Chapter 3 #2
My mouth falls open as I step fully inside, my bag sliding off my shoulder to hit the floor with a soft thump that I barely register.
The coffee table, which was previously holding up the combined weight of ancient highland gold and years of accumulated junk, is now sitting level on the floor with what appears to be a neatly folded piece of cardboard wedged under the broken leg as a temporary fix.
The surface gleams in the overhead light, polished to a shine I didn't know cheap particleboard could achieve, and the gold coins have been stacked into precise, glittering towers arranged in perfect rows like some kind of dragon's accounting system.
The floor is visible. The actual floor. I can see the carpet, which turns out to be a shade of beige I'd completely forgotten about, and there's a vacuum track pattern running in neat diagonal lines across the entire surface.
The mugs and plates and random art supplies that were previously scattered across every flat surface have vanished, presumably organized into some location that makes logical sense, and the windows are so clean they're practically invisible.
I turn in a slow circle, my brain struggling to process the sheer magnitude of the transformation that has somehow occurred in my apartment while I was out, my eyes darting from the gleaming coffee table to the impossibly clean floor to the organized towers of gold coins, and that's when I see him, all seven feet and one inch of him, standing in the center of my living room like some kind of enormous, incredibly well-dressed monument to the concept of domestic order.
Faugh is standing in the center of the living room, his massive body backlit by the warm glow of the floor lamp that I'm pretty sure wasn't working this morning, holding the tiniest, most delicate feather duster I have ever seen in my entire life.
It looks absolutely ridiculous in his enormous hand, like watching someone try to perform surgery with a toothpick, and he's using it to meticulously attack a cobweb in the corner of the ceiling with the kind of intense focus usually reserved for bomb disposal.
He turns slowly at the sound of the door closing, his pale amber eyes locking onto mine.
"Chantel," he says, my name emerging in that low, rumbling bass that makes my spine straighten involuntarily. He lowers the feather duster with the careful precision of someone setting down a live grenade. "We need to discuss your organizational system."
I blink at him, then at the feather duster, then back at him. My brain is making the same grinding noise a computer makes right before it blue-screens. "My... organizational system."
"Yes." He gestures around the apartment with the feather duster, the movement somehow managing to convey profound concern despite the absurdity of the prop.
"I have spent the last four hours attempting to locate basic cleaning supplies and have discovered that you do not appear to own a mop, your vacuum cleaner contains a bag that has not been changed since approximately two thousand and nineteen, and there are seven different sponges in various locations throughout the kitchen, none of which are suitable for use on any known surface. "
I start to speak, then catch myself, because there is absolutely nothing I can say in my own defense here, not about the sponges, not about the organizational chaos, not about any of it.
The words die they can fully form. "I have.
.. sponges?" I finally manage, my voice pitching upward into that uncertain, questioning lilt that always betrays just how lost I am.
I glance toward the kitchen as if expecting said sponges to materialize and defend themselves, then back at Faugh, my hands fluttering in that useless, apologetic gesture I've perfected over twenty-six years of being a disaster.
"Like, apparently I do, according to you, but I honestly couldn't tell you where most of them are or what condition they're in, so. .."
His expression does something complicated. "You have sponges that have achieved sentience and are now classified as biological hazards. I have disposed of them in a sealed bag which I have placed in the outside dumpster because I did not trust your indoor trash receptacle to contain them."
"You cleaned my entire apartment. Like, the whole thing. In one afternoon. While I was at work."
The reality of it crashes over me in waves, the fact that he didn't just tidy up a few things or do a quick once-over, but systematically went through every single room, every corner, every surface of this disaster zone that I've been living in for months.
My voice comes out smaller than I intended, almost reverential in its disbelief.
I lower my hand from my forehead and stare at him, my hazel eyes wide and slightly glassy, trying to match the man standing before me, this massive, intimidatingly neat orc who apparently spent his entire day elbow-deep in my chaos, with the casual way he's describing it, as if he hadn't just performed some kind of domestic miracle.
"I cleaned what I could with the limited supplies available," he corrects, setting the feather duster down on the coffee table with a gentleness that seems at odds with his overall aura of barely contained frustration.
"Tomorrow I will purchase proper cleaning materials and address the more significant issues.
The bathroom requires a full renovation which I will discuss with the landlord.
The kitchen sink is held together with what appears to be hope and expired caulk.
Your bedroom door does not close properly because the frame is warped. "
I'm still staring at him, my mouth opening and closing like a fish, because I have absolutely no idea how to respond to this. "You... you don't have to, I mean, that's not, you're a roommate, not a maid, you don't have to clean everything—"
"I am aware of my role," he interrupts. "However, I cannot exist comfortably in disorder. It is not a moral judgment of your lifestyle. It is a fundamental incompatibility between my nervous system and the concept of grime."
He pauses, his gaze sweeping over me with an intensity that makes me suddenly, acutely aware of the paint stains on my overalls and the fact that I definitely smell like espresso and anxiety.
"I propose a system. I will maintain the common areas to my standards.
Your bedroom and personal workspace remain your domain.
In exchange, you will not object to my organizational methods. "
"Your organizational methods," I repeat slowly, looking around at the apartment that now resembles a furniture store display, "which apparently include... what, hiring a professional cleaning crew?"
"I am the professional cleaning crew," he says with perfect, deadpan sincerity. "I spent six years managing a nightclub. I have seen things that would break a lesser being's spirit. Your apartment is, comparatively, a minor project."
A slightly hysterical laugh bubbles up before I can stop it, because this is insane, this entire situation is completely insane, I have somehow acquired a seven-foot Orc roommate who pays in ancient gold and deep-cleans apartments as a stress response, and I'm pretty sure I've just stumbled into the premise of either a romance novel or a very elaborate prank show.
"Okay," I hear myself say, my voice coming out slightly strangled. "Okay, yeah, that's—sure. You can clean whatever you want. Go absolutely feral with the Lysol. I'm not going to stop you."
Something that might be satisfaction flickers across his face. "Excellent. I have also prepared dinner. You did not eat adequately today."
"How do you—" I start, then stop, because of course he knows I didn't eat adequately today, he probably has some kind of terrifying Orc sixth sense for detecting human nutritional deficiencies. "You made dinner."
"I made dinner," he confirms, already moving toward the kitchen with that same smooth, purposeful stride. "You own very few ingredients, but I was able to work with what was available. Sit."
It's not a request.
I sit.