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Carl's phone rings all the time.
Occupational hazard. Admittedly, usually he's the one calling other people, but it's not unheard of for people to actually want to help him, without being pestered too. Not lately, maybe, but still.
The point is, it doesn't register as anything worth noticing when his phone rings unexpectedly while he's mid-sentence on the story due tonight, so he tucks the receiver into his shoulder and is already back to typing when he says, "Carl Bernstein, who is this?"
It's when the voice on the other end answers that he starts to pay attention.
There are days when Carl really misses the streetcars. Buses just aren't the same, but the February wind whips up the handful of blocks between the Post office and his ultimate destination. He's never been there before, but it's easy enough to find, the right set of office lobby doors on the block, then up to the fifth floor and follow the signs to...
"Hi." The receptionist at the desk hardly looks up, but he continues anyway, "I'm here to..."
Thankfully, before it can fail to go anywhere, the interaction is interrupted by another door in the room swinging open, followed by a very familiar and yet unfamiliar sound.
"Carl!"
There are a lot of ways he's gotten used to Woodward saying his name, over the last eight months, and a lot more of them than their initial interactions would have suggested, which ranged from begrudging to pissed off. Eight months ago he certainly couldn't have imagined a tone of anything approaching fondness, let alone excitement—and while they're certainly far from eight months ago, it's still a surprise to hear. At least, that loud and in public like this.
The reason becomes apparent when Carl turns around and actually sees him.
"Oh geez..." He says as he makes his way across the waiting room to them.
"Nurse Patty, I told you he was coming," Bob is saying when he arrives, still all smiles as he turns to the woman next to him, who patiently nods back. She's maybe a few years older than them (not to mention a head shorter) but she's looking somehow down at Bob like an endearingly articulate child, for reasons that are already becoming apparent.
As if to leave no room for doubt, as soon as Carl is in arm's reach, he's being pulled into an encompassing hug. Up close, the faint smell of medical equipment, that half powder and half metallic airy kind of aura, clings to Bob's clothes, and it's hard for Carl to miss when his nose is mashed into the front of his shirt. A look at Nurse Patty over his shoulder confirms Carl's suspicion: laughing gas.
"I told her you were coming," he says again—quieter, but not that quiet.
"Oh boy." By this point, Bob has snuggled down somewhat, face in Carl's collar and arms wrapped all the way around his shoulders. Carl gives him a little pat in return. "They gave you the good stuff, huh, buddy?"
Whatever the answer is, its lost in the fabric of his shirt.
"What's that?"
Bob emerges enough to repeat, "They took my teeth."
"Triple wisdom extraction," Nurse Patty clarifies. She holds up a paper bag, apparently unfazed by the display before her. It must happen to her a lot, which is comforting at least—and also explains why no one else in the office has looked up either.
At her voice, Bob straightens, mouth closed and smile wide. He's still staring at Carl, which he does often enough, but the difference is clear: the way his head wiggles a bit too much, his eyes wandering the way they normally don't. A heaviness in his limbs that isn't usual. Carl is more than familiar with his partner's body language and habits by now, but it would be clear from across the room even if he didn't.
"Nurse Patty had someone call you," he states plainly. "I knew you would come. I said, you're my partner, you'll come get me. Did you know? Nurse Patty used to work at the dentist at the Watergate."
"Imagine that." Alright, so a high Woodward is affectionate, loopy, and very chatty. Good to know. "How about we get you home and then I go tell Bradlee you're done for the day, huh?"
Bob nods vigorously, then visibly regrets it. "Yes. That sounds good."
The dental hygienist—Carl can see her nametag now and it definitely says Tracy, but they'll keep that between them—hands him the paper bag, as well as something else she presses into his palm. "He'll want another painkiller in about four hours. There's extra gauze in there. Careful eating and drinking. The antibiotics are once daily, and he has to finish them all."
At the last part, she gives Bob a pointed look, but he only nods obediently.
"Thank you, Nurse Patty."
"Yeah, thanks, Nurse Patty," Carl echoes, barely holding in a laugh as he begins to steer Bob back to the elevator outside. Tracy rolls her eyes, but the little smile on her face when Bob turns back around to wave goodbye one last time is real.
