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Mr. Wrench and Mr. Numbers were no strangers to motels. They’d seen them all. From the nice, cozy, well kept motels to the kind who’s carpet crunched no matter how lightly or where you stepped, so it really didn't make a difference to the two of them where they ended up stayed on any given night. They pulled into the parking lot of a single story motel, the letters on its sign only half lit, displaying a large luminescent OT L, and in smaller letters beneath it, V CANCY.
It was already dark out, and the scarce light bounced back off the snow, causing warped shadows to form on the two men’s faces. Wrench got out of the car first, stretching his arms far above his head. Numbers reached into the back seat and pulled out an extra sweater. He pulled his arms out of his jacket sleeves and put the sweater on over his shirt before stepping out. The two looked at each other over the roof of the car as Numbers tugged his jacket back into place. They headed towards the door marked “Of ice” in old, worn letters, paint peeling with the years of abuse by the weather. Wrench wondered if any of the words around here had all of their letters anymore.
Numbers approached the woman sitting behind the large table that was supposed to pass for a desk and the two began to speak. Wrench didn’t even bother trying to figure it out, he already knew what they would be saying. Instead he kept his back to the wall, a clear view of the door, and wondered why every motel in the state seemed to be crammed full of ancient, yellowing doilies. Numbers shuffled his feet slightly and leaned across the counter to take the keys from the woman before walking back out into the snow, not bothering to stop and make sure Wrench knew they were moving on now. Of course he knew.
Their room was the one farthest away from the office, even though Numbers was fairly certain only a handful of the rooms were currently occupied. I think I actually prefer this he signed, stopping in front of the door. Me too signed Wrench, understanding what Numbers was referring to. Letting the smaller man in first, Wrench took one last glance at the surrounding area out of habit.
The room was on the middle to lower end of the scale, drab and dusty, questionably clean. Mr. Wrench plopped down hard on the bed closest to the door. There were two, but they would only use one. Numbers turned on the low-watt lamp in the corner and sat down on the other bed anyway, pulling off his shoes without bothering to unlace them. Wrench saw him sigh with what he recognized as a certain sort of satisfaction, something they had both learned to savor. He swung his legs onto the bed and tucked his hands behind his head, tired eyes slowly closing. The day had been almost entirely one of driving, and there hadn't been much of a chance for Wrench to take the wheel. They hadn't fought too much either, some days were just less antagonistic than others.
Wrench sat on the edge of the bed watching his partner's chest move up and down for another ten minutes before straightening up and pulling off his own shoes. He placed the two pair of shoes against the end of the bed, knowing Numbers would be somewhat appreciative. He always was. Not that he ever said it. Not directly and not for something like that anyway. He said it when turned on the closed captioning on the television even when Wrench wasn’t watching, and when he grabbed extra sauce packets when they stopped for lunch. They both did it. It was an unspoken gratitude born from years of working together as partners, and from the recognized need for the little things in lives as stressful as theirs.
Numbers heard Wrench moving around, and wasn’t surprised when he felt a quick, soft kiss on his cheek. He wasn’t much of a kisser. It just never really appealed to him. He enjoyed the soft tender kisses, and the quick pecks Wrench was always showering him in, but heavy kissing had always felt strange to him. One of the reasons he had first grown a beard when he was younger was to discourage people from trying to make out with him, it was just luck that it happened to look great as well. When his relationship with Wrench had started to turn from partner to partner, it had come up. Wrench had been convinced it was Numbers making excuses to spare his feelings. They’d fought over it for quite a while but eventually Wrench had come around and they reached a compromise. Now Wrench felt free to give him all the small sweet kisses he wanted, and Numbers felt happy to do the same from time to time as well (occasionally indulging Wrench in the deeper, more intimate kinds of kissing he was looking for, it’s not like it was horrible or anything. Just strange.)
Numbers’ eyes fluttered open, and after a second of staring at the face above him, he smiled and reached both his hands up, running his thumbs across Wrench’s brow, smoothing out the slight crease of concern. Are you tired? he signed, Ready for bed?. Wrench nodded and placed a few more kisses on Numbers, glad for the familiar tickle of coarse hair against his face. He stepped away from the bed and pulled his coat and sweater off, dumping them on the extra bed. Numbers sat up and did the same, adding his pants to the pile as well.
Wrench dropped his pants onto the matted gray carpet, and began to walk towards the bathroom. Brush your teeth, he signed to Numbers, who immediately replied with a grimace and a dismissing wave of his hand. Tomorrow. Sleep first. Wrench shook his head and switched on the light in the bathroom. The light was overly bright after the dim glow of the other room, and the buzzing sound of dying florescent lights filled the whole motel room (not that he heard it).
Numbers pulled back the covers and slipped underneath them, facing the door out of well trained habit. When Wrench was finally satisfied with his level of hygiene, he turned off the bathroom light and crawled in behind Numbers. They had learned to leave the light on, another one of those mutual understandings they had, the ones they had never formal agreed on. It gave an added sense of security. After all, scary things lurked in the dark. Scarier than them, even.
Wrench threw an arm around Numbers, who was already half asleep if the rise and fall of his chest was to be believed (which it was. Wrench could tell a lot about how Numbers felt just by breath and expression alone). He pushed down further under the covers, bending his knees to accommodate for his height, and pressed his face into Numbers back. The touch was another security. He slept so much better connected to Numbers. Numbers would act as his ears in the night, since Wrench would never hear anyone coming. Numbers curled in slightly, pressing into the familiar pressure of Wrench’s nose in his back. The two were glad for the ritualistic nature of their motel stays. It was good to have a constant in a job like theirs, often moving, on guard for all the twist and turns and changes of plans that came with the territory.
Wrench tightened his grip on Numbers and sighed happily. Numbers reached up and took Wrenches hand with one of his own, squeezing softly. They had a long day ahead of them, someone had been murdered in a strip club, and they were being sent to investigate the problem, find it, and take care of it. Wrench and Numbers both slipped into sleep quickly, warmed by the body next to them and the thin gray sheets that covered them. It was time to rest a while.