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Paul always remembers going upstairs that night. It stands out with clarity, like a moment of fever or the first thing seen after waking from a nightmare. It all seems a little too real, each smell and sound too sharp and too bright to be actually happening. The front hall is still only dimly lit by the small lamp on the table. There’s a flicker of light from the embers of the fire in the sitting room that makes the glass on the framed paintings shine. He can hear his steps, and Foyle’s, muffled but clear on the carpet.
Foyle’s hand is warm in his and he doesn’t let go, moving just ahead of Paul through the hallway and to the bottom of the stairs. The house is silent around them and Paul can hear the faint tap of rain against the windows of the sitting room. It’s colder at the bottom of the stairs by the front door and Paul shivers involuntarily, his skin prickling.
Foyle must feel him shuddering because he stops and turns immediately, his free hand coming up against Paul’s waist. In the dim light Paul can see Foyle peering at him and he squeezes Foyle’s hand. Whatever Foyle is thinking, he doesn’t say anything, just pauses for another long moment before turning to go up the stairs.
The sound of their footsteps on the carpeted risers sounds unreasonably loud and he can hear the rising wind in the street outside throwing handfuls of rain against the house. Paul realises he can also hear his heartbeat in his ears. He’s fairly sure his hands are sweating and he swipes the palm of his free hand against his trousers. The sound of Foyle’s breathing, a little fast but steady, is unreasonably comforting.
He only realises later that, on the upward climb, he never thought of his bad leg at all.
At the top of the stairs, Foyle squeezes his hand gently and then lets go and shifts away, leaving Paul on the top step, clutching at the bannister as though he had never climbed stairs before. In that moment, he’s not sure he has. The varnished wood is smooth and cold under his hand and he can hear Foyle moving around in what he assumes is his bedroom. There’s a rustle of cloth, a squeak of wood, and then a faint whump -- perhaps a pillow being tossed onto a mattress? and oh God what is he doing--
A light, heavily shaded, comes on and Foyle comes back and slides his hand on top of Paul’s. The light’s behind him and Paul can’t see his face very well. His hand is steady, if a bit cold, and Paul feels himself take a deep breath without thinking about it, as if Foyle had told him to relax.
‘All right?’ Foyle’s voice is soft as if they’re trying not to wake someone in an adjoining room.
Paul nods and the wind throws more rain against the hall windows. ‘All right.’