Love for Sale

Atticus, suffice to say, was not having a good day.
If it had just been the lawnmower breaking, it might have been fine. If it had just been the dog tracking mud across the freshly mopped floor, it might have been fine. Or if it had been the invasion of mice, or the car not starting, or having his flowers eaten by something (might have been rabbits. They will die), or blowing the back tire on his bike, or even accidentally locking himself out and having to break in through a window, it might have been fine. Well, maybe not fine. Tolerable, at least.
Atticus was not even having a tolerable day.
The small man projected a cloud of sheer frustration as he walked down the town's main street, so much so that passersby were consciously avoiding him. His fists clenched around two grocery bags filled with canned food and spaghetti (as he'd never managed to cook much else on the fickle gas stove of the little house, even after three years of trying) and the glower on his face was not offset in the least by Ben's three-year-old backpack that he'd been forced to borrow, which featured, much to both his and his charge's embarrassment, glow in the dark dinosaurs. The backpack had been full of overdue library books, was currently full of the third bag of cans, and in a moment would be full of thirty pounds of dog food, which had been eaten that morning by the mice.
He rounded the corner and stared down the block, realizing, almost too late, that he would have to walk directly by the barbershop. He turned around. An extra two blocks was not what he needed right now, but better than having to deal with Eugene.
To top it all off, the pet store was run by one of the most helpful, cheerful people Atticus knew, one Miles Chase. This of course meant that Miles was also one of the most annoying people Atticus knew. He didn't try to be, to be sure. He just was. And Atticus had no intentions of spending any longer in that shop than was physically possible.
The brightly painted windows fast approached as Atticus rounded the final corner, featuring a giant chameleon with its eyes pointed two different ways, along with some colorful birds in the foliage of a green jungle, aka series of giant leaves. “Sale on all cats and kittens!” it said, in total disregard of logical correlation. “These prices will disappear fast!” He stared disapprovingly at the big orange letters the size of his face. “Come in today!”
With a sigh, he set down the two bags of cans on the bench outside, along with the third from the backpack, and stepped in. The door jingled merrily as he stepped onto the smooth tile, glancing around for the shop's proprietor. Not in at the moment, thank goodness. He walked hurriedly to the back of the store where the bags of food were kept, ignoring the chatter of the budgies and the odd glance of the snake. The resident parrot that nobody wanted politely said “hello,” as he passed. He ignored it.
“Hey there!” Atticus flinched as Miles walked up from behind him. “How's it going?”
“Fine, thank you.” The older man turned, almost mechanically, to face the shopkeeper.
“How's Dragon doing? Still running you ragged?” Miles stopped a few feet away, smiling cheerfully.
Atticus made a rather forced. attempt at smiling back. “She's fine, thank you. I need dog food.”
“Oh, well, you know where that is! We've gotten some new stuff in that you might like to try though.. Or she might like to try, rather.” The younger man laughed. “Unless you're not telling me something.”
“What we've been getting is fine, thank you.” Atticus turned back to the shelf of dog food, trying to find a size of bag that would fit in the small backpack. “Yellow bag, yellow bag...” he muttered. Behind him, Miles turned to the rack of empty animal spaces that were normally used to house the strays people brought in to the adjoining clinic's humane society, and opened one of the little doors. Atticus ignored him mostly, watching out of the corner of his eye as Miles reached in and pulled out a tiny white ball of fur. The little ball stretched, and yawned, and as Miles massaged it with gentle hands, it opened its eyes and looked up. Atticus found that he was rather unabashedly staring, and quickly looked away.
“She's a stray.” Miles was more observant than Atticus gave him credit for. “She and her brother were found last week under someones deck. They said that the mother was hit by a car.”
“Is that so.” Atticus tried not to look back at the kitten again, and failed rather miserably. “What's her name?”
“Doesn't have one yet.” Miles rubbed the cat's ear gently, and she purred. “Do you want to hold her?”
“I, uh...” Atticus looked away, then sighed. “Well... why not.” He took a few steps over to Miles, and the younger man carefully deposited the kitten in his palm.
