Picking Up Pieces I | Norway x Reader |

As human beings, we limit ourselves to believing that there can only be one great love in our lives.

But what happens to the people whose one great love ends before it can begin?

Picking Up Pieces | Lukas & Reader

6:55. You underslept. Go on, get up. It’s dark. Not as a dark as it was yesterday, though. Spring will be here soon. You should start taking allergy medication early. Do it during your lunch break, you probably won’t have much work to do by then anyways. What should you wear to work today? That suit you recently bought looks nice, but it’s a bit too formal for the occasion. Let’s go with something grey, it’s dark outside so it’ll match the sky...

You had taken to talking to yourself two years ago, but eventually you had gotten so tired of hearing your own voice that you started doing it in your head instead. A year ago, it had been fun to adjust the voice -- change it to sound like anyone or anything. One day a raspy old man. The next day a child’s. All of the mental games had eventually gotten old, however, and now you didn’t hear a narrator, you just saw words. Instructions. It was easier to get by when you knew what you had to do and when, after all.

    Arriving at work was uneventful. You skipped breakfast, brushed your teeth in the shower, blow-dried your hair, dusted some makeup over your face, pulled a grey blouse over your head, pulled on a matching, slightly-darker pair of dress pants, slid your feet into a pair of boots, grabbed the umbrella from the jar standing beside the door, pried it open, slipped through the door, passed the row of cookie-cutter houses lining the road, dodged a couple of puddles, arrived at the bus station right on time, found a seat, and continued with your typical commute out of suburbia and into the city. You headed through the automatic glass doors of your office building at a brisk pace, gave a curt nod to the secretary, dodged the elevator in favor of the stairs, climbed up 2 sets, entered the first room on the right, passed a row of cubicles, and landed in your respective abode. A stack of papers was resting, waiting to be analyzed meticulously yet quickly, and you set to work on it.

    A phone rang. Friendly greetings were exchanged between the long-haired brunette and short-haired blonde working a few rows down. A gentleman sneezed, a few polite people said “bless you.” A woman spoke rapid-fire Spanish into her cell while furiously writing information down. The editors click-clacked away at their keyboards. The men and women seated near you hastily jotted down notes, sifted through papers, and typed on their computers. A group of men stood at the coffee machine, chatting casually.

    The papers before you were designed for editing purposes. The first section was an opinion article about the mayor’s most recent decision regarding tax distribution. It included a colorful selection of language, needed to be heavily condensed, and utilized a number of strawman arguments which had to be cut out. The unsophisticated language with which it was written and the ad hominem which was rampant throughout gave you a headache, and you were questioning why your boss even wanted to accept such an article for submission when the men standing at the coffee machine from before arrived at your cubicle.

    “Sorry about those papers I gave you. I am having someone else take them, but I left them on your desk when Mr. Bondevik arrived. I’m sure you’re aware of him?” Your boss's -- Mr. Kirkland’s -- thickly-accented British voice broke the silence.

    “Ah, yes. He published those rather popular articles in Washington the other day on the recent plane crash in Florida -- the one that led to 25 deaths. It was a rather good job, I’ll say,” you reply almost mechanically. You had learned the hard way that to keep your job, you needed to know what everyone else in the field was doing, not just what concerned you.

    “Yes, a good job indeed. And Mr. Bondevik, you’ve heard of Ms. (l/n), have you not?”

    The man turned to look at you, and for the first time you got a glimpse of his profile. He was handsome in a unique sort of way, with wispy light blonde tufts of hair running down his scalp in long streaks, ending in curls which grasped in all directions. His face was finely-chiseled and surprisingly feminine, with rosy cheeks and long eyelashes barely visible because of how light they were in color. His countenance reflected indifference, and his deep indigo irises revealed no emotion at all. He interesting to say the least, and unconventional, though respectful, in his sailor-inspired attire.

    “Yes, of course. I have followed her work for quite some time. She wrote for her town’s local paper until she uncovered a large-scale bank heist. She aggrandized herself considerably after that.”

    Mr. Kirkland nodded. “Alright. Mr. Bondevik, Ms. (l/n), since you two are now acquainted, I would like you, Ms. (l/n), to show Mr. Bondevik how we operate here. His cubicle will be the empty one next to yours.”

    “Okay, sir,” you reply.

    “I believe you two will be working on some cases together,” your boss smiled, something which he rarely did unless he thought he had struck journalistic gold. “I have big plans for you, and I hope I won’t be disappointed.”

    “You won’t be,” Bondevik curtly replied, and you nodded to affirm his statement.

    “I’d best be off now. Goodbye.”

    “Farewell,” the two of you replied in unison. Mr. Kirkland lifted the stack of papers from your desk and quickly walked off to a cubicle a few rows down. Once he was gone, you stood up from your desk and turned to face Mr. Bondevik. He looked at you expectantly.

    “Alright. I’m not sure what your job was like before, but here things are very black-and-white. You either carry your weight around or you don’t. If you want to be successful here, you have to make no mistakes. This is a very serious company, as you’re aware, and very esteemed. You do not want to be the one who botches things up.”

    “Like any other company, we have a coffee station over there. You’re allowed to take as much coffee as you want, and everything that comes with it is free.”

    Bondevik’s mysterious orbs flashed excitedly when he saw the coffee machine, and he began to prepare some for himself while you leaned against the wall, observing. You could tell he had an ear turned to what you were saying, so you continued.

    “Be warned that Mr. Kirkland doesn’t appreciate it if you down 10 cups in a day. Think of it as a privilege, not a right. I usually limit myself to 1-2 cups a day, if any. I recommend you, at most, allow yourself 15 cups in a week.”

    Bondevik turned to you, leaning against the coffee table with one hand, holding his warm beverage to his mouth with the other. His silent gaze ordered you to continue.

    “We have bathrooms on each floor. The men’s rooms are always right in front of the elevator, the women’s rooms are always to the left of that. Mr. Kirkland’s and Mr. Jones’s offices are at the top floor, which is one floor above us. Down below you’ll find the less reputable writers and editors on the second floor, and the public desks on the first. Mr. Jones is a close companion to Mr. Kirkland. He’s given his own office so that he can keep Mr. Kirkland company. He doesn’t actually get involved in the newspaper itself, but he does run small errands such as fetching people lunch. If you are working on a case but want to eat something, feel free to hand him a 20 and tell him what you want.

    “I really don’t have much else to say other than to exceed the requirements Mr. Kirkland sets for you by a landslide. If he asks for an article in by Friday, give him it tomorrow. By now I’m sure he’s told you what you have to do, correct?”

    “Yes.”

    “Alright. Do you have any other questions, Mr. Bondevik?”

    “No. Thank you for your time, and please, call me Lukas.”

    You blinked. You hadn’t called anyone by their first names in months. You decided to test the name out on your tongue. “Alright then, Lukas,” you replied with a small smile. You could have sworn he smiled back.

    “What should I call you?” He asked.

    “Ah, you can call me by my first name -- (f/n).”

    “Thank you, then. I hope we will be working together.”

    “Likewise. Farewell.”