A/N: okay, first off - sorry for the long time I took to update, I have to write my thesis and that took over most of my spare time.
Also, this will be the last update until December. Aside from being busy and all, I'll be taking part to NaNoWriMo - meaning that any free time I get will have to be focused on my NaNoWriMo project through all November. Sorry about that: I was hoping to finish this fic before November, but it turned out so much long longer than expected and I just couldn't make it. I promise I'll resume updating in December.
Yeah, that's all. Sorry for the delay, hope this chapter will somehow make up for it.
Quercus wasn't at all surprised when Manny Coached knocked on his offices door at nine on the dot: he was known for having little patience for delays – after a life in the army, punctuality was something he had come to think was owed to him – and he doubted anyone who worked in there would want to get on his bad side… let alone an intern.
"Do come in," he called out, not even turning from the plant he was watering. He heard the door opening and closing before the young man spoke, almost no nervousness showing in his voice.
Almost.
He made a good actor, but Quercus was a good listener.
"Good morning, sir."
"Good morning. Do sit down, I'm almost done," Quercus said, turning a little to water another potted plant – one that needed a bit of a trimming, he took notice, just to get rid of any dead leaves. He heard Coachen sitting down, and let a few more minutes of silence pass, only broken by the clicking sound of his trimming shears. He glanced at the young man through his faint reflection on the window's glass as he first looked around, then at the laptop he had settled on the desk, and then began tapping a finger and glancing at his watch. Impatient – but then again, most young people were.
"Say, what part of the Babahlese region is your mother from?" Quercus asked aloud all of a sudden, and through the window's glass he could see the Coachen recoiling.
"I, uh… near the eastern border, sir. It was a small village, but to be honest the name escapes me. I've barely even been there – most of the time I spent in Cohdopia was in the capital," he said, sounding a little too eager to remark that last fact; Quercus barely contained a smirk.
"I see. Have you ever heard of a village called Langei, by any chance? Very close to the border."
"No, sir."
Quercus just nodded – he hadn't expected him to, not really – and finally set down the trimming shears. He walked back to his desk, taking care to limp noticeably enough, and sat with a sigh. "Very well, I think we can start."
Coachen looked confused. "Ah… sir, I'm afraid I don't quite understand – what is it you want me to do?"
With a shrug, Quercus gestured at the laptop on the desk. "To write down my official statements, of course. As I said yesterday, it is quite awful of me forcing you to try making any sense out of my handwriting and typing it out – so I imagine it would be quite easier for you to write down directly what I say. Was that a wrong assumption from my part?"
"Oh," Coachen muttered before quickly shaking his head. "No, sir, not at all. It is a good idea, actually. It will certainly speed things up."
Quercus smirked. "So you do admit that trying to make sense out of my handwriting is time-consuming," he said, causing the young man to embarrassedly clear his throat.
"No, I… I did not mean that, sir. I just meant that, uh…" he tried, but quickly deflated when Quercus raised an eyebrow. He gave a small chuckle. "Fine. You got me, sir," he admitted somewhat sheepishly.
"Why, no need to be so abashed. I was only a few years than you are when I expressed my own… disagreement to my superior's methods quite more vehemently," he said, thinking back of the stunned expression on Colonel Consolida's face when he had put a bullet between his eyes. "Now – ready to start?"
Coachen immediately nodded, clearly relieved by the change of subject. "Of course, sir," he said, opening the laptop. He began typing – Quercus couldn't see anything of what he was doing from the other side of the desk, but he supposed he was getting that… thing ready to write.
Quercus nodded. "Very well. This one if for some American authorities, so I'll speak in English directly, if it's fine with you."
"I can translate as you go, sir," Coachen said. "There is no need for you to-"
"Is my English not good enough for your tastes?" Quercus asked abruptly, and rather enjoyed the resulting babblings.
"I… no, sir, I was just… I… didn't mean…" he sputtered, face flushing. Quercus couldn't quite blame him – he was just an intern, and surely last thing he wanted was offending the ambassador himself… one who also happened to be a famous war hero. He chuckled and raised his hand.
