Piment de la Vie - (24 Parts) - COMPLETE

[Aprilcot]

Lots of LOL'S!!!

Partially becasue of the story which is amiazing, and partly because of W.I.N.'s answer 'Nekkid!chef!' I love that!

Please continue!!

This is brilliant and it really is amazing!

THANK YOU!!!!!!!!!

[starpollen]

I'm so glad you guys liked it! Hopefully no more parts as short as that. At least, not anytime soon!...

Part 10

She honestly didn't remember going to bed. Didn't remember much after his sultry, completely loaded comment. Somehow she ended up dressed in a pair of sweats and a t-shirt - both far too large - lying awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling. Again. This was becoming a habit, and she wasn't sure she liked it.

The sheets smelled different, unfamiliar. Not bad, just not her own. The guest bedroom. With a lock on the door. And... somewhere in the house... Aimon lay in another bed.

Naked.

Oh that didn't help. She squeezed her eyes tight, trying to think about something else. Anything else. Tomorrow was Sunday, the restaurant would be closed on Monday so she needed to make sure Michel got more white eggplant from the farmer's market...

"Hkg'sSCHtt! -uh.”

Though muffled by distance and walls, it was nevertheless obvious that Aimon was also awake. And sneezing.

“Hp’NGGgSCHhu! -hh," followed by a few chesty coughs.

Oh for the love of... was he was going to do that all night?? She groaned, palms sweaty. If he did?... she was screwed.

As it turned out, he didn't do it ALL night... but definitely more than her body could handle. She broke more than once, biting her lip and clenching the blanket in her fists as she barely kept from moaning out loud. The time glowed on her cell phone from where it rested on the nightstand, taunting her. At some point she fell asleep, curled around the spare pillow with one leg on top of the covers. She woke when her phone rang, thick-headed, mouth dry.

"-m... h'llo?" she mumbled sleepily, sitting up and pressing a palm to her forehead.

"Claire?" it was her mother.

"Mom," she sat back against the headboard, bringing a knee up to rest her elbow. "Wha' s'up?"

As usual, her mom didn't really have anything important to talk about, just wanted to babble away. A glance to her phone's screen told her it was almost 9:30, so she couldn't even tell her mom it was too early and ask her to call back later. Even if she did feel like curling up and sleeping for a couple more hours.

“-egk'NX-ssch! -uhh. Hheeh . . .! Nnk'ggKTSSCH!... ah."

Okay, that was closer than last night. A lot closer.

"Uh, mom can I call you back?"

"Oh, s-sure sweetie," that motherly voice registering both concern and confusion. "I'll, um, talk to you soon, then?"

She didn't have time for explanations. "Uh-huh. Bye," she hung up, staring at the door as if it was going to open any second.

When it didn't, she eased herself gingerly out of bed and tip-toed over to it, pressing her ear to the cold wood. She heard his voice, very faint, as if a room or two away.

"... Pourriez-vous venir plus tôt?... Merci..."

She glanced around for her black slacks and white coat... but they were nowhere in sight. Chewing her lower lip, she seriously debated getting back into bed and pulling the covers up over her head to hide for a few more hours... Very mature, Claire, she rolled her eyes, trying to muster the courage to venture out into the house. She knew Aimon was up, and could only assume his father was, as well...

She could do this. Really. She could.

There was an old mirror attached to the dresser, so she was able to put her hair in some semblance of order before boldly turning the knob. Once in the hall she could hear the clink of dishware coming from the kitchen, and cautiously made her way toward it.

Claire kept to the shadow of the hallway as her eyes scanned the sight: Aimon stood in the small kitchen, putting away dishes. His hair was mussed, flopping down over his eyes, lips parted in order to breathe. His nostrils were painted a savage scarlet, evidence of how much he'd been sneezing. Deep shadows were sunken under his eyes - like bruises - his gaze vague and lifeless.

His father was nowhere in sight.

