Part 2 (1/2)
”Of course we do. Hay is fed to horses. And babes are wee. Newborns. I simply don't understand why you utter them to me.”
He grinned.
My heart squeezed, the pain so immense it was a wonder I didn't double over, fall to the floor, dead before I hit.
So handsome. That light in his striking eyes.
My Antoine had been handsome.
But when he'd smiled...
”Not saying 'hay,'” Noctorno told me. ”I'm saying 'hey,' with an e. It's how people say h.e.l.lo, greet each other in my world.”
I battled the pain, hid the severity of the fight and nodded my head once.
”And 'babe?'” I prompted, though I shouldn't have. Engaging in discourse would not get him to leave.
”It's what guys call chicks in my world.”
I drew up a brow.
He watched it go and his striking eyes lit brighter.
”Chicks?” I asked, ignoring the amused light in his eyes.
”Girls. Women.”
”Girls and women?” I asked.
”Well, you wouldn't call a girl-girl, like a little kid, a babe or a chick. You'd call women that.”
”So it's an endearment,” I deduced, thinking that I might, indeed, expend the effort to have a word with one of the women in this world who were of his world to share with him a few important things.
Precisely that he shouldn't be referring to anyone he barely knew, and certainly not his superior, with an endearment.
”That, though chick is more slang,” he shared.
”In other words, in your world, you refer to the female gender with words indicating to said female every time you use them that you think they're as vulnerable and weak as a newborn child or the like, but that of a species of fowl.”
Without hesitation his mirth surged forth, filling the room, warming it, drawing me out of my mood, away from the events of that day, of the last months, of the loss of the only man I'd ever loved, and silently I watched and listened.
I gave no indication I enjoyed it.
But I enjoyed it.
He controlled his joviality but didn't stop smiling or watching me as he asked, ”What do you call dudes here?”
”Dudes?” I responded to his query with a query.
”Men,” he explained, still smiling. ”Guys.”
”We call them men or gentlemen.”
”No, I mean endearments or slang.”
”I, personally, do not engage in uttering slang.”
He studied me like I was a highly entertaining jester who'd come to court before he inquired, ”Okay, what do you call a man you're in with?”
”In with?”
”Who means something to you. Your guy. Your man,” he stated.
I looked to the fire again, feeling my face freeze.
The instant I did, he bit off, ”f.u.c.k.” There was a slight pause before, ”Babe...Franka, Tor told me about the s.h.i.+t that went down...f.u.c.k.” I felt strong fingers curl around my wrist, a wrist I was resting on the arm of the chair, before he finished, ”That was stupid. I'm so sorry.”
With a delicate twist, I freed myself from his touch, lifted my winegla.s.s to my lips, and before I took a sip I murmured, ”It's nothing.”
”Bulls.h.i.+t.”
This odd word made my gaze move back to him.
”I beg your pardon?” I snapped.
”Bulls.h.i.+t,” he repeated.
”I don't understand this word.”
Though I had a feeling I did.
There was no smile on his face. No humor in his eyes. He was regarding me closely again, but this time I was prepared and didn't s.h.i.+ft in my seat.
”You're full of it,” he explained. ”You're not giving me the entire truth. You're saying something to get past something you don't want to be talking about.”
”And if I did this, considering what we both know I'm moving us past, it's customary to allow the awkward moment to pa.s.s.”
He leaned slightly toward me. ”You're in here all alone, drinkin' wine by yourself, lookin' like the world just ended. And I get why you'd feel that way. I don't understand, when all the others are so tight, why you aren't tight with them. But that's not my business. All I know is, you put your a.s.s on the line today to save four women's lives and the life of every being in this universe. It took courage to do that, babe. You suffered a big loss losing your man and I'm sorry for that. But at least for tonight you should be proud of what you did for your country, for four good women and the men who love them, for the memory of the man you lost. It's time to celebrate. The good side won and you,” he pointed a finger at me (insufferably rude!), ”were a part of that.”
Again, on the tip of my tongue, words hovered to share precisely, in a calculated way, how I knew he had celebrated with Circe.
Those words did not drop off my tongue.
They vanished completely as I simply turned my attention back to the fire.
”And that kinda situation does not say wine,” he carried on. ”It says whiskey, vodka, or better yet, tequila.”
I could not argue with that (regardless of the fact I had no idea what tequila was).