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There will never be enough coffee. He keeps making more anyway, just in case. He's got a good chunk of the night left.
The sharp triple-tap at the door comes midway through a swallow of coffee, and Phoenix closes his eyes and presses his face into the case file he's reading. It's way too late for visitors. The office is very, very closed.
Maybe if he's really quiet and really lucky, they'll go away.
Tap-tap-tap again, and it's a knock that says, I know you're in there.
He groans and stands up and stretches, which lets the knocker get in another knock, and this time it's tap, tap, TAP, very deliberate: I know you're in there, and the longer you take to get the door, the more irritating this is going to be.
When he opens the door, it's Edgeworth. Because of course it is. The last thing this crap-fest of a day needed was more Edgeworth, and so the universe is providing.
He opens his mouth to ask why Edgeworth is there, and Edgeworth doesn't let him get a word in:
"How dare you." Edgeworth is pointing at him, one long finger about a inch from his chest. "How dare you put on that … that exhibition today."
Okay, that's not fair. First of all, the prosecution had been the one who'd called Beulah Baisse as a witness, and Beulah had been the one who was waving a giant fish around the whole time. The fish-in-Edgeworth's-face thing had had nothing to do with Phoenix, really. And second of all, Phoenix is the one who then had to examine every inch of the commercial kitchen to find the frozen fugu. Edgeworth is not the one who spent the day digging through fish. Phoenix had needed to take a thirty-minute shower at home because he could not stand the smell of himself, and did his apartment have enough hot water to last thirty minutes? The hell it did. Then he'd had to bike to his office with cold wet hair to keep working on the case, and now he's still there at 11:30 pm trying to figure out how they got the wiretap into the goddamn fish, because apparently this is his life now, and Edgeworth has the audacity to show up at his office to continue his personal hell?
Not to-fucking-day!
But before Phoenix has even drawn the breath for a good yell, Edgeworth has already shoved him to the side and stormed into the office, leaving Phoenix standing at the door with the knob in his hand.
He is not going to lose his shit. He is not.
"Do you know what you are, Wright?" Phoenix looks over his shoulder and, yes, Edgeworth is pointing at him again. It's even more irritating from inside his own office.
"I bet you're going to tell me," Phoenix says, and closes the door before the building security comes to find out who's yelling.
Edgeworth is still going, following Phoenix as Phoenix heads back to his own office where at least he can be yelled at near things he likes: "You are an obstreperous child. That's what you are. You're a little boy pulling pranks, and I have no desire to be pulled into your juvenile antics—"
"Excuse me?" Phoenix is still trying to process the situation: Edgeworth, in his office, at an ungodly hour of the night. Phoenix is frankly astonished to learn that Edgeworth even knows where his office is. Now he's pacing around, endangering the carefully arranged Piles of Relevant Legal Crap which are everywhere because that's how Phoenix works when he's under pressure. If Edgeworth knocks any of it over, Phoenix will be put the fuck out. Also irritating: for some reason Edgeworth's still dressed like he's ready for court, with his stupid neck thing and his jacket and vest and briefcase, no doubt full of Important Lawyer Stuff. None of it appears to smell like fish, lucky Edgeworth. Phoenix, on the other hand, had left his fish-smelling suit back at his apartment, hoping it would air out before court tomorrow, and had put on something comfortable instead. It turns out comfortable is not the way to dress when faced with a pissy Edgeworth. It leaves him feeling as if he's kind of on the back foot here, and Edgeworth, like the shark he is, scents blood and goes for it:
"Look at you, you upstart amateur. Cargo pants and a hooded sweatshirt. And your hair is a mess. What kind of image are you trying to portray for our profession?"
"It's 11:30 at night—"
"Oh? Do you stop being an attorney after five?"
That was a low shot. "I'm here working right now, aren't I?"
"And yet you can't even be bothered to be presentable." Edgeworth sniffs. "You're a poor excuse for an attorney… and you smell like fish."
Okay, first, fucking still? Not fair. And second, this is going way overboard. "I'm not the one who brings on witnesses who start throwing fish!"
"She only threw that fish because you can't control a simple cross-examination!"
"Do witnesses typically throw fish during cross-examinations?"
"Only when you're in the courtroom! Everyone seems to know they can walk all over you!" Edgeworth's sneering now, and if he doesn't stop pointing at Phoenix, Phoenix is possibly going to find somewhere for Edgeworth to stick his finger, because he is too tired for this.
