Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ The Sous-Chef ❯ Chapter 14

A/N: Lot of OC's in this chapter. Octavio is actually based on a real person, a Cuban guy who did janitorial work at the art supply store where I was employed so long ago. He worked three jobs and was also putting himself through cooking school in Orlando—about an hour's commute both ways. I don't know how he found the time to do all that AND be so damn friendly and cheerful, especially since his family was still in Cuba and had to wait 2 years before they could emigrate to the US. Crazy immigration policies—stricter, naturally, because they're Cuban. No real reason I'm sharing this info, I just thought it was interesting. Reader responses at end.

 

For those of you who've read the translations of, or listened to, the Drama CD's, yes, Sally is THAT Sally. Sally Schumars. Heheheheh.

 

Beta'd by the magnificent Sky Rat.

 

 

Chapter 14

 

“So, ye spent the morning screwing Schu and Yohji? I thought ye needed sleep,” Farf commented, leaning against the back of the building as Aya passed him.

 

Aya stopped dead and turned to him. “What, did Schuldig call you to brag about it already? And I did get a little sleep.”

 

“Couldn't have been much. No, he didn't call--yet. I can smell them on ye,” he explained, tapping the side of his nose.

 

Aya was horrified. “But… the shower…”

 

Farf waved a hand at him. “I don't mean ye reek of sex. I have an augmented sense of smell, courtesy of Esszet. No one else will notice anything.”

 

Aya stared. “Why would Esszet augment your sense of smell?”

 

Farf shrugged. “Adds to my beastly, feral charm.” He flashed a truly frightening smile at Aya. “They were trying to make me into a bloodhound. Tracker, hunter, killer. The sort of creature one would unleash to find deserters, hidden enemies…the scientists were livid when I was appointed to work in the field as part of Schwarz, since they weren't halfway done with me yet, and I was just about their only success story.”

 

Aya crossed his arms over his chest, intrigued. “What else were they planning on doing to you, do you know?”

 

“I read the files. They were going to try different muscle augmentation so that I could jump higher and run faster, they were planning on trying to implant a sub-dermal bullet-proof layer all over my body--“

 

“How the hell would they have pulled that off?”

 

“I don't know,” Farf sighed. “That was just barely in the planning stages. Would've come in useful, though.”

 

The back door opened and Jarrod, the tall, enormously broad black grill guy (`grillardin', Farf had called him) stuck his head out. “Sally wants you, Far,” he announced with a slight grin.

 

“Ah, Ran, come meet Sally,” Farf said, twisting his braid up into a bun and shoving a pencil through it.

 

“Who's Sally?” Aya asked, following him through the door.

 

“Owner's wife.”

 

Aya saw said wife as he entered the kitchen. She was wearing a gauzy dress of sea green, which set off her dark blonde hair and tanned skin. She looked about his age, pretty, body slender yet voluptuous, with smooth, unblemished skin and masses of blonde curls hanging to her waist. She appeared to be carrying a small patent leather suitcase with her. Most of the kitchen staff was staring at her with naked lust, and she seemed tense.

 

Aya couldn't blame her--the kitchen staff was kind of a scary lot.

 

Farf walked up to the woman and put a casual hand on her shoulder. “Sally, this is the new sous I was telling ye about, from Japan. Ran, this is Sally Carollo.”

 

Sally smiled politely as he bowed to her. “Nice to meet you, Ron.”

 

“Ran,” Aya automatically corrected, gritting his teeth, though he didn't hold out much hope that she'd bother getting it right. Most of the kitchen staff didn't.

 

Sally didn't even bother trying to pronounce it again, for which he was grateful. She just flashed him an apologetic look, and turned all her attention to Farfarello. “John, can I see you downstairs? We have to go over some of last month's books. My husband is a miserable bookkeeper,” she continued, apparently addressing this remark to Aya, who was barely paying attention to her anymore. “His books never match John's.”

 

Farfarello rolled his eyes and smirked at Aya. “Yeah, I'll be down in a sec, Sally.” She hurried off, rather furtively Aya thought, without even glancing around her. “You'll be okay up here without me for an hour, won't ye, Ron?”

 

Aya grimaced at him. “Sure thing, John-boy.”

 

“Good. Get your meez squared away and make sure ye have enough duck confit for cassoulet; prep about twelve of them.”

 

“Isn't that a lot?” Aya asked. “For a Tuesday night, anyway.”

 

“It would be if they were all for the floor, but some of them are going out for a convention tomorrow. Salesmen or some shit. You're gonna be saucier tonight, so start the gumbo and the bouillabaisse soon. Make sure ye taste the roux before ye add it to the stock to be sure you haven't burned it, and make sure it's black. I did most of your sauce prep-work this morning while ye were, “ he made quotes with his fingers, “sleeping. Everything else ye need to do is in that list on your meez. Need help, ask Jarrod or Courtney. Back in a bit.”

 

Farf sauntered off toward the stairs, whistling `Beat on the Brat', a song with which Aya had only become familiar yesterday. Apparently when things were dragging, Farf liked to listen to the Ramones. He called that song `the Schuldig song' and, probably in response to the Lolliwinks, had put it on repeat for a while yesterday--until Jarrod had started screaming and jumping up and down, stabbing a breast of veal and shouting, “Fucking toe-rag cum-gargling dipshit meat! Do what I tell you, pillow-biting salo!” Aya had been more than a little freaked out, but apparently this was a rather routine sign that the music was getting to the mountainous grill man.

 

Courtney, the garde-manger, had walked calmly over to the beat-up portable stereo and switched it to a `smooth jazz' station. Aya had discovered, since moving to New Orleans, that he really liked jazz. A good thing, because here one could hardly escape it. It drifted out of clubs and restaurants, and live bands or individuals with an instrument case open for donations played in the streets. However, Aya learned to hate `smooth jazz' after only twenty minutes of it. He began growling and snapping at people, so a now-calm Jarrod had switched it to some hip-hop station. Aya wasn't fond of hip-hop, but he could at least tune it out.

 

Courtney complained loudly about having two `musically sensitive souls' in the galley. Complaining loudly was Cort's specialty. Aya could already tell that they were going to clash someday.

 

Hopefully not today--Aya was feeling rather dull-witted. He sighed and started on his meez.

 

******

Half an hour later, Aya was in a foul temper.

 

Cort was being incredibly obnoxious. He kept wandering around the kitchen, looking over shoulders, criticizing everything from Ban's knife-handling techniques--he was up front boning and filleting fish--to the position of Aya's soup vat on the burner. Everyone had told him to go fuck himself at least once. Well, except for Aya. He'd just whipped around and stuck his knifepoint under Cort's chin. Something in his eyes must have warned the idiot that he was messing with the wrong sous-chef, because Cort paled and retreated to the pantry. Aya got a smattering of applause, which he raised an eyebrow at.

