Lee chapter 45
Oct. 14th, 2008 01:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maculategiraffeAnd no, this is definitely not the last (pre-epilogue) chapter. Sorry for the false alarm, everyone. I really, really must stop trying to make predictions about the length of this story in order to soothe myself with an illusory sense of control.
(So not caught up on comments, or friends list reading. Sorry about that, too. Working on it.)
Lee held onto his master's legs while a plump young nurse administered the sedative. The legs were tense, clenched; Lee bent his head and kissed his master's knee, hoping the familiar gesture of submission and trust would offer some comfort, and the master smiled down at him, though not particularly happily.
"I'll send the tech in with a cot and blanket in a minute," the nurse said, as Lee watched the plunger of the syringe depress and the liquid inside push into his master. "I guess you need another chair, too, don't you?"
"Hey, while you're here, can I have more pain stuff?" Jer asked. "I think it's starting to wear off."
The nurse smiled at him, sliding the needle efficiently out of the master's arm. "I'll check your orders."
"I bet that means no," said Jer when she was gone. "Orders, huh? Ain't it the fucking way."
"Well, as far as my orders are concerned, you can have all the drugs you want," said the master, and then, "Oh. Whoa. It's, um, is it supposed to work this fast? I'm-- I think I need to lie down."
"Lazy bastard," said Jer, as the master slid unselfconsciously from his chair to the floor beside Lee, and then slumped down with his head on Lee's shoulder.
"Hey, kiddo," he slurred, and Lee giggled nervously. "If I fall asleep on you, just make the tech person drag me onto the-- thing. Cot. Oh, God, that stuff is strong."
"You still swear by God when you're out of it," said Jer. "Just like Pasha, huh?"
The master lifted his head and blinked at Jer, and then he put it back down on Lee's shoulder as he said, "Yeah. God. Like Pasha."
He didn't say anything else for awhile, and his head was heavy on Lee's shoulder, until another youngish woman came in, carrying a folding cot, a pillow, and a thin white blanket under one arm and a folding chair under the other; she set the chair down-- the mistress sank down in it rather gratefully-- unfolded the cot, and then pulled the master up, arranged him on it, and covered him with the blanket, with the efficiency of long experience. The master turned on his side, closed his eyes, sighed, and slept.
"He said I could have more pain stuff," Jer told the tech, who turned and looked at the mistress. She nodded.
"I'll check your orders," said the tech, and went out.
"Damn it," said Jer, while Lee got slowly to his feet, wondering where he should be now. He wasn't nearly as comfortable at the mistress' feet as he was at the master's, and sitting on the floor without anyone's legs to lean against felt lonely and unnerving, but he didn't quite dare sit down in the chair his master had just vacated.
"C'mere, kid," said Jer, and moved his head towards the chair. "Sit down next to me."
Lee looked at the mistress, who nodded again, and then perched himself uncertainly in the chair, not quite looking at anyone in the room.
He startled when the doctor came in, feeling horribly self-conscious, especially since the doctor started looking at him immediately, the way she'd looked at him when she ran into him and the mistress on their way down the hall, when they were going to go home and leave the master and Jer here. It was a strange and disconcerting look, though certainly not a hostile one; she looked at him as if he made her want to cry, and her hands opened and closed restlessly, though she didn't seem to notice.
She hadn't said anything to him out in the hall-- the mistress had stopped to greet her and explain, and all the doctor's questions had been for the mistress-- but now she said, "Lee--"
"Ma'am?" Lee asked nervously.
"You look well," she said, only half to him, her eyes bright behind her glasses.
Lee blushed and ducked his head. "Thank you, ma'am."
"When can I go home?" Jer asked the doctor. "I can lie in bed at home, without a fucking cuff on my wrist."
"Jer," the mistress said, a little sharply, and Jer blinked for a second before he said, "Sorry, mistress. Beg pardon for speaking out of turn, ma'am."
"It's quite all right," said the doctor crisply. "To answer your question-- you may go home as soon as your scans come back. I've asked to take over your case, since I know your-- your master and mistress, already. We have to make sure there are no further complications from your injuries, such as brain damage."
