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They got drunk once, together, back in ‘05, the Bush Years, God help them. He’d never come so close to blacking out but they were high on despair and wire taps and it was a gutting time to be a liberal. Her fiancé, his beloved, had been called in for a vote and there was nothing for them to do but put on CSPAN, order Afghan food (naturally), and wait for him to come home.
There had been no children in those days, just the three of them and their jangling combinations of desperation and addiction, ambition and joy. He'd still smelled of cigarette smoke over his cologne and she'd taken anti-anxiety meds like they were breath mints; his M.A. had been getting him nowhere and she had been ramping up to the date of her dissertation defense; and still they'd been happy. They had wanted so fiercely in those days.
Her six-inch stilettos were off and it brought her down from her women’s basketball height to merely Amazonian proportions. His tie was loose around his neck, the vivid orange stripe a target across his belly, to show where he was vulnerable.
“Tell me something,” she said. His head was cushioned on her breasts. She smelled like wet cedar. At the time he’d wondered if she’d been wearing her fiancé’s aftershave as perfume. He doesn’t wonder anymore: she had been.
“Hm?” he asked, watching the numbers go. Not their bill, not their problem. It was two AM.
“Tell me something about yourself,” she said, petting his hair. “Something juicy. Something to scandalize me.”
“Hm,” he said. He stared at the carpet.
“I hear nothing but bland courtesies all day,” she said. He smiled. Liar. She worked as an administrative assistant at a nonprofit on Dupont Circle. Medical research. She heard her share of vicious, bitchy things every day, but no one would dare call anyone anything that didn’t take four syllables to say. There was dignity on the line. “I want to hear something from you that’s wild. Something you’ve never told anyone else.”
“Are we bonding?” he asked, reaching out and bringing the bottle of wine up to her lips. They’d each had a bottle and this was the third. The Pinot Noir was good but it was lost on them. He didn’t foresee them making it off the sofa tonight.
She smiled and let him touch the glass to her nude-painted lips. Her big earrings swayed against the stretch of her long neck as she tipped her head back to drink. She was beautiful, so beautiful in the glow of the television. He wanted to kiss her cheeks and nose and forehead, and watch over her forever and put his head to her tight belly, listen to two heartbeats inside her. He wanted to curl up beside her and sleep in her bed like a brother.
“Yes,” she said, taking the bottle and touching his lips with her fingertips. He obediently closed off his throat and opened his mouth, and she poured a mouthful of wine between his lips before leaning down to peck them. He carefully closed his mouth and swallowed. “And you can’t say you’re gay.”
He coughed a little, tannins stinging at the back of his throat. He’d never said it out loud. It should’ve qualified.
“I already know that. It’s not juicy,” she said.
God, what a woman. She probably knew about Mufasa, too, but bless her, she wasn't saying anything.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll tell you a fantasy of mine.”
“Mmm, yes.”
“It’s not long. It’s pretty tame, really. But I've never told anyone.”
“Juicy. I want juicy. Give me something with meat on it.”
He shrugged. “I’m a simple man with simple desires. Now shush.”
She shushed and stroked his hair, smiling down at him.
“I want a man I love to put me face down and fuck me through the mattress--”
“That isn’t--”
“Of the Lincoln bedroom,” he sighed. “I want the most powerful man in the free world to lay me down and pleasure me, because I put him there, in that house. I want him to go and smile at the Inaugural Ball still tasting me in the back of his throat.”
She went very still beneath him. He canted a look up at her.
“Not very juicy, I’m afraid,” he admitted.
“That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard,” she breathed, and squirmed. Her nipples were hard beneath her dress.
He patted her knee and smiled.
***
So it’s more likely that Sarabi’s going to be the one to live that particular dream, but Zazu’s found that after all these years he doesn’t really mind. She deserves it just as much as he does, probably more.
He loves Sarabi very much, enough to make him hate himself, at times. She’s perfect for her husband, the other side of that coin, elegant and strong and righteous. She makes the kills Zazu can’t make--she can pleasure her husband and take pleasure in him in the ways Zazu never could--she can and has made a child from their union and given her husband immortality in a way that Zazu could never even dream. She is the source of all nurturing and all care, when Zazu can only sterilely inform and advise. She is the reason for the work, the reminder of why it matters. The aspiration and inspiration, stirring to the spirit. Sarabi is the solid and glorious past, rich with wisdom and strength, and also the bright and dazzling future, unfolding her possibilities while remaining tantalizingly unattainable.
Zazu is the nervous, squawking present, demanding attention and action, hot off the mark for facts and figures, but entirely forgettable from one moment to the next. Nothing imaginative here -- just lots of work, lots of pragmatism. He can see a long term and strategize accordingly, and his role is to see far and see first; not to create waves, but measure and use them.
In another life, he would’ve made a decent reporter.
In this one, he’s chief of staff for the United States Representative from California, godfather to a six-year-old, and, much to his consternation, a babysitter.
“No,” he says, tapping rapidly on his iPhone, “not in five minutes, Simba. Now.”
A bite of pancake comes whizzing through the air and, in a move that can only be described as a minor miracle, he manages to dodge it and hears it splatter wetly on the kitchen wall.
“Harrod’s of London!” he cries aloud, gesturing to himself. “Navy checked wool, you little monster! Have you no respect!”
Simba sticks his tongue out. Zazu makes a face right back, albeit a more discreet one.
Nala snorts and grins into her chocolate milk.
“Simba!” Sarabi calls from the second floor. “Do as Zazu says!”
Simba huffs. “Fine, Mom!” he calls.
“Nala, you too! Come up and brush!” Sarabi’s friend, Sarafina, is staying in the Mfalme household for the foreseeable future. Zazu likes her well enough but she is more fashion-forward than policy-oriented, so aside from a gleeful willingness to eviscerate the accessory choices of everyone they see, they don’t seem to have much in common.
But it’s a start.
The children go trundling up the stairs and he makes a break for the foyer and the suit bag he has hanging from a hook, eager for a few minutes of peace.
Mufasa's on his way to a breakfast meeting. Zazu texts him on the way. Scar wants to see you--he’s sent three non-consecutive emails. I can have Mr. Gofur speak to him if you’d prefer but that's just a stopgap and I think we can get him in and out in ten minutes or fewer if we bookend it with Congressman Stefan’s meeting and the cocktail party at the Embassy of Agrabah. Which, yes, you have to attend. I’m bringing the dark grey suit, the gold tie, and the ruby cufflinks. Sarabi’s going to wear crimson. Please tell me you wore black shoes today.
