Imagine, you're so upset you forget how to speak English, so you resort to cursing and screaming in your primary tongue
Like, walking in circles around the office, cursing aloud and holding your phone so tight in your hands you could snap it in half, and Wesker is just... staring, both confused and worried - he could probably figure out your emotions based on the stiff posture and the tone of your voice.
And if you've calmed down, but you're still unable to communicate he'd make you write down what you want to say and get it translated.
so, uhhh. comfort post. i'm extremely uncomfortable since yes.
Word count: 1209
Song? If anyone's interested: Nikitata - Paranoia
What a terrible luck you must have. You thought your life was getting back on track after you took the chance and moved out of your parents' homestead, diving head-first into the unknown.
And now, all your choices come to bite back, reminding you of all the unresolved issues you carry.
You thought you had your life figured out and your career path chosen. Now, doubt is clouding your conscience. Was that the right path? Why does it feel so wrong? That's what I wanted to do, for Christ's sake!
But you feel... trapped. Trapped in a career with no sight of going anywhere higher, trapped in a crappy, tiny apartment, not to mention - shared with a person you know nothing but their name.
But you can't return either. Your pride isn't letting you. To come back, would mean to admit a defeat, hanging a white flag, and proving everyone around you right; You aren't as good as you made yourself seem.
You sat in front of your computer, staring blankly at the blinking cursor in an open document - a report waiting for you to finish it, your hands clawing into your arms with bruising strength, clinging onto any sensory stimuli - even pain. God, it is horrible, isn't it? You feel like you're fading in and out of existence, your heart beating rapidly, indicating another wave of that dreaded feeling - the feeling of uncertainty, surreality. Nothing feels real - YOU don't feel real. Closing your eyes and breathing isn't helping you much either - and if anything - it makes the sensation worse, plaguing your vision with terrifying figures and flashbacks to the gruesome crime scene photographs. The sounds around you disappear, replaced by deafening screech in your ears.
Oh gods another wave.
And now you feel like the whole universe is judging you, staring straight through the persona you've maintained so well for so long - you're not as strong as you made yourself seem.
"Hey, are you okay?" A voice rang through the booming sound in your head, paired with a warm sensation on your shoulder. Someone noticed your struggle, fantastic as if this day couldn't get any worse! The hand pulled on your shoulder, turning the chair - and you on it - away from the screen. You couldn't look up, frozen in this hunched position. All you could see were the deep blue button-up shirt, neatly tucked into the combat pants.
The person sighed, either in pity or worry. Or both.
"You're taking a break, rookie." The person stated, pulling you gently up from the chair and wrapping one arm around your shoulders, keeping you close to their body. "Redfield! Be useful for once and make some tea for them. Chamomile if there's any left."
Your conscience came back - at least for a moment. You looked up sheepishly, squinting your eyes against the bright light. Albert glanced down at you, giving you a soft nod and nudging you to come with him. Not like you had any choice - he held you close and tight to his side. He was gentle with you, leading you into his office, making you sit on the soft, leather chair - the same one you sat all these months ago during your interview. Except now you were a trembling, anxious mess, digging your nails so deep into your arms that they left crescent-shaped scars.
His hands gently pulled your hands away from further hurting yourself, holding each of your palms in his. He kneeled in front, looking into your eyes - or trying to, you're staring blankly into your hands - now held by Albert. His thumbs traced across your knuckles, gently pressing on them, giving you the comfort you clearly need.
"Wait here." He stood up, placing your hands on your knees. The warm, comforting sensation left as he made his way across his office, and before you knew it, your body felt enveloped in something - heavy and soft - his officer jacket. The weight feels like a balm for your sore body, cocooning and grounding.
Gods, not again. You're on the verge of tears. And for what reason? Hell, if you knew. You close your eyes shut, praying silently, trying and hoping that this burning sensation in your throat and tears threatening to spill from under your eyelids will dissipate.
His hands returned to yours the moment the first tear rolled down your cheek. His touch was... oddly gentle. You've never expected this cold captain to have such warm, tender hands.
"Hey. Calm down." He whispered, looking at you. His expression was... sympathetic. If you can call the usual deadpan face with an almost clinical gaze disguised by worry gentle in any way, that is.
"Tell me what you see. Look around, describe it." He nudged your hands, pressing onto every finger. You nodded, lifting your head and looking around. Your head feels so wrong, empty and busy, thoughts running through like on a highway, yet you can't find the right words.