 

But that was not the real reason his mood was black; obnoxious he could deal with--Cort was still light years away from fangirl-level. The largest source of his irritation was standing next to Jarrod at the grill--Louis Johnson. Officially Jarrod's assistant, he also acted as a tournant--a floater. He was tall, spindly, troll-faced and acne scarred, and he radiated an aura of `scoundrel'. How Jarrod, who was easygoing when he wasn't having a music-related psychotic episode, could get along with him was unfathomable to Aya, but they seemed to be pals.

 

Louis had homed in on Aya almost instantly--Aya could see that he was going to be trouble the moment Farfarello introduced them. The interest kindled rapidly.

 

Upon noticing that the cooks smacked each other's asses a lot, Aya had immediately declared that the first hand to touch his ass was going in the soup. Apparently Louis didn't see this as a warning or a threat, but a dare. Aya always caught him before he managed to touch anything, but each glare, each threat Aya snarled--he had been too busy for more direct action--had only made Louis' grin wider. Luckily, he'd left long before Aya, so he hadn't had to put up with it all night.

 

But today, Louis had come into the kitchen and made a beeline for Aya. “Oh, my sweet cachundo,” he'd announced loudly, “my dick was up all night dreaming about your ass. Don't hold out on me tonight, you cock-tease!” At which point the rest of the kitchen brigade started laughing, and Aya had to bite the inside of his cheek bloody to keep from grabbing a knife and gutting the bastard. Now, every time anyone needed anything from Aya--which happened a lot more often than he would have thought, considering it was only his second day--no one would call him by name, it was all `sweetcheeks', and `my delicate flower', or `Mme. Butterfly'. The name that pissed Aya off the most--introduced by Cort, of course--was `cherry tart', which the staff seemed to have decided was a good nickname for him.

 

“Ran, chill, would you? You wanna give yourself an aneurysm? You ain't going to feel better if you grind your teeth to powder, either,” Ban admonished. Aya hadn't realized he was grinding his teeth, or that his muscles were coiled tight. He tried to relax, but he just couldn't.

 

“Listen, Ran...I don't know what it was like in Japan, but you got to know you can't take anything these jerk-offs say seriously. And by `these jerk-offs' I also mean me.” He threw Aya some snapper heads, and Aya began prying the cheeks out of them for the bouillabaisse, listening, trying to calm down.

 

“Far said I'd be called names, but he never mentioned anything like…” Aya waved his hand at the kitchen at large.

 

“Yeah, well, we're like terriers, you know? We dig and sniff around until we figure out what you find most annoying, and then do it over and over again. It's actually a good sign. When everyone ignores you, that's when you know you're in trouble.” Ban finished the snapper and started on the pompano.

 

“I don't care if anyone likes me. I'm not putting up with `cherry tart' for the rest of…however long I'll be here,” Aya groused. He leaned against the steam-table, glaring darkly at the enormous pot of simmering stew.

 

Ban sighed. “Man, you take yourself way too seriously. Look, why don't you go down to Far's office and relax for a few minutes. You got a key, right?”

 

“Yeah. Far's in his office now, though.”

 

“Oh, Mrs. Carollo left a little while ago. Far won't mind if you sit down there for a couple minutes. Hell, he'll probably start you working on the books with him.” Ban smiled, a gleam in his eye letting Aya know that something was up.

 

It was that gleam, more than anything, that prompted Aya to acquiesce. Curious, he made his way downstairs to Farf's office. He knew he wouldn't be able to hear anything--the office was completely soundproofed--but he tried anyway. He knocked sharply and opened the door, Farfarello's name dying on his lips as he took in the sight before his disbelieving eyes.

 

Sally Carollo was naked, on all fours--hands and feet, legs bent. She had a bridle over her head, and was literally champing at the bit. On her hands and feet, she was wearing black boots fashioned to look like a horse's hooves. Farfarello held her reins and a riding crop in one hand, and Aya could see marks on her back and her ass where he's used the crop. With his other hand, he was ass-fucking Sally with a slender butt-plug that had a blond horsetail on the end of it. This was in counterpoint to the rhythm he'd established with his cock, which he drove into the owner's wife with lazy power. Except for the necessarily unzipped fly, Farfarello was fully clothed.

 

Farf noticed Aya standing shell-shocked in the doorway, and grinned. He tugged hard on the reins and Sally reared, tossing her head and pawing at the air with her hooves, eyes rolling, her mannerisms so much like a horse's it was disturbing. Her breasts, though restricted a little with a harness, bounced fetchingly. Farf whacked her with the reins, still with just the one hand, and she clomped down to the floor again. The Irishman never broke his rhythm, or counter-rhythm, handling everything so masterfully that Aya couldn't help but wonder what it would be like if…

 

No. He wasn't going to go there. Besides, there was no way Sally could be comfortable, holding such a position. He certainly wouldn't enjoy it. No way.

 

He was in the midst of studying the positions of her feet relative to her hands, and elbows to knees, when Farf's wet-sandpaper voice called him. “Ran.”

 

Aya's head jerked up, and he felt like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar, if the cookie was a naked lady with horse hooves…

 

“I don't mind an audience,” Farf continued, “but would ye mind closing the door? We should at least keep up the pretense of secrecy, I think.” He switched Sally with the reins again, and she bucked and whinnied loudly.

 

Recovering himself, Aya mumbled, “Sorry,” and hastily retreated, closing the door and locking it behind him.

 

His heart was racing and his breathing was unsteady. He steadfastly ignored the stiffness in the front of his checks. Ban was in front of him, laughing. “Well that cheered you up, didn't it?” the young man enthused, glancing meaningfully at Aya's arousal.

 

“I'm going to have to kill you now. Sad it's so soon after making your acquaintance,” Aya growled.

 

“Aw, c'mon, Ran! Far don't give a shit who sees him or who knows about it. He's said as much. I don't know if you know this, but John's completely fucking loco, man. I mean apeshit bonkers, you know? Nobody fucks with him. He could fuck Sally two feet in front of Mr. Carollo and the man wouldn't say dick about it, Mafioso or not.” Ban leaned against the wall next to Aya. “Far's psycho.”

 

“Psycho how?” Aya asked, trying not to laugh. Ah, little Ban…he had no idea, really…

 

“Well, for one thing--and don't let this scare you, dude--he killed Sean. You know, the old sous?”

 

“What?” Aya sobered instantly. “How?”

