Piment de la Vie - (24 Parts) - COMPLETE

[alpha_dog]

I love this starpollen, please continue!! It's simply brilliant!!

[starpollen]

Part 7

The night definitely did not go well.

Claire almost gave up halfway through the shift. Not only did the patrons seem to want an inordinate number of vegetables, but her oven was off, either overcooking or undercooking many of the dishes so that by the time the last one went out she fought the overwhelming urge to kick it in retaliation. In the last six months she'd made these same recipes many times, always the same way. But tonight? Nothing doing.

It didn't help that Aimon hovered at the periphery of the kitchen, leaning against the wall with his handkerchief. Far enough away to avoid contagion and yet still a palpable presence in the kitchen, a dark shadow always at the edge of her vision. She could feel his eyes on her: heated. Distracting.

About the only thing she was satisfied with was that she had leftover broth. And she knew what she was going to do with it.

When the rest of the staff began their cleanup, she noticed Aimon was no longer hovering, and took Michel, the Garde-Manger, aside. Michel was in charge of the pantry: making sure it was stocked with all the ingredients the restaurant needed. He gave her herbs without question, having seen as well as she the state of their Executive Chef. When she asked for leftover chicken from Henri the Rôtisseur he also complied, flicked a glance to the closed office door.

Claire heated the vegetable stock, simmering it with some coriander, ginger, orange peel, fennel, and garlic to infuse the flavor. Straining out the larger ingredients, she added packaged egg noodles and shredded chicken breast, flavoring it with a little salt and pepper and allowed it to boil until the noodles were soft. Pouring the steaming soup into two large plastic containers, she left it on her counter to cool while she cleaned, watching as one-by-one the rest of the staff murmured subdued "bonne nuit"s to each other, bundling up tight and vanishing into the icy night.

Once again, it was only the two of them.

When her counter was clean, she laid her palms flat to the cool steel surface, bracing her weight on her arms and hanging her head for a moment. She was exhausted, the past few nights of interrupted sleep beginning to take its toll.

And yet... she wanted time alone with him even more than she wanted sleep.

Wiping her hands on a cloth, she hung her apron and hat on the hook, unbuttoning the top button of her chef's coat. She took down her hair, shaking it out and running her fingers through it, trying to coax just a little life back in. She was sure it was a pointless gesture for a couple of reasons, but couldn't resist the girly urge. When she turned around...

He was standing there.

"Geez!" she jumped, pressing a hand to her chest. "You scared me!"

He didn't say anything for a moment. Then muttered,"Je suis désolé," absently, bottle-green eyes fixed on her. The harsh light of the kitchen was not kind to him, emphasizing how ragged he looked. His black v-neck sweater was a little rumpled, his dark slacks causing the stark white of the handkerchief balled in his left fist to stand out. Everything from his tousled hair to his slightly pink nose down to the barest pallor just beginning to leech into his cheeks proclaimed that, yes, Aimon the Invincible had indeed caught cold.

As soon as she finished her assessment of him, it took her a moment to realize exactly why he was staring... he'd never seen her with her hair down before.

He cleared his throat with a slight wince he didn't seem aware he made, holding himself tense. Claire stared back, torn between the desire to step forward - to close the distance between their bodies - and the staunch make him come to me mandate still bouncing around stubbornly in her head. So she opened her mouth, opting for conversation.

He beat her to it.

"It is late," he rasped.

She had been about to ask him how he was feeling. Funny that he should say that phrase now: he'd said that once before to distract her from his health. In his office, in that moment that had seared itself into her memory - when he'd first called her 'Claire.'

"It is," she allowed, not missing how his nose flared in a deep sniff, the sound sending heat rushing through her. "I'll drive you home." She reached for the containers of soup.

He hadn't noticed them before. Aimon's gaze now lingered on them, his brow furrowing slightly, then his entire face softened. "Oui," he held out an arm, and when she stepped forward he settled it around her shoulders, drawing her close to his lean frame. She could feel the heat of him through the sweater, the weight of his arm. It felt good.

He helped her into her coat, pulling on his own long, black wool trench and tucking his scarf around his throat with another sniffle. They were coming closer together now, less from decision and more out of necessity. He also had gloves tonight - black - so that the only brightness about him was the cream scarf, the pale oval of his face, and the handkerchief in his hand.

