Work Text:
Your back is starting to hurt.
Knees giving out under pressure.
Noises, smells, textures, all at once, all the time, with only a thirty minute break to separate the morning from the afternoon.
Such is the life of someone working under the capitalistic regime that is retail.
Talking to people, working the register, and having to put on that customer service voice that is 16 octaves higher than you could ever think to achieve before this job makes you want to curl up into a ball and burn.
Then there's the cleaning, the stocking, the leading people to what they need - god, it's all so much. So much! And yet, you march on, because you have an apartment to pay rent for and food to buy.
And whatever else your dear partner might want back at home.
Yes, back at home, your dear partner The Spot was... well, you aren't entirely sure what he could be doing. Frankly, it was a bit of a coin flip as to whether he'd be cleaning up the space or making it infinitely messier through his tinkering and building and such.
Not that you minded. One way or the other, you'd be happy to see his non-face as soon as you stepped through the door.
The cold surface of the bench grazes against your fingertips as you grasp for something that isn't there, being torn from your thoughts as you realise you've zoned out while scanning everything the customer in front of you had put down. With a smile, kind apology, reciting of the final price, and bagging the goods, you see them off.
One hour 'til clock-off.
--
Back at home, The Spot is doing precisely neither of the options you thought he'd be doing.
Instead, he has a hand on his hip and an apron tied around his waist as he studies the back of a box. A box of cake mix, to be precise!
He mutters under his breath as he scans the words, trying to play catch-up with what he's already done and what he needs to do next. Mostly everything is prepared, except fooorrr...
Oh, mixing. Okay, yeah, duh, that should have been obvious.
And so, he mixes the cake batter with your electric whisk! What a development.
Soon enough, it's mixed perfectly, and so he goes through the motions to put that shit in the oven!
God, he's good at this.
Satisfied, he starts to clean up the area. He picks up the bowl he used for the cake mix and, looking into it, sees the leftover scrapes of raw batter.
Pouring the mix into the cake pan earlier, he had already decided he was going to indulge himself in some of this leftover gunk of sweetness and potential salmonella.
With a swipe of his finger against the cold, metallic bowl, he presents himself with a glob of raw mixture.
Perfect.
He sticks it into his face-hole, then takes it out, now completely clean from the mix.
Mmm... fuck, he misses having a mouth.
And a face.
And a proper body, oh god...
Thoughts for later, Jonathon -- no, Spot. Thoughts for later, Spot. Now, he's baking a cake. A cake. He likes cake! You like cake! And he likes you! So, focus on that, Spot.
With another fingertip of sugary gunk down the hatch, he continues cleaning up after himself. Next, the icing.
--
In-between aisles, moving around some cart of... something you really should have remembered, you stop in your place to stretch out your poor back. You've been on your feet all day, and your incredibly poor posture is doing absolutely nothing to help.
You reach the warehouse out the back through the staff doors, then pull out your phone to check the time.
Ten minutes until the shift ends! Holy shit! This means you can drop off this cart right here and wait in the staff bathroom until you get off! Fantastic news.
As you hide in the bathroom, you unlock your phone and decide to text the wifey.
> hiii im off work in likeee 8 minutes :D hiding in the bathroom until then
> hope you havent burnt down the house
Almost immediately, he responds.
< Not yet! The night is still young, my dearest, and I plan to make the most of it.
You can't help but smile. Dork.
> make the most of it by burning down the apartment building that has the cheapest rent?
> i mean, go nuts, just dont complain to me when we're living on the street :/
< I'm not burning down the apartment, promise. Though, I have been doing something that might have ended up with a burning building. :)
> did you mix the cleaning chemicals again?
< AGAIN?! I have never done that in my life, don't put things on me that I haven't done!
< But no, I did not. I'd have said you'll see when you get home, but now I'm not so sure I want to show you. >:(
> ?×?#(@?!?,?? well now i need to see it
< You are LUCKY I like you!
> very :>
As per usual, you are eager to get home to see Spot. Though, with the addition of a surprise waiting for you at home makes the feeling a little extra sweet.
--
You open the door to your apartment and sling your bag off your shoulder, entering as you drop it to the ground and close the door behind you with an exaggerated groan.
"Spooottt, where are you, I'm in need of heinous amounts of love and affection. My feet hurt so baaadd," you whine, mostly in an attempt to entertain yourself.
For a split moment, you see Spot through the hallway and in the kitchen, before a portal splits open beside you and his lanky white arm drags you through it from the other side.
As you're pulled through, he wraps his arms around you in a tight hug, and you almost immediately melt into the embrace.
"Welcome home," he mumbles into your hair, your name being uttered as sweetly as you're sure it tastes on his tongue when he says it.
"Glad to be back," you mutter back, finding a place on his portal-filled chest to nuzzle into.
There's a moment before you realise that the apartment smells different to how it usually does.
"... What's that smell?"
The Spot pulls back a little to look at you properly, the hole in his face contorted in a specific manner to convey excited anticipation.
"I made you something."
"Hm... It doesn't smell like mustard gas," you joke, looking up at nothing as if you were deep in thought.
He scoffs and releases you from the hug. "Again with the chemical mixing accusations! Maybe I should throw the whole thing out - a day's worth of work gone to waste," he says with a smile evident in his tone.
You giggle as you move away from him, looking around the kitchen and scanning for what he could be talking about before you eyes land on it.
The cake sits on the counter, perfectly iced and a decent helping of sprinkles.
You walk towards it to get a better look, and once you're at the counter, you can't help but feel a sense of pride at how impressive it looks for boxed cake mix.
"It's perfect..." you mutter under your breath, looking over at him, "how?"
