lofi 𖹭 30♀ 𖹭 🔞 @lofi-fics - Tumblr Blog

Jun 28

I Want To Believe - Walter “Keys” McKey x Reader - Chapter One

When you’re assigned to a paranormal investigative task force with Keys McKey to investigate a town apparently plagued with aliens, the last thing you expect to be most surprised by is your growing attraction to him.

a/n - thought about the idea of Keys & the reader being like a modern Mulder/Scully from the X-Files & my brain wouldn’t rest until I figured out how to write it. please enjoy.

tw/cw - mentions of past abusive relationship, body image insecurities, masturbation/fantasies, Keys refers to the reader as “Scully” jokingly (but the Reader is not named).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The basement office in Quantico smelled like stale toner, neglect, and the creeping damp of a building that had seen far better administrations. The fluorescent lighting made your head ache behind your eyes as you gazed around your “office” blankly.

You sat behind a metal desk that felt more like a penalty box than a workstation, surrounded by towers of cardboard boxes filled with cold cases that hadn’t seen the light of day since the early nineties. For nearly three months, this had been your entire world. Eight hours a day of digitizing dusty cases while the guys upstairs from your graduating class discussed high-stakes raids and investigations over coffee you hadn't been offered.

Your reflection caught your eye in the blackened monitor, the harsh fluorescent light catching the angles of your face and making your skin look dull. You always put effort into your professional appearance, but it didn't seem to matter for much down here.

The older agents had thought they were getting a fresh, pretty face to run errands and a warm body to laugh at their terrible jokes. Instead, they’d gotten you: top of your class at the Academy, annoyingly competent, and possessing a zero-tolerance policy for being anyone’s "coffee runner." You’d lasted all of four days upstairs before you’d pissed off a senior agent by pointing out some various obvious things he was overlooking in one of his active cases. So - despite the fact that you did have a fresh and pretty face - they’d exiled you to the basement. Maybe they hoped you’d quit.

You certainly weren't a quitter. But God, you were bored.

The sound of the heavy door groaning open made you jump, the sound echoing unnervingly loud in the quiet room. You didn't bother looking up immediately, keeping your eyes on the grainy scan you were feeding into the system. You assumed it was the janitor - the only person you ever really saw down here. Or perhaps one of the agents who’d been one of your former classmates coming to gloat about where you’d ended up. That had already happened more than once.

"Knock, knock," a voice said. It was deep, a little breathy, and carried an undercurrent of amusement that didn't match the drab surroundings.

Your fingers paused over the keyboard as you glanced up, heart stuttering.

Standing in the doorway was a man who looked like he’d taken a wrong turn on his way to a tech startup in Silicon Valley. He was young, probably around your age, with a halo of messy dark hair that defied gravity and likely federal grooming standards. He wore a suit, but he wore it like he was still deciding if he liked the fabric - tie slightly loosened, shirt cuffs rolled up to reveal forearms that were surprisingly defined. His eyes were wide and expressive behind his glasses, taking in the entire depressing office in one sweep.

The guy grinned, flashing you a smile that was equal parts dorky and charismatic. Heat blossomed on your cheeks under his gaze. No. Nope. Absolutely not.

"I'm looking for the FBI's best-kept secret," he said, stepping inside as if he owned the place.

You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest - a defensive reflex you’d honed over many years of disappointing men. "The sign on the door says 'Records,'" you replied coolly. "If you're looking for the fancy new vending machine, it's two floors up and to the left of the elevators."

“You and I have very different definitions of a best-kept secret.” He smiled with an easy charm. “Care to show me?”

“I don’t go on walks with strangers.”

He laughed, a genuine, bright sound that felt out of place in the grimy room. "Fair enough. I’m Walter," he said, ignoring your brush-off and walking towards you, extending a hand as he settled on the edge of your desk. "My friends call me Keys. Actually, everyone calls me Keys. Even my mom."

You stared at his hand for a second before taking it briefly. His grip was firm and warm, but you dropped it quickly, heat prickling under your skin like fire ants where he’d touched you.

"Agent...” you started, waiting for his last name to click.

"McKey," he supplied helpfully, looking around your workspace with genuine curiosity. "But seriously, Keys is easier. It’s a thing. Long story. Anyway. Just transferred in from D.C. a few days ago, so I guess that makes us coworkers.”

"Well, nice to meet you, Keys, but I'm busy," you turned back to your scanner, though the work had suddenly lost its urgency. "If you’re lost, I can't help you."

"Oh, I'm not lost," Keys stood, rocking back on his heels with a restless energy. It seemed like he was vibrating at a frequency higher than the rest of the building. Or he’d had far too much caffeine. "Right where I wanna be, actually. The Special Asshole in Charge sent me down here."

You stopped cold. Addams? The man who had signed off on your basement exile with a smirk and a nonchalant wave of his hairy knuckles? "Addams sent you? To get me?”

