Before Sören's first shift began at Doi Capaci, Dooku pulled aside his sous-chef, Natalia, who had a habit of arriving early, not simply to give her the heads up that there would be a new worker in the kitchen, but also because he knew Natalia had been in an abusive relationship - he'd hired her when his restaurant was newly opened and he was less discriminating about hires, and Natalia desperately needed a job to keep a roof over her and her daughter's head. Natalia had since gotten back on her feet and worked her way up as Dooku's most valued and trusted employee. He knew that she'd understand Sören was newly out of a domestic violence situation and would need a certain amount of gentleness and slack in a hectic professional kitchen, but she also knew enough of where he was at, having been in similar shoes herself, to not coddle him to the point where he'd feel like he was pitied. It was a difficult balance to find the line between constructive criticism and what would be too much for the fragile young man, but Dooku knew if anyone could find that balance, it would be her.
Dooku was not kidding when he'd warned Sören he had high standards for quality and hygiene and ran a very tight ship. Sören had to wear a hair net at all times on the clock, and though as a med student he'd already been in the habit of washing his hands regularly, Dooku and the other cooks enforced it to the tee, with Sören nagged to wash his hands, trained to recognize a certain look Dooku gave him until it became routine. Sören was also taught about knife safety - learning the hard way when he cut himself on a mandoline - and the importance of storing knives correctly to keep them sharp, something that Sören had to be lectured about more than once. The kitchen worked as a fast-paced assembly line to handle orders as they came in, with constant communication between Dooku and his cooks, the dining room manager and Dooku, and the service staff and the cooks. Recipes were followed to precision for a reason, though occasionally a request would come in to substitute or omit a certain ingredient, increase or decrease the amount of spice in a dish. If measurements were not exact, an entire batch had to be scrapped and started again. Meals were also expected to be produced with urgency yet attention to detail, which meant very careful focus, easier said than done when there was a lot going on, especially with the dinner rush on Friday and Saturday nights. Sören did indeed panic a little, with his anxiety making him fumble - too much seasoning here, too rare there, a slip of the knife, a drop of an ingredient or instrument that required getting another and starting over again - which then produced the endless apologies.
After three days, Willard, who was born to Jamaican immigrants, put a gloved hand on Sören's arm and said, "Look, mon, it's all right. You don't need to keep apologizing. Just do the work." He patted Sören and assured him, "You're doing fine for someone who's new." Then he changed his gloves.
As Sören rode home with Dooku and Maglor that night, Sören mumbled, "I'm sorry I apologize so much."
"Sören..." Dooku pinched the bridge of his nose.
Before Dooku could speak, Maglor looked over at him in the back seat and said, "OK. Sören. We get it that you got in the habit of apologizing like this because of Justin and... I'm guessing maybe not just him. Part of taking back your power from him is to stop apologizing constantly. I know habits are hard to break, but you owe it to yourself to get out of the habit of apologizing constantly, feeling like you have to apologize constantly. You're not some giant burden or nuisance."
"I'm sorry -"
Maglor glared. "Sören." He was doing the thing with his voice again, and Dooku would have been amused by it if his heart did not ache so much for the young man. "OK. Sören. When you feel those two little words, 'I'm sorry', start to come out... take a deep breath instead. Retrain yourself to stop saying it, which hopefully in time will retrain your brain to stop thinking it. I know it's going to take time and it won't happen overnight, but please. For your sake." For all our sakes, because it hurts to see you like this, Maglor added, unvoiced. "Try to stop."
The next day Dooku noticed Sören was taking the advice. He still let out a few "I'm sorry"s, but it wasn't at the near-constant rate it had been, and as a direct consequence of apologizing less, his body language continued to relax and he made fewer anxiety-based errors in the kitchen.
To his credit, Sören was a fast learner, and by the time he'd been at Doi Capaci for a week he'd mostly gotten the hang of the kitchen brigade; after he'd been there for two weeks it was like he'd been there for months. Like the other cooks, he'd learned to work with speed, efficiency, care and grace. And though Sören was still a bit shy, he was warming up a bit to his co-workers, the little chats that happened as they worked on things, though there wasn't much room for personal conversation.
Dooku was proud of him, in two weeks he'd come a long way - like Natalia had - and he would go farther as he had more room to breathe, more encouragement.
Sören had been either going home with Maglor when his shift was over, or opting to stay and quietly read in the break room till Dooku was done. Dooku knew that after Justin had shown up at the restaurant where Sören formerly worked, Sören had some anxiety about going anywhere by himself, and as much as Dooku himself had anxiety about Sören going places unguarded he knew that he had to gently push Sören to start spreading his wings again as part of the healing process... though in time.
