He drapes himself over me, wraps like bindings as he compliments softly in my ear or kisses my neck. My wrist is trapped in his hand and my endlessly working knife is halted. He does not care if they see, or if the kitchen is jarred from its usual fluidity. He needs whatever he finds in the contact, and they all know they are better off for it, though it is clear that most of them cannot see the attraction.

No surprise. To them I am a pasty, hairless transexual with a medical condition and perfect, white teeth. They know I do not need the money, and very seldom get paid. They know I have an unhealthy relationship with my knives. They know I have been questioned by the police.

What’s not to like?

Yes, that was sarcasm. I’m getting better at it, no?

Tilde shakes her head, abandoning her sauces. “Get a room, you two, or one of you is going to lose a finger.”

I point the blade at her as Chef chuckles against my scalp. “Spent your two hundred dollars already, have you? Do not bite the hand that fed, young lady.”

She makes a noise. Perhaps she is rethinking her triumphant sweep of the relationship pool. The chef du cuisine smirks, but says nothing.

“Am I bothering you?” Chef whispers very lightly against the skin below my ear.

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

I did once find his habitual courting during the kitchen battle to be disorienting and confining, but no longer. It flatters me somewhat, I think. And it usually heralds my lunch break.

“I look forward to it.”

He nuzzles me, “Go suck down your sack lunch, you savage.”

I cannot help but smile, for to me, being predictable, being known and admired for all my quirks, is a new and startling thing.

Izzy pushes through the swinging door and stands shifting on the threshold. “Chef?”

My human cloak mumbles out an acknowledgement.

“Mr. Dashil is here to see you.”

His body tenses so violently against me, it feels as if I am about to be strangled. Like a man condemned to the gallows, he uncoils from my shoulders and takes a step back. When he speaks, his voice is shaky, and as he leaves, his smell and pulse have transformed to a ticker tape of nerves for me to read.

“Well, shit.” Tilde and Paul exchange a glance. Like a stone, it sends toxic ripples to the rest of the staff.

I put down the knife. “What?”

Paul removes his toque blanche and wipes his forehead on his shoulder. “That’s the envelope guy. We call him the weatherman.”

“Do I want to know why?”

Another cook shakes his head. “Always a shit-storm after.”

“Pardon me,” I remove my apron, my ears pricked to find Chef’s voice.

As I step away from my station, Paul begins a chorus of For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow. I accept his praise with a small bow through the revolving door. Creeping around the shadows, I avoid diners as I pick my way to the office. Chef has said nothing, and the other man is unfamiliar to me; I will not be able to use my usual tricks until I can parse his voice from all the other noise in the restaurant.

I lean against the wall near the door. Filtering for the steady beat of Chef’s fierce heart, I can place him in the room, and feel his body respond to what his guest is saying.

“I know it’s out of the blue, but I thought…I thought you’d want to know.”

Chef swallows. His dread has left a fog that hovers around me. Mingled with it are traces of the visitor. I can tell he has recently been to an airport, that he chews gum, the type of laundry soap he uses.

Chef clears his throat. “I…I appreciate it. You didn’t have to come out. A call would have been okay.”

I like the sound of the other man immediately. He keeps his arms tucked, his feet at shoulder width. He keeps himself to himself, out of deference. His words are softly spoken, and kind.

“I felt like it merited a meeting. You’ve been a good client, and giving bad news should never become something we get used to.”

I worry after Chef’s silence as I pick out the final scent among the sussurus. The man has come from Colorado. The forests there smell like no other. My chest aches, and suddenly my stomach is grinding itself down.

“I don’t know if it’s the outcome you were hoping for, but…it’s something. His arraignment is supposed to be on Monday.”

“Thank you. Are you hungry?”

The bottomless pit within me groans.

“Starving.”

“Have a seat at the bar. I’ll have my manager set you up with a tab.”

The man metes out his gratitude in a soft murmur, and then slips from the room. Before the door can shut, I have stolen inside.

