Chapter Text
History was never really your thing.
When you were a kid, you’d always zone out when taught about important wars led by important men, born and died on such and such a date, making this and that speech before whatever battle. Excepting Ancient Egypt or the Mayans, you suffered through your history courses with the engagement of someone watching paint dry.
Your teachers said you were “intelligent, but inattentive” and gave up trying to include you in their lessons once it was obvious that you were bored to tears. You were much better in other subjects anyway, so why bother with History? English and Math were your forte, and you much preferred solving problems or writing poetry to listening to stories of old dead men.
Knowing this, you weren’t really sure why you were here, sitting in the smallest lecture hall you’d ever seen, staring at Powerpoint slides of old coins. The presenter cleared his throat before clicking to the next picture of a roman denarius.
“As you can see by the depiction of Augustus, this coin originates from somewhere between twenty-five to twenty-three B.C., in which period…”
You barely held in the groan his statement elicited, choosing instead to lean back and stare at the ceiling. The pictures on the pamphlet had looked interesting, and you needed the credits for the Social Studies class that you were currently cursing.
'I should have gone to ‘Greek Studies’ with Florence’ you bitterly mused, picturing your friend fawning over the course’s young professor. But no, you had to go and pick the lecture no one else wanted to go to, namely “Numismatics and our everyday history”. The title had been misleading: Nothing about this lecture had anything to do with modern people. For the last forty-five minutes the speaker had shown his small audience picture after picture of historic coins, each time holding a sermon about the era it came from. If you heard anything more about ‘mints’ or ‘denominations’, you were going to blow your brains out.
Bored with the spot on the ceiling, you turned your attention to the other people who’d been unfortunate enough to walk into this room three-quarters of an hour ago: There were a couple of fellow students, mostly shifting in their chairs or glued to their phones while waiting out this nightmare in numismatics. One or two older audience members filled the empty seats, probably fellow historians, and a few people sat at the very back where you couldn’t see without craning your neck around.
“It doesn’t have to be like this.”
The sudden noise at your elbow made you jump. You looked to the man at your right, unsure if he was talking to you. He looked older than you, eyes focused on the screen and a grimace on his face. You almost thought you'd imagined his statement, but then he turned in his seat and fixed you with an intense stare.
“These lectures, they could be opportunities to teach young people about history, to get them interested in it, and he’s been rambling about the scratch on this coin for the last ten minutes.”
You made a noncommittal noise in the hopes that this weird man would leave you alone. He must have picked you to be the companion in his suffering though, because he wasn't at all deterred.
“There’s so much connected with these coins, they’re pieces of history! They show the emperors, sure, but what they really are is pieces of everyday life! I mean, isn’t that amazing?”
This time he obviously wanted more of an answer, and you scrambled to put something coherent together. “Uh, yeah.”
This was encouragement enough for him to continue: For the next twenty minutes he explained the aspects of each coin, holding his own mini-lecture in the row you two were sitting in. For the first ten minutes you prayed for a miracle to deliver you from this personal hell, but as he talked you gradually become more and more engaged with what he was saying - until you were completely ignoring the original speaker.
“So that's why they have the funny pictures.”
“Exactly!”
You were shushed by someone two rows behind you, after which the stranger continued in a whisper. You found yourself surprisingly interested in what he had to say; by the time the speaker was finishing up, you no longer regretted having chosen this course.
“What’s your name?” you asked, packing your things away and buttoning up your coat. He looked like he was still fixated on the topic - a few seconds passed before he answered your question.
“Benjamin.” He stuck out his hand for you to shake, “Gates. I’m sort of a historian.”
You shook his hand with some hesitation, feeling it was a bit formal for two people who had spent the last twenty minutes chatting.
“Hi Benjamin, I sort of figured that.”
If he minded your snark he didn’t show it; his eyes shot down to the university sweatshirt you were wearing. “Are you a student here?”
“That’s probably the sort of thing I’m not supposed to tell strange men but yeah, I’m doing my last year of undergrad.”
“Well, if you ever want to talk more about history or anything connected with it, give me a call. Most people don’t get to the actually interesting part because of guys like this one.” He jerked his head towards the speaker who was now making his way off stage, then reached into his pocket and produced a card.
“No offense,” you began, taking the card and looking at it incredulously, “but you do realize that you just gave your phone number, email, and...website? To someone you just met? Do you know how many ways I could misuse this information?”
