Work Text:
As you're writing up your report, the silence of your office is interrupted by a ‘ping’ of yet another email. Being the CEO's assistant for as long as you've been, you'd like believe you’d be used to it by now.
You'd like to believe a lot of things. You'd like to believe that miraculously one day, you win the lottery and you wouldn't have to come into work anymore. You'd like to believe someday in the future, the mountain of paperwork on your desk you never seem to catch up on would disappear out of the blue. You'd like to believe your job was the best in the world and all these late nights were worth it.
Okay, jeez, you don't hate your job. For the most part.
Even though the work was tedious, it was manageable. You were in charge of handling documents, scheduling important meetings, sitting in and taking notes on classified discussions regarding the company, among a million other things. The worst part about it was maintaining a persona of professionalism. You die inside a little every time you send out a work email with only one exclamation point at the end instead of two.
Your eyes gloss over the same email you've been getting for weeks now about your building closing for renovations and smile to yourself. The happy dance you do in your head every time you think about getting away from work is far from professional.
To say you're ecstatic about working from home is an understatement. Sleeping in, and attending meetings in pajama shorts for a week sounded like a field day. You desperately needed a break from all the old, uptight, ‘richy-rich’ types you had to work with all day. Having to pretend to be fake nice and kiss ass just to secure a meeting for your boss was the least favorite part of your job. Well, scratch that, emails suck way more.
Actually, now that you think about it, working from home meant you’d get even more emails than usual. And even more paperwork. Shit, you don't even think you have a printer at home.
Your happiness is yet again tainted from work.
Now, head in hands, you're desperately trying to push down the thought of the future, and focus on finishing your report.
All those files... You sigh inwardly . Can't wait .
You get back to writing.
—
After a week of nonstop emails and even more paperwork (how is that even possible?) your job welcomed you a week later, with new changes on your office's floor. Bright lights and new gray carpet are a nice touch but what really surprises you is the light ash blue painted over the boring beige that you absolutely despised. If your smile is a bit brighter as you greet your colleagues, they don't say anything.
When you actually took the time to read the whole email, you learned that your boss’ office was getting the most work done, and it was eating you inside to peek inside. Unfortunately for you, the blinds and door were shut, meaning he wasn’t ready for your morning report yet. Until then, you'd start working on his coffee, deciding to walk verrry slowly inside his office when you delivered it. So sneaky, you think to yourself cheekily.
Reaching your desk and putting down your briefcase, you're glad to see your clunky office computer waiting for you. During your time away, you were forced to use the PC you had in your bedroom. Even though your job takes up most of your time, you like to keep work and home life as separate as you can. But due to the sudden change, (and your laptop dying two weeks prior), you were ignoring steam notifications during afternoon meetings and desperately trying not to think that the PC you were using was the same one you used to indulge in steamy fan fiction.
Booting it up, declarations of approval ( and disapproval? Some people enjoyed the beige, ew) from your coworkers about the offices' appearance, thankfully, knock you out of your head. The lull of small talk works as calming background noise as you go over your to-do list for the day and open up your mail. You're about to get up and start on the morning coffee when an email with the subject line “ Later, Alligators! ” from your boss stops you.
The boss wants another day off? I respect it. You hum in approval.
Quirky subject lines and short notices weren't out of the ordinary for the sporadic and surprisingly lively old guy that was your boss. Even though he was the guy on the tippy top of the company's latter, the grand honcho, the CEO, he didn't let running the company make him an asshole. Sometimes, it seemed like he was the only higher up without a stick up their ass which was another perk about this place. You liked working for him. You mindlessly click on the notification, taking a sip of water from your tumbler.
What was not ordinary were the contents of the email. You choke on your drink, stunned.
Your boss was casually announcing his resignation—effective today—just like that!?
You feel like you just got a rug pulled form beneath you. Frantically, you go through the rest of it, skimming until you latch onto the last lines.
“It is with great regret that I leave the office in such a manner, but the absence of my chair is not absolute; A new Chief Executive will be with you within three days. Ciao for now!”
Your eyes zip to your boss' office in disbelief to find a marvelous brunette oak door standing in place of the frosted glass one that you swore was just there. It stands tall and intriguing, equipped with polished gold embellishments that glitter under the new shining office lights.
