Work Text:
"And I haven't been able to reach shit for the last two weeks, but he's hounding me like I'm the thing that's keeping McMurdo from wiring back! What the hell does he think I am- some sorta walking transmission blocker? Christ-"
The bespectacled radio operator continues to air out his grievances to his captive, silent, one-man audience, grateful for the chance to be heard and glad to get the frustration off of his chest. He gestures wildly, the rise and fall of his shoulders constantly jostling the earphones around his neck, and Clark watches from his spot on the floor. It's a bit difficult to talk to someone who's not at eye level with you, but Windows manages, swiveling in his chair and bending at the waist to emphasize specific points. The dog handler looks on, back resting against the empty wallspace to the right of the radio desk. His expression is mostly flat, save for the slight tightening of the muscles around the eyes. Windows has learned that this is his version of a smile, or as close as the quiet man ever gets to imitating one, and as long as it's present, the radio operator is free to rant and ramble as much as he likes.
"And the drills? Good god. I landed this job for a reason! It's not like I don't know exactly how many emergency broadcast tests to run and on what days and at what times and- Hey, where're you going?"
Windows is interrupted by Clark checking his watch and standing up in a move that's far quicker and far smoother than his stature suggests he is capable of. The redhead glances between his watch and his companion and mutters, "Dinnertime. Kitchen," in a rumble that's barely audible over the sound of the wind whistling outside. Windows sputters, momentarily thrown off of his rhythm by the interruption, and finally nods lamely with an awkward chirp of, "Oh, yeah. Ok."
Clark plods across the room. Windows turns back to the radio, slumping forward in his chair and sighing dramatically at the prospect of having to get back to work so soon, but he pauses when he realizes that he hasn't heard the man leave yet. A quick glance over his shoulder confirms that Clark is, in fact, still lingering in the doorway, head tilted and a slight crease between his eyebrows.
"You comin'?"
"Huh? No, 'm not hungry."
"Why?"
Here we go again, Windows thinks, half exasperation and half amusement. Leave it to Clark to ask about his eating habits like he's one of the guy's beloved dogs. The operator shrugs with a vague smile and a scoff, “Just not hungry, man.”
There’s a thoughtful hum from the handler, and the creases at the bridge of his nose deepen as he studies Windows from head to toe. The brunet spreads his hands and whines, “What?” and all he is rewarded with is a grunt of, “Okay,” before Clark pivots on one heel and tromps down the hall.
“Jesus.” Windows mutters to himself, pulling the earphones up and over his head and settling in for another long, boring night.
Even with magazines to entertain himself with, he’s only able to stand another three hours of sitting in that tiny room and listening to the monotonous buzz of static that feels like it’s trapped his brain in its impenetrable haze. He tears off his sunglasses and massages the bridge of his nose, desperate to stay up and at least pretend like he’s doing his job, lest he get another ass whupping from Garry. After staring at a magazine for another three minutes and realizing that the words are all starting to bleed together, he tosses his reading aside with a tired groan and heaves himself up and out of his chair. He only manages to make it three steps from the desk before something catches around his neck and jerks him backward. He forgot to take off the headphones.
“God dammit-”
Windows paws at the contraption with both hands, the headband catching and tugging at his curls, and finally rips the thing off with an affronted huff, carelessly tossing it onto the desk and not bothering to see if the rough treatment damaged the equipment. He wants coffee, for christ’s sake. He wanders down the main corridor and notes who’s asleep and who isn’t: Bennings and Norris snoring away; the glow of the T.V. bleeding into the hallway from Palmer and Childs’ quarters; Blair and Copper murmuring about something while Garry sputters in his sleep. The light is on in the lab, and a cursory glance through the doorway shows Fuchs hunched over an assortment of textbooks, ever the busybody. Mac, of course, is nowhere to be found. Business as usual, it seems.
The radio operator cuts through the rec room and into the rear hallway, making a beeline for the kitchen. There’s always a semi-stale pot of coffee going, and he’s never been averse to microwaving something back to life. The faint yellow light at the other end of the hall stops him before he makes it to his destination, however. The kennel. Clark can’t still be awake, can he? After a few seconds of looking and wondering, Windows resumes his journey and reheats two mugs instead of one. But, once the microwave goes off, he realizes that he has no idea of how Clark takes his coffee. Based on no brand of logic in particular, he guesses that the guy probably likes it plain and leaves one mug untouched while he doctors the other with half and half and sugar. He puts both in the microwave for another thirty seconds, just to be safe, and then he’s carefully holding one in each hand while he shuffles toward the kennels. He feels a deep pang of nervousness as he approaches the dog enclosure. All of the times that he and Clark have talked have happened in the radio room. What if the dogs don’t like him? What if this comes off as more annoying than friendly?
His worries are completely unfounded, he discovers. Windows leans out from behind the stack of crates obscuring one end of the kennel fence to find that Clark’s already looking in his direction having heard his approach. To his surprise, the man grins at him. A real grin that wrinkles the skin around his eyes and shows most of his teeth. He’s never seen Clark smile at anything that wasn’t a dog. It’s bright. It’s unexpected. It’s adorable.
“You’re here.”
“Uh, yeah, hi.”
Clark was sitting in a large pile of straw and interacting with his animals, but now, he’s practically scrambling to get to the gate and let Windows in.
“What about the-” He starts, holding up one of the mugs for emphasis.
“They won’t go for it. Come on.”
