November

November 28: Monday

"So you - you talked to her."
"Yes."
"My grandmother."
"Yes."
"What did she say?"
"We talked about Villa Guerrero, about my job, and about you."
James straightened his tie and checked his haircut in the mirror. Ortega stared into the toilet bowl for a minute longer, decided he was done being sick no matter what, wiped his mouth, flushed it, and staggered to his feet. Another wave of nausea overtook him, but it was mild enough to be ignored.
"Did she - was she mad?"
James looked at him curiously.
"I didn't tell her about the baby, if that's what you mean."
Ortega heaved a huge sigh of relief and some of the nausea abated.
"I thought you might want to tell her yourself."
The nausea returned; he began oversalivating, and swallowed reflexively to try to stop it. James looked into the mirror and watched him.
"I - I don't know what to say to her. Mama, she'll be - it's been - I think - I don't - it's too soon."
James blinked at him. Ortega was trembling a little, fussing with the damp sleeves of his pajamas. James turned his back on the mirror to face him, putting both hands on the counter, his fingertips dipping into little pools of water and toothpaste from where he'd splashed out of the sink.
"What are you afraid of, Ortega?"
The answer was so simple, so clear, that he even felt a little stupid saying it. But there it was.
"I don't want them to be mad at me."
"They're your grandparents. They love you. They will be happy."
Tega fussed a bit more. Torréon toddled in happily between them and squatted down to pee on the rug. James stomped his foot and frowned disapprovingly at him, and the little furball jumped, startled, and made his way over to the square of puppy litter in the corner that was expressly for that purpose.
"What if they get mad at you?"
"You let me deal with that."
"What if they don't want us to get married?"
"What if they do?"
Ortega paused, chewing on the thumbnail of his left hand.
"If I tell them I am pregnant, what if they won't love me anymore?"
James frowned, pulled Ortega into a gentle hug, careful not to crush his middle.
"They will."
Tega tucked his head into James' chest.
"I don't know what to say to her. Will you tell them for me?"
"Well," James ventured slowly, "I think it'd be better if you tell them yourself. But why don't you do it in person?"
Tega's head jerked up.
"You're serious?"
"I bought the tickets."
Ortega jumped back, pushing James away.
"But yesterday, you said - I thought - it was just a possibility, right?"
"I had my father's cousin put me through for a transfer last night."
Ortega's face screwed up while he contemplated this, then his eyes suddenly got immensely wide and a huge, beaming smile broke over his face. He grasped James by the lapels and shook him.
"So we are really going to Mexico??"
James laughed and moved his hands away.
"Yes. Yes, we are."
"When are we going, James?? When do we leave?" Ortega's smile showed no signs of fading, and he was practically hopping foot to foot, buzzing with a long-missing energy. "I have to pack! You have to pack! But what about your family? Your home? When do we leave??" James heard the question, but found he couldn't answer for a minute, stunned to silence by Ortega's happy, beautiful reaction and the sudden lump he found in his throat.
"Sweetheart, we can leave as soon as you like."

~:~

Suleiman was sleeping, Sloane was AWOL, and Jesse and Ortega were both still out of town, so Sai had to make do with breakfast alone. He picked a bowl of oatmeal which always tasted too sweet, thanks to the Centre's "health chargers", a smallish sized apple that everyone else had passed over, and a glass of berry juice.

Over the weekend, there had been new check-in centers installed between the food areas and the tables, and each was manned by one or two carriers whose responsibility it was to catalogue, by ID, the content and check-in weight of each meal that every carrier ate. In order to leave the tabled area and exit the dining room, each carrier had to have his tray re-weighed and his meal checked out. Sai found this to be both inconvenient and intriguing, and quick inquiry around the Centre led to the juicy source. Apparently some carrier had been discovered in the week beforehand to have been starving himself to stay infertile, and this precaution, the Centre had stated, was meant to prevent further loss of collateral.