 

Ban shrugged. “Some kind of knife. Cort says he did it with Sean's boning knife, but Cort talks mostly out of his ass. Sean had been really pissing him off with all the drugs, though, for a long time. I don't think you have anything to worry about.”

 

“I'm not worried,” Aya said. “How do you know he killed Sean?”

 

“Man…if you'd seen the way Far was looking at him the week before Sean bought it, you'd know it too. Jarrod asked him straight up, and he just smiled and said, `Maybe I did.'” Ban shuddered visibly. “Sometimes…Far looks at you, and it's like he's wondering what it would be like to cut you open, make you scream…” He shook himself. “Holy shit, I'm probably making you want to head for the hills now.”

 

Aya decided Ban was a very perceptive guy. He put his hands on the shorter man's shoulders, turning him so they were face to face. With a tiny smile, he stared intently into Ban's deep, dark eyes. “Do I look like I'm worried?” he asked.

 

Ban actually paled. “Ran, you…fuck. You're psycho too, aren't you.”

 

“Hai.” Aya let his smile broaden to a wolfish grin, squeezing Ban's shoulders once before letting him go.

 

Ban was still staring at him, a rapt expression on his face. He reached up with one hand and put his fingertips on Aya's cheekbone. Aya doubted he even realized he was doing it. “Shit, your eyes really are purple, aren't they…I was sure it was contacts. They're so pretty.” Ban lowered his arm, shaking his head. “I ain't no butt pirate, but you're way too pretty for a guy.”

 

Aya rolled his eyes. “So I'm told.” His forehead creased. “Butt pirate?”

 

“Yeah. You know, turd-burglar. Ass assassin.” A wide grin spread across Ban's face at Aya's increasing incredulity. “Say `turd-burglar', Ran.”

 

“How about I just sew your lips shut instead?”

 

“Oh, c'mon! Hey, call Louis a turd-burglar the next time he bugs you, and I'll give you fifty bucks.”

 

Aya raised an eyebrow. The thought did hold a certain appeal. “I might. Why do you want me to say that so badly?”

 

“Because it's juvenile and stupid. Like I said, cabrón, you take yourself too seriously. Think of it as a growing experience.” He slung an arm companionably around Aya's shoulders and tugged him toward the stairs. “We'd better get back up there, sous.”

 

Aya thought about shrugging the arm off, but decided it was okay as long as it didn't stay long. Plus, he realized, he actually liked Ban. He never used to form positive opinions of people so quickly. Aya sighed inwardly as they approached the stairs; this day was really throwing him for a loop.

 

******

 

It was eight o'clock at night, and even though it was a Tuesday, the dupes were constantly sliding across the board. Jarrod handed a few off to him, and he looked them over as he stirred the peppers he was sautéing. He was getting very good at one-handed stirring, holding the skillet off the range and using tiny wrist motions to flip the vegetables around while the flames licked the sides of the pan. The orders were mostly grill items, and with one eye he picked out what soups went to which tables, what sauces he needed to prepare, what he needed to sauté to order, while keeping the other eye on the three skillets he had going on the range. Around him, the cooks were shouting, knives were slicing, dishes were being spun across windows with `a little of the English on `em', so they stopped cold just before they would have crashed to the floor, waitrons were hollering, steam was roiling, food was sizzling, steaming, boiling, baking, frying, and Farfarello seemed to be everywhere at once, overseeing, cursing, instructing, glaring. Everything was in a state of noisy, chaotic inertia.

 

To his surprise, Aya was really enjoying himself.

 

The crazier things got, the calmer and more centered he felt. Since he was on the job, he was focused, but he didn't need the laser-intensity he did when he was on a mission, nor did he need the block-out-annoying-teammates/lover/fangirls focus of the flower shop. The ice core that he'd cultivated for assassin work mellowed into a Zen-like tranquility.

 

Around him, the cooks seemed almost to dance, economizing movement by doing as many things at once as possible, utilizing whatever body part was most convenient—kicking reach-in doors closed, bumping shelves back into ovens with hips, nudging each other aside with elbows—nudging was hardly ever necessary, though, because the cooks mostly flowed around each other like well-calibrated parts of a machine. It reminded him of the way Weiß had worked together on missions, taking cues from each other, aware of one another. There wasn't much conflict, and despite all the yelling, bitching and cursing, the sense of camaraderie in the kitchen was pervasive.

 

Aya actually caught himself humming as he ladled gumbo into bowls, garnishing them with fresh bay leaves and filé—powdered sassafras. He piled them on a tray and took the tray to the window, where a stick-thin waitress took it from his hands before he could set it down. On his way back to his station, Farfarello touched his arm.

 

“How ye doing, Ran?”

 

“I'm holding up.”

 

“Looks like. We have a problem, though.”

 

Aya frowned. “What did I do?” He had screwed up quite a bit earlier—for one thing, it had taken him an embarrassing seven tries before he got a decent black roux for the gumbo, and Farfarello had been riding his case pretty hard. He poured wine into the skillets to deglaze them, scraping the bottoms with his spatula and pouring the mixture into the simmering sauces, as Farf talked.

 

“Not something ye did. It's the damned cassoulets—usually on a weeknight we move two, maybe three a night. Tonight we've moved ten.”

 

“Ten?” He added Madeira to a spicy cherry gravy, and stirred thoughtfully. “But that means there's only two left for tomorrow.”

 

“Yeah, and the night's not over,” Farf sighed. “I'm gonna have to ask ye to stay late and help me make some more.”

 

“Are we still going to the meat market tomorrow?”

 

“Yeah, we probably won't get any sleep tonight. Sorry, Ran.”

 

Aya shrugged, and Farf briefly clasped his elbow before turning to holler at Cort. Turning back to the range, Aya allowed himself a small smile. He didn't feel the slightest bit tired, and he looked forward to being in the kitchen when it was nice and quiet. He'd have to remember to thank Schu for getting him this job.

 

That thought reminded him that this wasn't actually his job—he was only here because he was an assassin; Farf had already said that he was going to be demoted to floater, if he was allowed to stay on at all.

 

Ran froze as a thought occurred to him. How could he possibly be demoted from sous-chef to floater? Just from being here two days, he understood that such a thing was not only unheard of, but that the rest of the kitchen staff—whose respect he was already struggling to command—would have nothing but contempt for him if he was so disgraced. They'd make his life hell until he quit, and then all he would be was an assassin. A mercenary working directly for a former enemy, killing people whose crimes he doubted he would even be informed of. If there were any crimes.

 

His heart seemed to have taken up residence in his esophagus.

