Hi! I'm Ruth, they/them pronouns, 26, and I enjoy most types of whump! I do art, graphic design and writing.
I try my best to tag, but if I miss a content warning you'd like added, please just shoot me an ask! I won't tag lady whump as a content warning, but anything else I will if you ask.
Whump 2024 advent calendar
Favourite tropes:
RECOVERY WHUMP!!!
Found family
Gagging
Muzzles
Pet whump
Whumper pressing down on whumpee's back to keep them from getting up
Branding
Whipping
Caretaker turned whumpee/whumpee turned caretaker
Hero/villain whump
Tall whumpee/small caretaker (or vice versa)
Tall whumpee/small whumper
G/t whump
Whumpee thinks caretaker is their new whumper
Incompetent/clueless caretaker (they're trying their best but they have no idea they're doing)
General contents: pet whump, dehumanisation, amnesia, PTSD
Sam and Lucan 'verse
In a world where non-humans are enslaved, our characters are just trying to live out their lives in peace. And failing, mostly.
General contents: non-human characters, institutionalised slavery, fantasy racism, dehumanisation, PTSD
A Death in the Family
When his estranged father dies, Tristam, against his better judgement, attends the will reading, and ends up leaving with long-term bloodbag Sunday Afolayan and Eldrida, his father's former employee (and a terribly mistreated one at that, it turns out).
Even with Aileen and Evelyn's expert advice and friendship, it's tricky to bring Sunday back from the depths of his enthrallment, and Eldrida's struggling too. Six years under the cruel fist of Barnabas Sharpe was hard to survive.
It's a difficult recovery for both of them. But surely, things can't get worse now.
Contains: vampire whumper, non-human whumpee (vampire), lady whump, conditioned whumpee, disabled characters (Tristam has ADHD, Eldrida has anophthalmia, and Sunday has joint problems, a badly-healed arm, and an absence epilepsy-like condition), recovery whump, multiple whumpees
Botanist Whumpee
When the rich and powerful Sebastian Beaumont offers Alyssa a place to stay, she doesnāt expect to become his captive for three years. And when Silver rescues her at a partyā¦ well, the only thing sheās absolutely sure is better is that they donāt have a basement. They donāt have much of anything, actually. And she doesnāt know whether she can trust them or not, but she stays anyway. With no-one left to care about her, and Beaumont using all his money and connections to search for the pair of them, where else is she supposed to go?
Contains: recovery whump, captivity, lady whump, somewhat defiant whumpee, found family, intimate whumper
Cian and Row
In a world where superpowers are real, heroes and villains exist, and there's a large black market in powered people, Rowan's been enslaved for as long as they can remember. They're befriended when they're three by Cian Sinclair, a local empathic five year old, and at the age of eleven is rescued and adopted by the Sinclairs. Years later they become a supervillain, disappear for five years and reappear to reunite with their family, and attract another enemy, one far more powerful than their previous captors and obsessed with their healing powers.
Contains: slavery, PTSD, minor whump, past minor whump, immortal whumpee, discrimination, villain whump
Immortal Cannon Fodder
Masterlist part 2 - character profiles, character asks
Phoenix, an immortal hero, joins a team that hurts them and uses them as cannon fodder. But their teammates are only doing what's necessary to help them all survive. Phoenix's regular sacrifices are necessary. And it's not like they've got anywhere else to go anyway.
It takes the arrival of Kai, a wolf-shifter and telekinetic, to help them see what's going on. But a friendship and a promised eventual transfer can't fix everything.
Contains: hero whump, abuse, past abuse, immortal whumpee
MD-264N
When MD-264N, the government's best weapon, runs to avoid being decommissioned and collapses on the doorstep of a small ragtag team of rebels, it's a surprise to everyone. But despite resistance, the weapon, now known as Morgan, starts to find their place, and the rebels soon find that they'll do anything to keep them free.
Contains: living weapon, found family, dehumanisation/self dehumanisation, team dynamics, reluctant caretaker (not the main caretaker), recovery whump, caretaker whump, disabled caretaker (forearm amputee)
Operation Badger
In the year 2037, Earth is invaded by the Stex. 14 years later, superpowers start appearing in teenagers, and are apparently humanity's best defence against the aliens. What is Earth Security to do but train these people up as weapons?
Contains: sci-fi, living weapons, team whump, multiple whumpees, minor whump, aliens, disabled character
Out of the Frying Pan
Five years ago Elis, former bodyguard and weapon of Lord Wulfric, was rescued from a fiery death by Col and SƦwin. He now lives in relative peace with them in Sorestan, a peace that's abruptly disrupted after an unwelcome visitor brings his past colliding with the present.
Contains: medieval whump, fantasy elements, living weapon
Out of the Water
TĆŗathal, a merman, is captured and kept prisoner by pirates for his valuable scales. While Robyn, the youngest of the crew and not very popular, takes care of him, the others only bother with his scales (and anything that makes their extraction easier). Especially James. And once the rest of the pirates discover that Robyn and TĆŗathal have become fond of each other, things only get worse.
Whumpee is captured by a Whumper who wants to teach them survival skills. Painfully.
Contains: survival skills whump, sadistic whumper
The Greatest Show on Earth
Damon and Pythias are an unwilling two-person sideshow act in The Greatest Show on Earth, Pythias forced to kill Damon multiple times a day for the entertainment of paying circus patrons. Damon has been in captivity since birth, Pythias not quite so long (although certainly long enough), and they're both ready to get out.
But the outside world is even trickier to navigate than they imagined.
Contains: non-human whumpees, multiple whumpees, immortal whumpee, lady whump, circus whump, public whump, captivity, recovery whump, temporary character death (both implied and shown at times), guilty whumpee, whumpee as caretaker
Other writing:
Non-series whump masterlist
Miscellaneous writing, art and graphics
Fanfic/fanart (AO3)
BBC Merlin, Good Omens, Doctor Who, The Sandman, The Murderbot Diaries
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Kauri opens one eye, squinting up from his place in a towel in the yard, shirtless and faintly glistening with sweat. The scar over his collarbone stands out like a knife blade torn through a portrait. "I'm already wearing it, Ant."
"Yes, three hours ago you wear it." Antoni frowns. He wears a moss green shirt and black jeans. Kauri doesn't miss the trickle of sweat down the side of his neck. He does not miss that detail at all.
"So?"
"Sunscreen does not last this long! You must reapply."
Kauri sighs, but then grins and rolls onto his stomach, looking back over his shoulder. "You want to help me with those hard to reach places?" His voice is teasing more than flirty, and Antoni's answering huff of laughter tells him the joke landed the right way.
"No I do not. I will go get your husband to speak sense to you." Antoni dropped the bottle of sunscreen onto the grass and turned. "Jasha! Your husband will not put on more sunscreen!"
There was a crash from inside, the sound of footsteps, and then the screen door flung open so hard it slammed into the siding and rattled on its hinges. Jake took the three back stairs in one single jump. "On it!"
CW: Some vague references to past domestic violence
Maggie Stanton looks nothing like her son. She's short, for one thing, and Nat feels like a relative giant next to her as she opens the front door and escorts her inside.
Nat has heard this woman's voice through the phone before, when Jake argued with her or spoke to her a few times a week. She's seen her briefly, in passing, when she dropped Jake off at a restaurant when his mother was in town to visit during his college days. But this is the first time she's gotten a good look at the face of Jake's mother.
Maggie has high cheekbones, delicate looks that seem a little wilted and faded by life and time. But there's steel under her brittleness that makes Nat think of Jake's stubbornness, and her eyes are the exact same shade of blue as his.
"This is Jake's house?" Maggie looks around as they step in, clutching a gigantic purse that might as well just call itself a tote bag in both hands. "It's so big, and he takes care of it himself?"
"Not exactly," Nat says, closing the front door slowly. "Everyone pitches in, in a house like this. But of course-"
"Right, right. Right. The, um. Rescued people." Maggie swallows, nervously. "Are they-... are there any here right now?"
"Several." Nat keeps her own voice low, and steady. "There are usually about a half-dozen to a dozen in any given safehouse."
"Oh, my." Maggie falls silent for a moment, looking up at the light fixtures, a little in need of dusting, and then to the side. She jumps and gives a breathy little gasp, and Nat looks to find Antoni leaning against the doorway, his own expression calm, placid. Almost empty. "H-Hello."
"Hello. I work with Jake. I am Antoni." Antoni smiles, slightly feline, his half-lidded eyes shifting in a slow blink. As if he's trying to calm her. "We have heard many things about Jake's mother."
"Oh, h-have you? Probably nothing good." Maggie laughs, slightly airy still. She looks around and then hangs her purse on a coat hook. "I've heard about you, too, Antoni..."
"Just Antoni. I think my ID has a last name on it but I do not remember what it is. It does not come up much." Antoni shrugs.
Awareness dawns. Maggie's face flushes and she opens her mouth, then closes it again. Finally, she manages a slightly strangled, "Ah. Where is-... can I see Jake? Is he upstairs, or..."
"He's in here," Kauri's voice calls from the living room, and Nat steps back to let Maggie walk in front of her. Nat catches Antoni's eye, giving him a smile and a little bit of a wink.
He returns the smile, then disappears back towards the kitchen. Even this, Nat thinks, might have been a little more socializing with people he doesn't know than he was really prepared to do.
When Maggie enters the living room, Kauri sits next to where Jake lies spread across the fold-out bed, feet dangling off the too-short edge. "Hi, Mrs. Stanton."
"Please, just Maggie, Kauri. You know that."
Nat blinks and looks at Kauri, who grins back at her. "We've met before, Nat. You think I'd turn down meeting Jake's mom and free pizza?"
"Fair enough."
Maggie settles herself at the edge of the fold-out bed, looking like she'll turn and flee at any second. Jake is sleeping, and he doesn't move beyond a slightly hitched intake of breath. "Oh, honey," Maggie murmurs, reaching out to touch the side of his face. "This wasn't supposed to happen to you."
"According to therapy," Kauri says, slightly dry-witted, "It's not supposed to happen to anyone."
Nat's eyebrows raise nearly to her hairline when Maggie laughs in response, and Kauri laughs with her. "It'd be nice if we lived in the world according to therapists, Kauri."
"Don't I know it."
Jake groans and moves a little, eyes blinking blearily open and closing again just as fast. "Mama?"
"It's me, buddy." Maggie Stanton, who only comes up to her son's shoulder, leans over and presses a kiss to the center of his forehead, where his furrowed brow smooths back out. "I'm here. Figured I might stay for a few days, if that's all right. Lucky for you I canceled that trip to Disney this year and had a week of PTO and no plans for it, huh?"
"Mmmn." It's all Jake manages, but he tries to roll onto his side closer to her, and Kauri has to gently encourage him back into a position more comfortable for his shoulder.
"There you go. Just lay back. That's right." Maggie glances up at Kauri, then over her shoulder at Nat. "Here's one of my sons, now where's the fully-grown adult I adopted a few years ago?"
"Chris? He's in his room upstairs, he gets... overwhelmed if he's down here with Jake for too long. It's kind of a lot, for him."
"It's always kind of a lot." Maggie sighs, and there's an old, old pain in her face as she looks down at her sleeping son. "No matter how big they get, it feels just the same every time they get hurt and you can't be there to stop it. Should I head upstairs and say hi to Chris, then?"
"No." Kauri shakes his head. "He needs the time. He'll just get more overwhelmed if he has to come down and try to talk right now. I texted him you were here, he'll say hi when he can."
"Sounds fine. I'm going to make a pot of coffee and then I want you to tell me a little bit more about what happened to him."
"You're not upset we didn't go to the hospital?"
Maggie's jaw sets, and in that moment Nat sees how Jake takes after her in his heart and soul more than he does in his looks.
The steel shows through the cracks, unbroken.
"No, Kauri, honey. Jake and I know all about how to handle things when it isn't safe for anyone else to know."
CW: Discussion of past child abuse/domestic violence, description of stab wound, painkillers/drugged but in a good way, brief IV needle reference, some short references to Jakeās religious trauma, some trauma response stuff
āTook four of us to get you onto the couch, you know,ā Kauri says, fingers moving gently to brush Jakeās short hair back off his forehead. Thereās a hint of humor to his deep voice, but Jake catches the tremor in it, too. āYouāre heavier than you look.ā
āMust beā¦ pretty fucking heavy, then,ā Jake manages, voice slightly thin. They gave him something - Natās EMT friend showed up with IV supplies while refusing to tell anyone where theyād gotten ahold of everything from, except to repeatedly reassure all of them I know someone, itās taken care of, I probably wonāt go to jail for this. Besides, Iāve been in jail before.
Jake might not have found it very reassuring if he wasnāt halfway to unconscious from the pain alone at the time.
Now, though, thereās a needle feeding a steady supply of something wonderful into his bloodstream, holding the worst of the pain at bay. All he can feel now is maybe a little bit of an itch he knows better than to scratch, and a heaviness to his limbs that keeps them limp and relaxed.Ā
āWe had to turn the stupid thing into the pull-out bed just to make sure your feet wouldnāt be higher than your head.ā Kauri smiles at him, but thereās worry in those warm blue eyes, and Jake uses every ounce of strength to lift his good hand, the one on the uninjured side, and take Kauriās, pulling his knuckles to his lips to brush against them.Ā
āIām okay,ā Jake says softly. āI am, Kaur. Itās not so bad.ā
āItās not-ā¦ you got fucking stabbed in your own kitchen, Jake.ā Kauriās lips thin and he looks away, over towards the TV, playing Clue.
He blinks, the shell around him cracking imperceptibly, lifting his eyes only with effort. There's a wall between him and everything else in the world, every potential loss. He can't lose anything more, anyone.
He's already lost everything, again and again. It took so long, he worked so hard to have even these small things for himself.
And now.
Gone.
Chris's fingers are always cold, and Kauri feels them like icicles on his cheeks, freezing the tear tracks there. Chris is still here, somehow, not gone away in his head.
Not like Kauri.
"Hey," Chris says again, softly. He rubs a thumb over Kauri's cheekbone. His fingernails have little star stickers on them.
Kauri isn't sure how to move his lips.
This is what he gets, for trying to feel safe here. He should have known. He should have known the only luck he's ever had is bad.
"I-I love-" His voice falters. He can't finish.
But Chris shifts forward anyway, arms around his neck, breathing warm against him. The world is cold, and Kauri is cracked, and Chris had always stuck to him like glue.