Your gaze jumps from wall to wall, confused, scanning the office for other changes you might have missed.
You fix your shocked expression in favor of a polite smile as you earn a 'Heya, good morning',' from the IT guy. Inside though, you're about to throw a tantrum at the loss of one of the only perks making your job not as miserable as it is. A distant 'ping' helps to bring you back into the real world.
Right, focus. The new office interior is nothing strange, the work you do will be the same, and your new boss probably won’t be anything special. You can postpone your tantrum for lunch or something. You'll be fine.
A whisper of doubt in the back of your head you were actively trying to ignore was warning you that in three days, things would be different.
—
You lament over your boss' curt leave the days that follow on your way to your job. After spending nearly two years here, working for him became a breeze, memorizing his schedule down to a T. Without him, your morning routine feels discombobulated.
Entering the building, you notice lots of coworkers consumed by hushed conversations about the new CEO. It's funny to think that an office full of “distinguished professionals” were not very distinguished at all, wrapped up in such brazen, catty chatter.
Without anyone to report to at your office, you're keen on catching up on some files you missed, so you’re doing your best to distance yourself from the gossip. Although, you'd be lying if you said you weren't at least a little interested. You're unsure of where exactly everyone's getting their information about the “gruff demeanor” your new boss carries and 'oh, how successful' he is.
He?
They keep going back and forth, restless, like if they keep talking about it, all their questions will be answered. Something that really sticks out to you, is the older associates mentioning again and again how ‘young’ your new boss is.
How young is a “young man” to old women with one foot in the grave? Hm… Amused, you can't help but speculate about him yourself. Wouldn't be so bad to have a younger boss than last time.
And what the hell does a “gruff demeanor” even mean? Is he, like, a dick or something? You realize that a “young, successful businessman” with CEO status is more likely than not to be a total asshole.
Worst case scenarios consume you, as you stumble into your office and plop into your chair, already exhausted.
—
As the day passes, trying to catch up on your work during the day proves futile, leaving you to spend your nights at the office. Throughout this, you've been sending nothing but emails upon emails to your new boss. Forms needing to be signed could not be handed to him but instead needed to be emailed and faxed; lunch meeting requests from companies wanting to get acquainted with him could not be told in passing; they needed to be written down, etc., etc. You would feel bad about bombarding him with so much digital mail if not for the fact that he responds to each one with ' thanks for everything, ' adorning the bottom every time.
You would feel better if his gaudy signature didn’t come right after.
—
It's 9:32 p.m., and you're working late. Again. The day slipped away this time to phone calls, business meetings, and more mail coming in nonstop from people all over wanting to familiarize themselves with the new boss. This, of course, left all the real work you had to complete on the back burner. So, for the past few hours, you've been trying to get our work in order before your ( maybe an asshole ) boss arrives.
Your work is nearly complete, and the promise of an embrace from your bed keeps you going. Sending the final forms to the new executive, absolutely sure he and his notifications were tired of you, his reply is almost instant. In his response, he has misspelled the words “ridiculous” as “ ridilicous ” and “decline” as “ declkine .”
Smiling to yourself, you're glad you're not the only one who's up doing work this late. It brings you small comfort knowing you and your new counterpart are both working after office hours.
We’re probably both getting ready for tomorrow , you muse.
The misspellings make him a bit more human as he ends the email with his “ ridlicous” automated signature, name of the company, and a blurb of text all the way at the bottom of the email reading ‘Sent from iPhone.’
—
Today, the new CEO will come into the office.
You're antsy because you're running a little late today. You're agitated because you told yourself it was a good idea to try something different. A new mousse sits uncomfortable and sticky in your hair. You hate it. But with not enough time to wash it out, you leave your house with it still on. Although it makes your hair look better and smell great, you think it's a bit too much. You're desperate to fix it before you get into the office, making you even more restless.
You're not nervous because you're meeting your new boss today. Definitely not. No way!
The chatter from your colleagues is much quieter today. It seems everyone's questions that littered the air have been stifled, finally being answered. Staring at your feet as you walk through the lobby, you are mindful that each step you take is one step closer to your meeting. Trying to console yourself, you think that, like the others, your curiosity will also be put to rest. You’re trying not to get too anxious about the possibility that you could run into the new boss at any moment and fail miserably.
