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It is not a safe thing to be in General Cordelia White's inner circle. Plenty would stop at nothing to strike a blow so close to the heart of the resistance. Jack's everyday security measures include insurances against any weapon imaginable, prevention for any number of gruesome deaths.
He determined soon after his promotion that he would not die violently. It is not in his calendar to die to something so violent as a bullet nor so simple as poison.
No.
The pens are going to be what kills him.
Jack did not realize before working every day with Cordelia that she has an infuriating habit of clicking her pens. Every war meeting, every strategy session, a solid portion of the time they spend together outside of work, she procures a cheap pen from somewhere and begins clicking it. If someone reaches a breaking point and asks her to stop, she'll seem surprised to find herself doing it and cease, for approximately seven minutes and twenty-four seconds.
(He and Marion have both independently timed it.)
So he has attempted to divert her. Over the past three years since his promotion, he has bought her a selection of the finest fountain pens from across the galaxy. Nibs of varying shapes and sizes. Ink colors from every star. Every sort of application.
She has not once used one of them.
He has been forced to resort to desperate measures. When he meets with her in her office, he borrows one, endures the ordeal of writing with the thing, and tucks it into his breast pocket at the end of the meeting. Very occasionally, if he passes her office while she's out, he will creep in and take one or two. His office now contains a drawer of them. A drawer. Nearly thirty clicking pens siphoned from her supplies.
Cordelia's only response has been to get more. They're awful things, irritatingly light, liable to run out of ink at any moment, so cheap they must cost no more than a tenth-crown to produce. He can't fathom why she'd prefer them. He wants to tear out his hair.
There was no choice at that point but to recruit Marion to his cause. For a year she, too, has been swiping Cordelia's pens. The two of them don't work closely, but he understands she has at least a dozen herself.
The clicking never ends.
It is maddening.
Jack doesn't know what else to do.
…
Something is amiss.
Cordelia has been trying to put her finger on it for months and nearly driving herself mad doing it. A small handful of incidents— a folder on her desk shifted an eighth of an inch from where she left it. Her chair at a slightly different angle than it ought to have been. The light switch turned all the way down when she returns, rather than just below the off threshold as she generally leaves it. Things she leaves deliberately in place so she'll know if someone's been inside without her knowledge. And yet, aside from those tells, she can find no trace of interference.
She spends multiple unsleeping nights scouring the space for traps, recording devices, weapons, poison, bombs. She finds absolutely nothing. The Red Hood finds nothing. Lorenzo, Dunwich, and Tuco all humor her and search, to the same result.
Tuco had patted her arm as she left to return to her work and said something about how war weighs on a person, and that she should try to get some rest. Lorenzo had delicately avoided the word paranoia when she asked him to check again. She caught Dunwich quietly talking to the both of them in the war room, only to quiet and regard her softly the moment she arrived.
They all must think she's going properly mad. But she knows someone has been in her office.
It's the pens that finally tip her off.
Cordelia keeps a particular kind, cheap enough to make readily accessible even when resources are scarce but high enough quality to write solidly and smoothly. But she realizes over several months that she's faced a continual shortage of them, no matter how many times she orders more. Too often she's left only with the useless fancy things Frost keeps insisting on gifting her. They write oddly unless she holds them just so, have a nasty habit of leaking, and often bleed across the paper. She's fairly certain the things are purely intended as decorative. There is a reason she, after giving up on the first one, has made a habit of re-gifting them still in the packaging to foreign representatives when the opportunity arises.
The gifts on top of the petty mischief and sheer audacity of it all leave a rather clear culprit.
She does not indicate to Major General Frost why she wants to speak with him, only that she does. She watches him coldly as he enters her office. "Take a seat."
Her desk is situated to the right of her office, where her blind side faces the wall and she can see the rest of the room. Frost crosses the empty space to the left and settles in one of the chairs facing her desk, smiling slightly.
"Good evening, Cordelia," he greets.
Cordelia ignores the address. "Good evening," she replies. "I've noticed something interesting as of late, Frost. I thought perhaps you might be able to shed some light on the subject for me."
"Of course. Illuminating the dark is something I am fond of doing." He leans back in his chair, as if to make himself at home. "How may I be of service?"
She narrows her eye at him. "Recently, I have found my office has not been as I left it. You understand why I, as the leader of the Resistance, might be concerned about this."