Chef stands beside his desk, looking down at the contents of this latest envelope as if he wants to be sick all over it. I catch a glimpse of a face in a photograph, a print out of an online article, but I do not expend effort to scrutinize. This is a subject we rarely broach. I promised him I would be more than revenge, and he promised to be more than a meal. These are the vows we made, for times just such as this.

He breathes shallowly and his hand trembles as he moves some of the papers. I can see the raging thoughts, the fitful emotions on his handsome features. What little temperance I have taught him is a fragile shelter in the wake of that onslaught.

“Tell me what you need.”

He glances up, as if he has but just noticed me, and blinks furiously. I can see the liquid sheen that turns his silver eyes to churning mercury. He taps the desk with a splayed hand. A single drop lands among the papers. Before I can ask after his wellbeing, he has cleared the small distance and is grappling me into an embrace.

He mashes his lips to mine. His tongue invades, but really, I do not struggle. As he curls the tip of it around my veneers and feels for the shards beneath, I lean away, and his thumb pries the top plate loose. In one desperate moment, he commits a tiny self-destruction, pressing his bottom lip into a point until the juices flow.

The taste stifles the growl in my throat, and calms the fury in him. I let him bleed into me for a long moment, let him drown in the dark depths I know I possess. I wonder if there is real comfort there, or if I am cutting him off from the memories he must confront.

I often wonder this of late, as I ponder my own missing past. For whatever reason, I forgot a thousand years. It is a terrible weight on every thought and deed. I feel somewhat hollow always, and wonder if my being would make more sense with just a few more details. He is a product of his experiences, and to forget them means he is denying himself.

When he pulls away, I know that I am not what he needs, and this balance we have achieved is predestined to tip toward disaster.

“Your mouth will be a mess of scars if we carry on this way much longer.”

“Worth it.” His nose brushes mine as he takes a deep breath. “Keep me sane, Simon. Keep me civil. Whatever you have to do.”

“You can go home if you want to, Chef. We can—”

“No! I need this…I need you.”

His hands have gone cold. They slide against my face and then fall away. I look after them in what I can only describe as sorrow. “As you wish, but some day, you will have to learn self-control.”

“Yeah, but is that day today?”

“Perhaps not, my boy.”

He massages his face and turns away. I follow him back to the kitchen, all thought of my break vanished.

Though my knife skills are beyond compare, my duty in his kitchen is not so obvious. I tend him closely the rest of the night. The tension builds as cooks anticipate his temper, and the little nettles of a bustling bistro prick at his resolve. At last, a dispute over the doneness of a steak pushes him to the edge. The server is wide-eyed and biting her lip as he braces himself against a metal prep surface.

“Demi-anglais is 150. Any hotter than that, and it’s well.”

“The customer says—”

“The customer is a fucking idiot!”

I step smoothly into the conversation. Taking the plate, I pass it off to Paul. I do not need to say anything; Chef looks up at me gratefully and steadies himself.

“Thank you, Nika. We’ll handle it.”

She escapes in a blink. He relinquishes his place as the expediter like a guilty man. In the corner near the basement door, he leans against the tile and covers his face.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should go home.”

But I have been to that tomb, that monument to a dead family, and have thought better of sending him back to it. “No. Take my chair in the walk-in. The cold does wonders. I’ll bring you some wine.”

“Will you lock me in so I don’t hulk out and murder someone?”

His joke falls on preternatural ears. I give him a sardonic tilt of my false eyebrow. “Pull something like that and I’ll just eat you.”

“Thank you.”

“No one has ever thanked me for that.”

“I’m not no one.”

I push him into the freezer and push the door to. Another kiss is stolen, his drug of choice, and mine too, if I am honest. “I’ll fetch you a bottle.”

“Leaving me alone with my thoughts, eh?”

I look back at him. He is smiling, but behind it is an unimaginable pain. “That would be foolhardy, sir. Your mind is a mess. It needs a good curator.”

“Volunteering?”

I leave him to sit atop the overturned milk crates. Service has returned to its usual mechanistic blur, though the nervousness suffuses the air like a cloud of spice. I keep him on ice, well-oiled and calm. By the time the night ends, he has thinned his blood to withstand hypothermia like the wine steward of the Titanic, and sits at the end of the table shoveling down his dinner to stave off alcohol poisoning.

