Deja Vu by Nancy Kaminski
Many moons ago, Lynn Messing posted a challenge---what would happen if Nat cured Nick, but the cure made him forget everything that had happened since that fateful night in 1228? The challenge stuck in my head, and I started writing. Slowly. With the help of my beta readers, Texas Cousin Jules and Jean Graham, the story gradually came together. I hope we caught all the typos and inconsistencies! My thanks go out to them many times over for all their help. We know who these characters belong to. Thank you for letting me twist their lives a bit. Permission is given to the FK Fanfic Website to archive this story. Anyone else--ask permission, or I will be forced to hunt you down and kill you. |
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. "Are you sure?" Nick looked at Natalie a long moment, then nodded and smiled. "Yes, I'm sure. I really think it's going to work this time." He took her hand and squeezed gently. "I don't know why, but I have a good feeling about this." She squeezed back and returned the smile. "I do too. At least all the lab tests were a success---that is, as far as I could tell, without trying it on an actual 'undead' subject." Natalie had been teetering on the verge of success for months, the test results becoming more and more positive. And when success finally came, she repeated the final test over and over again before giving Nick the good news, just to make sure. She wanted to be cautious, but in the end neither of them could bear to postpone actually trying the new serum, risky or not. So after the end of their Thursday night shifts, Nick had picked her up at the morgue and they had gone directly to the loft, the precious vial of serum tucked safely into the battered black leather medical bag Natalie clutched tightly on her lap. Nick wanted to try the serum as soon as possible for another reason. "Janette," he explained, "is in Paris. She has been for a month." He groped for words, unsure if Natalie understood the nature of the relationship between the vampire siblings/lovers. "If this truly works, our---connection---will break. If she is far away, it will not be as painful as it would be were she here." "And Lacroix?" Natalie asked apprehensively. "What about your connection to him?" She barely understood this tie between the vampire father and son, but from the little Nick had told her, it was deep and constant. "He will know, no matter where he is," Nick said flatly, his face bleak. "We'll just have to deal with that when the time comes." With that, he refused to discuss it any more. Once in the loft, Nick had drained two glasses of cow to ease his inhuman hunger "for the last time," he had declared, his expression a cross between revulsion and joy. Natalie nodded in agreement. "Tomorrow, orange juice." He vaguely remembered eating an orange, a wondrous explosion of sweetness, when he had been a mortal Crusader in the Holy Land. The thought of untasted foods ignited his imagination. "And eggs, and bacon, and oatmeal, and coffee..." He began to twirl her giddily around the kitchen as he grinned and recited a list of breakfast delicacies. "And Wheaties, and muffins, and, uhhh, Captain Crunch, and..." "Whoa, buster, don't get carried away!" Natalie gasped as she was whirled to sit in a kitchen chair, grinning at his uncharacteristic exuberance. "We're going to go easy on the food at first. I don't want to give you your first case of indigestion in eight hundred years." He mimed offense. "Me? I always had a cast-iron stomach---I could eat anything and never get sick." He thought a moment, holding up a hand. "Wait. I'm wrong. There was that one time when it was a hard winter and we had to eat that rotten salted beef..." He shook his head. "I don't think that counts, though, do you?" She grabbed his hand. "Now is not the time to reminisce about botulism. Are we going to do this or not?" They looked at each other, suddenly serious. Nat stood up and started leading him towards the stairs and his bedroom, taking her medical bag from the table as they passed. Now, at the moment of truth, she felt as if she had to reassure herself that the cure would work; that it wasn't a dead end like the Lidovuterine-B had been; that the serum she had stumbled on after years of experimentation and failure really would destroy the vampire that was slowly destroying Nick. Mentally she reviewed her lab tests. She had watched the effects of the serum under the electron microscope in her friend Doug's research lab at the University of Toronto Medical School; watched as the abnormal vampire gene structures were overwhelmed and replaced with normal human ones with amazing speed---it had to work on Nick! She said a silent prayer and pushed Nick gently back on the bed. "Lie down, now. I don't know what side effects the serum will have on you. We don't want a repeat of the last time," she