Consequences

[maculategiraffe]

I just realized why I've been falling so incredibly far behind on replying to comments-- well, a factor, anyway, besides the non-negligible "work" and "sick" and "laptop died" and "holidays require insane amounts of family gathering" and "broke-ness requires insane amounts of knitting and other handcrafting for family Christmas presents" factors. I think it has to do with the fact that the content of comments to my stories has been trending away from "I liked A, and I thought B was a really nice little bit of dialogue" (which makes me want to immediately reply with "YAY! Thank you! Will you be my new best friend?") to "Ooh, I wonder about X, and I speculate that Y, and-- actually, you know what I'd REALLY love to see? A story where Z." To which the proper reply, in my show-don't-tell world, is not "Indeed, X! Though not, I think, Y. As for Z, maybe LMNOP. Thanks for commenting!" The proper reply is for me to write an XYZ (LMNOP) story.

But then writing the story takes a lot of time, and then I feel weird about posting the story before I've replied to comments, and then if I do post something else there are more wonderful fascinating comments to catch up on, and it's all a vicious behindness cycle. And it's not like I feel ok about just replying to the comments that are all "Loved the story!" and then posting more stories instead of replying to the speculative/story-inspiring ones. That seems discriminatory and callous, and to imply that I like praise better than inspiration, which is untrue!

And I guess I also hate to have my replies-to-comments sound boilerplate, when each comment is so individually neat and exciting-- I want my replies to reflect that. And then I get performance anxiety!

Anyway, I really do still intend to get caught up on replying to comments, even if I have to resort to just saying "hopefully this was addressed in the story I posted after you said it." :P But with that being said, here's another, brief story I wrote to try to answer many different comments and questions and speculations. I hope it stands as an answer to one of yours.







"Are you going to sleep any time soon?" Holden asked, propped up on one elbow in the tangle of sweaty sheets as Yves, standing, pulled the slightly crumpled peacock-blue tunic back over his head and smoothed it down.

"No," Yves answered, looking at the pile of books and papers on his desk. "I've got a lot to get done tonight, and I don't so much have caffeine in my bloodstream right now as I have blood in my caffeine-stream. Hand me my belt, please."

"I went through that stage too, when I first got freed," said Holden, fumbling around till he located the belt under one of Yves' pillows, and sitting up to hand it over. "The 'ha, I don't have to ask anyone's permission to drink coffee any more!' stage. Only I wasn't using the extra energy to study twenty-two hours a day. How can you be working so hard when you haven't even started school yet?"

"I don't know what the university's going to expect me to know already," said Yves, cinching the belt tight around his waist and buckling it.

"So you figure if you read every book ever written before the term starts, you're safe."

"Exactly," said Yves. "Hey, do you mind leaving now? You talk too much."

"I see how it is," said Holden, hunching his shoulders and giving Yves a plaintive look. "Throw me down, fuck me hard, and then turn around and kick me out into the cold, cruel... hall."

"Poor baby," said Yves unsympathetically. "If you're cold, go find Bran. He's the human space heater."

Holden nodded. "Can I have a kiss first?"

Yves came back over to the bed, leaned down with his hand on Holden's shoulder, and touched his mouth to his lover's, then pressed it softly closer as Holden's lips opened hungrily and the tip of his tongue found Yves' lower lip, then his teeth. Holden's hand slid to Yves' waist, cupping his hip bone; Yves broke the kiss and straightened up.

"Later," he said. "You're tired. You should go to bed."

"I'm in bed," said Holden, and at Yves' quizzical look, "Okay, I'm going, I'm going."

He got up and pulled his own tunic haphazardly over his head, smoothed it down perfunctorily, then paused at the door. "Yves?"

"Hmm?" said Yves, who had already sat down at his desk and opened a book.

"If... anyone... tries to bother you, tonight--"

"I can take care of myself," said Yves, looking up with an affectionate smile. "Shoo."






