Author's Note: After playing through Omega Ruby, I really couldn't keep myself from shipping Maxie and Courtney. They just work so well (and by that, I mean adorably) together. So, of course, I had to write a fanfiction. This "novel" will just be a collection of one-shots (ranging from about 3,000 to 7,000 words). Some will be set after Omega Ruby and the Delta episode, some during. There isn't really a timeline to this, just whatever comes up in my brain at the time. I'll try to make the context as clear as possible when necessary. Without further rambling from me, enjoy, and, as always, comments and reviews are more than welcome. Ah, and by the way, credit for the image (and inspiration for this chapter) goes to hopebiscuit from tumblr.

Precipitation

Project Azoth. No. . . Weather Institute. No. . . Rolle's Theorem. No, dammit, stay focused. . . There is something you need to recall. . . Courtney's eyes scan the spartan room in hopes of an object to trigger her memory. Desk. Coffee mug needs to be cleaned, reports need to be filed, but no, that isn't it. Bookcase. Stack of books to return to Maxie. How long had it been since she borrowed them? Maxie. Leader Maxie.

No, focus. . .

Walls. Covered in writing—formulas, equations, snips of proposals. Needs to be cleaned for next project. Later. Now, now, she needed to remember. Nightstand. The red numbers on the alarm clock blur into focus as she stares at them, faintly irritated by the fact that the last digit continually changes before she can remember what it is that it's trying to tell her. 2. 6. 9. When it clicks over to 2:00, the number and the tiny A.M. symbol blinking beside it morph into meaning in her mind. Sleep. That is what she has forgotten. . .

Rubbing her eyes, she tugs her Magma jacket over her head but leaves on the fireproof sweater. Warm, soft, it will suffice for pajamas. Something tells her not to sleep in shorts and a t-shirt like she usually does, because it's December, because it's cold. Courtney leaves her desk and systematically checks the house—doors and windows locked, alarm system activated—before switching off all the lights. Having completed her nightly ritual plunge into darkness, she makes her way back to her bedroom (She does not stub her toe in the dark. With the layout of her home etched into memory, she knows the way.) and climbs into bed. The covers come up around her neck and her arms go around herself. She sighs. Her mind does not want to sleep, but she cannot ignore her body. How troublesome. She tries to put herself to sleep by calculating Riemann sums. It doesn't work. She has done it too many times before, and her mind will no longer be fooled. Sifting through as many distractions as she can, she finally settles on balancing redox reactions. Coefficients and chemical symbols float around in the nebulous swirl of her mind as she finally drifts into sleep.

It doesn't last long.

A shrill noise shreds through the calming darkness and rips her from her respite. Groaning, her tiny hands squeeze the blankets on the bed with a death grip and yank them up over her head, insulating her from the world. "Fermez votre bouche. . ." She mumbles to no one in particular, still too asleep to realize or care that she is grumbling at an audio disturbance, not a human. Off to her right, there is another beep, and, turning toward it, she mumbles louder, "Fermez votre bouche. . ."

The audio disturbance transforms from a series of blips and trills into a voice. Deep, serious, but slightly amused. "I believe you are speaking in the wrong language, Courtney."

Yawning, she gropes about the nightstand, searching for the source of the sound. In her state of sleep, she has not yet pinpointed the voice to a definite human or meaning, and so it remains a disembodied audio disturbance that she wishes would shut up.

"Soptar an ifreann suas. . ."

The voice exhales a laugh through the nose. A familiar sound, bringing the voice closer to the forefront of her memory, but still it remains blurry. I should. . . end the call, she thinks, once it becomes clear to her that that is where the sound emanates from.

"Incorrect, again," it says. "In fact, that was further from English than the first."

"Irish. . ." Courtney mumbles, most of her words obscured by the blankets covering her mouth.

"Yes, I know," it replies, quite patiently.

