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auteurdelabre · 2 months

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Window Dressing: Chapter 1 - Dave York x f!Reader

Window Dressing

pairing: Dave York x F!Reader (NO use of y/n)

Story summary: Resolving to achieve professional success within the CIA you embark on a ruthless game of one-upmanship against your work nemesis Dave York, a rivalry that is complicated by your growing attraction to him.

[AU - Dave is divorced and he still works for the CIA because I want our suburban murder daddy have a nice life. ]

Chapter summary: When the CIA director offers up an opportunity for field work you jump at the chance. Too bad your work nemesis and colleague is just as excited for the position.

Chapter Tags: Enemies to lovers, colleagues, work jargon, nicknames, mentions of divorce, disrespect.

a/n: I just finished my yearly rewatch of The Hating Game (y’all don’t come for me, my job is stressful and I like to decompress with something silly). And all I could think of was an MC and Dave in a similar situation and before I knew it the first chapter was already written. It’s gonna be cute and since its me there’s gonna be smut but unlike me, not a ton of angst. Don’t look to close at the CIA details because your girl don’t know shit about it. Just go with the romantic-comedy vibrations.

Chapter 1: CodeBook

Codebook: A list of plain language words opposite their codeword or codenumber.

Working at the CIA isn’t that much different from a normal day job as most people think.

You go to work in the subway along with everyone else. You read your paperback of the week sipping overpriced coffee and trying to ignore the stench of unwashed masses that dot the DC metro.

You wear comfortable shoes and pilled sweaters and your hair frizzes in the rain. You don’t look any different from anyone else that walks the terrain on their way to their Monday to Friday job. You start at eight am and end at five, unless a job requires you stay later.

Much like most offices with a lot of moving pieces, a majority of your job involves paperwork, worrying about schedules, IT problems, editing reports and more. It’s not as glamorous as the TV shows make it out to be. You are not Claire Danes in Homeland no matter how much you wish you were.

You wear a lanyard that holds a plastic square with your name and face on it that you scan at the entrance. Every morning you wave and say good morning to Dennis, the head of security at the front before slipping him a donut you got along with your coffee.

“You’re too good to me,” Dennis murmurs as you hand it to him.

You just smile. Dennis was one of the first people you met here at Headquarters and you have nothing but good things to say about him. He was kind and patient when everyone else rolled their eyes murmuring about the new hire.

The similarities to another corporate office might be that the coffee sucks and there are definitely cliques within workers. Considering you’re all in different departments this isn’t really much of a shock. Some of your departments overlap with one another, especially if there’s a potential high profile target.

You nod and smile at colleagues as you pass them on your way to the Operations department, ignoring the way many of them look more anxious than usual. This isn’t a surprise given what you saw on the news this morning.

You take the elevator down several floors before exiting and spotting a familiar slender figure perched on the edge of your desk. His hair is combed to either side of his pinched face and behind his thick framed glasses he looks like he’s analyzing something, as he always is.

“Hey Otis,” you say cheerfully as you lay down your purse at your desk.

Your desk is one of the few places in the world that feels uniquely you. You’ve decorated it with a pink stapler, purple and blue paper clips. Your folders are gold striped. Your desk itself is littered with a collection of tchotchkes from over the years, none more impressive than your rubber duck collection.

Otis pats one of your rubber ducks swiftly before standing and giving you a formal nod.

“Morning. I was just dropping some papers off and couldn’t help but notice you’ve added to your collection.”

You smile, nodding as you motion to your latest acquisition; a rubber duck playing the saxophone and wearing sunglasses. All the way from New Orleans and from a very competitive bidder on Ebay. But it was worth it to have your little jazz quacker sitting proudly with the others that line your desk.

Otis is one of the few people at work that doesn’t seem to be bothered by much. He does his job well and he always has an interesting fact to share. Well, interesting to him anyway.

Otis also likes to hover around your desk in the mornings for a chance to interact with your co-worker Priya. The prettiest girl at the CIA and the nicest. She brings in cupcakes for your entire team during holidays. She loves to laugh at everything you say, which makes you like her even more. She’s also wickedly smart and even faster than you at translation (which is saying something). As if on cue, you see her stumbling into the office with a coffee stain on her pale blue blouse.

“Damn potholes,” she mutters angrily, throwing her bag and onto her desk and giving her version of a frown, which is the equivalent to a kitten mewling for the first time.

“Morning Priya,” Otis says, his pale cheekbones pinking. You smirk, trying not to watch as their awkward flirtation commences.

“Morning Otis,” she replies cheerfully before organizing her desk for the day. “You have a good weekend?”

