#also while i acknowledge that technically the last fic did very well and the reception was good i still feel disappointed

[the-kipsabian]

tfw you know you gotta keep pushing but you acknowledge how pointless and annoying everything you do is so 🫠

[anika-ann]

Conundrum (A.B.)

Type: One-shot, challenge fic

Pairing: Andy Barber x fem!reader    Word Count: 7700 (:

Summary: conundrum - a confusing and difficult problem or question

Andy Barber is a difficult man whom you have yet to understand. He certainly doesn’t make it any easier; and right before Christmas, he manages to surprise you again.

Prompt: You have to look for a gift impromptu

Warnings: a smidge of angst, a drop of awkward humour, mention of death (mild AU - both Laurie and Jacob!), alcohol consumption, feels, explicit language, reader gets called a dumbass... that’s it I hope, lemme know

A/N:  This is my submission for the Happy Hoelidays challenge. There’s no hoeing tho, shame on me. Also, if you want some music to go with this, know that I listened to ‘God I Hope This Year Is Better Than the Last’ by SYML an obscene amount of times.

Andy Barber was an enigma.

Reporters liked to think he wasn’t; almost a year ago, they tore down all the walls he had built up to protect the privacy of his family and they shed light into startingly intimate details of his life – and where they couldn’t shed light, they used their imagination and sold it with a claim of having a reliable source. Naturally, it worked; there were always people willing to believe it just so they obtained more of juicy gossip material.

There were wanabe psychologists who would address his trauma and tried to analyse his personality, the consequences he would suffer in the aftermath of the tragedy, who attempted to strip down his soul just to get a few more reads and generally talked about him as if they were best friends, as if they knew him.

It was all a load of bullshit.

The truth, you thought, was that no one knew him. If you were being honest, you weren’t sure if even his wife ever had, truly – but that was you under the influence of the little information you bothered to gather from the influx of crap that the media provided the public with.

What you believed was that the reporters and all the self-proclaimed experts on him knew nada.

Andrew Barber was and always would remain an enigma; to the public, to the little what remained of his family after the death of his wife and son, to his co-workers – the category which included you. If you could even call yourself a co-worker; you were simply a secretary. Granted, one whose previous employer let her peek over their shoulder quite a bit so you learned a thing or two about law, but Andy Barber was the lawyer. The former DA from Boston, who moved over to rule the DA office of Portland, your home.

Even after having been working with him for nine full months, Andy’s thoughts and feelings didn’t get any easier for you to read or predict. When he wanted to let you know he was disappointed, he did. When he was truly angry with someone, well, he wouldn’t let it go unnoticed either.

Other than that, however, you would have had better luck trying to decode the actual enigma-encrypted messages sent during World War II.

Small talk didn’t last longer than three sentences from you each. Work-related affaires were discussed in his office with politeness and with calm, rather dispassionate mannerism. If you caught a hint of a smile when an important case that helped people went his way (or the office’s way really), you considered it a miracle that sent your heart reeling.

He would sometimes smile only for you if you brought him a coffee without him asking first, simply because he looked like he needed one; at those times, he would thank you softly and let slip in your first name instead of referring to you with your last. Those were your favourite moments.

Well, almost.

You found him with a tumbler and an expensive whiskey on occasion when you were leaving the office late; you never commented on it, but there were four times he actually silently invited you to have a glass with him. You refused the first time and accepted the other three.

Those nights, you got a glimpse of the mystery of a man hidden behind surprisingly soft mannerism, one which was in such a sharp contrast to his shark-like demeanour he displayed in front of the judge and the jury. His scars ran deep, his hopes had been shattered, his life in the past year as bitter as the overpriced liquor. Your heart cracked for him to the point of nearly breaking altogether.

And yet, it was beating for him too; behind all that hurt, you couldn’t but notice certain gentleness. Yes, he could be scary, downright terrifying and when his temper got the best of him, the true rage on display, he was a force to be reckoned with. But oh, that gentleness. The kind shattered soul he hid so well every morning, more so on the days right after your little heart-to-hearts. Trying to build a working relationship with him – a friendship of a sort, anything you wanted to call it – was a game of push and pull and more of a string of guesses than an effort that would bore fruit.

You might have already given up on that and instead, with the ferocity you hadn’t known you possessed, you kept punching the crush you had on him; that silly thing that would always call louder and louder after he revealed a piece of him on one of the precious nights, only to shut you out completely the next morning.

Andy Barber had never even remotely showed a romantic interest in you and by God, did you not blame him for not being interested in anyone at all as far you knew. While you considered yourself a fairly capable worker and half-decent person, you were aware you could never measure up to him. Just another reason to push down the feelings you had for him, ones that seemed to bloom with more intensity whenever he raised the corners of his damn lips, when he asked a question about you during those stupid nights as if he cared— nonsense. You had to get rid of those. He didn’t even like you, barely acknowledged you in the end. Or did he? You honestly didn’t know.

Bottom line was that if you couldn’t get close enough, then the reporters knew jack shit, no matter how much reading on him they had done or how many books on psychology, criminology and law and shit they went through. Many people knew Andrew Barber’s name, but no one could hope to know him.

And yet, those assholes still called and asked about him.

It was the fourth one that day; December 23rd, over a year from the accusation of Jacob Barber, and those fucking vultures still called Andy Barber’s office. They weren’t even good newspapers and news sites anymore; obviously, because every rational decent person would have let the poor man rest. But nope. Not them.

“Portland’s DA office, secretary of Mr. Barber speaking. How may I help you?”

“Oh, wonderful! Is there any chance I could talk to Mr. Barber personally?” the chipper of a man asked on the other end of the line and just by not giving his name, he raised suspicion; was it forgetfulness caused by his distress or intention?

Fortunately for him and unfortunately for you, you had to be polite. Hot-shot lawyers and other important people rarely returned the courtesy, but that was the world you lived in.

“There might be, Mr-?”

“Oh, Connor. Peter Connor.”

“Well, Mr. Connor, what is your legal issue?” you asked patiently, writing down his name automatically.

“Well, you see, I would rather talk with Mr. Barber about—my delicate situation, in private.”

Your eyes narrowed as you stopped scribbling and spared a brief glance towards the door to Andy’s office. It was opened ajar in what could be an invitation, but all blinds on both the door and the windows were down in typical fashion.

Talk in private?

Yeah, not gonna happen. You knew a few tricks that these assholes calling the office tended to pull and whoever this man was, you were growing more suspicious by the minute that he was not seeking legal advice.

You went back to your notes and wrote down the word liar right next to his name and a question mark. Was he a liar? One way to find out you guessed; you caught your phone between your ear and your shoulder, opening a new tab in your browser to google the name along with a wild guess of him being a reporter.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Connor, I’m afraid I will need more information before I put you through. And I will probably need to make you an appointment, my boss is a very busy man-“

“Oh, is he? Lots of cases in Andrew Barber’s new district, huh?”

