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After this:

Marlowe's room is pretty much like most of the others, really. A table and chair, bathroom (with the door shut), double-bed. Perhaps a few more books then most, and perhaps those books are a little more worn and filled with notes, but it is pretty much just a basic room.

Marlowe himself is still asleep, tangled up in the sheets with one arm flung over his eyes...

Well.

Eye and eyepatch.

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Darren's awake. Writing notes in a journal, because he'd had his bag with him and some things need writing about.

He's propped up against the headboard, one leg dangling off the edge of the bed, one foot braced flat, book on his knee.

Marlowe hadn't been sleeping well, not for a while. Weeks, months, and for once he slept deeply. But, still, habits are habits and he does move his arm. Eventually.

Slowly, he sits up and runs a hand through his moderately tangled hair, looking at the journal curiously.

"Been up long?"

"No," says Darren, reaching out without really looking at him or thinking about it to brush some hair off his cheek.

It's an oddly human gesture, for our Mr Nichols. Even if he's still writing with his other hand.

"I didn't wake you?"

Softly,

"No. I don't think anything could have, but you didn't."

"Well, if a heard of elephants had stampeded in," putting down his pen and looking over with a smirk, "I would have carried your unconscious form to safety."

That gets a snort.

"Of course you would."

"You looked like you needed it."

Not really a question. Darren knows the look of a man that's been pushing.

"Running on nerves, mind doesn't shut up." A quick shrug.

"I'm rather pleased, then, that I proved distracting enough."

He's naked, under the sheets, and usually would care but can't seem to.

He could say, I always sleep better with other people, because it's true. He's used to it, and does, but he doesn't say that.

His smile quirks, but it's that boyish smile of his.

"Take it as a compliment."

Darren returns it, and reaches out to brush Marlowe's hair again. Darren can never keep his hands out of people's hair.

"I'll be sure to."

Well, Marlowe has nice hair. Thick and soft and brown, normally straight except now, well, rather tangled. That smile widens for a moment, and then he leans close and kisses the corner of Darren's mouth.

"Good."

Darren laughs, and closes the journal, setting it aside too.

"I was afraid for a moment you'd had a pavolovian writer's reaction to the sound of a pen."

"Pavolovian?"

"Pavlov kept mice in a cage, and rang a bell at feeding time. The mice would smell the food, at first, and come. And then after some time, Pavlov would ring the bell and the mice, of course, would still come. Ring a bell and simultaneously poke a man and after a few tries, he'll flinch with or without the jab."

That sort of thing.

A quick nod.

"Your pens are quieter then mine, the paper smoother. Of course, it might have been unconscious..."

"It usually is."

Darren shrugs.

"Maybe you'll write again some day."

"Find something that sparks my interest, and I might."

"Only you could fail to find interest in a bar at the end of the universe."

Darren loves this. He's considering it as a concept for a sitcom.

"Only me?"

"The rest of us? We're having a lark. For the most part."

Frowning and thinking of Puck and his injuries.

"It is...I don't know what it is. Interesting enough, but."

"Dangerous."

Puck, Puck.

"Not so much."

"You haven't seen what I've seen, then."

Voice a little sharper than he meant it to be. Worry does that to you.