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In hindsight, Rusty thinks he should’ve…ah, what was the phrase. Not poked the mealworm’s nest? Let sleeping dogs lie? Perhaps it wasn’t his brightest moment - and he’s not afraid to admit he might’ve made a bit of a mistake. Maybe if he hadn’t gone looking, he wouldn’t be here, leaning against an icy railing, listening to the most painful, drawn-out static in his life from someone he treasured and respected.
That was hindsight though - Past-Rusty lived a more blissful life, where the most important thing was digging up research and dirt in Arquebus and bringing whatever he found back to the RLF.
Past-Rusty had just been getting another cup of caffeinated sludge to finish up on his reports. By his reckoning, Uncle Flatwell had underplayed the immense amount of busywork that came with positions of power, so that Rusty would be lured into thinking being an elite AC pilot meant you actually did any piloting.
No. Being a squad leader of the Vespers meant that under the watchful eyes of Snail and Swinburne, every nut, bolt and drop of fuel had to be accounted for, while your subordinates handled whatever field task a squad leader was considered wasted on. Every form, filled perfectly, and sometimes in proper paper as well, if it was deemed sensitive enough that they needed the additional transparency and accountability. If you made a mistake during submission, please report it to V.II Snail immediately and requisition a new form for resubmission…
Anyway.
On his way to the break room, Rusty had noticed that O’Keeffe’s office door was ajar, a thread of light slipping out. On the way back, steaming mug of horrors in hand, it was still very much the same. Knocking twice, he pushed open the door, wincing at the creak, before sliding in. O’Keeffe was a lump, slumped over his table, with what looked to be his own mug of cold nightmares by his elbow. Rusty leaned over carefully, taking a peek at his face. The bags under his eyes were more pronounced than usual, stylus loose in his fingers. His work tablet, just beyond reach, was as soundly asleep as its owner.
Wow. He must be really tired if he didn’t even stir at all in the last few minutes. Like he’d heard the thought, O’Keeffe started mumbling, and Rusty bounced back, careful to not spill it -
“...mm you back?…did you…”
There’s a wistfulness in his sleep-talking, and it had Rusty putting his mug down, off to the side. Now, where was it…O’Keeffe’s shelves were full of folders and documents (all unclassified, unfortunately), but the man had enough self awareness to know that he lived in his offices and the foresight to keep a blanket in the room. Today, it was sandwiched between two heavy binders, unwieldy enough that it was better for him to pull the blanket out slowly, corner first, hanging the thing over his arm before it could drag onto the floor. Folding it into a more manageable state, Rusty shuffled over to drape it over O’Keeffe. There was barely a sound in the room - and that’s how Rusty caught O’Keeffe’s next words:
“...iss you…babygirl…”
He froze, the blanket held over O’keeffe’s like a strange tent. B-babygirl…? That kind of pet name? Dropping it carefully over O’Keeffe’s shoulders, he waited a moment to see if O’keeffe was actually awake. When there was nothing but the steady rise and fall of a sleeping man, he grabbed his sludge and slipped out again, closing the door behind him with another squeak.
His mug burned in his hands. His heart raced. Their head of Intelligence had just slipped something interesting in his sleep. As much as O’Keeffe had looked out for him, any leverage the RLF could have, Rusty should get. Seize the day and all that. Rusty strode back to his own office, purpose in his steps.
He had a. A babygirl to look into.
(Coral save him, he can’t believe this.)
The first thing Rusty did was look up O’Keeffe on G8gle. For the second time, really. He’s not ashamed to say that G8gle was something he’d grown a little reliant on. It’s not on his work comm, a blessing he’s allowed to have as a squad leader. Just like the first time, it shows up with absolutely nothing, and he can’t even be disappointed.
Asking O’Keeffe himself is out of the question. Not only was he extremely cagey about his past already - ‘Nothing you need to know about, Rusty.’ the man had said, when Rusty had asked about his previous roles as an icebreaker - but he was their intelligence officer. Rusty would prefer it if Intelligence didn’t look too hard in his direction, no siree.
So he looks into the personnel files again, the ones that Flatwell had sent him as an audio cookbook. He’d listened to these enough times to recite some of these from memory so, once again, he wasn’t terribly put out by the lack of answers.
