Author's Note:- Hello, everyone! I just wanted to inform you guys that this fanfic can be platonic, or romantic depending on how you interpret it. This work is very dear to my soul as I long for intimacy like this 🥹( P.S. if you don't mind, could you leave a comment or two just so I can interact, please? Any constructive criticism/reviews/advice is highly appreciated and deeply valued, thank you!) Hope you guys enjoy!
Contains:- BARE SHOULDERS AND AN EXPOSED NECK😨😨😨; chief is not wearing their usual uniform; deep intimacy between characters; potentially bad grammar and punctuation due to English being Writer's 5th language; possibly OOC Rust? He is a bit more chaotic than his usual reserved self— I tried 😔; Written at 2am 💀; NOT PROOFREAD.
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The office had long since surrendered to the evening.
Reports lay in uneven stacks across the desk, some meticulously filed, and others abandoned halfway through review as you had simply run out of patience with bureaucracy. The only sounds were the occasional scratch of a pen, the distant hum of the MBCC's ventilation, the typing on a keyboard, and your only source of comfort in what you like to call an unending visit to purgatory: Rust's voice carrying effortlessly through the room.
"...which is why I maintain that the merchant wasn't lying."
You don't look up, and grumble with an unimpressed voice, "She sold you tea leaves labelled 'Guaranteed to improve existential dread.'"
"They were remarkably fragrant." He chimes.
"They were aromatic weeds."
A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, making the bags under your eyes all the more noticeable.
Rust notices— as he always does, you've observed.
"You know," you muse, typing another paragraph on your computer, "one day someone's going to swindle you."
"My friend," He replies with impossible serenity, "I have survived cults, revolutions, the Underground, and several regrettable hairstyles. If a cheerful old woman convinces me to buy herbs I don't need, I consider that money well spent." He says simply with a soft smile, likely thinking of the saleslady's triumphant eyes as she successfully sells him the "goodies" you presume.
You produce a quiet laugh.
That tiny victory Rust seemed to collect without ever reaching for it. His ability to make you lighten up during a difficult time and you just accepting his attempts makes him jolly in a way he finds difficult to both explain and convey.
The silence settled comfortably between you two, filled only by the turning of pages of your documents that you have turned to.
Without thinking, you lift a hand to the back of your neck, thumb pressing absent-mindedly into the tight muscles beneath the collar, trying to make an effort to soothe yourself. Your shoulders rise with a slow breath before easing again.
"I happened across another stall today."
"The vendor insisted she possessed the cure for every ailment known to mankind." He states, struggling to hold back his amusement.
"I'm sensing another investment." You utter with mockery, something he has grown accustomed to.
"I exercised extraordinary restraint."
"You bought the whole basket."
"I bought..." He pauses, looking thoughtfully toward the ceiling. "...most of the basket."
You finally look up to meet his tender, and today, somewhat of an excited gaze.
"In my defence, she was a formidable negotiator."
"I have yet to meet someone you wouldn't describe as a formidable negotiator."
"That would imply I lose often."
You crack up this time, the sound brief but genuine. It's similar to when you see the most unfunny video on the internet at 2am. Although it didn't feel so late with Rust entertaining you.
He smiles to himself before adding, almost as an afterthought, "One of the bottles contains a rather pleasant blend of cedar and winter herbs. Supposedly helps with headaches... and shoulders that have been protesting for the better part of a week."
Your fingers stopped where they'd drifted back toward their neck.
"...You've been keeping count." Well, when hasn't he kept count of something related to a loved one?
"And You've been pretending I wouldn't." He voices in a matter-of-fact way.
There wasn't an accusation in his voice. Only quiet certainty that has been confirmed through your overly exhausted voice today as you're on the brink of breaking apart from a lack of breaks.
You let out a defeated sigh.
"I was hoping my acting had improved."
"You tilt your head a few degrees further left every afternoon." Rust raises an eyebrow and places a finger on his chin, mimicking the main character of the latest mystery novel you said was your favourite. His lips quirk up into a knowing smile.
"I do not." You argue with posture straightened at the direct confrontation.
"You favour your right shoulder whenever Nightingale delivers paperwork."
"I don't." And you lose all faith in your defences to his humiliating call-out of your declining acting skills, no— why are you insulting yourself, he's just much too observant when it comes to you.
"You've also been rubbing the base of your neck whenever you think no one's looking."
"I've been called worse."
"I have not doubted that for a single day since I have become acquainted with you, sweetheart." You say with faux excitement, playfully rolling your eyes with a teasing smile.
Rust chuckles at the honest review of his encyclopedia-like brain.
He reaches into the satchel resting beside his chair and introduces to you a small amber-coloured bottle, which appears to have intricate details of a dragon wrapping its body on a tree that appears to be dead. He sets it on your desk with the sort of ceremony usually reserved for priceless artefacts.
"My extravagant purchase." And he looks oh so proud whilst speaking of it.
You eye it with a deep curiosity, almost as if the design alone convinces you that you'll be fully-healed and fresh as daisy with all you hardware and software work done for once and for all.
