fried rice > sleep {maxwell}

[naomi]

early morning wear

Naomi was going to sue him. She was going to sue him for everything he was worth and then retire at some nice little vineyard in France at the ripe old age of twenty-three. That's what she had decided within the last few minutes. Because, quite frankly, there had to be something illegal about calling your assistant at two o'clock in the morning asking where the menu for the local Chinese place was at. If nothing else, it certainly lacked the appearance of common sense and social understanding. Perhaps, if she couldn't nail him for wrongful awakening, she could slap on some sexual harassment charge. That was sure to draw attention and win her the case. Those cases where rarely lost, right? Then again, her boss was no strange to Lampton Hill's. He could probably get away with murder, if he really wanted, let alone sexual harassment. Considering all the resources he had, he could pick up the phone and order a hit on someone, or something like that. One call and 'hasta lavista', you're out of here. Or, better yet, it'd actually be him doing the killing. Naomi was fairly certain that her boss was capable of murder. In fact, she had suspicious that he'd already committed that crime. It wasn't a far stretch. That man could do anything he put his mind too, and if he was really mad enough at someone... well...

But, that was not a subject that Naomi wanted to dwell on at two-thirty in the morning while she was about to go meet him for take-out of some sort. So then, one might ask why she was going to see Maxwell Heaton at such a godawful time in the morning to eat Chinese take-out, especially if she considered the man to be a closet-murderer. Quite honestly, she had no good reason for why she was going, say for the excuse she'd been making for two years now: She loved her job and didn't want to get fired.

Love. People love their spouses. People love their pets (sometimes more than they love their spouses). But rarely did someone truly say that they loved their job. Because, honestly, people were more than often miserable and hated their work. Those that said otherwise were usually lying. At least, that's what Naomi believed. In some ways, Naomi fit into that category. The category of people that say they like their job but really wish it would disappear off the face of the planet. There were a few moments where she really did love her job. Sure, she was good at it. But, efficiency and love weren't the same. Times like this, though... These were the times where she really did enjoy it. As backwards as it seemed, it was the snips from Maxwell and the biting, witty comments that she liked. It was the strange requests that pushed her out of her comfort zone. Why? Because Maxwell wasn't afraid to take control and flaunt it around for the world to see. He wasn't afraid to shove it in her face. He wasn't afraid to make her feel completely irrelevant and powerless, even if it was only on the merit of her experience and employment. Most wouldn't last a day in a job like that. Most loved being in charge and being praised about how good they were. Naomi wasn't like them; at least, she wasn't completely like them. True, she did like the order and control that came from having her job. The amount of sway she had when it came to getting Max's appointments and files ready. There was no doubt that she had some about of control over it. Perhaps it'd just be easier to say that she liked it both ways, then. She was the exception to the rule. Control was all well and good when it came to her job, but in any other area, Naomi looked forward to the... submission to authority.

What made it even more funny to Naomi was that Maxwell had unknowingly guessed her... different way of approaching relationships. What he had been rattling off as some animalistic sexual fantasy had come closer to the truth than anything else he'd come up with. Although Naomi was pretty sure that most men had some sort of fantasy involving women and handcuffs, she highly doubted many got that wish to come true. Most didn't come right out with that, though. Most didn't encourage it. Maxwell never did mind about sharing his opinions, even if it meant offending someone--especially her. Playing the role was easy, though. It wasn't hard to act like most women would when asked if they'd chain themselves up and bend over. Not that she really minded; she really didn't see herself as the one that would be fulfilling Maxwell's fantasies. But, then again, if she didn't work for him, she would've been more than willing. He certainly wasn't lacking in the looks department, and his attitude was, although off putting at times, certainly one she was attracted too. But, in the same way, if she didn't work for him, he would undoubtedly go without noticing her. One girl with a willingness to be tied up probably didn't make much difference when he could pick any girl he wanted.

Yet, despite her insecurities about whether or not she'd be a good match for her boss outside of the office, she had more important things to worry about. Things like whether or not she would be fired if she didn't show up at his office in the next twenty minutes. Any minute, Maxwell's driver would be out front waiting to escort her to Heaton Inc, where she would be harassed a bit more while eating some sort of food and probably working on some of her projects for the day. After a silent debate with herself about whether she should go in a robe and thong to the office or just dress for the day, she decided that covering as much of her skin as possible was a good idea. Grabbing her bag, she headed for the door. Regular sleeping habits were for the weak, right? Naomi would've been happy to be one of the weak at the moment. Sleeping sounded just about as enticing as getting mocked and belittled by her employer. For most, the choice would almost blatantly be the former. For Naomi, they both had their merits. The former, obviously, offered her the instant gratification of slumber. The later, in contrast, offered no chance of rest but a 72% chance of keeping her job another day. Money and sleep didn't seem to weigh in equally, to her, but she really didn't have much time to mull them over. As soon as she was out the front door of the apartment, she say the black car pull to the curb and knew that Maxwell's driver was here.