added, referring to Nick's collapse on her dissecting room floor. Nick lay back on the bed. His face was calm, but Natalie could tell he was nervous---his muscles were tense, and his hands were clenching and unclenching. She rubbed his arm gently. "Try to relax. It'll make it easier to insert the IV." The serum had to be infused slowly in a saline drip. Nick nodded and visibly made an effort to relax himself. "Sorry," he murmured, and took a deep breath. She patted his hand. "Not to worry. You're entitled to a case of nerves. It's not every day you decide to change the nature of your existence." "Yeah---only once every eight hundred years or so. You'd think I would've learned my lesson the first time..." Natalie swatted his arm and said fondly, "Idiot!" Her face grew serious as she donned a pair of surgical gloves, swabbed the back of his left hand and found a vein, then inserted the needle. She taped it down and connected the saline drip. When it was flowing to her satisfaction, she readied the hypodermic with the serum. "Ready?" Nick nodded, his face grim. "Do it." She injected the serum into the bag of saline. The amber fluid diffused slowly into the clear salt solution, gradually tinting it a faint gold. The gold started slowly drifting its way down the tubing towards Nick's hand, bringing with it its promise of renewed mortality. Nat sat down in the armchair she had drawn close to the bed and stripped off the gloves. "Now all we can do is wait." She put a blood pressure cuff on Nick's right arm, and unbuttoned his shirt so she could listen to his heart with her stethoscope. "I'll be taking your vitals every fifteen minutes." She rested her hand on his and said, "If things go according to plan, they'll start to pick up in about an hour." Nick lay there, his eyes on the IV. "I can't believe this is finally it. I've been searching for so long," he said wonderingly. Glancing over at Natalie, he smiled. "Thanks to you." He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, then pressed it to his cheek. "You know how I feel about you, don't you? Whatever the outcome, that will never change." Natalie's heart constricted at the trust and unspoken love in his eyes. Her own eyes pricked with tears as she smoothed his unruly hair. "I know." She smiled tremulously and turned the moment into a joke. "Now just lie still and concentrate on becoming mortal, will you?" His reply devastated her. "That's what I do every minute I'm with you." Silence fell over the dimly-lit room. The level in the saline drip lowered slowly. There was nothing to say; all their hopes for a future together were condensed suddenly into an amber fluid, working its chemical magic on a dormant body. After half an hour, Nick murmured, "I feel strange...so tired..." His voice trailed off and his grip on Natalie's hand slackened; his eyes drooped shut. She quickly checked his vital signs. There was no change as yet---they were virtually nonexistent---and he appeared to be deeply asleep, almost comatose. So far, so good, she thought. God, please make this work, she prayed silently, and settled back to wait. Downstairs, the loft's open shutters let seldom-seen stripes of sunlight move slowly across the floor, bathing the austere room with light and heat. Dust motes, glinting gold, danced in the faint air movements. And as the day wore on, upstairs in the darkened bedroom, the hoped- and prayed-for changes began to manifest themselves. A dormant, cold heart began twitching, its fibers remembering the long-ago rhythms of youth and vitality. Lungs began to insist on drawing in air, not to speak, not for appearance, but to sustain life itself. The rush of hot, oxygenated blood began its purposeful, circular route through arteries, veins, and capillaries, flushing the pale white skin with the normal hues of life. Natalie's hopes soared with the upward-climbing points she charted on her graphs. The soft blue numbers on the alarm clock silently noted the passage of the day; after four hours, Natalie removed the now-empty IV drip from Nick's warm hand. He remained motionless save for the quiet movements of his chest as he breathed, although she knew drastic things were happening internally. All his systems were awakening after almost eight hundred years of unlife. His vital signs reached human normal---and then, to her alarm, continued climbing. Nervously she began taking his temperature every five minutes---98, 99, 101...in a half hour it soared to 106 degrees. His heart rate increased until it was racing at 150 beats per minute. Finally, Nick seemed to swim upwards to a delirious semi-consciousness, muttering and moving restlessly, clear saline sweat pouring down his face as his temperature soared. This was something all Natalie's tests couldn't have predicted. 