Chapter Text
Where before, Dunk had managed to delay Nurse Lothar, his knew his luck had run out when it came to Doctor Cerrick. She stood at the door looking harried, her brightly dyed garb slightly askew. She took one long look at him, the dark skin of her forehead creased and eyebrows crawling toward her closely-cropped hairline. “Felt well enough for a shower, I see. And you seem to have…pulled out your IV. May I come in and fix that for you?”
Dunk nodded and waved her in, opening the door wide. He limped back to the bed and sank down on it with a wince, belatedly tugging the towel as far across his lap as it would reach.
As he got settled, the bathroom door creaked open to reveal Baelor. The prince greeted the doctor and gave her a terse nod as he made his slow way over to the bed. Though he seemed to be steadier now, Baelor set a heavy hand on Dunk’s shoulder as he sat beside him, just where he had when they were alone, facing the door with his bare legs hanging off the side. Of course, there was much more of him on display now than before, as he too only had the cover of a towel wrapped low around his hips. Dunk tried not to stare at the water droplets still clinging here and there to his hair and skin.
Skin that I have washed. He felt warmth rise to his cheeks and bit his lip to forestall his thoughts.
Doctor Cerrick cleared her throat pointedly and Dunk dragged his eyes back to her. “We’ve been looking for you, Mr. Carvel. The nurses from Radiology thought you’d disappeared from the hospital entirely.”
She looked between them, one eyebrow raised. “I shouldn’t be surprised to find you here. The paramedics who brought you both in last night said you were nigh impossible to separate.”
“Brought us where?” Baelor rushed to ask. “What is this place?”
“The Emergency Department at Royal Victoria Hospital,” the doctor answered, looking taken aback.
When recognition didn’t show up in his face, she added, “Belfast,” and then, “Northern Ireland. Do you really not have any idea – sir, I think we ought to get you back downstairs so we can run a second EEG and an updated set of MRI images – ”
“I should like to be rid of this place, and returned from whence I came." Baelor frowned seriously. "I shan’t be going anywhere without my companion, either,” he proclaimed, leaving a proprietary hand on Dunk’s shoulder in demonstration. Dunk winced at his rudeness.
He’s no prince here, Dunk thought as he watched Doctor Cerrick adopt a much sterner countenance. Acting like the heir to the Iron Throne won’t do us any favors.
“Mr. Carvel,” Doctor Cerrick began, “that would be irregular. Dangerous. I'm nowhere near signing off on your discharge.”
Baelor’s hand clenched down on the edge of the mattress beneath him, betraying his impatience.
“To start with, Mr. Claffey is not listed as one of your emergency contacts, nor is he recorded as holding health and welfare lasting power of attorney on your behalf.”
Baelor’s expression became so stony and his spine so straight that Dunk thought he resembled a statue of himself. “Might I impose upon you to tell me who does hold that authority?”
“Certainly,” Doctor Cerrick replied as she pulled a dark mirror out from under her arm, smaller than the one on the wall of the room, and touched it with one finger, changing the reflection upon it several times. “Your wife – ”
“Jena?” Baelor interrupted, equal parts pain and hope in his voice.
“No,” she answered slowly, and Baelor made a hoarse, wounded noise, covering his face with both hands.
Dunk cut in before she could inquire after Baelor's reaction. “Doctor Cerrick, is there any way he could grant me some kind of permission, here and now? I just want to help,” he insisted.
“Mr. Claffey,” she began. “Peter. You’ve only been conscious for a few hours. The wounds you came in with were numerous, and just as life-threatening as your friend's - severe blood loss, concussion, bruised spleen, two broken ribs, torn muscle in both your thighs, and partial tearing of two flexor tendons in your left hand, just to name a few.”
Dunk frowned. Where in seven hells is my spleen?
“The pattern of injury indicates a traumatic accident or attack of some kind. Without a doubt, it occurred while you were working, but your workplace denies it.” She sounded frustrated. “By rights, we should be calling your emergency contacts, Peter. And the police.”
Dread and anticipation welled up in equal measure. Dunk leaned forward where he sat. “Please, Doctor Cerrick. Who– .” In for a penny, he decided. “Whose name is on my list?”
“Let me have a look.” The doctor tapped at the dark mirror in her hand a few times. “Your parents are listed first.”
"No," Dunk reeled. “Can’t be,” he whispered to himself.
Baelor spoke suddenly, interrupting his spiraling thoughts. “Why haven’t you sent word, Doctor Cerrick?”