After the first few days of Sören living with them and working at Doi Capaci, life had started to settle in back to some semblance of a normal routine, with Dooku and Maglor making love again - albeit quietly - and Dooku hitting the gym his usual three days a week before work; on Saturday and Sunday mornings Dooku and Maglor visited a local fencing club and sparred each other and other sport fencers, which usually led to them needing sex when they got back home, and they got back to this as well. Dooku typically went on a walk in the mornings when he didn't go to the gym or the fencing club, and again in the late evenings when he was home from work, and he began to invite Sören on his evening walks. He noticed Sören was more at ease in public places at night than he was in the daytime, probably because he could hide better at night, but hiding was no way to live a life, and so it was that after Sören had been living with them for two weeks, Dooku invited him on one of the morning walks.
They went to Southwark Park. It was a crisp January morning, snow falling, but it didn't bother Sören, who'd grown up in Iceland. Dooku took them to a nearby cafe to get hot chocolate and they walked through the snowy park drinking hot cocoa and admiring the snowbanks, the crystalline trees. When Sören's hot cocoa was finished, he surprised Dooku by sitting down in the snow and starting to build a snowman, and Dooku sat down with him, surprised further that he was actually helping Sören with the sculpture, playing in snow like he was a big kid again.
"It's nice here," Sören said.
"It is." Dooku nodded. "I missed London while I was away, and places like this were a reason why."
"Oh... you were away?" Sören raised an eyebrow.
Dooku hadn't disclosed that part of his life yet - or the reason for the traveling around - but he'd start with what was simplest to explain. With a little nod, Dooku said, "I used to be a barrister. I left London in 1990 and practiced international law in Berlin, Amsterdam, and Stockholm. When I was fifty-five, living in Sweden, I decided to change careers, so I turned my cooking hobby into my life's work."
"Wait, fifty-five? And you've been doing this how long? You don't look that much older than fifty-five."
Dooku smiled, blushing. "I'm sixty-seven, dear."
Sören let out a low whistle. "Damn. Don't look it."
"Don't feel it. Mostly. Arthritis has slowed me down a little - I don't run anymore - but I think my body didn't quite get the memo that sixty-five is what society considers decrepit. I try to keep healthy."
"Já, you're... in good shape." Sören looked off to the side. Then he looked back at his proto-snowman, before glancing at Dooku. "How old is Mark...?"
"Forty-two." That was a lie, and forty-five was about the oldest Maglor felt he could get away with pretending to be with the way he looked; he disliked pretending to be younger than thirty-five because he didn't feel it mentally and didn't think he could pull it off convincingly.
"You guys have been together awhile, já?"
While Dooku didn't want to potentially blow Maglor's cover by leaving a trail of bread crumbs between the British expat "Mark Lowry" in Stockholm and the fake-American "Mark Lowry" of present, he sensed he didn't have much to worry about from Sören, at least not with that. "We lived together in Sweden, yes."
"Wait."
Dooku's eyebrows shot up, wondering if Sören was going to remark on the age difference - since twelve years ago "Mark" would be "thirty". Wondering if there was going to be awkwardness.
And instead, it was something else together. "So you were in Sweden before you came here?"
"Yes...?"
"As a chef."
"...Yes."
"A Swedish chef."
Dooku's eyes narrowed.
Sören's face lit up in a grin. "Börk börk börk..."
"You know..."
Sören cackled. "Listen, if Scandinavians don't make fun of other Nordic countries we lose our citizenship. It's required by law."
"It is not."
"OK, it's not. But it might as well be. And I can take the piss out of my own country too. A long time ago, our people ate piss-smelling fermented shark out of necessity, so we didn't starve, and in the 21st century we're still eating it because we fucking can. That's the Icelandic people for you right there." Sören sighed. "I miss it. Iceland, I mean. Not the fermented shark."
"But are you here for good? Are you going back...?"
Sören shook his head. "Don't know, and not anytime soon."
It occurred to Dooku then that Sören's jokes about the Swedish Chef and Icelandic "cuisine" were the first he'd seen the young man lighten up and genuinely laugh or joke about anything in the two weeks and change they'd been acquainted. Sören tended to be quiet, withdrawn, looking brooding or tired most of the time, though he tried to relax this a bit in the kitchen, but the shroud of sorrow still rolled back over him when he wasn't chatting or listening. An outside observer might get the impression that Sören was naturally a melancholy, reserved person, but the way Sören smiled and chuckled just a moment ago seemed much more like his natural, default state of being, a shining fire that this disgusting Justin Roberts stole from him.
Here they were, playing in the snow like two big kids - further evidence that there was a sort of wild, sweet innocence to Sören, a playfulness that was still there underneath the attempts to stamp it out... Dooku could see it. You're not funny, you know. Justin being annoyed rather than amused with Sören's humor and quirkiness.You're so fucking embarrassing. Do you have any idea what a muppet you are sometimes?
