Pattern Recognition
Chapter Three — Atmospheric Pressure
Post-RE9 | Grace Ashcroft x Fem!Reader | Slow Burn | Workplace Tension | Reader POV primarily.
--------------------
The storm warning came through at 9:17 a.m.
You knew because Grace’s phone buzzed at exactly the same time as yours.
Then Dempsy’s.
Then half the bullpen’s.
A synchronized chorus of government-issued concern.
Rain had already been falling by the time you arrived, steady and grey, dragging thin lines down the office windows. But now the sky outside had turned darker. Heavier. The kind of dark that made the overhead lights feel too bright and everyone’s coffee seem suddenly more important.
You looked down at your phone.
Severe weather advisory. Flash flooding possible. Avoid unnecessary travel.
Beside you, Grace read the alert in silence.
Her glasses reflected the screen. Her fingers tightened slightly around her mug.
You noticed.
Of course you noticed.
You had started noticing everything.
That was the problem.
Grace set her phone facedown beside her keyboard and turned back to the report as if the weather had not personally threatened to complicate her entire day.
“R-right,” she said. “Where were we?”
“Impending weather-related doom.”
“The case.”
“Less dramatic.”
“Not always.”
Fair.
The case from yesterday had not gone away. If anything, it had grown teeth overnight.
The three hospitals had become five. The medical contractor had suddenly stopped answering routine information requests. Two transport routes overlapped with storm-damaged supply corridors. A private warehouse outside a small county line had filed an emergency disposal request and then withdrawn it six minutes later.
Six minutes.
Grace hated that.
You knew because she had been staring at the timestamp for nearly ten straight minutes.
“That’s bothering you,” you said.
Grace didn’t look up.
“It should bother everyone.”
“Specifically bothering you.”
“It’s a six-minute correction window.”
“Which means?”
“Either someone made a mistake and fixed it quickly, or someone realised they’d created a paper trail.”
You leaned back in your chair.
“Second option.”
Grace finally glanced at you.
“You sound certain.”
“I sound military.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is sometimes.”
Grace gave you that look again.
The dry one.
The one you were beginning to suspect meant she was trying not to smile.
You smiled first, because you were generous like that.
“Fine,” you said. “Not certain. But if someone withdraws a disposal request that fast during a weather emergency, they either panicked or got told to stop.”
Grace nodded once.
“Exactly.”
Praise again.
Small. Professional. Devastating.
You had no idea how one word from her could make you want to sit up straighter.
Ridiculous.
Completely ridiculous.
The office around you moved with the tense rhythm of a developing situation. Phones rang more often than usual. Analysts crossed between desks. Somewhere behind you, a printer jammed and someone whispered something that sounded like a prayer.
Dempsy emerged from his office just before ten, file in hand, expression already exhausted.
“Ashcroft.”
Grace straightened immediately.
“Y-yeah?”
“The interagency review got bumped up.”
“How far?”
“Federal and state coordination call at eleven. CDC liaison observing. DSO was notified this morning.”
Grace’s fingers stilled over the keyboard.
DSO.
You didn’t miss it.
Neither did Dempsy.
His eyes flicked briefly to Grace’s phone.
A subtle look.
Old concern.
Grace nodded too quickly.
“Okay. I’ll update the matrix.”
“You have forty minutes.”
“I can do it in thirty.”
“I know.” Dempsy’s gaze shifted to you. “Help her.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“That sounded almost like trust.”
“Don’t ruin it.”
He turned and walked away.
You looked at Grace.
“Warm man.”
“He’s nicer than he seems.”
“He threatened me with paperwork yesterday.”
“That is him being nice.”
Grace was already typing again, the stutter in her voice still present but her hands steady. She moved quickly now. Faster than yesterday. Not panicked. Not scattered. Focused.
Work-mode Grace had edges.
Soft ones, maybe.
But edges all the same.
You watched her pull data from five separate reports, tag inconsistencies, cross-reference transport logs, and build a summary that made a messy, half-buried threat suddenly look clear enough to touch.
It should not have been attractive.
It was.
Deeply.
Unprofessionally.
You forced yourself to focus on the logistics map.
“Warehouse location doesn’t make sense,” you said.
Grace leaned closer.
Her shoulder brushed yours this time.
Actually brushed.
Barely.
A warm line of contact through your sleeve.
Neither of you moved for half a second.
Then Grace inhaled quietly and reached for the mouse like nothing had happened.
Nothing had happened.
Technically.
“The route?” she asked.
Her voice was just a little softer.
You cleared your throat.
