Lee chapter three

[maculategiraffe]

"Sir!" said an urgent voice, and someone was shaking Holden by the shoulder. Peeling his eyes open entirely against his will, he saw that it was the red-haired nurse from earlier, the young man’s face so full of alarm that Holden automatically pushed away his annoyance and went into soothing mode.

"What's wrong?" he asked groggily, just stopping himself from adding kid.

"Your slave, sir-- I came in and he wasn't here!"

Holden shook off sleep further, glancing around. Lee was still asleep. Bran was nowhere in sight.

"Fuck's sake," he muttered, and looked back at the frightened nurse. "Look– don't panic. The hospital– what’s it– waives all responsibility. Pass me my bag."

The nurse, surprised, looked around and handed it to him. Holden reached inside, pulled out his wallet, and did a quick count of the money it contained.

“Kid just went to get something to eat,” he said, relieved. “Check the cafeteria. Or don't bother. He'll be back soon."

"He took your money and left, without your permission?" the nurse asked, shocked.

"Yeah, but if he was running away he would have filched at least enough for cab fare." Holden patted the confused young man on the arm. "Thanks for waking me. Let me know if you have other concerns." He lay back down on the cot and shifted position irritably, trying to get comfortable, then gave up and closed his eyes.

"Sir," said the nurse softly.

Holden opened one eye. "What."

"Will you punish the slave for this?"

Holden opened the other eye and examined the young nurse quizzically. "Why? You want to watch?"

The boy blushed furiously. "No! I-- I only meant-- if he's back soon, well, if I hadn't wakened you, you wouldn't have ever known he'd gone-- and-- I wouldn't want to have-- I mean I wouldn't want to--"

"Feel responsible?" Holden sat back up resignedly and fished another "look, everything's completely okay" facial expression up from his inventory. "No, I'm not going to punish him. He knew I was tired, and he figured this was covered under my standing order to keep himself fed and hydrated so he doesn't end up like that poor kid." He nodded towards the unconscious Lee.

The nurse nodded slowly, staring at Holden, who smiled mildly back at him.

"I'm sorry," he said finally. "I just-- I haven't met many slave owners, and the ones I have met aren't-- like you."

Holden yawned. "No? Well, it's like anything else. You mostly see the really sick ones here."

The nurse nodded again, smiling a little. "I guess that's true-- Sir?"

"Hmm?" said Holden, willing the nice young man to shut up and go away so he could lie back down on his nice spine-wrecking pallet and try to get a couple more hours of sleep before the nice doctor came back to give him more death looks.

"Why would you buy a slave in such terrible condition?"

Wearily, Holden reached back into his bag and flicked a business card at the boy. "Retraining. We'll fix him up for resale. It's a good investment."

The nurse studied the card curiously, then looked up. "Holden Larssen?"

Holden stuck out his hand. "At your service."

"Denys Harper," the nurse said as he took Holden's hand and clasped it rather shyly in his.

"Nice to meet you, Denys," said Holden. "Can I go back to sleep now?"

As Denys blushed yet again and started to apologize, Bran came back in and stopped short in the doorway, staring at Holden and Denys.

"There you are, sweetheart," said Holden, pulling his hand from Denys' and reaching to Bran, and the boy came automatically to kneel at his master's feet as Denys backed up a few steps. "You gave the nurse here quite a scare. He thought you'd made a break for it."

Bran shot the nurse a look that, if it had been directed at a free person under ordinary circumstances, would have prompted Holden to speak to him sharply. But then, ordinary circumstances didn't involve Bran returning to the hospital room where he’d carried a new friend from his former master’s torture basement to find his current master clasping hands with a strange young man who'd been accusing Bran of trying to run away. Holden was inclined to cut the kid some slack.

"I told him you must have had the good sense to go get something to eat without bothering me," he added, and Bran relaxed slightly as Denys retreated to Lee's bedside. "That right?"

"Yes, master," said Bran without making eye contact.

