I wanna fly

One nice, warm morning, Alfred Jones marched to his office with a vivid desire to finish working as soon as possible. The day was too beautiful to be passed in a closed space.

People crowded the street and wended their way around him; cars honked and piled up on the road in that early hour. Beggars lined the walls, corners, nooks and crannies, cups set down in front of them, religiously waiting and biding for some coins.

The crime scene that was his city was altered every day, yet never truly changed. People came and went, each with their untold stories and open secrets.

He glanced at the known faces of the vendors of his street and at the sparkling asphalt. He nodded at some and many greeted him. He graced one with his smile.

A passing conversation informed him that the forecaster promised his city rain tomorrow. Alfred slowed down and repressed a shudder. People weren't going to buy summer clothes in those conditions. The council would be moaning in his ears again. He wasn't God, he didn't control the weather.

"Jones!"

-And even if he had that power, he would make it rain over their house just to bother them. He had passed one hour too many trying to calm down nervous investors and partners.

"Alfred Jones!"

Alfred stopped on his tracks. He turned his head sideway, searching for the unknown voice who had howled his name out.

An old hobo, blue blanket draped over his body, stood out like a sore thumb on his little corner of the street. Something about him made the passersby quicken their pace when they passed in front of him. Blue eyes shadowed by a dirty hat were frowning at the younger man.

He blinked. He approached the poor old man with an amiable smile. "Yes?"

The aged man remained silent. The thing crouched against the wall unfurled into a person with fatigued eyes, a lumpy gait and a loaded gun.

He pointed his weapon towards the greatest thing that happened to humanity -Alfred's brain.

His heart jumped a beat. People screamed. A mother pushed her child to the ground. A father covered his family with his body. A young man had heroic thoughts. Someone balled his fists.

The old man caressed the trigger. Blue gazes met. Alfred Jones jumped aside. The gun's deflagration rang through the whole street.

Alfred's face met concrete. Pain exploded near his eye. He rolled away. Tried to get up. His knees screamed against him. People scrambled. They gave the shooter a wide range. Some kissed the ground. Pain burst in his temple. Blood flowed.

The old man blinked. He took aim. Alfred lunged forward. His legs buckled. Not. Quick. Enough.

The old man pulled the trigger. Click. Click. Click. No ear-splitting noise. No bullets. No death.

Hard knuckles struke straight. The old man yowled. His hands flew to his stomach. A quick slap sent the gun flying away.

Something red and black and fat tackled the man to the ground. He crushed the hobo.

The old man struggled against his human restraints. "Lemme go, fucker." He roared and aimed for the eyes.

Alfred's knees wavered under him. His shadow hovered over his wannabe killer. He looked around, as people got up, scrambled for their phone or their child. His glasses laid on the concrete, one temple broken. The asphalt was still sparkling.

Alfred breathed out slowly. With each of his breathes, his tensed muscles loosened. Nobody had died. He squinted to see his murderer's face as more people joined the teen playing human shackles. They grounded him and sneaked a kick or two in at the same time.

The old man was still howling profanities. Frenchy French, Alfred could somewhat understand -even with all the croaks and snobby personalities. Québec's slang, not so much. Though he did admire how they could the F-bomb as any word, really. Adverb, noun, adjective, anything was free game.

"T'as passé ma petite fille, p'tit criss de calisse de tabarnak!"

Alfred still understood something about a little girl going somewhere. He had no idea what it had to with him. The guys around didn't either. They looked at each other blankly.

Alfred massaged his temple. Pain flared and blood painted his trembling fingertips. "Listen, sir." He heard himself say with a voice too tranquil, "I'm a law-abiding man."

A flood of insults met his attempt at being civil with a crazy gunner who targeted him. He laughed. God, he was stupid.

The old man growled the way humans were supposed not to. He pulled his first flesh shackle's hair and made an attempt to take his eyeballs out.

Sirens were hollering. A policeman appeared at the corner.

Alfred Jones retrieved his broken glasses and dusted them off. He had other place to be and nicer people to meet.

[Hello, Mister Jones.]

"A Smith & Wesson, 642, Airweight Carry, .38, 5 shots, loaded." The officer whistled appreciatively. Alfred observed him play with the gun with morbid curiosity. "That guy has the Devil's luck. I've never seen this baby jam." He had tried to whisper, but his booming voice covered the rumble and chatter from the other rooms anyway.

Alfred wasn't a very religious man, but he still thanked God in the silence of his heart. He always rewarded and complimented people when they did good thing. They tended to do it again if they felt rewarded. Interacting with people 101.

The other officer nudged Chatter-box. He sent a not so discreet pointed look toward the victim. Chatter-box let go of the gun and smiled nervously.