“Careful not to drop her. She's fragile.” Miles reached into the box and lifted out the other kitten, a little black one.
“She's beautiful.” Atticus held the kitten up near his face, and watched her as she examined him with brilliant green eyes. He was shocked to be able to feel her heartbeat through his hands. “And neither of them have names?”
“Well, they're not very old.” Miles carried the other one over to the register and set him down on a towel as he pulled a bottle of milk from behind the counter. “Only about four weeks, we think.”
“...What is that in cat age?” Atticus followed him over, still carrying the white one.
“Definitely not ready to leave their mother.” Miles held the milk away from the cat, and watched as it struggled to stand and move towards the bottle. “They can walk, barely, and they're about ready to start eating solid food, though they'll make a mess about it. Not litterbox trained, yet. And of course,” he said, as the little black one toppled over. “Their balance will be off until their tails become flexible.” He let the black one get it's feet under it again, and it once again started moving towards the food bottle.
“Goodness.” Atticus examined the little cat in his hands. “So basically, they're not cats yet.”
“Well,” Miles shrugged. “No, not really. But see her eyes?” He barely paused before continuing. “They're developing their permanent eye color right now. That one actually seems to be almost done; it hasn't changed at all over the past few days. That's the color her eyes will be for the rest of her life.”
Atticus went a long moment without saying anything, gray eyes roaming from white kitten to black kitten to brilliant green eyes that stared up at him, until the little bundle of fur in his hands started purring.
“...That sale you have on cats.” He never once looked at Miles as he spoke. “Do these two count?”
“You don't want to wait until they're a little bigger?” Miles finally let the black one get the bottle. “They'll make a mess.”
“I know.”
“They'll take a lot of looking after.”
“I figured.”
“You know...” Miles looked up at him, carefully. “Kittens need a lot of love.”
Atticus met his gaze with steel resolve, softened by a genuine smile. “I know.”
“Then yes.” Miles returned the smile. “They count.”
Atticus left the shop having a considerably better day than when he'd gone in.
After all, he'd never been able to say no to a sale.

Gym

Atticus stared increduloulsy at the high school's office secretary. “You want me to do what?
“Teach gym.” She fidgeted. “Just for today! I know you can't do it every day, but Mr. Clemmence finally agreed to go see a doctor about his... um...” she coughed. “And Mr Meeps is already teaching history, and nobody else could come in...”
“And so you're flagging down random people on the street?”
“Well, I was gonna go to the temp agency, but I've heard Mr Clemmence talking about you before, Mr. Knott, and so I just figured...”
Atticus set his grocry bags on the sidewalk and crossed his arms. “I doubt Mr. Clemmence has been saying anything even remotely resembling a reccomendation.”
“Well, no, but please sir, the first class starts in fifteen minutes and nobody else is available, not even Gabe cause some kid threw up in the bleachers, and I have to watch the study hall and the only other person that could do it is Ms Knockings, and that just doesn't work, sir!”
Atticus tried to picture the small, stern woman trying to coach a group of highschoolers, and failed. “But... don't you need background checks or something?” he protested weakly.
“No time! Just don't shoot anyone and we're good.” She grabbed his arm, and his groceries, and dragged him into the school, something that if he'd been at all in doubt of her intentions would've gotten her shot. Two minutes later, he was standing in the large gym, staring at the ceiling and wondering how exactly he'd gotten here. He sighed visibly.
“Well, what exactly am I supposed to do now?”
“Well, I'd recommend changing into tennis shoes, at least.” The door of the janitor's closet opened, and a blonde head popped out. “You're gonna have some trouble in loafers.”
Atticus jumped back, startled. “And you are?”
“Gabe. Gabe Stonewood. I'm the janitor around these parts.” He tipped his blue box cap to one side respectfully. “I take it you're the famous 'infernal brit'?”
“That would be me, yes,” he replied as he looked the younger man up and down. Tall, blonde, blue eyes. Ben could probably disguise as him fairly well, if he ever had to. “Any idea as to what I'm supposed to be doing here?”
“Well, if I overheard correctly, teaching gym. Good luck with that.”