"Ready?" she asked. He nodded, holding the door for her before locking it and setting the alarm.

Outside, the world was a study in darkness. The yellow security bulb cast a pallid pool of light on the back steps, and beyond it was only the black of the pavement, black of the sky... and black ice covering nearly everything. Sleet was falling, tiny slivers of ice that made little 'pings' on the metal railing.

They made it down the stairs just fine, Aimon's arm hovering around the small of her back, protective. But halfway across the lot Claire's foot found a particularly thick patch, and her leg started to slide out from under her. "Whoa!" she cried, instinctively throwing out her hands for balance.

Aimon's gloved hand closed around hers, his arm hooking around her waist and pulling her against him. It stopped her fall. And her breath.

"Careful," he murmured softly, warm breath right against her ear.

"Th-thanks," she stuttered.

But before she could regain her balance, that warm breath hitched. "ih-hh..."

Oh god. Now? Her eyes rolled up into her head, lids fluttering closed as she tuned in to the two senses that could experience this perfect moment: hearing and touch.

"HH! -Hh’ptXsch! -ah."

The way Aimon's body moved against hers - that shivered flinch in conjunction with that one helpless desperate sneeze - sent fire roiling through Claire's veins. He'd tried to smother it in his shoulder, but without the help of his hands couldn't quite contain it.

"Aimon..." she all but moaned, biting the inside of her cheek. "...à vos souhaits."

"Merci," he replied, punctuated with fluttering sniffles. The second she got her legs firmly beneath her, he reached into his pocket for the handkerchief, turning away from her and lifting it to his nose. She watched his dark arm - barely distinguishable against the dark night - shunt back and forth, perhaps to quell a lingering itch while also wiping discreetly.

"Which do you prefer?" she asked as they closed the remaining distance to her car. "The French 'à vos souhaits' or 'bless you?'"

He glanced at her oddly for a moment, and she felt her cheeks flush. Too obvious?

"I... had not thought about it," he replied, folding himself into the passengers seat with another discreet wipe of the cloth to his nose.

Claire started the car and got the heat going, then flicked on the windshield wipers. Nothing happened.

"Damn. They're frozen to the glass... I've got a..." she reached to dig under her seat. "... a scraper thing somewhere..."

Aimon checked under his seat, pulling out the long plastic handle.

"Thanks," she reached for it, but his door was already open, getting out and scraping the ice from her windows in long, fluid strokes. She gaped for a moment, that modern-feminist vs. this-is-a-good-feeling-go-with-it war churning inside her head. Finally, she let apathy reign, even thought she felt a little useless, sitting there waiting for him to finish. Pushing the radio button, she flicked through the stations. A few of them were playing Christmas music already. She rolled her eyes.

Glancing back to where Aimon was working on the rear glass, she frowned when he turned sharply and flinched two sneezes into the crook of his arm. With the music on, she hadn't heard them. She turned it off.

He finished and got back in the car, knocking the ice off the scraper and putting it on the floor mat at his feet.

"You didn't have to do that..."

He looked at her, his eyes that hypnotic black-green in the shadows. He didn't have to say anything. Yes. I did. The handkerchief was back in his gloved hand, pressed against his nose, and he turned away from her to cough lightly into it.

"Thank you," she reached out to lay a bold hand on his arm. He tucked the handkerchief into his pocket and covered her hand with his, the black leather cool against her skin. She let herself enjoy the feel of it for a moment, then pulled away, backing out of the parking space. Driving carefully through the slick streets to avoid skidding into a tree or lightpost, she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye every chance she got.

Which was how she managed to catch his next sneeze.

His lips parted, lids sinking to half-mast. One knuckle came up to rub lightly at the tip of his nose, which was looking more and more pink. A deep sniffle seemed to delay it, but finally his eyes fluttered closed, breath hitching in a slow, almost torturous fashion. His hand fumbled for the handkerchief, managing to bring it up just in time. “--Hc'gNXtz!-ah..." his eyes stayed closed, fabric pressed firmly as he clenched with a second, "hnk’GgSCHTu!-hh.”

