Prompt: Dr. Spencer Reid, having successfully gotten her phone number from Hotch, hires reader to create an audiobook just for him.
a/n: reader is Aaron's younger sister, shy!reader, using "she" instead of "you" for the reader. There is a Part 1, but you can read this without the background.
part 1 | part 2
-
The day was bright and airy, still cool, but the scent of spring already signalled the change ahead. Quantico was busy as always, with what the officers liked to call "the melt". After the snow in the upper regions of the States melted, the FBI always got an influx of cold cases, often missing reports, from the bodies being discovered, them being previously undisturbed all season long. By the time of the melt, most of the hard evidence has been lost from the bodies themselves, so the BAU got especially popular this time of year.
Spencer, who managed to get her phone number from Hotch and even set up the first recording session at his own apartment, was now fending off consult requests. The team has been running on little sleep and coffee fumes for a week now, and today Hotch sent them all home for resting. Spencer knew that it is likely she would be free today, since Hotch would take over Jack's babysitting, so he sent her a message asking if she would be able to do another round of recording. A quick, quiet "ping" of her response with an agreement warmed his hand. Spencer tucked his phone back into his leather satchel and drove home.
She knocked three times until Spencer opened the door. Her face lit up with a smile at the sight of him, and she extended her hands with a Tupperware full of cookies held in them.
"Just baked them this morning. It's chocolate chip, Jack's favourite. Not too sweet, we don't want him developing cavities, but I hope you don't mind."
Spencer stepped aside to let her through and lifted the corner of the container.
"It smells really good," he said, looking at her bashfully. "Thank you. You didn't have to."
She waved him away. "I wanted to. Aaron told me what's been happening at the office. It's too bad I can't help with anything else. You guys need seasonal hires," she joked, settling into the depths of the plush leather sofa in the middle of the room.
"The clearance takes too long," Spencer said, and her mouth twitched when she realized he hadn't gotten the joke. She watched as he fretted over the cookies, putting a few paper towels inside the container for 'optimal moisture', and how, when he set the cookies aside, he pulled a file out of his bag by the sofa, just like the ones she saw his brother bring home to work on.
"I've made a few plans," he said, opening the file, "I hope it's okay. I've got variations on the trajectory if we schedule weekly, bi-weekly, try-weekly, and daily recordings, as well as the itemized outline of chapters allotted to each day in each case..." He trailed off; his voice, which started as energetic, dwindled into a self-conscious uncertainty. "That is, if you still want to do it. I understand it's a big commitment, and the fastest progression of the project is statistically going to take at least two weeks if we account for retakes."
Spencer Reid was adorable. All that excitement and unrestrained passion for whatever field of knowledge gained his attention was charming. She watched people drive to work like half-dead flies, work their allowed hours, head home, and keep themselves numbed down with TV until it was time to work again. Spencer was not only special because of his eidetic memory, but also because he found the energy in himself to care about the world outside the dull pleasure. She wanted to feel that focus and energy directed towards herself. In a way, it would be like asking Spencer to care for her, because we notice things we care about.
Spencer cleared his throat.
She shook herself out of her daze and set her bright eyes on his face, smiling.
"Of course I want it. I said it on the phone, didn't I? You worry too much, Spencer. It is good for me to have something other to do than being Jack's nanny while I look for a job." She held his gaze. "And it would make me happy if anything I do would help you."
Spencer nodded in tandem with her words, as if the magnitude of her helpfulness to him was too great to mention out loud. He shuffled over to the cabinet and pulled out a microphone and a small black receiver for it. He thanked Garcia for being on the forefront of technology when he saw her appreciative glance. He waited until she set up a small station for herself in the corner, and then he brought out the book.
She took a look at it and giggled.
"Are you sure this won't put you to sleep?"
Spencer shook his head, but his face split into a smile.
"Morgan said he'll wait for the movie, so it seems to be a common thought. But no, it actually calms down my anxiety. Having it on while I drive would help, I think."
He waited until she hit play, and went into his bedroom. He didn't want for her to lose focus because of his staring. Soft, melodious notes of her voice made it through the wall that separated them. He laid on his bed and closed his eyes.
-
They decided to keep their meetings at a steady pace. She would come three times a week in the evenings, when Aaron could watch Jack, and record at Spencer's place. Spencer's other days were spent waiting for the calm evenings when the rhythm of her voice lulled his mind into obedience.
The stress of the job and the ample intake of caffeine kept his mind running at breakneck speed; and yet he did not feel more productive than in the days of his PhDs when he only cared about formulas and drank tea. The job came with poor sleep for every agent, and Spencer was no different. But Spencer found a solution for himself. He got used to the routine; coming home from work, making a quick dinner, and waiting for her arrival.
She relished these evenings. To be in the company of handsome Dr. Reid was a pleasure. Her brother told her of the crush Dr. Reid has had on their blonde coworker over dinner once, a caution coming in the form of office talk, if she knew her brother at all. It was disappointing in some vague way, as if before that knowledge she harboured any sort of chance. But people like Dr. Reid could have their pick of women; he was, as they say, not an option. She was pretty, as someone who knew her family said all Hotchners were, but she couldn't impress Dr. Reid with her mind or any unusual beauty. Despite it all, Spencer Reid, with his warm eyes and intimidating mind, became precious to her. And he, who could learn anything he set his mind on, find any resource - he asked her to help him.
The work at the BAU did not pause because of their schedule. Spencer flew out to the state of Montana in the early hours of Monday, and the team closed the case by Friday afternoon. They landed in Quantico a quarter past five, and Spencer messaged her right from the landing dock so that they wouldn't lose another day of recording. She was at his green-walled apartment at seven, settling at the microphone corner with the ease of someone used to the motion.
Spencer made two cups of tea and sat in the living room armchair with a stack of books he planned to read that day. The warmth of the tea, the familiarity of his surroundings, and her steady voice soon set a veil of drowsiness over his eyes.
He woke to the whisper, "Spencer?", and a small, warm hand on his shoulder, not as much shaking him as just laying there, putting pressure on his muscle to rouse him. He opened his eyes and saw her face fifteen inches in front of his own. It was a pleasant way to wake up, though he couldn't remember how he managed to fall asleep. She smiled, seeing his eyes focus on her face.
"Spencer," she said again, with a blooming smile, "You should have rescheduled, look at how tired you are. I'm almost done recording, by the way, there is only the copyrights page and the bibliography - I remember you wanted to include it anyway - but other than that, I think that was the last full recording."
Spencer blinked, trying to bring some moisture to his eyes. The implication of her words made his heart tighten. She was still smiling, and Spencer smiled back with effort. He took her hand in his before he could think about it, and said:
"Thank you. It was great, I mean, your voice is always great. I..." he paused, the feeling of loss overwhelming. "Let me write you a cheque for the work you did."
She shook her head. "I never intended to take any money from you for it. It's a gift."
She squeezed his hand and looked at him for a while, matching his own lost look. Then she hugged him, and straightened up.
"It was lovely to be your guest here, Spencer. Thank you."
She gathered her bag and waved at him.
"You have my number," she said in a casual, friendly voice, and left the apartment. Spencer's eyes trailed after her until the click of the front door told him she was gone. He recited her phone number in his head.
The tape laid on the table, and Spencer had a half mind to send it to Garcia right away. His fingers touched the black rectangle of the receiver, where her voice was stored, safe and hidden. Just for today, then, the voice which haunted his dreams, which lulled him to sleep, will remain here, safe, belonging with him.
Prompt: Aaron Hotchner has a sister, the BAU is shaken to learn.
a/n: reader is Aaron's younger sister, whether she is older or younger than Spencer is left unmentioned. I'm thinking of making it a part of a very short, fluffy series. shy!reader, using "she" instead of "you" for the reader
---
"Hello? Is this the BAU office? I'm looking for Aaron Hotchner."
Morgan, Prentiss, JJ, and Reid turned their heads to see a young woman in the bullpen doors. She looked out of place; in contrast to the sharp, busy people of the FBI, the soft quiet voice and the unassuming presence screamed outsider.
Morgan stood up immediately.
"You came to the right place, sweets," he said, already guiding her to the stairs of Hotch's second-floor office. "Are you a witness? Thank you for helping the investigation. It's not often we get to rest our eyes around here..."
