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mangoshorthand · 2 years ago

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No Hard Feelings- [Five Hargreeves x F Reader]. Ch8

SUMMARY: You're Five's latest assassination target, but things don't go to plan and now he wants you as his fuckbuddy. Funny how what we want and what we need are rarely in line. (Five's physically aged up). Obvious smut warning but there's plot too, I swear! Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five- Chapter Six - Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight - Chapter Nine - Chapter Ten - Chapter Eleven - Chapter Twelve

In this chapter: After a fraught previous evening, it seems like a normal workday.

Work drama and romantic dinners below. Proceed at your own risk.

Chapter 8: Dinner With Miss Jane

Charlie was not, in fact, your superior; you were both Senior Account Managers. Despite this, he had a tendency to behave as if this wasn’t the case

That morning, you arrived at the office with a double espresso in hand, trying to stave off the symptoms of the broken sleep you got last night. Your mood was absolutely not improved by a message from your boss, Joe.

Hi, Charlie said you wanted to grow your client portfolio so he sent over some of his end-of-lifers for me to pass on: mostly >10k contracts but if you can get them to renew it would be great experience!

Either Joseph was an idiot or doing a very good impression of it. Charlie had essentially dumped his no-hope clients on you so that your team looked like shit when they didn’t renew their contracts at the end of the quarter.

You seethed for the barest of moments before an idea struck: you’ve got the capacity…why not make this backfire? After many false starts, you messaged Joe back:

Good morning Joe, thanks for this. I know Charlie can struggle with converting clients so my team can donate capacity and take these on.

Was this petty and passive aggressive? Yes. Did Charlie deserve it? Also yes.

You got to work, furiously, schmoozing your new clients with a vengeance, hatred for Charlie fuelling your skills. It was a good distraction - if it were just a normal day, you might have spent it brooding over Five. You’d kept his note about your TV, though scolding yourself for the sentimental weakness. You couldn't bring yourself to dispose of it: something told you it might be the last you ever saw of him.

Mike and the investigator sat in a darkened office, staring at the latter’s laptop.

“That’s the same kid?”

"I'm as sure as I can be.”

Two images were displayed side by side on the screen. Mike leaned in, squinting.

In one, a grainy security cam still, the young man stood smilingly in front of the motel service desk, only seconds before smashing the mirror he’d used to kill his dead brother’s only son. In the other, a picture snapped by the investigator, the man was in motion on the street, about to enter a building.

“Looks like the same fucking suit,” mumbled Mike, tapping his single gold incisor with a stubby fingernail. He sat in his desk chair, scrutinizing the images, his jacket pulling around the black armband on his upper arm, still worn for Chet.

His sister-in-law hadn't left the house since the burial, when Chet was laid to rest with his father. Soon, the tombstone would read:

ROBERT CHARLES MONROE01.01.1965 - 08.20.2018Beloved Husband, Father, Son and BrotherAnd also his sonCHESTER “CHET” MONROE03.19.1999- 09.19.2026Loved and missed by all their family.

Mike sighed as the investigator showed him a completely filled notebook.

"I’ll tell you, Mr Monroe. He’s a tough guy to follow. Slippery bastard. Walks into buildings and never walks out. One minute he's beside you and the next he’s halfway down the street. It's the only reason it’s taken this long. I still have no idea where he lives. But he seems to have one reliable pattern."

The investigator flicked through a folder of images. The man was pictured strolling into and out of the same apartment block from different angles.

“He seems to go there most Tuesdays, Thursdays and sometimes Monday. He walks in before eight PM and leaves before midnight at the latest. I’ve just about isolated a specific apartment."

He handed a folded post-it note to his client and continued.

“If we want more information on him, I think that’s where we’ll find it.”

Mike nodded slowly, pondering a moment.

“I’ll take it from here.”

Before you left for lunch, you were able to renew one of Charlie's apparently 'no hope' clients: a firm called Granger Roberts. You were somewhat surprised to find that the key stakeholder, Mimi, was extremely open to your sales patter. From her tone, her problem was more with Charlie himself than your company's offerings. Through subtle implicature, you were able to express your own attitude towards him and, funnily enough you and she hit it off immediately.

After a single conversation, you were able to persuade her to renew her contract and had a meeting arranged to discuss a possible move to a higher level of service. When the confirmatory email came through, Joe even graced you so far as to pay a visit to your desk. He congratulated you while Charlie looked on, trying to look as if he were proud of your 'progress' rather than seething at your success.