 

He'd been doing things on autopilot, and realized he was about to pour the Madeira sauce down the sink. He couldn't worry about such things now; right now this was his job, however long it would—or wouldn't—last. He managed to regain his inner calm, but it was tainted now with melancholy.

 

******

 

“Night, cherry tart!” Cort called as he left the kitchen. Aya didn't respond or even turn around, just flipped the bird over his shoulder. He stuck two more dutch ovens full of cassoulet into the huge industrial oven, and started assembling the next two.

 

“So you're being given a hard time about Louis,” Farf observed, setting a pot of white beans and some freshly browned sausages next to Aya's workspace. “Ye seem to be taking it in stride.”

 

Aya shrugged, lining the bottom of the heavy ceramic dishes with pork rind. He didn't feel like talking to anyone, especially not Farfarello. Unfortunately, he and Farf were the only ones left in the kitchen now, except for the dishwashers, who made too much noise to hold a conversation with anyway.

 

Farf leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. Aya could feel the eagle eye boring into his skull. He sighed, and turned to face his boss. “What?” he snapped.

 

“Is this about Sally?” Farf asked, gaze penetrating.

 

For a moment Aya couldn't think what he was referring to, but then remembered the scene he'd walked in on earlier. “No,” Aya muttered. “Why would I care who you fuck or how you do it?”

 

“I don't know, but you're obviously upset with me about something. That was the only thing I could think of.”

 

“It's nothing,” Aya said, turning back to his work. “It's fine.”

 

Farfarello was silent a moment. “We're taking a break,” he said decisively, going to the nearest sink and washing his hands. He stood by the sink, waiting for Aya. “Well? We haven't got all night.”

 

Aya really didn't want to take a break, because he wasn't sure he could get his momentum back up again, and he really didn't want to talk. But, he knew eventually this issue would have to be addressed, and it might as well be now. He washed his hands, and followed Farf out into the dining room.

 

It was dark, but Farf only flicked on the lights over the bar. “What'll ye have?” he asked, standing behind the bar and looking expectantly at Aya.

 

Farf expected him to drink? He was tired enough already. “I don't want anything.”

 

The eagle eye narrowed. “Don't be goddamned difficult, Fujimiya.”

 

“I'm already tired enough as it is, Farf.”

 

“So have a soda.”

 

“I don't like soda.”

 

“Pick something, or I'm picking for ye.”

 

“That's fine, since I'm not going to drink it anyway.”

 

Farf rubbed his temples with one hand, shaking his head slowly. “Bloody difficult,” he uttered, so low that Aya could barely hear it. The Irishman grabbed two tumblers and poured two fingers of scotch in each, and added a few drops of water. He set the scotch on the bar, and sat on the stool next to Aya's, handing him his drink. “Salut,” Farf said, tapping their glasses together, and knocked back the liquor.

 

“Salut,” Aya said. He sipped at the whiskey, more out of reflex than anything. It was nice. He'd had better, but it was nice. He sipped again.

 

Farf refilled his own glass. “So what's eating ye, Aya?”

 

Aya decided to be blunt, since that was what he was good at. “You aren't going to make me a floater. You're just going to fire me when you don't need me anymore.”

 

The albino rolled a mouthful of whiskey around his tongue for a second, and swallowed. “That was the plan.”

 

Aya nodded and swallowed the rest of his drink. “I'd appreciate it if you were honest with me. I don't like being manipulated.”

 

Farf chuckled. “Who does? Listen,” he continued, holding up a hand as Aya started to speak again. “It may have been the plan last week, but it's not necessarily the plan anymore. You're really doing well so far. It's disgusting, considering this is your first job as a chef, but it's true. Ye listen, ye don't slack, ye rarely make the same mistake twice, and I know I don't have to worry about ye coming in late or not showing up. Ye don't rush to finish things just because we're busy, and you're excellent under pressure. I'll have to see how ye do on the weekend, of course, but I'm confident you'll do alright. I won't make a final determination on whether to ask ye to stay or not until Verdis comes back, okay?”

 

“Verdis?”

 

“The saucier, on vacation, remember?”

 

“Ah. Yes.” Aya thought for a minute, as Farf refilled his glass. “Okay. But don't lie to me anymore.”

 

“As ye like,” Farf responded, which seemed unnecessarily cryptic to Aya, but he didn't feel like pursuing it.

 

He was curious about something, though. He sipped a little more scotch, enjoying the slow burn down his throat and in his belly, and asked, “Did you kill Sean?”

 

Farf's eye widened. “No. What makes ye ask?”

 

“Esteban seems quite sure that you did.”

 

“Ch'!” Farfarello looked highly amused. “Ban must like ye, trying to put ye on your guard like that. I've killed plenty of people since moving here, but Sean wasn't one of them. Though I might have before too much longer—he was becoming more and more of a liability. Junkies have no loyalty except to the junk, and I don't plan on getting stabbed in the back for any reason, much less a half a gram of heroin.”

 

Aya smiled. “Did Ban see the body?”

 

Farf chuckled, shaking his head. “No one here knows shit about it, Aya, and I'm aware they all think I killed him. Did Ban tell you that Jarrod and Louis decided I must've given the body to JL and had him made into sausage?”

 

Turning to Farf with a smirk on his face, Aya asked, “Did you?”

 

Farfarello made a face and drained his glass again. “I do have certain standards of quality even for sausage meat, Aya. Strung-out junkie sausage would be tough, dry, bitter…absolutely unacceptable. Plus, I know he shared needles--who the hell knows what kind of diseases he might've had? Major health code violations.”

 

Aya laughed softly. “Was he your friend?” he asked after a minute.

 

There was a long silence, and Aya didn't think Farf was going to answer. “Once,” came a word to his ear, whispered out of the gloom. “Once he was. But not anymore, by the time he died.”

 

Aya nodded, finishing the scotch and waving the bottle away when Farf motioned with it to Aya's glass. “I'm sorry,” he said, and to his surprise, he meant it.

 

“No need to be.”

 

“I'm not ever sorry because I need to be. I'm just sorry.”

 

The way Farfarello smiled at him made his heart speed up, and his breath stuttered in his throat. He coughed.

 

“You're an odd one, Fujimiya. I'll tell you about Sean sometime. Not now, though,” he said, getting off his stool and slipping behind the bar to replace the scotch and wash the glasses. “Back to work.”

 

“Hai, sensei,” Aya replied, walking briskly back to the kitchen.

 

Once at his station, he took several deep breaths and laid a hand over his heart. Since when had he started to feel like he was coming undone when that freak smiled at him?

 

“The alcohol,” Aya muttered, after a minute or so. He started layering the ingredients in the dutch ovens again. “Has to be.”

