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He doesn’t realize he’s been staring at the same report for so long until the pen he’s been twirling absently falls from where it’s spinning between his fingers. The sound of it hitting the gray plastic mat that sits under his desk is enough to snap him out of it, like breaking hypnosis. He shakes his head and glances up at the clock to find that his shift is nearly over, which seems wrong. It’s weird how time can feel like an eternity and like nothing all at once.
His eyelids are almost as heavy as his heart as he pores over the details in front of him. It’s a rough case, the ones with kids always are, and he just wants it to be over. It’s hard to wish for peace without wishing for justice, though, so he doesn’t stop.
“Shouldn’t you be headin’ out of here, Reyes?”
The voice cuts through the silence and it’s grating in a way that it wouldn’t normally be. It’s not his partner, it’s officer Carrigan, who has been on desk duty for the better part of a year. He’s something of a legend around here, people know him and trust him and like him. Carlos knows him and trusts him and likes him. Everyone had been so worried when he’d been in a car accident in early spring, his patrol car hydroplaning off the road and down an embankment. The doctor said he’d make a full recovery, and maybe he was getting there, it was hard to tell and that’s not really something you bring up in casual conversation. You can’t just come out and say “Hey, coworker, remember that horrible car accident you were in and how it stripped you of your greatest passion ? How’s that physical therapy going?”
Carlos blinks slowly up at him from where he’s sitting in the big black office chair. Carrigan has his coat under his arm, his travel coffee cup dangling from two fingers in his right hand. He looks casual, comfortable, in a way that has Carlos burning with envy. He just wants to take a deep breath. He just wants to go home .
Eventually, he shakes his head a few times, quickly, like he’s trying to reset it, and then nods once.
“Uh, yeah, just wrapping up some paperwork before I leave,”
“Kid, just go home ” That’s not what Carlos was expecting him to say and it must show on his face because Carrigan is sighing big and deep and exasperated-- like he’s a tired dad watching his toddler sprint laps around the aisle at the supermarket. “Case is still going to be a case tomorrow, you’re not going to solve anything if you’re tired.”
It’s one of those things that’s so easy to say and so difficult to hear. If you don’t take a break, if you don’t listen to your body, to your brain, or whatever, you won’t be able to get anything done anyway. Resting is productivity. He knows that and he’s telling TK that all the time. It’s just so hard to take your own advice sometimes.
“Yes sir, you’re right,” He says it like a reflex, not like he means it. Carrigan squints at him and shakes his coffee cup at him like he’s wagging a finger.
“Coffee isn’t a substitute for sleep, you know, and you’ll be thanking me in twenty years when you haven’t run yourself into the ground.” And with that, he’s walking away, letting the glass door of the precinct swing shut behind him.
Carlos sits there in silence for a minute. Maybe Carrigan was right and he paused for a second to consider it. He knows he’s not getting anything done anymore, but that doesn’t mean that he’ll be able to peel himself up off his seat. That doesn’t mean he’ll be able to compartmentalize it when he gets home, that TK won’t ask him about it, that he won’t cave in and talk about it a little before bed, just to make his heart a little lighter.
He can’t do that to TK though, not when he’s already got so much going on. He’s been in Austin less than two years and he’s already lived what feels like four lifetimes. Carlos does everything in his power every day to make sure he isn’t adding to that load. He doesn’t want to be a burden, he doesn’t want to make things worse, he just wants it to all be okay. Even if it means he has to carry everything on his own.
He stares at the report for another hour and a half, the lines blurring together as he scribbles his notes on notebook paper. He doesn’t make much progress. He doesn’t even take another deep breath in until his phone buzzes in his pocket, jolting him out of his concentration, and he fishes it out of his pocket. The sight of his boyfriends’ name followed by a frankly embarrassing quantity of emojis on the screen brings a smile to his face and he responds to “ when will you be home tonight?” With a confident “ be there in 20, babe”
Home sounds so much better somehow coming from him. He couldn’t pin down when he’d learned it, when he’d found comfort in his voice, healing in his touch, but it’s one of those things you don’t recognize until it’s already happened. One of those things you can’t see clearly because you’re already standing so deep in it that there’s no turning back.
He inhales and holds it for a minute, lets the air settle, filling and heavy like an anvil, in his stomach. His feet feel heavy and he lets them. Rolling his shoulders, he lets it go, opening his eyes again and scrubbing at his face with trembling hands. He’s so tired. He’s so tired. God, he’s so tired.
The drive back to their condo flies by in a blur. He hardly registers the feeling of the steering wheel beneath his restless fingertips, regards the silence that fills the passenger seat with no more attention than he’d offer to a cuffed collar in the backseat of the cruiser. His eyelids are heavy and his stomach feels empty and cavernous and echoey. He’d worked through lunch again.
When he pulls up to the curb, he turns the ignition and sits for a moment, completely still. He rests his forehead on the wheel and takes it in. The effort it is going to take to pry his body up from the seat, to walk to the door, to unlock it, all of it seems insurmountable. It’s too much. He wants to be home, and he’s there , he just has to walk in the door. It’s not a big deal.
Except that it is.
