#come monday I'll be exhausted as per usual

[council-of-beetroot]

Ever just think about how fucking cool jellyfish are?

And meromictic lakes those are fucking cool as well

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Work 7

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: This week is killing me.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Sunday sees your second day in your new position. As you send off your letter of resignation to the agency, you can't help the coil that winds tight in your stomach. There's no going back now.

You close out of the several templates you Googled in your efforts. It's the one thing you know how to do. Willa, the friendly librarian who checked out the PC for you, always said, if you can Google, you can figure it out. Still, you feel like there's so much you don't know that you're not sure a search engine can answer.

You close the laptop and take both your phones with you into the hallway. You have to go check out that gazebo and figure out if you need to make a call about it. Oh, and the fridge was beeping when you filled your bottle, you have to call the maintenance number that flashed up too.

That makes you even more anxious. You've never really been the sort for phone calls. You never had anyone to talk to and everything else was easier done in person. Well, you'll have to muddle through. Work isn't supposed to be fun or easy.

As you near the staircase, your flip chimes. You juggle to answer the right phone. The slim touchscreen is set only to buzz, an option not available on the clumsy burner. You answer the call as you stop on the top stair.

The woman on the other end asks for you by name. You confirm your identity as you hear familiar noises in the background. She's a nurse from the downtown hospital.

“I'm calling to confirm your father's discharge tomorrow at noon,” she says over the rustle of paper and clack of keys, “we'll need the bed so if there is any delay, another day would be added to the invoice.”

“I understand, I'll be there, erm… noon. Tomorrow,” you don't have your notebook so you key a reminder into the other phone. “Thank you for letting me know.”

“Of course, miss, we would recommend you arrive earlier. We have some resources and counseling available on what you can expect getting the patient settled at home,” she continues, “nine would be ideal. I'll be able to add a note for the doctor to check in as well.”

“Oh, yes, I can do that,” you squeak, “thank you.”

“Alright then, I have all that logged. You have a good day.”

“You too,” you utter before the line dies.

Phone calls weren't too bad. You think you did okay with that one. Then again, you didn't think! You're supposed to work tomorrow. Mr. Laufeyson said you could take Wednesday off, and tomorrow is only Monday.

You close the flip phone and stare at it. Oh boy. You really don't want to spoil this. Just the mention of the coming invoice underlines your desperation. You need the money. Your dad needs it.

“Are you finished?” Mr. Laufeyson's timbre drawls from down the hall. You glance over as he stands just in the doorway of his study. You gulp.

“Sorry, Mr. Laufeyson. I didn't mean to disturb–”

“Yet you did,” he insists.

“I was only going to check–”

“Not my concern so long as it's done,” he waves you off, “an important call, I assume, to make such a racket.”

“Mr. Laufeyson, um,” you shove the phones away, one in each of your pockets. “I… could I have the day tomorrow? Instead of Wednesday. My father is getting out of the hospital and–”

“The day? What time?” He snips as he approaches with decisive steps.

“Well, I'm supposed to go at nine,” you explain, “I'll come in Wednesday still.”

“You will come in tomorrow, after all that,” he says. “You can work later then.”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson, but my father will need help getting settled–”

“Figure it out. You agreed to this schedule–”

“I did but–” you stop yourself as his eyes flare, “I will be here in the afternoon, Mr. Laufeyson.”

“You will be. In the appropriate attire, I expect,” he snarls and spins to strut back to his office, swinging the door shut sharply.

You waver at the hard slam. You didn't mean to anger him. You can't help that your father needs you. You thought Mr. Laufeyson would be more understanding, after all, he's the one who pointed out how much you needed the money.

🧹

Your father shoos you away as you try to help him sit. He lets go of the walker and flops back with a grunt, his oxygen tank clinking against the aid’s metal leg. He coughs and snatches around blindly on the cushion for the remote. You retrieve it from the folding table beside him and put it in his hand.

