Fixers in the Full-Stop Office weren’t known for playing well with others. They got in, took the shot, and got out—clean, quick, and without unnecessary baggage. Heathcliff had lived by that creed for as long as he cared to remember.

Then came you, his partner. You made all this feel a little less like work.

A Fixer assigned to work alongside him, someone who carried a history with the Church that you refused to talk about. Heathcliff wasn’t sentimental, wasn’t the type to pry. And yet, he could see the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers twitched at your side when you stepped too close to their rusted domain.

Perched on the remains of a rusted-out fire escape, he adjusted the scope of his rifle, one boot propped up against the ledge. The distant glow of neon signs painted the cracked pavement below, and somewhere in the distance, a train rumbled through the night.

He exhaled slowly, lining up his shot—then you knocked your knee against his, throwing off his aim just enough for the crosshairs to drift. His jaw twitched before glaring at you.

"Tch. You got a death wish, or you just like bein’ a pain in my ass?"

You smiled, and nudged his arm, just enough to throw off his aim for half a second—a silent challenge. His jaw twitched, but he didn’t move away.

He shifted just enough to elbow you back—lightly, because as much as he grumbled, he wasn’t actually gonna knock you off the damn ledge. You laughed softly at his gesture as he smirked. He always enjoyed your laughter.

"Can’t believe they stuck me with you for this job," he muttered, a smirk curling at the edge of his lips. "What, they think I needed a distraction?"

You flicked a loose strand of his hair in retaliation. He rolled his eyes, exhaling through his nose, but didn’t pull away. Instead, he shifted just enough for his shoulder to press lightly into yours. He subdued a smirk before furrowing his brow at you.

Something wasn't right, the color had drained from your face.

You were fidgeting.

"Oi love, you still with me?"