You observed the C.L.O.’s hand, carefully crafted, drop a pen onto a wooden desk with a soft clang to the metal barrel of the writing device. Her hand took a brief pause before it switched a side’s desk lamp, from dim to a brighter setting that startled your eyes that had already adjusted to the previous on setting dusk. The pen was retrieved, and there was a mild shift of her shoulder that you rested on as the C.L.O. continued the barrage of tonight’s authorization signatures and god knows what else was in there. She was a swift one with paperwork, but it seemed that having somebody watching did give her a reason to take more detail into this work.
Many a suit would kill to be in your place now, but for different reasons. To climb the corporate ladder would be one thing, but you had managed to take an alternative route to be allowed the metaphorical throne of an “emergency reassembly of individual position” to become her assistant. To go over the history now would be pointless, but you two were...close enough. There was no talk of lovers, but rumors were already blooming from the more gossipy of the company of just how you had came to be.
And now, the literal throne – the silent observation as she does those nightly tasks, ones the C.L.O. had become so used to that any sort of annoyance at how mundane the busywork had become had numbed itself. You wouldn’t be paid any sort of overtime for being here hours beyond your usual time to clock out, but that meant nothing. It was enough to just stay by her side, the same side that emits the substantial noise of a cooling fan whirring around the shoulder blades’ joints and beneath her suit, overpowering once so close, but nobody had shattered her veil of professionalism enough to hear it before.
Her chassis was both modern for a suit and the sheer opposite. Some parts updated, some not, not to mention that her entire lower half went against the humanoid structure a suit usually would have. It was best described as tank movement, treads and all.
But something about that had always picked at your processors, fascinations that were maybe shared in a different way.
And now, the admiration you had for this supercomputer of your boss was unable to be avoided. Between that and the exhaustion coming over you (had you forgotten to recharge last night?), you instinctively leaned onto her neck. The metal was cold, your own shoulder meeting the seam where plating met, narrowly above a bolt holding it together, the humanoid structure hiding a jungle of vines, mechanicals, the very soul of the C.L.O. and perhaps every other suit, but for now, hers. And that seemed to have gotten some part of her attention, as the hand that was not busy with trying to re-ink a stamp with the department’s emblem retreated from holding a paper steady. It passed and drifted across the bow that decorated her shirt collar, and nudged the other side of your body closer to her neck.
You were now surrounded by the cold metal that made up what you one day could only dream of calling a lover, behind the wooden doors of the headquarters, because suits weren’t built for such things as romance. It had become more popular now to be open about such things, but mostly within those whose careers wouldn’t be on the line for it.
But for now, those doors were shut, and it was only the two of you perhaps in this entire building, however vast it was, so there was that freedom to do this sort of thing. And maybe it was unlucky to be positioned right below her ears, decorated with yet another circular bolt colored a deep purple that almost was an earring in its own way – she could definitely hear your own fans going haywire with how overheated you felt from the situation, as much as you could feel it within your chest.
You looked up for a second to see if there’s some sort of expression on her face. Her face – the sharp nose, the bright rounded glasses that framed a long shape sculpted to perfection of a suit, the way her hair was kept short and to a side – there was never a denial to those below her that age had not rendered her any less beautiful to those who apply to care about such things. And to believe she was not married after all those years, focused so narrowly on a career, not wanting it any other way.
The C.L.O. had a small smile on her face as she kept her hand close to you.
And she almost never smiled!
She wasn’t known for being warm like the Senior V.P., or being drowned in the apathy that the stalemate against the Toons had brought the other two department heads. She still had that fury against them, that burning passion to show herself as being capable against them, no matter how many times she had been sent down a trap-door by those pests. She was rendered cold by it all, and yet, she smiled just by having someone touch her, be by her side. That was enough to break the ice when nobody was there to see it melt.
And the next morning, both of you would have to pretend this moment was not shared, but for now, it was basked in. Her hand twirled around, before a finger slipped under your own arm. And then, the pen was set down again, before she broke the silence.
“Is there a reason why you haven’t said anything?” she questioned. Your entire body somehow grew colder than the metal to metal contact already was, surrounding the warmed core.
“If you want me to,” was your only response. Stepping out of line when you’re this close to underneath her command always seemed so daunting.
“Please do. This position is isolating, to put it at that. It’d be more than welcome to hear somebody else control a conversation.”
And all you could get out of your now-even-more-flustered state was a nod, which she could probably at least kinda feel through her hands, your entire body going even stiffer than being, well, metal, already rendered it. She wanted to know more about you. How daunting, how terrifying to have to open yourself up to her. It would feel like a vivisection of yourself, the piercing of a butterfly for her to see, but beyond all the fear involved in trying to develop more of a personal relationship outside of a work one – a sinking feeling knowing it could just be worth it.
Her hand lowered down, and you re-adjusted as to not fall from the front. There was a sudden noise of the treads of her lower half pulling away from the desk – something, just something so admirable about the more abstracted machinery she was made up of. The noise accompanied that of the cooling fans and the general whirring of her insides, and as she went to the other side of the room leading to what separated her quarters from the rest of the HQ, she spoke once more, going from the unusually personal tone of voice from before to that usual commandance.
And now, the C.L.O. ordered, “Tomorrow. Same time as today was. Make sure to open up a little, however. It will be good background noise, if not more."
With the advancements of suits more software part of the brain, that would be jotted into your mental calendar. Around an hour after everyone else would be gone, in other words.
She once again reached up to your smaller chassis, opting to just pick you up entirely, reaching downwards to place you at the edge of the stand her body connected to the tank half, and used the back of her fingers to gently nudge you off. You landed onto the tiles with a bit of a bounce in your lower legs, and with a silent wave from the same hand that had led you down, you were on your own ways once again, but not for long.