Alfred arched his lips up. There he was waiting, in a gloomy room where criminals and victims passed and looked alike. His plastic chair was uncomfortable.

He clasped his hands and immediately regretted his movement. He had torn the skin of his palms against the concrete of the sidewalk. In the heat of the moment, he hadn't noticed that his glasses had split and sunk into his temple. Some officers had put gauze on his wounds, but it didn't kill the pain. His knuckles were bruising too.

He could feel the sensation of his attacker's pot belly against his knuckles. A shudder ran through his hands.

Albert Williams wanted him dead.

It came as a bit of a shock that someone could hate him to the point of living in the street to have a chance to kill him.

Yet. Albert Williams did exactly that. He had wanted Alfred Jones dead. Still wanted him dead, according to the policemen present. Alfred didn't know why. He had never… what he had done shouldn't have landed him an old crazy gunman.

Worn out black pants appeared in front of him. The burly policewoman to whom they belonged looked as tired as he felt. "Alfred Jones?"

Alfred unclasped his hands and smiled. "That would be me, yes."

She didn't smile back, but seemed to appreciate his sunny personality nonetheless. The way her gaze lingered on his smile didn't go unnoticed. "Agent Smith." She introduced herself.

She offered her hand and he shook it gently. Pain coursed through his veins. "You have to answer some questions."

Alfred made a sound of ascent and flexed his hands. Warm pain flared in his fingers. Better to be pleasant and finish it all sooner than swear he had already answered all their questions. They wouldn't listen, force him to stay longer.

She sat down, questionnaire open on her knees. The plastic chair squeaked under her. He stifled a laugh. She looked like a dutiful albeit overgrown schoolgirl, hunched over some urgent homework.

"Have you ever met Albert Williams before?" She asked, voice even. Her eyes betrayed her. She stared at his forehead when she should have stared at his eyes. A timid one, then.

He paused, faked a moment of thought before he shook his golden head. "No, never."

She wrote it down. She turned sideways to have a better view of his handsome face. "And had you his daughter, Marianne Williams?"

He didn't fake the pause that time. "…yes, I knew one Marianne Williams."

She took a folded, faded photograph out and presented it. He recognized the vivid smile, the straight nose and the blue eyes he had so dearly loved before the policewoman opened her mouth again. "Born in October, 1988, to late Rose Tremblay and Albert Williams?"

Mariane had said, a long time ago, that her dad was kind of protective. That her mother had died when she was young. That her favorite season was autumn for its colors and her special day.

"Yes." He whispered. He continued before his interlocutor could ask for details. "We were together for a year."

It was her time to pause. When she spoke again, she enunciated every word carefully and finished her sentence with what sounded like a heartfelt sorry. Apparently, Marianne had committed suicide. Pills.

His bandages turned red.

The rest of their conversation drowned in the buzz of his ears. He wanted to snatch the photo away. He heard himself answer her last questions. No, he hadn't known. No, he had had no contact with her since their break up. No.

He assured her one last time that he hadn't met Albert Willimas before. He had a brief relationship with his daughter, but he hadn't seen her in forever. She wanted to know how long was forever. He counted his flings on his fingers until he came to her. Nine years ago, he had left Marianne's pretty smile alone.

She thanked him and patted his shoulder.

His smile quivered.

He finished his testimony, signed some unimportant papers, then assured the policemen he would be fine (Gentlemen, my workplace is one block away. I'll be able to walk. Thank you for your concern.). They reminded him one last time that he would be called to bear witness before they let him go on his merry way.

Alfred needed a drink.

He squinted to find his way to heaven. His knees hurt and buckled under him. People gave him a wide personal bubble. From what he could see of his reflection in shops' windows, he looked like someone had stamped on his face then moped the floor with it. A waste of perfectly good looks and an awesome mask for Halloween. A pity they were in July.

He pushed open the door of his favorite place in the whole world.

"Jones, it's not the happy hour yet- Damn, what the hell happened to you?" His hazy view told him it was his bartender.

Alfred fell on his spot. His stool was still comfortable and the bar still smelled of good cigars and old wood. All was well in the world. He waved his hand. "The usual." A command for a drink as much as a statement.

His life did tend to be unusual.

The bartender went to do his own things, ogling his wounds from time to time. The glass made a clear sound when he put it in front of his customer.

Alfred took a sip. The alcohol burned his throat like it was supposed to. He sighed contentedly.

"Jones," his bartender called from the bar, "do I have to close the door?"

Alfred took another sip. "No. They're not on my tail."

The hazy figure hovered near him. "You sure?"

"Yes. Don't worry. I'll leave before the paparazzi get here."

His bartender chuckled. "It's okay if they come. It'll make some good ads for my pub. I can see it; 'Alfred freaking Jones gets smashed at this small pub. They have some good booze!'"

