Work Text:
Helly R.
They mostly leave her alone in the bathroom.
Even Mark; assured she’s stopped writing messages on her skin. Or inside it.
So long as she makes a show of trying, staring at the awful numbers vibrating in their field and her skull, they don’t bitch much about Helly locking herself in a stall for a few hours.
At first, she just sits, breathes. The only time she gets to herself. This self.
Then she gets curious.
Runs fingernails over her thighs, touches under the cups of her bra, surprised at the duskiness of her nipples. Feels the zing of it between her legs, behind the neatly trimmed thatch of red hair.
There’s so little Helly knows about herself, but she knows this.
Knows, as she crooks a finger inside herself, that it feels good for its own sake, but even better for the questions it must leave her outie, at the scrabbled out ache and the smell of it on her fingers, smeared all over her keyboard when she returns.
Dylan G.
He doesn’t think about it, much less considers doing it, until his first Waffle Party.
The work is overwhelming, but the office is worse. He doesn’t speak much, those first few months, adrift while Mark and Petey smile and laugh, and Irving preaches from the Word of Kier. It’s embarrassing now, to think of how comforting that was.
Then Dylan earned himself a party.
They had all been so proud of him, cheering him on, letting him grab the first egg because it was all thanks to Dylan. He’d done something right, had the proof.
The feeling swelled inside of him, and with the party something else did.
It becomes all he can think of, making him work harder, making the others approve and pat his back. They’re his friends now, and he works for them too, to keep the office warm and welcoming.
But sometimes, when the numbers seem endless and everyone else seems cold, he takes care of himself in the bathroom. He’s earned the perk, after all.
Mark S.
On the really bad days, Mark organizes the storage closet. Or tries to, since those come with worse tremors in his hands.
He almost wishes his outie would just come in drunk, instead of leaving Mark with the aftermath.
But why would he? This is what Mark’s for.
So he sorts, grateful that Petey lets him. Irving had grumbled, but he’s not pawning it on Mark. He’s being kind.
So are his eyes, and his hands, and Mark pays him back by sneaking his own fingers into his pants.
Once, Petey had to help him to the bathroom he was so messed up, and for a heart stopping second, he thought Petey might reach into them himself. He'd packed Mark into a stall instead.
But it's what he thinks of, his voice saying it's alright, kid, mixing with Ms. Casey's dark eyes and trim waist, only vaguely guilty, the same way he feels later when the supply closet really is one of his duties and Helly's teasing smile joins them.
Petey K.
Sometimes Petey wonders if it's a bad thing, how comfortable he is at work. How he fits. Like he was made for it, team lead even when Irv's got seniority, somehow used to being in charge.
He feels better, having people to take care of, flushing with something like pride when Dylan whines Yes, Dad.
He doesn't select himself as Refiner of the Quarter if he can help it, happy to give it to his team.
But sometimes Cobel narrows those icy blues and makes the call for him, pointedly saying he deserves it for taking a Break Room stint for his boys.
So he takes the Waffle Party. He enjoys it. He's supposed to.
And sometimes, when they're waiting for the end of the quarter, tensions running high, he locks himself in the storage closet and dips a hand into his pants and remembers. Tries to, then thinks of Mark, soft and pliable and trusting under his hands.
And wonders if maybe he's not the good guy after all.
Irving B.
The Word of Kier cautions against vanity, but Irving still takes a measure of pride in his own discipline.
The others are more fallible, and he tries to lead by example. The body is temporary and, for them, restricted. The company is permanent.
He resists temptation, and even refrains from commenting on the smell in the bathroom sometimes: close, earthy and male.
One he knows so well doesn't need a name for it to feel his mouth flooding instinctively at it. He does not know if he means to vomit, or swallow. Either would be wasteful, unbecoming.
It's not until Burt, and his strong fingers, skin shockingly, intimately warm on his, that it occurs to Irving that he's never been truly tempted.
Not until he's the one thrusting in his own hand, a poor imitation of his desire, working furtively in a stall for release.
Choking down a cry for deliverance, aimed not at Kier and his wisdom, but at a man, the memory of his breath on Irv's lips.