When the dental office door swings shut behind them, elevator summoned, Bob's wide and unblinking eyes turn back onto Carl, now silent and stoic: waiting to say something. It's a familiar look, turned up to ten.
"What?"
"I'm sorry."
It's such a batshit statement, it doesn't need words to counter. Even in Bob's current state, all it takes is a look of disbelief.
Still, he isn't completely cowed. "Tomorrow's your birthday."
"Which is why it's a good thing it's still today," Carl replies as he pushes them both into the elevator. It's beautifully empty, and just in time for Bob to decide he's done moving and instead commit to finding the exact perfect spot for his head on Carl's shoulder. Now, without an audience, he wraps an arm around Bob's waist in return, not in the least to hold him up in case the jolt when they get to their floor startles him.
"Tomorrow, the drugs will have worn off."
"At which point you'll still be down three teeth and also less fun?"
Completely sarcastic, it did not necessitate the nodding that it now gets, even as Bob still refuses to lift his head. From the current angle, Carl can see he has both hands still in his pockets, very polite. It's all unbearably adorable.
"Nah, s'fine," he continues around a smile of his own. "Turns out my present came early. I'm committing all of this to memory, just so you know. Future blackmail material."
None of this seems to penetrate the various hazes of whatever's coursing through his system. What does, however, makes Bob frown and pluck at his collar. "Did you walk here?"
"Oh, for— I'm fine. It's not that cold out."
"If your jacket is still this cold, it is."
The elevator slides open with a pleasant chime, which pulls Bob's attention with the tiniest grin, replacing the futile glare on his face seconds before. Carl drags them both out before the effect can wear off.
"Yeah, but I'm driving your car home anyway," he says as they traverse the lobby. It seems Bob's feet have also stopped working, during their sojourn, but he gets it together enough to get them out of the way of incoming elevator traffic.
"A one time offer. Hey. You're fast."
Of course, the recessed lobby leaves an impressive seven stairs between them and the door. The kid at the desk behind them hides a snicker—then fails to do so a second time when Bob, trying to catch up, trips on his own feet and knocks them into a railing. Carl can't blame them, having been fighting (and losing) the same battle since he got here. He's losing it right now, grinning like a loon, but Bob thankfully misses both these things, focused entirely on his feet.
He rights them both with a less transparently amused, "Perception is everything, my friend. I only seem fast because you're on slower time than you're used to."
"As long as you're not that fast driving my car," Bob mutters mutinously to their mismatched paces.
"I said, baby, it's understood." The winter air hits like pins and needles in his eyes. "Jesus, it's fucking cold."
From behind him comes only a breathless snickering. Once they're out of the path of what little sidewalk traffic there was, he turns to find Bob smiling down at their feet again. He only looks up when Carl nudges him with an elbow, smile undimming.
"Beep beep, beep beep."
Carl bursts into a laugh of his own, too loud for how cold it is. But the smile he gets back, though silent, is just as loud. It's more than worth it. It makes his heart sing, so he braves taking his hand from his pocket to hang his arm around Bob's neck.
"Yeah, man, you got it." Upon further-closer examination, there's a notable pinkness to Woodward's face that has nothing to do with the earlier giggle fit. He doesn't even have one of his little scarves, which is a shame. He always tucks it inside his jacket, it's cute. "You're not cold?"
Bob shakes his head. "I'm from the Midwest."
"Good." Carl releases him. "Then you'll have no problem sitting here while I go get your car—because there's no way I'm gonna chance reenacting that slapstick routine from earlier."
The garage is under the building, but luckily a) Bob's car is pretty distinctive and b) Carl knows him well enough to know where he'd park.
Bob just sits on the edge of an empty planter in front of the doors with another nod. Any other time, he'd surely have at least mentioned his car keys, but Carl won't hold that against him right now. So long as he just... stays put. For one minute.
Thankfully, he does, though Carl has to get out of the car to usher him in and into his seat. Once he puts the little bag in Bob's lap, though, he seems completely content, occasionally bopping his head along to some inaudible song.
It's thankfully only a few blocks, and they make it up into Bob's apartment without incident (though the patient still doesn't notice that Carl has his keys, apparently, and thank god for Tracy). Once they're inside, Bob heads automatically for the kitchen, though he stops in his tracks halfway there.