 

******

 

By ten o'clock the next morning, Aya was nearly asleep on his feet, having gotten only a couple of hours of twitchy rest on the couch in Farf's office. He couldn't complain, though—Farf had slept in his office chair with his feet on the desk. Aya had felt a bit guilty until he remembered that the man couldn't feel pain.

 

They'd met Octavio at the meat market at around 4:15 AM, and Octavio had been almost bouncing with energy and good cheer. He'd brought photos of his wife and three children to show Aya—only four or five of them, thank heaven the man had a sense of decency—and Aya had tried his damnedest to look interested. He was interested, he was just also extremely sleepy. He asked Octavio to show them to him again when he was awake enough to really see them, and Octavio had laughed and clapped Aya on the shoulder hard enough to knock him off balance.

 

There was no running around fighting with meat that morning, though Aya got the impression that it would have tickled the hell out of everyone if he and Farf had started pelting each other with sheep eyes and tripe. Most of the meat people had a very dark sense of humor—the man they went to for most of their pork showed Aya a collection of hand puppets he'd made out of the heads of various animals, from ducks to cows. As he and an assistant put on a little skit for him with a calf's head and a pretty smelly pig head, Aya wondered if he hadn't actually fallen asleep and just not realized it yet.

 

After Farf and Octavio had dragged him all over the indoor `meat mall', they led him to an out-of-the-way corner which was nevertheless filled with the smells of cooking and happily chattering, munching butchers. They made their way to a counter—well, a few tables pushed together—in front of a jury-rigged kitchen, where there were steaks sizzling on a grill and a rare rib roast being sliced for sandwiches, along with other meaty delicacies. Aya hadn't eaten since Courtney had served up a truly awful pasta salad at around three in the afternoon the day before, but his stomach couldn't decide whether to be hungry or hurf up what little was in it. The smell of offal was still lingering in his nose.

 

Octavio laid a comforting, bear-like hand on the back of his neck. “You want go outside, maybe? You looking a little green, my friend.”

 

Aya smiled weakly. He was used to blood, gore, the stink of killed bodies, and the stench from the loss of control of bodily functions—but he'd never tried to have a picnic in the middle of it. “I'm alright, Octavio,” he said, hoping it was true.

 

“Ran's used to working with seafood, not so much with meat,” Farfarello piped in.

 

“I've worked with meat,” Aya said, slightly offended.

 

Farf smirked. “In that case, how about a nice, bloody, rare rib-eye steak, Ran? Straight from the cow to the grill?”

 

Feeling challenged, Aya said, “Sounds delightful.”

 

“Okay! Should we ask Les and Neil to put on another puppet show while we eat?” Farf clapped his hands together and grinned wickedly.

 

Feeling more ill now as he remembered the pig-puppet's jaw falling off and hitting the concrete with a sickening wet smack at the end of the performance, Aya just said, “I hate you.”

 

“Leave him be, Far,” Octavio implored, rubbing a couple of spots at the back of Aya's neck that relieved some of the nausea almost instantly. “Ran has been nice to you, so you be nice.”

 

Chuckling softly, Farfarello bowed to Ran. “Forgive my rudeness.”

 

“'S alright,” Aya replied, almost purring under the acupressure massage.

 

“Is better?” Octavio asked, and Aya nodded. Octavio patted his neck and dropped his hand, turning to greet some friends.

 

Farfarello got three roast beef po' boys and a bottle of red table wine—the wine baffled Aya at first until he realized that almost everyone had a blue plastic cup full of it—waved at Octavio, and led Aya outside. Aya breathed the air gratefully. It wasn't quite `fresh' air, but it was fresher than inside. His appetite crept back.

 

The market was just across the street from the Mississippi River, so Aya, Farf and Octavio crossed and climbed the levee to the little road of gravel and crushed shells at the top. Aya stood and looked around a little, appreciating the view. It was hardly idyllic—they were in an industrial part of the city, the water was a sickly brownish grey and here and there he could spot patches of yellow foam at the river's edge. Red and yellow nylon ropes were tangled in scrubby underbrush and Aya picked out fire-anthills dotting the grass as it sloped down to the water. But it was the tail end of sunrise, so the light was golden, the air was crisp and refreshing, the riot of grass and weeds covering the levee was green and healthy, there were tugboats drifting slowly to and fro, and in the distance loomed the odd, towering structure the Schu had found out was a relic left over from the World's Fair in 1984—one of the gondola towers where the skycars had ascended to and descended from their journey across the river. It seemed like a sentinel to Aya, though it actually served no purpose anymore. He liked the shape of it. Friendly conversation washed over him beside the gentle hissing and lapping of the water, from the groups of people eating. It was nice, peaceful…

 

“Fujimiya! Ye eating or what? `Cause if ye aren't, we'll be more than happy to split your sandwich,” Farf called. He and Octavio had taken off the poncho-like plastic coats everyone wore inside the market, spread them on the grass and sat on them.

 

Aya strolled over and spread out his own poncho, eyeing the grass for anthills before laying it down. He accepted his sandwich and, after a moment's hesitation, a cup of the wine. “Thanks…why is everyone drinking at 7:00 in the morning?”

 

Octavio answered him. “Is supper-time for these guys. You drink wine with supper, yes?”

 

“Sure, sometimes,” Aya agreed, and took a large bite of po' boy. It was very nice—the bread was crusty, the meat was juicy and the horseradish sauce was tangy—but it was still a bit heavier than he liked at this time of day. The wine was pretty light for a red, and not bad at all. By the time he'd finished both, he was feeling very mellow and drowsy.

 

Three hours later, trying to keep his eyes open while he tended the range, Aya was ready to fall asleep in the soup. He shook himself, smacking his own cheeks a few times. He hated feeling this lethargic.

 

Across the kitchen, Farfarello was mixing cream filling and kneading dough for the pastry chef/bread-bitch (self-titled), Shelly, while on the phone chewing out a purveyor who had tried to foist substandard vegetables on him. His voice was low, deadly, icy; the other cooks were giving him a wide berth and shooting nervous glances at him from time to time. Aya couldn't blame them. Something about that tone made his hackles rise.

 

Other than that, things were pretty calm. Jarrod, Louis, Cort and Dean—one of the floaters—were prepping and chatting among themselves, while the Turducken/banquet guys that came in three times a week—Jock and Dom—quietly put together stuffings, and bottled sauces.

 

He felt a sensation on his rear like hot slime, and sighed. Louis was staring at him again. The troll-faced boor was becoming more aggressive in his attempts to grope Aya, and it was really getting on his nerves. He'd decided what to do about it only ten minutes ago, though he didn't relish the thought. If Louis would just make a move again, he could put his little plan into effect and, hopefully, have done with this nonsense.

