Chapter Six: Nicknames

The ongoing whiteout blanketed the forest in its freezing wake. And as ice and broken branches clacked against the windows of the fire-lit, lone cabin, within, two carefree residents contently and comfortably dined.

In the kitchen, Moreau and Joy dipped spoons into their respective, shiny white bowls. The fish-man was unfamiliar with the cast-iron oven, so they didn't use its range. It was nothing like the simple, older woodstove, back at his musty, old shack in the musty, old mines. ...That is before the corroded contraption had stopped working and had just become a place to settle empty beer bottles.

Luckily, when Joy was selecting goods from the big pantry, she spotted a medium-sized caldron, hidden behind some of the larger sacks. Moreau had always wondered what that strange hook above the hearth was for. Inclining and sticking out from the black kettle was a ladle and a lengthy fireplace poker. Moreau sure wished he'd seen the wrought-iron rod sooner for trying to rearrange fire-filled logs somehow on his own, was far from ideal.

Thus, with this promising little discovery, Joy had suggested using the caldron to heat their meals. This instigated a pointy, toothy grin from the fish-man.

Finally, he was going to have cooked food!

He was relieved that Joy didn't seem down about bypassing the oven. In fact, the young woman was jovial about using the fireplace and said they could pretend that they were camping. Joy did ask Moreau if he could do it as she explained that she shouldn't work with anything that might burn her. But she also added about assisting with other tasks prior and afterward. Moreau was unable to recall going camping himself. Nonetheless, he gladly obliged and had found it easy, thanks to a metal catch under the spear-tipped poker to hang the caldron.

While he ate, the fish-man shifted slightly in his wooden seat. He always appreciated the wide chairs since they accommodated his round, extended torso. Moreau was relieved he had put off using the second chair as kindling. Because sitting right across the small table from him, was his true companion, spooning her dinner with much zeal. Moreau partly leaned to his side and glanced at the can opener on the stovetop. And beside it, were nearly half a dozen opened, empty cans of soup. Four of those tins were Joy's.

The fish-man watched the woman pour a box of oyster crackers into her bowl and he chuckled under a hoarse breath.

Joy's tummy was right to be so angry. She's very hungry!

Joy had chosen tomato soup and Moreau decided on minestrone. Usually, he relished a much heavier meal, however, he didn't want to risk retching up in front of company. Momentarily, Moreau held his teaspoon near parted, raised lips.

He still had company...

"Is your soup not hot enough?"

The kind inquiry took Moreau out of his reverie.

"Huh? What, what did you say, Joy?"

The woman took a drink from a cup of fresh rainwater and peered at her cohort's elevated right hand.

"I like soups dat aren't too hot. But you stopped eating so I thought ya might wanna heat it up some more."

This was the fish-man's first serving as he was making sure to eat at a steady pace to keep his digestion in line. And consequently, steam had left the vegetal and pasta mixture quite beforehand.

"It's still warm and tasty," Moreau assured her. "I, I just need to blow on it."

He puffed away, spritzing his broth.

Joy giggled. "Try blowing but slowly so ya don't spill anything. Like dis."

Moreau observed Joy lowering her head to her tablespoon and with pursed lips, quietly let out two gentle breaths. With a nod, he parroted her motions to find that none of his soup left his utensil.

Joy is so smart!

"Tomato is my favorite soup," stated the woman between crunching a few crackers. "But I also like da ones with loads'a veggies and taters."

Moreau titled his large head. "Veggies? ...Taters?"

"Vegetables and potatoes," Joy rearticulated. "Tho potatoes are veggies, I just like ta say taters."

The fish-man gave a short nod. Outsiders must have so many of their own words for fares.

"But... aren't tomatoes... Uh, veggies?"

"Mmm-nn," murmured Joy before taking another drink. "Tomatoes are fruits. Ya can tell 'cause dey have a lotta juice. "Dey're just fruits dat are not sweet."

