Work Text:
It wasn't necessarily mean to say that no one wanted to room with Sloan -- it was factual, with 2 very valid points (that they had apparently openly admitted to).
Sloan Cameron snored like a goddamn brachycephalic beast.
You'd heard stories about it, that the room would fill with loud, congested honkshooing and that on occasion, they'd even momentarily wake up from their own snores.
You, however, had experience sleeping around loud snoring. Grandparents in the living room during naps growing up, old dogs laying at the foot of your bed, your parents when you'd crawl into their bed after having trouble sleeping when you were small. You had confidence in yourself.
Point 2 was as follows...
2. Sloan Cameron was the resident insomniac.
In rare instances, this actually worked out in the favor of whoever had to bunk with them. Sometimes they'd straight disappear, go out for a walk or (you assumed at least) go back to the dig site and research tents. After a very awkward incident of Sloan walking in on Florence, one of your shared coworkers, and her hook up, that plus was deemed null.
Considering people thought that having their cocks blocked nullified having a room possibly to themselves, you thought they were being plain fucking stupid. You'd take a vow of celibacy if it meant a moment of alone time on a dig.
With your arguments in mind, you had zero issues rooming with Sloan Cameron. It also helped that you'd never had to, or even worked with them before now.
You'd heard about the archaeologist before, mostly because the prodigies who happened to get their Wayfinder internships at 16 were geniuses. Their names were known, their work detailed and well-articulated, and you may or may not have seen one of Sloan's presentations a few years after, when you were in your own internship (at 20, as opposed to 16. Talk about imposter syndrome.)
So here, years later once more, you were sure you'd seen them. New tattoos here and there, less anxious confidence with something to prove and more steady confidence of someone who'd already proved it, they beam at you politely. You copy the gesture, casual.
Plus, even if you didn't recognize the neck tat, the wild hair, the chipped smile from that presentation when you were both 20, you definitely recognized them as the hero Venture. Where the fuck did a bitch find the time? You could hardly muster the energy to finish any of your many unfinished projects (crocheting, knitting, a painting that was half finished, video games abandoned mid-way, books marked in the middle with plots you hardly remembered).
You speak first, "Nice to meet you, Dr. Cameron. Looking forward to the dig?" Dr. Cameron because it was never a bad idea to be polite, and technically speaking, they were your superior because of experience. Even if (and especially since) you'd heard about them declining promotions.
Their brows shoot up, eyebrow piercing glinting, "Oh! Dr. Cameron -- That's new!" The smile they give you could almost be sheepish, but it looks a pinch smug as well. Satisfied. "Sloan is fine though, we're coworkers!"
"Technically, you're my superior from experience," You rebut, casual as always as you cock a brow, "But sure, sounds good to me. Just wondering, to see if my memory is as good as I think it is -- you did a presentation at the Wayfinder Society induction ceremony like 6 years ago, right?"
This time their smile is absolutely sheepish, and you admire how bright their amber eyes are -- it's an easy look with how their eyed widen, "Uh, yeah! You were one of the inductees, I'm guessing?" They blink, relaxing into a grin, "Funny that now we're on a dig together!"
You hum, smiling as you both walk into the hotel, lobby full of your coworkers, "Small world."
They grin, rolling their eyes as their coworkers give you exaggerated condolences, "Mundo pequeño!"
...
"...What do you mean our room was bought out?" You drag out, before Sloan can open their mouth to respond to the receptionist of the hotel.
They look a little aggravated, but you see in the way their shoulders rise with a deep breath and their nostrils flare on a long exhale, that they're far less likely to be as blunt as you are. Frankly, you hardly fucking care. You hate plans changing -- along with being late, surprises, etc.
The man looks unimpressed as all get out with you, hardly sparing you more than a dissatisfied side-eye as he moves his gaze to Sloan -- deemed more reasonable. And probably also hotter, based on how the guy's face flushes. Or maybe it was just general celebrity awe -- because at this point, most people knew of Venture at the least.
You glare, perhaps a little petulantly, because fuck him, it was an upsetting scenario.
"It looks like your room didn't have the protection plan on it, so a larger group bought the double. With all of your coworkers, we had to find one that wasn't bought with the protection plan--"
Your eyes widen, a burning, ear-reddening realization making its way through your system. Each group was assigned who would buy the room -- between Sloan and you, it was you. But who the fuck ever bought out a room?
The realization is quick, and you spy Sloan slowly glance at you from the corner of their eye -- they realized too.
The burning of your ears travels to your face, and you try to internally shed the burning, suffocating feeling that you had fumbled. A rookie mistake -- but who the fuck buys someone else's room?
You want to speak, but you think your voice will crack if you do -- not to mention you were so painfully blunt earlier --
"What other rooms are available? And is a refund at all possible?" Sloan's voice cuts through, easily polite as they smile at the receptionist.
The receptionist is far more receptive to Sloan, humming as he scrolls on his computer. His eyes peek at you, and the slightly smug look in his eyes makes your gaze snap to the floor.
Not even an hour in, and you'd made an ass of yourself -- amazing.
"Well, we have a single left open, it'd be a king bed. It has the same appliances as the other rooms your group has, but the regular rooms with limited appliance are filled. I can also supply a refund for the difference!"
You see Sloan pause as much as you feel your own body freeze -- a king bed. As in singular. One.