In fact…lying on his cot, and staring up at his very blank ceiling like this…maybe he was starting to feel like…maybe…this wasn’t that important…?
Rusty sat up with a grunt and shook his head. No! He’ll see this through.
His next hour of listening to the cookbook yielded absolutely no answers (it’s detailed, like every other entry, but there are entire segments of ‘season to taste’ where it’s clear they could only make a hazy guess) so he turned to some proper planning.
Snooping around O’Keeffe’s room would’ve been a good start, if that place wasn’t always locked. That, and he’d been to it all of one time, when they all first moved in. The Vesper halls had several cameras monitoring it too, and he’s not compromising cover to break into O’Keeffe’s room. The Intel office was off-limits - the one place probably even more monitored than his room - so that left his usual office. Maybe Rusty could say he was looking for a pen? Or he’d lost a file – but that would invite the horrific gaze of Snail. Maybe even Swinburne. Ugh.
There’s the bottle of Carnelian Red he’s stashed away as a potential bribe. Uncle Flatwell had sent that to him three years ago, but he hadn’t found a real reason to use it yet. Maybe he could invite O’Keeffe over for a drink? Carnelian Red did pack a surprising punch, it could catch him off-guard.
…No. O’Keeffe’s always been responsible with alcohol. All of the numbered Vespers were, to his knowledge, even in the smoke-wreathed backrooms Snail knew very little about. Now, if he had some proper rust, that’d probably do the trick - but it wasn’t like he could rock up to an RLF base and ask them for a jug.
Maybe he could make someone up? Ask for some relationship advice, ask if O’Keeffe’s been in a relationship before? He tries to conjure up the image of someone he could ask about, someone who he’d go red over and want to take out, to a meal, not with a rifle. Maybe someone shorter…? Taller? Long…hair…? Easy-going personality…???
No, it wouldn’t work. O’Keeffe saw all of Rusty’s communications anyway, and he’s only ever sent a few holiday messages back to those that’d looked after him when he was learning the ropes to life off-planet. He never really went out with his co-workers to mixers either, with his status as an augmented human making him more prize than person, unwanted eyes crawling over where his implants were, just under his shirt.
As far as Arquebus was concerned, he’d never even kissed anyone, let alone gotten laid.
Perhaps, Rusty thought drily, he could look really desperate and just ask O’Keeffe if he had any hook-up advice on the sly. Yeah, that’d go over real smooth.
He’ll go take a walk. The biting wind will help.
It took an hour and thirty minutes outside the garage and three increasingly concerned techs for him to accept that he’ll have to ask someone if he wanted answers. Scrubbing the snow from his boots on the mats, he made his way to the cafeteria, rubbing his fingers warm again.
One of the other Vespers might know something, and as the second-newest to their ranks, it meant he had six entire seniors to ask - in theory. Snail was obviously a no-go, and Freud didn’t think about anything except his next fight. Swinburne…Rusty grimaced at the thought. That man didn’t give anything without taking even more as payment.
If it had been before, Hawkins would’ve been his first choice. He’s acquired a shadow though - the newest Vesper, V.VIII Pater. Even though they were coworkers, there was something…slightly unnerving about Pater. Maybe it was that unfailing politeness and strict adherence to hierarchy and protocol - or maybe it was just that he couldn’t stop Pater from calling him ‘sir’. It’d been three months, and Rusty hadn’t been able to wear him down a single bit.
He’s fairly sure he’s got no choices beyond Hawkins though, and as he crossed over the threshold into the cafeteria, he spotted the man in question. Hawkins with a tray of regulation Arquebus Lunch Set C and Pater, faithfully half a step behind to the left, carrying his own tray of Lunch A.
“Afternoon! Hawkins, Pater.” he called to them, raising a hand in greeting. Hawkins raised one in return, and gestured, with a tilt to his head, to an empty table and benches nearby. Snagging a juice-pack for himself, he sat down opposite the other two, twisting the cap off and taking a sip.
“So I heard some things around the halls recently.” he said, when the other two had cracked open their steaming tin foil containers.
“What did Snail do this time?” asked Hawkins, and Pater’s brows adopted a faintly pinched look.
“Ah, not Snail. It was actually about O’Keeffe.” Rusty replied, and marveled at how Pater relaxed immediately.