 

Maybe he'd be fired for it, as well, but he really didn't think so. It was a plan Farfarello might appreciate.

 

Of course, now that Aya actually wanted Louis to try copping a feel, he wasn't cooperating. Feeling somewhat icky, he spread his legs a little and stuck his ass out as he leaned over the stove. He heard Louis cough, and felt more eyes on his ass. Fucking hell. He wasn't prepared to do any more teasing than that to get the bastard to come over, especially not with other people watching.

 

“Hey Far, put your filling in those buns, why don't you?” Louis called out, cackling.

 

Aya whirled, clutching the wooden spoon he'd been stirring with like a dagger. Louis blew kisses at him. Aya began stalking toward him, fully intent on shoving his spoon so far up the man's skinny ass he'd end up choking on it. So intent, in fact, that he didn't even notice Cort come up behind him.

 

He froze as he felt a hand on his ass. In his ass, really; the thumb was approaching actual penetration even through the checks and his underwear. He made himself wait, deciding that his plan would work just as well on Cort as Louis. And Cort was just as, if not more, annoying.

 

Aya counted five seconds that seemed like an eternity before Cort's hand finally left his nether regions. “Shit, Ran, you really are a cherry tart, aren't you?” Cort said, sounding amused but also puzzled. “Not even a smack on the wrist? Fucking fag.” He sneered and turned his back.

 

In the blink of an eye, Aya had him face-down on the kitchen mats, and was straddling him backwards, pinning Cort's left arm to his right side. Cort was kicking and hollering, bucking, and beating at Aya ineffectually with his other arm. Aya waited for him to tire out a little so he'd quiet down. In his peripheral vision he saw the others gathering nearby, but no one moved to help or hinder him.

 

“Shut up, Cort,” Farfarello's voice came from behind him, quiet and authoritative. Cort snarled, but quit yelling, even as he continued to struggle.

 

“Did you enjoy your little groping session? Get a good feel?” Aya asked.

 

“Fuck you, Ran,” Cort spat, sounding nervous now.

 

“Oh, I don't think you could afford that from me. But I will extract payment from you for having to feel your disgusting paw on me for five seconds. One finger per second should be enough,” he said, taking hold of Cort's pinky.

 

“What? Wait!”

 

There was an inordinate amount of screeching and thrashing as Aya very deliberately snapped all the digits on Cort's left hand. At the third finger, someone—Aya thought it was probably Farfarello—stuffed a towel in Cort's mouth to muffle the screams.

 

As Aya finished the thumb, he suddenly lost his calm in a rush of hot rage. “And this is for fucking Cherry Tart, you stupid son of a bitch!” he yelled, and snapped Cort's wrist. The body under him went absolutely rigid, and the stench of urine rose as Cort's bladder let go.

 

“Ran, I think he understands the error of his ways now,” Farf said, sounding quite entertained.

 

Aya stood up, still trembling with anger. “Get him out of my sight before I decide he needs to be eviscerated as well,” he spat, then thought he might as well not wait for them, and stomped out of the kitchen and down the stairs. He unlocked Farf's office, walked inside and slammed the door. Then he sank down on the couch, shaking so much that his teeth were chattering.

 

He wasn't sure where that anger had come from. He was definitely angry at Cort, but he doubted that was the real source of this outrage. It was too hard to think straight.

 

After a while, he heard the door to the office open, and became self-aware enough to realize he was huddled in a ball on the couch, chewing on his knuckles and rocking back and forth like a loony. He stilled himself and uncurled, not looking up.

 

“Actually, he was touching ye for six seconds,” Farfarello informed him. “I think it took a second for the shock to wear off before ye started counting.”

 

Aya shrugged. “So he got a free second. Lucky him.”

 

“Either that or ye should get upstairs and break his arm before the ambulance gets here.”

 

Aya glanced up at Farf. He had a gentle, affectionate smile on his face that seemed to be for him. He supposed Farf wouldn't fire him, then. “Wouldn't you rather I just started on his other hand?”

 

“Nah, this way he's got the whole right hand working, so he's got no excuse not to come to work. His left arm was broken last year, and Jarrod says he did fine working with one arm.” Farf sat down in his chair, swiveling to face Aya. He gave a broad grin. “It actually works out much better for all concerned, I think, that it was Cort who grabbed ye and not Louis. I know ye don't think much of him, but Louis actually isn't bad once ye get to know him. A lot of people like him, including me—not that I'd have stopped ye if it'd been him who grabbed ye. If anyone likes Cort, I don't know about it. Even Octavio thinks Cort is a shitty little pest.”

 

Aya shifted in his seat to get more comfortable. “I can't imagine Octavio saying that about someone.”

 

“Those are my words. The worst Octavio's said of him is, I think, that he's mean and doesn't know when he should be quiet.”

 

Aya shrugged. “True enough.”

 

“So now, not only have ye cemented everyone's respect, but you're a hero, too.” He sounded proud.

 

“Farf…you don't think it was too much?”

 

“Of course it was too much. Way, way over the top. No one will forget it. Sometimes violence is the only way to get through to people, especially if they're violent themselves. Although, at the end ye seemed to lose your grip a little. Do ye remember me asking ye if you'd be able to deal with it when your past caught up with ye? I wonder if this anger is a manifestation of that. Unless ye can tell me what you're so pissed about. I'm guessing ye can't.”

 

Aya sighed heavily. He wanted to be indignant, but he thought Farf might be right. Besides, Farf's tone was matter-of-fact, not imperious or condescending. He shook his head. “No, I can't. Although I was damn pissed with Cort; he practically finger-fucked me in front of everyone.” The memory of Cort writhing in pain between his thighs kept that thought from pissing him off all over again.

 

“Yeah. Chefs are weird. Some of the biggest, brawniest, ugliest, most macho cooks I ever knew used to fondle each other's testicles on a daily basis, though as far as I could tell none of them were gay or even bi. Since you're so androgynously attractive, I knew you'd have trouble and I was really curious to see what you'd do to keep the guys' hands off ye. I approve your method of establishing boundaries, even though it means there's one less hand when we're already short-handed.”

 

Aya felt a stab of guilt; he hadn't even thought about that.

 

Farfarello was kneeling in front of him in a flash. “Aya. No regrets, no apologies. Okay? When ye go back up there, act as though nothing's wrong and this day is no different from any other. Can ye do that?”

 

Aya nodded, not trusting himself to speak with the man so close to him. He felt his cheeks heat up as he abruptly remembered Farfarello fucking Sally yesterday in this very room.