His mouth twitched. “You don’t seem the type.”
“Well, thanks, it’s been a wild ride” - you gestured sarcastically to the student yawning loudly as he left - “but I doubt I’ll have any questions. I’m dropping this course as soon as I can.”
“Keep it anyway, you never know.”
With that he shuffled out of the row and made his way towards the exit. Card in hand, you stared after him.
“Historians are so fucking weird.”
It was a few months before you thought of the encounter again; during a bout of stress-cleaning prompted by procrastination on your final paper, you stumbled across the card wedged between your desk and the window sill. You didn’t recognize it at first, but then you remembered the stranger and the course you were eternally grateful had ended. You stared at it, flipping it over in your hands a few times. The curiosity that had remained idle for so long came back with a vengeance - you found yourself opening your laptop to type in the web address.
“What...the fuck.”
Bizzare didn't even begin to cover it: The entire thing was dedicaded to some 'lost treasure of the Freemasons' that this guy’s great-great-great grandfather had known about yet ultimately not discovered. The more you scrolled, the more intricate the plot became - Benjamin’s family had apparently been searching for it for centuries. With every page you found yourself wondering if the seemingly normal man you'd had a conversation with all those months ago was really a nut conspiracy theorist.
You chewed on your lip as you stared at the screen. Your hand creeped towards your phone.
‘Don’t even think about it.’
The voice in your head was ignored yet again. You dialed the number and waited for the other person to pick up.
“Hello?”
Five years later, somewhere in Philadelphia...
“Hey Ben, how’ve you been?”
You swerved to avoid bumping into your coworker, phone tucked between your cheek and shoulder as you mouthed ‘sorry’. The papers you were holding slipped; you tightened your arms against your chest to keep them from falling.
“Great, listen Y/N, I think I’m really on to something-”
“Not this again,” you groaned, catching sight of the ‘Out of Order’ sign on the elevator.
“You’re starting to sound like my dad.”
“Huh? No, sorry, that wasn’t directed at you.” Your legs hurt just looking at the many flights of stairs, but you heaved a sigh and made your way up. “This shitty elevator has been out of order at least once a week for the past month. What were you saying?” His previous words clicked into place. “I do not sound like your dad!”
“Look, something important has happened.”
“Please tell me you finally met a girl.” You paused at the foot of the next flight, inhaling deeply before speaking. “Your dad would be thrilled.”
“No, I did not.”
“Shame, can’t blame me for hoping.”
“It’s about the treasure.”
You stopped in your tracks, frozen in the buzz of the office. One of your coworkers shot you a weird look, but you ignored them.
“What?”
“I’ve got a backer, a real one, and I think that with his resources and a small team we could actually-”
“I thought you said you were working on a job!” you hissed. “You promised after the last one that you wouldn’t dive headfirst into this again.”
“I’m not! This guy, he’s the real deal, and he wants to get started as soon as possible.”
You huffed, rolling your eyes as you started walking again. “The last ‘real deal’ was hoping for a get-rich-quick scheme that he wouldn’t have to actually pay for.”
“I know, I know, but you've got to trust me on this one.”
Something about his voice made you soften a bit. Gripping the papers tighter under one arm, you reached up to grab the phone with your hand.
“Ok, fine. What’s the next step for you then?”
There were a few seconds of hesitance before he answered.
“Well, I was hoping, since your internship finishes soon anyways, and you’ve always been good at solving puzzles...”
“You cannot be serious; my internship does not finish ‘soon’, I’ve got another four months on this thing! I can’t just drop it to go treasure hunting!
“Not like I’d miss the place if I did,” you muttered, narrowly avoiding someone’s chewed gum on the vinyl floor. Turning your attention back to the phone, you continued,
“What would we even be doing? Treasure hunting isn’t exactly a 9 to 5, most of what you do is guesswork. Educated guesswork, yes, but guesswork all the same.”
“I’ve got a lead on the Charlotte, we’d work off of that.”
You stopped for a moment, allowing yourself to imagine what it would be like to join him. The seconds dragged on, and when you didn’t respond he spoke again.
“You there?”
The all too familiar part of your brain was warning you again not to do something you’d regret. “It would be a few months.”
“What?”
Aforementioned sensible part of you was currently screaming. “Before I could join you. I need to finish my internship.” A thought occurred to you. “Where are you?”
“New York.”
You could hear the smile in his voice. Supressing a sigh, you resigned yourself to the fact that you were never going to be able to take this back - then cursed yourself for always giving in.
