Lee chapter 39

[maculategiraffe]

Okay, so I was wrong about that whole "wireless internet where we're renting" thing. But I'm back now. And I've got SO MUCH TO CATCH UP ON. Oy vey, you people are fantastic, posting lovely fic right and left in my absence.

I'm leaving again today, actually (long story) but I'll have internet this time, and I shall be working diligently on catching up. And I took advantage of some of my vacation time to write the next chapter of Lee, which is below.













"So," said Robin to Bran, "you really did have a choice."

Bran grinned at her. "Yes, Miss. About as clear a choice as you can get."

Five years hadn't taught Holden to listen to the story of Bran's escape with equanimity, and sitting here with Robin wasn't helping, either; if she said anything to so much as irritate Bran, he was throwing her out, Lee or no Lee. Bran seemed fine, though; poised but expressive, describing his own shock as he realized the people in the forest weren't just a rumor, the second shock as he realized they were in communication with his current owners, and the even bigger shock at their explanation.

When he got to Holden's arrival and the offer of freedom, Holden had reached out involuntarily and put his hand on Bran's back through the chair Bran sat in. Bran glanced at him, then dragged his chair so close to Holden's that the two chairs were touching, and took Holden's hand in his, squeezing it affectionately as he narrated the rest of the story.

"Of course," Robin added, "it was a choice between leaving the country and everything you'd ever known, versus staying with someone you felt you could trust. So you picked relative security and familiarity over freedom-- I guess I can understand that."

She didn't sound too convinced, but Holden would take what he could get with Robin. Bran didn't look bothered, anyway.

"You must have been so relieved, too," Denys added, watching Bran and Holden, whose hands were still intertwined. "With three strikes on your record, running away again, and getting caught, and then having your owner turn out to be an abolitionist--"

"I'm not really an abolitionist," said Holden. "I'm pretty sure there would be some conflict of interest between that and my chosen profession."

"Not necessarily," said Denys, perking up. "Even if we do get slavery abolished within your lifetime-- if there's one thing I've learned, interviewing all these slaves, it's that most free people don't have a clue how to relate to slaves as human beings. And that if a lot of newly freed slaves are suddenly turned loose on society, we're going to need people like you, to help them make the transition. After all, you and Ms. Jamesen both did it."

"By trial and error," said Holden. The idea of training delinquents for freedom instead of slavery was a little startling; Holden filed it away for future thought and discussion with Alix.

"But, okay, not an abolitionist," Denys continued. "A philanthropist. A humanitarian."

"A non-murderer," Holden suggested dryly.

"Yeah, I'm not sure why we're giving special credit for that," said Robin, and Holden glanced up at her, amused despite himself; their eyes met, and he thought he could see a gleam of humor in hers before Denys answered seriously, "Because the way things are set up, you have to make special illegal arrangements not to be a murderer. I mean, we can't even disclose the alternative in the article, you know?"

"About that," said Robin. "I think you're hinting too much in the article as it is, Denys. We don't want this thing to backfire on us. Crackdowns on groups like ours-- I mean, we're okay, we're clean-cut and middle-class and we're not the ones doing the really important work anyway. But we don't want to risk official attention towards people like Jesse. Or these 'people in the forest.'"

"I just wanted to-- I don't know," said Denys. "Give a sense of hope."

"That's not our goal with this article," said Robin. "Our goal is to give a sense of unbearable crushing horribleness, so the nobility will get their thumbs out of their butts and do something about it all."

"I hate to admit it, but she's got a point," said Holden to Denys, who smiled and said, "Check. I'll take out the hope when I rewrite. Any other editorial suggestions?"

"If you're done with me for now, master," said Bran, "may I go?"

"Of course," said Holden, "unless you want to read the article now, and give us your suggestions?"

"I've got something on the stove, right now," said Bran apologetically. "May I read it later?"








Holden caught up with Bran on the third stair down. "How long has it been since we spent the night together?"

"Two weeks and five days, master," said Bran immediately.

Holden laughed. "Well, that won't do, will it?"

"No, master," Bran agreed with a beaming smile that soothed and warmed the part of Holden he'd been mercilessly repressing while Bran spent most of his nights with Lee, giving Holden dutiful progress reports on Lee's sexual development. It seemed to be coming along nicely. Holden was going to have to observe it all firsthand at some point, too, but that could wait, especially since Lee hadn't demonstrated any discontent with the current state of affairs.