"He did.”

“But he hates me.”

“That can’t be true.”

“Could be.”

“You seem like you’d be hard to hate.”

“You don’t know me, Keys.”

“Maybe I’d like to.”

“What exactly did he say?”

"Uh, something along the lines of 'Keys, go find that agent in the dungeon and drag her back up into the light.' His words, not mine. Well, mostly his words."

You eyed him warily, guard going up. This had to be a prank. Or worse, they needed a scapegoat for something messy. "Why? You lose a bet?"

Keys laughed again, shaking his head. "No, nothing like that. He wants to see us. Together.”

“Why us?”

“I don’t want to ruin the surprise.”

“I don’t like surprises.”

“You might be in the wrong field of work then, my friend.” Keys’s attitude sobered slightly as you frowned. “Okay, fine. Apparently, we’ve been volunteered for the 'East Coast Unexplained Phenomena Task Force.'"

You blinked, the absurdity of the phrase hitting you. "East Coast... what?"

"Phenomena. You know," Keys wiggled his fingers mischievously and you wondered briefly if he played an instrument, "the spooky stuff. Lights in the sky, things that go bump in the night, crazy cannibal families."

“You’re joking.”

“I would never joke about cannibals. It’s in poor taste.”

He said it with such a straight face that you couldn't tell if he was mocking you or if he was actually onboard with this insanity.

“That’s a horrible jo-“

"Anyway, he says we’re the new dynamic duo. The twenty-first century Mulder and Scully, if you will."

You stared at him, trying to find the punchline. You’d been sidelined for being a smartass, and now you were being promoted to investigate ghost stories? It didn't add up.

“Addams doesn't take me seriously, and never has, Keys. He thinks I'm a nuisance who somehow mysteriously got my hands on a badge."

"Well," Keys shrugged, looking at you with a sudden softness in his eyes that caught you off guard. "Maybe after all your hard work down here, he realizes he made a mistake."

You looked away, unsettled by his easy sincerity. You didn't trust it. Or his smile, or the messy hair, or the way he seemed genuinely happy to be standing in a windowless basement talking to a woman who had already mentally checked out of the conversation.

It wasn’t his fault. Your track record with men was a graveyard of good intentions turned sour - from the high school sweetheart who cheated on you with your best friend, to the ex-fiancé who had tried to mold you with harsh words and forceful hands into a trophy wife because your career ambitions "intimidated" him. You knew how to read them. Keys, however, read like a puzzle you didn't have the energy to solve.

"Addams told me he wants us to get to know each other," Keys continued, oblivious to your internal wall-building. "Said we’ll be spending a lot of time together. And honestly? I could use a partner who knows her way around a case file. I looked at your Academy scores, by the way. Profiling track? Super impressive."

You felt an unwanted flare of pride in your chest, instantly squashed by suspicion. "You looked at my file?"

"Yeah. Did a little digging," he admitted. "I like to know who I'm working with.”

“Learn anything interesting?”

“Seems like you’re sharp. And you're funny - I heard what you did to Agent Johnson’s prized ficus when he tried to assign you to escort duty for the visiting politicians."

A small, unwilling smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth. You had "accidentally" watered it with liquid bleach from under the break room sink. It was a low blow, but he deserved it. "It was an accident."

"Sure it was," Keys winked, & your stomach twisted. "Come on. Let's go see what the boss has in store for us. And," he lowered his voice slightly, leaning in conspiratorially, "if we’re going to be chasing aliens and want to change out of those heels, I have a pair of sneakers in my car you can borrow."

“Kind of you.”

You eyes Keys as you finished organizing the paperwork on your desk. He was eager and seemingly devoid of the arrogant swagger that plagued the agents upstairs. But you knew better than to let your guard down. The nicest guys always left the deepest scars.

Grabbing your blazer from the back of the chair, you slipped it on. "Fine," you said, your voice clipped. "But if this is a setup to make me look stupid, I'm taking you down with me."

Keys beamed, holding the door open for you with a dramatic flourish. "Deal, Scully. After you."

The elevator ride up to the third floor felt like ascending up from hell. Literally. The basement air you’d grown accustomed to was chilly on a good day and arctic at worst. You stood in the corner, staring at the numbers lighting up above the door, with Keys leaning casually against the opposite wall. He was humming a low, discordant tune that you recognized as the theme from The X-Files, and it took every ounce of your willpower not to openly roll your eyes.

When you walked in, Addams didn't even bother to stand up. He was behind his mahogany desk, feet up, staring at a monitor while munching on a donut, sugar crystals on his lips and mustache.

"Agents," Addams grunted, acknowledging Keys with a nod before his eyes slid over you. You saw the flicker of disdain, the quick assessment that summed you up as little more than a decoration he couldn't quite get rid of. "Seems like you finally found your way out of the basement."