Parts of her grew warm, not the least of which was her face. "Bless you," she breathed, allowing herself to reach over and lay her hand briefly on his leg.

"Thank you," he replied, sinking down and tipping his head wearily back to the headrest.

Finally she pulled into his driveway, shoving the lever to 'park.' Aimon pulled himself up with a soft groan, reaching for the door handle. Her voice stopped him. "May I... May I come in with you?"

He sat there with his hand on the door, staring out the windshield at the hood of her car for a long moment. His face was pinched, as if considering something very serious. Finally, he replied, "All right," though his expression stayed the same, as if he was still deciding whether it was the best choice. The extra seconds spent as Claire reached for the soup containers in the back seat allowed him the time he needed to walk around and open her door, his gaze spearing the ground at her feet. He didn't look at her while they walked up to his door, and - although he still curved his arm around her back while they navigated the icy pavement - she felt as though he were a thousand miles away.

He hesitated a moment at the lock... then finally turned the key and pushed it open.

[Nicole]

Never, ever, EVER stop writing this story. Just write it forever. Please.

That was the sexiest part yet. starpollen, I dream of your updates. You hear me? I dream of them!!! Love this!!!!!!!

Oh, Aimon...you're killing my nethers. *sigh*

[VoOs]

Ok, this part just about slew me. My GAWD, he is so hot it's scary. As are his sounds. And then you go and put him in a dark wool trench with black gloves and a scarf to top it off...

P e r f e c t.

Edited December 11, 2009 by VoOs

[obsessed]

... way to build that suspense! Jeeez. Absolutely incredible writing, and the French spices stuff up. (No pun intended.)

[everest]

Absolutely brilliant.

[Aprilcot]

LOVE IS IN THE AIR!!!!!!!!!!

I LOVE THIS!!!!!

Please continue!!!!

[starpollen]

Warning: LOTS of French in this part. Don't worry - you don't really need to know what it says to get the idea. But if it bugs you that you don't know what they're saying (and I'm one of those people, too, seriously) translations are at the bottom. Enjoy!

THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU to W.I.N. for help with the French!...

Part 8

Claire and Aimon stepped into his front hall, and he removed his coat. He didn't reach for hers, almost as if he didn't think she would be staying long. Or he didn't want her to... She hunched her shoulders a bit - nervous - drawing in on herself and setting the containers of soup on the narrow table by the door. The first thing she noticed was the smell. Musty, a little acidic. It wasn't heavy or obvious, just a tinge at the back of her throat.

The second thing she noticed was a huge black man in a white shirt and pants stepping into the adjoining living room from the opposite hall. His head was shaved, eyes sharp and intelligent.

"Mark," Aimon greeted him.

"Salut Aimon. Comment ça s'est passé ce soir?" the man responded, picking up a coat that hung on the back of a dining room chair.

"Nous avons survécu. Je te présente Claire," Aimon gestured to her, and Claire's barest grasp of French was able to catch that he was introducing her. "Claire, this is Mark."

Mark's dark eyes flicked briefly to Aimon, a worried line between his brows. Aimon avoided his gaze, hanging his coat in the small hall closet.

"Hi," she smiled in greeting, trying to work through the awkward moment. "Nice to meet you."

"You, too," he responded, with absolutely no trace of accent. He spoke fluent French, but apparently wasn't.

"Comment est-il?" Aimon murmured. Okay, that one she kind of understood... he was asking how someone was?

"La nuit a été difficile. J'étais sur le point de lui amener ses médicaments," Mark replied.

"Je le ferai moi-même. Merci d'être restée si tard. Les routes sont mauvaises, et cela risque de s'aggraver, alors vous devriez y aller. Bonne nuit," Aimon set his gloves and scarf on the table by the soup.

About now she was really wishing she had taken French instead of Latin in high school...

Mark nodded, shrugging into his large puffy parka and pulling on his gloves. "À demain."

"Oui," Aimon nodded, gently ushering Claire into the living room so Mark could get by. Their exchange had been brief, but seemed important. And distressing. The way Aimon was pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed with tight lines around them...

