Chapter Text
The lulling rattle of the centrifuge slows to a steady halt and you hear the beep of its anti-aerosol mechanism unlock. Finally! You can store your spun samples and go home. The cultures can wait; they won’t be done incubating until tomorrow anyway. All specimens are plated. The tissues have been refrigerated. Your reports are filed. You check your watch: it’s nearly 1am.
That makes another longer-than-intended shift working in the microbiology department of the FBC. This night counts as overtime, but you can’t complain. How many scientists get to work with other dimensional bacteria and paranaturally influenced cell lines? This is what you went to college for. This position!…and maybe one higher up, if you keep your fanciful head on straight. To partake in discovery is worth the exhaustion, even if you’re just an assistant. Finishing the setup up tonight will keep your supervisor happy, the overtime pays well, the government benefits are ample, and it’s not like you had plans for the evening back at your apartment. You consider it a night productively well spent.
You toss your lab coat in the hazardous material bin. You don’t want to take any organisms from work home with you. You cleanse your hands, enact the decontamination protocol, and gather your belongings to head back home.
Flicking the lab lights off, you breach the common area of the research sector. The evening air of the bureau is sparse without the buzz of morning activity. Your position was listed with variable hours, but you are no stranger to the night shift, and sometimes you take solace in the space devoid of human noise pollution. Not many, if any employees are present at this hour. It’s peaceful.
You unbutton your collared blouse and hike up your slacks, preparing for the ascent back to your lonely cobalt sedan. The leather seats are likely cold. The forecast predicted below freezing temperatures out in the real world. Maybe your shivering will keep you awake on the drive home. The research sector is a biosphere with a temperate climate all its own, and the lush plants are a vibrant green year-round inside the sector. It’s hard not to envy the cozy ivy sleeping on the wall as you walk; you could pass out mid-step at this point.
It’s quiet enough to hear the leaves rustle as the air conditioning circulates. Maybe it’s your bleary eyes, but the lights seem dimmer at this hour. Staring down a microscope is straining after the 5th day in a row. You take your metallic frames off to rub your eyes. When your world refocuses, you notice a halogen glow in the distance. Looks like you’re not the only one working overtime this week. God your bones are tired. But you’re almost there. Just a few more steps.
You can see the elevator to the main level now.
You check your crossbody bag to ensure that you haven’t forgotten your keys. Your fatigue-addled brain won’t make that mistake in the parking garage again. At least not tonight. Your slender hand deftly rummages through an organized mess of necessities: gum, mints, ID badge, lotion.. nope. When rummaging it’s always elusively bigger on the inside. Phew . They’re still there in your personal pocket dimension.
The sound of glass crashing assaults your ears, and your panicked hand jerks from your purse. A muffled thud follows. Whatever that was, it didn’t sound good. You’ve had your share of assistance settling into the bureau. You can return the favor. What if they’re hurt? Your legs rush you toward an echo of profanity. It’s coming from the office with the light still on. Concern thrusts you through the doorway before your fatigued mind can register the name plate on the door.
“Hello, are you ok?” You call out.
“Ack…” a hand half-heartedly flails from behind the desk. “…yes?” amid rustling “ahh…no? I may have slipped.” A pain-laden tenor tone responds.
“Can I lend a hand?” Your earnest voice echoes.
Stooping, you round the corner of the desk, preparing to dust off your limited clinical skills. First aide isn’t your specialty but you’ve picked up some useful tricks from your previous lab employment at the hospital.
Your body stiffens as if paralyzed by a botulinum toxin, and what little hue remaining in your face evaporates
— oh shit. It’s Him .
You’re regretting your helpful impulse now. Your bosses' boss is toppled over, back pressed to the cold tile…
Why did it have to be him? '" The” Dr. Darling.
The head of the research department is sprawled on the lab floor, nestled between bits of glass and amber alcohol. What a sight.
You’ve had a day dream or two about the man. Who hasn’t? But you’ve never pictured him like this. You keep your fantasizing to a minimum at work...but this is real and here he is. His vacant neck is flushed, stubble peppers his warm cheeks, his hair is a deflated nest, and his eyes are hooded and wild. A toothy grin wrestles against his discomfort. How can he still be attractive in this position? Or maybe your overworked brain is imagining things. Dangerous things! He’s not his usual, presentable himself. You can’t rip your eyes away. Where are Darling’s glasses?!
This is not how you remember him from the smiles he’s flashed you passing on the stairs. Or from the blushing glances you’ve attempted to conceal in the cafeteria over pastries and coffee. Your scopes of practice are not remotely similar, and all you’ve exchanged is small talk, but the enigma of a man enjoys caffeinated prattling and you’ve developed a slight fixation with him from your limited sugar infused crossings. You gave him your snack a week ago... and he repaid you with his company on your break.
