RedemptionMoon : Goodness gracious! It's been ages since I last updated this fic! I think it's about an estimate of a year or more! That's too bad since I rather like this one.
looks at the "updated:10-01-04" Whoops! Well... ALMOST a year. :D
Hmmmmm... methinks I should start writing again. I'd try my damndest to finish this! Cheer me on!
sigh I should be doing the paper due tomorrow and here I am, typing this.
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Ken woke up in his own room the next morning with the sound of soft knocking on the door.
He briefly wondered who it could be knocking at 3 o'clock in the morning.
Then again, as he flung the door open, rubbing his knuckle against his sleepy eyes- he wasn't quite surprised to see that it was Farfarello staring at him fully dressed in the hallway.
The fact that he had never brought the Irishman to his room before never graced his mind...
He yawned and pulled the staring man into the room by the sleeve and closed the door behind him. He didn't want the other servants to see the man standing suspiciously at his door with him. It would only serve to generate any more gossip than what was already floating around like a mad disease.
" It's so early!" He exclaimed, fighting off another yawn as he plopped onto the bed. He collapsed on the pillows, ignoring Farfarello's intent stare.
He was about to burrow under the warm covers when a pale hand grabbed his arm and yanked the shirt off him before its owner padded off to the closet and rummaged for a pair of black jeans, a plain black shirt and black sneakers and threw all of them in his direction, pelting the surprised Ken with articles of clothing.
"Hey !" Ken yelped as a sneaker hit him full on the chest. He was about to start a protest when Farfarello folded his arms and sat on a chair in the far side of the room.
"Damnit. All right already!" He grumbled as he took off his clothes and wore those chosen for him. " This better be good !" He yelled from the bathroom as his mouth frothed with toothpaste. " And you better treat me to some candy !"
Farfarello shook his head. Ever since the kid came here, he'd gotten him spoiled. He shrugged. He didn't care. Ken was a pretty good pet.
Hothead, impulsive, smart, cheerful if he wanted to (not that Farfarello particularly liked that trait). What's more, he's easy to please and Farfarello secretly liked having him around. It's like his little- 'hobby', for lack of a better term ... learning how long foxy little Ken will last with Crawford snapping at his heels like a slobbering wolf.
A fox against the wolf.
Who'd win ?
Then again, there's really no question there.
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It really didn't come as a surprise that Farfarello had his own car.
It really didn't surprise him in the least.
What surprised him was the fact that it looked really expensive. It looked almost as expensive as the one he drove for Crawford.
And it was all so sleek and shiny... like the face of a newly-minted coin. He grinned as he opened the door and jumped in, bouncing on the soft black seat with Farfarello looking vaguely amused in the driver's seat.
" Let's go!" Ken bubbled, his toothpaste-smelling breath filling the air as Farfarello turned the ignition and they coasted quietly to the gates. The guards opened the electronic door with an acknowledging nod when they saw who it was and the dogs were ordered to back down.
Soon they were coasting along the highway, across quiet and deserted streets. The sun should rise soon, Ken knew, he opened the window and felt the wind whip against his face and send his hair lashing across his face like tiny livewires.
" Whoaaa !" Ken exclaimed as he saw the vague traces of sunrise spreading its rays across the horizon and painting the navy darkness with a red-orange tint.
The car accelerated and jumped forward and Ken stuck his head out the window, trying to feel as much of the early morning as possible.
They sailed through the empty city to the other end of it without obstruction – it seemed like the city's many inhabitants had yet to wake up.
The sun had just finished painting the sky with its vibrant color when they rolled to a stop in front of a little, black, one-story building framed by a larger building behind it.
Ken looked at it suspiciously as Farfarello alighted and waited for him to do the same. 'What kind of place is this ?' He wondered - and thoughts of gorgeous women in tight little leather numbers brandishing four-headed whips crossed his mind.
He gasped and stared at Farfarello, wide-eyed. It probably would be his taste, with his personality, but why did he offer to bring him there ?
He trusted the Irishman implicitly, and there was not a single question in his mind that Farfarello would never do anything to endanger his person... but he still thought that the place was really weird.
He grinned uneasily, thoughts of scantily-clad women with whips still filling his overactive imagination. " What is this place ?" He said. Overly-chirpily he might have said so himself.
Farfarello merely paused to stare at him a moment before turning on his heel and striding purposefully towards the entrance. Shrugging, Ken followed him.
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Crawford was raging mad. He was pissed as hell and he unleashed his fury to anyone and everyone who was present to witness it.
He knew that it was Farfarello's day off but he never mentioned anything about allowing Ken to go with him!
He knew it was childish and juvenile of him to be as possessive as he was feeling but Ken was his property goddamnit and Farfarello had no right to bring him along in whatever excursion he planned.
He'd spent the whole day listlessly in his office when he wasn't at the boardroom criticizing every small detail or whipping up his other chauffeur with his glacial verbal abuse.