Frost's face is unreadable, but she expected no less. "Of course. That would be concerning."
"I have also noticed a distinct shortage of my own pens."
Now his thick brows twitch, just slightly. "Well," he says casually. "That's certainly a mystery."
"Is it, now?" she asks through a flicker of irritation. "It's interesting, Major General Frost. Particularly considering the frequency with which you gift me new ones."
The mask breaks, and he snorts. "All right. All right. You've caught me. I have twenty-seven in my desk. They're maddening devices, Cordelia." He smiles crookedly, seemingly heedless of the growing angry flush to her cheeks. "My machinations were sure not to last forever. I'll send them back your way."
He says it all as if it's a harmless practical joke. "Why," she grits out, "have you been thieving from my office?"
"My general." He spreads his hands wide. "Have you ever noticed your habit of clicking them incessantly?"
"I do not click them incessantly." She does occasionally catch herself at it in quiet moments answering messages or puzzling over supply logistics. It's hardly constant, though.
"You click them incessantly. All meeting long. It drives me up the wall." He leans forward, eyes fixed on her. It always startles her how bright and cold their blue is. "I have attempted to remedy this through kindness. Unfortunately, resorting to guerilla tactics is oft a consequence of failed diplomacy. As you know."
She barks out a disbelieving laugh. "That is the defense you are choosing? You were driven to this by the tyranny of a bit of background noise?"
She ought to have expected the drama from him. The excuse is still ludicrous. To invade her private office over something so petty is astounding.
Frost plucks one of her pens from the cup on her desk and begins clicking it in a slow, deliberate rhythm, grinning.
"Let it be known as my rebellion."
Cordelia bares her teeth. "Do you have any idea how many nights I went without sleep scouring my office for Crown interference? How many meetings I rescheduled because I could not be certain of their security? How many months you've wasted with this foolishness?"
He tilts his head, still clicking the pen. She does her best to ignore it. "You oft did those things before I began my little revolution, did you not?"
"That's beside the point, Frost." Plenty of things keep her awake at night, and there are a thousand risks that might cause a meeting to be delayed. She didn't become the leader of half the galaxy by being incautious. Her own general adding to the demands, however, is the last thing she needs. "I expect, at the bare minimum, to be able to trust my inner circle not to create more threats for me to monitor. Why the hell did you believe this to be any sort of good idea?"
He just looks smug. Why did she ever decide to promote him? "I have explained myself rather thoroughly."
"You never considered being direct? Or perhaps simply ignoring it?" The clicking is perhaps a bit distracting the way he's doing it, but it's hardly worth this level of response. "You and I both have far more important things to worry about."
Frost puts the hand holding the pen over his heart. "My general, I swear to you, my days as a petty thief are over."
"Are they, now?" she asks coldly. He's mocking her. Is he taking this the slightest bit seriously? Has he ceased to take her seriously? "And what do you have to say for the ways you compromised the Resistance you already pledged yourself to over this?"
He tilts his head, seeming to consider something, then leans forward. "Cordelia," he says, lowering his voice theatrically. "Marion also steals your pens."
She can't help her jaw falling slightly open. Belle would never be a part of this idiocy. Cordelia would expect this sort of thing from Frost, but Belle? Even if she was the sort for these kinds of shenanigans, when was the last time she and Frost willingly worked together? The two can hardly stand each other.
And yet, she doesn't believe Frost would lie to her. He'd do a great many things, but he is honest with her. Which means she has two subordinates to put the fear of General White into.
Cordelia forces her expression back under control. "You may pass along a message, then." She speaks slowly, digging her fingernails into her palms. "If I ever catch either of you misappropriating rebellion assets again, not only will you lose your positions, but I will also personally liberate you of your fingers so as to help you avoid temptation in your next post. Am I understood?"
It's an empty threat. They both know that Frost and Belle are too valuable for her to lose, at least over this. She'll have to start locking up her pens, for god's sake. Certainly she'll be changing the codes to her office.
Frost continues to smile, and to click the pen, as he gives his usual perfect salute. "I will see your property is returned in a timely manner, Cordelia."
She presses her lips together and contemplates throttling him. "And when might that be, Major General Frost?"
"As soon as I acquire a suitable gift box."
Cordelia nearly throws something at him. "Get the hell out of my office, Frost."
He stands and turns, takes a few steps toward the door. Then he turns back and approaches again. She glares at him as he delicately sets the pen back into the holder. The smug, insouciant, conniving bastard.