Not that Lee avoided physical contact with Holden. On the contrary, whenever Holden sat down anywhere lately, it was a safe bet Lee would be kneeling at his feet before long, pressing his head shyly up against Holden's leg and whimpering very softly with pleasure when Holden caressed him, or shivering blissfully if Holden had the leisure to pull him up into his lap. But now that he and Bran were having sex, Lee had completely stopped asking Holden if he might serve him sexually, and he didn't offer his mouth to be kissed, or touch Holden in any way that wouldn't have been appropriate for Valor. Holden was sure that wasn't because he was afraid-- the sex had gone well the only time they'd tried it, and Lee had no reason now to believe Holden would be less gentle than Bran was-- so he considered it a victory; Lee now seemed to be convinced that he was pleasing his master with his behavior without sex. And as long as he was all right with that, and his sexual development was coming along well, Holden didn't consider himself to be shirking by treating the boy the way he wanted to-- as a cherished, and entirely sexually uninteresting, responsibility.

Sexually uninteresting to Holden, rather. Andrei Taganov couldn't stop rhapsodizing over the boy's beauty, and Holden had to agree that Lee was uncommonly lovely, even for a seventeen-year-old pleasure slave. His face had filled out in the last month, and his skin, though still pale, looked alive and healthy, with a pearly luster and a quick, translucent flush along his high cheekbones when he was pleased or embarrassed. His mouth, mobile and sensitive, was susceptible to the flush, too, and to a slight quiver that seemed to have replaced the habit of sucking in the lower lip when he was uncertain; when he smiled, it was always sweet and sudden, and the weight gain had revealed an elusive but adorable dimple in his left cheek. It was just that none of those things seemed to coax any reaction whatsoever from Holden's cock.

Well, except when Holden was watching Lee with Bran, but that hardly counted. Holden was probably going to develop a desire to fuck the oven into submission if Bran kept up his current romance with it.

He'd managed to keep his better nature uppermost when it came to jealousy over Bran's attentiveness to Lee, though. It didn't hurt that Bran wasn't looking at all displeased, now, at the prospect of abandoning his charge for a night.

"I've missed you, kiddo," he said, squeezing Bran's shoulder. "And I've still got to figure out how to pay you for doing my job for me, here."

"It's not hard work, master," said Bran, with a twinkle in his eye. "But I've missed you too. I'll tell Lee he's on his own for tonight-- I don't think he'll mind. Don't you think he's doing well?"

"Thanks to you," said Holden. "All right, sweetheart. I don't dare leave Robin unattended for too long. Get Lee to tell you what happened when I came downstairs to get her, by the way."






That night, in Bran's bed, they made up for lost time so thoroughly that Holden was convinced he'd only just dropped off to sleep when Bran whispered, "Master, wake up," and Holden's eyes snapped open to a room that was still dark.

"What?" he managed, blinking up at Bran, who was suddenly dressed again and sitting on the edge of the bed.

"I'm sorry to wake you," said Bran softly, "but may I go downstairs and cook some things for breakfast before Fox gets here?"

Holden squinted. "What time is it?"

"I'm not sure," said Bran. "Early. May I, please?"

"I'm not sure I approve of this hobby if it's going to have you leaping out of bed the second you open your eyes," said Holden, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. "You used to like to do other things when you woke up in bed with me."

"Oh, master, I'm sorry," said Bran, twining his arms repentantly around Holden, and kissed the side of his face. "It's just that I've been wanting to experiment with breakfast, and I haven't had a chance-- but if you want me, of course--"

"I always want you," said Holden, disengaging one arm to switch on the light. "But let's compromise. I'll come downstairs and get in your way while you work."

"You don't have to do that, master," said Bran, clearly thrilled, as Holden swung his legs out of bed and stood up, fumbling for his discarded clothes from last night. "Are you sure? You're not too tired? Because it can wait until tomorrow morning, if you're too tired. But if you really want to--"

"Oh, gods," said Holden, halfway into his tunic. "I can't believe it's taken me five years to realize your one tragic flaw. You're a morning person. Stop being so chipper right now. At least until I've had my coffee."

"I'll make you some, master," said Bran happily. "I can make pretty good coffee, I think."





Holden sipped blearily at a cup of excellent coffee at the kitchen table while Bran zipped around the kitchen, doing things to oranges with knives, raising clouds of white powder that clung to his tunic and to his cheek, and finally putting a paper-lined pan covered with some sort of dough circles into the oven and closing it.

"There," he said, setting the timer on the oven and turning to smile at Holden. "Want any more coffee, master?"

"Sure," said Holden, smiling at Bran as he poured it until Bran laughed and said, "What?"

"You're the cutest thing I've ever seen, is what," said Holden, and sipped again. "And this is really good."

"Good!" Bran sat down, suddenly, and put his chin in his hand. "Thank you for letting me-- do this, master."

"What, get up early and make me coffee and cranberry orange--"

"Scones," Bran supplied. "Yes. And cook. And-- everything."

"I don't let you do everything," said Holden. "I'm not letting you have any coffee, for example. You're way too wired as it is."

Bran laughed. "I don't want any coffee, master. It smells good, but I don't like the taste."

