Work Text:
The humid heat of the Mexican Riviera usually feels like a blessing, but tonight, the air inside the crew quarters of the MS Pacific Princess feels thick and stagnant. It is February 10, 1979, and the disco beat from the Acapulco Deck is a distant, rhythmic thump that mocks the room's silence. Adam "Doc" Bricker pushes the door open with his shoulder, his arms laden with a silver tray swiped from the galley. The fluorescent lights of the hallway cast a sharp, clinical glare into the darkened suite.
"I told you to wear something warm when we were in Mazatlán!" Doc says, his voice a mix of professional authority and private exasperation as he kicks the door shut. He sets the tray down on the small desk, the porcelain bowl of chicken broth rattling against a bottle of Bayer aspirin. "The transition from the sun to the ship’s air conditioning is a killer, Burl. You’re lucky I’m the one who found you shivering at the Purser’s desk and not the Captain."
"Fuck off," Gopher scowls from the depths of his duvet. He looks small, his usually bright, animated face pale and shiny with a thin film of sweat. His eyes, rimmed with the pink irritation of a viral infection, track Doc with a cold, jagged intensity. "Where've you been anyway? Laura's bed? Don't think I didn't hear you laying it on thick at the Captain's cocktail hour. 'Oh, Laura, your eyes are like the sea at dusk.' Please. It was gross. Hell, maybe you fucked both of them—Art probably wouldn't even mind as long as he got to watch."
The air in the room shifts. Doc freezes, his hand hovering over the box of tissues. He feels the sting of the words, but more than that, he feels the weight of the guilt settling in his stomach. He softens his posture, his shoulders dropping from their defensive square.
Gopher is right. Lately, Doc has been overcompensating. Since that snowy, terrifying, and beautiful week over Christmas when Burl finally whispered the truth about himself—when they finally crossed the line from best friends to lovers—Doc has been terrified of someone finding out. He’s been leaning into his 'Lothario' persona with a desperate fervor, flirting with every divorcee and lonely wife from San Francisco to Cabo just to keep the scent off them. But looking at the miserable, shivering sack that is his boyfriend, Doc realizes he’s been building a wall that’s trapping Gopher on the wrong side.
Doc looks into those eyes—eyes that currently hold a volatile cocktail of hatred and love. He sees the raw, unvarnished fear Gopher is trying to hide behind bravado. Gopher is new to this; he’s vulnerable in a way Doc, who has lived comfortably in his bisexuality for years, sometimes forgets. To Gopher, every flirtatious remark Doc makes to a woman like Laura isn't just "keeping up appearances"—it’s a reminder that Doc has an "out," a way back to a normal life that Gopher doesn't feel he has anymore. He sees the fear that Doc will realize the "real thing" is too much work and go back to the easy, hollow charm of the ladies' man.
Carefully, Doc begins to organize the supplies he brought: the soup, the tissues, a fresh thermometer, and a glass of ginger ale. He doesn't say anything for a long minute, letting the silence settle. Then, he moves. He doesn't go back to the galley or his own cabin. Instead, he crosses the small space to the bed. Without removing his blazer, he climbs onto the mattress, ignoring the risk of contagion. He slides behind Gopher, his chest pressing against the younger man’s back, and pulls a stiff, hesitant Gopher into his arms.
"I'm sorry, Burl," Doc whispers into the crook of Gopher’s neck, his breath warm against the feverish skin. "I’m so sorry. I’ve been an idiot. I thought I was protecting us, but I was just hurting you."
Gopher tries to shrug him off, a weak movement that fails instantly. Doc holds tighter, his hands interlacing over Gopher’s ribs.
"I love you," Doc says, his voice dropping to a register he saves only for these four walls. "No other man. No woman. Not Laura, not some starlet in the Lounge. None other but you. I promise you, Burl. You're the only one I want to come home to when the shift ends."
He stays there until he feels the tension bleed out of Gopher’s frame. He wants to make sure Gopher understands the gravity of the commitment. He leans around to look Gopher in the eye, offering a small, lopsided smirk—the one that usually gets him whatever he wants, but this time, it’s infused with genuine heat.
"Listen to me," Doc says firmly. "Valentine’s Day is in four days. Even if you’re still a snotty, coughing mess by then, we are celebrating. Right here. In this bed."
Doc’s eyes sparkle with a bit of his trademark mischief. "I’ll swipe a box of those fancy Belgian chocolates from the galley, the ones the VIPs get, and I’ve already got a fresh supply of 'medical necessities' tucked away in my bag from the medbay. We’ll lock the door, turn off the radio, and it’ll just be us. No acting, no flirting, no 'Doc and Gopher.' Just Adam and Burl."
Gopher sniffs, his nose crinkling. He turns his head slightly, trying to maintain his pout, but the corners of his mouth are betraying him.
"Get off me, Adam," Gopher sulks, though he actually leans back into the embrace, his head thumping against Doc’s shoulder. "You're gonna get sick. Then the Captain will have two of us down and out, and Isaac will have to run the whole ship himself."
The care in Gopher’s voice, hidden beneath the grumbling, is the sweetest thing Doc has heard all day. Hearing his given name—Adam—pronounced with that specific, shaky affection, makes Doc’s heart do a slow roll in his chest. It’s a bridge built over the gap of the last few hours. Doc doesn't move. Instead, he shifts his grip, turns Gopher’s face toward his, and kisses him. It’s a slow, lingering kiss that tastes like salt and fever, a seal on a promise made in the quiet of a cabin while the rest of the world dances on the decks above.