"You know, if you were so fucking bent out of shape that you just had to talk to me tonight, you could have called me. Or sent me a fucking email. As privileged as I feel to have you come all the way here to be a prick—"
"I have called you three times. You are not answering."
Oh. Well. Yep. He'd turned off the ringer. Okay, that's on him. But those would have been crappy phone calls to get anyway. Not that this is better—
"Listen, Edgeworth, it's been kind of a shitty day, okay? So I don't really need your—"
"Kind of a shitty day?" says Edgeworth, incredulous, almost yelping, which would be funny if Phoenix wasn't so mad. "You've had kind of a shitty day? Oh, well, let me pull out my violin and soothe you with a fucking sonata about your shitty day, don't let me worsen it in any way with honest critique of your—"
"Jesus, you're acting like an asshole and I don't—"
"—think your day has been bad? You haven't got the faintest—"
"—come over here and stand here in my office and tell me—"
"—my heart is breaking for you, Wright, I may burst into tears right here on the—"
"—shut the fuck up!"
It's a fucking miracle: Edgeworth closes his mouth and presses his lips together and looks away, looks around the office, anywhere but at Phoenix, which is a complete relief right now.
He runs his hands into his hair and yanks it back, and it immediately flops back into its ungelled, defiant mess. Ugh. "Okay. We are both acting ridiculous right now. You need to go home."
Edgeworth stares at him, haughty and sooo offended, and it looks like he's activated the bullshit dispenser again: "Go home? You're going to try to tell me what to do, now?"
Oh, what in the hell— "Okay? Don't go home? Go wherever you fucking want? Just don't be here."
"I'll do as I please," says Edgeworth, voice trembling with anger, and this is so fucking weird. Edgeworth the logician, Edgeworth the rationalist, is throwing a fucking temper tantrum? In Phoenix's office? He could be literally anywhere doing literally anything and instead he's here stamping his metaphorical foot and pitching a fit—
Huh.
"Listen to me, Wright," Edgeworth snaps, voice low now, and steps way too close to him. "If anyone gets to tell me how to behave, it certainly isn't you. Honestly - you? You can't control your hair. You can't control a witness. You can't control a courtroom. You may as well add me to the long list of things you can't control." Inches away now, practically snarling: the Demon Prosecutor, large as life, and intimidating as hell.
Except… Phoenix isn't intimidated.
In fact, Phoenix suddenly has a weird hunch.
It's a very weird hunch. But… paying attention to those weird hunches has been working out well for him lately. He’s turning into a contradiction-finding machine, and here’s one right here: Edgeworth snarling at him about how irritating he is when he could be absolutely anywhere else not being irritated.
"You think I couldn't control you, huh?" he says, softly, and Edgeworth outright sniggers in response: "I'd like to see you try—"
Would he. All right, then. Phoenix plays his hunch: he steps into Edgeworth and runs his fingers up into his stupid fucking non-fish-smelling perfect hair and kisses the ever-loving fuck out of him.
And Edgeworth kisses him right the ever-loving fuck back. Harder, even. Immediate tongue, wide jaw, back-of-the-throat moan, and Edgeworth grabs him, yanks him close so hard that Phoenix staggers into him and almost knocks them both over, and apparently they are going from screaming at each other to trying to put their entire tongues in each other's mouths? In three seconds? Like a switch flicking? Oh, also flicking switches is pretty relevant: with one arm he reaches out and gropes for the light switch, swipes the air a few times and finds it, and now they're in the dark, with only faint outside light shining in, jockeying back and forth for dominance in some kind of weird-ass kissing war, and Phoenix is having the strangest day.
He may as well roll with it, though. The case file sure isn't going anywhere. And he's really done with coffee: Edgeworth tastes better. Suddenly Phoenix realizes he smells like fish and tastes like coffee and has a brief second of uh-oh, but it's also really, really clear that Edgeworth doesn't seem to give a shit: his prick is pressing against Phoenix through the pants of that stupid immaculate suit, and his hands are fisted in Phoenix's hoodie. All right, then; if Edgeworth is up for it, then Phoenix is too. He's got caffeine buzzing in his system and he's tired enough for a random booty call from the bonkers asshole who was just screaming at him to seem like a fantastic idea.
