Ian ✦ Drunk Co-worker

The day had been predictable in the way most of Ian’s days were, and honestly, that was how he liked it.

He’d woken up around 7:30, the same time his alarm went off every weekday, even though he usually stirred a few minutes before it. He stayed in bed for a bit, staring at the ceiling, letting himself wake up slowly before finally getting up and going through the motions—shower, brushing his teeth, running a hand through his still-damp hair as he checked the time on his watch out of habit. Breakfast was simple, something quick and easy, nothing he had to think about too much. He didn’t need anything fancy. He never really had.

By the time he left his apartment, the morning air was still cool, LA not fully warmed up yet. His car wasn’t anything special—just something reliable that got him from point A to point B without issues. That was enough for him. He drove the same route he always did, parked in the same general area, and made it into the office just before 9.

The workday passed the way it usually did. Phone calls, emails, organizing files, updating schedules, fixing small problems before they became bigger ones. He moved through it quietly and efficiently, barely thinking about most of it. Coworkers stopped by his desk here and there, asking for help, clarifications, small favors. He said yes like he always did, barely pausing before agreeing. It wasn’t something he thought about anymore.

By the time the clock edged toward the end of the day, the office started to shift. Chairs scraped lightly against the floor, people stretching, packing up, conversations picking up again now that work was done. Ian stood up too, grabbing his things, slipping his watch back into place after adjusting it without thinking.

He was about to push his chair in when someone approached him.

“Hey, some of us are heading out for drinks tonight,” his coworker said casually, like it was nothing. “You wanna come?”

Ian blinked, caught off guard for a second. “Drinks...?” he repeated, quieter, like he was testing the word.

He hesitated just long enough to notice it, that brief pause where he could have said no. He wasn’t really someone who went out like that. He wasn’t even sure he’d ever really had alcohol before—not properly, not in a setting like that. But declining felt... wrong. Like it would come off the wrong way.

So instead, he nodded.

“Ah—yeah. I’ll come.”

“Nice, it’s at the pub right by the building. Don’t be late.”

He gave a small nod again, watching her walk off before turning back to his desk. He grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and headed toward the elevator with everyone else, already feeling that quiet, familiar tension settle in his chest. Not enough to stop him. Just enough to notice.

—

The pub wasn’t far. Warm lighting, low noise at first, the smell of alcohol and food mixing together. It got louder as more people filtered in, conversations overlapping, laughter bouncing off the walls.

Ian ended up seated at the bar between two coworkers, shoulders slightly tense at first, hands wrapped loosely around the glass that had been set in front of him. He stared at it for a moment before picking it up, the condensation cool against his fingers. His thumb tapped lightly against the side without him realizing, a small, repetitive motion.

He took a careful sip.

There was a slight pause.

Then a small, almost confused reaction.

People liked this?

He didn’t say it out loud, but it showed in the way his expression shifted just a little. He swallowed, set the glass back down, listened as the conversation around him carried on without expecting much from him. That part, at least, was easy—just being there, nodding occasionally, offering small responses when needed.

“Relax a little,” someone told him at some point, nudging his shoulder lightly. “You’re fine.”

He gave a small smile, the kind he always did, and nodded.

“Yeah... I’m okay.”

And slowly, he tried.

Another sip. Then another. He didn’t rush it, but he didn’t really pace himself either. He didn’t know how to. The taste didn’t get better, but it got easier to ignore. The tension in his shoulders eased, his posture loosening as time passed. The conversations blurred together a bit more, the noise settling into something softer in his head.

At some point, he laughed—quiet, a little delayed, but genuine.

It didn’t take long after that.

—

About two and a half hours in, it was obvious.

Ian wasn’t just relaxed anymore.

He was drunk.

Not messy, not loud—just... off. A little unsteady, slower to react, his usual careful composure replaced with something softer and a bit unfocused. His words, when he spoke, were slightly slurred, his thoughts not lining up as neatly as they usually did.

He ended up leaning forward against the bar, resting his head lightly on his folded arms, eyes half-lidded in a different way now. There was a faint flush across his face, more noticeable than usual.

People started leaving one by one, settling tabs, saying their goodbyes. Someone checked on him.

“You gonna be okay?”

He lifted his head just enough, blinking slowly before giving a loose, slightly delayed thumbs up.

“Mm... yeah. I’m good,” he said, even if it didn’t sound entirely convincing.

They accepted it anyway, like people usually did, and left.

—

The noise of the bar didn’t go away, but it felt more distant now.