'Side effects.' The term sounded so innocuous. The cure worked; unfortunately, the patient died... She fought down her panic and tried to think clinically. She had to get his temperature down, that was clear, and fast---his newly-awakened physiology was racing like an out of control engine, burning itself up. Cold water. Get him into the bath and immerse him in cold water! Now if she could just get him there...She shook him, hard. "Nick! Can you hear me? Nick!" He turned his head towards her voice, and muttered something she couldn't understand. His eyes were open and fever-bright, but unfocused. She pulled on his arm. "C'mon, Nick, stand up." Somehow she managed to get him off the bed and standing on unsteady legs, his arm draped heavily over her shoulders. He suddenly seemed to weigh a ton. Putting her arm around his waist, she pulled him towards the door. "Walk, dammit. C'mon, Nick, help me!" They weaved unsteadily down the hall to the bathroom, Nick almost collapsing several times. Natalie ended up supporting almost all his weight most of the way. She could feel his heart pounding in his chest, as though it were trying to break free. When they got into the bathroom, she half lowered, half dropped him into the tub, wincing at the solid *thunk* when he hit. He lolled limply against the cool porcelain. Frantically she tore his shoes and socks off. She fairly ripped his shirt off, then managed to maneuver his jeans and underpants over his hips, tossing the discarded clothes in the corner. Get the water started, idiot! She turned the cold water faucet on full force and closed the drain. She turned back to Nick, pulled two towels from the towel rack and padded the slanted end of the tub under his head so he wouldn't concuss himself on the porcelain. Thank God the tub was just short enough for his six-foot frame that he wouldn't easily slide under the water. Damn! She needed her medical gear! She hated leaving him for even a second, but she had to get it from his room. Natalie ran down the hall and gathered her equipment into her arms. Racing back, she was relieved to find him in the same position. He was muttering in his feverish delirium, his head rolling from side to side, his fingers plucking feebly at nothing, splashing in the icy water. The water was almost halfway up his chest---any deeper, and he really could go under and drown. She turned off the faucet and took his temperature again. If it didn't start going down soon, she would have to call the paramedics and get him into the hospital fast, and worry about explanations later. His temperature was 105---the cold water had already started lowering it, thank God. She put her fingers over his carotid artery and counted his pulse. She felt a rush of relief---it was down to 100 beats per minute. Ice. Ice would help lower his temperature even faster. She remembered the big bag of ice he kept for her soft drinks in the freezer compartment of his refrigerator. She checked his position again---the wet towels behind his head and back were keeping him more or less in one place. "Don't move," she ordered her semi-conscious patient, and ran downstairs for the ice. After she dumped the ice into the water, she sat back on her heels and looked at him. He was panting, his eyes half open and vacant, but he seemed calmer. Natalie suddenly realized this was the first time she had seen him naked---even when she had had to dig bullets out of him, he managed to stay covered everywhere except the site of the wound. She wondered if his modesty was the result of his upbringing, or just a reluctance to expose his abnormally pale skin to public scrutiny. She knew there were jokes among the women at the precinct, about how Nick was 'the most clothed man on the force,' and that he was never seen with even his top shirt button undone, or his sleeves pushed up. And here she had him, au naturel, as it were. If only the situation weren't so serious...She shook her head. How could she be thinking like this during this crisis? She took his temperature again. The little electronic thermometer beeped and registered 102.4 on its blue LED readout. She relaxed a fraction more, and went back to studying him until her next temperature check. His skin was remarkably smooth, his chest lightly dusted with golden hair. There were no scars to mark the places where she knew he had been shot---it really was true, vampires healed as if they had never been hurt, even the most grievous injury. But there were still scars here and there; she supposed they were relics of his mortal life. There was a dimpled scar on his thigh, obviously a puncture wound---an arrow?