Sighing to herself, Naomi got in. "Morning, Thomas," She smiled shortly at the driver, rubbing at her temples and slightly sympathetic that this man was in the same boat as her. "Got you out of bed, too?" The Englishized-Australian accent laced her words a bit heavier than normal, most likely due to the half asleep state that she was in. After a brief nod from the driver and a muttered 'Yes, ma'am.', they were on their way. Naomi had figured out a long time ago that she could get from her apartment to Heaton Inc. in twelve minutes and thirteen seconds flat. By buss, twenty-two minutes and forty-three seconds, if they hit the green lights and no one caused any problems. Anything aside from those two methods of transportation and she was pretty much screwed into a drive that was more than a half an hour. That wasn't quick enough, especially for days like this when Maxwell wanted her and he wanted her right away. No doubt Thomas knew that as well and they'd be double-timing it. Which just meant that she'd be in hell all the sooner. Running a hand through her hair, she let her gaze slip towards the window and her thoughts wander to something other than work related things. It was seventeen minutes later when they were pulling in front of a building. Or, more specifically, in front of a house. It was then that everything clicked in her mind. If it hadn't been so early, it probably would've occurred to her a bit sooner. Maxwell wouldn't want to spend all morning in the office, especially since he was forcing Naomi into joining him.

For a moment, she considered not going to the door and ringing the bell. Maybe, if she was lucky, Thomas would say there had been a mistake and he would take her to the Heaton building. Being in Maxwell's house at two in the morning seemed grossly uneven to her, if she had any chance of keeping some of her dignity. Not that she ever said she had too, but it would've been somewhat nice if she didn't have to show up at this man's door asking if dinner was ready. Not to mention what anyone else in the house would think. Dropping something off was one thing, joining him for take-out was another. However, after taking a deep breath an narrowing her eyes at the house in defiance, Naomi slipped out of the cab and murmured a thanks before heading to the door. Ringing the bell slowly, her eyes slowly glazed over the entire house. If she had to guess, she would say that her apartment could fit in there more times than she could count. Yet one more reason why meeting at the office was nicer. Shifting uncomfortably, her eyes returned to the door and she silently wondered if Maxwell was even home. She was fairly certain that, if he wasn't, she was going to kill someone.

She'd show him who was capable of murder.

[maxwell david heaton]

Max had almost forgotten what shade of red the alarm clock showed at this time of night. It was an obtrusive shade. A hateful, ugly shade that made him feel like he had wandered into some part of town that he wasn't welcome in. A part of town called 2:30 am. He hadn't been here in what seemed years. Or at least, he hadn't been here sober in years. The man had gone to college after all, and paired with his naturally destructive behavior it was almost ensured that every other night he had divulged in some kind of drinking. Social or alone. After all, falling asleep with a liquor-induced buzz in your frontal lobe beat falling asleep alone. Or, in this case, trying to fall asleep alone, sober and with a roaming mind that seemed to sabotage every fiber of his calm. It was against his will but it happened with out fail - once the clock struck midnight and his head hit the pillow, if his BAC was under a .5, his conscious strayed into dark waters. Dark, deep waters involving some blond woman and the memories of his mother. It was a tide that the Heaton heir refused to take a dive in, sober or not, for fear of drowning. He couldn't afford to drown in it. Not now.

After a trip to his office, he had found ground once more. The doors to the liquor cabinet next to his desk swung open with a soft creak that spoke of how frequent it was used, the plethora of half empty bottles that greeted him singing the same theme. Max pulled a glass from the bottom rack, raising it to rest on his cheek with one hand to savor it's cool sensations, the other placing itself on the back of his neck. As his eyes scanned each label for some kind of a sign, the man didn't spare a second to delve in. Softly, his finger tips ran across the tops, the thought of each one greeting his lips soothing the infamous emptiness that came with who he was. Maxwell Heaton: an arrogant, uncaring island. Unbreakable. Unsympathetic. Untouchable. The man who walked away from his mother's death with out a scratch and the one that lived in his father's shadow. The man with no family ties besides the one between him and his possessions and the man who passed out every night by himself with his suit still on.