“Hey, I really appreciate it, this will be much easier with you around.”
“Yeah, yeah, but I’m serious! You are not getting me any earlier than four months.”
Three months and twenty-eight days later, arrivals terminal at Washington National Airport...
“You’re here!"
You tackled the older man into a hug, making him stumble a step back to regain balance. You grinned up at him. “I was worried that you’d be running late, and I’d be stuck here for even longer. Can you believe it? A two hour flight that took four and half hours! I was starting to go insane in that flying box.”
Stepping back, the smile on your face dimmed when you noticed the man standing behind him. Benjamin followed your gaze, then cleared his throat.
“This is Shaw, one of Ian’s guys. He offered to drive us.”
The man in question looked less than thrilled to be there; you doubted he had ‘offered’ to do anything. Upon making eye contact, he sent you a grimace that was probably supposed to pass for a smile. Sending your own smile back, you turned to Ben.
“Why does he look like he hates my guts?”
“What? No he doesn’t.”
You raised an eyebrow, then glanced pointedly at the way he was shifting and checking his watch. His mouth set in an irritated scowl, he didn’t seem like the most pleasant of men. The doubt that had been creeping in over the last few weeks resurfaced once more: If this was the employee, what was his employer like? Ben was not exactly known for his good judgment of character - the first glimpse you got of his coworkers wasn’t reassuring you.
“Ok, so he’s not in a great mood. We’ve been waiting for a while.”
It seemed to you like this man's good moods were few and far between, however decided against expressing that in your current company. The drive from the airport was somewhat awkward, but you did your best to ignore the silent driver and focus on catching up with Ben.
“We got a new guy, Riley, about a year and a half ago. You’ll like him, he does computer stuff.”
“I took one coding class in college and barely passed.” The arch tone of your voice filled the car as you looked at him skeptically. “We hardly have a lot in common. Why didn’t you tell me about him sooner?”
Ben shrugged. “Not much to tell. You’ll see for yourself in a second, we’re almost there.”
The car turned into the driveway of a large colonial-style house. Stepping out of the car, you let out a low whistle. “You weren’t kidding about him being rich.”
Ben followed close behind, going to pop open the trunk and get out your bags.
“Alexander Hamilton once stayed here.”
You took the suitcase from him and grinned impishly. “Are you hoping he hid something in the walls?”
That comment was rewarded with an eye-roll, and the two men led you into the house. The interior fitted the outside - diregarding the sea of cables and other electrical devices that had taken over the living room. At the center of this mess, a brunette man typed away on a laptop. Two other men occupied various spots of the room; the first stared over the shoulder of laptop guy, the other sat on the couch, staring at papers spread over the coffee table.
The brunette turned to the man behind him. “If you keep hovering, I can’t do this.”
He backed off a little, but remained close behind him, still watching the screen. Upon your arrival all three looked up - the man on the couch rose to his feet.
“Benjamin, you’re back!” He wore a broad smile as he clapped Ben on the shoulder. The man who had driven you silently disappeared into another room, leaving the three of you in the doorway.
“Ian.” Your ears perked at the mention of his name; you scrutinized the man in front of you. Ben slung his arm around your shoulders to bring you a step closer. The other man’s gaze landed on you, his blue eyes meeting yours. “This is Y/N.”
You took each other in. “Ian Howe,” he introduced, pressing your hand in a firm handshake. His skin was warm, leaving residual heat on your hand even as he retracted his. You instinctively flexed your fingers - his eyes followed the movement.
“Nice to meet you,” you replied, voice a little softer than before, and he rewarded you with another sunny smile.
“Benjamin has told me a lot about you, here, come sit.” He cleared away some of the papers and motioned for you to join him. You followed even as Ben headed towards the man with the laptop.
Your mind raced with what Ben could have told him. “I hope I don’t disappoint,” you joked, but were slightly unnerved by the intense look he fixed you with. You found yourself transfixed by the way he softly responded, maintaining eye contact.
“No, not at all.”
“I’m Riley.”
You broke out of your moment to look up where laptop guy was shifting uncomfortably. At his side, Ben wore a slightly pained expression.
“Just in case you, uh, wanted to know…”
Readjusting quickly, you sent him a friendly smile. “Y/N,” you told him, rising to shake his hand. He hurriedly stood up as well, promptly knocking his knee on the edge of the desk in the process.
