Chapter Text
Vox woke up to the unpleasant feeling of morning light shining directly on his face.
He opened his eyes. The room was full of weak morning light filtering through the curtains, casting everything in shades of gray and pale yellow. He was lying on his side facing the window, his body curled slightly inward, his injured arm tucked against his chest in an unconscious protective gesture he must have adopted sometime during the night.
And pressed against his back, from his shoulders down to his hips, was the unmistakable warmth of another person.
Vox went very still. His first instinct was to move, to put immediate distance between himself and whatever boundary he had apparently crossed in his sleep, but he forced himself to remain frozen while his brain caught up to the situation. He was in Alastor's bed. That much he remembered clearly, the conversation downstairs, the examination of his stitches, the careful maneuvering onto the mattress while Alastor faced the wall. He had been very deliberate about maintaining space between them when he'd finally settled in for the night, leaving what he'd estimated to be a respectful foot and a half of empty mattress. But apparently his sleeping body had not gotten that memo.
Vox exhaled slowly through his nose, trying to assess the full scope of the problem. The position wasn't anything scandalous on its surface. It was just the two of them sharing a bed in a cold room, gravity and the depression in the mattress had done what they always did when people slept in close proximity. His spine was aligned against Alastor's back and the position might have been perfectly comfortable under different circumstances. This kind of accidental intimacy happened all the time between people who shared beds regularly and didn't really care.
The problem was that he and Alastor were not those people.
The problem was that for as long as Vox had known him, Alastor had made it abundantly clear that he valued his personal space to an almost pathological degree, and waking up to find Vox plastered against him like some kind of barnacle was probably going to result in an immediate and permanent banishment from any future sleeping arrangements.
The problem was that Vox, despite knowing all of this, was finding it very difficult to motivate himself to actually move.
It was warm. That was the main thing. The room had gotten cold during the night and the shared body heat was pleasant. His back didn't hurt the way it would have if he'd spent the entire night on the floor.
He could just stay here for a few more minutes. That would be fine. Alastor was clearly still asleep, his breathing deep and even behind Vox, and if he moved now he'd probably wake Alastor up anyway. The considerate thing to do, really, was to remain perfectly still until Alastor woke on his own and they could address the situation like adults.
This rationalization lasted approximately thirty seconds before Vox's brain caught up with what it was actually doing and delivered a sharp, internal kick to his own reasoning.
He was making excuses to continue lying in bed pressed against Alastor's back.
He needed to get up right now, before this got any worse, before his own brain could spin any more elaborate justifications for behavior that was becoming increasingly difficult to explain as anything other than pathetic.
Vox moved. Carefully, slowly, he shifted his weight forward and away, creating distance between his back and Alastor's. The mattress dipped and creaked under the redistribution of weight. He froze, waiting, but Alastor's breathing didn't change. Still deep, still even, apparently undisturbed.
He pulled himself fully away and sat up, his feet finding the floor beside the bed. His head immediately protested the sitting position with a low, persistent ache that settled at the top of his skull where he'd cracked it against the dresser. The hangover was making itself known in earnest now, a dull throb that pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
He looked back at the bed.
Alastor hadn't moved. He was still on his side, facing the wall, but now that Vox had the elevation, he could make out the full absurdity of his position. He wasn't just facing the wall. He was pressed against it, his forehead literally touching the wallpaper, his body curled inward in a way that suggested he'd been trying to occupy as little space as possible. Like he'd been attempting to phase through the physical barrier and escape into the room on the other side.
Vox stared at him for a long moment, processing the implication that Alastor had been retreating.
At some point during the night, Alastor had apparently woken up to find himself being used as a human heating element and had responded by trying to fuse with the wall rather than wake Vox up and tell him to move. He'd literally run out of mattress, reached the absolute physical limit of how far he could go without falling off the bed, and had apparently decided that touching wallpaper was preferable to touching Vox.
The realization settled in Vox's chest with a weight that felt disproportionate to what it actually meant. It was almost funny, in a bleak sort of way. He'd spent the entire night convinced he'd won something, that he'd successfully navigated his way into Alastor's space through a combination of manipulation and strategic timing, and the reality was that Alastor had spent those same hours trying to escape him one inch at a time. It was so predictable, it aligned with everything Vox knew about Alastor and yet.