"I- I see..." You stuttered, battling the sensation that you were about to break apart. You took a deep breath, collecting your thoughts one more time - at least attempting to. "I see... bookshelves. Your computer. Some binders... The S.T.A.R.S. banner? Or is it a poster?" You focused your eyes on the decoration behind his chair - the same insignia you and he display so proudly on your shoulders.
"It's a banner, good observation." He nodded, moving his hands to your wrists, massaging the inner parts with his thumb. "What else do you see."
You swallowed the tears, giving the room one more look. You shuddered a shaky breath, the tension in your body leaving with each breath you took, growing steadier, calmer.
"I see... a desk lamp, with a cord hanging from it. And the desk, it's dark and looks heavy. I see... metal blinds on the window. And a coat hanger by the door."
And as if on command, Chris barged in with a large mug in his hands.
"Sorry Wesker, had to convince Becca to use her tea col-" He called, his voice cutting halfway through once he saw you - hunched over and Wesker's hands resting on yours. "Shit should've knocked..." He added.
"You should've," Albert commented. His demeanor immediately seemed to change from caring to cold and bossy in an instant. How does he do that? "Put the tea on the desk and leave."
Chris did as ordered, trying to not overstep his welcome. He hurried, giving you one sidelong glance - looks like he's worried, too. The doors closed behind him as he left, leaving the two of you alone once more.
Albert stood up, leaving your hands alone - after they trailed behind his, longing for more of the contact. Nothing good lasts forever, after all.
"Drink this. It should make you feel better. And you're taking the rest of the day off. No whining, no "buts" you're in no shape to work." He handed you the mug, placing it in your hands and guiding them into the handle.
"Now, do you have someone to check on you later?" He asked, leaning on his desk and crossing his arms on his chest.
You're laying on the bed, it's 2-3 am, you're in such immense pain, your joints feel like they're on flames, barely able to move. Your head hurts like you're Zeus about to birth Athena from the forehead. The sheer agony keeping you awake against your own will. You're close to just breaking down into tears...
Until you feel a cold compress on your head, covering your eyes in the comfortable, cool darkness and gentle, warm hands massaging a warming gel into your aching joints.
If that didn't help he'd make you sit up and take your painkillers, then cuddle, massaging your scalp and combing through your hair until the meds took effect and you fell asleep again.
i can't seem to find the post I'm thinking of but like
Wesker walking with you back into the RPD from a coffee break, snow and ice on the roads and both of you chatting, wrapped in warm coats and scarves
He notices the snow plow about to cover you head to toe in dirty, muddy snow, so he yanks you and pulls into his chest, guarding you from the flying lump of grime, hitting him in the back and basically ruining his pristine, woolen coat. He'd keep your face pressed into his chest, suffocating you with the warmth and his cologne, until he's absolutely sure there's no danger around.
Hey again
Previous (?) part
Word count: 1393
And a song: Rammstein - Giftig
Your days started to look the same: Wake up before sunrise, prepare for the day, shower (with help from the medical staff to clean the area under your neck brace), and head out to the labs. While you didn't have to do anything with the chemicals perse, he required you to run errands, check on the researchers, and so on. Your body still felt too stiff after the exhausting surgery to throw you onto the battlefield, so you did that until you recovered.
Oh right, the neck brace - is made out of thick and sturdy, yet fairly comfortable material. It allowed you some movement - although limited. Wesker said it's for your good, so the P30 on your spine wouldn't damage or potentially kill you, piercing through your spinal cord.
By noon you were done, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. People learn quickly to get out of your way, or they'll face the wrath of their terrifying supervisor. You returned to the office area, prepared specifically for your needs - a comfortable chair with a non-interacting backrest with the device on your upper back and neck, a computer with all the access you could ever ask for, and more. While waiting for your next order you'd spend your time here, silently monitoring the area, like a falcon - ready to strike its unassuming prey.
And so, he came, walking long and purposeful strides to your desk, standing right behind you before you could notice. Albert placed his hand on your shoulder, a sign. He got an assignment for you. Or a lesson. You quickly stood up, trying to look up into his eyes - the brace on your neck only allowed you to tilt your head ever so little. He took a step back for you to face him comfortably. How considerate.
"Come." He ordered, making a small beckoning gesture for you to follow him. You obeyed.
