by Detergent
Before sunrise, the farmhouse stood quiet but for the sound of the breeze through the leaves of the trees outside the open windows. Dara laid in bed for a few moments unable to get back to sleep. He had been accustomed to rising before the sun was up for many years now: First, to get to school on time in his childhood, then as an everyday occurrence while serving in the Legion. For the past week as the additives to the Force nullification drugs had been gently washed from his system, he'd been unable to wake much before noon and he'd been groggy, dozing and feeling like death nearly until that strange dream about the orange cat. But now he could get out of bed on his own and reliably, he could live again and this morning he wanted coffee.
Not any coffee would do, however.
As soon as he had begun to feel better, Dara had begun to crave strong, Turkish-style coffee with cardamom like one of his comrades used to prepare. He craved cups of it, black and fragrant and still more of it with cream and sugar, nearly a breakfast in a cup on its own. When he could concentrate fully, he had taken the opportunity to go online and to order the beans and spices, the type of sugar his mate had used, and a couple of pour-over brewers. He knew they had a coffee grinder at the farm- he could hear someone running it sometimes in the morning and sometimes in the evening as well. When he could focus, he had made a few purchases- New clothes, as all he had arrived at the farm with was a set of grey, government-issue sweats which Yeyette and Sören had promptly cut off of him when they had assessed him for injuries. He ordered a pair of hiking boots, some camping supplies and a few odds and ends like soap and shampoo. And he'd withdrawn a good sum of money from one of his bank accounts in the form of a check he'd handed to DeKalb earlier in the week when the older man had looked in on him to tell Dara that they were off to the grocery if he needed anything. He knew the only person at the farm he'd be able to convince to take the money was the conservation officer. Victor would see it as an affront to his hospitality and Yeyette, from what Dara could tell, accepted little from anyone at all.
He dragged the covers off of himself and swung his feet onto the floor. He liked it here at the farm where they were close enough to nature that he knew he could just throw on his boots and be in the middle of the woods far away from other people in under an hour. He mostly kept to himself since the drugs had left his system but that wasn't entirely by design. The permanent residents at the farm had jobs that took them away for nine or so hours a day, except for Yeyette, who often left for twelve hours or more to work in the Emergency Department of the local hospital. He had the impression, however, that she would often sit in his room after she had come home from work. One of the extra pillows for the bed he'd moved to the armchair near the window now bore the scent of jasmine perfume, he discovered it when he started propping himself up in bed to use the internet. The scent was too comforting to lose, so he would only pick up the pillow when he felt upset or ill; he used a different one behind his back instead. Dara gazed out the window. Sometimes Victor or DeKalb would visit him, he'd even had a visit or two from Sören, Anthony, and Nicholas who had come to visit their friends almost three months ago. Everyone at the farm seemed kind and concerned. He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his face, focusing his eyes on the lone sodium lamp illuminating the gravel lot of the house across the field from the farm. He stared absent-mindedly for a while, then shook off his dreaminess and forced himself to his feet. He knew he'd fall back asleep if he didn't do something and he had tired of laying in bed ever since the day Eugène had visited.
He went into his bathroom and turned on the shower. Dara's mouth compressed into a hard line. Frustration at his continued grogginess made him fume. He yanked a towel from the rack and arranged it roughly on the tiled floor and concentrated on some push-ups while he waited for the water to warm up. Captivity and the government's drugs had taken a toll on him, forcing him to stop before he reached what he considered an acceptable number. Feeling thwarted, he pushed himself into a resting position on his knees and looked for something satisfying to throw but nothing sat within easy reach. After a few heartbeats, still stewing, he got his feet under him and tested the shower. Nice and hot. The steam lifted his mood a bit. He undid the tie of his pyjama bottoms, stepped out of them, tidied them, then stepped in under the spray.
As he washed, his mind drifted. First to breakfast; he was ravenous, then back to coffee. And then the dream he'd first experienced in Afghanistan after he had been gravely-wounded in a makeshift bomb-blast, stabbed his mind's eye and he ducked his head beneath the torrent of water from the showerhead, trying to force it away. He couldn't even recall what happened in the days after the explosion, though the vivid dream stalked him. The darkness roiled all about him, he felt the pikes gouge into his belly again, felt maybe the first few arrows hit him but then nothing but overwhelming despair, despair that seemed to leak from the scars he took from the blast, the attack that had seen him discharged from military service. He huddled under the hot water, one hand clawing his face, the other balled up against the tile. But then fragments of the other dream came to him, mixed with the half-memories of his first moments on the farm- Fingers tracing the scars on his belly, 'What happened to you?' asked a woman's voice in Parisian French. His lips in the dream pressing against skin that smelled of battle, of ash, and flowers. In another fragment, he felt a hand grasp the collar of his gambeson, gathering it, tugging it in a gesture of possession. It tugged him out of the nightmare, the memories broke and he found himself staring at the shower-tiles, hot water still cascading over him.