Vox felt something that might have been embarrassment if he'd been capable of feeling embarrassed about things like this anymore. It sat in his stomach like a small cold stone, uncomfortable and impossible to ignore.
He stood up properly, his feet finding his shoes by the door. His shirt was wrinkled, the collar bent at an odd angle from sleeping in it. He ran his good hand through his hair, trying to smooth it down. His reflection in the window showed him a man who looked exactly like he felt: tired, slightly disheveled, nursing a hangover and a wounded arm and a pride that had taken more hits in the past twenty four hours than it was equipped to handle.
He should savor this more. That's what he'd told himself last night, that he'd earned this moment of rest and comfort, that he deserved to bask in his victory for as long as he could stretch it. He'd manipulated the situation perfectly, read Alastor's state of mind correctly, positioned himself exactly where he needed to be.
Except he hadn't, had he.
Alastor had let him stay out of what appeared to be sheer conflict avoidance rather than any kind of genuine willingness to share space, and Vox had spent the night unconsciously chasing warmth across a mattress while the other man tried to get away from him.
Not exactly the triumph he'd imagined.
The thought that followed was worse: this probably meant Alastor would never let him sleep in the bed again. He'd tolerated it once under extraordinary circumstances, had been drunk enough or tired enough or guilty enough about the stitches to allow the temporary arrangement, but now that it had resulted in Vox treating him like a body pillow in his sleep, the experiment was almost certainly over. Next time they shared a room, assuming there was a next time, Alastor would probably lock the door and leave Vox to negotiate with the front desk or sleep in the hallway like some kind of vagrant.
Vox looked at Alastor's back one more time, at the way he was still pressed against that wall like it might save him, and felt the cold stone in his stomach get a little heavier.
He had genuinely believed he was doing better this time around. He had played the game, negotiated the contract, built the technology, and even humored the man's tedious social tests. He had been careful to avoid the specific, explosive mistakes he had made back in Hell, telling himself that if he simply performed the role of a competent, eager colleague, they might actually hit it off in this lifetime. Even if it was just a fragile alliance built to maintain appearances and reach Vox's ultimate goal, he had thought they were finally reaching some kind of functional equilibrium.
But standing here, watching Alastor practically vibrate with repulsion at his mere presence, the truth was impossible to ignore. It didn't matter what Vox did or how perfectly he played his part. Alastor just possessed some intrinsic, bone deep dislike for him that transcended timelines and circumstances, an instinctive aversion that Vox could never strategize his way around.
He needed to get out of here.
He had the meeting. The exclusive breakfast with the bigwigs, the invitation that had been extended yesterday during the chaos of the reception. That was happening this morning, probably soon, and he needed to be presentable for it. He couldn't show up looking like he'd spent the night on a floor or wrapped around someone who was actively trying to escape him, couldn't let anyone see the hangover or the confusion or the strange, unwelcome feeling that was currently making his chest feel tight.
He moved quietly around the room, gathering his things. His tie from last night, his jacket draped over the chair. He buttoned his shirt the rest of the way, working the fastenings carefully around his bandaged arm. The stitches pulled slightly as he moved but the pain was manageable, a dull background ache rather than anything acute.
Alastor didn't stir.
Vox found his coat, checking his pockets. Everything was where it should be, all the pieces of Vincent Whittman's carefully constructed life accounted for.
He looked back at the bed one last time.
Alastor was still facing the wall, his forehead still pressed against it, his breathing still deep and even. Asleep, or doing a very convincing impression of it.
Vox left without saying anything. The door closed behind him with a soft click that sounded louder than it should have in the quiet hallway.
The hotel was just starting to wake up. He passed a maid in the corridor who nodded politely without making eye contact. The stairs creaked under his feet as he descended, each step sending a small jolt through his skull that the hangover translated into fresh pain. He should have drunk the water the bartender brought him. Should have drunk several glasses of water, actually, but hindsight was a gift that arrived too late to do anything useful with.
The meeting was in a private dining room off the main restaurant area. He found it easily enough, following the directions someone had given him yesterday during one of the many conversations that had blurred together into an indistinct mass of handshakes and small talk. The door was already open, voices carrying out into the hallway.