"Yes, ma'am," said Jer, who Lee thought would probably have loved to make a comment about who around here had brain damage, but was behaving himself now.
"In any case," the doctor continued, "the longer you stay, the longer we can let your master sleep."
Jer smiled a little. "Fair enough, ma'am."
The doctor looked at Lee again, and then said to the mistress, "Ms. Jamesen, may I speak to you for a moment, alone? Just outside the door?"
"Certainly," said the mistress, after a moment of surprise, and rose to her feet to follow the doctor from the room.
Jer's hair was thick and straight and a little coarse, streaked with more gray than the master's; the gray blended with the brown to make the color of tree bark, or dry dirt. Lee wouldn't have voiced either of those comparisons out loud, since they didn't exactly sound complimentary, but he liked the color of Jer's hair, as well as the way it felt between his fingers. He was glad Jer had closed his eyes, so he could just look without any self-consciousness, even if he also wished they were open, so he could see them for what he was pretty sure would be the first time.
He'd spent so much time with his eyes down, never daring to look up at anyone's face, or scanning for danger signals if he did dare look, that he had almost no idea what anyone-- except Bran, and more recently, the master-- looked like. He'd been living with the slave breakers for months now and he still couldn't have told you whether the mistress' eyebrows were dark or fair, or whether she was taller or shorter than Greta, and he couldn't have described the shade of Yves' hair or summoned up an image of his smile. Jer had jumped between Lee and an oncoming fist, had taken a brutal beating solely to shield Lee, and Lee had no idea what color his eyes were.
Then they opened, and they were gray, dark gray, iron gray, and steady on Lee's face. Jer smiled, and Lee smiled back.
"Feels good," said Jer. "Thanks."
"You're-- you're welcome," said Lee, blushing, and Jer closed his eyes again.
Touching someone else uninvited was even more unfamiliar than looking at them. But when someone was lying in a hospital bed as a direct result of having saved you from severe injury or death, and he called you to sit next to him, and it was just you and him for the moment, and he looked tired and as if his head hurt-- well, it seemed... natural... to touch his head, softly. And when he made a little purring sound of satisfaction, it didn't seem so strange to keep touching.
Even when the someone was a man.
Men had never meant anything but danger to Lee, before he'd been carried out of his basement room and into Mr. Larssen's car all those weeks ago, and driven to this same hospital, and given a new world to try to make sense of. Before then, men meant danger, and women-- the few he'd encountered-- meant a relative absence of danger, since they weren't usually in charge. Men were in charge; men were the ones it was necessary to please, and even if they liked Lee at first because he was little and pretty and had slender limbs and a little doll mouth and a high tight ass, they changed their minds soon enough when they realized he was a dead fish, a rag doll, a worthless snot-faced crybaby waste of cum. Men meant pain. Women didn't; they didn't have cocks, so they didn't fuck you, so they didn't punish you for your worthlessness as a fuck-- but that didn't mean you were safe, or okay, or good. It just meant a brief respite from having to think about any of those things. Men ruled the world, and they hurt you when you failed to please them, and Lee never pleased them, so Lee's lot in life was pain, and pain, and more pain, until the day he managed to make some man angry enough to kill him outright-- which would hurt worse than anything ever had, until it was over.
But Bran-- well, he wasn't a woman, but he wasn't exactly a man, either, not the way Lord Dunaev and his friends had been, or the way Lee's father and his friends had been. Men meant fear, and it was impossible to be afraid of Bran, so it was impossible to think of him as a man, either. Bran was a boy, like Lee. Or-- at least-- a boy like Lee could have been, if he were brave and strong and wonderful. Bran was a good boy, who had earned the love and protection of his master, and so when he decided to love Lee, it meant Lee had some protection, too.
