SGA Life, with a little spice 18
He drops the bag on the floor and waves at the men in front of him. "Louise, meet my men. Guys, this is Louise," he says as if this were a social call.
They've stepped through several gates to shake off Sheppard's attempts to find his lair and they've just arrived on his ship through transport rings. The ship is obviously Goa'uld. She hasn't seen it on the outside but she can tell it's large, with hallways going in multiple directions from the ring room. The place, though, has seen better days and it seems they don't care much about cleaning and fixing things around here.
She pouts and trains her attention to his crew – a grim hodgepodge of a dozen space pirates. "That all your crew?" she asks, wondering how they manage that place on their own.
He chuckles. "Being nosy already, Ms Léger?" he mocks her.
She shrugs. "Nope. Just curious."
"Good," he replies, "Cause the earlier you understand you cannot escape, the better. It will save you a whole world of trouble," he adds grimly.
She shudders and looks away. "I was curious, not nosy," she repeats despondently.
"Alright then," he replies. "For your information, these people here are my inner circle."
He points to a tall, muscular man about his age wearing a long dust coat. "This is Drake, my 2IC. There's also Morun, our chief engineer," he goes on, pointing at a guy on the shorter side sporting clothes dirtied with what looks like oil.
She can't help snorting and Ventrell narrows his eyes at her. "Good to see you haven't lost your sense of humor, in spite of the circumstances," he tells her, looking amused.
She presses her lips together and looks at her feet as she feels laughter bubbling up. She schools herself and looks up at the engineer. "Sorry," she apologizes. "Guess I'm nervous."
He lifts his eyebrows, looking nonplussed, and she tells herself maybe the offense is not used in these parts.
Ventrell slaps the youngest of them all on his shoulder, making him stumble forward, placing him a couple feet from her. "And this..." he adds, plodding on, "is Meeka. How do you call them? Oh yeah, rookies!"
The other men, except Drake, snigger and the kid – who must not be more than sixteen – flushes with embarrassment. She rolls her eyes at their childish behavior.
"So Meeka here has been assigned to you. He'll help you settle in and will be in charge of accompanying you every time you need to move around the ship. Any reasonable request you have," he says, stressing the word "reasonable", whatever that means to him, "just ask him and he'll pass it along." He looks around. "As for the others, I guess you'll get to know them as we go along."
She shuffles her feet. "How long do you intend to keep me here, Ventrell?" she wants to know.
"As long as it takes for me to get what I want, lady," he replies curtly.
"Are there any other women on board?" she can't help asking. She's usually more comfortable around men than women but these guys remind her a little too much of Ronon and she can tell there won't be any small talk involved.
Drake crosses his arms on his chest. "Nope and it's as best there ain't 'cause, believe me, you don't want to meet them." She lifts her eyebrows. "Much more vicious than us guys," he elaborates, making the others snigger again.
"Alright," Ventrell cuts in. "Enough for the introductions. Meeka," he tells the younger man, "you take her to her quarters," he orders, handing him the bag and cooler. "Make sure she's got everything she needs and report back to me."
He turns to Louise. "You're not allowed to roam freely around the ship – for your own safety," he warns her, making her know he can't insure her safety outside her quarters. "I'll see you at dinnertime." He shoos them away and turns to the other men.
He waits until Louise has disappeared around the corner. "OK, guys," he tells them in a tone that means he won't allow for any foul play. "I told you that before she arrived but I wanna make sure you got it right. She's off limits and to be protected at all costs. Make sure everyone knows that. She's our ticket to getting what we want. I won't allow for that to be jeopardized. Got it?"
She looks around as she enters the quarters allotted to her. There's a bed, a desk and a trunk, plus what looks like a portable icebox with batteries. At the back of the room she can see another door which, pushed open, reveals a small bathroom with a tub, washbasin and toilet. The place is clean but Spartan to say the least.
The kid puts the bag and cooler on the floor next to the bed and shuffles his feet, embarrassed to be here alone with her. "Do you need anything else, Ma'am?" he asks her.
She shrugs. "I don't know yet. I need to unpack the bag first."
He nods. "Well then, I'll leave you to it," he says, walking to the door. "Dinner's in an hour or so."
