Security Sweep
Synopsis:
Stalker!Waterboy x fem!reader
Herman knows he's a burden. He's clumsy, anxious, and he ruins everything he touches. But you smile at him, you see past that. You're kind. And kindness is a fragile thing that needs protection. So he protects you. He learns your schedule, your habits, your secrets—all to build a safer world around you. Even if you don't know he's doing it, unaware of the devoted eyes ensuring you're safe from the shadows.
Cw: fem!reader, stalking, obsession, possessive behavior, slightly suggestive, secretary!reader, Waterboy isn't a hero yet, mentions of reader wearing a skirt
Wc: 2.0k
Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5
Not a lot of people were nice to Herman. He was a nervous wreck, always stuttering and blabbering even though he knew no one listened. He was always leaving things wet, always in the way, he was a walking, talking burden. It was no wonder everyone found him annoying.
You didn’t though.
It had caught him off guard. He’d been mopping the precinct floor, head down, focused on making himself useful. His back was turned to the door, he hadn’t seen you walk through, coffee in hand. The long handle of his mop swung back, sending the plastic cup flying from your grip.
He whirled around, panicked. His eyes darted to the cup on the far side of the room, brown liquid flowing onto the freshly cleaned floor (,which he would have to clean again) and then, finally, to you.
You didn’t look angry. Just… surprised. A little startled, blinking down at the mess.
“Oh my—! I’m so so so sorry! I, uh, let me—can—um, I’ll buy a new one! I really didn’t mean to, I—I swea—” The words tumbled out, his palms getting damper by the second.
You just waved a hand, a small, easy smile touching your lips. “It’s fine, no worries. I shouldn’t be having so much caffeine anyway.”
And then you did the unbelievable. You bent down, picked up the empty, crumpled cup, walked it to the trash bin, and dropped it in with a soft plink. You didn’t sigh. You didn’t shoot him a look of contempt. You just… walked away, leaving him standing there, frozen, his heart hammering against his ribs.
After that, Herman started noticing you more.
You were one of the secretaries at SDN, a bright spot of color in the grey hum of the office. And, completely coincidentally, the floors around your desk needed an exceptional amount of maintenance. A shocking amount, really. It was almost as if someone kept finding reasons to spill a little water there. The grout there seemed to collect dust at an alarming rate. Could anyone blame him for being thorough? A man had to take pride in his work.
And if his work happened to offer a perfect view of your desk… well, that was just a nice bonus!
He just wanted to see more of you. Was that so wrong?
You were so pretty in that pencil skirt of yours, so cute when you were focused, brow furrowed, lips pursed as you typed, not even noticing how intensely he’s staring at you.
You were completely unaware of the world around you.
Completely unaware of him.
That was the best part, in a way. He could watch, unobserved: how you’d tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with a soft sigh, a sound he’d strain to hear over the slosh of his mop bucket. He learned the pattern of your days: when you took your coffee, when you leaned back to stretch, how often you’d check the clock,
You’d usually smile and wave at him at the start of the day, your “morning, waterboy,” being his motivation to come to work everyday. He’d push the mop in slow, lazy arcs just to stay in its glow a little longer. And you never shooed him away. You never wrinkled your nose or scoffed like the others did. You were too kind.
And though your kindness was the very reason Herman had fallen for you, he was starting to realize it was also a problem. A serious one..
Like when you agreed to take your coworker’s shift for the night, even though he could tell you were tired as hell. Or when you apologized when someone else bumped into you.
People would see your gentleness and would exploit it. They took advantage.
Like last Tuesday, when that lazy intern from Accounting dumped a stack of overdue filing on your desk at 4:55 PM. “You’re a lifesaver! I’d stay, but I’ve got plans,” he’d said with a wink you didn’t return. You just sighed and Herman saw your smile strain “Sure! No problem.”
No problem? Herman’s grip tightened on the mop handle. You were exhausted; he could see the tension in your shoulders from across the room. But you just… accepted it. He could feel his blood begin to boil. They didn’t see your value. They didn’t understand that your kindness was a precious resource, not a public utility to be drained. They were careless with something he treasured.
He knew he couldn’t shoo them away. He couldn’t tell them to stop. He was just Waterboy, they’d laugh in his face and walk off. So he did what he did best. What he was for.
With a damp squeak of his waterproof suit, Waterboy shuffled up to your desk. “H-hey, I’m pretty much done here, but I should just…” he mumbled, reaching out.
His wet hand came down not next to the stack, but directly on it. He pressed down, just for a second, letting the moisture seep through the top sheets.
“Oh! Oh, no!” he yelped, snatching his hand back, his eyes wide with manufactured horror. “I’m so sorry! It’s all- it’s ruined,, I-
The intern’s eyes landed on the desk. On the stack of papers he’d just handed off—now a warped, dripping pulp under Waterboy’s apologetic, hovering hands. The ink from the top form was already running in blue tears down the side of the pile.
“What the hell?” Mark blurted, his smirk vanishing.
“I’m sorry! I’m so, so clumsy!” Herman wrung his hands, his gaze darting between the ruined paperwork and your face, searching for your reaction “It’s all my fault, I’ll- I’ll help reprint them, I swear, I just-”
“You wet freak! Ugh, forget it, whatever. I’ll do it myself” he scoffed and stormed off.
