Work Text:
You weren't even sure how you caught it.
It was the briefest of flashes, his fingers pinching his lanyard and lazily shoving the laminated badge attached at the security sensors.
The smallest glimpse; so quick, so indeterminate, you certainly had to have imagined it.
Robert catches the door from shutting on you when he realizes you're not following him in.
His look back at you has the faintest traces of concern.
"You okay?"
"Is your fucking ID number 'boobies'?"
And yeah, maybe you had planned to ask that question a little more politely, but you blame your shock on the blunt force of your words.
He blinks at you, thick brows crowding together as he stands there, one hand gently splayed against the handle of the door.
"Is my what huh?"
You point at the offending card now hung limply around his neck.
"Your ID number," you repeat, almost in awe as your lips twitch into a grin, "it says 'boobies'."
You watch his facial features make the big migration of confusion, still blinking at you as if you had just lost your head and regrew it in quick succession.
"No, it doesn't?" The unsure curl of his tone makes it more of a question than a statement.
"Swear to god. I swear, I saw 'boobies' on your card." Your own voice raises—not a lot, just in the way that people do when they feel like their honesty isn't enough.
It turns a few heads in the lobby, the receptionist having already been staring daggers at the two of you still crowding the entrance to the building.
The white-hot wave of embarrassment that crashes through Robert's body prompts him to snatch your sleeve and drag you across the lobby floor with hurried and stumbling movements.
He can barely offer his usual morning smile and nod to the receptionist, wincing at the unimpressed stare he receives once you both pass the front desk.
His hand is still anchored on your sleeve in a vice grip even as you fall into step with him.
He notices his grip when you come to a stop at the elevator, releasing you immediately to jab the elevator's call button a bit rougher than necessary; 5 quick jabs like you were both being hunted down like animals.
Once he feels the heavy weight of shame from surrounding stares dissipate, he rubs at his brow bone with a low sigh, shoulders sagging, "Hey, so, maybe don't start yelling about seeing,"
Against his better judgement—like it usually is when he's with you—he still cracks a disbelieving smile, "'boobies' at work before we even fully clock in."
You only roll your eyes and wave your hand with a low 'bah!'
"I saw what I saw! Seriously! Can I at least verify I was right? Before you run your mouth?" You lament, shoving into his shoulder with your own lightly.
He makes an exaggerated roll of his arm that makes you lean away with a huff, fighting to give you a sidelong glance without breaking first, "Even if it did, why are you asking to see my 'boobies'? Again, we are at work and, again, not even clocked in."
You arm whips his shoulder this time, more instinct than thought. Mostly spurred on by how he had raised his tone as he said it, mortification quick to replace any banter.
You stare at him with a bewildered gaping mouth, mind already conjuring some form of exclamation about inside voices! God, what the hell is wrong with you?—
He watches—with thinly veiled amusement—the moment you hit a brick wall of realization.
You wilt as you shake your head lowly; now it's you rubbing at your face, to stave off the sudden aneurysm you almost had and to hide the growing smile on your face, "Okay. Point taken. Can you still just look, please?"
Robert finally allows the chuckle that had been building up in his chest, nodding with a simper, "Sure, yeah. I will look at my 'boobies' at work."
"Bo." You sigh, crossing your arms and rolling your eyes to the elevator floor display.
"Yes. Bo's 'boobies'."
His nose scrunches in rotten mischief at the shove that earns him, hand taking the laminate hung around his neck between his finger and thumb.
When he flips it over, he does his best to not physically cringe at his company head-shot. Maybe he should practice smiling in the mirror more often.
The SDN logo takes up most of the top of the badge, 'DISPATCHER' in slightly smaller font below it. Then that god awful picture of himself and his stupid, awkward weird smile he's doing—
Below... that. Is his employee number.
ID#: 5318008
"There. No 'boo—" he's mid-drop of the card when his brain decides no, hold the fuck on.
This time, the amusement is yours as you track those stages flash across his face at concerning speed, though the acceptance doesn't come without a deep exhale.