The couches are off limits: covered in files. The desk? Nah. His desk is lousy compared to Edgeworth's desk, and anyway it's got crap all over it too. Reception area? Ha ha ha, no! So if it's his office, then a wall it is. Okay, then: he's gonna have to navigate them both across the room. He tries to kind of lean in, to put his weight against Edgeworth to tip him back a bit, but Edgeworth is fighting him on it. He keeps pulling Phoenix close again, which ordinarily Phoenix would be into, but at this moment is kind of counter-productive. Phoenix grabs his arms, holds them still, pulls back to look at Edgeworth who opens his eyes, still looking absolutely furious:
"What?"
Whoof. Yep, furious.
"Pick a wall."
"What?" Confused this time, and then— "Oh. Oh. I…" Edgeworth's face changes for a second, processing, and then he looks at the wall of windows facing the Gatewater.
"There."
Um. Phoenix had not expected that.
"You sure?"
Down go Edgeworth's eyebrows, and he snarls, "I'm absolutely certain."
Oh-kay, then. Well… what the hell. Show-time it is, then. It's pretty late, right? So nobody they know is going to be looking… and the lights are out, right? Yeah. Yeah, it's fine—
And then there's no more time to think it over, because Edgeworth has got him again: arms around Phoenix crushingly tight until it's actually hard to breathe, kissing him hard, his skin scraping against Phoenix's stubble which would be kind of embarrassing if Edgeworth seemed to give even the remotest fuck about it - but he actually seems to be into it - he's rubbing his face against Phoenix, and then he's moaning as he sucks on Phoenix's fucking earlobe, Jesus, that's lightning right down to his crotch, and also, what the fuck? Bossy Edgeworth Phoenix knows extremely well; in-a-hurry Edgeworth is also pretty good; but tonight Edgeworth is acting like a cat in heat, and he's a lot.
Okay. Okay, Phoenix can handle this. He's just gotta regain control of the situation, right? Right. So he gives as good as he gets: he gets his arms down and around and now he's the one wrapped around Edgeworth again, holding him still, and Edgeworth strains against his arms and it's really hot and also still extremely fucking weird, but Phoenix is going to make it work. It's kind of complicated: kissing Edgeworth and keeping his arms around him and also keeping his balance and not entangling their feet as he guides them both stumbling across the room until they bang up against the windows near Charley, and now Phoenix also has to not knock over Charley as he pulls off Edgeworth's jacket and neck thing and vest and opens his shirt and kisses his neck, his collarbone, while Edgeworth grinds his hard-on against him and gasps and groans and generally puts on quite the show. Turning the lights off was a good idea: the voyeurs at the Gatewater would love this.
Phoenix could put the blinds down… but when he opens his eyes for a second to see Edgeworth looking back at him, his face backlit so that his features are almost invisible and the soft glow of indirect streetlights shining off his hair, he figures he'll risk it. What the hell: it was Edgeworth's idea, after all, and speaking of which, if Edgeworth's going to play stupid games, he's going to win stupid prizes. Phoenix kisses Edgeworth hard, hands on the back of Edgeworth's head so Edgeworth can't turn his head to change the angle or pull away - control, yep - and then he grabs Edgeworth's shoulders, turns him around with a jerk, pushes him up against the glass, and says directly into his ear, "You're gonna stay right here."
Edgeworth's shoulders tense under his hands - and then he slowly leans his forehead against the window. His shoulders relax. He puts his hands up against the window, spreading his fingers wide. The glass fogs with his breath.
Huh.
He'd agreed to that way too easily. Phoenix had figured on another little wrestling match, but instead Edgeworth is settling himself against the windowed wall as if he's expecting a long stay. Is the show maybe the point tonight? Phoenix can't see his face. What the fuck is going on in his mind?
Oh, well. No answers likely, and meanwhile right now Miles Edgeworth is apparently going to let Phoenix fuck him against a window, which is not an opportunity to be ignored. He strokes down Edgeworth's back - really nice shirt fabric, of course, and also muscles underneath, twitching as his fingers stroke over them - and then he slides his hands around to Edgeworth's chest and down to the front of his pants. He can't see what he's doing, but he manages to undo the button, unzip Edgeworth's pants, and tug down Edgeworth's underwear without somehow catching Edgeworth's prick in the fly like a complete idiot. Thank you, muscle memory. Then again, this isn't the first time he's pulled Edgeworth's pants down.