She watches him leave, befuddled that in a place like this there's such a thing as "dinner". The doors close behind him and she doesn't even bother check the control panel to see if she can open them from the inside.
"Got everything you need?" Ventrell asks her as she sits next to him at the long table in what serves as their commissary. The place is empty except for his entourage. Meeka has told her Ventrell usually likes to have his debriefing at night around that very table and when they're done, the rest of the crew can eat.
She nods. "I guess, yes," she briefly replies and falls silent.
"Something's on your mind," he insists, passing her a basket with something that very remotely looks like bread.
She picks a slice and passes it along to Drake who thanks her with a silent nod. "I'm a prisoner here. What do you expect?" she counters, temper flaring. "If you thought I'd be a gracious guest, forget about it!"
He rolls his eyes. "I was not talking about that. I was merely inquiring about your accommodation, Ms Léger."
She shrugs. "It's Spartan but I guess I should not expect anything else," she mutters moodily.
He slaps his hand on the table and stands abruptly then walks to the door without a look at her.
She rolls her eyes when she sees Meeka's reproving look. "What?" she demands. "It's true!"
Drake's jaw twitches but he turns to look her in the eye. "The boss gave you the best room on board, which happened to be his. He could have put you in the brig as I'd advised," he adds, narrowing his eyes at her, making her shudder, "but he said he'd not have a lady treated like that on his ship. You might not want to get on his wrong side..."
Ventrell walks back into the room, looking cool and collected again. He grabs the steaming pot of stew, sits back in his chair and ladles some of it on Louise's plate. "Eat," he orders her gruffly. He puts some in his plate as well then hands it to Drake.
She glances at him and he glances back and nods at her plate. She presses her lips together but takes hold of her spoon, the only cutlery she's apparently allowed to have. She pushes her food around, making the list of ingredients in her mind as she recognizes each texture and smell.
"I said, eat!" he repeats through clenched teeth.
She cringes and takes a bite and gags. "Oh God!" she says but swallows as she sees his darkening eyes.
"What's wrong?" he demands, anger flaring. Everyone around the table is eating as if their lives depended on it and are not paying attention to the whole argument. Or maybe trying hard not to.
"I'm sorry," she says, gulping down the content of her glass. "I'm queasy these days. Not much I can eat without gagging."
"Don't like stew, Ma'am?" one of the men sniggers, making her feel like she's the princess and the pea.
She pouts. "No, I do. It's just there's too many flavors in it. And where did you hide the vegetables? It seems there's only meat in there..."
"What's wrong with meat?" Ventrell counters, lifting his eyebrows.
She rolls her eyes. "You guys are meat lovers, right?" she can't help mocking him.
He leans towards her, locking eyes with her. "We're men," he mocks her back.
"That's how you feed your crew every day?" she asks, horrified. "Never heard of the four food groups?"
It's his time to roll his eyes. "Stew and grilled meat and sometimes potatoes. That's all you'll get on board, lady," he tells her.
"Make it charred," one of the men sniggers. Ventrell narrows his eyes at him and he instantly drops his gaze. "Sorry, boss. Didn't mean to offend", the other man hurriedly apologizes.
Ventrell turns to Louise. "We don't have a cook. The guys take turns cooking," he explains.
"That's not cooking," she protests. "That's second-degree murder. Your men are bound to have dietary deficiency."
"What do you care?" he replies impatiently.
She tilts her head to the side. "Well, for one, I'm here for who knows how long and as you know, I have special needs, being pregnant and all." She sees him flinch and realizes she's made a point. "And two, it goes against everything I believe in."
He scoffs. "So what? Next thing I know, you're going to hand me a shopping list and send me to the nearest store?" he mocks her.
She gives him a cheeky smile. "If you insist..."
Everyone around the table freezes. She's way too cocky for their leader and he's got a reputation for chopping heads when he's pissed. He takes his knife from the table – the kind you can fold when you're done eating – and wipes it on his bread then folds it with a loud clang. Everyone stands at once, even those who are halfway through their plate.
She looks up at them, bemused. "What's going on?" she demands.
Ventrell looks down at her coolly. "Boss's prerogative. I'm done eating – they're done eating."
He points at her plate. "You can finish it but only for tonight – because you're new here. Tomorrow you'll speak less and eat more or you're bound to go to bed on an empty stomach – baby or no baby."
