Assistant Peter or Best Friend's Ex Bucky?
Everybody Talks
Warnings: unwanted touches, suggestions of more.
Please send in feedback if so inclined. Thank you all 💜
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"Rough night?" Peter sets down a steaming mug of coffee, the aroma drawing a sigh from your lungs.
You look up from your mindless scrolling and hide a yawn behind your hand. He smiles as he slides the cup closer and takes a step back, a portfolio under his arm. His youth irritates you as much as it piques your envy. He's always so chipper.
"Here you go, boss," he puts the leather folder on the other side of your desk, "this is the mock-up for the Winter spread."
"Mmm," you nod but make no move to take the folder, instead opting for the blonde roast with a touch of oat milk. He always gets it exactly right. "Thanks. Again, boss seems a bit... heavy."
"Sorry, habit," he shrugs and you notice the line of his shoulders, the way the line of his throat leads down below his collar, a hint at the broad chest that makes his buttons strain, "my old job was super strict."
"And we're not," you challenge, "Parker, you've worked here two years."
"It's gone fast, what can I say? And I still can't believe how lucky I am to have the best boss in the world."
"Calm down, you'll get a stellar reference you click on outlook and nearly purr as you have your first sip, "what is this?"
You look at the cup and give it a sniff.
"They had a new flavour in the lounge, sugar cookie."
"Ah."
"I know it's not the usual but we all deserve a treat from time to time."
"No problem, it's good," you set the cup down and rub your cheek as you cradle your chin in your hand, "thanks, Parker. You can get back to it."
He hesitates, lingering, "you sure you don't need anything else?"
"You know I didn't hire you to be my coffee jockey, you got enough on your plate."
"Yes, bo--" he stops himself and uses your name instead, "you know where to find me."
"Sure do," you say as your phone screen lights up and draws your attention. Another call from your husband. He can wait. Or rot for all you care.
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"Norman, I don't care-- No, no, I'm not one of your cronies. Or your son. Don't start that with me," you huff into the speaker, your screen saver bouncing against the walls of your monitor, "we talked about this already. You want to go, go. It will be alone. You've known about Paris all year. I can't miss it."
"Darling, you really are intractable. It's an anniversary gift and again, you want to work--"
"Yes, I do. It's my job. It's the same thing every year, Norman," you snap, "and don't begin to lecture me on work trips and family obligations, alright? How many nights have I slept alone while you're out schmoozing your business partners or late at the lab. If you want to talk about this, call Dr. Suzanne and I'll be happy to have her advise."
"Ugh, I do love your fire, dear, but it burns hot," he snarls.
"Oh shut up." You hang up and toss your phone on your desk and lean back in your chair with a growl. You don't know why you don't just go to the lawyer already. Well, you know, the same excuse as always. You're too busy.
You shake your head and roll forward, swiping away the idle screen and setting back to your itinerary. Before Norman, you weren't like this. You liked being home but he made work your only escape. It was an easy excuse not to be entirely alone.
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You're barely away as you slowly flip through the pages of the portfolio. The blue-tinted lighting of the editorial is lackluster. You don't recall giving Seasonal Affective Disorder as a theme. You scribble in your notebook and chew the end of the pen. You really don't want to have a whole new shoot but some of these photos are lit like shit.
There's a gentle knock and you lurch back in your chair. Most of the office is gone by now.
"Come in," you call over your desk as you rest your fingertips on the glossy page.
A bouquet of flowers enters. For a moment you don't notice the body on the other side. Peter holds the huge basket of petals in his arms as he angles through, his reddish hair barely visible over the top. He puts them down on the round table by the window.
"These came for you," he says as he faces you, giving a sniff to his shirt, "they smell nice."
"I can only imagine who sent them," you grumble, Norman's oldest trick. You're well past him buying forgiveness. "If it wasn't such a hassle, I'd have you dump them in the bin."
"If that's what you want--"
"Parker, no," you scoff, "what are you still doing here."
"I got a bit carried away planning for Paris. I didn't go last year so... I'm kinda excited."
"Yeah, I... guess I take it for granted," you roll the pen between your fingers and put it down, "you need to go."
"And what about you?" He counters.
"I'm headed out," you say as you close the portfolio, "promise."
He nods, his brown eyes warm and placid as he watches you stand. You give an awkward smile as your knee gives a pop. You're really starting to feel the long work days. He looks down, you assume because of the noise and you do too. Your wrap skirt exposes more than your knee but the top of your sheer stocking. You fix it quickly.
"Uh," his throat bobs, "yeah, I'll get going, boss."
You want to correct him but you're too embarrassed. You wait for him to go before you give yourself a thorough lookover. Everything else is exactly where it belongs. Great, just the young assistant seeing the grumpy old lady's thigh, no big deal.
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It's rainy in Paris.
It hardly matters to Peter as you cross the airport with bags in tow and he babbles on about all the things he's read about. Lindy delayed her flight at the last moment and Howard always came early and left sooner. You try to be patient, try to remember when you were an intern in New York for the first time, but you're drawn thin. Norman didn't even say goodbye.
