Chapter Text
Every well-designed wine flight should tell a story. Indeed, that may be sound advice for any host attempting to craft a menu which does not bore their guests to tears.
-The Land and Food We Live On, by Sonya Roy
"Remember, don't stand directly underneath the giant radish," Arthur says.
"I've kinda had a weird life," Krystyl says. "But that's still a pretty strange thing to hear."
"I'm serious." Arthur casts a distrustful eye across the grassy field to where a huddle of reporters are milling around. Directly in front of them is the makeshift stage—that is, a large tarp on the ground—along with a table outfitted with microphones and speakers. Looming behind the table is a thirty-foot-tall balloon shaped like a radish and stamped with the words 'Kao o Taberu Hito' which, from what he's been told, is the name of the energy drink sponsoring the charity event this press conference is for. The charity itself doesn't seem particularly well-organized, which is unfortunate but fairly typical; the nicest things set out on this field are the corporate-sponsor branded equipment and swag. "I don't think that balloon's been properly secured. If it topples, it could seriously injure someone."
"I know it's your job to worry about me, but I'm pretty sure I can outrun a falling radish-balloon." Krystyl smiles. "I'm gonna be fine, Arthur."
Arthur's guarded a lot of people in the six years he's been doing this. These days, it's mostly entertainment types like singers and actors, who often need more protection from themselves than from anybody else. When he first got offered the job to guard a fifteen-year-old country singer, the first thing he'd said was, hell no, and then, there's a phrase for people who agree to be bodyguards for child stars: idiots who get fired after the kid's first DUI.
But six months later and here he is, looking out for a B-list singer who's been touring so long she doesn't know what the inside of a school looks like first-hand. And surprisingly enough, it hasn't been so bad. No worse than some of the other people Arthur's had to protect, anyway.
"They put too much makeup on you again," Arthur says, changing the subject. "You don't need all that stuff on your face."
"It looks better from far away, which is the distance they'll be taking photographs of me from," she says, looking and sounding far too old for her age. Her expression softens into a crooked smile—a genuine one, not the professionally smooth one she's always making in the mirror. "Thanks, though."
One of the event coordinators calls Krystyl's name, and Arthur watches her walk to the table, taking a seat at the far end. Overhead, the radish sways in the breeze, and he frowns.
* * * * *
An hour passes, Krystyl answering the reporters' questions about the charity and why it's so important to her with a candor and ease that seems natural, but is really the product of painstaking practice. Eventually, other C-List celebrities show up—an actor, a minor league basketball player—and some of the attention shifts towards them.
The show doesn’t really start, however, until the headliner of the charity concert arrives: an English pop star by the name of Eames. He's a big deal, if the reactions of the reporters are any gauge, and a last minute addition to the event roster. Eames is handsome from a distance, though it's hard to make out details from far away. He's wearing a light blue button-down, black slacks, and a very strange hat.
After a minute spent wondering whether that really is a taxidermic mouse perched above the brim of Eames' hat, the faint sound of hissing catches Arthur's attention. He looks around, trying to locate the source, but can't figure out which direction it's coming from. Everyone else is captivated by Eames, reporters practically falling over themselves trying to get him to answer their questions (none of which are particularly unique or interesting from what Arthur hears), and nobody seems to notice anything amiss.
Arthur's seen this movie before: either he's Harry Potter and capable of talking to snakes, or he's started hearing things. Either possibility is troubling, which means it's time to investigate. He takes a few steps towards the reporters, then the stage, and that's when he realizes the sound is coming from the balloon.
He squints up at the sky, sun bright in his eyes, and sure enough, the leafy part of the radish balloon is beginning to wobble a bit as its base shrinks almost imperceptibly. There's almost an hour left, and the rate at which the balloon is decompressing does not make Arthur comfortable about the situation at all.
He walks near the reporters into Krystyl's field of vision, and points meaningfully. After a few exasperating minutes of her looking anywhere but the radish, she finally glances upwards in time to see the top half of the balloon flop forward a bit. She waves over one of the event coordinators and covers her mike, holding a whispered conversation that eventually results in her leaving the stage.
Arthur hurries over to Krystyl's side. She smiles wryly and says, "You were right. Of course."
