Trial By Fire

Chapter 2, Artie

Just what had Alfred agreed to? He had never planned on getting involved in something that could, and would, kill him. It was like studying abroad in Russia all over again. He had not expected nearly what he had gone through then, but at least he had survived. Now he was facing yet another situation with his life at stake. Why did death love him so much anyway? Could it really not wait until his time was up? He was beginning to think that he was meant to be a high stakes gambler instead of a web designer, forever living on the edge. Being a chef was nowhere even near consideration, and yet that was how he would be spending his days apparently. He had not even been fired for his little exit stunt. In fact, it apparently convinced Francis that he had been the absolute best choice for the job when he had finally recovered from his laughing fit. Even Matthew had thought his first day had gone rather well considering. It almost made Alfred force feed them the "scone" that he had taken away from Arthur's house. That had been his original intention anyway and Francis had still been in danger when Alfred decided that he would not have had the heart to kill his own brother. In the end, he had decided to keep it as a trophy of sorts. If nothing else, he could observe how it decayed, if it even did. How would he know? He did not know anything about magic, if it even existed. He had been leaning more to the side that Arthur was an alien, or at least an alien experiment, now that he had calmed down. Now that is science for you.

Speaking of Arthur, even if Francis was plenty pleased there was no doubt in Alfred's mind that he wanted him fired. After all, he had thrown away the prideful man's "scones" right in front of him and told him to eat his real ones instead. Arthur was bound to be used to a variety of insults and other responses, but this may have very well been near the top of the scale. Alfred had always been known to be quite blunt when he wanted to be and that did not always carry over very well, especially to those that were used to his golden tongue. Now if only those same people stuck around for a tongue lashing, then they would they have felt the full power of his linguistic spectrum. Of course, there was a reason that they did not, and he feared that Arthur should have been among them. Needless to say, he was not looking forward to going back. In spite of that, it was more because of Arthur's unpredictability rather than anything else. That had been the one thing ingrained into his head by Francis and Matthew, after all. He himself had even expected that the food itself would have driven him away if it was as bad as Francis had said. His conclusion: Francis had a wimpy stomach and nothing ingestible could kill him after his stint in Russia.

As strange as it was, Alfred had not even gotten mildly sick. Sure, he could feel it in the pit of his stomach and then seeping throughout his entire body, which was strange, but he certainly was not hindered. If anything, he got his work as a web designer done for the day incredibly early and got to goof off. Now that he thought about it, neither the taste nor the smell had really been enough to deter him either. He had not even really wanted to think about the smell in the moment, but there had most definitely been a pungent odor. It was one of those scents that would stick to everything forever, like when someone died, and it made him wonder how exactly Arthur had gotten by without having it in every nook and cranny of the house. Regardless, both it and the taste were completely new levels of bad, but they would not kill him. He had never been much of a lightweight, but Arthur's cooking might have gotten to him in the days before studying abroad, which had changed him—to grading things' tolerability on whether it could kill him or not. He was not sure whether he should be grateful or not for all the things he had been through there. Oh great, he was starting to have flashbacks again.

Memories of trauma or not, Francis had been able to give him one piece of comforting news at least: the tea was safe. Neither of them knew exactly how, but they assumed it had to do with the fact that he never touched the tea leaves directly, merely with utensils, until he drank it. Regardless, the tea at least had never poisoned anyone. After watching Arthur cook merely one time Francis had hired a private investigator to confirm it before he drank a cup himself. That said, he still did not consume anything related to Arthur when he could avoid it on the off chance. Alfred figured that he might as well take up that policy. Even if that one bite had not done the damage it had done to others the last thing he wanted to do was pile on the toxins. He doubted his system could get rid of them quick enough to save himself. Whether or not he was ordinary or extraordinary, he certainly was not stupid. Far from it actually. In the wake of everything that had happened, he more or less had two options: he could quit and suffer from whatever tantrum Matthew would throw or he could show up the next day at Arthur's home and begin that life as a high stakes gambler that he had been thinking about. As smart as he was, no matter what scenario he could imagine he would rather face the grim reaper and his purple cooking than Matthew throwing a tantrum. You could call him a glutton for punishment or say that his priorities were skewed, he supposed, but until you were the overachieving, younger twin brother of one Matthew Williams you cannot really judge.

Of course, it was already said that he was not stupid: he had a plan. A very basic one, but a plan nonetheless. That was if he could even get in the front door, though. Chances were that he would need two plans, one to deal with the cooking and the other to deal with Arthur himself. The former he was perfectly fine with at the moment, but the latter—well, he was not so sure so sure his golden tongue could smooth everything over this round, not without injury at least. He expected said injury would be being "treated" to a "meal" and having to power through it to gain forgiveness. The only problem with that is that he had resolved not to ingest anymore toxins until he had observed the affects it was already having on his body. And the one thing he was probably above all else was stubborn. That was simply not an option.