“O’Keeffe?” Hawkins asked, surprise in his voice as he re-organized some of his reconstituted mash.
“Mmhmm.” He took a sip. “I overheard some of the admin staff when I was dropping off a report.”
“And what did they say?”
“When he’s free, what he does in his spare time - “ Rusty took a sip of his fruit drink. He kept it casual, “If he’s had any relationships before. First time I’d heard it come up.”
“Well, that’d make sense,” Hawkins said, between mouthfuls. “He isn’t the biggest catch to this lot, even on Rubicon.”
“It did get me thinking though - has he had any partners in the past?”
“None that I’d heard of.”
Pater’s eyes just bounced between them, following their conversation while he chewed each bite three times before swallowing.
“Isn't that a bit strange though? He keeps things organised, he's good to his subordinates, probably wouldn’t be a bad sight after a long day. Worst thing about him is probably his sleeping habits.”
“Rusty, our head of Intel isn't exactly what most staff would call 'spouse' material, if the 'Intel' part didn't scare them away already.” Hawkins replied. “And he’s never had the time for a partner, not since the Vespers at least.”
“Well they’re missing out.”
Pater swallowed, but didn’t take another bite.
“You do spend the most time with him you know.” Hawkins pointed his fork at Rusty, who shrugged.
“He’s good company, and his office has a couch.” He heard himself say, before glancing at Pater, who was blatantly staring at him now.
“What’s up, Pater?”
Pater’s long, considering look did not change.
“Sirs…I believe fraternisation was against company policy…?”
Rusty’s smile froze.
Pater, noticing his pause, adopted a sympathetic smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. Hawkins chuckled.
“It’s alright, nobody’s going to write you up for something like this.” he said reassuringly - and unlike Pater, there was a sparkle of mischief in Hawkins' expression. “Every day on Rubicon-three is rather long after all.”
Wait, wait, hold on. Rusty feels his ears heat up, a faint red spilling across his face.
“Ah-uhm, I,” he tried to choke out an explanation. “I’d say it’s ‘not like that’ but - ”
Their expressions did not grow any more understanding - if anything, Hawkins seemed about five seconds away from a proper laugh, and Pater’s smile was starting to look awfully like a shark that’d scented blood in the water.
“I’m…not. Going to dig myself in any deeper here.” Rusty finished off, somewhat miserably, before changing the topic. It’s more pleasant after that, asking how things were going in logistics and if they needed an extra set of hands for the next transport. Hawkins thought it was a nice gesture, but some of Rusty’s MT crew would be enough. They’re both kind enough to not bring it up again, but that glimmer never quite dimmed from Hawkins' eyes.
He’s beat.
Well, if he doesn’t have answers, at least O’Keeffe’s extremely battered and soft couch has him. Staring at the ceiling, he could only thank whatever stars were looking out for him that O’Keeffe hadn’t asked him about any of this in the two weeks since that mortifying conversation. It meant he could still comfortably camp out in O’Keeffe’s office to force himself to finish his paperwork.
“You all done there?” O’Keeffe looked down at him. “If you want to sleep, you should go back to your room - that can’t be good for your back.”
“I’ll be fine - here’s the paperwork.” He reached behind him for the stack and held them up. Oh, the impropriety of it. Pater would have a conniption. O’Keeffe just quirked his mouth into a smile, taking the proffered folder with a thanks.
“Meeting for everyone’s in an hour. Make sure you’re there, or Snail’ll be in a snit.” said O’Keeffe, before he left Rusty to wallow in peace. A hazy amount of time passed, before the rumble of his comm device dissipated it. Still lying down, he unlocked his comm, and swiped to check what message had been left to him.
>> Could you get me the top folder from the top drawer?
>> Forgot to take it with me. Thanks Rusty.
Oh, he’d just forgotten a file. Sitting up with a groan, Rusty put his boots on before padding over to the desk and retrieving the folder with quick fingers. He took a quick look through it - nothing interesting, just more inventory. Rusty will have to look at these himself later anyway - and snapped it shut.
And he was about to leave the office when he paused. Turned, to look back at the desk, the shelves and back at the door.
No. This has got to be a trap of some sort. No way would O’Keeffe just leave Rusty in his office like this? Especially if he knows that Rusty’s been asking around? Maybe Hawkins had been a blessing from the Coral and actually said nothing to O’Keeffe about it.
