Chapter Text
Carl doesn’t get any sleep the night before the election.
He never does usually. The malleable part of his brain that allows for rest snags on the dull edge of anticipation when there's an event he's expected to attend the next day (bar mitzvahs, protests, executions). When he was younger, he'd often woken up three or four times a night. He learned to keep an extra shirt in his gym bag for when the smell of dried sweat made his head ring or his hands shook so much that he dropped his milk cup at lunch.
His choice of career means he now has reasons to stay up late on dates of importance in Washington. It comes in handy when there's a knock on his door at four o'clock in the morning.
Woodward, always neat and buttoned up, is damp from the early morning drizzle. He lost his jacket at some point and he looks exhausted but without the swallowed anger of being abandoned to a long wait in a cold parking garage.
Deep Throat had turned up for their appointment then. And, evidently, he'd had something to share.
“Diner's closed," Woodward says, breaking the silence. "How many hours until McDonald's opens?"
"Four."
"Damn."
"I think I've got eggs in the fridge."
There are eggs. And instant coffee. And bacon Carl can't eat because, the second it hits the pan, the smell of the fat sizzling makes his stomach twist queasily…
Evidently, it's going to be one of those days.
He helps himself to a slice of dry toast instead while Woodward eats, drinks, and types out the notes from the meeting with his source. His usual two-finger type method is shakier than normal. After the third page of curses, Carl reaches out to lay a hand on his wrist.
"I've got the rest."
"I might remember something else.“
"Then you can yell at me."
"I don't want to yell at you." The resistance rooted in lack of rest knocks the usually composed man down to a petulant adolescent and it makes Carl laugh.
"Talk at me, then," he says, sliding the portable typewriter back to his side of the coffee table.
He types the notes. Then he makes Woodward lay down for an hour before they go to the office.
"Oh god... My mouth feels gross," he murmurs into the upholstery, eyes closed.
"Start keeping a toothbrush here then."
Woodward's tired glare is broken by a seam of disbelief. Evidently, the man who locks his desk every time he leaves it had no idea Carl knew about the bath kit in the top drawer.
He's surprised him. Chalk the victory up on his side. Surprised enough, he turns to smash his face into the pillow, signalling sleep. Another victory. He knows better than to let it go to his head.
Instead, Carl hammers out the last page of updated remarks in a frenzy; abruptly itchy with a building pain behind his eyes.