A/N: Another chapter, yay! Not much to report this go around, aside from the fact that the next chapter is long as hell. I also suppose that FINALLY we get into some nitty gritty in this chapter, we set foot into Alfred's hidden past! Hopefully, it will be enjoyable.

I do have a question for my readers, however: Should I go back and double space all of my chapters? If even one person could provide a yes or no answer I would be incredibly thankful. The program I use to type doesn't automatically double space, and I just want to know if having it all double spaced would make it easier to read.

Enjoy~

One Sick Puppy

A list of thought-provoking things I found whilst investigation Alfred's well organized bag-
1. A special container, water tight and UV protected, guarding what looks to be some of the most sought after comic books ever to exist.
2. More, smaller containers (around seven of them), storing what looked to be prized action figures, once again of high value.
3. A pocket knife, themed with the star spangled banner, hidden in similarly themed pair of socks (I'm assuming so that he would know where it was...?)
4. A pair of unusually ordinarily glasses, stored in an unusually bland glass case, that was branded, 'Texas'.
5. A few pairs of crumpled clothes, disastrously messy compared to the other neatly folded articles of clothing. They appeared to be worthless and destroyed in one way or another (one pair of jeans had cigarette burns, another pair of khaki shorts had dark, unidentifiable stains, and finally, a sky blue tee shirt, that looked as though it would compliment his skin tone and eye color fantastically, was scared on the back by what I think to be massive knife-strike holes), and I couldn't imagine why he would still have them instead of throwing them away.
6. A small, cream colored stuffed cat.
As for the thoughts these items provoked, here is a list of those:
1. Jeez, this guy is, for lack of better words, a massive nerd.
2. Seriously, nerd alert, yikes.
3. Apparently, he's also an America fanatic, like most southerners. I'm sure he is unwavering in his belief that America is the greatest of all places, and always will be, and if anyone has anything to say about that, then they can enjoy a nuke up the ass. How I do detest that outlook.
4. ... I'm honestly not sure what this means. Texas? Glasses? ... Alfred is a man of mystery.
5. This is... Disturbing, especially with my vexing imagination. (Alfred has become a hardened hit man in my head now, who began his career at age five. Yep, I've trashed the peachy keen sunny fields of past days, as an author might trash any background story, and honestly, I'll probably trash it again at an hour within my sight.)
6. Gosh, it's cute. The cat is quite new looking, it's thick brown neck fur still boasting a fluff sure to make real felines jealous.
7. Ohgoshdarnitall

Alfred had caught me, red handed. Peculiarly, his expression was unreadable. And once again, he had crept up on me. I hadn't heard him enter, and I hadn't detected his approach. He may have been watching me fiddle with the creatures, muttering my thoughts to myself, until I finally noticed him. Tucked under his arm was a glass terrarium, filled with various decorations and suitable padding for Ess, along with an empty water bowl.

I looked up at him from my criss-cross-apple-sauce position, smiling in the most gingerly of ways. And Alfred stared right back down. It was during this miniature face off, that I saw how disturbed Alfred looked. He hadn't looked like this before he has left. His hair hadn't been tossed irregularly. His pupils hadn't shrunk in his irises. His jaw hadn't been hard set, his knuckles hadn't been white, he hadn't been like this. And I began to think about the clothes I had found...
"There is something wrong, Alfred?"

His head shook, back and forth. "No, Ivan. Besides, I wouldn't tell you anyway, jerk." However simple and dull his words may have been, they caused me to recoil harshly. It was clear beyond the need for words that he was angered by my snooping, far more angered than I had been about his.

Alfred reached down as though I weren't there, tenderly grabbing his possessions from my tormenting hands. After which, he placed them in a precise manner in his bag, and secured it closed, somehow managing all this with his glass burden.

"I'm going to set Ess up in your room, Ivan." Alfred deserted his belongings, deciding that they were too far gone, and he was too far behind. I heard him enter my room, and close the door softly behind.

I stared after him, and mulled over whether or not I should've done what I did. It was almost an act of revenge, a fair repercussion for the blond to have gotten into my closet on the whim of something Gilbert had said.

Speaking of which, I stood from my tight position, and ventured to my closet. Upon first inspection, all signs suggested that nothing had been tampered with. But I doubted this, wholeheartedly. I began to dig, and bemoaned this action, for I began to dig up bits and pieces of a life I left behind. It was a sore spot, as much as I loathed it to be so.