"Good," said Holden. "And-- look, you get some rest, Bran. I'll sit with Lee."

"I'd rather not, master," said Bran worriedly, glancing over his shoulder at Lee. "He doesn't... I'm the only one he trusts."

"I know, love, but that's why you should sleep while he's unconscious. I'll wake you the minute he opens his eyes."

"I'm not tired, master," said Bran, his head still turned away. "Really. And-- there were a few things I wanted to ask Mr.--" He looked at the nurse.

"Harper," said Holden, curious. "All right. Ask him."

Returning to his chair by Lee's bedside, where Denys was fiddling with some of the machines and pumps that surrounded the unconscious slave, Bran said politely, "Sir? Could I ask you some questions?”

“Uh, sure,” said Denys, trying rather obviously not to stare at Bran.

Bran pointed at the empty bag that Denys had just unhooked from the tube that led into Lee's arm. ”What's this?"

"That's a TPN solution," said Denys.

"What does that mean?"

"Total parenteral nutrition." Denys' tone was affable and a little condescending, as if he were humoring a child. Bran glanced quickly at Holden, and Holden nodded easily: Sic 'im.

"I'm not a doctor, sir," said Bran courteously, "but I'm not stupid. If you explain, I think I can understand."

The nurse had the grace to look embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I-- Sorry. TPN is a solution of proteins, vitamins, sugars, salts-- it's basically like dripping food straight into his bloodstream, skipping the whole eating part. We use it when a patient's malnourished and nonresponsive."

"He's not nonresponsive," Bran pointed out. "He responds to me."

"Right, and we hope you'll be feeding him soon, but we're playing catch-up right now. He needs nutrition fast to help his body repair itself, and he needs rest, too. Digestion takes a lot of energy."

"The TPN goes into him through this needle here?"

Denys glanced over. "Through his IV line, yeah."

"IV?"

"Intravenous. It goes into the vein on his arm. This one that you can see here. It carries it-- all through his blood."

"What are you doing now?"

"Getting ready to push in some antibiotics. Some of the cuts on his back are infected. And his anus, from the, uh--"

Bran ignored Denys' sudden blush, nodding at the syringe in his rubber-gloved hand. "Is that the antibiotic?"

"No, this is the antibiotic in this bag here. This is a saline flush to keep the line from clotting off."

"Saline?"

"Salt," said Denys. "Salt solution. Cleans the line."

"Does it sting when it goes in? The salt?"

"I don't think so," said Denys, pushing the contents of another syringe into the line.

"What was that?" Bran asked.

"Heparin. It's an anticoagulant. Keeps the blood from clotting in the line. Coagulate is another word for clot."

"Now the antibiotic is going into his blood?"

"Should be."

"What's that dial for?"

Holden listened, fascinated, as Bran asked question after question, never seeming embarrassed by his ignorance– and why should he be? Holden didn't know the answers to half the questions himself, and he'd had far more opportunity than Bran to find out– and Denys answered them, patiently and thoroughly. When the nurse was finished checking over Lee, he smiled at Bran. "I'll be back in a couple of hours to unhook the antibiotic and check his levels-- but you'll probably be asleep, yeah?"

"Yes," said Holden firmly, and both boys glanced up at him.

"I'm not tired, master," Bran said again.

"But you will be tomorrow." Holden stood up. "Lie down, love."

Bran hesitated for a moment, then, with an uncomfortable glance at Denys, came past Holden and lay down on the cot. Holden was fairly sure he would have pushed the issue further if he hadn't been reluctant to risk being chastised in front of the nurse. When Denys had gone, Holden knelt down on the floor next to Bran, who was watching him, his expression wary.

"Is everything all right, sweetheart?" he asked.

"I'm worried about Lee, master," said Bran, his eyes darting away from Holden's.

