
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5711002.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      Gen, M/M, F/M, Other
  Fandom:
      Daredevil_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Matt_Murdock_&_Franklin_"Foggy"_Nelson, Matt_Murdock/Franklin_"Foggy"
      Nelson
  Character:
      Matt_Murdock, Franklin_"Foggy"_Nelson, Anna_Nelson, Candace_Nelson,
      Edward_Nelson, Rosalind_Sharpe, James_"Bucky"_Barnes, The_Winter_Soldier,
      Marci_Stahl, T'Challa_(Marvel), T'Chaka, Elektra_Natchios
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Slavery, this_is_not_a_happy_fic, nor_a_fix-it_fic,
      Rape, Rape_Culture, rape_jokes, Brainwashing, Past_Brainwashing,
      Unreliable_Narrator, Stockholm_Syndrome, Canon-Typical_Violence, Child
      Death, Torture, Psychological_Torture, Misunderstandings, Misgendering,
      Trans_Character, Asexual_Character, Nobody_is_a_cinnamon_roll, though
      Foggy_aspires_to_be, inaccurate_depictions_of_law_school, Grief/Mourning,
      Internalized_Dehumanization, Dehumanization, Unlikable_Characters, Bad
      Victim_Matt_Murdock, Matt_Murdock_Needs_a_Hug, Things_do_get_better
      eventually_I_promise, Angst, Self-Harm, Hope_and_Despair, Poetry,
      Suicidal_Thoughts, Guilt, Post-Traumatic_Stress_Disorder_-_PTSD,
      Internalized_Victim_Blaming, Victim_Blaming, Abusive_Relationships,
      Abused_people_choosing_to_be_abusers, Nonbinary_Character, Fuck
      Responsible_Storytelling, Dissociation, Ableism, Culture_Shock, Trust
      Issues, Foggy_and_Matt_do_love_each_other_eventually, but_they're_not
      exactly_in_a_romantic_relationship, Cuddling_&_Snuggling, Platonic
      Cuddling, Hand_Feeding, Panic_Attacks, Teddy_Bears, Hold_Out_Until
      Chapter_104_for_Explicit_Communication, Shame_Surrounding_Sexual_Assault,
      Stalking
  Series:
      Part 2 of While_All_The_Time_a_Part_of_Me_Cries_Stop_Stop
  Collections:
      Daredevil_Kink_Meme
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-01-13 Updated: 2018-02-03 Chapters: 141/? Words: 330712
****** I Can't Be Fixed and I Don't Care To Be Saved ******
by Haych_Aych_Ach, Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Summary
     Written for a prompt and meta on the Daredevil kink meme, found here:
     http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/
     6237.html?thread=11775325#cmt11775325
     Matt is a very expensive, high-class slave. So when he's given to a
     Foggy Nelson by an extremely drunk biological mother, shit hits the
     fan, and doesn't stop for quite a while.
Notes
     Huge thank you to all my commenters on this prompt, the slave mix-it-
     up prompts, and the other fillers of the slave mix-it-up prompts.
     Without all of you I wouldn't have written a thing.
     Huge trigger warnings for brainwashing, dehumanization, internalized
     abuse, victim blaming, rape culture, noncon of many flavors (see the
     end notes for details on what noncon occurs between Matt and Foggy),
     depersonalization, and intense problems communicating.
     Though things do start to really get better after certain
     breakthroughs are made.
     Title is a reference to Jeanann Verlee's poem 'Men', which can be
     read here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/39704299450/men-want-to-
     fix-you-save-you-or-fuck-you-i
     Disclaimer: the actions characters take in this story, the things
     they are into, and how they behave is not a reflection on the author
     or commenter/reader's own beliefs, interests, morals, personality,
     etc. Fiction is fiction. What some characters like to do and what
     they think is right is not necessarily correlating with reality or
     truth, etc.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** but listen: those are hoofbeats on the frosty autumn air *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Foggy comes back from the store--he's all moved into his apartment for
Columbia, since he can't exactly live on campus anyway but definitely not with
a slave, the dorm would be twice as expensive and much crappier--and freezes
because he hears Matt audibly crying.

He feels a tiny twitch of relief because jesus christ, Matt apparently has
actual emotions and is not just an uncanny valley robot slave who agrees with
everything Foggy says and never, ever seems to have opinions or feelings of his
own.

But then he realizes again that it's Matt audibly crying and feels like an
asshole. And it's not just crying, either, it's the kind of low, hysterical
wailing that Foggy's only heard at funerals before. It's heartwrenching to
hear, and Foggy freezes in the narrow hallway because he has no idea what to
do.

It takes him a second, but he at least closes the door and puts his stuff down
on his desk in his room, and then goes to the bathroom, where the crying is
coming from.

He knocks gently on the door after dawdling for a few more minutes, during
which the crying neither lets up nor gets quieter. It's actually sounding more
and more hysterical and horrifying as it goes on, and Foggy's starting to worry
about Matt choking or fainting from the hyperventilating.

"Matt? Buddy? You okay in there?"

It's a monumentally stupid question but Foggy has no idea what to actually say
to that otherwise.

The door swings open after a moment to reveal Matt, shaking and on his knees
and hands on the floor. He looks so awful for a second Foggy's worried he's hit
himself or something--his eyes are red and there's still visible tear tracks on
his face, which given how much Matt seems to value looking doll-perfect all the
time means something is really, really wrong.

"Hey, Matt," he says, his voice going soft and gentle, "What's wrong? Did
somebody break in, or--?"

Matt swallows tears and says, voice wrecked, "No, si--Foggy, nothing of that
sort happened. I'm fine."

Foggy can't help himself. "Is that why you're crying in, like, a Biblical
floods kind of way?"

Matt twitches in a way that reminds Foggy of a flinch, and Foggy mentally
facepalms at his own mouth, and instead says, "Is there anything I could do--is
there someone you'd like to call or talk to?"

Because Matt's file had said that his longest-time owner--a guy named Winter,
who looked vaguely malevolent and definitely batshit crazy dangerous in the
picture--had basically left Matt alone to be trained under his slave Summer,
who the file noted was renowned as being a hyper-competent slave as well. Maybe
Matt would want to talk to her, or a psychologist or something.

Matt blinks and looks down, pressing his face to the floor, and says through
hiccuping fresh tears, "Could I--may I call S--the slave who trained me,
please, sir? Foggy?"

Foggy's heart twists, Matt must really be in bad shape, and then goes to get
his cellphone, and hands it to Matt, saying as reassuringly as he can, "Yes,
seriously buddy--call--you can call whoever you need to, I want you to feel
better." He mentally kicks himself for the order that he'd choked off. Foggy
had vowed to not give Matt any orders at all if he could help it, and since he
was going to be a lawyer, he knew he could learn to help it. If he could learn
Torts, he could not be a dick to Matt, who Foggy couldn't free by law and
couldn't sell except back to Rosalind for at least five years, and since
Rosalind had had Matt literally strip naked and crawl to Foggy on the floor of
the diner when she'd given Foggy Matt, he refused to do that to Matt.

===============================================================================


Matt can't believe he's so pathetic. He hasn't cried like this for years and
years and years, not since his dad died or Stick left him after dooming him to
never be freed.

He remembers the numbers and after a shaky few moments manages to guess the
configuration of the number keypad to call Summer's cell phone number.

"Yes, sir and/or ma'am?" Her voice chimed after a second.

A few more tears flowed. Matt mentally upgraded his self-administered
punishment from cuts then nail polish remover to breaking two toes on a foot.
He couldn't do things like this. This was disgusting.

"Summer," he said, voice broken. Matt had never hated himself more than now.
Summer would hate him, too, for wasting her time and making a fool of her.
Bend, not break,she'd always said and had him say, and Matt felt like nothing
else but shattered.

"Matt? What's the situation?" She asked.

"I--Summer, I can't--"

"Take a deep breath this instant," Summer said, firmly. Matt obeyed.

"Now, do you need my help with your owner?"

"Y-yes. Sorry--"

"Don't say sorry to me. I'm not the one who owns you, and I told you, if you
needed help badly enough to ask for it I'd step up to the plate."

Matt swallowed his despair and felt a newfound hope bloom in his chest. If
Summer was willing to help, the situation could be salvaged.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"Pay it forward in the future," Summer said firmly, and then, "Now hand the
phone to your owner, I'm going to get myself an appointment with you tomorrow.
I will come to you and fix this, Matt, do not worry."

Matt obediently held the phone back to Foggy, who took it. Then he lay his head
back down, the cool tile soothing his face.

===============================================================================

Foggy had watched the phone conversation half with the uncomfortable feeling
that he was seeing something he shouldn't. Then Matt held the phone to Foggy,
so he took it, and when he did, a smooth female voice in his ear said, "Sir?"

So this was Matt's slave friend from when he was younger. "I'm Foggy," he
blurted out.

"Of course, sir. Now, may I come over and help you with the situation regarding
Matt?"

Foggy blinks. "Huh?"

"May I come over, sir, and help you with Matt? I understand that for new
owners, a slave that's as high-maintenance as us can be difficult to cope with.
If I may, I'd like to help the adjustment period transition smoothly into a
more sustainable living environment, if that's agreeable to you, sir?"

Foggy feels led on, somehow, and so he doesn't say anything for a second,
looking at Matt's sad, hidden face, his tight back.

"Please, sir," and the tone is more desperate now, "Please let me come and help
Matt."

Foggy snaps out of it and says, "Yes, yeah, of course! How soon?"

"Would six a.m. tomorrow be agreeable to you, sir?" And now she sounds back to
strangely cool.

"Yeah, I can do it," he says without thinking. Foggy's still going to be asleep
by then. Fuck.

"Very good, sir. Thank you so much, I will see you tomorrow."

===============================================================================

Matt smiles to himself as he hears the conversation and Summer's little
manipulation. She had told him that begging worked often but he stops smiling
because this owner didn't respond positively to begging at all and Matt has no
idea what to do, how to steer the situation.

"I'm sorry, Foggy," he says because honestly why not, "I didn't mean to be a
disruption."

Foggy sighs and Matt almost visibly cringes. Why can't he be like literally any
owner Matt's ever had or even heard about? It's exhausting. Matt can't keep
getting everything wrong, at some point he'll run out of toes or skin or ways
to hurt his eyes and Foggy will notice and probably be disappointed at that
too.

Foggy just says, "Hey, come here, you're not a 'disruption', it's fine. That
lady Summer will come over and she sounded pretty confident that she could help
you."

Matt smiles inwardly as Foggy pulls Matt into an uncomfortable embrace. Matt
hates hugs, or most of how Foggy is affectionate without good reason or earning
it. It makes him jumpy to have such a debt to an owner.

===============================================================================

The next morning Foggy is badly wishing he'd thought to ask for another time.
It's too fucking early, the sun's not even out yet, and Foggy's trying to make
coffee.

"May I, Foggy?" Matt murmurs, and for a second Foggy's tempted to ask him to
never say his name again, because it's so creepy to hear the way Matt says it,
like it's some sort of title.

Foggy's so tired he says, "Sure, you know what, sure. I'm going to go to bed.
You do whatever."

===============================================================================

Matt's nervous as Foggy leaves to sleep; once he flops on his bed, however, he
actually falls asleep.

Then Matt hears Summer walking, her feet without shoes, but it's her alright,
the smell is distinct.

Matt opens the door before she can knock or ring the bell, because it's common
sense to let an owner sleep, always.

Without speaking, once she's inside and Matt's closed and locked the door, she
walks to the living room and plucks two cushions off the couch onto the floor.
Matt pours and prepares her coffee and his; he remembers how she takes it.

He puts it down on the table, head bowed on reflex, and then sinks down onto
his knees on the cushion and sags in relief. Foggy hasn't let him kneel in
fucking months, hasn't given him that comfort.

They have the conversation in whispers they can both easily hear.

===============================================================================

"So what's the problem with the owner?"

"He's--awful."

"Sadist?"

"No, he--he seems to want a free person instead of me, but still a slave, but
instead I have to pretend to be this parody of a free person and still never
get anything for it. He doesn't want me and thinks if he got rid of me--and
he'd have to sell me back to his biological mother, who he hates--he'd be a bad
person. But he's impossible to please. I've never had an owner make me
so...edgy before."

"Well, a nervous breakdown is healthy sometimes. But it sounds to me--you were
given as a surprise gift? To a broke freshman law student?"

"Yes," Matt whispers back, grateful that she understands the sheer weirdness of
it. Matt was sold for seven million dollars and then given like a pair of cheap
socks.

"Well. What does 'Foggy' dislike?"

"Me kneeling, not using his name, public nudity, any suggestion of sex with me,
any attempt for me to be useful. Slavery in general, I think."

"Hrm. Well. Remember what little I told you about abolitionists?"

"Yes. Mostly how to efficiently get away from one and back to an owner."

"Yes, and that was all, because honestly, abolitionists are irrelevant most of
the time, and the other times they're dangerous. But perhaps--hrm. Have you had
an owner yet that wants to 'save' you from slavery?"

Matt tries to think of one, and the closest he gets is how Mistress Sharon's
daughter Annalind used to shout at her mother if she used Matt in front of her-
-even for coffee-making, not even sex--and refused to eat or drink anything
made by Matt. He'd been mildly insulted until he realized she was an
abolitionist based on a school paper her mother had ranted about as she scraped
her fingernails into cuts on Matt's back. Then he'd been wary.

"No, not yet."

"Well. They're difficult, because you have to create the facade of being in
love with them, and not let yourself be convinced. It's like those owners who
have fetishes for mock-marrying their slaves--you have to cater to delusions."

Matt swallows. "How?"

"Well, first of all, if you'd like, convince him how much happier you are
kneeling or on a floor--make up some sob story about how I hit you or some such
nonsense for standing."

Matt blinked to himself. Summer hadn't hit him for standing; she'd kneeled and
he'd been lower than her, always, and so he'd kneeled too. It had been
comforting, after a while. It meant he was on track for being good.

"But use his name. And take some risks, some initiative--maybe give him a
backrub if you're bold, or ask for specific foods. See if that makes him think
he's cured you of being a slave," and that's a definite eyeroll in her tone
now. Matt finds it just as absurd--as if there was anything wrong with being a
slave.

"And perhaps see," Summer added, "If he's got some, ah, deviant sexual
preferences."

Matt tilted his head. "As in, likes to be dominated. Even by you," she added at
his face.

"Free people have that preference?"

"Not openly, hence deviant. But this Foggy might, if he dislikes your usual
talents at sex."

Matt nods, absorbing this. He can cater to fetishes just fine.

"So what you're going to do is play into that fantasy. Become 'saved',
'empowered', 'liberated'. What they want is a slave who is a shivering limp
thing that they can comfort and build up and control in total. They want you to
owe them everything, so pretend Foggy does. See if submissiveness makes him
more or less happy and proceed accordingly. It's somewhat easier to mimic a
free-person-in-all-but-collar that way. And don't forget to use your newfound
freedom to suck his cock. The first thing I ever told you about a male owner
was that they all become so much easier to get along with when you suck their
cock at least once a day. Now tell me more about Rosalind Sharpe and how you
and Foggy met."

"Well, she bought me at auction, clearly drunk," he begins.

===============================================================================

Foggy yawns as he gets up at eight a.m. and then jumps when he realizes that
that lady slave Summer was supposed to come over two hours earlier, and oh
shit, what if he'd locked her out totally?

Except once he gets into the living room, he looks and sees a beautiful, short
woman wearing a braided metal collar who was talking to Matt. She's wearing
some sort of black scrunchy dress and they're both kneeling on the floor on
cushions off the couch, which makes Foggy feel faintly sick.

But then she gracefully stands, and leans down to pet Matt's hair, turns to
face Foggy, smiles gently, and leaves with a coat folded over her arm.

"That was Summer?" he asks Matt after she's gone.

"Yes, Foggy," Matt says, voice somehow lighter and happier. "She--I needed some
things explained to me, and she did."

"So you're better now?"

Matt smiles dreamily. "Much better."

"So could you get up off the floor?"

Matt's smiles goes away, and he looks down and hunches into himself a little.
"I--I haven't told you this before, and she said I should, but, um, I l-like
kneeling. On a cushion. It's--they hit us, when they're training slaves, or
shock us, anytime we're standing without direct orders. And so kneeling just.
Um. Makes me feel safer."

Foggy's startled. He's never thought about it that way, and Matt had never
indicated that he was ever unhappy before. But if it makes Matt feel safe,
Foggy will get used to him kneeling. Maybe he'll get him some super-plush
cushion or something.

===============================================================================

Matt listens to Foggy get himself coffee with burning delight.

That stuttering, sad little ploy worked. Things are looking up.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from "The Cossacks" by Linda Pastan, which can be
     read here: http://sad-jew-with-cake.tumblr.com/post/136886790671/the-
     cossacks-for-jews-the-cossacks-are-always
     So, on the noncon between Matt and Foggy:
     Matt is determined to have sex with Foggy because he believes that as
     a slave the only way to secure his position and save himself from
     death or worse is to have sex with him. In order to do this, he
     pretends to have genuine autonomous sexual desires for Foggy, and
     gives a performance of enthusiastic consent. He hates having sex,
     especially the way Foggy has sex with him, and spends the encounters
     full of resentment and fear.
     Foggy is under the impression, during all sexual encounters, that
     Matt is being entirely honest when he says he wants sex with Foggy,
     and lets his own doubts be silenced. He further rationalizes that
     since the sex is kinky and involved Matt topping him, it cannot be
     actually nonconsensual/a performance, mostly because Foggy does not
     understand the degree to which sex slaves like Matt are brainwashed
     and taught to do *whatever* their owner wants sexually.
     Eventually, Matt admits that he hates sex with Foggy, and Foggy is
     shocked and horrified by his actions. No further sexual contact
     between them occurs.
***** my frenulum between his forefinger and his thumb *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt's amazed with his luck as the week goes on.

He's never had an owner dislike owning him before. It still smarts worse than a
switch, too, because Matt's gone to such incredible lengths to become seriously
expensive, well-trained, and flexible in what roles he can perform.

And he's never had an owner who only seemed happy when Matt was happy with the
owner's version of him and unhappy with what Matt was actually happy with.
Well--that's not quite--no, he's had owners before who wanted him to enjoy sex
and being owned by them, but they always wanted him to suffer when punished.
It's as if Foggy thinks Matt being a slave was a punishment and being this
nervous, twitchy parody of a free person was a reward.

Matt also finds out that since Foggy so dislikes Matt being distressed, Matt
can slip back into more proper slave protocol to control a bad situation. Two
days ago, when Foggy had suggested that perhaps Matt didn't have to wear a
collar anymore, Matt had abruptly gone to the appropriate kneeling position
(arms out in front of your head, face flat on the floor, knees down, neck
outstretched) and made himself stammer out some frantical-sounding hysterics
and apologies and Please keep me, sir, please Master Foggy I don't want to go
back to her, and the words tasted sour but it wasn't worse than anything he'd
said for an owner before.

And Foggy had not only not punished him, he'd actually then went online and
bought Matt a soft leather collar lined with rabbit fur (instead of the
tasteful faux-leather Rosalind Sharpe had been keeping Matt in) and paid for
fast delivery.

The whole time, Foggy had pulled Matt into a sort of cuddling position on the
bed next to him, saying soothingly I'm not going to sell you, Matt, jesus, I'm
not an asshole just because my mother is, and if a collar is what will actually
make you feel safe I'll just get you one with the money she gave me, and Matt
had hardly believed it until it came the next day and Foggy had gently closed
it around his throat, so lax Matt had had to subtly tighten it.

Now Matt's lying on the couch, pretending to have fallen asleep watching
Firefly with Foggy. It's annoying--Matt would never fall asleep without orders
or drugs, how utterly offensive--but it's a good way to gather information
without the owner knowing what you're doing.

So Matt's listening to Foggy in his bedroom. Foggy's on his computer, typing,
his heartbeat fast. Matt breathes through his nose, and there it is--the
distinct smell of arousal. Matt smiles to himself as Foggy shifts out of his
pants, and with a fluttering heartbeat that reads as both anxious and aroused,
finds something online to masturbate to.

Matt pushes away his anger that his owner prefers his hand to Matt, and focuses
to try to see if there's any clues to what Foggy's masturbating to.

Foggy's biting his lip, sweating, and whispers to himself, Oh ffuck yes, please
fuck me, oh god, and Matt registers surprise as he strains harder to listen.

Matt, Foggy whispers, and it's difficult to not get up and go serve him, Matt,
fuck, fuck me hard, Matt please-- and then he comes. Matt doesn't do anything
but listen as Foggy hastily cleans himself up, and over the hum of the shower
Matt hears What the fuck is wrong with you Foggy, he's a fucking slave, he
can't consent,.

Matt frowns and diverts his anger at that to his heart. What does it matter if
he consents or not? He's not some baby slave or broken, secluded pet that's
only taken outside wearing veils, crying and fragile at everything. Matt is
more than capable of giving his owner the best sex of his life. Thinking that
he needs to consent or he'll what--die? Crumple like paper?--is beyond
infuriating. It's disgusting.

===============================================================================

Foggy's just happy things are getting better.

Matt's expressing things that he actually likes instead of just robotically
offering up things he can do. Today Matt even hesitantly asked Foggy if he
could maybe organize the kitchen so he could know where things were when he
cooked, and when Foggy gently clarified that he didn't have to, Matt actually
told him that he liked cooking.

Now Matt's being more of a person, Foggy feels less and less like an asshole or
walking on eggshells. He thinks maybe this won't be so bad, after all.

It's when Foggy gets back from the store--he's still helping his parents out
until the semester actually starts in a week--and Matt's humming something to
himself, spatula wielded as he makes some sort of vegetable stir-fry and adds
marinated beef, making Foggy's mouth water that Foggy can't help but collapse
against the doorway, smiling wide and sweet, because Matt's finally getting
happy.

===============================================================================

Matt feels somewhat better now that he knows where the tightrope is under his
feet. He still might fall, and the net might not hold, but it's easier to
balance like this.

He's still tense at the thought of taking sexual initiative and dominating
Foggy. He'd gotten onto Foggy's computer when he was gone again--it wasn't
easy, the laptop was clearly designed for sighted people, but he managed
alright because owners never locked their computers against their slaves
because how would a slave even work up the nerve to hack in?--and had the
speech-to-text leftover app read the porn Foggy had hid under bookmarks.

It's all rather shockingly weird stuff--slaves turning on their masters,
pressing them down by the neck, taking control. Foggy had clearly imagined
himself in the submissive position--he'd had an app that replaced the names of
the masters-turned-victims with 'Foggy' or even 'Franklin' and the names of the
dominating slaves (and what a weird oxymoron that was) replaced with 'Matt'.

But Matt's catered to strange fetishes before. One owner had liked to feed Matt
rich meat and chocolate cakes and all sorts of fattening foods and rub his
stomach as it cramped. She had been cooing the whole time as she told him how
she was going to fatten him up. Another had liked to hogtie Matt, place foods
around and in him, spread marinating sauce on him, and pretend he was going to
cook Matt and eat him.

Matt thought wryly perhaps they ought to have gotten together and had some sort
of Hansel and Gretel scene, but alas, those were previous owners and unlikely
to be future ones.

Matt swallows his fear, hiding it from Foggy with his back turned (sighted
people are basically bad at most subtle body language that didn't involve
faces, or at least sighted free people), and served them both basic stir-fry
with white rice. Foggy seemed to be very happy with it, and Matt ate slowly and
with as much grace as he could, stomach churning with terror.

Most owners didn't mind some sexual initiative, preferring slaves who they
thought wanted them, and certainly Matt had experience with that. Foggy wasn't
physically unattractive, but he was an owner, and so Matt would never let
himself think that Foggy was ever ugly, that would be inappropriate.

Matt made himself think of Foggy as if he were, perhaps, another slave in this
household, and one with a fetish for being dominated. Certainly slaves like
that existed. Foggy would be--cute, definitely as a slave, and not exactly
unattractive, but it was difficult to find other slaves attractive at this
point, since all his sexual desires were just tools for owners.

But it helped to think of it that way. Matt could certainly fight and win
against another slave, and if he'd been ordered to or figured out that an owner
wanted him to, he could dominate another one sexually. A month or so before
Matt killed him, Master Robert had had slaves start performing sex on one
another, the overseers appointed to pet them and act as an owner would to
reward a slave who'd done well sexually.

Granted, Matt had never been an overseer. Officially. Unofficially, he'd
directed enough workflow of other slaves to qualify, but that had been because
Matt could either be in charge or be dominated by both other, less-expensive
slaves and his owner, and Matt flatly refused to be ordered around by anyone
who wasn't free or otherwise worth more than him.

So when Foggy was grinning after the dinner, and went into his bedroom, Matt
places the plates in the sink and walked after Foggy, creeping quieter, ready
to surprise him. Hopefully this would all go well; Matt had had enough of being
whipped to last a lifetime.

But even if it didn't, even if Foggy left Matt in a cage with plugs and
headphones and ignored him for a week, it would still be better than the awful
hesitating waiting game.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from "Angels and Moths" by Olena Kalytiak Davis,
     which can be read here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/54195496313/
     angels-and-moths-by-olena-kalytiak-davis
***** when your right to say no is entirely hypothetical *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt pushes down his thready anticipation, and follows Foggy into the bedroom,
coming behind him. He resists the throbbing weakness in his legs, the insistent
reflex of on your knees, where it's safe.

Instead Matt puts Foggy in a very mild chokehold.

Foggy immediately flails a little but Matt says, in one of his best sultry
voices (the kind he's practiced and refined so well, he could seduce a dead
elephant with), "I know you want it like this too," and Foggy goes still.

Then Foggy (your owner what are you doing Matt's brain shrieks) says, sounding
very, very flushed and aroused, "Uh, Matt, are you trying to tell me--"

Matt smiles because it's working, and says while taking the chance and grinding
his hips against Foggy's ass, "Yes, I want to do things to you in your stories,
I want to make you come so hard you forget your own name, I want to fuck you
until you can't walk," and that's apparently the right tactic because he can
hear Foggy's erection coming to full bloom.

Foggy starts panting and writhing against Matt as he murmurs, "I've always
wanted to do this to someone," and that's disturbingly not even a lie as he
shifts his hold so his forearm is against Foggy's throat and the other comes
down to the front of his pants, unzipping.

Foggy tenses up and Matt reacts like he did when Mistress Sharon's pet started
to panic during sex, and leans them forward and kisses Foggy's neck, his cheek,
in the kind of pretend-loving fashion he practiced for years. Foggy relaxes
again against him and Matt traces his hand down to his erection, feeling around
and playing with it almost immediately. It's the same motions as any other
handjob, honestly, just from a different angle. Owners are more boring than
they could ever realize.

"Are you sure, you, oh fuck that feels good, want this?" Foggy gasps out.

Matt suppresses the low feverish hate that brews in his stomach at that. Of
course not. He's a slave and wants a good owner, not the kind of man he has to
lie while lying about lying to, creating some nightmarish recursion sequence
that got Matt punished no matter what. He hates mind games. But it's his owner,
and Matt's set himself the goal of leaving every owner happier than when he got
to them, so he makes himself not grit his teeth and rocks his hips against
Foggy's shapely ass again, saying, "Doesn't it feel like I want this?"

Thankfully, Matt's been able to keep an erection up by force of will since he
was fifteen, it's exactly like crying on command, and so Foggy's eyes do
something audible and he gasps out, "Oh, fuck, Matt, you're the fucking best,"
as Matt twists his hand just right and Foggy comes with a little breathless
noise.

Well, that's over and done with, and yet Foggy turns around and says to Matt,
"Your turn now?"

And Matt suddenly shifts in time, he's back to Mistress Sharon and her bed
where she kept her pet and Matt at night, the pet lying there wet and breathing
hard, anticipatory, and Mistress Sharon laughing as she twitched with
aftershocks and told the pet that it was its turn now too, and Matt kept
himself still and calm, hands behind his head, as the pet turned to use him
too. He had been proud of how good he had been, and so had Mistress Sharon. He
and the pet had gotten along well after that, after he'd proven that he wasn't
going to hurt it too.

It's stupid, but when Matt goes back to the correct time, he finds that his
owner is apparently giving him a blowjob, which is a sentence he's never in his
life thought he would think.

Foggy's bad at it, is his first thought. He has no technique, retains a gag
reflex (which you can fake and some owners like, but honestly if you choke them
too the throat spasms anyway, a gag reflex is wholly unnecessary for slaves),
and if he was another slave, this would be the point that Matt would pull him
off and correct him on technique, teach him all the little tricks. Sucking cock
is much easier than it seems, once you get all the little details down
correctly.

But clearly Foggy wants him to come, so Matt focuses on the compilation of
praise every owner's ever given him for how good he is at sex, and does the
little trick of artificially tensing every muscle in a specific pattern, and
comes joylessly.

Then Matt's uncertain of what to do. Foggy gets up, staggering a little, with
semen on the corners of his mouth--how strange and rude, Matt knows slaves
should swallow or wear or snowball it, but don't free people also consider
swallowing normal?--and the next thing he knows Matt's being hugged again.

"Dude," Foggy says after a second, still catching his breath. He's not in good
shape. "That was--how did you even know? That was perfect."

It's a question, so Matt still has to answer, and he says as cheerfully as he
can make it, "I've always had a way with reading people," and realizing that
Foggy wants the illusion of trust from Matt, as if everything else isn't
enough, "And I know that with you, I could take the risk," because you're weak,
he doesn't say.

Then Foggy's kissing him and Matt kisses back the slave way, not the way free
people do, on reflex. Thank god for all the training, or Foggy might discover
something that would break his delusions and Matt would be the one punished.

"I guess I should shower, I'm all sticky," Foggy says, laughing, and Matt
pushes down the urge to offer to lick it off--that's not a dominating gesture
at all--and instead says, "I don't mind," and kisses him again. It's revolting.

Foggy goes off to shower, and Matt sinks down to the hardwood floor and
cherishes the pain in his patellas at it. He feels shaky and terrified all over
now, the way he always is when he's taken such a huge risk. His body panics
after the crisis.

Once, in a book Matt had listened to, there had been a character who had been
cut with a knife. But she didn't bleed until she went home, got her supplies,
sat down, and told the wound, I'm ready now.

Matt did this now, too, feeling the adrenaline fade away, thinking to himself,
I'm ready now.

He dug his fingers into his dick harshly in the shower when he had his turn
after Foggy. Not enough to bleed, not quite, but he was ready for it, then.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from a tumblr post here: http://
     realsocialskills.org/post/66194884001/when-your-right-to-say-no-is-
     entirely-hypothetical
***** I don’t enjoy it here, squatting on this island, looking picturesque and
mythical *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Three things stick in Foggy's head through the shower, as he falls asleep, and
all next morning as he works in the shop.

One, that had been fucking incredible. It had been, like, tailored to his
fantasies, the kinds he'd been having since he was just starting puberty and
staring at the beautiful slaves in Manhattan.

Two, Matt seemed...cooler somehow, but also less anxious. He didn't seem to be
as uncertain, and didn't talk to Foggy as much.

Three, the sentence "I want to do things to you in your stories". Everything
else had been pretty straightforward, including Matt's dick. God, Matt's dick
was so pretty, and big enough that Foggy had almost choked on it, jesus christ
almighty.

But that line didn't make sense to Foggy, somehow. Whose stories did Matt mean?
Had his previous--owners was way too nice of a word, torturers sounded more
truthful--had him read the kind of stuff Foggy jerked off to? It didn't seem to
make any sense.

The thought flickered into his mind that maybe Matt had read things on Foggy's
computer, the stories, but he dismissed that as completely ridiculous and
paranoid. For one thing, Matt was blind and if there was good software for
computers for blind people--and there was, but not on Foggy's laptop--but even
so, for another thing, Matt was so absurdly obedient and docile, like some kind
of Crufts dog. Matt had calmly stripped off his clothes in a diner and knelt at
Foggy's feet and sucked on his fingers when they first met. He hadn't even
drunk any water except from the faucet for a day once because Foggy had been
feeling under the weather and forgotten to tell Matt to get a glass of water.
Matt couldn't possibly have gone onto Foggy's computer without permission. It
was insane.

That left the possibility that Foggy had maybe read one of his stories when
Matt was sleeping or--and Foggy flushed bright red at this--had some kind of
wet dream and Matt overheard him saying shit about how he wanted to be topped,
and combined with stories his torturers had had him read, had figured it out.

Foggy felt uncomfortably like Matt was catering to him, somehow, with the sex,
but at the same time, it felt bizarre. Matt had gotten a blowjob, had basically
initiated the whole thing, and had been in charge, hadn't he? That wasn't how
slaves worked. If Matt had thought Foggy wanted sex from him, he would have
gone onto his knees (like he did all the time, jesus god) and tried to blow
Foggy instead.

Foggy shook his head, got back to his apartment, and found Matt in the kitchen
again, cleaning the stove. Matt was a gigantic neat-freak, Foggy had found out
almost right away. He couldn't stand messes at all, of any sort, and cleaned
like a maniac.

There was a plate out, too, of what looked like--was that eggs Benedict? Holy
fuck, it was delicious, and Foggy put his stuff down and turned and told Matt,
"God, that smells good!"

Foggy went and sat down as a glass of orange juice appeared next to the plate,
sweating faintly in the august heat. Matt was fast as fuck.

Foggy was halfway through the (delicious and with an unbroken sauce, too, how
the fuck even) eggs Benedict when he realized Matt wasn't also eating.

"Did you already eat?"

Matt's back tensed, and he said, slowly, "No, Foggy."

Foggy frowned to himself. "Well, if you're hungry, eat, you can have the rest."
But Matt's shoulders corded even tighter and unhappier, and Foggy hastily
rephrased that. "You don't have to eat, but if you're hungry you can."

There was a pause and Matt said, "I'm not hungry, thank you, Foggy."

Foggy ignored the part of him that said that was a lie--how and why would Matt
ever lie, honestly, and finished eating uneasily.

--

Matt was glad that line had worked, but felt prickles of anxiety on his spine
as Foggy said they had to go shopping.

"You need more, like, semi-formal clothes," Foggy explained, "And school stuff,
and a laptop, and good software too, because I won't let some assholes let you
get behind."

Matt arched an eyebrow inwardly--he was familiar with software designed to
accommodate blindness, but that was really made for disabled people, not
defective slaves. But if Foggy said he was to use it--and, implicitly, not get
behind on schoolwork, which probably meant doing as well as he could, though
probably not better than Foggy--then he would use it. No different than a dildo
or a new chef's knife.

They went shopping, Matt faintly uncomfortable in his jeans, and as they went,
Matt holding onto Foggy's arm (which reminded him of nothing except Summer
guiding him the same way, murmuring in his ear all the details he missed due to
being blind--owners liked to tell Matt where to go by his senses alone or by
specific steps, or else guide him via leash, hand hooked under collar, or one
arm), they passed a woman on the street. Matt heard the fast heartbeat of a cat
or small dog, and smiled.

"You like cats, then?" Foggy asked. Matt ducked his head--flirting was fun and
put owners at ease, broke tension--and nodded. "Cats are lovely animals," he
said, because it was true and also sounded sophisticated. Certainly moreso than
'their fur is so soft and they are small and warm and will defend themselves
with claws and teeth'.

Master Robert had had cats. Never more than about six at a time, and he'd only
have them for some months and then give them back to the shelters, which was
extremely similar to his attitude on slaves, apart from the fact that most of
his slaves were summarily executed or mysteriously died on 'accidents'.

That, and he never hit the cats. Once, he tried to kick them, and the cats had
evaded him disdainfully.

When they got to the computer store, Matt forgot himself for a moment, and
slipped into the mode he'd gotten used to.

The salesperson came over almost immediately, and after Foggy said "We're
looking for a laptop, a PC, with software for blind people," the sales
assistant said suspiciously, "Who for?" Matt jumped in and said, in that soft
tone that itched at free-but-subordinate-people, "My owner's sister's birthday
is coming up, and her old laptop's broken down. If you could help us find her
the best of the best, it would be so lovely, thank you sir," and smiles in that
half-shy, half-ruthless way, with teeth bared.

Foggy goes alarmingly silent as they find and then buy the laptop and software,
and Matt thinks he's far overstepped, so when they're walking back outside and
Foggy pulls him into the alley, Matt consciously braces himself for anything--
slaps? Kicks? Maybe Foggy will rip some hair out?

But then all Foggy does is ask him quietly, "What the hell was that?"

Matt sinks down low, head hung, and murmurs, "I'm sorry for overstepping, of
course I shouldn't speak to strangers without your permission," and waits.

"Jesus, that's not what I meant, I just want to know why you did that," Foggy
snaps. Matt folds himself down lower, almost tasting the dog urine and treads
of rubber-soled shoes on the ground.

"I apologize. I'm more used to--my previous owners were rarely inclined to
speak to salespeople themselves, and it was a duty of mine to gather their
items on their behalf," he says, and then, "I'm sorry for incorrectly
understanding you, Foggy, please punish me how you see fit."

Foggy runs a hand through his hair and says, angrily but now also pitying--and
it makes something curdle in Matt's belly, claws scrape against the inside--
says "That makes sense, but Matt, just--warn me, okay? It's super weird to see
you do that stuff."

"Of course, Foggy," Matt murmurs. He will ask for permission next time. Foggy's
standing close enough that Matt can reach his shoes, so he leans forward,
presses two delicate kisses to each cheap shoe, and rolls back to normal
kneeling.

After a second of shocked silence, Foggy gets him up, and they finish shopping.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from Margaret Atwood's poem "Siren Song", which
     can be read here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/90162409578/this-
     is-the-one-song-everyone-would-like-to
***** there sure are a lot of dangerous birds around *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Foggy stared at the sky.

He wasn't sure what he was doing, or feeling. It was just that he couldn't help
but feel vaguely terrified of Matt, and deeply confused by him. Ever since
Rosalind had oh-so-graciously given him this person, he hasn't understood Matt
at all.

On the one hand, Matt had smoothly lied to the sales associate, and when they
were getting clothes he had started to strip right there before Foggy had
yelped and hurried them to a changing room.

But on the other hand, Matt had kissed his shoes, and fuck if that wasn't
scary. Foggy was not equipped to be responsible for the kind of person who was
so damaged they thought kissing shoes was some sort of apology or thank-you. He
hadn't even let himself get a rabbit or a cat or dog as a child, because he was
terrified of not feeding it one day and it dying. Matt was much, much more of
a---Foggy didn't want to say burden, but it was the only word that came to
mind--than an animal. Animals, at least, would yelp or whine or beg for food.
Foggy had the distinct feeling that Matt would gracefully never mention it if
Foggy forgot to feed him, and probably think it was some punishment or Foggy
wanting him to not get overweight or something. Fuck.

Foggy made himself take a deep breath and sip his glass of juice. He'd gotten
four different types of juice--he'd asked Matt, before, what he liked to drink,
and Matt had been only owned by Foggy for a week and had said that he liked
anything his owner saw fit to give him. Foggy hadn't known how to react to that
statement at all, and since then had been buying two extra types of juice
whenever he went grocery shopping or ordered them online. Foggy had meant to
try them out, see which ones Matt drank, but since Matt apparently never
touched the juice at all unless Foggy told him to, it wasn't working.

Matt drank water, now, because after that horrible day when he'd drank nothing
at all because Foggy had been feeling sick and depressed and overwhelmingly
lonely and had forgotten that he needed to tell Matt things like that, he'd
panicked and ordered Matt to not let himself die of dehydration, to drink water
every day at every meal.

And now Matt was doing something with the things they'd gotten--Foggy didn't
actually know what--and Foggy was staring at the sky.

Matt was like some sort of horrifyingly awful car crash, and Foggy felt like he
was running around, frantically trying to find the jaws of life, except Matt
was starting at him in the shredded metal, saying I'm not injured, what are you
talking about?

He'd known that being in law school was going to be difficult. College hadn't
been as happy or easy as Foggy had wanted (dreamed) it would be; he'd gotten
his English Literature and Language degree with a 3.87, and every break he'd
had to struggle not to cry because it was so much lonelier and colder and he
had to work harder than he thought he would have to.

And being in law school, he knew, would be hard. The coursework would probably
be harder than college, where he had bullshitted his way through more than a
few classes, and on some level he suspected his parents thought he was,
consciously or unconsciously, betraying them in favor of Rosalind. He wasn't--
he wanted to become a lawyer to help people, not like his mother--but still.
That and getting Matt meant that he was worried, too, that he was becoming his
mother.

Foggy stared at the sky, and heard a few small clinks behind him, and then
there's a glass pressed on the counter next to his hand.

"Huh?" he asked, and looked down to see what appeared to be something white and
creamy?

"It's a white Russian," Matt explained in that strangely soothing tone. "You
seemed like you needed a drink."

Foggy blinked--how much was he moping, if it was obvious to a blind guy?--but
swirled and sipped it. It tasted like icecream, somehow, sweet and delicious
and somehow vanilla and chocolate. It was cold and coated his throat as it went
down.

"I'm glad you like it," Matt said, almost awkwardly. Matt never seemed to
actually feel awkward, unlike Foggy. He felt jealous of Matt for that, and then
winced at himself and took another drink.

===============================================================================


Matt was glad the alcohol ploy had worked. Plying owners with drinks often
helped them spill their guts. Hopefully it would make Foggy admit what he
wanted.

Matt felt like a violin string, tight and thin and high-pitched. He seemed to
make Foggy happy and then suddenly unhappy by turns, and it wasn't consistent
at all. Foggy had calmed down about Matt kneeling at home, thank goodness, but
he still hadn't actually established what he wanted. Matt ran through the few
long-standing orders--drink a reasonable amount of water every day, with meals,
eat at least two meals a day--but still, it wasn't enough. He couldn't pour
himself and make a wax sculpture without a mold.

Foggy drank, the glass clinking against his teeth. Matt stood still, breathing
out slowly and silently, forcing himself to stay upright. If he was to get
anything from Foggy, he needed to have nothing else Foggy could focus on, not
his kneeling or his defectiveness or anything else.

Matt focused and focused, until all his hearing was centered on Foggy, the
chorus of his organs.

So he almost startled when Foggy said, sounding mournful, "I know law school
was going to be hard, but Matt, I'm just scared."

Of what? Matt almost asked, but instead made a soft encouraging noise to show
he was listening.

"You'll do well," he heard himself say reassuringly. "I know you will."

"How?"

"I've met some very stupid people," Matt said. It was acceptable, appropriate
even, to discuss shortcomings of free people if his owner wanted him to. "Once,
there was this son of an owner who was very stupid," he began, and it was
soothing to tell this story because he'd told it a million times before and
everyone always laughed so hard they cried at the end. "And at a party, the son
was very, very drunk on cheap beer, and was angry that he was failing his
Exercise Science major when I had gotten a 4.0 for my Bachelor's," Matt
continued.

"So he came over and had me strip off and bend over a table, and started to
have sex with me. Except, of course, very drunk people often can't maintain
erections, but he decided it was my fault, of course, because I wasn't
clenching tight enough, or something," Matt kept the bitterness out of his
tone. He knew better than that. The son really could have just asked and Matt
would've milked his cock. He took pride in his work.

"So he yelled for one of his friends to get him the cattle prod," and this was
where usually a slave started to giggle, because they knew what was coming,
"And shoved it against my hip.

"Except he was still inside me at the time."

No laughter. Matt nervously continued, "And because of the convulsions from the
cattle prod, the son had to be hauled out of me, and taken to the E.R."

The son had also involuntarily pissed inside Matt, but he didn't care about
that. He'd laughed the entire time he cleaned himself out, and his owner had
actually found it funny enough to not even punish Matt. Instead she came back
from the E.R. still snickering, and gave him the leftover batch of some sugar
cookies the house-slave had made.

Foggy didn't laugh. Instead his voice came, shocked and angry, "I can't believe
any of that shit happened."

Matt's heart froze and he felt the familiar swooping rush of adrenaline--he
wasn't lying, it wasn't fair, please don't punish me for lying when I wasn't--
but then all Foggy did was relax against the counter and go silent and unhappy.

Matt knelt slowly, the gap between him and Foggy so infinitely large, his cries
didn't echo back to him.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from Margaret Atwood's "Helen of Troy Does
     Countertop Dancing", which can be read here: http://
     fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/90247128667/the-world-is-full-of-women-whod-
     tell-me-i-should
***** we do not want to do the work of helping you to believe in your humanity
*****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt forced himself to breathe deeply and quietly as he quickly diverted the
conversation back to where he wanted it. "The point is that I've known many
stupid people, Foggy, and you're not one of them. I'm sure you'll do well."
Owners loved to hear that sort of thing, even if it was completely false.

Foggy was facing him, now, Matt could tell by his breaths, and said quietly and
sadly, "I don't want--I'm sorry that you're like this," Foggy said and one of
his arms moved. "But I can't see a way to get you out of it, so let's make the
best of it, you know? Let's both be awesome lawyers together."

Something about the word lawyer twinges in his head, and Matt files it away for
later. What did Foggy mean, 'like this'? Did he mean kneeling? Scared? Or even-
-enslaved?

Well, Matt supposed saying sorry for that was Foggy's right, though it was
completely useless. Matt couldn't be sorrowful or sad that he was a slave; it
was what he was, and what he always would be. There was no room for existential
nonsense. And--the only person who could possibly apologize to Matt for being a
slave would be Stick, and Matt never wanted to see Stick, not even if he would
admit he was wrong and apologize. Apologies meant nothing, nothing at all,
unless they were acted on.

He swallowed the words to explain that, and made himself stand up and get Foggy
a Cosmo. Many of Foggy's relatives had given Foggy liquor bottles and drink
mixes and made him cocktails on the birthday where Matt's ownership had been
transferred to Foggy, and Matt had gotten to figure out who liked what, who
couldn't hold their liquor, and who had drinks they didn't like but felt they
should like.

He had enjoyed the party more than he thought he would; the shock and
embarrassment of the free people was sweet like guava juice. It was beautifully
ironic, Matt calm and shameless, listening to the gossip in the diner and the
waitresses chatting about his ass to one another, and the free people with hot
faces and stutters.

Matt handed the cosmo to Foggy and took the empty glass away, putting it in the
sink for later.

Foggy drank the entire thing in three gulps, and Matt blinked to himself. Huh.
He hadn't expected that. Foggy must be unhappier than he thought.

===============================================================================


Foggy ended up having two more drinks before stumbling off to bed, and yelling
for Matt to join him.

Matt smiled to himself. Finally, something he could do to make a positive
difference.

Only all Foggy apparently wanted was to talk to him and cuddle him; he pulled
Matt clumsily on his bed, into his arms, and rested them around Matt like a
cage.

"You know what I want from you?" Foggy slurred.

"No," Matt answered into his chest. Foggy's shower gel smelled awful; Matt
hated lavendar.

"I want you to be happy," Foggy said. "Happy an' free and not so fucked up.
Kissing my shoes. Bullshit like that. Don't kiss my shoes."

"Yes, Foggy," Matt said with an internal eyeroll. Drunk owners' orders applied
ambiguously in the next morning.

Foggy mumbled something else, sounding strangely like "an' rape jokes aren't
fuckin' funny, hell is that," but Matt didn't know what he was referring to.
Matt hadn't told any jokes about rape. They were gauche and distressing to
owners and sexist.

Matt listened to Foggy fall asleep and stayed awake for two hours, trying to
reconcile the implicit orders of be happy and be free. The latter was
impossible, the former only possible for fleeting, unexpected times.

But maybe--maybe Matt could construct a persona, a Matt for Foggy that was
happy and (mostly) free, and wear that mask at home.

He started to work on the details of this Matt, and decided to add more as he
met more free people and understood what they were like.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from Andrea Dworkin's essay "I Want a Twenty-
     Four-Hour Truce During Which There Is No Rape ", which can be read
     here: http://www.nostatusquo.com/ACLU/dworkin/WarZoneChaptIIIE.html
***** I know what you’re thinking but it’s not like that, I’m a man, I’m a man,
I’m a man. no one could ever hurt me *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The mask for Foggy that Matt was weaving had, so far, been holding up. Any
persona had to be a mixture of things that were true about you (so people
mistook it for you) and things that were false (so you didn't mistake it for
you).

The Matt Foggy wanted laughed more often at jokes that free people found funny,
as if they were telling them at it; it liked pineapple and mango juice, which
Matt found overly sweet; it liked Zoe the best on Firefly, not River Tam; it
wore jeans and t-shirts and other not-slave clothes without worrying because it
hadn't earned it and didn't belong in them; it enjoyed law school, or would,
anyway; it thought the best plotline in Harry Potter was the way Dumbledore
became the kind of monster he fought against, rather than the evolution of the
three into a perfect fighting unit; it disliked being choked during sex; its
favorite food was a mustard and ham and arugula grilled cheese; it liked the
kind of deviant sex with Foggy; it wouldn't ask for punishments, because it
distressed Foggy; it only liked kneeling because it had been shocked or hit
when it hadn't; it preferred orchid and sweet pea scented handsoap to plain; it
thought Dostoyevsky was exhausting, rather than gorgeous; it asked for things
it wanted more often, without earning them; it was cheerful and bubbly and
outgoing and likable.

Matt would start to slip into it today, so that Foggy didn't notice the
seamless transition and instead just noticed Matt's obedience, which he
probably wouldn't even classify as obedience because he was that sort of cruel
owner who refused to identify Matt's achievements.

Matt thought about all this while Foggy groaned and reached up to rub his face,
knocking Matt's head.

Then Foggy went stiff and frozen and Matt had to remind himself to relax, this
owner didn't enjoy his distress--or, at least, only enjoyed his distress when
Matt was disguising it as pleasure. Not so different than the owners who
enjoyed his physical stoicism, but at least they understood that they were
wounding him.

--

Foggy woke up with a horrifying headache and a nasty taste in his mouth, and
when he tried to rub his face and turn over, he abruptly realized that he was
also holding Matt in his arms.

Oh, fuck, what had he done?

He tried to think of a way to ask Matt did I rape you while I was drunk but
given that Matt apparently thought his horrifying story last night was funny
rather than nauseating and tragic, Foggy had to take a minute to roll the
phrasing around in his head and come up with a good way to ask it.

He arrived on, "Uh, Matt, was there any sex last night?"

Matt shifted a little bit, probably to have less of his weight on Foggy's
hipbones. "I'm not sure what you mean, Foggy?"

Foggy bit his lip; did that mean Matt had, like, been ordered to give him
another handjob or something and wasn't sure if that qualified as sex? He hoped
not, he couldn't live with himself if Matt had been forced into having sex with
Foggy.

Foggy took a deep breath, and rephrased it again. "Did either of us do anything
sexual, at all, last night?"

"No, Foggy," the answer came smoothly. "You drank two more drinks, stumbled to
bed, ordered me to come and lie down on the bed with you, talked some, and fell
asleep."

"And what did I say?" Foggy says, relieved that he had not become a rapist last
night. The idea of taking advantage of Matt made him feel sick.

Matt spoke again, sounding like he was quoting, with an eerily accurate
impression of what Foggy knew he sounded like when he was drunk, "Ma-at, come
here, cuddle times, yeah come cuddle with me, on the bed, Maaatty. You know
what I want from you? I want you to be happy. Happy an' free and not so fucked
up. Kissing my shoes. Bullshit like that. Don't kiss my shoes."

Foggy blinked, and his mouth asked, "Was that all?"

Matt's body went momentarily not quite as relaxed, not exactly tense, and said,
"I think there might have been--you said something along the lines of 'rape
jokes aren't funny'? Which is of course true," he said, and Foggy was startled
that Matt was giving an actual opinion about something that wasn't trivial.
"They're misogynistic and encourage the normalization of rapists."

Foggy arched an eyebrow, because why had Matt told one, then? But the thought
occurred to Foggy that maybe Matt didn't classify what happened to him as rape,
either from some awful coping mechanism or because he thought rape only
happened to people and he wasn't a person. With dread bubbling in his stomach,
Foggy made himself ask, "So why did you tell one last night?"

Matt didn't say anything, and Foggy craned his neck and saw a flicker of
confusion, and he clarified, "That horrible story last night."

Matt mouthed 'oh' and said, calmly, "I didn't realize you disliked the facts of
my previous ownership," he said. "I won't bring it up again."

Foggy stared at him. Matt had some sort of gift for saying things in the most
upsetting way possible.

"I didn't--I'm not upset with that because I want you to be a virgin or
something," Foggy said. "I'm upset with it because it's fucking rape and it's
not funny that people raped you, jesus christ."

Matt's reply is in that kind of soothing tone, and it's, "Of course, Foggy,"
which Foggy is starting to think is 'I disagree with you but since I'm your
slave I'll agree with everything you say'.

--

Matt hasn't heard a lie yet this morning. It's irritating how much Foggy
believes his own bullshit. But he was surprised that Foggy genuinely didn't
want a sexually inexperienced slave; most owners wanted a slave who was both
sexually inexperienced or pure and a slave who was excellent at sex. The two
things were mutually exclusive, but a lot of things owners wanted were not
logically or physically possible.

And Foggy genuinely thinks of sex that Matt's had as rape, which means for the
duration of him thinking that, Matt's going to have to remember the bizarre,
arbitrary classification. He breathed around a flicker of rage that Foggy had
to insult real rape survivors by comparing what had happened to him to what had
happened to them. Matt being used wasn't traumatizing or repulsive or morally
wrong or violating of basic human rights like rape was.

It wasn't always pleasant, but that didn't make a difference, since Matt's
preferences and enjoyment were irrelevant for the moral value of anything. And
perhaps Foggy thought it was rape because Matt had not consented, Matt
realized, remembering his earlier words, which was even more patently absurd,
since that implied other slaves had consented, or been able to, which was so
nonsensical it hurt his head to think about. An espresso maker didn't consent
to being bought and used and smacked and sometimes thrown away, but that didn't
matter because it was an object, and even if free people thought it was stupid
to waste a perfectly good one, that still didn't make even throwing it away a
tragedy.

Rape. What other sorts of bizarre things would Foggy start thinking had
happened to Matt, too? Was he going to start spouting about objectification,
too?

Matt took a breath and reminded himself that part of being a good slave was
agreeing with and keeping track of all the asinine nonsense one's owner thought
and said, because part of the job of a slave was to validate an owner in all
possible ways. Validation was an important human need.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from Warsan Shire's "crude conversations with
     boys who fake laughter often." which can be read here: http://
     fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/130281765961/crude-conversations-with-boys-
     who-fake-laughter
***** tight like a doctor’s glove stuffed with vaseline *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt didn't seem to be particularly happy at this whole line of conversation,
so Foggy changed the subject. "Also, uh, my head hurts, can you get off of me
so I can shrivel up and die in peace?"
Matt twitched and there was something on his face for a quarter of a second
that Foggy wasn't sure how to classify because he'd never quite caught it, but
it looked faintly like anger.
But Matt rose delicately and walked soundlessly from the room, and so Foggy
flopped back down and winced. God, he had no idea how to interact with Matt at
all. This was worse than when his cousin Jacob had come to visit for three
weeks and Foggy hadn't known what to say to him--Jacob's mother had kicked him
out for some porn she'd found on his computer, and it was right after Foggy had
started reading his top!slave porn, and Foggy was so nervy and twitchy that he
had actually burst into terrified tears just looking at Jacob sometimes.
Foggy'd tried ignoring Matt as much as he could before Matt's crying incident,
which in retrospect probably helped lead to it, but he still didn't know what
to actually do.
Foggy really needed to find some resources on slave mentality that didn't make
him want to start shooting people. He'd tried to find some, but they were all
training manuals and were nauseatingly objectifying, like slaves were
particularly tricky cars to calibrate correctly or something.
A new slave is always great, because if they're trained at all, they're a fun
blank slate to draw on, one of them had said, and under 'experienced slaves' it
had gone on to say Don't let your slave confuse you with previous masters and
mistresses! Instead, ensure that they understand you are in charge on a gut
level and punish them for unwanted comparisons.
Jesus christ, he was going to actually vomit if he kept remembering this stuff.
Foggy got up painfully, went to the bathroom, gagged a little as he recalled
the pictures of slaves with semen on their face, smiling and trying to lick it
off from where they could reach, to demonstrate why the website thought facials
were a good thing to do to other human beings, particularly other human beings
who you thought were, like, coffeemakers or something.
Foggy winced as he realized Matt was probably making coffee for him right now
too. God, this whole situation was fucked up, and Foggy didn't see a way to
salvage it. Matt knew some self-defense or karate or something, and it meant he
couldn't be legally freed, ever. That shit was in the Constitution.
Well, the Constitution could go fuck itself. It could be amended. Maybe that
would be Foggy's new life goal, get the Constitution amended so all slaves
could be freed one day.
And free Matt too? Yeah, that sounded good. Maybe he'd tell Matt for his
birthday or Christmas or something.
--
Matt calmed down as he made coffee, focusing on getting the ratio of creamer to
coffee precisely correct.
He hated it when owners complained about pain, unless it was real pain, like
they'd given birth. He didn't mind as much with owners he liked--when Mistress
Janet had broken her ankle and complained for weeks like her father had died,
Matt had just felt vaguely irritated by it, and that was easy to push down.
But Foggy bitching about a hangover--no. Matt felt anger curdling solid in his
veins from that. Matt had been whipped and shocked and had skin peeled off in
small strips and nail polish remover rubbed in and kept his face obediently
relaxed; he'd broken ankles and fingers and toes and his nose and walked on
them anyway; he'd bitten halfway through his tongue during the night once, and
throughout all of it he'd never complained. The only time he'd gotten good
painkillers was as a serious reward by Winter or after his appendicitis, and
even then he had never actually asked for them.
What was it about being free that made even free poor people, even free people
that had suffered some things, be so fucking fragile? One little bad thing
happening to them, and not even a bad thing that downgraded them permanently to
be a thing, and they fell apart and cried and lost their minds. It was
maddeningly stupid.
Maybe they were made free because they just couldn't cope with being a slave.
Matt had known slaves that were broken, too, but unless you bent first everyone
broke, so that hardly proved an existential point.
--
Foggy came out of the shower, got dressed, and decided on a plan for the day.
He'd ask Matt if there were any good guides that accurately reflected a slave's
mentality, go to the store, read them when he got back, and go from there. He
had the feeling that he needed to figure out if the sex Matt had started was
good for him too or not, and if not Foggy would make sure it wouldn't happen
again.
"Hey, Matt," he said as he came in the kitchen, seeing a cup of coffee exactly
how Foggy liked it set out and Matt looking strange and contemplative.
"So I've been thinking," Foggy said. "I don't really understand you as, like, a
person, and I want to, so I've been reading stuff about slave psychology. But
it's all, like, horribly objectifying crocks of shit with cheery creepy tones,
and so I was wondering if you could find any on your new laptop for me?"
It felt awful to actually even ask Matt to do things, because it wasn't like he
ever said no to any of them, but this was a necessary evil and Foggy would find
a way to make it up to him later.
Matt was still and his face still in that calm mask, but he said softly, "I can
do that for you, Foggy," and Foggy made himself thank Matt for the coffee and
then leave.
--
Matt let himself grimace after Foggy had left. He didn't like to be thanked by
owners; it didn't make sense. Other slaves, yes, that was kind and it made him
appreciate and be nicer to them, but owners had the right to expect and ask for
anything that Matt could do for them, and it was part of Matt's job to make
them happy in the first place.
Pretending to be a free person was going to be even more emotionally
unfulfilling than he had originally anticipated. Matt wriggled further into the
mask he had for Foggy, and the mask liked to be thanked, analogized it to
actual praise.
Finding a decent slave-owner psychology manual for Foggy that said what Matt
would want it to say would be pretty easy, all things considered. The website
that he remembered was still up.
 
It wasn't, strictly, a manual on first sight. It was designed to look like an
ex-slave had written it as part of entries for therapy. But Matt had been there
when it was crafted, and if you had been a slave in the right places, you could
spot how it was designed to reassure an owner, soothe their conscience. From
here, Matt could convince Foggy of several key points that would help him
behave more appropriately.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from “Fat” by Conrad Hilberry, which can be read
     here: https://themythicbody.wordpress.com/2014/08/05/a-poem-to-start-
     off-with/
***** they’d like to see through me, but nothing is more opaque than absolute
transparency *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt nodded calmly to himself as he worked.

First, he had gotten onto Foggy's computer, found the URLs of which slave
mentality training sites Foggy had read to ensure the one he was thinking of
would work. Then he set up his own laptop to delete all browser history every
fifteen seconds, because he had never been stupid, and felt very glad that he'd
set up the accessibility software yesterday, even though he still felt
counterfeit. Then he found the page, and read the newer additions and edits
since the last time he'd read it.

When he'd been introduced to the lie, he'd worried it was too big to succeed,
but by this point saying flat-out that there was a secret livejournal whose
password was passed along from favored slave to favored slave and used to
systematically lie to owners by hundreds of slaves to say whatever they wanted
to say in the guise of a single ex-slave, who in no way actually existed, would
come off as so absurd it wouldn't be believed.

He started off the email to Foggy and stopped, thinking about all the things he
knew about lying. There were many ways to lie to someone: misdirect, mislead,
say true things in an unconvincing way so they thought they were false, say
true things that were so insane no-one believed you, lie so badly nobody
believed it was a real attempt at lying and instead mistook it for truth, knit
truth and lies so tightly together they didn't have any idea which is which so
that when they found a true thing they thought the whole cloth was blue as
well, say what they want to be true or what their worldview predicted to be
true, say what they secretly thought in the back of their heads was true. Many
details could provide a good lie, and clinging harder to a lie ensured it could
be believed.

Matt bit his lip irritably, and realized that he was going to have to stick
closer to things that Foggy would actually think due to his bizarre delusions
when he was nudging Foggy, rather than things he wanted Foggy to think. He
would have to plant seeds, and then let them bloom slowly.
So Matt read about how as a slave, 'the woman' had liked to be very mildly,
'non-condescendingly' praised, and given at least some tasks because otherwise
she got nervous at feeling useless, and found a link to an entry about some sex
she'd had as a slave, clandestinely, with another slave, and how initiating sex
with that slave had been one of the highlights of her time. He arched an
eyebrow at words like liberation and scraps of freedom and empowerment and
stolen kisses.

He ignored the familiar irritation of reading from the perspective of an ex-
slave who had, in his opinion, been rather bad at being a slave, and his own
vague worry as to how Foggy could interpret 'non-condescending praise' (as if
condescending praise actually existed from owner to slave, how insulting) and
how much deviant sex Foggy would really require from Matt to be satisfied now
that he could think Matt wanted it. (Matt still resented that. Foggy really
could have just ordered him to enjoy it, and he could have performed that so
well, just like he could have milked that idiot owner's son's cock.) You never
knew. Some owners' sex drives fluctuated with the weather, and more with other
events that you didn't know about and couldn't predict.

Matt set up the email, took a soft breath, drank some water, and moved on to
find ways to make sure Foggy didn't take anything too seriously or suspect
something was wrong with the disguised manual. He settled on using the idea
that mentally ill people were wrong about all things in life, and specifically
that the 'woman' had PTSD, which Foggy would probably believe, given that he
thought slavery was wrong.

–

Foggy Nelson came back from the store, and when he did, he saw Matt kneeling on
the living room floor with a pillow from Matt's bed under each knee, drinking a
cup of coffee and listening to something on his computer with the earbuds Foggy
had gotten for him, smiling vaguely.

He looked so cute all of a sudden, cute and his version of comfortable and
happy, that Foggy felt his dick twitch in his pants and had to hastily stumble
to place his bag over it, at which point he remembered that Matt was blind and
felt dumb.

Foggy cleared his throat and Matt almost jumped, going still and then his legs
did a strange twitching thing that Foggy didn't want to think too hard about.
Matt turned his head towards Foggy, pulling the earbuds out, and smiling
warmly.

Foggy slung his bag over one of the chairs in the kitchen and broke the
silence. “How are you?”

“Good,” Matt said, and Foggy realized that there was a pot of soup on the stove
on low, which he hadn't noticed before. He lifted the lid and poured two bowls,
which was unusual, Matt usually did that. Maybe he was breaking his weird,
servile conditioning? It was a good sign, anyway.

Matt and Foggy ate in total silence, Matt clearly focused on Foggy. It was
unnerving how much attention Matt could pay to him with his eyes staring
vacantly at a point two inches to his left.

“So, uh,” he said, because hello, awkward, even if the soup was good (some sort
of vegetable?). “Did you find something--?”

Matt nodded. “I'll email you the link if you like? I don't have your email.”

Foggy nodded and then flushed as he realized that his impulse was to grab a
piece of paper and write it down. Fucking smooth, Nelson. Instead he said, “The
school emails are based off of names—mine's f-e-n-0-1-8 and yours is...” Foggy
went to his room and looked at the email with the subject Regarding your slave-
student and found it, “556682394441. Wow, that's fucking insensitive, that way
everyone knows you're a slave.”

Matt visibly twitched at that, so Foggy soothed, “But anyway, yeah, could you
email me?”

“Yes, Foggy,” he said, and then added in a much more inflected voice, “And the
woman who writes that blog—not a lot of what she said was accurate, because
she's got some pretty severe PTSD.”

“What, like you?” Foggy said and immediately slapped himself in the face
because what the fuck, you couldn't just say shit like that, and felt so
awkward he grabbed his phone and ran out the door, stammering, for a walk.

–

Matt frowned as he read the descriptions of PTSD. He didn't understand why
Foggy would possibly think he had it. First of all, Matt was not experiencing a
significant level of distress because he was a slave. He was experiencing a
significant level of distress because his current owner appeared to be entirely
incompetent at owning slaves. They were entirely separate things.

For another thing, PTSD was a disability and therefore applied to people, not
slaves. Slaves had defects, people had disabilities. That was just facts. And
even if slavery could possibly count as a singular traumatic event (which made
no sense, it wasn't discontinuous or anything like that), as long as one was
enslaved, one was still in the traumatic event. There never would be any post-
trauma for Matt if enslavement was even trauma, which it was not.

So Matt decided to find out more about PTSD, or what Foggy thought it was and
therefore how the persona should become, the same way he found out about sexual
preferences. He went to stories.

–

As Matt consumed more and more of these stories about characters with PTSD on
the fanfiction website, he learned three things.

One, they didn't appear to have a very good idea of how medical care worked. Or
lubricant. One could decide not to use lubricant for anal sex, but in Matt's
experience it was unpleasantly painful for both slave and owner, so that was
right out.

Two, they appeared to think that sex helped cure mental illnesses, which it
didn't, though that made sense, because owners thought sex was beautiful and
wonderful because it was for them with any half-decent slave, when in reality
sex was at best the sort of thing you endured for the praise and hair-petting
and malleability of the owner at the end, not for the actual middle, beginning,
or orgasm.

Three, they had a common theme of the romantic hero fixing their love's mental
illness and bad memories and bringing them back to the self that existed before
the horrible event.

Matt frowned. The problem wasn't that he couldn't act out an unrealistic
fantasy for Foggy. One of his owners had lent him out to a friend twice a week
to try to help her get over her divorce, and the friend had ridden Matt while
wearing a Wonder Woman costume, pretending to be her, which was patently
absurd, because even Matt had known before he was blind that Wonder Woman was a
lesbian.

The problem was that Matt had no idea what the 'pre-slave' self even was. He
had memories of times past; he could recall some things, at least, from before
Stick enslaved him. Granted, memories with vision were fuzzy and wavering at
best, but from what he could tell that was just because he was very young at
the time. But he wasn't sure he understood what his pre-slavery self even was.

He tried to think about himself as a child, before he was enslaved, and it felt
like thinking about someone else, a fictional character maybe, or someone from
a movie you had memorized. Sure, you knew many, many things about them and felt
many things, but at the same time, it wasn't him. There was a dividing line.
They were not the same.

So Matt fashioned another rope around the persona, and made it so that the
persona had some symptoms of PTSD as well, and also in some way would be
'saved' by Foggy to become the kind of person Foggy thought Matt was when he
was free, which was a level of recursive lies upon lies upon delusions upon
acting that made Matt want to hit his head on the countertop until his skull
cracked and his brain matter stained the sink.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also taken from Margaret Atwood's "Helen of Troy Does
     Countertop Dancing".
***** she hears the caustic ticking of the clock *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt winced as he and Foggy walked together to the Disability Services office
and he stepped wrong, putting pressure on the tiny cut on his toe. He hadn't
let himself break one--too risky with an owner who wanted him to stand upright
as often as Foggy did--but he had needed to excise some of the fears that came
with living with Foggy and other bad owners, and Foggy was never going to
notice a tiny cut on the part of the toe that brushed the others, so he'd done
it in the shower with a fingernail.

It hurt now, and Matt almost regretted it, but his socks were black--or so
Foggy had told him, who knew what the truth was--so any blood wouldn't show.
Matt did laundry anyway, it was one of the few tasks Foggy seemed genuinely
comfortable letting Matt do, as long as Matt didn't remind him that he was
doing it.

Foggy commented on everything and how it all looked. Matt paid as best
attention as he could, committing the details to memory, as his brain tried to
wander away, thinking about classes. Foggy had said that since Columbia was one
of the more liberal universities, slaves could take classes without their
owners, as long as it wasn't more than three. And since Matt didn't actually
want to learn Punjabi, he was thinking through what to choose instead--either
German or Spanish, because he needed to brush up on either--and how to phrase
it.

The mask wouldn't be this anxious about it, but the mask was a free person and
not Matt, who had to very delicately test the edges of where Foggy stopped
being nice to see where he stood. The mask would probably half-smile and grin
afterwards.

Maybe--it occurred to Matt that the mask might have sex with Foggy afterwards
because it was happy, and Matt would gain some internal calm, or at least get
some practice at pretending to be calm during the new sex. He didn't like it,
he probably never would, but it was inevitable. Sex happened with owners one
way or another, you couldn't avoid it, so you might as well pick the time and
date.

They climbed the stairs to the disability services office--and wasn't that
utterly hilarious, a disability services office being on the fourth floor--and
Foggy paused at the reception desk. Matt resisted the urge to look as annoyed
as he felt as the receptionist, without looking up, said "Please sign in, sir."

He breathed out slowly and said, politely, "I can't, ma'am, I'm blind," and
kept his body language deferential but not cringing.

Her chair swiveled, and she said, voice suddenly flat instead of the cheery,
smiling-through-the-affront robotic tones before, "You're having your blind
slave get things from us."

Matt felt himself wanting to sag in relief that she was talking to Foggy, not
him. Slaves were not supposed to be spoken to by people who were not their
owners. It was always, always a trap.

"Well, yeah," Foggy said, and there was an uncomfortable three-second silence
and then the woman pressed a button on a phone and started a conversation. Matt
could hear both sides.

"Martie, you up for an unscheduled appointment today, right now-ish?"

"Yeah. Why weren't they registered previously?"

"Probably because they're a code T."

"A code--oh, a slave. Huh, usually they never get their slaves any
accomodations."

"I know, but this one seems pretty sincere. You want me to send them both in?"

"Yes, though expect to be seeing the, ah, young student without the collar
outside very soon."

Matt felt prickles of alarm go through him at that, but then Foggy was walking
towards the woman's--Martie's--office.

--

Martie seemed offensively nice.

Her office smelled like cotton candy and actual sugarplums, which Matt hadn't
smelled in years. There was the faint noise of a rain sounds generator running
on her computer, and her fingers clicked against the keys like she had long
painted nails. She herself had hints of bubblegum and good, expensive chai on
her breath, and earrings that jingled like a pet collar.

She immediately said to Foggy, pleasantly, "Why don't you wait outside," as if
it were a suggestion, not an implicit order.

Foggy had blinked--Matt was that attuned to him, vigilance needed to be
constant--and said uncertainly to Matt, "Well, if you're sure..."

The mask had smiled for Matt and said, "I'm fine," even though he wasn't, he
didn't want to be alone with her, he wasn't sure how to wriggle out of any bear
traps without making a scene.

Foggy shifted uneasily, but left, and then Matt stood stiffly as she sat. He
was unpleasantly reminded of the overseer at the Brooklyn open market, making
all the slaves kneel on the wet concrete for an hour while she took rolecall,
marking down who whimpered and who was silent.

Martie seemed to study him, and then said, "Sit down."

He sat.

"So your owner seems like an interesting person," she said.

"He is," he said, because it was complimentary to Foggy, and even if he didn't
like him, he wasn't about to pretend that Foggy wasn't at least puzzling.

She was silent and Matt was tense, muscles ready to--what, move backwards? Yes,
that sounded like a plan, getting out of there as fast as he could, in sight of
his owner. Foggy wouldn't--he didn't think Foggy would be the type to not care
if someone else used his slave, there were very few owners who were so
apathetic.

A part of him planned out furiously what to do If, thinking about strategies--
appeal to possessiveness, volunteer to not take classes here after all, use
Foggy's idealism of the law to press charges, were there security cameras in
here?

But then Martie spoke again, voice still strangely sweet without being
saccharine, saying, "So I'm thinking at least two canes as well as the usual
blind student accomodations."

Matt blinked, and he said, totally calm, keeping the waver out of it, "Canes?"
Surely she didn't mean that she was going to use two canes on him all of a
sudden.

"White canes, for guiding yourself," she said. Matt felt abruptly confused,
like he'd picked up an apple and bit into it and found a tomato instead. Why
would he be guiding himself around? He had an owner, and beyond that he had his
senses. Sure, they weren't perfect, but nobody's were.

Instead she turned away, grabbed two thin canes standing against her desk, and
said, "Here, take these," and pressed them into his hands. Matt very carefully
did not let his hands touch her fingers--she had a wedding ring, and it
increased the sense of danger even more, married owners took out their
frustrations on their slaves, married women who were willing to steal from
another person were deadly, deadly, deadly, and then she was saying, "I'll send
you an email with all the accomodations listed, don't worry!" and standing up
and going to push him out the door, but Matt nearly jumped out of his skin and
moved faster away.

She handed him a pamphlet in Braille--Matt caught the title as being something
like omestic violence questions and answers and was confused as to her play--
and opened the door. Matt very quickly tucked the pamphlet into his jean's
pocket and left as fast as he could.

--

Foggy looked at his phone quizzically.

He'd been looking up PTSD symptoms and signs, as well as strategies to manage
them, ever since his horribly out-of-line comment to Matt, because as much as
he shouldn't have said that, it was kind of true, and he'd just run across the
page on Wikipedia about who was likely to get PTSD.

It mentioned that ex-slaves almost invariably had it, and that they were more
likely to get a variation that was 'post-traumatic personality disorder'
instead, but it also said specifically that since slaves were not persons, they
could not be diagnosed with PTSD as long as they were owned, and mentioned that
it was a waste of valuable time and resources to try to get slaves diagnosed.

It made him go low and incandescent with fury, because Matt was a person, a
fucking person as much as anyone else, but just as he was explaining (not
ranting, Foggy's arguments were always cool and logical and well-structured)
this to assholes on the forums, Matt stumbled out looking vaguely sick and
hurried over to him.

"How was it?"

Matt made a face that looked like a forced smile, and said, "Good, I'm getting
accommodations, and she gave me these canes."

Foggy blinked and then grinned. So maybe this wasn't all farcically horrible
after all. Things were gonna get better.
Chapter End Notes
     Title taken from Sylvia Plath's "Cinderella", which can be read here:
     http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/71787883194/the-prince-leans-to-the-
     girl-in-scarlet-heels
***** there is a way in which this really is your tragedy *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Foggy had surmised five things from the link Matt had sent him.

First of all, that there was something off about the tone. It swung back and
forth wildly all over the place, like the person writing it wasn't very sure of
what they wanted to say.

Second of all, Foggy should probably find at least some things Matt liked to do
and ask him to do them. It would be a struggle, but he'd find it out somehow.

Third of all, Matt probably didn't even realize that he had PTSD. So Foggy
would have to be vigilant for signs of getting triggered or having bad
episodes.

Fourth of all, Foggy would have to find ways to be nice to Matt without it
sounding stupid or condescending. He supposed it made sense--people liked to be
complimented or told that they were doing well.

Fifth of all, Foggy didn't have to worry about the sex he and Matt had had, or
possibly could have again, because even during enslavement, sometimes people
found each other. Maybe he and Matt could have something more than just the
slowly blossoming friendship.

Foggy hoped, and started to take note of which things had slavery in them, so
he could avoid triggering Matt. Firefly would be safe; the only mention of
slaves was in one of the episodes, where Malcolm had refused a job in the past
because he wouldn't transport any slaves.

--

Matt, once he had realized that Martie pitied him, felt mildly guilty for
taking accommodations. He did need them, or at least some of them, but at the
same time, he couldn't help but think of all the free people with disabilities
who could have used them instead.

He had also, in-between starting to read through his textbooks, managed to
bring up that he'd rather take Spanish than Punjabi. Foggy had grinned brightly
and hugged him again, making it more a punishment than a reward. Then it had
occurred to Matt that Foggy might be trying some bizarro-world version of
reward conditioning, which was darkly hilarious in a way, since all the things
Foggy was starting to give him when he did things that Foggy clearly wanted--
hugging, a hard pat on the back, bright smiles he could only sometimes feel
from the air currents--were things he didn't like.

Matt resolved to try to leave conspicuous manuals of reward conditioning in
Foggy's apartment and/or law school materials. It would be more pleasant than
neither explicit punishments nor rewards, though pure negative reinforcement
would as well.

He sighed with nostalgia and remembered reward conditioning, a hand feeding him
fruits one by one and neatly typing which ones he liked most and least. Having
tiny cuts around his fingernails and in-between his toes made, keeping himself
still and non-reactive even through the drops of nail polish remover, and then
the rewards, strawberries and chicken salad sandwiches inside croissants and
cuddling in the nest of pillows and blankets and kneeling pads on soft shag
carpet, voices saying good job doll, you did good, I'm proud of you, yes you're
very good, I knew you could do it, I'm so happy to have bought you, I love
training you because you're so utterly talented, see how your hard work pays
off?.

Matt swallowed away the homesickness. It wasn't useful or appropriate.

Instead he stumbled across a strange radio show while reading porn.
Pornography's relationship to owner's sex wasn't linear, but they weren't
disconnected either, and he was trying to find a free .pdf of the new
bestselling porn novel, Fifty Shades of Gray. It was reportedly about a woman
who found joy in temporary enslavement and at the end of the book proved her
love by surrendering into real, legal slavery and being bought by her lover.

While he was trying to find it, however, he found instead a very surreal,
horror-based radio show. He could tell it was meant to scare free people--
beyond the general rhetoric of horror and disturbing elements, its premise was
that it was a town where all the residents who were not the Mayor or on the
eldritch City Council were slaves, owned by either the Mayor, the town, or a
very rich man.

He laughed quietly at one of the articles calling a segment on the show
horrific; the segment was about a talking, evil crow. What bullshit free people
were scared of; Matt would've loved to have met a talking crow.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also taken from Andrea Dworkin's "I Want A 24-Hour
     Truce During Which There Is No Rape".
***** ruin your fucking self before they do *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The first day of classes, Foggy was vibrating with excitement and anxiety.

He'd gotten him and Matt Starbucks in huge cups to carry around--Matt had
hesitantly asked for a mocha with extra whip--and they were ready. They were
also early, but that was because Foggy couldn't deal with even the idea of
being late in his head.

He couldn't help but grin, heart flip-flopping between we'll be so good at
this, Matt will be so much more calm for sureand oh fuck I'm a fake I'm going
to suck at this and have to drop out and die of shame, I don't want to be a
butcher, I'm only not a vegetarian because I like ham so much. But as Matt
walked gracefully, hand on his arm, face serene and stride confident, Foggy
relaxed too.

So it was an unpleasant surprise when they got to their first class and on the
seating chart, Matt had a dorm-mattress-looking kneeling pad next to Foggy's
seat instead of a chair at the table.

Foggy froze, uncertain of what to do, but Matt seemed completely unbothered.
Foggy half-whispered to him, "Dude, there's no chair for you, what the fuck do
we do?"

Matt blinked slowly and answered, voice still not scared, "Is there a kneeling
pad, or do they want me on the bare floor?"

Foggy reeled a little but said, "Uh, I mean there's what looks like a bare dorm
mattress?"

Matt nodded. "Do I have your permission to sit upright on it?"

"What? Yeah, of course, but--"

"Then I'll be perfectly fine," Matt said softly, and then went tense as a board
as he and Foggy realized at the same time that Matt had interrupted Foggy. That
never happened.

The mix of elation and horror and second-hand embarrassment curdled in Foggy's
stomach with his two-shot vanilla latte, however, and he said, "Dude, are you
sure we shouldn't...just...take a chair from another seat? Or ask the
professor? This seems like some Mean Girls-style humiliation bullshit."

Matt rolled a shoulder and said, "I don't mind. Slaves should be visible and
obvious as such. I can't be humiliated by anyone who wishes to mark me as a
slave, because I am one."

Foggy blinked at that, because that sounded...determined, and graceful, and
like Matt was rising above the kind of low seething contempt everyone might
hold for him.

"I guess if they think less of you because of--that--then they're not worth
knowing anyway," he said.

Matt's lips twitched upwards, and then he moved to go ahead and sit down. Foggy
watched, a little in awe at the way Matt folded his body neatly into a position
that would hold his laptop and plug-in braille keyboard just right for him to
be able to take notes, and reach his latte as well. He looked utterly
dignified, somehow.

Foggy was reminded of the description of the witches in the Golden Compass or
one of the other books in the series, he didn't remember which; Matt was
ageless, somehow, and incredibly beautiful, and cold and remote, and here he
was alien and above everyone else, somehow.

At one point, the narration or a witch-character had said something like How
could you insult a witch? What would it matter if you did?. Foggy saw that in
Matt.

I can't be humiliated by anyone who wishes to mark me as a slave, because I am
one seemed to be just another way of saying that. How could you insult Matt?
Foggy searched, and he knew insults for free people that had nothing to do with
slavery, but for slaves the worst insult the assholes Foggy knew was usually
just reminding them of that fact, yanking or pointing out the collar, punishing
or humiliating a slave by forcing them to wear nothing else but it, or
elaborate tied-up harnesses and rope instead in public.

Foggy got the sudden mental image of Matt in one of those Japanese-style rope
harnesses that some really rich CEO had once had a slave wear on TV that Foggy
had seen. Matt wouldn't look teary or humiliated or scared. He would probably
look...flirty, or charming, or that same confidently serene he looked right
then, kneeling on the floor as if nothing could possibly hurt him.

Foggy's breath caught at the mental image, Matt's face so strong and proud in
the face of adversity. It almost hurt him how much he loved that strength,
wanted Matt to use it on him, vent the angry frustrations of his life on Foggy,
hold him down...

Foggy snapped out of it and got himself ready.

--

Matt smiled and ducked his head as he and Foggy parted ways. Matt had his first
German Department class now,Legal Terminology in German and American Law with a
Doctor Hana Qasim, and Foggy had walked him to the door.

It had been pleasant to kneel and sit on the cushion rather than in a chair.
Better to stretch his legs, and he liked the quiet little noises of shocked
arousal some of the students made when they saw him. He liked much, much less
the sniggers that some of them let out, but at the same time they barely
mattered at all. They weren't his owner or anyone to Foggy at all, and they
were unlikely to be his owner in the future, and they weren't a slave of his
household. They didn't matter. Nothing about them was of any real importance,
unlike Matt.

Matt walked into the room with his cane out, and to his surprise there was no
chairs at all, only the cheap, makeshift kneeling pads.

Matt blinked; there couldn't be more than six slave-students at Columbia, and
taking non-student slaves to classes would be very difficult for most people to
swing. You could do it for interpreter-slaves or slaves provided by some
colleges or a student's parents for accommodations, but otherwise the
overweening majority of colleges and professors flatly refused, because it was
disruptive.

There were fifteen kneeling pads, so Matt found his way to one and sat down.

As the other students filtered in, only two others wore collars and got
kneeling pads immediately. He made a note of how they smelled and how one
sounded; the other was voiceless. The other students stood around uneasily.

"Hello!" the doctor sounded, voice booming as she strode in. "I see that some
of my new crop of students have not yet found their seats!"

"Professor," one said with a voice like a rat, "I don't--um--there's no seats
for us, so to speak--"

"You will address me as Doctor, all of you," Dr Qasim said, voice firm, her
voice tinged with an accent Matt couldn't quite identify. "I did not almost die
many times on my way to school and have to kill my first wife for a chance to
further my education to be called the same thing as those Sociology pissants
who fancy themselves scholars because they can disguise their pro-slavery
bullshit as statistics. And I will not have any discrimination in my class. I
would have you all in the conference room, sitting on chairs, but the
administration has said this is unfair to the students with bare necks, so
instead we will all be sitting on those kneeling pads, which I believe are all
dorm mattresses."

There was a shocked second where the air went out of the room, and then Dr
Qasim added, "And anyone who has any problem with this or any other anti-
discrimination policy, or who performs any derogatory or otherwise prejudiced
act of terrorism on anyone in this room will be immediately banned from this
class and blacklisted through the entire German department. I run the whole
thing, and without my classes you cannot graduate with this as a major."

There was an awkward second, but cowed by her force of personality, people
began to sit down too. The two other slaves shifted--Matt caught that one was
named Ashley and the other was just you at the moment--to sit flanking him.

The owner of the unnamed slave had made a fatal error, however. He had shoved
her as he told her to move, and once she had sat down Dr Qasim boomed out,
"Mister Hudson, correct?"

The owner sounded like he thought rocks-for-jocks classes were difficult
academic necessities. "Uh, yeah, doc?"

"You are not permitted to refer to me by any derisionalical or affectionate
shortening of my title," Dr Qasim said crisply, and then, "I do believe I
stated that any act of discrimination would result in immediate banning, did I
not?"

"Uh, yeah, but what--"

"Was discriminatory? Shoving another student, who I cannot legally help press
assault charges against you for. Since Iknow for a fact and you know for a fact
and I know that you know and you know that I know for a fact that you never
would have done that to any other student and that you only did that to this
student, whose name I cannot recall," and Matt had the sneaking suspicion that
this was because the unnamed slave had no use-name registered with the school,
unlike him, "Because of a characteristic which is not based on morality, or
character, or anything besides legal and citizenship circumstances, you have
discriminated against a fellow student in my class on your first day right in
front of me. Get your things and leave immediately. You may have time to find
another class to fill your slots."

Hudson slowly got his bags, moving so clumsily and confused that Matt's senses
told him he had just gotten concussed. No wonder--Dr Qasim had knocked him the
entire fuck out. She did not pull any punches, it seemed.

Like Dad, Matt's brain murmured, and Matt dismissed it immediately. He could
not afford to think about his dad. He could not.

After Hudson had left, Dr Qasim grinned brightly and said, "Now, let's move on
and start going over the syllabus. If any of you have not been able to afford
the textbooks and/or have any accommodation requests, I am available in my
office on the hours printed on the syllabus, as well as on my website for this
class. I also have an automatic forty-eight-hour extension on all assignment,
as well as no grade for attendance specifically."

Matt was passed a copy by her--she seemed to be sitting opposite him, legs
crissed-crossed. It was disorienting, but somehow lovely, to be at the same
level as the other students. God knew he was at their intellectual level.

Matt realized it was in Braille, and felt his chin lift a little as he read it.
He was going to have fun with this class.

--

After class, the unnamed slave came over to Matt, and drummed her fingers on
the wall near his head.

He blinked and tilted his head and she drummed them again. Matt realized after
a minute of trying to decode the gesture that it was Morse code.

[Owner has class for three hours, go library?]

Matt nodded and then they walked, careful to not touch one another.

He found a little nook in the library next to a window and sat on it
comfortably. She sat opposite him--assuming she was a she, and not an it like
some owners had their slaves.

He decided against speaking and drummed back, [She or it?]

[It. Fuck women.]

Okay then. Matt drummed out, [Use-name?]

[No. Number. 3519781841181818. Yours?]

[556682394441.]

[From New York. Class M from start.]

Matt tilted his head; even he couldn't remember all the rules of how numbering
slaves worked, labyrinth and bizarre and weird as they were. They changed from
county to county, from state to state, from month to month, and many states
allowed for extra-personalized numbering, to allow for parents enslaving their
children to code in names or messages or particularly humiliating monikers.

So this unnamed classmate-slave was smart, possibly as smart as him. Matt made
himself shift gears; it was offering a sort of alliance, and they weren't in
the same household, their owners didn't know each other, there was no need to
compete.

Matt tapped back, [Yes. Do you go by a shorter version of your name?]

[No, but better than cunt.]

Matt nodded before tilting his head, thinking. [18, then?]

[No. Fuck numbers. Slide out of my head.]

[Dyscalculia? I'm blind.]

[Maybe. Owner thinks it's just stupidity.]

[Your owner appears to be a cretin. I'm not surprised.]

[Cretin? Never heard that before.]

Matt smiled a tiny bit to himself. [Used to be Christian, now is moron. But
both are bad qualities.]

[...You Jewish?]

[No. The Catholic church is not in the habit of accepting objects as members.]

[Fuck them.]

Matt nodded, then, [If not 18, what?]

[Something with words.]

It occurred to Matt that if it was as smart as him, it might appreciate the
joke. [18...Barely Legal?]

It convulsed then in true laughter, a tiny squeaking noise coming from its
mouth. Matt realized it had no proper tongue, just a stump.

[Barely Legal,] it tapped back, silently cackling. [For tools like us in law
school. That's fucking amazing. Won't get a degree, but that's great.]

Matt smiled and checked the time discreetly on his watch; it told him that he
had maybe fifteen minutes before he had to go meet Foggy for lunch.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from Jenny Holzer's "RUIN YOUR FUCKING SELF
     BEFORE THEY DO", which can be seen here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/
     post/107428397238
***** here’s my wrist. here’s the knife. *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
[Owner calling?]

[For lunch. Fifteen minutes.]

Barely Legal's fists clenched. [What does he want in exchange for it?]

[Lunch? Probably me liking it,] Matt tapped back, letting a tiny bit of the
bitter out.

It seemed surprised, and then annoyed, tapping back, [At least you get lunch.]

[You don't?]

[Not unless I suck my other owner's clit until she screams,] Barely Legal
tapped like a machine gun. [And I won't crack. I can fucking starve to death
for all I care.]

Matt firmly reminded himself that he wasn't in charge of it, they had no need
to be dominant or compete, and shrugged faintly.

Barely Legal seemed to study him. He went still and patient for the inspection.
[You a study-aid?]

[Yes. Technically. My owner apparently also wants sex, but in a very strange
way.]

It didn't ask for clarification, thankfully, they weren't really close enough
yet for that. Instead, [Me too. My owner's dad wants a paralegal in all but
actual degree.]

[Economic reasons?]

[No. He is totally a skinflint, but it's because they all keep suing him for
sexual harassment. Ruins his marriages.]

Ahh. And slaves couldn't be raped. [May he choke,] Matt offered up. Barely
Legal twitched forward and then tenatively brushed her hoodie sleeve against
his hand. Not a kiss--he wasn't an owner--and not a knotting of knuckles,
because neither had permission for touching. But a thank-you all the same.

Matt smiled. He liked it already.

He still had ten minutes, so he asked, [Where did you get trained?]

[Boston Official Center for Reformation,] it answered. [You?]

[Personal training.]

[Who?]

[Summer,] he informed it, and was prepared to elaborate on who she actually
was, but instead it made a nearly-inaudible squeal and doubled over.

[The Summer!]

[The Summer,] he replied, now proud of himself. If only Foggy could appreciate
him this much.

[I saw her once,] Barely Legal manages to tap Morse code dreamily. [At a party
my owners snuck into and left me there to keep watch. She was sitting on her
owner's lap. That was the first awesome thing.]

Matt grinned, and that tidbit confirmed that Barely Legal understood how much
of a status symbol it was to have a slave that was so well-behaved and perfect
that they sat in a chair, on their owner's lap, instead of next to it or under
it. Having a slave lounge on you, eyes half-lidded, clearly comfortable and
thrumming with a grace and power and lithe, ethereal beauty was the image that
some rich owners wanted, the part that Matt always had in mind.

[And she was..she was controlling the room from there. She could have been
anywhere, wearing or doing anything, and I could tell that she was absolutely
in control of the whole situation, playing those drunk rich assholes like a
fiddle. I planned to keep fighting and disobeying to the death, and then I saw
her, and I wanted to be her. That happened to you too?]

Matt nodded. He hadn't really begun to be optimistic until one day, when he and
her had been flanking their owner at a party, walking in to suddenly wet
mouths, making a whole ballroom lick their lips and want them that he
understood what power he could possess.

Oh, hell, he had to go if he was to be collected and early. He tapped out,
[Yes, and I have to go, talk to you on Thursday too?]

It nodded and then they parted ways.

--

Lunch, as it turned out, was awful.

Not really because of the food--though it was sub-standard fare, honestly--
because Matt managed to get instead a chicken caesar salad and a glass of
icewater, but because of the people that they sat with.

Foggy pushed him to a chair--Matt felt flushed with humiliation, he was more
than obedient enough to sit in a chair if ordered, it felt like a particularly
nasty punishment for a moment and made his head spin--and then five or six
other people, all classmate's of Foggy, came and sat with him.

Except for one, who, as it turned out, was there to sit with Matt, and was also
in his class with Dr Qasim.

That by itself rang alarm bells in Matt's head, but it only got worse. The
others only tried to talk to him at the very start, instead directing all other
conversation at Foggy, which was fine with Matt. Talking to free people who had
an uncertain relationship with his owner was like walking on your hands through
a minefield with broken ribs.

But the person--Devyn, and Matt couldn't help but wince internally at the name,
it just seemed pretentious--appeared to just want Matt's attention. It was
exhausting, and alarming, and by the end of the lunch Matt was nearly frantic,
trying to head off the constant talking to him.

After he and Foggy left for the next class, Foggy turned to Matt and said,
"Dude, what was up with that? You really didn't seem into him at all."

Matt's mind blanched in panic. Was Devyn trying to fuck him? He couldn't allow
that, but he didn't have very many escape routes planned out. He would have to
be careful.

The mask instead shrugged. Pulling off the mask for a class and then Barely
Legal and having to put it back on felt rather like the thing that owners did
sometimes, having you try on an endless series of clothes, only to reject them
all.

Foggy seemed to accept it, and said in what Matt realized what an attempt at
comforting is, "Don't worry, girls also go for the whole wounded handsome duck
thing."

What? Did Foggy want him to attract girls for Foggy? Had Foggy wanted Matt to
attract Devyn for him? Matt hadn't thought that Foggy actually liked the rather
mousy little cockroach.

But before he had time to calculate how the mask would react and do that, Foggy
instead winced, palmed his face, and said, "Matt--I mean that if you really
want to, you can sleep with girls too, okay, like I don't mean that you haveto,
you never have to, but that's what college is for?"

The mask nodded and smiled and pretended to understand that, while Matt
seethed. He would have to have sex with Foggy, and at this rate tonight too,
before he was so insultingly replaced with some random woman. Sex was a dance
and he would prove to Foggy that he was so, so much better at it than any free
person.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from Sherman Alexie's "Recession", which can be
     read here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/133607553471/recession-
     sherman-alexie
***** you are your own voyeur *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt steeled himself for the rest of the day, and when they were both finished
eating, he had worked up the courage to lean forward and kiss Foggy's mouth
while he picked up the bowl.

Matt was a good kisser, better than many others, and he knew how to make a kiss
as enticing as a kneel. He put the bowls in the sink, and then went back to
Foggy, who felt flushed.

"You sure, Matt?"

Matt was very sure, so he kissed Foggy again in response. He didn't want to say
yes, that implied other things to free people, wasn't sure he could lie that
well.

So Matt let the mask take over, develop more as they moved to the bedroom,
kissing as they went. The mask liked this, the mask harnessed Matt's
experiences, flipped the roles. The mask was treating Foggy--not quite
verbally, but physically--like a very well-behaved pet, sweet and deserving of
pleasure. Matt mused to himself that it was kind of ironic, given that Foggy
would probably be a terrible slave, much too naive, but you had to please your
owner, like it or not.

He stripped Foggy's clothes, unable to stop his fingers from quickly folding
them as he went, couldn't let them get wrinkles, and distracted him by tangling
a hand in his hair, tugging gently and rhythmically.

"Oh fuck, Matt, that feels good," Foggy babbled as he leaned down to bite at
his neck, calculating possible actions. Matt had to make this good or be
replaced. He refused to be thrown away like trash for a second time in his
life. (The owner who only owned him for a night did not count. Master
Pendergrass had since become a wanted fugitive, anyway.)

Matt's hands came forward and tugged hard at Foggy's nipples, making him
shriek. Such poor discipline. But then Matt wasn't sure of what to do for a
moment--nudge him down? Fuck him? Finger him? What did Foggy want, why didn't
he just tell Matt?

Foggy writhed a little more and said, "Hey, I know you've got the whole stoic
thing going on, but wanna get on the comfortable bed?"

Sex on beds was usually somewhat less injurious and painful. The mask grinned
and said, "Let's."

They got onto it--Matt on top--and Matt's hands wriggled down and down,
squeezing Foggy's ass gently. The mask asked, "Can I--?" not as a question, but
as a foregone conclusion.

Foggy said, a little uncertainly, "I don't--uh--that sounds like a lot of work-
-" and Matt realized what he meant. While one could be fucked without lubricant
or prep work, it did often cause tearing, and Matt didn't want to give Foggy an
infection, so instead he said, "Fingers only, then."

