c h a p t e r t w o c r u e l i n t e n t i o n s
PAIRING steve harrington x fem! henderson! reader
SUMMARY in which you're fresh out of a couple year long mental breakdown & trying to gain control over your life again. after realizing life has in fact not gotten better, you apply as a secretary for attorney steve harrington. he's demanding and quite frankly; a jerk. what starts as heated tension, shifts into feelings of choice & trust when walking into his office. it’s never felt so good to be perverse.
WARNINGS 90s timeline, mean asshole toxic slut steve you've been warned, reader letting people walk over her (please trust me on plot reasons and that girl will be getting character development in later chapters along with steve), steve is sexually frustrated, reader with agoraphobia & social anxiety, sexual tension, unprofessional workplace dynamics, adult language, smut will start next chapter
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Something you learned about Steven A. Harrington was that he liked his coffee made a specific way. Which is also how you learned the man had a sweet tooth.
For someone so serious, it surprised you when he had insisted three packets of sugar and ‘more creamer’ when you had given him his first cup on the day you had started working. You would find yourself fighting the twitch at the corner of your lip every morning you had started up the coffee machine.
Besides learning his taste preferences, you knew nothing about him from the few interactions you had shared with him. When working, you were stuck at your desk typing up papers on a typewriter (Mr. Harrington said the computers worked slowly in the building, but you weren’t sure if that was entirely true), filing and scanning papers, or answering incoming phone calls.
Sometimes you overheard him on the phone while he was in his office with the door shut. Other times he’d call your name, enlisting new tasks for you.
It wasn’t so bad, just boring.
You adapted to your new life slowly but surely during your first month. Claudia had been ecstatic, pulling you in for a crushing hug as she pressed millions of kisses over your cheeks. Despite your outburst, you knew you would always have your mother’s unconditional love. Dustin of course had talked to you as he usually did with playfulness, but he had been more distant lately, and you knew the reason wasn’t because of schoolwork. Before you packed up a left to Indianapolis, you had stood in the doorway to his room while he had sat at his desk distracted with some science experiment. You had almost said something, yet you left instead without a word.
Indianapolis was more crowded than Hawkins for sure that you had concluded that you set yourself up for your worst nightmare. You had stayed in a hotel the first week while your apartment you had newly signed a lease for, was getting ready. The first week, you drove to work and avoided eye contact with people as much as you could on your way there and back. It wasn’t until you had settled into the apartment the next week that you had started walking to work to force yourself into getting used to seeing other people and the world around you. The very idea of being perceived terrified you, but you moved here for a reason. Getting stuck in the same cycle would do no good.
"Miss Henderson, could you come here?"
Startled, the pen you were using to doodle slipped from your fingers. Finally, there was something to do at least. The past hour had dragged on endlessly with no calls, no papers, nothing but the sound of the clock ticking and your own thoughts.
"Coming!" You called, pushing your chair back.
When you step into his office, Mr. Harrington doesn’t pay you no mind from where he stands in the corner, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hands carefully watering the orchids in the terrarium. He looked lost in another world, inspecting the green of the flowers roots with gentle care before soaking in the soil.
His hands are big and veiny, fingers long and thick. Nibbling at your bottom lip, you stare at them. You'd seen plenty of nice hands before in your life, but Mr. Harrington just so happened to have one of the nicest ones you'd seen. Would he touch a woman the same way he does so delicately with his orchids?
You could picture it now, rough fingertips gliding along the navel of a stomach. Would he be surprisingly sweet in bed or would he be cold like he is in the office when shoving them deep in-
"Miss Henderson, are you just going to stand there or are you coming in?"
Your ears begin to burn, "Yeah, sorry." Walking in, you quickly change the conversation. "What’re you doing?"
Mr. Harrington deadpans before turning away. "What does it look like I’m doing."
Now you just feel stupid. "Um…gardening."
A long uncomfortable pause stretched between you. You can't help your curiosity of the man, but also it was probably basic protocol to not know personal details of your boss.
He adjusts the watering can. "I guess," A small shrug followed. "I’m not really a gardener though. This just keeps my hands busy plus makes my office look nicer. Having routine is a good habit to have when your head gets all scrambled.”
"Oh," You shift your weight, considering. That made sense, honestly, you saw Steven Harrington as a man who was stuck up, not some guy who took care of something so delicate. "what are you then?"