He waits for a few moments. Soon enough he gets a reply.
Scar, yes; Agrabah, fine; shoes, brown.
Damn it.
I’ll work it out.
Two seconds go by.
You’re a lifesaver.
It’s true. He knows it.
He also knows the master bedroom of the house better than he should. It’s bittersweet but he doesn’t have the time or the inclination to dwell on it. He seizes a pair of shoes--he always looks good in the black leather balmorals with the perforated toes but damn it, Mufasa! did he take these through mud? well, that’s why God made interns and shoe shines--and takes them downstairs again, slipping them into the side of the bag. He’s over the part of his life when speculating on shoe size brought him any kind of naughty thrill (he’s a size seven and perfectly respectable, thank you) but a size fourteen, in addition to the man’s long, beautiful eyelashes, do speak some volumes on certain subjects.
“I’ll be in the car!” he announces.
“Right! They’ll be out in a sec!” Sarabi calls back.
He hoofs it out to the driveway, opens the back door of his sedan, and hangs the suit bag where it won’t wrinkle.
He drives the kids to school every day on his way to the office. Of course he does, it’s part and parcel of being “family,” and it makes sense, since passes it anyway on the route from his Bethesda apartment to work. The whole process of getting the children ready and out the door is sort of awful but it takes the heat off of Sarabi, so that’s fine. Even though he really, truly doesn’t like children, he somehow loves Simba and Nala, and that love is enough to get him into the car with a pair of rambunctious six-year-olds when by rights he should be back in London, drinking potable tea and reading Al Jazeera in bed.
But he’ll never leave. Not only is everyone he loves here, but the work he loves is here, too. British politics are fascinating, but he came into his own in America and by all appearances America is going to be his tomb.
And it’s not like there aren’t perks to the morning routine.
The fences are low, more picturesque than functional in this neighborhood, and he can see the owner of the next house over in front of his doorway. It isn’t spying, no, not really. It’s not spying if you just happen to observe someone in plain sight most mornings!
The next door neighbor is a—well, it would be vulgar to say the term that fits him most precisely, although Zazu most certainly thinks it. He’s an older gentleman with long white hair and a long white beard that really should make him look unkempt. But with the powerful breadth of his shoulders and chest, and the understated, Old Money perfection of his hand-tailored suits, there’s nothing scruffy about him. He looks like a benevolent Viking king dropped in the middle of this upper class neighborhood, especially when he smiles and embraces his seven beautiful daughters farewell as they climb into the minivan on their way to high schools and colleges. Zazu never seems to see a wife, or any other older woman, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one.
It’s been a very, very long dry spell. He’s entitled to a little window-shopping.
The last name is something Danish, he thinks, and at least he’s fairly sure that’s the accent he sometimes hears over the fence. He keeps thinking he should look the name up and see who these people are, but he’s got more important things to do on a daily basis than try and justify wasting some minutes Googling his boss’ attractive neighbor, and if he made it past the background check that the neighbors of all high-ranking Congressmen go through, that should be enough for Zazu.
The six-year-olds come bouncing—literally bouncing, it is seven thirty in the morning, merciful God in heaven—out of the front door. If he wants to have even one unsnapped nerve at the end of this drive they’ve got to go, now.
He’s too busy double-checking that they have everything they need for the day, shooing them into their seats, and folding himself into the car to see the sideways glance the neighbor slants his way. And he completely misses the little appreciative bob of the eyebrows and the smile hidden behind the white moustache.
It turns out, however, that Sarabi, watching from the doorway of her beautiful home, doesn’t.
***
In Zazu’s estimation there are essentially two kinds of people in the world: people for whom the toast tends to fall jam side up, and people for whom the toast tends to fall jam side down.
It has nothing to do with how one handle disappointment or whether one considers the glass half empty or half full. It’s got nothing to do with how competent or prepared one is, or whether or not one can take a hit and keep pushing forward.
It is about objectivity: is the glass broken, or not? How much do you get away with?
Sarabi and Mufasa are most definitely jam-uppers. Their charisma and luck is astonishing, and though they work hard Fate seems to keep her wheels oiled just for them and they skate through tight spots with a minimum of distress. It’s statistically unlikely that they would be so fortunate and yet it is true.
Then there are jam-downers, and they are people like Zazu himself. It’s not that he’s any more unhappy or pathetic than anyone else, or at least he hopes he’s not, and it’s not like he trips over hurdles. He works hard and makes good decisions, and rolls with the punches, but brick walls still rise out of nowhere and he still breaks his nose on them.
And then, of course, there’s Scar.
Scar was much more of a jam-downer even than Zazu, despite equal competence and superior charm, and it might’ve been sad if he wasn’t such an unbearable son of a bitch about everything under the sun.
Back before he decided that Scar was literally the Devil’s own, Zazu had been very attracted to the younger Mfalme brother. After all, if you could overlook the way his cruel sensibilities twisted his features, he was handsome, and suave, and very, very intelligent. He had ambitions and passion. And they always did have a terrible kind sexual tension, the sort of wink-wink-nudge-nudge-attempted-backstab thing that so often happened when you put two fairly bitchy and high-strung queens alone together in a sea of happy heterosexuals.
He never for one second imagined that Scar felt any kind of mutual attraction. It was just that they would frequently get stuck together at functions with no one else to talk to and end up caustically flirting to pass the time. You can only trade so many half-poisoned barbs and sidelong glances with someone before misery does her work and you feel something almost like companionship.
He’s over all that interest now. Thank heavens. Any little sexual fantasies are ash in the fireplace of his heart, and now his Scar-related daydreams are mostly of the violent or utterly rude kind. To be candid, he can’t quite think of anything more satisfying than the thought of dumping a G&T on one of that man’s innumerable perfect black suits or wrapping his hands around his skinny little neck and just squeezing. Scar is so humiliating to be around, because Zazu often fears that with just a few more thwarted ambitions, a looser tongue, and a fractionally more hateful disposition, he and Scar would be the same person.
(Then again, Zazu’s the one with the semi-homicidal fantasies. Perhaps he should be looking a little closer to home, if he wants to worry about hateful dispositions.)
The only reason he’s thinking about Scar now is because the man is texting him. Somehow the four-minute meeting with Mufasa earlier this afternoon didn’t give him what he wanted and now he’s trying to drag it out of Zazu.
Not likely.
He needs to be brought to see the severity of the situation, Scar texts him. It’s been a highly volatile year in the county. And it wouldn’t be too much to ask a single favor of a man who should be unselfishly devoted to the needs of his constituents.
