Archive of Our Own

Fitz walks through the doors of his office building, perfectly balancing his bag, coffee, phone, and ID card. As he waits for the elevator to reach him, he overhears the front desk clerk, Dex, arguing with someone.

"I'm sorry, I can't just let you go up like that without an ID."

"But why?"

"What? Because that's how bombings happen. And mass shootings!"

"I don't have a bomb. Or gun. Do you wanna search me?"

"Oh—Um, no, that won't be necessary. Okay, listen. Can you tell me the name of who invited you here? I'll just call them up to confirm."

"It's Solreef Industries! I have an interview!"

This catches Fitz's attention. He'd known they were looking for new associates, but Wylie refused to share the candidates, or really anything about the process. He tries to catch a look at the interviewee, who's unfortunately out of Fitz's line of sight.

Dex sounds exasperated. "Well, sure, but with who?"

"What?"

"I need the name. Do you not know the name of whoever emailed you? Called you?"

"No! I don't! Wait, let me check my phone."

Why does the elevator always take so long? Fitz turns his body slightly and finds Dex, who gives him a long-suffering look. Fitz twists further, only a quick peek, he's just stretching, and finally sees the silhouette of the incompetent man who is probably already late to his interview.

Oh. Okay, well. 

Wow.

Before twisting back around, Fitz had only glimpsed a shock of blonde hair, the outline of broad shoulders. But he can already tell that someone like this would certainly shake up the office, if he'd had any chance of being hired. Even Dex is subtly giving him a once over as he taps through his phone.

Also, he's really tall. Fitz stands a little straighter and focuses on adjusting his sleeves. He takes a sip of his coffee. 

The attractive man stomps his foot like a child. "My email won't load! I swear I have an interview! Seriously, it's in—Oh my god, it's now. I'm late to my interview! Oh fuck, please let me go—"

The elevator dings, finally here.

"I can take him up," Fitz says involuntarily. When he turns to face them, Dex is giving him a massive what the fuck are you doing? stare, practically an accusation. Fitz coughs lightly into his elbow. "I'll take him to his interview, make sure he's supposed to be there."

"Really?" Dex and the man say at the same time, but Fitz accidentally only looks at the man.

He wishes he didn't. Fitz doesn't think it's fair for people to have eyes that shade of blue. It's hard not to stare, hard to remember what he was going to say.

"Um, sure. I guess that would work," Dex says slowly. 

"Thank you so much!" the man says, smiling more than anyone should smile before an interview.

The elevator starts to close. Fitz abruptly sticks a hand out to stop it, and coffee splashes on his sleeve. He glares at the stain and remembers why he doesn't do favors. "Hurry up."

The man bounds—literally bounds—into the elevator. Before the doors close, Fitz catches one last glimpse of Dex, who looks absolutely befuddled and sort of amused. 

"Which floor are you?" Fitz asks, after pressing his own fifth floor. 

The man fiddles with the edge of his shirt, which is wrinkled and an atrocious shade of orange. "Oh, I don't know." 

Fitz feels a headache coming on. He wishes he drank less Red Bull last night—or, had it been morning at that point? But how else would he have gotten all those reports done?

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"They told me in the email! But—see, it won't load! Do you have the Wi-Fi password?" The man begins waving his phone in front of Fitz's face, and Fitz pushes it away a little harder than necessary. 

Wylie is doing all the interviews. And Wylie is based on the seventh floor. A safe distance from Fitz's own workplace, so maybe the headache won't last too long. 

He jabs the number seven and says, "Okay, that's your stop."

"Okay!" the man says, still grinning. "I'm Keefe, by the way. Excited to work together!"

Fitz keeps himself from laughing. "Right." 

The elevator stops at the fifth floor. Fitz steps out, and Keefe gives him a wave and a very loud, "Thank you again!"

The doors close. People are staring, but it doesn't matter. Relief floods Fitz when he realizes this is the last he'll ever see this man.

"There's a meeting."

Fitz takes off his headphones. He stares at Sophie, who's standing impatiently over his desk. "No, there isn't."

