Work Text:
Can I ask a silly question?
Wrench shrugged, pushing a bit of scrambled egg around with his fork. Numbers' expression seemed innocent enough, the faint crease in his brow bereft of the telltale warnings of a mid-breakfast argument.
At least, after five years together, Numbers had finally progressed from asking "stupid" questions to the more watered-down "silly" ones. But Wrench kept that thought to himself.
Sure, go for it.
Have you always been— Numbers paused, fingers twirling in search of the word. In the end, he opted to spell it out: C-U-D-D-L-E-R?
Wrench chuckled, cramming a piece of toast in his mouth to prevent it from erupting into a full-blown whoop. So much for stupid questions. We've been sleeping together for almost a year and you're only complaining about this now?
Numbers wrinkled his nose. What makes you think I'm complaining?
Because I know how you get sometimes. And while Numbers scoffed and rolled his eyes, Wrench stretched his leg beneath the table, his bare toes grazing the top of Numbers' foot for an enjoyable two seconds before it was yanked out from under him. He nodded a triumphant 'See?'
It was an honest question, OK? Can't I be curious every once in a while? He frowned, then took a long sip from his mug of coffee. And I still want to know, so quit being a dick and tell me.
Wrench could always expect only the sweetest terms of endearment from his partner. Do you think I had a lot of opportunity for cuddling when I was out on my own? With the kinds of men I've fucked? Not much space for that in public restrooms.
Alright, don't make me regret asking. Numbers shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, leaving Wrench to imagine which jealous thoughts were ricocheting around his brain this time. Thankfully, it was still far too early in the day for Numbers to drunkenly insist they 'Go out and gut every last one of those S-L-E-A-Z-E-B-A-G fuckers.' That sentiment had been amusing, even flattering the first few times, but had grown irritating with age, something that might also be said for the grumpy, bed-headed asshole across from him, had Wrench not cared about him as much. The opportunity to annoy Numbers was far too enticing, though, and Wrench smiled, making a mental note to save that metaphor for their next argument.
Sighing, Numbers ran a hand through his unkempt hair. Can you just tell me why you like doing it with me? Without bringing up— he swept his arm out over the table —all of that?
Wrench thought for a moment, glancing occasionally at the scraps of breakfast spread across his plate. There were things about him Numbers had learned over time, things Numbers knew but didn't like to consider, and sure, those were easy enough to avoid in conversation. But underneath all of that lurked thoughts not even Wrench was certain of—ones that caused his appetite to wane and his eyes to shift away from the person he'd fucked into a quivering mess just the other night.
And because shame was such a fickle emotion—at least when it came to whatever this relationship was—Wrench constantly found himself telling half-truths and obscure explanations, something good enough to satisfy Numbers' curiosity, yet safe enough to keep his own fears at bay.
Have you ever lain awake at night and thought the darkness was too dark?
Numbers gazed confusedly. I don't understand.
OK, then. Wrench would have to try a different approach. You know how I like to bring a night-light when we're on the job?
Yeah. You said work was too dangerous to be both deaf and blind.
Right. But I don't keep it on while we're home.
He tilted his head to the side as if the gears were slowly starting to turn. Is that because we sleep in the same bed? Is it a comfort thing, like— and he signed 'SECURITY' and 'BLANKET' one after another, raising an eyebrow in question.
Wrench grinned at Numbers' awkward phrasing. A little. I like— he paused here, careful with his choice of words —I like to be close to you so I can feel your heartbeat and your breathing. To know you're safe. To know we're both safe. It feels nice, like there's less darkness around me. Helps me sleep.
And when you do it while we're sitting on the couch together or when I'm at the stove making breakfast? What's the reason there? Numbers pressed his lips together, his face smug.
Same. Wrench shrugged. Only without the darkness.
Aren't you fucking adorable. He rolled his eyes again, reaching for his mug, but jerked back in surprise when Wrench lunged forward and stabbed the adjacent spot with his fork.
I don't remember you making much of an effort to stop me.
Numbers glared, fingers splayed angrily in front of him. I never said I hated it. You're the one always putting words in my mouth. Or hands, whatever.
Wrench pursed his lips. Is that so? I always knew you had a softer side. He blew a kiss to Numbers, who responded quite predictably with a flip of his middle finger.
The way his nostrils flared and his cheeks puffed out put a smile on Wrench's face, spurring him on. Really, I had no idea. You actually like it?
Yes, asshole. Numbers looked away, scratching his beard hesitantly. It does sort of feel nice. Especially when it's cold.
Then quit complaining, since you're cold all the time anyway. He reached out and gave a gentle tug to the sleeve of Numbers' sweatshirt, laughing when Numbers batted his hand away. Numbers bitched once more about how he hadn't been complaining in the first place, and then simply let the topic fall to the wayside, reminding Wrench to shut up and eat because Fargo wanted them both in the office by three.
There was little hunger left in him, but Wrench shoveled the last remnants of food into his mouth, if only to cement the lie that nothing was out of the ordinary.
Everything's fine, his mind echoed again and again, a futile attempt to quiet the other voice inside him—one that screamed the exact opposite:
You're in love with this man, aren't you?
The thing about stupid questions, Wrench thought, choking down a lump of cold eggs, is they've always got an obvious answer.