(no subject)

[maculategiraffe]

This is the last in the miniseries of four stories inspired by the request for fic about the early days of Holden and Yves' relationship. I hope everyone enjoyed it!





"Hey, Yves? Can I ask you something?"

Yves, sprawled naked on the bed in a patch of morning sunlight as his master dressed, looked up curiously; there was an odd tension to Holden's tone-- odd considering what Yves had just finished doing, anyway. "Of course, master."

"Do you think Greta's gained weight?"

Whatever Yves had been expecting, it wasn't that. "Um--"

"I mean, have you noticed?" Holden was putting on his belt; Yves' eyes lingered at his master's waist as the deft fingers cinched and buckled. "She hardly ever eats anything, but she's getting-- rounder. Yves? Are you listening to me?"

Flustered, Yves raised his eyes to his master's face. "Sorry, master. Uh, you were saying Greta's getting rounder."

"And you were staring at my belt again, you little pervert. I should take it back off and teach you a lesson about paying proper attention when your master speaks."

Yves blushed hotly; Holden laughed, came over to the bed and leaned down to kiss him.

"I love it when you blush," he murmured in Yves' ear. "You look so innocent. Makes me want to do all manner of depraved and licentious things to you."

"It does, master?" said Yves, and leaned back, his body on full display, his eyes deliberately wide and naive. "Because if that was what you decided you wanted, I'd be totally helpless to resist."

"Stop that," said Holden, turning away, his tone caught somewhere between laughter, lust and chiding. "You're insatiable. I was saying something."

Yves sat up, trying not to pout. "Yes, you were saying Greta's gained weight." He hoped his voice didn't convey the sarcastic addendum how fascinating, but if it did, Holden didn't notice; his eyes were distant and inattentive.

"Yeah," he said, and knelt to begin putting on his boots, the quick practiced motions of his hands distracting Yves again. "Yves, I'm-- worried."

Yves frowned. "Worried? About Greta?" As he spoke, he felt a flicker of worry himself. He'd thought his casual remark to Greta three weeks before had had an effect: she'd either stopped her furtive assignations or gotten a hell of a lot more careful about hiding the evidence. Why would their master suspect something now? And what if he did? Yves didn't know Greta particularly well, but she was just a kid, and unlawful fornication was the kind of thing that could get even a petted, sheltered slave in the kind of trouble you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy.

"Yeah," said Holden, glancing up at Yves. "You haven't noticed? The weight gain, I mean. And the way she-- sits down."

"I don't really look at Greta much, master," said Yves honestly, puzzled by the focus of Holden's talk. "Um, is there some particular reason why you care if she gains weight?"

"Maybe." Holden stood up and glanced at himself absently in the mirror, running a hand through his rumpled dark hair. "Yves, did you have any younger siblings?"

"No, master. Two older brothers."

Holden's eyes came back suddenly. "Heh. No wonder you like me."

Yves laughed, but he was still puzzled. "What do younger siblings have to do with it, master?"

"Just-- I was the oldest, and I was eight when my mom got pregnant with my sister. I remember some stuff about-- the pregnancy. What it looked like."

Yves nodded. "So what does that have to-- wait. What?"

"I know, right? It doesn't make any sense." Holden had begun to pace restlessly around the room; Yves watched, blood singing in his head, slightly sick with the sudden flood of adrenaline. How could he have been so stupid as not to have made the connection? But slaves didn't get pregnant. Did they? "That guy told Alix she'd had the sterilizing operation. I mean, she said he looked seedy, but even if she didn't have it, or if they botched it, I know damn well I had it."

"It doesn't make sense, master," Yves agreed, and though he'd summoned all his admittedly rusty skills at deception to the task of inflecting those five words, he should have known it wouldn't be enough. Holden turned, sharply-- Yves' heart almost stopped-- and regarded his slave for a long moment before he spoke.

"What do you know?"

Yves tried to translate terror into a convincing display of startled virtue as his master moved towards him, his smooth, deliberate walk and narrowed eyes reminding Yves of a cat about to pounce. "I-- I don't know anything, master, I don't know what you're talking ab--"

That was as far as he got before, in an act of pure reflexive fear at the look on Holden's face, he broke off and slid from the bed to his knees, bowing his head to the floor in a position of total abjection that he'd never assumed before with Holden. His heart pounded so hard it hurt as the floor creaked, Holden knelt in front of him, and a hand slid into his hair, made a fist, and pulled him up inexorably till he was staring into his master's eyes.

"Yves," Holden said, and his voice was as firm, without being rough, as his grip on Yves' hair. "I think we've discussed before the one thing I absolutely will not tolerate from you."

Yves tried not to give way to panic, but the consciousness of how badly he'd just fucked up felt like a stomach full of broken glass.

"Yes, master," he got out past the constriction in his throat. "Lying. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-- I mean, I didn't plan to-- I just, it was just-- reflex. Bad habit. From before I-- came here. I panicked. I'm sorry, master, please-- please forgive me."

"Okay," said Holden slowly, his eyes intent on Yves'. "So what do you know?"