"...huh."
"What do you mean 'huh'? How the hell didn't you know this already?" You chortle, eyebrows raised, "Shouldn't that be something you need memorized?"
Robert continues to stare down at his ID almost blankly, nearly being thrown into another round of a mini-spiral when that denial wants to take root again, "I guess I never really thought to; figured I didn't need to if I had the badge."
There's a soft whir as the elevator doors open.
You give a polite smile to the couple other coworkers already inside, stepping toward the doors—
"I didn't know I had 'boobies'," Robert blurts, quite loudly, before actually looking up from his stunned stupor.
Your neck nearly cracks from how hard you turn your head to him, eyes wide in a silently horrified manner.
It's only then does he register that the elevator is there, open and ready and— oh, greaaaat. It's already occupied, too.
He can only stand there like a moron, a mirror of your expression at what he had just said. Not because he was embarrassed—actually, no, he was—but because this apparent habit of saying the most asinine shit out of context around people he doesn't know is getting out of hand.
His public image has to be in tatters, by now. If it wasn't before, surely this is what did it in.
The shuffle into the elevator is painfully quiet, Robert's head ducked down between his hunched shoulders as he shoves his hands into his pockets as deep as they allow. He tries to give a sheepish nod to the guy next to him, who only coughs and turns his head.
Awesome. This was utterly awesome. Absolutely one for the scrapbook.
His eyes shut in resignation, head tilting back a bit as if the light of the elevator's fluorescent bulbs were a means of washing away any trace of this uncomfortable encounter. His eyes peek open to give you a weak glare over his shoulder when he hears you snicker, clearing your throat after with a tiny 'excuse me'.
Admittedly... it was kind of funny.
He can't help himself from the quiet huff of a laugh that leaves him, shoulders easing from their high positions at his ears.
The rest of the ride is quiet, but not as painful as before.
With each coworker dropped off at a different floor, it's like the awkward tension lingering was aired out as the doors opened. Then there were two.
The moment the doors close after the polite woman who bid you both a good day with a terse nod, you slumped against the hand railing of the elevator with a choking laugh.
"C'mon..." Robert starts with another long suffering sigh, eyes rolling shut as he braces himself.
"That was so good," you wheeze, arm clutching around your abdomen as you try to right yourself, "holy fucking shit. Oh, my god. I wish I could go back and record that."
"Get it out of your system."
"I'm glad you've made some life-changing discoveries this early in the morning," you continue to chirp, prodding at his side with your finger lightly, "and that you felt brave enough to share with us."
He squirms away from you with another stifled grin, "Alright, knock it off."
Not until you give me what I want, you muse.
"I can't imagine knowing how scary the uncertainty of the state of your breasts had to have been," you coo sweetly, eyebrows pinched in sarcastic pity with a lip jutting out at him as if he were a stray dog wandering around a picnic area.
He finally cracks, snorting with that nose wrinkle again, eyes creased from the width of his smile, "Jesus, okay. I said 'boobies' in front of our coworkers. Big deal. Grow up."
You don't even hear his playful scolding, not even rising to the obvious bait of a very mature competition of who was more grown up despite it sitting itself pretty right in front of you.
No, you're distracted by his bright smile.
How it hangs crooked like he doesn't want to commit to flashing all of his teeth, as if it were capable of exposing parts of himself he was too wary of sharing.
How it—by just the smallest adjustment in angle of the quirk in his lip—can be smug, can be teasing, can be tender, and as you just witnessed moments prior; bashful.
So many different alternate versions of the same beautiful expression. Joy makes him look his age, not like he's only trudging along to get to his grave on time.
"We're really just brawling for who can be the most awkward human being in this building today, huh?"
You snap out of your (admiring) daze, looking up to find Robert halfway through the threshold of the elevator doors, that smile having shrank into one more carefree. Mirthful.
You only flip him off before trailing after him, his resulting chuckle making your nerves buzz pleasantly as you both make your way to the dispatch floor.
He really did have such a pretty smile.
And so-so boobies, you suppose.