Work Text:
Dooley was never much of a thinker. Certainly, he knew a lot of things.
He knew that waking up at 7am was unlucky, as everyone knew, and so he always woke up fresh at 8:25 instead. Sometimes he’d wake up at 7:59 if he was feeling particularly adventurous the night before.
He knew that baths were best done with ice, mostly ice even. Dooley knew if he bathed in mostly ice, some water, every day a little past 8am, He’d be immune.
Immune to what? He wasn’t sure, but that means it’s working!
He found himself slipping out of bed this morning at a chilly 9am, having slept through his alarm. He always sort’ve liked it when he did that. The air was crisp today, a nice fog crept from outside the window over Mcqueen’s insisted-on wooden blinds.
Dooley knew Mcqueen only wanted those for the apartment because that’s what classy detectives had in their offices in movies, and Mcqueen wanted to feel cool. Dooley also knew that.
A yawn slipped past his lips, striding his way over to the small kitchenette where Mcqueen was brewing coffee. Dooley knew Mcqueen’s favorite kind of coffee. He knew Mcqueen liked to say he drinks it black because Mcqueen wanted to feel cool. But looking at the stouter man mumble for Dooley to grab the creamer from the fridge made him know better. Everyone knew better about that.
He grabs the creamer, as asked. He knew better than to mess with Mcqueen’s coffee ritual. He knew Mcqueen liked his rituals, cultish or mundane. That’s what detectives do, of course. They like thinking, they like knowing things. How things work, what the process of stuff is.
Dooley also likes knowing that stuff, but far less than Mcqueen.
Mcqueen liked it in a weird way, and Dooley liked it in a normal, buddy cop kind of way.
Dooley found himself pulling out their bread drawer, taking the packaged bagels out from it and heading over to the toaster. He pulled one of the bagels apart, slipping it into the small compartments he didn’t know the name for of the toaster, setting the dial exactly to 3 point 5. This, he knew, canceled out the radio frequencies that emit from toasters, allowing Twin Lakes’ news anchor, Dick Brickman, to hear everyone's secrets. Not this time, Dick Brickman, Dooley knows your secrets now.
Large warm hands wrapped around his middle, a soft squeeze to his toned stomach as a hot mug rests on the fabric of his shirt. He can feel Mcqueen’s head on the back of his shoulder, and he smiles. He knows what this means. It’s one of his favorite things to know.
He quickly shifted his foot, rotating his body around to wrap his arms around Mcqueen.
This earned a warm grunt from the detective, leaving his mug on the counter to run his palms flat up Dooley’s back. It makes Dooley’s head buzz a bit.
His eyes flutter shut, humming into Mcqueens neck, pressing a lazy little kiss to the prickly scruff Mcqueen has yet to shave.
“Do we have to go to work today?” He then would murmur to the detective, a question that was routine at this point. Then Mcqueen would consider, briefly. He’d hum, his hand finding its way to the back of Dooley’s buzzed neck, and he’d have a small purse to his lip.
Dooley always took the chance to kiss him when he was like that.
Then Mcqueen would answer, today it was “Fog’s probably evil. If it isn’t, we’ll do donuts at the mall parking lot.”
That made Dooley smile. He loved donuts, any kind. That he knew. The toaster then popped, taking his attention away but not Mcqueen’s arm around his waist. He turned back around, yanking his bagel sices out with those little wooden tongs he didn’t have the name for in his head, and slapped some butter on it. Perfect.
Morning moves on quickly for the two then, eating breakfast and having coffee, Dooley calling his sister to check in and make sure Buzz got to school on time (Mcqueen is always the one to remind him, his favorite.).
Dooley gets on his work uniform, Mcqueen throws on his coat, and they make it out the door to make it down the stairs. Dooley challenges Mcqueen to a race and charges off before the detective can ever accept.
He knows Mcqueen has the keys to the car. He always knows Mcqueen has the keys to the car, even if he’s the one who picked them up off the counter before they left. Somehow, Mcqueen just has keys.
Mcqueen had an infinite amount of things. Keys, spare pennies, lint. Mostly lint. But other times, it was bigger things; Dooley’s favorite mug from home, a car battery, or maybe even the idea of a dream. Dooley liked when Mcqueen had concepts in his pockets, it didn’t happen often, but it did happen in Ireland.
Mcqueen was right, once again. The fog was evil this morning. Typical for fog, probably. Dooley didn’t know. He’ll look it up later.
This fog had been ghosts or something. Spirits that were pissed off and wanted to torment other people with the guilt of their past mistakes. Maybe? Again, Dooley didn’t know. Mcqueen did most of the work, which is what he liked.
He liked when Mcqueen looked tired after a long day of shoving things in his pockets, when they dragged themselves back to the car after running back and forth from screen to screen. He liked it when Mcqueen smiled at him in the car, the radio fritzing for the third time that week.
He liked when Francis kissed him, tired and scratchy from that still-unshaven mug.
He knew Francis liked it when he kissed him back, too.
Dooley was never much of a thinker, but he was one hell of a lover.
And he loved this man. More than he ever knew he could love anything.