Vox paused outside, straightening his collar one more time, checking his reflection in a nearby mirror. He looked fine. Tired, maybe, but fine. The bandage on his arm was visible beneath his rolled sleeve, a conversation piece that would work in his favor if he used it correctly. The Hero of Hartford, showing up to breakfast fresh from his ordeal, ready to talk business despite his injury.
He could work with this.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The room was smaller than he'd expected. It was meant to be an actual conversation rather than a performance. A long table dominated the space, already set with coffee and pastries. Several men were already seated, their attention turning to him as he entered.
"Vincent," one of them said, rising slightly from his chair in greeting. "Glad you could make it. How's the arm?"
"Healing," Vox said, moving into the room with the easy confidence of someone who belonged there. "The doctors did good work. Should be fine in a week or so."
"Good to hear, good to hear." The man gestured to an empty chair. "Please, sit. We were just getting started."
Vox made his way around the table, shaking hands as he went, accepting the introductions that came at him in a rapid sequence. Names and titles and affiliations, information he would normally catalog and retain without effort, but this morning his brain was still working through the fog of the hangover and everything was taking slightly longer to process than it should have.
He shook another hand, took another step. Accepted another name.
And then he looked at the man sitting at the far end of the table and his brain came to a complete, jarring halt.
The man was younger than Vox would ever remember him. His hair was darker, less gray, his face less lined by the stress and wear of the industry that Vox had known him in. He had the same lean build, the same watchful eyes that tracked everything in a room, the same way of sitting that suggested he was used to being in charge of whatever space he occupied.
"And this is Robert Sinclaire," the man next to him said cheerfully, clapping him on the shoulder. "He owns a television network up north. Small operation now, but he's looking to expand."
The name hit Vox like a physical blow. A delayed reaction that felt like being punched in the chest by something he should have seen coming.
Bob.
Vox’s eyes widened slightly, the exhaustion suddenly burned away. He hadn't recognized the younger face at first glance, but the name and the title locked the pieces together instantly.
Vox had killed this man.
Not recently, not even in this life, but back when he'd been building his empire and Bob had been an obstacle in the way of what Vox wanted, Vox had eliminated him. Had manipulated him first, strung him along with promises and half finished agreements and the kind of seductive vision of partnership that Vox had always been good at selling. Bob had owned a network, nothing huge but respectable, and Vox had wanted it. Had spent months working the angles, playing Bob like a fiddle, getting him to the point where handing over his legacy should have been the natural conclusion.
But Bob had hesitated at critical moments, kept getting cold feet or second thoughts or whatever version of self preservation had kicked in when he'd finally understood what he was actually being asked to give up. And Vox, who had already invested considerable time and effort into the acquisition and did not appreciate the uncertainty that could pop up again later down the line in their partnership.
Looking at Bob now, alive and younger and sitting at a breakfast table in Hartford completely unaware that he was sharing space with his future murderer, Vox felt something shift in his chest. Not guilt, obviously. He'd never felt particularly guilty about anyone, and especially not Bob. It was some strange combination of recognition and disorientation and the dizzying realization that he was looking at a piece of his past that had been absent from this new life until now.
He'd been waiting for this. Had been quietly scanning faces in crowds and listening to names and voices, trying to find someone he recognized from before, some proof that the world he'd landed in was actually the same world he'd left rather than some parallel version where everything was slightly different. Most of the people he'd encountered had probably been background noise in his previous life, faces he might have passed in hallways or seen across rooms but never actually known well enough to recognize decades later. He'd started to wonder if this was a different timeline entirely, if something about his resurrection had dropped him into a universe where the people he'd known simply didn't exist or had been replaced by different actors playing the same roles.
But here was Bob. Completely recognizable despite the years that separated this version from the one Vox had known.
It was thrilling.
That was the word his brain supplied, cutting through the disorientation. Thrilling. He'd killed this man. Had stood over his body from up above, had watched him collide with the pavement below, had taken everything he owned and added it to an empire that Bob would never benefit from or even fully understand.
Vox realized he was staring. Realized that he'd been standing frozen for several seconds longer than was socially acceptable, his hand still extended in the general direction of Bob's chair. His face must have shown something, some flicker of recognition or shock that he hadn't managed to suppress quickly enough.