"Oohh... I see!" Moreau smiled while resuming his eating.

Joy is very smart!

On her left, the young woman turned her sights to the icy windows. "Soup is perfect for such a chilly willy day."

Moreau made another bob of the head. "Yes, it is." With some sliced carrots in his mouth, he hummed flatly. "Maybe we should be eating chicken soup for such a... chilly willy day."

To Moreau's surprise, Joy curtly shook her head.

"Thanks, but no thank you, Moreau."

Her reply was soft but resolute as well. The fish-man droned quizzically.

"You don't like chicken soup?"

She put the spoon into her porcelain boule. "...I did. But I don't wanna hurt animals."

"Huh?" Moreau drooped his spoon forward and a diced string bean and pasta shell plopped back into the contained broth. "But, but Joy didn't kill the chicken. It is already in the soup."

"Yeah... I know," Joy replied with a sigh, idly making swirls in the red bisque with her twirling utensil. And with a small, disdainful pout, she stuck out her tongue and razzed it, eliciting a short snigger from her companion.

"But I wouldn't wanna be soup... So, why woulda wittle chicken wanna be? ...Y'know?"

Moreau brought his cup of rainwater to a light smile. Truly, this small being's profound empathy wasn't limited to anyone, at all.

"Yes, Joy ...That is something to think about..."

The peaceful pair carried on with their supper. After a few minutes of silent dining, Joy offered the oyster crackers but Moreau quietly declined. Although he would've enjoyed stuffing himself with the salty, crispy treats, he still was mentally plodding on eggshells with keeping his bile under control.

Joy put the box onto the table. "Um wendy-fu."

Moreau gently threw his consuming cohort a perplexed blink. "H-Huhhh?"

"Mmph!" The mumbling woman put a left index finger up and finished eating her fardel of crackers. "Sorry!" She laughed lightly, smacking her small lips. "I have ta remember not ta talk with my mouthful. ...I'm twenty-four."

"Oh?" responded the fish-man. "You're twenty-four years old?"

Happily, Joy shook her head up and down. "Uh-huh! My birthday's in three days. I sure hope I'm unlosteded by den." She sighed wistfully before taking another swig of water. "It's so much fun getting presents."

With a delayed nod, Moreau grinned. However, it was superficial; on both accounts, his precious person didn't know yet that she was already home... and the idea of getting presents.

Did getting a cadou count? Mother Miranda said it was a gift... even though he couldn't recollect asking for it.

Then again, Moreau never asked for Joy and Mother gifted her to him. Was today his birthday?

"How old are you?"

The fish-man reacted to the question by staring unblinkingly for several seconds before flittering hairless lids.

"No-no... no one has, has ever askeded me that... be-before," he stammered faintly.

The corners of the woman's mouth tugged into a regretful frown.

"I'm sorry, Moreau." She narrowed her eyes at the tabletop. "Darnit! I was being a nosey posey again!"

Moreau waved his webbed hand. "No, no, no! It's, it's all right! I... I like it when you ask about me..."

Joy's self-angered pucker spread into a curious beam as she viewed the fish-man lowering his murky white sights in slow but heavy concentration, tapping his teaspoon to the rim of the bowl. And after a very silent two minutes, he returned the gaze of his awaiting cohort.

"I'm... twenty-nine."

Though the ashen, weathered skin appeared to have been exposed to many, many seasons, for the Lord of the Lodge, that age was true. True to him. It was one of the rare memories that he actually remembered, predating Mother's first gift. But the number of years he was on this flat earth afterward was quite... muddy.

Taken back, the young woman's eyes fluttered from her companion's answer.

"Really?"

Moreau subconsciously skimmed the frosty windows on his right and a drone resounded from his bulbous throat.

"Yes," he answered while facing her with more rare certitude. "Really, really."

Joy pat the spoon on her chin. "So... is dat in people years or mer-people years?"

The fish-man jerked his shoulders. "Uhhh, both?"