He didn't actually make another physical move until Foggy, hiding his face in
his elbow, nodded.

Matt realized Foggy might be worried, so he leaned down and petted Foggy's hair
with one hand and sucked on the other. Sex wasn't all that bad, once you got
used to it, and Foggy was the owner, he was the one the sex was all for,
anyway.

Matt's fingers delicately began circling, then pressing in, one then two, and
Foggy's mouth fell open and he started incoherently moaning. The mask smiled at
him and said, "Good, huh?"

Foggy babbled back, "Fuck, Matt, that's awesome, kinda weird-feeling but
awesome," and then trailed to a high shriek when Matt found his prostate. The
mask laughed a little and kissed him, and Matt wished Foggy would shut up and
come already.

Matt fingered Foggy in the most effective, thorough way he knew, getting to
three fingers, alternating languid and fast, stroking and twisting and
flicking, going over the prostate and then teasingly going right next to it.
All the while Foggy fell apart like it was a religious experience, a fit of
ecstasy.

Matt suppressed mild jealousy and focused on giving Foggy the best orgasm of
all; when Foggy got closer and closer, Matt wriggled downwards and placed his
mouth on Foggy's cock, and swallowed it whole.

Foggy's whole body convulsed and then he came not ten seconds after. Matt
milked him through the orgasm, swallowing on reflex, and afterwards leaned over
and kissed and cuddled Foggy.

"Hey, dude, what about you--?" Foggy mumbled sleepily. Matt blinked and the
mask rolled his hips a little--if Foggy had an orgasm generosity fetish, Matt
knew he had to fulfill it--so Matt's hand came down and started to twist.

"Lemme--come on my mouth, I can't even move, your finger game too strong, fuck,
Matt," and so Matt obeyed even though it felt alien and intrinsically wrong.

Matt counted it as a victory that Foggy was so sex-drugged that he mumbled,
just before he fell asleep, "Matt, jesus fuck, best sex ever, you're some kinda
sex god."

He didn't sleep that night until late, listening to the sounds of the
neighborhood, the city where he grew up before he was sold and became something
else than human.

--

The rest of the week went fairly well, apart from the fact that Devyn kept
trying to talk to Matt.

Matt's current strategy was to ignore him as much as possible. He was getting
good at pretending to be listening to other things, but sooner or later he'd
have to crack. He thought about saying that his owner didn't permit him to
speak to free people without prior approval, but Foggy was openly liberal
enough that Matt didn't quite think that would work, and in addition Devyn
might respond by asking Foggy for permission to have Matt talk back to him, and
even if Foggy didn't punish Matt for that--which seemed absurd, Matt would
honestly deserve it, slaves were not supposed to create any further
inconveniences--it would still be utterly humiliating and create problems upon
problems.

That, and if Foggy actually gave Matt permission to talk to him--or ordered him
to do more to Devyn--Matt wouldn't have any excuses left to hide behind, and if
he had to suck off the little twit in addition to the charade sex with his
owner, he might actually hit his head on the counter like he fantasized about
sometimes.

So instead Matt dodged, dodged, dodged, thinking frantically about how to
escape the situation more effectively. He eventually came up with, maybe,
pretending to be shy or tenderhearted. He almost dismissed it right away
because it was ridiculous, but at the same time, ridiculous lies sometimes
worked more than sensible ones.

So after class on Friday, when Devyn cornered Matt, Matt gave a shy hint of a
smile, and utilized the tactic of pretending to let him in on a secret. People
loved to be let in on a secret so much, they let their feelings overwhelm their
sense of skepticism. You could sell a lot of lies as truths, if you made them
seem like conspiracies.

"So, like, you seem really nervous all the time, are you okay, what's your last
name?"

God, Matt wished Devyn would just get hit by a car. "I'm Matt," he said,
ducking his head a little. It was the first time he had said anything to him.
"I don't, um," and there Matt let his voice drop to a lower and lower volume,
making it seem like he was timid, rather than angry and wary and properly
paranoid, "I don't, my owner doesn't, I can't," and the vaguer you were, the
more they filled in the gaps for you.

"Oh dude that sucks, would you like to come to the abolitionist group?"

What the fuck? Matt couldn't quite believe that people this stupid even got
into law school. He blinked, trying to figure out if the bit of metal he could
sense in the middle of Devyn's face was a nose-ring or a septum ring.

"I, uh, I don't think--" and then Devyn pressed a pamphlet into his hand, their
fingers brushing. Matt jerked backwards without thinking--what the fuck kind of
play was this guy making, who did he think he was.

Devyn didn't seem to notice, instead monologuing at Matt about animal rights
and testing and hey maybe Matt could come to a rally too against animal
testing. Matt very carefully did not say what he actually thought about animal
rights--he wasn't supposed to have any political opinions anyway, but he did,
and they were irrelevant, but he thought them anyway--and about how if things
weren't tested on animals, they were tested on slaves. And anything that fed
the machine that bought slaves and ground them up for free people to have
better erection-maintaining pills was something everyone could do without. Matt
almost ended up as a zombie himself, a walking corpse. Medical research
facility slaves didn't come back out of those buildings once they were forced
in.

Matt liked even extremely annoying or badly-trained slaves better than dogs.
Not better than cats, but sometimes you had to make sacrifices to survive. That
was how the world worked, sometimes it was you or someone else, and nobody
deserved it, but you had to choose anyway.

Once Devyn was done giving Matt a poorly organized and passionately delivered
speech, he cheerfully pressed another pamphlet into Matt's hands and ran off to
his next class, not seeming to realize that if they weren't Braille, Matt
couldn't read them.

Matt methodically tore them into tiny strips at the nook in the library with
Barely Legal that day, shredding them and then recycling them in different
little bins all around the library. It was work, but it helped him pacify some
of the ever-present rage.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from a quote from Margaret Atwood's Robber Baron:
     "Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies?
     Up on a pedestal or down on your knees, it’s all a male fantasy: that
     you’re strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to
     do anything about it. Even pretending you aren’t catering to male
     fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you’re unseen, pretending you
     have a life of your own, that you can wash your feet and comb your
     hair unconscious of the ever-present watcher peering through the
     keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere
     else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are
     your own voyeur."
***** there are no children. never. *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
That weekend was the birthday party of one of Foggy's cousins, and as Matt was
beginning to learn, this meant that there was going to be a large all-family
gathering. Matt wasn't a part of the family, not really, but Foggy had been
asked to bring him along, and so Matt obediently went.

Five seconds in the doorway, and Matt was trying to figure out how to hang up
his coat in the way that placed it out of the way of any free peoples' coats--
there were coats tossed over the banister, fallen on the floor, and hung up on
the straining hooks--when a free woman holding something came up to him, said
very quickly, "Can you watch over her? She's pretty overwhelmed and I'm so
exhausted having to take care of her by myself 24/7 and she's probably just
tired but I can't deal with it, just hold her and rock her and maybe talk to
her a bit and you're probably gonna be out of the way anyway the whole time, no
offense but you're not exactly personable, so here," and placed something--warm
soft alive--in his arms.

Foggy spluttered in disbelief, and then she said, cranky, "For god's sake
Foggy, he's got nannying experience, I read the file when you left it on the
coffee table at your birthday party, he'll be fine, just don't fuck him in
front of her, okay, actually come with me and talk to us for once," and pulled
Foggy's arm.

Foggy turned and asked Matt, "Will you be okay?"

Matt, feeling faintly dizzy from the sudden events, nodded. "I can take care of
a baby," he said softly. He could. He wanted to.

"...okay then," said Foggy, and the woman huffed out "Finally, for fuck's sake
let's go," and pulled Foggy into the mass of free people in the other rooms.

Matt found a spot to sit on the stairs, not the floor--to easy for something to
hit the baby by accident--and let himself just feel the small warmth in his
arms, listen to the hummingbird heartbeat.

She was so small. Matt felt something well up inside of him, holding this baby.
She was small, and overwhelmed, and helpless, defenseless. She couldn't choose
her clothes or when she was bathed or who touched her. She couldn't communicate
what she really felt or understand anything.

But she would get to someday. He hoped. Matt couldn't understand anyone wanting
to hurt this small, perfect person in his arms, couldn't quite get why her
mother had shoved her into his grip and practically sprinted away.

"Hello," he murmured to her, making sure his voice was higher-pitched and
calmer. "It's a bit much, isn't it all?"

She stopped fussing and cooed at him. Matt's heart did something in his chest.

He continued--if talking helped her calm down, he certainly would, he would do
anything. "I'm Matt, I didn't quite catch your name."

She ooh'd. Matt smiled and hid it against her stomach and said, "Ooo, that's
your name?"

She ooh'd again, and tiny hands reached out to grab his hair. Matt blinked and
pushed away the phantom sensation of other times people had pulled his hair,
and took a minute to try to convince himself to untangle her tiny little hands
from it. He eventually won the fight with himself, on account of his shampoo
had scents--it was strawberries and cream, okay but not his favorite of that
brand, but Foggy did the shopping and Matt could not complain, he refused to be
whiny or bratty--and it might irritate her skin.

She seemed perfectly happy, though, trying to stick her fingers everywhere,
fingering his scarf and shirt and then sticking her hand in his mouth.

Matt froze, for a second tasting nitrile, like the gloves at the intake
officer's cubicle, the thought he left he left he left, he left me here, I'm
just a failure like he said at first echoing.

Matt carefully pushed it away--no use crying over locked collars--and instead
very gently bit at a finger. He couldn't give her bad habits. You couldn't
trust people so much that you stuck your fingers in their mouths, or anything
else. Not when you were so small.

Her hands next went to his collar, feeling under it, and she squealed at the
soft rabbit fur. Matt smiled--it was a very good fur, real, and soft against
his neck, no irritation or chafing at all--and when he tugged at it, clearly
wanting to touch and play, Matt forgot himself and unlocked the collar, giving
it to her to rub her cheek against.

He took a very deep breath when he realized what he had done--he had just
earned himself some deep, horrible, humiliating punishment, he didn't know what
Foggy would decide on but it would have to really hurt, Matt couldn't do things
like that, it was so disrespectful and stupid, he felt so ashamed of himself--
and gently removed it from her surprisingly strong grasp, took it back, and
closed it against his neck himself. It was a velcro clasp, thankfully, not a
lock.

She started to fuss again, probably picking up on his upset, and Matt made
himself relax. He had a cuddly baby on his lap now, and a simple, cozy task. He
should be grateful. He was grateful, he realized.

Matt missed infant-nannying; he had done it for four months and then Mistress
Janet had had to sell him or file for bankruptancy and, well, the choice was
obvious. Matt didn't blame her at all. She had cried the night before, and so
had her twins as she pushed their stroller out the door of the auction
reception hall.

Matt realized the baby was going to get really upset and start to cry if he
didn't distract her again, and his heart jolted with adrenaline at the thought
of the crying baby. Bad things happened to crying children, Matt knew in his
bones.

So instead, he grasped at straws and pulled her close and rocked her back and
forth with his body, and started to tell her the tale of Schneewittchen from
memory. "Es war einmal mitten im Winter, und die Schneeflocken fielen wie
Federn vom Himmel herab..." he began.

Some minutes later, just as he was saying "...in die rotglühenden Schuhe treten
und so lange tanzen," Foggy came by the staircase and stood. Matt made himself
finish the story, murmur to the baby Ende and rub his face against her head to
make her sigh happily, and then turned some attention to Foggy.

Foggy's body language was--strange, and somehow very content. Matt wished he
hadn't taken his collar off earlier, because he wanted to enjoy Foggy's
contentedness, but he had, and that was that.

"Should I hand her back now?" Matt asked.

"No, you seem pretty happy here," Foggy said. Matt smiled quietly; finally,
Foggy thought he liked something that he actually did. "I just came by to see
if I should grab you some food or something."

"I'm okay," Matt murmured. Slaves who took their collars off did not deserve
food.

"Not even thirsty?"

Matt paused--this could be a very bad move, but his mouth was very dry--and
very tentatively asked, "Maybe some water?"

Foggy said, "Sure, dude, let's get you that."

Matt waited for Foggy to leave, and refocused on the baby. "Another story?" he
asked her.

She giggled, and he smiled, and then began a different one. "Einem reichen
Manne, dem wurde seine Frau krank, und als sie fühlte, daß ihr Ende
herankam..."

Foggy came back with water right when Matt finished saying, "...schlimme Zeit
für das arme Stiefkind an."

Matt accepted the water, drank a little, and then Foggy stood there still.

"Is there something else I should be doing?" Matt asked, softly. He didn't want
to do anything but hold and soothe the baby, entertain her, but he was
obedient. He knew he was.

"What? No, dude, keep going, I've never heard you speak German before, it's
really pretty."

Matt blinked--had Foggy not watched the auction advertisement videos that
Rosalind Sharpe had sent him? Probably not, he didn't appreciate his gift. But
that contained an order, and so Matt cleared his throat and continued, giving
the evil stepsisters the voices of Mistress Sharon's pet and an overseer.
Nobody got the joke.

He finished Aschenputtel and then went on to tell the baby Hänsel und Gretel--
one of his favorites--and then it was time for them to leave. Foggy had
explained beforehand that they either had to leave relatively early or else get
sucked in to staying too long, but Matt felt instantly icy as he handed the
baby back to her mother, who seemed calmer and happier.

He felt colder and colder as they went back to the tiny apartment, shivering as
they got in the doorway. He had to confess what he'd done and then endure his
punishment, or else Matt would crack like an egg and go quietly insane, he knew
it.
Chapter End Notes
     Title taken from Jeanann Verlee's poem "The Session", here: http://
     fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/60819332967/jeanann-verlee-performs-the-
     session-full
***** it must be exhausting to want to live this much. *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
On the way back home, Foggy decided to try to make nice. His cousin Allie had
payed for a cab for them, so he could actually talk to Matt.

He turned towards him, saw Matt's strange, closed-off, fearful expression, and
plowed ahead anyway. "So, I guess you like fairy tales? Or at least telling
them to kids? A fan of happy endings?"

Matt's face shuttered closed even more, but then he licked his lips--which
looked dry and cracked, as if he'd been biting them--and said, quietly, "Fairy
tales aren't about happy endings. They're about mothers, and fathers, and
wicked women, and greedy men, and dragons, and forests, and children who get
hurt and hurt and hurt and--" he cut himself off, then finished, "But sometimes
they live. That's the happy ending. They get to live sometimes."

Foggy had absolutely nothing to say to that, he had to idea how to make Matt
feel any better except maybe with a hug, so he put an arm around Matt's
shoulders and pulled him close, and then made himself stare out the window,
watching the dark streets, the lights like Christmas.

--

They got home pretty much uneventfully after that, except that as they
approached, Matt seemed to be quietly getting more and more anxious, and the
second Foggy had closed the door behind them, Matt had dropped to his knees on
the kitchen floor. Foggy took a step back and made himself say gently, "Hey,
buddy, dude, are you okay there?"

"I took off my collar," Matt said, voice like a blues singer, full of thready
pain and despair. "I didn't mean to, Foggy, and it was only a second, but I
did, and I apologize for my--disrespectfulness, and shameful behavior. Please
punish me how you see fit."

Foggy blinked. "What? Why would you do that?"

Matt put his hands behind his head, lacing them together, and lowered his head
to the tile, and said, "I--the baby wanted to feel more under the collar, she
liked the rabbit fur, and I wasn't thinking enough, so I took it off and let
her touch it for a moment. Then I remembered myself, and put it back on, but I
need--please punish me, Foggy, how you see fit."

Foggy felt like what he imagined people felt like in their first earthquake. He
wasn't exactly sure what this meant, but it wasn't good. "So what I'm hearing
is that...you're...fine? I mean, nobody saw you or anything, nobody cares, I
don't think it matters?"

Matt's breathing was coming faster and faster, audibly. He said again, very
quietly, "I can't--I know I can't do things like that, they are beyond
dangerous, I can't be so inappropriate or--slaves who do things like that, if
they are not punished, if no-one corrects them they die. They just--it feeds
into itself, it's a vicious cycle--Foggy please punish me however you see fit,"
and then he shuddered on the floor, too panicked to talk.

Foggy stared at Matt, thinking. It was just like the thing with the collar,
then. Something horrible that Matt needed because he was super, super, beyond-
anything-Foggy-knew fucked up. Matt looked like he was having a panic attack;
Foggy needed to help Matt calm down, then, even if it was by doing something he
hated. He could do it for Matt, who probably wouldn't actually relax until
Foggy made him do something he didn't like.

Foggy's brain generated an image of him hitting Matt, not hard, and he felt
sick. He couldn't do that, it wasn't right, Matt wasn't hurting him, this
wasn't a self-defense kind of a situation. He wouldn't.

So a thought popped into his mind.

"Okay, but I don't really know what you do or don't like much," Foggy said.
This could be a way for them to communicate better. "So I want you to tell me
three things you don't like, so I can come up with something that won't hurt
you but can help you calm down, and three things you do like, so I can make it
up to you afterwards."

That should help.

--

Matt breathed through the fear, not fighting it but leaning into it, thinking.
Foggy had put him in a nasty bear trap with this, but he could gnaw his leg off
if need be. Cut off your nose to save your face, and all that.

He thought of things he liked. Easier to offer those first.

"I like strawberries, Foggy," because that was true, he could eat pounds of
them and love them anyway, "I like--blankets, especially fleece," because that
was true, he could sleep without them too, "I--" his brain blanked for a second
and then he remembered Foggy getting them to try to watch movies together,
Foggy seemed to like narrating, he fished around for one that Foggy would like
too, and since he appeared to like cheap horror, Matt said, "I like Texas
Chainsaw Massacre," and if Foggy forbade him from seeing it ever again that was
fine, Matt had it memorized.

The next part would hurt more. Matt listened to Foggy's body, breathing quieter
as he calculated. What he said would have to actually hurt, actually be
something he hated, because he deserved this. Slaves who took off their collars
deserved being whipped, deserved being locked in a cage and ignored for a week,
but Foggy didn't own a whip or a cage, so Matt would have to come up with
something equivalent.

Matt swallowed his terror and said, as much appropriate submissiveness injected
into his voice that he could (that he should have shown earlier, why had he
been so careless stupid selfish uppity littleidiot), "I--I don't like being
choked with a belt, it's very easy for someone--an owner to lose control of the
choking that way and cause permanent brain damage," being choked with hands was
something he could endure without breaking, "I don't like being hungry," and
that was something Matt could deal with, he could sit in front of delicious-
smelling food and not take one bite, he had the self-control, "and I don't like
sleep deprivation, I can be functional until the fifth or sixth day," when the
hallucinations became impossible to distinguish from reality.

Foggy was silent, but Matt could tell he wasn't exactly happy, and then Foggy
crouched down near him and said, in the tone people used for unreasonably
scared dogs, "I'm not ever going to do that stuff to you, that's fucking
torture, that's unacceptable. But if--look, Matt," and here he became pleading,
Matt's heart sank, "If you want me to help you calm down by making you do
something you don't like, it has to be something I'm actually willing to do to
you, okay? Nothing like hitting you or not letting you eat or choking you until
you get brain damage, nothing like that, okay? You're safe here."

What a cruel lie. Matt's mind raced, suggesting things, but the problem was
that what Matt didn't like that Foggy had already done to him were all things
Foggy thought, in his self-absorbed fantasy world, that Matt enjoyed as much as
him. Sex, hugs, being smiled at, pineapple juice, talking like a free
person...he couldn't think of anything. He could tell now that the siren bells
of panic were receding that his previous suggestions were useless.

"I, I could punish myself if it's too much a bother for you?" he offered,
hoping Foggy would say yes. He knew when to stop before any real damage was
done.

"...okay buddy, but I'm going to be here watching."

Well, Matt could deal with that. He would have kissed Foggy's shoes, but he
remembered Foggy saying to not do that, and so instead his lips pressed against
Foggy's hand in gratefulness, and then he went to the tool drawer to find the
pliers.

--

Foggy was making himself stay calm as he could. He could freak out about Matt's
previous owners and what kind of sick fucks they were later, when Matt was
calming down.

He made himself think about how to get Matt strawberries and some nice blankets
instead; he was pretty sure that one store where everything was five dollars or
less had a bunch of blankets that were soft, he could buy Matt a bunch and not
break his budget. He could also make sure to pick up plenty of strawberries at
the grocery store. They weren't in season, but fuck it, Foggy knew he had to
make this up to Matt.

Matt shifted on his knees and felt inside the tool drawer--Foggy was about to
ask him if he needed help to find something--and then shut it, delicately, with
a pair of pliers in his hand. Foggy didn't know what he was about to do.

Then Matt stood up and went to the counter, and laid down five or so paper
towels. Now Foggy felt really nervous, just like before a lightning storm hit.

Then Matt placed one of his beautiful hands on the paper towels--Foggy could
have slapped himself, now was not the time to be admiring Matt--and placed the
pliers at the end of one of his nails, and took a deep breath--

Foggy startled and said, louder than he meant to, "What the fuck! No!"

Matt froze.

"What the fuck! Why are you doing that, don't do that, you'll hurt yourself,"
Foggy babbled and rushed over.

"I--Foggy, it doesn't cause any permanent damage to the cuticle, it hurts but
the nails grow back, it's a good long-term reminder of what you did wrong and
why you can't do it again," Matt said, pleading. "Please--please let me do
something, Foggy, I can't start down that path, everything will have been for
nothing."

Foggy wanted to vomit. He grasped the pliers, standing behind Matt, and pulled
them out of his grip, holding Matt until he went limp.

"I--look, Matt, okay what about this," and Foggy grabbed at a straw and ran
with it, "I saw in a movie once, what if you did, um, pushups? As many as you
could? That would hurt but you wouldn't get actually hurt, would you be okay
with that? Would that work?"

--

Matt felt a quiet rush of elation. He could do that, he could most certainly do
that. Foggy was not just giving him a chance to be punished and therefore be
forgiven, he was giving him a way to do it that would remind Matt of what he
had done wrong for days, weeks even--if he did enough and they hurt enough,
he'd remember it every time he did any.

Matt kissed Foggy's hand as he sank down to the proper position, murmured,
"Thank you, Foggy, thank you so much, I don't deserve your generosity," and
started.
Chapter End Notes
     Title taken from Catalina Ferro's "Anxiety Group", here: http://
     fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/104251377745/thrivingonwords-there-is-a-
     german-satellite
***** the man wants to sit with the dog *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Foggy watches Matt do push-ups in the apartment and gets more and more unnerved
as he goes on.

It's not just the whole situation, though it's true that everything is
officially fucked. It's the little things--the way that Matt's face is
completely calm and blank, the fact that he's not making any form of grunting
or other noise of effort, the way he looks both strangely grateful and utterly
crushed emotionally.

Foggy tries to think about what it must be like inside Matt's head, to make him
think that heneeded to be hurt to be safe again. He flinched away from it, and
then made himself try again. He tried to think of why Matt was so freaked out
at taking off the collar (for a second, just for a second, to let a baby play
with it, nobody had seen anything at all, why would Matt even think Foggy
cared).

He thought about the words I can't start down that path, everything will have
been for nothingand winced. It sounded like...well, the closest Foggy had heard
was one of his friends in undergrad, in the middle of a nervous breakdown, had
screamed that she couldn't possibly take a medical withdrawal and/or change
from Chemistry to a major she wasn't terrible at because it would mean that all
the hard work her parents had put in would be for nothing.

Did Matt think of that beautiful woman--slave, Foggy winced, feminists were
divided on whether or not calling a slave a woman was insulting to women or
not, and in undergrad for a while he'd sided with yes it was insulting--as the
equivalent of his mother? Did he feel obligated to stay as broken and
submissive as he had been when Foggy got him for her?

But at the same time, that day when Rosalind had given him to Foggy, wrapped up
in nothing but ribbons under his suit, Matt wasn't quite broken, was he? He
hadn't looked scared or humiliated or anything. He had looked calm and
confident and perfect at playing the part. Looking back on it, he had looked
precisely as dignified as he had kneeling in class every morning.

Maybe it was something to do with that. Maybe, in Matt's mind, if he wasn't
punished for doing things like taking off his collar, he would somehow lose the
dignity and strength to kneel or strip in public and not give one fuck who saw
him.

Foggy didn't know. He wasn't a psychologist. And he'd never tried to find
psychology books on slaves after the first few had turned out to be the same
pornographic bullshit as those websites. Maybe if he just focused on PTSD
psychology books instead, he'd understand Matt better.

Or, a voice in his head commented, you could try actually talking to him more.

Foggy winced. He had tried that, but the problem with Matt was that he was some
kind of chameleon who agreed with quite literally whatever Foggy said. Once
Foggy had glanced at the sky and remarked that it was green and Matt had said,
in that eerie tone, Of course, Foggy.

Granted, that was kind of a bad example, because Matt was completely blind and
had no idea what the sky even looked like anymore, probably, but maybe Foggy
could try communicating with him more indirectly. In the cab on the way here,
he'd gotten a little glimpse of what Matt actually thought.

It gave Foggy an idea. Maybe he could ask Matt more about those German fairy
tales and see more of what his opinions were.

In the meantime, Matt was drenched in sweat, and Foggy realized that he had
spent way longer sitting there and thinking than he had meant to. Matt had done
so many, his arms were shaking.

"Hey, Matt, I think that's plenty," Foggy said gently.

"I--I can do more, Foggy," Matt gasped out, still going at it.

"No, that's--that's enough, stop, seriously you're making me feel bad about
myself here," Foggy said, trying to puncture the atmosphere with a joke. Hey,
maybe he could ask Matt about jokes that he liked!

Matt stopped in the plank position, looking like agony and beauty at the same
time. Those fucking muscles, goddamn, Foggy admired them heavily.

"Hey, come on," he said, and hurried over to help Matt up. Even drenched in
sweat, Matt was indescribably, ineffably gorgeous. He smelled so good too,
Foggy almost buried his nose in his armpit for a moment.

"So, uh, Matt, you should probably shower."

Matt nodded, and then murmured, "Will you be joining me then, Foggy?"

Foggy gaped--Matt must be having some sort of flashback or something--and said,
swallowing around the part of him that badly wanted to, "No, uh, I'm good."

--

Matt showered as efficiently as possible. That way, he could justify taking
another two or so minutes to himself; Foggy had said early on once that Matt
could have 'five minutes, seriously dude, we're not that poor' and Matt had no
desire to offend his owner.

He sat down carefully in the shower once he was actually clean, turning up the
water to warm and then hot, so he used as little hot water as he could. He
luxuriated in it, tried to focus on that.

The endorphins of being punished were going to his head. He felt almost dizzy
with happiness at how he'd been allowed to punish himself. Finally, Foggy was
starting to act like a proper owner, and all he'd had to do was beg. Beg in a
new way, invoking his feelings, as if that mattered at all, but now Matt knew
that if he saved it up for special occasions and begged for a punishment when
he really deserved one, he could get one, even if it was unorthodox.

Matt leaned his head back against the shower wall, grinning. He resolved to
perform even better the next time Foggy wanted sex.

When he left the shower, he even went up to Foggy and kissed him, mostly to
test if his new observation was correct, that Foggy had an exercise fetish.

Foggy pulled his head back, though, and Matt abruptly froze.

"Hey, Matt, that reminds me, there's a concept I'd like you to see, uh, I mean
read about, it's this thing called enthusiastic consent, can I send you a link?
And you'll read it?"

"Of course I will, Foggy," he said, too high on punishment to care about his
soon-to-be-sore muscles or his owner's undervaluing of him.

"Okay, because I like this whole thing we've got going on, but just in case,
you know? And I think you're kinda too out of it tonight to be really
consenting, okay? Maybe during the week, I've got a lot of studying to do
tomorrow."

How weird, for an owner to be bargaining with him for delayed sex. As if he had
to.

Matt made himself nod and look smaller, less possibly threatening, and then he
went to bed. Right before he fell asleep, he thought to himself, maybe it isn't
quite so bad with this owner after all.

--

Foggy went out shopping the next morning. Matt offered to come with him, but
Foggy shook his head, so Matt focused on slowly doing his tasks--coffee and
toast with jam for him, Foggy liked him to eat three meals--despite his rock-
hard muscles. The aches he accepted, he deserved. All pain is a lesson, and all
lessons can make you better.

Matt had been forgetting that, getting arrogant. He'd have to come up with some
time and a way to remind himself to stay in his place. Perhaps one hour at
night he'd kneel on the hard floor and very very quietly recite the things he'd
been told.

Foggy came back and the first thing Matt noticed was the smell of strawberries.
Could it be--?

It was. Foggy pressed the box to him, a large box, two pounds, saying, "So you
said you like these?"

"I love strawberries, Foggy," Matt said and promptly mentally kicked himself,
he was not supposed to say love, but then Foggy didn't seem to care, saying
instead, "Great! So eat as many as you want whenever you want, they're for you,
and so are these," and then he thrust two shopping bags with unusually smooth
textures at Matt.

Matt carefully put the strawberries on the counter, and then felt inside the
bags. There were extremely soft, fluffy microfleece blankets in there, a good
five of them.

Foggy bounced on his heels. "See, you said you like blankets, and there was a
sale, so I got them for you."

His heartbeat skips, so Matt tilts his head, trying to calculate which part is
the lie. He settles on, "For me?"

Foggy nods. "Totally for you, dude, like I've always wanted to wrap you in
blankets and feed you soup, now I can, thanks for telling me."

Matt blinks and resolves to later pinch himself somewhere where it hurt, for
failing to live up to Foggy's other new fetish.
--
Matt looks ecstatic to Foggy, so Foggy says, "And hey, just so you know, if you
need things from me, I'll try to give you them, okay? It's kind of my
responsibility to take care of you."
He goes forward to give Matt a hug, and catches something on his face that
Foggy dismisses as having been a trick of the light. For a second there, Matt
had looked disbelieving.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title from Jeanann Verlee's "The Telling", here: http://
     fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/118961125887/she-is-a-tornado-he-is-a-man-
     he-is-solid-and
***** you know after this hole there’s just another and another *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Foggy stops the hug and then says, "Um, anyway, studying," and disappears off
to go do that instead of trying to talk more to Matt. It's a cowardly thing,
but Foggy has long since accepted his own cowardice when it comes to certain
things. He's not the kind of person who can or will fight everyone and anyone.
He's just not.

He goes and he studies, and before too long he hears what he's pretty sure is
Matt settling down to study too.

--

Matt puts the strawberries in the fridge, and the blankets he folds again into
squares and piles up carefully on the bed Foggy has him sleep on. If Foggy
wants to wrap him up in them and feed him soup later, Matt will make it easier
for him. God only knows it would be simpler than the whole deviant charade of
the earlier sex.

Would Foggy want Matt to blow him after the soup? Feed him his cock too? Stroke
his hair? Was it a part of some fantasy of very gently fucking a sick slave?
Would Matt have to fake a fever? His mind bounced around, trying to find
evidence, plucking strings, planning for contingencies.

In the meantime, he set himself up with a glass of water--Foggy seemed to like
it if Matt was more hydrated than he was most of the time--and studied. It gave
his body a pleasant focus, even if law seemed to be the kind of field that
people took far too seriously.

It was actually a lot like being a slave, in a way. There were interpretations
upon interpretations, arguments, subtle differences of opinion and prejudice
that others insisted wasn't there. It reminded Matt of listening to arguments
between two overseers, and them trying to persuade the owner of the rightness
of each of them.

Once one of the overseers at Mistress Sharon's house had tried to order Matt to
bend over and be fucked; Matt had calmly pointed out that what he'd been sent
down for was to fetch her a mojito and her pet and him some water, and that he
couldn't afford to waste time like that. The overseer had grumbled, and the
next time he had tried to fuck Matt, Matt had dodged it by walking away. The
overseer had gotten caught and Mistress Sharon had given him a chance to make
his case for being allowed to fuck Matt. He hadn't managed to persuade her at
all, so she had demoted him to being the dishwasher.

It was a nice memory, in a way. Winning always felt good.

Matt finished his work fairly early, thankfully, and then went to go find the
enthusiastic consent link. He read it once, frowned, read it again, and still
didn't understand what it could possibly mean. What did consent have to do with
him anyway?

Near as he could surmise, what Foggy had meant was that he wanted Matt to be
happy, put on a show of consent, participate actively, and initiate sex. Well,
Matt had mostly figured that out, but confirmation was nice.

On the other hand, from what Matt could tell, if he was understanding the
implications correctly, Foggy thought of Matt being enthusiastic about sex as a
moral issue, which made him swallow in fear. Owners were not rational about
morality, they did not allow for small mistakes, merciful punishments.

Foggy could not be allowed to find out Matt was not in the least bit
enthusiastic about sex with him.

He took a deep breath and wrapped the mask around him again, letting it
cheerfully go cook some vegetables for sandwiches while he thought, hidden
inside himself like a matroshkya doll.

First of all, he had to come up with some foolproof way to make Foggy think he
was for sure perfect to play in his free-person love-romance fantasy. A strange
idea came floating up to him through the bubbling cauldron of his head.

What if he said no sometimes? Not seriously, maybe even not now or I'm not sure
I like that, and certainly not more than once or twice a month or if Matt was
starting to slip down in performance, but that might just convince him.

The more Matt thought about it, the better it sounded. It would confirm Foggy's
desires and sidestep his insecurities, and protect Matt from Foggy's breakdown
and subsequent cruelty if he discovered that Matt was not the lover of his
dreams.

(Owners who were mostly kind were the worst when they finally snapped. The ones
who could dispense cruelty in small batches, gentle ways were better, because
you knew it was coming. If Foggy snapped and actually hurt Matt properly, it
would be vicious, it would be full of teeth, it would be bloody. It might scar
him forever.)

And if Matt only used it very sparingly and only on things he was closer to
dislike than indifference on, Foggy wouldn't guess where the mask ended and
where Matt began, but Matt would.

He resolved to do that, and then he let himself feel his anger.

The whole question of morality pissed Matt off. Morals didn't really apply to
objects in the first place, except when they were valuable, and even then
morals were like apologies or promises: they didn't matter and weren't
important.

Winter thought slavery was wrong, too, but he owned Summer and always would,
and he could tell you any tens of thousands of reasons why it was wrong, but
that changed nothing. Matt thought that stealing was wrong, at least in an
abstract sense, or at least he had when he was a child, but he had stolen food
before, or a small thing, a tchochkey that an owner wouldn't miss. Matt knew
for a fact that killing an owner was wrong—it was beyond wrong, it was
something to wrong as Angel Falls was to a garden fountain—but he had done it
anyway, he'd deliberately killed Master Robert, and he'd never really regretted
it.

(Master Robert had been the most awful owner by far, even worse than the one--
Master Pendergrass--who had had Matt for a night and a half and made him blow a
gun and then broken both Matt's legs and sold him back to the auction house
five minutes after telling him he was dismissed. He'd languished in the auction
house for months, bored out of his skull, eavesdropping on everyone out of
desperation.)

Morals didn't matter when you came down to the wire. People abandoned their
morals in a thunderstorm, for fuck's sake. They might as well have never had
them when it came to hurricanes. Morals were something for times of plenty, for
harvest days, for whims. Owners had plenty of whims, they had the luxury of
just casually deciding things like that. Matt didn't, and it infuriated him
that Foggy thought that Matt's thoughts on morals made any real difference or
actually mattered.

It was like asking him what he felt about some other free-person issue—who the
president ought to be, for example. It made no difference what he thought
because he couldn't vote or campaign or do anything about it one way or
another, and refusing to see that helplessness was just nasty.

So when Foggy ate and asked him, "Hey, so what did you think?" Matt didn't say
what he really thought, that it was a very strange delusion, that people didn't
much care about what their throne was made out of as long as it didn't smell
too rank.

Instead he regurgitated some bullshit about how it was a very lovely concept,
echoed back to Foggy the shredded origami doctrine of the enthusiastic consent
gobbledygook, and kept his real thoughts to himself, instead carving out a
strategy to change the conversation.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from Anne Boyer's "what resembles the grave but
     isn't", here: http://anneboyer.tumblr.com/post/48690531600/what-
     resembles-the-grave-but-isnt
***** so I don’t have to worry my pretty little head about it *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Foggy changed the topic after Matt's confirmed that he understood the concept
of enthusiastic consent, and has probably gotten that Foggy doesn't want him to
feel obligated.

Instead, Foggy broaches a different conversational topic.

"So, you liked those German fairy tales? Which one's your favorite?"

Foggy was determined to plow through the awkward this time, connect better with
Matt.

Matt tilted his head, and said quietly, "I very much like Schneewittchen."

That wasn't exactly the same thing as his favorite, but that was fine, Foggy
wouldn't push too hard. "I don't think I know it?"

"The Disney version is Snow White and the Seven Dwarves," Matt explained.
"Though the Disney version is also heavily bowdlerized and toothless, removing
many of the key elements to make it more palatable to overprotective white
upper-class families."

Foggy blinked. That wasn't just a real opinion, it was a real negative opinion.
Maybe the key to getting them was to ask about things he didn't know about?

"So how's it different from the Disney?"

Matt paused. "I could--tell you the whole story? It's easier to see the
differences like that."

"Sure, why not."

Matt had a really good storytelling voice, as it turned out, just like with
Foggy's baby cousin Isayeah. The story was gory and creepy and very, very
weird--eating your stepdaughter's liver and lungs? Strangling her with rainbow-
colored shoelaces? The servant just dropping the coffin?--but Matt clearly
enjoyed it, smiling as he pronounced, "The End" at the end.

"Not a happy ending?" Foggy poked, almost teasing.

Matt ducked his head and said, slowly, "No, Foggy. She was seven and he wanted
her corpse because it was beautiful in the coffin, not her. And now that she's
the consort--or the wife, or the future wife--of the prince, how's she going to
get out of the castle? And could she ever go home, even if the stepmother's
dead, her father's still there, quietly endorsing all the murder attempts. It's
not a very happy ending."

Foggy thought about it. "Huh, never thought of it that way."

Matt's lips twitched, narrowed, and then immediately his whole face relaxed
artificially. He said nothing, ate more.

Foggy thought more about the story, about how random and horrible it had seemed
to little Snow White. Did Matt think the whole world was as inexplicable and
treacherous? Did he see Foggy as the prince, the rescuer only in name, by
accident?

Or was that just reading too much into it? After all, Foggy thought bitterly to
himself, it wasn't like he had really rescued Matt. He still wasn't free.

Yet.

--

That night, as Matt slipped out of his bed to go kneel on the kitchen floor and
pinch himself and remember other important life lessons, he froze instead.

There were three people in the apartment.

He listened harder, and heard a man with three guns, a woman with two, and a
woman with just a knife.

Stupid people. They probably thought this was an easy mark for them, a college
kid.

They were idiots.

Matt remembered all his training, and sensed as hard as he could, listening and
feeling with one hand outstretched.

The space where the lamps were was hot; the light switches had been flipped
only in the kitchen. Matt nodded to himself. He got up and snuck slowly into
the hallway, ducking silently into the open bathroom and grabbing the bottle of
acne face wash Foggy kept, and the heavy shower chair in the other hand.

He opened the lid of the acne face wash carefully, silently.

He got closer and closer, listening, and then when one went to go start down
the hallway, he acted fast.

It was the gunless woman. He squirted the face wash into her face, startling
her, and hit her in the solar plexus with the chair, and then the knees. She
collapsed with a bony crunch and a scream.

Matt moved faster, flipping off the light and crouching.

The two other two went panicked almost right away, not used to victims fighting
back.

Matt moved like a shadow, unnoticed, and went for the man with the guns.

He jammed his thumbs in the man's eyes and threw him over the counter. Then he
grabbed the woman with the gun's hair and cinched her four times in fast
succession, yanking her face onto his knee, twisting his hip to make the kick
stronger. He smashed her jaw and nose and stunned her and dropped her, grabbed
one of the chef's knives, and went for the man with the gun.

The man was still screaming, his hands clutching his face, so Matt only held
the knife to his throat.

Foggy was still asleep, courtesy of his melatonin tablets. Matt flicked away
his irritation, cleared his throat, and called out, "Foggy! Wake up and call
911!"

Foggy jolted at his voice, and muttered, "Matt, what the fuck?"

"Foggy, call 911!" He shouted again. Any future punishment was worth it.

Foggy did, and Matt was distracted by the woman with the guns getting up to
come over and try to fight him. He stood up and very quickly stabbed the man in
each wrist, disabling them, and pressed his foot on the man's throat, then
threw the knife at her.

He missed--she was still breathing--but it had scraped along her broken jaw,
and he could smell the bone peeking out from the split skin.

"Move again and I'll fucking crush his throat," Matt snarled, adrenaline making
him feel like a force of nature. "Then I'll break your neck."

The woman reeled back, and said dumbly, "But--you're a slave, there's just a
law school kid and a slave here--"

Matt's face curled in pure hatred. He hated being underestimated. He drew
himself up.

"I'm slave number 556682394441," he hissed. "Have fun trying to look me up from
prison."

The woman's eyes were huge. "We won't go to prison! We'll probably be enslaved
and put in a cornfield chain gang and dead in five months!"

"Not my fucking problem," and oh the sheer angry insolence felt so good, like
opiates after his appendix removal surgery.

"I--we can't, you know how bad it is to be enslaved!"

Matt was pitiless. "You should have thought of that before you tried to fucking
kill me and my owner."

"We weren't here to kill anyone! We were just going to rob you!"

That was a lie. He leeched all the heat out of his face.

Foggy was in the room now, he realized. "Don't lie to me, I can hear it."

Foggy seemed surprised at that. Matt kept his focus on her, the only one of
them able to be a threat. The other woman was crying in the background about
her knees.

The woman gulped, and said, "I--look, okay, we weren't going to kill anyone,"
and that was half-true, "We just wanted some fun after we got what we came for,
it wouldn't've hurt at all, seriously."

Matt was even less impressed at that. "I am not in the habit of letting people
who are not my owner or who don't have my owner's permission use me," he said,
cold and imperious.

She started to whine incoherently, breaking down, and Matt heard the sirens.

"Matt, are you okay--"

And that's when the cops came.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from "Shooter" by Jan Beatty, here: http://
     fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/83340316144/trigger-warning-sexual-assault-
     abuse
***** like I’ll put on blue pajamas and blow you to smithereens if you cry the
wrong number of tears *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Foggy almost jumped as four cops came in and shouted immediately at Matt, "DOWN
ON THE GROUND, HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD!"

Matt, of course, instantly obeyed, his face flat as he lay on the ground
besides what Foggy could see now was a guy, with his hands clutching his face,
covered in blood.

"Sir, is this your slave?"

Foggy focused. He needed to be present and aware to help Matt and himself out.
"Yeah, that's Matt."

The cops moved from pointing their guns at Matt, and Foggy's heartbeat stopped
skipping so fast.

The cops moved, talking to each other, identifying the three robbers--home
invaders? Attempted rapists?--and cuffing them.

"Jesus," one muttered to her partner. "I hope like hell he's got the stamp, or
else this fucking slave is getting put down for sure."

Foggy felt terrified, but knew what to do. "I've got the papers, he's got it,
don't worry," he said, opening the kitchen drawer where he kept them and
yanking them out.

One of the other cops, an older woman, came over and started to look through
them. On page five, listing legal permissions, she found the stamp that slaves
who were trained and legally permitted to defend their owner's home and self
with violence, and called it to the three other cops.

"It's got the stamp," she said. "Don't bag him then."

"Doesn't CSU need to take samples?" One of them called back, a young guy, the
one who had spoken up earlier.

"They do," she called back, and turned to Foggy. "Sir, CSU will get here in
about five minutes, they'll need to take pictures, swabs, evidence off your
slave. They'll also need to take pictures and evidence from this entire
apartment, and we'll need your statement and your slave's as well."

Foggy nodded. "Yeah," he said.

"Sir, are you hurt?"

He shook his head. "I'm fine, Matt's the one who would have been injured,
except he got there faster than they did."

She scrutinized him. "Matt, huh," she said. "You call 556682394441 by the use-
name all the time then?"

Foggy abruptly felt a very new sensation. It was like anger that he was used
to, but cold.

"I call Matt by his name like I would any other person," he said instead, voice
going cold, like the way air sucked out of your lungs in winter.

She stared at him and shrugged. "Alright, let's get your statement while the
EMTs get these poor bastards."

The EMTs had gotten there and were getting the three home invaders out on
stretchers, each accompanied by a cop. So it was just Foggy, the cop talking to
him, and Matt left.

Foggy looked at her and fished around for pen and paper. "What's your name and
badge number?" he asked. It was a good idea to take a note of these things.

She glared at him, and then sighed and said, "This is Officer Kim David, badge
number 181818-31311. State your name."

Foggy stared back at her. "Franklin Edward Nelson," he said coolly, feeling
like he'd felt only rarely before, like he was confident he could handle her.

Foggy had not been in many serious crisis situations, but in a couple he'd felt
like this. The time Candace had cut her eye when they were home alone. The time
one of their neighbors had been pounding on the door, screaming about something
crazy, and Foggy was babysitting the baby cousins there. The time with the
eggnog fire.

"Alright, give me your account of what happened."

Foggy took a deep breath. "I went to bed and everything was normal," he said.
"I woke up about ten minutes ago because I heard Matt yelling--"

"Just to double-check, you heard slave number 556682394441 yelling?"

"Yes, I heard Matt yelling for me to call 911. Matt's--" and Foggy had to put
this just right, just like writing a paper, nothing else, he rationalized to
himself, it didn't mean anything else- "Extremely good, so if he was yelling in
the middle of the night at me to go call 911, it was real. So I got up and
called 911 and then once the operator told me the cops were on their way, I got
out of my room and went to go make sure Matt was also fine."

"So it's out of the ordinary for slave number 556682394441 to shout?"

What the hell relevance did that have to the situation? "Yes. I've never heard
Matt yell before."

It had freaked him the fuck out, actually. Foggy didn't want to imagine what
could make Matt actually scream.

He looked over to try to get Matt in his sight-line again and stared at the
smears of blood on the floor, the way Matt's hands had something gooey on the
thumbs. He couldn't stop staring for a minute.

"So you didn't directly order him to use violence to defend your home?"

Oh, Foggy could see that trap coming. "I ordered him when I first got him to
use whatever skills he had to help out in any way in an emergency situation,
including physical self-defense and defense of me," he said, despite the fact
that he had never said anything like that. They couldn't exactly verify against
him, because Foggy lived alone with Matt, who would, Foggy knew, 100% back him
up.

The cop gave him a piercing stare. Foggy stared back. He could and would fight
her like this all night if he had to. This was for Matt, who had protected him.
Now it was Foggy's turn.

The crime scene unit got there thirty seconds later and immediately started
traipsing around. One of them roughly yanked up Matt by the hair to his feet,
not even talking at him to get up, and Foggy stood up out of the chair he's
unconsciously settled into and snapped, "Don't fucking hurt him."

The technician turned to look at Foggy and dropped her hand out of Matt's hair.
Matt looked...like a very flexible statue. Foggy realized that maybe this was
Matt's way of coping when he was scared and went over to make it better.

"Look, you need to get photos and swabs, I understand that," and Foggy was glad
he had the rhetorical skills to pull this off, thank god for his eleventh-grade
English teacher, "But you don't need to hurt Matt over that, seriously."

"Sir, we have no real reason to believe that your slave would obey any order
from us," one of them, a tiny mousy guy with huge ears piped in. "And besides,
who cares? It's just a little bit of hair."

Foggy stared at him, trying to summon up the expression he had seen Rosalind
use on an intern who made a sexist joke around her. The intern had cried as she
fired him.

The guy sighed and rolled his eyes, and Foggy took control of the situation a
little more. "Matt, pose however they tell you, okay? And don't interfere with
them taking samples or whatever. This will be over soon."

"Yes, Foggy," Matt murmured, his voice so expressionless it might as well have
been from one of his text-to-speech programs. Foggy wanted to yell at the cops
and make them get out but he knew that that wouldn't help at all.

One of the techs actually reached towards his belt for a shock baton and Foggy
said, angrier than he'd felt before, "What the fuck, no."

The tech looked at Foggy. Foggy stared back.

The tech sighed and went back to snapping at Matt to move there, and there, and
like that, and not there.

The three techs on Matt moved like army ants, and before Foggy knew it all Matt
had to do was give a statement and they could go to a hotel for the night.
Foggy went to go grab the quickest bag to pack for him and Matt; he threw in a
couple pairs of clothes, pajamas, one of the new blankets for Matt, and their
law school things, and went back into the kitchen to see that they had already
started questioning Matt, who was kneeling on the floor, now naked.

Foggy stared--he realized that they had to take off his clothes and bag them
for evidence, but not giving Matt any new ones? He put the bag down, turned
around, and hastily went for sweatpants and a t-shirt and one of Matt's
hoodies.

When he came back out, the older female cop was almost growling something at
Matt. Foggy caught the tail end of a "and you know that if this was even the
tiniest bit illegitimate, we will find out--"

Foggy decided to intervene. "Is that all the questions you have, officer?"

The officer's eyes went narrow and cold. "Don't leave town, and it's best to
stay in a hotel for a few days in case we need to come back," she said,
standing up. "And be careful with that slave. He's class-M, they need a firmer
hand than you're giving."

Foggy watched her and the rest of the techs finally leave, feeling a swell of
stone-cold fury in his veins. How dare they treat Matt like that. He'd never
really liked the police before, but now he could see why people hated them.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from "Parable of the Supervillain" by Ada
     Hoffman, here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/127803089643/dont-
     think-i-didnt-watch-the-news-sister-of
***** he understands now. he is a spiced wound. *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Foggy stood, Matt could tell he was angry, and then once the cops left he
immediately pushed something--fabric, clothes, clothes Matt recognized--into
his hands.

Matt obeyed the implicit order immediately, pulling the clothes on, trying to
use his thumbs as little as possible. They still had vitreous humor on them.

He felt faint and flying, still adrenaline-high. The police were far more
frightening than the three would-be thieves had been, after all. The police
could have killed him, after all.

It wasn't likely that they would, not after they'd seen the stamp, not while
Foggy was right there. But sometimes cops snapped and killed slaves, even
expensive ones. Police destruction of property was a serious issue in New York,
after all.

Matt's heart was still thudding fast, almost as fast as Foggy's, as he stood
back up once he was dressed.

"Come on, I called a cab, we'll get to a hotel and get away from this blood,"
Foggy babbled. He sounded very distressed. Matt leaned close to him as they
walked out of the apartment, locking it behind them, to try to siphon some of
it off--if Foggy liked hugging as much as he did (and he did) then he probably
liked other close physical contact--and it worked.

Matt realized once they were properly outside that Foggy hadn't gotten him
shoes, and his socks would be soaked in five seconds from the drizzle outside.
He shrugged to himself; they would be in a hotel soon, and there was a sub-zero
chance that Foggy would have him sleep outside of it, not after he had panicked
at the way the cops had handled Matt.

Matt remembered the words Matt's extremely good and smiled to himself, a
pleasant warmth in his stomach from the praise. He loved praise, it made life
worth living, it really did.

The cab came very quickly, and they got in, Matt ducking his head to hide any
remaining blood splatter on it. The techs had swabbed most of it off, roughly,
but he wasn't sure if any was still visible.

He twitched at the fresh memory of the crime scene techs. Matt did not enjoy
being handled that roughly, or absently, at all. They weren't his owner and he
hadn't done a thing to deserve any punishment, except possibly getting the
amount of blood he had on Foggy's floor.

Matt ran through the ways he knew of to clean blood from linoleum and other
floors while Foggy hugged him close through the ride, breathing like he was
still scared.

--

Matt seemed very quiet to Foggy, and he held him close. He couldn't stand the
thought of losing Matt, of him getting put down, as the cop had put it. Foggy
tried to plan ahead, think of what he would tell his dad, oh god what was he
going to tell Anna about this, if he could go straight back to classes on
Monday.

The first fucking weekend of law school and Matt had a gigantic freakout, Foggy
punished him like a real slaveowner, and their house got fucking invaded and
Matt almost shocked or taken away by cops. It seemed cosmically unfair to
Foggy.

He didn't let himself think about telling his parents or Candace about this,
and instead tried to think of what to do once they were actually at the hotel.
He felt strange all over.

"Hey, Matt, how do you feel?"

Just at that moment, Foggy's stomach growled, and Foggy was too surprised at it
to really register what Matt said for a second.

"You sound hungry," Matt remarked, voice soft and submissive. "Carbohydrate-
heavy foods cause an insulin spike that dulls stress responses, Foggy."

Foggy stared at him, and then realized that Matt was telling him to eat some
comfort food and calm down.

Oh. Matt probably hated Foggy to be as jumpy and upset as he was. Fuck.

Foggy took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. Okay, room service,
he could afford that, his emergencies fund was actually pretty large since he'd
ignored Rosalind's extra money with Matt to buy things like a cage or more
'slave accessories'. Matt's collar hadn't even cost much, because it wasn't
engraved or anything.

They got to one of the nicer little hotels--a Hilton, out of the Kitchen but
honestly, what the fuck ever, Foggy just wanted to get into a warm, safe room
with Matt and lie down and possibly eat. He checked in, his hands starting to
shake from the adrenaline comedown, the hotel clerk glancing at Matt, who was
hiding his face by kneeling next to Foggy.

Foggy didn't have the energy to tell him to stand up, and besides, he was
starting to wonder if the whole 'cringing slave' act in public was something
worth trying to help Matt not do anymore. After all, it was Matt's utter
submissiveness that had helped them with the cops. That, and Foggy's ability to
lie on the spot, which seemed to be better than he had thought.

He got them a room with a single double-bed, too frazzled to realize it until
he opened the door to it. He sighed and Matt put the single large duffel down
on the floor, carefully, and then Foggy walked over to the bed and lay flat,
ready to sob or something.

"Should I order food, Foggy?"

Foggy turned his head to look at Matt, who had closed and locked the door and
was kneeling at the floor next to the bed.

"What?"

"You sound hungry, Foggy, eating will make you feel better," and Foggy realized
he was falling down if Matt thought he had to take care of Foggy after all that
cop bullshit.

Foggy sat up painfully and said, "Okay, and then, oh god that's still blood on
your face, you're sure you're okay?"

Matt nodded. "It's not my blood, Foggy, I'm fine, I didn't get injured."

Foggy blinked. "Can you walk me through what happened tomorrow? And tell me
what that asshole cop was saying? But right now, uh, you look like that's
uncomfortable, why don't you, uh, shower?"

Matt nodded and reached for the phone, and Foggy realized what he had forgotten
to say. "No, no, that's okay, I got that, seriously that drying blood looks
itchy."

Matt nodded again and went to go shower. Foggy took several deep breaths and
made himself order fries and two burgers with all the toppings, and a salad too
because Matt seemed to like those, not explaining that it wasn't all for him.
If he heard anyone asked with a politely baffled tone why he was wasting extra
money on a slave like that he would actually lose it.

Matt showered and came out, in a towel, and knelt back on the floor. Foggy
fished out a pair of pajamas he'd packed and gave them to Matt, who was halfway
through buttoning up the shirt when the room service came.

Fortunately for both of them, Matt knelt immediately and paused, so it looked
like he was getting undressed for Foggy. The waiter person pushed the cart in,
leered at Matt, and said in the doorway, "A good night to you, sir, I hope you
are serviced well--"

Foggy slammed the door in his face.

Then Foggy said, "You're probably kinda hungry too," and Matt took the hint and
sat on the floor next to Foggy in the chair, cross-legged, and ate.

Foggy was too tired to feel his usual intense discomfort at Matt sitting lower
than him like he belonged there. Matt was in no way Foggy's inferior.

After four bites of the burger he couldn't eat any more and put it down
instead.

"Assholes," he muttered absently. "Fucking fuck those assholes. Asshole cop and
asshole techs. Fuck. 'Oh noooo, your slaaaaave protected you, oh nooo you
should have a firrrrmer haaaaand'. Fuck her."

Matt added in-between bites, voice sounding genuinely offended, "I am better
trained than that."

Foggy couldn't help it, he laughed at the absurdity and tragedy of the entire
situation. "Yeah, Matt," he gasped out. "You probably are. Fuck."

Something from that thing that Matt had sent him a while back flashed through
his mind. Praise actually does feel nice as long as it's not super
condescending.

Matt probably felt just as scared and fucked-up as Foggy right now, more so, so
Foggy went to the bag and pulled out the blanket, wrapping Matt in it once he
was done eating.

Matt's hands came up, holding it around himself, a small smile on his face.
Foggy said, "Dude, I hope you know, you did a really good job, okay? Like I
seriously couldn't have defended myself anywhere near that well. You aren't
even hurt. That shit was fucking amazing," and he hugged Matt and broke one of
his self-imposed guidelines and kissed him too.

Thankfully Matt seemed to be okay with that, kissing Foggy back.

"Thank you, Foggy," he said, wrapping the blanket tighter around himself. "I'm
glad my skills are of use to you. I have always enjoyed the chance to protect
my owners," and he reached out and kissed Foggy's right hand.

Foggy didn't react to it, didn't let himself think about the picture Matt made.

"Ugh, we should probably lie down, if not sleep," because Foggy didn't know if
he'd ever be sleeping again, jesus fuck.

Matt nodded and rose, then asked delicately, "Same bed, Foggy?"

Foggy was too wrung-out to cry, though he wanted to at that question. "Yeah,
come here, cuddle party," and he and Matt got under the covers, Matt still with
the blanket holding him, a barrier between them.

Foggy drifted off in a haze, thinking vaguely to himself, I shouldn't've kissed
Matt.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also taken from "The Telling" by Jeanann Verlee.
***** as for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off. *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt lay in the bed, not letting himself sleep yet. He knew he had to catch at
least two or so hours, but he didn't want to be unconscious for this part.

Instead he lay there, enjoying his reward, turning it over and over in his
head. Foggy had hugged him close, pulled him to cuddle in the bed, but it felt
good now, not like Matt was racking up and higher and higher debt. It was a
reward, not a mind game, this time.

He shifted minutely, loving the blanket against his skin. It was very, very
soft, and he'd earned this. He thought about it over and over again, turning
Foggy's words over in his head like touching a coin. You did a good job. I
couldn't have defended myself anywhere near that well. That shit was fucking
amazing.

The kiss, too, was nice. Kissing was..not as nauseating as sex was most of the
time. Matt had gotten to the point where sex didn't make him anywhere near
queasy enough for it to show, but he still felt touches of it, like knots in
embroidery thread. Kissing was better, sweeter. Foggy tasted of his food and he
smelled like fear and sweat but not much else. It wasn't bad at all.

Matt thought about the rewards--warm clothing after the cops had had him strip,
he had been nervous but Foggy had said, he had said Pose however they tell you,
okay? And don't interfere with them taking samples or whatever, and Matt had
obeyed, and Foggy hadn't let them shock him. In fact, Foggy had been angry over
how Matt had been touched. He thought about the female cop's words and
dismissed them; his papers and his stamp and his bodyguarding and home-
protecting training were all perfectly legitimate, and every single auction
house and previous owner would verify that. None of them had had complains
about his owner-defense skills.

And now Matt had gotten food, including a salad, and a blanket, and a shower.
He did hate the way the vitreous humor had started to smell on his hands, but
in the shower he'd scrubbed over himself enough times that his skin tingled and
he smelled like nothing else but hotel bodywash. They all smelled exactly the
same, somehow, and not like their purported scents.

Matt had gotten praise and earned touch and material good things. This was so
straightforwardly a reward. What a relief.

He had gotten use of his owner's bed, too, which was something Matt had missed
since he had been given to Foggy. He had thought that maybe he'd be allowed to
once they moved into the apartment, but it had two twin beds, not one large
one, and Matt had resigned himself to not being good enough for Foggy.

Matt thought about it more. Maybe he had been too harsh in his initial judgment
of Foggy. After all, this weekend he'd been punished and gotten to kneel in
public (not stand, knees weakening with fear) and rewarded for doing an actual
important task, and Foggy had shown he could keep a cool head in a crisis.

Things were getting better. It was clear then, to Matt, that what Foggy really
had needed was a while to get used to Matt, and start to think of ways to use
him. After all, the Nelsons hadn't had any slaves, so why would Foggy
understand how to make him most useful?

Matt resolved to gently help coax Foggy into more normal behavior. It wouldn't
be too difficult, he didn't think. By Christmas he might even get a kneeling
pad like a good, normal, well-used slave.

He made plans then, starting with how to help Foggy be more comfortable in
expressing his other facets of his sexuality. Perhaps Foggy would want to do
the blanket-and-soup fantasy today, to unwind a little more. Matt could
probably pretend to be cold-then-hot like a real fever, even shiver. He could
mumble and seem more helpless, have limp limbs, huddle into pillows or blankets
or the floor, and Matt could most certainly open his mouth and close it around
spoonfuls of soup. He'd done it with semen, he could do it with Campbell's.

And the other promising start seemed to be with the exercise fetish, too. Maybe
Matt could ask Foggy if he could go to the gym? Or perhaps Matt could time his
morning yoga a little differently, do it in front of Foggy? Matt could do a lot
of things with that. What a great way to solve two problems at once: Matt
should train more for more future situations like last night, and then Foggy
would use him more acceptably.

Owners' sexuality was always a thing that took a lot of teasing out. Matt
thought to himself that he really was getting better at being Matt-for-Foggy,
not just Matt in and of himself. It had been difficult at the beginning, he had
floundered and been ignored for a very long time, and for Matt that was much,
much worse than most other punishments, but for whatever reason Foggy had
stopped punishing Matt for failing to anticipate and adapt to him once Matt had
cried.

What if Foggy liked Matt crying? Matt couldn't remember if he had been hard
when that breakdown had happened. He could test it out again, maybe, if he had
a good enough backup plan in place.

Foggy started to shift and Matt realized he'd missed his window of sleep. Oh
well. He could handle very minor sleep deprivation like that.

Foggy yawned and said, "Matt, Matt," and Matt realized he was talking in his
sleep, not waking up.

"Foggy?" he whispered back, keeping his eyes shut.

"Matt," and this was very clearly sleep-talking, "Matt, fuck, don't be scared,"
and Foggy turned over, smacked his lips, and said incoherently "The ducks
aren't coming for you," and fell back into silent sleep.

Matt lay there, puzzling it out. Obviously the ducks were just a dream, but if
Foggy was worried for him, Matt would find ways to appease that. Reassure Foggy
once he woke that Matt didn't mind the fight--had fucking loved it, in fact--
and had calmed from from the police.

Matt would not be an inconvenience. He refused.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from Anne Sexton's "For My Lover, Returning To
     His Wife", here: http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/
     index.php?date=2001/09/13
***** it’s the smiling tires me out the most *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Foggy woke up feeling approximately ninety-nine percent better than he had last
night, felt Matt in his arms, still cocooned in the blanket, and realized that
he had kissed Matt.

Oh shit.

Foggy tried to think of ways to ask Matt if he liked it, if he cared, if Foggy
owed him an apology, but none came to mind. How was he supposed to apologize to
a guy who thought that Foggy had the right to do whatever he wanted to him?

Fuck, fuck, fuck, this was why Foggy had vowed to not kiss or grope or do
anything to Matt that Matt didn't initiate. Fuck.

Matt seemed to pick up on his panic, shifting awake slowly, murmuring, "Good
morning, Foggy."

Foggy swallowed a scream of I didn't mean to and said back, "Good morning. How
are you?"

"Clean," Matt said, and Foggy didn't quite know what to make of that, "and
warm, Foggy."

Well, that was...some sort of coded message.

Mat added, "Thank you for the blanket and food, Foggy," and his face looked
genuinely happy at them. Foggy felt a little sick at the thanking him for food;
of course he'd feed Matt, he would never starve him.

Not deliberately, anyway.

Foggy got up slowly and realized that he probably should get all the fear sweat
off, and went to go shower.

When he got back, dressing in the bathroom, brushing his teeth to get the acid
stench out, Matt was completely in the same position he'd left him in. Foggy
took a second to admire how cute Matt looked in the blanket, his face unguarded
for once, mouth in a small smile. He almost wanted to take a picture and remind
himself that Matt wasn't actually some strange suffering character in a play,
but a real person.

A real person Foggy needed to apologize to.

Foggy took a deep breath and sat down near Matt. Matt's head tilted very
slightly in the way that Foggy had realized meant that he was listening hard.

"I'm sorry for kissing you," Foggy said. "I was, okay it's an excuse but I was
tired and felt crazy and I still have a lot to do, fuck, I have to call my dad
and tell him or else he will literally never let it go, but I seriously should
not have kissed you, okay, and I'm sorry about that. I don't--I don't want to
pressure you to do anything you don't want to do in any way. That's what I've
been trying to say and maybe I should have just said it upfront. I don't want
to pressure or coerce or do anything to you that you don't want done to you,
okay, that's what I've been trying to tell you, Matt."

Matt's face did something that was gone too fast for Foggy to interpret, and
then Matt nodded very slightly.

But then Matt licked his lips and said, gracefully somehow, "I don't mind being
kissed, Foggy," and then he ducked his head and murmured quieter, "I like it."

Oh, thank god. Foggy didn't know how to cope with the idea he had made Matt do
things he didn't want to, hurt him with kissing, or oh fuck even worse, sex.

"Okay," he said, relieved. "Thank fuck. But you can still tell me no, and I
won't be offended or upset. Sometimes you just want everyone to fuck off,
right?"

Matt did not respond to that, eyes looking a little wild, then.

He made himself take some deep breaths and focus on what they needed to do.
Foggy was still unclear on what the hell Matt had done last night in terms of
the fight.

"So can you tell me what actually happened--what you did? I missed the police
statement."

Matt nodded and fluidly sat up. How the hell he made everything look pretty,
Foggy didn't know.

"I first noted the presence of three home invaders when I woke up to--"

Matt hesitated just a fraction of a second, and smoothly continued, "To remind
myself of necessary truths of life, and then I listened more and formulated a
plan.

"I could feel that the light in the kitchen was on, by the warmth, but not the
other lights. I went out of the bedroom and grabbed your acne face wash,
because it had the harshest chemicals for the easily avaliable toiletries that
I could use as a weapon, and the shower chair, because it's heavy and metal and
unlikely to bend.

"Then I sensed the woman without a gun--she had only a knife--coming towards
the bedroom, closest to you, and I surprised her by squirting the face wash in
her face--I apologize, Foggy, for using it without permission--and then I hit
her in the solar plexus to disable her long enough for me to hit her in the
knees. Since I broke them both, and she fell to the ground and did not have any
ranged weapons, I went to go get the others before I lost the element of
surprise entirely.

"I then turned off the kitchen light, as it was likely they were sighted and
thus startled by and disoriented in the dark, and since the man had three guns
and had the weight and height advantage on me, I went for him first. I pushed
my thumbs into his eyes and wrenched that to throw him over the counter, and
then I cinched the woman with the gun by her hair--"

Foggy's jaw-dropped confusion escalated, and he made a noise, because then Matt
clarified, "I held her by her hair and yanked her head onto my knee kicks. I
cinched her four times and since I could hear her jaw and nose fracturing, I
then moved to the man with one of the kitchen knives--I apologize for getting
vitreous humor on it, Foggy--"

Foggy made another noise of awestruck curiosity, and Matt quickly explained,
"Vitreous humor is the substance in the eyeball that is between the lens and
the retina in vertebrates, and it got on my thumbs when I pushed them into the
man's eyes. I apologize, Foggy, I will clean them off if I am allowed--"

Foggy refused to let Matt feel bad about any of this, because it was scaring
him and turning him on and leaving him kind of in awe. "No, go on, what next?"

"Then since the man on the floor was groaning and clutching his face, I held
the knife to his throat, and I called to wake you up--I apologize for using
commanding syntax, Foggy.

"However, the woman with the gun then recovered enough to try to rush me, so I
stabbed the man in the wrists to ensure that he would stay down and not try to
get any of the guns, stood up and stepped on his throat with some weight so
that I could press down and crush his esophagus if necessary, and I threw the
knife.

"I missed her jugular, but I did manage to snag her jaw, and the bone split out
from the skin, I could smell it. I then threatened her to force her to stop
what she was doing, and I believe that's when you came in?"

Foggy blinked and shook himself. "So you straight-up took them down, without
getting hurt at all, once?"

Matt nodded.

"Holy shit," he blurted out, "That's badass and terrifying and awesome, jesus,
wow," and then because his body hated him, his mouth and vocal cords kept
going, "and also kinda hot."

Matt's face did something interesting at that. Foggy licked his lips and
remembered that he had forgotten chapstick.

"So, okay, what did the cop say to you?"

Matt said, now sounding offended at her, "She informed me that my account of
events was unbelievable because it was extremely improbable that a 'broke law
school idiot' would own such a well-trained bodyguard slave, and accused me of
augmenting my papers, and threatened me if any of the stamps or qualifications
were revealed as illegitimate, that she and her colleagues would undoubtedly do
something horrible to me," and Matt rolled his eyes, like he couldn't bring
himself to do something as undignified as be scared of rape and/or death
threats.

Foggy sat back, stunned. Then he said, amazed at how dumb he'd acted before, "I
have really misjudged you. You are fucking epic, Matt, you know that?" and he
leaned forward to kiss Matt again.

Matt's mouth kissed him back, but there was something not all there in his
eyes.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also taken from Margaret Atwood's "Helen of Troy Does
     Countertop Dancing".
***** he said she said and though she never said it, she nodded *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt was still stunned by the apology.

It had never happened to him before, not like this. An owner had once or twice
given him a nice reward the next morning, or an unearned treat, as a sort of
apology if they did something while they were drunk or high, or if he had bled
a lot.

But an owner giving him a very explicit, deep apology like that? Matt didn't
know what to make of it.

He tried to analogize it to other situations, and the closest he could think of
was how he and Mistress Sharon's pet had apologized to each other sometimes
without prompting--mostly by nuzzling the other one's foot with their cheek, or
by a little touch. Mistress Sharon's pet was not to be talked to, Mistress
Sharon had ordered Matt, so instead of words, they had communicated other ways.

Matt had sometimes been apologized to by other slaves as well, usually if they
had made some mistake that he had been punished for. But the more he tried to
puzzle it out, the more fear clenched and coalesced into a lead weight in his
stomach.

Foggy really, truly, deeply believed that it was wrong for Matt to not like the
sex they had, and apparently this extended to kissing.

Thankfully Matt had managed to convince Foggy that he enjoyed the kissing,
which wasn't actually a lie. Kisses were pleasant if they didn't have too much
saliva or teeth and were earned.

Matt breathed in and out slowly, listening to Foggy as he hastily went to go
call his parents, formulating a plan. Foggy had seemed to like Matt enjoying
the blanket, and he had definitely been aroused by Matt's recounting of the
defense he'd mounted--and how well he'd performed.

Well, it did make sense--if Foggy liked Matt to pretend-dominate him, he would
enjoy reminders of how strong physically Matt was. He thought and thought and
managed to come up with a way to ask Foggy for permission to train at a gym and
coax--or seduce, really--Foggy into indulging whatever it was that would
satisfy his exercise-slash-violence fetish.

Maybe Foggy would want to touch Matt's muscles, or have him do more exercises
shirtless or naked, or have Matt flex, or make him stay in stress positions,
praising him for long he was still and strong and untrembling?

Matt could do all that. Now that he was starting to properly understand Foggy,
like figuring out every ingredient in a mixed drink, sip by sip, he could do so
muchmore for him. Matt hated being wasteful and useless.

Foggy paced the room, exasperatedly telling his parents that no, no, everything
was fine, they need not show up this week or even tomorrow, no Anna I'm not
hurt, nobody got hurt, Matt took care of it before anyone had a chance to hurt
me, oh my God Dad I will see you all this weekend anyway for Candace's
birthday, hey Candace, yes I'm fine, everyone can stop worrying now, and then
he hung up.

He paced even more, and Matt shifted a little on the bed, hoping to catch his
eye.

"Matt?"

His opening, then. Matt made sure his eyes looked half-lidded, his body in a
pleasantly revealing position, the blanket just tickling the beginnings of the
hairs that led from his navel to his cock. "Foggy, I want to ask you permission
for something," he said, and let his tongue touch his lips and ask softly, with
that little bit of pleading to sweeten the waters, "May I please train more
often, for future situations that may arise in the future?"

Foggy seemed...a little taken off guard, but then his face curled into a smile,
Matt heard it, and then he said brightly, "Yeah, Matt, of course, whatever the
closest gym is I'll get you a membership or whatever, remind me to look that up
later."

Matt noted that down and smiled gratefully. "Thank you, Foggy," he said.

Foggy smelled more aroused, then the air around his face heated, and Matt
realized his owner was blushing.

How strangely, bizarrely adorable and yet terrifying--emotionally insecure
owners were more violent, but it was...cute. Was Foggy shy?

Matt resolved to be even more submissive, yet gently confident, help Foggy
overcome whatever shyness he felt to use Matt properly as he was made to be
used. If his owner was happy, Matt could be happy, and right then and there
that was all he wanted.

Foggy then blurted abruptly, "Hey, um, you should totally get dressed too," and
Matt rose to gracefully obey.

As he smoothly stripped, only a little teasing, remembering the specifics of
how to take off shirt, pants, socks while showing skin in the right ways (You
want to hint at nakedness, half-disguise it so as it highlight it, make them
want to rip you open, his trainer's voice echoing), he made sure to not hide
his small smile at how much better everything was now that certain important
things had happened.

His first proper punishment, his first proper important task, his first real,
earned reward. It was almost like Foggy hadn't really been his owner, his
legitimate owner, before this weekend.

Well now that he was, Matt pushed away the philosophical question and began
puzzling at long-term strategies as he awaited his next order. Devyn was still
a problem, and Matt might have to work so very hard to get forbidden from
interacting with him, but it would be worth it, whatever Foggy wanted.

Matt dressed himself, his now-soothing mask-for-Foggy altered to fit better,
the hem taken in, and pulled on last.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from Jeanann Verlee's 'The Believer', here: http:
     //fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/112064125943/the-believer
***** a fish hook. an open eye. *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Foggy realized around lunchtime that he and Matt had been studying and had
completely forgotten eat breakfast, which was possibly why he kept reading the
same sentence over and over again.
Well, that was an easily fixable problem. They could get more room service, and
then go back to the apartment after food. That was fine. Foggy could deal with
the bloodstains, probably, now that he was really, truly convinced that Matt
and him were okay.
And Matt seemed to be coming more out of his shell now, which was great. Foggy
hadn't ever actually liked Matt seeming distressed, but as time went on and he
started to get tiny glimpses of what kind of a person Matt really was, he hated
it even more. He just wanted to give Matt the world.
Oh, fuck. The last time he had thought that was about his childhood girlfriend.
Oh, oh fuck.
Foggy's eyes went huge as he realized with a horrified gasp that he was
starting to fall in love with Matt.
No, no, no that would be--no, he couldn't, that would be horrible for Matt,
jesus christ, that was just--it was out of bounds, it was wrong--
Was it?
Foggy forced himself to calm down a bit more and think. Was he more or less
likely to hurt Matt now that he was falling in love with him?
Well, considering that Matt was much calmer and offered more opinions lately,
maybe he was actually less likely to hurt Matt now. But all the same, Foggy
knew he had to be careful. This wasn't like a normal relationship. Matt
couldn't break up or dump him or walk away. Matt had no real escape routes.
Matt had no legal rights, and if Foggy let himself get jealous or petty or
cruel with heartbreak, nobody would protect Matt.
Jesus Christ. So Foggy would have to monitor himself closely, and compromise
even more. He'd have to try to equalize things as much as possible, and notput
any pressure on Matt to fall in love back. He would have to be watchful as
shit, and make sure things didn't get out of hand.
And, maybe...it was a horrible thought, but maybe Foggy could find some back-up
person in his family that could help 'rent' Matt out from him to do laundry or
something, if Matt needed space away from him that Foggy couldn't give him.
And Foggy would have to find someone to talk about this with. Anna, definitely.
His dad, as much as Foggy loved him, was actually completely shit at romantic
matters. After all, he'd gotten married to, had a kid with, and divorced
Rosalind in the space of eighteen months, most of which he spent in a drugged
haze.
(Dad was very ashamed of his past, but he didn't sugarcoat it for Anna, which
was how Foggy and Candace found out, listening to them in the closet under the
stairs to their bedroom.)
And when he and Anna had been dating, Dad had floundered there too, trying to
tell her basic things--I like you, I care about you, I could fall in love with
you--and utterly fucking it up. There were mountains of stories of how much his
dad was terrible at romance.
Come to think of it, Foggy had done something pretty similar with Matt--the
whole 'letting Matt take charge' the first time during sex sounded an awful lot
like how Dad had never kissed Anna first until they were married ten years.
Foggy chewed his lip. He needed to see if Matt had liked the way that they'd
had sex those couple of times, or what Matt's triggers were, so he didn't trip
them up or hurt him. After all the shit Matt had gone through, he deserved so,
so much better than that.
--
Matt had come up with two possible things to delicately try to refuse to
satisfy Foggy's moral axiom of enthusiastic consent by the time he had finished
studying. Multitasking came easily to him; his senses demanded it in order to
make sense of the world.
First, he might be able to gently push away a blowjob. He didn't like them at
all, not with Foggy's lack of technique and his lack of earning any orgasms
anyway, and he could stammer out or hint at some form of teeth-based incident
if necessary.
Matt didn't even understand how it was that Foggy wanted to give him one in the
first place, but then again, he didn't understand how it was that anyone liked
sex at all, given how the very best sex Matt had had was like washing dishes:
you did it for the end result, the sensation of satisfaction at having
completed an important task.
Second, and this was one was a risk but it might really be worth taking it, he
could ask (or nudge at, or let the mask take) for permission to wait at least
an hour before having sex in the morning. Sex on an empty stomach was genuinely
more painful than otherwise and he didn't like the low-level anxiety from being
mussed and improperly-prepared-looking. Matt preferred time to make sure he was
first presentable, at the very minimum.
He was both reading the Torts introductory text with his hands and chewing on
the inside of his cheek absently, trying to figure out a third viable thing,
when Foggy gasped.
Matt's head whipped around and he listened hard, thoughts of Torts banished.
Foggy sounded surprised and not exactly happy, but then without saying
anything, his breathing calmed down and he seemed to go back to normal, and
then Foggy stood up abruptly.
"Did you--let's get some lunch, I'm starving."
Matt pointedly did not twitch with annoyance at that. Starving was being
chained to a bed for so long you tried to eat the chain. Starving was only five
blueberries a day for two weeks. Foggy did not know what it meant to starve,
just as all those irritating free people who talked about justice and
oppression in their law classes didn't have any clue what oppression was.
Matt nodded.
"What do you want?"
Matt blinked--choose a thing an owner isn't disgusted by but will let you eat,
the simplest solution--and said, quietly, "Could I maybe have another one of
those salads, Foggy?"
"Yeah, no problem," and Foggy got that and one for himself too.
The salad was crunchy and delicious, with walnuts and flaked almonds and
sunflower seeds, raddichio and carrot and neatly halved cherry tomatoes. The
vinagrette was also good, and Matt shivered with pleasure as he ate. The memory
of hunger made food that much better.
He vowed to tonight try sex again with Foggy, after reminding him of the gym,
and to say I'd rather not or hunch over or pretend to be much more untrained
and distressed or very noticeably flinch at something.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title from Margaret Atwood's 'You Fit Into Me', here: http://
     fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/123133810522/warning-disturbing-violent-
     imagery
***** exploited, they’d say. yes, any way you cut it, but I’ve a choice of how
*****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt ate like more pornographically than other people had sex, Foggy thought to
himself as he himself munched down. It was like every single thing that he did
was designed to make Foggy's dick and life as hard as possible.

But then they got their things and were heading out to get home, and that's
when Foggy noticed Matt wasn't wearing any shoes.

"Hey, where did your shoes go?" he said, frowning, looking under the beds. Did
they get kicked off in there? That didn't sound like Matt...

Matt answered, "You didn't give me any shoes, Foggy."

And then Foggy stood up, a low jolt of fear in his spine. He hadn't...but
hadn't he?

He looked at Matt's feet, and then he thought about how it had been rainy
enough for the streets to shine with slick last night, and how cold and wet
were Matt's feet?

"I--dude, fuck, okay no," because that was completely unacceptable, Foggy knew
he wasn't responsible enough for a fucking cat, much less Matt, he hated that
he kept fucking everything up, "Okay, in the future, if we're ever going
anywhere, make sure you have shoes, and, and," and now he was being bombarded
by images of Matt dead from allergic reaction or starvation or something, "And,
like, that applies to everything--if something's going to be unpleasant or hurt
you or something and I didn't notice, just tell me, okay? Or even if you just
don't like what music I put on or would rather not be dragged to the Nelson
Clan Events or something, seriously, I never meant to make you walk around at
night with wet socks."

Matt chewed on his lip for a second, and Foggy saw a flash of blood on his
tongue, crimson against pink and his dick twitched with interest, and then Matt
said, "Of course, Foggy, I'll remind you."

Good. Good. At least that was taken care of.

"Shit, though, you need shoes," Foggy said, thinking. Did cabs have a shirt-
shoes-service policy? This was kind of out of the way.

"Of course, Foggy," but now Foggy thinks maybe Matt disagrees with him, so he
asks, "Wait, but do you think you need shoes?"

--

Matt's torn--on the one hand, the proper answer would be of course, (owner's
title here), you decide what I need and do not need, please punish me how you
see fit for my insolence in implying you did not but on the other hand, the
mask wouldn't say that and Foggy wants the mask, not him--so Matt throws the
dice and says, carefully, "Many slaves do not wear shoes quite yet at this time
of year, and it will take only about fifteen minutes total of walking on the
ground itself outside."

He waits, tense, but then Foggy nods and takes the answer, and Matt notes that
sometimes giving a different spin on an owner-reassurance slash affirmation of
dominance was appreciated.

They go home without much trouble--one of the cab drivers grumbles that he
doesn't want a fucking lobot in his cab, and Foggy fumes for a minute but when
Matt displays no reaction (as he shouldn't, the cab driver is not someone whose
opinion his owner shares), he calms.

They get home and then Foggy stands over the bloodstains, frowning, saying,
"Shit, how am I gonna clean this?"

Matt blinks. Why would--was he going to be punished or used so severely he
couldn't clean the floors? But, no, instead Matt offered up, "I can clean out
bloodstains without any residue, Foggy," hoping Foggy would take the bait.

"You're sure, Matt?"

Of course he was sure, cleaning wasn't that difficult, not compared to Russian
poetry or physics. Physics was very, very annoying, because at first you
thought it would be easy from how much calculus was involved and calculus was
like kneeling on a cushion, it was ridiculously, pleasantly simple, but instead
physics required a certain intuition or innate understanding of itself, and
Matt simply didn't possess it, so it was difficult. He'd slogged through the
class for his degree by bruteforcing the numbers and memorizing hundreds of
facts, but he didn't like it.

Matt realized he'd convinced Foggy and was now cleaning the floor. If he was
spacing out like that involuntarily then he really needed to help his brain
stay in shape. He resolved to kneel on the floor or some hard object, and
remind himself of the truths that night.

--

After dinner, Matt quietly reminded Foggy to look up the closest gyms in the
area, and Foggy did. He wrote it down to tell Matt about tomorrow; they weren't
open on Sunday at this time of day, anyway, from what he could tell by Yelp.

Then Matt kissed him. It wasn't a normal kiss, it was some kind of swooning
movie-star kiss that made Foggy's knees weak, and Foggy kissed back. God, Matt
had been pretty into it, he thought, the other times, but this was like a whole
new animal, Matt was so much more active.

Foggy reached up through the kissing to tug on Matt's collar, to take it off,
and Matt went frozen like a deer who had spotted a car, his eyes huge and
terrified.

"Matt?" he asked, not quite sure what was wrong. Surely if Foggy gave him
permission to take it off, it wasn't the same thing that had freaked out Matt
so badly?

Matt said, voice like broken glass, "I--I d-don't like that, Foggy."

Oh. Oh. Oh, hell. Foggy dropped his hand then, and didn't think about why Matt
didn't like it. "Okay," he said, and kissed Matt to try to reassure him. "Then
I'll just not touch it at all."

As Matt kissed him and reached down under his jeans to jerk him off, Foggy
wondered vaguely if there had been some kind of weird choking trauma in the
past, or if Matt's torturers had played some kind of mind game with him,
telling him to take off the collar and beating him for doing it, or for not.

But Matt's fingers were so skillful around his dick, that Foggy moaned and
forgot all about it. "Shit, shit, Matt," he said. "Shit, that feels good," and
he came pretty quickly.

Foggy moved to return the favor, and Matt's eyes kept tight shut while Foggy
blew him.

--

Ten seconds, ten seconds, Matt chanted in his head, summoning Summer's voice,
holding down his broken fingers. Anything can endure anything for ten seconds.

Count down from ten while I do this, and her twisting them too, the bone
breaking skin.

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one,and then Matt
breathed as Foggy kept putting his disgusting mouth on him, and started it up
again in German, then Russian, then French, then Spanish, then Japanese, and
then Greek, all the while using the muscles trick to ejaculate as fast as
possible and get it over with, and halfway through counting down from ten in
Farsi his cock finally came and softened.

Thank God. He couldn't refuse two things in a night, and he hated the blowjob
and how wrong it felt, but in retrospect he would have chosen to not have the
collar off over not having to pretend to enjoy that parody of using a slave,
because with the collar off he probably couldn't pretend to enjoy anything just
yet.

Foggy kissed him and he kissed back, and Foggy went to bed.

Matt did as well, but waited, faking a doze. Once Foggy was asleep enough, he
slipped out, found a small package of bobby pins, and pushed them partially
upright in-between the bleach-and-baking-soda-and-coca-cola-smelling linoleum
tiles in the kitchen, and he stripped and knelt on the hard, icy floor, his
hands resting on the pins' capped heads.

It would hurt and not show any damage.

He closed his eyes and picked a mantra. He could choose from so many, but he'd
forgotten lately the most the utility of pain, why it was good for slaves, so
he chose All pain is a lesson, and all lessons can make me better as he ached.

He whispered it out loud, and his senses began to prickle and hurt as he went
along, focusing on just the collar (tightened extra so he could really feel it
like he ought to, like he needed to, like some humiliatingly poorly trained
baby slave) and then just on the nakedness and then just on the heat and hurt
in his knees and hands, all of which were their own forms of pain.

All pain is a lesson, and all lessons make you better and he remembered every
bit of pain, whips and nail polish in his wounds and Mistress Sharon slapping
him in the face and then sitting on it and Master Pendergrass snapping his
tibia and femur and Summer twisting his broken fingers so he could experience a
compound fracture in the safety of their home and Winter not letting him sleep
until they extended his period of functioning from sleep deprivation to at
least past three measly days and being choked with a belt and terrified of
brain damage and Master Robert pushing a wine bottle inside of him, even with
the gallons of lube he used it hurt, and hearing Charlotte die and every other
piece of pain.

He felt it and he felt it and he felt it until it turned sweet.

The pain of this hurt more and more, the ache building, but as Matt whispered
the truths so quiet only he could hear, the pain eventually crested, the
curdling chemicals in his blood and brain became endorphins, and Matt
remembered another truth, that punishment became reward, that pain became its
own pleasure, the ourboros of being a slave, the way that everything ate
itself.

He felt low pulsing hot bliss from his aching knees, and a sweet comforting hug
from the collar, and bright sparks of rustling agony from his hands and smiled,
and said only seven more times aloud, “All pain is a lesson and all lessons can
make me better,” because that was what he needed then.

And if his owner wanted him to take care of it alone he would, and then he got
up, put away the bobby pins, ate three strawberries, you must ensure that your
brain stays rewired to enjoy obedience, savoring every bite, and slipped into
his own bed, silent as a shadow.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also taken from Margaret Atwood's "Helen of Troy Does
     Countertop Dancing".
***** milk teeth *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
The rest of the week seemed to go pretty well to Foggy.

Matt threw himself into law school with a kind of fury that surprised him; Matt
had not seemed enthusiastic or even particularly willing to actually go, but
now that he was here, he worked like his life depended on it.

Then again, Foggy mused darkly, he might think his life really did depend on
it.

Foggy himself buckled down and focused, and pretty soon it was Friday, and
Foggy was going to guide Matt over to that German class he didn't have with
Foggy. He knew Matt could get there just fine, but he had a nagging feeling
that something was wrong with that class, and he knew that if there was, Matt
wouldn't just tell him because he'd think it would piss Foggy off or something.

He took a deep breath as he stopped and Matt went inside, and one of the other
people in there caught his eye.

A guy with a septum ring and brightly dyed green and yellow hair, trying to
talk to Matt, who looked like he'd rather walk into traffic.

Fuck, was some asshole harassing Matt? Or worse, raping him?

Foggy's hands clenched into fists. He'd already failed Matt in so many ways, he
wouldn't fail to protect or help him out in this. He would skip class, or leave
early, or something, and wait to see what this guy did to Matt when he wasn't
around.

As it turned out, it was 'relentlessly hit on Matt while Matt tried to edge
himself out of the conversation'. Matt looked like one of those deer around a
very large wolf, knowing that if it ran all it would do was get the wolf
excited, and absolutely unable to fight back.

--

"We need to strategize about this," Foggy said firmly, in the tiny study room
he and Matt were seated in. "I think we should come up with a backup plan for
dealing with this asshole, because sometimes they don't just go away on their
own."

Matt looked nervous as hell, chewing on his lip. He'd already apologized for
'inconveniencing Foggy' and asked to please be punished in any way Foggy saw
fit, to which Foggy had replied that it was not his fault this guy--Devyn,
apparently, which was a douchey name if he ever heard one--was hitting on him.

Now Matt looked still like a dog expecting a kick, but then he took a deep
breath and said, softly, "I believe I have something that may work, Foggy."

"Let's hear it," said Foggy, who in the waiting period had pulled up a google
doc and titled it 'how to get this motherfucker away from Matt'.

"If you were to give me the privilege of not being allowed to speak to him, it
might bore him sufficiently for him to stop, Foggy," Matt said, and then more
twitchily, "Of course, I understand that I have not yet earned that privilege--
"

Foggy couldn't let him go on. "What are you talking about? I--look, Matt, it's
like getting you a collar, if you need it then I'll try to help you get it,
even if it's something I don't like. You have rights as a person."

Matt's face twitched again, and that incredibly fleeting look of disbelief
surfaced and fell back under without a splash. "Thank you, Foggy," he murmured.

"It's not--you don't have to thank me for not being a complete asshole to you
all the time," because Foggy had accidentally been an asshole to Matt over the
whole 'not giving him shoes' thing, and in retrospect trying his damndest to
ignore Matt because he was uncomfortable around him to the point where Matt had
a crying breakdown was very, very cruel. Foggy vowed to do nothing like it
again.

Matt looked like he had no idea what scripted answer to give to that, so Foggy
wrote down Matt's suggestion, feeling sick but pushing through it, 'possibly
order matt to not talk to him???'.

Matt licked his lips and looked like he wanted to say something and wasn't
going to, so Foggy prompted him gently, "Yeah, Matt?"

"I--if you were to order me to not speak to him, if I were to earn the
privilege, I--it might be a good idea to also have written proof of such
orders, as your reputation is rather liberal and otherwise it may not be
believed."

Was it just Foggy's imagination, or did Matt sound faintly disapproving of
Foggy being 'rather liberal'? He shook it off and wrote that down as well.

"Okay, we could also try rational conversation like adults first," he said, and
put it at the top of the list, and then sat back and thought. "Any other
suggestions? The more back-up plans, the better, I know this shit from when
Candace was getting harassed in high school."

Matt looked indecisive again, and Foggy wondered out loud, "Would the professor
care, can we take it to the administration, or campus--no, we can't go to the
cops, that's a stupid idea," because if the way that those fucking piece of
shit cops and techs had treated Matt for defending Foggy and his home was any
normal thing for them, cops were absolute fuckheads who could not be trusted
with his safety.

But Matt said, "I believe Dr Qasim may intervene, Foggy, if we phrase it
correctly. She is very...she disapproves strongly of any perceived mistreatment
of slaves, enough to eject multiple students from the class."

"Seriously?" Foggy asked, a grin spreading over his face. He loved it when
there were decent people on their side.

"She has so far permanently banned five students from taking this class or any
class taught by her ever again for what he thinks of as discrimination against
slaves, and two for other forms of discrimination."

Foggy sucked his teeth. Damn, that was harsh, but it sounded like she was at
least effective. "She sounds like a good go-to person if this all gets any
worse, or any more serious."

Foggy thought about it more, and then told Matt, "Any by any more serious, I
mean touching you, trying to get you in a locked room alone, doing anything
even creepier--anything, seriously, he had this look on his face like you were
his lady and he was a medieval knight straight out of The Art of Courtly Love,
it was creepy."

Matt's face twitched in contempt. "I will not allow him to damage, harm, steal
or otherwise use your property, Foggy," he said, sounding offended a the
thought.

Foggy breathed out slowly. God, Matt was like one of those house-elves that
refused to be freed in the Harry Potter books. It was frustrating, but at least
he didn't think this asshole's behaviour was acceptable, either.

"Oh, shit," he said as his phone rang. "We have to go if we're going to not be
late to Candace's party, and she will go off on us if we are," and they hurried
out.

--

Matt sat in the cab with Foggy on the way to his sister's birthday party,
trying to distract himself from worrying about the what-ifs.

(What if Foggy punished him or didn't ever allow him to not speak to Devyn any
more, what if Foggy lent him to his sister, what if the baby was there again
and Matt took off his collar again, what if it all went wrong and Matt was
confined the apartment all day, after the taste of law school he would be so
starved intellectually by comparison...)

Matt focused on calming down by alternating making plans for them (if the baby
was there and he was expected to take care of it, he would refrain from taking
off his collar, it was a simple enough task, he ought to be able to do it, if
Foggy lent him to his sister then he would perform well for her) and by
thinking about what he'd learned about Barely Legal on Monday when they'd
talked.

It'd studied him and tapped out, [You seem happier.]

[I've got my owner's sexual tastes better mapped out.]

A nod. [It makes life easier.]

[Yes. What we wants is a lot, and a very tiring performance, but now that I
improvised a bit, it's easier to fake the rest.]

[He wants you to play out one of those weird collar-ripper romance books?]

[What?]

[Like The Lady and her Master, the ones where the slave finds happiness and
freedom in being owned by their owner and comes to choose him or her over being
free? Similar to Fifty Shades of Grey, except she's free until the last part of
the first book, where she finds out she likes playing a slave so much that she
actually surrenders herself into it and is bought by the asshole who
manipulated her?]

Now that sounded intriguing. Matt would have to read it now. He'd love to see
how they could possibly make surrendering yourself into slavery sound romantic.

[Not quite. He likes me to pretend I'm one of those slaves in the slaves-
dominating-their-owners stories.]

[The ones banned in thirteen states for obscenity?]

[Yes.]

[Wow, he's a pervert. Good luck.]

[Thanks.]

[Now you look gloomy. Did you want to hear how I lost my tongue?]

[I would be amenable.]

[You're such a snob. Anyway, I was in training at the center, and in my first
week I'd already gotten a reputation for being hard to make do anything, so
they brought in this bigshot guy, Trainer Max Hardcore. You ever heard of him?]

[No.]

[It's probably because I ruined his career. Anyway, he had all these theories
that the best way to break a slave in was by forcing them to suck dicks until
they choked and puked and cried. So he had me restrained on a table, in front
of everyone, and shoved it in, holding my nose shut, and of course I was
starting to pass out. But my jaw can unhinge really wide, and I was panicking
enough to forget the smart strategy of pretending to break, so I unhinged my
jaw and bit down as hard as I could.]

Matt's hands flew up to his mouth, his eyes widening. [You didn't!]

[I did. It came OFF in my mouth,] it tapped the word 'off' louder.

Matt laughed at that in unison with it, doubled over, scandalized despite
himself and yet possessed by how irresistibly funny that was.

[They decided to cut out my tongue for that because clearly I wouldn't ever be
trainable enough for it to be useful to owners anyway.]

Matt shook his head, still laughing. God, that was one of the craziest things
he'd ever heard. It was a story that would haunt him and make him laugh for no
outside reason for the rest of his life.

[Oh fuck,] he tapped back. But then-- [Why do you have teeth then? Didn't they
knock those out too?]

[Yeah, but they were milk teeth.]

Matt pulled himself out of amused nostalgia, and followed Foggy up to the
party, the story having soothed him enough to merely feel tense with
anticipation, not frozen.
***** but why is desire suffering? *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Foggy's glad he remembered to grab Candace's present from upstairs as he gets
to their parent's home and rings the doorbell.

Candace has been taking a gap year for mental health reasons, and Foggy saw her
present by pure chance, so he's bouncing on his heels. He wants to see her face
when she opens it. Candace deserves to have some extra joy in her life.

Judging by the press of warm bodies as Foggy's Aunt Tinta opens the door and
shouts, "Foggy, and your friend, Matt the hero!" and they go in.

Matt looks baffled as Foggy's various relatives all start greeting him and
Foggy as "Foggy, my favorite nephew and his friend the hero!", offering to take
their coats. One of Foggy's sterner aunts takes Candace's present to the table,
and another of them emerges from the shove of warm bodies.

"Hey, she really liked you last time, hold her again," and it's his Aunt
Jillian, who's been having a hard time being a suddenly single mother after her
husband divorced her when she was eight months pregnant, handing Isayeah to
Matt.

