Chapter Text
Jim resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose only because he really didn't want to end up with a bruise. He steepled his fingers instead, pressed so hard against each other a dull throb shot up his wrists. Which was at least a distraction from the headache he could feel crawling along the underside of his skull.
"Explain to me exactly how a stealth reconnaissance mission ended with you going viral arguing with our target."
Jensen's half shrug did precisely nothing to improve Jim's mood, and the damn shades made glaring him into submission more impossible than usual.
"He was objectively wrong about the cupcakes. They were really good and that deserved to be recognised” As if almost starting a fistfight in a bakery with a known human trafficker over said cupcakes counted as deserved recognition. And given Jensen’s augments, it’d count as assault with a deadly weapon which was significantly more paperwork than Jim wanted to deal with on top of another op scuppered by bad intel. “Besides, he's the kind of guy that likes a good argument and his current company won't give him that, too much required respect to avoid getting killed or taught a lesson. I'm an outsider who 'doesn't know who he is' on account of being American and an Aug. He got a friendly debate without it making him look weak or costing him status or capital, and we got bugs and trackers onto his watch, gun, and bodyguards. And he has no reason to even suspect anything since there's absolutely no way we could have set up a sting in that bakery." Which was true, especially since stopping into that bakery wasn’t part of the op, just Jensen grabbing a coffee on his way to meet a contact. Jim wasn’t sure if he was grateful for or furious about Jensen’s inability to go from point A to point B without visiting every other letter of the alphabet first.
"And how did getting your face plastered across every social media site in Europe fit in?" Jensen's logic tended to be annoyingly sound, but it was nice to have him actually explain himself for once, to not have to piece together his chain of thought from a report with more blank spots than typed letters. Not for the first time, Jim wondered exactly how calculated the stony sarcastic exterior really was, how much of it was really Adam and how much was the face Agent Jensen used to manage his coworkers. He ruthlessly quashed the flicker of Jensen’s oddly expressive eyes - compassion to a dying man had no place interfering in how he handled his agents.
"It didn't. I saw her recording but I didn't think she'd actually be stupid enough to post it. Either I overestimated her intelligence or underestimated her connections to them." At Jim's raised eyebrow, he gave a full shrug and drummed his fingertips against the back of one of Jim's visitor chairs. "She definitely recognised him, and she was very careful to keep the bodyguards out of frame. Guy was openly carrying but it wasn't once visible on the video. None of that is an accident. So she's either an idiot who couldn't see possible repercussions coming, or she has enough connections that they don't concern her. Or she's connected and stupid. She's not one of Otar Botkovelli's or Masa Kadlek's, neither of them stand to gain anything, especially given how busy they are trying to cut loose anything tying them to ARC. Guess we'll find out when State police start trying to downplay the bodies." Even through the shades, Jim knows Jensen isn't looking at him anymore, can feel the absence of that weighted and weighing gaze. "Either way, engaging him was safer than ignoring him. Pushed me from 'Aug they need to explain certain realities to' to just a foreigner who'd gotten lost and their boss found funny enough I got to walk away in one piece without leaving them looking for payback."
The casual way he says it, the easy acceptance, the way his voice doesn't strain around the edges like it does when he's downplaying an injury, shouldn't feel like an elbow to the ribs. He knows the Augmented are discriminated against, sees it every day, but it's different to hear a man who quite literally shrugged off close range rockets skirt around openly saying that if those thugs had laid into him he'd have had to take it or face a lot worse. Agent Jensen almost always seems to defy the expectations and demands placed on Augs, especially in Prague, but Jim has the feeling that wasn't Agent Jensen talking. That was Adam , who lives in a literal ghetto and who's probably put himself in the crossfire to protect his neighbours more than once.
He doesn’t let himself sigh, and tries to soften his voice. It doesn't feel exactly natural- too much Jim and not enough Director Miller, but - well. None of this crapshoot is Jensen’s fault; for all the man can blend into the background when he wants to, someone as heavily and visibly augmented as him is hard to hide in Prague. It’s not his fault the op is already going to shit and Jim’s going to get it in the ear from Manderley later. And it’s doubly not his fault that Jim lacks any other real options when it comes to augmented field assets for things like this.
“Just make sure your report sounds that reasonable when it hits my inbox before the end of the day tomorrow, will you?” He gives a slight tilt of his head towards the door before focussing back on his screen, watching from the corner of his eye as Jensen somehow manages to make the damn thing open and shut silently. Well, at least that’s that over with. Now he just has to figure out how to sell it to Manderley without somehow making things worse.
