"Jesse," part five
Aug. 23rd, 2007 06:13 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maculategiraffeNot to be confusing, but I'm thinking about organizing this fic, eventually, as a trilogy (I've just gotten a bee in my bonnet about another sequel, for whenever I have the wherewithal), and I'd probably call the whole trilogy "The Slave Breakers" and give the individual components individual names (like for example it could be "Bran" for the first, completed 15-part story, "Jesse" for this one and "Not Telling" for the last one-- does that make any sense?).
Anyway, I'm calling this story "Jesse" for now.
Part Four
Jesse felt almost like a kid again as he and Bran wandered the cheerfully bustling market, except that he was wearing shoes and– considering the circumstances– didn’t feel it was politic to steal anything. Several of the merchants seemed to know Bran and made light chatter with him as he and Jesse admired their wares; others gave them cool stares or shook their heads indulgently, obviously dubious whether the two young men had any money to spend, but willing to indulge their poking and prying. Bran made several purchases that were clearly routine while Jesse wandered off to play with brightly colored toys or flip through lavishly illustrated books, though he refused to let Bran buy him anything with Holden’s money.
“I’m costing them enough money, just being here,” he said, and Bran raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue.
One matronly woman at a fruit stall tossed an apple at Bran as he started to walk past her, and he caught it, laughing, and turned back.
“I have to bribe you to notice I’m alive, now?” she complained good-naturedly, and, as Bran started to fish in the pouch slung around his waist, “No, love, keep your master’s money, just so you give me that pretty smile of yours. Who’s your new friend?”
“Marta, this is Jesse,” said Bran, with a dazzling rendition of the smile she’d asked for.
“And has Jesse got a smile to give me?” Marta asked, turning to Jesse, who looked down, uneasy with her familiarity and rather conscious of the brace on his teeth. “No? Then I’ll take a coin. What’ll it be?”
“He can’t have anything,” said Bran apologetically. “But could I get a couple of pears for Inga?”
“How is Inga?” Marta asked, slipping the pears into a paper sack. “Ready for the big day?”
“Definitely,” Bran grinned. “She’s really excited. Thanks, Marta.” He gave the woman a coin and took the paper sack she handed him, tucking the apple inside as well.
“So conscientious, isn’t he, Jesse?” Marta said fondly, winking at Bran. “Wouldn’t dream of eating anything without asking permission first. If his master found out, he might very well frown, and we couldn’t have that, could we?”
“She certainly seemed to know a lot about you,” said Jesse as they walked on.
“They know us around here,” said Bran, still a little pink from Marta’s teasing. “I mean, all of us– people mostly know who we are, the slave breakers’ slaves. Some of them are sort of nervous around us, but–“
He stopped talking and walking at the same time. Jesse turned to find a pretty young girl in a faded blue dress that was much too small for her, clutching at Bran’s arm.
“Bran, I need to talk to you,” she said, ignoring Jesse.
“Sure, Trini,” said Bran, looking concerned. Jesse didn’t blame him; he hadn’t seen such a scared expression since his own in Presniakov’s mirror the night Quen had run. “What’s wrong?”
The girl hauled at his arm, dragging him closer.
“I messed up,” she almost whispered.
“What happened?” Bran asked gently. “Tell me.”
The girl leaned even closer to Bran and said something too softly for Jesse to hear.
“Trin-- why didn’t you talk to Yves yesterday?”
She shrugged, tears spilling down her cheeks.
“It’s okay,” said Bran, putting an arm around her and kissing her on the temple. “Meet me here about seven tomorrow morning at Leaf’s stall. Can you? Cheer up, sweetheart. Everything’s going to be fine.”
“Yeah?” she said hopefully, pulling back to examine his face.
“Yeah,” said Bran, smiling at her, and she beamed back, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, and turned to hurry away.
“What was all that about?” Jesse asked, bemusedly watching the girl’s retreat.
Bran sighed. “The kids around here– I mean the kids who know they’re going to get sold– they like to chat with us sometimes, get a feel for what’s about to happen to them. So when they’re in trouble–”
“What kind of trouble?”
“All kinds of trouble.” Bran grimaced. “Parent trouble, sometimes– a certain kind of parent gets grabby as hell in those last couple of weeks. Or if there’s a sweetheart, and they want, you know, one perfect moment to remember forever. I was lucky– my parents were dead, and my granddad really didn’t give a shit about me except for the money he could get– and I never had a lover. I actually thought things might get better after I was sold.”
Jesse was surprised by how much the bitterness in Bran’s normally sweet voice upset him. He opened his mouth to ask, then closed it.
“She seemed awfully eager to talk to you,” he said instead.
“That’s just Trini,” said Bran, smiling a little. “We’ve all got our fans. Well, except Jer, he’s such a sarcastic bastard they all hide when he comes out– but Trini thinks I’m her big brother.”
“Brother?” said Jesse, with a sidelong grin. “I don’t know about that.”
