Author's Note: This was written for the Five Times Challenge on . Check it out. ;)
Oh, and I don't own Artemis Fowl.
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Marriage, what had he been thinking?
Jon sorted through his files absent-mindedly. The rhythmic click of the mouse bore, unwelcome, into his brain. The room was dark, but for the light illuminating from the dim computer screen. The transactions he made were instinctual. He always thought the knack for business was inbred in him. He had always been cool, logical and ruthless. He had made his fortune barely out of the cradle.
Oh, but how foolish he had been! He knew better than this! He was a smart man and prided himself on his own lack of delusions.
Love, bah, why on earth would he have fallen in love? Jon cursed himself out loud. Love, what a notion!
He had been foolish. The first dark-eyed beauty that had sauntered up to him on a resort in Mexico had stolen his heart.
Metaphorically, of course; he knew that the heart did nothing but pump blood. Even now he seemed swayed by silly, romantic ideals. Jon Spiro did not believe in metaphors. The world was what it was, there was no turning back. And he liked it that way. It helped him, seeing as anyone with a steady mind and an iron will could rule in such a place.
But love! He was not entirely to be blamed, that was for certain. Jon had always been socially incompetent. A girl never so much as gave him a second glance before he made his fortune.
This woman, how she had talked! Her voice had poured like honey out of her soft mouth. She had batted her eyelashes and danced with him slowly. She had been so graceful that Jon had almost entirely forgotten his aversion to physical activity of any sort.
What a joke! He had been made a fool of. Love, what an awful word.
He had married her, this young wife of his. Jon had given her the world. He had catered to her like a slave to princess. Every wish was his command. She had jewels and gowns, she had houses and servants, she had vacations and expensive cars.
Love was what it had always claimed to be. It was a series of biochemical reactions that took place in the brain. He had known this! He had always followed this creed.
This damned enchantress with her dark skin and slim figure had snatched that little piece of wisdom right out from under his nose.
She wanted a divorce. She wanted to take everything that he owned.
Jon nearly laughed at the thought. Please, as if she could even try. He didn't need to hire lawyers, he was one. As far as he was concerned, the marriage never even happened. And as far as the judge was concerned, Spiro could ensure it was the same.
Now, if only he could get the sight of her tearful eyes and pouting lips out of his mind...
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Jon nearly broke the phone as he slammed it back onto the receiver.
He shouted a string of obscenities at his assistants, who stood there, shocked. They knew the famous Spiro temper, and they did not want to be on the receiving end.
Spineless worms, Jon thought, angrily, making a mental note to fire each and every one of them.
The voice of the man on the phone still rung in his ears.
Bought out, no, it could not be.
Insider information, heaven help them.
He felt light headed and placed his hand carefully on the desk for support.
Think, Jon, think, he ordered himself.
He placed his other hand carefully over his heart and felt it beating quickly. There was an ache in his chest that burned icy hot.
Betrayal.
It was to be expected, of course. They had both sold out so many other people, each trying to get a bigger piece of the pie, that it only seemed reasonable that they would eventually destroy each other.
It was all part of the game. They both knew that when they went into business together eventually one of them would remain on top.
The problem was, he didn't expect it. In fact, he had almost thought that he was in the clear.
Jon wondered how long he had planned this. They had been out for dinner two nights before, was everything set then? Had he been planning Jon's own downfall right through the meal?
Jon was surprised that it hurt so much. He should have known better.
Jon had just been at such peace with him. He had finally found a partner so like him. All others were concerned with trivial matters, such as family and love.
He spat unceremoniously on the floor. They were kindred spirits, Jon and his partner. They were both driven and simple. They wanted to get to the top and stay there.
Jon's fingers itched and his temporarily frozen brain began to get back to speed. He had been wrong, but it was a lesson learned.
There was enough time to destroy his ex-business associate, it would just be difficult.
Jon made a mental note to never fall into that trap again.
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"You're overworked," the psychiatrist said firmly.
"There's no such thing," Jon replied, unphased.
The doctor looked him over pointedly. The man looked a mess. His hair was sticking up in different directions as if it had been pulled, and it looked as if it hadn't been washed in weeks.
There were dark purple bruises under his eyes, which were bloodshot. His skin was pale and little blue veins were visible in his hands. His face was covered in stubble and his clothes were stained.
Jon returned the stare with an even gaze.
"You will lose your business," the psychiatrist said, "and I know that is the only reason you agreed to see me."
Spiro scoffed, "As if, I am a genius. Geniuses do not lose their businesses."
"You need to sleep on occasion," the doctor continued, "allow someone else to do the work."
Jon's face darkened significantly, "It is not my fault that everyone who works for me seems to be a bungling dolt."
"Look at the evidence," the other man said, slowly, as if he were talking to an infant, "your stocks have dropped, you are not keeping up with the competition, and you are unable to hire
new employers because everyone is too scared to work with you."
He pulled on his hair, frustrated. "You wouldn't understand, I can't trust those morons," he said, closing his eyes and letting their heavy lids drag down. He hadn't been sleeping lately.
Even when he had time to take a rest he found himself wide awake. Jon's brain, it seemed, did not want to slow down. At night, in his bed, the worst of his thoughts attacked him. It was something about the stillness of dark that woke them. He dreaded that silence and the memories it brought. He occasionally slept during his lunch breaks instead of eating. He worked through the blackness.
"I think," the psychiatrist said, "that you have some trust issues."
Jon's head whipped upward. No, the man was wrong. He had no trust issues because he had no trust. It was the people who dared to depend on others who had the problems. This stupid man was shrouded in a cloak of silly folk psychology. He stood up and grabbed his coat. "I'm not listening to some quack spouting psycho-babble," he said, and stormed impressively out the door.
