Parties for Hosting
According to a recently published online listicle, employees at Grimmauld Consultancy are not only provided the standard lunch break, but actually required to leave their desks to take it.
Officially, this is true. Sirius came up with the rule when he noticed that his assistant never seemed to take a break, then managed to convince the board that implementing it company-wide would increase productivity and good press. And he was right on both counts; according to company metrics, productivity is up overall, and according to 25 Best Firms in Consulting and Professional Management, Grimmauld is one of the best firms to work for in London, based on their practices.
The goal of the lunch break rule is, of course, to set a clear boundary between being “on the clock” and “on my lunch break.” To get people away from their desks and out into the world -- or, at least, into the cafe on the first floor or the chippy across the street. To create some semblance of work-life balance in a community of people for whom “work” and “life” are often synonymous.
In practice, though, the rule is not strictly enforced. It’s not as if taking a break is frowned upon, necessarily; it’s just that Grimmauld as an organization doesn’t particularly care where employees eat their lunch, or whether they eat one at all. Everyone who reports to Sirius knows that they are expected to take a half-hour lunch break and two fifteens every day, but he can only speak for his own team.
Sirius bites into his egg and cress sandwich as he scrolls through the listicle on his mobile. Grimmauld is the biggest company in the Top 10, but it has only been rated number six overall. Good news, in Sirius’s opinion, but only time will tell how the boss will react.
Swiveling around in his chair, Sirius feels around in one of his messy desk drawers for a pad of sticky notes, then jots down a reminder to himself to connect with the marketing team about this. He thinks for a second, then jots another quick note. The CEO should probably be looped into the discussion, too, unpredictable though he may be. Usually, he considers listicles below him, but this close to the end of the fiscal year, it’s better safe than sorry.
Sirius puts his pen down and takes another bite of his egg and cress. Then, after a moment, he peels back the top bread to look for any sign of cress, because he certainly can’t taste any.
Most days, Sirius breaks his own rule. As the Chief Operating Officer of Grimmauld Consultancy, he often has too much work to do to justify putting it down while he eats whatever shite sandwich they have in the cafe that day. And even if he does put down his work, it’s not as if he has something better to do. What’s the difference, really, between eating alone at a cafe table and scrolling mindlessly through Money Week articles, or eating alone at his desk and going over the numbers for the Gala one more time?
Besides, his office is nice. It’s on the top floor of the building, and he has a great view of the city from his office window. He could do without the other window -- the one that replaces an entire interior wall of the office, leaving him visible from the hallway -- but then again, Sirius is used to feeling observed. To be the COO of Grimmauld Consultancy and heir to the Black family fortune might mean money and clout and even a spot on Forbes’ 30 Under 30 last year, but it also means being watched, examined, picked-apart. Observed. It just comes with the territory.
“Mr. Black?”
Sirius looks up to see his assistant leaning through the doorway to his office. “Mary,” he says, putting down his poor excuse for an egg and cress sandwich and gesturing for her to step inside.
Mary smiles apologetically as she comes fully into the room. She’s dressed very festively today. Her red eyeshadow matches what appears to be a vintage ugly Christmas sweater -- the expensive kind of vintage, of course -- and a strip of dark skin peeks out from between the hem of her plaid skirt and the tops of her suede, over-the-knee boots. Sirius wonders how she’s managing that in the subzero temperature. “Sorry to interrupt your lunch,” she says, tugging absently at the bottom of her skirt, “but people have been calling me all morning saying they can’t get through to you. And when I tried from my desk, I couldn’t get through either.”
Sirius nods thoughtfully. “That could have something to do with the fact that I’ve unplugged my phone.” He gestures to the corner of his desk where his phone sits, the cord dangling off the edge of the desk and not attached to anything.
“Yes, that could have something to do with it,” Mary agrees, amused. “And might I ask why you did that?”
Sirius laughs humorlessly. “The Gala,” he says simply, as if that explains everything. And judging by the way Mary hums in understanding, he supposes it does.