When I was a bit younger, around sixteen, my mother had forced me to get a job. She said that we hadn't the finances to keep up the house, and I readily assented. I found an out of the ordinary market to fall into at my naive age, one of tree chopping, wood carving, and occasional welding. I became quite strong through the process, and the pay wasn't shabby. Now, looking at the projects I brought forth, a revolting nostalgia crept through my mind, such a thing that I could not expunge. In my rough hands I held a small eagle carved from oak, sanded and lacquered to a smooth dark finish. It was one of my first successful pieces, and I loved it so much I kept it. I was planning of giving it to my nana for her birthday, but she sadly, she kicked the bucket before I could, which was a notably funereal (hah, wordage pun) cognizance.

Then, there was a miniature chair, constructed from tiny square metal sticks, and a seat shaped cut out of sheet metal. It was such a task to create this chair that could fit in my hand, as the whole process of brazing it all together was strenuous enough, considering all the tiny parts I had to deal with. At the end of it all, it looked like a legitimate chair, one that had gotten shrunk by a fabled shrink ray.

I returned the small objects back to their box, filled with their sisters and brother, shoving it back into the closet. I then took the bleeding red flag from its hidden corner, pressing it to my face and breathing deeply. I could smell my home in the threads of the flag...

"What the FUCK." Alfred had snuck up on me yet again, and this time I didn't even startle. I merely narrowed my eyes, and replied, "I'm remembering."
Alfred made a sound I recognized as crude laugh- whatever had been bothering him, he had gotten over. "So Gilbert isn't that much of a liar."

Flag muffling my voice, I retorted, "Believing anything he says is sure to leave you dead."

"I'll be dead anyway." Alfred snorted, and I signed dramatically. "Hey, can you make tacos? Gilbert said you can make killer tacos, so... Do that." I shit my eyes, wrinkled my nose, and fell backwards, landing painfully on the hard floor.

Alfred yelped, but didn't question me. 'If you want to give yourself contusions,' he thought, 'you do that.' With his star spangled attitude and Texas clad face, Alfred spun on his heel and retreated back to a space which he had claimed his own, leaving me to ponder exactly how many peppers I would stuff in the tacos I would make for him.

...

"Baby, love is on the wrong side of the law tonight...

He's posing with a cigarette, playin' dice upon the street...!

And yet, his features are determined... They're battered, and bruised...

He'll always come back to you."

Broken from their repose, blue eyes blinked open. Alfred levered himself from his stiff position, face planted in book he had been coloring before passing out from childish sleepiness. He almost wished he hadn't woken up, after all, it was far after dark, and he would only be going to sleep again soon enough.
The child glanced to the door, waiting for it to open. However, as he heard that easily recognizable gritty grind across the hard floor, he knew he would be getting no visitors this hour.

It had been hard, so very difficult, adjusting to this life, this new regime. This new brother, father, relative, caretaker, whatever he was. He was a stranger to Alfred, and his ways of life were beyond the boy's young mind, at times. Such as now.

There it was. That drag, that screeching... Hands covered ears with a sureness, but the noise didn't stop. Alfred whined, hurrying back to bed. The dim lamp beside his bed nearly tumbled and shattered as Alfred clambered onto his lofty mattress, yanking his dinosaur covered comforter over his head, blinding his eyes, shielding his ears. Finally, the noise halted, leaving behind a ringing silence. Alfred couldn't see it, but he knew the whole house, no, the whole world was dark. It had been for a long, long time, Alfred recalled. A whole year, now. His birthday was soon. That would make a year and two months. Maybe then, the world could be well lit, just for his special occasion.

Schlick.

Spat.

Sclap.

The small boy whined, burying his blonde tufted head into his plump pillow. "There's a dog out there..." He whispered to a fluffy stuffed cat. This cat had a cream coat, and brown neck fur. It's glassy blue eyes held a hope for a perfect tomorrow, a gleam that Alfred's eyes mirrored.

The dog bounced off of the hallway walls, grunting with each wet step, quietly howling as it crashed into obstacles and barriers.

"It shouldn't be in the house." Alfred whispered. The cat stared at him, not taking a breath. "I need to go let it out, huh?" Tucking in the beloved stuffed thing, the brave boy creeped from his covers, cracking open his door to peer out.

Toe by tip toe, Alfred made his way from his room, tracing each bloody paw print made by the intruding animal. He could hear it up ahead, padding along, leaving behind a rancid stench. The child pinched his nose for good measure, hoping that he wouldn't have to fight off this beast.

Alfred drew a deep breath, preparing to turn a fateful corner, and face whatever cur had entered his adopted domain. But right before he could edge around the sharp curve, a resounding plod from behind caused him to stop, and look over his shoulder. A queasy smile took root upon those soft, pink lips of his, looking out of place.

"Alfred." The approacher addressed the six year old. "You should be in bed."