He shut off the shower and stood there for a bit, trying to gather himself, while the water dripped off of him. Before he had come to the farm, nothing had ever broken the terror of being surrounded by decimation, the agony of the pikes, the arrow-strikes, the feelings of complete despair and failure. In the past, he just had to endure until the vision broke open of its own accord. If he chanced to be camping, the vision would break sooner. Dara had gone through every program for PTSD the French government sent him through but it hadn't been enough, though he managed to overcome his physical wounds enough to be certified as fit, he'd been medically-separated from his service to the Foreign Legion. He hadn't even been in France when the first armed team came after him; he'd been roughing it in Canada's Northwest Territories, running from the dream, from the memories of the blast that had begun the waking nightmares. Fucking jingoistic American shitpots. He had always kept well-shielded, so where did they learn he could touch the Force? Why the fuck did they care about his hobbies? He blamed the nightmares for garnering that malicious attention.
He stepped out onto the towel he'd put down earlier and grabbed another and raked it down his body until he felt dry enough and paced out to the chair and picked up the jasmine-scented pillow. He hugged it to his nakedness, burying his face in the fabric, inhaling deeply. He was outside of the vision but his heart still pounded and he feared that even though the hand had saved him, that the scene would suck him back in. He slowed his breathing, counting heartbeats until his pulse slowed and he felt sure that the vision wouldn't return. He kept hold of the pillow and went to the window, looking up the fencerow to the nearby woodland, fighting the urge to escape. He made himself stand there until he felt relatively normal, until he felt he could put the pillow down. Then he returned to the bathroom and goaded himself to resume his morning routine.
He peeked at the mirror above the sink, finding his image completely unacceptable. He needed a shave, so he got out his kit. His hair had started to grow into an untidy black mess; he couldn't recall the last time he'd gone so long without a haircut. He frowned at his reflection before he got out his safety razor and whipped up some lather with the shaving brush from the soap in its mug. He attended pensively to the few days' worth of stubble that had grown due to his groggy lack of motivation. He reached into the shaving kit and found he'd forgotten to get cologne and was glad to be frustrated in that. It was good to feel something other than panic and helplessness, even if he was annoyed he had forgotten to purchase something he looked forward to.
Dara gathered up his laundry and put it in the hamper and then chose a pair of black jeans and a dark navy shirt and got dressed. He opened the closet and got out his belt and threaded it through the loops of the denim pants. He took a last, quick look in the mirror and frowned again at his hair, got his comb and tried to subdue it for a while until he gave up and slicked it back with some water from the tap. It hadn't yet grown long enough to put into a tail. He needed a haircut. If worse came to worse, he supposed he could take scissors to it himself or maybe DeKalb had some trimmers somewhere. He frowned again and left the room forgetting his socks. He had to get moving; he had to overcome the inertia of his convalescence and coffee and breakfast weren't going to make themselves. Briefly, he considered taking the pillow down with him but he felt better, so he left it on the chair.
Dara made his way down the second-floor hallway and tiptoed down the stairs.
-
The new kettle sat in the cupboard along with the pour-over brewers. Water from the tap rang pleasantly against the metal as he filled the kettle; he meant to have several coffees. For a moment, he toyed with the idea of making it the way his comrade had, boiling coffee powder and sugar in a pot but he didn't feel like scrubbing the pot as soon as the coffee had been poured, so he opted to buck tradition. He hunted for the coffee grinder and found it next to a covered toaster and next to the toaster a bread box that held some store-bought croissants and part of a loaf of some very healthy-looking brown bread. He felt a little guilty as if he snooped deliberately but he had no way of knowing what was kept in which place unless he looked. Luckily, some mugs hung near the sink on a cast-iron mug tree and he found the pans and a substantial cast-iron skillet in the lower cupboard near the stove. He found his coffee, sugar and spices where he expected to, happy he didn't have to search for them. A mouth-watering aroma wafted from the grinder as he ground his coffee and some cardamom seeds together. Soon, the water had reached the proper temperature and he poured it over the grounds in the brewer on the rim of one of the mugs and left it to steep for a few minutes.