Every year, donors, board members, politicians, and whatever other shady characters have contributed to the company’s continued success this year, either above-board or below-deck, are invited to a top-secret location for the Grimmauld Consultancy Annual Christmas Eve Gala. All night, Sirius has to listen to speeches about capital and growth and “family values,” play nice with sweaty men who hold the same outdated views as his parents, fend off thinly-veiled advances from hungry-looking women, and try not to look too miserable or get too drunk.
The Gala was another of Sirius’s ideas; one of his first as COO. It is also the bane of his existence. The only good thing about planning the damn thing is that he can personally make sure there is an open bar.
“And besides,” he says through another bite, “if anyone really needs to get to me, I have my mobile.”
Mary nods in understanding. “Well, Mr. Black called the office phone--”
“Which one?” The question comes out muffled around a mouthful of congealed egg and mayonnaise (and no cress at all, Sirius is now sure, because this sandwich is some sort of imposter), but Mary seems to understand.
“The CFO. He says it’s important--”
“It’s probably not,” Sirius mutters.
“--and to call him back as soon as you’re done with lunch,” she continues, ignoring Sirius’s interruption. “And you also got a call from a lawyer who claims to represent a family member of yours.”
“Which family member?”
“I believe she said she was representing someone named Alfred Black. No, that’s not it. Albert?”
“Alphard?” Sirius has stopped chewing, suddenly interested.
“You would know better than I would.” Mary puts a pink memo in front of him. “Here's her number. She was calling from the US, so keep long distance fees in mind when you call back.”
Sirius puts down his sandwich and picks up the memo. He hasn’t seen his uncle in almost a decade. No one in the family has.
Eight years ago, less than a week after Sirius’s graduation from university, Alphard quit his job at Grimmauld with no notice and ran off to the States with a man named Timothy. It was a huge scandal; while company policy does not dictate what an employee can or cannot do on their own time, Grimmauld as a corporation stands staunchly in favor of traditional, family values. So when a high ranking executive -- one who shares the Black name, no less -- abandoned his post, publicly and suddenly, in order to pursue a relationship with not only a man but an American man, it made news. Leaders at Grimmauld were scrambling, the media was in a frenzy, and Sirius, fresh out of university, had to step into the freshly-vacated position years sooner than anticipated.
At first, Sirius didn’t try to get in contact with Alphard because he was busy adjusting to his new role. Then, it was because he was busy in general. Then, it was because Alphard left no number, no address, nothing -- and Sirius realized his uncle didn’t want to be found. It stung to lose one of the only Blacks that were tolerable to Sirius, but even at twenty-two, he understood his family's reach. Still, though, Sirius never stopped wondering what his uncle was up to in the States.
He finds himself wondering exactly that, now. What’s the old man up to these days? And why on earth is his lawyer calling Sirius at Grimmauld, where he knows his calls aren’t welcome?
“Two other people called,” Mary continues. “I wrote down their names and numbers in case you wanted to check in, but neither seemed particularly important.”
“Thanks, Mary.” Sirius puts the memo back down and offers his assistant a charming smile. “You’re the best.”
“I am,” she agrees, then hesitates before leaving. “Need anything else?”
“What I need is for you to take a break.” Sirius stands, stretching out fully for the first time today, and leans against his desk, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “You work too hard.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Can’t take a break when I have to be screening your calls all day.”
Sirius reaches for the phone and plugs the cord back in. “There,” he says with a flourish of his hand. “Take your lunch.”
Mary smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Black.”
“How many times do I have to ask you to call me Sirius?”
“Let me know if you need anything else, Mr. Black,” she calls over her shoulder, already gone from the office.
Sirius smirks as he watches her walk away through the glass wall. The phone starts ringing, and as soon as Mary is out of his eyeline, he unplugs it again. This damn Gala.
He picks up the egg and cress to take another bite, then decides that he’s had enough to sustain him for the rest of the day -- and it’s really just an egg mayonnaise, anyway -- and tosses it into the bin beside his desk. Figuring he should probably get his family drama out of the way during his lunch break, he picks up his mobile and dials the number from Mary’s memo.
