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Zolf sighs when Hamid’s eyes close and his head lolls back against the chair before coming to rest on his shoulder. He reaches forward, plucking the glass from Hamid’s hand and setting it on the table beside him before bending down to pick him up.
“You never did have a head for liquor,” Zolf says softly. “Wine, sure. I remember you and Bertie, polishing off bottles between you in Paris, but whiskey knocks you on your arse every time.”
Picking up Hamid is no trouble at all, no more than hauling a rope or carrying sailcloth would be. Even unconscious, the halfling curls himself up against Zolf’s chest, making a sound somewhere between a contented hum and a purr.
“Don’t go getting comfy,” Zolf tells him. “Just going to bring you back to your room and put you in your own bed.”
Hamid burrows a bit deeper into the crook of Zolf’s arm, still making that sound. His skin where it touches Zolf’s feels too warm, almost hot, and for a moment Zolf thinks of fever before he remembers that’s just how Hamid is. He used to think that Hamid somehow carried the heat of the desert with him, just like Zolf had always felt like he himself carried the chill of sea and stone down in the blood and bones of him. Now he knows it’s dragon fire that keeps his friend warm, that burns fierce and hot within his heart, that the shimmering brass tones to Hamid’s skin aren’t just a trick of the light. Hamid’s legacy is there for all to see, if they know how to look.
Zolf is barely out of his room before he’s confronted by two kobolds who must have been standing outside his door. They stare at him, yellow eyes shining, claws tightening ever so slightly around the spears they’re carrying. Zolf glares back at them. One of them is definitely Skraak, he can tell by the way he carries himself. The other one might as well be nameless for all Zolf cares, even if he could pronounce their names like Hamid and Cel seem to be able to, he wouldn’t bother.
“Right. Should’ve known you’d be out here. Just putting your drunken savior back to bed, if that’s all right with you. Nothin’ to get your tails in a twist about.”
Skraak and the other kobold just stare at him, tails swishing against the floorboards.
“Fine.” The word is almost a growl the way Skraak says it.
“Thanks,” Zolf says as he strides past them, the word as cold as the wind off the ocean in winter. He hears the click of their claws as they follow him down the hall, and they neither stop Zolf from entering Hamid’s room or try to go in themselves, instead taking up positions on either side of the door. There’s that at least. Zolf still has no fondness in his heart for the kobolds. At first he had thought that maybe all the attention from them would go to Hamid’s head, but seeing how Hamid acted around them, the flashes of embarrassment and guilt Zolf could see behind Hamid’s practiced smiles, now he just sees them as yet another thing causing stress on his— no, on their team, for all that they’re apparently useful to Cel.
“All right,” Zolf says softly to Hamid as he reaches the side of the bed. “Into bed with you.” He leans forward, opening his arms, only to feel Hamid’s arms tighten around him, followed by the sudden prick of claws through the fabric of his shirt.
“Don’t.” The word is a whisper. “Don’t leave.”
“Hamid…” Zolf can feel the burn and sting of tears waiting to be shed. Hamid had drunkenly, almost shrilly pleaded with him not to leave again just minutes ago, but it’s the quiet whisper that threatens to undo Zolf now. He should go. It’d be easy enough for Zolf to free himself from Hamid’s grasp, to tuck Hamid in and go back to his own room, where the bottle of whiskey Hamid had brought might help ease him towards sleep. He can see himself reading the letter again, a drink in one hand, the other tracing the familiar untidy scrawl of Sasha’s handwriting. He can see himself crying over the words for the second time that day, alone, and hope above he suddenly, desperately doesn’t want to be alone right now.
“I’m not leaving,” Zolf tells him. “But I have to put you down, so quit with the claws, yeah?”
This time when Zolf tries to tip Hamid into the bed he succeeds, the halfling sprawling across the covers for a moment before curling up again.
Zolf can still go back to his room. He’s no paladin, and he has no god to yank his powers away for telling a lie, for breaking a promise. Hamid most likely won’t remember any of this happened in the morning. But Zolf would remember and it would be another wedge between them, another thing not to talk about, and that sort of thing has to stop. Zolf can hope things are going to be okay all he likes, but hoping isn’t the same as wishing. You have to put the work in.
Zolf tucks Hamid under the covers, joining him a few moments later after he’s removed his prostheses. He’s barely in bed a half a minute before Hamid’s arms are back around him, the halfling’s head pressed up against Zolf’s chest. A second later the purring, there’s no other word for it, starts up again, and the vibration manages to knock a chuckle loose from Zolf.
“You a dragon or a cat?” Zolf asks, and it’s just as well that he gets no answer. He curls an arm around Hamid. “Don’t go getting used to this,” he says quietly, and he doesn’t know if he’s speaking to Hamid or himself because oh, he could get used to this. Maybe… maybe that’s something he could hope for too. Someday. He closes his eyes and lets Hamid’s warmth chase away the perpetual chill of sorrow for a night, if not for always.