It’s really just a passing fancy, but this is decidedly, most certainly, NOT good to find him in such a compromising position. HR wise, you should make this sexy trainwreck someone else’s problem and be halfway home by now – but how can you abandon that face?
“Dr. Darling!?” You manage to sputter.
Yes, you know him. Everyone knows him. It’s impossible to work here without knowing Casper Darling. He is the poster boy for the research department. Does he even remember your name?
Your hand extends to help him up.
“In the flesh. But I think this situation would dictate a less formal greeting.” He grunts as he clasps your outstretched hand. He hasn’t attempted to pull himself up yet. “Just call me, Casper.”
“Casper?…" His name feels too intimate on your palate. "I’m…”
“—My favorite new member of the biology team. You’ve been held up on the latest project, too, I see,” He drawls, pulling against your counter weight as you brace.
“I was on my way out when I heard a commotion. I…” you pause as you attempt to transfer him to a neighboring chair. The smells of whisky, cinnamon cologne, and his own aura invade your senses as he leans against your smaller frame for support. The heat of his body radiates through your hands.
“And I’m terribly sorry you happened upon this mess. Thank you again for sharing that last blueberry muffin on Tuesday.” He interjects. “That sweet mass of carbohydrates got me through a string of never- ending meetings.”
He’s back in his chair. The doctor is clearly somewhat inebriated, but he doesn’t seem to have hit his head. His mental faculties are intact. Your eyes examine him from where you stand...maybe you should check his vitals, but that would require touching him further. You don’t trust yourself with that. He seems overly casual but otherwise, ok?
The same cannot be said of you. Your abdomen is fluttering with the bursting of silky cocoons.
“You’re welcome?” You remember to let go of his hand and arm. “Did you hit your head? I don’t see any blood. Is there anything I can do?”
Edging closer you actively look him over for injuries.
“I’m fine.” He dismisses. “Had perhaps one drink too many. I’ve always been a lightweight, but I’ll live.”
Is he convincing himself? The doctor sways from an invisible breeze, ebbing in his current thought. You’re not convinced either but what do you say in this situation? It feels wrong to leave him in this state. You should not be here. You rack your brain.
“You might want to consider switching to coffee…they carry decaf?” You posit.
You spot his glasses behind the chair. They appear to be intact. You bend over to grab them and hand them to the doctor.
“You’re not wrong,” he sighs with a turn of his head.
Your fingers brush as he takes his glasses. Worry floats out of his mouth.
“It’s been a long week, long month, really” he corrects himself, putting his circular frames atop his nose.
You’ve seen a small slice of what the bureau investigates, overheard chatter above your pay grade. With what the doctor oversees, you can’t possibly imagine. The workload. The immense stress.
“You don’t need to explain, doctor. I’m sure it’s classified. We all have our ways of coping. I’m just glad you’re ok. And you didn’t land on your face. Can I escort you to the clinic? I’ve been there a few times myself. Those broken test tubes are sharp.” You raise a healing finger to illustrate your point. “I don’t mind if it ensures your safety.”
He glances over your offer, as if he didn’t hear you.
You catch yourself staring at his lips and the little whiskers perched upon them as the gray glints in the nocturnal light. He’ll be fine. You really should go. Before you do something regrettable yourself. The lack of sleep has left you a little delirious.
You tear your voracious eyes away to your hands to fidget. Little pops fill the silence as you crack your knuckles. Hopefully he hasn’t noticed your ogling.
“There’s an unceasing surplus of data and reports to review, but I think I’m done for the night,” he continues licking his lips. “Did I hit my face, is that why you’re staring? It’s a hair numb.”
Your wide eyes meet his. Shit.
“No, I’m sorry, Doctor. I...”
“Casper” he corrects you.
“Do—Casper, I-” you can’t hide the embarrassment from coloring your face “No, your face is lovely, I mean, perfect—” you need to shut up.
“No need to apologize”.
He gestures to his booze soaked coat and the shattered glass and bottle on the floor. He flashes a self-deprecating grin.
You don’t want him to think you’re judging him. Who are you to judge the process of a genius? Your foggy brain is passed empty on exculpatory explanations. Honesty is probably the only option here. Can't fuck that up, can you? Maybe he won’t even remember this tomorrow.
“Casper, what I mean is,” you confess as you position yourself against the desk beside him. “I’m not a medical expert, but your face does not appear physically injured.” You attempt to back-peddle before your hormones throw you further down this hole.
