didn't control Eddie as much as he thought. Oh, and there is some nudity . . . but not in the way Boris was hoping. Chapter 5 will be rated M for some adult content.

Thanks reviewers! I was thrilled at the wonderful reviews. Boris will continue plotting and scheming, but Hank is resolved to interfere. :-)