A Box of Tapes
pairing: platonic! daniel molloy x assistant!reader
word count: 2.3k read on AO3
summary: a box of tapes arrives in your employers mailbox. with it brings memories, feelings, and opportunities that he can't handle. at least, in your opinion.
tags: second person pov, gn!reader, no beta we die like claudia, uneducated discussion of parkinson's disease, argument, semi-domestic, body doubling, reader just wants what's best for him but daniel is lowkey suicidal
a/n: this literally took forever but I noticed I made a mistake continuity wise in my assistant!reader hcs, so I decided to make a whole fic correcting it lol. daniel molloy you have such a special place in my heart and I just want to constantly nag you to take care of yourself <3. hope y'all enjoy!
"Ok, yes he can be a little... Disarming but he pays good money!" Your voice rings out into the hallway as you shoulder your way into the apartment complex and head towards the mailboxes. The phone screen feels cool against the skin of your cheek as you reach your hand into your bag and start feeling around for your keys. You balance a cardboard cup holder in the other hand. The heat of the drinks creeping over your palm the longer you keep it there.
"I just don't understand why he needs you? It's not like he's a real celebrity, I'm pretty sure he can get his own coffee." Your friends voice comes through the other line, sounding annoyed as ever. "It surely isn't enough money to skip out on our hang out. Again."
"You know it's not like that, I need this money so I can do the stuff I actually want to do. I'll make it up to you I promise." Your finger finally grazes rigid metal and you pull the keys out, fiddling with them to find the right one.
"Mhm sure."
"I mean it!"
"Whatever you say."
There's a brief silence when you finally find the right key and go to unlock the mailbox.
"Well I gotta get back to the grind, don't wear yourself out and I'll promise to do the same, okay?" Your friend says with a sigh.
"... Okay, yeah sure."
"Cool, see you later."
"Alright I'll see you, bye."
You finally pull the door open as your friend hangs up, quickly taking the phone from your shoulder and dropping it in your bag. The box has a few letters, from the looks of it mostly bills and ads, but the thing that catches your eye is a small box. Beige with minimal postage and stamping. Strange, not never before seen, but never the less strange.
Your legs find their way to and up the ever familiar staircase, mail tucked under your arm with keys still in hand. When said disarmers apartment door comes into view, it takes everything in you not to sigh. Another day that will be the same as the day before. Work, classes, writing, repeat. Boring, but dependable.
You find yourself at the door and immediately give a quick knock before opening the door yourself.
"Good morning Mr. Molloy! How are you doing today?" You holler into the space as you scan the room for your employer. The faint rhythm of a basketball game being played on the radio fills the apartment as you knew it would be. As much as he hates it, Mr. Molloy is a creature of habit. You find him in the kitchen, puzzle splayed over the counter and he works yet another piece in to place with his fingers.
"I told you to call me Daniel. You're making me feel old." His voice comes out in a grumble as his eyes stay focused on the near-perfect picture in front of him.
"Well I hate to say it, but I think your ancient bones are doing most of the work when it comes to that. Got mail and coffee for you." You slide said items on to the counter in front of him, making quick work of the cup holder and taking a sip of your own drink. His eyes flick slightly towards the items as he huffs out some sort of laugh before going back to the puzzle. Slowly his hand makes its way to the paper cup, taking it in his grip and bring it to his lips.
The next hour goes as follows. Mr. Molloy stares at his puzzle, takes a sip of coffee, and goes back to staring. You settle on his couch, your laptop set up on his coffee table as you get to work. Responding to any loose ends regarding his master class, fielding congratulatory emails about said master class, noting notices from the clinic and his insurance company, and politely declining every single student journalists offer to interveiw him. Once you are all caught up you steal some "work time" to do your best to write one sentence, just one, of your thesis.
You pull your head away from your screen when you hear shuffling from Mr. Molloy. Looking over your shoulder you watch as he tears open the box, picking up a letter placed on top of the contents. And then there's a pause. A long pause, what it's filled with you're not sure, but Mr. Molloy knows.
"What is it?" Your voice comes out soft, that delicate type of voice one uses when they aren't sure if someone is going to react with something trivial or a full on breakdown.
"Uh, I've been invited to Dubai for an interview." Mr. Molloy puts down the letter, almost hastily going through the rest of the package.
"That's it? Talk about 'could have been an email'" You huff out as you swivel back to your laptop.
"Yeah this guy isn't really about... subtle." The clacking of plastic against plastic follows his response, his fingers fiddling with whatever is inside that box.
"Still, Dubai sounds nice. Who's this interviewee? Sounds like you know him, some Saudi Arabian dignitary you did coke with in the 70's?" The joking nature of your voice didn't seem to sit right with your employer, his brows furrow and you can tell by the slight, dull tapping that he's started bouncing his leg.
"Yeah, something like that."
Dismissive. Daniel Molloy is being dismissive. Daniel Molloy is never dismissive, at least not with you. He is a man that wants the facts, only the facts, and will dig for the facts until he gets them. He takes pride in being upfront and honest, even to the detrement of himself and others. He's lost and gained so much over this one part of his beleifs, and at some point in the time you've spent in his apartment today he has decided that it could go kick rocks. The look you give him is incredulous, the raise of your eyebrow and your pointed eyes bore into the back of his head until he finally turns to face you.
"What?"
His voice comes breathy, exasperated. Comfermation.
"Whats going on, you're being weird." You say, blunt and confrentational.