Mr. Harrington finally turns to face you fully and squints at you, setting the watering can aside on a nearby surface. He huffs, "Didn’t I call you in for something else? I don't understand the point of all this talk coming from you."
"Right." He exhales, gesturing a hand towards his desk full of countless unorganized papers. What a messy man. "Anyways, go type up those documents in the folder I left, would ya? I need it done by one before I have to send it out."
"Of course." You nod quickly. Stepping forward, you reach out to grab a folder.
He sighs. "Not that one, the other one."
"Oh, sorry." You chuckle shyly, putting the folder back. He doesn’t smile back.
Your fingers hover over the countless papers and you suddenly feel unsure. Everything looked the exact same, not to mention that it looked like an E5 tornado hit his damn office and only took out his desk. He didn't even give you the specifics.
You make a wild guess, grabbing another nearly identical folder.
"What one?" You ask in exasperation. This man was beginning to drive you up the wall.
"That. one." He says between gritted teeth. "The one by my coffee mug."
Brain foggy and overwhelmed, you grab another hopelessly, feeling as if your life was on the line. "This one?"
Mr. Harrington groans in disbelief. "The other one- No-"
The shrill ring of the phone blares, turning both your heads at the source of the noise. "Jesus fuckin' christ." He scoffs, shaking his head as he stalks over.
Snatching the receiver off the hook, he hands you the correct folder, scowling. 'Go.' He mouthed sharply.
You gulp, taking the documents weakly. On the way out, you make sure to slip out as quietly as you can, closing the door behind you carefully.
"Steven Harrington speaking…yes, yes, I was—" You don't bother to listen to the rest for your own good.
Dropping into your chair, you flip the folder open. Immediately, your stomach dropped. This was in fact not a document, at least not the kind you had gotten used to.
Instead of neat structured paragraphs, the pages are filled with handwriting that is slanted, the margins packed with annotations. Numbers are circled, underlined, and crossed out. On the corner, is a sticky note that reads, 'Retype letter.'
"…You've got to be kidding me."
You glance toward his office, half expecting him to reappear and tell you that you grabbed the wrong one. To no surprise, he didn't. Instead, his voice continues to carry on faintly through the wood, calm and professional as if he hadn't just been about to crucify you over papers seconds ago.
Looking down at the horrific mess, your shoulders drop in defeat and you pull the typewriter closer.
It feels like hours of your fingertips clacking against the metal keys engraved with letters and numbers. To keep it short: You feel fucking exhausted. A part of you feels like you shouldn't complain about such an easy job, but was it really that easy with Mr. Harrington as a boss? If anything, you should be given an award for putting up with the man, you doubt anyone else could be able to do it.
The flush of the toilet echoes from the restroom along with the water running from the faucet. Paper towels are ripped before the door pushes open and out walks a woman with dirty blonde hair cut into a bob. She was on the taller side, only a little bit shorter than Mr. Harrington, dressed in black dress pants, a blazer with its sleeves rolled to her elbows, loafers, and a green plaid button up with a tie to compliment.
Your eyes follow her as she whistles, walking with a sort of awkward demeanor that made you feel somewhat not alone. The woman halts, blue eyes locking on to yours. You swear you stop breathing, already wanting to crawl into a hole for getting caught being a no good nosy secretary.
To your surprise, she smiles, casually pointing a finger. "Hey, you're Steve's new secretary, right?"
You blink, mouth agape dumbly. You snap out of it before you look like a creep. "Oh! Yeah, yeah, yeah. That's me."
"Seriously?" Her eyebrows raise and she begins to walk over to your desk. No, no, please don't do that. Don't start conversation- "When did you start?" Too late.
"I started last month," Your voice cracks and you want to slam your forehead against the typewriter.
"Ooo gotchu," She nods. You note the bit of smudged eyeliner and mascara adorning her eyes. You can't help but think she's the coolest girl you've ever seen. "I was out of town the whole month, so makes sense why we haven't bumped in to each other yet."
"Where'd you go?" This shit isn't your business.
"Hawkins." She blows a puff of air. "It's ass there, but I wan
'Think, think, think, Henderson. Try and talk like a normal person.' "I'm from there too. Trust me, I'm not the biggest fan either…"
"No way, really?" She lit up. "Man, I guess we're both survivors, huh?"
