Work Text:
To Bob: “Have to cancel movie night. Sorry.”
From Bob: “Another late night, I take it?”
To Bob: “Yes.”
From Bob: “How late are we talking?”
To Bob: “Too late to start a movie and eat dinner.”
From Bob: “Need a rescue? I could call and tell them there’s an emergency at your place.”
To Bob: “Robert James Floyd!”
From Bob: “Yes?”
To Bob: “We both know, you don’t know how to fudge the truth. Besides. Knowing my boss, he’ll tell me he doesn’t care and to find someone to handle it. And guess who that someone would be?”
Bob laughs. Damn you for knowing him so damn well. He indeed has trouble telling lies. Even little white lies. He has his Ma to thank for that. It’s not that she’d preached about honesty and integrity at every turn but she’d instilled very early on that honesty is the best policy.
“Never tell a lie, Bobby. Even if you think you’ll get into trouble. It’s better to be honest than mislead someone with a lie. And yes, I know you might hurt feelings or maybe even get into trouble, but there’s nothing worse than finding out that something is built on lies. Especially when it’s about love.”
Bob laughs again. Softer this time. Maybe it’s the reason his parents’ marriage is still growing strong. They tell each other everything. Although, Bob does remember his father telling him that there’s only one question he shouldn’t ever answer directly.
“When a woman asks ‘Does this make me look fat?’, keep a straight face and tell her she looks beautiful. Especially when she’s carrying your child.”
“I thought honesty is the best policy?”
“It is. And I didn’t lie to your Ma. She was and is beautiful. Now, don’t misunderstand, son. I would worry if she suddenly lost or gained a lot of weight. I would ask if she’s feeling okay, get my meaning? But when an eight-month pregnant woman asks ‘Does this make me look fat?’, you tell her she looks god damn amazing. ‘Cause in the end, as men, our part is minimal, and women’s bodies are changed in ways we will never understand.”
Bob chuckles. Maybe, one day, he’ll get to have that experience. Although, he’s had some. With you. He’s told you a few times now that you look great or amazing when you’d asked that very question. It’s not like such statements are only reserved for lovers. Best friends use them, too, right? RIGHT? But if Bob is gonna be honest with himself, you could wear a burlap sack and he’d still say that you look great and amazing, because, in his eyes, you are. In every way! And isn’t beauty always in the eye of the beholder?
Bob sighs, a soft smile lifting his face when he replies to your text at last.
From Bob: “I guess that someone would be me.”
To Bob: “Exactly. Ugh. I’m sorry. I have to get going. Boss is eyeing me. Like my break isn’t even fucking over.”
From Bob: “You better get, then. Don’t want you in trouble. But before you go, would it be okay to grab some sugar from your place?”
To Bob: “How are you always out of sugar?”
From Bob: “I may or may not keep forgetting to buy some.”
To Bob: “How on earth have you managed a career as an aviation officer if you keep forgetting the simple things in life?”
From Bob: “Math is easy, life is not? Besides, I thought that’s what you’re for, Sugar Pie.”
To Bob: “Imma let that slide, Mister Weapons Systems Officer. Only because I know that YOU know better than to reduce women to chores and errands. Anyways. I have to go. I promise we’ll have movie night soon. Ttyl, Honey Bunch.”
From Bob: “Ttyl, Sugar Pie.”
Bob sighs, his smile slowly falling. It’s the fourth time you’ve had to cancel in as many weeks. And he gets it. He really, truly does. Sometimes, work calls for long hours. His career isn’t any different in that aspect. It doesn’t change the fact that Bob feels a light twinge in the pit of his stomach.
He’s grown to like movie nights with you. Like, really like. He likes hanging out with Dagger Squad, too, now that they’ve been made a permanent unit at Miramar. But it’s nice to have evenings where the entertainment isn’t a huge crowd of work colleagues and booze and music. Where one doesn’t have to yell over the din of it all. It’s nice to be able to completely shut off that part of his life now and then and just be. It’s nice to kick back and watch god-awful B-type horror movies where you flick popcorn at the screen, yelling and laughing about how absurd the plot is. It’s nice to have calm(er) evenings like that with just you. It’s nice to be… with you…
Bob sighs again, the spare key you’d given him a month after first meeting each other clicking into the lock of your front door. He really does need sugar -again- but when he steps inside your place, it’s the last thing on his mind.
