A/N: Here's me ignoring my work again. Woot. Let me know what you think!

Way Off Track

Third Row

"I've found this one quite interesting," James murmured, spinning his laptop so that Clover could see the screen. He examined the front page of yet another entrepreneurship podcast. "It's practical, and it gives good, actionable advice. The speakers are two men who began their careers by-"

Clover mentally checked his expression, ensuring that his smile was perfectly affixed onto his face. Once he was content with how invested he looked, he allowed his mind to drift off, bitterly cursing himself. You mention that you finished listening to your old favourite show one time in a meeting, and suddenly everyone wants to give you their recommendations.

Frankly, he didn't want James' suggestions. He was here to work, not to dally around the office and chat about what his colleagues were tuning into; their few dinners as an office had made it abundantly clear that while he respected them all, James especially for his ability to oversee all of AST with such confidence and charisma, Clover was not interested in extending those relationships. Even though they only saw each other once every few weeks, Clover already found his patience wearing thin with the elder that day.

Since when have I been like this? The thought wandered into his mind, and he quashed it without qualm. Things had changed over the past two years.

James' screen shifted away from Clover again, so Clover tuned back in, nodding with a friendly smile. "I'll be sure to take a listen," he said warmly.

His boss smiled, clearly pleased with himself. Then, he stretched out a kink in his neck and stood, his towering frame hulking over Clover's desk. "And how are you doing, Clover?" James asked as he put away his laptop. "What's going on with you?"

Clover froze, letting out a small sigh. "I'm doing well," he replied idly, leaning back in his chair. He watched the elder stroll over to the large window beside Clover's desk. "Nothing new to report."

James looked out of the window with a slight crease in his brow, large hands held behind his back as he contemplated those words. "Hm. You're sure?"

"Why do you ask, sir?"

James laughed, an abrupt bark more than anything. "Clover, all you've done for nearly a year and a half is work," the man insisted. "Have you even bothered to explore Vale? See the sights? Make some friends?"

I'm just here to make some money, buy a better apartment, figure out what's next-

"It's just taken me a little while to settle into everything," Clover said smoothly, walking over to the door. "Would you like any coffee before you head out?"

With nothing but an exasperated, if not mildly affectionate sigh, James walked to the door, clapping Clover's shoulder reassuringly as he passed. "You're doing great work here, Clover," he announced. "Keep it up." Then, James headed out of the office- he had a flight back to Atlas to catch, after all.

Just as Clover had a subway to catch. "Make sure all the reports are sent to me by Monday morning," he told Marrow sternly as he closed his personal office. "I want all the portfolios ready."

"I'll make sure he does it, chief," Elm called, waving goodbye from the lounge.

The other employees tended to dawdle after hours, so they would close up, leaving Clover to walk out of the office, ready to head to the subway and, hopefully, find that man again.

Those hopes rang clear and true in his heart as he boarded the train, eagerly awaiting University Station to pop up. When the train finally rolled to a stop, another wave of work-weary passengers flooding in all ready to take on the weekend, Clover made sure to keep his eyes peeled for red eyes and a grey blazer.

Nothing.

I don't know what I was expecting. The chances of actually bumping into the man on the return trip was a fool's errand, he knew- still, he couldn't help but feel disappointed. What was he supposed to focus on now? All of his work had been completed for the week, and there was no way to move forward until Monday with any of the clients.

He sighed, breath long and weary. Maybe he'd give that business podcast James had recommended a try. He could at least listen to it while cleaning his apartment- he hadn't done that in a while. Grocery shopping would be good, as his meal prep had finally begun to run out after two months of eating the same meals day in, day out. Maybe he'd go for a jog over the weekend too, if the forecast turned out alright. He had some mail to send. He could drop by the post office while on his jog, sure.

The list went on and on, keeping him occupied on the way home. And, as mundane as it was, life moved on.

Until Monday morning.

He had treated himself to a coffee before boarding the subway that morning, having not been able to will himself out of the apartment otherwise. The rainfall had been disgustingly thick, sheets of water drenching the streets and flooding the drains until they overflowed everywhere. Even after all this time, he could never get used to the damp of Vale, so unlike the nearly year-round snow of Atlas. So, the coffee had been a nice addition to the ambiance of the drowning subway, the scent of cheaply-roasted coffee beans enough to wash away the stink of musty water and filth permeating through the air.

At least the carriage stayed relatively empty. No one liked getting out of bed on Mondays, especially not rainy Mondays in Vale.

Clover found himself stopping short in surprise when, at the fifth station on his route, a familiar man loped into the train. Red eyes were bleary as always as the man tucked a dripping umbrella under his arm, dashing across the fairly-vacant carriage to take a seat two rows in front of Clover, just across the aisle. Within a few moments of taking a seat, the stranger had pulled out a small clipboard covered in papers and a pen. He tore the lid off with his teeth, holding the red cap between his lips while he began to frantically read over the top paper, grimacing when his hair managed to drip water onto it in the corner.

Clover watched this all with intent fascination. He's a professor of some sort, he realized as the man scribbled notes over the page before encircling what could only be a total at the top. Then, the man pulled out the next paper from the stack and began his process of marking it up in red all over again.

It was only five stations. Just five stations that Clover was able to sit there, utterly tuned-out of the world, watching this unknown man mark what he assumed were university papers before heading off to Beacon University, probably to teach. Clover wondered what kind of professor he would be- would he be kind? Forgiving? No, with all that red and that sneering scowl, he was probably strict. Strict, but fair- Clover could remember that raspy, low voice, could imagine it ringing through a large lecture hall. What subject would it be? Physics? No, too much. He didn't seem like a natural sciences man, nor an engineer. English? He didn't seem like one to overanalyze things that didn't need to be overanalyzed. Perhaps he taught criminology, or psychology- that voice picking apart the human mind wouldn't be too bad.

Or maybe he taught small classes. Just twenty people- a small, niche department. Philosophy, maybe. Or languages. He'd perch his lanky frame on the edge of his desk, challenging ethics and moral code, or repeating grammatical nuance utterly lost on his students. That voice would turn into a purr as he leafed through the pages of their texts, putting students on the spot, forcing them to share their thoughts with the class before revealing that either way, they were all going to fail this paper he was mercilessly marking in the sopping-wet Vale subway.

Finally, University Station came up. The man hurriedly shoved the papers back into his bag, capping the pen and spitting out a curse as he stabbed his cheek with it in the attempt, leaving a small streak of red ink by his mouth. Clover watched it all, so spun up in his own tales that he scarcely registered the train door closing behind the man.

Just as the train began to move on to the next stop, Clover saw the singular typed-out paper the man had left behind on the seat. And before he knew it, his body moved; the paper was in his hands; the man was gone.