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Connor heaved a deep breath. “She hated me. No big loss, I suppose.”

“Right. That’s why you’re drunk.”

“I’m drunk for many reasons,” he said, waxing philosophical.

“Perhaps I should be as well.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, which prickled with anxiety. “If you need to soothe yourself by mounting something – which so far appears to be your preferred method of handling your emotional issues – might I suggest one of the goats your people brought along? Lest you get slapped again this evening.”

Connor snorted. “I imagine getting kicked hurts worse than a slap.”

Reggie snorted, too, imaging it, and then they were both laughing: Reggie low and rusty, with his ruined throat, and Connor with the easy giggles of the intoxicated.

“Let this be a lesson to you,” Reggie said, when he could. “Fucking isn’t the solution to life’s problems.”

“I’m beginning to see that.”

“Do you…need assistance with your…wife?”

“Gods no. That’s a job for tomorrow.”

Reggie nodded, stood, and offered a hand. “There’s bound to be other bedrooms in this shithole. Let’s find you one.”

Connor tipped his head back and regarded first his hand, and then his face, his gaze glassy and unfocused. His tone was over-serious, though, when he said, “Reginald. You’re not so bad.”

Reggie wiggled his fingers until Connor gripped his hand. “Why, thank you. I like to think I’m not.”

It took some searching, Reggie holding the candle and Connor clutching at his arm for dear life, but an empty bedroom was found. The coverlet was furry with dust, but Connor dropped face-down onto with a pleased murmur, heedless. His eyes closed, and he was snoring by the time Reggie took a step back, swatting at the dust.

They were a bit of a collective disaster, he decided, a pang of unexpected fondness chiming in his breast as he watched Connor inhale dust, but, perhaps, that meant they were all the more motivated.

He supposed they’d find out in the weeks to come.