“Yeah. The route. If they were transporting standard medical waste, they’d use the highway. This detour adds forty minutes.”
Grace zoomed the map.
“Storm damage?”
“Reported after the detour was filed.”
She went still.
Then clicked into another tab.
“There’s an old service road here.”
“Private?”
“County-owned. Mostly unused.”
“Good place to move something no one’s supposed to see.”
Grace looked at you.
This time, there was no hesitation in her expression.
Just sharp, open interest.
“Yes.”
There it was again.
That one word.
You were starting to hate how much you liked earning it.
--------------------
The next hour disappeared.
The rain grew heavier.
The office windows blurred until the city outside looked like it had been smeared in grey watercolour. Thunder rolled somewhere distant, low enough to be felt more than heard.
Grace barely noticed.
Or maybe she noticed everything and simply chose not to react.
You weren’t sure yet.
At 10:52, the matrix was finished.
At 10:54, Grace sent it to Dempsy.
At 10:55, her phone buzzed again.
This time, she looked.
Only for a second.
But the reaction was immediate.
Not dramatic.
That would have been easier to ignore.
This was smaller.
A slight tightening around her mouth. A blink that lasted too long. Her thumb hovering over the notification.
Then she locked the screen and set the phone down.
Facedown again.
You noticed.
Of course you did.
Grace opened another file.
Too quickly.
“Interagency call in five,” she said.
“Grace.”
“Hm?”
“You read the notification?”
“It’s fine.”
That was the first lie.
Not a big one.
But enough.
You leaned back.
“Okay.”
You let it go.
For now.
The call was chaotic in the way government coordination calls always were.
Too many people. Too many acronyms. Too much urgency wrapped in professional monotone.
Grace stayed mostly quiet until she was asked a direct question.
Then she became terrifying.
Soft voice. Stutter still threading through her words. But precise. Controlled. Impossible to dismiss.
“The withdrawal timing is the strongest indicator,” she said, eyes on her notes. “The request was submitted from a local administrative terminal, but the cancellation came through remote access. Different credential path. Different response pattern. S-so either the original request exposed something unintentionally, or someone above the site level intervened.”
A CDC liaison asked whether she was suggesting deliberate concealment.
Grace blinked once.
“I’m suggesting the data doesn’t support coincidence.”
You looked down to hide your smile.
Brilliant.
Absolutely brilliant.
Dempsy, seated at the end of the conference table, looked like he was trying not to appear proud.
The call ended with more action items than answers.
That seemed to be standard.
By the time you and Grace returned to her desk, the storm had worsened. Rain hit the windows hard enough now to sound like static. Several people were checking traffic alerts. Someone mentioned flooded side streets.
Grace checked her phone again.
This time, she didn’t hide it fast enough.
You saw the preview.
School closing early due to severe weather. Please arrange pickup by—
Grace locked the screen.
Her jaw tightened.
There it was.
You said nothing.
She sat down and opened the case file again.
“Okay,” she said, voice slightly too fast. “We need to revise the summary before Dempsy sends the field request. The contractor’s remote access logs need to be—”
“Grace.”
She kept typing.
“—cross-checked against the county service road access. If the timing matches—”
“Grace.”
Her fingers stopped.
Slowly.
She didn’t look at you.
“What?”
Your voice softened.
“Talk to me.”
That did make her look.
Her eyes lifted to yours, guarded immediately.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I’m working.”
“I know.”
“Then—”
“You’re doing the thing.”
Grace frowned.
“What thing?”
“The pretending everything is fine thing.”
Her lips parted slightly.
No immediate answer.
Outside, thunder rolled closer.
Grace looked back at her monitor, then at the phone beside it, then at the monitor again.
“I-it’s not work-related.”
“I figured.”
“Then it’s not your problem.”
The words came out quicker than she meant them to.
Sharper.
Not cruel.
Defensive.
You didn’t flinch.
You had heard worse from people under far more pressure.
Grace realised the tone a second later.
Her face changed.
“S-sorry. I didn’t—”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not. I shouldn’t have—”
“Grace.”
She stopped.
You kept your posture relaxed. No pressure. No cornering.
“You don’t have to tell me. But you also don’t have to pretend I didn’t notice.”
That landed.
You watched it land.
Grace looked down at her hands.
Her thumb tapped once against the edge of the desk.
Twice.
Three times.
Then she sighed, barely audible beneath the rain.
“Emily’s school is closing early.”
Something settled quietly into place.
Your suspicion had been right.
The little girl from the photograph.
Her daughter.
And suddenly the worry in Grace's voice made a little more sense.
