Work Text:
You sighed as you approached the front door. The mail had piled up so much that it was falling out of the mailbox, which was the first sign.
Chuck had gotten lost in his writing yet again.
You unlocked the door with the key you had, piling the mail in your arms and dropping it on the table in the entryway. You’d deal with it later.
The lights in the house were off, all the curtains drawn. You weren’t surprised, Chuck liked the dark. You stepped over odds and ends on your way to his study, hoping that he’d at least eaten something since the last time you’d come to check on him.
You’d known Chuck for a few years now, meeting in a writing group through some friends. His writing style and process varied greatly from yours, though. Chuck truly threw himself into the story he was writing, enough that he began to live like his characters.
It was also enough that he’d forget to eat, only drinking for sustenance, which was why you made a habit of stopping by every few days.
Even if Chuck didn’t see it, you cared for him and didn’t want him to get sick or die from a lack of nutrition.
When you opened the door of Chuck’s study, you nearly rolled your eyes at what you saw. His latest novel he was working on was in the steampunk genre, so his entire office had been redone to fit that style of living.
He had a beautiful typewriter in front of him, his fingers punching keys as his mind fed him words. Next to it was a decanter of whiskey, half-full glass within reach. He was wearing a top hat with a pair of old looking goggles resting on the brim, dressed to the nines in shades of brown and dark red.
Truthfully, he looked hot.
“Chuck,” you announced yourself to get his attention. “I don’t care what you’re doing, you’re going to stop right now and go shower while I make you a meal.”
Chuck didn’t answer, his fingers still typing away. You rolled your eyes, used to having to get him out of the zone. You came up behind him, your hands resting on his shoulders.
“Chuck,” you said softer, squeezing before you started to drag your thumbs over his tense muscles. “You need a hot shower, a hot meal. Please, before you kill yourself from overwork.”
“Showers don’t fit,” was his response.
You sighed. “A bath, then. Draw a bath, soak for a while. Your mind can keep working, but your body needs to relax.”
Chuck’s fingers stopped moving on the typewriter a split second before he turned in his chair to look up at you. “Only because I know you won’t stop bothering me until I do…” he acquiesced. You smiled, kissing his forehead before pushing him out the door. When you heard him heading up the stairs, you went to the kitchen, deciding that Chuck would be getting a steampunk-themed dinner, if you could muster one up.
Oh, the things you’d do for this man. If only he’d notice…