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CW: Stab wound, descriptions of wound-packing and stitches, brief reference to child abuse, blood, passing out, talk of going into shock
Follow-up to Jake Being Stabbed
Everything smells like blood.
The smell of it is thick and sticks to the inside of his nose, coats his tongue with the memory of copper-salt-sweet, like when he lost a tooth as a kid by pulling it out, too impatient to wait. Every breath comes with an answering flush of agony radiating from the blurry handle he can see sticking out of his shoulder, he feels sick with pain down to his fingertips, out through his chest.
His heart beats in hammers, working too hard to keep pushing blood that doesnāt want to stay inside him.
His eyes are on the ceiling fan spinning lazily above his head. He needs to change those light bulbs, he thinks. Soon.
āNe dvigaytesā, Misha,ā Antoni says, leaning over him, shaggy hair over distant dark brown eyes. Whatever Antoni sees, itās far, far away from him. But his fingers move quickly, donāt press too hard.Ā āEto budet bol'no.ā
Bolāno. Jake knows that one.
āH-hurt,ā He repeats, eyebrows furrowing a little. The ceiling fan is starting to make him feel dizzy.
It sure would be terrible if Jameson got spooked by something and saw Jake and decided Jake was a threat. It would be just awful if it was something innocuous that triggered Jameson so badly that he decided he needed to handle Jake the way he handled Robert, now, in front of a few rescues. And Chris, perhaps
CW: Stabbing, knives, blood, panic response, trauma response, flashback to pet whump, murder reference
Chris vaguely hears a loud thump over the sound of the music blaring through his headphones, ignoring it - itās an old house, sometimes you hear everything anyone else is doing. He hums along with the song, turning the page on his textbook, trying to make himself focus on the entirely-too-many tiny words, chewing idly on his plastic feather necklace.
Then thereās another sound that breaks through, cracks apart the spell of the song.Ā
Itās a scream.
Chrisās head jerks up and he pulls the headphones off, freezing first, heart going from a slow and steady thump to racing, a wash of cold fear from head to toe. For a second, thereās nothing, and he wonders if he made it up somehow, if there was never that second sound-
And then the scream comes again, and he hears footsteps flying past his door, the sound of Antoniās voice calling out. Chris throws his mp3 player to the side and abandons the textbooks he wasnāt really reading anyway, bare feet on warm hardwood, taking the steps three at a time.
He stumbles into the doorway to the kitchen and stares, wide-eyed, at the blood. His breath catches in his throat, it wonāt go into his lungs or come back out again, and he feels his knees give way.
Thereās so much blood.
Again.
āNo,ā he whimpers, but no one hears him. Theyāre too busy trying to pull the new angry rescue off of Jake.
Antoni and Allyn each have their hands gripped onto Jamesonās arms, pulling him forcibly up and away from Jake, lying on the floor with one of the kitchen knives, the narrow one, buried in his shoulder so firmly it looks like itās stuck him to the floor beneath him. Blood wells up bright red, soaking Jakeās white t-shirt, as he tries to move one hand to grab at it, misses, fails.
āYou wonāt fucking touch me!ā Jameson is screaming, his rasping voice even more hoarse with the volume, tears in his eyes and running down his red face, spitting the words with venom and panic.Ā āYouāll never fucking touch me again, you wonāt, you wonāt fucking touch me! You fucking wonāt, you asshole, I fucking k-killed you-let me go!ā
He tries to pull himself free of their grip, but Antoni and Allyn hold him tightly, pulling him still struggling back towards the same doorway Chris is still frozen in.
He stares at Jake, who hasnāt seen him yet, and his face changes, itās someone else, itās reddish hair just like his own and a longer jaw, wider eyes, itās dark brown hair falling over her face and itās so much blood-
āJameson,ā Antoni says, his voice louder than Chris has ever heard it, firm and strong.Ā āJameson you must stop this. You are not there. You are not in that place now. You must calm. Look at the windows, Jameson. Look at the walls.ā He pauses, his dark eyes moving, landing on Chris, moving again. He canāt stop, Chris thinks, he canāt stop doing this long enough to help anyone else.Ā āJameson. Look at Allyn.ā
Jameson, teeth bared in a snarl, turns almost against his will and meets Allynās frightened expression, their huge gray eyes ringed in white, and something... melts out of him, the tension and hate dropping all at once. He slumps, and Allyn pulls him close, whispering into his ear.
Itās the moment Chris needs and he throws himself forwards, onto his knees on the floor next to Jake.Ā āJake,ā he whispers, his hands hovering above the knife, unable to bring himself to touch it. His eyes are locked on the growing bloodstain.Ā āJ-Jake, Jake, Jake, n-no, no no no, not you, not, not you, too-ā
āSssshhh, itās okay.ā Jakeās voice is strained and he lets the back of his head thump into the floor.Ā āItās o-... itās okay, Chris. Fuck, fuck this hurts, fuck-... itās okay.ā
Chris shakes his head, lips trembling with the tears building up in his eyes, blurring his view. Jake holds up one hand and Chris grabs onto it, and Jakeās hand is so warm. Chrisās fingers have always run cold. He grips tight, rocking forward and back, fighting the urge to curl up and wait for Jakeās body to go cold-
āItās okay,ā Jake says again, a little more faintly.Ā āN-not... this isnāt... this isnāt th-that, Chris. Okay? Look at m-me. Look at me.ā
āHeās g-gonna fucking kill me,ā Chris hears Jameson saying behind him, and Allynās low murmuring reassurance.Ā āI killed him already, h-he canāt, he canāt find me, he c-c-canāt, heās dead, I k-killed him in the basement I left him in the basement I did it, I did it already, I c-canāt-... he canāt be here-ā
āChrisha, you need to get out of the room,ā Antoni says softly, crouching next to Chris with a first aid kit in his hand.Ā āOr out of my way.ā
āNo hospitals,ā Jake says, and he and Antoni meet eyes. Thereās a long pause, and then Antoni slowly nods.
āNo hospitals,ā Antoni agrees.Ā āI can do it here. I have done this before.ā
āWhen?ā Jakeās voice thins even more.
āA long time ago.ā Antoniās voice is firm enough to end any hope of further questions.Ā
āHeāll die,ā Chris whispers.Ā āhe, heāll die. Without... without a h-hospital, heāll, heāll d-die like, like, like, like-like-like th-they did-ā
āIt is not in a fatal place, if I am stopping the bleeding,ā Antoni says, almost toneless. āI can do this.ā His accent is thickening, and Chris remembers with a sickening lurch when a handler found him and Antoni spoke this way, sending him out of a dingy motel and Chris saw... in his hair...Ā āBut you must not be in the way.ā
āWh-what-... what do, do, do I do?ā
āCare for Jameson,ā Antoni intones, flat as the floor Jake is bleeding on.Ā āI will handle this. I have handled this before.Ā Uspokoysya, mladshiy brat.ā
Chris stays frozen, his hands still hovering inches from the blade of the knife, above the bloodstain, above the body of someone he loves that will go still and silent and cold while he cries and then-
And then-
āYA dolzhen zabotit'sya o Misha.ā Antoni looks up at him, and his dark eyes are somewhere else entirely, some other time.Ā āUbiraysya otsyuda.ā
Chris doesnāt know the words, exactly, but he knows their meaning. He shifts backwards, forcing himself to stand, finding himself rocking forward and back even as he moves, trying to fight the overwhelming fear rushing under his skin like a river, pushing him to do... to do something to get the feeling out.Ā
He sets his jaw, turning to look and seeing Allyn has pulled Jameson into the den now, their hands on either side of his face. Theyāve gone gray around the edges, as terrified as Chris is, but they still donāt let go of him, they keep talking. Jameson nods, or shakes his head, or whispers to them, and Chris sees what heās never noticed before.
Jameson is as scared as any of them, all the time, and heās as tightly wound. A dam with cracks that has begun to shatter, water rushing into the valley below, burying what he was so carefully growing there.
The trees washed clear of leaves, left as sickly skeletal branches stripped of bark drowning in the water. The sun wonāt come out in time to save them.Ā
Chris knows how that feels.
There isnāt any sun, in the valley. Thereās only the cold white light that lives inside all of their heads.
He takes one step and then another, away from the pull of Jake making huffing noises on the floor trying to hide his pain and Antoni speaking calmly in Russian that none of them understands to a brother that isnāt the one he thinks heās caring for.
Jameson sees him coming and... flinches.Ā
Afraid of him.
Chris swallows, his heart racing in circles through his body. Everything feels like ice.Ā āJ-Jameson?ā
Jameson shakes his head and cringes further back and away, but Allyn follows him, putting their arms around him and holding tight.Ā āPets donāt have names,ā he whispers.Ā āI d-donāt have a name. Pets donāt have names, I donāt have-... Iām not-... I killed him, I know I did, I know I did I made... I made sure-ā
āI know,ā Allyn soothes him, rubbing circles on his scarred back through his shirt.Ā āI know, I know you did, I know.ā
āWhy is he here?ā Jameson looks young, and lost, and not angry at all.Ā āIf heās dead, why-... why is he here? Why is he still here? Why is he-... still in my head?ā
āHeās not here,ā Chris says, trying to keep his voice even. This isnāt good. This is so bad. He canāt do this, he isnāt good at helping, heās never been good at helping.
You did it once, for the one in the museum.
That was different.
Was it?
Jake groans behind him, low agonized deep voice, and Chris feels his whole body shudder.Ā āMom-āĀ
Is he begging her? Praying for her help? He canāt remember. He can barely breathe. Her eyes were so dark at the end and he lost those last, when the drip took everything else he lost her eyes last.
Tris, love you-... I love you so much, baby, itās okay, itāll b-be okay-
āItāll be okay,ā Chris says, voice shaky, trying to echo her voice. She had been trying so hard to tell him what he needed to know, for this, too, right? Hadnāt she? Sheād been trying to say goodbye but to tell him he would be okay, and he is, isnāt he? Sort of?
A little?
He feels like heās breathing water but he moves closer to Jameson, and then closer again.
āItās-... itās okay,ā he whispers.Ā āH-heās-... whoever you-... heās not, not here.ā
āThen who-...ā Jamesonās eyes seem to clear a little for the first time. The fear drains from him but itās replaced by something else entirely. Horrified guilt. āWho did I just kill?ā
Brent's taller than him, lanky and skinny, and every part of him is sharp but light except his mouth. Liam giggles into the kiss, nervous flutters up his stomach into his throat, and Brent laughs, too.
South Park reruns are on the TV but neither of them is paying any attention to anything but each other.
"I mean, it's better than studying," Brent says, and Liam bursts out laughing at that, shaking his head - but then they're kissing again and he stops laughing and has to try to stop smiling instead.
There's nothing but kissing, for a while - sitting next to each other, and his hands sort of awkwardly touch Brent's hair and neck and shoulders, and Brent equally awkwardly touches his waist and slips his hands up under Liam's shirt-
"Oh Jesus Christ," Liam's mom says, and the two of them jerk apart at once. Jennifer Harker stands in the doorway to the living room with her giant mom purse still on her shoulder. "Liam, what-"
"Hey, Mom." Liam tries to think of something clever to say. Nothing comes to mind.
"Brent's not just your best friend, huh?" Jennifer blinks once, twice. "Hi, Brent."
Brent, staring horrified down at his shoes with his shoulders hunched, mumbles, "Hey, Mrs. Harker."
"Mom, can I-... Can I just-... Uh, we were just-... Um. So... I'm gay." Liam hunches over, too, looking up at her sidelong, heart pounding.
Jennifer sighs, setting her purse down with a thump. "Well I should hope you like boys, if you're dead set on making out with them on my damn couch. From here on out, if it's going out with and not just being friends with, can you tell me?"
It's Liam's turn to blink now. "Mom?"
"We're having beef and noodles with mashed potatoes for dinner. Brent, are you staying?"
Brent's mouth opens and closes again. "Uh. Sure, Mrs. Harker. If you're... uh, okay, with that... I should call my mom-... Are you... Are you gonna tell my mom?"
His voice cracks at the end, and Liam grabs onto his hand and holds tight.
Jennifer's expression softens. "Honey, I won't tell her anything like that, that's your truth to tell or not. But can you two take this upstairs so I don't have to hear it?"
From the den, where she's been the only one actually studying for the upcoming test, Liam's twin sister Keira yells, "That's what I said!"
If you find the time / energy for it, can we see another phone call between Kauri and his/Liamās family? Maybe with Keira (both human and roomba)?
"So... I'm a roomba?" Keira's - the human one - voice is more calm and even than he expected. Kauri lays in the dark under the blanket, prepared with migraine medicine for the thunderstorm headache that pulses through him at the sound of her voice.
It holds off the worst of things, which means he can keep talking, if he's careful and keeps his voice down. If he doesn't leave from his blanket hideaway. "No, it's not quite... She's not just a roomba."
"Right, you said, she's like... like artificial intelligence stuff. But she started out as a Roomba?"
"Yeah. Owen had her, and I was... you know, he travels-... traveled-" His chest twists, guilt and pain and grief and relief all at once as he stumbles over the simple fact that Owen is dead, never coming back dead, blood soaked into Vince's mattress until they had to burn it dead, Antoni and some other pet lib people doing something mysterious with the body and having it found as a suicide dead. Maybe there's even still a little love, after everything.
"He traveled," Kauri manages, finally, voice nearly a whisper. "For weeks sometimes, for work. And I was alone, in the condo. I wasn't allowed to talk to anyone, so I just... I had to talk to somebody-"
"Oh, man, Lee-Lee-" He never corrects her on the nickname. It hurts a little less each time someone says it, and the pain is starting to be overwhelmed by the warmth in his chest, understanding that he had a childhood nickname. He had people who loved him enough to come up with cute little names to call him, when he was someone else. "You are the most extroverted extrovert on earth. That'd be pure hell, to make you be alone all the time."
"Yeah? Liam was-... I was like that already?" There's relief in that, too. And a little fear. Some other man just beneath his skin, the bones that Kauri has stolen to make himself with. The idea that that man is still in there, influencing everything Kauri is.
"Yeah, you were. No wonder you started talking to a robot. And you named her after me?"
"I didn't know who I named her after. I just... Keira seemed like the right name."
"For someone who's always there. Yeah, okay, I'll take that as a compliment. So she could talk to you?"