Bob knows that you’re not the neatest person. In fact, when he’d first seen your place some seven or eight months ago, he’d assumed that you’d just moved in as well…
“Oh hey… I’m… uhmmm… I’m really sorry to bother you, Miss. I just moved in across the hall. Went shopping, and wouldn’t you know it, I forgot the sugar. Was wondering…”
“Oh yeah, sure sure. Come on in. You’re in luck. Just went shopping myself. Making a pie for my nephew’s birthday. So I got extra.”
“Pie? For a birthday?”
“Don’t ask me. He wants an apple pie. And I guess, since I’m the bestest auntie ever, he gets a pie.”
“Right. Of course. Birthday prerogative. So… uhmmm… did you just move in as well?”
“Huh?”
“The boxes.”
“Oh those. Yeah, no. Been here for almost six months. Just never seem to get around to it. I mean, I got a few pieces of furniture to build first anyways, but eh… I’ll get to it eventually. Probably whenever I’m ready to move out.”
The carefree mirth to your voice had made Bob laugh then and it makes him laugh now. Or maybe it’s the fact that you’d waggled your brows as a hint that maybe he could help. He would’ve helped regardless, with or without the hint. He has his Pa to thank for that one.
“Actions speak louder than words, son. And sometimes, when you see that a person needs help, you just gotta show up and do. Even if they don’t ask because of pride or fear or whatever reason. Just be there. Even if it’s just to lend an open ear. And yeah, you’re not always gonna get a thank you. But it’s not about that anyways. It’s about doin’ the right thing. About being kind. About helping when and where you can. Even when no one’s watching. That doesn’t mean you gotta let people walk all over you. You gotta set boundaries. Good people will understand. But in the end, people will remember the things you did more than the things you said. And with the right people, there’s no question that they’ll do the same for you.”
Bob lets out a breathy laugh. Yup. He would’ve helped regardless. So, with your hint and his Pa’s sentiment at the back of his mind, Bob had stood at your threshold a week later, with a pizza as thank you for the sugar in one hand, while offering the other to help build the eight-drawer dresser in your bedroom so you could finally unpack the rest of the boxes there. And then the storage system for your walk-in closet. And the bookshelves in the living room. And the cube system in the hallway…
“My own Bob, the Builder. How can I ever repay you?”
“Dessert would be great.”
“Dessert it is. And may I offer a cheesy B-horror flick as entertainment, kind sir?”
“Sure thing, Sugar Pie.”
“Sugar Pie, hmmm? Well, if I’m Sugar Pie, you’re Honey Bunch.”
“Uh…okay?”
God. The laugh that had bubbled from you after that interaction remains one of Bob’s favorite moments, and sometimes he wonders if you realize that he’d not meant it as some sarcastic term of endearment even if the moment had seemed to call for it. That, in fact, the term only belongs to you and no one else. Friends give each other special names, even if they’ve only known each other for a mere week at the time, right? RIGHT?
Bob shakes his head to refocus. Reminisce can wait until later.
Bob knows you’ve been busy so he’s not surprised that chores get left behind. But this isn’t a few days of backed-up chores. This is weeks’ worth of accumulation. And right now, he cusses at himself. He should’ve asked if you need help. Good friends ask, and walking around your place, Bob reprimands himself for not having done so after the first few days of you coming home late.
The sink is overflowing with unwashed dishes. The trashcan also seems at capacity. The fridge is stuffed with half-finished takeout boxes and not much else. Bob doesn’t mean to creep, but a look into your bedroom confirms another suspicion. There’s more clothing in the overflowing laundry bin than in the closet or the massive eight-drawer dresser.