The carrier at the check-in who registered Sai's meal pointed out that his breakfast was rather small, and also there wasn't much protein, kindly suggesting that perhaps he should go back and get some ham. Sai replied that he was sure he'd be fine, with or without the ham, and the carrier frowned and typed a small note into his breakfast registration page.
"Ok, Sai, you also have an orange flag on your ID account. Says something about a medical appointment you registered for, but then missed?"
Sai's stomach pitched for a second as he remembered. He tried to think of a lie.
"Right. That was an accident. I hurt my wrist; I thought it was sprained, but it healed up in just a day, so it must've been a twist. It's fine now, you can delete that."
The carrier pressed a few buttons.
"Ok, I can't delete it, but I will leave an appending note to let an officer know that this can be taken down."
"Thanks."
the carrier typed for another minute.
"But you really should think about eating some more."
Sai rolled his eyes and forged on past. In the tabled area, he was surprised to see Broussard sitting alone by a window. He tucked his tray into a comfortable position for carrying and headed over to him.

"Something change since we last talked? Turn out you're a carrier and you didn't tell me? What are you doing eating in here?"
A sudden, embarrassing thought occurred to him.
"...unless you're meeting someone else."
Broussard looked up casually, slowly at Sai.
"Well, well. Fancy the odds. No, I am alone at the moment, cher, and you are welcome to this seat, if you like. I was just leaving."
Sai sat down quickly opposite him.
"Well, if you're not meeting your darling carrier lover, what are you doing in the delightful prison lunchroom?"
Broussard looked longingly towards the door, taking a long draw of coffee.
"Needed my morning sip. Damn new food regulations took my homemade away. Until I get my clearance passed, I take all my meals ici in the caf, just like you."
Broussard took another sip of coffee from the mug in his hands and scrutinized the cup.
"This morning, I believe the blend is motor oil."
Sai looked at how Broussard sat, relaxed in his seat with his legs widely spread, feet confidently flat on the ground. Sai sipped his juice, then cut a slice of butter with the dull knife and began mixing it into his oatmeal, still watching Broussard out of the corner of one eye.
"So how is your investigation going?"
Broussard swallowed a full mouth of coffee roughly, and inclined his head.
"Quite nearly over. I thank you, again, for your help in that matter."
Broussard's drawl lingered over the word 'matter' long enough to make Sai follow his voice up to catch the mischievous gleam in his eye. Sai looked back down quickly, doing his best coquette, and stirred his oatmeal with the spoon.
"Maybe I could help you with that, sometime, again."
The atmosphere tensed. Broussard made a stern face, straightened up his shoulders, then cleared his throat and set his coffee cup down.
"Mr. Wyatt." Sai looked up at him in absolute confusion. How had they gone from harmless flirting to 'Mr. Wyatt' so quickly? "I don't expect that's the kind of offer the Centre expects good, decent carriers to make."
Broussard, still frowning, stood to leave. Sai's eyes got wide and he shook his head.
"Wait, what?! I'm sorry - no, sit down - what did you say to me?"
Broussard complied, but didn't look pleased about it.
"I said that that's not the kind of behavior that a gentleman expects out of a respectable wife."
Sai narrowed his eyes.
"First of all, I am nobody's 'respectable wife', and I don't really intend to be."
Broussard rolled his eyes.
"What do you intend to be, then?"
Sai felt flabbergasted, put on the spot.
"I don't know! Happy! Something. Somebody's equal, that's what."
Broussard studied him over the top of the last of his coffee.
"You think a carrier with a good husband is not happy?"
"I think...nobody can be happy living like a pet."
Broussard swirled the remaining droplets around in a ring at the bottom of the cup.
"How long you been holding on to that idea, co-co?"
Sai made a face of annoyance and didn't answer.
"Well, I tell you, ami, six more months, you'll swallow those words."
Sai was taken aback by the boldness of Broussard's statement, but fear nibbled at his fingertips as well. Did he know something?
"What?"
"You been here almost one year, yes?"
Sai didn't answer.
"Seventeen months. That's how long they say it takes."
Sai felt worry clouding his responses - he wasn't speaking anymore; his dread was conversing for him.
"How long what takes?"
