I Will Corrupt You
By karei
Capitulus Duo
Chapter 2
"Trowa, hon, babe, sweetie, I'd love to get some work for you, believe me, but there just aren't any openings now."
"Hn. Tye got a job. Why can't I?" He glared at his agent, Jennah. She was pretty enough, in a plain sort of way: blonde hair, grey eyes, kind of on the short side, but slim and with a lot of spunk. Unfortunately, she had the kind of personality that befitted used car salesmen.
"Listen, honey, baby, I'm trying my best here, I really am," she droned. "It's just that you've got that pretty-boy face, but no pretty-boy pout. Maybe if you worked on that, casters would be all over you."
"Maybe I should just work on getting a new agent," he said, rising from his chair and meaning to walk out of the office that moment.
"Trowa, wait!" she called, lunging across her desk and grabbing the navy blue sleeve of his shirt. "I promise I'll get some work for you. Give me a month!"
He looked down at her hand in disdain and slowly peeled off the grasping hand, as if it was something distasteful. "I owe rent in two weeks."
"I'll search high and low for a spot for you, I promise!"
"And I for a new agent. If you pull through, I'll stay." With that, he turned on a heel and walked out of Jennah's office. When he finally got into the elevator and watched as the doors slid shut, Trowa allowed himself a quiet sigh of relief as he leaned against the back wall, enjoying the solitude of the elevator. It wasn't long before the elevator finally reached the lobby of the office building that Jennah Cooper had rented an office in. With quick strides he walked out of the glass-and-steel monstrosity, smiling slightly as a cooling breeze hit him when he exited. Trowa began his long, six-mile walk to his apartment, being so low on cash that he didn't want to risk spending money on a bus. 'Besides,' he thought to himself, 'I could use the exercise.'
Digging his hands into his pockets, as was his accustomed stance, he began the long trudge over the daunting hills this city was famous for. As he walked, he lost himself in thought, mostly contemplating his situation for the past year or so. He had graduated college with a bachelor's in theatrics with a minor in journalism, and a year later regretting that he had not chosen his degree the other way around. He had no chance in any career, though, as long as people like Jennah existed. Trowa often bit his tongue as he listened to her speak, thinking that this woman was wasting words that could be used by smart people. But then, Trowa usually appeared to be the kind of person who worried about a sudden drought in the English language, so there must be a balance somewhere. Only Trowa knew it wasn't that woman.
He had lost touch with his family a long time ago, his father first and foremost. 'Not as though my father misses me,' he noted with a slight tone of anger in his mental voice. He remembered the tiny house he had lived in, in Los Angeles, and he remembered how bad his father's temper was. Trowa's father was easily upset, usually beating on Trowa to get it out. He hated his father, especially when his father was drunk, which he usually was. Trowa could recall how the last time his father had worked was at a post office; but then, he was five at the time, so he could never be too sure. That was why he became so well-built; muscles like his didn't come naturally, especially considering the genetics that brought him into the world. However, he built up his strength so that one day, he could hit his father back. He never got the chance to though; as he was going to, his father had a heart attack and died on the floor, amazingly enough in the arms of his crying mother and sister.
He missed his mother and sister; they still lived together in that small house, and since his father had died the house had become much nicer, in looks as well as atmosphere. It was too bad that it had happened when Trowa was seventeen; the college-bound was too late to help in the reparation. But he knew that Catherine could help their mother; she was a good daughter and an even better sister. He felt a pang of guilt for not calling them in so long, so he switched to another mental topic to avoid the pain. Reminiscing too far into the past was beginning to hurt a little.
Bills of all kinds awaited him at home. Most pressing was the rent, because without it, he would have no home. He could deal well enough with no electricity or running water, and it wasn't as if his phone rang off the hook. But without a place to keep his futon, his clothes, and his meager collection of snow globes, he would be at quite a loss. Three hundred dollars and he would be set, but that was a staggering amount to raise if you had no work, and his part-time job down in Fisherman's Wharf wasn't giving him enough for rent. He just wouldn't make it on time.