Zazu rolls his eyes and ignores the texts as they come in, stepping into his car in the underground garage. It’s almost nine and he hasn’t eaten since one. Even the roots of his hair are tired, and he truly does not have the kind of patience that handling Scar with anything even approaching civility will require.
Traffic is impossibly ungodly for this time of night. It takes him a solid hour to go the eight miles from the office to home, which would be bearable if the stereo weren’t on the fritz, and all the other drivers are either drunk or insane. He gets beeped at and cut off twice. He does the kind of work he does, deals with the kind of people he deals with, lives and attempts to drive in this city, and somehow his physician has the brass to wonder why his blood pressure is high enough to jackhammer a concrete block to dust.
He knows something is very wrong before he even arrives in front of his apartment building. He prays ardently for three or four blocks--please, no, please, no, please, please, please, no--but water is burbling down the street three inches deep. He pulls up onto his block and the flood is coming out of the glass doors of his apartment building, and out of every building on the block. Most of his neighbors are standing around, aghast.
All he wants to do is have a glass of wine and fall asleep on the sofa while Colin Firth gazes longingly at Jennifer Ehle. This is unfair. This is inhumane.
He drives slowly, pushing his way through the crowd until he can roll down the window and speak to a man in a reflective vest and a hard hat. “Excuse me! Can you please tell me what’s going on?”
“What’s it look like? Bust water mains all over,” the man in the hard hat grunts.
“I live here,” Zazu replies, wondering if perhaps the severity of the situation is lost on the man.
The man’s shoulders hitch and drop. “Sorry about that,” he says. The sincerity of the condolence is truly touching. “Whole block’s out. We’re working on it. Long as it doesn’t get into the electrical, then--”
There’s an enormous zap, because apparently his life bows to the laws of narrative convenience, and the city block sinks into darkness.
Fantastic.
“So it’s gonna be a while,” the man in the not-very reflective vest says.
Zazu heaves a sigh and looks a little further down the street. “Can I park here? Just for an instant? Long enough to get a bag?”
“Long as you’re not in the way,” the man says, turning away to address himself to the important business of loafing elsewhere.
Zazu frowns and looks towards the building's underground parking garage. It’s got a barrier set up in front of it--doubtlessly flooded--and there’s nothing else to do.
He parks, puts on his hazards, and sets about taking off his shoes and rolling up the hems of his trousers. He steps out of the car, shoes in hand, with the thought that he would rather ruin his socks than his shoes.
He wades his way into his apartment building and hurries up to the third floor. It’s dark up here and he bumps into a wall or two before managing to find his door and unlock it. He sets his shoes and briefcase down by the door and turns on his phone's flashlight before digging around for his necessaries. He plucks his overnight bag out of the closet, throws a suit, a shirt, and three or four tie options into a suit bag. He can’t make meaningful fashion decisions in this light.
He seizes his dressing gown off of the foot of his bed and takes his toothbrush out of the bathroom, and as he’s stepping into his galoshes he gets a text.
News ribbon says that half of Bethesda has sprung a leak. And the power’s out. You all right?
Ah, Sarabi.
How do you find these things out? he asks back. Yes, I’m fine. I’m going to get a hotel.
No. Come down to stay at the house. I’m getting M out of here soon, anyway, we’ll be one big family.
Oh, no. He has no desire to be woken up by six year olds bouncing on his bed at four in the morning, or to hear any kind of hushed, rhythmic thumping from the master bedroom. He’s far enough away from the initial pangs of infatuation to be happily resigned to his situation, but he’s not made of stone.
He grabs his shoes and briefcase, leaves the apartment, and just manages to lock the door behind him.
That’s very sweet but I’ll just get a hotel.
He stumbles down the steps but Sarabi’s already firing off instructions. Hotels cost money. Illicit use of government funds. Come on home. M will be quicker to leave if he knows you’re coming. I’ll make you some dinner.
He can’t possibly say no, now. ‘Come on home.’ He supposes this is what he gets for playing happy families six days out of the week.
He steps out onto the street and he cannot find his car.
At all.
He hurries up to the man in the hard hat.
“Where is my car?” he demands.
“They towed it,” the man said. “If ya don’t mind, I’m a little busy, here!”
“You said I could park!”
“Long as you weren’t in the way,” the man grunts. “I guess you must’a been.”
If his hands weren’t full, he'd have his fingers around this man's neck and Sarabi and Mufasa would have to post his bail. It probably wouldn’t play well in the next election.
Zazu manages to pluck his phone out and call for a taxi at an intersection three blocks up. He wades up to meet it and when it arrives, it’s almost eleven, he hasn’t had dinner, and he is going to die, if he has to slit his own wrists to do it.
He gives the cab driver the Mfalme address and tries to doze on the ride to Cathedral Heights. It doesn’t work.
The house is dark when he pulls up, and that means that Sarafina and the children are in bed and Sarabi and Mufasa aren’t home yet. It’s up to him to open the house, then! Delightful. Nothing like being a guest and having to host yourself. The worst part is that he knows where everything is, and in what room Sarabi would put him.
He pays the man and and waits for the cab to drive away. His phone buzzes at his hip.
Answer me, you gutless, obsequious fag! Scar. Drunk, probably.
Fantastic. He shoves his phone into the pocket of his jacket and grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes, making very small, very angry noises. It is almost eleven thirty and he has no car, no apartment, no patience, apparently neither dignity nor self-respect, and he hasn’t eaten since one.
“Ahem,” a voice coughs, just over his shoulder, and he about leaps out of his skin. His startled jump attempts to become a rapid turn but he’s not in his usual shoes and on dry pavement his galoshes catch. He goes down on his ass with a thud that jars his hips and sends pain shooting straight up his spine.
He manages to bite back a truly vicious steam of swears and looks up at the voice.
The neighbor looks down at him with wide eyes, white hair gleaming under the streetlamps. His shoulders are so broad and his waist is so trim, and even in the dark the white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up gleams like ivory against his tanned skin. He looks tired, or at least more tired than he had this morning, rumpled in a rugged, effortlessly sexy kind of way, and Zazu stares up at him in his bright orange galoshes and his disheveled suit and one of his contact lenses dislodged from his iris and thinks, ‘Jam down.’
“Are you all right?” the neighbor asks, leaning down to offer him a hand.
He thinks he may start laughing hysterically. If he’s just broken his hip in front of this man he’s going to have to do himself some kind of terrible mischief, if only to prove to the universe that he’s not the obedient little pet of malicious fate and can and will tender his existential resignation and opt out of this uniquely raw deal.