After adjusting his unbuttoned shirt, he picked himself a poison, poured a glass, and settled down upon the counter of his desk. He took a sip. Inspected himself. Than took another. He must have looked a wreck pulling himself out of bed at this hour. The unbuttoned button-down was wide open to reveal a white tank-top underneath on his chest. Just like the un-tied tie that laid itself around the back of his neck to rest on either side, it was wrinkled and worn, a stark difference to his usual crisp appearance. Hell knew what his hair looked like at that point, it was getting long and unruly anyway. While one hand once again raised the cool glass to his cheek, the other rested itself in the pocket of his black pants, the man sighing in satisfaction in the darkness. There was something so daring, yet relaxing about drinking alone; it was a habit that he was getting used to. Scotch on the rocks seemed to have a new kind of burn to it when it was enjoyed at 2am on a weeknight. Or was that the solitude?

It was just hunger, he assured himself, placing glass down on the cherry wood finished piece of furniture. It was 2am and he was just hungry. He hadn't eaten since six, eight hours ago. Of course it was hunger. It had to be. There was a sigh of relief as he pulled himself off of the desktop to rummage around in search of something edible - relief that he had once again found a logical reason to escape from letting himself deal with such a steep topic as his loneliness. Relief that once he had found the right number for the right take out place, this whole night would tide over and he could rest easy upon his down pillow and comforter and get a decent nights sleep. Relief that his hunger would be cured. Not one to wait for a panacea or have the patience to find it himself, it was within a matter of minutes that Max had given up his vapid search for an open food store and dialed the only new that could always help him when he needed it. The only number that he actually knew by heart. Naomi's.

She wasn't pleased. He didn't care. Max knew when he had hired Naomi what she was made out of. He was certain that if you stripped off the pale freckled complexion, there must have been leather underneath. It was why he had kept her around for so long, even trusted her. Not just any one could walk into his life and have him hand off a load of responsibility on a whim. She was witty, attractive, intelligent, and did he mention attractive? Words were exchanged about her naked on the phone, he could feel his dick stir out of interest before settling back down. How she put up with him, he'd never know. But he wasn't complaining, seeing as as far as he was concerned he struck gold in hiring the fiery red head, as she was no only a great assistant, but one of three women he actually respected on this earth. Almost a friend. Maybe that explained the small beat his heart skipped when she agreed to come over and join him...although, agreeing was a bit lofty of a term to use. He had demanded, she had obliged.

It seemed like it was an hour before there was a knock at the office door and the family maids face had appeared in the door way to inform him of the foods arrival. And yet another until the deep echo of the doorbell could be heard from the front door. The drink that he had started with had been replaced two times over by now, a gentle hum enveloping his mind as he made his way from his desolate office to the main foyer to let his guest in. Taking the time to adjust his disheveled appearance, he ran his fingers through his hair, brushed out his slightly wrinkled tank and fixed the undone tie around his neck to sit a little more symmetrical on either sides of his chest. Through the hall of the West Wing, passed the library, and the third spare bedroom, Max found his way to the lavished front foyer of the house. It was enough to make even the least modest of men turn red with just how much Maxwell's father had put into the appearance of their wanton estate. Something that had always given him an unneeded ego stroke before inviting guests over.

With a light touch to the door handle, the Heaton pulled the door open to greet his guest. Inspecting her attire, he, himself felt slightly underdressed, a smirk developing on his lips after seeing just how much work she had put in to herself for just some Chinese. Maybe it was because she wanted to look nice for him? Maybe it was just because she was his employer. Preferring the prior, he met her tired gaze with amusement, "Funny running into you here. It's 2am, you know. Some people like to sleep."

[naomi]

early morning wear

A smile. One, simple action, that had too many meanings and interpretations to count. Delight; Enjoyment; Manipulation; Suppresion. It could be used to show almost any emotions. Or, in the same way, it could be used to hide almost any emotion. For Naomi, that was the main function of a smile. And, as she stood in front of Maxwell's door, that was exactly what she planned on doing with her smile. Cover the slight annoyance and uncertainy and put on a semi-happy, content smile. In any normal society, an employer / employee relationship ended when one of them clocked off. Normally, saying "I need you" wasn't grounds for a solid work schedule. But, no one had ever told Naomi that she'd be on a strict 9-5 shift. From what she'd learned over the last two years, Maxwell Heaton worked whenever he wanted too, whether that be eleven in the afternoon or eleven at night. No one ever told her that Maxwell Heaton was normal. But, quite honestly, she was far from normal herself.

