Fear Makes you Numb

Having no children and being an only child himself, Francis had always known that he'd have little option in regards to his welfare should his health become worse. Although his neighbours were friendly and willing to help him, and as much as he loved his house and town, the stairs eventually became difficult to manage and household jobs started to fall to the wayside.

When his wife had died suddenly and peacefully ten years prior, the concept of his own mortality started to become starker. Francis wanted to remain independent for as long as possible but he promised himself that, once the time came, he would make the planned decision to go into a nursing home. He hoped that because it would be his own decision it'd be more tolerable; at least he walk into a home, rather than be wheeled into a hospice.

The moment in question had come whilst he was climbing the stairs one day and found that he couldn't continue. After fifteen minutes and almost three quarters of the way up the stairs, his chest was so tight that he couldn't get enough air in his lungs to take another step. He slid down the step and, in the middle of the stairway, cried as he understood what this failing meant. It took ten more minutes and a vice-like grip on the banister before he got the top; heartbeat far too fast out of combined effort and fear.

After a week of thorough searching later, through books and the internet and recommendations from neighbours, he paid a visit to his doctor who gave him the consent he'd been dreading. Although he was still healthy for now, his lungs were straining under the pressure of anything too strenuous and his heart was becoming weak. It was better for Francis mentally to go into a care home willingly, rather than extend the inevitable.

It was his own choice, but there hadn't been very many options.

Broken into four 'stages', ranging from the healthy and able to the terminal house that Francis refused to look at, the home he'd chosen covered all types of aged caring. He'd chosen it specifically because of the location, but also because it would cover him fully as he aged into either a slow decline or a quick jump from stage one to four. Moving into to one home was bad enough, Francis didn't know how he'd cope if someone deemed him too high a risk to care for and shuttled him off to a hospice without his consent.

The staff were, for the most part, friendly. And then there was Arthur.

Francis knew, from the moment he introduced himself to him, that Arthur already had an opinion about Francis and it probably wasn't a pleasant one. He had no idea how he came to have this or what he'd heard, but at first Arthur seemed to avoid interacting with Francis at all costs. He'd quickly find a task to do if Francis tried to talk to him, would leave rooms to take himself elsewhere, and generally did his best to avoid looking at him. When Arthur was forced to interact with Francis, he'd regard him with a cool, yet polite, indifference, so Francis could suppose that whatever Arthur's opinion of him had been, it wasn't improving with increased exposure.

It was maddening.

At first, this concerned him. Francis considered himself to be a well-mannered and friendly sort of person who'd certainly had no difficulties in charming or getting along with people before, especially for no reason, and he worried about what could have caused this. But as time wore on with no change, it began to irk him. He most certainly did not deserve such treatment; who was Arthur Kirkland to behave in such a way to him? It was entirely insulting and made worse by how subtle it was. Arthur was so polite to everyone that his way of speaking to Francis was never out of place, never stuck out as anything odd, yet Francis could sense the difference- the cooler edge and the more aloof attitude towards him than anyone else. The fact that he avoided initiating conversation with Francis was evidence enough for him, but around other staff and residents Arthur morphed into this other person, someone friendly and fake and oh how Francis loathed him.

It was then completely horrifying for the both of them when Arthur was assigned to be Francis' main carer.

It was from this that Francis first got a real glimpse at Arthur's true personality. He'd caught him coming out of the staff room, face hard and angry after presumably trying to fight the decision. He'd looked at Francis with narrowed eyes before remembering himself and shifting his mask of indifference back in place but it was too late, Francis had seen.

From then on, Francis allowed himself a bit of fun.

He made a habit of teasing Arthur, of goading him into arguments until he snapped. He'd poke fun at his appearance, at his personality, at his ability to do his job- anything and everything until he knew where all of Arthur's weaknesses were, all of the things Arthur couldn't help but rise to. Far removed from his polite manners and charming smile that he showed everyone else, Arthur would eventually snap or scowl at him, or insult him back. He'd look flustered when caught unawares or go red around the ears when trying to resist throttling Francis when others were about. He'd turn into a bad winner or a sore loser when challenged to games of chess because he was so competitive that he'd never manage to say no, especially when taunted.

