Whoever drained this font last did a shockingly half-arsed job. There’s half an inch of water in the bottom, the stone all damp and dappled. Dakin knows this because this is what he’s been reduced to, leaning against an oversized birdbath in a church that’s empty apart from Scripps, kneeling in a front pew with a hand over his eyes.
He dips his fingers; Scripps is just within range, and it only takes a couple of goes before he’s flicking on target, droplets of water landing on Scripps’ arms where the sleeves are rolled up.
“Stop,” says Scripps, without looking up. Dakin heaves a sigh – one of his especially put-upon ones, so Scripps knows he’s being a tedious twat – and returns his attention to the font, which is the only other interesting thing in here.
So interesting, in fact (well, relative to the stained-glass windows, anyway), that he doesn’t even notice Scripps pushing himself up and coming to stand next to him, all bemused that for once Dakin wasn’t itching, pushing him out through the heavy wooden doors into the sunlight.
“What are you doing?” Scripps asks, peering into the font and then over at Dakin, almost slyly. “Are you having a moment of quiet contemplation?”
“Could be,” says Dakin. He turns, leans back on his elbows against the font’s stone lip. “Isn’t this the place for it?”
Scripps snorts. “Not for you,” he says, which isn’t very fucking Christian, is it. He’s looking into the font again. “Stop – dabbling.”
There’s suddenly something tight in his voice, or under it, that gives Dakin pause. He shifts, twists his body towards Scripps, lets one hand drift back down behind him, gets it wet. Pushes, because he can.
“That what I’m doing, is it? Dabbling?”
“Get your hand out of the font.” Scripps still isn’t looking at him, is resolutely not looking at him now, and Dakin can see how the muscles of his forearms are tight, his hands clasped together.
Dakin brings his hand up to his mouth, dripping on his blazer, and pushes his thumb inside. The water tastes old, like the stone smells, which is hardly surprising, because who the fuck knows how long it’s been in there. He looks at Scripps, and Scripps is looking straight back at him. He’s holding himself very still.
Dakin takes his thumb out of his mouth.
“For what we are about to receive. . .” he says, leaning across, and it’s actually hilarious how wide Scripps’ eyes go.
“Don’t you dare, don’t you fucking –”
He brushes his thumb over Scripps’ bottom lip once, then again, and when he kisses him he doesn’t taste like stone at all.