The two sat across the desk, gazes locked. Brown eyes held blue, one jaw was set while the other pursed pale lips. A heavy desktop clock ticked out the seconds with a loud clicking sound. Not just a tick but ch-ch-ch-k, ch-ch-ch-k. It thudded like that a few times before the woman finally heaved a loud, pointed sigh.
“That thing is annoying.”
The man grinned triumphantly, eyebrows raised and eyes wide and warm. “Ha! I win!”
“We weren't playing a game. You can't win if we weren't-”
“Duncan, you're an idiot.”
Duncan nodded sagely, as if he was well aware that he was an idiot. Or, at least, that she thought he was an idiot. His gaze was still alight with a mix of pride and mischief. The woman twisted her lips, one brow raised archly.
“Alright, so since you refuse to tell me what's going on, why don't I ask.”
“Go right ahead,” Duncan replied, voice tight and smug as he leaned back slightly in his oversized desk chair while she looked about ready to strangle him.
“Duncan,” she began through gritted teeth, “Why are you in a new office?”
He smiled wider, rocking forward to place his elbows on the desk. She waited, but he remained silent for a long while. His gaze was meant to be sharp, but she noted that he simply looked comical- eyelids at half mast as if he held some vast, worldly secret. In fact, she was about to point out that you couldn't look critical when you were wearing converse sneakers and jeans with your dress shirt and your vest that was one third of a three piece suit.
But he spoke before she had a chance to. “Alright, take this title for a spin, Felicia- Duncan Sellors, Private Eye.”
Felicia continued to stare at him, this time in confusion rather than wry exasperation. The heavy clocked th'ked out the passing seconds in her silence.
“... In your head you're spelling that e-y-e, aren't you?”
Duncan's face fell. “Felicia,” he whined petulantly, voice much higher and the vowels drawn out.
“Duncan,” she shot back, watching in amusement as he pouted. Chuckling through a breath, she softened her features and let her tone grow more serious. “This is all well and good but did you even go through all the correct steps? Did you get a license? Did you go back for your-”
“Don't say badge.” His words were sharp, but they didn't have their intended silencing effect as Felicia forged on.
“I know you're still sore about getting kicked out of the NYPD academy, but this isn't necessarily the best way to go around it. I know for a fact that you don't have a gun license, and even if you did you wouldn't be allowed to use it. You're not qualified to be a PI, Dunc.”
The whole while Duncan crossed his arms across his chest, looking more like an annoyed toddler than a twenty six year old man who had just purchased a new office with the last of his savings. But he gathered himself, sighing and smoothing his features into something more smug. He drew his pout into a smirk and by the time she finished, he was leaning back, feet up on the desk and legs crossed at the ankles.
Felicia had run out of steam, and as silence hung between them she realized that he'd gone from chastised to smug in what had to be record time- even for him. Her lips pursed a little tighter, pale lipstick making a waxy seal between them while she furrowed her brow in consternation.
“I'm starting to think that's just part of your face,” he remarked dryly. Felicia's frown deepened. Clearly, this egregious display of pretentiousness called for the big guns. She stayed quiet for a beat, expression dropping into feigned neutrality.
“Does Litchfeld know about this career change?”
All at once, Duncan's body seized. His eye twitched and he jerked backwards. His feet didn't just fall off the desk- his entire body tipped sideways and he was dumped in a heap on the floor; toppled into tangle of limbs, spluttering indignant syllables and vowels the whole time. Felicia didn't bat an eye- though the corner of her mouth quirked upwards ever so slightly.
She left him trying to formulate a sentence for length of an outraged “I- you- he- why- ah- rgh!” before neatly pushing her chair back and leaning over the meet his scowling gaze innocently.
“So you're still doing that?” The question didn't sound like a question; it was light and airy and nonchalantly spoken as if she was commenting on the weather. Duncan's face went redder and he didn't bother trying to pick himself up.
“Don't you say that name in here! That man is my arch enemy!”
“People don't actually have arch enemies, Dunc.”
“I know you're searching for just the right Holden Caulfield-esque insult, but may I point out that you're just sore because he was there when you accidentally shot the sergeant in the foot-”
She laughed. It was low and came mostly from her nose- a not altogether undignified snort of amusement. “Poor baby.”
Duncan was finally setting about disentangling the heap he'd fallen into. It took a few tries and a few flails, but he pulled himself up by gripping the desk, fuming all the while. His lips opened and closed and the odd squeaked syllable escaped him, but he could only speak properly again once he was fully upright and pounding his fest on the wood of his desk.
“Keep this up and you're- you're- you're not going to be my femme fatale!”
Ch-ch-ch-k, ch-ch-ch-k. Brown eyes blinked. Duncan waited, face red.
The force of Felicia's laughter seemed to shake the very foundation of the office, bouncing off the walls as Duncan chased her out.
