You guys are the best, thank you so much for all the reviews on that last chapter and really making me smile. Sorry I've kept you waiting, especially after a cliffhanger. I don't know why, but no words were coming for a long time. I hope you enjoy the update now that it's finally here!

panicpeachpit: Thank you so much, I loved reading your review. The name thing was actually accidental (also Kai/Cal similarities?) but I did realise before I post it and decided not to change it, so I'm glad it worked as foreshadowing (not that I'm giving anything away with what it's foreshadowing, of course ;) haha). Thank you for all your kind comments.

Guest: Thank you for reviewing - lots of drama still to come :)

Bonnie Sveen Fan: Thank you so much for leaving a review, I really appreciate it as it's so reassuring to know you are still enjoying it. You're spot on about Ethan.

InfinityAndOne: Haha sorry about the cliffhanger, got to throw an occasional one in there though :P Thank you so much for your comments, especially about the culmination at the end of the chapter. Loved reading your reaction to it.

Louise: Wow, thank you so much for your comments about this story, it honestly means a lot. I don't want to give too much away but I can say that Scott will definitely feature at some point. Hope you continue to enjoy it.

25.

Cal wakes to the room spinning above him and the sound of his own pulse in his ears. His back stings from where he smacked the floor. He squints, the bright ceiling lights burning his eyes, and tries to push himself into a sitting position. Hands dig beneath his arms, hauling him upwards and into a wheelchair. He feels heavy, yet his head his floating.

"Okay, Cal," a voice tells him, "let's get you checked over."

"Wh-?" it comes out as a groan.

"You fainted," someone else says.

Cal blinks and two faces swim in front of him; Mrs Beauchamp and Charlie. The rest of the E.D. is blurry in the background but it's enough to remind him where he is.

"No," he says. His mouth feels dry. "No, no, I'm fine, I don't need-"

"Do as you're told, okay?" Connie says, primly.

Cal slumps into the chair. He rubs at his forehead. The skin is clammy. He lets Connie wheel him towards a cubicle, registering both an agency nurse scuttling out of their way and his elderly patient craning her neck at him, as if he's watching a film. He's grateful when the curtain around the cubicle is whisked shut and he's permitted some relative privacy.

"Can you manage to get onto the bed yourself?" Connie asks.

He nods in response but takes advantage of the arm Charlie offers him, surprised by how unsteady he feels. The mattress is soft by hospital standards and he shrinks into it, resting his aching head back against the pillows and letting his eyes flicker shut. As long as he's prescribed a sleep, he decides it'll be worth all this embarrassment and fuss.

But instead, the cold of a stethoscope against his chest forces his eyes open. Mrs Beauchamp is frowning as she listens to his heart and he feels his own brows move to mirror hers. He's seen that expression before.

"Pulse is slightly elevated," she says, to Charlie rather than him.

The nurse sighs. "He's not been himself all day. Distracted, disorientated…"

"Can I get a full set of obs. Bloods, urine, let's get to the bottom of this." She tuts. "You should have told me, Charlie."

Cal's brain suddenly catches up and he brings a fist down onto the mattress. They can take his pulse, his blood if they really want to, but he's not peeing into a tube for the satisfaction of his colleagues.

"You're overreacting," he says.

"This isn't the hangover you told me it was, though, Cal, is it?"

"No," Connie answers for him. "Far from it. And I sincerely hope you didn't think it acceptable to use that as an excuse."

Cal rolls his eyes. The cubicle spins. He focuses on a crease in the curtain but by the time the world has stopped moving, Charlie has him hooked up to the monitor.

He lifts the finger the wire is attached to. "This is stupid," he says.

"You faint on my ward, you accept treatment," Connie tells him. "I'd like to see your leg."

Cal's gaze shoots to hers. His chest clenches. He's been trying to ignore any troubling thoughts about his leg but it's harder to dismiss now that someone else has suggested it, especially that person being Mrs Beauchamp. He raises his eyebrows, determined not to let her see his fear. "Which one?" he retorts.