Alfred faced his brother, father, caretaker, whatever he was. "Yeah, but... I heard a dog. In the house." The boy insisted, in a hurry to defend himself.
His brother, father, caretaker, whatever he was, nodded. "Yes, Alfred. I know. But you are too small to deal with any nasty dog in the house. Besides, you have a field trip in the morning. To the apple fields? Anyhow, you need to get up early to get going. As do I, Alfred. So go on, go back to bed. I'll come and check on you after I've dealt with the dog, alright?"

Alfred chewed his lip, eyes cast down. He had escaped a scolding this time, and for that he was glad, but still, he did not accomplish his goal. "Yes sir." He said, and a pat on the head and push on the back was all he got, sending him back.

Alfred snuck through his door, crawled into bed, and listened.

He heard the dog yelling, very faintly. He heard a door slam, once, twice, three times, now four. Then, there was a pause. No more disruptive noises. Until, that was, the door slammed one more time.

"That wasn't the front door." Alfred whispered to the cat, the breathless, dead cat. "And it wasn't the back door, either."

His door creaked open, and in came his brother, father, caretaker, whatever he was. The gracious man rubbed his hand through Alfred's star dusty hair, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead. "Sleep tight, good dreams." The wish was cast upon the boy as the door closed one final time. Alfred flipped over, shivering because of something he couldn't distinguish between cold and what else.

"Alfred." The cat whispered. "The dog is dead."

...

I followed a worm path, one that I had traveled many a time before. Up the stairs, down the hall, past the cracks, over the lose pebbles, skipping the peeling paint and smoke smelling doors. And then, I had reached the pinnacle of my journey, which ironically happened to be my ultimate misfortune in the same package. I cracked the door knocker against the solid surface, waiting for the requested to answer my call.

I had left Alfred behind in the apartment below, because I said that I had to go shopping for ingredients to make his requested dinner. He pleaded with me, not to leave him, which confused me. Despite this, I insisted, and Alfred sulked. He finally permitted my departure, and now, as Elizaveta opened the door, and I asked for a ride to the story, to which she obliged, I wondered what triggered his sudden lose clinginess. I decided that he was scared, in this part of the woods. After all, it couldn't have been easy to transfer from him life to one I'm used to.

I clambered into the small sedan, that was far too close to the ground for my comfort. Elizaveta grinned at me from the driver's seat, and I returned a small, awkward grin.

"How's the snake doing?" She asked, turning the car's engine over and starting up the musty smelling vehicle. A small pine tree hang from the rear view mirror, and I guessed it was five years old.

"Apostrophe Ess?" I specified, in case she had meant any other friendly and well known reptiles. After receiving a nod, I went on. "Oh, she's wonderful. Very cute. Cuter than you in your Sunday best." Elizaveta snorted, accepting my flattery with a roll of her hazel eyes. I knew she would report my words back to Gilbert, and he would glare my way, flickering his own snakey tongue, delivering a warning for me to back the hell off of his girl. And I'd laugh, and hiss back in my own snakey voice, "She wouldn't have any other than you, Nazi-insecurity."

We went along our way, dodging in between lanes, talking about other cute things we'd seen. I claimed to see a fat bird, Elizaveta claimed to see a small bird.
We both had a brilliant time, imagining what the other had seen in the other's absence. And then, it went quiet. We were both at one with the road, gazing at its harsh, dark sheen. Within a moment, we had reached our destination. A local grocer, who's name I won't mention for fear of being shamed.
In we went, Elizaveta browsing the flowers and whatnot, while I made a beeline for the things I so desired. I grabbed the meat I planed to grind and brown, the tortillas I had to cook, and the herbs and cheese I needed to chop and use to dress my culinary masterpiece.

It was a recipe that had been passed down to me by none other than Veña herself, claiming that, "All of her kids were evil and unworthy, I was the only one she could trust with her skills. Yes, you idiot, I do like you, now stop asking me stupid idiot questions, before I regret passing on this tradition to your sorry ass." I cooked many a time with that woman, taking pride in my slurry of cultural dishes, from classic southern, Eastern European, and now, authentic Mexicano (yes, I use that word spitefully. I hear that old whoa,n turning in her grave, haha).

I gathered my harvest, heading to the cash register. Checking out, I handed forth a few crisp bills, and received a few back, of lesser monetary value.

I summoned Elizaveta once again, finding her crowned with a mesh of small sunflowers and pansies. She had purchased the flowers, strung them together in a way only she could, and forged a crown befitting a queen. This crown was placed upon my head as I met her, and I looked her slightly more flimsy crown.
"You," she said, adjusting my too-long hair to better match the crown. "Are the queen of tacos."

In the car, groceries tucked in my lap, crown guarded on my head, I told her, "Gilbert said you stepped on him this morning. Does this statement h old any inkling of truth."