Alfred raised his glass. "That you do." They laughed together.

Alfred Jones, according to the paparazzi of his city, was the definition of success. An American dream came true.

Alfred tended to believe they held some truth in their weave of lies. He was not egoistical, but his photo ought to be under the definition of success in dictionaries. From nothing, he had attained everything. He would content himself with the Urban dictionary for the moment, but soon, the Merriam-Webster would oblige him. He needed to find some dirty stuff on the president or vice-president and voilà.

Alfred Jones was a patient man. Vice-presidents always had dirty stuff to hide.

In the meantime, he bided his time. He had his hands full with life. Money had such a delightful way of making everything easy and so much more complicated. He had an empire that made old and mighty men quiver in their boots, but he also had to manage it so they would continue to do so and not try something reckless. No one was allowed to make the machine he had so painstakingly built tumble down.

Of course, one of the downside and upside of the wonderful country he lived in, the United States of America, was that money rhymed with power. Power had the terrible habit to give and take many things.

It attracted all sort of people, too. Women and men were ready to sell their mother to have his attention. While swearing their undying loyalty on their kitty's soul, they would backstab him.

Everything combined gave fame, a pesky little thing he would have preferred to live without. Running away from paparazzi in the morning after getting out of his lover's apartment got old too fast. And his daughter always crunched her nose at the news, ready to spit vitriol, only to clamp her mouth in the end.

(His daughter hadn't talked to him during weeks after his last (s)exploit.)

Alfred gulped the rest of his drink. His bartender took the glass and refilled it.

He had already been quite famous when he had met Marianne. He was a self-made man who took the fashion world by storm. Unfortunately, newspapers made more money spewing lies about his steamy marriage and stormy divorce than they did talking about his career. So he had been most known at that time as the terrible husband whose empowered wife had left in the dust for a real man.

Marianne had been sweet and so very young when they had met. Obviously legal, but one of her foot had been in adolescence, with a hand in childhood, and eyes on the brink of adulthood. She had had a head filled with wild dreams and impossible things.

She had had an impressionable mind. Marianne had recoiled when she had understood Alfred Jones and her lover was one person. She wanted something serious. He wanted to take care of his daughter and forget his ex-wife.

She had been the first to say it wouldn't work and leave, in the end. In her opinion, he had been the worst option possible for anything, considering his infamous past.

She was the first to leave the living world, too.

He raised his drink up, a good ol' Bourbon, and observed the way the lights changed its color.

[I'm sorry to disturb you. I know you are a busy man.]

Alfred passed the day away from work, nursing a drink in dirty bandaged hands. His least favorite bartender kicked him out with the threat of calling an ambulance if he didn't go home. He then wandered in dark alleys and bright streets, observing the fauna of his city. He ignored the annoying buzz of his phone as he received more messages. He would deal with that later.

Finally, his feet led him back to his house.

He frowned at the dirty stairs. Ache pulsed in his temple. He glanced at his watch before pushing the door open. Amelia wouldn't be there.

She was.

She was reading a book, little thing tucked on a corner of the couch, headphones on. Her favorite spot. She didn't look up immediately. He made his way to the stairs calmly albeit a bit quicker than necessary. He had to pass the sofa and then she wouldn't be able to see-

"Oh..." A short intake. Amelia had looked up and seen the sorry state of his face.

"What did you do to get that?"

Nothing. He told her as such.

She sent him a look between utter disbelief and outright doubt. "Did you treat it?"

He nodded and took off his jacket. Splashing water on it counted, whatever his doctor would say.

He was going to leave the living room when an object caught his eyes. A pamphlet loitered on the coffee table. He squinted. Bold red lettering decorated it, announcing the name of a boarding school in Minnesota.

His mouth twitched. Amelia covered it with her book jerkily before she looked up. The Ladies' Delight glared at his clenched jaw.

"Dad-" She tried to explain herself.

"Shattuck-St. Mary's School… an Episcopalian School? Really?" He couldn't mask the ridicule in his voice.

She crossed her arms. "What does it matter to you?"

His mouth felt dry. Be an adult. Be an adult. "It matters to me because I'm not going to pay just so you can make a mess of your life outside of this house." His tone was even when he spat those words.

"I won't."

Information he had never wanted to hear or see filled his mind. "You already do."

He couldn't see her face clearly. Instinct told him her doe, doll blue eyes watered ever so slightly at that time. "I'm not!"

Pure acid threatened to spill from her eyes into his heart. "I know everything about your little outings, dear." He forced the words out.

"What- did you, did you follow me again?" She floundered. "You have no right!"

Alfred flinched. "I'm your father."

"You're not!" She cried back.

