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Robby wakes at 2am and 3am, convinced each time that dawn is imminent, his body primed to hit the ground running once he checks his watch. It’s easy enough to fall asleep again once he realizes his mistake, but not to stay asleep—something in him is running hot and restless, and when he wakes at 4.45am he gives up, swings his legs out of bed and sits at the edge of the mattress, staring at nothing in particular in the privacy of the dark.
Once he convinces himself to move, he makes breakfast and coffee on autopilot, eats in much the same way. He stares into space, feeling like there’s something he ought to be paying attention to lurking behind his shoulder, something with which he should be wrestling. He can’t remember what it is. Eggs eaten, he picks up his mug and wanders into the living room, lights a lamp and looks around, as if the thing he’s forgetting might present itself as he looks at bookcases and the coffee table and the TV. Nothing comes to mind.
Robby picks up his phone, scrolls to the puzzles he plays, and loses some time on a crossword, on Connections, on a sudoku game. By the time the world really does turn oyster grey, he’s forgotten the rest of the apps he has, his phone cast aside on the couch, and he’s looking at one corner of the television without really seeing it, a visual point of concentration as his mind runs in lazy loops. He thinks, without affect, of the cases he saw the day before, thinks of his junior colleagues and assesses how each is doing. There’s certain comfort to the process, a mental idling with just enough to occupy his mind. He drifts. Time passes.
It’s his day off, which means no need to shower yet, no need to dress. It means he’s still sitting on the couch when Jack makes it home, singing tunelessly to the 80s mix playing through his earbuds. The sound of it, the familiarity, jolts Robby out of his stupor, has him blinking at the cold mug of coffee still in his hand.
“Hey. You okay?” Jack asks, wandering in, gaze roving over Robby’s body.
Robby thinks about it. “Don’t know,” he says honestly. He’s never been able to lie to Jack.
“You sleep?”
Robby sighs. “Sort of. Yes. Up early.”
“Mmmhmm.”
Robby looks over at Jack, at his evaluative expression, at the tiny twist of his mouth. “I’m fine.”
“Sure.” Jack pulls his scrub top over his head, yanks his t-shirt out of the waistline of his pants. “Come back to bed.”
“I’m up.”
“I wasn’t asking a question.”
Robby snorts softly. “An order?”
“Yep.”
Robby sets his mug on the coffee table and stands, scratching a thumb against his chest. “How was your shift?”
“Fucking shitshow, thanks for asking,” says Jack, reaching out to catch Robby’s wrist, tugging him toward the doorway and the bedroom. “You can hear all about it once we’re prone.”
“Supine,” says Robby, letting himself be led. He sits back down on the mattress, admits to himself that he’s really fucking tired.
“Whatever,” says Jack, laughing a little, pulling off his clothes efficiently, sitting down to see to his leg.
Robby eases himself back beneath the sheets, beneath the duvet, lies on his back and lets his hands rest on his belly. His eyelids are already heavy, his heart rate slowing as he listens to Jack readying himself for bed. He turns his head when Jack climbs in beside him, as Jack bends to kiss him fondly, as he pulls away with a crooked half-smile.
“This is all completely selfish,” Jack says in a whisper. “I sleep better when you’re here.”
And Robby smiles at the lie, turns onto his side, pulls Jack in close against him. “Me too,” he says as they settle their limbs. It’s the first clean truth of the day.