By Gen X
The night was a bust.
And not the drug induced, money toting, gun slinging type.
Started this morning. Late to work. Of course, nothing new there.
Should've called in sick. Had plans tonight.
Roy had, and I quote, "Finally found a fucking babysitter! Do you know how hard it is to find a fucking babysitter that is good with kids, has no criminal background, old enough to drive, young enough not to drink, and not going to sell the Titans out to the highest bidder just cause they hate Lian's mom! Feel like I need to put out a personal ad: 'Wanted: Reliable, dependable, superhero adoring babysitter with no criminal record, etc, etc.' So I'll be at your place. No 'wing tonight, ya dig?"
He hung up without telling me a time. Not that it really mattered, cause he knew what time my shift ended. And thus, enter problem one: mandatory overtime.
I can cook.
Stop looking at me like that. I can sew, too, bet you didn't know that. Of course, not, I've got a rep to protect.
Now, Robbie, he knows I can cook. And he knows me well enough to know that just cause I can do something, doesn't mean I always will. Even so, some nice season steak, broiled potatoes, and vegetables would have gave him a bit of a start. Or would have, provided he got his ass home.
"What the hell do you mean 'overtime,'" I barked into the phone.
"Look Roy," he started calmly. "I'm not happy about this anymore than you are but—"
"Lemme talk to your partner. I'll make sure he'll cover for you."
"I don't think that'll fly with her."
Another voice, feminine... but commanding. "Damn right. Hang up, rookie, you're still on the clock." Scuffling sounds as she grabbed the phone. "You'll get Grayson back, when I'm done with him."
Click. Sigh.
Grin.
That sounded kinky.
Looked over at the nicely prepared meal that I worked so damn... okay... put effort into doing. Sighed. Grabbed a beer, popped on the television and started hunting for some Tupperware.
Trudged up the stairs. Working on about four hours of sleep. Wouldn't have gone patrolling if I felt like it. Or maybe I would have. It's a toss up.
No light leaking out from underneath the door into the hallway. Is Roy here?
Pushed open the door. Something smelled good. Eyes darted to the kitchen. Dirty pots still on the stove. No wonder no one makes Roy cook at the Tower. Peered inside the Teflon pans to find them almost empty. No plates on the table. Living Room?
Walked further inside, still silent. Love this, watching him before he knows I am. He hates it, or would if he knew.
Head was flung back against the back of the sofa. Right hand relaxed mindlessly clicking channels. Prevue channel flashes on. Look at the time. Three a.m. Longer shift than I thought. Paused and wondered if he'd been awake all this time.
Weak, weary greeting. "Hey."
Wearier response. "Hey. Dinner's in the fridge. Kinda sucks now, all cold and stuff."
Smile, but fatigued. "It's okay, we can reheat it."
"Mm." Not a sexy grunt. More like a tired, noncommittal, do-whatever-you-want-cause-the-mood-has-been-completely-killed grunt.
"Come on. Bed. Sleep." He made no more to follow. "We'll clean up in the morning."
Stood up. Yawned, stretched, trudged off to bed without me. "You'll clean up in the morning."
Followed him in, quick kiss goodnight, and passed into slumber.
Wake up the next morning, intent on picking up where we never started.
Look at the clock and wonder why the hell Dick's got it set for six-thirty.
.to be continued.