Work Text:
Paul sits at his desk, unmoving. He’s unsure how long he’s been sitting without a break, but it’s taking a toll. Three packets of paperwork remain, three hours left in the day, and all he wants is to go home and sleep. Maybe he’d watch a sitcom if he had the energy. He could shut his eyes for a moment, though everyone knows that’s a bad idea, including him. Yet his eyes start to close, and his mind wanders. No one wakes him: Bill left early for his daughter’s play, Charlotte feels bad for his sleep deprivation, and Ted can’t be bothered. So Paul wakes hours later, hand hidden under his arms, still in his office. He jolts up, taking in his surroundings.
It could be worse, he supposes. Still, it meant he had to drive home in the pouring rain at night, not to mention he now needed a way to lock the building back up after he left, since he didn’t have a key to the office of his own. The only person who would have one would be Mr. Davidson. He could reach out to him, of course, but then he’d have to drive all the way here to relock the building, assuming he ever even saw the message in the first place. So, he heads off to his boss’s office, hoping that by some divine intervention, he would still be here.
He knocks, tentatively, and takes a step back, waiting for someone to open the door. The light was on, sure, but it could’ve been by accident. Paul’s about to walk away and accept his fate when the door creaks open.
“Hello?” asks Mr. Davidson, hesitantly.
“Hi. It’s me, Paul.”
“Oh, Paul! How come you’re still here?” He exclaims, surprised to see the other man. The door opens, fully this time, wrapping his arm around him in a sort of side-hug.
For a reason Paul can’t place, it takes him a little longer to respond than he would’ve liked, focused on the hug instead. He’s warm, and the brushing of his hand against the back of Paul’s neck makes his heart jump a little. All at once, he’s suddenly aware of himself and what the sleep has done to him, white button-up crinkled and hair a mess. He hopes Mr. Davidson doesn’t see it as unprofessional of him.
“I, uh, fell asleep?” Paul manages to stutter out once Mr. Davidson has finally pulled away. He feels like he can breathe again, though somehow he’s almost against it.
“That’s alright, can’t blame you when you’ve looked so bad recently. Do you need me to lock up after you? I was about to leave, anyway," Mr. Davidson offers.
Paul sighs in relief, happy he won’t have to ask himself. “Yes, please.”
Mr. Davidson nods, “Let me get my stuff.”
Mr. Davidson retreats back into his personal office, and Paul decides this would probably be the time to get his things, too. When Paul comes back, he finds that Mr. Davidson is waiting outside his own office door for him, bag in hand.
“Ready?” he prompts.
Paul doesn’t respond, only nodding. Mr. Davidson talks to him just about until Paul gets to his own car about various reports, though Paul wasn’t really listening, more focused on the occasional brush of their hands. When the two of them part for the night, Paul shoves his key in the keyhole. He wants nothing else but to get home, to make a microwave meal, and fall asleep for the second time. His car cranks, but it won’t start. He tries a few more times before noticing that he’s completely out of gas. Nothing. He sighs, slumping against his seat.
I’ll walk home, then, he thinks, though there’s nothing behind it.
He chooses instead to wait until Mr. Davidson’s car pulls off before figuring out what to do next. It’s not like he couldn’t call someone, or maybe get an Uber. The only issue with this is that Mr. Davidson’s car doesn’t pull off, almost like he’s waiting for him. This becomes apparent when, after a minute or two, he steps out of his car and starts towards Paul. Paul slumps down, feather in his sleep, hoping Mr. Davidson’s getting out for some other reason and he can hide from his gaze. He can’t.
“Are you alright?” Mr. Davidson questions, muffled by the car door in between them. Paul rolls his window down.
“I’m alright, just out of gas is all,” he responds, signing one last time out of pity for himself.
“Would you like me to drive you home?”
“You don’t have to go out of your way for me,” Paul answers, though his tone betrays him.
“You sure?” Mr. Davidson asks again, despite hearing Paul’s tone. He doesn’t want to force him, after all.
Paul looks at him, back at the red signaling he has no gas, and back at him.
“Alright, then.” Paul decides on.
“Great!” Mr. Davidson adds, and with a wave of his other hand, he opens the door for Paul. As they walk to his boss’s car, he tries to ignore the feeling in his chest.
