Work Text:
O'Doyle drags a hand down his face as he's forced into yet another unnecessary work event. Even though the workers at the White House and the President himself were very open about their feelings, it seemed like even they could not defeat the culture around work functions. The kind nobody wants to go to. The kind that takes extra time out of the day. The time where O'Doyle was forced to spend yet another hour in the presence of Trent. The other hot guy in the office. First in the office. Now at the bar. He always forced himself to never lie, but a lack of sobriety could lead to some truths that did not need to surface. Oh the horror.
Within the few months that he had been working for President Curtis he knew that the enemy was Trent. Trent Mcgaffin. The other hot guy. Trent understood how attractive he was. Somehow his face was lined with stress and evidence of hard work, yet he made it look appealing. He knew that those dark circles could turn heads because it made O'Doyle glare at him from across the office. Then Trent would have the audacity to stare back at him and never even approach him. It was also Trent's fault that it would leave O'Doyle feeling weird in the stomach.
But, worst of all, was when he smiled at Banks—and when Banks smiled back at him.
He sat next to her, his beer mostly untouched. Banks had already had her first and was mostly listening into whatever conversation a co-worker from another department was making.
"Hey, how come O'Doyle hasn't touched his drink?" the same co-worker remarks. "Isn't he half-leprechaun? Don't they all drink?"
Banks watches his hand tighten around the glass. She calculates something in her mind and responds. "Special Agent O'Doyle is half-leprechaun, but what you're saying is actually a harmful stereotype and aligns better with the clurichaun. Something O'Doyle is not."
Banks glances between her colleagues as they all stare back at her silence. Had she spoken too soon? Why did she defend him so quickly? Did it look weird that she defended him? Or she had done that thing again, where she gave such an informative reply and came off as pretentious—when she did not want to look pretentious.
O'Doyle's gaze barely fixes on Banks. He can't even appreciate what she did for him without feeling affected by the following silence. When Trent stares at him, and actually looks at him properly for the first time in weeks, he's caught between drinking or not drinking. But then his eyes narrow as he realises that Trent was also staring weirdly at Banks for defending him. Without hesitation—his feelings aside for the leprechaun stereotypes—he downs the rest of his beer—unsure of what he was even trying to prove. He presses a hand over his mouth and puts the glass down, a little too hard. Conversation slowly resumes, but he contemplates what he just did after avoiding alcohol for so long.
He feels the sudden dizziness. The buzz in his head. He thinks of his mother and his upbringing. He may as well be back in her grasp. But then he feels Banks' hands clutch his shoulders. Guiding him away. Suddenly everything isn't so bad.
"Come on, let's get you out of here," Banks mutters, taking his larger figure by the shoulders. She takes him out of the function room and into the White House's rose garden.
"Oh crap…" O'Doyle mutters, feeling himself stumble a little.
"Okay, we should sit down," Banks determines and she stops at the step leading to the path.
O'Doyle slumps down against the ground, followed by Banks who tilts her head in concern. O'Doyle looks away, feeling his face grow warm. It was always her brown eyes that were fixed on him.
"You didn't have to do that," he mutters and puts his head into his hands.
"Yes I did," Banks insists, then studies his posture. "Why did you drink all of that? Clearly, you don't often drink."
"Of course you figured that out. You brilliant, cybernetically enhanced human," O'Doyle mutters, wanting the buzz in his mind to end, the words to not leave his mouth so easily. "Yes, I am evidently a lightweight. Even though, at my height, I should handle it better than you, which you have probably calculated in that mind of yours, I just don't want to drink…"
"And social pressure?" Banks asks.
"Social pressure," O'Doyle confirms.
"Well, fuck social pressure," Banks mutters, giving him a small smile. "I think that person was trying to make it an awkward social situation. Even if I do take everything almost literally and you never lie… they made it socially worse by saying some bullshit about your background. And not all leprechauns drink. That's a known stereotype…"
"Social situations," O'Doyle repeats and narrows his gaze at the thought of Trent. "Trent makes social situations worse. The other hot guy. Banks, he's the enemy. He interferes with our space in the Oval Office even though he's from another department. And he doesn't even look at me, even though he should face me if he's apparently so attractive… and he looks at you and he smiles at you—do you like him?"
Banks squints at O'Doyle who stares back at her with wide eyes. He was being serious. Probably drunk and serious. She was only slightly tipsy yet she did not know what he was going on about.
"Who's Trent?" Banks asks.
"What?" O'Doyle frowns.
"I don't know Trent," Banks clarifies.
"Banks," O'Doyle says, offended. "He's the other hot guy in the office."
"O'Doyle," she smiles rather weakly, trying not to find the situation funny. "You're the only hot guy in the office to me."
O'Doyle stares at her again, until he needs to turn away. He never felt so stabilised and so destabilised by one person. He braces one hand against the ground, the other grasping his chest as his heart beat quickened more than usual against his rib cage. Surely, that had to do with the alcohol. Not anything to do with Banks.
"Why won't you look at me?" Banks mutters, hesitating to touch his shoulder.
"Because I'll say some things to you, Banks," he mutters back, but finally meets her gaze again. He dreaded how confused she suddenly sounded. "And I'll absolutely mean them."
Banks studies his expression. She notices how his brow creases in that way when he meant something, but could not bring himself to tell a lie, so he would say nothing instead. She leans against a nearby column and takes his hand instead.
"Don't say anything to me then," Banks offers. "You know you don't have to be a certain way around me."
He said nothing for a prolonged moment. Instead, his hand stilled in hers, before his fingers intertwined with her own. Unsteadily, he brought himself closer until he leaned against her shoulder and on a column of the White House.
Finally speaking up, he murmured into her ear. "I want to tell you so many lies."
O'Doyle said nothing more and she felt him fully lean into her, recovering from the alcohol he downed earlier. He shut his eyes and Banks felt something shift in her chest. She let him rest against her, knowing that they would face reality when they were both sober—something complicated, but real. He practically admitted that there was something between them.