Fuck, fuck, fuck. There was no way this was going to end well. "M-- master?"

"I asked you what you knew," said Holden, "and you said you didn't know what I was talking about, which was a lie. So what do you know?"

Yves was too scared to cry. "I-- can't tell you, master."

"You can't tell me," Holden repeated, after a pause.

Yves braced himself. "Won't tell you."

When Holden stayed still, Yves was so startled-- the chance to elaborate further, to explain his defiance, was so unexpected-- that he just stared stupidly into his master's face without saying anything at all, until Holden spoke again, his voice quiet and even, his temper clearly being held in check.

"Whatever you know," he said, "it's better for Greta if you tell me now. I know you think I hate her, but I don't hate her that much, I don't want her dead. And Alix certainly doesn't. But we need to know. Tell me."

"I can't," said Yves again. "It isn't my-- my business."

"It's your business to obey me," said Holden, still evenly, "when I give you a direct order."

Yves said nothing.

Neither did Holden, for a long time, and Yves couldn't read his master's face. He was dizzy with fear and with the desire to babble out everything-- everything he'd ever glimpsed, overheard, smelled even, that had made him say to Greta You're playing a dangerous game. Of course, in the event, Yves was one to talk. What the hell was he doing? True, Holden probably wouldn't kill him over this-- well, not on purpose, anyway-- but with the full brunt of his master's considerable temper directed against him, Yves had no doubt that the very best he could hope for was a world of hurt. And at worst, he was throwing away everything he had with Holden, and a life of such happiness as he'd never dared hope for, over nothing. Over a scant handful of accidental observations that certainly wouldn't incriminate Greta more thoroughly than she'd managed to do to herself. How could the girl have been so stupid?

For that matter, how could Yves be so stupid as he was being right now?

But looking into Holden's face, the face that had become the center of his universe over the past nine weeks, Yves realized there was something in his master's demeanor that softened the edges of the shards in Yves' stomach. He almost laughed-- or cried-- when he put his finger on it: Holden's head was slightly tilted to the side.

He'd seen that look so often now that it had ceased to unnerve him and begun, somehow, to draw him out: the look of interest as Holden questioned him, listened, paid attention, in bed and out of it. Holden could talk the legs off a chair, there was no doubt of that, but he could also shut up and listen with an interest that, like his fascination with Yves' physical responses, seemed never to flag. Yves could talk about anything-- from his past to his sexual fantasies to inverse tangent functions-- and Holden listened, sometimes smiling, sometimes not, asking questions only when Yves paused or puzzled him, his head on one side, taking it all in.

And now, when Yves had just broken his most frequently stressed rule and was now openly defying repeated orders, his hot-tempered, mercurial master knelt there with his head tilted, studying Yves, still trying to understand. Listening, if Yves could just manage to speak. And after a moment to take that in, he did manage it.

"This doesn't have anything to do with Greta, master," he said hoarsely. "Not really. I barely know her. But I'm telling you-- honestly-- that there are things I won't tell you. Because--" He took a breath, reminding himself that things probably couldn't get any worse at this point. "It's not right. I'm a slave, and she's a slave, and you're-- the master. And slaves aren't as careful around each other as we are around-- owners. And if we start carrying tales, watching each other for slip-ups, it-- it's not right. I won't--"

Holden was still listening. Yves looked up into the inscrutable dark eyes.

"I won't-- be a spy. Even for you, master. I just won't."

He waited for what seemed like eternity before Holden finally spoke.

"You're right," he said. "I shouldn't have asked you. I'm sorry I put you in that position."

He carefully released Yves' hair, but Yves stayed frozen, staring at his master. Holden reached to brush his cheek gently with the backs of his fingers.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "I'll talk to Greta-- I should have just done that in the first place. And I won't ask you to tattle on her again. It wasn't fair of me. I've just gotten so used to talking to you about everything-- and I didn't want to say anything to Alix until I was sure. Out of curiosity, how the hell have you survived four years as a slave with honor and principles sticking out all over you like that?"

"I don't think they have been," said Yves faintly. "I've always been able to..."

"Lie? Yeah, I guess that would make it easier to keep the courage of your convictions under wraps. You okay?"

Yves was suddenly shaking uncontrollably. Holden moved closer, putting an arm around him so that they sat side by side on the floor with Yves' body pressed close against his master's, and Yves' trembling subsided slightly at the warm embrace.

"If you're up for it, let's talk about your punishment," said Holden, and Yves nodded, incapable of speaking for the moment, but feeling a flicker of curiosity push past his fear at the prospect of his first punishment from his new master.

"First of all," said Holden, as Yves' body grew more relaxed against his solid, comforting warmth and at the matter-of-fact tone of his voice, as if this were just another conversation, "I want it clear that I'm not punishing you for defiance. That was my fault, for giving you an order without thinking it through. But I am going to punish you for lying to me. Do you understand why?"

"Yes, master," Yves managed shakily. "You've told me that I must not lie to you. I deserve punishment for my disobedience."