"It’s hard to get lost when there's only one way out," you replied, keeping your voice even. You moved to stand by the chair, refusing to sit.

Miller chuckled, a wet, phlegmy sound. "Feisty. Good. Maybe you’ll need that out in the sticks." He tossed a beige folder across the desk. It skidded to a halt right in front of you. "Wilmington, North Carolina. Population 4,003 - and dropping. Locals are screaming about lights in the sky and cattle mutilations. Standard crackpot shit."

You picked up the file, flipping it open. Photos of charred pastures and blurry lights filled the pages. It looked like every other hoax you’d studied in the Academy or seen in the movies. All that was missing were some Polaroids of little green men with bug-eyes.

"Sir, with all due respect,” which is none, “this sounds like local department work. Why is the Bureau getting involved?"

"Because the Mayor’s brother is a Senator," Addams said, wiping his hands on the sides of his slacks. "And because someone upstairs thinks a bullshit 'task force' makes for good PR." He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto yours with a predatory glint. "Here’s the thing, sweetheart. I don't care if you find flying saucers or fucking Bigfoot. I just need you to show up, look around for a day or two, and look pretty for the cameras. This isn’t an actual investigation. It’s some PR to show rural America that the government gives a shit about them.”

“And does it?” Keys asked, leaning against a nearby bookcase.

“Does what?”

“Does the government give a shit about small town folks?”

Addams laughed. “If it helps you sleep at night, sure. Anyway. Your job is just to make these folks feel heard and seen, then get outta dodge.”

You stiffened, your grip tightening on the file folder until the cardboard bent. "Sir, I’m a fully trained field agent, sir. So is Mr. McKey. I don’t think that -“

"Relax," Addams waved a hand dismissively, his eyes raking over your outfit in a way that made your skin crawl. "No one is saying you’re incompetent, sweetheart. But you’ll make for a pretty photo op. We need someone with a... softer touch. You know, to keep the locals calm while the men do the investigating."

"Wow," Keys said.

The word dropped into the room like a stone in a pond. Addams froze, his mouth half-open. You looked at Keys, surprised to see he wasn't smiling anymore. He was standing straighter, his posture shifting from slacker to something rigid and dangerous. He had taken his hands out of his pockets, his arms folded across his chest.

“Something wrong, Agent McKey?”

"Just… Wow," Keys repeated, his voice dropping an octave, losing the playful lilt. "I’m sorry, sir, are we in the 1950s right now? Did I miss a memo? I could have sworn the Bureau had strict regulations against workplace harassment, but listening to you, it sounds like you’re auditioning for a role in Mad Men.”

Addams’s face flushed a dark, angry crimson. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," Keys said, stepping slightly in front of you, blocking Addams’s line of sight. It was a subtle movement, but it felt like he had drawn a line in the sand. "She scored higher than over half the guys in your bullpen on the entrance exam. She profiled that serial killer in Virginia while you were still trying to find the send button on your email. Telling her to stand there and look pretty isn't just sexist, it's stupid. You're shooting your own team in the foot before we even start.”

You stared at the side of Keys’ face, your heart drumming against your ribs. No one - much less a colleague you’d met less than twenty minutes before - had ever defended you to a higher-up before. Not without expecting something in return. There was no flicker of an ulterior motive in Keys’s eyes. It seemed that he was just defending you, pure and simple.

Addams stood up, chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Watch your mouth, McKey. You might’ve been the golden boy for your old task force, but don’t think for a second that I won’t bury you if the situation calls for it. Got it?”

"Threat duly noted," Keys said smoothly, though his eyes remained hard. "I’ll take that under advisement. Right after I file a formal complaint with HR regarding your conduct toward a subordinate."

The air in the room crackled with tension. Addams looked like he wanted to explode, but he clearly realized he was fighting a losing battle against a very stubborn agent. He took a breath, visibly composing himself, though his eyes still promised future retribution.

"Get out," Addams snapped, pointing a finger at the door. "Both of you. Go get acquainted over lunch. You’re flying out at 0600 tomorrow. I don’t want to hear from either of you until you’re calling me from Bumfuck Nowhere - are we clear?”

“Crystal, sir,” Keys replied. He turned to you, the anger melting from his expression instantly, replaced by a charming, lopsided grin. He gestured to the door, lowering his voice as Addams returned to his donut and computer. “Come on, Scully. Let's go get some food before I say something that actually gets us fired."

Keys ushered you out of the office, his hand hovering near your lower back but not quite touching - a respectful proximity that guided you away from the toxic air. The door clicked shut behind you, and you let out a deep exhale, running your hands through your hair.

"You didn't have to do that," you said as you waited for the elevator, your voice trembling slightly.

"Do what?" Keys asked, feigning innocence as he pressed the down arrow. "Stand up for basic human decency? Yeah, I think I kinda did."