The garage door opener hummed and the door rose. Outside, a car pulled up the driveway, parked inside, and the door shut. The door from the breezeway opened some time after he heard the other noises. Yeyette appeared in the doorway looking as if she had been slain and reanimated. Her red curls hung limply, some wisps sticking to her face. Dark crescents lay under each eye. She put a hand on the wall to steady herself; she carried a stuffed backpack that she treated as if it weighed her down like a millstone. She shambled into the kitchen. When she spotted him at the counter, she started a bit.
"Dara, you're up!" she greeted him, her voice a muddy drawl of surprise and exhaustion, her French accent heavier than usual. "Oh, that smells so good! It's cardamom, isn't it? Mmmm!"
He stopped leaning against the sink. "It's past time I was up," he half-apologised, feeling like a malingerer before her. "And yes, it's cardamom coffee. I can put the kettle back on. Would you like some? It won't take a moment for the water to reheat."
She blinked slowly at him. He could feel her tense up. At first, he thought she hadn't followed, as tired as she looked.
I don't like owing people. It's unsafe. The words rolled out from her in French like a perfume with dissonant notes.
"It bothers you for someone to offer you something nice out of kindness," Dara pulled out a chair at the table for her.
Yeyette stood silently for a moment, exuding discomfort. She looked away from him and shifted her weight from one foot to the other, brought her hands in front of her like a penitent child, one holding the other in a hard grip. She wished she hadn't complimented the scent of the cardamom-laced coffee that had wafted to her when she had opened the door from the garage into the house. Yeyette did not like for others to offer her nicenesses; it was too much of a power differential for her to negotiate, that someone wanted to do something for her. It was too much control to give up to most people. Accepting kindness made her feel vulnerable, weak. Allowing someone to be kind to her did not feel safe.
It's weakness, to accept, to need. He heard her feelings again. He had the impression she hadn't meant to broadcast to him, even though she had.
"I'm offering it because I want to do something nice for you, that's all. You don't have to earn anything or pay for it in any way and you're not demeaning yourself if you accept. I don't have a nefarious plan other than hoping maybe you'll sit with me for a bit. We haven't been able to talk; your work schedule has been very demanding lately. When I've been awake, you've been at work, and, well, I couldn't talk to you if I was asleep, could I?"
She stood there for a moment more. She didn't think she had broadcast to him. Maybe the exhaustion had made her more readable? It had taken her a long while, to stop being suspicious of her partners' motives but finally, she had stopped behaving as if she had to perform for Victor and DeKalb's affection before Dara had ever entered the house.
He stood with both hands on the back of the chair, waiting to see how she would respond.
"Look, if it makes that much of a difference, you can help me wash and dry the few cups and spoons and such. But you don't have to."
He watched her turn deliberately and force herself to the sink; she pumped some soap into one palm and washed her hands. She grabbed the hand-towel that hung from one of the drawer-pulls and dried them. When she turned back and unslung her backpack from her shoulder, he was behind her, easing it to the floor, taking the weight of it from her. He helped her with her chair and then picked up the backpack and hung it from one of the empty chairs at the table.
Her feet fairly screamed and her calves burned; her back hurt as well. Sitting felt so very good. The past few twelve-hour shifts at the hospital had been brutal but as exhausted as she felt, she was also keyed-up from the sheer number of cases involving a methamphetamine combination drug that she'd never come across before or had even heard about. The new cocktail of drugs disturbed her in a way she couldn't fully articulate. She'd never had to hand out so many visits from the Ativan Fairy for aggressive behaviour. She couldn't keep those patients from running riot in her brain. Methamphetamines did change people, true, but the colossal number of patients exhibiting such disturbing, violent behaviour was worrisome and Yeyette, though stern-seeming was someone who cared deeply about her patients, even if they were just passing through on their way to other physicians.
"So. Coffee?"
"Thank you," she looked down at her hands on the table for a moment but then looked back up at him. She decided to take a chance on this.
"My pleasure," he smiled.