That agitates him further as he growls and jams down the button to turn on the television. You yawn and back away. You still have a full day left ahead of you, and what feels like one behind you. You spent the night doing some last minute tidying to make sure everything is read for your father.

“Smokes,” he snaps his fingers and hacks.

“Er,” you hesitate. You go to find the half-crushed pack you found with him on the floor. You knew better than to throw it out. You return to him, clutching the package nervously, “Dr. Shearer said–”

“Give it to me,” he demands.

You relent and obey. He’s been doubly miserable than before. You feel like an annoying gnat buzzing around his head as he tries to swat you away.

“I made you meals for the weak. They’re all labeled in the fridge–”

“I’m not a goddamn kid,” he scowls and takes the lighter from the folding table.

“I know, but–”

“But I’m home. You probably hate that,” he sneers, “you’d be happy if I died in that hospital.”

You’re taken aback by the accusation. You gasp and shake your head, “of course not, I’m happy you’re here. That you’re alive–”

“Painfully,” he snorts darkly, “the fuck you keep me here for?”

You take a breath and frown. Your eyes tinge and your cheeks pinch, “because you're my dad… and I love you,” you croak.

He doesn’t reply as he pulls out a cigarette and moves the tube from below his nose. You watch him, waiting. He lights the smoke and sucks on it eagerly. You drop your head and give a shrug.

“I gotta go to work,” you say, “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Don’t be slamming around when you come in,” he dusts ash over the freshly vacuumed carpet, “doctor said I needa sleep.”

“I won’t,” you promise and back away.

As you leave the room, your chest plummets in dread. You think of coming home, of finding him like you did before, laying on the floor, lifeless. You sniff and swipe away the speckling of tears. More than you want him to love you, you want him to love himself. You don’t just want him to want you around, you want him to be around.

🧹

You hurry up to Mr. Laufeyson’s gate with your kit and water bottle jostling. You fumble around until you find the smartphone and bring up the digits to punch into the code box. You buzz through and shuffle inside. You set off on your usual path around the back.

You stop at the rear door and try to untangle the strap of the water bottle from your kit. Your hand lingers on the front of the ballooning shirt. You still haven’t gone to look for clothes so you did your best with what you had. One of your father’s forgotten button-ups and a pair of pants that could pass in an office. It’s ill-fitting and scratch but better than jeans.

You get inside and leave your kit in the closet. Today’s a cleaning day but you have a few things to check off the schedule first. With your water bottle bouncing on your hip, you go upstairs and scurry down to the library.

As you enter, you’re surprised to discover the space less than empty. You apologise aloud and choke on the word, ‘mister’. It isn’t the house’s single resident as you expect, no, this figure could not be more different than Mr. Laufeyson. You recognise them, from the dinner.

The blond man faces you as he stands by the window, the drapes open to add the peculiarity of the situation. Like the man, the space is golden with sunlight. You lean back on your heel as you clutch the door handle.

“Hello,” he grins as he greets you in a playful demeanour. You can’t answer. You don’t know if you should. 

Is it rule one; don’t speak unless permitted; or the other rule, do not disturb my guests. You can’t figure out the riddle so you languish in perplexity.

“Aren’t you a sweet little lamb,” he muses as he steps away from the window, placing his hands on the back of the dimpled leather chair. His large hands. If you thought Mr. Laufeyson was tall, this man is even taller and twice as wide. “I remember you. The sweet maid.”

You blink. Where is Mr. Laufeyson? You can’t speak. You’re too terrified; not just of the strange man but of the one you know by name. Your employer would be unhappy to know you spoke out of turn.

“Have you seen my brother at all?” He prompts disregarding your stagnant silence. “Has he spoken of me? His brother? I'm Thor.”

You look down at your hand on the door handle.

“And what is your name?” He asks.

You don’t answer. You know it’s not right but you have no other choice. You pull the door shut and close the man in. You retreat in a half-sprint and barrel back down the stairs. You trip at the bottom and barely save yourself from stumbling to your knees.

