Work Text
Kepler was not a man who had pet peeves. If something bothered him, he would damn well take care of it. Peeves did not last long in his presence.
However, Maxwell and Jacobi were a different matter. They could and did get away with a certain number of things, despite Kepler's best efforts to the contrary.
First, complaining. No amount of scolding, threatening, or actual punishment could deter either of them from speaking their mind. Regardless of Rule Eight. He accepted it up to a point, which they crossed with impunity. That was just part of life.
Second, squabbling. They were like children together. Children with degrees from MIT and none of the self-restraint to stop themselves from using those degrees on each other and anyone in proximity. The mere mention of sparklers could send SI-3 into paroxysms of terror, which Kepler used to great advantage during Strategic Intelligence senior staff conferences (or as Cutter called them, “management mixers”).
But third… third. Maxwell and Jacobi supported each other's bad habits the way a rotting log supported a colony of mushrooms, and to this end, and to the end of making Kepler wish he could burn their respective houses down, they had appropriated each others' wardrobes. They were the same height (very short), roughly the same weight, and they made the most of it.
Some of the company likely thought they were sleeping together. This was less probable than Cutter cracking a genuine smile, given that Maxwell was ace, Jacobi was gay, and they were essentially the Wonder Twins in real life. Minus the powers, although that didn't stop Kepler from appreciating the irony of Jacobi turning into a bucket of water.
That was not the problem, however.
The problem was that neither of them had anything remotely approaching a sense of fashion, and they had no intention of finding one. Both of them wore cargo pants that unzipped at the knee to become shorts. Not to mention the… graphic t-shirts. Just thinking about Jacobi's shirt with cartoon bomb on it that said "I'm the bomb!" made Kepler's blood pressure shoot through the roof.
And Maxwell was no better, with her "there are 10 types of people in the world" novelty t-shirt.
But really, the thing that kept Kepler up at night, the thing that made him question, seriously, the utility of living in a world that would allow this to happen in any capacity, was the shoes. They had combat boots for missions, Goddard-issued. Kepler loved combat boots and would be perfectly content to be in the field continuously if only because it would force Maxwell and Jacobi to wear combat boots instead of… the alternative.
Maxwell's only pair of shoes were an ancient pair of red-and-white, waterstained, ratty-shoelaced sneakers that were, conservatively, the same age as her. If someone found them on the street, they would be more likely to call Health and Safety for immediate disposal than anything else.
And Jacobi?
Kepler hated to admit this to himself, but he found Jacobi to be attractive. Immensely so. Despite the state of his attire, there was something about Jacobi's unwavering loyalty, his sense of humor, how he was so easy to tease, the way he looked at Kepler like there was no one in the world who mattered more, the fact that he was one of the very, very limited number of people that Kepler genuinely trusted…
But even catching a glimpse of Jacobi's formerly-white, ragged, and above all extremely, comically unsightly nursing tennis shoes tossed all of that out the window and firmly convinced Kepler that he would be best off remaining alone forever.
The alternative, a life with any man who would wear such an article of clothing, was too terrible to consider.
Then they would be deployed somewhere, Kazakhstan, Venezuela, Alaska, and Jacobi would be forced to wear something more suited for combat, and the way the black thermal shirt clung to his chest and did not say anything sarcastic about bombs in Comic Sans, in the absence of the Hideous White Abominations that were fundamentally not shoes, yes. But their relationship would be detrimental to the mission, a distraction, a liability that he could not afford, and they (Kepler and Jacobi, with a romantic ‘and’) could never happen.
The status quo held for years because of those shoes. Maxwell and Jacobi would complain, prank each other, and show up nearly every day wearing one of the same rotated set of outfits in their communal wardrobe. Kepler would ignore their complaints, sweep the prank-related office harassment complaints under the carpet, and find as many reasons to throw away their clothes as possible. The “there are 10 types of people” shirt met its end when one of Jacobi’s more avant-garde flamethrower-grenade projects went wrong, and it was the best day of Kepler’s life.
It lasted right up until the Bellona incident.
There was no returning to status quo ante Bellona.
"Maxwell."
"Yes?"
"Maxwell~!"
"…Yes?"
"Maxwell!!"
"What in the name of everything holy could you possibly want?!" Maxwell snapped, finally looking up from her computer.
Jacobi snickered. "Nothing."
"Oh, for the love of…" she muttered to herself. "Bellona, can you run sequences five through eight of your–"
"Neuroimpulse modulator manifold? Of course." Bellona's program made an electronic chirp.
"Looks good. Processing speed has definitely improved." Maxwell looked over her shoulder to see Jacobi chewing on the end of his pen. "Can you not do that?"
"Yeah." He kept gnawing away, making a piece of the cap chip off.
"Jacobi, stop eating your pen," Kepler said.