"Yeah. I can see that." Holden reached to touch Bran's cheek gently. "But, Bran, you can't wear yourself out-- for Lee's own sake. If you don't sleep tonight while he sleeps, you'll fall asleep tomorrow while he's awake and really needs you. Please understand, sweetheart. I'm not trying to stop you from taking care of Lee. I want you to take care of Lee. I just want you to take care of yourself, too. I can't afford to have you breaking down. And neither can Lee."

"Yes, master," said Bran meekly, then added with a sudden wicked look up through his eyelashes, "Sure it’s not so you can flirt some more with the pretty nurse?"

Taken by surprise, Holden cackled.

"Flirt! I was half asleep and the kid wouldn't leave me alone... and so you think he's pretty, do you?"

Bran lowered his eyelids demurely. "No need to get defensive, master. It's none of my business whom you flirt with. I'm just your slave."

"You're a disrespectful little wiseass, is what you are," said Holden, cuffing Bran's ear lightly. "And I've never seen a boy who could be pretty in the same room as you."

Bran grinned. "But I wasn't in the room."

"No, you're right," said Holden, trying to look serious. "He dazzled hell out of me. I'm just biding my time until you fall asleep. Do you think Lee will mind if we move him to the floor so I can fuck Denys in his bed?"

"Denys?" Bran snickered.

"You want to be sleeping on your stomach, boy?"

Bran was still smiling as he finally closed his eyes. Holden stayed kneeling beside the cot until the boy’s face had gone slack and relaxed, then got up and sat down in the chair beside Lee.

After a moment he reached to caress the dark hair– it needed washing badly, would probably be silky and light under better circumstances– noting the fine skull, the slender neck, the too-sharp curve of the cheekbone. A beautiful boy, once he'd healed, gotten cleaned up and filled out a little. Right now his closed eyes had dark circles under them, and he was much too thin, with a sickly pastiness to his skin. The skin was otherwise flawless, would be lovely with proper nutrition. Pity about the scarring. Who'd be interested? Lydia Brokova, maybe, with her bear-like, kindhearted husband, who'd done so well for Kira; a pretty feline lad like this might be right up her alley, and she wasn’t a pearl-clutcher like some, would probably accept the scars and their implications without bursting into tears and making the kid feel like a freak. But Lydia and Sergei used corporal punishment, and it would be a long time before Holden would feel comfortable reintroducing Lee to that. Might be easier just to sell him to someone like Andrei Taganov, if Andrei was finally ready to quit holding out for Bran.

Bran. Just when Holden thought the kid was done surprising him. He was beginning to suspect Bran would never be done surprising him, proving to him that he wasn’t as damn smart as he was sometimes in danger of thinking he was. He hadn’t even thought to ask what the nurses were doing to Lee, but Bran had just been waiting until there was someone he could feel less shy about asking, so he could– what? Make sure Lee was being properly cared for? Explain to Lee in the morning, if he had questions?

And Lee would have questions, if not in the morning, then soon enough. Not only What are they doing to me? but What happens now? and Am I safe? and What the hell are we going to do about the fact that Lord Dunaev did this to me and nobody can touch him for it or stop him from doing it to as many more kids as he can afford to waste?

Or maybe that last one was Holden’s question.

Holden pulled his hand from Lee’s hair with a sudden impatient gesture he would never have allowed himself if the kid had been conscious, dug in his bag for the notebook and pen he’d started carrying around now that his memory no longer effortlessly retained addresses and phone numbers, and, after slight hesitation, began to write.

Hello Trouble,

How's the saving the human race from itself coming along?

If the world is ready (though whether the world will ever be ready for a frontal assault by my valorous daughter may be a matter for doubt), I've got a test case for you. Seventeen years old and abused into catatonia by our dear friend Dunaev. You remember Dunaev-- he sold us Bran-- who's currently the only person Lee will respond to in any way. We're still hoping for a full recovery, but Val, we found the kid chained to the wall in a pool of piss, starving and dehydrated, beaten and raped bloody, and it's a miracle he'll even speak to Bran.