Which meant he wasn't so afraid of Mr. Larssen, even though Mr. Larssen was a man, no doubt about that, with a man's hard-palmed hands, heavy boots, leather-belted tunic, and gray-streaked hair-- and a cock, one that grew thick and stiff and heavy, and required skilled worship. And even though Lee had known, for as long as he could remember, in the same way he'd known that two and two made four and that objects fell down instead of up, that failure to properly worship the cock of the man who owned you meant rage, pain from those hands and those boots and that belt, and from all the other vehicles of pain that a man had at his disposal.
But Mr. Larssen's hands had stayed gentle, running over Lee's hair and his back, pulling him close against his strong chest, enveloping him in warmth. His master held him, stroked him, kissed him, praised him; Lee, he said, was his good boy, his sweet boy, who hadn't done anything wrong; he wasn't angry, he said, he was proud of Lee, and Lee was always safe with him. Even when Lee was weak or incompetent or careless or a crybaby.
Even when he'd offered Lee a chance to please him with his mouth, and Lee had promptly started gagging and choking. Even when he'd used Lee—fucked him—taken him, or whatever it was that Bran called it; the memory of that whole time was fuzzy, but Lee knew he'd engaged in several unworthy and punishable behaviors then, too. He'd cried practically the whole time, for one thing, and he'd tensed up several times and needed to be soothed back to relaxation, and he was pretty sure he'd failed to move eagerly into the rhythm of his master's thrusts, to show how grateful and hungry he was to be taken, or to thank his master verbally, either. And if nothing else, he knew he'd failed to please his master because his master hadn't taken him again, since then-- even when Lee, in a moment of boldness he still flushed hotly to remember, had put a hand on him, to offer.
The master didn't want him. He'd kept Bran in charge of having sex with Lee instead, which was fine, it was-- great, with Bran, but it wasn't the same as being fucked by the master, any master, any man. Bran's cock was just like Lee's, just something you could touch and pleasure and enjoy; it wasn't the object of dread and worship that was the erect penis of a man who owned you and every hole in your body. And not pleasing Bran didn't mean failure; it just meant you should try something else next time. And Bran shuddered and came at Lee's touch, into his hand and into his mouth and into his ass, and whimpered praise and endearments in Lee's ear, and that was wonderful and amazing, but it wasn't the same as the master being pleased, it didn't mean you'd proved you were worthy of existing at all.
But the master still held Lee, and stroked him, and told him he was making wonderful progress, that he, the master, was proud of Lee, and that Lee's training was going very well.
Lee had considered at length, as his master had instructed, the bewildering fact that the same boy, with all the same failings, could be doomed to endless punishment and pain from one master for his worthlessness, and yet be cherished and protected and called precious and good by another. It had taken him a long time to figure out how to deal with the inescapable conclusion: that either all the men Lee had ever known had been wrong about Lee, or Mr. Larssen was wrong now. Because the trouble with that was that if Mr. Larssen was wrong, then as soon as he sold Lee, Lee would be back to being worthless, which was already unbearable to contemplate—whereas if Lord Dunaev, and Lee's father, had been wrong, then the extent of the injustice that had been done to Lee was too huge to contemplate, and stirred emotions that bore a worrying resemblance to rage.
Lee had compromised with the conclusion that different owners had different requirements, and that it was enough to know-- and he did know it, he believed it-- that now that he belonged to Mr. Larssen, he wouldn't be belonging, ever again, to someone who hated him. When his master sold him, he'd sell him to-- well, to Lord Taganov, who was gentle and beautiful like Bran, even if he was a nobleman, and who would surely be pleased by the same things that pleased Bran. Or if Lord Taganov was too rattled by all this media attention to want Lee any more, Lee's master would sell him to someone else who wanted him and would take care of him, and if he couldn't find someone like that, he'd keep him until he did find someone. Lee's lot in life was different now; he hadn't changed, but Mr. Larssen had made sure his world had. He was safe now; he wouldn't end his life as the outlet for anyone's killing rage.
Unless, of course, he decided to run out of his master's house and straight into his previous master's fists.