"That's not quite it, Yves." But Holden sounded thoughtful, not annoyed or angry. "You disobeyed me about telling on Greta, too, and I'm not punishing you for that. And it's not like I don't understand why you lied. Honestly, I'm not even angry about it. Like you said, you panicked and your reflexes kicked in. Old habits die hard. And I'm sure I didn't help, coming at you like that."

"No, master," said Yves with a small smile, and Holden turned and kissed him on the forehead.

"But here's the thing, Yves. You can't lie to me, because-- well, first of all, because it's not going to work. I'm sure you could fool Chernov and Katya perfectly competently, but you're nowhere near good enough to fool me. You want to see my 'honest, master, I have no idea what you're talking about' face?"

Yves looked up, puzzled, and Holden pulled back slightly so Yves could see his face clearly, then abruptly assumed a look of imploring, injured innocence, so convincing that Yves' jaw dropped.

"Yeah, see? That's how it's done. I've also perfected 'I know I did wrong, master, but I'm so scared and pretty'--" Holden's expressive face shifted as he spoke to a wide-eyed look with a subtly quivering underlip-- "and 'yeah, but doesn't it turn you on a little when I'm a bad boy?'" He became grave but for a barely perceptible curve of the lips, his eyes first demurely lowered, then darting a quick, seductive glance up at Yves, who couldn't help laughing a little when Holden grew perfectly serious again.

"I know why slaves lie, Yves, and I also know that once you start you have to keep going, so it's not a good idea to get started if you don't have to. And you really don't have to with me. I get it. And if I don't get it, I'll listen while you explain. You know that, don't you?"

Yves nodded, swallowing. "I know, master."

"But if it works, you're going to keep doing it. And if it doesn't hurt to try, you're probably going to keep trying. I don't blame you. I would-- did-- too."

"I wouldn't--" Yves started to protest.

"But you did just now, didn't you? Even though you didn't mean to. You've got to learn a new habit, here. You-- and not just your crazy genius brain, but your normal stupid reflexes-- need to understand that nine times out of ten lying to me is going to accomplish exactly nothing, plus it is going to hurt to have tried, because you're going to get punished. And if all goes well, the reflex will be gone before the tenth time, when it does work. But if it isn't, Yves, and you do accidentally manage to fool me, I need you to admit it right away, because that's going to be better for both of us than if I have to figure out on my own that you abused my trust. I don't-- take kindly to that."

Yves nodded again, then ventured, his heart pounding, praying he wasn't making things worse, "Master-- about that-- you seem-- less angry at Greta. Than I would have thought."

"Oh, that," said Holden moodily. "Well, it's not like I trusted the bitch. Alix did-- which I still can't begin to comprehend. I've never been able to fool Alix for a second. No, I'm not that-- I mean, I'm not thrilled or anything, but we'll deal with it. She'll be okay. Anyway. Back to you. Your punishment."

"Yes, master," said Yves, shivering again, but only for a moment.

"Okay," said Holden, pulling back again to look into Yves' face. "I think it's best if there's a standard punishment for lying, and if the only time you get punished in that particular way is if you lie. That way you get in the habit quicker, of associating lying with the punishment, instead of with getting away with stuff. See what I mean?"

"Yes, master," said Yves, who saw perfectly and approved, but rather wished Holden would elaborate on the details of what he had planned before Yves' imagination got him shaking again.

"So I'd like you to choose," said Holden.

"Choose?" Yves echoed, baffled.

"The punishment for lying. If you pick getting paddled, for example, I'll never paddle you except for lying. Or, I don't know, it doesn't have to be a physical punishment. It could be-- losing your library privileges for a certain amount of time, for example. I'd pick something you'll really hate if I were you, because you'll get the message quicker, and once you do, you can be sure it will never happen again. But it's your call."

Yves stared at his master. Holden leaned forward and kissed him gently on the cheek.

"No rush," he said. "You don't have to decide right now. Be thinking about it, and let me know what you come up with. I reserve the right of veto, by the way. No sex for a week might be a nicely dire punishment for you, but I have no intention of punishing myself too."

Yves giggled a little hysterically, still staring at Holden. After a slight hesitation, he said, "Master?"

"Yes," said Holden.

"Are you going to lie to me?"

"Ha," said Holden, pleased. "Good question. No. At least, I'll try really hard not to, and you're welcome to call me on it if you catch me. And I don't have the natural temptation you have, either, since you don't have any choice but to sit and listen to me explain myself with unbearably tedious honesty and then say 'oh, okay then.'"

Yves considered this, then said, "You really love me, don't you?"

Holden's eyes widened.

"Don't you?" Yves repeated insistently.

Holden cleared his throat and Yves thought he looked a little paler when he finally said quietly, "Yeah. I do. But you don't-- I mean-- you don't have to--"

Yves smiled. "Lie to you? I know." Holden's eyes were still on his when he added, "I love you too."

Holden sat still for a few moments, then closed his eyes and let himself sink down till he was curled on the floor with his head in Yves' lap, one arm still around Yves' waist. Yves, looking down at him, began rather shyly to stroke the dark hair.

"Actually," Holden said, and his own voice was strangely unsteady, "right now I think I might kind of love Greta."