Chapter Text
“But, sir!” You rounded the news desk, miscalculating the distance between you and it. The solid thud of your hip hitting the corner was overshadowed by the spike of pain that shot through you. It wasn’t enough to slow your momentum, causing you to only limp slightly as you continued on. “I can’t go to Adam’s rally!”
“Why the hell not?” Your boss didn’t even look up from the files he plucked up off his desk. “You wanted a break. This is your break.”
“I- I can’t go.” You struggled to come up with a valid reason. “I have to take… my fish to the vet.”
“Your… what?” Husk looked up at you, eyebrow raised. “You don’t have a fish and vets don’t treat fish. You’re going or you’re on obituary duty for the rest of the goddamn year.”
“But-” You were pretty sure now wouldn’t be a good time to point out that some vets did indeed treat fish.
“Am I clear?” You wilted under his glower. Everyone was stressed. This political cycle was driving everyone at HAZBIN news a little crazy. Husk was far from the only person running on a short fuse, but that didn’t make you any more willing to attend the new President Adam’s rally.
“Yes, sir.” Your shoulders slumped as you admitted defeat.
You needed this as much as you hated it. It was a fluke that Katie’s husband had gotten hit by a car, taking her away from coverage while she sat at the hospital waiting to see if her family would remain intact.
Though, part of you wondered if that was what really happened. He wasn’t from around here and with the raids that have been going on… he could have gotten swept up in with the ‘undesirables’ that were being collected off the streets.
You knew they had fought when Katie asked him to carry his papers. Did he relent? Or was he struggling to argue that he was in the city legally? Was she having to prove that her husband had all his paperwork in order?
People in ugly red baseball caps and camo milled about, screaming things you didn’t care to listen to. You didn’t want to touch them. You didn’t want to be near them. You didn’t want to listen to them.
But you wanted your paycheck and the boost in your career that reporting from the front lines could give you.
“Excuse me.” You shoved your HAZBIN recorder in the face of someone standing near the designated press area. “Can you tell me what you think of the current concerns raised by the Purple Party regarding President Adam’s eligibility to serve?”
You zoned out as the man essentially vomited up the talking points of Adam’s party. You were certain there wasn’t a single original thought rolling around in his head or the dozen other people you spoke to as you waited for the rally to start.
“Tough crowd, dollface?” A smooth voice called as you stepped back into the press area.
Vincent Voxley Whittman. Vox. Head anchor and owner of of Vox News. It wasn’t common that the owner of a news station would still work the news desk, but he was one of a kind. You couldn’t deny that.
Not that you liked him.
He and his news station had a cult following that rivaled that of the new president that you didn’t understand. Sure, he was handsome, dark black hair and bright blue eyes paired well with a charming smile, but none of it did anything to change the fact that he twisted facts and outright lied in his reports in order to promote his desired interest, facts be damned.
He made a mockery of everything you stood for, everything the field of journalism stood for, and he did it for profit.
“Are you lost?” Vox asked, walking to your side as if he was invited to stand with you. There was no reason for him to be so close to you. There was more than enough room in the press box for you all to spread out. “What’s an HAZBIN reporter doing here?”
“Reporting on the president’s lies.” You tried to push a charming smile to match his onto your lips. His smile only widened.
“Well, let me be the first to welcome you.”
You hated Vox, but it didn’t take long for you to be shivering in the cold. The rally organizers did nothing to provide heat or warmth to the press box. You were all expected to freeze, just like the rest of the attendees.
Halfway through the never ending semi coherent hate filled rant, Vox offered you tea. Tea was the last thing you expected him to be drinking. Whiskey, maybe? But tea? You turned it down, anyway.
The idea of something warm to drink seemed to worm its way into your mind as the cold sank it’s teeth deeper into your bones. Each minute passed feeling like hours. The humidity in the air hung like a mist, making the cold feel sharper and the damp air seem wetter.
“Just take the damn tea.” Vox shoved the cup into your hands. The cardboard was warm, filled with hot liquid. The string of a tea bag hung out the side, marking it as some brand you never heard of before. “You can be bitchy about drawing the short straw and getting stuck here and be cold, or you can be a little warmer and still bitchy about it.”
“Who said I drew the short straw?” You hated the fact that he was right.
“Please, I’ve read your reporting.” Vox rolled his eyes as he pulled a flask from his pocket. “Want some in your tea?”
“What?” Were you asking for clarification on what was in the flask or that he read your writing?
“Whiskey,” Vox popped the lid off your cup. A flick of his thumb had the cap hanging off the side of the narrow bottle. Before you could stop him, he poured a splash into your tea and replaced the lid. “It’ll help you feel warmer.”
“Why?” you asked instead, watching as he poured whiskey into his own tea.
Only after he took a drink did you sip at yours. It was hot and strong. Honeyed lemon coated your throat as the warmth of the drink wrapped around you like a warm hug.
“Because you’re a good reporter. HAZBIN isn’t giving you the breaks you need to really show how good you are.” Vox shrugged. “They’re lucky to have young talent to shape like you. It’s a shame they’re not taking advantage of that.”