“I haven’t eaten,” he says, because perhaps he is going insane.
“Well, we need to do something about that,” the neighbor says. He puts one of those big hands on Zazu’s arm. “Can you stand?”
The whole situation is so humiliating that he’s shaking with it. He tries to scoot his booted feet around to bear his weight but moving his legs is agony and he can’t quite restrain the tight hiss that escapes him as he moves.
“Hmm. Here, put your arms around my neck,” the neighbor says, and before Zazu can protest, the neighbor crouches down and tucks one arm under his knees and wraps the other around his back. The neighbor picks him up in a move so fluid and sudden that he has to squawk at the sudden lift and his apparent weightlessness to this man. His arms fly around a thick, strong neck and he clings tight as he’s tucked close to a powerful, warm chest.
“Little warning!” he manages in a squeak.
The neighbor chuckles softly, looking down at him with friendly eyes. He smells like cigarette smoke and Zazu thinks he's never needed nicotine more. “Ah, yes, I’m sorry. That must’ve been startling. Let’s get you inside.”
“Oh, I--my keys are--”
In the briefcase, on the sidewalk. His hands are occupied, as are the neighbor’s.
“Would you be comfortable coming into my house until we can get someone to come for you?” the neighbor asks.
Oh dear. Oh dear, dear, dear. Isn’t this how Misery begins? And about seven thousand pornographic films?
Statistics. One Stephen King story against quite a lot of the sweeter side of gay erotic film, to say nothing of the considerable Austenian precedent of being injured and carried home by a handsome man?
He’ll take those odds.
“Y-Yes,” he stammers, and begins to think that he may actually be rather addled. His mood tanks when he’s this hungry, but usually he’s able to maintain minimal coherency. It turns out that a truly aggravating and unpleasant night, a strong dose of searing pain, and some gentle and supportive demonstrations of raw, handsome physical strength can combine their influence to render him an imbecile. He supposes it’s good to know one’s Kryptonite.
The neighbor gives him a concerned look and begins to turn towards his own driveway, but a pair of headlights come down the street and turn into the Mfalme driveway just in the nick of time.
“Oh, I--” Zazu says, looking over. The neighbor follows his gaze and adjusts course to intercept the new arrivals on the lawn.
“Zazu?” Mufasa asks, getting out of the car. The driver rises from the driver’s seat and stands at parade rest, waiting for orders. If this is all over the office by tomorrow, heads are going to roll. “What’s going on?”
Nothing, just visceral humiliation. Sarabi comes around the side of the car and stares for an instant, but only just an instant.
“Oh, you poor thing, what happened?” Sarabi asks. “Here, let’s get you indoors.”
“Please get Mr. Beekmann’s things off the sidewalk,” Mufasa instructs the driver, who emits a quiet “yes sir,” and scoots off in pursuit of his duty. “Can I, ah…” He looks at Zazu, tucked away in the neighbor’s arms, and Zazu can’t think to do anything but stare back at him, lost. “Do anything to help?”
“I’m fine,” Zazu replies. He’s not sure he can stand upright without falling over in a truly mortifying way, but he’s sure he’s fine.
“I think I’ve got it, thank you,” the neighbor replies, and since the rest of the night is taking such an absurd turn perhaps Zazu can be forgiven for imagining that the arms around him tighten just a bit.
Sarabi’s got the front door open and the alarm disabled, so the neighbor carries him over the threshold and through the light-walled foyer. Sarabi waves him to a place on the antique sofa in the spacious, beautiful living room and Zazu tries to ready himself to bid the warm and powerful trapezius muscles beneath his hands a fond adieu.
The neighbor sets him down very gently but nevertheless ass-first and Zazu tries not to react. He doesn’t actually think he’s broken anything--he’s pretty sure he would’ve heard a much more significant crunch--but it hurts like blazes and it’s entirely possible he fractured his coccyx. The arms unwind from around him and he supports his own weight again and tries not to writhe.
The neighbor watches him closely. Ye gods, the blue of this man’s eyes, it’s going to haunt his dreams.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asks. “I’m so sorry for startling you.”
“Yes, fine,” Zazu replies, too quickly, too breathily. “I mean, I’m fine, thank you, it was my own clumsy fault.”
“What happened?” Sarabi asks, coming in from the kitchen with a glass of water. Mufasa closes the door on the outside world, Zazu’s suit bag and briefcase just within the foyer.
“Oh, it’s very stupid,” Zazu says, “I just tripped and fell. I hardly think anything’s broken, just a little painful.” He takes the glass of water with a smile, glad to have something, anything, to distract from the present circumstances.
“He’s neglecting to mention that I’d startled him,” the neighbor says to Sarabi. “I'd been out for a smoke and I’m afraid if I’d simply left alone we wouldn’t be having the conversation.”
“Well, thank goodness you were,” Sarabi says, gliding down to sit on the sofa. “I hate to think of our Zazu hurt and alone.”
Thank you, mother. All that’s missing is her hands petting his hair and the tableau will be complete.
“Not at all. Unless there’s anything else I can do,” the neighbor says, casting a glance at Zazu, “I should let you rest. It’s late.”
“Oh, won’t you stay a little while, Mr. Aegirsen?” Sarabi asks. “I was just about to make a little something to eat and we’d be happy to have you…”
“You’d better let her make you something,” Mufasa says, walking into the parlor with a smile. “She’s an excellent cook. You’ll be glad you stayed.”
“Thank you, but no. I should really get back to my own home. My girls will wonder where I am. Perhaps you will let me stop by tomorrow and make sure everything’s all right?”
“Of course,” Sarabi replies. “We’d be delighted.”
Simply delighted.
Mr. Aegirsen smiles beautifully and Sarabi offers him her hand. Mr. Aegirsen takes it and presses a swift kiss to her knuckles--ah, of course, Zazu thinks, inane hope snuffing quietly out--before releasing it and glancing at Zazu.
Oh, is it his turn to speak again, at last?
He extends a hand, cold from the glass, and stammers, “Thank you for the help--truly--very kind of you.”
Mr. Aegirsen takes it and clasps it with both hands. “I imagine the least I can do when I knock a man down is pick him back up. Rest well, Mr. Beekmann.”
Zazu watches him shake hands with Mufasa, one hand to one hand, firm clasp, solid shake, before he disappears out the door as if he was never there.
Sarabi looks at him with bright-eyed concern. “Where does it hurt?”
He finally closes the eye with the missing contact. “Can you hand me my glasses first? They’re in the briefcase.”