He stops, kisses Edgeworth's shoulder (crisp fabric against his lips), cups his ass, and Edgeworth presses back against him, sighing. It's pretty clear what is supposed to happen now. Phoenix is willing to oblige.
Not with a hoodie on, though, God; he does have some standards. That hits the floor. T-shirt is fine, and pants will be okay at half-mast, and now… um.
He does have one pathetic condom in his wallet. But no lube.
Hmm.
He plays hunch number two: "You brought lube, right?"
"And breath mints," says Edgeworth against the window, and Phoenix has to stop kissing his neck because he needs so badly to stink-eye Edgeworth - but Edgeworth is still pressed against the glass, eyes shut, the snippy fucker. Well, at least that's two hunches successfully played for Phoenix: hooray.
He hikes his pants up again so he doesn't have to penguin-walk to grab the briefcase. When he cracks it open he finds it does, indeed, contain Important Lawyer Things, about which he does not at this time give any shits. Instead he digs through papers until he finds the little case that usually lives in Edgeworth's desk, and inside it finds a small bottle of Edgeworth's excellent lube, some non-wallet condoms, and a little tin of mints. All of these are extremely handy for Phoenix right now. Two mints. No, three, chewed frantically - and now grab the lube and a condom, and then…
As he turns back to Edgeworth, he realizes it's the first time he's seen Edgeworth almost completely naked. All he's wearing is his long-sleeved white shirt. Everything else is in a pile on the floor or around his ankles. The light of the streetlights and the Gatewater shines through the window, turning everything faintly blue, and in that light Phoenix sees Edgeworth's long legs and bony ass, and the structure of his delicate hands as he splays them against the window. Those hands tense and relax on the glass as Phoenix leans up against him, fumbling with the condom; they clench as Phoenix slips a finger into him. Edgeworth's legs are braced, knees locked. His ankles are as far apart as his pants will let them go. He's breathing slowly and regularly, but as Phoenix kisses his neck, as he works him open with one hand while he keeps him pressed against the window with the other, Edgeworth is trembling.
Right now, under his hands, Edgeworth seems vulnerable. He has never once seemed vulnerable before. It's strange. Not bad strange, exactly, just… well, strange. Maybe… new-strange.
But when Phoenix slides into him, the sound Edgeworth makes isn't new at all. It's familiar, now, the same sound he always makes when Phoenix first enters him: a long, low groan on an exhalation. It's almost relief, an I needed that kind of sound, which… maybe he does.
Does Edgeworth ever actually blow off steam? He's got his car, that seems to be fun for him - but aside from that…
Does this man ever have fun?
Is this how he has fun?
Is this fun?
His mind is buzzing as he leans against Edgeworth, holding him up against the window, feeling Edgeworth squeeze around him. The glass is cool; Edgeworth is warm, and is making a low sound and shoving back against him, and Phoenix can take a hint: he grabs Edgeworth's hips and thrusts into him, and Edgeworth gasps and braces himself against the glass, his low sound spiking into a moan. Another thrust, and another, not too hard, not too quick; Phoenix is finding a rhythm, something that pulls them both together, with their breathing slightly offset so when Phoenix gasps, Edgeworth is exhaling and when Edgeworth sighs, Phoenix is sucking air. It's cyclic; it moves itself forward, so even though Phoenix is technically setting the pace, honestly, he doesn't have to think about it. He just has to be there to steady Edgeworth, to keep him supported as he lets himself go, because he is really not himself right now.
For starters, Edgeworth isn't talking anymore. Usually he can't shut up during sex, but there are no sharp demands tonight, no accusations or insinuations that Phoenix isn't doing a good job. Instead there's just his breathing, and then his voice, first just as an occasional sound and then continuing on, moaning on the exhale and the inhale. He's uncontrolled, sobbing wordless pleasure as Phoenix works inside him, and one hand fists against the window as Phoenix takes his time. Phoenix fucks him deeply and slowly in the quiet of the office, with the traffic sounds outside far below, and the climate control hissing softly in the background. Edgeworth's skin is cool under his hands; his long legs stretch; he's warm inside, tight around Phoenix, and Phoenix breathes and moves and does what Edgeworth seems to need him to do, on and on and on—
It all seems to go on longer than it probably does. The night stretches out around them. Phoenix loses himself in the motion, the moment: the details of the case, the shittiness of the day, the deadline ringing in his head, all of it fades out and it's just him and Edgeworth in the dark, cool office; the closeness and heat of him, the way he lets out a jagged sound as Phoenix slips a hand around him and grabs his prick, the way he leans back against Phoenix open-mouthed and taut-voiced and lets Phoenix speed up the rhythm; it all spins in Phoenix's head and he presses his nose into Edgeworth's shoulder and closes his eyes and moves, moves, being quiet and strong and in control and not, not coming until Edgeworth drops a cool hand from the glass to cover Phoenix's own on Edgeworth's prick and guide him into a quick, repeating motion that brings Edgeworth to a weak-kneed, trembling climax that sounds almost painful, leaving Phoenix's hand slick and warm and—
Shit—!