“Excuse me?” Dunk looked up to catch her eying Baelor warily.
“Why haven’t you sent word to his kin?” he elaborated. “‘By rights’ implies such a thing would be expected.”
The doctor sighed and pulled up a spare chair. “Nothing else for it, I suppose,” she muttered, sitting down with a pensive look on her face. “It's because I'm not certain what we're dealing with. We – that is, your team of doctors, are struggling to explain the state of your injuries. It's not clear how they might have occurred, for one."
She tugged at one sleeve of her tunic, twisting the fabric between her fingers as her gaze became distant. "Your entire day leading up to the trauma was on-camera. I've watched the recorded footage myself, and none of it shows a mechanism of injury. It's not as if either of you were doing your own stunt work," she huffed, spreading her hands.
"And there's another thing- ”
She picked up the dark mirror in her lap, then hesitated, finger hovering over its glossy surface. She tapped at it, then turned it around to show them a black field strewn with blue-white lines. Dunk tilted his head, trying to make sense of it, and saw Baelor doing the same out of the corner of his good eye.
“Your x-rays,” Doctor Cerrick explained, a swipe of her finger causing different white lines to appear.
That’s a hand, Dunk realized. The bones of one, gods be good. And the picture before – a chest?
She swiped again, and this time he recognized it without delay - a skull. Dunk jerked back in surprise and Baelor sucked in a short breath, one hand fumbling for Dunk’s forearm between them, nails digging in like claws. Dunk couldn’t help but hiss as the pressure aggravated one of his numerous bruises, and Baelor gentled his grip, stroking his thumb once in apology.
“How came you by these?” Baelor asked, reaching out with his free hand carefully. The reflection moved slightly as his finger touched its surface. Dunk heard the confusion and wonderment in his tone, and they shared a bewildered look.
“We took many images to assess the severity of the trauma when you came in yesterday, and discovered – ” Doctor Cerrick's brows furrowed. “Well, we found that they don’t match up. Peter's new x-rays are missing signs of previous injuries, presumably from his rugby career, whereas yours show many more old, healed injuries than are accounted for in your medical records. The latter might be possible by some stretch of the imagination, but not the former. Bones simply don’t heal like that.”
She leaned back and assessed them for an uncomfortable minute. “It would be helpful if you two could share what’s going on here,” she gestured at them where they sat pressed together from thigh to shoulder. “You’ve been using anachronistic language, like reenaactors might. You seem very confused, which is not surprising or unusual for two people with severe head injuries, but your confusion is specific to things that would put most people at ease. Neither of you have given detailed answers on the circumstances surrounding the incident that put you here, and now you’re attached at the hip.”
Dunk floundered, having no clue what to say. If they shared too much, she might write them off as mad. Too little, and she might decide to stop helping them. He glanced at Baelor for guidance, but the man’s face was unreadable.
A princely look, Dunk realized, for court and council.
Doctor Cerrick sighed heavily. “I’d like to check the condition of your surgical site, Mr. Carvel,” she hedged, standing up and laying the dark mirror on the chair, that awful skull still staring up from it. She walked to a box fixed to the wall and pulled out a pair of thin blue gloves, which she donned briskly. The doctor then circled the bed, leaning in to examine the wrapping around Baelor’s head. He flinched away from even her lightest touch, and she tutted at him. “It’s a good job you only washed around the bottom of the dressing. You were not meant to get it wet, sir. I’ll still need to redress this for you.”
She began unwinding the damp white cloth. "I’ll recommend we run more brain scans and keep you under observation for at least another 48 hours before even considering discharging you into family care. If you’d like to accompany each other for the remainder of your hospitalization, I suppose it can’t do much harm, so long as you keep any IVs and monitors attached this time - "
As the last of the bandages came away, she froze, then leaned close to examine something on the back of Baelor’s head. He made a small sound of discomfort when she pressed his head forward and felt around his scalp, where Dunk saw that a patch of hair had been shaved away. With sudden horror, he realized he might see where Maekar's mace struck Baelor.
"My brother's mace, most like. He's strong."
The hair on the back of Dunk's neck stood on end as he remembered the last words Baelor mumbled before Raymun and Steely Pate exposed his cratered skull. But the eerie reflection staring up from the mirror on the chair showed no gaping hole. And when he gathered enough courage to look, there was no gash or dent to be seen - not even stitching, or a healing scab. Merely a dark bruise showed on Baelor's stubbled skin, a dark circle like a great spot of black ink. As the doctor tipped Baelor's head slowly to catch the overhead light of the room, a very fine thread fell from his hair.
