I Will Corrupt You
By karei
Capitulus Quattor
Chapter 4
"So how about it?" He looked at Trowa hopefully.
"I think I'll pass."
"Fine, your choice." Quatre took a sip of his water. 'Damn,' he silently cursed. 'Stupid arrogant... argh. Can't anybody accept a little help these days?'
'What a piece of work!' Trowa thought virulently. 'Acts like he can just throw money around to solve everything, and that it's his goddamned mission to save the poor of the world from themselves. Well, this is one guy who's not going to let himself be another salve for your soul, Quatre.'
"Good pasta," Trowa commented.
"You think so? I picked it up in a restaurant in the French district." Quatre was not as good at masking the anger in his voice as Trowa, but he still maintained an air of decency.
Trowa looked down at his watch. "You know, my shift starts in two hours. If I plan on walking, I should get going." He rose, rather impolitely, from his chair.
"I could drive you..." Quatre weakly offered.
"Don't trouble yourself. I can see I've already been burden enough to you as it is." He saw Quatre moving to get up, "Don't worry, I can see myself out."
"Honestly, Trowa, it's like, twenty miles in the hills alone! Not to mention how far you'd have to walk through the city! Just let me give you a ride."
Trowa shot Quatre as cold a look as he could, angling his face so that both angry eyes could be seen from under his hair. Unfortunately, Quatre was just as determined, staring back at Trowa as would a child about ready to have a tantrum; although he tried to maintain composure, he could feel his resolve breaking. "Fine," he sighed, resignedly.
"Good," said Quatre, with dignified finality. "Now that that's settled, I'll get some dessert ready."
"What do you have in mind?" Trowa began collecting the plates, stacking them deftly with far too many years of practice.
"Well," Quatre called from the kitchen, "I think I saw some key lime pie in the freezer. You like that stuff?"
"Never had it before," came Trowa's reply as he entered the kitchen.
* * * * * * * * * *
"Mr. Winner?" A tall man in a business suit, pointer in hand, was glaring at the youngest of the board members, who was drifting off in a sea of thought. "Mr. Winner? For Pete's sake, will somebody bring him back to earth?"
"Allow me, Johnson." Braddock, the jokester of the team, lightly smacked Quatre upside the head.
In Braddock's motion, he caused Quatre's face to slip from his hand and land on the desk with a small thud. "Huh?" he asked, somewhat startled. He looked like a child who had just gotten his hand caught in the cookie jar, causing an eruption of laughter in the stuffy meeting room.
"Welcome back to earth, Winner. Did you enjoy your trip?" asked Johnson with a slight edge of anger to his voice.
Quatre flushed a deep crimson. He hadn't been performing his best that day, merely because the prior evening's events were weighing upon him. 'I wasn't giving him a handout, and I wasn't treating him like some poor unfortunate soul... but what can I do to show him that I'm really sorry?' He shook the thoughts from his head, "I'm sorry, please, continue."
"Thank you. As I was saying, for the past year I've had a committee examine the distilling process of refining our oil, which you are very well familiar with..."
His voice slowly faded out for Quatre as a new one faded in: his own. It told him that he should find Trowa and at least see if he was all right; he did have a concussion, after all. It said that he should try and help the arrogant and headstrong man, at least until he was able to stand a little less shakily. Didn't he owe it to society? The voice also warned him that he should be paying attention, because he was probably missing something rather important.
"... bringing the cost of refinement down 2 cents a gallon. While the machinery may cost $4 million in construction and operation, our net gain would be a 10% increase in profit on our projected numbers for next year's sales. What do you say, ladies and gentlemen?"
"Huh?" Quatre chose a poor moment to slip back into reality.
Johnson threw his hands up, "Oh, Jesus Christ, Quatre, can't you pay attention for at least five minutes? For the love of God-"
"Johnson," another colleague, Brigand, intervened, "do you speak in the confessionals with that mouth?" He sounded more like a scolding mother, but they all knew about Johnson's temper and how he was trying to control it. 'Poor guy,' Quatre thought. 'He can't really control himself. I just hope he doesn't loose another wife over it.'
