Beyond the Stroke of Midnight

by Zerbrechlich

Summary:

A missing scene between Clarke and Warren from 'Inside No. 9', set during the events of ‘The Trial of Elizabeth Gadge’. After a day of interrogations, their razor-sharp professional discord gives way to searing intimacy. With tomorrow’s verdict looming, they seek both solace and surrender in each other’s arms.

Notes:

I originally post my works on ficbook.net (for now), but I plan to move here—so you’ll be seeing me more often soon. My favourite cover designer 💫Poppy_Star💫 will provide visual for this piece very soon, and I’ll be delighted to share it with you.

Also, I BLOODY ADORE Steve and Reece—the characters they create, write and portray, as well as the extraordinary chemistry they bring to the screen! And those plots… they make my head spin!

The door to their shared room in the village inn closed with a dull thud. Clarke tugged off the wig and flung it onto the table, raking his fingers through damp hair.

‘Enough for today,’ he said, voice heavy with fatigue.

Warren watched in silence, making no move to undress. Between them hung that taut, electric tension wound tighter with every hour – in the interrogations, when their eyes had met over the bowed heads of terrified villagers, when Clarke had given the barest shake of his head at Warren’s harsher questions.

‘You disapprove of my methods,’ Warren said at last. Not a question.

Clarke turned slowly, unfastening his doublet with deliberate hands.

‘I disapprove of much you do,’ he replied evenly. ‘But it’s never stopped us.’

‘No,’ Warren stepped closer, ‘it hasn’t.’

Their partnership was knotted—professional discord threaded through with something far more dangerous, far more personal. Two years on the road, village to village, had taught them to read one another without a word.

Clarke’s thumb brushed the line of Warren’s cheekbone.

‘Sometimes I think you take pleasure in their fear.’

‘And sometimes I think you take pleasure in judging me for it.’ Warren’s hand closed over his.

‘Perhaps.’ A ghost of a smile touched Clarke’s lips. ‘We’re both sinners, aren’t we?’

They kissed with the slow-burning intimacy only time can forge. Warren’s hands mapped familiar terrain, tracing scars, finding each place that still drew breath sharp.

‘Take this off,’ Clarke murmured, tugging at the weight of the doublet. ‘All of it.’

They undressed slowly, savouring each revealed inch, as if rediscovering what they already knew by heart. Clarke eased Warren back onto the bed, leaning over him.

‘Whatever happens tomorrow,’ he said, lips grazing Warren’s chest, ‘tonight you’re mine.’

‘I’m always yours,’ Warren breathed, threading fingers through Clarke’s hair. ‘Even when we argue. Especially when we argue.’

They moved with a practised harmony, each knowing precisely how to unmake the other. Clarke’s tongue traced Warren’s neck, feeling the shiver, the quickening breath; he knew where to bite, where the pulse throbbed hardest, where a hand along the inside of a thigh would draw him up in silent plea.

Warren answered in kind, touch finding those places that stripped Clarke of rules and judgement, leaving only heat and the press of knowing hands.

‘Say it,’ Warren breathed, tension coiled tight.

‘Say what?’ Clarke’s gaze locked with his.

‘That you’re mine. No matter what.’

‘I’m yours,’ Clarke whispered, each word a vow. ‘No matter what.’

When Clarke took him into his mouth, Warren’s head tipped back on a low groan. His grip on the sheets whitened his knuckles. Clarke moved with languid purpose, drinking in every tremor, every broken gasp.

‘Clarke,’ Warren rasped, ‘please…’

Clarke looked up, catching the dark hunger in his eyes, before lowering his head again. His tongue coaxed and tormented until Warren writhed beneath him.

When the strain tipped into need, Clarke kissed his way up Warren’s body. Their mouths met in a fierce kiss as Clarke eased into him, Warren’s legs locking around him, pulling him deeper.

They found their rhythm, worn smooth by time. Clarke’s mouth wandered over Warren’s throat, teeth catching his ear, murmuring in broken syllables, while Warren’s nails raked vivid lines down his back.

When release claimed them, it came with one voice, bodies taut and trembling together. In that moment, there was nothing but heat, breath, and the certainty of belonging.

Later, tangled in the hush of the room, they listened to the night beyond the window. Tomorrow would bring court, accusations, and sentences. But here, in shadow, there was only them.

‘Clarke,’ Warren murmured.

‘Mm?’

‘Whatever the court decides tomorrow… we leave this village together.’

‘Of course.’ Clarke held him close. ‘We’re always together.’

And it was true. No matter how sharp their disputes, they always stood side by side—two witch hunters bound by something stronger than duty or convenience.

Their trade had no place for sentiment. Yet between them was a bond they never named—tempered in blood, in fire, and in shared sin.

Notes:

P.S. A rather funny coincidence—the word count of this fanfic happens to match exactly the number of our flat. Clearly, fate has a sense of humour!