Work Text:
"You gave him your number?" Bill asked, staring at the pixelated image of his mother through the phone screen in despair. He's propped it up against his salt-and-pepper shakers on the dining room table while he studiously made his way through a bowl of lukewarm, half-eaten risotto he'd made for lunch earlier and forgot. Although, presently it sat in his hand, forgotten as he tried very hard to pretend he wasn't having this conversation.
The screen flickered and jumped as his mom waved him off in dismissal. "Oh yes. He's a very nice boy, that one. I'd like to show him the baby photos—"
Oh my god. His soul tried to extricate itself from the cage of his chest and flee into the wilderness, where hopefully no one would ever witness his embarrassment. "Ma, I work with him," he gritted out, more than a little desperately. "He's been insufferable ever since he found out about the water park thing."
A shadow of Colin's teasing smile made its way into his mind, like an ill-portent of doom, and Bill shuddered. On-screen, Mrs. Goodman laughed, light and unconcerned, even as her son contemplated jumping out the window. "I don't think he's that bad, Billy," she chuckled, the crow's feet at her eyes turning up as she talked. "Seems very interested in your wellbeing, wouldn't you say?"
More like Colin wanted dirt. "That's his job."
"Pah. It doesn't hurt to have someone else to take care of you."
Ah, the consequences of his damn actions. He'd made the mistake of telling his mother that he and Katie had broken it off—too many long hours at the FBI office, too many spontaneous calls out to the field; saving lives killed the mood very quickly when he had to skip out on date night in order to defuse a political bomb. Literally. "Ma," he said, gently. "You know I'm fine, right?"
She pursed her lips at him. "I worry about you, you know? My baby, off saving lives… who's taking care of him?"
"I'm not lonely, Ma." On the contrary, actually. Bill's never talked to as many people as he does in the CIA office. Still, it warmed the cold dead space where Bill's millenial heart used to rest.
"I know you're not!" she protested. "But it's reassuring. He's a charmer—I see why you like him."
Bill paused. "Who," he said, blankly staring at his risotto. "Colin?"
"Who else? He's very handsome, that boy."
Bill spluttered. He has personally watched Colin chug an entire pot of the swill he calls "coffee" (read: battery acid) in one go and berate Bill for drinking "subpar" tea in the same breath. Really, it's incredible. Unfortunately, his mom was right: Colin was a charmer, and knew it. He was confident and handsome and carried himself with competence, and that was enough to sweep a lot of people off their feet. "He's—Ma, it's not like that."
"No?"
"We have a professional working relationship," Bill whisper-yelled, as if the man in question was just around the corner. Heat crept up his cheeks. The thought of his mother trying to imply things within his already tenuous partnership was… horrifying, to say the least. Bill prayed, very quietly, for the earth to open up and swallow him whole.
The corners of her mouth twitched up into a smile. His dad used to say that Bill got it from her—not the dimples, though, that was all me, he'd say, laughing.
His mom looked older, too, these days. Bill called his mom every two days, or whenever he had the time, just because she made him promise to do so (and he couldn't exactly get away from work to fly to the middle of Ohio at the drop of a hat)—but sometimes he still keenly missed her.
"He asked after you, you know," she said, distantly. "When your father was in the hospital."
Bill quieted. She took a deep breath, and then mustered up a smile in place of the forlorn weariness that had flashed—briefly—across her expression. "He asked if you were doing okay, since he said you wouldn't talk about it. I told him to ask you himself."
"That's… kind of him," Bill murmured, more than a little taken aback. But not surprised.
The other unfortunate thing was that Bill knew Colin cared: all the time, even when he wasn't showing it. It was one of Colin's better qualities, and Bill didn't think he had very many of those. It'd made it very difficult to dislike him. "Look, Ma," he said, cringing at the awkward way the sentence fell. "Colin is…a good partner, but it's not like that. I'd know."
She eyed him. Bill did not stop to think about the little niggling voice inside of him that said a tentative do you? and moved on, swiftly, because this train of thought was just leading into unsteady territory. And his mom could sense weakness like a shark, smelling blood in the water, must've realized something—because she dropped it. Mercifully.
"I'm glad you have him, then," she said. "I get he's just a work friend, but Billy, consider bringing someone to Christmas this year—it'll be quiet with just the two of us, you know?"
"Yeah," Bill muttered. "I mean, maybe." What the hell was he, a moody teenager?
"Not maybe," his mom said, mouth pressed into a stern line, "Think about it—genuinely, Bill. I'm sure Colin wouldn't at least mind an invite, if he doesn't have plans."
"What if he does, then?" Colin's got a girlfriend. He's probably got something better than to come to Christmas family dinner with Bill. Ohio is a two-hour flight, sure, but Bill typically stayed at his parents' for about two weeks, and that's a long time to be stuck with Colin Glass under one roof.
And Bill couldn't imagine Colin doing anything domestic—even with evidence to the contrary, every time Bill rehearsed it in his mind it felt like a facade. Something Colin would pull over himself like a sheet or a mask; the role of a bumbling social worker, a homeless man, a well-meaning tech bro that only stumbled over his words to get people to open up to him. That was work, though, and Bill carefully pushed the thought away as soon as it came. He didn't bring work home with him—and Colin, in all due respect, was solidly work.
Mrs. Goodman, for all that she was turning seventy-four this year and came off as kindly in everything she did, had been a rightful terror in her younger years. This was only exemplified when she drew herself to her full height and the stern tilt of her lip flattened into that disapproving scowl Bill saw on himself in the mirror before he left for work, or maybe before his first cup of coffee. "William George Goodman."
"Okay! Okay." He caved like a badly-set souffle. Pathetic. "Fine. I'll ask him."
"Thank you." She leaned back in her chair, studied him a little through the tinny camera of his kind of shitty Iphone. "That's all I needed to know. Let him know he's always welcome over—it's the least I could do."
"You have his number," Bill mumbled.
"Somehow, I think he'd appreciate it more coming from you," his mom said. "You look happier, Bill. Take care of yourself, okay?"
"Okay," he said, quiet, and watched as she waved a goodbye and hung up. The apartment was buzzingly quiet in his ears. He scraped the last of the risotto into his mouth and stood up to put it in the sink.
The request plagued his mind, all the way through as he brushed his teeth, changed out of his work clothes, and took a shower. Even when he crawled between the sheets, it stuck to him like glue, a thought that wouldn't go away.
This is why he didn't bring work home with him. It brought complications. He rolled over in his too-big, too-empty bed and turned off the bedside light.