Lee chapter 34
May. 30th, 2008 12:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maculategiraffe"You okay?" Bran asked Inga eventually, quietly, and Inga said, "Yes," without opening her eyes.
"It's going to be okay," Bran told her firmly. "Miss Valor might just need a little time."
"Thank you," said Inga, eyes still closed. "Don't stop playing with my hair, please."
The warm weight of Lee resting against his side, Holden wanted to pull the boy into his arms and cuddle him for mutual comfort, but a middle-aged man pulling a seventeen-year-old boy who was currently passing for his son onto his lap would probably draw a lot more bemused attention than Bran playing with his "sister-in-law"'s hair, however lovely a sight that might be.
They're so young. Fresh-faced and silky-skinned, both, Bran's face tenderly intent on Inga's golden hair, Inga's long dark lashes lying curled on her wet cheeks, the two of them could have posed for a painting of Ask and Embla: the brand-new man comforting the first sorrow of his equally newborn mate.
"I can't believe you girls didn't tell me Jesse was in touch with your group," Holden said after a while, in the same quiet tone, and Bran and Inga both glanced up automatically at the two girls across the aisle. Holden didn't think they could hear, but he fell silent anyway, smiling a little despite himself at the thought of that conversation with Jesse. He guessed that once he'd put Jesse in touch with one group charged with getting runaway slaves out of the country, he should have expected that Jesse, never one to sit still or shut up when any alternative was offered, would start networking.
The news that Jesse had been in this country, on the business of runaway rescue, had come as a shock, but he supposed it really wasn't much more dangerous than what Karl and Tara did-- and after all, they could easily expose Holden and Alix's involvement in the slave-smuggling business, too, if they wanted to. And Karl and Tara hadn't been that much older than Jesse when they got started; Jesse was Bran's age, a young man, young enough to be quick on his feet but man enough to think first, too. Holden supposed he was just getting old-- but it wasn't as restful as it should have been, passing the world's care on to the next generation. Not when Valor--
He pushed down a surge of sheer bloody-minded rage at the mere thought of Valor; he'd deal with that when the train got to their stop. He wondered if she'd still be there when they arrived. Probably Yves wouldn't have wanted to discuss with the rest of the family the particular form Holden's fury had taken, since he'd be hoping to assuage or divert it before Holden put anything in action. But he'd have told them, at least, that Holden was on the way home, and Valor would know how angry he must be. Would she flee again, or stay put to face him at last? How would she react to seeing Inga under Holden's care? How would Inga react to seeing her mistress?
Whatever else, Holden knew he was in no state to talk sense to Valor now; he'd be talking with the flat of his hand if he couldn't calm himself down first, and while it might do her some good to know what it felt like to get hit around for once in her spoiled, self-centered life, it probably wasn't the best policy in the long run.
So they'd get a cab from the station-- Holden felt a lot calmer when he had logistical details to work out in his head-- and when they got to the house, maybe he'd just send Bran in first, to secure the perimeter, send Valor to her room or something, until he could have that heart-to-heart with Yves and calm himself down a little. Bran could deal with that; Bran was apparently the reigning champion of hearth and home at the moment, with a better grasp on how Valor's troublemaking would impact everyone in the family than Holden himself was capable of. Another case of passing things on to the next generation, and the thought of leaving them in Bran's hands was somehow a lot less disturbing than the thought of Valor, Robin, Denys, or even Jesse.
At the train's next stop, which wasn't Holden's, the two girls across the aisle rose and started gathering bags and purses together. As they passed Bran, one of them-- the one who'd spoken to Bran earlier-- dropped a folded piece of paper onto the seat next to him. Before he could react, the two had vanished with unaccountable swiftness down the aisle.
His head still full of conspiracies, networks and slave smuggling, Holden blinked at the paper. Bran lifted it, unfolded it, read it, and then lifted wide eyes to Holden's, smiling and bewildered.
"It's her phone number," he said, and from beside Holden, Lee let out a tiny chirp of a laugh, making Holden grin, too.