"How long it takes for a carrier to give up. No therapy, no rehabilitation, counseling, nothing. For some reason, come seventeen months, they all just...tire. That's when they start to comply."
Broussard tilted the cup towards Sai.
"The normal ones, at least. But those are the only kind they let hang around for seventeen months to begin with. The bad ones go to the finger farm."
Sai thought he was going to be sick. Even thinking of the concept of Rowe House appalled him. To be locked away, in a room, sometimes drugged, sometimes not, with half a hand or half a leg or no eyes at all, in the dark forever, just waiting for your turn to come...Broussard's voice snapped him back to the present.
"Cher? I asked you. How long do you intend to do this?"
"Do what?"
"Keep on pretending that you're something else. Denying what you are."
Sai wasn't sure if he was more angry or shocked to hear such a bleak assessment.
"I'm not...denying."
"Sure you are." Broussard leaned forward, not a little menacingly. "Gallivanting around, basement rooms, with damn fool men like Scott? Cher, if I hadn't showed up, you'da been in a heap of trouble, bigger'n you'd know what to do with." Broussard sat back. "A man who knew this, a carrier who knew what he was," he set the coffee cup flat on the table, "wouldn't ever have done this."
Broussard scoffed and shook an annoyed finger at Sai from across the table.
"Come on, now, Sai. You'a smart little thing. You know better. You see that wall of guards you walked through to get in this room?" he indicated the neat line of check-in cashiers. "Well, this whole place is constructed that very same way. Nobody gets in - " he swung a hand around to point to the check-out lines. "- an' nobody gets out. Not without jumping through all the hoops first. No, cher. Nobody gets out."
Sai felt that pit of despair that every carrier had inside him open up a little bit more at the truth in Broussard's statement. He shook his head.
"That's not true. Jesse - "
"Jesse went an' got married just like the most well-behaved of 'em, didn't he?" Sai frowned and Broussard laughed. "First one, in fact, of your petite brigade." Broussard leaned back self-satisfiedly. "See, mon ami? Even the best man crumbles."
Sai shook his head furiously.
"No, it was different. Michael's not like that."
Broussard chuckled and held his hands up in a shrug.
"You say so, ami. We'll see if your friend's not back here, legs open and screamin' out his first babe in a year."
Sai tilted his head.
"How do you even know anything about Jesse?"
Broussard tightened his fingers around his empty coffee cup.
"Sudden marriage like that, extravagant thing, last minute running around, and a woman on the premises to boot. Who in these parts doesn't know about it?"
Sai stared blandly at his oatmeal for a minute. It was cold by now, all the taste gone.
"You better eat that, cher, or they won't let you leave." What a mean, miserable thing to say, Sai thought. He tried to ignore Broussard. The pit opened wider. Broussard rubbed his hands together and stood up. "I'll leave you to your meal. I think I've disturbed your breakfast enough."
Sai jerked his head up to look at him. When he did, Broussard's face looked sad, a little regretful, as if he was, in fact, sorry he'd said what he had.
"No, wait."
Sai put a hand on his arm, and Broussard paused obligingly.
"I don't - that's not true, what you said. Jesse and Michael, they're in love. Michael doesn't treat him like that. They're equals, together."
Broussard's face softened. He covered Sai's hand with his own.
"If you say so, cher. If you say."
Sai drew back.
"They are. They're equals. They're friends."
Broussard watched him evenly for a moment.
"You got any friends, Sai Maka?" he asked him quietly. Sai felt the pit swirl closed, then gape open again.
"I - I don't know. Not really."
Broussard's expression changed, faded into something strange then reformed as a wan smile.
"Well, then, I suppose I'll be your first."
Sai blinked up at him.
"What?"
"Friend. Here for you. Shoulder to lean on. That sort of thing."
Sai made an annoyed face.
"I know what friends are, I just -" he glanced around nervously. "Can we be friends, even? I mean, you're - "
"An officer."
"And I'm -"
"A criminal."
Sai gave him a harsh look.
"You know what I mean. A carrier. I'm your - I'm the hunted, aren't I? What kind of deer befriends the gun?"
Broussard sighed, looked around, shrugged his shoulders, sat back down, then shrugged casually, as if the whole conversation had no more weight than a question over the coolness of the breeze.
"Well, we can certainly find out."

