i’m gonnaah, h-haah—! @s-so-tickly - Tumblr Blog

Echo Juliet - Part 1

Details: 6k words, M sneezes

Summary: Sneezy secret agent gets paired up with another employee for ‘cross-departmental education.’ Omicron can’t imagine a worse assignment.

PART 1 - PART 2 (coming soon!)

I’m back with more Omicron Verse, starring disaster career man Omicron! Compared to his debut, this is more of a slice-of-life story that focuses on character dynamics. It also features a ✨new character✨ I’ve been excited about. I hope you all like him too! 🥰

These are original characters, all in their twenties and thirties! This story takes place directly after Best Laid Plans. If you’d rather not read that one, here’s a summary!

Omicron is a secret agent

For his first big mission, he infected himself with an engineered cold virus designed to make him sneeze a lot

Anita is the scientist / doctor who created this virus

Delta is a senior agent and was Omicron’s direct supervisor on the previous mission

Thank you for reading either story, if you choose to!

(Warnings: Unrealistic science, Mess Lite™, mention of arousal in passing, mild humiliation [character embarrassed by sneezing])

-

Agent Omicron straightened his tie, his wingtip oxfords clacking on the tile as he swept through the agency’s halls with his head held high. Almost a month since The Case — the one that got him commendations as one-to-watch in his division — and he still hadn’t lost the skip in his step. People knew his face when he entered a room, whispered about him when he wasn’t around, and even the division director gave him her personal congratulations.

It wouldn’t be long before they issued him his next big assignment. Hopefully something high profile, where he could drive a cool car and parachute out of a helicopter or something. He’d do it all on his own with no training wheels, safety nets, or meddling superior officers. It was insufferable to have Agent Delta going around to all the seniors gushing about how “his rookie” really powered through despite being “bedridden with fever” and “sneezing himself silly.” Ugh.

Even more humiliating than that was Omicron’s battle scar — it was subtle, but his nose was forever changed. He sneezed more often, at times for no reason other than his nerves decided to itch. At random he was overcome with the uncharacteristically huge sneezes he’d weathered time and again during the case. He had no control over them, and usually no idea when they would strike. Because of this he held sneezes back more often than he indulged, but this just left a pestering tickle in his nose all afternoon that eventually drove him to insanity.

Case in point, such a tickle was tormenting him right now.

He’d been in meetings throughout the day, so Omicron tamed it with frequent rubs and firm pressure. He’d rather deal with a flushed, fidgety nose than a disruptive one; being known as “the agent that sneezes constantly” would absolutely destroy any credibility he’d cobbled together from his impressive mission performance.

Impatient, his nostrils flared and coaxed him to sniff on reflex. It shivered back out of him with a dreading moan.

“..hohh..” Omicron jammed his finger to his septum, bartering with himself as he increased his walking speed. Relax, he ordered. I’ll sneeze in a second, just let me-

He stopped, mind briefly blanking as the tickle wrestled control with fitful jerks of his breath. “hh!uh.. HH!uhh..” Omicron forced eyes open just long enough to confirm there was no one in the hallway before-

“-KZSSCHoo!!” He bent double, finger still beneath his nose, and straightened up with a dazed sniffle. It popped like confetti in his nose, a burst of ticklish sparks. His eyes welled shut, and down again he went. “-hck’KZSCHiew!”

Whatever linked his propensity for arousal to his nose had faded along with the virus; he no longer had to worry about getting boners from sneezing too much. Small mercies.

He stayed facing the floor, eyes closed, concentrating. One moment the sneeze loomed, and the next it retreated. It felt like a feathered pendulum swinging in his nasal cavity, momentary and stimulating but just infrequent enough to leave him in limbo. He no longer had the misfortune of manifesting a sneeze simply by thinking about it, but he did have occasional luck imagining himself to completion if he was perched right on the edge.

The sneeze was close enough that he could see it, picture the way the pendulum swung in his mind’s eye. Focus on the way it grazed his twitching nerves. He imagined the feathers longer, wispier, dragging languidly over shuddering, pink walls and each time his breath caught the pendulum moved slower, slower, until it stopped with the plumage resting against him. He breeeeeeeeathed deeply, welcoming a cresting gasp, picturing the down as it fluttered against membranes suddenly clenching with hunger, and oh-

“heHD’IZZSSHH!!OOOhhh, fidnally...”

