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The break room lay in its habitual stillness, a place forgotten by urgency and spared the constant vigilance of the halls beyond. A kettle murmured to itself on the counter, steam rising like a quiet confession, and the late afternoon light slanted in through the high window, settling upon the table where Paulie sat with his boots braced against the legs, sleeves rolled, hands occupied with a length of rope he had long since stopped fixing.
Kaku entered without ceremony, the way one enters a familiar clearing in the woods– certain of one’s welcome, unburdened by haste.
He set his mug down and leaned back against the counter, long nose catching the light, eyes bright with a knowing that had nowhere to go but outward. There was, about him, the air of a man who had stumbled upon a pleasant truth during a solitary walk and now felt compelled to share it.
“Lucci’s got an appointment today,” Kaku said at last, voice mild, as though remarking on the weather or the slow turning of the seasons. “Eye doctor.”
Paulie’s hands stilled for the briefest moment before resuming their work, fingers tightening around the rope as if to remind it of its purpose. He did not look up.
“So?” he muttered.
Kaku smiled into his cup. “So,” he continued, “he’ll be coming in late. And he’ll be wearing his new glasses.”
That earned him a glance– quick, sharp, poorly disguised as disinterest. Kaku watched it the way one watches a ripple spread across water, inevitable once the stone has been thrown.
“Turns out,” Kaku went on, thoughtfully, “Lucci needs ’em for reading. Close work. Guess the words blur without ’em... Never mentioned it before, though. Guess he doesn’t like to.”
Paulie scoffed, a sound meant to dismiss, though it lacked conviction. “Figures,” he said. “Guy’s got more secrets than anyone else.”
“Mm,” Kaku agreed, eyes half-lidded. “He’ll be wearing them for a few days, gettin’ used to ’em. Around the office, y'know. Around us.”
The kettle clicked off. Silence reclaimed the room, save for the soft scrape of rope against glove. Paulie stared at the wall now, jaw set, ears betraying him in their color. In that quiet, an image had already taken root– uninvited, unshakable– of a man severe and self-contained, rendered somehow more human by thin frames and glass, by the necessity of seeing more clearly. This may be worse than any time he's seen his shady coworker shirtless.
Kaku watched his friend with fond amusement, content to let the thought grow wild and unpruned.
The door to the break room sighed open again not long after, as if the building itself sensed the shift in the air before it happened.
Paulie stiffened on instinct, shoulders squaring, hands pausing mid-coil.
He told himself it was coincidence– footsteps passed these halls all day– but the quiet that followed felt deliberate, held.
Kaku’s ears twitched first. He straightened just a touch, a smile threatening at the corners of his mouth.
“Well,” he murmured, almost reverent, “speak of the devil.”
Paulie shot him a look. “Don’t.”
Too late.
Rob Lucci stepped inside with the same controlled economy he brought to everything else, presence filling the room without effort. At a glance, nothing about him had changed. Until one looked closer; thin, gold frames rested upon the bridge of his nose, understated and precise, catching the light when he turned his head.
Paulie’s breath caught, sharp and traitorous.
Lucci crossed to the counter, movements unhurried, eyes flicking briefly toward the kettle before, inevitably, finding Paulie.
The look lingered a fraction longer than necessary.
Through the lenses, his gaze seemed almost unfairly direct, pupils steady, unreadable. If he noticed the way Paulie froze, rope slackening in his hands, he gave no sign.
“Kaku,” Hattori said, the bird's tone high as ever.
“Lucci,” Kaku replied brightly. “How was the appointment?”
Lucci adjusted the glasses with a single finger, a small, habitual gesture already practiced. “Efficient.”
Kaku hummed, eyes dancing. “They suit you.”
If Lucci reacted, it was subtle. An infinitesimal tightening at the corner of his mouth.
“They’re functional.” The pigeon responded for him as usual.
“Still,” Kaku added, pushing off the counter at last, “can’t argue with results.” The dark haired man was silent, removing a jacket and placing it down on the table.
Paulie swallowed. Hard. He forced himself to look away, stared fiercely at the rope as if it had personally offended him. His ears burned. He could feel Lucci’s presence like pressure against his skin, like a weight he refused to acknowledge and yet could not escape.
“Paulie,” Lucci now stood over him.