Arthur was a real person in this god forsaken happy home for the elderly and eventually Francis began to appreciate Arthur for that, for being the only one to show him something ugly and difficult. It gave him a sense of self, to be called a cunt when he was being one, to be called out for bad behaviour or made to feel as if he were someone worth fighting back, rather than politely smiled away.

Francis didn't know what he would have done if Arthur hadn't started just over a year ago. Didn't mean that he actually liked him though.

As communicating with Arthur politely wasn't one of Francis' preferred pastimes, he therefore didn't know why he, an Englishman, was working as a care home nurse near the middle of France. Or, why a man as young as he was had decided to go into this profession in the first place. As a private home, it wasn't cheap and Francis could only assume that the pay was reasonable for the higher-than-average care that they received, but that still didn't seem to be a good enough reason to fit with what he knew about Arthur.

Not that he knew much at all. Francis didn't know whether Arthur had any family or whether he was close with them. He had no idea about his social life or where he lived and went when not working, or even what his hobbies were. The other orderlies seemed to love to talk about themselves and their lives; maybe to make them more relatable to patients and help them to fit in. Francis himself learnt more about random strangers in his first month than he ever knew about some of his neighbours after living next to them for decades.

Arthur, however, never divulged anything and if asked he'd try to find a way to worm his way out of the question or he'd offhandedly mention a vague fact about this family member there or that friend here. So, Francis had never asked about his reasons for being here and Arthur neither offered an explanation nor asked anything about him in return.

Francis rather liked it that way.

A stocky middle aged nurse disturbed Francis in the morning after his nightmare. Known as Annette, she was a forty something year old divorcee who had been doing her job for far too long and was Arthur's partner orderly who, impossibly, was more than a grump than he was. They both got on well.

'Good morning, Mr Bonnefoy, I trust you slept decently.' she marched in and flung open the curtains to reveal a grey and dreary day, 'I guess you won't be wandering about outside today; the report mentions rain and I'll not have you getting ill on my watch. Now,' she turned on her heel and fixed him with a hard stare, 'I heard we had a little nightmare last night. Anything more afterwards? Did you get back to sleep?'

Francis said nothing but shook his head, effectively answering both. All of the orderlies knew about his issue with sleeping drugs but they seemed to like trying him on new ones every once in a while. His sleeping had been getting worse as he aged.

'Well, I'll have to let Julia know; this isn't good, Mr Bonnefoy,' part of his mind twisted with the urge to inform her that it was hardly his fault drugs induced hallucinatory nightmares, but his jaw felt stiff and he still didn't feel in control of his breathing enough to answer her without croaking or wheezing, both of which would ruin the intended effect entirely.

Arthur had left him with the slight incline in his bed so his breathing was easier but Francis hoped fervently that Annette would help him out of bed soon; he needed to get out of his room. The briefcase was still where it had been left- in the corner and now jutting out slightly. His books were also left where they had been dumped on the floor.

Francis hadn't managed to go back to sleep again last night. Fear and paranoia had drained any traces of the narcotic from his system and kept him alert and tense under his covers; eyes fixed on the door and window of the room. Since he'd been awoken, he'd not heard anyone else attempt to come into his bedroom but he tensed every time soft footsteps fell outside his door.

After the initial panic, his mind had raced trying to think up anything which could explain the situation and what on earth it could possibly mean. What reason would anyone have to try and break into or steal his old briefcase, which was probably empty or full of old tat? Although, he thought to himself drily, for all he knew there could well be something of value in there. He'd never even opened it, afterall.