"Oh, not really, I'm..."
"You're here," interrupted Hatch, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Morgan's eyebrows flew up.
"Morgan, this is my sister," Hotch explained with a sigh. They heard a conspicuous whisper - 'a sister!' - from somewhere, making Hotch pinch the bridge of his nose in defeat.
She smiled, blushing and waving at nobody in particular, as if greeting a ghost. Morgan cleared his throat and said in a professional voice, a stark contrast to the previous familiarity.
"She doesn't really look like you," to which a short laugh escaped her.
"I know! Not all of us can be as handsome as Aaron. The rest have to live with the disappointment." She grinned.
"I think I can see a similarity to Jack..." The voice of Prentiss floated up in the air.
"Right," said Hotch with finality. "You'll have your time to ask questions. She will be staying in Quantico for a few days." He guided her into his office and shut the door. The team could hear the muffled sounds of a conversation.
"Oh my God," said JJ, raising wide eyes to the group. "Call Garcia. We'll never get the details from any person with the last name Hotchner."
---
The girl, from what they could glean in the official files, was the younger sister of Aaron Hotchner. Much younger, having been a miracle baby at the older age of their parents. Contrary to the team's expectations, she was not a lawyer or connected to the police force in any way.
"She is an audiobook narrator," said Garcia with glee, clicking away at her keyboard. "Oh, I've listened to this one..."
The girl, who was quickly gaining an almost mythical status, was codenamed Angel in contrast to her prosecutor brother. Not that Hotch was in any way confused about whom they chattered day and night in recent days. She happened to come to the office another day when Hotch forgot his lunch at home. The team, like a pack of hyenas, seized their chance.
"Are you in town for a while?" Prentiss guided her to Emily's own chair, and the rest of the team assembled around it. Angel flushed when she caught Spencer's unusually focused brown eyes.
"Just a bit. I don't want to bother Aaron too much."
"I don't think someone like you can bother anyone," cooed Garcia, clicking her pen. "What's the reason for the visit, darling? Why haven't our dear Hotch introduce us before?"
"It's a bit embarrassing," she said, and looked down on her lap. Garcia gave her an encouraging nod. "You know that narration is competitive, right? It has been a few months since my last project wrapped up, and my savings are... I didn't want to live with our parents again, and Aaron offered to let me stay, save my money, until I find something..."
"Oh, darling, you didn't need to worry. It is the nature of art, there is nothing shameful in it," Penelope quickly hugged her. "We'll be thrilled to see you more often here."
"What was the name of your last audiobook?" Spencer asked in a soft voice. His eyes have not left her in the time she spent at the station.
""Oh," she stammered, "Withering Heights."
"Impressive," said Emily.
But she shook her head. "It's really not. Classics are popular, but they don't earn you much. There are a lot of narrators available because there is no copyright fee for works that old. There was some hope for a profit because of the movie coming out."
"The merit of the work isn't erased if it is not profitable right away," Spencer murmured. "Neither Emily Dickinson nor William Blake earned anything in their lifetimes. Actually, the majority of artists comprising the classical canon could not support themselves from their public works, and instead relied their whole lives on a patron, like Coleridge, or on private wealth, like Byron.'
She blushed. "Thank you. Dr. Reid, right?"
Spencer nodded. "Spencer," he mumbled after a moment, his own cheeks heating up at her attention.
She smiled. "Spencer. Pretty name."
Morgan cackled and ruffled Spencer's hair in a rough tumble. "Did you hear that? Pretty name for a Pretty Boy."
---
Spencer thought he was finally going insane. Geniuses have a history - a series of occurrences so common they trend to a statistical importance - of becoming crazy. But since he was finally crazy, there was nothing at all in the fact that he found himself at a record store after work, asking the sales clerk about their audiobook section.
"Just a bunch of CDs, not much of the good stuff," the clerk said, leading Spencer into the far back. "Knock yourself out."
"Thank you, I will knock myself out," Spencer said with a serious face. Then he smiled and shifted his eyes towards the shelves.
There is was, Wuthering Heights, n. Hotchner, and Spencer didn't waste time in taking it off the shelf. Was it illogical for him to buy an audiobook almost 14 hours long when he could read the book in five minutes? It was. But Spencer's heart beat faster when he thought of listening to that delicate, lilting voice for the next 14 hours of his life.
---
Spencer knocked at Aaron Hotchner's office. Hotch raised his eyes from a paper in his hands. "Yes, Reid?"
"Could you," Spencer swallowed. "Could you give me your sister's phone number? I want to hire her to narrate The Magical Mathematics of Quantum Physics."
Prompt: you are an intern at the Daily Planet with low pay. Clark, with his senior journalist front-page Superman salary, is down bad.
a/n: this has been in drafts for so long... SO long that I got tired of editing what seems to be five different voices in my head writing it.
-
An intern position at the Daily Planet is competitive. Hundreds of English and Journalism majors apply every year for a chance to work under the most famous journalists of the country, graduates with previous jobs, projects, and accolades, the best of the best. You didn't know how you even got an interview, let alone an offer, but here you were, their new intern.
Pay was miserable, of course, but you knew people would kill for a chance like this even if it was unpaid. So you rented a room instead of a studio, filled your meals with rice or bread or potatoes most days, never bought any clothes, stopped buying coffee, and generally lived at the office.
It helped that your mind was occupied by a new crush. It was probably not good for you, to feel your heart beat twice as fast when Clark Kent, the senior journalist, looked at you with his soft, attentive, concerned eyes.
You were a regular in the mail room, and one day as you were opening, closing, sending out mail as usual, Clark found you. He squeezed his body between the stacks of various dusty boxes, full of files yet to be digitized, and waved at you with a shy smile.
"Hi," he said, and you thought his voice sounded breathless. "Sending out packages to the media anchors today?" You smiled and nodded. Clark was your favourite senior journalist here; it was just so easy to approach him compared to Lois or, God forbid, Perry.
"What about you?" You looked at Clark curiously, gesturing at the room with your chin.
"Oh, uh..." Clark brushed his hair with his hand, eyes meeting yours for a moment before settling on one of the grey indiscriminate boxes around you, "I was wondering if you had lunch already. I visit this cafe pretty often, Lois and Jimmy are away on a story lead..."
He needn't say anything else. If this was the only chance you got, if this is as close as he let you in... "I'd love to," you said, smiling at him.
His shoulders slumped in relief, and he smiled at you. "Great. I'll, uh, see you at the desk when you're finished with these?" Clark's face lit up at your quick response.
-
The coffee shop was not as noisy as it usually was in the mornings, but a steady flow of customers still kept the business running. Clark leaned over to you and whispered:
"What drink do you want?"
You squinted at the menu on the wall and murmured:
"I think a London Fog..."
Clark nodded with enthusiasm, and you smiled.
"What will you get?"
Clark frowned as if deep in thought. "A regular with triple cream, triple sugar," said Clark, turning halfway from you towards the cashier, who was started typing down the order on the little machine. "And a London Fog," he added.
Your eyes widened. "You don't have to pay," you said quietly, with a shy, embarrassed tinge to your face.
Clark smiled down at you and waved away the concern. "It's nothing, don't even worry about something like that. What kind of person would let an intern pay?"
You thanked him, eyes shining. A contented feeling inside you was purring, whispering, look how well he can take care of you, before you silenced it. Clark was a rare breed of polite, Kansas-grown boy with a mother that probably instilled paying in the presence of a lady. It didn't mean anything.
-
You thought of that coffee shop memory fondly even now, almost a week later. In the clicking, printing noise of the journalism department, you escaped to the quiet hum of a warm, Clark-filled day.
You rarely saw him now, Perry bringing the hammer to the heads of all senior journalists, sending them all out on the field to cover the latest international crisis. These were the days the stars seemed brighter, and the sun warmer, when no such heavy responsibility rested on your intern shoulders. To click the buttons of the printer and sit at your desk, drinking coffee, was a luxury in comparison.
While you saw Clark less, you seemed to have gained a secret admirer. It felt silly to call it that, but there was no denying that sometime in the span of these few weeks you have received multiple packages addressed to you. Packages containing things that were definitely not office supplies.