He shrugs. "It's what you pay me for."
Onstage, the event coordinator is moving from celebrity to celebrity, presumably informing them of the possibility of being crushed by a giant radish-balloon, if the speed at which they leave the stage is any indication. The only person that's left is Eames, who has been rambling for ten minutes about how he simply adores green foods but abhors purple ones.
After waiting politely at his side for a natural break in monologue that will evidently never come, the event coordinator taps Eames on the shoulder. By now, the radish has bent in half, rocking back and forth precariously in the wind. The reporters are murmuring amongst themselves and pointing, while a few in the front row have already vacated their seats (only to be replaced by enterprising photographers and reporters formerly in rows further back).
When Eames finally turns around to look over his shoulder, he freezes. A quiet falls over the field and suddenly the hissing is obvious, punctuated by a loud creak as the top half of the balloon begins to topple forward. The event coordinator grabs Eames' arm and tries to pull him out of his stupor, but he remains frozen in place, body stiff and unmoving. The coordinator gives a few more valiant tugs, but eventually abandons Eames in favor of running away and saving herself.
"Oh, for the love of—" Arthur breaks into a sprint, makes his way past the reporters to the stage, putting both hands underneath Eames' armpits and hauling him bodily out of his chair. Eames stumbles but finally breaks out of his trance, and Arthur wraps an arm around his waist to half-drag, half-run him out of the falling balloon's trajectory.
They make it a safe distance away before Eames trips and falls into Arthur, knocking them both down to the ground like dominos. As they lie there panting and watching the radish tumble the rest of the way down onto the table, Eames turns to Arthur and says, "I do believe you just saved my life."
Arthur tips his head back onto the grass and wonders if he can forward the dry-cleaning bill for a grass-stained Armani suit to an international pop star. "You're welcome."
* * * * *
Things happen pretty quickly after that. Eames' apparently useless entourage hurries over to fan him back to health, while Arthur gets up and brushes himself off, sans entourage. A few minutes later, Krystyl tackles him back onto the ground again with a hug.
A flurry of reporters surround them all, snapping photos and asking Eames rapid-fire questions about his incredible brush with inflatable death. There's some polite interest in Arthur as savior, but once they figure out that he's nothing but a country singer's bodyguard, it wanes quickly. That doesn't spare him from a couple of awkward filmed interviews, however. Of course it has to be after his brand new suit is ruined that he ends up on camera—the universe would be far too fair a place if it were otherwise.
Arthur eventually makes his escape, heading back to his hotel room to investigate the damage to his clothing. As he's scrutinizing the green and brown streaks that have somehow made it across the length of his collar, he gets a call from a man who introduces himself as Dominick Cobb, Eames' manager.
"I heard about what happened. Very impressive," Cobb says.
"Thanks," Arthur replies distractedly, finally giving up on his battered clothing and turning on the television instead. "Glad to help."
"Look, I’m not going to beat around the bush here. You seem like you have a good head on your shoulders in addition to training and experience. I'm calling to offer you a job as Eames' fulltime bodyguard for his upcoming summer tour."
"I'm already booked for the next few months," Arthur responds, watching mournfully as interview footage of him appears on TMZ. His hair is hanging in his face and it looks like he's spent the better part of the day trying to wrestle something muddy to the ground before ultimately failing. He sounds mostly coherent, but it's all still very depressing.
"We'll pay you double what you're getting now."
Arthur turns off the TV and stands. "Sold."
* * * * *
Arthur breaks the news to Krystyl and her manager a few days later.
"Oh, Arthur," Krystyl says as she throws her arms around his waist. "I'm going to miss you."
"No you won't," Arthur says as he hugs her back. "I'm old and crotchety and never understood any of your text messages."
"But that's why," she replies, craning her head back to look at him. "You don't kiss my ass like everyone else does."
"Yeah, well." He steps back and ruffles her hair. "I don't kiss anyone's ass. You're no exception."
She smiles. "I know. And I hope you have fun on tour with Eames. I hear he's cool underneath the meat kilt."
"I don't even know where to begin with that sentence," Arthur says. "Now get out of here. I need to pack, and you need to use the twitters to facebook your tumbling."