“Didn’t think anyone did that sort of thing anymore,” you glanced at him with a mix of suspicion and thinly-veiled gratitude. “No one’s that nice.”

“You don’t trust people very easily, do you?”

“What makes you say that?”

Keys eyed your face closely. “For starters, you tense up whenever I’m nice to you.”

“No I don’t.”

“Your shoulders are practically touching your ears right now.”

He wasn’t wrong. You forced your body to unclench, relaxing ever so slightly. Change the subject. “He’s going to hate you now, you know.”

“Addams already hates everyone," Keys dismissed with a shrug. "He’s like a toddler n with a badge - just immature and angry at the world. Besides," he looked at you, his gaze softening once more, "he’s wrong. You’re not just a prop. I read your file remember? You’re capable and brilliant. You think I want to go to North Carolina without you?”

The elevator dinged, and you stepped inside, the sudden intimacy of the small space making you acutely aware of him. He smelled like coffee and some expensive, woodsy cologne you couldn't place. It was distracting. Intoxicating, if you were being honest with yourself.

“Still. I can handle myself," you said, more out of habit than true conviction.

“Oh don’t worry, I know you can," Keys replied, leaning back against the rail. "But you shouldn't always have to. That’s what partners are for. Or friends, if that’s something you’d like one day.”

The words partner and friends hung in the air between you, heavy with implications you weren't ready to unpack.

The coffee shop a block away was a nondescript chain that wasn’t anything special, but it was the only place within walking distance that provided a decent boost during long hours. You ordered a cold brew, needing the caffeine to ground you, while Keys somehow convinced the barista to give him a "mocha with five shots of espresso, six pumps of hazelnut, and extra whipped cream, because I’m emotionally fragile." What he was fragile about - you had no idea.

You found a small table in the corner, tucked away from the afternoon rush. You sat across from him, admittedly stiff. You didn't want to be here. You didn't want to like him or enjoy his company. That felt like dangerous territory.

"So," Keys said, tearing open a sugar packet with his teeth. "North Carolina. Aliens. Exciting, right?"

“How sweet does your coffee need to be?”

Keys shrugged with a noncommittal smile. “I like sweet things.”

You’re gonna hate working with me then.

“Anyway, I think this whole task force ridiculous," you changed the subject, stirring your coffee absentmindedly. “I give it a week - tops - before Addams dissolves it entirely. The government doesn’t give a shit about civilians who think they’ve seen visitors from out of this world.”

"You're probably right," Keys agreed easily, taking a sip of his frothy concoction and getting a mustache of whipped cream. "But isn't it kinda fun to pretend? Just for a second? To think that maybe, just maybe, the truth is out there?"

He looked so boyishly hopeful that you felt your defenses cracking, just a hair. "I deal in facts, Keys. Not fairy tales."

"Facts are boring," he countered, leaning in. "The interesting stuff is in the variables. The unknowns." He wiped the whipped cream from his lip with his thumb, the motion oddly hypnotic. "Like you."

Your posture somehow became more ridged, pulling your shoulders back. “I’m an open book. Or file, I guess. But you’ve already seen that, apparently.”

"I did, yeah,” he said, his voice dropping and eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your stomach flip. "It says you’re brilliant, driven, and solitary. It doesn't say why you look like you're waiting for the other shoe to drop every time someone is nice to you, or why you’re so guarded all the time.”

You looked away, staring at a chip in the formica table. The casualness of his observation stung because it was true. You didn't do nice. You didn't do partners who bought sugary mochas and defended your honor in front of sexist bosses. You kept everyone pushed away, and that was safest. But the way Keys was looking at you… It was oddly soothing. Like you could tell him anything - and he wouldn’t judge you.

“I… I had a bad run," you admitted quietly after a few minutes, the words feeling foreign on your tongue. "With... People. Men, mostly. I tend to make the wrong choices. It’s easier to just… Be like this.”

Keys nodded slowly, processing this. “Is it though?”

“I think so.”

“Think you’ll keep me at arms length forever, Scully?”

“Seems like the professional thing to do.”

“Yeah, but it that what you actually want?”

You looked at him, feeling heat rise to your face. He was handsome in a way that wasn't aggressive, with a jawline that was softening but still strong, and eyes that held a depth you hadn't expected. He was charming, yes, but it wasn't the slick charm of a pickup artist or some fuckboy. It was the charm of someone who was genuinely interested in the world around him, and right now, that included you.

It terrified you.

"I'll get back to you on that one,” you said, taking a sip of your coffee to hide the small smile threatening to break through.

“I’ll take it.” Keys grinned, raising his cup in a toast. "To the truth. And to not letting Addams win."

"To not letting Addams win," you echoed, tapping your plastic lid against his.

For the first time in months, the basement felt very far away. And as you watched Keys animatedly describe his theory on why aliens would definitely prefer North Carolina over Area 51, you allowed yourself a dangerous thought: maybe this partnership wouldn't be so bad after all. Just as long as you didn't let him get too close.