After a while, he'd logically concluded that perhaps someone was curious and wanted to see for themselves what was in there. Other carers had commented on it before about how funny it was that he'd carried it about all of these years without knowing what was inside. It wouldn't be unreasonable to consider that someone doubted his word and became curious. However, if they were innocently curious why not ask him if they could attempt to open it, rather than conduct their efforts suspiciously in the dead of night?

Maybe instead, someone mistook his case for their own and wanted to check- laughable, but possible, he supposed. Worth mentally considering, at least. Or, lastly and just as unlikely, someone knew what was inside and wanted whatever was there. However, considering how long it had been in Francis' possession before and during his time in the home, he doubted this.

It terrified him to think but someone physically close to him had broken in to his room whilst he was asleep. People coming in to check on him was one thing, but any other reason felt so invasive. What comforted him was that whoever it was could easily have hurt him if they had wanted to, meaning that he was probably safe for now. It was also possible that he imagined the whole thing; the suitcase was shrouded in a dark corner of the room and after his nightmare it was easy to conclude that he'd jumped to the case and connected the fear from his dream and it hadn't moved at all. Yet, as the sun rose and Francis stayed awake, it became more apparent that it had indeed shifted forwards slightly and the books were shifted from the top of the case into a scattered pile besides it.

Despite the irrationality of the whole thing, what actually scared him was the why- why on earth would some try and open his case in the middle of the night if not for suspicious intentions?

Annette gave him a hard stare. 'Are you feeling alright, Mr Bonnefoy?'

Francs cleared his throat. 'Yes, I'm just still a little tired, that's all.'

She stood akimbo and raised an eyebrow, 'I'm sure. Time to get you up and dressed then.'

She checked his temperature and pulse and, once satisfied, helped him to get up, dressed and ready for breakfast.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. The staff from last night seemed to have informed those in the morning which meant, of course, that now everyone knew. Carers kept shooting him sympathetic glances that made Francis want to punch something and other residents, the only people aside from Arthur who Francis could usually rely on for equal treatment, spoke to him as if he were in danger of dying right then and there.

This proved to be entirely unhelpful when it came to trying to forget what had happened last night. It kept coming back to him, both the image of the case being tampered with and the bolt of fear that went with it. He felt oddly as though he were being watched all day, for what he wasn't sure, but try as he might Francis' paranoia kept reaching new heights and itched at him constantly.

The other residents continued on with life as usual.

After a time, it became apparent that was he was going to need to talk to someone about it. Francis had never been one to sit on anxious thoughts or feelings. He liked to act, to go over it with someone and talk sense into the senseless; to do rather than brood. He wanted to go over everything his mind was buzzing with and he needed to have someone tell him harshly that he was being a stupid idiot and that there was an obvious explanation for everything. Unfortunately for him, the only person he knew of whom was still willing to provide him those services was Arthur, who, due to the nightshift last night, wouldn't be back in until tomorrow morning.

Talking about it to the other residents weren't an option. Even though he was good friends with many, Francis wouldn't call them ideal in matters of discussing a personal issue. He knew that although a few would love a scandal, they'd either try too hard to help and risk exposing a likely highly irrational fear to the whole building, or panic about it unduly and inform an orderly, who'd do exactly the same thing whilst also writing notes about the alarming deterioration of Francis' mental faculties. No, sadly it was going to have to be that English speaking arsehole who was gone for at least another 24 hours. Francis would have to suffer alone until then.

A slight distraction from his mental ramblings came in the form of the head nurse Julia herself, who visited him after lunch. Like the rest of the staff, she'd been bustling about all day, looking slightly harried, trying to make everything run on time and smoothly.

Francis was unfortunately sat in his chair and thus was denied any quick means of escape.

'Francis, we need to have a talk,' she laid her hand gently on his arm, effectively trapping his attention. Francis interrupted before she'd even started talking.

'I don't want any more sleeping pills.'

'Now Francis-'

'No,' he cut her off quickly, 'I don't want any more. I've had this problem all of my life and as many different types I've tried, my reaction to sleeping medicine has not got any better.' he decided it was best to leave out that they'd started to become progressively worse.