Naomi had grown accustomed to Maxwell's habits. In fact, she'd started expecting him. The fact that it was two in the morning hardly registered in her mind at the moment. She'd all but forgotten the time and was, instead, focusing more on finding out the real reason she was here. WHat started out as a call requesting information about a menu had now ended as Naomi standing outside his door waiting to eat some Chinese with her boss. Actually eating with her boss was not a common occurance. Sure, she spent time at the office during the generall 'lunch' time period, but she wasn't scooting into his office to sit across from him and share a turkey sandwich. She sure as hell didn't go to his house to do it. So the fact that he'd asked--commanded--her to come over was a bit unsettling.

She liked it.

She knew Maxwell enough to know that he wouldn't invite her to his estate got some Chow Mien just to fire her. If he was going to fire her, he'd probably do somethng easier and shorter. Hell, he's probably text her and tell her not to come in anymore. Then, just like that, she'd be out of work. So, what he really wanted or how this morning would really turn out was enought o make Naomi eager for the door to open. Though, showing Mr. Heaton that emotion was simply not an option. Maxwell wouldn't hesitate to use it against her, and that was one aspect where she wouldn't allow him to dominate her. If he ever realized that she actually loved her job--actually loved working under him, she'd have no choice but to leave. She had boundaries, just like everyone else, and letting Maxwell know about this attraction of her's was one of those boundaries. It probably seemed odd, to most, that someone finding out you're interested in them would be reason to quit a job and move out. But for Naomi, it was reasonable. There was no way she would let Maxwell in on her emotions, just for him to take and twist around for his own motives and enjoyment. Doing that was different than the dominance and cockiness that she normally looked for in a bed partner. She wasn't looking to get everything she believed thrown in her face and taunted; she was looking for get pleasure from the physical and semi-psychological pain.

Emotions were on another level.

She supposed that, in that aspect, her and Maxwell were alike. Here was a man that, most of the time, kept up the same appearance. Cynical, perhaps. Sarcastic, undoubtedly. And almost always, cold. But there had been times. Times where that hard exterior cracked just enough to give her a brief look at the human emotions underneath. Albeit a short and blurry glance, she was certain that there were more of those emotions buried down in him somewhere. He hid a 'softer' side for fear of... well, whatever it was that the great Mr. Heaton feared. But, Naomi wasn't sure; he kept that hidden too. As for her, she hid everything but that softer side. She let people see the smiles and the happiness. She let sarcasm slip, occasionally--or, more than occasionally--but she took orders well and she dealt with whatever she was given. Hiding the trust issues; hiding her little fetishes; hiding her emotions. Her and Max weren't so different, if she actually thought about it. But there was something intimidating about comparing herself to Maxwell. Maybe it was just because of the name psyching her out, but putting herself next to him was something she couldn't do. Something she wouldn't let herself do.

Letting out her breath as the door was pulled open, Naomi expected to see someone other than Max standing there. Realistically, it almost seemed like someone else standing there. His shirt, unbuttoned and slightly wrinkled, looked like he'd just rolled out of bed to answer the door. Hell, at two in the morning, he should have been in bed. At least his hair wasn't sticking up all over the place. Those feelings of annoyance and rage returned momentarily, nagging at her mind as she looked him over quickly. He'd probably been sleeping for the last few minutes, waiting for her to get here. Catching up on a few minutes of slumber while she was forced to get dressed and ride over here. Wonderful.

Tilting her head to the side, she allowed that smile to slip back onto her face. One that stayed well within the boundaries of what you'd expect a greeting smile to look like. Eagerness was masked under a generally blank expression and her annoyance had disappeared from her green eyes as she stared back towards his. "Well, if it's too early for you, I can always go home." She paused, her smile settling to more of a ghost of what it'd been. The hint at the corners of her mouth and nothing more. Looking him over once more; more obvious this time, her eyes returned slowly to his face. "I should just go then, since you want to sleep. And you look like you were doing such a good job of it all by yourself." Stupid thing to say. At least, in her half-awake mind, it sounded wrong to here. Here she was, standing on his front step, mentioning how he was having trouble sleeping by himself and she was all but offered to stay.

Way to make yourself a target, Naomi.