Work Text:
Black Mesa might as well be Hell.
That’s something you’ve come to understand over the past few years - there’s no rhyme or reason for any of their nonsense, and there’s not even ramps anywhere. Handrails. Safety measures? Nothing.
No OSHA representative has ever set foot inside of these halls. You are sure of this fact more than any other.
Anomalous Materials is a department with, perhaps, some of the most relaxed rules about how they conduct their experimentation. It’s alarming at best, downright illegal at worst, and you’re considering how much longer it’ll take for someone to blow that whistle. Hell, you could, but - Black Mesa works with the government. You know what happens to government whistleblowers.
You really want to, you think. You’d love to ruin the public image Black Mesa has, if only to get back at your shitty boss - he’s held you back from your lunch break, and now it’s four. It’s four in the afternoon, and someone’s probably stolen your food from the fridge, and that’s just another shitty thing you have to deal with after being assigned here.
But no one’s taken anything, thank God. You reheat your leftover fried rice in the microwave and sit yourself in that one sad little corner, trying to pretend you’re not so, so fucking alone here.
Being temporarily reassigned has its perks - new place, new people, new things to study. New ways to occupy your time. But you miss your coworkers, your old supervisor who was unusually nice to everyone, and how much more calm the environment was. Here? It’s hectic every day. Systems break down every hour. How did they keep the funding? How do they spend the funding?
You don’t care. This place sucks.
There’s movement from the doorway - is it a doorway if there’s no door? Why didn’t their breakroom have any doors?
Another scientist’s walking into the room. Walking? Skipping, maybe. Certainly happier to be here than you are.
He turns, and you catch his profile, finally and, uh.
Oh, it’s him.
So... there’s this guy. And his name… uh, is Tommy Coolatta, and you know. You know, okay? Coolatta - haha, funny. But you can look past that. You are so very much capable of looking past a silly last name.
He’s never even spoken to you, not directly. But you’ve been working closely with his team, something, something, crystals. Something. You don’t know. Thoughts leave your brain when he turns to wave at you. His smile is so bright, his eyes are so gold.
You’re hoping you’re waving back. You’re pretty sure you’re waving back at him.
He doesn’t say anything to you, and you wonder why you don’t see him in the breakroom more often - workaholic? Doesn’t like hanging around the other scientists? Maybe he just doesn’t like it here, either?
Tommy swipes his card at the soda machine in the room and presses a button for - you don’t know, you don’t really drink soda. What falls into the bottom of the machine is an unnatural orange liquid in a bottle labelled ‘Sunkist’ and you… you might have heard of that before, maybe. Sounds familiar. Probably seen it at the store, or something.
It’s weird - he doesn’t have anything with him. You never see food with his name on it in the fridge. Tommy has to… eat, right? Surely he eats lunch.
You look back down at your food - lukewarm leftovers, fun. Bottle of water, fun! You probably seem so fucking exciting, so interesting. Jesus, no wonder he doesn’t talk to you.
He’s probably leaving now, you think, and you glance up to check, but he’s - he’s right there at your little lonely table, pulling the chair out and sitting across from you. He’s right there.
Oh, your gay little heart. Your gay, gay little heart can’t take it.
And, God, yeah, his stupid face when he drinks half the bottle of Sunkist in a few seconds is so… ridiculous, but you really like that stupid face. Why’s he sitting so close?
You can tell he struggles to not slam the half empty bottle on the table. Half full? You don’t know. “Hi, I’m Tommy!”
Ah, fuck, conversation? In this day and age? “I’m - I know. We... work together?”
His face turns from cheerful to confused to sorry all in the span of a few seconds as he glances down at the ID card clipped to your coat, before he stutters out an apology, “Oh, I - uh, I’m sorry, I’m not the best with… faces. Didn’t want to, uh, I didn’t want to assume we’ve met already.”
“No, it’s fine! It’s okay. We don’t really know each other, I just… I know who you are, obviously! I’m just here temporarily.”
