Chapter Text
It’s a Friday. You hate Fridays.
Admittedly, not so much as you hate Mondays, but whereas Mondays always signal a start to the grinding routine of the weekday, Fridays are the start to your ever-chaotic weekends. You normally have just enough time to get home, get changed, and grab a nap before you’re off to your next job. That’s normally... That’s when you haven’t been asked to stay late.
“Not heading home yet?” comes Thea’s good-natured voice. She’s normally the last one to leave, but tonight, it looks like that’s going to be you.
“Gotta finish these reports,” you grumble. “Do you want to see what Mr. Solas will do to me if they’re not filed before I leave here?”
“You could just come in tomorrow and finish them. I’m going to be here anyway,” she offers. “I could let you in.”
You shake your head. “Thanks, Thea, but I have plans, tomorrow. I’ll only be another half-hour.”
“Alright. Remember to turn the lights off,” she reminds you, and then all you hear is the door slide shut behind her.
To be utterly fair, you hadn’t been asked to stay late, which is why you’re technically off the clock right now. No, you’d just fucked up. You hadn’t been paying attention to your surroundings, and you’d mouthed off to the wrong person.
In your defense, you hadn’t expected Mr. Solas, the goddamn Vice President of INQCO, to drop forms directly onto your desk. You had grown used to seeing his secretary, Celia, sure, but never the man himself. And you certainly hadn’t expected him to drop the wrong forms on your desk.
Admittedly, you could have said something other than “I can’t do shit with this, fix it.”
But it was Friday, and you’d had a very long week.
When the room had hushed, when you’d looked up and seen a man in a business suit that probably cost more than you made in a year… Somehow, you’d seen your life flash before your eyes instead of just your career. As hard as you’d worked to get this job, they were practically the same thing. You’d held eye contact with one of the most well-known elves in the business side of Orlais for about five seconds. He’d looked more surprised than angry, which might well be why you still have your job now.
“Right you are Miss… Emma,” he’d said, glancing at the plaque on your desk. He knew your name now, fuck. “Since you’re so familiar, I’m sure you’ll have no problem filling those out for me.”
You weren’t going to tell him no.
You found out from Thea, later that day, that Celia had been fired, or let go, or she’d quit, or whatever they were calling it. She couldn’t cut it. You also learned that she was the fifth one of Mr. Solas’ assistants to quit—this year.
It’s only Solace 24th.
So, in short, you’d accidentally pissed off a very powerful man—your boss’ boss’ boss’ boss, perhaps—who was well known and well feared in the company for his sharp tongue and lack of patience for mistakes.
If he told you to fill out the damn forms for him, you’d fill out the damn forms in triplicate. You’d rather do a few hours’ unpaid labor now and keep your job. You need it; Val Royeaux is not a cheap place to live. It had taken you a lot of doing to find a place outside of Alienage that would rent to an elf with no cosigners. It’s just a tight little studio, and you’re pretty sure the landlord is charging you more than she’s charging the humans who live in the same complex. But it’s yours, and it’s on a good side of town, and it means you don’t have to commute out of Alienage every single day.
You work a job so you can afford an apartment that makes it easier to work that job… Ugh. The irony isn’t lost on you.
By the time you finish all the forms and get them on the right desk, it’s clear you won’t even be able to stop by your apartment—you have to go straight to your next job. You’ll be cutting it close as it is. But what’s a few hours of sleep?
-
Saturday morning, and you’re almost falling asleep on your feet. Literally—twice now you’ve leaned onto Belassan while he was working the espresso machine.
“Shouldn’t you just take a nap in the break room?” he suggests after the third time you slump onto him in a half-unconscious daze.
“I did,” you mutter sleepily. “Got a solid two hours in there before my shift.”
“Mmhmm,” he hums, the sound carrying a world of meaning. “And your plans for the day, dare I ask?”
“Got a gig at the university. Stand in one place for two hours, get some quick money.”
“Nude again?”
“Sera promised this one wasn’t,” you say with a sigh. “But it’s the University of Orlais, and I’ve got these.” You tap the edge of your ear. “So either I’ll be nude or they’ll put me in some ridiculous get-up. Whatever. They want to give me forty silver to humiliate myself for two hours, I will.”
“After that, are you getting some sleep?”