"Yes, there is. They just announced it." Sophie adds, nicely, "It should be short."

Fitz groans and hauls himself up, following Sophie to the meeting room. They sit together, waiting for the rest of their coworkers to slowly filter in. 

"Hi," Linh whispers, as she slides in beside Sophie and squeezes her hand. "Why are we having a meeting? Are they going to complain about the dress code again?"

Fitz and Sophie both sigh. Sophie says, "They better not."

Fitz is tired of having meetings about the dress code. This year, there have been eight meetings about the dress code. It's May. 

But Wylie soon walks into the room, and everyone goes silent. Meetings about the dress code are never major enough for Wylie, so this must be something at least a little important.

Then Keefe walks in, right on Wylie's heels.

His hair is untamed, his shirt untucked. He's grinning around the room—when does he not smile?—and when his gaze meets Fitz, well, Fitz starts choking. 

It isn't good. He can't stop. His face turns red as he hacks at the table, and Sophie starts thumping his back very loudly and unhelpfully, and now everyone is looking at him, and—did someone just laugh?

Fitz stops choking. He looks up, incredulous, and yeah. Keefe is hiding his mouth with his hand but he's obviously snickering. He's gotten a wardrobe update, or maybe his interview outfits are just lackluster, because he looks really fucking good right now, crisp shirt and fitted pants, neither of which are in offensive colors.

Fitz has never felt such hatred in his life. He adjusts his posture, leans back in this uncomfortable office chair, and says, "Sorry, everyone. I'm all good."

"Alright," Wylie says smoothly. Fitz refuses to look at Keefe, but he hears the laughing stop and that makes him even angrier for some reason. He forces himself to focus on Wylie. "Good morning, everyone. I just called this meeting to introduce our new associate, Keefe Sencen!"

At that moment, Fitz realizes two things.

1. Sencen. That explains the special treatment. No one can get away with late interviews and sloppy dressing while still getting a whole meeting called for their employment. No one but a Sencen.

2. All associates are on the fifth floor. Fitz will be seeing a lot, lot more of Keefe.

Fitz feels someone staring at him. He darts his gaze around the room and of course, it catches on Keefe. Who winks, then, laughter still lingering at the corners of his mouth.

Fitz scowls and looks away.

There are four associates. Sophie, Linh, Fitz, and now... Keefe. 

Linh has seniority, but Sophie and Fitz joined together only a few months after. Their cubicles are all right beside each other, and they'd always talked over the walls, about Fitz's attempted baking and Sophie's failed dates and Linh's eccentric roommates. They had a routine. They had a dynamic.

But now Keefe has fucked it all up. He walks into the room every day, always a little bit late, always looking ridiculously excited about sitting behind a desk all day. He says, "Hi Fitz! Hi Sophie! Hi Linh!" like a robot, always in the same order, the same bright cadence.

"Isn't it creepy?" Fitz complains to Sophie one day.

"He's literally just being friendly."

"You're on his side?"

So now Fitz can't even snark about Keefe to his friends, because Keefe has for some reason made them his friends as well. A group chat was made by the second day, which Fitz has decided to ignore. It's mostly spam from Sophie and Keefe, who send every meme and reaction pic from The Office that there is.

Keefe has tried texting Fitz individually a few times as well, which, why even bother? Why Fitz? And then Fitz has to spend an unreasonable amount of time crafting the perfect reply, something that conveys the seething hatred in his gut without seeming unprofessional.

when are the q2 reports due??????

July 31.

"I think they're starting a band," Linh says one day, during their lunch break. She is sitting on Sophie's desk. They're sharing a smoothie. Fitz wonders why they don't use separate straws.

"Who, your neighbors?" Fitz asks, before biting into his sandwich. He's across from them, preferring to have his own space.

"Yeah."

"Oh my god, I love Brenda and Carl!" Keefe says from beside Fitz, and though a flimsy wall separates their cubicles, it does nothing to silence his loud exclamations, which come frequently throughout the day.

