Proton at work was a sight to behold, and not one Petrel got to witness often. He was bent over at the desk, his eyes sharp and focused as he flipped between print-out after print-out of security footage that he had gotten his lieutenant to narrow down in the span of a few hours. His shoulders were tense, his lips twisted into a snarl, and his body nearly rigid as he flipped more and more quickly through his papers. Petrel imagined if he tried, he could snap him in half easily and watch bits of him splinter off and ricochet around the room. The thought made him shift almost eagerly from where he was stretched out on the bed, and his eyes drifted down the slope of Proton's back to his gorgeously grabbable ass.

It wasn't fair: he thought being upstairs for as long as he had would be enough to smooth everything over and end with them falling into the bed together. Things were smoothed out, more or less—at least in that Proton didn't seem nervous that Petrel was watching him. Petrel still wasn't sure what Proton wanted him to dress up in, and he hadn't been able to so much as coax him in with another shoulder rub. At least the view was nice. He threw one arm over his forehead and shifted to try and lessen a sharp and irritating pain in lumbar.

"Hey," he said, "can you do me a favor?"

"I'm busy," Proton answered him, and Petrel let out an irritable huff of air.

"You know I'm just going to keep bothering you, right?" he pushed. "I know you're trying to work, right now. I can be really distracting when I want to be."

"You're always distracting."

"Oh, sweetheart. Am I running through your wildest daydreams? Living in that tiny little head of yours rent-free?"

Proton shot him a sharp glance, and that just completely tickled Petrel. He sat up a little too fast, and his back cracked, sending a shock of pain up his spine that briefly blinded him and made him fall rigidly back onto the mattress with a high whine. Before the world came back into focus, he heard Proton's chair squeak and a pair of hands was pressing to his face, rubbing his hair, shushing him as pillows were adjusted and rearranged to prop him in just the right way. His ragged breaths came to a slow and steady crawl, his chest rising and falling with each one he took, and the bright stars in front of his eyes faded to reveal Proton kneeling next to the bed, his brow furrowed as he watched over him.

"If by 'living rent-free' you mean constantly worried," the younger man huffed, "then yes. Idiot. You always worry me. Hold on. I'll bring your meds."

And oh, how Petrel loved to watch him go. God. If he could get up he would have Proton on the floor before he even knew what was happening. Maybe if he was pathetic enough, he could convince him for a quickie. If Proton noticed the way Petrel was devouring him with his eyes, he didn't say anything about it; he simply went to Petrel's bag and dug around until he pulled out one of his many pill bottles and shook it. Then, he frowned, popped the top off, and took a look inside. He tipped a single pill out into his palm and his frowned deepened, sticking his eye to the bottle's mouth as he took another look.

"Am I out?" Petrel asked, and Proton shrugged.

"Sorry," he confirmed, "just the one left." He brought it over and placed it delicately into Petrel's hand, and he threw his head back and swallowed it easily. Better something than nothing. He'd dealt with worse.

"Maybe there's something else you can do to keep my mind off it," he suggested, but Proton was already on his way back to the desk. "C'mon. I'm bored. Help a man out."

"Do you see me working? You wanna be the one to explain to Boss why I haven't wrapped this up, yet?"

What a goddamn killjoy. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. The threat of Giovanni's involvement was the only thing that made Petrel behave—though he wasn't sure if it still would have, any other day. Proton wasn't the only one on thin ice, and at the very least, Petrel understood it was best to toe the line and let the heat die down for a little while. He didn't want to risk Giovanni taking matters into his own hands. So with a long and suffering sigh, he reached for his own laptop and settled it onto his stomach, pouting as Proton returned to just generally ignoring him.

The silence that ultimately settled between them was cathartic, in a way. It was a peace and quiet that soothed him, eased him into a sort of productive trance, and before he knew it, his fingers were flying over the keys, tending to whatever infirm documents were sent his way. Grunts were in and out as usual. Archer's lieutenant broke his wrist, somehow. An admin in RD had to be treated for chemical burns from a gloom's Acid attack. They were almost out of nitrile gloves again. One of the exam rooms was made virtually unusable by a partially collapsed ceiling, and Petrel sent out a few maintenance requests. It was just monotony, over and over, and all the while his joints and back throbbed distantly. He'd give his left arm for a good high, right about now.