Lying under Jer while people yelled and fought and got handcuffed above them, Lee had had what seemed like hours to reflect on what he'd just done. Running out to get himself hurt, deliberately, against his master's specific and extremely sharp order, had been bad enough, but he'd been brave enough to do it because he hadn't really expected to survive this final encounter with Lord Dunaev. When he found himself physically unscathed, beneath the broken and raggedly breathing body of his master's beloved oldest friend, he should have been frightened again of what punishment he might receive, but there hadn't been any room left in him for fear; there'd been too many other feelings flooding him at the sensation of a man-- and Jer was a man, every inch, even if he was a slave-- lying on top of him, and not to take him, not to pin him down and shove inside him, but to intercept the pain and injury that Lee should have been receiving.
Lee had never earned anything from Jer. Had never served or satisfied him in any way. Hadn't even thanked him properly for his various small, gratuitous kindnesses-- for taking Lee by the hand and showing him that Bran was fine, not hurt; for bringing him an enormous sack full of fruit from the market when Lee asked for a peach; for summoning Lee to perch in his lap and holding him close when Lee got nervous around Miss Robin. But Jer had taken a beating that broke his ribs and almost stopped his breathing, in order to spare Lee the same fate.
That wasn't just a kindness. That was something else.
"Jer," he whispered, and Jer opened his eyes again, looking up at Lee. His face was bruised, his eyes were gray; Lee wanted to cry or kiss him again or...
"Why," he asked, "why did you-- why? You said it was worth it-- but why?"
Jer looked at him for a moment, thoughtfully.
"Why did you run out the door?" he asked.
"Because," Lee stammered, "Miss Robin said-- for public opinion-- for the cause-- for all those kids--"
"So you cared more about imaginary kids than your own skin," said Jer. "Skin, hell-- your own life. You know he would have killed you, kid."
Lee nodded; he did know that. Then he shook his head.
"I was just thinking-- about one kid," he said. "The one in the basement, right then-- the one he'd go home to, if he went home. The next--"
"The next generation," said Jer, and yawned, a little. "I know. And you were used to it. He already fucked you up, so let him finish the job. End it with you. Right?"
Lee nodded, staring at Jer's face so hard his eyes started to cross.
"I know," said Jer again, gently. "Trust me, kid-- I know. They use you up, and fuck you over, and kick you to the curb. Tell you, if you're not what they want, you're nothing. Trash. Right?"
Lee nodded again, and Jer's eyes cut sideways towards the cot where the master still slept, on his side, covered to the neck with the sterile-looking hospital blanket, his lips slightly parted like a peaceful child's.
"And then he picks you up," he said, "and tries to kiss it all better. But kissing doesn't make it better. Doesn't hurt or anything--" he smiled, suddenly and so beautifully Lee stopped breathing for a moment-- "but doesn't make you know you're human again. Know what does?"
Lee shook his head.
"Acting a damn fool," said Jer. "Because you care more about something-- or someone-- than about being a good, smart, safe slave."
"But," Lee whispered, his hand lying still on Jer's head, "why-- why me?"
Jer lifted an eyebrow instead of a shoulder. "Why the kid in Dunaev's basement? You never even saw her. Didn't even know for sure she was there."
"So-- it could have been anyone?" Lee asked, strangely comforted by the thought, which meant he didn't have to try to understand how someone like him could possibly have been worthy of such ferocious, selfless protection from any man. "You just did it-- for the next generation?"
"Hell, no," said Jer. "I don't give a shit about the next generation unless it's a hot little brunet. You think of a way to thank me yet, sweetheart?"
Lee was still blushing furiously when the mistress and the doctor came back in, but they didn't seem to notice. The mistress looked extremely flustered. Her eyebrows, as it turned out, were darker than the hair on her head, but not what you'd call dark.
"What is it?" Jer asked. "Mistress."
"Nothing," said the mistress quickly, and then, "Just-- there are a lot of people out there. Dr. Grieg's right-- we definitely shouldn't leave without a police escort. And I'm sure the police have higher priorities. Dr. Grieg has offered to telephone from the administrative office here to the house, to let them know there's going to be-- some delay. Isn't that kind?"