"In. . . English," she says, pausing for a long moment, during which she nearly falls back into sleep, "I want you to. . . quiet." You forgot a verb. . . somewhere in there.

Courtney does not know exactly why, but she can say with one hundred percent certainty that the voice on the other end of the line has just rolled its eyes.

"Are you fully cognizant of whom you are speaking to?"

"No. . . But I am perfectly aware. . . that it disturbs my sleep."

"Courtney, it is Maxie."

That single name brings Courtney's brain into a state of hyper awareness, jolting her from foggy sleep to full consciousness within nanoseconds. "L-leader Maxie!" She stammers as she sits up in bed and holds the phone to her ear. She wants nothing more than to sink back into the darkness of sleep and forget this embarrassment. "I apologize for my lapse in professionalism."

"Seeing as I have woken you quite early, I cannot hold you at fault." Her eyes glance at the clock as if to verify his words. Indeed, it is early, 3:37 in the morning, to be precise. Less than an hour of sleep. . . I will need several cups of coffee today.

"The purpose?" She says, putting him on speaker as she slips out of bed, shivering, and makes her way into the kitchen. After she puts water on to boil, she calculates how long it will take to do so, in an attempt to dissipate her lingering abashment.

"I need you to come in early today," he says. "Potentially crucial information has come to light, and to delay a decision would mean losing an opportunity."

"Very well." She covers her mouth to hide a yawn from the man. If he can function optimally without sleep, then so can she. "I will come as soon as possible."

"Thank you." The words sound genuine. She smiles. "It is raining rather heavily today, so do bring an umbrella."

Blood rushes to the admin's face. "Thank. . . you for the warning."

The call clicks off, and she finds herself missing the audio disturbance. She goes through her morning routine while the water boils, albeit she is moving more slowly than usual. Tablet. Reports. Maxie's books. She checks them off her mental list as she shoves them haphazardly into her bag. Brush teeth. Comb hair. Make-up? No time. Uniform. Where are my socks? They are downstairs in the library, where she kicked them off the night before. The water in the kettle boils, and the hissing sound startles her out of her train of thought. She runs into the kitchen and makes a quick cup of tea—an effort to be healthy, and probably the only one she will make today—pouring it into her Magma thermos. Anything forgotten? A glance at her watch tells her that there is no time to ascertain that. Activating the alarm and locking the door behind her, she steps out into the rain and remembers what she has forgotten.

"Damn. . ."

Too late now. Flipping up her hood to ward off some of the wet and cold, she starts her walk to work with her thermos clasped tightly in her hands to help her keep warm. Hardly five minutes have passed, but her clothes are already soaked through, and her hair is plastered to her forehead. Yuck. . .

"I should scold you," a voice speaks up behind her, "but the probability of this situation occurring is amusingly close to one."

His voice freezes her all over, making her colder than even what the elements have wrought. Trying to hide her nightmarish hair for as long as possible, she doesn't turn around while she waits for him to catch up. His boots splash in the puddles already beginning to pool on the sidewalks. When he stops at her side, holding his red umbrella out expectantly, she ducks underneath, and they resume their leisurely pace. Maxie grips the handle in his right hand and carries a black Magma thermos in his left. Steam seeps upward from it, fogging up his glasses. Adorable, she thinks, and then blushes. The umbrella is by no means small, but their shoulders brush against each other every 2.8 seconds as they fall into step. The fact that he slows his characteristically long strides for her does not go unnoticed. She keeps her gaze ahead, but observes him from her peripheral vision.

His glasses are always the first thing that strike her about him. Dark, ponderous, wonderfully imposing, they complement his personality well. Fourteen times she has considered redesigning them with a lighter material—they must put a great strain upon his ears, she imagines—but her fear of presenting the gift (for what else could it be called?) always stops her. After the glasses come the eyes. She's fascinated by them, by how cold they are, by how that slate grey color perfectly obscures the machinations that are calculated behind them. No matter the circumstance (and she has seen him in many), they invariably pierce through any target upon which they look, even her, as opaque as everyone else believes her to be. His perspicacity both unnerves and delights her.