She ignores his comment. "Trousers off, please."

"Are you serious?"

"I'd like to know how you'd expect me to examine you otherwise."

Cal looks at Charlie, longing for support. The nurse is too busy recording what's on the monitor's screen to realise he's needed in another way.

"Is your first line of enquiry for fainting usually to check someone's leg?" he asks. "Because it sounds discriminatory to-" he breaks off, clasping his hand to his mouth as he's hit with a burst of nausea. He swallows down the bile. "-to me," he weakly finishes.

His retch has finally drawn Charlie's attention. The nurse squeezes his shoulder. "Time to stop fighting," he says. "Let us help."

Cal pauses, staring straight ahead but seeing nothing, as he considers. He doesn't want to acknowledge that he needs help and letting them examine him would do just that. But he's beginning to realise that finishing his shift isn't a possibility. Everything still aches. He exhales forcefully through his nose but unbuckles his belt and begins to ease his jeans down over his thighs.

At knee height, he shuffles into more of a sitting position and takes hold of the prosthesis beneath the hem of his trousers. Although he's used to removing it this way now, it still feels strange to do so in front of an audience, particularly when Mrs Beauchamp's arms are folded and she's waiting in anticipation to examine a part of him not many friends or colleagues have seen. He tugs his leg out of the prosthesis and lifts it so it's free from his jeans.

"I want a blanket," he says.

He's not that bothered about them seeing him in his boxers but feels like now is an appropriate time to remind them he's a person, not just a patient for them to poke and prod.

While Charlie is fetching him one, he watches Connie pull on a pair of latex gloves. Suddenly, he's thrown back to those early days in hospital after his accident, when everything felt huge and scary and alien. His stomach churns. Connie gives him a rare and gentle smile which prompts him to wonder how badly his emotions had bled onto his face.

Charlie returns and passes him a blanket. He positions it haphazardly across his lap and doesn't let go, gripping the coarse material as if it's the only thing that can keep him calm.

"May I go ahead?" Connie asks.

He keeps his nod brief.

As she takes his leg in her hands, he stares at the ceiling, counting how many tiles he can see from his position on the bed. He only makes it to eleven before a sudden pain in his leg causes him to flinch. Black spots threaten to envelop him again.

"Deep breath, Cal," Charlie says. "Alright?"

He gasps out a yeah.

"Okay," Connie says. She removes the gloves and throws them in the bin in disgust. "Right. You have an infected abscess."

Cal's heart sinks.

"And if," she continues, "you dare to tell me you weren't aware, I'll seriously reconsider your merit as a doctor."

He closes his eyes, deciding silence is the best policy. He hadn't been aware it was infected but only because he'd been too scared to check it for days. As soon as the symptoms had started he'd decided it was easier to lie, both to himself and everyone else. Being tired or hungover or even coming down with a nasty cold were all preferable to something else being wrong with his leg.

"Honestly, Cal, this is irresponsible."

"Connie, go easy on him. I'm sure he's feeling rotten."

"Oh, I'm sure he is," she says, "but this should have been avoided."

"Look," Cal interrupts, opening his eyes. "Can't you just give me some antibiotics and be done with it!"

"You know it's not as simple as that. This will need cleaning and draining for a start, and I'd like to check the type of infection, the root cause…"

"Same bloods still?" Charlie asks.

"Full count, please." Connie pauses. "And, Cal, it should go without saying, but the prosthesis will need to remain off while the infection clears."

"What?" Cal's heart returns to his ears. He snatches his arm away from Charlie. "No."

"How else would the wound heal?"

"It'll be fine." Cal looks between the two of them desperately. "It will. Please."

"Cal, I'm sorry-" she sounds gentler now.

Cal sinks further down in the bed. That news has made his head ache worse than anything else has today. The prosthetic leg is his gateway to normality and he doesn't know how he's meant to manage without it. The prick in his arm as Charlie takes his bloods barely hurts. Everything else is so much more painful.