Aimon bent again to the open dishwasher. When he turned with another pair of plates in his hands, his expression collapsed once more in irritation. One side of his upper lip curled, exposing even, white teeth. His brow furrowed, one eye a little more closed than the other as he seemed to try to stare his rebellious nose into submission. It paid him no attention, nostrils stretching into a single, wide flare as his breath hitched just once: "ahh!... -kNGzt'SCH! -eh." His face snapped down and to the side, shoulders shaking, but before it even finished his lean body convulsed yet again with a helpless, wet double: “Hpp't-gntZCHu! -eh. Hgk-nxZTCHiu! -ahh." That characteristic exhalation at the end sounded desperate, out of breath.

It was delicious.

He straightened and saw her standing there.

"Bless you," she whispered, unable to sound quite as sympathetic as she should.

Setting the plates down on the counter, he flushed deeply, stepping to the dining table with a barrage of small, congested sniffles. He plucked two tissues from a box she hadn't noticed sitting there, turning his back to her and tucking the paper to his face. He didn't blow, simply appeared to squeeze his nose between his fingers, dabbing and wiping earnestly. "Pardonnez-moi."

Claire crossed the remaining distance to him, laying one hand on his arm and the other at his back as he shook with coughs.

"How did you sleep?" he asked politely, voice deep and very rough. He cleared his throat.

"About as well as you did."

He must have noticed her glancing around furtively, because he muttered, "My father is asleep," his accent so thick she had to process the phrase for an extra second to understand it.

It was she who flushed now, embarrassed to be so... rude? Obvious?

He passed the spent tissues under his nose again with a grimace, shoving them into the pocket of his slacks. It was only then she noticed he was dressed in a similar vein as yesterday: black turtleneck this time, and thicker wool pants. Still black.

Which could only mean...

"Tell me you're not going to work today."

Aimon didn't answer her right away, instead stepping into the kitchen to wash his hands in the sink. He made another attempt at clearing his throat, punctuated in the middle by a sharp sniffle. When finished, he leaned back against the counter to dry his hands on a towel with a short sigh. "How long have you worked in restaurants?"

"Since late March," she answered, joining him in the kitchen and leaning against the opposite counter.

His brow arched at that, "Mm, I would have thought longer," he murmured absently. "Well... this business, it is not like many others: when you own a restaurant there are no sick days. This close to the holiday season, the restaurant cannot afford my absence."

"But you didn't plate last night," she pointed out, not trying to argue but still thinking she sounded a little petulant.

He didn't appear to notice, frowning as he brought a long finger up to knuckle under his nose with more rough coughs. He winced a little as they dragged on his raw throat. "It does not matter. There are many things I will do if I do not plate: I make adjustments to the menu depending on our stock, I might have to speak with our suppliers on the phone, or by email. The staff, also, knows I am but a few steps away, and will stay - as you say - on their toes."

She sighed. "Tomorrow is Monday, though, and the restaurant is closed..."

"Yes," he smiled softly at her, making her chest tight. "I will rest tomorrow."

"Good," she nodded, glancing away. "Thanks for letting me crash here. I should get home so I can wash some clothes and be ready for tonight."

He turned away sharply and sneezed a harsh, wet "heh-gzt'SCHu! -hah." into the crook of his arm. Tossing the hair out of his eyes with a thick sniffle, he strode swiftly to the dining table and jerked more tissues from the box. A frantic gasp from the very pit of his stomach, then “HKK!!--NXtsch! -uhh. hah!-ktg'NGXXtssch! -ah.” two more nasal sneezes were pinched between his paper-clad fingers. She had heard how congested they were - he was - and saw the line of his shoulders as they sagged a little in the aftermath.

"Will you have time to lie down for a while before tonight?" she asked gently, stepping behind him and laying her hand to his back, rubbing in light circles.

"Mmhm," he nodded wearily, once again doing that pinch-wipe that seemed to scrape his poor, chapped nose even more raw. "Your clothes are clean," he rasped, clearing his throat again as his voice threatened to give out. He did not look at her, red-rimmed green eyes staring a hole in the floor at his feet. "There is, um... perha--"

"Aimon..."