The others file out of the room. She stands, looking awkward. "I'm sorry," she apologizes. Most do not reply or only shrug in reply. A couple though stare her down before leaving.
"You've just made your first enemies on board," Ventrell sniggers.
She sits despondently. One of the men on duty that night comes to clear the table. Ventrell sits on it, his feet on a chair.
He points at her plate. "You should try and finish it," he advises, his voice more gentle now no one's around.
She bites her bottom lip but dunks her bread in the sauce. "And you should also understand I cannot allow for you to talk back like that in front of my men," he warns her.
"Sorry," she whispers and munches on her bread.
"Louise, look at me," he says more gently. She looks up, the reality of where she is slowly sinking in. "I'm not a cruel man if not forced to be so," he tells her, "but I need to be respected on board or I won't be able to insure your safety. You disagree with me on something, you wait until we're alone to say so. OK?" he insists.
She silently nods and finishes the last of her bread.
He hands her the basket. "You've barely eaten. It's not enough for you and the baby," he chides her.
She shrugs despondently. "Why do you care?"
"What about you?" he counters. "Don't you care?"
She flushes ashamedly. "Of course, I care!" she cries out. "It's just... Look, the first few months are often hard."
He sighs. "What do you need?"
She looks nonplussed. "What do you mean? You want that shopping list after all?"
"That's exactly what I mean. Don't get your hopes high though. Staples, I can get. Luxurious and exotic stuff – I'll probably won't have time for that," he tells her.
She nods, feeling suddenly invigorated. "Staples is good," she thanks him.
He stands and motions for her to follow him. "The rest of the team are waiting for their dinner," he tells her. "I'll walk you back to your room."
She follows him down the hallways. Two to the right, three to the left, one to the right.
"You're counting," he tells her.
She pouts, making him chuckle. "That's OK," he tells her. "The only way out of this piece of junk is through the transport rings," he informs her, "and it's heavily guarded at all times."
She looks away. "Louise," he says, lowering his voice as they reach her door, "I need you to know I don't intend to hurt you. You're leverage. Period. I'll treat you right, I promise. Now," he says, opening her door and letting her in, "try to get some sleep." He takes a chocolate bar from his breast pocket and hands it to her. "Dessert," he tells her with a wink. "I'll drop by tomorrow morning with more. Have that list ready."
She nods. "Thank you for giving me your room," she says. "It was most generous of you."
He nods quietly and closes the doors behind her.
She eats half of the chocolate bar and feels immediately better, her mood improving considerably. She gets ready for the night then grabs the book he's stashed into her bag. It was on her bedside table so he must have thought she was in the process of reading it. Truth be told, she's already finished it – twice – but it's nice to have something to do so she starts reading it again but doesn't make it to the end of the first chapter before she falls asleep.
She's awake early the next morning, her watch tells her, but at least she's slept for eight hours straight. At first, she's disoriented and has a surge of panic when she can't find her bearings but then the events of the previous day slowly come back to mind and she rolls on her side and hugs herself, feeling utterly miserable and scared.
After a few minutes though, her erratic breathing slows down and she closes her eyes, willing herself to calm down, trying to think only about positive things. Atlantis is safe, no one was hurt – well, apart from Cox but he was a bad guy, right? - Shep is with John, John is fine, the baby is fine, I'm fine...
She sighs and gets up from the warmth of the bed and pads to the bathroom in the cold. When Ventrell appears on her doorstep half an hour later with a couple more chocolate bars, she's sitting at the desk, making a list of staples as told. He hands her the bars. "Breakfast," he tells her with a smile. "I thought you might not want to drop by in the commissary for grub."
She snorts. "That bad, uh?"
He pouts. "Let's say dinner is the best meal of the day," he tells her, making her giggle in spite of herself.
"Actually," she replies, surprising him, "I'd like to go there."
He eyes her suspiciously. "Why the change of heart?"
"I thought if you agreed to buy a few staples, I needed to know what I could cook so I can adjust my list to what is or is not possible," she tells him eagerly.
"You want to cook?" he says, eyebrows lifting in surprise.
