Work Text:
Adjusting the brim on his pilfered baseball cap so it dips low over his forehead, Gavin plasters himself to the wall and peeks around the corner. The young security guard patrolling the corridors ambles down the hall in front of The Law Offices of Riley, Melkinson & Baker, munching on what looks like the remnants of a maple bar while flicking his thumb across his phone. Happy, colorful music burbles through a silence disturbed only by the low rumble of the building’s industrial air conditioner. Even though the guard is obviously lost in the digital world of Candy Crush or Angry Birds or whatever silly little games kids are playing these days (Gavin beat both games like fifty times already and got bored with them), his heart stutters in his chest and adrenaline courses through him like liquid ice.
If this guy sees him, rumors will fly and oh, he’ll never hear the end of it from whoever he tells, because if he’s worked here for at least a week he’ll know that this right here is most definitely worth telling. Not to mention the shining opportunity for blackmail. Only an idiot or a saint would pass up a shining opportunity like this. Or Fritz, who’s just a little bit of both, bless his sweet, innocent little heart. But screw Fritz, he’s never finding out. Gavin will keep this shame a secret and take this secret shame to his grave.
Humming off key, the guard stuffs the rest of the doughnut in his mouth and rounds the corner at the far end of the hall, absently swishing crumbs from his fingers. Still plastered to the wall, Gavin holds his breath and strains his hearing to make sure the guard isn’t suddenly going to come back and suck up the tiny doughnut droppings speckling the blue carpet like a hungry vacuum. Only after the soft footfalls and cheerful beepey boopey bling blang bling of whatever game the guard is playing have long faded away does Gavin dare move.
Biting his lip, he oozes around the corner and, eyes glued on the opposite end of the hallway, slinks silently to the office door. His beat-up pair of old black Nike sneakers are so ancient and well-worn they couldn’t squeak and betray his presence even if they wanted to. Honestly he’s surprised they haven’t fallen apart after all these years of loyal service. A good pair of shoes is almost as hard to find as a good man. Lucky for Gavin he seems to have found both, though said shoes and good man will never make each other’s acquaintance.
Snaking a hand into the pocket of his frayed, holey pair of jeans, he slips out his keys and shuffles through them for the one to the office front door, careful not to let them jangle and clang together. He’s just found it and slipped it into the lock when something thumps in the near distance. Stiffening, he goes still and cocks his head to the side, listening. Despite the cool, almost frigid temperature, his ratty old long-sleeved red and white Stanford shirt clings to him like he’s in a sauna. Thump. Thump. Thump. Footsteps. Very heavy footsteps. Shit. Throwing caution aside like last year’s fashion, Gavin twists the keys, throws open the door, and dashes through the entryway and down the hall that leads to his office.
He’s panting by the time he rushes inside, shuts the door, and leans against it. No one tries to follow him in. No pounding on the door or demands to see identification. He did it. Yes! Briefly closing his eyes, he draws in a deep breath through his nose and lets it out quietly as the tension drains from his body. He obviously needs to hit the gym a little more often if such a short sprint did him in, but damn it, he did it.
Well, half of it, at least. Not bothering to turn on the overhead lights — there’s more than enough light from the morning sun streaking through the slats in the window blinds — Gavin takes a crumpled piece of notebook paper from his other pocket, goes to his desk, and rummages around in the drawers for the files he needs, grumbling under his breath at Riley for burying him in an avalanche of work. He’d much rather spend his weekend fucking the socks off his hot FBI boyfriend, but no, he has to write a couple of rejoinders and motions to dismiss and look up case precedents for that hellacious medical malpractice lawsuit with the photo exhibits that make him want to trade in his silk Armani boxers for reinforced steel underwear. Just because Riley isn’t getting any, she has to go and cock block Gavin.
Rude. So very, very rude.
Oh well, at least he’ll get to charge her for it. Billable hours: the balm that soothes all wounds.
Once he has all the files, Gavin tucks the thick stack under his arm and sneaks to the waiting area like he’s a dentist in a candy store instead of a law partner in his own office suite. Pausing behind a large fake potted plant, he listens to make sure Doughnut Guard isn’t going to come around the corner anytime soon. Then like lightning he’s out the door, locking it, and speeding down the hall toward the elevator bank and then to his car, praying to whichever god might exist and might be listening that no one he knows sees him.
