Work Text:
It has taken you a long, long time to navigate the ARGUS office without any catastrophic social interactions.
Your days are filled with meticulously planned social checkpoints — ask Harcourt about that mission report after she has her second coffee, see Economos first thing before he gets too absorbed in his work, et cetera — which you have firmly set in place after months of trial and error. Mainly error. You’re less than graceful, though your careful routine has allowed you to fly mostly under the radar. There haven’t been any terrible accidents around the office lately, at least.
Rick Flag seems to be on a mission to cause one, though.
He’s always had a soft spot for you. You stick out amongst the rest of the ARGUS team in the best way possible — regardless of whether you were feeling quiet or chatty (you seemed to differ from day to day depending upon your mood), your presence strangely became a point of calm in his otherwise hectic life. He enjoyed your little chats, your odd quirks, even your awkwardness. You’re a breath of fresh air.
If only you felt the same way.
Every moment you have alone with Rick feels like — in the least dramatic way possible — a pack of dynamite is strapped to your chest with a five minute timer. He always gravitates toward you which, while not unwelcome, makes you sweat so much that you absolutely have to rush to the restroom after every meeting with him to pat yourself dry. Rick makes your stomach twist, your heart squeeze; he gets your insides all squirming and slithering and anxious. It’s both thrilling — like a big drop on a rollercoaster — and so terrifying that it makes you nauseous.
However, your complicated feelings towards and around Rick Jr. are not the most dire matter of the day. Whatever you two have going on is completely beside the point, which is that everybody in the ARGUS office is currently avoiding you like the plague — and for good reason.
You’ve been pressed for time all week, what with Waller sending you out on errands at every possible opportunity and assigning a mountain of tedious paperwork to you. It’s all piling up, brick by treacherous brick, and it has you all over the place. You’ve lost track of how much shitty break room coffee you’ve consumed, pointedly ignoring the jitter in your hands and racing heartbeat that results from too much caffeine and too little to eat. You try not to feel jealous when your coworkers chatter about getting drinks after work; they don’t even bother to ask you, which only makes the feeling knot up even worse in your chest. They’re probably trying to be considerate of the obvious workload that you’re clambering through, but it hurts that they don’t offer an invitation when you’re right there next to them, scowling at their smiles and carefree attitudes.
You’re usually better at masking than this. Some days you’re more quiet than others, sure, but you’re always polite, always say your hello’s and thank you’s and banter and smile at the right times. For the past few days, though, all your little social checkpoints seem to have been for naught. It’s just too much effort today to bother with any of it — you need to focus, need to finish your stupid work so you can go back to your blessedly cozy apartment and wrap yourself in enough blankets to muffle every noise in and out of your head. You’ve been bouncing your leg and rocking back and forth in your seat just to give yourself a semblance of comfort.
The hustle and bustle around the office isn’t helping. Everybody is laughing too loud. You can hear about twelve different keyboards typing at once, clicking away — click click clack. A phone rings for an obnoxious amount of time. Someone walks by your desk wearing way too much cologne — stupid Dale with his stupid Dior knock-off. The fluorescent lights are humming way too fucking loud. The bright, bluish light is starting to give you a migraine.
Suddenly, someone knocks on the edge of your desk.
“Waller wants you,” says Emilia Harcourt, leaning her hip against your desk.
Your head whips around to acknowledge her. Her appearance comes as a surprise — normally, you would have heard her coming from across the office. You’re seriously out of your element.
When your eyes land on Emilia, you swear you see her grimace when she takes in your expression — Are you glaring? Oops. — so you rub at the crease between your brows.
“Okay,” you sigh, reluctantly pushing away from your desk. Harcourt lingers there as you brush past her, her eyes taking inventory of your desk, which is simultaneously messy and obsessively sorted into categorized stacks of paperwork.
When you stroll into Director Waller’s office, Colonel Rick Flag Jr. is already there, hands folded behind his back. He glances at you over his shoulder and almost smiles — or at least, you think it’s a smile. He might be grimacing a bit too. No one likes to get called into Waller’s office.
“Agent,” Waller greets, giving you a brief glance to acknowledge your presence. “I’m going to make this quick so we can all go on with our day, so listen up.”
