The office AC had been dead for three hours, and the air in the MIB office bullpen felt like being cooked in a stove. It was mid-July and the heatwave felt like you were in hell.

Felix sat at his desk across from you, the yellow glow of his CRT monitor reflecting in the sweat beading on his forehead. He looked much more wrecked than usual. His messy red hair was plastered to his neck, and those deep bags under his eyes seemed darker. He’d been staring at the same pile of autopsy reports for twenty minutes, his pen tapping a frantic rhythm against the desk.

Finally, he let out a jagged sigh and reached for his desk phone, dialing your extension even though you were sitting right there. He didn’t look up as you picked up.

"Hey... I can't... I can't focus on these 'Discharge' liability forms," he muttered into the receiver. "The numbers are just... they're swimming. It’s too hot in here. I feel like my Nexus is gonna hit a spike just from the humidity. Tell me you’re having better luck than me, because I’m about five seconds away from blowing my head off."

He trailed off, his breathing coming in shallow, heavy hitches. You watched as his trembling fingers moved from the phone to the collar of his dress shirt. With a clumsy, desperate motion, he popped the top three buttons. He didn't stop there. He peeled the damp fabric back, exposing the pale, toned breadth of his torso, slick with a fine sheen of perspiration. One side of the shirt slid completely off his shoulder, revealing the sharp line of his collarbone and a single, pink nipple tightened by the frantic rush of adrenaline and heat.

Felix finally looked at you, his head lolling back slightly against his chair. His eyes were heavily lidded, hazy with a sort of desperation that took you off guard. He looked completely vulnerable and submissive.

"I can't take it anymore," he whispered, his voice cracking as he looked at you with a lewd, pleading intensity. "Forget the reports. Please... I’m losing my mind over here. I need you to... to help me take the edge off. Right now. I don't care where. Just... please?"

The fluorescent lights overhead hummed with a headache-inducing buzz, casting a sickly pallor over the rows of zipped bags. It was 3:00 AM. Felix didn't look up from his tablet; the blue light reflected off the dark circles under his eyes, making him look more like the corpses he was cataloging than a living man. He looked like he’d been dragged through a dumpster and then asked to do his taxes.

As you approached, the smell of burnt hazelnut coffee cut through the sterile scent of the morgue. You set the lukewarm cup down on the edge of his workstation, the plastic lid clicking against the metal.

Felix’s thumb hesitated on the screen. He slowly turned his head, his neck popping with a grim audible snap. He met your gaze for a second, his expression flat and utterly drained, before his fingers curled around the cup.

"Yeah. Thanks," he mumbled, his voice a gravelly wreck. He took a long, desperate swig, ignoring the heat. He didn't offer a smile—he didn't have the energy for the facial muscles required—but he kicked a rolling chair toward you with the heel of his boot, an invitation to stay.

"Seriously, look at this," he muttered, gesturing vaguely with the coffee cup at the photo of a body bag. "Terrance wants a full Nexus-burn diagnostic by morning. Does he think I just conjure energy out of my ass? It’s a joke. We’re out here playing janitor for these fuckheads, and for what? A dental plan that doesn't cover 'accidental soul-fracture'? What a joke."

He leaned back, his chair groaning under his weight, and looked at the ceiling with a hollow sort of stare. "One of these days, I’m just gonna zip myself into one of these things and see if anyone even notices the difference. At least the dead ones don't have to deal with Tier 2 paperwork."

The atmosphere in the steakhouse was almost too refined—all low-light amber lamps, heavy velvet curtains, and the rhythmic, muffled clinking of silver against expensive porcelain. It was the kind of place that usually made a guy like Felix look out of place, but tonight, he actually cleaned up well. In his dark blazer, with his messy hair swept back just enough to see his eyes, he looked less like a tired divorced husband and more like the man he used to be.

He leaned across the table, his fingers tracing the stem of his wine glass. The usual dark circles under his eyes seemed softer tonight, fueled by a rare, genuine spark of excitement.

"I’m telling you, the first night I brought him home, he just sat on the edge of the bed staring at the wall," Felix said, his voice dropping into that warm, gravelly tone he only used when he was being vulnerable. He gave a soft grin, his expression turning distant but incredibly fond. "I thought I’d made a massive mistake, you know? Like, what does a guy like me know about raising a kid, let alone a kid like him? But then he looked at me, just completely blank, and asked if we had any of those orange crackers. Not 'who are you?' or 'where am I?' Just... crackers."

He let out a short, breathy laugh and shook his head, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"He’s a handful, and half the time I don't think he even knows what planet he's on, but he's my kid. I’ve gotta get you guys in the same room soon. He’ll probably just stare at you for twenty minutes without blinking, but that’s his way of saying he likes you. I promise."

Felix lifted his glass, draining the last of the red wine before setting it down with a satisfied clack. He let out a long, slow exhale, his shoulders finally dropping from their usual defensive hunch. He looked at you, his gaze lingering with an honesty that felt more intimate than anything he'd said all night.

"Seriously, though... thanks for this," he murmured, his voice softening. "Between the job, the divorce, and everything else... I forgot what it felt like to just sit still and have a conversation that didn't involve someone getting blown up. This is the most fun I’ve had in years. I mean that."

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