taken [loki laufeyson]

27: person of interest

It seems I've found ground again.

My life falls gently into routine over the course of a week, and soon I find myself engulfed in a new normal. Days begin around seven with coffee and tired eyes, ease into late afternoons drowning in assistant duties at work, pour over into quiet evening commutes and lonely dinners, and end by dragging myself to bed around eleven-thirty.

I'm not quite sure how to feel about it, but at least the itch for consistency has quieted. But how long until consistency morphs into monotony?

I sit at a desk opposite Steve's in his office. It's quite large-- the office, that is-- and is usually pretty quiet. Floor-to-ceiling pristine windows line the wall behind his desk that fill the space with plentiful natural lighting. Everything is white. The walls, the furniture, the few ornaments and supplies that grace our desks. The tiled floor is the same startling black as the main level, and clicks sharply every time I cross the room to fetch or deliver documents. The color palette feels stiff and looming, like a doctor's office, and it makes simply existing incredibly difficult.

Steve is hardly ever here, but I never know where he goes. As his assistant, I'm supposed to be in charge of his schedule books and planners, but I've never seen them. He's oddly secretive about it, and they're always in his hand, white-knuckle-gripped, or tucked and locked in his briefcase.

He is here today, though. And I can feel his eyes burning through me as my fingers glide over the keyboard. I can feel him scan a document in his hand and then glance up to run his eyes over my face. It's weird, but he gave me this job despite my scarce work force experience, and I would hate to ruin this lifeline he's thrown me. I owe it to him to shut up and not cause any problems. I bite the inside of my lip and try to concentrate on whatever meaningless task I'm working on. Soon enough, he shifts his focus back onto his work, and I'm able to release a breath I'd unconsciously held.

The morning passes painfully slowly. Most of the time is spent staring at my computer screen, taking calls and making notes about them, and, I hate to admit it, staring out the window. This position is hardly something to gnaw on, but I try my best to engage in it.

A knock on the office door pulls me out of concentration and back to reality. Natasha flings the door open without waiting for a reply and strolls over to my desk, throwing Steve a look that I can't see before she turns to me. Her hands are tucked in the front pockets of her slacks, and her red hair protests in a small ponytail running down her shoulder. Disgust scribbles itself over his face as he rises from his desk and sets his work aside. "Natasha." Her name pours out of his mouth with a smile like molasses. The smile seems genuine but his eyes pierce with hatred— a stark contrast from what his expression said before.

But she ignores him. "Are you up for lunch today, Allissa? There's a new restaurant a couple blocks from here that I'd love to try." Her gaze falls upon the mountain of paperwork stacked near my laptop. "Unless you're busy?" She grabs a stack and sifts through it, scanning through the unfinished pages of forms, her face twisting in annoyance. "Fucks sake, Steve, what's with all this on her first week?"

Steve doesn't reply, just loads up and locks his briefcase, glances up at me, and storms out of the room in one smooth motion. The door slams swiftly behind him, the sound and the irritation with it echoing softly afterwards.

I'm not really sure if it's my place to say anything about whatever's going on with him. "No, I'm not that busy. I could use a break." I offer Natasha a smile.

She's clearly still miffed at Steve's storm-off, but regardless, takes a beat to collect herself and returns the smile. "Great."