more like (ir)regular

Disclaimer: Alphas and its characters do not belong to me.

...

Rachel believed in fate.

She knew that – that somehow, the universe, in all of its infinite sense of irony and horrible sense of humor, would have allowed her to have meet this group of (amazing, talented, witty) people even if she did not have a 'condition.'

If they, any of them, were born 'normal,' the word 'normal' taken as literally as a fish riding a unicycle along the Serengeti Desert during a snow storm, she was sure they would have met in another way.

Rachel has faith in fate.

There was no way, in any universe or life, normal or not, Alpha or a genetically correct human being, Rachel knows there's no way she would have missed anyone from her team.

Although, if she had been normal –

Her life probably would not have altered too much.

Normal-Rachel would undoubtedly still have played second fiddle to an older, more beautiful, stiletto-wearing sister who had droves of men waiting to take her out. In her quietness, normal-Rachel would still somehow be considered abnormal.

Especially by her parents.

Their constantly quiet but obedient, little Rachel –

- was abnormal.

Their quirky daughter, she was the one who they would need to watch out for. They would have spoken to cousins and aunts, and family-friends down the street, their eyes searching for an eligible man to set-up their quiet and abnormal daughter with.

Langley would provide a few years of reprieve from her parents and their gentle pushing toward suitors.

While sitting in an outdoor patio, a known hangout for spooks and other government agents, her home-packed lunch in front of her and a confidential manifest carefully secured within the pages of a novel (disguised as easy reading), it would be there that Rachel Pirzard would meet Bill Harken for the very first time.

He sampled her muffin.

She would remain silent, biting her lip and fuming.

"I'm Special Agent Bill Harken, the FBI liaison for the CIA." His grin widened. His teeth visible, like a shark before it snapped its mouth shut on a helpless seal. "You're on loan for the month."

His cocky smile would grate on her nerves.

The cookies he placed on her desk (desk, being a little table stuffed in the corner next to the office fern) and an accompanying note from Bill's wife stating that she was sorry for Bill's unprofessional manner, especially in regards to food and that she should accept these cookies and don't worry, Bill wouldn't try to take them because he had already been given explicit instructions to not steal Rachel's cookies.

Rachel honestly thought the FBI would be less – odd.

"I hope you're not overworking my adorable translator," said Nina. She peered over Rachel's shoulder, the corners of her bright red lips upturned in a reserved smile as if she was constantly privy to an inside joke that very, very few people were ever allowed to know.

Rachel visibly jolted, her pen and papers scattering against the linoleum floor like leaves against the quiet tempest that was Nina Theroux.

"I won her fair and square," responded Bill.

"I was careless," Nina narrowed her eyes.

"CIA," Bill sighed with over dramatized flair, "Always so cocky."

"A miscalculation," she flicked at in imaginary lint ball on her sleeve with a red lacquered nail. "Anyone would be cocky after winning what little intel you have in Kuwait in three rounds of poker. That," she at Bill, her smile sublime, like a perfectly groomed cat in front of a bowl of cream. "And getting you down to your tie and socks after round nine."

Bill spluttered, eyes wide and darting everywhere for any agents who would possibly snitch on him to his wife.

Rachel was still on the ground, picking up papers and after hearing that, she buried her face in her hands.

Oh.

Oh, so bad.

Tension was in the air, it could possibly be cut not only with a knife, but a ball-point pen at this point.

The CIA's favored interrogator sitting across the FBI's senior agent.

This could not possibly get more awkward.

…

Rachel was wrong.

So. Wrong.

"This cannot be him." Nina raised her eyes turned upward as if questioning why in the world she was in an alley, on a Friday, in the Bronx, at 3:43am in her Louboutin's.

Rachel fumbled with her notebook, flipping to the forty-thir- no, the forty-fourth page regarding one Detective Cameron Hicks of NYPD.

"It is," she confirmed. And winced. "Detective Cameron Hicks. Former Marine sniper, served three tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan, honorably discharged. He's currently undercover and uhmm..."