“Bless ya!”

Omicron did not scream, but a little sound strangled out of him as he spun around and instinctively dropped into a defensive stance. The stranger was built like a brick house, tall and broad-shouldered with a hulking frame to suit him. Despite his size, his soft physique suggested he didn’t do physical training. He was also clutching a mop.

The man startled backward in surprise.

“Oh, sorry!” he yelped in a deep, rumbling drawl. “Didn’t mean to scare ya!”

A custodian, Omicron realized. The man wore the agency’s standard janitorial uniform and he had an ID on a badge reel clipped to one of his belt loops. It lacked a name or division designation, possessing only a personnel number, but that wasn’t unusual. He had an unkempt look about him: unshaven stubble, untidy haircut, an unbelievable number of wrinkles in his clothing.

Omicron brushed his hands down the front of his pressed suit and smoothed his hair back into place. “You didn’t scare me. I just didn’t expect you to be there.”

The custodian’s brows crunched in confusion. “.. Ain’t that what scarin’ somebody is?”

“.. No,” Omicron replied, but he couldn’t actually think of a rebuttal so he cut his losses. “Nevermind, pardon me, I have somewhere to be..”

Before he could take a step, the man jumped into motion and dove into the cart next to him. “Oh, hold on a minute!”

It would be rude to leave now, so Omicron stiffly waited. For someone who did this for a living and presumably stocked the cart himself, the man seemed to have a hard time locating whatever he was looking for. Omicron tapped his foot, arms crossed, watching the other mumble to himself. With a defeated huff, the stranger finally snatched a rag from a stack on the bottom shelf.

“Sorry I don’t got any tissues, best I can do.” He brandished it to Omicron. “Here ya go!”

Omicron held up a hand. “No, thank you.”

The man’s brows pinched together again, and when Omicron turned to go, he asked, “Are ya sure?”

Omicron glanced back, gritted his teeth, and replied in a perfectly cordial voice: “Yes, very.”

Still, the man looked unconvinced and said in a blithe timbre, “Well, I just thought ya might want it on account of your nose runnin’.”

.. What?

Omicron whipped a hand up to his face and with burning mortification felt how wet his nostrils were. And his upper lip. And his suit, when he looked down to see the damp streaks painted there. He’d sneezed on himself, gotten startled, and then was so distracted by the conversation he didn’t notice what he’d done.

He snatched the cloth from the man’s hands, muttered something about being late to a meeting, and left. He didn’t sprint, but it was a near thing.

---

Anita, naturally, had no sympathy for him. She still hadn’t stopped laughing.

“It’s not that funny,” he grumbled, picking at his cafeteria sandwich. They sometimes shared their lunch hour in her office when their days were slow. Omicron wondered why he even bothered talking to her, when this is the kind of treatment he could expect.

“It’s pretty funny,” she insisted, and only grinned wider when he glared. “Honestly you needed an ego check. Watching you strut around with that smug look on your face was getting annoying.”

Omicron’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, smug?”

“You know.” Anita pantomimed, tilting her chin and raising her eyebrows with a smirk: an expression that dripped with imperious pride. Arguing would only encourage her, so Omicron tore a bite off his sandwich instead. Anita went back to her leftover stir fry, still smirking. “Now, who did you say this guy was?”

“Someone in Division 8, I think,” Omicron mumbled into a napkin. “He was in a custodian uniform. Tall...”

“…Dark and handsome?” Anita waggled her eyebrows.

Omicron furrowed his. “Disheveled. I haven’t seen him around before. He sounded like he was from out of town.”

Anita ahhhh’d in recognition. “You met EJ! He’s such a sweetheart, he makes my teeth ache.”

“You know him?”

“Sure,” she said. “I gave him his physical on his first day. That was a few months ago now.”

Great, Omicron mused sourly. What a terrible first impression he must have of me.

Unbidden, a prickle niggled him somewhere far back in his sinuses. He fought the impulse to roll his eyes. Instead he swiped a finger beneath his nostrils and felt them flare with mischief. He rubbed harder, chastising.

