empathy won't fit in these cold hands

It is perhaps out of habit (or a betrayal of some unconscious desire) that he finds himself walking to a familiar desk in a large, otherwise empty room. The sun bleeds red and orange across the old hardwood floors as it makes its final descent below the horizon, and yet still Elias Bouchard sits, working away the hours of his day. What a good, dedicated young man. Seeing him so focused delights him in a way that is perhaps a bit untoward.

But when has that ever stopped him?

His oxfords are silent as James approaches the young man from behind, not even the faintest whisper of cloth breaking apart that precious quiet. As he steps close enough to peer over the young man’s shoulder, he finds nothing particularly interesting being filed  --  an acquisition document for an object that had found its home here ten years previously. James would have thrown the thing out, knowing as he does that it has no real supernatural properties, but academic integrity and all that.

A small smile curls at the corner of his mouth for a brief moment before he speaks, his voice far too loud in contrast to the quiet.   “Working late, Mr. Bouchard? I do not believe there’s been any overtime approved for this pay cycle.”