Work Text:
Quite frankly, Francis wished to die.
The wish was already fairly strong in the morning, as the cruel sunlight attacking his eyes even through half-closed eyelids reminded him why he swore never to mix spirits with champagne ever again, and it multiplied with every waking minute that he had to spend with his skull-shattering hangover.
Right now, spread over his office table in a feeble hope to calm his pulsating forehead against the flat wooden surface, he slipped into a second phase; forty percent death wish and the remaining sixty were his silent prayer that somebody would set the tall office building on fire, he could grab a taxi in the following chaos, and maybe pretend for the next few days to be a victim of the vicious element while asleep under his thickest blanket.
No such luck.
Destiny didn’t listen to any of his pleads, but being a merciful lady she at least sent him his assistant. Natalya maybe wasn’t the most emphatic soul within the two thousand persons that worked for the company, but she knew how to nurse a hangover.
Francis flinched as he heard the heavy glass clink against the desk near to his head and promptly regretted the hasty move, as his head immediately punished this foolishness with a new pang of pain. Natalya’s voice saying “That should help, drink it.” made him force his eyes open and look at what she brought - the cloudy, sparkling liquid would look suspicious to him under normal circumstances, but as he was too worn-out to even consider deep thinking, he simply closed his eyes and drank it in three large gulps.
“Thanks.” Francis felt the bubbles spread through his windpipe and into his stomach, and maybe it was just placebo being kind to him but the nausea got a bit better.
“That was a very destructive Christmas party,” Francis noted as his brain slowly stopped pulsating inside of his head.
Natalya wasn’t the type to comment on statements of this kind. Instead she took the empty glass and said: “Once you’ve recovered, please go through the quarter-end report. I would also recommend to stop sleeping on the desk, Mr. Kirkland is in a particularly bad mood today.”
Only the fear his skull would break into little pieces like a cup in the hands of a clumsy waiter did prevent Francis from slamming his head back onto the table, full force. His boss Arthur Kirkland generally had moods raging from pretty bad up to disastrously bad, which meant that unless Francis would pull himself together in the next couple of minutes, his days on his pretty post as a finance manager would be over.
Groaning, Francis got up from his desk and walked past his assistant to the bathroom, with as much dignity as his rubbery knees allowed.
There, bracing himself with the last strength that he didn’t know he possessed anymore, he turned on the cold water and splashed it into his face. Wet strands of hair still clinging to his cheekbones, he looked at his own reflection in the mirror.
“If only I could remember what happened last night.” He said to his mirror self accusingly. “If only you would have stayed away from the rum,” his consciousness answered him.
The annual Christmas party that was usually the pinnacle of social occasions in his company started rather well. Francis was in excellent mood, his self-confidence enveloping him together with his favourite perfume, and he was just eyeing the little group of newcomer girls that were quietly giggling over champagne glasses, white teeth shining in the soft neon light between red lipstick shades. But then Miguel patted his shoulder, Miguel the Entertainer as they called him since his jokes were never old and he had the gift to make boring party people laugh until they couldn’t catch their breath. And Francis, in his dashing mood (and greatly encouraged by the two piña coladas he already had) gladly took his invitation to a remote corner of the room, where intelligent company and the sweet embrace of Bacardi were waiting for him.
After that Francis remembered laughing a lot, lamps above him making halos around their light bulbs in his stinging eyes, and somebody’s warm hand drawing circles on his thighs, higher and higher and higher.
Then, the yellow light of a taxi sign, jiggling keys as they fell from hid unsteady hands on his own welcome mat. And after that there were clammy hands and laboured breaths, rough fibres of the rug burning his shoulder blades, and heat, want, need to go deeper and deeper, until he felt the echo of his own voice crying out words his brain couldn’t put together.
And after that, the only thing that he saw in the dim street light were the claws of a beast a roaring mouth and a floating mane, stretched majestically over a wiry back.
The man has been sitting cross-legged on the ground facing away from Francis and he remembered wondering if it had hurt much to have one paw of the lion tattooed onto the bony shoulder.
