by Aiden Bates
“I see where you’re going with it,” Myrick said, nodding. “Though I’m not sure if it’s a direct solution—we would have to cross-reference their resumés and see if those on call had skills relevant to those fields.”
“One step ahead of you on that—” he said, shuffling the files he was carrying and laying a handful of them out. “A good many on call either have degrees or experience in human resources, management, and other skills that would make them easy shoe ins for these other teams.” Myrick looked over the files presented, and sure enough, many of them had several qualifications that could be used in areas where the company was currently lacking.
“You’re rather thorough…” Myrick muttered to himself as he flipped through each of the personnel files. “This is all well and good, though it would ultimately be up to the people on call to want to transfer departments.”
“Right you are!” Tristan grinned like he already had an answer to that—he probably did, Myrick thought wryly. “And after doing some calculations, had we hired additional people outside the company to fill these roles, it would have cost us an additional twenty to thirty thousand per month for salary, with variances for negotiated amounts by individuals.” Myrick nodded. “However, if we offered those on-call employees—whom, I’ll remind you, we’re already paying half a day’s wages for days they have off simply for being on call,” he handed Myrick a spreadsheet. “If we offered them an incentive to apply, say, in the form of a transfer bonus and a modest pay raise, our projected costs would be almost forty percent lower than if we simply added to our existing staff.”
Myrick looked over the spreadsheet, realizing Tristan had set it up himself with logistics of what would be saved were they to go with this plan and had to admit the data spoke for itself; he hadn’t even thought to offer a transfer with a sign-on bonus to employees that were already looking for more fulfilling work, and here his new vice president had already found a way to save the company a kingly sum every month with a simple adjustment of workers that were given incentive to do so. The idea was so painfully simple that he was a little upset that he hadn’t even considered it himself.
“Seems I chose well, Mister Chefant,” Myrick said after a long moment of looking over the data. “I’m impressed.” Tristan made no attempt to hide that he preened under the praise, though frankly, with how much he was saving the company, Myrick felt Tristan was more than a little entitled to feeling proud of the accomplishment. “Have this data sent over to human resources—work with them and accounting to come up with an incentive program for those employees on call to apply for transfers, and see to it that they’re notified of the opportunity once you have a set plan.”
Tristan was already gathering the files he’d set on Myrick’s desk. “I’ll have a finalized plan emailed to you for approval later today, then.” He grinned broadly as he balanced the stack of folders with one hand and saluted him with the other. “Thanks, boss!”
Myrick gave him a wave as Tristan sauntered out of his office, a spring in his step. If Myrick strained to listen as the door closed, he was fairly sure he heard the man whistling a merry tune. He let out a laugh at the thought, though he couldn’t fault him for it—let him have his fun, Myrick thought as he began to scroll through his emails.
Perhaps this wouldn’t be as tumultuous as he had feared.
By the time he was pinged with the email from Tristan with the finalized offer that he’d led human resources and accounting into writing out, he managed to make it through two meetings without strangling anyone—a mighty feat, given the migraine beginning to form at his temples. He winced, making a point to turn down the brightness of his monitor to be gentler on the eyes as he read through the proposal Tristan sent. Everything seemed to check out—the bonus was generous without being exorbitant, and the pay raise was enough to sweeten the deal without negating what they would save in taking this route, so he sent his approval.
Task complete, he rummaged through his desk drawers in search of the bottle of acetaminophen he kept around specifically for headaches. He frowned when his search bore no fruit, and he wondered if he had misplaced it—he knew he had just recently bought a bottle to replace the one that had emptied itself last week, after all! Though, when he focused on where he’d seen it last, he distinctly recalled putting it on top of his counter while he put his shoes on…and leaving it there as he left for work. He groaned in frustration at his forgetfulness, rubbing his temples and contemplated what he was to do now.
Because he could, feasibly, just suck it up and deal with the full blown migraine that was sure to come if he left it to its own devices; the migraines he got were far from debilitating, more often than not, and he could certainly make it through the day that way. Though, if he did, he couldn’t guarantee that anyone that stepped through his office door wouldn’t be met with snarling and gnashing teeth; when he was in pain he tended to be far less than amicable to be around, even he knew that much about himself.
Before, when Isabelle was still around and he had run out of headache medicine, he would just go to her office when she was there and pester her for her bottle of Tylenol. ‘If you don’t have a bottle in your desk, you have a bottle in your purse!’ And she’d laugh and hand him the meds, shooing him out so she could get back to work. Technically, nothing was stopping him from asking the same of Tristan; he was more than approachable, he knew that, and it was clear that he was a man who played for the team and liked to look out for those he worked with.
Still, there was that newness to the relationship, that shyness that came with them having only just begun working together that made him hesitate. He was fairly certain that Tristan was in his office, on account of the email he sent his way, though he couldn’t be sure. If he were being honest with himself, though, the biggest source of his hesitation in going into his new vice president’s space was because he was an Alpha.