You tell yourself you're not nervous, because you aren't . Totally.
In your stupor, you decide today's no better day to take the stairs, concluding it'd prolong your meeting until your nerves ( of excitement! Definitely not anxiety ) settle, but halfway up it dawns on you that you're making yourself later than you previously would’ve been, and fuck , not taking the elevator seems like the dumbest idea you've ever had in your life.
There's no room to be nervous about being late, or your hair, or even the fact that the new executive is directly where you're headed as you're running up the stairs. In the two years you’ve worked here, you've never once been late. Ever ! There's no way you’d be late today of all days.
You whiz through the halls. There's no time for greetings, so you don't bother, opting for a simple, forced smile directed at everyone.
A deep voice reverberating through the walls makes your stride falter. You can't hear what the booming voice is saying, but you suspect its owner is just on the other side of the doorway. The old ladies were wrong, there's no way this guy can be as young as they say with a deep voice like that! Feeling a little better knowing that the gossip of your older colleagues was just rumors based on rumors, you proceed hurriedly with your tardiness beckoning. Besides, the door is already open, and your curious colleagues from different floors of the building are practically stepping on your heels to get a good look at the guy, so there's no room to back out as you’re pushed in.
You make your way to your desk as far as you can until your curiosity grips your head and turns it to look at him. Wanting to look away, you find you can't.
He has his back halfway turned to the entrance you came in and is towering over the cubicle walls of those who get up to greet him. The executive’s slow, casual movements contradict his confident, introductory handshake with two of your more vexatious colleagues. He crosses his arms and speaks to them briefly. The man’s easy-going posture demonstrates authority; his very presence demands everyone’s attention.
And, oh, does he get it.
Everyone in the office is glancing or downright staring at him ( kinda like you're doing ) in passing, and he doesn't seem to notice— or care— in the slightest. He seems to be distracted by the conversation--animated--and laughing loudly. Just as transfixed on him as everyone else, you take in every inch of him. Your hand tightens around your briefcase, trying your best to memorize his features to keep in the back corner of your mind.
Your eyes trace over the crease of his suit, down to his shiny brown pointed shoes, and back up again to his curly hair—a sweet chestnut. You're mesmerized when his hand reaches up to slick it over. From what you can see, his facial hair ( are those mutton chops? ) is the same thick, unruly style. He fills out his suit nicely, the sharp line in the middle of his sapphire blue blazer contouring to his broad back. He's music to your ears, you're captivated by his voice– his laughter .
You wish he’d turn around.
What?
You're pleading with yourself to look away for good this time before anyone notices. But by the time you do, it's too late.
The spell is broken when the twin gazes of your coworkers find you briefly, casting you into a small panic. You've been staring too long, and they know it, fuck . You turn away in a snap, before he can look at you, and head to your office with haste.
Feeling the need for admonishment, you scold yourself, warning yourself that it is, in fact, not normal to ogle at your new boss ( even if he is a sight for sore eyes ).
Ugh! Keep it professional---professional, damn you!
It's almost as though he can hear your inner struggle as you see a slight shadow taking over yours.
“Mornin’,” he drawls.
His voice is lovely, but when it’s right behind you, it's somehow sinful. Hesitant, you lay your suitcase flat on your desk, slowly letting go of the handle so you can steady your face to turn around and greet him normally. This is it, time to see if hes a dick. You turn around with a practiced smile.
Scanning your face quickly, the minute raise of his thick eyebrows makes you think your flushed person has startled him. His adam's apple bobs as he pushes his round glasses up against the bridge of his angular nose. Clearing his throat into his hands shyly, it's like he was trying to mask the slip-up.
Suddenly, he reaches out his hand to shake yours, offering you his own practiced business smile. The watch on his twinkles. Your mind goes blank. The trail your gaze follows from his bony knuckles, to his broad shoulder, up to the moles on his neck, to his face, makes you wanna kiss his tailor and his parents.
His ( surprisingly soft ) hand wraps around yours and makes you melt. Head filled with cotton, you barely hear him introduce himself with his name and “your new boss,” stuck to the end.