"Okay, let’s make this efficient," Keys announced, pulling a pen from his pocket and clicking it open. He poised it over a napkin like it was a critical warrant. "Twenty Questions. Rapid fire. We have a plane to catch tomorrow and I need to know if you’re going to be the type of partner who snores or judges my music taste."

You felt a reluctant smile tug at your lips. "I don't snore. And I promise not to judge your music unless it involves country. Or polka."

"Noted," Keys said, scribbling on the napkin. "Question one. Favorite horror movie? It might be a dealbreaker if you don’t watch scary movies.”

“Aren’t we sort of stepping into our own horror movie if we’re investigating aliens?”

“Aliens are inherently sci-fi coded.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What about the movie Alien?”

“Hm.” Keys took a sip of his coffee. “Walked right into that one I guess. But you didn’t answer the question.”

“Um, the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre,” you replied. "Raw, terrifying. None of that glossy green screen garbage."

Keys glanced up, looking more than a little surprised. "Okay, that’s... Unexpectedly hardcore. No offense, but I kinda pegged you for like, a Universal Monsters fan. Maybe a little Scream?”

"Those are fine. But I appreciate the grit," you shrugged. "The sequels were trash, though. What about you? What’s your favorite?”

“I like psychological horror. Like Hereditary, or Midsummar.” Keys chewed the inside of his cheek. He leaned in, studying your face with a scrutiny that usually would have made you self-conscious, but coming from him, it just felt curious. “Question two. That eyeliner is lethal. I’m guessing you didn't learn to do winged tips at the Academy?"

You laughed, surprised he’d noticed. “Uh, no. That was acquired through many, many hours of YouTube tutorials and unfortunate teenage phases.”

“Is it a shield or a hobby?”

You pressed your lips together. “Why do you ask?”

“I have sisters. Picked up on a few things.”

Something about the idea of Keys having sisters and being perceptive enough to pick up on why they would enjoy - or feel the need - to wear makeup made you feel odd. Not in a bad way. But underneath your skin itched in a way you couldn’t scratch from his perceptiveness.

“I just take my beauty regimen very seriously, Keys. Don't let the blazer fool you. I have a skincare routine that probably costs more than my rent.”

“Ooh, a girly girl who loves Leatherface," Keys mused, writing furiously. "Fascinating dichotomy. What about music?"

"Classic rock all the way," you said, warming to the topic. "Zeppelin, Floyd, The Doors. My dad raised me on vinyl. You?”

Keys laughed. “You’re way cooler than me, I’m afraid.”

“Am I?”

“I mostly listen to movie soundtracks,” his ears turned pink, and for the first time since you’d begun speaking with him, he looked almost embarrassed. “Helps me focus.”

A genuine smile spread across your face. “I guess I am cooler than you.” You leaned back, relaxing just a fraction. “You into any sports?”

He ran a hand through his thick hair, mussing it up in a way that tempted you to lean across the table and mimic the motion. God, what is wrong with you?

“I, uh, played soccer. In elementary school.”

“Wow, a man of many talents.”

Keys winked at you. “You have no idea, partner. What about you?”

“I didn’t play sports, but don't get me started on hockey. I’m a Capitals fan. And if we’re in the field during playoffs, I will require time to check updates. It’s non-negotiable."

Keys stared at you, his mouth open slightly and eyes somewhat dazed. "Are you sure you're real? I’m starting to think I’m hallucinating you."

"I'm full of surprises," you said, taking a sip of your drink. "Your turn. What’s your deal?"

"My deal?" Keys tapped the pen against his chin. "I’m mostly a glorified IT guy with a gun. I’ve designed about six apps. Big fan of board games.”

“Yeah, I probably could’ve guessed that.”

“Woah, rude,” Keys grinned. "And I have a massive sugar addiction. As you can see." He gestured broadly to his half-empty mocha. “But other than that, if I’m not coding, I love getting to cook something that isn’t ramen or mac n cheese.”

“Were you a theater kid?”

Keys froze. "What? How did you—"

"It’s the dramatic flair," you said, waving a hand at him. "The way you enter a room. The expressive hand gestures. You look like you probably played the lead in Little Shop of Horrors.”

"I was Seymour," Keys admitted, looking slightly embarrassed.

“Ha - I knew it.”

"And I was incredible. I can still do a mean 'Suddenly, Seymour' if the mood strikes."

"Please don't."

"I won't. Unless, as I mentioned, the mood strikes.”

For the first time in months your shoulders dropped, and you let out a genuine laugh. The air between you felt lighter, charged with an easy electricity that you hadn't felt in a long time. It was dangerous, this sort of comfort. You shouldn’t be this relaxed with some guy you’d just met barely an hour ago. But something about Keys drew you in. Made you want to… What? Be his friend? Jump his bones in a supply closet? Have an honest conversation with him?

