On the first night it was fine. It was a mistake that was never going to happen again. It had been because it was a long day, and he didn't want to go back to an empty house. He'd recognised that it was insane, but some part of him had found it comforting. He had lain awake for a long time after the redheads light breathing had fallen into the heavy rhythm of sleep, staring at the red coat hanging on the doorhandle. As much as he hated to admit it, for some strange reason it looked like it belonged there.
On the second night, he'd tried not to think about it. He'd rolled over, turned to face the window rather than the all too familiar face that was currently occupying his side of the bed. He'd closed his eyes, and counted sheep. He got to two thousand three hundred and seventy-six before he gave up. He'd tried to keep his mind blank, thinking of plain black darkness. But the black turned to red. He'd tried thinking of work, thinking of all the paperwork on his desk, thinking of the uncomfortable chairs. But that didn't help his blood pressure, so he stopped. His eyes opened again, and settled on the moon, outside the window for a while. The he'd got bored and rolled over to look at the ceiling, which had been a mistake. The familiar red coat hung on one of the posts of his four poster. He'd sighed, closed his eyes and told himself that it was just another mistake.
On the third night, he silently admitted to himself that it was all the redhead's fault. If he hadn't have turned in his paperwork one sheet at a time in order to gain the attention of his superior, then nothing would have happened. He would have gone home at six, alone, like everyone else. He would've maybe done some more paperwork, had a drink or two before falling asleep. Alone. He wouldn't have been hearing the deep breathing of the redhead. Again. He wouldn't have been on the wrong side of the bed, staring at the red coat on the floor. Again. Why did Grell even insist on sleeping on the left anyway?
On the fourth night he was alone, because he'd spent all day avoiding the man causing him so much trouble. And he'd still found himself unable to sleep.
On the fifth night, he'd narrowly escaped. He'd found himself thanking Knox for his fondness of parties as Knox had dragged Grell of to the latest rave while he himself had complained about a migraine and retired early. When he'd woken in the middle of the night, he'd found himself searching the familiar furnishings of the room with his eyes. He'd been disappointed not to find it, the red jacket. Although he'd never admit that to anyone.
On the sixth night, he'd been filing paperwork when there was a knock on the door. Behind it was one angry redhead, wanting answers. William didn't have any. But he did have a bed, as they found out.
On the seventh night, he'd begun to question why he hated it so much. He'd lain awake most of the night, watching the moon through the gap in the curtains. When the first slivers of sunlight poked through, they'd hit the red material heaped on his desk.
On the eighth night, he'd awoken with a warm hand resting on his bare chest and a forehead pressed against his shoulder. He'd considered removing them, but couldn't justify it. Besides, he'd liked it.
On the ninth night, there was a fire, and there was so many souls to collect that Grell was called to do overtime. William had missed him, the warm smell of sleep, the jacket, the red hair. It had taken him four hours to drift into a light sleep. Half an hour later, he was woken by the warmth of someone climbing in beside him. That had been the first night he'd slept facing the redhead.
On the tenth night he admitted everything. It was no longer a mistake, but something he looked forward to. Something familiar. Something dependable. Something that wouldn't leave him. He wouldn't have to go to sleep alone again. Although he'd never admit that to the redhead who slept beside him.