Pleased with his temper tantrum he winked suggestively at the secretary who sat at the desk. Jon was always careful to keep up appearances.
Though, he thought as he walked to the car, the man had a point. Maybe promoting some underlings wasn't such a bad idea. He wouldn't patronize them with anything important, but then maybe he could afford ore leisure time. There was a little place in Jamaica that he had been dying to frequent.
As ridiculous as the man had been, Jon knew that he couldn't go on this way. He was poised for bankruptcy.
As it was he was cutting his life short. Jon intended to live for a very long time and the way he was going his life would run out.
Maybe he'd take a break, he'd vacation some place warm. It would take his mind off of his issues. He'd come back bigger and better. He'd take the business world by storm.
Jon had been dense, he knew that. He was, though he regretted it, only human. A brain like his could reach to infinity, given enough time, but it needed sleep and nourishment.
He was reluctant to put anything important into the hands of underlings, but he'd make sure that they were particularly brainless. Everything necessary to the company would remain with him and only him.
Jon knew that he would have to drag his assets out of the depths of financial deficit, but he was perfectly capable. And if it wasn't entirely legit, well, who would even know?
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The jail cell he sat in was decrepit. The walls were cold and damp. The bedsheets were scratchy and old. It stank of sweat and urine. Jon's cell mate was a large, dangerous man who's fists could crush walnuts. This criminal stood, looming, over Spiro, his dark beady eyes darted back and forth in suspicion.
But Jon did not notice any of this. No, he was too preoccupied with something else entirely.
His hands twitched nervously and he shuddered with rage. One fist was clasped around the bed post and his unkempt nails dug into the wood.
Jon was lost to another world. His clever mind was temporarily inflamed with thought.
He was possessed, possessed by the memory of a pair of eyes, one cold and blue, the other warm and hazel, disappearing quickly into thin air.
In his mind's eye he could see the boy, the slight, black haired youth who's clever remarks had so thoroughly reminded him of himself.
Which was, of course, a problem. It wouldn't be good to have two Jon Spiro's in the world, the competition would be much too difficult.
But this tiny child had been so much more. His coldness had frightened Jon right from the beginning. His impeccable ability to lie had terrified Spiro to no end.
This kid, this ghostly, vampire, kid, had outdone him. At the crucial moment this prodigy had evaporated into nothing.
The thought still sent shivers up his spine.
He had been little, small for even his modest age. His voice had yet to break, it's high sound was still reminiscent of childhood. He was so small that Spiro had barely believed it.
But so quick too, and intelligent. How he did it, Jon still could not fathom.
When Jon thought of those cold eyes and that crooked smile he was consumed.
He had thought that he had felt hatred before in his life. He had believed himself used to, if not adept at, feeling hate.
Nothing he had ever experienced before could have prepared him for this. Nothing cold have prepared him for this engrossing fire that burned inside of him.
Jon looked up and thanked his past self for his sensibilities.
Jon would not have gotten as far as he did in this world if he did not have a back up plan. A bribed judge here and an altered piece of evidence there and soon enough he'd be out.
Everything that he had built in his entire lifetime tottered over the cliff of despair. One wrong step and it would be lost forever, thanks to this mysterious child.
Luckily Jon did not take wrong steps.
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Jon lay in the overly-clean hospital bed, his breath coming in short, quick gasps.
He stared at the white ceiling, trying to ignore the odd feeling of the tubes in his nose and wrists.
He had asked over and over again what was wrong. The doctors had just shaken their heads.
"Old age," one of them had said, quietly, to another.
Jon wanted to snap at them. The only thought that stopped him was the fact that his life was in their hands. He decided that insults were unwise at this stage in the game.
Still, he did not think that it was likely that he would simply expire. He had been around this long, hadn't he?
He was suddenly gripped by inspiration. He waved his young assistant, who sat in the corner, over.
She was a good eighty years younger than him. Her pretty face looked at Jon with blank admiration. She didn't know him, not really. To her he was some sort of legend, someone to look up to.
Jon had to hold back a spiteful laugh. Never in his life had he pictured himself as a role model.
She was fearful, too. Jon liked that.
He whispered his request in his ear and she looked at him oddly. He shooed her out and she shrugged, just thinking him another eccentric old man.
It was time to face the truth. Jon was dying. He didn't like lying to himself (though to others was fine) and he had to admit it.
The thought of his investors, assistants and directors fighting over his dead body disgusted him.
That is why he managed to sum up the strength to pull a piece of paper and a pen off of his bedside table.
In a messy scrawl he slowly wrote his last words on the back of his lunch receipt.
Eventually his assistant walked in again, followed by several large men holding burlap sacks.
Each one of them cautiously dumped out the contents right on top of Jon, glancing at the pretty assistant for confirmation.
Jon smiled as the green paper poured over him. Load after load came in until the entire room was filled to the waist with bills.
Jon grabbed a handful and held it close, feeling his heart slowly begin to decline in speed.
He smiled a weary smile, his limbs tired and aching. His eyes fluttered shut briefly only to be opened again.
Oh, they called it cold hard cash, but it was such an inaccurate description. The money that flowed between his fingers was warm.
He glanced around the room suspiciously.
"Out!" He barked at his workers, his eyes darted around, making sure that they didn't grab any of his precious earnings.
They didn't dare. They were all to afraid of the infamous Spiro to even try.
Jon looked around him, content.
Closing his eyes he whispered sweetly to his money.
"I will never lose you," he said, "never, ever, ever."
Three days later Jon was buried in a large grace accompanied by ever dollar he had ever made.
On his grave it read, as requested, Always Mine.
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Author's Note: Reviews, pretty please? The last one was uber cheesy, but I couldn't think of a fifth reason. Actually, past three my brain shut down.