He looked at her then, scarlet nostrils flaring in another liquid sniff, and she laid the backs of her fingers lightly to his rough cheek.

"I'll stay."

[onlyhim]

Eeeeee!!! So great! This is such a real, lush romance. I am so unbelievably (and wonderfully) sucked in!

[obsessed]

A romance plot, AND more incredible writing? Mix in French, you've got quite the recipe. For bad punning, as well.

[Selene]

Hopefully no more parts as short as that. At least, not anytime soon!...

Is this a promise?

I really love this story beyond words. All I can say is that it is great and that I enjoy every single word.

[doggo]

Oh that cold is so indecent. Very hot.

[Vetinari]

Hmmmm, I'd stay too in her place. This just pushes so many of my buttons it's incredible. Thanks for the update.

[Nicole]

Favorite. Story. EVER.

[VoOs]

Love, love, love and did I mention LOVE?!

Poor man. But his sounds... his sounds... *lustful whimper*

[everest]

Mmmmm. Wow. So very wow.

[Weirdo Girl]

Mmmmm. Wow. So very wow.

totally

[Aprilcot]

AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This is soo good!!!!!!!!!

Please continue!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[starpollen]

Part 11

Aimon stared into her eyes, lips parted a little, looking for all the world like he wanted to kiss her. But he didn't.

Instead, Claire watched as his eyes grew unfocused, chin dropping just a little more as his nostrils twitched, cherry-red and irritated. He needed to sneeze, but clearly didn't want to. She was too close, his body warring with his self-control as he struggled, breath hitching dangerously. His shoulders quivered and shook, air sucked in between his clenched teeth as he stubbornly resisted.

Finally she took her hand back, moving away and allowing him to lose the battle gracefully.

"hyie‘NXzyuhTSCHH!!... -hah," he tried to stifle it into his wrist, but it had been put off for too long and simply could not be contained. Two more forced their way out, as if to drive the point home who - or in this case, what - was in control of his body at this moment. "Hkg'SSCHH! -uh. Ihhh!-KGSSCHu!-ahh. Pardon," he breathed, ragged, pulling more tissues with his cupped palm and coughing roughly into them.

"Bless you," she soothed, rubbing again in light circles between his shoulder blades.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, clearing his throat yet again.

Until he'd asked, she hadn't even thought about food, his concern for her comfort once again making her feel warm and gooey inside. "Um, sure," she pulled out a dining chair and ushered him into it. "If, uh, if you tell me where things are I'll make us something before you go lie down."

He chuckled lightly, coughing a little more into his fist.

"Should..." her hand hovered at the knob to the dishware cabinet. "How much should I make?" she hated that her voice was low and a little tremulous.

Aimon's gaze dropped to the floor. "No, I... I will make him something," he murmured, almost apologetically.

"No, I don't mind," she said in a rush, snatching down three plates and rifling through his pans. "Really. I'll make for three."

His jaw was tight, but his eyes were soft, a light blush painting his cheeks. He didn't look at her. "You do not have to..." She paused and threw a glance his way that he managed to see without his eyes. "Yes. Thank you. He--" Aimon broke off, staring hard at the wall as if the answer to the most difficult question was written there in code. "My father was a master chef. In France they are called Maîtres Cuisiniers. About six years ago, my father was hunting with a friend in Provence. He was shot here," his fingers tapped the top of his forehead, right at the hair line. "I do not know why he was not killed..."

"Oh," Claire was listening intently, even as she took out flour, sugar, salt, milk, baking powder, eggs, and butter. The act of cooking helped her feel useful, and also gave her some outlet for her nervous hands. In a large bowl, she sifted together the dry ingredients and made a well with her fingers, then buttered the cast iron skillet and heated it on the gas stove.

“-egk'NX-ssch! -uhh. Hheeh . . .! Nnk'ggKTSSCH!... ah."

"Bless you."

A deep sniffle, "Merci," followed by another pinch-wipe-and-wince. She winced in sympathy. "He was in a coma for almost two weeks. When he woke up, he was... different." Aimon's voice began to give out again, and he cleared his throat with a few more coughs.

