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faxaway · 4 days ago

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Pairing: Reed900

Tags: M/M, Workplace Romance, Enemies to Lovers, Roommates, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Read on AO3 here:

Summary: After a string of bad decisions leaves GV200 without a place to stay, he ends up crashing with the last person he’d ever want to live with: Special Agent Nines.

Cold, clinical, and somehow more robotic than any android he’s ever met, Nines seems to take a certain pleasure in making him feel small. But GV starts noticing the cracks in this polished exterior: the sleepless nights, the skipped meals, the relentless refusal to ask for help.

He always thought Nines was untouchable. Above it all. But his pedestal is beginning to teeter—and it’s a long way down. (Reverse!AU)

Word Count: 2.4K

Warnings: Depression/Self-Destructive Behaviour, Mild Sexual Content/Humour Tag List: @sweeteatercat @gho-stychan @tentoriumcerebelli @negative-citadel @moriahadi424 @unicorn4genocide @cptjh-arts @starry-eyed-stray @citricsinger76 **please note, this fic is an artist/writer collab will eventually feature art from the hilarious and disgustingly talented @faxaway!! keep an eye out for updates**

If an encyclopedia were to be created of the biggest killjoys in history, Special Agent Nines would make the front page. Easily.

The man was a vampire. He spent most of his time hunched over his desk, engrossed in his terminal, detached completely from the world around him. Save for the one indulgence he allowed himself: the bland fucking tea glued to his hand.

His name was one of the few interesting things about him. Except he wasn't actually called Nines. It was some weird workplace nickname, likely invented on a whim to make him sound marginally cooler.

‘Nolan’ was far more average, fitting of a man who probably thought tap water was spicy.

Actually, there was no ‘probably’ about it. GV knew, all too well, that when the man clocked out at the end of his day, he took the monotony home. He had become well-acquainted with it as part of their current living arrangement.

It had been a temporary agreement, one of convenience to an assignment they’d worked on a few months back. A perfect excuse for Nines to bark orders at all hours of the day, not just during shift time.

That was until the human had learned about his housing situation—or the lack thereof.

After getting evicted from his last apartment, GV had been living out of the storage locker he’d rented to hold his things. It turned out to be just as convenient for work. Not to mention, significantly cheaper than paying for another shitheap in Central Detroit.

The facility manager had looked the other way until he fell behind on his payments.

Which was not his fault. At all.

Some drunk idiot had bet him $500 that he couldn't vault into Durwood Park using a PVC pipe. It should have been easy money. How was he supposed to know the damn thing was covered in methanol?

The worst part was that he still won, but managed to get screwed regardless. All because of the bergonias. Since when were flowers so damn expensive? And what kind of park had CCTV monitoring their flower beds?

Following the settlement of a hefty vandalism charge—and a lifelong ban from the grounds—he resorted to strategic sleepovers with numerous hookups. That was, until he discovered an abandoned RV in a local scrapyard.

It was pretty nice, all things considered. Just a couple of chemical burns on the counter and unexplained beakers in the cupboards. Standard. Nines wasn't having it, though, clutching his pearls at the teeniest suggestion of any cooking beyond kale soup.

After that, he had insisted GV extend his stay. Indefinitely. The cited concern being that the reputation of their team could be tarnished by the android's ‘unsavoury’ lifestyle—complete with vague threats of filing a squatting report with his dipshit brother at the DPD.

His raging hard-on for legislation aside, GV held another theory: he’d only extended this offer as a means to stroke his ego. Fueled by some fucked-up saviour complex, or a need to establish control over the situation.

Because Nines was a control freak, the unrivalled king of micromanagement, to go with his killjoy certification. GV found himself on the receiving end frequently, as it was clear the man thought he was a spectacular fuck-up.

He didn't trust him to do anything , despite being the Surveillance and Reconnaissance Lead for his team. It was hardly an easy, throwaway role, yet he was treated like an office intern messing up the coffee rounds.

This, in turn, made it difficult for GV to accomplish anything, perpetuating the cycle of distrust.

So, as much as he ought to be grateful for being given a place to stay, he couldn't be. Most of the time, he just caught himself wishing—praying—that some other human would come along, offering a bed without acting like they were the second coming of Christ.

Until then, he was stuck. Watching time drip away, dull and monotonous, alongside the leaky mouthpiece of a nearby water fountain. With every clink , he came closer to testing the maximum throwing distance of his stapler. He instead picked up a pencil and began twiddling it between his fingers.

Nines had received a lengthy email, precisely two minutes before quitting time, and the lunatic had actually set down his stuff in order to read it. GV would have headed home alone, but he didn't have a key. Of course. His Lordship would never trust him with something so valuable.