You latch onto the banister post to keep your balance and catch your breath. You hear the door above. Oh no, would he follow you? Another door clicks and you look up to find a shadow on the other side of the frosted glass framed in the front entrance.

Mr. Laufeyson steps inside coolly, unbothered as swings the door shut and tugs on the lapel of his suit jacket. His eyes fall on you and he scuffs on his sole, tilting his head in curiosity. You didn’t realise he hadn’t even been there. You look at the ceiling with wide eyes; so how was the other man inside?

“Well, there you are,” he says matter-of-factly, “this place is sore in need of a dusting–”

Laufeyson is interrupted by a clamour of footsteps above. You let go of the banister and sidle away as his green eyes flick to the top to the staircase. You shy away and listen as the man descends in a series of thunder thumps. You turn to peek down the hall, wanting to hide in your chores.

“Stay,” Laufeyson commands. You turn back to him as he points at your feet. You stop in place and sway. He faces his visitor as he comes to the bottom stair, “brother, what is the meaning of this intrusion?”

“Can I not come see my baby brother?” The other man; the stranger; his brother, called Thor, booms.

“You may, when you warn me of it,” Laufeyson rebuffs.

“Ah, don’t be so grim,” Thor claps his shoulders and is swiftly shrugged off, “this place is always so dark. I hope you don’t mind, I opened a few windows.”

“I do mind,” Laufeyson says, “you do always presume.”

“And you are always offer such a warm welcome,” he tries to tap Laufeyson’s cheek but is batted away. The dark of the brothers backs up with a scoff. “Ah, and there she is. I was only just coming to find the little maid. She rushed off so suddenly–”

“You don’t need to bother with her,” Laufeyson dismissed with a slice of his hand through the air, “maid,” he points at you again, “back to work.”

You lean back on your heel, ready to disappear.

“Ah, don’t be so rude, brother. She is sweet. You get more bees with honey–”

“Do not tell me how to run my house,” Laufeyson growls, an edge in his voice you’ve never heard before. Dangerous and dark.

“Is she not doing you a service? A please would be appropriate–”

“You are not mother. I don’t need you to mind my manners,” Laufeyson girds and nears his brother, unflinching even as he comes up a few inches short of chest to chest, “nor do you need to worry for my staff. She does not take orders from you.”

“And I suppose that’s all she gets from you,” Thor chuckles.

You furrow your brow, stunned by their spat. You’re not quite sure what that last bit meant. You work for Mr. Laufeyson so of course he would tell you what to do. And why are they so volatile? They’re brothers. You don’t have any siblings but you always wanted one. So that you had a friend. So you weren’t alone. 

“Maid, go,” Laufeyson repeats, “now.”

Your eyes widen and you nod. You quickly turn and rush down the hall to the closet. You’re shaking as you try to sort out one phone from the other and find the old list of tasks. You can hardly steady your hands to get a pair of gloves on.

You take your time in the back of the house as you hear the men’s footfalls climb the staircase. You let your nerves settle just a little. You’re alone, for now, and your mission is simple. Clean and stay unseen.

[the-firebird69]

This is the look and it's aerodynamic a lot of fairings even on Japanese motorcycles make it slower this will make it a little faster because the way it's designed it's actually designed to go through the air and cut through it even the fender and the exhaust too everything is made together and this is what year Michael look like the Honda 650 or Honda 750 or they make a 350 all of them will go much faster the Honda 350 will go from 135 mph top speed with a full kit which is the way we sell it to 195 miles per hour it's a big leap it's a different class Honda 650 we went over the Honda 750 CBR will go from 185 mph and that's right it doesn't go much faster than the 650 stock when you add the speed kit to make it into a Ducati it will go 320 mph.