“Stay away from him,” Anita said, pointing accusingly with her fork. “You’re too mean.”

“What?!” Omicron squawked. “I am not mean.”

“Oh yes you are. All the interns are scared of you.”

“Don’t exaggerate.”

He shoved the rest of his sandwich in his mouth, balled up the paper it came in, and then froze. The tickle was back, barging in as if it had been waiting for the moment he’d be most indisposed to receive it. His nose tingled ominously, wrinkling at the bridge. Held prisoner, Omicron could do nothing but breathe through his nose as he rushed to chew. His eyes glassed over. His nostrils pulsed irritably. It felt like the tip of a finger grazing back and forth, teasing and slow, no no no—

Omicron sniffed sharply, loudly, abruptly smothering the sensation. Swallowing was a success. He may have avoided disaster, but a warm flush blitzed through him when he sighed out a reflexive huhh.. on his exhale. Blinking hard and scrubbing beneath his nose with his wrist, he caught sight of Anita. Her gaze lingered, then slanted toward sympathy. He eyed her suspiciously.

“What now?”

“Your nose doing okay?”

“Not this again,” he groaned with one last knuckling rub. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine.”

She heaved a long, dramatic sigh. “I wish you’d let me tinker with it. I’m sure I could mix a new solution to dull the lingering sensitivity. Or some nerve therapy—”

Omicron barked a singular HA! as he stood to slip on his jacket. “Not a chance. I’d rather deal with the consequences than let you anywhere near my nose again.”

He ignored her pout, straightening his lapel and cuffs with exacting precision before tossing his trash. Might’ve escaped with his dignity intact, if that feather-soft tickle hadn’t wiggled enticingly. His nostrils immediately flew wide, jaw falling open, expression going weak. Omicron was helpless to stop it. He snapped a step forward.

“—hd’TSSshh’HOO!”

He stood wet-eyed in the aftermath, watching the glitter of spray disappear in the air. Dammit. He yanked out the custodial rag he’d been bestowed earlier and wiped his nose.

“Bless you, Mr. I’m Fine,” came Anita’s cheery contribution.

He flipped her off on his way out.

---

Another week went by.

While waiting for his next assignment, Omicron tried to forget about his faux pas. It was silly to be so hung up on some random guy witnessing an unfortunate sneeze, but it needled him when his mind was idle. Maybe he would have forgotten eventually if not for everyone’s favorite saboteur: serendipity.

He was in the campus gym, red-faced and spangled with sweat as he did battle with the rowing machine, when he caught sight of someone familiar pushing through the entrance doors. Their eyes met and the visitor smiled with the force of a thousand watt bulb. Omicron sighed with bone-deep resignation.

“Ah, just the man I wanted to see!” Agent Delta crowed in greeting, already walking toward him.

“Hello, sir,” Omicron grunted as he pulled his next rep. Delta came to stand politely nearby, hands laced behind his back and rocking on the balls of his feet. After a span of silence, Omicron prompted, “... Do you need something?”

“Yes, but I’ll wait until you finish,” Delta said with a gesture toward the rowing machine. “Take your time. I’m in no hurry.”

Omicron’s eyebrow twitched; a bead of sweat skated down between his eyes, pearling over the rim of one nostril that flared in offended reply. He wrinkled his nose and strained through another rep.

“I would hate to waste your time, sir.”

“Not a waste at all! This is a refreshing change of scenery for me after too many hours at a computer screen.”

“I’m in the middle of a set so this may take a while, sir.”

“Oh, I really don’t mind.”

Omicron cut a glare toward Delta’s warm, guileless smile — then disguised it with a scrub of his nose against his shoulder, out of breath as he bore down on the foot pedals. “Sir, please. I insist.”

Delta’s smile widened with a hint of fondness that made Omicron’s next pull especially forceful. “Well, if you insist then I suppose I should cut to the chase: I have your next assignment for you.”

Omicron nearly broke form. He scrambled to ease the handle back to its housing so he didn’t whip the chain, then sprang up with legs jelly-weak from reps. Delta darted forward to anchor a hand on his shoulder, keeping him steady as his knees shook. Now flushed from more than just exercise, Omicron tried to arrange himself into a professional-looking stance despite his heaving chest and trembling limbs.