When they finally reached their stop, Holden held Lee's hand as they threaded their way off the train and through the crowded station; Bran, unselfconsciously, held Inga's, keeping his eyes on Holden. They had no trouble getting a cab, and Inga sat up front, her tears dried by now and her eyes only a little puffy, looking every inch the young collegienne in her mistress' clothes.
In the back seat, Holden spoke quietly to Bran about going in first, and Bran nodded. But once the cab pulled up outside the house, they had barely gotten out-- Holden was still paying the driver-- when Yves came outside, shutting the front door behind him, and walked slowly towards them.
It tore at Holden's heart to see Yves so pale and scared-looking; as the driver shut the door of his cab and drove off, Yves sped up, and the way he fell into Holden's arms and clung to him reminded Holden unnervingly of Lee. Holden held him tightly for a minute, then pulled back to look at Yves' face, where there was a faint reddish mark on the cheek that curled Holden's hands into fists behind Yves' back before he realized it.
"Hi, gorgeous," he said, uncurling his fists and flattening his palms against Yves' back reassuringly. "Is Valor still here?"
Yves cleared his throat. "In her room, master. But--"
"I don't want to see her yet," said Holden. "I just didn't want to run into her before you and I got a chance to talk."
Yves seemed to breathe easier immediately. "Yes, master. Alone?"
"Alone," Holden agreed, releasing him. "Is Val likely to come out unexpectedly? I don't want her running into Inga, either."
"She won't come out," said Yves, rather ambiguously, but Holden didn't need clarification yet.
"Good," he said. "Bran, you're in charge of Lee and Inga. Come on, Yves."
Lee unexpectedly grabbed Holden's hand, and blushed hotly when Holden turned to look at him in surprise.
"Master?" he said, barely above a whisper.
Holden squeezed his hand. "Yes, sweetheart."
"Thank you," said Lee. "For-- for-- keeping me safe."
Holden put his arm around Lee and hugged him close for a moment.
"You're welcome, kid," he said, and let Lee go; Lee hurried back to Bran's side, still blushing, and let Bran put a hand on his back and escort him and Inga into the house. Holden took Yves' hand and led him up the front stairs after the youngsters.
No one else seemed to be around, at least not in the route between front door and Yves' bedroom upstairs, which was most likely deliberate, since Yves at least had seen him coming. It suited Holden fine, anyway; he couldn't help a sigh of relief as he closed the door of Yves' room behind them and moved to curl up on the bed. Yves let himself be pulled firmly in against his master, curling close against him and lifting his mouth up to be kissed. Holden obliged, kissing him softly and deeply, for a long time, feeling Yves relax incrementally inside the circle of his arms. When he had broken the kiss, Holden reached up and ran a hand through Yves' curls, examining his face, which was still a little pale.
"Are you okay?" he asked quietly.
Yves met his eyes and swallowed. "I don't know, master."
Holden stroked his hair. "Would it help if you could assume I wasn't going to do anything stupid?"
"It might," said Yves, with a tentative smile. "Why? Can I assume that?"
"I think so," said Holden, smiling back. "Bran talked some good sense to me after we hung up."
"I knew there was some reason I liked Bran," said Yves, putting his head down on Holden's shoulder. "I'll have to see if I can't find some way to thank him properly for that." His voice caught on the last syllable in an odd sort of hiccup, as if he'd only just managed to swallow a sob.
"Assuming I'm not going to do anything stupid, then," Holden went on wryly, "are you okay?"
Yves started to shiver. Holden rubbed his back.
"I missed you," Yves said, barely audibly.
"Oh, love." Holden breathed deeply as Yves settled in more heavily against him. "I'm so sorry I wasn't here, Yves."
"I'm not," said Yves, a little more steadily, sounding as if he might be smiling. "Not really. I think you might have killed her."