His pace is hard to keep up, but you're trying your best, breaking into a light jog every few steps to catch up with him. He didn't notice your struggle, his mind focused on one thing. He leads you in silence to the elevator leading to the surface. Finally, sunlight after a month is spent underground or in a medical facility.
"Tell me, what do you do with problematic people?" Just as the doors closed, he laid the question on you. His voice was flat, speaking with a cold detachment. Your eyes widened slightly, lips parted as you took a breath to respond, yet your voice caught in your throat. You stuttered an action that brought his attention to you - shown by him looking at you through his dark glasses. You swallowed thickly, taking one more deep breath and exhaling slowly.
"Get rid of them." You answered, looking directly into your reflection in his glasses. Your answer seemed to please him, his face twitching into a resemblance of a crooked smile. He didn't say anything more, not yet, looking directly into the door again. And you didn't ask either. Better not to ask. You'll see the reason soon enough.
*Ding*. And you arrived on the surface. Wesker led you out of the building into the soaring, African sun. The air felt hot, dry, and suffocating. You couldn't help but glance around - all the equipment stood there, but not a soul man in sight. All the workers must've taken a break. You seemed to be dressed more appropriately for the weather - a short-sleeved shirt with a zip at the front and a low cut back (another thing made specifically for you and your device), lighter tactical pants, and quite comfortable boots. How on earth is HE not sweating in his tough-looking suit and trench coat?
The area he led you to changed drastically. It seemed colder, despite being in full sun, with no shade in sight. The stench of death looms, enveloping your senses in its lethal grasp. You curled your fists, preparing for the worst. Your mind started running, recapping the past few months for any mishaps. You can't find any, not anything that'll result in your untimely demise at least.
Once you reached the destination, he beckoned you to take a step further. You could breathe a sigh of relief - if the situation wasn't this grim. You saw a man, hands bound behind his back and on his knees. He looked battered, the light beaten out of him. And yet, he still breathed, whispering something under his nose. Was that a prayer? Or perhaps he pleaded for mercy? You couldn't understand a word spilling from his lips.
"Good job. Now." Wesker started, his voice cold, but with an edge of sadistic amusement. He reached out to you, holding his gun by the barrel, inviting you to grab it. You froze, sensing what's to come. Your mind started to flood with thoughts, your body stiffening and freezing. He waved it gently, narrowing his eyes on you. And you reluctantly took the weapon from his hands. It felt so heavy in yours, despite the enhanced strength he's gifted you.
"He's the rat you caught, a useless weed in my garden. And now I allow you to plow the leech. Make an example for others." He spoke with so much amusement and wicked enthusiasm it gave you chills. He crossed his arms on his chest, supervising and observing your reluctant actions. From how you made sure the weapon was loaded and ready to shoot to your shaky, slow steps toward the man.
You put the barrel to the man's head. You saw all of his reactions, the tremble in his lips, the shakiness of his whisper, turning into a low, raspy plea. Your finger loomed over the trigger. It was so close to pulling on it, but you couldn't. Your mind stopped you. The thought of ending someone's life made you sick on the spot - stomach churning and knotting, mouth feeling dry, and throat burning. You felt tears coming to your eyes, threatening to spill onto your cheeks. Your own body trembled as you tried to keep the aim straight.
You stood there for minutes, yet they felt like hours. Hell, days even! You swallowed thickly, each breath coming in shaky gasps.
"Don't make me do this, little lamb." Wesker moved behind you, leaning into your ear. He whispered, but his voice changed to growl mid-sentence. His left hand rested on the junction of your neck and shoulder, his thumb tracing lines up and down your neck - the gesture as intimate, as it was threatening. His right snaked around yours, stabilizing the aim. The usual heat of his body burned almost cold, his breath fanning over the shell of your ear. You could hear it all, his whisper, his deep breaths, as his finger curled around yours, pulling onto the trigger.
No. No no no nononono. You had to do this. You can't disappoint him. Or worse. You grit your teeth, close your eyes shut, and turn your head away - as much as you can anyway - before you pull the trigger. The shot deafened you temporarily, stopping the victim's voice. It was... silent for a while. The hum of the institute grew distant, disappearing somewhere outside your hearing range. Even Wesker's breath in your ear was gone. It was only you and the weight of the soul you just took. You heaved an open-mouthed sigh, your eyes wide in horror of your actions. You stared ahead, trying to avoid the pool of gore forming where the victim fell.