As soon as Mark left, Aimon turned away and sneezed fiercely into the crook of his arm. “Hhgk'NGHXtsh! -uh.” He tried to stifle it, but it stubbornly resisted his efforts.

"Bless you," she whispered, laying a hand to the damp wool on his back. He'd looked tired before, exhausted, but now he held himself tense, anxiety thrumming through the muscles under her hand.

"Merci," he mumbled, raising his head with a wet sniff. He didn't meet her eyes. "Thank you for bringing me home. You should probably..."

"Qui est là?" a man's voice came from the back of the house. "Joséphine?"

Aimon's expression darkened, lips pursed as he stared down so hard she expected him to burn a hole in the floor. "Non, papa. C'est moi: Aimon," he called, hands reaching blindly to escort Claire to the door. "You should..."

Then, Claire saw him over Aimon's shoulder: an older man - perhaps seventy? - stood there, leaning on a cane. Even if Aimon hadn't called him 'papa' she would have known it was his father: they looked very much alike.

"C'est qui, ça?" his father demanded, stepping into the room and moving toward them.

Aimon turned, keeping his body between them. "Ceci est Claire. Elle... travaille à mon restaurant. Elle m'a reconduit à la maison."

His father's green eyes - so like Aimon's - regarded her steadily. "Bonjour."

Aimon's shoulders relaxed a touch, and he let out the long breath he'd been holding. "Claire," he turned back, accent thick. "This is my father, Serge."

"How do you do?" she smiled again, a little wary because of Aimon's strange behavior, and held out her hand.

It all happened so fast.

One moment his father was looking at her and reaching out his hand, the next he'd grabbed her and pulled her against him, bringing his cane up to her throat. She cried out, instinctively bringing her hands up to protect herself, wrapping her fingers around the cold metal and trying to push it away. His father was yelling in her ear, and though she had no idea what he was saying the meaning was unmistakable: pure rage quivering through the thin, whip-cord body at her back.

"Salope! Putain! Comment oses-tu revenir après ce que tu as fait! Je vais te tuer, salope sans coeur!"

"Papa arrête!" Aimon leapt forward, yanking the cane from his hands and roughly pulling Claire away. "Ce n'est pas ... papa, non! Laissez-la tranquille! Écoute-moi. S'il vous plaît! Calmez-vous!" He wrestled with his father, who - while older - was neither withered nor weak. They struggled, Aimon's hands closing on his father's upper arms, grinding out pleas and shouting at him until he'd finally managed to force the older man back into an armchair.

Then, Claire watched as he knelt between the man's knees and took his father's face in his hands.

"C'est moi, Aimon. Regardez-moi. Tout va bien. Tout va bien..."

It took several minutes, but his father finally calmed down. Claire's back was pressed to the wall, heart still thundering, her breath coming in fearful pants. Every nerve was on edge, and now she understood the tension that had frozen Aimon's body when they'd first walked in. And Mark's worried glance. Not to mention why Mark was so big.

She ducked behind the doorway, out of Serge's line of sight, when Aimon rose to get a glass of water and a small brown bottle of pills from the kitchen. She watched as he firmly but patiently coaxing his father to swallow them, feeling like she was eavesdropping on a particularly personal and intimate moment. Aimon helped him stand, keeping his hands on Serge's shoulders and back as he guided him down the hall toward the back of the house.

They were gone for a long time, long enough that Claire almost left about a dozen times. But each time she reached for the front door, she just couldn't make herself.

And she had no idea why.

Instead, she found her hands reaching for the soup, stepping silently through the living and dining room into the small kitchen. There was no microwave, but she found a saucepan and began to heat it on the stove, pulling out a bowl and a spoon.

When Aimon finally returned, she watched as his gaze immediately went to the front hall - now empty. How his hands grasped the back of his father's armchair, head dropping down between his shoulders with a long exhalation of breath. It pinched something inside, to see him do that.

She cleared her throat.

He jerked up, whipping around to see her standing in the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed over her chest. She still had her coat on.

"You hungry?" she asked softly.

Eyes wide, his lips parted slightly in surprise. She watched his Adam's-apple bob as he swallowed, chin dipping in a slow, vague nod.

