Work Text:
you are, by all accounts, difficult to work with.
you assume the worst. you catalogue exits. you expect betrayal the way other people expect rain. you call it realism; adrian chase calls it “being kind of a bummer, but in a poetic way.”
adrian chase, meanwhile, is—infuriatingly—fine.
not fine like detached or hardened or numb, which would at least make sense in your line of work. fine like cheerful. like earnest. like a man who will casually reload his weapon while explaining, in detail, how american bald eagles sound less majestic than movies would have you believe.
you are teammates.
specifically: 11th street kids teammates (checkmate teammates technically, but both you and adrian hate calling yourselves that) which means your working environment includes questionable disguises, worse plans, and at least one argument per week about whether naming operations is necessary (adrian says yes, you say the universe will punish hubris).
somehow, you work.
more than that—somehow, you work well.
“okay,” adrian says one night, crouched beside you on a rooftop, peering through binoculars that absolutely do not need binoculars attached to them, “so fun fact—bald eagles actually steal food from other birds a lot. like, aggressively.”
you sigh, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself. “that’s not fun. that’s just capitalism with feathers.”
he considers this. “wow. yeah. that tracks.”
below you, evergreen hums—too loud, too alive, too ready to go wrong. you scan the street for threats that may or may not exist, heart already braced for disaster.
adrian hums beside you.
you glance at him. “you’re going to get us killed one day.”
he beams. “statistically, probably! but not tonight. tonight i triple-checked the exits.”
you blink. “you did?”
“yeah,” he says, proudly. “you always do that, so i figured i should too.”
something in your chest tightens. you ignore it.
everyone else sees it before you do.
they see the way adrian always positions himself half a step closer to you in fights. the way you unconsciously track him even while insisting you don’t trust anyone. the way your pessimism and his optimism don’t clash—they interlock.
you call him reckless. he calls you thorough. chris calls it “painfully obvious.”
the bar is loud, sticky with old spills and newer laughter. the team is scattered across mismatched stools and booths, unwinding after a job that went mostly right (which, in your experience, is suspicious).
you nurse your beer like it might betray you while adrian is animatedly explaining something, hands moving wildly.
“it’s about birds,” emilia murmurs to chris.
he grunts. “of course it is.”
she smiles, nursing her own drink softly. “they’re quite the pair, aren’t they?” she hums, watching you two.
chris leans in, as if proximity might help him understand her any better. “those two? what’s so great about them? i mean—adrian and i are a good pair. you and i are a good pair.”
emilia doesn’t look away from you and adrian.
“half-doomed and semi-sweet,” she says.
chris frowns. “which one’s which?”
she finally turns, lips quirking. “take your guess.”
you look over at the two gossiping, eyebrow cocked as if suspicious. you were always suspicious of everything. all the time.
“hey!” adrian says, recapturing your attention. he’s far too cheerful for a man who was shot at an hour ago. “do you think pigeons judge us?”
you stare at him. “i think pigeons would survive the apocalypse.”
he lights up. “right? that’s what i’m saying!”
you take a long sip of beer.
you do not notice the way his smile softens when he looks at you.
the job that changes things don’t look special at first. they never do.
it’s supposed to be simple—intel retrieval, minimal resistance, in and out. you say this out loud, which immediately makes adrian nervous.
“you shouldn’t say that,” he says. “that’s like saying ‘quiet night’ in a hospital. ‘macbeth’ before opening night.”
“exactly,” you mutter. “we’re doomed.”
“you always say that,” he says fondly.
“and i’m usually right.”
you split up inside the building—him taking the stairs, you taking the hallways. standard. efficient. safe. until it isn’t. when the gunfire starts, it’s too close. too sudden. your comm crackles, half-static.
“—rian?” you snap. “adrian, respond.” nothing. your stomach drops like the floor vanished.
you move before you think, heart pounding, mind screaming this is it, this is where it all goes wrong. you find him pinned behind cover, bleeding but grinning when he sees you.
“hey!” he smiles. “good timing.”
you nearly shake him. “you didn’t answer.”
“sorry,” he says sheepishly. “radio got shot. which is rude, by the way.”
your hands hover, unsure where to touch, how bad it is, how close you came to—
“you okay?” he asks, suddenly serious. “you look… really freaked out.”
you swallow. “don’t scare me like that.”
he blinks.