Matt's face went from politely confused to soft and adoring as he held her
carefully, his lips softening and murmuring something in German to Foggy's
youngest cousin, who cooed and squealed happily. He said, eyes lowered, "Thank
you ma'am," sounding for all the world like she'd done something amazing for
him.

Foggy's heart melted inside his chest at how sweet and cherishing Matt looked,
and then Aunt Jillian said, cheerfully, "Okay, both of you, come into the
kitchen, your mother wants to give your friend something."

It's both nice and awkward, but it appears there's a family consensus that Matt
is no longer to be ignored as an elephant in the room, but to be addressed as
Foggy's friend. Nobody objects when Matt's so focused on the baby that he
barely has time to get out a "Hello, sir" or "Hello, ma'am" to every single
relative, including the baby cousins who grab at Foggy's hands and implore him
to come play.

Foggy has to tell them that their Aunt Anna wants Foggy in the kitchen, and
most of them groan in disappointment, but one, his new cousin Avril, says,
"Then can your friend Matt come play with us?"

Matt looked like he wouldn't object, but if Anna wanted to talk to both of them
and give Matt something then Foggy was not going to get derailed, so he told
them, "Maybe after your Aunt Anna's talked to us," and gently guides him along
as best he can with Matt's arms full.

Matt talked to the baby in more soft German the entire way there, picking and
maneuvering himself carefully, bending his back and body over Isayeah, making
sure nothing bumped her.

Foggy realized suddenly that maybe he could talk to Aunt Jillian and get some
sort of part-time nannying-renting thing for her and Matt, since Matt was so
good at it and looked unreservedly happy.

They played floor tetris all the way to the kitchen, where Anna immediately
hugged Foggy, followed by Dad and then Candace.

"Where's Matt?" she shouts, and Matt comes forward awkwardly.

"Here, ma'am."

"Nothing like that," Anna says, and then, "You saved my son, you made sure he
was safe, you can call me Anna like any other friend of Foggy's, you got that?"
and she kisses his cheeks, and hands him a gift bag. "This is for you, for
proving wrong our first impressions. You really are a lovely person."

Matt seems stunned silent as Dad also claps him on the back and says, "Good job
protecting my son."

Candace comes forward too, wearing a periwinkle dress with sewn-in bits of
embroidery on the edges that look like ivy, and says to Matt, "We are all
really glad that you kept Foggy safe. I don't know what I would do without my
big brother," and she gives him a side hug, mindful of the baby.

Matt says, voice full of some emotion, "Thank you so much, ma--Anna, and ma'am
and sir," and then Candace and Dad both tell Matt to call them by their names
too.

Foggy feels suddenly so much better about possibly keeping Matt around as long
as Matt wanted to stay there. It had been so awkward and weird before, but now
that the ice's broken, it wouldn't be horrible at all to have Matt live with
him there.

Foggy tears up a bit. He's just suddenly so glad he has a real family who he
didn't have to properly protect Matt from.

"You seem pretty good with her," Dad says to Matt.

"Thank you, Edward," he murmurs, adjusting his grip minutely. Isayeah makes a
confused noise and grabs at his face. He tells her something in German and she
cooes back.

"Anyway," Candace says. "Dinner's a free-for-all, and then cake's in half an
hour, and after cake is presents, and then the baby cousins will be evacuated
back by seven thirty."

Foggy nods. "Okay, Matt, let's--actually, do you want to sit in the living room
and let me grab you food? I don't think you can really hold a plate and
Isayeah."

Matt says, shifting Isayeah to sit on his hip, "I could, Foggy."

Just then Avril shouts something about snow leopards from the living room, and
Foggy shrugs and says, "Or maybe somewhere else."

"Aunt Tinta and Uncle Yancy are in the front room," Candace says. It's actually
part of the stockroom when it's not a party occasion. "There's at least two
seats there open."

"Thanks, Candycane," Foggy says, and hugs her and Anna and Dad, and then tells
Matt, "Let me show you the way there, it's a madhouse, and then we should
totally eat, my stomach is like Chewbacca down here."

Matt follows and when Foggy doesn't have to actually order him into the chair,
he's curious enough to tilt his head.

Matt explains, "Sitting on the floor would put her--the baby's--head too low
down. Easier to hit," and he cradles her head safely against his chest.

Foggy feels full of affection, and goes and gets them both food.

Matt doesn't eat a whole ton, but he keeps up a steady conversation with
Isayeah the whole time, appearing to actually listen to her cooing and
occasional shrieks.

"Doch," he says at one point after a shriek. "Doch, Sie sind das Beste," and
rocks her in the chair.

Aunt Tinta and Uncle Yancy and a couple other uncles and aunts all are in their
fifteen conversations, but every now and then one flashes Matt a smile and
looks at Foggy.

It's actually fun. And when the cake comes around, Matt gets a slice of
cheesecake too, and he seems to actually like it as he eats it.

Foggy fights his way back to the main room as Candace opens her presents, and
so he gets to see her open up his present and scream with delight.

It's a complete set of all the Sandman books in fancy binding.

"FOGGY," she howls over the din of everyone else oooh'ing over it, "YOU ARE THE
BEST BIG BROTHER EVER!"

She says it every year, but still, it's the greatest.

Foggy gets Matt when it's time to go because he really can't stay any longer or
he'll end up sleeping here like his too-drunk-to-drive relatives, and finds
Aunt Jillian taking a picture of Matt and Isayeah.

She's sleeping on his chest, her face against his 'Columbia Law' shirt.

Foggy suddenly feels like he's been struck by lightning. What he wants now more
than ever is for Matt to have everything, to get to have his own kids and
cottage somwhere and a law degree and all the cheesecakes on the earth, a whole
strawberry farm of his own. To never look like he's resigned himself to the
fact that he's going to be hurt again.

But for now, Foggy concentrates on what he can do, so after he and Matt get
home, he tells Matt that he should totally have some strawberries while Foggy
has an apple and they study some more.

Matt's smile at each bite makes the tiny flush of guilt from the order fade
away.

And then before they sleep, Foggy remembers the gift bag, and tells Matt to get
it out, and it's a sweater.

"It's really dark gray," he tells Matt, who's feeling it and its braided cables
all over. "It looks pretty good on you, dude. And it matches everything, so you
could wear it all winter if you wanted."

Matt looks like he does every now and then when Foggy gets up in the middle of
the night from his (treated) sleep disorder. Peaceful.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from Molly Peacock's "Why I Am Not A Buddhist",
     here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/53411629811/molly-peacock-why-
     i-am-not-a-buddhist
***** and what in the hell is everybody being reasonable about *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Foggy says the next morning, "Hey, Matt, I forgot to tell you, but the nearest
gym is Fogwell's, did you want to go over there today or--?"
Matt blinks and puts down his fork. Foggy wasn't lying, that much was clear.
But. Fogwell's.
His mouth opens and the mask says, "That would be great, thanks Foggy," as his
mind starts to curl up in a very small ball and muffle screams.
Fogwell's. Where he used to sit. With his dad.
His dad, who is dead.
He says, thinking like molasses, "Foggy, I think--could I please go on my own?"
and he's ready to beg, to do anything, because he can't quite go into Fogwell's
with an owner.
He could if it was that or die, that or be whipped. Maybe. But the idea made
him think about wanting to die, the way he had in the open market under the
summer sun, roasting slowly in that fucking metal mesh cage.
Sitting there. Rotting.
Matt forced himself to breathe, and Foggy said, "Sure, Matt."
--
He studies the rest of the day, thinking hard, and waiting until right when
he's sure nobody else will be there. He does not miss steps; he asks for
permission for a water bottle, keys to the apartment, a jacket, and finds his
shoes. He obtains the privilege of them all, and Foggy lends him his mp3 player
too, but Matt carefully puts it in his pocket.
He needs to be able to hear.
Walking to Fogwell's is like on broken glass with tissue-skin feet, but he goes
because that's what his owner wants, and in some way it's what he wants too, to
dig under scar tissue, see if some of the pus can be drained.
Maybe it won't be as bad as being whipped, or the first time being sold. The
day that Stick dropped him like trash.
Summer always said that the first time you understood what pain and fear really
were was the worst.
Matt went, and there was Fogwell himself.
"Matt Murdock," he said, sounding shocked. "I didn't even know if you were
still alive, Jesus."
Matt swallows. "Can I use it after hours?" he asks. He can't say the sir
itching in his sternum, he can't, he'll break, he'll shatter.
Fogwell says, "Jesus, kid, you look awful--and of course you can. I owe that
much to the son of Jack Murdock."
Matt says, "Thank you."
Fogwell gives him the key, and keeps the lights off, and walks out slowly like
people walk around very crazy people sometimes.
Matt feels very crazy.
He exercises, of course he does, that's what he's here to do, that's what will
be worth the pain. He trains and he trains and he thinks about his dad.
His dad, who is dead.
He finds one of the bags, and the extra wraps, and wraps his hands and hits.
In lieu of music, he thinks about a poem called Orphan.
He punches the bag.
I am orphan.
He punches it again, a cross this time.
I am collage of tragedy.
Again. It's not perfect.
I am ghost of myself.
It has to be perfect.
I am metal fatigue in hurricane.
He gets it right, but there is no-one to feed him a strawberry or pat his hair.
I am cautionary tale.
He goes for the other punches. The right uppercut.
I am tight rope trauma.
The left.
I am leper on the subway.
Liver shot.
It's not only because he's so expensive that nobody touches him unless it's for
them. Foggy does because he wants to touch Matt, and it's not so bad anymore.
I am hemorrhage.
Right hook.
I am eight day bruise.
He doesn't twist right. He does it again.
I am compound fracture.
It's not right.
I am spine tingle, stomach clench.
It's not right. He has to make it perfect before he can move on.
I am scar tissue.
He finally gets it right. Now, left hook.
I am grit your teeth.
And fucking smile through it.
I am chili powder in paper cut.
His knuckles will be bruised from how hard he's hitting it.
I am Molotov subtle.
He starts on kicks next.
I am fucking Krakatoa.
Cinch, left.
I am survivor's guilt.
He thinks about the way her jaw had snapped against his knee. How sweet it had
been, because she was going to use him.
I am still fucking here.
He thinks about his thumbs in the man's eyeballs, about and his friend Matt the
hero!
I am milk it for what it's worth.
They were so nice, the Nelsons. He's not sure what's changed, except now he's
useful, he's done something material for Foggy. Helped him. They were so full
of sweetness, they could even afford a little to him.
I am bad loser, worse mourner.
Head kicks next.
I am stained glass resilient.
Left, higher.
I am hushed whisper in pity fest.
The smell of the cages. Sometimes they didn't clean out the dead bodies until
morning.
I am sour like curdled breast milk.
Right, even higher, you can do better than that.
I am orphan.
Final one.
I am never going to be loved like that again.
And he's done with the bag.
He does the rest of it, and with every movement he thinks about his dad, who is
dead. Who cannot see him. Who doesn't know what Matt knows about suffering,
about pain. About death.
Who would not be proud of him.
Matt does pull-ups and his dad is dead. Matt does crunches and his dad is dead.
Matt does stretches and drinks water, and his dad is dead.
Matt gets this things to go back, and his dad is dead.
Matt leaves and locks up behind him, hiding the key where Fogwell said to--did
he say to? Matt can't quite remember--and his dad is dead.
But Fogwell's is there.
His dad is dead.
But Fogwell's is still there.
Matt heads home. His dad is dead. But not everything is lost.
 
Chapter End Notes
     The italicized 'I am' lines are from the poem "Orphan" by Catalina
     Ferro, here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/104691270512/fypoetry-
     catalina-ferros-orphan-trigger
     The chapter title comes from "Poem About My Rights" by June Jordan,
     here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/118541046765/poem-about-my-
     rights-june-jordan
***** all of our political actions are lies if we don’t make a commitment to
ending the practice of rape *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
When Matt gets back, Foggy blinks at the sight of him. At first what he sees is
Matt soaked in sweat, shirt and pants clinging to him, and it makes Foggy's
mouth water.

But then he glances at Matt's face and almost recoils, because it looks wrong.
The closest thing he's seen to it is the face that that saint makes in the
picture where she'd offering up her breasts on a plate. It's disturbing, and
agony, and never before has a growing erection faltered so quickly.

Matt says, voice robotic again, "Thank you, Foggy," and he puts his things away
and mechanically walks over to the shower.

Foggy hears him cry inside, and feels like he's somehow made a terrible
mistake, but when Matt gets out, all he says in response to "Are you okay?" is
"My dad is dead," and then he curls up and sleeps.

It's so completely different to anything else Matt has ever done that Foggy
can't even process it for an hour. But, jesus christ. He's not sure what's
wrong with Matt--did he only just find out?--, but he feels suddenly determined
to make it better.

--

Matt wakes the next morning and feels numb. He hasn't felt this blank and dead
in years upon years, not since he was first sold.

And even back then, it had taken him a month of rotting in the cage to truly
get to this way, a month of nobody speaking to him except during the roll-call
and the overseer snarling "Get out here so we can hose you,", a month of
absolutely nothing to think about except the crying slaves and the heat of the
cages and the smells of the ones that died at night and the way the buyers
wandered, picking out this or that one.

Matt hadn't been picked for long enough that he'd lost his fear of possible
owners, had snapped and called Winter a liar because he'd heard his heart skip.

In hindsight, it was the best choice of his life. It was what intrigued them
both, made Winter buy him.

But he can't even quite feel happy at the thought. Instead all he can think
with everything he does is dad is still dead. It's ridiculous, but he can't
quite snap himself out of it for hours, not until Foggy's sitting him down and
saying, "Hey, Matt, we need to go over how the whole 'rational conversation'
attempt at getting that asshole off your back is going to work."

Matt snaps to attention. "What do you want me to do, Foggy?"

Foggy takes a deep breath--is he displeased? Matt can't quite focus enough to
tell--and says, "I want you to tell him to meet us at the Melinda Mayfield
building, on Friday, in the eastmost alcove, twenty minutes after your class,
and then make a beeline for me, I'll be there so he can't have any plausible
deniability if he freaks or tries anything. Got it?"

"Yes, Foggy." Matt can remember.

"And--okay, you seem really upset about something, let me give you a hug," and
Foggy hugs him. It's strange how much Matt's distress bothers him. It occurs to
him that there might be a psychological disorder along those lines. Over-
empathy, maybe?

Matt doesn't react to it, and then Foggy says, "Also, here," and hands him one
of the blankets he keeps neatly stacked and folded at the foot of the bed.

Matt opens it and wraps it around himself, murmurs, "Thank you, Foggy", not
sure what he's being rewarded for--going to the gym? A belated reward?--and
then goes back to studying.

But he still doesn't feel like anything is real. Instead, all he can focus on
is that his dad is still dead, and will forever be.

--

The meeting is arranged with Devyn the next day. Matt's still weighed-down by
the grief all the week long, heavier and heavier, and he can't even muster the
extra emotion to feel annoyed that Devyn tells him that he totally doesn't have
to go.

Matt goes to Foggy on Friday and they walk to the building, and Foggy sets up
his phone and tells Matt, "I'm recording this whole conversation, just to be
sure, it uploads onto my google docs in real-time," and Matt feels a tiny
prickle of something at how thorough a plan this is. He's wanted Foggy to be
possessive of him and now that it's working, he at least feels some muted
pleasure.

"Thank you, Foggy," he says, and then Devyn arrives.

"So, Franklin Nelson," Devyn begins. "I hear you're the kind of patriarchal,
controlling, oppressive idiot who thinks I can be seriously scared off from
talking to my friends."

And at that and the constant emptiness where he should ache about his dad's
death, Matt hears a small snap in his chest and starts to laugh and then he
can't stop, cackling and giggling and howling, tears streaming out of his eyes.

"Oh," he finally wheezes out, hearing Foggy's concerned whisper of shit, Matt,
can you even breathe? after he finishes silently convulsing at the end, "Oh,
it's kind of breathtaking, how stupid you are."

Devyn startles. "What?"

"You think--you think--" and Matt struggles to not laugh again, "You think
we're friends? Because what, because you talk to me and I can't say no--"

"You totally could, you're just more interested than you think, I know how this
works! I have opened a book before! I watch Saving Grace!"

Matt tries to remember what Saving Grace is. Then when he does, he starts
helplessly laughing again. It's one of the most overblown, weepy pieces of
abolitionist propaganda from the 70s. Modern groups are ashamed of it. "I just-
-" he says, and snorts. "That's your basis on how to be kind to slaves? You're
hilarious."

Devyn's frowning, but Foggy's face isn't angry, so Matt continues. "You think
that because I can't say no to you, we're friends," and it's such a delicious
irony, he can't help but go on, "And you think--you think your guilt, your
stupid worthless guilt, you think I actually want to hear it, you think I care
about any of your utterly insignificant feelings--" and he giggles at that.

Devyn takes a step back, and then tries to grab hold of the conversation like a
well-oiled cat. "Look, I see what's going on here--"

"Clearly," and interrupting a free person is stupid but Foggy's starting to
like what Matt's doing, so he goes on, "Clearly, I see this better than you,
and I'm blind," and he laughs and gathers himself up and continues, "This isn't
just about your hopeless social incompetence, is it?"

Devyn flinches.

"This is about your entire worldview," and that rings true, "This is about your
fundamental self-conception. All your animal rights and want to join the
abolitionist group and--and-- all the monologues about this and that
oppression, as if you know anything about oppression-- it's all about how you
see yourself, how you want me to reflect back your view of yourself. Do you
think you're a good person?"

Devyn gives a tiny gasp. Matt's struck gold.

"You do," he says, grinning like a shark. "You aren't. You are an idiot," he
declares, embolded by Foggy's noise of shocked awe. "You are the kind of person
who thinks that their worthless feelings that will never matter and never make
any difference help any of us, that thinks they're apart from the system, who
goes to abolitionist rallies and then jacks off behind us on the subway so we
go home and get beaten for it, you are the kind of person that wants us broken
and bleeding so you can make it all better."

Devyn says, tiny, horrified, "No--no, I want to help destroy the system, I
want--"

"You're a part of it," Matt says, and relishes in the chance to do something
he's never done before: told a free person what the world is really like.
"You're as much a part of it as the people who never buy a slave but rent them
from your friends, or the people who buy us but feed us most of the time, or
the people who buy cinderellas and then re-enslave them at the end of their
midnight ball--"

And Matt didn't even realize he was thinking most of this, it's not
appropriate, he'll feel so horrified of himself later, but it's all echoing
inside him, the milk teeth, his dad's death, the mesh cage he was in, the
corpses, Charlotte being beaten to death, the skinless back of the child
whipped half to death for smiling when he was told to, the way an overseer had
tried to apologize to Matt after the beating he'd gotten, trying to calm down
Master Robert and save her.

Matt licks his lips and get control of himself and says, "None of your guilt
matters. It doesn't mean anything to me. You're not important. You are not my
white knight. All you are is another person who feeds the machine that grinds
us up and spits us out."

"That's not my fault," Devyn protests.

Matt says to him what he had wanted to say so badly to that overseer. "Everyone
tells themselves that, and that's why nothing will ever change."

Devyn starts to cry from that, and runs away, and Matt feels a rush of horror
and shame and fear, he's going to deserve to be whipped or have his legs broken
or be left in a silent room for a month for this, and despite floating on his
victory, he still gets on his knees in front of Foggy, and says because he
doesn't want to die, "I apologize--"

Foggy cuts him off. "I think that's the first time I've heard what you actually
think for longer than five seconds," and sounds awed. "Matt--don't apologize.
Actually, this sounds dumb, but. Thank you for showing me that. That was kind
of crazy awesome. You made that piece of shit run away crying, holy fuck."

Matt smiles and feels nothing other than full of glory. "Thank you, Foggy," and
he lowers his head to rest on Foggy's thigh, emboldened.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also comes from Andrea Dworkin's "I Want a Twenty-Four-
     Hour Truce During Which There Is No Rape".
***** birds born in a cage think flying is an illness *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Foggy didn't know quite how to react, except by one hand coming down and
touching Matt's face. Matt leaned into it and kissed his hand, slowly, sweetly,
like people kissed their lovers.

Foggy shivered. Something had just happened that was huge. He hadn't processed
everything Matt had said, but Foggy knew that that was the sound of Matt's true
voice, and it was vicious and determined and furious.

God, he was glad he had thought to record this. He was going to listen to it
over and over again until he understood every single thing Matt had said and
how all of it related to each other. He'd analyzed Judith Butler.
Comparatively, Matt's words would be easier on the surface, and way more
rewarding.

Then he realized that he was still sitting with Matt kneeling on the floor in
front of him, head lolling on his thigh, eyes half-lidded, and flushed with
embarassment at the picture they must be painting.

"Uh, let's--you know what, let's go home," Foggy said. He needed to ride this
momentum, understand Matt better now that he had already opened up in front of
him.

Matt murmured, sounding strangely relaxed, "We have class again in two hours."

Yeah, they did. "It's Torts, fuck it, I'll just get the powerpoint later,"
Foggy said. It wasn't as if the professor said anything beyond what was on
them, anyhow.

"Yes, Foggy," Matt said back in an exhale. He seemed pretty happy, and Foggy
understood why. It had to be a relief, finally speaking your mind.

They got up and got their things and started to go out, except that as they
passed one of the other alcoves closer to the front door, Foggy was startled by
a loud knocking.

There was a girl--a woman--a slave? She was wearing a small red leather collar-
-standing up, staring at Matt, knocking on the wall with one hand. She looked
concerned and angry, and shot Foggy a look that could have stripped paint.

"Oh," Matt murmured. "Foggy, may I?" and his hand was held delicately, fingers
slightly curled, near the wall.

"Sure," Foggy said, distracted, and then Matt's hand reached to the wall and
tapped back.

Foggy blinked and looked between them as she and Matt started to communicate
like that, tapping furiously. She looked at Matt for most of it, eyes full of
frustration. Something about her looked starved, even though she wasn't
actually skinny. Maybe something about her mouth, with peeling lips that she
kept firmly shut, or her arms, which had small ugly-looking knotted scars and
white dots of the same tissue up and down.

Were those cigarette burn scars?

After five or so minutes, Matt sighed and tapped something, and then she tossed
her head and glared at him. He tapped the same thing again, and her shoulders
slumped, and she breathed out and tapped something fast and short.

Matt tapped the same thing, and Foggy realized that must be the good-bye, so he
and Matt went.

--

Matt felt full of fog.

It was an odd feeling. He wasn't particularly frightened; if Foggy was taking
him home to punish him, which Matt no longer felt was likely, then it probably
wouldn't be anything too awful. Foggy had seemed pleased with what he'd done,
found his words crazy awesome. He had been sincere, and he had let Matt lie his
head on his leg like a well-trained slave.

But he probably looked dreamy, or not entirely with it, because Barely Legal
had demanded what Foggy had done or was going to do. Matt had told it that he
didn't know, but it didn't believe him that Foggy was pleased, and he'd only
managed to fend it off by promising to tell it all about it on Monday.

And he would, unless Foggy forbade him from speaking with it.

But then, as if Foggy had heard his fleeting thought, as they walked home,
Foggy guiding him, he said, "Who was--actually, no, you know what, I'm not
going to ask. Your friends, your business."

Oh. That was rather nice. Matt felt a glow from being trusted to stay within
appropriate boundaries like that. He resolved to be even better for Foggy.
Anyone who didn't punish him after saying things like that was an owner Matt
ought to be far more grateful to have.

It seemed as if his snapping--losing his temper, his composure, his control--
had actually rather worked in his favor.

This theory was reinforced by the fact that once they actually got home, Foggy
immediately put the strawberries out on the counter for Matt, and Matt took a
slightly bold step and ate some of them, slowly and happily.

Foggy said, after putting things down, spreading out his arms to hold his
weight against the countertop, "Matt, I just wanted to say--I'm glad you said
those things, because I want to know the real you, and that was the real you. I
can't seem to figure out who you are and what you actually think by myself, so
thanks for helping me. And if there's anything else you can bring yourself to
tell me about you that would give me more information about how you think, I'd
be really happy."

Matt tilted his head. Could he--? Well, he might as well, so he suggested
softly, "I could tell you about the methods of my trainer, Foggy, if you
believe that would better inform you."

Foggy said, sounding rather like someone who knew he wouldn't like what came
next but was so curious he couldn't help but go ahead anyways, "Why don't you
tell me about those, then."

Matt nodded and put down the strawberry he had picked up. "Well, they believed
in reward conditioning more than punishment conditioning," he began.

"What is--" Foggy cut himself off, but Matt was all too happy to elaborate.

"Punishment conditioning is a method of training that focuses on removing
positive and introducing negative stimuli in order to create a disincentive for
certain behaviours," Matt explained. "Many training centers use punishment
conditioning to attempt to remove certain behaviors, such as removing collars
or touching them. For example, a slave is shocked if it touches the collar, or
the blankets in its cage are removed. This creates a strong negative
association with touching its collar.

"Reward conditioning, however, focuses on introducing positive and removing
negative stimuli in order to provide incentives to perform certain behaviors.
For example, a slave is given a square of chocolate every time it kneels
without being told explicitly. This creates a strong positive association with
kneeling in anticipation of its owners' needs.

"My trainers--my first owner, Winter, and his slave Summer--believed very
strongly in reward conditioning. As she explained it to me, the human brain is
far more inclined to chase after rewards than to run away from pain or danger.
And in particular, my own stubbornness that allowed me to survive in the
Brooklyn open market was clearly a useful enough trait that attempting to
remove it via punishment conditioning would only degrade my ultimate value.

"And so at first, in good reward conditioning, there is a calibration of
rewards--a slave is given many different small foods to try, and they are
ranked on how good they taste, and how pleasant they are to eat. Then there are
which fabrics are most pleasant to touch, which musical or nature sounds are
most soothing, which forms of physical contact are the most satisfying, which
activities are the most enjoyable, and so on.

"Rewards must be calibrated accurately and specifically to control which
associations are made and why; if a reward is insufficiently reinforcing for a
behavior, the behavior is not reinforced enough, and if a reward is over-
generous for a behavior, the behavior is given a higher than required priority.

"For me, after calibration, I was then rewarded mostly via small fruits such as
strawberries and blackberries, and also via the addition of blankets and
softer, hooded sweatshirts. The first few lessons are simple obedience
reinforcement; I--may I demonstrate?"

Foggy's body was still. "Yeah, why not," Foggy said, voice sounding off.

Matt nodded. "Thank you, Foggy," and then he cleared his throat.

--

Matt's voice came out sounding like he was very clearly quoting what someone
had said to him before.

"Since kindness is far better a sculptor than cruelty, this is what I will be
using as my primary tool," and this was, Foggy knew, the voice of the short,
beautiful woman that had come over that morning after Matt broke down and
cried.

"Now of course pain has its own utility--all pain is a lesson, and all lessons
can make you better. But the problem with pain is that it's so imprecise; it
does not always teach the lesson it is meant to. So we will begin with basic
obedience training; if you obey the command, you will be rewarded. Now kneel--
" and Matt knelt on the floor, "with your hands behind your back, spine
straight, face pointed at the ceiling, fingers laced together, and be still. Do
not move your legs, your arms, your face, your mouth, your jaw, your torso. Be
still for thirty seconds."

Matt did, his whole body like a statue.

"Perfect. Now you get this," and one of his hands reached up and grabbed a
strawberry, and put it in his mouth. "Enjoy."

Matt's eyes fluttered shut as he ate it.

"Now again. Thirty-three seconds."

He repeated it, and then after the second strawberry, broke character to keep
explaining things to Foggy. "Then the next one is a different kneel, and more
and more progressively classically submissive poses, and with each you hold
each one for longer and longer, with better rewards as you go, and once you can
do all of those, you are taught the different ways to crawl, and to walk, and
then the different gestures--kissing an owner's hand, kissing an owner's feet,
kissing what an owner has held in front of you to kiss, and then more tasks--"

Foggy couldn't stand any more. "I think I get the picture," he said. The worst
part of this was that Matt wasn't upset about it. He wasn't recalling a sad
story or a horrifying experience. His tone was brisk and clinical and wistful,
like he wanted to be back there.

Foggy swallowed, and thought about what to say next, and opened his mouth.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title is a quote from Alejandro Jodorowsky.
***** protect me from what I want *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
What came out was him grabbing at this straw. "I--Matt, you said that, uh,
calibrating was important? Of rewards?"

Matt blinks and tilts his head and nods. "Yes, Foggy. It's crucial that all
stimuli introduced are positive and all stimuli removed are negative, or
unwanted associations are created and must be untangled and removed before
progress can be made."

He sounds like someone talking about teaching a dog to sit. Fuck. Foggy's going
to hate himself later, but he plows forward. "So if I asked you to--to make a
list of what was positive, and negative stimuli for you, the one you made would
be truthful? And what you really felt about it?"

Matt looks terrified for a second, and then his face smoothes itself back out,
but Foggy saw it and goes to correct it. "You don't have to put everything on
there, but could you make one? And have at least some things? And rank them
from most to least positive and negative?"

God, it's fucked up, but apparently Foggy's now speaking Matt's language,
because Matt says, "Of course, Foggy."

But he looks still faintly scared and confused, hiding under his facial
expression, so Foggy adds on, "I just--as far as I can tell, I don't know what
you like or don't like, what makes you happy and what doesn't, and I want to
know that, because I don't like you being unhappy or uncomfortable or in pain
in any way." He sounds like how he's heard Anna talk to her patients over the
phone sometimes.

Matt looks less confused now. "Thank you, Foggy," he says, and reaches to kiss
Foggy's hand, and Foggy realizes that for Matt that's somehow more sincere than
the words themselves, or a normal thank you.

Foggy takes a deep breath as Matt gets to work, and imagines what Anna would
say about this. Probably some sage thing like how different people are allowed
to like different things and it's not Foggy's job to decide which of those
things were inherently better, and some pointed note about how subjective
experiences could feelobjective but weren't.

He thinks and, while still guilty, arrives at the conclusion that if Matt puts
down that he likes things that Foggy doesn't want him to do--like kneeling, or
that collar--than he's just going to have to suck it up and deal with it.
Either Foggy Nelson was the kind of person who thought it was fine to dictate
someone else's preferences or he wasn't, and he wasn't.

--

Matt typed it all, desperately grateful for the loophole in Foggy's order. He
didn't have to put down everything, which meant he didn't have to shatter
Foggy's fantasy of him coming to love him. It would be fine.

But, on the other hand, if Foggy really started to use reward conditioning on
Matt, to help more directly shape him into what he wanted, then Matt knew he'd
come to adore him in his own way.

It wasn't love--he remembered what that was from when he was a person--but it
would have to be enough for Foggy.

Glad the itching weight of the mask was finally off, Matt wrote and wrote. He'd
put it in a Googledoc--he'd asked Foggy, and Foggy said as well, you can always
go back and reshuffle things and change your mind, I want to know the real you
and not a past you, so it seemed the optimal medium.

He edited it, shared it with Foggy, closed his eyes and let himself enjoy
kneeling on a couch cushion in the sunlight of the afternoon, skin singing like
hymns. Bad things might be coming. It was best to take pleasure where you
could.

--

Foggy made himself grab a ginger ale before he opened up the google doc link.
This would probably not be anything less than queasy-making.

Positive Stimuli, from most to least:

-being wrapped in the fleece blanket and allowed to sleep in Foggy's bed with
it
-holding Isayeah Nelson
-going to classes (apart from Torts)
-interacting with slave 3519781841181818
-being allowed to wear shoes and clothing in public
-strawberries
-the collar Foggy gave me
-eating food three times a day, to ordinary human portions
-sleeping eight hours or more a night
-being allowed to use a computer
-warm showers

Negative Stimuli, from least to most:

-having to stand up in public as opposed to kneeling
-tearing out fingernails
-interacting with Devyn

and Foggy cracks up there. It's amazing; Matt just made a joke, and one that
Foggy got.

Then, when he's not laughing, he continues. There's two more things on
'negative stimuli'.

-Unearned affection
-Being ignored
.

Foggy winces. But then he reads it over four more times, realizes two things.

First of all, some of the things he'd really want clarification on.

Second of all, sex wasn't on it yet, and Foggy had the sinking feeling that it
needed to be.

"Matt," he said, "This is really helpful, but, uh, I've got a couple of
questions."
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from Jenny Holzer's works.
***** you are unique at last *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt visibly tensed and then forced himself to relax.

Foggy went on, slowly, sitting on the floor--he needed to be on Matt's level
for this, and given that he apparently liked kneeling more than sitting, he
wasn't about to make him get up--with "I don't know what you mean by unearned
affection. Could you clarify for me, please?"

Matt blinked. "I meant affection that is not a reward for a task done
correctly--for example, you hug me very often, even when I have not done
anything, Foggy."

"What? I--okay, it's fine," because Matt looked scared for a second at that.
"No, Matt, seriously, uh, good job communicating with me, because I really
didn't realize that, and now I know, more data is good."

But--Matt didn't like being hugged? Or--jesus, how many times had Foggy touched
him in a way he couldn't escape and didn't like? Fuck.

"Can I ask--I thought you liked them, you seemed like you did."

Matt swallowed. "I had deduced that you wanted me to enjoy them, and fulfilling
and anticipating an owner's needs is an important task that all slaves must do
their best to fulfill, I apologize for overstepping, Foggy, please--"

No, he had to stop before it all went to hell again. "No, stop, it's fine,"
Foggy said. "But--stop doing that, okay? Start to be honest with me. If you
don't like something, say something, or, or I don't know, get my attention or
flinch or something, I'll get you like, I don't know, a ball and if you squeeze
it I'll know you don't like whatever it is that's happening, if you have
trouble saying the words."

"Yes, Foggy," Matt murmured, body relaxing at the order. Foggy breathed out and
desperately wanted to hug him right there and then and stopped and thought
more.

Matt had put down that he liked being wrapped in a fleece blanket, and so Foggy
went and got one, and put it around him firmly, and came up with how to justify
it to Matt so he would enjoy it.

"Uh, okay," he said as he did it. "Think of this as--as a reward for being
alive. I don't think it could have been easy for you, surviving all of this,"
and he made a vague gesture and then realized that he had just expected the
blind guy to understand his vague gesture and winced, "I mean, surviving being
enslaved and all of your previous...owners," and not torturers, because Foggy
had the distinct feeling that Matt would feel obligated to defend them, and he
had to keep the focus on what he wanted communicated. "And I'm really, really
glad that you're alive and keep being alive, so think of anything that's nice
and you can't figure out what it's a reward for as a reward for being alive,
okay?"

Matt nodded, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "Thank you, Foggy," he said,
and kissed Foggy's hand.

It was starting to feel normal.

But kissing his hand reminded him of the way Matt had mentioned kissing what an
owner has held in front of you to kiss as a task that he was trained to do, and
probably there was some Kama Sutra-esque category system for kisses and how to
get them exactly right, and it all coalesced into an ugly lead weight in
Foggy's stomach.

He didn't think Matt had actually enjoyed kissing him, or sex, and Foggy
absolutely had to know.

"So, for the next question, I really, really want you to answer honestly, even
if it scares you," and Matt looked alarmed at that, "Because it's really
important to me, I've been trying to say that, and I need to know, Matt, this
is a safety thing," because rape really wasn't safe.

Foggy took a deep breath, and said as calmly as he could make it, "Where would
you put having sex with me on the list of stimuli?"

Matt gave an aborted flinch. Foggy knew he needed to coax it out more. "All
that will happen if you put it on negative is that I'll stop," Foggy said. "I'm
never going to hit you or rip out your fingernails or sell you back to
Rosalind, even if you piss me off or make me sad or, hell, make me cry. I don't
think it's acceptable of me to do that to you. If you don't like it, I'll just
stop. I don't--I don't want to be introducing any negative stimuli into your
life, ever, at all, and I won't take away anything positive, either."

Matt hesitated, and visibly gathered up the courage, and said in a small,
broken, terrified voice, "Above being ignored."

That could be anywhere. "And below?" Foggy asked, cringing in his head.

"Below unearned affection," Matt whispered and instantly his hands were laced
behind his head and his head was on the floor, his whole body shaking in
anticipation.

Foggy stared. Then he slowly stood and put that in. "I see," he said, wanting
to scream.

"I--fuck, Matt, I'm sorry," he said, and Matt gulped at that and said, "It's--
can I add more, I'm so sorry Foggy, I apologize, please, it's not as bad as you
think, there is--being whipped is worse than sex, being choked with a belt is
worse than sex--"

"Stop." Foggy said. He couldn't hear any more.

Matt's mouth shut.

Foggy stood and breathed, staring at him, at their whole living room. He had to
take care of Matt right now. He had to make sure Matt didn't have another
breakdown.

He got the strawberries from the fridge and gave them to Matt. "That's--good
job for communicating with me," because Foggy wanted more of that and just
trying to ask Matt would result in Matt telling him what he thought Foggy
wanted to hear. "Thank you for telling me, I'm, I'm just, all this means is we
won't have any more sex, ever, at all, it's going to be fine, you're okay,
you're safe, I won't hit you."

Matt uncurled a tiny bit.

"You can have all the strawberries in this if you want, I'm, I'm going to go
and buy more, and cheesecake too, because," because otherwise he would start to
lose his shit around Matt and that couldn't end well. "Because that took a lot
of courage, and, and I value honesty and thank you for being honest with me,
I'm not going to do anything bad to you or take away anything that you like,
I'll be back soon," and he almost ran the fuck out of there.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also taken from Margaret Atwood's "Siren Song".
***** it’s so nice to wake up in the morning all alone and not have to tell
somebody you love them when you don’t love them anymore *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt ate the strawberries in the box methodically, one by one, careful to not
spill the leaves anywhere but the lid. Foggy had said he could eat all of them,
and that he had done a good job communicating, and so he would.

It might mean no more strawberries for a long time, but that was fine. Matt
could cope with just about anything. He felt all his strength returning, his
body buzzing with readiness from Foggy's sweet words. And I'm really, really
glad that you're alive and keep being alive, so think of anything that's nice
and you can't figure out what it's a reward for as a reward for being alive.

It was adorable, in a way. No wonder Foggy had been so unclear and difficult to
please. What he wanted was a slave to shower with affection, to spoil, not
someone to put to work. He wanted a doll. Matt felt rather like he'd been moved
from being a dishwasher to being a service slave, and being told it was only a
mix-up, you should have been doing this from the beginning.

Matt smiled. And Foggy really didn't want a pet. Nobody who wanted a pet
rewarded a slave for clear, explicit verbal communication, or promised to let
them keep attending law school.

Oh, he had been such an idiot, thinking this was in any way a bad placement.
But now he could hear things clearly, understand what he was supposed to be
doing. Miss Sharpe had been so very, very good to him, to give him to Foggy
like this. His estimation of her went up sharply.

Matt ate the strawberries, and rubbed his cheek against the blanket. Being
rewarded for being alive. He'd have to be careful to not let it rot his teeth,
all this delectable sweetness.

--

Foggy had never thought he would be contemplating suicide in the bakery section
of Safeway.

His cart had four pounds of strawberries in it. He hadn't been able to care
about the unseasonal prices.

He'd raped Matt.

Foggy counted in his head, and he'd raped Matt three times.

He'd never thought he would be a rapist.

Foggy stared vacantly at the cheesecakes. Everything seemed bright and unreal,
demented and wrong. How was it that he'd tried to be the nicest possible person
to Matt and raped him? What the hell had he been thinking?

It didn't matter, Foggy realized. It had been excuses, it had been self-
justifications, it had been Matt nudging him to keep raping him, because he
thought that was what Foggy wanted. Matt had tried to anticipate him and Foggy
had let himself think that it was real. God, how could he live with himself?

But if he killed himself, Matt would revert back to Rosalind, and she...she had
had him strip and crawl to Foggy, in a diner, covered in ribbons and bows, and
had cheerfully told Foggy how she'd taken him for a test drive and how fucking
good he was at sex, he eats ass like a champ, he'll get you to loosen up.

All that would happen if Foggy died was that Matt would keep being raped.

So instead he made himself go to the cheesecakes and start getting one of every
flavor. There were fifteen, and every few seconds he jerked again in agony as
he remembered.

He was a rapist. Foggy Nelson was a rapist. Foggy Nelson had raped someone
three times and made them pretend to like it.

He felt like he was drowning in guilt. He wanted to scream it's not my fault, I
didn't know, how was I supposed to know--

But then he remembered Matt's words. Everyone tells themselves that, and that's
why nothing will ever change.

Well, fuck that. Things were going to change. Foggy was going to be the best
fucking owner on this godforsaken dystopia, since apparently being an owner
only in name was not in his capabilities.

Foggy was going to replay every single word of what Matt had said to that piece
of shit, and he was going to understand them and not hold himself apart from
them like he was magically exempt from the system.

And he wasn't going to have sex with Matt, or anyone else. If he was fucked up
and thoughtless enough to rape someone three times without having any idea what
he was doing, it was not safe or ethical for him to have sex with anyone else.
Not ever again.

--

Matt looked calm and happy when Foggy got back.

"So, here are strawberries," he said. "I got a lot, you can do whatever you
want with them."

Matt paused and then licked his lips and said. "Foggy--may I--do you like
cakes?"

"What?" Because what did that have to do with anything? "Yeah."

"Then may I be permitted to make a variation of princessetorte? It's a cake
made for celebrations in Sweden," Matt explained. "One can substitute the
raspberry jam for strawberry jam, and it's even better that way."

"A cake." Foggy said, stunned. Matt was--Matt thought this was worthy of
celebration.

Well, for him it probably was. He'd just been told that he was never going to
be raped ever again, at least not by this owner.

"I--sure. I'm going to go study. Why don't you, uh, see what you'd need for it
that we don't have, and put it on a list, and I'll...go out later tonight and
get it. And we should probably study too."

"Of course, Foggy," Matt murmured, an grin on his face from ear to ear. "Thank
you so much. I'm sorry I ever thought it would be anything but lovely to be
owned by you," and he kissed Foggy's hand like he adored him. "Thank you for
the honor."

Foggy stared at Matt. "I'm sorry I raped you," he said suddenly. "It's so
stupid, it's so little, I can't ever really apologize for it. But I promise
you, I won't ever, I will never do that again. Ever. Things will get better."

"No need to apologize, Foggy," Matt said, ducking his head, still grinning,
though his eyes looked confused too. "I am happy to fulfill any desire my owner
has of me. I want only to be good for you."

Foggy wanted to vomit. He was going to, he realized slowly. "Then--uh--focus on
yourself," he said. "Try to...figure out what you want, and what makes you
happy, and, and, protect yourself. I want..I want you to be alive," and then he
had to go be sick. He ran to the bathroom.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title is the poem "Love Poem" by Richard Brautigan, and can
     be seen here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/64881596105/its-so-
     nice-to-wake-up-in-the-morning-all-alone
***** one day you finally knew what you had to do, and began *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt frowned, but he knew what to do to care for a sick owner. They'd gotten
the flu before, or had a bad night of drinking, or--

Oh. This was just like Mistress Janet, after her ex-husband had tried to come
back and rape her, and Matt had stopped it. This was emotional pain, from Foggy
realizing he hadn't done what he'd wanted to do to his doll.

(Matt'd broken all four of the would-be rapist's limbs, crushed his hands and
feet with the tire iron the man had threatened Mistress Janet with. The ex-
husband had never gotten past threatening her into taking off her shirt as he
unbuckled his pants. Matt had pretended to be asleep, then once he'd had his
hands on his belt, Matt had grabbed the iron and hit and hit until she was safe
and any more would put her at risk of having to put him down for unnecessary
use of lethal force.

She had thanked him so much afterwards, but been shaky and sick for weeks,
almost unable to care for her twins, Leah and Naomi. Matt hadn't realized
before then what rape really was, how it was so horrible even it almost
happening could hurt someone so severely. He felt so angry on behalf of her and
every other free person who'd been hurt like that.)

Matt remembered what he had done for Mistress Janet, who he missed briefly, and
got out a cold can of soda--he hoped it was ginger ale, he was pretty sure
Foggy had opened one in his room earlier--and went to the bathroom, where Foggy
was throwing up.

He pushed gently on the open door, and placed it on the sink as he rubbed
Foggy's back and tried to make soft, submissive, comforting noises.

Foggy dry-heaved for a few more moments--Matt kept iron control of his senses,
did not gag, thank goodness for him having that reflex destroyed, otherwise
he'd be throwing up too--and then gasped out, voice hurt, "Oh, shit, Matt--"

"It's alright," Matt murmured. "I'm alright, nothing bad is happening, you're
safe," and Foggy made a horrific sobbing noise.

"Shit," Foggy said eventually. "I should--I'm gonna brush my teeth--"

And Matt gracefully stood up and tucked the cold can under his arm, taking care
to not shake it. "Of course, Foggy," he said. "Can I please make you
something?"

Foggy choked on his toothpaste, sounding like he might vomit again, but then he
spat it out and rinsed out his mouth several times.

"Matt," he said, and sounded like he was about to cry.

Matt pulled Foggy into the gentlest embrace he could. "I'm okay," he tried,
hoping that was what had startled Foggy. "You didn't hurt me, I'm okay, there
is no danger here."

Foggy gave a horrible noise at that, and then pulled back. "Matt," he said. "I-
-I think I, I," and then he couldn't continue.

Matt thought frantically. He came up with, "Do you--if you're worried about me,
do you wish to be in the kitchen as I make the cake, Foggy? It's a soothing
process. Baking is a very calming activity."

Foggy said, sounding horrified, "I...guess. Matt, shit, I'm so sorry. I can't
ever apologize enough."

For Matt's failings? Matt knew he needed to find Foggy some sort of therapy for
sure now. This couldn't be healthy.

--

Foggy felt distant and strange as he followed Matt into the kitchen and sat in
the chair, watching Matt bustle around.

"We actually have everything I need for it," Matt explained. "It's a very
delicious cake, I'm sure you'll see, but first--oh, Foggy, I apologize, I got
this for you," and he handed him a can of ginger ale.

"Thank you," Foggy said, because what the hell else could he say?

Matt nodded. "Now, the princessetorte that I learned consists of several layers
of a vanilla sponge, with various levels of creme patisserie, strawberry jam, a
whipped cream dome, and marizpan on top, with a fondant rose and chocolate
decoration. But I've noticed you don't like marzipan--on the celebration two
weeks ago, you picked it off your plate, so we don't need that."

Matt explained everything that he was doing in a calm, steady voice, narrating
the process. It was bizarrely fascinating. Foggy felt like nothing was exactly
real, and any moment now he'd wake up and find Matt cuddling him or something,
smiling and not this horrifically twisted person.

But he was. This was real.

Foggy cleared his throat and Matt instantly shut up in the middle of a sentence
explaining how to make the jam.

"Why do you like baking?"

That had to be a safe topic, and Matt had put that he hated being ignored, that
it was the most negative thing on his list. Foggy couldn't stand the thought of
hurting him any more than he already had.

Matt tilted his head.

"It's calming," he said. "You have to focus on what you're doing and get things
precisely right, Foggy, but then when you do, you have tangible proof that you
succeeded, and you don't have to worry about it anymore. It requires thought,
but not exhaustingly."

Foggy nodded. That made some degree of sense.

And then it hit him again, that he had...he had raped Matt, he was a rapist--

Who was now kneeling before him, his hands on Foggy's legs, saying softly,
"Foggy, what can I do to make you feel better?"

Foggy stared at him. "Why do you care?" He asked, unable to believe it.

But then he realized sharply that of course Matt cared, for Matt everything
depended on his owner's moods and whims. Foggy's approval, Foggy's happiness
was his water. Of course he couldn't trust that Foggy would treat him right
even if he felt horrible. Foggy hadn't treated him right when he feltgood.

Well, that was going to have to change, too.

"No--that's obvious, sorry," he said to Matt. "I just--I can't--go keep doing
whatever makes you happy, okay, I'll, I'll deal with this," because he couldn't
take back what he had done but he could do his damnest to not force Matt to
comfort his rapist, he could do that.

Matt nodded, and then leaned his head carefully on Foggy's thigh, breathing in
and out.

Foggy didn't move. "That makes you happy?"

Matt nodded. "Thank you, Foggy," he murmured, and kissed Foggy's hand around
the ginger ale. His lips were so soft, so obscenely beautiful...

Foggy jerked away. Jesus fuck. He couldn't think things like that anymore.

Foggy closed his eyes, and then Matt stood up and went back to baking, humming
something softly to himself, something low and soothing.

--

Matt hoped that humming the song would help. Foggy's heartbeat had jumped after
Matt had kissed his hand in thanks--and it had been happily given thanks, Matt
missed being allowed contact like that, appropriate contact that he understood-
-and then now it slowed down as Matt worked.

He thought about his life, and reminded himself of all the good things, each
one vivid. He wasn't hungry. He wasn't thirsty. He wasn't tired or sleep-
deprived or time-woozy. He wasn't bored, or exhausted, or walking on eggshells
anymore. He wasn't near dogs, or outside, or too cold, or too hot. He was
allowed good things. He would probably continue being allowed good things. He
was valued, he was important to his owner.

And he had things to look forward to. As a slave, anything beyond perhaps the
next fifteen minutes was questionable, but with this owner, even the distant
future--the end of the semester--seemed not just possible but so close Matt
could taste it.

Matt smiled. He had worked so hard, and while it was very surprising Foggy
wanted a doll, it was rather a splendid thing to be.

(Very very rich people, with many slaves, often had dolls, or dolls who were
also house-slaves or bed-slaves or service-slaves. Summer was a doll, albeit
one who also functioned as a service-slave, among other things. Sometimes very
strange people, or people who had a lot of trouble connecting to others, had
dolls. But Foggy wasn't rich or saturated with slaves or socially unconnected;
Foggy was already forming friendships with other students.

Perhaps Matt needed to investigate why other owners had dolls. He knew,
vaguely, that psychologists often did, and used them in therapy sessions.Show
me where the bad man touched you on the doll and all that.

That had the ring of a good plan. Matt resolved to find out why, and perhaps
see if he could serve the same therapeutic purposes. After all, his owner
seemed to have an unreasonably upset reaction to any distress of Matt's, even
distress that really shouldn't have mattered to him.)
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title from Mary Oliver's "The Journey", here: http://
     fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/119124093517/the-journey-mary-oliver
***** for to carry nothing means there is no “me” almost *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The cake came out and it was delicious, Foggy thought, as he ate. It was weird,
he should have been tasting ash or something, but he wasn't. He was tasting
cream and cake and jam and sweetness, and Matt looked like his whole world
revolved around Foggy liking the cake.

"It's good," Foggy managed to say after the first bite.

Matt visibly relaxed and smiled. "Thank you, Foggy," he said, and then, "May I
have some too?"

"You can have as much cake as you want for the rest of your life," Foggy said,
hoping Matt understood.

Matt smiled and hid it behind his hand--Foggy wondered why, vaguely--and took a
piece of cake half the size of Foggy's and ate, folding his legs under him and
sitting on the floor near the oven.

Foggy stared at him, at the picture he made. Matt was wearing a plainly colored
t-shirt--in teal--and jeans, and a black jacket that made him look smart and
polished, almost a blazer. He'd rolled the sleeves up to eat, and his forearms
stuck out, and something about his pose looked to Foggy like--

Like Matt was enticing him.

Okay. Well. Foggy just would have to resist the temptation.

He ate the rest of the cake, making sure to show how good it was, because that
would make Matt happy, and then drank the ginger ale, and went to go study.

--

The rest of the weekend passed in very gentle bliss for Matt. He was allowed to
eat some more of the cake and portioned out one very small slice for breakfast,
after yoga, before Foggy woke up, and one slightly bigger after dinner, because
really, you couldn't eat cake too fast or else you seemed greedy.

But it was adorable, and so genuinely lovely of Foggy to say things like You
can have as much cake as you want for the rest of your life. Matt had never
been a fully-fledged doll before, but if it meant he could get himself cake
like this without so much begging or semen soaking into him, he would never get
tired of it.

Matt felt like he'd won the lottery, despite it being absurd. Slaves weren't
allowed to gamble unless their owners were there and it was in a casino.

Matt studied and cleaned and cooked, and by now he knew which foods Foggy liked
and approximately when he woke up and when he was hungry, so Matt timed
everything correctly. Things went companionably. Foggy asked him about topics,
sometimes, and Matt's answers weren't the wrong ones.

The only snag was Saturday night, when Matt knew he wanted to go to Fogwell's.
It would hurt, but the last time, he'd set off a chain reaction that had led to
him finally understanding his owner, so it was well worth it.

Besides, he really ought to keep training. Now that he was permitted to defend
himself, he was determined to do so. His fists fit so nicely in a thief's gut.

Foggy had said, when Matt asked, "Do you actually like it, though, Matt? You
seemed pretty upset last time."

Matt had paused and knelt comfortably, and said slowly, "I--my dad used to go
there," and the words my dad felt like the way a tongue piercing being ripped
out sounded, "And it makes me miss him," and wasn't that inadequate, words
couldn't begin to hint at grief, "But I--I like training, and there no-one
would attempt to damage your property."

Foggy had then said, "Then, yeah, any time you want, just make sure you're
carrying this," and had handed him a can of mace.

Matt had blinked. "Foggy, I apologize, but in the state of New York, mace in
specific requires a special permit for a slave to carry it."

"Oh," Foggy had said. "Shit, um--"

Matt had rescued him quickly. It made sense that Foggy wanted his doll perfect.
"I could carry one of the oven-cleaner sprays, Foggy," he had said. "They'll
hurt an attacker more, and they don't require a permit."

Foggy had sounded surprised but happy and said, "Shit, Matt, you're kind of
awesome when you're violent, yeah, that'll work," and had smacked himself in
the face. Matt was very worried for his mental health. He was discreetly
searching for psychologists in the area.

Matt had trained, and it had hurt, but he managed to make himself instead think
about Anne Sexton poems--the truth the dead know as a phrase echoing in his
skull--, and they were complicated enough to distract from the constant tang of
a Fogwell's without Dad.

And then Monday had come, and Devyn was not in class, and Dr Qasim had asked
Matt to please speak to her after class.

He followed her into her office, stomach clenched.

"I got an email this morning from a student, explaining that because of words
said by your owner, he no longer feels safe to attend my class," she said. "I
just would like to know if you have any insight on the subject. If not, that's
perfectly fine, these things happen. Students make the most ridiculous excuses.
Remember Rochelle the other day, the one I threw out because she refused to
address you by name or directly at all? That 'oh, it wouldn't be proper, I'm
just a grammarian' excuse? I'm quite used to bullshit, and this smells of it."

Matt relaxed. Oh. Then he felt offended on Foggy's behalf, and since Dr Qasim
was so very staunchly an abolitionist who put her money where her mouth was
(and wasn't that a fascinating 'compassionate conservative' type of oxymoron),
he decided to not dance around it in the slightest.

"Devyn has been cornering me after your class since the first week," he began,
and she went rigid and furious. "Things were beginning to escalate to physical
touch, and my owner caught word of the situation, and decided to deal with it
first by attempting to talk him into backing off a slave that wasn't his, like
a normal person." God, Matt despised poachers.

"Unfortunately," he went on, "Devyn reacted to this by insulting me, and since
my owner had implicitly given me the right to freedom of speech, I..said some
things which were not advisable, but true."

"What type of things?"

"I--pointed out that the definition of friends is between persons, and since I
am not a person, I couldn't be, and that by trying to use me to validate his
self-image as a good person, coming in to rescue the crying, shivering,
emaciated princess from the tower, he was both deluding himself and far
overstepping his bounds. I explained how the world really worked, that people
who run around trying to fix all the problems really just feed into them, that
capitalism accounts for abolitionists, and in fact the slave sector of the
economy adores the majority of them," and then Matt knew he was rambling. "I
ended it by informing him that not taking responsibility for the situation was
what everyone does, and it's why the situation will never change."

There was a startled, soft silence. Then Dr Qasim said, "Wow, my wife didn't
mention you were so eloquent when she described you."

Her wife? Oh, was she the Martie woman from the disability office? She must be;
he racked his brain for any other woman who had recently met him. Dr Qasim was
definitely not at the Nelson gatherings, so it was very unlikely for her to be
married to any of Foggy's female relatives.

Then Dr Qasim said, "Of course, you don't have to answer this, but can I ask
what you think of your owner? How did he react to this, if you can answer?"

Matt was glad he could. Dr Qasim was so intelligent, and she shared so much of
her knowledge, he wanted to repay her by being the best student possible.

"He is very kind," Matt said. "I didn't realize it at first because of a
failing of mine, but he wants--he wants a lawyer-doll, and I'm just so happy to
be given the opportunity. He felt my words were extremely poignant for the
context."

Dr Qasim was silent. Then she said, "You minored in Poetry in college, right?
Based on your transcripts?"

"Yes, Dr Qasim," he said, despite the fact that she'd briskly ordered everyone
to not address her by name or title or at all unless it was an emergency, and
flinched. Bad habits, Matt.

"Have you ever read We Alone by Alice Walker?"

Matt tilted his head. If he had, he didn't remember it. "No," he said.

Dr Qasim recited softly, "We alone
can devalue gold
by not caring
if it falls or rises
in the marketplace.
Wherever there is gold
there is a chain, you know,
and if your chain
is gold
so much the worse
for you.
Feathers, shells,
and sea-shaped stones
are all as rare.
This could be our revolution:
To love what is plentiful
as much as
what is scarce."

Matt sucked in a soft breath and resolved to memorize it. It was elegant, and
he could already feel the layers like a very thick book.

Dr Qasim sat there, poised, and then her shoulders slumped and she said, "Well,
I'll be sure to blacklist the student as well. No-one is allowed to use my
class as a vehicle to torture other students."

"Thank you," Matt said, astonished. She really did stick to her principles.

"Well, I'm sure you have class," and Matt stood up and smiled and left.

Barely Legal was just outside, and grabbed his hand quickly, squeezing, the
concern and comfort visceral.

[Library NOW.]

Matt sighed and followed it.

--

[How badly did your owner hurt you?]

[He didn't.]

[Don't lie to me, I was at the end of the hallway, I can read lips, I know what
you said, and it was great, it was like those speeches by that one guy with the
weird first name, but he had to have hurt you for that!]

[He didn't. Foggy wants a doll, not just a study aid.]

[A--oh, it figures, you're so pretty, you'd make a doll. You lucky fucking
asshole. Goddamnit, Matt, why do you get all the nice things? But he didn't
look like one of those doll owners.]

[Can you explain?] Matt knew vaguely what Foggy looked like, had touched his
face, but maybe it saw something he couldn't perceive.

[Even Summer's owner looks like a serial killer. It creeped me out to look at
him. They all do. You can tell there's something not normal with them at first
glance, if you can see. Something about their eyes. We're slaves, the whole
point is that we're the seething underbelly, it's not natural to keep us in the
packaging for so long.]

Matt blinked. Huh. Well, that was a different perspective.

Its stomach growled loudly, and Matt winced.

[Maybe I could ask my owner if I could have extra food and give it to you?]

[The fuck does he care about me? He looked at me like those assholes in those
RSPCA ads look at the dogs.]

[I could ask him, and if I phrased it as me just wanting extra food, he would
probably approve,] Matt protested. [He likes me eating. Not as a feeding
fetish, either, I checked.]

[No, he's got the other fetish.]

[Apparently not as much as I originally thought.]

[WTF?]

[He forced me to admit I don't like sex. But who does, anyway? Only free
people. But then he said he'd never do it again. I don't understand why al the
way, but he seems sincere.]

[You must feel like the luckiest slave on this hellscape,] and it sounded both
affectionate and abjectly furious. Matt knew the combination. He'd been the
less-lucky slave before.

[I am. I think it's because of the way I explained reward conditioning--he
wants me to be his doll, he's using the reward conditioning to make me enjoy
being owned by him more.]

An understanding silence, then: [Why don't you care that I'm not actually all
sweet and obedient? I shit-talk my owners to you all the time.]

[I'm not your overseer. That's not my job.] And in a way he almost envied her.
Sometimes owners had told him he could struggle but not snap the silk tie, or
whatever it was, during sex, and it had been strangely soothing to be able to
writhe.

One had even told him to scream that he hated it, to beg him to stop, to cry
out for help, to sob that it hurt and he'd do anything to make it just end, and
it was cathartic in a way. He'd given Matt bags of cheese popcorn and a little
can of Dr Pepper after every time he used him, and then let him just do laundry
until it was time he wanted to use Matt again.

But Foggy really hadn't had any sex with Matt again, and every time Matt had
tried to see if he could trigger it, by just very carefully leaning in to kiss
him, ready for a slap, Foggy had just repeated over and over again that he
would never, ever have sex with Matt again. It was so sweet, Matt almost cried.

[You're not bullshitting me.]

[I'm not.]

It went silent and stiff. Then it asked, [I AM very hungry...]

[When was the last time you ate?]

[Last night, and only a quarter portion, and that's the only meal I get a day.
They're chipping away at it until I break.]

Matt felt alarmed. Starvation worked on all humans, eventually. [I'll ask Foggy
today, and if he approves, I'll get you food tomorrow. Just hold on and don't
do anything stupid.]

[Doing stupid things makes life worth living. But I guess...] it trailed off.
And then slowly, sweetly, it brushed its hand along Matt's, fingers cold and
skin papery, and Matt let it. He knew that was thanks.

[I expected you to be more snobby and holier-than-thou. But even though you're
a doll, you goddamn asshole, you're not so bad. Now help me with this second
subjunctive, I suck at it.]

Matt smiled and went to help it.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title from Molly Peacock's "Putting A Burden Down", here:
     http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/64615726310/putting-a-burden-down
***** once I was beautiful. now I am myself *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt came to lunch looking determined.

Foggy sipped at his water, trying to stay calm. It was mostly working, until
sometimes something would slip--Matt's neck would look some way or Foggy would
stare at his lips too long or his hair would catch the light, and Foggy would
remember raping him and feel sick and panicked.

But he hadn't done it again, and that was, at least, progress. Maybe Foggy
should get himself some sort of chips for how many days he didn't renege and
rape Matt. Like sober coins.

In the meantime, Matt slid into the seat across from him--Matt had clarified
before to Foggy, over the weekend, once asked, that he didn't mind sitting on
benches and chairs in places like the cafeteria, where otherwise you had to
balance your plate on the floor and risk getting it stepped on or taken away--
and took a deep breath.

"Foggy," he said slowly. "May I please take with me some food from the
apartment for in-between classes?"

Foggy blinked. Something he was doing was working, because that was great.

"Yeah, of course," he said. "Thanks--thanks for asking me. I wouldn't have
guessed that otherwise," because Matt had some Olympic talent in denying his
own wants and needs.

Matt smiled and murmured, ducking his head, "Thank you, Foggy," and kissed his
hand and went to navigate getting food. Foggy watched, and it was almost sad,
the way Matt was very careful and skirted around people, gravitating towards
places without a line because people felt free to cut in front of him,
constantly, and always jumped back at the slightest sign of movement, so nobody
touched him.

But Matt somehow was patient and skilled enough to get himself food--another
salad, he seemed to really like then, but today he also snagged a chicken-fried
steak with gravy--and navigated his way back.

He ate, smiling brightly at the taste, and then Foggy asked him about what the
fuck chicken-fried steak even was, and Matt happily explained.

Things were getting better, Foggy reminded himself. But still, he really had to
call Anna or something in a few weeks, because he wasn't sure what to do long-
term.

--

Matt was so glad he could sneak it some food. Technically, he shouldn't be
sneaking any slave food, but he could make an exception. Besides, as a doll, he
was protected enough that he wasn't terribly worried. He had the feeling that
if one of its owners caught him and tried to hit him or something, Foggy would
destroy them.

He managed some protein bars that someone had given Foggy, and a box of
blackberries, and even a baked potato with now-congealed cheese and bacon bits.

Barely Legal devoured them, curled up on the floor of the slave bathroom in the
library, Matt inside a stall, standing. It was not cleaned often.

[Thanks,] it tapped. [I felt like I was starting to like it, that's how hungry
I was.]

Shit. It took a long time, Matt knew, to get to that point. [Will they stop, or
do something different, long-term?]

[No. But I will break and give in eventually.]

Matt frowned. He didn't want it to break. [If you capitulate willingly, you
won't break. Bend, not break.]

[Thanks, but no thanks.]

It was worrying, but that was how the next three weeks passed, and Matt had
other things to focus on.

Foggy was of course treating him like his doll, and it was so nice. Matt was
allowed to wrap himself up in any of the blankets, and Foggy liked it when he
made himself tea he liked, instead of the tea he had had the mask like, and
when he offered his opinions on Firefly or explained why certain food choices
were bad on Chopped Foggy liked that too.

Sometimes Foggy would have little jolts of panic, and Matt wasn't sure how to
soothe them besides showing Foggy that he was fine, his doll was perfectly
intact, mint condition. He hadn't yet found a good enough psychologist--some of
them specified they only worked with particular disorders, and Matt didn't know
about about any of them to diagnose Foggy with one in particular.

He had found some research on the use of dolls in therapy, and they suggested
that especially for sick or lonely people, having a doll could provide a lot of
support. Dolls could be cuddled, spoiled, and act in friendly, sweet ways
without having to put them on a work schedule or share them with anyone else.
In addition, children in particular in therapy used dolls to help act out
emotions and events, and work out their feelings.

Matt tried his best to allow, and even nudge Foggy into, using his doll status
properly. Foggy hadn't let him in his bed yet, but Matt was confident that
maybe if he did really well on the midterms in a few days then he might get
that. Foggy did like that Matt was intelligent and academically successful, and
to Matt's surprise he did genuinely enjoy law school. It was like being a
philosophy major, you weren't learning things that were especially practical or
important, but he was good at it, and that was fun.

Matt finished updating part of the list of stimuli--putting down morning yoga
on positive, hoping it would entice Foggy to ask him to demonstrate sometime,
and Matt could perhaps get Foggy to cuddle him from that--when there came a
sharp knocking on the door.

He rose, calling to Foggy, "I got it," and opened the door and immediately
wanted to fall to his knees.

It was Miss Sharpe, saying with a smirk in her voice, "Franklin, I've come to
check on you!"
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title from "You, Doctor Martin" by Anne Sexton, here: http://
     fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/90257714203/you-doctor-martin-walk-from-
     breakfast-to
***** I am not wrong: wrong is not my name, my name is my own my own my own
*****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Foggy was up in a second.

Shit-fuck, shit, shit, god fucking dammit. Rosalind was here. Nothing good came
out of that, and Rosalind around Matt--

He raced to the door, and saw Rosalind in one of her suits, and a dark leather
purse, staring at Matt, her lips pursed.

"Franklin, child, shouldn't your slave be kneeling?"

Foggy took a deep breath, and glanced out of the corner of his eyes at Matt,
and wondered if he was scared to be standing in front of Rosalind.

Matt didn't look scared. He looked like he had when he knelt in the morning
classes, full of dignity and calm.

Huh. Well, then. "No," Foggy said flatly to her. "Why are you here?"

"To make sure my present went over well," she said brightly, and pushed her way
in. "Let's have coffee, Franklin," and pushed over to the kitchen, sitting in
Matt's seat.

Matt's head stayed pointed at Foggy.

He took a deep breath, sighed, and said, "Fifteen minutes, I've got more
studying to do."

"Well, it's good to see you're applying yourself," she said, smiling. It looked
like a crocodile. "I've just been so happy that you've decided to take after
me."

Foggy glared at her and breathed out slowly. "I'm planning to become a defense
attorney to help people fight an unjust, corrupt legal system," he said coolly.
"Not to amass money and splurge it on hurting people."

Rosalind snorted. "Oh, you'll be cured of that idealism soon, I've no doubt"
she said, and then clicked her fingers at Matt and snapped, "Coffee for me and
Franklin."

Matt said, polite but somehow distant, "I'm terribly sorry, Miss Sharpe, but my
owner's name is Foggy, and he prefers I only follow his orders."

Foggy took a step back and then felt his own face curl with startled joy. He
felt warm all over.

That was deliberate. That was intentional. It was a message, and it was Matt
telling Foggy I'm on your side.

Matt really wasn't helpless.

Rosalind's head whipped around; she looked both interested and pissed off. "So
he likes a slave that doesn't know its manners any more?"

"Foggy, my owner, prefers me to follow his orders only, Miss Sharpe," Matt
said.

Foggy cleared his throat. "Uh, get one yourself too," he told Matt. He didn't
actually want to antagonize Rosalind too much, as fun as it would be. And
coffee would give him something to clench his hands around.

Matt moved gracefully, murmuring, "Of course, Foggy," and went to go brew.

"Foggy," Rosalind said. "How fascinating. I suppose you find 'sir' gauche,
Franklin?"

Foggy gritted his teeth. "What do you actually want to know?" because she'd
tease it out, and this way it would be minimally painful.

"Oh, how well it's all going--Columbia, your new slave, living off-campus. I
remember my first apartment," she said, wistful. "Of course, I had more rugs,
but that can be easily fixed."

Foggy opened his mouth to snap something and couldn't come up with anything
that wasn't a frustrated scream, but Matt rescued him as he elegantly walked
over and kneeled next to Foggy, sitting up, his hand reaching up to trail along
Foggy's fingers.

The touch didn't feel seductive, or sexual at all. It felt like--support?
Soothing?

Matt then said gently, "I'm terribly sorry, Miss Sharpe, my owner has no space
or desire for any rugs at this time."

Foggy went on with, "And Columbia's fine. It's great. We're both doing
absolutely great."

"Both of you? You think it'll make a decent legal assistant?"

"Matt will make a brilliant attorney if and when he chooses to be," Foggy said
firmly. That was just factually true. "Matt is actually better at it than me."

Rosalind arched a plucked eyebrow and Matt distracted her by kissing Foggy's
hand. Foggy realized that Matt was working with Foggy to keep her off her feet.

The coffee maker beeped--it was one of those very quick ones--and Matt rose,
pouring three cups of coffee, making it with cream and sugar like Foggy liked,
and only sugar, like he liked.

He carried the two mugs to the table as Foggy stared into Rosalind's eyes,
suddenly more confident. He'd fought the police with words for Matt, he could
fight her.

Then he politely knelt next to Foggy, and sipped his coffee.

Rosalind snapped her fingers at him. "Coffee," she said, as if speaking to Matt
in more than one word at a time would be too much for his fragile constitution.

Matt said, still in that politely deferential but somehow iron tone, "I'm
terribly sorry, Miss Sharpe, Foggy, my owner, prefers that I only follow his
orders, and he has not ordered me to bring you coffee, merely to make it, which
is fulfilled by pouring it into its mug on the countertop."

Foggy grinned. Matt was being--Matt was being his equivalent of snarky. Matt
was talking back to her, for Foggy. They were a team.

Inspired by Matt's apparent lack of fear of the wrath of Rosalind Sharpe, when
he she turned her head to Foggy to look outraged, he shrugged and said, "It's
on the counter if you want to get it."

Rosalind turned purple and then calmed, got up, and got it. She looked crafty
as she opened their fridge and yanked out the creamer Matt had put back inside,
and poured it in.

"So, Franklin," she said as she drank. "I see that you've got an excessive
quantity of strawberries in your fridge. They for you?"

Foggy felt hideously embarrassed, remembering against his will every single
other comment she'd made, every jab at his weight. It had started since before
he could remember and nobody, not one person, had been able to make her stop.

"Miss Sharpe, the strawberries have been designated for me," Matt said. "My
owner, Foggy, understands that your generous gift is more than capable of
responding to positive attention and standard reward conditioning, rather than
the method of primarily hand gestures favored by the 1980s."

Foggy gaped. Did he just call her old and out of touch to her face? Goddamn.

Rosalind said, frostily, "In the 1980s, slaves understood their places."

"In modern times, Miss Sharpe," and something about the way Matt kept saying
that was meaningful. Had Rosalind made him call her Mistress or something
during the test-drive week? "It is left up to owners, such as Foggy, to decide
the appropriate places for slaves."

Foggy felt like he was in some sort of amazing dream. Nobody stood up to
Rosalind, not successfully, not like this. Dad always wanted Foggy to have a
'healthy and positive relationship' with her, and Anna had always said it was
none of her business, and everyone else wasn't used to dealing with people that
reserved portions of their nastiness for their families.

Rosalind looked at Foggy. "So at least it's good with words," she said,
sharply. "I see you like that sort of juvenile thing. Tell me, Foggy, does he
always insult people for you?"

Foggy glared at her. "Matt is one of the most patient human beings I have ever
met," he said. "The fact that you can't see it because you're too blinded by
your own prejudices is just pathetic."

Rosalind gaped for a moment, and then smirked. "Well, I'm glad you're enjoying
yourself. God only knows that when I had it, it used its tongue for better
things than insulting its superiors."

Foggy felt cold and furious. How dare she talk about raping Matt like that.
"Leave," he said flatly. "We're done with this conversation. I'm done with you.
You've never done anything but insult and condescend to me throughout my entire
life, and maybe I had to put up with it before, but I don't now."

Not if Matt, someone who was as far below Rosalind in power as could be, could
stand up to her. Foggy felt like he was standing tall and strong, held up by
Matt, who had leaned his head on Foggy's thigh, something reassuring in the
gesture.

"Oh, Franklin," she said with a sigh. "It's been hard to get to know you, and
I've taken so much time off. Do you know, I flew in from Paris to come see you
specifically? Why don't you appreciate my guidance more? I could tell you so
much."

Matt's hand tapped on Foggy's thigh, and he leaned down. "What is it?"

Was Matt going to begin freaking out? Had her words triggered some sort of
flashback?

"Miss Sharpe is not telling the truth," Matt murmured. "She did not fly from
Paris to specifically see you."

Foggy stared, and then grinned. Holy fuck, this lie-detector thing was coming
in handy. "Thanks, Matt," and without thinking he combed a hand through Matt's
hair. Then he turned to Rosalind, who was watching with interest.

"I'm done with this conversation and our relationship," Foggy said, feeling
like Daniel when he'd finally seen the light of the cave's exit. "I don't have
any patience for rapists. Get the fuck out."

"Don't be so rude--"

Matt rose in a second, and had his coffee cup on the table.

"Miss Sharpe, I'm terribly sorry, my owner, Foggy, asked you to leave."

She stared at him. "Don't talk to me like that."

"Miss Sharpe, if you remain any longer, I will be forced to stop you from
trespassing on Foggy's property."

She stared at Foggy, slowly placing the mug all the way down. "You're serious,
Franklin."

"Yes," he said, suddenly so desperate to finish this out. Part of him was
cringing, but so much more of him wanted to just be free of her. "Get out and
don't come back."

She started to walk to the door, heels clicking, but not confidently. "I'll be
back," she said. "You don't really mean this. You can't possibly think you'll
have any decent connections once you graduate, not without me."

Foggy shrugged. "I didn't need your help," he said. "And I don't need it now."

She turned to glare at both of them. "I'll be watching, Franklin," and then she
finally fucking left.

Foggy slumped down almost immediately. "Jesus," he said. "Is it even really
trespassing? Fuck."

Matt's head was at the door. "She's out of the building," he said, and then
shook his head irritably, clearing up her mug, and told Foggy, "I am not sure
at the moment. It seemed to have worked."

"Yeah. Yeah! Matt, that was awesome," Foggy said, feeling full of light. But
then he felt afraid, and chewed on his lip. "Shit, though, she said she'll be
watching..."

Matt snorted. "So much time with her head to the pavement, it's a mystery a
truck hasn't run over her."

Foggy clapped his hands to his mouth and then cracked up hard. "Oh," he wheezed
out, "Oh, fuck, Matt, you're so funny when you're actually being you. God.
Wow."

Then he felt overcome by happiness. "I just--Matt, nobody's ever stood up to
her before," he said. "Nobody. Candace tried once and Rosalind made her cry and
feel bad about herself for, like, a year."

Matt's mouth pressed in a thin line. "I dislike anyone who refuses to call
someone by their name," he said.

"You're really not scared of her at all," Foggy said, feeling something cry out
in relief inside of him. If Matt wasn't scared of her, he didn't have to be,
either.

Matt snorted again, and said contemptuously, "It is very difficult to find
someone with such pedestrian sexual tastes and a noted lack of social
sensibility frightening. Particularly when they appear to be unable to see my
owner for who he truly is."

Foggy pushed past his mild horror at the fact that Matt was calling her boring
in bed. "Which is?"

"Someone who does not believe in the 'slaves are merely Pavlovian organic
robots, unable to follow complex orders' nonsense," Matt said. "Someone with a
better grasp of the spirit of the law, and far more professional with its
undertakings already. Someone who matters, who will use his talents for good,
rather than hoarding money. Someone who values his moral principles and keeps
his word."

Foggy gaped. "I--shit, can I hug you," he said. He couldn't think of anything
else he could do to express how grateful he was. He couldn't remember anyone
ever saying that Rosalind was just plain wrong about him. Anna muttered that
she was mistaken, and Dad always said she wasn't very good at saying what she
really meant.

Matt came over and murmured, "Yes, Foggy," and then Foggy hugged him as tightly
as he could.

"Shit, just, remember, reward for being alive," he babbled.

"Yes, Foggy, I remember," Matt said, and pressed his head against Foggy's
shoulder.

"They always wanted me to have a 'positive social relationship' with her,"
Foggy blurted out.

Matt said delicately after a minute, "I am sure it is impossible to have a
positive social relationship between two people when the one with more power is
unwilling to treat the other in good faith, and intends to only satisfy her own
appetite for power."

Foggy blinked, and hugged Matt tighter, and felt so, so lucky, so happy. God.
Maybe he and Matt would be some sort of friends after all.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also from June Jordan's "Poem About My Rights".
***** open arms saying, I forgive you, all *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt realized he needed to accelerate any long-term strategy the day after
midterms had ended, when he next was able to chat to Barely Legal.

It was shivering, even with the quilted jacket he could hear it wearing, and
its hands sounded smaller, thinner, as it said hello.

Matt bit his lip and took a chance. He pulled its jacket off of it, put it
between them, and hugged it tightly, the way Foggy did to him.

[What's that for?]

[You're cold. And this way, you're only touching your jacket, not me.]

It relaxed into it.

Matt thought and thought, and before he could say anything, it tapped out,
sounding agonized, [I just can't deal with it any more. I know what's going to
happen, I know I'm just going to break and then it'll happen all over again and
keep happening until I'm their stupid dad's stupid paralegal and get fucked
over his desk until I fucking get too expensive to take to the hospital when
one of his idiot kids gets another harebrained scheme and breaks a bone and
then I'll be just some fucking zombie and nothing will matter anymore!]

Matt held it tighter. It felt small and fragile in his arms. He bit his lip.

[What if you were owned by someone different?]

[...What do you mean?]

[If Foggy owned you, you'd eat,] and he realized with a jolt that that was the
endgame, that was what he needed to chase after. Not sleeping in Foggy's bed or
anything like that. Nothing selfish. A good, realistic goal.

[What?]

[Even if he hated you you'd eat. When he thought I was disgusting because of
Miss Sharpe owning me before gifting me to him, he couldn't stand to even talk
to me most of the time, but he fed me.]

[You're sure--]

[Even when I didn't deserve any food, he gave me plenty, he'd feed you too.]

[But--shit, Matt, you're his doll, of course he feeds you.]

[I wasn't always, and you'd be, I don't know, a house-slave. He'd feed you.]

[You're sure?]

[I am sure. Even if he wanted to have sex with you it wouldn't be too bad. I
could teach you all the tricks I know to get through it. And I don't know that
he would, either. He's not attracted to you.]

[Because I look like I'm dying,] it pointed out. But it seemed hesitant. [How
would you even get it so that he owned me?]

Matt thoughts raced. [I'll call Summer. I'll ask Foggy if I can call her and
I'll explain the situation and ask her for help.]

[Why would her owner help me? Or you?]

[He doesn't care about money, it wouldn't occur to him to care about spending
money on buying you and immediately giving you to Foggy, not if Summer asked
him, she's his doll, he likes indulging her, and she likes me, she always said
I was her favorite because she never doubted I'd be something great, she'll be
happy I'm a doll too, and she believes in rewards. She helped me when I called
and asked her before, too, and she said she'd help me again if things
deteriorated so much a second time.]

Matt felt full of purpose now. It was a completely insane plan, and hinged on
more things than any plan should, but so was the plan the time that Summer and
him had had to kill that trafficker and steal his car to get back to Winter's
house, and they'd done it then too.

Sometimes the crazier the plan was, the more it succeeded.

Matt grinned, and was about to stop hugging her when he felt a sharp slap on
the back of his head, and then there was shouting.

First, there was the shouting of what were presumably Barely Legal's male
owner, who was screaming at Matt--something about insolent stupid little sluts,
very standard fare--and then there was Foggy, out of nowhere, he had probably
come to fetch Matt, shouting too, something about get your hands off of him
this fucking instant, I will fucking sue you, how dare you.

Matt let go of Barely Legal slowly, deliberately, tapping as frantically as he
could through the jacket onto its sternum, [DON'T WORRY.]

Foggy ran over and grabbed Matt by the arms as he pulled him backwards. Matt
winced, expecting punishment, his ears ringing a bit, but Foggy kept snarling
at the other owner instead, threatening lawsuits and getting him kicked out of
Columbia and the like, don't talk about Matt like that you asshole.

The other owner yanked away Barely Legal, its heart pounding painfully, and
Matt felt renewed determination. He was going to help it properly, starting
today.

--

Foggy made sure to not break eye contact with the utter piece of shit dragging
away that poor slave until he left the building.

People around were staring, and he was still holding Matt by the arms, having
pulled him out of the danger as fast as he could.

Matt. Shit. Okay, Foggy thought, get him to the wellness center, make sure he
wasn't hurt, and then home. Fuck Torts. They could skip it again, it was right
after midterms anyway, they deserved to treat themselves.

He let go of Matt, who slowly stood up on his own, one hand coming to comb
through his head where that fucker had hit him.

"No blood," Matt murmured, rubbing his fingers together, and Foggy paled.

"Okay, let's get that checked out," he said firmly, putting Matt's hand inside
his elbow and checking that he had grabbed his cane and bag, and going on a
fast walk to the wellness center.

Matt murmured halfway there, having apparently regained his senses, "I'm fine,
Foggy, there's no need."

"There *is* a need," Foggy snapped. God, why didn't Matt have any self-
preservation instincts?

Then he stopped walking and realized he was angry at Matt because he was scared
for him, and also that Matt did have self-preservation instincts--he had
carefully tried to make Foggy happy with him, hadn't he?

Foggy sighed. "Matt," he said, and then stopped. "I'm worried that the hit to
your head was hard enough to seriously hurt you, because head injuries like
that can happen."

Matt's mouth made an 'ah' shape and then he said, gently, "I don't think it was
anything serious. My head hurts only somewhat where he slapped me. I've been
hit harder than that before in the head with no long-term effects at all."

That really wasn't reassuring. "Still, let's see if the wellness center has any
helpful information."

--

They didn't, they just flatly told Foggy that slaves should be given an icepack
and monitored for any signs of serious damage, and probably rest would be good
if he could manage to budget it.

Foggy seethed a little at the way their gazes slid over Matt's face like he was
a cardboard cutout of a celebrity at a movie theater, like he wasn't human and
there to be addressed, but then they went home, and as Foggy went to grab an
icepack and Matt lay on the bed, obediently, Matt called gently, "Foggy, may I
ask you for a favor?"

That was progress. "Sure, anything," he said distractedly, getting a towel to
wrap it in.

He brought it back and gave it to Matt, who moved it to the back of his head
and rolled over so that it stayed in place.

Then Matt said, very carefully, "There's a situation going on with the other
slave that you saw me interacting with. I apologize for my insolence with the
inappropriate contact I hadn't been given permission for--"

"It's fine, dude, go on," Foggy said. "Seriously, you're friends, I'm actually
kind of glad you hugged her."

Matt paused and went on, "Its owners have been cyclically starving it to force
compliance with it when they want to have sex with it, and it's getting to the
point where unless stopped, it might have heart problems relatively soon and is
experiencing extreme psychological stress."

Foggy went cold. Shit, that sounded horrible. "What favor do you want me to
do?"

Matt bit his lip. "If I may, I would like it if I could call Summer and ask her
to arrange it with her owner so that he could buy the slave you saw me
interacting with, and then immediately gift it to you permanently, Foggy."

Foggy blinked. "You want me to own her?"

"I know that you may find yourself at the zenith of slave ownership, given your
political leanings," Matt said, now sounding almost charming, voice infused
with something sweet, "But I can assure you, owning two slaves is more than
twice the benefits. I can ensure that any problems would be taken care of in
full. And I know that it would be better off with you, not with its current
owners."

Foggy thought about it. "Why 'it'?"

"It prefers to be referred to as 'it' and not 'she', Foggy," Matt murmured.

Foggy couldn't imagine why, but then he considered it. Matt thought he was a
kind owner. Matt was worried about his friend, and Matt didn't seem like the
type to exaggerate this situation.

And the image of that poor slave, so skinny and starved-looking. The shut lips.
The cigarette burn scars.

That settled it, then.

"Okay," Foggy said. "Let's do this." and he went to grab the phone.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from "Blues" by Elizabeth Alexander, here: http:/
     /fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/98986986691/i-am-lazy-the-laziest-girl-in-
     the-world-i-sleep
***** someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt opened the conversation with, "I have this completely insane idea, please
help me, Summer."

There was a pregnant pause and then she laughed, and said in that tone of
startled delight, "I love conversations that begin this way! Go on."

"There's this slave, and if it doesn't get sold soon it's going to die, I know
it, and if it was owned by my owner it wouldn't die, Foggy would for sure not
put it down unless he really had to, and I asked him, he said yes, but it
hinges on you and Winter."

"Hmm? Explain."

"If the plan works, Winter buys the slave from its owners, and then gifts it to
Foggy, and Foggy owns it permanently and so at least it won't die right now."

There was silence. "What incentive do I have to offer my owner for doing this?
Describe the slave in question."

"It's intelligent, it's as smart as me, it can keep up for sure, it--it's
strong, and defiant, and it's been starved cyclically for years and years but
it's still fighting strong, it--Barely Legal--"

She howled in laughter. "Barely--why Barely Legal?"

"The number 18 repeats in its number and it's going to be a paralegal," Matt
explained. "Or, was, anyway."

She giggled, and snorted out, "Oh, Matt, you are a trip. Well, this is nuts,
the whole idea of any slave being a paralegal is nuts, and does your owner
still want you to be a lawyer?"

"Yes, Foggy wants me to be a lawyer, I'm his doll now," Matt explained.

A silence. "Your owner wants a lawyer-doll," and there she sounded suspicious.

"Yes." Matt said, hoping she believed him.

"You're quite sure he's not just...using what you want against you?"

"He gave me strawberries--half an entire pound--after he got it out of me that
I hated having sex with him," Matt explained, his face smiling. "He's that
sweet. I was so mistaken, I had so many false perceptions, but now I
understand."

"Hmm," she said. "It's--well, the probabilities of a first-time slave owner, a
broke law school student from a blue collar background, someone who drove you
to a nervous breakdown, wanting a lawyer-doll, especially when I've never even
heard of a slave lawyer before...I don't need to tell you it's low. It's very
low. It's 'getting killed by a shark in Idaho' low. But it can happen. My own
existence is very improbable."

Matt blinked and waited for her to go on.

"I suppose," she said slowly, "I suppose, now that we're truly on the same
level, though not in terms of money...has he thought of where to house it? Can
he afford the upkeep?"

Matt paused. "I don't know about his financials," he confessed. "I'm not sure.
I'd--I'd do anything, I'd even try to have him sell me back to the auction
agency if that was necessary," and he immediately knew he'd gone insane if he
was willing to even whisper things like that. Foggy wasn't in the room, had
left before Matt had even first spoken, but still.

"I can't let another one die," he said, clarity breaking over him like
dawnrise. "I--I let Charlotte die. I tried so hard but I couldn't save her. But
I can save Barely Legal, I can save it, I know I can."

A deep sigh. "Matt, I will conference in Winter and see what we can do if you
promise me one thing."

"What?"

"You stop blaming yourself for someone's misfortunes the moment you let
yourself like them."

Matt bit his lip. "I don't--"

"Stop talking this moment."

He did.

"Now, the practical details aside, I can see that you are not used to being a
doll, and while it will be delightful to see if we can pull this off in such a
short amount of time as possible, you must let go of your guilt and self-
blaming. You did your best to calm down that owner, and you're doing beyond
your best to help this slave. Now say it out loud with me: it is possible to
make no mistakes and still lose. That is life."

"It is possible to make no mistakes and still lose. That is life," he recited
obediently.

"It is, in fact, slavery," she said, matter-of-fact. "Our whole lives are
losing over and over again. Now I'm going to conference in my owner and you
speak when spoken to, I don't know what mood he's in, he's been in Jersey all
week."

Matt was silent.

"Mm? Summer?" and it was that familiar voice.

"Sir, Matt has called me with an intriguing proposition. He has suggested we
buy a slave and instantly gift it to Matt's owner so that it can live somewhat
longer."

There was a silence. "I suppose," Winter said slowly, "That Matt deserves a
friend. Though I'm not sure what he's done to be rewarded so much."

"He's a doll now, Herr Besitzer," she said smoothly. She called him that when
she really, really wanted something. "That is a lifetime achievement."

"Indeed it is. Alright, make the redeyes, get the necessary info, we're going
in."

Matt made a tiny, involuntary noise of shock and happiness. Oh God, this could
actually work. He wouldn't have to live with another emptiness in his life
where another slave should have been.

Summer asked the number and the location of Barely Legal, and got as much on
its condition from Matt as he could describe.

"Now, Matt," he said, and Matt snapped to attention. "Go get your owner the
phone, he's the one that has to be persuaded to agree to the terms. Good job
getting to be someone's doll. I'm glad I invested in you."

"Thank you, sir," Matt whispered, and stood up.

--

Foggy had caught a couple of words only from the phonecall. He kept thinking
about practical problems, about where she--it--she--it, dammit he didn't want
to call a person 'it' but pronouns were a thing you had to respect, he
remembered that from college--would sleep. How would he pay for her law school,
too? Shit.

But then he couldn't help but feel warm and full of fire whenever he remembered
that Matt had asked him for this. Matt had to have been desperate beyond
belief, to finally start trusting Foggy with real things.

And he couldn't help but remember the glimpse he'd gotten of that poor slave
being dragged away from Matt. The sunken eyeballs. The thin hair. The blue
fingers.

Fuck, he couldn't do nothing. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He took the phone from Matt, and heard a windchime-pretty female voice, the
same one who had talked to Matt when he'd lost his shit. Summer.

"Sir, it's so pleasant to yet again speak to you, what an honor," she greeted
brightly, and then there was a strange male voice with a bizarre accent. Some
of the words were Russian-accented, some of them were distinctly New York.

"So I hear you're up to the challenge Matt has proposed," and at least the guy-
-Winter--called him Matt.

"Yeah," Foggy said, clearing his throat. "I can do something to help her--it--
so I have to."

A complete, startled silence at that, and then the male voice said, "I give
complete handling of the negotiations over to my slave Summer in this matter"
and hung up.

She went on, voice bright and charming, "Well, Mister Nelson, I'm so glad to
hear you're up to the challenge. Do you have any demands to make, to start
off?"

"Demands?"

"Well, Mister Nelson, Winter's just emailed me more instructions, and it
appears that he's now interested enough in this slave that we're buying it one
way or another. Gifting it is quite less certain."

Foggy felt cold all over. "What?"

He couldn't have just helped get that horribly starved person thrown to the
wolves like that. Matt couldn't have--

Matt didn't see them as wolves. Matt talked about them fondly, wistfully, like
he loved them. Matt didn't see anything wrong with what they had done to him.

Shit-fuck.

"Mister Nelson, if you don't want the slave number thirty-five--"

"I do!" he said, scrambling. "But--the problem is money, feeding another person
costs money, clothing another person--"

"We're quite happy to gift you a lump sum to pay for the law school as well as
extra for the upkeep until it pays for itself," she interrupted, sounding as if
she hadn't at all.

"What?" Foggy said, flat-footed. He felt like an asthmatic toddler in a boxing
match.

"Oh, my owner couldn't possibly care less about the money," she explained.
"Whatever it costs--and it won't be too much, honestly, any slave that's in
such a bad behavioral feedback loop that it's close to starving to death won't
cost that much--he doesn't care. Now that he's decided to buy it, it's going to
be bought, and he'll either gift it to you with some money to make sure his
reputation stays at a useful 'generous and giving back to society' or else have
me flip it properly and resell it in five years for millions. Either way, a
great future investment."

Foggy felt himself gaping like a fish. Jesus fuck, who were these people?

"How much money?" he demanded.

"We'll calculate the costs of the tuition, double it, and add on, hrm, let's
say the booze budget, about $25,000?"

Foggy jerked in shock. What the fuck? Who just casually tossed in an extra
$25,000?

Apparently these people.

Foggy had the very uncomfortable feeling that he'd never actually interacted
with anyone who was really rich until now. Marci from the class he didn't have
with Matt wasn't this crazy, or this wealthy.

Foggy cleared his throat. "And medical bills, too, for Matt and her--it."

"Add in another ten grand for those for this year. Mister Nelson, you must
understand, two slaves trained in the legal field will pay for themselves
fairly quickly. Once you've started at a firm--or started your own, really, it
doesn't matter--you've got more than triple the productivity of one person with
fewer costs. Overall, you're already quite lucky to have Matt, and while he
doesn't exactly need another slave, my owner does have a reputation to uphold.
Either he must be generous beyond belief and a maestro who sees the potential
in the misused of our fine society, or he must be a fixer-upper. He can't be a
man taking on charity cases."

Foggy blinked hard, and thought, and said, "What do you want for it?"

"Well, if we're gifting it, in order to uphold our reputation, we need a small
period of time in which you own it and I make sure any possible behavioral
issues are due to environment, and not inherent. If we can't, we absolutely
cannot gift it. That would be unacceptably risky."

He felt icy but determined. "Three days."

"Mister Nelson?"

"Three days, and you--you can't hurt it, or Matt, or do anything like that."

There was a pause and then, "I've conferred with my owner, and he agrees.
$35,000 plus double law school tuition plus three days to ensure we won't just
be embarrassing ourselves. You're a very lucky man, Mister Nelson. See you
tomorrow at nine PM! Best of luck with Matt!"

She hung up.

Foggy sat down heavily. What the fuck had he done?

Matt came over, looking beatific, and knelt down, his head on Foggy's thigh.

"Thank you so much," he whispered, loud in the ringing silence. "Foggy, thank
you so much. Now it won't die. I'll make you so happy, I'll show you it was
worth it. Thank you, Foggy," and he kissed Foggy's hand over and over, eyes
shut.

"Stop," Foggy said eventually, and ran a hand through his hair.

Three days. It would be--if they 'gifted' that poor person to Foggy tomorrow--
a Friday, Saturday and then Sunday. So he could supervise as much as possible.

God, what the fuck was his life now?

Foggy realized that he was going to have to put it on his google calendar at
this rate, to tell Anna about all of this and get some advice on how to get off
the crazy train his life had become.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title from Mary Oliver's "The Uses of Sorrow", here: http://
     fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/66217628311/the-uses-of-sorrow-mary-oliver
***** what you recall are impressions; we have the facts *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The next day went by in a crawl, and after classes Matt immediately started to
clean everything all over again, despite him already keeping the place spotless
every day.

"Matt," Foggy said at one point, watching him scrub an already-gleaming sink.
"Matt, can you--come here please," because Matt looked frantic.

Matt came over there, drying his hands.

"Matt, let me--" and then Foggy hugged him tightly, waiting until Matt closed
his eyes to ask, "Are you nervous?"

Matt chewed on his lip and said, low and with visible courage, "I--yes, Foggy,
I'm very nervous. I haven't been around her for months, not since that
unfortunate incident. And I haven't been around Winter since he sold me," and
he sounded utterly sad.

Foggy hugged him more. "Matt," he said, and then tried to find the question he
needed to ask. "I--is Summer going to hurt it? During the, uh, three days?"

"What?" Matt asked, sounding baffled. "No, of course not, Foggy. She believes
in reward conditioning. Three days is nowhere near the amount of time you have
to spend establishing a rapport and forging appropriate associations before you
do things like strengthen a slave's pain tolerance or increase their ability to
obey through distress."

That was both worrying and reassuring. One of Foggy's hands came up and touched
Matt's head without him consciously deciding to.

"And she didn't--did either of them have sex with you?" He asked, regretting
the necessity.

Matt paused. "No," he said calmly. "No, they never did, I'll be perfectly safe
around them, Foggy. Even if they had, they don't steal from others, they
wouldn't."

"Why--" Foggy winced at himself. "I'm going to ask, and I believe you, and this
is going to sound horrible, but why didn't they ever, uh, have sex with you?"

A long pause and Foggy stopped hugging Matt to see his face better.

His expression was contemplative. "Summer felt it would be--her words were
you're going to have plenty of sex you can't stand and never want the rest of
your life, you don't need to start it with me, this portion of the curriculum
has no practicum, and she was sincere, and si--her owner is one of those people
who never wants sex from anyone, at all."

Foggy blinked. "He's asexual?"

"That's the term for it, yes," Matt said. "He's never wanted to have sex with
anyone, at least not since he, uh, since he decided his new name would be
Winter."

Foggy frowned. "What's the guy's previous name, then?"

Matt's whole body cringed. "I--Foggy, please, I--" and that was fear right
there, so Foggy hugged him again and murmured, "Hey, Matt, it's fine, you don't
have to tell me if he'd hurt you for telling me, it's okay."

