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It started innocently enough. Dying with his swagger stick, he was often in need of an extra pair of hands. He would try ordering the other ghosts of the house to simple tasks, pulling his rank as justification, but they mostly ignored his requests. Luckily, Humphrey's body was always around somewhere. Two free hands not being put to any use. Well, the Captain would not pass up that opportunity.
The Captain liked taking inventory of the items around the house. The afterlife could be quite boring, so it gave him something to do. Another bonus was that, unlike the other ghosts, Humphrey's body wouldn't pick a fight with the Captain. Not verbally, anyway. The Captain wasn't sure about how much the body could hear, but it would walk away whenever Captain made a disapproving comment.
Fidgeting often helped him think or relieve stress. That was one area where his stick was not a total burden. Sometimes, he caught himself lost in thought, wringing the Tudor’s hands rather than his own. Humphrey’s body didn’t seem to mind most of the time. It would walk away here and there, but it usually just stood around, letting the Captain fidget.
One evening, the Captain sat in the room with the television, content with that week’s war documentary that Alison had put on for him. He brought Humphrey's body in with him with the idea of counting the number of WWI battles he personally remembered— his equivalent of a drinking game. A third of the way into the documentary, he realized he stopped counting. A glance downward, his fingers were interwoven with those of Humphrey's body. Heat rose to his cheeks and he snatched his hand away, gripping his swagger stick in his lap. To his left, Humphrey's body patted the space between them. Searching for something it lost.
The Captain hesitated. He checked behind him at the doorway. He'd memorized everyone's nighttime routines. There was over an hour left before it was Mary’s turn with the television to watch one of those baking competition shows.
Turning back to the confused headless man, the Captain slowly released his hold on his swagger stick. His left hand slid across the couch and found Humphrey's right. The body jumped at the sudden touch, then soon relaxed. It sat back into the couch and remained still, relaxed. The Captain returned to the documentary. He kept his hand on top of Humphrey's.
~~~
Sometimes he would play with Humphreys hands. Weave their fingers together, create shadow puppets on the walls (curious that they maintained shadows while dead. He wondered if Michael could see them?). When in a particularly jovial mood, the Captain would gently trace invisible patterns in Humphrey's palms. The ticklish Tudor would squirm and jerk his arm back, then close his hand around the Captain's finger to politely ask him to stop. Then there were moments where he would simply clasp the Tudor's hand in his own and hold still. It simultaneously grounded the Captain in his unusual reality and permitted him to wander into his daydreams. This hand could belong to anyone, anyone at all. A reminder of what might have been, had the Captain led a different life. Had he never joined the wars and instead settled down with a wife and two kids. A wife he never desired, a quiet life that the first war guaranteed he could never mentally settle into.
He felt like a naughty schoolboy, sneaking around, going against the rules. Except, there are no rules in death, are there? The Captain was a man of morals: what applied in life certainly applied in the afterlife. This emotional vulnerability he displayed with Humphrey’s body was done only in private, and only at certain points of the day. It would appear suspicious if the Captain suddenly stopped attending Patrick’s club meetings to go be with the headless Tudor. He could think on his feet and lie about his whereabouts, but that would only be believable once or twice. Julian was tricky enough to know when he was being deceived. Katherine and Robin had great emotional intelligence that they could use to discover the truth. And Fanny would give him an earful about his unprofessionalism, regarding either his being with another man, or his conscious decision to skip the club meetings.
The moments he did set aside to be with Humphrey’s body became his favorite parts of the day. Some instances, the Captain would pretend it was not the hand of the Tudor he was holding, but rather that of a handsome builder with strong arms. He was not leading his dead companion around the garden; instead it was a chatty wedding planner with a keen eye for interior design. The headless partner was a steadfast film director, or a sheepish milkman, or a crooning lounge singer. Or a beloved lieutenant.
