Work Text:
Today was another drawn-out day. Meeting with the same clients, chatting with the usual co-workers about yesterday's sports game, arguments on who the best team is. But Cheryl was never bothered by those routine conversations, finding that staying busy was an aspect she enjoyed. She loved work. Sure, the occasional social gatherings with friends and distant family members were fun, but work was her life. It was also her husband’s life, too.
Howard, her husband, only seemed to work. Sometimes he would not come home until the next day just to explain the overload of paperwork he received at the last minute. There were many explanations as to way Howard would never come home, but it all connected to one thread: their marriage, and it falling apart. Ever since his best friend and senior partner at his firm was caught in a fire, he would blather and defend his point on how his friend’s death was a suicide on a regular basis; all the evidence he had was solid, but no one believed him. Cheryl was following for certain points, but never fully understood.
Since then, they’ve barely called or texted one another. No dinner nights together, no dates outside of work, nothing to make them see eye-to-eye like the past. During Howard’s time in grief, he was a mess ; it was unnatural how he emotionally flipped like a coin. Always in tears, blaming himself for the debt he’s in, going into work on rare occasions and unbelievably silent. Everyday Cheryl pays thanks to the co-worker who shared the number of their therapist– since then, it’s brought the Howard she remembered back into her life.
Cheryl and Howard began to get secluded in their relationship after his breakdown. Sleeping in different beds, wardrobe changes, no more warm breakfasts in the morning. They’ve been like that for a while; love was still apparent in each other but describing their differences in words wasn’t. As if someone was putting out a campfire yet the wood and newspaper were still sparking. None of them even tried to go ahead and say "Hey, let’s try it again"; it would end poorly.
Cheryl pulled her car in front of the grand house and next to Howard’s Jaguar with the custom license plate; every time she looked at it, she couldn’t help but roll her eyes. She made a quick glance at her watch while unlocking the front door. Although it was dark, Cheryl could make out the time: 10:42.
As she locked the door behind her, the hallway was warmer than usual. Did she forget to turn the air conditioner down? Or leave the stove on? In the heat of panic, Cheryl swiftly made her way to the dining area and touched each of the knobs, tracing the smell of smoke around. While following the origin of it, and entering one of the living rooms, Cheryl found Howard.
She saw her husband sprawled on the black leather couch, a brown bottle of beer– an alcoholic beverage of some brand she couldn’t recognize– clutched in his right hand and fixed on his chest. Clothes were also a puzzle to her, the blue tie loose with his chest towards the ceiling.
And the fireplace adjacent to him was on.
Cheryl was alarmed by what she saw, when she shouldn’t. He was still alive, for once. Yet, he resembled someone who had fallen ill. She gently paced to get a better look at Howard before whispering some calls.
“Howard?”
Howard didn’t jolt or twitch. His face drenched with sweat and his blonde strands of hair pushed up in odd directions. Not to mention the reeking odor of alcohol; the bottle Howard held so tightly was practically empty. Cheryl couldn’t even comprehend how all that strong liquid was consumed or how many bottles he’d gone through; he was completely fine last week. The liquor cabinet seemed hollow when she was running before, but it’s never touched these days. She noticed his puffed out, flushed cheeks were tear stained. How long has he been crying? Or much? Hell– she doesn’t even know how long Howard’s been out. Maybe he didn’t even drink a lot today; having some sips every now and then could do it. His body language said otherwise.
She whispered his name again; no answer. In a final attempt, Cheryl shook her husband’s shoulder lightly before Howard stirred, letting out a sharp gasp. It took him some time to open his eyes only partly. Through his drunken and slurred tone, she was able to interpret it.
“It was him,” Howard muttered with a cough, “All… him.”
Cheryl simply exhaled as a response. He pushed himself into a proper position on the couch and tugged at his tie once more.
“Why did you put the fire on? It’s boiling out there.” he asked while confused.
The effects the liquor had on Howard sent his senses awry, as if it was loose yarn in a basket. She used the poker across and began to spread the fuel around to slow the flame, all while he went off about the events that occurred to him today; saying names like Kim and Jimmy.
Cheryl knew of those characters through what stories he had about them. How Jimmy destroyed his car with bowling balls, planted hookers at his lunch. These days, the stories that are life-threatening-in the eyes of Howard- are being spat out of his drunken mind now, explained with grand gestures.
She paid very little attention to what he was saying, making sure the flame was dying out before placing the glass screen in front.
As he continued to blather disjointedly, Howard slowly got quieter and slower. Cheryl turned to see that he was going to pass out again. The grip on the beer was slipping but she caught it in time, placing it on the wooden table across. Sensing that he was falling in and out of reality, Cheryl knew she was going to have to carry the man up to his small guest room but really didn’t want to. After this day of chatting with bland co-workers and making dull calls, this is not how she wanted to end this night.
Cheryl was aware that Howard had alcoholic urges; it’ll fluctuate on his emotions, according to what his therapist described. Since then, she kept her eye on the wooden liquor cabinet and addressed Howard every time it was opened or unlocked. Surprisingly, it worked like a charm; Howard was happier, prouder and generally better after those mini-interventions.