His fingers twitched. He can’t vouch for the shelves - not that he’d have the time right now - but the desk? He knows this desk. He knows that anyone with the courage to scavenge through it for office supplies can do so. O’Keeffe said it himself, that he could help himself to a pen or pad of paper if he needed it. It wasn’t bugged and he knows that O’Keeffe knows that it wasn’t bugged. He looked at the clock.
Five minutes.
With bated breath and the finest motor control he could muster, Rusty pulled open the next drawer down. Nothing but pens and blue folders, elastic bands spilling out from a zip lock bag. Next one - scissors and knives in a tin, plastic boxes of what looked like paper clips and magnets. More empty files, but green this time. Next - his eyes widened and he leaned down.
There’s. There’s an envelope, distinct from the others in the drawer, slipped in a corner, between stacks of sticky notes and ivory stationary. He fishes it out carefully. He can see that there’s…something in there, and that the seal was long broken, yellowed with age. Opening it, he pulled out a photo, and his breath caught. It’s of someone he recognizes all too well, set in a younger face. Artfully tousled hair with a twinkle in his eyes, Uncle Flatwell stared up at him with what he could only describe as a coy smile.
Rusty lifted it up gingerly by a corner, between a finger and his thumb, and flipped it over.
With love, your babygirl <3
Rusty doesn't quite walk into the wilderness, never to be seen again – but it's a close one. Instead, under a calm grey sky, he trudged across the Arquebus base to a secluded rooftop. It was well known, not only for a decent view, but also where numerous pilots and technicians alike had slipped to some unfortunate accidents, leaving it one of the last places anyone would come to bother him. Still, it was cold enough that his breath fogged, and he watched as those thin tails of steam spiralled away from his lips, dissipating into the air.
It only took five minutes for his communicator to blink at him. Wink, really, with the one flashing light that told him he had an incoming call and he let it through, allowing Uncle Flatwell’s warm voice to greet him. They talked about what they usually did; family, food, any accidents around the house. (Troops, supplies, operations - he’s glad to hear that Ziyi’s stayed relatively unscathed.)
Soon, they’re winding down, talking about less important things, laying down what they’d talk about next time. (Seems like the theme will be the new store opening around the block - hilarious.) It’s the end of the meeting - or it should be. All Rusty needs to do is to say goodbye and hang up. All he has to do is not give into this curiosity. Save it til they’re together again, he’s with everyone and they can laugh over it with warm mugs and snacks. Just hold on -
“Hey uh..Uncle?” Nevermind. Curse his traitor mouth.
“Mm?” Rusty can hear the faint rustling of paper being moved around through the static; no doubt Uncle is moving onto the next thing on his agenda already. Better make it fast.
“WhydoesO’Keeffecallyoubabygirl?” Rusty asked in a rush.
“What? O’Ke-? Could you repeat that?” It’s gone quiet on Flatwell’s end.
“Uh. Why does. O’Keeffe. Um. V-Three. He calls you. A pet name.”
“...where did you hear it?” Coral abide - Uncle did know about this!?
“He was mumbling in his sleep. And, uh, I found a photo. Of you.” It hadn’t been dated but Rusty remembered the softer lines around his eyes, the way he didn’t have some of his scars yet. “Maybe twenty-fifteen years ago? Your hair was brown.”
The quiet crackling draws out for so long that Rusty thought that Flatwell might’ve left the room or something - like, this was kind of a shock, right? Rusty knew enough to know that it had probably been around when he was sent out himself. Flatwell had spent a lot of time away from Rubicon, away from the Front, at that time. When he’d finally returned, Rusty remembered how his hugs were tighter, his words gentler - how Flatwell had always managed to find time to spend with him, and any of the other children who asked.
Flatwell had been changed by his time outside. Not only by the weight of knowledge and connections weighing on his shoulders, but by something softer, but sharper, that’d tangled itself around his ankles and followed him home.
Now, he wondered if O’Keeffe had anything to do with it.
A burst of static brought Rusty out of his maudlin and back to Flatwell.
“At–O’Keeffe.” It sounded like he was testing out a familiar name. “He kept the photo.” There was something weary in those words, something he didn’t want to call yearning, and Rusty felt a pang of guilt.