The name, yet spoken by his bird interpreter, landed heavier than it should have.
“What,” Paulie snapped, too quick, too loud. He cursed himself immediately.
Lucci merely observed him, head tilting by a degree. Through the lenses, his green eyes seemed closer somehow, sharper– close-work eyes, Kaku had said. Paulie hated that the thought made his pulse stutter.
“You’re tying that wrong,” Hattori remarked finally.
Paulie looked down. He was.
His fingers fumbled as he corrected it, cheeks blazing. From the corner of his eye, he caught Kaku turning away, shoulders shaking with silent laughter, merciful enough not to rub it in. Not yet.
Lucci turned back to the counter, apparently satisfied, pouring himself his usual cup of black coffee as if he hadn’t just upended Paulie’s internal balance with a glance and a pair of glasses. Still, the faint reflection of the room lingered in the lenses, and in it, Paulie could swear he saw the ghost of a knowing look.
—
The day moved on as days always did within those walls, not by the sun’s honest arc across the sky, but by bells, orders, and the quiet grinding of purpose. Yet something subtle had shifted, like a brook diverted by a fallen branch. The same water flowed, but it sang a different song for having been disturbed.
By midday, the break room incident had already begun to live a life of its own.
Paulie felt it first in the glances– those fleeting, too-innocent looks exchanged just beyond his line of sight. The workplace, once a familiar terrain he could navigate with muscle memory and mild irritation, had become a stage upon which he stood unwillingly illuminated.
Every sound seemed sharper.
Every pause felt intentional.
Lucci, for his part, went about his work with the same austere diligence as ever. The glasses remained, perched with quiet authority, donned whenever reports were reviewed or fine print demanded attention. He wore them without apology, which somehow made them worse. There was no self-consciousness in him to cling to, no crack in the stone. Only this new detail, precise and domestic, like discovering a blade had been lovingly sharpened by hand.
And, of course, Paulie made the mistake of volunteering for inventory today.
He found himself bent over a crate, clipboard in hand, reading off item codes when a tall shadow fell across the page. He stiffened, already knowing before he looked.
Lucci stood beside him, gaze angled downward, glasses on.
“You skipped a line,” Hattori observed.
Paulie bristled. “Did not.”
Lucci leaned closer– not touching, never touching– but near enough that Paulie could smell cologne and clean fabric, near enough that the lenses caught the light and threw it back in pale gold flashes.
“You did,” The bird repeated as Lucci tapped the page once.
Paulie’s throat tightened. He followed the finger.
He had skipped a line.
Before he could mutter a defense, Kalifa passed by, heels clicking like punctuation. She paused, eyes sweeping the scene– the proximity, the posture, the way Paulie’s face had dipped to a shade too warm.
“My,” she said lightly. “Is this a private lesson?”
Paulie nearly threw the clipboard.
Lucci straightened, unbothered by the remark, while Paulie scrambled to his feet and instantly felt his face go red, swearing up and down to the woman that there were no lessons going on here and how he would never take any advice from such a cruel man anyways.
Kalifa smiled knowingly. “Pity.”
She continued on, leaving behind the echo of her amusement like perfume in the air. Paulie glared after her, then rounded on Lucci.
“Y’coulda said somethin’ sooner,” he snapped.
Lucci regarded him through the lenses, unblinking. “You didn’t ask.” The pigeon was starting to piss him off. As usual.
Later still, when the afternoon stretched long and thin, and the mind began to wander where it ought not, Kaku found reason to call a brief meeting. He leaned against the table, arms crossed, eyes flicking knowingly between Paulie and Lucci as he spoke of schedules and assignments.
Paulie tried not to look.
He failed.
Lucci had removed his glasses, cleaning them with methodical care, movements unhurried. The absence felt as loud as their presence had been earlier. Paulie watched the careful way Lucci handled them, as one might handle something fragile yet necessary. Fuck, Lucci was so effortlessly handsome.
When Lucci put them back on, he glanced up. And, caught Paulie staring.
Their eyes met.
Paulie jerked his gaze away so fast he nearly strained something.
“Paulie,” Kaku said innocently, “you alright there? You’ve been real distracted today.”
“I’m fine,” Paulie growled.
“Oh?” Another coworker chimed in from the corner. “Coulda sworn I saw steam comin’ off you earlier.”