"Well, yeah! Look, Ventrell, food is my life. I go bonkers when I don't cook. Don't tell me you're going to keep me cooped up in here 24/7," she tells him pleadingly.
He sighs. "You're not helping here, lady. You go to the kitchen and I'll have to spare one of my men to watch you."
"On the plus side," she counters wickedly, "you keep me busy and I cook for you all."
His eyebrows shoot to his hairline. "I think you misinterpreted my words, Louise. The list is for you, not everyone on board."
She stands and puts her hands on her hips. "That's unacceptable! How do you think your men will react when I get a healthy diet and they don't?" she replies indignantly. "It's everyone or no one!"
The staring match lasts for a whole minute but he finally caves in. "Alright, alright," he agrees, rolling his eyes. "My men are gonna be the best-fed villains in two galaxies," he sniggers.
She giggles. "But only simple ingredients," he warns her, "and no fancy recipes. Got it?"
She nods eagerly. "Can I see the kitchen now?"
Ventrell is not a patient man and she knows she must be quick in her decisions. She looks around, evaluating the place – a crossover between a campfire and a greasy spoon. There's a long table that she can use as an island top, a stove that looks like the exact replica of the one she'd seen on a photo from the 1910s but it's got two ovens and four burners as well as a place on the side where you can keep your dishes warm and even a hot water tap, a sort of icebox the size of two fridges, a chest that is in fact a freezer and a large sink. The other side of the room is lined with shelves up to the ceilings. They're loaded with all kinds of utensils and plenty of mason jars containing who knows what.
She glances at Ventrell who shrugs. "Don't ask me. I'm the boss. I don't cook." He calls the man who's in charge of breakfast that morning. "Jud, hey, come here, will ya? Tell the lady what we've got in those pots."
The other man shrugs. "I've no idea. I mean apart from some cereals here, flour and sugar and salt and pepper there," he points at a few jars. "Other than that, we kind of play it by ear..."
She presses her lips together. No need to anger the leader of the ship by telling him what she thinks of their lousy sense of organization. "OK," she offers Ventrell, "tell you what. You give me a few hours to see what I can do with that mess. Sort things out. And I'll have a list ready for you by lunchtime."
Jud's eyes light up. "Lady's gonna cook for us, boss?" he asks hopefully.
Louise looks at Ventrell for confirmation. He nods. "But only if it's not too much work for her." The man whoops in delight and leaves the room at a run, probably to tell others.
Louise rolls her eyes. "It's my job, remember."
Ventrell crosses his arms on his chest and locks eyes with her. "No, Louise. You're job is to be a hostage," he counters grimly.
When he returns for the list at lunchtime, she's so tired she can barely scramble to her feet. She's sitting on a stool near the stove and giving directions to Jud who's endeavoring to follow her instructions as best he can.
Ventrell looks around, bemused. "What the hell have you done?" he demands.
She sniggers. "It's called cleaning. Me and Jud and Meeka, we took everything down and cleaned the shelves then we opened all the jars and played a little game of blind date with the spices."
She winks at Jud who snorts then sobers up when he sees his boss's less than amused glare.
Ventrell eyes a stepladder standing near the shelves suspiciously. "You got on that thing?" he asks Louise.
She shrugs. "Well, yeah! I do that all the time on Atlantis."
"You're not on Atlantis, cupcake! You're on my ship and you're valuable goods so I say, next time you want to do it, think twice... Or you'll spend the rest of your time here locked up in your room," he warns her, looking majorly pissed.
She glares at him. "Don't you dare..." she starts saying but he ignores her and gets into her personal space, towering over her.
He opens his hand. "List," he orders.
She sighs in frustration but hands it to him. He peruses it and nods. "That's acceptable," he grunts.
She rolls her eyes. "You're such a sweet man, Ventrell," she can't help sniggering.
He lifts his finger menacingly. "Watch it!" he growls then adds wickedly. "I couldn't help noticing there's no chocolate on your list."
She looks away. "I supposed it was not acceptable."
He smiles at her smugly and leaves the room without a word.
Jud shakes his head slowly. "You shouldn't push his limits, Ma'am. He's a good boss but a ruthless man."
She smiles at him tiredly. "I like to piss people off. It's my trademark."