The other party answers on the first ring. “Mr. Black,” says a voice with an American accent, “great to hear from you. Thank you for returning my call so promptly,”
“Erm,” says Sirius, taken aback by how quickly she answered. “Yes, hello. Sorry, I-- How did you know this was--?”
“I know a lot of things,” she answers before he can finish asking the question. “My name is Marlene McKinnon. I am Alphard Black’s lawyer, and I am calling to discuss his last will and testament.”
“His--” Sirius’s mind goes blank. “Wait. Alphard’s--”
“Your uncle has named you the executor of his estate,” Marlene continues, “and there are a lot of things we need to--”
“Alphard’s dead?”
The other line is silent for a moment. When Marlene does speak again, her professionalism and efficiency have melted into something a bit softer. “I am very sorry if this is how you’re finding out about his passing,” she says. “I was under the impression that you two were close.”
“We were,” Sirius defends. “I mean, well, we hadn’t talked in years, which is why-- but we were always--”
“You don’t have to explain anything to me.” The efficiency in Marlene’s voice is back. “I have a lot I need to discuss with you. About his will. How soon can you get out here?”
“Where?”
“Godric’s Hollow.”
“Sorry?”
“My office is in New York, though. City, of course. It’s about a forty-minute train ride from your uncle's estate.”
Sirius glances at his calendar. The Gala is basically taken care of; all that’s left to do is attend, and that isn’t for three weeks yet. There are, of course, the day-to-day operations of the company for Sirius to consider, but he is, as usual, slightly ahead of schedule. His father and brother could spare him for a few days. And he could probably be back at work before the end of next week, depending on how much there is to figure out in the States. Taking time off is not against the rules, of course, but it is frowned upon, especially around the holidays. But Sirius figures this constitutes enough of an emergency that even his parents can’t blame him for it, at least not entirely.
“Alright,” he says finally. “Tell me where to go. I’ll fly out there tonight and we’ll work it out.”
“Fantastic.”
As Marlene tells him the details, Sirius looks at flights. It’s Thursday, and he doesn’t want to have to wait until after the weekend to get started, so he will fly out after work tonight, meet Marlene in the city first thing tomorrow morning, then use the weekend to familiarize himself with Alphard’s property. With any luck, there won’t be too many loose ends to tie up, and he can be home as soon as Tuesday morning. Wednesday, at the latest.
“I’m pretty booked tomorrow,” Marlene is saying now, “but my first meeting isn’t until ten, if you want to come in first thing.”
“Perfect,” Sirius chimes. “Nine works for me.” He jots it down on a sticky note, then drops his pen and sighs. “Ms. McKinnon?”
“Yes?”
“How did he pass?”
“Cancer.” She hesitates. “It was… expected. He had it for a long time.”
Sirius nods, swallowing around something hard in his throat. Then he realizes Marlene can’t see him, so he says, “Thank you.”
A pause. “Mr. Black--”
“Call me Sirius, please.”
“Sirius,” Marlene corrects. “I want to apologize again for the way you found out.”
“That’s alright, Ms. McKinnon.” He clears his throat. “Thank you for your call. I will see you tomorrow.”
“Have a safe flight.”
She hangs up, and Sirius, alone in his office again, slumps into his chair and stares out the window. It's a bit foggy, and the people below move with purpose, clutching their pea coats closed to block out the cold air. It's a typical December day in London, but the view from up here is grayer and more daunting, somehow, than it was moments ago. And Uncle Alphard is dead.
After a while, he stops seeing the outside world at all and starts seeing his reflection instead, and he has to look away.
He is in the middle of purchasing his plane ticket online when he hears frantic voices just outside his office.
“Mr. Black!” That’s Mary. “Mr. Black, I have to ask you to please wait out here in the lobby--”
“Thank you for the suggestion,” says a lower voice, “but I don’t need permission to see my own brother.”