"Unconscious and fits the bill of his cover – a deadbeat." Bill nudged the lump of man and plaid clothing carefully with the toe of his shoe, earning an undignified yelp from said lump of human flesh.

"I take offense to that," Det. Hicks moaned. He rolled over on his back, opening a bleary eye. "I swear, teenagers these days have nothing else better to do than beat up homeless people."

That would have alarmed them, well – them mostly being Rachel, since Nina and Bill made no visible grimace or physical gesture regarding the comment. Then again, when Hicks realized he had not gained the rightful group worry that he was aiming for, sighed and splayed his body against the disgusting street of Brooklyn with a groan and the sound click of his spines snapping back into place.

"Thanks for the concern," he said with a shrug before standing up.

"Are you..." Rachel made an aborted gesture to move closer to him only to stop.

"Well, looks like there are some caring individuals in the government agencies," Hicks commented with an appreciative smile. "Yeah, I'm fine. I grabbed their IDs and," he nodded toward a hidden camera somewhere in the direction of the emergency exit stairs, "Have them on tape 'beating me up'," he even included the quotation marks.

Rachel grimaced, his fingernails were caked with – with some sort of black grit underneath.

"Great, glad to know you're doing your job and righteously putting overprivileged teenagers in jail." which earned Bill in indignant 'hey!' from Hicks, but he ignored it and continued, "According to our chatter, you're supposed to be our inside man. I don't see how the North American leg of the Middle Eastern drug cartel necessarily needs a homeless, white man within their ranks."

In that instant, Hicks quieted.

A chill ran down Rachel's spine.

Cold, blue eyes peered back at them, hard and impenetrable like diamonds. He quirked his head slightly, and Rachel took a step back. She could see Nina's shoulder rise in defense and Bill's fingers twitch toward his gun.

"White men rule the wear. The Pakistanis know this." He waved a dirt-encrusted hand in the air toward his clothing, "If their mover and front man happens to be quirky and likes to wander around dressed as a homeless man, then who are they to question him as long as he gets results."

The flash of light from a lone car passing by brightened the alleyway and for a second, Rachel saw the man in the picture in her notebook, one Detective Cameron Hicks.

"Well then," Nina took a step forward, and broke the moment. Rachel unsteadily exhaled, surprised that she had unconsciously inched slightly behind Bill, using him as a buffer between her and Hicks. "Then you're exactly who we're looking for."

"For you baby? Anything," Hicks grinned at Nina, his shoulders slacked with ease, a shadow of the intimidating Detective Hicks that they had glimpsed just moments ago, as he rubbed a rough hand against the stubble adorning his face. He wiggled his eyebrows, "For a price."

"Is that so?"

"I won't take anything but 'yes' for an answer."

"What a charmer," she purred. She took a slow step closer, "Fair warning: despite tall, dark, and handsome with his hand on his gun behind me over there, no euphemism intended, I could easily dispose of your body in fifteen different ways." With her heels, Nina barely had to tilt her head back to look at Hicks in his eyes, "And that's only with what's in my cosmetic bag."

She swept a hand through her dark hair, her voice husky like bourbon and expensive cigars as she continued,"I suggest you put a considerable amount of thought into that request."

Hicks laughed, his grin merely widening. "A shower." He stepped past Nina, shooting a grin toward Bill and Rachel, "Although Ms. CIA, if you would like to join me, I'd have no complains."

Bill snorted, opening his mouth to respond only to be stopped as Nina glided past him, her heels clicking against the cement with ferocity.

"Uhm, no," she replied, following the detective as he jovially headed left toward who knows where.

It was there in that dingy alley, attempting to match Bill and Nina's pace as they attempted to catch up with Hicks, that Rachel wondered about the ludicrousness of her life.

She tightened her grip on her book, hearing Hick's call them slowpokes, and chuckled.

…

"You seem to be fond of that book."

