Work Text:
"I caught a few of the dock workers badmouthing the fat controller."
"That's something you take up with him or your HR."
"You don't wanna hear what they said?"
Your eyes flit up from the stack of paperwork on your desk — shipment orders for the warehouse and whatnot, you couldn't afford to be distracted — and James doesn't even bother looking up from his nail polish. He's wearing his usual stupid, smug smirk because he knows better than anyone that you like gossip just as much as him.
He wasn't even supposed to be in your office, really. There was something wrong with his axle, which, in James' speak, just meant that he'd woken up, felt that an inexplicable ache in his rods and joints, and wanted a reason to make it your problem. Even after the issue was fixed to a degree that it was undeniable that nothing else was wrong, he loved to stick around you and talk about whatever he could think of.
He was supposed to go on a test-lap along the lap of tracks leading out of the back gates of the warehouse to make sure nothing else was wrong. He'd done that, yes, but he was also supposed to leave in a timely enough manner that Topham wouldn't come knocking on your door or calling to find out where he was.
James had already been lounging in the specially-made android-safe chair you'd built across your desk for three hours.
He'd been ready to leave at least two hours before that.
"You're going to get yourself sold," you huff.
Oh, please! I've been doing this how long?" Rolling his eyes, James brings his mostly painted pinky to his face and squints as he coats to dots he managed to miss with his first pass. He licks his lips like he usually does when focused, tongue peeking out briefly to taste the peach-flavor Chapstick again, then hums once he finishes. That same smirk shows back up once he's finished, eyes finally lifting to look at you. "As long as I get my work done before four, I'll be alright!"
You bite back the observation of him not being "a very useful engine," and instead flip your pen so the cap is closest to your desk, tapping it against the papers in front of you. "I won't cover you."
"You will."
You will, but you won't openly admit that. There was still some sort of professionalism you should be holding, even if the moments you two shared were more intimate than a typical doctor-patient relationship.
Pulling your tongue out of your cheek, you let out a heaving sigh and finally relent. "What'd they say?"
James leans forward in a heartbeat, almost putting himself nose-to-nose with you. His hands are planted palm-down on the desk and his smirk is now a "I am so glad you asked," kind of grin. Based on that and the way he hauls you into his lap from across the desk so he can begin your nails as well.
You've told him time and time again you don't have to be this close and that no matter how many protective coats he gives you, your job would make the polish twice as quick as the time it took for him to apply it. He always said that he didn't care, that he liked matching with you in some way besides the handkerchief knotted on your hip and folded in his blazer.
He liked to hold you close as he worked, and you liked to pretend that you weren't more mindful during your workday after he finished the last layer.
As much as you hated to admit it, you were quite fond of your tradition.