A bright beam lightened on the woman's fair features.

"Dat makes a lotta sense! 'Cause you're part-merman and part-person."

With her curiosity seemingly satisfied, Joy resumed sating her appetite. And with an appreciative smile, Moreau filled his spoon. Soon, Joy paused with something else on her mind.

"...Moreau?"

"Hmm?" he murmured with his tongue sodden in broth.

"Do ya have a nickname?"

The befuddled fish-man allowed a moment for the soup to slide down his mutated gullet.

"Uh, I have a name which is Salvatore Moreau?"

Joy veered her head to and fro. "Dat's your full name. I mean a nickname dat ya like ta be called."

"So... ...I'm Nick Moreau?"

"Uh-uh."

"Uhhh... Oh! Salvatore Nick!"

"Tee-hee! Nooo!" giggled the woman with a bubbly squeak. "A nickname doesn't mean dat your name's Nick!"

"Oh... Then is Moreau my nickname?"

Another sway of the head. "Moreau's your last name. You use dat 'cause ya like being formal.

The fish-man slanted his head. "I thought I was still being Moreau."

Seeing the bottom of her cloaked cohort's hanging brow furrow even more, Joy repressed her titters with another drink of water.

"A'hem..." She placed her tablespoon by her bowl. "A nickname is um... a fun name dat friends or family call you. It can be anything ya like. But most a'da time, a nickname's a shorter name a'your first name..."

Moreau listened on as Joy directed a hand to the front of her sweater.

"...I'm Joy. Just Joyce without the 'c' and 'e'. So, dat's my nickname. ...Get it?"

Leaving his utensil in the porcelain boule, Moreau gradually nodded and his despondent gaze descended to his half-filled portion of minestrone. He shouldn't have been surprised. As far as the once flouted fish-man's simplified awareness could gather, he was never gifted a nickname. He wondered if he would've preferred that over the cadou...

"Umm...You okay?"

Moreau lifted his sad sights to the concerned fluttering lashes of the young woman sitting in front of him; petite hands pressed onto the table while leaning her head faintly to the side.

"Moreau?"

It was then, it occurred to him. No one had granted him a nickname... Had.

The fish-man's mien became less disheartened and his frown upturned.

"J-Joy?"

"Yes?"

"Could..? Could you g-give me a nickname? ...P-Please?"

Pearly whites and bright orbs went on full, gleaming display. Joy propped straight up into her seat, placing her palms over her chest. Except for her mother, she never had that honor before!

"Oh my goodness! Ya want me ta give ya a nickname?! Really?!"

Moreau bobbed his head over several times. "Really, really!"

"Alright!" Joy retook her spoon. "Lemme thinka a real good one..."

Moreau keenly stared as the woman tapped her utensil to her cup. The tings and clicks from metal to white porcelain and fidgeting claws on the rim of the table were the only sounds throughout the kitchen.

After well over a minute of intent pouting, Joy continued rearing her head while focusing on nothing on the wedge-shaped ceiling. Just then, she gasped and faced Moreau.

"I got it. How about... 'Mo!'"

"...Mo?" repeated the fish-man with a broad blink.

Joy nodded excitedly "Uh-huh! Ya like your last name and 'm' and 'o' are da first two letters, right?"

"Uhhhhh... correct?"

"Okay! So Mo is like Moe but with no 'e.' Just Mo..."

Moreau beheld the anticipating woman, pressing her knuckles together.

"I... I really like just Mo... Do... do ya like it, too?"

Moreau's sprawling smile and deep cheek-lines could have passed his unseen ears. Swallowing, he granted his precious person a slow nod, before salty moisture blurred out the priceless view before him.

"I, I really like... just Mo, too."

With a tint of red on her rising cheeks, Joy proudly recommenced dinner. As did her newly titled companion, but he ate the rest of his minestrone dreamily; caring less that the sitting broth had long since lost its tepidness.

"Mo... I'm Mo..."