He clenched and relaxed his jaw several times. He tasted blood. "I am your legal guardian."

Amelia turned back, light brown hair facing him and covering her downcast face. The stairs squeaked under her stamping feet. "And you won't leave this house until college." He asserted.

She had heard him loud and clear, he knew. She had slammed her door hard.

He let himself fall on the couch where she had been peaceful a minute ago.

He massaged his nape. A sigh escaped him. Blood really tasted like shit.

Dear daughter of mine, a crazy old man tried to kill me.

-You're not my father.

It wasn't the first she told him that. It wouldn't be the last. She always said that when she was upset against him. And upset she often was. He wouldn't indulge her every time she wanted something. He had done so when she was younger and she had become impossible. The smallest hint that she wouldn't get her way had made her roll on the ground, crying and yelling.

You're not my real father.

He knew what she was up to when he wasn't home. She could spend days at her friends' house, away from school, spending money on things she didn't need. He had been forced to forbid any uses of his bank account, except in emergencies. She still tried to use his cards sometimes, but she didn't know the password that could let her use them in normal situation. She could only take small amounts out from the 'emergency' account.

Cue to furious fits. She couldn't understand why she couldn't have her own account and enough money to boast to her friends. All of them already had a credit card. All of them could easily feed a family of four during a year with the amount they spent in one measly month.

Alfred knew the value of money. His daughter and her so called friends didn't.

That was one of the reason she had a bodyguard on her heels at all hours. Plus, she went to too many parties and shady places where things could happen. He didn't fancy the idea of having a pregnant teen daughter. On several occasions, Amelia had thrown objects at him, rambling about the fact that her romantic life was none of his business. More like sex life, considering the people and places.

She had the immaturity to throw objects at him and call him names, he had the maturity to protect her. She would have sex when she would be mature enough to understand its consequences. Sex was not something that should be given to everybody, in any places, for any reasons.

Amelia had argued that it wasn't his place to talk.

You're not even my real father.

God... he loved her. He hoped he would still do when he would be old and bald.

[My name is Matthew and I might be your son.]

He texted his girl's bodyguard as he downed his first espresso of the day. Amelia had already left for school without eating breakfast. He had sent a message concerning his wayward daughter's healthy snack; yogurt and fruits, perhaps. Her bodyguard, Something Something, sent back a photo of the two items ready to be delivered to Amelia during her next break three minutes later.

He smiled. Competent people were so easy to like.

He put his head out to glance at his mailbox out of habit, not really expecting anything. Yet there was a white envelope laying there. He put his hand out, cursed the cold that stung his hands and reached inside.

It was a small letter from Canada, Ontario. The maple stamps gave it away before the address did. He weighted it up.

Alfred seldom received ones that weren't about business. Even his mistresses preferred a good tongue-lashing on the phone or tearful promises of forever by text. Alfred thanked God for the wonder that was technology. He could easily ignore a text for days while letters were still problematic. Letters tended to be about important matters.

Taxes. Threats. Love letters.

The holy trinity of his life.

The last billet-doux had been rather inventive. Something about being all alone in Siberia, miles of snow and cold as only companions. Hunting and doing stuff that would have made a pornographic writer fluster. Alfred preferred warmer weather and less angst, thank you very much. He had ditched her soon after.

He opened the letter.

He skimmed through the first sentences, stopped somewhere between the nonexistent niceties and the nuclear bomb someone wanted him to swallow.

He laughed. His laugh bounced on the walls, filled the void and made his eyes cry. A son. Him. Marianne's. Somewhere in Canada.

Such a good joke.

He looked at the address. And threw the letter in the bin.

Alfred left his dwelling with a good slam and stalked to his office. The winds hit his face and reminded him to buy a new winter coat. Men and women swaggered around in their bulky coats, proud to showcase the fact that they were the Michelin Man's half-siblings. He would get time to buy something nice, someday. Or Chan Yu could do it for him… Alfred shook his head at his not-so-genius idea. Better not poke the sleeping dragon. She would choose a neon yellow autumn coat to spite him.

He pushed the glass door of his company open. "Hello, Mister Jones."

He nodded at the receptionist. "Hello, Janine. How do you do? Any good news?"

"Wonderfully! Chan Yu is preparing your espresso." She answered cheerfully. That counted as a good new, he supposed. He sped up to leave the fridge they called a hall. Thrice blessed warmth awaited him in his office. He shook off his jacket and threw it on the floor. The piles of paperworks on the desk and other surfaces demoralized him.

Some people envied his position. Some people had an IQ under minus 100. Movies always exaggerated everything. He hadn't a uselessly big office, a gloomy view on other grey buildings or a coffee machine. People who could wallow in luxury hadn't time to lead a company to success.