“Very,” Otis nods. You watch one of his long fingers tap along the head of your police officer duck nervously. “Uh, was watching a documentary on Jack the Ripper. Very intriguing.”

“Oh yeah,” Priya nods politely, her eyes on her computer as she boots it up for the day. You’re saved from the uncomfortable interaction by the sound of a female voice ringing out behind you. A voice that makes you sit straighter in your seat as you swivel your chair to face her.

She’s a fierce-looking Asian woman with short cropped hair and deep plum lipstick. All of her black blazers are tailored perfectly to her slender body and despite her diminutive stature you know she could kick anyone’s ass here.

“Meeting in five in Boardroom B,” Mina says to the crowd of arriving staff. “Don’t be late.”

She strides from you all, heels clicking against the tiled floor and the room seems to exhale in tandem. She’s terrifying. She’s amazing.

Mina Crawford is the Director for field officers and counter intelligence. She’s a former Clandestine Service officer and one of the few living recipients of the Intelligence Star. Basically, she’s your hero. And you want to follow in her footsteps because from what you’ve gathered she used to be in your exact position as a Languages Officer.

“She’s so cool,” you practically swoon.

“Ask her to be your mentor,” Priya insists for the fiftieth time.

“That would be humiliating,” you reply, as you always do. “I’m too old for a mentor.”

“No one is too old for a mentor,” Priya insists.

“You see that stuff on the news last night?”

“The parliament member in Lebanon?” Priya nods, dropping her voice quietly.

“I think they’re going to send someone into the field,” you say trying not to sound excited. “Someone with language experience.”

“You think?”

“Think about it,” you reason. “All the higher profile killings have been in places with very little English. Stands to reason they would send a Language Officer out.”

“Even with no field experience?” Otis asks. He looks doubtful which makes you frustrated. If Otis doesn’t think it’s gonna happen there’s a good chance it won’t. Brenda, a cheerful-looking woman in her fifties takes her seat in the desk next to you.

“Gotta learn somehow,” you shrug. “But maybe they’d team them up with a senior Agent or something.”

Priya is about to reply when her large eyes go over your shoulder and she grimaces.

“Here they come.”

You, Priya and Otis glance over to see eyes the crowd of suited men and women murmuring gently to themselves.

The Protective Officers.

If this was highschool they’d be the popular kids. Getting to go on glamorous field missions, being right in the heart of the action. All are good with their weapons, all look like they stepped off the pages of some high end catalogue because their paycheques far outweigh your own. Several of the younger men chuckle loudly, giving off the energy of an American Psycho Fraternity.

“Assholes like that get to go to foreign countries, to experience life all over the globe and we’re stuck here,” you grimace, typing your Algeria field notes later that day. “I can’t stand it.”

“I would hate to be in the field,” Brenda says with a theatrical shudder from beside you. “I like the safety of the desk.”

“That’s not why I went through basic training with an emphasis on stalk training,” you insist. You worked your ass off in training, making sure that you were as prepared as anyone else. While officers are rarely trained in weaponry or hand-to-hand combat you’d requested it. Worked earlier and stayed later if it meant a chance to learn more.

And now these chuckle-fucks come in with swinging dicks and they get all the glory. Two of them walk by you towards the coffee maker.

“And she was high key the best I’ve ever had,” one says to a man with perfect teeth.

“You have no rizz,” the younger man replies with a boisterous laugh. “How the fuck you pull that off?”

Jesus.

“You know I speak Russian, Spanish, Arabic and a handful of others and I will never be able to unravel the elusive bro code of the Protective Officers,” you muse dryly as you roll back in your chair. Otis smirks and Priya laughs behind her coffee mug, drawing the attention of several of the agents including your bitter work rival: Dave York.

Dave York is the most annoying man you know at the CIA. He is a senior agent well-liked in the office and he gets along with almost everyone. You’re quite the same within your department. But the two of you? There’s no love lost there.

Dave saunters over to your desk and you spin back around to face your computer. You have no desire to be caught up in a verbal sparring match today. You have to be focused for the meeting in case there is the offer of putting newbies into the field. It’s something you’ve dreamed about since you started here five years ago.

“Been to any fun graveyards lately, Parsons?” Dave offers with a touch of humor in his deep, rasping voice. A voice that you find impossibly grating. It’s like having your ears run over by a gravel truck.

“Actually yes,” Otis says with a bracing smile. “One in New Orleans just proved very useful.”

Otis Parsons is a Ghoul which means he parses obits and graveyards for deceased individuals agents can use for aliases. He enjoys his job more than most and with his severe eye contact and strangely chilling manner of speaking you can see why some are put off. You happen to think he’s hilarious in an eerie, Crispin Glover sort of way.