As you settled back to work after your lunch break, your satisfied glow was interrupted when Christine came back from the office door holding a bouquet of flowers.

“Delivery for you!” she said, eyes twinkling, “The guy said there wasn’t a card but they’re beautiful. Secret admirer?”

“It must be,” you smiled, taking the flowers from her.

They were beautiful: a modestly-sized bunch, but the purple hyacinth, bright white roses and tulips are perfectly arranged.

A few other people commented as you placed the flowers on your desk, wrapped in their own vase. It seemed like Five was determined to replace everything he broke last night.

Attracted by a slight commotion in which he was not the center of attention, Charlie sidled over, ever ready to ruin a good thing by trying to make himself so.

“Pretty tragic,” he said, in that joke-but-not-a-joke tone that makes you want to punch him through a wall, “sending yourself flowers.”

He laughed and smiled as if to say ‘just banter’.

At that moment, your messaging app pinged. It was Christine:

Just ignore the dickhead .

You smiled over at her.

Flowers under your arm, you entered the elevator at five-fifteen. Just as the doors were about to close, a hand shot through the gap. When they reopened, it was to allow Charlie to enter.

“Hi.” he said, stepping in beside you and re-pressing the first floor button. You offered him a polite but quelling smile, one that firmly stated your intent not to talk.

Charlie had different ideas, however, and, as the elevator hummed and began to descend, he made eye contact with himself in the mirror and coiffed his hair.

“Nice job with Granger Roberts,” he said.

“Thanks,” you said, shortly.

After a few seconds he spoke again, still looking at his own reflection.

“You know. I’ve got nothing better to do tonight. Why don’t we go out for drinks? We can talk shop.”

You suppressed a derisive snort: “No thanks.”

“Oh come on,” he said, voice subtly inflected to derision, “nobody would think anything of it. You're not exactly my usual type.”

You scoffed in disbelief. Had you just stepped into an elevator with a pick up artist circa 2016? Was he negging you?”

“Charlie, honestly, I’d rather pluck out my own eyeballs.”

He laughed incredulously as the doors pulled open and you stalked out, trying to put as much distance as possible in between yourself and him.

Intent only on this, you marched so fast across the parking lot that you barely avoided crashing straight into Five as he stepped out from behind a parked car.

Instinctively, he reached out his arms to steady you.

“Hi.”

“Hi...sorry.” you replied, unsure what else to say.

He was neat and tidy again. He wore a clean blue suit, tie and hair immaculate. He was wearing cologne, you noticed.

He nodded at the flowers,

“Do you like them?”

“Y-yes,” you said, faltering slightly.

"The language of flowers”, he explained, gesturing at the blooms. He was clearly trying to inhabit his usual confidence, but his posture was too deliberate; he was clearly wrongfooted,.

“It’s one of those stupid things our Dad made us learn,” he continued, “and-and I thought maybe it wasn’t enough to - so I brought this too,” he said, holding out a wrapped red rose with a half shrug, “I hope the meaning's a little more self-explanatory.”

Your eyes moved from the rose to his; they were embarrassed, as vulnerable as they had been last night. The hand not held out to you is deep in his jacket pocket. He looked uneasy but oddly determined. When you took the flower, he looked relieved, and he opened his mouth to speak.

“More flowers?” came Charlie’s mocking voice, forestalling Five as he caught up to you. “Aren’t you the lucky girl?” With a look at Five, he winked: “What did you do wrong?”

“Fuck off Charlie”, you said emphatically, “I won’t tell you again.”

He laughed, coming to a stop and smiling at Five with the air of one sizing him up.

Five reciprocated, moving towards him casually, slightly hip-shot. He surveyed Charlie as if he were discovering an unpleasant but pathetic-looking insect beneath a rock. Charlie glanced back at you, mocking smile still in place.

“Wow. Never had you down as a cougar.”

Before you could respond, Five did it for you.

“She told you to fuck off,” he said, voice deceptively light. He didn’t quite square up, but his stance made it clear to you that he was prepared for however this might turn, body angled in readiness, “I’d suggest you listen to her.”

Charlie laughed, looked at you incredulously and then back at Five.

“You serious?”

“Yes.” you said, firmly, “Go home, Charlie, I’ve had enough of your shit today.”