The Spot scoffs. "I am a scientist- or, uh, was. I should hope I'm good at measuring things, or else I'd have been out of a job before I even entered the dang place."
You affectionately roll your eyes at his cockiness, your gaze straying to the cabinets in your kitchen to grab a couple of plates.
"You tried any of it yet? Any bites taken out of the thing?" You tease.
"Oh, you know just as well as I that I don't exactly have teeth to bite into things anymore. If there are any, I am not the culprit!"
"Well, in that case, I'd be worried if there were any bites taken out of it. Rat infestation or something."
You turn the cake on the plate it sits on. Nope, no bites. Though, you feel a little silly for checking despite the knowledge that, no, you do *not* have a rat infestation.
"Well, if the cake wasn't a victim before, it will be now," you say plainly, before taking a knife out.
You hear a gasp to your side, and you turn to see Spot almost comedically shaking in terror, the blot on his face shrunken down to as small of a diameter you can imagine.
"You wouldn't," he exclaims dramatically, hands brought up to where his mouth would be, as if to bite on his nails.
"Oh, but I would. I'm a cold-hearted killer, don'tchya know."
You sink the knife into the plush flesh of the cake, dragging the blade down agonisingly slow and sawing it open. The Spot lets out a wail of despair to your side, and a giggle bubbles out of your mouth at the over-exaggerated comedy of it all.
Carefully, you cut out two slices of the cake and place them on a plate, then any utensils that might assist you with eating (if any at all).
Soon enough, you're both sat at your couch, and happily chowing down on the confectionery.
"Damn, Spot, this is good," you say through a half-eaten mouthful of cake, "there's no way you just used the ingredients in the box."
You hadn't noticed, but your words snapped him out of his thoughts.
"Oh, uh, yeah, uhm..." he babbles, using filler word after filler word as he returns to his usual state.
"That's a secret. Maybe you'll be worthy enough to have such information bestowed upon you, but until such a day comes, you can suck it. Enjoy the cake."
His tone is light, but... you can't help but shake the feeling something's off. Had it not been for his haphazard gestures as he spoke, you would have been none the wiser.
"Spot... you okay?" You ask gently, reaching a hand out to touch his shoulder.
"Yyy... yeeesss...? Why would I not be okay," he mutters incredulously, "I mean, heh, I'm eating cake. With you. What wouldn't be okay about this?"
You stare at him, thoroughly unconvinced.
He sighs. "It's not something you should worry yourself about. It's just... internal shit I need to get over. And I will! Eventually..."
Furrowing your eyebrows, you turn to face him front-on on the couch, placing your plate on the coffee table.
"Spot, I'd like to know what's on your mind. Good or bad. Let me help you, sweetheart." Your voice is quiet, and you let your hand drop from his shoulder to his hand.
A silence falls over the both of you in that moment, thick with tension and worry. His head is slightly hung as he turns his hand over and grabs onto yours for a gentle squeeze, letting you know he's at least thinking. Thinking of what to say, how to put it.
"I... I was staring at you," he starts, his voice rising at the end as if he was going to continue.
After a few seconds of nothing, you interject.
"Okaaay...? Are you- was that embarrassing for you?" Your voice is laden with sincerity.
"No- no, that's not it, it's just..." he trails off, before squeezing your hand a little harder and letting go immediately after. "It's stupid, it's really stupid."
You don't respond. He knows your thoughts. You could never, in a million years, think his stressors and worries were stupid. Never.
Tension rises within him as he continues.
" I wish I was... normal again. I wish I could eat food with you like a normal person, play with each other's hair, go outside for a walk with you, shit, kiss you..."
He pauses.
"I want to kiss you so bad, it hurts. I don't want to just be able to feel your lips on my skin, they should be on my lips! Lips that I don't have anymore... this- this is stupid, I'm sorry-"
"No, Spot, don't be sorry," you interrupt, grabbing his hand with both of yours, "please don't be sorry. It's rough, it really fucking is. This is such a unique loss you're experiencing, and it's still so new..."
You bring his hand up to your mouth to plant a kiss on his skin.
"Just remember I'm here for you. Always. I'm- I'm here for you."
He's silent. The tinnitus ringing in your ears becomes louder as the silence trucks on. You don't know if you've said something wrong yet.
"Me..." He whispers, barely audible to you. "I wish you could have known me before I was... this."
"I know," you whisper back, matching his volume, "I'd have love to meet Dr. Ohnn. And I'm sorry that that's not how things turned out."
"Johnathon."
You blink. "What?"
"You can call me Johnathon. If you'd like. Or, uh, Johnny... John."
"Are you sure...?"
He nods, finally turning his head to look at you. "I think so."
"Alright... Just - if it gets too much or you're uncomfortable with it, just... tell me, okay?" You rub his hand with both of yours.
"I will."
Satisfied, you nod.
"Alright, Johnathon. Thank you for telling me."
Almost as soon as the name escapes your lips, he sets down his plate and wraps his arms around you in a tight hug. You can't help but smile as you hug him back.
"... So, the multiverse theory is real, right?"
John pulls back a little to look at you questioningly.
"Yeeess...? Why?"
"Well, that means, theoretically, there'd be a universe where there's a therapist who has the unique qualifications to help you with your situation in a way that works for you, yeah?"
He laughs at that, some warmth coming back to his chest. "Yeah, I suppose so, that makes sense."
You smile, glad his mood is being lifted, and honoured that you're able to do that for him.
"When you find that universe, we're gonna sign you up for it. You deserve to heal from this," you say sweetly, resting your head on his chest.
"Sure, that sounds good to me," he mumbles, voice harshened slightly with vocal fry.
A second passes before the words leave your lips before you can catch them.
"I love you, Johnathon."