The last one had been forced out of his office after his first hallucinations though. Chan Yu's order, not his. What a sad reality. People listened more to his secretary than to him.

At least, he could boast that he had a much better chair than any of his subordinates. He had hand-picked it when Chan Yu's comments about his cracking and aging back became too much to bear. Alfred Jones was not getting old. He was simply becoming more of a gentleman with each passing season.

Mountains of paperwork awaited him, ready to be read and slayed by his mighty pen. Then, he would meet his associates to talk about some urgent matters that weren't serious, woo brands, bargain with companies, meet his designers and hope he would not barf after seeing their new ideas.

In the midst of those, he would find some time to drink one espresso (or four), nap, eat junk and glare at the clock.

He twirled his pen before he opened his laptop. Mails, more mails, and slightly important things to do. To accept his team's demands to have a coffee machine or to refuse yet again, that was the question. Chanel had snatched one of his models for the next season. He needed to either destroy that model's career or annihilate his very existence. Would silk look more American than wool for the new men suits? Some men had petitioned to have the same advantages women enjoyed during their maternity leave. To which some women petitioned against, because men didn't bear children for nine months and didn't need the same amount of days off.

Alfred gave the men a part of what they wanted. More paid leave, more time off to take care of their child if needed. Anymore and it would cost too much. The kindergarten's project was still a hot topic though.

He was not a fan of the idea of children running around his building. Chan Yu argued that they would be imprisoned in a tiny room with workers paid to keep them inside anyway. He would see no toddler drinking his coffee, she claimed. Alfred didn't trust toddlers and even less his secretary's promises on that matter. She turned into poodle every time something cute showed up.

He sagged in his chair and rubbed his hair.

Children could be such an ordeal. Was his company ready for them? Was he ready…?

An insidious thought made his hands tremble. What if…? Unruly fingers typed the address a conman provided. Google maps found a small farm surrounded by lakes, in a part of Canada where every town seemed to be named after a lake. It was in the west where everybody spoke English but knew enough French to sound crazy. Just like Marianne.

Minutes ticked by.

"Boss, here's your espresso."

He glanced up to see his cup of goodness carried by his favorite (and only) secretary. It smelled good. Chan Yu's face twitched when she saw he had not finished his slavery papers. A blank noh mask appeared on her pretty little face and stared at him with soulless eyes. Alfred could feel the bout of nagging coming.

His hand caught the pad of his laptop when he straightened up. He had opened a new tab. Flights. "Chan Yu, clear my appointments." He said slowly, the beginning of a plan forming in his great mind.

Amber eyes narrowed. "For the day?"

He didn't answer immediately. Internet was slow and wouldn't tell him how much time he would need to get there. When the result appeared, he got up and gulped his espresso down. It tasted less bitter than the money he was going to pour down the drain. "For the week."

"Jones." Oh God, he hated when she called him 'Jones'. It sounded like 'you-vulgar-rat' in her mouth. "You're supposed to meet with your stylists. You've been putting that off for days." Somehow, the way she emphasized the last word told her she wasn't happy with him. Again. Yu Chan was one of the only women in their galaxy who could resist his dashing charm.

He shrugged and gave her a wide personal bubble as he passed by her. "Meet them on my stead. Choose something not too ugly. Otherwise our teens might actually see we're selling them atrocities."

He didn't trust the way she gripped his empty cup. Not one bit. His last wound had left a scar on his otherwise perfect face. He didn't want another one. "You have two charity balls and-"

Alfred cut her off. "Go on my stead. You'll be perfect."

Her eyes looked a tiny bit less narrowed. Bingo. She liked compliments after all. "What do I tell your daughter?"

"The usual." He took his jacket and ignored the whispered 'your grandma'. "Away for business. Can't talk until I'm back."

He ran away before she could curse him for real. He was pretty sure her great-great-grandmother had been a witch.

The ride to his house was quick and uneventful. He took a small suitcase, shoved stuff into it and kicked his door open. Just as he fumbled with his keys on the threshold, he remembered the letter. It was where he had thrown it, laying innocently on the top of recyclable trashes. It took it and bade goodbye to his empty house.

The ride to the airport was even less eventful. He had too much time to think.

In the parking lot, Alfred stayed in his car, head against the headrest. He reached for his pocket. He stopped his movement before his hand brushed the soft fabric of his jacket, because there was no damn cigs here. He had stopped smoking years ago.

(The acrid taste of cigs reminded him of better times.)

He searched blindly for his phone. The number he wanted to dial was listed as a 'friend'. According to the phone, he hadn't called that friend in 2 years.

He put the phone near his ear. Three buzes later, a grouchy voice asked him what he wanted. "Hey, Sam. I've got a job for ya."

