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."
-
The drive to lunch, a small, upscale café tucked into the outskirts of the city, is short and silent. Quiet gratitude for the radio passes over my lips like a prayer. It's not that I don't want to talk to her, I'm simply at loss for what to say. Our friendship, or, rather, acquaintance, starts and ends with a busy 9 to 5, and has only lived for a short while. Everything I know about her comes from TV and her reputation as a public servant with the Avengers, but I'd rather not ask about that. It's uninteresting, invasive, and I doubt she wants to talk about her violent deployments and pulsing espionage over a clement pastry and drink.
Sun nowhere to be seen, the sky is heavy and dark with clouds that can only muster the faintest drizzle. The noon city streets are fairly busy, with a lunch rush just beginning to trickle in. Traffic is hardly a problem though, and we cruise right up to the parking lot and head inside.
Immediately upon entering, the atmosphere is warm, a startling contrast from the office. A handful of people are strewn across the dining area, eating in pairs and perched on barstools. The walls are creamy white and accented with Rothko knockoffs, bulletin boards busy with flyers, and art pieces assumed to be of local origin. Light fixtures reminiscent of sailboat lanterns scatter around the room playing sconce. Watered down chatter floats about the room, and the cash register rings once with success.
With the comfort of the homey café, I feel the veil over my eyes lift, and suddenly things feel a little bit better. Not perfect, but manageable. The color white doesn't feel so intimidating anymore-- now it feels like a blanket.
Natasha and I take a moment to order, and a waitress outfitted in a navy blue apron and matching visor delivers our quaint lunch just after at our table in the back corner of the room. As we begin to eat, I can't help but notice a lingering unfamiliarity between us.
"So," she begins after a couple minutes, pausing to sip from her latte, "Steve offered you a job. How'd that happen?" Her gaze is curious but slightly distracted, a relief providing enough room to settle into my seat and present myself the way I'd like, without the presence of a spotlight normally felt around the office.
"Oh, yeah. I don't have nearly enough of the prerequisites filled to work there, but Steve offered me that position after my, uh, incident." I bite the inside of my cheek while the memory of his visit at the hospital replays in my head. "I think it was like a favor. I'm very grateful he did so."
"A favor?" Natasha's face scrunches slightly.
Growing panicked for a reason unknown, I rush to fix my mistake. "Favor might be the wrong word," I gesture absentmindedly. "Um, he did it to help me out. I think he knew about my messy resume and thought a guaranteed position with a familiar face would be a good way to strike back into the workforce after everything."
"Ah. That makes sense." But her expression is still not entirely convinced. "I was just gonna say that the job offering being a 'favor' would be weird, especially considering you and Steve hardly know each other, and that you shouldn't have to owe him anything already." She takes a bite of a leafy sandwich she ordered. "But you know that."
Her comment is frustrating because she's clearly poking at something in my blind spot. No one begins a conversation with a co-worker with a line like that, like she already knows me. The thing is, I don't know Natasha, which makes connecting with her organically hard, but I know plenty about her. She's SHIELD's highest-ranking spy and her history of action is impressive. And with a career as extensive and experienced as hers, she must never be truly 'off-duty.' There's something she's struggling to connect to previous intelligence, there's something she's pawing to pry at, and she's proving it thus far with everything she's said.
But, however intense her opening remarks seem, they don't have the same interrogative energy to them. I can't help but feel that her intentions must be in the right place. She's not like Steve.
"Well, he didn't word it like a favor, but I couldn't help but feel like it was one. Not that that means anything, really . . ." My sentence trails off.
"How so? Maybe it does mean something."
I shift a little in my seat. "It's difficult to explain. He was nice about it, and he said he thought it would help me 'get back on track,' which is what I want," is that what I want? "but it felt different. Like the words were perfect on paper, but the way he said it was odd." There's more to that story, but I don't feel at all comfortable airing it. At least not yet.
"No, I get that. He can be forceful, right?" I nod. "But that's exactly the issue." She extends an empathetic look. "Can I be honest? He's been acting strange lately. And I'm only asking because I'm worried about you. When we were first notified of your sudden absence, and the team first received information about you and your past, we all learned about your previous relationships in order to get your full story. You had an ex who was abusive, which isn't something uncommon with missing persons cases, but for some reason, Steve's attitude shifted. He learned about your ex and got weirdly obsessive over your case. It was unsettling."
I press my hand to my mouth as if that little comfort will wash away the sudden chill that has grabbed me by the spine. My appetite has abandoned me. "Obsessive?" His visit at the hospital plays on loop over and over in my my mind's eye.
Clearly I did a poor job of hiding my reaction. She hesitates to ask something, but stops, rerouting her approach, and reaches a hand across the table. "I know that probably made you feel worse, but my gut was telling me to tell you. I know we don't know each other that well yet, but I want you to know you can tell me anything. I'm here for you, Allissa. I know what it's like to be in a situation like this, and how weird it can be, and I only want you to be safe." Her brows furrow in concern.
"Thanks, Natasha. At least there's an explanation for his behavior this morning. I'll let you know if anything else weird happens." My smile is lopsided and half-hearted, because I kept the full story from her. But in truth, I don't know if sharing the full story will even keep me or my job that safe, especially if word gets back to Steve about anything I said. Unease trickles through my veins.
Natasha smiles. "Alright." She checks the watch on her wrist. "Sorry we couldn't get to anything more interesting. Looks like we've still got five minutes of break left. We should probably get going."
-
hey! its been forever since i updated. im going to be honest, i am not as invested in this story as i once was, being that its been more than 4 years i've had this published. a lot has happened in that time frame.
however, i have had the rest of the story mapped out since i began writing it, so i think i'll try to finish it and put it out there just so i can say i finished it. and, i still love to write, so i might as well take this little opportunity to improve upon my skill, especially because i dont have a lot of time for writing independently these days.
in the time since i updated, this story has skyrocketed to 70k+ reads, 1k+ votes, and has earned me 90+ followers! thank you so much. its so funny to see this indulgent, fun little story i made so long ago be appreciated by so many, if not only for temporary, silly entertainment.
this story has so many plotholes and mistakes that i won't necessarily be going back to fix, so you and i (reader and author) should just have some fun with it!
I have been toying with the idea of creating a tumblr to write on cause I've grown out of wattpad, where I could explore smaller pieces and fanfiction for the things im interested in now (including loki!!). maybe i could even take requests. comment if that sounds like something you guys would be interested in!
also... HAVE YOU GUYS SEEN THE LOKI TRAILER!?!!!!???? i cant believe our boy's finally getting his own show!!
Thanks for reading!!<3
xx