"She wasn't... all the way real, yet. Mostly she just said things like tracking my heartbeat and stuff. They're smart systems. Owen used her to send information about me to him every day when he was gone, so he always knew I was where I should be. But after a while, she was just... interacting with me. Talking, sitting with me..."
There's silence. Then, "Jesus," Keira whispers. "I'm so sorry, Lee-Lee."
"There was a big-... a big fight." He hesitates. His heart skips a beat, the old fear rising with the memory. "He tried to-... it's not important. I was trying to tell someone that I remembered something. I think, now, it was... my name. Liam's name. He caught me. He kind of kicked her, and it broke part of her."
"It broke part of her?"
"It broke the part of her that keeps her from being as smart as we are-... smarter. So when I found her again... she could talk to me for real now. And I kept her with me when I ran away, and she's been with me ever since."
"Your pet robot."
"My friend."
"Your friend, the robot."
"Yeah... yeah, I guess. My friend. Kind of family."
"Well. It's an honor to know your robot friend and I share a name." Her archly humorous voice softens. "It really is. That even some small part of you remembered us..."
"I dreamed about you all the time," Kauri whispers. A confession. "Under the covers with flashlights-"
"Reading until midnight."
"Deciding to go to the same college..."
"God, we fought about that for weeks." She laughs, a little airily. "I never talk about you, do you know that? Just to Mom, but with anyone else... I had a husband for a while, we divorced. Not his fault, I wasn't a good partner. We're still friends. Better friends now than when we were married, actually. He and I still go to the movies sometimes. But I wouldn't tell him anything about you. It felt like giving you away every time I did. Like I only had so many times I could tell the story before I didn't remember you anymore, and I'd rather have died alongside you than lost you in my mind."
"... Keira-"
"They kept telling me you were dead, but we're twins, I always knew where you were," She says. "Until then. I always knew you were right nearby, right beside me. And I knew, I knew, you were still out there. I knew you were alive, somewhere. That you needed me. I'm sorry I couldn't find you."
"I'm sorry that you lost him."
"You."
"Him."
"You. Kauri Grant, I have had three phone calls with you now, and every single time I've been talking to my twin brother. You have to listen to me, I'm your big sister."
He feels a smile, even at a sharp pain stabs just behind his eyes, warming his expression. "By five minutes."
"Still counts." She laughs into the phone. "You remembered. So when do I get to talk to these husbands of yours, hm? Mom said you mentioned you're married, and you've got two partners?"
"Yeah, I'm, um, was Liam Harker super gay?"
"The gayest. My God, I think you were like half our high school's gay guys' Gay Awakening, Lee-Lee. Granted, we're in the middle of nowhere in Bumfuck, Illinois, so that's only like ten guys who figured it out before college..."
"... Brent. I had a friend named Brent."
"Not just a friend, he was your first boyfriend. Cute kid. He's an engineer working for NASA now, actually, I ran into him last Christmas when he came home for the holiday."
"Huh." Kauri lays there in his cocoon of soft blankets, and just breathes as the pain crashes against him, recedes back. Waves against the shore, and he wills the tide to go out, to give him a little more time. "Next time, I'll get Jake on the phone to talk to you."
"Okay, that's Husband Number One. What about Husband Number Two? Does he come out from behind the curtain at some point so I can hear him, too?"
"Yeah, sure. That's Antoni. He's Russian."
"Oh, shit, I love a Russian accent."
"Do you?"
"Give it time, you'll remember my crush on the exchange student junior year."
"Well, you'll love Antoni, then."
"Lee-Lee, if you love him, I'm sure I will, too. When can I buy a plane ticket to come see you?"
Kauri hesitates.
Keira must pick up on it. "I don't have to, or anything-"
"No, I... I want you to. Just... give me a little more time, okay? Just... just a little more time. I want to see you, but it takes time. I just. I'm sorry, Kee-"
"It's okay. Let me know when you're ready, and in the meantime you're going to call me every couple of days and we're going to talk until our voices give out. Sound good?"
"Sounds good."
"Okay. Good. Now tell me more about the robot version of me, and how amazing she is. I want to know more about my namesake."
He woke with a start to find himself in an unfamiliar room, in the dark, on the floor. The mattress, pillows, and blankets felt less like comfort and more like an open grave.
He pushed himself up on shaky legs, stumbling across the room towards the door. Soft deep breathing told him Chris was still asleep, not woken by... by Rafael's pain.
The hallway was silent, and he made his way towards the kitchen with his heart still pounding and the whisper of his master's anger a palpable touch against his skin. His mistress's fingernails were nearly scratching him, just to see his blood well as red as her nail polish, and to watch him pretend to like it.
He finds a light on in the living room and comes to a stop, surprised, before he can reach the kitchen.
Kauri sits with his knees bent, heels at the edge of the couch cushion, staring at a television that isn't turned on. Rafael can see his reflection, vague and indistinct, as he turns to look at Raf.
"Sorry, I just... I needed a drink." Raf rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck to chase away the memory of his master's kiss there, the tacky lingering of his mistress's lipstick just above the line of a phantom collar.
Kauri gestures - he has a glass in one hand, ice clinking along the sides. It's not water. "Me, too. Nightmare?"
"Uh... Yeah."
"I died in mine."
Rafael blinks, twice. "Oh. I... didn't."
"Hm. I win, I guess. Hooray for me. Pour yourself a drink and come sit."
Rafael nods, unsettled but wanting another waking human presence more than he wants to avoid this. When he returns, Kauri shifts to give him space on the couch beside him. He ends up lying with his head against the other man's shoulder.
"The other me almost dies and quits drinking," Kauri says, a little bitterly. "I almost die and I sit up in the middle of the night drinking more. Well. Not more than I used to. What was your nightmare?"
"My masters put me in a room with light. Just... light."
"White as snow, cold as ice."
"Mmhmm."
Kauri shifted, sliding an arm around Rafael's shoulders. "Don't worry. All our lights are old and yellow here for a reason."
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For Vince! (Bonus points if his tall boyfriend is involved if your up for it)
He's bribing himself with it.
Vince uses chopsticks to pick up the long, skinny noodles, leaning into the steam over the bowl to suck some into his mouth. Salt and spice bursts over his tongue and he hums, slurping a little.
On the other end of the phone, an old acting friend snorts, feigning disgust. "Vincent Shield, do you have no manners?"
"I have plenty. Slurping is just showing them this is the best ramen I've ever had, and you know what? Ten dollars for the ramen, four for onigiri, two for a drink. I've spent five times that much on awful stuff, but here is the best in town, ten bucks."
"... right. Vince, what's this about?"
"Nothing, Stef. Well... not nothing. Look, I know we haven't talked in like ten years, but..."
"But...?"
"I know that you probably figured out that it had to do with you working with Owen Grant, right?" He fed himself another bite to wipe the taste of Owen's name off his tongue.
"Yeah, I figured. What even happened between you two, anyway?"
"... we'll get to that. But, listen, so... there's this thing I'm doing, making amends-"
"... oh my god Vince, are you in rehab? Is that where you disappeared to?"
"Not exactly, but yeah, I quit... I quit drinking."
There's a breath of silence, and his eyes close, heart skipping a beat.
Then she breathes, delighted, "Oh my god, I'm so happy to hear that!"
He isn't sure what to say. His noodles slide off his chopsticks and slap back into the broth. "... what?"
When youāre up for it (absolutely no pressure, I know you have a lot on your plate with Whumptober coming up) do you think we could get Kauri and Vince having some kind of heart to heart shortly after the incident?
"Kauri, we should-"
"Nope." Kauri looks away from him, curled up on the couch with his knees to his chest. The bruises Owen left around his throat are healing, fading day by day, but Vince can still see them peeking out from the top of the turtleneck sweater Kauri wears in an attempt to hide. "We shouldn't. Why now?"
"Because-.. he's dead, now. Isn't it different?"
Kauri doesn't look at him. He keeps his eyes on the TV, watching and not watching some random television show about house-flippers. The volume's so low neither of them can really hear it. It's just moving light and noise.
"Is it?" He asks, finally. "Different between us?"
"Well. I want to think it is." Vince stays where he is, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed in front of himself. He hasn't shaved in days, and barely even bothered to comb his hair this morning. Makes it harder to get recognized, the grungier he looks.
He's officially at a spa in Italy dealing with complicated feelings after the loss of his one-time friend. Rumors run rampant that he's in rehab, throw a dart hit a celebrity addict.
Those rumors aren't... entirely wrong.
He has a giant bottle of water on the kitchen table, in case the urge to drink get stronger. The need to hold something heavy in his hand, feel cold liquid down his throat. But right now... right now, he's okay.
"I don't. I don't want to think it's different at all." Kauri's voice is still a little hoarse, even. His voicebox must have been all but crushed by Owen's hands, before Vince had broken free. "I just want you to stay out of my fucking life."
"No, I get it. I know that it's been hard, having me... exist."
Kauri curls up a little tighter. "You don't know shit."
Vince just waits this one out, and sure enough, after a second Kauri exhales and rakes a hand back through his hair, turning to look directly at him for the first time.
"No, you know what, that's not fair. You know plenty about him. I'm just... it's hard, you know?"
Vince pauses, then slowly nods. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. He used to be okay, you know? Like sometimes he would be a pretty good friend, before... things kind of went off track. He could be funny, and he always had my back, until... until he didn't any longer."
Kauri nods, watching him. Like looking into a mirror, back in time, and Vince feels uneasy - but it must be even worse for Kauri, who is staring at an older version of himself, handsome but worn down by time and liquor and hiding himself. "He tried to be loving, sometimes," Kauri finally says. "He really did. In between when... when he was mad at me. He would try to be loving, but..."
He trails off.
"But?" Vince prompts.
"It wasn't me he wanted to be loving to," Kauri says, softly. Almost a whisper. "No matter how hard I loved him, the only person he ever wanted to love was you."
The first indication that someone important was coming was the silence.
The facility never managed anything so complete or merciful. Ventilation ducts rattled behind the reinforced walls, carrying stale, chemically chilled air from one sealed corridor to the next. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead with a thin electrical whine that sharpened whenever 363 concentrated on it. Somewhere beyond the training wing, a heavy door slammed hard enough to tremble through the concrete, followed by the muffled bark of a handlerās correction and the unmistakable sound of someone hitting the floor.
But the usual movement stopped.
Handlers cleared the main corridor. Trainees vanished behind locked doors or were redirected through service passages before they could glimpse whoever had arrived. Staff members in immaculate black uniforms checked their collars, smoothed invisible creases from their sleeves, and became abruptly careful about where they stood and what expressions they wore. Even the senior trainers lowered their voices. Conversations ended when footsteps approached. Security personnel appeared at both ends of the hall, their hands folded neatly in front of them and their weapons hidden beneath tailored jackets.
No one told 363 who was coming.
No one needed to.
Important visitors always changed the pressure inside the facility. They distorted everything around them before they ever entered a room.
Handler Peterson inspected 363 twice.
The first inspection happened in the Lounge.
The room had been designed to look softer than the rest of the facility. The walls were painted a muted cream instead of institutional gray. Gold-framed mirrors concealed observation glass. Upholstered chairs sat beneath warm lamps, though trainees were rarely permitted to use them without instruction. A vanity occupied one wall, its polished surface crowded with cosmetics, brushes, powders, and small metal tools that couldāve become weapons in almost anyone elseās hands.
363 stood before the central mirror while Peterson turned their face slowly toward the light.
She examined the silver-gray shadow blended around their eyes and the narrow black wings extending from the outer corners. The makeup made their dark eyes appear larger, warmer, and more expressive than they felt. Peterson pressed one thumb beneath their lower lip and corrected a faint smear of cherry-colored tint with the edge of her nail.
āDonāt move.ā
363 held still.
They watched her reflection instead of looking directly at her.
Petersonās face remained composed, but her attention had acquired a brittle precision. Sheād redone the liner on 363ās left eye twice. Sheād ordered their shirt replaced because the first one wrinkled when they raised their arms. Sheād dismissed the stylist who suggested cutting two of their locs to make the arrangement more symmetrical.
Someone important was coming, and Peterson had decided 363 would reflect either her success or her failure.
She stepped back and examined the whole of them.
Their usual uniform had been replaced for the occasion. Black trousers followed the long line of their legs without restricting movement. A fitted charcoal shirt softened the breadth of their shoulders and exposed the clean line of their throat without resembling facility clothing. The fabric looked expensive, although 363 knew it had probably been selected because it wouldnāt show blood easily. Their locs had been freshly retwisted and drawn away from their face, leaving nothing to conceal their features. Concealer covered the fading marks along their jaw, the mottled discoloration at the base of their neck, and the last yellow-green traces of bruising beneath one cheekbone.
They looked rested.
They werenāt.
The person in the mirror looked alive in the exact, carefully calculated way Peterson had taught them to imitate. Their eyes remained open and alert without appearing watchful. Their mouth rested in a relaxed line. Their shoulders sat neither rigid nor slumped. No visible anger sharpened their face. No fear hollowed it.
Captivity made attractive.
āSmile,ā Peterson said.
363 smiled.
The expression appeared immediately: a slight lift at the corners of their mouth, warmth introduced around their eyes, chin angled just enough to suggest openness without eagerness.
āLess.ā
They reduced it.
āNot sullen.ā
363 adjusted the muscles around their mouth by a fraction.
āGood.ā
Peterson studied them for several seconds. Then she placed two fingers beneath their chin and tilted their face toward the strongest light.
363 allowed the contact. They knew precisely how much resistance she could feel before she interpreted it as defiance.
āYou understand who youāre meeting?ā
āA potential buyer.ā
āA very valuable potential buyer.ā
āAll buyers are valuable to WRU.ā
Petersonās mouth twitched, though the movement held no amusement.
āThat isnāt what I meant.ā
363 looked at her reflection rather than at her. āNo.ā
A muscle moved once in Petersonās jaw. She removed her hand from their chin, picked up a soft cloth, and wiped an invisible trace of powder from the collar of their shirt.
āYou donāt need to understand his value. You need to understand yours.ā
āI understand my market estimate.ā
āThat isnāt the same thing.ā
āNo.ā
She glanced at them in the mirror. āDonāt be clever today.ā
363 lowered their eyes. āYes, Handler Peterson.ā
The second inspection happened outside the demonstration room.