The two of them don’t talk much on the way there, except to give Mr. Davidson his address and for him to put on music. That is, until they turn onto the road that leads to his apartment complex to find the road blocked off by a wreck. Great. The GPS tries to redirect them, but the road they’re on is also the only road that leads back to his house, and it doesn’t look like the officers stationed around the wreck have any plans on moving, either.
“I'm so sorry,” Paul mutters, head in hands. He doesn’t want to put him through this much hassle. “I’ll find a friend to stay with or something,” Paul adds, though the words don’t hold much meaning.
Mr. Davidson hesitates for a moment before beginning to speak. “Forgive me for asking, since I know this isn’t the most professional of things, but my house isn’t very far from here, and I’m sure you’re worn out from all this. You could stay at mine, if you’d like?”
Paul suddenly feels heat rise to his cheeks, and he hopes that the darkness around the two of them can conceal it. To his own surprise, he’s somewhat looking forward to it. He shouldn’t be, because that’s his boss, but somehow his brain doesn’t get the message.
“Sure,” Paul answers as casually as he can manage before his mind starts to wander, not making eye contact with the other man.
---
Mr. Davidson slides his key into the lock, struggling with it. As Paul soon found out, his wife wasn’t home, either. Just the two of them, which did not make Paul’s heart flutter. Not that he really minded. The two of them sit down on his couch, sitting a little closer than they maybe should have, figuring that if the two of them are already here, they might as well finish their report conversation from earlier. Almost in unison, both of them notice how close they are, and without thinking, Paul shuffles ever so slightly closer. Mr. Davidson doesn’t pull away, however, opting to fix a strand out of place on Paul’s head. Paul moves a strand of hair behind Mr. Davidson’s ear in turn. It takes Mr. Davidson lightly, placing a hand on Paul’s back, for their conversation to stop, though it was more of a distraction than anything. Paul finds he doesn’t mind the lack of speaking; there are much more important things to think about.
Like the shape of Mr. Davidson’s lips, or how they would feel against his own.
“Can I kiss you?” Paul babbles out after a long pause of silence between the pair.
For a moment, Paul is once again aware of himself, of his messy hair, the stutter in his voice, and their legs pressed together. Then, Mr. Davidson pulls him closer by the hand still on the small of his back, and all Paul’s anxiety melts away in an instant. His lips are softer and way gentler than he would’ve ever imagined on those late nights back in his own apartment. He doesn’t know if he’s ever been more grateful to not be home than right now, or if he’s ever been more grateful at all. Paul wants to respond with hunger, to ferociously kiss him back until both of them are out of breath, like he’ll never get to kiss him again. Though the moments are so, so soft, he holds back. They do, however, only part when they run out of air, and even then, Mr. Davidson only cups his cheeks and kisses him again. Paul has never wanted anything more than in his moment, and if he’s being honest with himself, neither has Mr. Davidson. Eventually, they pull away from each other for the last time, much to their dismay. Paul frowns, leaning his head on the other man’s shoulder.
“You look tired,” Mr. Davidson finally says, smoothing Paul’s hair.
“I am.”
“Wanna get some sleep?” Mr. Davidson inquires.
Paul yawns, nods, and Mr. Davidson hauls him to his feet, wrapping his arm around his waist and leading the way. Neither of them can bring themselves to shower, instead choosing to leave it for the morning while simultaneously trying to adjust their work clothes enough to be slightly more adapted to sleep. Ties now on the floor, shoes undone, and shirt collars unbuttoned, the two climb into bed. Mr. Davidson wraps his arms around him, and in turn, Paul wraps one of his legs around him, nuzzling his head into his neck. If he takes a deep enough breath, he finds he can still faintly smell Mr. Davidson’s cologne. Mr. Davidson says nothing, tightening his fingers around Paul’s hair as the two of them fall asleep; it’s the best sleep Paul has had in a while.
---
They don’t mention it to anyone else, mostly because Mr. Davidson is still a married man, but being alone was a different story. And if any of their coworkers noticed Mr. Davidson calling Paul into his office or brushing his shoulder in passing a little more, nobody mentioned it.