Linh laughs. "I know. But, yeah, I've been hearing a lot of folk rock lately. They're getting the hang of it, which takes a lot of practicing. A lot. It's cool until I'm trying to sleep."

"Aw," says Sophie. "You can come to my place if you need to. Anytime."

Linh smiles at her gratefully as Fitz tries to figure out if they've ever been to Sophie's place before. Did Linh even know where it was? 

"Oh!" Keefe says suddenly. He walks out of his cubicle. Now he's leaning against Fitz's desk, and it looks so smooth, so practiced, so easy. "Guess what my neighbors have been up to?"

Fitz finds himself eye-level with Keefe's ass. He stares. Those pants are tailored, those thighs are muscular—of course he stares. It would be impossible not to. And then Fitz mumbles something softly, something that sounds like holy shit and is a little too breathless for his own liking.

"What was that?" Sophie says, looking at him curiously. "Fitz, did you say something?"

"No. Nothing."

"Wait yeah, I heard something too." Keefe turns now, and Fitz immediately bolts his gaze upward. His cheeks are burning. He should make eye-contact, maybe, but now he's stuck on Keefe's lips, can't tear away.

What the fuck.

Those lips twitch, an infuriating, endless smile. Fitz needs that smile to stop. It appears all the time: at work, in his thoughts, as he dreams. He's sick of it.

"Fitz?" Sophie prompts. "What was it?" 

Fitz can hear a teasing lilt to her voice, and his face flames even harder. "Nothing."

"Come on, you can tell us."

"I was just thinking," Fitz says hotly, "that no one fucking cares about your neighbors, Keefe."

Dead silence.

"Wow. Okay, man." Keefe edges away from Fitz's desk, his eyes big and wounded.

Shame immediately curls into Fitz's stomach. He averts his eyes. "No, I'm sorry. Um. I didn't mean that." Sophie and Linh are staring at him in horror. Fitz looks back at Keefe, but that's worse somehow, because Keefe looks like he understands, like he's forgiving. 

"Fitz—" Sophie begins.

"I think it's sort of hot in here? When it's hot, I get snappy. Does that happen to you?" No one replies. "Wow, I'm really sweating here. Do you guys think the AC is broken? Maybe I'll take a breather."

"Okay, um—"

"I'm sorry again, really. Give me a sec!"

And then Fitz pushes his chair away and races out of the room.

He's pacing in the meeting room, seriously considering calling it a day and going home "sick". He left his phone and ID and wallet in his cubicle, but... did he really need them? He could just leave without, right?

Then he remembers he also doesn't have his keys. They're sitting probably three feet from the person Fitz absolutely cannot face right now. So, Fitz won't go home. Maybe he can crash with a friend?

Fitz is about to text Marella with several all-caps and exclamation marks, when he remembers. Right. Phone.

When did everyone become so technology-dependent?

He sighs, loudly, and leans his forehead against a wall. Maybe he'll just stay here until his face cools down to a normal temperature. 

There's a knock. Which is pointless, because the door is cracked slightly open anyway, as are company rules. No closed doors, unless in the event of a serious meeting.

"Fitz? Are you... less hot now?" 

Fitz groans. He can't bring himself to face Keefe.

"Okay, not to make things awkward," Keefe begins, "but this is sort of awkward."

Fitz's forehead lightly bangs against the wall.

"Um, Fitz? Do you hate me?"

"Huh? Why would you think that?" Fitz says, to buy time. Though he instinctively thinks yes, so deeply, he forces himself to accept that Keefe is not a serious threat and more of a slight annoyance.

And nothing else.

"Well, you just stare when I say hi to you every morning. You take hours to reply to my texts and, for the record, I can tell when you see them immediately. I can also tell when you start and stop typing. Which you do a lot."

Fitz is mortified. "I'm sorry—"

"Also, one time, I was coming to our cubicles when I heard you ranting to Sophie about the outfits I wore that week—"

"I'm really—" 

"And I'm confused, cause I feel like those were pretty good outfits? I got a ton of compliments."

"I'm sure you did," Fitz says, unable to help himself. Hastily, he adds, "Keefe, I'm really sorry. That's uncalled for. And completely unprofessional."