Dooku sighed. I want to make you happy. He was determined to re-ignite that fire in him, somehow, to see more of that radiant smile, hear more of that tinkling laugh. More of the warmth in Sören's brown eyes, crinkling at the corners, which gave him a flutter in his stomach.
For the briefest instant, Dooku thought of the vision he'd had of Fëanor, Fingolfin, and Maglor making love somewhere else, as if he'd seen into another universe. He wondered vaguely if there were other universes, other worlds than these, and if his path had crossed with Sören somewhere else and it was he who was melancholy, reserved and feeling increasingly that life was meaningless, and Sören helping him to find moments of happiness, to see the world through new eyes.
Iceland... A flash of the Northern Lights, he and Sören in the snow like they were now...
Dooku blinked. "So you've been here two years, you said? 2014...?"
"Late 2013." Sören pursed his lips.
"May I ask why you left..."
Sören took a deep breath. He stopped packing snow onto the proto-snowman and looked as if he were looking somewhere far away for a moment. Then he looked at Dooku. "So, I've never had a serious relationship, prior to Justin. String of short-term boyfriends, never dated anyone longer than a few months. Mostly just one-night stands and fuckbuddies since I've been old enough to fuck. I usually play it safe, condoms, I get tested regularly, all that. Well, one night I went home with this guy, and had a couple drinks at his place... and he put something in my drink. He fucked me while I was unconscious. He got... a few of his friends to fuck me while I was unconscious. I know about this because I woke up and they were there and bragging about it and I felt like I'd been split in half and I was bleeding and leaking all this cum - Jesus Christ, you don't need the graphic details." Sören looked like he was about to say I'm sorry again, and took another deep breath as Maglor had taught him.
"So you were raped." Dooku was horrified; Sören had already been through so much without that, too.
Sören hesitated, and then he nodded. "Gang raped, to be specific, and yes. I was living with my sister at the time, and she was dating one of the blokes who had a go at me while I was passed out, his name was Eiríkur, I think. When I told her, she didn't want to believe that the guy she was seeing would ever do that, and we had a bit of a row, she told me I must be confused, the guy even lied right to her face and said it didn't happen and meanwhile he was there in the flat when I woke up that night bragging about it... My sister is like me, and I wonder if this guy was also like us, at least a little, and doing some kind of mind trick or something to get her to believe him over me. But it doesn't really matter now. I moved out, I haven't talked to her since then. Moving out was not exactly the best decision because I was a barista at the time, not a lot of money, whatever."
"So you came to London then?"
"No, that was... after." Sören looked down.
"After..."
Sören closed his eyes. "You were a barrister?"
"Yes."
"Prosecution or defense?"
"Defense." Dooku folded his arms. "Why do you ask?"
"If I tell you something in confidence about my past, are you going to report me to the police, or can you keep it a secret?"
"Depends on what that something is, but probably." I've got a few skeletons myself, he thought, thinking of Maglor's black market identification paperwork, and the Glock he kept in a hollow book.
Sören looked around, and then he got up and gestured for Dooku to come with him. "I know that snowman isn't done but there's people walking around and..."
"I understand."
They found a more private place to sit. Dooku then told Sören, "If you're about to tell me that you killed or maimed someone, like if you killed that man or men, I'm not going to report you. Unless you're a serial killer..."
"No. I wish I had killed those men, but." Sören shook his head.
"I think you can safely tell me whatever it is."
Sören waited a few minutes, collecting his thoughts. He started with, "A bit of background context here, I was raised by my aunt and uncle, after my mother died. I found my mother's dead body just before my sixth birthday. My father died when I was about two, so that's why his sister took us in, no parents. And, well. They drank. They... got violent." Sören looked out at the snow, as if he were seeing it all over again, and in the Force, Dooku could see it too, a drunk uncle taking a belt to Sören, the aunt slapping and punching and kicking.
Sören went on. "My uncle tried to rape and murder my sister in 2005, and I killed him. With my mind. Official coroner's report is that his heart just stopped, but no, it stopped because I stopped it. Sometime after my uncle died, my aunt got religion, and when I was moving out of my sister's, my aunt Katrín talked a good game about wanting me to move in with her so she could take care of me and make it up to me for all the shit she put me through as a kid. Except no, because she was shoving her religion down my throat, and she didn't approve of me being gay, and I made the mistake of telling her about the gang rape and she blamed me and told me it was my fault and that God was punishing me and all this crap. One night she decided to try to lay hands on me and perform an exorcism on me, she'd taken it into her head I had demons or something, and she would get super strong when crazy, and she managed to pin me, and as she was trying to exorcise me she started choking me. I couldn't breathe, it was getting desperate, and finally, not even thinking about it, I just... hit her off me with my mind. Like punching her in the brain, with my brain. And she. Died too. I left Iceland after that, even though I wasn't suspected as far as I know, I left the country and came to the UK just to be on the safe side." Sören looked at Dooku. "So I've murdered two people. I'm a kinslayer. Sometimes I wonder if I am in fact being punished..."