Dara measured beans into the coffee grinder then he unsealed a plastic bag full of green cardamom pods and opened one and extracted a few seeds, tossed them in with the grounds and processed them until everything was a very fine powder and the warm, spicy scent of the cardamom filled the kitchen. The scent woke her up a bit; the breath of the spice made her feel more alive. She found herself watching him with a sleepy half-smile, admiring how his shirt lay over his shoulders and the cut of his black denim pants. When he padded to the stove, he caught her glance but seemingly not its direction.
"Fan of cardamom?"
She shook herself a bit to keep from transferring her gaze to his chest.
"Yes. It never ceases to smell mysterious and exotic to me. Where did you pick up a taste for this and learn to make it?"
He turned the heat up under the kettle and set the pour-over brewer over its vessel. He leaned against the counter, bracing himself comfortably with both hands. "In the Legion. We had a comrade from Egypt who just loved the stuff. His parents would send him boxes of coffee, tinned cream, and spices. And he was a good mate, generous, so he shared it around. This isn't the traditional way to make it but if I make it this way, I'm not stuck washing coffee powder off a pan afterwards. You're supposed to heat it in one pot and drink it black with sugar but that's very strong coffee to deal with, especially on an empty stomach."
To Yeyette's horror, her empty stomach loudly agreed with him. She hadn't had time to do more than scarf down a granola bar at the nurse's station between patients in the wee hours of the morning. She wished she could drop through the floor. He certainly heard it.
"I was going to make myself breakfast anyway and it's no bother to cook for two. Do me the favour of eating with me, unless you want to go to bed after you try the coffee."
Her face flamed. She felt dreadfully ordinary and a little disgusting sitting there, stomach growling, in clean clothes, true; she always took a change of dress with her to work in her backpack but she hadn't showered in 24 hours- she had thought to do it after her shift in her bathroom at home instead of in shower-shoes in the locker room at Terre Haute Regional. She hadn't washed her hair in about five days either. Worse, she knew she'd been checking him out even if he hadn't caught her, and she felt intensely self-conscious. He was much more awake than she felt, he'd had his morning shower, and he might be hungry but he wasn't checking her out. Yeyette may have been called beautiful before but she only believed Victor and DeKalb when they told her and sometimes only just. And she was accustomed to outsiders' compliments and acts of kindness turning out to be thinly-disguised manipulations.
Dara poured the hot water over the grounds and set the kettle on one of the back burners. The mouth-watering scent of coffee mingled with cardamom rolled strongly through the kitchen. He left it to steep and warmed up some cream in a small saucepan. He took the brewer off of his cup and added some cream. He left it sit while the second cup finished brewing and then poured a bit of the cream on top of hers.
"How light do you take your coffee?"
"Usually? Black as the pit when I'm at work. I'll do whatever you drink this morning. It must be a great way to take your coffee if it got you out of bed this early."
He added a bit more cream and set it down to her left side on the table.
"Thank you," she murmured, shy again. He didn't seem like the bad sort, her half-awake brain mused. Perhaps it would be okay to allow him to do something for her, just this once.
"I'd make beignets but I didn't think to ask for a mix from the store," he apologised, looking slightly embarrassed. "I love 'em but I never got the chance to learn how to make them from anyone. And I don't try tutorials with other people's ingredients."
He moved down the counter and opened the bread box and took out a plastic clamshell of croissants. "Ah, I found these. Maybe we can tide ourselves over while I cook? I was going to make an American-style breakfast this morning. I'm famished. I thought I'd try working out later and I need something filling to be able to do that," he put the package on the table before her and opened it.
"Um, and I realise that this is your kitchen, ah, but... there's apricot-vanilla preserves," he opened the refrigerator door and came out with a jar along with the eggs, a quart of milk, a stick of butter, and a package of pre-diced potatoes and placed the breakfast things on the counter. "I gave DeKalb the money for things the other day as he was headed to the store. You've been feeding me for an entire week, um, so I asked him to get some things and to keep the rest for my board," he looked ashamed that he had imposed on everyone in the house and had unintentionally endangered them simply by existing. He put the pot of preserves by the croissants and gave her a knife from the silverware drawer.
Yeyette accepted the knife and cut two croissants open. She dug into the preserves and stuffed a thick layer of sweet apricot dotted with vanilla bean into each roll. She extended one to Dara.
"You said you wanted to sit and talk a bit. So have a croissant. Sit. Talk."