“Yeah, I heard from when you…” He trailed off, awkwardly dropping your hand after he shook it. “From before.”
'Good lord, where did he pick this one up?’
You smiled at him again, feeling the entire time like there were eyes on your back. When you cast a glance behind you, Ian was focused on the papers. Ben loudly cleared his throat.
“Riley here,” he announced, patting the younger man on the shoulder, “is in the process of making a program to track the Charlotte.”
Riley appeared very uncomfortable with being made the center of attention. “It’s nowhere near finished.” He leaed to the side so you could peer at the screen. “All I have to work with are ancient records of where it might be, and that’s not a lot.”
Ian’s lilted voice joined in. “I’ve been trying to find out more from these captain’s records, but it’s slow going.” He gestured to the papers on the coffee table, and you stepped over to examine them. Several scans of old pages with spindly writing lay in front of him.
“Looks like my grandmother’s handwriting,” you remarked, picking one up. “Always gave my mom headaches trying to read it, but I got pretty good at it. I can take a look at these later if you want.” The last sentence was directed towards Ian, then at Ben as you looked to him for approval.
“Sure.” Your bags in the doorway caught his attention. “But how about I show you to your room first? Give you a chance to unpack.”
You followed him out of the room, a faint “Nice meeting you!” from Riley echoing behind you. Ben led you down the hall and up the stairs to another corridor, then into one of the rooms.
“This is you,” he announced, setting down your suitcase. “Riley and I are on the next floor, just up the stairs. Kitchen is downstairs, you’ve got your own bathroom in the room, , anything else?”
“Who else is staying here?”
“Well there’s me, Riley, Shaw - he’s the one that drove us - MacGregor and Powell you haven’t met yet, and Viktor you saw downstairs. And Ian, of course.”
You raised a brow. “Is that all?”
“For now. We might hire more hands for the actual excursions.”
“I see.” You glanced down the hall. “What else is on this floor?”
Pointing to the first, then the second, Ben answered. “That’s the sunroom, it’s mostly being used for storage right now, and that’s Ian’s.”
“And the third one?”
“Oh.” He scratched his head, tilting it slightly. “I’m not sure, maybe some sort of closet? You’re welcome to look around, I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”
With that, he left you to unpack. You made short work of what little you had brought with you, then sat on the large bed to take in the room. It was nice, really nice, actually - a far cry from your tiny apartment in Philadelphia. The large windows let in the streaming sunlight; the entire room felt like something you weren’t supposed to touch.
Bouncing experimentally, you smiled at the mattress beneath you. 'Who would have thought I’d be sleeping in a four-poster bed?'
You thought back to Ben’s earlier words, and stood up to check out the bathroom. If you’d thought the bedroom was nice, the bathroom was gorgeous: The shower alone dwarfed any you’d seen - the bathtub resembled a hot tub, jets and all. When you saw the two steps inside of it, you nearly fainted. At the other side of the room, two sinks stood side by side with a large horizontal mirror above them. There was another door near the shower, but when you tried it, it wouldn’t budge. ‘Must be a closet.’
All at once a shower sounded very nice after your flight; you grabbed your shower things as quickly as possible. Twenty minutes later, you lay on your bed, freshly washed and dressed with your hair wrapped in a towel. After laying there for several minutes, you decided to explore the rest of the house.
Starting upstairs, you didn’t find much. You were too wary of accidentally entering someone’s room to check all of them; all you really ended up finding was the passage to the attic.
Your floor was more interesting: Since you knew which rooms were which, you could avoid stumbling into Ian’s. First, you opened the door to the sunroom. Ben had been telling the truth; it overflowed with boxes and random objects. Its windows opened up onto a small balcony which overlooked the grounds behind the house, nothing much beyond some open space and a few trees. Finished with your surveil, you decided to try your luck with the other door. It stuck in the frame, but with a push it opened. The room itself was unremarkable; you were left somewhat disappointed. Noticing a door on the other side, you opened it, thinking it might lead to a closet.
It did not.
You realised your mistake as soon as it swung open to reveal a bedroom - one that was most definitely inhabited. ‘This must be Ian’s,' you realised, wondering if more of the rooms on this floor were somehow connected. ‘Thank God he isn’t in here right now.’
You retreated into the other room, shutting the door firmly behind you. Having had enough of secret doors for one day, you made your way downstairs to join the others.