"Okay, last question before we -“ Keys started, but he was cut off by a shadow falling over the table.

The atmosphere in the coffee shop seemed to instantly chill. You looked up, blood turning to ice in your veins. Standing there, like he owned the whole fucking coffee shop, was Brandon. Your ex. As of two months ago. He looked like he’d walked out of a GQ magazine - tailored suit, perfect tan, hair that was too luscious to be real - holding an iced latte and wearing a smile that didn't reach his cold, blue eyes.

"Well, well," Brandon said, his voice smooth and condescending. "Look what the cat dragged up from the basement."

Your hand tightening around your cup until your knuckles turned white. "Brandon.”

“Nice to see you too, baby.”

“I’m working."

"Working?" He glanced around the cafe with a sneer. "Looks like you're on a break. Or did they decide you’re good enough for coffee runs now?” He laughed, a short, sharp bark of sound that drew the eyes of a nearby table.

"Is there a reason you're here?" You were fighting a losing battle to keep your voice level, though you could feel the familiar heat of shame rising in your cheeks.

"Just getting a little pick-me-up,” he said, eyes drifting to Keys and assessing him with a dismissive once-over. "And who is this? Your new babysitter?”

Keys set his pen down on the napkin, very slowly. He looked up at Brandon, unblinking behind his glasses. "Walter McKey. Her partner. And you are?"

"Brandon. Her ex-fiancé. The one who realized she was too much work and not enough reward." He smirked at you, eyes dragging over your body in a way that made your skin crawl. "You’ve filled out a little bit, sweetheart. But I know how you get when you're hungry. You turn into a fucking brat."

You flinched, the words hitting their target with precision. He knew exactly what to say to make you feel small - to make you feel like the difficult, unlovable bitch he had always claimed you were.

“That’s enough,” Keys said softly. He stood up.

Brandon was taller than Keys, but Keys didn't seem to notice the height difference. He buttoned his jacket casually, the movement smooth and deliberate. “Excuse me?”

"I think you’re done," Keys said, his voice losing all warmth. It wasn't loud; it was low and quiet, but it carried a weight that made the air in the shop feel heavy.

Brandon scoffed, crossing his arms. "I'm just catching up with -“

"No," Keys cut him off, taking a step forward. He wasn't smiling anymore. "You're not catching up. You're being an asshole and intentionally making her uncomfortable. So you’re gonna turn around, take your shitty latte, and leave."

Brandon’s face darkened. "I don't know who you think you are, but -“

"I'm her partner,” Keys said, interrupting him again. He didn't raise his voice, but the intensity in his eyes was terrifying. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze flicking down to the badge clipped on Brandon’s belt, then back up to his face. "Cute badge. But I need you to understand something, Brandon.”

Keys took another step, invading Brandon’s personal space. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that you could barely hear.

"We’re federal agents. Trained to neutralize threats. And right now? You are coming dangerously close to being classified as a threat to a federal officer's well-being." He paused, letting the silence stretch. "So, if I were you, I would walk away. Right now. Before I decide that you being a prick is worth the paperwork it would take to haul you in."

The coffee shop was dead silent as you stared at Keys. He looked dangerous - utterly and completely capable of doing exactly what he said. It wasn't a bluff. It was a promise.

Brandon paled, the arrogance draining out of his normally tanface. He looked at Keys, then at you, and for a second, he looked uncertain. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"Whatever," Brandon muttered, backing away. "Have fun with your little... Assignment."

He turned and practically fled toward the door, not looking back.

You sat there, stunned, the echo of Brandon’s cruelty still ringing in your ears. You felt exposed - like a raw nerve. You had been humiliated, patronized, and reduced to a punchline in front of the first person you’d actually enjoyed talking to in months. Maybe years.

"Hey," Keys said softly.

He sat back down, sliding into his seat opposite you. You braced yourself for a dozen questions about your former relationship. Why were you with him? Why didn’t you leave sooner when he’s clearly a fucking asshole? But to your surprise, he didn't say a single word about Brandon. He just picked up his napkin and the pen once again, seemingly sensing that you weren’t okay with speaking about the man who had just left.

"Okay, where were we?" he asked, his voice gentle but steady, as if nothing had happened. "Right. Cats or dogs?”

You looked at him, vision blurring with sudden, unexpected tears. You quickly blinked them away, refusing to let him see you cry.

"Keys," you whispered.

"Yeah?" He looked up, his eyes full of a quiet understanding that made your chest ache.

"You didn't have to do that."

"I know," he said simply. He pushed his mocha toward you. "Here. You need the sugar more than I do. Drink up.”

You took the cup, your fingers brushing against his. They were warm and steady, sending a buzz through your entire being. For the first time in a long time, you didn't feel like pulling away.