You nod hesitantly before you change the subject. "I haven't seen you around before, do you work here too? Or are you one of Mr. Harrington's appointments for today?"
"Shit, what's wrong with me." She gives you her hand and you shakily take it. "Robin. I'm an old friend of Steve's, but also unfortunately the poor soul who has to work as his paralegal."
"Paralegal?" You feel stupid for working in a law office yet not being aware of the different branches of work besides the basics.
"Basically, I assist him through the tedious crap like looking into any cases brought to him or organizing any evidence. Just can't give any legal advice or represent anyone." She sighs.
You wonder how Robin knows Mr. Harrington asides from work to be on first name basis with the man, nonetheless, talk so casually. The thought of Mr. Harrington laughing over drinks with a friend is a confusing one. The only time you have seen him laugh this past month was when you tripped over the copy machine's wires. "That…sounds like a lot of work."
Robin shrugs. "It is, but on the bright side I make decent money."
"Do you plan on furthering into law? No offense! Nothing wrong with being a paralegal, I'm not seeing you less than attorneys or anything- " You rambled, but the sound of Robin laughing cuts you off.
"None taken. It's okay, socializing isn't the easiest for me either." You suddenly feel very hot at the fact she read you like a book. "Oh yeah, anyways. I plan on returning to law school, finishing some things up, then bam. Lawyer."
"Well, good luck." "I believe in you. Um. Even though I don't know you."
Robin laughs, "Thanks…" Her eyes scrunch up, reading your tag on your desk. "Henderson."
Robin rolls her eyes, glancing down at the watch on her wrist. "Damn it, I gotta split."
"No worries, I don't wanna take up more of your time."
"Trust me, you didn't waste a second of it." She winks. "I'll see you around!"
You half raise a hand in goodbye as you watch her leave. "See you…"
You hope you'll be seeing a lot more of Robin around.
By the time you make it back to your apartment, your feet ache so badly that you almost consider tossing your heels out the window.
Your tiny apartment that you now call home greets you with silence and the smell of the heater hanging in the air. You’ll make sure to light up a candle in the meantime.
The walls are bare except for the calendar hanging beside the kitchen and the stacks of unpacked boxes shoved near the couch that you keep pretending you’ll eventually get around to.
You reach the flick the kitchen light on and it buzzes twice before it comes to life.
Opening the refrigerator, you’re met with nothing. Looks like you’ll have to settle for a cup on instant ramen tonight and a plan to the grocery store this weekend. You groan and drop your head against the fridge door. Maybe death wouldn’t be so bad.
After changing into an oversized shirt with only your panties on underneath, you shuffle back into the kitchen to fill up a cup of noodles with water and place it into the microwave. It hums loudly as you lean against the counter and wait patiently.
Outside the apartment window, Indianapolis seems pretty busy tonight, considering you live near downtown close to popular nightlife spots. Music thumps nearby along with the laughter of people.
Everything was so unfamiliar here, you still weren’t used to it. The smallest part of you even missed Hawkins small town life.
The shrill ring of the phone cuts through the silence, making you groan, "Jesus."
You pad over to the cordless phone and answer, "Hello?"
"Honey!" The sound of your mother’s voice immediately makes your shoulders loosen.
"Hi mom." You smile. "I've been meaning to call. Swear."
"Oh, none of that. I understand how busy you've been an everything with your new life and all." You can practically hear the frown in her voice. "You sound tired, everything okay, hun?"
"Sorry, it’s just been a long day." You sigh, walking back to the kitchen to keep an eye on your dinner.
"This is good for you. Good to be tired!" She encourages.
You laugh, tucking the phone between your chin and shoulder once the microwave beeps. "Yeah, yeah. I know."
"Sooo," Claudia drawls. "How’ve ya been? You liking your apartment alright? Have you settled in?"
You look over your shoulder at the pile of laundry abandoned on the armchair. "It's something…"
"No, no," You say as you make your way to the couch with your cup of ramen, curling your legs beneath yourself and turning the tv on with the remote. "It’s just louder here, like, all the time. There just always people outside somewhere doing something."
She chuckles, "Well, honey, that’s what happens when you move somewhere bigger than Hawkins. It must be a shock."
"Anyways, how’s your new job?" She presses eagerly. "The fancy law office."
Your nose wrinkles, but you find yourself smiling. "It’s not fancy, mom. It’s only me and my employer there when his paralegal isn’t."