“Mr. Black, please--”
Sirius looks up when he hears the door to his office open. Regulus is almost a spitting image of Sirius, down to the high cheekbones and grey eyes. But while Sirius’s hair is long, pulled back and out of his face for work, Regulus has a crew cut. And while Sirius wakes up every morning and pushes the boundaries of “business professional” -- today wearing a pair of slacks and a button-down shirt that is perhaps one undone button short of being completely inappropriate for work -- Regulus wears an exceptionally tailored suit and tie that you can tell is designer by the way he carries himself.
“I’m so sorry, Sirius,” Mary says from behind Regulus. “I tried to keep him out here, but he -- I wasn’t getting through to your landline, and he just--”
“It’s alright, Mary.” Sirius puts up a hand, and Mary abandons what she was saying and lets out the rest of her breath on an exhale. “He’s here now.” Sirius looks at his brother, who is adjusting the cuff on his suit. Regulus catches his eye and grins.
“Alright,” Mary says, hesitating in the doorway.
“I’ll let you know if I need anything.” He waves a hand, and Mary gives him a terse nod before returning to her desk.
As soon as she’s gone, Regulus flops into a chair and grabs a stress ball off Sirius’s desk. It’s something Sirius received from one of Grimmauld’s sponsors at some event or another, red and shaped like an anatomical heart.
“You let her call you Sirius?” Regulus squeezes the heart between his fingers and props his feet up on Sirius’s desk.
“It’s my name, isn’t it?” Sirius sits down behind his desk and pushes his brother’s feet off. Regulus sits up straight.
“Well, yeah, but mine just calls me Mr. Black.” Regulus is referring to his own assistant. As the Chief Financial Officer of the company, he has almost as much to do as Sirius does, but unlike Sirius, he does it with grace and poise and enthusiasm, as if this is what he was always meant to do. Which, Sirius supposed, he was. He is -- they both are, really. “I don’t even know her name.”
“It’s Leann,” Sirius says. Regulus frowns at him, so he clarifies. “Your assistant? Leann.”
“I knew what you meant,” Regulus shakes his head. “I just meant -- you don’t have to be their friend, you know. You don’t have to treat them like… like--”
“Like people?” Sirius gives Regulus a cold look. “What do you need, Reg?”
Regulus blinks at his brother, then looks down at the heart-shaped stress ball in his hands. He squeezes it a few times, then sighs and places it back on Sirius’s desk. “Did you hear?”
Sirius doesn’t need to ask what. “Al’s lawyer called me. I have to go to the States to figure out his will.”
Regulus hums his understanding. “I found out from Mum,” he says. “She called me this morning. Screaming, of course. Stain on our good name, glad he’s dead, you know, all that classic Mum stuff. She says she found out from Bella, who I guess probably heard from Cissy, who I would bet money is still in contact with Andy.”
Andy is another former member of the Black family; she got pregnant out of wedlock, and by a working class man, no less. Sirius hasn’t spoken to her since she was excommunicated, either.
“Anyway,” Regulus continues, waving a hand dismissively. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you since I hung up the phone with Mum. Wanted to make sure you knew. And that you’re ok.”
“I hadn’t talked to him in eight years,” Sirius points out.
“Yeah,” Regulus agrees, “but not because you didn’t want to. Mum and Dad made it pretty clear what would happen if you reached out to him. I’m sure this is, you know, hard for you, or whatever.”
“Thanks, Reg.” Sirius scoffs. “That’s really touching.”
“Hey,” says Regulus, leaning forward in his seat and resting his elbows on his knees. “I’m trying to be a good brother here. I’m trying to make sure you’re ok. And if you’re not, we should… I don’t know, do something about it.”
Sirius eyes him suspiciously. It’s rare for Regulus to offer brotherly support like this, but not completely out of character. The Black family typically does not deign to speak of things so frivolous as feelings–and everyone other than Sirius is probably glad that Alphard was gone, or at least indifferent -- but Reg has always been a bit different. A bit softer of a soul, a bit brighter of a light. Sirius lets his shoulders droop.
“I’m leaving for the States tonight,” he says. “Apparently he had property they want me to look at. Hopefully it shouldn’t take long. I should be back by mid-week next week, but for Monday and potentially Tuesday, I’m gonna need you to take care of some things for me on this end.”