Bran looked at him in surprise, then grinned. “You think she’s got a crush on me? I don’t know– maybe. If it means she’ll talk to me about this stuff– She’s a good kid. Don’t want her killing herself or anything, you know?”
“Does that happen?” asked Jesse, shocked.
“If they’re scared enough,” said Bran grimly, “and don’t think they can tell anyone. My master told me they once had a father bring in the dead body of his pregnant daughter– she’d hanged herself– and demand to know what he could get for it. Greta answered the door. She was sick for a week afterwards. Seven years later and she still doesn't like to answer the door.”
“See,” said Jesse, and took a breath. “See, okay, if my master– my former master, I mean. Presniakov. If he owned Greta, he’d make it– he’d make sure she was in charge of answering the door. Always. And if it seemed like she didn’t mind any more, he’d make sure... interesting things... sometimes came to the door. It would be worth the trouble. For him.”
“Yeah,” said Bran quietly. “Okay. I know what you mean, Jess. Quen told me– I’m sorry.”
They said nothing for a few minutes, while Jesse passed several vendors without having any idea what they were selling.
“What did he tell you?” he asked finally.
“He said–“ Bran hesitated. “He said Presniakov liked to hurt one of you and– make the other watch, that kind of thing.”
“Yeah,” said Jesse. “But that wasn’t the worst thing. At least when– and he liked me to be the one in– physical pain, because when it was Quen– I never cried or begged when Quen was the one screaming, I never gave the bastard anything, so he got tired of that pretty quick. But Quen– couldn’t help it, he loved me, and he– but I didn’t mind. It just meant he– Presniakov– liked to hurt me better, and I liked that better too, I could stand it better than Quen. And at least when he was hurting me I knew–“
He stopped walking abruptly, feeling sick. Bran stopped with him, waiting, a little pale. The bustle of the market went on around them, shouts and haggling and arguments and shoppers pushing past them laden with bags and parcels.
“He liked to separate us,” said Jesse finally, and Bran moved closer, listening. “Quen would be gone for days, weeks, and I wouldn’t know where he was, and it turned into this game where he’d wait– Presniakov– and wait and wait for me to ask and when I asked he’d... gods, it was fucked up, okay, I don’t want to talk about it.” Someone jostled him and knocked him off balance; Bran reached out a hand to steady him, and Jesse clutched it gratefully, not letting go even when he had his balance back. “But every time it happened I was sure he’d finally killed him. And then he really had. I mean, Quen was really dead, he wasn’t coming back. And it was all– over. And now it’s started again, and– Bran? I'm not sure I can take this.”
“You can,” said Bran gently. “You know you can. You have to, Jess. We’ll– I’ll do everything I can to make it easier. But Quen said you’d always been the strong one. You just have to be the strong one for a little longer.”
“Yeah,” said Jesse, looking up into Bran’s wide, worried eyes. “Yeah, you're right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean–- I miss him, Bran, you know? I almost think I miss him more now that he’s not dead than– I know it doesn’t make sense.”
“Sure it does,” said Bran quietly. “Come with me, Jess. Let’s find somewhere to sit down. I think you might need to talk.”
It was well past noon when they returned to the house, and the young woman in the kitchen, Fox, was annoyed with Bran.
“Where the hell have you been?” she demanded, grabbing bags from his hands. “Behind a bush with the new boy? Your master’s looking for you.”
Bran looked up, startled. “I didn’t think he’d be back yet.”
“They came back early. Another fight with Kai, I guess.”
“Shit,” said Bran, biting his lip. “Is he upset?”
“Not with you, I don’t think,” said Fox, her pinched face softening slightly as she looked at Bran’s troubled expression. “But you’d best go find him. And you, new boy, what’s your name,” she added, as Bran hurried out, “make yourself useful and wash these for me.”
Jesse spent the next hour and a half in the kitchen, rather clumsily performing the various tasks Fox peremptorily set him. He was grateful for the distraction at first, but had just about decided to rebel under her bad-tempered rule when Bran came back in with a spring in his step, smiling brightly.
“Fox,” he said, looking at what Jesse was doing, “quit taking advantage. You don’t have to do all that, Jess.”
“Don’t boss free people around, boy,” Fox snapped.
His smile slipping only a notch, Bran dropped dramatically to his knees at Fox’s feet, clutching her around the waist and looking up winsomely.
“Forgive my insolence, please, worshipful madam Fox,” he said. “You know I’m just jealous. I thought ruining the pie crust was my special privilege.”
“Get off, you idiot,” said Fox grumpily, but the corners of her mouth were twitching. “And stop being so obscenely cheerful. It leaves nothing to the imagination.”
Bran got up obediently, his grin full-on again.
“Let me,” he said, taking the sifter from Jesse’s hand. “Tell me you’ve at least fed him something, Fox.”
“I’m not hungry,” said Jesse quickly. “But I’m kind of tired.”
“Why don’t you go lie down for a while?” Bran turned and quickly, shyly, kissed Jesse’s cheek. “Take it easy. No one will bother you. Promise.”