“Well, yes, but what exactly does that...”
“Laps, pushups, whatever.” Gabe shrugged. “Mostly just yell at them.”
“Yell at them. Oh, joy.” Atticus turned his gaze back to the empty basketball court, wracking his brain for an activity that could entertain sixteen high school boys for an hour, especially given most of them were significantly larger than him. “I don't suppose you could teach gym, and I could go clean the...”
“Nope!” Gabe grinned. “I've got a date with the bleachers. I'm happy to leave the hard job to you.” He watched cooly as the first of the students made their way through the double doors at the far end of the gym. “Careful. I've heard they can sense fear.” With a chuckle, he picked up his bucket and started walking away.
He was a little surprised to find himself unable to move. The smaller man had some kind of nerve grip on the back of his neck, and his whole body was tingling.
“Um.”
“Sorry. Getting your attention.” Atticus wasn't even looking at him, just staring at the students congregeating at the other end of the room with a look in his eyes that would've sent anyone who knew Atticus running. “I need your help for one last thing.”
“Speak, o master, and I shall obey,” the blonde quipped as Atticus let go of his neck.
“Unroll that wrestling mat.”

The boys were milling around near the locker room when Atticus finally approached them. “Right. Get changed, you lot.”
One of the football players spat on the ground. “What do you want, Brit?”
“Where's Mr. Clemmence?” another asked.
“Does it matter?” Atticus's voice had an edge like a knife. “Get. Changed.”
The football player, a huge boy almost a head taller than Atticus and twice as thick, stepped up. “We don't take orders from you.”
“Well, then, I suppose you'd like to run twenty laps without changing.” Atticus's glare spoke volumes. “Get moving.”
The boy didn't move.
“I said...”
“We heard you, brit.” The boy glared. “Mr. Clemmence warned us about you.”
“Oh, did he.” Atticus stared at the boy for a minute before he broke into a wide smile. “Well, if you don't want to get changed, I can't make you. Follow me, then, boys.” He waved them to follow them as he walked back to his original end of the gym. They followed, bewildered at this sudden change of attitude. The football player who'd stood him down puffed his chest out like an overblown turky as he walked, reveling in this newfound power.
The small man stopped at the edge of the wrestling mat, kicked off his shoes, and stepped onto it. “Ok, here's the deal. I'm just an old guy, and a tiny one at that, right?” There were a few reluctant nods, with some of the brighter bulbs wondering where this was going. “So if any one of you can pin me down, you have the rest of the class to do what you want.” He spread his arms, letting the whole class see just how skinny he actually was. “Shouldn't be too hard, right?”
The class murmured for a moment before one of them stepped up, a boy that Atticus vaguely remembered as someone Ben had talked about, somebody Johnson. Tristan? “I think I can do it.”
“Ten laps if you can't.” Atticus held out his hand to shake on it. “Agreed?”
“Fine.” The boy took his place across from Atticus on the mat, assuming what he thought was a proper fighting position. Atticus barely shifted his feet. Gabe watched them from atop the bleachers.
“Whenever you're ready.”
The boy lunged at him, and it was over almost before it began. Atticus whirled out of the way, barely tapped the boy's knee in the right place, and had him on the ground before he fully realized what had happened.
“One. Two. Three.” The brit calmly counted off. “Don't rush your opponent like that. I win. Go get changed and start running.”
The boy stared up at him in shock for a moment, then dumbly went and did as he was told. His classmates hooted at him as he left, and Atticus dusted off his nice slacks before he turned back to them.
“Who's next?”
There was a sudden silence. Then the football player stepped up. “Let's see how you do against a real man,” he muttered as he took his place. “He's a wimp anyway.”
“Fine.” Atticus shrugged as he moved into position. “Sometime today, please.”
The boy swung for Atticus' head, and he stepped back neatly. The boy didn't overbalance nearly as much as he'd hoped, and almost managed to make a recovery before Atticus wound up behind him.