Regulus nods. “Better they asked you to do it than our parents. Mum would burn the place down.” He hesitates. “Do they know you’re going?”
“Mum and Dad?” Sirius asks, and Regulus nods. “No,” he says, though he suspects his brother knew the answer to that question before it was asked. Sirius hasn’t spoken directly with his mother in he-doesn’t-even-know-how-long, and he only ever speaks with his father about the business.
“Alright,” Regulus sighs. “You want me to tell them?”
“Whatever you’d like.” Sirius stands up from his desk, signaling that this meeting is over. “I’ll tell Mary to send the important calls through to you while I’m gone.” When Regulus gives him an unsure look, Sirius rolls his eyes and says, “She’s very good, she’ll know which ones can be ignored.”
Regulus stands too, buttoning his blazer. “Most of them, you mean.”
“Yes, most of them,” Sirius agrees, walking his brother to the door. But when they get there, Regulus places a hand on the door, keeping it shut, and turns back to Sirius with a glint in his eye.
“So,” he says, and Sirius raises an eyebrow. “Mary?”
“What about her?”
“She's nice.” Regulus’s eyes flick to Mary, sitting at her desk outside Sirius’s office, then back to Sirius, and he smirks. “So are her legs.”
Sirius pulls the door open, unseating his brother’s hand. “Goodbye, Reg.”
“I’m just saying,” Regulus tries to continue as Sirius pushes him out of his office. “Very good, you called her.”
“She is.” Regulus raises an eyebrow, and Sirius rolls his eyes. “At her job.”
“Either way, it might be nice for you to--”
“Goodbye, Reg.” Sirius shuts the door.
Regulus makes a face at him on the other side of the glass, then shoots Mary a smile and a wave as he passes her desk on the way back to his own office. When she turns around in her chair to give Sirius a quizzical look, he is already looking back at his computer screen.
The flight he booked leaves tonight, so Sirius uses the rest of the day to get his ducks in a row. As second in command, he’s too high up in the company to need to request time off, but he still has to make sure all his projects are going to be managed in his absence. The Gala is out of the planning stage and onto the execution stage–thank god–but he also has a proposal to present to marketing about their new training modules, a meeting with legal to prepare for, a bunch of emails to send to the tech team, a stack of documents to sign off on… and wasn’t he going to touch base with someone about something? He rifles through his desk, shuffling stacks of paper and binders and thick manila folders around as he looks for the note he wrote for himself during his hurried lunch.
“Knock knock,” Mary says as she steps into Sirius’s office hours later. Only when he looks up at her silhouette by the office door does he realize that the sun has already begun to set. The lights in the hall are still on, illuminating Mary from the back and flooding light in through the big glass wall, but Sirius’s office is dark.
“Quitting time already?” Sirius stands and stretches, blinking against the dark. “God, my back is killing me. When did it get dark?” He squints at Mary. “Why are you still here?”
Mary smiles, her features becoming more visible as she steps closer to Sirius’s desk. “Mr. Black, I--”
“Mary,” Sirius interrupts, pressing his fingers into the base of his neck to work out a knot there, “if you call me Mr. Black again, I am going to scream.”
“I’m sorry! It’s a hard habit to break when I have to call you Mr. Black to everyone else all day long.”
Sirius shakes his head. “You don’t--”
“If I sent an email,” Mary puts forth, “that said, ‘Sirius wants to sit in on that meeting,’ everyone would think that was so weird. Everyone calls you Mr. Black.”
“I know,” Sirius groans. “Why do they do that? We’re all Mr. Black! How does anyone ever know which Mr. Black anyone is referring to?”
“Context clues,” Mary offers.
“It makes us seem like one entity with a million heads. Like… what is that thing called? From mythology.” Sirius rolls his shoulder absently, still trying to work out that knot with his fingers. “You know, the evil one that grows them back. The one Hercules killed.”