“I have the utmost respect for you, doctor, if there’s anything I can do…I just, forgive my staring, I think you have shapely lips.” You're staring, again.
“And accompanying facial features.” You’re making it worse.
Your eyes dart away.
“Why, thank you? I’m aware," a whimsical chuckle lofts from his throat “but you are welcome to stare.”
Oh!
Is that the whisky talking? This must be the whisky talking. Or confidence?
What’s your excuse—You can’t blame the whisky. Is it rampant Casperitis? That would explain the sudden onset of palpitations and fever.
This is a bad idea, but the words are free before you can think.
“Is that an invitation?” You half joke. “ —to study them personally?”
He leans toward you in his chair, stroking his beard. The corners of his lips are turned provocatively upwards.
“It might be…”
“Doctor—“
“Casper” he insists, drawing out the syllables, drawing you further into his gaze.
Deep, dark pools of coffee transfix on your irises.
“May I?” A spoken courtesy, but your body is not really asking.
He continues to stare in silent encouragement.
Your incessant curiosity closes the distance between your faces stopping a few centimeters breaths apart. This is a very bad idea , but in this moment, you ache to know what those lips feel like. Your index and pointer fingers saunter over the outline of his lower lip, dragging across the sharp hairs under it to rest on his chin.
You open your mouth to compliment him. You want to say that this may just be the alcohol, that you don't want to take advantage of him, when he clasps your hands together and his lips are caressing yours.
Are you sure you’re not asleep at your desk? No. This is too rousing to be a dream even if your eyelids are closed in pleasure.
The aftertaste of ethanol is heavy but his touch is gentle, smooth, pleading. The kiss is long and soft like a velvet ribbon unfurling before you. You want to tie him up in a bow, like he’s knotting together your insides, and unwrap him over and over. Before you can gasp for breath, he withdraws to lean back in his office chair, fingers steepled in his lap, as he studies you.
“Casper,” You beg.
“I like the sound of my name on your lips,” he inhales.
“And I like the taste of yours.”
You suppress the urge to growl. You’d like nothing more than to saddle him in his office chair and drag your canines across the pink flesh of his neck, but you shouldn’t be so forward. You haven’t even asked him on a date. You have standards. He likely does as well.
“Do I also have permission to stare in the future…for further observation?” You ask.
He swallows between a labored breath.
“Yes…” he sighs, standing to remove his coat, perhaps to keep his own urges in check.
“It’s late, and I’m still coated in flammable liquid. Someone has to clean up this mess, and, no, it won’t be you. I suspect you've done enough of Dr. Gray's cleanup for one evening,” He runs a hand through his chaotic hair. “But consider this an open invitation, when I’m more presentable.”
His exhaustion is apparent as his arousal, but you can’t help yourself. You want more.
“I rather like the current presentation. It’s a bit devil may care, but I don’t think you’re going to burst into flames.”
He shakes his head in amusement.
“I appreciate your candor and your concern, but we both ought to call it a night.”
Much as you’d like to pursue this further, he’s right . And maybe you misread the signals or he changed his mind.
“Of course,” You agree. It was nice while it lasted. Brief and beautiful – like the life of a fruit fly
Drosophila Melanogaster , with the second largest testes in the animal kingdom by body ma-.
Stand down, woman! You berate yourself, passions not fully cooled.
The doctor walks you, hand on the small of your back, to the entrance of his office door. As you turn to say goodnight, he tentatively grabs your wrist. His other hand directs your chin to face him.
“Thank you,” he smiles above a whisper. “I needed that.”
And he presses your back to the wall to kiss you in broken restraint.
Your abdominal parasites have metamorphized into ravenous moths, and they are tearing into the wool of your stomach lining. Your mouth opens to the doctor's and they flutter loose with a moan. If you don't stop now, you won't be able to control yourself.
“Anytime, Casper” you exhale into his hand as you break away.
He turns his head back. His conflicted features are saying stay, but now isn’t the time. You understand. He needs to sober up and you have work in the morning.
“Get some rest.”
He squeezes your hand, as he turns about to recede into his lair. He has one more task to complete, lest the strange janitor give him an earful.
“Please stop by the clinic when you get a chance. They can get you an IV …and be careful with the glass,” you warn.
“You’re welcome to follow up on my injuries in the daylight.” He calls back.
” I’ll stop by your office after my shift tomorrow, around 5pm. Don’t die in the meanwhile.”
“I wouldn’t dare, too much work to be done, and no successors in sight. I’ll see you then.”
He waves you off.
It’s a date.
