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Meg has been back in Montreal for seven hours and nineteen minutes when she hears the key turn in the lock on the front door.
"Meg? Are you -- ?" Alain breaks off as Meg kisses him, dropping his suitcase and kicking the front door closed with one foot, his arms going around her. "Ma belle," he says, several moments later, "not that I am complaining, but . . . what brought that on?"
"Tu m'as manqué," Meg says.
"I missed you, too," Alain says.
"How do you feel?" Meg asks.
"Good," Alain says, with a smile. "Better by the second," he adds, bending to kiss her again.
"You don't feel feverish? Or have a headache?"
Alain laughs. "No, of course not. I'm fine. Maybe a little tired, but fine."
"Tired? Why are you tired?" Meg asks, reaching up to place the back of her hand against his forehead. He doesn't feel warm.
"Ah, because I spent the weekend moving furniture," Alain says, ducking away from her hand. "Meg, what's wrong? You're acting very strangely."
"Have you had the chickenpox?" Meg asks.
"I don't know what that is," Alain says.
"La varicelle."
"Oui, quand j'avais quatre ans. Luc et moi ensemble. Pourquoi?
"Oh, thank God," Meg says, resting her cheek against his chest. "Then you're probably immune and I didn't make you sick."
Alain steps back so he can look at her. "Ma belle, you're not making any sense. And that is not like you."
"I had the chickenpox while you were gone. And I was already contagious when you left, and I didn't know if you'd had them before or if I'd made you sick."
"Meg," Alain says slowly, "you can't have had the -- what did you call it, chickenpox? -- while I was gone. You would have . . . " he taps one index finger across her cheeks and the tip of her nose " . . . spots."
"I did," Meg says. "They're gone."
"That takes days, ma belle. Weeks maybe. You cannot have had spots for weeks. I saw you yesterday. You can't have been sick for weeks since yesterday."
"Well, most people can't," Meg says. "I can."
"Comment?" Alain demands, and then, before she can answer, "Oh. Milliways?"
Meg nods.
Alain takes another step back, dropping his hands to his sides. "You had the chickenpox. Which is a ridiculous name."
"Yes. And I went to lie down, and instead of going into the bedroom, the door took me to Milliways."
"And you stayed there."
Meg nods. "Dr. Cullen found me there."
"Edward?"
"Carlisle. His father."
"Right. Baseball."
Meg nods again. "Yes. And I was running a high fever, and -- "
"How high?"
"Dangerously high," Meg admits. "Around forty."
Alain draws a sharp, almost hiss-like breath. "Quarante?"
"Oui."
"Why didn't you come home?"
"I needed a doctor. And one was there. And, yes, I guess I could have come back here, but . . . you weren't here, Alain."
"I wasn't here because you told me you were fine. Yesterday morning. I asked you twice. You know I wouldn't have left if I'd known."
"I know. And when I told you that, I believed it. And I'm not blaming you, not at all. That's not what I meant. But if I'd come back, I would either have had to get myself to a doctor or hope I didn't get any sicker before you got home. And I didn't know if you'd had chickenpox before, or if I'd already made you sick, of if I could still make you sick. Either way, the most sensible thing for me to do was -- "
"I don't give a damn about sensible right now, Meg."
"Alain, I--"
"You were sick, you were very sick, and you were there. You were in a place I can't be, or even get to, to help you or protect you or take care of you when you need me. And that's just going to keep happening, isn't it?"
"Probably, yes," Meg says. "I'm sorry, Alain. I -- "
Alain holds one hand up, shaking his head. "Non. Pas maintenant." He sighs, and shoves one hand through his hair. "Je vais faire une promenade," he says, finally.
"And . . . do you want me to be here when you get back?" It's his apartment, after all. If he wants space, she'll go.
Alain very gently kisses her forehead. "Pour toujours."
He pauses at the door. "But don't wait up."
"Meg? Are you -- ?" Alain breaks off as Meg kisses him, dropping his suitcase and kicking the front door closed with one foot, his arms going around her. "Ma belle," he says, several moments later, "not that I am complaining, but . . . what brought that on?"
"Tu m'as manqué," Meg says.
"I missed you, too," Alain says.
"How do you feel?" Meg asks.
"Good," Alain says, with a smile. "Better by the second," he adds, bending to kiss her again.
"You don't feel feverish? Or have a headache?"
Alain laughs. "No, of course not. I'm fine. Maybe a little tired, but fine."
"Tired? Why are you tired?" Meg asks, reaching up to place the back of her hand against his forehead. He doesn't feel warm.
"Ah, because I spent the weekend moving furniture," Alain says, ducking away from her hand. "Meg, what's wrong? You're acting very strangely."
"Have you had the chickenpox?" Meg asks.
"I don't know what that is," Alain says.
"La varicelle."
"Oui, quand j'avais quatre ans. Luc et moi ensemble. Pourquoi?
"Oh, thank God," Meg says, resting her cheek against his chest. "Then you're probably immune and I didn't make you sick."
Alain steps back so he can look at her. "Ma belle, you're not making any sense. And that is not like you."
"I had the chickenpox while you were gone. And I was already contagious when you left, and I didn't know if you'd had them before or if I'd made you sick."
"Meg," Alain says slowly, "you can't have had the -- what did you call it, chickenpox? -- while I was gone. You would have . . . " he taps one index finger across her cheeks and the tip of her nose " . . . spots."
"I did," Meg says. "They're gone."
"That takes days, ma belle. Weeks maybe. You cannot have had spots for weeks. I saw you yesterday. You can't have been sick for weeks since yesterday."
"Well, most people can't," Meg says. "I can."
"Comment?" Alain demands, and then, before she can answer, "Oh. Milliways?"
Meg nods.
Alain takes another step back, dropping his hands to his sides. "You had the chickenpox. Which is a ridiculous name."
"Yes. And I went to lie down, and instead of going into the bedroom, the door took me to Milliways."
"And you stayed there."
Meg nods. "Dr. Cullen found me there."
"Edward?"
"Carlisle. His father."
"Right. Baseball."
Meg nods again. "Yes. And I was running a high fever, and -- "
"How high?"
"Dangerously high," Meg admits. "Around forty."
Alain draws a sharp, almost hiss-like breath. "Quarante?"
"Oui."
"Why didn't you come home?"
"I needed a doctor. And one was there. And, yes, I guess I could have come back here, but . . . you weren't here, Alain."
"I wasn't here because you told me you were fine. Yesterday morning. I asked you twice. You know I wouldn't have left if I'd known."
"I know. And when I told you that, I believed it. And I'm not blaming you, not at all. That's not what I meant. But if I'd come back, I would either have had to get myself to a doctor or hope I didn't get any sicker before you got home. And I didn't know if you'd had chickenpox before, or if I'd already made you sick, of if I could still make you sick. Either way, the most sensible thing for me to do was -- "
"I don't give a damn about sensible right now, Meg."
"Alain, I--"
"You were sick, you were very sick, and you were there. You were in a place I can't be, or even get to, to help you or protect you or take care of you when you need me. And that's just going to keep happening, isn't it?"
"Probably, yes," Meg says. "I'm sorry, Alain. I -- "
Alain holds one hand up, shaking his head. "Non. Pas maintenant." He sighs, and shoves one hand through his hair. "Je vais faire une promenade," he says, finally.
"And . . . do you want me to be here when you get back?" It's his apartment, after all. If he wants space, she'll go.
Alain very gently kisses her forehead. "Pour toujours."
He pauses at the door. "But don't wait up."