Why did she even care about him? Why was she worrying about his health? He was old enough to toss himself into the ocean if he felt like it. He was able to take care of his sorry self. He was terrible with money and how simple– not to mention disappointing– Howard was to manipulate. Cheryl likes to think it’s because she sees a slight sliver of hope in the man, but they disagree at the worst of times.
With discomfort and doubt, Cheryl tossed Howard’s limp arm over her shoulder and propped him to stand on his own two weak feet. He barely moved an inch, but with constant whispers: saying “Come on, move.”, and the jolting to his ribs, he stirred around and, finally, woke back up. Howard, head hanging low, observed Cheryl walk forward and held on with a tight grip on her shoulder.
“There… just follow. Watch and follow where I’m going.” She muttered, unsure why but felt it right.
Before Howard could even take in the information given, he detached from her embrace entirely and made his way to the liquor cabinet; but not to drink.
“Howard? Hey- you’re too drunk for more. You need to sleep and have some water.”
“I’m….” Swaying in his movement and holding onto a bottle of unopened Macallan in between his arm while fixing his tie, Howard attempted to unscramble his plan and his brain to Cheryl, “I’m going to talk to them. To Jimmy and Kim.”
“You’re going to put that bottle back-”
“It won’t take…” Distracted, once again. “Take a long… It won’t take too much time.”
As Howard made his way out of the room, he bumped into a bookshelf and gave no reaction. It was getting on Cheryl’s nerves, the way he was acting. It made her wonder if any of that therapy even served a purpose. Howard continued his uneven beeline into the hallway and made his way to the top of the wooden stairs. Just as he was going to step down, nearly hurting himself in the worst fashion possible, he was yanked back with a grip on his forearm.
“Cheryl, please. It’ll only be five minutes. Maybe ten.”
“You’re not going over there in this condition; you’re going to sleep. Okay?”
He nodded, in some odd manner. Cheryl accepted it as an affirmative remark and nothing else. She took the drunk man to lean on her once again and led the two of them to her bedroom.
A loud groan emitted from Howard when Cheryl put his powerless body on her bed, his head hanging back to stretch his sore muscles. With both of them exhausted beyond a doubt, they could’ve passed out right there, but Cheryl knew her husband. She began untying the loose knit tie that Howard had been playing with aimlessly, folding and placing it on the floor with care.
“Can you at least tell me why you’re drinking again?” She decided to ask.
No response, just a low groan from her husband; not to mention his head facing the opposite direction when she posed the question.
Howard fussed around when Cheryl pulled at the leather belt and shoes but didn’t start such a grand fight over it. Sighing, she went into the small bathroom that was connected to the bedroom and came back with a small cup of water.
“Have this,” Cheryl made a quick gesture to it. “It’ll clear you up”
Her make-up was wiped off as she began working on her dress. Howard didn’t make any attempt to reach and grab ahold of the cup, he was distracted by the ceiling’s fine details. As she was unzipping her dress and changing into some nightwear, Howard made a noise.
“They… did it all.”
He started speaking, unclearly.
“What?”
“He did it all, I know it. Kim was involved, too. They gave my secretary the… the wrong number, my… the wrong- the wrong photos. The photos were laced -!” He choked out, sensing he was about to cry again, “Laced photos of things Jimmy never did. They planted drugs on me. She… she was so smart…” Howard didn’t cry but instead stopped himself by chewing the inside of his cheek.
Cheryl sat right next to him as he was explaining what was going on. The husk of this man, trembling, tense and drunk over the jokes other people made on him; the way no one understood- properly understood– what he was going through, his fatigue only made it worse. Could he even explain this to a fucking therapist? Howard only hopes his wife, of all people, could understand.
“First my car… now they’re shattering my reputation. It’s…” He was trailing off into a series of conflicted sounds, making small hand gestures before they rested on his stomach.
“Howard,” Cheryl climbed under the sheets and took a deep inhale, “I hate to ask this, but you are listening to what your therapist is saying, correct?”
“Mhm.”
“And what has he been telling you?”
She didn’t get a response after asking; the man was sound asleep. Cheryl couldn’t tell if she was glad about this or not. Rest was something she craved after all of it but now Howard was going to be on her worries for the remainder of the night.
At least he was sleeping.
Pulling the cotton sheets over and laying back on the bed, Cheryl took her time falling asleep. Her mind wandered with the many chores to do tomorrow; new clients to meet up with, the slight adjustments to documents, not to mention the detour she had to take to get to her office. All of it put her to slumber right away.
As this was happening, the weight of the mattress was shifting and a heavy arm wrapped around her stomach, holding her close to the warm, shaken body behind her. Cheryl didn’t turn to look at Howard, this is how he was when they used to sleep together.
She missed this. Smiling into the pillow from the abrupt euphoria, remembering the last time they were holding one another.
“Thank you” One of them croaked.
They missed this.