“My backup cancelled,” she continued. “Roads are flooding near her district. Dempsy needs the field request finished before noon. I have to—” She stopped, swallowed, then tried again. “I have to be in two places at once, apparently.”
There it was.
Not survivor Grace.
Not analyst Grace.
Grace.
A woman trying to hold too much with both hands and still apologising when something slipped.
You nodded slowly.
“Okay.”
She looked up.
Suspicious already.
“What does okay mean?”
“It means okay. We solve it.”
“We?”
“You said two places. There are two of us. That helps.”
Grace stared at you.
“You’re not picking up my daughter.”
You almost smiled.
Not because it was funny.
Because the speed of that response told you exactly where her boundaries were.
Good.
Clear.
Protective.
You respected it immediately.
“I wasn’t offering that.”
Some of the tension eased from her shoulders.
Not all.
Enough.
“I can finish the transport cross-check,” you said. “You send Dempsy the parts only you can sign off on. Then you call whoever you need to call and figure out Emily.”
Grace looked uncertain.
“You don’t have clearance for the remote access logs.”
“No. But I have clearance for the route overlays and county access schedule.”
She hesitated.
“You’d need my notes.”
“So give me your notes.”
“My notes are… not normal.”
“I’ve seen your sticky note wall.”
“That’s different.”
“It’s terrifying.”
“It’s organised.”
“I believe you.”
She searched your face like she was looking for the trap.
There wasn’t one.
That seemed to unsettle her more.
“I don’t want to dump work on you.”
“You’re not.”
“You’re new.”
“I’m qualified.”
“It’s your third day.”
“Fast learner.”
Grace gave you a look.
You smiled gently.
“Let me help.”
The words hung between you.
Simple.
Too simple, maybe.
Grace looked away first.
Rain hammered the glass.
For a long moment, she said nothing.
Then she reached for a yellow legal pad half-buried beneath a folder and slid it toward you.
Her handwriting was small, dense, and angled. Arrows connected timestamps to route numbers, source credibility tags to contractor names, and one section simply read: WHY SIX MINUTES?
You looked at it.
Then at her.
“Grace.”
“What?”
“This is beautiful.”
She blinked.
“It’s a mess.”
“It’s an operational crime board in notebook form.”
“That’s not—”
“I mean that as a compliment.”
Grace’s mouth twitched despite herself.
“You have strange compliments.”
“You have strange notes.”
“They work.”
“I can see that.”
Her expression softened.
Only slightly.
But it was there.
She turned back to her monitor.
“County access schedule is in the shared folder. I’ll give you temporary access to the route overlay.”
“Copy that.”
Grace paused at the phrase.
Military reflex.
You caught her noticing.
“You don’t have to say that here,” she said.
“Old habit.”
“I didn’t say it was bad.”
There was something quiet in the way she said it.
Something careful.
You looked at her.
She was already typing, but a faint colour had touched her cheeks.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
--------------------
The next twenty minutes moved fast.
You worked through route overlays while Grace split her attention between Dempsy’s field request, the contractor report, and increasingly urgent messages about Emily’s school closure.
You watched her try not to check her phone every thirty seconds.
You watched her fail.
You did not comment.
Instead, you sent her the completed county access comparison.
“Service road camera was offline for twenty-six minutes,” you said.
Grace looked up sharply.
“When?”
“Same window as the withdrawn disposal request.”
Her eyes sharpened.
“Send that to me.”
“Already did.”
She opened the file.
Read it.
Read it again.
Then looked at you.
For one second, the worry about Emily loosened its grip on her face.
“This is good.”
You smiled.
“Praise adjacent?”
“No.” Her voice was quiet. Certain. “Praise.”
Oh.
That was worse.
Much worse.
You looked back at your screen before your face gave you away.
“Noted.”
Grace’s phone buzzed again.
This time, she answered.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
Everything in you went still.
You had heard Grace speak softly before.
Timidly. Carefully. Warmly, sometimes.
Not like this.
Her voice changed entirely.
The stutter remained, but the edges softened around it until it sounded less like nerves and more like tenderness trying to fit inside words.
“I know. I know, it’s loud,” she said, one hand covering her other ear against the office noise. “Are you with Ms. Keller? Okay. Good. I’m going to figure it out. I promise.”
A pause.
Her face softened further.
“No, d-don’t be sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Your chest tightened.
Grace turned slightly away, as if instinctively protecting the conversation.
You looked down at your notes.
Gave her privacy without leaving.
“Yeah,” Grace murmured. “I love you too.”
You had to stare very hard at the route map.
Very hard.
Because there was something devastating about witnessing that.