“That’s not- " Doctor Cerrick stopped and started. "I watched the surgery myself.” She muttered something else soft, and all Dunk caught of it was, “Nothing heals that fast.” Out of her pocket, she produced yet another dark mirror, smaller still than the last one, and held it up to the back of Baelor's head. A light flashed silently several times, startling Dunk and pulling a questioning sound from Baelor.
The doctor sniffed and straightened up, tugging her tunic sharply. "I need to confer with my colleagues." She disappeared into the bathroom, where Dunk heard her scrubbing her hands in the wash basin. When she reappeared, she went straight to the wall behind the bed, reaching into a slim rack holding a stack of parchment. Leafing through it briskly, Doctor Cerrick pulled out two sheets and fixed them to some kind of board. "A medical advocacy form for each of you to read and sign," she explained, holding it out to Dunk first.
At his blank look, she made a short sound and fumbled a hand to her tunic's breast pocket, from where she produced a slim black stick. It made a clicking sound as she pushed her thumb against one end, the blunt tip of the thing cleverly changing to a sharp point. "Sorry," Doctor Cerrick apologized distractedly, "Here's a pen." She handed the thing to Dunk as well, who looked nervously between the doctor and the parchment. Luckily, she had already turned away to fiddle with the grey box by the bed and didn't witness his hesitation.
Baelor released Dunk's hand and leaned over his lap, bracing a broad palm on Dunk's thigh and pretending to point something out in the text. He whispered, barely moving his lips. “What’s the issue?”
Dunk brought his mouth to the prince's ear. “I can’t read,” Dunk reminded him lowly. “Or write.” An accidental brush of skin as he spoke made his lips tingle, and he felt Baelor shiver against him.
“Fuck," Baelor muttered. "It slipped my mind. Pray, hand me the pen.” Still leaning into Dunk's space, shoulder pressed to his chest, he scanned the page until he found a blank space, and Dunk distracted himself from the warmth and movement of muscle against him by watching Baelor scrawl two slanted, looping words. He risked a glance over their shoulders at the doctor, who was still preoccupied, then flipped to the back of the second page, making a different signature. Before Dunk could admire his script, the doctor finished her task and came back around to collect the pages.
"There's nothing wearable left of the costumes you had on when the paramedics brought you in," she said, eyeing their towels skeptically. "It all had to be disassembled, or otherwise cut off in pieces. I'll ask the hospital staff to check the Lost and Found for spare clothing that might fit. Please do not leave this room before I get back," she finished pointedly before striding out into the hall, the door whispering closed behind her.
As the silence stretched, Baelor seemed to remember that his hand was still high on Dunk's thigh. "Ah," his gaze wandered there and stayed. "Forgive me, Ser Duncan. It seems I keep on taking liberties," he said ruefully, fingers tightening once before his hand pulled away. "I will admit that it brings me comfort in this strange place to feel you under my hand. If it makes you uncomfortable, all you must do is say."
Dunk was warmed all the way through by his words, as if he were sitting by a fire. You are in the company of a dragon, he reminded himself. "That's alright, Your Grace. Though you might want to know, " he paused to swallow. "I'm likely to get ideas above my station."
Looking sideways at him, Dunk realized Baelor was still so close that he could see the fine lines around his eyes and mouth; the slightly-curled silver strands in his damp hair and beard.
He's got freckles, Dunk noticed with a start, and felt even warmer.
"Seem to be making a habit of it," he admitted.
Baelor leaned back on one hand, turning slightly to take him in.
"Really?" He lifted his chin and watched Dunk curiously, a smile taking shape on his face; it made Dunk shift where he sat. He suddenly wanted to cover his lap with his hands. Or the skin of his face and neck, which he knew was flushed by the spreading heat there.
"What ideas would those be, Ser?"
They watched each other for a breathless moment before Dunk broke the staring contest and looked down at the floor.
"That I could bring you other kinds of comfort, Your Grace," he finally answered, at once glad and disappointed he could not see the prince's face.
Dunk felt Baelor's weight shift beside him, perhaps to touch him again, but they were interrupted by the hallway door opening. Baelor made an outraged sound at the sudden entry, though even that was cut short as he got a good look at the interloper.
The man who stepped into the room was pale like a specter. He wore close-fitting trousers the color of smoke, and a black tunic in a cut Dunk had never before seen, the stark color of his clothing emphasizing the nearly unnatural shade of the man's white skin. A slim visor with two pieces of dark glass inset covered his eyes.