The blood in your veins was set aflame even before the search was done, because in an instant, you knew for sure.

And then you had it confirmed by the results.

This jerk had even given you his real name, utterly shameless. Sure, he could have only had the same name as the journalist you found, but what were the chances? Two days after you told his colleague – who had made it through your vetting, got an appointment and even got past the reception desk before you spotted him for what he was – to get lost and not try again?

Your pulse skyrocketed along with your blood pressure. Technically, you didn’t owe Andrew Barber anything, but he was respectful enough, didn’t make much trouble and for most time, was an okay boss to you.

You owed him this much: he was a decent guy. Why couldn’t other people show a shed of basic human decency too and leave him the fuck alone?

“That depends, Mr. Connor,” you purred, barely holding the outrage locked inside. You felt both energized by your anger and achingly tired and done with humanity. You rested your elbows on the desk and leaned onto it with a sigh, massaging the bridge of your nose, eyes closed. “Is he going to have to sue your rag of a newspaper or will you and your colleagues finally get the memo and leave. His. Personal. Life. Alone?!”

You most definitely strained the last words through your teeth, but you didn’t care anymore if you were being rude. He was the fourth reporter today ready to ask about Andy’s personal matters. The FOURTH!! He was lucky you didn’t tell him to go fuck himself… explicitly.

“Are you threatening me?” the man demanded, his voice insulted, losing all traced of pretence.

As if you ever. You knew better than that, working with lawyers.

“Nice try, Mr. Connor.  I will thank you to never call this office again unless you have legal issues or a relevant question which you should direct to our PR department anyway. And if you could extend this to all editorial staff, please, preferably to all editorial staff in the United States, that would be splendid. Have a good day. Happy Holidays.”

You slammed the phone down, missing the slot for it, not caring. You were sure he would hang up on his own.

“Asshole,” you muttered under your breath and hid your face in your palms, grunting, fingertips sinking into your hair.

“I hope you don’t mean me,” sounded from the doorway and you yelped, honest to god yelped and straightened in your seat, head snapping up-

-only to meet your boss’ curious gaze. Hurt and anger casted shadows over his beautiful cerulean irises, but there was no mistaking the melancholy and resignation on his face either.

“Of course not!” you blurted out quickly, panic rising in your chest.

How much had he heard? Was he going to fire you for being unprofessional? Did he figure out what was this about— of course he did, there was little room left for doubt. Your choice of words was pretty straightforward.

Andy bounced off of the doorframe he was leaning onto, not easing his stance – his arms remained crossed over his chest and had you not been so alarmed, you would have indulged in the sight of his biceps nearly cutting through the seams of his shirt.

“Why do I get the impression that whoever you were talking to was not the first person to call the office to feed on ‘the misery man’ that Andrew Barber is?” he more stated than asked, his tone unmistakably bitter.

You gulped as he approached your desk, nails digging into your palms. You had no idea what to say. Once again, you couldn’t quite read Andy; you had no idea where this was heading and how you should answer without setting him off, making him sadder or even more bitter. And without getting fired, obviously.

“I—uhm, well, I suppose you heard me, so you know he wasn’t the first—Mr. Barber. I apologize-“ His eyebrows rose a fraction and you didn’t dare to analyse why. “-if I was too loud. But--- humanity sucks.”

The moment the last two words left your mouth, you instantly regretted them, snapping your eyelids close and squeezing. You were sure you were about to have bloody crescents in your palms from your nails at this point.

Did you really just say that? To your boss, no less?

Way to go, me.

“Not wrong there. Why don’t you take your lunch break now?” he offered casually.

You nodded as you felt the tell-tale burn of tears forming in your eyes; fuck, this was humiliating. Why had he had to walk in exactly in that moment? And now using that tone?

He didn’t say anything else and you didn’t dare to look at him. Only when you heard him walk back to his office and close the door behind him, you opened your eyes and released the breath you were holding, your heart hammering in your chest.

Gulping and swallowing your tears before they could escape, you grabbed your purse and your coat, rushing out to the cold air of Portland winter.

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Andy didn’t bring up the incident again when you came back. You had a short list of assignments for the upcoming days off which you went over with him before parting ways for the holidays. You mentioned you would probably drop in tomorrow despite not necessarily having to, but wished him Happy Holidays in case you’d miss him during your brief visit.

The corners of his lips twitched at that, but he wished you the same. You supposed his holidays weren’t about to be happy – more like the opposite. Last year, he celebrated with his family, even if it might have been already falling apart. This year however…

Your heart cracked another fraction for the man and you wondered if you should leave some cookies for him in the office tomorrow at least. Then you realized he would probably hate it, either being bitter about feeling like a charity case or hating the reminder of what he had lost, what wasn’t waiting for him at home anymore. Not to mention that maybe even the poinsettia, which you had placed on his office window two days ago and neither of you commented on, was already too much.

The only cookies you baked that night were the ones you knew should stay in a box with apples for over a day, the cookies you were supposed to bring to your sister’s house for Christmas, because your nephew Harry loved them.

With cheesy Christmas songs in the background and a bottle of wine for the party of one, you kneaded the double batch of dough and couldn’t but spare your achingly handsome and likely lonely boss a thought and maybe… maybe a tear or two.

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The office was empty when you arrived on 24th at around half past four; everyone left as soon as possible, which was to be expected. Admittedly, despite not knowing what you would talk about with Andy, you found your heart sinking when you didn’t see light peeking through the blinds of your and his offices. You had expected him to be working to avoid being at home; but then again, you knew next to nothing about him. Maybe he was with a girlfriend. With a boyfriend. With former colleagues. With his deceased wife’s family. It was only assumption of yours that he might be lonely on Christmas.

You shook your head at your train of thought as you unlocked your office, mentally going over which files you needed to bring home, trying to eliminate the amount as not to endanger confidential information by taking them away from the safety of the bureau.

You froze in your tracks when you found a rather large piece of paper folded into a roof on your desk. A note, you realized, frowning and slowly walking to the suspicious object.

There were very few people who could enter your space, namely three: the janitor, you and Andy. The first option was unlikely, the second impossible, the third confusing. You didn’t understand why he wouldn’t just shoot you a text if he needed anything.

You halted in your steps, the air knocked out of your lungs when you noticed that the note was not the only new item on your desk.

There was a box.

A box roughly size of your extended palm. And if you weren’t mistaken… it looked like a jewellery gift box.

“What the hell?” you asked yourself breathlessly, your curiosity getting the best of you; more so as you recognized what was most definitely Andy’s handwriting on the paper.

Andrew Barber, your boss, with whom you weren’t sure what your relationship was – if there was any at all – might have got you jewellery.

Say that again?

A tiny voice in your head told you he might have just used the box for something else entirely, but that didn’t seem to be his style.

So you picked up the gift carefully, almost reverently removing the lid, your heart pounding in your chest, stomach twisting with pleasant anticipation; with the familiar rush that kids feel when opening a present with high hopes of what could await them inside.