With a sigh, Jacobi dropped the pen onto the table and watched Maxwell type in peace for a solid seventy-five seconds before all three of their phones pinged in chorus.
Jacobi picked up his phone, took one look, and dropped it again immediately. "Jesus christ!"
Bellona laughed over the intercom, but not a friendly, happy laugh. A this goddess used to demand blood sacrifice laugh. "Oh, that’s good."
"What?" Maxwell grabbed her phone and yelped, "God, why?!" in reflex.
It was, of course, Cutter's holiday party invitation, featuring him dressed up as an elf with a smile on his face so completely bone-chilling that this photo would have to be banned everywhere except HBO, where it would make an excellent jumpscare.
It said, "Happy holidays, Goddard!" in an elegant copperplate and gave the date and time of the execution: December 25th at 6:30.
"No," Jacobi groaned.
"No," he and Maxwell groaned together.
Even Kepler seemed incapable of summing up his usual level of enthusiasm. "Are the two of you excited?"
"NO!!"
"I said, are the two of you excited?"
They both grimaced and said variations of, "Yeah, of course, couldn’t be happier!"
Kepler crossed his arms and fixed them in place with a glare. "I expect the both of you to smile and interact with your coworkers in a pleasant manner. And wear something nice."
"No, you can’t make me!" Jacobi squawked, arms wrapped around his ratty Star Wars hoodie. "I’ll never smile!"
"This is beyond the terms of my contract!" Maxwell protested.
Kepler did smile at that. "Oh, no it isn’t. And rest assured that if you do not acquire suitable attire, I will ensure that you have some."
That made them sit up a bit straighter.
"You… you wouldn’t," Maxwell said, trying to convince herself of this fact too.
"I would," Kepler promised. Then his phone buzzed with another message, and he sighed. "I need to deal with this. If della Francesca doesn't show up, I'll never hear the end of it from Young. I’ll be back in five minutes."
As soon as Kepler was gone, Bellona said, "Jacobi, you’d better dress up for this event."
Jacobi turned around to give a quizzical look at the AI's camera. "You too? You know, you don’t have to back him up just because he's the director. He isn't even around right now."
"No. It’s because you like him, and you're bad at attracting men," Bellona snapped, her camera aperture narrowing so she could glare at him properly.
"Wh—wh—what? No! I don’t—he’s my—jeez, Bellona, he’s my commanding officer! I can’t…" Jacobi tried to protest.
"In a paramilitary," she pointed out. "So… you’d better dress up. Buy something tailored. And get rid of those affronts to general decency on your feet!"
"They’re comfortable! Broken-in!" Jacobi said defensively. He'd had the shoes for awhile, sure, but they couldn't be that bad.
"Old! Ugly! Garbage!" Bellona snapped. "You know how much Kepler cares about appearances. It’s crossed that blob of pudding you call a brain before, right?"
Jacobi groaned. "Once or twice. He always looks so… Maxwell, don’t give me that! You know what aesthetic attraction is like. Have you seen what Kepler wears? Hell, he could make the straightest men turn bisexual when he’s wearing a button-down with the sleeves rolled up."
"I mean, objectively, he is aesthetically pleasing and I understand why you… like him. But not the rest of—" She flailed her arms ineffectually. "—All that."
Bellona chirped, a little electronic whistle that was a pay-attention kind of sound. "You should make an effort, Jacobi. I’ve been compiling a statistical analysis of your interactions, and following any close communication between the two of you, Major Kepler always looks at your shoes. Presumably to remind himself that pursuing relations with you may be suboptimal for both of your overall productivity and prevent him from achieving key goals."
"Uh-huh." Jacobi wasn't sure if he should be worried about Bellona's interest in his love life or the information she'd gathered. "If he'd wanted to make a move, he would have done it by now."
"That's exactly what she's saying. He does want to make a move, but your shoes are preventing it from happening," Maxwell translated.
Jacobi was silent for a moment. "Seriously? You think it's all these shoes?"
"They're atrocious," Bellona confirmed with a sigh.
Maxwell nodded in confirmation. "Even I'm not that much of a fan, and you've seen what I wear."
"Well, um… thanks for the heads-up."
Bellona chirped again, the lens of her camera blinking by quickly closing and opening the aperture. "No problem. And if you go to this holiday party in those, I'll delete everything from Goddard's servers and then myself."
—
"You know, upon further reflection, this seems like a bad idea, a very bad idea, actually, and I think I might have left, um, a bomb in the oven, could burn down the entire state of Florida now that I think about—"
"Don’t get cold feet. I’ll be right here with my computer if you need anything," Maxwell reassured him.
Jacobi grit his teeth and walked into the store. It offered something called bespoke men’s attire, and it made Jacobi more nervous than handling a live grenade. Much more nervous. Grenades were downright relaxing. Give him an IED any day.
