Lately the atmosphere in the office had been suffocating, to say the least. The excessive testosterone in the air was just too much. You didn’t know when it happened, but at some point, Steve and Javier started being unnecessarily aggressive to each other and unnecessarily helpful to you.

You needed to see a CI? Steve would offer to take you. Did you yawn a little too hard? Javier would offer you his cup of coffee. Hell, if the CIA guys were a little too mean to you, Javier and Steve would jump at your defense like rabid dogs.

You didn’t think much of it at first, maybe it was just some good old DEA, underdog solidarity. Maybe they were just trying to get the newbie agent situated. But then you remembered they absolutely had not been as lenient with you in the beginning.

So what had changed? You were certainly not audacious enough to assume that it had anything to do with you. The world didn’t revolve around you.

It was 2am, in a tee shirt and undies that you accidentally dropped a bowl of soup on your kitchen tile.

“Shit,” you mumbled hoping that you hadn’t woken up Peña and Murphy, their apartments right beneath yours. You barely got to the paper towels before loud knocks emanated from your front door.

When you opened it, you were met with quite a view; a freshly showered Javier, with a tiny towel around his waist, and Steve standing in a tank top and… rubber duck boxers? Their guns were out and breaths labored.

Steve scanned your apartment, leaning inside, “Anyone here?”

“No-”

“You hurt?” Javier asked, not having yet registered your answer. His face scrunched up in confusion, “No?”

“What are you guys doing here?”

“We heard a sound.” Steve huffed.

“I dropped my soup,”

Silence.

“Fuck,” Javier rubbed his face frustratingly.

“That’s right. Fuck,,” Steve grumbled. “Nice hand towel, by the way,”

Javier’s eyes immediately narrowed, “Nice undies, Murphy. Your mom get them for you?”

What. The fuck. Was going on?