He'd been leaning against the counter again, just about to take a sip of his coffee. But as soon as she offered, he was pulling out his chair and across from her, flicking his tousled hair out of his eyes with one hand, his mug clicking against the tabletop. She noticed his hair was several different lengths; he likely never wore it very short. Even discounting his wild hair, cleaned up, he was a proper stunner. She deliberately turned her concentration to her roll to keep from staring and made sure all of her shields were up. Shame seeped through her for a moment that she kept admiring him. Determined to enjoy breakfast, she brushed the feeling away.
"I feel like I know you but I barely know you," he started, then blushed to the tips of his ears. "Ah, what I mean is- I've talked to the others and you've been mentioned but we haven't talked and well, yes," he concluded lamely.
"I feel the same." She said nothing about the dreams she had experienced sitting in his room at night and work had forced her to rely on normal second or thirdhand information to learn about the man seated across from her.
Yeyette lifted the mug to her lips and tried the coffee. It tasted of spice and caramel, sweet but not overly so. She closed her eyes for a moment, savouring it.
"Good, isn't it?"
"It's so good Indiana will outlaw it, I'm certain," she joked. "Your friend from the Legion, he'd be proud," she complimented.
He chuckled and took a bite of his roll. "Thanks. This place is pretty backwards, hunh?"
"You have no idea," Yeyette huffed.
"How did you land here?"
"Well, I wasn't found under a rose bush," she replied lightly. "I know that you're aware of what the US government is up to insofar as gathering up Forceful people since it happened to you."
He could just barely recall the image of the Facility she had shown him a week ago when he'd been terrified out of his mind at the thought of another IV. She'd given him the slightest glimpse but it had been enough to get through to him and he had allowed Yeyette and Sören to treat him but only because of what he'd seen, what Yeyette had gone through.
"You were abducted?" he had been lifting his coffee mug to take another sip but the mug wilted to the table.
"Yes. And it's complicated. A few years ago when it happened, the US had Special Forces teams performing abductions of targets around the world. They called it The Flight and that was part of Operation Candledark. The US is one of several countries subduing or coercing Forceful people to become weapons of the State. It sounds farfetched but it's true."
Dara sighed. "I know about it. They came and jumped me during a camping trip to the Northwest Territories up in Canada. I had no idea how they located me or even knew I could touch the Force." He looked as if he wanted to say more about the experience but he glanced out the window, momentarily quiet.
"Well, you were in the Legion, so you probably were tested as part of your military physical. They found Victor after an accident at a research facility necessitated he use the Force to limit casualties. Because of that accident, some malcontent caught me using the Force for Victor in the hospital afterwards. And DeKalb, well, they found him because he deliberately outted himself after his team abducted me and Victor," she lifted her mug but kept her eyes on him, wondering how he'd deal with the information.
"Come again? DeKalb abducted the two of you? I... what?"
"I know it sounds horrible. The experience was horrible. Victor and I were celebrating the anniversary of our first real date. We stayed up very late and we were drinking coffee. He'd brought home sweets from our favourite shop. And then all hell broke loose," she gave a sad-sounding exhale.
"Crash! Bang! Big, intimidating oafs stomping in the back door, all dressed in black; enormous asshats bristling with guns and other weapons bursting in the side door. Victor and I lost it. I may have Force-choked a few of them. Victor certainly did. I should have set them on fire. The leader ripped off his goggles before his men started shooting. I was going to choke him out too but when our eyes locked, I knew him for a split second before the feeling went away. Victor and I were darted. You've had the experience. Mon Dieu, the agony. Victor grabbed one of his old sabres off the wall with the Force and used the Force to swing it at the leader, who barely batted it away. When I saw Victor wilt down, I snapped. But I couldn't touch the Force anymore, so I covered him with my body. 'Cease your fire!' I heard but then another dart hit me. 'I said, cease your goddamn fire, and I fucking meant it!' And that was how we met DeKalb."
"DeKalb abducted you," Dara said blankly.
"It was his job, Dara. He led the team but made it right," her hand was on his for a brief moment as she tried to make him understand; his skin tingled where it had met hers.