He looked at the page for a moment, then closed his notebook over his pen and stared at Lee without really seeing him. What could Valor and her friends do? Holden didn't even know what he hoped for, could no longer summon even a simulacrum of the white-hot young faith in world change that came so naturally to Valor. He could picture his daughter, the spark kindling in her eyes when she read the letter, the way she'd throw it at whoever was in the room with her-- poor innocent Lisa Kareyeva, being forcibly politically educated, or a lover, or a study-mate-- and jump up to do something. Even if Holden, his own youthful energy spent-- mostly misspent, at that-- couldn't imagine what, he could imagine Valor imagining it. Maybe that was enough.

He opened the notebook again and wrote, firmly, There's got to be something someone can do about this, then stared at the page thoughtfully for he didn't know how long, until a slight rattling noise recalled his attention to the bed, and he saw with a start that Lee's dark eyes were open and fixed on him, his hollow-cheeked face rigid with fear, the cuff on his wrist chattering against the metal bedframe again as he trembled.

"It's okay, Lee," he said soothingly, closing the notebook again and rising swiftly. "Bran?"

Bran opened his eyes, rolled off the cot as promptly as if he had been awake and waiting to be called, and was at the bedside and bent over Lee, who stared up at him, his eyes swimming with tears.

"You're still here," he whispered.

"Yes, Lee," said Bran tenderly as he sat down where Holden had been sitting. "I'm here, and you're safe. How do you feel?"

"What are they doing to me?" Lee asked hoarsely, and Bran answered calmly, thoroughly, comprehensibly, using phrases that Denys had used, explaining them simply: food and water straight into your body, medicine to fight infection, painkiller.

"How do you feel?" he repeated when he had finished.

"Better," said Lee wonderingly. “Bran, how long can I stay here?”

“You’re never going back to Lord Dunaev,” said Bran, “but you’ll only be here in the hospital until you’re feeling better. Then we’ll take you home.”

"Home?" said Lee softly, and the shy, infinitely fragile hope in his face and voice brought on the sick lurch of self-doubt Holden hadn't been able to shake since he'd first realized Bran was missing, five years before, the guilt nested at the heart of his rage and terror: The most precious trust I've ever had, and I fucked it up this completely.

He'd managed to salvage that one, but the day he'd spent believing Bran was lost had knocked something out of him, some essential confidence or arrogance he hadn't realized he had until it was gone, and though he faked it now fairly convincingly, the kids scared him as they never had before: their hope, their need, their trust. He'd never even considered retirement before Bran, and now he'd gone so far as to acquire an understudy, one with the brash young arrogance he'd lost, one he thought about every time a kid affected him like this: Maybe it's time to call Jesse.

But it wasn't, yet, and Bran was looking at him expectantly, presumably waiting for him to explain his life's work to Lee, so he mustered a fairly calm, simple explanation of the retraining-and-reselling concept while Lee watched him without speaking, winding up with, "Anyway, it'll be a long time before we need to think about any of that. In the meantime, I don't want you to worry, Lee. Just rest and let us take care of you."

Lee sighed, looking at Bran. “Tell him– Bran– tell the master–“

“You can tell him yourself, Lee,” said Bran gently.

“No, please, I– just tell him I won't fight, I don't ever fight. But I-- might not be able to help-- crying. When people use me. I'm sorry. I– do. Sometimes. When it hurts."

"Lee, no one will use you until you're better," said Bran quietly. "The master doesn't mind waiting. And no one will be angry with you for crying. Ever."

Lee lifted his eyes to Holden’s face, as if to check the truth of Bran's shocking assertion, and kept them there, staring.

"Bran," he said, stunned. "He's crying."

"He's sorry for you, Lee," said Bran, looking curiously at Holden, who blinked tears away impatiently, brushing away the ones that had already fallen as he smiled at Lee.

"That's right," he said. "I'm sorry for you, kid. But Bran's right, it's going to be all right. I--" He swallowed, took a breath. "I promise."