And that was all.
He woke up in his own bed, naked but thoroughly covered with a blanket up to his chin. His flat was empty, and except for one dirty mug in the sink that the visitor used to make himself tea and a few toothpaste stains in the bathroom, there was no evidence left after his company from last night.
Now, sitting back at his office table, the thoughts of the quarter-end report were overshadowed by his desperate attempts to figure out the identity of the lion man.
At first he tried Natalya, who came shortly to discuss with him the schedule for the next week. Before she left, Francis forced his face into a neutral smile, no matter how much his head still felt like freshly dumped from the washing machine.
“Please, Miss Arlovskaya, could you help me to refresh my memory? Are tattoos excluded from our company dress code?”
Natalya’s eyebrow rose in what could have been suspicion as well as surprise. “The dress-code clearly states that tattoos are not allowed in any visible places where they could eventually be seen by clients. Anything else I can help you with?”
Her tone clearly stated that Francis just used up his daily share of stupid or otherwise obscure questions, and she turned to leave to her own seat.
Not that Francis would mind either. With his eyes closed, he was fully concentrating on the lion image from yesterday, and with head getting clearer every passing minute, he could now safely say that the lion’s paw reached the man’s biceps. That meant that if everybody in the company was following the basic rules, he could exclude those who wore a polo shirt in summer.
Still, Francis’ eyebrows scrunched as he mentally reviewed the fashion style of his colleagues, there were many employees - him included - that deemed polo shirts a rather unsightly element of male clothing, or for whatever other reason didn’t appear in work in anything but a complete suit with long-sleeved shirt.
Aimlessly writing random names that popped in his head over the office papers fresh from the printer, he failed to see the person standing right behind his back. “Mr. Bonnefoy, I would concentrate my attention on the quarter-end report if I were you, unless you don't want to come to work tomorrow at all.”
Francis nearly snapped the pen in half at the sudden shock as he heard the familiar, feared voice of his boss too close to his ear, and although he knew that it was probably just an empty threat, it still served as a very good incentive to make him work properly and without a break for the next three hours.
He could hardly wait until twelve when his lunch pause started and he finally had time for a private call on his way to his favourite restaurant.
Miguel greeted him with his booming liveliness and as a good friend first asked about Francis’ hangover. However, at the question if he remembered with whom Francis had left the day before, he stayed silent for a few too many seconds.
“You know, Francis, there were a lot of people there yesterday, and of course I had to take care of the ladies.” Miguel’s laughter was thick and deep, as if permanently clouded by his Havana cigars. “But the last time I saw you before you disappeared was as you got back from the toilet and slurred something about a dangerous game you were playing; you were giggling like a schoolgirl - no offence, that’s how it was - so I didn’t take you too seriously.”
Francis said his thanks and ended the call just as the waitress brought him the daily menu. He couldn’t say he would enjoy his lunch on that day, partly because his stomach was still inclined to somersaults on unexpected occasions, and partly because he was deeply in thoughts. There must have been something he remembered about last night, something else than heat and the impressive tattoo.
The lunchbreak was over too soon and Francis had to return to his world of pie charts and percentages, unsuccessfully trying to get rid of the feeling that his boss was watching him the whole afternoon. Only around four did he allow himself a short break with coffee from Natalya, and the pause together with the caffeine in his system made him get an idea so brilliant that he nearly hit his forehead in victory.
Opening a new email, he quickly typed the address of his good friend Antonio, who not only worked for the company longer than Francis, but was also a proud owner of a tattoo himself, as Francis had the pleasure to see on those two occasions they both felt a strange pang of melancholy that ended up in a rather intimate therapy session. Antonio had the Spanish word for Passion tattooed on his left calf, and Francis assumed it very probable he would know about other tattooed employees, all the more if he was searching for such a large one.