It was stupid and vaguely prejudiced, and he knew that it was unfair to put all of his anxieties onto Tristan but he couldn’t stop the fear from clenching his gut at the mere thought of having to move into an Alpha’s territory alone. He could practically hear Isabelle chiding him for being stupid over nothing in his head, and even he had to agree the man had done nothing to earn his ire, in any way. He’d even endeared himself to Myrick somewhat already, something few people had been able to do so quickly. It wasn’t as though what he was going to be asking of him would be overly taxing for either of them; all he had to do was peek his head in and ask if he had any acetaminophen. He didn’t even have to enter the office if his anxiety got the better of him. Even turning the dilemma over in his head was exacerbating his headache, and he knew he was just going to have to get used to the idea of his vice president and accept him for who he was. Sooner rather than later. The throbbing in his temples growing more pronounced, he caved to his need for relief, and rose from his seat.
When he stepped out of his office and into the hallway, what surprised him was that he faintly heard classical music playing. While not intrusive and certainly pleasant to listen to, it was unexpected; the hallway was usually silent and unassuming, though as he neared Tristan’s office door, the source of the music became clear. Something about hearing soft piano and violin coming from the proverbial den of the Alpha soothed his nerves, and he pulled his shoulders back, straightening his posture and knocked on the door.
“Come in!” Tristan’s voice certainly sounded jovial enough, and when he stepped inside, he saw his vice president greeting him with a beaming smile on his face. “Hey there, boss!” He stood to greet him. “Got that approval you sent—shipped the offer to human resources, so we should be getting the ball rolling on that real soon!”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Myrick smiled but lingered near the door, hesitant. “Pardon the interruption. I was just wondering if you had any Tylenol or some type of mild pain medicine—starting to get a headache.” The Alpha nodded his head, smile never leaving his face as he sat back down. As Myrick forced his legs
to work and move him closer to the desk, Tristan moved to his computer, and he suddenly heard the music grow noticeably softer. It was a small gesture, but he was touched that he thought to do it.
“Sure, of course,” he let out a breath of a laugh. “Please, come in while I grab it.” Myrick had already been walking deeper into the office, though Tristan had likely not realized, rummaging around in his desk as he was. The Omega took the time to look around the space; it had been the first time he came in since Tristan was fully moved in. While it felt like a completely different space than when it was Isabelle’s, he had to admit that it felt comfortable and inviting, with small bookshelves with easy reading material and tasteful movie art hanging on the walls. “Pardon the music—it helps me keep my focus while I’m working alone.” Myrick nodded without taking his eyes off of the decor, letting the new look of the room settle more firmly in his mind to solidify that this was Tristan’s space now and didn’t belong to anyone else.
“I usually have a bottle of Tylenol, but I ran out.” Myrick tsked at himself as he finally returned his gaze to his vice president in time for the Alpha to straighten from fishing for the bottle of headache medicine. “Still kicking myself for leaving the replacement bottle back at home.”
“I can’t say anything—half the time I nearly forget my own shoes before I try to leave my house.” They shared a chuckle, and Tristan held out the bottle which he gratefully took.
“Need some water with that?”
“That’s all right, I’ve got some coffee in my office.” He waved him off as he popped the cap off of the bottle and tipped it into his cupped palm, carefully shaking out two of the capsules and returning the bottle to him. “Thank you—I was afraid I’d just have to ride it out for the rest of the day.”
“Happy to help,” Tristan let out a deep throaty chuckle, and Myrick was alarmed at how much the rumbling timbre of his voice affected him, how he felt it reverberate in his own chest, but he kept a neutral face, if barely. He cleared his throat, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
“I couldn't help but overhear what you were listening to.” He winced even as he said it, fearful that he sounded as passive aggressive as he felt for even saying that aloud, like he was some sort of disgruntled neighbor implying he would file a noise complaint. Tristan leaned back into his desk chair and chuckled again.
“Ahh, that—‘Nocturne,' it’s a piece Chopin composed.” His eyes flashed excitedly in that magical way that eyes often do when their owner gets on the topic of something that interests them, the little bit of the universe that they housed in their souls glimmering brilliantly, and it was so endearingly distracting that for a moment, Myrick didn’t have a headache. “I’ll be honest—classical is really only when I’m trying to focus on work or reading something.” The Alpha looked almost sheepish. “Otherwise, I like metal and rock mostly.” Maybe he was imagining it, maybe it was a trick of the light coming in from the windows behind Tristan, but his vice president looked faintly flushed as if in embarrassment. It was such a soft reaction, something Myrick would never associate with an Alpha, and for a moment, he was stunned into silence, though he realized that Tristan had made a comment, and not responding would be rude.
“Nothing wrong with that,” he said, his voice strangely not wanting to work properly for reasons he couldn’t fathom, and didn’t want to fathom. “I’m into all kinds of music myself.” He scrunched up his face. “Except for country. Can’t stand country.” Tristan let out a boisterous laugh, having apparently been caught off guard by the comment.
“On that, we can agree, boss!” He said around another peal of laughter. “Ah, I’m actually glad you found a reason to peek your head in—I was hoping to speak to you.” His tone was still conversational, a lingering smile on his face that was wide enough to make his eyes crinkle, but it didn’t do anything to stop Myrick’s anxiety spike at the mention of wanting to talk about something.
