Lee chapter eleven

[maculategiraffe]

As Denys disappeared, Holden bent his head to kiss Lee's hair, and Lee made a noise halfway between a sigh and a whimper.

"Lee," he said softly, and Lee lifted his head. "I love holding you, but I need to put you down now. Can you sit down next to me on the bed?"

"Yes, master," Lee whispered, and slid from Holden's arms to the bed beside him, still looking up at him searchingly. Holden took one cold, slim-fingered hand in his.

"Are you all right?" he asked Lee, who was sucking anxiously on his lower lip. Holden normally tried to train away any unconscious manifestations of worry, since they tended to result in ground-down teeth, ragged cuticles, snarled hair and other suboptimal physical conditions, but this one was actually fairly enchanting. Maybe he'd leave it alone. No one who bought a scarred slave would be expecting a perfectly serene manner anyway. "I'm sorry Robin frightened you. But you don't need to be afraid of her. She can't hurt you."

"Thank you, master," said Lee hoarsely, as the sound of Denys' bright voice drifted up the stairs, the words undistinguishable. "I thought-- my master might be displeased with me-- for displeasing his guest."

"No, sweetheart. You didn't do anything wrong. I don't even think you really displeased Robin-- she was just in a bad mood. Do you understand why she was taking pictures of you?"

Lee's smooth, pale forehead furrowed uncertainly. Holden could hear Jer's deeper, reserved voice answering Denys.

"It's all right, Lee. There's no right or wrong answer. I just wondered how much you've been taking in of everything we've been saying. But no one told you to listen or not to listen, so you aren't in trouble either way."

Lee appeared to be having some difficulty with the concept of not being in trouble either way, but after a moment he said tentatively, "I wasn't listening, master. When you were talking to Yves and Bran about-- me being photographed. I didn't listen."

"Fine," said Holden. "And why didn't you listen?"

Lee hunched his shoulders slightly. "I-- I was just waiting, master. To be told-- what to do."

"Right," said Holden. "It didn't seem to matter whether you understood, since you'd just have to do as you were told anyway, right?"

Lee nodded, his wide, dark eyes intent on Holden's face. Holden squeezed Lee's hand, wondering whether sweet little Tonia Raskolnikova, who already had a very sensible and kindhearted dark-eyed girl, would faint dead away at the sight of whip scars on a boy's back. He'd have to sound her out on the subject. Certainly her husband would appreciate the bargain price they came with.

"I understand," he said gently. "But, Lee? Always keep your ears open, kid. The more you hear, the better. You can learn things that way. What pleases or displeases your owner, what kind of a mood he's in, whether you need to offer your services or stay out of his way. And other things, too. Useful things." He reached up with his free hand to touch Lee's cheek. "I think you're already picking things up. How did you know I'd like it when you came and pressed up against me?"

Lee's pale cheeks acquired the faintest pink flush, but before he could answer, Jer came in, his expression more or less what Holden had expected; he was just glad the are you fucking kidding me? had stayed nonverbal.

He gave Lee's hand a gentle squeeze and let go before rising to cross to Jer and put his hands on the other man's shoulders. "Go on, say it."

"Your guest told me to come up here, master," said Jer, his voice neutral.

"And?"

Jer's face twitched. "Is he off his mama's tit yet?"

"I haven't asked." Holden touched his own cheek, and Jer leaned forward to kiss the spot he'd touched, which was a relief; if he'd been really upset, he'd have pretended not to catch the gesture. "Look, I didn't pick him up. He followed me home."

"I know, master," said Jer resignedly. "I guess you give off some kind of scent or something, like a bitch in heat."

"Stop," said Holden dryly. "I'm blushing."

"No you're not," said Jer, shifting slightly; Holden took his hands away automatically. "But he was. It's not even that you're that attractive, it's just the one type. The type that blushes when he talks about you, and offers to take the groceries to the kitchen for a slave who's glaring at him."

"Is that where he is?" Holden had to laugh at the thought of Denys loaded down with the results of Jer's shopping. "You shouldn't have let him do that."

"Hey, whatever pleases my master's guest," Jer smirked as Holden moved to sit back down next to Lee, taking the boy's hand again. "So what's all this about a news story?"

"We aren't making any definite decisions until I have a chance to talk it over with Alix." Holden gestured to Jer, who came willingly to kneel at his feet. "I don't know if it's a good idea."

"But master, why wouldn't it be a good idea?" Jer asked as he leaned his head against Holden's leg. "A lovesick teenage abolitionist, running in and out of the house clutching a notebook so he can do an exposé on your livelihood? How could you hesitate?"

Holden grinned. "He's twenty-two."

"Oh, well then, by all means."

"It gets worse," said Holden frankly. "The photographer is a holy terror. She's been snarling at everyone since she got here-- even Lee, which I'm pretty pissed off about. Also, she's dating my daughter."