Bob looks at the key in his hand. He’s not stepped inside your apartment in weeks. He never does without asking first. But maybe he should have. You did give him blanket permission to do so when you’d handed him the key with yet another half-used-up pack of sugar…
“I mean obviously, knock first in case I have company over. Or I’m walking around naked. But if you need something or just wanna hang, you don’t have to wait for me to come home. All I ask is that you send me a text if you grab the last of something, so I can run to the store and grab more.”
“Sure thing, Sugar Pie.”
“Thank you very much, Honey Bunch. Now, time to watch Krampus.”
“You really like B-horror, huh?”
“Yep.”
The way you’d popped the P and smiled a toothy smile, and then, in the same breath, reminded Bob to get the popcorn and drinks from the kitchen while you’d set up the living room… Another favorite moment. There seem to be A LOT! “Focus, Robert!” He mutters under his breath, so he does.
Bob sorts your clothes into four piles. Darks. Colors. Whites. And lacy unmentionables. He really hopes that he doesn’t come across as a creep for doing this. But it’s obvious that life’s been stressful for you, that mirth of yours having faded a bit over the last four weeks, and it’s not like you don’t do the same for him.
There’s always a plate waiting for him in his fridge when long training days have him home no earlier than midnight. And the only reason his plants have survived thus far is the fact that you’re the one to water them when he’s away on extended assignments.
He does laugh about the latter, line of sight falling onto the little Bear’s Paw succulent on the window sill of your kitchen. It’s healthy and strong, with new paw-like leaves growing in slowly. Quite the opposite of when Bob had first laid eyes on it.
“Your plant might have to go into hospice care if you keep overwatering it.”
“Don’t plants need water?”
“Yes. Except succulents thrive on less is more.”
“And you know this how?”
“My parents are farmers. They mostly grow grains and beets. But Ma also runs a plant store on the side. My sisters and I helped a lot during summers and weekends… What? Why are you grinning like that?”
“Bob, the farmer. Did you wear overalls?”
“Shuddup.”
“Well, did you?”
“Maybe? Stop laughing…”
“What? I think it’s a cute image. Robert James Floyd in overalls, sunburnt cheeks, gritty hands, maybe a smudge of dirt on your face somewhere...”
“You know what would be a cute image, Sugar Pie?”
“What’s that, Honey Bunch?”
“You getting dessert while I set up the movie.”
Bob laughs again. God. He really, REALLY likes movie night with you. The B-type horror flicks aren’t actually all that scary. In fact, some could and should be considered comedy, the way you always laugh. And Bob adores the sound of your laughter. But what he really, really, REALLY adores is how easy it is to talk to you about nothing and everything.
“You know, there have been instances where sharks have been sucked up from the ocean, you know like during a hurricane, and dropped on land.”
“Are you trying to justify the plot of this movie, Sugar Pie?”
“No. I’m just saying, it’s not as unrealistic as we think.”
“Sugar. They were inside sharks. In space. Falling to earth. Almost unharmed. I can tell you that that is impossible. Even I cracked a rib or two when I had to eject. And I had a parachute to soften my landing.”
“I know that, Mister ‘I’m an aviation officer’. I’m talking about smaller sharks. I mean considering climate change and all, maybe shark-canes will become a regular thing, you never know, right? Tornadoes have houses and cars twisting in the air, so… What? Why are you smiling?”
“Nothing.”
Bob shakes his head in amusement when he tosses the garbage bag into the dumpster outside of the building. What he’d actually wanted to say was “You’re adorable when you get all passionate and sassy.” In a way, Bob is glad he hadn’t. Cause he’s one hundred percent certain, friends don’t call each other adorable, right? Right…
Bob makes his way back to the front door of the apartment building only to stop short before entering. He searches the parking lot, your assigned space still empty, and his stomach does the twinge thing again.