"I keep my notes in it," replied Rachel. She self-consciously picked up her notebook and placed it beside her, behind the throw pillow. Her fingertips rested on the well-worn cover.

It was her cushion for reality.

The the gunshot residue on the edge of the cover a reminder.

Dr. Rosen nodded, his hands folded neatly on his lap. "You look as if you're taking this well."

"Well, it's not everyday I'm shot at," Rachel bit her lip, her eyes cast downward on the cream carpet. "Besides, Bill and Hicks were the ones who got injured, not me, so I have nothing really to complain about."

"Yes," Rosen said slowly, "But they're trained officers. So is Nina, but you – you are essentially a civilian."

"I-I've been shot at," Rachel countered. Realizing her abrupt tone of voice, she ducked her head back down to look apologetically at her fingers.

"Yes, but those were simulations." She hears him inhale, and then there is silence.

She cautiously looked up.

"They're worried about you, Rachel." Rosen leaned forward, "You're important to them, not only for your language skills," his voice softens, "But their concern for you, to the point of physically carrying you to my office, is because you are their friend."

"I..." Rachel paused at the word friend and her fingers tightened around her book, the spine digging into the palm of her hand. "I didn't know that."

One sniffle turned into two.

Until her sniffling was accompanied by several hot tears running down her cheeks like lava.

She didn't hear Rosen stand up from his seat.

Or the click of the door opening.

She felt arms wrap around her. Nina was humming, her voice warm and comforting and familiar, just like then, during that fire fight when Rachel was cowering in the corner, imaging the worse and hating her own defenselessness.

Rachel smelled sandalwood bodywash surround her as the couch cushion dipped, indicating someone taking the seat beside her. A stubbled chin brushed against her forehead as he murmured reassurance into her hair.

"I'm glad you're a government lackey and not an agent," Hicks murmured, "You're too nice for them." She hears him move away, probably looking at Nina, "Way too nice for the Agency."

"I take offense to that." Rachel smiled at Nina's apt response.

A rough and heavy hand tousled her hair.

"I'm sorry," Rachel gasped, burying her face further into Nina's shoulder.

She heard Bill snort as he continued to pat her head, "Don't even worry about it. Besides, I can't let any harm come to you. You're still on loan and Ms. Interrogator over there would have my hide if the FBI broke their asset."

The way Bill said asset – it did not mean a tool or something disposable. It was a nickname, an affectionate one at that.

Rachel looked up, disregarding her red eyes and stuffy nose and saw Dr. Rosen in his chair across from her. Nina and Cameron beside her, and listening to the floor creek as Bill rocked on his feet behind the couch, still patting her head as if she was a pet.

Yeah, Rachel can't imagine working with anyone else.

…

"Mint tea, 195 degrees, steeped for five minutes, a twist of lime and two teaspoons of honey."

Rachel looked up, startled but only due to her complete engrossment with her book. A romantic, science fiction novel with super-powered humans.

She was always surprised when her tea, exactly the way she took it even though she could have added the two teaspoons of honey herself, arrived in front of her.

She could be considered a regular. Then again, she was absent for nearly two months. She thought she lost the privilege of her order being hand delivered to her exact specifications at this point due to her long absence.

Rachel blamed Dr. Rosen and his long and mentally grueling therapy sessions.

And Bill or Hicks and their bodily lifting her to these sessions.

Even Nina, with a seemingly innocent suggestion of a cup of coffee or explaining her shopping spree proved to be too good of a method of distraction, and somehow, someway, Rachel ended up with coffee in one hand and two steps away from Rosen's door, before she was crassly pushed into his office.

She spied the petite vanilla-bean and ginger infused scone carefully tucked on the corner of her saucer beside her steaming mug of mint tea.

It was nearing six o'clock and their sweets, especially their scones usually ran out by four pm.

Apparently, Rachel was wrong.

She looked up to thank him, but already, he was already moving back toward the counter.