Out of the corner of your eyes, you see Rick straighten up beside you — shoulders back, his expression fading back into neutrality. The perfect soldier. Your harried appearance must look positively hilarious compared to his flawless composure. You wish you could pretend to be even half as collected as he is.
“I need you two to oversee a prisoner transport into Belle Reve. Our prior agents were unfortunately eaten by the subject during a change of hands — Nanaue, the King Shark. I recall you both being familiar with him, yes?”
Rick hums in affirmation beside you. You, on the other hand, are less than enthused.
“Prisoner transport? Why am I being put on this?” You ask, unable to hide your obvious vexation with the seemingly menial task. It’s not your intention to be disrespectful — but exhaustion has settled deep within your muscles, and you would really, really like to just get your paperwork done today so you can go home and self-regulate.
Waller looks up at you with her usual coldhearted stare. “Because, Agent, you’re the only one who has memorized the subject’s files. We could use your expertise should anything get messy.”
You open your mouth to protest — you don’t even care if you risk your job at this point — but Rick Jr. cuts in with a curt nod.
“Understood. We’ll get it done,” he says in his stupid, stoic soldier cadence. He’s much better trained at accepting orders than you; maybe that can be a good thing, but right now, it only serves to frustrate you even more. As if Rick couldn’t handle something like this on his own — what does he need you there for? He has more field work under his belt than everyone in the office combined.
Regardless of the circumstances, Rick winds up holding the door open for you on the way out of Waller’s office. You breeze past him, arms crossed, shoes thudding across the floor to pick up your keycard from your desk. Rick lingers a few steps away, silent. You don’t bother to acknowledge his presence, simply heading for the door with him falling into step behind you.
You retrieve a company vehicle from the garage, fiddling with the keys with an anxious energy. You’re desperate to get this over with, to hurry your ass back to the office and finish your work. Visions of your perfect bed at home are the only thing keeping you from completely flying off the handle the whole way over.
. . .
On the bright side, the transport goes swimmingly. Unfortunately, it is also a huge waste of your time.
You could have been at the office right now, finishing up the mile-high mountain of paperwork on your desk, but no — Waller just had to add one more thing onto your plate to set you back another precious couple of hours.
Rick is escorting the prisoner — Nanaue keeps getting distracted by birds flying overhead, which prolongs the journey considerably. Meanwhile, you sit in the company vehicle, drumming your fingers against the wheel in frustration. It’s a hot day, and your anxious sweat is mixing in with the heat-induced sweat to produce a very sizable stain in the pits of your shirt. The sight of it is embarrassing enough, but the feeling of your clothes sticking to your body? Sensory fucking nightmare. You free up one of the buttons on your shirt and tug the collar out in an attempt to brush the feeling off, but it’s of minimal relief. You’re too stressed out, taut as shit — so much so that the back of your neck is starting to ache and, oh, great, you can feel the sweat dripping down your back—
“Let me drive,” Rick suddenly says, bumping his knuckles against the driver’s side door to get your attention. It startles you; you hadn’t even realized he was already back. When you turn your head to look at him, brows furrowed, he shoots you a reassuring smile. “Think you could use the break.”
The gesture makes your muscles loosen ever-so-slightly, tension rolling off your body along with the heat waves. You nod appreciatively, letting him nudge you into the passenger seat instead.
The engine growls when it comes to life. Rick pulls out of the parking lot, sticking his hand on the back of your seat while he looks out the back window. His eyes dart to you briefly — your head is down, hands folded in your lap while you try to filter the exhaustion out of your body. He cranks up the air conditioner.
“Rough day, huh?” Rick finally says, his voice softer now that it’s just you two and the violent blast of the AC. It doesn’t escape your notice when he points the little vent in your direction, guiding cold air your way. A considerate gesture.
“That’s… Yeah, ‘rough’ would be correct.” You sigh, rubbing your sweaty palms on your thighs. The tag on the inside seam of your pants is starting to noticeably itch at your skin; you wrinkle your nose, shifting uncomfortably in your seat. Everything feels like too much right now; you try to close your eyes and shut everything out, but the world is too loud, pressing against the thin veil of your senses.
“Listen—,” you hear Rick murmur, his voice pleasantly soft, “—you good? Need me to take you home?”
Your heart rate spikes — something between guilt and anxiety — and you quickly shake your head.