"Oh whatever. What does your boss have you doing all day? Any cool secretary things?" Claudia continues with a hum. "Are you answering phones? Filing papers? Wearing little business skirts?"
You choke on a noodle. "Mom!"
"What?" Claudia says innocently. "The secretaries in the movies always wear cute little outfits."
"Yeah, well movies lie ya know."
"Not true!" She denies. "What’s that boss of yours like? You haven’t told me besides him being…what twenty eight?"
You sink deeper into the couch cushions, shoveling more noodles into your mouth. You didn’t know how to describe Steven Harrington in a way that accurately summed him up. Arrogant, cold, observant, and annoyingly attractive.
"He’s a lot, I guess." You settle on.
The other line goes quiet until your mother bursts out laughing, "Oh dear god. That tells me everything I need to know."
"It’s not funny," You grumble, fighting the twitch at the corner of your mouth.
"Aw, honey." She clicks her tongue. "It’s okay, this isn’t forever. You won’t have to deal with his control issues eventually. You’ll be back in the studio painting again."
The mention of painting creates a knot in your chest. Twisting and pulling a piece of hair nervously, you change the subject, "…How’s Dustin?"
You know you caught her off guard because she takes a moment to answer. "He’s alright."
"I know, I know." You squeeze your eyes shut, the words spilling from your mouth. "I know he seemed fine when I left and everything was ‘good,’ but I just know it’s not no matter how hard he tries to play it off. I was a bitch—"
"—before I left. Textbook definition of awful. Then I just packed my things and moved two hours away."
"Hun, you didn’t disappear. You’re just learning to adapt to life again along with finding new experiences. I’m sure he knows that."
You stare down at your bowl and place it on the coffee table, pushing it away. Your appetite was suddenly gone.
The image of Dustin’s hurt expression when you yelled at him hadn’t left your head since. Destroying good things was all that you were good at.
"Look," Claudia starts again. "Dustin is still a kid in a lot of ways and you’re his big sister. He most likely is stuck a bit hurt, but it’s nothing you can’t fix."
Your chest tightens painfully and you feel nauseous.
"You should call him. Not tomorrow, not next week. Just call him, okay?"
You can't find the right words after a couple seconds, so you merely say, "Okay."
Your eyelids are heavy as you do your typical daily task of typing on the wretched typewriter. This morning had started rough when you slept through your alarm. By the time you had raced out of bed, you had thirty minutes before clock in. You almost walked out the door with your heels on the wrong feet. Luckily enough, Mr. Harrington didn't have the energy to lecture you today. Instead, he settled for an eyeroll and handed over files.
You hadn't slept well last night due to your guilty conscious reminding you, you were an awful older sister every time sleep almost overtook you. You would properly talk through things with Dustin when you found the time, you wouldn't push this off any more like a coward.
Poor Dustin. He deserved better than dealing with your bullshit.
The sharp ding of the margin bell makes you sigh in relief. You were finally done with this stupid twenty page letter, all that was left was to make copies in the copy room.
Opening the lid to the scanner, you slide the papers in, facing them upside down. You rinse and repeat. You cross your arms over your chest, blowing a puff of air in boredom as you wait to replace the current paper scanning. You couldn't wait to go home and crash on the couch with a tub of ice cream while watching tonight's new episode of Twin Peaks.
"Andrea, I'm not having this conversation with you again."
"I told you to stop calling me—" He hissed. "No, you cannot come down here. What's wrong with you?"
Who was Mr. Harrington talking to? His wife maybe? You don't recall ever seeing a ring on his finger, plus you can't imagine someone finding him likeable enough to spend more than ten minutes with him. How bizarre would that be.
"Fuckin' hell," He curses. "because I'm working. I don't exactly have the time to deal with your whining. Do you not have anything better to do that I'm always the center of your attention?"
You can't make out the muffled words crackling from the other line besides that her voice was wobbly and high pitched.
"Enough. Don't call again, Andrea—"
You know it's not really your business but you find yourself walking closer to the door to his office. Pressing your ear against the wood, you listen.
"Steve, I love you." She cuts him off, sniffling. "Please, let's just meet up at my place tonight, yeah? Just talk about things. Don't be so rash."
You hear him scoff, "You knew what this was from the very beginning. Don't act surprised that I'm not coddling you. If you wanted a relationship, then you should've known I wouldn't be able to give you that."