There's a loud noise as the curtain is suddenly whisked to one side and Ethan bursts into the cubicle.

"What's happened?" he demands. "Noel said you collapsed. Are you okay?" He gives Cal less than a second's chance to reply before turning to Connie. "Is he-? Oh. Oh."

Cal holds his breath and waits for his brother to get over the shock of seeing whatever state his leg is in. It doesn't take long.

"Caleb, that's infected!" Ethan yelps. "How has this happened? Why haven't you had it treated? What-"

"Ethan, some breathing space, please," Connie interrupts, and Cal has never been more grateful towards her. "He's going to be fine, okay? Minor infection."

"Are you sure?"

Cal can see his brother itching to get closer and examine it for himself but there's something else that bothers him more. "Hang on, minor infection?" he says. He pushes himself up on his elbows. "Then, no. No. I don't need to stop wearing my prosthesis for that."

"I know it's not what you want to hear," Connie says. "But it's not up for deliberation."

"You can't take it from me."

"You'd be harming your health."

Cal scoffs. "I'm a doctor too, you know."

"Okay then, Doctor Knight," she says. "Examine it yourself. What would you advise a patient in this position?"

There's a pause.

Ethan clears his throat. "He, um, needs a mirror."

A flicker of guilt crosses Connie's face but Cal doesn't waste long on marvelling at how unnatural the expression looks. It's not her who has annoyed him.

"I can speak for myself, Ethan," he snaps.

"I- I know."

"Why are you even here? I didn't ask for you."

"I'm your brother," Ethan replies, in the patronisingly gentle tone Cal hates.

Cal ignores him and stares at the chunk of cotton wool that Charlie is firmly pressing against the needle stick wound in his arm.

"Listen," Ethan continues. "It'll just be a few weeks without it. It'll fly by, honestly."

Bitterly, Cal shakes his head.

"Got the bloods, Charlie?" Connie asks. "Good. Once you've sent those off, I want him on IV antibiotics. And let's give him 1 gram of paracetamol."

"Cal-" Ethan tries again.

"No, I'm talking now," Connie says, in the same tone as when she's asking Cal why he's so far behind with his paperwork. "I'll also prescribe you a two week course of Amoxicillin to be getting on with. You'll need a follow up appointment, okay, and speak to your specialists about why you developed the abscess, make sure you're doing what you should be to take care of your leg."

"Well, evidently, he's not," Ethan says.

Cal pulls a face. "Shut up."

"You know you're meant to seek medical attention at the first sign of anything untoward."

"Spare me the lecture."

"I'm just worried-"

"You know what, Ethan," Cal snaps. "Just go. I don't need you here."

"No. No, I've ignored my best judgement and listened to you for days every time you told me you were okay. I'm not doing that again. I'm staying.

"Enough," Connie says. She folds her arms across her chest and looks at them like they are small children. "You two are quite ridiculous. Ethan, your patients?"

Ethan looks flustered, as if he'd completely forgotten he was in the middle of a shift. "Oh, um, all stable and being cared for."

"Then, Cal, I suggest you consider letting him stay." She puts a hospital gown on the bed and gives it a pointed nod. "You might be glad of the support. I need to irrigate the infection site next and it's going to hurt." Without waiting to see his reaction, she turns on her heels and leaves to find the equipment.

Cal stays silent but nausea rumbles in his stomach again. He doesn't feel he has the resilience to pain today. He takes the gown in his hands and stares at it. If Mrs Beauchamp was still there he'd argue with her that he isn't going to put it on because wearing it is the next step to getting admitted, and there's no way he's letting that happen.

"So, are you letting me stay?" Ethan asks.

Cal rubs at a tired eye. It doesn't seem a battle worth fighting. "Fine. As long as you shut up. You're giving me a headache."

"I presumed you already had- okay, okay, point taken." He takes a step backwards from the bed. "I'll just… be here. Quietly."

