Work Text:
R.K moves silently to open the door. It’s one AM on a Saturday morning; far too late for a mere social call. So, his DPD-issued weapon is resting behind his hip, and one hand is poised on the handle.
However, there is no need for trepidation. He sees that soon enough.
“Miss Chen. Good evening.”
“Heya, Ironman.” Her smile is bright, as always, but her voice is straining with the effort of keeping Gavin upright. His right arm is thrown over Tina’s broad shoulders, and it appears that her hold is all that’s keeping him from crumbling to the floor.
Gavin is clearly unable to stand without assistance, and his breathing is laboured. R.K would be concerned about this present and problematic state of being, had Gavin not been out drinking since seven PM with some of their more heavy-hitting colleagues.
SCANNING………
100%
SCAN COMPLETE
>DRUNK<
As it is, R.K is not concerned in the slightest.
“Hope you weren’t busy,” Tina says in lieu of an apology.
“I doubt it would matter if I were.” R.K takes the liberty of opening the door fully, and Tina all but shoves Gavin forwards. If the impact is painful, Gavin makes no sign of it. He slumps against R.K’s torso, chuckles against his collarbone, and his hands are now creasing the front of R.K’s shirt. “How much has he had?”
Tina blows a strand of sweat-damp hair away from her face, and shrugs. “Hell knows, I’m not his mother. He’s been on beer most of the night, but he started doin’ shots at eleven and hasn’t stopped since. Figured it was time I cut him off, he’s such a dumb kid. Aw shit,” she adds, eyes widening as though she has come to a horrifying realisation. “I am his mother, aren’t I.”
R.K smiles his amusement, though it’s short-lived. Gavin decides to suddenly raise his head, his temple just avoiding collision with R.K’s chin. His lover’s eyes are far and hazy, but with some evident effort on his part, Gavin eventually focuses on R.K’s face.
His slow grin – R.K knows that grin – is wanting of one thing and one thing only. “Hey, baby.”
R.K assumes that he tries to lean up for a kiss, but Gavin over-extends, trips, and ends up right back where he began; slanting heavily against R.K’s front, face buried in his neck.
“He hasn’t shut up about you all night,” Tina says, teasing, but there’s a familiar softness behind the words as well. It’s been a long time since any animosity has existed between them, and a long time since R.K began calling her a friend. “Knew he’d end up finding his way here anyway if I took him home, so I thought I’d just bring him, y’know.”
“Indeed.” R.K knows how correct her assumption is. Gavin is nothing if not determined when he puts his mind to something, and it is not difficult to picture the man stumbling through the dark streets of downtown Detroit, utterly lost and too stubborn to give up his drunken search for R.K’s apartment. “Will you be needing to stay, as well? You know you’re welcome.”
“Nah, I’m good. Thanks.” Tina shoots him another smile, shaking out her muscles from the stress of carrying a hundred-and-seventy-six-pound man across town. “Been on water and lemonade all night, anyway. I’m on responsible driver duty.” She gestures vaguely at Gavin, who is making a valiant attempt to pry the buttons of R.K’s shirt apart, “Make sure he drinks something that isn’t full of ethanol, huh? Or he’ll regret it tomorrow.”
R.K knows an order when he hears one. “I shall.”
“Atta boy.” Tina ruffles Gavin’s hair, earning a grumble and a feeble swat which misses her arm entirely. “Have a fun hangover, lightweight,” she calls out over her shoulder as she turns to leave, unmindful of whoever else may be sleeping in the building.
“Shshddup, bishch,” is Gavin’s attempt at a response.
Most scathing, R.K remarks dryly to himself, and he grants Tina a departing nod. “Let me know when you’re home safely.”
“Will do, sweetie. See you on Monday.” She gives a little wave goodbye, and disappears into the elevator.
It’s all too easy to sling Gavin’s arm around his own shoulder, despite the moan of protest the movement garners. R.K closes the door with a calculated kick of his foot, and then leads Gavin to the couch.
He takes a moment to appreciate the finer details of Japanese decor; the couch is low and only lightly cushioned. And so the groan of marginal discomfort Gavin makes when he falls down onto it is barely shy of gratifying. Perhaps this will be a small step towards conditioning him to drink more responsibly, in the future.
Though he appears to get over the pain quickly when R.K kneels by the couch to help him sit up properly. Gavin’s hands find him once again, this time grasping R.K’s collar, and that grin makes its return. Slow. Smug. Wanting.
“Y’know what we should do, babe,” Gavin begins, and his speech seems to have lost most of its slur very suddenly. “We should go the fuck to bed, ‘cause s’been a long, long, long, long night, and I’ve been listenin’ to a bunch’a cops bitching about work for hours, and then they bought out shots, and they all tasted like pineapple.” Gavin does tend ramble on when he’s inebriated. It’s ridiculous, and shouldn’t be half as endearing as it is. “Fuckin’ pineapple, baby, what the fuck.”
“And still you drank them,” R.K retorts. He’s doubtful that Gavin even notices his dry tone of voice or the unimpressed raise of his eyebrow. If he does, he gives no reaction to it. “I’ll get you some water.”
