Chapter 18: Baseline

Chapter 18: Chapter 18: Baseline

Claude had been Sebastian’s physician for twelve years, which meant he had developed the particular patience required to argue with a Fitzgeralt without becoming homicidal.

Today appeared to be testing its limits.

"You took how much?"

Sebastian remained seated beside the windows of his private study, one ankle resting over the opposite knee while snow-colored morning light spread across the dark wood floor. Fitzgeralt had entered one of its long autumn stretches during the two weeks he had been home: gray skies, cold rain at night, and frost occasionally whitening the northern lawns before sunrise.

The weather suited him.

Claude’s expression did not.

"A therapeutic amount."

Claude stared over the thin silver frames of his reading glasses.

He was a beta in his late forties, with dark-blond hair already beginning to gray near the temples and brown eyes that normally gave him the reassuring appearance expected of someone who spent his career telling powerful people unpleasant things.

At the moment, those eyes suggested Sebastian might soon become the unpleasant thing.

"Lord Fitzgeralt."

"Oh, we’re using titles."

"We are because calling you an idiot would violate several principles of medical professionalism."

Sebastian’s mouth twitched.

Claude placed the tablet on the table between them and folded his hands.

"You took two military-grade injections, the extended-release suppressant I prescribed, and then supplemented that with tablets you had left from your last deployment."

"When you list them separately, it sounds excessive."

"Because it is excessive."

"I remained conscious."

"That is not the standard by which medications are approved."

Sebastian leaned back in the armchair.

His private residence was much quieter than the main Fitzgeralt palace adjoining it. He had designed it that way years ago, keeping only the staff he actually needed and enough distance from the family residence that Lucas could not appear in his kitchen whenever parental instinct overwhelmed respect for boundaries.

Claude had converted one ground-floor room into a temporary diagnostic suite the morning after Sebastian returned from the capital.

It had been used frequently since.

Four sets of bloodwork in fourteen days. Four pheromonal profiles. Continuous monitoring.

And somehow Sebastian knew less now than when he arrived.

Claude picked up the tablet again.

"Let us review this one more time, because apparently repetition is the only weapon available to me."

"I understand the numbers."

"You understand them selectively."

Sebastian raised a brow.

Claude ignored it.

"The first samples were taken three hours after you arrived from Palatine. Your inflammatory markers were elevated, cortisol was unpleasant, suppressants were well above the standard therapeutic range, and your pheromonal regulation was poor."

"But no berserk markers."

"No established berserk cascade," Claude corrected. "Those are different statements."

Sebastian disliked distinctions that weakened his argument.

Claude knew that too.

"Your neural pheromonal markers were abnormal," he continued, bringing the first graph onto the larger screen beside them. "But they were not showing the characteristic runaway pattern we see immediately before collapse."

The line across the display was irregular but contained.

Sebastian had stared at that same graph two weeks ago and felt something dangerously close to vindication.

He had left Nero, returned somewhere the enigma had never entered, and he had not been approaching berserk.

At least not according to the first laboratory report.

"The second set was better," Sebastian said.

"It was."

The next graph appeared, it was taken three days later and was more stable.

"And the third was better than that."

Claude changed the screen again.

Day eight.

The cleanest profile Sebastian had produced in months.

He had slept nearly seven hours the night before. The pressure behind his eyes had diminished. Even the brief flashes of red had almost disappeared.

Sebastian had looked at those results and decided Nero had been lying or manipulating him. Possibly both.

He had started drafting the paperwork for a non-contact directive the same afternoon.

Claude leaned back.

"The problem is that none of those tests represents a useful baseline."

Sebastian’s gaze moved from the graph to him.

"You said the third was nearly normal."

"I said it was significantly improved."

"Claude."

"And you had enough suppressant circulating in your bloodstream to sedate a badly behaved elephant."

Sebastian sighed.

"There are no elephants in Palatine."

"I am beginning to understand why."

Claude swiped to the medication concentrations.

The first test had been distorted by whatever Sebastian still carried from the palace, combined with the emergency suppressants taken during the wedding.

The second had been performed after Sebastian increased his oral dose without mentioning it until afterward.

The third came after Claude changed the medication schedule, and Sebastian had, apparently, supplemented it on his own because he disliked the pressure returning behind his eyes.

Sebastian had considered this sensible.

Claude had used several other terms.

"Every time we tried to observe what your body was doing," Claude said, "you changed the conditions."

"I was trying not to go berserk while you observed me."

"That is reasonable. Secretly adjusting your medications is not."

"It worked."

Claude looked toward the fourth graph.

Sebastian followed.

The satisfaction disappeared.

The sample had been drawn that morning.

Even without understanding the individual markers, anyone could see the difference.

The smooth recovery curve from the third set was gone. Several values had climbed sharply. Others had collapsed. The pheromonal regulatory index had crossed the warning threshold for the first time.

Sebastian’s jaw tightened.

"Explain that."

"I have been trying."

"Try without comparing me to livestock."

Claude removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"This morning’s results are the first ones I genuinely dislike."

"That inspires confidence."

"They show active destabilization."

"How active?"

Claude looked at him.

Sebastian knew the answer was going to be unpleasant before he heard it.

"Enough that I would not allow you to deploy."

"That is not what I asked."

"I know."

"How close am I?"

Claude remained quiet for a moment, choosing the answer rather than avoiding it.

"I cannot give you a number of days or weeks. Biology does not work that politely. But this profile is consistent with a dominant alpha entering the final stage before pheromonal collapse."

Sebastian’s fingers stopped against the arm of the chair.

The room remained quiet around them.

Rain traced slow lines down the tall windows overlooking the private gardens. Beyond the trees, the dark roofs of the main Fitzgeralt residence rose through the mist.

"No," Sebastian said.

Claude’s expression stayed patient.

"You asked me for evidence."

"The first three tests improved while I was away from Nero."

"Yes."

"Then why would the fourth suddenly collapse?"

"That is precisely the question."

Sebastian rose.

Movement helped when thinking became irritating.

He crossed toward the window, one hand slipping into the pocket of his dark trousers while the other pushed his loose hair away from his face. He had dressed casually that morning in a black knit shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, expecting bloodwork rather than an argument about imminent biological disaster.

"The house hasn’t changed."

"No."

"No one from Saha has entered it."

"Security confirmed that repeatedly."

"My medication hasn’t decreased."

Claude’s silence made Sebastian turn.

"What?" ℴ

"Your medication is part of the problem with interpreting this."

"You just complained I took too much."

"I am still complaining."

"Then why am I worse?"

Claude stood and joined him nearer the windows, keeping enough distance that the conversation remained medical.

"Because suppressants do not stabilize the underlying system forever. They suppress output. There is a point at which increasing them only forces an unstable system to work harder beneath the surface."

Sebastian’s expression flattened.

"So I tranquilized the symptoms."

"Essentially."

"While the underlying deterioration continued."

"Yes."

That was inconvenient.

Claude looked toward the graphs.

"The improvement was real in the sense that your body appeared calmer. It does not prove the underlying cause resolved."

Sebastian stared out at the wet gardens.

The first days home had felt better enough that he had believed distance from Nero proved something.

Now, fourteen days later, the fourth test was worse than anything taken before the wedding.

"What about external pheromonal interference?"

Claude had expected the question.

"I found nothing suggesting someone accelerated your deterioration."

Sebastian looked at him.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing I can defend medically."