Page 102 of Crocodile Tears

“Yes, sir. One other thing, sir?”

“Yes?”

“Do I have your permission to shave?” Alexander ran a hand over the stubble on his jaw.

“What?”

“I wasn’t sure how you wanted my physical appearance, sir. My previous houder liked me clean-shaven, and my body hair waxed away completely, including my armpits, groin area, and buttocks.”

Josiah stared at him. “I really don’t give a damn about your hair,” he snapped.

“Then I will shave, sir. If you change your mind, please let me know. I am anxious to please.”

“Right.” Josiah turned briskly on his heel, feeling completely out of his depth. Did all houders have an opinion about their ISs’ body hair? Did people really care about this kind of thing?

As he trotted down to the kitchen to prepare dinner, he could hear Alexander moving around, and he didn’t like it. He’d become accustomed to silence and solitude since Hattie’s death, and it suited him just fine.

He opened the fridge and was instantly reminded of how, every year on the anniversary of Peter’s death, he made Peter’s favourite meal, “stir-fry surprise”. Peter had been an abysmal cook, and this had been the only dish he could throw together with passable results. When Josiah had jokingly asked what the “surprise” was, Peter told him it was whatever was to hand – sometimes corned beef, sometimes tofu, and on one memorable occasion a mish-mash of tinned goods so jumbled up that Josiah failed to even identify them.

There were enough vegetables, pasta, and corned beef to make a stir-fry surprise for two, but little else. He didn’t like the idea of sharing Peter’s special meal with Alexander, but he knew that was ridiculous.

Slamming a frying pan on the hob, he heated up some oil and threw the vegetables in to fry.

He banged around the kitchen irritably, slinging the pasta in boiling water, chopping up the corned beef to throw into the stir-fry later, and stirring the vegetables as they sizzled happily on the hob. He was so busy that when he looked up and saw Alexander standing in the doorway, it startled him.

Alexander’s hair was wet and slicked back, his jaw was freshly shaven, and his scent hit him like a physical blow.

Reeling, Josiah remembered, too late, that Peter had appropriated the en-suite shower in the spare room for himself, to wash off all the grease from his job as a mechanic. His toiletries were still in there, and therefore Alexander now smelled exactly like him.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, Alexander was wearing a pair of khaki army combat trousers that were a couple of inches too long at the bottom and far too big at the waist, tightened with a wide brown belt to keep them up, and an olive-green tee-shirt with a picture of a black dog on it.

“Take them off!” Josiah roared, taking even himself by surprise.

Alexander froze. “I’m sorry. I didn’t have any clean clothes, and these were hanging in the wardrobe, so I thought you meant for me to?—”

“I said, take them off,” he yelled, striding towards the IS, the spoon still clenched in his hand.

Alexander flinched, clearly expecting a blow, and that quenched his anger immediately. He stopped dead in his tracks, his chest heaving.

Before he could stop him, Alexander grabbed the hem of the tee-shirt and pulled it over his head.

“Not here,” Josiah said desperately. They stared at each other helplessly. “Upstairs.”

“What do you want me to wear? I have nothing else. Or… would you prefer me naked? Is that it? Is that what I did wrong? I’m so sorry. Of course…” Alexander fumbled at the belt holding up the combat trousers.

“No,” Josiah protested shakily, putting his hand over Alexander’s hands. “No, I don’t want you naked. I want you very much dressed – just not in those clothes.”

Realisation seeped into Alexander’s eyes. “I’m so sorry. They’rehis, of course. I didn’t know,” he said softly.

“No, why should you? It’s fine. Go back to your room.” Josiah led the way. “I’ll get you some of my clothes. You can wear those.”

He found a couple of pairs of old sweatpants and tee-shirts and then realised he was still shaking.

It had all been too much: the smell of the stir-fry surprise, thesound of Alexander moving around, and then the scent of Peter wafting through the house again. No wonder he’d snapped.

He took several deep breaths, trying to calm himself. It wasn’t Alexander’s fault. The memory of the young man cowering in front of him, expecting to be hit, was as bad as seeing him in Peter’s clothes. He felt ashamed.

Getting control of himself, he walked back to the spare room with an armful of clothes and found Alexander sitting on the bed with a towel wrapped around his waist, looking devastated.

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