Tommy’s smile only half returns, and you feel kinda terrible about that. There’s a silence, an incredibly awkward one, and you’re not sure if the gear-turning you can hear is coming from your own brain or from his.
His eyes aren’t focused on you, now. You follow them down, and they’re - he’s staring at your food.
He really didn’t bring lunch, huh.
You’re not really thinking things through. You have to ask. “Are you - do you want some of my food?”
That’s not a question he was prepared for, probably. He’s fiddling with the top of his bottle of soda, unscrewing it and screwing it back on, embarrassed of being called out for… being hungry? Not planning ahead enough? Either way, he’s blushing, self conscious. It’s more gold than red, but it fits him. You don’t have the brain space available to question it.
Eventually, he makes up his mind. It’s a nod, and you push the whole container over to him, fork and all. Anyone else, and you would have thought to get up and wash your fork off, or, or - go get one of the extra plastic ones they have in a container on the counter, at least, but you don’t think of any of that.
Not until Tommy thanks you, soft and sheepish, and takes a bite, using the fork you just had in your mouth.
You’re lucky you don’t immediately choke on your own spit.
It’s not like it matters! What a - what a fucking fanfiction trope, the indirect kiss. Christ, could you yearn a little louder for the guy who didn’t know you existed 10 minutes ago? Who even cares? God. Still, it’s not… it doesn’t matter, you’re not carrying any kind of illness. Probably. Maybe he’ll catch whatever stupid disease you have that makes you think these stupid, gay thoughts.
Your face is a little red, maybe, but he doesn’t comment on it. Mostly because he’s too busy eating your lunch as fast as possible. He must have been starving, haha.
You were hungry, probably. Before this. Not really thinking about that anymore.
He says something, a compliment about your cooking, maybe? But you don’t hear it. Too busy thinking. Hey, maybe you should ask him out on a date. Maybe, maybe. Your life is full of so many maybes and somedays. What could it hurt to ask?
Well.
He is a coworker. You know he cares a lot about workplace rules - he spouts off so many things from handbooks you’ve never heard of. He probably wouldn’t be a fan of the idea.
God, could he turn you in for that? Turn you in for just asking? Is that how HR works?
Still, there’s a half of your brain that’s telling you to just go for it. He’s cute. Fuck it. Fuck it! Just… ask him out. Ask him out to coffee, or something. Yeah, yeah, that’s a great - that’s a good idea. Just say, like, Hey, Tommy, do you want to go get coffee? Sometime? Get to know each other better, maybe? Since we’re working together and all?
His face lights up across the table, fork still in his mouth. He pulls it out as fast as he can, excited to reply to - reply to what? What’d you say?
“I’d love to!”
Fuckin’ - of course you said it out loud. Shitty fanfiction tropes are the language of the universe. Bad. Terrible. You’ll have to have a talk with God later, or whatever. Whoever did this.
The smile he’s giving you now is so much better than the sad, pitiful one he had given you earlier. You feel warmer just looking at it. A little less stressed. Not by much, though.
“Wait, let me - uh,” and his train of thought nearly stops entirely as he searches his pockets for something. He comes up empty. “Do you - oh, great!” Great?
He pushes himself up from his chair, leans over the table, and plucks your pen from where you’d stuck it behind your ear, like the nerd you are. Fucking - nerd, idiot, blushy loser. He doesn’t comment, just smiles, and scribbles his number on a napkin, and - you’re going to have a full stupid breakdown in this stupid break room.
Haha.
He’s cute. He’s really cute. Fuck. He's agreeing to a date. A kinda date? A date-but-maybe-not-a-date. A... date?
Tommy picks up his bottle of neon orange soda, pushes in his chair, ready to leave. Still smiling. “Thank you - for, uh, for the food. And being such nice company! Feel free to text me whenever you want!”
Yeah. Yeah! Yeah, you think you will. You absolutely will.