You hated Vincent Voxley Whittman. What sort of name was that, anyway? You hated that the drink tasted good. You hated that helped keep the cold at bay. You hated how you listened to his praise on articles you wrote. No one else seemed to read them.
You hated how you asked for another when your cup was empty.
The rally was easier to listen to as a light buzz blanketed over your mind. Vox was easier to tolerate, too. You found yourself laughing with him, being charmed by him as he would make comments about the President Elect’s speech under his breath. Each snide remark caught you by surprise, a whisper of critique from a man you had always considered a Adam loyalist.
Perhaps you had been wrong about some things. Maybe it was okay to socialize with those who were politically so opposite of what you were. Maybe middle ground could be found if you just talked to each other, if you were just willing to listen for more than a few seconds.
Vox was a smart man. The longer you talked with him, the more you thought you could help him realize how he was hurting the country with his lies. You just needed to talk to him more. It was easy to want to keep talking to him.
That’s why, when the rally was over and the gear was packed up, you caught yourself lingering. There was no reason to look around again, making sure you had everything but you did.
Vox was swiftly giving orders, supervising as his crew packed cameras and gear. You thought he wasn’t paying you any mind and really, what did you expect?
“Would you like a drink?” You didn’t realize Vox was talking to you. He didn’t turn to even look at you, let alone face you as he spoke so really, why would you think he would be speaking to you? “Well, little miss reporter?”
“Oh.”
You accepted his invitation to the bar down the street, telling yourself that it was networking. There was hope for Vox and really, he was well established even if he was on the wrong side. He led you into the dim bar with a firm hand on your lower back as you talked yourself out of making an excuse to leave over and over again.
Mentally you made a note to ask him not to touch, but only after you took seats. Men didn’t need to lead women around. They didn’t need to touch someone to show them the way. You were perfectly capable.
Instead of saying something, you walked at his side, as his hand remained resting on the small of your back as you both made your way up to the bar.
As he helped you into your seat, you realized you waited too long to tell him not to touch you. The moment didn’t feel right anymore. If you told him now, it would look like you were overreacting. You didn’t want to give him that impression. That would just show him you were like… like the rest of the women you worked with.
Why did that bother you? You were proud of your ideals, of your views on your womanhood and the way you demanded to be treated as an equal, just as your peers did. So why did you hesitate to stand up to Vincent Voxley whittman? To tell him he didn’t need to touch you?
“You okay, dollface?” Vox’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts.
“I’m fine,” you answered quickly, letting another chance to correct him slip from between your fingers. He had no right to refer to you by a petname but...
“Of course.” Vox took the stool next to you. “What’s your drink?”
“Washington Apple.” Vox laughed at your answer. “What?”
“Not sex on the beach?” His smile grew wider. “Or a slippery nipple?”
Your face grew hot as you tried to deny. There was no way he could have known that those were the things you had drank when out with the other low-level journalists last weekend. They were such scandalous shot names. There was no reason to order them but to make each other blush and flirt.
“No,” you stuttered out. “What makes you think I would order those?”
Vox shrugged, ordering himself a glass of whiskey before looking back at you with a wink. “Isn’t it what all the young folks are ordering?”
You didn’t believe him, but there was no reason not to. There was no reason to think it was anything more than what he said. That didn’t stop the way the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end.
One drink turned into a second and you were laughing with Vox. He talked a lot about politics, about Adam, and the things he said made sense. They were factual. The things he said didn’t match up with what he said on air.
“Why?” You finally asked.
“Why what?” Vox turned, giving his full attention to you as he swirled the whiskey in his glass. You ignored the way his knee brushed against your leg as you contended with the full weight of his gaze.
“Why do you make so much sense right now? And yet, you put out so much trash news?”
Vox hummed. “Order a slippery nipple and I’ll tell you.”
“What?” There was no way you could order something like that in front of him. But… you wanted to know.
“Order them for us both. A pair of slippery nipples.” Vox added when you hesitated. “And I’ll tell you.”
You flagged the bartender down, stuttering over your words. It wasn’t like you had never ordered something like this before. You just… struggled when Vox was watching you with those bright blue eyes.
“I don’t think he heard you.” He teased, leaning into you. His breath washed over your neck, warm whiskey scenting it. Would he taste like whiskey if you kissed him?
You were losing your goddamned mind. There was no way you would kiss Vincent Voxley. No matter what excuse he offered for putting out poison pretending to be news, it wouldn’t make redeem him enough for you to kiss him.
The bartender eyed you, eyebrow raised, before glancing at Vox. Surely, he knew the newscaster, but he said nothing. You though? You rarely got to be in front of the camera. You wanted to be, but… the chances were limited.
“Go on,” Vox urged.
“Two slippery nipples,” you ordered before hastily adding, “Please.”
Vox laughed, the rich sound seeming to wrap around the bar. He had a good laugh, open and warm. It was TV ready. Was it honest? Hell, was anything about this man honest?