Proton suddenly got up again. This time, he organized his papers into—well, not into neat piles, but still into piles, then took his gear and began furiously tapping out a message. It was more interesting than having to send yet another requisition in that Petrel knew Archer would fight him over, and so grateful for the distraction, his eyes lingered again on the smaller man while he went to pull on his boots and adjusted his hat.

"Going somewhere?" Petrel asked him, and Proton shot an irritated look over his shoulder.

"Going to meet up with Decarli," he huffed, "he refuses to come down."

"Oh?"

"Don't play dumb. I know you bullied him earlier."

"Babe, this is my room, and I like my privacy. Your little errand boy can meet you literally anywhere else down here."

"Dumbass, we're just bunkin' here. It'd be easier if I had him with me."

"If I have to be fucking bed-ridden because I'm still recovering—from hauling your ass around, by the way, which I have yet to receive any real gratitude for—"

"You tried to poison me!" Proton incredulously cut him off, "sorry if I ain't blowin' you for my attempted murder!"

"—then I do not want fucking admins loitering in my room," Petrel finished over him, and Proton rolled his eyes. "Don't give me that look. Think about how I feel, some disposable cunt like that seeing me so—so us—"

"You're not useless," Proton jumped to cut him off again, and Petrel felt himself inexplicably bristle up. "You're the furthest damn thing from useless, so shut up already."

He came back to the bedside, but as he approached, Petrel's jaw set and he stubbornly looked the other way. If Proton remembered with any clarity—if he wasn't so fucking addled—he wouldn't feel that way. Petrel wasn't sure if that would be much better, but he couldn't stand any real pity. Not when he wasn't the one deliberately pulling the strings. Proton took him by the cheeks and pulled his face back. The look in his eye would have made Petrel spit at anyone else who offered it to him; in fact, he'd been preparing himself to be a little shit and do just that. Instead, though, he found himself settling down, his sneer dying into a grumpy pout, then further into something much softer as Proton smiled and gently kissed him.

"If I'd known that's all it takes to get ya settled down, I'd have started doin' it a lot earlier," he laughed as he pulled away. "I'll stop and get ya some more pills on the way back, okay?"

"Alright," Petrel grudgingly agreed, "you'll be back by tonight, right?"

"That's the plan. And I'll let you know before I hit the streets."

Proton gave him one final pat on the cheek, then briefly attempted to straighten his uniform before heading out the door. His boots clicked steadily on down the hall, and Petrel let out a heavy sigh as he was left with his thoughts and not much else. This was it. This was his hell. There was no way he was about to lay there with only himself and paperwork for company. Not for the rest of the day. With a grunt, he strained himself to reach for his bag, snapping it off the floor and plopping it down next to him. The package Decarli brought for him was right on top of his other junk, and he tore through the packaging easily. Inside was a cluster of vials, maybe six, maybe seven, all filled with identically clear liquid save for the one in the very middle. It was filled with something that looked like a dark sludge, slow-moving like molasses, and Petrel took that one to slip into his pocket. Then, he took one of the identical vials instead, holding it up to catch the light. Technically, he was supposed to take all of the identical ones to a few of his contacts around the city, but who would know if just one went missing...? He could blame it on his grunts. Obviously those dumbasses didn't know how to count—that's why they needed him to run the ship, after all.

His mind made up, Petrel settled himself back on his pillows and began his desperate search for a vein.

Staying inside was starting to drive Proton mad, and he hadn't even been at the Game Corner for a full day, yet. It was something about the quiet and the monotony; HQ was a bustling city in comparison. He wasn't supposed to go up to the slots, and he wasn't supposed to go outside, even to grab himself a snack at the PokeMart across the street. The eerie silence and hum of distant servers echoed through the underbelly of the building, and with each reverberating step in the empty halls he recalled the moments in the ruins of the Pokemon Mansion before everything went dark. It sent shivers up his spine, and if he were being honest with himself, he couldn't blame Decarli for being on-edge. No one wanted to work under the Game Corner. Proton wasn't sure how long they would be there, but hopefully they would be home soon. Or, at the very least, he hoped the heat on himself would die down quickly.