Your lips parted in pure shock, you mind turning blank.

There were no words in English language to express how… how absolutely magnificent the bracelet inside was.

Five thin circles with symbols made of slender lines inside, looking like charms, but withing the body of the bracelet, one clasped to the next one with delicate ellipses. The metal reflected the fluorescent lights of the office, glimmering softly, appearing almost fluid, a thin stream of water trapped in a box.

You actually had to blink and it took all your willpower not to pinch yourself, because—how-

How had he known? Where had he got it? Holy mother of Jesus, how much had he spent on it?

And why get you a gift in the first place? You were… acquaintances at best. Yes, there were almost friendly moments, and then there were those nights, but this was---this- you couldn’t even---- think, apparently.

Keeping an eye on the opened box, you gently placed it back on the desk, afraid to even touch the metal itself. You blindly reached into your purse in search for your phone to dial the only number that made sense for you to dial at that moment.

It sure as hell wasn’t Andy’s.

Nothing but a dialling tone sounded for half a minute, the time seemingly endless. You fell heavily into your chair, still staring at the absolutely gorgeous and thoughtful gift.

How did he know?!

You fought the urge to roll your eyes as your sister still didn’t answer the phone and your hand automatically reached for your necklace to toy with.

And that was when it hit you.

Your necklace; one you got from your sister during the period of your biggest obsession with the Divergence series. Two arrows in a circle pointing different directions, the symbol for a ‘divergent’ person. Your eyes wandered over the five circles of the bracelet – scales, an eye, hands connected, a flame, a tree –, an incredulous chuckle escaping you.

But--- you didn’t think he would notice. You didn’t even wear it all the time, rather often, yes, and yeah, perhaps you did have a bit of a bad habit of fumbling with it when nervous-

“Hey sis! What’s up?” Amber’s voice sounded cheerily from the microphone. You jumped in your seat, startled by her as she interrupted your musing. “Please tell me you’re still coming, because Harry wouldn’t shut up about his favourite chocolate chip.”

You cleared your throat, barely able to comprehend what she was talking about, too caught up in your head.

“I—hi. Uhm- I need help actually,” you finally stuttered and you could practically feel her frown even over the phone.

“Oh? Is everything okay? You sound… a little strange.”

“That’s-“ not wrong. You scanned the office and listened in for the tinniest noise, making sure you were still alone. “I’m at the office and I--eh, I found a gift for me.”

“Awww, a secret admirer? Nice!” Amber chuckled, then abruptly stopped. “…unless it’s a stalker. You don’t think you have a stalker, right? Is that why you called me, so I could tell George? He’s not on duty-“

This time you did roll your eyes at the mention of her husband who happened to be a police officer.

“No, Amber, I have no stalker as far as I know. I’m pretty sure I can recognize my boss’ handwriting at this point.”

Nothing but silence could be heard from the other end for a good minute. You bit your lip in anticipation of… something.

And then: “You’re shitting me.”

“Not really-“

“Holy mother of-!” your sister squealed loudly and you winced, instinctively withdrawing from the phone. “Your boss got you a Christmas present?! --Wait. Is it a Walmart card? Because if it is, then this call is pointless, because that’s boring as-“

“No, Amber, he—he gave me a bracelet,” you admitted softly, your gaze once again wandering over the said object. Beautiful. Fragile. Yours, apparently. What?

When Amber only responded with silence again, words suddenly spilled from your lips, all the mixed feelings you had about receiving the bracelet released, relief singing in your veins as you vented.

“And-and it’s actually really beautiful and--- it’s thoughtful, because it has all the fractions from Divergence on it? But not like something you buy for ten dollars, only paying for the copyright or whatever and the quality is shitty, no, I mean--- it looks pretty, eh, delicate.”

It did, awfully so, which was why you still couldn’t make yourself to touch it even if you really, really liked it and wanted to do nothing but to wear it for the rest of your damn life.

“And expensive. I-- I think it might be real silver and…” you wavered, almost scared to share your last observation out loud for it seemed impossible for it to be true. “Amber, you know I looked through a lot of Divergence-related goods so I would know. It- it doesn’t look familiar at all, it’s--- I think it might be custom-made.”

You choked on the last word, tasting so strange on your tongue as you couldn’t quite believe that you were saying it. You felt--- incredulous to put it simply… and touched and- absolutely bewildered.

Silence stretched in the follow-up to your rambling and you felt your brows drawing together.

“…Amber? You there?”

“Oh yeah, I’m here,” she assured you swiftly, mischief curling around the tone of her voice like a smirk on her lips you couldn’t see. “Just wondering how could you not tell me you started sleeping with him-“

“What?! No!” you protested instantly, straightening in the chair. “I’m not—I’m not his sugar baby or whatever! This is not a ‘thank you for letting me fuck you raw’ gift-“

“Not that you would complain from what I heard and saw-“ she hummed playfully.

She was right. But shush!

“Screw you!”

“George does, that’s why we have Harry in the first place,” she sassed you. “But… sis? What kind of a gift it is then?”

And wasn’t that the question.

“I… I don’t know.”

“Well, you should, because from what you told me, you guys aren’t even friends. Nota bene, this isn’t exactly a gift you give to a friend,” she pointed out, addressing one of the million issues concerning the damn (gorgeous) bracelet.

“I-- I guess?” You were sure, in fact. This was something to give to a… well, to a lover, to a partner. “But- Amber, he doesn’t--- that’s not-“

“What did the note say?”

“Huh?”

“You said you recognized his handwriting,” she reminded you slowly as if speaking to a five-year-old. “What does the note say?”

You glanced at the note again noncommittally, remembering exactly what it said. Pretty much nothing. Definitely nothing to go on.

“Uhm… Thank you. Happy Holidays.”

There was a beat of silence, again. “That’s it?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Eloquent.” You rolled your eyes at her sarcastic tone. She should see him at court. True though, on personal level, he wasn’t exactly chatty. Unless he opened up a bit over a glass of whiskey--- anyway, she had a point, obviously. “What are you gonna do?”

That snapped you from your musing like a shot of life into your bloodstream.

“That’s why I’m calling! I should-- I should get him something too, right?” Right?! Absolutely. “Oh god, I hate last-minute shopping. And I don’t even have a fucking clue what to buy! Well, a good whiskey is always a safe bet I guess, but supporting his drinking habits doesn’t sound like a good idea. Plus, it’s kinda… impersonal with comparison to what he gave me.”

Though if there was one thing you learned about Andy Barber, it was that he could appreciate the high-quality liquor, so perhaps it wouldn’t have been as impersonal as one might think.

“Well, I don’t know him so I can’t really help, but what you got from him should definitely give you a clue.”

“A clue?” you parroted, confused.

“I don’t mean like a clue for what you should buy him. But… look, even if you didn’t suspect that it’s custom-made, which whoa, he has to pay a lot of attention to buy you something like this. Much more attention than you thought.”

“…okay?”