Jesse looked back into Bran’s eyes, but was too conscious of Fox’s presence to say anything but, “Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Bran.”
Lying down on his bed, he didn’t expect to sleep, but when he opened his eyes again it was three hours later and dreams of Quen had put such an ache in his stomach that he couldn’t stand to be alone another minute. He stumbled out of bed and onto the hall. Passing an unfamiliar, ajar door, and thinking it might be Bran’s room, he pushed it farther open without knocking.
He sucked in his breath at the sight of the implements lining the walls and the benches and horses scattered menacingly throughout the room. It took a moment before he registered the two other people in the room. A sloe-eyed girl, tawny hair with streaks of burnished gold spilled like a halo around features almost too strong for beauty, lay naked on a mattress on the floor, her skin golden and perfect against the pristine white sheet, her breasts full and high, her knees raised and wide. Stretched out beside her, fully clothed, one arm indolently flung across her belly, his hand between her legs, his darkly handsome face intent on her face, was Holden. The whole affair, implements and all, reminded Jesse of certain paintings that had hung in Presniakov’s house, except for the blissful expression on the girl’s face.
The girl noticed him first and moved, smiling; Holden followed her gaze and raised an eyebrow at Jesse.
“Can I help you?” he asked, his fingers still moving. Jesse swallowed and looked down.
“I’m sorry,” he said, already starting to back out. “I–“
“Come in,” said the girl, her voice rich and husky. “I haven’t met you yet. Can he, master? I’m Inga. You’re Jesse... right?”
Jesse nodded and looked at Holden, who jerked his head in mute assent, and Jesse came in and knelt awkwardly on the girl’s other side, trying to look only at her face.
“Hi.” The girl breathed in sharply, her eyes half closing. “How was... the market?”
“Busy,” said Jesse, his eyes glued to her face as she sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, her eyes, the color of bruised violets, widening again. “Bran, uh, bought you some pears.”
Inga’s laugh trailed off into a soft, throaty moan.
“Isn’t he... sweet,” she gasped. “I’m glad you’re here, Jess...ssse.” The middle part of his name was a drawn-out hiss of pleasure. “Quen was... worried sss– sick about you... you know... oh–“
She arched gently, her eyes closing without stress, her lips full, flushed, and parted slightly as if in sleep. Then she exhaled, long and satisfied, and opened her eyes again, turning her head to smile radiantly at Holden.
“That’s cheating, wench,” said Holden lazily, lifting wet, musky fingers to his lips and tasting them with his tongue before drying them on the sheet.
“We were just having a nice conversation, master,” said Inga innocently. “About pears. Right, Jesse? That’s not cheating.”
“It is if you’re an exhibitionist,” said Holden, tapping her lightly on the cheek in a parody of a slap.
“Or if you’re really fond of pears,” said Inga lazily, her voice still full and soft as velvet. “Hope you didn’t mind, Jesse. He’s taught me to come from most kinds of stimulation, but it’s still a lot easier with someone else watching.” She smiled at Holden again. “Not that it matters much at this point. I don’t expect many more breakthroughs before Friday evening.”
“What kind of an attitude is that?” Holden asked, sitting up and patting his own chest. Inga lifted herself up from the mattress without strain or haste, seeming to glide effortlessly into his arms, and leaned back against his chest, her head on his shoulder, exposing a flawless neck. “It’s never too late to learn. In any case, I expect your new mistress will continue where I left off.”
“I’ve come a long way, master,” said Inga contentedly.
“That you have, my darling,” said Holden, slipping a finger between her lips. She sucked it seductively. “Look at that. Not even a nibble.”
“I used to bite,” Inga said helpfully to Jesse when Holden withdrew his finger.
“Bite what?” Jesse asked, unable to think of anything else to say.
“Anything I could get my teeth into,” said Inga, baring the teeth in question in another satisfied smile. “But it was my master’s cock that got me sold here.”
Jesse blinked.
"Former master's, I mean," she added. "I bit it. Just a little. Unfortunately. A little bit harder and--"
“You'd be dead,” said Holden, "and that would be a real waste.” He turned his head to kiss Inga lightly on the mouth before pushing her gently away. “That’s enough. Run downstairs and find Greta. Get dressed first, you little hussy,” he added as Inga flowed gorgeously to her feet and started for the door. “We’re all well acquainted with your flawless physique; there’s no need to rub it in now that we’re about to lose you.”
Pouting slightly, Inga picked up a slightly crumpled green tunic from the floor and shimmied into it before blowing a kiss to Jesse.
“Thanks,” she said, grinning, and was gone.
“I’m glad you’re here, Jesse,” said Holden, recalling Jesse’s slightly open-mouthed attention from the door to himself. “I want to talk to you.”
Jesse nodded, training his eyes on his master’s knees with careful dispassion. The man seemed gentle enough with his pets, but Jesse wasn’t interested in becoming one of those, and he wasn’t sure yet what terms that left him on with his current master.