“Parker, I need these tapes from Algeria parsed,” Dave says flatly, tossing a file onto your desk without so much as a hello.

Your name isn’t Parker, neither first nor last. It’s a nickname given to you (unwillingly) by the tall man with dark eyes who looks down at you with a trace of amusement along his full mouth.

It’s what started this whole antagonistic relationship if you’re honest. Your first day on the job being introduced to the agency. Meeting every department head, learning names, faces. When you met Dave you’d been charmed by his winning smile, shaking his hand politely and even thinking distantly that if he weren’t wearing a wedding ring he’d be just your type with his soulful brown eyes and pouty mouth.

But then your eyes had slid to the large board on the wall, the one covered in newspaper clippings and strings and you’d started asking questions about the case. Your excitement had been evident; the questions pelted at a bemused looking Dave who scanned you from head to toe and announced that you were a Nosy Parker before excusing himself.

You hadn’t known what that meant and had offered a weak shrug in return before being whisked into the next department. When you’d returned home that evening and were able to use your phone you saw the definition pulled up on Google and you winced.

noun derogatory•informal noun: nosy parker; plural noun: nosy parkers; noun: nosey parker; plural noun: nosey parkers an overly inquisitive person.

You’d been embarrassed at being called that during your first day on the job in front of your superior. It made the following months tense as you navigated your position, learning from the woman Brenda whose job you were taking over. It made you second guess yourself every time you wanted to ask a question. It wasn’t until Priya started and she’d asked all the same questions and been answered with level kindness that you’d realized asking questions wasn’t nosy or annoying, it was how everyone learned.

Dave York has called you Parker ever since that day and you have hated him every time.

And now he stands beside your desk looking like some glorified accountant in his tailored suit shooting a supercilious look your way. He always wears shades of blue; navy, cobalt, baby blue and iceberg just to name a few. The worst part is it’s usually paired with a burgundy tie that clashes hideously. You know he’s not color blind, (you can’t be if you’re an agent), so you can only assume the choice is masculine ambivalence.

You open the file with a weary sigh. “Where in Algeria specifically?”

“Isn’t that your job, Parker?”

“You have nothing else to go on?” you sneer up at him, opening the folder. “Some agent.”

“Officer,” Dave corrects with a smirk before resting his hands on either side of your desk, bent over so he can capture your eyes with his. You blink rapidly, noting that today he’s missed shaving a small spot on his sharp jaw. It’s barely noticeable and if he wasn’t this close you’d never have known. But he is this close and suddenly that’s all you can focus on.

“You’re right,” Dave says, voice dropping an octave. “It’s much better that I use my considerable talents sitting on my ass going through hours of audio that rarely ever turns out to be useful. My mistake.”

You’re not stupid. You know that those of you in the Language department are seen as lesser agents. Your knowledge in languages makes you an asset in the office, not necessarily in the field. And yet they would be nowhere without you.

“Considerable talents?” you scoff before glaring up at him. “Is that what your wife tells you? Spoiler alert, York, she has to say that since her lapse in judgment at the altar.”

The benign amusement flees from Dave’s face immediately. You wait for the biting retort, the angry reply, but are instead greeted with the sight of Dave clenching his jaw tightly. You see the muscle in his face tic angrily before he turns; broad shoulders rolling as he pushes from your desk and rejoins the other Protective Agents.

What the fuck was that?

You frown at his back, confused before looking back down at the folder. Otis has excused himself as well, likely heading back down to his department. He won’t be needed for the meeting this morning. You feel Priya’s eyes on you and your tilt your head to face her.

“What?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Priya says with a concerned look on her beautiful face. “Him and his wife divorced last year.”

What the fuck? Since when?

For as long as you’ve known Dave York he has worn the same simple gold band on his left hand. You’ve even heard him talking about her in passing with other officers: Catherine or Carol? You know they’ve been married a while.

Since when is he divorced?

“What?” Your eyes blow wide at this, turning to your friend. “B-but he’s still wearing his ring!”

“Yeah,” Priya nods with a wince.

Fuck.

You don’t feel good about that. Dave is an asshole but you both know better than to get personal. You’ve never mentioned his wife until today and it turns out that was a good instinct on your part. Dave never mocks the fact that you go home every night to an empty apartment because even a goldfish was too much commitment for you, too much of a distraction from your work.

When the large group heads into the conference room you try to catch Dave’s eye and mouth an apology. But he’s already at the far side of the room with his agent buddies murmuring something and tapping away at his phone.

