When respect goes a long way
After he said those words that night, he got up, fixed his things, and bade goodbye.
"Those documents could wait for tomorrow. Go home," he said before leaving.
The following day, the unspoken words told as much. The air was different this time, wedging between comfortable and vulnerable due to the conversation you both had.
He definitely doesn't look tense this time, and so did you. You gave yourself a proverbial pat on the back for your intuition last night. He worked lighter and casually, and you could see how his brows relaxed its creases if you spoke to him as you submitted the documents to him.
He intimidated you still, but none that scared you ultimately.
You continued to work out the residual discomfort between the both of you by fixing him tea, again.
You placed it on his desk, and the tea of your own onto yours.
Proceeding with your work, you looked back on the parchment, the quill creating a fat blot of ink onto the sheet which obscured the word. You could never get used to these old things. You don't even know if it's against the policy if you used a ball-point pen. Pesky stuff.
You would kill to use a fountain pen.
Beside your desk, Mr Malfoy's slightly elevated one due to the platform, your boss overlooked your current psychological warfare as he sipped on his tea. If you turned your head at him, maybe you could see the smallest quirk of his lips in a lopsided smirk, apparently amused.
But you were spared with the alien sight when you remained still and tense with irritation.
You were finalizing your draft.
In hopes to alleviate your nerves quietly as you brooded over your mistake, you picked up your cup of chamomile tea. And that's when your good, dominant arm made a huge mistake.
Your wrist snagged the ink pot where your teacup previously sat by, and now the black soot spilled onto the document before you could snatch it away.
That's when you saw red.
Goddamned, callous fuck. Useless piece of fucking shit. All over again.
Your ears perked up when it caught a small noise. The office you worked in was not known to be ambient or noisy, so that could only belong to Mr Malfoy.
"You ought to keep your muttering with that language," he quipped.
It was deep, reverbrating, and it grated against his lax vocal chords. He was chuckling.
What you wouldn't give to hear it again...even your whole paycheck.
What the hell are you thinking?
To be fair, maybe just a quarter of it.
That's when you hissed apologetically, face blanching at his query, "Sorry."
He nods in understanding, like the father he was. Maybe that's where he got his patience? Parenting? Damn, his son is lucky.
You fumbled with something to wipe your table with, and you didn't even notice Mr Malfoy get up from his seat.
He mutters something under his breath, just behind you. You turned to look at him and saw that he held a wand between his dexterous fingers. Before your eyes got too intrusive, racking and memorize the details of his serenely amused yet serious expression that struck a chord within your ribcage, you stared back at your desk.
It was clean, not a smear of ink remained which returned to the inkpot.
"May I see the parchment?"
The silent coaxing of his voice took you a while to get in your senses as you let those smooth words filter into your ears. It was oddly reassuring. You refused meeting his gaze, like you were a frisky kid all over again, breaking your mum's ceramic figurine. You couldn't pinpoint what you feel, it wasn't guilt. But you were sure you were flustered over your past clumsiness.
Or maybe that's not what you're flustered about.
Shutting off your brain for a while sure would be a nice change.
When he's done with his troubleshooting measure, he stares up at you.
Don't. Do. That.
"Don't do that," you could almost hear the faintest amusement return in his voice.
You blinked up at him sheepishly, "Do what?"
He tucks his wand away, "Like a frog in a hot cauldron."
You squinted at him in an amused incredulity, "Correction. I'm not a frog, just hot. I could be the cauldron."
He gave you a small quirk of his lips, "I admire the confidence," he shoots back equally.
And that was the moment you made the third mistake of the day.
You fucking nudged his arm like you would to a close friend when they said something funny, or a teasing remark directed at you. It fell on both categories, but your most rational psyche tells you, tutting in disappointment, that the gesture is not justified when done upon the person you hold at a high esteem and regard.
His face fell, and that's when you fucking panicked.
Your brain shortcircuited as it tried to come up something elaborate, something coherent as your hands had all but trembled. And when you went all tongue-tied when you are unable to utter something, you could settle for anything to say to him.
I'mfuckingsorry-
The humor in his eyes returned promptly, its cusps crinkled at the sight of your physical dilemma. And he was chuckling at you.
"Ah, I called just as much. A frog in a hot cauldron."
You exclaimed, in indignation and humor in equal parts: "What?!"
You didn't make the same mistake of shoving his forearm again. You did, on another hand, blew him a raspberry, which he responded with a shake of his head as his demeanor slipped back into the semblance of serious professionalism when he sat by his desk, resuming his work.
Or at least that's what you thought when he gave small fits of breathy chuckles under his breath time to time.