“oh,” he says quietly. “okay. i won’t.”
the promise lands heavier than it should.
later, when the mission ends and the adrenaline fades, you sit on the curb outside the video store, staring at nothing.
adrian sits beside you, shoulder brushing yours. for someone who hates contact, he always does sit a centimeter too close.
“you know,” he says gently, “the world isn’t always out to get us.”
you snort. “that’s optimistic.”
he smiles. “that’s me.”
you don’t argue. and for the first time, you wonder—just briefly—if maybe the reason the world hasn’t swallowed you whole yet is because someone keeps standing beside you, humming bird facts into the void.
after the mission, they put you and adrian on desk duty. which is, objectively, a crime.
“you’re grounding us,” you tell emilia flatly as she hands you a tablet. “we almost died. this is when we should be allowed to brood.”
emilia smiles the way someone does when they know something you don’t. “you’re on recovery rotation. two weeks.”
adrian perks up. “oh! does that mean snacks?”
“yes,” she says patiently. “it means snacks.”
he fist-pumps. you consider faking your own death.
desk duty means proximity. proximity means noticing things. noticing things is a gateway drug to feelings, which you have carefully avoided cultivating for most of your adult life.
adrian hums while typing. not quietly. not tunefully. just… earnestly.
“you’re doing it again,” you mutter.
“hm?” he swivels his chair toward you. “oh! sorry. it helps me focus.”
“it helps me spiral,” you reply.
he grins. “teamwork.”
you glare. it doesn’t work. it never works.
you learn, against your will, that adrian chase is deeply considerate.
he brings you coffee without asking how you take it—and somehow gets it right. he notices when you stop joking and starts talking more, gently, like he’s coaxing you back from somewhere dark. he always walks on the side of the street closer to traffic, even when there’s no logical reason to.
you chalk it up to him being like that. chris does not.
“you know he likes you, right?” he asks one night while you’re cleaning weapons.
you don’t look up. “everyone likes me.”
chris snorts. “not like that.”
you pause. slowly. “like what?”
“like—” he gestures helplessly. “like a guy who memorized your coffee order but still doesn’t know how to flirt.”
you scoff. “adrian memorizes everything.”
“that’s worse,” chris argues.
you ignore him. you are very good at ignoring things that might hurt.
adrian, meanwhile, is having a crisis.
it manifests as him being even nicer. nicer than anyone thought he was possible being.
“hey,” he says one afternoon, poking his head into the doorway where you’re hunched over a map. “do you wanna take a break? you’ve been staring at that like it personally wronged you.”
“it has,” you say darkly. “this alley has no cover.”
he steps closer, peering at the map. “oh! yeah, that’s bad. but if you angle the entry point—”
your shoulders brush. you freeze. he freezes too. for a heartbeat, neither of you move.
“oh,” he says softly. “sorry.”
“it’s fine,” you say too quickly.
he steps back. you immediately miss the warmth. neither of you mention it.
the next job goes worse.
not catastrophically—just enough to rattle you. you get cornered. the exit you planned collapses. panic claws up your spine, loud and familiar.
this is it, you think distantly. this is where it goes wrong.
then adrian is there.
he doesn’t joke. he doesn’t chatter. he plants himself in front of you like an unmovable thing, eyes sharp, voice steady.
“hey,” he says. “i’ve got you. breathe with me, okay?”
you do.
later, when it’s over, your hands shake. adrian notices. of course he does.
“you did great,” he says.
you laugh, brittle. “i nearly lost it.”
“so?” he replies. “you didn’t. that counts.”
you stare at him. “you’re really bad at being scary,” you tell him.
he brightens. “thank you!”
that’s when it hits you—not fully, not consciously, but enough to ache. adrian chase believes in you. not in a vague, team-approved way. in a steady, unwavering way. like it’s obvious. like it’s fact. you don’t know what to do with that.
the bar again. because of course.
you sit beside adrian this time. it happens naturally, like gravity.
he’s telling you about owls. something about neck rotation. you nod, pretending to listen.
“you okay?” he asks suddenly.
you blink. “what?”
“you’re quiet,” he says gently. “quiet-quiet. not grumpy-quiet.”
you huff a laugh. “i didn’t realize there were categories.”
“there are,” he says. “i have a spreadsheet.”
you snort despite yourself.
across the bar, emilia and chris watch you.