Meghan Markle says oh my God

We're going to have a good time with it she says and it's going to be a nice crotch rocket

And as a reason that it's because he's excited about it and these things are really really fast that is changing a bike a little bit to get a lot out of it the original Ducati the 750 top speed is 300 mph and that's really pushing it it's actually about 292 mph so yes you would be faster they don't cost as much as they used to it's not really true the dealer has prices but you can't get them at all you can't get one of those things if someone paid you our son could buy one but nobody else. And he doesn't have the money for it but still it is a very sought after bike and they can't produce enough they don't have enough out there matter of fact they're not making enough to provide enough for Italy.

This is going to be a number one seller and come Monday we're going to have our kit ready and our fairings are sturdy okay that's how you can tell and it will cost that much the kid won't cost that much and there's a few other pointers we will have a complete kit all the trim and any wires and so forth that you need to change lots leave stuff out.

Thor Freya

Wow this is a great idea I'm going to start making my kid today as for my people use Honda CB models are everywhere and he says he might dip into the 70s and make it as like a '80s Ducati for that particular year they look different we will probably do that too those things are still around but there's tons of them from the 90s and they all look like the new one and it's going to be an easy conversion and yeah if you don't make the fairing solid it doesn't mean anything it's not worth trying but the shape makes it faster this is going to be awesome I once took a Ducati fairing and I tried to put it on a CB 650 and it actually fit which is really stupid cuz you can buy them aftermarket and it's going to be millions of kids but people want the thing so you just put it together and you don't have to modify it and I had to modify it to get it to work so they probably will take it in and modify it and sell the kit and boy is that easy it's already made and it's pretty sturdy you have to check

Brad

The speed difference is remarkable and I would have to check that and from memory I believe it's true

Trump

And yeah I've made these before and a lot of them and it works very well it made like 10,000 of them and from the 750 is that fast it's a superbike and those are extremely fast out there everybody that kind of speed is fast and accelerations fast and the way to do it these days they'll probably make the new one faster than what they said probably about 350 cuz it's got better motors and gearing you put the new exhaust on it freeze it up I'll tell you we're going to sell a ton of these too and there's companies that make the fairings people are calling them now

Terry c

Usually they make them in house only if that's how it goes and there's tons of them we're going to do it for ourselves it's a great idea

Thor Freya

Good now get ready for today it's an awesome idea and I thank you for it

Hera the Templar conversion to Enduro kit we're going to start on Monday too selling it and it's a 250 and a 125 and the kit is about $300 is more expensive ones that you change the fairings tomorrow Street look but really it's tires and a few other things and then it's got it's a DOT approved it's more than 300 because of the exhaust it's around $1,200 and we don't mess with the top end you don't have to it's not true you have to change the manifold in the carburetor and so liquid cooled too but it's worth it on this bike so we're going to start selling those kits and he says it probably won't sell in that format but there's a famous that's like a street racer and it is a Ducati and we can make it for these Chinese dirt bikes that are 250s cuz now they have 17 18 horsepower and we do have someone who did it and they go to the Ducati street racer and it makes it faster because of who put his speed kit when you first get the bike they go about 90 miles an hour and the Templar goes 110 even with the nobbies and you change it out and the regular Chinese dirt bikes or Enduro really know it's the dirt bike the enduros are slower and you don't want the EFI to convert but if you take the Chinese one the base model it goes after you put the street racer kit how about 210 mph , but the expo Templar has more power and when you convert it it goes from the 110 mph with 130 lb person to 280 mph and it looks like a street bike but these kids are going to be around $6,000 but you're buying a bike that's $1,500 in either case and you're ending up with a Ducati label on the tank which is factory applied and a Ducati emblem on the cases and the Ducati look and speed and it'll be about the same as Ducati street racer speed 280 the other one is a little bit slower yeah but it's really the speed of the Kawasaki Ninja 650 just saying 550 which is probably true but so what is it 250 and it's liquid cool with the kit. Now these are bikes that are already out there and you're going to see that this sells a lot and more than the CBR even though that will make a super bike every time the Templar x pro will make a superbike just not over 300 and It will still have off-road ability

Hera

Zues

I've done this as well and you have people are excited about this and I've done it with the new Chinese dirt bike not the Enduro. I got about 220 miles per hour and they're not lying it is damn fast and I did it with the ex-pro Templar and people don't believe it but I had to do it because I did it with the other ones I got about 290 mph and I weighed 150 lb this thing flies that's superbike speed and top of the line and I'll tell you what it's a Chinese 250 so watch out okay and these things are light and their motives work very well and I did make it liquid cool and they fly this is a great idea we're going to start making these

Terry c

Olympus

[leam1983]

Bolster

Shift's over, it's the dogpile, yadda yadda.