“Ah, right, of course.” The Omega kicked himself for sounding so timid and weak—he was this man’s boss, he reminded himself firmly. Societal hierarchy of the Omega deferring to the Alpha did not apply here, and he had to mentally correct himself, fight against the instinct niggling in the back of his mind and demanding that he actively seek this man’s approval. “Anything you need to talk about, just say so. I like to keep an open door policy with the people I work with.”
“Good, good,” Tristan nodded. “Why not grab a bite to eat with me when we get off for the evening? My treat.” Tristan offered casually as he returned the pill bottle to his drawer and straightened, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I like to make it a personal policy to get to know the people I’m working closely with, sooner rather than later. Helps us work better together, I’ve found.”
Myrick hadn't been expecting that to be what Tristan wanted to talk about, not so soon, and he desperately tried to remind himself that this was just a colleague inviting him to chat over dinner, one that he would be working very closely with from here on out. It made total sense from both a business and personal standpoint; getting to know one another would help them work as a team. It was not a date, he had to remind himself. It was not a romantic gesture, and he was fine with that. Better than fine, even—that was what he wanted. The differentiation in Myrick’s mind did absolutely nothing to quiet the anxiety churning in his gut at the mere thought of being alone with the Alpha, and did even less for the fears whispering in his head about all the ways that it could go wrong. He had to remind himself that his fears were unfounded—there was nothing to suggest that anything would happen but dinner and a conversation.
“Sounds like a plan to me,” he said back with what he hoped looked like an easy smile. “Text me when you’re about to head out? It’s a good reminder for me to actually leave the office.” The thought occurred to him that they hadn’t exchanged contact information just yet. “Ah, wait, here,” he rummaged in his pocket and fished out his phone. “Enter your number in my phone, and I can text you so you have mine.”
“Makes sense,” Tristan nodded and took the offered phone typing his phone number in and saving the contact. “I should be heading out of here in about,” he craned his neck to look at the clock on his computer, “three hours or so. I was thinking about trying out the new Asian fusion place that opened up just down the street, if you want to meet up there when we both get off?”
Myrick tapped his chin in thought. “Do they have udon?” He asked after a moment. “I’ve been having a weird craving for it lately.”
“Oh yeah, I think they have a few kinds.” Tristan pulled up the restaurant on his phone and showed him the menu. “A friend of mine swears by the tempura udon, but I’ve never been, so I can’t back up her claim.”
“I’m game for it.” The Omega checked the time on his phone and clucked his tongue; he’d lingered far longer than he’d intended to. “Sam’s probably waiting to hear back from me on a proposal. You know how antsy he gets—he’ll probably be blowing up my office phone any minute now checking for me” He took a step back and angled his body away from the desk, signaling his leaving. “Wouldn’t want him sending a search party up here, now would we?”
“I should hope not!” Tristan laughed. “You’re a real hoot, Mister Thomas. I look forward to working with you!”
“Likewise.” Even as he left, he couldn't help feeling like a high school kid all over again, his face strangely warm.
3
Frozen Beneath His Gaze
He was not fighting against a panic attack.
He was absolutely not attracted to Tristan.
Myrick continued to repeat those words to himself as he went about his business for the next few hours. There were only a few meetings dotting the time he had left in the office for the day, none of which lasted longer than fifteen minutes or so, though the subjects of those meetings were so mundane, the meetings so unnecessary that the hours seemed to tick by with an almost painful sluggishness that left him antsy and eager for the day to just b
e done. It wasn’t even that he was looking forward to having dinner with Tristan—the very thought of going to a social outing with someone where it was just the two of them, and it wasn’t Isabelle, made his stomach knot itself with anxiety and stress—but ultimately he just wanted the work part of his day to be finished so that he was one step closer to going home, curling up in his bed, and falling into a blissfully deep sleep.
Two and a half hours after he stepped into Tristan’s office he found himself staring at his reflection in the mirror, sequestered in the bathroom attached to his office, trying to find what flaws in his appearance he could find, and smooth them away now while he still had the chance. It was silly and he knew it—he had already groomed himself sufficiently for work, and all this was, was Tristan inviting a colleague out for dinner to get to know who he was working with. It wasn’t anything else, and yet, when he thought of the Alpha seeing him outside of work, where the power dynamics of his position didn’t matter, it made him want to do his utmost to ensure that he wouldn't be seen as unkempt. Even if that meant finding himself staring at his reflection until he inadvertently memorized every minute detail of his face.
It was ridiculous, this need to perfect his appearance for Tristan, and Myrick knew that, even as he fussed over his reflection. It was ridiculous because he wasn’t presenting himself to Tristan—he wasn’t offering himself for courtship, and he didn’t want to offer himself for that in the first place, but there was still the societal fear of an Omega not putting their best image forward being considered someone who wasted all of society’s effort on them; the grooming, the education, the benefits, all came with expectation of being at their best, at their freshest, at all times when they were out and about. Myrick knew that Tristan would likely not care outside of work, especially not at the end of a work day, but the societal conditioning that had been proverbially beaten into him over the years won out. And so, here he was, preening in front of a mirror despite not even wanting to.
