Page 12 of Dax: Gratefully Bonded (Rogue Bonds #2)

Dax

W hen we got home, I took off my shoes, then headed straight for the dining table. I pulled the puzzle box out of my bag and opened the lid. “Do you want to start this now?” I asked, already taking the package of pieces out of the box. “We could make some good progress before I need to cook dinner.” There were a multitude of problems with that statement. I was supposed to clean a room in the house this afternoon. There would be at least one, maybe two deliveries from the shops, and as my packages of clothes arrived, I would need to sort the garments and wash them, hang them up to dry, and account for the amount of money we’d spent. I had no idea what to cook for dinner, since I was still floundering with finding appropriate human recipes, and I had the vague idea that I might need to defrost some meat, or maybe some of the frozen vegetables, in order to make something suitable.

And competing with all those tasks was the idea that my master really needed some attention and some soothing, right at the moment. He hadn’t spoken during the walk home, not since he’d said he should start going to a gym, but he’d been agitated, scowling, fists clenched, breathing more quickly than the short walk up the hill had really warranted.

“Yeah, I don’t really want to do that now,” he said, heading for the kitchen. I heard him open the cupboard, and braced myself…

“Fucking son of a bitch,” he cursed, and the pronouncement was followed by the thud of the cupboard being slammed. He wanted a drink. And there was none left in the house.

I opened my mouth to ask him if I should put some music on… and then promptly closed it again. Instead, I went to the wall comm, pulled up a random playlist called ‘Relaxing Songs of Summer’, and hit play. The gentle sounds of flowing water and some sort of wind instrument began to filter through the apartment.

Then I went into the kitchen, found a package of cookies that I knew was in the cupboard, having unpacked it yesterday, and took it back to the dining table with me. Sugar, while not being particularly healthy, did tend to have a positive effect on people’s moods, and I wasn’t above using that to my advantage.

I also made a mental note to ask Aiden what would be a good drink to substitute for alcohol. Part – though certainly not all – of my master’s problem was the habit of having a glass in his hand. I’d seen him reaching for one multiple times the day before. So if I could find something more appropriate to put in that glass, perhaps it would soothe his efforts to overcome the habit.

I said nothing else as I cleared the table to make space for the puzzle, since I didn’t really know what I could say. I didn’t want to sound patronising. I didn’t want to repeat anything I’d already said. I didn’t want to talk about the man on the train. I hadn’t had a chance to read any news articles, to make interesting small talk. And I was rapidly coming to realise that taking care of my master was going to be far more effort than I had originally anticipated.

I was frankly astonished that he hadn’t already yelled at me to fuck off and leave him alone. I wouldn’t be able to say no to that, if it came out as a direct order. But for as long as he stuck to vague grumbling and statements of his own likes and dislikes, I figured I could work around it.

“Fucking hell, what time is it?” my master said, as he wandered back into the living room.

“Two o’clock,” I said, glancing at the clock on the wall. “How’s your leg feeling?” It was a gamble to ask. Reminding him of the old injury might make his mood worse, or it might distract him from his current desire for alcohol.

“Fuck.” He winced, then came and sat down at the table. “Aches like a fucking bitch,” he muttered, rubbing his thigh, and I thought I’d made a mistake for a moment. But then he reached for the puzzle box, taking a long, slow look, before helping me start sorting the pieces, turning them all up the right way, shoving the edge pieces to one side of the table. I had the idea that I should go and get him some painkillers… but I didn’t want to leave him alone until he was a little more engaged with the puzzle.

He reached for the box of cookies and slipped his thumb under the flap, pulling it upwards and…

“Fuck!” He dropped the box as he flinched, then shoved his thumb into his mouth.

“Are you all right?” I asked, pausing in my task. “What happened?”

