as kindred should

eight

Dorian started, shooting to his feet and whirling to face the voice.

"Whoa! Whoa, sorry. Hey, I know you. Uh... Trase, right? Dorian Trase?"

This knowledge of his name did not soothe Dorian in the slightest. He held one arm in front of Pip and one over his body, a last-minute shield disguised with a flex of his fingers.

The man was ordinary looking, perhaps a few years older than Dorian, with greying hair on a receding hairline and hazel eyes. He was white, round-faced with stubble on his chin. Somehow he looked young and ancient at the same time.

"Y-yeah. You are?"

He wore an apron in the color of the store's logo, the font branded on a pocket over his breast. Dorian loosened.

"George Erics? I worked here when you had your first kid, um... M... Meredith?"

The tension fled from Dorian's body entirely. He laughed, suddenly aware of how noodly he'd become; there was very little strength in his muscles, very little strength in him at all.

"Mira," he corrected. "Mirabel. Her name is Mirabel."

George beamed, his grin bright and his teeth slightly crooked. A smile like that was trustworthy, Dorian thought. Natural. There was no attempt to fix it or cover it up. Dorian returned it, flimsier.

"Right! Mirabel, Mirabel. It was the first time I heard that name, I remember now. She was a cute baby, gnawed on my sleeve the one time I held her. Do you remember that?" George asked, and Dorian's smile waned, overshadowed by a thoughtful frown.

"Uh, no. Not particularly."

"Oh. That makes sense. It was a long time ago now. What are you here for? Who's the little lass with you now? Where's your wife?"

You almost had a lucky triple, Dorian thought with a wince.

"With her new husband," he answered. He raked his fingers through his hair, eyes momentarily darting away. "It's... I'd prefer not to talk about it, if that's okay, George."

George waved his hands in a feverish circle. Startled, Dorian took a half-step back, his heel catching on the shelf of the cart. When the movement settled, so did Dorian, and George blurted:

"Sorry! God, I'm sorry, I didn't know! Forget I asked that! So the kid..."

"Foster. I, um- for work. Government stuff," Dorian said, and George bobbed his head once and did not ask more.

"Well, if there's anything you need, I'd be happy to help."

"There is, actually," Dorian said. He tried to push off of his cart, but a feeling of lightheadedness swarmed him, and he leaned back, blinking casually. "A few big boxes here and there, if- if you wouldn't mind helping me carry them out. I'd appreciate it."

George Erics talked the entire time they loaded boxes into Dorian's car. He did not cease as Dorian buckled Pip into her carseat, he did not cease when it should have become abundantly obvious that Dorian's brain was on another plane entirely, he did not cease though Dorian responded to his inquiries with simple yes's and no's and every other statement with a weak grunt.

With the last big box muscled into the car (the door only just clicked shut,) Dorian stood back to breathe. George still babbled about something or other. Try as he might, Dorian could not focus long enough to make out what it was. Something about a dress code, something about a baby shower.

He stood with one leg in the car and one out, his left hand on the steering wheel and his right on the edge of the door.

"So I said you really should have just worn your old dress, 'cause now your sister won't forgive you for wearing a graphic tee to her baby shower unless you write a fifteen-page letter describing how sorry you are. But she didn't want to because it had a hole in the armpit, which I understand, but-"