She turned back to the stove and spooned a steaming portion into the bowl, intensely aware of the proximity of his body as he crossed the room to stand just outside the doorframe. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye: his expression was back to that pinched, lips-pursed floor-stare, his cheeks hotly flushed. "Claire," he began, low and hesitant. "I..."

"Here," she interrupted gently, holding out the bowl with both hands. "Careful, it's hot."

Gem-like eyes stared at her with a look so intense it made her stomach begin to flutter into knots. She couldn't return his gaze for very long, fidgeting briefly before pushing past him and setting the bowl on the worn wooden table. "If you don't want it, I do. I'm starving."

“Hheih....!” he gasped sharply, and her eyes zeroed in on his face like a sniper. “HkgxSCHHu! -hah.” His head snapped down into his cupped palm, shoulders shuddering with the release. But he wasn't finished. “Hah!-nXGT!-uh. Kgx'SHTch! -ahh.” he pinched the next two closed, not raising his head as he aimed his face at the floor. She gripped the back of the dining chair, feeling her nails bite into the soft wood as the sound of his sneezes - that soft, perfect exhalation at the end - speared her through.

"À vos souhaits," she breathed when he was done, glancing around for a tissue box.

But he pulled the handkerchief from his pocket, folding it around his nose for a discreet pinch-wipe. His shoulders shook with several light coughs before he tucked it away, moving to the sink to wash his hands. After drying them on a hand towel, he reached back into the cabinet for another bowl and spoon, serving up a portion for her. He set her bowl next to his, pulling out a chair for her.

"Thanks," she mumbled, slightly embarrassed.

"Claire," he murmured, settling a cool palm to the side of her neck and pressing his warm lips briefly to the top of her head. "Thank you."

x x x

Translations:

"Salut Aimon. Comment ça s'est passé ce soir?" - Hey, Aimon. How did it go tonight?

"Nous avons survécu. Je te présente Claire." - We survived. Let me introduce Claire.

"La nuit a été difficile. J'étais sur le point de lui amener ses médicaments." - It was a difficult night. I was just about to take him his medication.

"Je le ferai moi-même. Merci d'être restée si tard. Les routes sont mauvaises, et cela risque de s'aggraver, alors vous devriez y aller. Bonne nuit." - I'll do it. Thanks for staying so late. The roads are bad and getting worse, so you should go. Good night.

"À demain." - See you tomorrow.

"Qui est là? Joséphine?" - Who is it? Josephine?

"Non, papa. C'est moi: Aimon." - No, dad. It's me: Aimon.

"C'est qui, ça?" - Who is this.

"Ceci est Claire. Elle... travaille à mon restaurant. Elle m'a reconduit à la maison." - This is Claire. She... works at my restaurant. She gave me a lift home.

"Salope! Putain! Comment osez-tu revenir après ce que tu avez fait! Je vais te tuer, salope sans coeur!" - Slut! Whore! How dare you come back after what you've done! I'll kill you, you heartless bitch!

"Papa arrête! "Ce n'est pas ... papa, non! Laissez-la tranquille! Écoute-moi. S'il te plaît! Calmez-toi!" - Dad stop! It's not ... Papa, no! Leave her alone! Listen to me. Please! Calm down!

"C'est moi, Aimon. Regardez-moi. Tout va bien. Tout va bien..." - It's me, Aimon. Look at me. You're all right. You're all right ...

Edited September 15, 2018 by starpollen

[littlesneezer18]

Ahh!!!!!! Amazing Amazing Amazing ! Keep up the the fabulous work ! Your infusion of French and interaction between characters is stupendous. Great edition !!!

[everest]

lovely?

Great?

Brilliant?

Astoundingly perfect?

I... can't think of a proper comment. This was just so...

[Candy]

JFLDSKSFHDSLGKHDS!

I...this is amazing...I'm not even a fan of french, but it just all fits and works and...

More, please??

[sneeztensia]

Starpollen, you are amazing!!!

[prisma]

where are those translations you mentioned?

[starpollen]

where are those translations you mentioned?

I was an IDIOT and didn't scroll far enough down to copy and paste them. I'm sorry!! I've fixed it now!!

Edited December 13, 2009 by starpollen

[Lady Blessington]

I love Claire being driven to distraction by this tiny collection of sneezes. And the way you spell them is amazingly evocative. <3

[Aprilcot]

I'm speachless!

