Chapter Text
Crises in Chris' life tend to be flashy, attention grabbing spectacles, but this one starts with a toothbrush.
Chris grabs the electric blue one, pauses when he doesn’t recognize the color, the smushed down bristles, or the crusted over toothpaste a third of the way down the handle, and then returns it to the cup and picks up his own. He takes his preventative oral hygiene very seriously. He once read about some back alley oral surgeon implanting antennas…
He spits into the sink and stares down the second toothbrush. Eagly doesn’t need a toothbrush. Eagly doesn’t even have teeth. And he's not supposed to make assumptions based on colors anymore for whatever reason, so it could be from a woman. He chuckles under his breath.
He does some mental math - the butterfly, no, the smokeshow. The threesome. Sick. Except, not so sick, because wasn’t that months ago? He needs to get laid. Something to lift his spirits, chase out the ghost dad for an hour or two. He could call Amber up again, and Adrian is already here… “ Fucking hell, Adrian."
He picks up the toothbrush and turns it over in his hands, conjuring a half-feral image of Adrian's frothing mouth. Standing over his sink. Using his mirror. His toothpaste. Making himself at fucking home without asking.
The too-familiar chuff of disgust interrupts his thoughts, and he catches a glimpse of his father in his peripheral vision. He takes a swing at him, a sloppy, half-aimed southpaw that sends him stumbling through the air and into the main room. He catches the chorus of Danger Zone and ducks back into the bathroom before Adrian can see him punching at nothing. He waits a beat, and then another, but Adrian doesn't call for him.
He leans back out the bathroom door far enough to see Adrian's messy mop of hair fanned across a red, duct taped pillow. Wet hair, freshly showered, probably smelling of Chris’ soap. He's sacked out on Chris' couch - too drunk to drive home for the third night in a row - tucked in under a thin blanket and snoring over the muffled credits for Top Gun.
A tough shift, he'd said, and yesterday it was a botched patrol. The day before that - well, he doesn't remember the excuse, but he remembers the six pack dangling from two of Adrian's fingers and the promise of new appliances to smash.
Three days is a pattern. A toothbrush makes it deliberate, calculated.
Adrian rolls towards the back of the couch, and Chris sees a flash of his shirt - different from the one he was wearing after his shift, which was also different from the one he wore during said shift. Two extra shirts.
Chris scoffs at himself, and moves towards the kitchen. This doesn’t mean anything. Adrian likes to be prepared. He knows Chris hates the garlic funk that follows him like a cloud after a shift. And he sweats like a fucking Coke glass in the summer when he drinks. So, it makes sense. And obviously he’s been listening to Chris when he talks about, well, everything. Hence the toothbrush. And the shirts.
And it’s just two bros. Dudes hanging out. Drinking beer, watching kickass movies, and smashing appliances Adrian finds dumped in the creek. And hey, that's that sustainability shit the kids are always going on about. Upcycling. Goff would approve.
Adrian flops over onto his back, and lets out a deep, satisfied breath, lips curling up just a little around the edges. One arm jerks, and Chris chuckles. Sleep fighting, like a goddamned puppy. He takes a step closer, and then stops himself from doing… something. He shakes his head, walks over, and switches off his TV, and retreats to his bedroom before Adrian can catch him sneaking around.
He’s awake for what feels like hours, hyperaware of Adrian’s snores from the other room, and the quiet snickering of his phantom father in the corner.
-
He doesn’t bother with courtesy the next morning; eyes bleary from the lack of sleep, body on autopilot as he makes himself a cup of coffee and slams his way through half the kitchen cabinets to find his instant coffee. Because someone’s moved it from its usual spot on the countertop. The same someone that rearranged his dresser so there was a half drawer on the bottom left for three days’ worth of clothes.
When he turns away from the coffee maker, steaming mug in hand, he finds Adrian sitting up on the couch, still squinting at the bright sunlight. Adrian fumbles for his glasses on the coffee table and brings the world into focus, and he startles when he sees Chris.
“Oh, morning.”
“Are you really that blind?”
“Yeah? What, you think it’s part of my secret identity? Fucking Superman. Glasses don’t magically take away the fact he’s ripped as hell. I guess they could be special glasses? Mine are for nearsightedness.”
“So the visor is prescription,” he leads, and takes a drink of his coffee, swearing when it scalds his tongue.
“I’m not fucking with contacts?” he says, incredulous at the suggestion. “One wrong blink and bam! It’s in the back of my fucking eye, dissolving or, or separating my optic nerve from my brain!”
“I don’t think that’s how that works.”
“Okay, well, I have astigmatism, and maybe I’m scared of putting fingers in my eye.”
“ That’s what scares you?” Chris can’t help but laugh.
“It’s an unnecessary risk! I know how easy these babies fucking pop!" He scoffs, slapping his hands down on his thighs. Then he pulls his shoulders in, and mumbles a brief apology.
“Save it. You have other shit to apologize for.”
“I do?”
“I found your toothbrush.” Adrian shrugs one shoulder, a nervous little jerk. “And the clothes.”
“Well, that’s -”
“And the special shampoo. And all the shit you have in the trunk of your car.”
“You violated the Vigilantemobile? Dude, the privacy of a trunk is sacred. What if I had somebody in there?”
“Don’t turn this on me! Wait, what the fuck?”
“I don’t know! Maybe I found a criminal but I wanted to hurry back so we could watch a movie?”
“That! The fuck do you mean, hurry back? Are you trying to fucking move in with me?”
“No?” He doesn’t sound sure. He doesn’t look sure, the way his shifty eyes won’t settle on anything in particular. “Dude, honest, I’m not .”
“Bullshit,” Chris takes an angry sip of his coffee, and swears when it’s still too hot. He sets his mug aside on the counter and crosses into the living space to stand above Adrian. “What the fuck is going on?”
Adrian scoffs, and he swings his legs down off the couch and drops his head against the back. Chris sits down beside him, leaning in a bit, trying to coax him into talking without using any actual threats. Adrian glances over at him, and looks away again, and folds his arms over his stomach. “I don’t have an apartment anymore.”
“What the fuck? Did you get evicted?”
“No! Sort of. There was mold or something. Asbestos or whatever.”
“Those are two different things.”
“Well, maybe it was both. Or something else. I don’t know. But I’m super busy with training and patrol and my job. I don’t have time to go apartment hunting! I barely have time to hang out!”
“Then why the fuck didn’t you ask?”
“Well, I figured if you didn’t want me here you would tell me. You always have before.”
“That’s,” true. He wants to say it’s true, but he’s busy trying to ignore his father’s insults about his “fruity little friend” and Adrian's giant sized obsession with this “pussy son, the useless fa-” he shakes his head. “Fine. Okay.”
Adrian’s whole face lights up, and he twists his upper body towards Chris. “I can stay?”
“Temporarily,” Chris warns. “As in, not permanently. As in, this is still my fucking house, and no offense dude, but I’m not looking to make every sexcapade a threesome. Understand?”
“Totally,” Adrian blows him off, and he gets up from the couch and steals Chris’ mug of coffee from the counter. He takes a sip, and then swears under his breath. “Why is your coffee so hot?”
“You said it, my coffee. Give it here,” he waves Adrian over and takes the mug, and takes a sip and nearly spits it out. “Mother fucker -!”