Much worked till late on Monday night at the Diogenes Club, and the parsonage was dark and quiet when he got home in the early hours of Tuesday morning. He wasn't surprised, but there was an unfamiliar wistfulness about him as he wandered through the kitchen, fetching a post-work snack (a cold can of baked beans eaten with a spoon straight out of the can - Much wasn't always a master chef, sometimes he fully embraced this body of a twenty-something young man and fed it as such). He thought maybe Will would still be up, brooding, and they could have a nightcap and just hang out for a bit before going to bed.
No Will, though, and no Francis either. He even made a little more noise that he needed to in the kitchen, in case anyone was juuuust on the brink of sleep and might come down and join him. But no, everyone in the parsonage was apparently sleeping very peacefully. Much hmphed, and ate his baked beans by himself, and went to bed.
He didn't have work of any sort the next day, so let himself wake up without an alarm. When it came to mornings, Much had two extremes and nothing in the middle: he either woke up before dawn ready to Get Things Done, or he woke up at one in the afternoon with his face plastered with drool to his pillowcase.
Tuesday morning was the latter.
Feeling a bit like the zombie Will had said Tuck was never again allowed to dress up as, Much dragged himself to the bathroom, ran the cold shower over his head only, shook his head like a dog and dripped down to the kitchen for a meal. Maybe more baked beans. Maybe Francis had cooked them all a Sorry Tuck Is Dead lunch and Much could just eat that.
But he was halfway down to the kitchen when he ran into Tuck in the hallway.
He froze. Stared. Then dove at Tuck to wrap him up the the most frantic yet delicate I-refuse-to-hurt-you-again-with-a-hug enthusiasm. "TUCK!" he said loudly, because the feeling didn't extend to wanting to protect Tuck's ears. "YOU'RE TUCK!"