"Rather fancy, aren't we?" You mutter with great admiration for the artwork of a bottle. You think to yourself that it almost looks like the potions children think they can make through mixing shampoo with oils, baking soda and vinegar in the bathroom.
"It smells considerably better than the tea."
"I admit the competition is unfair." He admits.
The Chief rolled the bottle between their fingers before looking back at him.
"You expect me to trust the judgement of a man who willingly bought existential weeds?"
"I was assured they possessed character."
"They possessed potential."
You shake your head, unable to suppress another smile.
Rust rests an elbow against the arm of his chair.
"If you'll allow it," he said gently, "I can lighten the burdens you bear. Soothe your pain." He says in a low, earnest voice paired with his soft, gentle smile.
The room grows quiet once again.
Never awkward. Not with him.
It's the silence you know only exists between two people who have long since stopped wondering whether they are inconveniencing each other. That's what being with Rust is like, comfort and the dearest companionship.
You briefly look away from his eyes and breathe out a deep sigh. "You don't have to play caretaker."
"I've had practice." He gleefully boasts.
"So..." He pauses momentarily. "... Comfortable?" He asks quietly with his saint-like patience.
You make a noncommittal sound that could have meant yes, no, or anything in between.
"I'll take that for a yes!"
"I mean... don't you always anyway?" You question.
"Oh, please. You can't possibly expect me to not when you look like a stray cat who hasn't been fed for days." He chuckles.
"Wow...just wow. Are you here to heal me or give me charity?" You feign annoyance.
"You'll be the one answering your own question sure enough, my dearest chief!"
"I swear...if this oil smells like boiled weeds..." You glare at him.
"I shall personally reimburse your dignity."
"I don't think that's possible."
"Then I'll owe you a very expensive cup of tea."
He suddenly takes a moment to study the appearance of the bottle and says, "You know, chief? I've come to the realisation that this bottle is rather symbolic to us at this moment.
Your brows quirk up. "Oh? How so?"
"I've heard of many mythologies. This one reminds me of the the story of the golden dragons. I'm sure you're aware, the ones that have scales with the power to heal the wounded. You could say I'm the dragon that heals the tree, which is you, that seems to be almost lifeless." He says, reminiscing the first time he heard of this legend.
"What does one even do with these random bits of information?" You ask with a joking smile.
"Haha, I figured they work their magic when a room develops an awkward silence." He smiles.
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He takes his coat off and gently places it on his chair. You watch as he folds the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows and warms up his now ungloved, cold hands.
Soon after, he comes to you and gently pulls your chair slightly away from your desk and moves you to face him. His hands slowly and carefully unbutton the first 4 buttons of your shirt and reveals your bare shoulders. He puts his warmed-up hands on your chest and then shoulders to ease your slightly tense body. And you let out a deep sigh against his firm touch.
"There...just take a moment to relax first, chief." He says with his attentiveness and takes a moment to admire your finally untroubled face, eyebrows raised and all.
He then steps behind the chair, uncorking the bottle. A clean, earthy scent drifted into the room— you find yourself being grateful that the scent is not overpowering, but still has the strength to soften the stale office air that you've conditioned yourself to get used to.
He uses some on his hands to warm it up and pours some of the cool liquid on your nape to provide you with the benefits of both temperatures.
Finally, his thumbs find the stubborn knot near the base of your neck with practiced care, pausing just long enough for you to brace.
You inhale sharply— "...Ow."
"A most encouraging 'ow'." He replies, clearly amused.
"It was deeply judgemental." You attempt to bicker, with full intent to get a 'rise' from him.
"My sincerest apologies, chief, hehe." He giggles for his eyes catch a glimpse of the expression that implores him not to stop.
Rust works in patient circles— his hands are firm enough to put a pressure that makes you see stars, but careful not enough to be a force that hurts you. Every so often he pauses and waits for the tension beneath his fingertips to soften before moving again. You understand that this is what he's best at, as a man with a deep understanding of the human body since his first connection, if your memory fails you not, is with his blood, flesh, and bones.
He gets on his knees to meet you at eye-level and begins slowly out slight pressure right beneath your ears. You look at his almost glowing eyes to see focus, an eagerness to please, and determination to reach his goal— to relieve you. Your eyes roll and you head falls back a little, partly due to the motions of his slightly chubby fingers, and partly to give him better access.
After he's finished with your neck, he stands up and allows his hands to explore your bare shoulders more deeply, applying the fragrant oil on your chest and using the dexterity of his fingers to make the small circles again slowly going from your shoulders to your chest.
He comes to your shoulders. "You carry everything up here..." He murmurs softly next to your ear."
"As I'm used to hearing."
"By..." you pause for a bit. "By... my skeleton." You say as you try to not lose consciousness from the pleasure you're experiencing since a very long time.
Rust chuckles softly, as not to disturb you from your daze.
"You're...very good at this." You mumble as you try your best to look up and lock eyes with the man.
"I'm glad I could be of help, chief. Truly." He replies with deep tenderness and affection.
He remains quiet and proceeds to use a little more of the oil to travel further down your shoulders.
"Oh, good evening, Adjutant."
Yeah, perhaps you become forgetful to be professional at work when Rust is with you.