"You did so good." He murmured into your ear, chuckling lowly in amusement. His right hand moved to hold your wrist, just in time as your arm went limp. He pried the weapon from your hands, leaving them to fall along your body.
Wesker straightened up, looming behind you, suffocating you with his sheer presence. He moved his arm down, resting it on your arm, holding it tightly - not enough to cause you harm, but enough to make you feel the threat.
"You just made me so proud, little bunny. You're learning so quickly."
The praise felt more like a cold statement, except for the pet names, pronounced with drawled vowels and much huskier than the rest of the statement. They weren't made for anyone's ears but yours anyway.
when wesker finds out that you used painkillers during your last sparring matches, he decides to try it himself next time. you didn't seem any less fast or snappy, so what if it could end up being useful in combat?
that makes it worthy of a test. he calculates his dose based on his weight and extra blood filtration. you're unaware.
mistake! turns out t-virus doesn't inhibit its' potential!
it starts off relatively normal save for the good mood he seems to be in, until you two actually begin. you usually focus on dodging, because wesker cheats a little and can't help but put a little t-virus behind his hits in a bid for superiority in all things. and maybe, maybe a reminder of how weak you are compared to him - how soft, how fragile, how in need of his saving grace and endless mercy. when a hit connects with you, though, the feeling arcs through him like lightning: hot and searing, and perfect.
he absolutely needs to feel that again! the mood elevation is getting to him, making him sloppy in a hyperaggressive effort to land another on you so he can feel the pleasure intermingling with physical superiority. it's not inherent to the chemical itself, but the modulation of sensation!
and you recoil so beautifully, too, clutching your chest and suppressing a pathetic grunt of pain as you reject a heave. it's almost erotic.
"do you need a moment? you're like a lamb to slaughter. you're lagging behind..." you grimace. he sounds so condescending. he continues, "oh, don't worry, i'll patch you up after this. quit pouting."
you think he's done, but he breathes out, voice getting unexpectedly deeper. if you were insane, you'd think it was husky. "i can't have my best toy getting broken, can i? good thing i'm the only one who gets to break you like this... if anyone else saw you, you'd be fired."
god, he's cocky, but never like this. you flush a little; there's an undeniable, disturbed intimacy that weaves like a toxin through those words. what's gotten into him? maybe he's trying to provoke you...
you rush him while he's gloating and blabbering, carrying the element of surprise around your neck like a noose, and he gets a direct punch to the stomach, knocking the breath out of him. the sound that erupts from him is filthy, not the scowl you expected: he staggers, first, a little faster than you but not quick enough, and his mouth opens like he's anticipating the filtered sound he should make, but the sensation doesn't align with his expectation and something unexpected drawls from his still-parted lips, eyebrows tightening far more than they should.
you're on him before he can recover, bringing your knee up to collide with the same sore spot before, wrapping your arms around him to grapple him as if you might be capable of mustering the strength to break through his augmentation through sheer will. this time he does scowl, his own, larger pair caging you in his iron grip, forcing you to keep your knee digging - an odd prospect, but you can't flex it to complete the move. you lose your balance, but instead of him forcing you off and toppling backwards, he falls with you, a hiss that ends with a climbing, shivering whine, hips forcing your knee deeper.
his precious sunglasses slack at the gravity and movement, shuffling forward enough to expose his glittering eyes...
they're blown out, the golden filigree of them barely visible, clouded over with far too large of a dose to maintain his professionalism.
hey :)
previous part
Word count: 1401
song: And One - Military Fashion ShowTW! Addiction to nicotine
God-fucking-damnit! This month is pure stress not only for you but for the rest of the S.T.A.R.S. Captain included. Summer is swiftly coming to an end, and so do the long, warm evenings, which means a spike in heinous crimes. The constant rain and gloom make it a stellar setting for all the gruesome murder cases. You lost count of how many reports you had to go through this month, but you stopped counting after 3 in the same week.
All the members seemed to lose their spark, going from the bright light of a supernova into a dim, weak glimmer of a dying white dwarf. The friendly banter is now replaced by the cold, awkward silence, monotone clicking of the keyboards and an occasional clank of yet another cup of coffee.
Your role within the S.T.A.R.S. is clear - you provide the necessary intel, perform the boring analysis, and all other tasks requiring more intellect and foresight, than muscle on the field. Plus with Brad, you take care of the electronic devices, testing and fixing the equipment when needed. You grew to tolerate the arrangement. After all, your life is not threatened to be cut short with a bullet to the skull every time you leave the office.