Claire paused to pour him a glass of water, which he took from her fingers with a grateful nod. She laid a reassuring hand to his shoulder while he sipped it, then went back to the counter. She whisked milk, an egg, and melted butter together in a separate bowl, then whisked it into the flower mixture.

"I brought him here to America, to live with me. I went to culinary school and got my first restaurant job, trying to... to reach him somehow..."

She took a measuring cup and poured some batter into the heated skillet, hearing its soothing sizzle. It took only a few minutes before two fluffy, golden pancakes made their way onto a plate with a pat of white butter on top. She'd found real maple syrup in the spice cabinet - of course, only natural ingredients for a chef - and set both down in front of Aimon.

He nodded with a small grunt of thanks, taking a couple of bites in silence. She made a second plate, setting it aside before making a third. By the time the batter was gone and the dishes soaking in the sink, he'd finished and picked up the extra plate, stepping towards the back of the house with a murmured, "Un moment."

She ate her breakfast in silence, pleased that the pancakes were very fluffy and light, but also creamy and smooth.

“hhk-NGKsch! -hh. "HH! -Hh’ptXsch! -ah. Hkg-XSCCHu! -hahh.” Aimon appeared, one wrist pressed urgently to his nose. His watery eyes fluttered, nostrils flickering visibly with an urgent, cold-induced tickle, and he sneezed again, raggedly. "heehh-GXNTz'sh-uU! -uhhh." a long sound that dragged out of him with excruciating slowness. Still holding his wrist in place, he sniffled, and Claire wasn't surprised by the wet sound of it. She snatched up several tissues, holding them out as he came close enough to take them from her slightly-trembling hand.

He turned his back to her, stepping away as he tried to pinch-and-wipe his nose into submission, "Mon d-dieu..." she heard him stammer gruffly, just before his body clenched with yet another, "iyehh?-!... ggy'IHK-ZTTNtsh'iu! --hhah." This last, vicious sneeze finally quelled the tickle, and at last he couldn't help but give a light blow.

Claire stumbled into the kitchen and put her dish away, barely seeing what was in front of her. Damn. He was irresistible when he did that.

"Claire," he appeared behind her, that familiar heat licking up her neck. Only this time, she allowed herself to lean back, resting lightly against his warm chest.

"Wanna go lay down for a while?" she breathed, whispery and faint.

"Mhm," he rumbled, his voice vibrating his chest wall and subsequently her shoulder blades. She felt the buzz travel down her bones, igniting aching and yearning and heat.

She turned, raising up on her toes, and pressed her lips to his mouth.

His kiss was like coming home: warm velvet lips tinged with sweet maple syrup, strong corded arms closed around her waist, long fingers splaying on the small of her back as he pressed her close. When they finally broke apart - breathless - she gazed into his glittering-glass green eyes, watching how they travelled over her face.

"Your place or mine?" she raised an eyebrow, coy.

He chuckled again, the vibrations pulsing all the way to her throbbing core. "I think... mine."

And he kissed her again.

Edited December 20, 2009 by starpollen

[Nicole]

Star, I don't even care that you're a gal. Or that you're married. Perhaps maybe you can just marry me? And you can write for me forever? I can bake...I'll make you chocolate chip cookies for life if you just write me stories. 'k?

[everest]

Please tell me what I have done to derserve this? I haven't saved anyone's life lately, or anything! Is it really fair that I get this?

Well, it may not be fair, But I love it!

[Marceline]

*hyperventilates wide- eyed*

[elements]

i really don't even know WHAT to say..... its just....

yeeep...i went through the whole emoticon list and thought ALL these applied

[doggo]

SO HO!!!!!! This fic is wonderful. He is wonderful. You are wonderful. Yes!

[Aprilcot]

WHOA!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Very nice!!!!!!!

Please continue!!!!!!!!!

[obsessed]

... my freaking gosh this was amazing.

[Lady Blessington]

Your attention to plot, characterization and setting make the sneezes, when they come, all the sweeter.

C'est delicieux!

Mod note: Merged posts.

