Dead Plate Oneshots Would You Still Love Me?

Rody loved Vincent. He really, *really* did. But sometimes, he wasn’t entirely sure how his boyfriend’s brain worked.

Take tonight, for example. Rody had been blissfully asleep, snuggled up under the covers after a long day at work, his dreams a comfortable haze of memories and nonsense. He had the vague feeling that he was dreaming about food—there had definitely been a giant sandwich involved, maybe one with too much mustard. Either way, sleep was good, his mind was finally resting, and everything was just as it should be.

Until Vincent shook him awake.

At first, Rody ignored the light nudge on his shoulder. He was way too comfortable to be bothered by what he assumed was just Vincent moving around in his sleep. It was probably nothing. Probably. But then there was a second nudge—firmer, this time, and accompanied by a voice.

“Rody.”

A muffled groan escaped Rody as he tried to burrow deeper into his pillow. “Mmmph.”

“Rody, wake up.”

Rody cracked one eye open, the dim light from the clock on the nightstand revealing the time in blurry red numbers. 3:23 AM. Why was Vincent waking him up at *3:23 in the morning*?

“For the love of—Vincent,” Rody muttered, his voice groggy and heavy with exhaustion, “it’s the middle of the night. Whatever it is, it can wait until morning.”

There was a pause. Rody briefly thought Vincent had given up and maybe—just *maybe*—he’d be able to fall back asleep. But, of course, no such luck.

“It can’t wait,” Vincent said with unnerving calm, and Rody felt the bed shift as his boyfriend leaned closer, his intense gaze locked on him like this was some kind of life-or-death conversation.

Rody, still half-asleep and confused, sighed heavily and rolled over onto his back, squinting up at Vincent. “Alright, fine. What is it?”

Vincent stared down at him with the most serious expression Rody had ever seen him wear—which, given how intense Vincent could get when thinking about food or restaurant logistics, was saying something.

“If I were a mouse,” Vincent began, in a voice so solemn it sounded like he was about to drop a philosophical bomb, “would you still love me?”

Rody blinked, his brain doing somersaults as it tried to process what he’d just heard. He stared at Vincent for a moment, waiting for some kind of punchline or explanation. None came.

“What?”

Vincent didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. “If I were a mouse,” he repeated, “would you still love me?”

Rody blinked again. “You woke me up,” he said slowly, “to ask if I’d still love you if you were a mouse?”

Vincent’s dark eyes remained locked on his, dead serious. “Yes.”

Rody rubbed his face with both hands, as if trying to physically force himself to wake up enough to deal with this bizarre situation. “Vincent, it’s 3 AM.”

“I’m aware of the time,” Vincent said, completely unfazed. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”

Rody sat up a little, still trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep. “You’ve been… *thinking* about this?”

Vincent nodded. “Yes. It’s important.”

Rody just stared at him, speechless. This wasn’t the first time Vincent had come up with some wild, left-field question in the dead of night, but asking if he’d still love him if he were a *mouse*? This was a new one.

“Why—why would you even *ask* that?” Rody asked, trying to wrap his head around it. “Why a mouse?”

Vincent, looking almost offended by the question, crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s a valid hypothetical. I need to know.”

Rody let out a long, exasperated sigh but couldn’t help the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. This was just Vincent—quirky, weird, and overthinking everything, even in the middle of the night. It was one of those things Rody had learned to live with, and honestly, it was one of the reasons he loved Vincent in the first place. Life with him was never boring.

“Alright,” Rody said, giving in as he shifted to face Vincent more fully, “so, you’re a mouse. You’ve got whiskers, tiny paws, you probably run around stealing crumbs and making nests out of fabric, right?”

Vincent gave a short, approving nod. “Correct.”

“And you’re not some cute pet mouse in a cage or anything? You’re like, an actual wild mouse?”

Vincent tilted his head, considering. “Yes. A wild mouse. I’d live in the walls.”

