Work Text:
Trent’s… tired. Exhausted, actually. But he’s got deadlines and he’s always been one for all-nighters, always worked better in the quiet peace of the late hours. Alone.
So he keeps typing, keeps squinting through his glasses at his screen and ignoring the dull, quiet ache in his temples. Keeps scribbling notes, trying to put the pieces together, trying to keep putting words to the page.
Even in his comfortable, borderline pajama-style clothing—sweatpants and an old t-shirt—he feels achy from being in one position for so long.
He’s fine to just—keep working through it. He’s tired, but it doesn’t really matter, because he can keep going.
He reaches for his mug and realize it’s long-since gone cold. He sighs, but he doesn’t want to get out of his rhythm, so he leaves it.
Only then—
Soft, heavy footsteps behind him as Ted pads over, sock-clad and in sleepclothes. He reaches around Trent—his warmth steady at Trent’s back even when they’re not quite touching—and sets down a warm mug of tea with a clink.
Trent blinks at it in surprise, and before he can even turn to look at him or thank him, Ted bends down, a warm hand settling on Trent’s shoulder, and kisses his head.
G’night, sweetheart, he murmurs into Trent’s hair, rubbing his shoulder for a moment, a brief but warm and heavy pressure on his aching muscles. Don’t stay up too late, okay?
Trent mumbles out some kind of reply—a little dazed and a lot exhausted—but Ted just bends to kiss his temple, this time, soft and quick and dry, and says, love you, honey, and then he withdraws.
Love you, too, Trent says softly, and carefully takes the cup in his hands—they’re trembling just a little, maybe he should go to bed?—and lifts it to his lips.
The tea is warm going down, and made, of course, exactly how he likes it. Ted hates tea, but he’s perfected making it just because he knows Trent likes it.
Trent can’t help but smile even with his lips still pressed to the rim of the cup. His body feels heavy, his eyes strained, and his heart aches, warm and fuzzy and crawling after Ted into the next room.
After one more mouthful of warm tea, he lowers the mug and his eyes with it, staring down into the tea in his hands.
He’s so tired.
Ted had already mostly gotten ready for bed when he made Trent’s goodnight tea, so he can, for the most part, just slip into bed and wait. Wiggle off his socks, maybe even his shirt if he’s feeling warm, and climb under the covers.
He lies in the dark for a while, sleepy but still awake. And sure enough, maybe five minutes later, the door slowly pushes open, and a figure—hazy in the dark—slips in.
Trent quietly shuts the door behind him and shuffles out of his sweatpants and fusses with his hair like he’s deciding if he should do something with it—Ted can just see all this, at least somewhat, as it’s mostly a vague silhouette, but he knows Trent well enough to fill in the gaps—and then, finally, he approaches the bed.
Ted lifts the covers, a little sleepily, inviting Trent in. And Trent, with a brief, sheepish pause, crawls under with him.
He tucks himself against Ted’s bare chest, slipping an arm around him, and Ted lowers the covers again, wrapping his own arm around Trent and tugging him in just a little bit tighter, closing the space between them.
Trent gives a content little sigh and sinks into him, relaxing.
Ted adjusts their position just a little for max comfort—and his arms around Trent, Trent’s arms around him—and then gives a content little sigh of his own.
After a long, long moment of peaceful silence—as silent as you get at night in a city, that is—Trent’s voice, sleep-husky and low and amused despite himself, breaks it.
You did that on purpose, didn’t you, he says into Ted’s chest. There isn’t a drop of accusation in the words. If anything he seems pleased.
Mmm. Maybe, Ted says, resting his chin on Trent’s head.
Works every time.