Until his grip on your hand gets too firm all of a sudden, and you're certain he hates you. He definitely wants to kill you, goddamn ! How hard does this bastard think he needs to crush your hand? Ow, ow, ow!
“Take care of me, will ya?” he says, his smile still bright as if he didn't let you in on how much he must despise you with his painful grip.
Frankly, it's a terrible time to notice how long his eyelashes are, or how his eyes disappear when he smiles, or how charming you think his crow's feet are. You're stuck in place. All the blood drains from your body and fills your head all at once while sirens blare in your head, telling you to do something.
Do something .
Say something! What is wrong with you?
“Please take care of me!” you rasp. “I mean, um,” you push your sticky hair out of your face with your hand– the other hand – the hand that didn't touch his. “Too. Take care of me, too… ha, yeah.” You let go of his hand.
He looks at you a wink and drops the fake smile in favor of a new, softer one, disgusted or amused—you couldn't tell.
After your awkward introduction, a sudden shift occurs when he closes the door to your office. The suit jacket he wears tightens as he puts his hands on his hips. A professional conversation blossoms as he asks you all about your old boss, important people he needs to know, and what a typical day looks like for you. You answer each question with ease. Shitty introduction aside, your professionalism is unmatched.
His stoic gaze catches your every move as you discuss work things, and, yeah, it makes you nervous, but you ignore it.
“I'm glad you're finally here, reading my nonstop emails must be tiring.” you chuckle lightheartedly.
He throws you back a smile. “I mean, I'm not mad, but my inbox might be.”
The quip reminds you of your old boss a little, and you're beginning to see why he was picked for the part. His head turns to follow the sound of a phone ringing outside your office slightly, but he stays put. He asks you another question.
“How much of a tight ship d’you run around here, anyway?” Confused by his question, you give him a look to go on.
“When those two,” he nods his head sharply towards where the two of the coworkers who caught you just before sit, “saw you lookin’ over, they got all quiet.”
“Figured I’d come over and play detective.” He crosses his arms in front of him and finally meets your eyes.
“Those two are trouble.” You sigh, amused.
“You know,” A shadow takes over his expression as he fiddles with his watch. “I'm expecting a lot ‘outta you.” He takes a step closer.
“'Keep hearin’ you're one of the best in the game. Great help, great with communicating— all that. But, I,” he points his thumb at himself, “got plans. Big plans . Lots'a things I gotta take care of, an’ if you feel you can't handle it, well, I won’t tell anyone when you needa jump ship.” Looking up, he smirks wickedly at you.
If your jaw wasn't already clenched, you're certain it would swing open from how shocked you are.
What a prick!
“ Excuse me?” you blurt before you can think. You were right! Of course, he's an asshole. Your worst fear has come to life and is staring you right in the face. You clench your fists in retaliation. You're supposed to be his new assistant, and even though you kinda, sorta hate your job, this ? This won't stand.
“Sir, if I may , do you really believe that I—”
“Kidding!”
His smirk disappears instantly, and his sharp eyes fill with the gleam of the bright office lights again. He takes a small step back and puts his hands up in mock surrender. The angry finger you were raising in his face falters, but the quirk in your brow doesn't.
“Woa-ho, hey, sorry, I just wanted to see if you were the real deal.” You look away, upset. “Looks like you're it.”
You've dealt with shutting up your emotions during office hours, having encountered many, many angry clients before. You wear an emotionless expression throughout your day with no hassle all the time . But right now, for some reason, your face refuses to cooperate with you. You hate that this is bothering you as much as it is.
“I saw that fire in your eyes.” He grins as his hands make a v-shape and points at both of you eye-to-eye. When you don't let up, he crumples in on himself a little and you feel better. “Uh, sorry, again.”
It's like you're stuck in time. Your new boss is already a handful. You're too exhausted, worn up over nothing, and so emotionally drained after using all this useless energy to reply. You could definitely use some coffee.
Oh, wait! Coffee!
Ignoring the slight jab for now, an instinct of normalcy kicks in, and before he can make the short trek back to his office from yours, you ask him if he wants a cup of coffee.
