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Dome runs into June on Tuesday.
Quite literally, because he’s holding cardboard boxes stacked higher than he has visibility, and because June doesn’t seem to find it necessary to sidestep him in any way.
She neatly catches the corner of a slipping box instead—and with a movement only perfected from the numerous times Dome had to share the heavy weight of an artifact between him and June back when he was working at the museum, they manage to lower the boxes safely to the floor together.
Later, Dome will be thankful for not spilling around 7 kgs. of flour onto freshly polished black tile.
For now, he only regards June with a sigh as June seems entirely unperturbed, adjusting her glasses and looking to him expectantly.
He didn’t hear the wind chime at the doorframe go off when she walked in, but he knows better than to question it at this point.
“Our cafe closed an hour ago,” he tells her primly, moving to pick up the box of flour again, “but if you come back early tomorrow, I can put in an order for you then.”
June huffs at him.
“You need to stop working so late into the evening, Dome,” she scolds him, but it’s a statement that Dome's overly familiar with now that he doesn’t bother replying. He nudges the remaining box over, sliding it with his heel over to June.
“Help me stack this last one,” he says, with only a slight hesitation before adding, “but keep yourself—”
“Hidden. Out of sight. Away from the windows—I know,” June stresses, and then twists her mouth a bit in humor, “not that anyone can see me, but sure.”
Dome still doesn’t have a clear understanding on how June interacts with the world outside of the museum, but Dome doesn’t question her small asides anymore. If June wants to tell him something, she will in her own time. He’s learned that over the past three weeks.
“Have I mentioned I hate how this cafe is decorated,” June muses, following Dome into the storage room, “it’s like a dark basement, that’s what this place reminds me of. It’s always dusty.”
“Is that a knock on my cleaning?”
“Not at all,” June shrugs, nudging Dome lightly with her shoulder, lying right through a genuine smile, “it’s just funny, that the dust seems to never disappear.”
“It’s an old building,” Dome says lightly, stepping back into the main clearing of the cafe.
“It can’t be good for you to keep breathing this dust in,” June says quietly, and Dome already knows what she’ll say next, that “maybe you should take up fewer shifts, or change around your hours, at least until—”
“June,” Dome interrupts, turning on his heel slightly to face her, but his tone remains gentle, “thank you for helping me with the shipment. I’ll close up the store now.”
June doesn’t hide her change in demeanor. She only nods stiffly, shifting out of the way as Dome racks a few of the coffee machines, storing perishables as he moves along the counter.
He finishes stacking the last of the tea plates before June clears her throat, getting Dome’s attention.
June’s tapping fingers pause, her eyes flicking up to peer directly at him, expression inscrutable. She must catch the faint crease in his brow, though, because she softens her expression.
“You didn't go home last night,” she states simply.
Dome closes his eyes momentarily. He had been hoping she would drop the subject, but in the three weeks since he had been—well, fired is the word that Khatha had used—told that he was to return to his old life, June was far more comfortably blunt with Dome. It was a welcome change, mostly.
Dome only inclines his head at June’s words. At that, June only offers a pained smile.
Even if June asks him where he went last night, he couldn’t tell her. He doesn’t know.
June’s open pity makes something in Dome twist uncomfortably.
“Dome,” June starts, slowly, with a tone that Dome has come to understand as June’s way of breaking harsh news to him as gently as she can, “reducing your weekly hours isn’t a friendly suggestion anymore. Take it as a compromise, instead of us forcing you to quit.”
Instead of Khatha forcing you to quit, is unspoken from June, but Dome hears it all the same.
For all the honesty that June has gifted him, she still refuses to explain why Khatha seems to have a particular issue with his new workplace, of all things. Or maybe she didn't know either.
He’s distantly aware of the salt crystals clasped to his ankle, resolutely ignoring them as they start to itch against his skin.
June is a good friend. Dome’s lucky to have met her, luckier that she’s genuine in wanting to keep a relationship with him even after he was told to leave the museum.
But, it’s moments like this, where Dome has to uncomfortably remind himself that June is an employee of Midnight Museum—more, she remains one of Khatha’s people.
When Dome finally finds his voice, it’s unmistakably brittle.
“I don’t get a choice, do I?”
The expression on June’s face turns somber. She looks away, shoulders sagging and lips pressing together, and then back to Dome once more.
“I suppose not,” she admits, but there’s such resignation in June’s features that Dome feels a little bad for redirecting his frustration at her.
“Did Khatha send you?” Dome asks, his voice carefully not wavering over the name.
June looks a bit pained before she twists her mouth, but still answers truthfully enough. “I spoke with him this morning.”
Dome sighs, leaning against the edge of the counter, closing his eyes briefly.
He doesn’t open his eyes until long after June steps outside, the wind chimes silent behind her.