“Bran told me the two of you spent some time talking this morning,” Holden said, and Jesse glanced up involuntarily into his face. “No, he didn’t tell me any particulars– you don’t need to worry, he wouldn’t betray a confidence, even to me– but he was pretty upset.”
Jesse nodded again. So help me gods, if he tries to comfort me I’ll fucking hit him.
“Bran has a very affectionate nature,” said Holden, “as you’ve probably observed. I realize you’re having a difficult time right now, Jesse, and I know it can be quite a temptation to pour your heart out on a sympathetic shoulder, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t pour too much onto Bran. He’s... sensitive.”
Taken completely aback, Jesse laughed.
“What’s funny?” Holden asked, raising his eyebrows.
“You sound like–-" Jesse shook his head. “This skinny noblewoman who used to bring her snot-nosed son over to Presniakov’s. All she could talk about was how sensitive he was.”
Holden laughed, to Jesse’s surprise, a real belly laugh. Though he refused to smile in return, Jesse had to admit to himself that his master’s willingness to laugh even at himself could be considered an endearing quality, if you liked that sort of thing.
“Well, my own daughter’s about as sensitive as a cast-iron frying pan,” Holden said finally, “so I indulge my maternal instincts with Bran. Please try to be considerate of him, Jesse. If you don’t take care, he’ll wear himself out trying to make you happy.”
“Do you take care he doesn’t do that for you?” Jesse asked.
“I’m sorry,” said Holden mildly. “Did I give you the impression that was any of your goddamn business?”
Jesse lowered his gaze again, smirking slightly. Holden sighed.
“This isn’t an ideal situation for either of us, Jesse,” he said. “You’re living in my house and wearing my livery, but you’re not mine, and I don’t expect you to act as though you are. I won’t expect obedience from you, except for the benefit of company. I’ll try to treat you as a guest, and I’d appreciate it if you’d observe a guest’s basic courtesies in return, especially when it comes to certain cherished and fairly delicate possessions of your host’s. Bran gives of himself with great generosity, but that doesn’t mean he’s yours to take.”
“Gives of–?“ Jesse blinked. “You mean, like, in bed? He told you about that? Does he tell you everything?”
“No,” said Holden, “apparently not. In bed? What?”
“He offered, last night,” Jesse said, rather stung by Holden’s amused incredulity. “Sex, I mean.”
“You’re telling me Bran let you fuck him? Without asking my permission?”
Fear flared through Jesse, and his eyes widened with it. An instant later he made his face slam shut, all expression leaving it, but it was too late. Sick with shame and self-disgust at his recklessness, Jesse looked at Holden and saw Presniakov’s face on the morning he had found Jesse and Quen wrapped in each other’s arms, every line full of cold contempt, the curl of his lip almost a smile. Got you.
Holden got up, stepped across the mattress, knelt down next to Jesse, and grabbed his chin, holding his gaze. Jesse stared into the older man’s face, afraid to open his mouth, afraid that the only words he was thinking at the moment, the worst possible under the circumstances– Please don’t hurt him– would leap to his lips before he could stop them. Not that it mattered, now that he’d shown as much as he had. Jesse cursed the idiotic complacency that had let him be taken enough by surprise to let a flicker of fear onto his face. Like I don’t fucking know better. Holden would know exactly how to get to Jesse now.
“Jesse?” said Holden softly. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Jesse said, shrugging, making his voice rough and insolent. “I just thought it was funny that you’d think that. I haven’t been here long, but I know Bran wouldn’t do much but breathe without your say-so, and I’d think you’d know it too. Unless you’re the kind of jealous, paranoid bastard who’d bullwhip a kid for blinking if he thought it might be a signal. Are you?”
“No,” said Holden calmly, his face softening slightly as he released Jesse. “All right. I thought I must have misunderstood. Unless you were the kind of backbiting, shit-stirring little punk who’d slander a kid to his doting master if he thought it would work to his advantage. Are you?”
“No,” Jesse managed a little breathlessly, wondering if the punch to his face the day before had caused some sort of brain damage. The number of times that Holden had managed to take him completely by surprise in the last seven minutes was both deeply unnerving and perilously enjoyable; he found himself almost liking the man.
“So what happened last night?” Holden asked curiously.
Jesse held absolutely still for a moment, choosing his words. Brain damage or not, he wasn’t giving an inch more than he had to, especially not when it came to Bran.
“He offered me a pity fuck, if he could get your permission,” he said coolly, “and I turned him down.”
“Did you?” Holden asked, still looking intently into Jesse’s face. “May I ask why?”
Jesse shrugged, his face blank. “Because I didn’t want him. He’s not my type.”
“Really,” said Holden.
“Yes, really,” said Jesse coldly.
“I did meet Quen, you know,” said Holden, and stood up, offering Jesse a hand. Jesse took it cautiously, and Holden raised him to his feet and stepped back, examining him thoughtfully. “You’re an interesting kid, Jesse. I wish... All right, go find Bran. I’m glad you two have hit it off. Just be considerate,” he added, as Jesse started, a little weak-kneed, for the door. And then, affecting a surprisingly accurate mincing lady’s voice, “He’s a terribly sweet boy, almost too sweet, sometimes I do worry...”