"I was merely joking, boy. I'm sorry I got you worried. In any case, I'd rather speak in English directly," he added, mainly because he wanted to be certain he knew exactly what to write, word from word; Cohdopian was a very different language from English, translations could be tricky and the meaning could be twisted without even the intention of doing so. "Besides having to learn English was quite a pain when I was young, so I could as well use it," he added with a half smile. Cohdopia had been a pretty secluded country for much time, only interacting with its neighbors, so it wasn't really common for Cohdopians past their thirties to be fluent in English: Quercus himself was solely because his father, as a merchant, spoke it well and had insisted for him to learn – just in case, he would say. If only he knew that skill would someday aid him in his duty as the country's ambassador, Quercus mused.
Coachen cleared his throat, and Quercus could see – again – that flash of anger in his eyes showing how little he truly appreciated being mocked. "I see, sir. Very well – I'll write anything you say, then."
There were several statements to write, but Quercus had a way to find the right words quickly – he had been thrown into politics and stayed in them for decades, after all – and Coachen was fast to type, and in not even half a hours they were done.
"My word, you're fast writing with that… thing than I am writing by hand," Quercus commented, leaning back on his seat and watching as Coachen closed the laptop.
"It's merely a matter of practice, sir," the young man said. "Is there anything else you may need?"
Quercus reached up to stroke his beard. "Why, I don't want to bother you any longer, son, but…" he paused as though in thought, then, "would you be so kind to get me some maggots?"
Coachen blinked. "Get you… what?"
"Maggots, young man. Have you ever been fishing?"
"You mean… I'm sorry, sir… you want the kind of maggots that are used for fishing?"
Quercus nodded. "Yes, precisely. I have a slight appetite," he added, needing some effort to keep his face straight at Coachen's expression.
"You have…?" the young man began, then he shut his mouth and narrowed his eyes slightly. "Oh. I see. You're playing me for fool once more, aren't you, sir?" he asked with a smile – one that Quercus could tell was fake from a mile away. And the anger – yes, the anger was there again.
Interesting.
"Partially," Quercus said with a chuckle. "I do not intend to eat them, of course, but I was entirely serious when I asked you to get me some fishing maggots."
Manny Coachen's almost raised an eyebrow. "Oh. May I ask what for, sir?"
"Up there," was all Quercus said, pointing upwards with a shrug. The young man followed his gaze to the branches of the tree outside, which had long since gotten the office through the window – something Quercus quite liked, so he had never had them cut.
For a moment he still looked just as confused as he had to feel, then there was a chirping noise coming from above, and he blinked. "A nest?" he muttered in surprise.
"Yes, a nest. They make one every year; not a surprise, considering that it's likely the safest place they could possibly find to make one. The eggs just hatched, and I figured out leaving a snack for them wouldn't hurt."
"Sir, have you, um, considered that leaving an open can of maggots in the office may not be a good idea?" Coachen asked, his voice a little slower than before.
Quercus rolled his eyes. "I'm not a complete idiot yet, young man. Of course I have. I wouldn't leave more than a few on the branches each time for the birds to take."
Coachen immediately stiffened, perhaps realized he had allowed himself to be more straightforward than he should have been. "I… my apologies, sir. I did not mean to offend you. I had no intention to imply anything like that," he said, but there was something in his tone, in the stiffness of his back, that told Quercus he had actually wondered if he was an idiot after all, if for just a few moments.
He eventually just waved his hand. "Why, no need to apologize. I can take worse than this. Back in my day, criticism was expressed more often than not through a bullet in the head or a knife in one's throat."
"Wha…?" Coachen began, then looked at him as though expecting him to chortle and admit he had been playing him for fool again – but Quercus did not: he stared back openly, looking perfectly serious and at ease. And why shouldn't he? He had nothing to fear. Should the boy ever report that conversation to anyone, nothing would come out of it: he could make it pass as a joke, and no one would link it to anyone's real dead; not to that of Vulneraria, much less to that of obscure Colonel Consolida so many years ago.
And even if someone suspected, nothing could be done against Cohopia's ambassador and hero. Nothing.
Coachen stared for a few more moments, then something in Quercus serious and unwavering gaze seemed to make him uncomfortable, and he finally looked away, clearing his throat once more before speaking.
"I, uh, should probably get going. So that I can let Mr. Mann have the statements and, well, get you the maggots," he said.
Quercus smiled, putting up a pleasant façade again. "That would be wonderful, young man," was all he said before dismissing him with a wave of his hand. When Coachen left, though, he did not get back to tend to the plants as he had planned on doing: he simply sat there for a few minutes, staring at the door and wondering who was it that young man reminded him of his those moments of barely concealed anger.
