Falling for Crime

Chapter 7

There was something so horrid about that damn new frenchman. Something that pissed Alfred off.

It was labor period. One of the three labor days during the week. Prisoners would be escorted outside where they would be put to hard labor, dirty or clean. It was rough, and for someone as medium-sized as Alfred F. Jones, he usually got assigned the harder, more straining parts of labor period.

He huffed hard, hoisting a bag of bricks over his shoulder. All other prisoners around him worked, either on something straining or easy. He envied those who weren't as physically capable of strenuous labor.

The American looked around. At this moment, Arthur wasn't on duty guarding him and escorting him. It was some Swedish man that honestly scared the hell out of Alfred. There was just something so intimidating about the way he stared down his glasses, watching the Americans every move.

Where was that cute brit, anyway?

Alfred kept looking around, trying to find any source of Arthur. He watched along the line of guards as prisoners shifted around him, not spotting the british man along the mass of authority. He saw some familiar faces, but other than that, nothing.

Giving a hushed sigh, he started to saunter off, bricks on his shoulders and eyes still on the line of guards.

He sharply bumped into someone, the momentum enough to knock the bag out of his grasp.

"Watch it, broshinki! I'm carrying water here!" A blonde prisoner growled slightly, buckets of water hoisted on his shoulders. Alfred huffed slightly, reaching to pick up his bag again.

"I was watching it," Alfred snarked, hoisting the bag back over his shoulder. "Maybe you shouldn't shove people out of your way."

The perky-haired blonde towered over him, glaring. Alfred shuddered at the taller one. "What did you say?"

"Uh," Alfred gave a sheepish smile, feeling himself sweat slightly. "Nothing! Carry on, my man." He gave a small awkward laugh, watching as the Danish man sauntered off, grumbling something about 'stupid American prisoners' in Danish.

"Hey! What are you standing around for?!" An authority voice yelled at Alfred from across the field, "Get moving, good-for-nothing!"

Alfred gulped and huffed, adjusting the bag before making his way around the stone wall corner and towards where U.N. stored their construction. As he turned the corner, he spotted that oh-so familiar and lovable mess of blonde hair, watching over another prisoner with longer blonde hair tied in a ponytail.

A small pang of jealousy hit Alfred as he continued to his destination, gulping as he sauntered past Arthur and prisoner 11203. It was like Arthur didn't even notice the American, and Alfred knew it was for a good reason. He had to keep it secret. Keep it secret.

But yet....the way Arthur stared down the french prisoner, the way Kirkland never took his eyes off of him. Alfred seethed with confusing jealousy, sharply turning his flushed face away to quickly pace over to the giant cartload of bricks, concrete and other construction materials. He didn't even feel the weight of the bricks anymore, jealousy heating to irrational anger. But why was he so angry? He knew Arthur had to watch the pervert, and the Brit even complained about the frenchman to him. Damnit, Arthur was his. Both of them knew that. Alfred just couldn't control his jealousy.

He easily boosted the bag to dump the concrete bricks into the cartload, giving slight murmurs of irritation. Mostly at himself, but partially at the frenchman. He'd beat that dirty mans face in before he let him steal Arthur's heart.

No. No. That wasn't necessary. That's irrational. Everything about that was irrational. Breathe. Arthur wants you.

Giving a slightly stressed sigh, Alfred tucked the now empty bag under his shoulder, turning back and around the corner.