Later that evening, your apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator. You were staring at your open suitcase, trying to mentally rotate the logistics of a three-day trip to North Carolina with a vague "investigate aliens" order.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen lighting up the dim room.

Incoming FaceTime Call: Keys McKey

You felt a flutter in your chest that you immediately tried to stomp out. You swiped answer, and Keys’ face filled the screen. He was in what looked like a living room, background cluttered with old movie posters, wearing a t-shirt that for some reason read "I paused my game for this."

"Hey," he said, his voice crackling through the speaker. "Please tell me you're packing better than I am. I’m currently staring at a pile of laundry and questioning every life choice that led me to owning so many ugly ties.”

You turned the camera to show him your bed. "So far I’ve got three blazers and a pair of hiking boots. I have no idea what the vibe is for alien hunting and calming people down.”

"Can I interest you in a tie with neon green spaceships on it?”

“Already had that on hand, did you?”

“You know it.”

"Should’ve guessed," you said, turning the camera back to your face. You were glad for the low lighting; it hid the flush on your cheeks. "Why are we, uh, FaceTiming, exactly? I thought we covered everything at lunch."

"Professional coordination," Keys said, deadpan, though the crinkle of his eyes gave him away. "I need to know how badly you’re going to outshine me style-wish. Plus, Addams has us on a budget, so if we can share toiletries to save space -“

"I’d cutting you off right there," you interrupted with a small smile. "I have a very specific brand of shampoo, Keys. Do not touch it."

"Noted," he sighed. "I’ll stick to the hotel bar soap like a peasant."

For the next twenty minutes, the call continued like that - easy, flowing, ridiculous. You packed your bag while he packed his, holding up items for inspection. He made you laugh with some well-timed jokes, and roll your eyes when he asked if he needed to bring "extra socks because space is cold - and what if we get abducted?”

It was... Nice. It was domestic in a way that felt wildly inappropriate for a professional working relationship. You hadn't had a casual phone call with a man in years. With Brandon, phone calls were status updates - where were you, who were you with, why weren't you wearing what he liked. Keys just wanted to know if you preferred granola bars or beef jerky as travel snacks. Or tease you about bringing six different blouses for a three day trip - asking if you were the world’s messiest eater and just neglected to mention it.

"Okay, I think I'm set," you said, zipping your suitcase shut. The sound echoed in your empty bedroom. "We need to be up in like, four hours if we want to make the flight."

"Right. Early bird gets the worm.” Keys replied, but he didn't move to hang up. He just looked at you through the screen, his expression softening. That look that he kept giving you that you knew he shouldn’t. "Hey."

"Hey," you echoed, your heart rate picking up.

"I'm glad Addams put us together," he said quietly. "Even if it is for the spooky stuff."

"Oh. Yeah. Me too," you admitted, the truth slipping out before you could stop it.

"Get some sleep, Scully," he said, offering a little salute. "Don't let the bedbugs bite. Or the aliens probe. Or -“

"Goodnight, Keys."

The screen went black, and your room was plunged back into silence.

You settled back on your pillows, staring up at the ceiling, but sleep felt miles away. Your mind was racing, replaying the day - the confrontation with Addams, the coffee shop, the phone call. It was all swirling together, but one thought kept rising to the surface: Keys is different.

It was nearly impossible not to compare him to Brandon, given the fact that your ex had been in your life for so long. Honestly the contrast was almost blinding.

Brandon had been charming, sure - charming enough to blind you to the cracks in the foundation for years. But that charm had always been a veneer, a pretty wrapper around a volatile core. He demanded control, and had hated your intelligence because it threatened him. Every day you were at the Academy, he’d mocked your ambitions because they didn't center on him and his goals. And in private... Behinds closed doors, the charm had entirely evaporated, replaced by a cruelty that chipped away at your self-esteem day by day, and broken your heart and several of your favorite mugs. He had made you feel like a failure. Someone who should be grateful for his attention at all. And eventually, like your body was something he owned, something to be critiqued, not cherished.

Keys, though...

You thought about the way he had looked at you in the coffee shop - not with hunger or possession, but with genuine interest. He had defended you without making it about his own ego. He had noticed your eyeliner and praised your horror movie taste and hadn't made fun of you.

Shifting under the covers, a flush began to spread through your body that had nothing to do with the warmth of the room. Before you should stop yourself, your mind began to wander further and further away from reality. A dangerous, treacherous thought crossed your mind, but you couldn't quite shake it.

What kind of boyfriend would Keys be?

Would he be gentle? The way he had handed you his coffee, the way he had listened when you talked about your interests... If you were to create a profile on him, his actions and demeanor certainly suggested a softness that was rare in your world. Brandon never listened. He’d only ever waited for his turn to speak.

You imagined Keys holding your hand - not to drag you somewhere, but just to hold it. What if he touched your face? Not to criticize your makeup, but to memorize the curve of your jaw. The swell of your lips.