Cal lets their eyes meet for the first time since Ethan got there. He knows his brother would hear the fear in his voice even if he hid his face.

"So this is it, then," he says. The words taste sour in his mouth. "This is my life. Infections and pills and not being allowed to use my prosthetic leg."

"No," Ethan says. There's a pause and Cal can see him biting the inside of his lip. "No, Cal, and I promise I'm not trying to give a lecture, it's just… you- you must have let something slide. Moisturising, fresh socks for your leg… maybe something happened when you lost your prosthesis on Charlie's stag do?"

"That was ages ago," Cal mutters. "And I didn't lose it; I left it at the hotel reception."

"Unknowingly."

"Ethan!"

"You are still checking for sores, though, aren't you?"

"Yes," Cal says. It's not a complete lie. He's not stopped altogether but he hasn't been carrying out daily checks like he's supposed to. It feels like too much of a chore, particularly when he's come home exhausted after a night shift, longing to fall straight into bed.

"Because, if you're struggling, I can help you."

"No." The last think Cal thinks he needs is his little brother doctoring him. "No!" He huffs. "You make some stupid suggestions, Nibbles."

"How is that stupid?"

At a loss of how to explain it, Cal balls up the hospital gown and throws it at his brother. It lands across his head.

"Caleb!" Ethan scoops the gown to one side and throws it back, but onto the bed rather than Cal. "You're meant to be putting this on, not using it as a missile against me." He removes his lopsided glasses and scowls at them.

While Ethan is inspecting his glasses for any signs of damage, Cal changes into the gown. With it on, he immediately feels five times smaller and it's nothing to do with how the fabric is sized to accommodate a range of different builds. He looks at Ethan out of the corner of his eye. His brother has finally resettled his glasses and is staring firmly at the cubicle curtain, allowing him the privacy that wouldn't have even crossed Cal's consciousness had their positions been reversed.

He registers the tension in Ethan's shoulders. Cal supposes most people would appreciate the concern, but he's not one of them. He knows his brother handles worry through practical intervention; checklists and plans and a long conversation about what went wrong. Cal doesn't want any of that. He wants someone by his side to agree that the universe is shit and to help him drink a commiserative bottle of whisky.

But when Ethan turns to him he forcibly relaxes and Cal hopes that his brother is trying to handle this his way for once.

"Ethan-" he begins,

The curtains rustle and Connie and Charlie return. Cal throws himself backwards against the fractionally tilted mattress and groans loudly.

"Thanks for the welcome, Doctor Knight."

"Look, can we get this over with?" he says

"Certainly," Connie replies, with a nod towards Charlie. She pulls on a fresh pair of gloves. "Okay, I'm going to administer some anaesthetic to your leg and while that's starting to work, Charlie will sort the IV." She removes the cap from the needle. "Just a sharp scratch, okay, Cal."

"I know what to- argh!" he says, crying out as the needle enters sensitive skin. He scrambles into a sitting position, certain he's about to see blood spurting out of his leg. But from the angle he's at, there's no sight of anything worse than Connie looking at him disparagingly, with a single raised eyebrow.

"Please remain still," she says.

He slumps backwards. It's not the first time he's wondered if Mrs Beauchamp is a sadist, but before it's always been when she's kept him from the pub by demanding he worked late. Now he considers whether she's acting in revenge because he's being grumpy or because he's left the department a doctor down. Thankfully, before he has chance to ask her, Charlie distracts him by securing a tourniquet around his arm. And when the nurse slides a needle into his vein, it hurts a lot less, so he supposes the state of his leg was to blame, rather than his boss.

Charlie removes the needle, secures the catheter with a piece of tape and attaches it to the bag of saline. Cal scowls at the drip; it's not painful, but it makes him feel like a patient again and that brings a hoard of bad memories. He plans to push the fluids through as soon as he's left on his own.

"Ready?" Connie asks.

"Whatever."