Katty Perry last 'hit' frazzled his brain through the phone before a ragged voice did. [I am threatening no more people for your sorry ass, Jones.]

"I know. The boys do alright without you, by the way."

Sam chuckled. He turned up the volume of his horrendous song to spit him, Alfred was sure. [That's cuz I trained them. What do you want?]

"Information. Marianne Williams and Matthew Williams."

[I need more than 2 names, idiot. I'm not some miracle worker-]

"A Canadian mother and son duo. She's dead, suicide, and he lives in a host family in Ontario, Canada. He turned 8 on the first of July. She was my ex, 9 years ago."

The song finally stopped and Alfred breathed in relief. Until a Miley Cyrus' song during her twerk period rang in his car. [A stunner with blue eyes and blond hair that happens to be one of your exes? Found them. What do you want? How many men she needed to forget your greatness? I think the count's zero.]

His thumb hovered over the red end call button. He silently considered his options and came to the conclusion that he would call Sam again. That wretched pop-listener would ask for more money because he didn't want to hear low blows about his dead ex. There was an actual reason he hadn't called him in two years, after all. "Everything starting from 10 years ago."

Sam whistled. [Sure. Send the money and you'll get it in two weeks.]

"No." He lightly tapped the wheel, following the beat of his heart. The worn leather was cold under his fingers. "I need it in the next three days."

Sam grumbled under his breath. [It'll cost triple.]

"Get to work."

He swiped left and heard no more quips about his sex life. He unceremoniously threw his phone aside. One thing's done, the rest needed his attention. The conman who lured him better had a good explanation for all the money he was throwing at people.

[My mother's name was Marianne Williams.]

4 hours of flight and 3 good hours of driving later, he was in a town named after a lake, in the middle of wilderness and lakes.

Well, more like in the neighborhood of that town. He had found his base, a small cabin he had rented for a laughable sum. The comfort equaled the rent. He bought some junk-food in the only market for miles and had a troubled sleep through the rest of the day. He blamed the bed; it squeaked with each of his movements.

The owner, a sweet granny who cooked tasty muffins, had the grace to not ask any insensitive questions. His name was now Julian Felice. He was taking some time from the hustle and bustle of the city. He wanted to enjoy the snow and that was it.

She smiled at his reason and pointed him places of interest. She also answered his inquiries.

His address did lead to a farm belonging to a childless couple. They were a host family. 2 boys. A teenager and a young child.

On the second day, Sam played dead. Alfred texted him to remind of his task and edge at the idea of a bonus.

His informant had the grace to read his messages but not to answer.

Alfred was left to stare at his short letter. It answered some questions, asked new ones and opened a can of worms Alfred hadn't dared to poke since his divorce.

Matthew Williams –or whoever wrote the letter- gave details about Marianne. Little things only someone extremely close to her could have known. That little beauty spot in the hollow of her neck or her love for mystery novels, for example. (She had harped about the genius of Agatha Christie so much during one of their outings, Alfred had been jealous.)

Matthew Williams could be his son. An impossible possibility.

Or, more realistically, someone toyed with Alfred for giggles. He would make them pay.

He drove to the other town, the one with actual shops. A small general store still survived next to a small superstore. He dived into the tiny shop. He had gone too many times in the other one to fetch stuff. They had cameras.

The sales assistant ogled at him like he was some sort of alien. Alfred supposed anybody who wasn't a regular ought to be one for such an old shop. He resolutely fixed his gaze on the array of food. He was not guilty of any crimes yet.

The only customer of the shop took enough food to last a week. As he went to pay for the items, he noticed a small polar teddy. It laid Next to the antic cash register. The plastic black beads stared back at him. He passed his hand through the white fur. Fluffy fur licked his palm.

Alfred put it next to his other items and paid for it. It was cute.

Back in the car, he placed it on the passenger's seat. "You're with me now, buddy."

The gloomy light of his car flashed in its plastic eyeballs. Alfred started the engine. "You see, I'm currently in the middle of nowhere because my dead lover might have had a son."

The wheels waded in the snow. "Crazy, right?" He sighed. "I'm not the father, though. I can't be."

The bear didn't answer. Alfred stayed silent after that. Talking to a plush toy wasn't considered sane, even by his standards.

In the end, he drove his rented car in the vicinity of the farm. He could wait in that cold town until Sam decided to move his ass and do some work, or he could fish for information himself.

He surveyed the place. It was a small sized thing, giving off a bucolic feel and no nose crunching smell. The sign read Martin's biological farm. Was the chief of the whole conspiracy a vegetarian, or worst, a vegan? That would be novel. Marvel ought to have a vegan villain. They had one who wielded whips, one not eating meat or honey would not look worse. Destroying humanity to preserve Earth could be a good motive for a vegan villain.