There's a long pause of silence where the only thing you can hear is your breath. Then she's laughing hard, a couple of sobs slipping. Your heart squeezes.
"You piece of shit." She spits. "I hope you find yourself in my shoes one day and that your next source of entertainment destroys your heart. If you even have one in the firs—"
In a quick flash, a pit in your stomach forms when your elbow slips against the door. The door is already swinging inward beneath your weight before you can catch yourself. Your knees hit the floor, your palms flat against it.
Mr. Harrington jumps, head snapping to your humiliating state on all fours, ass perked up in the air, your skirt riding up.
For several horrible seconds, neither of you moved. Even though you want to, you can't break away from his dark gaze. Mr. Harrington's jaw ticks and his hand curls tighter around the phone.
"I have to go," He says into the receiver without taking his eyes off you. "This is done and over with."
Before the woman could cry in protest, he slams the phone back into the hook. You collect yourself and stand, brushing your hands on your skirt.
Mr. Harrington doesn't say anything, waiting for you to explain yourself.
"Eavesdropping?" He finishes for you, brow cocked up. "You're a terrible liar."
There was no point in lying, you figured. "I won't do it again, sir." You murmur. "That was incredibly inappropriate of me."
Mr. Harrington's lips press into a thin line. He waves a hand, "Out."
You nod before turning to take your leave but halt when he says, "Miss Henderson, make sure to call the local provider and have them block that number."
When you do after finishing up your work at the copy machine, you come to the conclusion that Steven Harrington is more than closed off.
The following hours are filled with more boring work and you now having the uncomfortable knowledge that Mr. Harrington had a dysfunctional love life. Plus, you had accidentally fallen asleep more times than you can count.
You're mid yawn when the front door swings open, jolting you awake. A man appearing to be in his late twenties strides in, his wife accompanying him on his arm. By one glance, you can tell they're the type of people to sneer at people who shop at Kohls.
Cautiously, you speak. "Hi, is there anything I can help you two with?"
The woman jumps, head snapping at you, as if the fact you addressed them was the boldest thing anyone had ever done. Her husband doesn't even spare you a moment's worth of his attention, merely dragging his wife with him as they make their way to Mr. Harrington's office.
You huff. "Well, okay then."
You rub your eyes sleepily and continue your typing you had abandoned. It's not long after Mr. Harrington is tapping his knuckle against your desk.
"Wake up, Miss Henderson. Three cups of coffee."
Mr. Harrington's brows are so furrowed that you're almost worried his face is going to be stuck forever like that. He looks more irritated than he usually is, chestnut hair ran through, and his foot tapping impatiently against the carpeted floor.
"Of course, Mr. Harrington." You nod, already setting the typewriter aside. Feeling courageous, you pry. "….Are you okay? You look stressed."
"Yeah, well I am" He answers shortly. Okay, so he most definitely isn't in a good mood then.
You frown, "Is this about those people who just came in?"
"If you must know," He sighs. "yes. I need them to leave as soon as possible."
"I figured. Are they like snobs or something? They looked like ones," You scrunched your nose thinking about how they clearly saw you as an inconvenience. "that man especially. When they walked in they looked kinda offended when I tried to help."
He shakes his head in disapproval. "Ignore them. They're my worst clients by far. They're the bane of my existence and I wish to never meet with them again once this is over."
Mr. Harrington might be snippy, but at least he wasn't a jackass to people when it came to status and money (yet that's also the bare minimum so maybe that's nothing worth praising for despite trying to see the best in people.)
"Never is a strong a word." But you couldn't blame him based on your three second interaction with them. "What a—"
"Coffee, Miss Henderson. Coffee." Before you can respond, he's walking back to his office. The door slams loudly behind him. From the room, you hear the three of their voices speaking over each other and the occasional rumble of fake laughter.
You can't help but side eye the mask he puts on around others rather than truly saying what he thinks in his head. 'A people pleaser,' is what Claudia would call him. You were no better though, what right did you have to judge?
In the kitchen, the aroma of coffee grounds fills the air. After pouring the remaining liquid individually into three cups, you make sure to keep Mr. Harrington's coffee the same as usual and his client's without anything special since you were unsure of their preferences. You line the cups, pitcher holding creamer, and packs of sugar carefully on the tray.
Maybe you would've been a good part time barista in another life. On second thought, no thanks.
