Work Text:
Smoke curls up from the embers in the ashtray after he crushes the cigarette. There’s frustration in the furrow of his brow as he looks over the report—it’s one in the morning according to the last glance at his Pip-Boy, and he isn’t exactly getting any younger spending the whole night poring over these things. And it’s practically icy in the Castle too, winter cold—winter in Boston cold—seeping through the old stone walls. The general’s quarters are no exception, and he has his uniform’s overcoat pulled tight. He’s not exactly a stranger to cold, not after serving in Anchorage, but the wasteland is pretty much what he always pictured whenever anybody mentioned hell freezing over. It’s long since settled in his joints, stiffening up his hands when he tries to switch between papers. Various accounts from various settlements; details of occurrences in shipping routes and around the Commonwealth.
It’s odd to be so suddenly thrust into power. Hell of a promotion from his rank back in the day—and here he’d thought he’d never make it to officer. He’s never been one to shrink back from responsibility (having a kid proved that one), but there’s a difference between what he’s used to and directing the workings of an entire militia. He pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. Abernathy Farm needs more defenses. He’s halfway through writing down a note to direct a caravan of materials their way for the construction of some turrets when there’s stirring in the bed behind him. A rustling of blankets, and an unstifled yawn; he doesn’t need to turn around to know that Preston is awake.
“Well, good morning, there.” It pains him that he couldn’t have joined Preston in bed just yet, but work does need doing. It’s only one in the morning, anyways. Preston sits up, frowning as he blinks sleep from bleary eyes.
“Already? No,” and it’s practically grumbled. “Really?” “Nah. It’s only one. You’ve still got a few more hours.” Preston pulls the blankets up closer around himself, almost visibly relaxing. “Phew. And here I thought I was going to have to start doing things.” A pause, and the trace of a smile fades. Concern flickers in warm brown eyes. “You’re still awake.”
He sets his pencil down. “Says the one who just woke up in the middle of the night. Are you alright?” Neither of them sleep very easily—he doubts anybody does in a world like this—but Preston sleeps light, easily interrupted and frequently troubled. They’ve shared a bed (and floors, and the ground while travelling) for long enough now that he’s picked up on the way of things. Sometimes it’s bad dreams; sometimes it’s nothing at all.
“ I’m fine. You won’t be, if you keep wearing yourself down like this.” Preston goes to swing his legs over the side of the bed, grimacing once outside the comfort of the blanket. “Damn. It’s frozen in here. You’ve been sitting here in this?” He has, but it’s not like he’s been enjoying it. He curls and uncurls his fingers, trying to work away some of the hard-set stiffness. “Well, being cryogenically frozen worked so well for me the first time around, I thought I might just take another shot at it.” The one upside to this whole situation is that he can say things like that as much as he wants. Judging by the look Preston shoots, it’s not such a benefit to him.
“I’m lucky I wore two pairs of socks, else these stone floors would be killer,” Preston says as he stands up, pointedly ignoring the remark. His step is light as he comes over. He’s in just pants and a long-sleeved undershirt now, a combination that looks rather nice on him. He stands behind the desk chair, wrapping his arms over the other man’s shoulders, one hand on his chest and the other finding his and lacing their fingers together. His touch is warmth; Preston has always run hot, and that hasn’t changed after being under the blankets for a few hours. Preston’s hand is just smaller than his, but it’s warmer at present, and a thumb traces along the side of his hand. “Man, your hands are ice . Am I holding hands with a snowman?” It’s surprising that the concept of snowmen is still around in this day and age—but then, it seems like it might as well just be base human nature. “If you want to get technical, I suppose you are, all things considered.” A mock scowl that he doesn’t get to see as Preston rests his chin on the top of his head. “It’s too late at night for this, come on. What are you working on?”
"The distribution of construction material shipments between settlements under our control.” Dry, perhaps, but he didn’t come into this position expecting it to be all fun and games, and he isn’t going to start expecting it now. “Isn’t that something that would be better planned tomorrow? It wouldn’t delay the announcements by more than a few hours.” He would like sleep. And the comfort of the blankets is even more appealing after having been given such a nice reminder of what it feels like not to be an icicle again. But—work. “A few hours could be crucial. I feel like we as the Minutemen would understand the critical nature of time better than anyone.”
“I understand the critical nature of the minutes I’m spending trying to get your frosty self into bed.” The straw that broke the camel’s back (when his mind wanders off trying to imagine how camels must have mutated, or if they still exist at all, he realizes he truly is too tired to make his case). He sticks the reports back into their folder before standing up, slipping out of Preston’s arms and immediately missing the contact. “Alright, but don’t be mad when I steal all the blankets.” Nora always said he was a blanket hog; thinking of her still hurts razor-sharp, a chill colder than any winter night. But it’s better now, so far as these things can be. He steps closer, running the back of his fingers along the line of Preston’s jaw, feeling the bristle of stubble under his touch. Presses a gentle kiss to soft lips.
“You know, I think I might be able to live with that,” Preston says when they part. “Let’s get you into bed before you freeze over completely. Get that metal chestpiece off, too, I don’t want to sleep next to a tin can tonight.” He slides halfway out of the overcoat, sleeves coming down to about his elbows. A shiver runs through him when the cold air hits him. “Can you get the back buckles for me, please?” Trying to fumble with those without taking the jacket all the way off and with his hands almost numb like this would probably kill the mood. “Of course.” Once the breastplate is loose, Preston sets it on a table near the bed. The Pip-Boy is next, and he thumbs that off himself, and then his boots. He undoes the tie (cravat? the vagaries of colonial clothing are lost on him yet) at his neck and tosses it with the overcoat onto the back of his desk chair. Sleeping in clothes like this is a little odd, but then, it’s not as if there’s pajamas around. He doesn’t like the thought of leaving work undecided like that, but then, neither does he like the thought of another all-nighter.
“I should probably thank you for convincing me not to burn myself out,” he says finally, sliding under the covers. The blankets are old and threadbare, tattered in some places, not much by pre-war standards but probably luxurious by those of the wasteland. They’re warm enough, at the very least, and he pulls his share over readily. Preston lays down behind him, a warm weight at his back with one arm slung over his waist. Some of the chill of the night is gone already, the stiffness gone from his joints. “No problem, babe.” Preston is so good ; always he marvels at the concept of someone being born in the wasteland with all its myriad horrors and still coming through as an honest-to-god good man. The thought fills his chest, and cheesy as it sounds he figures by now he can just about feel love settled into the marrow of his bones, past cold and aches and hard-set grief. It’s not hard for him to drift off to sleep like this.