Work Text:
Doctor George Huang, Special Agent of the FBI, assigned to the FBI office in New York City, was in dire need of coffee. And a new shirt. He shook his head wearily.
No. It wasn’t just his white French-cuffed button down dress shirt that needed replacing. His silk blend tie, formerly a shiny grey and blue striped pattern, was now stained purple and red in various places by blood. It was tacky now, and the smell was absolutely awful. He would have thought that the water would have broken up the chemical bonds in the blood and kept it from ruining his ensemble completely.
The reflection staring back at him, a complete wreck if he admitted it to himself, was rather like a walking testament to the toll the case had taken on him. Years with the BAU had taught him not to get attached, but these victims had somehow managed to bypass his usual failsafe for emotional distance.
He had dark circles under his eyes. His tie was crooked, though no one would have noticed with all of their attention focused on the ghastly stains all over the silk. His pants had shrunk from the water, and were scuffed at the hems from his pacing. He had bitten a hole in the inside of his bottom lip, and had only managed to stop chewing at it when he had noticed Chester – Detective Lake – staring at him quite intently during a briefing earlier.
Now his mind returned to that mar in the smooth flesh of his mouth just as his tongue retraced its lines like a hot laser. He winced, but it didn’t stop his teeth from pulverizing the area once more. He sighed.
“May as well change out of these ruined clothes.”
He kept a spare set in a locker in the ME Werner’s office, purely because she had suggested the idea and had been adamant that he acquiesce. Now George was thankful that he had brought in some clothes – nothing special; just some jeans and a sweater plus some socks and a pair of beaten-up converse – but at the time he had been more than a little annoyed by the woman’s almost motherly pushiness. She had delivered said clothes to him earlier, without the slightest tip-off, which had been George’s original impetus for looking into the mirror in the bathroom.
He hated to admit how vain he was.
Quickly he entered a stall and found that it would not lock. He groaned, but pressed on. Peeling off his sopping wet suit pants proved a daunting task, and shucking off his underwear was even more difficult. The soggy garments hit the tile floor with a sickening plop as the air, which was a normal temperature really, hit George’s damp skin.
He shivered and rushed to get warm, dry clothes on. He had never been so glad for his faded jeans and cotton briefs.
Next he divested himself of his ruined tie and equally ruined shirt and mournfully deposited them on the floor with his other wet clothes. He reached for a shirt, but his hand grasped nothing but air. He looked down, and sure enough there was no sweater to be found. His shoes and socks were gone too, and he was certain beyond a doubt that he had brought them upstairs with him.
He cursed under his breath, and not in English. He was shivering cold in the bathroom, and he certainly couldn’t go outside in the New York City winter without shoes and a shirt.
Perhaps he could just wear his suit shoes and his jacket on the walk home?
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he told himself. “There’s no reason not to go out into the main office and ask if anyone’s seen your clothes!”
But even that task proved to be more daunting than he had anticipated in his current state. Dr. George Huang, PhD, MDP, Special Agent of the FBI, found himself creeping along the hall like a fugitive. He spotted his clothes right beside a certain detective’s desk, and grimaced. He took a few steps across the room the retrieve his clothes from the small under-window heater before he heard the voice he had least hoped to hear.
“I put them on the heater for you. Figured you might need the extra warmth.”
Detective Chester Lake was sitting at his desk unremarkably. He had a stack of closed case files ready for pick up by admin the next morning. His desk was neat, obviously tidied for the night since George had entered the bathroom.
“Thank you.” George answered, not managing to hide the fact that he didn’t really mean it.
He reached for his shirt, feeling self-conscious about walking around bare-chested in front of former amateur mixed martial artist Naptime. He had closed his hand around the cloth when Chester spoke again.
“You may as well leave it on for a little longer.”
“I really should get a shirt on, before I inflict permanent mental trauma on some poor passerby.” He realized how self-loathing that had sounded, and quickly added, “Or catch cold.”
“We’re the only ones here.” Chester answered, and it was at that point that he acquired a grin worthy of the Cheshire cat. “And I’ve already seen you. There’s a reason most of us stick to polyester blends Doctor.”
He knew he was blushing. Chester must have known too, because George’s ears caught a smile on the tail-end of his statement. He also heard Chester get up from his chair and come to stand directly behind him.
“That was a really brave thing you did though. We’re all proud of you.” His voice was noticeably softer.
“Too bad I’m not one of you guys.” George said, and the bitterness in his voice shocked him. He hadn’t mean to let anything slip out. He just wanted to go home and crash.
Chester shook his head. George could see his face reflected in the window he was adamant about facing until the detective either went away or quit. He looked a little forlorn, but he wore a charming half-smile that fit him so well.
“You’re not like the other feds though.”
“I’m flattered that you think so, but I really am just like them.” His tone was getting more clipped by the second. He needed to get home before he snapped.
“No.” Chester said, shaking his head again. “You’re not in it for the bagged prize at the end of a case, or for the thrill of chasing down a perp. You always come through for the victim.”
He paused and set a hand on George’s shoulder before continuing.
“And of all of us you’re the only one who will stand up to Elliot regardless of what’s going on.”
George made a rude sort of snorting noise and allowed himself a small burst of laughter before shutting himself up. It was only a matter of time before he made a fool of himself here; he really needed to get home.
“Sometimes it’s like talking to a brick wall.” George admitted. Chester laughed.
“You should do that more often.” He said.
George looked up to catch his eyes. He wasn’t sure what Chester meant, but he was almost certain that they were flirting now. Not that he minded. Chester was certainly a specimen to be admired.
“Ruin my work clothes?”
“No, though I did appreciate the view. Stabler seemed to have problems coping though.” he joked.
“Walk around the office shirtless?” George asked, fishing for the answer, and blushing crimson at Chester’s latest inappropriate joke.
“No, but you’re welcome to practice in my apartment.”
Oh yes. They were defiantly flirting now. No doubt about it. The alarming part was that George couldn’t bring himself to quit. What the hell; he had already come out to his parents. Why not actively date even though he lived two blocks away from them and they’d find out within minutes? It was only social suicide.
“What did you mean then?” George asked.
“Smile. Laugh. Act like you’re happy.”
“I do,” George responded quickly as he whirled around to face Chester. “When I have something to be happy about.”
Chester took another step forward, bringing them a little too close even for friends.
“Then maybe you should practice that at my apartment too.” He suggested quietly.
“I should expect this from a man who never sleeps.”
“I’d sleep if you were in my bed.” He said boldly.
“If you keep going you’re going to have to make good on your innuendos.” George warned. That might have deterred someone who wasn’t as stubborn as Detective
Chester Lake.
“What makes you think I don’t intend to?” Chester asked.
And then he brought their lips together. The kiss was actually surprisingly chaste, considering the brand of small talk they had just engaged in, and the fact that George was still only half-clothed. When they broke apart for air, George looked up at Chester and found him wearing a quirky smile.
“If you plan to do that, I’d better grab my shoes and shirt.”
One more kiss, quick and wet, and Chester hands him his shirt from off the heater. It’s more than warm enough for him now, and the detective even helps him put it on. Next come his socks and shoes, both of which are pleasantly hot on his cool flesh.
“Ready to go?” Chester asks him.
George nods.
They walk side by side out of the office to the elevator, leaving Manhattan SVU utterly deserted, and George’s ruined clothes in the trashcan by Chester’s desk. If anyone noticed the next morning that they come in together with coffee from Chester’s usual stop, wearing the same deodorant, no one mentioned anything.