Carter's War - 8. Chapter 8

He was glad to be free of the tie, slumped as he was in his chair responding to emails. He was utterly exhausted; the meeting had run on longer than anyone had expected, and by the time he had finally made it back to the relative sanctity of his office there wasn't much left to the day. He rubbed his temples in a vain attempt to ward off the headache that had set in somewhere in the fourth hour of presentations. It also didn't help that he had been sick the day before. He made a mental note that he was getting too old for Tuesday nights at a bar.

That was a depressing thought; with the responsibilities he had, came the realization that he wasn't carefree and reckless any more. Back in university he had gone drinking with buddies on a Monday night, Tuesday was buck-a-beer night, Wednesday was always game night and so it was required. Thursday nights he had spent in the campus bar, Friday night was circling nightclubs, and Saturday night was the same, and by the time Sunday night rolled around, they had been out every night so far, what was one more? Now the thought of partying on both a Friday and a Saturday was too much. Twenty-six and already old. So much for the brash statement when he turned nineteen that he would never turn into his dad. He was more like his dad than he liked to admit.

Will caught himself; he was slipping into the past. His father had, at twenty-six, been married and a father. Maybe there was still some of that rebellious nineteen-year-old left in him yet. He hadn't even come close to being married, something he was eternally grateful for. Who wanted kids at his age? Stuck supporting a family when you had a career to maintain, and a life to lead. To Will the thought was chilling and he went back to his emails and the sending of daily pleasantries to friends and acquaintances that demanded a paragraph of small talk each and every day as a way of staying connected. It was an age of communication, but no matter how many emails you sent, a single phone call still went further.

The phone rang.

He stared at it dumbfounded a moment, was some one reading his mind? Purely coincidence, but even still it was unnerving. He glanced at the number "Bell-Payphone;" well, that certainly helped. He clicked the speaker button as he yawned, lifting his feet up onto the desk.

"Go for it," he said, rolling his shoulders to relieve some tension.

"Will?" came a strange voice, half-muffled by the roaring of traffic in the background.

"Yeah, that's me," Will said, suddenly curious over who was calling him from a street corner. "Who am I speaking with?"

"Its Marc..." the voice replied.

Will frowned; who? He didn't know anyone called Marc. And he stopped--the young man from downtown the other night--but how had he...? The sensible part of him bellowed a mental warning; there was no such thing as coincidence.

"I hope you don't mind me calling you at work, but I forgot to get your number last night and so I just 411'd your company and asked to speak to Will."

"Oh." Will swung his legs down from the edge of his desk and sat upright, picking up the receiver, "It's no problem, what can I do for you?" He had that uneasy feeling; he guessed it was the feeling that someone going to so much trouble to call someone they had only met for a few minutes on a street corner felt wrong.

"Nothing, was wondering if you wanted to catch a beer tonight. I didn't get a chance to tell you last night, but I'm still really new here and all..." he sounded quiet, and Will relaxed a bit. Everything about Marc was just a little strange, but he was likable.

"I can't tonight, I've been in a meeting all day and I'm beat." It wasn't a lie, he was thoroughly exhausted, but he felt a little guilty so offered, "How about lunch tomorrow?"

"Sure, sounds great. I'll meet you at the Don Mills Subway Station, the floor that connects to the mall. Twelve fine?"

"Uh, cool," Will said.

"Tomorrow then." And with that the phone clicked dead.

Will reached out and hung up the phone, shaking his head at the peculiarity of the phone call. Who did that? He had to be tired, if he had any sense he wouldn't go anywhere near Don Mills the next day. If he had been thinking clearly, he would have said no in a clear and concise tone. But he hadn't expected it.

He grabbed his leather bomber jacket off of the back of the door and put it on, leaving his suit jacket there, and shutting off his computer. It was the end of the day, and no one would think any less of him if he went home early.

Tiredly, he scrubbed his eyes as he exited his office and crossed to Alicia's desk, "I'll be on the cell if anyone needs me, but I'm checking out for the day."

She looked up at him, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea which she refused to put down, "Are you going to bother turning it on? Or should I just transfer them to your voice mail?"

"I'll turn it on!" he protested, holding up his hands defensively.

She stared at him levelly over the rims of her glasses, as she reached out a graceful hand to touch the speed dial on her phone. Somewhere behind him, in his office, a cell phone began to ring. She didn't say a word.

"Alright... I am not taking it," he glanced behind him and shrugged dismissively, "sue me."

He could still hear her chuckling to herself as he stepped into the elevator, thrusting his hands into his pockets and looking wholly disgusted with the way his day was shaping up. He was long overdue for a night on the couch with a hockey game. There was nothing Matts Sundin couldn't cure with a little magic. He was adamant he was going to make the most out of his time in this host.

He felt the elevator accelerate downwards, and finally stop on the ground floor. Avery-Wood's main sub-basement was undergoing some work, and for the time being a makeshift executive parking lot had been rented from the building next-door; large and cold, it was mildly inconvenient but better than taking transit. He was going to be getting home right at the start of rush hour, which was a good thing in his opinion; right now, rather than overstressed business men, he would have to battle soccer moms, SUV's and school busses on the roads. Ahh, the fun of driving.

He fished his keys out and walked towards his Jeep, parked conveniently near to the exit. One of the perks of being a manager in Avery-Woods was free parking, and although he couldn't afford a Mercedes or a BMW, at least he didn't disgrace himself driving a Jeep. He looked sporty enough without looking like he was a man going through some kind of identity crisis, or like he was trying to impress anyone.

He drew up in surprise as he saw Bruce loading boxes of file folders into the back of his car. No doubt eager to get on top of the Tri-Tech deal. He shook his head as he crossed to his own car and pressed the button on his key chain to power the locks. The audible sound of the locks echoed through the near-silent parking lot.

Bruce jumped, surprised.

"Good night, Bruce," Will said, suppressing the urge to smile as he flipped open the door and swung into the driver's seat.

"Will," Bruce nodded, quickly slamming shut the trunk of his BMW 525.

Will shrugged, shutting the car door and starting the engine. Something bothered him, though, and he glanced back over his shoulder at Bruce getting into his car. Had those file folders been orange? What would Bruce need with Avery-Woods payroll and benefits records? But it was too late to ask him, as the 525 was already well on its way.

Will shrugged it off and turned on the radio, pulling out his sunglasses and pulling out of his spot. Home.