Work Text:
It’s late at night. The chilly October wind batters against the window, and Eddie is typing away on his Macbook, reading glasses perched on his nose. His insufferable co-worker, Sally, has fucked up another report, which he is now correcting, not holding back from being harsh in the slightest. Richie’s laid next to him, lazily tracing patterns on his arm. It’s so late that Richie doesn't even have his glasses on, and is practically blind now, only seeing an all-too-familiar blur of colours and shapes.
Blind and sleepy does not - not - equal less annoying. In fact, Richie’s made it his personal mission to piss Eddie off until he shuts his laptop off and goes to fucking sleep. He’s winning, unfortunately.
Right now, he’s squinting at the far-too-bright blue light, something he knows will simultaneously ruin his vision even more and bug his husband. As he’s trying to read a word that definitely starts with a t and ends with an n , but is all just a blur to him. Eddie’s sigh is sharp and exasperated.
“Rich. Stop that. Oh my God , are you intent on ruining your eyesight? Or are you just planning to annoy me?” He hisses, and then methodically positions his arm to block Richie’s line of sight. The grumble the taller gives indicates the latter and Eddie just rolls his eyes.
Then a miracle happens: Richie is silent for a whole two minutes. Two whole minutes of silence if the clock on Eddie’s laptop is right. For a moment, he thinks his husband is peacefully asleep (another miracle: his lack of obnoxious snoring), until Richie rolls over and whines.
“I need to piss.”
“Go piss, honey,” Eddie doesn't tear his eyes away from his computer. Richie whinges, not in the least bit dramatic.
“Come with me .”
Now Eddie turns his head, looking at Richie like he’s grown two heads. Richie stares back, but he can't see far enough to make eye contact.
“I’m blind, Spaghetti!”
“Don’t call me that, plus, you have glasses.”
“And a cruel, cruel husband, apparently,” Richie pouts, rolling back over in a futile attempt to appear extra pathetic, as though he’s not the grown man he is but a fucking three-year-old that’s been unfairly scolded.
“I’m not getting up just so an overgrown kid like you can piss. Get up and go do it yourself.”
They could go into their back and forth dance: Richie’s drama and Eddie’s withering comments. But Richie is on the radio tomorrow morning, and Eddie really has to get this done, so the shorter’s none too keen of, a) hauling his insomniac husband to work, or b) becoming a goddamn hypocrite by not getting his work done on time.
Richie shoots him a final glare (he can sense Eddie’s getting proper annoyed, and not in the fun or sexy way) and gets up from the bed. What he fails to do - maybe to prove a point, or maybe just because he’s forgetful - is put on his glasses, so he’s stumbling like a lost puppy.
(He thinks vaguely about how Eddie’s overgrown child comment is unnecessarily accurate. Then he remembers that he cooked dinner all on his own today, and is immediately reassured.)
Eddie goes back to tap, tap, tapping methodically on his laptop, content when the hum of the bathroom light is switched on. Richie can find his way around their house pretty well, aside from the stairs. He hits the sharp turn pretty much every time, and has a pretty big bruise on his hip almost constantly, so is settled to let Eddie get him up and down if necessary.
Still, Richie is Richie, and Richie is accident prone, so Eddie hears a sharp bang, and then a gentle hiss of ”Fuck… ”
Eddie’s better. He’s been better since COVID, since Richie forced him to start therapy. He can go a day without sanitising the table, he’s touching stair railings to support himself when the lift is broken, he’s been clean off his place-bos (‘inhaler’ included) for damn near three years. But he’s still something.
So, he leaps up, nearly forgets to grab his cane, and darts into the bathroom where Richie is pathetically rubbing his head. Dropping down on his good knee, he cups his husband's face and he melts.
There’s a small bruise forming, barely the size of Eddie’s thumb, on Richie’s temple. Right now, it’s a peachy pink that barely looks out of place amongst his freckles and spots, but still looks painful.
“Shit. Fuck, actually. Can you see alright? That’s a stupid question, actually-” Eddie’s rambling like he did in ‘89, or ‘16, or whenever . It’s mildly infuriating and Richie sluggishly bats at his hand.
“‘M fine, baby,” His words are slurred slightly - that's not good. And he isn’t making his usual jokes or whatever, which doesn’t happen unless he’s real hurt.
“Fuck. No. No it’s not. Jesus Christ.” Eddie’s voice has already gone up an octave, and his stream of words isn’t slowing down anytime soon. Richie’s about 85% conscious, but still manages to give Eddie’s hand a reassuring squeeze. He squints his eyes, trying to make sense of the messy blur of colours in front of him.
“‘M fi-ine, Eds. Swear on it. ‘M just a klutz. Hittin’ m’ head all uvdetime. ”
On the reassurance scale of 1-10, Eddie feels a -8 at Richie’s weak words. In fact, he feels even more concerned. His brow furrows. “No, no. Don’t you even dare , Trashmouth. You’re not fine.”
He goes through one of the many lists engraved in his brain to check for a concussion.
Slurred Speech - yep. Definitely.
Being lost.
“Rich? Honey? Y’know where we are?”
Richie’s hazy eyes look around for a second, he looks as if he’s in no rush to do anything at all.
“We’re- We’re at home. ‘N the bathroom,” he scrunches his nose up, and Eddie goes to ask another question, but before he can do so, Richie whines. “Right before I was supposed to piiissss. ” He glares at Eddie like this was all his fault somehow.
So, he doesn’t have amnesia either. That’s good. But it doesn’t rub away the rest of Eddie’s concern.
Headache is next on the list.
“You have a headache?” He twists Richie’s head to get a better look at the bruise, which makes his husband pout and complain more.
Richie pauses for a second, then narrows his eyes and clutches his head. “My head hurtsss , Eds!” Now that he thinks about it, his head does hurt. His whines and squeezes his eyes shut. “Eddie! Ssssstop touching it! Yer makin’ ‘t hurt worse!”
So, a big fat check on that question.
It’s bad, and a hospital will probably be needed. He prepares to call in sick tomorrow (his co-workers will probably be astounded) and reschedule Richie’s show (Steve’ll be pissed). For now, he kisses Richie’s head away from the bruise and pats him on the back.
“Okay, big guy, can you get up?” It’ll be bad if he says no, or if he can’t walk. Eddie’s a good few inches shorter, and much weaker. Even with his cane, there’s no way he’ll be able to support a man as large as Richie.
Richie grunts in affirmation, heaving himself up, clinging on the wall. Even in pain, Richie’s selfless enough to understand that Eddie can’t support all his weight. Still, Eddie’s hands hook under the taller’s armpits, and Richie’s arm automatically goes over his husband’s shoulders.
“‘M fuckin’ dizzy,” Richie complains, which earns another kiss on the cheek and muted ’oh, honey’ .
He’s clumsy on a good day, and basically a newborn puppy when concussed. Eddie sighs. It’s going to be a long walk from here to the car, but he’s stupidly in love with this stupider man, so it’s okay.
Later, when Richie’s more coherent, and has been discharged with strict instructions that Eddie has written down, the taller will press a kiss on his husband’s cheek, praising him. And later still, when Eddie describes this experience to his therapist, they’ll talk about his progress and how his meds seem to be working. And the next time Richie gets up to piss, Eddie will remind him to put his goddamn glasses on, and kiss them gently when he gets back, and then they’ll go to sleep without incident.
But right now, Eddie’s almost thankful that he knows what to do.