No one does, and with a mental fist pump he dumps the files on the passenger seat and then slides behind the wheel of his burgundy Lexus, chin high and chest puffed out.
Gavin is still congratulating himself on a heist well done when he pulls into the parking lot for his building. Choosing a spot without any other cars nearby, he gathers the files and strides inside, deciding to take the stairs and get in some more exercise. By the time he reaches his landing five flights later he’s more than a little out of breath. Vowing to reacquaint himself with the elliptical collecting dust in his spare room (as soon as he’s done with this pile of work and does some laundry and takes a nap because he had to get up so hellaciously early), he saunters toward his door, digging around in his pocket for his keys.
And smacks into something solid.
Yelping, Gavin stumbles backward as something hot splashes across his chest. He throws out his arms, more than willing to sacrifice Riley’s stack of busywork to catch his balance and, more importantly, spare his dignity, but nope. The files go flying as he lands hard on his back, knocking all the air out his lungs. Coughing and gasping, he props himself up on his elbows, sprawled in a pile of splayed folders. A couple of loose papers flutter through the air. Still heaving in breaths, he watches as they dance and swirl and then land neatly on his lap, no earthly idea which file they came from and where they go in it .
Well.
Shit.
“Gavin?”
Oh fuck.
It’s Fritz, because of course it is, because the universe hates lawyers, or maybe just Gavin, he’s not sure.
A sudden, heavy coldness hits his core. Breath hitching, Gavin ducks his head and turns away, pulling the baseball cap even lower. Now would be a good time to spontaneously combust. Or instantly die from sudden onset cardiac arrest. At this point he’d take a golf-ball sized meteor randomly crashing through the ceiling and hitting him square in the forehead, he’s not picky. Just as long as the universe stops hating him long enough to kindly put him out of his misery.
“Gavin, is that you? And is that — is that my Dodgers cap?” Fritz’s voice stutters into an incredulous laugh at the end, and oh, this is perfect. Just perfect.
Gavin can practically feel the flush creeping up his neck, burning his face and ears. He has half a mind to bolt down the stairs, work be damned, but that still leaves him with the problem of being out in the open, exposed, unable to get inside his apartment with really nowhere else to hide. Well, okay, technically he could hide in the public bathroom in the foyer, but Fritz has already seen him dressed like a fashion-senseless hobo, so doing that would just add a rotten little cherry on top of his shame sundae. He really, really doesn’t feel like adding a rotten little cherry on top of his shame sundae.
“You okay?” Fritz asks from up above, finally having the decency to sound worried about Gavin instead of snerking up a storm at his expense.
Grimacing, Gavin swallows hard as he rolls over onto his stomach and pushes himself up to his knees. “’M fine,” he mumbles at the floor, collecting the loose papers and pulling the pile of files toward himself, trying to scrape up what’s left of his dignity in the process. Never in the course of their relationship has he ever wished that Fritz would just leave as much as he does right now. Go away, Fritz. Go away, go away, go away…
Two venti Starbucks coffee cups join the pile of papers. The lids are caked with dried coffee, solving the mystery of what new stain has joined the army of ancient set-in stains on his equally ancient Stanford shirt. It’s a miracle none of the hot coffee splashed through one of the myriad holes and burned his skin. “Here, let me help you,” Fritz says as he kneels in front of Gavin, grabbing for a splayed, upside down file folder with its contents bent at weird angles and all jumbled together.
Gavin swats his hand away. “I’ve got it, thanks” he snaps, a little more harshly than he meant to, as he grabs the file away from Fritz. To his credit, Fritz just makes a noncommittal noise and pulls his hands away, holding them up as though proving he doesn’t have any of Gavin’s papers. Swallowing, Gavin unscrunches the documents inside as best as he can and then presses the folder to his chest like a shield. He knows Fritz is just being his kind, helpful self, but still. This is exactly what he didn’t want to happen, so of course it’s happening.
Maybe he should convince himself he doesn’t want a million dollars. With his luck, he just might get it.