You can see your hands shaking, as you open yet another case delivered straight into your hands by the new RPD Rookie. The blonde boy with the softest features and hope in his eyes. God, you can see how that glimmer soon fades into a cold detachment of older officers. The photos attached to the case are... well, there's not a single word in any language to explain the sheer disgust you feel. You can only imagine the smell of the crime scene and the sound of the viscera under the poor police boots that had to document the scene. You felt lightheaded, the letters on your screen merging into a jumbled, illegible mess. You tried to focus, repeating like a mantra: don't look at the photos, don't look at the images. But you couldn't keep your eyes off them, staring at each piece of evidence with a twisted fascination. You feel your stomach knot and turn, as you browse through them, reading the descriptions of the crime scene. You forced yourself to close the folder and slide it to the opposite side of your desk, far from your arm's reach - unless you lean to grab it.
A soft groan left your lips, as you leaned back in the chair, your palms covering the eyes, and your face pointed towards the ceiling. The photos will appear in your nightmares, no doubt. You tried to calm yourself down - at least enough to begin rewriting the handwritten report into the digital form. Nothing worked. No breathing technique, no mantra was enough to calm your nerves. You slammed your fists on the desk, bringing all the attention onto yourself. That's enough, you need something else. You stood up and walked out of the office, not replying to anyone's concerned look.
It's been six months since you tried to stop your addiction. And you achieved it, you haven't touched a single cigarette during that time, but now... You tried to reason with yourself, convinced it's just one cig to calm your nerves. After all, it's been rough, and you have a job to do. You grabbed a pack you had stashed in your jacket - you left the pack there and forgot about it, up until the days became cold and you found it randomly while checking the pockets. You made your way into the parking lot, hiding under the roof. You took a deep breath, the smell of rain and distant city filling your nostrils. You light up the cig, take a huff, and hold it in your lungs. The smoke burned in all the right ways, before you released it slowly, tilting your head up and closing your eyes as you did so. The sound of the rain created a soothing backdrop for your little break. At least for a second, you could take your mind off everything. Nothing mattered at this moment, it was just you, your enslavement resting between your index and middle finger, and the hum of the city mixed with rain hitting the metal gutter.
A firm knock on your shoulder brought you back to Earth. You almost jumped out of your skin, your reaction met with a low, mocking chuckle.
"Not only a smoker but a scaredy-cat. Tsk-tsk. You fit into this organization like a glove."
You turned your head to meet your captain, standing right next to you, leaning against the wet wall. He wore a smug smile on his lips, but he looked just as worn as you, if not more. His usually perfect hair looked like he hadn't done anything to it in a few days, with loose strands cascading down his forehead, hell, he didn't have his glasses on. You could see his eyes perfectly, the cold, stoic eyes with dark bags underneath. He looked like he hadn't slept in a few days, which could be true.
"Sorry, captain-" You wanted to apologize, but he cut your excuse short.
"Care to share?" He asked, looking at the still-burning cigarette between your fingers. You nodded, feeling your stuck words burn your throat more than the smoke. You gave him the pack, watching as his fingers fished one out. He gave you the pack back, and you took a second to register his motion. He looked at you with his expressionless gaze as you stumbled to grab it from his hands and put it into the pocket of your uniform. You watched as he swiftly flicked the lighter with his thumb, lighting the cigarette resting between his teeth. He, too, took a long drag, holding the smoke in his lungs before releasing slowly with all the tension in his body.
You couldn't help but chuckle, turning to rest your back against the wall. Albert looked at you, raising an eyebrow.
"What's so funny?" He asked, his voice coming out as monotone as ever.
"Never took you for a smoker, captain." You replied, flicking the ash off the cigarette and crossing your arms on your chest. He chuckled lowly, following it with a sigh.
"Never judge a book by its cover."
You didn't say anything, letting the peaceful silence stay between you.
"What's on your mind?" He asked, staring into the distance, almost surveilling the area. His voice ripped you from your head once more. You flicked the burnt cigarette into the puddle, and your hands instinctively reached for the pack in your pocket. You stopped as your hand was about to dig into the pocket, and squeezed your shoulder instead.
"I don't know. It's just--" You sighed, tilting your head up and closing your eyes for a moment, to gather your running thoughts. It's hard to put all the mess going inside your head into a coherent phrase. All the cases and sleepless nights weren't doing you great. "I guess I'm just stressed. All of the gore is doing a trick on my head. And the murderer still being unknown. There's virtually no lead, reason, or rhyme to the crimes that could help me find them."
