Elevator Love_Closure part 5a
By Tralla
Contains: Irritability and 1+4?1
I've followed the blonde to his estate, but I didn't abandon everything. I didn't leave my job; I didn't have to. All I left was the ability to be called into the office. That last benefit was planted into my head by the same supervisor who sold me out. He'd put effort into getting me to agree that I would stay under his thumb. For him, distance wasn't an issue. There isn't anyone else who'd put up with the amount of work that is constantly dumped on me. And it's within this drudgery that I'm immersed.
My neck is stiff from sitting at this desk staring at the same thing for too long. I twist in my seat and, as I do, my gaze scans the study. I get a glance at the armoire in which my abandoned and forgotten items from my first stay at blonde's estate had been kept. He had his servants remove the items of course, and now the armoire is empty. It was the only thing in the suite that his servants touched. That mini cleanup was a week ago. I face forward. A week was eaten up my new work routine.
I've become a shut-in, spending hours plunking away at a keyboard, but it's not out of diligence. It's simply avoidance, a tactic that's become a default response to unsavory situations. When I do leave the suite, my path is crisscrossed by two artificial foes. I don't believe in accidental run-ins. Not anymore. This place is large enough that they could be here without making their presence known. But they're up to the opposite, letting me know that they come and go as they please, letting me know that they're possibly cavorting with the blonde. They're probably taking turns with him, clocking in for agreed amounts of time.
There's a sudden distraction. I look to my right. The study's elevator doors are opening. There was a noise that tipped me off before I saw the act. It was a low hiss that let me know that the wooden panels are revealing what they really are. And there's a sudden feeling in my stomach. After a week of being teased, I'm getting the original rather than a facsimile. I watch the blonde walk into the study. He notes my current task.
His gaze moves from my fingers to my face. "You've decided to keep at it."
My hands were still poised over the keyboard when I turned to look his way, and now they're on the desk as I respond, "My supervisor has shown some appreciation. There's no reason to look elsewhere for employment."
There's a nod from him. A week of being evil wore on him and now he's being civil…enough. He's lost his devil horns and is back to being a mere mortal, in actions but not quite in speech.
"A few kind words and you're ready to forget the reasons for contention," he notes while drawing closer to my side.
He's not being subtle, nor is he very good at what I assume is a current peacemaking effort. I don't give him an answer. He's slowing down my work. But, despite that, there's no impetus to return to it as he says in a low voice, "I can't be as obliging as you've shown yourself to be. I have over 3 years of work to catch up on and I'm not as adept as before. There are too many distractions."
He's trying to explain his curt behavior without apologizing. That's fine. I neither deserve nor need an apology. I've got other things on my mind. I think he's caught on to what they are. He looks away from my probing gaze. It's the only thing of mine that's probed him this past week, but his solemn expression derails a plot to jump him. His words then undermine what was a robust hard-on.
"I have a meeting with my father."
I understand the situation, even if my groin doesn't want to. A sense of impending doom caused him to seek me out before heading off to battle. And he's already on his way. I watch him walk back to the elevator. I send a parting gift.
"He's wrong to attempt to get rid of Raberba."
There's an audible exhalation from the blonde before he responds, "My father is overstepping his bounds and interfering with your rightful objective."
He'd stopped in his tracks to look back at me. During the utterance, I'd watched his lips. He didn't smile, but there was no malice in the delivery. I accept the gesture. He's out of sight, the elevator doors close behind him, and I go back to work, but not for long.
My fingers are lax on the keyboard, quiet against the keys.
My rightful objective. Objective. Objectives. The easier one.
The day after the blonde and I arrived at his estate the braid had returned with his android ward. I haven't seen the braid around, but I know he's on the grounds. I left the mansion with the intention of heading his way, to the garage. Since his return, I'm certain that whoever was in charge of holding the keys for the blonde's automotive toys has relinquished control to him. He's the only person standing in the way of my joyriding.
As I make it to the garage, open the door, and step in, I acknowledge that I've been lying to myself, deceiving myself with an automotive agenda; it was a cheap effort that allowed me to reach my destination without pause.
I'd found the braid sitting on a stool in front of a table. His back is toward me, but he looks idle, as though he's waiting for something. He glances at me and then turns back to his original position. Despite the brush-off, his muttering is geared toward me.