"And stay out until I ask to speak with you again," she snarls.
"Of course," he says graciously. "Have a good evening, my general." With that, he makes his exit, leaving Cordelia fuming. He has no goddamn respect, no sense, no modicum of care for the genuine setbacks his little games have caused…
She seethes and lets him go before she resorts to physical violence.
…
Marion should have expected Frost to betray her in the end. They certainly had a common enemy in General White, but given their mutual hatred she's frankly disappointed in herself she believed their alliance might do anything but fail. She ought to have known better.
Perhaps if she hadn't been enduring the general's fidgeting for well over a decade now, she'd have had her wits about her. As it was, she'd been at the end of her rope when Frost approached her. It's been constant since Marion started working with her. Even before she was promoted to Major General, it was audible on the other end of their video calls. Countless times she's left a meeting and simply sighed with relief to finally be delivered from the habit for a short while.
And, well. She isn't above a bit of pettiness. The number of nonessential emails she has "forgotten" to forward to Frost in their time working together is proof enough of that.
When she's called in to discuss the matter, she meets General White's cold gaze. She's worked with her long enough to understand this expression as pure fury.
"Major General Frost has reported to me that you have been involved in his recent mischief," she says. "Is this true?"
Marion nods. There's no point in denying it. There are things she is able to lie to General White about, but this is both too pointless and too transparent. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry to say that it is."
Her eye narrows, every line of her posture tense. "Do you understand the gravity of this little scheme?"
"I believe I do, sir." She lowers her eyes, the picture of slightly embarrassed deference. It isn't difficult when her cheeks are warm with shame.
"And what do you have to say for yourself?"
She folds her hands in her lap, straightens her shoulders, and looks back at General White. "I want to offer you a full and sincere apology. The entire thing was foolish and I should have known better." She speaks with practiced evenness. Probably this won't be severe enough to actually risk her job. If marrying Adam didn't lead to her demotion, this is unlikely to. Still, General White is a terrifying woman. Marion isn't immune to the effect. "I allowed myself to be swept up in immaturity rather than addressing the issue as I should have. I will, of course, return all your pens and refrain from taking more."
General White leans forward slightly. "And the security issue of my office being breached?"
Marion blinks. "Your office, sir?" She's never once entered this room without General White's explicit invitation.
"On at least three occasions, I have found evidence of tampering in my office. Major General Frost admitted that this was a piece of your shared plan."
Of course he did, the idiot. Marion allows a bit of her distaste to show on her face. "I can honestly say I was not involved with or aware of that element of his ideas, General. I have never entered your office without your explicit invitation. I'll be happy to supply whatever proof you ask about that."
It would be difficult to prove definitively, but she suspects keypad records from the door and evidence of her own whereabouts during specific times could come close.
General White stares at her, hard, searching. Marion waits for her to consider.
Finally, she leans back in her chair. "I'll give you the same warning I gave Frost, Major General Belle. If I ever catch you at something like this again, the consequences will be severe. We have no time for pointless shenanigans like this, let alone ones that undermine our operations. Do you understand?"
Marion nods, holding back a sigh of relief. It's a better response than she was hoping. It probably indicates something about her value to the general, which she'll dissect later. It is promising. "I do, sir. Nothing like this will happen again."
"Good." General White rubs her temple with her hand, shutting her eye for a moment. Her weariness is obvious; from the shadows under her eyes and the simple fact she deigned to gesture like this in front of Marion, she's even more exhausted than usual. Perhaps Marion will watch for ways to pick up slack without her noticing. If she can take some weight off her shoulders without wounding her pride, it will only benefit everyone.
"Is there anything else you wished to say?" General White asks, looking back up at Marion.
She hesitates. There is the original issue at hand— the clicking. "If I may, sir… have you ever considered a fidget toy?"
General White's expression flattens into a cynical disbelief. "A fidget toy," she repeats.
"I understand many use them when they need something to occupy their hands." And if General White has something to do that will be quiet, Marion and Frost will have finally won their little war.
The general simply stares at her. Marion meets her gaze again.
"Get out of my office, Belle."
Marion stands. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." She beats a hasty retreat.
It certainly could have gone worse.
Perhaps if she feels she can press her luck in a few weeks, she thinks as she shuts the office door behind her, she'll leave a fidget cube in General White's spot on the war room table.