Part Six
Anyway, I'm calling this story "Jesse" for now.
Part Four
Jesse felt almost like a kid again as he and Bran wandered the cheerfully bustling market, except that he was wearing shoes and– considering the circumstances– didn’t feel it was politic to steal anything. Several of the merchants seemed to know Bran and made light chatter with him as he and Jesse admired their wares; others gave them cool stares or shook their heads indulgently, obviously dubious whether the two young men had any money to spend, but willing to indulge their poking and prying. Bran made several purchases that were clearly routine while Jesse wandered off to play with brightly colored toys or flip through lavishly illustrated books, though he refused to let Bran buy him anything with Holden’s money.
“I’m costing them enough money, just being here,” he said, and Bran raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue.
One matronly woman at a fruit stall tossed an apple at Bran as he started to walk past her, and he caught it, laughing, and turned back.
“I have to bribe you to notice I’m alive, now?” she complained good-naturedly, and, as Bran started to fish in the pouch slung around his waist, “No, love, keep your master’s money, just so you give me that pretty smile of yours. Who’s your new friend?”
“Marta, this is Jesse,” said Bran, with a dazzling rendition of the smile she’d asked for.
“And has Jesse got a smile to give me?” Marta asked, turning to Jesse, who looked down, uneasy with her familiarity and rather conscious of the brace on his teeth. “No? Then I’ll take a coin. What’ll it be?”
“He can’t have anything,” said Bran apologetically. “But could I get a couple of pears for Inga?”
“How is Inga?” Marta asked, slipping the pears into a paper sack. “Ready for the big day?”
“Definitely,” Bran grinned. “She’s really excited. Thanks, Marta.” He gave the woman a coin and took the paper sack she handed him, tucking the apple inside as well.
“So conscientious, isn’t he, Jesse?” Marta said fondly, winking at Bran. “Wouldn’t dream of eating anything without asking permission first. If his master found out, he might very well frown, and we couldn’t have that, could we?”
“She certainly seemed to know a lot about you,” said Jesse as they walked on.
“They know us around here,” said Bran, still a little pink from Marta’s teasing. “I mean, all of us– people mostly know who we are, the slave breakers’ slaves. Some of them are sort of nervous around us, but–“
He stopped talking and walking at the same time. Jesse turned to find a pretty young girl in a faded blue dress that was much too small for her, clutching at Bran’s arm.
“Bran, I need to talk to you,” she said, ignoring Jesse.
“Sure, Trini,” said Bran, looking concerned. Jesse didn’t blame him; he hadn’t seen such a scared expression since his own in Presniakov’s mirror the night Quen had run. “What’s wrong?”
The girl hauled at his arm, dragging him closer.
“I messed up,” she almost whispered.
“What happened?” Bran asked gently. “Tell me.”
The girl leaned even closer to Bran and said something too softly for Jesse to hear.
“Trin-- why didn’t you talk to Yves yesterday?”
She shrugged, tears spilling down her cheeks.
“It’s okay,” said Bran, putting an arm around her and kissing her on the temple. “Meet me here about seven tomorrow morning at Leaf’s stall. Can you? Cheer up, sweetheart. Everything’s going to be fine.”
“Yeah?” she said hopefully, pulling back to examine his face.
“Yeah,” said Bran, smiling at her, and she beamed back, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, and turned to hurry away.
“What was all that about?” Jesse asked, bemusedly watching the girl’s retreat.
Bran sighed. “The kids around here– I mean the kids who know they’re going to get sold– they like to chat with us sometimes, get a feel for what’s about to happen to them. So when they’re in trouble–”
“What kind of trouble?”
“All kinds of trouble.” Bran grimaced. “Parent trouble, sometimes– a certain kind of parent gets grabby as hell in those last couple of weeks. Or if there’s a sweetheart, and they want, you know, one perfect moment to remember forever. I was lucky– my parents were dead, and my granddad really didn’t give a shit about me except for the money he could get– and I never had a lover. I actually thought things might get better after I was sold.”
Jesse was surprised by how much the bitterness in Bran’s normally sweet voice upset him. He opened his mouth to ask, then closed it.
“She seemed awfully eager to talk to you,” he said instead.
“That’s just Trini,” said Bran, smiling a little. “We’ve all got our fans. Well, except Jer, he’s such a sarcastic bastard they all hide when he comes out– but Trini thinks I’m her big brother.”
“Brother?” said Jesse, with a sidelong grin. “I don’t know about that.”
Bran looked at him in surprise, then grinned. “You think she’s got a crush on me? I don’t know– maybe. If it means she’ll talk to me about this stuff– She’s a good kid. Don’t want her killing herself or anything, you know?”
“Does that happen?” asked Jesse, shocked.
