Page 18 of Dax: Gratefully Bonded

Aiden left soon after lunch, and I had to work hard to push down the rising sense of panic I felt as I closed the door behind him. I was now facing a solid eight hours of having to find something to do that didn’t involve alcohol, while simultaneously having to face up to all the mistakes I’d made with Dax.

“Okay,” I said, turning to face him, trying to sound far more confident than I was feeling. “How about I let you get started on the cleaning, while I do some research on potential hobbies?”

“Yes, sir,” Dax said. Was it my imagination, or did he sound apprehensive about that? And if he did, then was it because of the cleaning, or my attempt at finding something useful to do with my time?

Aiden had been stern and insistent about finding a hobby. “It could be something creative,” he’d said, as he’d listed a handful of options. “Painting, or drawing. It could be a team sport. There’s a tackleball team in this neighbourhood. You could grow herbs in that courtyard of yours. You could study interior design. To be honest, Zeke, I don’t really give a shit what it is, but youwillfind something useful to do with your time. And just in case you’re wondering, no, video games do not count as a hobby.” If it was just him, I might have ignored the lecture. But I’d figured out very quickly that any conversation he had with me would inevitably be repeated to my psychologist – once the doctor got around to assigning me a new one, that was – and then there was a high risk that any misbehaviour on my part would be reported up the chain of command. And while I had little expectation of ever being on active duty in the military again, it was also a chapter of my life that I was not yet ready to close.

Dax set to work while I settled on the sofa with my comm, running a few generic searches on popular hobbies and what local community groups there were. I watched as Dax gathered scattered clothes from around the house, ferrying them to the washing machine, and then I heard water running in the kitchen.

Was this really the right course of action? Aiden had explained in detail this morning about the dimari’s need to feel needed. They didn’t just tolerate having to do menial tasks for their master; they actively thrived on it. The idea was so foreign that I’d baulked at it, at first. Who the helllikedbeing ordered around and made to clean up someone else’s mess?

But Aiden had been persuasive, and when questioned, Kade had backed up everything he’d said. Hearing it, spoken clearly and frankly by another dimari, had finally convinced me to give it a try. And to be fair, Dax did seem a little more chipper now than he had before. Okay, so he was a long way from how happy and relaxed Kade was, but any improvement was a step in the right direction, wasn’t it?

But there was one more thing causing me a whole pile of anxiety. Dimari didn’t just need a purpose, Aiden had said. They needed to be rewarded for carrying out their orders. And there were three types of reward a master could give a dimari. The firsttwo were praise and affection. The third one, Aiden had said, was more complicated, and he’d flatly refused to tell me about it, saying I’d have to wait a few days to find out what it was. Evasive bastard. But to be fair, even the first two rewards were causing me plenty of consternation.

Praise was simple enough; whenever Dax finished a task, tell him he’d done it well. But the flip side was that, if he hadn’t done it well, I was supposed to give him constructive criticism and teach him how to do it better.

That was all well and good in theory, but after a year of watching his crestfallen expression every time I’d told him not to do a task, I didn’t think I could bear the emotional pain of disappointing him again.

But the second part of that was even more confronting. Dimari, according to Aiden, needed affection. Hugs. Pats on the shoulder. I’d seen Aiden kiss Kade’s forehead, and then watched Kade fawn like a fan with their favourite rock star. Kade, Aiden had told me, was a combat specialist. He went on missions with Aiden through the jungle, shooting the Alliance’s enemies like some kind of stealth assassin. But a simple touch from Aiden had him weak at the knees and blushing like a schoolgirl.

Okay, so Vangravians didn’t actually blush, but that was beside the point.

So I was supposed to stroke Dax’s hair, like he was a fucking puppy, or some shit? I didn’t think I’d be able to do that without dying of embarrassment. And if Dax started fawning over me like Kade did with Aiden?

I tried to focus on my comm. There was a community gardening group. Boring. A group that met to play cards. That sounded promising… until I looked at a couple of the group photos and saw that everyone seemed to be at least eighty years old. There were two sports groups, but I hadn’t seen the inside of a gym in nearly a year, so I couldn’t see that going particularlywell. Not to mention the difficulties caused by the nerve damage in my leg. I reached out to take a drink from the glass beside me… and realised with a start that there wasn’t a glass there. Fuck, I could really do with a drink right about now. Aiden had made the point that I didn’t need to pick a hobby right away, but more than a couple of days without something to occupy my time was going to drive me insane.