Mina stands at the podium waiting for everyone to take a seat and quiet down. Then she does and the briefing is similar to how it is most days lately. The assassin taking down members of parliament all over the world. The team doesn’t know if it’s an individual or an organization based on its sporadic movement.

“He’s targeting all higher profile members of senate across the globe,” Crawford says with a tired roll of her shoulders. “And from what I’ve seen they are extremely organized. Meticulous in knowing how far they can push without being caught.”

You scribble notes into your notebook while most of the group either types away on their phones or laptops. You’ve always found handwritten notes to be the best – they are less likely to be intercepted and written in your shorthand means that only you understand them.

You have a small code book included at the front, code names with numbers attached for people you work with. Priya is FFC0CB because she wears pink lipstick every Friday and that’s the hex code for pink. CG01 is Otis for his resemblance to a paler Crispin Glover. 00DH is Dave York and it stands for Double O Dick Head. You’d been particularly amused when you’d come up with that one.

You catch a pair of eyes on you and glance up down the table to see Dave watching your frenzied writing before giving the smallest shake of his head before he looks back at Mina.

“We’re putting together a team,” Mina says and this makes your head jerk up. “No details as of yet but there will be extensive travel involved so please let that influence your dedication and decision.”

Priya shoots you a look, one that says how did you know? And you try to tamp down the smile building there. It pays to pay attention, that’s how. You watch the patterns, you listen to the important silences that come between what’s said and you watch the news religiously.

“Considering the details on this we encourage individuals from all departments to apply,” Mina says eyes sailing over the crowd. You feel your stomach tighten pleasurably. This is just what you wanted. You just know you’d be an asset on this division.

“Deadline to submit is this Friday at five. That’s all. Good luck.”

The group dissolves and you and Priya make your way back to your desks. You’re on cloud nine, already formatting your CV in your head. Priya is yammering on about something but all you can focus on for that morning is the thought that you are going to be going into the field. You’re sure of it.

Its somewhere after lunch when the earlier conversation with Dave suddenly creeps back into your mind. It makes you feel uncomfortable and distracted. You don’t enjoy being cruel, it’s not in your nature.

It’s this which takes you to the elevator and down two floors to the department Dave works for. You walk through the fairly empty space with ease, jealous at how quiet it is with most of the officers out on jobs or doing field work.

Dave’s office is at the far end of the department and you see the door is ajar which means he’s in. Part of you is relieved, the other half disappointed. You’d half been hoping the room would stand empty and you’d be able to scribble some sad excuse for a note by way of apology. Writing an email would never be an option – too many eyes surveying everything that goes in and out of the office communication hubs.

. Dave is sitting behind his desk with a folder sat in front of him. His dark eyes jot to you as you enter. Unlike you, Dave has an entire office. It’s not massive, but it’s enough. However where you would have taken advantage to brighten up the space, it seems Dave is content enough to leave it looking like an empty shoe box. No family photos line his desk, no colorful knick knacks that give any indication about his personality. Nothing. Just flat, and dark and intimidating like his gaze.

There are two other officers sitting in the chairs across from him and they chat quietly, something you shouldn’t be overhearing and so you give a short knock before stepping into his office. The conversation is immediately dead and they swivel to glance over at you.

“Hey Dave,” you say grimacing. “I just wanted to-“

“You have the Algeria notes yet?”

“No,” you say holding in an eye roll. How did he expect you to have that information so quickly? He’s staring at you now, a file opened on his desk that he closes when you enter more fully into the office. Suddenly you feel wrong-footed, unsure of how to broach what you wanted to say since he’s surrounded by the other agents. He tilts back in his chair, arms crossed. Any mirth he usually reserves for you is gone.

“What do you want then?”

“It’s just… uh,” you say, suddenly aware of all the eyes of the other Protective Officers on you and you falter. You don’t want to have this conversation in front of everyone. “Do you have a sec? To talk in private?”

Dave rights his chair before fixing you with a dark look.

“How about you stop flitting around from department to department distracting people from trying to do real work?” He says sharply, his dark eyes narrowed. “Pretty sure Google translate could do your job and it would be a helluva lot less annoying.”

The other agents sitting near Dave exchange uncomfortable looks as you blink back at him. Irritation floods you, searing heat down the center of your chest. As he continues to glare at you there is the unmistakable sensation of your teeth grinding together angrily.

“You know what York? You can get Priya to do your translating from now on,” you spit, turning from him and heading into the empty hallway. Your cheeks are burning and you feet a pit in your stomach opening up.

Fuck you hate Dave sometimes.