~:~

"Do you want to do breakfast, or should I?"
Jesse cocked his head, running his fingers through Michael's short hair, mulling this over as they lay in bed.
"Mmm. Well. Considering how hard I worked last night - "
"Which I resoundingly appreciate, might I point out."
"- I think it should be your turn."
Michael grinned, gave Jesse a quick kiss on the nose which made him wrinkle his face up, and jumped out of bed, bringing a gust of cold air in as the covers shifted.
"Freezing!"
Jesse cried, diving back under the down.
"You're complaining! Think about me!" Michael had his arms squeezed tight across his chest as he ran in socked feet across the wooden floor towards the kitchen. "Ok, fire! Fire first, then breakfast!"
Teeth chattering, he began rushing about the kitchen, taking logs of firewood from the pile and stacking them with kindling, bumping into the table twice, which made Jesse giggle, yelping each time he ran across the freezing tile, and generally doing everything in his power to make Jesse amused.

Later on, after they'd eaten and put away the dishes for the next time, Jesse stood alone in the only warm place in the house (the bed excluded), savoring the hotness of an afternoon shower. Michael entered, slipping in behind him under the water to wrap his arms around Jesse's waist. Jesse leaned his head back against Michael's shoulder, savoring the new warmth. Michael kissed his neck and his hardness nudged between Jesse's thighs. Jesse tensed for a second, then relaxed. Michael pulled his head away.
"Jesse?"
"Uh huh?" Jesse put one hand to Michael's head to guide his mouth back.
"You alright?"
Jesse nodded.
"Yeah, I'm fine, why?"
"I didn't...hurt you? Earlier? Did I?"
Jesse scoffed.
"Tasers hurt me. Steel toed boots hurt me. You don't hurt me."
Michael tensed then, and pulled away.
"You can always just tell me, you know, if you're not in the mood."
Jesse paused for a second.
"I'm always in the mood for you."
Michael rolled his eyes, but leaned forward again, getting into their hug.
"Seriously." he mumbled against Jesse's shoulder. "It's alright to tell me no."
Jesse shrugged.
"You're my husband; I'm not going to tell you no."
that hadn't been exactly what he'd meant to say. Rectify. "And also, I wouldn't ever want to, besides." It didn't work. Michael released him and stepped back. He put both hands on Jesse's shoulders and spun him, under the water, so that they were face to face.
"What was that?"
Jesse was turning scarlet, he could feel it, but luckily under the hot spray of the water, both their faces were flushed red.
"I will say no to you when I want to. I just haven't wanted to, yet."
That was half the truth. Which was not technically a lie. The entire truth was that he figured he would have plenty years ahead to figure out how to keep himself from getting fucked; there was no sense using up all the good excuses in just the first week. And besides, as Ortega had so kindly pointed out, not fucking was the first step to a relationship falling apart. Jesse really didn't want this relationship to fall apart. At least not now. Not yet. So for the time being, he hadn't wanted to say no to Michael. He was trying to be good.

Michael studied him for a long, worried, scrutinizing second. Jesse met his gaze, determined to appear unharmed and unafraid. Finally, what he saw must have satisfied him, because Michael turned him back around, kissed the back of his neck, and picked up the soap from the soap dish to begin soaping his hair. Jesse relaxed into it, the soothing massage sending him right back to the state where he was halfway ready to go to sleep. Michael's soapy hand slipping between his buttocks brought him back to wakefulness. The other snaked around, tugged his cock for a second, then nudged it aside to plunge one finger into him. Jesse was damp by then, but the water from the shower felt like it was sucking the moisture away, and Michael had to work a little harder to get two fingers inside. Jesse winced and Michael nuzzled him, urging him forward to put his hands on the warm tile wall. Jesse spread his legs, standing wide open for him, and presenting himself like that, he always felt heated, alive, animalistic. Michael leaned back to admire him for a second, then plunged forward, his dick difficult from the water and him thrusting so roughly that Jesse cried out and tried to pull away. Fuck, it hurt like the first time all over again.
Michael soothed him and he tried to calm down. The rest of the time was easier.

