Grave Intentions

"Not good," he mumbles into Phoenix's shoulder, slotting himself into his usual space next to Phoenix, "better than throwing up."

He could use one of those tylenol that Phoenix took.

“We’ll stay in bed ‘til you feel a bit better. There’s no rush to get shopping.”

There was nowhere else in the world that Phoenix wanted or needed to be at that moment. He’d stay in bed all day if he could, ring on his finger on the hand going from rubbing to gently scratching Phil’s back.

“I uh… hm.”

Effort has to be put in for Phoenix to be able to try to at least grasp at the memories of the previous night. The search doesn’t reward much, but…

“I remember… laughing. My face hurt from how hard I was smiling, and I think there were people… cheering? Clapping? Uhm. There was a lot of music.”

He might’ve punched someone before they went back to the hotel.

"Not a thing. We musta had a big night out at the club."

It's a lie, right through his teeth. In the shower, he remembers placing Phoenix's ring on his finger, saying something he'd likely never say sober.

"Y'wanna order room service?"

There’s a relief that settles in Phoenix’s chest when Graves lays in bed with him, some fear that he wasn’t sure was really there floating away.

His hand slips under Phil’s shirt and he carefully, softly, rubs his back, pouring all of the care into it that he can. It makes him feel safe, this familiar gesture of affection. It’s reassuring.

“Are you feeling okay? Not sick still?”

"Not good," he mumbles into Phoenix's shoulder, slotting himself into his usual space next to Phoenix, "better than throwing up."

He could use one of those tylenol that Phoenix took.

“Sorry, uhm. Think we planned for shopping today. Sleep in, go see all the stores. Y’know.”

He doesn’t know what to do. Do they talk about it? Ignore it? He should probably shower as well. Get changed into his own clothes.

Again, Phoenix’s eyes trail down to the ring in the vanity, and then the one on his hand. He can still take it off. Leave it behind them.

Would Phoenix leave? Would resentment build into treason? Would he go scorched earth?

Or does Graves tug the ring back onto his finger, curl back up into bed, let Phoenix inevitably nurse his aching throat from vomiting, and face his fears.

On his own terms.

When Phil curls up beside him, he realizes Phoenix is wearing his shirt. And they never checked who is now shoeless.

There’s a ring on his left hand. One that matches the one on the vanity.

Fuuuuuck.

Phil’s voice is what pulls Phoenix out of his racing thoughts and the attempts to sift through his memories of the previous night. He looks around, but his eyes keep going back to the ring. Does he take his off too? Should he ignore it?

“Here, I’ll… I’ll grab you some. One sec.”

It feels... intimate. And that's the worst feeling of all.

Even after he snatches clothes and a towel from Phoenix, there's a mental battle between rushing to get dressed to simply stand in the shower, or taking his time so as to not face his fears.

Phoenix has to know by now. He's not stupid.

“Go, ‘s fine. ‘M gonna be in t’brush my teeth in a few. Just gotta.. find a Tylenol or something.”

After a biiig stretch on the floor, a yawn, and a hand is scrubbed over his face, Phoenix sits up and leans his head against the edge of the bed.

The bathroom door clicks open and closed.

Graves swears if he simply doesn't say anything at all, Phoenix might entirely forget it happened. Or that he's in here. Or something.

But if Phoenix doesn't say something, Graves is going to. And that might be worse.

The commander turns the shower until the water stops running and very quickly realizes he has not even a towel to wrap around himself.

Here goes nothing.