Work Text:
The alert goes off, the one Travis has had set up for near a decade. He groans, shoving the covers off and climbing out of bed. It’s evolved over the years, his ability to do anything about it, but the sound wakes him up in an instant at this point. A Pavlovian reaction. He grabs his glasses from the nightstand, clumsy as he slips them on and drags himself to the laptop on his desk.
He scans his fingerprint after opening it up, blearily typing a password, then shoving the physical passkeys into the USB ports. He touches one, types in the code he gets on his phone—not his personal or his work phone, but the one he has for Vox-related things—then touches the second passkey. The process is annoying, but he can do it in his sleep at this point. Another biometric scan, another password, and then he’s got the system he needs up.
He unplugs the passkeys, grabs the key for the desk drawer, and opens it up. It’s a moment’s work to take the flash drive there and plug it in. He loads a program, runs the scan, and waits for it to finish.
Satisfied with the results, he loads a second program—the one he’d put together a few years ago to make it easier to do this shit remote—and runs that. Then he goes back to the first system he’d pulled up, checks the alert on his Vox-phone, and types in the long code to pull up the access log he needs. Another fucking password.
It’d be easier to do this on-site, but he’s not about to drive to work at fucking 3 AM, and he needs to work fast, anyway. He finds the records he needs and wrinkles his nose, irritated. “Who the fuck needs that much acid,” he mutters to himself, knowing full well who would need that much and what it’s being used for.
He wipes the logs, wipes the logs of the log wipes, wipes the log of that log wipe, and types in his security code for the SIGINT compartment that allows him to wipe that without detection. He pulls up the next log and repeats the process until everything’s clean, no record that anyone had even accessed logs.
He shoves the laptop further up the desk and closes his eyes, resting his head on his arms on top of the desk. He has to wait for the asshole to leave the lab so he can fuck with the access logs for that as well, and the few cameras he has access to remotely.
He’ll need to put in some work on-site too, but at least the high-risk shit’s been handled. He dozes until the alert goes off again, goes through the same bullshit opsec hoops, and then does what he needs to clean up after Vox.
When he’s done, Travis yawns and checks the time—4:50 AM. “Fuck,” he groans. He has to wake up in an hour. He contemplates just staying up, but his bed is calling, and he figures nobody will give a shit if he’s a little late to work. He gets leeway to do whatever the fuck he wants most days anyway.
He’s asleep in mere moments.
×
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Travis groans. He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes, taking a deep breath—inhale, exhale—then drops his hands. “That sloppy fucking—” He shakes his head, grabs his phone—work, this time, not the Vox-phone—and makes some calls.
He’s sat in the office luckily, so he pulls open the systems he needs on his computer, and starts doing some digging. Their little FBI problem is annoying on its own, but trying to get other people involved is just stupid. He shoots off a text to somebody and gets a response in less than a minute.
He stares at it for a long moment, face twisting into something frustrated. “What the fuck do you mean he says ‘no’?” Travis asks, standing. He shoves his phone into his pocket and grabs his keys. Time to make a house call.
×
It’s a beautiful home in the suburbs—some big Colonial thing with a long driveway bordered by old oaks, their trunks wide and limbs a lattice overhead. Travis contemplates parking on the curb, but having to do the long walk after intimidating somebody into shutting the fuck up will be more humiliating than scary. He checks to make sure the Ring camera footage is looping, then he pulls up close, parking behind the one car outside. He angles to block the garage, not that he needs to.
He checks his hair before stepping out, the hidden holster at his side just in case, then his reflection in the side mirror—crisp suit jacket, perfectly tailored, a nice charcoal grey. He shoves the sleeves up just a little, so his tattoos are visible, and fixes the tie.
Perfect. He pushes off the side of the car, hands in his pockets, heavy boots crunching the gravel underfoot as he ambles up the stupid, perfect walkway to the front door, all casual and controlled. Travis rings the doorbell, then waits politely for the rat (potential—he hasn’t shared anything yet) to open his fucking door.
The wife opens it. Travis gives her a warm smile—it meets his eyes and everything—and then says, voice quiet and cold, “Where is your husband?”
She gives Travis an adorably confused look, a tick of something in her expression, some part of her recognizing subconsciously the danger she is in. “He’s busy,” she says, meeting Travis’s warmth with a cute Southern drawl.
Travis’s smile twists into something playfully disappointed. “Aw, that’s too bad. Is it important?” he asks. He catalogues the tension in the wife’s shoulders, the way she glances to the side.