"Yes, mistress," said Jer, watching her narrowly. "Very kind."
(So not caught up on comments, or friends list reading. Sorry about that, too. Working on it.)
Lee held onto his master's legs while a plump young nurse administered the sedative. The legs were tense, clenched; Lee bent his head and kissed his master's knee, hoping the familiar gesture of submission and trust would offer some comfort, and the master smiled down at him, though not particularly happily.
"I'll send the tech in with a cot and blanket in a minute," the nurse said, as Lee watched the plunger of the syringe depress and the liquid inside push into his master. "I guess you need another chair, too, don't you?"
"Hey, while you're here, can I have more pain stuff?" Jer asked. "I think it's starting to wear off."
The nurse smiled at him, sliding the needle efficiently out of the master's arm. "I'll check your orders."
"I bet that means no," said Jer when she was gone. "Orders, huh? Ain't it the fucking way."
"Well, as far as my orders are concerned, you can have all the drugs you want," said the master, and then, "Oh. Whoa. It's, um, is it supposed to work this fast? I'm-- I think I need to lie down."
"Lazy bastard," said Jer, as the master slid unselfconsciously from his chair to the floor beside Lee, and then slumped down with his head on Lee's shoulder.
"Hey, kiddo," he slurred, and Lee giggled nervously. "If I fall asleep on you, just make the tech person drag me onto the-- thing. Cot. Oh, God, that stuff is strong."
"You still swear by God when you're out of it," said Jer. "Just like Pasha, huh?"
The master lifted his head and blinked at Jer, and then he put it back down on Lee's shoulder as he said, "Yeah. God. Like Pasha."
He didn't say anything else for awhile, and his head was heavy on Lee's shoulder, until another youngish woman came in, carrying a folding cot, a pillow, and a thin white blanket under one arm and a folding chair under the other; she set the chair down-- the mistress sank down in it rather gratefully-- unfolded the cot, and then pulled the master up, arranged him on it, and covered him with the blanket, with the efficiency of long experience. The master turned on his side, closed his eyes, sighed, and slept.
"He said I could have more pain stuff," Jer told the tech, who turned and looked at the mistress. She nodded.
"I'll check your orders," said the tech, and went out.
"Damn it," said Jer, while Lee got slowly to his feet, wondering where he should be now. He wasn't nearly as comfortable at the mistress' feet as he was at the master's, and sitting on the floor without anyone's legs to lean against felt lonely and unnerving, but he didn't quite dare sit down in the chair his master had just vacated.
"C'mere, kid," said Jer, and moved his head towards the chair. "Sit down next to me."
Lee looked at the mistress, who nodded again, and then perched himself uncertainly in the chair, not quite looking at anyone in the room.
He startled when the doctor came in, feeling horribly self-conscious, especially since the doctor started looking at him immediately, the way she'd looked at him when she ran into him and the mistress on their way down the hall, when they were going to go home and leave the master and Jer here. It was a strange and disconcerting look, though certainly not a hostile one; she looked at him as if he made her want to cry, and her hands opened and closed restlessly, though she didn't seem to notice.
She hadn't said anything to him out in the hall-- the mistress had stopped to greet her and explain, and all the doctor's questions had been for the mistress-- but now she said, "Lee--"
"Ma'am?" Lee asked nervously.
"You look well," she said, only half to him, her eyes bright behind her glasses.
Lee blushed and ducked his head. "Thank you, ma'am."
"When can I go home?" Jer asked the doctor. "I can lie in bed at home, without a fucking cuff on my wrist."
"Jer," the mistress said, a little sharply, and Jer blinked for a second before he said, "Sorry, mistress. Beg pardon for speaking out of turn, ma'am."
"It's quite all right," said the doctor crisply. "To answer your question-- you may go home as soon as your scans come back. I've asked to take over your case, since I know your-- your master and mistress, already. We have to make sure there are no further complications from your injuries, such as brain damage."