---and a long weal just above his left hip. It looked like it had been deep and ugly; the scar was puckered and uneven. She speculated on how he had been wounded, and what kind of treatment he would have received for such an injury---probably just bandaging and perhaps poultices. It looked like it had been infected and very painful. She shuddered at the thought. Her eyes strayed a little lower, feeling guilty for looking at him this way when he was unconscious, but still, she couldn't resist. He was well-proportioned, and, she noted, uncircumcised. Overall, he was nicely muscled, especially his upper body, something not usually noticeable under his well-tailored clothes. She noted with interest his right arm and shoulder were more developed than the left---from wielding a sword? It seemed likely. Once, Nick, in a more than usually outgoing mood, had delved into his storeroom and shown her his battered sword. She had marveled at the weight and length of it. She remembered wondering how he had managed to keep it all those hundreds of years. She dragged her mind back to the matter at hand and looked at her watch. It had been forty-five minutes since she had gotten him into the bath. She checked again. His temperature was 100, and his heart rate had slowed to a much more normal 80 beats per minute. Considering what his body was going through, that was well within the normal range. His respirations had slowed, too, and he was no longer breathing through his mouth. It looked like this crisis had passed, and she fervently hoped for no more medical surprises. She gave him another twenty minutes in the cold water, then started draining the tub. Nick was resting quietly, though he looked drawn and tired. Natalie opened the cupboard to look for more towels. Now she had to worry about getting him dried off and warm. She paused and stretched her back out, fervently hoping he would be able to get back to his room under his own power. Her back ached from supporting most of his weight earlier, and she didn't relish the thought of doing it again. She turned around, towels in her arms, to find he was looking at her, awareness growing in his eyes. She smiled, suddenly overcome by the knowledge her cure had worked---he was mortal! She knelt down next to the tub, dropped the towels, and touched his cheek. "Welcome back to mortality, Nick." Her smile wavered, threatened to become tears. "It worked, Nick. There were a few bumps, but it worked. You're mortal again. Can you feel your heart beating?" Why doesn't he say something? Nick remained silent. He looked around him with a strange expression on his face, becoming aware of his nudity with a start. A flush of red started on his chest and spread over his face as he attempted to cover himself in embarrassment. Spying one of the fresh towels, he grabbed it and draped it over his waist, then stared at Natalie and said something in a language she had never heard before. She laughed nervously. "Nick, cut it out! This isn't the time to show off your language skills. Tell me how you feel." As he looked at her blankly, her welcoming smile faded. He asked the question again, and at her incomprehension, changed to a strangely accented French. "What am I doing here? What is this place?" Natalie stared at him slackjawed; she felt as if she had been hit by a sack of cement. She took a moment to gather her whirling thoughts and dredged up the remnants of her high school and college French classes. Haltingly, she said, "You are at home. In your bathroom. The medicine I gave you made you hot, and I had to get your temperature down." She gestured. "So I put you in cold water." He pulled himself to a sitting position and groaned involuntarily, rubbing his temples as if he had a headache. He looked around again, examining the gleaming porcelain and chrome fixtures, the lights...and her. His gaze lingered on her legs rather longer than necessary. Finally he dragged his eyes up to meet hers. "I don't recognize this place. You say this is my home? Surely not---it is very strange, and very rich. I have yet to make my place in the world, and own no such estate." He eyed her speculatively. "And you have the advantage of me, Mademoiselle. You address me so familiarly, but I regret I do not know your name." He arranged the towel more securely, and shifted uncomfortably. "This is most unseemly, and to be seen thus by a lady..." His eye roved over her again, taking in her short skirt and sleeveless blouse. "Your dress is most unusual." Despite his embarrassment, his eyebrow quirked and he smiled appreciatively. Natalie's thoughts flew. He didn't remember her---apparently, he didn't remember anything. That first language he spoke must have been Brabantish---it sounded Germanic or Dutch. The analytical part of her mind continued to hum along while the rest of it edged closer to panic mode. And that barely-understandable French must be the dialect he learned in his youth. She realized she had used the familiar 'tu' rather than the formal 'vous,' and if he had reverted to his medieval self, she must look next to naked to him. And being unclothed and in the company of a woman...no wonder he was blushing. Of course, he could have made other assumptions about