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It can’t be later than 4am when Boombox is awoken by the sound of plastic bowls clattering on his kitchen floor, the bedroom bathed in dim moonlight seeping through the window. He jolts awake with a start, then reaches to his side for his partner only to find an empty space next to him, sheets ruffled and obviously kicked off in a rush. At the very least his heart can calm with the knowledge that it’s only Subspace in his kitchen and not some intruder. Nonetheless, his gut twists with worry as he rubs his eyes and rises from the bed with a yawn. His visor lies charging at his bedside table, but there’s no point in putting it on here, he figures, and certainly not at this time of night.
He hears a mumbled curse as the sound of his pattering footfalls indicate his movement down the hallway, the door to the kitchen only slightly ajar and allowing the smallest sliver of bright light to hit the faded walls of the hallway (he’s been planning to strip the wallpaper and repaint the whole place for months, but as usual procrastination bites him in the ass). It’s not entirely uncommon for Subspace to scuttle away at night to work on some project or another, but there’s a nagging feeling at the back of Boombox’s mind that the reason for this night’s escapade isn’t exactly as usual.
Subspace is shoving the last spilled bowl back into the cabinet by the time Boombox pushes the door open, blinking rapidly to adjust to the change in lighting. Subspace is in his pyjamas, consisting of some large band shirt he’d snagged from Boombox’s closet at some point or another and some grey jogging bottoms. His mask is nowhere to be seen, leaving his rotting face exposed to the air, but the sight doesn’t bother Boombox in the slightest. Instead, he only raises a brow and lightly clears his voice.
“Sub? What’re you doing up?” he asks, words slurred from sleep. Subspace’s shoulders hunch up a little before he turns, brow creased.
“I woke you,” he signs factually. Boombox knows that he can still speak even with all the damage to his jaw and lips and voice box, but he wasn’t keen on it without his mask or gamma to give him aid. Boombox chalked it up to insecurity, but Subspace would probably hit him if he brought it up. Either way, their get-around was sign language. Boombox could understand it pretty well, but struggled with remembering some of the signs himself, not that Subspace minded much, as he was the one signing most of the time anyway.
“It doesn’t matter,” Boombox waves off the other. He doesn’t apologise, but he can tell that the acknowledgement is as close as he’ll get. His eyes drift over to the counters, spotting a number of utensils and ingredients, weighing scales and measuring cups, then follows up with, “You baking?”
Subspace’s brow crinkles, and he bristles like a cornered animal trying to look bigger than it actually is.
“What does it look like??” he signs, hand motions rushed and snappy, the expression on his face lending the words a tone of frustration. He huffs a sigh, and Boombox suddenly realises just how tired he looks. The dark circle under his eye is an ever-present thing, but tonight Subspace just looks utterly exhausted. In both the physical and mental way. He’d ask what’s wrong, but he can tell that right now talking isn’t what Subspace needs. What he will benefit from, however, is a distraction, hence the stress baking. Boombox finds himself a little proud that he’s at least found a somewhat positive way to release his emotions.
“You can go back to sleep,” Subspace adds after a moment, and Boombox’s lips twitch downwards at the dismissal before a small smile graces his lips, fond and placating.
“Nah. I’m not really tired anyways,” he replies, lying, then jumps up to sit atop a clear space on the counter before Subspace can protest, adding, “Mind if I watch?”
Subspace levels him with a look, hands twitching at his sides as though about to protest, but then his gaze softens slightly and he looks away in defeat. He picks at some loose thread from his shirt, feet shifting, then levels another look at Boombox slowly, and in this moment he looks more like a frightened newspawn than the great and successful scientist that he really is. Subspace probably expects him to adopt a look of pity, anything frustrating enough to justify an outburst of anger, but he only looks on passively.
“You just want to lick all the spoons,” Subspace eventually signs, reluctantly relenting to his presence. A smile breaks over Boombox’s lips again, and he chuckles lightly at the words.
“Maybe,” he responds cheekily.
“Alright,” Subspace replies.
The next half hour or so is spent silently watching his partner scurry around the kitchen. He sifts through Boombox’s shelves and fridge for ingredients, and he doesn’t even complain when he uses up the last of his sugar. The oven is pre-heated in preparation for baking, and by the time Subspace has mixed everything into a rich chocolate batter, Boombox almost finds himself nodding off again. Subspace opts to ignore him while his intense focus is concentrated on his baking, but Boombox can see the tenseness bleed out of his shoulders over time, reducing under his skin from boiling to simmering. It’s not gone, but it’s better than before.
Subspace hands him the plastic bowl with the remaining batter and a spoon once he’s finally placed the cake tin in the oven, brushing excess flour off on his shirt and joggers. He leaves all the rest of the dirtied utensils and bowls by the sink since he has trouble washing it in the water himself, and Boombox had always insisted that he could handle it for him.
Boombox says his thanks before he plucks the bowl and spoon from Subspace’s hands and, with a joyful hum, delights in the rich chocolate batter. When he realises that the other hasn’t moved from the space in front of him, Boombox lowers the bowl to the side and beckons Subspace forward into an embrace. Subspace deliberates for a moment, then silently shuffles towards him, Boombox’s arms welcoming him, warm and inviting. Subspace sags against him, head perched upon his shoulder, and Boombox can feel breaths levelling against his neck.
“You wanna talk about it?” he asks quietly, and isn’t surprised when Subspace shakes his head ‘no’, only answering with “m‘kay.”
He continues to hold Subspace in this fragile moment between dusk and dawn, humming with contentedness as they stay wrapped around one another, the minutes bleeding away into nothingness. Boombox realises that he’d be just fine with staying there until the sun comes up, as long as he had someone he loved so dearly in his arms. He rubs gentle circles into the other’s back, and a purr rumbles from Subspace’s throat as he does so.
“It tastes good by the way,” he says at some point, patting the other lightly. Subspace pulls away with a hint of confusion etched into his face, prompting Boombox to further clarify, “the batter.”
Subspace makes a small noise of acknowledgement, appearing much calmer than he’d been earlier. From up on the counter, their faces appear to be at an almost similar height, so Boombox takes the opportunity to pull Subspace a little closer once more and plants a soft kiss atop his forehead.
“If I could I’d eat it all raw,” Boombox follows, and he says it like it’s a joke, but it’s really not. Subspace pulls away and levels him with a look like he’s just said the most stupid thing in the inpherno. Boombox laughs.
“You’d be sick,” Subspace signs, but Boombox can see the sparkle in his eye. He’s smiling.
“Nuh-uh,” Boombox returns with a laugh, and tries to pull him back in for another kiss, only for Subspace to push his face away with a huff.
“Idiot,” he responds.