“The walls,” Rody repeated, trying hard not to laugh. “So you’d be scurrying around the apartment, hiding under furniture, and squeaking at me from the shadows?”

“Precisely.”

Rody bit back a grin, trying to maintain his composure. “And… you want to know if I’d still love you in this scenario?”

Vincent’s gaze remained unwavering. “Yes.”

Rody stared at him for a few more seconds before bursting into laughter, the absurdity of the situation finally hitting him. He laughed so hard his sides hurt, and he had to clutch at the bedsheets to steady himself.

Vincent, for his part, looked vaguely insulted. “This is a serious question, Rody.”

“I know, I know,” Rody managed between laughs, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “It’s just—Vincent, come on! You as a tiny little mouse running around our apartment? You’d get stuck in the toaster or something!”

“I would not get stuck in the toaster,” Vincent said with all the seriousness of someone denying a grave insult. “I’m smarter than that.”

Rody continued to laugh, his head falling back against the pillow. “Alright, alright, fine. I guess I’d still love you, even if you were a mouse.”

Vincent’s expression softened slightly, though he still looked far too serious for the situation. “That’s reassuring.”

Rody chuckled again, shaking his head. “Can I go back to sleep now, or is there another animal you’d like to hypothetically transform into?”

Vincent didn’t respond immediately, and Rody could practically hear the gears turning in his head. He braced himself for whatever was coming next.

“Well…” Vincent began, his voice taking on that same thoughtful tone, “since you mentioned it…”

“Oh no,” Rody groaned, pulling the blanket up over his face. “Here we go.”

Vincent shifted closer, resting his head on Rody’s chest, his fingers tracing absent patterns on the blanket. “If I were a lemon,” he said quietly, as if this were a deep and personal confession, “would you still love me?”

Rody peeked out from under the blanket, staring at Vincent in disbelief. “A *lemon*?”

Vincent nodded solemnly. “Yes. A lemon.”

Rody was dumbfounded. “Vincent, what the hell? Why a lemon?”

Vincent shrugged, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “I like lemons.”

“Well, yeah, you like lemons, but that doesn’t mean you need to turn into one!”

“It’s a hypothetical, Rody. Just answer the question.”

Rody sighed, running a hand through his messy auburn hair. “Okay, sure. I guess I’d love you if you were a lemon, too. Though I’m not sure how dating a lemon would work out.”

Vincent, for the first time that night, smiled—a small, mischievous smile that made Rody immediately suspicious. “You wouldn’t eat me, would you?”

“Jesus, Vincent!” Rody exclaimed, laughing despite himself. “Why is that where your brain goes? Why would I eat you?”

“Well, I *would* be a lemon,” Vincent said, his voice teasing now. “Lemons are meant to be consumed.”

Rody raised an eyebrow, his amusement growing. “I think that might be the weirdest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Vincent chuckled softly, his head still resting on Rody’s chest. “You haven’t answered the question.”

Rody shook his head in disbelief, gently tugging Vincent closer. “No, Vincent, I wouldn’t eat you. I’d find some way to preserve you. Maybe pickle you or something.”

Vincent tilted his head thoughtfully. “Pickled lemons are quite popular, actually.”

Rody snorted. “Of course they are.”

They fell into a comfortable silence after that, Vincent still nestled against Rody, and Rody still trying to wrap his head around the sheer ridiculousness of their conversation. This was life with Vincent—oddball hypotheticals at 3 AM, intense philosophical debates about fruit, and a whole lot of laughter. And as weird as it all was, Rody wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Just as he was drifting back to sleep, Vincent murmured, “You wouldn’t really pickle me, would you?”

Rody groaned, half-amused, half-exasperated. “Go to sleep, Vincent.”

Vincent chuckled, his fingers tracing lazy circles on Rody’s chest. “Right. Goodnight, Rody.”

“Goodnight, lemon-boy.”

Rody could feel Vincent smile against his chest, and for the first time in what felt like hours, the apartment was finally quiet.

At least until Vincent woke him up again tomorrow night