He wants to look away as soon as she lifts the scalpel but somehow watching the procedure helps him believe his reputation is still intact. She only makes a small incision. It barely hurts and momentarily he feels brave without having to fake it. But then she applies pressure either side of the abscess. His stomach churns. He turns his head away to gulp down the bile.

"Are you- sure- you know what you're doing?" he pants.

"Cal!"

"I'll ignore that in the circumstances," she says. "Unless you'd rather I found a passing F1?"

He grits his teeth and shakes his head. His presses a balled fist into the mattress and frowns as pain travels up his leg.

"It won't take long," she says, more gently this time. "And the pain relief Charlie gave you will kick in soon."

He grunts. Ethan squeezes his shoulder but it doesn't help. Whatever Mrs Beauchamp says, he knows it's going to feel long. And being without his prosthesis will feel like forever.

Ethan holds the door to their flat open and waits as Cal struggles in on his crutches. The borrowed pair from the hospital are without the padding Ethan had secured around the handholds, but he suspects that's only a minute part of why his brother's arms are shaking so severely. He had offered to fetch the wheelchair from where it's folded and buried beneath a heap of Cal's belongings but the suggestion had been shot down even more severely than in the hospital when Mrs Beauchamp had offered one to get to the car.

He places both their bags on the table and gives his brother a forced smile. "Sit down, I'll put the kettle on."

Instead, he hears the tell-tale clicks of Cal following him into the kitchen.

"I want a second opinion," Cal says.

Ethan turns to him. There are creases around his brother's eyes that reveal the pain he's been trying to hide. "On?"

"Where have you been all afternoon!" Cal snaps. "My leg, Ethan. What else?!"

Ethan stomach sinks. "Right, well. It's definitely infected."

"Not that." Cal slams then end of a crutch down on the tiles. "The sore has been irrigated, I've got antibiotics. There's no harm in me wearing my prosthesis."

"I- I think you should follow Mrs Beauchamp's advice."

"She's not the expert!"

"Neither am I," Ethan says. "Ask Fran if you must, but… I honestly think you'll need to leave the prosthesis off to give the abscess chance to heal. You must see that."

"Oh I must, must I?"

Ethan takes a step closer. His brother is frighteningly pale. "Caleb, please, just sit down for a bit."

"I'm fine."

"I'm worried you're going to faint again."

Cal narrows his eyes. "Does fussing over me make you feel better about yourself or something?"

"I'm your brother, Cal. Believe it or not, I do care."

"Why aren't you on my side then?"

"Your side?" Ethan frowns. "I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"You know how much of a difference having that leg makes to me." Cal glares at him, as if he was the one who physically took it away. "You should have told Beauchamp that not using it isn't an option, made her see sense."

"But, Cal-"

"But nothing."

"Caleb," Ethan persists. "She said you couldn't use it because that's the only way the abscess is going to heal."

Cal shakes his head. He looks close to tears.

"It's just for a couple of weeks," Ethan says, softly. A gnawing worry sticks in his throat. "You- you are going to listen, aren't you? Please. You can't allow the infection to get any worse."

Cal stares at him for a few seconds, unblinking. Then he turns his back and swings back into the lounge, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like you can't stop me.

Ethan follows him, coffees forgotten. His brother remains standing even though he's just inches from the comfort of the sofa. Cal has his back to him but Ethan can see from his hunched shoulders that he's staring down at his foot.

"I know you're upset," he says. "But please be sensible about this. Don't wear your prosthesis for now."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Cal says.

"What?"

"Any excuse to play perfect Saint Ethan."

"What are you talking about?"

Cal turns to face him. His nose is pink but he's still holding back the tears. "You get a kick from clearing up my mess, don't deny it."

Ethan feels a thump in his chest but he just purses his lips and breaths out through his nose. He knows his brother does this when he's upset. He'll become as irritating or unpleasant as possible, anything to push him away and detract from what's really wrong. Ethan's ashamed to admit the tactic has worked on him more than once.

"I just want to help."

"I don't want your help."

"Well, you've got it, so tough."

