Some Day One Day (Maylor AU)

Chapter 16

October's cold, bright sunlight flooded the small New York City apartment, a shaft of light shining on the couple who lied in bed, comfortably tangled in one another's arms—too exhausted to hear the alarm blaring from the clock on the nightstand. It was only when the light hit their eyes that the blonde stirred awake, groaning as he rolled off the brunette's chest—waking him up in the process—and slammed his hand down on the device.

"I had the worst dream, Tim," Roger grumbled, burying his face into the pillow.

"Oh yeah?" he muttered, raising his arms and crossing them over his eyes.

"Yeah," the blonde murmured, his description of the dream lost in the cushioning beneath his head. However, what he described was no dream. What he described was exactly what happened last night—the Beatles record, the traumatizing attempt at cutting his hair, Tim and his friend's unexpected return, the accidental slicing of his foot, Tim's intervening, and the worst part of all—the sound of the water that washed his hacked-at blonde locks down the tub drain and the hideous reflection that stared back at him with hair just scraping its shoulders. It had to be a dream, because the man he saw couldn't have been himself. There was no way.

"That's wild," Tim hummed once Roger's incoherent mumbling quieted.

"Yeah, wild," the blonde tiredly agreed, lying there in comfortable silence for a little longer before his closed eyes fluttered open—the red numbers of the digital alarm clock entering his line of vision over the edge of the pillow and setting a fire underneath him.

"Shit!" Roger yelled, shooting up off the bed and heading for the bathroom when a catcalling whistle stopped him in his tracks—the slight pain in his foot registering for the first time since he woke up. The discomfort elicited a hint of suspicion from him, but not enough for him to make the obvious connection. He glanced back over his shoulder to see Tim looking down at him, his lips curled into a smirk and his hands resting behind his head.

"You know, I think I can get used to this," he purred, pushing himself against the headboard so that he was sitting upright, "Why don't you come back to bed and give me a better look at my masterpiece, beautiful?" The blonde's eyebrows furrowed together, not knowing what he meant or if he was being serious. "Oh, come on, don't be such a tease," he coaxed, palming himself through the sheets, "Spare a few minutes and show your so very talented boyfriend some appreciation. It's the least I deserve for all my hard work."

Roger scoffed. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about, but I don't have time for whatever it is you're doing. I can't afford to be late again, Tim. I could lose my job." And with that, he escaped to the small room where some of the floor tiles had been stained a faint shade of red. It wasn't long before a blood-curdling scream echoed through the apartment and the entire complex.

"What? You don't like it?" Tim called from the next room over, Roger's worst nightmare manifesting itself before his very eyes.

The blonde reappeared in the bedroom doorway, livid. "What the hell did you do to me?" he screamed, his heart pounding against his chest so fast he thought it might explode.

"I fixed your mistake!" the brunette shouted back, tossing the bed sheets aside and throwing his legs over the side of the bed.

Roger turned away from Tim and ran his fingers through his shorter hair, worrying about the consequences he was sure to face—namely from Cheryl. She loved his long hair; she told him so on several occasions. God knows what she would do to him for getting rid of it.

"You know, I've been doing that a lot lately," Tim noted, lifting himself up off the mattress and turning to face the man who kept his back to him, arms crossed. "So why not instead of yelling at me about it, you thank me for once?" Roger shot a narrowed-eyed glance over his shoulder. "You've said it before; I know you can say it again. 'Thank you, Tim.' It's that simple. Try it."

He slowly spun back around, matching his boyfriend's stance. "No."

"No?"

"I'm not thanking you, Tim!"

"Well I'm not the one who decided to cut his hair in the middle of the night for no fucking reason!"

There was a reason, and if his dream wasn't a dream, then Tim knew what that reason was, because the blonde remembered explaining why he did what he did. He also remembered the look on Tim's face as his alter ego's name rolled off his tongue. It was a look of shame; a look Roger had never seen in Tim before last year when he set up that appointment with Sid. That was the last appointment he scheduled, and the blonde needed to eliminate any and all chances of another one being made. That's why he was so desperate to get rid of Liz. He didn't think he could handle another situation like that. Hell, he barely survived the first.

Roger clenched his hands into fists by his sides, rage fuming inside of him. He wanted to continue the argument and prove Tim wrong, but he didn't have the time. So, instead, he dropped the conversation and stormed out, snatching a jacket on his way out to throw over the same clothes he wore yesterday—having fallen asleep in them—and hoping he could catch the subway and sneak past Cheryl at the café.

He should've known better.

Cheryl had been waiting for him, counting each minute that passed by in Roger's absence. She was just about ready to fire him, but then she saw him walk in.