"So you don't hate me?"

"I—No?"

"Ohh." Keefe's eyes widen. He stands still for a moment, silent in contemplation, then nods. "I get it now."

Fitz's entire soul plummets. "You do?"

"Yeah, I do."

Keefe walks toward him, raising his hands as he nears. Fitz watches with blind panic—Is he gonna cup my face? Is he gonna pull me closer? Is he—Oh, god, is he gonna kiss me?

"Keefe, I—"

Keefe hugs him. It's very friendly.

Fitz doesn't move, doesn't breathe, until Keefe steps away, exclaiming, "You just wanted to stay professional!"

"I—Oh. Yeah, I did."

"Well, I understand that, but you know the office is actually pretty relaxed about that sort of stuff?

"Relaxed? About what sort of stuff?" Fitz decides, once he's back at his desk, to finally read the Solreef Employee Handbook. Just because it's good to be informed. 

"Like, we can be friends, no problem. I'll totally respect your boundaries! So you don't have to push me away or anything."

"Oh, right."

Keefe does a fist pump. Fitz feels like he's in middle school again.

Okay, sure, Keefe's really nice and clearly hot. But Fitz reminds himself: Deeply incompetent. Completely clueless. Sorta immature.

And so not his type.

Fitz is at his desk, elbow-deep in financials and projections, when Keefe saunters up to his desk and points at his phone. "Why do you have seven missed calls?"

"Spam," Fitz says, opening Excel. 

"But it's all the same number."

"It can still be spam." 

"Maybe you should call back?"

"No, it's fine."

"Oh look, they're calling again. Fitz, I really think you should reply."

Fitz will never get these spreadsheets done in time, not at this rate. "Fine," he says, reluctantly picking up his phone. "Hello?"

"Hey, um—"

Fitz recognizes this voice. "Dex! What's going on?"

"Um, so, your sister's here."

"What?" 

At Fitz's outburst, Keefe gently takes the phone and hits speaker. Fitz is too stunned to protest.

"Uh, yeah, your sister? Biana? Um, she's asking to come up, and I'm really trying to stop her because, y'know, building rules. But I don't know, she looks pretty determined. She gave me your personal number to call and confirm, so... sorry about all the calls. Can you confirm, please?"

"Why can't she call me herself?"

Dex sighs. Keefe looks positively gleeful. There's some muffled dialogue on the other end. Dex comes back on. "Yeah, so, she says her phone is dead. Honestly, Fitz, I'd assume this was some stalker if she didn't look like this."

Fitz immediately grows protective. "What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing!" yelps Dex. "Just, she looks exactly like you, that's all."

Keefe raises his eyebrows. Fitz groans.

"Okay, so, I really can't let her up. She doesn't have a legitimate reason and they don't like visitors in the office. But she's insisting on seeing you—what? Oh... Okay, Fitz, she's asking can you please buy her lunch?"

"It's not my lunch break." Keefe is frantically mouthing words. Fitz hits mute and glares. "What is it now?"

"It's eleven! That's basically lunch! Early lunch!"

"But I just ate breakfast. And I have to finish this spreadsheet."

Keefe's mouth falls open. "That's your SISTER!" 

Dex is still talking. "Also, she's requesting that you bring your portable charger, because she knows you keep one in your desk. And—AHH—"

He cuts off so abruptly, with such a piercing shriek that Fitz is convinced a monster just swallowed him up. 

Then Biana's voice comes on over the line. "Hey, Fitz! Love you! Sorry this is so hectic, can't wait to see you in five!"

The call ends.

Fitz slowly lowers his phone. He closes his eyes.

When he opens them, Keefe is beaming harder than he's ever beamed before. "I can't wait to meet your sister!"

The Vacker siblings walk to the local deli. Keefe is there too.

He had begged to come. As Fitz collected his wallet and phone and portable charger, he'd staunchly refused. Then Keefe had started to sink to his knees, hands clasped before him in mock-prayer, and Fitz's vision began stuttering between insane notions and pitch-black panic.