He demurs her tender mercies as her husband looks smilingly on, and at last she relents and retreats to make them a bite of dinner. Mufasa briefly outlines the events of the evening at the embassy while Zazu finally fills his stomach and exhaustion starts making inroads on his consciousness. Mufasa can tell and they agree to adjourn until the morning, which is just as well because the sandwiches are eaten and Sarabi is beginning to give them that ‘wrap it up, boys’ look that they both know almost alarmingly well.
They wrap it up, and he only staggers once on his way up the steps.
Luckily, Mufasa is there to keep him upright, and when he sinks into the guest room mattress he sleeps the sleep of the just.
***
He’s up at five thirty the next morning.
He’s never been good at sleeping more than a few hours at a time, not since grad school. Then he could lose whole weekends in bed, but admittedly there were also more things--like warm arms and sleepy smiles--to keep him there. He usually gets up at five anyway, since the children have to be at school by eight.
His hips still ache and it’s done something horrid, he hardly knows what, to the base of his skull, but he feels better than he did last night. He shrugs into his dressing gown and runs both hands through his hair. Mufasa will be up at six-thirty, and Sarabi will go for her run around six-forty five.
Might as well make the coffee.
He pads silently down the stairs and putters around in the marble-countered kitchen, stainless steel gleaming faintly in the predawn light. While the percolator drips he fetches the newspaper from the porch step and digs his tablet out of his briefcase. He pushes his glasses a little further up his nose and begins to catch up on the events of the last few hours.
In very little time he hears rustling and the thumping of little feet above his head. He’s not in any way prepared to handle the children at this hour, so the only option is escape. He hastily places a pair of bowls and spoons on the kitchen island and pops a box of cereal and the jug of milk next to them. That should surely hold them for the time being. He grabs his cup of coffee and his tablet and makes a break for the back porch.
The morning is only just beginning to come into its own as the dark deeps of night recede. Away to the east, the cathedral’s great bells toll out a morning song and the birds flit from bird bath to bush to tree, shadows flickering in the uncertain light. The sun is somewhere down on the horizon, spilling bloody red up towards the heavens, and in the predawn gloaming the backyard is a peaceful valley of well-maintained arbors and rose bushes.
It smells like chlorine.
He frowns and looks about him. It’s been an age since he was last in the backyard, and he thinks he remembers Sarabi talking about the neighbors doing some kind of renovations. Apparently a pool was the order of the day; behind the house next door--Mr. Aegirsen’s house, he realizes--a bright blue lagoon is lit up with shining lights. How nice.
He tucks himself away into the opposite corner of the porch, away from the door and any easy sight-lines for inquisitive children. It takes some maneuvering to get himself seated in a way that doesn’t make his blood curdle, but he manages at last. He dials down the brightness of his tablet and settles back to read.
The sky has gone positively yellow and blue by the time he hears the splash.
He shifts without thinking and freezes as fresh pain bellows up his spine. When he gets himself back together he manages to catch the impression of strong, bare limbs and a great deal of white water and white hair. There’s a sudden dip and a stretch of silent stillness, and in far too short a time the swimmer reemerges from the other side of the pool and sets off again towards the other side.
He’s in a dressing down with his hair wild and his eyeglasses on. This cannot stand.
Zazu waits until the neighbor submerges once more before he scurries back into the house and the kitchen.
If he’s going to have to swan around with a broken ass, he’d rather it be in a suit.
***
Miribile dictu, he managed to pull the deep blue mohair suit out of his closet in the dark, and among the ties he seized blind and hurried, one of them is a brilliant orange-yellow silk that pops beautifully against the crisp white shirt. (The puce satin one is a monstrosity, of course, and the other is a dalmatian-patterned atrocity that ‘Simba’ gave him last year for Christmas and he hasn’t the heart to throw it away.) He knows he isn't precisely handsome, but at least he's always very well-turned out.
It is enough.
He finds that if he stands for most of the day, he feels relatively all right. Certainly all right enough to avoid going to the doctor, not that he would have the time. He manages to get some wheels in motion regarding Scar, and if the horrible man is crushed beneath them Zazu probably would not cry too much at his funeral. It’s bill-negotiation season and it has the interns and staffers hopping, and the board of votes is a blur of names and motion. The one great delight of being Chief of Staff is having someone else to do your dirty work for you; he sends an intern out to get his car from the tow lot and get it cleaned.
Perhaps that’s an abuse of power.
Perhaps someday he’ll be brought to care about it.
At six--luxuriously, decadently early--he checks the utilities updates in his neighborhood. The water main and electrical grid must be a very tricky thing to repair, as officials are advising residents to stay another night elsewhere, if they possibly can.
He thinks about sneaking back to Cathedral Heights, stealing his bags away, and hiding in his apartment before he can be found out. But if he’s seen this update, Sarabi has seen this update, and if Sarabi’s seen this update then not only has she surely decided that he must stay another night but she’s almost definitely got Mufasa on the look-out to make sure Zazu can’t slip away.
Resistance is futile. He folds himself into his freshly-detailed car and strikes out for Wisconsin Avenue.
Traffic isn’t bad, for six o’clock on a Thursday. He’s immediately suspicious that the universe is planning something unpleasant for him.
He pulls into the driveway, unwilling but unable to avoid being parked in when Mufasa makes it back from the committee hearing, and marches right into the house, braced for anything.
Anything turns out to be Sarabi and Sarafina leaning on the kitchen island with glasses of red wine. The children are conspicuously absent, which only means that they are either at extracurriculars or they are quietly plotting something somewhere. If the latter, he decides that whatever it is he doesn’t want to have to face it without a drink, so when the ladies greet him and pour him a drink he does not object in the slightest.
“How are you feeling?” Sarafina asks. “I’m sorry to have missed at the excitement last night.”
“I’m perfectly fine, thank you. I’m sure you got some kind of gory play-by-play,” Zazu replies, eyeballing Sarabi. She smiles like a queen and says nothing.
“I’ve seen that neighbor around. The one with all the girls, right?” Sarafina asks. At his nod, she grins and licks her lips in a certain unmistakable manner. “How chivalrous.”
“Very, Zazu agrees. “And very taken with your friend.”
“Oh?” Sarafina smiles, bobbing her eyebrows. “So you’ve still got it, Mrs. Mfalme?”
“Taken? With me?” Sarabi asks. She stares at him as if the idea had never occurred to her.
“I don’t particularly consider it the behavior of unappreciative men, to kiss the hands of their hostesses,” Zazu observes, and sips his wine.