“Ready to receive orders.”

“I can see that,” Delta chuckled, giving him a single pat before stepping back. “I thought you might be excited.”

Being called ‘excited’ sobered Omicron immediately. “Is it another undercover mission?”

“No, actually—”

“Oh, really?” Undercover work was Omicron’s bread and butter, but maybe the head officers wanted him to widen his skillset. “Then.. asset extraction?”

Omicron imagined himself repelling into a high-security venue, gloved hands handling a highly classified and sensitive item worth millions of dollars for its contents or value. Another drop of sweat skimmed down his nose, lingering until he twitched. He lifted a finger to rub beneath nostrils blotched pink from his workout.

Delta shook his head. “No, it’s not—”

But Omicron was already picturing a pristine, expensive office featuring a hand-crafted mahogany desk he would soon be bugging to high hell for surveillance. “I’ve had experience with infiltration simulations. Would this mission require threat containment? Neutralization?”

“... Omicron, may I tell you what it is you will be doing?”

Omicron blinked, then somewhat sheepishly fell again into a proper parade-rest as he fought down a grin. It must be something important and challenging if he hadn’t guessed it yet. Not even the ominous tingle in his nose could ruin this. He thumbed the tip absently, chasing the feeling further back.

Delta watched him do it, and his gaze softened.

“I will be honest,” he said. “I suspect this assignment will not be what you expected, but I ask that you keep an open mind. Can you do that for me?”

This conversation, let alone the assignment, wasn’t going the way Omicron expected. Instantly his instincts prickled, as did the impatient flicker of finicky nerves deep inside his nose. He sniffed, cleared his throat, nodded with more confidence than he felt.

“Of course, sir.”

Delta clapped his hands together. “Excellent! Then I am very pleased to tell you that you’ll be spending the next eight weeks in the trial run of our brand new Everyday Impact Initiative!”

Omicron stared. Blinked. “... Pardon?”

Needing no further encouragement, Delta launched into a spirited explanation of the Everyday Impact Initiative (or E-Impact, for those who wanted to cringe hard enough to hurt). A fresh and bold take on cross-departmental collaboration, the initiative was created to pair employees from different divisions so they could learn more about one another’s day-to-day work. The goal? To build empathy and improve corporate flow. Delta was using his tone to dress up the bad news, gilding it with words like integration and synergy and bonding.

Somehow it was worse than anything Omicron might have imagined. He could not have conceived of more creative or cruel torture. As if to voice agreement, his nose fizzed irritably. Omicron felt the urge assembling, stacking its pieces slowly but with unshakable conviction; a hard blink and whipcrack shake of his head destabilized it. Not gone, but delayed.

“What do you think?” Delta finally asked when he finished his sales pitch.

“I hate it, sir,” he replied, and then added belatedly: “With all due respect.”

Delta wilted. “Omicron, come now. You promised you would give it a chance.”

Snapshots spun through Omicron’s mind, each more unpleasant than the last: making pointless small-talk with a stranger; trying to explain the complexity of his work to someone who would ask annoying questions about it; watching this person as they demonstrated knowledge of their own profession, essential to the company but absolutely useless to Omicron; pretending to care about said knowledge for the sake of the initiative and his own job performance; and a split-second, shaky thought he resented, What if I’m bad at this?

He snatched and stowed that worry where it wouldn’t see the light of day. Cordiality masked his rising desperation. “Sir, there m-..” The tickle he’d been wrestling with testily spiked. “-muhhst be a more eff.. effective uuhsse of my t-time.”

There would be ramifications now to holding it back, but Omicron wedged his fist under his nose and endured, teeth-gritted and determined to get through this conversation without interruption. Delta, with infuriating sympathy, fished out a fresh handkerchief from his inner jacket pocket to offer him. Omicron pointedly ignored it.

With a sigh, Delta said, “This is a great opportunity for you. I understand you are eager to return afield, but it’s important for you to decompress between assignments.”

“B-Been’d twoooh w-weeeh-hh-H!”

His voice went weak and heady. Air jumped down his throat, inflating his lungs like a crank. His nostrils pulsed, signalling him with impunity even as he tried abrading them into submission. Delta’s gaze got only more intolerably concerned.

