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ripdumpy · 7 years

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...i wrote 1,300 words of sfw omega!jack fic in an hour at about 3:30 this morning, because i kind of dared myself to make a go of a/b/o and intended for it to just be like 100 words and this was. really a catastrophic failure on multiple levels. BUT HEY, if you want to read that, HERE IT IS.

rhys is jack’s PA! very little is actually explained! ganbatte!

Rhys senses something off about Jack’s office the second he’s through the doors, with such ferocity that it makes his temples ache. He scans the room, steps halted - Jack certainly gets enough attempts on his life to make it a viable possibility, and he’d rather not put his own life so directly in his own butterfingers if he can help it - but after a thorough twice-over with his ECHO eye, and nothing immediately jumping out at him as being out of place, his posture settles slightly.

He’s still tense enough to jerk to attention when Jack calls, “hey, pumpkin, I’m really not paying you to stand there and look pretty!”

Rhys scurries down the center path to Jack’s desk with no more fanfare than that, offering a pallid nod to the side of Jack’s head and fumbling a pair of ECHOs onto his desk, careful not to knock over any of his open drinks where they litter the desk in a halo around his keyboard.

He hadn’t realized he’d been rubbing at his forehead again - and Jack suddenly snapping his fingers catches him off guard.

“Uh,” he manages, eloquently.

Jack doesn’t look happy - but at least he’s looking at him now, so Rhys rushes to gather up his thoughts from before he’d felt the pounding ache in his skull. God, it isn’t going away, either, stripping his brain like a migraine, and he makes a mental note to run diagnostics on his kit once he gets to his desk.

“I’m listening,” Jack drawls, flat and irritable. Rhys doesn’t know what he did, but he knows better than to ask, having familiarized himself fairly quickly with his boss’s moods.

He gestures to the ECHOs. “The, um, the one on top is that call log from Torgue and Tediore,” he explains. “I went through it last night, I sent the report to your private server.” He licks his dry lips, trying to be obliging. “Um - you might want to make sure it didn’t get sorted - “

“Rhys,” Jack nearly growls, and Rhys flinches - but nothing follows the warning, no clever threat. After a beat of silence filled only by the hum of Jack’s desk computer, he merely says, “I got it. Continue.”

Right. Just impatient then. “Sorry, sir,” Rhys offers dutifully. He nudges the second ECHO with his knuckle. “This one was supposed to be the witness reports off the guys in AD, but I listened to it and recognized the voice - Denver, it’s, Denver is the head of AD - so I, uh, - ” Rhys swallows convulsively, cutting himself off and jumbling his thoughts again. He’s starting to feel a little unwell, and not unlike they aren’t alone in the office, the hairs on the back of his neck pricking up uncomfortably.

Jack glances down to where his finger is still touching the ECHO, then cuts his gaze back up to his face. “You…” he prompts.

Rhys shakes his head. “S - sorry - I um, I went through some other incident reports, I just - I had a hunch, and it turns out this is the guy who posed as maintenance in R&D four months ago, back when we had the. Um, the weird, slag, the spore guys - back when they all disappeared. Remember? It was like someone - “

“ - had access to the airlock who shouldn’t have, right,” Jack finishes. He puts his head in one of his hands, pinching the bridge of his nose, and Rhys watches the pull of his synthetic skin, still mildly fascinated to see it up close. “Just what I needed,” he grouses.

Rhys shifts his weight. “It looks like he changed his name, so, I sent you his two employee files so you could… figure out how to deal with him,” he finishes, lips a tight line.

He doesn’t understand - sure, Jack is intimidating, but Rhys has been working directly under him for over a month now. There’s no reason for his (admittedly cavernous) office to be causing him so much anxiety out of the blue like this. He really needs to run those diagnostics.

“What I should do is just revoke access to those controls for all the fucks in maintenance, watch ‘em squirm. And run this… sabotaging jerkoff through a grinder for trying to fuck ol’ Jack over a second time.” He sighs, sounding too bone-tired to dredge up any excitement about the murder, then turns back to his computer - Rhys would take it as a dismissal, but he adds, a little more softly, “good work, Rhysie.”

Rhys can’t help it, he blushes - and then winces when the added heat just make his head feel more out of sorts.

Now that he’s paying attention, Rhys doesn’t think Jack looks too hot either - he looks almost curled in on himself, his whole body a tight line, tweaked into an arch like a taut violin string. Rhys wonders if he’s slept yet, or left his office in the last three days, and feels a touch of guilt for not checking in with him any sooner.

“Um,” he hazards, “something… feels weird in here.” He thumbs over his temple - the one without the port - trying to dispel the tension, but it hardly helps. “Like it’s - I don’t know, I feel like I’m being… watched.” That sounds a bit paranoid, even for him, so he tacks on, “or like you left rotting food in here again. That could be it.”

He’s hoping for some solidarity, if not an explanation, but Jack doesn’t look amused in the slightest. “If you want to open a window, I’d be happy to direct you to the bookcase,” he warns, clipped.

Rhys purses his lips. Cranky, he thinks, but clearly Jack isn’t in any kind of mood to humor him - he has no idea what’s causing it, this sudden spike in his stress level, but it doesn’t seem like Jack is faring any better.

“Jack,” he pleads, though he tries to remain as neutral as he can, “have you left this office recently? You sound like you’ve been cooped up in here for a week.”

Jack snorts, but he quits scrolling through his message feed, so he hasn’t dismissed Rhys outright.

“…I think I might be coming down with something,” he presents tersely. He rolls his head on his shoulders, looking antsy. “Maybe I got a fever, or somethin’. I dunno. You know sick people always smell like burnt ass.”

“Oh,” Rhys allows, prepared to leave it at that - but something in his brain clicks. Oh.

He leans a little closer to Jack’s head, conspiratorial, concern overwhelming. “Jack - do you mean - um. Like, a fever, or - “

“Rhysie.”

His tone makes something in Rhys’ blood go cold, and he straightens up immediately. “Jack, sir?”

Jack’s expression is unreadable, but his eyes are clear - he looks like he’s a step away from killing Rhys, closer than he’d been in all the time he’s worked for him. Oh, god. What the hell.

Jack gestures to the chair on the opposite side of his desk, making a show of leaning back in his own chair - though Rhys doesn’t miss the way his body twinges, like he’s got a cramp.

Either way, he’s not going to deny Jack now. He folds himself primly into the seat, waiting.

“We’re gonna have a little chit-chat,” Jack says, like he’s polishing an old knife. Rhys forces down a shudder, not wanting to give him any reason to goad him further with his sudden mood.

“A - about?”

“About how I am not,” Jack spits, looking almost feral - Rhys can spot his unfiled canines, and his pupil dilates - “anyone’s simpering omega.”

Rhys gulps, petrified.

“Is. that. clear.”

“...yes sir.”

#writing #rhack #i want to blame ledgem for this but really all they did was not give me an immediate DO NOT DO THAT #ty for tolerating me bb #could i write more of this???? of course. i'm a disaster #i just didn't feel like it rn because i'm Tired #oops

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