“Ah—yes, it’s… business,” she says.
“Oh!” Travis says, “Great timing, then! This is business too.”
“Yes, but he’s doing something else right now.” She pushes back, and Travis would admire it if it weren’t getting in the way of what he’s doing. The guy doesn’t know who Travis is, has never seen him, but Travis has got the government plates on his car and doesn’t want to give the fucker a chance to call somebody.
“Right,” Travis says, dropping the act. “We’re going to do this one of two ways: You step aside and I come in and get him, or you go get him for me.” He pauses, giving her a moment to process, for the threat to sink in. “It’ll take you seven seconds if you’re going slow to get to the door to his office, which is where he is right now. That gives you three seconds to tell him to get out here, and seven more for you both to get back to the door. That’s seventeen seconds before I come in and have to do shit myself.”
She hesitates.
Travis smiles again. Not the nice one—the one he picked up from Vox. He starts to count. “One.” She turns, takes a few steps into the house, and calls out for her husband. Travis keeps counting. She calls for him again, and Travis turns the count into some sing-song thing. It’d be funny, how intimidating the playfulness reads, if he wasn’t so irritated right now.
She calls out for her husband again, more urgent, louder. The door to the office opens with a creak—Travis can hear it all the way from out here. “You should get that hinge oiled,” he says, then, “Nine. Ten.”
The man turns the corner, sees Travis, and freezes. His wife says his name, a snap of a call, and the man shifts his gaze between Travis and his wife. He approaches. His wife asks what’s going on, and the man shakes his head, tight-lipped. He tells her to go inside—further, away from the door—then steps outside and closes the door behind him.
Travis steps to the side, giving the man room, and leans his body against the brick façade of the house. He watches the man with a calculating gaze, body language lazy. The man shifts his weight, a nervous movement, and clears his throat.
The warm breeze sends the windchimes overhead tinkling, a soft melody for ambiance. Travis waits—he waits and waits, because the man he’s standing across from knows the power of silence just as much as Travis does.
But Travis is a high-level SIGINT operative, and the man across from him is only a wealthy bureaucrat-slash-business owner.
The man clears his throat again. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says, projecting his voice. Travis’s lips twitch into a smile and he shrugs, hands still in his pockets. “I can have you removed,” the man adds.
“I’m sure,” Travis says, drawing the words out.
It earns Travis an irritated glare. “How much to get you to go away?” he asks. It’s an absurd offer—he has access to Vox—to somebody on the fucking Forbes list.
Travis wants to laugh, but he sighs instead. “Do you know why I’m here?” he asks.
Another beat of silence as the man tries to wait him out, drawing himself to his full height. It isn’t insignificant—not that it needs to be. Travis is 5’4 with a delicate frame; most people are taller and wider and much more physically imposing than he is.
“You should leave,” the man says.
Travis pushes off the brick, swaying into a solid stance. Feet a shoulder’s width apart. He pulls one hand out of his pocket to brush some of his own hair back, dislodged by the earlier breeze. He taps his nails against his thigh. Near-black, the blood red undertones shining through in the Louisiana sunlight.
Travis checks his watch, then looks back up at the man. “It’s almost lunch time,” he says, “and I’d really rather not draw this out longer than I have to.”
“Then leave,” the man says.
Travis runs his tongue over his teeth, thoughtful, an idle gesture, then cocks his head. He gestures to the yard, then the house. “Nice house,” he says. “One of those Colonial things, yeah? About how old? Seems around 1800s, maybe 1850s, judging by the design. Pre-Civil War. Updated recently, of course. Marble tile, stainless steel appliances.”
“Who are you?” Recognition starts to set in. Not of Travis, but of the situation the man is in.
“The thing about older construction is the susceptibility to fire,” Travis continues. “Modern fireproofing goes a long way, but updating that is a more substantial project, and you wouldn’t want to disrupt the household your stay-at-home wife so graciously keeps looking prim and proper. And anyway, you might find out about her little alcohol problem if you start tearing things up.”
The man’s tone turns wary, like prey being hunted. “What?”
Travis raps his knuckles on the exterior wall. “Brick, too. Unusual, but it’s just on the outside. When did you get this done again? A couple years ago? Doesn’t matter—as I said, it’s sad how devastating fires can be in these old, historical homes.”
Travis is met with silence and rabbit-wild eyes.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Travis asks, tone friendly.
“What do you want?” the man whispers.
“Silence,” Travis responds. “And I’ll know if you don’t keep your promise.”