They'd both be back by the time he got home, or Farfarello was going to get some hard verbal bruising.
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Ken had never had so much time all that time that he had been staying at Crawford's place!
First, Farfarello had taken him to a small indoor shooting range where he taught him the basics of shooting and dismantling a gun. It was more fun than he had ever imagined it would be!
Granted, it wasn't as easy as it looked, with the gun bucking up like a wild horse every time he pulled the trigger but even Farfarello had to admit (with the sparsest wording possible) that he was a rather good shot for a first-timer.
Then he had taken Ken to a small cozy diner in some out-of-the-way corner of town and treated him to breakfast. Ken obviously preferred homey dishes over Crawford's thousand-dollar dining tastes and he had eaten more than he usually did, consuming more blueberry muffins and bacon and hot cocoa than it seemed possible for such a lean frame.
He had agreed (under a mock death-threat) to take Ken back the next opportunity he had.
They had gone around the city and into a sports shop, where he allowed Ken to buy a soccer ball and an Arsenal jersey as well as a pair of football shoes. Ken's eyes positively twinkled after that, as if they had a really fun secret that only the two of them shared and it was obvious that he couldn't wait to wake up the next day and try playing football on the spacious lawn of Crawford's ridiculously opulent mansion.
It never occurred even once to Ken that Farfarello was spending his day off touring Ken, and spending his own money for Ken. He was a child in that, being so naïve and naively selfish... although he did contemplate making a break for it once or twice, he didn't want Farfarello to take the blame if he did indeed manage to get away (which he doubted that he would in the first place- Farfarello had the eyes of a hawk.)
He had told the Irishman more than once how he loved cooking and it never hit him until then that his silent friend actually listened to him and better yet, committed to memory every mundane thing he said!
After the sports shop, Farfarello had taken Ken to a cooking specialties store.
There he proceeded to buy Ken all cooking and baking contraptions imaginable. He had more money than he knew what to do with and frankly, he didn't have anything to spend on aside from his knives and guns and Ken was a welcome excuse to spend his not-so-small salary on.
Honestly, he had been contemplating all the money piling up in his account. Crawford, like most insanely rich people, seemed uncomfortable getting anything for cheap- probably because he was worried of getting inferior quality. If it had been anyone aside from Farfarello, he'd be pleased with the mind-blowing amount of money driving and playing bodyguard to Crawford would bring. But as it is, Farfarello was making money-spending a big problem.
They had gone grocery-shopping after, on Ken's insistence. He wanted to cook dinner the moment they got back. He had a millions dishes planned and he couldn't wait to put the library of cookbooks they had bought to good use.
He practically bounced in excitement.
Finally, after loading the boxes of pans and trays and books into the car and having the rest of them delivered the next day, Farfarello and Ken drove back to the mansion, the latter quite content wearing his new jersey and patting the ball on his lap playfully as he rattled off the random things his mind bid him to.
Crawford appeared within seconds of their arrival, just as the other servants were unloading the collection of items from Farfarello's car.
He had stood at the top of the grand staircase, glaring down imperiously like a king on a pedestal.
Farfarello could tell that he was not pleased, but he didn't really care. He merely stared back with his one eye, matching the leveled gaze he was given.
He was being paid to be a chauffeur/bodyguard so he couldn't care less about Crawford's personal enjoyment- not that the American was capable of having that to begin with.
Surprisingly though, the moment Ken bounded through the front door with his huge grin and bubbling laugh, Crawford turned away and disappeared into the bowels of the carpeted hallways above.
Ken was true to his word. The clanging and banging of the new pots and pans were heard almost in every part of the entire house. He whistled 'For he's a jolly good fellow' under his breath over and over, driving anyone within hearing range mad with the out of tune whistling. Nobody ever said that Ken was a talented musician-singer.
He spent 3 hours in the kitchen alone with relentless energy, shooing away the disgruntled chefs and other servants. Only leaving the kitchen with its dirty utensils after he had done what he had set out to cook.
He paid a triumphant visit to Farfarello's room to make him taste the food he just made
" Farf! Open the door! Taste the beef stew I made for you!" He couldn't wipe off the silly grin he knew was plastered on his face.
But he was severely disillusioned.
Farfarello would not open his door. It seemed like the Irishman had retired to bed.
He couldn't smother his disappointment. He had wanted someone to sample his cooking and yet he didn't want any other servant to offer their two-faced opinions.
Holding the tray of food his hands, he made his way back to the kitchen when he had a bright idea: he'd make Crawford taste it.
Who knows? The bastard just might like his cooking so much that he'd allow Ken to stay at home while he went on meetings so Ken could cook dinner (meanwhile, Ken would spend his free time playing soccer on the lawn.) Besides, he was such in a chirpy mood for the day that he was positive that even Crawford's devil-incarnate attitude would not faze him.