That is not to say, however, that her own acuity falls very far behind his. Over the years she has spent with him, she has become quite adept at reading the man. The lines in his face tell her more than a stranger might expect. Right now, they are lax, so sunken into his face that they are barely visible. They disappear entirely when he smiles, but, since that is a rare occasion, she contents herself with his current state of serenity. It is a relief, compared to how she has seen him some days. When the lines in his face are bold, sharp enough to lacerate, she is suddenly more grateful than usual that they are allies.

Focus. . . before he notices you staring. . .

Courtney stares at the ocean on the horizon line in the distance, watching words form sentences on the whiteboard of her mind. When they are fully organized, she says them. "You anticipated this situation, yet you neglected to bring a second umbrella?"

"Sharing an umbrella with you was preferable to the inconvenience of carrying another," he says, his eyes momentarily sliding toward her. The attention brings another blush to her cheeks, and she lifts her cups to her lips to hide it, if only slightly.

How. . . sweet.

She opens her mouth to respond, but a tiny sneeze obliterates her words and her delicate train of thought. Now that she is no longer observing Maxie, all she can focus on is the stinging cold. "Sorry. . ." She mumbles, sighing quietly as she realizes her tea is anything but warm anymore.

"Hold this," Maxie says.

He stops walking and gives her the umbrella and then, a second later, his thermos. Curious, she watches him remove his overcoat. "Are you. . . warm?"

"Of course not." Taking back the umbrella and thermos, he hands her his coat. "Change once we arrive. Your illness is the last thing we need at the moment."

The jacket rests awkwardly in her arms as she looks from it to him, bewildered. "Logically speaking, I am far more expendable than are you. Therefore, I cannot accept this."

He sighs. "This particular action does not stem from logic, Courtney."

If not that, then what? But by the way the lines in his face have tightened, ever so slightly, she senses that such an inquiry is not welcome. "I. . . appreciate it." She wiggles into the overly large coat and exhales in immediate pleasure. Maxie's body heat still permeates the fabric, warming her through to her very core. Or is it. . . the warmness of the gesture? Her hands are completely enveloped by the sleeves, and the coat falls just below her knees.

A subdued giggle slips from her lips.

His raised eyebrows signal his interest, and when Courtney does not reply, he says, "What is so amusing?"

"I never noticed. . . how short I am. . . until I dawned your coat."

The Magma thermos comes up to his mouth, but not quite fast enough to conceal the smirk that plays about his lips. "Yes," the man muses, "you are rather small."

"You. . . are small, too, when standing next to Tabitha."

He allows her to see his smirk this time. It is a one-sided quirk of the lips, mischievous, impossible to mistake for anything resembling a smile. The devilish expression on the face of the man next to her exhilarates her, but more than that, it brings her. . . joy. How. . . rare to experience this. I must. . .analyze.

"That may be true," he says, still with the same look, "but certainly you of all people recognize that what I lack in physical stature is amply compensated for in mental prowess."

It takes her as long as it does to blink to see through him. "I was unaware this was a competition. . . However, it must be, as you seem to be preening for war."

"What on earth gave you that notion?" Maybe she is imagining it, but his words seem less carefully contemplated than usual, as though he is flustered.

This is. . . new.

"Men often feel the need to boast. . . when they perceive their dominance is threatened." She turns to look at him, her face blank. "Do you feel threatened, Maxie?" Internally, she is mortified that she has the audacity to speak those words.

"As if I would indulge in such irrational, petty instincts," he retorts. His hand tightens around the umbrella.

"Just a moment ago. . . you yourself admitted to acting out of accordance with reason," she points out. How far. . . will I take this? This choice is illogical, and dangerous. So why? I must know. . .

"Sentimentality is the only exception to rationality I will make, and, even that, infrequently." Turning from jesting to serious, his tone places a finality on this train of conversation.