“Two weeks is not nearly enough time for recovery.”

Omicron’s gathering scowl changed its mind halfway there and melted into something hazy and helpless. He whirled to the side, shifting his hand to hover just in front of his nose and mouth as he bent at the waist.

“-eh’CHZZSShu!” Perfunctory, exclamatory, and as Omicron straightened up he discovered it wasn’t enough. The tentative throb of relief roared into another need. He lurched down a second time. “-aAHD’DZSSHHOO!” He started to rise and then groaned when he felt his breath snag yet again. Shaking his head, he turned further from Delta and— “hehHTSshoo!”

Softer, but Omicron stayed obediently still until the tickle truly dissolved. An experimental sniffle came out thick, and he grimaced at the state of the hand that had shielded most of the spray. Bitterly, he turned back and accepted Delta’s stupid handkerchief.

The older man focused politely on the wall of the gym to give him a sense of privacy. “Bless you.”

Still a bit stuffed up, Omicron spoke up from behind the handkerchief. “Sir, if I mbay be direct, what recovery are you expecting from mbe?”

Delta’s gaze returned and landed squarely on Omicron’s nose, which made the shorter man bristle up before the other could say a word. He sniffled and balled the handkerchief up in his hand.

“The sdneezing? Seriously, sir?”

“Not just that,” Delta countered patiently. “It’s important to establish good habits around rest early in your career because your work will only get more challenging. Also in observing your performance afield, I see room for growth.”

That last remark landed like a dagger in Omicron’s chest. Perhaps Delta could tell, because he stepped closer and squeezed his junior’s arm companionably.

“You were exceptional,” he reassured. Then his smile softened with a tilt of his head. “But I think you would benefit from some… interpersonal experience.”

“What does that evend mbean?” Omicron mumbled, sullen and spiraling. He could feel himself making an improper face, something sad and despicably lost. It was almost a mercy when that tickle sprouted again, like a weed that just kept coming back. His expression twinged, nose twitching and lips parting as he hovered the handkerchief close.

“It means I want you to make some friends, Omicron,” Delta said, as if that was the simplest thing in the world.

Omicron’s eyes fluttered open in surprise, and then collapsed under the weight of what was growing in him. He hitched delicately in little h-h-h! staccatos before tucking into the handkerchief. “ihh-..iih’MMPHhsh!”

“Bless!” chirped Delta.

Omicron wasn’t done, but he refused to let this conversation go uncontested. He kept the handkerchief pinned to his nose and blundered through a breathy, “I hhaave fr-.. frihh.. hih’KSSHoo!.. friends!”

“Bless, then this initiative will be a wonderful opportunity for you to make another one,” Delta said with that infuriating smile. As Omicron teetered on a third with nostrils wide and jaw open, it gave Delta a window of opportunity. He started inching back toward the exit. “I’ll email you the details, yes?”

Omicron shook his head, too tickled by his nose to speak. He sniffled to hurry it along and get himself out of limbo. It shimmered inside his head, catching light like a wavering mirror. “hh-.. hd-!”

“You’ll start the program Monday, bright and early.” Delta was within arm’s reach of the door. “Try to have some fun, alright?” He ducked halfway into the hall, tossing a jaunty wave over his shoulder. “And bless you!”

“-eh.. hehd’DZZSSh’ugh-I don’d wadn- hahh.. ah’GZSSS’HOO!- Fuck!”

Gone. That bastard. Omicron was caught between a seething frustration and a grudging respect for Delta’s smooth escape. But beneath all that festered a buzzy, defeated anxiety. Regardless of his feelings, if the top brass wanted him enrolled in this inane initiative he’d just have to do it.

And Omicron didn’t do anything by half. Forget eight weeks.

He’d ace this in one.

---

Omicron was pissed, but he was also a professional.

On Monday he arrived at the rendezvous point ten minutes early dressed crisply in an ironed suit, shined shoes, and hair coiffed just so. He positioned himself strategically behind the atrium’s leftmost pillar to stake-out the corridors with the highest traffic. Every unfamiliar face was clocked and logged, weighed against what he managed to memorize after frantically clicking through the employee directory last night when he couldn’t sleep.