He made his way to Crawford's office, the one he'd always stay in before dinner, not realizing that it was past 10:30 and that he had been in the kitchen, blissfully oblivious of the time for three hours.
He found out that Crawford wasn't there. It was well past dinner time and although Crawford usually stayed in his office until wee hours of the morning, he wasn't there now.
He knew though that Crawford had not had his dinner because he heard the servants gossiping about his uncharacteristic temper and his abstaining from dinner. Of course, ignorant as he was, it never occurred to him that he was the reason for Crawford's grouchiness.
So he decided to take the food to Crawford's room.
Having woken up there the day before, he practically memorized his way to the room and finding the door unlocked, barged in unceremoniously.
If the man was stupid enough to leave his door unlocked, then he deserved his privacy being barged into. Besides, he did far worse than that to Ken, although he very much doubted that he could kidnap Crawford back in retaliation.
The room wasn't as dark as two nights ago. A tall lampshade threw a dim glimmer into the room and Ken cast the tray onto a small antique table while hunting for another lamp to turn on.
He didn't expect to see what he saw the moment he flicked on a much brighter lamp.
With the room drowning in a dull golden light, he saw the bottles that he had picked up; those he fixed in rows atop the dresser the day before, were now once more strewn across the floor, spilling most of their round and colorful content onto the carpet like multicolored pebbles on a pond's bottom.
The room's occupant was lying face-down diagonally on the bed, almost fully-clothed save for the white jacket which was discarded on the carpet, and half-falling off, as if he collapsed into the mattress unintentionally in a fit of nausea.
If Ken only knew how near he was to the truth.
Cautiously, he moved forward, anxious to learn the truth but also uneasy just in case it was another ploy to get him to have sex with the older man... although he doubted that his well-culture employer was capable of such low-down dirty tricks.
"Crawford ?"
The midnight-haired man did not stir.
Ken's hear pounded.
Could he be dead !
He took another step forward and said softly, "Crawford ?"
Silence still.
He didn't like dead people. It grossed him out even after seeing it eight or nine times in the slums. People died of the cold or hunger all the time, especially during winter and Ken had seen enough of blue, blank corpses to last his lifetime.
His heart thudded against his chest, half-fearfully for Crawford's life and half in anticipation because a dead Crawford meant freedom, despite the cruelty of that.
He took a tentative step forward, touched the silk navy-colored shirt and drew his hand back quickly as if he had been burnt. The material was soaked in cold sweat but the skin underneath was radiating heat with burning intensity.
Gathering his courage – he knew not why he was so nervous in the first place- he knelt onto the mattress by Crawford's head. He took a deep breath before turning Crawford onto his back and cradled his head on his lap.
He let out a sharp breath. Crawford was definitely alive, but he was pale, extremely so, and his hair was saturated with sweat, just as his face and neck were beaded with the salty perspiration.
He looked very sick... he looked like a dying man.
Ken was near to panic. He had no idea what to do, all he knew that people called doctors when someone was sick.
But he didn't know any hospital numbers and the only doctor he knew was... Schuldich.
But he didn't know how to contact Schuldich either.
His hand shook as he gently slapped Crawford's cheek, trying to revive him.
It seemed to work, Crawford gave a small shudder as his steel-colored eyes, slowly and with some effort, pried themselves open.
Ken gave a relieved smile.
" What happened ?" He asked.
Crawford only stared at him through hazy eyes, his lips pressed together in a pale grimace of pain. A small globule of sweat made its way down from his temple. And it was no wonder- the man was ablaze with fever. Ken was almost burned from the touch but he gritted his teeth and ignored the sensation permeating through his clothes.
" I'll call a doctor, I'll wake Farf up and ask him to..."
His agitated babble was interrupted by a shaking finger on his lips. "I'm fine." The older man's baritone was cracking, as if to prove otherwise.
"But-!" Ken protested.
"I'm fine." Crawford insisted weakly. "I just... need some rest." He shuddered once more, as if a chill wind was sweeping through the wind although all the French windows were tightly shut.
Ken's expression softened. He had never seen Crawford so vulnerable... and seeing him like this... it let him know that the man was human after all.
He watched as the cobalt eyes fluttered shut and the taut face smoothened with the departure of pain. He listened to his rhythmic breathing and forgot about the hotness of the other man's skin. Crawford had been lulled into sleep.
He sat there, feeling the minutes crawl by, occupied with nothing but his thoughts. Thoughts of Crawford, thoughts of Schuldich, thoughts of freedom and of life.
Soon, he too nodded off to sleep, leaning against the stack of tall pillows at the head of the bed, his hand cradling the other man's cheek protectively under on the crook of his arm.
All thoughts of dinner had been forgotten.
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September 11, 2005
RedemptionMoon : Please support this fic! Keep it alive! Please review and inspire my muses to inspire me! LOL.
REVIEW ONEGAI!
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