Work Text:
He can't shake the thought that it's way too early for it to be snowing as he trudges up the first flight of stairs towards the apartment. They're almost moved out of here--he's only got two weeks left on the lease, and they've got all the big stuff out--or, at least, they've got enough of it to be sleeping there now--but there's still enough of it that he's got to come make trips after work like this to try and get all of it out before inspection day.
He owns more things than he really felt like they did. The bookshelves are all moved, but a bunch of the books remain. He found dozens of cat toys when they got the couch up and out of the apartment, and those are all just sitting in a grocery bag on the counter, next to half of his dishes, and also the blender, and also some of the tchotchkes he hasn't packed yet because he ran out of newspaper and hasn't remembered to bring any shirts over to use those instead, and also--
"huH-! 'DDZZHhieww!" He grabs the railing tightly, tucked hastily into his elbow to contain it, but he knows he definitely isn't finished. "hH'YIIZZHhue! eIIDZH'hue!"
He remains frozen in place for another few seconds, before he snuffles wetly and peels off his gloves to fish through the pocket of his greatcoat for the tissues he's sure look just as bedraggled as him. Someone calls a "bless you!" from a few floors up--the new upstairs neighbor, maybe?--and he immediately shoves aside any thought he'd had of blowing his nose.
"Excuse me, thank you!" There's no pep in his step, but he forces himself to give some artificial pep and jogs up the next two flights, even though the cold air from the broken windows on the first two landings burns his throat and feels like it's freezing his core. He just has to get inside, and then he can have a little privacy, and load another few boxes, and then drive back to the house, and...well, maybe heat up a can of SpaghettiOs or something. He really doesn't feel like cooking tonight.
The hallway is, blessedly, empty when he fumbles with his keys in cold stiffened fingers, and manages to shoulder open the door with his second attempt. Lordy, he really needs to clean in here. He didn't realize just how dusty it was under everything...it doesn't help, certainly, that Arthur sheds an entire cat every day of his life, clouds of orange hairs gathered along every edge of every surface in this entire apartment.
But that's a task for another day, one where he's not in the throes of a cold--and, more importantly, one where everything is actually out so he can get at everything in the same day. He doesn't bother shucking his boots at the door--they definitely aren't getting the deposit back for the carpet anyway--and instead makes a beeline for the bathroom.
It's strangely empty feeling, standing in it when it's got all his stuff out of it except a dollar store toothbrush and one of those little travel sized toothpastes he always stockpiles from his dentist, and a roll of the worst, cheapest one-ply toilet paper the store had to offer.
His reasoning had been sound when he'd bought the pack. After all, they wouldn't need anything nice if all they were doing was moving stuff, and that meant he wouldn't have to either pay a million dollars for toilet paper that was just going to be temporary, and also that he wouldn't have to split the stock between the house and here.
Now he regrets every decision he's ever made.
He unravels a handful of it, folds it in half to try and give it any hope of absorbency, and then winces at the rough texture against chafed, sensitive nostrils. It just touching his nose makes him want to sneeze, but he tries to stave off that fluttery, ticklish feeling in the hopes that clearing his nose will clear the itch along with it. It's a horribly wet sound, thick and audibly contagious, but it does at least soothe the feeling, if only a little bit.
Alright. Alright. He can do this. He starts moving, simply because starting is the hardest part, and at least if he's already moving he can sort of pivot to wherever has the most bang for his box moving buck. The stack of random boxes by the front door seems like a safe bet--did he put those there last time? Maybe. Cerine might've staged them for him when she stopped by last time to grab some things for him while he was at work.
With all the grace of a man already tired from working a twelve, he hefts the stack up into his arms and begins the trek downstairs to throw them into the trunk. This sucks. More than that, this is the pits. He sniffles, long and liquid, aggressively scrunching his nose with no hands available to swipe away the moisture.
"Ugh." The feeling of his nose running onto his upper lip is unpleasant, making his skin crawl and a shiver ripple up even beneath his heavy coat. He wishes he had his thermals, packed away neatly in some box that he's certain he didn't label--
A misstep almost sends him careening ass over end down the stairs, only managing to avoid it by throwing a box of what sounds like they may have once been dishes down onto the landing, the others scattering around him. His boots skid down three or four steps before he hits his tailbone on the stairs so hard he's certain it'll be bruised in the morning, but he's more worried about the way he rolled his ankle when he slid.
