Work Text:
Water rushes into the mug, obscuring its cowboy pattern with suds and bubbles. Jimmy usually washes up after Tango cooks; it’s not like he enjoys doing the dishes, but there is something therapeutic about it. Methodical, humming along to a song he can’t remember the name of.
The normalcy helps, too. Your day could be a complete disaster, but there’ll still be dishes to do at the end of it. Wash, dry, set aside — blue or red towel, depending on which is in the laundry. Yellow ceramic and whatever goofy mug Tango chose from his thrift store abomination of a collection. It’s nice. It’s cyclical.
“You know what else is cyclical?” Tango pulls open the apartment door and nearly topples to the floor in an effort to immediately slam it shut. “This day. This entire day has been event after event after goddamn event, and none of them are even capital E Events! None of them!”
Jimmy shuts off the sink, grabbing the (blue) towel to dry one last cup. “Bunch’a itty bitty annoying things today?”
Tango covers his eyes with his palms and rubs them like it’ll expel the last few hours from his brain. “Oh. Oh yeah,” he says. “Today and today. And then today. And then today again!” He flops backwards onto the couch, fully horizontal, not looking behind himself once to check the fall distance.
“And before you say anything about the boots, I’m sorry they’re gross. A kid threw up in escape room B, and it was a whole thing.”
He’s still in his Decked Out work uniform — that is to say, he’s wearing a printed out, paper Decked Out logo safety pinned to a t-shirt that Jimmy thinks is from their last arcade date — and work boots — Jimmy finally made him buy new ones when the last pair was waterlogged for the fourteenth time. But the boots aren’t messed up or messy; in fact, they look pretty much the same as when Tango left that morning, Ariana Griande tumbler in hand.
“If that’s gross, then I’m scared of what you’ll say my shoes look like,” Jimmy jokes. “I think the floor can survive not taking them off at the welcome mat for a day.”
Tango flops around, presses his hands against the couch, and twists until he’s sitting upright with a clear view to his feet.
“Huh. Guess that was yesterday.”
“... you didn’t go into work yesterday?” Jimmy wipes his hands on his jeans and mosies his way to the living room, leaning over the back of the couch.
“No, I did,” Tango says, leaning into the embrace. His head tips back onto the couch cushions, and he looks Jimmy in the eye with a wry smile. “In fact, I went to work yesterday thirty two times in a row. I know y’all call me a workaholic, but I can’t get anything done if none of my progress saves! It’s ridiculous! I regularly have all the time in the world and no time for anything!”
Jimmy tilts his head to the side and rubs Tango’s shoulders. They slowly relax from where they’d tensed nearly to his ears, and his hair eases to a more manageable orange glow.
He knows for a fact that Tango hasn’t worked the last two days; he doesn’t often take weekends off, but Decked Out’s sister location, the Crastle, needed an extra set of hands for their new timed attraction’s opening day. Sure, it technically counts as work, but Jimmy and Tango had used it as a vacation of sorts.
Cleo, Etho, and Bdubs were happy to offer their spare bedroom, and they don’t get to see the Crastle very often. It was fun: Bdubs especially was excited to show them around his clocktower, and Jimmy can’t lie, it was pretty cool. He even let Tango keep a stopwatch from the new game to fiddle with.
And even if Tango did count that as work days, he never goes in on Wednesdays. There’s no way he’s worked for thirty two days straight. Unless…
“Time loop again?”
“Took longer for you to catch on this go around,” says Tango. “I swear, if Bdubs catches me with spare gadgets one more time, I’m firing him.”
“Love, you only manage your location.”
“That’s what you said three cycles ago, but I’m still gonna try. My vengeance will be sweet and served cold and… and…”
“In an ice cream dish?” Jimmy jokes.
“And in an ice cream dish!” Tango triumphantly holds up a fist, nearly punching Jimmy in the face in his enthusiasm.
Jimmy rounds the carpet and burrows his way into Tango’s side. His ice cream revenge must be infecting the apartment because it definitely wasn’t this chilly before he slammed the door. Speaking of which…
“What had you in such a hurry to get home? Anything new or is this a daily thing?”
“New one, actually,” Tango says. “Tried poking at Etho because Cleo was a no-go, but I ended up with a blizzard on my tail — literally. I thought I was done with the frost overlay when phase three ended, but no.” He draws out the last syllable until it's more groan than word. “Can we, like, skip the burgers and just heat up your frozen nuggets?”
Jimmy makes a vague noise of protest. Not at skipping the burgers — he’s more than familiar with how repetitive meals can get when your fridge looks the same every day — but at sullying his brand new (store-bought), delicious (mediocre), secret (apparently not) chicken nuggets!
He should really know better by now; there are no secrets when time shenanigans are concerned.
Tango leans into Jimmy’s side with a quick peck to his cheek before standing up.
“Don’t give me that,” he says. Jimmy hears an audible pop! when he rolls his head to the side. “I gave in to your puppy dog eyes for seven dinners in a row. Seven! There’s only so long I can keep a grill going when it’s in the negatives outside!”
Just to be contrary, Jimmy rolls his eyes and says: “What, can’t manage one more measly little fire?” The effect is somewhat ruined by the goofy grin on his face.
“Cute,” Tango says as he dives into the freezer, shoving boxes out of the way to get to Jimmy’s expertly hidden cheat meal. (Read: he put it underneath the frozen vegetables because Tango always does the protein when they meal prep.)
One overdramatic sigh later, Jimmy asks “What loop did you say you were on? Thirty two?”
“Sixty one, actually. Skipped work a couple of times in the middle there. It’s not like I can get fired when I’m the manager.”
Three hundred fifty degrees, preheat.
“Short version: it’s definitely from Bdubs’ stopwatchy doodad, he and Cleo never pick up the phone, too much traffic to get to the Crastle before it resets, and I guess now Etho’s causing weather disasters when I try to contact him. Joy.”
“We really need less mad scientist friends.”
“Jimmy, my poor heart; I’m a mad scientist too you know!”
“The kitchen appliances beg to differ. At least Etho can supercharge a dishwasher.” There’s a reason Jimmy had been washing everything by hand; it’s been broken since Tango’s last attempt at AI sentience.
Tango pouts. “Hey, I’ve been bombarded with Crastle tech lately! I’m a busy guy!”
“Too busy to figure out the blizzard outside?”
They turn to the window in tandem. Yep, that’s a blizzard.
“... Maybe tomorrow I mention the bug in Etho’s coding before asking for help.”
Beep!
Tango grabs the baking sheet, chicken nuggets in perfect little rows, and gingerly places it on the oven’s middle rack. No oven mitts; Jimmy’s heart jumps every time before his brain catches up — obviously, Tango can’t get burned. He knows that, yep, definitely. Never forgets.
Close oven, eighteen minutes, bake.
Jimmy wraps his arms around Tango from behind and rests his chin on his head. “Want to have a movie night in?”
“Please. I can get back to sciencing tomorrow. Today. Whatever.” Tango tries to turn around but only succeeds in looking to the left a bit; Jimmy kisses the side of his forehead through giggles.
“It’s a date,” he says. “Now: what have you not watched yet today?”