“they still don’t know,” chris mutters.
emilia smiles. “they will.”
you lean into adrian without thinking. just a little. just enough.
he stiffens—then relaxes, careful not to startle you.
“hey,” he says softly. “if the world is ending… we’ll deal with it.”
you close your eyes.
“promise?”
“promise,” he says. like it’s easy. like it’s true.
and for the first time, you believe him.
the problem with believing the world is out to get you is that sometimes it proves you right.
the mission is supposed to be routine—intercept, extract, disengage. you say nothing this time, which feels like tempting fate in the opposite direction.
adrian jogs beside you, practically vibrating with enthusiasm.
“okay,” he whispers into the comms, “so statistically speaking, this building has terrible ventilation, which means if anyone deployed gas—”
“adrian,” you murmur. “focus.”
“i am focused,” he says earnestly. “this is my focus.”
you shake your head, but there’s affection in it now. that realization sneaks up on you like a trap you forgot to mark.
inside, everything goes sideways.
explosions. shouting. smoke choking the air. your plan fractures into instinct and reaction, and the exits you catalogued vanish one by one.
you lose sight of adrian. your chest constricts. you tell yourself not to panic. panic helps no one. panic gets people killed. but your hands are shaking as you clear rooms, voice tight in the comm.
“adrian,” you snap. “respond.”
static.
no. not again.
you move faster, recklessness clawing past caution, fear sharpening into something feral. you find him in a stairwell, bloodied, helmet cracked, breathing hard.
“hey,” he says weakly, like this is normal. “you should see the other guy.”
you don’t laugh. you drop to your knees in front of him, hands hovering, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the sirens outside.
“you scared me,” you say, voice breaking despite yourself.
his grin fades.
“oh,” he says softly. “i didn’t mean to.”
“i know,” you snap. then, quieter: “i just—don’t do that.”
he watches you carefully. “do what?”
“disappear.” the word hangs between you, heavy and unmissable.
adrian’s expression shifts—not panic, not fear. understanding. “oh,” he says again. different this time.
you pull your hands back like you’ve touched something dangerous.
“we should get you out of here,” you say. “before this place collapses.”
he nods, still watching you like you’re the one bleeding.
recovery is slow.
you sit beside his bed more than necessary. you tell yourself it’s professional. someone has to make sure he doesn’t rip his stitches doing something stupid.
he chats anyway.
“you know,” he says one afternoon, “this reminds me of the time i broke my arm falling out of a tree.”
you deadpan. “why were you in a tree.”
“eagle reasons.”
“of course.”
he grins. then grows quiet.
“hey,” he says. “can i ask you something kind of… important?”
your shoulders tense. “define important.”
“like,” he says slowly, choosing his words with a care that knots your stomach, “do you always expect people to leave?”
you swallow. “yes,” you say honestly.
he nods, like that confirms something. “okay.”
“that’s it?” you ask, irritated despite yourself.
“yeah,” he says gently. “i just wanted to know.”
you look at him, heart racing. “why?”
he hesitates. “because i don’t want to.”
the room goes very still. you laugh, sharp and disbelieving. “you say that like it’s a choice.”
“it is,” he says. “for me.”
you stare at him, mind scrambling for a way out of this conversation. “you’re hurt,” you say finally. “you should rest.”
he doesn’t push. he never does. but you don’t miss the way his eyes soften when you leave.
the team notices everything.
emilia brings you tea without asking. chris stops making jokes about it because it’s no longer funny—it’s inevitable.
“they’re orbiting,” he mutters one night.
“like doomed planets,” emilia replies fondly.
you break first.
it happens quietly. terrible. over something stupid.
adrian shows up late to a briefing, apologetic and flustered.
“sorry! i got distracted—did you know octopuses have seven hearts?”
“you can’t keep doing this,” you snap.
the room goes silent.
adrian blinks. “doing what?”