She looked at him sympathetically, or something he defensively interpreted as pity before answering gently, 'Modern medicine gets better every day and the methods you tried in the past have been improved; there's a high chance there are many new pills that you've not tried that could be prefect for you; we've just got to find the right mix or dose.'

Francis was surprised by the sudden tightness of his throat and the burn in his eyes. He would not be affected this much by something so trivial, he refused to break now.

'I don't-' he swallowed, 'I don't want any more. I'm happy to try anything else, even some hypnotherapy if I really can't sleep, but I don't want to use any more narcotics. At all.'

He stared straight at her and refused to look away. She had a sad look in her eyes and gave him a weak smile, 'I can't promise you anything, Francis. I can give you my word that I'll try, and I'll give you my word that I will only use them as a last resort, but this is a problem that's not going to go away. You need to sleep in order to remain healthy and that is my primary concern. And I'm afraid that's my decision to make.'

Francis turned away and stared pointedly at the television until she gave his arm one last pat and went away.

That night, Francis lay there silently in bed, half of him alert and listening for footsteps stalling at his door, or the creak of a handle being turned and the other half willing himself to fall asleep naturally. It did happen, sometimes, but lately it was becoming more and more difficult to drop off. Tonight, it seemed he was lucky; the events of the previous night and the tension he'd been carrying all day had drained him and he dropped off into an uneasy, fitful sleep.

He dreamt of apple orchards and the smell of rain, and looking for someone whom he could never find.

Francis was awoken once again by the sun shining onto his face from that stupid gap in the curtains. It was early, the time read a quarter past six and he was content to lay there and doze until either Arthur came to get him out of bed or someone else did. A quick and hasty glance in the direction of the case relaxed him; it had neither been moved, nor touched during the night.

He lay undisturbed with his eyes shut and contentedly napping until twenty past seven. Later than usual. The door clicked and his eyes swiftly opened to see Arthur pulling open the curtains to let in more light.

Francis stretched his arms above his head. 'Morning my dear, you're late this morning.'

'I saw to Mrs Dubois first, sorry for the delay.'

Arthur's accent was thicker than usual today. Francis opened his mouth to comment when he caught a glimpse of Arthur's face. He looked awful. In the time he'd known him, he'd never seen Arthur look so stressed; his face was pale and his eyes looked incredibly tired.

'What on earth happened to you?'

Arthur sighed, 'I missed you too, Francis.' he stared intently out of the window at something for a moment before coming across the room to tilt Francis up, then moved to get him some clothes and a glass of water.

Francis accepted the cup and took a grateful sip, 'I thought your appearance was terrible before, but this is a grand new accomplishment.'

Arthur pursed his lips, clearly irritated, but answered him with some level of calm, 'I haven't slept since the night before I last saw you.'

'That was three days ago.'

'That I am well aware of, thank you for your oh so helpful observation.'

'I do aim to please,' Francis looked at the clothes. 'You're not going to really make me wear this, are you?'

Arthur growled at him and huffily threw the clothes back into the drawer before retrieving new ones. Francis wasn't too worried about him.

Arthur held up and shirt to Francis, who considered it before nodding, 'Better.'

'They're all your clothes, you know. If you don't like something it's your own fault.'

Francis gave him a disgusted look, 'It's not my clothes which are the problem, you foolish man, it's the combination you put them in.'

Either Arthur was too tired to care or he found the argument too below him to rise to, because he remained silent and put the new clothes on the bed, shaking his head slightly.

As Francis unbuttoned his shirt and started to put in on, Arthur reached over back towards the counter and grabbed his clip board, 'How have you slept since I last saw you?'

'Better,' Francis was staring at the buttons of the shirt with deep concentration contorting his features. Arthur made no move to assist him, 'I manage to fall asleep naturally last night and slept the whole way through.'

Arthur nodded and made a note, 'Fits every other time; hopefully the sleep you managed to get from the medicine broke the pattern of insomnia, for a while at least.'

