Work Text:
Paul had never wanted to slam his head on the table more than he did right now. Never. Not even when he had to deal with Ted at 5am the one morning they were both asked to come in early to set up the office for some big corporate head.
Working from home was going to kill him.
Of course, Davidson had discovered the next big thing in the corporate world. Working from home was supposed to “encourage creativity” and “allow employees flexibility” which was all well and good, but did it have to be mandatory? Just being stuck at the kitchen table instead of behind his desk at the office made his brain fuzzy and unfocused.
He reached for his coffee, only to remember that he’d finished his third cup of the day three hours ago and still hadn’t mustered up the will or energy to stand up long enough to refill it. Not that it mattered, the pot was probably cold already anyway. He should really make a new one, but he couldn’t even fathom getting up to refill his mug, much less wait around for a whole new pot.
A notification sound dinged and Paul’s head snapped up. He had a message from Bill on their in-network messenger. He should respond to that.
He stood up and walked to the coffee maker, not realizing until after he stood there for a minute or so that he’d forgotten his mug. He grabbed a new one from the cabinet above him instead then went to pour the coffee, remembering at the last second that he meant to make a new pot and turning to pour it into the sink instead.
In his haze, he didn’t notice the door open, nor did he notice it close. In fact, he didn’t notice much of anything until someone tugged at the coffee pot still in his hand. He let go, more on reflex than anything.
“You look awful.”
Oh. John was home early. Or had Paul worked late? He couldn’t really tell.
“Mm,” he hummed noncommittally.
“Come on, why don’t you sit down.” John wrapped an arm around his shoulder and guided him to the couch.
“I’ve still got an hour left.”
“I’ll clock you out, don’t worry.”
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
John lowered Paul to the couch, and for a second Paul considered protesting—he was fine, he could take care of himself—but then again, maybe it was nice to be taken care of for a minute.
“Have you eaten today?”
Paul didn’t respond right away, mostly because his brain didn’t quite grasp the full question, but John took that as a “no.” Probably for the best, since Paul was pretty sure the answer was a no.
“I’ll get something started.” John pressed a short kiss to Paul’s forehead and left for the kitchen, turning out the light on his way. Paul breathed a sigh of relief and closed his eyes. With the lights off, everything sounded a bit quieter, and the buzzing was gone too. His head still felt fuzzy, like someone stuffed it with cotton, but at least the constant headache disappeared.
After what could have easily been anywhere between a few minutes and a couple hundred years, John finally poked his head in from the kitchen.
“Paul, what’s your password?”
He didn’t know if he could make his voice work properly, so he vaguely gestured, hand motions that meant absolutely nothing and he was sure would do nothing but confuse John, but he really didn’t have another option.
John squinted at him for a second, then something clicked. “Opposite side of the sticky note on your webcam?”
Paul nodded, too tired to be appropriately confused about how he possibly figured that out. Something beeped in the kitchen, and he flinched.
“Sorry about that,” John said quietly before he disappeared from the entryway. A few minutes later, Paul heard his laptop shut and John’s heavy footsteps walking toward the living room. He closed his eyes, prepared for him to turn on the light, but opened them in surprise when the couch dipped down beside him, the room still blissfully dark.
“I made us dinner,” John said unnecessarily, considering he was already in the process of handing Paul a plate of noodles with some kind of grated cheese on top.
Paul couldn’t manage a thank you, but he hummed softly, and John understood.
They ate in near silence. Paul continued to hum quietly—partly because it masked the sound of chewing, partly because it calmed him down—and when they both finished, John stood up, gathered their plates, and left for the kitchen again without a word.
John sat closer to Paul when he came back to the couch, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. Paul rested his head on John’s shoulder and closed his eyes. John smelled nice, like coffee and wood smoke, and was constantly warm. On better days, Paul would tease him about being a personal space heater. Right now, he couldn’t muster the energy to speak at all.
The TV clicked on in the background, some period drama playing that Paul didn’t know but still distantly recognized from all the times John would watch on repeat it in the rare moments of downtime he got. He wasn’t invested enough in the show to open his eyes, but the sound of the characters’ voices had almost become synonymous with safety.
He shifted closer to John, all but sitting in his lap, and moved his head to rest over John’s chest. He focused on the sound of his slow heartbeat and the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Here, in the dark, wrapped in John’s arms, the stress of the day was distant, almost nonexistent. He knew that tomorrow meant going back to the office—and thank god for the return to his normal routine—but it also meant bright lights and constant talking and phones ringing nonstop. Just the thought made his head pound.
“You don’t work late tomorrow, do you?” John asked quietly, breaking the silence. Paul shook his head. “Good. Do you want to go out on a date tomorrow night?”
“Nowhere loud.”
“Nowhere loud.” John agreed. He thought for a moment. “How about that little café down by on Riverside?”
That café almost always played music, but no one ever went there, so it would be quiet otherwise. Maybe they could call ahead and ask if the music can be turned off? Paul wouldn’t mind much if they played something instrumental, either. And he loved their pumpkin bread—they made it without walnuts. He maintained that crunchy foods shouldn’t go anywhere near soft foods. John was the exact opposite, which confused Paul to no end.
John tapped his arm, and Paul realized he never answered.
“Sounds nice.”
John lowered his voice slightly. “Do you want me to call ahead and ask about the music?” He spoke softly, carefully, like it was something sensitive, but surprisingly, the idea of music bothered Paul less and less every day.
Regardless , Paul nodded, pressing his face into John’s chest, feeling the low rumble of his laugh as he ran a hand through Paul’s hair.
“I love you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of Paul’s head.
Paul made a quiet, content noise, snuggling closer. He didn’t respond. He didn’t need to, and besides, he was too tired for it to make any sense. He loved John, they both knew that, and he let himself drift off to the sound of the TV and the feeling of John’s hands running through his hair and rubbing gentle circles into his back.