The first time you saw a small brown cardboard box at your desk you thought it was some kind of coffee restock for the staff kitchen, and you, as an intern, were supposed to put it there. When you opened it, a small sigh left you. There was no coffee. Your fingers touched the softest, purest, airy white cashmere. When you carefully lifted it out of the box and unwound it from its flimsy artisanal paper wrap, you saw that it was a shawl. Attached was a note, printed by the store: "For the angel."
The shawl felt like a lamb's first breath in your hands. The office was chilly in the mornings, and it would warm up with the sun shining through the large windows, so you used a polyester-blend thin throw to tide you over. This, however, was a luxury that felt almost offensive to use.
Your desk started to receive smaller, more innocuous gestures: a few boxes of good chocolate, from a real chocolatier place, and not just grocery store; a notepad from a high-end stationery shop which you always thought only lawyers could afford, but now you scribbled lunch orders on; and, to top off one week, a plush bear in a Superman costume.
Interns from the other departments joked at lunch. 'Your admirer must be a fan! They must think the bear would protect you. The Bear of Steel!' A raucous laughter followed. You secretly liked the bear, with its embroidered eyes, full soft tummy, and a big letter 'S'. Sometimes you could imagine it supporting you from the desk corner while you typed up yet another revision.
-
You were no closer to figuring out who the sender was until a day before the year-end gala.
The whole of Daily Planet and their sponsors rented the venue at the top of a skyscraper, with views, food, drinks, ambient live music, and a whole lot of networking. Everyone in the staff roster was given a ticket, and you have stashed yours in the desk drawer as soon as you got it. There was no illusion in your mind that despite being invited, there would be nothing for you to do there except receive a complimentary dinner, and despite your salary, you would rather eat chicken at home and relax after a stressful week.
"Oho, not so quick." Jimmy leaned over, opening the drawer and fishing out the ticket, waving it in your face. "You're going, right? We are going to be the lucky who will see our office princess in her sparkly dress, I've been telling everyone. Cat has already been whispering into the ears of Vogue girls on Skyline Street to smuggle her some Miu Miu."
You watched the glossy paper flop in the air like a war flag. "I don't think..."
"Oh, come on," he said, "Clark would be devastated if you didn't come. He literally was just saying how much you like chocolate hazelnut hedgehogs and they will serve an ice cream inspired by them there, the chef is supposedly married to the franchise partner...""
You tilted your head. "Clark said that?"
Jimmy stuck the ticket under your nose and flipped it up, making you sneeze. "Duh, what else would he talk about? It's all you, you, you this month. I think Perry gave him a day off just because he couldn't stand another minute in the office with him anymore. Anyway, you better come."
You tried to smother a smile, and ducked your head. "I just don't think it's for me, that's all. I'm just an intern. I'll be gone in six months anyway."
"Oh, woe be me," Jimmy raised his eyes to the ceiling as if he was ready to pray. "Of course, Perry is just waiting for the chance to let go of the office coffee angel, the blessed kitchen-restocker, the..."
You laughed, embarrassed now. "Stop, stop! It's just good manners, nothing big."
Jimmy sighed. "The point is, you're a great intern and an easy person to work with. Perry knows it's hard to bet on someone when you hire full-time, and you make the choice very easy since he already knows how you work. Cheer up," he threw out, and placed the ticket back onto your desk with an air of drama before sauntering away. "And be there."
-
The gala was starting in three hours and you were sitting in your pyjamas on the couch, eating an apple strudel from a bakery nearby, your own little luxury of the night. Your roommate left to spend the two weeks of her Christmas time off with her family, and the apartment was all yours for the time. Quiet, peaceful time.
The knock on the door made your head rise in apprehension. Being alone made every noise sharper.
Your bare feet touched the carpet as you patted up to the door. You opened up a small crack, eyeing the delivery man in an orange neon jacket with suspicion. “Hello?”
"Signature please," the postage clerk said in a bored voice. A trolley full of packages to be delivered for the floor was waiting behind him. You signed for the package as if you expected it and let him move onto the next door.
It was a rather large, square cardboard box with no identification except the delivery route information and your name in the little "To" space.
It seemed like a whole roll of pink wrapping paper was stuffed inside of it. As you pulled it out, a thick, large ivory paper envelope emerged with pressed letters. The room was silent when you touched the embossing; everything about this paper whispered luxury. It was some kind of atelier, judging by the name. Clothes, then, perhaps, or a scarf, or gloves?
Your hand touched something unbearably soft and smooth, and you pulled out a long piece of rich, berry-coloured silk dress.
You tugged it all out of its packaging and looked at it until you could breathe again. It was made of mulberry silk, the little tag told you. You would never buy something so unnecessary - why, you didn't have anywhere to wear it anyway, besides the money question - and so blatantly sensual. You could imagine the silk running down your curves, a whisper of cool fabric that left little to imagination. It was perfectly suitable to an event without being vulgar. You bit your lip; what did they say was it? Rich people liked to buy their wives something classic and sexy? This was exactly that.
You sighed. How could you not wear something like this at least once? It was your first gala. Maybe The Daily Planet had a budget for all their newsroom workers' attires. They could write it off taxes, couldn't they?
And if you wore it tonight, maybe Clark would look at you.
-
You could hear the soft murmurs and the clicking of wine glasses from the elevator. The gala happened on the rooftop of some high-rise right beside Daily Planet's main building. There was a glass dome over the whole floor, and you would see the stars on the night sky through it. Arrays of fresh flower arrangements and fairy lights lined every corner, and tables with crisp white linen stood around the room while the majority mingles in the centre.
"Darling, you came!" You heard to your right, and saw Cat Grant make her way to you through the crowd. You smiled.
"Yeah," you said, a bit embarrassed at her raised eyebrows and a suggestive up and down look over your dress. "I thought it would be a good chance. Who knows, maybe whatever newspaper I work for in the future won't have events at all."
"Nonsense, darling, everybody wants to spend money," Cat said, flipping her hair back and tugging you closer. "It's a good thing you came," she said, and lowered her voice. "Stay close to me. I want to be the fly on the wall when Clark lays his eyes on you and dies." Your protests that he would find you in any way attractive didn't seem to make her believe you.
"Lois is here, anyway," you blabbered to Cat as she led you through the floor in some twisting pattern. She didn't seem to be listening.
"Lois? What''s that got to do with anything? The girl's probably in a pant suit today too, you don't get a Pulitzer without some great ass networking."
You could already see Clark's towering frame amongst the people, in a circle with Lois and Jimmy.
"Hey, guys," Cat's lips morphed into a sly grin, "Look who I found at the entrance just now. Say hello, darling."
Their heads swivelled towards her voice.
Clark's jaw tightened. He moved as if he turned into a wooden figure at the sight of you in the dress. You caught his slow exhale before his darkened eyes found yours.
"Hello," you said, garnering a few chuckles. You looked at Cat, and she winked at you.
"Isn't she so cute tonight, hmm? Our little mascot, the busy bee behind the scenes," she said. Lois raised her eyebrow, exchanging a meaningful glance with Cat, though you didn't know what it was about.
Jimmy's eyes got a fox-like quality immediately. "Right? Don't you think so too, Clark?" He turned and bumped his shoulder into Clark's silent figure, who jolted and said:
"So cute," Clark nodded mechanically. The shimmer of the dress reflected in his glasses. "The colour is great on you."
"Thank you, Clark," you said, smiling at his politeness. He was probably unable to say something unkind. Still, the compliment warmed you up better than a glass of champagne. "It was a gift."
"A gift?" His voice got deeper. "They have chosen well."
You nodded happily. "I know, right? It was a miracle. I certainly wouldn't get something so out there just for one evening if I was buying."
Cat sighed. "You would have come in a thrifted Zara dress, darling, if it was left to you. It is an investment strategy to look good at this age, and you are squandering it. Looks like someone noticed since they got you this Marni. A good first step, I'd say. But we'll get you in de la Renta soon, don't worry," she flipped back her hair and smacked her glossy lips. "I'm feeling caviar. Anyone want some? I think they are refilling the bar." This got a few murmurs of approval from Lois. Jimmy gulped down the dregs of a drink he was holding and trailed after them.
Clark stepped up to you and bent down to say quietly, "Do you like the dress?"
"Hmm? Oh, it's wonderful," you said, "It's so soft." He hummed as if the knowledge pleased him, and placed his hand on the small of your back to guide you through the crowd. The warm weight of it made you dizzy.