“He likes you, you dumbass! It doesn’t matter what you get him, he’ll be happy you got him anything in the first place!”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” you deadpanned, unsure which statement you were referring to. That he liked you or that you shouldn’t take care to choose something that would really bring him at least a little joy.

You tried your best to ignore how your heart skipped the beat at the former.

“Whatever. Harry’s throwing a hungry eye on me, I gotta go fix him a snack unless I want him to eat all the candy again. Good luck!”

“Amber!“ you called out in honest despair, panic rising in your chest, only to get no answer.

You pulled the phone from your ear to look at the screen, already knowing what awaited you.

Disconnected.

Fuck.

It seemed you were on your own. Wasn’t that wonderful?

You shot your sister a simple ‘I hate you’ text, the gears in your head already turning frantically in order to figure out what you could get Andy.  

Amber replied with a set of laughing emojis within seconds. Bitch, leaving you alone to deal with a situation like this! What a sister she was.

You sighed, admiring the delicate lines of the bracelet again, torn between indulgence and guilt. There was no questioning whether you should buy Andy something too.

Say yay for the last-minute shopping for a man out of your league and whom you had no idea what you should get.

You were utterly at loss, growing anxious not only about the difficult choice of a gift, but also about possible delivery, wondering what should you even tell him and when.

Maybe though…. just maybe, you were getting kinda excited about what you were about to do too.

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Three hours.

You spent almost three hours at the mall where you could barely breathe because of the crazy crowds and yet you were none the wiser; your excitement left you quickly, once again replaced by despair. It took you three hours and passing the lingerie shop four times, a shop with pieces on display that barely covered anything, intended for either bedroom games or a swimming pool, before it finally hit you.

You cursed under your breath, calling yourself an idiot in murmur loud enough to have few people around you look at you in surprise.

“Dumbass, I’m such a dumbass,” you continued your monologue as you fished out your phone, quickly scrolling through your contacts.

To say that the person on the other end was shocked to hear from you at this time of month and hour was an understatement.

“Yeah, I’m sorry, Lee. I have… eh, a favour to ask…”

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You were being ridiculous.

Absolutely and utterly ridiculous as you stood on a modest porch in front of a small family house, the roof hiding you from the intrusive drizzle but not keeping you quite safe from the wind as you clutched your handbag to your side as if it was your lifeline, cursing yourself for not wearing a scarf in December.

Your nose was practically freezing, your cheeks burned from the wind and your hands were cold too, because you were stupidly underdressed; as if you haven’t lived in Portland your whole life.

But that wasn’t the main issue; an Uber dropped you off about five minutes ago and still, here you were, standing outside and trying to convince yourself to ring the bell.

The plan had been to finish packing a bag and leave around 10 p.m. to your sister’s house, where you would spend the night so you could be with her family on Christmas Day from the very beginning. But then Andrew fucking Barber, your fabulous boss, left a gift in your office, a breath-taking bracelet now sitting low on your right wrist, and it all went to hell.

Maybe you could still make it to your sister’s house – it was shortly after nine, your bag waiting on your bed, so maybe you should just call another Uber and be on your way. Maybe you could leave the silly envelope in the post-box just so you wouldn’t have to deal with Andy’s reaction; after all, he had chosen the same approach; cookies be damned, there would be more left for Harry then-

But you really, really wanted to thank him. And you might be shitting your pants, but the prospect of seeing him in a domestic environment, possibly more relaxed, perhaps nearing the man you had had the honour to see on those nights… you couldn’t make yourself to pass on that opportunity.

At the same time, you kept reminding yourself that Andy did not expect to see you tonight, he might not even be home – you were pretty sure a dim light was coming from the living room, the TV on probably, but yeah, you could keep lying to yourself – and that he might be grieving and genuinely might hate you for invading his privacy since you had to search his home address in the official documents.

Yeah, you definitely should just spin on your heels and-

“Oh for God’s sake,” you muttered under your breath and pressed the doorbell, your heart suddenly hammering in your ribcage as you realized there were no takebacks now. “Shit.”

Maybe you should just run. What if he had fallen asleep already and you just woke him up?! Oh, he was so going to be pissed and he might even show that emotion, screaming you down like he did one with that intern-

A scruffle on the other side of the door snapped you from your hopeless expectations and you sucked in a horrified breath.

And then the door slid open before you could react and you were certain you looked like a deer caught in the headlights, a semi-frozen deer to make the situation worse and--- there he was.

You quickly dropped your gaze, only then realizing how rude that was and that you should meet his eye no matter how much you did and did not want to do so at the same time. As you gaze travelled up, you found that a domestic Andy was everything you imagined he would be; black socks, loose dark grey sweats, pale t-shirt slightly wrinkled. One of his arms hung loosely by his side, the other still at the door-knob as you continued your inspection, gaze caressing the line of his bare forearm, reaching the sleeves that were hugging his biceps precisely. Broad shoulders, perfectly trimmed beard framing plush lips with the slightest hint of a curious smile.

You smiled awkwardly as your eyes met his watching you with interest, dimmed with a hint of a doze-off you must have woken him up from. You tried not to dwell on the inconspicuous redness surrounding his irises.

“I’m sorry if I woke you up!” you blurted out quickly, rewarded with a light shake of his head and a stifled yawn; subtle.

“You didn’t. Hi,” he greeted you, only to make you realize that 1. you forgot to say hi and 2. his post-nap voice was a thing from wet dreams-- which was definitely not relevant at that moment.

“Hi,” you offered unsurely, eyes roaming his face, searching for any trace of anger. All you found was bewilderment; if pleasant or not, you couldn’t tell.

“I’m sorry for barging in. I just… uhm- I wanted to thank you and-“

The hint of a smile on his lips grew a fraction, expression softening at your admission and before you could find your footing, he opened the door further, subtly extending his hand to usher you in.

Your heart skipped a beat, the strangest feeling tickling your gut, teeth sinking into your lower lip, the grip on your handbag growing stronger. Yet you accepted, taking two reluctant steps inside. The door clicked shut behind you, sealing whatever fate awaited you.

Attempting not to look too nosy, you turned back to Andy rather than scanning the hall.

Words got stuck in your throat. As tired as he looked, worn to a bone by everything but physical exercise, you couldn’t but marvel at what a handsome man he was, even without his smart suits and ties and neatly styled fluffy hair; it was still very fluffy, just more of a mess than a fashion statement.

God, wasn’t he beautiful.

He kept looking at you too in mute anticipation of something, appearing mildly lost just as you were, giving the impression of a man who couldn’t tell what to expect.

Your gaze locked with his, unyielding, a gorgeous trap and you knew you had to say or do something before your heart gave out entirely.

Your mouth opened, no words coming out and you cursed yourself, simply opening the bag and pulling out a Tupperware box with half the cookies you baked last night, practically shoving it to Andy’s capable hands.

He accepted the item with eyebrows shooting up once before settling back, eyes misting for a moment. His fingertips brushed yours as he took a firm hold of the box, the not-quite-there smile of his remaining on his lips.