“My shit?” Charlie asked, with smug incredulity, “the way I see it, I dropped a bunch of conversion prospects in your lap today. You think you’re such hot shit and I gave you a chance to prove it.”

You scoffed.

“Oh really?” you said sarcasm dropping from your every word, “ Is that what you were doing Charlie? Because from where I was sitting it looked like you didn’t want your metrics to suffer when they all drop off at the end of the quarter.”

Charlie shook his head, trying to look disbelieving. It was clear he was pissed off, yet he couldn’t quite contain the smirk that told you you’d surmised correctly. The sight of it made you snap at him again.

“Dickhead.”

“I think you should leave now,” Five said, sensing Charlie’s anger and taking another deliberate step towards him.

As Five had clearly intended, Charlie’s anger turned on him.

“Really? Big talk from a little simp like you. Showering her with flowers because you can’t get pussy your own age?”

You felt like you’d been slapped. A chill of anger washed down each of your limbs, adrenaline buzzing through them. Pussy?

Years of injustice welled inside you. The fact that Charlie could even exist in a company that published so much HR bullshit was symbolic of the bullshit you faced there every day.

Only Five’s eyes, looking briefly over his shoulder at you, kept you from trying to pull out Charlie’s overdone hair by the roots. When you met his gaze, you saw your own rage reflected back. They gave you a single, pained look.

Please let me.

You nodded.

In a fluid, lightning-fast movement, Five's left elbow pulled back, and he struck Charlie squarely across the face. He didn’t even try to get a footing, he only fell; carried off his feet with the blow’s momentum. On the ground, he howled with pain, holding his head.

You knew you shouldn't have been enjoying this as much as you were.

“My n-nose! My fucking nose!”

Five turned to you, sweeping at his jacket sleeve to dab a fleck of Charlie’s blood from the forearm. Apparently satisfied on this score, he held out his other arm to you. You took it automatically and allowed him to led you away, leaving Charlie to writhe on the asphalt.

After a few minutes’ leisurely walk to nowhere in particular, Five spoke:

“You gave me a lot to think about. May I take you to dinner?”

“It’s Friday,” you said, weakly.

“Yes” he said, smiling at this allusion to the ‘fuck-schedule’, “but assuming you’re not busy, I was just hoping to talk.”

He took you to a rooftop bar and restaurant in the city, where the concierge greeted Five with a hearty handshake and a slap on the forearm. Though he hadn’t made a reservation, he promised to fit Five in within thirty minutes. This, only just over a week before Christmas, seemed like a real favor.

Waiting in the bar, Five exchanged a friendly nod with the bartender as he pulled out a chair for you.

“They know you here?” you said, although it wasn’t really a question.

“Yeah,” he said, “I spend a good portion of my inheritance on their wine, so I’d hope so. Being a Hargeeeves brat has its advantages.”

The restaurant was sleek and modern, but not ostentatious. From what you could see on tables as you passed, the food appeared to be good quality: nicely presented but without the smears and garnishings that usually denote haute cuisine.

Five insisted you try the Bordeaux, though he himself stuck to seltzer water throughout the evening. Although clearly still staving off the effects of a monster hangover, was attentive, charming and an excellent conversation partner; effortlessly suave. He looked good too, more relaxed than usual, enhancing his good looks. In contrast to last night, his hair sat perfectly in place.

And the Bordeaux really was good.

“How do you know so much about picking wine?” you asked, going in for another sip, “I thought you spent most of your life scavenging canned food?”

“Good question,” he smiled, idly running his index finger around the rim of his glass, “One of the only things to survive an apocalypse? Cellars. And what do you put in a wine cellar?”

“The best wine,” you answered.

“Correct answer.” he smiled, chuckling reminiscently, “Last night was nothing. We used to drink our way through entire magnums.”

At this passing reference to Delores, he looked down before quickly changing the subject.

“So, back in the parking lot, whose nose did I break?”

You regaled him with stories about Charlie; his general chauvinism, infuriating attitude and his antics offloading his clients today.

“So, essentially, I’m stuck with four more clients with about three months left to get them to renew after they’ve already got sick of Charlie.”

Five rolled his eyes.

“Oh, come on. If you don’t have them renewed within the month then I’ll be damned.”

You looked at him doubtfully.