Delta’s email about what today would bring was woefully sparse, lacking even the name of the person Omicron was meant to meet in the spirit of ‘organic introductions.’ All it contained was a bunch of corporate drivel about the initiative and a vague itinerary outlining the next eight weeks. He and his ‘partner’ had to spend a minimum of four hours a week together, teaching one another about their respective roles. Today, however, was just the meet & greet.

Casual. Unstructured. Nonessential. The worst kind of activity.

Omicron brushed beneath his nostrils when they twitched for attention, so accustomed to them acting up he barely thought about it. His sniff, sharp and dismissing, echoed in the rotunda alongside the clack of shoes and passing murmurs between colleagues. He waited and waited, and when the allotted time passed without incident, Omicron dared to dream that his prospective partner was a no show.

Then someone rounded the corner.

Unlike others passing through, this man lingered with an aura of uncertainty. He was tall. Dishelved. Wearing a custodial uniform, and scanning the atrium with the telegraphed hope that someone else would lock eyes with him.

A memory trickled like ice down Omicron’s spine. It’s that janitor, he thought. The one who saw me sneeze all over myself.

Anita called him EJ, and it was obvious from the man’s body language that he was here to meet someone; Omicron didn’t need to guess who that might be. That was just his luck. He pinched the bridge of his nose, bracing against the indignity of either extreme: greeting this man, or slipping away like a coward.

I’m not a coward, came the next thought, a kneejerk reply. This is a tactical retreat. An opportunity to regroup and prepare an introduction that will amend a substandard first impression.

Omicron peeked around the pillar to clock the position of the threat and triangulate the best route to safety at the same moment EJ glanced in his direction.

Their eyes met.

Before Omicron could do anything — hide, fake a call on his phone, pretend to be looking at literally anyone else — EJ perked up in recognition. He lifted his hand in a tentative wave, then waggled it with more confidence when Omicron didn’t look away.

Oh god, Omicron thought, rooted to the ground and watching EJ beeline straight for him. He remembers me.

“Hey!” Same rich timbre. Same twanging accent. Same crooked smile. “It’s you! How ya been?”

There was nothing for it. Exiting would look worse than just facing the situation. So Omicron stepped smoothly out from behind the pillar as if he’d planned the entrance, clasped his hands at the small of his back, and wrinkled his nose with a willful prayer for it to please behave.

“Fine,” he said. “And you?”

“Doin’ good!” EJ offered a hand. Calloused, thick at the palms, dry skin around the knuckles. Omicron shook it with appropriate strength for the appropriate length of time as EJ smiled down at him. “I’m EJ, by the way.”

“I know,” Omicron replied thoughtlessly, and then felt a pang of panic. It would be strange to admit he asked around because he was curious. He scrambled for a convenient lie but could only find the truth. “We’re Initiative partners.”

Omicron anticipated an array of responses, but none of them were the thump of a hand over EJ’s heart as he sagged in relief.

“Whew, I was hopin’ you’d say that!” He crowed it with such sincerity, Omicron found it immediately suspect. “I’m glad I’m doin’ this with somebody I already met! Well, sorta. Didn’t get to talk much last time.”

The reminder of ‘last time’ landed with a splat in Omicron’s stomach and a tingle in his nose. He sniffed, louder than he wanted but not as strong as he needed to banish what was brewing. His nostrils quivered. His jaw tightened.

“I had somewhere to be,” he muttered, then turned stiffly toward a corridor and began to walk. “We should find a suitable place to talk.”

“Oh.. uh, sure,” EJ replied. He caught up in two long strides. “What should I call you, though?”

Omicron briefly closed his eyes, exasperated with himself. Through clenched teeth he gave his answer: “Omicron.”

---

Finding a space to chat was fraught.

Common areas felt too exposed, meeting rooms were too formal, their own offices seemed too personal. All the while, Omicron contended with his nose. He tried not to make it overt, but it seemed hellbent on ruining his day as it toyed with the idea of either clogging up or dumping a load of congestion straight onto his shirt. His fresh packet of tissues (a necessity nowadays) felt like an iron weight in his pocket.