But his body had kept moving through the motions even while his brain was elsewhere. He was shaking Bob's hand now, his mouth was forming words, something professional, the kind of pleasantry that Vincent Whittman would offer to a man of Bob's position.
He finally took a seat. The conversation continued around him. Coffee was poured, pastries were passed, and the men at the table began the actual conversation. Vox participated mechanically, his attention split between the immediate demands of the conversation and the longer, stranger conversation happening inside his own head.
The men were talking about stations now. Markets and opportunities and the current state of broadcasting in various regions. Vox tracked the conversation, contributing when expected.
"Vincent," Bob said suddenly, leaning forward slightly in his chair, his hands folded on the table in front of him. "I didn't have the chance to meet you yesterday but my colleagues here were very impressed with what they saw yesterday. The way you handled yourself during the reception, everything I've heard about your performance at your current station. You've got real presence. Natural talent for the medium."
"Thank you," Vox said, because that was the correct response and because some part of him, despite everything, still responded to praise from people like Bob with the kind of pleasure that was difficult to suppress.
"We'd like to make you an offer," another man said. Vox had already forgotten his name, though he recognized him as someone important in the hierarchy. "There's an opening at one of our flagship stations. Morning anchor position. It's a significant market, much larger than what you're working with now. We think you'd be perfect for it."
Vox leaned forward. This was what he'd been angling for, the kind of opportunity that Vincent Whittman was supposed to pursue. A bigger market, a better position, a chance to climb the ladder toward the kind of influence and reach that would serve his longer term goals.
"That's very generous," he said, keeping his voice measured. "What station?"
"WCOL in Columbus," Bob said, leaning back in his chair looking satisfied. "Top of the hour traffic, solid listenership and a morning slot that's actually prestigious."
The station would be hours away by train. A completely different state. Far enough that maintaining any kind of regular contact with his current life would be effectively impossible.
Far enough that he would lose contact with Alastor.
The thought arrived fully formed, bypassing all the usual filters and rationalizations and landing in his consciousness like a stone dropped into still water.
"Columbus is a strong market," another man added, his tone enthusiastic. "Growing fast. You'd be getting in at exactly the right time. The station's expanding its news coverage, and they want someone who can really own that morning slot. Build an audience. Become a household name in the region."
Vox nodded automatically, his face doing what it needed to do while his brain caught on something and couldn't let go. If he took this job, he'd have to leave. Pack up his life and move it somewhere else entirely. Start over with new colleagues, new networks, none of the foundations he'd spent months building here, including whatever he'd been building with Alastor.
He was supposed to turn Alastor in. That was the plan. The thing he'd told himself was necessary, the proof of virtue he needed to demonstrate. He'd been circling around it for months, building up the case in his own mind for why this was justified and necessary.
If he moved to Ohio, that plan became impossible.
"The salary is competitive," Bob continued, sliding a folded piece of paper across the table. "Take a look. I think you'll find it more than fair."
Vox picked up the paper, his eyes scanning the numbers without really processing them. The figure was good. Very good, actually. More than he was making now by a substantial margin.
"When would you need me to start?" he heard himself ask.
"Ideally within the month," the man to Bob's right said. "We'd give you time to relocate, of course, get settled. But we're looking to fill the position quickly. The current anchor is leaving at the end of next month and we'd like some overlap for the transition."
That was barely enough time to pack up and say goodbye to people and figure out what the hell he was supposed to do about the Alastor situation. Which meant he couldn't leave. Not when he was supposed to be proving something. Not when abandoning the plan would demonstrate exactly the kind of moral weakness he was trying to overcome.
"It's a significant opportunity," Bob said, watching Vox's face carefully. "The kind of position that could launch a real career. You'd be foolish to pass it up."
Vox knew Bob was right about that last part.
Besides, there were other ways to prove virtue. He could volunteer somewhere. He could donate to charity or help wounded veterans. Any number of things that would demonstrate moral improvement without requiring proximity to Alastor.
The angels had never said turning in Alastor was required for redemption. That was his own invention, his own story he'd constructed to justify whatever he was doing.