Eventually, curiosity pierced through the haze of apathy, just enough to make him wonder what had been so fucking important it couldn't wait until morning.

With a covert scan, he identified the sender. His resentful frown deepened, like a barbell strained on either side by excess weight. It was Connor, the previously cited dipshit. Proof that Mama Stern's reproductive system had a twisted sense of humour.

There was no denying the two were related. No one else would be so psychotic, so emotionally constipated, as to reach out to their sibling like they were contacting HR. ‘Dear’ and ‘Kind Regards’ over picking up a phone and actually talking.

In any case, it was clear that whatever Connor had sent was throwing Nines for a loop. He leaned closer to his terminal, brow pinched in a tense knot, as he readjusted the positioning of his glasses. The threads of his dull grey sweater were tugged slightly by the motion, pulling taut over his chest.

GV was not ashamed to admit that his focus shifted. The idle batting of the pencil stalled, slumping laxly in his hold, as he took advantage of Nines' occupied state for a more thorough inspection.

This was one of the few perks, both domestic and occupational, of being in near-constant proximity to his supervisor. Nines, for all his faults—be it dull, joyless or uncomfortably formal—was frustratingly easy on the eyes. Especially when he was focused, or irritated, which seemed to be the default.

He was human dry ice: sharp and cold, but with an edge that burned . The sort of heat you felt before you even touched it. And man, if the opportunity ever came up? GV wouldn’t say no. Had pondered on it a couple of times, followed by some haunting moments of post-nut clarity.

The human was muttering under his breath, a subtle purse forming on his lips before they wrapped around the rim of his mug. As he drained the remainder of his elderflower piss water, GV speculated on what that pretty mouth might look like wrapped around his—

The fantasy was shattered before it took shape, as Nines reeled back, setting the drink firmly on the desk.

“Our assistance is required.” This announcement, which ought to have carried some tangible weight and severity, was undermined by the monotonal drone Nines maintained in all situations. “With help from an informant, Connor and HK800 have located the primary base of operations for the Dorcha Syndicate.”

GV recognised the name. The Dorcha Syndicate was led by Cillian Doyle, a notorious narcotics kingpin they’d also been tracking for a number of weeks. It made it all the more impressive how Nines could take what was genuinely an exciting development and deliver it with the enthusiasm of someone reading a laundry tag.

“Okay, that's great,” the android gestured to the nearby wall clock, making a point of the time, “but I doubt they're gonna uproot their whole operation and move overnight. We can stake it out tomorrow, I have plans.”

Admittedly, GV couldn’t remember who the plans were with. Maybe Greg. Or Steve. Or the handsy bouncer saved in his contacts as simply ‘Honk Honk.’

It didn’t matter. Nines said nothing, but stared at him with such sharp, unyielding intensity that GV could see his schedule disintegrate before his eyes. The powdered remains were ground like dirt under his heel as the man continued:

“Their contact has advised that Doyle will arrive around 1 a.m. Distributors will already be in attendance, with an exchange scheduled to take place approximately 15 minutes later.

Security in the hideout is sophisticated and extensive. I would need you to tune into all relevant feeds: cameras and microphones. Track the position of the primary targets, deactivate the alarms, and take care of all other security measures that may be in place.”

Oh, cool. No pressure then.

“We'll want to get there early, establish a good position, so that the systems are deactivated promptly, and STING can take over to infiltrate the base.”

GV was barely listening, as the same tired, overexplanatory bullshit he’d heard a thousand times rattled unwelcomingly through his ears. Auditory input was lowered accordingly, as he considered what to do about the date dilemma.

A mass text seemed preferable, covering all bases. Then, he changed his mind, figured whoever he was supposed to see tonight would find someone else to stumble home with.

They clearly weren't all that interested. He hadn’t received any messages.

Not a single one. All day.

Pushing past an unpleasant lurch in his gut, he planted his feet on the edge of the desk and propelled himself backwards. Completing a long, defiant circle in his chair before accepting the inevitable. “Fine, but your shithead brother better be right about this. Or I'm replacing every file on the DPD database with hi-res scans of my ass.”

Nines ignored him, rising primly from his station, reaching for the coat he’d abandoned earlier. He leaned forward, preparing to smooth out the carefully pressed creases—

Then, he stumbled.

His stony focus fractured as he slammed into the workstation. The man pressed a hand to his temple, blinking rapidly, as his body pulled to one side. GV pictured him hitting the floor like a six-foot ragdoll, reduced to a crumpled heap of gangly limbs.

