Work Text:
Iceberg sat silently in the cafeteria, Gears next to him reading over paperwork as usual. Neither had gotten food, both opting for just a cup of coffee. It didn’t help with Icebergs jitters and restless thoughts, but having something to hold in his hands that was warm kept him grounded enough for Gears’s liking. The pair had been in their preferred spot for hours; few words were spoken between them, and even fewer glances.
It had been that way for months. Ever since Iceberg had stopped feeling. They would sit in mostly amicable silence while Gears worked. Iceberg would occasionally offer input when Gears asked, though usually he acted as a prop for the man, more than anything.
He was exhausted.
There was little point in him still being there, in his continued existence within the Foundation. Any excitement he’d once felt for his work was now a dull ache in his chest, the feeling begging to be set free. Was this how Gears felt? Every hour of every day, like he might implode from every little emotion that wanted to escape?
Maybe he was lucky, that his gnawing anxiety was still at the forefront of his mind. It meant that there was still some piece of him left. The constant, fearful thoughts and increased cortisol levels might’ve been inching him closer and closer to an early grave, but he’d be damned if he gave up on himself now.
“You are hyperventilating, Dr. Iceberg.” Gears’s words snapped him out of his thoughts, and the world spun around him viciously. Iceberg gripped the edge of the beige table hard and shook his head to clear it.
Gears looked at him expectantly, and Iceberg shrugged. “I’m fine. Just…in my head a little bit.” His heart still raced and nausea still washed over him, but at least he wasn’t on the verge of passing out anymore. Unfortunately for him, Dr. Gears didn’t seem satisfied but the response and stood abruptly, papers in hand.
“Follow.” Iceberg scrambled to his feet, hands clutching at the coffee cup in them. Back to their office, then. He was almost glad to escape the hustle and bustle of the cafeteria, but the cramped, sterile office only made his feelings of emptiness worse.
Not like he had much of a choice in the matter, though. Gears had made a beeline to the exit, not once turning back to ensure his charge was following. Of course he was.
The cafeteria was only a few minutes away from Gears’s office, and the quiet journey didn’t leave much time for Iceberg to think. But when they reached the door and Gears swiped his ID card on the access panel, his previously unoccupied mind was filled with dread. He managed to temper his symptoms with a sip of coffee and sat opposite Gears, as always.
And then, it seemed, the pair was back to sitting in silence. Gears handed Iceberg the paperwork he had been looking at, and turned his attention to his desktop, typing away at the keyboard.
Iceberg didn’t pay much attention to the words on the paper placed before him; it was some write up about 882 which…if he was totally honest, wasn’t the greatest reading material. He and Gears had lived it. They knew what it did to the human psyche. The Foundation was just rehashing old news.
The quiet continued for a time, before it edged into being uncomfortable. Iceberg’s racing thoughts were no help, but—
“I hate this job.” He hadn’t realized he said it out loud until he noticed Gears staring at him as incredulously as he could manage.
“You do not,” was Gears’s response, dry and succinct. “You would have left already, if that were the case. The Foundation would have provided you with Class C or F amnestics and sent you on your way.”
They both knew that was bullshit. The only way the Foundation would ‘let him go’ was with a bullet in his brain and grey matter splattering the walls of this very office. “You have excellent work ethic and never complain. People like us are uniquely suited for this type of work.”
There was that ‘we’ and ‘us’ talk again. Gears knew what was happening to him. He could see himself reflected back clearly in Iceberg…and he chose to feign ignorance. “Uniquely miserable, maybe,” he muttered, just loud enough for Gears to hear it. The man offered no response. The lack of reaction made something burn inside of Iceberg, and for the first time in a long time, he felt anger bubble up inside his chest, ready to come out.
“What would it take for you to crack, huh? Me killing myself? Would you even care!?” Iceberg’s voice was shrill. “Because I could! I- I would, you know? I don’t wanna live like this anymore!”
Gears fixed him with a look that would’ve been a glare if there was any feeling behind his eyes. “Dr. Iceberg. Do not,” Iceberg cut him off with an erratic wave of his hands, empty coffee cup tossed onto the desk with their papers.
“Don’t give me that look! I give and I give and I give! And what do I get in return, Gears? Nothing! I don’t,” Iceberg stood, punching his chair out from the desk. “I deserve more than this.” He gripped at his sleeves, tears prickling behind his scrunched shut eyelids. He wanted comfort. Needed it. But he would not ask Gears, and Gears would not offer.
So instead, he took the most self-soothing deep breath he could and pulled his chair back in behind him. As if nothing had ever happened.
Perhaps it was better that way.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Gears. I shouldn’t have let my emotions get the better of me.” The angry feeling persisted for a few more fleeting moments, though it quickly became overshadowed by that ever-persisting empty pit inside him. The anxiety crept back in then, and his legs began to shake, the table shaking alongside them. Gears stayed entirely silent, like the outburst meant nothing.
The pair slowly resumed their quiet work session, but deep in the back of his mind, Iceberg considered the gun locker behind him.