Walt practically crushes me against him, and I need a second to realize what's going on. He wants me on top, but he doesn't seem particularly primed, if you catch my drift. I send him a quizzical glance.

"Just get up there, sport," he says. "You're recovering, but a little Baby Treatment won't harm, I think."

What he calls the Baby Treatment is my straddling his belly and lying on his chest, the way some fathers sometimes rest their kids on their belly while resting. Soon enough one arm is bracing my legs and the other arm is across my back, with my head pressing against one of his cheeks.

I follow his instructions: I give in, slow down, give him my weight, follow his own breath. I feel it deepen, feel him sink down at his usual pace - of which I'll forever be jealous. I'm still kicking thoughts around that his jaw's already hanging, the first of a few snores almost timidly leaving him. He comes back to something approaching wakefulness a few minutes later, but doesn't open his eyes. He tunelessly hums for a few moments, having freed one hand to stroke Sarah's forearm.

I sink. I barely have time to worry about staining Walt's vest or his necktie with my drool that all thought leaves me. By my reckoning, I wake up mere moments later. By the sky's, dusk has fallen. We're getting closer to 9 PM than anything else, and we skipped our dinner times. Walt's managed to sink too, sans CPAP, and I have to thank happenstance for the fact that my parents are already asleep on the other side of our shared wall. I also don't need much to realize that I've effectively slobberd all over Walt's neckline. Eventually, my stirring awake wakes him up.

"Sorry about your shirt," I say, feeling my voice fray before I realize what's going on. His endeared grumble is the gut punch I didn't know I needed, and I start sobbing the last few days' worth of exhaustion out of my system. Walt immediately connects the dots and strokes my back.

People think effusion refers to desperate declarations, but in that moment, there's nothing sweeter or more possibly loving than Walt massaging my back with one hand while keeping his voice in his registry's lower ends.

I'm fine, he says. I'm okay. I'm safe, warm and loved. I can cry as much as I need to. And boy howdy, do I need to.

Wisely, Walt doesn't offer solutions in the immediate. He lets me cry, quietly soothes me, waits for the waterworks to dry and tolerates the mess I'm making on his favourite vest and shirt. It's weird, really - being exhausted is exhausting.

Then, softly, like a lover's promise:

"I'm cutting your hours and finishing on four o' clock starting this Monday. I'll also start booking interviews for people that could help you with your Pixie plan. Am I saying it right?"

I laugh and sniffle. "Its PXE Boot, but close enough. It means letting a remote server handle all Windows deployments. What are we going to do from four to six?"

Walt silently chuckles, his mass shaking underneath me. "Hopefully nothing. We're made for this, you and I. Chainsaw noises, drool, daytime naps... This is better than sex, honestly."

My rational brain catches up. "If you're slashing my hours, my pay's going down, right?"

Another tiny earthquake shakes me. "I'll, uh, forget to remove that extra hour from your paycheck. Every week."

I sigh, bringing up nepotism as a logical negative. He grumbles, bringing up nepotism as a positive.

"Plus, I'm the CEO," he then jokes. "What I say goes, and I say you deserve to be compensated for one hour per weekday spent gracing your employer's generous frame."

I laugh. "You mean ample."

He smiles. "No, Rubenesque."

"Try for Fernando Botero, instead. You're like one of his well-dressed beach balls."

We kiss. "Call me Wilson," he jokes. I'm, uh, nowhere near sticking a bloody handprint on his face, honestly.

