Chapter Text
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It's 9am when you arrive at HQ, though your shift doesn't start until 10. Your plan is to prepare some notes, check some emails, and, most of all, see her.
Your formidable boss.
It had been almost exactly a year since you started working for Agatha Harkness at her NYC office. You were overqualified to be her personal assistant, the job ad only listed a couple of requirements. Good time management, organization, and a general overview of the company. The job had been posted several times before, with the pay increasing every time. Eventually, the stress of your previous place of work had gotten too much, and there were only so many times you could see the salary increase before you knew you had to interview here.
You were offered the job immediately, but didn't actually meet Agatha until you started your first shift.
Her reputation was mixed. She was well respected, yes. But she was also known for being extremely difficult to work with. Intimidating, stern, brash. Many people overlooked this simply because of her status and the quality of her work.
It was easy to agree, she was all of those things. There was a certain something about her, however, that made it seem like she respected you, respected everyone in the office, even if they were nervous about being called into a meeting with her. Even if she were lying about it.
She controlled the space, she controlled the city, but she knew what she wanted, and as long as you understood your place, you would be secure.
You had always behaved exactly as she had asked; at first it was to make sure your place in the company would be safe. Now, it seems your mind has wandered.
You like how she makes you feel. A safe mixture of small, but somehow still important.
In the morning you think about what coffee to bring her, and it's hard to get her off your mind as you drift off to sleep. The thoughts of how you can help her further never leaving your mind. Today, you arrived with a black Americano for her. Her orders change depending on her moods, but you take a guess, as she hasn't texted you at all today.
Unusual.
When you began your job here, it took some time to figure her out. She says exactly what she means. You thought her booming voice saying "You should just go home!" meant "You did something wrong today!", but it didn't. She literally meant, 'you're done, rest.'
A year ago, you would have assumed the lack of text meant you'd annoyed her in some way, but today you know it means she's already busy with work.
Your footsteps click on the tiled floor of the lobby, and you step into the elevator, pressing the button with your free hand. Agatha is usually in the office at 6am, doing something you've never quite understood; she's never told you to arrive early before. You're hoping not to disturb her.
The doors open on the 38th floor; it's quiet. The odd person says good morning as you make your way through the giant space. You stop when you see her through the glass wall of her office.
Her phone to her ear, she’s sat back on the leather chair, heels crossed on the huge mahogany desk, large-framed glasses on the bridge of her nose.
She spots you as you head towards the door, though she doesn't react. Focusing only on the phone call.
"No, you listen to me, Chris. If you want this completed by the deadline, then there will be absolutely no changes to the original blueprints, do you understand? I will not have this damage the reputation of my company."
She's strong but maintains a level head as she continues her conversation with. You stand just a few feet away from her, unsure whether or not to give her the drink or wait until she wraps this up. You hope she doesn't yell down the phone like she does sometimes.
She clicks her fingers at you, pointing down at the desk. You put the coffee in front of her. She looks good like this. Powerful. It'll be hard to shake this thought later.
As your feet take you back to the door of her office, you hear her hang up the phone. No dismissal, no goodbye, just the beep of the call ending. It's silent for a beat.
"Black Americano today?" Her voice is slow, direct. You turn on your heel.
"No morning text, no list of jobs yet. I guessed you were focusing."
"Focusing...yes, I suppose I was focusing."
You got it right. You won today.
"Watson is trying to pull out of our penthouse deal. Can't have that."
You stand there for a few seconds as she sips the coffee; if she wanted you gone, she would dismiss you.
Her eyes scan you. Is she savoring the flavor of the drink? Does she want you to do something?
"It's 9am." She finally says coldly, though the silence was so long you've almost forgotten what you were even waiting for.
"It is."
It's hard not to stare. The white blazer sits so perfectly on her shoulders, the matching trousers tailored just for her breaking at the ankle as her white stilettos rest on the desk, her…
"You don't start for an hour."
Focus.
"I wanted to bring you a coffee." You say, nerves nearly getting the better of you. Is it normal to show up early with coffee? You're not sure. You used to work in graphic design. The world of luxury real estate continues to be a mystery.
"And—" You continue after what feels to be much too long "—I have a lot of emails to catch up on."
It's mostly a lie, though you do have some extra work to do. You don't want your attentiveness to seem naive.
"Very well."
That's it? You were really hoping for something else. She's not busy now; she could easily ask more from you.