"Yes, ma'am," said Jer, who Lee thought would probably have loved to make a comment about who around here had brain damage, but was behaving himself now.
"In any case," the doctor continued, "the longer you stay, the longer we can let your master sleep."
Jer smiled a little. "Fair enough, ma'am."
The doctor looked at Lee again, and then said to the mistress, "Ms. Jamesen, may I speak to you for a moment, alone? Just outside the door?"
"Certainly," said the mistress, after a moment of surprise, and rose to her feet to follow the doctor from the room.
Jer's hair was thick and straight and a little coarse, streaked with more gray than the master's; the gray blended with the brown to make the color of tree bark, or dry dirt. Lee wouldn't have voiced either of those comparisons out loud, since they didn't exactly sound complimentary, but he liked the color of Jer's hair, as well as the way it felt between his fingers. He was glad Jer had closed his eyes, so he could just look without any self-consciousness, even if he also wished they were open, so he could see them for what he was pretty sure would be the first time.
He'd spent so much time with his eyes down, never daring to look up at anyone's face, or scanning for danger signals if he did dare look, that he had almost no idea what anyone-- except Bran, and more recently, the master-- looked like. He'd been living with the slave breakers for months now and he still couldn't have told you whether the mistress' eyebrows were dark or fair, or whether she was taller or shorter than Greta, and he couldn't have described the shade of Yves' hair or summoned up an image of his smile. Jer had jumped between Lee and an oncoming fist, had taken a brutal beating solely to shield Lee, and Lee had no idea what color his eyes were.
Then they opened, and they were gray, dark gray, iron gray, and steady on Lee's face. Jer smiled, and Lee smiled back.
"Feels good," said Jer. "Thanks."
"You're-- you're welcome," said Lee, blushing, and Jer closed his eyes again.
Touching someone else uninvited was even more unfamiliar than looking at them. But when someone was lying in a hospital bed as a direct result of having saved you from severe injury or death, and he called you to sit next to him, and it was just you and him for the moment, and he looked tired and as if his head hurt-- well, it seemed... natural... to touch his head, softly. And when he made a little purring sound of satisfaction, it didn't seem so strange to keep touching.
Even when the someone was a man.
Men had never meant anything but danger to Lee, before he'd been carried out of his basement room and into Mr. Larssen's car all those weeks ago, and driven to this same hospital, and given a new world to try to make sense of. Before then, men meant danger, and women-- the few he'd encountered-- meant a relative absence of danger, since they weren't usually in charge. Men were in charge; men were the ones it was necessary to please, and even if they liked Lee at first because he was little and pretty and had slender limbs and a little doll mouth and a high tight ass, they changed their minds soon enough when they realized he was a dead fish, a rag doll, a worthless snot-faced crybaby waste of cum. Men meant pain. Women didn't; they didn't have cocks, so they didn't fuck you, so they didn't punish you for your worthlessness as a fuck-- but that didn't mean you were safe, or okay, or good. It just meant a brief respite from having to think about any of those things. Men ruled the world, and they hurt you when you failed to please them, and Lee never pleased them, so Lee's lot in life was pain, and pain, and more pain, until the day he managed to make some man angry enough to kill him outright-- which would hurt worse than anything ever had, until it was over.
But Bran-- well, he wasn't a woman, but he wasn't exactly a man, either, not the way Lord Dunaev and his friends had been, or the way Lee's father and his friends had been. Men meant fear, and it was impossible to be afraid of Bran, so it was impossible to think of him as a man, either. Bran was a boy, like Lee. Or-- at least-- a boy like Lee could have been, if he were brave and strong and wonderful. Bran was a good boy, who had earned the love and protection of his master, and so when he decided to love Lee, it meant Lee had some protection, too.
Which meant he wasn't so afraid of Mr. Larssen, even though Mr. Larssen was a man, no doubt about that, with a man's hard-palmed hands, heavy boots, leather-belted tunic, and gray-streaked hair-- and a cock, one that grew thick and stiff and heavy, and required skilled worship. And even though Lee had known, for as long as he could remember, in the same way he'd known that two and two made four and that objects fell down instead of up, that failure to properly worship the cock of the man who owned you meant rage, pain from those hands and those boots and that belt, and from all the other vehicles of pain that a man had at his disposal.