Laughter followed from everyone in the room– easy, familiar, cruel in the way only comrades could manage. Paulie crossed his arms, scowling, while Kaku’s smile softened just a touch. There was no malice in it, only the gentle insistence of truth pressing against a man determined not to acknowledge it.
Throughout it all, Lucci said nothing. Not a single peep from his bird interpreter.
Yet when the day finally waned, when the light through the windows dimmed and work slowed to its final cadence, Lucci passed Paulie in the hall. As he did, he adjusted his glasses– just slightly– and spoke without looking at him.
“You should tie your rope looser at the start,” the pigeon commented. “It’ll hold better in the end.”
Paulie stopped short, heart thudding.
Lucci continued on, footsteps fading, leaving behind only the quiet certainty of intention, like a trail deliberately left for someone observant enough, (or foolish enough) to follow.
Behind Paulie, Kaku watched the exchange, eyes bright and satisfied.
—
Blueno’s bar was already alive when they arrived, low light, low ceilings, the steady murmur of voices softened by wood and age. It was a place that welcomed secrets and swallowed them whole, where laughter came easier for having nowhere else to go. The air smelled faintly of spirits and citrus, of rain tracked in on boots, of something warm and familiar that loosened the spine.
By unspoken agreement, they claimed their usual corner. Jackets were shrugged off, glasses poured. Kaku settled in with practiced ease, Kalifa crossed her legs and surveyed the room like a queen among pawns, and Paulie… Paulie drank.
Not recklessly– not at first, at least– but steadily, as if each swallow were an attempt to sand down the edge of the day.
Until Lucci arrived.
There was a moment– brief, suspended– when conversation faltered just enough to notice.
He wasn’t in uniform. No tailored severity, no pressed lines meant to intimidate. Instead, he wore dark slacks and a simple collared shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearms, collar open at the throat. Casual, but deliberate. The kind of casual that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing and had chosen restraint anyway.
And, of course, the glasses were still there.
Paulie felt it like a blow to the sternum.
“Hell,” Paulie muttered under his breath.
Lucci inclined his head in greeting and joined them, movements unhurried, composed as ever. He took a seat, accepted a drink from Kaku with a nod, and said nothing, content, apparently, to let the room react around him.
Paulie stared into his glass.
He drank again.
Time blurred the way it always did after the second or third round, edges softening, thoughts slipping their leashes. The teasing resumed, easy and affectionate, stories retold with embellishment, laughter rising and falling like tidewater. Paulie found himself slouched back in his chair, one boot hooked around the rung, cheeks warm in a way that had little to do with the alcohol.
He looked up.
Lucci was listening to Kaku, elbow resting on the table, chin propped on his knuckles. The glasses caught the amber light, turned it molten. His mouth curved; not a smile– not quite– but something close enough to make Paulie’s chest ache.
Before he could stop himself, before sense could catch up to liquor, Paulie spoke.
“…Y’know,” he said, voice rough, too loud, “you’re—”
The table went quiet.
Kaku froze mid-gesture.
Kalifa’s brow arched.
Paulie squinted, as if the word were far away and he had to drag it closer. “—you’re annoyin’,” he finished weakly, then frowned.
There was a beat. A dangerous one.
Lucci turned his head slightly, eyes on Paulie through the lenses, patient as a man waiting for a door to be opened or slammed shut.
Paulie swallowed. His grip tightened on the glass.
“So fuckin' annoying. And you look good,” he blurted, the word escaping like a confession torn free. “Like really good. Damn it.”
Silence hit the table like a dropped coin.
Kaku’s eyes went wide. Kalifa smiled slowly, exquisitely pleased.
Paulie realized what he’d said about half a second too late. His face went crimson. “I mean—shut up—fuck—s’just the drink—”
Lucci did not interrupt the group as they laughed, his face showing zero emotion nor reaction to Paulie's outburst, simply scratching the belly of his bird sat next to some water.
Instead, he turned to regard Paulie for a long, thoughtful moment. Calmly, he adjusted his glasses.
“Noted, Paulie," The pigeon announced finally, adjusting his wings as he moved closer to the glass, Lucci's gaze on Paulie as a soft smirk of amusement grew on his usually stern face.