"She wouldn't have dared touch you in the first place if I'd been here," said Holden grimly. "And you shouldn't have been the one telling her about herself-- not that you shouldn't have done it," he added swiftly, feeling Yves tense slightly against him, "and I'm sure you were much nicer to her than she actually deserved--"
"I said--" Yves took a breath, pressing his forehead against Holden's neck. "I was-- pretty blunt, master. I'm not sure-- I'm not sure I should have-- gone so far."
"How far did you go?" Holden asked curiously. "What made her snap, exactly?"
"I said--" Yves swallowed hard. "I said she was being-- irresponsible. Unbelievably irresponsible, I said."
Holden tilted Yves' face up and looked at him seriously. "See, that's the mildest thing I would have said."
Yves smiled again, weakly. "But you're her father. I'm-- I shouldn't have--"
"Shouldn't have had to be the one to say it," Holden agreed, "which is why I'm sorry I wasn't here. But someone had to say it, and she gave you permission to speak freely. You didn't do anything wrong, Yves. You were--" He leaned forward and kissed each of Yves' eyelids, softly, in turn. "You-- I-- Yves?"
Yves' eyes, which had closed at the touch of Holden's lips, opened again quickly, the same startlingly clear, bright blue they had been when he first lifted them to Holden's the day they had met. "Master?"
Holden reached a hand up to slide through Yves' curls, whose color, like Alix's, was only a little faded by time, the silver threads mixing brightly with the gold.
"It's just--" He hesitated and cleared his throat. "You know how I said she wasn't mine."
Yves looked worried. "But you've calmed down now, right?"
"It wasn't--" Holden cleared his throat again. "Oh, hell, Yves. Of course she's mine. You've always said it-- how much she's-- like me. I just-- sometimes I can't fucking handle that. You know? Her mood swings, and the temper, and the way she charges around. The way she gets these ideas about what's best for somebody, and they just fucking better agree or get run over. She-- sometimes-- like now--" He drew in a breath. "It's like she's everything I hate about myself. And when-- when she-- hurts you."
Yves reached up to touch Holden's face, and Holden forced a smile at him, blinking back sudden tears.
"And it would just be easier--" He pressed his teeth together for a moment, looking away from Yves' steady, searching gaze. "Easier if I could say-- that's nothing to do with me. She's not mine. But you." His hand tightened on Yves', hard. "You see-- all that. You can even say it to her-- and get hit for your trouble. And you love her. Still."
"Yes." Yves' answer was quick, sure. "I love Valor. Even at her worst. And I love you, master." He hesitated, then added, quietly but clearly, "Holden. I love you-- Holden."
"Yves--" Holden let his head drop down on Yves' chest, burying his face against the solid warmth of his lover as more tears, irresistible as they were infuriating and humiliating, spilled from his eyes.
"Fuck," he said, muffled, clutching an involuntary fistful of Yves' tunic as a gentle hand came up to stroke his hair.
"It's okay," said Yves softly. "You can cry."
"I--" Holden gritted his teeth again. "I'm not--"
"You're not?" Yves asked, his voice filled with innocent puzzlement. "Then I'll have to come up with another theory as to why the front of my tunic is getting wet."
Holden refused to laugh, since he knew if he did, he would start sobbing, and that would be--
"I know," Yves continued thoughtfully. "Maybe someone stabbed me just now, very stealthily, in the chest, and you noticed and are trying to stop the bleeding with your forehead without alarming me and making matters worse?"
Holden laughed, and choked, and wept. Yves stroked him as he cried himself out, his eyes feeling too small for egress of the tidal wave of sorrow and shame and relief that was washing through him. He'd forgotten just how fucking good it could feel, to cry.
"Are you okay, master?" Yves whispered at last, as Holden lay quiet against him.
Holden drew in a long, deep, shuddering breath, then breathed slowly out, testing his ability to do it without sobbing.
"Yeah," he said. "I'm okay." He breathed again, then sat up, swiping at his wet cheeks with the back of his hand.
"Sure?" said Yves, looking up at him, with his bruised cheek, with such love, and Holden almost wasn't.
"Sure," he said, looking away for a second, then back, and smiling. "Yeah. I'm okay. And now--" He brushed at his cheeks more carefully, sweeping away the residue of his tears. "I need to talk to my daughter."
