The sun was setting and the moon was coming. Davenport wiped up and cleaned up the tables, balancing used wineglasses on a tray, ready to be taken to the kitchens. He made his common journey to the kitchens, carefully juggling much more than was the recommended amount for the tray to carry. He handed the things over to the maids, ready to be washed and dried, for the family to use in the morning.

He yawned and wondered if he would finish work early enough for him to read a bit of his book.

He was halfway through Ivanhoe and was beginning to wonder why he had brought it with him. He had managed to get in a great deal of reading when he had the flu not that long ago. He could now add War and Peace, Dracula and The Invisible Man to his repertoire. Roger had offered to ensure that Davenport was paid while he was sick but Davenport had declined, for that was not the sort of treatment that other ill staff would get.

At least, that was the reason that Davenport had given Roger, but Roger knew that Davenport was worried for his reputation. Roger had assured him that he took full responsibility for any damages to his image that might ensue. It was his reputation after all.

Davenport bade the maids and cooks and cleaning staff goodnight, then began to start his duties of making sure that the house was tidy and presentable for the next day. He straightened chairs and polished a few surfaces. Satisfied with his work, he went up the stairs.

Then he heard a sound. A jangling spun. He frowned and went back down the stairs. He suddenly had a horrid thought; had he locked all of the doors and windows? He retraced his steps and felt like he should let out a sigh of relief, but there was still the problem of the origin of the strange noise.

Everyone in the house was either asleep upstairs, or working in the kitchens, so it was very quiet. He could even hear the birds.

The noise started again and Davenport recognised it as belonging to keys. He wondered who it could be. Who would enter the house so late?

He went up cautiously to the door and looked through the little peephole. His eyes widened at the sight. He threw the door open and stared at the man.

"Roger!" he exclaimed. He never called him 'Sir' anymore, not when they were alone. "What on earth are you doing?"

Roger coughed and smiled broadly. "It's not that late."

Davenport smelt alcohol on his breath. A lot. "It is," he said firmly. "Very late. Where have you been?"

Roger shrugged and wretched. Davenport prayed that he wouldn't be sick.

"Come inside," Davenport suggested. "It's cold outside." It wasn't particularly, but he needed something to persuade him.

Roger grinned. "Inside?" he repeated. "I'd love to come inside, if you'll come with me."

Davenport swallowed, then calmed. "Yes, I will come with you. I'm not going to leave you in this state."

Roger stepped up the platform into the house, aided in his walking by Davenport. Roger was taller and so reasonably harder to manoeuvre. Davenport suddenly realised that he had nowhere to take Roger.

"Aren't we going upstairs?" Roger asked, his eyes barely staying opened.

Davenport stepped back from his wine-smelling breath. "No," he said after a while. "You should probably have some water," he said, feeling out of his depth. He told Roger to sit down while he fixed some water.

Roger did not listen, but stood behind Davenport. He kissed his neck. Davenport span around and tried to set the glass down. "Roger, I am being serious. I am a servant, I know, but I thought you respected me. Listen to me."

Roger tried to think about those words, his synapses dulled by liquor. "I do trust you," he said waveringly.

"Then let me get you some water," Davenport argued.

"I don't want water," Roger said obstinately. "I want you." He looked into Davenport's eyes.

Davenport, pressed up against the wall, could not deny that he wanted to agree, defiantly. "Roger, I- think we shouldn't-"

Roger's eyes were tinged with sorrow, so Davenport added, "Your mind is probably not at its best. Wait for the alcohol to leave your system."

"I cannot wait that long, Alexander," he said, struggling to pronounce his name.

Davenport knew he shouldn't, but leant forward and kissed him. He did not regret it, he could not, but wished that he had not been so weak. Roger was surprised by Davenport's unexpected reaction, but did not complain. He smirked and kissed him back, fervently. He tousled Davenport's hair and kissed his neck, his cheek, his lips. As they pulled back and their eyes met, Roger tried to remove Davenport's jacket. Davenport consented and shrugged it to the floor. He threw himself back onto Roger and soon they both were without jackets. Davenport's shirt was slightly undone; soon it was was gone. Roger pushed him against the wall. Davenport was instantly aware of the cold material touching his increasingly warm back.

He felt a jolt of something enter his brain. He gently pushed Roger off and looked at him sincerely, though he found it hard to ignore the longing. "Roger, we shouldn't."

Roger looked downcast. "Why not?"

"Not now, not here," Davenport elaborated. "This is the dining room for God's sake! It is the middle of the night. You're inebriated. You do not know what you are doing."

...

Roger woke up the following day with a headache. A very bad headache. He groaned and turned over, feeling a terrible sensation in his stomach. He closed his eyes and sighed, trying to remember what had happened the night before, where he had been, what he had done.

A shadow fell over his face and he looked over to see if anyone was in the bed with him. It was clear. He frowned. Then he quickly fell back to sleep.

But he was woken up shortly after by a knock at the door. He murmured a welcome and Davenport stepped through the door.

"What time is it?" Roger moaned.

Davenport glanced at the clock. "Six o'clock."

"I slept for four hours?" Roger announced, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

"I thought, perhaps, if you got up early and had a good breakfast, your - symptoms would be less obvious to your parents," Davenport reasoned.

Roger thanked him but paled at the mention of his parents.

Davenport closed the door and put a tray on the table. He took out a glass of water and some toast and fruit.

"I know it's not much, but it is rather healthy. The bananas, especially," Davenport reasoned. He handed the food over to Roger.

Roger stared at it, then began to eat it, slowly. "What happened yesterday? Last night?"

Davenport sat down on a chair, but Roger motioned him over. He awkwardly perched on the bed and began. "You came home, around one in the morning."

Roger's eyes widened as he continued eating. "Where had I been?"

"I don't know. You did not tell me that," Davenport replied. "But you were drunk. Quite, in fact."

"Nothing else happened?" Roger asked.

Davenport paused. "Well, not really."

Roger's raised eyebrow told Davenport that he should substantiate. "We kissed and- but nothing else."

"How could I have been so stupid?" he cursed. He drank his water in one swig.

Davenport paled and tried not to look dejected.

Roger smiled. "No, you misunderstand. I mean my drinking. How did I get so drunk?"

Davenport shrugged. "It does not matter, but you should probably rest. I'll leave you alone."

"You needn't be so good to me," Roger said. "This is my fault. You're too good. For me, anyway."

"No," Davenport argued. "Don't be ridiculous. Would you like some peace?"

Roger smiled. "Thank you."