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His hands are shaking. No matter how tightly he grips the glass of brandy that the Colonel had pressed into his hands, it doesn’t stop. The tremors are too strong for him to take a sip, so he sits by the fire with the glass in his hands, and he waits for everyone to leave. He wants, desperately, to be alone.
Or so he thinks.
The brief quiet when the Colonel ushers the hotel manager out of his room and into the hall, closing the door behind him, is almost painful. He knows that they must be talking about him, but he can’t hear their voices over the pounding of his heart and the sound of rustling linen still echoing in his ears.
He glances at his bed and shudders. The very idea of sleeping seems impossible, and the thought of wrapping himself in sheets makes the tremors in his hands worsen as his mind numbs with terror. He can’t stand this. Can’t stand it. He bows his head and lets the tears fall.
So great is his distress that he doesn’t even notice that the Colonel has re-entered the room until he places one large hand on his shoulder. The contact makes him jump, and the brandy finally sloshes over the edge of the glass. It follows the tracks left by his tears on the backs of his hands, and he can’t help the desperate sob that escapes him.
The Colonel doesn’t pull away. He squeezes Parkins’ shoulder instead, tight and reassuring, and then reaches down to prise the glass from his grasp. Once the glass is securely on the table, Parkins finds his hands being held securely in a warm, firm grip.
He still can’t stop the tears from falling.
The world outside of that grip feels like a distant, unreal thing. His tears spatter onto the back of the Colonel’s hands, trailing over tanned skin and faint scars that he doesn’t know the story behind. He shudders, bowing forward until his forehead touches the Colonel’s skin. He smells like pipe smoke – a rich, comforting scent. He smells like something real.
The thing, the thing. It had reeked of dirt and linen – as it had drawn close to him, it’s ghastly face inches from his own, it had filled his senses with the stench of the grave. That awful thing.
The Colonel is its opposite. He’s real; a wonderful, grounding figure. Parkins has never felt so grateful for a person’s presence in his life.
“You should rest,” the Colonel says. His voice is softer than Parkins has ever heard it, but the words send a bolt of fear through his heart.
“No!” he gasps out. He clutches desperately at the Colonel’s hands, refusing to let go. The last thing he wants is to be alone, to be left with the remaining bed linens, waiting for them to become animated by some evil force.
“Professor,” the Colonel says. He doesn’t struggle against Parkins’ grasp. “My dear Professor, I’m not going to leave you.”
Parkins lifts his head. He looks up into the Colonel’s face: his face, usually ruddy with varying levels of frustration, has no trace of that familiar irritation. His eyes are kind, and Parkins… Parkins can’t help but trust him.
“I don’t want to be alone,” he rasps out.
The Colonel nods. “Of course you don’t,” he says, as if Parkins’ fear isn’t a horrible overreaction. “And you won’t be.”
There are two beds. One may now be bare of bedding, but they can always call for more. The idea of having the Colonel in the room as he sleeps makes something in his chest ease. It’s ridiculous, really. They’ve only known each other for a couple of days, and yet there is something about the Colonel that makes Parkins trust him implicitly.
Even on that first day, when he had escaped the Colonel’s poor temper with a walk along the coast and his ill-fated investigation of the Templar preceptory, he had found himself wanting to extend his stay purely because of the Colonel’s company. He had watched the waves lap at the shore, looked out over the grey horizon as the setting sun sparked like flames on the water, and contemplated old, mostly-forgotten dreams of companionship – and it had been the Colonel’s face that had risen in his mind.
That the desire he had so hastily tamped down that evening might actually be returned is almost as shocking as the thing. Certainly, if the grip on his hands and the soft, worried expression on the Colonel’s face is anything to go by, then the dreams of his unenlightened days are not as distant as he had believed.
He isn’t sure what he believes in anymore, but he knows that he believes in the Colonel.
A large, calloused thumb makes a gentle sweep across his knuckles. Then the Colonel guides him gently to his feet. Parkins feels about as steady as a newborn foal, but the Colonel doesn’t let him do so much as stumble as he guides Parkins towards his bed.
He doesn’t dare look down at the sheets as the Colonel releases his hands. He watches instead as the Colonel removes his tie and shrugs out of his weskit, as he unbuttons the first two buttons of his shirt, revealing a triangle of skin at his throat and a couple of wiry grey hairs. He, himself, is still in his nightshirt – something that is now only just sinking in.
He exhales slowly. His heart is in his throat and his hands are still shaking, but it’s no longer from soul-deep fear of earlier. His eyes are sore from his tears, and the numbness in his head and his heart is beginning to fade into an exhaustion that not even the intimacy of the moment can distract from. His very bones ache, and his he feels almost as if he’s about to fly apart.
He watches the Colonel draw back the sheets as if from a distance. He watches as the Colonel hesitates, as if he’s second-guessing what he’s about to offer, so Parkins makes the decision for him. He steps forward and rests a hand on the Colonel’s arm. He can feel the muscle under his hand, the warm strength of him, and he knows that he’s making the right choice. Not just for tonight.
“Please,” he says, and the Colonel nods.
Parkins watches as the Colonel slides between the sheets and makes himself comfortable before he opens his opens his arms. The first scratch of bedlinen against his skin almost makes him bolt, but the Colonel reaches for him and guides him down onto the bed. It takes a moment for Parkins’ heart to settle, but with the Colonel’s warmth seeping through his nightshirt and the scent of pipe smoke in his nose, he finds himself relaxing into those strong arms.
He presses his nose into that tempting triangle of skin at the base of the Colonel’s throat, and he feels the Colonel press a tender kiss to the top of his head. He feels his scalp tingle in response.
“I don’t want to stay here,” he admits, whispering the words into the silence.
The Colonel’s grip on him tightens. “I have a cottage,” he says. “On the coast, not far from Whitby. It’s a wilder place than here, and no golf course to speak of, but you’re more than welcome to join me there.”
Parkins lifts his head, takes in the sincere look on the Colonel’s face and the warmth of his gaze, and through the exhaustion he feels a spark of hope. “That sounds wonderful,” he says. “Thank you, my dear Colonel.”
He lowers his head again, nestling against the Colonel’s chest. He closes his eyes and dredges old dreams from the depths of his memory: a windswept coast and a walk in the salt-fresh air, a warm hearth to return to, and solid, steady companionship. Those dreams no longer feel like a silly, unreasonable fantasy. Not now that he’s here, in the Colonel’s arms, safe from anything that may harm him.