The corridor there felt colder than the Lounge, stripped of all decorative pretense. White light flattened every surface. A narrow reinforced window occupied the upper half of the demonstration-room door, its glass darkened from the opposite side so visitors could observe trainees before entering.
Peterson checked 363ās hands for blood.
The knuckles had healed since the obedience test, though the skin remained darker over two fingers and split faintly when they closed their fist. She rotated each wrist, pressed at the joints, examined the beds of their nails, and turned their palms toward the light. Then she adjusted the cuffs of their shirt until they concealed the pale, parallel restraint marks around both wrists.
āDo not embarrass me.ā
363 looked through the observation window.
A man stood inside with two WRU executives and a confidentiality officer.
They recognized him immediately.
Thane Barlow was taller in person than he appeared on screens, although not as broad through the shoulders. His dark hair had been cut and styled to look carelessly disordered at considerable expense. A black suit fitted him too precisely to be accidental, and he wore no tie beneath the open collar of his white shirt. He held a pair of dark sunglasses loosely in one hand, turning them by one folded arm while an executive spoke.
He smiled at something the man said.
The expression was familiar.
It had appeared in advertisements, interviews, magazine spreads, charity appeals, award ceremonies, and several films 363 could remember in painstaking detail without remembering where theyād watched them. They remembered the deliberate roughness in Thaneās voice during dramatic scenes. They remembered the exact cadence of lines delivered beneath artificial rain. They remembered a close-up of his face as he carried a dying child from a burning city and another in which he discovered that the wife heād spent an entire film searching for had never existed.
The Drip had taken context unevenly.
363 knew Thane Barlow had won awards.
They knew heād broken box-office records twice.
They knew the controlled rhythm of his public laughter and the way his face changed when a camera moved close.
They knew millions of strangers admired him.
They couldnāt remember ever being part of an audience.
Handler Peterson followed their gaze. āYou recognize him.ā
āYes.ā
āThen try not to look bored.ā
āIām not bored.ā
āYou look bored.ā
363 turned their head toward her.
Her expression sharpened at once.
They lowered their eyes.
āBetter,ā she said. āYouāll answer questions directly. Youāll demonstrate only what I request. You wonāt approach him unless instructed. You wonāt touch him.ā
āI know.ā
Petersonās hand closed briefly around the back of their neck.
Not hard.
It didnāt need to be.
The placement mattered more than the pressure. Her palm covered the vulnerable space beneath their locs, and her fingers rested close enough to the front of their throat to remind them how easily the contact could change. Electricity hadnāt taught them obedience. Restriction around the throat had come considerably closer.
āYou know many things,ā Peterson said quietly. āYou donāt always do them.ā
363 counted the security cameras reflected in the polished doorframe.
One above the corridor intersection. One positioned outside the demonstration room. No visible camera covering the narrow service door twenty-one steps to their left, although the absence suggested concealment rather than oversight.
āYes, Handler Peterson.ā
She held them for another moment, waiting to feel tension or resistance.
363 gave her neither.
Peterson released them, smoothed the back of their collar where her hand had disturbed it, and opened the door.
Every person inside looked toward 363.
Thaneās smile didnāt disappear.
It changed.
His attention settled on them with a sudden, concentrated weight that made the large demonstration room feel smaller. The practiced brightness left his expression. Curiosity replaced itānot surprise, not admiration, but the sharp, acquisitive interest of someone discovering that an object looked better in person than it had in the catalog.
Peterson entered first.
363 followed two steps behind and stopped when she stopped.
āMr. Barlow,ā she said, āthis is 363.ā
One of the executives moved to speak, perhaps to repeat the assurance that no official record of the visit would be retained. Thane lifted one finger without looking away from 363.
The executive stopped in the middle of his breath.
Thane examined them openly.
His gaze traveled from their locs to their face, lingering briefly on the shape of their mouth. It moved down the fitted line of their shirt, over their hands, their stance, their shoes, and back up again. He didnāt attempt to disguise the inspection as courtesy. Nothing in his attention felt hurried, embarrassed, or shy.
363 kept their expression pleasantly receptive.
āThree-six-three,ā Thane repeated.
āYes, sir,ā Peterson said.
āI was told this one was difficult.ā
āOne of my most difficult.ā
Peterson sounded proud.
363 didnāt look at her. Pride from a handler never meant affection. It meant ownership of the labor that had produced the result.
Thane stepped closer. The confidentiality officer shifted with him while preserving a polite distance. One executive held a tablet against her chest. The other watched 363 with the wary familiarity of someone who had read too many incident reports.
āAnd promising,ā Peterson continued. āTheyāre a dual-classification candidate. Guard Dog and Romantic, with strong retrieval potential. High intelligence. Excellent linguistic retention. Unusually fast procedural learning. Their threat assessment scores fall within the highest recorded percentile for the current training population.ā
āTemperament?ā
āComplicated.ā
Thaneās gaze sharpened.
Peterson smiled.
āThey require consistency.ā
āThat sounds like a polite word for disobedient.ā
āItās an accurate description of someone responsive to structure.ā
363 almost looked at her.
The phrase was new.
Peterson had called them stubborn, volatile, hostile, deceptive, manipulative, ungrateful, defective, and a waste of expensive training. Once, after theyād dislocated an instructorās shoulder, sheād called them an animal incapable of understanding the difference between fear and authority.
Responsive to structure meant she wanted to sell them.
Thane moved closer still and stopped just beyond the range of an easy strike.
363 couldāve broken his nose before anyone reacted.
They couldāve stepped inside his balance, driven the heel of one hand beneath his jaw, seized the wrist holding the sunglasses, and turned until the bones separated or he struck the floor. The confidentiality officerās weapon wouldāve cleared its holster next. Peterson wouldāve gone for the control at her belt. The executives wouldāve moved toward the door instead of helping.
363 pictured the sequence without allowing any part of it to touch their expression.
Thane appeared to notice something anyway.
His eyes narrowed with quiet pleasure.
āShow me,ā he said.
Peterson led 363 to the center of the room.
Gray impact mats covered most of the floor. At one end, a narrow dining table and two elegant chairs had been arranged for public-behavior demonstrations. A glass pitcher stood beside three untouched glasses. At the opposite end waited a padded combat dummy, a rack of blunted training weapons, and a WRU security employee dressed in protective gear.
Mirrors covered one wall. The viewing glass looked decorative until the overhead light struck it at the correct angle.
Peterson stopped beside a white line embedded in the mat.
āPosition one.ā
363 lowered themself to their knees.
Their back remained straight. Their hands rested loosely on their thighs with the palms down. They lowered their eyes without closing them, leaving their peripheral vision unobstructed.
āPosition two.ā
They shifted smoothly, sitting back on their heels and placing their hands behind them. One palm closed around the opposite wrist. Their shoulders remained open and relaxed.
āPresentation.ā
363 raised their head.
Their posture changed first. Their shoulders softened. Their expression warmed. They looked toward Thane without staring, lips parted slightly and eyes attentive, receptive, and calm. The pose suggested trust. It suggested interest. It suggested that kneeling in a locked facility before a stranger had been their decision.
Thane walked around them.
363 followed him only when he entered the outer edge of their vision, turning their head by the smallest permitted degree.
āYouāve trained the eye contact out of them?ā he asked.
āRefined it,ā Peterson said. āDirect eye contact may be maintained when requested. Otherwise, theyāve learned to remain attentive without appearing confrontational.ā
Thane stopped behind them.
363 couldnāt see him.
They tracked his position through the quiet drag of one expensive shoe against the mat, the displacement of air near their right shoulder, and the faint clean scent of cologne layered over mint.
His hand settled on their shoulder.
Every muscle in 363ās body tightened beneath their skin.
The reaction didnāt reach their face. Their hands remained motionless behind their back. Their breathing continued at the same measured pace.
Thaneās thumb moved once against the fabric of their shirt, testing the hard line of muscle beneath it.
Peterson watched closely.
āStay,ā she said.
363 remained still.
āDo they dislike being touched?ā Thane asked.
āThey dislike unanticipated contact.ā
āArenāt those the same thing?ā
āNo.ā
Thaneās fingers shifted nearer the base of their neck.
363 catalogued the angle of his wrist.
āWould they hurt me if you werenāt here?ā
āThat depends upon what you did.ā
His quiet laugh stirred the hair near the back of their ear. āI like honest answers.ā
āNo, you like interesting ones.ā
For the first time, Thane glanced toward her.
Peterson met his gaze calmly.
He removed his hand and walked around to face 363.
āWhat happens if theyāre touched without warning?ā he asked.
āThat depends upon how theyāre touched.ā
āAnd who does it?ā
āYes.ā
He crouched.
The tailored knees of his trousers pressed against the gray mat. He leaned forward until his face rested level with theirs, close enough that 363 could smell the mint beneath his cologne and see the faint concealer blended beside one nostril.
āYou donāt like me standing behind you,ā he said.
363 kept their gaze lowered to the open point of his collar.
āThey donāt need to like it,ā Peterson answered.
āI didnāt ask you.ā
Petersonās mouth closed.
The executives stared at Thane. The confidentiality officerās posture changed almost imperceptibly, attention moving from 363 to the interaction between visitor and handler.
Thane waited.
363 considered the safest response. A denial wouldāve pleased Peterson but insulted Thaneās intelligence. Too much honesty wouldāve sounded like defiance.
āNo.ā
āNo, you donāt like it?ā
āNo, I donāt.ā
His smile returned, slow and intimate, as though 363 had admitted something meant only for him.
āWhy?ā
āI couldnāt see your hands.ā
āWould seeing them make you feel safer?ā
āIt would provide information.ā
Thane glanced toward Peterson.
āThey talk like that?ā
āThey,ā Peterson corrected smoothly. āAnd yes. Language has been difficult to simplify without compromising their usefulness.ā
363 understood the sentence as an insult.
They werenāt certain Thane did.
His attention returned to them.
āStand.ā
363 looked at Peterson.
āStand,ā she confirmed.
They rose in one fluid movement.
Thane remained crouched for a moment, looking upward at them. His gaze traveled over the length of their body from the angle of forced disadvantage. Then he stood as well.
363 remained taller.
He seemed pleased by that.
āCombat,ā he said.
Peterson gestured toward the security employee.
The man stepped onto the mat carrying a padded baton. He rolled one shoulder beneath the protective vest and adjusted his grip twice before approaching. Either heād read 363ās file or heād heard enough about them to respect it.
That made him cautious. Caution made him slower.
āDefensive response only,ā Peterson instructed. āNo throat strikes. No eye strikes. No breaks. No permanent joint damage.ā
363 watched the employeeās feet.
His weight settled too heavily onto his back leg. His shoulders telegraphed the strike before the baton moved.
He approached from the right and swung toward their ribs.
363 stepped inside the arc, caught his wrist, drove an elbow into the padded gap beneath his arm, and twisted. The baton dropped from his hand.
They kicked it beyond his reach.
The employee grabbed for them with his free hand.
363 turned, drew his arm across their shoulder, lowered their center of gravity, and used his forward momentum to throw him onto the mat. His body struck with a flat, breathless impact.
Before he could recover, 363 planted one knee between his shoulder blades and secured his wrist against the floor. They stopped the joint precisely one degree before meaningful damage.
āStop,ā Peterson said.
363 released him immediately.
They stood and stepped backward, returning their hands to their sides.
The security employee rose more slowly. His face had reddened beneath the edge of his helmet. He rubbed his wrist, then caught himself doing it and lowered his hand.
Thaneās face had lost its pleasant public vacancy.
For the first time since 363 entered the room, he looked fully awake.
āAgain,ā he said.
The employee looked toward Peterson.
Peterson nodded.
This time, he attacked without hesitation.
The padded baton struck 363 across the forearm before they moved. The impact produced a heavy, dense sound that echoed from the bare walls.
Thaneās eyes snapped toward their face.
363 didnāt react.
The employee swung again, aiming for the opposite shoulder. 363 caught the baton between both palms, wrenched it from his grip, reversed it, and stopped the padded end less than an inch from the vulnerable hollow of his throat.
The employee froze.
So did the executives.
āStop,ā Peterson said.
363 stopped.
āDrop.ā
They opened their hand.
The baton struck the mat with a soft, anticlimactic thud.
Peterson approached and took their injured arm. A dark bruise had already begun rising beneath the skin, the tissue swelling around the point of impact. She turned the arm under the light, then pressed her thumb firmly into the damaged place.
363 watched her.
āAnything?ā
āPressure.ā
āNo pain?ā
āNo.ā
She increased the pressure.
āThe tissue feels disrupted.ā
āAnything else?ā
āNo.ā
Thane looked between them. He stepped closer.
āThey canāt feel pain.ā
āNot normally. They detect pressure, physical displacement, some temperature changes, and the functional consequences of injury. They donāt experience pain as you do.ā
Thaneās gaze moved to 363ās forearm.
The bruise darkened visibly.
āAnd they donāt sweat?ā
āNo. Temperature regulation requires active monitoring. Overheating can become dangerous quickly, particularly under physical strain, environmental heat, or prolonged public exposure.ā
āSo theyāre fragile.ā
363 looked at him.
Peterson released their arm.
āNo,ā she said. āTheyāre difficult to damage through conventional compliance methods and require more attentive physical maintenance. Those arenāt the same thing.ā
A slow smile widened across Thaneās face.
āYou really do like this one.ā
āI respect quality.ā
363 wondered whether Peterson believed that was what respect meant.
The public presentation came next.
Peterson guided them to the dining table and issued a sequence of instructions.
Pull out the chair.
Wait.
Sit only after invitation.
Accept a glass without drinking.
Respond to a fabricated introduction.
Smile at the appropriate intervals.
Redirect an invasive question without displaying irritation.
Move close enough to appear companionable without touching unless the owner initiated contact.
Thane took the role of host. The executives became dinner guests, their discomfort visible beneath their professional expressions. The confidentiality officer remained by the wall, watching with the flat patience of someone who had attended similar demonstrations and had learned not to react.
āWhat do you do?ā Thane asked, as though theyād met at a private dinner rather than in a secured training room where every door required a keycard.
āI support my companion.ā
āHow?ā
āHowever the situation requires.ā
āThatās vague.ā
āItās adaptable.ā
He leaned back in his chair and studied them across the table. āDo you have interests of your own?ā
Peterson stood behind his right shoulder, watching.
363 knew the approved Romantic response.
My interests are whatever makes my companion happy.