~~~~
It happens again. Because of course it does. Because Jensen treats being a little shit as a hobby and apparently delights in giving Jim stress headaches. This time, Jim finds out via a report that’s 90% brownie review and 10% solid actionable intel. He’s not entirely sure why Jensen felt the need to describe the brownie in such detail unless it was specifically to torture the analysts (the whining groans from the bullpen were absolutely definitely not funny and didn’t have Jim trying not to laugh as he made his coffee. Directors aren’t supposed to laugh at their subordinates’ misery). It’s a mark against life in Prague that the report and laughter are immediately forgotten when he gets back to his office and realises he has a scheduled call with State Police in five minutes and the caffeine hasn’t had a chance to kick in yet.
Jensen’s latest report stays well away from his conscious mind, until Jensen ambles into his office and misappropriates his microwave. Jim’s not sure what it says about how damn long the week has been for him to not notice Jensen’s presence until after he finally hangs up on the State Police Commissioner and sets his phone down exactly parallel to his mouse mat. The satisfaction of being able to slam down a landline isn’t worth the security risk but on days like today (everyday now it feels) he wishes it was. He blames the endless headache, the bitter taste of the words he can’t say and keep his job, for not realising Jensen is even in his office until the man sets a plate on his desk so gently he almost doesn’t hear the porcelain clink against the glass. He stares at the plate for a long moment. Then he slowly lifts his head from his hands and glares at Jensen. Jensen stares levelly back from behind his shades. He carefully lets his arms fall flat against his desk, bracketing the plate. Jensen’s head tilts a small fraction, face as impassive as ever. Jim lets his eyebrow start to rise, glare not lessening in the slightest. The headtilt is all eyeroll now, and the corner of Jensen’s mouth ticks up just the tiniest fraction. Jim feels distinctly like he’s trying to get Susie to admit to having helped herself to cookies before dinner and the sharp stab of longing forces him to break eye-contact.
“Jensen, would you care to explain why there’s a brownie on my desk?” His voice is softer than he means it to be and he catches Jensen’s flinch out of the corner of his eye - small enough most people wouldn’t notice it, all in the movement of those sleek black hands. They twist and the fingers curl in on themselves, not aggression, not making fists, but like he’d be wringing his hands if he was anyone else, the tip of a nanocarbon thumb flicking against the underside of his first two fingers, somehow silent, and Jim can’t help but remember the surprising softness against his jaw, his throat as Adam held him steady, careful of broken bones and split skin as he gently fed Jim the antidote. Sleek shining metal hiding the human parts in plain sight, there for anyone decent enough to shake his hand. Old shame roils in his gut, muted under the lingering confusion that follows Adam like the scent of cigarettes.
“If you’re trying to bribe me into forgiving you for the whining I’ve had to listen to because of your “report”, there isn’t a brownie in the world good enough to pull that off.” He leans back, aiming for somewhat casual and almost definitely missing by a mile. Jensen’s annoying good at reading people and Jim… doesn’t know what he’s saying anymore. Doesn’t know how to not hurt his best agent, can never seem to find the right words or tone of voice to not make things worse. Always always always, Jensen seems to read something from Jim that makes him close off, and Jim has no idea what. For once though, he seems to get it right and a small smile creases Jensen’s mouth.
“I dunno, it’s a pretty great brownie. Lighter than you’d expect with a really good balance of chocolate pieces and I'm really not sure how they did it but there’s little pools of chocolate ganache in there as well. Probably the best brownie in Europe and definitely the best in Prague.” Jensen gently slides the plate closer, “You really should try it and see”.
Jim shouldn’t be encouraging this. Jensen is terrible at following the chain of command as it is. But. Well. Jim likes chocolate as much as the next person but the chocolate ganache in a brownie sounds like it might take Death by Chocolate to a whole new level. Even if it does smell really good. Fuck it. No one but Jensen is here to see and maybe Jim can tease him about his sweet tooth or something once he proves the brownie too rich for someone without Jensen’s jawful of sweet teeth. He picks up the teaspoon Adam had left on the plate and waves it in the vague direction of the rest of the bunker.
“Did you bring enough to share with the whole class, or is piping the smell of hot brownie through the bunker the next phase in your master plan to torment the analysts into never giving you accurate intel ever again?” The brownie parts smoothly under the edge of the spoon, a thin streak of melted chocolate marring the clean porcelain beneath as he scoops up the piece. Adam’s huff is distinctly amused.
“The analysts know how to give accurate intel? If the brownie passes muster, I’ll have to expense enough of them to finally experience the concept.”