“If they’re scared enough,” said Bran grimly, “and don’t think they can tell anyone. My master told me they once had a father bring in the dead body of his pregnant daughter– she’d hanged herself– and demand to know what he could get for it. Greta answered the door. She was sick for a week afterwards. Seven years later and she still doesn't like to answer the door.”
“See,” said Jesse, and took a breath. “See, okay, if my master– my former master, I mean. Presniakov. If he owned Greta, he’d make it– he’d make sure she was in charge of answering the door. Always. And if it seemed like she didn’t mind any more, he’d make sure... interesting things... sometimes came to the door. It would be worth the trouble. For him.”
“Yeah,” said Bran quietly. “Okay. I know what you mean, Jess. Quen told me– I’m sorry.”
They said nothing for a few minutes, while Jesse passed several vendors without having any idea what they were selling.
“What did he tell you?” he asked finally.
“He said–“ Bran hesitated. “He said Presniakov liked to hurt one of you and– make the other watch, that kind of thing.”
“Yeah,” said Jesse. “But that wasn’t the worst thing. At least when– and he liked me to be the one in– physical pain, because when it was Quen– I never cried or begged when Quen was the one screaming, I never gave the bastard anything, so he got tired of that pretty quick. But Quen– couldn’t help it, he loved me, and he– but I didn’t mind. It just meant he– Presniakov– liked to hurt me better, and I liked that better too, I could stand it better than Quen. And at least when he was hurting me I knew–“
He stopped walking abruptly, feeling sick. Bran stopped with him, waiting, a little pale. The bustle of the market went on around them, shouts and haggling and arguments and shoppers pushing past them laden with bags and parcels.
“He liked to separate us,” said Jesse finally, and Bran moved closer, listening. “Quen would be gone for days, weeks, and I wouldn’t know where he was, and it turned into this game where he’d wait– Presniakov– and wait and wait for me to ask and when I asked he’d... gods, it was fucked up, okay, I don’t want to talk about it.” Someone jostled him and knocked him off balance; Bran reached out a hand to steady him, and Jesse clutched it gratefully, not letting go even when he had his balance back. “But every time it happened I was sure he’d finally killed him. And then he really had. I mean, Quen was really dead, he wasn’t coming back. And it was all– over. And now it’s started again, and– Bran? I'm not sure I can take this.”
“You can,” said Bran gently. “You know you can. You have to, Jess. We’ll– I’ll do everything I can to make it easier. But Quen said you’d always been the strong one. You just have to be the strong one for a little longer.”
“Yeah,” said Jesse, looking up into Bran’s wide, worried eyes. “Yeah, you're right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean–- I miss him, Bran, you know? I almost think I miss him more now that he’s not dead than– I know it doesn’t make sense.”
“Sure it does,” said Bran quietly. “Come with me, Jess. Let’s find somewhere to sit down. I think you might need to talk.”
It was well past noon when they returned to the house, and the young woman in the kitchen, Fox, was annoyed with Bran.
“Where the hell have you been?” she demanded, grabbing bags from his hands. “Behind a bush with the new boy? Your master’s looking for you.”
Bran looked up, startled. “I didn’t think he’d be back yet.”
“They came back early. Another fight with Kai, I guess.”
“Shit,” said Bran, biting his lip. “Is he upset?”
“Not with you, I don’t think,” said Fox, her pinched face softening slightly as she looked at Bran’s troubled expression. “But you’d best go find him. And you, new boy, what’s your name,” she added, as Bran hurried out, “make yourself useful and wash these for me.”
Jesse spent the next hour and a half in the kitchen, rather clumsily performing the various tasks Fox peremptorily set him. He was grateful for the distraction at first, but had just about decided to rebel under her bad-tempered rule when Bran came back in with a spring in his step, smiling brightly.
“Fox,” he said, looking at what Jesse was doing, “quit taking advantage. You don’t have to do all that, Jess.”
“Don’t boss free people around, boy,” Fox snapped.
His smile slipping only a notch, Bran dropped dramatically to his knees at Fox’s feet, clutching her around the waist and looking up winsomely.
“Forgive my insolence, please, worshipful madam Fox,” he said. “You know I’m just jealous. I thought ruining the pie crust was my special privilege.”
“Get off, you idiot,” said Fox grumpily, but the corners of her mouth were twitching. “And stop being so obscenely cheerful. It leaves nothing to the imagination.”
Bran got up obediently, his grin full-on again.
“Let me,” he said, taking the sifter from Jesse’s hand. “Tell me you’ve at least fed him something, Fox.”
“I’m not hungry,” said Jesse quickly. “But I’m kind of tired.”
“Why don’t you go lie down for a while?” Bran turned and quickly, shyly, kissed Jesse’s cheek. “Take it easy. No one will bother you. Promise.”
Jesse looked back into Bran’s eyes, but was too conscious of Fox’s presence to say anything but, “Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Bran.”
