In The Still of the Night
Summary: Martin Brenner is a very dedicated man to his work. Too dedicated, it seems, to take much notice of his very own wife. (AKA you try to convince Brenner to come to bed, but he’s far too engrossed in his work to even notice you. A subsequent cold shoulder shows him just how you feel.)
Warnings: slight angst, Brenner is a bit of a cold asshole (until he wants something), the awful doctor attempts to win you over, the tiniest mention of smut but it doesn’t become anything
Word Count: 2291
Notes: So I’m extremely late to the Alex Breaux Brenner bandwagon but dear god have I launched myself onto it over the last day or two
He’s horrid and I love him
(If you are awaiting a request pls do not fear, they are not being ignored, I just had to write this to get this idea for this awful man out of my head)
Anyways Brenner is evil and horrible and terrible and I want to fuck him
Enjoy!!! 🩷
Martin has been working far harder than usual in recent weeks.
Even when not in the lab, late nights and long hours spent inside his study seem to have become the norm. His side of the bed feels far icier to you every evening without him in it. Something in his work is gradually getting to him, and it’s becoming more evident as the time goes by. You can’t even remember the last time you enjoyed a quiet night with him, or last felt his loving hands against your skin.
Tonight, you hope to change that.
A pretty dress you rarely wear is the first thing you pull out to help do that. A light one normally saved for special occasions. It’s joined by some makeup with his favourite shade of red lip, and a little curl in your hair that makes it bounce as you move. Everything you know that he normally loves.
It’s already late by the time you’ve put yourself together, and your husband still hasn’t risen from his desk. One last check in the bathroom mirror sees you heading out of the room towards his study, practicing a very slight sway in your hips along the way.
When you reach his study you stand in the doorway for a moment, leaning against the frame while you wait for his attention to turn your way, and you anticipate his reaction anxiously. You hope he’ll like the effort you’ve made for him. It becomes clear very quickly that he’s far too invested in whatever he’s doing to even look up at you, so you opt instead to slowly move around behind him.
Not once does he look up the entire time you make your way over.
You can see his paperwork clearer while you stand at his back. Whatever he’s working on, his scribbles make very little sense from where you are. With the line of work he’s in you’re sure they would make even less sense close up. You don’t bother to concern yourself for too long with it. Eager hands come up to rub his stiff shoulders, though he doesn’t take much notice of them doing so. You expect his muscles to relax under your touch - instead, they just tighten.
“You’re working so hard, dear…” Your voice is low as you continue your gentle massage. He’s still wearing his shirt, though his waistcoat is unbuttoned and jacket discarded, and the slightly looser look has you desperate to get him feeling far more comfortable. “Don’t you want to come to bed?”
It takes him a second to even register your question, and another to respond. “Sure. In a minute.”
The short response catches you slightly off guard. It seems you’ll have to turn up the effort.
"Martin," your tired voice sounds as silky as you can make it. You let your hands slide slowly over his shoulders, gradually down his front and under his navy waistcoat, feeling his muscles tense under your touch. His skin feels warm even through his white shirt. "Come to bed, honey."
The doctor pays you very little mind. You take notice of his half eaten plate of dinner pushed aside on his desk. Earlier, he had reassured you that he would finish it while he worked. That had meant another dinner spent alone at the dining table for you, with every one feeling even lonelier than the last. Whatever he's working on, it must be important, though you know this late work will have him exhausted in the morning.
Soft hands rubbing circles over his shirt still do nothing to stir him even as time passes by. A part of you begins to wonder how long you should continue until it would be an appropriate time to give up. If he would only turn around, he would see the actual effort you had made for him. The way you had done up your hair, and put on the exact lipstick you knew he would like. Even your little dress would surely raise his brow, and with any luck, something else.
It becomes clear that just words and gentle hands won’t do very much to pull him from his current focused state. Looking to snap him out of this trance, you move to press your lips slowly to his cheek, then his jaw, until coming to whisper into his ear. "It's so late darling. Come on, come to-"
"I told you to give me a minute." There’s no hint of jest in his spat out words. His muscles tense harder underneath your fingers. Martin breaths deeply, then lets out a very sharp sigh, as though his order wasn’t enough to convey his mood. Just to drive his point further, he raises one hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Go on. I’ll join you when I’m done.”
When I’m done. In Martin’s world, that could be hours. Operating on his own time and expecting you to do the same, as though he sometimes forgets that the whole planet isn’t living in his world.
It takes you a moment to move yourself away. Uncertain hands eventually leave his hard chest awkwardly, and you step back to stand up straight. There’s a very familiar defeated feeling in your chest, knowing it’s time to retire to bed for another night without your strangely distant husband.
When on earth did he grow this frigid?
You’re not even sure whether you should bother to say something in response to his snapping, so you don’t. You just huff and turn on your heel to go to bed - not because you’ve been told to, but because you’re no longer bothered to wait up for him. If he was bothered enough to pay you any mind, he may even notice the clack of your heels against the hard floor. When in a good mood he normally loves to see you wear them.
The bedroom feels much colder when you eventually reach it. You give a quick comb through your hair before changing out of your clothes. Your pretty dress gets left out on purpose, hanging up where you know he’ll see it to ensure he knows you had worn it. The heels he likes you to wear get left on the floor directly under it. You don’t even bother to wash off your makeup, though you now regret even having bothered to do it.