The air is silent again. You head to your desk just outside of her office and reluctantly open up your email tab.
It's hard not to notice her behind the monitor. There are only 5 emails that need replying to, and none are particularly urgent. A dinner reservation reply, dry cleaning confirmation, 2 work-related inquiries and something for a magazine.
Hands type rhythmically as you begin the replies. The job is complete after a grand total of 7 minutes, which brings the time to exactly 9:19.
This was a bad idea. Time to look busy.
Staring at the screen, your eyes drift back to her through the glass panels of her office. The way the light from the floor-length window behind her touches the side of her face as she sips the drink. The gentle screen reflection from her monitor into her glasses. The rings on her fingers as she grips the cup.
Do you want to be her, or do you want to be the cup?
Heartbeats inside your chest flutter as she locks eyes with you once again. You force your eyes downward onto your monitor. Focus on your breathing; being here early isn’t something you should do again.
Your finger on the mouse flickers between different tabs, typing nonsense into the search bar just to look like you're actually working. It's hard not to take another peek, and just when you finally give in and look upwards—
She's looking right at you.
Had she been this whole time?
Then, a crooked finger, beckoning you back into her office. You can only hope she didn't catch you staring.
____
When you left your previous job, you knew you were taking a risk. Design had always been something you were interested in, but it was draining you dry. You couldn't afford to move out of your dad's house, and you were scrutinized for every minute you'd show up late, despite your employers knowing the details of your very lengthy commute.
Since working for Agatha, you've been able to secure an apartment not too far away. A few stops on the subway. Sure, you share it with a man you'd rather not think about, and sure it's cramped, dingy even, but it's yours, and you feel like you're moving up in the world. You could get used to feeling like a real adult.
What you can't get used to, is the feeling of walking into this office when she looks at you like that. Like your heart is going to jump out your chest.
You're unsure whether or not Agatha has ever noticed your lingering glances towards her, and you generally hope not, but sometimes you can't help but wonder...
"Where is yours?"
Pulled back to reality once again.
"Sorry?" Genuinely confused words escape your mouth. Your what? Your work?
She laughs a quiet laugh, just the once, as if it's obvious.
"Your coffee. You brought me a coffee early. You clearly had time to pick one up with enough time to get yourself one. So where is it?"
It's almost laughable how nervous her questioning makes you. At no point did you even consider getting yourself a coffee. Your brain works on an Agatha-first basis. It has done for a year now.
"I didn't think about it." You admit.
"You're a sweet girl, a silly girl, but a sweet one nonetheless."
Is she...complimenting you right now? You had never heard her compliment anyone.
Her phone rings, and with an eye roll she quickly picks it up. Maintaining eye contact with you.
"What is it now?" A yell this time, and you awkwardly wait a second before taking a step back towards the door.
Her head shakes. She wants you to stay. You can't tell whether you love or hate being here while this phone call occurs.
"Listen, I'm going to pull the fuck out of this deal if you call me directly again, do you understand? I said, do you fucking understand?"
You look down at your feet. This guy is totally going to call you later.
"Trust me, you do not want to be on my blacklist. Do you know what will happen when people find out you're on my blacklist?" Her voice is more mocking, more infuriated; her position shifts, sitting directly upright in the chair now. Feet firmly planted on the floor.
She cuts him off. "That's right! They never work in this city again, so are you going to be good and help me out, or not? I'm in charge, remember?"
She stands. You swallow.
"I'm the most important person this side of the country to have on your side Chris." Her tone is stern but cooler now; you try not to look at her. "That's right, baby, a billion fucking dollars—"
You have no idea what she's talking about and can only assume this is a private deal that has yet to need your attention, but the way she uses pet names so casually makes your skin feel hot.
The air gets thinner when you realize she's directly next to you, and you can almost make out what the man on the phone is saying.
"Mhmm...that's what I thought."
Something cold slips into your hand, and you finally take a second to look up. She's so close to you you could practically melt, and the heat is close to becoming something more when you notice the cold metal in your hand is her credit card.
Confused eyes meet hers. Her hand over the microphone as she whispers, "Go get yourself a coffee, something good."
The smell of her perfume settles in the air near you.
Before you have time to protest, she saunters back over to her chair, heels clicking on the hardwood, phone back up to her ear.
Black card in your hand, you reluctantly leave the room.