Sarabi looks as if she’s about to laugh, but Sarafina finishes her drink and slips off the barstool. “Well, well. The neighborhood is on fire with gossip, and here I have to go into work. C'est la vie. I guess I'd better get on the road.”
“Hm? What do you mean?” Sarabi asks her friend. “I thought you said you could watch the children tonight.”
Sarafina gives her a startled look. “No, I said Sunday night. I’m going to be out until at least three getting this show wrapped up.”
Sarabi covers her eyes with a hand and makes a little noise of frustration. “Mufasa and I have reservations at the Palm. We made them months ago, I thought you could sit the kids--”
“I can’t, I have a show to get to, it’s been in the papers.”
“Well, bring me the book and I’ll see if any of the babysitters can make it.”
Predictable. Zazu lets the tension hang for just a moment, and then, “I’ll handle it.”
Sarabi looks at him. She's a good actress. He almost wonders if there’s genuine reluctance in her expression. “Oh, but you’re still--”
“It’s the least I can do,” he replies.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m not going to be going out tonight, anyway. And the Palm is not to be missed. You need to see and be seen.”
“Zazu,” Sarabi sighs. “Thank you. You’re a lifesaver. We’re taking you out tomorrow night.”
He smiles and waves a hand.
They find the children playing in Simba’s room, and Zazu carefully checks the guest room for booby traps while collecting yesterday’s suit and putting it in a bag. Sarabi feeds Simba and Nala and when Mufasa arrives home, Zazu tasks the driver with dropping the suit at an overnight dry cleaner’s.
Perhaps the dalmatian tie is destined to get its day in Congress after all.
Simba and Nala make the usual protests about parents leaving them behind, but Mufasa and Sarabi extract themselves with a minimum of fuss and the house settles down to a relatively peaceful three. Simba and Nala retreat upstairs, but he’s already flicked the lock on the guest room door and he’s feeling fairly confident that they don’t know how to flip the latch just yet.
He strips down to shirtsleeves and eyeglasses, and sets himself leaning on the kitchen island to watch the NewsHour. Sarabi left the wine bottle for him with the suggestion that he self-medicate a little, but he declines just yet. The children make him want to have all his wits about him.
Just as Judy Woodruff and Gwen Ifill are signing off, the doorbell rings. He frowns--surely the suit isn’t back yet? surely Mufasa and Sarabi aren’t back yet?--and answers it.
Mr. Aegirsen is outside, with his suit jacket open and his tie missing.
He smiles to see Zazu.
“I’m glad to see you on your feet,” he says.
“Uh,” Zazu says. “Yes, ah, it’s actually more comfortable.”
“I can imagine,” Mr. Aegirsen smiles.
“Please, please, come in,” Zazu insists. “I’m afraid the adults are out. You’ve caught me babysitting.”
“Thank you. Are you their babysitter?” Mr. Aegirsen asks, stepping into the foyer. “I’ve seen you driving the little ones but I suppose I thought you were Miss Sarafina’s husband.”
“Oh, good heavens, no,” Zazu titters. Titters, may God have mercy. “I’m the Congressman’s chief of staff, and an old family friend. I just get roped into keeping an eye on the children now and then. Privileges of being a godfather.”
“Ah, of course.” Mr. Aegirsen follows him into the kitchen.
“Coffee? Tea?” Me? “Water? Wine?”
“I don’t wish to intrude--”
“Please, you’re not, not at all,” Zazu smiles. He’s fairly sure the expression must be somewhat manic but Mr. Aegirsen doesn’t seem appalled so he’ll try and keep it up. “Company would be very welcome.”
“If you’re sure. And if you’re drinking, I’d love a glass of wine.” Zazu busies himself with glasses while Mr. Aegirsen looks around. “Where are the children, come to think of it?”
“With my luck? They’ve picked the lock on the guest room and they’re making a mud pie in my bed.”
Mr. Aegirsen laughs and it’s the warmest, nicest sound Zazu’s heard in a while.
This is a very, very bad observation to make. The last time Zazu thought a man had such a beautiful, sweet laugh, that man turned around and married the most wonderful woman imaginable and made Zazu the godfather of their child, perfectly oblivious to any tender feelings his old friend might have harbored. Bad things happen when Zazu thinks men have nice laughs.
He pours the wine. If he’s going to be a shitshow he’s going to have an excuse.
“You should’ve seen my girls at that age,” Mr. Aegirsen comments. “Ah, thank you--I still remember sliding into bed and feeling a cold, wet sturgeon lying next to my calf.”
Zazu shudders sympathetically. “I suppose they thought that sleeping with the fishes was a good idea?”
“I think it was a coup d’etat. I’d instituted a ban on the radio for a week and such was my punishment.”
“Children can be so cruel,” Zazu sighs. Mr. Aegirsen grins and holds out his glass. Zazu smiles and clinks it.
They talk about work, at first. Congress is faintly more glamorous than the life of a millionaire shipping magnate, but only just and only on account of the stakes being more personal. Mr. Aegirsen soon proves to be a man fond of Dumas and Dickens, fresh seafood, Donna Summer, and the shores of St. Tropez.
Simba and Nala poke curious noses into the kitchen and catch Zazu in mid-laugh--he’s always been susceptible to puns and Mr. Aegirsen has a gift for them--and look up with wide, curious eyes at the older man sitting on one of their kitchen stools.
“Ah,” Zazu says, “yes. Mr. Aegirsen, this is Simba and Nala. Simba, Nala, Mr. Aegirsen.”
“Hello, children,” Mr. Aegirsen says.
“We know who he is,” Nala says. “He’s Ariel’s Dad.”
Mr. Aegirsen turns to Zazu with a smile. “I’m afraid I have a confession to make. Ariel is my youngest, and she has babysat for Mr. and Mrs. Mfalme before.”
“We’re not babies,” Simba protests in a grumble.
“Well, please let Miss Ariel know she’s welcome to it, if she likes the work,” Zazu says with a little smile.
Nala pokes Simba in the ribs and Simba asks Mr. Aegirsen, “Did you carry Zazu in last night?”
“I did, yes.”
“So you were there when he broke his b-b-b--" Simba and Nala burst into riotous laughter. "Butt!”
Zazu gives them an utterly exasperated expression but his heart isn’t in it--his cheeks are blazing hot and he knows he must be bright pink. "All right, that's enough."
Mr. Aegirsen turns to Zazu with the crooked kind of flirtatious smile that never appears beneath eyes directed at him.
