Contains: short 4x1

I messed up. It took me an hour of staring blindly at my dismantled surveillance equipment to put the thought together. I fucked up and now I have to figure out what I’m going to do next.

No job, little money in my bank account because of the equipment expenditures, I was fired twice, no references, no place to go. A hotel. I think of the crap around me. I can sell the equipment on Ebay. I think of the other things in the suite. The clothing. I don’t consider it mine. It was purchased with the blonde’s money, but I’ll have to take it. He told me to pack up my shit. He said the braid would help me, meaning that I would need help. I would only need help if I were required to take every trace of myself out of here. I am. To a hotel. The braid will have to take me to a hotel with all this junk.

Great.

From the top.

No job, not much cash, fired again, no record-- My eyes focus. I have no record of my employment here, not that it matters, it shouldn’t matter, and it doesn’t. But it suddenly occurs to me...no pay stubs. I was only given cash. No one knew I stayed here. Other than the blonde’s consort, no one outside of this place knows that—

“I worked here.” I just spoke and now I’m spooked. I look around. I’ve been standing here, mentally running around in circles for too long. I’ve been standing here, throwing myself into a fruitless attempt at mental reshelving. I’ll admit it. I’m reeling. I didn’t see the pink slip coming.

I have to get out. I leave the study and the surveillance equipment. I step into the bedroom and reach back to close the door, but I can’t grasp the doorknob. Something is already in my hand. I look down at it. A phone. The blonde’s cell phone. I frown. I must have picked it up after disconnecting everything. I don’t remember picking it up.

I keep staring at the phone. He never asked for it.

I never returned it and now there’s no point in doing so. I was already caught stealing his privacy. I don’t need him thinking that I stole his phone as well.

There’s a sudden knock from the other side of the suite’s entrance. A reflex. I drop the phone and then kick it. It slides across the carpet to under the bed.

I head to the door. If it’s the braid, he’s either really late or really early. It’s midnight. Both the clock at the side of the bed and my internal one know it.

I open the door. Instead of a transgendered coif and a maniacal expression, I get blonde hair and a mildly surprised look. I mirror it, the expression, not the hair.

The blonde is just standing there, staring.

There’s a long silence before he asks, “Can I come in?”

I don’t know why he’s wasting my time asking. I was evicted. He has free reign of his establishment. He’s still standing in the doorway with a patient expression. He’s not going to step in until I invite him, like vampires in gothic novels.

I grunt a response. As he steps in, he asks permission to prowl about. Once again, I grunt.

He looks back at me for a second before making his way across the bedroom. He’s heading towards the study. I watch him go.

It suddenly occurs to me that he’s walking around in socks. He came here in socks. For some reason, I’m disturbed by that fact.

He’s talking to me from the other room. I enter it and follow his gaze. It’s on the equipment.

“You haven’t packed anything,” he notes.

“I need boxes. I’ll get them in the morning.”

He’s still staring at the dismantled equipment as he says, “I never got the chance to show you around.”

When I say nothing, he proposes a midnight tour.

He walks over to a corner of the study. He’s staring at the wall as he says, “There are a number of things I never had the opportunity to share with you.”

He runs his hand down the wall and pauses over where there’s a slight warp in the wood. He looks back at me. “I’m assuming you didn’t notice this.” He takes in my expression. “Look a little harder at the wall.”

I look at the wall. I look at the panels. Then it hits me. They aren’t panels. They’re doors, slimmer than normal and without knobs, but doors nonetheless.

His hand is still on the warp in the wood. He fingers it for a bit and then presses hard.

There’s movement and I look ahead, past him.

I watch the doors slide open and I realize something else. They’re elevator doors. He enters the elevator and holds one of the doors. He wants me to step in. Suspicious and curious, I enter. He retracts his hand and the doors close. I watch him reach out and press a button for our destination. There are only two choices: the 8th and the 2nd floor; his floor and my floor.

I look forward. He’s not talking. There’s only the hum of the elevator and later the low hiss of the doors as they open.

The realization was slow, but I now understand as I see his quarters.

He’d proposed a midnight tour, but it isn’t of the mansion. It’s of his quarters, his dimly lit quarters …and he had a hidden elevator in my suite expressly for this destination. My mind whispers other insinuations. From my first day here, had he put me in that suite with the intention of—

I hear a tearing noise. I watch him. He’d rolled up the sleeve on his right arm. He’s picking at his cast. I hear Velcro and realize that, at some point during the last two days, he had moved on from a plaster cast to a removable one.

He undoes the cast on his forearm. I take a step back as he lifts his right arm into my line of vision.

He says the obvious. “It’s fixed, Heero.” And then he adds something that makes me twitch. “Let’s go in.”

He’s gotten rid of the cast and taken me to some kind of lounge. I glance around. Everything is tan, like a host of misplaced artifacts from a desert shrine.

But everything looks comfortable, lived in, as though he retreats to here on a regular basis. It strikes me suddenly that this place has one consistent smell, as though it’s not frequently invaded by other competing scents, or rather people. The room smells like tea leaves. A green smell in a sand colored room.

I don’t like this place.

I’m getting weird vibes from it.

I’m bothered.

There’s nothing to do here but sit and talk.

But, so far, there’s no sitting, just his talking.

I look back at him.

“I suppose it’s strange to have an elevator connecting your suite to my quarters.”

Sinister and seedy he means.

“But you’re not my first assistant. Having an elevator from your study to my office is considerate, given the 6 flight difference.”

He’s doing it again: explaining his suspicious actions before I get a chance to mentally malign him.

