Chapter Text
Francis Crowe strolled into the men’s club on a Tuesday afternoon and was, sadly, not surprised to see Sidney Parker in his cups. Again.
“Dammit, man, being this level of intoxicated on a regular basis and during daylight hours is my occupation,” Crowe said to his brooding friend, who barely acknowledged him.
Since they had returned to London from Sanditon following their friend Lord Babington’s wedding, Parker had been steeped in alcohol. It was so bad, he did not even care what foul brew he was drinking.
Crowe remained standing, both hands on his cane supporting his lanky frame. As it was early, he was still reasonably sober. He sighed, knowing he would have to remain so today.
He was capable of it. He just did not like it. But what he liked less was seeing Parker endlessly in this state. While he was known to overindulge every now and then, Parker had not been drunk like this, day in and day out, since the witch he was now engaged to broke him a decade ago.
Crowe could usually count on Babington or Parker to be sensible so he did not need to be, but Babbers was on his wedding trip and Parker was, quite frankly, a mess. So it was down to Crowe to be the adult, a role he avoided at all costs.
“Dammit,” he said again. “Alright, Parker, time to move.”
“Where’re we going?” Parker slurred as Crowe helped him to his feet. Crowe nearly collapsed under Parker’s weight and gagged from the overwhelming smell of alcohol, smoke and sweat.
This was a terrible sign. Parker always took great care in his appearance. Even when participating in boxing matches, Parker bobbed and weaved to avoid blows to the face. It would not do for him to attempt to conduct his business covered in bruises that could be seen.
“We are going to Bedford Place,” Crowe told him. “You are going to have a bath while I see your cook about her hangover cure and some coffee. Then we are going to get you sober enough to tell me what the devil is going on.”
“No,” Parker said weakly. “If I’m sober, I’ll feel ... everything. I can’t.”
Crowe was sympathetic. He knew what it was to drink to forget. He did it daily.
“I promise, once you have told me everything this one time, we will find ourselves the best bottle of brandy and work our way down to the worst,” Crowe replied. “Come on.”
Crowe called for his carriage and sought the footman’s help to get Parker inside. It was no mean feat as Parker was no help and bloody heavy. The man was entirely too serious about his fitness. Crowe wrinkled his nose in disdain because exercise involved the dirtiest word in Crowe’s vocabulary: work.
Parker slumped over on his bench and did not move again during the short ride to Bedford Place. Crowe sighed and, in a rare moment of introspection, wondered if he was regularly this difficult for Parker and Babbers. He shut down that train of thought quickly as he did not care for its destination.
When they reached the townhouse, the footman helped Crowe get Parker to the door, where the butler, Mr. Hughes, and the valet, whose name Crowe did not know, took over. They hauled Parker upstairs with requests to ready a bath and not leave him alone lest he slip under.
Crowe found his way to the kitchen, where the cook, Mrs. Watts, cast him a wary eye. He held up his hands signaling that he came in peace.
“My dear Mrs. Watts, Mr. Parker is, um, indisposed and in desperate need of your hangover special and the strongest coffee you can brew. I’m afraid tea will not do the trick today.”
Mrs. Watts, who had known Crowe since he was young boy, nodded sadly after absorbing his request. Her hangover remedy had become the regular menu lately, and that was if anyone could persuade Mr. Parker to eat.
Crowe studied his feet to avoid the look of concern in Mrs. Watts’ hazel eyes. She knew as well as he did how rapidly Parker could spiral out of control. The last time, he partook in every vice within his reach. This time, so far, it seems to be only alcohol.
After giving her a quick nod, Crowe excused himself and went to check on Parker. Mr. Hughes informed him that the valet was helping dress his friend. Crowe asked that the food and coffee be brought to Parker’s room when it was ready, then headed upstairs and knocked on the door of the room that had been his friend’s for as long as Crowe had known him.
Parker was clumsily trying to arrange himself on a long settee, gave up and stumbled to his bed.
A quick knock let them know the food had arrived.
“Enter,” Crowe called out.
Once the trays were placed on a small round table by the window facing the gardens, Mr. Hughes left.
Crowe caught Parker’s eye and motioned him over. Neither man spoke as Crowe poured the coffee with an uncharacteristically steady hand. “Damn sobriety,” he thought.
Parker had a sip of coffee, then halfheartedly took a bite of dry toast as he warily eyed his friend, while Crowe dug into his scrambled eggs and took it as a sign to begin.
“Alright, spill it. All of it.”
As if it were the beginning and the end of it, Parker simply stated, “I am in love.”
“I figured, as you are engaged,” Crowe replied.
Parker sighed. “With Charlotte. Miss Heywood.”
Crowe, stunned by the revelation, waited for his brain to take it in and his mouth to react.
“Oh. Oh, shit.”