"What do you think, Vincent?" another man asked, smiling. "This is exciting, isn't it?"
"It is," Vox said, trying to sound more enthusiastic than he felt. "Very exciting."
His brain was moving too fast, jumping between thoughts without completing any of them. If he moved, he'd be starting over. That was inefficient, strategically speaking. It made more sense to stay where he was, build up more before making a larger move.
Except he'd never been strategic like that before. If someone had offered him a better position before, he would have taken it immediately, would have abandoned whatever he was working on without a second thought. That's how he operated, Vincent needed constant forward momentum.
So why wasn't he operating that way now?
"We don't need an answer this second," Bob said, apparently reading something in Vox's expression. "But we'd like to hear back from you soon. A few days at most. This is the kind of opportunity that won't wait around."
"Of course," Vox said. "I understand."
"Is there anything that would complicate a move?" the man to Bob's left asked. "Family commitments? Anything like that?"
"No," Vox said automatically. "Nothing like that."
"Good," Bob said, nodding. "Then I imagine this is just a matter of working through the details. Figuring out logistics."
The logistics of abandoning a plan he'd supposedly committed himself to and walking away from someone he'd spent months positioning himself near.
"Is there any possibility," Vox heard himself say, "of a similar position at one of your stations closer to this region? I have some personal commitments that would make relocating difficult."
The men exchanged glances. Vox could read the calculation happening behind their eyes, the assessment of whether he was worth the extra effort of accommodation or whether they should just move on to the next candidate who would be more flexible.
"What kind of personal commitments are we talking about?" Bob asked, his tone still friendly but with an edge of curiosity that suggested he was recalculating something.
"Professional connections," Vox said quickly. "I've built some valuable relationships here. It would be useful to maintain them while advancing my career."
"Relationships are important," another man agreed. "But Columbus is where the opening is. That's what we have available right now."
"We can look into it," Bob said finally. "But I have to be honest with you, Vincent. The Ohio position is what's available right now. The opportunities closer to your current location are already filled with people we're happy with. We'd be asking someone to step aside to make room for you, and that's not something we do lightly."
"I understand," Vox said, because he did. They were offering him something concrete and he was asking them to rearrange their entire organizational structure to accommodate his preference for staying where he was. That wasn't how these things worked. You either took the opportunity presented or you stepped aside and let someone else have it.
Vox picked up his coffee, took a sip he didn't taste. His arm was starting to throb under the bandaging, a dull reminder of yesterday's disaster.
"Either way, I appreciate the offer," he said, setting the cup down carefully. "I really do. I just need a bit of time to think it through properly."
"Understandable," Bob said, though his expression suggested he found it slightly less understandable than his words implied. "Just don't take too long. These opportunities have a way of disappearing if you hesitate."
The conversation moved on. More talk about markets and trends and the future of television broadcasting. Vox barely contributed, his attention elsewhere.
He was in a sour mood by the time the breakfast wound down. Not obviously so, nothing that would show in his performance or affect how the men at the table perceived him, but internally he could feel it settling over him like a gray cloud, coloring everything with frustration and an irritation he couldn't quite direct at any single source.
They weren't going to bend on the location. That much had become clear as the conversation progressed. The job was in Ohio or it wasn't anywhere. Take it or leave it, and if he left it they'd find someone else who would be more than happy to fill the position.
It was a good offer. By any objective measure it was exactly what he should be pursuing. He could advance his career much faster than he did in his original life, unlock more opportunities and ascend higher than he had. More money, more followers, better platform for building the kind of influence that would serve him in the long run.
And he was going to have to turn it down.
Or at least delay long enough that they got tired of waiting and moved on to someone else.
The thought made him angry, a hot spike of resentment that he couldn't quite articulate even to himself. He'd worked for this, had spent months building Vincent Whittman into someone worth noticing, someone these men would want to recruit. And now that it had worked, now that he'd succeeded in getting exactly the kind of attention he'd been aiming for, he was going to throw it away because he couldn't figure out how to disentangle himself from a situation he should never have gotten tangled up in in the first place.
The breakfast ended. Handshakes and promises to follow up were exchanged. Vox played his part, maintained the performance, gave them no reason to think he was anything other than carefully considering their generous offer.
