Work Text:
The chemistry lab smelled faintly of burnt sugar and ethanol—again. Dottore sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he surveyed the aftermath of his students’ latest disaster. A beaker of something suspiciously purple had shattered near the sink, and three stools lay overturned like they’d been caught in a miniature riot.
"Did you *have* to let them attempt caramelization without supervision?" he muttered, nudging a glass shard with the toe of his loafer.
Across the room, the janitor—a broad-shouldered man with a perpetually amused smirk—leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You said they were ‘advanced enough to handle basic reactions,’" Captain replied, his voice smooth and teasing. "Your words, not mine."
Dottore shot him a look. "Advanced *theoretically*. Not… whatever *this* is." He gestured vaguely at the mess.
Dottore crouched to gather the larger pieces of glass, the motion pulling his shirt taut across his shoulders. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead—another thing on his endless list of grievances about this aging school. Captain pushed off the doorframe and ambled over, the quiet creak of his boots on the linoleum somehow comforting.
"You know," Captain mused, plucking a twisted piece of metal—what might’ve once been a clamp—from the counter, "if you wanted an excuse to keep me late, you could’ve just asked." His grin was all teeth, sharp-edged and knowing.
Dottore snorted, tossing glass into the bin with more force than necessary. "Please. You’re already here every Friday like clockwork." The words came out drier than intended, but Captain’s laughter—rich and unapologetic—filled the room anyway.
They worked in tandem after that, Captain righting stools while Dottore scrubbed at the sticky purple residue staining the sink. The silence between them wasn’t empty; it was the kind that settled comfortably, punctuated by the occasional clatter of equipment or Captain’s low hum as he inspected a warped beaker.
The purple stain fought back like a petulant child, clinging to the porcelain with stubborn defiance. Dottore scowled, scrubbing harder until his knuckles turned white. "I swear, if I have to replace *another* sink because of sucrose decomposition experiments gone wrong—"
Captain leaned over his shoulder, close enough that Dottore caught the faint scent of his aftershave—something crisp and woodsy, incongruous with the chemical tang of the lab. "Relax," he murmured, plucking the sponge from Dottore's grip. "You're going to wear a hole through it at this rate." His fingers brushed Dottore's wrist, lingering just a second too long to be accidental.
Dottore exhaled sharply, rolling his sleeves higher as he surrendered the sponge. "Fine. But if Principal Neuvillette complains about the state of my lab *again*, I'm blaming you."
Captain chuckled, effortlessly working the sponge in slow, circular motions. The stain began to dissolve under his patient attention. "You act like I don't enjoy watching you argue with him," he said. "That vein in your forehead does this *thing*—"
Dottore swiped at his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a faint smear of purple across his skin. "You're insufferable," he muttered, but there was no heat behind it—just the familiar rhythm of their back-and-forth, worn smooth like the edges of an old coin.
Captain's grin didn't waver as he dropped the sponge into the sink with a wet plop. "And yet, here you are. Suffering me." He leaned his hip against the counter, close enough that Dottore could count the faint freckles scattered across his nose if he wanted to. Which he didn't. Obviously.
The overhead lights buzzed faintly—another thing due for replacement—but the lab felt oddly warm despite the sterile fluorescents. Dottore busied himself with straightening the remaining equipment, lining up beakers with unnecessary precision. "If you're fishing for gratitude, try the biology department. I hear they're *desperate* for janitorial attention after the frog dissection incident."
A laugh burst out of Captain, loud enough to startle a stack of papers off the edge of Dottore's desk. "Oh, I remember that. Poor kid screamed so hard he knocked over an entire tray of formaldehyde." He bent to retrieve the scattered assignments, his shoulder brushing Dottore's thigh as he rose. "But nah. I like it here. Better view."
Dottore rolled his eyes, but his fingers twitched against the beaker he was holding—a tell Captain had learned to read years ago. "Better view of what, exactly? Teenagers committing chemical warfare?"
Captain stacked the last of the papers with exaggerated care, his thumb brushing the corner where Dottore's red pen had left a particularly vicious comment. ("*Did you even read the chapter?*" underlined twice.) "Nah," he said, straightening up until they were nearly chest to chest. "Better view of *you* getting all flustered when I—" He reached out, swiping his thumb across Dottore's forehead where the purple stain had dried. "—do this."
Dottore froze. Captain's fingers were rough against his skin, warm in a way that had nothing to do with the lab's faulty heating. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the drip of the still-leaking faucet and the distant hum of the school's ancient HVAC system. Then Dottore batted his hand away, clearing his throat. "You're *impossible*," he muttered, but his voice cracked on the last syllable—a detail Captain didn't miss, if the way his grin widened was any indication.