Not dramatic.
Not grand.
Just Grace, sitting at a government desk under fluorescent lights, holding a phone like it mattered more than anything else in the building.
Motherhood looked careful on her.
Fierce.
A little frightened.
Completely real.
She ended the call and sat still for a moment.
Then she exhaled.
“Her after-school coordinator can keep her for forty-five minutes. Maybe an hour.”
“Okay.”
“Road conditions are getting worse.”
“Okay.”
Grace looked at you.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s still solvable.”
“It might not be.”
“Then we adjust.”
“You say that like it’s easy.”
“No. I say it like it’s possible.”
That made her quiet.
The storm pressed harder against the windows.
The bullpen had become more unsettled now. People were leaving early or calling family. Dempsy moved between desks, approving remote work where possible and looking increasingly like a man one inconvenience away from declaring war on weather itself.
Grace’s hand hovered over the mouse.
“I don’t like asking for help,” she said.
You didn’t soften the truth.
“I noticed.”
Her mouth twitched weakly.
“That obvious?”
“To me?”
She looked at you.
“Yes.”
Your answer sat between you.
Honest.
Too honest.
Grace swallowed.
Before either of you could move away from it, Dempsy appeared behind you.
“Ashcroft. Status.”
Grace straightened.
“Field request is almost ready. Route overlay flagged a service road camera outage matching the disposal request window.”
Dempsy looked at you.
“She found the route issue,” Grace added.
You glanced at her.
She did not look at you.
Dempsy’s brow lifted slightly.
“Good work.”
“Thank you.”
He looked back at Grace.
“Can you send it in ten?”
“Yes.”
“Then go get your kid.”
Grace froze.
“I can—”
“No,” Dempsy said flatly. “You can’t do two jobs at once, Grace. And frankly, I’m tired of watching you try.”
Grace stared at him.
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
He nodded toward you.
“Your recruit can finish the non-restricted cross-check. I’ll review before it goes out.”
Grace looked caught between protest and relief.
Dempsy’s expression softened by about one percent.
That seemed to be his emotional maximum in-office.
“She comes first, Ashcroft.”
Grace’s face changed.
A small fracture in the professional mask.
Then she nodded.
“Y-yeah. I know.”
“I know you know. Go act like it.”
He walked away.
You watched him go.
“Warm man,” you said again.
Grace didn’t laugh this time.
Not quite.
But her eyes were softer.
“He’s nicer than he seems.”
“You said that.”
“It’s still true.”
She sent the final report to Dempsy seven minutes later.
You knew because she stared at the confirmation screen like she didn’t trust it.
Then she checked her phone.
Then the window.
Then her phone again.
“Grace.”
“I’m going.”
“You’re planning seven emergency scenarios before standing up.”
She looked offended.
Then guilty.
Then tired.
“Yes.”
Grace patted her bag.
Then frowned.
“…I forgot my umbrella.”
“Lucky for you,” you said, lifting your umbrella from beside your desk, “I remembered mine.”
You stood and grabbed your jacket from the back of your chair.
Grace looked alarmed.
“What are you doing?”
"Walking you to the door."
"The door?"
"The front door. Lobby. Dramatic government exit. Very official."
“I can walk to the lobby by myself.”
“I know.”
“That’s not—”
“It’s raining hard enough to qualify as personality.”
Grace stared at you.
You smiled.
“I have an umbrella.”
Her gaze flicked to the window.
Then back to you.
She hesitated.
Tiny.
Then—
“…fine.”
--------------------
The elevator ride down to the lobby was quiet.
Not awkward.
Just full.
Grace stood beside you, one hand curled around the strap of her bag, the other holding her phone. The light above the doors flickered between floors.
You could see both of you reflected faintly in the metal.
Grace looked smaller there.
No.
Not smaller.
Tired.
Young, somehow, despite everything she had survived.
You kept your eyes forward.
“Does Emily like storms?” you asked.
Grace glanced at you.
“Not really.”
“You?”
A pause.
“I used to.”
Something in that answer made your chest ache.
Used to.
You didn’t ask.
Grace continued anyway, voice quiet.
“My mom liked rain. She said it made bad places feel… washed clean.”
Alyssa.
The name didn’t need to be said.
You understood.
Grace looked down at her phone.
“I think I believed her for a while.”
“And now?”
The elevator slowed.
Grace’s reflection looked at yours.
“I’m trying to again.”
The doors opened into the lobby.
Rain battered the glass entrance, turning the parking lot outside into a dark sheet of reflected light. Water gathered in shallow streams along the curb. Car headlights moved through the storm like blurred ghosts.