He seemed perplexed.

You felt like an idiot.

“This feels so silly now,” you admitted with a sigh, realizing the absurdity of the situation only accented by the fact that you stood there in the hall of his home in your coat and high-boots, ridiculously overdressed in comparison to him.

“It’s not,” he whispered finally, forcing the corners of his mouth to rise higher. “Thank you. Didn’t know you baked. Should have figured.”

You shrugged. “Never came up.”

Something shifted in his expression as did in the air; you knew he sensed it too. The unspoken hung between you, that you meant not in your daily routine at the office, but on your private nights, so rare and precious, so desperately pretended to be non-existent the next morning.

Your gaze lowered as the silence fell on your pair again and you awkwardly shifted your weight from one leg to the other. His Adam’s apple bobbed.

“So, uh-“

“Thank you for the bracelet. Really. It was-” you licked your lips, meeting his eyes again, so deep, so blue and somehow soft and you forgot what you were about to say. “Eh- I wasn’t expecting it. I-- I didn’t think you’d… notice. And--- care.”

His brows furrowed for a bit and he placed the box on the shoe rack next to him; an action he soon regretted you guessed, because his fingers went for his wrist as if he wanted to readjust his cufflinks, a nervous habit of his, only to meet bare skin. Good to know you weren’t the only one iffy in this conversation.

“But you liked it?” he asked almost shyly and the corners of your lips rose on instinct as did you right hand, the sleeve of your coat sliding down a fraction, enough to reveal the new accessory.  “Looks pretty on you.”

Your breath hitched as his fingers gently slid over one of the symbols, brushing over the sensitive skin of your wrist. His gaze returned to yours, a flicker of something heated in his eyes, calling butterflies to your stomach.

Lord have mercy.

“Thanks- uhm--- thank you. Here, I got you something too.” You quickly reached into the handbag again to hide how flustered you felt – for a different reason than awkwardness.

He had touched your wrist and you turned into a blushing mess. Fabulous. And to make the matter more humiliating, now a twinkle of amusement played in his irises.

“You gave me a plant. And cookies.”

“Yeah. Kinda? But that was more of a… gesture?” you offered reluctantly as you handed him the envelope. “I uh—this is probably stupid, but, uhm--- here.”

“Stop putting yourself down,” he muttered darkly, causing your cheeks to burn hotter. “Thank you. You didn’t have to get me anything.” Pulling out the firm colourful paper, he blinked a few times, seemingly surprised. Ha, you bet he expected a Walmart card! Instead, there was a voucher for five entrances to the swimming pool where your friend Lee worked at. “Oh. Thank you. That’s really nice of you.”

A stone the size of Texas fell from your stomach and you couldn’t help the sigh of relief. Andy seemed genuinely pleased by your choice of gift and you felt your whole body relax.

“It’s just… eh, just for half an hour each and you can pick them on a horizon of three months. I’m not sure how often you like going, so… uhm, my friend works at the place, so you just give her a call and it shouldn’t be a problem to book it for mornings right before the opening hours,” you explained lamely, earning a puzzled look.

“How did you know I liked going when no one’s there?”

That caused one corner of your lips twitch in slight amusement and your eyebrow arch, even if his reasons weren’t exactly funny; his cheeks flushed a hint of red, a sight to behold for more than one reason. It was nice to have the roles reserved, you making him feel flustered for once.

Really? The rather quiet lone-wolf Andy Barber, followed by reporters still, just asked you this? Cute.

“…that’s fair,” he said and for a brief second, you were afraid you had shared your thoughts out loud. But he didn’t look offended, so probably not. The self-awareness then. “Thank you.”

“No problem. I’m-eh, glad you like it.”

You stood there again, both smiling – a little reluctantly, a little soft – and once again you had no idea how to proceed.

What you did know was that you enjoyed talking to him, even if it was awkward like this. You enjoyed seeing him in his natural habitat, in his home, relatively relaxed. You thrived seeing more of this Andy Barber, just a handsome guy, not Andrew Barber, the hot-shot lawyer.

He was the first to break the silence, hesitantly gesturing further into the house.

“Would you—would you like to-“

YES! was what you brain screamed.

“Oh, I don’t want to be a bother…” was what you told him, mentally cuffing yourself on the head.

“You’re not,” Andy opposed lowly. The whisper of your name that followed made you shiver.

His gazed trailed all over your face, so intense you would swear he saw right into your soul and further. You felt naked, but for some reason not too vulnerable – Andy seemed to like what he saw, expression genuinely inviting and yet. Yet there was a subtle promise of this not being a friendly invite which was as exciting as unsettling. The air appeared the crackle and you found yourself yearning to taste the electricity on your tongue.

“May I?”

He beckoned to your coat, suddenly free hands already rising and all you could do was to nod, automatically placing your handbag on the floor and unbuttoning the garment. Once if fell open, revealing simple black jeggings and a light pink sweater, Andy sidestepped you, fingers sliding under the hem, cautiously skimming over the bare skin above your collarbones, leaving a burning sensation in their wake.

The warmth of his fingertips seeped into your flesh and yet you shuddered, goosebumps rising on your skin.

You watched Andy put your coat away with care, turning back to you torturously slowly. He filled all of your personal space, so close and too far. You weren’t sure when exactly the air turned so heavy in your lungs, but as your gaze travelled to his lips, not missing how his sought yours in return, you felt all the oxygen leave the room.

“Andy,” the word rolled off your tongue, nothing but a soundless breath of his name.

His gaze flickered from your eyes to your lips again and back before he spoke, voice barely above a whisper, hoarse.  

“Am I imagining it?”

He didn’t have to say what and still you knew with absolute certainty that he was addressing the unbearable and delicious tension, the one that had been building and coming to life during those three nights you had spent talking in his office late--- and now it was back with smouldering intensity.

“You’re not.”

You shivered and gulped when he cautiously took a single little step further into your space, your gaze falling to his chest, lowering in sudden surge of the deep-rotted insecurity, whispering about your and his world being thousands of miles apart. And yet, your heart raced in anticipation, your hopes dizzyingly high that you might touch heaven, even if for a few moments.  

When his fingertips grasped your jaw, tough light and oh so careful, your eyelids fluttered close, already indulging in the sensation. God, his touch was so soft despite the roughness of his fingertips…

As if he wished to torture you or to indulge that sweet little moment before lips met lips, he stopped an inch from his destination, his breaths as wavering as yours, the words whispered straight into your mouth just a little broken.

“I’m fucked up.”

Your brain basked in blissful fog, but this got across, causing you to tense briefly.

You couldn’t deny what he was saying, you both knew he spoke the ultimate truth – well, you guessed. What had happened to him, having his life dismantled and then losing his family, that sort of thing was bound to leave a scar. Confirming it bluntly though, that felt unforgiving, only adding insult to injury.

“We all are,” you whispered instead, not only because you wouldn’t say ‘fucked up’, the words too harsh.