From that moment on, the time he spent poking fun at the boy wasn't for Quercus' own amusement alone. That was a part of it, of course – he did find the young man's attempts at containing his anger amusing from time to time, as the quality acting skills that made his act so believable to anyone whose eyes were not as sharp as his own – but most of all, he was curious about the young man. He did remind him of someone, but he could not quite put his finger on what caused that sensation, nor who he reminded him of – not just yet.
He was also rather interested by how carefully studied Coachen's behavior was. After the first couple of times he had been there to type out any statement he may have, he had learned how to behave around him – even when Quercus tried to confuse him with odd remarks, he would be able to tell whether he was serious or not and react accordingly. He knew when to speak up and when to listen, when he could allow himself to be less formal and when he had to as uptight as he could be. He had learned to anticipate Quercus' jabs and sometimes to return them – but never crossing the line so that he would come across as disrespectful.
The boy knew who was the one in power there, and had known immediately how much he could get away with and how to never get on his wrong side; the anger was still there from time to time, when Quercus purposely pushed too far – but he was very, very good at hiding it.
And, Quercus had to admit, he had come to look forward to their verbal sparring and mind games from time to time. It wasn't until some time later, while Quercus observed him typing with remarkable speed every word he said, that he realized what was familiar about him: he was much like he had been when he was more or less his age, after his first battle, after giving up on the idea of getting revenge for his family by fighting for his country and instead focus power. An ambitious young man with no connection nor important family to back him up, a young man who was going to have to climb up by their skills alone and who had to learn how to behave around those in power – how keep them on his side and learn from them all he could.
Very, very much familiar.
"Sir?"
Quercus recoiled, snapped from his own thoughts, and looked up to see that Coachen was done typing what he had just finished saying and was staring at him, fingers lingering over the keyboard, waiting for him to either add something or say that the statement was fine as it was. "I think that about wraps it up. Your work here is done for today," he finally said, then, "do tell me, when does your internship ends?"
"In a couple of weeks, sir," Coachen replied, closing his laptop.
"Why, it's been three months already since when it started?"
"Two months and a half, yes. That's why it will be over in two weeks."
"I see," Quercus said, reaching up to stroke his beard as if in thought. "You must be relieved to be rid of this old man's annoying presence," he added.
"I'm not yet, as you put it, rid of you, sir," Coachen replied without missing a beat.
Quercus smirked. "And you may never be."
That seemed to take the young man aback, but only for a moment. "Are you planning on following me home, sir?" he asked with a smirk of his own.
If you want to play games, his eyes said, then bring it – I can play as well.
And Quercus could go with that.
You're playing with the big dogs now, boy – you simply do not know it. Yet.
"Not quite, no. I'm afraid I'm not quite as stealthy as I was in my youth, back when I could easily kill a man with my bare hands without him even realizing I was there," Quercus replied with a serene smile. Coachen would have once been thrown off by such a morbid statement, but he didn't even look fazed now.
"May I then ask what you mean, sir?"
Quercus shrugged. "I was wondering if you'd like to stay, actually," he said. "You've been doing quite the outstanding job – Mr. Mann is quite enthusiastic of you as well."
The surprised expression on Manny Coachen's face was so believable that Quercus could have fallen for it hadn't he been sure he had the young man figured out – he was like him, yes, so much like him, and thus he could tell he was feeling extremely smug and self-satisfied in that moment, but not surprised.
"Thank you, sir," he said, managing to sound humble. "Does that mean I can apply for a second internship?"
Quercus barely refrained himself from scoffing.
Don't pretend you don't get it, young man, don't pretend you don't know what you're being offered.
But he let is pass, because that was exactly how he would have behaved in his place, how he had behaved as a simple officer – play humble when he was handed what he already knew he deserved, pretend he couldn't even imagine he was about to get a promotion. "Actually, I was thinking of properly hiring you," he said, pretending he couldn't tell the young man's surprise and humbleness was nothing but a façade.
Coachen's stunned expression upon hearing that looked almost genuine.
Almost.
"You called for me, ambassador?"
Quercus nodded, not lifting his gaze from the letter he was almost done writing. "I did. Do come in and have a seat, young man – this will only take another minute."