Antonio, who was also probably having a coffee break (or more likely a coffee afternoon) answered almost immediately. According to his modest knowledge, Tino on the fourth from the software department had some metal-related atrocity with skulls over his chest, Mei, the second assistant of the CEO had a small plum blossom on the nape of her neck, and that uptight third-line manager Edelstein had the score for the first part of Eine kleine Nachtmusik on the small of his back, just “don’t tell anybody it was me who told you that. But a full-sized lion over the entire back? Are you sure that wasn’t just a pleasant extra the rum made you see?”
Wondering exactly how big the Nachtmusik scale must be but still slightly disappointed at the lack of clues, Francis replied to his friend just as Natalya reappeared in his office, already in her winter coat.
“See you tomorrow Mr. Bonnefoy, I have to go now, but Mr. Kirkland explicitly said you shouldn't leave before five, he has apparently some additional matters to discuss with you.”
Francis sighed, mentally making peace with the fact that this day was a karmic punishment for the fun he had yesterday and possibly on all entertaining occasions throughout his whole life, and just helplessly watched through the large window of his office how Natalya stepped into the shiny car of her American boyfriend, free from the work for that day.
One and a half hour later, the office building was almost empty except of a few poor souls doing overtime and a lonely cleaning lady, and while brooding alone in the silence, Francis successfully persuaded himself that he was about to get fired. He couldn’t figure out why, of course, since his results never got under 96% and he never had problems with complaining customers, but he was fairly sure his boss already found a good enough reason to get rid of him immediately.
If nothing else, the short, too curtly “Bonnefoy, into my office, now.” phone call made all additional doubts disappear.
Mr. Kirkland wasn’t in his usual spot at the huge mahogany table that dominated the office, twice as large as Francis’ was (used to be, he thought grimly), but was standing with his back to the door as Francis entered. Hands knotted behind him, back straight like a soldier, he was solemnly watching the flickering lights of the skyscrapers that filled the scenery behind the large window panes.
“I’ve heard you rather enjoyed this years’ Christmas party?” he started before Francis could ask why he was summoned at this late hour.
“I’m – I’m very sorry for my lack of attention and work moral today, Mr. Kirkland, I assure you it won’t happen again.”
“Did you enjoy the night as well?”
Francis blinked, momentarily confused since this definitely wasn’t the direction this conversation was supposed to go to, and then, a horrible thought - that he managed to bring to bed a private interest of his boss - came to his mind. He stuttered an “I beg your pardon?” just to win time, thinking furiously of a good excuse for whatever offence he committed with his yesterday’s one night stand.
But then Kirkland turned around, facing Francis with a grin instead of a frown; and Francis’ eyes fell from the grin down to the tie in an ugly shade of sandy yellow, and he realized this was not the first time he mentally criticized its colour. He did so while exactly that tie hung loosely around a naked neck that was moving like a stop-motion film in his memory’s vision right now; and after he recognized the tie, the brown suit jacket with the rounded collar looked familiar too, just like the one he saw haphazardly thrown on his carpet lately.
He startled as he realized Kirkland walked across the office, now standing so close that he could touch the lapels with his own hand. In the end, the shoes became his final clue, the unsightly square tip of them so out-of-date that he would recognize them anywhere. Looking up from the ground directly into his boss’ eyes, he found there only amusement; only maybe a tiny bit of doubt hidden in the wrinkles around the corners.
“It was you.” Francis said, the final solution of his riddle bringing him back his self-confidence. “It was you yesterday in my flat, you left the mug in my sink.”
Mr. Kirkland tilted his head to the side, “I’ll ask you once again, Bonnefoy. Did you enjoy the last night?”
“Not really sure, my memory is rather blurry,” Francis felt his pulse beat against the tight collar of his shirt, “Maybe I would need to look at your back once again.”
Kirkland smiled, a dangerous smile like Francis would never imagine could match his boss’ face; the smile of a beast.
“Tell it to one soul,” he leaned forward to whisper into Francis’ ear, hands reaching for the clasp of his belt, “and I will fire you on spot.”
“Fire me,” Francis’ hand stilled on the shoulder where he knew was the paw hidden underneath the jacket, pushing with his fingers through the fabric, “and every single person in this building will know what Mr. Kirkland is hiding underneath his tasteless suits.”