He took a breath and calmed down. "You're right. I'm sorry. But honestly, Quatre," he turned back to face the employee he was reprimanding, "if you're not going to pull your weight today, why don't you take one of your sick days?"
"But I'm not sick," Quatre contested.
"You look sick to me," Braddock countered. "I say you just take the day off and settle whatever it is that's bothering you, okay? But settle it today, because we all expect you to work your ass off tomorrow."
Quatre sighed resignedly. "I suppose." He rose from his seat, collected his things, and strode silently out of the office building. As he exited, he fumbled for his keys, always preferring to have them out as he approached his car.
"What the hell am I going to do?" he wondered aloud. The parking structure was empty, so there was nobody around to think him insane, giving him ample room to voice his thoughts to the air. "It's pestering me like crazy. If I just let it lie, then I'm going to go insane. What if he didn't make it through the night, huh?" At this point he became a bit irrational and paranoid, but it wasn't as if he noticed. "What if he fell asleep and didn't wake up? What if he's lying in God-knows-where, unconscious and dying? Whose fault will it be? Yea, mine. Just because I wanted some shrimp. Goddamn me!" He finally managed to unlock his car.
"He said he worked at a diner," he muttered as he slid into the seat. "Well, Trowa Barton's a rather unusual name, and I learned enough about him to track him down. It shouldn't take too long, and then I can prove to him that I'm not some snot-nosed rich boy, that I actually do care and understand." He groaned audibly, leaning his head back against the headrest in frustration. 'Why do I even care?' he argued with himself mentally.
"Because," he sighed in reply to his own question, "I understand him better than he realizes, and I need to prove it."
'To him, or to yourself?'
"Shut up." He turned his car on and sped out of the lot.
When he finally reached the main streets, his first destination was any phone booth, perhaps to track down his address. He flipped through the book in frustration, checking both the 'B's and the 'T's. 'Of course he's unlisted. What do you expect?'
"Jennah Cooper. His agent. She should be listed!"
Surely enough, she was. He dialed up the number with his little finger, putting the phone up to his ear as he finished punching the digits.
After two rings, a nasal-sounding woman answered the phone. "Hello, Ms. Cooper's office, this is Carmen speaking. How may I help you?"
"Hello, Carmen. Is Ms. Cooper available? Tell her it's urgent."
"May I ask what this call is about?" She could have had her nose up to the receiver for how wonderfully congested and high-pitched her voice sounded.
"One of her clients, a Mr. Trowa Barton."
"I'll connect you as soon as possible. Hold please."
Quatre smiled as he was put on hold, knowing that Jennah would pick up as soon as she could. He remembered Trowa's description of her desperation to keep just one more client, and knew that this would come to his advantage.
Sure enough, he was correct. Moments later, a breathy voice came onto the phone. "Hello... This is... Jennah Cooper..."
"I'll let you catch your breath, Ms. Cooper."
"Thank you." He could hear a water cooler bubbling in the distance; moments later, a more refreshed Jennah answered the phone. "How may I help you?"
"As I already told your secretary, this is pertaining to Trowa Barton."
"Yes, I remember that. May I ask your name?"
'Oh, shit.' Quatre had to think quickly. "This is Michael Durrang." The last name struck him as familiar, but he shrugged it off.
"Any relation to Christopher?"
'Durrang!! The comedy playwright!! Oh shit, think fast!' He cleared his throat, "Sadly, no. An odd coincidence, though," he said, with a smile in his tone. "At any rate, I'm asking about Trowa Barton. Dreamworks is currently working on the production of a new movie. It's currently untitled, but we think that from his description, Trowa may fit one of the roles we need. Granted, it's not a major role, but it's a fairly decent size." Quatre smiled, pleased with his off-the-cuff fabrication.
He could almost hear Jennah champing at the bit on the other end. "Well, I'm sure my client would be interested in this role, but I'll have to console with him to be certain."