You opened your umbrella beneath the awning.
Grace paused beside you.
“You don’t have to walk me to my car.”
“I know.”
“It's pouring.”
“That is usually when umbrellas are useful.”
She gave you a faint look.
You lifted the umbrella slightly.
Simple.
Safe.
No pressure.
Grace hesitated for only a second this time.
Then she stepped beneath it.
Close.
Much closer than she had been in the elevator.
Umbrellas, you discovered immediately, were intimate inventions disguised as weather protection.
Grace seemed to make the same discovery.
Her shoulder brushed yours as you moved away from the awning.
She inhaled softly.
Barely.
You heard it anyway.
Of course you did.
The rain struck the umbrella above you, steady and loud, enclosing the two of you in a small private world of water and dark.
You matched Grace’s pace without thinking.
She noticed.
Of course she did.
For half the walk, neither of you spoke.
Your shoes splashed lightly through shallow water. Her car waited near the middle of the lot, headlights of passing vehicles washing over the pavement.
Halfway there, Grace shifted her bag higher on her shoulder.
Her hand brushed yours.
Accidental.
Immediate.
Neither of you mentioned it.
When you reached her car, the umbrella kept both of you mostly dry, but rain still misted at the edges. Grace fumbled for her keys.
Her hands shook slightly.
Not much.
Enough.
You pretended not to notice until she dropped them.
They hit the wet pavement with a sharp metallic sound.
Grace flinched.
“S-sorry.”
You crouched and picked them up.
When you stood, you didn’t hand them back immediately.
“Take a breath.”
Grace stared at you.
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re functional.”
Her lips parted.
“That’s different.”
The storm filled the space around you.
For a second, you thought she might pull away.
Instead, she closed her eyes.
One breath.
Then another.
Slow.
Controlled.
When she opened them again, something in her had steadied.
Not fixed.
But steadied.
You held out the keys.
She took them carefully.
Your fingers brushed.
This time, neither of you pretended not to feel it.
Grace looked down at your hand.
Then up at you.
The moment was small.
Barely anything.
Rain.
Car keys.
Shared umbrella.
And yet your pulse was suddenly too loud.
Grace’s gaze flicked across your face.
Not to your mouth.
Not quite.
Almost.
Then she looked away, colour rising faintly beneath the dim parking lot light.
“Th-thank you.”
Your voice came out softer than intended.
“Anytime.”
She unlocked the car.
Then paused with one hand on the door.
“You don’t have to keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Helping.”
You kept the umbrella steady between you, giving her space.
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
Grace looked at you.
Really looked.
The storm reflected in her eyes, turning her expression into something unreadable.
“I’m not very good at…” She stopped. Started again. “At letting people.”
You nodded.
“I figured.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“It tells me where to be careful.”
Grace went still.
The words seemed to land somewhere deep.
Her grip tightened on the car door.
You had the sudden, terrifying thought that you wanted to touch her.
Not much.
Just a hand over hers.
A simple contact.
A reassurance.
Something warm against the storm.
You didn’t.
Because this mattered.
Because she mattered.
Because slow did not mean passive.
Sometimes slow meant restraint.
Grace swallowed.
“You’re… strangely good at that.”
“At what?”
“Being careful.”
You smiled faintly.
“Former military.”
This time, she did smile.
Small.
Tired.
Real.
“Drive safe,” you said.
Grace nodded.
“You too.”
“I’m staying to finish the cross-check.”
Her face shifted immediately.
“You don’t have to—”
“Grace.”
She stopped.
“Go get Emily.”
The softness in your voice did something to her.
You saw it.
A flicker. A breath caught and released.
Then she nodded.
“Okay.”
She slipped into the car and pulled the door closed.
You stepped back beneath the umbrella as she started the engine.
At the end of the row, her brake lights paused.
For one second, you thought she was checking traffic.
Then your phone buzzed.
You looked down.
A message from an unknown number.
It’s Grace. Don’t stay too late.
You stared at it.
Then slowly smiled.
Before you could answer, another message appeared.
And don't spend all night working.
You laughed under your breath, rain hammering against the umbrella overhead.
Your reply was immediate.
Bossy.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Then—
Practical.
You were still smiling when you slipped your phone into your pocket.
--------------------
Upstairs, the report was waiting.
The storm was worsening.
The office would be quieter without her.
But for the first time since you had arrived, Grace Ashcroft had reached across the invisible line between work and something else.
Not far.
Not enough to name.
But enough.
And because you were starting to recognise her patterns, you knew exactly how much that meant.
--------------------
End of Chapter Three.