What has his father got? Is it Dementia or Alzheimer's?

This is so good!

Please continue!!!

[onlyhim]

Ok, these characters could not be more real. I love how their relationship is developing slowly and hesitantly. This story is just <3 <3 <3!

[prisma]

where are those translations you mentioned?

I was an IDIOT and didn't scroll far enough down to copy and paste them. I'm sorry!! I've fixed it now!!

Thanks. And you're not an idoit. Mistakes like that happen to everyone

[Weirdo Girl]

I love this!

[starpollen]

It’s VERY short, I know!... but it just seemed the right place to end this part. I've already started the next so I don't plan to make you wait long for more...

Part 9

Claire's breath came short, his cool touch causing a shiver to ripple under her skin. She repressed it, focusing on the heated scent of spices that rose from the curled steam above her bowl. Aimon settled next to her, blowing on his own spoon and swallowing the soft noodles and rich broth with closed eyes and a long sigh.

They ate in silence for several minutes.

"This is very good," Aimon said.

"Thank you," she blushed. A compliment from the chef was rare.

"Coriander?"

"Mhm," she nodded, taking another bite.

"Nn..." he grunted in approval. "Perhaps next time a bay leaf."

"Oh," her voice was high, very much an 'Of course! why didn't I think of that?' moment. This is why he was the Executive Chef.

Then, he murmured, "You should not drive home in this," slipping another spoonful into his mouth.

She glanced at him askance, taking an extra moment to process the change of subject. Weather. Right. "Um... well, it's not far..." she trailed off, unsure how to say I'm afraid to stay here with your father if you're asleep. And he needed to sleep. She could see how tired he was, how much he needed to be tucked into a warm bed and sleep for a good ten, eleven hours.

He proved her point when he turned as far away from her as he could, bringing the back of his hand up to his mouth. "-uuhn'kgsht! -ah. Hpt'SCHT! -ah. Hheh...!" he almost sneezed a third time, but it left him at the last second. He sighed deeply, running long fingers through his tousled hair with a decidedly thick sniffle.

"Bless you," she sighed in return, loving the increasing wetness of them.

He was still for a moment, then picked his spoon up and continued to eat.

"I... like the English."

"Huh?" came her brilliant reply.

His voice pitched low, intimate, heavily accented, "Before. In the car you asked whether I preferred the French or the English. I prefer the English."

"Oh," she breathed again, vaguely aware she was without variety in her responses as she stared blankly, then took another bite of soup. She was about to ask why? but...

Then Aimon inhaled another stuttering, viscous sniffle, and said, "Excuse-moi." He rose and stepped into the short hallway. Somewhere a door clicked closed, but even through the muffled wood she clearly heard his lengthy blow.

He returned, nostrils pink, red-rimmed eyes heavy with fatigue. Claire pulled out his chair for him, laying a light hand to his back as he sat, muffling a few coughs against the back of his hand. They finished the last of the soup and he reached for both bowls; but she stopped him. "Let me get that. You should go change."

One eyebrow lifted. "Into what?"

"Uh... whatever you s-sleep in?..." she stammered, flushing hotly as she ducked quickly into the kitchen to rinse their bowls in the sink. His throaty chuckle floated over her shoulder. "What?" she asked over the rush of the water. "What's so funny?"

She heard the scrape of the chair as he stood, footsteps crossing once more down the hall. His voice drifted back, darkly laced with amusement...

"Nothing. Only... I sleep naked."

Edited July 16, 2023 by starpollen

[Marceline]

AHHHHHHH! Suspense! *goes cross- eyed*

[alpha_dog]

I love this story so much! starpollen your writing style seriously ROCKS!!!

[elements]

sexy, sneezy, AND sleeps naked! my kind of guy!

and girl do you ever have a talent for sneezy sound writing!!!!!!!!!!!

[VoOs]

Delicious.

[W.I.N.]

*bounces happily*

I want to know what's going on with his father! (Is it sad that I am WAY more interested in Aimon's backstory?)

Also: nekkid!chef! It made me giggle, because I am apparently ten years old.

~W.I.N.