"...All good?"
Bob's head whips around, eyes wide.
"Yes." It's completely unconvincing.
When it's clear no further explanation is coming, Carl says slowly, "Okay...?"
Rather than answering, Bob returns to his side. Which is to say, right up against his side, toe to toe with Carl at that right angle again, almost pushing close enough to put Carl's arm around himself.
Carl takes the hint and reels him in properly, into another hug. This time, now wholly unobserved, Bob melts into it even more than before, his arms up under Carl's jacket and their noses tucked together. He sighs right into Carl's face, but he doesn't mind; the whole thing is too sweet to complain about. Besides, eventually the drugs will wear off, so Carl's gonna enjoy the effects while they last.
Still, he can't help prodding the bear a bit. "You're awfully affectionate like this."
The reply he'd ordinarily expect, Are you saying I'm not affectionate?, is instead superseded by an entirely honest, "Is that a bad thing?"
"Course not." To prove it, he wriggles closer himself. "Bring it on, baby. Show me your worst."
He ends it with a kiss right beside Bob's nose, a cheerful little mwah. The constant smiling returns, though much better now that they're alone where Carl can kiss that mouth stupid.
Except for the teeth. Right.
"I see the issue now," he admits. "Did Nurse Patty say anything about kissing, by any chance?"
He's not expecting an actual answer, but he certainly gets one, in the form of Bob's face going bright red, right before he hides it against Carl's neck.
That certainly gets his attention.
"Well, you gotta tell me now."
"No..." Bob draws out, still hiding, but he just as readily gives up, sighs, reemerges. "She said if I had Valentine's plans, I should cancel them."
The frown on his face would be comical, if it weren't so obvious it's just exactly how Bob feels right now. As it is, it's pathetically cute, and so, since he's got the leeway at the moment, Carl coos, "Aw. Poor baby."
"I did have plans," Bob adds, still plaintive. "I had it all worked out..."
He doesn't continue, too busy being morose now, it seems. Big eyes downturned, brow furrowed, the helium has been let out of his balloon, apparently, so Carl gathers his face up in both hands and makes Bob face him again.
"Hey. Come on. Lighten up, buttercup." That gets a reluctant but genuine little smile. "You're gonna be grumpy tomorrow, you gotta give me the happy birthday now. Shall I get cake? Balloons? You've gotta sing, it's my birthday-almost."
But Bob is still wilting, frown on his face twisting in time with whatever his inner monologue is working through. Another tactic, then. They're both still in their shoes and jackets, so Carl works on that first, before leading Bob over to sit on the edge of the bed.
He's about to leave him there, go toss their shoes by the door, when two arms come up around him again. He'd say he's getting used to it now, but he wouldn't be too pressed if he never really did.
"What's up?" He asks the top of Bob's head.
Now that he's had some practice, it's easier to make out the response: "Come back. Stay."
"I wasn't even going that far," Carl points out, but when Bob, still clinging, lies back on the bed, he follows just as easily. They land in a tangle, with a happy hum from below as Bob figures out he's won.
When he scoots down so they're face to face, Carl finds him with his eyes closed, that same smile on his face.
"Look at you, huh?" Without an audience, he lets the unbearable fondness show on his face as he fixes the places where Bob's hair is sticking up now. Oh, but he is sweetly pliable like this, like dough. And he's always had a weakness for straightlaced Woodward's ruffled edges. "What am I gonna do with you?"
"This is good," Bob mumbles, staying right where he is, as he is.
"Yeah?" And he's right, because it is.
It's funny. This might be the calmest, stillest moment the two of them have ever had together—or at least, when neither of them is three-in-the-morning-exhausted or in some kind of despair over a story. But this is a sunny Wednesday afternoon, even in February, and it's warm enough inside, and for a quiet moment there's nothing for them to do but be there together.
"The cake is in the trunk."
It takes Carl a moment to connect the dots back. "What?"
"I did get a cake," Bob explains, finally opening his eyes again. "I got it before the dentist."
"No, I mean— You left it there?"
He shrugs. "It's twenty degrees. It's cold enough."
Well alright. Since he's the expert.