He ponders the question while his hand rubs the stubble on his chin. “Uhm…hm. Noooo…?” His face falls, following the droopiness of his voice. His forehead contorts as his brows furrow, weighing his options.
“Hmmactually, uh, yeah, s'more caffeine would be great. Thanks.”
—
The espresso machine in your office is a big silver thing you enjoy using because it allows you to shut off your brain. You've made coffee more times with the machine than you can count, the steps memorized in your head. Plus, the one at your place is way more shitty, so it's nice to have some quality coffee from time to time.
Grabbing a company mug, you watch the coffee drip slowly into it, trying to rid yourself of thoughts of any kind. Like, his hands you held. The glass gets more and more full with each drop. Or the crook in his nose. You grab the cream. And, especially not that glint in his eyes. You grab the sugar.
You frustratedly slam the cream and sugar down (as gently as you in an office kitchen) and turn around, leaning on the counter behind you and face palm. Losing yourself in the rhythm of your routine is not as easy a task as it usually is. Shutting off your brain was not an option this morning, apparently. You're totally not thinking about your new ( kind of an asshole ) boss.
God, he’s hot. Wait no—
You take a breath, steadying yourself before going into the belly of the beast—his office. Peering down the hall, you see the door, slightly ajar, beckoning you with silent whispers of, ‘ Come in, come in .’ Curiosity shuts up your internal struggle and carries your feet towards the door instantly. You step in.
When you step foot into the office, you're greeted with soft cream paint, dark wood flooring, and a sweet caramel apple scent that wafts through the air. Right by where you entered, a coat rack stands adorned with his very own suit jacket. On the left, a dark brown couch (that looks entirely too comfortable for how tired you are) slouches lazily. A messy line of small boxes line the walls up to his desk, where he sits in a new chair, organizing paperwork. The white dress shirt he adorns makes you feel something you can't ( and don't want to )name. You're still upset with him, but delivering coffee like you used to makes you feel a little better. You're just happy your routine isn't completely fucked up anymore.
While he’s fixated on some files, you take advantage of the distraction, carefully placing some milk, sugar, and his coffee on his desk. You've never spilled coffee before (except for that one time), but he doesn't need to know that you're being slow not because you're being careful, but because you're studying the scene laid out in front of you.
What was once a lifeless desk with a trinket or two was now messy and alive with some of his things and random files strewn about. Under his monitor sits a digital clock and a silver picture frame that is currently flipped over. Almost hidden under paperwork, you make out a laptop sitting sheepishly. From what you can see, there are a few scratches on it, but no stickers. You can’t help but feel a little sad about how little personality there was on the naked laptop.
You can’t linger on it too long, though, the Rolodex placed right beside his monitor is practically screaming at you to notice it, stacked with paper. But, when you look closer, all the cards inside the roll are blank.
Huh.
As you turn to leave, task completed, your shoe accidentally bumps into a cardboard box, and the top goes bouncing off. You don't mean to look inside when you bend down to grab the cover to put it back on, but the giant monkey calendar staring right at you takes you by surprise, forcing you to bark out a laugh, blowing your cover.
Something creaks above you, and your head snaps up, chasing the sound as your smile drops. You're met with soft brown eyes that were already staring at you before you looked up.
His face screamsguilty , like you've seen something you weren't supposed to see. Like, his monkey calendar. ( Like, him staring at you .) You stare right back, suddenly warm under his firm gaze.
You fail to notice the proximity between the two of you, until he stands up promptly, grabbing his suit jacket off the coat hanger and departing from his office with haste.
He's leaving? But, the coffees gonna get cold, I should—
The call in your throat dies out when you look up at the door and find him gone.
Instead, you push all thoughts about your new boss, good and bad, down and pick yourself up to head back to your office. When you get inside, you close the door, shut the blinds a bit, and sit, recovering in the silence. The exhausted sigh that leaves you isn't the first of its kind, but it's been a while since you've been ready to drop so early. Your fingers align with your temples as you settle into your chair, playing over the pantomime start of your day. You've gotta get your head back on your shoulders before you start your work.
Suddenly, your eyes snap open.
You never clocked in. For the first time in two years, you're late .
Oh, for fuck's sake.