When you entered the living room, Riley was still there although Ian and Shaw had left. He waved in greeting, but otherwise didn’t acknowledge you. The clicking of his keyboard filled the room as you sat down on the couch to work on the captain’s logs. Legs crossed, you balanced the scan on one leg and a notepad on the other, occasionally noting down parts of the document you’d understood. An hour passed and the two of you worked in silence. Once or twice Riley got up to grab something from the shelf of electronics, but for the most part you stayed in place.
After another twenty minutes, you set your work aside and stretched. “I’m going to get something to drink,” you announced, lowering your hands from where you'd extended them over your head. “You want anything?”
Riley blinked, for all appearances having forgotten you were even there. “Oh, thanks. Uh, some water would be great.”
Nodding, you stood up and stretched again before plodding into the hall in search of the kitchen. You found it fairly quickly; it was just as nice as the rest of the house. You enviously eyed the marble countertops. A cursory search of the refrigerator yielded two bottles of water alongside a lemon which you grabbed as an afterthought. Setting everything on the counter, you scoured the cabinets for a juicer and let out a triumphant sound when you found it.
Lemon juiced, you poured the juice into one of the bottles and shook it once or twice. You were just about to go back to the living room when Ben came into the kitchen. He nodded at you, then noticed the two bottles you were carrying.
“Thirsty?”
“One’s for Riley,” you answered, pausing mid-step when he broke into a smile. He leaned against the counter, watching you like he had a reason to be especially proud of himself.
“You two are getting along then?”
Shrugging, you grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. “I guess.”
“Good, that's great.”
You waited a few more seconds, expecting him to say more, but he just kept smiling. Somewhat unnerved, you ended the weird pause between you: “Yeah. So if that’s all?”
He nodded, still looking too smug for your liking, and you made your way back to the living room. When you arrived, Ian was sitting in your spot, looking over the notes you had made.
“I didn’t get very far,” you told him. Placing the water bottle next to Riley, you set your things on the coffee table and settled yourself onto the couch next to Ian. “It’s not exactly modern English and I’m out of practice reading that sort of writing.”
“You’ve done well,” he praised, moving over so you had more space. “Better than I did, anyways. Why didn’t you join us sooner?”
His praise elicited a warm feeling that you decided to ignore for the moment. “I had an internship.”
“Ah, yes.” He glanced up from your notebook, locking eyes with you. “Good thing you’re here now.”
You hummed a non-committal sound, staring pointedly down at the scans while you tried to act like a normal person. ‘What is wrong with me?’ Pink dusted your face and you cursed your body for betraying you. ‘This is what happens when you spend eight months interning in a place where everyone hates each other; one, completely normal, bit of praise and you’re blushing!’
His blue eyes flickered to the towel on your head, and you saw the corner of his mouth twitch upwards. “I hope you’re comfortable with the living situation.”
“Yes, everything’s wonderful,” you reassured, doubtful that anyone at all would be able to find fault with the beautiful bedroom. “I’m almost afraid to touch anything.”
The last part seemed to amuse him a little; the corners of his eyes crinkled. “I’m glad to hear it, after all, we’re both adults.”
You smiled and nodded, internally wondering what he meant. ‘What a weird thing to say.’
Only two weeks later did you understand the meaning behind his remark. It was amazing that it had taken that long, but it mostly had to do with you having a very different schedule than him: He would wake up early in the morning and go to bed at a decent time, whereas you would trudge into the kitchen at ten am and pass out sometime around midnight. Your schedules occasionally aligned, but for the most part you were in different parts of the house.
It was ten o’clock and you’d decided to go to sleep early. Ian was nowhere to be seen as you climbed the stairs and entered your room to get ready for bed. You were changing into your pajamas when a knock sounded on your bedroom door.
“One second!” you called, haphazardly tugging your shirt on to answer the door. Opening it, you did a double take.
Ian was standing on the other side, dressed in a casual t-shirt and sweatpants. His blonde hair was wet and hanging around his face. He smiled apologetically upon seeing you.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but you seem to have locked me out.”
For a second, your brain lagged. “Huh?”
He shifted, leaning his weight against the wall. “Of the bathroom. I forgot to brush my teeth.”
You stared at him dumbly, not comprehending in the least what he was driving at. “Of the bathroom,” you slowly repeated, trying to make sense of his words. He nodded, pushing the hair out of his face with one hand. When he didn’t elaborate, you tried again: “I haven’t been in your room.”
His brow knitted in confusion before understanding gradually dawned on his face. “You don’t know, then.”