The silence stretched, thick with something unspoken, until Captain finally stepped back, stretching his arms above his head with a satisfied groan. "Well, if we're done playing cleanup crew," he said, rolling his shoulders, "how about that drink you owe me?"
Dottore blinked. "I don't owe you anything."
Captain’s grin didn’t falter. He leaned in, close enough that Dottore could count the faint laugh lines at the corners of his eyes if he wanted to. Which he didn’t. “You owe me for saving your lab from Principal Neuvillette’s wrath *twice* this month,” he said, tapping a finger against Dottore’s chest. “And don’t think I forgot about the time you ‘accidentally’ locked yourself in the supply closet and called *me* to rescue you.”
Dottore scoffed, swatting his hand away. “That was *one time*. And it *was* an accident.” The lie tasted thin even to him. Captain’s raised eyebrow said he knew it too.
The janitor straightened, rolling his sleeves up to reveal forearms dusted with faded scars and ink—old tattoos from a life before mops and school budgets. “Come on,” he said, nodding toward the door. “One drink. You look like you could use it after today’s... *experimental endeavors*.”
Dottore hesitated, his gaze flicking to the clock above the door. It was well past dismissal, the halls empty save for the occasional echo of footsteps from late-staying teachers. Outside the lab’s windows, the sky had deepened to a twilight blue, the first stars peeking through the light pollution.
Dottore stared at Captain’s outstretched hand, the callouses and chemical burns mapping a topography he knew better than his own. "One drink," he repeated, as if testing the weight of it.
"One drink," Captain echoed, fingers twitching in the space between them—an unspoken dare.
The air conditioner rattled to life with a sound like a dying animal, startling them both into laughter. Dottore grabbed his coat from the hook by the door, the lining still slightly damp from last week’s spilled coffee. "If you’re taking me to that dive bar by the train tracks again—"
"—you’ll complain the whole time and order the same expensive whiskey," Captain finished, holding the door open with his foot. The hinges squealed in protest. "Admit it. You like the way they never card you there."
Dottore shoved past him into the hallway, the motion sending a waft of Captain’s aftershave—something stupidly expensive and woodsy—right into his personal space. "I’m *thirty-seven*," he muttered, fumbling with his keys. "If they carded me, I’d sue."
Captain’s chuckle followed him down the dimly lit corridor, their footsteps echoing in tandem. The school at night was a different beast entirely—silent save for the occasional drip of a leaky faucet or the distant hum of the custodial cart’s wheels. Captain’s cart, technically, though he’d long since abandoned it in favor of leaning against Dottore’s classroom door every Friday at 3:15, sharp.
"You’re avoiding the question," Captain said, catching up in two long strides. He reached out, plucking the keys from Dottore’s grip with practiced ease. "Which means I’m right."
Dottore made a half-hearted swipe for the keys, but Captain was already spinning them around his finger with that infuriating, effortless grace. "You're insufferable," Dottore muttered, adjusting the ties of his lab coat tighter. "And I'm not avoiding anything. I just don't see the point in dignifying your nonsense with a response."
Captain pocketed the keys with a wink. "Uh-huh. So the fact that you didn’t deny it means I’m right." He nudged Dottore’s shoulder as they reached the staff exit, the motion casual but charged—like every interaction between them, toeing some invisible line neither would acknowledge. The automatic doors slid open with a tired whir, releasing them into the crisp evening air.
The parking lot was nearly empty, save for Captain’s beat-up pickup truck and Dottore’s meticulously maintained sedan. Captain made a beeline for the truck, tossing a glance over his shoulder. "Come on, Professor. Live a little. Your car’s not going anywhere."
Dottore hesitated, fingers curling around his phone in his pocket. He could walk away. He *should* walk away. But the exhaustion of the day—the spilled experiments, the grading, the way Captain’s thumb had lingered on his forehead—settled heavy in his bones. "If you get pulled over, I’m telling the cops I don’t know you," he said, but he was already crossing the asphalt toward the passenger side.
Captain's truck smelled like pine air freshener and old coffee, the seats worn smooth in all the places where his body had molded them over the years. Dottore sank into the passenger side with a sigh, his lab coat rustling against the cracked leather. The door creaked shut with a sound like a dying animal, and Captain turned the key in the ignition—the engine roared to life with a shudder that rattled the loose change in the cupholder.
"You ever think about getting a car that doesn't sound like it's on life support?" Dottore asked, buckling his seatbelt with pointed precision.
Captain grinned, tapping the dashboard like it was a prized stallion. "Nah. She's got character." He threw an arm over the back of Dottore's seat as he reversed, his fingers brushing the nape of Dottore's neck for half a second—just enough to make him stiffen. "Besides, you love it."
Dottore stared resolutely out the window as they pulled out of the parking lot, the school shrinking in the rearview mirror. "I tolerate it. There's a difference."