"Yes, yes, fine! Get up! You can come! Please, get up!" 

Keefe had bounced to his feet and grinned. He was so annoying. It made Fitz's chest hurt.

Keefe is still bouncing, but now down the sidewalk, cheerfully asking Biana questions about every aspect of her life, which she replies to with equal enthusiasm. Fitz tried to keep up at the beginning, but both of them had entirely too much energy for him at the moment, so he allows himself to space out for a few minutes.

Honestly, it's very peaceful. He already feels calmer. Does the spreadsheet really matter, in the grand scheme of things? Does he really need that third energy drink? Does his job really—

"I'm currently single!"

Fitz's head whirls towards Keefe.

Biana looks confused as well, which is reassuring. She perfectly voices Fitz's racing thoughts when she says, "What?"

"Sorry. I was just—Because you were talking about a breakup." Biana nods slightly, so Keefe continues. "And I wanted to say. That. I, too, broke up with someone."

Fitz is beginning to wish he'd paid more attention to the conversation before.

"Oh, when?" Biana asks.

"Um. Five years ago?"

"Wow, the breakup was that bad?"

Keefe looks caught in headlights, his mouth hanging open but no words falling out. Something in Fitz's chest twists. He can't help but study Keefe. This is a side of him that Fitz hasn't really seen before: thoughtful, serious, maybe even regretful?

"Um, yeah," Keefe says, suddenly hesitant. "Yeah, it was that bad."

Biana wraps an arm around Keefe, and Fitz immediately begins walking ahead so he doesn't have to do so as well. His mind is spinning. He's thinking all sorts of questions that are intrusive and definitely not work appropriate, but he can't help it. 

Keefe hasn't had a relationship in five years? Who was it with? Why did it end? Why hasn't Keefe tried again? Would he be willing to try again? Why is Fitz even—

A car honks. Tires screech. Fitz screams.

Someone yanks him back from the blaring road just in time. "Woah!"

Fitz stumbles against their body, clutching onto what he thinks is a very defined arm as he blinks back to his senses. Had he just... walked into incoming traffic?

Since Fitz was three years old, he has been excruciatingly careful to always look both ways before crossing the road. He has never jaywalked. He has never crossed without the walk signal.

What is happening to him?

He feels faint, sags even further into whatever arms are holding him. Then he wonders who those arms belong to.

"Fitz, are you okay? Wow, that was close!"

Fitz jerks away from Keefe's hold and stumbles sideways, not in the direction of the road. He bends over, leaning his hands on his knees and breathing heavily. He might throw up. Everything is really dizzy. He can still feel Keefe's touch on him, and now his skin is buzzing loudly, and he feels uncomfortably warm.

Fitz is allergic to peaches. He wonders if Keefe had peach juice on his hands.  

"Did you eat peaches for breakfast?"

"What? No?"

Now there's another hand on him, pressing lightly against his back. This one is a lot more calming. It's Biana. "Fitz, are you okay?"

"Yeah," he says, taking a deep breath and straightening back up. He pushes Biana away. "Yeah. All good. I just zoned out for a second." 

He laughs, now, but it sounds sort of stilted. Breathless. 

"Um," says Keefe.

"Fitz, you don't need to get lunch with me if you don't want to," Biana says quickly. 

"Yeah, like," Keefe adds, "If you... want to go back to the office?" 

Fitz looks between both of them, his eyes narrowing in thought. He thinks back over the last thirty minutes. How Keefe had been determined to get lunch with Biana. How he started telling her about being single. How he now seems interested in getting Fitz to leave.

Realization dawns. His eyes widen, a mix of rage and betrayal flooding his veins.

He'd thought they were friends now. Why is Keefe trying to—to—Fitz doesn't even want to think it. 

Keefe is looking at him, eyes wide and innocent and infuriating. "Are you... good?"

"I can't believe this," Fitz says, and pushes his way past both of them, heading back where they'd come from. He's not even hungry anymore. Biana can keep his portable charger, and all the cool stories about her life, and this hot blond man who'd do anything to have lunch with her. Fitz doesn't care.