The work was gone. You were free.
You tsked and turned to Waterboy, “Don’t listen to him, Waterboy. Accidents happen.” Then you leaned in slightly, almost whispering, a grin touching your lips. “And this specific accident just saved me hours of work. So… thank you.”
He managed a jerky, damp nod, his throat too tight to speak as you gathered your things to leave.
Thank you.
Those simple two words made him feel something.
He had helped you, he’d become your hero. And he craved more of that validation, that rush.
So after some thought he realized to be a proper guardian, he needed more information. He couldn’t just react to threats in the office; he needed to understand the source of your weariness, the contours of your world outside these walls.
It started with simple observation. He already knew your schedule better than his own. Now, he committed it to memory. You arrived at 8:42 AM, never 8:30 or 9:00. You took your lunch at 12:15 PM, always at your desk. You left between 5:00 and 5:20 PM, depending on the day’s burdens. You almost always had a homemade sandwich for lunch,Tuesdays were often turkey. Fridays, sometimes egg salad. You’d often bring snacks too. He took note of which ones liked.
He also listened. Not obviously—he was just Waterboy, pushing a mop—but his ears were finely tuned receivers. He learned you hated the loud hum of the old photocopier. He learned your mother’s name. He learned you were thinking of getting a cat but were worried about the responsibility. And he learned that you lived alone.
And if he remembers correctly, you didn’t come here by car. Could it be that you lived close? Or maybe you took the bus? He need to know.
So, that evening, he followed.
You walked. which meant you lived close.
It felt like destiny—a sign that his guardianship was meant to extend beyond the office’s borders. Of course you lived nearby. It was more efficient, more logical. It also meant your path home was exposed. And with winter approaching, it started getting dark earlier.
He told himself it wasn’t stalking. He was just checking on you, making sure you got home safe. He was preparing. How could he protect a world he didn't understand? This was research. This was devotion.
He stayed a full block behind, his jacket hood up, his hands shoved in his pockets, causing a water stain to appear.
He watched you stop at a small grocery store. He waited outside until you emerged with a single bag. He saw you climb the steps to a modest, small house in an okay-looking neighbourhood . A soft, yellow light clicked on in the front window. Your window. The curtain, he noted, didn’t quite meet the frame on the left side.
He stood there in the drizzle for a long time, watching the light. He wasn't invading. He was establishing a perimeter. Now he knew. Now he could truly protect you.
But it wasn’t enough. It never was. The craving for you was a physical ache, a hollow in his chest that only the sight of you could temporarily fill. He needed… pieces. Proofs.
It started with the pen. The one you'd left on the break room table. A simple, cheap ballpoint, chewed lightly at the end. He'd pocketed it, his heart a frantic drum in his chest. Later, alone in his damp, sparse apartment, he held it like a sacred relic. It smelled faintly of your hand lotion, that soft vanilla scent. He kept it in a small box under his bed.
A box that would soon be filled with all sorts of things: a hairpin, a single, perfect strand of your hair still coiled in its clasp. A crumpled receipt from the grocery store. A discarded tissue from your trashcan (he'd been "cleaning"). Each item was a treasure to him.
But that didn’t satisfy him either.
He needed to capture you. To stop time.
Soon, blurry, grainy photos would get taken from across the street as you left work. Or a shot of you laughing with a coworker, your hand covering your mouth. Another shot of you bending down to grab a pen you dropped, your skirt outlining every so curve perfectly it left him breathless. He'd zoom in while lying in his plastic covered bed at night, his hands shaking, heart racing, breath heavy.
He’d even print the photos out, placing them in the secret box.
He knew he was crossing lines.This isn't normal. This is sick. This is wrong. He'd look at the pathetic little shrine under his bed, at the blurry photos, and a wave of shame would wash over him. This wasn’t just a crush anymore, this was an obsession, an addiction even.
But it was a paper dam against a flood. The next morning, he'd see you. You'd smile at him, a simple, kind "Morning, sleep okay?" and the shame would evaporate, burned away by the need of your attention. Every smile was a hit of a drug.. Every laugh that escaped your lips, even if it wasn't for him, sent a jolt through him. He craved you. Not just your presence, but your essence, your warmth, your everything.
He fantasized about a different life. One where he could walk up to you in the break room and say something smooth, something funny. He'd rehearse conversations in the mirror, his reflection stammering and sweating.
“Hey, that report you did was… really thorough.” “Cold out, huh? Maybe we could… get a coffee to warm up?”
But every time he tried to actually approach, to say more than a mumbled apology or a choked greeting, he just…couldn’t. His carefully rehearsed words would dissolve into an incoherent mumble. He'd see the faint, polite confusion in your eyes—not unkind, just a gentle “Hm?”—and he'd panic, mutter "S-sorry, uh..nevermind." and shuffle away.
It’s okay, though. You didn’t need to understand him. As long as he understood you, everything would be okay. He would be your silent guardian, your unseen protector. Ready to protect, even if you never noticed he was there.
Like right now, for example, as you’re lying on your couch watching TV.
The blue light from the screen flickers against your living room window—the window whose curtain still doesn’t quite meet the frame on the left side.
He’s just making sure your safe.
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Deviders are by @/saradika-graphics