"Can't wait to meet her," said Jer.

"Be my guest. She's in Bran's room, taking pictures of him."

"You left Bran alone with her?" Jer demanded, swinging his head up, then added somewhat belatedly, "--master?"

Holden smiled, enjoying Jer's swift protectiveness. "I like Bran too, you know. Yves is there. He’s to come get me if Robin starts anything."

Relaxing, Jer put his chin back down pensively on Holden's knee. “Robin, huh?”

“Robin,” said Holden. “Just Robin. Don't call her Miss Robin unless you want your head bitten off."

"Oh," said Jer grimly. "One of those."

"Worse," said Holden, remembering. "Tatiana didn't bite off our heads for using her title."

"Just shed a tiny aristocratic tear over our oppression," Jer agreed. "Great. I'll really look forward to being a part of all this, master."

"And I don't know what I'd do without your support, love," said Holden as Denys came back in. "Denys, you shouldn't let people take advantage of your good nature."

"I didn't mind," said Denys amiably. "I met Fox. She was nice."

"May I go, master?" Jer asked without looking at Denys. "I do so want to meet Miss Robin."

"Of course," said Holden, then leaned down, still clasping Lee's hand, and said in Jer's ear, "And give her hell, will you?"

Jer's eyes laughed up at him. "As it please my master."




When Jer was gone, Holden eyed Denys thoughtfully, wondering if Jer was right about the type that took to him. He could usually recognize the type-- mostly female-- that loathed him on sight; Pavel's wife Maria had been his first experience with that phenomenon, the doctor at the hospital the latest, and there'd been one delinquent slave girl he'd actually had to hand over to Alix when he started suspecting her only remaining problem was that she hated everything about him. But he'd never considered typing the opposite reaction. Maybe it really was a scent, the way Yves had told him animals smelled sex or a fight on each other. A pheromone.

Or maybe it was as simple as the effect on Denys of watching Holden caress and speak gently to a beautiful young boy who burrowed against his shoulder as if he were the only trustworthy thing in the world. For a warm-hearted kid with a youthfully exuberant sex drive, who'd never seen a slave respond to a master with anything but terror, that had to do something. Robin had hated it-- he could hear her saying The last thing we need is more stories about slaves who are well treated and happy-- but Denys hadn't. Maybe he was imagining being the one nestled in Holden's arms like a sleepy kitten, his breathing even and peaceful against Holden's neck.

And that had been the wrong avenue of thought to go down about a boy he was never going to fuck.

"Sit down, Denys," he said firmly, and Denys obediently came back to the bed and sat down, crossing his legs and looking expectantly at Holden. "Tell me about these interviews you want to do. Who do you want to talk to?"

"Everyone," said Denys promptly. "Especially Lee, of course, and Bran too-- he's really smart, isn't he? I mean, you weren't there the night after he asked me all those questions about Lee's treatment, but he remembered everything, and he really understood it, he was asking all the right questions. I bet he has some interesting stuff to say. But they all would, wouldn't they? All your slaves. And-- well-- you, Mr. Larssen. Holden." He reddened again. "And your wife, I mean. Your story. There are all kinds of rumors and stories about the slave breakers, and-- well-- I'm a journalist. I mean, I'm trying to be. I want to know everything, you know?"

Holden couldn't help smiling at the naive enthusiasm of the statement.

"Robin said she didn't want any stories about slaves who were well cared for," he observed.

"Robin's not writing this story," said Denys, still pleasantly, but with unexpected firmness. "I am. And I know where she's coming from-- but she's wrong. If all we do is focus on the atrocities, it's too easy to dismiss them as isolated incidents. I mean, Jer's got to be in his forties, and what happens to aging slaves-- systematically-- is one of the things I'm interested in looking at. And Valor's mom-- that's got to be a great story, and we can bring in the compulsory sterilization angle. Get people thinking. Not just about what kind of awful person would do this to a slave and whatever. About what it's really like, for anyone-- even if they aren't getting put in the hospital-- to be a slave."

The words hit Holden hard, and he sat without speaking for a moment, thinking about his own sheltered, blissful four years as his master's beloved, and their abrupt and brutal end. He remembered, with a vividness that had faded from his happy memories of Pavel, the wordless black despair of the realization that he had no recourse, no hope of justice, and no right-- not in anyone's eyes, even Jer's; not until Alix's cool, sweet voice had murmured, It's okay, Holden, it's okay-- to rage, to grieve, to remember.

Then, sharply as if the thought had stabbed him, he remembered Bran's quiet voice and pale, anguished face as he'd said to Holden just the previous night, I've had five years, and that's more than I ever--

Lee's cool hand tightened on his, and Holden, pulling himself together, squeezed back reassuringly. Denys was looking at him with concern. "Are you all right, Mr. Larssen?"