"He went to his commanding officer and tried to give up his commission, threw his star on the table. He'd only just been promoted. Got told to pick it back up. So he used the Force to jam his insignia into the general's desk. And the general called his higher up, who turned out to be someone DeKalb knew very well- he'd been DeKalb's mentor in his early days, promoted so high that they'd lost touch. DeKalb outted himself to General Sterling too but the General had already known about his Forcefulness... he'd been keeping it hidden for his protégé. He convinced DeKalb to wait a bit to get some things DeKalb wanted done accomplished, and he did but the result was that DeKalb was honourably discharged and put into the Program with us after he managed to get some of our things out of France. If it weren't for him, we'd be in a much worse place. If he hadn't been leading the team that came for us, some possible degenerate would have been, some MAGA misfit, and Victor and I would have been in a bad, bad way. He gave up his entire military career for us, to try to repair what he'd done, even though he hadn't been given a choice on the matter."
Dara nodded, digesting this. He liked DeKalb and his no-nonsense demeanour but it was a shock, nonetheless, to discover how Yeyette and Victor had been displaced. And he remembered how DeKalb had risked his new career to take him in, a stranger he found under a rose bush.
They both sat quietly for a bit, each with their thoughts until Dara's stomach growled.
"I'll see about breakfast." He pushed his chair back from the table, went over to the stove and began.
He scrambled the eggs after cracking them into a bowl in case any pieces of shell broke off and then added a bit of milk, salt, and pepper. The diced potatoes had fried up to pillow softness with delicious brown crispy bits. He transferred these to two plates and then with a bit more butter in the pan, he cooked the eggs until they were perfect, like clouds. Then, evidently unsatisfied with the size of the 'American-style breakfast,' Dara opened the refrigerator again, came out with a package of Canadian bacon and put a crisp on that too. He plated both servings and fetched silverware for them both. After a few moments, he set a plate in front of Yeyette. Then he quickly rinsed the dishes he'd used under the hot tap, dried his hands, grabbed his plate, and sat down across from her. She tried the hashbrowns and then the eggs. Both were marvellous.
"DeKalb told me you're actually from Ireland. I mean, your accent does give it away, but, you know. How did you wind up in the Foreign Legion?"
Dara cut a piece of Canadian bacon with his fork, rocking the utensil back and forth to make sure he cut cleanly.
"M'childhood wasn't the best ever. I'm adopted, and from what I know now, it was probably done illegally. I don't know what Victor or anyone else told you but a very Catholic family from Dunquin, a Gaeltacht down County Kerry way in Munster received me. I was their only boy and those people made my life pure hell, constantly reminding me I'd been born deep in sin to an unwed mother. The only tolerable person in the house was grandad and he had a large collection of old books full of the romance of the French Foreign Legion, little of it true, it turns out," he snorted at his youthful longing for escape and adventure. "It'd take a long time to tell but I was forever running away back then out into the sticks or along the beach to get away from my so-called parents. I'd take off with one of those books. Sometimes I'd stay out for days. And I'd get thrashed for it but it was better than being treated like a sinful workhorse. Soon as I could, when I was eighteen, I took what money I had, got myself to France and turned up at the recruitment center in Paris. I passed all of the preselection criteria and was inducted."
Yeyette sipped her coffee. "You can tell me to fuck off but... you are French by service to the Legion and that's why you tell everyone you're not Irish?" She didn't want to stir up bad memories for him but at the same time, she was very curious as to why he maintained he wasn't Irish, especially when he had just told her came from Ireland and from a Gaeltacht at that.
"I kinda don't want to talk about Afghanistan right now, which is the only place I draw the line this morning..." He looked down for a moment and touched the shirt over his belly. "I had intended on applying for French citizenship after five years' service but Interpol turned up something about me in my past I wasn't aware of myself." He ate the Canadian bacon, then polished off his hashed browns. "Ireland is breathtaking, sure, but it has horrible associations for me," he elaborated, stabbing up some eggs. "I wanted a new life." He popped the bit of scrambled egg into his mouth and took a sip of coffee before continuing.
"They give you a different name while you're in the induction centre so they can deny you're there if they need to until you're selected or discharged. God, I hated my temporary name but that's neither here nor there. While you're there, they have Interpol check you out to make sure you're not a murderer and haven't committed any crime the Legion won't tolerate. Well, they turned up my birth identity," he put an elbow on the table and rested his cheek on his fist. "I don't have a clue how it happened; I was concerned with different things back then. But from what I understand, I was farmed off for adoption, probably at least semi-illegally. My birth-mother was French, so likely my birth-father was as well. I think about it sometimes but... it doesn't really matter. I'm my own man now."
She didn't quite know what to say after that. As if sensing her discomfort, he leaned forward a bit and whispered, "My name was D'Artagnan for five painful weeks. D'Artagnan Olivier. Ugh."