"Thank you, Foggy," Matt murmured, and sank down gratefully to kiss Foggy's
hand--Foggy had asked Matt if he wanted to stop doing that this morning, and
Matt had explained that it felt like the most sincere way to express his
gratitude that he knew of, and Foggy wasn't about to take another thing away
from him--and then Matt explained to Foggy's legs, "He does not wish anything
or anyone to discuss his name beyond clarifying that his name is Winter."

That was alarmingly creepy. "Okay," Foggy said slowly, and then there was a
sharp knocking, and he went to go get the door.

Foggy's first thought was that Summer looked tiny next to the man.

His second thought was that the man was somehow even more alarmingly creepy in
person.

He had long hair for a man--for a white guy, at least--down to a bit past his
shoulders, gathered up in a French braid that looked somehow gracefully
masculine. He also was wearing black jeans, combat boots with buckles, a black
suit jacket under a dark navy peacoat, and a Captain America shirt.  He looked
like a few of Foggy's uncles, the ones who had been Navy SEALs, made of muscle
without the bulges of bodybuilders. He was completely clean-shaven and looked
past Foggy to stare at Matt, on his knees.

Then he switched his gaze to Foggy, and said in that weird mixed-up Russian-
Brooklyn accent, "You must be Matt's owner, Foggy Nelson."

It was very, very funny how even this serial killer-looking man got Foggy's
name correct and his own biological mother didn't. "Yes," Foggy said, and held
his hand out to shake. "And you're...Mister Winter?"

"Just Winter," the man greeted, and shook his hand with an ice-cold metal
prosthetic. It gleamed in the light. Foggy made sure to not loose his grip or
lose his nerve. It wasn't the metal arm that made his skin crawl.

Summer, standing next to him, was wearing short snowboots, high-waisted jeans
with three large turquoise buttons on the front that her long-sleeved gold-
flecked black shirt was tucked into. She had a peacoat on herself, something
wine-colored that looked expensive. Her hair was long and golden blonde and
tumbled down her front in soft curls and waves, silk-shining, and half her head
was cleanly, perfectly shaven, highlighting the ring of snowflakes that went
around her throat in a vivid tattoo.

A tattoo collar. It made Foggy sick to think about.

But she was exquisitely, agonizingly beautiful, and he saw her dark red
fingernails twist nervously around each other as she stared past him, looking
at Matt.

"Well, come in, I guess," Foggy said, feeling very stupid but not sure what
else to do, and they both flashed him a perfunctory smile and came into his
apartment.

Summer immediately walked over to Matt and herself knelt on the floor in front
of him, studying his face, saying something in French to him, and together they
looked ethereally, unreally beautiful, each of them like something from a
story.

"Uh, Matt, let's, coffee I guess," Foggy said, and Matt instantly rose in the
middle of a sentence. Summer gave Foggy a look that was half murderous and half
seductive, and also stood up, walking over to Winter, whose gaze was
unsettlingly blank.

They both looked at each other and then at Foggy, and Foggy cleared his throat.
"I guess we should sit down and go over the contract to be absolutely sure of
things," he said.

"An excellent choice, Mister Nelson," she said brightly and whipped out from a
large purple leather purse he hadn't noticed some papers and slid them across
the table at him.

Matt made coffee and as it was brewing, came over to the side of Foggy where
his chair was, and waited. Why was he waiting?

Oh. Oh, what if--Matt knew Foggy wanted him to actually sit in his chair for
food, and wasn't sure if Foggy wanted him to sit there or kneel.

Well, that was fine. "Sit, Matt," he said and gently nudged him. He was getting
better at ordering Matt to do things to help him calm down.

Matt sat obediently, and Winter said something in what sounded like Russian,
and Matt ducked his head and murmured a thanks.

Keep the conversational ball in your court, Nelson, Foggy thought to himself,
and looked over the contract.

It said pretty much everything they'd said over the phone--"Slave number
3519781841181818 will be transferred within the hour to the permanent custody
of Franklin Nelson, current owner of slave number 556682394441, ownership being
transferred in full, upon the signing of the contract. Franklin Nelson will
then have a three-day period in which to cancel his portion of the contract,
during which slave number 77712606282828 will evaluate and ensure the quality
of slave number 3519781841181818, and if canceled, ownership will revert in
full to JBB Winter, owner of slave number 77712606282828. After this three-day
period, on precisely 12:00 AM...further buying and selling of slave number
3519781841181818 will proceed as normal."

Foggy read it over four times, carefully, and then nodded. This was fine. He
would have to grit his teeth and make sure nothing really awful happened to
Matt's friend or Matt for those three days, and from there he could figure
things out.

"Okay," Foggy said. "Now we're getting her--it tonight, right?"

They glanced at each other. "We'd like to request to take Matt along," Summer
said, voice soft. "He's a friendly face. He can help keep it calm and docile
long enough to get it here and let me take over."

"And besides," Winter added, his smile somehow off, something about his eyes,
"It'll be good to have another pair of hands."

"Then I'm coming too," Foggy said firmly. He would not leave Matt alone with
these people.

"Of course, Mister Nelson," she said cheerily. "Now, we have the supplies in
the car. What do you say we go and get you your future investment?"

Foggy gritted his teeth, but nodded, and they rose to gather coats and leave.

Matt turned off the coffeemaker, and turned to Foggy and whispered, "I'm sorry
if I've displeased you, Foggy," and then Foggy snapped. Fuck, he was so done
with Matt being scared of him, so he did the only thing he could think of and
hugged him tight.

"It's fine," Foggy said. "You want to save your friend. Let's go do that."
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title take from "We Remember Your Childhood Well" by Carol
     Ann Duffy, here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/129087415218/nobody-
     hurt-you-nobody-turned-off-the-light-and
***** exit seraphim and Satan’s men: *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt can feel Winter's gaze on him as they walk downstairs, Foggy guiding him,
and Summer leading the way to the car.

He almost missed this, the heaviness of being owned by someone with so much
power. Winter hadn't been a bad owner at all; at the beginning, Matt had been
terrified of him, with the whirring metal arm and the cold silences and the
flat, dead way he spoke most of the time. The way Matt barely knew him at all.

But compared to how most other owners, Winter was so much better. He had clear
expectations, firm orders, and didn't play mind games. Matt had always been fed
when he deserved it, and treated fairly.

And now he'd told Matt that he was proud of him too, when Matt had done what
Foggy wanted, not what was protocol.

Good boy, and Matt smiled to himself at the words. I knew you were taught well.

Matt had been--was still somewhat--so anxious about embarrassing Foggy in front
of them, making them disappointed in him. But Summer had told Matt that she was
so happy to see him, that she was so looking forward to these three days.

And Barely Legal was going to live. It was going to be alive, and Foggy would
feed it, and Matt could probably get permission to hug it, and then things
would be better. Foggy had been so very generous to Matt even when Matt had
been making nothing but mistakes.

Matt got in the car, grinning widely against his will.

Winter drove, and Foggy got shotgun, and Summer climbed in next to him, saying
in low, murmuring French, "(So your owner really does like you.)"

Matt ducked his head as Winter started the car and began to drive. He smelled
clothes, medicines, and a lot of food in the car, packed into coolers. "(Foggy
is very sweet,)" he explained. "(I wasn't kidding when I said I was his doll
now.)"

She made a soft noise of assent, and then Winter asked her, "You called ahead,
right?"

"Yes, sir, we're going to be dealing with the wife," she said calmly. "The
ownership's in her name, too, and as far as I can tell it's one of those
situations where she doesn't like what's going on but not enough to stop it,
sir."

"I see," he said, his voice still flat. "I'll wait outside after we get it back
to that building."

"Yes, sir," she said.

Then there was more silence.

"(This may be very difficult emotionally,)" she told Matt again. "(It may be in
a very, very bad condition. Do not let your disgust show.)"

Matt felt--offended, actually. "(Of course not.)"

She gave a soft chuckle. "(Your pride's bloomed again. Does your owner like
it?)"

"(As far as I can tell. There was a situation, with with biological mother,
where he was very, very happy when I was politely rude to her.)"

"(Politely rude? Do tell.)"

--

It was very creepy to be driving around in the night to a house near Columbia.
Foggy felt rather like the guy in the beginning of a horror movie.

But Matt sounded so very happy, almost shy. He and Summer were talking in soft
French, and Matt's voice sounded as musical and beautiful as in German.

Foggy caught the name 'Sharpe' and turned around reflexively, wondering if they
were talking about about Rosalind, and then after Matt said something all three
other people burst into bright, loud laughter. The guy--Winter--even cackled a
little, and Summer seemed like she was having a seizure, she was convulsing so
hard.

Then Matt caught on to his apparent confused fear, and hastily said to Foggy,
"Oh, Foggy, I apologize, I will only speak in English from now on, please
punish--"

"It's fine," Foggy said, even though he very much wanted to know what they were
saying. "Just--until Monday, please," because as much as it made him faintly
queasy it honestly wasn't safe to not know what the hell kind of poison they
were feeding him.

"Of course, Foggy," Matt murmured, and then the car was silent.

The house wasn't especially far, and they pulled up in front of a glittering
McMansion, and backed up so that the van's large truck was closest to the door.

"All right," Winter said, and his voice sounded suddenly strangely familiar and
also utterly wrong, because all the Russian was absent from his accent, "Let's
get this party started."

--

Inside the house, Foggy had the feeling he'd had when he once saw part of a
nature documentary on lions.

It had been about how lions hunted various different prey, including humans.
Some of them were really fascinating--lions hunting Cape buffalo or gazelle or
even, sometimes, elephants.

At one point, two of the lionesses had jumped on a teenage elephant at the same
time, one ripping at its hindquarters and one chewing through its neck, and the
elephant had run around in panic until it died.

The mother of the assholes who owned the slave Foggy was about to help rescue
was the elephant.

Winter had somehow turned into a different person. He didn't lurk or just stand
there, creepily, anymore. His voice was entirely smooth-talking New York
accent, and Summer leaned affectionately into his side as they talked and
talked until it was clear that Mrs Goodman, and what an ironic name that was,
couldn't stand up in the face of the ruthless charm.

Matt himself stayed with his arm in Foggy's elbow, a large duffel at his feet,
smiling softly, and whispering into Foggy's ear that he was trying to find
Barely Legal's heartbeat--and what a supremely fucked-up name that was, but
Foggy was determined to not ever make fun of anyone for their name, so he
didn't let himself dwell on it--and was getting closer.

Mrs Goodman babbled and blurted out things, and Summer and Winter pried her
open, one gentle remark after the other.

"I mean, I just, I'm a married woman, look but don't touch, see?" she nervously
giggled at one point.

"That's a shame, sugar, you rationed?" Winter had flirted back, and she had
given a real, flattered laugh at that.

"And of course it hurts to see your children just throw away a gift like that,
over and over again," Summer was saying a minute after that.

"Do you have any children?" Mrs Goodman asked Winter.

He blinked and for a second the spell wavered. But then he went on, "I had
daughters, once. Natalya and Yelena. I miss them all the time."

Mrs Goodman gasped. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

He nodded, and were those tears at the edges of his eyes real? Jesus. Foggy
felt like he was watching a movie not only in a language he didn't speak, but
with tens of thousands of subtle references and social cues he had no idea were
even there.

"And I knew, from when I had my girls," Winter went on, "That if they don't
appreciate what you give them, you have to take it away sometimes. It's for
their own good."

"Now I know you may be worried," Summer said gently, "About the costs. But
we're more than happy to pay back the original price, as well as a good ten
grand thrown in for your troubles."

"What would happen to the poor dear?" Mrs Goodman asked, on the edge of
agreeing to the sale.

"Oh, it'll be well taken care of," Summer reassured her. "I can assure you,
you'll only be protecting its welfare."

There was a horrible second, and then Mrs Goodman slumped her shoulders and
gave in. "Here's the papers," Winter said, and she signed. "And here's your
money," Summer said, and handed her a check.

"Now, where's our new investment?" Winter asked, stunningly handsome in this
charming person-suit.

"It's in its cage in the back room," Mrs Goodman said, and pointed. "I don't
have the key, Edward does."

"Oh, we don't need the key, Mrs Goodman," Summer said serenely. "Mister Nelson,
if we may, Matt should come with me for retrieval."

Foggy glanced at Matt, who was almost vibrating with tension and who whispered
to him, "May I, Foggy?"

"Yeah, go," Foggy said, and Matt kissed his hand and went over to her, put his
arm on her jacket sleeve, and she and him walked to go and get Foggy's newest
slave.

Shit. What was he going to tell Anna?
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from "Mad Girl's Love Song" by Sylvia Plath,
     here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/121605605094/mad-girls-love-
     song
***** I'm the kind of human wreckage that you love *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
It was dark and cramped in the cage.

It thought about a lot of things in the cage, or nothing at all, but this time,
it had been thinking about nothing at all since it had been dragged away and
stripped and thrown into the car and taken back and shoved in the cage.

Nothing at all.

But now its brain was undeniably awake, and so it thought about what it could
see, and hear, and not what it could smell. It did not think about the bruises
or the piss on the cage's floor.

It did not think about the plate of now-cold Greek lemon chicken placed just a
foot away from the cage.

It thought about being a zombie, for a minute, and full-body flinched itself
into the bars. No, no. That was not something it could think about.

It thought about darkness and coldness, but it had been cold for months now, so
instead it thought about crampedness, and then it heard steps. A quiet female
voice.

And--was that Matt? It hadn't hear his voice often, but--

The door opened and it strained its head up to look, and the light flickered
on, and it was--

It blinked through the headache of the sudden light.

It was Matt, and a gorgeous, beautiful slave with a gleamingly new collar
tattoo and snow-boots, and they were carrying a big bag, and Matt was there.

Matt had--Matt had said not to worry, but--but every time it had almost been
sold, it hadn't gone through, the stupid cunt twins had cried or begged hard
enough or the cunt of a father had yelled at his stupid coward cunt wife about
sunken costs and economic downswings, and it hadn't believed Matt, hope was
stupid, but Matt was here.

Or else it was dying.

The slave--and it was Summer, it realized with a jolt, the Summer it had seen
that one party, wearing a shirt with gold and rolling up her sleeves and
bunning up her hair, the hair that was there, on the left side of her head,
telling Matt to get out the clothes--was crouching down over the cage.

"Listen to me," and oh god her voice was even prettier in person. It felt a low
rolling flush of something waking up inside it at the voice.

"Listen to me. Don't think about anything else. Listen to me now."

How could it do anything else?

"Listen to my voice," she said softly. "Blink twice quickly if you're
listening."

It blinked twice.

"Good. Now, you've been sold to my owner--"

What the fuck?

"And by the hour's end you'll be owned by Matt's owner, Foggy Nelson. Blink
twice if you understand what I'm saying, three times if you don't."

It blinked twice, because those were all comprehensible words in English, but
together they were--they were in some sort of other language, coated in fairy
dust or something, because how could this be really happening?

"Now, I'm going to open the cage. Don't be too frightened. We don't have a key
and I'm not about to ask those sadistic nitwits for it."

It smiled against its will. It hurt, its lips started to bleed, but it grinned
with all its might.

Then Summer stood up, and stood at one end of the cage, and kicked the bars.

The bars bent, impossibly, crunching against each other, and she kicked it
again and then went to the other end and did it again, and it was a horrible
noise.

It was like the jaws of life, or something, and she looked like an angel as she
crouched over the cage and held out her arms.

"If you can, reach up to grasp my hands," and it hadn't thought it had the
strength anymore, creaking and breaking open as it was, but it did and then she
pulled, gently and carefully, and it was out of the cage.

"Good job. I'm glad you're being good for me," she said, and its face flamed
with pleasure.

"Don't be shy," she said calmly. "I've seen much worse. I've been in worse
shape, myself. I've got it all planned out. I'm going to help you transition to
your new life, for three days. I'll wash you at the apartment where you'll live
from now on. Matt will assist. I'll make sure you can be good for your new
owner, too, and things will be better."

It almost wanted to cry, but it felt dry all over, each vein the Sahara.

"Now, stay very still. I'm going to dress you."

It winced. Oh, God, it didn't want Matt to see it like this, not with blood
crusting it, not with it covered in that dried, itchy waste.

But Matt was blind. It sagged against the floor in relief. Thank God.

"I know," she murmured, and how had she caught the way it kept looking at Matt?
"I know, it's so nice to not be looked at, isn't it?"

It knew, in that moment, that it loved Summer. It didn't just want to be her.
It wanted to do everything that she could possibly want from it.

Summer pulled on what felt like sweatpants, and a warm, soft, long-sleeved
shirt, and a sweatshirt that said "COLUMBIA" across the front, and a hat that
clung to her skull, and thick socks, and soft things that felt like slippers
and were stuffed with some sort of wool on the inside.

It almost started crying, but remembered. Stay still. Be good for her.

"Good job staying still," she murmured. "You're doing quite well. Now Matt's
going to carry you, and I'm going to guide him, and you are not going to do
much of anything besides let yourself be carried. If there's anything you want
to say, I'm told you know Morse?"

It tapped out, [Yes].

"Good. If there's anything important, anything starts to hurt or you start to
go away to Elsewhere in your head, you tap it out, got that? Matt, if it taps,
you listen and inform me of anything serious, got it?"

"Yes," Matt murmured, and his face was concerned, not disgusted.

"Good. Both of you will reflect well on me. Now, Matt, bridal carry, let's get
out of this garish shithole."

Matt scooped it up, carefully, like he thought it was precious.

It felt strangely warm all over, with Matt carrying it, and he said quietly,
"It's going to be okay. I said I'd help."

[Why?] it tapped, painfully, on his arm.

"I'm a doll, I have so much now, I can give it away," he said softly. "You'll
see. Foggy's nowhere near as bad as I first thought he was."

"He does seem rather adorable," Summer commented idly.

It blinked. Adorable. How could any owner be adorable? What did that even mean?

But it was out of the cage, and Summer was going to help it be better, be good
for once. For a new owner, one who wasn't a cunt.

It shivered faintly and pressed as much as it could into Matt's chest. He was
steady. His arms didn't shake.

It was carried, and Matt said quietly, "Foggy and Winter are waiting in the
car," but before he even finished it tapped as fast as it could, [Can I walk
across the doorway?]

He stopped. "What?"

[I want to walk out of here on my own two feet.]

Matt blinked. His head turned to Summer and he said, "It wants to walk out of
the doorway, instead of being carried."

She tilted her head and then turned around to face it.

It stared at her face, unable to look down. Her beautiful, soothing, like-a-
sunrise-on-a-full-stomach face.

She said, calmly, "Help it across and don't let it faint and crack its skull,"
and strode out through the doorway.

Matt carefully, three steps from the doorway, let it down, and it grinned
fiercely, and held onto his arms as he walked backwards, guiding it.

It stepped one, two, three, four and then it was out, it was fucking out of
there for good, and it turned to look back and grin goodbye, good fucking
riddance--

And there was the stupid bitch, the stupid evil coward cunt goddamn idiot bitch
who never ever stopped them but came around afterwards and washed its pussy out
so it wouldn't get pregnant, the one who cried on its shoulder.

It worked up the liquid, opened its mouth, and spat onto their marble floor.

Then Summer said calmly behind it, "Matt, pick it up again and come get it into
the truck with me," and Matt moved to do it, and it stared defiantly, happily,
at the sight of the whole house retreating, its mouth saying over and over
again soundlessly, fuck you.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from "Blood" by My Chemical Romance.
***** there is a charge for the eyeing of my scars *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt smiles to himself and hides it as best he can, because really, you can't
encourage things like that on principle, but it reminds him of when he spat on
the ground of the open market, being pulled away by Winter, going to his new
and better home.

And now he's helped it go to a new and better home.

Summer checks on it, testing for various things, and says to Matt, "Good job
carrying it here. You're going to carry it up those stairs, too."

Matt nods, glad that Foggy's been allowing him to train. Otherwise it might be
somewhat difficult, even with it weighing so much less than it should.

Its heartbeat is steady and strong, and it smells like--well, urine and feces,
faintly, and fear-sweat, but also like adrenaline, and he holds one of its icy
hands in a tight grip.

Matt has the distinct feeling Foggy wouldn't mind it at all.

He thinks about what to make sure it does, how to divide up work between them
fairly; if Foggy wants Matt to be doing the things like cooking, Barely Legal
can clean. If Foggy wants Matt to drop all house-slave tasks, Matt can make
sure that it knows how to do them for Foggy.

He wants them both to be so happy. He really does. Foggy is the best owner Matt
may ever have, and he'll fight to keep him.

But Barely Legal is hardly real competition, not for doll status, not yet
anyway. Summer calls to Foggy that there's no stroke or signs of cardiac
emergencies yet, and if he wants to punish Barely Legal for spitting then
medically speaking he should wait and they get to the building quickly.

--

There's just one missing piece of the puzzle for Foggy.

Why is Winter doing all of this?

Matt, he understands. If Foggy had a friend that was being starved to death,
he'd do anything to help.

Himself, he understands. Matt hadn't asked for anything so big before, and how
could he let someone else die when he could do something about it?

Summer--well, he doesn't actually understand her, not at all, but he thinks
there's something about her that makes her really enjoy training other slaves,
and this is an opportunity to do that.

But Winter just seems back to his flat affect, and Foggy can't figure him out.

Before Foggy gets out to get BL--he can't constantly think of her--it--fuck--as
'Barely Legal', it doesn't feel to him like a name--inside, he turns to the
guy.

"Not that I'm not grateful," Foggy says, because he doesn't want them to take
away BL and twist and twist until there's another Matt, how Matt was at the
beginning, with a faint smile and total, utter, creepy submissiveness, "But--
what are you doing this for?"

Winter shrugs, and from his angle Foggy suddenly realizes where he's familiar
from. "I despise waste," he says, then to Summer he calls in the back, "I'll be
down here. We'll sleep at the hotel room."

"Yes, sir," she calls back and she gets what sounds like an easy two coolers
from the back as well.

Foggy blinks and goes to get them inside--it's freezing now at night, it can't
be comfortable for BL at all--and wonders to himself just how Winter's related
to Bucky Barnes. He could be a clone, except that Bucky Barnes and Captain
America were more than a little infamous for never owning any slaves.

--

Upstairs, Matt carefully puts BL down onto the living room floor and makes sure
it's sitting up, and Summer pulls out the official papers of ownership transfer
that Winter's already signed in some sort of copperplate.

Foggy looks it over twice again, just to be sure, and signs. It feels both
worse and better than when he did it with Rosalind in that diner, because
there's no naked-wrapped-in-ribbons person right behind him who Rosalind just
made suck on his fingers, but also because this time he has a far better
understanding of just how wrong this all is.

But it would be worse otherwise.

He signs and Summer smiles and says, "Bring it over here," and Matt helps BL
stand and walk slowly, arm slung over his shoulder.

"Now," Summer says gently, "You've only got to kneel for a minute, don't fuck
it up," and tells Matt, "Let it go, it's got to do the ritual," and Matt nods
and untangles their fingers and his arm.

BL stands before Foggy and meets his stare.

It doesn't look like how Matt's face looked in that diner at all.

Matt had looked sultry, happy, blissful, please-abuse-me.

BL looks cool, and determined, and angry, and above it all looks like it would
be saying Sure, you're my owner, and you're probably better than those other
jack-offs, but that doesn't mean I'll let you do everything to me.

There's a tense second and then it kneels, slowly, and when its knees touch the
floor it exhales hard and bends its head down to the ground too, its bony hands
folding over the back of its head.

Matt's smiling so hard it looks like his face will break.

Summer looks at Foggy expectantly.

Foggy swallows. "Uh," he says, and what is he supposed to say?

Matt comes over and Foggy remembers what the paper Rosalind had handed him in
that diner had said to say, and swallows again, and says, "I, uh, accept your
enslavement to me in full. Until such time that you are sold, you are mine,"
and BL's back relaxes at it.

Fuck. He is so absolutely fucked.

--

Foggy does the ritual and BL really does need to be washed, so Summer asks
Foggy's permission to do things and use minor pieces of property of his to a
reasonable degree in order to properly ensure that her job during tomorrow and
the two days after it was done correctly, and Foggy asks what that actually
meant, and Summer clarifies that she meant things like using a couch cushion
for BL to kneel on and Matt's toiletries to wash it off properly, and Foggy
says yes, and Matt stays behind as Summer picks it up and goes to wash it, and
once it's in the shower with her he hugs Foggy.

"I'm sorry for displeasing you," Matt murmurs into the hug.

Foggy shakes a little against him and Matt wants to rip off his skin at how
much he hates this, what could he possibly do besides care about his owner and
his--his--his friend, but then Foggy hugs him back tightly.

"It's not your fault this all collided to make this the most ethical thing to
do," Foggy says quietly. "You didn't make this world so epically fucked up."

That's true, and Matt feels relief.

BL comes out of the bathroom eventually, and Matt gets it some clothes from his
dresser-drawer, and with Foggy's nod he and Summer efficiently dress it, with
sweatpants and socks and shirt and sweatshirt again. Its hair is limp and wet
and Matt wraps it up in a towel, and it taps out [Thank you] on his hand.

Summer turns to Foggy and sighs. "Good news, Mister Nelson. No serious cuts, no
broken bones, no debridement necessary, no stroke, seizures, or a need for a
trip to the hospital. It should drink as much broth as it can stand and sleep
under some form of blankets tonight to start its physical recovery. What time
do you leave for classes tomorrow morning?"

Foggy says, "Around nine AM."

"Thank you, Mister Nelson, I'll be back at eight, then, to start the quality
assurance process. (Goodnight, Matt, and sleep well.)"

She turns and goes.

Foggy turns to BL and says, "Matt, uh, I think you should make that broth, and
we can all talk, briefly. And then sleep, because this was exhausting on so
many levels."
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from Sylvia Plath's "Lady Lazarus".
***** the point being that I can’t do what I want to do with my own body *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt goes and focuses on making the broth. Chicken stock, garlic, heavy on the
ginger.

Foggy's heartbeat is slower than it's been when his trainers were here, and
that's good. BL--he heard Foggy call it that when he said in the car that he
wasn't going to punish it, and the owner of a slave decides the slave's name--
is sitting in the chair, and its heartbeat is also slow.

Things feel almost relaxed.

Matt listens, too, because Foggy clears his throat and says, "Okay, I should
have set this all up from the beginning and I didn't, so I apologize to you for
that, Matt," and Matt frowns to himself.

He really needs to get Foggy into some form of therapy.

"No need, Foggy," Matt murmurs and stirs the broth.

"Anyway," and Foggy sounds like a slave deciding it's not going to win an
argument, "Anyway, house rules. For everyone. First of all, no sex. At all.
Nobody has sex. Ever. Not for any reason, got it?"

Matt nods and hears Barely Legal--BL--nod too, swish-swish of the towel.

"Yes, Foggy," he says and after a second it follows suit in Morse. Good. It's
not going to be stupid about this and difficult with Foggy as it was with its
previous owners.

"And also, about the food thing--everyone eats three meals a day, unless you're
sick or full or you just don't want to, and I seriously will never, ever be mad
at anyone for taking snacks or anything, just. I'd be really angry at myself
for the rest of my life if either of you went hungry or thirsty, so just, take
care of that, alright?"

"Yes, Foggy," and there it's in unison, Morse and voice.

The broth bubbles and Matt pours a mugful and brings it over.

There's a very awkward second, and then it takes the proffered spoon, stirs,
and brings up a spoonful to its mouth.

"Oh, hell, you need chapstick," Foggy says, and Matt smiles to himself at how
cute Foggy is, to worry about little luxuries like that in a time like this.

"Uh, I'll put that on the list, along with clothes and oh! That reminds me! You
don't have a tongue, Matt told me, and I've been wondering--do you know any
American Sign Language?"

There's a very awkward moment at that, and Matt can tell BL's gesturing
something, and nodding, but not much else.

"Ok. But since Matt can't understand that, I was also wondering, here--" and
Foggy slides something plastic and metal across the table to BL, who very
tentatively touches it.

"It's an old phone, but it's still got one of those text-to-speech apps," Foggy
explains. "I--you don't have to use it all the time, but since I don't really
know Morse, and neither do most people, I figured this would be easier than
writing everything down or something like that."

BL touches the phone and it says, in a flat, robotic voice, "Thank you, Foggy."

Matt can almost hear its smile, it's so big.

"I can also get a better phone where you can pick out a better voice for
yourself," and does Foggy want two dolls, to be so nice to them? Matt feels
almost excited at the idea.

"And, um, another thing, I don't think you'll believe me, but I will seriously
never ever hit you or rip out your fingernails or anything like that, ever, for
anything at all. Never. Not even a little bit. Okay?"

There's a second and then the robotic voice says, "Understood, Foggy."

"Okay. Okay. We're on the same page. Now: sleeping arrangements. I can make up
the couch for you."

"Thank you, Foggy," and the voice has no emotion but BL ducks its head and Matt
can feel its pleased, faint blush from where he's sitting.

"Okay," Foggy says to himself, and goes to get pillows and blankets, and BL's
hand comes over and squeezes Matt's, and it taps out, [You were right. Things
are better already.]
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also taken from June Jordan's "Poem About My Rights".
***** I turned out terrific at it myself: sucking cunt, stroking ego,
provoking, manipulating, comforting, keeping *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
It doesn't sleep most of the night, thinking.

After its new owner had made up the couch--and that was downright bizarre, but
so, so nice--and it had been helped over there, and had sat down and had
blankets wrapped around it and pillows put where it would lie down, and Matt
had put the rest of the broth in two mugs on the floor where it could easily
reach them, and Matt had asked their owner if he could possibly squeeze its
hand, and their owner had said yes, of course, Matt had done it and then gone
to sleep himself, it lay awake.

It drank the broth slowly and thought about what was going to happen next.
Would it be allowed to go back to Columbia? Would it become a lawyer or a
paralegal, too? Was it going to be a house-slave? How would it be punished if
not by being hit or starved?

Oh, god, did this Foggy believe in sensory deprivation? It wasn't that old, but
recently there had been a whole series of books about how it was a better
punishment for slaves that didn't risk so much damage. Its previous owners--
those cunts--had read it and decided that a sensory deprivation tank was just
too expensive and besides, why not stick to tradition?

But this new owner--Foggy, and he wanted to be referred to as Foggy, not
anything else, even by it--might really not be so bad. A full stomach and warm
blankets and a chance to be trained to be good was nothing to scoff at.

It thought about the training center as it lay awake. Sometimes it did that,
mostly to try not to cry or feel despairing, because for a long time it had
been better at that cunts' house than at the training center. At least there
were never sirens or electric shocks at the house (no AED made it too dangerous
to use an electrified collar, at least to most people).

But then things had gotten worse, and worse, and then it had almost been
wistful to be back there. At the training center it was this strange mix of
incredibly boring and incredibly busy, all day, every day, but it had missed
the camaraderie of being with other slaves. Sure, the cunts had had other
slaves, but it wasn't as if it got to interact with them, being the twins' toy
as it was.

And then Matt had happened, and it had stopped being so numb, and it had hurt
to suddenly realize how much better other slaves' lives were up close, and then
there had been an escalation.

It lay its head on the pillow and closed its eyes but couldn't relax enough to
sleep.

Even if this was better than before, it was still too uncertain. It didn't know
what Foggy wanted from it, or why it had bought it. If it was just to make his
doll happy--and Matt was so much happier than he had been at the beginning of
the semester, wow--then it wasn't sure what to do. Matt had liked it all the
time, when it had been playfully teasing or angry and bitter or sympathetic for
his plight.

If Foggy wanted a house-slave so his doll could focus on just being beautiful
and spoiled and happy, well. It supposed it could do that. It tried to recall
all the house-slave training it had gotten, but it was hazy and in the dark
apartment it was difficult to remember the flourescents and stained white
walls.

Even the few prisons had colors on the walls.

It made itself sit up a bit and drink more broth. It wasn't sure it knew how to
be good anymore; it wasn't sweet or determinedly obedient, not like Matt had
been back when he resented Foggy for being so damn inscrutable. It had been
fighting the cunt twins and the cunt parents for so long, it genuinely didn't
know if it could ever calm down and not fight this new owner.

But then again, Summer, the Summer, had said she was going to help, and had
said that it had been good so far, and it smiled at the memory. It had always
both wanted to meet Summer after seeing her, and been terrified of it. What if
she thought it was as stupid and worthless as the cunt parents thought it was?

But she hadn't. And now it would be trained again and not by a institution that
barked out numbers (numbers that slipped out of its ears the second it heard
them, it hadn't done that on purpose, don't punish me for forgetting when I
can't help it).

It waited, and drank all the broth, even the mug that was cold, and slept only
a little bit.

--

The next morning was just as surreal. Today, Summer had politely knocked on the
door, wearing a floral long-sleeved dress that went to her knees, and leggings
that looked like snakes' scales, and a leather trenchcoat. She was carrying
another black duffel, and put it down next to the coolers, which, Foggy
realized with a start, she had left there last night and nobody had noticed.

She greeted him politely with a "Good morning, Mister Nelson," and then went
over to BL, who was still on the couch, and said brightly, "And I see you've
still been good for your new owner?"

BL nodded slowly.

"Good. I'm glad. I haven't got as much time as I'd usually have, so today we'll
cover a lot of material, but I know you're quite capable."

She moved to the coolers, and Foggy became aware of Matt as he turned and asked
Foggy, "Foggy, should I make coffee for three or four?"

Foggy blinked. "Uh, four, I guess," and Matt nodded and poured his and Foggy's
normal coffee into their normal take-with-you cups and then two mugs of coffee
for Summer and BL.

BL, who was staring longingly at Foggy's toast.

"Oh, right," Foggy said. "I guess you want toast too?"

BL's eyes flickered from him to Summer.

"It shouldn't eat toast yet, Mister Nelson," Summer said calmly. "Really, it's
a bit early in the physical recuperation for that. That's why I've brought
this," and Foggy glanced inside the cooler and saw cans of some sort of Ensure-
like drink.

"Strong healthy supplement, none of that 'formulate just for slaves' nonsense,
as if we don't have the same physiology," she explained. "And vitamin pills,
it's going to need for a long while. Now then," and she went and got her mug of
coffee and glanced all over the room, "Barely Legal, sit up, put one of those
pillows on the ground, and kneel for your owner."

BL did, eyes darting wildly at Foggy and then Summer.

He gritted his teeth. According to the contract he'd signed, if he tried to
stop her from doing anything that was 'strictly necessary' to the process, it
would be the exact same as formally ending his ownership and it'd be
transferred immediately to Winter.

Three days with supervision so it can't be too awful is better than five years
without any oversight, Foggy reminded himself.

"Good job," Summer said, and it was so eerily like how Matt had imitated her
when he'd explained reward conditioning. "Now, the lack of a tongue makes this
a bit more difficult, ordinarily I'd use fruits and candies, but I'll just
improvise. Do you like this? Honest answer."

Then her hands reached out and very delicately brushed BL's cheek.

BL's eyes went huge and round and it nodded frantically.

"Excellent. And rank these from one to ten for me," and Summer pulled out what
looked to Foggy like small things of perfumes.

Then Matt murmured to Foggy, "I apologize for interrupting, Foggy, but we
should be going," and against his better sense Foggy sighed and they went.

--

It followed Matt and its owner with its eyes and then when they left Summer
made a gentle noise.

It jolted back to her, to her upsettingly beautiful face.

"You're correct in finding your owner more important to monitor than me, but
now you need to focus," she scolded mildly.

It winced, and refocused on the smells, and slowly made its fingers into the
signs for one two three and through ten for the smells, with the grape-soda-
grape as the best and the cinnamon as the least-best. None of them were
actually bad, though.

"Good job, helping me calibrate this," she said, almost purring. "I'm glad to
see you're going to work with me. Now let me explain this process as a whole
briefly before we go back to brush up on the basics.

"You have been hammered very, very thin, and have cracks in places. Through
this process, you will bend and bend and become again something more useful and
beautiful to your new owner, and to me.

"Oh, yes," she said at its wide eyes, "It's quite important to me that all the
slaves I help reflect well on me. My reputation is one of the very few things
that are mine. Matt reflects beautifully on me and I won't have you shaming him
or me by being anything but your best for Foggy Nelson. Am I quite understood?"

It nodded.

"Good job. Good slave. Now, let's go back to basics--"

It flinched.

"No, no, don't worry, nothing like that. I suppose you are used to the basics
being associated with pain?"

It nodded, thinking of shocks. Sirens. Walls.

"Oh, those idiots. No, I'm going to use rewards, not punishments. Pleasure is
ten thousand times more effective than pain. You can substitute a whipping that
costs thousands of dollars in repairs for a single nice thing, if you use your
brain. Of course, pain is useful in its own way. Ask Matt about that some time.

"But for now, I intend to rebuild your mind from the crumbling fortress it's
become. It'll be a cottage, a breezy summer home. Heh," and she giggled at her
own joke, and it smiled too.

"Now, I've only got three days, so we'll see how much help you need on the
basics. I will forge an entirely new association: obedience with pleasure, not
the absence of obedience with pain. Quit slouching and kneel properly. Hands
behind your back, spine straight, face pointed at the ceiling, fingers laced
together, and be still. Do not move your legs, your arms, your face, your
mouth, your jaw, your torso. Be still for thirty seconds..."
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from Dorothy Allison's "The Women Who Hate Me",
     here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/59388294063/1-the-women-who-do-
     not-know-me-the-women
***** power comes in many fine forms, supple and rich as butterfly wings *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Instead of sitting down for lunch, Foggy and Matt grabbed some to-go sandwiches
and sodas, and immediately began walking to the disability services office. It
was the only place Foggy could think of to help anyone.

"Uh, okay," he says as they walk into the office to the receptionist. "I need
to talk to whoever could help me with this situation with a student, actually,
I don't know if it--she--it got registered with this office in the first
place..."

They end up in that Martie woman's office, and Foggy spills the beans on
everything, including the sudden sale, the fact that he's not sure if it can
come back on Monday, the fact that it doesn't have any textbooks, and
everything else.

"Well," she said, and Foggy was caught at her bright pink-tipped corkscrew
curls, "This is kind of an intense situation. Now, I think I can help, but
you're going to have to do some of the work, too."

Foggy nods. He's willing to do anything to actually make this right.

Her eyes go from him to Matt, who had knelt next to the armchair and was eating
his turkey-swiss-on-rye in small, delicate, quick bites. Matt had asked him
quickly on the walk over if he could, and Foggy had said yes. It was past time
Matt got what he wanted.

"Now let's start with what to do if they don't come back," and for a second
there Foggy thinks she's talking about him and Matt, or Matt and BL, but then
he realizes sharply that she means singular they, and why hadn't he thought of
that before? He should ask BL if he can use that instead, "If they can't come
back this semester, what would be best at preserving the GPA would be a total
medical withdrawal from the, uh, starvation, and then after that would be an
owner-ordered withdrawal, and so let me get the paperwork for you for those in
case you want to file either one," and she bustles around her rhinestone-
studded file cabinets as she goes, "And if you're willing to use one, I can
send you an email about good text-to-speech programs for phones and tablets, as
well as links to good online ways to learn American Sign Language."

"Thank you so much," Foggy blurted out. "Really. Shit. I'm just overwhelmed."

"Well of course, this is very sudden," Martie said soothingly. "Now, as for the
textbooks and other materials, you can file a suit in the civil circuit to
actually get those back, because technically speaking, as part of a transfer of
ownership, if an owner intends to use the slave bought for the same purposes as
the previous owners used it for, the materials are meant to be transferred.
There's precedent with study aids especially because of how expensive textbooks
are. Here's a copy of the relevant laws," and she hands Foggy even more
paperwork.

Foggy nods, and takes everything with him as he and Matt thank her again and
again and leave.

--

Foggy opens the door to the apartment and drops the keys in shock.

BL is lying flat on the couch, facing him, its head on the ground, arms
stretched out, palms up, eyes closed, legs spread apart, stark naked.

Foggy's mouth makes some kind of strangled noise, and its eyelids twitch but
don't open.

Matt tilts his head curiously, and Summer says something to him in German. He
nods and says, softly, "Ah," and moves to go study.

Foggy's still gaping, jaw open. "I--what the fuck?"

He tries very hard to not see the pinkness of BL's vulva. It's the least
arousing thing he's ever seen, not lease because its face is controlled fear.

"It's doing quite well, Mister Nelson," Summer says brightly from where she's
lounging on the floor. "Excellently well. We're already most of the way through
shedding body modesty."

Foggy tries to think. "I--fuck--no sex, okay--"

"Of course not," Summer says, sounding offended. "Sex is disgusting. It hasn't
done anything of the sort to earn such an abominable punishment."

Foggy blinks and opens his mouth and then closes it. "Okay," he said slowly.
"Good. I'm, uh--" and he goes to grab a drink because he needs something to
clench his fists around so he doesn't punch her in the face.

He hears a faint thump as Summer says to BL, "That's fifteen minutes, you can
go back to kneeling after you put on clothes, good job," and he comes back to
look at Summer because he cannot possibly trust her.

"Good job, good slave," Summer purrs at BL, who's pulling on the shirt, and
kisses her cheek. It looks disturbingly how Foggy's cousins kiss their younger
sisters' cheeks when they do the dishes.

"Now, Mister Nelson, I have to ask, what did you want done with its hair? It's
got mats aplenty and most of them will have to be cut out."

Foggy doesn't even have to think about it. "Do whatever BL says it wants done
with its hair," he says firmly.

Summer tilts her head and studies him with reptilian eyes. "I see. No shaving,
no designs marked in?"

"Do whatever BL says it wants done with its hair," Foggy said again, and then
went to go use his meagre legal knowledge to get BL's textbooks from the
Goodmans.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from "You Get Proud By Practicing" by Laura
     Hershey, here: http://www.thenthdegree.com/proudpoem.asp
***** let us take a knife and cut the world in two *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt's not exactly sure why Foggy's agitated by Summer's presence, but he gets
a quick text to come down please and go with him to retrieve BL's textbooks,
and so he goes.

As he walks past the living room, he hears her softly speaking to it, brushing
its hair. "See, that wasn't so bad, was it? It was scary, but you felt the fear
and obeyed anyway, and now you're getting nice things. There's no need for all
that terror. You are stronger than your fear," and he smiles to himself.
Learning that you could survive anything that happened to you naked was
painful, but worth it.

As he locks the door and heads downstairs, he hears, "Now strip again, you've
got a new pose and twenty minutes to hold it in, and then I'll brush the rest
of your hair and get some of those knots out," and then he walks to Foggy.

"God," Foggy mutters to himself as he offers Matt his elbow and they go to
catch a cab. "That is fucked up."

Matt doesn't know what he means. "The training?" He asks.

"The whole 'put yourself in a humiliating position' thing, yeah," Foggy says.

Matt blinks. "The--" and he cuts himself off, it's not his place to disagree,
but then Foggy's body, guiding him, loses a bit of the tension.

"Go on," Foggy says, gentle now.

"The point of that is to make it not be humiliating or frightening anymore,"
Matt explains. "You can't afford to be shy about nakedness, not when you're a
slave. It's good for us, Foggy."

Foggy's silent. Then he sighs deeply. "I don't know how to explain this to you,
but I just--it's creepy. There's so many things horribly wrong with the whole
idea, the whole process, and I'm sorry it happened to you."

Matt has no idea what to say to that. Foggy hails a cab and they go to the
Goodman's to get the books.

--

Foggy rings the doorbell and steadies himself. He's here for things to make
BL's life easier. That's all.

But then when the person who opens the door is the guy who hit Matt in public,
in front of Foggy, he feels the abrupt desire to punch his stupid goddamn face
in. With a baseball bat.

The guy's face looks over Foggy and twists in something, and then his mother--
the Mrs Goodman Foggy saw being casually manipulated, her strings yanked about
like a marionette--appears and snaps at him, "Get out of the doorway, Hudson
Edmondson Goodman, I've had enough of you," and he slinks off.

Then she turns to Foggy and beams. "So you're the nice boy that owns that poor
dear?"

Poor dear is the understatement of the century, Foggy doesn't say. He instead
makes sure he's got his calm-but-determined face front.

"We're here for its textbooks and other materials from Columbia," he manages to
say coolly.

"Oh, sweetie, it doesn't need those now," she says.

"According to the most recent case of Rannsabeth v Yorik--" Foggy begins, ready
to lawyer his way through this, the asshole Hudson Goodman's twin shoves her
way forward.

"Hey, are you the prick who stole our toy?" she asks accusingly. "Because if
you aren't here to sell it back to its rightful owners, you can fuck off."

Foggy is about ready to scream, and Matt smoothly interjects, "Ma'am, with all
due respect, a legal sale and a robbery are quite different. Only the former
took place last night."

Her face turns purple and Foggy remembers to focus. "We're here for its
textbooks and other materials from Columbia."

The twin turns her enraged stare from Matt to him. "You're serious."

"Extremely."

"What are you gonna do if we don't give them to you?"

"Well," Foggy says, smiling now, "I'll sue you, and given that every case of
this sort from the past five years concerning study aids has found that the
previous owners have to give those materials as well as pay the legal fees of
the new owners, I'll look forward to beating you in court."

She draws back, frowning. "It's not a study aid."

"Any slave registered as a proper slave-student at a university, college, or
other form of higher education is automatically a study aid, ma'am," Matt
points out, poised.

Foggy loves him in that moment, and adds on, "Are you trying to say you didn't
enroll it in Columbia? Because I'm afraid that not only you did, I have no less
than five forms of proof that you did."

The twin looks baffled and frightened. "I don't--it's a slave, you can fuck it,
it wasn't really a study guide, Mom just put it in Columbia so Dad would stop
fucking all the paralegals, that's not a real study guide."

Foggy stares at her, flat and cool, icewater in his veins. He hates her for
talking about raping the person he'd seen not half an hour ago, scared and
starved, like that.

"It will be interesting to see how well that argument goes in court," he says
coolly, and turns to go.

"No! Shit, fuck, Dad will be super fucking pissed if this goes to court," the
twin says, and the mother tells her, annoyed now, "Go get the fucking papers,
Cynthia."

Foggy turns back to the doorway, staring expectantly as best he can. Thank God
he's seen all those legal drama movies with Ralph Fiennes.

Cynthia runs and comes back with a trash bag full of books. Foggy opens it and
checks; they're all there, the textbooks and notebooks for all of the subjects.

"Do you want the things we used on--it it too?" Cynthia asks, out of breath
from rushing around.

Foggy stares. "No."

"But aren't you going to fuck it too?"

"No," he says, and picks up the bag, and turns to go.

Matt says quietly in his ear as they walk away, back to the cab, "They're
baffled at you."

"Good." If terrible people couldn't understand you, that had to be good. Like
how he relished Rosalind's disapproval now that he wasn't scared of her
anymore. Evil cannot comprehend good, and all that.

They go back home.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title from Langston Hughes' "Tired", here: http://
     ethiopienne.com/post/37511050225/tired
***** this is peace and contentment. it’s new. *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
When they get back, BL is sitting flat on the floor, and Summer is sitting on
the couch with a pair of scissors in her manicured hands, talking softly and
cutting its hair.
"You've only got five or six more knots to go," she informs it. "You're doing
good, keep it up."
Foggy watches, and BL's body language says relaxed rather than terrified, now,
so he breathes a sigh of relief and goes to put the textbooks away. Then he
realizes there's no bookshelf space in the squat bookcase in the bedroom, so
instead he carefully piles them up in the living room, near the couch.
God, is he going to have to get a bigger place for next semester?
Matt walks over to it, and sits down on the floor, smiling.
"How's it going?" he asks Summer, softly.
"Quite well," she said to him, and then turned her head to Foggy and added,
"Matt's implied assessment was pretty much correct, Mr Nelson. It doesn't have
an obedience problem, it had an owner problem. All that's really left are some
burrs and bits and bobs to take care of, and some tests to run. When were you
planning on shopping for clothes for it?"
Foggy thinks. "Tomorrow morning."
"Good, I'll come along to ensure it's got good public behavior as well," and
she turns back to the hair.
Foggy picks up the phone from the table and carefully gives to to BL. "Hey, so
Summer's doing your hair how you want it, right?"
There's a second where it looks confused, and then Summer says pleasantly,
"Your owner asked you a question."
BL types quickly and hits the 'talk' button. "Yes, Foggy, and thank you for
allowing me to have my hair how I want it."
"Good slave," Summer murmurs to it. "Matt, pass it the grape-soda scented
bottle, if you approve it, Mr Nelson."
Foggy blinks and nods--Matt told him he can hear them, he concentrates on
Foggy's body language pretty much all the time--and Matt hands BL the small
thing.
It sniffs it and smiles. Then Foggy remembers what he has to ask it now, and
sits down on the floor too. BL and Summer both give him Looks at that--it gives
him a baffled 'the fuck are you doing' stare, and she gives him a distinctly
predatory, scrutinizing gaze.
He ignores that, and says, "So that reminds me, uh, when I was getting thing
from the disability office to get you set up there, one of the things I noticed
was that I forgot there was even a singular they pronoun, which, how even, but
the point is, it feels demeaning and wrong for me to refer to you as an 'it',
would you rather I use 'they'?"
BL looks even more confused, and its eyes dart around the room, looking for
answers.
Foggy thinks about how he reassures Matt that he wants his honest opinion, and
says calmly, "All that will happen if you say you'd rather I use 'it' is that
I'll use that pronoun. Seriously, I just want to know your honest opinion,
because I am way worse at reading people than I thought I was, and I don't like
the thought of me hurting you or Matt or anyone else by accident or on
purpose."
BL blinks and thinks about it, glancing at Matt, who nods reassuringly, and
just as Summer starts to murmur "Your owner asked you aquestion" it types out,
"They, Foggy."
Foggy nods. Okay. He can do that for them.
"Thanks for telling me your honest preference," he says. "Also, what kind of
food do you want to eat now that you probably can eat some?"
There's an awkward second, and then they type out, "Can I have something like
mashed potatoes, if that's okay, Foggy?"
"Matt? Do we have the things for it?"
Matt nods. "I've got a box of instant mix, Foggy."
Foggy distantly remembers buying something like that, but-- "Why do we even
have that?"
Matt explains, shrinking back a bit, "It's a good way to make soups thicker and
creamier without adding in dairy, and you seem to dislike things that taste
heavily of dairy, Foggy."
That's...well, he never thought of it like that, but that's true. Matt really
does pay a lot of attention to everything he likes and dislikes.
"All done," Summer announces, running the brush through BL's hair one last
time. "There you go, show your owner," and it stands up and twirls.
Their hair is now down to their shoulders in a cut that's layered to make it
look longer and thinner than it was before, and Foggy didn't notice previously,
but now that it's not greasy and smeared in fluids, it's a rather nice medium
brown.
"The way that it's cut looks good with your face," Foggy says, not taking the
bait to make some sort of creepy comment. He'll compliment them as much as
he'll compliment Candace, and no further.
Summer arches an eyebrow at him, and then clears her throat. "Good job," she
says, and stands up. "Now you ought to go sit down on the couch, if that's all
right with your owner. You're still not in good shape."
BL looks at him, and Foggy says, "Uh, go sit down wherever you want," and they
nod and go to the kitchen.
Matt's making the mashed potatoes and what, Foggy realizes, smells like some
sort of frozen meatballs. Then he feels a surge of hunger, and grabs a glass of
water, and then a second one for them too.
"Oh, that reminds me," Summer says, and gets something from her bag. "Here are
the use-name-change papers, since there's not one listed on the official papers
for them, I figured you'd want to add it on," and slides him a stack of three
papers.
Foggy looks at them, and at BL, who looks both hopeful and afraid of it.
"Uh," he thinks about how to phrase it. "Do you want me to put 'Barely Legal',
or just BL as initials, or some spelled-out version of 'Bee Elle' put down as
your name? Again, seriously, all that will happen if you pick one is that's the
one that will go on there."
They glance worridly at Matt, and Foggy thinks about what it could mean, and
then he realizes.
"If you want, I could put it down as 'B-e-e-space-E-l-l-e' and Matt could still
call you, uh, Barely Legal as a nickname, seriously, it's fine, lots of people
have legal names besides their real ones."
They tilt their head and then type out, "B-e-e-space-E-l-le please, Foggy."
"Okay," he says and goes to write, and then the robotic voice says, "But can
Matt still call me Barely Legal, Foggy, please?"
"Yeah," he says, and then realizes the normal rules are not in play here, and
clears his throat. "Uh, like, I'm not your dad, I'm not going to be controlling
every interaction you two have, just nobody hurts anyone else or--especially
with sex, got it?"
Matt and Bee Elle both say, Matt offended and Bee Elle typing, "Yes, Foggy."
Foggy writes down Bee Elle in the box, and signs the rest of the pages.
"I'll give it to the bureau office down in Queens when I go back to the hotel
tonight, Mr Nelson," Summer says brightly.
Foggy arches an eyebrow. "Is she telling the truth, Matt?"
Matt says, "Yes, Foggy."
"Okay then," and he hands her the papers. There's something both sad and
satisfied on her face as she gazes at Matt, like she's both proud of him and
sad that he's not solely under her thumb anymore.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from "The Orange" by Wendy Cope, here: http://
     fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/136760766565/the-orange
***** there are no words *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Summer stands up before any food, and politely says, "Mr Nelson, if it's
agreeable with you, Matt should help me carry down my bags."

Matt tenses a little bit, because he's not sure who he should side with, but
all Foggy says is a calm, "Matt, do you want to go with her?"

Matt nods. He does. He wants a chance to talk to her, to maybe get a kiss on
the forehead, to see if he's doing it right.

Then he goes, turning off the burner and grabbing the keys, because Foggy nods
too, and Summer needs absolutely no help to carry anything down.

She waits until there's only two more flights of six left and says to him, "I'm
proud of you."

Matt feels a low, burning warmth spread throughout him.

"I'm quite serious. You're doing better than I was at your age," and Matt
blinks because that's another detail to a puzzle he keeps in the back of his
brain and feels over every now and then, the how-did-she-come-about.

She walks down the stairs, boots muffling the sound.

"Your owner seems interestingly permissive," and Matt knows how to respond to
that.

"Foggy is very generous," he says. Not quite agreement. Not quite disagreement.

"Mm. Don't let it go to your head."

"What do you mean?" Matt frowns, because if there's something wrong with his
behaviour--if he's being inappropriate and not realizing it--

"I mean that too many good things can be bad for us," she says, soft and sad
and this-is-for-your-own-good. "Remember that what is given can be taken away.
That what we can get is fleeting, and not secure."

Matt tilts his head. "My assessment of my owner is based on facts," he says,
because it is. He's been living with Foggy for months now, owned by him for
months. It's not as if he's bad at the game.

She laughs softly. "I don't mean that you're not a doll, and you don't have it
good. I mean that you can't lose your teeth from all that sugar."

Matt sighs. "I'm training to keep in shape."

"I noticed. That's also good. But I mean that this is a precarious situation.
It's never good when an owner might need to sell you against even their own
will. His financials are not what they ought to be, to own you."

Matt feels cold all over. "Do you think--"

"I'm not saying anything is actually going to happen soon," and she almost
hisses the next part, "I'm saying something awful could happen at any time.
Remember: you're in a cage with a cobra. Just because it's sleeping doesn't
mean you don't need to be fast on your feet."

Matt feels--he's not sure what it is for a minute, and then he realizes that
it's a low, frozen anger. He's been taking care of himself. He can continue to
do so.

She bumps into his shoulder gently as they come to the edge of the building.
"I'm still glad I trained you," she said quietly. "And sorry we had to sell
you."

Matt breathes in and out carefully. He doesn't let himself feel the familiar
hurt and anger and edge-of-tears wailing that coils in him at that memory.

They get to the door and to the car.

Winter says to Matt, his voice fond, in Russian, "{Stay sharp. I'll see you
more tomorrow night.}"

Matt nods. "{Yes, sir,}" he murmurs, and it feels odd to be calling him sir
when he just calls his owner Foggy.

She gets in, and says to Matt, "{Sleep well tonight.}" and Matt returns it.

As he climbs the steps back up, he thinks about when he was sold by them. She
had cried, fixing his collar backstage before she had to go out. She'd had to
redo her makeup.

But Winter had still sold him, and she'd still talked him up.

He thinks about her words, Be brave, be strong, be good for me.

And he thinks, faintly, that he's almost glad they had to, because now he has
Foggy.

--

When Matt gets back and finishes the mashed potatoes, making a gravy from milk
and a packet, Foggy realizes two things.

One, Bee Elle looks actually slightly more tense now that Summer is gone, and
two, Matt's not just making meatballs and gravy, he's making Ikea Swedish
meatballs and gravyand Foggy grins so hard his face hurts. He doesn't even
remember getting it, but Matt must have put it on the list.

Matt fetches it from the oven, and serves himself, Bee Elle, and Foggy all
meatballs and mashed potatoes (that Matt put extra butter and garlic and chives
in, and smell heavenly), and pours the gravy into a measuring pyrex cup.

"I apologize, Foggy, we don't have a proper gravy boat," and Foggy almost
laughs.

"It's all good, Matt, serious that smells delicious. Pass me the gravy?"

Matt does, and then Foggy passes it back, and as he starts to eat Matt puts
some on his plate and puts it in front of Bee Elle, who looks like they saw a
talking dog.

"You can have some on yours if you want," Foggy mentions.

They look from Matt to him, hair swishing.

"I told you Foggy would feed you," Matt says cheerfully. "Even when he thought
I was repulsive because Miss Sharpe took me for a test drive, he still fed me,"
and Bee Elle nods and pours some gravy over their plate, taking a fork and
digging in delicately.

Foggy almost doesn't hear the "Thanks, Foggy," because he's in shock.

Matt thinks he thought Matt was repulsive? What--oh no.

Oh, no. Oh, shit.

Foggy clears his throat. He has to correct this misconception.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from Langston Hughes' "Songs", here: http://
     fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/60214357137/i-sat-there-singing-her-songs-
     in-the-dark-she
***** make me normal, please *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
"I didn't think you were repulsive," Foggy says, as firm as he can make himself
put it. "I never did."

There's an awkward second and Matt frowns against his will, apparently, or his
confusion must show, because before he can say of course, Foggy, I apologize
for being mistaken, Foggy goes on, voice going softer, "Can I ask why you
thought that? I want to make sure I don't give you that impression again."

Matt takes a deep breath and makes sure his tone is as appropriately submissive
and only mildly confused as he says, "Foggy, almost right away after you got
me, apart from sometimes talking to me, you didn't touch me, or allow me in
your bed, or speak to me most of the time."

Foggy flinches a bit, and Matt hastily backtracks. "But I am so grateful,
Foggy--you fed me all the time apart from that one day you forgot because you
were sick, and I wasn't whipped or anything of that sort, thank you so much,
Foggy--"

He cuts Matt off. "Matt, I'm sorry I gave you the impression I thought you were
disgusting, because you're not, and that was wrong of me. I was," and Foggy
sighs. "I was honestly really, really disturbed, a lot, by the way that you
acted--and don't apologize--" and Matt's mouth closes, "Because in retrospect
that was entirely my mistake, my dick move, and also I just had no idea how to
make you happy or do anything like that at all. I felt like I was walking on
eggshells, and I decided to just avoid it, and that's why I did what I did, and
I'm sorry."

Matt blinks and tries to process it. Foggy--Foggy had felt like he was walking
on eggshells? Matt had felt the whole time like he was in ballet heels with
steak knives strapped to the bottom, desperately running all over the place so
he didn't fall and impale himself.

Matt thinks about it more even after he nods. He still couldn't quite
understand it. Why hadn't Foggy just sat Matt down and said, "I want a doll, so
tell me what you like so I can spoil you"? Why hadn't he told Matt what he
wanted, that he was going to recondition Matt into enjoying being owned by him
even more?

Matt realizes that what he feels is angry, angry and resentful at his owner,
and then feels a low swooping terror because that is beyond unsafe, it's
suicidal.

Bee Elle nudges him very carefully. "Matt," the robotic voice says, "Which of
us should do dishes?"

Oh. He thinks about it. "Can you? Were you ever trained for dishes?"

Bee Elle's phone voice says, "Yes, but it was a long time ago. Why don't you
show me with one of the plates and I'll figure out the rest."

Matt nods. Now that he thinks about it more, that sounds like an okay idea.
"I'll stand next to the sink," he says softly. "So you can't fall onto anything
hard."

Foggy clears his throat and both of their attention snaps to him.

"Hey, just to make sure everyone's on the same page, clothing shopping
tomorrow, and Bee Elle?"

Their attention shifts to him, Matt can tell by their body language.

"Don't worry about it too much, seriously, just get shirts you like and warm
clothes that fit, I got money to pay for everything, okay?"

Bee Elle nods and the robotic voice says, "Thank you, Foggy."

Foggy sighs and runs a hand through his hair as he puts the plate away.

"Good job, Matt, thank you, the food was really good," he says, and Matt glows
a little on the inside with pride.
===============================================================================
 
Matt's showing them how to wash off the plate--and it's actually much simpler
than they were taught, really--when they nudge him and tap on his arm, [Did
Summer make you hold naked poses too?]

He blinks. His face is so cute when it's confused.

"What?" he whispers.

[Did Summer make you pose naked in various ways for lengths of time?]

Matt nods. "Yes," he whispers, "Until I could hold one aerial silk naked pose
at a party with about a hundred people for three hours without moving or
flinching."

Their lip twists.

(It's very strange to be a they, and they're more than a little grateful to
their new owner for all the thing they've been given. Food, blankets, a name
that was theirs, theyinstead of it, being allowed to keep talking to Matt, even
maybe touch him sometimes, a temporary trainer so they could be sure to be good
for him.

But the thing is that apparently even very high-class, nice training is
still...scary. Still makes their gut clench tight. Still makes their heart beat
so loud it drowns out everything else in their ears.)

[I just wanted to know if it was special for me or not,] they tap, and Matt
smiles a bit.

"No," he murmurs softly, and the two of them switch places, and then he
continues by tapping one of his elegant fingers against their upper arms. [It
seems to be accelerated, but I remember the the training to get rid of body
modesty. I remember pretty much all of it,] and his face is half nostalgia and
half hurt, the way it is when slaves reminisce about previous owners.

They nod and focus on the dishes. It warms up their hands all the way and when
they're done, Matt takes a bold little risk and kisses their cheek, and they
grin.

Two more days. Two more days, and then there would be a routine, and Matt would
help them get settled in, and things would be better.

--

Foggy makes himself to go outside to call Anna. There's probably going to be
angry shouting, and he doesn't need to give Matt and Bee Elle a panic attack.

He dials and puts it up to his shoulder, clears his throat, and says, "Hey,
Anna!"

"Hey, Foggy," she says warmly. "Your father and your sister went to that one
noodles place I can't stand, so I'm gonna put you on speaker while I keep
kneading this new bread dough, mmkay?"

Foggy made a noise of understanding and she did.

"So, what's up? How did midterms go?"

"Really well," he says, "Matt's got his 4.0 steady, and I'll probably only get
one B. Anyway, uh, this isn't exactly a social call.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, okay, um, how can I put this..uh..when I get back and stay over for some
of the December holidays, uh, there will be more than one person that I'm
bringing with me."

"What? Did you get a girlfriend?"

Foggy blanches. "No, I--okay, it's kind of complicated, but basically, one of
Matt's friends is a slave--was enslaved and was going to be starved to death,
so we kinda hatched a plan and uh, used the weird whimsical good will of one of
his former owners, a super rich guy that I think is related to Bucky Barnes
somehow, and now I have a second slave."

There's a second, and then Anna groans. "Franklin Edward Nelson--"

"No, don't--look, I know it's kind of crazy, but I could help them! I knew that
I could, and, and, Anna--when I saw them, they looked horrible, they have
hundreds of scars on their arms from where I'm pretty sure people were putting
out their cigarettes on the skin, and their lips are peeling worse than that
girl in Speak, and Anna,they don't have a tongue because someone cut it out of
them for 'severe disobedience', Anna, I had to do something!"

Anna is silent. Then she says slowly, "How exactly do you intend to afford to
feed all three of you? And don't you dare tell me you intend to not feed those
two as much as you--"

"I am going to, Anna, jesus! I'm not actually Rosalind just because that's who
you see when you look at me!"

Oh, shit, that was not what he had meant to say. Foggy swallows and tries to
grab hold of the conversation again.

"I mean--Anna, look, I know you guys think I'm turning into her because I'm
studying law--"

"We don't think that at all. In fact, what we're worried about is your apparent
desensitization to slavery, that you even accepted her 'gift' in the first
place--"

Foggy feels strange at that, incandescent with rage. "Anna," he says, drawing
himself up, "If you think I would send back a human being to be raped by my
biological mother just because I was uncomfortable with him being around
because it legally required I own him, you know me even less well than Rosalind
Sharpe."

(But he had raped Matt too--but at least he had stopped, and Matt had stopped
trying to--test him? See if he'd do it again? And Foggy knew at least that he'd
try to not do it again.)

Anna says, eventually, "Please tell me you've got new money from somewhere to
take care of them. Please tell me that. Matt is such a lovely, sweet boy, I
don't want any harm coming to him, not at all, not ever. He saved my son."

Foggy sighs and leans back against the building. "I have new money from
somewhere. The crazy rich owner guy that Matt persuaded to buy and then give me
his friend gave me money to go along with them too."

"How much money? And don't lie to make me feel better."

"$35,000 plus enough for two full rides to Columbia."

Anna sucks her teeth. "Fuck me in the ass seven times in a church on a Sunday,"
and Foggy jumps back because he's only heard her swear three times in his life
and all of those times were at her and Dad's wedding, and then he laughs and
she laughs because it's so ridiculous.

"Okay," she says finally. "Okay. So I don't have to worry about money for you.
Okay. That's a weight off my shoulders."

Foggy chews his lip. "I can give some of it to the family help-out fund--"

"No you absolutely cannot, not until at least you graduate with a steady job,
that's the rules," Anna says firmly.

Then there's a few more minutes, and she says, "Foggy, if you're desperate to
help slaves, let me..you should have a conversation with your Aunt Imelda,
okay? I'll put her in touch with you. The two of you should have coffee or
something, sometime. Talk about this."

Aunt Imelda? The one who's actually been to a jail before, for a month, before
her new attorney successfully got it declared a mistrial?

"Aunt Imelda?" he asks, confused.

"Your Aunt Imelda is quite politically active," Anna says brightly. "Now,
that's the doorbell, so see you later!" and Foggy hangs up too because that is
100% not the doorbell because they don't actually have a doorbell.

He sighs against the wall, feeling the cold seep in, and then resolves to go up
and study some more and sleep until he doesn't feel so worn down.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title is from Warsan Shire's "The absence of an unnamed
     thing", here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/61718410725/the-
     absence-of-an-unnamed-thing
***** falling into this set of structural and impersonal holes *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Clothing shopping is a beautiful disaster the next day.

To start off, Summer had shown up with an incredibly intricate hairstyle,
golden tresses twisted and pinned into a giant rose on the side of her head,
with a few strand fashionably out. She had also been wearing a different
collar, one that was bright pink with a little heart-shaped clasp at the front,
and smaller, darker pink polka dots along the leather. She had also greeted Bee
Elle by telling her that today was the 'final hurdle' in terms of 'pushing
through the fear to the obedience', which could mean absolutely nothing good at
all.

Foggy made a plan, and they walked to the same places he'd gotten Matt clothes.
They had very good clearance sales.

Bee Elle had frozen once they stood inside the store, staring at him with a
distinct what-the-fuck-do-I-do look, all deer in the headlights.

"Uh," Foggy said, and tried to think about how Anna went shopping when she had
to, especially that time after Candace had set all of her clothes on fire. "I
guess, fourteen shirts? Fifteen pairs of pants? Socks and--oh, yeah, you need
bras, and underwear, and at least two coats, and let's just say seven sweaters?
And a hat and gloves..."

They looked like someone furiously trying to decipher some sort of code, and
then Summer chimed in with, "I see a good sale on long-sleeved shirts over
there!" and they went, Foggy grabbing a cart.

It was hideously awkward interspered with little moments where Foggy felt
relieved that at least Bee Elle showed preferences for things. They put stripes
and polka dots, mostly, in the cart, and dark colors like green and brown
rather than frilly or overly feminine.

Each time before they touched anything, they looked at Foggy, and he said each
time, "Seriously, whatever you want, it's totally fine, they're your clothes,"
and they smiled and made that one hand gesture again--a flat hand from their
mouth down, and then their fingers twitched into some shape that Foggy guessed
meant him.

Summer only made a couple of suggestions, saying cheerfully at the beginning,
"If you're going to be fed properly, you might fill these out rather soon,
better get a couple of sizes up," and Foggy gritted his teeth at her voice but
the advice was actually pretty good, so Bee Elle's shirts were all huge and
loose.

There was a horrifying second after they had tentatively pulled a candy-corn-
colored shirt off a rack, the first one, and glanced at Foggy, and Summer had
started to say, "Okay, now take the one you've got off and let's see if that
one fits to get a good idea of size," and Foggy had said without having to
consciously decide to say it, "No, that's what changing rooms are for!"

Summer had arched both eyebrows, giving him a fairly cool, evaluating stare,
but then Bee Elle had told Foggy thank you and gone to a changing room, and
after that, they tried on each shirt in the same one, like a normal person with
bodily autonomy.

Now they had thirteen shirts, and Bee Elle glanced at Foggy and then the short-
sleeved ones on another row of racks.

"I guess you should probably have one," Foggy said slowly. "But--you don't have
to if you don't want to. It's your body, you get to show or not show as much as
you want."

Summer's face twitched in rage, looking demonic for a second, and then she
visibly grabbed a hold of herself and smoothed it back out into calm.

Matt looked tense for a minute too, and then his face became the expression he
had sometimes when Foggy said things, a sort of...cooing. It was kind of like
how Anna looked at Dad when he had just epically fucked something up, but she
thought it was funny rather than annoying.

Bee Elle stared at him, and then at Matt, and then at the ceiling, and then
they plucked a short-sleeved shirt off the rack, grinning brightly.

It was emblazoned on the front with the slogan BITTER BITCHES CLUB in glittery
pink, and the rest of it was baby-girl purple.

Foggy's jaw dropped, and then Matt tilted his head and Bee Elle told him what
was on the shirt in Morse, and he cracked up hard.

"Foggy," he said with a small gasp, "Foggy, is there another one, can I have
one too?"

Foggy blinked and then smiled because Matt had asked him for something, Matt
asked him for things now, and said without thinking, "Sure, of course, whatever
you want."

Still laughing, Bee Elle and Matt found another one that might (only just
might) fit Matt, and then they put it in the cart and headed off to go find
pants, Bee Elle guiding Matt.

--

After the rest of the clothes and shoes (five pairs of identical jeans, five
pairs of sweatpants, five yoga-esque pants, two pairs of sneakers, a pair snow-
boots, a pair of rain-boots, and a fifty-cent pair of flip-flops for the
summer), Foggy intended to get out of there and go home and collapse, but then
Summer chirped, "Collar store next, Mr Nelson?"

Foggy stopped. "What?"

"Surely you've noticed that Matt only has one collar, Mr Nelson, and Bee Elle
here only the one they were wearing when they were sold?"

Foggy swallowed. No, he hadn't noticed, his eyes almost didn't see the collars
anymore because they were so disturbing. Fuck.

He made himself look at Bee Elle's neck, and saw the hints of chafe marks from
the rounded metal collar. Fuck. Okay then.

"Okay," he said. "Uh, let me find the closest one--"

"It's to your left," Matt said quietly. "I can smell the leathers, Foggy."

Okay, that was fucked up, but that was fine. "Okay then," Foggy sighed out.
"Let's, uh, go there and then get home. The other things--like shampoo--are
actually cheaper on Amazon."

"Yes, Foggy," Matt said politely, and they all walked to to the left.

The collar store was called Moriarty's Collar Emporium and proclaimed to be the
'one-stop collar shop for all occasions'.

"Is this a sleazy place or is it just me?" Foggy muttered to Matt, half-
curious, mostly nauseated.

"Moriarty's has a fairly good reputation," Matt murmured. "It's not quite as
good as the place you bought my collar from, but it's not as expensive,
either."

Well. That was fine.

Foggy walked in, feeling like a gladiator going to face the lions for the first
time.

Immediately he was struck by how everything seemed more and more dissonant the
more he looked at it. There were rows upon gleaming rows of collars in every
color. Most of them were leather, and the space stank of it, but Foggy spied a
small side room of metal ones, and then a section near the register with fabric
collars.

"Let's get one of those," Foggy said. "They, uh, they're more comfortable,
right?"

Bee Elle glanced at him incredulously and Matt saved the moment, saying, "Yes,
Foggy, leather is less comfortable unless it's very softened," and then Foggy
started to pick his way through the aisles, trying to not lose his shit as he
saw more and more demeaning names and ads for collars.

Punishment Leash. Fixer-Upper. For That Special Someone. Pet collars half off.
Padlocks come free with a purchase of two or more. Get a customized fit for
only $10 today. Extra clips for more than one leash. Choke-proof. Child-proof.
Shock collar (not advised without medical equipment in case of malfunction).
Microchip collar. Amelia Ernst's Specially Designed Collar For That Good Boy or
Girl in Your Life, with Slots For Order-Cards. Sleep collar. Harness and leash
come half off with this very selective offer. For a limited time only, get a
training session free with any purchase of fifty dollars or more. Rainbows for
pride parades. Spike collar to teach the pet 'paws off'. Bells and Whistles,
100 per package. Rhinestones to decorate a good girl's pretty little necklace.
Comfort Collar for When It's Earned A Treat. Fur collar for cold weather.

Foggy did not kill anyone or break anything or run out of there screaming. It
was an achievement.

He forced himself to focus on Matt and Bee Elle, to gauge their distress. This
was not about him and how much he wanted to set this place on fire. This was so
that they could have some, for them, and satisfy their fucked-up conditioning.

Foggy didn't panic. Instead he headed to the fabric ones.

Unfortunately, this brought them close to the shop owner, who grinned at Foggy
and came over.

"Well hello, and good morning to you!" The man greeted cheerfully. "I can see
you're collar shopping, any particular things in mind?"

"What's most comfortable but also machine-washable?"

The man looked confused. His hair was in a small man-bun, and he wore large
hipster glasses and an Aquaman shirt with his name badge. It said his name was
Botswana.

"Well, we've got a good selection right here of pretty comfy collar for when
they've earned a treat," and he waved a hand over the wall. There were a lot of
collars there in every color. "Soft polyester's pretty nice. Want me to grab
that box and you can find one you like?"

Foggy took a deep breath and glanced at Bee Elle. They looked nervous but not
terrified. "Yeah, sure," he said.

The man grabbed the box with a claw tool, and Foggy glanced in. "What's the
color you'd want it to be?" he asked Bee Elle.

They looked confused but then their hand came forward to touch one--

And the guy, Botswana, smacked their hand. "No!" he snapped, like was talking
to a dog.

Foggy went absolutely cold all over.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also comes from Anne Boyer's "what resembles the grave
     but isn't".
***** I want it to confirm your worst fears about me *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
They cringed backwards on reflex, stepping behind Matt before they could stop
themselves--

But Foggy didn't follow it up with a smack of his own. Instead he said, in a
voice like the eye of a hurricane, "I'd like to speak to your manager."

The guy who had whacked their hand--not even hard, it stung only a bit now--
looked startled and said, "Uh, sure, let me just get him--" and went over and
rang a bell on the counter.

Matt asked them, quietly, "Your hand hurt?"

They shook their hand out and wriggled their fingers, and then shook their
head. It didn't, really. They'd had their hands hurt way worse--canes or being
slammed in a car door or, once at the center, when one of the new overseers had
gotten really angry, utterly lost his temper, a table dropped on it.

(That overseer had been summarily put down for costing the center the money
necessary to get them proper care to make sure their hands weren't completely
useless.)

Their owner--Foggy--seemed still furious and purposeful, and when the manager
came over, he said with pure ice, "I need your name and the name of your
supervisor as well."

"Uh, why?" The manager was a very tall, skinny man with dyed tomato-red hair.

"Because I'm going to sue this store for damages as well as pursue charges
against your employee for assault," Foggy said. "Now, your name, and
'Botswana's full name."

The manager's face crinkled. Matt murmured, daringly, "Foggy, people aren't
charged with assault against slaves, they are charged with property damage and
theft."

"Fine, property damage and theft, as well as damages," Foggy said. "And I need
those names."

The manager drew back. "Can I ask what the problem's been? I'm quite happy to
help in any way I can."

"I bet you are," Foggy said, voice more and more arctic as he spoke. "And the
problem is your employee hitting my friend here, as if that is in any way,
shape, or form acceptable."

His eyes looked calculating, fierce. It made something in their stomach uncurl.

Matt was right, his owner really was nowhere near as bad as he'd first thought.

The manager gaped at him, and then straightened. "JOHN," he hollered. "GET YOUR
ASS BACK HERE!"

John slunk back from where he'd run off to.

"My nametag says Botswana," John muttered.

"Because I let you put down that stupid name, because you wish you had been
named that since it would be more 'unique'," the manager said, annoyed. "Bro,
you hit this guy's slave?"

"I tapped its hand! It was going to touch merchandise!"

"John," the manager groaned out. "John, you can't do that, it's actually a
crime. You absolutely--John, you stupid fuck--" and the manager pinched his
nose, at the bridge.

"Nobody else has ever minded," John muttered. "One of them even said it was
good to help reinforce that they shouldn't touch things without asking."

"John," the manager whined out. "I can't believe you, bro. I took a chance
hiring you for this fucking job, and you go out and do this? That's it, I'm
exercising the rights given to me by our head of outlet, you're fucking fired."

John stepped back, stricken. "What?"

"You're fucking fired. You'll damage the whole reputation of the store. God,
you fucking moron, I can't believe this," the manager said. "Put your nametag
behind the counter and get out before you fuck up everything worse."

John stared at him, and started to cry piteously, and then stomped off.

The manager turned back to Foggy, who looked not in the least bit appeased.

"Mister, let me make this up to you," he said. "Please don't press charges,
it'll come out of my wage. But I can offer you a 100% discount on everything,
all the merchandise, as well as a free warranty for three months on the metal
and the ones that need dry-cleaning. Please don't sue us, the courts hate
companies like this in suits like that."

Foggy stared at him flatly. "Go away," he said. "I'll handle the rest of this
without any of your employees assaulting people."

The manager slunk off, frightened, and they breathed out a sigh of something.
Relief?

--

Bee Elle eventually plucked out of the polyester collars in a dark, muted blue,
and a red, and gently pushed the red at Matt and then at Foggy.

Oh, they meant that it could be for Matt, too. "Yeah, that's a good idea,"
Foggy said, because now that he thought about it, Matt did need more than one
collar. "Hey, Matt, do you like red?"

And then he winced, but before he could apologize for asking the blind guy what
his favorite color was, Matt said politely, "From what I remember, I like red a
lot, Foggy."

From what--oh, Matt hadn't always been blind, had he? Maybe Foggy could ask him
about that sometimes. And find out more of when his dad died.

Foggy nodded. "Okay, then those two. But we probably need more," and Bee Elle
glanced at a shelf of cotton, and Foggy got those down too.

He ended up holding five different collars for Bee Elle in polyester, cotton,
fleece-lined leather, braided buttery-soft leather, and silk-lined leather.
They had been far more tentative than even when they had been picking out
underwear or shoes, but Foggy coaxed as the four of them walked, gently
encouraging them to just pick it and not worry about cost or color, he was fine
with whatever as long as it wouldn't give them sores or anything.

Matt also ended up picking out a silk-lined leather collar, and an artificial
angora one that was so fuzzy it looked like a turtleneck.

Then Summer cleared her throat and Foggy jumped, having almost forgotten she
was there, and said, "They ought to try on the collars, both of them, before
you buy them, Mr Nelson."

That sounded true, so Foggy breathed in and out and turned around to find a
place for them to try it on.

"Is there a back room anywh--there one is," and he went and was about to stay
outside on reflex, but Matt asked, "Um, Foggy, I won't know if they look
acceptable, can you--"

Foggy blinked. Oh, right. "Yeah, sure," he said, and came in.

But Bee Elle's collar wasn't just metal, it was...seamless somehow, or welded,
and Foggy had no idea how to get it off.

Matt frowned as he felt it, too, and said, "The mechanism to open it is broken,
Foggy, I can feel it stuck in place."

Bee Elle looked terrified, body shrinking in fear away from him, and Foggy made
himself not look freaked-out or angry. Instead he said, "How should we get it
off, then?"

"I can help," Summer offered from outside the room. How had she heard them?

But if she could, well, Bee Elle needed that thing off their neck, so Foggy let
her come in.

He wasn't sure what she was about to do, but then her hands came and wound
themselves so the metal was in her hands, almost choking Bee Elle, and he was
about to ask what she was doing--

And then her hands pulled and bent the collar, back and forth in rapid
succession, twisting and pulling thin, and then part of it snapped, and she
wrenched the rest open and off Bee Elle's neck.

She dropped the metal on the floor. Foggy gaped, jaw on the floor, staring at
the visible fingerprint marks in the steel.

How the fuck--?

But then he had to get them out of here as quickly as he could, so he forced
himself to hand them the collars in his hands.

They tried them on, Bee Elle and Matt, both of them too freaked out to try
taking off or clasping shut either of the collars by themselves, and each time
they dropped their hands and offered their necks for Foggy to do it, Summer
said something approving to Matt in German and a quick "Good slave" to Bee
Elle, touching their cheek or hand.

Foggy did not kill her, and that was an achievement.

The assfuck manager kept his word, even wishing them a happy day as Foggy left
with all the money he'd had at the start after Foggy got his name and the piece
of shit John's name as well, and Foggy had snapped "Oh go fuck a duck!", he
couldn't help himself.

Matt had hid his face in Foggy's shoulder and laughed at that, and Bee Elle had
even grinned too.

--

Once they got home, Matt went to go get them all food in the form of grilled
cheeses, and Foggy went to go make some calls.

One to file a suit of property damage against the motherfucker who had hit Bee
Elle right there--there were security cameras in Moriarty's, Foggy had seen
them record it--and one to start the process to get Hudson Goodman kicked out
of Columbia for that too, now that Foggy remembered he had hit Matt the day the
plan to rescue Bee Elle had been put in place.

He smiled nastily, toothily, to himself as he went along.

Nobody got away with hitting people under Foggy's care. Nobody.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title from Kim Addonizio's "What Do Women Want", here: http:/
     /fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/125274466115/what-do-women-want
***** what is familiar tends to be experienced as safer, even if it is a
predictable source of terror *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt focused on his studying after making the food as Foggy made calls, half an
ear listening to him. It was odd how relaxed he felt; his owner was angry, and
yet he wasn't very tense, or expecting punishment. The world felt upside-down.

But then again, Foggy had only punished him once, and only after Matt had
begged and begged and explained why he needed it, and only for a very serious
infraction. Ever since then, Matt hadn't been punished, and even before then,
the period of ignoring him until he cracked apparently hadn't been meant as
punishment at all. Foggy directed his anger very strictly at the people he was
angry with, and not at Matt, like almost every other owner he'd ever had had
done.

Yet another thing that indicated Foggy needed some therapy. It wasn't like Matt
wanted to be whipped, but surely just dealing with anger about things you
couldn't fix without using the best tool at hand wasn't healthy.

Matt breathed deeply and meditated, pretending to re-read the section he had
just memorized. He used the familiar thoughts about how to control anger, how
to divert it. Not how to bury it--buried things grew roots and sprouted up and
strangled you from the inside out--but how to divert the resentment he felt at
Foggy not just telling him what he wanted from the beginning away from his skin
and fists and voice and face to the wellspring, the cave-lake deep inside him
where anger lived.

Matt imagined diverting the rivers and falling down into the cave with the
water, diving, the cool of the lake on his face. He imagined touching the very
bottom of the lake where the devil lived inside of him, imprisoned for all
time, and then going back up, breathing in and out, surrounded by the anger,
feeling every drop of it. Dad dying, the nuns not stopping Stick, nobody
stopping Stick, Stick adopting him, Stick selling him, Stick leaving him, being
sold, being thrown away, being sold again, every insult, every brush-off, every
auction house employee who tried to trick him, every dead slave, every
overseer's sneer in their tone, Foggy insulting him, Foggy thinking he was
incompetent, Foggy not telling him see, I want a doll more than anything, so
tell me what you like so I can play with my doll the way I want, Summer coming
back and insinuating that Matt wasn't competent enough to read his owner's
desires, Bee Elle's thin body in his arms.

He imagined slowly climbing out of the pool and onto a section of marble busts
that served as rocks, and slowly kneeling there in the sunlight, the warmth on
his skin. He imagined it drying him as he turned from kneeling to lounging, and
once he was dry Matt imagined finding a foothold and climbing back up out of
the cave, away from his anger.

He took a deep breath and let his senses for the real world come back. He was
calm now, the rage still there, but as tranquil as it was going to get.

Matt's head felt so much clearer afterwards. He realized just how inappropriate
some of this thoughts were, and felt achingly shameful. But then he remembered
how he'd reminded himself of his place in the world before, with bobby pins and
hurting knees, and nodded to himself. He'd do that again tonight; Bee Elle was
a heavy sleeper once they actually nodded off.

He went back to studying, and the text mentioned someone named Thurgood
Marshall, which was a bizarre enough name that Matt immediately felt intrigued,
and he put a note in his calendar to look up more about him during the week.

--

Once Foggy was satisfied that he'd done all he could do for the situation and
had made sure Summer wasn't egregiously hurting Bee Elle (she wasn't; she was
brushing their hair and having them catch up on their recent work, because they
had missed enough that it made them 'not as useful as they needed to be'), he
went into the kitchen, ate the sandwich Matt had made him, made sure to tell
them that they could eat whenever and however much they wanted, fished out his
tablet that he almost never used now that his computer had stopped glitching
with Netflix, gave it to them, and then went back on Amazon.

He searched for a while, and eventually got some good plastic storage
containers that would work as a combination bookshelf, dresser, and side-table
for Bee Elle. Unless they slept in Matt's bed and Matt with Foggy in Foggy's
bed (and this absolutely would not happen, there was far too high a risk of
Foggy slipping and raping Matt again), they'd have to sleep on the couch, and
he also made sure to get some more pillows and soft blankets.

Foggy sighed and rubbed at his eyes. Anna had once told him he was too
tenderhearted for his own good, and he'd asked her why it was wrong to want to
take care of people. She had said that if you weren't careful you'd burn out,
and he felt like he was on fire, slowly.

Ugh. How would be manage to not burn out?

Well, he could always try therapy. If nothing else, his health insurance
through Columbia would cover at least some in the area, and if not, he smiled a
bit at the idea of using some of the tuition Summer had double-paid him for law
school, unaware that Rosalind had already given him enough for him and Matt to
get a full ride, to get himself therapy. It would be a kind of good revenge.

Foggy sighed and ran a hand over his face. Matt and Bee Elle needed therapy
much more than him, he knew, and he felt selfish. But the only thing like
therapy slaves got was 'training', and apparently the nice trainers were like
the astonishingly creepy woman in his living room, so that went out of the
window.

But if Foggy had a mental breakdown, it would put them both in an incredible
amount of danger. He loved his family, he really did, but they didn't knowMatt
well enough to avoid doing awful things to him by accident, much less Bee Elle.
He couldn't quite trust them.

He thought about it more, realized he hadn't ordered Bee Elle any sort of books
for fun or toiletries, got his laptop, and went to go get their opinion on
which ones they wanted the most.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title from this: http://www.traumacenter.org/products/
     pdf_files/preprint_dev_trauma_disorder.pdf
***** pick the worms off me like sticky pearls *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
They're halfway caught up through the readings when Foggy calls, "Hey, uh, Bee,
you want to come in here so I can order the shampoo and things in the scents
you want?"

They blink in shock, and then look at Summer and pinch themselves to see if
they're dreaming, because this whole day has seemed exceedingly weird.

"Your owner gave you an order," she says mildly, her face serene from where
she's sitting behind them, and they scramble to their feet, keeping the tablet
(and what a gift that was, what would Foggy want for it) with them and hurrying
down the hallway.

They're inside the room before they realize, and freeze. Owner's bedrooms are
not safe places, but then again, Matt's in there, on a bed that's not where
Foggy's sitting.

Does Matt have a separate bed? That's--odd. From what they know of dolls--not
much, they had been a chew-toy, rather different--they're sort of...touched and
cuddled all the time. They would have expected Matt to sleep in the same bed as
Foggy.

But the no-sex rule occurs to them again. Maybe Foggy has some religious thing
about no sex, even with slaves, before marriage? What did he even think counted
as sex?

Anyway, they refocus on what Foggy's showing them. It's a page of what looks
like shampoos and conditioners, and Foggy says, "Anyway, do you know what smell
and type you'd like?"

They blink. All these choices are difficult, much more than their degree in
engineering was.

Then something occurs to them.

They slowly type on the tablet, "Is there anything to make hair thicker,
Foggy?" because really, they'd like to stop noticing the parts where the mats
were cut out soon. It makes them feel like they're crawling on the floor or
defiantly spitting out things or in the cage with the blanket thrown on top or
chained to the coffee table.

"Yeah, these ones. Do you care about how they smell?"

They think frantically, and feel relieved that for all her perfectionism,
Summer had made them rank the scents.

"Are there any with grape scent, Foggy?"

Foggy looks it over and says, frowning, "No. There's lemon and apple and
cherry, any of those sound good?"

It's a trick, very obvious one too--but then again, they think about the store,
how angry Foggy had been because they'd been slapped, how he had flatly
insisted that they use a changing room, how he had icily pointed out to the
attendant that there was no sign saying no slaves.

They type, "Apple, please, Foggy, if that's okay?" They hate the begging, it
makes them feel shaky, those cunts had always laughed at their begging, but
Foggy just nods and puts apple conditioner and apple shampoo in the basket.

Next is shower gels, and they bite their lip and it bleeds and they come up
with a 'mango champagne' smell.

Then Foggy puts in chapstick in the cherry scent and they're starting to feel
like this is building up to a very mean mind-game where Foggy's going to do
something nasty to them for choosing things instead of just parroting out
whatever you want, Foggy, but it doesn't come.

Instead, at the end, he says, "This is very awkward, but uh, pads or tampons?"

They blink. And blink. And turn their head sideways at him, and stare hard.

"Tampons, please," they type out, because pads feel like diapers and that makes
them actually vomit when they think about it too hard, and it's not like they
can afford to lose calories or stand to eat food twice, not when their skin is
still so damn cold. They wonder if Foggy will want to put them in. That's not
exactly sex, is it?

They shiver in the sweatshirt.

"Odds are they won't menstruate for some months anyway, Foggy," Matt offers up
from where he's reading quickly with both hands. "Starvation tends to do that."

Foggy's face goes thunderous and they draw back--Matt, no, don't get yourself
punished over me, we're supposed to be a team--but then he just breathes out
and says, "Cool. Anyway, I wanted to ask you really quickly--are you okay?
Summer hasn't done anything that hurts you, right? Not seriously?"

They're not sure how to respond to it. Summer is still so beautiful it hurts,
still so lovely they could cry from pleasure whenever Summer gives them a sweet
earned kiss on the forehead or the cheeks or, after they had first done the
naked pose she'd ordered them into, shaking but not curling back up and hiding
like they wanted to, on the mouth. It had been chaste but so good.

But at the same time, there's an undercurrent with Summer, like she finds them
a painting that's not quite finished, and it's her job to fill in any
imperfections. The words I intend to rebuild your mind echo and echo in their
head, and it feels like a very fancy way of saying kill you and put someone
better inside your body.

However, there's only the rest of tonight and tomorrow left with her, and they
still want to be around her, want nothing more than her approval, it feels so
incredible to be told for once that they're good, they're not worthless or just
a receptacle for pain, to be called good slave like they weren't since they had
a tongue.

So instead they shrug, hoping Foggy won't think that's a non-answer worthy of
punishment.

Foggy sighs. "Let me know if anything happens that really freaks you out, okay?
I care about you, even though I don't think I really know you all that well
yet."

They nod, and all three of them go back to studying for the moment.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also comes from Sylvia Plath's "Lady Lazarus".
***** we are inside a system of humiliation from which there is no escape for
us *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt overhears Bee Elle and Summer in the living room as he continues with the
slightly more boring sections of the homework, and he can't work out why Foggy
dislikes her so much.

"Now," she's murmuring, "Now do you see how much better things are when you're
obedient? When your owner's happy? Do you understand how things are supposed to
be, what you're striving for?"

Bee Elle's voice is very quiet when the tablet reads it out.

"Good job. Good slave. Now, say it with me: I am not worthless. I am not
useless. I can be productive, I can be important, I can be worthwhile."

They type it again.

"Again, like you believe it. Hands too."

Their robotic voice is a little bit louder at that.

"Good job. Here you go," and Matt can hear the soft scrape of her nails on
their scalp.

There's nothing bad happening to them. He doesn't get why it is that Foggy is
so worried.

But then again, it appears that Foggy intends for both of them to be his dolls,
which is both a relief--Matt's not sure how ripped in half he'd feel if Foggy
decided one was for punishing both of them or something similar, and there was
a slight chance Foggy would decide that since they were a female slave, they
should be the doll instead of him--and a worry, because now they have to work
out which of them is higher-up and how to get them both the best they can have.

Matt sighs. And here he had been, thinking he wouldn't have to deal with
fighting other slaves for the owner's approval. Stupid to be getting so
comfortable. Of course now that Foggy's gotten a taste he wants all the slaves
he can get.

But maybe...maybe Matt can prove that they can't be dominant over him and
shouldn't try, and then they can accept it and Matt can be careful to not then
become an overseer--unless, of course, if tomorrow Foggy appoints him as one.

He chews his lip. Whatever happens will be after Summer leaves.

After she leaves. Again.

Matt frowns to himself, letting most of his brain focus on studying and only a
very small part be quietly, quietly emotional about the thought.

There's a complicated knot in his chest on the subject, pain and fear and rage
and hopeless hurt, a what did I do wrong, please take me backand a you promised
things would be better with Winter, you promised me and a I shouldn't have
expected it to last anyway.

He gets yanked out of his brewing storm when Foggy says, "Oh, shit, it's about
eight, I'm hungry as hell, let's get pizza."

Matt ducks his head and smiles. Since a few weeks ago, he's realized that Foggy
is even more affectionate and adorably concerned about what Matt likes when it
comes to pizza.

("What do you mean you don't have a favorite topping?" Foggy had said,
incredulous but not angry.

"Most of my owners only very rarely ate pizza, Foggy," Matt had said. "And the
ones that did didn't want me either gaining weight or taking any of it, since
it was a treat for people and not me. Mistress Sharon sometimes let me have
some with her pet after she used us, but not more than I believe four times,"
and he'd been nervous about bringing up his previous owners, but daring. Foggy
hadn't punished him for it so far.

Foggy had seemed pissed at that, but all he'd done was fiercely hug Matt,
reiterated again that he was never going to have sex with Matt ever ever again,
and ordered three small pizzas with each quarter having different toppings so
that Matt could try them all out.

As they had determined, Matt liked chicken, bacon, sausage, pepperoni,
mushrooms, and strongly disliked pineapple, sweet peppers, barbecue sauce,
ranch sauce, broccoli, Philly cheesteak, and anchovies.

Matt had almost lied about the ranch sauce, since Foggy really seemed to love
it, but he had emphasized that it was fine to like different things, really
Matt it's completely fine, I'll just get us two pizzas in the future, I should
do that anyway, seriously, and he'd bitten his lip but admitted it, and nothing
bad had happened.)

"Hey," Foggy says to Bee Elle as they walk into the kitchen-living-room area,
and Matt sits in a chair like Foggy likes. "So I know you don't have a tongue,
and therefore can't taste thing, but I did want to ask you--are there foods
with, I dunno, better textures than others? Do you experience something like
taste through smelling food? I ask because we're getting pizza and I want to
know which toppings you like, if you like any."

--

Their eyes dart about wildly at that, and Foggy pushes down the urge to kill
everyone that's ever made them scared of answering questions and making
choices, but then the tablet's better app says, "Some foods smell better than
others, Foggy."

"Okay, cool," Foggy says brightly. "So, any pizza toppings you think smell
gross, to avoid?"

They look confused but hopeful, and type out, "I don't like how anchovies
smell, Foggy."

But there's something about their facial expressions as they say it, the way
their back goes from mostly relaxed to hunched, that tells him that there's
something more than just the smell.

A low, horrible suspicion rises in his mind, calling up all those jokes about
tuna and vagina smelling the same, but he doesn't say anything about it. He's
already decided to let them and Matt bring it up if they want to, but not push.
He's not going to make them think about all the hideous things that have
happened to them.

"Okay," Foggy says. "So, let's get three pizzas then, one without any toppings,
one with--hey, Matt, which ones do you feel like?"

Matt looks thoughtful. "Half sausage and half chicken-bacon, Foggy, if that's
alright?"

Foggy nods. "Okay, so one with just cheese, one half chicken-bacon and half
sausage, and one with mushrooms and ranch sauce on the side. Cool," and he
calls and orders.

But as the pizza actually comes and Bee Elle meticulously stacks the textbooks
near the couch, they look more and more apprehensive.

Summer clears her throat. "We're almost finished, Mr Nelson," she says with a
small smile. "I should be going now, I've errands to run. I'll see you tomorrow
for the final testing of your newest acquisition," and she's about to go when
the apartment gets buzzed for the pizza.