Back on Atlantis
"We need an expert here for this thing, Sir," John is saying General O'Neill. "And I need reinforcements. No need to remain cooped up now we know who the killer was."
O'Neill nods. "I agree. I'm sending Mitchell your way. He's going to help you with the Zatarc device. Make sure Ventrell had not tempered with it. Major Lawrence is also offering you to come as a temp cook to manage the kitchens..."
John cringes but nods. "Tell him we'll be grateful to have his help." Both men fall silent, wishing they could avoid the elephant in the room.
O'Neill wets his lips. "Colonel, I need to know... How do you want to play this?"
John sighs. "I'd like to spend 24/7 looking for her, Sir, but I know I can't. We need to avoid the mistakes made the first time at all costs." He elaborates. "I mean the mistakes I made in that alternate future." O'Neill nods. "So, even if it's killing me, I'm letting Ronon lead the search."
"Has he found anything yet?" the General wants to know.
John shakes his head. "Not yet, no. But they're bound to resurface somewhere, somehow. And Louise is smart. She'll find a way to let us know where she is, should she be given the opportunity."
"What do you think he's hoping to achieve by keeping her prisoner?" O'Neill wonders. "Mitchell says winning without fighting."
John nods. "We need to find her. Whatever happened in that future is bound to happen again. What I don't get is why he hasn't asked for anything yet."
O'Neill gives him a knowing look. "You need to know you're gonna have to walk a fine line here. With hindsight, the IOA is weary of you making the same mistakes as in the future Louise has told us about."
John cringes. "I'll keep that in mind, Sir."
"You need to understand you're as much of a prisoner here as you are in your room, Ms Léger," Ventrell tells her when he sees her eyes light up at the sight of the boxes of goods being brought in the kitchen.
"I'll take that under advisement," she replies absentmindedly as she rummages through the boxes, too happy to have something to do.
He sees she's too engrossed in her musing to focus on anything and that's a good thing. That way, she won't try to escape.
He walks to the door where he sees his 2IC's waiting for him, his shoulder leaning on the door frame. He's watching Louise as she searches the boxes and ticks things on her list.
"Something's the matter?" he wonders as he passes him on his way out.
Drake pushes himself off the doorway and follows him into the corridor. "It's a big risk you're taking, showing yourself on a local market and buying all kinds of food... I thought you wanted us to keep a low profile," he remarks.
Ventrell stares him down. "Telling me I don't know what I'm doing, now?" he challenges the other man.
Drake looks away but his jaw twitches. "I didn't say that, boss. Just think we should be extra cautious now we're so close to getting what we want," he offers.
Ventrell shrugs. "I was extra cautious. Besides, it's not as if we stayed in one place. Even if Sheppard hears of our being on that planet, we'll be long gone."
Back in the kitchen, Louise is finally unpacking the last of the errands. She checks it on her list and hands it to Jud who stares at the small jar. "What shall I do with that, Ma'am? Fridge?" he offers, making her giggle in amusement.
"No, Jud. It doesn't go in the fridge. It's spices. Put it on the shelf over there," she tells him, "next to the sugar. You guys are gonna love my pies and muffins and cookies. I guarantee it," she says, nodding in self-appreciation.
He smiles hopefully. "Haven't had dessert in ages," he sighs. "You know, Ma'am. You feed us well. We'll never let you go." Her smile turns sour and his too when he realizes the blunder he's just made. He winces. "I'm sorry. It's not what I meant. What I meant was..."
She cuts him in. "I know you only meant it as a compliment. I get it. Still, I'm starting to feel like I've landed right in the middle of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves." He lifts his eyebrows, not getting it. "Never mind," she waves dismissively.
He pouts, feeling uneasy for spoiling the party. He eyes the small jar he's just put away. "You didn't tell me how this is called," he tells her, trying to change the subject.
She grins at him and sighs with content. "Cinnamon. It's called cinnamon. And anyone who knows me knows I love it to distraction."
TBC
To whom it may concern – aka faithful readers who'd like to know the end of this story… I am working on the end of this story, I promise. Actually, I do have the end written already and I know where I'm going from this chapter to the end as well. It's just life regularly gets in the way – meaning work and kids and baking and training to be a chef – and writing takes time too. Anyway, hang in there! And thank you for reading :)