Gavin is reaching out to grab another topsy-turvy file folder when Fritz shifts forward, then gently cups Gavin’s face in those big, warm hands of his and makes him look Fritz in the face. Swallowing again, Gavin stares determinedly at Fritz’s smiling mouth (of course he would think this is funny) and the stubble lightly dusting his jawline, refusing to meet his gaze. Fritz just tilts Gavin’s chin up until he has to look him in the eye.
His deep brown eyes are soft and shining with warmth. Stroking Gavin’s cheeks with his thumbs, Fritz leans forward and kisses him. It’s a simple thing really, just a brush of lips against lips, not even any tongue to make it interesting, but it does the trick. All Gavin’s carefully constructed walls come tumbling down and he sighs, eyelids fluttering shut. Tossing the file folder away, he scoots across the others, careless that he’s messing them up even more, and wraps his arms around Fritz’s neck. The FBI agent’s woodsy musk washes over Gavin and he breathes it in deeply, can feel it calming his frazzled nerves.
Far too soon Fritz is pulling away. Gavin makes a little noise of disappointment in his throat at the loss of contact and leans forward to reconnect, but Fritz gently pushes him back. Still smiling, he holds Gavin at arm’s length, giving him a quick once over. Gavin fidgets under his scrutiny, easy though it is, and crosses his arms over his chest, wishing he hadn’t tossed away the file folder.
Then Fritz pecks him on the nose, chuckling as Gavin instinctively scrunches up his face at the ticklish sensation. “You look adorable,” Fritz says, flicking the rim of the ballcap with his fingertips.
Gavin snorts and sucks in his cheeks. “I look like a bum,” he says flatly, pulling back so Fritz can’t thwack the hat.
Fritz just moves with him and continues thwacking the hat. “A cute bum,” he says with a goofy grin. “I knew you had normal clothes somewhere in that huge closet of yours.”
Gavin arches a brow at that, supremely offended at the suggestion that the rags he’s currently wearing have ever besmirched the closet where he hangs his designer suits and shirts with their presence. “These are not ‘normal clothes.’ These are…are…” he flaps a hand around as though that will help him pluck the definition for what he’s wearing out of the air.
“…average? Typical? Regular?”
Gavin shoots him a sarcastic little you-can-shut-up-now smirk before Fritz the handy dandy thesaurus can list off any more synonyms.
Chuckling, Fritz relents. “So why are you wearing them?” he asks as he scoops up some files and starts smoothing out the crimped pages.
Gavin sighs as he mirrors Fritz, quickly amassing a small, neat stack of folders. “Well, I had to make a quick run to the office to get some files, and I just…didn’t have time to plan out a nice outfit.”
Fritz tilts his head at that and squints over at Gavin, eyebrows practically in his hairline. “You didn’t have time to plan out a nice outfit,” he echoes. Shifting in place, he sets aside a file and holds out his hand. “Hi, I don’t think we’ve met. My name is Fritz Howard.”
Gavin huffs, ignoring the proffered hand. “I didn’t,” he insists. “I’m just so overbooked this week, and I have so much to do, and it really was supposed to be just a quick run, so…” he trails off with a shrug, plucking at the worn hem of his coffee-stained shirt. His little spiel reminds him that he really does have a lot of work to do, ideally before tomorrow afternoon, and it’s currently in disarray all over the floor. The beginnings of a headache throb at his temples and he fights the urge to just leave the files out here and hope no one steals them and collapse back into bed.
Preferably with Fritz.
Fritz squeezes his shoulders and presses a chaste kiss to his cheek, his stubble tickling Gavin’s skin. “You know I’m just giving you a hard time because I’ve never seen you in jeans before, right?”
Never let it be said that Gavin Q. Baker ever missed such a deliciously obvious opportunity for a double entendre.
Smirking, Gavin catches Fritz before he can pull away again and draws him into a properly intimate kiss. “Mmm, yes, I do know,” he says, tangling his fingers in Fritz’s short dark hair. “And you can make it up to me —” he swipes his tongue along Fritz’s bottom lip, eliciting a groan from the FBI agent “—by giving me an equally hard time —” he tugs on Fritz’s hair, tilting his head back so he can lick and nibble along his neck “—when I’m not wearing jeans.”
Fritz gives a breathy little laugh. “I guess we’d better take this inside then,” he says, voice husky.
Gavin has never cleaned up a mess faster in his life.