“After that I’ve got a doctor’s appointment. Since I’ll be in the area, I’m stopping by the hospital. Then, yes, father dearest, I’ll go home and get some sleep,” you say teasingly. “I swear, you’re worse than--ow, fuck!”
You snatch your hand out of the stream of boiling hot coffee. “Figlio di puttana! Fesso, fesso, fesso…”
“Put it under cold water,” Belassan instructs as you rock back onto the heels of your feet, hissing.
“I’m fine. Ah, fuck, fuck—“
“Cold water!”
“Fine! Owowowow—“ You leave a trail of curses in your wake as you head to the back to put your burnt hand under a flow of water from the sink. Ugh. Perfect, injured fingers. Thank the Maker you’re not waitressing tonight.
-
Sunday is the day of rest, you remind yourself, sometime around hour seven of what’s turned into an eight-hour shift at Andaran A’Tea’Shan. Belassan couldn’t make it into work; some sort of emergency at the ranch. He’ll probably be cross with Enansal when he finds out you’re the one who covered his shift, against logic. Who else could they have gotten? And you’re only covering the first half, anyway. You’re getting dangerously close to forty hours a week as it is, and they can’t afford to pay you overtime. Not that you’d report them if they didn’t; you’d be happy just for the chance to pick up extra hours at a place you actually like working.
But Aldric has morals. And, more specifically, smarts. There are people who would love to shut down an elven business in this part of town, and breaking labor laws would give them a perfect excuse.
Of course, all that logical stuff is cold comfort when you’re working five different “part-time” or “self-employed” jobs, none of which offer any sort of benefits.
By the time you stumble home to your apartment, you’re almost dead on your feet. You trip on the stairs twice, drop your keys just trying to unlock the door, and nearly drop your backpack on your Seheron Violets. You squint at them through bleary eyes—when had you last watered them? Eh… they’re not looking so good, so it’s probably been a while. You stumble the few feet to the sink, fill a bowl with water, and take a few minutes to water your plants. In your stupor, you barely remember that it’s generally not important to water your cactus.
Your apartment is a tiny little thing, not even five hundred square feet and packed to the brim with furniture from the last age. The newest thing you own is probably the television, and that’s just because Sera was getting a new one and thought your place was boring. You never use it. You don’t even have cable.
You strip out of your clothes and throw them haphazardly into the “kitchen” area. You’ve got a tiny little washing machine in there; once the pile becomes large enough to be considered a hazard, you’ll do a load. Then you collapse onto the bed. You’ve barely enough energy to pull the sheets over you before you pass out.
-
You sleep through the afternoon until your alarm goes off at nine. You glare at it through one bloodshot eye—you’d been having a rather pleasant dream. You sit up and take a moment to compose yourself. What day is it? You flip your phone open and stare at the time and date until it makes sense. Sunday. Sunday night. You glance at your schedule, trying to figure out what you’re doing and where you’re going.
Andaran A’Tea’Shan. Right. Overnight. Then Monday. You mentally readjust yourself into thinking of today as “very early Monday” and stand to face the “day”. Eventually, your bizarre sleeping “schedule” will get the best of you... but not today.
You don’t bother with dinner/breakfast. There’s no point—you can eat for free at Andaran A’Tea’Shan in just a few hours. You just get dressed, double check your bag three times to make sure you’re not forgetting anything… You remember vaguely, something about watering your plants? Yeah, you probably need to do that. You water them quickly before leaving and heading down the stairs and out into the street. The trams aren’t running this late, but that’s why you’re the proud owner of a bike older than you.
You actually enjoy your shifts baking goods overnight at the coffee shop. You’re the only one there. It’s quiet, it’s peaceful, and if you finish a bit early, you can clock out and catch an extra long nap in the break room. Enansal and Aldric might as well be spirits of charity, the way they look after you. They let you store your work clothes in a locker, sleep in the break room… It might as well be a second apartment.
Unfortunately, today is Monday.
You hate Mondays.
You manage to catch a quick 15 minute nap by finishing up your baking a bit early, but then you’re back on your feet and working a morning barista position until eight… then you’ve just enough time to run into the back room. You change from your street clothes and apron into your professional wardrobe, comb your fussy hair back into a bun, apply a fresh coat of deodorant, touch up your make-up, brush your teeth… It’s a whole thing. Once again, you’re infinitely grateful that you’re lucky enough to have a boss who lets you use their store this way.