 

Farf tilted his head. “What?”

 

“Just…yesterday…”

 

“Ahhh, I was wondering if you were ever going to ask me about that,” Farf said, getting up and sitting back down in his chair. “What'd ye think of the pony gear?”

 

“Pony gear…it was a little disturbing.” He remembered Farf whacking her with the reins as she was rearing, and shifted to hide the fact that he was half-hard from the memory. “You don't mind that she's your boss's wife?”

 

Farf's brow wrinkled. “Why would I care about that? Never mind, I don't think I need to hear your views on the sanctity of marriage right now. Apparently Mr. Carollo doesn't care for her little obsession, and when she met me she decided I was the sort of person who could handle her. So she came to me about two weeks after I started here with what I saw as an interesting proposition, so I took her up on it. It was fun, so I've taken her up on it once or twice a week since, and I'll continue until it gets boring. End of story.”

 

“Huh.” Aya curled his fingers around his chin, thinking. “What if it gets boring for you before it gets boring for her? Could she make trouble for you?”

 

Farf shrugged. “I'll kill her if she tries. But I don't think she will. She's not brave enough.”

 

“You don't seem to like her much.”

 

“No, she's just a novelty. I've never met anyone with such a strong fetish for something so…interesting. It almost feels like bestiality. It's unnatural.” His eye positively glowed at the thought of Sally's perversity. “How could I resist?”

 

“Seems like you've both still got a lot of mileage to put on those hooves,” Aya said, and gave a jaw-cracking yawn. “I'd better get upstairs before I pass out down here.”

 

“Wait a second.” Farf reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a small unlabeled prescription bottle. Aya's eyebrows shot up as Farf shook out two pills and replaced the bottle, grabbed a small mug from another drawer and filled it from the water cooler in the corner of the office. He held out the pills and the mug to Aya. “Take these, they'll wake ye up.”

 

Aya stared incredulously at Farfarello. “You want me to take drugs, all of a sudden? Didn't you just tell me about how much your last sous-chef sucked because of drugs?”

 

The albino nodded. “Yes. These are not anything like normal amphetamines, though. I have contacts in a pharmaceutical research company; they've engineered these for me. They don't make ye high, they just make ye not-tired. No racing, no jitters, no hyperactivity or aggression, no chemical or psychological dependency. Sean was already cooking up when I got these. I got them for me but with him in mind; I'd hoped they might work sort of like methadone. No dice there, but they work great if ye don't want to pass out from exhaustion onto a lit gas range.”

 

It sounded reasonable, but…“But Farfarello, you are taking drugs for your…mental instability, right?” Farf nodded. “And your physiological make-up was altered a lot by Esszet.” Another nod. “How do you know these pills won't affect me completely differently than they do you?”

 

Farf smiled at him. “I don't.” Aya threw up his hands, and the Irishman laughed. “Look, Aya, I can't unequivocally state that you will have no side effects whatsoever, be they pleasant or unpleasant, since you never really know how a drug will affect you until you take it. I can say, though, that you're not my first guinea pig. Out of sheer curiosity I've slipped these into the food or drink of almost everyone here, and not once has anyone had a bad reaction to them, or even realized that their vivification wasn't entirely natural.”

 

“You fed them drugs without their knowledge?”

 

“You disapprove.”

 

Aya crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing. “Of course I do! How could I approve of you treating your staff like lab rats? Isn't that how Esszet treated you?

 

Farfarello stiffened. It had probably been pushing it for him to bring up his time with Esszet, but Aya wanted to get his point across. He readied himself to avoid or repel an attack if necessary. He really hoped the psycho didn't decide to fight him, though. He'd probably lose in an embarrassingly short time, tired as he was.

 

There was no attack. “It's not quite the same, not on the same level,” Farf eventually said, so softly that Aya had to strain to hear him, “but I understand what ye mean. It never occurred to me to think of it that way. You're right, of course. I won't do it again.”

 

Aya blinked a few times, not quite believing his ears. He'd chastened Farfarello? His life was more surreal every day. Ah, hell. The pills probably couldn't make him much more fucked up than he already was. He held his hands out for the drugs, giving Farf a small smile.

 

Farfarello smiled back, and handed him the pills and the mug.

 

There was a knock at the door as Aya swallowed, and Ban stuck his head in the office. He nodded to Farf, then looked at Aya. “Hey pinche wey, why couldn't you have waited until I got here to waste Cort? Shit, I would have paid good money to see that!”

 

Aya grinned, setting the mug back on the desk. “Sorry. It just didn't work out that way. Next time, I promise.”

 

“Damn you. There's a couple of guys here to see you, upstairs.”

 

“Me?” It had to be Yohji and Schu, Aya didn't know anybody else.

 

“Yes, you. One guy's name is Yohji, but I couldn't understand the other guy's name.”

 

Farfarello stood up. “You want me to send them down here?” he asked.

 

Aya was glad Farf had suggested it. “Yes, thanks.”

 

“Okay,” Farf said, heading for the door. “Don't take too much longer.”

 

“I won't,” Aya assured him, realizing he probably shouldn't have said that, considering he didn't know what his housemates wanted.

 

It wasn't long before Yohji and Schuldig entered the office, immediately sitting on the couch on either side of Aya and both hugging him. “Aya! Are you alright?” Yohji cried, snuggling tight against him.

 

::We were worried when you didn't come home last night, Feurig,:: Schuldig explained.

 

Aya was very confused. “I had to stay late, and then had to get up to go to the meat market at four in the morning. It didn't seem worth it to drive all the way home. Why were you worried?”

 

“Will you at least call if you're going to be really late or if you're not going to make it home? Please?” Yohji implored, doing a fair impression of the old Omi's chibi eyes. Aya glanced at Schu, who nodded vigorously.

 

“Um…alright. Sorry, I didn't think of it.” Aya raised an eyebrow. “You didn't answer me, though. Why were you worried?”

 

“Well…with what happened yesterday, we weren't sure how you might be feeling,” Schuldig explained, stroking Aya's cheek. “We were afraid you might have felt angry or ashamed, or something.”

 

“Hn.” Aya supposed that made sense. “Do I have anything to be angry or ashamed about?”

 

“Not that I know of,” Yohji said.

 

Schuldig shrugged. “Your mind works in mysterious ways, Aya.”

 

“To be honest, I've been too busy to think about it much.”

 

“You don't feel like…we took advantage of you?” Yohji hesitantly asked.

 

Aya laughed. “Of course I do! Being taken advantage of was my whole purpose.”

 

Schuldig giggled delightedly, throwing his arms around Aya. “Can we keep him?”