“I haven’t promised anything,” the man scoffs.
Travis smiles. “Weird how your wife stays at home to mind the house but sends the kids to daycare. They must enjoy the fresh air. Don’t have to worry about smoke inhalation at all, do they?”
There’s another beat, a pregnant pause, and the man takes a step back, shuddering, his acquiescence visible. “Okay,” he says, voice thin.
Travis nods toward the door. “Go inside. Tell your wife it’s fine. Just a work thing, nothing serious.” He steps around the man and takes a few steps down the walkway. “Remember,” he calls over his shoulder, “No barking.”
Travis makes it to his car, then leans against it. He waits until he hears the front door open and close again before getting in and heading back to the office. He’s going to be pissed if he misses the fucking mini muffins they have in the cafeteria today.
×
He honestly expected it to take a little longer for Angel to do anything about having his informant dry up. He’s a competent guy, so the way he shifts to asking Vox’s boss about shit—in the office—is disappointingly sloppy. Travis makes a note, listens in, and does nothing. The whole thing starts off a little casual anyway, not strange enough for his involvement to make sense.
Then Angel lets some info slip, Husk answers a question he really shouldn’t have, and Travis goes to bed early so he’s rested enough for the 5 AM wake-up the next day.
×
Travis even has time to grab coffee from his favorite little independent shop before he makes it into the office, a half-hour before Husk will show up. The elevator stops on the 5th floor instead of the 8th, and Travis makes his way down the hallway.
He scans his badge on the door and it beeps green, just like any other door in this building would. He steps inside and pokes around out of pure curiosity. There’s really not much to explore—it’s sad, how bland this man’s life is.
Less for Travis to go off of, but that’s okay. The threat of Husk’s subordinate is usually enough. He sits in Husk’s chair and waits.
×
Husk doesn’t notice him until he flicks the lights on, door closed behind him.
“Uh,” he says, blinking at Travis.
“Good morning,” Travis says. He takes a drink of his coffee, giving the man a sleepy smile. “How are you? How’ve you been this week?”
Husk shifts, reaching behind him for the door. “I, uh, I’m gonna—let me get some coffee first—”
“You can get coffee later,” Travis says. “I won’t be long.”
Husk nods stiffly and walks to the chair on the opposite side of his desk. He sits down, back rigid. Travis wakes up Husk’s computer, then slides the mouse and keyboard across to Husk, angling the monitor so he can see.
“Log in,” Travis says.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Husk says, as if he has any leverage here. Travis lets his irritation show on his face and he leans forward, resting his arms on the desk, his chin on top of them. He makes himself small.
“I’m really tired,” Travis sighs. “I don’t want to fight about this.”
“Then leave,” Husk says, gruff. Travis pouts, and Husk rolls his eyes. “I work with Jaws, that shit doesn’t work on me.”
“I’m just expressing my disappointment,” Travis says with a shrug. He taps his nails on the wood, watching Husk, head still resting on his arms. They always get fun reactions, the idle movements with his hands. It’s menacing when Travis owns the space he’s in, but he’s practically lying on the desk for a reason. It looks nervous.
“I really think you should leave,” Husk says, more firmly than before.
Travis lets his expression twitch into something apologetic. “And I really think you should log in. Pretty conflicting wishes, unfortunately.”
“You have no jurisdiction here,” Husk says. He stands, and Travis tilts his head so he can look up at him without lifting his chin from his arms. He raises his eyebrows, expression expectant as he watches Husk.
“I’m not afraid of you,” Husk scoffs.
“You should be,” Travis says, voice soft.
“I deal with Jaws daily, this is fucking nothing,” Husk says, moving around the desk, as if he’s going to get Travis to leave with pure intimidation. Travis tracks the movement with his eyes.
“Do you?” Travis asks, affecting a surprised tone. “Or—oh, wait, you compartmentalize them, don’t you. Yeah, you deal with ‘Jaws’ daily, but you don’t deal with Vox.”
Husk pauses his approach, sensing the danger. He hesitates. “It’s just a nickname.”
“You have Jaws on a nice, long leash, don’t you?” Travis says. He sits up finally, but keeps his movement languid. “You let him prance around, put on his little jester act, do whatever it is he does for work—which you don’t know about, of course, because you don’t have clearance. You approve his assignments by rubber-stamping the fact that he has one, and execs send the details to him directly, apart from a few just to keep you placated and feeling important.”