"Why don't I save you the legwork, Ms. Cooper. Just give me his address and I'll see him myself." He heard a slight gasp on the other end, and so he continued, "Of course any negotiations will be done solely in your office, you have my word on that. I merely want to introduce the role to Mr. Barton and see if he and it are compatible."
"Well, yes, I suppose that sounds reasonable. Do you have pen and paper?"
"That I do." He shifted the weight of the phone book uncomfortably. She mumbled the address, but Quatre caught it with a smile. "Thank you, Ms. Cooper. I hope I'll be speaking to you soon."
"Thank you, Mr. Durrang!"
"Oh, please, call me Michael."
"Then you may call me Jennah." Quatre picked up on the slightly flirty tone and cringed inwardly.
"Thank you, Jennah. Good day." He hung up before he had to deal with the pleading woman anymore. He didn't understand how Trowa could stand to be around her, let alone let her manage his career. Thankful to be free from the confines of the phone booth, he slid once more into his car, driving off to Trowa's apartment, hoping silently that he wouldn't be home.
Half an hour later Quatre found himself in less agreeable portions of the city. 'Too bad it still hasn't been cleaned up. I need to get working on that.' He parked his car openly on the streets, only a block away from Trowa's structure. He didn't want to park alongside it for fear that Trowa would in fact be home and, upon noticing Quatre's car, leave.
As he made his way up the narrow, dingy stairs, he heard a pounding on the floor he was heading to, followed by a gruff shout. As he came nearer to the third floor, apartment 3B to be exact, he came eye-level with a rather corpulent man, dressed in a grungy wife-beater and brown slacks in need of a wash. His hair was greasy and matted down to his head, or what was left of it anyway. For that which he lacked in follicular fortitude on his scalp, he made up for on his arms, chest, and back. And this grotesque being was pounding on the door to apartment 3B, shouting for Trowa to open the door.
"Excuse me, sir?"
He ceased mid-pound and turned to Quatre, giving him a once over with a sneer. "What do you want?"
"Are you Mr. Browning, the landlord?"
"That I am," he replied, taking a break in his speech to wipe his nose with the back of his hand. "What's it to you?"
"Are you here to collect the rent from Mr. Barton?"
"We got a bright one here today, folks," he huffed.
"Well," Quatre continued calmly, "he sent me here with the rent money. How much was it again?"
"Eight-fifty."
Quatre pulled out his wallet, fishing out five hundred-dollar bills, generating the rest with tens and twenties. "Here you are. Eight hundred and fifty dollars. Funny, though, he sent me with nine hundred." Quatre shrugged, "Go figure. I'll have to let him know."
The landlord's jaw went slightly slack at the thought of being cheated out of fifty dollars. Quatre enjoyed this little show, but couldn't remain happy for too long, as he knew that eight hundred and fifty dollars was too much for such a rat hole. 'But then,' he thought, 'I suppose you do take what you can get.' He smiled up at the landlord, putting his wallet away. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Browning. But I have one more question."
"Yes?"
"I want to return this fifty dollars to Trowa, but I have no idea where he works. Would you mind filling me in?"
"Yea, he works at that diner down the street."
"Which one?"
Mr. Browning smiled, revealing tobacco-yellowed teeth. "You'll know it when you get there, trust me. It's the only decent place to eat on the block."
"Well, I thank you again. Good day." Again, not wanting to remain, he turned and walked out without a response from the landlord; as if he wanted one.
He finally emerged onto the street, taking in a breath of the semi-clean air; comparatively cleaner than the air inside the building, it was a refreshing relief. He began walking down the street, trying to find the diner that he said 'you couldn't miss.' Apparently he was right.
The only diner on the block, it was part diner, part café, and was only slightly busy, typical for 2 PM. A lone couple, ditching school no doubt, sat outside the eatery, absorbed completely in each other. The blonde girl, with a giggle, reached out and brushed some hair from her brown-haired love's face, before planting a kiss on him. Quatre smiled with a slight blush and looked away, walking into the diner.