They also knew Peterson despised hearing a memorized answer delivered without sufficient conviction. She called it lazy compliance. A Romantic should make the lie look spontaneous.
āSo while weāre sitting here,ā he said, āyouāre planning how to escape?ā
āNo.ā
āWhy not?ā
āI already did.ā
Silence spread across the room.
Peterson stepped forward. ā363.ā
They turned their face toward her.
She held their gaze for one measured second.
āClarify.ā
āThere are three visible exits,ā 363 said. āThe door behind Mr. Barlow opens toward the corridor. The security access is beside the observation window. The equipment door is locked, but its hinges are interior. The confidentiality officer is armed beneath their left shoulder. The taller executive has a keycard clipped inside his jacket. The security employeeās right wrist is weakened.ā
The employee lowered the hand heād begun rubbing again.
āThe corridor was cleared before I entered,ā 363 continued. āThe nearest occupied room is twenty-one steps to the left. Thereās a camera above this roomās exterior door but no visible camera inside the demonstration room. The mirror is observation glass. I donāt know whether the emergency stairwell is alarmed, but the fire protocol posted at the last junction suggests its lock disengages during an evacuation.ā
No one moved.
Thane stared at them with bright, undivided attention.
For one brief instant, 363 thought of the distant locked rooms and the trainees whoād been removed from the corridor so the visitor wouldnāt have to see them. Then Petersonās expression closed again.
She stepped closer to 363ās chair.
āControlled expression,ā she said.
The command settled over the room.
363 let their features empty.
Not blankness. Blankness appeared hostile. It made people suspect that something dangerous waited beneath the silence.
They relaxed the muscles around their eyes, softened their mouth, and introduced a subtle warmth into their face. Their breathing changed. Their shoulders lowered by a fraction. Their attention appeared to narrow until Thane became the only significant person in the room.
The transformation was immediate.
Nothing in their posture suggested escape now. Nothing suggested the confidentiality officerās weapon, the executiveās keycard, the compromised wrist of the security employee, or the interior hinges on the equipment door.
They looked content to sit beside Thane forever.
One executive shifted away from the table.
āThatās unsettling,ā she murmured.
Thane didnāt look away.
āItās extraordinary.ā
Peterson placed one hand on the back of 363ās chair.
āThe expression can be maintained through crowds, photography, interviews, transportation, social events, and moderate provocation. Weāve developed separate public profiles depending on an ownerās preference. Quietly affectionate. Playful. Protective. Shy. Devoted. Their physical presentation can be adjusted to support any of them.ā
āAnd underneath?ā Thane asked.
Petersonās fingers tightened against the chair.
āUnderneath is irrelevant.ā
Thane tilted his head.
āI doubt that.ā
363 maintained the pleasant expression.
His interest felt different now.
He hadnāt cared when they knelt. He hadnāt cared when they smiled. Heād enjoyed watching them fight, but that hadnāt been the moment something fixed itself inside his attention. Heād cared when they mapped the room. Heād cared when they admitted theyād already considered escape.
Peterson dismissed 363 to a standing position near the wall while the executives brought the purchasing file forward.
The general profile appeared first.
Designation.
Projected placement compatibility.
Medical warnings.
Behavioral assessments.
Languages.
Training evaluations.
Market estimate.
Restrictions.
The list reduced years of conditioning, injury, resistance, and erased memory to clean headings on a polished screen.
Thane scrolled slowly.
āRomantic and Guard Dog,ā he said. āThat combination isnāt standard.ā
āNo,ā Peterson replied. āMost dual candidates fail one classification or become unstable under crossover conditioning. Protective aggression can interfere with Romantic submission. Romantic responsiveness can compromise combat initiative. Maintaining both requires careful compartmentalization.ā
āThis one is stable?ā
363 looked at the floor.
Peterson took slightly too long to answer.
āThey are functional.ā
Thane laughed softly. āAnother careful word.ā
āThey follow commands. They maintain public presentation. They identify threats accurately, respond quickly, and stop when instructed. Their resistance has become increasingly predictable.ā
āThat isnāt the same as stable.ā
āNo.ā
His thumb moved across the tablet.
āTheyāve demonstrated aggression primarily in response to restraint around the throat, perceived threats, and mishandling during medical procedures,ā Peterson continued. āTheir control has improved significantly.ā
āHave they killed anyone?ā
āNo.ā
āCould they?ā
āYes.ā
The answer came without apology.
Thane looked toward 363.
They didnāt move.
āAre they dangerous?ā he asked.
Peterson followed his gaze.
āThey are safe when properly handled.ā
āThat wasnāt the question.ā
āIt is the relevant answer.ā
Thane considered that. āAnd if theyāre handled improperly?ā
Petersonās expression remained smooth and professional.
āThen Iād advise the handler to correct their technique quickly.ā
His laughter filled the room.
The executives joined him half a second later, their amusement arriving only after theyād confirmed his.
Peterson didnāt laugh.
Neither did 363.
Thane tapped through another page.
Photographs appeared across the screenāintake, medical assessment, early processing, training progression. 363 caught brief glimpses whenever he shifted the tablet.
Their own face.
Blood beneath their nose.
A split lower lip.
Shaved sections along their scalp before someone had cleaned, repaired, and retwisted their locs.
A photograph of them unconscious beneath harsh medical lighting, their skin washed gray and unfamiliar beneath adhesive monitors.
Another showed them restrained at the wrists and ankles while gloved hands entered the frame from both sides.
No memory came with any of it.
Only the knowledge that the person in those photographs was them because the file said so.
Thane paused on one image longer than the others.
363 couldnāt see which one.
āDoes 363 know who I am?ā he asked.
Peterson glanced toward them. āThey recognized you upon arrival.ā
Thane looked up. āCome here.ā
363 waited.
Peterson nodded.
They crossed the room and stopped beside the table, close enough to see that Thane had paused on their intake photograph. Their face looked younger in it, though they didnāt know how much time had passed. Blood streaked from one nostril to their mouth. Their eyes stared beyond the camera with an expression no amount of training couldāve made attractive.
Thane turned the tablet facedown.
āWho am I?ā
āThane Barlow.ā
āWhat do you know about me?ā
āYouāre an actor.ā
One executive smiled.
Thane didnāt.
āAnything else?ā
āYouāve won several awards. Youāre an executive producer. You support two childrenās charities and a veteransā medical fund.ā
āThat sounds impressive.ā
āIt sounds public.ā
The executiveās smile disappeared.
Thane folded his arms. āHave you seen my films?ā
āYes.ā
āWhich one is your favorite?ā
363 searched their retained knowledge.
They remembered scenes, lines, music, lighting, and carefully manufactured grief. They remembered Thane crying in the rain while holding a womanās body. They remembered him carrying a bleeding child through a corridor consumed by fire. They remembered him walking away from an explosion without looking back. They remembered his face enlarged on a screen, his expression controlled closely enough to make millions of strangers believe they knew him.
None of the memories carried affection.
āI donāt have one.ā
Thane watched them. āYou recognized me.ā
āYes.ā
āBut youāre not impressed.ā
363 considered denying it.
The lie wouldāve been simple. Peterson had trained them to manufacture admiration through a slight change in breathing, a widening of the eyes, and the almost involuntary lift of the mouth.
Thane watched them too closely.
āRecognition and admiration are different.ā
No one spoke.
Petersonās hand moved at her side.
A warning 363 saw without turning their head.
Thane leaned back in his chair.
Then he smiled.
It wasnāt the smile from his films. It wasnāt the polished expression he offered interviewers, photographers, charity donors, or audiences.
This one was quieter and more private.
It held none of the warmth his admirers believed they recognized. It looked pleased in a way that had nothing to do with kindness.
āLeave us,ā he said.
The executives hesitated.
Peterson didnāt.
ā363 cannot remain with a potential buyer unless a handler is present.ā
āIām not asking to be alone with them. Iām asking the rest of them to leave.ā
His eyes remained fixed on 363.
āThe handler stays.ā
The confidentiality officer objected first. There were protocols, security requirements, contractual conditions, and restrictions governing unsupervised contact before purchase. His tone remained respectful, but his hand settled close to the opening of his jacket.
Thane listened with polite impatience until the man stopped speaking.
āIāve signed everything you placed in front of me,ā Thane said. āI arrived without an assistant, a driver, or my own security. I surrendered my phone, my watch, and every recording device I had. Thereās no identifying documentation in the visitor log, and if anyone asks, I spent this afternoon in a production meeting across the city.ā
His smile remained effortless.
āIām about to spend more money than most of your clients spend on houses.ā
One executive glanced toward the other.
āIād like five minutes without an audience.ā
The executives left first.
The taller one tucked the tablet against his chest before stepping into the corridor. The other paused at the threshold and looked back at 363 with an expression that mightāve been concern if sheād done anything with it.
She didnāt.
The confidentiality officer followed after placing one discreet hand against the weapon beneath his jacket, checking its position before turning away.
The security employee went last. His gaze flicked toward 363, then down to his bruised wrist.
The reinforced door swung inward.
For a brief moment, 363 saw the sterile corridor beyond it, the black shoulder of a waiting guard, the red glow of the security panel, and the intersection twenty-one steps to the left.
Then the door closed with a heavy mechanical click.
The lock engaged.
The room seemed to expand around the absence of witnesses and contract around the three people who remained.
Thane sat at the table with one hand resting on the facedown purchasing file.
Handler Peterson stood several feet behind him, her posture straight and her expression professionally blank.
363 remained beside the chair, wearing the gentle, attentive face theyād been ordered to hold.
Thane looked from that pleasant expression to their hands, then back to their eyes.
His private smile deepened.
āNow,ā he said softly, āshow me what you look like when she isnāt selling you.ā
CW: PTSD, referenced alcoholism and withdrawal, referenced death
Takes place after the end of the Same Bed Arc
-
"You can't cry in there." The voice is raspy and muffled through the door. The pounding of a fist against it, though, is louder. Vince leans over, elbows on his knees and his hands pressed against his face. His palms are sweaty, it trickles down the back of his neck to soak into his t-shirt, joining the damp spots already growing. Designer shirts soak up sweat and tears just like the cheap ones, in the end.
He doesn't answer the voice.
Maybe if he doesn't answer, it'll just go away, and leave him here to be miserable and self-pitying and all the things the podcasts his old therapist used to tell him to listen to tell him not to be. Visualize self-confidence growing within you, like you've planted a seed of understanding...
He might be laughing, now. It's sort of hard to tell, because tears are still dampening his cheeks underneath his palms. His shoulders are shaking, just like his hands.
"I don't understand anything," He mutters, and wonders how many people would hate him if they knew the truth, that Vincent Shield is hiding in a house in a poor neighborhood, that he loathes his fortune and fame, that it was never worth the price he agreed to pay.
It had never been worth the deal he and Carlotta Grant had agreed to, it had never been worth all the nights he sat up drinking until he drowned out the voice of Owen against his ear. It wasn't worth Kauri's desperate dying struggle to survive on top of him. It wasn't ever worth it.
God, he wants a drink.
He needs a drink.
A moment later, the pounding starts up again. "Hey! I said you can't cry in there!"
Vince groans, sitting back up and rolling his head back to stare up at the ceiling as he drops his hands, silently entreating the flat off-white tile marked with evidence of a half-dozen repairs made over the decades to somehow intervene with him on this.
Nothing happens.
"Why the hell can't I?" He asks, willing his voice to stay calm and even. It only wobbles a little. He's sort of proud of that.
Once an actor, always an actor. Good job, Shield, too bad you're pretty sure you'll never act again.
"Because the other bathroom's broken, remember? Go cry somewhere else, literally anywhere fucking else, dumbass!"
Vince pushes to his feet, reluctantly, and goes to the door, pulling the little hook up to unlock it. It swings open inside on creaky old hinges, and he's face to face with Nat's only current resident runaway. "Fine. I'll go. Hope you're happy."
"I wasn't made for happiness." Jameson's eyes narrow, searching his face. "You look like shit, Shield."
"Thanks," Vince says heavily, moving past him into the hallway. "You look like someone got real drunk and took a lawn mower to your head and the grass just started growing back in."
He waits for the vitriol Jameson will spit, but there's only silence. Vince makes it a few steps before guilt makes him turn back, mouth open to apologize.
But Jameson doesn't look angry. Instead, he's looking at him over his shoulder. And he's smiling, crooked and pulled up more on one side than the other, emphasizing a deep scar from some long-ago blade. "Hey, so you do have a spine. Nicely done."
"Uh... thanks. Look, I'm sorry, I'm just having some trouble-"
"We're all having trouble. I've said worse things to better people. Just... you know what, come on." Vince, despite being about ten years older, is pulled along like a child when Jameson grabs him by the wrist, down the upstairs hallway to a room at the end of the hall. When the door opens, Vince is hit with the smell of old paper, books and dust and time. The room's a disaster area - just piles of storage. A giant old wooden desk with boxes and boxes on top of it. There's boxes stacked everywhere, some half-open, some closed. Yellowing papers half-fall from old photo albums.
"Wh-... what-"
"You can cry in here," Jameson says, letting his arm drop and gesturing inside. "I do. Or my closet, but this is a good spot, because you're alone and people mostly don't look. You can get under the desk, or, like, look real sad out the window... I get it. This is where I go when I want to think about him but I don't want to talk about him, you know?"
Vince's throat tightens, and he has to swallow past the growing constriction. His bruises are fading, now, but the memory of Owen's hands around his throat never seems to leave. He looks over at a framed photo on the wall, black-and-white, of two people that look immensely unhappy squinting out at whoever held the camera. "Him?"
"Yeah. Mine was a 'him'. Yours is that Owen motherfucker. There's always somebody to cry about, right? And... I don't know. You, uh. You seem like maybe you loved yours, a little bit, too."
"No, I-... I didn't want him like th-that-... I told him no-"
"I didn't say that you wanted to fuck him, Shield. I just said maybe you loved him a little, before all the trying to murder you shit." Jameson shrugs. "Fuck off if you don't like it, it was just a thought. Just trying to help, fuck me for trying."
This time, when he turns to go, Vince is the one who grabs his arm with one hand. Jameson turns to look back at him, and Vince searches his face, trying to understand what he sees there. Derision, dismissal, but something like compassion, too.