He hopped over spinny tiles on his way down the hall in an elaborate game of hopscotch, whistling to himself as he went. Decarli always bitched about the tiles. Proton didn't understand. They were big, but not that big, especially if you jumped over the corners. There was a ton of them, though, and by the time he made it to the other side, he was a little winded, huffing and puffing as he took a minute to steady himself on the wall. He didn't have time to still be recovering. He had work to do.

"Fuck me," he grumbled, squeezing his eyes shut. He took one final big breath and shoved himself off. As soon as he was done, he was going back to pass out with Petrel. He'd earned it. Working to bring his breaths back into balance, he took the stairs up and swaggered down the hall to one of the offices that was typically empty. Today, however, Decarli sat at the big table in the middle, speaking animatedly with Kei, who frowned thoughtfully over their print-outs.

"No, no, no," he was saying, "this one is time-stamped from the day of the shipment. The window of opportunity is still too small for any of the front-house grunts to have ratted us out." His arm was wrapped in a heavy cast, and Proton noted with a hint of amusement that a few of his friends seemed to have signed it. Decarli rubbed his chin, then shuffled through more print-outs.

"It doesn't make sense," he finally said, "everyone's accounted for. There's got to be someone without an alibi."

"Yeah, I hit that problem, too," Proton finally spoke up, slapping down a folder thick with print-outs of his own. Kei visibly jumped, his body going rigid as he stared hard at his broken wrist; Decarli raised an eyebrow at him.

"You know how sketchy that looked, right?" he deadpanned, then turned his attention to Proton, who came around the table to raid the pizza boxes. He'd taken a little too long; they were less than warm, but undaunted, he took a huge bite as he leaned over their work.

"Cut him some slack," Proton said, "Kei's working very hard not to disappoint me. Ain't that right, Kei?"

"Yes, sir," Kei quickly answered, and Proton smiled sweetly and reached out to teasingly slap him on the back, reveling in his discomfort.

He crossed to the other side of the table, next to Decarli, and hopped up to sit on it, his feet swinging in empty air. Clenching the slice between his teeth, he took two papers to compare, squinting hard at them. Each print-out displayed a time stamp from the week of the raided shipment, grunts who weren't where they ought to be, or faces from the street who had been there at too convenient of times. More then one of the latter kind showed, faintly, the tall form and tell-tale spikey hair of none other than Lance of the Elite Four, himself; Proton sneered. So he was still hanging around, huh? That would be a good sign—clearly he didn't have what he needed, if the Game Corner hadn't been raided. On the other hand, his impudent loitering meant just another cherry on top of the tall, tall sundae that fed Proton's incessant migraines.

"Do we know for sure it's the feds?" he asked around the slice, and Decarli shrugged.

"Either the feds or a sentret," he sighed, "hell, could be a sentret working for the feds."

"Could be one of ours in lock-up, too," Kei timidly offered, and Proton set the papers down to catch his pizza as he thoughtfully chewed and swallowed. Feds, a really good PI, a grunt with loose lips; or, hell, even all three. He exchanged a glance with Decarli, and they seemed to be on the same page. Proton nodded.

"Alright," he eventually settled on, "and there's a shipment going out soon?"

"Tonight," he lieutenant confirmed. That made it easy enough. Proton began to neaten the papers into loose piles.

"Then we're golden," he decided, "we can get this shit taken care of and put this all behind us. Kei?" The admin sprung to attention in his seat, his body once more going rigid. "I want you here with comms open and your eyes on CCTV. Decarli and I will convoy with the shipment, and with any luck we'll figure out who the hell thought to screw us over like this." He motioned dismissively towards Kei, who abruptly stood and began to back towards the door.

"I'll go prepare my station," he confirmed, "is there anything else, Executive?" When Proton waved his hand again, he bowed himself out of the room, and Decarli took another slice of pizza. They sat and chewed together as they listened to Kei's footsteps disappear down the hall, and once they were certain everything was quiet, turned to lean conspiratorially in towards each other, speaking in quiet undertones.