But as the Captain grew more accustomed to the mannerisms of the headless Tudor, Humphrey’s body became… Humphrey. The hand he took in his own was Humphrey’s. The person he walked through the garden with was Humphrey. The friend he stayed up all night talking to was Humphrey.
~~~
Hand-in-hand, the Captain led Humphrey’s body to the library. He sat the nobleman down by the bay windows. It was one of Thorne’s favorite places to sulk, but fortunately, the poet was off somewhere else, reciting his terrible poetry. The headless man tugged on the Captain’s sleeve, a motion for him to sit as well. He obliged and settled beside Humphrey’s body. He basked in the lovely silence of the room, letting his companion’s body lean into his.
A loud yawn disturbed their peaceful silence. The Captain opened his eyes and scanned the room. On a large table across from the windows, Humphrey’s head rested against a stack of books. The Captain jerked his hand away from the Tudor’s body and jumped up to his feet. By the time Humphrey opened his eyes, the Captain had put significant distance between himself and the headless body.
“Oh, there you are!” Humphrey said. His body stood up in response.
“Yes! I found him wandering about and-and I brought him here. To you. You’re welcome.”
A terrible realization suddenly occurred. Was Humphrey aware of the Captain's fondness of his body? Humphrey's head was always appearing in random spots. Sometimes he would speak up, other times he seemed content with listening, waiting to see if anyone would notice him tucked away somewhere. The private moments the Captain shared with Humphrey's body over the past few weeks — how many of them were truly private? It seemed more than likely that Humphrey's head bore witness to everything. But why wouldn't he say anything? He did not seem like the type to gather personal information for the purpose of blackmail.
The Captain was never inappropriate with Humphrey's body, nor would he prolong physical contact once the headless man made it clear he was no longer interested. Humphrey's head had no reason, then, to be worried about the Captain doing any sort of misconduct with the body.
If Humphrey had seen at least some of this odd relationship and remained quiet about it, the only conclusion left for the Captain was one that made him hold his breath (though he didn’t need to breathe anyway). What if Humphrey was completely fine with his body spending time with the Captain? No, it couldn’t be. What a silly thought. Another one of the Captain's fantasies.
“Thank you, Captain. Er, would you mind…?” Humphrey used his eyes to gesture to the base of his neck.
He could have left Humphrey’s head resting there. With no way of really moving himself, he couldn’t chase after the Captain if he picked up the body and left. He could avoid Humphrey’s head for the rest of the afterlife if it meant not having to disrupt the delicate connection he created with the Tudor.
The Captain was keenly aware of his selfishness. Humphrey — nor his body — ever agreed to be part of the Captain’s self-indulgent fantasies. The twinge of guilt was easy to ignore when the Tudor’s head was out of sight. The past few weeks of vulnerability would soon be rendered irrelevant once Humphrey was in one piece. Of course, he would lose his head again and the body would be available to the Captain once more. But it wouldn’t be the same. The guilt of projecting onto Humphrey’s headless form would no longer be swept aside.
He tucked his swagger stick down the front of his tunic and approached the table. The Captain tended to avoid moving Humphrey's head around. He would get the others to do that for him. Despite the decades the two have spent together in the same house, there was still something a bit unsettling for the Captain about carrying around a talking head.
He lifted Humphrey's head, supporting the back of his cranium and his neck, then brought it to his confused body that stood by the window. In one swift motion, the Captain pressed the head down onto the neck of the body. A slight twist to make sure the connection was secure, confirmed by the squelch of bone and muscle rubbing together.
“Ah, that’s much better!” Humphrey rolled his shoulders and carefully wobbled his head.
The Captain's hands lingered on either side of Humphrey's face. His recent fondness of Humphrey being associated with his headless form, the Captain was unprepared for the surge of endearment he experienced upon seeing Humphrey in one piece. He was hypnotized by the deep blue of Humphrey's kind yet sad eyes, made more vibrant when contrasted with his dark hair. He also realized for the first time that Humphrey was about the same height as him, if not a little taller. He was not seeing some random fantasy man. The Captain was not seeing just Humphrey's body or Humphrey's head. He was seeing Humphrey in full, and he liked what he saw.