"If you could..." He paused, a little breathless. "If it was an option, would you wear things like that more often?"
You eyes him curiously. "I don't know. I guess it's nice? I would be anxious about my retirement savings though. Not right now, for sure."
"But if you didn't have to think about the cost?"
"I don't..." You closed your eyes and stopped. Clark stopped with you. You shook your head. "I don't know. I would want to feel safe first, you know? Maybe you remember how it was back when you were an intern. Uncertain future of the industry, job openings being scarce. I want a place to live I'm not afraid to lose, a little house - no, a small apartment is fine, - and then maybe it will be something I'd find more pleasure in. Hard to do in Metropolis, though," you said, chuckling.
There was contemplative air between the two of you. Clark wasn't saying anything, and you feared you said too much. Who asked you to talk about your financial strain? Isn't that supposed to be one of the topics to avoid at the table?
You raised up your eyes to look at his face. Clark watched you with the softest eyes. You grew more embarrassed by the minute, and yet there was something exhilarating in this moment.
"It's a good goal," he said quietly, "I still think about Ma and Pa's farm back in Kansas. It's a different feeling to have your own place in the world."
You nodded. "Until then."
Clark hummed.
-
You riled to your side to click the snooze button on the alarm clock. The beauty of your mandated winter week off was an opportunity to feel the time pass by without hurry. You had no need to drag yourself to the sink in the darkness of the morning and catch a bus to the noisy downtown as you usually did. The day was all yours to enjoy, quiet and simple as the empty day could be.
You made a fresh cup of steaming coffee and sat down in a makeshift nest in your bed. The first sip of hot liquid warmed your whole body. You looked outside the window, happy to watch people walk to their errands outside.
The phone rang.
You picked it up, expecting another telecom company trying to get money out of you, which you could hang up on and continue your day. Instead you heard your name spoken and the person identifying themselves as a lawyer at a real estate Metropolis firm.
"Would you be able to set an appointment to discuss the transfer of the property in the coming weeks?"
You set down your cup. "What property? I didn't buy anything."
"Oh, sorry for not clarifying, " the lawyer said, his manner rather hurried. "The downpayment was made on your behalf, for a one-story near the Landsfield Park. The key transfer would have to happen in the next week if you are amenable, if you could let us know the time that works for you."
"I'm, uh..." You were typing in the name of the firm into the search bar. They were real, and not too far away. You could make the trip, set the mistake right and ask how they got your name and number. "I can make it today if you have availability."
"Perfect," you heard the lawyer exhale, "The office works until seven. Please tell the reception you have an appointment with Toller, and they should let you through. I will let them know."
"Okay, alright." Your voice came out higher. "I'll see you."
"Alright, see you soon," the lawyer said, and you were left staring at the beeping phone in your hand.
-
When you were indeed let through that very afternoon, the elevator brought you to the glass-covered offices of Brown Fullbright lawyers, the directory on the wall pointing you to office 2B for Toller. You saw him typing furiously at his laptop as you came down the corridor. When he saw you he stood up a little and held his tie to his chest as he did so.
"Thank you for coming." He shook hands with you. "I have been working on the filing over the past week once the funding has been finalized. Everything seems to be in order, the only things required now are your signature on a few papers and the transfer of keys." He waited until you sat down and slid forward a folder with a stack of papers and a set of keys.
"I think there was a mistake somewhere," you said, biting your lip. "I haven't bought any property, and I know for a fact there isn't any inheritance."
Despite your admission, Mr. Toller didn't seem alarmed. "I assure you everything is correct. We take our business seriously. I assume this was supposed to be a surprise gift, and it simply falls to me to reveal it. You would be surprised how many clients do this for their wives."
"I don't have a husband..."
"Your partner then," he continued smoothly, "The funds came from a Mr. Clark Kent? Is that a name you recognize?"
"Yes, of course," you whispered, mind whirling.
Mr. Toller smiled. "Then everything is settled. The address is 35 Meadowlark St, you are welcome to move in on the 30th. The monthly mortgage payment is set on the papers for your convenience. The contractors are currently running some plumbing renovations, which should be done by then. Congratulations on your new home." He stood up and took your shocked nod in stride.
Once you stepped outside the building, you took out your phone and clicked on Clark's contact number.
"Hello?" His voice came from the other side, deep and soft, like usual.
"Clark," your voice was tense, and he must have picked up on it to stay as silent as he did. "Did you get me a downpayment on a house?"
"I did."
"I don't.... Oh God, why did you do it? Did you get into debt to buy it?" You started shaking at the thought. "Is it because of what I said? Did I pressure you?"
"Sweetheart, no," Clark said on the other side of the line, "No debt. I wanted to do this for you. Where are you?"
"I'm, uh," you looked around, "Near the law office. The 23rd Avenue, near the BeeHive coffee shop." You looked at the yellow sign with the fat bee for a moment longer.
"I want you to go inside and wait for me. I'll be there in ten, okay?"
"Mhm, okay," you said weakly, and the call disconnected.
-
He found you sitting in the corner, in one of the plush bee-themed booths. His tall figure caught your eye as soon as he walked in.
"Clark," you said, and fell silent, unable to say anything more.
He sat down on the other side of the booth. The cafe was emptying, the buzz of the day leaving with the people. He ordered two drinks.
"Why did you do it? I'm a nobody."
"Don't say that," he said, furrowing his brows and taking your hand in his. "This is the least you deserve. I just wanted you to feel happy."
"I am happy. Just... I don't get it." You looked at him with concern. "You are one of the best journalists in the city, but even that salary isn't big enough to make a downpayment like that on a whim."
He shrugged. "I get some side income. Royalties, from photos and other things." You tilted your head.
"Are you a model on the side or something? I haven't seen your pictures in fashion stores..."
Clark's face grew red. "It's not... It's not that. I'm not a model. It's a different area.... Legal," he added hastily at the look in your face. "That is, I wanted to say... It was not a hardship for me to do this for you."
"But why did you do it at all? Why me?"
He looked at you, and your heart beat faster at the gentleness in his eyes.
"You probably don't want to hear this from someone like your older coworker," he said, and looked down at the table, avoiding your eyes. "But you looked sad when one of the interns was talking about her vacations, and everyone knows her folks aren't struggling. Nobody in the office is really struggling, the industry is... You know what it is. And you wouldn't even buy a coffee in the morning. It wasn't right." Clark looked at you through his lashes, shy and imploring. "You deserve to feel safe and happy. Cat was going to introduce you to some single well-off men she knows, but I couldn't... What I mean is," he closed his eyes. "I wanted it to be me. Me who provides for you and takes care of you."
There was a moment of silence. You didn't know what to say. And what is there to say?
"I'm sorry," Clark stuttered, "I know it's wrong of me. I'm too old for you - "
You interrupted him.
"You're not. You're not too old for me."
You could hear the beating of your wildling heart in your chest.
Clark exhaled.
"Darling... Do you mean what I think you mean?"
And there was nothing to deny. Both of you knew exactly what it meant.
"Clark," you said, squeezing your eyes for a moment. "Tell me - the scarf, the bear - was it...?"
"Me? Yes."
A breath left you.
"And if I left the Daily Planet tomorrow, deleted all contacts?"
Clark's figure stiffened. "I didn't do any of it to get something back. It was all to make your life a little easier. Knowing you were better off... That is what I wanted. I don't want you to feel obligated to return any favours. Never."
A small smile made it onto your face as you looked pensively at the floor. After all, Clark Kent has always been exactly what he said he was. Direct, honest, and true.
"I wanted it to be you," you whispered, and raised your eyes to look straight at him. "Only ever you." And he, like an oak tree pulled towards the sea, crossed the distance remaining between you and placed his lips on yours.
The Daily Planet was buzzing with activity and Lois Lane's pen was clicking at a rapid pace. Click. Click. You and Jimmy knew to avoid her right now. It was the day before the newest draft for the political upheaval was due, and Clark Kent was late to work.
"I swear I will kill Kent when he gets here," she said, "It's the third time this week."
And it was true. Clark was an odd mix of punctual and totally late. Most people who were late were late all the time, to everything. Clark was late at a fifty-fifty rate, which was worse; it could never be predictable.