You make your way to the elevator almost spitting. You wish for nothing more than to scrub Dave York from the face of the planet.

“Hey.”

Dave’s voice is a low rumble behind you. You can feel the warmth of his body inches from your back. But you pretend you haven’t heard him. The two of you load onto the elevator.

“Priya doesn’t speak Arabic,” Dave tells you like you’re not already very aware.

You continue to turn from him, not bothering to engage. You don’t have time to fight with Dave, you need to remember the name of your basic training officer to see if he’ll give you a letter of recommendation.

“You better be nice to me, Parker,” Dave says airily when you don’t reply. “Since everyone knows I’m going to be chosen for the mission.”

“You’re not going to be chosen for this one,” you snipe back at him, thankful there’s no one else in the confines of the elevator to witness how petulant you sound. “You have to be a team player for that. Everyone knows you like to fly solo.”

“Maybe I’ve changed,” he taunts, large eyes fixed on the rising numbers glowing above the buttons. “And besides, who do you think Crawford likes better? Me; the decorated field officer? Or you, the Language Officer with too many yellow sweaters?”

You want to snap back at him but you have a moment of concern at his words. You’d never considered this entire thing would be a popularity contest. Dave gets way more face-to-face with Mina than you ever will just by virtue of his job.

And hey, what the fuck? You like your yellow sweaters. In a job that can be dull or depressing having a color like yellow popping around the office makes you happy. It makes you wish more of the officers stopped dressed in drab neutrals.

Without warning your hand reaches out, slapping the emergency stop button. The elevator jerks to a halt with Dave eyeing you from across the small space. He’s a trained officer and you wonder if his instinct to pull a gun is kicking in when you see his fingers twitch at his side.

“I’m tired of you calling me Parker and making fun of my sweaters and my job and everything else,” you snap.

“I’m tired of you pretending like you’re better than everyone in the entire operations department because you can speak a handful of languages.”

“More than a handful,” you bite back, offended. “I’m a goddam polyglot.”

“How amazing for you,” Dave replies dryly. He crosses his muscled arms over his broad chest and you can’t help but observe how wide his shoulders are when they strain under his suit jacket. He fixes you with a look halfway between irritation and amusement.

Everything with Dave is a game of chicken; who will get closest without giving up? He does the same thing with inter office politics, pushing you past your limit until you run off with your tail between your legs, just like earlier in his office.

“I want to make a deal.”

Dave’s interested in this immediately indicated by the small curl of his mouth. “Go on.”

“If I get chosen for this elite squad you need to stop calling me Parker,” you tell him. “You leave off about my clothes and you start treating me with respect.”

“I do respect you,” Dave insists, brows furrowed. “You think I’d let anyone else do my translations?”

“You just said Google Translate would do a better job than me in a room full of other officers.”

Dave gives a crooked smile and a careless half shrug. “Was a joke.”

“Wasn’t funny.”

You bite the inside of your cheek when you feel your eyes getting glossy. You don’t want him to mistake your angry tears for sad ones. It’ll make you look weak when in reality it’s your barely contained rage that boils over, making your face hot and your eyes misty.

Dave’s smile dims and he gives a nod. “Yeah. Fair. Sorry.”

The apology is new though, that’s a nice manipulative touch on his part.

You don’t say anything more, and even though you want to apologize for the joke about his wife something in your stubborn attitude forbids it. Makes it impossible to apologize to Dave’s smug face staring at you.

“Everything okay in there?”

It’s the elevator repair team. Dave gives you a look with a raised brow, almost like he’s letting you know that you’re inconveniencing a lot of people today, not just him. You shoulder past him, getting closer to the speakerbox.

“Sorry about that,” you say into it. “I hit the button by accident. All good here.”

The elevator starts up again and the two of you lapse into silence. Soon enough you’re at the right floor and you prepare to exit, your mind still stuck on how to get an edge over your competition when all you have is a CV.

“So what do I get if I win, Parker?” Dave asks, dark eyes scanning your face with bemusement clearly written there. “What if I’m chosen for the team?”

“We don’t need to worry about that,” you say as the elevator dings to a stop. “You won’t be.”

“If I win you get rid of those ridiculous rubber ducks on your desk,” Dave insists watching you exit the elevator. “And you have to do all my translations without complaint for an entire year. Even the boring shit your department makes the grunts do.”

You frown at the possibility of doing all of Dave’s interpretations and translations. That could easily pile up and make your long days even longer. But there is a challenge in his eyes, one that you find you can’t back down from. So as the elevators slowly close on his smirking face you nod.

“Fine. Deal.”

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