Then, looking like an entirely different person, you’re out the door. Time to face the music… but hopefully, the reports went through fine and you’ll slowly fade out of Mr. Solas’ memory.
-
“I… don’t understand,” you say, baffled, looking at the manila folder in your hands. It’s chock full of information about your new promotion. “I didn’t apply for anything.”
“Your application was tendered,” Ms. Montiliyet informs you. She’s the human resource manager; yet another person far above your pay grade. “Of course, the position is fully optional. Should you turn it down, your current position and pay will be the same.”
Your application was tendered, the fuck does that even mean… You don’t say that, however. You flip nervously through the papers, instead. The position pays nearly double your current wages, and it’s salaried, with benefits. Full time! All these presents, and it’s not even your naming day!
But there’s the little matter of the job itself.
“I’m not sure I’m fully qualified to be the executive assistant to someone as… illustrious… as Mr. Solas,” you say, trying not to sound as frightened as you feel at the very concept. You are, in fact, certain that you’re not qualified. You technically do have experience in that sort of a position… but Aimeé was not the Vice President of the most rapidly growing business on the Belle Marché.
“Mr. Solas seems to think you have the qualifications he’s looking for,” Ms. Montiliyet says, smiling that bright smile of hers. Looking at it, you feel like she practices it in the mirror. “It’s understood that there will be a period of acclimation. You have a full week to decide whether or not you’re interested in accepting the position.”
-
“You didn’t even apply?” Thea says doubtfully. The two of you have taken to eating lunch together. She’s a busybody, but she’s good at her job, and you’re not one to turn away anyone trying to befriend you. “That’s weird…”
“I was hoping you’d tell me it’s absolutely normal,” you say with a sigh, thumbing through the papers. “I don’t understand. I’ve only been working here for a few months. Isn’t it early for this sort of thing? And she said my application had been ‘tendered’. By who?”
“That’s normally code for ‘the boss wanted you for the job specifically but we’re not allowed to do that,’” Thea informs you. “They open up the application online, so technically, anyone within the company can apply. Then they ‘tender’ your application and close it up. Voila, you’re the most qualified person who applied. Makes it look all pretty and neat on paper.”
You nod along. “Alright, that makes sense… but why me? I’m sure I don’t have the qualifications…”
“That Mr. Solas has gone through five secretaries in under a year. They’re probably out of qualified people who’ll take the job,” Thea says with a laugh. “Are you going to take it? He’ll probably drive you mad within the month.”
“I haven’t decided,” you admit. “Ms. Josephine said I had a week. I’m not sure I could live with myself if I turned it down, though. It’s an eighty percent pay increase, Thea!”
Thea whistles. “That’s not bad. I bet it comes with the good benefits, too.”
“Considering I currently get no benefits? Yeah. Yeah, they’re good. The health insurance alone…” You flip through the pages some more.
“But if he just torments you into quitting in three months, it’s all a moot point,” Thea points out, and you nod glumly.
“You’re not wrong… But… I think I might be used to more hostile work environments than most of his previous secretaries.”
-
It only takes you until Tuesday to decide. That’s because on Tuesday, you went against your best sense and picked up an evening shift at the club. You always need more money; you almost always pick up extra shifts when they’re offered. But Tuesday? At a club? The tips aren’t worth it and the crowd is even more rancid and pathetic than usual. You work in an upscale location. What that means is you get leering shems in business suits who are no less foul mouthed and disgusting than average, but tip far better. Tonight, though, both the men and the tips are utterly disappointing.
You get your ass pinched one too many times. And while you enjoy watching the bouncer--”the Iron Bull,” as he’s called at the club--kick the grabby prick to the curb, you’d much rather simply not have had your ass pinched to begin with.
If you take that job, there’s a pretty small possibility you’ll get your ass pinched. Mr. Solas has a reputation for being many things, but a letch isn’t one of them. And with that extra money and those extra benefits… You can start paying off your debts. Actually paying them off, not just staving off interest. You’ll never have to work another fucking Tuesday shift here again.
Wednesday morning, you inform Ms. Montiliyet that you’ll take the job.
This is your last week as a lowly pencil pusher for INQCO. Starting on Monday, you’ll be a much higher pencil pusher for INQCO. Aaaah, upwards mobility!