“No, it’s okay,” you mutter, shifting once more when the stupid tag scraps against your skin again. “I have a lot of work to do. Waller still needs me to finish the paperwork from the last mission, not to mention what I’ll have to get done for today, and—”
“I’ll do it.”
His words come so quickly, so casually, that it gives you pause. He glances at you, his mouth twitching skyward at the corners.
“I haven’t seen you leave your desk in ages. I’ll handle everything, you just stay home and rest. It’s not healthy to live off shitty coffee forever.”
With your hands clenched in your lap, you continue to protest. “But Waller—”
“Fuck Waller,” Rick scoffs humorously, looking awfully defiant. “I’ll take care of it. As long as it’s done, she won’t throw a huge fit over it. Trust me.”
You know that’s not entirely true. Waller will surely still be displeased to know you passed your work onto someone else — someone ranked higher than you, in fact — but you also know it’s not enough of an issue that she’d fire you or anything. As much as you want to argue this point, you decide against trying to convince him otherwise.
Rick drives you home on a wordless ride. Aside from the rush of the AC blasting, the only other sound is that of your nail scratching and picking at your seatbelt. Rick is being terribly kind despite your earlier outburst, which sends you down a whole spiral of emotions; would someone else be grateful for his chivalry, you wonder? Because all you feel is the terrible, overwhelming shame of existing. If it were up to you, you would have endured the whole rest of the day — sweat and uncomfortable clothes and heightened senses and papercuts and all — if it saved him from the burden of putting up with you for even a second more.
Before you know it, you’re crying. He’s already parked at the curb outside your apartment, the engine rumbling in protest of the heat. When Rick checks the rearview mirror, he watches the cars fly by on the street as he starts up with a goodbye.
“Take it easy, okay? I’ll let Waller know that—”
Rick pauses, eyes widening when he spots the tears rolling over your cheeks.
“Hey, hey. What’s wrong?” Rick leans over to get a better look at you, reaching out his hand to gently rest on your elbow.
“I dunno…” You sniffle, rubbing your nose. Your voice is all weak and helpless, sagging with emotion like a waterlogged bookshelf. “Just need a minute.”
He doesn’t say a word. His hand drifts up to your shoulder, rounding out to your back and rubbing soft circles into the sweat-drenched back of your button-up.
“You’ve been workin’ too hard,” Rick finally says, putting an end to the silence once your tears have slowed down. “It’s okay to ask for help. You know I don’t mind.”
The truth is, you didn’t know. Even if you did, you surely wouldn’t want to inconvenience Rick of all people to pick up your slack. You know Waller won’t like it, you know the office will probably tease you for not being able to handle the director’s shit, you know Rick will just end up staying overtime to complete his work.
Then again… it has been hard on you. Tremendously so. It’s a miracle that you’re still up and moving after the long, long, long week you’ve had. Despite your many reservations, it wouldn’t hurt to share the burden; you can’t lie and say Rick’s offer didn’t feel like a bit of relief in some aspects.
“Okay, yeah, I get it,” you finally sigh, wiping snot and tears from your face. In an attempt to bring some levity to the situation, you try for some dry humor: “I’ve consumed way too much shitty coffee this week, anyway.”
Rick laughs. The sound is contagious; you find yourself laughing too, despite everything. It’s a delightful reprieve to finally have a bit of that weight off your chest, even if you know the feeling will continue to linger there for days to come.
“There’s that smile,” Rick says fondly, brushing a tear off your cheek. The action is seemingly done without thought because, a second later, he looks surprised with himself and slowly retracts his hand. You look at him, eyes growing the tiniest bit wider. Before you can verbally question what just happened or even begin to acknowledge the little skip of your heart, Rick puts on another smile and redirects the conversation.
“Well… I hope you have a good rest. Don’t let me find out you’re workin’ from home, yeah?”
A beat of silence — you’re still trying to get your mouth to work — before you manage a weak smile.
“I promise to stay off my laptop,” you reply.
Rick nods, pleased with the answer. He unlocks the company car, and as you exit to your apartment, he waves out the window.
“See ya, Agent.”
You rub your arms, offering your own meek wave in return. “I’ll see you, Colonel.”
Rick waits until you’ve made it safely inside before he drives off. He hasn’t quite figured you out yet, but he sure as hell won’t stop trying.
And you — despite being covered in sweat and still aching from your earlier nerves — feel the best you have in weeks.