TK is probably waiting for him on the couch downstairs. That’s what usually happens on days when he gets there first. He won’t have tried to cook anything and it will be a blessing that he didn’t. You can only go through so many canisters of fire extinguisher, only collect so many blackened pots and pans before you ban cooking without supervision. He will have made him tea, though, because the kettle is electric and it doesn’t count. Carlos will close his eyes and sigh and wish it was coffee but know in his heart that the caffeine isn’t going to help anything. They’ll laugh about something dumb that happened to him at work and then fight playfully about whether they’re going to order DoorDash or Carlos is finally going to show him how to make something that doesn’t involve the microwave. It always goes that way. They’ve settled down into a routine that feels nice and stable and comfortable in the same predictable way as rewatching your favorite show again. It’s easy. It’s kind.
When he finally unbuckles his seatbelt, it takes another solid minute to open the door. His knees crack when he stands, he’s stiff like he’s slept on the couch. He feels ancient as he makes his way up the sidewalk and to the front door, juggling his keys and his bag that he’s got slung over his shoulder.
When did everything get so heavy?
He’s barely got the right key separated from the others, seconds away from inserting it into the lock when the door is flung open wide. TK is standing in the doorway, plaid pajama pants rolled up at the waist because he stole them from Carlos and they get hung up under his heels if he leaves them alone. He’s got on a black hoodie with the sleeves pushed up around his elbows and he’s got a smile on his face that is so bright and so big that Carlos’ breath catches in his throat.
His hair is messy like he towel-dried it after his shower and then never looked in the mirror after that. He shuffles a little bit from foot to foot before whispering excitedly, “Hi babe,” and bracing his weight on both palms, leaning out the door and kissing Carlos once, lightly, on the nose. It’s silly and goofy and ridiculous and the most beautiful thing he’s ever felt.
“Hey, Ty,” he says, letting his eyes drift close, letting his shoulders fall from where he had them tensed up by his ears. And then TK is taking the bag from his shoulder and placing it on the ground, gently, by the tray where they put their shoes. Then he’s tugging him across the threshold, helping him up the step with hands on his waist, mindful of the tactical belt he hasn’t taken off yet.
His mug is waiting for him on the half-wall next to the front door, chamomile and lemon, steeped to perfection, just like always.
It’s comfortable. It’s easy. It’s kind.
TK can tell something is off right away. Carlos isn’t even inside yet. He hasn’t even gotten out of the car yet. That’s the issue. Everything happens for a reason. He watches from his position at the front window, just far enough back from it that a passerby wouldn’t notice him without doing it on purpose. He watches just for a little bit, before he collects Carlos’s mug and goes to greet him at the door.
He can see it in the way that he’s walking. His head is down and he's dragging his left foot a little behind his right. He’d twisted that ankle months ago and he claimed it didn’t hurt anymore, but they both knew it ached after a long day. He looked like a strong wind would take him down, like the light from the streetlamp at the end of the drive would shine clean through him if you looked at him from the right angle.
If you’ve been paying attention, it’s easy to tell when something is off. If you’ve been watching long enough, if you’ve made yourself familiar with the way someone holds their shoulders, any deviation from the norm is going to stand out like a red wine stain on a white couch. It’s easy to tell that he’s too heavy to hold himself up much longer.
So, TK does what he always does. He sets his mug down, the steam billowing up from the soft white rim, curling and dancing in the cool evening air. He shakes out his hands like a boxer getting ready for a headlining match. He braces one hand on the door jam and nimble fingers wrap around the knob before he takes one final breath in. He opens the door.
It’s showtime.
He leads him up the stairs, instead of to their usual place on the couch. It seems like it’s been a Straight To Bed kind of a night. A water bottle on the bedside table, maybe get him to eat a granola bar, shower in the morning kind of night. He picks up the mug with one hand and keeps the other on Carlos’ elbow as they take the steps one at a time.
It takes them a minute to get there, but they manage it like they always do. When they’re standing at the foot of the bed, TK helps him unclasp his belt and places it in the safe on the dresser. He makes quick work of the buttons on his uniform and whispers “Arms up, sweetheart,” like he’s talking to a child before he’s sliding a worn gray sweatshirt over his head.
When they’ve gotten him comfortable, he leads him to his side of the mattress and gently shoves him back. Carlos lands on the comforter with a soft groan as his exhausted body finally begins to shut down for the evening. His feet hurt.
TK drags the blankets up over them both when he gets settled on the other side, tugging Carlos in until they fit together like puzzle pieces. He’s got his forehead tucked into TK’s neck and the feeling of him breathing softly is enough to make his heart flutter. He takes it in for a second, how lucky he is to get to love this man. How lucky, how lucky, how lucky .
“You wanna talk about it now or are we waiting until the morning?” He whispers, his finders scratching gently through curls made unruly by the stresses of the work day.
Carlos makes a noncommittal noise, but his eyes are closed and his fingers are digging into the fabric of TK’s hoodie like he’s scared to let him go. Tomorrow it is, then.
They’ll rest for a while, TK will make sure of it. In the morning, he’ll make him take a shower, let him use all the hot water. He’ll toast him a bagel, surely he won’t be able to mess up a bagel, and pour him a cup of coffee, black and bitter, just how he likes it. They’ll sit on the couch, cross legged and facing each other. TK will leave his hand on his ankle while he listens. He won’t interrupt.
When it’s over and he’s finished, he’ll feel lighter. The tiredness that felt so eternal and pestilential and deadly will drain from his bones like infection from a wound and he will feel like he just woke up.
TK will cup his face in his palms and look at him like he’s the greatest thing he’s ever seen before he kisses him on the forehead, and then on the nose, and then, when he finally brings their lips together, he’ll smile into it. The pain won’t stop, it won’t go away, that’s not how this works. Carlos knows that. But when he needs him, TK will be there, a pair of warm hands and a person to call home.