“Yeah.” He rooted around for something to say. “...It’s…a nice photo?”
This time, the static felt deafening. Rusty’s fingers are starting to get red from the cold and he won’t be able to look Uncle in the eye ever again. Presumably tired of the entire affair, Flatwell chortled, forced and uncomfortable, before closing the case.
“Don’t worry about it. There’s nothing there.”
Flatwell leans back in his chair, the radio quiet on the table, fingers laced, his hands covering his eyes. There’s nothing but the low hum of the systems around him, the occasional tick from a sensor behind him.
So he’s O’Keeffe now. Vesper Number Three, O’Keeffe.
He thinks he can still remember that afternoon - quite clearly at that.
O’Keeffe - or Atkins, as it was - had let himself in with the key he’d been given, shuffled over in his socks and attached himself to Flatwell on the couch. Not that Flatwell minded - the weight of his lover was always welcome - but he’d seemed more like a puddle than usual, and his hair was uncommonly loose. He’d likely not had the mind to tie it up again. Atkins had proceeded to gripe about how he’d been accosted by Flatwell’s colleagues, who’d apparently wanted to know how everything was going - had they gone out on a date recently? How’s he at home? Don’t keep him up too late!
“Mmm, unfortunate.” Flatwell had been reading a diagnostics report from one of the prototype Schneider frames. A predecessor of the Nachtreicher was in development at the time, and there were disagreements as to just how lightweight they were allowed to make it. The head on his shoulder sighed. He reached over with his free hand to cover theirs, running his thumb over their fingers.
Atkins huffed, still, clearly somewhat disgruntled. Flatwell turned to press a kiss into Atkin’s hair, before going back to the report.
“Did you actually want to do something about it, or are you just complaining?” Flatwell asked his partner, observing the faint tic in his eyebrows.
“Not sure what we can do about it, short of me never visiting you at work and avoiding your co-workers.” Atkins groused. Shifting his hand so he was holding Flatwell’s, Atkins tapped a pattern on the back of Flatwell’s hand. “They’re a nosy bunch.”
“They’re just surprised to see we’re still going out.” Half-hearted. Flatwell flipped the page. Atkins raised an eyebrow.
“It’s been a year. And a half.”
“Schneider works us like construction MTs, and fraternisation is against Arquebus policy. Nobody thought they’d ever see a legal office romance last - even though we work at different places.”
“Is that what they’re calling it?” Atkins had muttered.
“Mmhmm.”
Flatwell got through another three pages of the increasingly dry report before his wayward thoughts brought him back to the matter at hand.
“Well, if we can’t avoid it, we could always give them something to talk about.” Flatwell suggested, flicking all the pages close in one go, and setting it aside. It can wait, he thought, sinking into the ratty couch, looping an arm around Atkins’ shoulders, so that his head rested on Flatwell’s chest instead.
“That’s the opposite of what I want.” came the quiet grumble, before Atkins’ raised his voice. “Should I come in the middle of the day with a real rose and some tea?” Atkins had asked mercilessly, “Hey darling, hey babygirl, I’m here to pick you up?”
Flatwell swallowed a laugh, prompting Atkins to continue. “I’ll do it in the lobby - the entire building can find out and you’ll be suffering right alongside me.”
“Stop,” Flatwell said, finally giving in to the giggles. “They’ll eat me alive.”
“You’re the one who suggested it.” Atkins responded primly, before laughing himself, a rumble that Flatwell could feel through his heart.
“I did.”
They don’t end up doing anything of the sort; Atkins resolved to meet him outside the building for lunch after that, and they find a quiet cafe, far enough from curious colleagues but close enough that their coffees don’t get cold on their ways back.
Three weeks later, Flatwell had given Atkins a signed photo. There’s a waste basket full of precious ink and paper at home, but the punch he got to the arm (and the long, sweet kiss afterwards) had been worth it.
Later:
O’Keeffe took a sip of his sludge as he pulled his drawer open. His things still were largely in their places - but, tellingly, the photo was out of its envelope, Maxwell’s sparkling eyes gazing up at him. Aha. He couldn’t help his grin as he picked it up by the edges, slipped it back in and tucked both away from the light.
Hope that answer was worth it Rusty.