When he makes to stand, however, Gavin – with surprising strength – wrenches him back down to eye-level. “No, no, no, babe, no.” The last ‘no’ is a drawn-out whine, and Gavin is pouting at him in a spectacular fashion. It’s the kind of manipulation Mia uses when the food bowl has not been filled to her satisfaction. “D’you not hear me, sweetheart? We should go. The fuck. To bed. And definitely without clothes on, ‘cause I’ve been wearin’ these fuckin’ things all damn night. And, y’know, those shirts of yours,” and he punctuates the word with a sharp jab of his finger into R.K’s ribs, “do not look as hot as you think they do. Looks much better off, trust me. Way better. So way better.”
R.K has fallen for an imbecile.
He takes a moment to appreciate that this is not exactly fresh news to him, before he pries – as gently as he can – Gavin’s hands away, and, ignoring the second pitiful whine, goes in search of a glass.
A glass which never would have been there at all, had Gavin not somehow elbowed his way, as he does in all things, into R.K’s life. He’d had all the apartment basics, of course; homeware, bathroom with a shower, fully furnished kitchen. Even a bed, though he rarely made use of it. The plants, art and various ornamental novelties he had added himself. Something about Japanese design has always calmed him, though he can’t quite point his finger at the precise reason.
The stocked fridge, collection of mismatching cushions, and his Netflix subscription are, of course, all courtesy of Gavin.
‘Netflix and chill, babe. It’s a thing, trust me,’ the man had smirked as he’d typed in his login details. R.K still wasn’t entirely certain as to what this meant; they hadn’t yet made it through enough of a movie for him to find out.
He returns to Gavin, who in his absence has managed to flop face-down on the arm of the couch, though from the muffled grumbles, R.K assumes he is still sulking. He tugs the man upright again, and pushes the glass into his hand. Something that sounds like ‘asshole’ leaves Gavin’s mouth in a resigned huff, but he downs the water without argument.
And his attempt to hand the glass back fails completely; it slips from his fingers and thuds onto the carpet. Gavin chuckles at the sound. Then he looks up at R.K with hooded green eyes, and takes him once again by the lapels of his jacket. “Take me to bed, R.”
Ah. More manipulation. “If you like. You could do with some rest.”
“Noooo. Not rest, babe, no.” Gavin’s whines are always absurdly satisfying. But something about their drunken desperation makes R.K decide to forgo his teasing. For now, anyway.
“You’re drunk,” he points out softly, pushing the hair back from Gavin’s forehead with his fingers. Gavin’s entire body follows the movement. “I won’t take advantage.”
Gavin snorts, and manages to snatch a sloppy and poorly-aimed kiss somewhere left of R.K’s mouth. “Not advantage, dumbass,” he scoffs, and it’s the tone he uses at a crime scene when he thinks he’s figured it all out, but is in fact missing a crucial piece of evidence. “You’re my fuckin’ boyfriend–”
“And your boyfriend would rather sleep with you while you’re at least partially coherent.”
Gavin blinks. And then, almost warily, sinks back against the cushions. The motion is slow and dazed, but there’s also something distinctly sobering about it. It makes R.K think that perhaps throwing a bucket of cold water over him would have had the same effect.
“Danny never would’ve argued, y’know.”
And the confession is not goading, nor is it another means to manipulate him. It is simply a remark, a fact. R.K threads his fingers through Gavin’s, and feels a squeeze in response. It speaks volumes, in Gavin’s personal variety of silent communication.
“I hate that you’re a nice guy, sometimes,” he continues, but his thumb is grazing over R.K’s wrist in a slow circle. A nervous action. It happens whenever Gavin speaks about something like this. R.K has since identified it as an unconscious coping mechanism. “It’d be a whole lot fuckin’ simpler if you were as much of an asshole as you look. It makes me feel like shit, sometimes.”
“Shots make you feel like shit, as well,” R.K remarks dryly, knowing that it will at least earn him a scoff. Gavin gives a weak chuckle, instead. Even better. “And yet still, every Friday–”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m human, all right,” Gavin defends, trying to ease his way off the couch. R.K helps him stand, and is pleased when he only wobbles a little. “I have shitty impulse control, sue me.”
“I’d rather just help you to bed now, if you’re amenable.”
Gavin fails to stifle a yawn. “Don’t use such big fuckin’ words, Aristotle, I’m fuckin’ pissed.”
But he does, however reluctantly, agree, and allows R.K to half carry him to the bedroom. There, Gavin strips off his shirt, throws it unceremoniously to the floor, steps out of his jeans, and collapses onto the sheets.
“Phckn ht ths bd,” he mutters, words muffled against the pillow.
R.K goes to collect the fallen glass, fills it in the kitchen once again, and when he returns, Gavin has burrowed his way under the covers. Only a single tuft of hair is visible beneath them, and R.K appreciates the absurdity of his processor sending him a malfunction warning at such a small sight.
He receives the promised message from Tina, and, now assured that she has safely made it home, he slides under the covers himself.
Gavin is still conscious enough to shuffle his way over, pressing against every inch he can reach and all but burying his face in R.K’s shoulder. “Fuckin’ pineapple, baby, why is that even a thing,” he mumbles, and R.K presses a kiss into his hair.
He decides not to enter stasis that night, just in case Gavin wakes and needs him for whatever reason. And he makes a reminder to have breakfast ready before Gavin wakes up. Drunk humans are one thing. Hungover humans are another issue entirely. And he does not want to undergo a repeat of the last time the Detective had to deal with an un-nourished hangover.