By dinnertime, they were back to fighting again, because Michael had lost a single sock when Jesse had moved their clothes, and when he exhaled in annoyance and got down to look under the bed for it, Jesse took offense and reminded him that if he wanted that perfect little carrier wife who wouldn't ever lose a single fucking sock, then he should probably stop fucking Jesse so they could get an annulment now. Michael, surprisingly, did not take well to this comment, and had demanded to know why Jesse treated him like a criminal at all times.

"And how am I supposed to trust you? Why should I? Just because we're married? We don't even know each other that well!"
"Fine! Fine! Know me! I'm Michael! I'm here! I'm here, I'm standing right next to you and I have been for a month now!"
"A month is no time - "
"I've been TRYING, Jesse Paik, I've been trying to get to know you, and you never let me! Is there any secret I've kept from you, ever, any at all?"
Jesse sulked.
"If I knew, then it wouldn't be a secret."
"Have I ever lied to you? Violated you? Have I ever hurt you in any way that was within my control?"
Jesse glared at him.
"That's just because you haven't had time yet."


Now, they were standing silently across from each other, both angrily peeling potatoes from a pretty blue and yellow ceramic bowl. Jesse kept glancing up at him, but Michael was staring resolutely down.
"All I'm saying is - "
"Don't. Don't do it, Jesse." Michael wagged the end of the short knife he was using at him. "Don't set us both up for another argument. We're not even finished the one we're in."
Jesse shut his mouth, then resented doing so just because Michael had asked, and decided he would open it again.
"I suppose we're back to giving orders, Officer O'Connor." he snapped. There was a pause. "I don't feel sorry for you."
Michael dumped half the pile of potatoes into a separate, dark blue bowl and moved to the opposite end of the table as Jesse. Which, unfortunately, did not separate them much in the small kitchen space.
"Well, I feel sorry for you, Jesse. Because it must be impossibly hard to live in that crazy space you call a head where you can't trust anyone but you, and not even you sometimes."
Jesse reacted a little, just a little to that, pausing in his potato work for a second.
"I'm crazy? Well, you're an asshole, asshole."
He felt pretty good about adding the second 'asshole' for that extra oomph. Michael put the knife down in the bowl.
"Jesse. I didn't mean it like that."
Jesse shook his head.
"Whatever. I don't care."
That wasn't true, but him angrily scraping the skin off a potato made it seem like it was. The blue of the flowers on the bowl reminded him of his natori. Michael had obviously been inspired, and for some reason, he suddenly found that incredibly irritating. The flowers appeared to be mocking him, pointing out that even if he felt like he was winning with Michael, he would still be a damn carrier. He would still have to wear a damn natori, and he would still be born to lose.
"That's silly, Jesse. You obviously care, or else you wouldn't be here with me."
Not missing a beat, Jesse muttered,
"The only reason I'm here with you is because I'd be dead anywhere else."
Michael stiffened up. Good. Hurt him. That felt better. Kind of.
Michael tried not to take the bait, he really tried, but the slicing became suddenly difficult, and he stabbed the knife into the potato.
"What is - what is that supposed to mean?" Jesse shrugged at him smugly from across the table.
"Fucking you is just paying my own ransom."
Michael was silent for a long minute.
"That's pretty hurtful, Jesse."
Jesse glanced up, but Michael wasn't looking at him and he didn't catch his expression and furthermore, didn't care.
"It's hurtful that you're trying to change me."
Michael exhaled.
"I'm not trying to change you, Jesse, but I want you to be better. That's what love is, Jesse. That's what people who love each other do - they try to help each other be better people. They try to help each other to grow."
Michael was highly annoyed, indicating sharply with the knife.
"So how come we only grow in your direction?"
Michael breathed in a calming breath.
"OK, Jesse. Where would you like us to grow? How would you like us to change?"
Jesse shook his head. He was sick of this already. He felt sick to his stomach and he wanted to go lie down. Fuck Michael. Fuck Michael and fuck his house and fuck these potatoes and just fuck everything.
"I don't know. I don't care. I'm sick of this."
he threw the peeler down in the bowl, along with the remaining population of potatoes, and shoved the whole thing, in one violent movement, towards Michael and off the table. The bowl shattered on the floor.