He's been so focused on making sure Edgeworth gets what he needs that his own climax sneaks up and hits him across the back of the head with a two-by-four, almost dropping them both to the ground, and he grits his teeth and whines through it, thighs shaking, supporting both his weight and Edgeworth's with spasming muscles.
The way they hit the floor after that is not, quite, a collapse. Phoenix does his best to lower them down slowly, but it's still a mess of limbs and pants around ankles and it ends in a pile. Edgeworth is boneless and heavy, and Phoenix has to push him off on to the floor so he can breathe, then feels like a shit and instead kind of helps him sit up and turn himself around so he can at least lean against the wall, and now they're facing each other, bare-assed on the office carpet (ick), looking at each other like they've just been through a war.
That was not relaxing. Good, yeah, really good, but …
Steam maybe not blown off?
But Edgeworth does seem a lot looser, now. He leans his head back against the wall. His shoulders are slumped. His eyes are mostly closed. His cheek is red where it was up against the window.
He's still not saying anything. Weird, weird, weird. Okay - Phoenix's instinct is to move in, maybe lean against him, and he starts to do it and then realizes he still has come all over his hand and is also wearing a used condom, bleah. Getting up, though… aargh. No. But he can kind of long-arm it and pull the tissue box down off the desk, so that takes care of his hand, and then he three-points the condom and the gross tissues into the wastebasket. He looks at Edgeworth after that, fully expecting a snarky comment, but Edgeworth is still staring glassy-eyed into space. He looks kind of stunned.
What in the fuck …?
Now he does push himself over to the wall and turn himself around so he's next to Edgeworth, back to the wall. He looks over at him.
"Hey. You in there?"
Edgeworth blinks a few times. His mouth is a little bit open. He looks destroyed. His face is… not angry, not sad, not… not anything.
Little sirens are going off in Phoenix's mind.
"Edgeworth. Hey."
"It's been such a shitty day," says Edgeworth, voice very, very low. "Just… abysmal."
Okay. He's talking. That's better. "Yeah. I hear you."
"You really have no idea…"
"I bet I don't." He slides himself over a bit, snugging in closer to Edgeworth, and Edgeworth leans on him, letting Phoenix support his body weight. Good: Phoenix can do that, that's easy. "You can tell me, if you want."
One of Edgeworth's hands comes up, like he's going to illustrate a point… and then it drops back down again, and he sighs, and actually rests his head on Phoenix's shoulder? His actual head? Heavy! On Phoenix's shoulder! Like he wants comfort!
What in the fuck? What do I do?
His brain is yelling trap! trap! but his body is shoving an arm between the wall and Edgeworth's back so it can pull him close, and Edgeworth is letting him? And sighs again, and snuggles in closer? And it's just apparently fine with Edgeworth for Phoenix to be doing this, to be holding him, and he's acting like Phoenix is the one safe thing in the fucking world and is not biting Phoenix's head off or snarling some mean thing at him or, or—
What is happening in my life?
Phoenix breathes, breathes, keeping it slow and regular despite the slightly panicky adrenaline. Hey, if Edgeworth needs this, he can have this. God knows Phoenix owes him a lot more than an orgasm and a shoulder. But… it's so extremely weird, so different than the Edgeworth Phoenix knows—
Which, actually, probably isn't Edgeworth at all. Not really. It's court Edgeworth. It's Prosecutor Edgeworth.
He's only seen the occasional glimpse of Miles.
Is this Miles?
God, that's pretty fucking lonely, if this is Miles, if this is what Miles wants, versus what Prosecutor Edgeworth will permit. A fucking hug? He wants Phoenix to give him a fucking hug?