We kiss again. God, I wish that were it. No job, no logistics - just this.

"Tell me I'm safe, again."

He does.

"Tell me I'm warm."

He does.

"Tell me I'm loved."

He slowly, gently crushes me against him. "The only two persons I know who could be loved as much as you are - you're living with."

And then he farts - his fattouche salad coming through at the worst possible moment. The mood being killed so effectively is beyond hilarious to me.

God, I love this big lug so much.

Happy weekend, folks.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Work 6

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: I had the worst Monday that could have ever existed. Onto Tuesday.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

"I trust this should be amenable to your work," Mr. Laufeyson holds open the door along the east wall of his study. One you've never opened before though you're familiar with the space within. The library also opens into the hallway and keeps you busier than many of the other rooms. "When you should require it. I expect much of your work will keep you afoot."

You peer past him, his tall figure like a second shadow. You clutch your kit tight and nod. You didn't exactly bring the tools for this new role.

"I should have a blank ledger somewhere, oh and a pen of course," he advises, "given our new... arrangement, I would require a contact point."

You nod and tear your attention from the full shelves and luxurious velvet chaise. You won't get to enjoy those but they give the space a much more welcome feel than the rest of the house. You face Mr. Laufeyson as he keeps the door propped open with his foot. He slides out his phone as if it's a task. 

"Never to worry, I wouldn't bother you much so long as you do your work adequately," he assures, "but in case of... emergency."

"Oh, erm," you sputter and reach into your hoodie pocket, revealing the tiny flip phone.

"Hm, vintage," he muses, "as you would."

He holds his phone, gesturing to it with his other hand. You teethe your lip before you recall the digits of your number. Your plan doesn't include a lot of talk minutes but he doesn't promise much of that. He keys them into his screen.

"You'll have mine," he taps his thumb and your phone chimes. "In case."

"Thanks, uh, Mr. Laufeyson."

"Mmmm," he hums again. "Suppose you would need some sort of proper device, a computer of sorts." He clucks and checks his watch, dropping his arm with a huff, "I've an important event shortly, I'll try to venture by the electronics shop before I return.”

You nod and fold your phone, slipping it away as you peek back into the library. He inhales deeply, "suppose you should begin. The list is on the writing desk.”

You accept the command easily. You’re even thankful for it. It gives you a proper reason to find distance. You go to the desk and look over the typed list. You don’t sit, hesitating as you wonder if it would seem lazy, maybe even presumptuous.

“Let me fetch that ledger,” he says before letting the door drift closed.

You run your finger over the top line. ‘Create a schedule’. Hmmm. You look over the bullets that fill the paper. You can only assume he refers to all of that. It’s straightforward, you can handle a schedule. It’s everything that comes after that gives you doubt.

“And you’ll have to review what my wife, ex that is, left in shambles,” Mr. Laufeyson interrupts as he pushes through again. “Her little folder is here. She was always fond of order, even though she left me in much less. This is what’s left of her handiwork,” he approaches coolly and sets down a plain fawn coloured ledger, a fountain pen, and a white folder with golden flowers on it.

“Thanks,” you eke out as his hands linger on the edges.

You sense his gaze, discerning and weighty. He leans forward slightly and you nearly take a step across as he points to the list. You follow the line of his arm and his extended finger.

“Another point to add, ‘acquire work attire’,” he instructs and turns his hand over, flippant flicking his finger in a gesture to your plain hoodie and worn gray denim. “I trust my pay should afford that necessity easily, however should you require a write-off, I suppose it could be argued as a professional expense.”

“Sorry, Mr. Laufeyson,” you frown in embarrassment, “I didn’t…” You look down at yourself, wanting to hide behind your arms. 

“You wouldn’t think of it, just a maid,” he dismisses, “very well, I think you have more than enough to begin. I should be some hours.”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson,” you agree. He is correct, there is more than enough to keep you busy.