“You already renewed one after a couple of hours of work,” he said, shrugging, “I bet you could do the rest in your sleep.”

His uncompromising faith in you, even if ill-informed, was nice to feel.

“Do you like your job?” he continued, “You’re good at it.”

“I like it well enough. I’m good at persuading people.”

Five grinned self-consciously here, as if he knew all too well what you’re talking about.

“It sometimes feels a little empty though.” you mused, “It feels like working for ‘the man’, you know?”

He nodded, “Tell me about it. A bureaucratic nightmare?"

“More overly corporate. There are nice people there, don’t misunderstand me, but there’s so much backstabbing and little bits of sex-discrimination that get pushed under the rug.”

He tilted his head and raised a brow, inviting elaboration.

“I get talked over and ignored even though I’m probably one of the best there. I’m left to clean up other Account Managers’ messes, and if I complain then I’m the bitch,” you shook your head, trying to avoid breaking into a rant. “Just look at Charlie, if you want an example. In the elevator on the way down he asked me out for drinks and said I wasn’t his ‘usual type’ .”

Five laughed disbelievingly, shaking his head.

“Do you want me to go back Monday and break his teeth too?”

You laughed too, annoyance balmed by his sympathy. As your laughter subsided, he became thoughtful, staring into his glass.

“I guess I’ve treated you worse," he said.

You stared at your glass too. You couldn’t lie to him. You could maybe forgive, but forgetting wasn’t within your power.

“Perhaps,” you said, “but at least you know what to do with a clitoris. I wouldn’t trust Charlie to know where it is.”

He smiled weakly, but then his mind seemed to drift. In this state of absent thoughtfulness, he removed his jacket as if it was impeding his thinking.When he resumed speaking, he seemed to be on a different train of thought.

“I was…so young. And I knew nothing. Hey, maybe I still don’t. We were home-schooled. That mad old bastard taught me all the quickest ways to kill a woman before I even started noticing them. Can you imagine coming out of that with typical sexual pathology?”

You couldn’t. He leaned forward, raising his eyes but lowering his voice.

“For the first few years on my own, I was obsessed. Going through puberty the first time with nobody. No first kiss, no prom night. It was just Delores and that was before she started talking to me properly.”

His eyes looked intently into yours.

“We lived in a library that was mostly still there. I read anything about sex that I could get my hands on. Everything I could get, thinking about how it would feel to touch a real woman or anyone ever again. It got to the point where I was cross-referencing erotica and old cosmos with medical journals to work out what would actually turn a woman on. It was all I did. If it’s been written about sex pre 2019, I’ve studied it and probably jerked off over it.”

He shook off some of his intensity, chuckled and gave a self-effacing smile.

“But Delores…she loved romance. One of the first things she recommended was Anna Karenina . It pulled me out of my rut... she always knew what I needed and when. I’ve always loved reading, but romance…I guess it was such a different world from the one I was trapped in.”

He smiled guiltily and checked his watch.

“Our table should be ready soon. If you still want to eat with me? After…hearing that?”

“Of course I do,” you said, softly.

After you were seated and food ordered, Five loosened his tie and cleared his throat. Then, as if he couldn’t help it, he reached for the small basket on your table and grabbed a seeded bread roll. Holding it tight, he took a deep breath.

“After everything that happened, I don’t expect you to want to see me again. Tonight? Just think of it as something better to remember me by.”

Though he didn’t meet your eye, he seemed otherwise calm and confident. Only his hands betrayed great tension. They shredded the bread roll compulsively, crumbs falling onto his side plate.

You watched him. He’d scared you badly, put you in physical fear again. He was an emotionally volatile, messy drunk, and yet there was also his pretty, lost eyes; his weird formality; there was his wit; and most of all there was that smile of his. He’d worn that smile a lot this evening, although now it was hidden. Knowing it was there, and there for you , was certainly something.

“Is that what you want?” you asked, full of trembling energy.

“It’s probably for the best,” he said, quietly.

“But is it what you want?” you pushed.

There was something in his voice: a fraction of regret. You watched him now, as he sought out a sunflower seed with his nails and rolled it between his fingers for a moment.

“No.” he admitted, at last, speaking in a low murmur.

You nodded. Neither did you, despite everything. As he continued to decimate the bread roll, you decided:

“Then things have to change,” you said

He looked up, face registering vague surprise.