EJ had trailed alongside Omicron quietly as they walked circles around the agency complex until finally suggesting they could sit outside — which is how they ended up at a spiderweb-strewn wooden garden table in the park plaza outside the west entrance. Omicron sat primly, legs crossed, clutching a tissue for quick access. He latched his gaze onto a potted plant clearly doing its best despite the circumstances of weather and sporadic watering. Omicron could relate.

EJ sat with both elbows resting on the tabletop and cleared his throat to break the silence. “So.. what department are ya in?”

“Field Intelligence,” Omicron replied with a sniff, brisk and controlled. His gaze stayed on the plant, arms crossed tightly across his chest. “I presume you’re in Division 8?”

“Um… I think?”

“... That’s maintenance and facilities.”

“Oh!” There was the sound of creaking wood, EJ shifting in his chair. “Y-Yeah, that’s right. I’m still learnin’ all the different names. What kinda stuff do ya do in field intelligence?”

This was a subject Omicron had confidence in, and he jumped toward it like a drowning man hoping nobody would notice he couldn’t swim. “A variety of covert operations, including surveillance, infiltration, asset handling, extraction, information gathering, and so forth.” Unable to help himself, he added, “I specialize in undercover work.”

When there was no immediate reply, Omicron chanced a glance at EJ. The man was leaning in, brows lifted, eyes glimmering alongside an almost boyish smile. “Wow.. you’re like, a secret agent? That’s so cool.”

Heat spilled across the back of Omicron’s neck. Those words made him want to simultaneously sit up straighter and hide behind his hands. He sniffed thickly, passed his tissue beneath restless nostrils, and spoke to the plant.

“You could say that.”

“Do ya got any spy gadgets?” EJ asked. “Like, a grappling gun? Mech suits? Or a pen with a little camera in it or somethin?”

Mech suits? Omicron wondered. Is he being serious? Even so, he had to fight down a twitch at the corner of his mouth when he replied, “That’s classified information.”

“Right, that makes sense, sorry..” EJ deflated for a moment, then rallied. “Oh, then what about spy cars? Spy motorcycles? Spy… planes? Ever been in one of those?”

The twitch migrated from Omicron’s lips to his nose, crawling up inside and coaxing his chest to jump when his breath snagged. He squinted at the plant, white-knuckling his tissue. “Cl-lahhssified..”

“Those still count as gadgets, I guess. Probably also can’t tell me if ya got like.. a cute spy dog sidekick that follows ya around and finds clues or fights bad guys, huh?”

Here Omicron flicked his eyes to EJ and didn’t bother replying — partially because the answer was self-evident, but mostly because he was silently strong-arming a sneeze into submission. EJ sighed, slumping back in his chair with a wistful stare at the sky.

“Man, they ain’t kiddin’ when they call you guys secret agents.”

It was such an unexpected remark that something equally unexpected bubbled up from Omicron’s chest: he laughed. The sound stumbled out of him awkwardly, unpracticed, and the next inhale was a wavering gasp. His expression fell apart, eyes squeezing shut, nose wrinkling up. He couldn’t do anything but flinch away from the table.

“—h’HIDZssch!” It sprang from him before he could cover it. He blinked just in time to see spray glittering in the sunlight. Growling under his breath, his elbow jerked up as the next one filled his nose. “.. shhit-..ihh-TZSSh’uh!”

“Bless ya!”

Omicron turned away from the table entirely to fumble another tissue out of his packet and hasten it to his nose before the next one bent him over his lap with a mortifyingly exclamatory, “-HIH’CHIZZSSSHOoo!”

“Whoa, bless ya!” blurted EJ. “You feelin’ okay?”

“Yhhes,” Omicron breathed back, eyelids fluttering shut when the tickle’s tide receded and rolled right back in stronger than before. His inhale was deep, slow, poured into him until he felt too full. His head tilted back, and then he wrenched over himself with even more vigor.

“..hhhhhH-... heh’HEZZSCHHOOOO!!.. mmgh..”

He surfaced from his tissues sniffling, wiping and rubbing and trying like hell to cast out an itch that wasn’t done with him yet. His nose twitched under the abuse, besieged inside and out. Omicron peeled open teary eyes to see EJ staring at him with puppy-dog eyebrows.

“Ya sure you’re alright?” he asked. “We can go inside if the air’s gettin’ to ya.”