"When have you even tried it?" Holden asked, amused, and Bran's smile disappeared as suddenly as if someone had slapped it off his face. "Sweetheart? That wasn't an accusation."

"No, you gave me permission once," said Bran, trying to summon back his smile, without notable success. "Remember-- it was just a couple of weeks after you bought me-- you and the mistress and Greta went out to dinner, and you told Yves he and I could have coffee while you were gone."

"That's right," said Holden, remembering certain other things about that night as well-- like the nightmare Bran had had, after Valor's unexpected arrival, and the night he'd spent curled around Bran's warm quiescent weight, the first one since he'd bought the boy, and the way he'd awakened with Bran's shy, sweet mouth on his. "I'd forgotten about that."

Bran managed an approximation of a smile as he added, "I still didn't like it, but it's better hot and freshly poured."

"Better than what?" Holden asked curiously.

"The first time I tried it was before I belonged to you," Bran answered, as if that closed the subject.

Holden hesitated before he gave it a delicate push with, "To whom did you belong?"

"Lord Dunaev," said Bran.

And even though he'd stopped asking questions like this in the second year he'd lived with Bran, after learning that Bran always answered with an unhappy, "Please, master, I'd rather not talk about it," and admitting to himself that he really didn't want to hear the graphic details, Holden asked, "What happened?"

Bran's eyes flicked up to meet his. After a slight hesitation of his own, he said, "The first time I tasted coffee?"

"Yes," said Holden.

Bran turned to look at the oven, then turned back to look at his fingernails, before he said, "Well, I used to make his coffee sometimes, if he didn't feel like getting up, and bring it to him in bed. And it always smelled really good. He liked his with cream and sugar, which sounded pretty good to me. I always kind of hoped he might not finish it all, because I figured I could just pour the last of it down my throat instead of the sink before I washed out the cup. But he always did finish it, so one day, I just made a little bit more than I normally did-- more than it took to fill the cup. And after I'd brought it to him, and he'd drunk it, and I'd, um, performed my other morning duties--"

"Nicely euphemized," said Holden, rather grimly, and Bran gave him a quick grin before he looked back down.

"I took the cup back to the kitchen," he continued. "and I swallowed down the dregs of the coffee pot. It wasn't very warm, and it tasted horrible. Definitely not worth it."

"Worth what?" said Holden.

Bran shrugged. "I got caught."

"And?"

There was another pause before Bran said, still looking down at his fingers, "You read my interview with Mr. Harper, didn't you, master?"

"Yes," said Holden quietly. "It was very informative. Why haven't you ever talked to me about any of that, Bran?"

"I don't know why, really," said Bran, frowning. "I just-- well, I guess at first I was a little scared to. I still thought it was my fault, the way he'd treated me, and I didn't want to be the one to point out to you that I actually didn't deserve how good you were being to me."

"But you know better than that now," said Holden.

"Of course," said Bran, and then grinned. "Maybe I've been afraid you'd go out and kill Lord Dunaev, and then you'd go to prison and I'd be left all alone."

"It's a risk," said Holden, only half joking. "You willing to take it?"

"Not that much of a risk right now, master," said Bran, still grinning. "You're channelling your evil-killing energy into this whole news story thing, right now. And fighting with Miss Robin."

"This is true," said Holden. "So why else wouldn't you talk about it?"

"It's just--" Bran's smile had disappeared again. "It's not-- pleasant. To talk about."

"No," said Holden carefully, "but you don't always have to be pleasant. With me."

Bran glanced up, and there was a longish silence before he said, "No, I don't, do I?"

"No," said Holden again.

"He tasted the coffee on my mouth," said Bran, his eyes on Holden's. "In my mouth. When I came back to the bedroom, he was up and walking around-- not dressed yet-- and he pulled me in to kiss me. I should have expected it, because he used to do that a lot, when he was in a good mood. He'd wrap his arm around me and stick his tongue in my mouth-- and he used to do this-- flickering thing with it, I guess he thought it was sexy. But I'd kiss back-- it was nice when he was in a good mood, and he liked me to-- respond. Kissing was something I could do. I'd suck his lips, and his tongue, you know, hold onto him. It made me sick, I hated it so much, but it wasn't as bad as-- other things. I tried to remember that."

Holden was feeling a little queasy himself, but he made himself sit still and listen, his eyes on Bran's steady gray eyes.

"He tasted the coffee in my mouth," Bran repeated, slowly, "and I knew what had happened, because he pulled away and pulled his hand back to hit me, but I dropped down on my knees so fast he missed. I was begging, right away. Kissing his feet-- crying, probably. He kicked me in the face-- not hard, he didn't want to break any bones or anything, just hard enough to push me back a little-- and then he reached down and grabbed my hair and pulled me up by it and hit me across the face, and then he dropped me back down onto my knees and took his cock in his hand and told me to open my mouth. And I did-- and he pissed into my mouth."

