#underscorekimaya

“No, no!” He’s too loud, too enthusiastic. “We’re okay! Saeran is asleep.”

“Saeyoung, it’s almost four in the morning.”

He yelps. “Really? I didn’t even notice! I’m sorry, babe. Ignore me and go back to sleep. Please.”

You sigh, sitting all the way up, propping the pillows behind your head. “Will you tell me what’s bothering you?”

“God Seven is bothered by nothing! God Seven was just doing some work and wanted to hear his kitty cat’s cute voice! Ha-hah!”

“Saeyoung…”

“Activate kitty communication mode! Meow! Meow? Meeooow!”

He’s too adorable—his distraction tactics are too good. Once upon a time, you would’ve given it to it, would’ve let him ramble nonsensically until he wore himself out. You know better now.

“Saeyoung, when was the last time you slept?”

You hear him counting to himself. “Twelve, thirteen, fourteen…twenty-six, twenty-seven…” Oh no. “Forty-four hours ago!” he sings triumphantly.

“Saeyoung!”

“Whaaat?”

“Forty-four hours ago was when I last spent the night. You haven’t slept since then?”

“Nooope. But it’s okaaaay! God Seven can work for much longer without sleeping because it’s what he was programmed to do!” He draws out his syllables, speaking in a sing-song.

“Hey. Stop. Listen to me.” You know he hears the frustration in your voice because he shuts up right away. “You do not work for the agency anymore. Even Saeran is sleeping right now, like a normal person. You do not need to work through the night anymore.”

“But I do,” he says. His voice sounds a little more subdued now. “The agency may be done, but there’s still so much cleanup work to do. There’s so many loose ends. If I’m resting, they’re tracking Saeran, tracking Vanderwood, tracking you… I can’t—”

“No,” you say. “Uh-uh.” You’re already slipping out of bed, groping around in the dark for some sweatpants. “I know there’s still work to do and I know you’re worried about keeping us safe. And you can do that work. After you’ve slept for eight hours.”

He laughs and it sounds almost like a sob. “I’ve just found him,” he says, so quietly you can barely hear him. “I’ve just got him back. If anything happens to him…”

“I know,” you say. “I know, babe. But none of that matters if you work yourself to death in the process.”

You’ve got pants, you’ve got shoes. You grab a jacket and the keys to the rental car Saeyoung insisted on paying for so you wouldn’t be reliant on him while he was holed up in his bunker with Saeran.

“Hah,” he says. “It would take a lot more than a few hours of work to kill me.”

You’re outside, the cool air bracing you, waking you the rest of the way up.

“I’d like you one hundred percent alive instead of just barely hanging on,” you tell him.

You throw open the car door with perhaps slightly too much force.

He hesitates. “What was…are you outside?”

“Yes. I’m coming over.”

“You—g-gah, what?!” He sounds frantic. You hear a crash—almost as if he’s sweeping something (realistically, a pile of junk food) off his desk.

“I’m coming over right now and putting you to bed. If you don’t want me to stay, I won’t, but you are going to sleep one way or another,” you say. You start the car and you know he hears it through the phone—you’re not playing around.

“I’m perfectly capable of—” he whines.

“Thirty minutes. Love you,” you say, and hang up before he can respond.

。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。

You get there in no time because the roads are empty. He’s cleverly disabled the car’s built-in GPS so that the rental company can never access any of the data, never pinpoint his address (not that his bunker actually has an address). It doesn’t matter: you know the way by heart.

You give the password that will let you into the garage, park, and peer into the retinal scanner by the door—he’s added this feature for you, only for you. The door welcomes you by name and swings open with a soft click.

The bunker feels bigger and emptier at night; it’s completely dark except for the tiny ray of light coming from his office door, which is cracked open just a hair. You sigh. You’d had hope—just a little—that knowing you were coming would guilt him into just going to bed already. But he is stubborn.

You pad across the huge living room and knock gently on his door. He knows you’re here, of course—he’s probably been watching you on the cameras ever since you pulled into the driveway. But just in case—he’s not someone you want to ever catch off guard.

“Hi,” he says softly—his voice sounds far away. You push open the door.

“Oh, Saeyoung…”

His office is never exactly tidy, but this is a disaster zone.

There are chip bags and other assorted wrappers strewn over the desk and on the floor around it. Several creepy, half-built robots lay at odd angles on the couch and floor, as if he’s been fiddling with them as he works and then tossing them aside—one blinks eerily at you with its single eye. There are clothes thrown over the couch and the backs of his various desk chairs, as though he’s been managing to periodically change outfits without ever setting foot in his bedroom.

And there he is, your precious, anxious, manic boy, sitting in his chair with his knees pulled up to his chest, hunched over his desk, fingers still moving over the keys even as he turns to look at you.

“You didn’t have to come,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“That’s a crappy greeting for your favorite person in the world who just drove here in the middle of the night,” you say, but you’re not not really angry at him—how could you be, when he’s in this state? You cross the room, stepping over the piles of junk. Up close, he looks terrible—there are dark circles under his eyes and he has that pale, hollow look he gets when he goes too long without seeing the sun.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “Bright, wonderful people like you should be asleep at this time of night.”

“Everyone should be asleep at this time of night,” you tell him. You brush the messy, tangled hair off his forehead and kiss him on the cheek. He closes his eyes for a moment, humming contentedly; then he reaches for you, tilting his head up for a proper kiss. 

“Nuh-uh,” you say, and he deflates, pouting. “Find a stopping point—the first possible stopping point. Then you are going to bed.”

“Orrrrr…” he murmurs, nuzzling his head against your waist. One hand trails up your leg, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“Saeyoung.”

“Fiiiine.” He reluctantly spins his chair around, types another line. “You go get in the bed,” he says, eyes on the screen. “I’ll be there soon.”

“Nope.” You cross your arms and sit on the couch, moving aside half of a robot dragon. “I don’t trust you.”

He makes a sound somewhere between a hiss and a groan and starts typing more quickly. Good. If he’s motivated to finish faster because you’re now losing sleep, then so be it. At least he’s stopping.

The sound of his typing soothes you. You fiddle with the little dragon—it will be very cute, once he builds the other side of its head. His typing slows. He hits a few more keys. You recognize the sounds of him finishing up—god knows how much collective time you’ve spent listening to him work.

“Okay,” he says at last, and you look up to see him getting out of his chair, a little clumsily.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

You skip to him and grab his hand. “Bedtime,” you say seriously, tugging him behind you: through the door, down the hall. He laughs, and it’s the most genuine he’s sounded all night. You throw open the door to his room and take a running leap onto the bed. He’s still laughing, watching you from the doorway with warm eyes.

“Come,” you say, wriggling yourself into the blankets, holding out your arms to him. Obediently, he shuts the door and comes to you, falling headfirst onto the messy pile of pillows and blankets and you. He groans quietly, his shoulder muscles finally relaxing. You pull him toward you and he settles his head onto your chest.

“S’feels nice,” he slurs, snuggling into you. You see how hard the exhaustion is hitting him now that he’s closed his eyes; you make a snug nest of blankets around him, tucking them up to his neck.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper. “You can rest now.”

“Mmmmmm but…” His words are hard to make out, his voice already thick with sleep. “But there are soooo many other things we could be doing…in this bed…”

He tries to lift an arm, vaguely brushing his fingertips over your neck. You giggle.

“Shhhh, love. Maybe in the morning,” you tell him. You kiss the top of his head, nuzzling your nose into his messy, sweet-smelling hair. He doesn’t respond. “Babe?”

His head is heavy on your chest. You feel his breath on your neck, slow and steady. You smile to yourself—he’s already asleep.