her... Self-consciously she tugged at the hem of her skirt and said, "My name is Natalie Lambert. We are good friends. You have been, uh...ill...and I have been helping you get well." She was careful to speak formally this time. "I have been ill?" He grimaced. "Truly, I don't feel well. My head is aching and I feel very weak." He glanced down at himself. "Where are my clothes?" Natalie looked at the clothes thrown haphazardly in the corner. That wouldn't do---he probably would have difficulty dressing himself in twentieth century garb, and she didn't want to embarrass him any more than he was already by helping him. There was a terrycloth bathrobe hanging on the back of the door. She held it out to him and said, "You can wear this for now." The whole situation was beginning to feel surreal. He stood up carefully, clutching the towel with one hand and pressing the other to the tiled wall for balance. Safely on his feet, he held out his hand for the robe. Natalie wordlessly handed it over. He turned to the wall and slipped it on, tying the belt securely before turning around again and cautiously stepping out of the tub. "Tell, me, do you know what year it is?" Natalie asked carefully. He glanced sharply at her. "Of course---the second year in the reign of his majesty, Louis the Ninth. 1228. Why do you ask me this?" Natalie said faintly, "It's nothing. Never mind." Oh, God, it's really true. He doesn't remember anything. I've got Neecolah Mark One on my hands. Nick's gaze wandered over the bathroom again, ending up staring at his image in the large mirror over the sink. "My hair has been shorn," he murmured, fingering the length of hair at the back of his neck. "And I am so pale---truly I must have been ill a long while." He stared at the mirror itself and touched it tentatively. "What an amazing looking glass." Suddenly he clutched at his stomach. "Oh, God, I am going to be sick," he groaned as he doubled over and began retching. Natalie pushed him over to the toilet, hurriedly flipping up the lid. He collapsed to his knees and vomited his final meal of blood into the toilet, spasming over and over, then sat limply on the floor, breathing heavily. He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead with a trembling hand, and gasped, "I'm dying, aren't I? I have seen men who brought up blood...oh God." He leaned his head back against the cool tiles and looked up at Natalie with frightened eyes. "What has happened? Was I poisoned?" Natalie handed him a glass of water. "No, you've just been sick a long time," she said gently. She was almost elated at the sight of his body rejecting the blood it had demanded for so long. "You were just getting rid of the illness. You'll be all right now." I hope, she added to herself. Nick shakily drained the glass of water and handed it back to her with a sigh. He seemed willing to accept her reassurances---for now. "More, please." Natalie took the glass. "In a moment. Let's get you back to your bedroom so you can rest." She held out her hand to help him to his feet. He smiled briefly, then grimaced. "If only my head were not aching so," he apologized, accepting her hand and standing awkwardly. "The rest should help," she said reassuringly, and led him down the hallway towards the bedroom. Fortunately, he was too caught up in how ill he felt to pay attention to his surroundings. He didn't even look as they walked slowly past the balcony overlooking the loft's main floor. Natalie suddenly foresaw problems---lots of problems. If he truly was amnesiac, how was she going to explain this world to him? Everything, from clothing to indoor plumbing, was going to be strange and new. She fervently hoped this condition was temporary. Natalie ushered Nick into the bedroom and pointed him at the bed while she swiftly looked around the room. No glaringly obvious examples of modern technology were there, except for the lamps and the digital alarm clock/radio. She casually toed the clock's plug out of the wall socket. The last thing she needed was an alarm clock going off and scaring her newly-mortal patient to death. There was nothing she could do about the lamps; Nick's bedroom had no windows and they needed the light they provided. She hoped he was too distracted to look at them carefully. "Lie down and try to rest. I'll get you some more water." She went downstairs to the kitchen, found another glass, and filled a pitcher with cold water. She stopped briefly in the bathroom to collect Nick's discarded clothes, then returned to the bedroom, balancing the pitcher on top of the untidy pile. Back in the bedroom, she found Nick in bed as ordered, looking wan and tired but gazing around the room apprehensively. Pouring a glass of water, she offered it to him and said, "Here, drink this. You must still be thirsty." He accepted the glass and drained it dry. "My thanks, Mademoiselle---Natalie? Where are