You spend the rest of the week clearing up loose ends and making sure all of your work is finished. You didn’t have a job that involved a lot of large projects, so it’s not that difficult. It becomes a known fact that you were offered another position, but you keep your lips tight on exactly what that position was--and to your surprise, so does Thea. You suspect she has good reason; she’s a notorious gossip otherwise. That’s one of the main benefits of being her friend, actually--you always get to be up in everyone else’s business. You don’t tend to spread rumors like Thea… but you admit that it’s a hobby of yours to collect them, sort of like a magpie with shiny objects.
-
Monday morning.
You dress in the best you’ve got. You really, really wish you could shower, but you have to go straight from Andaran A’Tea’Shan to INQCO. You just apply a goodly amount of deodorant and a light coating of perfume and hope that you don’t stink after a night spent slaving over ovens and a morning spent spilling coffee on yourself.
You probably stink.
As you’re covering the bags under your eyes with a fresh coat of make-up, your phone goes off. You reach for it absent-mindedly, but it shows no new messages. You frown, and then remember--you’d been given a work phone.
It’s significantly fancier than your actual phone, which is a flip phone you’ve had since you were sixteen. You fumble with it slightly. You’d looked at it over the weekend when you’d had time, but honestly, you’ve still no clue what you’re doing with it.
New text message: F. H. Solas
Oh, good, it came with your boss’ number pre-installed. Go figure. You manage to open the text message with minimum difficulty.
It’s a coffee order.
You make a face, but it’s actually no real inconvenience; you’re literally at a coffee shop. They had given you a business credit card, as well; you can only imagine this is why. The store is still swamped, though, so you’ll make it yourself before you leave.
It’s a complicated order, too, though you don’t quite realize it until you’re making it. More flavor than coffee. And… decaf? Honestly, what’s the point of even getting coffee if you’re getting decaf…? But you don’t question it. You’re sure the elite have a refined palate that a mere plebian like yourself cannot hope to comprehend.
It is perhaps too early into this job for you to be getting so sarcastic. Technically, you’ve not even started yet.
-
You wander into what you’ve been told is your new workspace, fifteen minutes early and so nervous that you feel you might begin to shake. Ms. Montiliyet had given you a rather involved rundown of your expected responsibilities, and you had a list that came with the folder, but… You still aren’t quite sure what to expect.
The layout of the office is interesting. Or perhaps ostentatious is the word. When you first enter, there’s a rather spacious area that feels slightly like a waiting room.That must be your desk, there, to the right… Yes, there’s a little plaque with your name on it and everything.
The room has a few doors branching off of it. You proceed with some caution, worried that your boss might already be in despite the fact you’re early, and catch you stumbling into someplace you’re not supposed to go. Though nothing like that had been mentioned to you. Still, the sensation persists. First day jitters, no doubt.
The first door reveals a bathroom, a rather nice one at that. The second reveals some sort of meeting room, with a long table and nice, squishy-looking chairs. The broad windows reveal a sweeping view of the Belle Marché.
The last door…
Is this supposed to be an office?!
So this is how the upper class live and work! Maker’s breath. You feel a little irritated just looking at it. You suspect his office is bigger than your damn apartment--it’s certainly roomier. A large, mahogany desk is the obvious centerpiece. Another sits back and to the left at an angle--that one has a rather large computer monitor on it. The back wall is lined with bookshelves. What office needs a couch? Or a dining room table? Or so many plush chairs? You note that the windows are covered with double-layered curtains. Should they be left open or closed? You simply leave them the way they are, until you're told otherwise.
You do remember one thing, though. Coffee on the desk… There’s a conveniently placed coaster, you can only imagine that’s where you’re supposed to put it. You’re a bit uncertain where to set his danish--you wind up simply placing it near the coaster. Hopefully you’ll get the swing of things quickly. A shame Celia quit, or was fired, or whatever. You could have used someone to show you the ropes. Ms. Montiliyet had tried, but you’ve no doubt there are a thousand tiny details she knows nothing about.
Once you’ve finished glaring at Mr. Solas’ ridiculously posh office, you go to examine your own workspace. While it has nothing on his, it’s significantly nicer than the small, cramped desk you’d worked at previously. It’s so quiet here, as well… nothing like the constant, loud bustle of the office you’d been working in. You flick on the computer--a rather more expensive one than you’re used to--and examine the space.
You get so involved setting things up and marking your territory, so to speak, that you barely notice when the door swings open. It’s the sound that catches your attention, a loud slam in an otherwise quiet office that jolts you.
And there he is.