Amber eyes slowly slide to you, blinking, "Well, uh--
"I'm okay with it," You blurt out, face still red from your fuck up, "I mean, it's a king." Your own shoulders rise as you calm yourself, forcing your face to cool, "It'd pretty much be the same as sleeping alone with how big it is. So long as you're not a blanket hog." The last part is a pathetic attempt at a joke, mostly because you mean it very sincerely. You liked curling up too much to be stuck with nothing -- if they did, you'd walk to the nearest store for a blanket immediately.
Their chipped tooth glints as they give a laugh, shrugging as they turn back to the receptionist who does not look thrilled with this development (and you give them your own smug look), "Sign us up! We need to sign anything, sir?"
...
You determinedly do not act awkward at all -- and really, there wasn't anything to be aware about. Sleeping in the same bed as someone (read as: stranger) was pretty much the same as sleeping in separate beds across the room. To-may-to, to-mah-to.
You take turns getting ready in the bathroom, and you tug awkwardly at your sleep shorts, feeling a little too exposed now with the fact there could be a chance they might touch your bare leg. They are far more relaxed than you, in their shovel patterned pajamba bottoms and black tank top.
God strike you dead if your eyes slide to the flex of tan arms one more time, so instead you eye the bed, "You gotta preference for side?" You hope they say no, because you very much want the inside side.
They shrug, smilling, "No me importa! Up to you." But you spy their own eyes shift to the inside -- and, with a sigh, you head to the outside side. After fucking up their shit so much already, you might as well give them the side you want. it was gonna be a long trip anyway.
"I'll take this side," you slide under the covers, and you relax once your body is hidden under the covers. They slide into the other -- and that's that.
...
A lot can be said about spending an extended period of time with someone in close proximity. You learn their habits, the bad ones and the good ones, and you grow accustomed. You'd personally prefer if you weren't rooming with anyone at all, as spending all fucking day with people (in clammy, hot, dark close quarters of unknown quarters) made you ache for a moment alone.
And there are night's where Sloan's gone -- which fuck if you don't take advantage of them.
Destressing was a hot topic on digs -- second only to actual research and brainstorming. Destressing had two consistent suggestions; the club or sex. You'd worked with a few of them before -- and for some of them, you knew them a touch more intimately than you'd anticipated. And, because you were nosy (a pro of sitting quietly was that people talked at you rather than to you, not expecting you to care) you knew who fucked who.
Florence had a hook up last dig (which luckily no one walked in on), Xia had a threesome with Todd and Antoinette, Kiku gave Zack anal play in a club bathroom, Zack had gone down on you in one of the work vans, Maple ate someone's pussy in a cave, Ivan went to a local orgy -- you kept tabs. The only thing cooler than old shit was people, despite how you liked to run away from them all. People were always the same, from the dawn of time -- the same as in constantly changing.
So, drink in hand and spying a head of familair wild hair, you realize who you don't have the digs on -- Sloan Cameron.
...
Logically, you probably should have found something out from you two living together -- aside from the basics. Realization of ignorance in mind as you both stumble into your hotel room, you go about it all in a very blunt manner (a habit around Sloan, it seemed), "Don't you ever do hook-ups?"
And they fucking sputter, glancing over at you with a slight drunken red face turning even redder, "Do you?"
"I asked you first," You try to unlace your boots, leaning down. When you promptly tilt and fall to the floor, you hear them wheeze, giggling hard enough to hunch over. You promptly decide to abandon untying your shoes, laying flat on your back on the rough carpet to glare up at them.
"Yo te pregunte segundo!"
And frankly, you resolve that finding out more about Sloan Cameron is worth sharing information on yourself begrudgingly, "I say, you say. Deal? Like -- 20 questions--" The words are a little slurred, and you resolve to finally let your eyes drift shut as the room spins.
"Are we 15, payaso?" They sound closer, and you feel your foot tugged to move. The tight grip slacks as they untie your shoe laces. "Because I'm really sure that's a YA book cliche!"
You fan a hand in their general direction, tugging your foot free of the now untied boot, "Is that a no, or are you just talking shit?"
"Hablando mierda!" The response is immediate, punctuated with a barking laugh, then you feel their hands pause on your other boot, drumming a beat on the fine leather. "And it's not a no -- you go first!"
So, with their fingers slowly tugging at your boot laces, you slowly sit up on your elbows. Your eyes are heavy, and it's a bitch to open them, but you do -- they feel crusty already. You squint at them to focus your gaze, "I do do--" they giggle, "shut up -- I do hook up with people. Once in like -- a blue moon. I don't like being touched a lot, so it just falls to how I feel with they do. If I'm gettin the ick, and I do a lot, it's a no."
They freeze in their movements, blinking dumbly with wide browns eyes and then slowly sliding their gaze down to your boot in their lap, "Is this okay--"
"if it wasn't, I'd say," You drawl, blinking at them as you finally tug your other foot free and they set the boot aside. Perhaps to prove a point, or to scratch that tingle in middle of your gut, you rest your feet in their lap. You cross them at the ankle. "No cooties -- yet."
They blink down at your feet, hands hovering. "Yet?" They pout, but dissolve into chuckles as their tan, calloused fingers finally come to rest on your ankles.
You feel the heat through your socks. "Your turn," You remind.
They drum a bit, leaning back to look up at the ceiling, "I fuck," and just the sentence itself makes your stomach do a thing, "but no beso y lo cuento! And I refuse to hook up with a coworker!"
Well.
That solved that question.
You sigh, plopping back down to the floor, "We got cooties, Cameron?"
Their fingers pinch your Achilles heel and you shriek, yanking back your feet, "Yep!"
...