Omicron bit his tongue to ward away the flare of his temper. This was how it went nowadays. He’d start sneezing and the world watched him like a sideshow waiting to be fixed, diagnosed, or consoled. It’s why he strangled his sneezes into compliance whenever possible and had a mental blueprint of the office bathrooms with the least amount of traffic.

“It’s ndot allergies,” he grumbled stuffily, using his tissues like both a breakwater and a privacy curtain. “A’d I’mb ndot sick. I’mb just.. like this.”

He waited for the fallout: an inevitable flurry of followup questions; a doubtful side-eye accompanied by a pointed scoot of EJ’s chair; even the pedantic lecture he’d heard a few times already from nosy passersby informing him that it could be nonallergic rhinitis, have you seen a doctor for that? He girded himself for the burden of fielding all that while still wrestling with a wrathful tickle he wanted so badly to leave him alone.

But all EJ did was say, “Gotcha.”

Omicron paused, stymied. Even his sneeze hovered on pause as he glanced up at EJ through a haze. The man was watching him without pity, without disgust, without curiosity, without anything but attentiveness and something kind in his eyes. It felt absurdly vulnerable as Omicron’s eyes creased shut while holding contact with EJ’s, but the reflex superseded ego, thought, emotion, everything save for the bone-deep wish to purge this tickle from his nose. His entire body bowed to the need, held in its thrall until finally it crashed out of him with a roar.

“-AAAHDDZSSSCHHYOOO!!”

It echoed humiliatingly through the courtyard. Ambience stopped. Heads turned. A bird blundered out of a tree, startled cawing in its wake. Damp tissues cupped to his face, furiously blushing, Omicron scrambled for a fresh one. EJ slumped and let out a breath like he’d been waiting for it too.

“Oof, bless ya!”

It was suddenly too much. Omicron stayed hunched, shoulders tense, glaring at his lap with his cheeks blazing. “This is goi’g to happen’d a lot. You don’d have to say it every timeb.”

His words slipped out sharper than he meant them.

“Oh,” EJ replied, which could’ve meant anything.

Omicron winced, his stomach twisting miserably. This was hardly the encore he wanted, after his commendation from his prior assignment. He’d set out with the simple goal of correcting a poor first impression and now he’d gone and fumbled it beyond any possible repair. He was considering how much reputation he had left to lose and if it would be salvageable by excusing himself when he noticed EJ.

The man wore none of the expressions Omicron feared. There was no tension in his posture, no furrow in his brow. When Omicron played it back in his mind, he heard that ‘oh’ not as a sound of offense, but recalibation.

EJ reinforced it with a nod. “Okay.”

… Okay? Omicron echoed to himself. That’s it?

Apparently so, because EJ sank back in his chair with an easy slouch and looked up at the sky as he scooped up the conversation like they’d never dropped it.

“Sorry for jumpin’ to conclusions,” he said, scratching his stubbly jaw with one hand. “Some allergies can be all year round, so I just thought ya might have ‘em. Actually, ya know, I was kinda worried I might get allergic after movin’ here on account of all the different plants—”

Carefully, unsure of how fragile the moment was and unwilling to accidentally break it, Omicron blew his nose. He kept his gaze zeroed on EJ, waiting for the moment the man flipped the spotlight back to him, but EJ just continued chattering all on his own.

“—didn’t have any allergies back home either, thank mercy.” He smiled then, like he was revisiting a happy memory. “Guess that’s what bein’ raised a farm boy gets ya, huh? Strong immune system. That’s what Ma always says anyway.”

At this point, Omicron had cobbled himself back into composure. Shoving all his used tissues into his pockets was undignified, but he’d rather that than leave the evidence strewn across the table. He could feel how warm his nose was, no doubt glowing with irritation. His little steadying sniffles sounded cottony, betraying how swollen his nasal passages were, but his nose was no longer actively running. Nor was it tickling, thanks to those cataclysmically strong sneezes.

“You lived here long?” EJ asked, his gaze and conversation drifting back to Omicron. The timing felt intentional.

And as Omicron cleared his throat and lifted his chin to answer, he didn’t quite know how to feel about it.

/tbc!

Thank you so much for reading! 💗 Hope to see you again soon at Part 2 ^w^

PART 2 COMING SOON!

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