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"Logical Progression"Written By: Switchblade003
Pairing(s): Can’t tell ya anything more than I already have. Warning(s): Nothin’, really. There’s a vaguely reoccurring religious theme, here, Forgive if I offend. Rating: NC-17 Archive: www.wuffie.net Notes: yes, I’ve changed Quatre’s ethnicity, as well. He’s German, and he is Orthodox Catholic in this story. It’s necessary for later chapters. Review Raves: I got more reviews! Takaro: You’re just popping up everywhere! I’m sorry about the whole ‘death’ thing. Hopefully our new friend Joe likes the blonde, too. GoldenRat: Yeah, I go for the unconventional. Glad you like it! +++ Logical Progression Chapter: III—Easier to Run
It had been one of the slowest days of Quatre’s adult life. The paperwork—stacked sky-high—had seemed endless, and there had been a constant stream of interruptions. He’d nearly ripped the phone line out of the wall to silence the incessant ringing. His day had felt eternal, though he’d felt pressed for each minute of time, and all the while, Joe had been hovering around his office, being intimidating with his lack of dialogue, just another strain on the blonde’s already taxed patience. Quatre was going to die in fourteen days. In less than three-hundred and thirty-six hours, his company would go under, his stocks would fall, and all of his estates would be divided amongst the charities specified in his standing will. The CEO of Winner Enterprises would be worm fodder. He felt sick. And Joe’s omnipresence was only grinding away to maintain his usual composure. The German glanced down at his wristwatch and sighed heavily. It was almost ten at night… I can’t go home. I don’t want Duo to see me like this… Quietly, he pulled his cellular phone out of his pocket, unclipped his pager from his belt, and he locked both of them inside his desk drawer. I need to get the hell out of here. Quatre stood abruptly from his desk, abandoning the yards of paper trails which snaked off of and around his workspace, and he dug around in his slacks pocket for his keys. He was very disheveled in appearance, dark sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie loosened, slacks wrinkled from constant movement. For once, the media-magnet didn’t care. With a brief glare at Death, he moved to his office doors with nothing more than his keys and his agitation, so potent in his veins that it was like a living entity inside of him. +++ The streets in New York City were never dark, but tonight, they seemed oppressively deserted. Street lights cycled through their spectrum of colors overhead, presenting options to the occasional tourist, the stray taxis which peppered the roads. The business-suit clad collective body of pedestrians which normally mobbed the sidewalk during the daylight hours had long-since retired home. Quatre was used to solitude. Suddenly the young man was reminded of his parents. He often associated being alone with feelings of abandonment, and those feelings with his family. What would they think of him, now? Would they approve of the lifestyle he’d chosen? He’d picked Duo out of a genuine interest in the young man, but a spite for his father’s strict Catholic doctrines. What would his father say about his lover? Regret was starting to build up in his mind, and a guilt so tangible that it ached. There were so many things that he’d done incorrectly in his life, so much he wanted to change. How many curses had he uttered, insults had he slung out of anger or jealousy? And there were things that he wished he had done… I should have gotten my doctorate while I had the chance. I should have spoken to my father once more before he died. I should have gone to Church, to Confession. I shouldn’t have become such a workaholic. "You’re correct about that last one." Quatre whirled around to find Joe no less than a car’s length behind him, sporting a billowing white trench coat and a small,, knowing smile. It struck him as ironic, the other male’s—if he even was male—affinity for bright colors and sunlight. It annoyed him. "I hear that job-related stress is a top catalyst for heart-attacks, these days." The German almost growled in anger. "Why are you following me?" he snapped, none-too-politely. He had given up all pretense of formalities and pleasantness, it seemed, and he turned on his heel and stormed off. Death matched his evasive pace easily with his long-legged strides; apparently, he was intent on staying with the mortal. "Because you’re a very important man." Quatre rolled his eyes. He continued down the sidewalk, stuffing his hands into his pants’ pockets. "Why don’t you just take me now?" he called over his shoulder, and suddenly Joe was standing directly in front of him, blocking his path, his expression uncompromising, serious. "Thou shalt not tempt Death," he whispered, green eyes fierce for a moment before he stepped aside, and Quatre realized that they had come to a crosswalk. In an act of defiance he stormed out into the intersection without checking for oncoming traffic, and as he did, a truck driver narrowly avoided hitting him. Joe was leaning against the light post on the other side of the street. "You can stand there all night, Mr. Winner, but you’ll just be wasting your time. You might kill someone else," Death smirked, "But you can’t expedite your own demise. You’ll go when you’re supposed to, and not one moment sooner, just as everyone else must. Your untimely departure from this world would just entail extra paperwork and red tape for myself, and I’m really not a ‘desk job’ type guy." The blonde sighed in disgust and walked past his counterpart, looking for a destination. His eyes scanned the street, passing over several signs before alighting on a simple neon display proclaiming "Alcohol," and