Michael stopped what he was doing. He put the short knife down and for a moment, rested his hands on either side of his own bowl, on the heavy granite table, his head hanging down to his chest. Then, he raised his head, looked directly at Jesse, and slapped him hard, straight across the face.

Jesse was so shocked he actually cried out, cradling his cheek in surprise and not a little pain. As soon as the stars cleared, he turned his head to look accusingly at Michael, who had gone back to the dark blue bowl of potatoes with his knife. Michael lifted his eyes to meet Jesse's own.
"Well, Jesse, was that good enough? Is that what you wanted?"
Jesse stared at him, uncomprehending.
"Now you can tell everybody that you were right."
And with that, Michael threw the knife down and left the room; it clattered across the granite table onto the floor between the pieces of ceramic, and just as Jesse thought about leaning over to pick it up, Michael whisked back in, clad in coat, hat, and scarf, with boots half on and gloves in his hand.
He looked at Jesse one more time, then shook his head and went out. He let the door slam behind him.

~:~

"Come one, come all! Everyone down to the dining room! It's dinnertime!"
Yavisk was prancing through the hallways, banging on a pot.
At the far end of the hall, his cousin's carrier, half-dressed, stuck his head out of the room then quickly retreated back in.
"You! Come on! Down to the dining room!"
Yavisk banged on the nearest door. A sleepy-eyed Bos opened it.
"Šta?"
"Dinner! Sád! Haj'mo!"
Bos blinked at him.
"Anton...sad je ponoć."
Yavisk glowered at him, and Bos noticed that he looked a bit wild-eyed.
"Didn't you know? Midnight is the only hour my Havar will eat."
The house began to rouse sufficiently, and Yavisk banged his way through the downstairs, startling Tiger and Miljan, who had made a habit of sitting together in the study. He went banging through the kitchen, by the guest rooms - even opening the front door and banging outside for a minute. Satisfied, he left the pot-banging to go back upstairs and drag out Havar, who had been the first to wake, and was now sitting terrified in the middle of their bed. He tensed up when Yavisk entered.
"Anton, please, I'm not hungry, nobody's hungry! What are you doing? Just stop this, Anton, please."
Yavisk stopped, regarding him coolly for a second.
"Oh. So I am 'Anton' now to you? I am 'Yavisk' no longer?"
Havar didn't know how to respond to that question, wasn't sure which answer would be the right one and which a fatal mistake. He made several silent prayers to Allah instead.
Anton snorted and crossed his arms over his chest.
"If I am 'Anton', then come here to me. Come and kiss your husband."
Havar didn't even blink, just obeyed him immediately, crawling across the bed to its edge, offering his face up. Fiercely, Yavisk grabbed him by his hair and dragged him to the ground.
"How fucking stupid do you think I really am?"
Havar was really terrified now, his heart pounding in his chest, breath heaving. He wanted to cry. He prayed again.
"Get the fuck up, and get down to dinner."