we? Is this Paris?" He handed the glass back and she refilled it. Giving him the glass again, she said, "Uh, no. We're in Toronto." She thought she'd leave out the more messy details, such as being on the other side of the ocean. She busied herself shaking out his clothes and folding them neatly on the dresser. Casually, she said, "Tell me, Nicolas," Natalie felt odd, pronouncing his name that way like she was doing a bad Janette imitation. "What is the last thing you remember before waking up here?" He ran a finger around the rim of the glass thoughtfully, watching her. "I was at an inn, on the Ile de la Cite, supping with my companions. We were newly arrived in Paris from the Holy Land, returning from the wars." He grimaced at the memory. "It had been a hard journey, and many of us had been injured." His hand strayed to his left hip where Natalie had seen the fearsome scar. "We were resting for a time before continuing on the final leg of our journey to Brabant. I remember a beautiful young woman calling to me from across the room..." His voice trailed off, and he blushed again. He cleared his throat. "Beyond that, everything is in a mist. I woke up here." In spite of the gravity of the situation, Natalie could barely suppress a grin. He remembered more, all right---the night of revelry with Janette, no doubt, but he obviously wasn't going to discuss it with her. Chivalry isn't dead, she thought. Nick's gaze wandered around the strange room, taking in the fixtures. A thought occurred to him. "Where are my possessions?" "Your possessions?" Natalie echoed. She gestured. "All this is yours." "No, not this," he replied impatiently. "My cloak, my hauberk, my weapons, my horse...all I own in the world." He looked at his right hand. "My ring, given me by my mother when I left for the Holy Land." "I'm sorry, Nicolas, they are all gone." She wasn't about to mention the sword in the storage room; visions of Nick traipsing around with a sword slung at his waist were too horrible to comtemplate. A thought occurred to her. "No, wait, I think..." She went to the dresser and opened a carved wooden box sitting on the polished wood. Nick had shown her the box and its cherished contents several months ago. Fishing out a small chamois pouch, she took it to him and asked, "Is this the ring?" He opened the pouch and shook it out. A heavy gold ring, worn smooth with age, fell into his palm. Tracing the outline of the inlaid heraldic crest with the tip of a finger, he said, "Yes, this is my ring. See, it bears the arms of my family." He held it up for her inspection. "But it is so worn. It was not thus when I wore it last." He stared at it uneasily, fingering the time-smoothed surfaces, and then slipped it on his finger. "I don't understand what has happened." His eyes turned to her again. "Truly, all my possessions are gone? Were they sold to pay for my keep here?" He looked troubled and upset at his loss. Natalie sighed. "No, they weren't sold. It's...it's a long story." She changed the subject. "Are you hungry?" He nodded. "Yes. I think I could keep some bread and meat down. My stomach feels more settled now." He rubbed his temple again and added, "Perhaps some food will ease this aching head." Natalie stood up and said briskly, "Well, I can fix that. I am a physician, after all." Rummaging in her medical bag, she pulled out a bottle of ibuprofen and shook two tablets out. "Here, swallow these. They will ease your headache." She handed him the tablets with another glass of water. Nick was staring at her. "You are a physician? I have heard of ladies well-versed in midwifery, but---a physician? Your husband allows this? Amazing." He looked at the pills dubiously. "And what are these?" "It's all right. It's just a special medicine for headaches. And there is no husband, and women can be physicians here, if they wish. So swallow them, please." She crossed her arms and stared at him, waiting. He meekly swallowed the pills and drank another glass of water. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he said, "This is indeed a strange land." He snorted softly. "Women as physicians, indeed---although I must admit, these tiny things are easier to swallow than Brother Antoine's potions. He can brew up the nastiest remedies of any herbalist I've ever known." He put the glass on the bedside table and started to stand. Natalie pushed him back down on the bed. "No, I told you to rest. You're too weak to walk around. I'll bring some food for you. Just stay here." She wasn't prepared for him to go downstairs yet, not until she had a chance to 'technology-proof' it, at least to some extent. "Have your servant bring the food---stay here, Mademoiselle Natalie, and tell me about the kingdom of Toronto. Who is your liege lord? How far are we from Paris? I confess, I have never heard of this place, but the world is wide, as I have learned from my