Edited December 21, 2009 by Vetinari

[W.I.N.]

I'm with Nicole on this. Marry me, seriously. I will bake you cookies every day. It's legal in Canada, even.

It has been a real effort not to spontaneously combust while reading your story. I love your characterization, love poor Claire practically chewing on her pillow all night, love the way you spell your sneezes (how on earth do you manage to make them sound so hot?).

Plus, plot and backstory and... guh. *brain implodes*

~W.I.N.

[starpollen]

I realized I haven't replied to ya'lls comments for a LONG time, so...

W.I.N. and Nicole - YES! I will absolutely marry both of you. Bake me things and let me sit at home all day and write stories? Plus YOU GUYS?? In a heartbeat. You are both amazing!

Vetinari - Thank you. For everything. If I can repay you - even a little - with a story? It seems so inadequate. You've saved this for me. In a lot of ways.

schnulle, WeirdoGirl, mads3rv3r, obsessedwithedward, Aprilcot, shiny_bug, TheCraziOne, everest, and elements - I love you guys! I'm so glad you like my slow, patient romance. I'm going for the whole "less is more" mantra... and it's so hard to hold back! But I think it's worth it.

VoOs and W.I.N. - Yay! I'm glad you like his sounds. I've always been into the wet, congested, miserable sneezes. (at least for colds) And, I love hate to say, it's only going to get better worse!

By the way... did you know we had this? Teh heh heh.

-- -- --

Part 12

Aimon led her to the shadowed rear part of the house, his long fingers laced with hers as she trailed behind him, her other hand gripping just under his elbow. She could feel how his skin barely sheathed the muscles underneath, how they rippled with each small movement of his wrist. It distracted her so much she had no control over her mouth.

"Where is your mom?"

He glanced at her, sharp and pointed. "Gone." It was a clipped bark that stabbed deep, effectively silencing her.

He saw the surprised hurt that automatically painted her face and paused, closing his eyes, pinching the skin between them with a long sigh. "Je suis désolé," he toned, low and heavy. "It... has been a few days since I have gotten to snap at anyone," he tried to joke, tossing her a rueful grin that couldn't help but seem more like a grimace. "It is withdrawal, no?"

"I'm sorry: I'm nosy," she muttered, eyes trained on the floor, still wounded. After a beat she tried to return his grin and must have been just as unsuccessful at it as he, because he turned back and pulled her to him, pressing his lips to her forehead.

"No... no chérie," he murmured against her skin. "It was a fair question that deserves a more... civilized answer." Turning once more, he reached out to turn the knob of a closed door, and gently ushered her inside.

His room was a strange mix of objects: a beautiful darkened bronzed bed that looked at least a hundred years old, a sleek and modern steel-and-glass computer desk with an expensive laptop, mis-matched quilts and blankets that were carefully and smoothly made up or folded at the foot, shelves and walls curiously bare.

"It is strange," he continued, going to the dresser and opening the top drawer. "Before, my father was the calm one, while I gave in to every fit of temper..." he withdrew a folded handkerchief, raising it to his face for a harsh, "Hp’NGGgSCHhu! -hh. Pardonnez-moi..." though it sounded more like 'pardodde-boi' because he was so congested. Turning, he tried to pinch-wipe some of it away, coughing raggedly.

"Aimon..." she began, about to tell him he didn't need to tell her anymore, that she was done prying into his very personal past.

But he drew in a short, thick sniffle, turning back to her, an uneven flush rising in his cheeks, his nose pinched raw. "My mother..." he stopped to clear his throat, voice once more threatening to give out. "She left about six months after we moved my father here. She said... that man was not her husband, that she could not stand to see a stranger wearing his face." He stared at the handkerchief in his hands. "I have not spoken to her in many years."

She didn't know what to say, simply looked at him and fought the instinct to go over and simply wrap her arms around him.

A minute later, she was kicking herself for her cowardice.