Dooku took his hand. He felt like his chest and stomach were made of ice.
Sören's breath fogged the air. "It's why I didn't... you know... try to fight Justin like that. I'm not strong enough to defend myself against him physically, and I didn't want to hit him with my mind and have another dead body and have the police..." Sören blinked back tears, not able to finish that train of thought. "When he showed up at my old job a couple weeks ago and I shoved him with my mind it was the first time and it was because I was so scared I couldn't fucking think and it was why I blanked out on the bus, it wasn't just that he scared me, but I kept thinking, I could have killed him like I'd killed my aunt..."
Dooku squeezed his hand. He couldn't make words.
"You must think I'm a monster now -"
"No." Dooku took Sören's chin in his hand and turned his face to him. "I don't. You killed your uncle to defend your sister, you killed your aunt in self-defense. Neither of those actions are cold-blooded murder."
Sören looked down.
"I don't think any less of you." Dooku meant it. He'd defended women who'd killed abusive partners, and he'd always thought of these women as heroes rather than criminals. "Nor do I think it was your fault that you were drugged and gang raped."
Sören's jaw quivered and he started to blink back tears.
Dooku found himself hugging Sören, who accepted the hug. "I take it you couldn't go to the police about..."
Sören snorted. "No, I didn't go to the police about the drugging and raping. I should have, maybe, but I was so fucking ashamed..." He shuddered and started to cry on Dooku's shoulder.
"Did you get tested, at least...?"
Sören nodded. "I'm negative for everything or at least I was the last time I got tested which was October right after I moved in with Justin. I also swore off casual sex for awhile when I was new here in the UK, though that obviously didn't last forever 'cos I met Justin on Grindr." Sören looked up at Dooku. "That's a hookup app..."
"I know."
Sören raised an eyebrow. "You know what that is..."
"I'm sixty-seven but I don't live under a rock. I even have a smartphone, though that's Mark's fault." Dooku then got serious again when he said, "Mark and I technically have an open relationship and theoretically would like a third though neither of us have done anything about it, but we're aware of the various apps. Which we're both not keen on using, so we don't, we don't go to clubs and bars either, but it was something we looked into awhile back."
"I... see."
Dooku thought Sören rather did, but he wasn't going to press it, especially now when Sören had just poured his heart out about being roofied and gang raped, now was hardly the time for it. Sören was going to need a lot of time. He wasn't even sure that...
No, he was sure he was falling for the young man, what he wasn't sure of was whether or not that was a good idea. His life was fairly complicated - he and Maglor would be looking at leaving England in another two to three years most likely. Sören didn't even know Maglor was an Elf, Maglor kept his glamour up with Sören around after years of being unglamoured privately at home. Dooku didn't know how, or even if, to broach that subject with him, nor was it entirely his decision.
They were silent on the walk back home, and mostly quiet on the ride to work later that afternoon. Mostly quiet until Dooku saw Sören crying, trying to keep it from showing, but he could feel the pain gnawing around him, clawing outward.
"Is it what we discussed earlier?"
"It's that and... talking about finding my mother dead." Sören closed his eyes. "I wonder a lot how things would have been different if she'd lived. I wasn't that old when she died but I miss her so, so much, and..." Sören broke down in sobs, not able to keep it quiet any longer. "My bunny. My bunny was all I had of her and..." Sören let out a wordless howl, shaking as the tears streamed down his face, his beautiful face contorted with the loud, ugly crying. "My bunny. I want my bunny, I want my mamma..."
Dooku pulled over the car and hugged Sören tight, rocking him. "I know. I know." His heart broke again, tears coming to his eyes as he remembered the carnage of Sören's plush toys and the blue bunny, the most ruined of them all, that rotten bastard knew...
"I'm so sorry." Sören couldn't fight the knee-jerk apologies this time. "I'm such a baby, crying over a doll..."
"No. You're not."
"I miss my bunny..."
Dooku closed his eyes, trying to hold in his own tears, wanting to be the fortress of strength for the young man crumbling in his arms, when they needed to be at work so soon. He couldn't undo what Justin had done, he couldn't give Sören back the original bunny, but I am going to fix this, somehow. He was going to get Sören a bunny doll if it was the last thing he ever did.
He was going to do everything he could to help Sören get his life back and find happiness again, his determination even stronger than before, rage entwining with an emotion that was dangerously close to love.