He's got silver-blond hair like Aerion and Maekar, Dunk observed with no little surprise. Surely he's not a Targaryen?
Baelor clearly recognized the man. "Brynden!" He exclaimed, and was promptly shushed by the newcomer. "It's my uncle," Baelor murmured to Dunk, "Brynden Rivers, though most call him the Lord Bloodraven. Master of Whispers to my father, the King."
Dunk did recall the man, then; he'd seen him once before, years ago, riding a white courser through the streets of King's Landing at the head of a host of Raven's Teeth. Large as a legend, Dunk had thought at the time. He seemed smaller now that he was off horseback, Dunk having grown two heads taller besides, but the man was no less striking.
Baelor got slowly to his feet and went to Brynden's side. "Uncle, this is my man, Ser Duncan the Tall. I took his side in the Trial of Seven that Aerion demanded, and I suspect I have him to thank for my life, albeit under these…unusual conditions." He gestured at the room around them.
"Neat trick, that," the pale man sneered over at Dunk. "To risk a crown prince's head and save it, all in one morning."
For a moment, Dunk heard the echo of Aerion's voice underneath Brynden's, and it made his empty hands clench into fists, though his bruised palm throbbed at the pressure. Baelor caught his change in demeanor and frowned sharply at Brynden.
"I hope you might forgive my uncle's rudeness, Ser Duncan. He does not yet know the full circumstances surrounding the Trial, or the fact that you swore yourself to me afterward, while the shadow of death lay upon us both."
"Do not chastise me, Baelor. I can guess the circumstances well enough. No doubt they involved your damnable sense of honor," Brynden snapped. "You would not believe what I had to do to follow you here. We'll no longer be able to skirt the accusations of black magic in our house, I'll tell you truly."
He pulled the visor from his eyes and threw it onto the bed, revealing one red eye and a scarred hollow where the other should be. "Fucking things," he muttered.
As Brynden tossed his head, his long white hair fell back, and Dunk caught sight of the famous birthmark that stretched in a dark, wing-like shape across his cheek and chin. The so-named Bloodraven threw a large bag down on the floor and pulled a strange mechanism to open it, revealing stacks of folded cloth.
"We have to get you released," He intoned as he rifled through the bag's contents. "There's nothing more they can do for you here, and the questions will multiply, the longer you stay."
Brynden pulled a bundle out and passed it to Dunk. "I managed to find your quarters and collect some clothes that should fit you. Gods know I won't find them anywhere else," he said with a slow appraisal of Dunk's person. Dunk silently tugged the edge of the towel down his thighs as far as it would stretch.
"Be warned," Brynden continued, "the smallclothes here are very small. It seems to be how they're made, but they do stretch."
Dunk accepted the clothes awkwardly. "Thank you, m'lord." He stood and lumbered slowly into the bathroom, pushing the door most of the way shut so he could privately muddle his way through dressing.
"How did you know to find us here?" Dunk heard Baelor ask through the crack in the door. "You couldn't have heard news of the Trial so soon." Brynden's reply was too low to catch; all he heard was "dreams" and a mention of "Sheira" before the spymaster's muttering became indistinguishable. The hallway door creaked open and clicked shut.
Brynden had not just been having a jape at him; the smallclothes were comically tight-fitting, and he adjusted himself many times before resigning himself to the strangely claustrophobic dual sensation of the front-facing pouch and the tight band around his waist. There was a soft white tunic that he set aside, unenthusiastic about reliving the pain of lifting his left arm. Instead, Dunk tugged on a blue pair of trousers, slippery and cool fabric against his skin. They clung oddly to his thighs and didn't even reach tops of his knees. The last things in the bundle were a pair of thick white stockings and a heavier tunic, perhaps an overtunic of sorts, both of which he decided to give a miss for the same reason as the first tunic.
I'll fall over if I try to put those stockings on without sitting down, Dunk thought dourly. He picked up the overtunic and held it up to the light, admiring the softness of it. Wool, he decided finally, pleased that he could recognize at least one small thing in this world.
"Ser Duncan," Baelor's voice caught his attention with a start, and he staggered to face the door, where the prince peered in. "I didn't mean to sneak up on you. I only came to ask if you'd like help with your tunic." Dunk stared at him in surprise for so long that Baelor began to explain. "It hurt you," he gestured at the back of his own neck, "Before, when you reached for the ties- "
"Please," Dunk blurted out, interrupting him. Baelor seemed relieved; his face relaxed and he stepped into the room fully. Gone was the towel and bare brown skin; the prince was dressed now in a soft-looking tunic the color of cream, with colorful flowering plants embroidered here and there. His grey trousers were much looser than hose or breeches, and looked comfortable. Curiously, the buckskin shoes on his feet covered his toes, but left his heels and ankles bare.
