Page 122 of Knottingley Ever After
Rémi: Have you eaten today.
Iris: No. Do not scold me, Bellerose. I am a sick person in active captivity and the two of you did nothing to prevent it. We are not going to revisit the failure of the rest of this pack to mount any kind of defensive intervention on my behalf this morning. Moving on.
Matteo: Fine. I will not scold. For now.
Jude: I have, for the record, just purchased her a sausage in a bun the length of a small forearm and a strawberry milkshake the volume of a small reservoir.
Iris: I hate him.
Jude: Okay.
Jude: I love when she is emotionally driven.
Iris: Fuck you, Captain.
Matteo: Damn, Pinky. I would, frankly, love to be spoken to in that register. Jude, bring her back so I can experience the small dignified taunt in person, please.
Jude: Santori, focus on your training.
Rémi: He is failing miserably.
Matteo: BELLEROSE. DO NOT RAT ME OUT.
Iris: You are not aiding me here, gentlemen.
Matteo: We will see you when you get back, Pinky. Focus on resting and enjoying the ride.
Iris: I DO NOT EVEN KNOW WHERE WE ARE GOING.
Rémi: It is a good surprise.
Iris: The fact that the two of you know and I do not should be a misdemeanor at minimum and a felony if pursued with enthusiasm. Filing complaints. Will follow up by email.
The driver’s door opens.
I look up, primed for a glare, mouth half-open, and the glare dies on my tongue.
Jude is holding, in one hand, a tall white plastic cup with a domed lid and the unmistakable soft pink tint of strawberry milkshake visible through the side. In his other hand, wrapped in foil with the precise wrap of a man who has just been handed a sandwich by a counter person who knew how to wrap, is what is unquestionably a polish sausage in a bun, the top of which has the visible round outline of caramelized onion, the side of which has the visible thin yellow stripe of mustard, and the smell ofwhich has, in the small unhurried way the universe takes care of an Omega who has not eaten since lunch yesterday, just hit my respiratory system with the full weight of unmediated joy.
Oh.
Captain. I take it back. I take all of it back.
“I love you,” I breathe.
“You hated me three minutes ago.” Setting the cup into the holder beside me. “I have the receipts.”
“I take it back. The hate is rescinded. Effective immediately. Backdated, if necessary.”
He smiles.
Properly, this time. Not the millimeter restrained captain-smile. The full open-faced thing he does for me only, the small honest grin of a man who has not, frankly, smiled at any of the men in his own house in a comparable way at any point in the past two weeks, and the small private chamber of my chest does the small flip it does when the captain forgets to hold his frame in place.
“Eat, Pinky.”
“On it, sir.”
The sausage is, frankly, religious.
