Chapter Text
Arthur Jenkins has a peculiar skill in raising her blood pressure. Victoria’s almost certain it’s a favoured past-time with how masterfully he does it, not even a ‘hello’ passing either of their lips before he demands her arrival an hour earlier than scheduled. She knows not to argue, biting her tongue as she hums what he takes as an agreement and hurries to get dressed while he prattles on in her ear, making idle threats of demotion if she’s late rather than the pay-raise they both know she should be getting.
Unless he’s conveniently forgotten how she covered for his ass after the shitshow in Mexico, pinning the blame on an agent barely involved. He likely has, wiping it from his own memory to play dumb if someone (her, realistically) ever tries to use it against him.
‘No, I had no idea my agent pulled something like this. Yes, I acknowledge it was to my benefit but her timing in bringing it up is peculiar.’ Plausible deniability. She knows the script well.
Pressing her tongue against the sharp point of her canine, tempering her urge to snap at others getting in her way as she strides through the lobby of counter-intel’s office, she adds the recent Mexico op to the careful hoard of things she knows Jenkins would want buried, and would bury her over if he realised she collected his fuck-ups like a bird would shiny things. Like those multiple visits to Clouds on a company card, or the half-brother that works in Militech that he hasn’t disclosed. And heaven forbid the recordings she has of him insulting Hanako Arasaka after a few too many fingers of whiskey manage to get out somehow. Now, that would be a travesty.
Hiding her smile behind a sip of too-bitter coffee, she joins the small crowd waiting for the elevators. Her timing is impeccable as the doors open and the crowd in front of her…scatter. What the-
Fuck.
Smasher.
Some press away, shuffling towards the other elevator that’s on the thirtieth floor and going up. Others make a break for the stairs. She considers both of those options. Ten minutes until she could be marked as late. Stairs are a no-go, especially in her new heels. As is waiting. Like hell was she going to give Jenkins an inch.
Raising her chin to meet the cyborg’s stare which…might actually be a glare, it’s quite hard to tell, she steps in. Pressing herself to the corner and then slipping behind him, sipping at her coffee to make it feel more casual than it is. Even if she can feel others gawk at her. The doors close on their slack-jawed faces with a certain heaviness. Like a lid over a coffin.
It’s quiet as the lift continues upwards. Her stomach rising along with it, clawing its way up to her throat and lodging itself there. She doesn’t dare move, holding herself rod still and straight behind the hulking mass of metal. Downcast eyes glowing as she selects her floor remotely rather than daring to reach over to press the button.
Maybe if she just didn’t move or breath too loudly he’d be content to ignore her.
But the console makes a delightful little ping when it highlights her floor, three below another already selected. Her nail taps anxiously against the jacket of her cup.
“You are either bold,” the great behemoth says, his voice seeming to shake the space around them as he turns to regard her, “or fucking stupid.” Swallowing her stomach back down, her fingers grip her coffee cup a little too tightly, digging into the cheap plastic.
“I’m bloody late, so either you’re going to kill me or Jenkins is.” She manages to ground out, voice steady enough that it surprises herself. Gives her a little boost of confidence that she uses to look at the mech she’s standing beside. Arasaka doesn’t design things by half-measures or subtlety, everything of theirs is prominent, bombastic – grand. A design philosophy that includes elevators and Adam Smasher. And really, if he is going to be the last thing she sees then she may as well get an eyeful of one of Night City’s rare living legends. All eight feet of him. “And let’s be honest, you’d be the more impressive way to go.”
Maybe there’s a part of him that’s still human enough that he enjoys her honeyed tone and appreciative eye as she drinks him in. Savouring the sight of him. He seems to stand a little taller, shoulder rolling back to pull her attention to the rocket launcher mounted there. Showing off his literal guns. Or reminding her of his innate danger. Neither should entice the distinctly positive reaction in her that they do.
It’s a good thing when they roll to a stop, the doors opening with a ding. It gives her a moment to reconsider asking him about his arm cannon – the request on the tip of her tongue since she was at an apparent gun-show. But probably not the smartest idea. Probably. Fucking shame.
She looks forward in time to catch the crowd disperse, a poor sod taking steps into the elevator before throwing himself back once he realised who was in it. A sip to hide her smile. Another suit, his face vaguely familiar, stares at her with eyes blown wide as they erratically flick between her and Smasher. She shakes her head, the motion subtle enough that she doubts he notices, deterred more so by Smasher’s piercing glare and his simple command: “Take the damn stairs.”
Colour drains quickly from his face, an apology stuttered as he trips over his own gangly legs to escape Smasher’s attention. A snort nearly tears from her, caught at the last moment as she bites her lip. The twitching at the corners is harder to press down.
“You can laugh.” He barely spares a glance over his shoulder, voice enough to call her attention to him. His tone seems lighter now as a hint of amusement bleeds through. “It’s funny.”