You glumly think to yourself that his suit is likely worth more than the entire contents of your apartment. It's a gorgeous, tailored navy blue. You get a good chance to admire it when he pauses briefly in front of your desk; you try not to have the wide eyes of a halla about to be hit by a car. His eyes narrow briefly when he sees you; you can practically see the gears turning in his head. Maker, does he even remember hiring you?
His eyes flit to the plaque on the desk, then back to you.
“Ah,” he says, as if that’s answered a question. “I don’t particularly have time to train you. There are instructions in the middle drawer of your desk. Attempt to learn as you go. I will be in meetings for most of the day; an easy start for you.” He removes his gloves as he speaks to you, dropping them casually on your desk as if it’s his living room table.
“Yes, s-” is all you manage before he turns and heads into his office. The door remains open, though you can’t see very far in from where you sit. You stare after him blankly for a moment, then scramble into your middle drawer.
You had been expecting perhaps a page of instructions. It looks instead to be a small booklet; you’d mistaken it for an instruction manual when you’d first glanced through your drawers. It’s well worn. You pull it out and quickly begin thumbing through. The original text is typed, bullet list after bullet list of things you probably needed to know an hour ago. Every spare margin is filled with notes, written, scribbled out, in a dozen different hands.
How many secretaries has this man gone through?!
Before you have a chance to read more than the first sentence, however, the phone begins to ring. You swallow, hard--this is one of those things you have little experience with. You answer it after the second ring, though, unwilling to let it go any longer.
“You’ve reached INQCO, Mr. Solas’ office,” you say, slightly panicked. Is that what you’re supposed to say?! No one told you! This stupid book probably says. Why weren’t you reading it before you arrived? Why hadn’t Ms. Montiliyet given it to you last week?! Fuck!
“Ah, he’s…” you crane your neck and lean back in your chair to see Mr. Solas’ desk. He’s glaring at his cup of coffee. Oh dear. Is it possible to get fired on your first day for bringing your boss the wrong coffee? “...In a meeting, may I take a message?”
You jot down the message as best you can. You’ll need to work on figuring out which parts of a message are important, but for now, you have a quick hand and legible shorthand. Hopefully this blasted book will have some--
The phone rings.
Oh, Maker.
By the time Solas leaves his office, perhaps two hours later, you’ve barely gotten through the first page of the book. At first, it seems, it was a typed list of instructions for the position. But parts have been marked out with correction written in, then corrections of the corrections, notes and exceptions and a dozen different rules, all in chaotic disorder on the page. It’s hard to decipher, and at times, contradictory. You need time to sit down and really absorb the information, but time is something you don’t have. The phone hasn’t really stopped ringing, and you’ve also been focusing on the timetable written in a planner in a neat, masculine hand--not a secretary, then... probably Mr. Solas himself.
He’s heading out for his first meeting now. He has a lunch meeting as well--one less thing you have to worry about. In fact, you’ll have the office to yourself for a while; probably what he meant by an “easy start.”
He pauses by your desk as he’s leaving, however. You’d managed to get far enough in the book to know you were to put his gloves on the table to the right hand side of his office door. Despite the fact he walks right by that table when he goes into his office, and it would be very easy for him to set them there instead of tossing them onto your desk and expecting you to take care of it. So he’s already pulled them on when he sets the coffee cup from Andaran A’Tea’Shan down on the very center of your desk, with the name of the shop, you note, facing you.
“Whatever… theme shops... you go to in your spare time are your own business,” he says, voice firm and with a wall of cold iron behind it. “But in the future, you will bring my drinks from a more respectable establishment.”
A wave of ice crashes over you, followed immediately by a core of burning loathing in your stomach. Really?! You would have expected that sort of bullshit from a human businessman, maybe, but you’d thought…
Well.
Clearly you were wrong.
You bite your tongue briefly, fighting to keep your face neutral. “Of course, ser. My apologies,” you say finally. “It won’t happen again.”
“Good,” he says, and he’s out the door, cup from Andaran A’Tea’Shan still on your desk.
You glare at it for a few minutes after he’s left.
That… stupid, high and mighty son of a--
Only the phone ringing snaps you out of your hypnotic fury. With a snap of your wrist, you toss the cup into the wastebin. You take a deep breath and then answer the phone.
“You’ve reached INQCO, Mr. Solas’ office. Mr. Solas is out at the moment, may I take a message?”