“A hydra. Oh, would you just-- stop. Sirius, stop, you’re going to hurt yourself.” She bats his hand away from where his fingers dig into the knot in his shoulder, replacing it with her own hand, and yes, she’s right, this is better. Sirius relaxes into it. “And I think that’s the point,” Mary continues after a moment, quieter now. “The Black Family, and everything.”
She doesn’t need to expand on that. Sirius is aware of his family’s reputation. Formidable, unified. A behemoth.
“Yeah, well,” Sirius matches her volume now that they are this close, “would it be completely asinine for me to say that I want people to see me as my own person, and not one of the many heads of a horrible, bloodthirsty monster?”
Mary hums thoughtfully. “I’m not sure the hydra was bloodthirsty, exactly.”
“I wasn’t talking about the hydra,” Sirius mutters.
Mary lets out a hard exhale through her nose that might be a laugh. “Your words.”
“You can’t prove I said anything.” Sirius turns his head to grin at her, but is taken by surprise by how close their faces are. Her investigation into Sirius’s back pain has brought her close, half-behind him as she works the knot out, but she meets his eyes unflinchingly, even from this close, and grins back.
“My lips are sealed.”
This isn’t the first time Sirius has noticed how beautiful Mary is -- he would have to be blind to have never noticed before -- but this is the first time he's been this close to her face. Big, brown eyes rimmed in thick lashes, full lips and an infectious smile… and Regulus was right, dickhead though he may be: she does have nice legs. Sirius has noticed that before, too.
He watches her eyes flick to his lips, then her eyes darken and her lips part. And it all happens in a split-second, but it’s enough, and suddenly Sirius is acutely aware of the weight of Mary’s hand at the base of his neck, the way her fingers have slowed. He takes a step back, and her hand stills.
“This is unprofessional.”
Sirius knows what the CEO is doing with his assistant. Mary knows what the CEO is doing with his assistant. Everyone and their mum knows what Orion Black is doing with his assistant. It’s Grimmauld’s worst kept secret, and they have a lot of secrets.
There isn't much that Sirius can do about his father's behavior. Grimmauld Consultancy is corrupt, and the Black Family is corrupt, and everything is fucking corrupt, and Sirius is just one member of a nine-member board. So Orion can keep having an affair with his assistant, and Regulus can keep making the company's numbers do whatever they need to do, and Sirius will remain intentionally ignorant about the worst things and silent about the rest -- and maybe he shouldn't, but he will, and he does. They're his family, at the end of it.
But Sirius is not his father. Sirius stays quite out of the (alleged) white-collar crime side of the business. Sirius is nice to people, and comes up with clever little ideas that both increase productivity and protect the rights of his employees, and has never done any crime that can't be snorted in a nightclub bathroom. He may have been born into this family, and he may work for Grimmauld, but Sirius Black is not in the business of taking advantage of people.
And he's worried, now -- suddenly, in a way that he has never been worried about this kind of thing before -- that Mary doesn't know that. He stares at her, and she stares back, and every interaction the two of them have had in the past few years takes on a more sinister sheen in Sirius's mind. He thinks again of the Hydra.
Cut off one head, and three grow in its place.
It's not enough.
But she just sighs, “You’re right,” and finally lets her hand drop back to her side. She takes a step back and tugs at the bottom of her skirt again. Sirius wonders if it’s a nervous habit or she’s just cold. “Sirius,” she says a moment later, now at an appropriate distance, “do you have any plans this weekend?”
Sirius endures a moment of panic, begins scrolling through the rolodex of excuses in his mind, then luckily finds the perfect out. “I’m going out of town,” he says, hoping it sounds apologetic. “I’m actually getting on a redeye in,” he checks his watch, “about five hours.” Actually, he should probably get going. That's really not a lot of time.
Mary leans back against his desk, bracing her arms behind her and crossing one ankle over the other, and quirks her head to the side curiously.
“Where you going?”
“New York City.”
“Oh!” She claps once in excitement. “I love New York.”
“I don’t,” Sirius scoffs, puttering around his messy desk looking for the charger to his laptop. He will definitely need that if he plans to get any work done while he’s away. Which he does. “It’s like London, but worse.”