'I hope so.' Francis had finished with his shirt and stared at Arthur expectantly. Moving closer Arthur helped him put his legs in his trousers and then left him to it.

There was a brief, comfortable silence before Arthur rudely broke it, 'Julia spoke to me this morning,' Francis grimaced as he finished buckling his belt and averted his eyes to look out of the window, 'Just so that you know, I don't agree with her.'

Francis felt a swell of relief that was dampened slightly by his companion's next words, 'But I'm afraid, as you know, there's nothing much I can do.' Noticing Francis' despondent look, he added, 'I've given my opinion, so that should count for something but she's got the final say in the matter. Perhaps she'll consider non-medicinal means before trying another narcotic but I can't promise that you'll never have to try another type again.'

Francis sighed, 'Well, I appreciate you trying.'

Arthur nodded and came forward to sit him on the bed to put on his shoes. Once finished, he stood and got ready to help him up. As Francis placed a hand on Arthur's shoulder to steady himself, he pushed a bit of his shirt sleeve up to reveal a slight red tinge to his skin just above the elbow. He felt a prick of desperation catch in his throat.

'Did I do that?'

Arthur looked down at him arm and smoothed his sleeve back down to cover the bruising, 'It doesn't matter Francis.'

'I did, didn't I?'

'It wasn't your fault.' Francis bit his lip and looked away, guilt licking at his stomach, 'Francis, it's- look at me. Francis,' Francis looked back. 'I know you didn't mean it; you were hallucinating and it's okay.'

As Arthur moved to stand back a bit his sleeve moved and exposed the bottom part of the reddened area slightly. Francis, with every fibre of his being, hated sleeping pills and swore that he was going to refuse to swallow any others they tried to give him; he couldn't take this anymore, especially if he was now starting to lose control of himself. The helplessness, and the loss of control that they caused, disgusted him.

Arthur broke any further building awkwardness between them by dipping his head and hesitating, before opening the bedroom door, 'Right, well. Let's get you some frog fuel; there's no point in moping in here all day.'

'I don't miss you at all when you leave, you cretin.'

The morning's conversation led to the topic of the case and what he wanted to discuss slip from his mind. Francis didn't get another chance to talk to Arthur until midday. There were a few members of staff suddenly off sick and those remaining had to pick up the slack, so apart from taking a cup of coffee Jean all but forced upon him, Arthur wouldn't stay still or remain free long enough for Francis to grab him and pull him aside.

The chance came just as lunch was setting in. After making sure that everyone had something to eat, Arthur slipped out quietly from the room without telling anyone where he was going. As all residents were currently eating in the communal area, Francis knew for one that they'd be alone and two, that Arthur wasn't supposed to be leaving. Knowing that a moment like this may not come around again for the rest of the day, and curiosity helping him along, Francis made up his mind to follow. Tracing the direction Arthur took, he was about to walk down the corridor leading to the staff room when he caught the sound of Arthur talking softly from the other direction.

Peeking around the corridor, Francis saw him out of the large French windows in the patio courtyard on his phone. His voice was muffled from this far away but he was holding his head tiredly in one hand and leaning heavily against the wall. Upon edging closer, Francis discovered that the conversation, much to his irritation, was being held in English. He knew the odd word from shows and films, but apart from hello and goodbye and a few other basics, Francis had no idea what was going on.

Arthur's words varied from his usual abruptness, like the tone he used when talking to Francis, to soft, tired garbles of complicated English syllables. Whatever it was, it was obvious he was talking with someone he knew.

Soon after Francis' arrival, Arthur cut the call with a soft 'bye' and opened the door before calling from outside, 'Once you're content with abandoning your morals to eavesdrop, Francis, you can come and join me.'

Francis sniffed in disdain, slightly embarrassed at being caught, 'I couldn't understand any word of your barbarian language anyway.'

'Your reward for eavesdropping on a private conversation.' Arthur held the door open for him as he stepped out and then shut it gently behind him.