Albert regarded your answer with a simple hum, looking at you from the side. He too flicked the burnt cig into a puddle and pushed himself off the wall.
Albert moved swiftly, closing the distance. He put his hand on your shoulder, patting it and letting his touch linger for a second longer than usual.
"You got this, agent. If you need help, I'm always in my office. Just knock before you barge in, understood?" His warmth left your shoulder, quickly replaced by the cold emptiness. You looked up, nodding in acknowledgment. The corners of his lips twitched upwards into a hint of a smile. That was new. He never expressed his approval like that. Not around you at least.
"And don't stand here too long. You will get sick and I don't want to receive your sorry excuse for not coming to work." His voice returned to the usual ice-cold monotone. Before you could notice, he disappeared into the building, leaving you alone.
You sighed and walked back into the office - now a tad calmer and ready to tackle the dreaded report. You can't disappoint your captain.
Link to the previous part
Word count: 720
And a song :) KMFDM - Megalomaniac
You always aim for perfection, to be the best, to be first, and to be at the top of the line.
And so, you ended here as a mere rookie in the Special Tactics and Rescue Services. You tried to set your place as the someone; the youngest, the smartest, the most courageous. But it all failed. You weren't the youngest - Rebecca was by two years. And who was the smartest? Of course, it was your Captain. Let's not even start with the courage. That list would be too long, and you - at the very bottom of it.
There was one thing you excelled at - technology. Even Brad Vickers, the IT specialist was starstruck by your abilities and how you stayed glued to the screen, seemingly busy, until he noticed you used the devices to chat on Usenet and play Telnet games. All after you completed your job for the day, of course. For an untrained eye, it looked like black magic - letters and symbols flying across the screen with no sense or reason, but for you? It made perfect sense. That was your intention, to stay busy, then go home, hopefully without being scolded. You didn't have much to return to, anyway. A small studio, which you had to share. Brilliant. At least it kept the bills low.
You envied them. The look in your eyes as they returned from their missions, more often than not in soiled uniforms, scratches, and other random injuries. They seemed so proud. So victorious. You wanted that for yourself. Why did they never take you for the missions? Hell! Even Rebecca from the Bravo team was out and about more often than you! And she's just a medic! And you are well. Even if you don't know what part were you playing in the S.T.A.R.S.? An IT guy, perhaps? Computer magician? Or just someone to fill the space, ready to be made redundant on a whim.
And so, your hate and disdain slowly grew within you, making your blood boil, watching them from over your workstation screen, hearing their voices retelling the stories. God. So annoying.
You preferred the silence. If you didn't finish a task during the day, you'd eagerly stay overtime to work in piece, at your own pace, over a cup of coffee.
"What are you doing here so late?" A voice rang behind you. Before you could react, you saw someone's hand resting on the desk, just next to the keyboard you've been typing on. Your body froze - your Captain was right behind you. You ought to be standing up in attention, greeting him properly. Not freeze in place!
"I'm finishing something up, apologies." You managed to utter, feeling a lump forming in your throat. You wanted to disappear at that moment more than anything. To hell with that assignment! Tomorrow's another day.
Albert straightened up, leaning his body weight over your chair. You heard him smirk, then... felt a pat on the shoulder? His hand lingered just a while too long, but oddly not uncomfortably.
"Good job. Don't overwork yourself." He stated the last phrase seeming like a command.
You sat there for a moment longer, frozen. You just got praised? It certainly sounded like it.
You heard him chuckle, probably shaking his head. He probably stood a couple of steps away now, his arms crossed on his chest, his eyes locked on your posture from behind these dark glasses.
You were too shy to look up, maybe for the better. You just heard him hurry back into office, disappearing into the distance, stopping for a moment.
"Get some rest. It's an order, rookie." His voice carried through the deserted office before his steps disappeared around the corner. The way he pronounced your nickname, there was a hint of kindness instead of the usual snicker or a jab from your colleagues.
You nodded frantically, not sure whether he saw it or not.
You looked around the office - the buzz of the lights filling the silence, creating an even more lonely feel to the room. You turned your workstation, cleaned up the mess of papers on your desk, and turned to the exit.
That was one hell of an evening now, was it? Perhaps that cold captain is not that bad after all.
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