Rachel left her book, her cup of tea with the delicious scone, and followed after him.

She stopped, several feet away from him. Her server, barista, and baker (she thinks he helps with baking, he looks like he bakes since he likes measuring things to an exact measurement) sat on a stool, his brown eyes focused on the glow of the laptop screen. His laptop was a plain, gray laptop, but with the focus he placed into it and the rapid movement of his fingers against the keyboard, Rachel did not think he was only playing solitaire or watching reruns of crime shows.

"G-Gary."

His eyes snapped up, briefly meeting hers before darting to the side.

"You know my name," he murmured. His fingers fiddled with the black and white wristband wrapped around his thin wrist.

"Y-you have a name tag," she replied with a small smile.

"Oh," he raised his hand up and gently placed his hand on his name tag. The neat, black letters on the pristine white background of the plastic name tag carefully spelt out his name. "You're right. My name tag does indicate my name. Gary." He said this, wonder in his voice at such a miraculous conception and Rachel smiles while taking another step closer.

"Thank you for the tea and scone," said Rachel.

"You always order the same thing."

"I know but," she pauses, briefly looking at the delicate pattern of the grain in the hardwood table before looking back at his eyes which stayed stubbornly focused somewhere behind her, "You didn't have to do that extra thing. T-the lime or – or the honey. And the scone! I'm sure other customers would like the scones as well."

"It's the way you take your tea," Gary insisted. "You always come in on Tuesdays and Wednesdays at 5:20pm and order your mint tea at 195 degrees and let it steep for five minutes. You always ask for a wedge of lime and add two teaspoons of honey. And you always order a vanilla-bean and ginger scone, even though you've tried the others, including the ones we have in rotation." His eyes dart to the tip jar, "Besides, you tip five dollars for a drink and bakery good that only comes up to a total of three dollars and forty-seven cents after tax. We're supposed to be good to our regulars."

She tipped well.

Oh.

That was probably why he –

"Oh, I-I'm glad I'm a little memorable," she replied, awkwardly rubbing the sleeve of her jacket.

"I like your jacket," blurted Gary. His eyes dart up to her face briefly and then back toward her coat, "A wool and polyester blend, double breasted." He blushed. "Y-you always wear nice jackets." His eyes widened before he continued, "N-not that the other things you wear don't look nice on you because they do, but I like jackets so I notice jackets first, but you always look nice regardless, even when it's windy and there's rain. I remember you, not only because you always come here and order the same thing and tip well, but because your jackets a-and you are pretty and that all adds up to make you really memorable."

He exhaled, looked at her face, but before she could catch his eyes, he had already turned away. He hunched over slightly, his eyes strayed back toward his computer. His cheeks and the tip of his ears were red.

She raised her hand and said, "I'm Rachel. Thank you for always making my tea delicious and keeping a scone available for me, and noticing my jackets and telling me I'm memorable."

Gary turned his head slightly, his eyes wide and – and curious. Curious about her reaction that was too normal for his outburst that was usually deemed abnormal.

Rachel kept her hand up.

He leaned forward and slowly and raised his hand from playing with his wrist band. Rachel exhaled slightly when his larger hand encased her significantly smaller hand. His grip was a little unsteady, slightly damp, too tight, and unfamiliar. The brown eyes that still averted from her gaze was possibly a little disconcerting.

She shook his hand three times and said, "Thank you for noticing for me, Gary."

He returned her handshake with three handshakes of his own.

"You're welcome. Rachel."

She did not remove her hand from his.

Nor did he let go.

Rachel believed in fate.

She had faith in fate.

SS: I honestly do have papers and readings to focus on, but - ugh. I'm so bad with this whole, 'focus on schoolwork' nonsense. haha Ah well, the next episode of Alphas better be kickass since I churned out this awesome AU-thingy. In a way, I also blame Azita because she actually responded to my weird, lame-o questions on twitter. haha Anyway, hope y'all like this oneshot! Review, comment, criticize, or just tell me you like it!