Trowa was at the sink, rinsing a soiled cup before sending it to be washed; nobody likes resin stuck to their dishes. He turned around, cup in hand, and when he saw Quatre, he nearly dropped the cup, a startling display of emotion for the normally stoic boy. Quatre suppressed a smile as he walked up to the counter, taking a seat on one of the swiveling stools that was loosing it's softness.
Trowa walked up, as non-chalantly as possible. "Can I get you anything to drink, sir?"
"Trowa, you can call me Quatre."
"Quatre?" he asked, seeming somewhat surprised, "Is that you? Strange coincidence. Anyway, what can I get you?"
'And people say I'm a bad liar,' Quatre mused. "A chocolate coke? Do you have those?"
"Yes we do," he replied, ducking underneath the counter to get a glass. "Good choice, I like them too."
"Yes, I know," Quatre muttered.
He stood back up, glass in hand. "Pardon?"
"What?"
"You said something..."
Quatre looked confused. "No, I didn't..." He struggled to keep down the crack in his voice that usually came with a lie.
"I'm sorry. I'll get that chocolate coke."
Quatre leaned on the counter a little bit, in order to engage in a conversation with Trowa. "I remember you recommending them last night," he called. "I decided to be bold and try one."
"Like I said, good choice." Trowa was mixing the syrup in with the coke. He hated the way servers would never mix it in, making it coke on top and chocolate on the bottom. Therefore, Trowa always made it a point to mix his chocolate, vanilla, orange, or any other coke as well as possible. He set it on the counter top in front of Quatre. "Anything else, or do you want some time to look at the menu?" he asked, leaning on the counter, his hair blocking the greater majority of his expression.
"No thank you. This is fine for now." He took a long draw from the straw, but could only drink one mouthful before he noticed Trowa staring at him; staring quite angrily. He flashed his best innocent face, and asked meekly, "What?"
"How did you find out where I worked?"
"Easy. Well, sort of. I mean, you gave me enough to work on."
"How's that?"
"The name of your agent. Jennah Cooper. You weren't listed, but she was."
Trowa raised an eyebrow. "And this was enough?" He paused, as if in thought. "I don't even remember telling you that."
"Well, you did," said Quatre, truthfully. "I remember you complaining how she was so bad at her job. Quite frankly, I agree with you. She gave me your address without so much as batting her eye."
"How did you get it?"
He smiled, taking another sip, speaking only after swallowing. "A small white lie. I just told her I worked for Dreamworks. If she phones you about a Michael Durrang, you'll know what it's about." He took another sip.
"So you got my home address, great. How did you find this hole in the wall?"
"Your landlord. Took a little palm grease to get him away from your door, but I-"
Trowa cut him off, "How much?"
"Huh?"
"How much did you pay him?"
"Not much," Quatre replied innocently, mumbling into his coke, "Only eight-fifty."
"You paid my rent." It was more of a bitter statement than a question. Trowa was outraged, but he still maintained his composure. Only Quatre could sense the strain on his self-control.
"Of course I did," he replied casually, as if it were no big deal. He could see that Trowa was about to speak, but didn't allow him the chance. "But I expect you to pay me back. Don't think of this as a hand out or a favor," he explained. "You're a decent guy, and you deserve a chance. That's all I'm giving you. No charity. Nothing. I expect to be paid in full." His tone was business-like, matter-of-fact, and marked by the face he usually carried around the office.
Trowa closed his eyes, taking in a breath, slowly processing the statement. 'What the hell is going on here?' he thought angrily. 'I'm paying him back, that's for dead certain, but I don't have eight hundred fifty dollars, nor will I for awhile. No decent work, and this shoddy job will get me nowhere. Damn it all to hell.' He sighed, "I'll pay you back in two weeks."
"I'm holding you to that." He held out his hand. Trowa looked at it quizzically. "Let's shake on it," Quatre explained. "It'll be more formal, more official."
Trowa accepted his hand, giving it one firm shake.
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