And it wasn’t trivializing the tragic turn his life had taken. It wasn’t downplaying the depth of his wounds. It wasn’t necessarily implying that you had been through something equally horrible either. Most importantly, it wasn’t you mocking him.

And somehow, he understood that; even if he could have interpreted it in every wrong way imaginable and shove you away, insulted, disgusted.

But no, in that fleeting moment that meant everything, Andy understood that this was your acceptance; this was you telling him that you were willing to try; take whatever he offered and give anything you could in return.

Finally, his lips brushed over yours, slightly chapped and oh so warm and delicious, withdrawing too soon, leaving you to savour the taste as your ran your tongue over your own lips. You inhaled shakily, overwhelmed by everything that was him, powerful, electrifying and then your hand was somehow on his chest, your palm laid over his racing heart, your fingers twitching as his ribcage expanded with a sharp inhale.

Blindly, your mouth searched his again, his whiskers tickling softly and scratching at once, a pleasant sensation on your sensitive skin as he grew bolder, and truly attached your lips in a kiss that made you feel lightheaded with the emotion poured into it. Your hand curled around his nape, an instinct to pull him closer, fingers toying with the short soft hair there, drawing a hum from within the expanse of his chest.

You granted him access to your mouth when he wordlessly asked, but it was him who retreated shortly after that, his heart now appearing as if in pain with its furious beats under your palm. His breaths started coming out short and it dawned to you what was wrong. How fast this could have felt to him, even if he was the one to start it.

‘I’m fucked up,’ he had said. Too caught in the moment, you hadn’t fully realized the extent of his words perhaps.

But you did now – at least a little better than before.

So when he rested his forehead against yours and a breathless ‘sorry’ slipped from his lips, you shook your head lightly and planted a kiss on his cheek, hand still on the back of his head, fingers running over his scalp in a hopefully soothing motion.

“I’ve got you, Andy. You lead.”

You had no strength to keep him close when he pulled his face away, your eyes snapping open in fright that you had said something terribly wrong.

But Andy’s cerulean eyes were big and glassy, grateful and softly speaking about him being… moved by your proposition. Your heart felt like it just grew twice its size, too big to fit into your chest at what a breath-taking picture he was.

The next thing you knew, he dropped a chaste kiss to your forehead and pulled you into his arms, an almost protective embrace, kissing the top of your head for a good measure and you melted against his large frame, smiling into t-shirt.

“Thank you,” he murmured breathlessly into your hair and your smile widened, remembering the note he had left with the exquisite gift that had started everything that led you right here into this moment.

“Happy Holidays.”

Thank you for reading! I’ve been sitting on this since the beginning of damn November. I hope you enjoyed.

It was my first (and maybe last) time writing Andy, so I hope it was alright. Feedback always appreciated.

P.S. – sorry if the nosy reporters thing offended you.

P.P.S. - …I know, the prompt was veeery loosely filled. Shush.

Pretty divider by whismicalrogers.

[fate-hates-faraday]

“This is why I drink”

It's fluffy and funny until it's not.

Or: Roman receives love and the whole crew receives a situation they aren't sure how to deal with. Those invisible walls don't help either.

(Follows SvS and DWIT) (A/N: First off, big shout-out to @honeygemtrashbag who not only talks with me about SS, but also helped beta this fic. Secondly, as a fair warning, the first half probably doesn't have much triggering material - it's the second half where excessive alcohol consumption and brief suicide discussion comes into play. Also Deceit. If any of those are triggering, I strongly advise finding a different, equally fluffy/angst/what-have-you fic.)

It's been a couple of weeks.

Things have stabilized (Thomas can't say yet they've improved, not with Remus still hanging around and Virgil walking on eggshells). While Patton is still working on relaxing his heart-strangling grip on the need to be selfless, Thomas can tell he's trying, and the attempt alone feels like it's taken a weight off his shoulders. He didn't know it had been there, but having it gone somehow makes everything easier. He's able to brainstorm with Roman and Logan for some videos, he hangs out with Joan and Talyn when he wants and politely turns them down when he doesn't, he at least leaves Virgil a note saying that his past doesn't define him and regardless of his origin he's grateful to have met and come to terms with his Anxiety.

The Tuesday before the wedding, he calls the four sides together.

"So," he says, holding his hands together as he looks around the room. "I've been thinking about what Talyn and Joan said yesterday." It almost hurts to see the way Roman's expression lights up, and he realizes why: when was the last time Roman was so genuinely cheerful? He thinks maybe it was last February, before they all realized they'd been tricked. He had never gone back to act with Roman like they discussed. Right, focus.

"I'm going to call Mary Lee and Lee tomorrow and tell them about the callback, see how they feel. If they're alright, I'll then tell them my idea: I'll miss the wedding-" He can feel the way both Patton and Virgil tense, but he pushes onwards "-but will be at the reception to give them their gift and best wishes." It's an attempt at compromise - the callback's in the morning, the wedding starts around noon. The reception, however, will start at 1:30, and Thomas will be long finished the callback by then. Of course, he'll still talk with Mary Lee and Lee first and respect their wishes, but it's worth a shot. "Patton? Think you can be available tomorrow to help?"

"Of course!" Despite his obvious tension, Patton grins. He's not alone - Roman is grinning as well, looking ready to cry and for the first time in a while, Thomas feels his heart swell with delight. It's actually a bit overwhelming, how quickly it happens.

"Whoa." He can't help but reach up to his chest to take a moment to steady himself. Virgil's tension grows greater and for a moment, everyone else looks confused. "...you alright, Roman?"

"I-" Roman swallows, and Thomas can hear how his voice is thick with unshed tears. "It's all I've wanted." Something about that bothers Thomas.

"Roman... Thomas said he'll talk with them tomorrow." Logan speaks slowly. "And that if they're alright - if - then he'll share his idea." There's a moment of hesitation. "And there's still no guarantee we'll receive the role."

"I know, I know-" Thomas wishes he could take Roman's hands because now he is crying. "But we have a chance now at least." Ah. There it was. The thing bothering Thomas. He takes a second to compose his thoughts while Patton tries offering verbal comfort, since he also can't offer the hug Thomas wants to give so badly.

"... what you said in the courtroom - has it really been that bad?" Even the slightest possibility of success could affect Roman so much? Thomas had to admit, Roman was usually unrelenting in the pursuit of dreams - steps were acknowledged, and then he planned further. Nothing but total success or total failure truly moved him. But if everything had been going as poorly as Roman suggested-

If there was always something more important than his hopes and dreams-

Roman hesitates, that swell shrinking, and that is enough.

"Alright then!" Thomas claps his hands together to get everyone's attention. "So, new topic, I think we need to talk about how we're going to balance everything going forward." He glances at Logan, Virgil, and Patton. "I'm not going to drop everything just on chances. My friends and family are important, and I need to be healthy and stable to pursue my dreams." Now he glances at Roman, who's trying to recompose himself. "... but I don't think those dreams should always be my lowest priority either."

