Henry shouldn’t have been surprised that Weston was a good fit.
The FBI wouldn’t have sent someone who would immediately crash and burn. Still, he had trouble remembering that Weston was probably his federal babysitter when Weston refused to be anything other than a competent Ranger. Maybe, Henry surmised, competence was part of the strategy, because being incompetent would have been a huge red flag.
Instead, Weston was an asset. Easy to work with, which Henry had at first found almost amusing, then slightly disconcerting, then just… normal.
Two months of normal. It was a good team, and Weston was a good fit.
Not that everyone felt that way.
Scharmann ran a tight ship in the North Cascades, and most of the Rangers, seasonal or permanent, enjoyed their work, enjoyed who they worked with (if they had to see people at all), and accepted the ebb and flow of roles.
Not Dave Wilcox. Who, Henry noted, had celebrated Weston’s two month hiring anniversary by forcing Scharmann to explain, in great detail, why Weston had been hired over him for the permanent position.
Wilcox was twenty-four and built for the brute squad. He was young in every sense of the word, but unfortunately a very talented outdoorsman. It was why Scharmann continually hired him for seasonal positions in North Cascades despite his tendency to grate on everyone around him. He’d taken Henry’s appointment with mild grumbling because it was easy to see Henry was a lost battle, but he held a deeply ingrained belief that the only thing holding him back from being a Ranger full-time was circumstance and political garbage.
Which he’d decided was Joe Weston’s fault this time around.
Obviously, Henry couldn’t explain that it was probably the FBI’s fault that Wilcox had been skipped over again, though Wilcox might have looked at Weston’s extensive military experience and rescue training and taken the L. Or learned from every previous year he’d been passed over. Henry had gotten the story out of Scharmann during a late night venting session at the bar. Never mind that Wilcox couldn’t see that his attitude was a huge problem for a team. Never mind that Wilcox’s reliability hadn’t gone up over the years. Never mind that he refused every opportunity for mentorship. Never mind that while Weston had already proven himself a dozen times over, Wilcox was yet again in Scharmann’s office, ranting about “the pretty boy from the East coast.”
And they were nearing the end of Wilcox’s seasonal term. Henry didn’t need to know Wilcox from Adam to see his frustration ramping up.
He didn’t need to know Weston, either, to see that the man was trying to ignore it. To stay calm in the face of slights and insults that didn’t do any physical harm, but made Weston’s time in the office worse. To look uninterested despite deliberate provocation. Today, Wilcox was yet again in Scharmann’s office, fuming about time served and seniority and Henry had definitely caught the phrase “real man” at least once, which sent ice coursing through his veins and distracted him from seeing Weston enter the kitchen. “I take it Wilcox isn’t warming up to me.”
Henry tried to cover his surprise by sipping his coffee - but he shook his head. Weston raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “Would he have been a better fit? For the permanent spot?”
Even if Henry didn't suspect Weston of being an agent, he recognized real personality versus a cover. This wasn't fishing for compliments. Two months had taught him that Weston was calm, often soft-spoken and deliberate; he didn’t use sarcasm as a defense mechanism, and he certainly wasn’t using vanity that way now. “Weston, I may not know you very well,” he said slowly, taking another sip. “But listening to that, I think I can make an educated guess.”
And he could have sworn Weston smiled as Henry left the kitchen.
_ _ _ _ _
“New Director of Devo?”
Hannah, Personnel Manager extraordinaire, popped out between her and BK’s offices to watch as Enver walked their latest development candidate out of the office.
“Looks promising to me,” BK said quietly. Enver was smiling, one arm already extending for an enthusiastic handshake as they neared the elevators. “I was supposed to talk to Enver about the library program this morning, and he rain checked because their coffee ran long.”
“How long?” Bess, Director of Community Partnerships and BK’s boss, stuck her own head into the hallway.
“Um - two hours long?”
“Oh, that is promising,” Hannah breathed.
“And good for us,” Bess cut in. “Enver’s been whining about this job search for months. Said he could identify specific streaks of gray directly correlated to disappointments in each candidate.”
Hannah shot them both a look. “He said that about the end-of-year campaign, too.”
“And the annual fund.”
“And the endowment.”
“And subscription sales -”
“So Enver should just be a silver fox by now?” BK interrupted, and Hannah grinned, waggling her eyebrows a bit.
“That, or he truly keeps track of individual hairs. Still. This is great, that he looks so - Enver!” She hissed the Executive Director's name as he returned from the lobby area, and he laughed as he changed his trajectory. “Enver, do we have Devo again?!”
“Houston, we have fucking Devo,” he deadpanned. “Finally. Theodore “Theo” Bayer starts in two weeks. I was beginning to think you would have to raise all the money yourselves.”
“I play bass,” BK reminded them. “I play bass, and I can build a mean spreadsheet, and my training ends there.”