He heard the door closing, and Coachen's steps approaching to the desk before he sat as he had been told. "Writing home, ambassador?" he asked. His voice sounded somewhat more upbeat than usual, and Quercus glanced up at him. His gaze was met with a flash of sunshine yellow among the gray of Coachen's suit. He raised an eyebrow. "I can't recall seeing that tie on you before, Mr. Coachen," he said, barely refraining from commenting on how hideous it was. "I'd say it's significantly brighter than your usual choices."
Coachen hummed in agreement. "Yes, I don't think there is a single member of the staff that has not yet remarked it," he said. "I woke up in bright spirits this morning, and I suppose it wouldn't hurt showing it."
Quercus allowed himself a smirk. "And I suppose the fact that Amano Group employer who comes here every week told you you'd look better with something bright on you has nothing to do with it. Nor does the fact she's supposed to be here again in a hour, am I correct? Neither has anything to do with you, as you put it, waking up in bright spirits."
The rather undignified sputtering noise that left Coachen was enough of an answer. "I just… no, I… Cece and I just… how…?"
Quercus chuckled and lowered his eyes on the letter he was writing again. "In case you've forgotten, young man, my office's window is right above the Rose Garden. And yes, I did also see you picking one. While it's very romantic, I'd suggest you to buy Miss Yew one next time. Or more – that's up to you, I suppose."
"Ah," was all Coachen croaked before clearing his throat. "I'm… sorry, sir. It won't happen again."
"Are you referring to the rose or the tie? Because, to be honest, it's quite the eyesore. But then again, what do I know of the pains of having to work to charm a lady? I've had the rather unfair advantage of army uniforms for most of my life," he added with a chuckle before folding the letter he had been writing and sliding it into an envelope. He had recently received word from the institution Chrysalis was into: she had graduated with honors, and he was writing her to let her know he could give her a job as an interpreter at the embassy if so she wished. Of course he'd need to get through some paperwork to have her coming to the States to live and work, but it was nothing he couldn't get done in relatively little time.
To be honest, he wasn't quite sure she'd be just working for the embassy. He had been thinking for a while that she could make a valid addition to the smuggling business, being fluent in several languages and having a debt to him to pay back, but before making any decision in that sense he needed to see more of her; he thought of himself as a good judge of character, but he barely even knew her. He'd need to see her at work to make up his mind and see if it was worth giving it a try.
Quercus looked up again to see that Coachen was looking down at his tie, now apparently somewhat self-conscious about it. Curious thing, that such a bright young man hadn't apparently realized how atrocious it looked before he pointed it out. "I'm certain Miss Yew will appreciate it," he said before lifting up the letter. "Now, if I may ask, would you be as kind as to send this for me? Overnight delivery to Cohdopia."
"I, er… of course, sir," Coachen said with uncharacteristic awkwardness. "May I ask…?"
"Mr. Caprea is sick today, I'm afraid," Quercus said, barely holding back a grimace. His secretary was calling in sick more and more often, and while he could not fault him for that – old age was catching up with the man, and that was hardly anyone's fault – it was starting to hinder him. But that wouldn't be for long: Caprea had already expressed his desire to retire in a couple of months. "He's planning on retiring soon, you see. This work is starting to tire him too much; he deserves to save his health for a good retirement, after all."
Coachen's expression changed for only a moment before turning back into a polite mask, but it was enough to Quercus to know what the young man's mind – so very similar to his own – was on to: for someone who wouldn't hesitate to wear such a ridiculous article of clothing to impress a woman he was certainly quite the calculating individual, Quercus thought. The contrast was almost amusing.
"Oh, I'm sorry to know that," Coachen was saying, but Quercus knew better; had he not feigned being sorry for a direct superior's departure in his youth, while inwardly rejoicing for the chance at a quick promotion to fill the hole that was left? And no matter how much of a good actor the young man was, Quercus could recognize ambition – how could he not, when he saw it in the mirror every morning? – and could tell that the boy was hoping to take Caprea's place as his secretary.
Quite bold, yes, and maybe too confident, but then again hadn't he been as well when he had promised himself he'd climb up to the highest ranks thanks to his skills alone? He had had chances to prove himself, and had seized each and every of them so that he could make it to the top.
So let the boy have his, he thought, see how capable he truly was, how worthy of making it to the top.
Let him try.
"It is quite the office you've got here."
Quercus let out a slight snort, his eyes still fixed on the plant he was tending to; it was starting to grow tall, and needed a stick for support. "Last time I checked, that was no acceptable substitute for 'good morning'," he pointed out before turning to the door, which Chrysalis was just now closing behind herself.