"Bran," Holden whispered, and Bran reached out and laid his hand over Holden's, on the table.

"We don't have to talk about this, master," he said. "It's not important, any more."

"I'm listening," said Holden, and Bran studied him for a few moments before he resumed.

"I spat out the piss, and tried to get out of the way," he said, "and he kicked me again, and yelled at me to get my whore mouth open. He said if I thought I got to drink any fucking thing I wanted I'd drink his piss and I'd lick it up off the floor if it missed my mouth. He pissed all over my face-- it got in my eyes. He made me put my mouth to the floor and lick it up, and I threw up, and he made me lick that up, too."

Holden turned his face away, and felt his hand lifted between warm hands, pressed to soft, vulnerable lips.

"Go on," he said with difficulty.

"There wasn't much more," he heard Bran say. "He beat me for a while, and I screamed a lot. I didn't really-- I mean, it wasn't any worse than I was used to, but he liked me to scream. That was when he liked to fuck me-- when my voice was gone. He said I was nice and slack then. He always said I was too tense, normally."

Holden put his free hand over his own mouth just as the timer on the oven gave a bright little ding! Bran stood up, then paused and leaned down to put a hand on Holden's back and kiss the top of his head before he went over to the stove and put on a pair of padded oven mitts. Holden watched him, trying to get himself under control. It wasn't as if he hadn't known what sorts of cruelties men like Dunaev visited on their slaves; he'd even read the transcript of what Bran had told Denys Harper about his treatment at Dunaev's hands. But actually hearing Bran describe, in his own quiet, matter-of-fact voice, what must have been only one of hundreds of such scenes, was still almost more than he could endure.

When Bran had taken his pan from the oven, filling the kitchen with a mouthwateringly sweet and tangy fragrance, piled the golden circles into a basket and covered them with a clean cloth, he came and sat down again, picking up Holden's hand.

"Go on," said Holden again.

"That was mostly it," Bran answered. "He fucked me, and he came pretty quickly. He was never as angry after he'd come. I just wasn't allowed anything to drink for-- a while, and then he-- well. That was pretty much it."

Holden considered pursuing that "and then he," and decided discretion was the better part of valor. Bran was looking at him as if Holden were a kitten whose tail he had carelessly stepped on.

"I'm sorry, master," he said gently. "I shouldn't have told you all that."

"Why?" Holden asked, meeting the compassionate gray eyes again. "Think I'm too delicate to hear about a few minutes of the two years of hell you went through?"

"More like one and a half years," said Bran, with a small but genuine smile. "But no, I don't think you're delicate, master. It's just-- well. I never wanted you to-- be thinking about all that. You know, when you kiss me, and hold me, and everything. Because I'm not thinking about it. Not with you." He was leaning forward, his eyes clear and bright, hands stretched as if unconsciously towards Holden, reaching for him or offering something invisible. "I don't even like saying he kissed me. What he did, and what you do-- it shouldn't even be the same word."

Holden held out his arms, and Bran climbed readily into them, settling down on Holden's lap and putting his head down on his shoulder, as Holden's eyes prickled with the tears he was struggling not to let fall.

"You know," he said, his fingers in Bran's hair, "I knew, when I started out in this line of work, that I was going to have to be careful not to fall in love. Not just because of Yves and Alix, but-- I was going to care about the kids I worked with, and I was going to do my damndest to make their lives better, but I knew I couldn't afford to feel-- this way."

"I'm sorry, master," said Bran again, softly.

"Don't be," said Holden, as the kitchen door opened and Fox came in, her eyebrows shooting up to her hairline when she saw them.

"Hi, Fox," said Bran from Holden's lap. "I made scones."

"That's nice," said Fox, with a tone and look that managed to convey both that she was appalled and scandalized by such goings-on in her kitchen of all places, and that no more was to be expected of Holden. Come to think of it, her expression bore a certain family resemblance to the one Lee's doctor had gotten in the hospital waiting room. Holden was going to have to be more careful not to have emotional catharses in women's professional spaces; they didn't seem to take to it. "They smell good. Cranberry orange?"

"Yes," said Bran enthusiastically, squirming out of Holden's arms and jumping up to bring Fox the basket. "I put in some cinnamon, too. Do you think that will be good?"

Fox smiled at him as she took it and lifted the cloth. "It sounds good to me."

"I was just leaving," said Holden, getting up, and Bran turned and put his arms around Holden, hugging him hard.

"Are you okay?" he murmured in Holden's ear.

Holden leaned in and kissed him on the mouth, heedless of Fox's sudden clattering busyness behind them.

"Yes," he said. "Thank you, love. I'll see you at breakfast."