“acting like nothing matters,” you say, the words spilling before you can stop them. “like you’re not risking everything every time you walk out the door.”
his smile falters. “i do know,” he says softly. “i just don’t want to live like i’m already dead.”
you flinch. “that’s not fair,” you whisper. “you don’t know what it’s like to lose—”
“i know what it’s like to choose joy anyway,” he says. not angry. just true.
you stare at him, chest tight, throat burning. “i can’t lose you,” you say.
the words are out before you can stop them. the room is silent enough to hear your heartbeat.
adrian’s eyes widen. “oh,” he says, barely audible.
you close your eyes.
yet, world doesn’t end.
you don’t sleep after that.
not really.
you lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying the sound of your own voice saying “i can’t lose you” like it’s evidence in a trial you didn’t know you were participating in. your brain does what it always does—catalogues worst-case scenarios, drafts eulogies for possibilities that haven’t happened yet.
adrian doesn’t avoid you.
which is, frankly, rude.
he shows up the next morning like usual, helmet under his arm, hoodie zipped wrong, holding two coffees.
“i wasn’t sure which one you wanted,” he says. “so i got both.”
you sit up straighter. “that’s inefficient.”
“yeah,” he agrees cheerfully. “but comforting.”
you take the coffee. your fingers brush. he doesn’t flinch. neither do you.
the silence stretches—not awkward, just charged, like the air before a storm you’ve been predicting your whole life.
“so,” he says eventually. “about yesterday.”
there it is. you brace.
“i didn’t mean to ambush you,” he continues. “or make you feel cornered. i just—” he scratches the back of his neck. “i’m not great at pretending things aren’t happening.”
you laugh weakly. “i’m excellent at it.”
“i know,” he says gently. “that’s kind of the problem.”
you stare at him. really stare. at the earnestness, the open concern, the complete absence of expectation in his posture.
“you didn’t freak out,” you say.
he blinks. “why would i?”
“most people do,” you reply. “when they realize how much damage they could do just by existing near me.”
adrian frowns. actually frowns.
“that’s not—” he stops, recalibrates. “okay, that is how you feel. but it’s not how i feel.”
you wait for the punchline. it doesn’t come.
“you’re not a curse,” he says instead. “you’re just… cautious. and sad sometimes. and really smart. and you make sure no one gets blindsided.” he smiles, small and fond. “i like that about you.”
your chest aches. “i don’t think liking me is safe,” you say quietly.
he nods. “yeah. i figured.”
you blink. “you did?”
“mm-hmm,” he says. “but i don’t really make decisions based on safety.”
that tracks.
the confession doesn’t happen all at once.
it unfolds in pieces.
in the way adrian always checks in before missions now, not out of procedure but care. in the way you stop pretending you don’t wait for his footsteps in the hall. in the way the team starts leaving the room when conversations turn softer, heavier.
it finally happens late one night on the roof. economos is drinking with chris—frankly, it’s the only time chris is able to socialize without being overly cruel to the man—and emilia is off somewhere else with adebayo, gossiping about whatever it is they gossip about.
the city sprawls below you, loud and indifferent. you sit with your knees drawn up, beer in hand, staring at the glow.
“i’m bad at this,” you say suddenly.
adrian tilts his head. “at what?”
“letting people stay,” you say. “believing they won’t leave.”
he thinks about that for a long moment. “i don’t know how to promise forever,” he says carefully. “my mom say’s i’m not good at lying. but hey, she’s also a major bitch.”
you huff. “figures.”
“but,” he continues, “i can promise to choose you. repeatedly. even when it’s scary. especially then.”
you turn to look at him. he isn’t smiling. he isn’t joking. he’s steady.
“you don’t have to be less doomed,” he adds. “i can meet you where you are.”
your throat tightens.
“and i don’t need you to be less… you,” you admit. “i just—” you exhale. “i don’t want to imagine a future where you’re not in it. that’s stupid to say, isn’t it?”
adrian’s eyes soften. “oh,” he says quietly. “that’s not stupid… i mean, that’s like, the opposite of stupid. that’s good. because i already did.”
you laugh, breathless. “that’s terrifying.”
“yeah,” he agrees. “but kind of nice.”
you lean into him first this time. he wraps an arm around you like it’s instinct. like it always was.
later, at the bar—because once again, of course—the team watches you sit pressed together, your shoulder tucked under adrian’s chin like it belongs there.
emilia smiles into her drink.
“they figured it out,” she murmurs.
chris squints. “finally.”
“half-doomed,”
“and semi-sweet,” he replies. “which one’s which?” he asks, grinning.
she watches adrian pass you a napkin before you even realize you need it. watches you accept it without comment. “take your guess.”