After Dark; Nathan Stewart x GN!Reader
Chapter 1: First Impressions are Everything.
As the sun dips down - with blue skies fading into gradients of reds, oranges and blues to leave a deep colored sky nearly the same color as the dark sea, followed by the eventual loss of bustle and hustle of the crowds and the distal horns of departing cruises for the day - Broadside Beach drapes itself in a temporary and shallow veil of rest.
Most if not every venue and its surroundings in Broadside Beach is shut down for the night. Illuminated only by the light from the warm scattered lamposts and the moonlight, aside from a few stray huts and buildings, the usually crowded and lively trail around the Beach presents itself as a tranquil retreat under the stillness of the evening.
Your shift ended a good hour or so ago, but instead of walking back to your cabin - you walked along the asphalt with multiple files on hand.
You seldom encounter anyone at this time (aside from the stationed nightguards by the shore) since most crew members, exhausted and famished from another workday of entertaining and keeping the Broadside charm alive for 12 or so hours, are probably retiring back to their cabins for a late dinner or to just to go to sleep.
You yearned to do the latter right now: to make a beeline to the nearest hammock and lull yourself to sleep. You already felt yourself stirring from the sweet swaying of the palm trees, joined by the occasional crash of seawater below.
But instead, your fingers idly shift to secure various stacks of thick catalog envelopes as you drag your feet against the sand to your destination.
Before you knew it, you stood the shadow of a hut with the moonlight showing little of its color: its navy corrugated roof, teal panels and its greyish accent being the most distinguishable. The patio spans devoid of any sort of warming furniture or anything - all except the life-sized colorful Walter statue in front of the doorway, a considerable pop of color and personality to the otherwise corporate façade.
Not wasting a second, you made your way inside catiously, navigating through the barely illuminated corridor as it stretches down to two double doors at the end of it. Only the faintest of moonlight seeps into the gaps of the entrance, illuminating the steel nameplate by the office door:
But after a minute or so of unaswered silence, you clear your throat.
Nearing your lips just by the door, you called out with the most polite and respecfully audible tone that you can muster.
"Delivery for Mr. Stewart."
Your voice bounces off the walls of the otherwise silent and dim hallway much more than your knocks against the wood.
You were waiting again. Waiting for a few seconds. A minute. A few minutes.
A small frown settles itself in your already pursed lips. Is this guy deaf? Silently yet rapidly tapping your unoccupied fingers by your forearm, tightening your hold enough to crease the envelope you decide to call out oncemore.
"Hellooo? Delivery for Nathan Stewart?"
Your call loudens, unmistakable impatience lacing your words but such efforts were still met with the same closed and unmoving doors. You let out a deep exhale. Advancing to the wooden door, hand up in the air with your face closer to the wood to call out even louder to the office for the third time -- before being startled with door suddenly opening mid-knock.
You immediately moved away from the door, supressing your previous scowl into a wan smile.
Behind it stood the man you were calling out to for the past few minutes.
He runs his hand through his tousled umber-colored hair as he looks at you with his exhausted and downcast eyes.
Similarly, your own gaze was busy trailing up and down the man. From his thick brows, subtle aquilinity of the bridge his nose, and roundness of his semi-defined jaw that paves way to the stubble that grazes most of his lower face.
You won't deny, he was certainly... better looking and younger that you would expect someone who pilots a massive Walrus all day. Much better compared to the man behind the main beaver that you were sometimes forced to entertain nearly everyday, atleast.
To be honest, you were fully prepared to meet a wizened and friendly middle aged man (with a major hearing problem) behind the office doors -- someone like Gary Wilson. Not some guy in his early to mid 20s with a perpetual bitch face. But it made total sense.
Stewart seemed to be around on the slightly higher end of height, which probably landed him as an ideal candidate for being the Walrus mascot.
If what you've heard was right, the whole suit should be around 80+ lbs. A whole kid for the whole day -- while having to carry more of the kids that swarm him -- in the scorching sea heat and roaming around with a goofy, timid captain voice for the Walrus while still having long long nightshifts as told by his drooping eyebags and his current, somewhat hazed expression.
No wonder he reeks of coffee more than anyone else.
Plus, you can't imagine someone like Gary being able to pull that off in his current age - mostly because the physical and health (from chugging like five or so cups a day, everday) side of of it compared to a younger man like Nathan.
You don't realize that you're staring. He rests his free hand absentmindedly hovers over the door handle as he also sizes you up and he lets out an awkward cough, his thin lips pursing slightly as he watches you silently snap out of your observational trance.Β
Not so soon afterwards, you finally manage to lift your eyes from the man's face. You slowly looked the empty corner of the hallway as you gently hand the stacks of envelopes to him but neither of his hands seem to budge, to extend and take away the package.Β
"Oh um... I'm sorry..." You force out a tired apology as you maintain your gaze on his guarded face before continuing, "These are the production files that management wants you to look over."Β Your hands were outstretched once again, offering the stack of envelopes to the man.
Even so, he remains unchanged. Still. Still, with his half-lidded and equally impatient eyes. His hand never leaves the metal door handle.Β
"... Can I just leave it by your office?" You sighed out as you attempt to maintain the rapidly dwindling smile on your face.Β Β
Fortunately, Mr. Stewart seemed to finally acknowledge your words - moving to the side as he silently invites you in. You shuffled past him, the stench of coffee and printer paper intesifying as you near his desk.
You place the folder near his monitor with your eyes subtly trailing around his office.Β It was difficult to see almost anything since everything was turned off except for the brightest computer screen lighting up most of the office. Silhouttes of the small bobbleheads of various Broadside mascots, two distinct piles of paperwork and an obscured picture frame near the computer was all that you saw.Β
So far it seemed like a pretty standard office set-up: A couple of company merch and work and what you can assume was his family picture by the deskside. From what little you saw, it was of him and/or another woman. His mom? Colleague, perhaps? His colleague and lover? You didn't know.Β
His eyes were still set on you even as you discreetly "glanced over" at his belongings. But it was only when you set down the thick stack of envelopes by the side of his keyboard, that he lets out a sharp cough. Immediately getting his point, you immediately turned your heel towards the exit.Β
As you were already out by the door and about to mutter a faint "goodnight", Stewart slams the door shut on your face.Β
The impact echoes around the empty hallway and you grit your teeth, dig your nails into the soft flesh of your palm as you stomped back to your cabin.Β Β
You knew he was probably struggling under Broadside's high demands, like any other crew member, and thatΒ maybeΒ your staring was unwanted - but wouldn't itΒ hurtΒ to atleastΒ pretendΒ be grateful to poor little grunt like you?Β
"Prick." You mutter into the cool night air, huffing and kicking some sand towards the office-cabin at the bottom of its stairstep as you go back to the lone asphalt walkway to the communal cabins.Β
If not for the company of the flickering lamplights and the sounds of the occasional dozing security by their crudely painted teal and white wooden stations, from creaking from each movements of their tired bodies serving as a break from the monotonous seas, winds and the trees - you would've stayed in the office-cabin for longer just so you wouldn't pass through the amplified darkness of the thick tree foilage on the route to your own cabin once again.
There are minimal changes to this version, mostly in some word changes and typo correction. The Ao3 version will be updated after (;>).
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