“What are you talking about?” Husk asks, still with that tough-man, gruff voice. So annoying. Travis takes another drink of his coffee and starts twisting the chair with a foot, back and forth, small movements. He smiles.
“So, you have the jester on a nice, fancy leash with a breakaway collar. A fun little make-believe game you play. Do you have Vox on a leash?”
Husk doesn’t answer, and Travis smiles wider.
“You don’t, do you?” he asks. “I don’t give him a breakaway collar, Husk. His leash is short, and my grip is tight. I’d suggest you get back on the other side of the desk, log the fuck in, and do what I tell you. Hopefully I won’t run into your dog while I’m walking mine—he’s not friendly.”
Husk exhales shakily and moves back around to the other side, taking the seat once more, and logs in to his station. Travis gives him instructions—where to navigate, what to do, which files to clear and which to move.
It takes only fifteen minutes before Travis is satisfied. He stands, picking up his coffee. “So much easier when you comply,” Travis says cheerily. “Would’ve done it myself, but it’s a fucking hassle and I was bored. Have a good day, Husk.”
He skirts around the desk, making his way with measured steps to the door, then twists to look behind him at Husk. “There are opiates missing from the drug locker,” Travis says, words slow. “You’re, what, ten years sober now? A relapse would be pretty devastating. Also, unrelated—did you know the coffee machine is just open and out there for anyone to use? No security at all on this floor, fucking ridiculous. Anyway, bye!”
Travis leaves, and the door closes behind him with a click. One more visit to make before he can go back to his own office.
×
He gets to Angel’s office fifteen minutes before Angel does. He perches on the edge of the desk, and he waits.
Angel opens the door and freezes in the doorway.
“What are you doin’ here?” Angel asks.
“Inside,” Travis orders, voice sharp.
Angel makes an irritated face, but he does as he’s told. He rests against the door instead of moving further into the room. His gaze snaps to the gun on his desk, expression shifting to something nervous.
With a gloved hand, Travis pushes the gun toward Angel on the desk, barrel pointed away.
“Where did you get that?” Angel asks, the lines of his body tense.
“Angel,” Travis says, “I won’t be the last one to visit you. I didn’t even really have to, you know, but it’s getting messy, and I don’t want this to grow into something bigger. I’m so fucking tired of cleaning up messes.”
“Then don’t fuckin’ clean ‘em up,” Angel snaps. “Give me fuckin’ details, you little weasel.”
“Rude,” Travis mutters. He taps his fingers on the gun, drawing attention back to it. “FBI agent at the pinnacle of his career, a shining star. Against all odds, the best criminal profiler in the country. Your cold case work is solid and admirable.”
Angel’s expression shifts, jaw clenching. “Glad to meet a fan, you want an autograph or somethin’?” he asks, acerbic.
Travis tilts his head with an amused smile. “Not really an autograph kind of guy,” he says. “But thanks for the offer.” He pauses, then puts his hand on the gun properly. “Does Husk know about the hospital stays when you were late teens, early twenties?”
“Those records are sealed,” Angel snaps.
Travis raises an eyebrow. “How sad would your boyfriend be if you tried again? If you were successful this time?” He leans forward, fingers tracing the barrel of the gun as he speaks. “You’ve got access to a gun now. It would be easy—all it takes is one bad night.”
“What are you tryin’ to say?” Angel asks, eyes narrowed.
Travis hops off the desk, gun in hand. He walks up to Angel, pressing it handle-first into the agent’s hand. “Don’t make yourself use this,” Travis says, voice velvet. “But I’ve gotta go—got a meeting in ten. Just, y’know, think a little bit about how upset people would be.”
Angel jerks away from Travis, fingers clenching around the gun. “You don’t know shit,” he hisses.
“Sure,” Travis says, opening the door. “Don’t worry, I’d make sure your little guinea pigs found a good home. I’m not into animal cruelty.”
He steps out before Angel can say anything, letting it close behind him, leaving the man standing in his own office, unsure what had even happened.
×
Travis runs into Vox in the hallway. Shit. He ignores the cheery greeting with a grimace and turns on his heel with haste. He starts walking in the opposite direction, as quickly as he can without it looking ridiculous, as Vox calls after him.
“Aw, come on, Trav!” Vox shouts, voice full of laughter. “Don’t run away!”
“Get fucked,” Travis yells back, tone cutting. He tugs open the first door he comes across and is viciously thankful it’s the door to the stairs and not a fucking broom closet. He takes the stairs all the way down to the first floor and then the freight elevator back up to Floor Eight. Just in case.