Terrore – Villainous (MU), Dr Flug and White Hat

[thecrazyalaskan]

Title: Terrore
Author: TheCrazyAlaskan
Fandom / Setting: Villainous [Mirror Universe]
Characters / Pairings: Dr Isaac Flug, White hat (implied / squinty Paperhat); references to Clemencia, 606
Rating: T+
Word Count: 1933
Warnings / Notes: Written for Round 8 of the Hurt / Comfort Bingo: Panic Attacks
Summary: In which Dr Flug's assistant's anxiety comes back to bite him in the ass.

It had been a long time since Dr. Flug's office had gotten a proper deep clean, so that, White Hat decided, was going to be his pet project for the day. It would be a nice surprise for him when he came back from a day of client meetings, if nothing else, he reasoned. As soon as Flug was out the door, White Hat let himself into the former's lab (the fact that the Doctor trusted him with a master key—what an honor!), quite literally rolled up his sleeves, and got to work.

Even with choosing to leave the chemicals and research papers on Flug's worktop alone, his work was cut out for him. Dusting all of the shelves and in the corners, reorganizing storage cabinets and sweeping took him well into the afternoon. All that was left now was to mop.

He started at the far end of the lab, humming as he went—not a song he knew, but an aimless, pleasant tune. This was going to be done in no time. He paused in front of the desk, surveying the un-mopped linoleum. If he started from the back corner and worked forward, he wouldn’t backtrack over the clean floor…

He took a step back to better assess the task, then another—

The floor was still wet, and his foot started to slide out from under him. His grip on the mop handle tightened, but it didn't stop him from falling, and he reached out to seize the edge of the workbench to catch himself. He remained upright, but just barely, and he floundered slightly to get back onto dry flooring and standing upright again.

In his struggle, the mop handle caught one of the beakers he'd previously cleaned around, tipping it over and spilling the contents within on the desk. The puddle spread quickly, eating away at the objects unfortunate enough to have been left behind, including—

"Notes—!" He dropped the mop and finally regained his footing, scrambling to salvage whatever he could. The corrosive was quickly soaked up by the notebooks and loose papers, rendering them soggy, unreadable messes before starting to eat away at them entirely. "No, no, not these—!" He tried to pull some of the papers back, which only spread the damage rather than spare anything from it.

His stomach twisted into knots as he watched all of the Doctor's work from the last three months get eaten. What was he going to do, what was he going to say—

"Is there a reason you're in my lab?"

Never, in all the years White Hat had worked here, had he been so terrified of his boss' voice. "Doctor!" He turned sharply, barely managing to avoid tripping again and bending quickly to pick up the mop. "You're… Welcome back. I—it's… Did your meetings go well? You're back so early—"

Flug shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over one arm. "Terrible," he replied shortly. "At the prices they were offering for what they wanted, you would have thought I was a cheap—" He stopped short, taking in his assistant's panicked gaze and the mess that was his workstation. "What the fuck happened?"

White Hat's grip on the mop tightened. "Aaah, I can explain—"

"Good, because that's a direct order." Even with the paper bag covering his face, the daggers Flug was shooting White Hat were all too obvious. "What did you do?"

White Hat sputtered for several seconds before lamely holding out the mop in explanation. "I slipped and when I went down, I… kinda knocked something over and it—"

"That was three months of research!" Flug dropped his jacket on his chair and pulled a pen from his trouser pocket, poking at the pulpy, dissolving mess. "Three months of busting my ass and it's all gone because you were a fucking klutz—"

White Hat winced at the sharp tone. "Doctor, I promise you, I didn't mean to." He forced himself to look up at Flug. "I'm—"

"You have thirty seconds to get out of my lab." Flug pointed toward the door. "Don't try to be helpful anymore—is that understood?"

"Yes, Doctor." Moving carefully to avoid the wet floor, White Hat made a quiet but very hasty retreat. The knot in his stomach had grown bigger, and now guilt was gnawing at both it and him from within.

One shoe had dropped, he realized as he poured out the mop water and returned the supplies to their cabinet. What was going to happen the other one did, too?

• • •

Thank the universe for the cloud.

So far as Flug was concerned, Clemencia did very few things right, but one of them was making sure his notes were backed up digitally. Something about going paperless and saving the trees or some shit—typically he didn't listen too deeply, but at least there was a digital back up of everything that had gotten destroyed.

That crisis under control, it was time for the day to get back on track. First things first—he needed his assistant back.

He emerged from the lab, and quickly found that White Hat was nowhere to be found, at least in all the usual places. In his search, he passed Clemencia, who was tugging with all her strength on a lead clipped to a collar into which she'd managed to get 606. "Where's White Hat?" he asked.

"Dunno," she replied, digging her heels into the tile. "In his room probably—c'moooooon Six Oh Six—!"

Flug left her to her task of trying to drag the bear out for a walk as he ascended the stairs to the more private parts of the estate. Two turns and three doors later, he knocked on White Hat's door—three, short and professional knocks. "We need to talk."