travels." He settled comfortably back down and crossed his arms. "And please, who is master of this house? I must thank him for his hospitality." "I told you, you own this place...no, never mind," she said in exasperation at his puzzled expression. She headed for the door. "There aren't any servants, so I'll just go down to the kitchen and get you something. Just stay here," she repeated, and closed the bedroom door behind her. Closing her eyes, she leaned against the door and sighed. Her head was hurting, too, and she was desperately tired. She wished she had taken some ibuprofen for herself. She briefly considered going back in the bedroom and getting the bottle, but couldn't bring herself to face Nick again so soon. She needed a moment to collect her thoughts. The sun was almost down; the last vestiges of a red sunset suffused the loft as she slowly descended the stairs. What would she do if he didn't regain his memory in the next few days? He obviously couldn't go to work in this condition---hell, he couldn't even leave the loft in this condition. Not that he needed the job, but she couldn't resign for him. Captain Cohen would be demanding to talk to him, or at least see a signed letter of resignation. And he couldn't just not show up, either. They would search for him, and the first place they'd look would be here. Her headache intensified. Thank God they both had the entire weekend off for a change. They weren't expected at work until Monday night. Maybe he'll remember in a few hours---a few days---maybe some solid food will kick in the ol' neurons and this will all go away. And if not? She didn't want to think about it. Not right now. At least she had brought a grocery bag full of food. Canned chicken noodle soup, some apples, a loaf of bread, butter, a carton of milk---she could throw together something that wouldn't be too jarring to him, physically or mentally. As the soup heated, she found the remote and closed the window shutters. At least he wouldn't be able to see out if he came downstairs. Nothing I can do about the TV, or any of the other electronics, she thought as she surveyed the large room. Maybe he'll think they're just boxes, or decorations, or something. She decided to turn on one lamp with a three-way bulb to its lowest setting, and light candles and turn on the fireplace for additional illumination. She was lighting the last candle when she heard a noise. She looked up, and there he was, tentatively walking along the balcony. He had gotten dressed in the clothes she had left folded on the dresser, she saw, right down to the sneakers, although his shirt wasn't tucked in, and she couldn't resist wondering if he had on the underwear. In the back of her mind she was thankful the jeans Nick had worn that day were button fly 501s---she didn't really want to explain zipper flies to him at that particular moment. "Mademoiselle Natalie? Are you near?" Nick's face brightened when he saw her looking up at him. "Please pardon me, I know you said I should stay in the bedchamber, but where is the garderobe?" Natalie's French failed her completely. "The what?" she asked. "The garderobe." He looked at her expectantly. "The garderobe." Maybe Nick had a French/English dictionary somewhere. She looked around as if one would appear magically. It didn't. "I'm sorry, I don't know what that is. Could you describe it?" He seemed nonplused. "The garderobe...where one may..." Natalie could have sworn he said "Oh, shit!" under his breath, but he continued gamely on. "Uh, I have recently drunk three glasses of water, and have been asleep for a long time, and I need to..." He waved his hand helplessly. The light dawned. "Oh. It's where you were before, where the bath is. Let me show you." She quickly turned down the heat under the soup and hurried up the stairs. She made sure she got to the bathroom before he could see her turn on the light switch. Oh, great, she thought, looking at Nick's oversized, luxurious bath with fresh eyes. Plumbing 101. Oh, well, gotta learn sometime. She became aware of him at her back. "Here's the...thing. Where you were sick before." She flipped up the lid and gestured. "When you're done, press this lever and water washes everything away." She touched the toilet paper. "Use this to, um, clean yourself, and put it in the bowl. All right?" Nick looked around with wide eyes, apparently more able to appreciate the gleaming fixtures than he had been before. "Amazing." It seemed to be his stock phrase, not that she blamed him. "I thought this was the bathing room." "Well, it's both. I'll leave you now," she said briskly. "I'll be downstairs if you need me. Your food is almost ready." She turned and without a backward glance marched out and shut the door behind her, leaving him staring bemusedly at the toilet. When she returned to the kitchen, someone was waiting for her. Lacroix. (continued) |