Which, Foggy thinks wryly as he ends up alone with her, going down the stairs,
she probably set up on purpose.

"So, Mr Nelson," she said pleasantly. "I see you're not as used to being an
owner as most of those whose services my owner has loaned me out to perform
for."

That's one hell of a convoluted, ungrammatical sentence, and Foggy wonders if
she's translating from a different language in her head.

Foggy says nothing, then, "I'm not an asshole, that is absolutely true," he
says, calm. "Thanks."

She tilts her head. "You do realize that mollycoddling us isn't exactly good
for slaves, right, Mr Nelson? You're not doing Matt or Bee Elle any favors by
sandpapering off their sharp edges."

Foggy doesn't scream. Instead he thinks about there's just tomorrow and then
she'll fucking leave.

He thinks about the mock debates that he's been in, how Matt is stunningly good
at them. Matt never raises his voice or goes for personal attacks or stutters
over points or tries to bargain for getting the other side. Matt, instead,
always speakings at a conversational volume--and a quiet one at that--but he
wins them, even slightly more often than Foggy.

Foggy thinks about how his jaw had gone through the earth's crust when he'd
first seen Matt clear his throat and speak at one.

He channeled that utter serene calm and determination as he dodges that
particular blow.

"It's good for people to be around people who aren't interested in hurting
them," he says, making sure he's not shouting.

She arches a brow. "You have to understand, Mr Nelson, we aren't actually
people. I know we make a convincing facsimile, and it might be a very
comforting delusion for you to cling to, but thinking of a slave as a person
when no-one else in the world does does it no favors."

Foggy stares. "Maybe," he offers, "If everyone understood that slaves were
people, we could end slavery."

She snorted derisively. "I hadn't thought you were stupid, Mr Nelson. Merely
soft-hearted. You seriously believe slavery can be ended? That it wouldn't
collapse the entire world economy, plunge the globe into a dark age of famine
and death?"

Foggy feels like he's wearing one of those masks they give people in certain
parts of India, the face ones you put on the back of your head so the tigers
won't eat you. "I think that strength is for carrying," he says.

She looks confused.

"I think that the point of being strong, or wealthy, or having a lot, is to
give it to other people. I think that the point of having a talent is to use it
for good. And I think that we don't need slavery to do anything great."

Her lips press into a thin line. "What a mighty fine high horse you like to
ride."

Foggy cleared his throat. Only one flight left. He doesn't have the energy to
keep engaging. "See you tomorrow?"

"The final test will be a very public lunch," she announced. "My owner's treat.
See you tomorrow, Mr Nelson," and she exits past the pizza girl.

Foggy gets the pizzas, pays the delivery person, tips the delivery person, and
turns to go back upstairs.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also from Andrea Dworkin's "I Want a Twenty-Four-Hour
     Truce During Which There Is No Rape".
***** I want to sit here and pick at the scabs, watch the blood flow, lick the
salt from my face *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Halfway through the first slice, Bee Elle's hands are audibly shaking, and Matt
decides to do something nice for them, an olive branch. Maybe they don't need
to fight.
"Is it difficult to eat things like this because you can't move the food
around?" he asks them softly.
They shake more, but then Matt swallows any fear and turns his attention to
Foggy, who is very deliberately saying nothing.
"Foggy, is it possible--could they also, ah, drink those supplement drinks if
that's easier for them?"
Their hand grabs Matt's, squeezing tight, painful, a stop getting yourself in
trouble over me, and Matt squeezes back, it's fine.
"Sure, eat whatever you want whenever you want," Foggy says easily, with a
forced casualness. Matt feels a flush of shame for how he'd been angry at him
earlier. He should never be so ungrateful for such a nice owner.
They put down the pizza slice and, daringly, slowly, get out a can and drink
it, and when Foggy says absolutely nothing on the subject, nosit there and let
me get my tools, their heartbeat stops hammering.
Matt smiles. He's so much better at understanding his owner now.
But then Foggy says, "Matt, so, uh, Summer," and he injects venom into that
name, and Matt shrinks back, "said that the 'final test' would be a public
lunch? Is there anything I should know about that?"
Matt considers it, and turns to Bee Elle, whose heartrate has gone sharply up
as well. He feels sorry for them, that they can't spend more time with her,
stop being so irrationally afraid of her. She was really kind and patient and
had helped him so much.
(Even if she had left him.)
"Don't take everything she says as literal truth, Bee Elle," he says slowly,
"You can't hear her heartbeat, and Foggy--I'm happy to tell if either of them
are lying--" he gulps at the thought, but it's only right that his skills are
at his owner's disposal, "But she doesn't always say things just because
they're true. She might..if it's anything like the tests she administered to
me, a lot of the more--cutting--things she'll say are just things to strengthen
your composure, your patience, get you to take a firmer hold of your temper.
She doesn't actually mean most of them.
"And Winter might...I don't know if he'll do it, but for a long time he was the
one to help me get rid of my startle reflex, and my reflex of cringing at pain,
so he would surprise me, usually with a slap or a thud, so if he does that,
don't react too much."
Matt thinks it over more, and then takes a bite and chews. Once he's swallowed
that, he adds, "And--follow my lead, Bee, I don't think you've been at the sort
of place we'll be going to, they have a separate protocol to follow."
Foggy sounds both angry and calm as he says, in the ringing silence, "Any
specifics?"
Matt blinks. Of course Foggy doesn't know. "Depending on the place--well, most
likely it'll be one of the places with separate, sealed-off booths, and there
will be cushions provided, and probably a little side table to keep the slaves'
foods on, so that the owners can more easily feed them--"
Foggy breathes in sharply, and Matt closes his mouth. He knows better by now
than to keep talking about it.
Foggy breathes in deeply, in and out, and then he says gently, "I'm sorry that
this has become something you have to endure," and he's talking to both of
them, "And I promise I won't hurt you any more than will make them just go
away."
Bee Elle nods, and Matt murmurs, "Thank you, Foggy," even if he's not sure why
Foggy thinks Summer and Winter are about to hurt them.
--
Foggy, after that exhausting, terrifying piece of information, looks up the
names and places of therapists the student insurance covers, calls Aunt Imelda
to arrange to meet her, emails Anna a quick thank-you and a small reassurance
that he's going to see a therapist, and goes the fuck to bed.
When he wakes up later that night, however, he realizes one thing through the
haze of annoyance that his stupid sleep disorder is acting up again:
Matt isn't in bed.
Foggy wonders if he's just going to get a glass of water or studying in the
kitchen, or something, but the quieter Foggy gets, listening, the more he
doesn't hear anyone moving around.
Uh-oh.
He gets up, grabs the baseball bat from under his bed that Dad gave him when he
first went to college, and walks slowly down the hallway.
He sees Bee Elle sleeping on the couch and Matt in the faint light from the
microwave, kneeling on the floor, and he breathes a sigh of relief that he's
not dead or abducted or something, and then he realizes that Matt's muttering
something to himself, and his hands are resting on something that looks,
blurrily, like nails.
"The place a slave belongs is on their knees and not their feet..."
Oh, fuck.
--
Matt becomes only very vaguely aware of a hand on his shoulder once it's
shoving him hard, and then there's a knuckle across his sternum and he floats,
dizzy from the endorphins, to the present day.
His mouth is still murmuring the mantra he'd picked to remind himself to stop
thinking inappropriate thoughts, but then he can hear Foggy whispering
urgently, "Matt, shit, Matt, are you okay, Matt, say something--"
That's an order, but his mind is flooded with the focus, heavy with the pain in
his knees and hands, and he stops chanting the phrase and licks his lips. It
takes him a second, and then he says, "Yes, Foggy?"
Foggy says, hands now patting over Matt's arms like he's checking for broken
bones, "Fuck, Matt, that--are those nails? Shit, shit, shit."
Matt blinks. "No, Foggy," he mumbles, words far away, all words except for what
he's been saying softly and near-silently for the past--has it been two hours?
The place a slave belongs is on their knees and not their feet, and then he can
hear it as if it's him hissing it in his own ear, the aspiration vivid.
"Matt," Foggy says, and sits down on the floor, "Matt, shit, come here, get--
fuck, let me see your hands," and that's a direct order, so Matt gets off the
bobby pins and crawls over a foot into his owner's lap as directed, face-up so
his master can see his face, hand held up obediently.
"Fuck," Foggy says, "Fuck--okay, no blood," and his hands are unpleasantly cold
compared to the burning in Matt's palms from the pressure.
Matt's head lolls where he's put it on Foggy's thigh. It feels good, the touch,
to be clutched as a doll is supposed to be.
"Matt," Foggy says. "Fuck, fuck, come with--okay, let's get off this hard
floor," and Matt stands up slowly as Foggy does, knees creaking like a door
opening, like Mistress Sharon walking into the room where she kept her pretty
pretty pet and pretty pretty Matt, and the next thing he's aware of Foggy has
gently sort of put him on his bed, sitting up against the pillows, and is
frantically typing.
Matt closes his eyes and breathes in and out. He's not sure of what's going on,
but that's fine. The endorphins, the oxytocin from the touch, it all makes him
feel like blood soaking through sheets, butter melting in a hot pan, slippery
and evaporating and barely there. More words drift away, lost and abandoned,
like the screaming, struggling slaves dragged into the medical centers he's
walked past all his life.
"Shit," his owner mutters, and then he comes and sits down next to Matt, and
asks him, heart thudding with fear, "Matt, okay, do you know where you are?"
It's hard to think. "Where my owner wants me to be," Matt murmurs, because
that's all he can hold in his hands. Everything else is like trying to catch a
soap bar in a bath.
"Fuck. Do you know who I am?"
"My owner," and Matt tries to search for the correct address, and tries,
"Master?"
His owner sucks in sharply. "Okay, Matt, um, let me see. Fuck," and there's
more typing. Then: "Okay, can you name five--no, fuck, you're blind, that's
unhelpful, fucking shit--can you tell me four things you can hear?"
Matt thinks. Obey, obey, obey. "I can hear my owner's heartbeat," he says, like
talking around marbles, "I can hear another slave's heartbeat in the other
room, I can hear my owner's computer's fan, I can hear an alley cat yowling
outside," and he can't remember the correct address so he hangs his head. Such
a bad slave. All he wants is to be good. All he was trying to do on the floor
was remember how to be good.
"Fuck," his owner says, and then, "Okay, then, um, three things you can touch."
Matt's hand reaches out and rubs the bedspread. It's a cheap-ish t-shirt
cotton. "The sheets," he says, and thinks harder. "My collar on my neck," and
it's a very nice collar too, "Thank you for my collar," and he wishes he could
remember the correct address.
Then that's still only two things, so Matt's foot twitches and he says, still
slurring against his will, "The air against my foot."
"Okay, uh, good job?" his owner says, still afraid, but Matt smiles and throws
his head back, arching his back from the praise. Is his owner going to use him
soon?
"And, okay, two things you can smell," his owner prompts.
Matt's getting better at this game. "My owner's shampoo," he says, and then
wonderingly, "The books on the other side of the room."
"What do books even smell like?" his owner mutters absently, still scared.
Matt has to answer. "Like paper and ink and binding-glue," he says, and his
whole body feels not real, not there. He thinks vaguely that he should be very,
very scared right now because he doesn't know which owner he's with, can't
recall it even a bit, but the self-administered punishment has scrambled his
brains completely.
"Oh, Matt," his owner says, hurt and concerned and--guilty? Regretful? Does he
regret buying Matt? Matt has to fix that. "Okay, final one, uh, one thing you
can taste?"
Matt smiles. He knows how to do that. He leans forward and boldly sucks one
finger into his mouth from his owner, and it's familiar.
His owner's other hand shoves his head gently away, quickly, and his owner
stammers out, "Shit, fuck, stop that, no."
Matt stops that.
His owner wipes off his finger and runs a hand through his hair. "Okay, Matt, I
just, um, wow you're really out of it, what were you even doing at this time of
night?"
It's night? That explains the sleeping slave.
"I was helping myself be better," Matt says, rocking back and forth without
thinking about it. "Remembering my place in the world," and that triggers
something, because he says softly, sing-song, "The place a slave belongs is on
their knees--"
"Matt," his owner says, anguished, and Matt stops.
"I apologize," and there should be a title there, Matt knows it's a strange one
with this owner but he can't remember it, "Please punish me--"
His owner makes a tiny hurt noise and Matt shuts up, shut up you stupid slut
you're going to make me sad, and then time seems to slide around again and the
next thing he knows his owner is hugging him and saying, "Hey, Matt, stay with
me, okay?"
"Yes," Matt whispers, trying to grab at the title, it's on the tip of his
tongue.
"Okay, um, fuck, let's--you okay with cuddling? Would that help? Or should I
just--leave you alone? I should probably leave you alone."
Matt doesn't want to be left alone. He hates it, hates being locked in a room
and ignored for days, it's worse than anything else. Worse than being whipped.
But he closes his eyes again--when had they opened?--and submits to his owner's
will.
"Or, apparently from your face, no, so let's try--" and then his owner is
wrapping something around him, a blanket, a reward-blanket, and Matt mumbles
without thinking, "What's that a reward for?"
"Being alive, remember?" his owner coaxes, and then he moves so Matt is
slumping next to him and then time skips and they've both got blankets on them
and his owner is holding him tight, saying over and over again that it was okay
and he'd never ever ever have sex with Matt ever again, never, that Matt was
safe there, and Matt laughs to himself because owners always want him to
appreciate their jokes and falls into a pool of drowsiness, dozing off.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from "Creature of Darkness" by Gloria Anzaldúa,
     here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/119376250453/creature-of-
     darkness
***** the lord's gonna come for your first born son *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
When Matt rises to awareness in the morning, the first thing he feels is
sunshine on his face, which is odd--Foggy's bed is close to the window, not
his. Is he in--?

The second thing he feels is the microfleece reward-blanket wrapped around him,
and he snuggles into it. He can't remember why he was being rewarded, but then
again, Foggy's quite serious about rewarding him for being alive--

Oh, hell. Hellfire and damnation. Shit, shit, shit.

Matt's entire face floods with heat and he suddenly wants to vomit from how
ashamed he is. What the hell had he been thinking? Why had he made Foggy so
upset? What was wrong with him that basic self-maintenance made him react that
way? How angry was Foggy now?

Matt wants to throw off the blanket, get out of Foggy's bed, and go hide in the
shower, under ice-cold spray like he deserves. He wants desperately to do
something, anything at all, to make up for that pathetic display.

But before he can manage to make himself do anything, Foggy comes back in, and
says, "Oh, Matt, you're awake."

Matt swallows, and can't think of where to start with his necessary apologies.

"Anyway," Foggy says, carrying something, "Are you okay? How do you feel?"

Matt says, making sure there's no waver in his voice, "I'm sorry, Foggy--"

And then he freezes and realizes that Summer's downstairs, walking up, in
heels, they buzzed the door, Bee Elle's ready to open it, and Winter's not far
behind. Fuck. He doesn't--he doesn't want to be punished in front of her, he
can't embarrass her--

"Hey, Matt, no, it's okay," Foggy says, and hugs him. "Hey, it's okay, it's
fine, I'm not angry," and that's a lie.

Foggy sighs and then corrects himself, "I'm angry at your previous owners, not
you. It's fine, Matt. If you want," and Matt could cry from those words, how
completely bizarre, "I could wait until we've gotten Dracula and Renfield to go
away and we could talk about it, okay?"

That is just like Foggy, to be so generous. Matt swallows and murmurs, "Thank
you, Foggy, thank you so much," and he leans forward to kiss Foggy's hand like
he should have done last night. God, what a fucking defective he was.

He pulls himself together, slides out of Foggy's bed, and starts to get
dressed--black almost-formal pants and a shirt that his organizing system says
is dark red and the silk collar, and he's pulling the pants on when Summer
opens the door and says sweetly, "Mr Nelson, we'll be in the kitchen when you
and your slaves are ready to go!"

"What the shit?" Foggy mutters as she closes the door and her heels click-click
down the hallway. "Goddamnit. That's not right."

Matt blinks, confused. Does Foggy not want anyone else to see his doll? Well,
it would make some sense with how he'd acted at the store, having Bee Elle try
things on in a changing room. He'd had Matt use a changing room, too, and now
things are clicking into place.

It's nice, in a way. If Matt and Bee Elle are both dolls, the two of them don't
have to compete quite so much. Matt will just quickly ensure that they don't
try to step over him for Foggy's approval, and then they can go back to helping
one another out.

Matt breathes in and out and is ready, except for the collar.

He puts it near Foggy and shows him the back of the rabbit fur one he's still
wearing.

"Yeah, okay," Foggy says, and gets the rabbit fur one off and the new one on.
Matt closes his eyes; he doesn't deserve the glide of the silk, but he can't
imagine not wearing a more expensive collar to wherever it is his trainers are
taking them for lunch.

"Ready to go slay the dragon?" Foggy asks himself, and Matt has an epiphany. He
knows how to make Foggy happy with him now.

--

Foggy feels like he has when he's done babysitting before, which is a very
weird feeling to have around adult human beings, but Matt seems even less
independent than normal. Foggy thinks over what happened last night, and he
doesn't let the curdling suspicions about the words remembering my place in the
world and where my owner wants me to be rise up into his throat. He can help
Matt out later when they're not in the presence of two very hungry lions.

Bee Elle looks only very mildly freaked out. They're still way too shrunken,
somehow, but they're wearing a pair of jeans and a shirt and a sweater and the
snow-boots, and their hair is brushed. They asked him, wordlessly, to put on
the braided leather collar earlier, and he had.

Foggy himself is wearing semi-casual clothes, and he holds his breath as Matt
walks out--

And Matt has his cane, and Foggy's face curls into a smile without thinking
about it.

The cane is a good sign. The cane is something Matt takes with him to classes
and to Fogwell's sometimes now. The cane means something like support or I'm on
your side.

Foggy grins. "Okay, where's this place?"

"A ways out," Winter says, his face blank and the creepy Russian-Brooklyn
dialect back. "It is not more than half an hour's drive, less."

"Okay," Foggy says with a sigh, makes sure he has his phone and Bee Elle their
tablet, and they all go.

--

The first sign of trouble is when they get to the restaurant.

Its sign is in curved, calligraphic font, and proclaims it to be Noah's Arc,
and the sign out front declares it has 'the most slave-friendly seating in all
of Manhattan'.

Foggy immediately wants to get the fuck out of there.

Matt stands a half-step behind him, face serene, and Bee Elle looks nervous but
watches Matt for cues.

Winter goes to the door, walking in a way that makes the entire crowd of people
waiting in the front move. Foggy stares at it. It's like seeing someone march
up to assassinate the President or Captain America or something.

Summer picks her way behind him in a little black dress with slits up both
thighs and collarbones exposed, a red leather collar, and high, clicking black
heels. Foggy notices a flash of red on the underside. She somehow makes it look
like a confident strut.

Foggy follows them, feeling rather like a bull in a lab full of smallpox petri
dishes. They get to the front, and Summer chirps out that they have a
reservation.

The hostess's eyes slide over the three people with collars on as she leads
them to the booth.

Foggy abruptly realizes as they get there that he didn't actually know what
slave-owner restaurant booths were like, because it takes him a minute to
comprehend what he's seeing.

There's a door--a sliding little door--and a booth, and past the booth are
three large, flat pillows with padding that are clearly for kneeling. There's
also a little alcove near the little sliding door for two people to put extra
plates on, and pegs for a leash to be hung up on.

Foggy stares at it and then he takes a deep breath and reminds himself to just
get through this and then it'll be fucking over.

Summer slides smoothly into place on one of the pillows, and she says sweetly
to Matt and Bee Elle, "You are supposed to sit on the pads."

Matt waits and turns his face to Foggy.

Oh. That's--Foggy realizes that he's almost ostentatiously pointing out that
she doesn't have the right to give him orders anymore.

Well, goddamn. Foggy clears his throat and says, "Let's get this over with,"
and Matt nods and murmurs, "Yes, Foggy," and slides into place on a different
pillow, and they follow him.

Foggy sits down on the side with Matt and Winter sits on the other side. He
takes off his jacket and puts his elbows on the table. Foggy stares. This time,
his hair's just in a ponytail, but it's distractingly weird just how much he
looks like Bucky Barnes. Foggy's reminded of his American History textbooks,
down to the last detail.

Also, he hasn't realized just how utterly built Winter is before. Even the
metal arm--which almost glows, it looks like something out of a movie with
clones and cyborg armies--has defined, large muscles. His pecs are outlined by
the shirt he's wearing, a Falcon one today emblazoned with the words liberty
and justice for all in gold above the silhouette of the wings, clear against
the white background.

He looks very, very dangerous.

But then Foggy glances at Matt and Bee Elle, who look alternately like a statue
and like a very scared dog, and he resolves to not let his fear win. Fuck this
fucking asshole sitting in front of him.

Foggy could be dangerous too. Well, legally speaking.

The waitress comes over and asks them if they want anything, and hands them
dessert menus.

Foggy looks at the menu.

"Hey, Matt, any preferences?" he asks idly.

Winter's gaze goes sharp and cold. Foggy doesn't let himself react to it.

Matt murmurs, swaying slightly to Foggy's side, "Are there any good salads,
Foggy?"

Foggy looks. "This one is Romaine lettuce, apples, cranberries, crumbled goat's
cheese, strawberries, walnuts, almonds, dried plums, chicken, bacon bits and a
Balsamic dressing," he reads off. "That sound good?"

"Delectable, Foggy," Matt says, voice soft and submissive and--oh.

There's something fragile in his tone, something precious about it. Foggy's not
exactly sure what's going on.

He looks through the rest of it for something for Bee Elle, and asks them, "Uh,
French onion soup without croutons sound good to you?"

They look at Foggy with a distinct 'how are you for fucking real' gaze, but
then their fingers, quavering, type out, "Thank you, Foggy."

Alright then.

The waitress comes back, knocking on the door, Foggy orders the food for the
two of them first and then a hoity-toity ham and cheese for him, and then
realizes he didn't ask them about drinks, and gets a polite request of water
for Bee Elle and apple soda from Matt, and orders that too, and a watermelon
lemonade from him. If this sociopath Winter is actually paying for this, he
might as well get good food out of it.

Winter looks at him the way cats look at mice as he orders two sushi dishes and
a bottle of wine, which annoys Foggy. For fuck's sake, it's not even past noon.

But he says nothing. The entire booth utterly silent as the grave until the
food comes.

Foggy then realizes that the alcove and the kneeling pads are set up so that it
is physically impossible for a slave to eat in any way besides being handfed.

Fuck that.

The soup came in a little pouring jug, like milk for fancy tea ceremonies, so
he passes it to Bee Elle, who drinks it, and then he stops. He really, really
doesn't want to participate in this whole degrading charade, but then Matt
leans his head on Foggy's thigh.

Foggy freezes. "You okay?" he asks Matt.

Matt nods.

Then he get the message: it's fine, I'm fine with this.

Foggy swallows. But Matt is probably hungry, so he gathers his courage, spears
a good bite, and puts the fork near Matt's mouth.

Matt's lips open.

Foggy, against every single instinct screaming at him that this is beyond
fucked up, puts the fork in, and Matt's mouth closes and scrapes the fork
clean.

Shit.

Foggy repeats this, feeling more and more like someone disarming a bomb, until
he realizes that Matt's salad is eaten and Matt's eyes are shut. He looks
completely trusting.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

That's when Winter clears his throat and feeds Summer the last piece of the
sushi roll he got for her, and says, "Let's talk now, man-to-man, as the people
in this room."
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from Delta Rae's "Bottom of the River", which can
     be listened to here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bimam2j2gEg and
     lyrics read here: https://play.google.com/music/preview/
     Tzwgfkvvfk4auvv2o2ctxaxexoq?lyrics=1&utm_source=google&utm_medium=search&utm_campaign=lyrics&pcampaignid=kp-
     lyrics&u=0#
***** some people haven’t learned that human beings aren’t things to be broken
*****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Foggy feels incandescent with rage, like a forest fire, and he opens his mouth-
-

And Matt's head presses harder into his thigh, and Foggy remembers what Matt
said.

--a lot of the more--cutting--things she'll say are just things to strengthen
your composure, your patience, get you to take a firmer hold of your temper--

And Foggy knows what's going on.

This isn't a test of Bee Elle. This is a test of him.

This man sitting in front of him has absolutely no right, none at all, but
Foggy breathes in and out and doesn't scream or hit him. Instead he says,
calmly, channeling the Ralph Fiennes movies, the lawyer Alexander Farragut who
never, never loses his temper, "It's very interesting that you think there's
only two, as opposed to five, people in here."

He wishes Summer would fuck off and maybe get eaten by a bear, but she's still
a person too.

Winter smiles, and it's huge and adorable and fucking scary. "Oh," he says
softly, "I was once so naive. So idealistic, and young, and trusting. I was one
of the true believers, you know. I really thought that he would make it all
better, that it would all be worth it when the war was over."

Foggy stares him down.

He sighs and leans back, putting down his arms. "I loved him like a child loves
their parents, like a lover loves their salt-rose and topaz."

"Who?" Foggy asks despite himself.

"Stevie," and there's so much longing in that word. "And Stalin, too, later,
but primarily Steve. He said that slavery was wrong, that they were people too,
and like a soldier trusts their general I believed him."

Foggy sees tears in the edges of Winter's eyes, and there's something so much
more alarming now that he's showing actual emotion, faked or not.

"And then I fell, and I landed on my arm, and when I came to and realized who I
was, I understood the truth. I knew what a slave really is. I was one."

Foggy, despite himself, is gaping at him. That's--people who are ex-slaves
never talk about it, it's, it's worse than cancer, you don't mention things
like that--

And it has to be true, too, because nobody would ever lie about that. It was
like lying about being a trans woman or something. Nobody did that. Not in
person.

"And yet, I wasn't. Not inherently. Not in the existential sense. Not like
these three splendid animate objects here," and his metal arm gestures to them,
plates clinking, motors whirring.

"So you see, Foggy Nelson, we must talk, man-to-man, person-to-person. We must
understand each other, because otherwise I cannot in good conscience let you
keep these treasures."

Foggy's brain snaps from confused shock--who was Steve?--back to anger. He's
here to protect them. That's what he's going to do.

Foggy glares at him and says, voice icy like Rosalind's when she's in court,
"No."

"No what?"

"No, you can't take them. No, I won't let you hurt them."

A flicker of something passes over Winter's face.

"You aren't even curious about who my Steve was? Or who I truly am?"

Foggy doesn't roll his eyes at the distracting tactic through sheer force of
will. "No, I won't let you hurt them."

Winter smiles and it's horrible, like a Chelsea grin. "You haven't even heard
my proposal."

"The answer is no."

"I'm offering to buy one or both of them off of you and throw in $10,000
dollars for each of them."

"No."

"I'll pay double what they're worth."

"No."

"That's--Matt was last sold for seven and a half million dollars, and any
reasonable person would tack on another 50,000 at least for the beginnings of
law school. And the other one--we paid only 40,000 total! The other one would
be priced at probably a half a million. You're turning down over sixteen
million dollars?"

"I'm not going to let you hurt them. Either of them."

Winter drew back sharply and sipped at his drink. Then he said, slowly, "But
you care about money. Sixteen million dollars could help every Nelson on this
planet for decades."

It could. And a part of Foggy wants it, wants it like he wants nothing else.

But another part of Foggy still wants to give Matt the entire world. And
another part wants so desperately to make up for those three times Foggy raped
him like all those other torturers.

"The answer is no."

Winter stared at coldly. "Throw in another five million for having such a
spine."

Foggy doesn't budge. "No."

"You can't be serious. You're that selfish?"

"I'm doing the right thing," and he can't not do it, can't do anything else,
"Not the easy thing."

Winter stares. He drinks the rest of his glass. He says, cool and collected,
"Who do you think you are to presume you deserve these nice things?"

"Someone better than you."

Winter glares at him, and then says something to Matt in Russian, sounding
commanding and soft, a blanket over granite.

Matt says quietly, "My owner, Foggy Nelson, prefers that I follow only his
orders."

Foggy loves Matt so, so much. He owes it to him to never let anyone else hurt
him, not ever again. Not himself, not Summer, not this shining example of
humanity gone horribly wrong.

"I think we're done here," Foggy says. "Test is over. How'd I do?"

Winter stares and him and laughs. "Fine. Contract expires, then. You get to
keep the broken thing she pulled from the wreckage. But don't come crying to me
when life teaches you how the world really works."

Foggy arches an eyebrow, and stands up. Matt and Bee Elle are instantly on
their feet, and they follow him out into the outside.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from an unnamed poem by fromonesurvivortoanother,
     found here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/61437003225/
     fromonesurvivortoanother-sometimes-the-only-way
     Full text of the poem:
     "sometimes
     the only way to survive in this world
     is to break something.
     but some people haven’t learned
     that human beings aren’t things
     to be broken."
***** I can write 17,000 poems about stupid shit like this, but I can’t write
even one that will make you understand *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Getting out of that fucking restaurant and getting home is goddamn near
miraculous, and in the cab, Bee Elle types out, “Foggy, can I hug Matt
sometimes?”
Foggy blinks. “Your friendship is not my business, it's fine, just, I dunno,
don't hurt each other.”
They nod and look back out the window, and their hand wanders over and squeezes
Matt's, hard.
–
Matt's dreading getting home. His heart is fast and loud in his ears, drowning
out his mental screams, because he can't believe he did any of that, he can't
believe he talked back to Winter, he can't believe that Foggy fought him so
hard, didn't sell him.
He breathes as slowly in and out as he can, thinking, trying to ignore the
words Winter spoke.
Tell your owner how much you want to come back to us. Make him understand. Tell
him and you can, I know you hated it when we had to sell you, but if you just
tell him the truth, we can make this right. We can make it all up to you.
But how could they?
And how could Matt make Foggy understand anyway? Matt doesn't even know how to
make himself understand the veritable flood of every sensation associated with
his trainers.
The I'll do anything to make you happy, the strawberry taste edged with her
nail polish, the silk holding him open and exposed in the air, the pounding
heartbeat every time Matt slept in Winter's bed, the steam of the sauna when
he'd been especially good, the swaying on his feet when he wasn't allowed to
sleep for days, the lipstick against his forehead as Summer kissed him and told
him he was so good, he was being so good for them and she was so proud, the
Moscato and rare steak against his tongue as Winter rewarded him for every A in
college, the laughter as he made a pun in French, the way she insisted that he
was smart and capable and could learn new things all the time, the long car
drives with the sounds of the road and Winter's favorite Taylor Swift songs,
the cold when Summer stopped hugging him because the make-up artists had to get
him ready for the auction, the cold of Winter's arm, teaching him to stop
struggling when he was choked, the comforting sounds of them sleeping or
walking around or doing things while Matt had been ordered to hold the stress
position, to kneel and empty his pretty little head. The way they smelled.
But even that doesn't explain it. He can't explain it. Foggy doesn't even
understand that Matt's not a person; how could he possibly ever understand how
Matt both wants to go back and is so glad Foggy won't let him go back?
Matt makes himself not curl up, not hide from his owner, and the drive
continues.
–
“So,” Foggy says, sitting down on his bed. “What—do you want to talk about what
that was, last night?”
“I'm so sorry I made you upset,” Matt murmurs, and sinks to his knees without
even deciding to, “I apologize, Foggy, for my inappropriate—“
“Matt,” Foggy cuts in. “It's fine. I'm not—I just want to know what happened so
I can make sure you don't have a flashback again.”
Matt blinks. That wasn't a flashback. People with PTSD or things like that have
flashbacks. But he's not sure how to explain that to Foggy without being more
insolent.
Foggy says, deliberately calm, “Okay, so you said that you were, uh, reminding
yourself of your place in the world? Or something like that? I don't really
know what that means.”
Matt's face flames. “I—“ he swallows. “I've noticed recently, Foggy, that I've
been—I haven't been doing my best for you, and I need to, and I needed to be
reminded to not get above my station in life, and so I decided to remind myself
of that, and I apologize for causing you so much distress and inconvenience,
Foggy, please punish—“
Foggy clears his throat. Matt goes silent. Maybe he won't be allowed to speak
for a while, not after how his words had scared Foggy last night. He'll deserve
it. Dolls especially are not supposed to make an owner unhappy. He feels a
roiling shame in his stomach at how pathetic he'd, like he's swallowed a live
octopus.
“Matt,” Foggy says slowly. “Can I ask what you were actually doing? What the
process is? I don't think I understand.”
Matt takes a deep breath. “The process is simple,” he explains. “I refined it
within the first month of using it. I started when one of my owners almost
never spoke to me outside of using me, and certainly didn't administer any
punishments. I realized that he wished for me to maintain myself that way, and
I devised it quite simply. I—in the process, the slave kneels on a hard, cold
surface, naked—but I thought that if I were to be naked, I thought that you
didn't want anyone seeing me naked—and there's things under the slave's hands
that hurt to lean on, but not enough to cause blood, unless the owner wishes
for it.
“And then the slave says things that are true—mantras—until the pain becomes
sufficient to release a flood of endorphins from the brain, and thus the
punishment of the self becomes its own reward, reinforcing whatever lesson
needs to be retaught. The slave can then enjoy the feelings of pleasure and
come to understand the world and the lesson better, and the owner can be
satisfied that their machine is self-repairing. Then the punishment ends with
rewards and clarity.”
Foggy is absolutely silent, his heart like a rolling clap of thunder. Then he
asks, like he's angry already at the answer, “How many times have you done that
with—since I got you?”
Matt shivers in fear, and in relief. Whatever happens next, he'll actually
deserve, and the world will make sense. He almost hates how he got rewarded at
lunch, and for what? For just for being a greedy slave who asked to be fed from
their owner's fork despite not earning one bite?
(He had meant it to show Foggy he was on his side, he knew who his owner now
was, Foggy thought he and Summer were enemies and Matt needed to show him that
Matt was on his team, would fight for him, but still. But still.)
“Only twice, Foggy,” he murmurs. “Once, after I asked you during sex to not
take off my collar, and once a few days before I asked you to help with Bee
Elle, after I had gotten an A- on that paper.”
Foggy's mouth opens and closes. “Shit, Matt,” he says. “That sounds—you're
hurting yourself until you're so out of it you don't even know where you are or
who I am or anything? Over—over things like that—shit, Matt, oh god,” and he
lurches forward and hugs Matt tightly.
Matt doesn't move. He can't explain to Foggy how it's not damaging to him, it
doesn't hurt him, it feels so good when the body switches from pain to
pleasure—
Oh. Foggy must mean his knees and his palms getting hurt. And of course, him
forgetting who his owner was.
“I—shit, okay, I don't like ordering you to do things, but, fuck, I just—that
can't be healthy, Matt. That can't be good for you. Please don't hurt yourself
for me, okay? Please don't.”
Foggy shouldn't be begging him. Matt licks his lips and says, “Yes, Foggy,”
because won't disobey. Next time he needs to be taught a lesson, he'll do it
some other way. Maybe a cold shower, or perhaps he could not eat, and the
mantras. Foggy hadn't forbid them.
Foggy went on, “And, and I'm not angry at you, okay? If you ever do have like a
more 'traditional', I guess, flashback, or a panic attack like I thought that
was, or you're just...I don't know, out of it for any reason, I'm not going to
get pissed at you for that. And even if I do get pissed at you, I'm never going
to hit you or hurt you, got it? At all. Ever.”
“Yes, Foggy,” Matt says into the silence.
“And Matt? I know you're always doing your best. Don't be so harsh on yourself.
You put your best into literally everything.”
“Thank you, Foggy,” Matt says, and he can't quite follow the orders yet, but
it's a massive relief to know that he's still Foggy's doll, he's not
supplanted, he's capable of being good yet.
Foggy hugs him and Matt pushes his fear into his windpipe and breathes as much
as it out as it takes for Foggy to be satisfied with the touching. This is
fine. This is normal. Dolls are supposed to be cuddled. This is appropriate.
He's Foggy's doll. It's only right that Foggy touches him.
He will do better in the future. He will. He can't deal with the thought of
Foggy selling him.
He can't deal with the thought of Foggy selling him.
Oh, shit, he's gone and gotten himself attached to his owner.
Matt is fucked.
–
They go back to studying with a plan in their head, trying not to worry too
much about what they're doing or why.
But just as they're getting hungry, and wondering if they should ask Foggy if
they can have another can of the supplement—it feels fine and fills them
up—Foggy and Matt both come into the room.
“Hey,” Foggy says, forced cheer in his voice. “So we have kind of a thing where
on Sunday nights we watch a movie or an episode of a non-episodic series, which
sounds completely stupid now that I say it out loud, but basically, we do that
thing while we eat leftovers because I'm not gonna overwork Matt, and tonight I
was wondering, do you wanna pick it?”
They freeze. But so far this owner has been sincere. If he's building up to
some spectacular betrayal, it probably won't be for some weeks anyway.
They type, tentatively, and it's weird as hell to talk out loud, “Could I have
a can of the supplement, then, Foggy, please?”
Foggy says, “I was serious when I said eat whatever whenever. It's all good,”
and he gets himself pizza.
Matt does too.
They're not sure what to say, but they get it, and a glass of water, slowly,
prepared to be hit at any moment, but then everyone ends up in the living room,
Matt stiff but slowly uncoiling, Foggy sitting on the floor with Matt, and they
sit on the floor too, Matt buffering them.
They'll apologize to him later, but they don't want to touch their owner. Not
ever.
Foggy puts his laptop up on a box and sets up Netflix and says, “So go ahead,
choose anything.”
They move slowly, sure it's a test, but then something grabs their eye.
Ancient Aliens? What could that possibly be about? It looks both stupid and
hilarious.
They glance at Foggy, and he cheers and says, “Oh, man, that show is so fucking
stupid, it's amazing, we can yell at it the whole time,” and with that they
pick an episode titled “Aliens and Dinosaurs”.
They do end up yelling at it, careful to not turn up the volume too hard, but
since Foggy and Matt are making sarcastic rebuttals to all the idiotic
theories, it's fine. It's actually kind of fun, and every time Matt or them
start to talk, Foggy stops speaking and doesn't interrupt them. It's weird, but
enjoyable.
It takes them halfway through to spit out the water they're laughing so hard,
and Matt finally relaxes a little when Foggy doesn't punish them for making a
mess, and it's all good. They can live there, they think.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title is from a poem by Catalina Ferro, "Panties", here:
     http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/138323686153/
     imnotevilimjustwrittenthatway-i-can-write
***** I am very familiar with the problems because the problems turn out to be
me *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
On Monday, Matt and Bee Elle have a chance to be properly alone together.

[Library?] he taps on their arm as they walk out of class.

They press their shoulder against his and the two of them walk to the little
window alcove that's familiar in fond silence.

And there, Matt pins them to the wall.

Before they can get frightened or struggle, he talks very quietly but very
seriously.

"I'm not going to hurt you, and I don't want to compete with you, but you also
have to understand that now that we are in the same household, I can't just
brush off anything you do as not my business."

They tap out against his hand, [Fine.]

"I mean it. I want us to be a team, I'd rather work with you than against you
and as far as I can tell Foggy wants two dolls, but if it comes to war you will
lose and you will lose hard, got it?"

[You think you can take me?]

He bares his teeth. He knows how to fight dirty. "You're scared of Summer, and
she shaped you far out of your original personality in three days. She trained
me and I've helped train baby slaves, too, once upon a time. You think I can't
do even more to you if you give me a reason?"

They struggle but Matt's much, much stronger than them. They don't have any
combat training at all.

Then they stop and go flat against the wall. [You want to fight me? I'll go to
Foggy.]

"And I'll convince him to keep me instead. I'm the one of us that he actually
touches. And no, I don't want to fight you, but I'm making sure that you
understand if you start anything you will regret it."

[What do you actually want, asshole?]

"I want us to be happy and safe and good dolls for our owner. I want us to work
together and make both of our positions secure."

[You have to be this much of a dick about it?]

"I have to make sure you understand that I take orders from my owner and any
slave that's worth more than me, and you're not."

[Fuck you.]

"That's up to Foggy."

There's an awkward, cool silence, and then they loudly sigh. [Get off of me.
I'm willing to be good for him too. Dude seems pretty nice.]

Matt deliberately keeps them pinned for a few more moments and then lets them
go, just to make his point.

"I'm not jeopardizing this placement," Matt says. "I can help you be good. I've
been in households where I had to fight everyone else, and I've been in
placements where we worked together. And both ways I win. I'd rather just focus
my energy on more enjoyable things."

Their face does something and they breathe out deliberately. [I always knew you
were an asshole.]

"Thank you dearly," he snipes.

Then they sit down and start to study, and Matt joins them.

When it's time for lunch, they communicate that all is well and the compromise
accepted very simply: they hand him an apple, and he squeezes their hand.

Good. He won't have to systematically destroy them.

--

Things go very well for Foggy for the next few days.

On Thursday, however, shit hits the fan twice.

One, he has a meeting with his Aunt Imelda, a lunch.

Two, Marci Stahl asks to come over to his apartment and 'see the doll
collection'.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also taken from June Jordan's "Poem About My Rights".
***** fuck your c'est la vie *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Aunt Imelda insists on both Foggy coming alone and not telling him exactly
where they're going. Each of these things would normally result in Foggy not
going--he's an open-arm kind of person, not an idiot--but he called Anna to
check to see if that was normal for her, and Anna had explained that she
was...eccentric.

This appears to have been an underestimation as she pulls up in what's clearly
a Groucho Marx face mask, a beanie over her hair, and heavily layered clothes
with worn-out fingerless gloves.

"Get in," she hisses, and Foggy does.

His phone chimes with the text from Matt, saying, we're at home safe, and Foggy
sags with relief. He had contemplated walking them back, but Matt had very very
gently offered up that he did have bodyguard training and wouldn't let anything
hurt either of them--well, he'd phrased it as 'damage your property, Foggy'--
Foggy had shut up.

His Aunt Imelda jumps about four feet in the air and snarls, "PHONE OFF AND
BATTERY OUT, NOW!"

Her tone is so authoritative that Foggy instantly does it, heart pounding.
Jesus, she's jumpy.

She drives around aimlessly in circles for about ten minutes. Every time Foggy
tries to say something, she hushes him, and then he pulls up and gets drive-
through Chik-fil-a for them and immediately drives into a parking lot behind a
sleazy sex shop.

"Uh," Foggy says, startled by the signs saying 'RENT A SLUT FOR YOUR SPECIAL
OCCASIONS' and the sheer gritty grossness of the pavement. "Could we go
somewhere else--?"

"No," she snaps, and then starts to eat. "Now, your mother said that you want
to help slaves?"

"Objection, leading the witness," Foggy jokes weakly.

She doesn't laugh.

"Yes," he says with a slump. "Anna--Mom--she said you were, uh, politically
active?"

Aunt Imelda snorts. "It's a nice euphemism. Eat your damn food, you never know
where it's coming from next."

Foggy has the feeling he gets sometimes when Matt says something horrifically
fucked-up without realizing that it's fucked-up, like I needed to be reminded
to not get above my station in life or tossing out a casual little see, Foggy
feeds us even when we don't deserve food he overheard one morning.

But Aunt Imelda doesn't appear to need him to react the same way, so Foggy just
eats.

"In prison, I learned a lot," she says. "I learned how to sew, for one thing.
How to get up before dawn and do push-ups until I wanted to die. I learned how
our fucked-up legal system really works. I learned how to live without
conditioner. I learned how to make a knife out of anything. I learned how
desperate people get. One of my cellmates stabbed herself to death with a shiv
made from Jolly Ranchers. Do you know why?"

Foggy does not want to know why. He shakes his head.

"Because her sentence got changed. She was deemed fit for enslavement instead
of her life sentence. Now you know how I got into my, uh, political activism?"

Foggy shakes his head again, trying to taste the fried chicken in the sandwich,
the pickles.

"I got into it because once it was declared a mistrial--make no mistake, I did
in fact stab that rapist to death and I'd do it all over again--I knew that I
had to help people out however I could. And I can't be a lawyer. I'd just start
shooting up the whole goddamn courtroom. I know my limits."

Foggy nods. That makes sense.

"Now, you can be a lawyer, help people not get enslaved in the first place. But
I'm guessing you're not around slaves all that often?"

Foggy clears his throat. "Uh, Rosalind gave me one and then shit happened and I
got a second one," he says, wincing at the phrasing.

She stares at him, disapproving, flat. "You have two slaves."

"Yes."

"And you want to free them, I'm guessing?"

Foggy sighs. "More than anything."

She rolls her eyes. "Give me their classes."

Foggy tries to remember, and says slowly, "Uh--Matt's M-class, I think, and
Bee's K-class, though I'm not sure what those stand for?"

"M just means can't be freed," Aunt Imelda says, voice gruff. "And K is for
Kindergarten."

"What?"

"K means enslaved via guardian surrender of them before the age of five."

Foggy hears nothing but blood rushing in his ears for a minute, and then he
manages to say, horrified, "How the fuck is that legal? How could anyone do
that to anyone?"

"Because we live in the kind of world where as long as they don't have to see
it, it doesn't really exist. Because oh, it could never happen to me. It only
happens to those bad people over there who aren't really people and it's not
really so bad anyway and they deserve it and so on and so on. It's the same
reasoning behind every other evil, shitty system. Why the hell do you think
anyone does anything awful? Because as long as it's not really that bad, not
really happening to real people, it's not real."

Foggy stares at her. She looks like one of those people in superhero movies who
goes on to beat up criminals and save the day.

But then she sighs. "Class-M, we don't do anything for."

Foggy recoiled. "What?"

"We can't do anything for them. We can't free them, not at all, not ever. We
can't save them. We have triage work to do."

"But--"

"Even if we could free them, they'd be by far the hardest to rehab. It's bad
enough with all the others. We don't have the resources to spend on people who
we can't help."

Foggy feels low and angry in his gut. His bones are made of burning August
asphalt. "Even if you can't free someone, that doesn't mean you can't do your
damndest to give them the best life possible."

She sighs. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to continually rehab someone
when it's not even a sane or safe idea to do in the first place? For those poor
bastards, the only thing we can do at all is leave them alone.

"Now, the class-K is harder to free, because you either have to do the standard
'pay double their worth to the government' or you have to file a petition to
argue it in front of a panel of ten government officials, and those ten are
always assholes. And even in terms of rehab, there's not a whole lot of point
in freeing class-Ks, because they haven't known any other life. Enough of them
resort to surrendering themselves or committing a crime to end up back in
collars that we can't gamble with our resources like that. It's not worth--"

"That's bullshit!"

A silence fell over the car.

"That's fucking bullshit," Foggy snapped. "I don't care how you do things. If I
can help someone, I will, and all I've heard is that I can help Matt and Bee,
it'll just be hard."

"It'll be a lifetime of hard, futile work," Aunt Imelda said, arching both
eyebrows, eyes chilly. "Maybe the class-K can learn to function again. But the
class-M will always need help."

"Some people always need help. That doesn't mean you should never give them
any," Foggy snarled. "That's actually the opposite of what you should be doing.
I know me and Candace and Anna only really Jewish in name and Anna's not my
biological mother, but isn't there a saying about how you can't abandon the
work?"

"The saying is that you can't take on all of it, either," Aunt Imelda pointed
out. "And your mother is very culturally Jewish. It's complicated."

Foggy sighed. "I'm not doing all the work. But I won't just toss away Matt
like--like a FUBAR TV or something. Fuck that."

"It won't be easy, ever, getting the K-class freed," she warned him.

"Oh no, how will I ever cope with the strain?" Foggy fired back, sarcastic.
Then he added, less angry, "I am going to go see a therapist over the break. I
think it'll help."

"Good," Aunt Imelda nodded. "Then I won't have to coerce you into never telling
anyone of this conversation."

"I won't," Foggy said. Then as she started to drive and he worked on the fries,
"Uh, tell me about the petition."

"Well," she said, "You file and usually six to eight weeks later you argue in
front of ten panelists that the person should be freed. If eight agree, they
get freed. If not, you file again in six months if you want."

Foggy thought about it, and put it down on his calendar to do it right after
finals were over. "Usually?"

"They can declare the date anywhere from three days to nineteen weeks to
argue," she explained. "Though they only choose three days in a blue moon. But
sometimes they do it to fuck over the enslaved person."

Foggy nodded. "Okay," he said. "Thanks for the help."

She snorted. "You're way too damn attached," she said. "If you ever want to
help on a decent scale, you're going to have to be more professional."

I'm in love with Matt, I'm already incapable of being professional, Foggy
wanted to say, but refrained. He doubted she'd take it very well.

They pulled up, Foggy got out and went to class. He turned his phone back on,
and Matt had texted him that they were fine.

He texted back a thanks Matt and Bee and headed to Punjabi class.

At the end, Marci Stahl came up. Foggy thought she was sort of interesting, a
weird combination of ruthlessly intelligent and sometimes-stumbling rich girl
who nevertheless was sort-of friends with him.

"So hey, Foggy," she said as he got his things together. "I was wondering,
could I come to your place sometime and you could show me your doll
collection?"
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also comes from Kanye West's song "New Slaves".
***** every morning I jump out of bed and step on a landmine. the landmine is
me. *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The first thing Foggy does is drop what's in his hand--his textbook--and have
it promptly land on his foot. Ow.

Then second thing Foggy does is ask, with the most what-the-fuck in his voice
since, well, this whole thing about being 'gifted' Bee Elle, "What makes you
think I have a doll collection?"

"Your slaves," Marci prompts. "Your dolls, I'd love to meet them."

There's an uncomfortable pause where Foggy tries to process those words,
because he understands 'slaves' but is 100% not connecting them to 'dolls'.

"What--dolls?" he says, trying to say what the fuck is a doll and why would you
think they're dolls and what is wrong with you that you think they're dolls not
people at the same time.

Marci rolls her eyes. "Yes, your dolls, can I meet them?"

Foggy tries to focus on putting his things in his bag so he can escape this
deeply uncomfortable conversation. He keeps having these.

Something about his incredulous bafflement must show on his face, because Marci
then says, "Wait--are you--do you not know the terminology?"

Foggy doesn't say anything.

Marci explains, "Oh, Foggy, that's understandable, if you've really never owned
any slaved before then you might not know. Anyway, Matt and--I don't know the
other one's name, the girl, they both seem very intelligent and well-kept, you
treat them like dolls from what I can tell, can I meet them?"

Foggy realizes he can't actually make her go away through the force of awkward,
and he doesn't want to have to explain the stupidity of the gender binary (or
out Bee, he remembers to never do that from college), so instead he engages.
"What--how do I treat them 'like dolls'?"

He has the horribly comedic mental image of carrying Matt around in his arms
and clutching Bee Elle and him alternately, tucking them both into the crook of
his elbow, dressing them up in outfits, Matt in bright smeared lipstick and
heels...

And the he flinches. What the goddamn shit is wrong with his brain?!

Marci rolls her eyes. Her mascara is very well-applied, Foggy thinks faintly.

"You talk to them like they're dolls, you let them do things that aren't
academic like dolls, they've never written a paper or anything for you or taken
notes for you so they're definitely not a real study guide."

"So I talk to them like they're people?" Foggy asks incredulously. He hadn't
thought Marci was one of those assholes who came up to him and asked if they
could 'rent out' Matt for a night. He'd flatly told each of them to go cut
their dick and/or clit off or else become a better person.

(Well, after the third person he'd started doing that, because each time he'd
tried to point out that you couldn't rent a person the whole conversation ended
up going so far downhill he almost committed assault, and if Foggy ended up in
jail--or worse, enslaved, though for one instance of assault that was somewhat
improbable--Matt and now Bee Elle as well would end up with someone horrible.
Just snapping at them harshly enough that they went away and never came back
solved the problem.)

Marci sighed heavily. "All slaves are people, so the way that anyone treats
them is like how people treat other people by definition. I mean, you're almost
cooing over them every day. You're a mother hen."

Foggy...hadn't thought about it like that. "What--"

"You text them literally every twenty minutes they're not with you, and not to
order them to not talk to people. They go to a class that you don't. You yelled
at Amanda one day for ruffling Matt's hair. They sit in chairs when they eat,
and half the time when you get a brownie at lunch you get them ones too. You
ask their opinions and never interrupt them. You lose your shit anytime anyone
asks to even borrow them for actual studying. And Matt apparently said
something hideously cruel to that guy with the weird hair, because every time
anyone mentions slaves at all to him he bursts into tears, it's disgusting."

Foggy couldn't help but smile at that. It sounded like poetic justice. He'd
have to mention it to Matt.

"But, Foggy, you probably don't know the vocabulary, but that's how people
treat dolls--people that aren't shrinks, anyway. I don't know what they do with
dolls. I don't wanna know. They're dolls. Can I meet them?"

Foggy sighed. "Why are you asking me? They're people, you could just talk to
them."

"Because Matt doesn't speak to anyone who's not a professor or your other slave
without you around, not that I've seen, maybe he does in class, the other one
doesn't talk at all, and besides, that's just...Foggy, that's like asking me
why I'd ask one of my sisters for permission before trying to go after one of
their booty calls. It's downright weird. I'm just being polite. I get that you
don't understand how to be polite about slaves, but this is that. This is that
thing."

Foggy closed his eyes and focused. "If Matt and Bee want to meet you, and I'll
ask them, then we can all have a lunch sometime or something. But, Marci, I
don't...I'm so tired of people being assholes to Matt. They don't even realize
that they're doing it, they come up and ask me if they can rape him like
they're asking if they can borrow a fucking pen. One of them told me she'd make
sure her boyfriend used condoms, like that's what I object to, that they'd rape
him *and* hand him back with the fucking clap. I can't deal with it any more."

She frowned. "You know that as gross as psychologists are, there are ones with
Wellness? You sound like you're drowning."

"Yeah," Foggy sighed. His first therapist appointment with the first one on his
list to try was scheduled for five days after the break began. He'd tried to
get in earlier, but they'd been booked up.

Marci stood up. "Well, don't let your talents go to waste. Your mother's a
great attorney, she's helped many people, you can too."

Foggy rolled his eyes and started walking. "She's helped many mobsters, sure."

"And billionaires," Marci added. "But don't they also deserve fair treatment
under the law?"

Foggy sighed, and began to point out that there was a difference between saying
that even horrible people deserved good legal representation and saying that it
was fine for someone to go after the most wealthy criminals so single-mindedly
that they ended up being absurdly rich, but thought better of it. Marci knew
that.

"See you next time," he said, and she waved a hand, and he began to go home and
tell Matt and Bee that he wanted to treat them like people and not dolls.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title is a quote by Rad Bradbury.
***** must I rewrite my life, edit it down to a parable where everything turns
out for the best? *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt's studying when they all get back from classes and Foggy comes in.

Matt's head jerks up because Foggy's heartbeat is strong and loud and fast, and
his body tension sounds angry and upset, and Matt's torn between shutting his
book and kneeling and pretending to not have noticed.

But then Foggy comes over and Matt can feel his eyes on him, so he shuts the
book and pushes the laptop away and moves to face Foggy. Sighted people always
think you're not paying attention to them if you're not facing them.

"Hey, so Matt," and Matt braces himself mentally, bends his knees, readies
himself, "I've, uh, I just had a really interesting conversation with Marci,
and I think there's been some misunderstanding? I want to clarify something."

Matt focuses on keeping his new swooping terror off his face.

"So she said you and, uh, Bee are--dolls?"

Matt tilts his head.

"Well, I want to clarify for both of you--Bee, you can come in and sit if you
want--"

And they're at the doorway, swallowing hard, heart thumping fast as a rabbit's,
smelling of fear, and they come in and sit down on the floor, not Matt's bed.

Matt breathes in and out carefully, trying to calculate how to respond to all
possibilities. Will he sell one or both? Declare one of them the house-slave
and the other the doll?

"See, I don't want you two to be dolls," and oh god, oh god, Matt feels his
entire body get ready to fight, to kneel, to beg, "I want you two to be free
people."

Matt's mouth forms the word no but says nothing at all out loud.

Bee's tablet voices something--Matt can't hear what it is over the rush of his
own panic. He can't, he can't, he doesn't even remember all the things he had
about the mask, he'll have to make a new one and oh god, is Foggy going to
ignore him now, is he going to start being punished--

Foggy's saying, "See, you can get as close as you can to being free--"

And Matt bites his mouth shut and feels cold and overwhelmingly angry.

How fucking dare he do this to Matt? How dare he hand him this hideous fucking
task, this order and yank away all the sweet safety and luxury and the chance
to say a real opinion and act like he was doing Matt a favor?

Matt grits his teeth and clenches his fists. Foggy abruptly stops talking about
how great it'll be to be free--to have to pretend to be free, fuck him and his
fucking delusions, Matt thought he had gotten past them--and says, slowly,
"Matt?"

Matt breathes in and out and tries to grab hold of his temper, but what comes
out isn't a snarl or a scream, it's a laugh.

It's a harsh, mean, barking hyena-laugh, like he laughed at that puerile cretin
Devyn, it's a laugh that pours out of him like a wax teacup melting.

"Matt?" and now Foggy sounds worried. Does he want a doll or a fantasy
fleshlight? What is wrong with him?

Matt manages to stop laughing, and tries to apologize but his stomach is
splitting, Foggy has gutted him and now his anger is sliding out like an organ
onto the floor, "Do you want me to service your fantasies tonight or right now,
sir?"

Foggy flinches and says, like Matt's crazy or confused, "Matt--what--"

Matt slides down onto his knees. "Should I think of England or Torts when you
put your mouth on me again? Would you prefer I start liking mango and pineapple
juice once more? Did you want me to kiss you back? At what point after you wrap
me up in blankets and feed me soup should I suck your cock?"

Foggy steps back. "Matt--I don't understand--"

"I--" and Matt wants to cry at the gentleness, the horrible coddling mixed in
with the cruelty, wants to throw things, wants to yank the collar off his neck,
"You--it's not fair, you said that you liked the real me, you liked me when I
took off the mask, you liked it when I said what I actually thought, you liked
it when I communicated honestly, I don't want to put it back on, please don't
make me have to lie to you again--"

And then the anger is overwhelmed by the fear and Matt falls to his knees on
the floor and focuses on not crying, not fucking this up even more.

There's the sound of his wet near-hyperventilating, and then Foggy gets down
and puts a hand on his shoulder and says, sounding more discombobulated than
ever before, "Matt, I don't--I want you to be able to be the person you are--"

"I'm not a person," Matt chokes out, anguished. He's finally discovered
something worse than being whipped. This mind game is even more terrifying than
any other because he's started trusting Foggy, he's started to feel safe like a
worthless dumb pathetic broken slut--

Foggy's silent. His body is angry and afraid and confused. Then Bee says,
saving the day, "Explain what you mean like you're talking to me."

Matt swallows but maybe if he says this just right, makes it his verbal piece
de la resistance of this whole goddamn placement, he can rescue some of this.

"The order to be who I am--to be honest and communicative--and the order to be
a free person--collared just in name--are mutually exclusive. I can't be a free
person in actually, I'm not a person, not inherently, not existentially, not
genuinely, I can, I can pretend to be the free person you like better than me,
Foggy, I can, I can obey orders, I can pretend they're me, but they're not,
there isn't any free person hiding inside my skin and if I rip it off to show
you them all I'll be is skinned, I can put on the mask and stitch it to my face
but I'll still be bleeding, Foggy, I can't animate the metal over my cheek--"

And then he stops, horrified, because Foggy's breath sounds like he'll start to
cry in a second.

"Matt," Foggy chokes out. "Matt--no--no, I don't want, don't hurt yourself, oh
god, I just--I want you to be happy--"

"I can pretend to be happy for you!"

And Foggy starts crying at that, tears rolling down his cheeks, and Matt wants
to vomit immediately. He never wants Foggy to cry.

"I think there's a solution here," Bee says, and Matt wants to kill them and
kiss them at the same time. "Matt, you're happy being his doll, right?"

Matt nods. "I--it makes everything so much better, ever since I've been Foggy's
doll everything has gotten better, I want it more than anything--"

Bee nods. "And so, Foggy, if you want Matt to be happy, you don't have to do
anything more than what you're doing."

Foggy keeps crying a bit, but then says, breath stinking of snot, "I just--
Matt, you're a person, you're a person no matter what anyone's ever done to you
or told you, god, I just," and Foggy tugs and Matt sits up and Foggy squeezes
him tight.

"Please let me stay your doll, Foggy," Matt begs. "Please, I'll do anything, I
was so bad at being a fake free person for you, please, I hated it, it was
worse than sex, it was worse than being whipped, you were happier too once I
started being a doll, please," and he hopes against hope.

Foggy shudders and shakes and sobs, and it feels so wrong, but then Foggy just
says, "No sex anymore, not all, not ever, no punishments, I'll never hit you,"
over and over again.

It takes a long while of Foggy clutching Matt and Matt trying to radiate
comfort and warmth, trying to say with his body see I'm so good at this now,
I'm being good for you, please don't punish me, and Foggy calms down after a
while. Bee sits there, silent and easy to forget about. Matt feels warm,
intense affection towards them.

Foggy says, eventually, "Shit, Matt. I just--I want to give you everything that
you want."

Matt says, his fury prickling at him, "I want to be your doll, not a parody of
a person," and Foggy holds him tighter.

"Then I'll do that for you," Foggy says eventually. "I promised myself once I'd
stop trying to decide what it was okay for you to like and want and I will, I
just. Matt. Matt," and he almost starts sobbing again.

Matt murmurs, "I'm okay, I'm safe, there is no danger here, we're both okay and
safe," and Foggy makes himself stop.

"Uh," Foggy says, wiping at his face. "Ugh. Shit. Snot. Okay, fuck. This was a
horrible mistake to approach it like this. Let's--today is fired. Today is
fucking fired. Let's just, cuddle party. That sound good to you, Matt?"

Matt smiles and nods. God, yes. Dolls are for cuddling.

"Okay," Foggy breathes out. "Let's have some of the junk food I totally
shouldn't be eating and, and, Matt, you and me, let's cuddle on the couch. And
Bee--you can join us or you can not, it's fine."

Bee nods. "I have studying," they type. "A paper to finish for tomorrow."

"Okay," Foggy says. "Let's--Matt, you like that one show about cooking, too?
Cupcake Fights or something?"

Matt nods. "Please, Foggy," he says.

Foggy breathes in and out deeply and stands up, grabbing some of the reward-
blankets. "Get some strawberries," he tells Matt. "And I'll get the chips and
those Girl Scout cookies and, uh, water or milk or something, and then we'll
have a cuddle party and I can stop freaking you the fuck out."

Matt bites his lip and nods.

Foggy ends up mostly-sitting, with Matt lying down, wrapped in the blanket like
a burrito, head on his owner's lovely soft stomach, listening to his organs as
Foggy digests. Matt eats, too, a strawberry every time he murmurs something
about the cupcake techniques that makes Foggy's heartbeat go down just that
much more.

"You really don't want to be a free person, do you?" Foggy asks him, quiet, a
couple of hours into the impromptu marathon.

Matt shakes his head frantically. No, no, please--

"It's okay," Foggy says. "It's okay, you don't have to pretend to be happy,
it's okay, you're safe, no sex and no punishments and no selling, I promise, I
promise," and Matt makes himself stop fucking overreacting.

It's so good and Matt feels so wrung out from the adrenaline and fury and
wrestling himself back under control that he ends up falling asleep there,
happy at the knowledge that at least he's still a doll, even if he gets
punished or Bee ends up sold he'll still be a doll. He'll be safe. His position
is miraculously secure.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also comes from Dorothy Allison's "The Women Who Hate
     Me".
***** when something is trembling, screaming, or trying to jump in a river, my
mind *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
     Trigger warning for graphic rape that takes place as a dream, and not
     in reality.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
At first, Matt doesn't realize it's a dream. Actually, he only realizes it's a
dream when it's almost over.

It's in the early morning. There's some hazy patches of what Matt remembers
sunlight looking like—like how a roaring fireplace feels from curled up on the
floor, on the other end of the room, gentle but strongly warm—and there's Foggy
on his bed. Foggy, in Matt's bed. Both of these should have been clues that it
was just a dream, but it feels so real, and he's so scared, his heartbeat a
hummingbird.

And Matt at first wonders if Foggy's just going to cuddle him, because Foggy is
mostly asleep still, and he smiles and relaxes into it, reminding himself that
Foggy doesn't have sex with him anymore and really it's an honor to sleep
curled up with your owner, and then Foggy snuffles into his neck and kisses his
jugular, and Matt goes cold all over.

Foggy says, breath like battery acid, “Hey, Matt, Matt-y,” and Matt feels a
flicker of something in him, he doesn't like Matty, it should only be said in
his Dad's voice so he can never forget what his Dad's voice sounded like,
“Matty, baby, doll,” and Matt goes stiff.

“Hey, doll,” and the word doll is said in—well, not really Foggy's voice,
Matt's not sure whose, “Baby doll. My doll, c'mere,” and Matt obeys, but the
whole time he is shrieking inside his head, he is curled up inside himself,
starting to scream. Starting to beg and bargain and sob.

Foggy kisses his neck, and then bites and sucks on his collarbone, and the pain
is so much better than how the rest of him feels. But then Foggy stops and
kisses all over Matt's face, and slurs out, “Oh, Matty, Matty baby, my Matt,
all mine,” and the possessiveness is so sweet but the kisses feel horribly
wrong, and Foggy's erection is rubbing against him.

“Maaaat,” and Foggy sounds skin-drunk, “Matt, baby. Hmm. Mine. Come on, Matt,
be good for me now,” and Matt freezes because he has to, he wants to, but he
wants Foggy to go away and stop kissing him. He wants Foggy to realize what
he's doing and stop. He wants his Dad to come in and hit Foggy and make him
stop. He wants to use his training and throw Foggy off and break his hands, cut
them off so they can't ever touch Matt again.

It's just kisses, Matt bargains with himself. It's just kisses, you can endure
this, stop being so pathetic about this, it's just kissing.

And then, as if Foggy can hear this thoughts, there's a hand going underneath
his pajama pants, and Foggy rubs him. Slowly, and he pulls his hand out, licks
it, making sounds of appreciation, and puts it back down, and Matt—

Matt can't do anything. Matt can't stop him. Matt—if Foggy asks if he wants it,
he has to say yes, no is for people, Foggy liked it before when Matt said yes,
I want this—

“You could defend yourself,” and is that Stick's voice? Where did he come from?
“You could stop him. You're a soldier. But, wait—no, no, you're not. You're
weak.”

Matt glares—fuck Stick, fuck him, fuck his stupid words and his stupid fucking
secret war—and then he goes stiff all over again as Foggy teethes his earlobe.

“I'll help you,” Stick says, leering, bending over Matt now, and how does Foggy
not see him? Why doesn't he stop? “If you can scream for help, I'll ask you.”

Matt sucks in a breath—

And he can't scream, he can't, bad slaves scream for help, it's stupid slaves
who are so ungrateful that they scream for help, it's zombies being dragged
into medical centers by teams of scientists who scream for help, who struggle
and beg and fight back. He can't do that.

Matt knows—and it's another thing that should have tipped him off that this was
a dream—that if he starts screaming like a zombie being yanked inside or
chained to a stretcher, he'll turn into one, one from the movies about walking
corpses, and his brains will fall out.

“See,” Stick sneers. “I knew you were trash,” and then he vanishes and it's
just Foggy, Foggy who's now licking Matt's nipples, Foggy who's calling him
Matty and sweetheart and darling and who's pinning him to the mattress, on top
of him now, ass pressing against Matt's unwilling erection, Foggy who's telling
Matt, “I wasn't going to, I really wasn't, but you looked just so cute in the
light, you shouldn't have slept in. And this feels so good, such a good boy,
wanting this for me, my perfect good boy,” and he rocks his disgusting hips and
Matt can't breathe.

He wants to be a good boy—he wants this to just be over—he wants Foggy to die—

But instead of passing out or feeling faint or escaping in his head, instead of
Foggy just stopping, all that happens is that Foggy takes off his pajama
bottoms and Matt's as well, hands oily and breathing wet and wanting, and Foggy
laughs and says, “Oh, God, why did I ever deny myself, you're just too pretty,
my pretty pretty pet,” and Matt's so afraid now that Foggy will make him into a
pet.

And then Matt realizes that somehow now he's got a dog muzzle on, the type they
put on feral pets, and he really does scream at that, or try to, but it comes
out like a bark, and Foggy giggles like Mistress Sharon and slides down and
down and his repulsive hips are touching Matt's and Matt's cock is hard and he
doesn't want this, he doesn't, he can endure being used, he can do anything to
be called a good boy, but he doesn't want this, not at all but especially not
in his bed.

Not in his bed. Not in the place where Foggy lets him sleep, by himself, under
covers, with pajamas on like the most precious of dolls—no, better than that,
Matt gets to sleep alone in the bed, doesn't have to be pretty and sprawled
out, and Foggy never touches it, never takes away any part of it for any
reason, it's like how Matt used to sleep when he was a person—

And Matt tries to pry off the muzzle as Foggy moans and tells him how he'll do
this every day now, he'll try out every part of Matt, he'll get Rosalind's
taint off of him properly like he should have done in the first place, once
Bee's healed up he'll get them to join in too, wouldn't Matt like that,
worthless cunt-slut that he is—

And Matt's clawing at the muzzle which isn't plastic or metal, it's human
flesh, no, it's dog flesh, furred and warm and pulsing and alive under his
fingers—

And Matt realizes it's a dream. There's no such thing as dog muzzles made of
real dogs. He goes limp, hands on the sheets, and lets Foggy take what he
wants, which is apparently an orgasm. He comes against his will and without
permission, and already he feels whip strikes against the back of his thighs,
impossibly.

“See?” Foggy says, leaning down and kissing Matt. “See how much I love you?”
and he wraps his arms around Matt tightly like he does sometimes now when
Matt's frightened, and Matt doesn't breathe, doesn't think, doesn't say
anything, doesn't pass out.

God. In his bed. But it's a dream, it's just a dream, and dreams end
eventually, so Matt doesn't move, doesn't respond, and wakes up.

To realizing he's actually come in his sleep.

--

Foggy doesn't realize how much Matt is fucked up until he slides out from under
him and goes to clean up the dishes as much as possible--he doesn't think Matt
actually sleeps enough, but he can't really order him to sleep more, so he's
going to be quiet--and he realizes that Matt didn't even understand that he
didn't want Matt to pretend to be a free person, he wanted to free Matt.

But he can't bring it up again, not until he's got more phrasing down. He's not
provoking another episode like that. It's not okay.

As Foggy creeps out to the hallway to get into his own bed (well, to study for
a bit and then get into bed), Bee Elle makes a wave gesture from inside the
room.

Have they seriously not moved this whole time?

Foggy sits down and their tablet, so low it's a whisper, says, "Matt okay?"

Foggy sighs. "I think Matt's not going to be okay, ever," he whispers back.

They nod. And then, "Sleep well, Foggy," and they slip out, silent as a shadow.

Foggy's brushing his teeth when he hears a faint noise, and he bolts back into
the living room--

To see Matt staring aimlessly, blinking tears out of his eyes.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title from Jeanann Verlee's "Poem to Translate the Poems",
     here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/38153436310/the-woman-is-my-
     own-regret-the-children-are-my
***** it's hard to fight an enemy who has outposts in your head *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt breathes in and out, trying to process things, trying to anchor himself
back to the real world where that didn't just happen, but he can hear Foggy
standing in the living room and shivers involuntarily. God, his body is so
stupid, why is he reacting like this?

He opens his mouth to murmur something to himself, something that will help him
calm down, but Foggy's there, so he grabs onto a language Foggy doesn't speak,
and begins to whisper "{You are capable of being a good slave,}" over and over
again in Russian, and then Foggy sits down near his feet.

"Hey, Matt," Foggy says gently. "You with me?"

Matt swallows. "Of course, Foggy," and his whole body both wants to be touched
and wants to run away.

"You really with me? Where are you?"

"In your apartment near Columbia, Foggy," Matt says.

"And who am I?"

"Foggy Nelson, my owner," Matt says, hoping it's what Foggy's going for.

Foggy relaxes a bit, and then says, "Uh, okay, what else was on that list--"

Matt's face does something without his permission, and Foggy clarifies, "I, uh,
looked up a thing about grounding techniques since that time you didn't know
what was going on, and let me see--okay, here we go," and Matt realizes Foggy's
scrolling on his phone.

"What year is it?"

"2014, Foggy."

"Uh, let's see...what was another good one...okay, describe what you're
feeling?"

Matt keeps his face impassive. This is cruel, but he can pass the test.

"My owner sitting on the couch near me," and Foggy goes tense and stiff, and
Matt tries to think of other physical sensations, and is abruptly assaulted by
the horrible wetness in his pants.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he has to get rid of that, it is beyond not allowed, it
is absolutely unacceptable.
He should tell Foggy, but--no. He shouldn't. Foggy doesn't want anyone else
even seeing him naked, Foggy will not want to be reminded that Matt has been
used before and can dream about being used again, and what if Matt tells him
and Foggy takes this as a, a, green light to go on and have sex with him again?
After all this luxury of no sex, all those endless reassurances, Matt doesn't
think he could cope, so he makes a decision. He won't upset his owner.

He keeps as calm as he can, and says quickly, "I'm lying on the couch, Foggy,"
but the sensation of coming without permission and clawing at the dog-flesh
muzzle comes back and he wants to vomit.

"May I go take a shower, Foggy, please?" he begs.

"Yeah, yeah, that will--I'll make us hot chocolate," Foggy says and gets up.

"Thank you, Foggy," Matt murmurs gratefully and kisses Foggy's hand, fighting
the bile rising, and gets up and into the shower as fast as he can.

He sets it to cold, ice cold, and shivers wildly as he scrubs at himself. He's
filthy, inside and out. He wants to rip off all his skin and show Foggy how
there's no real him hiding underneath. He wants to pour lye on his cock and cut
it off and never have to deal with it ever again.

Matt closes his eyes and leans his head against the wall. Sometimes kindness
calms him down better, he remembers, and so he tries to be sweet. Shh, shh,
it's okay, it was just a dream, your owner doesn't want to have sex with you
anymore, shh, you can be good, you just have to be smarter about it, and it's
true, Foggy's heartbeat spikes in panic whenever Matt tests him to see if his
rule about no sex is a mind game or not.

He still feels mildly disgusted with himself--both for arguing and talking back
to his owner earlier, and for that dream--so he scratches at his cock, hard
enough to draw small beads of blood, and then he viciously scrubs into the
wounds. It hurts but really, it's what he deserves, being so disgustingly
pathetic like that.

His head clears as the ice-bath shower finishes and he steps out, shivering
gratefully at the towel. He dries off and realizes that he doesn't have any
pajamas right there to change into, so he folds up his clothes in his arms,
walks to the bedroom, and changes.

Then he remembers Foggy saying he'd make him hot chocolate, and turns to head
back into the kitchen too, and then Foggy says quietly, "You with me, Matt?"

Matt nods, takes the mug, and slides down onto his knees where he should be in
the first place, and drinks slowly and deeply, the taste of the chocolate
keeping him calm.

--

Matt seems just...upset and scared, but not that terrifying out-of-it
dissociated he had been that night, and Foggy tries to remain calm about this.
He wonders what it was that Matt was dreaming about.

He thinks about Matt's words earlier and swallows. I'm not a person, and as
horrible as they had been, that was just as much Matt's true voice as when he
lost it and made that septum-ring asshole back off.

You think I care about any of your utterly insignificant feelings and I want to
be your doll, not a parody of a person. Two sides of the same coin.

Foggy doesn't understand how Matt could possibly be so full of righteous fury
and yet be so self-degrading. He doesn't understand it. He wants to flinch away
from it, he wants to forget all of it, he wants his blissful pre-Matt ignorance
back.

But he thinks about what Matt snarled at Devyn, about your guilt, your stupid
worthless guilt and you are the kind of person who thinks that their worthless
feelings that will never matter and never make any difference help any of us
and you are the kind of person that wants us broken and bleeding so you can
make it all better, about guilt and excuses and pain.

And he thinks about please don't make me have to lie to you again and there
isn't any free person hiding inside my skin and if I rip it off to show you
them all I'll be is skinned and Foggy comes to a firm resolution.

He is going to meet Matt on his own terms, not force him to Foggy's. It's like
they're both on opposite ends of a tightrope, and Foggy has to come over more
to help them out, not because Matt's not meeting him halfway, but because Foggy
has a safety net below and Matt doesn't.

If he fucks this up any worse, it's not Foggy who's going to suffer for it.

Foggy nods to himself and watches Matt drink his hot chocolate, kneeling.

"Hey, Matt," he says gently. "Do you like it when I--?" and he scratches one
hand through Matt's cold, wet hair.

Matt's eyes flutter shut.

"Yes, Foggy," he murmurs.

Foggy thinks about how to make sure it's real. "I want to know what you like
and don't like," he coaxes. "I don't like you being uncomfortable or afraid or
sad or, or enduring things for me," and that last one is a bit of a lie--Matt
defending him against Rosalind and being on his side against Winter and the
Goodmans and Summer was beautiful--but he hopes Matt doesn't notice, "I like
you being happy and getting nice things. Is that what being a doll is, by your
definition? Being a slave who gets rewarded all the time?"

"Dolls are meant to be spoiled, Foggy," Matt murmurs, eyes still shut.

It's so fucked up. It's the most fucked-up thing Foggy will ever do, but then
he nods, and keeps stroking Matt's hair. "Good, Matt?"

Matt nods. "Thank you, Foggy," he says softly, and kisses Foggy's other hand.

It's only a little bit sickening this time.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title is a quote from Sally Kempton.
***** finally listening to the whole naked truth of our lives *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Things seem to pass by in a routine after that.

Foggy watches carefully whenever he interacts with Matt, but they both calm
down and he doesn't make him panic so much again.

Bee, though, he doesn't have much of a handle on. They avoid talking about
anything emotional, and whenever it's three of them in a room, they're always
on the other side of Matt, buffering a distance between them.

Foggy takes the hint and doesn't try to be alone with them, doesn't hug them.
He wishes he'd been smart enough to not do that from the beginning with Matt.
He wishes he could go back in time and give the other him a long lecture and an
itemized, annotated list of What Not to Do to Fuck Up Matt.

But then again, at the beginning, he hadn't been in love with Matt, hadn't
understood at all how fucked-up he was. He'd thought of him as this creepy,
robot-like automaton that he couldn't regift because of Rosalind.

Foggy kind of hates himself a little bit for that.

Things accelerate around classes, and everything apart from the lunch with
Marci ends up being lose in a whirlwind of studying.

The lunch with Marci goes something like this:

Marci meets the three of them outside the dining hall with a bright, evil
stepmother smile, and the first thing Bee does is tap something on Matt's arm
that makes him make the face he does when he's trying so hard to not laugh
because he thinks it'll piss someone off.

It's not exactly the worst sign, but the way Marci's face draws tight is.

They get the food, Marci clears her throat and says politely, "It's nice to
meet you, Matt and--?"

"Bee Elle," Bee's tablet says. "Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, Marci Stahl," Matt says and puts another forkful of salad in
his mouth, seductively. Foggy still has no idea how or why he does it.

Marci goes absolutely still and turns to Foggy, eyes outraged. Foggy stares her
down. Matt can damn well call her by her name, like a normal fucking person,
and not 'Miss Stahl' or whatever the byzantine fucked-up slave protocol
demands, and if she has a problem with it, well. Foggy can live without her.

Marci must see what he means in that stare, and doesn't say anything about it.
Instead she says, "Which type of law is your favorite so far?"

Matt says, politely, "Criminal law," and Bee snorts and says with their tablet,
"Property law."

Everyone stares at them, except for Matt, who stares at a point two inches
above their right shoulder. "Property law?" Foggy says, incredulous.

"I especially love the clause in that one law that states that owners who allow
their slaves to run away for more than three days can be punished for
'endangering animal welfare'," Bee explains, a twist in their mouth. "It's
fascinating how the law seems to regard us as a cross between a dog and an
espresso machine," and Matt snorts very loudly at that.

"Don't forget the laws about how slaves rented or bought by US federal agencies
have to be 'stored' in certain ways to prevent 'misfires'," Matt says brightly.
"We're dogs that are also espresso machines that are also guns," and they both
crack up.

Foggy's mouth opens and closes and once Bee catches sight of his face they go
flatly silent. Matt does too.

Marci clears her throat. "I also prefer criminal," she says. "Least boring.
Would you rather be defense or prosecution, Matt?"

Matt returns to eating, and then says quietly, "I prefer defense, Marci Stahl,"
and takes a quick bite.

"You want to defend people from a corrupt and violent police force?"

Matt's face twists into something like anger and then smoothes itself out, and
Foggy interrupts because he can tell by now when Matt would rather be silent
but feels as if he has to answer questions.

"I mean, the role of a defense attorney is really to ensure that the
prosecution actually does their job properly," Foggy says.

"In theory," Marci says. "In practice, the role of a defense attorney is to
fight in an almost gladiatoral style match against the prosecution in order to
get the defendant the best possible consequences of being tried."

Matt says, voice now his usual soft, "If they're gladiators, who do you believe
the audience is?"

That's...actually, a good question. Marci looks at Matt thoughtfully, a glitter
in her eye.

"The American public, of course," she says, and Matt arches an eyebrow.

"Well, who do you believe it would be?" she asks.

Matt says, like he does in mock debates, "Not the American public. Most people
don't pay attention to trials unless they're...scandalous."

He must be referring to something that Foggy doesn't know about, because
Marci's face freezes and then she abruptly changes subject. "So I hear you
fucked up Devyn Lorianne."

Matt's eyes smile and his mouth stays serene.

Foggy says, just in case he needs it, "It was like watching Muhammed Ali," he
says. "Swing like a--how does the saying go?"

Matt says, "Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, Foggy," and Foggy grins
at him.

"Yeah, that. It was amazing. Guy got maybe a few seconds of words in and Matt
destroyed him," and Matt smiles and ducks his head.

"Really," Marci says. "One wonders why."

Matt doesn't say anything, keeps eating. Foggy meets her nosy look and shrugs.

Marci sighs. "Well, I've got a meeting with an internship's recruiter to go
to," she says, and stands up. "Thank you, Foggy, your dolls are fascinating.
Talk to you all some time later, maybe after break?"

Matt doesn't say anything. Bee gives a short wave. Foggy says, "Later, Marci."

She goes away and Foggy watches her ass for a few seconds because it's
mesmerizing, and then they all eat in...well, not comfortable, not yet, but
familiar silence.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also comes from Dorothy Allison's "The Women Who Hate
     Me".
***** as a way of practicing equality, some vague idea about giving up power is
useless *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Nothing at all notable happens until the end of finals, besides finals, which
are even more nervewracking than in college.
But on the other hand, Foggy thinks to himself, he has perspective now. As
hideously stressful as finals are--and they're hideous all right, Foggy ends up
twitching and shaking and wanting to get hit by a car and spend a couple of
months chilling in a hospital bed--the whole time he knows that if he really
does fuck up, at least nobody will die. It's easier than dealing with the
threat of those awful people taking back Matt, or fighting Rosalind.
Matt appears calmly confident the whole time, and why wouldn't he be? He's been
holding a steady 4.0 the entire semester, though not for lack of studying.
Bee...Bee seems to be almost a ghost, not speaking, not doing anything but
studying, bent over books, hair hiding their face. They chug cans of ensure and
other supplement drinks and Foggy barely sees them at all.
One day, the day they have the last final--Torts--he sees Matt quietly talking
to them. He immediately hides behind the corner, pretending he's not there.
"You have to stop moping," Matt's saying softly. "Stop worrying. Get up and go
do the dishes. You'll be fine. Foggy's not a perfectionist. Now do your share
of the work."
They bare their teeth and snap back, robot voice dissonant to their face, "Fuck
off."
Matt doesn't look bothered. "Go do the dishes. You're driving yourself crazy.
Without regular breaks, you don't actually memorize or understand things
better."
They snip, "Oh, because you understand everything. That's why you made our
owner cry, through your superior knowledge."
Matt doesn't take the bait, but he looks furious. "Go do the fucking dishes
before Foggy notices," and they glare at him but then get up to do them.
Foggy stares.
What can he do about that?
--
After finals, it's time for break, which means that it's time for Bee Elle to
meet the Nelsons.
They all bundle up and get overnight bags packed--it'll actually be less
crowded there for tonight, and Foggy wants to be able to have those deep life-
changing conversations at two in the morning with Anna and Candace, plus his
family's been confirmed to be decent human beings when it comes to Matt--and
go.
They get there, and Foggy knocks.
Dad opens the door.
"Foggy," Dad says, and surges forward and wraps him in a huge, tight hug.
Foggy breathes sharply, and hugs Dad back.
"Come in, all of you, you must be exhausted," Dad says, and they go in, Matt
saying quietly, "Hello, Mr--Edward."
Bee's silent but Foggy glances back and they nod at Dad.
"Anyway," Dad says, "We're going to have fondue tonight, your mother decided,
come in and sit down," and he goes back to the kitchen.
Candace is sitting on the staircase, smiling, and comes down to hug Foggy.
"Finals really fucked you up, bro, huh," she says.
Foggy nods but--it's not just finals. It's everything. Since over a month
before the semester began, he's been stressed as fuck, and ever since he
started to get a handle on himself and stop pretending Matt didn't exist, he's
been even more exhausted.
He feels guilty for even thinking it, it's not like it's Matt's fault that he's
some sort of wizard that make totally innocuous things like rainy days and
strawberries horrifying, and takes a deep breath. His first therapist's
appointment four days from today, and he'll talk about it there.
"Yeah," he says. "But--I'm home now, I'm okay," and Candace grins.
Then she goes to greet them both. "Hey, Matt," she says, and hugs him too.
"You're looking good," she says appreciatively, looking him up and down like
she does ordinary hot guys, and Foggy winces and makes the 'stop' hand gesture
at her.
She glances back at him, confused, and he mouths I'll explain later, because
she really needs to know that anything even vaguely sexual, even innocuous
flirting, has to be avoided with Matt. He can't let Matt think anyone's going
to rape him.
Bee Elle watches the exchange curiously.
Candace comes forward to hug them too, and in a blink Bee's behind Foggy,
hiding. Foggy wants to kill everyone who's ever touched them before.
Candace, thankfully, doesn't make it weird, just says, "So your name is--?"
Bee Elle looks at Foggy.
Foggy says, "Uh, their name is Bee Elle, Bee for short."
Candace beams. "Bee! That's so cute! Come on, let's get all of you settled, Mom
will throw a fit if I don't get you guys something to drink and start catching
you up on the latest Nelson Clan gossip!"
They follow her, Bee signing Thank you, Foggy to him.
--
All three of them ended up planted in chairs at the dining room, Candace
hurriedly getting them all glasses of sparkling cider.
Matt and Bee look deeply confused by what's going on. Foggy's heart hurts,
remembering how Matt has never failed to be at least somewhat baffled by the
way that before Foggy went to law school, Matt ate at the table.
(The first day, he'd knelt by Foggy's chair, and Foggy had hastily pulled him
up by the arm and said, "Dude, don't do that, that's creepy," and it had sort
of...set the tone for all future meals together. Matt's silence sucked the
comfort out of the atmosphere.)
(But that's not Matt's fault, Foggy reminds himself.)
Bee and Matt are tapping on each other's hands, and Foggy carefully doesn't let
himself try to pay attention to the pattern. He's vowed to not learn Morse at
all, lest he take away a source of honest communication for them.
He gets absorbed in Candace's long monologue about the various scandals,
tragedies, and changes, and before long he's forgotten about anything but
laughing along with her.
--
[You're sure they're going to feed us too? It's a fondue, it'll be easy for
them to just not let us.]
[I'm sure. Even when Foggy thought I was disturbing,] and that sticks in Matt's
craw, [His family fed me. There was only one time he didn't, and that was
because he forgot, because he was sick.]
[He 'forgot' to feed you because he was 'sick',] and he can hear the skepticism
in it.
[He did forget. I can hear lies, Barely Legal.]
[And I know owner bullshit when I see it, asshole.]
Matt arches an eyebrow. [Well, one of us has to,] and they both laugh.
Bee Elle's hand squeezes his. [I'm just worried about them. They're not Foggy,
and he doesn't need us to stay functional to study when the semester's off.]
He squeezes back. Matt is also a little worried, but now is the time for Foggy
to devote more attention to enjoying his dolls. He's sure he can make himself
useful, coax Foggy into relaxing a little more. Besides, Foggy's starting
therapy soon, and surely any therapist will help him understand the theraputic
power of spoiling his dolls.
[I'll ask him for books.]
[What kind of books?]
[Well, I want to read Fifty Shades of Gray, and The Plum in the Golden Vase--]
[Why do you want to read that collar-ripper pro-slavery protectionist erotica
trash written by a cunt who couldn't make an analogy if her life depended on
it?]
[I want to critique it,] Matt explains, [Word by word, and overarching
critiques as well. I'll make it a paper.]
They burst into laughter at that, rocking back and forth and convulsing, the
tiny squeaking noise coming from them that they only do when they're screaming
with mirth.
Candace--Foggy's sister--stops talking.
--
It's very, very awkward, the dinner, at first. Apparently Anna had told Candace
and Dad that Bee Elle didn't have a tongue, but they either thought Foggy was
lying, or exaggerating, or otherwise didn't internalize it, because they both
stare, horrified, at them.
Foggy tries to distract them by, well, bragging about how smart and funny Matt
is, mostly. The funny part is a little difficult to get across, mostly because
he can't mimic Matt's dry, acerbic wit very well, but Anna chimes in to say
that he sounds like a delight as well as a hero for saving her son, and Matt
actually flushes a bit at that and thanks her.
Foggy makes sure to go over the rules of fondue before they start. There's
space for everyone's two skewers at once, and everyone gets a fair share of
steak, sweet and banana peppers, shrimp, chicken, fish, onion, leek, carrot,
celery, fingerling potato, mushroom, and scallion, and nobody is obliged to eat
or like any particular thing, and everyone gets to eat as much as they like of
the things, there's plenty for all, and everyone can get up at any point to get
drinks as long as it's not from the liquor cabinet, as often or as not-often as
they want, and everyone is allowed to try the things and then not eat them, and
nobody has to clean their plate.
Candace looks skeptical and Dad confused right up until Foggy's finished
emphasizing that and both Bee and Matt thank him, looking relieved, and then
they look horrified.
Anna looks composed. Probably, as a therapist, it's just because she's used to
horrific things, but Foggy wonders.
The food itself is absolutely delicious, and they all end up having tons and
enjoying, except for Bee, who eats mostly mushrooms and shrimp, taking tiny
bites and swallowing them without chewing. Foggy had forgotten how strange it
looks to other people, and winces at the way Candace and Dad look upset every
time they notice.
At the end of the meal, the oil bubbling with the leftovers tossed in together,
Anna says, "Any adventures this semester, Foggy?"
Foggy pauses, and then brightens because he's remembered something he did in
the haze of finals week.
"I have--let me get it, first," and he goes for his bag.
"Here," he says, fishing it out. "Bee, I did all your emancipation petition
paperwork, I just wanted to ask you before I went to file it later tonight, did
you want me to free you? You'll have to go in front of a panel, but I'll argue
your case if you want."
There's a shocked second where Dad says, angry, "Franklin Edward Nelson--"
And then Bee interrupts, eyes huge and desperate, getting out of their chair
and onto their knees in front of Foggy, and sign and have their tablet say over
and over again, "Oh, please, Foggy, yes, yes please," and then they grab at it
and stop the loop and type again frantically and click play, and as the robot
voice says, "Anything you want for it, please, Foggy," they reach for his
pants--
And Foggy jumps backwards, falling down and promptly breaking the stupid Ikea
chair.
There's a second of frozen silence and then Foggy laughs nervously. "No, don't,
you don't have to do that ever, okay? I'm never going to hurt you. Uh, wow, my
ass hurts now," and he goes for a look and Bee Elle looks beyond terrified,
like they're petrified with hope.
So Foggy decides to do the only thing he can do to prove to them it's not a
trick. "So, Ann--Mom, can you, uh, drive me to the bureau's office? The closest
one?"
Anna nods. "Let's do that, then. Edward, get rid of this chair, it's been trash
for years anyway," and then she grabs her keys and purse and coat and they go,
Foggy double-checking to make sure he has all the papers.
--
In the car, Anna asks only one thing.

"Why do it this late tonight?"

Foggy shrugs. "I don't want to deal with lines of people waiting with other
people in leashes, having to kneel there for them." He's not sure he can cope
with looking at other slaves and then walking away and not helping them.

The bureau is empty apart from two employees and one security guard who is
clearly bored as hell. He's playing Angry Birds, and the employee who motions
Foggy over is thin and reedy.

"Getting permits or stamps added to papers? Filing a decommissioning
certificate?"

Foggy doesn't punch through the plexiglass. "Filing an emancipation petition."

The employee yawns, takes the paperwork, checks over it, and puts it into the
system. Foggy hates the waste of paper, but the way it's set up, you get the
forms either from the official website or in-person, fill them out on paper,
bring them back in, and then the employee types them up and sends them off if
they're done right, or gives you a fresh set, if they're not.

Foggy realizes suddenly it's to keep the process as tedious and easy to
procrastinate on as possible. Getting stamps put on or specific permits is much
easier, although the stamps require a Slavery Bureau inspector's review.
Decommissioning certificates--the slave equivalent of death certificates--are
the most dehumanizing. You get the paper there or online, provide an address to
where the corpse is, and the bureau's person for that comes out, does a quick
DNA sample compared to the one on file, and the slave's number is up for grabs
again.

Foggy's form of procrastination on studying is now looking up legal things
about slavery. He wishes he could stop.

The employee frowns and then jumps back in surprise. "Huh," the guy says, and
even through the plexiglass he smells like cheap weed. "You're the only person
who's filed a petition for emancipation of a K-class in the tri-state area in
the past two weeks."

"And?"

"And that means the hearing's in three days."

Foggy gapes. What-- "I haven't had any time to prepare my case!"

"Sucks for you, bro. Just re-file after you lose, if you're planning to
actually win," the guy says with a shrug. "If you're just using it to make it
like you more, at least this way you've got an even better excuse when it's
still in a collar in four days."

Foggy's mouth opens and closes soundlessly. He can't--

Fuck. Okay. "Where's the panel going to be?"

"In this courtroom," the guy says, and prints out a receipt with an official
time, date, and place. "Don't be late there or your case gets thrown out
automatically and you get fined."

Foggy takes it, fingers numb. Fuck.

And break was supposed to be easier.

He tries to look on the bright side. At least this way, they'll be free faster
than otherwise.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also comes from Andrea Dworkin's "I Want A 24-Hour
     Truce During Which There Is No Rape".
***** sometimes when I look at their boots (covered in my blood) I still try to
convince myself that I was kicked by someone else *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt can't think. He can't breathe. He can't feel.

He tries to just exist, tries to send his mind floating off into space, but
then he's anchored back by Bee Elle, who pokes him sharply in the ribs.

[Come on and help me clean this up,] they tap, making some sort of gesture.
[Help me clean up the dishes. Be useful.]

Matt bares his teeth but goes to do it. He knows he has to earn back Foggy's
favor big-time after making him so upset, but he doesn't have to like it.

He goes to help with the dishes--

And Foggy's father--Master Edward--no, fuck, just Edward--stops him. "Hey, uh,
no, it's my turn, why don't you just go to the living room and, and, do
something?"

Matt blinks and nods, stepping back. Bee takes his arm and guides him into it,
which is helpful, because he can't concentrate on his surroundings. He can't
make himself focus and be useful, he can't plan ahead, he can't analyze the
mood of the room. He's adrift, lost.

Why would Foggy free Bee?

He can't figure it out. He doesn't know why any owners free any slaves in the
first place, and the only thing he can think is perhaps if the slaves were
their children, or their lovers, before they were enslaved.

(But he'd been surrounded at the market and ever since then by slaves who had
been surrendered into it, often by their parents, who never came back for
them.)

He can't understand it. It makes things twist in his stomach, jealousy and hate
and want and relief writhing together, growing together like poison ivy,
putting down roots down inside of him and shooting up inside his stomach,
wanting bloom out of his mouth.

Matt keeps his mouth clamped shut. He won't ruin any of this.

Edward comes over and gives Bee Elle another glass of the sparkling cider. “I'm
so sorry Foggy did that,” he says, and Matt goes cold.

“Asking you, like it was—like that's even a real question to ask,” Edward
mutters. “It's like asking a drowning person if they'd like to be saved. For
fuck's sake, Foggy, you just do it,” and he seems disappointed and furious.

Matt swallows. He doesn't know how to defend Foggy.

Bee does something and Edward says, “Uh, I don't, I don't know what that
means,” and then they type out, “Thank you, Mister Nelson.”

“Call me Edward,” and he seems very flustered, immediately getting out of the
room afterwards.

Matt tries to map out the room, and when he's mostly done Bee interrupts,
poking him in the ribs again, tapping.

[Why'd Foggy do it just for me, then? He likes you more.]

[I'm Class-M. No point. And he likes me enough to keep me,] Matt snippily
retorts.

[M? Seriously? Fuck,] and they seem genuinely distressed at it, finding his
hands and holding and squeezing.

[I'm fine with it,] Matt explained. [I've made the best of my life. It's what I
deserve.]

They snorted. [That's kind of the worst part,] and Matt doesn't know what they
mean and can't bring himself to ask.

