Disclaimer: I don't own Glee. Or the joke/comic on facebook which precipitated this little one-shot.
Note: I couldn't decide which of our lovely boys it should be, so...this is what resulted. Enjoy!
Stumbling
The first time he looked at the time, it was four a.m. The bars normally closed at three. But he knew the owner, and the loopholes. His buddy Jason, who owned the Silver Monster bar would make sure his bouncers kicked everyone out at closing time, except for those on 'the list'. Then he opened the bar. As long as they weren't taking cash, they could serve alcohol. It became a private party, instead of a bar. It wasn't four a.m. anymore. He looked at his watch, and then out the window at the pale streaks of pink that crossed the sky. "Fuck…he's gonna kill me," he mumbled.
"You'd best get home before your husband changes the locks," Jason ribbed. He hugged his friend tightly, unlocked the door to the club, and let him out. "Do you remember where you live?" Jason asked, hailing a taxi for the drunken man.
"No, but I gots thish one," he slurred. Thankfully he kept a business card, with his home address, in the pocket of his jacket, just for occasions like this. He stumbled over to the taxi and fumbled with the door handle. Laughing, Jason opened the door for him.
"Thanks for coming by. We'll do this again sometime. Hopefully you'll be able to invite your husband next time."
"Yeah…he'd like you guys. And then…I'd have a des…des…" he paused. "A designated taxi hailer," he managed, laughing uproariously at his own joke. Because really, who lived within the New York City limits and drove a car?
"Okay, into the cab with you," Jason said. "Goodnight. Well, good morning."
"Thanksh!" He handed the business card to the taxi driver. "To thish addressh," he said.
The taxi driver confirmed the address, handed the card back, and cautioned him not to puke in his car, then drove him to the high-rise apartment building where he shared his home with his husband.
"Thanksh, man!" he exclaimed, paying the taxi driver by credit card when they arrived. His signature was little more than an ink blot on the receipt.
"Are you going to be alright, sir?" the taxi driver asked, wondering if he should ask about the generous tip added.
"Yup. I can handle myshelf," he slurred. "Thanksh for the smooth ride. Good tip for you!"
"Thank you, sir. Sleep well." He watched as the man made his way to the door of the apartment building, then drove away.
"Good morning, Mr. Anderson-Hummel," the doorman said professionally, holding the door open. "Do you require assistance getting to your front door?"
"Did he change the locksh?"
"Not that I am aware of. Did you forget to call again?"
"I think sho," he said, blinking. "Gonna have such a hangover in a few hoursh!"
"I bet you will, sir. Let me help you to the elevator, and turn your penthouse key for you, what do you say?"
"Okay. I can use the help." He handed the keys over, and the doorman half-carried him to the elevator. He turned the key, unlocking the penthouse floor, then left him alone.
The man made his way to his immaculate apartment. His husband's alarm was about to go off. Maybe he could get some snuggles in first. But maybe not. He stepped off the elevator into the foyer.
He stumbled into the living room, but forgot to take his shoes off, so he tried to turn around, but got tangled on himself. When he fell, it was right into the waiting arms of his husband.
"If you vomit on the Persian rug, you will never forgive yourself," the sober one said. "Let's get you into bed."
"Don't be mad, baby! Was out with boys! Love you, honey!" he wailed as he was pushed unceremoniously towards the bed.
When he woke up, it was late afternoon. There was a bucket next to the bed, a bottle of water in a wine chiller, a bottle of Advil, and a package of crackers. And a note.
"Hey there, love, I'm just running some errands. Wanted to make your favorite supper tonight. Stay in bed as long as you like, I'll be home soon. Love you!"
It was signed with his husband's name. He couldn't understand. He'd come home drunk after the sun had come up. He'd stumbled into bed reeking of alcohol, and he'd slept the day away. Was the love of his life planning to poison him? He heard someone rummaging around in the kitchen, and realized that his husband was indeed home. Rubbing his hand over his face, he popped three Advil, and pushed himself to his feet. He was half-dressed, and idly wondered how he'd gotten that way.
He made his way, holding onto doors and walls, into the kitchen. "Oh! You're up! I'm sorry, love, did I wake you?"
Frowning, the one with the hang-over shook his head, then clutched it tightly as the pain spiraled. "I don't understand," he managed. "Why are you being so…nice…considering that I came in drunk after the sun was up…"
"Oh, you wonderful man, it's simple. I tried to take your pants off to get you into bed. You slapped my hands away and said 'don't touch me, man, I'm married.'" He kissed his husband, then went back to making supper.