Suddenly Staring in Your Own Life

Your semi-frantic emergency Uber to work is...interesting. For your entire life, you've pretty much been a fuzzy area for other peoples' eyes to pass over without really registering. Not particularly handsome, not particularly ugly, never all that well-dressed but dressed too boringly for anyone to care, essentially existing as a sentient Bingo Free Space. But since your bout of drunken geology in the woods, things have changed. And now people are looking at you. And it sort of freaks you out.

You'd never really thought about it, but your utter mediocrity was a superpower in its own way. Behold the Unstoppable Tedium, The World's Most Pedestrian Hero! You've already forgotten about him! Now, though? Now you're at least four inches taller, several pounds of solid muscle heavier, and you suspect that an unbiased outside observer would confirm you're notably handsomer as well. It doesn't help that none of your clothes fit very well either. Your only saving grace on that score is that they never fit you all that well; work clothes that were previously baggy and shapeless are now form fitting and just barely button over your adonis-like body. You are one hundred percent certain that the moment you try to sit down, your muscular ass is going to explode your helplessly outmatched pants.

Unless the worst comes to pass and something manages to arouse you first, that is, because then the cock that is currently content to bulge luridly against your zipper will take care of that itself.

Regardless of the reason, the fact is that you've gone from being a blank space in the collective human consciousness to a magnet for curious looks. You can't help flushing in embarrassment as you exit your ride and race into the high-rise that houses your work, hurrying in equal attempts to not be any later and to outrun the eyes burning into you like lasers. You're in such a hurry that it isn't until you're riding a mercifully empty elevator up that you consider the fact that you're about to have a bigger problem than simple tardiness. Namely, showing up to work looking like someone just blasted you with ten gallons of whatever it was that turned Chris Evans as Captain America from a CGI wimp into...well, Chris Evans.

The thought had only just begun to really sink in when the elevator doors pop open and you step dazedly out onto your work's floor, clutching the ID badge that now only sort-of looks like you as if it's some sort of magical talisman to ward off your own ridiculous problems. You turn anxiously towards the reception desk, letting out a breath of relief when it becomes clear that you've gotten a very, very temporary reprieve. The usual receptionist, a grandmotherly lady who could never remember your name but was always decent enough to guess something that started with an 'A', is missing. In her place is a perky looking girl with honey-brown curls and a bright smile, offering you a cheery wave as you hesitantly make your way in her direction. "Good morning, sir! Can I help you?"

You carefully clear your throat, lifting up your ID badge. "Oh, um, I work here. Alexander Grant?"

"Oh!" The girl spares a quick glance for the identification before flashing you another friendly smile. "Sorry, I'm new."

"Is Shirley okay?"

The girl waves her hand reassuringly. "Don't worry; she's just on vacation. The temp agency sent me to fill in." You can't help noticing that her eyes have darted down to take in your wide chest more than once, and as you've been talking she's placed her elbows onto the desk and leaned forward quite a bit, what looks like a rather spectacular chest mostly hidden by her demurely professional work attire squishing against her arms. "Wait, you said 'Alexander Grant', right?"

Uh-oh. Does that mean the jig is up? "Er, yes?"

The temp rummages through a pile of notes, coming up with a scrap of paper. "Mrs. Marks said that if you came in today, I should tell you to go straight to her office." The girl raises her eyebrows at you. "Maybe it's good news?"

"I sort of doubt it."

The girl gives you a consoling smile. "Good luck."

You have to give her a smile back in response, though it's already started to fade when you clear her desk and start picking your way through the field of cubicles towards your manager's office. Just as you'd suspected, all of the people who've spent the last four years ignoring you from a distance of ten feet or less glance your way, then double-take in confusion at the sight of the new You. And you're really heating up as far as suspicions go, because sure enough there's your work station and sure enough there's some other guy sitting at your seat and sure enough there are your scant personal effects in a cardboard box dumped carelessly onto the ground.