Lost in worries of money and housing, Trowa continued the long trudge home.
* * * * * * * * * *
Quatre smiled as he sped down the highway in his silver Tiburon, music up and the windows down, blasting Collective Soul's "Why 2" as high as it would go, just happy to be free from another day of work. He enjoyed his job, and enjoyed the fact that he had the option of showing up late, or not showing up at all. After all, if he was to be fired, he'd have to fire himself, seeing as he was on the board of directors for the Standard Oil Company. It was an amazing accomplishment for a person of his age, and even more of his background, but with as adept a mind for business as he had, it was no wonder that he had single-handedly brought the company $2 million in profits the year prior. As a small token of their gratitude, his colleagues bought him a house in Sausalito; as beautiful as it was, he hated the fact that he had to go through San Francisco to get there. During rush hour, the city was a madhouse of cars and cluster. But it didn't matter to him now. Quatre had made it out of the heaviest part of traffic and was now zipping his way over to Fisherman's Wharf to quell a sudden craving for shrimp.
As the song ended he smiled, knowing that a bit of a harsher song was coming next. James Braddock, the son of one of his coworkers, had made a mix CD for Quatre to listen to; while Quatre could handle typing on Word and using Excel and PowerPoint, he was next to computer illiterate. However, he forgot about all of that, about work and life and almost the road as heavy beats poured from his speakers, blaring Linkin Park's "In the End," joining in with the aggressive lyrics.
"It starts with one thing, I don't know why, it doesn't even matter how hard you try. Keep that in mind, I designed this rhyme to explain through time all I know. And time is a valuable thing, watch it fly by as the pendulum swings. Watch it count down to the end of the day, the clock ticks life away, it's so unreal..." Had anybody seen the innocent-looking blonde rapping to the lyrics, they might have laughed. Braddock admitted that his son wanted to tease Quatre a little with some of the harder songs on the CD, even throwing in a bit of Papa Roach and Marylin Manson. However, to everybody's surprise, he actually liked the songs and was even caught humming them sometimes.
He fumbled for some chapstick in his coat pocket, feeling the discomfort of dried lips, common in the cold and breezy city. Finally retrieving the Blistex, Quatre struggled with the cap, and when he had managed to take it off, it fell into his lap; with a groan, he retrieved it.
As he looked back up, he saw a lone figure crossing the street, hands dug deep into his pockets, unaware of the world around him. Unfortunately, Quatre was bearing straight for him, unable to stop and with no room to swerve out of the way. He slammed on the brakes, but just a moment too late, his fender sending the unassuming man into the air, landing about ten feet from his car.
Quatre sat in the car, stunned. What had just happened had not registered with his brain and he remained in suspended animation for what seemed like an eternity; in truth, it was mere seconds before he rushed into action, breathing prayers as he ran to the all-too-still figure, sliding to a kneeled stop right next to him. The street was empty, and any of Quatre's cries for help would have been useless. This he knew immediately, and instead focused his attention on the man he had almost killed. Almost, because Quatre had found a pulse, sighing, "Praise God." He adjusted the man's body, doing his best not to move him too much, for fear of spinal damage. To his surprise, he saw the man's eyebrows knit with the movement.
"Oh goodness," he breathed, "he's responding. Good, good. Oh, please wake up," he cried, almost pathetically, as he tried to rouse the unconscious victim, holding the sleeping head in his lap. "Please wake up and say you're all right and walk around. Please, oh please..."
As if to answer his spoken pleas, his eyes opened, tentatively and painfully. He took a deep breath and immediately his eyes flew shut as he felt intense pain in his side. He ran his hand along his ribcage, finding that no bones had been broken. In fact, he could probably walk away from this; bruised and in pain, but alive.
