#typos aren't real ESPECIALLY after 2 am

[lost-in-fandoms]

a few of those prompts that called to me:

creaky wooden gate, a pink-tiled shower, a dusty wine cellar

may or may not have squeezed all three in the same thing.

Max closes the gate behind him, making a mental note to oil it before winter hits, or they'll be stuck climbing over it once again because the hinges get stuck with the cold.

He brushes his hand along the leaves of all the plants he passes by, a silent greeting that gets reciprocated in gentle swaying, a particularly eager yellow flower bending forward to touch his cheek.

"Daniel?" he calls once he's inside the door, shrugging his coat off and abandoning it on the back of a chair.

The kitchen looks exactly as he left it, unwashed dishes in the sink, something bubbling on the stove, plants, books, scrolls and random ingredients piled on every available surface. He was not expecting Daniel to tidy any of it while he was at the market, they both had pretty much abandoned the idea of ever using their table to eat ever again, but that potion did need to be taken off the heat five minutes ago at least.

He sighs, clicking his tongue at the spoon tapping against a plate in the sink.

"Stop that," he scolds, "we're gonna get to you when we will."

At least the potion is still decent, just a little bit on the side of too purple. They'll still be able to use it, but they'll have to be careful about who they'll sell it to. No blondes.

"Daniel!" he calls again after covering the pot and moving it on the windowsill to cool, picking his bag back up and heading towards the stairs.

There's some rustling from upstairs, but no answer.

Max sighs again, knowing he'll need to put away the new ingredients before he can go check whatever Daniel is up to, avoiding the affectionate attack of the fiddle leaf fig plant trying to smack him in the face to open the door to the cellar.

Rows of glittering jars twinkle in the low light, and he sneezes as he sets his bag down on the table, starting to take down his purchases and sorting them in the different spaces, groaning every time he finds something out of place. He doesn't know why he bothers labeling everything when Daniel just puts stuff away wherever he wants to.

Wine included.

"The wine goes on the left," he grumbles aloud even if nobody is listening, unless those dead scorpions have gained back a second life.

His eyes feel irritated and his nose is runny by the time he's done and he can escape the cellar, adding a new note on his mental list to call George for that handy cleaning spell that neither him or Daniel ever successfully mastered.

"Daniel!"

Still no answer.

He washes his hands in the kitchen sink, still ignoring the annoyed dirty spoon, and then threads his way through the clutter on the stairs to reach the second floor.

It's much cleaner here, most of their work stuff relegated downstairs or in the garden, but the geraniums on the widow still wave at him cheerfully, pointing towards the slight ajar bathroom door.

Gossips, all of them.

"Daniel?"

He doesn't know what he's expecting. It could be anything, from Daniel experimenting with water lilies again, to a fully exploded bathtub, but when he pushes the door open all he sees is. Steam.

Daniel is standing under the water in their pink-tiled shower, eyes closed, hands suspended in midair.

Worry and fondness mix into Max's chest, more suffocating than the humid air, as he takes off his clothes and steps into the shower too.

Daniel doesn't move, doesn't give any indication he even noticed Max at all. Doesn't even flinch when Max reaches over to turn off the water, a cold gust of hair wafting in through the still open door.

"Daniel, hey," he murmurs, putting both hands on Daniel's damp cheeks, "come back."

Daniel's chest stutters on a breath, heartbeat rabbiting for a second, two, three, five, then his eyes snap open and he stumbles, knees suddenly weak, not sliding to the floor only thanks to Max's arms winding around his waist.

"You're back," he gasps, still blinking rapidly, wet eyelashes clumping together.

"It's been an hour," Max tells him, gently wiping his sopping hair back so it's not dripping into his eyes anymore.

Daniel frowns, looking down at his hands as if they would hold the answers his brain is currently denying him.

"I told you not to scry without me," Max says, helping him into a towel. "And you almost let the house burn down."

Daniel stills from where he had started to dry himself off, looking up at Max with a guilty expression.

"Shit, is it ruined?"

Max shakes his head, then grabs another towel for himself, shifting the conversation towards what he'd bought and seen at the market.

It's only later, when they're both in bed, the house creaking around them, that Max brings it up again.

"You were too far gone earlier. You shouldn't scry without an anchor."

He feels Daniel's sigh on his skin from where he's buried against his chest.

"I know," he says, nervous fingers drawing runes on Max's arm. "I didn't mean to, it just happened."

Max purses his lips, frowning, but decides to keep his worries for himself. He knows Daniel is aware of how dangerous it can be, to accidentally lose himself outside his body like that, and it's not worth it to talk about it right now, not when the night is deep and the moon is thin.

"It's almost time to redo the protective spells," it's what he says instead, reminded by the runes Daniel is still tracing on his skin. He will worry less if he knows that Daniel's soul is as safe as possible, even if they will still have to figure out why this accidental scrying has been happening.

"Add it to your list," Daniel tells him around a yawn.

Max adds it to his list.