Inside the store, everything was so immaculately arranged, ties, shoes, shirts, Jacobi felt like if he touched anything, it would all come crashing down. And then he'd have one hell of a tab to pay.
The person working the floor was just as pristine, wearing clothes which were far fancier than anything Jacobi had ever worn with ease and confidence. "Hello, my name is Matthew. What can I help you with today?"
"I, uh. I need to. Buy something to wear? For a company party?" Jacobi didn’t step forward until Maxwell prodded him with the corner of her computer. He almost knocked over a tie rack and suppressed a string of unprintable swears.
Matthew smiled with the kind of effortless grace Jacobi would never have. "Of course. Do you know the dress code for the event?"
And thus began Jacobi’s descent into hell. To keep him motivated, Maxwell started holding up her computer with pictures of the Kepler space telescope and also surveillance photos of Kepler himself. She really was a great wingman. The event was black tie. Jacobi knew vaguely what Kepler wore to events like this one; a suit with a purple sash thing around his waist. And cufflinks. Gold, with a silver star in the center. Matthew was in the process of convincing Jacobi what color waist scarf to wear following a long discussion about how they were more old-fashioned than fashionable, which firmly rooted in Jacobi's mind just how dedicated Kepler was to looking like the most pretentious person in the room.
"Seriously, if you know he always wears plum purple, you should go for mustard yellow. Then your colors will be complementary, and besides, this color goes great with your skin. Benefits of being Asian. I’d know."
"Yeah… but…" Jacobi didn’t want to point out that he was only half Korean and also very, very nervous about wearing colors that were not black, grey, or neutral, and also regretting his decisions in life. All of them.
Matthew cut off his vague, unconvincing protests with a hand wave. "You said you wanted to look good next to him? Yellow. If you go for the green or, god forbid, red, I might as well quit my job." He seemed very serious about this threat.
Jacobi sighed. "Okay, you definitely know better than I do."
"Good. Let me know how it goes, unless you completely fail, then let me dream about your happily-ever-after with your superspy boyfriend in peace."
"Yep, yeah, the second one sounds about right. He’s…" Jacobi tried to sum up Kepler in nonterrifying words. "He’s just my tall, frustratingly handsome commanding officer. I think all his clothes are tailored. Once, he dropped the word perspicacious in conversation and it was the hottest thing I’ve ever heard him say."
"What a dreamboat." Matthew smiled.
"It's been hours, are you done or did a bow tie strangle you?" Maxwell scuttled towards them, her green-streaked hair a frizzy mess. "I want to go to the hardware store."
"Joke’s on you, we both like the hardware store. Now get out, I’m not going to take off my pants with you in here."
"Ew, please don’t."
"Yep. Bye."
"She’s quite a character," Matthew commented, watching Maxwell settle back in an armchair and start typing away on her computer again.
"Yeah, Alana’s something else. Once, she told me that her favorite comedy was Citizen Kane."
"I can’t believe I thought the two of you were dating when you first came in." Matthew made an ungentlemanly snort at Jacobi’s expression of shock and horror. "Anyway, take that off so I can show you how to fold it properly."
"Wait, there’s a… of course there is."
It would be worth it, though.
Probably.
Maybe.
Kepler did not often feel anticipation; generally, he felt bored, mildly amused, or homicidal. The last time he had actually felt anticipation had been in Buenos Aires, nearly eight years ago, directly before his short film had been shown to a sold-out house. Back when he cared about things.
Because in Strategic Intelligence, there was little room for personal attachment or emotion. It was better to forget about being a person with saccharine hopes and dreams in order to accomplish the mission. His focus could never waver, so he took the pieces of himself that were soft and sentimental and slow and crushed them.
Anticipation wasn’t on the menu anymore.
Then again, Jacobi hadn’t shown up, and they were fifteen minutes into the party. It wasn't like Jacobi was ever on time, but he was also a firm believer in being 'fashionably late', with the optimum time being fifteen minutes.
He and Maxwell looked up at the balcony, the entrance for tonight’s event, but it was empty.
Kepler twisted his fake Pomona class ring around his finger. He’d actually gone to CalTech, but his current cover was a Pomona graduate, hence the ring with the apple tree and tiny ruby apple.
Cutter and Pryce appeared at the top of the balcony. Pryce wore a long, full silk dress made of enormous blue diadem butterfly wings, with Cutter in a suit accented with the same shade of blue. A butterfly was clipped to his hair, but he somehow made it seem sophisticated rather than childish. Kepler had a sneaking suspicion that when Cutter turned around, he’d have two wings trailing down from the shoulders of the suit like a cape.
The directors of the five Strategic Intelligence departments had to step forward, along with Rachel Young, because Cutter did so love seeing all his ducks in a row. For some reason, Rachel decided to stand right next to Kepler.