The tray is unsteady in your hands before you even push the door open with the side of your body. Immediately, the three of them turn their heads, but not before long before resuming their conversation.
"As I was saying," Steve continues smoothly, nodding to you in thanks after you make your way over to place his cup on the desk. "I'm going to need any documentation you can provide."
"Is that necessary?" The man rolls his eyes. Even on his high horse he probably thinks things can work out easily for him with no problem.
"Yes, if you don't want to lose this lawsuit." Mr. Harrington scolds. "Just get me whatever contracts, photos, witness info, anything you have, and I'll make it work."
The sound of the remaining cups rattle as you turn to put them on the side table between the couple. You don't have time to think when you feel your fingers slip from the rim of the last cup. Brown liquid sloshes from the sides, the cup toppling over as the coffee hits the white sleeve of the man's shirt.
No one is talking anymore, all eyes focused on the accident at hand. While the couple's jaws are open in shock, Mr. Harrington merely sighs.
"Oh, I'm so, so sorry!" You cry out, bringing your hands to your mouth. "Let me go grab some napkins real quick, again, I'm sorry—"
"What the hell is wrong with you?" The man snaps, jerking back from the table, face twisting in disgust at the murky stain on the cuff of his sleeve.
You take a step back, eyes widening. "What?"
"Do you have any idea how much this is? Or do they not pay you enough here that you're so careless around something so costly?" You'd already come to the conclusion earlier that the two were uptight, but you hadn't realized just how much they disregarded people like you.
His wife puts a hand on his arm, urging him to sit back down. "Richard! It was just an accident, we can take it to the dry cleaners." She purses her lips together, looking you up and down. "Besides, she's not worth the anger."
Fuck her. Fuck him. Fuck everyone who sees you as someone incapable of feeling.
"No, it was careless, that's what it was. Don't try and defend it." He shoots back, shaking her off him in irritation. "If she can't manage something this simple, then she shouldn't be working a job anyone can do."
You don't flinch at the feeling of your nails breaking the skin of your palm. "I…"
Your mouth goes dry. You've never hated yourself more than now. How pathetic were you to be everybody's doormat instead of yelling out what you really feel?
He scoffs, "Fuckin' ridiculous. Your secretary can't talk or what Harrington?"
"Sit down, Taylor. It's just some coffee." Steve says bored. "Let's get back to that lawsuit of yours, instead of throwing a hissy fit, yeah?"
The man opens his mouth to retort, but is interrupted by the meek sound of your voice, "I'll replace it, or pay for it somehow, Mr…Taylor, was it? I really didn't mean to ruin your shirt."
"You?" He says incredulous, eyes wide before laughs with no humor. "Save it. I don't need money, especially from the likes of you."
You want to scream at him that he has no right to speak to you like that, to wrap your hands around his throat just to stop the insults he hurled at you. But you couldn't, no. All you could do was stand there, palms beginning to draw blood, body shaking furiously, and realize things will never truly change for you. You'll always be that girl who let people feast on her energy for their own sick enjoyment.
Hate. All you feel is hate deep in your soul.
Mr. Harrington stands, palms on his desk, eyes daggers at Mr. Taylor.
"Pardon me?" Mr. Taylor asks bewildered.
"You've made your point." Mr. Harrington's voice cuts deep. "I'd suggest that you not act like you hold some type of authority over my staff, am I clear?"
"Maybe I wouldn't have to if you hired someone appropriate for these types of positions."
"You're not hurt, and if a small stain is going to prevent you from continuing, we can reschedule. Otherwise, we're just wasting our time."
Mr. Taylor is red in the face, lip curling enough to bare teeth. Standing no chance, he grumbles and plops back into his chair with his arms crossed. "I'll remember this, Harrington."
"I'm sure you will." Mr. Harrington replies without an ounce of belief.
Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.
"Clean it up." Mr. Harrington orders you.
You nod heading out to go grab the stain remover for the coffee that had also managed to spill onto the carpet.
Suddenly, you overhear Mrs. Taylor chuckling, "Don't worry Richard, she may be clumsy, but at least she's a good listener."
Once you finish cleaning the mess, you leave the room without a single tear. You wouldn't give them the satisfaction of your tears at least.
It'd been an hour since the Taylor's appointment had wrapped up. You had been relieved, but you still felt shaken up. Outside, the sun had begun to set in a mixture of orange and pinks in the sky, announcing you had about another hour left before you could leave. You'd rather walk out right now rather than face Mr. Harrington again.