"If this is about keeping Jiro on a leash, it's not going to happen. If you have a problem with your 'competition', jabber at him or Quatre. I didn't make him."
Apparently, the motive for my appearance is more obvious than I'd thought. But I don't get sidetracked.
"You're supposed to watch him."
The braid looks at me from over his shoulder. "I'm supposed to keep his ass out of trouble. He's not a knucklehead, and he hasn't done anything wrong, has he?"
"He's--"
"I know where he is. Last time I checked, Quatre's the one who owns this estate. Unless Jiro starts pilfering what's yours, I'm not interested in your complaints." He swivels on the stool to face me. He's waiting for me to say something disparaging about his droid companion.
I have an entire arsenal, but I'm interrupted.
There's a sudden knock on the door behind me. The braid moves from his stool. He's in front of me as he says, "You're in my way."
When I don't move immediately, he brushes past. I watch him go. I haven't had to deal with him in a while, but his behavior still seems more antagonistic than I can recall.
He opens the door. I catch a glimpse of a guy, but nothing more since the braid's body blocks the view as he steps outside. After a minute, the braid is back in the garage and the door closes behind him.
Apparently, the guy was a delivery man because the braid returned with a box. He walks past me with it. It's suspicious. There are no markings on the box, no sign that it was handled by disinterested strangers, no dirt marks, no writing, no signal that it was part of everyday commercial transport. The fact that it was sent to the braid in his current temperamental state is reason enough to investigate.
I'm staring at his back as I ask, "What is it?"
He turns around. His entire demeanor changes. There's a slow, impious smile from him. "This?" He strokes the box. "Just someone I've been dealing with for 5 years. You've seen him once before." He places the box on the table. "Every year, I give him an upgrade. Got to keep him interesting. Kids get bored easily."
I watch the box warily. He trusts what's in it with children.
There's a sudden whirring noise. I look at the cause. It's the braid's phone. It's on the table he was sitting at and now it's vibrating its way off. He retrieves the phone before it takes a dive off the end. There's a disgusted sigh from him as he takes a look to identify the caller.
He turns my way as he mutters, "Looks like I'm popular. Your sudden appearance and now I'm getting phone stalked. Fifth call from him today. Give me a second." He opens the phone and puts it to his ear. He listens for a few seconds before replying, "Yeah, yeah, I didn't forget. I'll be there before you even drive into town." He closes the phone and pockets it. Now, he's moving around and talking as he picks up what he needs. "Jacket…keys…reason to fly the hell away from here…"
"Where are you going?"
He looks back at me. "Obviously out of here. If you're going to stay in the garage, you're going to have to lock this place up when you leave." He tosses me a set of keys.
Instead of catching it, I step to the side. The keys hit the floor and skid a few feet away.
He looks back at me and I cut him off before he can complain. "Our earlier conversation isn't over."
"I don't have time for this." When my intentionally sour expression doesn't change, he sighs. "I suppose I could let you tag along. Hell, do I have a choice?"
"No."
He rubs the back of his neck. "Well, having you come along makes it a reunion, right?"
The braid took me to a sports restaurant, but unintentionally.
I look around as we enter. Just by the bar, there's a large flat screen television suspended from the ceiling. There are also small televisions sets attached to the walls by each of the tables. The majority of the sets are off, but there's enough visual entertainment to grab my attention. Everywhere I look there are streamers…pendants…sports paraphernalia…the entire restaurant is a visual assault of garish fanaticism. Strangely, I'm impressed. The braid isn't.
There's a noise of mourning from him.
"I go away for a few years and they change everything up. What the hell is this?" He sighs dejectedly, but then his disturbed expression changes as he looks over to where the liquor is stocked. "Great, someone I know." He leans over the bar and starts yammering at the bartender. He gestures to the decorations. "What is _this_ all about?"
"New management."
"Well, duh. Why?"
I'm distracted from the braid's griping. Someone just said my name. I'd barely caught it. I turn around. I see a familiar face that's half-shaded by a shock of brown hair.
The owner identifies himself. "It's 'Trowa', if you've forgotten."
"I haven't."
Apparently, the braid is finished with the bartender. He walks up to my side, sees Trowa, and says, "Glad you could make it. This night should go faster."