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Lyman Hall was jolted awake by a sudden banging from downstairs. Multiple heavy knocks on his front door, impatient and angry sounding. He blinked his eyes open and in a startled panic, stumbled out of bed, nearly slipping on loose papers strewn across the floor. It was pitch dark and he moved awkwardly, trying not to slam his foot into any furniture. The knocks on his door, growing increasingly impatient, did little to calm his nerves as he stumbled downstairs, nearly slipping multiple times. Another frustrated bang on his door.
“I’m coming!” He called, his voice cracking as he fished around in blind darkness for a matchbox. He struck one, his fingers trembling, as he hurriedly lit a candle. The room was suddenly illuminated in dull, flickering light. He cringed at the mess. Now, more tired and annoyed than panicked, he swung his front door open. Unfortunately, the man outside had continued to knock, and in the absence of a door, knocked Lyman in the face.
“Ow!” He took a startled step back, staring at the man in the doorway ludicrously. Through the dim glow of the candle, he saw a clearly inebriated man, leaning heavily on the door frame, ginger hair let down from its usual ribbon and falling across his shoulders. As he slowly recognized the man, his face fell from confusion to annoyance and he pressed a finger to his aching nose.
“Mr. Rutledge,” he said flatly, to which Edward gave a dopey smile. Lyman looked over at the clock in the corner, squinting through orange candlelight, “It is one in the morning, and you have just punched me in the face. What, may I ask, are you doing here?” He stifled a yawn into his empty hand. Edward grinned, fingering a shiny, metal flask in his loose grip, his eyes drawn to the flickering light it reflected. His shoulders shook slightly with a hiccup, and Lyman would have found it amusing if it were not one in the morning, and he had not just been punched in the face.
“Well you see, doctor Hall,” Rutledge drawled, his voice thick with exhaustion and drunkenness, “I had spent the evening down at the local tavern with my dear friends, and while I had been reveling in alcohol and-”
“Cut to the point.”
Edward gave a small chuckle, silently lamenting over how handsome Lyman could be when he was angry. “I noticed that the only thing I could think of all evening was you, sir.”
The annoyance on Lyman’s face faltered and suddenly he felt himself getting incredibly flustered, his cheeks getting warm with embarrassment. He shifted his weight awkwardly from foot to foot, and couldn’t manage to meet Rutledge’s inebriated gaze. Edward continued to smile, his eyes half-lidded and full of drunken amusement.
“So,” he continued in Lyman’s absence of a response, “I decided that the only way to get you off my mind was to come here.” Lyman blinked, entirely unsure as to how Edward came to that conclusion. The two stood in silence for a short while, as Lyman fumbled through his tired mind for something to say. He swallowed.
“And,” he stammered, “What were you hoping to get by coming here?” He asked, scratching the side of his head and wincing as hot wax from his candle dripped onto his hand. Rutledge merely shrugged, his grin fading into a small pout, a facade of innocence, as he awkwardly bounced up and down on his toes. Taking a cautious step in, to which Lyman raised his eyebrows in slight alarm, Rutledge, perhaps subconsciously, let his flask fall to the floor with a clatter, and let his hands come to rest on Lyman’s biceps. He stepped closer, looking up at the doctor with wide, challenging eyes, his lips twitching with a smirk.
“Well, I don’t know,” he lied, giving a half-shrug, “A cuddle?” Lyman blinked, lowering his candle, and using his free hand to rub his tired eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He looked down at Rutledge, tired, and masking his amusement effortlessly.
“You’re telling me, Neddie,” he said flatly, “You came here, and knocked on my door at one in the morning,” he made sure to emphasize the time of night, “To cuddle?” Rutledge simply nodded, his own restlessness catching up with him as he yawned deeply into Lyman’s shoulder.
“That is correct, sir.”
Lyman stared under furrowed brows at the younger man, who, despite his age, had no reason to be acting like this. He looked at him pointedly for a full minute, knowing full well it would be in his best interest to send him home. Finally, he let his hand fall to his side, and with a loud, exasperated sigh, shut the door behind him. Rutledge smiled, and Hall rolled his eyes, muttering something incomprehensible.
“Fine, fine. Get upstairs to bed.”