Yavisk was the last to enter, still halfway dragging Havar by the fist in his hair. The house was all convened in the dining room, Miljan at the opposite head of the table and Tiger, looking frightened, seated by his side. Yavisk marched to the end of the table, taking his seat and dragging Havar into a kneeling position beside him. Everyone in the room tensed. Bos moved to get up, but Miljan stayed him with one hand. Yavisk stood to introduce the evening. The cousins sat on to his right, opposite the table from Tiger, with the Doctor between them. Bos sat on Tiger's other side, some strange cadet who Yavisk only barely recognized sitting rumpled and half-dressed beside him. Anton looked at the cadet.
"Who the fuck are you?"
the cadet paled, then reddened a little bit, looking to Bos for an answer.
"Um..."
"He is a friend. Leave him alone."
"This dinner is family only."
"He is family. He's mine."
Bos' tone suddenly held a heavy warning. Yavisk inclined his head, lifting his wine glass in a toast. Miljan watched him coolly from the other end of the table.
"Oprostite, friend of Bos. Welcome to our home. I hope you enjoy the meal, and everything that is in store."
At his side, where he still had one hand wrapped painfully around the strands, Havar twisted on the floor to try and get away or at least relieve some of the pressure. He knew everyone was watching him, and he felt ashamed to realize he was crying.
"First on the menu tonight, everyone, we have a traditional potato dish, roasted and cooked softly with root vegetables in wine." Yavisk indicated a platter which sat in the center of the table. Havar pulled hard to get away, and Yavisk twisted his head in a particularly vicious yank. Havar whimpered, and swore, and for a second, he believed his neck was going to break. He held still.
"Afterwards, we have a fresh rack of lamb, roasted."
he indicated a second platter, but nobody looked at the food. The cousin's carrier tugged on his husband's sleeve. The cousin quieted him with a look.
"After that, a third course - a pasta in fish sauce!"
Yavisk indicated another tray.
"And then," Yavisk said dramatically, "For the fourth course, a beautiful performance of energy, by myself and my new carrier Havar, on the table, for your pleasure!"
Havar whimpered involuntarily and Yavisk leaned down to snap at him through gritted teeth.
"You've done it before. You'll do it again."
Everyone around the table exchanged disturbed looks while Yavisk's head was turned. As a group, they looked down the table to Miljan. Tiger put a hand on Miljan's; his eyes were brimming with tears.
"Make him stop." he mouthed.
Miljan shook his head and raised a hand, stemming all comments.
Yavisk pulled Havar up to a standing state, and he went willingly, grateful to be off the ground, if nothing else. Yavisk released the hand in his hair and moved it to grip the back of his neck.
"Sit. There. Eat."
he shoved him towards a chair. Havar sat down, shaking violently. Yavisk turned a steely eye to the table.
"Didn't you hear me, all of you? Eat!"
Nobody moved.
"Eat!"
Havar wasn't crying at this point, but when he tried to lift his fork, he found he was shaking too much for it to be of any use. Yavisk swore and snatched him by his hair again.
"What's the matter, Havar? Can't eat unless your lover feeds it to you?"
Havar glanced up once, confused by what that might mean. Yavisk stared at him and his face turned to one of disgust.
"A change of plans, everybody! We'll have our performance first."
Yavisk pulled Havar up by his hair and drew him tightly against his chest.
"But first - a confession! Of infidelity, committed by my darling whore of a carrier wife."
Havar shook his head vigorously, still shaking.
"I don't - I don't know what you're talking about."
Yavisk laughed, a short bark.
"You don't know? I've seen you with our Doctor. I've seen you look at each other. Meet for your secret meals in the kitchen."
Havar's eyes got wide as he realized. The Doctor was staring at him, face stony and pale.
"Tell everyone here at the table. Tell them all how he fucked you so good you had nothing left for me."
Havar had no idea what to do.
"Anton."
Miljan was still sitting in his calm, relaxed position at the opposite end of the table. Yavisk snapped his head up to look at him.
"Da, prijatelj?"
"That's enough, don't you think? Demen is our doctor. He would not disrespect you."
Yavisk coughed out a laugh again and twisted Havar's head backwards. Havar yelped.
"You say that, brother, but I've seen them do it. I've seen them sneaking off. I've seen this - this fucking whore," here, he punctuated his anger by shaking Havar's head back and forth.
"- meet him in the kitchens. But you say there is no disrespect."
"Let go of him, you son of a bitch!" It was Tiger. Ruefully, Miljan realized that the poor kid just couldn't help himself. He put a hand on Tiger's arm to stop him, but Tiger shook it off and pressed on.
"Leave Havar alone!"
Yavisk turned an ugly look on him.
"Miljan..."
"Tiger, be silent."
"He's - "
"What a man does with his wife is of no concern to you." Tiger looked at Miljan, his expression confused and hurt, but Miljan was busy watching Yavisk.
"Brother, if there is a problem, come with me, and we can discuss it alone, in private."
Yavisk shook his head and began backing away from the table, taking a whimpering Havar with him.
"No. This is my only problem. This. Him. I'm going to kill him."
Yavisk said it almost conversationally, knocking over the chair as he began to drag Havar away, and he got him just over to the rug that lay in the open space in front of the fire place behind them before he threw him down there, onto the ground. Havar tried to get up.
"Stay down!"
he didn't move. The first kick caught him completely off-guard. The second hurt like hell. The third caught him in the side of the chest. The fourth on his head. He couldn't process what was going on and he was too scared to open his eyes, but there was yelling around him and then the kicking blessedly ceased and if he'd had his eyes open, he would have realized that it was because on the second kick, the table had rushed en masse to restrain Yavisk, and on the fourth kick, the Doctor had taken an iron from the fireplace and hit Anton in the back with it.
The group was strong, but there was confusion and Tiger was screaming and trying to get into the fray and the little gray housecat was darting between legs to get out of the room and the cousin's carrier was trying to hold his husband back from getting involved. Yavisk turned on the Doctor, his face like an enraged animal, and lunged for his throat. The Doctor raised his iron to strike again, this time aiming where he knew it would kill, planning to go for the head, the throat, the sensitive parts exposed, seeing before his eyes only images of himself, slaughtering Yavisk, and Havar, lying hurt on the floor. Nothing else was clear, nothing could connect.
Then there was a horrible, deafening, cracking sound.
Miljan stood calmly at one end of the table.
Yavisk lay dead at the other.