Jim is fully prepared to tell Adam he damn well can’t expense brownies except the spoon has finally made its way into his mouth and he’s a little preoccupied. Jim had only skimmed the brownie review section of Jensen’s report and he’s starting to regret that. The bit that had stuck in his memory had undersold how good these brownies are. Severely undersold. Jim’s had this brownie all of 5 seconds and he’ll fistfight God for the rest of it. He swallows and gets a bigger spoonful, regretting he doesn’t keep actual cutlery in his office.
“Adam, if you share these brownies with the rest of the bunker, I will disavow you and send you back to the States.” The second bite is somehow even better and Jim’s eyes slide closed at the unexpected bliss. That ganache is good . Jim doesn’t even like ganache for crying out loud!! When Adam is silent a beat too long, Jim opens his eyes and risks glancing up. He’s pretty sure he’s doing a good imitation of a hamster around the mouthful of brownie, but Adam can fuck off with his judgement, Jim has found God and God is a brownie from some random bakery in Prague.
Adam’s posture is looser than usual, and he’s watching Jim quietly from behind his eye shields. There’s a half smile lurking somewhere in that severe mouth, masked by the beard, but Jim is too satisfied to be irritated that his agent is laughing at him. Honestly, given the 180 his mood has just done, laughing is probably the only sensible reaction.
Adam leans his thigh against the corner of Jim’s desk as Jim eats, a quiet presence Jim finds oddly comforting. Someone watching you eat should feel weird and uncomfortable, but there’s no weight to Adam’s gaze. Jim is simply aware of it, like an awareness of sunlight on skin. There, but. Not a threat, not a judgement, simply a presence. Jim almost wants to laugh at himself but he really doesn’t want to break the moment. For all he knows, Adam is playing solitaire on the inside of those shades of his and waiting for his next set of orders. Or to drop a new and exciting bombshell in Jim’s lap. At this point, Jim is reasonably sure he’ll forgive him anything, unless it’s to tell him the maker of these brownies is currently sleeping off a tranq dart in the bunker’s cells. The thought makes him pause, spoon halfway to his mouth. Then he decides that is a potential problem for Future Jim and goes back to eating his brownies. He feels a little sorry for Future Jim. He doesn’t have this brownie and probably does have a headache and at least one argument to look forward to. Current Jim just has a deceptively small seeming brownie to get through.
The brownie eventually runs out, ending like all good things do, but at least there’s no disappointment in this ending. He leans back in his chair, more relaxed than he has been in ages and just watches Adam’s fingers flick against each other for a moment. Then he hauls up a scrap of Director Miller before he does something irrevocably inappropriate and stupid.
“Thanks Jensen. You should edit your report - the higher ups don’t need an in-depth review of Prague brownie no matter how good they are,” and Jim was not sharing with those assholes, even if they never came next nigh or near Prague, it was the principle of the thing damnit, “and follow up on the leads you found. Keep me updated and I’ll have backup ready if you need it.” Not that he was likely to. The aftermath of Apex was mostly a blur, but the reports had painted a pretty clear picture of the sheer number of Gold Masks Jensen had left unconscious in his wake.
Jensen straightened with a soft, put-upon sigh. “You’re crushing my dreams of being a food critic Director.”
“You can be a food critic in your own time, on TF29 time I expect in-depth reports on your cases. A bit more detail that “Infiltrated Dvali mustering point, planted TF29 issued listening devices, exfiltrated” would be appreciated you know.” Like how he did it. Jim was willing to bet good money it was something along the lines of turning on his cloak and walking in via the rafters, but confirmation of weakpoints in their security would be nice. Jensen just shrugs, the movement seeming exaggerated by the heavy coat.
“Magicians, secrets”. One of those dark eyebrows peaks above his shades. A dare. Jim wasn’t taking it. Jensen keeping his little secrets had already proven to result in a lot of saved lives, and Jim had enough niggling doubts after too long chewing over past missions while stuck in a hospital bed to try and chase those secrets down. He waved one hand towards his door instead, sliding the plate to the side where it no longer obstructed his access to his keyboard.
“Well go work more magic tricks on the Dvali, and on your paperwork please.”
Jensen nods as if those were serious orders, and slips the empty plate off Jim’s desk.
“Well if you insist, Director, I guess I’d better get to it”. The door was already sliding shut behind him before Jim could open his mouth to say he was perfectly capable of cleaning up after himself. He shakes his head and turns back to the reports drowning his inbox.
It was several hours later before he realises he has a smear of chocolate in the corner of his mouth.