“Fucking papercut,” he muttered, around a mouthful of his own thumb. Then he held it up, examining it with a scowl. “Papercuts always sting like a bitch. Stupid little cut, but they always hurt.” He got up and stomped off towards the bathroom. I considered following him… but then decided he could probably take care of it himself. I was trying to find a balance between keeping an eye on him and giving him enough space to move. Treating him like a child would only antagonise him. I heard him banging about in the bathroom cabinet… and then the noise went suddenly quiet. And then…

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

It was interesting how the same word could mean so many different things. The first ‘fuck’ had been quiet and cautious, like someone discovering a dangerous insect hiding in a corner. The second had been a declaration of annoyance, like someone had just dropped their plate of dinner on the floor. And the third had sounded more desperate, with a ragged edge to the word.

Concerned, I padded over to the bathroom, wondering if the cut was worse than it had initially seemed, or if my master had dropped the first aid kit on the floor, perhaps.

I was unprepared for the sight that greeted me. My master was crouched in front of the bathroom cupboard, a dazed expression on his face, while he held a…

Oh shit. It was a bottle of vodka. A full bottle of vodka.

My first thought was to wonder what the hell it was doing in the bathroom. Last night, before I’d gone to sleep, I’d read some of the notes on alcoholism that Aiden had sent me, and apparently, it wasn’t uncommon for alcoholics to store drinks in odd places – either because they needed secretive places to hide them, or because, in a drunken state, they weren’t quite aware of where they were putting them. And apparently, my master had completely forgotten that he’d put a bottle of vodka in the bathroom. I made a mental note to check every other cupboard in the house – ideally when my master wasn’t around – and make sure there were no more hidden surprises.

But that wasn’t going to solve this current crisis. “Sir,” I asked cautiously, when he didn’t acknowledge my arrival. His gaze didn’t move from the bottle. “Sir,” I said more firmly, trying to get his attention. He had never been violent with me, never in all the drunken ramblings, the yelling, the nightmares and bouts of unconsciousness. So the fear I felt as I watched him sit there, holding the bottle, was nothing at all to do with my own safety, and everything to do with his. If he didn’t manage to kick this addiction, he was going to end up killing himself – either accidentally, or deliberately.

“Sir,” I repeated, when he still didn’t move. “You need to put a dressing on your papercut.” Realistically, the cut was small enough that it didn’t matter one way or the other. But I needed to get his attention onto something else. Anything else.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then he extended his arm, holding out the bottle. “Can you get rid of that for me?” he asked, his voice sounding tight.

“Yes, sir.” I moved forward swiftly, grasping the neck of the bottle… and then I had to wait, his fingers still wrapped firmly around the body of the bottle. “Sir,” I prompted him again, my voice more stern, this time. I was a little shocked to hear that tone come out of my mouth, my voice deepening, my hand tugging ever so slightly on the bottle.

He released it. I hurried from the room, taking the bottle to the kitchen and emptying it down the sink. I ran the water to rinse away the residue, making sure there was no lingering smell. Then, for good measure, I took the empty bottle outside and put it in the reusable waste bin. Rendol 4 had strict environmental laws, and all packaging was required to be either reusable or biodegradable. This particular bottle would be sent back to the manufacturer where it would be washed, refilled and sold again – maybe a dozen times or more, until it was eventually recycled and used to make a new glass bottle.

Back inside the house, my master emerged from the bathroom with a small bandage on his finger and a scowl on his face. Making a quick decision to entirely ignore what had just happened, I returned to the task of sorting the puzzle pieces. “It’s a nice picture,” I said, glancing at the box. “I’ve never seen an ocean before. Not in person. Only ever on videos.”

My master hesitated, and I wondered whether I’d chosen the correct tactic. Would it be better to distract him from the close call with the bottle, or to invite him to talk about how he felt about it? I’d taken a guess that this early on in the process of dealing with his addiction, distraction was the more productive option. Perhaps later, when he’d had more time to process things, he might want to talk more.

As I watched, his shoulders slowly relaxed. “I’ll have to take you someday,” he said, sitting down at the table again and helping me turn all the puzzle pieces up the right way. “It’s only about half an hour by train. Maybe in the summer.”