She grinned, then had to hide a great yawn behind her hand. "You're not boring me," she assured him.
"I know you've had a long few days, still, it's good to hear."
They finished their plates and carried them to the sink. She got out the dish soap while Dara began filling the sink with water. He scrubbed the plates and cutlery, perking up more thanks to the coffee. Yeyette rinsed the dishes and other sundries with hot water, drying them and putting them away. The coffee had the opposite effect on her. She often found that once she was tired enough, it put her to sleep. It had that effect on her now. She rocked a little where she stood as she finished drying the last dishes. Everything began taking too much effort for her.
Dara looked over at her and noticed how she struggled to hold her head up. They put the final plates away.
"I... bed, so sorry," she slurred to him, fighting to stay awake. She took a few heavy steps towards the table to retrieve her backpack.
"Allow me?" he gestured toward the chair and after the extra moment it took for her sluggish brain to make sense of his words, she nodded leadenly.
"Ah, why don't you go up before me. Just in case?" He slung his burden over one shoulder and prepared to follow her.
They walked through the living room and to the wide staircase. Yeyette paused for a moment as if it were Mount Everest itself.
"Come on, Sir Edmond," she murmured to herself and heard Dara stifle a chuckle. She would have smiled but even her face was tired now. She willed herself up each step, each more daunting than the last. just before they ascended the summit of the stairs, her foot caught the edge of the stairs and she tripped.
"Merde," she thought, exhaustion stealing her self-preservation instinct as she barely moved her hands forward to catch herself. Her fall arrested in mid-air as Dara used one arm and the Force to catch her without letting go of her backpack. He gently pulled her upright and steadied her, her back against his chest.
"You ok?" he asked after a few heartbeats. Her attention was elsewhere just then at the feeling of his arm around her waist.
Yeyette gave a sleepy sigh. "Mmmm yes, thank you," she murmured. He didn't release her until she seemed steady on her feet. She managed the last step and the walk up the second-floor hallway without further incident. He carried her backpack behind her to the door of the bedroom she shared with Victor.
"Thank you for breakfast and for saving me from falling down Mount Everest," she reached for her backpack, grasping the strap that still looped around his shoulder.
"You're welcome. You needed a good breakfast and I couldn't let such a famous mountaineer come to harm."
He went to shrug off the backpack but she was pulling the strap and wound up pulling him towards her. After he took a step to keep his balance and regained his equilibrium, she stood on tiptoe and lightly pressed his mouth with hers as if she kissed him every morning like a long-established ritual. The backpack came off his shoulder as he stood there as if frozen. It thumped onto the floor. She barely acknowledged the noise, hoisting it up, more than half-asleep.
"'Night," she turned the doorknob and let herself into the room. No answer followed her inside.
Once the door clicked shut, she realised that she had kissed Dara and jolted awake.
Yeyette put her backpack on the writing desk that sat near the dormer window. She couldn't believe what she had just done. She sat carefully on the edge of the bed to keep from waking Victor and pulled off her shoes, tugged off her compression socks.
"You're a bit late, darling," she heard from his side of the bed. Her husband looked up from his pillow and in the faint light of the sunrise, she could see him smiling dreamily at her.
"I'm sorry. Dara was up in the kitchen when I got home," she yawned but her heart was racing. "He was making coffee with cardamom and it smelled so delicious that I told him so," she said, feeling guilt rush over her. "He offered me some and I said yes."
"Good. I am glad he is feeling well enough to start living life again. I thought I smelled cardamom. Did you enjoy it?"
"I did. And I disgraced myself."
"My dear one disgrace herself? Never!"
"Oh you," she gave him a bit of a tap and he caught her hand and kissed her knuckles.
"I did," she yawned again but her mind still churned. "You know how some nights in the ED are. I only had a granola bar last night and I had to hide behind the horseshoe at the nurse's station and just cram it down. My stomach made the worst noise while we were talking and he offered me breakfast."
"Well, well, there's a gentleman. As you know, I've had a few conversations with him. I find him well-mannered unless he is angry. Who then has perfect manners? He despises the current regime in the States; he's nearly as incendiary as DeKalb once he gets started on the subject. He's very well-travelled and I've found his stories quite entertaining... but enough about our guest. I missed you in bed."