All movement in the room ceased. The only sound was the sound of Havar still keening, whining on the floor. The Doctor moved first. He dropped the fire iron and ran over to kneel by Havar's side, beginning his doctorly ministrations. The rest of the room stared at Miljan, who stood firmly where he was and laid his revolver on the table.
"Get out."
Nobody moved. Miljan sighed.
"The first man who speaks of this, dies. Bos, I want you to go and bring the car around. Murphy will have to go with you. He can't be out of your sight." Bos nodded sharply, took the cadet by the hand, and ran out of the room to go and find the car.
"Drag, take your wife and put him upstairs. Ami, you go with your husband and be good. Lock the door. Then Ivan, you and Drag go and clear the safehouses; put enough things for a week into the white room."
Miljan felt a sudden shiver wash over him. His brother was dead. He waited for Drag and Ivan to begin to leave.
"Demen."
the Doctor looked up.
"In your room, under the third slat beneath your bed, there is a box. In that box there are sixty-four thousand dollars. Take that. Take him. Go to India."
"Miljan - "
"This is my fault. I should never have allowed him to come here. And I never should have asked you to stay. Go. Under the fourth slat, there are two guns. Under the fifth is an easily broken vial of acid, so be careful in your counting."
"What?"
"Take the money. Take Havar. Take him to India, and don't bring him back."
"Miljan - "
"Use this opportunity which I am giving you, Demen. Set him free, and yourself as well. You've both just been liberated. Go."
the Doctor swallowed and nodded, then turned back to his patient.
"You know the way?"
the Doctor nodded, lifting him into his arms to carry out.
"I know the way."
Miljan nodded and watched them go.
"Now, Tiger, I want - "
he looked to his left. Then his right. Panicked, he looked up and around the room.
Tiger was gone.
Miljan shoved past Demen and Havar and skidded into the hallway. An icy air whisked in through the hallway. Yavisk had left the door open when he'd gone pot-banging. And now Bos had opened the gate. The full realization of what had just happened hit him in the gut.
Anton was dead, and Tiger was gone.
Miljan was all alone.

~:~