She waits until the doors close, their journey continuing its crawl upwards. The laugh is gone, expertly smothered, her smile isn’t. It splits her lips, baring her teeth in a grin her hand thoughtlessly rises to hide. A lifetime of corporate training kicking in. Not suitable for the public image, blah blah.
“I’m genuinely surprised he didn’t drop dead.”
“He wouldn’t be the first.” It’s probably the deadpan delivery, or something in her finally registering who exactly she’s standing beside and cracking with delirium, as a huff of a laugh manages to break free.
Delirium, she decides. Definitely delirium.
She’s running off a single cup of coffee and is in an elevator with Adam Smasher. By her own goddamn choice. And is still alive. Somehow.
Unless he’s waiting, letting her get comfortable, think she got off scot-free as she steps out of the elevator, only to be yanked back by the hair, her head pulled back, neck getting trapped in the jaws of the closing doors—
She shakes away the thought and looks at him. He’s- fuck when did turn to face her?
“You must get some…interesting reactions.” An attempt to create distance has the small of her back hitting into the handrail.
The elevator moves with him, dipping with his weight. It doesn’t take much for him to crowd her, a mere half-step into her space. Boxed between his body and the wall, his thick arms on either side as if she might be stupid enough to try and slip away. She was stupid enough to step into an enclosed space with Arasaka’s own beast. Stupid enough that his pressing closer sets her nerves alight in an entirely too thrilled way.
“Some more than others.” She can feel his voice rumble through her chest, rattling her ribcage and unsettling her heart. A metal finger hooks under her chin, tilting her head up. The mottled RealSkin of his face looks rubbed raw, blotched and picked at. Shot at. Burned. The glowing red of his optical unit piercing through her, burning into the back of her retinas. There’s the distinct feeling that he’s looking for something, and she hopes he doesn’t find her lacking in whatever it is.
His thumb slides up, coming to rest against her bottom lip. Swiping, pulling. Smudging her damn lipstick. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, brushing against the tip of the digit. An amused heh escapes him. “Eager little thing, aren’t you?”
She could hardly argue, not when she has to press her thighs together and her hands aren’t roaming his frame purely for the still too-hot drink she’s clutching like a lifeline.
The elevator stops, an internal ping alerting her it was her floor. Good. Thank God. A second later and she might’ve been on her knees for him. Maybe. Unless he’d rather fuck her against the wall—
Jesus, she really needs to get laid.
And not in an Arasaka elevator.
“I’m afraid this is my stop. You’ll have to excuse me.” He doesn’t move aside from a tilt of the head, a slight motion that carries an unspoken challenge as his hand returns to her side. The cage-door closed. “Did I not ask nicely enough?” The corner of her lips twitch upwards even as nerves bubbled alongside the excitement now.
“I didn’t hear a ‘please’ leave that pretty little mouth.” She can only pray that she’s reading his tone correctly, that she’s right to pick up a playful edge to the characteristic growl. There’s some logical bone in her body, small as it may be, as she doesn’t let an immediate bratty reply slip out. Licking her lips as her gaze dips, veering up his frame inch-by-inch; across the dark-plated thighs, up the slim waist to the protective carapace of his chest that might make it a bit more awkward in some positions, the thick cabling of his neck that guided her nicely to the cold metal of his jaw and back to his ever-present stare. Not in an elevator, she tells herself, not in a damn elevator.
“Would you let me go please, Smasher?”
“Ah, so you do know who I am.” The doors are closing. Not for the first time in the hour does she curse Jenkins. “Here I was thinking I’d need to teach you,” His arm moves again, reaching for her face, or her neck, fingers curling around air instead as she drops to her knees. There’s space between them, scant but enough for her to use.
While she’s hardly faster than him, somehow (stupid, stupid luck if she were to guess) she manages to slip through - turning quickly on the other side to keep her hair away from any reaching grasp. His body is still facing away at an angle, head deliberate in its slow turn. Optics meet eyes in time to catch her wink as the doors close.
Oh God, why’d she wink? That probably just pissed him off. Fuck, fuck.
“Fuck.” She breathes out through teeth, spinning on her heel. Three minutes until she’s late. She doesn’t run the final length to Jenkins’s office, no. That’d be unprofessional. She was power-walking towards her meeting, not away from the elevators. Getting those steps in. Listening for the sound of twisting metal or a thundering stride.
Jenkins’s P.A, a younger woman by the name of Alice with a too clean record, perks up as she approaches, tapping the corner of her lips in a quiet signal of ‘lipstick smudged’ as she buzzes through to their shared source of headaches. A thumbs-up after Victoria wets a tissue and wipes it off.
“Presentable?” She asks as the heavy double doors to the office swing open.
“Presentable.” Alice confirms, waving her in. Smiling that devilish little smile that assured Victoria that, yes the younger will be hounding her for information about who she let ruin her makeup once they were free from Jenkins for the day.
She’ll need more coffee.