 

Feeling a little smothered between the two of them, Aya shrugged them off and stood up. “I've got to get back to work. I'll be home around midnight.”

 

Schuldig stood, giving Yohji a hand up. “No getting up in the middle of the night to peruse rows and rows of dead animals tomorrow?”

 

“Nope, I actually get to sleep for a little while tonight.” Aya was looking forward to it, though—he realized suddenly—he didn't feel tired anymore at the moment. “Anyone who wakes me up before ten in the morning forfeits their entrails.”

 

Aya walked Yohji and Schuldig out to the rear of the building, listening to their light banter. Schuldig turned to Aya the second the outer door closed, and hugged him hard. “You are magnificent, Feurig!”

 

“Eh? What did I do?” Aya choked out, trying to breathe. Yohji suddenly started snorting and laughing.

 

“Oh, yeah, that's our Abyssinian, alright!” he gasped, hugging Aya from behind.

 

“I'm guessing you're re-living the consequences of Cort molesting me?”

 

“Fucking brilliant, Aya! Half the guys who saw it think you're insane and are afraid of you, and the other half think you're insane and now officially worship you. Some guy named Ziggy is having the most obscene thoughts about you…” Schuldig purred, rubbing his hard-on on Aya's hip, while Yohji nuzzled his neck.

 

“Ziggy?” Aya had barely noticed the dishwasher was even there this morning.

 

::Oooh, and look what Shelly's thinking!:: Schu sent, and abruptly Aya's head was filled with a scene of himself as seen through, he supposed, Shelly's eyes, straddling her as she fucked him with a strap-on vibrator, touching himself and moaning. They were on her work table, flour sprinkling their sweaty bodies and standing out in Aya's hair. They also had a cheering audience around them that Aya occasionally paused to snarl and snap at. The scene was vivid and Aya was utterly disoriented when Schu stopped projecting it into his head.

 

::She's got quite an imagination,:: Yohji sent, impressed. He ground his hips against Aya's ass.

 

Aya groaned without meaning to, and snapped himself out of his sexual daze before he ended up screwing his housemates on the dirty asphalt. He pushed them off of him, rolling his eyes. “I told you two, I have to go back to work. Go fuck each other and leave me alone.”

 

They both pouted, but pulled away from him. Looking at those two, seeing Yohji's crooked smile and Schu's impertinent smirk, Aya felt a rush of affection hit him in the chest hard enough to knock the breath out of him. He wished his emotions would come and go in a normal way, and not so much like a bolt of lightning or a speeding truck. Still, it was nice to feel something pleasant so strongly. He tossed an arm around each man's neck and squeezed them, kissing Yohji's cheek and then Schuldig's. “I'm glad you stopped by,” he admitted as he let them go. They looked taken aback, but pleased. He grinned at them. “I'll call if I decide to go home with Shelly.”

 

“It would make her millennium if you did,” Schu said.

 

“It would make anyone's millennium,” Yohji added.

 

“True.”

 

“Whatever. Get lost,” Aya growled.

 

Yohji waved and Schu blew him a kiss. ::Some guy named Louis is on his way out to talk to you,:: Schuldig informed him as he turned away.

 

Aya did not feel like dealing with Louis. He contemplated trying to hide in the sausage shack, but then the door opened and Louis saw him. “Ran? Can I talk to you for a second?”

 

This was the first time Louis had spoken to him like a human being and not a `piece of ass', so Aya decided to see where this was going to go. He crossed his arms and raised a challenging brow.

 

Louis leaned against the wall next to him and lit a cigarette. “I like to mess with people,” he said after quietly puffing for a minute or so. “Helps pass the time. Obviously I crossed the line with you. That scene this morning was thought out, not just a spontaneous outburst. You thought you'd be doing that to me, I guess.”

 

Aya said nothing, still as stone.

 

“What I want to say is—hell, I'm not friends with Cort or anything. He can be alright sometimes, but not enough to make up for how much of an asshole he is the rest of the time.” He took a quick puff, and turned to look Aya in the eyes. “Even so, if you're mad at me, you should take it out on me. If you want to kick my ass, then kick it; don't kick some other sucker's ass just because they got in the way.”

 

“I was planning on doing that to whoever laid a hand on me first. I expected it to be you, yes, but it didn't matter who it was.”

 

“What if it was Shelly?”

 

The thought startled Aya. That had never occurred to him. “I…don't know,” he admitted. “The possibility hadn't occurred to me. It didn't seem likely enough. Probably yes, I would have, on principle.”

 

“Principle wouldn't mean much if we were out a pastry chef,” Louis chided, and Aya knew what he meant—the garde-manger might be able to work one-handed and get by, but a pastry chef/baker needed both hands.

 

Even so, Aya wasn't about to back down. “What is it you want from me?” he asked.

 

“I don't want anything from you. I just wanted to say what I had to say.” The gangly man dropped his cigarette and crushed it out with his sneaker. “I won't stop teasing you. I tease everyone and I refuse to censor myself for your sake. But I won't try to grab you and I won't call you `cherry tart' anymore.”

 

Aya expected the teasing anyway; he could live with that. Maybe Farf was right about Louis not being such a bad guy. “Acceptable.”

 

Louis nodded and went back inside, holding the door for Aya. As they walked back into the kitchen, Aya noticed Shelly's eyes on him, partially obscured by her heavy black bangs. Feeling capricious, he winked at her, and laughed to himself as her head dropped further forward so her hair obscured her entire face.

 

Heading back to his meez, Aya realized that he felt pretty happy. He wondered when that had happened.

 

 

A/N: reader responses:

 

Darke: The fish fight was fun. Punchy, horny Aya was LOTS of fun.

 

Omni: Sometimes Aya's a complete nutter, but the shower was a good idea. Yes, yes.

 

Bews: Thanks, I'm all about hot and emotional.

 

Glinwulf: I hope you don't live near a wharf or a dock, then, or something will probably rupture…

 

Bly: Thanks, the imouto is coming soon…they're all dooooomed…

 

LittleBear: Well…you were the only reader with that particular interpretation (that I've heard from, anyway), for which I'm grateful. Perhaps as you read more, you'll understand better, and may change your mind. Or not.

 

Fyrbtrd: It gave me heat rash just writing it…thanks!

 

Soxy: Glad you liked.

 

KD: Thanks for the encouragement. `S good to know that most readers understood what that was all about. Hm, you're supposed to fish with hooks, but I seem to have hooked you with a fish…

 

mm-chan: erm…well, it IS his POV for half the story…

 

Vana: so glad you enjoyed! Wear gloves if you're gonna fight with frozen fish. You'll be glad you did.