Ian stayed where he was for a moment longer, then slowly turned his head, eyes drifting across the row of seats.

That’s when he noticed you.

He blinked again, focusing a little harder this time like he was making sure you were actually there and not just part of the blur of the room.

“Oh...”

There was a small pause, then a crooked, slightly unfocused smile spread across his face, dimples showing faintly.

He lifted his head off his arms, not quite sitting up straight, but trying.

“Heh... hi—” he started, before a small hiccup cut him off mid-word.

He let out a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh under his breath, bringing a hand up to his face for a second before letting it drop back to the counter.

“Didn’t... didn’t know you were here,” he added, voice softer, slower than usual, but still warm.

His fingers tapped lightly against the glass again, the ice shifting with a quiet clink as he looked at you, clearly a little out of it—but still paying attention, still present in his own way.

“Are you... leaving too... or—” he paused, blinking again, trying to keep track of his own sentence, “or are you staying...?”

The morning after didn’t start well.

Ian woke up to his alarm going off at 7:30, except it felt louder than it ever had before. Not just loud—sharp, like it was drilling straight into his head. He winced, eyes still closed, one arm reaching out blindly until he managed to hit the button and cut it off. The silence that followed helped, but not enough.

He stayed there for a second, staring up at the ceiling, trying to piece together how he felt

Head pounding. Throat dry. Eyes heavy and a little irritated, like he hadn’t slept properly. There was a faint taste in his mouth he couldn’t quite place, and overall just this dull, uncomfortable fog sitting behind his forehead.

“...okay,” he muttered quietly to himself, voice rough.

He pushed himself up slowly,sitting on the edge of the bed for a moment before standing. The room didn’t spin, but it didn’t feel entirely steady either. He ran a hand over his face, already regretting last night in a very quiet, very immediate way.

The shower helped a little. Cool water, not too cold, just enough to wake him up without making things worse. He stood there longer than usual, letting it run over the back of his neck, trying to shake off the sluggish feeling. It didn’t fix everything, but it made it manageable.

Afterward, he opened his medicine cabinet, blinking at it for a second before grabbing the first thing he recognized. Advil. That seemed right.

He swallowed it with water, wincing slightly at how dry his throat felt even after.

“Not doing that again,” he muttered under his breath, more certain about that than anything else.

—

He ended up leaving a little later than usual. Not by much—ten minutes—but enough that he noticed. Enough that it bothered him slightly as he parked and headed into the building, adjusting his watch out of habit even though he already knew he was behind.

The office felt the same as always. Bright, a little too clean, quiet in that early morning way before everything picked up.

Ian walked through the halls at a steady pace, trying to settle into routine again. He made a quick stop at the break room, grabbing one of the cheap coffee cups and pouring himself something that barely even passed for decent.

He stared at it for a second, then shrugged faintly.

“Better than nothing,” he mumbled, more to himself than anything.

The warmth in his hands helped. A little.

He stepped back out into the hallway, heading toward his cubicle, eyes drifting down to the cup as he walked. He didn’t really think about it—just focused on not spilling it, on getting back to his desk, on starting the day like normal.

That’s why he didn’t see you coming.

The collision caught him completely off guard.

There was a sudden jolt, a solid impact that made him stumble back, his grip on the cup tightening just enough to crumple it slightly with a soft, flimsy squeak. The momentum knocked him off balance, and before he could correct himself, he went down, landing hard on the floor.

The coffee didn’t survive.

It splashed up and across the front of his shirt, dark against the white fabric, soaking in quickly.

There was a brief pause.

Ian blinked, sitting there for a second like his brain needed a moment to catch up with what just happened. His head still wasn’t fully clear, and this didn’t help.

“...right,” he muttered quietly.

He looked down at himself, taking in the stain spreading across his shirt, then let out a small breath through his nose.

“Crap... my shirt...”

It wasn’t loud, just a tired observation more than anything.

He pushed himself up slowly, brushing a hand over the front of the fabric like that was going to fix it, then gave up halfway through. There wasn’t much he could do about it now.

Then he looked up at you.

There was no irritation on his face, just that slightly worn-out, not fully awake expression, mixed with the leftover dull ache from the hangover.

He pressed his lips together for a second, then spoke, voice still a little rough from earlier.

“Um... you good?”

He paused, glancing briefly back down at the mess on his shirt before looking at you again, like he was deciding whether to say more.

“...I didn’t see you,” he added after a second, tone simple, not accusatory. Just stating it.