“I will review the schedule upon my return,” he affirms. “Should you require refreshment, you recall where to go.”

You nod and cautiously reach for the ledger, sliding it closer as he backs up. You slowly sit, hovering before you let yourself rest. He lingers by the door as you roll the pen aside and put the ledger and folder parallel. You open the former and line up the list inside the cover, resuming your perusal of the bullet points.

The door closes and you keep your attention to the paper. You don’t dare a glance up until you hear his muffled footfalls cross his study. You feel as if he’s waiting for you to make a mistake. You think you might be too.

🧹

A clunk sharply pierces the tenuous peace of the empty house. You hadn’t heard the door or his approach, not even right next door, not until the hefty thunk. You listen but keep your nose down. 

You’re just about done with the schedule. Two cleans throughout the week to spread the duties evenly. The main floor on Mondays, and the upper on Thursday. You’ll be able to fit in an unexpected tidying between your other to-dos.

You flutter through the pretty white and gold folder. The embossed suede speaks of a sophisticated owner. You wonder why she would ever abandon it, though you assume, a separation may not inspire sentiment.

You turn over another note. This one about the gazebo. A blurb on a repair. You’ll have too go out and check to see if it was actually done, there’s no confirmation of the job. You stop to admire her loopy writing, as elegant as the folder.

The door opens without pretense. You sit up and wiggle the pen between your index and thumb. Mr. Laufeyson as a flat white box in his hand, along with a smaller one on top. He does not near you, instead place his lot on the square table by the window.

“Here,” he orders shortly.

You rise and leave the pen in the centre of the ledger. You cross to him as he moves the smaller box aside and unfolds the two smaller flaps from the large one. You can’t help but watch curiously.

“This should suffice,” he shimmies out the cardboard insert, revealing a sleek silver laptop, “hmm?”

He shifts it towards you and lets you look it over. You put your hands behind you to keep from touching. You lean in just a little.

“It looks nice, Mr. Laufeyson. Thank you.”

“For your work, of course. These days, it is a requirement. And this,” he takes the smaller box and offers it up, “a proper work phone. It is more professional. Any calls on my behalf, you will make on this. That relic you have won’t do much.”

“Uh, yes, Mr. Laufeyson, that’s really thoughtful.”

“Thoughtful? Practical. Company property, of course,” he insists, “another point to add. Set these up. They should be functioning by the end of the day. You’ll need them to keep up with the rest of your tasks.”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson. I will put it on the list.”

“Mm,” he circles around you, striding to the writing desk before you can react. You follow at a few paces, not wanting to crowd him. He takes the pen and uncaps it. He adds the bullet himself. “There you are.”

“Thank you, Mr. Laufeyson,” you recite again.

He snaps the lid on the pen and his lips twitch, not quite curving, “I’ll review,” he snatches up the open ledger, your schedule open to see. You almost rush forward. You meant to rewrite it before you handed it over. It has scribbles all over it. You won’t argue.

“Go on,” he steps around the desk, waving to the side dismissively.

You return to the table and gather the laptop and phone, along with the stray box. You bring them back to the writing desk and stay standing as you free the laptop from the insert. You let your eyes edge along the top of your vision as Mr. Laufeyson sits on the chaise and browses the ledger.

You refocus and investigate the cord buried in the box as a collection of booklets fall out. You sort through them and find the one in English. You start on the front page, reading over the different buttons and features. The diagram is especially helpful. You’ve never had a computer before, not that it belongs to you.

You squint as you read the precautions. Your mind flits back and forth between your current task and everything beyond. You would go to the library sometimes and spend an hour on the PC, and in school you did all your work in the resource room. This is much fancier than any of the boxy computers you’d used before.

It says you should plug it in and charge to full before booting. You unravel the cord and search for an outlet against the wall. There’s one not far. You hook up the cord to the port on the side of the slender laptop then trail it to the wall. The little light on the side glows yellow.

Then you take the little box. A phone. The flip phone was second-hand but this is shiny and new. You’re like a kid at Christmas, not that you got much for the holiday, even when you were younger.