It's awkward, sitting there, hearing the movements of Candace and Edward in the
next rooms. It's very, very uncomfortable to listen to free people do work that
he should be doing.

Matt reminds himself, your owner is the ultimate arbiter of what is and is not
your duties, and tries to relax.

He doesn't succeed until Candace casually breaks all the tension in the room by
coming over and flopping down dramatically on the couch, her head on Matt's
shoulder. “Hey, so, do you like Cupcake Wars?”

Matt blinks. “Yes,” he says, because he does. “Very much, mi—Candace.”

Candace audibly grins and grabs the remote. “Then let's watch. I wanna see if
the Tim Burton cupcakes come out cool,” and turns it on.

Matt makes sure his voice is very soft when he says, “Candace, I'm terribly
sorry, but I don't think Foggy would want you to touch me.”

Candace snorts. “It's cool, I know my brother, he's not some weird anti-
cuddling fanatic,” and Matt makes himself be still and wait.
--
In the car, Anna says, "So that's going to be an interesting few next days."

Foggy sighs and slumps back. "Yeah," he says. "And just--please don't--like I
know I didn't handle it very well the first time around, but please just...can
we all not be a dick to Matt this time around? I learned a lot, living with
him."

"Such as?"

"Matt's--like, you can't be too demanding, because he will literally do
whatever you tell him to, it's intense, and you can't not tell him to do
anything because then he freaks out and tries to figure out what you want and
he'll guess it's something horrible half the time, and, and, you can't just
touch him out of nowhere, and," Foggy hung his head in his hands, trying to
pull it all together. "Just--be careful and don't, like, put pressure on him to
be okay or act like he's happy or a normal person, okay?"

Anna looked at him, her face calm and gentle. "Sounds like good advice for
everyone," and Foggy breathed a sigh of relief.

He loved Anna. She both was and wasn't his mom, but he was glad to have her in
his family anyway.

--

They got back home, after Anna stopped at a place and bought them egregious
amounts of chocolate ("Matt likes super dark, without any other flavors, and
organic too because he can taste everything artificial, it's crazy").

Foggy walked in, calmer now, and saw Candace cuddling Matt.

He stopped what he was doing and stared, trying to decode what the fuck she
thought she was doing.

Matt looked--thankfully, not terrified or tense, but also like he was mildly
afraid of something (you had to look at his back, Foggy had learned, or his
toes, and not his face).

Foggy sighed deeply. "Candace," he said. "Can I talk to you in my room?"

Candace paused the episode of Cupcake Wars that was on, and said, "Sure, Fog,"
and followed him up.

"Candycane, sister mine," he started out, teasing her a bit because otherwise
she'd get pissed at the next part, "Please don't just touch Matt like that."

"What, like any other hot guy who doesn't tell me to quit it?"

"Like you can just touch him without his permission," Foggy snapped. "Candace,
Matt can't say no to you. You have to be careful about this."

She glared at him. Her new haircut made her face look sharper.

"What do you mean, Matt can't say no to me? What the hell have you been telling
him?"

"Nothing," Foggy said, fists clenching. "It's not about that, Candace, it's
about the fact that legally, socially, and in a very physical way he has no
rights and you can't just pretend or hope that away!"

"But why doesn't he know by now that we wouldn't hurt him?" she demanded. "Have
you just been sitting around at Columbia with your thumb up your ass, fucking
girls and letting the status quo go?"

"No, I've been studying like a responsible student and fucking learning new
things about that world!" Foggy snarled.

Then he realized with an unpleasant shock that that was a low blow. He hadn't
meant to say that.

"Fuck," he said. "Fuck, sorry, shit. I didn't mean to say that. It's just--
Candace, look, I know our collective familial strategy before I went to
Columbia was to pretend Matt didn't exist, and it was cruel and horrible and
we're not doing it again. And we can't also pretend that he's just any free
person off the street who's wearing a collar for hazing purposes or something.
We have to do this right. We have to be careful and not just forget all the
ways that he can't or won't act like we expect."

She still looked doubtful. "He seemed fine to me," she said irritably.

"His toes were curled up tight," Foggy retorted. "Maybe his face was totally
relaxed and calm but his toes were curled up, probably because now he's fucking
scared that I'm going to be angry because you were touching him."

"You are angry that I was touching him," she pointed out, folding her arms.

"Yes, and I'll explain why later, but for now, Candace, just--treat it like
he's an exchange student from a super abusive family, okay? Cultural
differences. He won't outright tell you no, but if he says something like 'I
don't think Foggy would like that', it could be that he means 'I don't like
that' but he can't say that. Just--use your brain, it's a great one."

She rolled her eyes. "My brain is a geyser of blood-spotted shit half the time,
bro, that's why I had to take this goddamn gap year in the first place."

Foggy held out his arms. "Naw, it's great, you're great. I'm sorry for yelling
at you. Hug it out?"

"Hug the pain away," she agreed, and they hugged.

"Ooh, chocolate," she said happily.

"Yeah, let me grab that," Foggy said, and went back downstairs.

--

Matt was tense and confused as he listened to Foggy and Candace come back
downstairs.

So next time, he needed to really reiterate that his body was for his owner to
touch and not even other family members. Okay. He could do that.

Once Foggy was also in the room and Edward and Mistre--Anna, she preferred
Anna--were also coming in, Matt said softly, "I apologize, Foggy--"

"It's fine, it's not your fault, Candace is kind of handsy sometimes, more than
she should be," Foggy said, heartbeat steady.

"Yeah, with guys that could make Channing Tatum cry with jealousy," she said.

Foggy groaned and then she added, "Kidding! Just kidding!"

Matt shifted minutely, heartrate picking up. Foggy said, over and over again,
so often that Matt would have been offended at the implication that he couldn't
remember orders if he didn't think it was also for Foggy's benefit, that he
wasn't to have sex at all anymore, not ever, not with anyone, not under any
circumstances, but still, what if Candace asked her big brother?

Foggy loved her. Older brothers gave their sisters gifts, often, especially
after a fight.

Matt's gut clenched, but then Foggy said, sitting down to face Bee, "Okay, so
here's the situation. Those dystopian fuckheads have decided to be even more
assholish than normal, and so we're going to have to face the panel of ten evil
exes in three days."

Bee's heart went from a fairly normal pace for a slave in the presence of their
owner to a fast, fluttery terror.

"I'm going to do nothing but work on your case, and I was also going to ask
you, Matt, to help, because you're amazing at arguments so far and I've looked
it up, Bee Elle, and you can't actually argue your case."

Bee's hands reached out and squeezed his, and Matt's mouth opened and closed
soundlessly. How could Foggy expect him to help? How could he force him to
participate in this farce?

But he did. And Matt was obedient. He was expensive. He was high-class, and
important, and not the kind of naive little imbecile who wouldn't obey an order
just because he didn't want to.

So Matt swallowed, and as Bee tapped out furiously, [I helped you stay a doll,
help me, you owe me,] he said quietly, "I'll help, Foggy."

For all the good it would do.

There was a deep, exhausted silence, and then Edward said, sounding stupefied
and flattened by life, "Anything else huge any of my children are doing?"

Candace said brightly, "I'm getting my cat in four days!"

All the free people laughed.

--

Later that night, when Matt and Bee were curled in the living room--Matt had
slept on the couch before they had moved to Foggy's apartment, and Foggy had
worked it out so that they both were sleeping in the living room now, them in
the camper under Foggy's parents' bed--they talked.

[You really want this?] Matt asked, doubtfully. [What will you even do?]

[Whatever I want. That's kind of the point.]

Matt snorted, disdainful. [Be serious.]

[Probably keep going to Columbia, if I somehow can. Or go to Canada. Or find a
new hobby. Bake cupcakes.]

[You're a terrible baker,] Matt teased. It was true; every time they tried to
cook anything, even with a lot of help, it turned out terrible. It wasn't
helped by the fact that they couldn't even remember most concepts of taste, and
certainly not subtle flavors. Even some textures were lost on them.

Bee shrugged, fabric against their shoulder. [I'd want to be friends with you
still, snobby asshole that you are.]

Matt curled up further. [We couldn't be. Not really. Not anymore.]

[Don't be so cynical. You'd know I'd never do anything horrible to you.]

[I don't know that. Overseers even--]

[I wouldn't be an overseer. Remember how our owner treats you? How he gets
angry whenever anyone tries to touch you or order you?]

Matt thought about it. [Hudson Goodman--]

[One of the cunts that used to own me?]

Matt winced, but continued. [He's getting kicked out for damaging another
student's property. Foggy's complaint had enough witnesses from the staff that
he didn't have to even make the case.]

[Good. Now if only someone shoots him in the head, my life will be complete.]

Matt smiled and rolled over. [But then if you're free, you'll be a person and I
won't be,] and he realized how petulant he sounded.

He wanted to reach down and break a toe, but that would be far too extreme, and
Foggy had him stand up and walk around all the time anyway, so it would
interfere too much.

Instead he dug his fingernails into the inside of his elbow.

Bee didn't respond for a long enough time that Matt thought they had fallen
asleep.

[You're a person,] they tapped. [You're a person as much as me or our owner.
We're people no matter what.]

Matt listened, but then they said nothing more.

He thought about it, and about how Winter used to be a slave, and then almost
screamed 'Eureka!'

He knew the basis for his argument, now.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title from "Chime" by Jeanann Verlee, here: https://
     www.youtube.com/watch?v=xk9Sc-1ObS4
***** determined to do the only thing you could do— determined to save the only
life you could save *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The next two days are a blurry mess of preparation and terror.
The hearing is at nine in the morning in a cold courthouse, and Foggy makes
sure he's got rides and back-up rides ready to go, and he, Matt, and Bee Elle
make their cases.
Bee can't argue for their own freedom, but they help refine and strengthen
their arguments. Matt's making two of them, and Foggy ends up so wrapped up in
trying to communicate the simple, important facts—slavery is wrong, Bee Elle
deserves better, how could they not free them, it's such a simple thing, it's
so little, how could they not—that he misses most of it and doesn't know what
Matt means to say.
It's a haze, and Foggy struggles to both replace 'they' with 'she' in the
documents (Matt had pointed out that the panel wouldn't understand the use of
any pronoun that wasn't he, she, or it, and Foggy fumed but knew better than to
be petty and fuck it up for Bee), and he doesn't have time to think about
anything else. The only reason any of them eat or sleep is because Anna calmly
reminds them that they need to keep their strength up and Dad fusses about
putting some color in Bee's cheeks.
They look deeply confused by all the mother-henning, but by the night before
their emancipation petition is voted on, all three of them are sitting in the
living room, sipping hot chocolate and shivering with anticipation.
–
Matt's glad this is almost over, and queasy at the pressure.
He's decided to repress all the worrying, inappropriate jealousy that he can,
and focus on his task ahead of him. He's to help Bee Elle be freed—and really
be freed, not as a joke, Foggy is not like a cinderella's prince in any real
way—and at least that way Foggy will be able to focus his attention on him.
Matt eats a chocolate in front of Foggy, sipping the hot chocolate Anna has
made for them all, and thinks about the concept of him giving permission for
people to touch him. He doesn't understand it. It sounds like the sort of thing
with the enthusiastic consent and the other pretending-to-be-a-free-person
gobbledygook that Foggy has said, explicitly, that he doesn't have to do.
But all the same, Foggy hadn't been lying, so Matt turns it over and over in
his head, trying to find a way to get at the core concept while fitting it into
what Foggy has told him, the way Foggy seems to have accepted Matt's doll
status.
He eventually decides that it means that Foggy doesn't want anyone else
touching him, and especially not anyone whose touch would cause Matt any
distress, which fits into how Foggy only seems to like Matt's distress when
it's immediately successfully soothed away by Foggy.
Matt sips more hot chocolate, appreciating it. Everything seems to have
happened so fast, and more will be happening quickly again soon.
Tomorrow morning, they'll be arguing for the panel to emancipate Bee Elle, who
was shaky until noon today. Now they're steady, and happy, and calm.
[Matt,] they tap. [If anything goes wrong, I just want you to know, you're my
friend, okay? And I appreciate you getting me away from those cunts. This way
will be better, no matter what happens.]
Matt blinks. [It'll be okay. Foggy is a pretty good owner, just inexperienced,]
he comforts them. [I thought wrong at the beginning, but now he's getting
better at it.]
[But—just in case anything does go wrong—I have a notebook among my other ones.
It's got your name scratched on the back. In case things go really wrong, take
it, okay? Take it and hide it from everyone else.]
Matt went cold with fear. [You won't—]
[I want to be free. I need to be free.]
[And people in hell want ice water. They exist even without it,] Matt snapped.
[Don't you dare do that.]
[I'll do whatever I want with my own fucking body,] they sniped back.
[Regardless of how tomorrow goes.]
Matt resists the urge to pin them down and make them stop with this craziness.
[Being dead isn't better than being alive!]
[It'll be better than going on stagnating like this,] they reply.
[If you really think death is better than being a slave, why aren't you with
those idiots who go around bombing zombie mansions?]
[Because it's only MY life that I get to take away,] they tap furiously. [Mine.
My life, that I own, that's mine and nobody else's, because I'm a person, and
if I can't live it freely then I won't live it any more. Not now that I can
have any better. Not now that I'm not full of despair. No more. Not one more
day in this fucking collar.]
Matt grits his teeth. He'll just have to be vigilant if they don't win the
case. He won't let them go down this road. It would be humiliating, and awful,
and he already took such huge gambles, keeping them alive in the first fucking
place. He won't let Bee throw it all away like it was nothing. He won't have
another empty space where a fellow slave should be. He can't bear any more.
Matt strengthens his resolve, and turns away from them, curling into Foggy.
Foggy loves it now when Matt touches him first, so long as it's not capable of
suggesting at sexuality overtly.
He winces and thinks about Candace, about how he knows she wants to use him.
She's nice, and funny, and likes Cupcake Wars because the female judge has the
same name as her, but all the same, he doesn't want to be used by her. He
wouldn't have minded at the beginning, and certainly not before he came to be
Foggy's—she certainly would probably be easier to please than Mistress Sharon,
and he felt stupid for thinking that he didn't want sex with her—but now that
he had the immense, unthinkable luxury of no sex at all, he didn't want to go
back.
Matt pinched himself discreetly. At this rate, he'd have to find a time and
place somewhere after the case to remind himself of his place, to stop letting
being spoiled go to his head. And he'd have to do it without any real physical
damage, because of Foggy's rules.
He wasn't looking forward to it.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also comes from Mary Oliver's "The Journey".
***** fear is the most elegant weapon *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The morning of the petition hearing, Matt woke up early, did as much of his
morning yoga and conditioning as he could, and slipped into the kitchen to make
coffee.

He was prepared. He was ready. His two arguments were rehearsed, crisp, and
clear. He would do his best.

Bee Elle woke up early, too, eyes bright and resolute. They looked like someone
who had figured out the solution to a very large problem very suddenly.

Matt let his anger at the idea of them throwing away their life go into his
veins, fuel him. He thought about his arguments, his rhetoric, and didn't say a
word to them. Instead, he just put his coffee down, and quietly hugged them in
the kitchen.

It might be the last time he could for--well, conceivably, his entire life. If
they were freed, he couldn't touch them. Foggy didn't want anyone else touching
him.

[You ready, Barely Legal?]

They snorted and swallowed some of the coffee he'd poured for them (loaded with
cream and sugar; the more calories, the better). [At least all I have to do is
be there and be still. You've gotta talk to those cunts.]

Matt smiled. [Talking is rather what I'm good at,] and the two of them giggled
nervously.

[I hate them,] Bee said, turning to face the window. Matt wondered why they
were looking out of it. [I hate them all. Every one of them. Every fucking free
person on this planet. And I hate that we have to do this.]

Matt leaned forward and thought about how he comforted other slaves when they'd
earned it. He kissed their forehead, and put one hand on their hair, gently
stroking it.

"We'll be okay," he said quietly. "We'll be fine. Whatever happens, you'll
survive it."

[I can't live through it if I'm not freed,] they insisted.

"Almost all the time when people say that can't live through something, what
they really mean is that they don't want to," Matt quoted Summer. "And even
then, if they really can't, what often happens is instead they die and the body
is inhabited by something else that did live through it."

[Matt,] they tapped, and Matt kept gently combing through their hair. [We've
only got so many lives in us to use up.]

"And you've got more left in you," Matt retorted. "I know broken or dying
slaves. You're neither."

[That makes one of us,] they said.

Matt frowned. "I'm not broken."

They paused, thinking, leaning into him, and came out with, [No, you're
something else.]

Matt sighed. "Broken slaves can't be fixed."

[Neither can you. But let's stop before we end up fighting.]

Matt snorted and there they stood, drinking the coffee, keeping a hand on the
time. They had half an hour before they had to go get ready.

"Go away inside your head," Matt said suddenly. "I don't know what you did
before when there was an official hearing, but go away inside your head. Go to
Elsewhere. Don't panic and don't scream, whatever happens. It'll just make
things worse."

[I'm not an amateur. I'm not new to suffering,] they retorted.

"I know," Matt murmured, and hugged them, warm and not small anymore in his
hold.

Matt listened to Foggy coming down the stairs and carefully moved away.

"Morning," Foggy said, half-awake, reaching for the mug, adorable.

Matt realized with a jolt that he was fond of Foggy now, and smiling at how
cute his owner was like this, still partially sleepy and so sincerely generous,
and felt a little swooning fear.

But then he breathed in and out, and focused himself. Besides, it was only
natural to like an owner once they began to put him to work properly.

--

The ride to the courthouse was quiet and tense.

Matt and Bee didn't tap at all, just held each other's hands, squeezing
tightly, stroking fingers over one another, knotting their knuckles.

It was as intimate as anything else Foggy had ever seen--more than a lot of
sex--and Foggy had to look away to escape the uncomfortable feeling that he was
seeing something he wasn't meant to.

He didn't think Matt and Bee Elle had those sorts of feelings for each other--
they acted more like siblings who were forced to live together--but all the
same, there was something desperately, deeply loving about the way they were
soothing each other, promising something.

Foggy adjusted his tie, went over his notes, and thought about what he knew of
the process. You had up to twenty minutes to give your case, after the panel
read aloud over the papers, and they could buzz you out at any time. All ten
panelists were official government employees, and at least three were directly
working for the Slavery Bureau. There was a spokesperson for them, and during
the process, Bee was going to be 'appropriately restrained to prevent
accidents'.

Foggy had no idea what it meant.

Matt and Bee both looked good, sharp. Matt's suit fit him well, and the flair
of red on his tie--not bright red, but a dark, vivid red that went with the
circular sunglasses Candace had fished out from somewhere in her room last
night, as she and Dad made sure they were all dressed as much as would help
their case--highlighted the subtle reds in his dark brown hair. He was also
wearing his silk-lined black collar with his head held high. Matt looked crisp,
composed, and ready.

The only thing missing, Foggy thought, was his cane, but the official website
had said that no slaves that were allowed to argue the case alongside the owner
(and it was a huge relief that any were) would be allowed anything that could
be construed as a weapon, and the cane could be, unfortunately.

Foggy himself had on a suit as well, a plainer gray one, and he'd triple-
checked and lightly hairsprayed his hair to look more professional, after
pulling it back.

Bee Elle looked fiercely determined, like Eowyn before she had killed the
Witch-King, their hair clean and their body in a very plain black yoga pants
and long-sleeved black t-shirt, with the braided leather collar. Matt had
assured everyone that for a formal, official occasion such as this, it was a
suitable slave uniform, and anything more might come off as too much.

Foggy waited, and they pulled up to the courthouse, and all three of them got
out.

Foggy held out his elbow, and Matt took it, and his gloved fingers laced with
Bee Elle's as they walked into the room, in perfect harmony.

--

The room itself was cold and impersonal, with marble floors and plain walls.

In the center of the room was a contraption that took Foggy a few minutes to
even puzzle out, and he only got the full picture a good five minutes later.

"The slave will strip," the panel's spokesperson said impassively. "Including
the collar. It will stand naked before the panel," and Bee's eyes darted wildly
as they took off their coat, hat, gloves, shoes, and then, horribly, their
pants, underwear, shirt, and bra.

And then the collar.

"The owner will remove the collar, and the slave will walk into the cage," and
Foggy realized sickly that this was another tactic to humiliate and dehumanize
any slave that was on trial.

Bee Elle swallowed as Foggy unbuckled it and whispered, "Don't worry, I got
you."

Then they turned and walked, each foot shaking, into the metal contraption.

Foggy stared at it, almost admiring the shining steel. It should have been
iron, something cold and old and dead and horrific, but instead it looked like
it had been polished an hour before.

Maybe it had been. Foggy could almost see it, some thin intern fussing around,
making it shine like it wasn't a medieval torture device.

Bee walked into it, and a bailiff locked onto them a loop of metal around their
waist and up between their legs--a chastity belt, Foggy realized, feeling like
he wanted to pull out a gun and shoot everyone in the fucking room that wasn't
them or Matt--and then manacles at their knees, ankles, elbows, and wrists,
each one padlocked on, and then something in their mouth like a horse's bit,
and then a fucking gleaming dog muzzle over that, and the bailiff locked it
around their face.

The last thing was a collar that was locked on, and then each lock had a chain
attached, and all the chains led back onto one loop at the back of the cage.

The bailiff then stepped out and locked the door behind him, leaving Bee in
there, naked and probably freezing, in the horrific thing.

Foggy realized, wanting to laugh and cry, that it looked almost like a birdcage
with its round top.

Instead he cast his gaze at the panel.

"The owner wishes to argue the case?" The spokesperson asked.

"Me and Matt, my other slave," Foggy said, determined. "We both will argue the
case."

"Very well," the spokesperson nodded. "But first, we begin with a review of the
slave's papers."

And so it began.
Chapter End Notes
     Matt's words about what often happens when they go through a horrible
     thing anyway is inspired by a quote from "Soon I Will Be Invincible".
     Chapter title also comes from Jenny Holzer's "Inflammatory Essays",
     here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/70192289050/nevver-jenny-holzer
***** your real job is that if you are free, you need to free somebody else. if
you have some power, then your job is to empower somebody else *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
"Before we begin," the spokesperson said, "The slave next to the owner will
kneel, as is proper."
Matt knelt, calm and graceful as a ballerina.
Foggy took a deep breath and stood next to him, controlling himself tightly.
"Very well. Now, this slave, number thirty-five nineteen seventy-eight eighteen
four eleven eighteen-eighteen-eighteen, use name 'Bee Elle'--" and she said it
like 'Bay Ella'. Foggy struggled to not correct her.
"--was surrendered into slavery at the estimated age of three years by the
biological mother, one Jocasta Ramirez, and after intake marking her a K-Class,
she was transferred to the care of the Boston Official Center for Reformation
for preconditioning and pre-training care, to be followed by more conventional
training when of a more pliable age.
"At the tender age of six, she rebelled noticeably by causing permanent and
severe damage to the penis--" and the bailiff and two of the panelists
snickered--
"To the penis of trainer Jonathan Reynolds, working name Max Hardcore. This was
punished by permanent removal of the tongue as well as all baby teeth. After
this incident, there was no further severe disciplinary problems, and at nine
years of age she was sold to one Renee Goodman for the purposes of entertaining
her children."
Foggy thought about Bee's starving face. About the cigarette burn scars he
could see against the metal of the cage. About Hudson Goodman hitting Matt. He
strengthened his resolve.
"Then, approximately a month or so ago, she was sold to one JBB Winter, and
gifted within the hour to you, Franklin Nelson, with the stipulation that she
be re-conditioned by his slave, number seven-seven-seven twelve sixty six
twenty-eight twenty-eight twenty-eight. After this condition was fulfilled, you
filed an emancipation petition three days ago. Why? You may now state your
case."
Foggy walked forward, cleared his throat, and began.
--
Matt keeps his face calm, his body in proper position, spine straight, and half
an ear on Bee Elle's body as he listens to Foggy.
They're doing okay; their heartbeat is slower than normal, hopefully because
they're floating away and not experiencing syncope. He wonders vaguely a little
as to what their Elsewhere is like. Matt's own varies; sometimes it's a
beautiful little cottage, sometimes it's the screened-in porch of Winter's
Maryland home, with the bugs singing and the rain coming down and him allowed
in the rocking chair. Sometimes it's the cave where he keeps his anger, the
pool deep, the marble busts immovable, the devil still there, waiting.
(Sometimes it's a church, or his bed when Dad was alive. But not often. Those
places make him come back from Elsewhere with tear tracks on his face, and it's
a struggle to not just go away to them forever.)
Foggy opens with a practical, rather than moral, argument: that it benefits
nobody to keep Bee Elle a slave.
Matt tilts his head and listens.
"We've all heard about how slavery is the foundation of our economy. About how
it's the greatest thing since slice bread, about how without it we'd never have
what we have today. But it's simply not true."
"Ladies and gentlemen, look at her. From the very beginning, she's never had a
chance, and she doesn't have one now, not in this legal state. She's not
capable of contributing anything to society by constantly being diminished, by
being starved, by being beaten and caged and treated worse than we treat dogs,
by having to kneel and focus her brain on how to navigate orders and archaic
protocols instead of real-world problems.
"What if within her mind is the cure for cancer? Or the next step to
revolutionizing space travel? Or a brilliant solution to the problems of our
national debt? How much of her potential is being held back by the chains you
see her in today? I would argue, ladies and gentlemen of the panel, all of it.
Every last, precious drop."
Matt is glad Foggy's not using their name. It would not help the case--it would
come off as manipulative.
"She's never had a chance to fully reach or participate in society. She has an
education only because Mrs Goodman deemed it necessary to give her one so that
one day, she could stop her husband from continuing to sexually assault
paralegals--as if that strategy would even be successful. She hasn't had any
semblance of a fair chance to become the kind of person who could help us all
so much with her brain.
"And don't get me wrong," and Matt can tell Foggy's gesturing, walking around,
his voice confident and persuasive, "I'm not saying that she's perfectly
guaranteed to know some incredibly thing and I'm holding that hostage. That's
not what this is about.
"This is about freedom--the freedom to make choices, the freedom to better
yourself, the freedom to try. There's never any perfect guarantee that any
person, ever, will become the next Ada Lovelace, Albert Einstein, or Sally
Ride. There's never any certainty. But with freedom, there is a chance. There
is potential.
"I don't know what you see before you today in this courtroom," Foggy says,
voice ringing like bells. "But I can tell you that what I see is a person whose
potential is being suffocated, whose opportunity to make the world a better
place is being stolen from them, whose talents are being wasted.
"While enslaved, she can't help anyone. She can't make any significant positive
difference in the world. But with the help of this honorable panel, she can
become someone who helps create a better America and a better Earth--"
The buzzer goes off before he can say anything else, and the panel's
spokesperson says, calmly, "That will be all, Mr Nelson. Your case has been
noted. Next up is your slave, number fifty-five sixty-six eight-two-three
ninety-four fourty-four one. Stand up and present your case as well."
Matt stands up, thinking, reading the room as hard as he can.
Foggy's argument was good. It convinced five of them, he thinks, they're
nodding and smiling and murmuring agreement amongst themselves--but they need
eight to vote to emancipate them.
That's not enough.
Matt nods to himself, steels himself, opens his mouth, and delivers his back-up
argument, the one that doesn't build off of Foggy's case at all.
 
--
 
“Ladies and gentlemen, sirs and misses, mistresses and masters,” Matt begins,
walking forward, and Foggy freezes because what the fuck is he doing? Matt's
never started off a mock-debate in Columbia like that.
“I know that you may be wondering what a slave, and a defective at that, could
have to persuade you in this petition,” Matt speaks softly, beautifully, like a
hymn. It's his true voice. It's Matt.
“And as all slaves, I have only myself to offer,” he says, spreading his arms
wide.
They look confused but intrigued.
“I am slave number fifty-five sixty-six eighty-two thirty-nine four-four-four-
one, with the use-name of Matt, approved by my owner. I am proof that there
exist both slaves that are truly, deeply, slaves and people who have been
enslaved,” and his voice is silk, is absinthe.
“And I am here to tell you that the human standing in front of you, to my
right, is the latter. She is a person who should be freed from her bonds, and
not a slave that must be kept collared.”
There's a buzzing silence.
“I am a slave, class-M, and like all true slaves do eventually, I have come to
accept and cherish in my position in society. I know what I am, and what my
purpose is. I will never be freed, nor should I be. I am a slave. This collar
fits me perfectly.
“I am educated. I am a study-aid, and I have a Bachelor's of Mathematics from
the highest-ranked college in its region. I am attending Columbia School of Law
at my owner's generosity, and may become an attorney at his privilege.
“I have read about slaves. I have studied the effects and the purposes of
slavery. I have known perhaps hundreds of fellow slaves. And I can tell you
with absolute certainty that this human in front of you is a person, not a
slave.”
There's startled murmurs, and whispers of the word 'abolition'. Matt refutes
them deftly.
“I understand the necessity of slavery. I believe in its efficacy, and I know
how much our society and all we hold dear depends on it. I am honored to be a
part of the infrastructure of this beautiful world.
“However, as with any great system, there are errors. There are clerical
mistakes, bureaucratic missteps. Someone files something wrong; a box is
checked off incorrectly. In front of you today is the results of one such
error: the error of the enslavement of the human being before you, who is
fundamentally not a slave, but a person falsely treated as one.
“One of the first skills taught to any slave, no matter where they are trained,
is the skill to recognize a person when in their presence. Despite my
blindness, I too have acquired this skill from an early age. And I can assure
you all, mistresses and masters, that there are twelve people in this room
today—this honorable panel of ten, my owner Franklin Nelson, and the human
standing before you.”
There are murmurs. Foggy realizes he's holding his breath, and makes himself
breathe silently. His eyes are so wide that the edges feel cold.
“I knew from the first day I met her that she was not a slave in the most
inherent sense, that she could live as the person she truly was if the courts
indulged her. I could not, nor could any other slave. We would be but poor
facsimiles of people, able to be revealed for what we truly were at a moment's
notice. I understand what a slave truly is because I am one, and I will always
be one, and she is not a slave,” and Foggy wants to vomit.
But they're eating it up, he sees. Lapping at it like rabid dogs. The five who
weren't charmed by Foggy are fucking eating it up.
“It was an understandable mistake for the system to make,” Matt says,
indefinitely, ineffably gentle, “And it is quite impossible to blame anyone for
making it. But this human, this person, is not a slave. Not in an existential,
inherent sense.
"She is a person who wears a collar from a legal technicality, and in this
beautiful land, shining from sea to sea, bountiful with fairness, freedom,
liberty and justice for all, she is a person who deserves to be awarded her
rightful emancipation.”
“It is your absolute belief that this is a person and not a slave?” The
spokesperson asks him, canny, frowning and gesturing. Foggy wishes he knew what
she was thinking behind her face.
Matt smiles and nods. “It is my objective observation that the person before
you is a person, ma'am,” he says, and makes the tautology sound like a
revelation, the sentence a sermon.
“The differences between me and her are more than sufficient evidence. One only
needs to see how she walked to the cage with trembling feet and yet I knelt
with a gladness in my heart to understand that she is a person who deserves her
rightful freedom and I am not. It is the truth.
“Slaves must be kept in their place, and persons must be given their rights and
the generosity to exercise them. That is the premise of this great land, the
foundation upon which our society, our laws, are built. And if the honorable
panel will look before them and see the person in front of them, it will become
apparent what the law demands be done.”
Then Matt smiles and switches gears a little.
“This person before you remains one even after being enslaved at the earliest
of ages. She is independent. She is autonomous. She is self-reliant. She is a
thinking, living being, sentient and sapient, only falsely collared.
“No early pre-kindergarten conditioning fully worked on her because
conditioning works on slaves, and not people. Her act of early seeming-defiance
was the action of a person, not a slave. Her very self is that of a subject,
not an object.
“She is a person, not a slave, and this honorable panel will no doubt execute
the decision to uphold justice, fix this mistake, and serve this country—”
The timer buzzes. Foggy stares at Matt as he comes over and elegantly kneels
again next to him.
The panel murmurs to each other, and then it's time to vote.
As they begin to vote, and the bailiff collects the votes, Foggy reaches out
and stroke's Matt's hair in the familiar gesture of support they've started to
use sometimes.
Matt presses his head into Foggy's thigh hard. The rest of his body is serene
and confident. He looks like some sort of saint.
The panel's votes are read out.
Their eyes widen and they near-audibly gasp through the gag and muzzle as the
verdict is read.
Ten out of the ten have voted to emancipate Bee Elle.
“Congratulations, young lady,” the panel's spokesperson says, grandmotherly.
“You're free to go.”
The bailiff unlocks the chains, the manacles, the belt, the muzzle, the bit,
and the collar, and Bee Elle stands stiff for a second and then turns and runs
out, yanking on their clothes and boots so fast they almost trip, and then they
sprint over to Foggy, and tackle him in a hug, the first time they've ever
touched him.
He hugs them back, and feels enveloped with joy.
Matt's also smiling hugely, and they reach out—
And they grab his coat and throw it over him and hug him too, tightly and
firmly, rocking in place with him, jumping up and down, only directly touching
the wool.
Foggy doesn't know what it means, but then Matt ducks his head and Foggy can't
feel anything but pure and utter happiness, the triumph of it so intense that
as they all get up and get their coats, his face almost aches from smiling.
The three of them go out as one unit, Bee Elle hugging Foggy every few seconds,
hands forming over and over again the sign for 'thanks', face full of glory,
tapping furiously on Matt's arm.
Matt's smiling too, and as all of them get out of the courthouse proper, he
voices quietly, “I believe there's still paperwork for many matters,” but he
doesn't look worried at all.
Foggy feels like he's been torn in half with a lightning bolt of warmth. The
whole world is so much more beautiful. Every color is suddenly at its zenith,
every sight worthy of singing. The birds sound like they're dancing with glee.
“I fear no bureaucracy,” he declares, and they all laugh, Bee Elle's tiny
squeaks audible in the fresh winter air.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title is a quote from Toni Morrison.
***** with distant burdens and a glittering “me,” *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The rest of the paperwork is tedious and yet exciting; they get to choose their
name--Bee Elle, Bee as first and Elle as last, not Ramirez, fuck that cunt,
fuck her with a fucking syphilitic barnacle--and they get to have a notice of a
social security number (which sounds just like a slave number but apparently
isn't) and a state ID card coming in the mail in a few weeks. Their paperwork
is being translated into normal medical and state information, too, and they'll
get it in a couple of weeks as well.

Foggy also helps them email a woman at the Disability Services Office at
Columbia. It wasn't the woman Bee had ended up being helped by--that was
Shoshanna, who was irritatingly sweet--and she emails back straight away that
she'll help Bee apply for scholarships.

There's also an application for the unemployment benefits program they're
entitled to get seven months of compensation from. They read over the paper and
frown; the monthly stipend has the condition attached that every last penny of
it has to be spent every month, which, as Foggy's mother also explains, means
that they can't save up any money from it.

And after the first seven months, they have to show 'noticeable signs of job-
seeking' and do 'seminars' to be a 'productive citizen'. And they don't know
where they're going to live, or how to open bank accounts, or what to do with
themselves, except going to Columbia and maybe becoming a lawyer for real.

But they refuse to worry about it at all. They're floating, not in Elsewhere,
but like they're walking on magic slippers, a few feet above the scabbed
gutters. They're free. They're fucking free, like they never before thought
they would be until a mere three days ago.

(And they don't have to cut their throat now. No shoving in a chef's knife and
yanking it back out for maximum chance of death.)

Foggy says he'll give them all their things--clothes and books and bedding and
even the cans of the supplement and the vitamin jars--and, incredibly, even
tries to give them the entirety of the $35,000 on top of the full tuition he
was given, in addition to them, when Summer's creepy owner gifted them.

"No," they say through the tablet (that's theirs and not Foggy's), feeling an
electric thrill. "No, keep half of it for Matt. I get all the tuition, but I
don't need all the rest. Just half."

Foggy blinks. "You're sure?"

They glance at the kitchen, where Matt is making cupcakes. He had made some
vague request to Foggy about wanting to try out rose and saffron buttercream
frosting with a pistachio and cardamom cupcake, and Foggy had said that of
course he could use it, and Foggy's parents had also confirmed it, and Matt
hadn't re-emerged since then.

Matt was so unbelievably sweet, so good. He had won over half the judges, and
Foggy had gotten the rest. They're going to never not be grateful for that.
He's a dickhead, and difficult to like, but he had shown up for them, first
when they were starving to death and then now.

They understand, though, how he must be feeling, and appreciate that he's
keeping away from them so as not to let the jealousy show.

"I'm sure," they say firmly, read to fight.

But Foggy pauses, and then Foggy's mother says mildly, "Dear, why not put it
all in a contract?"

They blink, and poise their fingers to explain that they can't sign a contract,
they're a slave--

But they're not. They're a person--a free person. They can sign any damn
contract they please.

They grin and nod and review the contract five times, and sign it, smiling
furiously.

Things are going to be okay.

--

After Anna volunteers to help Bee find a place to stay after the break's over--
"Of course you can stay here, or at Foggy's apartment," she'd said mildly. "Of
course. We're happy to help,"--Foggy goes to check on Matt.

Matt is throwing away something into the trash, furiously scraping out a bowl.

Foggy blinks at the intensity of how he's doing it, and clears his throat after
Matt's put it in the sink to wash it out.

Matt immediately kneels at the startle, and then forces himself to stand up
again with visible effort.

It's not a good day for him, then.

"Hey," Foggy said gently. "You okay?"

Foggy hadn't really considered it beforehand, because he was apparently a total
moron when it came to Matt--possibly as a side-effect of being in love with
him--but it had seemed obvious, once they'd come back home and eaten box
mac'n'cheese with bacon, grinning, and the high had faded a little, that Matt
might not be all rainbows and puppies about watching another person get what he
could never have, ever.

That, and the crux of his argument had been, essentially, 'I'm an object but
Bee's not, and slavery is okay for slaves but Bee's not a slave so they should
be freed', so obviously he wasn't doing as well as he could have been.

(But wasn't it progress, of a kind, to have Matt thinking that slavery wasn't
perfect? That it could make mistakes?)

"I'm alright, Foggy," Matt said, furiously measuring out butter and what looked
like pink syrup.

"You sure?"

Matt paused, and admitted, mildly afraid-looking, "The frosting is more
difficult than it should be. I keep getting the ratio of rose to cream wrong,
and I don't know why. I have to do things right."

He sounded incredibly upset, and very clearly not all about the frosting, and
Foggy made an executive decision.

"Okay," Foggy said. "Well, Bee wants to stay here for a while, and I was going
to go back and get all their stuff so that they didn't have to ferry back and
forth between our places, did you want to come and carry stuff to Anna's car
that she's letting me take?"

Matt blinked. "The--could I please come? And possibly try again with the
frosting later? The cakes themselves are quite perfect. They behaved for me."

Foggy smiled at how ridiculously cute Matt sounded and looked right then. There
was a smear of frosting on Matt's nose that he clearly didn't notice, and Foggy
wanted to kiss it off--

And flinched back. No. No thoughts like that, Nelson, that shit is dangerous.

"Yep," Foggy said, and Matt smiled, pleased, and then they went.

--

When they got home, Foggy paused and said, "Hey, Matt, why don't you take some
you-time, make yourself feel better?"

Matt nodded and headed towards the bedroom. Foggy grabbed the storage boxes he
had, and started to pack. Thank God for Candace's weird talent for packing
things and her deigning to teach him it.

Once Foggy came back into the bedroom, though, to see if Matt was fine, what he
saw made him tilt his head.

Matt was kneeling on the carpeted floor, eyelids fluttering, saying something
quiet in French to himself, hands laid ritually flat on his thighs.

"Hey," Foggy interrupted gently, "Hey, Matt, you with me?"

Matt tilted his head and turned his face up. Foggy had gotten used to the way
Matt tried to precisely point his face at you but never could really meet your
gaze. "Yes, Foggy," he said.

Foggy opened his mouth to ask what he had been saying--

And stopped. No. That was Matt's business. He had to stop prying.

"You okay? Really?"

Matt wordlessly leaned into Foggy's legs, asking to be petted. Foggy had
discovered that apparently Matt just really, really liked it sometimes, and as
weird as it was, it made him happy, so Foggy did it once or twice, when Matt
started it.

Foggy ran his fingers through Matt's cornsilk-soft hair. "You're okay with
this? It's not upsetting you? I don't want to anything that upsets you,” and
Matt nodded.

“You know it's fine if you're not over the moon, right?" Foggy asked.
"Seriously, I didn't really think it through, but I'd be kinda jealous too."

Matt's face flickered with anger but then it was gone too fast, and he turned
and buried his face into Foggy's thighs, not quite nuzzling, but wordlessly
asking for more affection all the same.

"It's okay, shh, it's okay," Foggy tried to soothe, feeling more and more
uncomfortably like an owner soothing a scared slave, probably because he was
one, wasn't he.
"No sex and no selling and no punishments, shh," and Matt breathed in harshly
at that.

They were like that for a while, and then Foggy gently squatted down and hugged
Matt, who was now breathing in slow and deep.

"Better?" Foggy asked.

Matt nodded.

"Is there anything you want to do over break?" Foggy asked, it occurring to him
that Matt might get bored or overwhelmed with all the Nelson Family Things.

Matt hesitantly asked, "There are a couple of books I'd like to read, please,
Foggy, if that's okay?" and Foggy smiled.

"Cool, early Christmas present, I'll get them for you, why don't you email me
them at home, and then maybe make an actual Amazon wishlist too? I mean, I
don't know what else to get you for Christmas..."

Matt smiled and ducked his head. "Of course. Thank you, Foggy," and it was
pretty nice, all in all.

Then they went back with Bee's things, and helped put it all in the guest room-
-and now that Bee wasn't scared of it, they could use it—and Matt did email
him.

(Foggy thought it was a little weird how they insisted everything go in the
closet that wasn't clothes, but did it anyway.)

Then Foggy went on to see the names of the books and order them for Matt.

There were two of them, some book called The Plum in the Golden Vase, okay,
that was pretty normal, and-- was that Fifty Shades of Gray? What the fuck?

Foggy stared at it and shook himself. He would ask Matt what he could possibly
like about that abusive piece of misogynistic pro-slavery trash when it came
there. Or not, he already dreaded the answer.

When he was checking out, Amazon advertised a sale on a different book, the
only similarity being that all three were in Braille, and since it was a huge
sale (eighty percent off, making it four dollars) and even Amazon didn't have
that many Braille books, Foggy shrugged his shoulders and got it.

It was called The Collected Writings of Thurgood Marshall. Foggy wondered what
it was about, who this Marshall guy was.

--

When Candace came home with a small animal heartbeat next to her, Matt perked
up a little from where he was in the kitchen.

Now that Foggy had helped him calm down--and he felt a low warmth in his limbs
because of that, Foggy really was so sweet, and being a doll had its benefits
if he could be soothed like that--Matt was looking forward to the rest of the
night.

He'd fixed the frosting now that he could focus on what was real, and not the
low, pounding fear of his own jealousy or his wish that he could still be
friends with Bee Elle the same way he had been, and things were going better.

Candace opened up the carrier, and a huge cat came out, grumpy and meowing high
and annoyed.

The cat started to explore everywhere, and escaped the delighted coos and
fussing by the Nelsons and came over to Matt.

"Hallo," Matt politely greeted the cat. "Wie geht es Ihnen?" How are you?

The cat sniffed him, and immediately sat its large, fat weight on his feet.

Matt blinked. "(Sorry, Mister Cat)," he said, still in German. It seemed
appropriate for this particular cat. "(But I have to move my feet to finish
frosting these cupcakes.)"

The cat mrowled loudly and obstinately sat there. Matt smiled at him against
his will.

"Oh my god, he likes you!" Candace squealed, walking in. "That's so cute."

"He is very warm," Matt said delicately.

"Oh yes. But oh my gosh, he must be squishing your feet, let me--" and she
scooped up the large cat. "Come here, Caligula, it's time to go see my room and
let Matt be, handsome as he is," and Matt had the uncomfortable feeling of
being looked at up and down as she swept out of the kitchen and carried the
irritably mrowling cat up the stairs.

He finished the cupcakes, piping carefully, according to his calculations after
feeling how big the end of the pastry bag and the top of the cupcakes were.

Later that night, after a dinner of 'celebratory' McDonald's, during which
Caligula attempted to steal all of Candace's chicken nuggets, everyone said
they liked the cupcakes very much, including Bee, which made Matt snort and
gently elbow their ribs back, and then he froze.

"I'm sorry, Foggy--" he started, and then Foggy made the noise that meant it
was all okay, and he stopped.

Late that night, curled up on the couch (and it still stung a bit, to not be in
his owner's bed), Matt smiled to himself. Maybe it was just people who Foggy
thought of as competing with him that Foggy didn't want to touch Matt.

He sighed and slung an elbow over his face. He knew he was still missing
something there, but he couldn't quite grasp what, and it upset him. He hated
feeling like he was stupid.

Matt's musing were interrupted by Caligula, who climbed on top of his stomach,
lay flat as a pancake, and purred loudly. Matt gave in and petted him gently.

Maybe things would be better now that Bee Elle was free. Maybe Foggy really
would be even more affectionate and sweet to Matt now that he wasn't on the
crusade to free them.

That, and Foggy was beginning therapy tomorrow, and Matt had his orders to make
an Amazon wishlist the next day, and Foggy had told him during dinner that he'd
ordered the books for express delivery, which had made Matt blush as he
realized that Foggy had gotten actual, paper books in Braille (most likely,
Foggy didn't seem the type to forget he was defective) and not just e-books.
Really, Matt was starting to feel incredibly fond of his owner, who was so
strange, but now that he was appreciating Matt properly, Matt appreciated him
too.

Matt fell asleep with a huge fat cat on his stomach, warmed inside and out. He
dreamed of nothing at all except someone squeezing his hands.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also comes from Molly Peacock's "Putting Down A
     Burden".
***** an outdoors so full of air it leaves you breathless, there’s so much to
breathe *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The morning after the draining case, Foggy had six therapy appointments.
He'd decided to try out all the closest, most hopeful prospects all on the same
day. He had had the feeling that most of them would be too unbearably dickish
about Matt, and he wasn't willing to waste his time.
Foggy triple checked that he had everything, including a notebook with which to
take notes, and he went.
The first one, ten minutes from his apartment, he walked in and out in about
five minutes. The therapist had been a gently smiling man who inexplicably
smelled like AXE, and the very first thing he'd said was, "In your form, you
explained that you were having trouble balancing disciplining your slave? This
can be easily solved by hiring a trainer--"
The second one, further from the apartment, Foggy stayed for about fifteen
minutes. The therapist was a man again, with combed-over dark hair, but this
time, he'd made soothing small talk, and Foggy had relaxed a little.
"So you explained that you're trying to help your slave and feeling burned
out?"
Foggy nodded, waiting. Anticipatory.
"Well, have you considered selling it if it's so much trouble? I think there
can be a simple solution here--"
Foggy got up and walked out without a single regret.
The third one was a woman, and Foggy stayed half an hour into the hour-long
scheduled appointment.
"So you've explained that you're having a lot of trouble balancing helping your
new slave settle in and your own life?"
Foggy nodded. "Yeah. It's not his fault, but yeah, completely."
She wrote that down, her red hair shining in the sunlight through her window.
She had a very nice office.
"Alright, so. What sort of methods are you using? I'm also a trainer as well as
a psychologist; there's a surprising amount of overlap."
Foggy stared at her.
"Are you using punishment-based training? Fear? Cage training? Sensory
deprivation?"
"Fuck no," Foggy snapped. "No, he's just fucked up and I'm trying to help him."
Then he immediately cringed at those words. Matt was fucked up--beyond fucked
up, he was on the crazy train all the way past Pluto--but it still felt like an
asshole thing to say.
"Look," Foggy said calmly, "I'm here because I'm overstressed and it's not good
for me. I'm not going to suddenly start being a dick to Matt."
She studied him, and nodded thoughtfully. "I see. Well, in my professional
opinion, I'd say you're suffering from overempathy."
"Isn't it a bit early to be making diagnoses?"
"It's not a diagnosis, it's an observation," she said gently. "It's normal for
first-time slave-owners to have some secondary distress over their slaves. It's
perfectly logical: you don't understand yet that disciplinary measures are
important and healthy for the treatment of a slave. They need to have a firmer
hand than I think you're giving it. We can work on that together."
Foggy stood up and left.
The fourth one was an Albus Dumbledore-esque man, and Foggy stayed for the
entire forty-five minutes, even laughing a bit at his bad jokes but at the end,
he gave Foggy a set of pamphlets to read for the next time about how to create
a system of rewards and punishments to ensure that your slave stopped showing
distress if it upset you, so Foggy wasn't going back.
The fifth one was a beautiful woman. Foggy walked in, and she looked just too
much like Summer. He couldn't stand to be near her. He immediately turned and
left without saying a word.
The sixth one was the charm. Foggy walked in, frazzled from all the others, and
snapped out, "If you're going to tell me to start being a piece of shit to Matt
just because he's legally my slave, tell me now, because I'd rather not waste
another minute."
The therapist blinked. She was a woman, too, and had sleek box braids in gold
and silver and black against her blazer. She said, crisply, "I'm happy to work
with clients of all political views."
Foggy exhaled and sat down. "So," he asked skeptically, "You're not going to
try to convince me to use 'cage training' or some stupid evil shit like that?"
"I find that whatever my own private political views are, it's still my job as
a therapist to help my clients without attempting to force them to change their
own," she said, matter-of-fact.
Foggy sagged against the couch. It was very comfortable.
"Sorry," he said, suddenly embarrassed by his snapping, facepalming. "I just--
yeah. Lots of people are just dicks."
"Mmm," she agreed. "Now did you want to start by getting to know each other a
bit better, or diving directly into business?"
Foggy paused. "Uh--the first one."
"Okay," she said. "Hi, I'm Dr Miriam Florentine. You can call me Miriam, if
that makes you feel any more comfortable. I specialize in depression, anxiety,
and general over-stress, and I'm happy to work with you in many different ways.
"We can do more conventional talk therapy, exposure therapy, and a few other
specific types of therapy, and I can also recommend you to Dr Vanisk, the
psychiatrist I partner with for clients that have an interest in medication.
I'm fifty-seven years old, I have a doctorate in psychology as well as a
medical degree from Stanford, and like brewing my own beer in my free time."
Foggy breathed in and out. "I'm Foggy," he said. "Um, Foggy Nelson. I'm a law
student at Columbia, and I like...law school. Wow. That sounds way stupider out
loud."
"It's fine," Miriam said, composed and yet not snooty at all. "Now, what seems
to be your reason for coming to therapy? What do you want to get out of it?"
Foggy took a deep breath in--
And thought hard. What did he want from it? To stop being so stressed. To get
back to being calmer, so Matt could calm down. Maybe to learn things to share
with Matt about how to cope better, and have somebody to vent to about him so
that none of his resentment spilled over.
Hell, if Miriam was really good, maybe even she could help him stay
accountable, be absolutely sure he never hurt Matt again like he had with sex.
Foggy swallowed and pushed away at the guilt. He couldn't go back and change
things. He just had to live with what he had done.
He also thought about whether he could trust her. Well, Anna had put her on her
list of recommendations, and she had a great rating on ratemyshrink. That, and
she really did seem competent and calm and not a horrifying person.
(And Foggy was very, very desperate. He knew he needed help with this
shitshow.)
"I have this slave, Matt, and he's..." Foggy tried to think of a way to put it.
"I didn't know, really, how bad slavery was and what it did to people until I
got Matt--and really got to know him. And I want to help him, I have to help
him, what else could I possibly do, and, and I need to make sure he's safe and
happy and maybe even help him come out of his shell of self-loathing craziness,
and it's so hard.
"I feel like...like I'm that guy who has to push the rock up the hill every
day, except then it just rolls back down and I can't stop."
Miriam offered him a box of tissues. "I want to say, before you continue," she
said gently, "That I have a policy in this office. What you say here stays safe
and private with me, and I won't judge you. I also won't tell you what to do.
"All I'm here to do is be a safe person to talk to and to give you advice. You
can always leave it if you don't want to take it, or you think it won't be
helpful, for for any other reason. And you don't have to tell me anything if
you'd rather not."
Foggy smiled weakly. "Thanks. I just...it's a huge weight on me, and I can't
afford to have a nervous breakdown. I don't know how to deal with this, not
really, I'm flying blind."
"Okay," Miriam said calmly. "Would you like to tell me some more about Matt and
how you got him, and then maybe before you leave I could offer you some general
advice and strategies on self-care, so that between this and our next
appointment, you could start to cope better and reduce the stress?"
Foggy blew his nose. He hadn't even realized he was crying a tiny bit. It was
just overwhelming, the weight of the horrors he'd seen, the way that it all
felt like it was futile.
"Well," he said slowly, "I didn't go out and buy him or anything, my bio-mom
Rosalind got really happy that I was going to law school, to Columbia, just
like she had, so she showed up at my birthday brunch, at my fucking favorite
diner, with this guy--Matt--I didn't even think he was a slave at first," he
blurted out.
"I thought maybe he was a new PA of hers, she has those, and then I noticed the
collar and she told him to fucking--strip--and he just did right there, and he
had ribbons all over him and bows and shit and then she made him kneel in front
of me and suck on my fingers and she talked about raping him like she had taken
a car for me around the fucking block--"
Foggy took several deep, ragged breaths. He hadn't realized just how much it
had affected him.
"And, and I never was going to be a part of slavery, anybody with a fucking
brain knows it's a bad idea, but what the hell else was I gonna do, just leave
him there? Let Rosalind keep the guy and do more horrible things to him? So, so
I had to, uh, say those fucking words--do you know what they are?"
"I'm familiar," Miriam said, nodding.
"Well, and then I was so freaked out by him, this guy, who seemed like some
sort of sexbot--" Foggy cringed hard at himself. Fuck.
"It's okay," Miriam reassured him. "It's fine. Nothing you say leaves this
office. I won't judge you for anything you say."
"Thanks, I guess," Foggy said, and continued.
--
By the end of the forty-five minutes, he'd gotten up to how he'd thought things
were getting better after Matt had a crying meltdown because Foggy had been an
asshole to him unknowingly for over a month, and Foggy already felt better. It
was a bit like squeezing a zit until it popped; it hurt, but then afterwards it
was gone, and you could just deal with it.
Miriam had promised to send him a link to a good set of online resources for
'self-care', and Foggy had made another appointment for three days later. God,
he was just happy his insurance would pay for it.
He got home and saw that there were the books already on the front step for
Matt.
"Hey, Matt," he said. "Books for you!" Foggy called as he opened the package.
Matt came over from the living room, his laptop open, the screen to some sort
of podcast.
"Thank you so much, Foggy," Matt said, sounding genuinely enthused, and he bent
and kissed both Foggy's hands around the books before taking them.
Foggy saw Candace staring at him in confused horror and made the 'stop' gesture
before she said anything. No need to go over it all again.
Foggy then went upstairs, telling Matt to get him or come up if he wanted
anything at any time, and flumped onto his childhood bed, savoring it for a few
minutes before he pulled out his own laptop and started to read about self-
care.
A lot of it sounded like excuses to pamper yourself, but that was fine. Foggy
grinned as an idea came to him: he'd get Matt a similarly nice thing every time
he got a really nice thing, and that way, he'd never feel guilty but he'd also
take better care of himself.
He had to take better care of himself. Matt needed him.
--
Matt stopped the lovely podcast about the friendly desert town with the screams
and the slaves that he'd rediscovered since the beginning of the semester, and
read the titles of the books, of which there were, worringly, three.
The third one must have just been from Foggy in general, which meant Matt
should read it first as a priority.
Matt read the cover, curling up, made sure that he'd sent the link to the
tentative wishlist he had created with much anxiety, and sent his laptop to
sleep mode.
The Collected Writings of Thurgood Marshall, the book was called. Matt frowned
to himself; where had he heard the name before?
Well, he could muse on it later. He opened it up and prepared to read it at his
owner's request.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also comes from Molly Peacock's "Putting A Burden
     Down".
***** this is how you smile to someone you like completely *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
 
Reading Thurgood Marshall was a little like being whipped, but in a good way.
Matt read it over and over again, only a tenth of the way through. The words
echoed in his head obsessively, ricocheting off his ribs: Democracy just cannot
flourish amid fear. Liberty cannot bloom amid hate. Justice cannot take root
amid rage. America must get to work. In the chill climate in which we live, we
must go against the prevailing wind. We must dissent from the indifference. We
must dissent from the apathy. We must dissent from the fear, the hatred and the
mistrust.
All of that brilliance, just from a speech elaborating on his dissent from a
decision to uphold the law that allowed any guardian to surrender their
children into slavery.
Matt could hardly believe it. His whole body was on fire, his thoughts racing
and vivid. He had learned something incredible already.
He understood in total why he'd never read him before, why books of his were
apparently incredibly rare or only printed in Braille and available online, why
his writings were suppressed.
Thurgood Marshall had some of the best arguments for abolition that Matt had
ever heard of.
Of course, he'd read others before in his life, mostly to see them calmly torn
to shreds. He'd even had to write a paper before, arguing that slavery was not
just necessary but beneficial to the world as a whole.
(He'd written nine flawless pages and gotten a ninety-four and Winter had
gotten him ice cream and let him sit on his lap at the next fancy party. Matt
knew it was a test of his loyalty.)
But Thurgood Marshall's writings didn't just help Matt understand why he was
suppressed and not talked about. They helped Matt understand the entire idea of
abolition in general.
Marshall's argument wasn't based off of the same arguments that Matt was used
to, or to economic or probabilistic arguments. It didn't use religion, either.
There wasn't any fearmongering or what-ifs or the clumsy wielding of sci-fi. It
never dissolved into tears or 'just because', and it definitely wasn't about
the kind of pity porn that twitterpated twat Devyn had favored.
Fundamental abolitionism, as Thurgood Marshall forcefully argued for it, was a
system that rested on axioms.
It was a whole ideology that arose from a few axioms all together: all humans
were people, all people were equal, and it was the job of all people to take
care of all people. All the rest was built on those, and Marshall's words made
those seem almost obviously true. He wrote like a prophet.
And Matt realized with the sensation of executing a perfect flip-spin-kick that
that was what was different between he and Foggy. Matt worked from a set of
different axioms about not just himself or slavery but the entire world.
No wonder he had so many problems understanding Foggy. He wasn't stupid at all-
-just like his trainers had always told him. He was just working in the wrong
system with the wrong assumptions, and Foggy had tried to logically argue the
axioms to him, as if axioms were theorems, instead of just saying, here is the
basis of my worldview.
It was as if Matt had been trying to solve problems set forth in hyperbolic
geometry with Euclidean rules and was angry that all his answers were coming
out wrong. Now things made so much more sense. Foggy's reactions to things--
well, most of them--now seemed almost inevitable.
The only problem that was left was how to convey to Foggy that while his system
of axioms--if Foggy's own morality was the same as Thurgood Marshall's, which
it probably wasn't exactly--was something Matt could learn, it wasn't something
he could live in.
Ideals were ideals, and in dreams you could be free, but this was the real
world. Thurgood Marshall advocated for a certain kind of world--a veritable
utopia--but he hadn't gotten it to come about yet.
Matt bit his lip. Maybe, just maybe, if he was happier for Foggy? Not
necessarily pretending to be--Foggy had cried at the offer, Matt remembered,
cringing at himself--but if he helped indulge himself, made himself show more
of his pleasure at being owned by Foggy, was more cuddly and pleasant to be
around. If what really made Foggy be happy, Matt would be happy, and being
happy made anyone like anything.
Caligula interrupted his train of thought then, coming back from eating dry
food and sprawling next to him, radiating warmth, demanding to be petted. Matt
liked the cat; he was large and got what he wanted and nothing less.
Matt smiled at himself. Well, being happy for Foggy would be easier now that he
wasn't so confused by him, and he was going to therapy, and Matt was secure
enough in his position that he could feel how fond he was of Foggy, now.
He really did like Foggy. He was funny, and warm, and very nice to be touched
by now that there wasn't any sex, and even when there had been sex it had been
awful but not worse than being whipped, and really did care about Matt like a
person, even though Matt wasn't.
Matt pulled the blanket on his legs up a bit, and settled back to read more of
Foggy's present to him. He'd tell Foggy that he understood more of how he
thought, when it became necessary.
--
Foggy made himself open up the wishlist Matt had sent him, and tilted his head.
There was a water bottle, and a few spices, and a couple of blankets, but
mostly forms of candy or chocolates. Foggy then realized that he was viewing it
by lowest-price only, and switched to priority, and then regretted it.
On the very top was a kneeling cushion.
It was silk-lined and dark red and looked surprisingly comfortable, and was
thirty-five dollars, and Foggy put his head in his hands.
Then he went back to his email and saw the link to self-care resources and
tutorials, and focused on those instead.
Then he formulated a plan.
As he came down the stairs to the cry of 'dinner's foraging tonight!' by Anna,
he spotted Matt, shaking out his hands.
"Read too much?" Foggy asked idly as he got himself leftover bubble and squeak
from before the break had started.
"He's so fascinating," Matt blurted out, sounding like a teenager with their
first crush. "I just--Foggy, I get it now, I understand it so much better, his
rhetoric is excellent--thank you so very much for getting it for me--" and Matt
leaned forward and hugged Foggy tightly, kissing his hands.
Foggy blinked and hugged Matt back, cutting off the kisses before anyone saw
and came to yell at him. "You're welcome," Foggy said. "Tell me about it when
you're finished?" because he wanted to talk to Matt about the self-care day
he'd thought they could do tomorrow.
Before they went up, though, Foggy went and grabbed himself a bottle of
something Candace had labeled as 'when in need of alcohol', because Matt's
wishlist made him need to drink a bit.
--
Foggy was drinking as he and Matt went up to his room, and Matt made himself
stay loose-limbed and happy. Foggy wanted a happy doll, not a distressed one,
and besides, nothing bad would probably happen. The last time Foggy had gotten
drunk, he'd cuddled Matt and Matt had gotten to sleep in his owner's bed. That
was all.
"So," Foggy said, eating. Matt made his own plate of peppers and hummus stay on
his lap. "My therapist thinks I should do more self-care."
Matt tilted his head.
"And, like, I like it when you also get nice things," Foggy explained. "So I
figured that we could have a treat yo'self day tomorrow, and," he took another
chug of the alcohol that smelled very, very strong to Matt's nose, making it
itch, "For that, I think we should do some retail therapy. But, but, dealing
with those shop people is hellish for both of us--"
Well, not so much for Matt, he didn't mind it, but he wasn't about to argue.
"--so I have to ask you to wear a scarf over your collar tomorrow when we go to
Lush and Target and wherever, okay?"
Matt flinched a bit, involuntarily. He opened his mouth and shut it again.
"Matt? What's scaring you about that idea?"
Direct order, answer. Foggy likes honesty. "I don't want to know what anyone
would do if they found out I wasn't a free person and they thought I had
tricked them into thinking it, it," and Matt grasped at the words, "Trying to
hide your slave status is nerve-wracking and near-impossible and it's, the
consequences can be...egregiously harsh."
Foggy held open his arms, booze on his breath. Matt obeyed, putting his plate
next to Foggy's on the desk, coming over and immediately being cuddled.
"Hey," Foggy said, snuggling up to him. "I know that's scary. Do you think if
we stick very tightly together and if anyone asks I made you keep that scarf
on, that that wouldn't be as bad? I just don't want anybody to be a
dehumanizing asshole to you while we're trying to get face masks and shit."
Matt blinked. "I'm happy to obey your orders, Foggy," he said, and then
remembered what he'd vowed to do for his owner earlier. "I can, I imagine that
if anyone asks, their response to that reasoning would be to wonder why you
wanted me to keep the scarf on."
Foggy hmmed. "What would be a reason those evil assholes would accept?"
Matt thought about it. "If the scarf was tight but it was the rabbit-fur
collar, perhaps that you wanted me to know my place even more? Or you just
think it looks more attractive that way, Foggy?"
Owners got away with rather a lot by pointing out how much prettier any given
slave looked with the regulations bent. Slaves could be near-naked in
restaurants, for example, and despite it occasionally violating health codes,
if the slave was said to look better in very little than nobody really
complained.
Foggy made an angry noise and clutched him tighter. Matt waited to see what
would happen, and his tentative hypothesis came true: Foggy just calmed himself
down.
"You're warm," Foggy mumbled into his neck. Matt made himself limp and relaxed,
the words he'd said yesterday reminding him, it's not appropriate or acceptable
behavior to let your like or dislike of something get in the way of serving
your owner. Even if he'd rather Foggy not put his face in his neck--too much of
a temptation for kissing, Matt knew his body inspired covetousness--he would be
good for Foggy.
But then Foggy just said, "I'm sorry people are such dicks to you," and sat up,
and drank the rest of the alcohol. "Wanna sleep here tonight? All-nighter
cuddle party?" It came out slurred.
Matt smiled. "Yes, Foggy," he said, feeling over the moon, secure and safe and
finally, truly, with a generous owner he mostly understood.
Foggy whooped and stood up, now very drunk. "Then let's do that," he said, and
Matt obediently went to go get his pajamas from the bag in the corner of the
room.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from Jamaica Kincaid's "Girl", here: http://
     fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/135395278768/wash-the-white-clothes-on-
     monday-and-put-them-on
***** in a perfect garden there is order, but in wild places there is growth
*****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Foggy woke up cuddling Matt, with another hangover.

For one horrible second, he wondered if everything that had happened that night
before the semester began was just some dream, and then he realized that no,
this was just deja vu.

And then he realized that his dick was hard and digging into Matt's hip.

Foggy was tempted to immediately scramble out of bed at that, get up and get
far away from Matt so he couldn't hurt him, but then Matt murmured--probably
woken up by his racing heartbeat--"Good morning, Foggy."

Foggy swallowed, and said, "Morning, Matt."

He forced himself to look down, and both he and Matt were in pajamas. Both of
them were dressed fully, thank god, and Matt didn't seem scared or tense. His
toes were curled up halfway, but his feet weren't shaking.

"Ughh," Foggy groaned, rolling over, one arm shielding his face from the
sunlight. "Ugh, oh god, what even happened?"

"Nothing eventful, Foggy," Matt said, eyes still closed. "You declared an all-
night cuddle party, and we eventually fell asleep."

"So, uh, no sex?" Foggy asked, hoping against hope.

"No sex," Matt confirmed, sounding sleepy still. "The most you did was, mmm,
move against me a bit before you woke up," and he sounded completely unbothered
by that.

Foggy groaned again and facepalmed himself. God, what did Matt think of him?

"No sex," Foggy promised him. "Ever."

Matt said, voice soft and not afraid, "Yes, Foggy," and there was an unspoken
but there, he could hear it now that he knew Matt better than he used to.

"But?" Foggy asked.

Matt paused, and then said, "I wouldn't mind it too much," he said slowly. "Not
if...not if it wasn't the same as before, Foggy, it wouldn't be as bad."

Foggy breathed in and out slowly. He felt like they were at the edge of a
precipice. "I don't think I'm understanding you."

Matt shifted minutely, catlike, and continued. "One of the reasons it was so
unpleasant was that I had to be...active. And pretend to enjoy something I
didn't. If you wanted to have sex with me now, where I could just lie back and
obey...it wouldn't be so bad."

Foggy stared at him. "You said that it was worse than having your fingernails
ripped out."

"It is--" Matt bit his lip, and then continued, sounding desperate, "But I--
half the point of being a slave is enduring horrible, horrible things for your
owner, and then afterward being rewarded, and knowing that you're strong enough
to obey no matter how much you don't want to. And I would stop perceiving it as
so awful if you did it regularly, I'd get used to it again, Foggy."

Foggy...couldn't. He absolutely couldn't.

"And that's why we're never having sex again," Foggy promised him. "Never ever.
Not at all. You don't have to get used to being raped."

Something in Matt's face tightened and then he made himself relax again, going
still. "Of course, Foggy," he said.

Foggy knew, at this point, that pushing harder wouldn't result in anything
good. "Anyway," Foggy said, sitting up, "Let's get some BLTs and go treat
ourselves. We deserve it."

Matt smiled and ducked his head. "Yes, Foggy," he said.
--
Matt lay in Foggy's bed, eyes still closed, while Foggy showered.

He knew he should get up and go get dressed and ready, or start coffee and make
the BLTs--a part of him was wondering if Foggy liked plain mayonnaise or the
kind with sriracha swirled in--but it was so nice to be in his owner's bed. He
savored it, the press of the blankets, the warmth.

It was a small space, and it was promising that Foggy was letting him there,
even if it was solely with the help of intoxicants. He'd muttered to Matt, and
read on his phone for a while, giggling periodically, and told Matt he was
pretty and warm and snuggly and deserved "all the nice things, every nice thing
in the whole world," and fallen asleep holding him.

It was so sweet. Matt let himself listen to the patter of Foggy's shower and
feel the blankets.

Sleeping in his owner's bed felt right, felt good, and time slipped a little
bit lying there, remembering all the other owner's beds he'd slept in,
nostalgia like stale bread in his stomach.

Mistress Sharon and her pet curled into him; Mistress Janet and her babies
carefully tucked so that they were breathing, their tiny bodies radiating heat;
Master Viktor and his snoring and occasional bark in his sleep of komm hier;
Miss Eleanor and her dogs whuffling and twitching their paws; Winter and his
cold arm outside of the blankets, Summer's hair tickling his nose; Master Jacob
and Mistress Robin, finally reunited, Matt between them, glowing at a job well
done; Master Robert and his sleep apnea machine and his IV stand--

Matt jolted with fear, was he supposed to be naked, how soon was Master Robert
coming back, how bad were his injuries, what mood was the master in, what was
he supposed to be doing--

Making coffee. For Foggy, who was his owner now, and not Master Robert, who was
dead, because Matt had killed him. Now he was owned by Foggy Nelson, who had
him be a doll, and let him go to law school, and liked him, and had never
whipped him, and would never make him into a pet.

Foggy Nelson, who was impossibly kind.

Matt got up, now fully awake, and got dressed efficiently, heading downstairs
to start bacon and assembling bread.

--

Foggy finally felt okay to get out of the shower. No sex had happened; Matt was
still safe and okay with him. Matt wasn't even scared.

He got out of the shower and blinked at the empty bedroom, and then headed
downstairs.

Matt was rootling around carefully, trying to find something.

"You good?" Foggy asked, combing his hair.

"Yes, Foggy," Matt said. "I'm just trying to find the bacon," and it clicked
for Foggy.

"Oh, no," Foggy said quickly. "No, I meant--have you ever had the BLTs at this
one place at the place I'm thinking of?"

Matt tilted his head. "Most likely not, Foggy."

"Cool, then I'll get to show you. They have the best ones, it's the greatest
hangover cure, we'll hit there and then Lush for all that super indulgent stuff
and then, like, get some blankets and totally unnecessarily fuzzy pajamas and
ice cream and shit, and then just watch dumb movies and chill. We deserve
that."

Matt smiled and nodded.

"Sound good to you?"

Matt said, nodding again, "Yes, Foggy."

"Okay," Foggy said, and smiled brightly at him.

--

With coffee cups and hot sandwiches in their hands, it was easier for Matt to
ignore the feeling of the scarf covering up his collar.

It felt dangerous and odd; Matt hadn't been allowed to wear a scarf over his
collar for years upon years. Over a decade, now. There were cold-weather
collars, of course, and the rabbit fur one wasn't quite wide enough to count
properly, but this was different.

The person who had taken their order had asked Matt, too, what he wanted, and
wished him a good day as well. It was the strangest thing.

And now Matt made himself take a bite of the sandwich--

And put it down, eyes widening reflexively.

"Good?" Foggy said, a smile in his voice.

Matt licked his lips. "Delicious," he said, but he didn't mean it. There was
something about the tomatoes that tasted wrong to him; they were maybe a week
underripe.

"Matt," and Matt knew he had to be honest then, "I--not really, Foggy."

"Oh, okay," Foggy said easily, not in the least bit upset. "Did you want to try
a different one then? They've got a spinach, artichoke, arugula and cheesy one
that's great too."

Matt blinked in surprise. He wasn't angry? He didn't think Matt was ungrateful
for the lovely treat?

Matt felt rather like someone who had just bitten into a strawberry and tasted
a kiwi. It was disconcerting.

But that was a suggestion, and Matt stood up to get one.

"Here," Foggy said cheerfully, pressing a bill into his hand, hopefully--
probably--enough for it. "More for me," and he took the remains of Matt's
sandwich.

Matt went and got the one Foggy had suggested, head spinning.

"Hey, you enjoy that, man," the person said to him as they gave him the plate.

"Thank you," he said, and halfway to the table realized he'd forgotten the
proper address.

But nothing bad happened. He ate the sandwich, and smiled involuntarily at how
good it was, and thanked Foggy without kissing his hand because Foggy moved it
away quickly.

And he drank the coffee--he'd gotten a peppermint mocha iced coffee--and it was
perfect and surreal.

--

Operation: Treat Yo Self was off to a good start as they had the food.

Foggy kept a careful eye on Matt and the scarf, but it was a good green and red
tartan and never slipped.

And once Matt wasn't terrified of being hit for not liking the sandwich or
something--Foggy could hear it now, slaves are supposed to enjoy what an owner
gives them or some bullshit--they both were calm and happy. Life was good. His
hangover went away.

Next, Lush.
--
Lush was bright and cheerful and sort of crazy, just as it always was.

Foggy grinned and led Matt and him in.

"So," he said to Matt, "I'm thinking face-masks, and bubble bath supplies, and
bath bombs. Maybe lotion too? Fancy conditioner or whatever?"

Matt nodded.

"Heyyyy," one of the people in nametags came over. Foggy recognized her from
high school. "Hey, Fog-gy! How are you!"

"Pretty good, Jamie," he said.

"And hey, hi to you too," she said, turning to Matt, her long rainbow-pastel
curls swishing in their ponytail.

"He's your--?"

"Matt," Foggy said, and on impulse hugged him to his side a bit.

"Oh, nice," Jamie said. "Anyway, you need some help?"

Foggy thought about it, and then shook his head. "Nah, we got this," he said,
and she grinned brightly and swished away to go help someone else with a "Okay,
call me if you need help!"

--

Everything smelled so much, but Foggy was very good at guiding him as they
walked, and he appeared very serious about getting things for Matt, too.

"See, which one of these sounds better? 'Orange and mango infusion with hints
of bergamot and passion fruit' or 'champagne, strawberries, and cream
decadence'?"

Matt tilted his head, thinking hard. He'd had face masks smeared on him before
and peeled off; granted, it was mostly to help clear pores so that auction
makeup would go on even better.

"The second one, Foggy?"

"Okay, smell," and he held it up in front of Matt.

Matt sniffed and nodded.

"Cool. Then I'll get this one--'tropical fruit miasma'--and then let's go on
for bubble baths."

Matt wondered vaguely if Foggy intended to share a bath, or give him a bath, or
if Matt would actually get a bath alone, a chance to soak in the tub by
himself. The idea made something inside of him shiver faintly.

"Hrm, okay," Foggy said. "There's kind of a lot. So, let's try this: what kind
of things do you really hate the smell of?"

Matt thought about it and decided to take a risk, indulge himself a little bit,
make himself happier for Foggy. It was the least he could do to repay the
endless fount of sweetness and mercy.

"Vanilla," Matt said, carefully only skirting the edges of his memories of
Stick. The small room they made up in his head was not a safe place to go.

"Okay, skip all those vanilla-based monstrosities," Foggy said cheerfully.
"Then, ooh, that's a cool one, what about rose jam? It says it's moisturizing,
too."

Matt smiled. "That sounds good, Foggy."

"Great. Now, let me see--huh, I've never tried yuzu before, that sounds great,"
and there was the sound of Foggy getting one too. It was odd how they weren't
plastic or even glass bottles, but small strangely-shaped things.

"Okay, great, now let's go for the bath bombs."

"I'm not sure what bath bombs are, Foggy," Matt said, feeling even more risky,
like circling an opponent in a sparring match, seeing what they'd do if you
darted forward.

"Oh, Matt, they're awesome! You put them in and they fizz and turn it like a
billion colors and shit, and then they smell great."

Matt smiled, and wondered if Foggy would tell him what colors they turned.
Probably.

"Okay, let's see," Foggy said. "Do you want 'energizing' or 'soothing'?"

Matt tried to puzzle through which one Foggy wanted, but either his senses were
out of whack with the smells or else Foggy genuinely didn't care either way, so
he picked, "Energizing?"

"Cool, let's see--avocado, apple cinnamon, or, uh, 'blue'? Huh, what's in--oh,
okay, it says that it has lavendar, and lemon oil, minerals and salts and ooh,
it has seaweed too!"

Matt tilted his head. That sounded--"That one, then, please?"

"Yeah, of course, now I think I'll stick with my trusty blackberry, it's
fantastic. You know, it's the first one Mom--Anna, I mean--got for me."

Matt listened harder. "Oh?"

"Yep. She took me here after a weekend at Rosalind's, me and just her, and told
me that since apparently Rosalind didn't know how to be kind to children, she'd
teach me a bit of how to be kind to myself, and taught me all these things. I'd
forgotten a lot," and Foggy sounds wistful, regretful.

"Living for four years across the country without a bathtub does that to you.
But, well, things are better now. Let's go see if they have any decent lotions,
and then at hair, yeah. You've got nice hair," and Matt's face flamed at the
compliment.

His stomach felt oddly fluttery as they continued, Foggy telling him how things
all looked, stacked up in baskets with easter grass, the shelves and the
chalkboard labels and the ribbons and wrappers glittering like gold.

"It's all super Christmasy," Foggy was explaining, as they went to go check
out, conditioner and body butters as well as the other treats in Foggy's
basket. "The line's pretty long, too."

Matt smiled and leaned in a tiny bit, glad to be standing. It was harder to
shuffle forward and then stop precisely when on your knees.

--

Target was less fun, mostly because there was a slave and their owner in the
same section as the blankets.

Foggy paused and guided Matt over to a corner near the neglected bikinis--and
why were they selling bikinis right before Christmas?--and asked him,
carefully, "Hey, so there's a douchebag in here who's got this poor guy wearing
what looks like a, a gag with a ring in the mouth and also his hands are tied
behind his back and he's being yanked on a leash or something? Fucking Christ.
Did you want to skip or just get junk food first or something?"

Matt blinked. "I don't care," he said, and then flinched at himself, saying,
"It's okay, Foggy, I can of course be around other slaves without doing
anything--wrong."

Foggy was glad nobody overheard. Watching other people be nice to Matt for once
was refreshing. Even the door-greeters smiled at him and wished him a nice day.
Nobody gave him the sort of disturbing leer or skated their gazes over him like
furniture.

"Well, let's go for the pajamas section, then," Foggy decided. "Allow me to
introduce you to the realm of the hyper-fuzzy," and Matt walked him, perfectly
in harmony.

--

Foggy appeared to be quite serious about the pajamas. He asked Matt if he'd
prefer the ones with Captain America or Bucky Barnes or the Howling Commandos
in general, and when Matt had offered up that he didn't care, he could barely
remember reading Captain America comics, the conversation got abruptly diverted
into how Matt hadn't always been blind.

"Really?" Foggy asked, sorting through another shelf. "When you did get
blinded?"

It's weird, having an owner who apparently really never read through his
papers, but Matt says, "I was nine. There was an accident, and a chemical
spilled into my eyes and destroyed all light perception."

Foggy drops his armful of pajamas. "Wait--where was this?"

"Hell's Kitchen," Matt said, dread in his gut.

"Wait--wait--you're Matt Murdock? The kid who saved that old guy from a car
accident? And who got blinded because of it?"

Matt nodded, wincing at it. He wasn't Matt Murdock anymore.

"Oh," Foggy said, and hugged him hard. "Shit. Shit. Nobody deserves the kind of
awful shit you've gone through, all that--" and Foggy makes a disgusted noise,
"But especially not you. Fuck. I loved you as a kid, you know? Like I was super
obsessed with all your newspaper articles, I had every clipping, I think I sent
you some sort of card about how great you were, you made me realize--"

--

Foggy cuts himself off before he tells Matt you made me realize I liked boys
too because Jesus H Christ he couldn't say something like that. Fuck.

How had he not seen the resemblance? He still had all those old newspaper
clippings, every article, every weird 'inspirational' piece, all of them. Tons
of photos.

Candace had teased him, said he looked like a serial killer on Criminal Minds
and promptly gotten them into trouble because they weren't supposed to watch
that, and Foggy had ended up putting them all in a box in the basement before
cleaning up his room for college.

Jesus fuck. Matt was Matt Murdock.

But then Foggy realized that of course he didn't recognize him--Matt was
submissive and made himself small and had his face pointed down as the default.
Good lord. He didn't look heroic at all a lot of the time.

Except, now that he thought about it, when he'd helped people. Helping Foggy,
helping Bee Elle.

Okay. Okay. Foggy would feel all his feeling about this later. Right now was
supposed to be fun and about good things.

"Okay, so that's super heavy for today," Foggy said. "Let's see. Um, Batman
pajamas? How do you feel about Batman?"
--
It's the whole Murdock thing that makes Matt answer honestly, he decides later.

"Batman is a useless cretin who thinks he's helping out the city when really,
all he's doing is satisfying his own sadism and perpetuating the cycle of
poverty and subsequent crime in his idiotic little anti-slavery-propaganda
comics," Matt says, voice still, thankfully, not loud.

Foggy draws back and Matt gulps hard, oh hell, but then a store assistant is
coming over and Matt freezes and doesn't go to his knees, and she says,
chirping, "Need any help over here?"

Matt stays still and scared, heart pounding, but Foggy doesn't tell her sorry
that my slut is misbehaving, instead all he says is, "No, I think we're okay,
I'm just helping my friend out," and she must see Matt's glasses--the ones
Candace casually gave to him and Foggy approved and Matt wore today because
Foggy thought they looked good and Matt was still, inappropriately, a bit vain-
-because she just nods and says, "Oh, of course. Well, if you need any more
help, just ask me!" and walks away.

Thank goodness. Matt turns to Foggy--

Who just says, "That's an interesting opinion."

Matt closes his mouth, carefully, testing the situation, wondering if his
theory that Foggy maybe won't punish him for being angry will hold. Maybe.

He isn't angry when Matt lets a bit of his annoyance at his mock trial
opponents come through in his rhetoric; he wasn't angry when Matt was pissed at
the home invaders; he doesn't forbid Matt from training; he hasn't even
commented yet on any of Matt's facial expression slips.

Maybe, just maybe, Foggy will do nothing.

And then he actually does, going back and finding incredibly soft microfleece
ones for Matt in plain black, and then grabbing a new pair for himself, and
they head over to blankets.

Nothing bad happens at all. Matt's not so much of a defective fuckup.

--

The fuck-a-duck guy with the poor dude on a leash is still there, sorting
meticulously through the bargain bin, so Foggy straightens his spine and goes
to tussle with him.

"Getting one for your boyfriend?" the guy sneers, yanking on the leash every
few seconds, making the guy--who's wearing painted-on clothes and looks
incredibly out of it--jerk on the floor for air.

Foggy hates him, and resolves to just not respond as he fishes for blankets.
They're all the same texture, just different patterns and sizes, and Foggy
snags a dark red for Matt (it goes well with him) and a dark blue for him and
goes back to the cart.

He turns his back to the guy and realizes that he knows that asshole. He's a
guy in their class. Foggy almost faced off him in a mock trial, but then the
guy threw up all over himself and begged off.

Foggy smirks to himself a bit. Schadenfreude for assfucks like that was
perfectly fine in his opinion.

"Hey, these feel good, Matt?" Foggy asks him, thrusting them out.

Matt feels them and smiles warmly, his whole face lighting up. He looks
incredible in the glasses, handsome and somehow nearly angelic without the
usual calculating wariness in his gaze.

"Yes, Foggy," Matt says, and Foggy puts them in, and heads to junk food,
ignoring the douchebag. Hopefully they won't run into each other again at
Columbia.

--

They end up heading home with golfish, chips, ice cream bars in mint chocolate
chip for Matt and neapolitian for Foggy (if Matt didn't like how vanilla
smelled, he probably would hate the taste), soda, juice, popcorn, bagel bites,
candy and pulled pork microwave sandwiches. All the things for an adult
sleepover without the more pants-off portion of the 'adult'.

On the way back, Foggy turns to Matt and asks, "So, uh, hey, swing by our place
and grab clothes?"

Matt nods, murmurs, "Sounds sensible, Foggy," and then when they're there, Matt
asks, voice tentative like his fingers are when he's feeling for something in
any place that's not their apartment, "Uh, Foggy, could I maybe--"

"Yeah?"

"Could I go to Fogwell's and then go back to the Nelson's home?"

Foggy blinks. "Sure. And it's your home, too, okay?"

"Of course, Foggy," Matt murmurs, and goes to get his gear and goes off.

Foggy gets back, puts things in the fridge and his room, goes back downstairs,
and prepares a list of things to ask his therapist for advice on.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title from "Things Eve Learned from the Serpent" by Sandy
     Supowit, here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/98334381501/things-
     eve-learned-from-the-serpent
***** and that orange it made me so happy *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt walked to Fogwell's, mind churning.
He hadn't meant to snap out his real opinion of Batman. It just had slipped
out, and that meant he was losing control. He needed to vent out his anger.
(It wasn't exactly his opinion. He barely remembered Batman, not even as much
as Captain America comics. But he did remember--vividly--Stick's opinion of
Batman and his harsh barking laugh, like a starving coyote, and all those
memories of being a Murdock had brought it up and it had tumbled out.)
You couldn't repress anger forever; one of the benefits of having bodyguarding
certification--and therefore his owners having an incentive to let him train--
was that then one could let some of it out that way. Carefully, and without
being unacceptable or dangerous.
And Matt hunched his shoulders, walking quickly as he could, hurrying. He'd
take maybe a half-hour of control training and then he'd get back to Foggy and
be able to be happy with him, loll his head on Foggy's shoulder. Be allowed to
just relax.
But as he got there, he noticed there was Mr Fogwell inside, instead of gone
like he was every other time. Then again, it was much earlier in the day than
when Matt usually went.
Matt bit his lip hard; he wasn't sure how to deal with this, but something
twitched inside of him, and he took the chance and went in.
"Afternoon," Mr Fogwell said.
Matt nodded, went over to where he usually put his coat and gloves, and took
off the scarf last.
"Still got that collar on?"
Matt winced, hung his head, and nodded, straightening his back. Time to face
the music.
"It's a damn shame," Mr Fogwell said, his voice low and bitter. "A shame.
Battlin' Jack's kid treated like that."
That...wasn't what Matt had expected him to say. He tilted his head.
"The bastard who owns you doesn't let you talk?"
Matt swallowed. He couldn't misrepresent Foggy like that. "No," he said, unable
to add on any title. Not for someone he'd known from before. "Foggy's nice," he
added without thinking.
"Can't be that nice," Mr Fogwell observed.
Matt shrugged. "He lets me come here," he said, and it hung in the air like a
cut violin string. Matt's muscles tensed; arguing with a free person was not
acceptable behavior.
But all Mr Fogwell did was snort and turn his head. "Not the worst ain't the
same as not bad."
"Yeah," Matt said as he wrapped up his hands and ankles, because it was true.
The anger inside of him squirmed, and Matt started stretching out.
"You getting fed, at least?"
Matt nodded. "I get food all the time now," he said, thinking of when he'd
first been surrendered as new property. The Bureau fed slaves a bit, of course,
but only two meals a day, and at the time it had felt like choking down poison.
And the owner of the Brooklyn Open Market was, as Bee would've put it, a cunt.
He fed slaves at role-call, and it was so little it cut into his profit margins
as they got hungrier and less attractive with each day.
Mr Fogwell sat there, presumably watching, as Matt began to warm up with some
basic punches and kicks. He focused on his movements, keeping them controlled,
and got deeper and deeper into it, holding tight posture and keeping his body
precisely where he wanted it to be.
Time passed quickly, but Matt's internal clock was good, and before long it was
time for him to stretch back out and get going.
Mr Fogwell interrupted his thoughts as he finished up, wrapping the scarf back
around his collar as Foggy had helped him put it earlier. "You're still a
fighter, huh," he said. "Where do you live?"
Matt knew better than to answer that specifically, but it felt unbearably rude
to not say anything, so he said, quickly, "Near Columbia. Why?"
He vibrated with tension, but all Mr Fogwell said was, "Your Dad would be proud
of you, you know."
Matt's jaw dropped. "I--what?"
"You're alive," Mr Fogwell said, sipping at something. "That's what he'd always
wanted."
Matt--couldn't. Time stretched and melted and he was walking to the Nelsons',
shivering.
--
When Matt got back, Foggy had already indulged himself in a ridiculously nice
bubble bath, so it was his turn.
"Hey," he said brightly. "Let me show you where I put our stuff," and he led
Matt up to his room.
"So here's yours," and Matt felt the bag, a sudden spreading smile on his face.
Matt picked it up and sniffed and plucked out the bath bomb and bubble bath,
his eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Should I--bathe alone?"
"What? Yeah, yeah," Foggy said hastily. "No sex, remember?"
"Of course, Foggy," Matt murmured, and turned and walked to the bath.
--
It was so good on his muscles to just soak in the hot, scented water, feeling
the play of the oils and minerals and scents all over him.
The bubbles he only put a tiny amount in--just enough to smell it, really--and
he lay back and slowly shut off his hearing.
It was exhausting, the amount of work Matt put into constantly listening and
paying attention to Foggy's face, to the bodies of all the free people around
him. It was, of course, the only way he could read them as accurately as he
needed to, and it was only appropriate for him to pay close attention, but it
was so very tiring.
 
He shut off his thoughts, too, not bothering to work out why it was Foggy had
been so distressed by the mere presence of another slave. It hadn't even been
bloodied or anything. But now wasn't the time for thinking. Now was the time to
enjoy his reward for being alive.
Matt breathed in and out, almost meditating, feeling the warmth of the bath,
hearing just the steam filling the room and his own slowly beating heart,
smelling the seaweed and salt and lavender and lemon, the hints of strawberries
and champagne and cream.
He lay back and soaked for a long time, knowing that Foggy surely wouldn't get
angry about his pretty, warm doll enjoying the nice things he'd deigned to give
him.
 
--
 
Matt emerged from his bath, in the new pajamas, looking warm and soft and
happy.
He held out a hand with his collar in it to Foggy.
Oh, right, yeah. That.
"Sure, yeah," Foggy said as Matt turned around and knelt at the bottom of the
bed. He carefully closed it shut, and then paused.
"That comfortable?"
Matt chewed on his lip, his back tensing a bit in fear.
"It's fine if it's not," Foggy reassured him. "I'll just readjust it."
Matt said, voice very, very careful, "Tighter, please, Foggy?"
Foggy paused, and then his hands tugged at the collar and pulled it tighter on
his neck.
"Better? You're not choking or anything?"
Matt asked, voice again soft and careful, "A little bit tighter, please,
Foggy?"
Foggy tightened it more. "Better? You can breathe?"
Matt nodded, and then murmured, dreamlike, "Thank you so much, Foggy."
Foggy paused, hands on Matt's hair, and let himself sort of cradle it for a
second before taking his hands off. "Anyway, food and a movie," he said. "Anna
is willing to let us borrow from her collection, too."
Matt had turned around to look at Foggy, his eyes soft and adoringly happy.
Foggy was almost alarmed until he realized that it was much more sincere,
somehow, than the please-abuse-me gaze he'd given Foggy when he'd been given to
him. Thank God.
"Well, okay, let me tell you about the ones Anna put out for us on the grounds
that we'd probably like them, and you can choose the first one and I'll choose
the second," and Matt nodded.
--
For some reason--even Matt himself wasn't entirely sure why--he had decided on
Legally Blonde. It had the best title, and Foggy had said it had a blonde woman
with a chihuahua on the front cover, and something about it nudged at Matt, so
in it went.
Then it started, and Matt was almost bored, right up until they mentioned her
LSAT score, Foggy's description sounding shocked.
Then he sat up with burning interest.
And then things got funnier and stranger and better and worse, and by the end
of the movie, there were empty plates by an empty bowl of popcorn and casually
crushed soda cans, and Matt was curled into Foggy, grinning with triumph and
still laughing at some of the portrayals of law school.
It was a great movie, and Matt felt loose and relaxed. Foggy really was sweet
all the way through, without so many hidden hooks.
--
Now that the awkward had passed, Foggy chose one of his favorite movies for
watching--his favorite because regardless of how or when or why or with whom
you saw it, it was a beautiful experience.
He chose Pulp Fiction.
Almost right away Matt seemed to love it, grinning wide and chortling at the
interrogation scene, and he actually laughed so hard he rolled off Foggy and
onto the wall as Jules screamed, "ENGLISH, MOTHERFUCKER, DO YOU SPEAK IT!"
Foggy paused it, laughing a little, then saying, "Oh, god, Matt, are you okay?"
Matt nodded, giggling. "I'm okay," he said, his entire face curling and
distorting in mirth. "I'm fine," he said, and curled up back into Foggy. "More,
please?"
Foggy smirked and turned it back on.
Things went very, very well, right up until the rape scene with the gimp-slave.
Foggy froze once he remembered where it was going, and then Matt froze too.
"Shit," Foggy said suddenly. "Shit--I--fuck, do you want me to turn it off?
They're, uh, they're sort of--shit, they're bringing out their slave, uh, fuck-
-"
Matt went stiff next to Foggy. He licked his lips and Foggy went quiet.
"I--what happens to it?"
Foggy blinked. "Huh?"
"What happens to it, to the slave? Does it die?"
"What? No."
"Oh," Matt said against Foggy's shoulder. And then: "Um, Foggy, could we
continue then, please?"
Foggy stared at Matt, and thought about how he'd had to be practically sat on
by Candace to end up finishing watching Lilo and Stitch after he'd run out of
the movie theater the first time when he was young.
(Foggy had been a pretty sensitive kid.)
In the long run, it had been good for him, and now watching horror movies--
facing his fears--especially in a way like that was cathartic.
And Matt wanted to.
"Okay," Foggy said, "But--let me know if you want to stop, okay? We'll just
pick a totally different dumb movie. Ninja Assassin 2 or something, okay? I
won't be mad."
Matt seemed even tenser, but consciously leaned into Foggy, and nodded.
Then Foggy put it back on, and cleared his throat.
"So there's the guy's slave, the poor dude, in this, uh, gimp suit-- you know
what those are?"
"I'm familiar," Matt murmured.
"Yeah, okay, and all three of them are staring at Wallace and Butch, creepily,
the blonde guy's hands tapping on the slave's head as they discuss which of
them to rape first..."
By the time Foggy got to describing Wallace shooting Zed in the dick with blood
on his shirt and the bright red ball gag out, Matt seemed to have relaxed
again, and as Foggy described Wallace's stone-faced fury as he described how he
was going to have Zed tortured to death, Matt smiled.
"And then as they settle it, Butch looks less and less uncertain, and Wallace
is still cold and unmoving and stone."
Matt made a soft, contented sigh, and Foggy realized he was almost sitting in
his lap, his head on Foggy's shoulder.
"You good?" he murmured to Matt in the lull of Butch examining the motorcycle.
"Yes," Matt said, smiling. "He got his revenge, and he gets to live."
Foggy noted that down in his mind--Matt likes happy endings--and kept happily
describing the visuals.
 