It was also the week Clark was on intern orientation duty. At the Daily Planet, rather than being offshored to one journalist to show them the ropes, the interns were given one week with each of the seniors to absorb as much brilliance as possible before the reality of back-breaking intern work set in. Perry called it his 'welcome' present, an opportunity for micro-mentorship.
Clark's intern was a young graduate from the Metropolis university with the name tag "John". Tanned skin, hair slicked with gel, platform shoes. You saw him moving across the bullpen the whole day, never really sitting down for long. Clark's desk during the week of mentorship drowned in new papers, and you could only surmise that there was one new factor to it.
Finally you saw Clark's towering figure, moving in jerking motions towards his desk. You could see he was holding a cup of coffee in one hand, and a stack of papers clutched in the other, and his black bag slinging back and forth on his shoulder.
"Hello," said Clark, offering everyone a smile. It dimmed a little when his eyes fell on new paper stacks on his desk. You waved.
Lois hissed, menacing, "KENT!" Clark jolted.
"Y-Yes?"
"You just couldn't be on time the day of the deadline? You know every minute counts! We could have made so many edits already," Lois said, glaring at him, "It's my name on the paper, I can't have it be sloppy, you know this —"
Clark was nodding, his eyes lowered to the ground under the attack.
"I'm sorry, we can still do that..."
Lois sighed. "It's fine," she said, curt, "Just give me your latest draft." Clark nodded again, quicker, and shuffled the myriad papers in front of him. "It was somewhere here... One second..."
"Oh my God," said Lois. "Organization, Kent."
Finally Clark fished out a paper copy, crinkled from tugging, and gave it to Lois with a smile.
"Here you go."
Lois took the paper, and turned away on her heels, moving to her desk without a word.
Clark sighed a little, and you imagined a dog that didn't get a pat after a difficult trick.
You saw him leaning back a little, and opened you mouth in a warning before he hit a paper coffee cup.
"Shoot!"
Clark's coffee cup laid on its side, and a small puddle now formed on the floor, flecks of coffee disappearing into the dark fabric of Clark's suit. 'Can't catch a break,' you heard him whisper to himself.
"Hey, it's okay," you said. You helped him get more paper towels from the kitchen to mop up the liquid.
"Thank you," Clark said quietly. He wasn't really looking at you anymore, keeping his eyes away, kneeling on the floor at the site of disaster.
You nodded. It just wasn't a good day for him, you thought. Everyone had those. But just as you straightened out and returned to your desk, you saw John round the corner and heard him say:
"Mr. Kent, did you have a chance to look at the proofs from yesterday? I didn't want to make you want, I have more of those right —"
Then he yelped, stumbling on one of Clark's bent legs. You watched in horror as John fell on the floor, white papers like some reverse swans landing on top of the coffee pool remnants and the soaked paper towels and turning cygnet-brown.
John groaned while Clark helped him up. "I'll have them printed again," he said, and limped away. Clark looked at the mess and sighed. His shoulders drooped, and you could see the tension through his ill-fitting suit.
His eyes looked defeated, and you saw his lip wobbling.
At lunch, Cat swiped the last donut from the box in the kitchen right before Clark extended his hand. "Sorry, big guy," she said, "You'll let a lady have this, won't you?"
And at the time of deadline the whole office heard Perry yell "KENT!" from his office.
By the end of the work day, Clark's monitor was dimmed and his head was down at the desk, eyes closed, in his folded arms. Jimmy, bless him, patted his shoulder once in passing. But it wasn't enough. You saw that the gesture barely made a dent in how awful Clark felt.
You shuffled closer to him on your wheeling chair. It made a squeaky noise against the floor, and Clark raised his head just enough to look at you.
You put your hand on his shoulder, keeping it there. "It's going to be okay tomorrow," you said gently, "You should go home and eat something and sleep."
Clark shook his head. "Thanks, but..." He sighed, and the corners of his mouth turned down. "It's just..."
"What is it?" You spoke in a quiet, soft voice, like you would to a child, waiting for him to say it, trying to coax the problem out.
"I just want to be... I don't know, someone else sometimes. Not 'Kent' who can't do a thing right." His sad eyes rested on yours for a moment before dropping on his desk again.
You cooed a little, petting his shoulder still. "What about being Clark? And you do everything right, you know it. But nobody is immune to bad days." You offered him a small smile. "Everyone likes you."
Clark mumbled, his voice lighter:
"Everyone?"
You hummed. "Of course. You are so easy to like."
"And you?"
Your mouth twitched as you tried to suppress a giggle.
"Yes," you said, "me too."
Clark thought for a moment, and you waited for him to finally smile. Clark frowned.
"It doesn't seem that way."
You frowned a little at the notion:
"Why not?"
"Everyone calls me 'Kent'," said Clark, subdued now. "I've been just 'Kent' for years here. Lois is Lois, not Lane. And Jimmy even gets a nickname, beyond James. Jimmy." His voice got this rough quality to it, the hidden upset that was choking him. "And I can't believe I'm Mr. Kent now too. I feel old."
"Oh, no, sweetie," you said, taking his hand in yours and squeezing. "It's not like that." You thought Mr. Kent was a little funny applied to him. Clark shook his head.
"It is like that."
"No, honey..." you said, biting your lip, trying your best to assuage him. In fact, you had no idea why it was like that. "Would you like me to call you something else? Others will pick it up soon enough, I'm sure."
He bit his lip and mumbled, "Like what?"
"What about Clarkie?" You smoothed your thumb over his hand, a comical effort considering how his hand dwarfed yours. You moved a little closer. "Does that sound good?"
Clark blushed and looked into your eyes fully this time. You saw the vibrant, honest blue behind his glasses. "It doesn't sound off?"
"No," you said, smiling. "I think it is exactly how it should be."
He smiled, cheeks dimpling. You wanted to smother him. "If you say so..." He squeezed your hand back, and added, "Thank you. I... You'll really call me that?" His blush extended to his ears. "I'd like that."
You nodded with all the dedication you had for this cause. A man like him couldn't go on without a cute name.
He nodded back, mimicking you, and waiting.
"Clarkie," you said, soft.
His eyes melted at the sound, and you saw tension leave his frame. The day looked brighter once more.
Prompt: Clark Kent thinks it's the height that attracts you in men. You don't know where he got that idea from, but it somehow gets you both what you want.
a/n: a silly little blurb, no real plot
Clark Kent was a big man. Everyone in the Daily Planet office knew it as a fact, like Lois's immaculate glossy hair or Perry's scowl lines. You, however, felt the size of him in an acute, physical way every time he came over to your desk, which was close to his, often bringing coffee or advice or a kind word with him as well. You were average - but average seemed to be short in this office, and everyone could boast at least a few inches over you. Clark just felt like a mountain compared to others. Your breath would stutter when his broad frame swallowed yours in its shadow. You often wondered if Clark knew he could break you with a slight effort.
"Your last article was really good," he said, passing you the cup of fresh coffee. His ears turned red. "It was, uh, it was great... Not that your other articles were less... Of course I think they all are...." You watches as his mouth ran off into a mumbling disaster. Lois and Jimmy shared amused looks behind you.
Another instance was at that time between summer-fall and winter-fall when the air outside lost its warmth but city apartments and offices haven't started heating yet. The cold made you sluggish and sleepy, and it was all the worse because you were more susceptible to it. You were shivering in your cubicle when something warm and large descended onto you. Something that enveloped you in Clark's scent and residual body heat. His suit jacket.
"Clark! It's too cold, you'll freeze," you said, blushed from the gratitude. Your worried tone made his heart melt. You looked at him with big wet eyes, which always made Clark weak.
"I run hot," he said easily, with a reassuring smile, "And I'm wearing layers. You, however, should dress warmer," his brow furrowed when he surveyed your clothes again.
"I didn't think it would be that cold, " you whined a little, embarrassed, and burrowed into the gorgeously warm gift of the universe that was Clark's huge jacket. Your whole frame got swallowed by the dark fabric.
Clark swallowed. "I'll go then, yeah, I'll be right there if you need anything else." He fled to his cubicle with a bright blush blooming on his face. You could have asked him for anything and he swore he would consider it his lucky day if you did. You looked so cute, so darling all snuggled up in his jacket. He wished he could just scoop you up into his lap and gentle you into sleep. You'd fit so well--
"Earth to Clark," sang Jimmy to his left, grinning. Clark flinched. "You should ask her out if this is all if takes to send you to the stratosphere, my guy, " he laughed.
