His alarm clock goes off halfway through playing a difficult level. He jumps at the sound and his control over the joystick falters, his game-character graphically dying as a result. The alarm means that it’s time he goes into town for his after-college shift at the grocery store. He’s works part time but detests it, three nights a week of stocking shelves as well as dealing with bothersome customers. (And occasionally Matthew, who pops by just to be annoying before disappearing away again.)
Alfred hops onto his battered bike and plays chicken with ample traffic. There’s already a bruise across his chin from Natalia’s assault and he doesn’t want to add to his injuries. Main Street is empty when he arrives, throwing the bike into an alley and shoving his hands into his pockets, humming some sort of tune as he walks into the grocery store.
Five minutes later, he walks out again after telling his boss, “I quit.”
It’s not because of his burning hatred of the job- it’s because he can think of better things to do with his evenings. He walks past Arthur’s shop on his way back to the bike and figures it can’t hurt to stop by for a few minutes.
Arthur doesn’t notice Alfred enter, too busy looking quite terrified. The shop is packed, angry purchasers demanding Arthur’s attention. “Yes, Ma’am, the Harry Potter novels are to your right... Sir, please don’t get chocolate on the books... Ah, yes, Miss, we do have Wuthering Heights, it’s under classics... Sorry, Mr, we don’t have Twilight...”
The scene is bizarre; Alfred bursts out laughing. At the sound of maniacal laughter, Arthur turns his head to see where the noise is coming from, as the crowd of customers that had been gathering around him move away.
“Alfred! What brings you here?”
“I had some free time,” Alfred lies with a shrug. “But it looks like you have absolutely no free time at all.”
“Yes,” Arthur says bitterly, “they do keep me on my toes...”
He’s irritated, and his scowl seems to suit him better than his smile.
Trying to be helpful (or at least lighten Arthur's spirits) Alfred suggests, “Can’t your staff help you?”
“I don’t have any staff.”
Alfred looks shocked. “You work here all alone?”
When he sees Alfred’s astonished stare, Arthur smiles. “Yes, sadly. It’s alright, I suppose. Sometimes I think I should hire someone, but in this economic climate I just can't afford it...” He grimaces. “Sorry, I must sound boring.”
“You’re not.”
"Now, why don't I believe you?" Arthur grins, attempting to alleviate the cloud of pessimism descending over the conversation. “There was something I was supposed to tell you, actually, so I'm glad you're here... What was it?" His brow furrows in concentration, furiously trying to remember. "Ah, yes! I met your friend today.”
“Matthew?”
“No. Your girlfriend. European accent, name of Natalia, correct?”
“Shit,” Alfred cries, leaping to his feet. “Is she still here?”
“She left, don’t worry. She was... forceful, to say the least,” Arthur laughs. His eyes narrow as he spots the bruise across Alfred’s chin, reaching out to brush a finger along it as he asks, “God-! What happened to you?”
Alfred shudders at the touch. Arthur’s hands are soft and the contact is painfully brief.
"Sorry," Arthur says quickly when he notices Alfred's reaction and mistakes it for one of pain. "It must hurt. Shouldn't have touched it."
They are interrupted before Alfred can reply.
“Sir,” a middle-aged woman with a pompous sunhat says, pulling Arthur backwards by the sleeve of his shirt. “Where did you say the Harry Potters are?”
Alfred hops onto his battered bike and plays chicken with ample traffic. There’s already a bruise across his chin from Natalia’s assault and he doesn’t want to add to his injuries. Main Street is empty when he arrives, throwing the bike into an alley and shoving his hands into his pockets, humming some sort of tune as he walks into the grocery store.
Five minutes later, he walks out again after telling his boss, “I quit.”
It’s not because of his burning hatred of the job- it’s because he can think of better things to do with his evenings. He walks past Arthur’s shop on his way back to the bike and figures it can’t hurt to stop by for a few minutes.
Arthur doesn’t notice Alfred enter, too busy looking quite terrified. The shop is packed, angry purchasers demanding Arthur’s attention. “Yes, Ma’am, the Harry Potter novels are to your right... Sir, please don’t get chocolate on the books... Ah, yes, Miss, we do have Wuthering Heights, it’s under classics... Sorry, Mr, we don’t have Twilight...”
The scene is bizarre; Alfred bursts out laughing. At the sound of maniacal laughter, Arthur turns his head to see where the noise is coming from, as the crowd of customers that had been gathering around him move away.
“Alfred! What brings you here?”
“I had some free time,” Alfred lies with a shrug. “But it looks like you have absolutely no free time at all.”
“Yes,” Arthur says bitterly, “they do keep me on my toes...”
He’s irritated, and his scowl seems to suit him better than his smile.
Trying to be helpful (or at least lighten Arthur's spirits) Alfred suggests, “Can’t your staff help you?”
“I don’t have any staff.”
Alfred looks shocked. “You work here all alone?”
When he sees Alfred’s astonished stare, Arthur smiles. “Yes, sadly. It’s alright, I suppose. Sometimes I think I should hire someone, but in this economic climate I just can't afford it...” He grimaces. “Sorry, I must sound boring.”
“You’re not.”
"Now, why don't I believe you?" Arthur grins, attempting to alleviate the cloud of pessimism descending over the conversation. “There was something I was supposed to tell you, actually, so I'm glad you're here... What was it?" His brow furrows in concentration, furiously trying to remember. "Ah, yes! I met your friend today.”
“Matthew?”
“No. Your girlfriend. European accent, name of Natalia, correct?”
“Shit,” Alfred cries, leaping to his feet. “Is she still here?”
“She left, don’t worry. She was... forceful, to say the least,” Arthur laughs. His eyes narrow as he spots the bruise across Alfred’s chin, reaching out to brush a finger along it as he asks, “God-! What happened to you?”
Alfred shudders at the touch. Arthur’s hands are soft and the contact is painfully brief.
"Sorry," Arthur says quickly when he notices Alfred's reaction and mistakes it for one of pain. "It must hurt. Shouldn't have touched it."
They are interrupted before Alfred can reply.
“Sir,” a middle-aged woman with a pompous sunhat says, pulling Arthur backwards by the sleeve of his shirt. “Where did you say the Harry Potters are?”
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