"It's going to be okay," Bran told her firmly. "Miss Valor might just need a little time."
"Thank you," said Inga, eyes still closed. "Don't stop playing with my hair, please."
The warm weight of Lee resting against his side, Holden wanted to pull the boy into his arms and cuddle him for mutual comfort, but a middle-aged man pulling a seventeen-year-old boy who was currently passing for his son onto his lap would probably draw a lot more bemused attention than Bran playing with his "sister-in-law"'s hair, however lovely a sight that might be.
They're so young. Fresh-faced and silky-skinned, both, Bran's face tenderly intent on Inga's golden hair, Inga's long dark lashes lying curled on her wet cheeks, the two of them could have posed for a painting of Ask and Embla: the brand-new man comforting the first sorrow of his equally newborn mate.
"I can't believe you girls didn't tell me Jesse was in touch with your group," Holden said after a while, in the same quiet tone, and Bran and Inga both glanced up automatically at the two girls across the aisle. Holden didn't think they could hear, but he fell silent anyway, smiling a little despite himself at the thought of that conversation with Jesse. He guessed that once he'd put Jesse in touch with one group charged with getting runaway slaves out of the country, he should have expected that Jesse, never one to sit still or shut up when any alternative was offered, would start networking.
The news that Jesse had been in this country, on the business of runaway rescue, had come as a shock, but he supposed it really wasn't much more dangerous than what Karl and Tara did-- and after all, they could easily expose Holden and Alix's involvement in the slave-smuggling business, too, if they wanted to. And Karl and Tara hadn't been that much older than Jesse when they got started; Jesse was Bran's age, a young man, young enough to be quick on his feet but man enough to think first, too. Holden supposed he was just getting old-- but it wasn't as restful as it should have been, passing the world's care on to the next generation. Not when Valor--
He pushed down a surge of sheer bloody-minded rage at the mere thought of Valor; he'd deal with that when the train got to their stop. He wondered if she'd still be there when they arrived. Probably Yves wouldn't have wanted to discuss with the rest of the family the particular form Holden's fury had taken, since he'd be hoping to assuage or divert it before Holden put anything in action. But he'd have told them, at least, that Holden was on the way home, and Valor would know how angry he must be. Would she flee again, or stay put to face him at last? How would she react to seeing Inga under Holden's care? How would Inga react to seeing her mistress?
Whatever else, Holden knew he was in no state to talk sense to Valor now; he'd be talking with the flat of his hand if he couldn't calm himself down first, and while it might do her some good to know what it felt like to get hit around for once in her spoiled, self-centered life, it probably wasn't the best policy in the long run.
So they'd get a cab from the station-- Holden felt a lot calmer when he had logistical details to work out in his head-- and when they got to the house, maybe he'd just send Bran in first, to secure the perimeter, send Valor to her room or something, until he could have that heart-to-heart with Yves and calm himself down a little. Bran could deal with that; Bran was apparently the reigning champion of hearth and home at the moment, with a better grasp on how Valor's troublemaking would impact everyone in the family than Holden himself was capable of. Another case of passing things on to the next generation, and the thought of leaving them in Bran's hands was somehow a lot less disturbing than the thought of Valor, Robin, Denys, or even Jesse.
At the train's next stop, which wasn't Holden's, the two girls across the aisle rose and started gathering bags and purses together. As they passed Bran, one of them-- the one who'd spoken to Bran earlier-- dropped a folded piece of paper onto the seat next to him. Before he could react, the two had vanished with unaccountable swiftness down the aisle.
His head still full of conspiracies, networks and slave smuggling, Holden blinked at the paper. Bran lifted it, unfolded it, read it, and then lifted wide eyes to Holden's, smiling and bewildered.
"It's her phone number," he said, and from beside Holden, Lee let out a tiny chirp of a laugh, making Holden grin, too.