“First off, you need to leave that bread alone. It’s suffered enough.”

He dropped it obediently onto his side plate, brushing off his hands and flashing a self-conscious smile. As he shifted in his seat and fully met your eyes, you continued to take the reins.

“Like I said last night, I need more intimacy afterwards.”

“And I should have given that to you,” Five nodded.

“-And if you ever make me feel physically threatened again, like last night or when we met, I never want to see you again. No more chances.”

“Of course. Never again."

“If you can promise never to make me regret this," you looked squarely into his face, hoping to convey your firmness, "then we can carry on pretty much as before.”

Five eyed the bread roll again.

“I got a problem.” he said, with a weak attempt at cockiness, “I don’t think I can go on as before.”

You waited.

“I want more.”

He met your gaze again, his eyes an especially clear emerald tonight.

“It's a real bitch, but it turns out I can’t just fuck you without developing feelings," he reached his hand tentatively across the table, eyes very soft.

You extended your own arm and covered his hand with your own as he continued.

"I guess I freaked out last night because part of me knew but didn't want to accept it. It’s always been more than sex for me. I’ve been kidding myself.”

He ran his fingers briefly through his hair.

“I can’t pretend I can bring much to a... relationship - you know what I am - but I can promise to listen to you and learn.”

At this point, your appetizers arrived, clearly to Five’s annoyance, on tenterhooks now as the server took forever to place the food down and top up your wine. With strained politeness, Five tried to dismiss him as quickly as possible and, when he finally swept away to another table, you said:

"What about Delores?"

Five sighed, "I got two ways of thinking on it. First, you were kind of right: she didn't challenge me like a real woman would and… trying to stay faithful to her, especially when I've lost her, is just...it's just hiding from real life."

He took a sip of his drink, steadying himself, "And second, I think that plenty of people move on after having long relationships. It doesn't make what we had any less. She'd want me to be happy."

He swiped at his head, at neat hair that wasn’t at all in his eyes.

You nodded your understanding before continuing, still in slight disbelief.

“So..." you began, fingering your fork nervously, "what would this look like?”

“More like…this,” he said, gesturing between the two of you. “if you want to, of course. A relationship. Dates, romance, exclusivity, just hanging out. You know, properly courting.”

You stopped, your first forkful of food part way to your mouth.

“… courting? ”

He clamored to take the word back immediately, but you talked over him, laughing hard.

“Well, who knew I had the honor of fingerblasting Miss Jane Austen herself?”

He stopped talking, one eyebrow raised. He smiled, the grin developing faster than he could keep a lid on it. And then he began to laugh, at first in contained barks and then fully. In no time at all, he was leaning back in his chair, reddening face screwed into painful lines.

It wasn’t the funniest joke, but it broke the tension, and now he was laughing harder than you’ve ever seen him. Your heart swelled at the sight: this was surely him at his cutest. His helpless laughter was infectious, and you began to laugh too, mostly because he couldn’t stop.

By this point,you were starting to attract the attention of other diners so, with difficulty, you gained control of yourselves and your laughter faded into sniggers.

After dinner, out on the street. He carried the bouquet and you the rose, his other arm draped comfortably around your waist. He leaned his head into yours.

“Are you sure about this?”

“Of course I am.”

“I don’t think I would be in your position.”

“Maybe you don’t give people enough credit.”

“Perhaps.”

He slowed, tucked the bouquet under his arm and guided you to the inner sidewalk. There, he placed one hand on your cheek and the other to your neck.

"Can I kiss you?" he murmured.

You nodded.

He moved his face towards you until you could see his every eyelash. His smallest finger traced over your lips, and it gave you an unexpected frisson. There was no cockiness or cynicism in his face; only earnestness. His lips parted, and he let out a sigh as he brought his lips to yours. At first, they were dry but, as his tension broke, they became soft with your shared tenderness.

The kiss was chaste, his hunger there, but controlled. It was unlike any other he’d ever given you. He wasn’t possessing you, not trying to take you; simply cherishing you.

Breaking the kiss, he leaned his forehead against yours, eyes still closed. When he spoke, his voice was just above a whisper.

“I think we should say goodbye for tonight.”

"No,” you said, pulling on his hand, “come home with me.”

"God, I want to..."

"Then do."

He took a few moments, his cheek turning to rub yours.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

"Then my place is nearer.”

And so he took your hand and led you away.

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