He left the dining room with the gray cloud still hanging over him, following him up the stairs and down the hallway toward the room he was sharing with a man who was probably going to make this entire day worse just by existing.
He needed to figure out what he was actually going to do about the job offer. The door to the room was closed. Vox dug out the key from his pocket, the metal cold against his palm, and pushed it open.
Alastor was standing in front of the mirror with his back to Vox, making final adjustments to his appearance. He was fully dressed, his suit immaculate, his hair arranged perfectly. Vox realized he'd been awake and functional for some time. His eyes drifted to the door’s reflection in the mirror as Vox entered, sweeping briefly over his face in an assessing glance that revealed nothing of what he was thinking.
Then he averted his gaze without saying anything, his fingers adjusting his collar one final time.
Vox stood in the doorway, his hand still on the knob, watching Alastor's reflection in the glass. There was something in the other man's posture that felt off, a stiffness that wasn't quite his usual controlled stillness. He looked as if he was preparing for something, gathering himself, like he was about to walk into a situation he expected to be unpleasant.
Alastor moved away from the mirror, crossing toward the door Vox was currently blocking. His expression was neutral, professionally pleasant in the way that meant he had absolutely no intention of engaging in actual conversation.
"Where are you going?" Vox asked, because Alastor was clearly about to leave and the cold shoulder treatment was already making Vox's mood, which had been deteriorating steadily since the breakfast meeting, edge toward something actually hostile.
"I have a presentation," Alastor said. His voice was distant, the tone of someone speaking to a colleague they were forced to interact with but had no particular interest in. "They're expecting me downstairs."
He moved to step past Vox, apparently considering the conversation concluded.
Vox didn't move out of the way. "I'll come with you," he said. "I'd like to watch."
He wouldn't, actually. The last thing he wanted right now was to sit in an audience and watch Alastor perform for a room full of people. But something in the other man's demeanor was setting off alarms in Vox's head, some combination of the cold shoulder and the careful distance and the way Alastor was clearly trying to extract himself from this interaction as quickly as possible.
Going to the presentation felt like the right move. Strategic, even. It would show support, demonstrate partnership, make Vox look like someone who invested in his colleagues' success rather than only his own. That kind of thing played well with the people who mattered, the ones who were watching to see how the younger generation handled themselves in these professional contexts.
Alastor looked at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "If you'd like," he said finally, his tone suggesting he had absolutely no preference either way.
The lack of reaction was somehow worse than active resistance would have been. Vox could work with resistance, could push back against it and find the angles and pressure points that would give him leverage. But this blank, professional courtesy gave him nothing to work with. It was like trying to get purchase on smooth glass, everything he tried sliding off without leaving a mark.
"Great," Vox said, forcing brightness into his voice. "Lead the way."
Alastor moved past him into the hallway. Vox followed, closing the door behind them, falling into step beside the other man as they headed toward the stairs.
The silence between them was heavy and uncomfortable. Vox tried to fill it.
"How long is the presentation?" he asked, keeping his tone casual, like this was normal conversation between colleagues.
"Thirty minutes," Alastor replied. "Followed by questions, presumably."
"What's the topic?"
"Regional programming strategies. Adaptation of national content for local markets." Alastor's voice was clipped, delivering information without additional commentary.
"Sounds interesting," Vox lied.
Alastor didn't respond to that. Just continued walking, his pace steady, his attention apparently focused entirely on navigating the hallway and stairs without acknowledging that Vox existed beyond his immediate physical presence.
Vox tried again. "The breakfast meeting went well," he offered, despite the fact that it had decidedly not gone well and he couldn't help but feel resentful about it. "Met some interesting people. They made an offer."
This got a flicker of response, just the briefest turn of Alastor's head in his direction before he looked forward again. "Congratulations."
Nothing about the response suggested curiosity about what the offer was or whether Vox planned to take it or any of the things that people who actually cared about each other's lives might ask as follow up questions.
Vox felt the black cloud hanging over him get a little darker. "It's in Ohio," he said, because apparently he was going to keep talking even though Alastor was clearly not interested in the conversation. "They want me to relocate."
"I see." Alastor pushed open the door to the stairwell, holding it for Vox.
