Daughter on his Doorstep (HC #2)

9: Blame Home Stowaway

Whatever he'd been about to say died on his tongue, and he stumbled slightly, drawing them into close proximity. Almost instantly he stepped bodily away, putting as much space between them as he was able in the narrow corridor, as he said a little too sharply, "Vincent!"

Unsure what to say in response, Vincent simply dipped his head in greeting. In truth he'd needed to speak with Thomas, and as he raked his hair out of his eyes, casting it in further disarray, he formed his words.

"The.. Since... I shall return home tomorrow."

If Thomas was startled by the topic, he did not show it. "Your classes are complete?"

Vincent nodded stiffly, instantly regretting the motion as it jarred his headache back to life.

"Ah." The word was drawn out, followed by the click of Thomas' tongue against the back of his teeth. His hands drifted to his sides, finding their way into his pocket, and he rocked back on his heels, gaze fixed on the floor between them.

Vincent watched him with something akin to concern. The man seemed... awkward... which was completely out of character. With one sudden thump of his heart, Vincent felt a wave of nausea hit him; his recall of the night in his room was intact, if blurry, but perhaps in his inebriated state he'd done something wrong... said something wrong. He could have made a fool of himself, or embarrassed or offended Thomas, perhaps ruined their budding friendship and Thomas' relationships with the rest of his family –

"I'm sorry," he spat out, feeling the flush in his face and his pulse racing in his ears, "for whatever it is I did or said. If I've caused you any offence, I sincerely regret it." The words came more and more quickly, and he was almost grateful when the other man interrupted.

"Woah!" Thomas' hands were raised as if he were soothing a startled beast. "What gives you the impression you've offended me?"

He assessed the man from head to toe, noting the stiffness from the straight set of his brow to the way his stood with his weight tilted backwards. "Your general... demeanour?"

Thomas' eyebrow quirked. "My 'demeanour'?"

Vincent had the distinct impression that Thomas was teasing him now, but he pressed on nonetheless. "Yes, you're..." he shrugged, "...sedate."

As if the very mention of the word broke whatever spell he'd been under, Thomas threw back his head, face cracking in a wide smile as he let out a laugh. The tension in his shoulders faded, and he relaxed into a lean against the wall.

"Forgive me, I do not mean to be 'sedate'. I've just been thinking. Terrible habit I've developed – if you really want to take the blame for something, let it be my newfound intellectuality." He winked, but Vincent had already known that was a joke and was rolling his eyes. "Besides," he threw out one hand, giving Vincent a gentle shove on the shoulder as he frowned at him. "Even if I were acting 'sedate', why would be your fault?"

Vincent's frown returned. It seemed too obvious to explain. "If... the... I say the wrong thing, and it can upset peo-"

Thomas was already shaking his head. "No, you don't!" His finger was raised, and though he fought to keep the smile on his face, there was tension in his eyes. "You think you might, which is why you hum and har before you speak, but I doubt that anything you've actually said has offended anyone." His hand dropped suddenly from the air, thumping against his thigh. "You're just crippled by the thought that it might."

Not for the first time, Vincent felt as if Thomas' words had knocked the wind from his chest. Later, when his mind wasn't blank, he'd reflect that it hurt because it was true. It was not a physical or mental impediment that restrained his words, it was fear. Fear of insult, fear of failure, fear of driving people away.