As Claire watched, his countenance collapsed in that perfect, irritated way. Everything about his expression - tense lips, furrowed brow and the twitching of his red, thoroughly violated nose - begged to be relieved from the grip of his cold-ravaged sinuses. His discomfort was palpable, especially as his nostrils doubled unexpectedly in size. His cloth-sheathed hands flew to his face even as he politely turned his back. “HEGK-GSSHH! --hihh.” That heavy exhalation at the end now sounded like a build-up to the next, the sneezes coming with increasing urgency. “--nng’CHSSHu! -hh!… heh-hh!… AH!…Guh’yeehiiSHSSHuu! -uhnhuhh." That exhalation was most decidedly a groan. "Pardonnez-moi,” he rumbled, thoroughly congested, giving another ineffectual sniffle through immobile passages as he settled for dabbing gingerly instead of attempting another trademark pinch-wipe.

And to think, her arms could have been around him while he did it. Damn.

"Come on," she found her courage, stepping across the room and drawing him back towards the bed. "You're done." She pulled the thick blankets back, pushing him down to sit on the edge of the mattress. "If you expect to be of any use tonight you need at least a couple hours' sleep."

She managed to get him to untuck his shirt and remove his belt, discreetly biting her lip at the the quick flash of skin. "Merci," he whispered politely when she pulled the blankets up to his chest.

He sniffled again and turned away to cough, prompting her to ask, "Do you have any cold medicine?"

He shook his head 'no,' tired green eyes blinking slowly up at her.

"Hm," she pursed her lips. Brow furrowing, she laid a cool hand against his neck. "Well, you're not too warm."

Aimon's lips curved in a soft smile, reaching out to snare her arm and pull her to sit beside him. "I am fine." His strong fingers closed around her hand, thumb rubbing across the sensitive skin on the inside of her wrist. His gaze was warm and just a little guarded.

Somehow she knew what he was thinking.

Claire stood and crossed around to the other side of the bed, stretching out on top of the covers next to him. He looked up at her through the strands of hair that fell into his eyes, and she allowed her fingers to comb them out of the way.

"I hope you do not catch this," he murmured, eyes slipping closed as her nails skimmed his scalp.

"If I do, you can take care of me." She gave a half-smile. "Now, shh."

It took several minutes, but finally his breathing evened out, her eyes lingering on the fine features of his face. Claire stayed with him for another twenty minutes or so, until she was sure he was asleep.

If not for what happened next, she might have settled down and drifted off, as well.

But...

She heard a muffled thud and some scratching from another part of the house, and was instantly tense. Part of her wanted to shake Aimon awake, to have him there to take care of whatever - whoever - it was. As if she didn't know.

But one glance to his face, a small wrinkle between his brows as if he were not completely relaxed even in sleep, and she decided she would investigate herself. It was time someone took care of him for a change.

Claire slipped from the bed without waking him, freezing a moment when he rolled over and curled up with a stuttering sigh. But he settled quickly, and she managed to slip from the room without a sound. Tip-toeing down the hall, she took in the various masculine touches: wood-paneled walls, very few wall decorations, worn furniture. But it was all neat, well ordered and kept up. Very clean.

At the very back of the house was a sunroom, a small television playing quietly in the background. A man was muttering to himself, soft tapping and shuffling reaching her ears. She peeked around the corner and saw Aimon's father seated at a table, playing cards and smoking a cigarette. On the floor were a couple of books he'd apparently knocked off, and Claire suddenly realized the rest of the house didn't smell like a smoker: only this room.

Since he seemed to be okay, she began to ease her way back down the hall...

... and a floorboard creaked beneath her feet.

"Who's there?... Josephine?"

Oh. Shit.

Edited December 22, 2009 by starpollen

[Nicole]

"I hope you do not catch this," he murmured, eyes slipping closed as her nails skimmed his scalp.

Oh, I hope she DOES. I would love to see that caretaking side of Aimon. Though I'm not saying that to put any pressure on you, Star! Your story is beautiful and brilliant just as it is. You don't have to change a thing!!! LOVE this! Truly my favorite story ever.

And the plot is thickening. LOVE!

[jezebel215]

oh, i hope she does as well!

like good sauce, the plot thickens :-P