But Mr. Larssen's hands had stayed gentle, running over Lee's hair and his back, pulling him close against his strong chest, enveloping him in warmth. His master held him, stroked him, kissed him, praised him; Lee, he said, was his good boy, his sweet boy, who hadn't done anything wrong; he wasn't angry, he said, he was proud of Lee, and Lee was always safe with him. Even when Lee was weak or incompetent or careless or a crybaby.
Even when he'd offered Lee a chance to please him with his mouth, and Lee had promptly started gagging and choking. Even when he'd used Lee—fucked him—taken him, or whatever it was that Bran called it; the memory of that whole time was fuzzy, but Lee knew he'd engaged in several unworthy and punishable behaviors then, too. He'd cried practically the whole time, for one thing, and he'd tensed up several times and needed to be soothed back to relaxation, and he was pretty sure he'd failed to move eagerly into the rhythm of his master's thrusts, to show how grateful and hungry he was to be taken, or to thank his master verbally, either. And if nothing else, he knew he'd failed to please his master because his master hadn't taken him again, since then-- even when Lee, in a moment of boldness he still flushed hotly to remember, had put a hand on him, to offer.
The master didn't want him. He'd kept Bran in charge of having sex with Lee instead, which was fine, it was-- great, with Bran, but it wasn't the same as being fucked by the master, any master, any man. Bran's cock was just like Lee's, just something you could touch and pleasure and enjoy; it wasn't the object of dread and worship that was the erect penis of a man who owned you and every hole in your body. And not pleasing Bran didn't mean failure; it just meant you should try something else next time. And Bran shuddered and came at Lee's touch, into his hand and into his mouth and into his ass, and whimpered praise and endearments in Lee's ear, and that was wonderful and amazing, but it wasn't the same as the master being pleased, it didn't mean you'd proved you were worthy of existing at all.
But the master still held Lee, and stroked him, and told him he was making wonderful progress, that he, the master, was proud of Lee, and that Lee's training was going very well.
Lee had considered at length, as his master had instructed, the bewildering fact that the same boy, with all the same failings, could be doomed to endless punishment and pain from one master for his worthlessness, and yet be cherished and protected and called precious and good by another. It had taken him a long time to figure out how to deal with the inescapable conclusion: that either all the men Lee had ever known had been wrong about Lee, or Mr. Larssen was wrong now. Because the trouble with that was that if Mr. Larssen was wrong, then as soon as he sold Lee, Lee would be back to being worthless, which was already unbearable to contemplate—whereas if Lord Dunaev, and Lee's father, had been wrong, then the extent of the injustice that had been done to Lee was too huge to contemplate, and stirred emotions that bore a worrying resemblance to rage.
Lee had compromised with the conclusion that different owners had different requirements, and that it was enough to know-- and he did know it, he believed it-- that now that he belonged to Mr. Larssen, he wouldn't be belonging, ever again, to someone who hated him. When his master sold him, he'd sell him to-- well, to Lord Taganov, who was gentle and beautiful like Bran, even if he was a nobleman, and who would surely be pleased by the same things that pleased Bran. Or if Lord Taganov was too rattled by all this media attention to want Lee any more, Lee's master would sell him to someone else who wanted him and would take care of him, and if he couldn't find someone like that, he'd keep him until he did find someone. Lee's lot in life was different now; he hadn't changed, but Mr. Larssen had made sure his world had. He was safe now; he wouldn't end his life as the outlet for anyone's killing rage.
Unless, of course, he decided to run out of his master's house and straight into his previous master's fists.