Less than one book later, the half-full cup of lukewarm coffee on his desk sloshed wildly when the knock came at his door. Caffeine had never made Yves jumpy before, but maybe the sheer quantity had done it. Or maybe he was a little bit more nervous about this encounter than he would have liked to admit, either to Holden or to himself.

"Damn it," he said, swiping at the spreading coffee stain with the edge of his tunic. "Come in," and she did, closing the door carefully behind her.

He wouldn't have been entirely surprised if she'd charged him and tried to tackle him to the bed-- she'd done it often enough before-- but she stayed near the door, staring at him and biting her lip. She was wearing a red silk robe, tied tightly at her waist but falling open slightly over her narrow shoulders and chest, revealing twin arcs of partial breast, and her dark hair was loose, frizzed in the shape of the braid she'd been wearing it in all day. At least she wasn't naked.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey," said Yves neutrally.

She toed the floor like a little girl and looked up at him through her eyelashes. He watched her without speaking.

"Whatcha doing?" she asked eventually.

"Studying," he answered. "What are you doing here, Valor?"

She gnawed her lip again and answered, "I wanted-- well. I just wanted to see you."

"Alone," Yves elaborated, since they'd already seen and greeted each other awkwardly when she arrived at home that afternoon, and made stilted conversation over dinner.

"Yeah," said Valor. "And to congratulate you-- on being free now."

"Thank you." Yves waited for a while longer before impatience-- his attention span seemed to have decreased since he'd been freed, although, again, that might have been the caffeine-- made him say, "Was there anything else you wanted?"

She gave him a reproachful look, which irritated him, and finally managed to spit out, "I just-- now that you're free-- I wanted to talk. I mean, my dad hasn't let you-- be alone with me-- ever since--"

She broke off, and Yves supplied, "Since you hit me in the face?"

Valor's vivid green eyes filled with tears at that, and Yves had the uncomfortable feeling that she was going to throw herself on the floor and start screaming, but she didn't, just stood there with her lip quivering. The elaborate unhappiness of her pose wasn't as appealing as she thought it was.

All right, so that was probably unfair. Calculated as her attitudes could seem, there was no question that she was really suffering.

"I guess you hate me," she said miserably.

"I'm still sorting out how I feel about everything," he said slowly. "And everyone. Everything's different now. But I don't think I could hate you, Valor."

"I love you," she said, as if it hurt.

"If that's true," Yves answered, "then you're not very good at loving people."

She backed up a step at that, her back against the closed door, her mouth slightly open. Yves wondered if his own mouth had sagged open in the same way when she'd slapped him. Probably not; on some level he'd been conditioned to expect such treatment, whereas it had obviously never occurred to Valor that anyone-- let alone Yves-- could ever be so cruel to her.

She had gone pale, too-- in fact, all her visible skin was pale, and a little goose-pimpled, and she was shivering. Yves wanted to go to her, as he might have when she was a child, and draw the edges of her robe together at her neck, tucking them in snugly: There. Now your chest won't be cold, Miss. But he didn't make a move towards her; he didn't want to have to physically pry her off him. That would be painful and embarrassing for both of them.

"I'm sorry, Yves," she managed finally. "I-- I'm so sorry."

Yves sighed. It was a familiar sigh, when it came to Valor; the teacher's sigh over the bright but hopelessly inattentive pupil.

"What are you sorry for?" he asked.

She blinked, and two tears ran down her wan, pinched-looking face. "For-- hitting you?"

"Your father's beaten the living hell out of me more times than I can count," Yves answered patiently. "You slapped me once. But now-- when everything's different-- I still love your father. Why do you think that is?"

The words he'd had the mercy not to say out loud had been just as crushing in the implication; Valor crumpled to the floor, her back to the wall, dropped her head to her knees, and shook with misery.

Yves watched her for a little while, and then he got up and went to her, sitting down on the floor beside her and putting a hand on her quivering back. She lifted her tear-smeared face to look at him, but didn't say anything or try to jump on him as he rubbed her back with one hand.