He’s preparing to be growled at or given a wide berth upon encroaching on Clark’s territory, but the dogs seem determined to thwart his expectations as they crowd around him, curious noses leaving trails of snot and spit on his jeans, his thermal, his shoes. His nose wrinkles, and he lets out a whine of protest that he doesn’t really mean. Clark doesn’t pick up on the sarcasm, however, and is quick to shoo the dogs away. They move en masse, turning away from Windows and taking up residence around their handler’s feet. Windows giggles at the sight of them- the tangle of paws and tails as they weave and squish against each other in an attempt to get as close as possible to their leader.
“They’re real stuck on you, huh?”
The handler gives Windows an almost embarrassed close-mouthed smile, digs into one of the side pockets of his cargo pants and produces a milk bone by way of an explanation. He offers it to Windows before realizing that the brunet doesn’t have any free hands to hold it with. He reaches for the mug of plain coffee with a mumble of, “Here, sorry-” and trades Windows for the dog treat, setting the biscuit in the radio operator’s now empty palm. He closes the Windows’ fingers around the treat just as the dogs spring into action, propping themselves up on their hind legs and eagerly nosing at his hand where it’s wrapped around the smaller man’s. The redhead releases him to take a sip of coffee, and Windows is at a loss for what to do. He grew up with cats, and, true to the stereotype, they never wanted anything to do with him. He wracks his brain for a list of basic tricks and holds his mug out to Clark. The dog handler takes it and steps back to give Windows and the dogs some room, looking on while the radio operator crumbles the treat in both hands. He looks from dog to dog before glancing at Clark for help, and the taller man gestures to each pup from left to right while he calls their names.
“Pele, Buck, Nala, Nanook, Lobo, Jed.”
Windows nods to each of them as if he’s being introduced to new work colleagues before he holds biscuit fragments out and repeats their names to encourage them to step forward one at a time. He quickly learns that while they’re well-trained for sled pulling, they haven’t been taught any tricks other than “sit,” so he dedicates himself to teaching them how to spin, using the treats to lead each dog in a slow turn and rewarding them for successes. After two rounds of “tryouts,” he extends a hand to Clark in a silent request for another biscuit.
“Oh, yeah, sure-” The redhead mutters, holding the handles of both mugs in one hand and sifting through his pocket with another.
He gives Windows another bone and looks on with a slow-growing grin as the dogs execute the spins with less guidance, receiving treats one at a time. The brunet gives Jed the last treat and holds out his empty hands with a quiet announcement of, “That’s it, guys, ‘m sorry.”
The pups don’t seem to care, swarming around Windows and Clark with equal enthusiasm. The dog handler steps through the sea of moving bodies to return Windows’ mug, and he gestures to a thick pile of straw that’s been built up in one corner of the kennel. There’s a brief flicker of worry in the back of Windows’ mind- a rational thought that perhaps he should get back to work- but he pushes it aside. He’s having fun, and the world isn’t going to end if he isn’t at the radio for another half hour. He deserves a meal break, anyway. He settles into the straw and tries not to react too strongly when Clark plops down next to him, and the pile warps such that the two of them are shoved together in the middle of it. The handler doesn’t seem to care- just continues to sip his coffee while the dogs start up their own late-night routine. To his surprise, Clark starts to talk. For the next hour, the quiet man points to a dog and tells Windows everything he could ever want to know about it- breed, age, where it came from, personality quirks, favorite treats. His voice remains a low, steady rumble that doesn’t change much in pitch, but Windows can tell that he’s happy to be sharing something in how quickly he’s talking. He’s never heard Clark string more than five words together at a time.
After hearing the biography of each dog, Windows decides that Lobo is probably his favorite. The light brown Alaskan husky is apparently the loudest of the group and prefers napping over mushing.
“Once he gets going, they all start,” Clark grumbles, “Like six air raid sirens goin’ off all at once.”
They lapse into silence after that, sipping on lukewarm coffee and petting whatever dogs happen to wander within range, until-
“Oh, shit. Uh-”
Windows grabs Clark’s left wrist to read the time, unaware of the dog handler’s sharp inhale and burning cheeks, and lets out a petulant whine at the time. He should have been back at his desk a long time ago. He scrambles to his feet, straw sticking to the back of his shirt and shedding from his jeans, and sputters, “I gotta- I should-”
“Yeah.”
Clark stands, reaches for him. Windows freezes, unsure of the man’s intentions, then huffs out an embarrassed laugh as he’s spun around by the right shoulder and a heavy hand begins brushing the straw off of his clothes and picking it out of his hair. Clark gives an affirmative grunt once he’s determined that Windows is presentable, and when the smaller man turns to face him, that hint of a smile is nowhere to be found. Grey-blue eyes study him with something akin to disappointment as he makes his exit, and it’s with no shortage of nervousness that Windows realizes he liked visiting Clark in the man’s home territory. He doesn’t want to go back to the radio room- not alone, at least- but he’s all too aware of how weird it would be to ask Clark to go with him. He’s twenty-one, for christ’s sake. So, he compromises.
“Same time tomorrow?”
The question comes out sounding much more forward than he’d intended it to, and he quickly backpedals with a sputter of, “Not… You don’t have to- I know you like being by yourself-”
There it is. The corners of Clark’s eyes crinkle with the beginnings of a smile as he interrupts Windows with a gruff but enthusiastic, “Yeah, sure.”
Windows is practically vibrating from excited nerves by the time he gets back to the radio room.