“Know what?”
“The bathroom connects our rooms,” He cocked his head to the side, “I thought Benjamin told you.”
Gaping at him, you blinked a few times before letting out an irritated huff. “No, he did not.” You were going to strangle that man the next time you saw him. The locked door in the bathroom suddenly made a lot more sense, as did the occasional things lying around that you’d attributed to the previous occupant.
Your new roommate shifted again, and you were brought back to reality. “I’m so sorry, if I had known you were also using it…” You trailed off in horror as you thought back to how you’d often left less than discrete items lying around. There was a moment or two of stilted silence before he gestured to your room.
“So if you could…”
“Oh! Yes of course,” You opened the door wider, motioning towards the bathroom, “you can just go through here.”
He nodded in thanks and stepped into your room, closing the door behind him. It was weird to see him in the middle of your room, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt and having clearly just showered. You were suddenly very aware of the less than pristine state of your room, but he didn't seem to take any notice as he entered the bathroom. You gave him his privacy, sitting awkwardly on your bed while he brushed his teeth.
“I have to ask,” His voice carried from the other room, “did you really not notice my things in the cabinet?”
Your face burned. “Up until now I didn’t even know there was a cabinet.”
An amused huff echoed from the bathroom, and then the sound of running water. “It’s behind the mirror. I suppose this means you won’t mind if I put more of my things in here? I’ve been trying to give you enough space, but it seems they wouldn’t be in the way.”
“Yes, of course,” you parroted your words from before, beginning to feel like a broken record. The water stopped, and he appeared in the doorframe.
“Goodnight.” His voice was tinged with amusement, a smile tugging at his lips. It made him look younger, less intense than when he was working, and something twisted in your stomach.
“Goodnight.”
You watched him through the open door as he turned to unlock the door to his room, then closed it behind him. As soon as he was out of sight, you flopped backwards onto the bed and covered your flushed face with your hands. ‘I’m never going to be able to speak to him again.’
You didn’t actually end up strangling Ben over the miscommunication, because to do so would mean informing him of the night's events and you figured that the fewer people who knew about it, the better. Ian mercifully hadn't mentioned it since, but over the next few days more and more of his things showed up in the bathroom. It was almost domestic how your things were mixed together in the shower or your towels hung next to each other; You each had your own sink, and the sight of his things lined up next to yours induced some complicated feelings that you were not willing to dive into.
Another development of the months following was that Ben’s weird behaviour in the kitchen was finally explained: It was a Friday evening and you’d just spent the entire day helping Riley with his program (to the best of your ability). As you spent more time together, he became less awkward and you actually started to enjoy his company; both of you were the odd ones out when it came to the team, and not only because of your age. There was an obvious dynamic within the group: There were two sides, Ben's and Ian's, and although you'd experienced no direct antagonism from the other men for being on the opposing 'side', the distinction was very clear. Add that to your status as the only woman, and it was no real surprise that you felt more at ease around the only other person Ben had hired.
As much as you loved Ben and appreciated Ian's friendliness, the two men were in a world of their own when it came to the group dynamics: They were leaders, whether because of their expertise or their extensive funding, and it was hard to forget that Ian was really your employer.
Whether it was intentional or not, this left you and Riley to keep each other company. He reminded you of a kid you'd known in high school, although the differences were quickly made apparent when you realised just how intelligent he was under all that awkwardness: Though not as passionate a speaker as Ben, Riley could ramble on about certain subjects extensively if asked; you'd stared at him in a mixture of awe and disbelief that time you'd made an offhand comment about not understanding how CDs worked and he'd responded with an in-depth explanation which had spanned over the better part of a half-hour. He helped you by providing answers to your niche questions, and you returned the favour by looking over his work and puzzling out the mistake which staring at the same line of code for an hour had caused him to overlook. He was a wealth of seemingly random knowledge, and you were the layman with a knack for problem-solving.
It helped that he was, at his core, just a normal dude; no weird backstory, no family of Freemasons and treasure hunters, just another person Benjamin Gates had roped into his schemes. His presence was like a breath of fresh air in the midst of Ben and Ian's zeal, and so you'd stuck to his side; in hindsight, maybe Ben's interpretation of this sudden closeness shouldn't have come as a surprise.