" It's not, " Clark said quickly, adjusting his glasses. "It's not like anything."
"Right, " said Jimmy, raising his eyebrows. "Well, if that's the case. I'll tell Ben from IT she's single, he's been itching to ask her out for months."
"She wouldn't be interested," Clark said, his mouth tightening, though Jimmy saw a hint of worry. It was really like baiting children with candy, he mused. And with Clark it was a hundred times more amusing.
"Why not? He's a decently tall guy..."
Clark frowned. "He's not."
Jimmy hummed, sensing the blood in the water. "Maybe not to you, but compared to the little sweetness over there? More than a head taller. Bet it would feel the same at that point, whatever the actual height."
"It would be different," Clark muttered, his eyes shifting to you, still wrapped up to your ears at your desk, fingers sticking out just barely to type on your keyboard. Jimmy followed his eyes and huffed.
"Suit yourself," he said and waved Clark off. But his words stuck. The pleasant buzz from giving you his jacket quietened. He needed to get you to see that his height was definitely the best for you. An advantage.
-
It has been a few days, and Clark has been acting strange. You thought you had imagined things at first, but when Lois raised her eyebrows at him, you saw that it wasn't only you who noticed something was off.
The mug, which was unofficially yours at the office, with a little lamb picture on it, was now always at the top shelf even when you remembered putting it on the bottom the day before. You only needed to glance at it, and there was Clark, behind you, reaching out to hand it to you.
If you went to interview a person, Clark's figure parted the crowds like they were the Red Sea before him. You only needed to follow.
At some point, when you were chatting in a circle of coworkers near the electric kettle, Clark was suspiciously straightening his spine every couple of minutes. You hadn't noticed it the first time, but the small motions finally caught your eye.
"Shoulder pain?" You asked when everyone dispersed and you were pouring the last of the water into your mug.
Clark blushed. "Oh, yeah, you know, with the job and all. Nothing serious."
You eyes him suspiciously. "No? I suppose it must hurt even more with your height. Bending down more." You held your mug by the handle, careful with the liquid inside, and walked slowly back to your desk. Clark followed you.
"It does, actually," he said hurriedly, "You're right. Maybe it's the desks. I never could pin point what it was."
You hummed. "You need a massage."
He choked on air.
"Ah-h, well, if it is..."
You sat down in your chair, Clark's shadow covering the whole cubicle. You smiled into your mug.
It was fun to tease him, the pure Kansas soul he was. You didn't know anyone in the city as innocent as he was sometimes. They brought them up different in the country.
You set down your mug and raised your eyebrows a little at him.
"What's been going on, Mr.Kent?" You called him that sometimes just to see him scrunch his nose. It was quite cute.
"Nothing," said Clark, averting his eyes, with a small sigh. "I, uh, better go, I guess." He turned around, already turning his slumped shoulders towards the desk awaiting him, when you caught his hand and stopped him.
You pouted.
"I wish you would tell me if I did something," you said in a low voice. Clark's eyes melted.
"Of course not, you could never..."
"Then what is it?" You stood up, still holding onto him, and tilting your head up to look at him. His lip wobbled and you were sure he was going to crack and tell you.
He shook his head. "Nothing, nothing, it was nothing," he blabbered until you took his second hand in yours too. You stood there holding hands like kids in primary school.
Clark's face got more red the more people walked past and gave you two looks, but didn't take his hands away. If anything, he moved even closer, shielding you from the sight with his large frame.
"Tell me," you coaxed in a soft voice.
"Jimmy said Ben from IT is tall enough for you," Clark said. He looked down at your hands, not daring to look up and see your expression.
You frowned. "What do you mean, 'tall enough'?"
"Tall enough for you to find attractive." Clark wanted the earth to swallow him. It seemed worse when he said it out loud.
You hummed, swinging your linked hands a little.
"I finds lots of things attractive."
Clark blushed at the insinuation. "You do?"
"Mhm," you said, "The height is a bonus." You shuffled closer to him to carry your point across.
"Golly," he said. Clark's brain had melted at your proximity. He could smell the faint soft smell of your shampoo - or was it perfume? - and it made his mouth water. He could see himself burying his nose in your hair every morning to remind himself you are there, could see himself becoming so attuned to your that he could pick out that smell a city away...
"Clark," you said, amused. He was just standing there, eyes glazed over. You stood on your toe-tips, reaching as far as you could, and pecked his cheek with a little kiss. Somewhere in the distance Jimmy choked on a donut.
Clark's eyes widened.
"Again."
"No," you said, smug.
"Again." His voice got lower, and a delicious shiver ran down your back at the sound. Despite it, you forced yourself to put up an unconcerned face and smiled.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
You saw a wrinkle on Clark's forehead, but it smoothed over quickly. He pulled you away from the office, towards an empty corridor of the Daily Planet. Once he was sure there was nobody around, and you were standing in the quiet, dusty nook of the building, Clark set his hands on your waist and raised you up in the air. You squeaked, arms and legs wrapping around him for purchase, while he crowded you towards the wall until your back felt the smooth cold surface of it.
Your head whirled at the difference with your usual scope of view.
"Can Ben do this for you?" said Clark, and you could almost feel the petulant note in his voice still. It made you giggle.
"You are obsessed," you said, looking into his eyes, blue, brilliant. He smelled like sandalwood. "I never said a certain height was a dealbreaker for me."
"Jimmy said.."
"Jimmy wanted to tease you," you said, and pecked Clark's pouting lips.
"But my height is still better."
You laughed. Sometimes Clark Kent could be like a dog with a bone if something stuck in his mind.
"Yes, darling, your height is better." You closed the distance between your faces until your breaths mingled but no further. "Are you satisfied?"
A grin cleared his face like a sun on a cloudy day. "Not yet," he said, and breached the last few inches between you, kissing you fervently, impatiently now after your teasing.
He let you breathe after a moment. "Now, what was it you said? You find lots of things attractive?" Clark smiled with a mischievous look on his face, holding you captive in his arms.
"You will tell me, one by one." He pressed a quick kiss on your neck, seemingly unable to stay away for a full minute.
"We can expand that list even more. Exclude all other possibilities."
Pairing: Niki Lauda x f!reader
Prompt: You are a new personal assistant hired to keep James Hunt punctual and sober enough to do interviews. Niki can't take his eyes off of you.
Job hunting was exhausting. You were recently laid off since your temporary contract expired. It was your first job after college, completely unrelated to what you studied, and you took it only to pay the bills. Still, even if you didn't feel particularly inspired by the drab office and the fat man who was your primary supervisor, you did your job well and earned respect as an excellent personal assistant.
The only call back you received was from the McLaren car company who needed a new office assistant for a year of someone's maternity leave. You took it, of course. Not that you knew anything about cars. It didn't matter, really, what the job was about. You would just make schedules and run about with coffee.
This is how you got put as an emergency personal assistant to the newly contracted James Hunt, whose previous personal assistant left in a fury the week before the race.
"And who is this little darling?" James looked down on you with a flirty smile when the manager introduced you.
"That's your new personal assistant," his manager said dryly. "If I hear anything about a harassment lawsuit, your ass is mine."
James raised his hands in mock surrender and winked at you. You looked helplessly at him, unsure how you were supposed to make this man do anything.
"Ah, um, it's nice to meet you," you said softly, looking at him with a small smile. He huffed, muttering something. You tilted your head.
"It's nothing," he sighed, "Just, I don't know, be around or something. Tell me what I have coming up in the day, things like that. Just for a week, isn't it? Don't worry about it."
You nodded, lowering your eyes a bit. Didn't seem like he needed your help much.
Still, you wanted to do your job well and followed him around with a perpetual bottle of water and a scheduling board.
"Mr. Hunt, you have a press conference at one today," you said, arriving freshly next morning with a bottle of ice-cold water. "Do you drink coffee? I didn't know, so I brought water."
"Sweety, anything out of your hands," he said, smiling at you. It seemed he was in a better mood. You blushed a little.
"Okay, Mr. Hunt."