He left his warm car and went to knock on the side door.

A woman his age opened it. "Hello!" He greeted timidly. "Sorry to bother, but I'm lost and my tank's half empty. Could you give me directions…?"

"Oh, of course! Come in." She fully opened the door and let him in. Blessed warmth engulfed him.

Mrs. Martin didn't seem to recognize him. He stood on a black carpet, watching as snow melted on his shoes. She took out a map of the area and showed him the way to his 'destination'.

"So, turn left, and then drive until the town. In front of the church, turn right. It'll take you 1 hour to get there. Do you have enough gas?" She pointed at tiny dots he didn't care about.

He rubbed his hands together in an effort to warm them. "I think so. There's a station there?"

She noticed his action. "You poor thing, what are you doing without gloves?" Yet another woman who mistook his real age thanks to his baby-face.

"I never thought it would be this cold." It wasn't a lie.

She chuckled. "Welcome to Canada." She had noticed his accent then. "Sit down, I'll get you something hot. Coffee or tea?"

He shook the last dreg of snow off his shoes before setting foot on the tiles of her kitchen. He sat on the chair closest to the door. "Coffee, please."

She flew to the counter and turned on the coffee machine. "Sugar? Milk?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. I like it black."

She pulled face, hovering near the fridge. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, thank you."

She served the dark steaming delicacy in a cup and sat in front of him. "For the gas, there's a station there. It's the only one for three towns. Can you imagine that?"

"That sounds terrible."

She nodded, expression serious. "It is; they never have enough. We need to buy it in bulk in the south. Our tractor wouldn't work otherwise."

He sipped and smiled through the tongue burn. "What do you grow?"

"Oh, a lot of different vegetables. Squash, tomatoes, onion, carrots… We are part of an organic cooperative."

Alfred had never had a great interest in farming before. He still asked questions and made an effort to look earnest. Chloe Martin chattered her answers. She peppered her every phrases with information about her town, life and family.

Farming ran in the family. Her husband's had started working the land before Canada became an English's colony. Hers arrived with the wave of Eastern Europeans immigrants who wanted to have a better life in the prairies.

Her eyes wandered one second to the clock. "Oh my, it's almost time. My boys will be back from school soon."

Alfred bared his teeth in a smile. Now. "How many sons do you have?"

"Oh, they're not my sons. I have two little misfits. One is in highschool and the other's in elementary. Abu and Matthew."

Matthew. And Aladdin's sidekick?

Chloe thought he hadn't understood what she had meant. "We are a host family." She informed him. "It's a bit different from foster ones. We take care of troubled kids, try to let them see something good after all the hurt they went through. Most kids who come here are difficult children." She put a certain emphasis on 'difficult'.

Alfred wanted her to elaborate. So he complimented her. "That's admirable."

"Oh, not that much. Abu had a terrible, terrible father and his mother was out of picture. The truly admirable people are the ones who got him out of that household."

Chloe played with her fingers, before linking them. "As for Matthew, that poor child." She shook her head. "There are things children should never live."

Alfred leaned towards her. Thump.

"He found his mother dead on her bed." She said quietly, playing with her wedding ring. Thump. Alfred felt his hair stand. "His only family member alive, his grandfather - he is from Québec- refused to take care of him after her suicide."

Alfred let out a shaky breath. Albert Williams was indeed a crazy bastard.

Chloe smiled, trying to brighten the dampened mood. "Matthew isn't especially bright, but he is loveable. Once, I saw him knock over a chair and then apologize." She laughed softly, like a mother.

He checked his watch; a quarter to 4. He set down his empty cup of coffee and smiled pleasantly. "Thank you for everything. I gotta go. I'm meeting Alfred Jones." He baited her.

Chloe blinked and squinted thoughtfully. "Is he Bertha's cousin?"

No. "I don't know. He is a bit known in New York."

"What does he do?"

I built a fashion empire. "Oh, he's the second best baker of his street. And he also works in an association for the right of bonsai trees. He wanted some time alone in the wilderness to channel his inner tree force, so he came here. The people at the association want him back. He's their driving force."

The woman made a good impression of a gold fish. She snapped out of it rather quickly. "You have quite the interesting friend."

"That I do, ma'am."

He left after that. Her smile was stiff but she didn't act too guarded even after learning he was a loony's friend. He had nothing more to say to her without sounding like a criminal.

He got his information.

Alfred dunked inside his car. Just in time. A brown teen appeared at the corner, arm slung around a neck hidden in a green scarf. Matthew Williams did not look like his alleged mother. He was a slim little thing, and not much aside.

Alfred started the engine and speeded his way out of the scene. The white teddy bear judged him with its unfeeling eyes and cute paws. He threw it in the back.