he quickened his gait. Maybe if he got himself obscenely inebriated the austere entity would leave him alone. Quickly he entered the seedy establishment, pushing through the solid wall of smoke that greeted him once inside, harsh on his lungs and nose, but he ignored it. He made his way to a dimly-lit corner of the counter. The bartender approached him skeptically, requesting some kind of identification, but Quatre had encountered this particular complication in college. He slid a hundred-dollar wrapped employee ID over the counter, and the man’s eyebrows shot up to his receding hairline. "Sorry, Mr. Winner," he mumbled, pocketing the bribe and returning the ID card. "What can I get for you and your friend?" My friend…? The German looked to his left and found Joe perched casually atop the barstool,, brow cocked in an inquiring manner, and Quatre nearly fell off his own seat in surprise. Jesus… <Thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain,> came the smooth tenor in his head, and the CEO shuddered. "You can get me an exorcism…" he muttered. Joe smiled, and somehow the gesture unnerved the mortal further. "I’ll have three shots of tequila and a lime wedge," he sighed. The brunette beside him chuckled as if in response to some inaudible joke, and Quatre reached over the counter to grab the bartender’s sleeve. "And keep them coming." +++ "I can’t go home! I’m a wreck…" Joe shook his head in amazement. They were standing on the front steps of Quatre’s condominium; at least the immortal was upright. The blonde was slumped against the stone railing, sprawled across the marble steps. He had consumed nearly a quart of tequila, much to Joe’s astonishment and admiration, though now it seemed that he was a depressive drunk. Those weren’t the worst kinds to handle, and this Joe knew, but the brunette wasn’t quite sure what to do with his charge. "Mr. Winner, you are home. Go upstairs to your partner. You’re causing a scene," he reasoned, as gently as he knew how. The last scenario he wanted to contend with was making the blonde cry, and he seemed close to breaking down. Quatre shook his head, gazing up at the top floor of the massive building, and the taller of the two had the feeling that if his ward had not been seated, he might have fallen over. "Duo can’t see me like this! He’ll think that something’s going on. I don’t want him to worry…" Hazy, alcohol-clouded blue eyes turned on his. "This is all your fault!" Joe took that coolly enough, nodding and mounting the stairs. "At least you’re moving through the Kübler-Ross stages of grief smoothly," he commented wryly, kneeling down beside the drunken mortal, resting his cheek on one fist, elbow propped up on his thigh. "First denial at my identity and purpose, now anger at a natural occurrence…" "This isn’t ‘natural!’" Quatre exclaimed, reaching out to grab a double fistful of snowy trench coat, accidentally pulling Joe off-balance so that the immortal fell over him, braced over him on his hands on either side of Quatre’s bright head. The blonde was shocked that the material had actually caught in his hands. Joe seemed very started, as well, because he simply sat there, staring at the small, pale hands twisted in his coat. "Joe?" the German asked quietly, his use of the being’s ‘first name’ almost instinctual. "Yes?" His response was terse. The brunette was obviously unsettled, and it was the first time since his unannounced appearance the previous morning that he had come across as anything but confident and arrogant. "I’m not supposed to be able to do this, am I?" he inquired, and Joe looked up at him and caught his gaze. His bottle-green eyes were wide, luminous in the artificial light of the street lamps. Slowly, he shook his head. "No. You’re not." His voice was apprehensive, and Quatre suddenly thought that he might have seen an almost human side to the seemingly twenty-five year-old young man braced above him. The yellowish light played over his well-defined features, shot red-gold highlights through his dark auburn hair, sparked twin fires in his beautiful leaf-green eyes. God above, is he gorgeous… Quatre moved without thinking, and then one of his hands had released its hold on Joe’s coat and had moved up to cup one not-so clean-shaven cheek. The contact of palm to cheek, skin to skin overwhelmed Death. He had never before been touched by a mortal, and he wasn’t quite sure what to make of the sensation. The hand at his cheek was warm, fine muscle over delicate bone, and much smaller than his own. He could feel the thin, uncallused pad of Quatre’s thumb rasping over the slightly rough texture of his high, chiseled cheekbone, and he arched lightly into the contact. <Lord, what is going on, here? I don’t understand…> Death wrenched himself reluctantly from the gentle, explorative touch, standing beside the blonde on the stairs. "Thou shalt not tempt Death," he repeated his previous warning, his voice a wonder-filled murmur, his tone completely lacking in true authority. "Joe?" Quatre asked softly, and Death took a step back. "I’m leaving, now," he announced suddenly, overcome by the urge to flee the blonde’s tender hands, his brilliant cerulean eyes, his alcohol-fueled affection. "You have thirteen days." And then his white-clad figure was gone, and the Winner Enterprises CEO found himself bereft of his lethal companion. +++ TBC. Lyrics: "Easier to Run" It’s easier to run Something has been taken from deep inside of me <If I could change I would <If I could change I would It’s easier to run Sometimes I remember the darkness of my past <If I could change I would <If I could change I would Just watching inside It’s easier to run It’s easier to run <If I could change I would It’s easier to go <If I could change I would
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