"You look pale, Warren. Is everything… okay?" she asked with perfect insincerity. She smiled, her lipstick a sanguine slash across her face.
Kepler didn’t respond.
"Hello, and happy holidays, everyone! It’s so nice to see you all taking a break from your extremely stressful jobs to enjoy the a little wintertime festivity. It’s been another year in paradise..." Cutter kept going for a bit longer, although Kepler didn’t really pay attention.
Where the hell was Jacobi?
At the end of the speech, everyone assembled had to clap, and then it was time to mingle. "Don’t stab anyone with the cheese knives, Maxwell," he warned. "Remember last year."
"Yeah, yeah…" She wandered away towards the table of canapés, and Kepler caught her say quietly, "Skies are clear, Mars."
On the occasions when they needed anonymity over the radio, they used call signs, chosen by Maxwell. Kepler was "Eclipse," named after a programming platform. Jacobi and Maxwell were respectively "Mars" and "Neon," two versions of Eclipse published in separate years. They went with it, if only because Kepler wasn’t invested enough to care. The use of Jacobi’s sign could only mean that they were plotting something. The phrase skies are clear meant that the plot was ready to move into action. Whatever that could be.
He was so distracted by this thought (him, distracted!) that he missed Jacobi’s entrance entirely.
"Goddammit," a familiar voice sighed. "I go through all the trouble of making a big show of my entrance, and you have the audacity to miss it."
Kepler’s nerves were really having a party after almost ten years of complete radio silence. "Mister Jacobi, you’re late."
"Such is the price I pay for being fashionable."
Kepler turned around to see Jacobi, with a lazy, confident grin on his face, hands shoved into the pockets of his very well-fitting trousers. It was a look Kepler could appreciate. He realized that he’d never seen Jacobi in clothes that actually fit, let alone real clothes or a freshly ironed shirt. And the shade of gold, the one that perfectly complemented Kepler’s purple?
Oh, it was a beautiful storm.
"See something you like?"
Kepler almost said yes. No hesitation, knee-jerk response, just a blatant, unadorned, "Yes." Dammit. He looked down, and saw that Jacobi was wearing a pair of perfectly ordinary black dress shoes.
"God, it really was the shoes this whole time." Jacobi smiled and looked up at Kepler, and really they should have made that illegal, because it was—"Unbelievable."
Kepler reached out and straightened Jacobi’s bow tie, and was that aftershave? His usual burnt-toast smell was layered over with amber, saffron, whiskey, and something he couldn't identify, and Kepler wanted to know the name of every single note.
"Well, Major, I’m not really one for dancing, so we should move unless you have a sudden need to waltz."
Kepler pressed his hand against Jacobi’s lower back, pulling him in close so he could smell burned marshmallows, and Jacobi rested his hand on Kepler’s shoulder. Something felt so right about how they fit together, like they'd always meant to be this way.
"Uh, I was joking about the dancing thing. I don’t dance."
Kepler smiled. "I hope you know by now that I can dance well enough for the both of us."
For the duration of the song, Kepler ignored Maxwell cheering in the background, and Rachel taking five dollars from Giulia della Francesca, director of SI-4, and the knowing smirk spreading across Cutter’s pasty face like melted ice cream over hot pavement.
He looked at Jacobi, whose eyes in the light were honey, autumn birch leaves, amber. And his smile. The part of Kepler that said he didn’t need those kinds of things withered and died under the force of that smile, and he couldn't have stopped himself if he wanted to.
The song faded out, and they stood at the edge of the room. Kepler didn't want to let go, so he didn't.
"No sarcastic quips? That’s unlike you."
"Sorry, fresh out, try again later," Jacobi said in one breath. "So, uh… I didn't plan out this far."
But of course, Kepler always had a plan. "Well, Jacobi, I know that your interpretation of holiday spirit encompasses more fire and gunpowder than what is considered the average, so…" Kepler reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of sparklers.
"Major, you shouldn't have!" Jacobi somehow managed to light one without letting Kepler see the source of the fire, sending sparks flying. He smiled down at the sparkler, and the glow painted his face in shades of gold and red. "But I didn't get you anything."
Kepler was just starting to smile when Jacobi kissed him. And how did he still taste like burned marshmallows, sweet and bitter, and why could he taste that forever and never get tired of it? Kepler pulled Jacobi in closer, the smell of wood fires curling around them like smoke.
"Yeah, get some, Jacobi!" Maxwell shouted in the distance, and they broke apart, bright red, the sparkler still flickering.
"You'd better have burned those damn shoes," Kepler breathed. "Otherwise I will."
"It's on the list," Jacobi promised. "Want to go scare the hell out of SI-3 in the meantime?"
Kepler pulled Jacobi in close, kissed him gently. "Of course."