The understatement sent a fresh ripple of laughter through the table, but it rolled past Paulie unheard. His heart pounded in his ears, every nerve alight. He waited for mockery, for dismissal, for the quiet cruelty of being ignored.
None came.
Instead, he was flashed one of Lucci's annoyingly charming smirks. Something rare that Paulie has come to affectionately think of very often.
Lucci took a sip of his drink. When he set the glass down, his gaze returned to Paulie– steady, unreadable, intent.
“Drink some water,” Hattori added. “You’re flushed!"
Paulie stared at the pigeon, mouth open, then snapped it shut, fumbling for the water Kaku wordlessly slid his way. He drank, eyes down, mortified and buzzing all at once.
Kaku leaned back, hands laced behind his head, grin triumphant.
“Well,” he said cheerfully, “this is turnin’ into a great night.”
Lucci said nothing more, but when the laughter swelled again and the conversation shifted, his attention did not stray far. And every so often– when Paulie dared to look– he found those sharp, close-work eyes already on him, watching through glass, waiting to see whether the trail left earlier would finally be followed.
By the time Blueno began wiping down the bar for the night, Paulie had reached that peculiar state of drunkenness where the body insisted it was steady while the soul wandered freely, unburdened by tact or foresight. His laughter came late, arriving after the joke had passed, and his words trailed behind his thoughts like loose thread.
Naturally, It was Lucci who rose first.
“We’ll take him,” the bird said simply, Lucci already bracing Paulie when the chair scraped back and balance failed him at once.
Paulie protested weakly, something about “being fine” and “not a kid anymore”, though he leaned into Lucci, weight settling there as naturally as if it had always belonged.
Kaku watched them go with a satisfied hum, Kalifa’s knowing smile following like a benediction neither man asked for.
Outside, the night was cool and damp, the streets washed clean by earlier rain. Lamps cast soft halos upon the pavement, and the world felt quieter for having thinned of witnesses. Paulie’s steps wavered, boots scuffing, his grip tightening reflexively at Lucci’s sleeve.
“Y’walk real straight,” Paulie observed, squinting at him. “Like… like you got lines drawn on the ground.”
Lucci adjusted his hold, unbothered.
“Hah, I'm not walkin’ straight at all,” he huffed, “someone’s gotta keep things interestin’.”
They walked like that for a while, Lucci silent, attentive, Paulie narrating his thoughts to the night as if it were an old friend. He spoke of ropes and ships and the injustice of being teased, of glasses and eyes and how unfair it was that some people could look at you like they knew exactly where you were weakest. And Lucci just… listened.
When they reached the apartment building, Paulie stopped short, peering up at it as though it had appeared unexpectedly.
“This’s me,” he said. Then, softer, “You didn’t have to.”
Lucci met his gaze, glasses catching the lobby light. “We know,” The pigeon cooed.
Inside, the air was warmer, still. The elevator doors stood open, waiting. Paulie swayed, then steadied, hands hovering uselessly at his sides. For a moment, neither moved.
“You gonna go?” Paulie asked, voice low now, stripped of bravado by fatigue and drink.
Lucci stepped closer, just enough. Close enough that Paulie could see himself reflected faintly in the lenses- flushed, earnest, unmistakably undone. Lucci’s hand lingered at Paulie’s elbow, not guiding, not restraining.
Paulie’s breath hitched. He leaned forward without quite meaning to, the space between them narrowing, charged. Lucci did not retreat.
Somewhere behind them, a man cleared his throat.
They both froze.
“In the elevator,” the stranger said awkwardly, gesturing. “Uh. Whenever you’re ready.”
Paulie startled like a caught animal, face burning anew. He stumbled back a step, mortified, then laughed once, short and breathless.
“Sorry,” he muttered, to no one in particular.
Lucci stepped away, composure reclaimed, though his eyes lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary.
He guided Paulie gently toward the elevator.
“Dont fall on the way home,” Hattori said, watching Paulie stumble inside.
The doors began to close.
Paulie looked up at him through the narrowing gap, heart thudding, the world suddenly very clear despite everything.
“Hey,” he blurted.
Lucci’s gaze sharpened.
Paulie swallowed. “Don’t—uh. Don’t stop wearin’ the glasses.”
The doors slid shut.
Lucci stood alone in the lobby for a moment longer than required, hand lifting unconsciously to adjust the frames.