With all of that fresh in his mind, he arrived at Arthur's home the next day, early no less. Earlier than the day before at least. He may not have had to stay here all day every day, but he did have to prepare three meals and possibly a snack per day. That had been the main part of his job anyway, feeding his employer edible things so he would not eat inedible things. Francis would have been more than fine if he abandoned the teaching guise altogether so long as Arthur was kept away from their customers, but that was Francis's problem because Alfred had enough of his own. Such as his reluctance to knock on the door, even worse than the first day. Maybe if he was lucky enough he would catch Arthur off guard and not have to deal with a knife at his throat first thing in the morning. He was expecting his appearance at any time during a twenty four hour span, after all, even if common sense dictated that the earlier the better for this kind of thing. Well, common sense had also dictated that he should not have taken a bite of the "scone," but he did that, too. He could swing it. He only allowed himself the time it took to deliver three sharp knocks to the wooden door before jumping back to a more comfortable distance. He had been serious about the knife.

He did not even have a moment to spare as he heard shuffling and muttering something reminiscent of, "The b-bloody—He came back!"

Well that was reassuring.

"Yes, Arthur. I came back." Alfred confirmed without being able to suppress the following sigh, "I made a promise with Francis and I intend to keep it. He is really worried about you, you know? Now let me in."

Arthur took his sweet time, but he did indeed open the door, wearing a skeptical look the entire time. It was even tinged with a bit of shock, but nothing like the day before. He was so entranced with whatever thoughts that made him make such a face that he just stood in the doorway blocking Alfred's path. Alfred had half the mind to let him.

"Y-you…"

Alfred's ears perked. It was the same hesitance from the day before even if his look stayed the same.

"You are not… S-sick, are you?"

As soon as the words left Arthur's lips a blush devoured his face and eye contact was no longer possible. It was most definitely the same as before. And it cracked Alfred up. He had to do everything he could possibly think of to swallow down his rising laughter. This was just too much! Arthur may have been in denial, but thank goodness he was not stupid. Apparently even he realized that Alfred should have either been in the hospital or the grave one after his rite of passage yesterday and it gave him as much hope as it did despair. On one hand, he deep down realized that he had a problem. On the other, he was either too delusional or cared too little about others' lives to deal with that problem. Oh, the irony of his present meekness. He was a biohazard waiting to happen and Alfred was on the front line. The more he thought about it the harder it became to hold in the crippling laughter.

"N-no, Arthur. I am perfectly healthy, despite all odds." Alfred assured as smoothly as possible, flashing a cheeky but genuine grin, "But that little stunt of mine yesterday is a secret between you and me. Who knows what Francis would do if he thought I had immunity."

He had a point, Arthur knew, but Alfred had ignored one thing: what was Arthur supposed to do if he thought the man had immunity? That had been an ability solely his own for the longest time. Just seeing Alfred take a bite yesterday had floored him beyond belief. Most people would not get anywhere near his food, claiming that something was "off" about it. He had tried his hardest to figure out what exactly that was. Sometimes the color did not match his reference pictures and sometimes it would burn a little. Those were the most common things, yet he had been assured on several occasions that if that had been all it would not have been nearly so bad. To this day people could not explain what so wrong with the appearance of his culinary art and even fewer could remember enough to tell him what was so wrong with the taste. Yet here was a man, not only a survivor, but in perfect health when he was a taste tester just yesterday. If anyone could explain it to him it would him. He was so desperate for that knowledge that he would even be willing to forgive his obvious insults at his cooking capability. Even if he was doing something wrong, as long as he fixed it he could very well be the best chef the world had ever seen.

"Alfred." Arthur began, all former meekness fading away into a stern seriousness, "A promise you made with that frog is no concern of mine, but I will admit that I may have been too quick to dismiss you yesterday. I am not blind. I realize that I have to be doing something wrong, but no matter how many people watch me or taste my cooking no one can tell me what that is. If that is not a need to get more people to try it than I do not know what is because without that I can never fix it. You are bound to know yourself that discoloration and smoke do not necessarily mean the food is bad, so why is it? I memorized techniques, recipes, and ingredient properties alike. I know how to cook. So I do not need you to be a teacher as Francis insists, but if you can stomach what I make you may very well be the only person that can tell me what I am doing wrong. Because of that I will be willing to forgive and forget any transgressions from yesterday in favor of our partnership. You said we would work through this and I am willing to see it through. Are you?"

Alfred had not expected him to be nearly so blunt about it. The determination burning in Arthur's emerald eyes only served to bolster his surprise. Maybe this man was a little more reasonable than everyone gave him credit for, Alfred included. He could not exactly argue with needing more people for his deadly survey, but a line had to be drawn somewhere. Alfred supposed that was his job now. No more innocent people would suffer on his watch. Still, that did not mean he was confident he could help Arthur. For one, yesterday he had been convinced of the supernatural at first and he was still hanging on to the alien theory with every fiber of his being. What Arthur was "doing wrong" may not have so much to do with what he was actually doing and have more to do with Arthur himself. Alfred was not so sure he was ready to accept that, which was probably the source of the denial in the first place. In light of that, there was probably only one thing Alfred could do for Arthur, and that was to be his stubborn old skeptic self that would come up with any plan possible to find a scientific explanation. He could do that.

"Of course, Arthur!" Alfred cheered, "But I do have one condition."

A mischievous smile broke across his lips as Arthur went rigid, "Name it."

"You shall forever be 'Artie' instead of 'Arthur.' It gets to be quite a mouthful." Alfred chuckled, not noticing a certain someone's blush returning, "Now let me in already if you agree. I really am going to end up sick if you keep me out here."

If nothing else, Alfred did not get sick that day.