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One annoying characteristic of field agents is that they’re almost always smug. It’s because people in their line of work tend to lean towards a certain demographic; they all happen to be pricks.
Hemsworth is no exception, strutting his way into the lab despite the sign outside that clearly reads Only Authorized Personnel Are Allowed To Enter This Area. He is neither authorized nor a lab personnel, and it’s testament to Tom’s patience that he doesn’t have the man tasered on sight. He hates being interrupted. What’s more, he hates being interrupted when he’s on his first cup of coffee.
“Ah, Hiddleston!” Hemsworth calls from halfway across the room. Several people turn to look at him. Loud noises tend to carry over the hum of computers and rustling of paper.
Tom ignores the greeting, choosing instead to sip on his coffee while he waits for his laptop to boot. He isn’t actually doing any kind of work, not this early into his shift, but he must look busy for Hemsworth to leave him alone. Hemsworth isn’t, strictly speaking, Tom’s favourite agent – not that Tom tends to play favourites – but if there was someone he had to save from unsavory characters wielding sharp pointy weapons, Hemsworth probably won’t be first in line.
Hemsworth stands out from the bumbling mess of people that usually walk into the lab without an appointment but this is mostly due to the fact that he’s got the ego the size of Wales. He walks around like he owns the place and he never returns prototypes in one piece.
He’d left on a mission for Harbin six weeks ago, and last Tom had heard his body had been found at the bottom of the ocean, hopelessly adrift and bloated. But Hemsworth looks impeccable, less like he’d been lying at the bottom of the ocean and more like he’d just walked out of a gambling den, toothpick lolling lazily between his teeth.
Tom recognizes the gold cufflinks – a personal project of his, designed to double as a bomb. Hemsworth’s suit fits him nicely, and he wears it with a straight-backed confidence born of a military background. Double breasted, with peak lapels, in dark enveloping colours that work well in his favour, bringing out his eyes; it isn’t flashy, that really isn’t Hemsworth’s style, but it catches the attention of those caring enough to look.
Tom pretends to scan the screen in front of him before turning his attention to Hemsworth, propping an arm up on the desk and resting his chin on his hand. “Mr Hemsworth,” he says, feigning surprise. “So very nice to have you back again. I was under the impression you’d died.”
Hemsworth’s lips twitch and it’s clear he’s trying to hold back a smile. His hair is slicked back today, neat and precise, though he has the whiskery beginnings of a beard like he’d missed a couple of shaves. “Then you heard wrong, Q.”
Tom nods. “How was Harbin?” he prompts, ignoring the moniker.
“Harbin was terrific,” says Hemsworth expansively. “The food was great, but the company, well, it was terrible if you want to know the truth.”
This time it’s Tom’s turn to hold back a smile. Harbin had been a double-mission which meant Hemsworth was deployed alongside another agent. Hemsworth doesn’t like working with other people – Tom knows this from firsthand experience – but he likes it even less if he has to do it with Liam, his brother. They’re two of the Agency’s best field agents but they hate each other viciously; the rivalry runs deep, but the job had come together beautifully, despite the odds.
“I’m almost sorry to hear that,” Tom says.
“And I almost want to believe that you are,” Hemsworth says. He grins, slow, and seats himself on the edge of Tom’s cluttered desk. It’s still the old Quartermaster’s desk with the wobble in the corner so any kind of movement jars the desk’s alignment; Tom’s mug is jostled and its contents slosh around, spilling over the rim. Hemsworth looks faintly amused as he flicks his eyes up from the mess then back to Tom’s face. He doesn’t apologize, that isn’t something he knows how to do. From this angle and distance, Tom can smell him: the clean and mineral scent of his cologne, and he wrinkles his nose because of course, Hemsworth has to smell expensive. “Is there anything in particular you wanted?”
Hemsworth shrugs one shoulder, crossing his arms as he surveys the clutter of Tom’s desk: pens, a stressball shaped like a football, heaps of folders containing blueprints for designs pending approval, another laptop open to an unfinished game of Tetris. It’s a complete chaos but somehow Tom finds it comfort in the tumult. Organization bores him. It’s probably why he entertains Hemsworth every so then, in spite of the occasional exasperation it brings; some people like to put faith in constant, immutable variables, but Tom, he likes a challenge in the same way Hemsworth does. He still hasn’t come close to pinning Hemsworth down, but in the ensuing months since he’s been appointed the new Quartermaster, he’s seen layers of artifice peeled back: Hemsworth isn’t the agency’s best agent, but his allegiance is solid and his tenacity is unmatched. He’ll get the job done. He works without complaint. He is, for all intents and purposes, the best man for any type of job requiring the barest minimum of intel. He follows orders.
Well, to a degree.
“It’s funny,” Hemsworth says, “Because I’d just gotten back from Medical and my first instinct was to check up on you.”
Tom doesn’t immediately respond. Another thing about Hemsworth: he’s a notorious flirt. He’s witnessed this firsthand. The man can charm a nun. “There are telephones, Mr Hemsworth. Channels of communication open to you. This visit was completely unwarranted.”
“I’m not sure how to interpret that,” Hemsworth laughs, clipped. “It sounds like you’re telling me politely to fuck off.”
Tom tilts his head to the side and takes a long sip of his coffee. He puts his mug down then looks up, and finds Hemsworth watching him studiously. He’s seen that look before, on missions, when Hemsworth is due for another sit-down with M. Tom sighs, long-suffering. “What do you want, Mr Hemsworth?”
“Tell me,” Hemsworth says with a pregnant pause. “What the protocol is on intra-departmental dating.”
Tom blinks at him, confused. “I’m not certain I follow.”
“You see, I’ve been meaning to ask you out to dinner. Long overdue, I think. They keep sending me on missions that require me to be out of the country, and I haven’t exactly had the opportunity to ask you in person.”
Tom blinks again, on the verge of opening his mouth to respond when Hemsworth suddenly leaves the side of his desk to stand to his full height. The look on his face is serious; Tom can’t fault him for his determination but he’s not someone that’s easily swayed; he accepted the new position of Quartermaster despite the many disclaimers, he’s the type of person who makes a decision and sticks to it.
Tom waits a beat before smiling, touching his fingers to his lips to curb his amusement.
“You don’t have to decide right away, of course,” Hemsworth says with a short nod. “Just a thought. For a rainy day, you know. You know where to find me.” He nods again before leaning over the desk to adjust the collar of Tom’s shirt, smoothing it over the shoulder of his knitted cardigan, the movement brisk and efficient. Tom could easily duck away, or bat his hand back, but instead he stays still, maintaining eye contact though feeling a little more than puzzled.
Hemsworth gives Tom another smile before turning away in the direction of the door, footsteps sure and steady, one hand inside the pocket of his neatly pressed trousers. He’s probably even whistling; he seems like just the type.
At his desk, Tom mops up the mess of coffee rings with a wad of paper napkins from the bottom drawer. Then he ducks his head and keeps his chin tilted all the way down – the way he usually does when he can’t quite stop blushing.