[She died last winter. My grandfather found you last summer.]

Alfred parked his dingy car in the church's parking. He put his arms on the wheel and rested his chin against his joined hands.

The school's bell rang and kids escaped from its claws to play in the hard snow. They didn't seem to feel the cold that turned his breath white inside the car. Must be humanoids.

Matthew was somewhere in their midst, playing in one of the snow fort. They would stay outside fifteen minutes, plus one minute to line up before marching into the monster's belly. Then they wouldn't get out again before noon.

The bells rang again. Children stumbled and bounced to encircle their teachers.

His stiff back made him move. He rolled his shoulders. His elbow somehow knocked the passenger's headrest away. "Shit." The armrest was the second to fall off. "Damn."

He hopped from the car before he broke anything else. All the kids had disappeared from the yard. He dusted the snow off his rear view mirror. Miraculously, they didn't break or fall off.

He patted the roof and prayed the thing would hold for a few more days. He needed to drive his lemon some more. Leave it in the middle of nowhere and come back on foot to lurk around the school again.

He glanced at his clothes. Changing them before coming back would be a good idea. Dyeing his hair could also be an option. Not wearing his glasses and hunching over to seem older too.

Alfred F. Jones was not a stalker. Never had been in any way or form and never wanted to either. He didn't want to be seen as one. Shadowing a boy, hiding in his car and other incongruous places, eating store-brought junk and acting completely stalkerish did not mean he was one.

He was… passing the time while he waited for the confirmation that Matthew Williams was not his son.

Marianne had been awfully beautiful. Why wouldn't she have had other lovers after him? He would find that boy's father and confront him. What kind of man didn't take care of his own flesh and blood?

Plus, the boy had a beautiful handwriting. The kind children didn't learn anymore in school. And he was kind of cute too. Any father would be proud to have an intelligent, good-looking son.

He got inside the car again. The motor made an interesting sound before it decided it did want to function. He made it safely back to his den. Feeble wi-fi told him Chan Yu was getting angry at his unresponsiveness.

Not my fault. Sorry.

She sent him an emoticon of a glaring old granny. ಹ_ಹ

Alfred hesitated before he typed an answer. I'm almost done.

Her text appeared immediately. Be there for Christmas. ㅎ_ㅎ

The emoticon she chose resembled her noh mask. Shivers ran along his spine. He sagely decided not to text her until he was back in New York.

He scratched his three days old beard. His phone buzzed in his hand. He let out a sigh. Sam had finally answered him.

Alfred had a feeling he knew what it would be about. Marianne had had other lovers after him and Matthew Williams wasn't his. Ah. He didn't have to read Sam's text to know that. A number of people had made it their mission in life to remind that he couldn't have biological children.

He ought to leave that tiny town, forget the golden-haired nine years old boy that couldn't be his and move on. The wise move would be to go back to his incomprehensible daughter, uninteresting women and a career that did not reel him anymore.

His thumb hovered over the screen. Hope was a detestable feeling. He clicked on the text.

A small memo filled with their gabbling recounting 10 years of a woman's life and death. A few sentences described a dull life and a duller death. A short, innocuous sentence at the end answered the question he hadn't asked. Your hidden Dragon met no other crouching Tiger.

Which meant that Sam needed to stop reading wuxia novels and using their distasteful pervy idioms. It also meant; your woman had no other man.

He threw his phone aside.

Matthew Williams.

Matthew Jones.

Alfred ruined his knuckles against the wall.

.

..

...

Helloooooooooooo.

Just wanted to tell you all that I edited the first chapters. Starting from the 4th chapter, I also rewrote certain passages. That's why this chapter took so long to get out. Furthermore, Alfred is a difficult character for me. This chapter was not supposed to be this long... but I wanted to get him right.

On another note, why does Alfred believe he can't have children? Any ideas? Also, I made him a bit out of character for a reason. He learnt this ex killed herself, his relationship with his daughter is complicated (to say the least) and he might have a child and stuff. Life's not easy.

"T'as passé ma fille, […]" You killed my daughter, [insert the worst insults you know]. Alfred misunderstood the meaning of the sentence. His almost killer used Québec's slang. In French, "passer" actually means something close to "move around".

For the French speakers around; au Québec, "passer quelqu'un" est une expression utilisée dans les milieux carcéraux pour parler d'un meurtre.

The Ladies' Delight: One of Émile Zola's books. It's a good read, though it may be a difficult one. It's a bit wordy.

I hope you like nyo!China's cameo in this fic. We will see her again. Also, her 'your grandma' is quite the big insult in China. Insulting one's family is a big no-no there.

Finally, I kinda need a Beta reader. Halp. I actually used the word 'feminazis' a bit out of context. Sorry. Gonna do my walk of shame.