Holden forced a smile. "Sure, kid, I'm fine. I just--" He cleared his throat. "How much longer do you think Robin's going to be photographing Bran? He must be getting tired."

"She probably won't notice if he does," said Denys frankly. "You should go get him if you're worried."

He really wasn't worried-- if Robin didn't notice, Jer and Yves certainly would-- but he needed, with a physical pull that felt more like thirst than desire, to see and touch Bran. He rose abruptly and drew Lee gently up as well.

"Come with me," he said softly, wanting to encourage the boy's new apparent comfort with him. "Let's make sure Bran's all right."

"I'll just wait here, if that's okay," said Denys, reaching for his notebook, but Holden didn't bother to do more than nod as he led Lee from the room.



He could hear low, tense voices overlapping from down the hallway, but they fell silent as he approached. The tension was palpable when he paused in the open doorway of Bran's bedroom, and no one inside immediately noticed his arrival. He took in the scene, seeing that several of Bran's drawers stood open as if they'd been ransacked, and some of their contents-- slave tunics, a pair of sandals-- lay on the bed. Bran, clothed and curled against Yves on the bed, examined a charm of polished rowan that Holden had given him two years back on the morning of the solstice, when, since Holden had discovered Bran's half-shamefaced affection for the day and its rituals, he'd tried to make sure the kid always had a gift. Jer leaned against the wall, his face impassive, his eyes cold, as Robin faced him, her camera dangling forgotten from its strap, her cheeks flushed as if she'd been slapped, but said nothing. Neither did Jer, though clearly something had just been said; the air between them was fairly crackling.

"What's going on?" Holden asked mildly, and Robin whirled on him, still red-faced, but still said nothing. Bran closed his hand on the charm swiftly, as if to hide it from Holden.

"Nothing," said Robin finally. "I was just finishing up in here. I'll go talk to Denys about what I've got."

She came almost blindly at Holden, who put Lee hastily behind him and out of the way of her progress, then, once she was gone, led him into the room, sat him carefully down in Bran's chair, and sat down himself on the bed next to Bran, whose fist was still closed around the little wooden bauble and who wouldn't meet his eye. Holden looked at Yves.

"When Miss Robin had finished photographing Bran," said Yves quietly, "she decided to photograph the rest of his room, and then she started opening drawers and going through them. She took out some things, and then she took out-- this--" He tapped Bran's closed fist, and Bran flushed, turning his head away-- "and asked what it was. When Bran answered, he called her 'Miss Robin,' and she-- reprimanded him. Then Jer started to say something beginning with 'Miss Robin,' and she--"

"Did what?" Holden demanded when Yves hesitated.

"Fucking threw the thing at Bran!" Jer was flushed now, his fury pushing past the stony mask he'd shown Robin. "And started growling at me about cleaving to my own subjugation or some shit."

"She threw it at him?"

"Master, please," said Bran with difficulty. "It's fine. I'm not upset."

The statement's patent absurdity arrested Holden's gathering fury. He looked curiously at Bran, remembering he'd told Robin that if Bran got upset, he was calling the story off.

"Why didn't you come get me?" he asked Yves.

"I didn't have time, master," said Yves, still quietly. "It just happened."

"Was still happening, you mean," said Jer, breathing hard. "Master, I'm sorry, but when she threw that fucking toy at Bran, I lost my temper. I told her that if she was going to treat us like equals she should leave our drawers alone, and if she was going to treat us like slaves we'd be calling her by her fucking title. And that's about when you walked in."

Holden got up, went to Jer, and kissed him, hard and for a long time, on the mouth. After a moment of surprise, Jer kissed him back fiercely, his hands coming up to grasp Holden's arms; Holden didn't doubt they were both remembering the same thing.

"Good," he said briefly when they broke apart, then turned to sit back down on the bed, took Bran's closed fist in his hand and kissed the inside of his wrist.

"You don't want me to call this thing off, do you, love?" he asked very softly.

Bran, white-faced, shook his head.

"Please," he whispered. "Not because of me. Please, master."

"Then I won't," said Holden. "I really want to, because I really don't like having anyone in my house whom I want to hit quite as hard as I want to hit Robin. But if you're asking me not to toss her out right now, then I won't."

Bran's face crumpled into the undignified grimace of someone about to burst into serious tears, and Holden reached out and pulled him close before they spilled over.

He was still rocking the shaking boy when the front door slammed for the third time that afternoon.

"Alix," he said to no one in particular.

"Alix," Jer agreed, and Holden met his eyes over Bran's head.

"Go explain," he said to Jer. "Tell her-- everything."

Jer nodded, once, briefly, and left the room without a backwards glance. There was a short silence.

"Master?" said a soft voice, and Holden looked up, startled, at Lee's pale face. "Who's Tatiana?"