For a moment, any contention he held evaporated, as his legs moved without input:

“ Whoa , hey, easy—”

The android positioned himself flush with his back, a bicep hooked under each armpit. Nines offered no resistance, allowing himself to sag limply against the hold.

As GV looked down, trying to discern if the bastard had blacked out, he noticed just how…large the bags under his eyes had become. A set of deep, purple rings hanging like sandbags on his face, contrasting sharply against his naturally fair complexion.

Throughout their affiliation, he had never known the human to look particularly well-rested. His bed was scarcely used, with him preferring to sleep wherever he dropped. Usually, this ended up as the couch. Or occasionally, GV would discover him in the kitchen, propped on a stool, face squashed against the island.

But this felt…different, more concerning. Something that Nines had never done outside the privacy of his home.

As he continued to gawp into space, vacant and zombified, GV could only speculate on what the hell he’d been doing to end up like this. Whatever it was, the answer must’ve started with him slinking away from the dinner table, leaving food that was barely touched.

For multiple nights in a row, his post-communal hideout of choice had been his ‘reading nook.’ Said nook was actually just an office, sparsely furnished with a couple of cushions and throw blankets. It wouldn’t have surprised the android to learn he had been staying up until dawn, skimming files off the ink-smeared tumour bulging from his desk.

“You look like shit,” GV said bluntly, seeing no point in mincing his words. “Are you sure it's a good idea for you to get in on this? I'm worried Forensics is going to be scraping you off the back of the van.”

“I'm quite alright,” Nines grumbled back. He stubbornly wiggled himself free from his companion’s grip, though he was still noticeably unsteady.

Pressing a palm to the side of his monitor, he took a second to compose himself. Using his available hand to nudge his glasses up the bridge of his nose, before pinching firmly, breathing in deep, steady inhales.

Pale skin was turning sickly, adopting a greyed, almost corpse-like quality. GV watched as he sucked in another breath, this time through his mouth. Suddenly, the resulting purse inspired no salacious temptation. The line of his jaw jutted sharply, almost painfully so, all the more apparent under the glow of harsh fluorescents.

A sense of guilt struck the android, belated and biting, at having failed to notice it sooner.

Because he could have done so, had ample capacity, but had gone out of his way not to. It was bad enough going to work, being regarded as an idiot, a liability, from the second he walked through the door. To then go home and be treated like a charity case, reminded again of just how burdensome he truly was.

It had become too much.

So, he disengaged, chose self-preservation. Omitting anything other than the obvious, glaring realities shoved repeatedly into his face. The number of meals missed. The pittance of rest the man got—always of dubious quality. Just how often he was M.I.A., locked away like a prisoner in his own home.

Despite this, GV made no attempt to consider the implications. He failed to notice the slowing of blood flowing in his veins. Had been deaf to his heart; to the weakening beat behind closed doors.

He was a Surveillance Expert for fuck’s sake, and had only just realised the extent of the man's decline after witnessing him collapse.

Perhaps Nines had been justified in his lack of faith. Maybe he was shit at his job.

This wasn’t something GV wished to dwell on now, occupied with the more pressing issue of what to do—or say—in the current situation. The result was another clumsy attempt to dissuade the man’s involvement in the assignment:

“Seriously, if it’s because you want me supervised, we can always call in Peterson, or—”

He never got to finish. Nines shot up from the slanted position, returning to his usual rigid posture. The movement was unnaturally quick, jerky, like a puppet hoisted up by strings. It was a little disturbing, not that the android had long to sit with this sentiment.

“It will take 45 minutes for us to drive to the vantage point.” His jacket was secured, arms threaded through the sleeves in a single, fluid sequence. An effortless precision which demanded GV forget the earlier misstep.

He then glared at the battered hoodie slung over the chair across from him, encouraging his counterpart to do the same. “We should leave. Grab your coat.”

There was no room for protest. No crack in the armour for empathy to slip through. Nines didn’t want it—staunchly refused even the smallest scrap of compassion.

Instead, he turned on his heel, moving stiffly toward the exit. He refused to look back, trusting GV would follow after.

#THAT ART IS SO BANGINGGGG #likely to be replaced with fax art #<- the fuck it is. the banner stays goddammkit #that sleeeeek geometric style is SO nice to look at omfg #they kinda remind me of paper dolls??? in the best way #ANYWAY READ THIS FIC PLEASE ITS GOT GV TAKING SHOTS AT NINES' DESPICABLE TEA CHOICES #and ofc this is pesk writing which is an advertisement on its own #dbh #dbh fic #reed900 #reverse au

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