"Aah—j-just a second—!" The door opened, White Hat almost bracing himself against the doorframe. "Doctor—I'm surprised—no, it's nice to see you. Is everything okay?"

"Like I said, we need to talk," Flug repeated, indicating the room behind his assistant.

"Of course—" He stepped aside and let Flug inside. "H-have a seat."

White Hat kept his rooms minimal, but inviting and well lit. Flug settled on the edge of the desk. "Come sit," he ordered, indicating the unoccupied chair.

White Hat complied, straddling the chair and rolling up his shirtsleeves, his leg bouncing. "Is everything—what… what are we talking about?"

"It's about those notes," Flug replied simply, his arms loosely crossed over his chest.

A shiver seemed to pass through White Hat's body. "I'm very sorry about that, Doctor," he repeated. "I—I promise, it was an accident—"

"I'm well aware," he noted.

"I just—" He rubbed the back of his neck, his leg bouncing even faster. "I feel terrible—I know you worked so hard on that research—" The leg bouncing apparently no longer satisfying for him, he stood and started pacing the floor. "I can't stop thinking about it—"

"Yeah, about those notes—" Flug interjected.

"I know, all that time and effort is gone because of me!" White Hat moaned, drawing the back of his hand across his forehead, as if he were hot. "Doctor, you have every right to sack me—I understand completely—"

"Whoa, who said anything about me firing you?" the scientist asked incredulously.

"I would do the same thing if I were in your place!" It was as if Flug hadn't spoken. "I mean, if I were you and someone destroyed all my hard work—ohhh!" He removed his hat and set it on the dresser, carding his fingers through what Flug had always assumed was something like hair. His free hand started tugging at his tie. "This is so bad—"

"Okay, let's dial it back a notch," Flug suggested, watching his assistant slowly come undone (and not in a good way).

"I ruined everything," he moaned. "I always ruin everyth—" He stopped short, one hand flying to his mouth as he retched.

"Are you about to get sick on the carpet?" Shit, that was the last thing Flug needed right now.

"Just—it's nothing, Doctor." He managed a smile, but the expression was fragile, and it suddenly occurred to Flug that White Hat's face was damp with sweat. "Please, don’t worry about me—"

It would have been easier to do had he not stumbled, bumping into the dresser and disturbing his corporeal form just enough to allow a few gray tentacles to sprout from beneath his waistcoat.

"Okay, just stop," Flug ordered, standing and taking White Hat by the shoulders. "You need to take a minute and calm down—"

"I can’t just 'calm down,' Doctor!" The words were just shy of a wail. "It's—I wish I could!"

"Okay." He released his assistant, taking a step back. "What's wrong?"

"I ruin everything!" he moaned. "I ruined your work! I—look at me!" He lifted his arms helplessly, his tentacles writhing at his feet. "I can’t even keep myself together! No wonder you're going to sack me!"

"I'm not going to—" He stopped before he started swearing. "I'm not… going to fire you."

White Hat's eyes widened. "Doctor, I destroyed your research," he reminded. "Because I was a—a klutz—"

"And if you'd shut—" Being this patient wasn't exactly his strong suit, but he didn't need White Hat losing his shit (or his physical form). "If I could get a word in edgewise?"

He nodded shakily, allowing Flug to continue, "The hard copies were destroyed—they've been archived. Nothing was actually 'lost.'"

"…Really?" he mumbled.

"The… panicking and the melodrama was a little uncalled for," he commented, "but I'm not firing you."

A small smile touched White Hat's features, and he leaned heavily against the wall before sliding down it to sit with his knees drawn to his chest. "Thank you, Doctor," he mumbled, the words muffled as he hugged himself, his face hidden. "I'm sorry about the mess."

"I'm sorry you won't stop apologizing for it," he replied drily before looking down at his assistant. They were more or less the same height, but White Hat seemed much smaller when he was folded in on himself like this. "Just… take the afternoon. You're not much use like this."

He started to turn when White Hat caught him by the trouser leg. "Doctor, could—" He hesitated, still trembling. "Would it be presumptuous to ask you to stay a while? I'm—it's hard to explain—"

He didn't get the chance as Flug huffed softly and dropped into a sitting position next to him. Looked like he was taking the afternoon too—especially when one of White Hat's tentacles wrapped itself loosely around his wrist, the action not unlike holding hands. It was almost disgustingly adorable, but he didn't pull away and risk setting him off wondering what the perceived rejection meant (the simple explanation—the longer one was more complex than he was willing to address). "I'm still going to be working," he announced, pulling his phone out of his pocket and opening his email.

White Hat nodded without lifting his head. His thanks was mumbled, but quiet.

It was hard to tell how long they sat on the floor; the only indicator was the pile of emails to which Flug hadn’t replied were finally dealt with, and the fact that eventually, White Hat stopped shaking, but didn't stop holding his hand.