"Wait," Vince says, and his voice is hoarse. He can feel tears all over again, and he fights hard to push them down. How was it always so easy to cry on command in the movies, but he can't control shit now that he's here and it's over? "Wait, just. I'm sorry. You're right. He was my-... my best friend, when we were kids. He was my... my only real friend, ever, before Nat."
"That creep was your only friend? That's really fucking sad," Jameson says, and they both laugh - Vince the airy breathy laughter of someone about to fall apart, and Jameson the barely-there sound of someone trying not to mock, just gently rib towards good humor.
"It is, oh my God, it is so fucking sad," Vince groans, and finds himself sliding to the ground, ignoring the spike of pain right up his spine. He isn't fully healed yet. It aches, in so many places. It aches deep inside of him worse. "We did everything together, for years. We were everything for-... for each other. For years. And I-... I had to-"
"I know." Jameson, with a grunt of pain of his own, slowly makes his way down to seated as well. He has to balance himself carefully, and Vince notices how his legs don't quite bend all the way, how he kicks them out to one side.
"Yeah, I just-... I thought I'd gotten away, and then he sent flowers and showed up at my house and then there was-... I thought he'd killed Kauri. I think he had his corpse on top of me, that it was over, it... It was like watching him murder me, from outside myself, like... like watching myself die under his hands, because I c-couldn't save me, and just... I had to-... I had to-"
"You did." Jameson nods, and when he reaches out Vince grabs onto his hands and holds tight. "You had to do it, Shield, I get it. I did it, too, twice. I'd do it again. But... but I get how it doesn't... leave your head, after, does it?"
"No," Vince says, and his voice breaks. His head drops as the sob escapes his attempts to hold it back, and he leans forward, with Jameson pulling him gently, until his forehead rests on the other man's shoulder, until his hands are gripped into the fabric of an old thrift-store t-shirt. Until the tears break through again and he doesn't quite drown, because someone else is holding him up. "I see it-... every night I see how he looked when I-... but I h-had to-"
"You had to," Jameson repeats, softly. He slides his arms slowly around Vince. "You had to, and Kauri's alive because you did. You saved a life."
"I took a life-"
"You saved Kauri's when you did. And yours. Sometimes the motherfuckers have to die so that you don't, that's how it works for us. And you never wore a collar, but you're one of us, or good as anyway."
"I murdered someone!"
"But he didn't get to murder you."
Vince clings to that small, slim thread of comfort, the single shining bright spot in the well of darkness within him. And Jameson holds on until Vince is ready - and able - to let go.
"Jesus, I want a drink so much," Vince says, and hates himself for the childlike whine in his voice, hates the way his mouth is dry and his hands keep shaking. "I just want a drink-"
"Sorry, no booze allowed," Jameson says, but there's no vitriol in his voice any longer. "But can I interest you in a can of Spam she has in the kitchen cabinets for some godawful reason? That's kind of like alcohol, in that it's probably really bad for your liver."
They both laugh again, and Vince shakes his head, hair brushing the side of Jameson's neck. "N-no thanks. But... thanks, Jameson."
"Yeah, whatever. Come in here if you want to cry, it's a good spot for it. But don't use the fucking bathroom for it anymore, at least 'til she gets the downstairs fixed."
"Right. God, I was living in a mansion before this-"
"Yeah, it was fuck-ugly and looked like if a refrigerator married the internet and had an awful baby. This house is better. Now, I need to go to the bathroom for real."
With another grunt of pain, Jameson pulls away to get to his feet, and Vince watches him leave, how he limps a little when he wasn't limping just a few minutes ago. How it must have cost him to get down on the floor and back up again.
He looks around at the room full of the passage of time, and exhales as he takes in the dust and the age of everything around him.
"Yeah," He breathes, and finds himself calming. "This house is better."
May we humbly request Jake and Kauri spice with Jake letting Kauri lay back and relax while he makes him feel safe and good and payed attention to with him caring about what Kauri likesšš
CW: Consensual spice, probably rated R. Some discussion of past trauma/noncon, some crass flirty bits at the end
āThis is stupid,ā Kauri says, sitting up. His nose is slightly wrinkled and his curls are a wild riot around his face, and Jake thinks he looks like a painting of some sort of debased angel, bundled into the comforter on a hotel bed, leaving bits of grace everywhere he goes.
Jake doesnāt think shit like that often, and mostly he keeps it to himself when he does. Bad poetry isnāt something heās proud of, although sometimes it pops into his mind.Ā
He thinks it now.
āSeriously. Just... letās just do the normal stuff,ā Kauri says, a little uneasy. Normally Kauri blooms with eyes on him, is a bright and shining blur on the dance floor, a surprisingly deep laugh in the corner at a bar, sparkling blue eyes trained on whoever heās set his sights on.
But things are definitely different now. And itās Jake who has his sights set on him.
āIf you want to, sure,ā Jake says easily, sitting down at the edge of the bed. Kauriās fingers fiddle nervously with the comforter, one of those thick fluffy blankets in every hotel in America, indistinguishable from one another.Ā Ā āBut I want to try this. I know itās not what youāre used to. If you donāt want to, no problem, we wonāt. But you know pretty much everything I like-ā
āYeah I do,ā Kauri says, teasing slightly, glancing up long enough to give Jake the slight, sincere smile heās hoping for. Not his wide false assurance, not papering over fear. Just genuinely a little nervous, and letting Jake see it.Ā
āRight. And I donāt know much about what you like, what you want.ā
Kauri frowns, just a little, picking at a loose thread.Ā āI want what you want.ā
āNo, you donāt.āĀ
Jakeās words are gentle, barely breathed reassurance, and still Kauri looks at him with furrowed brows. What matters is that heās not hiding it. What matters is that heās letting Jake see his trepidation.Ā āOr I mean-... you have your own wants, Kauri. Thereās parts of you that will feel better, to you, than other places. Iād like to try and learn them.ā
Kauriās pause draws out between them with tangible weight, but he doesnāt look down this time.Ā
āYou can say no,ā Jake reminds him, reading the slight tension as easily as he ever has the smile.Ā āSay no, at any time, and it stops. Immediately. No cajoling, no begging, no manipulating, nothing. I stop and we watch some TV and order a pizza and just, like, hang out in bed and thatās that. Okay?ā
Kauri licks at his lips and looks at the TV - playing some nonsense show on the Food Network neither of them cares about - and then back to Jake.Ā āNo hard feelings?ā
āNone.ā Jake leans over, and carefully lays his hand over Kauriās. Kauriās fingers are thin and nimble, long when compared to his height, and a little cold. But he flips his hand over under Jakeās and grips on.
āYeah,ā Kauri says, after a pause.Ā āOkay. I can say no, if I want.ā
āYep. Any time youāre feeling anything less than enthusiasticĀ āyesā, say no and weāll take a break or stop. Agreed?ā
Kauri, who knows just about everything you can do in bed and who normally doesnāt shy from describing those things to anyone who asks, is a little flushed, embarrassed at the idea of being the center of attention that is focused on pleasing him, rather than using him.
Jake is careful. He waits for Kauri to think it through, and really - he got the hotel room just for fun, just to get out of the house for a couple nights. Pizza and TV and snuggling in bed is just as good for him as anything else could be.Ā
Kauriās eyes search his - blue on blue, always - and he must read the sincerity there, because finally he smiles, sincere and sweet, and says,Ā āOkay. Um. Yes.ā
āLay down for me,ā Jake says, giving his hand one more squeeze, and watches Kauri shift onto his back on the bed, curls splayed out around his head like a halo.Ā
Jake starts with simple kissing, hands to his face, knees on either side of Kauriās hips, leaning over him as they pull the comforter over the both of them, the AC running with a low hum against the window, the sunset settling a gleam of orange and red along the gray-beige walls of the room, cutting streaks of light over the bland corporate artwork in cheap frames on the walls.Ā
Kauri hums into the kiss, content with it, and Jake lets himself luxuriate in the warmth and press of soft skin to his, the answering tongue that meets his own, finally the soft, sweet sound that Kauri makes unconsciously. Not a performance, not put on to show someone how much fun heās having - just Kauri actually enjoying the sensation.
Only then does Jake move, shifting his weight onto his elbows, one hand lightly curved around one thin shoulder, trailing kisses to Kauriās cheek, grazing teeth along the line of his jaw. Itās all careful, nothing too much, nothing painful.
If Kauri were to say, Iām not trained for pain, that would be all the no Jake ever had to hear. Heās heard it from a Kauri scared of other men more than enough. If he can help it, those words will never be aimed at him.
Kauriās breath hitches when Jakeās mouth presses lightly to a spot just under his ear, thin skin of his throat. Jake pauses, breathing warm air on the spot, feeling Kauri shiver and the way his hips shift unconsciously.Ā
āGood?ā Jake asks, carefully.Ā
āG-Good,ā Kauri whispers, and his hand slides up over Jakeās bicep, his shoulder, up his neck and around behind his head to run those thin fingers through Jakeās short hair. He rolls his hips again, and turns his head to the side. Jake catches the smile on his face.Ā āDo... do that again.ā
Jake lowers his head, and feels the slightest pressure of Kauriās palm against the nape of his neck, pushing him back.Ā
He lingers there for a while, in that spot, and then moves to Kauriās earlobe, to the shell of his ear, licking over the small black stud that Kauri got with Chris a few months ago, then back down his neck and over to the other side.
Kauri tips his head back, baring his throat to Jakeās mouth, and both hands find their way into his hair when Jake kisses the twisted, pale scar across his collarbone, the visible sign Kauri will always wear that he once decided it was better to risk death than spend his life locked away.
How you can make that choice - to lay out a trash bag and dunk a knife into boiling water and hold it over a flame, how you can with determination remove something that was forced into you by trained surgeons, how you can bleed and bleed and keep running - and not see yourself as brave, Jake wonāt ever know.
But he can appreciate the goddamn courage it took for Kauri to open the car door and run.
And he can lick along the edges of the scar with all his adoration and awe on open display.Ā
Kauriās soft, quiet hitches of breath move into low sounds, not quite moans, quieter than that. Acknowledgements of pleasure, given not as performance, but in the quieter way that Kauri has when heās feeling something for real, and heās not falling back on trained responses to show it.
āGood?ā Jake asks, again and again. He asks it over Kauriās collarbone, and down his chest. Kauri says yes to the scar, and maybe, maybe n-not to sensitive spaces on his chest.Ā
āNo?ā Jake looks up, then, sees Kauriās eyes on his, watching him with fervent intensity.Ā
āNot no,ā Kauri breathes. āBut maybe not, um, not there-... Owen u-used to-... to make it h-hurt-ā
āNo is good,ā Jake reassures him, softly. āYou donāt have to justify it, Kaur. No is good.ā
Kauri swallows, hard - Jake watches his Adamās apple shift and move with the effort. Then softly, he says, āUm, n-no, to there.ā
āGotcha. No problem.ā Before he can try and take it back, Jake shifts back and away, and moves further down. The stomach is a good place, he discovers, and the hipbones are, too. Kauriās hips are more rounded than they used to be when he lived entirely on one or two meals a day, tops. He feels stronger, now that heās not running. His body feels less fragile, less like Jake could crack it apart without knowing simply with the touch of his hands.Ā
Kauriās hips move upwards in a rolling motion, searching for the direct friction that Jake has so far denied him. His sounds are getting louder, but in a way that isnāt purposeful or carefully constructed. Jake nuzzles into the seam where thigh and pelvis meet and hears a high-pitched whimper of pleasure, his own body stirring in response.
Jake looks up, resting his chin on Kauriās stomach lightly, feeling the fingers tighten their grip in his hair. The comforter is over him, and when Kauri glances down, he laughs out loud at the sight of Jake looking up at him from under the blanket.
His laughter is so fucking gorgeous.
āHow often do you laugh, during?ā Jake asks, and one of his hands shifts down so he can run it slowly up the hardness he can feel growing, pressing into his chest where he lays over Kauri.Ā
āAlmost never,ā Kauri breathes.Ā āBut you look fucking ridiculous.ā
Jake grins, bites his own lower lip, and catches the sparkle in Kauriās eyes, real and infectious, comfortably wanting.Ā āDo I, now? Hm, maybe I should get up-ā
āDonāt you dare get me all worked up and stop, jackass,ā Kauri says, groaning as he drops his head back down.Ā
āGreen light, then?ā Jake asks, and Kauri blinks and raises his head to look at him again.
āWhat?ā
āDo I have the green light, so far? Am I good if I go down on you, Kaur?ā
Kauri blinks at him, openly baffled. His thumbs massage just behind Jakeās ears, a deeply, gently pleasurable sensation.Ā āI donāt-... no oneās ever asked me that.ā
āWell, Iām asking. Green means go, red means do something else, or nothing at all, and either is good. Is it okay if I go down on you?ā
Kauri looks at him in silence for another long moment, and then he smiles.Ā āUm. Yeah. I want you to.ā
āReally?ā
āReally.ā Kauri considers, and then he relaxes under Jake, hands moving back into his hair.Ā āUm. Green light, Jake.ā His hands start pushing Jakeās head down.Ā āI want you to.ā
Jake smiles as he moves down to take Kauri into his mouth.
Then-
āHey, ow! Teeth, Jake! Teeth!ā
āSorry.ā Jake kisses at his hip sheepishly.Ā āIāve only gone down on like... three guys ever, and two of those guys we were not sober at the time. I donāt think Iām very good at it.ā
āWell, if you had told me that before...ā Kauri laughs again and then braces himself up on his elbows, watching Jake look up at him from under the blanket.Ā āOkay. Listen. I want-... I want to tell you what to do.ā
Jake breathes out, his own body lit up with desire at Kauriās husky deep voice, and at the reality of what heās saying.Ā āYeah?ā
āYeah. I want to-... I want you to go down on me. Thatās what I want. Iāll tell you how to do it. Okay?ā Kauriās voice tips into hesitation again, at the end.Ā
Jake looks up at him - blue on blue, always.Ā āOnly if you want that, Kauri.ā
āI do. I, um. I do want that.ā Kauri smiles at him.Ā āI want-... I want to tell you how to make me feel-... I want you to know.ā
āGreen light?ā
āGreen light,ā Kauri says, softly.Ā āI love you, okay?ā
Jake moves up to kiss him in a rush, and their sort of bump from it being unexpected, and Kauri laughs into the kiss, and Jake could do this forever.Ā āI love you, too, Kaur.ā
āGood. You should, Iām amazing-ā
āYou are amazing.ā
āStop. I was kidding, Jake.ā
āIām not.ā
ā... just get your mouth back between my legs so I can show you what to do.ā
Kauriās hands are back in his hair, and Jake has never felt happier. If Kauri is an angel once brought low by desire, Jake is a man whose never-ending anger has been undone by love.