For the next few days you were stationed at the McLaren camp, mostly because James was there, going over last details with their mechanics and everything about the care. You tried to keep out of everyone's way by positioning yourself in a tiny corner, flinching every time from a loud burr of the drill or the welding equipment or whatever they were using on those cars. That is, until a heavy arm descended upon your shoulders.
"Unused to the noise, are you? Let's get you out of here, darlin'," James said, leading you towards the entrance of the mechanic shop. "We'll just take a walk."
You nodded, eager to get away. James is a good person, you thought. No matter his reputation, but he tried to do right by his team, of which you were now part of.
You walked for a while, with James mostly talking about some wild story from bar hopping the week prior, when he trailed off and you saw a full, mischievous grin grow on his face.
"Oh, darlin', why don't we go say hello to our friends from the Ferrari club over there?" He practically lifted you up with the force of his excitement and you barely nodded before being dragged to the Ferrari camp where James made a direct line towards Niki Lauda.
"Niki!"
You watched the curly haired man's head lift from whatever drafts he was looking at. You felt your face heat. Most people considered James the most attractive racer, you knew, but this man in front of you, with such serious eyes and confident air, made your breath stop briefly.
James dragged you until you were practically at arms length to Niki, and you could see how long his eyelashes were. Niki's eyes shifted from James, whose large, blond, loud presence drew the eye, and fell upon you, basically smothered under James's arm.
"That's my new personal assistant," James boasted, pushing you a bit forward, like he was showing off a shiny car. "Now don't go being all mean like always, this one is as shy as a kitten." Niki's eyes met yours and you lost your thoughts for a short, empty moment. Niki's face turned a bit rosy. Oho, thought James.
Niki nodded at you. "Nice to meet you." I nodded back, smiling a little to be polite. He was handsome, but it seemed like he wasn't really interested.
"Well, you'll be seeing her more often now," James said with a wide smile, "I'll be bringing her with me everywhere like a good luck charm. To every race," he said meaningfully. Niki turned his head away from him.
"You'd need a charm, at this rate," Niki said, prompting James to roll his eyes. Niki stole a glance at you and looked away again.
"And you," he said, clearly addressing you without even looking, "I suppose there is no harm to his image left to be done. You're safe."
That made you smile. "Thank you, Mr. Lauda."
"Niki is fine," he said.
That was how your work with James Hunt started. Typically a day involved various engagements for his sponsorships, and you would fetch coffee or water when needed, and book hotels, things which made his life easier. It also meant that wherever James went, you went, and he often went to Niki.
Mr. Lauda was a very straightforward person. He was blunt, but you saw that everything he said was true. It was annoying to his mechanics and opponents, but you thought it was a great quality to have. He would never lie maliciously, or cheat, or sabotage anyone. He was a good person, you realized.
It was too bad you didn't seem to amount to much in his eyes. He almost never talked to you. James, however, insisted that it was the opposite.
"Niki likes you, trust me," James said, "He even let you touch his car!"
You looked at James sceptically. "It was because he knew I didn't know anything about cars. Couldn't do any harm to it."
James threw his arms in the air. "You don't get it. The car!"
You looked at James with scepticism. He rolled his eyes. "Unbelievable."
-
A few days before the race there was a press conference. James was good at this sort of thing, talking to people. You easier with every funny joke he made for the reporters, and your attention drifted to Niki. He made clipped replies, furrowing his brows at times.
"Niki, are you confident you will win?"
"Are you nervous for the race, Niki?"
You heard a fire of questions open as soon as he finished answering just one. Soon you can tell Niki has had it, with questions getting progressively more rude by the minute, and you could almost predict the moment he would stop the conference.
He waved his hand at them, signalling that the conference is over, and stepped out from the table. He saw you standing behind James and motioned to follow him.
Once you were out of the interview room, Niki turned to you.
"There is a party after this, I'm sure. James won't miss the opportunity. Are you going?"
You shook your head. "No, it's all a bit too loud for me. I spend a lot of time in the noise of the paddock either way, so..."
"I see," said Niki, "Then come with me to dinner." His eyes roamed your face. His eyelashes were long, you thought. Pretty.
"You won't go to the party?"
"And do what? Drink, talk to those assholes?"
You smiled. "Okay. Let's skip the party and go somewhere nice. Any suggestions?"
There was a small smile on Niki's face. "I'll drive."
-
The restaurant was a quiet, hidden spot somewhere in the tight brick-laid alleys of the city, illuminated by the lanterns beside it. The waiter led Niki and you into a booth with soft leather seats.
Niki's features grew warm in the light of the muted dimmed room. He looked at the menu and then at you, asking if you've decided on what you'd like. You nodded and he ordered for the both of you.
"What made you want to work with the McLaren?" Niki asked, in his usual blunt way, though his eyes conveyed more curiosity than you've seen before in him, "You don't seem like a car girl."
"I'm not," you said, and hastily added, "Sorry." You looked down for a moment. "I really needed the money, and they were hiring, and I was just applying for everything under the sun back then without a single call back... So it was a real chance for me." You watched his expression for disappointment, but his face barely moved a muscle.
He nodded briefly, in that Austrian curt manner you liked. "The reality of having to make a living. What would you rather do?" He looked at your embarrassed blush and raised his eyebrow.
"I think I might have gone to illustration school," you said quietly, "Not that I have any talent, but, you know. Some school, to build a portfolio, and then something. An illustrator job. Making pictures of cute animals for children's books." Niki's eyes softened.
"You should do that."
"I don't have any skill or talent," you said, laughing it off. "Not like you and racing."
Niki looked at you a moment longer. "I have ability," he said, "But there were many who had it also. I just had the last name banks knew enough of to keep giving me loans to start my career in F1. I didn't do anything else with my time. Just this."
At that moment, the food arrived. Steak course for him, pheasant with vegetables for you, and red wine for the both of you. He looked at you, eyes full of meaning. You let out a breath.
"Niki..."
"What?"
"I will have no money to survive on my own, will have to start from zero skills, and there would be thousands of artists better than me vying for the job." You cut down the pheasant breast right across the grain, dipping it in creamy sauce, chef's specialty.
"So the money is the biggest issue, is it not? You worry you would have no roof over your head and no food." Niki paused, and set his knife and fork on the plate. "Have you tried finding a lover?"
You almost choked on the piece of fowl. "Niki, I could not ask someone just fund my whole life."
He shrugged. "Why not? You are a beautiful woman. All that the men want."
You watched your static vegetables with the interest of a cat. "I don't know. It doesn't happen like that."
There was a longer silence between Niki and you, and you asked him about his hobbies outside of racing to switch to a less depressing topic. You didn't want that to be his impression of you. Niki huffed, but talked about taking flying lessons at the academy nearby, hoping to get a pilot's license so he could fly without an instructor.
"Do you like working for James?" Niki asked when you were digging into the chocolate cake with a tiny silver spoon.
"It's good," you said, "He's very extraverted. I can see he's a good person. Doesn't yell at me or anything. Though maybe it's because I'm a woman - his mechanics get some of the brunt of it sometimes."
Niki nodded, as if he already knew. "Good." He motioned for the waiter and paid the bill for the both of you without asking, making you blush at the gesture. It felt old-fashioned, but inexplicably you felt taken care of.
He drove you to the apartment complex you directed him to, in the nice part of town you picked to be close to the job, but in an old apartment which looked dark and uninviting. Niki slowed in front of it, and frowned. "You live here? Alone?" You nodded and endured the brief concern in his expression. "It was the best choice. At least the neighbourhood is not that bad," you tried to smile. Niki looked at you, and you were struck by the intense feeling in his hawk-like eyes.
Then he sighed as if nothing happened. "It was a nice evening," he said. "I would like to do another."
Your face brightened into a rosy pleasure at that. "Me too," you said, in a near whisper. You took one last look at him, and got out of the car, walking towards the entrance to the building, until you stepped inside the lobby and heard the sound of tires move.
-
The McLaren paddock was abuzz again. You walked in, noticing the workers and James all standing around something. Another piece of equipment, probably, you thought, and moved to your single little desk in the corner. James noticed you and cawed, "Darling, your secret admirer sent you some new stuff!"
Your eyes widened, blush filling your cheeks at a fast rate, making James grin in glee. "What, you won't come to see what it is?"