"Fitz? Where are you going?" Biana calls.

"Back to the office!" Fitz's voice is acrid as he says, "Have fun together!"

As he flees, he ends up in an alley. Too embarrassed to turn right around and have Keefe and Biana spot him, he simply stays put, studying a dumpster until he deems the coast clear.

When Keefe comes back to the office, his cheeks are pink and his eyes are bright.

"Wow, how good was that lunch?" remarks Sophie.

"So good," Keefe says, a little bit dreamily. He looks straight at Fitz, then. "Your sister's awesome."

Fitz's nails dig into his thigh, leaving crescent dents in his expensive pants.

Keefe begins to send Fitz emails throughout the day. And texts when they leave from work. They're all mostly meaningless. Just details about Keefe's day and complaints about the office and photos of the sunset, things sent even when Keefe sits a few feet from Fitz's desk.

Fitz replies to the emails with utmost professionalism, and attempts to do the same with the texts, but he often forgets that Keefe is supposed to be his massive pain-in-the-ass-coworker. So sometimes Fitz laughs at the messages. Sometimes he even uses emojis in his replies.

hi fitz i just got home but omw i saw a car exactly like yours look 
[image]

Did you take this photo driving??
you know what my car looks like??

yep saw it on the highway!

oh my god 😭😭

Is Keefe texting Biana as well? Fitz tries to ask her, but Biana only looks at him like he's stupid. So maybe Keefe already moved on. Maybe Fitz's original impression of him was correct, and Keefe never takes anything seriously.

Fitz really wishes that isn't true.

At some point, Keefe and Sophie switch cubicles, and so every time Fitz's eyes wander from his computer, they end up drilling holes into Keefe's tousled hair, privately noticing how he never stops slouching. Keefe catches him staring a few times, and a little bit later, Fitz will get an email notification.

To: Fitz Vacker

From: Keefe Sencen 

:) hi!

Then Keefe will smile at him brightly from over their computers. And the thing about Keefe's smile is that it's pretty hard to stop thinking about, which is so annoying. As a result, Fitz has been a lot less productive lately.

One morning, as they ride up the elevator together, Keefe and Sophie decide the associates should all go out for dinner after work. They insist on it. By lunch, it's become a solid plan, and Fitz's stomach is turning inside of itself at the thought of spending more time with Keefe.

The moment the clock hits five, Keefe appears before Fitz's desk, beaming. "Let's go!"

"Okay, okay," Fitz says, slowly checking his doc for any last minute errors. He holds his breath as he uploads it to Outlook, then sends the email to a client. "I'm done. Fine. Let's go."

"You worry about work too much," Keefe comments as they go down the elevator. 

"No, I don't," Fitz says automatically.

"And you drink a lot of energy drinks."

"No, I don't."

"And you're deeply in denial about some stuff."

"No, I—" Fitz stops and glares. "Shut up."

Keefe laughs just as they walk out of the building, to be met with Sophie and Linh kissing like they don't need oxygen.

Blood immediately rushes to Fitz's head. He gapes.

"Hi guys!" Keefe says, without missing a beat.

Sophie pulls away, though her arm is still tight around Linh. "Hey! Are you guys ready?"

"I think so! Fitz, are you ready?"

Fitz doesn't know how to speak. His tongue is a squishy creature in his mouth. "Hggh?"

Linh looks concerned. "Fitz?" 

"Is something wrong?" Keefe gently brushes Fitz's arm, and it lights all of his nerves on fire. His arm is on fire. He is blazing up.

"Um—" Linh begins.

Fitz sputters. "You can do that?"

They are all seated at Chili's. Fitz is still sort of in shock at this recent development. Apparently Sophie and Linh have been dating for months and had thought he was well aware.

"I told you I was meeting her parents!" Sophie cries.

"I mean, yeah, I thought that was a little weird!"

Once Fitz has sort of wrapped his mind around this news, they begin ordering appetizers. Then he has more questions.

"Wait, so, there aren't any rules against you guys... you know?"

