“…didn’t know where else to go…”
@itswenow
Farouk doesn’t often allow himself to be startled . . . but opening the door to his American house - modest in comparison to his usual palaces, a hastily-purchased place for him to live while he “works” at Division Three - to find David Haller standing in the rain is more than enough to shock him. David’s orange faux-Indian style jacket is soaked through, and his pin-striped pants are stained with blood. He looks pale and weak, and something in Farouk clenches uncomfortably. Is that empathy? he wonders. Or hunger?
But there was never any chance he would turn David away. He wants David for himself. Division Three is just a means to an end. “Bia tu,” he says. Come in. He reaches out to help David inside, looking both ways to see if anyone’s watching before he shuts the door. The thunderstorm is a boon in this - no one wishes to be inside.
David is dripping on Farouk’s expensive Persian carpets, and there is blood on Farouk’s suit pants now, but he doesn’t care. He helps David to the nearest couch, and kneels down next to him. “You are hurt. Let me help.”