“Not anymore!” Bess looked far too happy when Enver nodded in agreement. “Theo’s going to be your guy, BK. You’re going to be attached at the hip - building programs, finding funders, making this community fall in love with us…”
“What’ll you be doing?” BK shot back, but Bess was already grinning, a wicked thing that showed she’d been waiting for this question.
“Finding you more opportunities to do all of the above!” she quipped, and Enver, used to these conversations devolving, excused himself to actually get some work done. “And convincing Enver to let us take them," she added quietly. Enver was a collaborative ED - but uncompromising when it came to risk assessment. Every new project required extensive vetting. "That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”
“I have to hire musicians for all of BK's projects. Do I get a raise?" Hannah ducked Bess’s attempt at a swat. “Fine. No raise. But you also promised me a reduced brass section on this family concert and I’m still seeing three trumpets, which is a problem if the Opera refuses to budge on their current rehearsal structure, and -”
BK took her cue from Enver and backed into her own office, letting Hannah and Bess duke it out over who got first dibs on the ENSO brass section. On her bookshelf were three orchids and a grow light; Riley’s original gift, and one each from Henry and Olson, along with a card. So far, the plants were thriving.
Kind of like her.
The card was in Henry’s tidy block-lettering: Proud of you, kid.
_ _ _ _ _
Things had escalated to an ugly place with Wilcox.
It was the last week of his post, and none of his tactics had made a whit of difference. Weston was still in North Cascades, Scharmann hadn’t budged, and Wilcox was being let go in two days. Not a single other ranger had joined in his crusade.
And Henry had hoped that Wilcox would understand it was a lost cause, but Henry had underestimated Wilcox’s desire to glean some sort of physical satisfaction. Retribution for this slight against Wilcox’s ego.
Henry should have seen it coming. He should have stepped in earlier, he should have flagged that Wilcox’s transformation from a bullshit-filled nuisance into an actual toxic nightmare was not typical frustration. Weston’s ability to remain unruffled by it was impressive, but Wilcox took that as a challenge, and now they were… here.
Scharmann was training Hunter - for the thousandth time - how to update his Hiker Incident Reports without erasing everyone else’s. And Wilcox was taking advantage like it was open season on Joe Weston. Henry wasn’t sure what to do. Weston could take care of himself. He knew that, Weston knew that, everyone else knew that, but this felt different. This felt like the last, tense moment before something snapped, but Weston was still attempting to ignore it, still trying to push through these last few days before Wilcox was out of all of their lives.
If Henry stepped in, he wouldn’t be doing Weston any favors; it would make Wilcox even more insufferable. But if he didn’t…
A muffled thud finally brought Henry to his feet.
Weston had recently returned from the kitchen with coffee. And Wilcox had delighted in splattering that coffee all over Weston’s neatly stacked reports as he practically hip-checked the desk on his way past. While Weston tried to clean up the mess, Wilcox began to assault the organization system that Weston had assembled on day one and never deviated from: writing implements on the right, notebook next to it, laptop dead center, reports in two trays -
Like Wilcox was a bully on a playground.
Scharmann was still busy with Hunter. Henry knew better than to commandeer anyone’s power, but he knew men like Wilcox - they were all the fucking same. If you were bigger, stronger, they pretended to respect you, but if not… If you didn’t knock them on their ass… “Wilcox. Knock it off.”
Scharmann’s eyes came up to meet his from across the room. He waited until she gave him the tiniest of nods, then Henry came around his own desk to stand by Weston. Wilcox’s hands paused - briefly - in the act of pocketing one of Weston’s pens, and he smirked up at Henry.
Next to him, Weston was stoic. Even as he blotted up the coffee everywhere, not an ounce of emotion bled through.
If this was how BK felt about Henry when he locked himself down, he understood why it was so damn frustrating. "I’m serious. Put Weston’s shit back and go do your fucking job.”
That smirk grew into a sneer, and the rest of the office stopped pretending to not be listening. Martinez hovered by the kitchen. Scharmann’s face was hard. Henry suddenly knew that the next round at the bar was going to be on her.
“C’mon, Blythe.” Henry’s lip curled up in disgust at the attempted camaraderie. “Look at this pretty boy, desk jockey bullshit. Everything just so -” Wilcox tightened his face, pitched his voice high, and Henry went ice-cold, taking another step toward Weston. One more and he’d be standing in front of him. Maybe he’d block him from seeing Wilcox’s affected wrist, from hearing the words still pouring from Wilcox’s poisonous mouth. Maybe he wouldn’t see Scharmann’s shock, or the way Martinez’s eyes widened. Maybe he wouldn’t see Henry’s own shame for letting Wilcox get this far. “Why won't you take the hint, pretty boy?! Why don’t you just pack up your pretty boy desk and take your pretty boy self back where you belong, when there are real men here to do -”
“Enough.” The sneer on Wilcox’s face wavered for a second. Henry could turn Wilcox into little more than a smear of red on the floor, and they both knew it - but the cursed door was open now. Even if Wilcox pulled back, no one would forget that this had happened.