Courtney smiles. She has what she wants from him, an answer to her unvoiced question from earlier. "So you. . .gave me your coat because you care."

The admin's smile grows when she hears him mutter, "Deucedly manipulative woman," under his breath. To her, he says, "Yes, I suppose I must admit you have emerged victorious in this little battle." His eyes brighten, as they always do when he faces a challenge, as he adds, "Now that I am aware of your unscrupulous tactics, don't expect another such triumph, Courtney."

"We'll see," she says, pulling his coat closer to her body as a particularly harsh gale blows by. "After all. . . you did not promote me for my outstanding morals."

"Chess." The word surprises her, and she looks up at him. "Play with me, one day."

"I acquiesce. . . So long as there is the promise of a raise upon my victory."

"Amusing." His voice betrays the fact that he truly finds it so.

They drift into silence as Courtney focuses on internalizing the man's uncharacteristically light behavior this morning. He almost seems. . . happy. Why? Because of me? No. . . 83% chance that it is because of work. No, increase that to 91%, as he did mention new information had come to light. That is why I am not asleep, and why we are walking together. His pleasure has simply bled over into his relation with me. This is slightly saddening, but acceptable. As long as he is happy. . . I am happy.

She yawns as they approach the Magma HQ, the very thought of working this early in the morning making her tired. Maxie holds the door open for her and follows behind. The bright lights make her squint, but she is simply thankful for the warmth and dryness of the indoors.

"I will expect you in my office once you are sufficiently dry."

With that, they part ways, and on her way to the restroom, clutching an armful of spare clothes, she runs into Tabitha. Himself carrying a large stack of folders, the man appears to be in a hurry, yet he still stops to speak—tease, rather.

"You're exceptionally early this morning. And wearing Leader Maxie's overcoat," he comments, grinning mercilessly.

"I was caught in the rain. Nothing unusual." She shifts the clothes in her arm as though to try to hide the offending object.

"Define unusual." Those eerie red eyes bore into her, searching, probing. They, too, are insightful, but no other gaze can unnerve her quite as well as does Maxie's.

"Anything within the parameters of your perverse thoughts. Is this conversation terminated?"

"No," he says, ushering her into his own office and shutting the door behind them. "Did you kiss him?"

"No."

"Did he kiss you?"

"Negative."

"Was there any physical contact?"

Reluctantly, she admits, "We brushed shoulders."

"Excellent," he smiles.

Courtney resists the impulse to roll her eyes. "Why are you more irrational about this matter than am I?"

"Because, as your confident and friend, it is my duty to be excited for you, especially when you yourself appear to have not even a flutter of romantic sensibility."

She glares at the man, though its effects are largely negated by the blush burning on her cheeks. "I have expressed romantic interest in him, is that not enough?"

He sighs. "Seeing as you both are woefully unemotional creatures, I suppose that that will have to suffice." Setting down his stack of papers on his desk, he says, "Now, I have work to do, as do you, so we will resume this conversation over lunch. Same venue, at 2:30. Acceptable?"

"As if I have much of an option," she retorts, though they both know the statement is fond.

"Ah, I do love your indifferent acceptance of reality," he sings, and then, with a devious grin, adds, "I'm certain that is what Leader Maxie loves about you as well."

"Tabitha. . . As soon as you 'fall in love,' there will be tenfold retaliation."

She exits his office to the sound of one of his hearty chuckles, and, making her way to the restroom, she shakes her head. After she changes into dry clothes, she lingers in the bathroom, staring at Maxie's coat. Foolish, childish, though it is, she does not want to return it. She wore it only a short time, but already she is attached to the memories it carries.

Sentimentality transcends reason. . .

Maxie drinks Rooibos tea. . .

He, too, has an ego. . .

It is not visible, but benevolence lurks behind those slate eyes. . .

These. . . are the things I have learned from today's precipitation.