If he can’t see you all done up for him, then you may as well make sure he knows exactly what he missed.
***
The birds are softly chirping outside the window by the time you feel the bed dip. The sun hasn’t quite peeked through the curtains yet, despite it already threatening to rise outside. Martin sighs heavily as he sits. Lately it feels as though he is weighed down by some unspoken burden. At this early hour, you can’t bring yourself to care enough to ask what it is. With your back facing him, you keep your eyes shut tight and try to pretend to not even register his presence.
You hear him kick off his shoes, before slowly hanging his clothes. There’s a quietness to his movements. A deliberate one, as though he doesn’t want to wake you. Oh, how considerate.
When he eventually peels back the covers to join you underneath them, you don’t even bother to turn and greet him.
“Sorry, sweetheart…” the words are whispered against your ear, while a long arm comes around to pull you into his chest. With your back pressed against it you can feel his skin bare. “Things are just… I’m just very busy.”
His apology is met with silence. After enough time has passed without a response, he just pulls you in closer. Now that your back is flush against him, your cheeks can’t help but grow a little hot. His slender arm wraps tighter around your middle.
“I know you’re awake. I’m here now, you don’t have to pretend you can’t hear me.” Though his words should seem caring, there’s an edge to them that you can’t quite pinpoint. It’s not an angry one, nor is it icy. More of a slightly snarky tone woven through them. After a few moments of continued silence, Martin sighs quietly, and presses a soft kiss to your cheek. His next words are spoken low and deep against your skin. “I saw your pretty dress hanging up. Were you wearing that for me?”
The feeling of his lips against you make you shiver, and you try hard to ignore a suddenly brewing arousal beginning to claw through your exhaustion. It’s been some time since you were wrapped up like this. Silently, you nod. At least he notices the dress now. Even if it is a few hours too late.
Martin pushes himself up on an elbow, before pulling you to lay your head back flat against the pillow and look up at him. You can just about make out his features in the gradually brightening room. Even in the dimness, it’s easy to tell that something is troubling him, more so than usual. You’re sure the lines on his face have only deepened in recent weeks.
“Did your makeup too.” His observation is met with the same heavy silence. The arm around you moves, the hand coming up to rest gently on your cheek. The cold metal of his wedding ring stings on your skin. A reminder of the love and union you’re supposed to be experiencing.
At this point, it feels more like his work is the thing he should have married. He’s been far more tied to it recently than he has been to you.
“You made such an effort for me.” He traces your faded red lips with his thumb. Tired eyes remain stuck on them for a moment, before flicking back up to stare into your own. His voice reduces to a whisper. “I’m a fool to disregard you, dear.”
Swallowing hard, you tear your eyes away from his own to stare past him at the ceiling. Looking too long into his blue eyes may sway you to melt underneath him, but it’s late, and you want him to know the opportunity is long gone.
Sensing your everlasting reluctance, Martin offers you a smile in another attempt to warm your cold shoulder. “You look lovely. Really. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.”
You didn’t even notice earlier. Letting out a small sigh, you move away to turn back onto your side, but Martin’s hand remains on your face and pulls you back to look at him again. The pads of his long fingers press harder into your cheek. Not harshly, or painfully, but just enough to make you aware that he wants you attention.
“Haven’t had any time with you in so long.” Martin leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek. Then a peck to your lips that you don’t quite return. “I’ve been so caught up in work…” His lips graze against yours while he speaks in a mumble. A shift in his hips makes you aware that he’s half hard already. The feeling takes you by surprise. “It’s been so long since we-“
“Go to sleep, Martin. It’s late.” Or early, you think, hearing the birds singing louder outside.
You’re tempted to bite back and tell him that whatever he’s after, he would have gotten it hours ago had he only followed you to bed when you asked. Though the feeling of his body does stir a small something deep inside you, you ignore it in favour of holding your ground. You’re too far past the point of wanting to try to keep him happy tonight. Had he rubbed against you like this all those hours ago, or muttered sweet words and kissed your skin as he does right now, then maybe your reaction would have been different.
“So you can speak.” His sarcasm only further irritates you, and you let the emotion show on your face in a glare. He tilts his head at your very clear annoyance and presses his fingers into your skin slightly harder. “Here I was, worried the cat had gotten your tongue.”
One of your hands comes up to swiftly pull his own from your face, before you finally turn to lay over on your side again. You ignore the sudden emptiness that you now feel without his touch. A part of you expects him to reach for you, to pull you up against him or to pull you onto your back again, but his body is instead frozen just behind you.
“Goodnight, Martin.”
A few moments pass before he shifts just slightly. It’s clear that he’s thinking over his next move, thinking of any other words or ways to loosen your firm stance. You remain where you are, stiff and rigid while you wait for him to move away. Eventually he decides to give up on his affectionate act, and shuffles to the other side of the bed where he turns his body away from you with a huff. The movement reminds you of a toddler not getting his way.
“Goodnight.”
He barely whispers it, but you hear it very clearly in the quiet room. The cold distance in the bed feels like a mile now that he’s created it. Wrapping the blanket tighter around you doesn’t do much to subdue the shiver that has suddenly come over you, and it does even less to replace the feeling of him pressed against your back.
Maybe by morning things will feel a little better, or you’ll feel like your suddenly withdrawn husband really does care for you for a change. Just like he had done before.
Even if morning is practically already here.