There's some awkward shuffling, instead of a chorus of responses that Thomas had hoped for. Logan hugs his arms a bit closer. Virgil flicks at the pull tab on his sleeve. Patton tugs on his cat hoodie. The swelling in his heart shrinks a bit more.

"Guys..."

"Sorry!" Patton clasps his hands together as if making a plea. "It's just - it's a lot of big changes right now, kiddo. I don't want Roman to be ignored, but you know you care about everyone so much! It's why they..." He looks down. "...get pushed aside. Because you want to make sure everyone else is happy." Thomas winces. It's an answer he expected, just not one he really wants right now.

"I need something a little more solid to go on than 'balance everything'." Virgil is next. "You can get a bit carried away, Roman, and, really, some of those plans you already have-" He lets out a huff. "Don't exactly feel great about them." Thomas smiles when Roman manages to make his "offended Princey noises", as the fandom dubbed them. "I don't do well in crowds and around strangers. Becoming famous kinda rubs me the wrong way."

"We can act like we're fine. All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players." Roman no longer sounds like he wants to cry, at least. "You were pretty gloomy too about Vine, remember?" He laughs, but cuts himself off when Virgil reaches for his hood. "B-but that's in the past! We've been coping pretty well so far, I think, and I'm sure you'll be fine in the future too!" Yeah, Virgil still isn't feeling well. Thomas considers keeping him after the discussion was done and trying to talk about his past in person. Maybe that'd work better. Roman's words though, 'act like we're fine'... Well. He did have to admit the whole issue had come up because of him, and, while he had been giddy when Thomas admitted his lie, he had gotten inexplicably angry when Roman handed down the sentence. Maybe... maybe he might have some ideas. If nothing else, his perspective will probably start some kind of fight that might lead to a reasonable compromise?

He glances at Logan. Of course, he's at least giving everyone a chance to speak.

"Anything?"

"I can't say anything comes to mind, not since the last time the topic came up." Logan frowns. "I recognize that you have deemed this important-"

"It's just a lot, yeah." Thomas nods. "Right." He inhales, knowing what will come next. ".... I think another perspective might help-"

"No." Virgil glares up at Thomas. "You cannot - you can't be suggesting what I think you are."

"I mean, you guys are stuck. Can it really hurt-"

"Yes it can!" Virgil's voice layers in that loud, intimidating way that Thomas has nicknamed the 'tempest tongue'. Yeah, they really ought to talk later. He can't really understand the degree of vehemence and contempt Virgil seems to hold for the Dark - the Other sides.

"Just because he's here doesn't mean I'll listen to him. He's tried making me lie twice now, and have I done it?" He is very careful to make sure his words are as genuine as he feels. Virgil takes a moment before shaking his head. "Just, you guys admitted it: you're stuck. I don't think I can solve this alone - I don't want to solve this alone, and neither does Roman." He looks to Roman for confirmation, who smiles. The swell returns a bit, and the delight makes him giddy. "Maybe he'll have something, or he might just say stuff that leads us to a good idea. And if he tries anything, I'm pretty sure I can make him leave." He had wished as much in the courtroom - but, really, even Deceit pointed out it was all in his head. He could've technically left whenever he wanted. The other time, Deceit had left, grudgingly, when Thomas yelled. So, yeah. He feels confident he can manage this. "Can we just... try?"

While Logan seems indifferent and Roman nods, Patton is obviously not sure. Thomas can't blame him. His sense of morality has had the carpet pulled out from under him the last few times they've talked, and Deceit almost seems to enjoy harassing Patton the most.

"Patton, Virgil... I will not let anything bad happen. Not to you, not to our friends, not to anyone. I promise."

"And if Thomas can't, I will!" Roman adds, drawing his sword. Thomas can read the desire on Roman's face - don't let this conversation go, just acknowledge some changes need to be made.

Thomas' sincerity finally seems to let Patton relax, and Thomas catches a ghost of a smile on Virgil's lips when Roman speaks. Logan nods.

"Do you wish to try, or shall I?"

"Er, let me." Roman giggles. "He likes me best." Thomas doubts that's true, but then again, Roman does seem to get a starring role when Deceit is around. Maybe it's true in the same way that cardboard is edible compared to antifreeze - true in a sense, but doesn't mean much, not when the other options are 'worse'. Roman turns to Patton. "Padre, if you'll step aside?" Patton listens and Roman raises his arm. "Deceit!" There's nothing at first, but, when Roman tries again, Thomas can feel the way Deceit materializes - the odd music echoing in his ears, the way the light seems to focus on him while his own vision temporarily blurs, and - wait, he doesn't have his hands together. In fact, immediately, before his vision fully returns, he can see Deceit's blurry form raise a hand and make a fist. Thomas' internal panic lasts for a painful second - what was his problem? Starting by silencing everyone else already? Seriously? - but then he realizes the music has abruptly ceased. His vision fully returns to see Deceit lower his fist and glance around.

Thomas can't help but be on guard, and not just due to the way Virgil looks ready to leap off the stairs at a moment's notice. No, just... Ok, he's only really met Deceit three times. Three times isn't really enough to get to know someone well, especially when they're being antagonistic, but each time Deceit seems to value a dramatic introduction. Where's the evil chuckle? The sinister smirk? And what is that in his other hand?

So Thomas watches as Deceit's gaze instead sweeps the room, starting with Patton and ending on Roman. Roman sheepishly sheathes his sword and waves. He's about to speak, but Deceit nods and then pushes past Patton. Patton grumbles a little, clearly more confused than mad, and they all watch as Deceit sinks onto the living room couch. He lifts his other hand - oh, that's a bottle, Thomas belatedly realizes - unscrews the cap, and starts drinking.

He gets two gulps down when Thomas decides to be the first to speak up and ask the relevant question.

"Uh, hi Deceit. We were wondering-" Deceit lowers the bottle and shoots him a look. Thomas immediately amends his statement. "I was wondering if you could help us with something." Deceit doesn't answer, raising the bottle and taking another gulp. Thomas sees Patton frown from the corner of his eye.

"So, uh, buddy," Patton begins, putting on his best Concerned Dad voice, "whatcha got there? Is it pop?" He grins at the pun. Deceit lowers the bottle and doesn't bother making eye contact.

"Tequila."

Deceit takes another swig as if he isn't now at the center of several alarmed expressions. Thomas can't confirm what the others are thinking, but him? He's not exactly a huge fan of alcohol to begin with. Tequila is... pretty harsh. And here's Deceit, a part of him, using it like it's water on a hot day. He instinctively steps forward before hitting that invisible wall that keeps him separated from the sides. And where was he going to go from there even if it wasn't there? Well, maybe snatch away the bottle, but he doesn't quite get what Deceit's doing. He manages a glance back towards Virgil - the alarm on his face is expected, but there's something else. Fear? Sadness? He unfortunately can't spare the time to puzzle over it. Instead, he looks towards Logan, who glances back, and gestures at Deceit. Logan clears his throat.

