“Movie?” Darren says, the minute I walk in the door. It’s disconcerting to see him home before me, and I’m too exhausted to really do it, trying to shift my schedule to start the day with lunch, even though I’m still getting up early. (Not sleepy, which gets old quicker now than it used to, but tired.) But it’s a peace offering, and he’s been moody and silent for ages now, so I sit with him.
“Take out?” he says, cuing something up. There are explosions on the menu, and I assume within the first ten minutes of the movie. I try to decide how hungry I am, but figure, what the hell. I could eat. So I nod at him.
We order Thai, the usual from the usual, and I try not to fall asleep right there. I get up, pad over to the fridge, and grab a couple of beers, trying to remember what the hell I was planning to do when I got home, because I remember there was something. Darren wrests one of the beers from my grip, flipping the cap off with the bottle opener on his swiss army knife.
He sticks the other one back in the fridge. “You stink, Travis. Go shower.”
I look over my shoulder, not quite wondering what happened to my beer.
“Food won’t be here for a while, Fox, movie will still be there when you finish,” he explains to me, turning me around and pushing me in the direction of the bedroom. “Shower.”
I toss my borrowed clothes in the hamper and try to remember where the most effective place to make a note to return them might be. “Darren?” I call out.
He shuffles into the bedroom, fluffy bunny slippers squeaking slightly against the floor (he hides them when we have company), sipping at his beer. “Yeah?”
“There’s.” I shake my head and try again. “Clothes. Arsenal. Note.”
“You need me to make a note for you to go clothes shopping with Arsenal?” he teases.
I poke my finger at the hamper.
“Oh,” he says, “alright. I wondered where those came from.”
I nod, turning on the shower, wondering why it’s so cold.
“Warm water, dumbass, got to turn the dial,” Darren says.
I grumble at him (not a thank you), and sort of glare half-heartedly, but I did forget to turn the water warm, so I don’t have much of a leg to stand on.
“You look dead on your feet, dude,” Darren says. Then he smirks. “Guess it’s hard wandering around at night, looking menacing and failing to find any suspicious activity at all.”
I flip him off and climb into the shower. The water’s warm now, after all that, and I sigh, relaxing into it. A few minutes later, I’m staring at the shower caddy.
“Shit,” I say. I stare a little longer. “Darren, did you happen –”
He hands over a bottle of shampoo. “Yes, but they ran out, so you have this.”
“Shit,” I say again.
“Relax,” he says, “it’s like half the price. You can deal with it for a week.”
“My hair’s going to get all tangled and shit,” I explain, but I use it anyway.
“How the hell do you get it tangled, you keep it shaved practically bald,” he says, running a hand through his own hair, which is only pretty short, but never gets tangles in it at all, no matter what (dick).
I kind of want to tell him to bleach it and grow it long again like he had it in college, because if he’s going to act like some kind of hair expert he should at least have something that might be remotely difficult to maintain, but it’s a lot of syllables to string together right in a row.
He hands me a towel. “You going to fall over if I leave you to dress yourself? Because if you can stop swaying for a minute, I’ll grab you something.”
“Bah,” I say, “I’ll just wander around naked.”
“At least wear the towel,” he tells me. “You’re going to get all freaked out the minute you wake up enough to realize the delivery people can see you from the door.”
“Okay, come on, sleepyhead,” he says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and managing to guide me to the bed so I can sit down instead of collapse. He tosses me boxers and a shirt.
I put the shirt on backwards, but I really can’t be bothered to care, so I just leave it that way. It’s loose enough that it’s not choking me, anyway. I’ll probably forget and then be surprised in the morning, all, how do you put on a logo tee backwards, why am I sleeping in clothes.
Darren’s got that beer back, though, open, waggling it at me from the doorway, and I lurch over to it, dragging myself all the way to the couch. At this point, I’m pretty sure Darren’s only keeping me up because he’s worried I didn’t eat, but it’s too difficult to explain that I did eat, and anyway, with Hunch basically telling me to ‘chug chug chug’, I didn’t even register whether I ate enough, just that I ate it quickly. I’m not not hungry.
Also, the couch is ridiculously comfortable and I’m never getting up again.
The movie starts to play, and, yes, explosion times ahoy. At some point, food appears in front of me, smelling like pineapples and hot peppers, and I eat it haphazardly, trying not to choke on anything if I nod off in the middle of a bite. Not that I do; eating is actually pretty good at keeping me awake, up until a certain point, as long as I make sure to keep eating and not zone out. I’m definitely zone-out tired, right now, but at least I’m not hallucinating, yet.
I wonder if I’ll get a decent night’s sleep before the weekend. I wonder how long it will take me to get used to the schedule shift, too. Maybe I can take a nap while Sensei Domino gets them up to speed on blocks and dodges. Not that a nap will help me keep my sleeping on track, but hey.
Also, I think it’s probably pretty uncomfortable to sleep at my desk, and definitely unprofessional to sleep on a mat in the gym; they’ll never take me seriously again.
Might make a good surprise attack on Gatling if I fake it, though. He’s sure to try something if he thinks I’m unconscious.