Okay, back to the search. There was a dance studio that taught ballet – a hard no on that one – and a Denzogal style of dance that seemed to involve a lot of foot stomping and shouting. Given my anxiety levels, that didn’t sound like a great idea. Actually, on that note… I pulled up a reminder and typed in a message to myself to talk to the base doctor about getting some anti-anxiety meds. Take away the inhibition-loosening effects of alcohol, and I was getting jittery.

Maybe I should sign up for a gym, at the very least. I could take Dax with me. It would be good for him to get some exercise.

The afternoon drifted on, with Dax flitting in and out of the room, carrying things here and there, fetching a mop and bucket, hanging out the laundry. After a couple of hours of dead ends, I gave up on the hobby search and turned on one of the sports channels instead. The Ice Relay had had its grand final a few weeks ago, at the end of winter, and the Sand Relay was starting up. The current episode was a longwinded discussion on which teams were choosing which players, with copious commentary about what that might mean for the season as a whole. Not the most exciting thing to watch, but at least it created some background noise. The silence was oppressive.

Dax came into the room at one point and turned on the lights, then closed the curtains. I reached for my glass for the fourth time, and had to bite back a curse when it once more wasn’t there.

How long was it before I could go to bed? I checked the time. It was only seven o’clock. I had to stay up forat leasttwo more hours to have any chance of falling asleep. Christ, how had I never noticed how fucking boring the commentary on these sports teams was? The commentators just kept repeating the same statistics, rehashing every single play from the previous season, as if the viewers had never heard of a fucking Relay before. No, the players were not ‘pulsing with anticipation’. They were standing around, as bored as I was, while a referee explained some complex rule that they all no doubt knew already.

“Sir?” Dax’s voice broke into my irritated mental rambling, and I craned my neck around to see him standing in the kitchen doorway. “I’ve made some omelettes for dinner,” he said, indicating the table. “If you’re hungry,” he added, more diffidently this time.

“Yeah, I’m not hungry,” I said, turning back to the screen. One of the commentator’s voices was high pitched and nasally, and I dreaded the idea of having to listen to it for the rest of the season. I wanted a glass of vodka and an action movie, but there was nothing available that I hadn’t seen at least twice already. Damn stupid fringe-planet backwater.

Abruptly, I became aware of the silence in the rest of the room. At my dismissal, I’d assumed that Dax would go and eat his meal, and maybe put mine in the fridge, on the hopeful assumption that I might want to eat it later. But aside from the voices from the wall screen, the room was quiet, with no clinking of cutlery, no rustling of fabric as he moved. It was just… dead silent.

I glanced over my shoulder, and as I caught sight of the scene at the far end of the room, my heart dropped to my knees. Oh, fucking hell. Dax was sitting at the table, in front of one of two neatly set places. But rather than eating, he was just staring athis hands, folded neatly in his lap. I couldn’t quite see his face from this angle, but I swear to god, if he was crying, I was going to stab myself with a butter knife.

Did dimari even cry?

Yeah, this was going really well. Not six hours after Aiden left, with strict instructions tobe niceto my dimari, I was being a right dick to him.

I tapped my comm and shut off the wall screen. Dax didn’t look up at the sudden quiet. I hauled myself out of my chair and crossed the room, taking a seat opposite Dax and feeling ridiculously apprehensive about it. I’d lived in the same damn house as him for a year. Why was sitting down to dinner with him suddenly such a big fucking deal?

“Sorry. I’m being an ass,” I said, not quite mustering the courage to look at him. “Thank you for cooking dinner.” I picked up the knife and fork – for fuck’s sake, when was the last time I’d eaten with proper cutlery? – and sliced the corner off the omelette, shoving it into my mouth. It was bland – he clearly hadn’t added any salt – and while there were a few hints of meat and onion in it, the ratio of egg to filling was well out of balance. It was cooked through to the middle, and the outside wasn’t burned, so it wasn’t terrible… but at the same time, it was pretty mediocre. Much like the rest of our lives right now, I supposed.

I forced down another bite… then decided I couldn’t choke down the rest of it the way it was. “Do we have any tomato ketchup?” I asked. I knew we had done at one point, but it was anyone’s guess whether the bottle had been sitting there long enough for the stuff to have solidified in the bottom. Or started growing mould.

“I’ll have a look,” Dax said, jumping up. I half expected him to slouch over to the pantry, dragging his feet and moping at what was essentially one more declaration that he sucked. I couldn’teven manage to eat a not-terrible omelette that he’d gone out of his way to cook for me. God, I was a bastard.

But instead, he trotted off to the kitchen all peppy, retrieving the bottle and bringing it back to me. He set it on the table, beaming like I’d just given him a gold medal. The light in his eyes as he sat down again, having completed his task, was like a punch to the gut. I’d made him happy. By asking him for a bottle of fucking ketchup.