It’s funny how quickly movie night has become a sort of tradition. It never feels forced. A simple text is all it takes. Sometimes, just a knock on the door is enough. It’s also not every week. You’re both adults with adult lives. Bob’s work has kept him away a few times, forced a few last-minute cancelations. And you’ve got company now and then. Sometimes, your nephew stays over so his parents can go out. And sometimes, you’ve got a date.
Bob doesn’t want to dwell on the latter. You’re friends. Best friends even, with how easy it is to be around each other, not caring about messed up hair or jam-stained shirts. (Or accidental gross sounds; although, Bob always apologizes profusely when that happens only to end up laughing alongside you because yeah, some sounds will always be funny.) But that’s all you are. Friends. And friends are happy for each other when things go well. And they’re there for each other when things don’t.
“I don’t get it, Bobby. Am I that repulsive?”
“You’re not repulsive, Sugar Pie.”
“I’m not?”
“Right now? A little. But that’s because you’re puking your guts out while also smelling like a whole distillery. But any other time… you’re amazing and gorgeous and great. Any guy who can’t see that is either blind or in denial or scared.”
“Scared of me?”
“Hmmmm… men do get intimidated by smart and beautiful women. Some in good ways, others in bad ways. But that’s their problem. Never yours, Sugar.”
“Thanks, Bobby… oh… oh my god… Bob… bucket….”
There haven’t been many such occasions where Bob had to hold your hair so it wouldn’t be in the way. Only two. Both times, it had ended with Bob scooping you up into his arms and carrying you to bed; muffled sniffles a sign that you were still alive while he’d stayed just long enough until your breaths had evened out. And both times, it had hurt Bob’s heart in a way that he wanted to punch whoever had caused your dismay. And both times, it had taken every ounce of self-control to not do something stupid like kiss your forehead while whispering “Sweet dreams, my love”. Because friends wouldn’t say that, right? Right…
And maybe friends don’t say some things, but friends show up and do. And that is what Bob continues right now. He’s back upstairs, throwing the load of dark clothes into the dryer and starting the load of colors in the washer next. Then he sweeps and mops the floors, even cleans the bathroom before he’s back in the kitchen to take inventory of everything you have and everything you don’t.
It’s odd to see your fridge this empty. Sure, this may have been Bob’s doing today. Of all the takeout boxes you have had, he’d only deemed two still safe for consumption. But usually, your fridge is stocked with all fresh ingredients and prepped meals for the week, and none of that takeout-Tetris that Bob had cleaned out today. He reprimands himself again for not stepping up sooner. But he’s stepping up now, and it counts, right?
At the market nearby, Bob fills the cart with everything he knows you like and then some. He even remembers the sugar this time. One pack for you. And one for himself. A smile tugs at Bob’s lips. Sometimes, he wonders if forgetting the sugar is a subconscious thing he does. It does give him reason to stop by your place and witness that smug but adorable little smile you give him whenever he does so.
“Sugar again?”
“You know it.”
“Seriously, Bob, I’m glad you’re not in command of the Navy’s supply chain. I really think something would either run out of fuel or food or whatever else is important to have on ships and then what? Stranded sailors. Well, lost at sea sailors or whatever you call it. And who would I watch kitschy B-horror movies with? Tell me! Who?”
“Uhmmm…”
“See! Uhm. Now, get in here. I’m making lasagna. It actually is enough to feed the whole Navy. See what I did there?”
“Sure did.”
“Also, since you’re already here. Mind taking a look at the kitchen faucet? I can’t get it to stop dripping. And it’s getting worse. Please? Movie and dessert as payment, shalt thou accept the mission.”
“Hmmm… sure thing, Sugar Pie.”
“Thanks a bunch, Honey Bunch.”
Yup. Bob has really come to like movie nights with you. And he’s come to like every other night that isn’t a movie night with you, too. He’s come to like the evenings he helps you pick out outfits for the week. He’s come to like the evenings when he helps you carry your groceries to your kitchen. He’s come to like the evenings when you show up at his door with extra food to share. He’s come to like the evenings when he’s fixing something with you, for you. He’s come to like the evenings you don’t even wait for him at the door at either your place or his, where you just walk in and start talking. He’s come to like evenings hearing your laughter and talk about everything and nothing. He’s come to like evenings with you.