Lying under Jer while people yelled and fought and got handcuffed above them, Lee had had what seemed like hours to reflect on what he'd just done. Running out to get himself hurt, deliberately, against his master's specific and extremely sharp order, had been bad enough, but he'd been brave enough to do it because he hadn't really expected to survive this final encounter with Lord Dunaev. When he found himself physically unscathed, beneath the broken and raggedly breathing body of his master's beloved oldest friend, he should have been frightened again of what punishment he might receive, but there hadn't been any room left in him for fear; there'd been too many other feelings flooding him at the sensation of a man-- and Jer was a man, every inch, even if he was a slave-- lying on top of him, and not to take him, not to pin him down and shove inside him, but to intercept the pain and injury that Lee should have been receiving.
Lee had never earned anything from Jer. Had never served or satisfied him in any way. Hadn't even thanked him properly for his various small, gratuitous kindnesses-- for taking Lee by the hand and showing him that Bran was fine, not hurt; for bringing him an enormous sack full of fruit from the market when Lee asked for a peach; for summoning Lee to perch in his lap and holding him close when Lee got nervous around Miss Robin. But Jer had taken a beating that broke his ribs and almost stopped his breathing, in order to spare Lee the same fate.
That wasn't just a kindness. That was something else.
"Jer," he whispered, and Jer opened his eyes again, looking up at Lee. His face was bruised, his eyes were gray; Lee wanted to cry or kiss him again or...
"Why," he asked, "why did you-- why? You said it was worth it-- but why?"
Jer looked at him for a moment, thoughtfully.
"Why did you run out the door?" he asked.
"Because," Lee stammered, "Miss Robin said-- for public opinion-- for the cause-- for all those kids--"
"So you cared more about imaginary kids than your own skin," said Jer. "Skin, hell-- your own life. You know he would have killed you, kid."
Lee nodded; he did know that. Then he shook his head.
"I was just thinking-- about one kid," he said. "The one in the basement, right then-- the one he'd go home to, if he went home. The next--"
"The next generation," said Jer, and yawned, a little. "I know. And you were used to it. He already fucked you up, so let him finish the job. End it with you. Right?"
Lee nodded, staring at Jer's face so hard his eyes started to cross.
"I know," said Jer again, gently. "Trust me, kid-- I know. They use you up, and fuck you over, and kick you to the curb. Tell you, if you're not what they want, you're nothing. Trash. Right?"
Lee nodded again, and Jer's eyes cut sideways towards the cot where the master still slept, on his side, covered to the neck with the sterile-looking hospital blanket, his lips slightly parted like a peaceful child's.
"And then he picks you up," he said, "and tries to kiss it all better. But kissing doesn't make it better. Doesn't hurt or anything--" he smiled, suddenly and so beautifully Lee stopped breathing for a moment-- "but doesn't make you know you're human again. Know what does?"
Lee shook his head.
"Acting a damn fool," said Jer. "Because you care more about something-- or someone-- than about being a good, smart, safe slave."
"But," Lee whispered, his hand lying still on Jer's head, "why-- why me?"
Jer lifted an eyebrow instead of a shoulder. "Why the kid in Dunaev's basement? You never even saw her. Didn't even know for sure she was there."
"So-- it could have been anyone?" Lee asked, strangely comforted by the thought, which meant he didn't have to try to understand how someone like him could possibly have been worthy of such ferocious, selfless protection from any man. "You just did it-- for the next generation?"
"Hell, no," said Jer. "I don't give a shit about the next generation unless it's a hot little brunet. You think of a way to thank me yet, sweetheart?"
Lee was still blushing furiously when the mistress and the doctor came back in, but they didn't seem to notice. The mistress looked extremely flustered. Her eyebrows, as it turned out, were darker than the hair on her head, but not what you'd call dark.
"What is it?" Jer asked. "Mistress."
"Nothing," said the mistress quickly, and then, "Just-- there are a lot of people out there. Dr. Grieg's right-- we definitely shouldn't leave without a police escort. And I'm sure the police have higher priorities. Dr. Grieg has offered to telephone from the administrative office here to the house, to let them know there's going to be-- some delay. Isn't that kind?"
"Yes, mistress," said Jer, watching her narrowly. "Very kind."
