Loosely inspired by Celandine Brandybuck's universe.
It takes Irwin a moment to realize he is cold. The warm body beside his is gone, leaving him half uncovered. "Oh, Dakin," he sighs, rubbing his brow. He'd thought they were past this, this dance of sneaking out and pretending not to care. He grabs his cane and hobbles to the chair. Better check and make sure he's locked the front door.
A light coming from under the door in his study gives him pause. He almost never closes doors. He's alone, except for when Dakin's around, and they're inconvenient from the chair. Resisting the urge to press his ear to the keyhole like a schoolboy, he slowly opens the oak portal.
Dakin is sprawled in the window seat, an army of surrounding end tables supporting massive stacks of papers. His shirt is half open; his hair is wild. He looks exactly like Irwin used to imagine he did the night before an assignment, disgruntled yet brilliant. He's tempted not to break the tableau.
"You're up early," he comments softly. Dakin startles, then blushes lightly. Irwin can't remember the last time he saw the younger man color with embarrassment.
"Did I wake you?" He moves to get up, but Irwin dismisses the motion with a wave of his hand.
"No, I just… You know it's three in the morning?" He can't find the words to say what he is thinking. It is something between most people only mess up their study at home and please never leave. "Big client?" he manages.
Dakin shakes his head, staring at the papers. "Merely medium, but complicated. They have the most bizarre… I'll figure it out." He turns back to shuffling through papers.
Irwin places a hand on his knee. "Of course you will. But you could have told me you had to do this. We could have-"
The younger man snorts derisively. "Wasn't going to work on it then anyway. I like the night-mornings."
"Night-mornings?"
Dakin smiles fondly, the sort of kind smile that convinced Irwin that the boy could be more than a prat so many years ago. "Part of a sonnet Pos wrote for Hector one year. 'On Exams' he called it. All about the night and morning before; there was an entire stanza on the peace and calm of night-mornings that we all experience in solitary. He was exactly right." He gestures to the window, a moon vaguely visible.
"Beautiful," Irwin observes, wondering if it is the night magic that makes Dakin so willing to share.
"So I do most of the complicated work around now. Gave me several long mornings back at Cutler's yourself." He reaches out and brushes his fingertips against the other man's cheek.
"Good. They suit you." They make you even more beautiful, he thinks, raising his own hand to knit their fingers together. Immediately embarrassed by his sentimentality, he moves to push the chair back. "I… should let you work in peace."
"Don't leave on my account," says Dakin, suddenly slightly tense.
Irwin smiles, recognizing the schoolboy anxiety. "Would it disturb you if I read a bit in here?"
The former pupil relaxes instantly. "Not at all."
Irwin grabs a book from the unread stack on his desk and wheels back toward his lover. He sets up shop beside one of the conscripted end tables. He resists the urge to grin when Dakin reaches over to lace their fingers once more. Thumbing through a tome on Queen Anne, he realizes what it is he wants to say. This is your home now.