[ Hotel doors requiring key-cards are never a match for Cambridge, even when he’s as worse for wear as he is tonight. There’s a rustle at Durham’s door and a faint clicking sound before it swings inward on silent hinges and Cambridge is nothing but a silent shadow against the soft amber light in the hallway as he lets himself inside. The smile on his lips is invisible in the darkness as he leans against the door with both hands cradling the handle and silently eases it shut behind him. There’s a moment of pure silence as he holds his breath to carefully listen for any sign of movement from Durham in the bed in the recesses of the shadowed room... But all is well. Thankfully, there’s nothing but slow, steady breathing and the hum of the hotel room air conditioner and Cambridge’s smirk broadens.
Lacking a jacket and generally looking more dishevelled than usual Cambridge was once again reminded that he had lost his shoes somewhere earlier in the evening as he caught sight of his reflection in the dim light falling from the streetlights outside Durham’s window. Luckily, Cambridge has long since resigned himself to the fact that a night isn’t complete until some bastard has done something inexcusable to his shoes (the fact that this bastard is quite often himself is something he’s yet to publicly acknowledge). The shoes can be found in the morning. Barefooted on the plush hotel carpet, Cambridge pads quietly in to the cool depths of Durham’s hotel room and pauses only to deftly loosen his tie and cast it aside on the dresser. He wastes no time: kneeling on the edge of Durham’s bed and ignoring the way the mattress dipping precariously under the sudden shift in weights, he curls aside the edge of the sheets before sliding in beside Durham. The heat radiating off the other man is delightful and Cambridge, smelling of scotch and expensive cigarettes, can’t help but wonder what the other man might be wearing as he extends a (comparatively much colder) hand to boldly thread around Durham’s torso. ]
no subject
Lacking a jacket and generally looking more dishevelled than usual Cambridge was once again reminded that he had lost his shoes somewhere earlier in the evening as he caught sight of his reflection in the dim light falling from the streetlights outside Durham’s window. Luckily, Cambridge has long since resigned himself to the fact that a night isn’t complete until some bastard has done something inexcusable to his shoes (the fact that this bastard is quite often himself is something he’s yet to publicly acknowledge). The shoes can be found in the morning. Barefooted on the plush hotel carpet, Cambridge pads quietly in to the cool depths of Durham’s hotel room and pauses only to deftly loosen his tie and cast it aside on the dresser. He wastes no time: kneeling on the edge of Durham’s bed and ignoring the way the mattress dipping precariously under the sudden shift in weights, he curls aside the edge of the sheets before sliding in beside Durham. The heat radiating off the other man is delightful and Cambridge, smelling of scotch and expensive cigarettes, can’t help but wonder what the other man might be wearing as he extends a (comparatively much colder) hand to boldly thread around Durham’s torso. ]