She sighed, and I knew that she was sorry. "Yeah, it does. I feel really bad for it, but I heard Alfred this morning, and I just... He's tough. I'll make it up to him." She grinned, and this time, I sighed, shaking my head.

"Is Alfred okay?" She looked at me oddly, and cocked a brow.

"Yes, he's fine. I only threw a sock at him, for getting up and going through my closet."

"He went through your stuff?"

"Yes. Gilbert apparently told him about my flag. You know, that one."

"Oh," The lovely and vengeful young woman hummed with understanding laughter. "He's weird, huh?"

"Yep." I agreed.

...

The cacophony from my meager living area was distracting as I made the meal for four people. Elizaveta and Alfred and Gilbert all mewled for my mentally held tradition, and I collapsed under their all together weight, giving in to their wanting. Alright, I said, I'll make you all a meal.

And so I did. I grinned the meat, chopped the onions and peppers, mixed in the spices I had on hand, and browned them all together. I placed them in their fitting tortilla homes, well grilled and steamed. To finish it off, I sprinkled the cilantro even a bit of salsa I had made a week back, using up the rest and placing the container in the sink to be washed.

Ringing the verbal dinner bell, I heard feet scrambling to get at their food, those immature fools.

I scolded them, holding my own plate above their heads so that they could not get at it.

"You made rice, too?!" Gilbert exclaimed, and I nodded. I couldn't help but grin, I couldn't help but admit this felt nice.

We all are our suppers, laughing and cracking jokes. I told Alfred the story of how I came by the flag, and he stared at me wide eyed, while Gilbert looked at me with his narrowed, judging eyes. I glared at him right back, threatening to steal his meal right back if he didn't cut the attitude. Somehow, he forced himself to relinquish his usual annoying jibes, and return to what I call a passive state.

The evening went on, and we all settled down, eventually gathering on the couch (and floor, in Alfred's case) to watch The SpongeBob SquarePants movie before we all retired, joined by Siberia as the movie began.

It went well, and I haven't a regret to say of the night. I washed up the dishes, cleaned up the space, and observed Alfred quietly lazing about as I did so. He was tending to Apostrophe, occasionally giving my cat some love as well. The snake seemed to adore him, there was no doubt. Siberia, however, definitely held me on a higher pedestal.

I was finished with my chores, as the clock rang ten. "Alfred." I said, grabbing a towel from the closet. "Im going to get in the shower, so no intrusions." He nodded, and I headed to get clean.

My hair, as long as it is, can be a pain to clean. I take the utmost care of it, even the longest strands that touch the center of my back. It has a delicate sheen, and a soft touch. It is my pride and joy, and I don't know why.

Alfred's hair, on the other hair, looks rough and dry. It makes me cringe, and I so desperately want to get my hands on the blonde follicles to properly take care of them. They would shine so wonderfully, if he would just find a soap that would work for them (I use a women's brand, personally, because I find that it works a bit better for my hair style. It doesn't insult my masculinity, but I'm afraid that Alfred will be wounded if I suggest this to him). I decide to sit down and talk to Alfred about his hair sometime in the near future, and I'll be damned if I don't manage to get it looking ship shape.

Drying myself, clothing myself, I step out of the steamed bathroom, leaving the door open to ventilate. Just as I head into my room, my domain, I realize with a sleep mind and Goldilocks is in my just-right bed.

There he is, tucked up in the pleasant fabric.

Nodding to myself, I retreat from the room, not bothering to question his placement, as I take was what usually be his sleeping spot. Just as I close my eyes, I see a set of glimmering blue ones that send a shiver down my back, for it is a gaze I recall from the liquor store.

...

Alfred got up the next morning, bright and early. He woke me up. He said, "Can you make me some coffee?" And I obliged. My head was murky and I got up, drenched in early morning light.

"Go get the paper." I told Alfred. He looked at me, foggy eyed. "Paper?"

"Yes." I confirmed. "It is out there, somewhere." Alfred nodded, and went to look for shoes.

I went to make coffee, that drink I hated but drank every morning to spite myself. I wondered if Alfred had similar reasoning.

I heard the front door open, then shut. Then I heard a noise I hadn't ever heard before. If I had to describe it, I'd say it was a like a dog. A dog, choking on dry cornbread, gasping from breath but never finding any. Then, I heard the door open fast, slam shut. I heard feet running, crashing down the way, then my door opened, and slammed shut.

I didn't bother with the coffee anymore.

"Alfred?" I asked, pressing my ear to my own door. I couldn't hear any of his noises.

So I backed off. It is best not to push someone into talking, even if you don't know what they would be talking about anyhow. "I'll get the paper for you." I mentioned, leaving the cold blockade.

I trotted to the door, and swung it open.

I saw bloody paw prints.