"He dipped out for an entire day last week," Decarli confided in him, folding his arms across his chest. "Said he was poking around for blind spots outside, but he's been jumpy since I got here."

Proton hummed, chewing mindlessly on the rapidly rubberizing cheese of his slice. He remembered the trainer Kei sat with on his lunch breaks—he figured Kei told him something or another about his work. Maybe he used Rocket by name, maybe he didn't, and in the end that didn't precisely matter because any amount of information freely given was too much information. So when he questioned Kei, he gave him a little slap on the wrist, told him to clean up the loose ends, and he had been hopeful that was all it would take. To his knowledge, the trainer hadn't been invited down. What was more, as a newly-promoted admin, Kei ought to have had too much on his plate to even so much as think of going outside. So what was he up to?

"Alright," he said easily around the cheese, "change of plans. There's someone I want you to find for me."

"Oh?" Proton motioned to the folder he'd brought, and Decarli reached across the table to pull it between them and flip it open. Focused, Proton began flipping rapidly through his print-outs, going back further and further, until he found one from the security footage he'd scanned his first day on the case: Kei and his trainer friend, sitting and making googly eyes at each other on the curb outside the PokeMart across the street. Proton tapped one finger to the trainer's face.

"Our cute new friend," he announced, "he's been hanging around town prepping to fight the gym leader, from what Kei says. If he's still here, I want him hogtied and stashed away somewhere safe until we get the shipment out." He flipped the paper over and grabbed Decarli's pen, scribbling out a crude map on the back. "There's a boiler room down by the security office, and a nice li'l equipment room behind that big enough for a party. Two chairs, and whatever toys you can scrounge up."

Decarli stroked his chin, holding the map up to try and orient himself. Then, he flipped it back over to study the trainer's face. He cast Proton a questioning look, which he replied to with a nod, and Decarli folded the page up and stuffed it into his pocket. "Shipment leaves at eleven," he announced as he stood, "I'll have him ready well before then. Anything else, chief?"

Proton shook his head and dismissed him, and so Decarli too gathered his things and pushed his chair in before heading off down the hall to prep himself for some footwork. Proton wasn't sure what he would do without him; from the first day they met, Decarli had been dependable and a hard worker. It felt like just days ago he was showing Proton the ropes downstairs. His first big job had been under his friend's supervision, sniffing out a sentret who had sneaked their way into the ranks. She'd been a smart cookie, private investigator, not a cop, and she'd almost gotten away with—with—...? His head began to pound again, something sharp settling behind his eyes, and Proton lifted his hat to rub his scalp in a futile attempt to soothe it. What had she almost gotten away with...? He was certain it was something important. At least a little. Or was it? Maybe it had just been some rando off the street to practice on. He should have remembered. It was his start. It was the thing that made him everything he was. The more he strained, the more he came up blank. The stupid mewtwo really had done a number on him, huh? The pain only grew, and so he tried to turn his brain off for a second to manage it. He ought to head straight back to the dorm. Petrel would know what was going on.

Petrel made him what he was.

Suddenly Proton's head snapped up, and his mind turned from staticy memories to the shadows and nerves of Giovanni's lodge, the feeling of Petrel's grip crushing his throat and the struggle to survive while his words were just noise buzzing in the back of his head. What did he mean by that? So they'd met once and Petrel—was it Petrel? There had been two of them, after all—helped him with that bully. Even trying to remember that much was difficult, and it was fuzzier than his job with Decarli by a mile. They'd only been around a week. Maybe less. And one day they just disappeared without a trace, but before then, but he remembered a lot of laughter when one of them had offered him the rock. The rattata, Proton realized, had started around then, too. But that was all before Rocket. Well before Rocket. And after he joined, he never really had a reason to interact with Petrel, much, not even when he was finally assigned to HQ. There were a few times when Petrel himself had patched Proton up in the infirm, but besides a few lingering stares and touches, there was never anything out of the ordinary. Besides that, the only times he saw Petrel were the times he may have deliberately sought him out. Not for anything in particular. Just to watch, because there had been something about him...