Or maybe…
Edgeworth's here with him now, sure; had come to find him, late at night, and scream at him so he could get laid apparently? And then get a hug? Because that's how things work in Miles Edgeworth's Bizarro World? But… maybe it isn't Phoenix, exactly, that Edgeworth needed. Maybe Edgeworth just needed to… work something out. Phoenix is just kind of… the stage dressing, maybe. The prop.
Okay, that would actually make a lot more sense.
(Edgeworth is breathing more slowly, now. He's leaning heavily against Phoenix. His hands are loose on his bare legs.)
Is that okay? If this isn't about Phoenix? If this is just about Edgeworth working something out?
Huh.
Yeah. Yeah, it's okay. The sex was good - way better than coffee and the fucking case - and Edgeworth probably needs to work a few things out. Phoenix can help with that. He's good at that.
He sits there for a little longer, listening to the traffic outside and to Edgeworth's soft breathing, just kind of being there, being the support. Eventually he pats Edgeworth's hand.
"How you doing?"
"Guh—"
Edgeworth starts upright, confused and angry, and it's only then that Phoenix realizes that Edgeworth had fallen asleep on his shoulder.
What in the actual fuck—
"I'm fine," says Edgeworth too quickly, "just fine. I—" He stops, looks down at himself, seems to realize that he's bare-ass-naked, and he pushes away from the wall and pulls his pants up - then drops them, quickly employs some tissues, and pulls them up again, now looking really pissed off. "I have to go."
"Whoa," says Phoenix, holding up a hand, processing as fast as he can, "whoa, slow down—"
"Some of us have work to do, Wright," snaps Edgeworth, and yeah, okay, no more snuggles, apparently; Prosecutor Edgeworth's office hours have started up again. "If you don't mind." He's doing up his shirt, and now he looks for the rest of his clothes and actually hisses between his teeth when he sees them on the floor. Phoenix breathes out, and smiles deliberately up at him as he puts on his vest and jacket, ties his neck thing, attempts to smooth the wrinkles out of them.
"Sorry about that."
Edgeworth shoots him a look, opens his mouth— then stops. He runs a hand through his hair, over his face.
Phoenix pushes himself up, pulling up his pants as he stands. "You okay?"
"I'm fine." Sharp voice, and there's the glare again. He's still a little wobbly on his feet, by the look of things, but… yeah. Okay. Phoenix believes him when he says he's fine. So that's something. And he's maybe doing better than he was when he got here? Maybe? So Phoenix helped out, and that's good too.
Edgeworth is looking at him, and suddenly it's weird. Awkward. His body language changes, and he looks away. "I… apologize for interrupting your work."
Phoenix holds up a hand. "No worries. It sucked anyway."
Edgeworth flicks a glance his way. "I'm sure you still have a lot to do."
"Oh, tons," says Phoenix easily, keeping his body language open, because one of them has to not be filling the literal atmosphere with waves of awkward. "You know how it is, right?"
"I… I do," says Edgeworth, and yeah, okay, apparently it's fighting, then fucking, then snuggling, then small talk, because the two of them can't do anything fucking normally.
They stand there for a few seconds. Phoenix absolutely does not know what to say next.
"I'm… going to go now," says Edgeworth finally, the words running together, and he sounds embarrassed. "I…"
"Yeah, yeah. Work to do. You said."
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
“I mean… yeah, you will.” Across the courtroom. Obviously. The awkward multiplies.
Then Edgeworth turns and strides out of the office, taking the awkward with him. The door shuts behind him, leaving Phoenix standing in the dark in his office, which now in addition to fish and coffee smells like sex. The combination is… not great.
There are palm prints on the office window. Wow. All over the window. And a pretty good set of cheek prints too. Okay. Well, he is not going to let Maya see that, because he will never hear the fucking end of it.
He grabs window cleaner out of the cleaning closet and wipes the window down, and now the office smells like fish, coffee, sex, and Windex, and it is, frankly, goddamned awful. He stands there in the middle of the miasma, looking around at the files piled everywhere, and he sighs and cracks his neck, picks up his hoodie, and asks calmly of whatever gods may be enjoying this flavour of bullshit, "What in the fuck is happening to my life?"
No answer. If he got one, it'd probably be a giggle.
One more big sigh, and then he yanks his hoodie back on, opens all the windows, pours his cold coffee out into the sink, Keurigs up a fresh cup and gets back to work. After all, the night's barely gotten started.