Suddenly aware that he was still holding onto the other man, the Captain quickly removed his hands from Humphrey's face. With an awkward clearing of his throat, he stepped back and retrieved his swagger stick from his tunic.
“Well, uh… I should be off now,” the Captain nodded curtly, then turned on his heel to rush out of the room, hoping to salvage whatever was left of his dignity.
“Captain, I actually—”
“No, no, really, I must be going. Julian is giving a talk later. Don’t want to be late.”
“Wait right there, soldier!”
The Captain froze and turned to Humphrey. Despite the forceful voice he’d never heard from the Tudor, a bashful smile played on Humphrey’s lips. “Sorry, didn’t know if that would work.”
The Captain bit back a smile. He would have scolded anyone else, but he admired the gumption. Humphrey’s sense of humor did not shine through when he was just a body. What it must be like to sit with Humphrey, listen to that gentle voice, laugh at his terrible jokes…. The Captain shook off the thought. “What is it then?”
“I was outside yesterday — Thomas got excited and kicked me through the front door — you can’t really blame him though, can you? He’s got a lot of feelings, you know how Tommy can get. Anyway, I was outside, and I saw— I mean, it was a bit bright out, so I couldn’t see that well, but it was about noon...”
The Captain cleared his throat. Of the few times he directly spoke to Humphrey, he did not recall him being this scatterbrained. Unless he was nervous. The Captain had more of a reason to be on edge in that moment, though he would not admit that out loud. He gestured with his swagger stick for Humphrey to get to the point.
“Right, um. I saw Alison and Mike bring in some large boxes. Even heard Mike mention something about kitchenware, so I suppose…” It was Humphrey’s turn to clear his throat. He seemed more confident as just a head, or just a body. “Well, someone must keep stock of the new items, just to be safe. And I know that’s your sort of thing. I know I’m, uh, together again, but… I’d be more than happy to offer my assistance.”
There it was. Inventory, where it all began. Perhaps Humphrey’s offer was purely coincidence. He was often excited to be included in the activities of the other ghosts. The Captain had indulged in enough fantasies. For his own sake, Humphrey’s words must be read as platonic.
“Wonderful,” the Captain answered simply. A close-lipped smile and a short nod, he motioned for Humphrey to walk ahead, soon walking in time beside him.
The two passed through the library wall, heading toward the kitchen. The Captain felt something brush by his left hand. The delicate fingers he was now familiar with became entwined with his own. He glanced down to see Humphrey's fingers interlocked with his, until Humphrey quickly withdrew and clasped his arms to his sides.
"Terribly sorry, Captain," Humphrey muttered. "I don't know why I did that."
"Perhaps it's muscle memory," the Captain blurted before he could stop himself.
A brief pause, long enough for the Captain to begin drafting an explanation for his words, for why Humphrey's body would reach for the Captain so casually.
Then Humphrey chuckled and said, "Yeah, could be."
At last, they reached the kitchen where, indeed, Michael was unpacking shiny new silverware from a box. Smaller boxes were sprawled throughout the kitchen, some of them still sealed with tape. The Captain turned to Humphrey, who was already standing with his palms up and fingers spread. The Captain glanced back at Michael. He knew Michael couldn’t interact with the ghosts, but he felt like his complicated feelings for Humphrey would break through and become visible to everyone within a ten-kilometer radius.
“He can’t see us, mate,” Humphrey said. A quick wink in the Captain’s direction, then he returned his attention to the silverware displayed on the table.
The question was no longer about whether Humphrey knew, but how much he knew. The Captain pushed his worries aside and focused on their unofficial task. On Humphrey’s fingers, he counted forks, knives, and spoons. In his head, he counted the moments until he could take Humphrey’s hand in his own, reveling in the intimacy of their unspoken relationship.