I nodded, not sure whether I should be taking the offer seriously or not. He might have been just saying words, the same way I was, to fill in the silence. Or he might have actually meant it, perhaps at a point in the future when he wasn’t feeling so on edge.

We’d got all the pieces sorted and about a quarter of the border put together when the doorbell rang. I started to get up, but just as I was moving, my master sprang out of his chair. “I’ll get it,” he said. I felt a wave of shame as he rushed to the door. So it seemed he had noticed my moments of minor disobedience throughout the day, the times I’d overstepped my authority, and now he was making his displeasure known. Representing his household to strangers – even if they were only delivery staff – was an important responsibility, and he couldn’t have given me a clearer indication that my behaviour was inappropriate.

The only problem was, I didn’t know which incident in particular he was unhappy about. Had it been the way I’d taken over finalising the purchases in the shops? The fact that I’d suggested what he should order, in front of the server in the café? The Wasop teenager who’d run into him? The drugged man on the train? How was I supposed to know, and to change my behaviour as a result?

I heard the front door close and the rustle of woven bags as my master set the items on the floor in the entry hall. But I couldn’t bring myself to move, to suggest that I unpack the delivery for him. I sat slumped in my seat, staring at my hands, wondering how I was ever going to understand this confusing culture and find a balance between guiding my master and obeying him.

I heard my master stop part way across the room. “Dax? Are you okay? What are you…? Oh, fuck,” he cut himself off, a harsh sigh blowing out between his lips. “I should have let you answer the door.”

“I’m sorry,” I apologised, not sure why he was sounding so defeated about it. It was his house. I was his dimari. He could choose to run things whichever way he chose.

“Come on, it’s okay,” he said, taking a few steps closer to me. “We’ll take these into your bedroom and I’ll help you to…” He stopped, the words cut off abruptly. There was a heavy silence, as I waited for him to decide what I should do next. Then, to my surprise, he sat back down in his chair, moving slowly and carefully. He took a deep breath. “Take the clothes into your bedroom and sort them out. If anything needs washing, put it in the washing machine, and put the rest away. Then, when you come back, bring one of the painkillers from the bathroom. My leg’s hurting.”

I leapt up, relieved that the rest of my duties hadn’t been taken away as well. “Yes, sir,” I said, turning to collect the bags. But then my master’s voice pulled me up. “And also set a reminder for me to call Aiden tomorrow,” he said, his voice tight. “I have a few questions for him.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, delighted to hear that particular piece of news. I had a number of questions for Aiden as well.

???

That night, my master had a nightmare.

It wasn’t the first time. There had been plenty of nights in the past when I’d woken to the sound of his moans, the muted rasping of his sheets as he tossed and turned. But until now, I’d never dared to do anything about it. When we’d first come home, my master had told me that this was my bedroom, that I was to sleep in here. And so I had.

But now I knew that my job was to look after him. So maybe…

Maybe I could do something similar to what I’d been doing all day; take action, and then ask for permission afterwards. Cook dinner, and then tell him there was food to eat. Put on music, and then ask if he liked the genre.

Wake him up, and then ask if he needed assistance.

Heart hammering in my throat, I switched on my bedside lamp, got out of bed and padded across the hallway to his door. It was open, as it usually was, and once I’d realised he suffered from regular nightmares, I’d started leaving mine open as well. In case he needed me in the middle of the night.

I was aware that it had been a rather superfluous precaution, given that he never called for me, and I never had the courage to go to him, but the habit had persisted. And tonight, I was glad it had.

I paused in his doorway, assessing the situation. He was curled up in a tight lump under his blankets, faint whimpering sounds drifting across the room. I wanted to wake him, but I’d been firmly taught that waking one’s master was bad behaviour.

But then again, so was lying to him about wanting to leave the shopping centre and forcibly stopping him from hitting another shopper.

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, for fear 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 I also 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.