I perch above him on a barstool and run my claws through his hair. Like anesthesia, it dulls his agony, but the others can still see. They eat largely in silence.

“Thanks,” he says quietly. “For tonight, I mean. We had a nearly perfect night, tonight.”

Tilde surveys the faces around her and rocks in her chair. I know she cannot stand to leave it be. As her eyes connect with mine, I shake my head. She ignores me.

Bless her, but she is forthright.

“Are you okay?”

Chef drops his fork. I drag a nail down his spine. His body tips back against my legs as if to reassure me, but his voice is strangled with unspoken emotions.

“No, but I will be. I promise, guys. I’m trying.”

“Can you just—”

I make a sound that all mammals seem to heed, whether or not they realize they are doing so. Her mouth snaps shut. She crosses her arms and sinks into her chair.

“A bad thing happened to me a long time ago,” Chef shares without prompting. “And it just doesn’t seem to end. Can’t be PTSD if the trauma is ongoing, can it?”

“Sure it can,” she remarks.

To my surprise, he nods and gains his feet. He hands me his keys and walks away. I listen to him push through the back door and retreat to the alley, where he paces up and down.

“Simon…”

I turn back to a table full of expectant faces all tilted toward me. I am the newest member of this little circle, and yet, somehow I have become one of the most important. The liaison.

“Yes, my dear?”

“I’m going to have you nominated for sainthood. That man is infuriating.”

I cannot help the smile that creeps over my face. “Yes. Yes, he is. Let’s call it a hazard pay night, just for good measure, shall we?”

There is a soft hooray, but the saucy saucier is unmoved. “He’d better be good in the sack, for all the grief he gives you.”

The staff lets out a confusion of gasps, giggles, and groans. For a moment, I am struck dumb, but I have become somewhat accustomed to her brashness of late, and how to reply in kind.

“Our arrangement is a mutually beneficial one. I too have particular…needs.”

The chef du cuisine gags into his gin.

“What, Paul? Still haven’t gotten over the drag incident?” she needles.

He shakes his head. “I’m really not sure what pronouns I’m supposed to use.”

I elect not to mention that he and the rest of the kitchen are always in a perpetual state of being hoodwinked by me, as it is unlikely to improve their moods. Most humans cannot even comprehend the complicated gender identities of their own species, let alone mine.

Tossing the keys to Izzy, I finish off my glass of chardonnay. “Please be patient with him. I know he’s proud of the team he has here. Believe me when I say, to him, you are family.”

Tilde shoves me out with a wave. “Take him home before he passes out in the garbage.”

When I find him, he is propped against the corner of the bistro, his face hidden in his hands. He has once again dammed up his emotions, a few errant tears all that have escaped. I pack him into the car and steward him home, where I drag him to the shower and then put him to bed. He is motionless in my arms, but I know he is awake, staring into the darkness, contemplating the losses still unmourned.

He simply cannot let them go, not as he is. The loneliness is too great. I know that in me, he has found some peace, but I have been here long enough that I know it will not last.

“Listen closely to me, Chef,” I breathe in his ear.

“I always do.”

“Promise me you will go see someone.”

“I see you every night.”

With a sigh, I squeeze his naked warmth closer to my chill skin. “I am the thing that keeps your anger at bay. How are you ever to let it out with me standing guard? Go find someone to listen. Find someone to let you fall apart.”

He sniffles. “Will you put me back together?”

“All the kings horses, and all the king’s men…”

“Nowhere does it mention monsters.”

“Right you are.”

He rolls to face me, his forehead to my cheek. “I love you. I don’t care what you are or how long you’ve been it. You are the best thing that ever happened to me.”

He waits, as always, for me to reply in kind, but I do not think I ever shall. I have agreed to care for him. I feel fondness, affection, the urge to protect and guide him, but even now, I still do not know if it is love.

“Some day, you’ll say it back. I’m going to work until it’s impossible for you not to.”

“Forgive me.”

He smiles sleepily, and I know that soon he will rest. “For having high standards? Not a chance.”