"Given the hour of the day, the strength of the alcohol being consumed, and-" Deceit finally makes eye contact, a very cold glare as he pointedly drinks more. "-and the rate of ingestion, I think we would all like to know why you are performing this course of action."

"Well, as I am clearly wanted here," Deceit says, gesturing to them all, "I thought I may as get ready for what will surely be a wonderful time. Why wouldn't I?" The sarcasm is positively acrid, burning as bad as the tequila has to.

"I mean, that seems a bit much so fast." Patton's cheer is evaporating. Deceit grunts in return.

"I - that hardly makes sense. You realize even mild alcohol consumption impairs cognitive function and motor skills." Logan can't help but gesture in confusion. "The amount you've consumed - you're still consuming - will have more serious consequences."

"You don't say."

"I do say. You risk passing out or, with an even greater volume, becoming comatose." Thomas can see Logan growing frustrated with the blatant rejection of logic, and the sheer oddity of the situation.

"Hm. I'm sure what I have to say will be understood equally well." With that, Deceit tips his head and the bottle back. The tequila bottle is draining at a worrying rate. Thomas swallows the lump in his own throat.

"Hah... yeah..." The words are as uncomfortable as he is. "I can be a bit slow, huh?" It's deliberate bait, but Patton makes an affronted gasp anyhow.

Deceit pulls the bottle away and coughs harshly. Thomas is considering talking to Deceit after Virgil once all is said and done, and this ...situation (Is he messing with them again?) is resolved.

"Just get back to your... whatever."

And another gulp. Deceit's looking woozy now. Thomas can't help but try again. The alternative, after all, is that Deceit's actions are honest and he doesn't even know where to begin with that.

"I decided I should at least try to attend the callback, you know. I talked it over with my friends, and tomorrow I'll be calling the happy couple. So, I guess you really did win." He shrugs. "I... really wanted the callback." He expects something sarcastic, maybe a laugh at his expense, or a "I told you so" remark.

The silence that lingers in the wake of his words is cold, and he shivers. He should pull the others closer together - can a side get drunk in the first place? What happens if he drinks too much? Can he do that? Has he done this before? - and yet he's afraid to turn away. It's like he's a Weeping Angel: as long as Thomas keeps him in his sight, he can't leave. That's not how the sides work at all, but the rationalization takes the edge off the fear that, if he stops looking, Deceit will be dead next time he looks. Deceit, for his part, pauses in his binge-drinking long enough to sneer and dismissively wave at his audience, splattering imaginary tequila on the carpet and couch. More spills as he attempts to get the bottle back to his mouth. It's half-empty, and every bit spilled is a bizarre blessing.

"Seriously - what is going on here?" He tries to be direct, but Deceit directs his gaze downward, refusing to meet Thomas' gaze. "I - I can't believe you don't have anything to say about this. You took us to a courtroom last time over it. Just - what are you doing?" He lowers his head to try to catch Deceit's gaze, but the side just looks away. He sighs, a bit frustrated but even that frustration is born out of an inability to resolve his confusion and worry.

"Patton? Any idea what's going on?" He asks out of the corner of his mouth.

"Nope." Patton is quiet in his reply.

"Keep an eye on him for a second?"

"Yeah."

He gets a glimpse of Patton as he turns around to confer with the others. Patton can't hide his shaking, no matter how hard he holds onto his arms. Maybe he shouldn't have asked Patton to keep watching - but, facing the others, no one's reacting well. Worst off is Virgil, who has fully retreated into his hoodie, murmuring words laced with tempest tongue. Thomas catches two that somehow make an already bad situation worse: "not again". Roman has no response - gesturing wildly to himself, then Virgil, then Deceit behind Thomas who Thomas is currently trying not to look at lest he trap himself again without a plan.

"He's drunk?" It's a dumb question, but Thomas' brain is still kind of stuck on that.

"It's something we can do - infrequently, as, like with you, it does impair our ability to function." Logan fidgets with his necktie.

"Can he actually die from this? Like, liver poisoning?" It's a horrible idea to contemplate, but he needs to know how severe the situation is. Roman winces but nods. Logan nods. Virgil inhales.

"He'll reform. In his room. It - he's done it before." Virgil can't seem to calm down enough, but Thomas can decipher his words anyways. He wants to ask when. He wants to ask why. Some part of him he wishes he could attribute to Remus wants to know if that's his plan right now.

Patton whimpers, and Thomas whirls around. Deceit has dropped his bottle and is currently sideways on the couch. And, it seems, he has somehow conjured up another bottle. Nope. Thomas is not letting this continue.

"Put that down right now, Deceit!" Since he can't touch the side, this is the best he can do. Deceit hisses back, his grip on the new bottle visibly tightening even as it tips a little. Thomas refuses to let it shake him - frankly, it was more startling coming from Virgil than from someone whose face is half-snake. No, the bigger problem is that he seems uninterested in listening and physical intervention isn't possible. He runs through what little Deceit has said since his arrival and finds a solution. It's... not one he's fond of, as it doesn't actually solve the problem, just relocates it for now. But Virgil is freaking out, Roman is at a loss for words, Logan is struggling to think of some logical way to stop him, and Patton still shakes.

"Deceit - if you're not gonna listen, then go to your room, now!" He points in the general direction of the staircase, feeling more than ever like the parent of some wayward teenager. Except this teenager doesn't want to communicate at all, is drunk, and possibly is entertaining a suicide attempt. Wait, no, he shouldn't have done that. The fear and confusion meshes with the comparison and for a moment Deceit is just.... sad. An unwanted kid, bitter at the world and the people around him, possessing one skill that poses more harm than good.

Then he flips Thomas off as he sinks out without complaint, and, mercifully, it shatters the illusion.

Roman's already begun issuing apologies to everyone and Thomas feels his heart curling in on itself. He holds up a hand.

"It was my idea. I can't say anything except, I'm sorry." Except there's a lot he could say. Mostly what the hell was that all about? Everyone's visibly stressed and upset, though, so he doesn't. He also scraps the plan to talk with Virgil alone right away. "Roman, I'm not forgetting this - we will figure out something. We just need to unwind a bit. I.... I'll check on Deceit later." As for Virgil, he'll just drop in later rather than subject him to worrying about a meeting in the near future. He doesn't know what else to do.

Departure is awkward, few words exchanged, and once the others are gone, Thomas goes to the couch and sits where Deceit was. He tries to wrap his head around his actions. Tries to imagine a possibility where Deceit was being malicious and messing with everyone by putting them in such a distressing situation. Tries to imagine a possibility where Deceit simply can't imagine being wanted and drinks to the point of unconsciousness to avoid another poor interaction. Tries to imagine a possibility where Deceit has just given up and drinks for its own sake and doesn't want to bother figuring out what everyone else will think of him for it.

The imaginary tequila bottle is still there. He can read the label: 46% ABV.

He lays down, staring at it, until he passes into sleep.