Chapter Text
They start working shortly after their little exchange, after all, there’s a whole heap of work to do. Aidan takes up the place at his desk where he started working yesterday, still feeling a tad bit dazed over the fact he can still call this his workplace. The dread in his stomach is gone, replaced by bubbly excitement and determination. To make this right. To not behave like yesterday. To not let Mr. O’Gorman regret his decision to keep him.
When the older man hands him some files later, Dean’s extra careful to give exact instructions, Aidan notices. He’s to sort through them and list the details; facts about the company, customer’s wishes, etc. Once he’s finished with that he’s instructed to bring them to Mr. O’Gorman’s office. Also, he’s in charge of the main landline. Greet customers, note their requests, inform Mr. O’Gorman and tell the clients to either wait for him to call back or put them through.
It’s a lot to do, but if anything, Aidan is grateful. Both for the amount of work and the detailed instructions. This sounds more like a workday he’s used to, he can totally work with that. Granted, it’s been a while since he last had a normal day at the office and he’s a little nervous when the phone rings for the first time, but it all goes pretty smoothly and from there on, Aidan gains confidence.
He’s more thorough with his tasks then he ever was in his whole life; after all, this is his chance to prove that he is good as his job, both to Mr. O’Gorman and himself. His imprisonment might have left a dent in his self-confidence the size of the Loch Ness, but he’s giving his best.
By midday his stomach reminds Aidan that he didn’t exactly have a huge breakfast and didn’t have dinner the night before either. On top of that, his lack of sleep starts to catch up with him and consequently, he needs more caffeine to stay concentrated – but for that he needs something solid first. Biting his lip, Aidan eyes the closed door to his boss’ office hesitantly. Mr. O’Gorman didn’t say anything about lunch breaks and although those things are settled in his contract, Aidan can’t quite remember the wording. He knows that he has to have a lunch break, that’s obvious. But again, his boss didn’t say anything about the how and when, so…
This internal battle goes on for a few minutes, before Aidan finally musters up the courage to walk towards the older man’s office to ask about it. However, right before he reaches the glass door, it suddenly swings open, almost hitting him in the chest. Mr. O’Gorman nearly collides with him, managing to catch himself the last moment. Which means they are now standing face to face – or well, rather face to chest, since the blond is shorter than Aidan – and Aidan knows that strictly speaking, this is a little too close to be appropriate and he should back away. Immediately. Only, he’s rooted to the spot, partly because his sleep-deprived brain is working more than sluggish and partly because – of the heat the other man radiates. And then this smell hits Aidan’s nostrils, aftershave or cologne maybe, something spicy, yet sweet…
~°~
Listening to Amanda was a good decision, Dean concludes when the first half of the day is over. Now that he has clear instructions, Mr. Turner is in a much better shape than he was yesterday. He’s working concentrated and thoroughly, though when he put through the first client on the phone that day, he had sounded quite nervous. Dean didn’t blame him; back in the day when it was him being an assistant, he’d hated operating the phone as well. It was just so – impersonal. But it’s part of the job nonetheless and needs to be done. Mr. Turner is having no trouble so far and Dean’s pleased – for the time being. He still doesn’t trust his new employee, but, he reminds himself, he doesn’t have a choice if he doesn’t want to lose his business.
Around lunchtime, Dean decides he needs to take a break to eat something; he also wants to give his assistant a new task. He’s been mulling this over in his head for the better part of an hour: he needs to run some errands for a client, but at the same time, he needs to pull up a draft for another client. Both tasks are extremely important, but he can’t do both if he wants them finished today. So, he begrudgingly concludes, he has to trust Mr. Turner with one of them. Wonderful.
Walking out of his own office into the reception area results in him almost running into said Mr. Turner who evidently had been on his way to see him. They’re too close for it to still be decent, but strangely, Dean doesn’t find the motivation to step back. At least not at first.
“Um.”
Great opening, O’Gorman. Brilliant.
“There’s something I need you to do…”
While he says this, Dean’s realizing Mr. Turner is speaking as well. It takes him a moment to process what it is he’s saying:
“I was wondering, uh, it’s lunchtime, sir…”
Awkward silence follows both statements. Dean forces his eyes up from where they were still fixed on the taller man’s throat and the hint of stubble there. Mr. Turner looks nervous, fidgeting slightly on his feet as if he’s uncomfortable. Because they are standing so close to one another or because of the hidden question about lunch?
Dean’s the one who’s taking a (hopefully) discreet step back, out of the other’s personal space. The guy has been in prison, it’s entirely possible he’s not at all comfortable with being close to a person he doesn’t know. What did Amanda tell him only yesterday? ‘Give him space, Deano, everything’s practically alien for him right now.’ Congratulation, he’d failed this one drastically. Hooray…
“Of course, lunch. I was just going to tell you I’ll order something from a Thai place around the corner. Do you want something as well? Do you like Thai?”
A small frown has appeared on his assistant’s face, turning his eyebrows into a triangle. Does this concern the fact that Dean stepped away from him or the Thai food?
“I – sure. I don’t want to be a bother…”
“No!”, Dean practically shouts. “Ehm…no, it’s not, not a bother at all. Here, let me…” He’s walking back to his desk, rummaging through one of his desk drawers. “This is the menu, the noodles are very good. And the dumplings. There’s a vegetarian alternative for each menu as well if you’re…if you don’t eat meat, I mean.”
He’s surprised his hand isn’t shaking when he hands Mr. Turner the leaflet. Christ, what is he doing? Rambling like a 12-year-old simply because he stood too close to his assistant for half a minute? Sure, said assistant is drop-dead gorgeous with his curls and clearly trained body and…
Thankfully, the other man’s still concentrated on the menu, not noticing the slight blush that creeps onto Dean’s face. Pull yourself together, man!, Dean berates himself mentally. This is neither the place nor the time.
“I’ll take a Miso-soup and number 8, fried noodles with chicken – which answers your question regarding the vegetarian, I think. But only if it’s really not a problem…”
There’s a small smile playing around Mr. Turner’s mouth that nearly knocks the breath out of Dean.
“Nonsense, I was ordering something for myself anyway. Oh, and before I forget, I need to talk to you after lunch.”
That sentence wipes the smile clear of the other’s face and the frown is back. Now his assistant looks like a kicked puppy.
“Is – did I do something wrong, sir?”
Again, Dean nearly swallows his own tongue in his haste to reassure his new employee.
“No, no, absolutely not! I just need you to run a few errands for me while I continue working on the flyers for Mr. McDowel’s new club. Nothing to worry about.”
Which lessens the frown, thank goodness.
Lunch is a quiet affair, both men eating at their own desks. It strikes Dean then that he really misses Fern; she’s been his assistant, sure, but she’s also become a friend during the time she’s worked for him – the main reason why she was so skeptical about her replacement. In a whim, Dean pulls his personal phone out of his desk drawer and shoots her a text, asking how her mother’s doing and if she needs anything. He’s just finished his beef dumplings when there’s a soft knock at the door and upon his answer, Mr. Turner enters, looking as if he’s on his way to the gallons.
“Come in, Mr. Turner, it’s really not that bad, I promise.” The blond produces a piece of paper from his printer.
“I need you to take this to the copy shops I usually use”, he hands him a second sheet of paper listing the copy shops he’s worked with before, “and ask for a first draft, what they have in mind concerning color, character and price. Bring all samples to me so I can decide which copy shop we’ll take for the future Mrs and Mrs Crawford’s wedding invitation. Everything clear?”
Giving exact orders is surprisingly easy, Dean notes, although he’s only started today. Apparently that grows on you.
“Yes, sir. I’ll be as fast as I can.”