But before he could take any joy in this notion, the assailant experienced the joy for him in a far more forward fashion than he would have chosen. "Oh, you're alive! You're okay, right?" Quatre's face lit up at the man's nod. "Oh, thank you! God be praised, I can't believe it! Oh, please sir, let me make this up to you! Let me at least take you home, or to a hospital, or perhaps to my house, anything you want."
Slowly he sat up, careful not to damage anything that had miraculously come out unharmed. "For starters," he said, looking Quatre straight in the eye, "I would like to know your name." His speech was formal and curt, as was Trowa's style. He could not speak to the stranger any other way, for he knew of no other way of speech.
"Q-Quatre," he stammered, afraid of the perceived anger in Trowa's voice. "Quatre Wi-Winner."
"Well, Quatre, you're one lucky son of a bitch."
"How so?"
"Well, I survived, so I won't be an inconvenience to you. So you can drop the act and continue speeding on home." His voice now carried true anger, or as much as he would permit to be released.
"What do you mean?" Quatre was earnestly confused by his statements.
"All you rich guys, you're all the same. Father and Mumsey buy everything for you, even your job, so that all you have to do is smile, look nice, and not get in trouble. Well, don't worry, rich boy," he said bitterly, "I won't get you in trouble."
"No, I'm not like that. Honestly, I'm truly sorry. Please, I want to give you a ride home or do something. Please, anything."
He glared at Quatre for his persistence. "You know, you can drop the act. I said already that I wasn't going to cause any problems for you."
"But you don't get it, I don't care. I just want to make sure you're okay. If nothing else, please tell me your name."
"Why?"
"So I can find some better way to apologize."
"Trowa. Barton." He said the two words as if he wanted the former detached from the latter as much as possible.
"Well, Mr. Barton, please, what can I do to make this up to you?"
"Why the hell do you care?"
Quatre was getting impatient. "Because I do; now shut up and let me help you up, okay?" Without another word, he pulled Trowa's arm around his shoulders, adding extra support by sliding his hand around his waist. With a gentle tug and all the force his legs could manage, Quatre helped Trowa stand up.
A few colors danced before Trowa's eyes; he shook his head as streamers of darkness threatened to curl in from the sides and obscure his consciousness once more. He felt himself stumbling, and weak arms trying to help him stand. A faint 'are you all right?' passed through his awareness before his vision cleared. "What?" he asked, still a bit dizzy but better now that the effects of a bloodrush had worn off.
"I asked if you were all right."
"Fine."
"Liar."
Trowa glared down at the smaller person next to him. He truly was smaller, by about a head and a half, with a shock of platinum blonde hair on his head and sky blue, defiant eyes glaring up at him. He almost laughed, finding it so amusing that this tiny thing of a human was standing up to him.
"You're going to a hospital. I think you may have a concussion. And that would be a miracle in itself if that was all you walk away with."
"I can't go to a hospital."
"Why not?"
"No money."
Quatre suppressed a smile. "I thought you knew us 'rich boys.' Of course I'll pay for it all, seeing as it was my fault."
"But I don't like hospitals. I don't want to go."
"Well then what the hell do you suggest? If you go home, you'll go to sleep, and you may never wake up."
"Don't tempt me," Trowa muttered.
"Pardon?"
"Nothing."
But Quatre had heard; if he knew anything, he knew a plea for help. Seeing as Trowa wasn't being too compliant with him, he decided to be more forceful. "Look, I don't care what you want, you're coming with me, and that's final."
"And if I don't want to?"
"Did I give you that option?"
Trowa looked at Quatre and realized by his gaze and tone that he was deadly serious. He found it in his best interest to concede to Quatre's demands. "Fine, let's go."
Quatre led Trowa over to his car, making sure to go slowly enough to allow Trowa plenty of time to step, but not too slow as to seem to be making fun of him. He reached the car door and opened it for Trowa. "I live in Sausalito, so it may be awhile. I'll play the music extra loud so that you won't fall asleep on me, okay?"
"Fine," he muttered right before he slammed the door shut. "Whatever."
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