Which leaves only the actual subject to address. "What kinda cake?"
"Chocolate with cherries." Despite the appearance of lucidity, there's still a haze to it when Bob reaches over to put his fingers through Carl's hair, over and over. "It was the only one they had that didn't have hearts. Or 'Congratulations on Your Retirement'."
"The perils of being a holiday baby. That, and the expectations. Imagine how the kids born on Christmas must feel, huh?"
"You think you're a romantic because you were born on Valentine's Day?"
"That's a nice way of putting it."
The hand in his hair gives a tug. "I'm just saying. I could be born on whatever date the stars aligned and it's not something anyone would ever call me. I don't know how much circumstance dictates personality."
"Why are you so coherent?" Carl has to ask. "Why are you never like this when I want?"
"I am always coherent," Bob insists, but there's a slowness to the way he blinks that betrays the reason for his general, well, sedated state. He's probably about another five minutes of quiet away from a nap—which gives Carl an idea, formulated further while he lets his head go ragdoll in Bob's hands. Let him amuse himself for a bit.
"You know," Carl starts with the slow approach of one meeting a wild animal, "eventually one of us is gonna have to go back to work. Given that we've got a story due tonight. And something gives me the feeling, it ain't gonna be you."
The only answer he gets is a general, "Hmm?" That, and the brief friction of Bob's face rubbing against the top of his head.
"You're gonna have to let me up at some point," Carl admits.
The answer to that is a decidedly displeased groan. All of a sudden, Bob is very much awake, and now there are—
"Are you serious?"
Whether Bob can actually hear him through the cage of his own arms is up for debate, but it's the best Carl can do for the moment. That same clinging hug is back one more time, now wrapped around Carl's head and holding him in place against Bob's chest.
"Stay," he adds unnecessarily.
"Yeah, I got that." It's not uncomfortable, to be fair, but it's inopportune. At the very least, Carl wriggles enough to get some fresh air. "They're gonna be looking for me, though."
"They won't be looking for another hour," Bob says plainly, hands returning to Carl's hair now that he, apparently, has a new and exciting angle, "it's you."
The fact that he doesn't mean it that way makes it all the more brutal. "Well, thank you, but I'd rather not tempt fate, and we've got a deadline. One that you are conveniently excused from."
"I didn't know they'd take a tooth. They just take a tooth!"
After twisting to muffle his grin in Bob's shirt, Carl recomposes himself enough to drawl, "The miracles of modern medicine."
"And now I'll be grumpy tomorrow," the frown in his voice is obvious, underscoring the hilarity of the words in Bob's mouth, "and I had plans, and now the nurse says I can't. And there's a birthday cake in my car..."
Carl has to finally get back up then, leaning over Bob's face just long enough to catch his eyes before going in for a kiss. Sorry, Tracy or Patty or whatever her name is, but some doctor's orders were meant to be broken, and the guy's too cute to stand. If she were here, she'd get it. Thank god she's not here.
Still, it's a short kiss, followed by another few scattered across Bob's formerly-forlorn face. He's only finally deterred when Bob ducks his head with a bashful, "Okay, okay."
For a second, Carl just looks at him, taking in the picture before him. Bright eyes, pink cheeks, and the pleased uptilted of the corner of his mouth. Maybe he doesn't have to go back to the office right away. Bob's right; they won't be looking for him yet.
Besides, once he falls asleep, Carl can slip out easier. In a way, it's tactical, when he now deliberately lies back down, still under Bob's arms. Right back where they were.
"I've decided it makes sense. You're a romantic."
"Oh. The birthday thing?"
Bob nods dutifully, still focused mostly on the slow movement of his own hands in Carl's hair. "It makes sense. You're an idealist, in the classic sense. You have ideals." After a pause he adds, "And the usual definition of romantic associated with the date."
He does that sometimes, when he's embarrassed about something and compensating. While drugged, apparently, it's that much more transparent. There's something almost sweet about it, though. It's times like this that make it hard for Carl to remember why he ever didn't like Woodward and his weird way of forming sentences both on and off the page. Why he didn't like Bob Woodward period, whoever that was. (Except that he clearly can, because neither of them have really significantly changed per se, but where he once found it annoying, he now finds it... well, still annoying, but simultaneously endearing.)