And it’s true: movie nights don’t happen every week. You both have lives outside the bubble of your apartments. But it’s never been more than one missed week, two tops, and four weeks feel like an eternity. So…
So Bob can’t help himself. He truly can’t. He misses the shared laughter and shared dinners and talk-about-everything-and-nothing-conversations. And he hopes he’s not imposing with your days stretching way past your nine-to-five schedule. But he can’t go another week without seeing his best friend, without seeing you. Even if it’s just for dinner. Even if it’s just for a less than five-minute conversation.
Finger on the display of his cell, he’s fast to pre-order food from your favorite restaurant while he’s still at the market. (And yes, he’s aware of the irony of ordering food when he’s just about to finish grocery shopping.) And he’s fast to stash everything away once he’s home back at your place. And the rest of the chores? Just as fast. Whatever clothes are dry get folded. The dishwasher gets emptied. Counters get wiped down.
He’s just about to choose a movie from the endless list of B-type horror movies when the thud of the front door announces your arrival.
“Bob?”
“In here.” He calls from the open-floor living room, heads to the kitchen-island to set up two glasses and two plates and two sets of utensils. He’s folding the napkins when you come into view at last, your eyes wide when you ask.
“What is… Did you… Did you clean my kitchen?”
“Sure did, Sugar Pie. Brought out the trash, too. And did your laundry. Although, I didn’t wash your unmentionables. Wasn’t sure if lace can go in the washer.”
It’s the quietness of you that cuts through Bob’s heart. Shit. Maybe he overstepped. “I’m sorry.” He apologizes when you stay quiet, his gaze dropping to the floor. “It’s not my place, I know that. But it kinda looked like you needed some help and I figured, might as well, you know.” Bob runs a sheepish hand over the back of his neck before his gaze raises back to you where he catches the beginning of tears.
And it’s instantaneously. The way he closes the gap between the both of you, how he pulls you into a hug, one hand cradling your head while the other runs long lines up and down your back. And Bob isn’t gonna lie. Hearing you cry breaks his heart. But he lets you. Because sometimes, one just has to “Let it all out, Sugar Pie.” So, he holds you just a moment longer before he dares to ask if “You wanna talk about it?”
A quiet shake of the head and with a resigned sigh, you tell him no. “It’s just been a long day.”
“Mmhmmm… I figured.” Bob continues to run a gentle hand up and down your back. He doesn’t want to push limits, but “I know you’re tired, but I promise you won’t have to lift a finger tonight except when eating dinner. The food I ordered should be here soon. And the movie is already set up. All you gotta do is change.” He whispers when you lift your face, softly sweeps the back of his hand over your tear-stained cheeks, and you nod, then snicker.
“Did you say unmentionables?”
Bob freezes, his cheeks taking on a reddish hue while his eyes round out. “Uh… well… uh… yeah?” He squeaks and you laugh.
“You’re a grown man. In the Navy. They’re called underwear. Or, you know, bras and panties.” You laugh louder when you see his eyes go wider than they already are, his glasses ever so slightly sliding down his nose, so you readjust them back into place, even boop Bob’s nose. “You’re adorable, Robert James Floyd.” You’re still laughing, although softer now, hand now resting on his chest, and Bob swears his heart is about to give out the way it’s hammering against his ribs. “I’ll be right back.” You whisper and Bob nods.
Only when he’s sure that the bedroom door is closed, does Bob dare to release a long-held breath. Oh, he’s done for. So so done for. But he can’t dwell on that thought right now. Right now, you need a friend. Best friend. And that is what Bob is going to be for now. Because it would be wrong to take advantage of this situation. You’re tired, thoughts likely unfocused after a long day. It wouldn’t be fair to demand more of you today, to lay his feelings onto you, would it?
