Daughter on his Doorstep (HC #2)

8: Whiskey Fathers Discuss

Night had long since fallen by the time they departed the factory. Lupe followed them to the door, her gaze darting towards shadows as if she thought someone might be lurking in wait. As they reached the open wall, she offered Thomas the watch again.

Still, he shook his head. "You take care of it for me. Segura." The Spanish word was nowhere near as fluid from his lips, but Lupe clearly understood. She smiled at him broadly and clutched the clock to her chest. Thomas reached out a hand, resting it gently on her head. "I will be back tomorrow with more food." She nodded, his arm shaking with the movement.

"Gracias Tomás," she said quietly, tilting her head slightly to address Vincent, "Y tú, Vicente."

Both men nodded at her, and she turned, scampering back through the building with her prize pressed to her stomach. They watched after her until she had long since disappeared from sight.

"Are we doing the right thing?"

The question was so soft, Vincent almost though he had imagined it. He dragged his gaze from the depths of the building, only to find Thomas already staring at him.

He nodded.

Thomas let out a long breath, raising one hand to rake the curls out of his face. "I know, I agree, but..." he shrugged, a tiny, humourless laugh punctuating the air. "It just feels wrong to leave them here."

Vincent nodded again; he felt it too. "I... If..." He sighed. "There is no alternative. We have nowhere to take them, nothing to help them. Here we know they have work, even if they are mistreated." Unbidden, the image of Abrienda's bruised face leapt into his mind, and he physically flinched away from the memory. "For now, we can help them better from a distance."

There was no reply Thomas could make, so he did not try. Both men took deep, bracing breaths, and then climbed out of the building that had borne so many surprises that day.

It took perhaps another hour for them to return to the boarding house, by the time they'd left the shipping district and found a hired hackney to hail. They travelled in silence mostly, the exhaustion of the day settling into their bones as the adrenaline faded.

The Speckled Egg was alive with activity and music, bright light edging around the curtains and the edges of the doorframe. Vincent was relieved to avoid the pub; he had spoken more that day than he had in years, and did not think he had it in him to engage further with strangers. In strong contrast, the room beyond the door to the Speckled Hen was dark, the proprietor probably next door enjoying a drink, but they pressed through quickly into the narrow stairwell that led up to their rooms.

As he moved, Vincent brushed his hair out of his face, letting out a slight sigh when he realised the whisps were long enough to bother him but not long enough to tuck behind his ear. After the day they'd had, the thought of another task – finding a barber – was draining. It was no surprise then that his foot failed to rise high enough as he attempted the first stair, clipping the edge and sending him sprawling froward.

Pain radiated through his toe, and along his wrist as he caught himself on the banister, but his thoughts focussed on another sensation entirely; the gentle pressure of a hand on his lower back.

"Woah," Thomas' voice was close, cramped together as they were in the narrow stairway. "Easy there."

His fingers didn't move, just resting as they were, and Vincent was overcome by the desire... not to shake them off? For a man who had been repulsed by casual contact for as long as he could remember, feeling uncomfortable with hugs and itchy when others clasped his hands, the simple state of connection was unnerving. But interesting.