“You’re so posh.” Mary rolls her eyes as she picks at the red nail polish on her thumb nail. “Doing anything fun, at least?”
“Not really. Family thing.” He makes an aha! sound as he locates the charger and stuffs it into his work bag, along with his laptop, then he looks back up at Mary. “Actually, erm, I probably won’t be here Monday. Maybe not Tuesday, either.”
“Need me to handle anything while you’re gone?”
“Yeah, er…” Sirius is still fussing around his desk, moving stacks of paper around, looking for anything he might need to take with him for the long weekend. “I mean, no, don’t worry about it. Go home, I’ll leave you a note.”
Mary shakes her head and tuts, lifting off the edge of the desk to walk around it. “You’ll forget.” She pulls a chair around to the side of the desk and procures a miniature legal pad out of thin air, then plucks a pen off Sirius’s desk. “I’m here now, just tell me.”
For a second, Sirius considers telling her that she’s off the clock, that she should go home and enjoy some of that work-life balance he’s always hearing about. But she’s right. He’ll forget, and she’s here now.
“Right, fine.” He stays standing, but leans over the back of his desk chair to scroll through his email on his desktop. “Japan will be here on Monday, so I need you to make sure they get the right information regarding that whole mutual funds debacle. Don’t let them talk to Snape, he has no clue what he’s talking about.” Sirius pauses and looks up at Mary. “Actually, no. Let him mess it up. I’ve been looking for a concrete excuse to fire him.” Mary nods, and Sirius looks back at his computer screen. “Regulus has the numbers for the regional meeting, so you don’t need to worry about that.”
Mary nods without looking up, still jotting notes. “Is that all?”
“Yes.” Sirius straightens up. “And, erm, just make sure that if anything important comes through, send it to Regulus. No one else.”
Mary nods again. “Will you be reachable at all?”
That is a great question. “By you? Yes. But if anyone asks…”
“If anyone asks, I’ll let them know that you will be back on Tuesday and that, in the meantime, the CFO will be handling anything time-sensitive,” she finishes for him.
He nods. “Exactly. Thank you.”
“No problem.” Mary shoots him a grin, then caps the pen and sticks it absently behind her ear. Sirius watches on, amused; she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. “You can count on me.”
“I know I can,” Sirius agrees, deciding not to say anything about the pen. She can keep it. “You’re the best.”
“I know.” She puts the legal pad back in her purse and stands up. “When you get back from America, I want to get a drink with you.”
Sirius winces. “Mary--”
“I’m not asking you out. This is purely a friendly thing.”
“I really can’t--”
Mary puts up a hand, halting Sirius’s speech. “I know you can’t date your assistant. Sirius, I know.” Sirius relaxes immediately at the news that Mary not only thinks he wouldn’t date his assistant but knows he wouldn’t. She knows he's not Orion. “But it’s perfectly alright to be friends with your assistant.”
“We’re not friends,” Sirius insists, half-playfully. “I’m your boss.”
Mary gives him an unimpressed look. “Of course we’re friends, Sirius.”
“You call me Mr. Black forty percent of the time,” Sirius points out.
Mary crosses her arms. “And the rest of your friends only call you Mr. Black, what, thirty percent of the time? Sirius, do you have any other friends?”
And Sirius doesn’t answer, because he doesn’t know how to answer. His initial instinct is to defend himself against the accusation, but truth be told, she may be right. Sirius is friendly by nature. He has plenty of business associates with whom he has a good rapport. He is on a first name basis with the cashier at the pharmacy by his flat, and the Tuesday night barman at his favorite pub, and a few people from his gym. He sometimes takes fag breaks with Henry, one of the accounting consultants at Grimmauld. He has Reg, of course. He is on alright terms with one of his cousins. The only other family members he found tolerable are either excommunicated or dead.
Mary’s voice breaks through his thoughts. “Do you do anything outside of work?”