"Arent I always weird?" The small, half assed smile that makes its way onto his face comes as quickly as it goes.
"Yeah but you're being a different type of weird, which is weird in and of itself so something is wrong and you're not telling me."
"Please tell me how exactly you got that from the five sentences I've spoken to you all day."
"Deductive reasoning which of course I leared from the best," you say, vaugly gesturing towards his figure, "So please tell me what on earth has you acting so...like this." Another vauge gester, more pointed with the addition of the look on your face. A stareing contest insues. Your eyes fix themselves on Mr.Molloy's icy blue irises. In moments like this you know not to back down, you've learned very quickly that behind that stubborness is the path to your employer becoming a more vunreable and trusting person. You know it's not your job or place to guide him to this path. But when you see the opprotunity, you take it. He looks away first, opting to fix his gaze on the ground in front of him.
Mr. Molloy takes a moment, the valleys of his forehead get deeper and the tapping gets quicker. You sit and you wait, you give him that moment. To think or panic or whatever he needed to do. Then he sighs, looks up at the ceiling, runs his hands over his face, through his hair, picks up the package, and finally walks over to sit on the couch next to you.
As the new weight on the couch makes it shift beside you, you follow the angle of his arm until your eyes land on the package. For the first time you can see the inside of the small box. It is full of cassette tapes bound together by a single, clinging to life, rubber band.
"Ok, uh, this is gonna sound insane but you have to come along with me on this..." He tells you everything, at least everything he can remember. The bar, the man in the corner who turned out to be something more — something unatural — and Daniel Molloy learned, and recorded, it all. Then the attack, hazy at best and completely gone from memory at worst, mainly the memory of hurt and pain corsing through his body had stuck around but the specifics escape him.
Mr. Molloy cannot stay still during his confession. He fiddles with his fingers, then the rubber band holding the casettes, until finally he feels compelled to start pacing. Back and forth in his living room as you stare at him, letting his words settle into your body.
"You know what? Let me just," He makes a break into the hallway and starts digging through the closet. Miscellaneous objects come flying out behind him, some of which seemingly belonged to his daughters in their youth, as he digs into the space. You make a mental note to go through and organize that closet when you find the time. "Aha!" The exclamation comes with the uncovering of a boom box. Mr. Molloy quickly dusts off the device before making his way back to the couch, quickly plugging it in and placing the first casette into the speaker.
Voices make their way through the speaker, one young with a similar countenance to the man sitting in front of you. "Um, first question. You weren't always a vampire, were you?"
The other a smooth, unfamiliar voice follows. "No. I was a thirty-three year old man when I became a vampire"
A vampire. Vampires are real. Or at least this mystery man had convinced Mr. Molloy that they are. Or your employer is more mentally unhinged than you had taken him for. Probably all of the above.
The voices go back and forth before you lean forward and press pause. When you lean back you peek at Mr. Molloys face. His eyebrows have shot up, lips parted slightly as his eyes search for something.
"Okay." Your voice doesn’t come out the way you would like, it's clunky and unsure of itself. And yet you continue. "What are you going to do about it? How are you going to move forward with this invitation?" Your arm makes its way to the back of the couch, trying to exude casualty.
"Really, that's your question. You just learned that vampires are real and your first reaction is to question me about me?"
"Look, I am not paid to know anything and everything about these people. Believe me I want to know everything. But I am paid to handle your scheduale, coraspondence, and make sure that you don't send yourself to an early grave. So first things first I need to know whats going on in your brain. What are you going to do?"
"...I'm going."
"Okay. I don't think that is a very good idea but okay."
"You can't ask what my decision is and then judge me. You are not 'being paid' to judge me." Mr. Molloy scoffs.
"Whether I'm being paid for it or not, and believe me I am, I care about your wellbeing. You just told me a story of how this man almost killed you and you expect me to be enthusiastic about you interveiwing him again. What happens if he hurts you again? Or kills you? Especially when you would be on the otherside of the world presumably with only me knowing where you are. How does any of that sound like a good idea."
He goes to speak, but you give him no room for rebuttal.
"Also have you forgotten that your health isn't doing the greatest right now? Do you really want to put your life prolonging treatment on hold just to what, listen to this guy's sorrows for god knows how long. You won't even be able to finish the interveiw. By that point you will have forgotten what you have and haven't asked!"
"That's the point!" His aggression spooks you into silence, he continues. "I'm not going to be around much longer, at least with my mind intact. I have nothing to loose. I'm dead anyway, might as well close out that chapter of my life and learn as much as I can while I'm at it." A beat as his words linger. "Plus, Dubai does sound nice."
You stare at him. He stares back. You're both too stubborn to admit that the other may have a point. The two of you do this a lot.
"If it makes you feel better," Mr. Molloy says, "you can always join me to make sure I don't parish until you decide I should." An olive branch.
"...Maybe."
"Maybe?"
"Maybe."
With that you turn your body back to your laptop. Over your shoulder Mr. Molloy sees you pull up different international airline websites. You can sense a lazy smirk spread over his face, then you hear and feel Mr. Molloy let out a huff. Then he stands up, walks away, and comes back with a leather bound notebook and a pen. His arm reaches out and presses play on the speaker. Neither of you speak for the rest of your time in Mr. Molloy's apartment, just working next to eachother and ocassionally getting up to use the restroom or keep yourselves hydrated. Boring, dependable, just like any other day.
You wont have dependable after this day, at least not in the near future. Because when you really think about it, Dubai does sound nice.