Well, at least this meeting isn't going to be fucking suspenseful.

You give Mrs. Marks' door a knock, quickly slipping inside when her gravely voice invites you to enter. Might as well just get this over with. You awkwardly stand just inside the office, watching your boss as she finishes shuffling a few papers around. You always liked Mrs. Marks, your entirely competent boss rather world-weary in her mid sixties and possessing of a voice and face earned through decades of dealing with the bullshit of higher ups and failing to quit smoking. She never had all that much time for you, but she never seemed interested in getting in your way either.

You both basically ignored one another, and it really seemed like life had wedged you into your perfect little boring slot. Looks like you were wrong.

After a moment you grow impatient and clear your throat, ready to be officially fired so you can just get out of here. The older woman looks up, a blank expression crossing her face before she blinks in recognition. "Alexander?"

"Uh, yes. I was told to come to your office?"

Your boss doesn't seem quite ready to move on to that fact. "You...look different today, don't you?"

Uh, huh. You expected a bit more than that. Whatever, just roll with it. You raise your eyebrows, giving Mrs. Marks a shrug. "My clothes shrank in the wash."

"That's it?"

"And I'm trying to slouch less. New Year's Resolution."

"Oh." The older woman looks for a moment like she wants to ask another question, then she simply shakes her head and seemingly accepts your entirely feeble explanations. "Okay. Well look, there's no easy way to say this, but--"

You cut her off. "I'm fired, yeah. For being late one time, though?"

Mrs. Marks blinks. "What? No. You were late today?"

Uh. "Wait, so why am I fired then?"

Your boss grunts in annoyance, jerking her thumb towards the cubicle farm. "You saw the frat boy at your desk, right? He's the nephew of some moron on the board. Apparently they think having him move up the ranks looks better than just throwing the little shit a vice-presidency right off the bat."

"Okay..."

"And they also didn't want to increase our budget by another salary." She shakes her head, looking mad enough to spit. "It's ridiculous, Grant, but I'm pretty sure they picked your name at random."

Jesus. "That's seriously why I'm losing my job?"

Mrs. Marks nods, her frown deepening. "They wanted me to have you come in, 'train' him today and then fire you after work. But fuck that, I say. I'd have just called and told you to stay home, but I thought that if this company was going to rain down on you like this someone should at least have the decency to explain it to your face. I hope you don't think I expect you to be grateful for that or anything, it's just.." She trails off with a sigh, offering you a regretful shrug. "I don't know. It's how it is."

Whatever, you're already over it. "What happens now?"

"Well, there's no severance package in your contract, unfortunately. On the bright side you do have a lot of paid time off accrued, which the company is legally required to compensate you for. So you can expect a pretty decent bonus on top of your last paycheck. And I'd be more than willing to give you a recommendation for any other job opportunity you scrounge up. Outside of that, though,"--she gives you another shrug--"I guess what happens next is whatever you decide to do next."

You nod along, only half listening as a curious weight lifts from your shoulders. You should be horrified; you've got okay savings, but a week ago the idea of being unemployed would have sent you into conniptions. Now though? Well, you don't know. Maybe you don't feel so bad about this. "I guess that's that, then."

Mrs. Marks nods glumly, raising from her desk. "I suppose so. You've got my number if you need anything, Grant. I'm sure you'll land on your feet." She abruptly smiles, one of the few actual smiles you've ever seen from your eternally grumpy boss. "Especially if you keep it up with this whole 'no slouching' thing. It's a good look."

She nods to you in goodbye, and you return the gesture. No need to drag this out any further, you suppose, as you exit the office to snag your stuff and put this place in the rear view mirror. Life, however, seems intent on a bit more dragging out, because when you stop by your former cubicle to pick up your discarded box of belongings, the interloper who's taken your job slips out of what was until very recently your chair to block your reach. He's tall and handsome, in the way that the bad guys in movies about nerds from the eighties were tall and handsome, his jaw very square and his wavy black hair tousled back with intricately careful carelessness. Jesus, this guy looks like he's about to announce his plan to bulldoze the Rec Center. He hasn't actually deigned to look at you yet, his dark blue eyes gazing over your sad little collection of things with an air of bemused superiority. "Are these yours? I wasn't sure what was garbage and what wasn't."