"My apologies, sir," she said, though the half-smile on her lips was more than enough for him to tell she was more amused than anything. "Good morning. It's quite the office you've got here. Is there a reason why you're trying to turn it into a jungle?"
Quercus shrugged. "I simply enjoy tending to some plants. My work can be rather tedious, I'm afraid."
"Tending to plants doesn't scream 'excitement' to me," she pointed out, reaching to lightly touch flower's petal from a pot on Quercus' desk.
"I'd say this old man has had enough excitement for a lifetime. Wouldn't you?" Quercus replied, keeping an eye on the flowers she was touching. "Be careful with those. They're quite delicate."
She shrugged, brushing her dark hair behind her ear somewhat absentmindedly. "I think there's no such thing as 'too much excitement' in a lifetime, but maybe it's because I had very little of it. Passionflowers?"
"Passionflowers, yes," Quercus said, looking at her thoughtfully. If it was excitement she was after, he could think of the kind of work that would provide her plenty – if she proved herself to be as skilled as she had been said to be, of course. "I have several more seeds, if you wish to grow some. They make good office decoration – given of course that you are interested in the work I have offered you."
"If I was not, ambassador, I wouldn't have come and made you waste money on a plane ticket," she replied.
"Oh, that," Quercus said with a small shrug – it hadn't even been him to pay for it anyway. "Do not mention it. It was a long flight; I hope you're not too tired."
Her shoulders shook for a moment before she laughed. It was a rather loud laugh and it was clear it would have been a long one hadn't she been quick to refrain herself, if with some effort. Quercus had just enough time to think back of the child who had giggled in his face when he had tried to rebuke her so many years ago, then she spoke again. "Traveling in first class is hardly tiring," she pointed out, and let out another snicker before turning serious once again. "Thank you for your offer. I still am in your debt."
"If you're skilled as your school says, I'm certain this will benefic both of us," he said, not yet dwelling into what kind of help he could give him in the future, nor in what business. "It never hurts having some more people here who are fluent in several languages. Which ones do you speak again?"
"Aside from Cohdopia and English? Borginian, Reijamese, Chinese, French, German, Arabian, Russian," she recited, sounding almost bored. "I do like learning new languages. One of the reasons why I accepted your proposal immediately was that it would give me a chance to travel and make use of them."
Quercus nodded. "You will get to travel, yes. It isn't uncommon for us to meet other countries' ambassadors on neutral grounds, and interpreters are always needed," he added. Having her as his interpreter was a way to keep a close eye on her, much like being his secretary kept Manny Coachen always close to him; the perfect way to see, truly see, if they had all that it took to be introduced to the smuggling ring. With Coachen, he was almost completely convinced he would make a valid addition: he was clever, as ambitious and Quercus himself and had everything to gain and nothing to lose by being loyal to him – much like he once had everything to gain by being loyal to Queen Luzula. Chrysalis seemed to show as much promise as the young man and had as much of a reason to be loyal to him – who else did he have to grant her what he could grant? – but he had yet to know her as well as he had grown to known Coachen. Time would tell, he supposed.
A light knock to the door caused both him and Chrysalis to turn. "Do come in," Quercus called out, and the next moment the door opened and Manny Coachen stepped in with a folder under his arm. Quercus could tell it was from the Amano Group before even noticing the acronym printed on it – Coachen's half-smile was more than enough for him to guess that Cece Yew had once again been sent to deliver the documents from Mr. Amano; Quercus was starting to suspect she volunteered to do that every week in place of other employers, and it wasn't too hard to see the reason why in the young man standing before him.
Coachen's faraway expression, however, faded when he saw Quercus was not alone in the room. "Oh, my apologies. I didn't realize you were-" he started, but Quercus cut him off with a gesture of his hand.
"It is quite alright, I was about to call for you. Leave the folder here. Chrysalis, this is my secretary, Mr. Coachen. Mr. Coachen, my protégée. She's our new translator and interpreter – the one I told you about. Would you mind escorting her to Mr. Mann's office so that he can start showing her around?"
Coachen immediately nodded. "Of course, sir," he said, but the smile he gave to Chrysalis had something forced to it, he immediately knew why: the young man felt that his position may be threatened.
An interesting development, Quercus thought as they left, and perhaps an useful one. After all, he had to find out just how far Coachen would be willing to go to stay on top – and that could be just the right input.