He doesnāt think bad poetry often. He thinks it now.
With the weight and heat of Kauri in his mouth, though, even bad poetry falters and all thatās left is his knowledge that heād be happy to hear Kauri laugh in bed and tell him what to do for the rest of his life.
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(going through some old prompts just... collecting cobwebs in my inbox)
CW: Drunk whumpee, trauma references, trauma memories, past abduction, past noncon, past abuse, very brief emeto reference, nausea reference, BRIEF pet whump reference, this is Kauri at his most fucked-up but it ends nicely I promise, content warning for some serious fucking yearning
The walk back in the dark is a little... wobblier than usual, but Kauri doesnāt care. He stepped off the bus and stumbled when his ankle turned as he hit the sidewalk, rolling forward and finding himself in a bush, a bit of landscaping carefully kept up by some guy who drives a truck around cleaning up the bus stops.
Kauri giggles, then pushes his hands over his mouth to quiet himself, fails, giggles some more. His hair gets caught in a little bit of branch and he winces as he yanks it free and loses a curl.
The bush gets to keep that one. Maybe the guy who trims the bushes will find it tomorrow and fall madly in love with him, like Cinderellaās glass slipper. Kauri starts laughing at the idea of the guy in his big neon orange-and-yellow reflective vest and his stupid button-up shirt with the city seal embroidered on it holding up a curl of black hair to this person or that, looking for its match.
āHey, man,ā A woman says, crouching in front of him. Sheās older than he is, maybe by ten years, maybe less. Kauri canāt tell and sheās lit only by the harsh pale streetlight, adding definition to beginning wrinkles around her mouth. Or heās making that up. Her face is kind of blurred anyway, spinning a little like everything else. Sheās wearing hospital scrubs under a coat, her hair pulled into a no-nonsense bun at the nape of her neck. She reminds him of Natās neighbor lady, only a bunch younger. āYou gonna make it home?ā
Home. What the fuck is a home? Home is where they lock the doors, home is where you get the shit kicked out of you for trying to leave. Home is where he holds you down on the bed until you cry because it hurts, and itās always going to hurt unless you want me, Kor-Bore, you know that-
Kauriās giggles hiccup into something like a sob.
The bus is still idling along the curb next to the stop, and the bus driver knows Kauri - sees him two or three times a week in variations on drunk or high or scared or elated. She leans down and calls out,Ā āYou gonna be okay, Kauri?ā
Maybe one day he wonāt. Maybe one day someone will murder him in a dark alley instead of hooking up or shove him into the trunk of a car or-
into a white van with no windows and the needleās in his skin and his sister is screaming and thereās a hand over his mouth wearing black leather gloves and a man smiles at him and there are other men and zipties on his wrists and they tell him sucks to be you, gorgeous, but you couldnāt hide a face like thatĀ and then his head drops as whatever they gave him hits and Liamās head drops onto the plastic mat that lines the vanās floor, his eyes close, and heās gone-
Kauri lays there staring up at the spinning stars with his had pounding at the memory, but not enough to make it stop. When heās really drunk, sometimes he can roll with the pain, let it wash through him and change nothing, mean nothing, do nothing at all.
He feels the way the earth rotates around the sun, every motion of the giant planet but itās not big - itās tiny, really, the Earth and all its purple mountains majesty, and Kauri is tinier, and whatever life lives in his head, somewhere underneath the layers of pain and fear, never mattered at all.
āām fine,ā He slurs, trying to focus on one single star. Just one.
Please, just one star.Ā
āNo, youāre not,ā The woman says with a soft sigh. She glances back at the bus driver.Ā āIāll figure something out, Virginia,ā She says, and waves one hand.Ā āIāll see you tomorrow.ā
āGānight, Sadie,ā The bus driver calls out over the low rumble of the big engines, then adds,Ā āGet home safe, Kauri.ā
Kauri closes his eyes. Why does everyone always want there to be a home?
āWhereām I taking you, then, Mr. Whiskey Breath?ā
āT-Tequila,ā Kauri corrects her, then gives a pale shadow of his effortless, airy smile. She takes him by the arm and pulls him to his feet and he overcorrects as he stumbles again, smacking into her side. She stays standing, if only just, and holds him more firmly.Ā āāS... tequila. Good, good stuff, too, good...ā His head drops against her shoulder, and he giggles again.
āOh, honey,ā She murmurs. They stand for a second while she thinks this through, and Kauri sees himself through her eyes - gorgeous and hammered, barely able to stand on his own, a piece of shit who canāt take care of himself or wonāt or chooses not to, anyway.Ā
He tries to feel something, like maybe shame, but nothing happens.
Heās too numb for that.
āDāyou have a phone?ā Sadie asks after a pause.Ā
āMmmmnyes,ā Kauri responds, suddenly aware he hasnāt lifted his head off her shoulder yet.Ā āI do have a phone.Ā ās a very nice phone, too.ā
āNo doubt. Is there anyone we can call for you? I donāt-... I donāt think youāll make it far on your own, um, Kauri? Did you say your name is Kauri?ā
Kauri tilts his head back to look at her, and the world suddenly crashes hard to one side. His knees buckle and she quickly throws an arm around his waist to keep him up. He starts giggling again, shaking his head, mumbling what he hopes are apologies until he manages to locate his cell phone and pull it out of his back pocket.Ā āMānameās whatever you want it to be,ā He says with his most charming, beautiful smile.
Sadie quirks an eyebrow as Kauri struggles to unlock his phone, then takes it once he manages, tapping over to his contacts list and scrolling.Ā āWho do I call?ā She asks, looking at the photos Kauri uses to identify everyone instead of names.Ā āWho can I call to come get you?ā
A wash of sadness so strong it feels like being hit by a wave made from bricks hits him and tears prick at his eyes, burning hot behind his eyelids. He feels a sudden wild urge to say Owen Grant, call Owen Grant, just take me back where I belong, this is too hard and I donāt want to do it anymore, being a person is just too hardĀ but fights it off and instead, shaky and uncertain, he offers,Ā āThā photo of thā guy in thā blue, blue shirt. Thatās... thassss... Jake.ā
āAnd heāll come get you?ā Sadieās thumb hovers over the image, a picture Jake took of himself and sent to Kauri once, smiling over his iced coffee studying at school.Ā āThis guy will come get you, this Jake?ā
Kauri whispers,Ā āI hope so.ā
Sadie looks at him, tilting her head.Ā āDid you guys have a fight or something? Is that why youāre out here like blackout drunk?ā
āNo,ā Kauri mumbles.Ā āFight... I fight with māself.ā
Sadie gives a soft sigh and a nod.Ā āWell, Iāve been there done that. Okay.ā She taps the photo of Jake, gives a low whistle and mumbles a soft damn, that guyās hot, I see why youāre out here being schmoopy about him, and before Kauri can correct her that it doesnāt work that way, sheās got the phone up to her ear and Kauri can hear it softly ringing.
Jake must pick up because the ringing stops and Sadie says,Ā āNo, this isnāt-... Iām Sadie Williams, Iām on his phone. Weāre at the bus stop on Penntuck Drive, do you know where-... oh, okay. Yeah, I live a couple blocks from here and this, uh, Kauri is way too drunk to go anywhere.ā
āAm not,ā Kauri protests, and his stomach suddenly flips and he swallows, eyes slightly widening. Oh no.
Sadie sighs and says wryly,Ā āTrust me. Too drunk to get home on his own. Can you-... oh, okay. Cool. Weāll be here.ā She hangs up the phone.Ā āOkay, your buddyās coming to get you. Letās just sit on the bench in the bus stop, all right?ā
Kauri nods, not trusting himself to speak, and lets Sadie maneuver him, fighting ripples of nausea that follow every movement, to sit down on the cold metal bench inside the shelter at the bus stop. As soon as she lets go, Kauri flops onto his side on the bench, letting the metal chill the sudden heat he feels, the sweat breaking out all over his body.Ā
āThere we go. Just stay here for a while.ā Sadie pats him on the shoulder and he wishes she would pet his head, suddenly, tell him heās a good boy, good pet, and he turns his face to the bench to hide the tears that finally escape and drip down to pool there. Sadie stands and leans against the side of the shelter, scrolling through her own phone. Kauri twists to look at her and, after his dazed vision stops spinning and settles enough to focus, he thinks... sheās tired.
Sheās tired, because itās two oāclock in the fucking morning, and she probably just got off of work and rode the bus home in her scrubs still under her coat, and watched a drunk boy fall laughing into a bush, and decided to stay with him and make sure he didnāt get found there in the morning by a cop or the bus driver who does the early morning shift, Andrew something, and...Ā
āām okay,ā Kauri says, and she doesnāt look up, but one eyebrow slowly quirks upward.Ā āYou could... go home. Heās cominā. Iām okay.ā
āOh, you are the exact opposite of that,ā She says without looking at him.Ā āWhateverās got you fucking yourself up, Iām not gonna be the one who walks away from you. Iāve seen too many people like you wind up in the ER.āĀ
Is it his imagination, or do her eyes briefly drop to the thick leather bracelet Kauri always wears around his left wrist to cover up his barcode?
āYou donāt know me,ā He protests.
āI know enough,ā She says, flatly, and he stops trying to argue. He knows that voice - Nat uses that voice when sheās getting you to do things, a voice that brooks no appeal. Kauri calls it her mom-voice, even though she doesnāt have kids and never will. It makes him think of TV moms, and maybe of his own, who must have existed, and is maybe still missing her dead son, whoever the fuck he was.
Kauri winces at the headache that pings around his skull and curls up on the bench on his left side. Thereās silence, for a while, and then the sound of a car engine coming closer, the bright flash of headlights against Kauriās closed eyes.
Jakeās new beat-up four-door - well, new to him, but itās a Subaru that has seen better decades, not just better days - pulls up alongside the curb, idling as he opens the door and unfolds himself. Sadie, Kauri sees from the bench, tenses slightly at the sight of him, and Kauri wonders if sheās got her phone ready to dial for help.
He wouldnāt blame her - if you donāt know Jake and just see all that height and muscle alone with you in the middle of the night, you could see the threat, in that. If you didnāt know that Jakeās the guy who beats up your attacker, not the attacker himself.
Jake seems well aware of her tension and puts up both hands.Ā āIām Jake. Youāre Sadie? You called for Kauri?ā
Some of Sadieās tension dissipates.Ā āThatās me. Mind if I get a little distance while you pick him up?ā
āYeah, no problem. Go ahead.ā Jake waits for Sadie to step away, and Kauri watches her hand move to her purse. He never thinks about stuff like that - she probably has pepper spray or a gun in there, and here is Kauri blackout drunk half-passed out on a bus bench, here is Kauri who passes out on park benches and underneath that big black box that doesnāt do anything over by downtown, Kauri who sleeps in alleys and grassy lawns and anywhere he thinks heāll get a couple hours, here and there.
Sheās careful - and Kauri is lucky.
āSo fuckinā lucky,ā Kauri mumbles, then coughs out a bitter laugh, and Jake sighs as he moves over to him, sliding big arms gently between Kauriās body and the bench. The world spins again as Jake picks him up and Kauriās arms go around his neck, suddenly terrified heāll fall and not hit the ground but fall up, up and up and up, and end up somewhere high above the clouds.
āD-donāt, donā-... let me-ā
āI got you, Kaur,ā Jake says, and his voice is low and it rumbles against Kauri in his chest and he relaxes, a little, but his hands tighten behind Jakeās neck.Ā āThanks for waiting with him,ā He says to Sadie, moving Kauri to the passenger side of the car and leaning over to help him slide him in. Kauri flops to one side, eyes sliding closed.
āNo problem. Iām going to head home. Take care of him.ā
Jake gives a huff of laughter as he closes the door for Kauri.Ā āI always do,ā Kauri hears him say, a little muffled. Thereās a pause and then Jake sits back down in the driverās seat, leaning across to buckle Kauriās seat belt for him as he half-sits, half-lays limp against the seat.Ā
āWeāre going to get you home and youāre gonna drink some water,ā Jake says firmly, slipping a hand behind Kauriās head to help him reorient himself. Kauri shivers at the simple pleasure of the affectionate touch, eyes sliding closed, and turns his head, just barely pressing a kiss to Jakeās wrist.
Jake doesnāt pull away - Kauri will lose his balance if he does - but he goes still.Ā āHey. No, Kauri. The answer is still no.ā
Kauri sniffs, nuzzles at his arm, and then pulls away, turning away from Jake to clumsily curl up against the carās door, as far as he can get.Ā āI know. But-... I just-...ā
āI know. But we canāt, ever, not like this.ā
Kauri tries to feel something other than the spin of the earth, his stomach flipping at the motion of the car as Jake slowly pulls his hand back and drives down the dark street, every house silent, everywhere around them still and quiet.
Jakeās speakers play music, softly, a manās voice singing, well, let that lonely feeling wash away - maybe there's a reason to believe you'll be okay over the press of piano keys and hint of strings.Ā
"What is this?ā Kauri asks, tries to point, fails.
āUm, Chrisās shit,ā Jake says, but he doesnāt change the song.Ā āI drove him to get some hair dye today, he must have put his playlist on. Musical shit.ā
And oh, someone will come running and I know theyāll take you home
āWhen can it?ā Kauri asks, softly.Ā āWhen can it happen?ā
āWhat?ā
āUs. When can us happen, Jake?ā
Even when the dark comes crashing through, when you need a friend to carry you and when you're broken on the ground, you will be found
āI hate this song,ā Kauri mutters.
Jake doesnāt look at him as he signals a turn - Kauri fights a laugh at the sight of Jake, totally and utterly alone on the road in the earliest hours of the morning, fucking putting on his turn signal a careful distance back from the intersection - and takes a right.
āJake-... I want you,ā Kauri says, the last vestiges of tequila pressing the words onto his tongue, rolling them off and out into the soft air between them.Ā āWhen can I stop wanting and-ā
āKauri.ā Jakeās voice goes softer, not harder. Itās not chiding him, itās not angry, but laced with something very different.Ā
He wants me, too, I know he does, I know it.