Great. GREAT! He indulges himself the vice of cursing beneath his breath, something foul and vulgar that would've had his momma boxing his ears if she were around to hear, and eases himself awkwardly to a standing position.
Nothing seems broken or twisted, just tender, so he resigns himself to carefully picking up the boxes to sort through when he gets home. If anything is salvageable, it'll be a tomorrow problem. Most of his dishes were just from Goodwill anyway, but the prospect of having to replace a decent chunk of the plates is one that he doesn't let himself dwell on or he'll spend the rest of the night even more tired and angry than he already is.
He bundles up in the car blanket when he piles himself and the boxes into the front seats, and pauses to snuffle miserably before throwing it in reverse and making his way back to the house. It isn't a terribly long drive--it's actually closer to work now, which is nice, because that means less time on the highway fearing for his life at five o' clock in the morning when people drive like maniacs--but it feels like it's a million miles when he wants nothing more than to crawl into bed.
The house stands empty when he walks in through the door, and he sets the boxes unceremoniously in the entryway with the rest of the boxes they've done the same to over the last week. He trudges upstairs to the bathroom to dig through the cabinet and find where they packed away the bulk pack of toilet paper and claim a roll as his own personal one--then pauses and turns around to look at the counter on his way out.
In the center of the counter, nudged a little closer to his side of the double vanity, is one of those little mesh bags, tied in curly ribbon. A note sits underneath it, in Cerine's fluid script.
Babe- The beloved beast and I won't be home until after you're in bed, so imagine me nagging in my absence. Bath, dinner, bed; doctor's orders.
The bag contains a little bath bomb, slightly crumbling and marbled in shades of green and yellow--handmade?--and a handful of cough drops.
It hits him like a train all at once. The feeling of overwhelming gratitude and love has him nearly to his knees, holding the crumbling bath bomb to his chest as it drops crumbs onto his coat. He's going to explode, maybe. He's going to turn into a puddle of goo right here on the bathroom tiles.
There is no choice but to obey her fussing, turning the water on to let it heat while he drops his clothes into a pile in the corner and gets his pajamas off the bed where he'd left them. The cough drop, when he pops one into his mouth, is a sickly sweet medicinal cherry. Arguably one of the worst flavors, but there's also arguably no good flavors.
The bath bomb dissolves in the hot water, scenting the steam with eucalyptus and tea tree and wintergreen oil like a punch to the face. He whistles, a low note of surprise before he pins his hair up into a bun and awkwardly steps into the tub.
He can't help but groan in relief as the heat wraps him into its embrace, resting his head against the wall tiredly. It's lovely, warming him to his bones and doing something to ease the aching in his ankle as he sits there and just luxuriates. Lizards soak up heat beneath the lamps, and he's doing his very best to emulate them in this moment.
"Hh...sdff!" Oh. Yes, well, he supposes he should have expected this a little, maybe. The steam, pregnant with the essential oils that of a bath bomb that have dyed the bath a soft green, is starting to slowly penetrate the congestion that's been bothering him. It's now starting to drip, just like what had drawn him into the bathroom in the first place.
There are no tissues or toilet paper in the close vicinity, and even if they were, his hands are soaked, so he supposes he'll just have to deal with it as best he can. He scrubs at blushed nostrils, wipes away the moisture beginning to drip and then awkwardly dips his hand under the water to wash it away as best he can.
It doesn't have a good effect--if anything, it's made it worse, the scent cloying and strong when he brings a hand directly to his nose like this. He takes a shaky breath that quickly morphs into a sharp gasp, before he pitches into cupped hands.
"Heh'EZZHHhyue! eEDDZZHhieww! Hh...h-hH'EIZZHhue!" Augh. He sniffles, thick and wet as the congestion shifts and drips into the water surrounding him.
He refuses to get out of the water before it gets cold, especially because this bath bomb was such a beautiful and kind gesture, so he's going to keep sitting here. More than that, he's just stubborn as can be. He glances at the watch on the tiles next to him, squinting at the time. He should probably make dinner soon. He might have a can of soup in the cabinet, or a cup noodle, or something of the like.
The hot water is pure bliss, holding him in a big warm hug, and he finds himself threatening to doze off as he's snuggled in the steamy bath. He rests his head against the wall and closes his eyes, comfortable in the knowledge that he is loved.