Would he cherish your body? The thought sent a shiver down your spine. Brandon had always made you feel like your body was a project - too much here, hot enough there, never quite right for him. But Keys... Keys looked at you like you were fascinating. You couldn’t imagine him being as cruel or pushy as Brandon had been.

He’s your coworker. Stop having thoughts like that about your goddamn coworker.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to banish the images. This was a bad idea. You were going to be working with him, living out of a suitcase with him. You couldn't afford to get even a tiny crush on your partner. That was how you got hurt and ultimately ended up back in a basement, cursing yourself for your stupidity.

For ten minutes, you stared blankly up at the ceiling fan counting the rotations and willing sleep to claim you. The adrenaline from the day, the lingering high of Keys’ defense, the low hum of his voice - it was all pooling in your stomach, hot and restless. You needed a release. Just a brief one to turn your brain off before you did something stupid - like text him 1:00 AM to ask if he was sleepless and thinking about you too.

What are you, in high school again?

With a groan of frustration, you reached into your nightstand drawer. Your fingers brushed against the cool, silicone curve of your vibrator. It was a necessary instrument for stress relief, like a weighted blanket or a glass of wine. But as you pulled it out, the low hum of the motor starting up seemed deafening in the quiet room.

You laid back against the pillows, kicking the duvet down to the end of the bed. The cool air hit your skin, raising gooseflesh, but you already felt overheated. You closed your eyes, trying to summon a faceless, nameless fantasy - standard routine to get the job done. But the image dissolved the moment the buzzing tip made contact with the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

Your mind, however, betrayed you instantly. It didn't go to the abstract shapes of strangers; it went straight to Keys.

It was involuntary, a flash of his messy hair and that stupid, charming grin. You tried to push it away, to focus only on the physical sensation, but your brain had other plans.

What if it was his hand instead?

The thought was so vivid it made your hips buck off the mattress.

You imagined the weight of him on top of you, not heavy and demanding like Brandon had been, but solid and warm - hovering over you, those expressive eyes darkened with desire. Looking at you like you were the only person on earth to him.

"God," you breathed out, the sound ragged in the quiet room.

You slid the vibrator higher, the pulses rippling through your clit, but it was your own imagination that was really doing the work. You pictured Keys' fingers - long, coder's fingers - tracing the line of your jaw, tilting your chin up so you had to look at him. He wouldn't mock you. He wouldn't tell you to be quieter or to fix your face or that you needed to lose weight.

"You're so beautiful," you heard his voice in your head, a low, rough whisper against your ear.

The fantasy intensified, blurring the line between the plastic in your hand and the phantom touch of a partner. In your mind, Keys wasn't rushing. He would take his time, exploring your body with the same curiosity he applied to everything else. He’d marvel at the softness of your stomach, the curve of your hips, all the things Brandon had critiqued.

“Tell me what you want, baby.”

You moved the vibrator in slow circles, your breath hitching as you imagined Keys kissing his way down your neck. He’d murmur praise between searing kisses, telling you how good you felt, how soft you were, how much he'd been wanting to do this since he saw you in that basement office.

“You’re doing so good for me.”

"Keys," you gasped, the name escaping your lips before you could bite it back.

The shame should have hit you then, but it only fueled the fire. You arched your back, your free hand clutching at the duvet beside you. You imagined him burying his face between your thighs, replacing the mechanical hum with the wet heat of his mouth. He wouldn't be selfish - you just knew it. He wouldn't just take. He’d worship.

"You look so gorgeous like this.”

The pleasure coiled tight between your legs, sharp and demanding. You chased it with abandon, mind running utterly wild with images of him - his hands gripping your thighs, his back muscles flexing as he moved over you, what he’d feel like inside of you, the sound of his moans mixing with yours. It was a chemistry you had never felt with anyone - a spark that ignighted a bonfire within your very bones.

“That’s my good girl.”

"Please," you whimpered into the empty room, toes curling and back arching.

"Let go for me, yeah? Just let go. I’ve got you.”

The orgasm hit you like a wave, crashing over you and pulling you under. You cried out, your body shaking, mind filled with the phantom sensation of Keys talking and holding you through it, anchoring you while you fell apart. For a few seconds, it was perfect. Real.

Then, the vibrations stopped, leaving you panting and covered in a sheen of sweat in the darkness.

You lay there, chest heaving, the toy still clutched in your hand. The reality of what you’d just done washed over you, hot and embarrassing. You’d just used your new partner - the man you had to spend the next three days with - as fuel get yourself off during a solo session.

You dropped the vibrator onto the mattress with a soft thud and covered your face with your hands. "You are so fucked," you whispered to yourself.

But even as the mortification settled in, a tiny, stubborn voice in the back of your mind whispered back.

Yeah. But it might be worth it.

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