"What are you then, huh? If you're not. What's the alternative?"
Bob seems to be considering it thoughtfully, all things considered. Until, that is, Carl realizes that at some point the emphasis became on seems, because he's clearly lost focus and is back to his apparent true fascination with Carl's hair.
When Carl gives him a little shake at his side, Bob's eyes come back into focus.
"Hmm?"
"What's the alternative? If you're not a romantic, you're a...."
"Me?" Bob asks, blithe as can be.
"Sure."
This time, he actually thinks about it, and it doesn't take long enough for him to get lost on the way. "I'm not sure. A realist, I guess."
"You saying I'm not realistic?" Carl can't help teasing.
"Oh." Bob shakes his head thoroughly. "No. That's true. I'm... a pragsmatit. No. The other way."
Oh boy. The grin on Carl's face is automatic. The painkillers are taking over, which is probably good. "Pragmatist."
Bob's dopey nod goes the other direction now, just once and decisive. "Yes."
"I'll give you that one." He's certainly not going to fight for that title. No one in his life has ever accused Carl Bernstein of being pragmatic, that's for sure. Frankly, he's proud of it. It just so happens that he's also—well, there's no way around it, he's proud of his opposite number too. "Although, I will say, only one person here left a romantic gesture in the car."
"If I was a romantic it would've worked," is Bob's defense.
Carl just laughs and kisses his cheek again. "Oh baby, you've got a lot to learn."
Even as he watches, each blink of Bob's eyes takes a little bit longer, erring more on the side of closed than open. It's oddly fascinating to watch, really—the process of him falling asleep. It probably wouldn't be fascinating if it were anyone else, but what does that matter, really.
There's a hand on his wrist—not quite asleep yet, then.
"Stay," Bob murmurs again, this time with, "til I fall asleep."
That, he can do, no problem. Somehow, he gets the blanket over them both, and Bob turns over under his arm until they're tucked together, ankle to knee to elbow to shoulder. Carl won't fall asleep, but he settles in all the same.
As he hugs Carl's arm closer to himself, twining them closer like he'll be able to keep Carl in place that way even in his sleep, Bob still can't help trying to get in the last word, mumbling, "Don't forget the cake."
This time, Carl does nothing to hide it when he smiles and kisses the back of his head. Despite being less confident this time, he responds nevertheless, "Sure thing, babe."
—————
Bob has gotten used to waking up in the middle of the night.
Not exactly something he expected of being a journalist, but apparently it comes in handy. He's also gotten used to getting up without waking someone next to him, though he's never gotten good at getting back into bed without waking him up. Probably because that someone has a vested interest in hearing what happened, on those nights when Bob has to go out at three in the morning. It's probably a good thing, considering how the whole thing would sound otherwise.
This night, though, he's not the one waking up first, nor is he the one sneaking back in. It's not three in the morning either; out the window is a deep purple, but bright enough that the sun must have only just faded, and through the foggy headache, Bob can still tell his body's clock says it's too early to be waking up, even for him.
The afternoon starts to come back in pieces: a nurse with a cup of ice chips, the piercing whine of a drill. Things get fuzzier after that, but he remembers... Alright, so Bob remembers enough. More than enough, he'd argue, but enough to figure how he ended up where he is.
When Bob slips out of bed now, aiming for wherever the painkillers ended up, he looks back first. Carl is an empty crescent, curled around the wrinkles of the blanket underneath him, where Bob had been tucked in a moment before. He's wearing a different shirt from what Bob remembers, and his tie is gone, along with his pants. And yet when he came back to bed, he stayed on top of the covers, so he wouldn't wake Bob up. His face lies in the shadow of his own head, but Bob knows what he'd see.
In the kitchen, he finds the right little bottle and a glass of water just fine. It's definitely not that late, with how bright the room is, and the clock over the stove confirms it's a mere 7:23 when Bob climbs back onto (but not into) bed, this time nose to sleeping nose with his partner, who doesn't stir in the slightest. He doesn't open the refrigerator. He knows what he'll see: a chocolate cake, frosting flattened on one side, three glossy cherries gathered back in the middle of the top.