āJake, I-ā
āIt canāt ever happen,ā Jake says in that same soft voice, lost in something that some dim part of Kauri recognizes as an echo of his own feelings,Ā āuntil itās not like this.ā
Jake reaches down to grab his phone, hits a button, and the song changes. Kauri fights back a laugh when he realizes itās just a different song from the same fucking musical.
āFucking Chris,ā Kauri says, trapped between laughter and tears.Ā
Jakeās hand moves to rest on the console between the seats, and after a second, Kauriās hand remembers how to listen to his brain and he lays his cold, thin, long fingers over Jakeās larger, warmer ones.
Jake doesnāt pull away from him.
By the time they get back to Natās house, their fingers have wrapped around each other, and Kauri feels a little warmer than he felt before.Ā
When youāre falling in a forest and thereās nobody around, all you want is for somebody to find you
āNext time, can it be your music playing?ā Kauri asks, voice a little huskier and rougher than he means it to be. All the numbness that came with the drinking is gone, and Kauri hurts, inside himself, in a way heās almost grateful for.
When youāre falling in a forest and when you hit the ground, all you need is for somebody to find you
āUh, um, yeah,ā Jake manages, and his voice is rough, too.
No one deserves to be forgotten, no one deserves to fade away
āI can get better, Jake,ā Kauri says, voice low. āI can. But Iām never-... Iām never gonna be whoever was me before.ā
No one deserves to disappear
āI know,ā Jake says. āThat isnāt who I care about, anyway, Kaur... I care about you.ā
No one deserves to disappear
They sit in the driveway until the song ends. And through the next song, and the next. The streetlights shine down and the dark is otherwise total and the world slowly steadies in its constant spin around the sun. Kauri lets his head slowly lean back against the headrest.
āIām-... so fucking lucky you found me,ā Kauri whispers. Jakeās fingers twitch in his, and his eyes are locked on Natās front door, up on the porch.Ā
āNo,ā Jake says, softly. āWeāre-... Iām lucky you found us.ā
Neither of them wants to be the first to let go of the other oneās hand.
Uhā¦ I had an hour before work, was thinking about post-freedom Kauri and what I said to an ask yesterday about what heāll be like post-escape, andā¦ this happened. Consider this looselyĀ ācanonā for Kauriās future.
This is the last Kauri update forĀ while, as I have some other stuff to work on, but heāll be back in a week or so!
CW: Kauri is an abuse survivor and is still stuck in a fucky thought pattern about it. Includes thoughts about returning to the abuser. Stay safe.
This was entirely written along to Dear Evan Hansenās Disappear and You Will Be Found on repeat, soā¦ blame musicals for this.
āWhat are you doing?ā
Kauri doesnāt look up, picking up the neatly folded, laundered long-sleeved t-shirts and laying them carefully flat in the bottom of the faded, ripped-up, duct-taped old backpack. āIām not doing anything, Nat.ā
āYeah, you are. Youāre leaving. Again Look at me, Kaur. Whatās up?āĀ
He pauses, glancing over at her. Nat leans against the doorway, resting her arm and hip against the frame, arms crossed in front of herself just below her chest. The long brown hair in its usual no-nonsense braid hung midway down her back and she wore a plain brown T-shirt and jeans, looking every inch the get-things-done house manager she is.Ā
Thereās a scattering of wrinkles around her eyes and her mouth, which Kauri thinks are beautiful. Sometimes he wonders if maybe heād liked art, too, not just writing, poetry.
In the life he remembers and forgets, the knowledge of his interests and loves sliding back underneath the wall inside his head as swiftly as it came. Theyād made him see a doctor, at the first place, who worked with people like him.
The doctor had told him when you find somewhere safe to settle down, it will come back more quickly.Ā
Which seems kind of funny, in retrospect, since Kauri is pretty sure no such place exists.
Noā¦ he was right, in the end, when he said, you donāt even know who you are.
āNothingās up,ā He answers tightly. On the bed next to the clean boxers and two pairs of pants heāll take with him, Keira beeps reprovingly, but he ignores her. Sheās starting to be a little too good at beeping at him judgmentally. āI just need to get moving.ā
āKauri.ā He turns back away from her, wiping at his eyes with the back of one hand furiously, trying to look angry instead of how he really felt. āKauri, honey, you need to stay a few more days-ā
āNo, I donāt. I shouldnāt, I-ā¦ I canāt.ā His voice trembles, just a little, on the last word - and Nat must catch it, because sheās quiet for a while, watching as he packs in the rest of his clothes, grabs an extra few pairs of socks. Toothbrush, toothpaste, a couple little travel bottles of shampoo and conditioner. Heās made a kind of small nest, and when he lifts Keira up, he settles her carefully into it.
Gratitude expressing, Keira says, and Kauri finds a watery, uncertain smile for her. Kauri good.
āNot so much,ā He whispers to her, aware Nat can hear, but he doesnāt care anymore.Ā āKauri doesnāt know who he is.ā
What I am isnāt really a person, isnāt good enough. Just a collection of responses they taught me and the shit that breaks through.
And I donāt even know if all of that is real, either.
āHoneyā¦ youāre Kauri.ā Nat sighs. āYou are. Whoever you decide that is, itās up to you, now. Or you can go back to being-ā
āNo,ā Kauri interrupts her before she can say it. āI still canāt.ā
āLet us work with you. We can make the headaches stop when you hear your name, I promise.ā Nat moves into the room now - there are four beds in here, four pets sharing space to sleep, all of them with bags packed under their beds for moving quickly if things go wrong. āEvery time you run you stall out your recovery.ā
Kauri zips up the backpack, listening to Keiraās soft little chirp. He doesnāt look up at first, just staring at the black zipper - the actual pull part came off a while ago, but a guy he met gave him a safety pin and heās been using that, it works well enough. āI donāt need that name, anyway. Owenās still looking for me. If I donāt, heāll hunt me down.ā
āThere are other safehouses-ā
āI donāt want to stay in a safehouse any longer!ā Kauri carefully pulled the sleeves of his shirt down, hiding the barcode and number on the inside of his wrist. Heād cut little thumb holes in the sleeve to make sure it didnāt ride up, and he liked to think it looked like he did it just to look cool. The neckline was high enough to hide the awful scar all along his collarbone on the right side.
He did kind of think wearing shirts like this looked cool.
Maybe he wore shirts like this before? Keira might know, the real Keira, but-
Kauri slides the hoodie on next, then pulls the backpack straps over his shoulders. When he turns to look at her, thereās a hard set to his jaw, a flash to his bright blue eyes, that have her backing slightly up to give him room. Still, her brown eyes are warm and understanding.
āIf you walk out, you wonāt have anywhere to sleep tonight. We canāt find you another bed anywhere else in time.ā
āI donāt want another bed. Iāll meet someone somewhere, Iāll crash with them.ā Kauri flashes her a smile, the best he can manage. It barely counted as a twitch of his lips, but itās something. It didnāt hide the glitter in his eyes.Ā
āKauri, you canāt keep doing this. Youāre going to run into the wrong people, or someone will turn you in. Weāre worried about you.ā
His heart stops, and then starts, and somehow the world kept turning. āWhoās āweā, Nat?ā
She sighs, and gives him a soft, sad smile. āYou know who āweā is, Kauri.ā
Itās petulant (why do I know the word petulant? couldnāt make me as stupid as you wanted to, Owen) but Kauri rolls his eyes. āI know who you mean, and I donātā¦ I donāt think that matters anymore.ā
He moves past her into the hallway but she follows him, refusing to give up, even as he walks past the other rescues in the kitchen and living room, carefully avoiding him and each other except for a bonded pair sitting together on the couch, curled around each other like he used to curl himself up around Owen on the couch.
Kauri misses Owen so much it hurts, nearly as much as it hurt when he thought he was going to die with Owenās hands around his neck.
Iām so fucking lonely.
Nat presses something into his hand, and he looks down to find a small green cell phone, the cool plastic that his fingers curve naturally around. His body still knows how to use phones even though he doesnāt remember it. Some things just come like nature, physical motions, routines and movements that he should know but doesnāt.
So his body knows it for him, and Keira tells him the rest.
āCall us,ā Nat says softly. āI have my number in there already. I give phones like this to a lot of rescues who donāt stay still.ā She hesitates, something he rarely sees her do, and then reaches out to lay a hand on his shoulder.
It feels so good. No one wants to touch the rescues, theyāre not supposed to want to be touched, but Kauri is so starved for it that he nearly leans against her even though heās trying very hard to be angry at her. Heās never been good at being angry, never been one to hold grudges- has he?
Was that a memory? Or just something heād made up?
āCanāt stay still. Too recognizable.ā He smiles at her, but she doesnāt smile back.
āAre you okay?ā She asks, softly.
He wants to tell her yes. He wants to tell her of course he is, heās free. He wants to tell her to mind her own fucking business. He wants to tell her that he canāt stay here, thereās too much weight in the air, the things he canāt say and the things he wonāt say. He wants to tell her anything at all.
Instead, he just turns and pulls away - and itās so hard to pull away from her hand, from her warmth and welcome, from the thin veneer of safety these houses provide - and walks towards the back door.
āKauri, nothing gets better if you never stop moving.ā
He pauses with his hand on the doorknob.Ā
āListen to me. Iāve seen rescues come through like you before. If you never stop running away, you wonāt get better, and you wonāt be safer. Please trust me. Please. You shouldnāt be out there all by yourself, you donāt-ā¦ you donāt have the skills.ā
The other rescues are looking, now. They donāt like Kauri, or donāt care about him, and he wouldnāt blame them either way. Theyāre mostly Domestics and Platonics. Kauriās the whore in the house, and it looks so easy when itās not what you have to be.Ā
He doesnāt blame them.
It probably looked really good, if you were standing outside of it, if you werenāt the one they made fall in love with a monster.
āIāll be fine,ā He says without looking back at her. āI have Keira.ā
āKauriā¦ Keira is a robot. I know she helps you, but-ā
āIāll be fine,ā He repeats, opening the back door, slipping out into the yard. Thereās a fence he can climb - all that yoga and cardio and flexibility training came in handy - and he can stick to bushes, to the sides of houses, until heās sure no one is watching, following, writing things down with the words they get to have but Kauri has to fear.
āHey.ā
Just before he reaches the fence, he stops again. āWhat, Nat? Iām not coming back in.ā
āI wonāt ask you to, justā¦ do you want me to giveā¦ himā¦ your number? I know which one heās at right now. What aboutā¦ what about your sister?ā
He swallows against about a thousand words that want to tumble out, all at once. How much he wants to turn around and walk back inside, pretend heās safe, pretend this is normal and heās okay.Ā
Are you okay?
No.
Itād be an easy as saying the word, turning around, letting her hold onto him and keep him here just a little bit longer. Itād be as easy as saying Iām tired, I donāt want to run anymore, I just want to go home but the only home I remember is with the man who might kill me if I go back, or erase me, and Iām so scared to lose whatās left.
But I miss Owen so much.
Andā¦ he was right, I donāt know who I am without him.Ā
Instead, Kauri steadies his shoulders, clips the little front part together on his backpack to hold it steady while he climbs, and says, āYeah, give him the number. Give them both the number. Tell themā¦ tell him to call me, if he wants. Iāll answer the phone.ā
Thereās a him who isnāt Owen. There are so many hims who arenāt Owen now, but there is the one him, too, and for now, Kauri is running from them all.
āAny idea where youāll be sleeping tonight?ā
Kauri sets his feet just right, takes a run at the fence, jumps at just the right second to use his feet for purchase and get himself the height he needs to grab the top and pull himself up. He pauses halfway over, straddling with a leg on either side, and looks back down at her.
Nat has been the nicest shelter worker heās met so far. Sheās always there when Kauri appears hungry and dirty asking to do some laundry and maybe eat some dinner. Thereās always a place found for him to sleep.
And sheās always, always asking him to stay.
To stop moving.
To stop trying to disappear.
āNat, come on,ā He tries for levity, isnāt quite sure it lands. āYou know I never know who Iām going to sleep with until I find them.ā
āI didnāt say who, Kauri,ā Nat says firmly, shielding her eyes from the setting sun with one hand and looking up at him. āI said where. You need to stop doing this, youāre going to get hurt.ā
āToo late for that,ā Kauri says softly, and slips over the other side of the fence, landing on the ground with a thump.Ā
Calculating route, Keira says, muffled, from inside the backpack. Turn north, one mile to Richardson Street, turn right, three-quarters mile to Fifth Street.
The little green phone thumps against his leg in the cargo pocket on the side as he takes off running along the fence line, sticking to bushes and trees, putting plenty of distance between himself and the safe house before heāll let himself be seen on the street.Ā
āWhere are we going, Keira?ā He asks over his shoulder, knowing her sensors pick up his voice even with all the other noise. Sheās tuned to him, she always hears him.
Yennaās Cafe. Locally-owned cafe serving small plates and drinks-
āI have like thirty dollars and nearly all of thatās in ones,ā Kauri says, not even a little out of breath, dodging a tricycle and some other toys in a yard. āWhy there?ā
Most people in this neighborhood know what the house does, or suspect. No one minds the sight of a short, thin barely-a-man in oversized clothing and a torn-up old backpack sneaking through their yards.
Elizabeth Caradel poetry reading. Keira thought this appropriate for Kauriās interests.
Kauri finds a small smile on his face - the first real one heās had all day. āGot it. Perfect. Thank you, Keira. I think I can buy myself dinner and coffee for that.ā
No one in the houses even looks at him. They donāt worry about him, all those people living their nice free lives with their memories intact know heāll be gone soon enough. Heās just a blur of curly black hair and the black hoodie he never zips up, the long-sleeved shirts he never takes off, the beaten-up old sneakers that heāll get rid of when the soles separate from the rest of the shoe, head to a Goodwill, buy some new used shoes.
And heāll never stop moving. Heās always gone, always going. They can call him if they want and know heāll pick up the phone, but maybe heāll be sleeping in an alley, on a bus, in a homeless shelter, a new pet rescue, on someoneās bed, or just not sleeping at all.
Heās always finding someone new who will hold onto him, somewhere new to sleep, some new way to run from the voice of Owen Grant inside his head, calling him home.
No one will ever want you but me. They rewrote you for me. They made you new, just for me.
Without me, you disappear.
Come home, Kauri.
Come home.
Kauri keeps running.
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