--
 

Pulp Fiction was also completely excellent as a movie, Matt decided, and
enjoyed for a while lying almost on Foggy's lap as the credits played.
All the stories tied together beautifully, and Foggy's voice when describing
things was soft and rhythmic and amusing. He was good at not just explaining
what the visual information being conveyed was, but making funny images sound
hilarious and horrific images sound gruesome.
Then Foggy twitched and Matt obediently moved off of him.
"Hmm," Foggy said. "More snacks?"
Matt smiled and ducked his head. He wasn't hungry, and yet he was being fed.
And not so much that his gut stretched, and he wasn't going to be used
afterwards. It was such a luxury.
Matt nodded, and Foggy and he went downstairs to grab more snacks.
--
Bee was in the kitchen, sneaking a sandwich, when Matt and Foggy came down,
smiling like idiots at each other. Then they immediately snuck into a corner,
food in hand, observing.
They watched carefully as Matt reached out to get some of the weird fish-shaped
crackers and told Foggy that he'd want a rootbeer over a sprite.
"Great," Foggy said, grinning hugely. "And now--gummi bears and let's also get
those other ones," and he grabbed two crinkly packages of candy and put them
into two other bowls, stacking them, "And hey, Matt, sour cream and onion or
salt and vinegar?"
"Both, Foggy?"
Bee frowned, watching. Matt looked...not fucked out, but something weirdly
similar to it, his hair half wet and his body relaxed and carrying the remnants
of a flush--
Oh. Had Foggy...given him a bath? Washed him?
They thought about it, and tried to not care the way free people did, but they
couldn't not see things. It was like there was a part of their brain that had
spent so much time noticing how free people around them treated their slaves
that they couldn't turn it off.
Bee stared. Foggy was nice to Matt, but at the same time, he was an owner and
still, casually, gave little orders. Granted, they were never painful or things
Matt really hated, but it was a little flexing of power.
They remained out of sight as Foggy and Matt went back upstairs, balancing
bowls of snacks and laughing at something Foggy had said.
Then they went back to the guest room, eating their sandwich, and watching more
of Netflix on their tablet. Keeping Up With the Kardashians was bizarrely
captivating.
--
"Anyway, Matt," Foggy says as he carefully puts down all the snack bowls on the
floor so they could be reached. "You can pick the next thing, whatever you
want, doesn't have to be a movie."
Matt pauses. "Can I--" he starts, and then moves even closer to Foggy, lower
and lower, and for one second Foggy thinks he's going to try to blow him, but
instead all Matt does is lie down so his head is in Foggy's lap.
"Yeah," Foggy says after a minute. It's sweet how much more Matt's trusting him
than he used to. "Yeah, totally, Matt," he says, and on some weird impulse one
hand scratches through Matt's hair. It falls into a blurry category of how
people sometimes cuddle with very close lovers and sleepy best friend and how
people cuddle with slaves--if they do even cuddle with slaves--but Matt's happy
and as long as he's happy Foggy can be happy, too.
Matt's eyes flutter shut. Then he murmurs, "Maybe some stand-up comedian on
Netflix, Foggy?"
"Yeah, cool," Foggy says, and goes to that category. "Okay, there's American
Ham, that looks really white macho dude, and there's this guy called Anthony
Jeselnik, that looks super fucking dark humor from a white guy, I dunno, I
mean--do you want to try him out?" he asks. Matt has kind of dark sense of
humor.
Matt blinks, and then he murmurs, "Could I hear more choices, first, Foggy?"
Foggy exhales out. "Okay, so there's a guy who they describe as a 'hopeless
romantic', and then there's Kevin Hart, whose special is called 'Laugh at My
Pain'--"
Matt shifts. "That one?" Foggy guesses.
"Yes, please, Foggy," Matt murmurs.
"Cool," Foggy says, and pauses.
"How does, uh, this make you feel?" he asks Matt and on this he strokes over
Matt's hair again.
"Safe," Matt says after a second, eyes shut.
Oh. Well. "Good," Foggy says, and keeps doing it. "Let me know if anything gets
to be too much for you."
"Okay, Foggy," Matt says, snuggling down harder.
Foggy grins to himself. Matt feels safe, which is the whole point of this whole
day. Both of them feeling good. He makes sure to run his fingers through Matt's
hair again and turns Kevin Hart on, and starts to describe it.
--
Kevin Hart is side-splittingly hilarious, Matt discovers, giggling and
chortling. His descriptions of cocaine addicts are on the dot, making Matt
think of all the rich people he's known who inexplicably hula-hooped all the
time. When he gets to the part where his dad steals a police dog, he laughs so
hard he accidentally does a spit-take and splatters himself with rootbeer.
But Foggy genuinely isn't angry, and just hands him a napkin, and keeps
occasionally stroking his hair, which is incredibly soothing. It's where he
belongs, his head on his owner's lap, his hair being stroked.
And yet it's also something that anchors him back into being himself, being
Matt, because he gets to choose what they're laughing at and he gets to laugh
at whatever he finds funny and not what his owner laughs at first and he gets
to delicately reach out a hand and take chips and goldfish crackers and gummy
and hard candies and eat them.
Matt sinks deeper into his state of pure pleasure to the point where his laugh
is loud and howling as well as strong when Kevin Hart talks about his mother's
funeral, and he almost worries for a moment but all Foggy's doing is laughing
with him, and it's all okay, it's okay.
--
"Mmm," Foggy said, sleepy. "I'm thinking we're both exhausted."
Matt nodded against his stomach, where his head had ended up.
"Okay," Foggy said, yawning. "Let's--fuck, my teeth--I'll get the dishes
downstairs, don't worry," and he takes them down, puts them in the sink,
totally forgetting about the dishwasher, says goodnight to Anna and Dad and
Candace, all of whom had had their own leftovers-for-dinner dinners, and goes
back up to Matt.
"So," Foggy said, after he brushed his teeth, looking at Matt curled up on his
bed. "You want to sleep here, I'm guessing?"
Matt asked, softly, "Yes, please, Foggy."
Foggy thought it over for a minute, trying to figure out a way to make sure he
couldn't possibly hurt Matt.
"Okay," he said, because he was tired and Matt was so warm and said that he
liked cuddling Foggy, being carefully touched, "But--safety rules, okay? To
make sure there can't be any sex or anything close to it."
Matt nodded and sat up, listening.
"Okay, um," and Foggy thought hard about it. "Okay, first of all, all the
clothes stay on, and uh, if there's any...inconvenient Basilisks, so to speak,
just wake me up before I can...do...anything in my sleep, okay? So that you
stay safe."
Matt looked vaguely confused, but nodded. "Don't undress at any point and wake
you up in case of nocturnal erections," he summarized.
Foggy nodded. "Okay, cool," and he wriggled under the blankets, pausing to wrap
Matt in his new red fluffy one.
Matt smiled widely and came under the covers too, wriggling up to Foggy.
Foggy turned off his bedroom light, made sure his phone alarms were off, his
laptop was shut on his desk, wrapped his arms around Matt, and fell asleep,
completely unstressed for the first time in months.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also from "The Orange" by Wendy Cope.
***** live not for the battles won *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
It was most of the way through the night when Matt woke up.
He was muzzy, confused, for a few moments, and then he realized Foggy was hard
again and grinding gently against him.
Matt sighed, and then remembered: he had instructions for this.
"Foggy," he said quietly, turning so that Foggy's erection was against his
thigh instead of his ass, "Foggy, you should wake up."
Foggy mumbled something incoherently.
"Foggy," Matt said, more insistently.
Foggy didn't wake up.
Matt chewed on the inside of his cheek and took a chance. He reached up one
hand, and rubbed his knuckles of his fist hard against Foggy's sternum.
Foggy jolted awake--it always worked, and said, "Matt?"
Matt murmured, "You said to wake you up if this happened."
"Wha--oh. Yeah. Okay, uh, good job Matt, thanks for protecting yourself," Foggy
babbled. "Let's--uh--let's get out of bed, midnight snacks, yay."
Matt moved out of bed, daringly keeping the blanket around him. It was soft and
warm.
Foggy seemed upset, but not at Matt. Instead he headed to the bathroom where
Matt heard him wet a towel and put it on his erection, hissing, and Matt felt
more and more confused as he moved to the kitchen table.
"Hey Matt," Foggy said as he came down. "You okay?"
Matt nodded. "You didn't do anything, Foggy," he explained. It wasn't anything.
It was just a little bit of grinding, and Foggy had been asleep, and once Matt
had woken him up they were both okay. Nothing had really happened.
(And why was Matt so scared of anything happening? Sex was an excellent way to
calm an owner down. All of them liked Matt more afterwards, except for Foggy.
And it wasn't as if Foggy would do it all that often if it started back up
again.
Maybe there was something wrong with Foggy? Had someone...hurt him sexually in
the past? Was that why Foggy was so upset at having sex with Matt when Matt
found it so nauseating?
Matt felt a low, cold anger in his gut at the idea. If anyone had ever hurt
Foggy--Foggy, who was patient and kind and generous and funny and sweet beyond
words, how could anyone dare to hurt him--like that, Matt would kill them, he'd
slit throats before and he could do it again.)
"Hey, so, I uh realized something," Foggy said and Matt snapped to attention.
"I realized that the contract for me owning you--the one I had to sign or else
leave you with Rosalind and I wasn't about to do that--it stipulates that if I
have to sell you until the end of this year, that I'd have to sell you back to
her, and I won't, seriously, ever, fuck that, but I don't think it says
anything about what would happen to you if I, uh, died, or something like
that."
Matt tilted his head, heart thudding with fear. But he thought about it. "It is
possible, within a living will, to appoint a different person as a temporary
acting-owner for slaves," he said carefully.
"Okay," Foggy said. "I'll look at the contract again in the morning. Who would
you want?"
Matt's head spun, and he tried vainly to grasp for answers.
Foggy rescued him. "Uh, would Bee work?"
Matt flinched back. "No, Foggy," he said slowly. "I--there are a lot of
problems with that."
"Why?" Foggy said with a frown.
"Well," Matt said slowly, mind racing for the arguments to articulate, "They--
I don't know if recently freed slaves can even own other slaves, Foggy, and I
don't think they have the, uh, funds to do it, especially if there was any
long-term situation and," and this is the worst one but it's always true, "And
I think that given my relative market value, they would have a very, very
strong incentive to just sell me."
"Oh," Foggy said. "Shit. Wow. You don't think they would really--?"
Matt winced. "I don't know, Foggy," he said. "But--when it comes to money--it's
not smart to trust anyone with it."
His heart pounded and ricocheted--
But Foggy just nodded. "Okay," he said. "Anyone else?"
Matt felt grateful to him as he moved on to the next possibility. "Uh, Anna
seems sensible?"
"Yeah, she's great," Foggy said. "Okay. We can work on it in the morning. Also,
that reminds me--" and he stood up and shuffled around and then there was a
cold metal can of soda in front of Matt, who opened it and sipped it
gratefully.
"Did you, uh, like the scarf? How did you feel about that?"
Matt thought about it slowly. "It didn't go how I expected it to go," he said.
He'd thought that everyone would be able to tell, that there was something
about him that would just scream the truth for all to hear. He didn't
understand how nobody noticed that there was something fundamentally false
about him going about, dressed like a person.
"Better or worse?"
Matt frowned. Was it good to be treated like a free person when he wasn't or
bad to not be put in his place? "I don't know, Foggy," he said apologetically.
Foggy shrugged. "Okay," he said easily. "Did you want to chill on the couch, or
go back upstairs?"
"Whatever you want, Foggy," Matt said automatically, mind spinning from the
day.
Foggy made a frustrated noise in his throat. "Matt, sometimes, I swear to god,
you're exhausting," he said, and then froze.
Matt was stiff and still, bracing himself for a blow--
Which, of course, never came. All Foggy did was sigh again, and say, "Remember?
I like honestly, and no punishments."
"I remember, Foggy," Matt murmured. "I apologize for frustrating and tiring
you, Foggy, please tell me how I can correct my behavior in the future."
"Just--" Foggy sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Don't--ugh. No. It's
okay, it's fine."
Matt's not quite sure of what's going on, or what words Foggy's censoring from
himself, so he grabs at what he's sure of, and murmurs, "Both would be lovely,
Foggy."
"Okay," Foggy says slowly. "Okay. Well. I guess. Bed?"
Matt nods, and it's so warm he falls asleep right away as they curl back up
into it.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from Gwendolyn Brooks's "Speech to the Young",
     here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/73214003687/say-to-them-say-to-
     the-down-keepers-the
***** at this point she notices a wild strawberry growing from a crevice *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Thank God, they both woke up fine, but it still takes a while for Foggy to fall
asleep.

He tries to reassure himself--nothing bad happened, he's just cuddling Matt,
nothing wrong at all is happening, Matt woke up up before he could do anything,
it's fine--and it still churns, low in his gut.

Fuck. It's going to hurt, telling Miriam about all this.

Foggy took a deep breath and focused on other things. Ways to protect Matt if
anything happened to him. If the contract let him, he'd put it so that Matt was
legally allowed to do whatever to keep himself okay if it was just a few days
in a hospital bed or something--so that Matt could be alone and fine and at
their apartment, defend himself, whatever it took--but for a longer-term
problem, he'd let Anna take care of Matt.

Shit. And he'd have to make some sort of documents with how to do that.

Be nice to him, and if he says something super fucked up you can't really argue
because he'll just agree with you, and you have to coax out any sort of
preferences, and you can't ever hit him or have sex with him or anything like
that, and you can't ignore him, and he likes cooking and cooking shows and
strawberries and blankets and movies and he likes it when you describe things
and you have to make sure he's not really out of it sometimes and--

So many things. He'd write it all down in the morning.

Foggy sighed, and Matt curled up tighter into him in his sleep, face planted in
Foggy's stomach as he bent into the fetal position.

Things would be okay. Tomorrow they'd probably go back to their apartment, get
more clothes and space, and Foggy could have some time to talk to Anna and Matt
and get it all worked out.

--

The next morning was very, very tense for two reasons.

One, Matt was nervous about the idea of even being theoretically owned by any
other owner, and felt sick at the idea of anything bad happening to Foggy. He
knew it made him soft and weak, he did, but now that he was Foggy's, he had
gotten used to so many nice things.

Two, Bee Elle was in the kitchen, and the second Foggy came down, marched up to
him and said, tablet on loud, "I want to be able to talk to Matt."

Matt froze at the counter.

Foggy said, "Uh--sure--what do you mean?"

"I mean," they said calmly, "I want to be able to talk to Matt, and you to not
listen in."

What the fuck were they doing? Matt pulsed with adrenaline, every cell of his
body on fire.

Foggy seemed surprised. "Yeah? I mean, obviously. Totally. It's fine."

Matt wanted to kneel and beg and ask Foggy to please not do this, to please
forbid him from talking to them. He wanted all his memories of them to stay
intact and protected inside his mind, far away from the new free person in
front of him.

But instead, they just nodded, and said, "Come on then," and Matt turned his
head to Foggy--

Who said, "It's fine, Matt, seriously."

Matt walked along, numbly, wondering what they were going to do to him, how
they were going to exert their newfound power--

They sat him down on the guest-room bed--

Matt braced himself, opened up his mouth to yell for Foggy, or to beg to not do
this, please--

And then they tapped out on his arm, [You okay?]

Matt breathed in and out, closing his eyes. "Fine, ma'am," he murmured.

[...don't bullshit me.]

Matt cringed. "Sorry, Miss Bee--"

Then there was a horrible second where they were moving over him--

And threw a pillow in his face.

Matt caught it on reflex, blinking. [None of that,] they tapped furiously.
[Nothing of that. Fuck that. I'm not a cunt.]

Matt swallowed. [Don't pretend you're the same person.]

Their face twitched, their body seething with fury, and Matt resolved to scream
if they tried to use him, to scream for Foggy, Foggy was so determined to not
let anyone have sex with him, Foggy would come for him.

Their hands came up--

No, Matt thought, suddenly furious himself instead of afraid. No, not you,
you're not my owner, you don't get to hit me, not you, we were friends, I was
your friend, I helped you escape, you don't get to betray me like this, I don't
deserve this--

And then they grabbed--hugged?--him.

Matt wriggled out of it immediately. It was inappropriate enough for two slaves
to touch without their owner's permission, and back when they'd been just
Barely Legal he'd done that because he couldn't bear to have them be so cold,
and when Foggy had owned them it had been okay, but now--

Now it was not appropriate, not acceptable, not allowed.

Matt pulled back, and they pulled back too, head tilted.

[Asshole. I'm still me.]

[You're not 3519781841181818,] he snapped. [You're a free person, and I'm not.]

[Oh, fuck off,] they said back.

"Yes, mistress," he spat without thinking, venomously, and stood up.

[No. Shit. Matt, god, come here.]

Matt walked over, sitting on the very edge.

[Look, I want us to still be friends. Don't you?]

[A free person and a slave can't be friends,] Matt said, gut twisting. [Even if
they used to be before. Even if they want to be.]

[Why are you so cynical about some things and so hopelessly optimistic about
others?] they asked, and sighed.

Matt frowned.

[Seriously. I'm not going to hurt you, asshole. You're the only real friend I
have. I'm not going to suddenly never talk to you again.]

Matt sighed and sat down more, easing back. [How would we even do this?]

[By talking to each other,] they tapped. [Doing the same things, except I won't
live with you or anything.]

Matt chewed on his cheek.

Bee wasn't a physical threat, not really. He could break a hold they put on him
and run, and they were untrained enough in violence that he could do that
without hurting them and getting in very severe trouble.

And they and Foggy were barely friends anyway. And if Foggy wouldn't lend Matt
out to his sister, he wouldn't lend Matt out to them, either.

All that, and Matt felt fairly certain that if he screamed for Foggy, Foggy
would come and help and he'd have plausible deniability to get himself away
from them if he needed to.

So he said, [You try to use me and I'll scream for Foggy.]

[Of course I won't, you utter piece of shit,] they tapped, face twisting and
fists clenching. [Now get over here and listen to this show I found. I finished
the one about the Kardashians, and this show is really funny. It's called
Bridezilla...]

--

Matt emerged from the guest room a good forty-five minutes later, just as Foggy
had finished up reviewing the contract that Rosalind had had him sign in full.

It was better and worse than he'd thought--Foggy could only gift or sell Matt
to her until he passed the bar, but at the same time, he could do everything
else to cut her out of Matt's life.

Foggy glanced up at Matt, who seemed to be contemplative.

"Everything okay?"

"It's odd," Matt said, sitting down across from him, feeling the chair first.
"I've never had that happen to me before."

Foggy blinked. "Nobody else got freed around you?"

"No," Matt said. "Generally, once you're past a certain price bracket, it's
very difficult to even pay back the prices, and very few slaves can be freed by
arguing their cases. And certainly nobody wanted to free the ones I had the
most contact with."

Foggy tilted his head at him. "Huh. That makes a kind of horrific sense, I
guess," he said.

Matt nodded, and then Anna came down the stairs, dressed.

"Uh, Mom, I was going to ask," Foggy said, handing her her glass of orange
juice. Without it, she was...weird. "In the event of shit happening to me,
would you be willing to take care of Matt?"

"Oh, yes," she said, nodding. "Of course. Why not your father, though?"

Foggy thought about it, and decided to be blunt. "Because Dad would make
probably all the same fuckups I've made and I'd really rather those all never
happen again in any universe?"

She laughed and hugged him, still standing up. "Don't be so harsh on him, or
you," she said. "Your father's pretty charming once you get past the first
stumbles when he's in love."

"Yeah," Foggy said, rolling his eyes, "That's why you have fifty billion
stories about him epically fucking up and horribly offending you and everyone
else."

"They're cute stories now," Anna said affectionately. "And a lot of them were
funny right afterwards, too."

"Like the time he literally threw up on your dog?"

Anna cracked up. "It was amazing," she said. "He threw up six hot dogs on my
weiner dog," she forced out, explaining to Matt, convulsing. "And then after
Wario had finished running around like an idiot, yipping like a squirrel in
heat, getting the puke absolutely everywhere, he sat down and immediately tried
to eat it all up--right in front of all my friends! It was the most exciting
summer barbecue I'd ever had."

Matt was silently laughing next to Foggy, one hand covering his mouth, eyes
leaking with mirth.

"Yes," she said brightly to Matt. "Edward is something of a unique bundle. But
he's very good with children, and it's actually rather adorable, seeing someone
that flustered. He apologized to me and Wario for months and months about it."

Matt smiled and nodded, taking his hand away and hastily sipping his coffee.

"Anyway," she said. "I've got a patient, so email me the details of the
contract and then we can review and sign it later. I suppose you're heading
back to your apartment?"

"Yeah," Foggy said. "We need a bit of space. Plus if I re-wear any more clothes
I think I'll die of the smell."

Anna kissed him on the forehead, wished them both a good day, and headed out.
Foggy glanced at Matt, but just before she left, he saw her staring intently at
his face.

Foggy frowned and wiped at his cheek. Had he spilled something?

"Matt, would you tell me if I had suddenly turned bright blue or something?"

"No," Matt said, voice still intensely amused, sipping at the mug.

Foggy gaped at him for a microsecond and cracked up hard alongside Matt, the
two of them framed in the late-morning sunshine.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from "Relax" by Ellen Bass, here: http://
     readpoems.tumblr.com/post/49847782702/relax-ellen-bass
***** then she eats the strawberry *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
 
Matt read over the contract Foggy's hammered out, carefully.
In the event of any death or other long-term medical condition that renders
Franklin Nelson unable to care for or own slave number 556682394441, the
ownership of slave number 556682394441 will transfer to Anna Esther Rosenthal
for the period that Franklin Nelson was not able to care for or own slave
number 556682394441.
It read like a legally binding agreement. Matt read over the stipulations for
'in the event of temporary power of ownership' and blinked to himself in
surprise.
Foggy specified that Anna had to feed him, clothe him, keep him sheltered and
as safe as possible from the environment, give him adequate medical care,
continue his education at Columbia if at all possible, never physically hurt
him, not put him in any serious danger, never have any form of sexual contact
with Matt at all, and not sell him.
Matt shook out his fingers, and read it all over again.
It was water-tight, as far as he could tell. And incredibly, incredibly careful
and protective.
Matt blinked and nodded. "It seems good," he said to Foggy. What a tiny,
inadequate word. "Thank you, Foggy," and he leaned down and kissed Foggy's
hands on the table, because he couldn't express how good it was, couldn't even
comprehend the scale.
It was a little like how any really large number--say, a billion--seemed not
exactly real, because you couldn't understand the scale. This--kindness and the
enormity of it slipped through his palms like water.
Foggy sounded pleased as he handed over the copy of it that was print over to
Anna. "Seem good to you, too?"
Matt held still. He couldn't be sure that the Braille and the print versions
matched--but it seemed probable. Foggy hadn't once used his blindness to trick
him, had never asked him to do something impossible with it, or been angry at
him for not being able to read a normal newspaper or tell what color something
was. Foggy guided him, and let him have a cane, and told him when his clothes
didn't match.
(Mostly they did. Matt wore, mostly, dark blue and dark red and gray and black.
Sometimes white. He had a dark purple sweater, and that one scarf that Foggy
had described to Matt as 'red and green tartan', and he'd checked multiple
times with Foggy and Bee which ones were which colors, because some of them
were too similar in cut and texture to otherwise differentiate them. Matt
wasn't actually sure what tartan was anymore, couldn't remember the explanation
of it his trainers had given him, but he hadn't pressed.)
Foggy also told him what color something was if Matt had forgotten his
organizing system, and how people looked, and described things. Sometimes he
even went and got things for Matt, if it was in the crowded Nelson pantry or
cupboards or fridge, where the locations of things shifted like sand dunes.
Matt wasn't as worried as he would have been with anyone else.
Anna hmm'd and ahh'd and nodded. "This seems quite thorough," she remarked, and
signed. "Now don't worry," she said, to Matt, and it was still surprising how
often she and the Nelsons talked to him and not at him.
"I think you're something of a hero for how much you've helped out my son. And
a kind, smart boy besides. And I know, about as much as I think I can even
know, that you're in something of a bind. But helping people is my job, you
know, and I'm quite good at it. I like to think you'd be okay, if the worst
happened. None of my own children have died or gotten seriously hurt, after
all."
Matt blinked and filed that away for more analysis. "Thank you, Anna," he said,
wishing he could call her ma'am. It seemed far more proper.
"And also," Foggy said. "Um. I was thinking--for stuff like, say, I got
appendicitis like Candace did and was only in the hospital for a couple of
days, I think it might just be better to have a thing where you didn't have to
immediately go with Anna, you could just go back to our apartment and be there
or make sure you were okay. Stuff like that. That sound good to you?"
Matt tried to puzzle through it, and then understood completely. Foggy wanted
to make sure that Matt would only be Anna's if it was really, really physically
necessary. He was being appropriately possessive and yet--yet--his
possessiveness was also about genuinely caring for Matt as much as caring for
his own emotions. He wanted Matt to be very much only his just as much because
he felt that only he could care for Matt the way he thought Matt should be
cared for. "Yes, Foggy," Matt said.
"Great," Foggy said. "I should totally put that in writing, right, for you to
carry around and stuff like that? In case of an emergency. It can go in your
oh-shit-kit."
"My--?" Matt asked without thinking, confused.
"Oh, hell," Foggy sounded upset. "Oh, I totally forgot, uh, we have these
little emergency kits that are in our bags and with us all the time, it's stuff
like cash and a first-aid kit and CPR breathing masks and a back-up phone and
spoons and a pocket knife and granola bars and stuff. I'll get you one," and
Foggy got up and started grabbing things.
Matt sat, alone, with Anna.
The silence swelled up like a balloon, and like most balloons, it was burst.
Anna said, "So I hear you like cats? How do you feel about Caligula?"
Matt tried to find the trap, but he couldn't hear any. Neither Anna nor Foggy
seemed the type to forbid him from petting Candace's cat, and Candace thought
it was 'adorable' to watch them interact.
"He's an excellent cat," Matt said, hoping that would be that.
"And my son?"
Matt leaned backwards. How was he supposed to answer that?
He came up with, "Foggy is the kindest owner I've ever had, Anna," and he tried
to sound as deferential as he can, infuse Anna with the proper respect. She's
his owner's mother, his real mother, and he needs her favor.
She sat there and made another soft noise, and Foggy came back, bounding over,
with a soft thing in his hands that he thrust out to Matt.
"Here," Foggy said, "And I'll, uh, at home we can work out what emergency
orders or proof of whatever you should have in there so that the police or
whoever don't hassle you."
"Thank you, Foggy," Matt murmured, and took it, and then they went to go back
home. Matt was looking forward to it.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also comes from "Relax" by Ellen Bass.
***** live in the along *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
It's awkward, and a work in progress, but by the time it's evening, Foggy has a
working document on the care and feeding of Matt up.
He doesn't actually title it that--Matt might appreciate the title, he had a
dark sense of humor, but Anna probably wouldn't--but it is, in essence, a guide
to how to take care of Matt, in case anything bad ever happens to Foggy.
You absolutely cannot ever ignore him, is right at the top. He's not super
introverted, but he does need space, but even more than that, don't ignore him,
to him it's worse than being whipped, you can't do that to him. Talk to him,
and hug him sometimes, but not too much.
He's also really, really into the way he thinks of himself as not a person and
he doesn't want to be a person, so don't push too hard to try to make him
understand that he already is one, he'll freak out or just blandly agree with
you and it won't help. Be nice to him no matter what he says about himself.
Also, on that topic--I know it's kind of strange how he kisses people's hands
to say thank you, but it's really just how he shows it, it's more genuine, and
it makes him feel better to do it, so just let him.
Sometimes he'll be really freaked out and if you let him just sort of kneel for
a while he'll calm down, and it's not fun to see but it's a thing that works
for him, so just don't freak out yourself about it, it's fine. Unless he has a
flashback, and if he does you can just help ground him a bit, and then he'll be
okay.
He likes cooking and loves cooking shows and needs audio description to
understand it all the way, and if he's eating something you might have to
remind him that he doesn't have to eat all of it in one sitting or eat it if he
doesn't like it. And if he cooks for you, *eat it*, it doesn't matter what it
was, if you don't like it he'll be crushed and hate himself and it's horrible.
Also, you have to make sure he knows that his likes and things matter, because
otherwise he'll never mention them, ever, and you won't guess that anything's
wrong. Make sure to get his before you put in yours, and if he's hesitating too
hard, you can suggest things or narrow down the choices but not too often, and
you'll need to tell him a lot that you want his honest opinion and real
preference and that it's fine to disagree with your or have different tastes.
And you have to spell out things for him that's it's okay for him to sleep in
his own bed, take a shower, drink coffee, eat whenever he's hungry, start a
conversation, use his cane to get around, things like that.
And you have to make sure he's not too scared about giving him things. And not
just things that are genuinely nice, like cake, but things that are just the
kind of things people get because they're people. Like beds. He gets nervous if
there's no justification for him getting good things--I tell him it's a reward
for being alive and living through the horrific shit he's lived through, and
that works. Use that too.
He needs nice things. A lot of blankets, and his clothes have to be soft and be
muted or dark colors so that he'll match, and strawberries--and you have to
tell him that those things are *his* and his alone or else he'll never touch
them. And don't ever touch his bed. Seriously, if he's on his bed, leave him
alone, don't bug him or ask him to do anything or touch him or any of the
things on the bed.
And when he brings up his past you can't freak out too much or get angry
because he thinks it's his fault or doesn't understand why you're angry, so
just hug him afterwards, and don't ever think less of him for anything he's
done, it's how he's survived, and that's the most important part.
Foggy sits back and sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He shares it with
Anna, and makes sure the email notification for her also says that it's about
how to take care of Matt in case anything happens to Foggy.
Then he sits there and feels vaguely guilty, because he keeps making it sound
like Matt's a kid, and he's not. He's not helpless or stupid, he's just...he's
been made, specifically, into being dependent on his owner for so many things
that Foggy takes for granted, and Foggy worries that he's somehow making it
worse.
But with him, Matt's making more and more of his own decisions and choices.
That has to be better for him.
--
"Foggy?" Matt asked, derailing his train of thought.
"Yeah?" Foggy said, turning to look at him on reflex. That, and it seemed
politer.
"I don't know which of these bills are which denomination," Matt said, holding
out the stack of bills from the oh-shit-kit.
"Oh," Foggy said. "Um. Should I--how would you know?"
"If they were to be sorted into stacks, I could then fold them and store them
like that, Foggy," Matt explained.
"Oh. Okay, here," and Foggy took the bills and sorted them.
"Okay, so from left to right," and he gently tapped the table with his hand at
where the leftmost stack was, "There's ones, then fives, then tens, then the
twenty. And you can, uh, read the coins?"
"Yes, Foggy," Matt said, smiling, reaching out and folding up the bills. He
paused and then asked, "Are there supposed to be a total of fifty-three dollars
in bills here?"
"Yeah," Foggy said, and then something occurred to him. "I totally haven't
given you any money, have I? Fuck."
Matt tilted his head. "It's fine--"
"No, no, it's not fine, let me, uh--okay. Okay. Let's work this out. How about
you get half the leftover fun stuff part of the budget each month, and, and, I
think there's six hundred left from the extra cash Rosalind gave me to get you
'accessories', so that too?"
Matt looked like he'd just been hit in the face with a pie--completely shocked.
"I--"
"And I don't care about how you spend it," Foggy said, and then reconsidered,
because Matt could hear lies and that wasn't strictly true, "As long as it's
not meth or a giraffe or something. We don't have space for a giraffe."
Matt ducked his head and smiled at the joke. "It could live outside," he joked
back.
"How would it cope with the winter?"
"We'd knit it sweaters," Matt said, and Foggy laughed. "Beautiful, beautiful
custom sweaters," and Foggy laughed harder.
"Okay," he said eventually. "But yeah, let me get that set up. Obviously the
account can't be in your name, but I'll get it so that it's got its own debit
card, and a checkings and savings, and shift around the money straight to
checking, and get the statement for it monthly in a different envelope, and I
will never ever check it. Unless you're buying meth."
Matt's face twitched and he laughed softly, and then bent over and kissed both
of Foggy's hands, face beatific.
--
Matt was beyond happy with this new, bizarre development.
Sometimes slaves could be trusted with some amounts of money, and even some of
them got an allowance, but never half of the entire household's indulgences
budget. Matt himself had certainly never been given any more than twenty
dollars at any one time, but now he had fifty-three in the emergency kit and
Foggy promised to get him more, in an account just for him.
It felt strange to think about, the idea of buying something just for himself,
but it was exciting, too. Matt thought and thought about what to get, what he
wanted, and decided that if he hadn't earned a proper kneeling cushion by
Christmas, he might dare to get one for himself. Not a really good one--if he
didn't earn a really good one, then he didn't deserve it, and that was that--
but something that wouldn't involve putting a pillow or a couch cushion on the
floor. It would make it even more comfortable for the times when he needed to
kneel or else he felt like he would fall apart into nothingness.
--
Foggy added just one more thing to his guide for taking care of Matt before his
next therapy session:
Don't ever, ever let him anywhere near his trainers. Their names are Winter and
Summer, and they're the ones that fucked him up so much in the first place.
They seem charming and nice and concerned for him, but they're the ones that
taught him that he wasn't a person.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also from Gwendolyn Brooks's "Speech to the Young".
***** I think I made you up inside my head *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Foggy seemed anxious the morning of his next therapy session, so Matt made
apple pancakes.

It was very nice to be back in their apartment, alone, and be sleeping there.
They of course went back to the Nelsons' during the day, but all the same,
being allowed to sleep in his bed and not being woken up, heart pounding, by
the sounds of Anna and Edward having sex or Candace giggling to herself or
Caligula scraping wood or knocking over glasses was really rather nice.

And besides, this way Foggy didn't seem to be as subtly anxious about Matt.
Matt understood why--he was worried that his family might do something to
accidentally damage his property, and Matt was Foggy's precious doll, of course
he was protective of him. But all the same, the most unpleasant thing the
Nelsons actually did was the way Candace casually flirted with Matt, or looked
him up and down appreciatively (he could tell by her breaths and heartbeat and
the way she licked her lips), and that still hadn't lead to anything more.

Matt had resolved to tell Foggy, to get him, if Candace tried to use him. Foggy
was very upset by the idea of anyone having sex with Matt, and he wasn't about
to let his owner's sister use him in a power play. Instead, Matt decided to get
out of whatever situation could arise as gracefully as possible, and if
necessary, scream.

Bee was also still there, though Anna had assured them that one of Foggy's
uncles was looking into a good place for them to rent as soon as they could, so
they could 'get their feet on the ground'. And while it was difficult to not
flinch every time Bee nudged him like they used to, or to defer to all their
opinions as a free person, he was still glad they were free. Despite the
horrific, selfish jealousy that curdled in his veins like so much clotted
coffee creamer whenever he had to respect them when the two of them used to be
equals, it was still better that they were free.

Soon the apple pancakes--and Matt had made them more European-style, with the
slices of cored apple directly inside the batter, and sprinkled cinnamon sugar
on top--were hot and ready, and Foggy ate them, and said they were delicious,
but then frowned.

Matt tensed and waited.

"Matt," Foggy said, and then he was suddenly very upset, "I--I just wanted to
let you know, I don't blame you for anything, okay? I don't."

Matt blinked. That was ominous. "Yes, Foggy," he said automatically, trying to
figure out what he'd done wrong. Was Foggy talking about how Matt had imitated
a free person?

And why would Foggy blame anyone for that, anyway? It had been Matt's attempt
to be obedient and useful and desired, so it had been Matt's fault in a way,
but Foggy was the owner. He had all the power. If he had expressed his wishes
in a clear way from the beginning, instead of treating Matt like a leper, none
of that would have happened.

Matt stiffed as he realized he was angry at Foggy, which was neither
appropriate nor safe. Owners were always correct, and it was not Matt's place
to find them wrong, not outside of very specific circumstances. Certainly he
wasn't supposed to be angry at how they'd chosen to give him orders. That was
insolent beyond words.

Matt chewed on the inside of his cheek. He'd have to take care of his thoughts
while Foggy was at therapy. Both of them fixing themselves at the same time.

--

Foggy walked into therapy, feeling so sick he grabbed the trash can and pulled
it in-between his knees before he said anything.

Miriam looked mildly alarmed. "Are you okay, Foggy?" she asked.

"No," Foggy said, and winced. "I--it's not going to be fun, today," and he
almost broke into hysterical laughter at the understatement.

He had to tell her that he had raped Matt. He couldn't lie to her about that,
and how was she supposed to help him make sure he never did it again if he kept
it a secret from her?

Foggy gulped, and made himself start talking, but Miriam gently interrupted
him.

"Before we begin," she said. "I'd like to first hear about your attempts at
better self-care, and to offer a piece of advice about how to keep a better
balance between your relationship with Matt and the rest of your life."

Foggy blinked but told her, slowly, "Me and Matt had a good day. We went out
and got things for bubble baths and fuzzy pajamas and junk food, and basically
had a movie night. It was great," and he smiled at the memory. "We ended up
cuddling half the night, and then Matt actually woke me up when my dick got
hard," and then he winced at how that sounded.

"Sounds like a good way for you to destress your entire relationship," she said
mildly.

"Yeah," Foggy said. "I just--I want Matt to be happy, you know? I want him to
be happy. That's my goal, now."

"I see," she said, but made it sound neutral. "Now, you've mentioned that your
relationship with Matt can also be stressful?"

"Yeah," Foggy said. "But that's--it's not his fault, and before you say
anything I am not getting rid of him, that would be completely unconscionable,
absolutely never."

Miriam nodded and noted it down. "That's quite understandable," she said. "Now,
even in relationships where both parties are making a good-faith effort to make
it as easy as possible, it can be very difficult to keep a good balance between
the relationship and the rest of one's life. One way to make sure that this
doesn't result in a severe imbalance, which can cause resentment and
destruction of the relationship, is to find something to do as a hobby that has
nothing to do with the other person or the relationship in general."

Foggy frowned. "You're saying I need time off from Matt?"

"I'm saying that if you end up devoting your whole life to him, you may find
that you end up having nothing left to give," she said gently. "It's not a sign
of love to destroy yourself for the person you love. It's not healthy to have
everything in your life be about one relationship."

Foggy sighed. It was true, and he knew it. And he couldn't afford to burn out
and leave Matt in the cold.

"Okay," he said, and thought about it. "Maybe I could re-learn crochet or
something," he said slowly, thinking it over. "Make some baby hats for my
cousins, or even the homeless shelter. Or the hospital."

"That sounds sensible," Miriam said. "Do you think having to be accountable for
the hobby would help you?"

Foggy blinked. "What? You mean, like, having to do at least thirty minutes of
it a day?"

"Not that regimented, probably," Miriam said. "But you might find it helpful to
have it be a sort of theraputic assignment, and be asked about how much you've
done each session. That way, you won't forget, and it might help encourage you
to keep it up."

Foggy thought about it. "I'll try it for a bit," he said. "But, uh, if that
gets to be too much like homework--"

"Then we'll stop with the accountability aspect," she said. "And it doesn't
have to be crochet. I'd just think it wise if you could try to do this thing
without Matt at least once a day."

Foggy bit his lip and nodded, and then put it on his google calendar to go
visit JoAnn's or something after this session. Might as well get cracking. He
hadn't actually done crochet since he was seven and in a fit of childhood
sexism declared it for girls and thus stupid.

"Now," Dr Miriam said, leaning back. "Was there something else specific you
wanted to talk about with me?"

Foggy took a deep breath. Time to face the music.

"I raped Matt," he said, and the momentary look of confusion that flitted
across her face made him want to scream, because of course she was confused,
Matt wasn't a person to her, he was a slave.

"I fucked him, I had sex with him three times, and I didn't realize that he was
going along with it, doing all of it, just because he thought that if he didn't
I'd--beat him or sell him or worse, I don't even know what worse is--"

Except that he did. In Matt's own words, being ignored was the worst.

Foggy grabbed at his hair, yanking it back. "I just--I was so fucking stupid, I
thought that because he came onto me, that it was real, it was him pulling off
that, that servile weird mask, coming out of that slave headspace, but that
really is his whole headspace anyway, he was right, there isn't any free person
hiding inside of him for me to free like some fucking idiot, he was right, I'm
not his white knight, oh god," and Matt's words to Devyn rung in his ears,
harsh and cold.

You think your guilt, your stupid worthless guilt, you think I actually want to
hear it, you think I care about any of your utterly insignificant feelings and
You're as much a part of it as the people who never buy a slave but rent them
from your friends, or the people who buy us but feed us most of the time, or
the people who buy cinderellas and then re-enslave them at the end of their
midnight balls and None of your guilt matters. It doesn't mean anything to me.
You're not important. You are not my white knight. All you are is another
person who feeds the machine that grinds us up and spits us out.

Shit, shit, how much of that was really directed at Foggy? Fuck. Fuck!

Foggy's brain threw the sound of Matt crying in the bathroom at him, viciously,
and how Foggy had been relieved because it meant Matt had real feelings and was
a person--

Foggy threw up into the trashcan, his hair yanked back, gasping and sobbing and
thinking about how much he'd hurt Matt, how Matt had squeezed his eyes shut
when Foggy blew him and how Matt thought having his fingernails being ripped
out was better than sex and how Matt had told him, looking earnestly confused,
that he'd get used to it again and then it wouldn't be so bad--

Foggy retched and cried and dry-heaved, barely able to hear anything above the
screaming tornado of memories and regrets, all of them made of every one of
Matt's flinches and twitches and scared toes and tense back.
It took a while for him to realize Miriam was talking to him, her voice low and
soothing, and was saying that she was going to give him a blanket, and was
wrapping it around him.

It was heavy, and soft, and eventually Foggy spat out the last of the acid and
bile and spit, and leaned back, pushing the trashcan away.

"I'll have Dylan take that out," Miriam said, and put it outside the office.
"And here's some tissues and gum."

Foggy used the tissues, now feeling embarrassed and disgusting, and chewed and
spat out the gum.

"Fuck," he said. "Fuck, I'm sorry, I really didn't mean to do that--"

"It's quite alright," she said. "You are not the first patient to vomit in my
office. It's a fairly uncontrollable physiological response to stress."

Foggy wiped off his face more. "I just, I hurt Matt so much," he said. "I
didn't know, I had no idea, and the whole time, I didn't let myself realize it
because I had no idea I could be a rapist," and that felt like the fundamental
truth. "I didn't think I'd ever do that. I thought--I didn't think I could lie
to myself like that."

Miriam asked, gentle, "I don't think I understand what you mean," she said. "It
sounds to me so far like it was a very understandable mistake to make. Often
when people initiate sex, it means they are consenting."

"Yeah, well, not when they don't even think they're people," Foggy snapped,
leaning back into the chair. "Matt--I thought that all of his...everything.."
and he gestured wildly, "I thought it was all a front, or some sort
of...leftovers. Or that he was just trying to creep me out, or that Rosalind
had told him to act like that to fuck with me, or, I don't even know. I thought
that when he kissed me that first time, that it was his real personality
breaking through, that he was, I dunno, reclaiming his body or asserting his
autonomy or something dumb.

"I had no idea--I didn't let myself think," Foggy corrected, "That it was just
to make me happy. Because he was hard, and he came, and, and I wasn't topping,
as if that makes any fucking difference, as if tops can't be raped," and he put
his head in his hands, moaning. God, he'd thought he'd learned these things in
college, all those classes where they'd gone over and deconstructed rape myths,
and here he was, repeating them.

"I didn't have any idea who Matt really was, or what he was doing. And I should
have noticed it earlier, or, or stopped him, or made us both slow down, but I
thought with my dick and with my stupid fucking fantasies about slaves fucking
their masters, and I raped him.

"And I can't--I can't ever trust myself with him ever again, not really, and I
don't know if I can ever have sex with anyone now, because what if I just fool
myself and rape someone else? If I can ignore that he didn't even say a real
yes I want this the first time when I asked him, how can I ever be safe around
anyone?"

Miriam said, calmly still, "Do you think you're in danger of having any
unwanted sexual contact with Matt still? Or any person?"

Foggy gritted his teeth at her subtle separation of Matt from people, but it
was a fair question. "I don't--I told him, no sex, it's a house rule, nobody
has sex in the apartment and he doesn't have sex ever, he knows that now, and I
tell him every time he's uncertain, and, and when we slept in the same bed I
told him to wake me up if I ever got hard spooning him--"

She looked faintly puzzled by that, so Foggy clarified. "I--he likes sleeping
in the same bed, it's probably some fucked-up slurry of how it's just nice
human contact and some bullshit about sleeping in your master's bed is the
ultimate honor or something crazy and evil like that. And I do too, I guess.
He's warm and if he's sleeping right there I can't worry that he's dead."

She noted that down. "That makes a lot of sense. Do you two always sleep in the
same bed?"

"No, he has his own back home--at our apartment. And it's really his, I've
never touched it or anything, that's his safe space, I'm never going to intrude
on it."

Miriam nodded. "Sounds sensible. I have a question, Foggy, if you feel up to
answering it, before you go on."

"Yeah?" Foggy said, dreading it.

"Would you have had any sex with Matt if you had known it wasn't wanted? If you
knew his real motivations?"

"No!" Foggy near-screamed. "No, no, I never would have done anything, I never,
I couldn't, I wouldn't ever do that to anyone--"

Except that he had.

"Except, I--I did. I did. I did something I never would have done to anyone to
the person I love," and Foggy felt shattered, crushed, broken.

Miriam leaned forward. "From what you've told me, Foggy," she said, "This
wasn't deliberately malicious. Now, I won't say that your feelings of guilt or
your assessment of it is incorrect. What I will say is that there are healthier
and more productive ways to deal with guilt and make amends for hurting others,
even very seriously harming them as you believe you have done. Are you
religious in any way?"

"Uh, Anna--my stepmom--my real mom--sort of--it's complicated--she's sort of
Jewish," Foggy said. "Dad was Christian, I think, but he literally never goes
to church or talks about it. He was kind of in a cult as a kid. It fucked him
up."

Miriam nodded. "If you want you, you could talk to Anna about how Judaism
handles forgiveness and making amends. From my own knowledge and participation
in religion--I'm Jewish, but I've dabbled in many other faiths--, I can tell
you that there's more than one way of thinking about forgiveness that you might
find useful. For example, in some religions, forgiveness is only able to be
granted after you go through a very specific process, and if the person
doesn't, the victim of harm is not allowed to forgive the person who harmed
them."

Foggy blinked. "Really?" he said. That sounded--well, backwards, but in kind of
a good way. Wasn't forgiveness supposed to be about how the victim felt about
the thing?

"Indeed. It could be a way for you to help deal with this guilt. Of course, I'm
not a rabbi, or any other religious leader, but I could help put you in touch
with some rabbis or other religious mentors, who may be able to help you
understand more about how to resolve this mistake and form a plan to help make
up for the harm you feel you've done Matt, or Anna could."

Foggy thought about it, and then shook his head. "Matt couldn't--Matt doesn't
even see it as rape, probably," and he felt cold and gutted at the thought. "He
suggested I start it up again, but just let him lie there and think of England
next time. He said it wouldn't be so horrible after a while because he'd get
used to it."

Miriam wrote that down. "That does make it more difficult to make amends, when
one party doesn't see anything that happened as harmful in the first place,"
she said.

"Now, Foggy, before you have to leave, I have some questions for you."

Foggy looked at her.

"You're a law student, correct?"

He nodded.

"Are you familiar with the concept of mitigating circumstances?"

Foggy glared at Miriam. "I don't believe in mitigating circumstances for rape,"
he said flatly. "I knew by sophomore year in college that there's no excuses
for rape. None. It's all just smoke and mirrors meant to help rapists get away
with it. Fuck that. I won't sell out like that."

"That's a very harsh view," she said mildly. "Is that a useful framework for
living with yourself now?"

"I don't give a fuck if it's useful," Foggy snapped. "It's true. And I won't be
some wishy-washy 'well maaaaybe he was aaaaasking for it' piece of trash. I
have too much respect for other people to do that."

Miriam wrote it down. "Well," she said. "I think this has been a good session
in terms of putting things into words that I don't think you've done before."

Foggy breathed in and out slowly. "Yeah, I guess," he said. "I can't tell Anna
or anyone else about that. God."

"That's quite understandable," she said. "Now, for my own peace of mind, what
do you plan to do in-between today and our next session in four days?"

Foggy thought about it. "I'm going to JoAnn's and I'm going to get the things
to make some baby hats," he decided. "They can't be too difficult. And then
I'll give them to the hospital or some place for Christmas. And I'm going to go
get Matt something nice, like chocolate bark or something, and them I'm going
to go home and make sure he understands that I'm sorry for raping him, and that
it was wrong of me to do that, and then I'm going to crochet and go over to
Dad's and watch something with my family, including Matt, because he's just as
important to me as them."

Miriam nodded. "Before you go," she said, "If you feel any desire to harm
yourself or others, please call me, or Anna, or anyone else you feel could
possibly help you. Here is a list of very good hotlines if you feel you'd
rather talk to a stranger. Some can be internet-messaged instead."

Foggy took the booklet from her hand.

"Thanks," he said, and stood up. "I won't do anything stupid. Matt needs me,"
and he left, determined, forgetting entirely that Matt couldn't be pushed too
hard to think of what was done to him as wrong.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from Sylvia Plath's "Mad Girl's Love Song", here:
     http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/121605605094/mad-girls-love-song
***** do you think you could be that good and strong? yes, yes, you think, but
you’re probably wrong. *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt had, in retrospect, been needing this for a while.

He knelt, not naked, but still cold, on the kitchen floor, head lowered to
press into the linoleum, collar tightened to near-choking, two toes dislocated,
and thought and thought, meditating away his anger.

Anger against free people was stupid at best. Anger against owners was
unacceptably inappropriate. It was disgusting, it was offensive, it was beneath
his dignity.

Matt refused to be the sort of insolent, poorly trained, good-for-farm-hands-
only slave that got mad at his owners for how they treated him. So he thought
about anger, and went down into the deep cave with the lake, and cleansed
himself of his revolting thoughts about how Foggy had no right to blame Matt
for his own mistakes.

And right after he surfaced and dislocated two toes, using the pain to mend the
guilt and soothe away the terror, drive home the lesson that you cannot be
angry at your owner, he heard Foggy walking with what sounded like shopping
bags into the building.

Matt dithered over whether to put the toes back in, and moved to sit up and
hide them instead--the more pain, the better the lesson was ground in to him,
like spices ground to a powder in a mortar and pestle--so that when Foggy came
back, he was resting his hands on his thighs, forcibly relaxing his face. No
need to stress his owner out any more.

"Matt," Foggy said urgently. "Matt--I need to talk to you. I need you to
understand something."

Matt tilted his head, showing as best he could that he was listening.

"Matt, I'm sorry," and Matt's veins flooded with ice water. "Matt, I need--
I need to apologize to you for, for what I did, when--earlier--"

Matt blinked. "When you used me?" he asked, trying to clarify.

"When I raped you!" Foggy cried out.

Matt sucked in a deep breath and made himself stay calm. It wouldn't do to be
angry about this. He'd just have to agree, like he did with all the things
owners said that weren't necessarily correct.

"It's okay, Foggy," he offered up gently. "I'm okay. I'm not in any danger,"
and Foggy made a quiet angry noise.

"You--Matt--fuck--" Foggy said, grabbing at his hair angrily, and Matt went
still and braced himself for anything--words or restrictions or blows, anything
at all.

"Matt," Foggy eventually said. "I don't understand why you don't believe me."

"I believe you, Foggy," Matt said back.

"No, you're just saying that," Foggy snapped. "You--fuck--what about it isn't
rape? You look disbelieving!"

Matt frowned to himself internally. He'd have to work on facial expression
control.

But if Foggy wanted his real, honest reasoning, he could give it. "Rape is
sexual contact of a person without consent. I'm not a person, Foggy," and hoped
that simple, succint phrasing would help.

It didn't. Foggy made a noise of frustration and anger and there was a sound of
slapping, Matt waited to feel the sting properly, to apologize for not agreeing
with his owner--

Except Foggy hadn't slapped him. He'd slapped himself, on the face, hard, and
was groaning like a slave who'd been beaten. "Matt--shit--what is it going to
take to make you understand that that's wrong?"

Nothing you can do will make me think that, Matt thought to himself, and then
caught himself before he said it out loud. Good lord, what was wrong with him?

Instead he thought, my owner is right and I am wrong; when we conflict, I must
change to fit my owner's desires and placed his hands open on his thighs,
making his posture change.

"I apologize for upsetting you--"

Foggy sighed heavily. Matt took the hint and shut up, the waters inside him
stirring, rippling dangerously.

Don't get angry, he thought at himself. Don't get angry. Get smart. Be
intelligent about this. Maybe you can swing a trip to Fogwell's this evening.

Matt swallowed and waited.

Eventually, Foggy said, "I just--I need you to know that when, when I raped
you--when I had sex with you--I did something horribly wrong to you. Okay? It
was wrong. You have to know that."

"Of course, Foggy," Matt said with the tone he'd perfected over the years. Calm
and submissive and enough sincerity to convince anyone. He could agree with any
asinine idea. Ones like this--that probably made sense in Foggy's axiomatic
Marshall-esque worldview--in particular wouldn't be hard.

"Goddamnit, why won't you get angry at me?" Foggy snapped, yanking on his own
hair.

Without thinking--without meaning to--Matt's mouth opened and he said, offended
pride coming through, "I'm not that poorly trained, Foggy."

Then he doubled over, hands clasped over his mouth, breaking out in fear sweat.
God, what was he coming to? The kind of uppity little idiot that had to be
broken or else he'd be no use to anyone?

"Matt," Foggy said, breaking the silence. "I'm--I'm going to go to Dad's for a
bit. I just can't--I can't. Are you going to be okay here?"

So Matt would have to stay there. That was fine; he could do plenty of workouts
inside the apartment. He nodded.

"Okay," Foggy said, and then picked up his shopping bags, turned, and headed
out. "I'm not mad," he added before he shut the door. "I'm just--I'm not mad at
you."

But that was a lie. Matt heard it, and once Foggy was out of the building,
moved and put his toes back in.

Then he started a harsh workout, focusing on getting rid of all his grossly
inappropriate emotions. He had it very, very good. He refused to jeopardize his
cushy position.
--
When Foggy got home, still breathing hard, furious at himself for trying too
hard to make Matt get angry at him, furious at Matt for lying to him, for
disagreeing with him, for talking about himself like that, furious at the whole
world that had made any of this possible, he found that Dad and Candace were
out.

"They're out at that one terrible noodle place only they like," Anna explained,
sitting at the couch, two glasses of a pale liquid in front of her.

"Come and sit down," she said gently. "Take one."

Foggy put down the crochet things--he'd work on it later--and came over and sat
down on the couch, suspicious. Alone meetings with Anna, without it being some
other activity like bowling or a movie, were inevitably about some huge thing
she thought he was fucking up and needed to stop.

Her hair was falling out of its braid bun, and she looked both tired and fond.
Also not a good sign. The last time Foggy had seen her like that, he'd been in
tenth grade and she'd sat him down to explain that while he could declare her
not his Real Mother all he liked, that didn't change the fact that the way he'd
been acting to Candace and slacking off in the house and shop was unacceptable.

(There had been the mother--heh--of all screaming fights because of that. And
angry crying. And Foggy hadn't spoken to her for six months, but then again, he
hadn't talked to Rosalind at all then either, and at the end of the silent
fight he'd been doing the dishes and helping out at the shop again, and
eventually he'd wished her a good day and then they were okay again, he and
Anna.)

Foggy picked up the glass--a small little shot-glass shaped like a skull--and
shot it, blinking at how sweet and firey it was.

"Pineapple-habanero rum," she explained at his face. "Now, sit back. You look
angry."

"Sometimes," Foggy said, mouth working ahead of his brain, the shot going to
it, "I feel like Matt is this bonsai tree, and I'm trying to get him to grow
into a redwood like he was supposed to be, but I can't, and I should
just...give up."

He turned to look at her, and her lips had tightened.

"Franklin Edward Nelson," she said, a bedrock of rage in every syllable.

Foggy gritted his teeth. This was his least-favorite part of having a mother.

"I cannot believe you," Anna said, sounding shocked and furious. "Matt is a
person. He is not your project. He is not your bonsai tree, for Christ's sake!"

Foggy's jaw dropped. Anna--Anna never swore--

"Matt is a person who is very severely injured," she said. "From what I can
tell, he's walking wounded. But he is alive, and a person, and not a thing for
you to fix. Don't you dare talk about him that way, not after he's saved your
life."

Foggy sucked in a sharp breath. She was right. Fuck. "I just--Mom, you know
that he used to be Matt Mur--"

"Stop," she said. "Don't tell me what his name was before unless he's told you
that you can."

Foggy blinked. He hadn't considered that. Matt probably wouldn't mind--

Or would he? Who was Foggy to say, really? He hadn't asked, or broached the
subject again.

"He's not what he was supposed to be," Foggy said, finally putting that lurking
feeling to words. "It's painful."

"Foggy," Anna said. "Matt is himself, and even if he's not what he was
originally 'destined' to be, he's still a lovely, smart young man. And how
would you know that he's not what he's 'supposed' to be, anyway? Are you who
you were originally supposed to be?"

"No," Foggy said, thinking about Rosalind and her plans to have a child as some
sort of saving throw. "No, you're right, that's fucked up. Shit."

Anna nodded and took her own shot. "Foggy," she said. "I know that you love
Matt very much," and Foggy jolted with shock. She rolled her eyes. "For
goodness' sake," she said. "You look at him like your father looks at me in
pictures. You made me an entire guide to take care of him emotionally. You let
him do things you're not quite comfortable with so that he doesn't get afraid.
You protect him from everyone. You love him."

She didn't sound disapproving, or angry about that. Foggy relaxed, some
invisible weight off his chest. Thank God.

Anna continued, voice softer now that she'd delivered her scolding. "I know you
love him," she said. "And I know it's hard to love someone and see all their
scars, know how much they've been hurt. Do you think I haven't wanted to fix
your father's pains, or he mine?"

Foggy felt stunned. He didn't really think of his parents as, well, people just
like him, who stumbled and fumbled and made their own way up through life.

But, well, they were. And while Foggy really didn't know all the details--Dad's
parents were in this weird cult when he was a kid, and they left and took Dad
and all their other kids with them when he was fifteen but he wasn't ever quite
normal, and then later Dad had been a heroin addict, or something like it, when
he'd been with Rosalind, she divorced him and dumped Foggy onto him, and he'd
gotten clean and met Anna at a convenience store, he'd fucked up continually
all through the courtship but Anna had loved him anyway.

Foggy realized that of course Anna wasn't angry at him for loving Matt. She
must have known how it felt to love someone so much you wanted to burn down the
world for hurting them.

"It's a normal impulse to want to shield someone from any form of harm," she
said. "And to want to go back and undo what other people have inflicted on
them. But you can't, Foggy. And you can't try. All you'll do is end up pitying
them and resenting them when they don't need you as much. You'll end up making
a fake person in your head and trying to mold the real human being in front of
you into them, and that's not right. You love who Matt is right now, with all
his scars, don't you?"

Foggy felt calm, determined, on the knife's edge. "I just want Matt to be
happy," he said, feeling like nobody understood the depth of it.

"So don't demand it," she said. "And if Matt says things that make you want to
fix him, take your own advice and don't ever think less of him for anything
he's done."

"That's how he's survived," Foggy said, realizing how he had been starting to
slip into being condescending to Matt.

"Indeed," Anna said. "Matt must be a very strong, capable person to live
through what he's lived through and still be able to function."

Foggy frowned. "You're right, but. How do you know what he's lived through?"

"Beyond the many hints? The way he constantly expects violence from everyone
around him, just as an example? I read his papers."

"Anna!" he said, shocked.

"Foggy!" she imitated him. "I wasn't about to let a stranger that Rosalind
gushed over into our home without ensuring that he couldn't be any danger to
me, my family, or my home. And he isn't, and I'm quite glad about that."

Foggy sighed and held his head in his hands. He couldn't blame her for that. It
was actually really good sense.

"I just--ugh. Matt just doesn't think he's a person, and I can't stand it," he
said, leaning into the couch more. "I don't know how to deal with it when he
says things like that!"

"I'm supposing the strategy of politely agreeing to disagree won't work?" Anna
asked.

"Yeah, no," Foggy said, recalling Matt's polite little 'of course, Foggy'
choruses.

"Then perhaps just acknowledge it with a noise and then move on," Anna said.
"It is very difficult to both respect a person's right to disagree with you and
try to force them to agree with you."

Foggy winced. "Yeah," he said. "I just--god, it's hard sometimes."

"Has Miriam made any good suggestions?"

"She says I should take up something that doesn't have anything to do with
Matt," Foggy said, and fished for the crochet supplies.

"That's good advice," Anna said.

"Yeah," Foggy said, and then paused. "Could you--I don't remember how to make
hats, and I want to make baby hats for the hospital."

"Okay," Anna said, and smiled. "I don't remember myself, but let's find some
good youtube tutorials."

Foggy grinned at her. "Okay," he said. "Sorry about being an ass about Matt
earlier."

"It's fine," she said. "Now you've identified the problem. Just make sure you
don't suffocate him while you try to protect him, alright? I ran into that
problem several times and nearly ruined my marriage."

Foggy nodded. He could do that. If he really loved Matt--and he did, with a
kind of steady fire in his limbs and a rush of electricity whenever he thought
about how strong, how dignified, how brilliant Matt was--then he had no other
choice but to neither suffocate him nor leave him out for the wolves.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title is from Sherman Alexie's "Survivorman", here: http://
     poetry.newgreyhair.com/post/54123482023/survivorman-sherman-alexie
***** more power than weapons or money or lies *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
 
Matt lay curled up in bed.
Since Foggy didn't want him doing self-maintenance the normal way, Matt had to
do it differently. He had tried to inflict sufficient pain that the endorphin
release would be triggered via the workout, but two pulled muscles and an
untreated charliehorse, while painful, weren't enough.
So instead, he'd taken a cold shower to aggravate them in the hopes that it
would work to aggravate them enough--it hadn't--and gotten re-dressed, tried to
do a healing trance for his toes and only managed about fifteen minutes of it,
and was lying on top of his covers, eyes shut, trying to get himself into the
headspace he needed to be in, trying to make himself remember how to be good.
It was hard when all he wanted to be was angry at Foggy. Matt had managed to
figure out why: part of it was that he was annoyed that Foggy was insulting
rape victims by classing them in with Matt--
(And even if he had been a person, if Foggy's axioms applied, and all this had
still happened to him, it hadn't been rape, rape destroyed people, rape
hollowed people out like eyeballs sucked from their sockets, Matt wasn't
broken, rape broke people and Matt wasn't broken, he couldn't be, so it was
just sex. Sex that hurt, that made him queasy, that was worse than the clean
pain of torn-out fingernails--but for all Matt knew, that was just another
defect of his, that he hated being used for sex. For all he knew, it was really
his fault.)
And part of it was that for all the little things Foggy had done that irritated
Matt, that made him repulsively angry, at the same time, some of the anger came
from other owners, came from other free people, and Foggy was the only owner
he'd ever had that didn't punish him for being angry at free people.
(Matt had been allowed to help insult the free people that Winter hated, had
been allowed to hate Stick, but that was it. Some other owners were fine with
Matt disliking some free people, so long as he didn't get too far above his
station. But only Foggy hadn't caught and punished him for being angry at his
owner.)
So, of course, since he hadn't been doing a good enough job at controlling
himself, Matt's anger had started to focus in on Foggy as a safe target, which
was so stupid it made him want to cry. Foggy was one of the best owners he'd
ever had. Foggy was sweet and adorable and gave Matt almost uncountably
infinite privileges. Foggy was kind. He could afford to be angry at Foggy even
less than with other owners.
But for all Matt's willpower, he hurt too much to move, and it wasn't the kind
of pain where he could lean into it and let him make it better, because he
didn't even understand precisely what he'd done wrong to make Foggy mad at him.
He'd disagreed with Foggy, and then agreed with him, and both times Foggy had
been unsatisfied. Matt knew he could perform either one better, but Foggy
didn't even seem to want one or the other.
Matt sighed. Your owner is right and you are wrong; your owner is to be
validated and you disproved; your owner is correct and you are flawed.
He'd just have to do better for Foggy.
Matt's laptop chimed with a new email. Matt frowned and told it to open it--
It was from a b.l from Columbia. Matt searched his brain for who that was and--
Oh. It was from Bee.
He got the email to open, and then listened to the text. It was a link to a
Netflix program, and Bee said they should watch it together.
"Transcribe," Matt told the computer, not wanting to plug in the braille
keyboard. It would involve too much moving. "I can't do that tonight, Foggy is
angry at me, I don't deserve that. Perhaps another time. Thank you. Matt."
He checked to ensure it had transcribed correctly, sent it off, and curled back
up, hating himself for being such a defective fuckup.
--
Foggy eventually came back home, realizing that he probably needed to apologize
to Matt, but in Matt's own language.
He wouldn't kiss Matt's hand--somehow, he was pretty sure that was just for
slaves to thank owners, and he didn't want to freak out Matt like that--but he
did get Anna to stop by a store and get doughnuts. Matt liked pretty much every
flavor of doughnuts, he'd found. He'd also grabbed a thing of salted mixed
nuts, because he was pretty sure Matt liked those.
He got two dozen--their fridge had the space, he was pretty sure--and also a
couple of bottles of organic green apple soda to make up for the fact that he
couldn't get Matt any strawberries. All the boxes looked faintly moldy at the
bottom to Foggy.
He got into the apartment just fine, and called out, "Hey, Matt!"
"In here, Foggy," Matt called back, voice sounding--strained?
Foggy took a deep breath, grabbed the sodas and the doughnuts, and walked into
the bedroom.
Matt was curled up, looking pained.
"You okay?" Foggy asked, scanning, him, trying to see any signs of injury.
There were none, but Matt still looked pained, and considering how he barely
reacted to anything, that was a bad sign.
"I have a headache," Matt offered up, looking cautious.
"Oh," Foggy said. He decided to handle it like he did when Candace got like
this. "Did you take an advil?"
Matt tilted his head. Shit, had Foggy never clarified that he was allowed to?
"Let me grab you one, and some water," Foggy said decisively, and got both.
"Liquicaps or the small ones?" he asked Matt, who looked like he did whenever
Foggy treated him like a human being with decency: shocked.
Matt eventually said, "Your decision, Foggy," and winced at himself for some
arcane reason.
Foggy didn't push. He put the liquicaps--easier to swallow--into Matt's hand
and the water in the other. Matt obediently swallowed them and drank the water,
and then sighed and turned so that he was facing Foggy more on the bed,
scrunching up.
It was both adorable and kind of heartbreaking, but then the painkillers
apparently worked fast on Matt, because his face relaxed and his posture
changed to be more lounging than curled up in agony.
"Thank you, Foggy," Matt murmured, and moved forward to kiss his hand. His lips
were so soft.
Foggy pushed away that thought firmly, and said, "So I got you donuts and this
apple soda thing, because I was kind of--pushy--earlier."
Matt looked surprised, but took a donut delicately from the box as Foggy held
it up in front of him. He picked out a chocolate icing one, and bit into it
slowly and delicately.
"Yes, Foggy," he said, and then smiled from ear to ear. "These are so good.
Thank you, Foggy," and he went from pained to relaxed.
Foggy watched up, and then picked up his own donut--cream-filling with espresso
icing--and sat down to open up his laptop.
Immediately there was an official Slave Bureau email in his inbox. Foggy glared
at it; they'd sent him an email after he got Matt and after he got Bee and
Rosalind and Winter, respectively, had sent off the paperwork to the Bureau
like they had to. Both of them were congratulatory, saying that they noted that
he was a new owner and offering links to their official slave-owner's guides.
Foggy had put them in a new folder, mostly for documentation purposes, and
opened the new one, sighing irritably. He read it, and then frowned.
"Hey, Matt, this email from the, uh, Bureau of Slavery pieces of shit says that
you have to have a medical checkup before the end of the year because of the
police report thing, and uh, an 'obedience testing' too?"
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also comes from Laura Hershey's "You Get Proud By
     Practicing".
***** oh taste how sweet and tart the red juice is, how the tiny seeds crunch
between your teeth *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
"Oh," Matt said, sounding mildly surprised, and then insulted as he went on,
"They think I need governmental supervision?"

Foggy looked it over. "They say to report to the 'slave medic and maintenance'
center in--shit, that's an hour's drive."

Matt looked, to Foggy, a lot like he had when he'd had hassles registering for
certain classes. Annoyed, but not upset or offended.

"They don't even call it an infirmary," Foggy muttered, glaring at his glowing
screen. "'Maintenance'. Like you're a car."

"Objects have to be maintained," Matt said, shrugging and taking a sip of the
soda, and then smiling at the taste.

Foggy ran a hand through his hair. How did you agree to disagree with someone
who didn't think he could disagree with you?

"Matt," he said, trying to think of a way to put it that wasn't pushy but
wasn't acquiescing to this dystopian dehumanizing bullshit. "Look, you can
disagree with me on this, or anything else, all you want, and it's fine--well,
no, it's your right as a person--to think that you're not a person, to think
whatever you want to, but I'm never going to think that, okay? Never. I won't."

Matt's face looked faintly confused, but then he nodded in acknowledgement.

"And also," Foggy said, "I hate shit like this, I hate the way it talks about
you like you're--you're--worthless or stupid or shit like that. You're not,
you're the opposite--you're--" Foggy grabbed at what he thought about how Matt
was whenever his love for him rolled up over him like the ocean.

"You're fucking incredible," he said. "You're smart as hell, smarter than me,
you'd be Hermione Granger, and you're--you're so strong. I could not have lived
through a quarter of what you have, and you're still strong and you never stop
trying. God. Nobody should ever talk about you like you're anything less than
amazing, because you are amazing."

He looked at Matt, whose skin was actually blushing shyly, and whose face
shined with a brilliant light like a sunrise. His smile belonged in one of
those art pieces that made whole countries fall in love with him.

Foggy loved Matt, and knew in that moment that this was it for him, nobody else
could possibly measure up. Matt was his one and only. He'd never love anybody
else like this, and he was just fine with that.

He couldn't do nothing, and so he got up and remembered the rule of leave Matt
alone when he's in his bed, don't touch it, ever and instead said, "You wanna--
?"

Matt rose from his bed, almost hiding his face and how happy he looked, and
climbed into Foggy's bed, wriggling into his arms, beatific and beaming.

Smart move, Nelson.

Foggy held Matt and moved so that he could still be on his laptop, balancing it
on Matt's chest, and thought about how to acknowledge Matt's patient, un-
humiliated dignity whenever anyone treated him like a slave.

"You've been through these before?" he asked Matt, running a hand through his
hair on a gamble.

The risk paid off. Matt went loose and pliable, and was still smiling as he
explained, "A few times, Foggy."

"What...what actually happens during them?"

Matt went on, voice matter-of-fact, "The medics perform an exam of the slave,
and take a lot of samples--blood, urine, saliva, and if there's infected or
open wounds, those too. They ask the owner questions to better ascertain the
health, and check reflexes, balance, height and weight. There's a few optional
checks that they can do, though if it's a government-ordered exam then they
might not be optional."

"Like?" Foggy asked, making sure he wasn't getting angry at Matt for telling
him, or talking about it like that. It was probably some sort of coping thing,
or else he just couldn't afford to stay shocked at his horrorshow of a society.

"Uh, prostate responsiveness and semen samples, Foggy," Matt said, sounding
more tentative.

Foggy didn't let himself think too much about it. "If I can stop them from
doing it, I will," he said fiercely, hugging Matt tighter to him. "I won't let
anyone hurt you if I can ever help."

Matt smiled and murmured, quietly, teasingly, "It's my job to protect you,
Foggy."

"Then let's both do that," Foggy said. "Work together. Be a team. We're good at
it when we manage. Remember when Rosalind came over?"

Matt grinned. "Yes, Foggy."

Foggy ran a hand through Matt's hair again. Matt shivered.

"How does that feel?" he asked, just to make sure, and did it again, aware that
he was playing with fire.

"So good, Foggy," Matt said, eyes half-lidded, head lolling with pleasure.
"Delectable."

Well, that was a ringing endorsement. Foggy did it again and Matt shivered and
pressed closer.

"So tell me about the, uh, 'obedience testing'," Foggy prompted. He needed to
know, he couldn't walk in forgetting his pants.

"It's a series of commands that they test to ensure slaves can follow them,"
Matt said. "Kneel, head to the floor, sit up, stand up, come here, stop, knees
and head down, hands and knees, talk, shut up, open your mouth, and so on.
Usually it's the owner who has to give the commands, and the inspector there
just writes down how fast the response time is and how effectively they're
carried out. They might have extras now, because it's not a time-check or one
done by an auction house."

Foggy breathed in and out, refusing to panic or scream. Staying calm. "We have
to do it, don't we?"

"The government can confiscate slaves whose owners don't respond to obedience
checks," Matt said. "Or owners who don't comply with government-ordered medical
exams and their required sections."

"Fuck. Okay. And I'm guessing we can't half-ass it, either?"

Matt looked offended for a second, like Foggy had said he was stupid or clumsy
or something, but righted himself. "Slaves who don't pass obedience checks are
then mandated sessions with trainers until the problems are corrected."

Foggy sucked his teeth. Shee-it.

"No," he said firmly. "Then we'll just get it over with and do it and then get
the fuck out of there."

Matt nodded. "Okay, Foggy," he said.

"I just--I don't know how I could do that to you," Foggy said. "Do they let me
be in the room when the, uh, 'medics' are examining you?"

"Yes, Foggy," Matt said, and then hesitated. Foggy recognized by now that this
was when Matt wanted to suggest something but was nervous, so he made an
encouraging noise.

Matt went on, "You could--pretend that you were one of those double agents in
the, ah, spy movies, Foggy."

"Like James Bond?"

"I was picturing the female agent from the one where she pretended to be Bond's
owner," Matt explained. "And he played the part--well, I suppose--but they both
understood that in no other circumstances would they be doing it."

Foggy blinked and thought about it. That wasn't a bad strategy. "So you think
it might be easier if I was--I dunno, roleplaying I guess--an owner? A more--
controlling--" because he didn't think Matt would get the gist of it if he used
violent or evil. "--owner?"

"It might be easier for you to play a stricter owner, instead of trying to
reason with the sort of--cretin--who works for the Slave Bureau," Matt said,
face pressed into Foggy's chest. "Still--well, not violent, I don't expect that
you'll have to hit me--but still you."

"Just some weird mirrorverse me," Foggy mused to himself. "Okay, that can--
I can try that. I guess. Would doing it before Christmas work for you? Maybe
in--hey, what about the day before I next went to therapy?"

"That would work, Foggy," Matt said, relaxing again, and then quietly offered,
"You may want to practice first? So it's easier, Foggy?"

Not a whole lot would make it easier, he didn't think, but that was still a
good idea, so Foggy said, "Sure. Let's do that."

Okay. That was a plan. A fucking terrifying, awful plan, but a plan. Foggy
could do things that were terrifying and awful--taking Candace to the hospital
once for stitches, just as an example--if he had to, and if he'd practiced
beforehand.

He held Matt close, a quiet apology for this whole fucking world.

--

Matt was so glad that he'd been forgiven. Foggy was so merciful, so sweet. He'd
even reassured Matt that he was still his doll, still important, and he wasn't
mad at him anymore.

Foggy thought Matt was incredible and amazing and so strong, his heartbeat
hadn't skipped once, and it made Matt's face flame in shy pleasure. He loved
this. He loved being owned by Foggy. It was so, so nice, a paradise of praise
and privilege and good things. He wanted to stay with Foggy forever, be held in
his arms when he got too old to be useful, grow alongside him.

They ate more donuts, and drank more of the treat, and Matt verbally
eviscerated idiots who decided to make mashed potato frosting on Cupcake Wars--
honestly, anyone who baked for a living and was still a complete disaster at it
was beyond stupid, they were a mountain of disney lemmings in human skin--and
things were so good.

He'd even earned painkillers. Matt wasn't too worried about the obedience
testing or the medical exam. He'd lived through them once before and he'd live
through them again.

Maybe he'd even ask Foggy if he could, maybe, for the exam and test, sink into
that kind of blissful, scalp-tingling headspace where he was just a slave and
was just supposed to follow his owner's commands and not think about anything
else, not have to be active and responsive and present the way Foggy wanted.

These things were always easier like that.

Matt grinned under his covers, alone and peaceful in his bed, Foggy sleeping,
and turned on the creepy podcast to listen to for a while before he slept, too.
He wanted to savor how today had turned around.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also comes from Ellen Bass's "Relax".
***** you can't wake up, this is not a dream, you're part of a machine *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
"Ugh," Foggy moaned the next morning, looking over the 'sample commands' on the
page of the crappy Slave Bureau. "Who comes up with this bullshit?"

Matt snorted from his bed. "Bureaucrats."

Foggy smiled but then looked back at words. Stand, kneel, head down, head up,
sit up, hands and knees, say thank-you, say you're sorry, speak, shut up, come
here, walk here, sit down. It was worse than the things they made dogs do.

There were also notes that said that the tests tended to have extra sections
for more complicated tasks, but that the ones ordered after police reports
mostly focused on speed and 'complete acceptance of orders'.

"Fuck these assholes," Foggy muttered, fists clenching as he read on. "God.
This is such--degrading absolute bullshit."

Matt made a noise of polite agreement, but Foggy knew him well enough to tell
that it wasn't quite all genuine. He looked over at Matt and contemplated him
for a second.

Today seemed to be a lazy day. Matt had gotten up and made them both coffee,
but carried his back to bed, and Foggy had made sure to tell Matt he could have
any painkillers he wanted whenever he wanted as long as he didn't poison
anyone, and Matt had smiled and curled up under his covers again. Foggy
wondered if he was sleeping, except that he was still talking.

Foggy himself hadn't actually gotten out of bed except to go to the bathroom
and get his laptop out again, and now he was lying, half-propped up, reading
the list of sample commands over and over with a mouthful of bile.

"I don't know if I can do this to you," Foggy said.

Matt turned over to face him, and offered up, still sleepy-sounding, "We could,
mmm, do a code, maybe, Foggy, if that's alright?"

"Huh?" he asked.

"I could do something to show you I was still okay," Matt said, eyes shut.
"That you weren't hurting me, Foggy."

Foggy stared at him and then smiled. Matt was working together with him to get
through this, thank god.

"Uh, what would be good?"

Matt shifted to put his head on his arms instead of the pillow directly, and
tilted his head in thought.

"I--perhaps a slow blink? Like cats do to indicate trust? I'm not sure if that
is very, mm, visually noticeable, though, sorry, Foggy."

Foggy thought about it. "Dude, you're blind, that's not your fault. Uh, let me
see if I'd notice?"

Matt blinked slowly and very deliberately. Foggy noticed.

"It's good," he reassured Matt. "It's noticeable once you look for it, but
otherwise it doesn't stick out, so they won't notice, probably. That's great,
Matt, thanks, we can use that."

Matt smiled. "Thank you, Foggy."

"Okay," Foggy said, and twisted his hands nervously, fiddling with a pen. "I
think--fuck--I guess we can try practicing this. Later, though. Fuck."

Matt nodded and shifted again, seeming to doze off. Foggy made sure he was as
quiet as a doormouse.

--

Performing calm relaxation for Foggy was not very pleasant at all.

It was easier than performing other things, but it made Matt uneasy, partially
because Foggy emphasized how much he wanted Matt to be honest and forthright,
and partially because a part of him really did want to curl up and relax and
drift off again.

It made him crave to be petted again, wonder if Foggy would ever kiss him on
his collar. Not on the lips--not anymore, Matt didn't think--but just on the
back of his neck where it clasped shut. A little brush of lips, the tiniest
touch. Matt felt like he would melt.

He pretended to be that loose-limbed and relaxed, pretended to be half-asleep
again, and thought about how he was just doing his job, just being good for
Foggy. Part of his duties now were to be pliable and calm and happy, to soothe
Foggy, and if Matt let his tight, tense fear show, it would just make the whole
situation far worse.

Matt wasn't worried about the obedience test. Now that he'd suggested something
that he could do to help Foggy actually give him the commands like he had to,
he wasn't worried. And besides, the list of commands was never anything
actually all that difficult if you were trained correctly, which Matt was. He
was a tiny bit out of practice at the fast physical-movement-based commands,
but he would overcome that.

He and Foggy were supposed to be a team, after all, Foggy had said.
--
Later on, though, they did have to actually practice.

"Ugh," Foggy said, looking it over. "Shit. Let's just--get this over with,
okay?"

Matt nodded. He didn't look afraid, which helped.

Foggy cleared his throat, and made himself say, "Kneel?"

Matt knelt instantly, and slowly blinked at Foggy, deliberately.

Foggy bit his lip and thought about how Matt had said it was how cats showed
trust. Matt trusted him. Matt wasn't afraid.

It wasn't as reassuring as it should have been, because Matt wasn't afraid of a
lot of things that were objectively terrifying--being a slave, for example, or
being told what to do--but it helped. Foggy went on with, "Head, um, down Matt?
Please?"

Matt bent his head down to the floor, and Foggy couldn't see his face, but he
could see the line of his back, graceful and not tense at all.

He breathed out in relief. He wasn't really hurting him; it was just to get it
over with, just to make sure they would leave him and Matt alone. It wasn't
real, and Matt knew that. He wasn't really hurting him.

"Sit up, then."

Matt sat up and blinked deliberately at him. Okay. He could do this.

"Hands and--knees."

Matt moved and Foggy almost got an erection from the sight, but instead the
shirt rode up just a tiny bit, and Foggy made himself wonder how many times
Matt had had to do that, get on his hands and knees and stay there while being
hurt, and it deflated his dick like icecubes.

"Say thank you," and Foggy winced. "Shit, you're not a dog."

Matt leaned forward, hands behind his back, and kissed Foggy's hand on his
thigh from where he was sitting in his desk chair. That didn't feel so weird
anymore, now that Foggy understood that Matt did it sincerely.

"I know I'm not a dog, Foggy," Matt murmured into his hand. "You've never asked
me to be a pet."

Foggy blinked rapidly, and then realized it was Matt reassuring him, which felt
entirely backwards. But he remembered how Anna had told him to flat-out stop
smothering Matt, and he realized that it felt backwards mostly because he
thought of Matt as more, well, fragile than he apparently was, and so Foggy
cleared his throat and went on.

"Uh, say something."

Matt's lips twitched. "Etwas, Foggy," he pronounced, sounding like himself.
Foggy tilted his head and Matt elaborated, "It's German for 'something',
Foggy."

Then Foggy grinned wide. Matt was teasing him, joking about this with him. This
was fine. It would be their secret, their in-joke.

"Okay, let's get the rest of this over with. Uh, stop talking."

Matt's mouth closed. His lips were enthralling.

Foggy tore his gaze away and went down the rest of the sample list, picking up
the ones he'd missed. Matt kissed his feet, crawled forward, stood up, walked
forward, sat down cross-legged, and throughout it all he seemed perfectly calm
and unruffled. It soothed Foggy immensely.

"Okay," he said. "Okay, we can do this. We can be double agents."

Matt smiled, but his eyes didn't quite crinkle all the way.

--

Matt had done well. Now not even Foggy seemed all that worried about the
obedience test, which meant he could focus on channeling his anxiety about the
medical exam into doing things for the two of them.

Currently, he was creaming butter and sugar for lemon-buttermilk pound cake
cupcakes with mango curd filling for the Nelsons, Foggy, and Bee Elle. It
sounded delicious to him, and baking really was soothing. He'd only had to
reassure Foggy once that he really was doing this because he liked it, and then
Foggy had made sure he'd known where all the things were in the Nelsons'
kitchen that he needed, he'd gone off to do something with Anna.

Matt made himself examine his anxiety. He wasn't worried that Foggy would
realize how much nicer being strict was--Foggy hated even the idea of being a
stricter owner. He was, however, abjectly terrified of Foggy realizing just how
defective Matt was and deciding he didn't want him anymore, or else chaining
him to the bed lest he damage Foggy's property.

Matt didn't mind being blind all that much. It was fine with him. He'd gotten
to see sunsets and tigers and his Dad's smiling face, like Stick had said, and
then he'd been able to not see Dad's corpse when he found it. It was a good
balance.

The problem was that as absolutely value-neutral as blindness was for people,
it wasn't so for slaves. Blind people were disabled; blind slaves were
defective.

And while most of his owners genuinely didn't mind--Winter never had, had said
it was fun to think of ways to work with and around it--, with rare exceptions-
-Mistress Sharon was annoyed by it sometimes, and Master Pendergrass had
declared his gaze creepy and punched him in the face until his sockets swelled
his eyes shut--and others appreciated it, licked their lips at the thought--

(Master Viktor kissing Matt's face as he thrust inside him, cooing and calling
it the most adorably tragic thing, how Matt couldn't see how lovely he really
was, couldn't appreciate the sight of his body with his legs bent and his skin
flushed and his sweet soft vulnerable neck, ripe for being squeezed)

(Master Robert saying that even a blind pet would be such a lovely addition to
his collection)

(Matt wrenched himself away from that thought with the ease of practice)

Matt was worried about Foggy's reaction. He wasn't just blind, which Foggy
seemed mostly fine with; he also had his heightened senses, whose inconvenient
side Foggy didn't seem to know about yet.

It was easy for things to taste horrific to Matt, and for fabrics to be not
soft enough. It was hard for him to not eavesdrop by accident; it was
impossible for an owner to lie to him. Smells, meant to please or set an
atmosphere, could make him gag. Sometimes he got incredible headaches, and even
migraines, and sometimes he found himself in Elsewhere without having decided
to go. He couldn't keep a perfect circadian rhythm, knotted to his owner's, no
matter how hard he tried. Even through his sense of touch, he couldn't read
print or tell bills apart or choose colors that matched all the time.

He hadn't had a full-blown migraine yet--hadn't woken up vomiting and been
unable to even think through the sledgehammer in his skull--but Matt still
worried. Foggy might--well, even probably, maybe--actually like those. He
seemed to enjoy spoiling Matt with painkillers; giving Matt something for
migraines might be just like that.

Or he might be disgusted with Matt for even having those. Or--worse--he might
decide he enjoyed taking care of Matt like that so often he'd induce them on
purpose, in which case Matt wouldn't be able to go to class or bake or do
anything except shake with pain and hope that Foggy would get bored of the
game.

Matt added in the sifted cake flour and became aware of Bee Elle standing
behind him.

[The other day, were you worried about Foggy reading your browser history or
something?]

Matt blinked and shook his head. It was just that slaves who made their owners
so upset didn't deserve to have friends.

[Was he standing right there, watching?]

"No," Matt said very quietly, folding in the eggs. "He left me alone."

Bee seemed to vibrate with rage and turned, storming off.

--

Bee fished out the Notebook.

It wasn't a computer called a Notebook; it was an actual notebook. Reading and
writing were hard for them, sometimes near-impossible, especially if they were
hungry, but the Notebook was special. It had only been started when they'd
become technically a study aid, because neither of the cunt twins cared enough
about anything or anyone that wasn't them to look through Bee's belongings.

It contained the only thing that they had had for most of their life: their
stories. It had all their stories, jotted down in notes, so that they couldn't
forget them. It had important notes about mind games and study strategies and
where to hide and which staircase to fall down in case they became pregnant.

(They had been pregnant precisely once--they knew it, somehow, in a strange
way--but before they'd gone to throw themselves down the staircase or out the
window, the cunt mother of the cunt twins had taken them to the slave medics
and they had woken up not-pregnant. They had been so relieved and empty and
hating slave medics.)

Now they fumed as they found it. They liked Foggy. He had been consistently
nice to them. He had helped free them. He was clearly in some sort of
infatuation with Matt.

And now he had gotten angry at Matt and told him that he wasn't good enough to
get to talk to them and left him alone for masters only knew how long,
punishing him with the worst thing for Matt: isolation.

They almost wouldn't have believed it if they hadn't known, a creeping dread up
their spine like an electric razor coming up to shave their head, that they
hadn't seen Foggy get angry at Matt. Foggy hadn't been actually angry at Matt
or them the whole time they'd been owned by and lived with him, so they
couldn't possibly know how he'd act when he was.

And it made sense in a sick way: Foggy Nelson was the kindest, sweetest, most
genuinely pure and lovely owner in the entire world--except when he wasn't.
Except when you made him angry.

They scribbled down Foggy Nelson has joined the ranks of the cunts.

Then they sat back to figure out how to provoke Matt, who was smear-shit-in-
your-hair-and-whistle-dixie crazy, too obedient for his own good, who talked
like a 'just got a slave' Hallmark card or an embossed fancy-schmancy hoity-
toity owner's manual and wasn't joking, into fighting back.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title taken from the lyrics of Halsey's "Gasoline".
***** your guilt is a form of acquiescence in what continues to occur *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
     Strong trigger warning for medicalized sexual assault/rape,
     dehumanization, ableism, dissociation, and forced self-harm.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The drive to the actual building was torture.

Foggy gritted his teeth and looked out the window and tried to not think about
how bad this could get. He didn't know what sort of hideous, degrading things
they could make him do to Matt--besides the degrading things he already had to
do. He didn't know what kind of things they'd say about him, besides that they
were the kind of bullshit that made him want to burn down the entire world,
kill everyone and start over.

He looked over at Matt, whose face was the blank statue mask he wore when he
was really, genuinely afraid, and resolved to stay calm, cool, and collected.
He tried to picture the scene from that one James Bond movie--the most recent
one--where Moneypenny had had to pretend to be Bond's owner and he her sex
slave, tried to draw on Moneypenny's perfect performance.

But Matt still looked afraid, and trying to hide it, so Foggy reached over and
gently wrapped his hand around Matt's, lacing their fingers together.

Matt squeezed his hand, and Foggy looked at him even more closely. Matt's lips
were deliberately slightly apart, and he was breathing silently. His eyes were
the blank slightly-off-center gaze he usually had, and the skin around them was
smooth. If it weren't for the most minute twitches in his mouth, and if Foggy
didn't know him as well as he did now, he'd have thought that Matt was
completely emotionless.

Foggy squeezed back. "It's going to be--well, it's not okay, but I'm not going
to let them hurt you, as much as I can help it," because it was a painful
trade-off: if he didn't let them hurt Matt at all, they'd kidnap him, and then
Matt would really be hurt, and if he let them do just anything, Matt would be
hurt and it would be his fault.

Foggy thought about everything Matt liked--absolutely everything--and resolved
to not just protect Matt and work with him to get this over and done with as
quick as possible, but to also find something else for him to do to apologize
for this.

They pulled in and parked in the parking garage.

"All right," Dad said. "See you two in a bit. I've got my sudoku," and he
pulled out his sudoku book.

"Thanks for the ride," Foggy said, and climbed out. Matt took his arm and they
began to walk together into hell.

--

Foggy nervously babbled sometimes, and he also had gotten into the habit of
describing things to Matt on and off, so he muttered to Matt as they walked
into the lobby, "This looks like the kind of place you go to hack into the
world government network to stop the aliens, in a movie."

Matt smiled and leaned into him for a second. Foggy turned to smile at him, and
then was interrupted by the receptionist.

"Hello, you are?"

"Foggy Nelson," he said. She typed it in and frowned. "Number?" she asked,
gesturing to Matt with a pen.

"Uh--" Foggy tried to think. He knew the number, but had forgotten it, and then
Matt murmured to Foggy, "Five-five six-six eight-two three-nine four-four-four-
one."

The receptionist raised an eyebrow but typed it in. "Alright, modified medical
and obedience test, I can see why, looks like it needs a brush-up on its
manners," she said disapprovingly, but handed Foggy a clipboard.

"Sign in."

Foggy signed, checking the time on his phone--it was a morning appointment, so
he and Matt had the maximum time afterward to go home and do whatever they
could to make Matt feel better--and wrote it in.

"Alright," she said. "Wait in the side-room there, please. Your guide will be
here in fifteen minutes or so," and went back to the computer.

Foggy went over to the room, Matt still as a statue by his side.

The first thing Foggy noticed after opening the door was the large poster
saying In Order To Save Space, Please Have Slaves Kneel Directly In Front of
Chairs, NOT To the Side.

Foggy gritted his teeth and led Matt to a chair. Almost immediately, however, a
voice came from a loudspeaker he hadn't noticed before.

"This is a no-slave seating area," the voice crackled, and when Matt didn't
move fast enough, it insisted, "No slaves are permitted to sit in the chairs."

Foggy almost snarled, but then he saw that there were five different little
security cameras, so instead he strengthened his resolve and sat down.

Matt obediently knelt in front of Foggy, facing him, still statue-faced.

Foggy chewed over the idea before he decided to just do it, but this seemed to
be more soothing than anything else he could actually do, so he took a deep
breath and gently ran a hand through Matt's hair.

Matt relaxed a bit, tension seeping out of his back, and leaned in against
Foggy's legs. Good choice, then.

Foggy kept his hand on Matt's scalp, which seemed to be loosening some of the
tension, and took the minute to glance around at the other people.

There were only three other people in chairs--no, four, one harried-looking
woman had her kid sitting in a chair next to her.

She also had a kid who looked about the same age kneeling on the floor. Foggy
stared. The poor kid was red-faced and quietly sniffling, and the woman was on
her phone, alternately playing Candy Crush and shushing her other kid whenever
he made a 'zoom' noise with the airplane he was playing with too loud.

Foggy looked between the two kids and felt an almost irrepressible urge to go
over there and--and--he didn't even know, just grab the child with the heavy-
looking metal collar around his neck and run, get him away--

Matt leaned into Foggy hard, making him startle and look down.

Matt shook his head very, very discreetly, and mouthed you can't help him.

Foggy was almost speechless, full of anger, and the he realized that Matt had
started shaking, tensing up again, and his gaze was getting more and more
distant and dead-eyed. So he made himself run his hand through Matt's hair
again and look back up.

The woman was muttering to the kid on the ground, "We're going to stay for the
whole evaluation, and then in two days I'll let you out, and then next time you
won't come telling me that you love Daddy's new wife more, will you?"

Foggy looked at her with something that felt like heartburn as the kid nodded
and sniffled harder, trying to not burst into wails. She was temporarily
enslaving her own kid as apunishment, like some sort of demented time-out.

God. What kind of a world did he live in, where people like that even existed?
--
The other person in the room in a chair was a busy-looking man. Foggy stared at
him as he absently stroked the woman kneeling at his feet's hair, never looking
up from his newspaper. She was trembling faintly, and there was something over
her mouth that looked faintly like the bottom part of a face-mask, except it
was in some shimmery, glittery material.
Her collar had spikes on it. Foggy tasted stomach acid as he looked at the
collar and not her naked body, not her bruised breasts. He had to look away
when he glanced down and saw her hands cuffed in some sort of leather bag over
them, rendering them useless. She was whimpering, not even sounding human, more
like a human imitating a dog.
Matt shivered against him and Foggy focused on keeping a calm, determined front
forward. Matt was right; there wasn't anything Foggy could do at this exact
moment to help those people.
But later--when he could--he would. Foggy couldn't just do nothing. He'd have
to do it later.
Foggy focused on being Moneypenny, calm and collected and just playing a part,
not a real owner, not a real rapist, except that that was what he was: an owner
and a rapist. He owned Matt and he'd raped him, however much he had meant to do
neither of these things.
He could feel his heart start to pump faster and faster and him start to panic,
thinking about how he was just like that man sitting there, he was even running
his fingers through his slave's hair the same way, and then Matt nuzzled his
leg and Foggy refocused.
Matt lifted his head minutely and blinked slowly at him. It helped. Matt was
still there, still present, still trusting Foggy to make it okay, to help him
endure this. He wasn't triggering Matt or sending him into flashbacks. Matt was
fine; it was just Foggy who felt like he was burning to a crisp in this
witches' oven of a room.
Foggy looked at the fourth person in a chair. It was a girl, who looked maybe
fifteen, and was chattering to her dad on the phone, explaining how she was
totally being responsible and yes dad it's okay she's totally doing fine, see
you at home afterwards.
In front of her, kneeling and coldly pissed, was a woman older than the girl,
older than Foggy, old-looking as Aunt Imelda. She had gray hair and she was
still subordinated to this tiny little teenage girl, who was now taking
selfies.
Foggy felt like he had when he discovered that his parents could make mistakes,
when he'd been six and Dad had sat him down and explained that the reason he
and Rosalind didn't live together like normal parents did on television was
that he had made a mistake in marrying her and so had she. He felt like some
illusion had been ripped away that he hadn't consciously realized had been
there.
The world wasn't just crooked. The law wasn't just incomplete. It was wrong, on
a cosmic level. This everything--this building, this protocol, this loudspeaker
and the cameras, the crappy Bureau's website, the official documents, the
decommissioning certification, the classes of slavery--this was all wrong, in a
Lovecraftian way. Foggy felt like he'd just glimpsed some ancient, malicious
horror, and was going insane.
He resolved to talk about it in therapy and instead just get through this.
They'd go home and he'd do something really nice for Matt and look at kitten
videos and they'd be okay. Everything would be fixed.
Then the door opened and the loudspeaker announced, "Guide for the owner of
slave number--
And there it became the exact same robotic voice the self-checkouts used at
Safeway, Foggy realized hysterically--
"Five-five-six-six-eight-two-three-nine-four-four-four-one has arrived."
Foggy looked through the door and saw a man with a bowl cut of curly brown hair
and a bizarre nose, dressed in jeans and a Wonder Woman t-shirt and a blazer
with a name tag that said ASHTON, grinning and saying, "You're next, Mister,
uh, Franklin, can I call you Franklin?"
Foggy looked at him flatly. "My name is Foggy. His is Matt."
"Well come this way, Mister Foggy, and I'll take you to the appropriate rooms,"
the guy--Ashton--said cheerfully. "I'm Ash, like Ash Ketchum, gotta catch em
all! Mostly pokemon, but slaves too, we try to catch all behavioral issues
before they become...serious. Come on, you're almost late!"
And with that Foggy stood up and so did Matt, and they left the first room,
feeling rather like Dante descending into the levels of hell.
 