"See, that's the thing," Cal says, managing a step closer to him. "That's why you're so annoying. You think I'm incapable, that I need help. You can't bear the thought that I might be fine without you. You need me to be a screw up just to validate yourself."

"Caleb, that's nonsense."

"Is it?" Cal retorts. "God, sometimes I think you actually invent things that I've done wrong, just so you can fix the imaginary problem. It's pathetic, Ethan."

Ethan tries to take a deep breath but it sticks in his throat. He blinks, reminds himself his brother's only picking a fight to divert his grief. He can't rise to it. He can't allow himself to make the situation worse.

"Why don't you put a film on," he suggests. His tone sounds forced, even to him.

"You're not going to try to prove me wrong?"

"I don't want to argue with you when you're like this."

"Like what?" Cal's eyes flash dangerously.

Ethan walks past him and picks up the TV remote from the sofa. He gave up reminding his brother to return it to the cabinet only a few months after he first moved in. He jabs at the remote and the screen flickers to life.

"Oh, the football's on," he says, injecting more enthusiasm into it than he'd ever done over the sport before.

Cal ignores him. "Like what?" he repeats.

Ethan sighs at his failed attempt. He's still determined not to stoke the argument but if Cal's too upset to relax, then perhaps a different tactic will help. It still pains him to think of watching his brother fall to pieces after the accident but he remembers how his mood had improved along with his physical progress. He understands that Cal is hurting again now that his independence has been stripped away, albeit temporarily.

"Look, I know how you feel," he says.

"No, Ethan, you don't know how I feel."

"Then tell me."

Cal's jaw twitches and Ethan hopes he's considering it. He holds his breath and stays silent, giving his brother chance to find the words. The crowd at the football match on the television jeer loudly.

"You actually want me to spell out how useless I feel?" Cal says. "Thanks, Ethan. Really helpful."

"No! That's not what I-"

"It's been like this our whole lives. A competition. Except you can't move on from being that little kid who got bullied at school and the only way you know to improve your own self-esteem is by trying to destroy mine."

Ethan shakes his head but he can't speak. His brother knows exactly which buttons to press to hurt him the most.

"Are you pleased, Ethan? That I fucked up again. Are you glad it's given you another chance to show off what a nice guy you are?"

"Stop this," Ethan pleads. His voice cracks as his restraint finally crumbles. "Why are you saying all this? None of it's true."

"It's true that I fucked up, though, isn't it?" His eyes are damp. "That's what you said. Back at the hospital."

Ethan pauses. He feels a look of horror take over his face. He can vaguely remember accusing Cal of not looking after himself, but he'd done so out of fear of how ill the infection could have made his brother.

Cal nods bitterly, his head hanging and chest heaving.

"Cal, just please sit down. You don't look well."

"But I deserve it, don't I?"

"Of course not."

"Brought it on myself though."

Ethan takes a deep breath. "I didn't mean it like that. Honestly. I just- I was worried, and I wished there was a way this could have been avoided so you didn't have to go through it."

"Yeah, well, you were right," Cal says. "It could have been avoided. But it's me, I screw everything up. You can't be surprised." He looks up defiantly at Ethan, daring him to contradict him. "I couldn't be bothered to check it all the time. Takes too long. Reminds me that I'm different."

Ethan takes a step closer, desperate to comfort his brother. But Cal flinches away from his touch and clumsily swings across the room on his crutches.

"Where are you going?"

Cal ignores him and so Ethan follows, bracing himself to block the front door in case his brother decides to do a disappearing act like he had all those months ago. But Cal just gives him a look of disgust, as if he's read his thoughts, and continues to his bedroom.

Ethan hovers in Cal's doorway. His head aches from their argument. He watches as his brother shakes the crutches from his wrists. One crashes against the wardrobe and Ethan winces at the noise as if it had hit him instead. He dreads to think what damage they could cause.

"Perhaps I could stay for a bit?" he attempts.

Ethan gets his answer by way of the door slamming in his face.