'I didn't know that sneaking out to make personal calls on shift was allowed, especially for a carer of such a high calibre like yourself.'

Arthur looked away, 'It was important, sadly.'

Francis continued to stare at him.

'I'm not telling you any more, it was a personal issue.'

Francis sighed through his nose but didn't press any further.

'So?' Arthur looked at him, 'What brought you out here to impose on me?'

Francis felt uncomfortable, 'I need to talk to you about something.'

Arthur gave him a look that asked for more information but patiently waited for him to continue.

It had started to rain lightly, so after a few seconds of silence where Francis desperately tried to mentally organise himself, Arthur gave a small nod and pushed himself off the wall, 'Let's get it over with inside then, shall we?'

Arthur led him back to his room and helped Francis into a chair before backing and leaning against the counter. He looked at him and gave him a nod, as if to signify that he was now allowed to speak, a rile that Francis wouldn't allow himself to rise to.

'Yes. Well, the night-' he stopped abruptly. In a flash, he realised that Arthur was the last person he saw before he fell back asleep and the person who was last meant to check on his room; in all possibility, it could have even been Arthur. He could be about to voice his worries to the very person that had tampered with his case in the first place.

Not only that, but it didn't really seem to be that big of an issue any more. Too much time had passed and now, in the moment, Francis couldn't recall the fear enough for things to seem so dire. Okay, someone moved his case about a bit- was there anything necessarily wrong with that? It wasn't dangerous, it wasn't anything he had to confide in someone about. Someone could have even knocked it during the night whilst the carers were in his room after his nightmare (although, it couldn't have moved that much if so…)

Now the whole thing seemed somewhat stupid and Francis felt foolish and unsure of how to continue.

'Francis? Are you okay?' Francis made up his mind, it wasn't worth it. Not without more proof, both that this was happening and that Arthur wasn't involved.

He fixed Arthur with a determined look in the eye, 'I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry; about your arm.'

Arthur raised his eyebrows and moved a hand, probably subconsciously, to rub just above his elbow, 'Francis-'

'No, please let me explain.' he breathed out deeply through his nose, 'Just because I was hallucinating -and yes, I am aware that it wasn't really my fault- I still managed to grip you hard enough to leave a mark after two days, and, intentional or not, I want to apologise properly.'

Arthur reddened, but Francis had to commend him for not looking away. He gave him a sad smile instead, 'Well, thank you, but it's really nothing to worry about; I hold nothing against you… are you sure that was all?'

Francis cursed inwardly at Arthur's habit of attempting prying further than he needed to, 'I'm sure.'

Arthur moved forwards to pat him awkwardly on the shoulder before moving to help him up. 'Okay then, but if there is anything else, please, er… don't hesitate to talk to me, okay?'

Francis stood and waved him off with irritation, 'Yes, yes, I'll make sure I leap to cry at your feet. Now, go away to do your job; goodness knows I don't wish to be around you longer than I have to be and you're almost certainly expected to be somewhere else.'

Arthur scowled at him, 'Of course, your Highness. Pardon me for daring to consider that you deserve some concern.' The response was in English, which reasonably made Francis angry because he although he couldn't understand the meaning, he could guess it wasn't a cheery and uplifting compliment for him. He huffed at him and watched as Arthur stalked away.

Although Francis hadn't intended to, apologising had at least eased some of the guilt he hadn't realised he'd been carrying about with him all morning until it had ceased to twist in his stomach. With a sigh, he glanced at the case before moving over to inspect it, books stacked haphazardly on top by someone the day before.

With his foot, he carefully, and with a depressing amount of effort on his part, he slid the briefcase back to its original position. Picking up the first book on top, he eased himself into his chair slowly and read the morning away.

AN:
Thank you all so much for reading; knowing that this has an audience and that people are interested in this little idea of mine is a wonderful feeling. Please let me know of your thoughts, or improvements; I hope you enjoy.