You get a taxi and give the Hotel's name. It's more expensive so the driver needs no direction. You tip him and Peter follows you out. He follows you up to the grand archway entrance and gives a noise of awe as you cross the lobby. You decide to give him Lindy's suite since she won't be there.
He gleefully takes his keycard and you check your phone. Yep, nothing. Norman's past hounding you. You're as infuriated as you are relieved.
"Here," Peter grabs your suitcase before you can, "I got it."
"They have bellboys--"
"I'm stronger," he winks as he wheels ahead of you, "this way, mademoiselle."
You could laugh at his little act. You trail behind him to the elevator and he lets you in ahead of him. The ascent has you slightly dizzy and you step off thankfully. You check your keycard and point him in the right direction.
You thank him, almost reaching for a bill from your wallet to give him, and catch yourself.
"Anything else?" He asks as he rolls your suitcase to stand against the wall.
"No, Parker, that's fine. Thank you."
"Peter," he says, "two years and you still call me Parker."
"I'm... sorry," you say softly, realising how you reproached him for simply calling you boss. "P- Peter, if I've been rude these last few weeks, I apologise. I've had a lot going on and it's not an excuse to take it out on you."
"Rude? No, like I said, best boss I've ever had."
You nod and let out a sigh, "well, I'll... see you tomorrow morning."
"Bright and early, mademoiselle," he grins, "have a good one."
He spins on his heel and strides out lightly. You close the door behind him and groan as it clicks, the hours in a plane seat twinge in your hips. You have to try to enjoy this trip, if only to spite Norman.
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"You can have Lindy's seat," you say as you lead Peter amid the crowds, "wouldn't look good to have an empty seat with our name on it. Especially in the front-- Maria!" You interrupt yourself as you great the silver-haired designer, "so wonderful to see you again. Thank you so much for the gift basket."
"Thank you for the editorial," she says in her lilted baritone, "oh my, have we traded in the old model?"
She tweaks a brow in Peter's direction and his cheeks redden as you peek over at him. You give a soft laugh, not enough to embarrass him.
"This is my assistant, Peter Parker. He's a photographer as well."
"Peter Parker," Maria drawls out, "what an... American name."
"I do happen to be American," Peter says dumbly.
"How absolutely adorable, I could spoon him up and eat him with a nice sorbet."
"Uhhh," Peter gives a squint.
"Don't let us keep you," you gently touch Maria's elbow, "we should find our seats."
She passes on as another voice calls out her name. You continue on to the crowded runway and edge along the front row. You sit and smooth your skirt, a vintage designer piece chosen deliberately for the event. An editor-in-chief can't look a mess even if they feel one. Peter looks good enough in a Gucci button up and slacks, hair tidy enough to seem as if he belongs. You can't help but notice the Louis Vuitton loafers.
"Are those new?" You ask.
"Oh, uh, have a friend who tends to hoard nice things," he shrugs, "and that dress?"
"Not new," you assure him.
"Still, it looks good."
"Comes with the territory. Everyone's here competing and in the front row, the press will be sure to get a couple snaps."
"Wow, is that Shaq?" He looks across the aisle, "I didn't think he'd be into fashion."
"Like I said, people come to be seen and they are seen," you say.
"Oh, right," he looks around and his eyes round. There's already a long lens aimed in your direction, "it hasn't even started yet."
"Yeah, there's really no start or end, it just happens," you say, "last year wasn't particularly great for us. Howard got a bit... tipsy so he's skipping it this year."
"Ah," he nods and smooths his shirt. You try not to pay attention as the fabric draws taut over his chest.
Another guest claims the chair next to you and you greet them, another editor, and settle in as seats begin to feel. The anticipation builds until the room grows dim. The runway lights up with shades of rose. The crowd quiets and Maria comes out to introduce her collection.
As the first model comes back, you make sure to keep your posture straight. You've done this enough times to be aware of every tick and move you make. You have a magazine to represent and right now, it's the only thing going right in your life. You watch the designs and give a thought arch of your brow, the colors are interesting but the cut doesn't quite fit.
You feel a tickle on your leg but keep your focus on the runway. Then the warmth spread across your leg and squeezes you through your skirt. You flick your lashes in shock as Peter leans over as he feels your thigh, "I like the colours..."
"What are you doing?" You withhold your chagrin as you move your lips subtly, focusing on keeping your composure.
"Just wanted to get your attention..." he whispers, "and the press. Imagine what they'll say."
"Peter, get your hand off me." You warn under your breath.
"It'll definitely piss Norman off, won't it?" He snickers as he leans even closer, retracting his hand, only to drape his arm over your shoulders, "an editor-in-chief with a younger man, too? The scandal."
"Parker--"
"This isn't appropriate."
"Don't worry, boss," he brushes his nose along your cheek, "it's not all for the press. I really am going to fuck you."