“You're moving your torso too much. Try that again.” The boy obliged, Atticus dodged, and tripped him neatly. “One, two...” The boy sprung back to his feet. “Oh, you're still up!” Atticus dodged another fist. “Don't lock your knees. Move your feet! Oh, for goodness sake.” He caught the boy's arm as he tried to hit him again, pulled his fist apart, and put his thumb on the outside. “Are you trying to hurt yourself? Try that again.” He almost touched Atticus that time. “Much better, but...” he quicly ducked under the boy's arm, and with a simple push the boy was on the ground again. “One...” he jumped back to avoid the kick. “Oh, finally using your feet, I see!”
The other boys were cheering their compatriot on, forming a ring around the wrestling mat. Gabe was laughing hysterically. Atticus smiled brightly as the football player scrambled to his feet. “Well, you're pretty good, I'll give you that, but let's give someone else a turn, shall we?” He dropped quickly, sweeping the boy's feet out from under him, then put one hand hard on his shoulder. “One, two, three. I told you not to lock your knees.”
Atticus smiled. The boy glared.
And then he got up and walked slowly to the locker rooms.
“Alright,” said Atticus, stretching, “Who's next?”
Forteen hands shot into the air, amid shouts.
“Right. You lot would probably stand a better chance if you changed first, right?”
The rush for the locker room was overwhelming. Atticus just smiled.
“How the heck?” Gabe dropped down from the bleachers with his bucket. “I thought you were gonna get creamed.”
“I know some tricks.” Atticus didn't look at him.
“You think you could teach me some?”
“You think you could beat me?”
“Never hurts to try.” Gabe put down his bucket and stepped onto the mat.
“Oh, I beg to differ.” For a moment, the small man looked genuinely scary.
And Gabe really hated to admit that he was right.

Leaks

Atticus awoke sharply to a particularly loud crack of thunder. It was a sound that he was beginning to get used to, but forty years of sleeping with both ears open made the habit hard to break. He glanced at the red numbers on the little digital clock he'd bought for himself the day before, and sighed. 4:30. Could be worse.
He groaned as he sat up, rubbing his eyes wearily. Another bolt illuminated his sparsely-furnished room, with the still packed up boxes stacked tall in one corner and two empty bookshelves standing next to the door like sentinals. A thin coating of dust still lay on the dual windowsills, from the house's long emptiness before they'd moved in. Atticus resolved to clean as soon as he had the time, or sometime eventually, at least.
The long downstairs hallway of the brick house was empty. He moved along it silently, headed for the kitchen. A soft clicking greeted him as he made his way in, and a wet nose shoved itself against his hand. The dog was trembling, scared stiff of the thunder. He scratched her soft ears and made a comforting noise, which sounded so strange coming from his own throat. The lightning flashed again, and Dragon dashed back under the table. She cowered in her dog bed, and Atticus sighed. He was no good at this comforting thing.
He flicked on the kitchen light, and moved to the sink. The dishes from all three day they'd been there were piled in the sink, and takeout containers overflowed from the white trash bin. He vaguely considered starting breakfast, but then realized that they were out of eggs, and the toaster hadn't been unpacked yet, and the diner wouldn't be open for another half-hour, at least. The dog's wet nose found his hand again, and he scratched her almost subconciously, mulling over the situation.
He wondered if Ben would mind leftover pizza for breakfast. Probably not, come to think of it.
Another crash of thunder sent the golden retriever skittering under the table again, and Atticus wondered how Ben was doing. The boy had been doing better, as far as he could tell, but an illness like this could reverse in a moment. He sighed, and headed upstairs to check on the boy.
The old wooden stairs creaked wearily as Atticus went up. The second door on the left was cracked open, and the orange night-light shone through like a beacon. Atticus pushed it open with all the quietness of a man who's long known how to move unheard, and stepped in.
He made slightly more noise when he nearly fell on his face. He cursed under his breath, and warily let go of his death grip on the doorframe. Water. There was water all over the floor. A quick glance upwards told him why as a water droplet hit him in the face
The roof was leaking. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his nightshirt, barely refraining from cursing again. Bloody American craftsmanship! And in the one place in the house where it actually mattered! Ben needed dry air, for...