You slide out the small device. Your hand is unused to it. It’s not clunky like your phone. It feels easy to drop even if it’s bigger than the flip. You peel off the plastic film around the border and across the screen.

You take out the booklet and read it as closely as the first. Same thing; charge before use. You don’t want to mess up any of this. You plug it in above the computer and place it on the closed lid. You carefully sit in the chair, careful not to jostle the cords.

You peek up and find Mr. Laufeyson looking at you over the top of the ledger. His green eyes gleam and flick back down to the page. You hope he doesn’t see how clueless you are. This stuff that’s all so normal to everyone else is new to you. A job alone is a novelty still.

“You may ask it,” he says abruptly.

You wince and shrug. You don’t know what he means. His brows tweak in amusement.

“You’ve not asked about time off. I am unaware of your previous commitment, what days you had to yourself.”

You didn’t think of it but he does seem to think of everything. You twiddle your fingers on the desk. You would work as much as you need to. You still haven’t seen the final hospital bill.

“Mr. Laufeyson, I worked three shifts per week, but I was on probation,” you explain carefully, “I can work more than that.”

“How much is more?” He wonders, his thumb tapping the corner of the ledger.

You blink. You don’t know what’s appropriate. You don’t want to say too little and come off lazy, or say too much and seem ignorant. 

“Six?” You utter, “six days, Mr. Laufeyson?”

His thumb stills, “per week?”

You nod. His eyes narrow and his lips thin in consideration.

“Should do,” he accepts and his eyes fall back to the page.

You think you got the right answer. You look down at the bullet points. It seems like a lot written out but surely it can’t be. Besides, the more you think about it, the more exciting it is. This house is so beautiful and this list means you get to explore it.

You don’t sink too deep into the moment of optimism. Mr. Laufeyson stands, still intent on the ledger. He paces blindly around the library, a click of his tongue as he reviews your handwriting.

“There will be some nights,” he intones, “other occasions where I require you in the evening.”

“Mr. Laufeyson,” you accept as you flutter the pages of the laptop instruction booklet.

“Mm,” he hums flatly, “I do think the cook liked you, didn’t she? Suppose we might retain that service for the time being.”

You nod and make a note in the corner of the list; simply, Corissa. He shuts the ledger and grips it tight. He walks around the table then turns back, coming back to you. He lays down the book on the desk.

“I won’t know until the day in question. You understand, this would be on-call. I’ve a busy life and so will you,” he girds, leaning on the book as he bends over the desk. “You will be doing more than watching little birds flapping around the garden.”

You nearly recoil as he plucks the memory out so precisely. That was careless of you. You should’ve kept your head down and just got to work. It’s a warning you’ll remember.

“I won’t, Mr. Laufeyson, I understand,” you assure.

“Not to say that you can’t,” he stands and pushes the bottom of his jacket back, hooking his thumbs in his pockets, “but only when there are no other pressing matters.”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson.”

He sighs and tilts his head back, “you must resist distractions. You are prone to it. I’ve noticed.”

You chew your lip and accept the remonstrance. You’ll take it instead as advice. He is right, you do find yourself bewitched by this place at times.

“Like that man,” he says staunchly, “don’t think I forgot. I will warn you, he is my brother… regrettably. He is well above the staff and he knows it.”

You take the hint. It’s improper of you to stare. Even if he had touched you. Or maybe, you misinterpreted an accident.

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson.”

“Hear me when I tell you, he is not interested in the likes of you,” he sniffs, “with any luck, he won’t be much around for you to believe anything of the like.”

You nod and pick up the pen, nervously rolling it between your fingers. His reproach scalds your cheek. To think he assumes you would ever think of something like that. That you might encourage a stranger in that way.

He watches you for a moment before he spins away. He checks the time on his wrist as you reach for the ledger.

“Very well, I must be at my own work,” he declares, “as I trust you will be diligent in your own.”