"No, we read the whole Employee Handbook. It's definitely allowed." 

Fitz curses himself. He was supposed to do that, months ago, for reasons he doesn't quite remember. 

"We just wanted to stay professional at work," Linh pipes in. "So, maybe that's also why you didn't notice?"

"We're doing that too!" Keefe exclaims.

"What?"

"Me and Fitz! We're staying professional at work, you know?"

Fitz takes a giant sip of his margarita and raises his hand for the waiter, prepared to order another one. Maybe even straight tequila.

"Oh, I know," Sophie says, and looks at Linh, her lips curving in a way that makes Fitz uneasy. 

Keefe smiles at Fitz. Under the table, his impossibly long legs accidentally nudge Fitz's foot.

Fitz realizes, probably a little too late, that he's fucked.

Maybe Fitz turns warm when Keefe talks to him, not because his blood is boiling, but because... Keefe is really sweet. And funny. And attentive. And hot. And surprisingly competent, which is the biggest relief of all, because Fitz no longer wants Keefe to get fired and have to leave the office. 

He sort of wants Keefe to stay forever, smiling at him from the desk across.

After dinner, they all go out for drinks. The bar is very trendy, neon lights and chrome tabletops. Sophie goes to order for them all, and the entire time she's gone, Fitz looks squarely at Linh. No where else. Not until Sophie returns, several shots balanced on her tray. 

Fitz downs two before she even sits down. Has several more over the course of the next hour, letting bar music and his coworkers' conversation sweep over him. Eventually, Sophie's making eyes at Linh, nudging sloppily against her shoulder, her message pretty clear. 

"Yeah, I think we'll head out now," Linh says, fondly rubbing Sophie's back. "You guys will be okay?"

"'Course, yeah. I think we should be leaving too." Keefe glances at Fitz. "I haven't drunk much. I can give him a ride, make sure he gets home safe."

"Me?" Fitz says, as if Keefe would be speaking about anyone else. "You're not taking me. I am home safe." He spreads his palm possessively on the top of their table, then grimaces when it hits something sticky. "Gross."

"You're wasted," Sophie giggles, though she's really not one to talk. "Thanks, guys. This was fun."

"Let's do it again," Linh agrees, before she hauls Sophie to her feet. 

As they leave, Fitz raises his hand, about to flag down another drink. Keefe smacks it out the air. "Ow!" yelps Fitz. "Why'd you do that?"

"Let me take you home."

"Oh, no. No no." Fitz empathetically shakes his head. "No."

He doesn't want to be in Keefe's car. He doesn't want to know what sort of tacky car ornament Keefe has.

Keefe ignores him. He pays their tab, then grabs Fitz's arm, and all semblance of protest dissipates. "Let's go."

Fitz goes. 

It's only a twenty minute drive back to Fitz's place. He spends most of it with his eyes closed, head bumping against the window, hoping Keefe thinks he's knocked out. He doesn't want to talk to Keefe right now. He's scared of the words that'll roll off his newly loosened tongue when he's faced with those curious eyes, soft freckles.

The car eventually comes to a stop. "We're here."

Fitz does a great performance of stretching himself awake. He looks out the window. "Yep."

He's so fucking drunk.

"Hey, Fitz?" Keefe says quietly. Fitz turns. "I was just wondering—"

Fitz leans across the car and kisses him, messy and awkward, all too eager.

He wakes up the next morning, hungover as all hell and dripping in self-loathing. It takes a few seconds for last night to load in his memory, and when it does, Fitz begins wishing he'd been shot. 

Then he hears a clatter coming from another room. Slowly, Fitz pries himself off his bed, creeping through the door to see who else in his house. He stares into the kitchen for a long moment, watching his coworker scramble eggs and sauté hashbrowns. 

When he thinks his throat is workable, he says, "Uhh. What?"

Keefe turns, smiling. "Hey, Fitz! I slept on the couch. You know, in case you started choking on your vomit halfway through the night. But you didn't! Want breakfast?"

"Professional" never had much hope anyway.