Lying down on his bed, he didn’t expect to sleep, but when he opened his eyes again it was three hours later and dreams of Quen had put such an ache in his stomach that he couldn’t stand to be alone another minute. He stumbled out of bed and onto the hall. Passing an unfamiliar, ajar door, and thinking it might be Bran’s room, he pushed it farther open without knocking.
He sucked in his breath at the sight of the implements lining the walls and the benches and horses scattered menacingly throughout the room. It took a moment before he registered the two other people in the room. A sloe-eyed girl, tawny hair with streaks of burnished gold spilled like a halo around features almost too strong for beauty, lay naked on a mattress on the floor, her skin golden and perfect against the pristine white sheet, her breasts full and high, her knees raised and wide. Stretched out beside her, fully clothed, one arm indolently flung across her belly, his hand between her legs, his darkly handsome face intent on her face, was Holden. The whole affair, implements and all, reminded Jesse of certain paintings that had hung in Presniakov’s house, except for the blissful expression on the girl’s face.
The girl noticed him first and moved, smiling; Holden followed her gaze and raised an eyebrow at Jesse.
“Can I help you?” he asked, his fingers still moving. Jesse swallowed and looked down.
“I’m sorry,” he said, already starting to back out. “I–“
“Come in,” said the girl, her voice rich and husky. “I haven’t met you yet. Can he, master? I’m Inga. You’re Jesse... right?”
Jesse nodded and looked at Holden, who jerked his head in mute assent, and Jesse came in and knelt awkwardly on the girl’s other side, trying to look only at her face.
“Hi.” The girl breathed in sharply, her eyes half closing. “How was... the market?”
“Busy,” said Jesse, his eyes glued to her face as she sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, her eyes, the color of bruised violets, widening again. “Bran, uh, bought you some pears.”
Inga’s laugh trailed off into a soft, throaty moan.
“Isn’t he... sweet,” she gasped. “I’m glad you’re here, Jess...ssse.” The middle part of his name was a drawn-out hiss of pleasure. “Quen was... worried sss– sick about you... you know... oh–“
She arched gently, her eyes closing without stress, her lips full, flushed, and parted slightly as if in sleep. Then she exhaled, long and satisfied, and opened her eyes again, turning her head to smile radiantly at Holden.
“That’s cheating, wench,” said Holden lazily, lifting wet, musky fingers to his lips and tasting them with his tongue before drying them on the sheet.
“We were just having a nice conversation, master,” said Inga innocently. “About pears. Right, Jesse? That’s not cheating.”
“It is if you’re an exhibitionist,” said Holden, tapping her lightly on the cheek in a parody of a slap.
“Or if you’re really fond of pears,” said Inga lazily, her voice still full and soft as velvet. “Hope you didn’t mind, Jesse. He’s taught me to come from most kinds of stimulation, but it’s still a lot easier with someone else watching.” She smiled at Holden again. “Not that it matters much at this point. I don’t expect many more breakthroughs before Friday evening.”
“What kind of an attitude is that?” Holden asked, sitting up and patting his own chest. Inga lifted herself up from the mattress without strain or haste, seeming to glide effortlessly into his arms, and leaned back against his chest, her head on his shoulder, exposing a flawless neck. “It’s never too late to learn. In any case, I expect your new mistress will continue where I left off.”
“I’ve come a long way, master,” said Inga contentedly.
“That you have, my darling,” said Holden, slipping a finger between her lips. She sucked it seductively. “Look at that. Not even a nibble.”
“I used to bite,” Inga said helpfully to Jesse when Holden withdrew his finger.
“Bite what?” Jesse asked, unable to think of anything else to say.
“Anything I could get my teeth into,” said Inga, baring the teeth in question in another satisfied smile. “But it was my master’s cock that got me sold here.”
Jesse blinked.
"Former master's, I mean," she added. "I bit it. Just a little. Unfortunately. A little bit harder and--"
“You'd be dead,” said Holden, "and that would be a real waste.” He turned his head to kiss Inga lightly on the mouth before pushing her gently away. “That’s enough. Run downstairs and find Greta. Get dressed first, you little hussy,” he added as Inga flowed gorgeously to her feet and started for the door. “We’re all well acquainted with your flawless physique; there’s no need to rub it in now that we’re about to lose you.”
Pouting slightly, Inga picked up a slightly crumpled green tunic from the floor and shimmied into it before blowing a kiss to Jesse.
“Thanks,” she said, grinning, and was gone.
“I’m glad you’re here, Jesse,” said Holden, recalling Jesse’s slightly open-mouthed attention from the door to himself. “I want to talk to you.”
Jesse nodded, training his eyes on his master’s knees with careful dispassion. The man seemed gentle enough with his pets, but Jesse wasn’t interested in becoming one of those, and he wasn’t sure yet what terms that left him on with his current master.
“Bran told me the two of you spent some time talking this morning,” Holden said, and Jesse glanced up involuntarily into his face. “No, he didn’t tell me any particulars– you don’t need to worry, he wouldn’t betray a confidence, even to me– but he was pretty upset.”