When they finally reached their stop, Holden held Lee's hand as they threaded their way off the train and through the crowded station; Bran, unselfconsciously, held Inga's, keeping his eyes on Holden. They had no trouble getting a cab, and Inga sat up front, her tears dried by now and her eyes only a little puffy, looking every inch the young collegienne in her mistress' clothes.
In the back seat, Holden spoke quietly to Bran about going in first, and Bran nodded. But once the cab pulled up outside the house, they had barely gotten out-- Holden was still paying the driver-- when Yves came outside, shutting the front door behind him, and walked slowly towards them.
It tore at Holden's heart to see Yves so pale and scared-looking; as the driver shut the door of his cab and drove off, Yves sped up, and the way he fell into Holden's arms and clung to him reminded Holden unnervingly of Lee. Holden held him tightly for a minute, then pulled back to look at Yves' face, where there was a faint reddish mark on the cheek that curled Holden's hands into fists behind Yves' back before he realized it.
"Hi, gorgeous," he said, uncurling his fists and flattening his palms against Yves' back reassuringly. "Is Valor still here?"
Yves cleared his throat. "In her room, master. But--"
"I don't want to see her yet," said Holden. "I just didn't want to run into her before you and I got a chance to talk."
Yves seemed to breathe easier immediately. "Yes, master. Alone?"
"Alone," Holden agreed, releasing him. "Is Val likely to come out unexpectedly? I don't want her running into Inga, either."
"She won't come out," said Yves, rather ambiguously, but Holden didn't need clarification yet.
"Good," he said. "Bran, you're in charge of Lee and Inga. Come on, Yves."
Lee unexpectedly grabbed Holden's hand, and blushed hotly when Holden turned to look at him in surprise.
"Master?" he said, barely above a whisper.
Holden squeezed his hand. "Yes, sweetheart."
"Thank you," said Lee. "For-- for-- keeping me safe."
Holden put his arm around Lee and hugged him close for a moment.
"You're welcome, kid," he said, and let Lee go; Lee hurried back to Bran's side, still blushing, and let Bran put a hand on his back and escort him and Inga into the house. Holden took Yves' hand and led him up the front stairs after the youngsters.
No one else seemed to be around, at least not in the route between front door and Yves' bedroom upstairs, which was most likely deliberate, since Yves at least had seen him coming. It suited Holden fine, anyway; he couldn't help a sigh of relief as he closed the door of Yves' room behind them and moved to curl up on the bed. Yves let himself be pulled firmly in against his master, curling close against him and lifting his mouth up to be kissed. Holden obliged, kissing him softly and deeply, for a long time, feeling Yves relax incrementally inside the circle of his arms. When he had broken the kiss, Holden reached up and ran a hand through Yves' curls, examining his face, which was still a little pale.
"Are you okay?" he asked quietly.
Yves met his eyes and swallowed. "I don't know, master."
Holden stroked his hair. "Would it help if you could assume I wasn't going to do anything stupid?"
"It might," said Yves, with a tentative smile. "Why? Can I assume that?"
"I think so," said Holden, smiling back. "Bran talked some good sense to me after we hung up."
"I knew there was some reason I liked Bran," said Yves, putting his head down on Holden's shoulder. "I'll have to see if I can't find some way to thank him properly for that." His voice caught on the last syllable in an odd sort of hiccup, as if he'd only just managed to swallow a sob.
"Assuming I'm not going to do anything stupid, then," Holden went on wryly, "are you okay?"
Yves started to shiver. Holden rubbed his back.
"I missed you," Yves said, barely audibly.
"Oh, love." Holden breathed deeply as Yves settled in more heavily against him. "I'm so sorry I wasn't here, Yves."
"I'm not," said Yves, a little more steadily, sounding as if he might be smiling. "Not really. I think you might have killed her."
"She wouldn't have dared touch you in the first place if I'd been here," said Holden grimly. "And you shouldn't have been the one telling her about herself-- not that you shouldn't have done it," he added swiftly, feeling Yves tense slightly against him, "and I'm sure you were much nicer to her than she actually deserved--"
"I said--" Yves took a breath, pressing his forehead against Holden's neck. "I was-- pretty blunt, master. I'm not sure-- I'm not sure I should have-- gone so far."