The doorbell pushes the question away…
When he returns to the kitchen, your favorite takeout in hand, you’re sitting by the kitchen island, changed from the professional office look into soft shorts and a soft shirt. There’s a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. A tired smile. A smile nonetheless. “Thank you.” You mouse out and Bob raises a brow.
He divides the food onto the plates, asks. “For what, Sugar?”
You inhale sharply, poke at your food. “Folding my clothes. Cleaning my bathroom. Stocking my fridge. You know, everything.”
“It was nothing, Sugar. Now hush. Eat your food while I start the movie. Ready?” Bob waits for a confirming nod, pushes play as soon as he gets it. “I present to you: Rubber, the killer tire.” Bob deadpans and, just as he predicted, you’re in stitches.
“A killer tire? Really?”
“Don’t look at me. You’re the one who started this B-horror flick thing.” Bob raises an accusing brow and you laugh even harder.
The movie is a third of the way done by the time you finish dinner, and Bob is quick to usher you to the sofa. “I told you; you won’t have to lift a finger. Now sit down and let me handle the dishes.” It’s a rare thing for Bob to show any kind of assertiveness, but he holds his ground with crossed arms and a warning tilt of the head.
“Alright. Alright! I’m going. Just don’t be long. I can’t promise any open spots once I get comfy.” You grouch out and Bob chuckles.
It’s not like the sofa is minuscule. It’s a decent size, enough for two people IF they sit upright. But you usually don’t. Usually, you end up stretched out, with either your head on Bob’s shoulder or chest while your legs dangle over the armrest on the opposite side. Or your legs are across Bob’s while you have your head against a pillow on the armrest.
Bob had once made the mistake to wear shorts when you’d done the latter. He’d nearly jumped to the ceiling when your bare legs (barely) touched the skin of his thighs.
“Jesus fuck, Sugar! I might have to take your pulse.”
“My legs aren’t that cold, Mister Tough Navy Aviation Officer.”
“Yeah, they are. I think the Atlantic is warmer than your legs. In fact, the North Pole is warmer than your legs.”
“Well, toughen up, lieutenant, ‘cause I’m not moving. I just got comfortable.”
“Yes, Ma’am, Miss Sugar Pie.”
Bob chuckles again. The way your eyes had narrowed at him. Like you had wanted to see if he’d dare call you Ma’am again. (Which he does, occasionally, if only to tease you.) But what amuses Bob more is the fact that he would totally let you dig your cold toes into the back of his calves if it meant that you’re comfortable and content. Never mind the fact that he had actually loved feeling your skin against his. And never mind the fact that it had taken everything within him not to caress past your knee and up your thigh…
“What’s so funny?” Your voice is hushed and Bob kicks himself for waking you, cause for the last half hour, he’s been comfortable and content with you cuddled into his side, you having fallen asleep the second Bob had found his groove in the sofa cushion.
“Just… you.” Bob whispers, absentmindedly sweeps a hand up and down your arm, absentmindedly kisses the top of your head, and absentmindedly draws your left hand to his lips where he leaves another kiss on the back.
It takes a second to process what he’s just done, and Bob swears it’s like all the air has been sucked from the room and you’re both sitting in a vacuum, the space around him void of all sound and maybe even time. And Bob hopes, god he hopes, he didn’t just ruin the best friendship he’s ever had. But then you sit up, hand on his chest, your body turned to him, and Bob can no longer lie to himself. He doesn’t just like you.
“Honey Bunch?” You break the silence, sweep a thumb over Bob’s lips, and he breathes out a soft laugh.
“Yes, Sugar Pie?” Maybe it’s a dream. So Bob pinches the side of his leg and it hurts. There’s no pain in dreams, right? RIGHT? And then… Then you pull yourself onto Bob’s lap and the weight and warmth of you feels real and good. So so good.
And yeah. Bob can’t lie to himself any longer. He doesn’t just like you. And the truth feels so good when he lets action do the talking, a hand weaving into your hair as he pulls you close for a long, deep kiss, a soft laugh following when he hears you say “about damn time” once you break for air.