Connor|RK900xReader One Shots

Cheek To Cheek

RK900 walks in on you 'singing' and 'dancing' while sorting out files. He's amused, but more so, he's smitten.

1800 words

~ ~ ~

When you first were on duty to work in the file storage room – alone, in a barely lit room with exactly one small window in the corner, and lots of dust and chaos – you considered resigning on the spot. Over time, though, you grew quite fond of it.

It was relaxing work to put order in old evidence bags and files and boxes. No phone ringing, no hour long staring at screen. By now, you are more than happy to do this every now and then. Usually, after a stressful case. It gives you downtime without being unproductive.

With the months, you also picked up the habit of listening to music. Why do this in complete silence when no one else is around that would be bothered?

You put a small portable speaker up on one of the shelves and go to work. Fred Astaire is gently wavering through the room while you open box after box after box. Whenever you have the chance to, for example when you have to read over a note another detective left in a file, you do it while walking around. Or rather swaying. Occasionally, you also pretend that you know how to tap dance. And sing.

Heaven, I'm in heaven

And the cares that hung around me through the week

Seem to vanish like a gambler's lucky streak

When we're out together, dancing cheek to cheek

Oh, I love to climb a mountain

And to reach the highest peak

But it doesn't thrill me half as much

As danc-

"FUCK NINES! WHAT THE FUCK?"

"Oh, hello Detective."

"Jesus, since when have you been standing there?"

"Just long enough to conclude that I maybe should call you Ginger Rogers instead."

Your cheeks flush and you try to hide it by turning around and putting the note you read back.

"Had I known this is what you do whenever you're in here, I would come by more often."

You groan and bury your face in your hands. The music that still plays now sounds more like it's mocking you than anything else.

Nines chuckles and steps closer.

"What are you even doing here?" You mumble.

"I wanted to bring you coffee."

Your head shoots up.

Giving you a dazzling smile, he hands you the cup.

There is something in his eyes. You never seen him like this. It's more than amusement.

You clear your throat and take a sip. "Thanks."

"How long has this been going on?" He gestures around.

Your mouth open and closes. Then you narrow your eyes: "You're quoting the song, aren't you?"

"Possibly."

You let out another groan.

"Well, since when are you so knowledgeable in earlier 1900s music? I can hardly imagine that's something you have hard coded into your brain."