You knew you were capable of being mean, yet that side of you came out at the wrong times, like with Dustin. Why couldn't you return cruel behavior back to people who deserved it?
"Mr. Harrington?" You say softly, knocking on the door with papers in hand.
Deep breaths. Just get in, hand it to him, then get out.
When you walk in, Mr. Harrington is seated at his desk with his head in his hands as if he’s lost all hope. He looked tired and incredibly human. Maybe this was bad timing.
"I…" You swallow. "I finished typing up the brief you asked for."
Mr. Harrington raises his head and doesn't look at you as he grabs the paper. His eyes scan the document for a minute before he shakes his head. Opening one of the drawers to his desk, he snatches a red pen and pulls the cap off with his teeth.
He begins to circle several words like a madman, the red ink bleaching into the parchment so vibrant and bold, that you know something is wrong.
Defendant. Respectfully submits. Affirm. Violation.
You feel as if you're intruding, mouth tasting bitter. You turn to the door, quickly trying to make your exit.
The pen thuds against his desk and you flinch. "Yes?" You say sheepish.
"Are you aware of how much typing mistakes you make?"
'Typing skills are mandatory.'
Mr. Harrington slides the paper to you, expression unreadable. "Look again."
Hesitant, you take a step forward.
You're so close that you can smell the scent of expensive musky cologne and coffee faintly in the air. Gazing down at the paper, all your mistakes are clear as day to you now and embarrassingly so. Some are spelling mistakes, meanwhile others were missing letters, repeated words, and sentences typed too close together.
Your face burns hotter with every line. "I'm really sorry, sir. This isn't acceptable of me—"
"Are you also aware of the fact that your twirl your hair when nervous?" Mr. Harrington abruptly pushes up from his chair, dropping the professionalism from his voice and you gape at him. The past month you had only heard him as Mr. Harrington, but not Steve Harrington.
Your forehead creases, "What? No?"
"That you sniffle? Pull on the hem of your top? Tap your nails? Avoid eye contact? Click your pen?" Mr. Harrington circles around his desk, fingers trailing along the smooth wood, eyeing you like prey. "You've also been yanking at your sleeve for the past two minutes, by the way."
You release your sleeve like you'd been burned. "Mr. Harrington, I don't understand where this is going—"
He stops inches away from you and tilts his head, breath fanning against your face. "I could list more if that'd be any help?"
You shudder, lashes fluttering. "I'm sorry, I'll make sure to stop." You say automatically, wanting this attack on your abilities to be done with. Your ego was already bruised enough after today.
His face drops in utter disbelief and then he barks a laughs, "There it fucking is. It's a goddamn instinct of yours."
"I should go," You say, but your feet don't move.
"You spilled coffee." He ignores you. "Coffee. At the end of the day, it was an accident, was it not?"
Your shoulders tense and you nod. The room starts to feel like it's shrinking, the ceilings too low, and the walls closing in.
"Then why," He snarls. "are you apologizing to assholes like him and even offering to pay for a jacket he very much has the privilege to replace? Even I'm an asshole and you don't say anything but 'sorrys.'"
"Nuh uh," He laughs. "Don't pull that crap. You do know, you just don't wanna say, yeah? People like Taylor can smell weakness for miles away and you fit into every damn box on the checklist."
"I wasn't being weak," You retort, surprising yourself, even him. "I was trying to remain professional, that's all."
"Were you? Because from where I was standing it didn't look like it."
You know he's right, you just hate that he's the first person to actually call you out.
You blink, voice cracking. "What?"
"You’re done for today.” His tone leaves no room for argument, already moving on, period, point, blank. Mr. Harrington walks back to his chair, seating himself and starting up his work again. “You’re distracted and until you learn the difference between making a mistake and making yourself a target, you’re not useful to me here."
"But- but Mr. Harrington," You plead, your chest suddenly feeling very tight. "I can stay, I'm capable, please. I promise I'll do better, I swear."
"Promises mean nothing to me, Miss Henderson. End of discussion." He snaps. "Go. Home."
AUTHORS NOTE: FUCK it's done. it's been weeks i'm so sorry. lots of personal and college stuff going on. finally finished finals. also readers typing mistakes are due to her awful sleep schedule and rushing her work lmfao.
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