A Hundred Days | Dan Howell x Reader

Chapter 27.

The sights and sounds of London shuddered by the train as you blocked out the world.

Fragments of friendly conversations and amicable laughter occasionally flitted through the trance your music had pulled you into.

It was Monday and thus your first day back at The Record since your Europe-crossing roadtrip.

You had gotten up early that morning and gone for a run on the southside of Thames path, fittingly named 'Southbank'. You usually didn't enjoy running for the fact that it was rather evil once one ran out of breath and eventually got a stitch in one's side, and you only engaged in the activity in order to maintain some sort of physical shape. However, this morning you had gone running, though not for the sake of exercise but simply because it was running.
You felt like running.
You wished you could run from everything the way your tennis shoes pounded away at the flagstones until the obsidian was gone and replaced by asphalt or concrete or gravel or grass or some other surface.
You wished for sweet escape yet knew that such a thing was not possible, but nonetheless you had hoped that the cardio would clear your head of your troubles, the crisp morning wind cleanse your Daniel-tainted thoughts, fill your lungs with new air, and your body focus on the endurance of a long run rather than that boy. That curly-haired, caramel-eyed boy with skin painted a galaxy of freckles. That beautiful boy who no longer cared how loud he laughed or what anyone else thought of him,  he who only wanted to protect you. And to love you.

Why is it again that that can't happen?

Stupid, stupid!

Obviously, the run had had no effect whatsoever. But the music was helpful at blinding you to a series of emotions, so you had stuffed your earbuds back in once you had showered, dressed for work, and joined the throng of people at the station. 

So there you were, getting off at Bank and "pulling a London"* to make it through the crowds.

You swept into the office and a hundred heads were raised, desk-chairs swiveling.

You pulled out an earbud.

You barely ever spoke to anyone at the office and it wasn't as if you'd made the biggest kerfuffle entering neither the building nor the room. At least, you didn't think so— your music had been playing quite loudly, after all; you might not have heard any excessive amount of noise you'd made, like the accidental slamming of a door or the messenger bag at your side ramming something as you waltzed by.

You frowned at the increased attention (just about then, all you really wanted was to sink into some secreted corner) but contined the journey to your desk at the back of the work rooms, and located the wooden table by the window that overlooked much of London's exquisite sights.

Along the way, men and women you'd never before made eye-contact with nodded at you, smiled at you, winked, gave you a thumbs-up, congratulated you, even struck up a brief conversation after greeting you with a smile—
"Good morning, Miss/Mr./(title) L/N",

remarks of which you hastily returned with the faux politeness of a sensible person who'd been good and well confused.

"Now, now, everyone, back to work", boomed a monotonous male voice. "I'm sure Miss/Mr./(title) L/N will want to talk the specifics over with the Big Man". There were a few cheers and some clapping before Michael gestured for the inhabitants of the room to quiet-down.

You met Michael's eyes with a stormy look, one composed of sterness reserved only for the traitor of all traitors, yet inquisitive all the same.

"What", you hissed as he took your arm briskly but gently, leading you along the corridor beside the long line of The Record's private offices that resembled more glass display boxes than anything else, "in hell are you doing?"