He isn’t sure how to answer that one, either. He goes to the gym almost every day, and he listens to music and watches old action movies, but he doesn’t think that’s what she is asking. He travels a lot, but that’s mostly for work. He loves his car -- does that count? His BMW is almost ten years old, with a gorgeous brown leather interior and an eight-cylinder engine that it doesn’t need. Sirius bought it pre-owned about two years ago, a move that baffled and disgusted Regulus, who drives a new Tesla and can’t wrap his head around anyone wanting a car that needs work. But Sirius likes doing the work -- or, rather, he doesn’t have the time, tools, or skills necessary to work on the car himself, but he wants to. Someday. And in the meantime, he pays other people to do it.
He is still deciding whether he is going to answer either of Mary’s questions -- whether they even deserve an answer, whether he even has an answer, whether his car counts as a friend or a hobby -- but she is not done.
“I’ve worked for you for more than three years,” she points out. “We spend all day together, every day, and I can’t figure you out. At first I thought it was an act, but you really are a super nice bloke. Like, genuinely. And you’re funny, and obviously smart. I'm not even going to bring up the money. But then you don’t seem to have any friends or a girlfriend or anything, and you spend your whole life at this job that you are amazing at but clearly hate.”
“I don’t hate it,” Sirius says quickly.
Mary smiles sadly. “You do a good job pretending you don’t, but I’m the one who edits all the profanity out of your emails. You don’t like it.”
And she’s right, of course. Sirius shrugs. “It’s my family.”
“It’s a company.”
“Yes, my family’s company.” And really, they are one in the same. The Black Family finances are all tied up in Grimmauld (probably in an illegal way, but Sirius isn’t looking into it), and every adult male with the Black name works for the company in some capacity. It’s true, Sirius doesn’t do this job for the love of consulting, or for the money, or whatever; he does it for his family. This is what he was always expected to do, and there would be hell to pay were he to try in some way to forge his own path. Hell, or at least disownment.
Mary tries again. “That doesn’t mean you can’t--”
“I am being observed,” Sirius cuts her off harshly. “From every angle. You don’t get it, Mary.” She really doesn’t. “I can’t just do whatever I want.” Mostly, he doesn’t let himself want. Not in any substantial kind of way.
“Why not?”
Third question of the evening that Sirius doesn’t know how to answer. But this time, it’s not because he doesn’t know the answer. This time, it's just because he has never said it out loud before.
I can’t just do whatever I want.
Why not?
Because what he wants is incompatible with the company’s -- and therefore his family’s -- values. Because while it’s true that Sirius wouldn't screw his assistant on principle, the reality is that he wouldn’t go for Mary even if he wasn’t her boss. Because as pretty as she is, as easy as she is to be around, and as compatible as they seem, she’s not Sirius’s type.
What Sirius wants is not the kind of thing he is allowed to have, not in this family. What he wants is the kind of thing people get excommunicated for.
A notification dings out from his mobile, and he glances down at it immediately. It's an email from the airline about check-in for his flight. More startlingly, the clock on the screen indicates that time has, in fact, still been passing while he has been standing here talking to Mary. He pockets the device. “I have to go.”
Mary’s shoulders deflate and her brow creases. “Sirius…”
“No, I really do have to go.” Sirius holds up his watch to her. “I have a redeye in a few hours and I still haven’t packed.”
Mary nods her understanding. “Right.”
Sirius fastens his bag shut and hauls the strap onto his shoulder, motioning for them to both start walking towards the exit. He locks the office door behind them, and Mary gets the hall lights, and neither of them speak again until they are in the elevator.
“Well,” she says as the doors close them in, “as your only friend…” She throws Sirius a smirk, and he rolls his eyes theatrically to let her know that they are still ok, that he is not upset, and she smiles wider, “at least promise me you’ll do something fun in New York City. They do a big Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center, it’s supposed to be the biggest in the world or summat.”
The doors open on the first floor, and Sirius steps out. “I won’t be there long enough to have fun.”
Mary, going to the ground floor, remains in the elevator. “Where’s your Christmas spirit!”
“Bah humbug,” Sirius says drily, and he catches a split-second of Mary’s tinkling laugh before the elevator doors close between them.