God, his voice. It makes everything he says sound like he's sending filet mignon back to the kitchen. Whatever, you don't have to deal with this. "It's all garbage and is is mine. Excuse me."

The young man huffs as you push past him to take hold of the box, his now-annoyed gaze finally turning to you as you straighten up. When you continue straightening up, and up, and up, however, his look of irritated primacy briefly falters. There's silence for a moment as the two of you simply stand and stare at one another, the interloper apparently not having expected that he was going to have to look up to meet your gaze. After a moment, however, he sniffs dismissively and gives you an oily smile, extending his hand. "Well. No hard feelings, right cool guy?"

You glance down at the offered handshake, eyebrows slightly lowered as you imagine the crushing grip that awaits you. He's probably even one of those guys who tries to clamp onto your fingers in a truly misplaced show of dominance. You should just turn and walk away, but...no, you don't think you will. You arch an eyebrow at the cocky young man, shifting your box of things under one arm as you reach out to accept the shake. "Definitely not."

Sure enough, he tries to quickly smoosh your fingers, but you were wise to that game, locking your hand securely into his as he ineffectually tries to squeeze your phalanx bones into crumbles. Huh, so this is what it feels like to be stronger than someone, then? You are fucking into it. The interloper quickly gives up and tries to retract his hand, but you grip ever so slightly tighter to lock him into place. His eyes quaver, shooting down at his hand and then back up to your face as an anxious look crosses his conventionally handsome face. And then he whimpers quietly, and you feel something evaporating out of him to dissolve into the air.

You quickly break the grip, but can't help watching in awe as the young man visibly shifts before your eyes. It's not a lot, so subtle that you wouldn't have noticed it if it wasn't happening before your very eyes. But his jaw is a little rounder, his cheeks a little higher, even his mouth is just a bit fuller than it was a moment ago. Is he shorter? It's hard to tell, but it looks like his immaculate suit is hanging off of his body ever so slightly now as he stammers out what sounds like a mixture of an apology and a farewell and quickly retreats to his desk, rolling his chair as close to his computer as he can manage in what seems to be an attempt to shield himself from your steely gaze. That is...okay, wow. That fucking is.

You're in high spirits when you exit into the lobby, your mood so bolstered that you don't place the little gasp of disbelief that sounds out from the receptionist's desk. You glance over, the pretty temp holding one hand over her mouth as she takes in your box of personal effects with knitted eyebrows. "Oh no! That sucks."

Oh right, the girl. God, she's fucking cute. You sigh dramatically, giving her a forlorn smile. "I know, right?"

"What happened?"

You sigh again. "Well, I asked Mrs. Marks if I was allowed to ask temp workers for their numbers, but she said it was against company policy."

The temp stares at you wide-eyed for a moment, then unsuccessfully tries to stifle a deeply excited grin as she leans back in her chair and affects a look of shock. "Really? Even if they're hot?"

"Even if they're super hot."

She clucks her tongue in mock disapproval. "Wow."

"I know, right? So naturally, I quit on the spot."

The temp stops trying to hide her grin all together as she leans forward over her desk again, the amount of boob she's squishing with her arms this time absolutely on purpose. "That's really principled. I'm pretty impressed. By all those principles."

"Why don't I call you later? So we can talk more about principles?"

The girl has already started jotting down her number on a scrap of paper, slipping it into your cardboard box with a flirty wink before you turn to take the elevator back down, your spirits and mood entirely reversed within the span of maybe ten minutes. You've been fired, yes. That was not optimal. But everything else this morning has worked out pretty damn well. Never let it be said you can't see the silver linings in even the shittiest circumstances.