Ben had been gone most of the day, but when he returned he asked for help unloading the car. Viktor, Shaw and Ian were still out, and Powell was somewhere else in the house. You hadn't seen MacGregor since that morning. Grateful for the chance to get away from the logs which were giving you a migraine, you eagerly offered your assistance. As you helped him unload the new equipment, you caught him up on what you had been working on. At the mention of Riley he got that weird look on his face again, and this time you decided to ask.
“Are you ok?” You motioned to his face, “You’re doing that thing again where you look too smug for your own good.”
“I’m just glad to see the two of you getting along so well.”
It suddenly clicked.
"Benjamin Franklin Gates." He blinked at the horror in your voice; you stared at him with pleading, somewhat pained eyes. "Please tell me you’re not trying to set me up with my coworker.”
The guilty look on his face told you you’d struck home. You let out a groan.
“He’s nice!”
You glared at him. “A lot of people are nice."
The man raised his hands defensively. "I just thought that the two of you might get along-"
"Yes, me and my coworker," you emphasised, "get along just fine. Platonically. Like I do with all of my coworkers."
He continued to defend himself until you gave up, throwing your hands up in exasperation. You were still irritated by it later that evening; working in the living room by yourself, you wordlessly fumed, mind too distracted by thoughts of Benjamin's highhandedness to notice when you were no longer alone.
“That notebook do something to you?”
You looked up from your work to see Ian in the doorframe. Glancing back down, you noticed the aggressive way you’d been scratching the words down; the pen had begun to leave indents in the paper. Your hand relaxed.
“Something like that.” You glanced at where he leant near the door, your eyes silently sizing him up. “Can you keep a secret?”
An eyebrow rose before he nodded, sitting in the chair across from you. “I’m all ears.”
“Ben and I have been friends for several years,” You propped your head on one hand and peered at Ian, “and since he’s older than me, he has a tendency to think he knows what’s best. In light of that, he also has a tendency to overstep boundaries, which in this case means that he was trying to set me up with Riley.”
Something like surprise flashed across his expression. “Our Riley?”
“Yeah.” You sighed deeply, yawning once while you waited for his reaction. For a moment he was very quiet, then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees and hands under his chin.
“I was under the impression,” he began, his tone of voice very careful, “that you and Benjamin were…”
The implication of his words immediately hit you, and you rushed to correct him. “Oh, no, definitely not.” You winced at how that sounded. “I mean, we’re just good friends.”
There was an awkward pause. “Not that there’s anything wrong with him,” you continued, wishing you knew how to shut up, “it’s just that he’s…”
“Too old?”
“Really annoying sometimes. He has this special talent for getting on my nerves; If we were together I would kill him before the week was out.” Ian’s suggestion finally processed in your mind, and you raised an eyebrow skeptically. “How old do you think I am?”
He half-shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve been told that question’s dangerous territory for some women.”
The skepticism remained on your face. “You can’t be much older than me.”
“Careful, you’ll inflate my ego if you go down that route.”
Now he was smiling again, that relaxed quirk of the mouth you’d seen weeks ago when he was in your room. His body was fully relaxed against the back of his chair, and in the golden light of the coffee table lamp the lines of his face were softer than usual. You ignored the pang the sight of it sent across your heart.
“Do you ever give straight answers?”
“You didn’t ask a question.”
Playfully rolling your eyes, you raised your hands in surrender. “Fine, be mysterious for all I care.”
“At my age you need all the intrigue you can get.”
A laugh bubbled out of your throat before you could smother it. He looked quite smug about your reaction, especially when you theatrically facepalmed.
“You’re very dramatic for such an old man. When does the sage wisdom show up?”
“Are you asking for advice?”
“God no,” You snorted, “I get enough of that from Ben.”
At the mention of the other man the conversation stilted. There was a moment’s pause before you continued on.
“There’s another reason it could never work out.”
“What couldn’t?”
“Ben and I,” you clarified, stretching out on the couch and settling into a different position. Laying your head on your arm, you gazed at him.
Realizing you weren’t going to continue on your own, he took the bait. “Oh?”
“I’ve met his dad, all the Gates are like that. Anyone who names their child ‘Benjamin Franklin’ has some issues.”
Your comment elicited a chuckle, spreading a warm feeling of pride. “I suppose so,” he agreed, studying you in the low light. The conversation lulled comfortably; you yawned and stretched again, eyes closing of their own accord. The last thing you fuzzily remembered before falling asleep was the weight of something being laid on you, and the light dimming. The next morning you woke on the sofa, covered in a quilt.