It had been a long game of meowth and pika, and Proton still wasn't sure who was supposed to be who. All he knew was that he wanted whatever stupid pokemon residue was lingering to leave so things would make sense again. So it would be back to the room to tell Petrel everything and hope he had something that would fix the headache. Maybe he could fill in a few more gaps like he had that morning. Stuffing the crust of his pizza into his mouth, Proton gathered up his things and took off to skip his way back over the spinny tiles.

Petrel was remarkably quiet when he was left alone; as much as he loved to hear himself talk, Proton had never caught him doing it without an audience. Sometimes that audience would be his ditto, but mostly that roll fell to Proton. He didn't mind that so much. It was a different kind of energy from the wildness of his crew, but it was entertaining to listen to when his partner wasn't deliberately trying to make a nuisance of himself. Still, it wasn't unusual by any means for Proton to approach Petrel's office during shift to hear nothing but his machines or his scribblings, and so as he approached the room today, the silence didn't bother him. He pushed the door open and slipped inside.

"Hey, Pete," he greeted as he shut the door behind him, "I'm gonna be heading out soon, you got a—"

For a second when he turned, he thought Petrel was actually asleep. He was still laying in the bed where Proton had left him, but he hardly stirred, his chest moving with his deep breaths. Proton quickly shut his mouth, cringing as he prayed he didn't wake him by accident. He ought to try and get him under the sheets, he thought to himself, but as he tiptoed closer and his eyes landed on Petrel's, he came to the uncomfortable realization of what he'd actually walked in on. He'd come home to her passed out in her nose candy too many times to kid himself.

Petrel's eyes were distant and glassy, and he blinked blankly as Proton approached, swallowing and letting out a low groan as he tried to navigate his clumsy tongue. His sleeve was rolled up, his belt taught around his arm, and the used needle laid on the floor nearby as Proton peeked around the bed. He scooped it up, searching for the cap until he found that and popped it on over the sharp, while Petrel shifted uselessly on the mattress.

"Mmm...hey...," he was able to mumble out.

"What are you on?" Proton demanded. Petrel merely groaned again, shifting and settling further, half his face now buried in his pillow. Proton turned harshly on him, reaching to grab him by the front of his shirt and give him a little jerk. "You colossal dumbass, what the fuck did you take?" This time, Petrel started, and his eyes darted quickly towards his bag before returning to his. Proton dropped him and marched over, yanking it open to reveal the torn package sitting on top of his things. There wasn't many vials; it looked like samples of their product. Proton tried not to busy himself with that part of Rocket's business. It had nothing to do with him, and it brought back painful memories. Petrel was supposed to broker the deals, start the pushes, so when Proton found it in his bag or around the dorm, he kept his mouth shut. Hell, when Petrel rolled a joint, he kept his mouth shut. But this was clearly more than just some weed, and unlike the mass-produced hyper potions, Rocket cut their drugs with some dangerous shit. He needed to do something before history repeated itself. Tell Archer? Ariana? Giovanni? He swallowed hard and whipped out his Gear to text someone. But no. If word got to Giovanni, Petrel would be in hot water, and they were walking a fine wire to begin with. Someone else. Who the hell else would Petrel even listen to, though?

Desperately, he sent his text to Petrel's lieutenant, and was relieved when he replied with the phone number he needed within minutes. It was a long shot, but it was the only option he had. He tapped it into his gear and let it ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. He worried for a moment that no one would pick up, but relief washed over him as he heard the click and the rough voice met him over the line.

"Executive," Sotiris grudgingly greeted him, "Bernard said you had news."

"It's about Petrel," Proton quickly answered, "I—I didn't know who to call, but he's..."

"Is he alive?"

"He's... awake. Stoned out of his damned mind. But awake. I'm not sure what this is he took. Master Giovanni can't know."

Sotiris sighed heavily over the line.

"Where are you two?"

Proton told him, and they hung up the call. He eyed Petrel uncertainly. He never stuck around when she was high as fuck. He didn't want to stick around while Petrel was out of it. But shouldn't he? He remembered Petrel stroking his hair, checking his pulse, laying the warm washcloth over his head. What if something was going wrong? What if he needed him? Proton stalled anxiously, his eyes darting between Petrel's vacant expression and the door. He remembered the gentle kisses, and his heart burned. He took a seat at the desk and began the wait.