"Oh, Val," he said softly. "I'm sorry it has to be this hard on you."

She hiccupped, "You never-- c-called me that-- before."

"Val?" Yves smiled a little. "Would you rather I kept calling you Miss Valor?"

"No," said Valor, "it's just--"

"That's what I always used to call you. I know," said Yves. "From when you were very small. Even when you were a baby, I knew you were my young mistress. The power you had over me. And so did you."

"Yes," Valor whimpered. "But I n-never-- Yves, I swear I never meant to hurt you."

"I believe you," he said. "But you did hurt me. Good intentions are a wonderful thing to have, Valor, and you've always had them-- I've never doubted that. But at some point, they aren't enough. You have to look at where your intentions and your actions don't match up, and start figuring out why. Why did you hit me?"

"I'm sorry!"

"That's not what I asked," said Yves.

She shook her head. "I wasn't thinking-- I was angry--"

"And what made you so angry?"

"I--" She looked up at him searchingly, waiting for him to give her the right answer, but he didn't, and after a moment she floundered, "You said-- you were saying--"

"Yes," said Yves patiently. "What was I saying?"

"I don't remember exactly," said Valor, a little sulkily.

"I do," said Yves.

She waited again, and then she said, "What was it, then?"

"I called you irresponsible," said Yves. "I remember, because a few weeks later, your father asked me a question, and I said something about him needing to take responsibility. And when he answered me sharply, I went straight into crisis management mode. Down on my hands and knees, begging for forgiveness, panicking and cursing myself for my stupidity. That's what you did to me, Valor. After your father gave me a beating, I'd be sore for a couple of days. But you-- you really left a mark."

"Oh, God," said Valor faintly, her face blotched livid and ashen with tears and misery. "I'm so sorry, Yves."

"You're sorry," he answered. "But you're still-- at the risk of getting slapped again-- unbelievably irresponsible. You still don't understand that your actions have real consequences-- and that sometimes, they're irreversible. No matter how sorry you are."

"Yves," Valor begged. It was unfortunate for her that Yves was well acquainted with the various shades and tones of begging, and much less inclined to soften for the spoiled child's disbelieving whine than he might have been for actual penitence. But there was a note of real fear-- and Yves knew fear-- that made him gentler than he might otherwise have been, when he spoke again.

"I'm not saying you're a bad person," he said. "You have a lot to learn, but there's no shame in that. Most people do. It's only shameful when you refuse to admit it-- or to buckle down and actually learn."

"Help me," she whispered. "You always-- you always helped me with my homework, Yves.."

It would be unforgivably cruel to roll his eyes at her melodrama, so he didn't. He reached out, instead, and took her cold hand in his.

"Valor, I can't," he said gently. "I have my own work to do now, honey. You're on your own."

She clung to his hand with a death grip, and cried a while longer, without trying to hide her face or her anguish. Yves put his other hand over hers and held it patiently while she wept.

When she was finished, she swallowed and wiped her face with the back of her hand and sat quiet for a bit, and then she said thickly, "Yves-- please. I've lost you-- okay-- and I know it's my own fault-- but there's still-- Inga."

He didn't understand at first, and then, with affection and pity and an unexpected twinge of fear, he did.

"That's what we were talking about when you hit me," he said. "How you treat Inga. How that needs to change. You want to have that conversation again?"

"With no hitting this time," said Valor, and wiped at her eyes again. "Please."

Yves smiled a little, drawing his hand away from hers. "What if I want to hit you?"

"I'll hold still," said Valor, without smiling back.

He took her stricken, tear-spoiled face in his hands, and looked at her for a long time, seeing how she looked like Greta, and like Nikol Argounov, and like Kai-- and even, a little, like Holden. Then he leaned forward and kissed her forehead, lightly and briefly. She shuddered slightly as he pulled away, but held still.

"Okay, Val," he said. "Let's talk."