“You blush so easily,” Vox teased, reaching out to rest a few cool fingers against your heated cheeks. The cool of his skin felt good and for a moment, you allowed yourself to lean into them. “Never ordered a slippery nipple? Or does the idea of a slippery nipple make your heart race?”
“Excuse me?” you snapped, jerking away from him, scooping up the shot in front of you.
“I’m just saying-” Vox held his hands up in surrender before picking up his own shot. “I’ve had many slippery nipples in my mouth.”
He winked at you before downing his shot.
You followed, though you knew better. There were countless reasons you shouldn’t be sitting here, drinking with Vincent Voxley. It wouldn’t look good. He was older than you by what had to be a decade. He was the enemy.
But your slippery nipple was followed by a sex on the beach as you tried to convince him that what he was doing was wrong. You argued as his hand rested on your thigh.
You leaned into him, debating the value of journalistic integrity as he laughed at you. That warm laugh that made you want to hear more of it stood in insult, a harsh reminder that he thought you naive.
“I’m not some naive child!” You snapped, words echoing the thoughts in your head and the insecurity he was causing.
“Are you sure?” Vox teased. “One of us has a home, and the other is paying for their over priced student loans still, probably eating instant noodles for dinner.”
“You’re such an asshole.” You downed the drink. Fuck, what was it this time he goaded you into ordering? Red Headed Slut? Such a stupid ass gross, sexist ass name. It was good, though.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” you snapped, glaring at Vox as you stood. The bartender set the next round of shots out for you, though you didn’t notice. For a moment, the bar around you shifted and spun. It hadn’t been your intention to drink so much. “I’m not some cheap political commentary sellout.”
“Is that what you think I am?” Vox asked, resting his head on his fist as he watched you clumsily gather your things. “Careful or you’ll-”
Your elbow knocked the bright red shot over, sending the artificially colored liquid rushing across the bar and right into you.
“Fuck!” You yelled.
“-Knock the shot over.” Vox finished under his breath. “Careful, with language like that, the FTC will fine you and you and I both know your liberal station can’t afford that.”
“I’m not on the air,” you grumbled as you dabbed at the red stain on your cream skirt, only smearing the red splotch wider.
“Come on,” Vox said, standing up himself. “My place is around the block. You can rinse the stain out there.”
“Why the fuck should I go home with you?” You swayed on your feet.
“Because if I had to guess, you wore one of your nicest skirts and you sure as shit can’t afford to replace it. If that stain sets, you’re not getting it out.”
“You just-” you stumble, heel catching on the base of the stool.
“Careful,” Vox’s hand slipped around your waist.
“-Trying to get me to go home with you.” You stumbled into his side, bracing a hand against his chest.
You knew Vox was a leanly built man. He wore well fitted suits that highlighted the fact that he was far from fat. What you were not prepared for was how firm his chest was under your hand. You pulled your hand off him quickly, flush burning your cheeks.
“Yeah, doll.” Vox laughed, his hand coming to rest on your lower back. “To rinse your skirt.”
“That’s just an-” You stumbled again as he guided you through the bar. “Excuse.”
“I can have damn near anyone I want,” Vox assured you as he the cooling night air wrapped around you. “I’m just doing you a favor.”
With each step he took, you easily followed, urged on by his hand on your back. He did not offer his coat to you until he felt a shiver ran down your spine.
“Here,” he said, shrugging out of his coat and draping it over your shoulders.
“Why?” you asked as the night blurred past you, tipping and twisting.
“I was a young, idealist hotshot once, too.” Vox shrugged, guiding you up the steps, nodding toward the doorman holding the door open for you. “There was a time when I couldn’t afford to replace my slacks if I spilled anything on them.”
“Really?” You looked up at him hopefully. For all the terrible things Vox and Vox News stood for, there was a part of you that couldn’t deny his impressive success. There was a part of you that wanted to be just like him. Well, not ‘just’ like him but… something close. Better. Moral.
“Not really,” Vox laughed. “But I didn’t start at the very top at least.”
The building housing Vox’s apartment was fancy. The art on the walls of the hall probably cost more than your outfit. Everything about it, from the solid wood floors to the fresh flowers on tables, cost more than you wanted to think about.
The lock on the apartment was a digitized keypad, another fancy, expensive feature. It lit up when Vox pressed his thumb into the half circle on the bottom. You watched as the numbers scattered, flashed before going dim. Vox typed in a passcode you couldn’t see on the dim screen.
The screen flashed once, turning green, and then went dark again. There was a soft mechanical whirl, followed by an almost silent click as the lock disengaged. Vox’s hand wrapped around the knob and pushed the door open, hinges twisting silently.
Your door would have screamed as it opened, hinges crying out in protest of their lack of maintenance. The floors in the halls leading to your apartment was covered in dirty gray carpet. The only art on the walls in the halls leading to your apartment was the hand prints left by people using who knows what substance that made them struggle to stand up straight.
You and Vox lived in different worlds. With one last deep breath, you stepped forward, letting Vox’s world envelop you.
You told yourself it was fine. You were just stepping inside to rinse the stain out of your skirt. Like it or not, Vox was right. You couldn’t afford a replacement.