"How far did you go?" Holden asked curiously. "What made her snap, exactly?"
"I said--" Yves swallowed hard. "I said she was being-- irresponsible. Unbelievably irresponsible, I said."
Holden tilted Yves' face up and looked at him seriously. "See, that's the mildest thing I would have said."
Yves smiled again, weakly. "But you're her father. I'm-- I shouldn't have--"
"Shouldn't have had to be the one to say it," Holden agreed, "which is why I'm sorry I wasn't here. But someone had to say it, and she gave you permission to speak freely. You didn't do anything wrong, Yves. You were--" He leaned forward and kissed each of Yves' eyelids, softly, in turn. "You-- I-- Yves?"
Yves' eyes, which had closed at the touch of Holden's lips, opened again quickly, the same startlingly clear, bright blue they had been when he first lifted them to Holden's the day they had met. "Master?"
Holden reached a hand up to slide through Yves' curls, whose color, like Alix's, was only a little faded by time, the silver threads mixing brightly with the gold.
"It's just--" He hesitated and cleared his throat. "You know how I said she wasn't mine."
Yves looked worried. "But you've calmed down now, right?"
"It wasn't--" Holden cleared his throat again. "Oh, hell, Yves. Of course she's mine. You've always said it-- how much she's-- like me. I just-- sometimes I can't fucking handle that. You know? Her mood swings, and the temper, and the way she charges around. The way she gets these ideas about what's best for somebody, and they just fucking better agree or get run over. She-- sometimes-- like now--" He drew in a breath. "It's like she's everything I hate about myself. And when-- when she-- hurts you."
Yves reached up to touch Holden's face, and Holden forced a smile at him, blinking back sudden tears.
"And it would just be easier--" He pressed his teeth together for a moment, looking away from Yves' steady, searching gaze. "Easier if I could say-- that's nothing to do with me. She's not mine. But you." His hand tightened on Yves', hard. "You see-- all that. You can even say it to her-- and get hit for your trouble. And you love her. Still."
"Yes." Yves' answer was quick, sure. "I love Valor. Even at her worst. And I love you, master." He hesitated, then added, quietly but clearly, "Holden. I love you-- Holden."
"Yves--" Holden let his head drop down on Yves' chest, burying his face against the solid warmth of his lover as more tears, irresistible as they were infuriating and humiliating, spilled from his eyes.
"Fuck," he said, muffled, clutching an involuntary fistful of Yves' tunic as a gentle hand came up to stroke his hair.
"It's okay," said Yves softly. "You can cry."
"I--" Holden gritted his teeth again. "I'm not--"
"You're not?" Yves asked, his voice filled with innocent puzzlement. "Then I'll have to come up with another theory as to why the front of my tunic is getting wet."
Holden refused to laugh, since he knew if he did, he would start sobbing, and that would be--
"I know," Yves continued thoughtfully. "Maybe someone stabbed me just now, very stealthily, in the chest, and you noticed and are trying to stop the bleeding with your forehead without alarming me and making matters worse?"
Holden laughed, and choked, and wept. Yves stroked him as he cried himself out, his eyes feeling too small for egress of the tidal wave of sorrow and shame and relief that was washing through him. He'd forgotten just how fucking good it could feel, to cry.
"Are you okay, master?" Yves whispered at last, as Holden lay quiet against him.
Holden drew in a long, deep, shuddering breath, then breathed slowly out, testing his ability to do it without sobbing.
"Yeah," he said. "I'm okay." He breathed again, then sat up, swiping at his wet cheeks with the back of his hand.
"Sure?" said Yves, looking up at him, with his bruised cheek, with such love, and Holden almost wasn't.
"Sure," he said, looking away for a second, then back, and smiling. "Yeah. I'm okay. And now--" He brushed at his cheeks more carefully, sweeping away the residue of his tears. "I need to talk to my daughter."
