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    Summary

    "Pastry?" You rustled the box in his direction, pastry flakes against paper.

    Your boss looked up from the paperwork on his desk with a tight-lipped smile. "No, thank you."

    "Aw, c'mon, Sir." You tilted your head. "They're from the little french place downtown."

    Sir Nighteye put down the document he was working on, and stared at you over the top of his glasses. His lips pursed briefly as he looked at you, his violet eyes intense, and he breathed out. "Make me laugh by the end of the day, and I'll consider it."

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