Jesse nodded again. So help me gods, if he tries to comfort me I’ll fucking hit him.
“Bran has a very affectionate nature,” said Holden, “as you’ve probably observed. I realize you’re having a difficult time right now, Jesse, and I know it can be quite a temptation to pour your heart out on a sympathetic shoulder, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t pour too much onto Bran. He’s... sensitive.”
Taken completely aback, Jesse laughed.
“What’s funny?” Holden asked, raising his eyebrows.
“You sound like–-" Jesse shook his head. “This skinny noblewoman who used to bring her snot-nosed son over to Presniakov’s. All she could talk about was how sensitive he was.”
Holden laughed, to Jesse’s surprise, a real belly laugh. Though he refused to smile in return, Jesse had to admit to himself that his master’s willingness to laugh even at himself could be considered an endearing quality, if you liked that sort of thing.
“Well, my own daughter’s about as sensitive as a cast-iron frying pan,” Holden said finally, “so I indulge my maternal instincts with Bran. Please try to be considerate of him, Jesse. If you don’t take care, he’ll wear himself out trying to make you happy.”
“Do you take care he doesn’t do that for you?” Jesse asked.
“I’m sorry,” said Holden mildly. “Did I give you the impression that was any of your goddamn business?”
Jesse lowered his gaze again, smirking slightly. Holden sighed.
“This isn’t an ideal situation for either of us, Jesse,” he said. “You’re living in my house and wearing my livery, but you’re not mine, and I don’t expect you to act as though you are. I won’t expect obedience from you, except for the benefit of company. I’ll try to treat you as a guest, and I’d appreciate it if you’d observe a guest’s basic courtesies in return, especially when it comes to certain cherished and fairly delicate possessions of your host’s. Bran gives of himself with great generosity, but that doesn’t mean he’s yours to take.”
“Gives of–?“ Jesse blinked. “You mean, like, in bed? He told you about that? Does he tell you everything?”
“No,” said Holden, “apparently not. In bed? What?”
“He offered, last night,” Jesse said, rather stung by Holden’s amused incredulity. “Sex, I mean.”
“You’re telling me Bran let you fuck him? Without asking my permission?”
Fear flared through Jesse, and his eyes widened with it. An instant later he made his face slam shut, all expression leaving it, but it was too late. Sick with shame and self-disgust at his recklessness, Jesse looked at Holden and saw Presniakov’s face on the morning he had found Jesse and Quen wrapped in each other’s arms, every line full of cold contempt, the curl of his lip almost a smile. Got you.
Holden got up, stepped across the mattress, knelt down next to Jesse, and grabbed his chin, holding his gaze. Jesse stared into the older man’s face, afraid to open his mouth, afraid that the only words he was thinking at the moment, the worst possible under the circumstances– Please don’t hurt him– would leap to his lips before he could stop them. Not that it mattered, now that he’d shown as much as he had. Jesse cursed the idiotic complacency that had let him be taken enough by surprise to let a flicker of fear onto his face. Like I don’t fucking know better. Holden would know exactly how to get to Jesse now.
“Jesse?” said Holden softly. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Jesse said, shrugging, making his voice rough and insolent. “I just thought it was funny that you’d think that. I haven’t been here long, but I know Bran wouldn’t do much but breathe without your say-so, and I’d think you’d know it too. Unless you’re the kind of jealous, paranoid bastard who’d bullwhip a kid for blinking if he thought it might be a signal. Are you?”
“No,” said Holden calmly, his face softening slightly as he released Jesse. “All right. I thought I must have misunderstood. Unless you were the kind of backbiting, shit-stirring little punk who’d slander a kid to his doting master if he thought it would work to his advantage. Are you?”
“No,” Jesse managed a little breathlessly, wondering if the punch to his face the day before had caused some sort of brain damage. The number of times that Holden had managed to take him completely by surprise in the last seven minutes was both deeply unnerving and perilously enjoyable; he found himself almost liking the man.
“So what happened last night?” Holden asked curiously.
Jesse held absolutely still for a moment, choosing his words. Brain damage or not, he wasn’t giving an inch more than he had to, especially not when it came to Bran.
“He offered me a pity fuck, if he could get your permission,” he said coolly, “and I turned him down.”
“Did you?” Holden asked, still looking intently into Jesse’s face. “May I ask why?”
Jesse shrugged, his face blank. “Because I didn’t want him. He’s not my type.”
“Really,” said Holden.
“Yes, really,” said Jesse coldly.
“I did meet Quen, you know,” said Holden, and stood up, offering Jesse a hand. Jesse took it cautiously, and Holden raised him to his feet and stepped back, examining him thoughtfully. “You’re an interesting kid, Jesse. I wish... All right, go find Bran. I’m glad you two have hit it off. Just be considerate,” he added, as Jesse started, a little weak-kneed, for the door. And then, affecting a surprisingly accurate mincing lady’s voice, “He’s a terribly sweet boy, almost too sweet, sometimes I do worry...”
Part Six