My hands can fit all the way around those ankles. The memory of their shared bath made his heart trip in its steady pace.
Baelor cleared his throat, and Dunk dragged his eyes back up to meet his gaze. "If I may," Baelor prompted, stepping close, and Dunk handed him the white tunic. "It's an honor, Your Grace," he said quietly, "To be dressed by you."
"Indeed," Baelor murmured warmly as he guided Dunk's arms through the sleeves one by one, "It is my pleasure to dress you." He rocked up on his toes to roll the hem and collar over Dunk's head. "My sworn sword," he finished.
It became very quiet between them, so much so that Dunk nearly held his breath. Baelor helped him with the overtunic next, smoothing it with gentle tugs. When he was finished, Baelor held him at arm's length.
"Do I look ridiculous?" Dunk asked, pulling self-consciously at the hem of the overtunic where it met his hips.
"No," Baelor's hands squeezed Dunk's shoulders, his eyes keen. "You look very fine, Ser. These odd clothes do you credit."
Swooping warmth filled Dunk again, his stomach dancing with it. "You do me credit, Your Grace," he replied gratefully. "You look well also," he added in a rush. "I - " he paused, embarrassed, before admitting, "I quite like the little flowers. If you don't mind my saying so, m'lord."
He regretted drawing Baelor's attention elsewhere; his hands dropped away from Dunk to pull at the hem of his tunic so that he could see the design stitched into the linen there.
"Mm," Baelor hummed, noncommittal. "I thought at first that my uncle chose the strangest clothes just to spite me, but they're very light. Less restrictive than I'm used to, for certain."
Dunk made a considering sound. "Except for the smalls."
"Not all men have the means to fill them as you do, I'm sure," Baelor replied with the barest hint of a smirk.
Dunk figured he was red to the tips of his ears. He ducked his head and looked back at Baelor through his eyelashes, a strange mood taking hold of him.
"Ser Duncan," Baelor began, taking a half-step forward to stand with his toes between Dunk's.
"Dunk - "
"If you two are quite finished playing the knight and the maiden," called Brynden from the other side of the door, "We must needs leave this place."
Baelor sighed and leaned in so that his forehead rested on Dunk's chest. Boldly, he spread his good hand out in the center of Baelor's back and held him close for a breath. He felt the prince's hands land lightly on his hips.
"Between the constant interruptions and the state of my head, it seems I might never put my thoughts together," Baelor complained lowly into Dunk's tunic.
"Take heart, Your Grace." He let his hand follow the line of Baelor's spine up to the back of his neck, which Dunk thought must be sore from the blow that nearly killed him. That did kill him, albeit temporarily. Baelor exhaled hard as Dunk squeezed softly there, so he did it again with more intent, starting to rub at the tense muscles. "I think your uncle will free us from this hospital. Maybe even get us back where we belong, if we're lucky."
"And who's to say I'll survive the trip?" Baelor mumbled, though it did not sound as though he sought an answer. He leaned his forehead harder into Dunk for a moment, then straightened up, taking Dunk's hand from the back of his neck and drawing it up to his mouth. He pressed a whiskery kiss to Dunk's knuckles, his warm lips lingering for one breath, two. On the third, he drew away slightly, his bicolored gaze fixed on Dunk's shocked one.
Dunk felt the kiss on his skin like a brand, or a blessing. Whatever expression he wore was enough to make Baelor's mouth curve into a secretive smile, the crow's feet around his eyes deepening. Dunk wanted fiercely to lean forward and put his own lips there, once per side.
He lost himself in the imagining of it. He wondered if the prince might make the same sound as when Dunk held his face in the bath. If he might laugh, or draw Dunk's mouth to his own; if his mustache would tickle Dunk's lips. What he might taste like, now that the blood and death had been washed from him. What his heartbeat would feel like under Dunk's mouth, strong and steady.
Enough of that, Dunk told himself as his cock began to stir. He settled for stroking his thumb back and forth over Baelor's fingers.
"Let's not keep Brynden waiting too long." Baelor said with a tone of regret. "I shudder to think what he new discoveries he will make in our absence."
Dunk nodded. "I'll follow you, My Prince."