“However accidentally," Mr. Aegirsen says, "there are some who would say that I’m the one who broke it.”
The children laugh even harder and Zazu goes red. Well, no way that isn’t getting back to Mufasa and Sarabi.
“It’s bedtime,” he says, just glad his voice isn’t a startled squawk.
Aside the usual objections and flutterings that have always accompanied an eight thirty bedtime, he gets the children down and settled in short order and returns to the kitchen with his blood on its usual circuit and not shored up in his face.
Mr. Aegirsen is looking through the cookbooks on the counter when Zazu returns.
“They went quietly?” the neighbor asks.
“For a given value of quiet, yes,” Zazu sighs. His lower back is beginning to ache. He’s used to being on his feet all day, but not in this enforced kind of way. “Wine has loosened my tongue. Can I tell you a secret?”
“I’d be delighted.”
“I don’t particularly like children,” he says, pushing his eye glasses further up on his nose.
Mr. Aegirsen smiles. “I wouldn’t know it to look at you, when you’re with them.”
“I’m in the closet over it,” he shrugs. “Sarabi would be heartbroken if she knew. I might be a mere servant, but I’m a mere servant whose happiness is concerned desirable.”
“A servant, hm?” Mr. Aegirsen inquires, one eyebrow rising.
“Don’t they seem rather royal to you?” Zazu asks. “I’m never sure if I’m more of a pet or a cabinet minister.”
Mr. Aegirsen looks at him for a moment and reaches out to fidget with his wineglass for a moment. “May I ask a personal question?”
Zazu tries not to tense up. “Of course.” He pushes through the warmth the wine’s put in him. He’s very good at giving non-committal answers to personal questions. It’s really his whole career, in fact.
“When you say pet, or servant, or--well,” Mr. Aegirsen says, before shaking his head. “Are you...another father to the children?”
“Godfather, yes,” Zazu says.
“No, I’m sorry,” Mr. Aegirsen says. His tongue darts out to lick his lips. “I’m being absurd. Delicacy is useless if it’s just obfuscating. Are you the Mfalmes’ boyfriend?”
Zazu’s eyebrows rocket upward and he stares with his mouth open for an instant.
“No,” he says, turning his head down to focus intensely on his own wine glass, “no, very much not.” Not for lack of wishing, sometimes, but… “No, they are very happily...very exclusively…” He darts a glance up at Mr. Aegirsen. “What made you think that?”
Mr. Aegirsen drums his fingers on the table. “Nothing, really. I’d wondered for a while. I see you here so often, but you’re never with Miss Sarafina, and you’re very physical with Mrs. Mfalme. And you and Mr. Mfalme are obviously...close. He offered to carry you in, after all.”
Zazu takes a quick swallow of his wine, more to fill his mouth than anything else, and nearly spits it out as a thought occurs.
“Oh my God,” he coughs. “‘Pet’! ‘Servant’!” He laughs, a little hysterically. “Mr. Aegirsen, you have a filthy mind!”
That gets a sheepish smile out of the neighbor, and it’s distractingly lovely. Zazu’s about one step away from cupping his cheek and smiling in a singularly sappy fashion.
“No,” Zazu says. “They’re exclusive. I’ve known them long before their marriage and they’ve always been true to each other. And I strongly suspect that any suitors would be turned away in no uncertain manner.” There. Let Mr. Aegirsen’s passion for his lovely neighbor die a swift and painless death. It’s more warning than Zazu ever had, not that it would’ve done him much good.
“I understand you,” Mr. Aegirsen says. “Now that I’ve made a complete fool of myself, perhaps I’d better take my leave.”
“I hope I haven’t embarrassed you.”
“If I’m embarrassed, I have only myself to blame. Me and my dirty mind, hm?”
Zazu smiles at him. “If you’ve really got to go, let me see you out.”
“Thank you.” Mr. Aegirsen looks him up and down. “I really am glad to see you’re doing well.”
“I am, thank you.”
They walk together to the door and Zazu pauses, letting the neighbor decide when to grasp the handle. As the other man reaches for it, it turns from the opposite side and Mufasa and Sarabi appear in the doorway.
“Oh, hello,” Sarabi chirps. “Mr. Aegirsen, what a delight.”
“Good evening,” the neighbor says. “I just came by to check in on the patient.”
“And how do you find him?” Mufasa asks with a sly little grin. Interesting dinner conversation, then.
“Very well, much to my relief,” Mr. Aegirsen replies, glancing at Zazu. “In fact--I wonder if I might have your phone number?”
For a terrible and dizzying instant he thinks this is more than it is, and then he remembers that Mr. Aegirsen’s daughter babysits the children. Of course the extra guardian number would be important, so that the girl has someone else to call if the others are busy.
“Of course,” he replies, pulling out his phone. “Yours is…?”
Mr. Aegirsen rattles it off, and Zazu calls him. Mufasa and Sarabi look on, the lady smothering an inexplicable, wild, secret grin by the expedient method of biting the inside of her lip, and when they finish the exchange the lord and lady of the house step away from their front door. Mr. Aegirsen shakes Mufasa’s hand and kisses Sarabi’s knuckles--more fool, he! That had better be a good-bye to his infatuation, further pursuit has been explicitly stated to be folly. Mr. Aegirsen steps through the door and Zazu follows behind him to linger on the threshold.
“Ah, one more thing,” Mr. Aegirsen says in an undertone, as he steps onto the front porch. He turns to face Zazu and leans closer to him. “Did I see you outside earlier this morning? I went out for a swim and I thought I saw someone…”
The heat floods back to his cheeks. “Ah, yes. That was me. I’m sorry, I was outside reading and I didn’t notice you until you dove in. I wouldn’t want anyone ogling me when I was exercising, so I thought I had better--”
“Ogling?” Mr. Aegirsen smiles. “Well, now…”
Zazu tightens his grip on the door. “Good night, Mr. Aegirsen.”
“Good night, Mr. Beekman,” the neighbor replies, with a grin that’s pure wicked mischief and sex appeal. He extends his hand and Zazu takes it, squeezing back when the man clasps it warmly and holds it for a few heartbeats.
Oh, he’s in it so deep. At least he realizes it.
He withdraws with a smile, closes the door, and turns to face Sarabi and Mufasa.
“The children are fine," he says. "They’re upstairs in bed, and I’m sure they’d be pleased to see you. I hope you don’t mind the neighbor being here. He came over to check on my status and we got to talking.”
“Not at all,” Mufasa breezes easily. “I’m glad to see he’s as conscientious and thoughtful as he seems.”