“I would have mentioned it before, but I noticed your abhorrence of elevators. Today is the first time you’ve used one... since...since...” He doesn’t finish his sentence.

He’s looking around as though a fly has buzzed by and he’s trying to locate it.

There was no buzzing. He’s nervous.

Time is crawling and so are my thoughts.

How did he know about the elevators and my avoidance?

My mouth is curving downwards. I’m almost at full frown, but he halts it.

“We need to discuss your spying.” He watches me stiffen. “How would you like to be better at it? How does training sound to you?”

All I can do is blink back at him. My mind slowly registers what he just said. He’s serious, completely...utterly serious.

He takes in my expression and appears apologetic. “I’m sorry. That was abrupt. I believe this conversation will go smoother if I explain myself. It will also help if you interrupt me with any questions you might have.”

I have one, right off the bat. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing this?” He looks confused.

I’m frowning. “Why did you bring me here?”

“To the 8th floor?”

He’s playing dumb and I’m losing my patience. “To your mansion. Why am I here?”

“You have the answer, Heero. We’ve already discussed this. You came here--”

“Of my own free will.”

There’s silence.

“Wine?” he suddenly offers.

My head is pounding as I watch him retreat to a large cabinet and then to a serving cart. He’s gotten glasses, opened a bottle, and is pouring. He’s right-handed again, but he’s clumsy. It’s the disuse, and seeing his hand shake is enough to keep me slightly grounded.

He’s better now as he returns and passes me a full glass. I’m beginning to think the tremble was in my head, something created to make him seem smaller, more on my level. He returns to the cart.

He’s back in front of me with his own full glass in one hand…and the bottle of wine in his other.

I look at the glass in my hand. I bring it to my lips and find myself taking little time to finish the contents. I can feel it. The muscles in my neck and shoulders are locked tight. My stomach is twisted like a squeezed rag. I remember the doctor’s nonsense about “anxiety” attacks. The way my nerves are going, I’m actually taking her words seriously.

He sees my empty glass and refills it. I’m guzzling the wine. He pours me another and I swig it. When I reach for the bottle, he takes a step away. I watch him place the bottle on a side table. He still has his glass in his hand. His wine is untouched.

He looks back at me. “I brought you here to give you a second chance.”

“I’m not fired?”

“I never said that.”

I look back at him. I haven’t drunk enough for coherence to be a problem on my end.

“You betrayed everyone’s trust. I was angered and disappointed until I realized that your behavior was an indication of your unease. You’re suspicious of everyone, aren’t you?”

Maybe it’s just the wine, but his expression has changed and he’s closer.

“Heero, I have a feeling that, with a little guidance, you could be capable of anything. Perfect, you’d be the closest thing to it. I want to help. Let me help you.”

I understand. I should have realized it on that day in the elevator. He sees a potential in me that isn’t there. He wants to make me into something I can’t be. He doesn’t get it. I’m a screw-up. That’s all I am.

“What do you want to become, Heero?” The question is good-natured and probing.

“I don’t know.”

He goes quiet. He’s doing it again: nibbling on his bottom lip. After a ten second interval, he stops his gnawing and looks up. “You’ve already shown an interest in surveillance. Let’s return to there.”

He’s prattling.

I watch and listen as he carries on.

He’s making plans, ensuring my future, but I don’t hear anything connecting me to this place.

It hits me.

He’s passing me on.

“I have a friend,” he says, “who has some government ties--”

“I don’t want any favors.” Ragged, my voice came out ragged.

“It wouldn’t be a favor, just a more expedient approach. If this is the field you’re interested in, you would be required to take all the steps--”

“I’m...”

He blinks back at me. “You’re what?”

“Hot...”

“The room is too hot?” he asks. He looks confused.

“More wine,” I say.

“Heero, it’s not--”

“You said you’d help,” I mutter.

He’s staring. He looks back at me, looks at the bottle on the table, and then at the untouched glass of wine in his hand.

He looks pensive, as though he’s mulling over a weighty proposition.

He lets a period of silence drag on before saying, “You’ve asked for more wine. I can help.”

He’s lifting his glass in offering. He doesn’t pass it. He’s bringing it to my lips, and I’m just watching him do it.

The glass is cool and so is the wine as it makes contact.

I start swallowing.

I’m looking at him from over the glass.

He’s giving me more wine, but he’s not allowing me to drink all of it. He’s tipping the glass away from my lips. The wine is drizzling from my mouth and onto my shirt.

He’s cheating. The bastard is cheating me.

But everything adds up.

4 glasses of wine, I’m rationalizing to myself. I’m not a lightweight, but the wine is beginning to hit me, or so I’m telling myself. The room is even hotter than before and my head is lighter. My ability to tell right from wrong is drifting away. These are the mollifying excuses I feed myself.

He’s taken the glass and put it aside.

He’s staring. All he’s doing is staring, just standing there unwrapping me with his curious gaze. He’s looking for something.

I swallow.

He’s found it.

He’s moving closer.

I do nothing. He’s looking over my shoulder. I can smell him.

His scent is crisp and clean. It’s working its way into my nostrils as he steps forward and places his head at the side of mine. There’s more heat, and it’s melting the side of my face.

“I’m not into this.” I just whispered. My voice was raspy.

For a moment, there is silence, but then I feel something hot move against my neck. It’s his lips as he says, “Then why can I feel...you...growing hard...against my thigh?” The question is tentative, deferential, and naïve at the same time.

I cannot come up with a response, but I feel his hand moving from his side to between us. He strokes me once and then twice.

I do nothing to stop him.

Part 14