Ben. He glanced over at the bed, and was relieved to see his young charge still sleeping. The twelve year old's small frame was twisted all around the blue-checked bedspread, and both of his pillows had somehow migrated to the floor. But he was still breathing, and still sleeping, and that's what mattered at the moment. The two de-humidifiers next to his bed were both still functioning, though the puddle was beginning to reach the one on the far edge. Another drip hit him in the back of the head, startling him. He sighed, and went back downstairs.
He wasn't entirely sure if they'd unpacked a bucket, or if there even was a bucket to unpack. Atticus eventually grabbed his tea kettle off the stove and a towel out of the downstairs bathroom and creaked his way back up the stairs.
Benjamin almost stirred this time as another huge flash of lighting broke the sky. He twisted another rotation, wrapping his bedspread more tightly around himself. He mumbled something as Atticus set down the tea kettle where he thought the drip was. One of Ben's feet was sticking out from under the covers now, and Atticus almost smiled. And then another drip hit him in the shoulder. The smile vanished, and he went back downstairs.
He returned this time with the frying pan. The dog followed him upstairs, tail tucked between her legs. She slid across the wet floor, suprise and fear painted on her face. He rubbed her head again as Ben flopped one arm out, still sleeping, looking for his pillow. Atticus handed it to him, and in a moment the boy was still again.
And then the splash of water in the puddle hit his ankle, and he knew there was a third leak.
All he could find this time was a teacup. By this time, the kettle was beginning to get full, and the dog smelled wet, and there was a fourth leak somewhere, he was quite sure of it, because a full half of the ceiling was shining with water at this point, and he went downstairs to get another teacup.
Nearly half an hour and his full tea set, two cocoa mugs, a couple of dirty glasses and a cereal bowl later, Atticus sat on the now-mostly-dry floor, leaning against the annoyingly-damp wooden door and staring at the absurdly-wet ceiling and feeling almost helpless. Ben had started coughing, and no matter how many times he emptied the teacups, the room wasn't getting any drier. The dog picked it's way through the teacup maze on the floor, headed for the closet as lightning flashed again, and in a panic Dragon knocked two of them over. Atticus sighed, and grabbed another towel from the pile he'd set outside the door. He hadn't felt this frustrated since... well, for a very long time.
He didn't know why this was bothering him. He'd stayed in leaking houses hundreds of times, many times worse than this. It barely crossed his mind anymore; if it didn't mess with his mission, it didn't matter. He'd always been able to deal with it himself. Why was this different?
He threw the wet towel at the bathroom across the hall and stared upwards. He was retired now. The mission wasn't what mattered anymore; he knew that. He'd spent the past year trying to convince himself of that, but forty years is a heavy weight to shake off.
Lightning flashed. Ben coughed. The dog wimpered, and Atticus swore under his breath. Bloody rain, bloody leak, bloody retirement. He wasn't himself without a mission.
Or maybe he was himself, and he had yet to figure out what that looked like.
He sat back, taking stock. Who was Atticus Knott? Not a spy anymore, not a retiree, technically, not even who he'd told them he was. Just an old man who'd spent his life learning what to do in situations that he would never encounter again. He didn't even have a family anymore.
He sat in silence for a moment, listening to the rain hitting the roof and the drips falling into the teacups, and thunder rolled in the distance, and Ben was breathing softly, with the same sick rasp to his voice that had brought them both to America, and to this bloody leaking house. This bloody leaking house that was going to keep him sick, with this bloody rain that had followed them all the way from England and this whole bloody situation, and Atticus wished that he just had to steal someone's briefcase so it would be over, and he could get on with the next bloody mission.
And then it hit him.
Ben. Ben was his mission. He was in another country, in a leaking house, with unknowns on every side and the odds against him, and he had an objective and a base and a full town to recon and two people to report to and quite possibly some enemies. And maybe, he barely thought, he did have a family, kind of. He twisted his ring around unconciously as he mulled it over.
And quite suddenly, he was alright.
“Alright.” He stood, stepping around the near-overflowing teacups to pick up his twelve year old charge. “Come on, Ben, we're going downstairs.”