"I'm sorry. I'd give you an apology-kiss but," she crinkled her nose, "I'm foul." Her stomach flopped at her comment; she hadn't even considered her breath when she leaned up and kissed Dara.
"I will risk it." Victor held out his arms to her and she slid across the bed and into his embrace. Her movement pulled the covers off of him and she smiled at the sight of his naked body, lithe and well-muscled from hours of exercise and time behind his sabre. He nosed her forehead and then firmly kissed her mouth despite her little noises of protest.
"Oh, oh, I am overcome!" He clowned, pretending to pass out.
"Jerk-face," she nipped his nose.
"It does no good, I am dead... of the horrible stench." he cracked open one eye to see what she'd do.
"Ass!" she darted a hand beneath the covers to tickle him, ran it up to his armpit and was rewarded with a yipe of laughter. He trapped her wrist and rolled her onto her back, making as if to tickle her in retaliation. She bit back a shriek; she didn't want to wake the whole house. He left off his assault, melting down on top of her and nuzzled her cheek.
"I could help you shower," he gave her one of his charming half-smiles.
"You could," she agreed.
He moved off of her and helped her out of bed.
"Vicky though," she said as she followed him into the bathroom. He pulled back the curtains that screened the enormous bath and shower combo.
"Yes?"
"I have to tell you something."
"Oh?" He sat on the edge of the tub and opened the hot tap.
"I wasn't this awake coming up the stairs."
He nodded, listening.
"Ah," she tugged her arms through her sleeves. "So Dara followed up behind me; he had my backpack and he was worried I'd fall."
"You do overexert yourself. You worked sixteen hours yesterday. If he hadn't helped you, it would have been shameful of him." He put a hand under the faucet and then let the tap run more.
"And I tripped. He caught me."
Victor frowned a bit, looking her over for a moment to assure himself she was unhurt. "But you are all right, yes?"
"Because he caught me. The coffee really edged me over insofar as being unable to stay awake. But he caught me with the Force and steadied me against his chest. I kissed him before I came in. I kissed him, Victor. It was a bit more than a peck; I think I scared him. Or disgusted him. He dropped my backpack."
"Mmmm," her husband responded, opening the cold tap and testing the water again. He rose and helped her with her shirt; she had just been standing there like a burrito, waiting for him to admonish her.
"You kissed him and you've told me. It isn't the end of the world. You did not plan it. It happened on impulse. You did not stay up planning to kiss him; I'm not upset with you. We did speak before on how you wished to sit up in his room, which wasn't entirely a decision based upon professionalism. And we have spoken about the dreams, yes? There wasn't a scandal then, there is none now."
Yeyette looked doubtful and still a bit fearful.
"Are you sure he was afraid?"
"Disgusted by my breath maybe."
"I still kissed you," he winked.
"But you are you, silly man. You know I still have issues that I am this way and you are not. I cannot fathom it, I doubt if I ever will be able to understand it. I would not be happy if you wanted another partner."
"What is there to understand? I love you and I enjoy seeing you happy. You are possessive and that is fine: I enjoy being possessed. You have never given me any reason of your own accord to doubt your love for me. I know what I am to you and more importantly, it's obvious to others as well. If I am this happy with you, why should I deny someone I approve of the same happiness? You are not wrong for wishing a small circle and I'm not wrong for approving of that while keeping to you alone."
"It still doesn't make sense. I still can't believe you encouraged me with DeKalb. I'm going to have to say something to him too, you know. He has veto power too."
"Of course," his fingers moved to the hooks of her brassiere. His eyebrows lifted. She nodded her permission and he carefully removed it, pulling her in for a hug.
"All I ask is that you give me a flash of time to get to know Dara more fully, hm? I'm sure he and I can find some occasions to get better acquainted. We have already spoken quite a bit. Given what happened earlier, I am confident he would treat you as I would have him do. Eugène approves of him; it is not unlikely that I shall follow suit. "
"I need to know him better." She felt his fingers beneath her waistband at her back. "And you cheat at cards, silly man," she smiled.
"Ah please, that was some time ago. I was testing a theory. Mathematical. Very scientific," he gave her a charmingly-roguish smile. She finished undressing with his help. He caught her up against him once she was naked.
"Mmmhmm." Yeyette kissed him. "I think we should get in the shower before we run everyone out of hot water."
Victor grinned, holding her a moment more until she smiled again as well. Then he steadied her and they stepped into the tub and drew the curtains.