You moved towards the circle and when you got closer, you saw an open courier box. You chuffed; the boys probably thought it was oil or one of the car parts and opened it. Inside the cardboard box was a rather large, state-of-the-art drawing tablet, "Wacom" running along the edges of the packaging. Your breath stuttered, and you touched the pristine package with your fingertips. You noticed a small envelope sticking to the side of it and fished it out to open. You ripped the paper open at the side and pulled out a sheet of paper.
Thank you for registering for ILLU1001. Please see the class time schedule below for Section 2. Note that the final project deadline...
You looked at the words like they made you dumb. You felt James's lanky frame lean over your shoulder to read it for himself. He whistled.
"Taking classes? Shit, did they check your age when they hired you?"
You batted him away like a fly and he laughed.
"Is the Registrar's Office full of red, perhaps?" He asked, eyes glinting knowingly. You averted your eyes.
"Let's see," He put a finger to his chin, and you knew he was trying to be as annoying about it as possible. "First the flowers, then a bag," he looked meaningfully at the tote you carried everywhere now, "And now this. All anonymous, of course." He winked at you and mouthed 'of course' in an exaggerated whisper. You rolled your eyes. "Nothing to do with anyone in F1, right?"
"I don't think it's what you think it is, James," you sighed, setting down the registration slip. "I told him how much I wanted to do this, and maybe he felt pity or something, I don't know."
James looked at you, affronted. "Honeycakes, you might explain this new box like that, but men don't gift flowers and bags to women they pity. No, no, the feeling is called a bit different. Niki's smitten with you."
You hid your face in your hands. "Don't say that!"
"Why not? It's clear as day. A man like that takes his mind away from racing... sets it on a pretty thing like you..."
You shook your head. "There is Marlene."
"Ah, Marlene," James said, setting his arm around your shoulder and leaning to tell you conspiratorially, "Dear Marlene's ex-boyfriend, that actor what's-his-name, came back begging for a second chance. Lots of roses, from what I hear. Niki is unattached, though he says he is 'focused on the next race'. I can see where he is focused, " James shot a look at the box.
"He hasn't said anything," you said, chewing your lip, "I don't want to misinterpret..."
James rolled his eyes and groaned. "Oh, for... Fine, fine, don't say I didn't try," he said, and walked off to one of the mechanics working on suspension. You looked at his back and shook your head, but his words made something in you flutter with excitement.
The gifts that started appearing at the McLaren paddock and at your apartment's concierge booth were a surprise after that not-date at the restaurant. What concerned you was that they were going up in value with each gift. You appreciated all of them, loved them really, but you didn't want Niki to think you were a gold digger.
The work day, aside from the box, was uneventful. Just more clanking metal noises, some menacing words with James when he wanted to go bar hopping citing happy hour, some more meetings with sponsors who wanted to see the McLaren superstar for themselves.
You walked towards your apartment building exhausted by the demands of the job. It was the perfect environment for extraverts, you thought. People, noise, speed.
You stopped. There was an expensive car parked in the front, with a fire you knew leaning on it.
"Niki," you breathed out, smiling. He looked up from the book he was occupying himself with to meet your eyes and his features smoothed over into a brief softness. "What are you doing here?'
"I was waiting for you. Get in," he said, eyes focused on your face, and opened the passenger side, waiting. You tilted your head and came closer.
"Really? Where are we going?" This close you noticed that Niki was much taller than you. He wasn't as tall as James, but you nevertheless felt even safer around him. Maybe it was that he was smarter. The scent of sandalwood and motor oil clung to him.
"You'll see." Niki sat behind the wheel and started the car.
You drove through the streets until you started recognizing the more upscale areas where James and Niki lived. All of you rented, of course, races pulling you out of your home cities. F1 is a different league in many aspects, you thought when you saw the gates.
"Are we going to your place?" You asked Niki.
"Something like that," he said, driving in smooth turns through the meandering pavement that ran through the woodsy area dotted with separate lodgings. "You'll see."
He stopped the car in front of the rather large house in a traditional style, not nearly as ostentatious like some of the others you've seen during the drive, but you could still feel the money in it. Old money. It had an entrance door painted warm red and a white porch. Niki got out of the car and opened the door for you to follow.
He pulled out the keys out of his pocket. You waited for him to put them into the keyhole and open the door, but he turned to you with the keys in his clenched hand. He took your hand in his other one and you felt the moisture from it.
"I thought I should just let you see for yourself. I have a free room, and it's just me in the house. You can stop paying whatever you pay for your rent, and come live here for free." Niki was serious when he looked into your eyes. You looked back uncertainly.
"I don't want to leech..." You started, but he held out a palm and you trailed off.
"You are nothing of the sort. In fact, it is more like shoving a pill down a cat's throat and having to massage its throat to make it go down." Niki used the keys and opened the door, guiding you inside with his hand on your lower back. "You realize that most people have someone help them start out, yes? Parents who buy them a beat up car, that kind of thing. Something. It is nothing less than what you should have."
His eyes stayed locked on your face, tracking the confusion and shame fleeting through. You stayed silent for a while, and then whispered, "Why did you do it for me? I'm just James's assistant."
He frowned. "You are James's assistant. But there is nothing 'just' about you." He took your face in one hand, pinching your cheeks together, making your face ridiculous. "You know what to do with your life. Why wouldn't I invest?" He let his thumb rub your heated cheekbone.
"Say you accept."
Your eyelashes fluttered and you leaned into the calloused hand holding your cheeks. "You won't regret it? What if it amounts to nothing?"
"I won't. Even if you decide not to draw another piece of art ever again after the course is finished, I won't regret it."
You thought your heart beat stronger in your chest. You could almost feel the beats of it against your breastbone.
"I accept," you said in a whisper, looking into Niki's eyes.
He smiled.
-
You were living with him for a couple of months already. It was surprisingly easy to get used to each other's presence, to the rhythm of routines orbiting one another's. At first James made a whole spiel about fraternizing with the enemy, but after a while he had acquired the habit of dropping in at all times of day to 'check out the rat kingdom', as he put it.
The racing season was ending. Soon Niki would return to Vienna, you'd be forced to move out and find something else, and all will go back to how it was before. The thought of it often kept you up at night and showed itself in the dark circles under your eyes.
You took to sitting in the living room and watching Niki move around. He was making coffee on his day off, swirling the teaspoon to dissolve the sugar, when he spoke.
"What's wrong?"
"What do you mean?" you said softly.
"You've been more...sad, lately," he said, and stopped the swirling motion. The teaspoon clinked against the rim. "What is it about? And don't lie."
You exhaled.
"I keep thinking of when this ends," you said, your eyes lowering, unable to look at him. Niki was pragmatic, you knew that, and maybe the thought didn't bother him as much. It was a logical conclusion. He has already done more than anyone else ever did to help you.
Niki frowned and came closer. He continued to stand even when you shifted on the sofa.
"When this ends."
You nodded. "When you move to Vienna."
"What will change?" He looked perplexed.
You blinked, now unsure of the direction of the conversation which seemed so clear to you. "You'll go to Vienna. I'll have to move back to my country. This," you gestured over the room in a swoop, "this will stop."
Niki had a small smile on his face now. You frowned at the sight of it.
"You are unbelievable," a breathy chuckle escaped him, "Oblivious."
"What?"
Niki came closer, until he was standing right next to you, and tilted your head up.
"James told me it wasn't enough to move you in for you to get a clue," he said conversationally, but you could see his pupils expand and turn his brown eyes black. "I see now he was right." And then he leaned down until his nose touched yours. "It was obvious to the whole F1 what my feelings towards you were. Tell me, darling, are you going to Vienna with me?"
A small whine escaped you, eyes watering. "With you? Together?"
Niki's eyes turned mirthful. "Yes, sweet thing, together." He kissed you. "Like this," he murmured, looking at your lips, "If you haven't realized yet."
You finally smiled. "I want to."
"Good. James will have to find a new assistant, of course," Niki said, grinning, "And it's unlikely he'll find anyone quite as pretty as you. Another loss for McLaren, but they should be used to it by now."
You laughed. "Is this when you say you won a prize again?"
His smile softened and he gathered you into his arms, holding you to his chest. "More than a prize, darling. A lifetime of prizes will not compare." Niki leaned to whisper into your ear, his hold on you firm, "Nothing will compare also when people would scream 'Lauda' at the races, and you will turn thinking they meant you."
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