Daughter on his Doorstep (HC #2)

8: Whiskey Fathers Discuss

Swallowing, he took the step he'd stumbled on, swivelling to look down at Thomas. Rather than remove his hand, the man kept it poised in place, and as Vincent twisted it skirted his hip to settled on his waist. The sensation sent a wave of heat and gooseflesh across his skin, more so when Thomas seemed to find his own balance by tightening his grip slightly.

The gap between them felt far smaller than it was. It was that, rather than the narrow passageway, that squeezed the air from Vincent's lungs, his breath coming fast and shallow as he fought to find a safe place to look. Thomas' eyes were too dark, too bottomless, his lips... Vincent's head jerked down, training his gaze on his shoes.

The hand on his waist tightened a fraction, shifting... stroking?

"Are you alright?" It was their close proximity, the need to whisper, which surely gave his voice the husky tone.

Vincent managed a nod. He licked his lips, searching for something to say...

And then Thomas stepped abruptly away. He laughed, and it echoed uncomfortably in the small space. "Well, I could use a drink!" he announced, tilting his head back towards the pub. Loud, carousing spaces were not places Vincent typically found joy, let alone that day.

He opened his mouth to say as much, to beg an apology and retire to his room, but those were not the words that emerged. "I've a bottle of whiskey in my room."

It was not untrue. Matt had gifted him the bottle when he was accepted to study law, and it had sat on his shelf, gathering dust, since he'd first taken a room at the Speckled Hen. It was the hint of question that surprised them both. It was not simply a statement, there was an underlying... invitation.

Thomas stared up at him from the lower step, searching his face. He couldn't read the expression there, apart from the astonishment in his eyes, and he remember with surprise of his own that he still did not know Vincent that well. He'd always thought him interesting, since the moment he opened the from door of the Humphrey estate and assessed him in silence, and the past few days spent together had given him greater insight into how he thought and acted, but he didn't know him. Thomas didn't know what this invitation meant.

All he did know was that Daniel Vincent Humphrey was a very confusing man.

Eventually, Thomas nodded; he had not lived the life he had to play it safe now.

Like the gears in a clock, Vincent turned almost mechanically, taking the rest of the steps in a steady, even rhythm without another word. Thomas followed slowly, trying to ignore the hand that could still feel the other man's heat. He clenched it into a fist as Vincent admitted them both into his room.

It was exactly what Thomas would have imagined; orderly, simple, and academic. The furniture clearly belonged to the boarding house; each piece was mismatched and worn. There was a bed, a desk, a chair and a bookshelf. The bed was neatly made, and chair set tightly against the desk, and the multitude of papers and books that covered every other surface were arranged deliberately.

As Vincent moved precisely about his room, collecting first the bottle of whiskey and then two glasses from the top shelf of the bookcase, Thomas moved to the window. The shutters were closed, doing their best to keep out the faint chill, and as he nudged one ajar and icy breeze swept through. The gooseflesh was worth it, however, to the smoggy haze that sat across town filled with pinpricks of light.

Behind him, Vincent coughed. The man was out of place, even in his own room, and stood awkwardly in the centre of the space with one half-filled glass of whiskey extended to Thomas. It was far more than a standard pour of the liquor, but Thomas doubted that was on purpose. Nevertheless, he accepted the glass easily, sinking into the chair Vincent indicated as the other man propped himself on the edge of the bed.