And Henry knew what people like Wilcox did when they either had to admit defeat or double down. Cold fury grew, because he knew all too fucking well -
“You want him to stay, Blythe?! You want him here -”
“He pulls his weight, Wilcox. He does his job.” He had to keep himself under control. He didn’t need to transform to deal with Wilcox but his second skin flitted under the surface all the same. Wilcox kept staring at his eyes, and he knew he was just barely holding himself together. He either needed to control himself or fully unleash, and the latter was not an option. Henry forced himself to breathe during Wilcox’s shocked silence. To curl his lip and slow his words. “Better than you - though that’s not hard.” He glanced down at Weston and managed a very stiff shrug. His second skin was micrometers away. “Hopefully the comparison isn’t insulting?”
“Not at all.” Weston’s voice was mild; it immediately soothed Henry’s temper, which was a miracle in itself. “I am worried about Wilcox, though.”
“Are you?” This was unexpected. The asshole in front of them started frowning - like he could see the power shift in real time.
“About his constitution, definitely.” For a soft-spoken man, Weston’s voice carried. “Since he’s so rattled by a gay man being in the same room.”
“Shut the fuck up, Weston!”
“How do you think he’d feel if he knew there were two?” Henry almost snarled it - but Weston laughed.
“Two - I don’t know, Blythe. There probably isn’t enough testosterone in the world to keep him from catching -”
Wilcox attempted a wild, flailing shove, a mistake because Henry stepped between him and Weston, and you couldn’t shove Henry. Not normally and definitely not when he was almost transformed.
A hand landed on his arm, Weston’s voice steady. “I’ve got this." Henry nodded, breathed -
“You’ve got this?! You think you can - you think you can handle me, Weston?!”
It took all of Henry’s self-control to step aside and let this happen, but maybe it had to be this way. Weston had to stomp it out himself or Wilcox would never stop, and Henry needed to trust that Weston knew what he was doing -
He never should have worried.
In hindsight, it was a masterclass. He should have been taking notes. Wilcox was snarling, snapping, trying to make huge, threatening gestures, but nothing he said mattered, and nothing he said flustered Weston at all. Weston just stood there and waited. Hands loose at his side. Face calm, with the slightest hint of a smile.
“You think you got this, back it the fuck up, pretty boy! Come at me, let me fucking have it -”
“Mama raised me polite,” Weston drawled back, and when Henry let out a snort, when Martinez audibly laughed and Wilcox finally read the room and realized what was happening -
He surged forward. His right fist grazed Weston’s face, but that was the only contact he made.
Weston struck out. The first blow winded Wilcox and folded him over. The second snapped his chin up, and the third sent him flying backwards, skidding across the floor.
Right into Hunter’s desk. Where Scharmann could not look more disgusted.
And he was down, and staying down. There was a slight abrasion on the left side of Weston’s face, but as Scharmann sighed, as she and Martinez grudgingly hauled Wilcox to his feet - “Hunter, call the cops. Non-emergency, we’ll bring him in,” and then out the door, Henry’s eyes met Weston’s again.
Shield wall still up. “Looks like you had it under control,” he finally said. Weston nodded slowly… then cleared his throat. Looked at his half-empty mug, then shrugged and carried it into the kitchen for a refill.
The mug shook ever so slightly.
And… Henry must be going soft, but Wilcox’s words reverberated around his brain as he watched Weston go. Weston pretended to be looking thoroughly through the cabinet’s offerings, just like Henry pretended to be focused on Weston’s desk. And when Weston came back, with Hunter occupied behind them and Scharmann and Martinez still taking out the garbage, Henry let Weston sit, then leaned down.
He realized that meant he was looming over him, cleared his throat, and backed up with a noise of apology. “We don’t think that.” He met Weston’s gaze straight-on. “If you like it here, we want you here.” Weston’s stoic mask was back. “Wilcox… Wilcox doesn’t speak for us. Any of us. You should know that. I hope you know that.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, gradually letting the sounds of Hunter cursing in exasperation - back to reports - take over in the background.
“I do.” Weston finally gave the tiniest ghost of a smile, then gestured towards his monitor. “Now that my personal poltergeist is gone, I should probably get back to work.”
Henry bobbed his head. Knocked two fingers on Weston’s desk as an acknowledgement. And then - because he couldn’t quite help himself - corrected Weston’s line-up of pens before heading into the kitchen to grab more coffee himself.
When he got back to his desk, a notification had popped up on the office’s ancient messenger system.
GoWeston: Thank you for having my back.
GoWeston: You didn’t have to do that. Any of it.
This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. Weston was supposed to be in the background, and Henry was supposed to be playing Park Ranger. There wasn’t supposed to be a time where they crossed into… whatever this was. But Henry cocked an eyebrow at him and shrugged.
Witcher83: Should have had it sooner.
Witcher83: Won’t make that mistake again.
_ _ _ _ _