Page 25 of Dax: Gratefully Bonded

So I was going to wake him up. But how? Anything too drastic would scare him even more. I couldn’t go and touch him, forfear he’d lash out at me – unintentionally, maybe, but given his military training, I was erring on the side of caution.

“Sir?” I said, in a more or less conversational tone. How loud did I need to be to get his attention?

He didn’t react, the whimpering continuing.

“Sir? You need to wake up.”

No response.

“Sir.” I was louder this time, hoping to break into whatever illusion had such a tight grip on him. He groaned and thrashed his legs a little, like he was struggling.

Calling one’s master by their given name was extremely poor behaviour. It was disrespectful and far more familiar than a dimari would ever be permitted to be. I shook my head. How the hell did I keep reaching the conclusion that behaving badly was the most suitable solution to any problem I found myself in? “Ezekiel,” I said, in as commanding a voice as I could manage. “Wake up!”

To my relief, my master gasped, then sat up abruptly. There was just enough light from my bedroom lamp that I could see the outline of his body, staring at me across the darkened room.

“What the…?”

“It’s me,” I said, in a far more soothing tone. I turned on the light… then hastily turned it off again when he flinched and covered his eyes. “Sorry,” I apologised hastily, then turned to switch on the hallway light. That would provide enough light for us both to see each other, without dazzling him.

“Are you okay?” I asked, daring to take a couple of steps into his room. “You were having a nightmare.”

He made a derisive noise. “I’m fine,” he said gruffly.

It was a clear dismissal, and for a moment, I obeyed my training, nodding and taking a step back… before I realised that he most certainly wasn’t fine, regardless of anything he might have to say about it. I didn’t know exactly what he needed, but Ialso knew that he wasn’t going to ask me for help. He could have done so on any one of two or three dozen nights in the past year, and he hadn’t. So if I was going to help, it was up to me to figure out how.

“Would you like a drink of water? Or some music for a little while?”

“I don’t want any fucking music,” he snarled at me, then he flopped back down onto the bed, his hands over his eyes. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered into his hands.

I didn’t know what else to offer. But at the same time, I didn’t want to just leave. “Do you want to talk about it?”

That was the wrong thing to say. “Get the fuck out of my room,” my master snapped at me, and I was helpless to do anything but turn tail and run. That was a direct order, and all good intentions aside, I was compelled to obey him.

But as I returned to my room, I left the hallway light on. He hadn’t ordered me to turn it off, and perhaps a bit of light would keep the demons at bay for a while.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Dax

“Jesus Christ, why are you burning the toast?”

Predictably, my master was in a foul mood the following morning. I stopped, the blackened slices dangling from my fingers as I went to put them on the plate. “Because you always burn your toast,” I said, cringing internally. Wasn’t that the way he wanted them? I’d watched him make breakfast a dozen or so times in the year I’d been here – given that he didn’t eat it all that often – but when he did, grumpy and hungover, he’d invariably burned the slices, but eaten them anyway, slathered in butter and tilfruit jam.

“No, that’s not because I… Fuck.” He slammed his hand down on the counter, then stomped out of the room. A moment later, I heard his bedroom door slam.

I massaged my temples for a moment, trying to ease the tension in my neck and shoulders by taking three deep breaths. It was difficult to figure out what was actually going on here. Was he just lashing out because he’d had a bad night, or was I actually doing a bad job of making breakfast? On a hunch, I activated my comm and typed in ‘Toast for breakfast’, and then hit the image option on the search. A dozen picturessprang up onto the holographic screen… and I groaned as I saw the repeated golden-brown slices, topped with everything from plain butter to herb-sprinkled piles of cheese and eggs. That was certainly nothing like what my breakfast looked like. I tossed the burned slices into the bin and set about inspecting the controls on the toaster, in the hopes of making a second batch that was more palatable.

Five minutes later, breakfast was ready, but my master had not yet returned. I crept down the hall and knocked tentatively on his door. “Sir? Breakfast is ready. I’ve made some more toast. It’s not burned this time.” Perhaps I should have made eggs to go with it. We’d both eaten eggs at the café with Kade and Aiden, but I had little idea how humans liked them cooked. The Basuba ate them raw, which I was fairly sure humans didn’t do, and the Anicrians ate them whole, with the shell still on, which was certainly not the way the café had prepared them.

I returned to the living room and sat down at the table, helping myself to a slice of toast and a spoonful of the chopped fruit I had prepared. I didn’t know whether my master was going to come back or not, but I hoped that setting the example of eating would encourage him to do the same. While he was drinking, it was common for him to eat very little, and it was worth trying to break that habit early in this new routine we were attempting to set up.

A minute or two later, I heard his bedroom door open, and he slouched back into the room, a scowl on his face. I’d carefully moved the puzzle pieces to the side and set the table with a variety of condiments, along with the toast and fruit, intent on observing which items my master ate, so that I could more accurately cater to his desires in the future.

He sat down and picked up a slice of toast, slathering it with a cinnamon and nut butter, before shoving half the slice into hismouth. Hm. He was still in a bad mood, then. He only ate like a barbarian when he was angry.

“I’m sorry for disturbing you last night,” I said, to break the heavy silence. I had angered him, and no matter how much I might tell myself I had been trying to help him, the end result had clearly not been the desired one.

His right hand reached for something, opening automatically… and then closing again, as he set his wrist down on the table. “I don’t need a fucking apology,” he groused. “You just…” I waited, but he didn’t finish the sentence. I thought he was going to say something to the effect of, ‘You must never come into my room again.’ But he said nothing. Did he realise I’d been trying to help him, and didn’t know how to admit it? Or was he genuinely still angry and didn’t know how to express it? I decided to say nothing about the whole thing, and hopefully avoid making him any angrier.