"I'm considering whether to take it," Vox continued, descending the stairs beside him. He was aware he was being annoying now, was pushing into space that Alastor had made clear he wanted to keep closed, but the combination of the hangover and the job offer and the morning's earlier humiliation with the wall hugging was making him reckless with whatever boundaries still existed between them.
"That seems wise," Alastor said. "It's always prudent to carefully evaluate significant career decisions."
Vox wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until something real fell out. Wanted to demand to know what exactly had shifted between last night and this morning, what boundary Vox had crossed that warranted this level of cold professional distance. But he couldn't do that, because asking would require admitting that he cared about the shift, and admitting he cared would give Alastor information Vox wasn't ready to hand over.
So instead he just kept pace beside him, maintaining the performance of casual collegiality while internally cataloging every small way Alastor was demonstrating exactly how little he wanted to be having this conversation.
They reached the main floor. Alastor navigated through the hallway toward what Vox assumed was the room where the presentation would take place. People were already gathering, small clusters of attendees moving toward the doors.
Alastor paused outside a side door that appeared to lead backstage, or whatever equivalent existed in this context. He turned to Vox.
"I need to prepare," he said, gesturing toward the door. "You can find a seat inside."
"Right," Vox said. "Good luck."
"Thank you," Alastor replied, already moving toward the door.
Vox watched him disappear through it, the door closing behind him with a soft click that felt heavier than it should.
He stood there for a moment in the hallway, people moving past him on their way into the main room. His arm was starting to ache again, the dull throb working its way through whatever remained of yesterday's painkillers. His head hurt from the hangover. His chest felt tight with frustration about the job offer and confusion about Alastor's behavior and the general sense that he'd woken up this morning with some kind of victory and it had disintegrated over the course of a few hours into something that felt uncomfortably like defeat.
What could he have done to make Alastor this angry?
Because that's what this was, he was increasingly certain. Not distraction or focus on the presentation ahead, but actual anger being expressed through the kind of cold professional distance that was somehow more cutting than direct confrontation would have been.
The question was what he was angry about.
The sleeping arrangement? Possible, but Alastor had been the one to invite Vox onto the bed in the first place, had checked his stitches and then turned over and gone to sleep without any indication that sharing the space was a problem. If he'd woken up to find Vox pressed against him maybe that had changed his perspective, but Alastor hadn't said anything about that and had just continued with his routine like nothing had happened.
Something else then. Something Vox had said or done or failed to do that had crossed a line he hadn't known existed.
Or maybe it was nothing to do with Vox at all. Maybe Alastor was just in a bad mood for his own reasons and Vox was taking it personally when it had nothing to do with him.
Vox didn't believe that. Alastor was too precise in his emotional expressions, too controlled in how he presented himself. He was angry it was about something specific, and the timing suggested that something was related to Vox.
He pushed open the door to the main room and found a seat toward the middle, somewhere that would give him a good view of the stage without being so prominent that his presence would be particularly noted. The room was filling up around him, people settling into chairs, low conversations creating an ambient hum.
Vox sat and stared at the empty stage.
He didn't really care whether Alastor was angry at him. Alastor's emotional state was not his problem, was not something he needed to manage or fix or even acknowledge. Here they were colleagues, barely even that, just two people who happened to work in related industries and had been thrown together by circumstance and were now sharing hotel rooms out of practical necessity rather than any kind of genuine desire to be in each other's company.
If Alastor wanted to give him the cold shoulder that was fine. Vox had better things to do than worry about whether he'd somehow offended a man who spent half his time trying to avoid being in the same room as him anyway.
Except it wasn't fine. It was bothering him more than he'd like to admit, that same tight feeling in his chest that he couldn't quite identify and couldn't make go away just by telling himself it was stupid to feel it.
He sat in his chair and waited for Alastor to come out on stage and told himself very firmly that he did not care about any of this.
The lights dimmed slightly. The conversations around him quieted. Somewhere backstage, Alastor was presumably preparing to walk out and deliver whatever presentation he'd been assigned, and Vox was going to sit here and watch and maintain the performance of being a supportive colleague even though what he actually wanted to do was grab Alastor by his perfectly pressed collar and demand to know what the fuck his problem was.
The side door opened.