Zazu nods. “I hope you had a good dinner?”
From there the conversation turns into a description of the meal and the people around them, and Zazu smiles in contentment at the apparent success of the evening. Mufasa seems pleased, which is still a matter of all-too personal interest to Zazu, and Sarabi slips out of her heels and seems to relax a little.
He excuses himself shortly after, eager to go to bed. Sarabi goes with him, wanting to kiss the children.
“Well,” she says in a soft voice. “Sarafina is right.”
“Hm?”
“He is sort of--” She licks her lips in a way almost eerily reminiscent of her friend’s mannerisms, and gives an almost identical grin.
“That’s exactly the word for it,” Zazu murmurs, amused. “And completely taken with you, my dear. Be careful with him.”
“I can't imagine what makes you say that.”
“Good night, Sarabi,” he says with a shake of his head, in no mood for demure protests. He closes the door to the guest room and heaves a sigh. Yes, she has most certainly still got it.
***
There’s an Ian Fleming line that he’s adapted. “Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action,” might be good enough for the world of spycraft, but for a politician, “Once is happenstance. Twice is incompetence and will play against you in the polls.”
The sun begins to rise and he’s determined he’ll face down the children even at this wretched hour rather than risk being within ‘ogling’ distance of Mr. Aegirsen. To be caught twice would send no uncertain message, and he won’t be reduced to that.
Unfortunately he has no choice. When Sarabi comes upon him in the kitchen and announces her intention to make eggs, he starts to make his exit.
“I’ll just go up, then, and make myself a little more presentable,” he says, sliding the newspaper towards her across the kitchen island. “I think that’s my suit hung on the coat rack?”
“Zazu,” Sarabi asks, hands wrapped around a coffee mug. “Before you go, could you just nip outside and pick a handful of the chives out of the herb garden? I’d do it myself but…” She gestures to her gold nightgown, the one that just barely comes to her knees. It's no contest. She's not wearing something presentable but he, in his rather dramatic, floor-length, royal blue dressing gown, might as well be in a cassock.
“Of course,” he says, because what is the alternative?
He’s fairly certain he remembers where the herb garden is, so he strikes off in the direction of the back right corner of the yard. Dawn is lighting up the sky rapidly and he keeps his eyes on the brick walk and does his best not to listen for any splashing.
He doesn’t think he hears any, but he doesn’t dare look up to confirm.
He gets to the back corner of the yard and looks around with a frown. He’s not particularly up on herbology but he’s fairly sure that none of these are chives. He looks to the right and the left and decides, with a sigh, that she must’ve moved the plots around.
Well, he’ll just have to go back in and--
“Good morning.”
He jumps and turns quickly to face the now-familiar voice, and he’s sure his dressing gown flares around him in a truly flamboyant manner, but the important thing is that he keeps his feet.
Mr. Aegirsen is standing by his pool with a short terry cloth robe just clinging to his shoulders. He’s wearing a tight pair of swim, well, not shorts, but bottoms, and a smile. Zazu honestly isn’t sure that the picture could really be improved with the man dripping wet, on the grounds that it would be gilding gold, but parts of him are definitely interested in observing the experiment.
“Have you considered a switch to decaf?” Mr. Aegirsen asks, raising an eyebrow.
He pulls his closed dressing down tighter around him. “Ah, ha ha. I’d rather open a vein, honestly.”
“Are you a very great gardener, Mr. Beekmann?” the neighbor asks, putting his head to one side in a peculiarly teasing manner. “I don’t know many people who are so devoted to the art that they’d be out here in their nightclothes at this hour of the morning.”
“No, of course not. I-I was tasked with retrieving herbs for breakfast, actually.”
“Commendable thoughtfulness.” Mr. Aegirsen glances over at the garden. “The light may be deceiving me, but I think I see them there, close to the steps, on the far side, away from the fence.”
Zazu looks in the indicated direction and closes his eyes, just for a moment. Yes, that would be the herb garden.
“I haven’t been out back here in years,” he says. “Sarabi must be very keen on a little horticultural redecoration.” Giving an explanation will only make him look more absurd, but he can’t quite endure the thought of this man thinking this is what it looks like. He’d rather look ridiculous than desperate.
“Yes, I suppose so,” Mr. Aegirsen murmurs, as Zazu crouches down and retrieves the asked-for herbs. He feels he’s being watched, and it only makes him wish he’d escaped upstairs all the more.
“Well, thank you,” he says, popping back up and twitching his dressing gown into its most prudish pose. “Have a nice swim.”
Mr. Aegirsen nod his head once and his crooked smile grows only the more pronounced as Zazu scurries back indoors.
He presents the chives to the lady of the house, who for some reason is standing right at the door to the backyard, almost as if she were watching events as they transpired. But that would be an unworthy little prank, and beneath her, so he ignores her knowing smile and takes himself upstairs to the guest bathroom.
(There are times he really would swear that Sarabi didn’t like him.)
***
By the time he’s ready to clock out for the day, the water main issue is finally resolved, and he steps into his apartment and closes the door behind him, slumping happily against the wood. No children. No Sarabi. No Mufasa. Home. Hearth.
Wine.
Colin Firth.
He toes out of his shoes, sheds his tie and jacket, unfastens the top buttons of his shirt, and calls in an order for curry.
He’s halfway through the first proposal scene and half way through a bottle of wine when his phone chirps at him.
Mr. Aegirsen, of all people. Zazu swipes across the screen and enters his passcode.
I suppose your apartment issue is resolved?
At last, Zazu replies. Not that it wasn’t lovely, but it’s nice to be back in my own home.
I can imagine. Tell me, are you doing anything Saturday?
Not that I know of, he writes back, a little bewildered. Can I do anything for you, Mr. Aegirsen?
I certainly hope so. Since you’re not my neighbors’ boyfriend, I want to run a little experiment.
Which is?, Zazu asks.
What do I have to do to get you to call me Triton?
Oh.
He gnaws on his lower lip to stifle a sudden and certainly very stupid-looking grin.
All you had to do was ask, Mr. Aegirsen. I’d be delighted.
‘Mr.’, he says. Then it’s to be extortion? How many drinks should I buy you before you'll call me by my given name?
You should be careful. I’m a little wild when I’m in my cups. I might end up calling you by pet-names.
Then I’ll run up a tab. Saturday night? Bar Dupont?
I can’t wait.
Okay. So he probably won’t make Triton president. But there are other kinds of power, and to be honest he's sure Triton is a match for Mufasa, physically speaking.
And the Lincoln bedroom is so much more of a guest room, anyway.