 
--
 
Ashton walked backwards ahead of Foggy as they left the room, Matt holding onto
Foggy, squeezing his arm, face blank.
The hallways felt like they should have been derelict, smeared with grime, with
rats scurrying around. Instead they were bright and gleaming, clean and lit
steadily, with a lot of windows and strong sunshine.
Foggy hated everyone in the world except Matt as they walked, for letting any
of this exist.
Ashton prattled as he walked, "Now see, first it appears we have the modified
medical--there's a couple of extras that have been made mandatory here, not
sure why, maybe just because he's so cute--"
Ashton reached out one hand to ruffle Matt's hair, and without even thinking
Foggy had maneuvered himself in the middle. "No."
"Oh, you don't like anyone else touching your property, okay, that's good
actually!" he chirped, scribbling it down on his clipboard, which had little
Pokemon and Batman stickers all over it.
Foggy stared at the Batman stickers. How could he be a fan of Batman, who was
an anti-hero for condemning so many criminals to slavery, and yet work here?
"Oh, I love Batman, you're a fan too?" Ashton said, grinning. "I love him. He
really inspired me to come here and help make everything more humane!"
Foggy...refused to respond to that. Instead he focused on Matt, who was
completely silent, but didn't seem exactly out of it yet.
"Anyway, so then there's the obedience test...ooh, you're not gonna like that
bit, but it's necessary, so I'll make sure that you can get it over nice and
quick, and then you'll be out of here in a jiffy, I'm sure you're eager to keep
having fun with this little guy!"
Foggy stared at him and said nothing.
"And in any case, here we are, the medic room...I'll be back once the exam is
completed! Have fun!" Ashton said, bounding away and shutting the door behind
him, which automatically locked.
Foggy looked around the room. There were four people in the room, two with lab
coats, the other two just in nurse's scrubs. All of them were, inexplicably,
wearing those paper mouth-nose masks and those blue gloves.
"The slave should strip and stand there."
Foggy gently nudged Matt, who proceeded to start stripping, handing his clothes
to Foggy. Foggy worried for a second if the sight of Matt naked would arouse
him, but he didn't have anything to worry about. This was the least sexy
situation Foggy could think of.
"Alright, we've got a cubby over here," one the nurses said, pointing to a
small wooden box. "You can also put your coat in there too, if you'd like.
Depending on how compliant 4441 is, this might take a while."
Foggy took a deep breath, didn't hit her, and put the clothes in the box.
"Now, if you'd like to take a seat over there--" the nurse said, pointing to a
chair on the other side of the room, almost ten feet from Matt.
"No, I'm good," Foggy said, and kept standing, folding his arms and coming so
that he was standing as close to Matt as possible, who was naked. Foggy could
see tiny goosebumps forming on his arms and legs. Matt's head was pointed
directly ahead, and he held himself still.
"Alright, 4441, demonstrate walking, we need to see any impaired movements,"
one of the doctors, androgynous-sounding and dark-eyed, commanded. Matt turned
and walked five steps, then turned and walked back.
"No impaired movement," the doctor said. "Next, come here and sit upright." The
doctor was pointing to the flat wooden table.
"He means the table in the middle of the room, two feet directly in front of
you," Foggy told Matt, who proceeded to walk there and sit up on the table,
spine straight.
"Hmmm," the other doctor said, a blonde man. "So let's see...from previous
records we've got defectiveness in the form of complete lack of light
perception."
His voice had a strong Californian accent. He tutted disapprovingly, and Foggy
hated him.
"Alrighty then," the other nurse muttered, with an air of irritation. She had
bright red hair, tucked into a bun. Her scrubs had little pink squids on them.
Foggy hated her too.
"Double-check pupils," the Californian doctor told the red-headed nurse. She
checked a flashlight, and then sighed at the complete lack of response.
Foggy moved so that he was standing next to Matt, trying to do as much as he
could. He kept his calm. He couldn't stop this now. He'd have to stop it from
happening again some other time.
"No response," she reported.
"Alright, Shannon, that's to be expected. Now let's see...what else is on here?
Height, weight, proprioception check, blood pressure and pulse, temperature,
pharyngeal reflex, other reflexes, muscle tone, injuries, rectal sphincter
responsiveness, eight vials of blood, urine sample, hair and skin samples,
prescribing medication for the defectiveness if necessary, basic tooth
check...oh, and let's save the best for last."
What the hell were they saving for last? Foggy wondered, but kept an iron grip
on himself. If Matt had to endure this, he had to stay calm and help him get
through it.
"Let's begin with basic injuries," the Californian doctor recommended. "Then
the measurements, then the blood draw. Now, 4441, move onto your back..."
There was something horribly wrong about them as they directed Matt to move,
spread his thighs, peered at his genitals, and then looked at every inch of
skin. Shannon and the other nurse peering closely at every patch of skin,
experimentally pressing into patches of tissue.
Matt never flinched or made a single noise. It was almost like he wasn't really
there at all, the idea of which made Foggy panic.
"Huh, Dr Jordan," Shannon said to the androgynous doctor. "These two toes have
been recently dislocated and then put back in. Expertly done, too."
What? When had Matt dislocated his toes and how?
Foggy filed that away as something to ask about later, when they weren't knee-
deep in enemy territory. They didn't even seem to be aware that they were
looking at a human face as they peered at his eyes.
"Okay, I don't see any signs of injury, let's move onto measurements," the
Californian doctor declared. Shannon and the other nurse nodded, and then the
other nurse said to Matt, "4441, go stand on the scale."
Matt got up off the table and turned to walk, but, Foggy realized, the scale
wasn't different enough from the other low rectangular metal things--probably
stepstools--so he said, "It's four feet to your southeast."
Matt turned and walked to it mechanically. Foggy wondered why he wasn't
talking, and then realized that if he didn't say 'master' or something else
equally as spine-crawlingly wrong it would probably get put down as something
that could have Matt mandated to go to the trainers', and Matt probably thought
that Foggy would be mad at him for not just saying 'Foggy'.
He'd have to reassure Matt later that he'd happily endure any kind of social
pain, rather than see Matt get hurt.
Matt stood on the scale, and the other nurse looked at Foggy. "Do you ever get
tired of telling him where things are?"
"No." Foggy said.
"Really? You know that we don't have anything for his defects."
"I don't care," Foggy said, focusing on not arguing with her that Matt's
blindness wasn't a defect, it wasn't a missing hubcap.
"You're okay with having an inconvenient slave?" she asked again, arching an
eyebrow. Foggy watched Shannon put a blood-pressure cuff on Matt, and then take
his pulse.
She put it down as nine-five. He looked at the other nurse, and wouldn't have
responded if he didn't know Matt was listening.
"Matt isn't inconvenient," Foggy said, because Matt wasn't. Sometimes he was
really frustrating because he dehumanized himself so much, but he wasn't
inconvenient. "He's absolutely brilliant. There's nothing wrong with him."
"Well, physically, you're mostly correct," Dr Jordan, the androgynous one said.
Matt was walking back upon request to the table and sitting down. "So far
there's nothing particularly wrong, besides the blindness. Now let's get those
blood vials, Raya, and then Shannon, I want you to get the hair, skin and then
the urine sample."
Raya walked over and started efficiently setting it up. Foggy watched Matt
carefully, and was worried, right up until Matt slowly blinked at him.
Thank god. He wasn't out of it. He was handling it well.
"You're doing good," Foggy told Matt, and was relieved at how his lips twitched
at the corner. Matt was also just playing his part.
Shannon snipped off a tiny piece of hair, remarking that it was 'such a shame,
it's good hair' and putting it in a bag. Then she used some sort of pinching
thing to take a small sample of skin on Matt's shoulder, and put a band-aid
over it.
There was something deeply creepy about the way none of them spoke to Matt
directly except to give orders, and none of them looked him in the eyes at all.
Foggy didn't often try to look in Matt's eyes--it was hard, he couldn't hold a
center gaze all that well--but he had kept trying reflexively for the first
month he'd been around Matt.
Probably it had something to do with how he knew Matt was a person.
Shannon packaged the skin and then got a cup. Foggy blinked and opened his
mouth to ask if they weren't about to do that in a bathroom, let Matt do it,
but before he could say anything, Shannon grasped his cock and put the head in
the cup.
Matt gave the tiniest twitch, and Raya tch'd from where she was getting the
fifth vial.
"4441, piss," Shannon said, and Matt's toes curled in fear but he did, eyes
watering faintly, his face turning red.
Raya looked at him disdainfully. "Is it embarrasssed? Jesus," she said, and
made a disapproving noise.
Foggy wanted very badly to pick up one of the footstools and hit her in the
head with it until her skull was paint on the floor. And then kill Shannon, and
get Matt, and run out of there.
But he couldn't. So instead he did the only thing he thought he could do, the
thing he should have been doing.
He navigated closer, picked up the hand of the arm that wasn't giving blood,
and squeezed it gently.
Matt shivered all over, and Foggy wanted to elbow the doctors out of the way
where they were standing behind Matt, but he couldn't risk it. He put both
hands over Matt's.
Shannon snorted, closed the cup, wiped off the head of Matt's dick with a cold
wipe, threw away her gloves, washed them, and got new ones.
Raya finished with the vials of blood, put them somewhere to the side,
extracted the needle, and bandaged Matt's elbow.
"Now, 4441 looks in good shape," the Californian doctor said to Foggy. "So we
don't have to do any stress-testing, I don't think. Let's do the proprioception
check. 4441, close your eyes--oh, dear, that's useless."
Shannon snorted. "Just like it."
Foggy glared at her. "Matt is not useless."
Matt breathed in and out deeply, silently, face an unmoving titanium mask, like
Han Solo frozen in carbonite.
"Well, anyway, put your arms out and then touch your nose with your fingertips.
Matt did it, Foggy letting go of his hand.
"Huh. That's better than normal. Anyway, now let's see--quick muscle tone
check, then mouth first, then we can get the dirtiest parts done and move onto
medication and the next one. Stand up, 4441, and flex your arms, then your
legs. Alright, that looks good. Now your back. Hrm. Get over here," and he
squeezed Matt's calves, then his thighs, and then his upper and then lower
arms, and then his ass.
"Hey!" Foggy objected.
"This is a muscle too," the doctor said, winking at Foggy. "And a damn fine
one. This is such a good specimen--pity about the defect. Now back on the
table. I'll do the mouth checks."
Matt sat back on the table. The doctor had him open his mouth, and then he
absently checked the teeth, noting that they were all straight and there. "I'd
recommend a more specific dental check," he told Foggy. "Just to be sure."
Foggy thought about killing him, and didn't. He squeezed Matt's hand
rhythmically. Matt squeezed back.
"Now, hrm. Temperature. Shannon, thermometer," and Shannon handed him one. The
doctor put it under Matt's tongue, and had him close his mouth.
"Normal temperature. Good. No signs of infections. I hate it when they get
sick, spreads throughout the herds," the doctor muttered to himself. "Now we've
got to check all the reflexes. Raya, do the knees real quick while I get the
pharyngeal reflex instrument," and Raya did the rubber-mallet-on-the-knees
thing.
Matt's legs didn't twitch, which made her frown.
"Well," she said, but didn't write anything down. Foggy looked around for why,
and saw a small army of cameras all in the ceilings, recording all of it, with
little microphones attached too.
God. What kind of world had he been living in?
Foggy missed his blissful ignorance, and then he immediately hated himself for
being such a selfish jackass, and squeezed Matt's hand tighter, stroking over
it.
"Now," said the doctor, coming back with something made of clear plastic that
looked uncannily like a very thin dildo in his hands. "I doubt it'll have
reemerged. But let's see. 4441, open mouth."
Matt opened his mouth.
The doctor put the thing in, and pushed it down and down and down. Foggy said,
almost panicked at the horrible sight, "Won't he choke?"
"Not likely," the doctor said. "See? No gagging. We'll do re-insertion twice
more. And don't worry, we use only medically safe silicon here. No phthalates,"
and he flashed an eye smile.
Foggy wanted to run and hide and wrap Matt up in a million blankets and never,
ever let anyone near him ever again. He was never going to stop having to
apologize to him for this.
The doctor, true to his word, took it out, wiped it off, and shoved it back in
three more times, each time rougher. Matt didn't choke, didn't react, didn't
even seem to be there.
Foggy squeezed his hand, and miracle of miracles, Matt squeezed back.
"Alright," the doctor said, putting it to the side. "Just the two least
favorite of our tests left, then prescriptions. Jordan, come and take over."
Dr Jordan nodded and came forward. "We'll do rectal sphincter response first,
and then get our semen sample," and Foggy broke out in cold sweat.
Fuck. Fuck. He couldn't do anything but stand there and watch and wait for it
to be over.
 
 
--
 
Matt wasn't there.
Or, at least, he was trying hard to not be there. He was trying to drift off,
trying to keep his mind away from the room and the medics. It was not safe to
be around medics. It was not safe to be there, in that room, that building, and
Matt tried to escape in his mind, but he couldn't.
He attempted to use some of his less-common tricks as he lay on his side and
pulled a knee up like he was ordered--thinking about how it had felt to swim in
oceans, reciting the proof of Gödel's incompleteness theorems, recalling how
one of Taylor Swift's songs went, reorganizing the cupboards of Foggy's
kitchen--but he couldn't make himself go away in his head.
Matt couldn't decide if it was cruel or kind, Foggy holding his hand. Cruel
because it was anchoring him, keeping him sewn inside his body, or kind because
it was soothing him, reminding him that Foggy hated this too, that Matt wasn't
alone.
Either way, his owner was distressed and it was his job to soothe that
distress, so Matt squeezed back hard as the doctor had the nurse fit a plastic
bag over his genitals and then examine him.
There was the standard small electric shock to make sure the muscles could
contract, and then the nurse--the one called Shannon--made a quiet noise of
disgust as the bag filled with urine.
It's involuntary, you shock so close to the genitals, and none of you calibrate
them so this doesn't happen, it happens, it's not my fault, Matt wanted to
scream. He clamped his mouth shut. Foggy wasn't disgusted, he didn't think.
Foggy's body sounded angry and upset and viscerally afraid. Matt realized he'd
been squeezing hard enough to probably hurt him, and hastily relaxed his hand.
"Okay, now that that's over with," Dr Jordan said as Shannon touched him again
to clean him off, "Let's get the semen sample and get out of here. Hey,
Winston, you're already writing the scripts?"
Matt tried even harder to mentally escape as he heard Foggy protest, ask why it
was necessary, was it actually mandated, and heard the other doctor--Winston--
say that it had been ordered by some higher-up and if it was up to them they'd
never do something so repulsive.
It's the body that this is happening to, not you, you're not here, you don't
exist, it's just the body, it's just the thing you drag around to use-- Matt
thought, trying to go away without permission, but the word use just made him
think of being used by Foggy and how sorry Foggy seemed to be to have done it
and something about that made him want to cry.
Matt focused. He wasn't going to cry. He hadn't cried at the medics since his
first intake, not since he'd first been taught how to go Elsewhere before them.
He didn't even really remember other times he'd been at the medics--well, no,
he remembered the appendicitis disaster, and Winter coldly fighting his way
through the paperwork and red tape to get him into surgery as fast as they
could, and then how afterwards Summer had fed him her best broth and Winter had
let him have painkillers all the time, all four weeks. It had been more than
worth the pain and sickness and fear. They had been so kind to him.
Foggy would have been kind, Matt thought suddenly. If he'd been Foggy's at the
time when he'd gotten appendicitis, he'd have been kind. Matt still would have
gotten painkillers, and been allowed to lie down and sleep anytime he felt like
it. Foggy would have taken care of him.
Matt was unpleasantly jolted back into his body by the nurse--Raya--starting to
stroke his dick with cold lubricant. He thought, a little hysterically, that if
what they wanted was ejaculation then they should have warmed it up beforehand.
He started to shake a little, not on the outside, as his dick was touched. He
didn't want to be touched. It felt wrong--worse than being touched by an owner.
Foggy had promised, over and over, that he wouldn't have to have sex again, and
he meant it. Matt realized with a sharp clarity that that was probably why he
was angry at the medics for this sample in particular--because they were
forcing Matt to have an orgasm.
Apparently not a real one, because as soon as Matt's genitals involuntarily
started to come--him tightening his muscles, using that trick--the hand was
gone, ruining any pleasure from the orgasm. Good. Matt wasn't supposed to have
any orgasms now.
Matt heard the nurse tell Foggy that they weren't about to give any slaves the
wrong idea or break any training regimen by not ruining it. Foggy's heartbeat
was like thunderclaps. Matt imagined what he would say if they were anywhere
else.
Matt is not useless. Matt isn't inconvenient. He's absolutely brilliant.
There's nothing wrong with him.
Matt smiled a little. His fears hadn't come true. Foggy genuinely wasn't lying
when he said he didn't care about having to compensate for Matt's
defectiveness. Foggy didn't mind. Matt wouldn't be thrown away for something
that was only partially his fault.
(He hadn't seen the barrels of chemicals, he'd just seen the man, the old man,
he'd looked like someone's grandpa or something, and he hadn't even consciously
decided to go and save him, he just did it, and he was a child. It wasn't
really his fault that he was blind.)
Matt resolved to be especially good for Foggy in the next few weeks. He'd have
to do something wonderful for him for all this support, this fellow hating of
the medics. Maybe he could go buy him a Christmas present--get permission to
wrap the scarf around his collar or just wear a face-mask hoodie so nobody
noticed it and he would be guaranteed to not have to call Foggy to prove he was
allowed somewhere.
(Mr Fogwell had never asked him, but three times, a cop on the street had asked
Matt for proof of him being allowed to walk outside alone. Thankfully all three
times it was easily solved by him meekly calling Foggy and the cops going on to
try to harass some poor other slave, but still. Matt wouldn't spoil a Christmas
present surprise.)
He realized that now Foggy was holding his clothes and taking pieces of paper
that sounded like prescriptions, and Foggy was saying gently, "Matt, now we
have to go."
Matt moved to standing and took Foggy's proffered arm.
"Apparently you can't redress for the 'obedience test'," Foggy muttered as they
walked out of there. Out of there, away from the medics, hallelujah.
Matt nodded. He'd expected that. And now nobody was forcing him to be
disgusting, he didn't much care. Anyone who saw his naked body was lucky. It
was beautiful, he'd been told that over and over again.
He walked with Foggy to the next part, where it was his job to help his owner
get through this.
He squeezed Foggy's arm minutely as they walked. Matt didn't bother to pay
attention to the guide, even though he could tell Foggy was.
 
 
--
 
The guy was getting on his very last nerves.
Foggy tried hard to keep his cool. But he'd just had to hold the hand of the
person he knew he'd be loving for the rest of his life while they were raped,
and he hadn't even been able to hold him or touch his hair. It was not easy.
Thankfully, they were out of the worst of it, but the twerpy fucking piece of
dogshit that was now chirping about how the people giving the tests--like me,
that's my department--are such humanitarians, don't worry about a thing at all
was not exactly a good sign.
Ash nattered on about how really it wouldn't take all that long since
'4441' had been nice and compliant during the exam. These monsters here didn't
even use Matt's full number when they were talking about him, much less
hisname.
Foggy gripped Matt tighter as they walked and walked down a labyrinth of
dizzyingly identical corridors, the rooms marked only out by number, the
windows freshly cleaned.
There was the sound of a child sobbing as they walked past one door, and Foggy
turned his head to look--
And Ash sniffed disdainfully. "The fresher stock are always a bit loud at the
beginning," he told Foggy. "We're working on a program using more automated
Skinner boxes to ensure that they comply in full faster and more thoroughly.
There's been a surge of slaves that are only obedient to one owner lately, so
we're thinking about instituting a project that would have more mass-testing
with a revolving door of administers. I'm pushing for it, but it might take a
few years to go through."
Foggy wondered what it was about him that made people think he agreed with
their insanely disturbing opinions. Was it his face? Did he smell like he was
evil? What was wrong with him that every fetid asshole, every rancid pile of
slop inside a skin-suit of a human being thought he'd agree with their
bullshit?
Ash flipped through more papers on his clipboard as they stopped walking in
front of a room. "We're here now," he said brightly. "Okay, you step inside,"
he said to Foggy, and then pointed into the middle of the room and adopted a
high-pitched, weirdly intonated tone as he ordered Matt, "And you step there,
widdle guy!"
Foggy just barely managed to not laugh at the sheer horrible weirdness of the
situation. Matt stepped uncertainly inside the room.
"Okay, I'll be back in a second," Ash said cheerfully, and locked the door
behind them.
"God," Foggy said, walking over to Matt. "The--guy--" he couldn't say
cockroach, not with the surveillance, "--pointed at the center of the room," he
added, and Matt walked over, head held high, and stood, perfectly calm.
Him being naked made Foggy feel exposed. He pushed past it and glanced at the
cameras, and thought about what he could pass off as normal slave-owner
behavior, and then he walked over and gently cradled Matt's head to his chest,
stroking his hair.
Matt sighed and his knees bent, folding his legs under him. He angled his face,
and blinked slowly at Foggy.
Oh, thank christ. He was okay--well, as okay as he could be expected to be.
Matt wasn't completely helpless. He would be okay.
"Awww, that's so cute," Ash cooed as he came in, holding something that looked
like an exacto knife and his clipboard. "What a total cutie-pie he is," he
added, grinning at Matt.
Matt's eyebrow twitched. Foggy turned to look at Ash, hands still in Matt's
hair. His soft, silky hair.
"Anyway," Ash said brightly. "Here's a list of commands," and Foggy reluctantly
let go of Matt and took it, skimming.
Something caught his eye. "Uh, that says 'name a blue object in the room',"
Foggy said with a frown. "He's blind."
"Oh? Well, oh my gosh, I didn't notice. Then let's just rule that one was not
applicable due to defectiveness--see, it's right there, no light perception, I
totally should have seen it, wow," and Ash took back the paper and made a
little note next to it.
"Do you ever find that it's annoying, having such a--well, I don't want to be
rude, but I suppose feeble works--having such a feeble, defective slave? I'm
curious."
Foggy wanted to tell him to go fuck a duck. Instead he said, his voice sounding
completely emotionless despite the storm threatening to bleed out his ears,
"There is nothing defective or 'feeble' or wrong with Matt in any way."
"Really? I guess it must have lowered the price, at least," and Ash sounded
skeptical.
Foggy stared at him. "Matt was last sold for--it was seven and half million,
wasn't it?" he asked Matt, who nodded, the barest hint of a smile on his lips,
unnoticeable as spider silk.
"Wow? Really! That's..as much as I'll make in a hundred and eighty-seven years
and six months!" he sounded jealous. Foggy smirked internally, trying to keep
his face still. Yeah, asshole, Matt is worth more than you--if you could put a
dollar value on a person, which you can't, he hastily backtracked, even in his
own head.
"See, now I wish they let the ones like me read through all the ownership
records, and not just the basic briefs, because then I'd ask if maybe I could
give this adorable little sweetie a little petting myself," and somehow the
baby-talking was the worst part.
Foggy...couldn't. So he held out his hand for the paper, and Ash chuckled and
handed it to him. "Maybe later, then?"
"No," Foggy said absently, looking it over. He couldn't make himself read it
more than one line at a time then. "Let's just do this."
"Al-righty then! Go ahead and start and I'll make a note of any problem areas."
Foggy twitched and started.
--
Matt made sure to blink slowly each time he did what Foggy said. He was quick
and smooth, and none of the commands were difficult. When Foggy got to "Say
something", Matt cleared his throat and quoted softly, "Der klügste Krieger ist
der, der niemals kämpfen muß."
Foggy relaxed a bit that at, even though Matt knew he didn't speak any German.
"What's that mean?" the guide--loathsome little cockroach that he was--piped
up.
Foggy casually lied, "Oh, it's just a 'thank you for being nice, master'. Is
this room audio recorded?"
"No, we just do visual for the obedience testing," the guide said. "And oh,
that's so cute, he's just such a small little snuggle bunny inside, I can see
that now."
Matt imagined himself slitting the guide's throat for Foggy. How the skin would
sound as it parted, the gush of the artery, the blissful silence as his voice
was gone from the world.
Foggy said nothing, but Matt could guess that he wasn't pleased. Thank
goodness. Matt had had to pretend to be a pseudo-child for three months once,
and he didn't want to repeat that particular failure.
"Anyway, next is--okay, arch your back," and then it was just the rhythm of
command and obey again. Matt fell into it, slowly blinking each time, Foggy
calming down.
Then they hit a nasty snag as Foggy, instead of going on, said, "Wait, what?"
The guide nodded, his hair--cheap Old Spice shampoo and coconut oil--swishing
against his ears. "You've gotten to the new section. Here, you need this," and
handed Foggy--
Was that a knife?
Foggy spluttered. "You can't expect me--what the hell?"
"I'm afraid we do," the guide said, sounding genuinely regretful. "It's
barbaric, but what can you do? Just get it over with."
Foggy swallowed, and Matt, sitting up on his knees, slow blinked again. Then
Foggy said, sounding mildly afraid but much more like he did in mock-trial,
angry and determined and utterly in control of himself, "The next thing is 'cut
yourself with this," and he held out a hand with an object.
Matt reached out and delicately took it, brushing Foggy's fingers as he did.
It was, in fact, a small knife.
 
 
--
 
Foggy watched with building, helpless horror, as Matt held the knife to the
back of his forearm and very quickly sliced himself in the shape of a heart.
"Wow! Well-done, you little champ!" Ash cooed, and then straighted up. "Sorry,
I know he's your property, and that was a bit unprofessional, but that was just
too cute for words. I can't even see why the complaint was filed!"
Foggy stared at him. "What complaint?"
"Oh, well, the police report would have warranted the most basic medical exam
and a brief obedience test--unfortunate savage leftover ritual included--but a
guy said that a more thorough medical was needed, someone named Jay Bee Bee
Winter?"
Matt twitched, his face going blanker and flatter, his back tightening with
tension. Shit.
Foggy focused. He needed to get Matt out of here. "Are we done, or--"
"Well, there's three more commands left," Ash said.
"Right. Fuck. Okay," Foggy said, looked at them, and took a deep breath.
"Apologize to your owner," and Matt moved forward and kissed each shoe, lips
lascivious.
"Thank your owner," and Matt leaned up and kissed each hand, not blinking
slowly.
God-damn shit. But he had to do the last one, and Foggy swallowed. "Mouth at
your owner through their pants," and Matt leaned forward and did it, and then
Ash said, "That's all, folks!"
Foggy hastily added, "Stop!" and Matt stopped.
Foggy breathed in and out, trying to gather his thoughts and deflate his
erection.
There was a scream, loud and piercing and deadening, and then a very loud thud.
That did the job.
Ash said, smile still there, "Now let me guide you back to the lobby."
"Matt can get dressed first," Foggy rebutted. He hoped it would help, and
either way, he wasn't going to ever voluntarily participate in this circus.
Ash tilted his head and then shrugged. "I suppose. Now, we'll stop by medical
again for the cut--"
The crimson was oozing across Matt's skin. Foggy looked at it and winced. "No,
we can just use the first-aid kit I've got in the car."
Ash frowned. "If you're sure."
Foggy was absolutely, beyond any semblance of doubt, sure. "Yes. I'm sure."
Matt got redressed in his t-shirt and jeans, underwear and socks, face still
the statue-like mask he had, back tight and toes curling as he pulled on his
shoes. Foggy felt an enroaching fear that the revelation that the person
responsible for this was someone Matt (inexplicably) loved was too much, and
now Matt was completely out of it.
Shit. He hoped he was wrong.
Foggy guided Matt as they got back to the lobby, Ash checked them out with the
receptionist, giggling with her about how super cute Matt was, and they
finally, finally left.
--
"He okay?" Dad said, frowning at them as they got back to the car. "Is that
blood?"
"Yes, and let's just--let's go home, Dad, drop us at our place," Foggy said,
focusing on Matt and fishing out the first-aid kit.
"Shouldn't he go back in to get that--"
"NO!" Foggy shouted, and then realized what he had done. "No, dad, look--I'll
explain later--we need to get home right now."
"Alright, alright," Dad grumbled. "We'll go once you two get buckled."
Foggy fumed but bandaged up Matt, who was okay enough to buckle his own
seatbelt, and then they left, Dad putting on the fucking Beatles.
They sat in complete, worried silence. Foggy held Matt's hand, not wanting to
provoke some argument by stroking his hair in front of Dad, and told him over
and over again that it was okay.
Matt's hand remained limp in his grip.
--
At home, once they got out of the car and into the apartment, Foggy turned to
Matt.
"Cuddle party?"
Matt shivered. "I--" he said, and then swallowed hard.
Foggy made as soft an encouraging noise as he knew. "It's fine, whatever you
want, you deserve anything you want after that."
Matt paused. "Can I--go running, Foggy?"
"What? Now?"
Matt flinched. "Sorry--"
"No, no," Foggy backtracked. It was just that Matt always seemed to like
cuddling before, but he guessed it was actually probably good that he was
saying noto touch. "It's fine, it's totally fine, just--be careful, okay?"
Matt nodded. "Of course, Foggy," he murmured. "Nothing will damage your
property", and he went to go get a hoodie--a large black one Foggy had gotten
for him back when he was still mostly ignoring Matt and hoping he'd go away--
and his oh-shit-kit, and then Matt slipped out.
Foggy watched him go uneasily. If Matt wanted space, he'd give him space. But
he still didn't know how Matt would be, or how to process any of the things
that had happened.
He went to the kitchen, grabbed a sandwich, and put it down in his calendar to
talk about that shit in therapy. He definitely couldn't actually talk about it
with Dad; either Dad would get way too upset or he wouldn't get upset enough,
and both ways would be awful. Then Foggy laid down, went on that 'tumbler' site
Candace was always on, and onto her own blog's 'cute things' tag--she'd sent
him a link years ago. He needed some cuteness.
There Foggy scrolled through pictures of puppies and kittens and armadillos and
waited for Matt to come back, hoping like hell that he would be okay when he
did.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title is also from Andrea Dworkin's "I Want A 24-Hour Truce
     During Which There Is No Rape".
     Matt's quote in German is a translated quote from Sun Tzu's 'The Art
     of War'. In English, it means "The smartest warrior is the one who
     never has to fight."
     I picture Ash as Jesse Eisenberg.
***** wouldn’t it be much worse if life were fair, and all the terrible things
that happen to us come because we actually deserve them? *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt didn't even enjoy the first half of the run.
He ran, and ran, across the rooftops, in the alleys, and he kept going over
obstacles and under clothes-lines, going and going and going, until he found an
empty, abandoned warehouse.
Making sure it was actually abandoned--it was--he went inside, ducking around
broken glass as best he could, found a wall, sat down, pulled his knees up to
his chest, and screamed.
He screamed and screamed, and in that wordless scream was everything he had
ever wanted to say, all the words he choked down and swallowed, everything he
didn't even let himself think.
And then, eventually, it ended, and Matt took a few deep, sobbing breaths, and
let himself do the unthinkable for a little while.
He thought about running away.
He thought about how badly he wanted to just run, to get anywhere else, to take
his chances.
But at the same time, he knew it would be beyond stupid. It would be the most
humiliating, frustrating exercise in futility, a farce more facetious than he
could bear.
The closest country without any slavery was Chile; even if he could get there--
or to Thailand or Papa New Guinea or somewhere else--where would he go? What
would he do? How would he get there?
And besides, they would expedite him back, for a fee. Any slave worth half a
million or more was shipped back as a criminal. He would have to hide from
everyone--American bounty hunters, government-hired and non, the government
agents of whatever country he hid out, every person on the street. He would
have no friends, no family.
At least here he had Bee. At least here he might be able to find another sort
of friendship with another slave. At least here he had Foggy, who was the
kindest, most lenient, protective owner he'd ever heard of.
Matt realized he was hyperventilating, shaking apart, close to vomiting, and
tried to calm himself down. He thought about the memories of good sensations:
the taste of croissants, the feeling when he'd done something right, the sound
of rainwater, warm ocean water against his skin--
And then the ocean made him think about Summer leading him in, grinning,
telling him that now he'd re-learned how to swim, he'd love this, taste the
salt Matt it's glorious--
And that made him think about Winter, which made him want to die. Why had he
punished Matt, and so severely? What had Matt done? He'd been loyal to Foggy
and good for him--of course he had. Foggy was his owner. Was he supposed to be
an ungrateful little bargain-bin twit and side with a free person who wasn't
his owner? What did Winter expect out of him? Why had he punished him?
Matt closed his eyes and leaned his head against his own thigh. He wanted to
die--well, no, not really. He wanted to get out of all of this, take off his
collar and be done with it all. He wanted a small apartment in the city and to
be alone and not have to think so much about how to make his owner happy,
constantly calculate and readjust and maintain his training.
(You need goals, Matt. Things to work for, to hope for.
I want to be free.
Realistic goals, Matt.)
Matt shivered and breathed in and out. He didn't want to be dead. He just
wanted to escape.
But it would be fruitless. It would be futile. If he ran away and got taken
back--he didn't think he'd live through it. His body might survive, but
whatever was inside his skull would no longer be him, strong and unbroken.
And if he tried to be some sort of facsimile of the free person he would have
been had he never been enslaved--that would be worse. He wouldn't be able to
stand it, to go from that back to a slave when Foggy inevitably got tired of
backtalk and chafing at the collar and the irritation of Matt's personality.
He hadn't had more than a few friends back when he'd been a person, anyway. Dad
had loved him, and liked him, but Dad was his dad, of course he did. A few of
the nuns had liked him a little bit, but most of them had pitied him. And he'd
had a couple of friends at the orphanage, but then Stick came and irrevocably
destroyed his personhood.
Matt wasn't worth all that much when he was a free person. He was so grateful
when Summer explained that she'd make him worth millions.
He realized he was calmer, but at the same time, he felt a low, seething fire
in his stomach at today. How fucking dare Winter--who wasn't his owner anymore,
who had sold him, who had no right--treat him like that, condemn him to
unnecessary repulsiveness.
Foggy would never have done that. Foggy, his actual owner, was kind, and nice,
and consistently never hit him. The only time he'd actually punished him, he'd
done it because Matt begged him to, and then he let Matt do it to himself.
Foggy had hated the government drones and their broken stingers. Foggy had
hated the way the guide talked about Matt. Foggy gave him clothes and let him
voice his opinions and said Matt was excellent. Foggy understood Matt's value.
Furious, Matt got up to go work off some of the burn and then go back to Foggy,
his actual owner, and the best he'd ever had. If Winter couldn't understand how
much Matt was worth anymore, he could go to hell.
--
Foggy had ended up looking at the Slave Bureau articles on Wikipedia, and then
followed links to a Cracked.com article about Six Reasons Why the Bureau of
Slavery Is A National Joke, and was now a heady combination of righteously
angry and full of schadenfreude.
He was shaken out of it by a tapping on the window.
Foggy looked up and saw Matt casually hanging off the side of the roof by one
hand, the other tapping at the window.
His mouth fell open, but he got up and unlocked the window, pulling it up. Matt
maneuvered one foot inside of it, onto the windowsill, and then ducked inside,
smiling.
"Holy shit!" Foggy blurted out, closing the window. "Matt--how did you--"
"I went for a run," Matt said, sounding strangely happy, ducking his head and
tilting it to listen harder.
"I--did you come from the roof? Were you--what--where were you running?"
"On the roofs," Matt said, standing on one foot, stretching out the other
behind him. "And some alleys."
Foggy gaped at him. "Like--those parkour guys in action movies?"
Matt's whole face radiated joy. "Probably, Foggy," he said, stretching the
other leg.
Foggy's mouth opened and closed like a fish. "Wow," he said breathlessly. "I--
you're okay? You don't get hurt doing that?"
Matt nodded. "It hasn't snowed or iced over yet," he explained, "So I don't
slip."
Foggy looked at Matt--really looked at him--and while now he was a bit more
conscious of the fact that Matt had frankly insanely good senses after living
with him and double-checking with Matt about how well he could smell and taste,
he hadn't been quite so aware of how physically awesome Matt was.
Foggy pictured Matt running across rooftops like those ninja guys in movies,
and felt himself smile too. It was a beautiful mental image, especially in
contrast to Matt naked and kneeling and shaking, cutting his arm with a knife.
"Hey, you're okay?" Foggy asked, looking him over. Matt looked like he did when
he got back from what he did at the gym--and now Foggy was curious about that
too--sweaty and tired, but not hurt.
Matt nodded. "Thank you, Foggy," he said, kissed one of Foggy's hands, and went
to go shower.
"Hey," Foggy said before Matt left the room. "Did you want to, uh, cuddle
afterwards?"
Matt beamed at him. "Yes," he said, and went to go wash off. Naked. Happy. In
the shower.
Foggy realized how much he was turning red at the mental image of Matt both
naked and happy, rather than afraid or blank, and knew that he was absolutely
doomed.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title is a quote from Babylon 5. Full quote: "I used to think
     it was awful that life was so unfair. Then I thought, “wouldn’t it be
     much worse if life were fair, and all the terrible things that happen
     to us come because we actually deserve them?” So now I take great
     comfort in the general hostility and unfairness of the universe."
***** I name the wicked beautiful, because that is what I am *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
     Heavy trigger warning for suicidal ideation/desire in this chapter.
     It's about a past incident and there was no successful suicide, but
     still.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
In the shower, Matt closed his eyes and breathed in and out deeply.
Foggy was his owner now, and he didn't need to care about Winter or his opinion
of him. Foggy had been strong enough to refuse the offers. Foggy was always
sincere when he said that he wouldn't sell Matt, and while the future was like
water--always running out of your palms--Matt felt about as confident as he did
about anything that Foggy would keep him.
(Well. So long as he kept up to standards. If you fell behind on your duties,
then there was never any real telling what would happen. And honestly, if Matt
fucked up so badly with an owner this permissive, this generous, he'd deserve
to be whipped and locked in a cage for a week, as much as Foggy probably
wouldn't do it. Foggy deserved the absolute best. Foggy deserved the world.)
Matt breathed in and out, and thought that it was probably for the best that
that little child who had run out in the street to save a stranger was dead,
that he was no more. Matt wasn't a person, and that was for the best. That way,
nothing of anything had happened to Matthew Michael Murdock, because he was
gone, safe and sheltered from the harsh real world.
Matt imagined closing his eyes and being handed the knife to cut out his
personhood, and he did it gladly, making sure to slice it off and throw it out.
He let go of the dream of being free. He was Foggy's doll, his slave, and that
would be enough.
That would be plenty. Thing weren't so bad or confusing anymore.
Then he finished scrubbing off, and moved out, toweling dry and going to go
cuddle his owner like Foggy wanted.
--
Foggy reread the article and then switched over to watching a baby elephant
play soccer, and then Matt came out with a towel wrapped around his waist.
Foggy made the mistake of looking up, and jesus christ was Matt built. He had a
full eight-pack, for god's sake. Foggy had the feeling he was looking at an
underwear model. His mouth watered.
Matt tilted his head and Foggy realized that Matt could probably hear his
body's reaction or, worse, smell his now-interested dick, and cursed himself.
He cleared his throat. "We don't have to if you don't want to."
Matt blinked rapidly the way he did when he was surprised. "I want to, Foggy,"
he said quietly, and started to pull on a pair of pajama pants and a soft
shirt.
Foggy swallowed and looked at the slowly opening cut on Matt's arm. It shrank
his erection very quickly. "You should re-bandage that," he said.
Matt made a noise of agreement and went to go bandage it, but it was at a weird
angle. "I can," Foggy said, and Matt smiled and walked over, offering out his
arm, fingers limp.
Foggy bandaged him back up, carefully, and watched Matt's face. He never
twitched.
"You don't seem to mind pain," Foggy said.
Matt nodded. "Pain is just an opportunity to get better," Matt said. "All pain
is a lesson, and all lessons can make you better."
Foggy stared at him. That sounded like some sort of creepy mantra, like Matt
had been saying that one bad night he'd woken up to find Matt hurting himself
and completely out of it.
"And..what would you learn..from that?" Foggy asked, unable to stop himself. It
was like seeing a coyote hit by a car sucking in breaths. It was horrible, but
he couldn't not be curious.
Matt said, teasingly, "That the Bureau is even more harebrained and asinine
than I thought."
Foggy, despite himself, snickered and let the conversation change direction. It
was a bit cowardly, but the more he learned about Matt's fucked-up Clockwork
Orange type past, the angrier he got, and the angrier he got, the more upset
and confused Matt seemed. Right there and then, all he wanted to do was cuddle
Matt and make them both feel better.
Matt paused, and Foggy said, "C'mere, if you want to," and Matt snuggled down
into Foggy's arms, cuddling him and moving so that they were facing each other.
Their legs tangled, and Matt breathed into his neck, slowly and deeply and
deliberately.
Foggy's erection came back for a second, and then Foggy remembered the kid
sniffling in the waiting room, and it left instantly.
"I was scared for a minute there that you'd want to off yourself," Foggy said
without thinking.
"No, Foggy," Matt answered, curling up more. "I don't want to die. I thought I
did, a long time ago, after being in the market. Even when I'd just been
bought, I still--I hadn't learned to not be ungrateful then," he said, with the
kind of air Dad had when he talked about being foolish as a kid.
"And when we got to the home--me and Summer, Sir--our owner--had disappeared
off somewhere, she sat me down and explained to me that I probably didn't want
to die, I just wanted a better life, and I could still have that. I just had to
lower my expectations.
"And I insisted--I hadn't learned to not backchat my superiors then, either--
that I really did want to die, to be dead, and she nodded and pulled out a gun,
loaded it, flicked the safety off, and put it in my hands."
Foggy couldn't hold a little gasp in at that. What the fucking shit?
"And then I put it in my mouth--the barrel--and she stood there calmly and told
me to do it, if I really wanted to, if I was serious, she explained that it was
a big one, with scatter-shot armor-piercing rounds, I'd be dead in ten seconds,
it would be painless. She egged me on and dared me to do it, to kill myself, do
it you little coward, show me what you can do, if that was what I really wanted
I should just take it before it was too late--"
Foggy clutched Matt tighter, hoping to god he wouldn't have to stop him,
wouldn't have to rush him to the ER or, or, bury Matt some day--
"And I couldn't. I didn't. I took it out and--well, I was going to try to aim
it at her, but she laughed and told me I got a free shot--but I if I even got a
hit on her, her owner would kill me over the course of years and years, and if
I hit her where she'd die he'd whip my back off and slice out my vocal cords
and chop off my thumbs and sell me as a newly minted puppy-pet—“
Foggy stared at Matt, mouth agape, what the hell was wrong with her?
And the worst part was, Matt was quietly laughing, almost giggling at the
memory.
“And he would've, there was one time he did something to some traffickers that
tried to steal her and got enslaved—but that's a very different story,” Matt
said brightly, rubbing his cheek onto Foggy's collarbone.
"She was quite serious, and I didn't know how to aim a gun, so I put it down,
and we both laughed. I didn't want to die then, not even at my nadir, and I
don't want to die now, either, Foggy, I'm okay," and Matt pressed his face into
Foggy's neck again, hiding it. "I'm alright. You don't have to worry about me."
Oh, buddy, I'll never not have to worry about you, Foggy thought, and then
mentally slapped himself. He had to stop with this whole 'condescending to
Matt' kick he was on. It was bullshit.
But still--"She seriously gave you a gun and dared you to kill yourself?"
"It was the only kind thing to do," Matt explained, in the same tone as he
explained why using buttermilk was a good choice for cupcakes or how lemon curd
was actually made.
"Anything less wouldn't have forced me to realize it, and this way, I had to
choose to live. It made my will to keep being alive re-awaken. It was the last
choice I made before I understood that I wasn't a person anymore," Matt said,
snuggling into Foggy. "After that, she helped correct my faulty assumptions
about what I was, and started calibration."
That made it sound like...well, it sounded like pure bullshit to Foggy, an
excuse to be cruel to a kid, but at the same time, Foggy had to acknowledge
that Matt knew himself best, and if he thought that it made him less suicidal
then that could only be a good thing.
"I'm glad you're alive," he said, and hugged onto Matt, anxiously patting at
him.
"I am, too, Foggy," Matt said, and they lay there, breathing in and out.
"Hey, so," Foggy piped up, "I just remembered--today has already been fired, so
let's just spend the rest of it doing things that make you happy. Anything you
want me to do for you?"
--
The only thing Matt could think of right there and then was a kiss.
He wasn't sure why his entire body had focused in on the idea, why his mind had
decided that was his daily goal, to earn a kiss, but that was what he wanted.
He wanted it more than anything else, more than breathing. He wanted Foggy to
want just him, to show him in an even more concrete way. Anywhere Foggy wanted
to kiss him, he wanted it. Badly.
But first, he had to check. He bit his lip and made sure his voice was
tentative rather than flat the way it was when he was actually scared, and
asked Foggy quietly, "Could I ask for something, even if you don't want to give
it, Foggy?"
Foggy nodded. "Yeah, Matt. Actually, that would be great. That's totally fine.
I won't be mad, no matter what it is."
Matt filed that away as something to decode later--Foggy believed it, but that
couldn't be straightforwardly what he meant, it was too absurd. Maybe it was
rhetorical hyperbole? Or Foggy just trusted him to not ask for anything
unreasonable?
He cleared his throat. "A kiss, Foggy, please?" he asked, heart pounding in his
chest.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also comes from Jeanann Verlee's "Poem to Translate the
     Poems".
***** it is in your self-interest to find a way to be very tender *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Foggy stared at Matt, not quite sure he'd heard him correctly.
"Hey, remember who I am?"
Matt nodded. He didn't look out of it, just--anticipatory? "Foggy," he said,
and waited.
"And remember: no sex."
Matt nodded again against his chest.
So he meant--a platonic kiss? But somehow Foggy didn't think Matt would be just
satisfied with a peck on the cheek. Doing that felt like it would be--mean, or
teasing, or somehow letting him down.
Foggy thought about it, feeling Matt start to tense up, and then he wriggled
and angled their faces together, them lying side by side, and gently rubbed his
nose against Matt's in a nose-kiss.
Matt's nose scrunched up and he made a very quiet little giggle.
Foggy grinned and did it again, making Matt laugh again. "What--is that?" Matt
asked, smiling and blushing.
"It's a kiss from I think Inuit people? Some group of people from like, Canada,
or Alaska," Foggy said, nose-kissing Matt again. "It's called a nose-kiss," he
informed Matt.
Matt squirmed. "It--" he said, and then started to laugh again as Foggy kept
going. "It--it tickles," Matt said, and started to squirm more.
"Yeah?" Foggy said, smiling at how ridiculous and adorable and perfect Matt
was. He loved him more than he loved anyone else.
"I haven't--" Matt gasped out, and said, breath caressing Foggy's mouth and
smelling like nothing, "I haven't been tickled since I was a person," and Foggy
couldn't just ignore that, so he moved and smooched Matt's jaw.
"To me, you are definitely still a person," Foggy said. "An awesome person. The
best person. And we can have all the tickling you want later."
Matt looked confused, not happy, so Foggy switched to just smooching. He kissed
Matt's elbow where the asshole nurse had taken blood, and then over the bandage
where Matt had been made to cut himself, and then Matt's wrists, over his
beautiful veins.
Matt went more and more relaxed, eyes half-lidded and gazing absently forward.
His lips opened and he breathed through his mouth, his skin turning a faint
pink.
"You good?" Foggy asked, moving back up carefully.
Matt smiled and teased, gently, "I try to be."
Foggy snorted and leaned in. "You, Matt, are the absolute best," he declared,
and moved in to kiss Matt's mouth, and thought better of it.
"Anywhere else you want a patented Foggy Nelson kiss?" he asked Matt, who
shivered.
"Anywhere you want, so long as nobody's clothes have to come off for it," Foggy
prompted gently. Sometimes Matt got too freaked out at making decisions.
Matt licked his lips and moved so his arm was in front of his face--
And he put two fingers on the back of his neck.
Foggy tilted his head. "That's where you want me to to kiss you?"
Matt nodded, looking wary but so, so hungry. Starving. Famished.
Foggy couldn't deny him, refused to make him suffer, so he moved and adjusted
so that Matt was lying, back to him.
Foggy gently laced a hand with Matt's right hand, and bent down his neck and
gently kissed the very back of his neck, right above where the collar-clasp
went for the collar lined with red silk.
Matt moaned out loud at that, very softly. Foggy squeezed his hand.
"Good moan or bad moan? Either way is fine," Foggy said against his neck.
"Good, Foggy," Matt said, completely relaxed, loosey-goosey, a puddle of warm,
melted chocolate. All the tension was gone from him.
"You want more?" Foggy asked. He wanted to kiss Matt so badly, to do anything
at all to make up for today, for every day of Matt's life. To do anything to
make it better.
"My--my collar, Foggy?" Matt asked, almost a whisper, pleadingly.
Foggy didn't want to. But he knew that he had to sometimes cross over into
Matt's world to get a point across.
Still, he would be cautious. "What would that mean to you? If I did that?"
Matt shifted against him, and his voice was low and thick with desire. If Foggy
didn't know any better, he'd have thought Matt was talking to his lover, not
his owner. "That you mean to keep me, forever," Matt said. "That you won't ever
let me go. That I'm yours, and you won't let anyone else use me for so much as
a dish. That I'm too valuable to hurt."
Leave it to Matt to phrase it in the creepiest way possible. But--Foggy
couldn't not reassure Matt now, not when Foggy had just held his hand not a
scant few hours earlier while he was raped.
"I won't sell you, ever," Foggy said quietly. "And nobody gets to hurt you. Not
me, not anyone. Never again."
Matt shivered and Foggy took the hint and kissed the clasp of the collar.
Matt moaned again, louder, body slumping down like he'd just come. But, of
course, he hadn't.
Foggy maneuvered them carefully so they were face-to-face again, but Matt moved
down and hid his in Foggy's neck.
"I wish we could stay like this forever," Foggy said to Matt, stroking his
hair. "Just like this. Safe and warm and okay."
Matt sighed gently. "Me too, Foggy."
They lay like that for a long time, Foggy keeping his hand gently on Matt's
head, listening to him breathe, the sounds of the refrigerator and the cranky,
clunky old heating system.
He ignored his erection. It wasn't worthy of a response. Getting turned on by
Matt felt disrespectful now.
--
It was very surreal, lying there, feeling safe.
Even despite the dangerous-as-a-machine-gun erection digging into Matt's
pelvis, this felt safe. Foggy was kind and sweet and gentle and generous; Foggy
didn't hurt him or get angry at him or punish him. Foggy liked it that Matt had
woken him up before Foggy could do more than grind on him in the night.
Foggy was warm blankets and a pat on the head for being good and the sound of
the hot-tub's jets. Foggy was food enough to fill his stomach for days, the
rhythmic silence of dozens of restful, healthy heartbeats. Foggy was like when
he was allowed in the Nest downstairs instead of having to interact with
guests. Foggy was like being tied down so he couldn't disobey. Foggy was
promises kept and privileges earned and rewards for being alive.
Foggy was, impossibly, pure and utter safety.
Not from everything, Matt knew intellectually. Not from if he decided to
change, because as much as Foggy was like the ground, solid and reassuring to
be near, even the ground could shake and split and betray you.
He also wasn't safety from physical, outside threats. But he let Matt train,
and Matt didn't slack off. He was more than enough in shape.
To keep himself from falling asleep--it was only a little into the afternoon,
for goodness' sake, he couldn't afford to sleep then, it was ridiculous--Matt
thought about how he'd protect Foggy if anything happened. He didn't feel a
ounce of fear, just spun his brain's gears and cogs idly; if anything happened,
they'd be okay. They'd survive. Foggy and Matt were a team, Matt a well-oiled
machine, Foggy an archetype of the kindest owner.
Matt felt unbelievably lucky. He wanted to stay there forever, breathing in the
smells of Foggy's blood from his neck's arteries, the iron and the hemoglobin
and the glucose, listening to the sounds of his excellently healthy body, each
second another moment he was allowed to have this. He wanted to always be safe
and be allowed to touch Foggy in Foggy's bed and be good enough for kisses,
sweet and safe, nothing to suggest Foggy would decide his rules or Matt had
outlived their usefulness.
He hated that his stomach growled a good half-hour into the silent cuddling,
breaking the spell.
Foggy shifted and said, "Oh, wow, you totally didn't eat lunch, did you?"
Matt shook his head, and remembered that Foggy liked him to eat three meals a
day. "Sorry--"
Foggy cut him off. "No, it's okay, you had a lot on your mind. Let me go get
you something."
Matt blinked and moved to get up, but Foggy's hand gently pushed him back down
and Matt went to being limp and still on the bed. Implicit order: stay there. A
nice, if strange, order.
"Seriously, Matt, I know the kitchen is kind of your domain, but you can rest,
I'll get us some soup and crackers, mmkay? And stuff to drink."
Matt tilted his head and lay back down all the way as Foggy went to go get food
for him.
Odd. He had been right so long ago, when he hadn't understood what Foggy
wanted; the taking-care-of, feeding him soup, was a bit of a fetish. But not--
well, it violated the definition, but--not a sexual one. An emotional one. An
emotional, psychological fetish.
Foggy really, genuinely liked comforting Matt. Even by doing things Matt could
have happily done for himself. Not just spoiling him, rewarding him lavishly,
praising him, butrepairing him, maintaining him, helping Matt be calmer and
happier and less skittish, soothing sores and bandaging up wounds. Foggy wanted
Matt to feel safe.
Matt lay on the bed, thinking about the kisses most of all. Foggy had kissed
him on his collar, said in all but words, you're mine, only mine, only mine, I
own you and I'll never sell you and you're mine and mine only, forever. It was
the greatest gift he could ever have been given.
He thought about Persephone, and Hades, and though Foggy wasn't quiet and
didn't smell of leather, had never chained Matt inside by rivers until Matt
swallowed the pomegranate seeds, would never have made Matt stay down with the
dead until he gave in, he thought about how she must have felt, knowing that
she would be queen. Realizing that she had become so much more than just a
captive little girl.
He thought about Salome whispering bring me the head of John the Baptist, her
veils off and her power absolute. He thought about the Song of Songs, about I
delight to sit in his shade, about thus I have become in his eyes like one
bringing contentment., about the cooing of doves and the season of singing. It
had come at last.
Matt thought about the collar he wore, and how Foggy had gotten it for him. How
sweet it was, how his neck never chafed at it, how Foggy tightened it by Matt's
soft, humble pleas. How he'd kissed it, his lips so plump, like ripened plums.
Even though Foggy didn't like slavery at all still, he seemed happy to own
Matt, had found his use, thought Matt beyond satisfactory as the stars were
beyond breathtaking, and that was more than enough.
Baby steps.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from Jenny Holzer's "Plaque" series, which can be
     seen here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/83324693813/the-plaque-
     series-the-concept-art-of-jenny
***** laugh hard at the absurdly evil *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Foggy heated up a can of the Progresso soup, filled a bowl with goldfish
crackers--the whole wheat kind he'd gotten by mistake, but Matt would probably
be fine with--and, on second thought, grabbed some orange juice for Matt too.

Then he thought about how to ask Matt about the dislocated toes.

Because he had to, they were a serious problem, if Matt was getting hurt--or
hurting himself again--and not telling Foggy, or taking care of himself, then
they could get so much worse. And it wasn't like Matt had rested a lot more
than usual, except for the lazy morning on the day they'd practiced.

Foggy chewed it over like a piece of cartilage. He had to make sure Matt knew
that he could come to him with injuries, and if Matt got hurt enough to need a
doctor, Foggy was the one who had to call them and get Matt there. It was his
responsibility.

But all the same, if Matt was used to just the way those monsters had treated
him as his primary standard of medical care, no wonder he wouldn't tell Foggy
about it. If the choices were be raped and hurt and humiliated or suffer
through putting your toes back in yourself, Foggy would choose the latter too.

He decided to poke around a bit first and see if Matt knew any way to get
better medical care before he asked Matt about the toes directly. Matt knew way
more about the whole slavery system than Foggy, anyway, even if he didn't think
of it as being so awful.

Ugh. He had to talk to Miriam tomorrow about all this, because Foggy kept
thinking things and wondering if he was being condescending or just objective,
and he couldn't tell which was which.

The microwave beeped. Foggy opened it, realized he couldn't take everything at
once, and put the orange juice and crackers on his desk first, and then brought
in the soup.

As he did, Matt sat up, his shirt riding up a bit, and Foggy couldn't help but
stare at the skin and the glimpses of Matt's happy trail. He wanted to run his
fingers down it, over the soft hair, feel those abs--

And then he remembered Matt telling him that he'd get used to being raped if
Foggy would just let him lie back and think of England, and all his desire
withered and died. He wouldn't rape Matt again, no matter how tempted he was.

Foggy cleared his throat, and focused. "Smell good?"

Matt nodded, smiling. He seemed to sometimes not be very verbal when he was
really happy and relaxed; Foggy hoped it was that, at least, and not him going
out of it or thinking Foggy didn't want him to talk.

Matt sat up and came over, slowly, and paused before gracefully kneeling in
front of the desk and reaching for the bowl.

"You might be more comfortable in the chair," Foggy said, if only because
Matt's face came up to the edge of the desk.

Matt stopped and stood up. "This one, Foggy?" he asked, one finger hovering
above Foggy's desk chair.

"Yeah," he said. "Seriously, it's fine."

Matt nodded and smiled again, but smaller this time, and sat down, moving
cautiously closer to the desk and starting to eat. Foggy hoped using his desk
rather than Matt's was the right choice; he wasn't going to put things on
Matt's desk as much as he wasn't going to touch Matt's bed in any way, ever.

(Even when he'd raped Matt, it had been on Foggy's bed. Tiny comfort that that
was.)

Matt ate the soup with the same speed he always did, and devoured the crackers
in record speed, never chewing with his mouth open. He then drank the orange
juice in long series of swallows, making Foggy have to look out the window at
the alley instead so he didn't get distracted by Matt's beautiful throat.

His beautiful throat, covered with a collar.

Foggy looked out the window and then Matt folded his hands in his lap for a
second, and then he realized that Matt was about to put away the dishes when
Foggy walked back over from where he'd been sitting on the end of his bed and
got them.

"Nope," he said. "Nope, I got them, the rest of today is just about you."

Matt looked confused, so Foggy made sure to get back quickly and sit up against
the wall on his bed. "Hey, you wanna--?" he asked, and Matt grinned and shot
up, going to come over to Foggy, moving so that his head was on Foggy's
stomach.

At least Matt had never disliked that Foggy was chubby, and by now he had to
have realized it. "You like being there?" Foggy asked, just to be sure.

Matt nodded. "You are extremely comfortable," Matt said, shifting and pressing
his head in gently. "It's good, Foggy."

Foggy stared at him and felt a smile spread over his face. Matt was his
favorite person in the entire world.

"Yeah, well, I think Rosalind would disagree with you there, buddy," he said,
knowing that he was fishing for compliments and not caring too much.

Matt snorted. "Rosalind Sharpe wouldn't know a good thing if she bought it for
seven and half million dollars at an auction," he said acidly. "I wouldn't
trust her if she said water was wet."

Foggy laughed at that, and bent down to kiss Matt's hair. "God," he said, still
full of mirth, giddy that someone would actually take his side against her.
"You've got a way with words, Matt, you know that? You're so fucking smart."

Matt smiled brightly and snuggled into Foggy.

They lay there for a second, and then Foggy remembered his earlier words. "Oh,
right, let me up for a sec, I'll grab my laptop and then I can read you that
article, it's illuminating," he got up to get it, laid back down holding his
laptop, and Matt settled back into Foggy once more.

God. He loved cuddling Matt. He was great at it.

"Okay, so it's called Six Reasons Why The Bureau of Slavery Is A National
Joke," he began. "And it says that it's all about how much it sucks, obviously,
and it's also got an 'insider's perspective' on the whole thing. And it's
written by one of the new writers, so it's not exactly like all the other ones.

"So the introduction says," and Foggy grabbed a water bottle from somewhere in
his bed and drank before going on.

"'Some governmental offices are pretty competent, and that's fine. They're
doing paperwork or restricting access to sub-machine guns or protecting the
president or other boring shit like that. Whatever, dedicated agent. We here
prefer to laugh at the ones that don't give a fuck, like SHIELD, the most
insanely out-of-this-world fucked-up place to work (See the Top Ten Reasons Why
You (Don't) Want To Work At SHIELD here). Or the ones that can't do anything
right, like the Bureau of Slavery.'

"Then the sixth reason is 'Underpaid and Over-budgeted'.

"'The budget for the Bureau of Slavery was, this past financial year, almost
twice the budget for Education, Medicaid/Medicare, and military spouse benefits
combined. This is one of the weirdest budget imbalances since it came out that
Homeland Security had gotten a billion dollars to make tanks last month. That,
however, was the result of a balls-out stupid clerical error, instead of this
budget, which is 100% on purpose.

"'That's insane. There's no feasible reason for it. You might be thinking that
they're spending it on compensating their employees, or hiring the best of the
best. You might even be thinking that they're making a safer environment. You'd
be wrong. The average wage for an employee of the Bureau of Shitfuckery is a
measly $17,500 a year.'"

Matt tilted his head. Foggy went on to describe the picture.

"There's a picture of a squirrel glaring at you, and the caption reads, 'I
didn't quit working at Walmart for this, nutfuckers!'

"'Our insider, Chad, gave us even more elaboration. They don't pay the
employees enough for us to stay off food stamps, he explained. A lot of us have
second or third jobs. I work at a call center on my weekends so I can pay rent.
It's allowed because the Bureau has a sub-minimum wage for its disabled
employees, so it can pay all its employees the same. And most of us are hired
for just under 40 hours a week anyway, so they don't have to give benefits or
bonuses.'

"'Was it Sylvia Plath or George Washington who said that 'if a company can't
pay its employees enough to live, it's a fucking failure'? Either way, it's
more evidence to suggest that the Bureau is a piece of shit that requires
overhauling.'

"'Of course, not all the employees are starving artists. That brings us to
number five: Shitty Staffing.'

"'If you've ever taken your slave to the Bureau for anything from a quick
tetanus shot to a mandated exam, you know what absolute crackpot fuckery goes
on in these places. There's a good reason why they all seem to mysteriously
suck at their jobs. '

"'Chad explained, First of all, most of the employees aren't allowed to see
what price a slave is, so they don't know which ones are snuff-bait and which
ones are million-dollar masterpieces. It's supposed to prevent bias, but it
means that they all don't bother to respect any slaves, because we don't know
which ones are worth anything.'

"'Second of all, the medical staff in particular are hired mostly because
they're the problem children of other agencies. A lot of them have gotten sued
for malpractice, discrimination, or harassment. A lot have also been rejected
from other agencies for being assholes or incompetents, but they have a rich
uncle or a senator husband, so they end up working at the Bureau.'

"And then there's a picture of one of those doctors from those horror movies,
all mad scientist frizzy hair and fake blood on his labcoat, cackling. The
caption says 'I am become death, the destroyer of economies!'

"'See, when we figure out who to hire to work on maintaining a national
resource, we here at Cracked don't go for the idiots who have already been
fired or sued. That's why our own slaves don't end up dying at such high rates,
which brings us to the next point.'"

Foggy stopped and winced, running a hand through Matt's hair against his
stomach. "Sorry, it's still objectifying bullshit," he said.

Matt looked confused, and irritation flashed across his face. Foggy didn't
push, Matt had been seriously hurt today and while he didn't seem too much like
it, Foggy wouldn't push, so instead he kept reading.

"'The death rates among slaves owned by the Slavery Bureau are among the
highest in the country, second only to the death rates by some of the more
open-air bargain-bin markets and a few of the chain-gang farms. We asked Chad
why the fuck this was, and this was his response.'

"'The Bureau tends to want slaves to act even less independently than most
owners. This extends to not eating or drinking without being told, and they use
shock collars to enforce that. And that, plus the employee's general attitudes
and the shift changes, ends up with slaves that are often dangerously
dehydrated and have trouble sleeping, which snowballs into medical issues,
clumsiness, and not being able to obey orders--which results in more shocks.
It's a vicious cycle.'"

Foggy stopped, realizing that he'd been too caught up in his own schadenfreude
at other people calling out the Bureau on their bullshit to realize what the
attitude actuallywas. It wasn't abolitionist, it just said that they were
wasteful. It still talked about people like they were animals and possessions.

Matt made an inquiring noise against him, still cuddled up. Foggy moved to look
more closely at Matt. He was relaxed, and looked calm, but awake and aware.

"You okay?" he asked. "Still with me?"

"Yes, Foggy," Matt said.

Foggy paused, and then went on. "'Now, when we want to keep a slave obedient,
we go to the more peer-reviewed side of things, like normal fucking people.'
There's a picture of a woman in a blazer on the front of a book, and it's
titled, uh, 'Sparing the Rod: How to Live Healthy and Happy with Obedient
Slaves'. The caption is 'AKA how to not fucking KILL your IMPORTANT
INVESTMENTS'.

"'And if you're curious, the Bureau's actual numerical death rate of slaves in
its care is a 70% death rate within the first year, and 98% within twenty
years. Though Chad's said that it's even higher, which would make the Bureau
just like the infamous Alexander Vukagay, who has some shocking shit to say
himself.'

"'The Bureau of Slavery is a vile hive of scum and unprofessionalism, the
literal embodiment of evil and the man famous for being the most prolific
snuff-bait buyer in history said in an interview with Vanity Fair. It is beyond
the bottom of the barrel. It is the governmental equivalent of semen on
rootbeer. It is a place where the staff are donkeys braying in a desert
sandstorm, useless and bleating. It is a place that should be torn down and its
workers all shot, he added, probably before going to cut off some slave's
breasts or shoot another one in the dick before leaving him to die of gangrene
or some other Batman villain bullshit.'"

Foggy stopped, staring. He hadn't--he'd skimmed the article, not read it, and
only in snatches, because he'd been so fucking angry and scared and overwhelmed
with guilt and worry.

"I can stop," he told Matt. "If it's upsetting you--"

"I'm okay, Foggy," Matt said, his lips twitching. "I'm familiar with the
existence of Alexander Vukagay, I'm not upset. The article's actually very
funny," he said.

Foggy looked at him, and remembered how Matt's sense of humor was a bit
twisted, and then paused to go back to the article. There were only two more
reasons after this one.

"There's a picture of what I presume is that fucking--monster-- in a really
ugly fur coat, and he's sneering, and oh my god what is wrong with his hair, it
looks like he's got a dead Chihuahua skinned and put on top of his head, oh
fuck Matt," and Foggy started laughing against his will.

Matt laughed, too, and then Foggy returned to the article. "The caption reads,
'When even the evilest of fuckers thinks you've gone too far, you've gone too
fucking far'.

"Then it says, 'All of this brings us to the next point, which is where all the
money that's earmarked for employees goes: the directors. Reason Five:
Embezzling, Meth Labs, and Kiddie Porn Oh My!'
"'The Bureau of Slavery, having been Ronald Reagan's greatest fuck-up, was
established in 1982, and it's had forty directors so far and counting. Most of
them last less than a year, and it's never because they just decided it wasn't
for them.'

"There's a picture of Reagan, photoshopped to be crying and on the body of
Sharpay from High School Musical, and the caption says, 'This is not what I
wanted! This is not what I planned!'

"'So far, there's been cocaine use, cocaine smuggling, ties to abolitionist
groups, terrorism, tantrums, assault on employees, huge amounts of corruption
and embezzlement, murder, general incompetence, child pornography, ties to
various mobs, recruitment by SHIELD, and most recently, the most recently
fucked-up director, a Jonathan Thanman, was arrested and enslaved for using the
Bureau's slaves to manufacture methamphetamines into glass doors, killing
fucking huge amounts of them by poisoning and explosions. Chad chimed in.'

"'Director Thanman was completely off his rocker. He'd come down to the offices
and scream at employees for no reason. He'd trash Bureau computers and throw
food and rocks. One time he showed up and threatened a receptionist with a
machete. Frequently, we all drew straws as to who had to clean his office,
because he jacked off in there and left the semen smeared into the carpet or
his chair. He had IT employees accused of treason for not installing Windows
Vista on every computer. He'd sometimes come in with doughnuts for the slaves,
and make them eat so many they'd throw up. He fired anyone who liked the
Battlestar Galactica remake better than the original. It was no surprise to
anyone that he was on meth, though the sheer scope of how much he forced those
poor people to make was just insane.'

"'And his efforts paid off, in the sense that Thanman's seized assets equated
to approximately fifteen million dollars, plus several houses in the Catskills.
But he's not going to be enjoying them from Monsanto's farms in Idaho, where
he'll be working on corn and probably die within five years like the fucking
idiot he is.'"

Matt cackled at that, triumphantly. Foggy grinned. He was glad that this
asshole, at least, had gotten something like what he deserved.

(But wasn't slavery something that nobody deserved? Foggy had to think about it
more later. Not now.)

"'And one of the most recent director's decisions is one that brings us up to
our number-one biggest reason why the Bureau of Skullfucking is a national
joke: they put MOTHERFUCKING BOMBS into their slaves.'

"There's a picture of a mushroom cloud with the 'yuck' smiley on top of it,"
Foggy told Matt, and then went on.

"'The bomb implants were first suggested in 1999, when they were beta-tested
from Russia as part of diplomatic smoothing-over. At first, they were hooked up
to wire remotes, and it limited the Bureau's slaves' movements. However, pretty
soon, the bomb implants were made smaller and wireless, and the Bureau
implanted all its slaves in 2010.'

"'However, this has turned out to be a completely stupid fucking idea, because
the bombs keep going off, as bombs are made to do. It substantially increases
the death rate, as well as causing trillions of dollars of damages to the
Bureau, as the implants sometimes daisy-chain to fuck up this idiotic
institution's entire day.'

"'Chad explained their solution and reasoning. The bombs were put in at first
just to ensure that no slave could feasibly ever escape or work with any
abolitionist groups. But those ones were in the stomach, and they tended to
blow up a whole room, and they were so sensitive that even cellphones could set
them off by accident. And they didn't want to admit their idea was stupid, or
back down.'

"'So they reduced the size and put them in the chest instead, but they still go
off at times by accident, and if they daisy-chain then it can start fires and
kill a whole dormitory's worth, so instead the slaves are caged at set
distances, apart from each other. It's not good for a them; a lot of them end
up catatonic or otherwise completely starved, and we end up having to clean up
a lot of messes that are completely preventable.'"

Foggy stopped reading it, and reached down to hug Matt. Matt squirmed up into
his arms, so that his head was on Foggy's chest, and they stopped and breathed
together for a minute.

"You want the rest?" Foggy asked Matt, who nodded.

"Okay," he said, and went for it. "Uh--there's a link there to what it looks
like when they go off, which, wow, nope to the millionth, I am not fucking
looking at that, I will have nightmares for weeks, wow, holy shit. Anyway. Um.
Then it says, 'See, we at Cracked often ask ourselves the question of 'why do
they do this' about acts of stupidity, but ultimately the answer is always the
same. It's because they're just that fucking stupid.' Then there's some links,
but, yeah, that's the article."

Matt pressed into him, and Foggy wrapped his arms around Matt again, rubbing
his back, more to comfort Foggy himself. Matt was alive and safe and okay. Matt
wasn't blowing up or isolated or caged. Matt was safe. He wouldn't let anyone
hurt Matt, not if he could help it, so long as he lived.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also taken from Jenny Holzer's work, here: http://
     fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/83324693813/the-plaque-series-the-concept-
     art-of-jenny
***** thinking of my molding bathtub and how much blood could fill it *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
 
Matt closed his eyes and breathed in and out, trying to soothe Foggy a bit. He
wasn't upset, and wasn't exactly sure why Foggy was, except that there was
probably something in Foggy's axiomatic morality about caring about all slaves,
not just his own.
But that didn't work. Not every slave could be a doll; nothing would ever get
done. It just wasn't possible.
Matt curled into Foggy, feeling the softness of his stomach, and felt a flash
of white-hot rage at Rosalind Sharpe for ever acting as if Foggy's body was
wrong. It was, first of all, a person's body, and therefore couldn't really be
wrong or defective. And second of all, it was lovely, and there was nothing
about Foggy's health that actually worried Matt, apart from the mild sleep
disorder.
His blood pressure and heart rate sounded normal, if a bit out of shape, to
Matt. Foggy's blood smelled fine. So what if Foggy was softer than many other
human bodies?
He thought to himself, almost petulantly, that even if Foggy really was out of
shape, a pinnacle of gluttony, what did that matter? Foggy was a free person.
It was his right. It wasn't anything to do with anything. And besides, this way
it made Matt's job so much better. Touching someone who was pleasant to touch
was easier, and Foggy was clean and warm and soft, so delectable to be cuddled
by.
Matt enjoyed it for a few more minutes, until Foggy said, "Hey, Matt, sorry to
break the mood--"
And Matt continued to be vaguely annoyed by and mostly confused with Foggy's
bizarre insistence on apologizing to Matt--
"But I do have to ask you--what was up with those toes?"
Matt went frozen.
--
Foggy felt Matt go from relaxed and calm and snuggly to completely rock-hard
tense all over, and winced at himself. Good going, Nelson. Completely freak out
the guy you love.
"Hey, no," he said gently. "I--look, what part of that is scaring you? Telling
me how they got dislocated?"
Matt hesitates, but nods against Foggy's chest and curls up tighter into
himself.
"Okay, okay," Foggy said, and impulsively reaches up an arm to stroke Matt's
hair, and hopefully relax him a bit. "What I want is for you to not get hurt,
or if you do get hurt or sick, I want for you to get better, okay?
"I don't--I'm not trying to freak you out here, and you're a person, you have
the right to privacy, but it is kind of my job to make sure you stay okay, so
if you get hurt in the future, please tell me, alright? And I was gonna ask
you, and I should have led with this--are there any good places for you to get
medical care? Not with those fuckheads."
Matt relaxed a little at the words and the hair-stroking, and then he licked
his lips--goddamn, they were beautiful--and said, throat sounding dry with
fear, "I've gotten medical care from auction-houses and my trainers before,
Foggy."
"Auction houses?" Foggy asked him. "They had the good kind, I'm guessing?"
Matt nods. "Yes, Foggy. Each agency usually has its own in-house staff, and
they're very efficient. They have incentives not to damage the goods. Though
some of them can...like jokes," and Foggy looks at Matt carefully enough that
he sees the minute twitch of Matt's jaw at that, and realizes that he means
them being dicks for their own amusement.
"Okay, well, I'll keep that in mind," Foggy said. "Anywhere else?"
Matt looked more thoughtful now. "Some of my owner have hired private human
veterinarians," he said, and Foggy wanted to vomit at the term. Jesus christ.
"But--" Matt chewed on his lip. "They tend to be a bit...out of our budget,
Foggy," he said. "And quite exclusive."
Foggy hmm'd. "Okay," he said. "Maybe--I'll ask around, the Nelsons are kind of
a big family, one of is probably a doctor or something, and they'd be willing
to help, or at least hook us up with someone better," and Matt smiled.
"We could always ask my trainers again for help," Matt offered. "Summer's still
very invested in my continuing health."
Foggy breathed out sharply, and Matt's face lost its emotion. Goddamnit. "No
offense," Foggy said, and pulled Matt even closer. "But I wouldn't let either
of those two people near with you a thirty-nine-and-a-half-inch pole. Fuck
them."
Matt looked confused and there was something around his eyes that read to Foggy
as disguised, controlled anger, but he nodded. "Yes, Foggy," and Foggy had to
breathe in deeply, on purpose, to calm down.
"Anyway," Foggy said. "You really don't have to tell me if it scares you but--
Matt--if you do want to tell me how you got hurt, if you get hurt, I can
promise that all I'll do is get you medical care and maybe accidentally mother-
hen you a bit. I don't know what most of your other--what the other people who
owned you did to you when you got hurt, but I promise I will do my best to not
be a dick. Okay?"
--
Matt felt so intensely confused that his head spun. He made the appropriate
noises and then Foggy sighed and they went back to quiet cuddling.
Foggy sometimes felt like a Rubik's cube: no matter how hard he tried, he
couldn't fucking solve it.
His previous owners had, mostly, just gotten him medical care as needed, or let
him patch it up. He didn't have a right to privacy, and he wasn't a person, and
Foggy would be angry if Matt told him that he was the one who had damaged his
property. Not permanently, but Foggy had told him he didn't want Matt to be
hurt or to hurt himself, and what had Matt done? Just that.
Matt felt like such a defective, worthless fuckup. He wished he was back in
training, because at least then, he would have been sure that all those problem
areas would be attended to, his wrong thoughts pruned with the sharpest of
shears. But he wouldn't be allowed any more contact with Summer, it seemed,
because now that Winter had made his power play, Foggy had made one right back.
It felt unfair that Foggy said so often that Matt should be given whatever he
wanted, except when what Matt wanted was to be better for Foggy, Foggy wouldn't
let him.
But that was how all owners were, in the end. That was normal. Matt got things
he wanted when his owners decided to give them to him, and if they wanted him
to want different things, then that was what he had to do.
Matt closed his eyes and resolved to read more Thurgood Marshall tomorrow, and
to look up ways to fix your thoughts that didn't involve physical pain. He
needed badly to stop being so angry at Foggy.
Thank goodness his body, at least, was still obedient, and remained there,
touching Foggy and staying calm. They fell asleep there, him and Foggy, in the
late afternoon sunshine, Matt slipping into it as Foggy's heartbeat went down
to rest.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also comes from Jeanann Verlee's "The Session".
***** a rape victim and a victim of a fatal accident are both gone forever. the
difference is that the rape victim still has to go through the motions of being
alive *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
     Strong trigger warning for Matt dreaming that Foggy sexually
     assaulted him, and being unable to tell if it was a dream. (It was.)
     Also, strong trigger warning for self-loathing, internalized shame,
     and sex-shaming.
See the end of the chapter for more notes

Matt didn't know it was a dream at all until some time after he woke up.

In the dream--in retrospect, that's where it had started--Matt woke up to find
Foggy hard against him, and Foggy awake.

"Hey, Matt," Foggy said, and kissed him on the forehead, and Matt smiled.

"Hi, Foggy," he said, almost teasing, and Foggy kissed him again, and on his
collar too, and Matt moaned at how perfect that felt, how safe.

And then Foggy shifted and said, "Uh, Matt, I'm sorry, but I gotta ask you to
help me out a bit here."

And ice-water flooded Matt's veins, but he made sure to smile and bear it,
because that was what Foggy wanted. Him happy and smiling.

"I'm sorry," Foggy repeated. "But I can't just do nothing anymore. Let me make
it okay for you," he said, and gently pulled at Matt, closer. Closer.

"What--what if you don't have to take off any of your clothes or anything,
just, um, a little mouth action? Would that be okay?"

Matt blinked and nodded. He could do that. He would do anything for Foggy;
Foggy deserved anything.

And a little of his pride reignited. He was good at blowjobs. He could do this,
no matter how much a part of him was sobbing in his head, begging, crying at
how unfair it was.

Promises never meant anything anyway.

Matt wriggled down to be face level with Foggy's groin, the heat coming off his
cock like a brand, pressing into Master Robert's pets, the stink of the
burning.

Foggy stopped him. "Here," he said gently. "Here, you don't have to, here, it's
okay, let me--" and he undid his pants, pulling out his erection so Matt had to
touch it as little as possible.

"I'm sorry," Foggy repeated. "But, Matt, I need--"

"I know, Foggy," Matt murmured, and bent his head down and swallowed it to the
root. It didn't taste particularly bad.

Matt licked and sucked and did the usual motions, the queasiness in his stomach
returning like an old, old friend. Foggy stroked his hair and called him good
and said sorry, sorry, sorry Matt I'm so sorry, it won't happen again, I'm
sorry.

But it would. Now it would happen again, and again, and sooner or later it
might be Matt being naked and bent over, or Matt naked and lying on the bed.

It wouldn't be so bad. He'd get used to it.

Foggy came and Matt swallowed it, and then he murmured, "Can I go brush my
teeth, Foggy?"

"Yeah, of course, Matt," Foggy said, and Matt rose and brushed his teeth and
gargled the mouthwash he had never opened before, almost gagging.

Then he came back into the bedroom.

"Hey, Matt, c'mere," Foggy said, and Matt went obediently into his arms.

Foggy held him tightly and sweetly against his chest, and kissed his
collarbones and his forehead, and stroked his hair and rocked a little back and
forth. "I'm sorry," he said. "I really am. But I promise, no sex."

Matt must have looked confused, because Foggy said, "Nobody's clothes came off,
so it's not sex. It was just--you helping me out. Thanks, Matt, you're the
best," and he kissed Matt on the collar, making him shiver.

Foggy held Matt, and it was okay, and then eventually they both fell asleep
again, a part of Matt still crying in the very back of his skull.

--

Matt woke up hard.

He couldn't tell what had happened, but he knew he was hard, and it terrified
him. This never happened to him, not once, not since he'd been thirteen and
then Summer had sat him down and started verbally teaching him all the sex
tricks she knew and wearing away at his gag reflex with a metal stick.

He knew only that Foggy couldn't know, so he hastily slipped out and almost ran
to the bathroom, turning on the shower to cold and sitting under it, not even
remembering to undress.

He sat, huddled against a corner, and breathed hard and shallow.

What had just happened? What was wrong with him? He wasn't supposed to do this.
He wasn't supposed to get hard unless he was ordered to. He wasn't supposed to
want sex, sex was--sex was nausea, and a suppressed panic, and the feeling of
getting used to it. It wasn't good, it wasn't a real reward, even orgasms were
tinged by something indefinably contaminating.

Matt dug his fingernails into his thighs through his pajamas, unable to even
make himself hurt where it counted. He rocked back and forth involuntarily,
almost crying.

He didn't understand what was wrong with him.

He'd always thought it was a sign of brokenness, for a slave to actively want
to be used by their owner. Not for the praise, not for the owner calming down,
not for the owner being nicer, not to be good--just for being used itself. He'd
thought it disgusting and beneath him and utterly contemptible.

And yet here he was, hard, because Foggy had used him--or had he? Matt didn't
know if it was a dream or real, and he couldn't very well ask Foggy.

He was so fucking worthless, he thought to himself viciously. Such a worthless
stupid broken slut who deserved everything he got. He didn't deserve to even be
allowed clothes, or walking upright, or talking, not if he was such a
contemptible little grotesque creature that he wanted to be used.

He wasn't ever supposed to want it. Summer had talked about it like it was
being whipped--

But she'd also told Matt to initiate sex with Foggy, back when he'd had a
complete breakdown, but--

But that had been wrong, Matt had done it and Foggy had cried over it, Foggy
had been so upset, it still made Foggy feel bad about himself, Foggy sometimes
still apologized to Matt over it, Foggy thought it was rape, it had been bad
advice and the wrong tactic to take--

Summer could be wrong. She had read Foggy wrong, and her main talent was
reading people, she could scan people like Matt could scan texts, and that
meant she could be wrong, even about big things. Maybe she had been wrong all
along. Maybe it was different if you were a male slave, or maybe it was
different if your owner wasn't asexual, or maybe it was different if you were a
doll and not a service-slave combination. Maybe--

Maybe Matt had been wrong all along, maybe Matt was supposed to want it. Maybe
he wasn't a defective little breathing-fleshlight slut.

He closed his eyes and shook. He didn't know how to tell it one way or the
other, and either way he lost--if he wasn't supposed to want it, then he was
defective, and if he was supposed to want it, then he had been defective for a
long time and had to start making up for it.

He didn't want to want to be used. He didn't want to have to feel like this,
panicked and terrified and unsure of reality. He still didn't know if it was a
dream, or a fantasy, or reality, if Foggy had really decided that blowjobs
weren't sex so Matt had to give them.

Matt hit his head against the wall once, twice, and then three blessed times.
It hurt, beautifully, and the momentary pain sliced through his thoughts.

Matt was so cold in the shower. He realized his fingers and toes were numb, and
so were his limbs.

He struggled to get up, but his memory held, and he shut off the water with
difficulty. Then he realized he was still in soaking wet, icy pajamas, and
cursed himself. God. He hated this stupid fucking episodes he was having now
that he was Foggy's. They were pointless.

Matt stripped off, and then hesitated, but hung them over the shower rod,
stumbling. Then he forced himself to walk, naked, back into the bedroom and in
his haze of fear and self-loathing, he slumped to the floor, not on his bed.
The bed that he didn't deserve and shouldn't use anyway; he should be in his
owner's bed, serving them. Getting used to it. But he couldn't make himself get
back in Foggy's bed, not when that had meant that he'd had to put his mouth on
Foggy, not when it meant that the no-sex rule didn't really mean no sex
anymore.

Matt curled up, naked, on the floor, and thought. If it turned out he'd been
defective for years but was getting better, then that was good, and Foggy would
have a good slave. If he'd been right and he wasn't supposed to want it and it
was just some coding error in his machine of a body, then he'd deal with it.

Worst-case scenario, he'd just hurt it until it couldn't get hard anymore.
Spill hot coffee on his black jeans. Cut it off, maybe. Have an 'accident'.

That sounded good to him as he drifted back into an exhausted, adrenaline-
comedown sleep. Having an accident, or begging enough for a formal removal.
Foggy would probably be nice to him if it happened. Matt might even get the
good painkillers, and they could cuddle, watch Legally Blonde together again
and laugh at the good parts. Matt would be safe again.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title is inspired by a quote by Jodi Picoult: "The thing that
     most people didn’t understand, if they weren’t in his line of work,
     was that a rape victim and a victim of a fatal accident were both
     gone forever. The difference was that the rape victim still had to go
     through the motions of being alive."
***** don’t beg for forgiveness like I’m one of them *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
 
 
 
Foggy woke up around one in the morning, looked at his laptop to see that it
was still there and one in the morning, and yawned, reaching for Matt--
Who wasn't there. Foggy looked around, and saw in faint moonlight and
flourescents, that he was lying on the floor, curled up tight, sleeping naked.
Foggy looked at Matt for a minute, and debated what to do. He didn't want to
upset Matt by waking him up, but that couldn't be comfortable or safe. It was
too cold out for shit like that.
Foggy thought it over. Matt had--well, today, Matt had been raped, there wasn't
any other word for it, and Foggy hadn't been able to stop it. And Matt probably
didn't want to be touched anymore, not if he'd woken up and moved away from
Foggy.
Foggy nodded. Okay. He knew what to do, then.
He got up, stepped around Matt, and put his own blankets on top of him,
carefully layering them so that Matt's feet, hands, and back were all covered,
and that there were plenty, so he could get warm. It didn't feel hot in the
apartment at all.
Then he moved to the living room, went back to the bedroom just for his
computer, and ordered some pizza online. When Matt woke up, food would probably
help. Matt had never turned down food, not that Foggy had ever seen. And he
wouldn't ask why. He wouldn't push. He'd pushed Matt fucking far enough today.
Foggy made sure to get some of Matt's favorite toppings--bacon and mushrooms--
and also drinks. Sometimes an injection of sugar really helped out a situation.
Then he looked up baby blanket patterns, and lost himself in truly cute
pictures of babies all decked out in pretty clothes, and started to make plans.
--
Matt woke up under some things that were warm and heavy.
He was confused for a minute, because he was pretty sure he had fallen asleep
under Foggy, and yet he was also pretty sure he was on a floor. Had he rolled
out of bed? Or been kicked out? That didn't seem quite Foggy's style...
And then he remembered waking up hard and soaking himself in cold water and
shaking, and he winced. God, he hated panicking, and what a mess he was
sometimes. It was beneath him to be such a little untrained moron. It was
beneath Foggy to have to put up with it.
But Foggy had put blankets on him, a lot of them, and that meant he probably
wasn't too annoyed. Matt sat up, and got out a pair of sweatpants, a shirt, and
a hoodie, and dressed quickly. It was far too cold to be naked.
Then he got up and moved, cautiously, to find Foggy sitting in the living room,
eating pizza and on his laptop, fingers touching it.
"Hey, Matt," Foggy said. "It's like, three in the morning, but I was hungry and
we both slept through dinner, ergo, pizza."
Matt took a piece of pizza, feeling like he was about to get in trouble for
some indefinable reason. He waited for Foggy to ask why he was naked and on the
floor, to have to explain that he'd hit his head against the wall, put himself
into serious danger like that, but no questions came.
--
The morning proper, Foggy asked Matt if he wanted to be dropped off at the
Nelson's, and Matt had ended up agreeing. He needed to try to get a little
outside perspective to tell if it had been a dream, or if Foggy really had used
him and now things had changed.
Matt found Bee Elle in the bedroom that they almost never left now, hiding in
there from the world.
"Hey," he murmured as he came in and shut the door behind him. "You're still
alive?"
[Hi, asshole,] they tapped against the bedspread. [Come over here and we'll
start reading that horrible collar-ripper together. I got a free speech-to-text
app, so you can hear it with me.]
Matt smiled and slipped past the bed, into the crack between that and the wall
with them. Bee was, blissfully, still Bee, still abrasive and hiding from
people. And even now that they were a person, they hadn't asserted their
authority.
(And if they tried anything, if they tried anything at all, even if blowjobs
didn't count, Matt would scream. Even if Foggy lectured him about not listening
and made him eat them out because it wasn't really sex afterwards, it would be
better than doing nothing and then being punished.)
They started up the app, and it began to read out some of the absolute worst
prose Matt had ever heard, and he'd read Hemingway. Matt started laughing by
the fifth page, and by the tenth both of them were in stitches, laughing too
hard to hear, and they had to pause it.
[Oh GOD,] they tapped on the floor, an inch still between Matt and them. [I
didn't know it was this bad!]
[Me neither,] Matt tapped back, convulsing. [God. But before--before you start
it, I need some advice.]
They stopped and tilted their head, their hair swishing against their shoulder.
[Did you ever have a dream that you weren't sure if it was real, but you
couldn't ask your owner if it was?]
Their body changed from laughing to stiff, but before they could respond there
was a knock and the door swung open.
"Hey," Candace said brightly. "We're all going to get some Christmas shopping
done, and I was wondering if you two would like to come? There's also gonna be
Starbucks involved."
Matt blinked and thought. He wasn't sure if he was allowed, but this was the
best avenue to get Foggy's Christmas present, and Foggy had given Matt the
means to give one that wasn't food or a very good orgasm, so Matt should give
him one.
(More than that, Matt wanted to give him one. A good one. Foggy was so
generous.)
Matt stood up, and said, "If Anna's sure Foggy won't mind," he said
tentatively.
"Uh, that's weird, but okay. Moooom! Can you come tell Matt that Foggy wouldn't
caaare?"
There was the sound of booted footsteps, and Anna came near. "Candace, Foggy
would care."
Matt's heart sank.
"But so long as we all take some basic precautions, we should be fine," Anna
said. "I mean that my son would care to make sure you'd be safe and sound, but
I think we're quite capable of that."
"I'm coming too," Bee's tablet voiced.
Matt relaxed, and made sure to get his things, including the bag Foggy had
given him, which had fifty dollars, and also his wallet with a card that had
Foggy's number on it, and the debit card Foggy had gotten in the mail that
morning for the account that Matt was allowed to use.
(A bank account, just for him. It made his head spin.)
Matt hesitated over his jacket. If he was to use a debit card, without the
owner of that account nearby, if the store cashier asked for proof, he'd have
to call Foggy and bother him, and that would defeat the entire purpose.
But if he was wearing a scarf--
He swallowed, and decided to take a chance. "Could I borrow a scarf, Miss Anna?
I seem to have left mine at home, I'm terribly sorry."
"Just Anna, and of course," she said, and put one in his hands after a rustle.
"It's dark brown, you look dashing."
Matt flinched internally, but nothing came of that comment. He wound the scarf
around his neck, uncomfortably warm, and off they went, Matt breathing around
the clamping terror in his lungs.
 
--
 
Bee looked at Matt in the car as they went to the mall.
Matt looked--well, to them he looked scared, but they supposed that to free
people he'd look calm. His face was blank and his hands were tucked into his
pockets.
They looked at the scarf and gently asked him, hand on his, [Can I move your
scarf a bit so it covers up the collar all the way?]
Matt blinked and nodded. They did, and then asked him, [Not that I don't
approve, but why are you covering it up?]
[If anyone asks to get proof that I'm allowed to use this card, I'll have to
call Foggy and get approval,] Matt explained. [And I don't want to
inconvenience him. Especially not now.]
That ignited a low rage in their gut. Matt was an asshole and crazy and kind of
haughty, like a cat, but he was viciously kind where it counted. He'd come
through for them, and he spent so much time and effort thinking about how to
make Foggy Nelson happy. He deserved better than to have to be so worried.
They got to the mall, and Candace turned, her curls bouncing, and said, "So,
where do you want to go first?"
There was an awkward second, and then Anna Nelson said, "Let's try the
bookstore, first, I want to see if they've got any good ones for Edward," and
so they went.
Matt hadn't brought his cane--he didn't often bring it to places, probably out
of habit--but Bee had watched Foggy guide him often enough that they could do
it.
Except, as it turned out, it was a bit more work than they'd thought. They had
to focus to not walk Matt into anything, and by the time they'd got to the
bookstore, Matt was almost smirking.
[Asshole,] they said. [This is not as easy as it looks.]
[Really? It looks pretty easy to me.]
[But how--dammit, Matt!] and Matt cracked up, and Bee smiled against their
will. Matt had finally relaxed a bit around them, and they kept guiding him
down the aisles, looking at everything.
[I don't know what to get Foggy,] he confessed.
They turned their head to stare at him. [You're planning on shoplifting?]
[No, he gave me a card, didn't you hear? And money on it. So I can buy him
things. And maybe myself things too.]
They arched an eyebrow. Foggy Nelson seemed even more complicated a puzzle the
more they heard about him. But maybe he was like that asshole in that book they
and Matt had started. Christian Grey seemed pretty nice, too, except for how he
was wasn't.
They walked further into the aisles together, Bee waiting for Matt to reignite
the questioning.
[You were asking me something before we left.]
[Oh, right. I was going to ask you--have you ever had a dream about something
an owner did, and you weren't sure if it was a dream or real? I know it sounds
stupid and childish--]
[Yes.]
[Oh. What about?]
[They told me it was a dream. It wasn't.]
Matt blinked and reached to briefly tangle his hand with them, and squeezed. He
didn't press, which was good, because the world suddenly seemed to shrink and
distort as they thought about that particular little game the cunt twins had
liked to play.
[What was it you think you might have dreamed?] they asked Matt, dreading the
answer, but determined to help their only friend.
[I think Foggy might have used me,] he replied, reaching out his other hand to
trail along some books' spines. [Used my mouth, I mean. He didn't take my
clothes off, or use me conventionally. He kept saying sorry...]
They gritted their teeth and lifted their chin. [Did he tell you it was a
dream?]
[I can't ask Foggy if it was a dream or not,] Matt replied, face faintly hurt.
[What if he takes it to mean that that's what I want?]
That was a fair point. [Was there anything in there that was specific? Maybe
you could poke and see if he recognizes the phrase.]
Matt paused and tilted his head. [He said, at the end of it, that it didn't
violate the no-sex rule because it was just my mouth...]
Bee snarled involuntarily, their jaw grinding. They hated Foggy Nelson right
there and then, couldn't stand the thought of him hurting Matt like that and
then fucking acting like it was nothing.
Fuck him, him and his stupid fucking no-sex rule that they had thought was for
real. Fuck him. Fuck him and fuck their prior idea of him as a good person.
Clearly he just wanted them out of the way so that he could better hurt Matt.
Clearly, he thought that if they were free, they wouldn't care about their
friend anymore.
Well, he had fucked with the wrong goddamn person. [Matt,] they said, lifting
their chin and noticing that he looked alarmed now that they were angry. [Matt,
you have to start fighting back.]
[What?]
[You have to fight back. You're stronger than Foggy, you're smarter. You can
find some way to get out of this.]
[Don't be ridiculous,] Matt responded. [I can't do something to hurt him. He's
my owner.]
They threw their head back and sighed in exasperation. [If he's fucking you,
and using your mouth is fucking you, then he's not special anymore, he's just
another one of them. One of them who's been playing the long game.]
[You think Foggy's been so good to me just to build it up to make me think I'm
crazy when he uses me?] Matt responded, arching an eyebrow. [That really
doesn't seem like his style.]
[You don't know what his fucking style is. For all you know, he's finally
getting what he wants now that you're indoctrinated enough to lap up his
bullshit.]
Matt glared at a point three inches to the left of them. [I can't be around you
if you're going to say things like this.]
They sighed again, and massaged their forehead. [I'm not saying hurt him.] Not
yet. [I'm saying, fight back. Do something to yourself so you can check it to
see if it's real or not later. Do something to make him stop. Pretend you're
having a flashback. He gets really upset when he thinks those are happening.]
Matt himself sighed, and then nodded. [I'll take it under advisement.]
[No, don't. Actually defend yourself for once.]
He looked bitter as he caustically replied, [Yes, Mistress Bee.]
They stepped back and flinched involuntarily. [Fuck you. I'm not one of them.]
[Yes, you are,] he replied, and they realized they'd taken a full loop back to
where Anna Nelson and Foggy's sister--they kept forgetting her name--were
standing with full bags.
 
--
 
Matt thought about how to ask Foggy if his the unspoken definition of sex had
changed, and decided to make sure to telegraph his fear as strongly as he could
when he did. Foggy was consistently distressed by Matt's distress, and as much
as it was his job to make Foggy happy, if he didn't know the parameters of the
rules, he couldn't do that. And Matt would be extra good for Foggy afterwards
to make up for it--and besides, Foggy genuinely seemed to like comforting him.
Of course, if it turned out it hadn't been a dream, Matt would just have to
live with it. He'd lived through a lot of things before. He'd live through
this, too.
But a part of him was quietly sure that it had just been a horrible dream, and
Foggy hadn't used him. Not when even the idea of it seemed to make Foggy
queasy, not when Foggy was so firmly against it in his bizarre, circus-mirror
morality. Foggy was so kind, so generous, that it would surprise Matt if he
turned out to have twisted around the definition of sex like that.
Bee managed to guide him fairly well as they caught up with Anna and Candace,
who declared that now they had to go ahead and grab some things from Lush, who
were apparently having a sale.
Matt told them quietly, "I think it really was just a dream. It would be very
inconsistent if it wasn't."
"What was just a dream?" Candace asked, and Matt froze.
"Candace," Anna said disapprovingly. "Stop eavesdropping. Come and help me find
some of that one lotion you got me one time, I'm in need of some for my
office," and swept her away.
Matt relaxed. Bee sighed. [Let's talk about something else.]
Matt nodded.
[Why were you away all yesterday? And the day before that? Seems a bit of a
long stretch.]
[Foggy had to take me in to the Bureau for a mandated medical and obedience
test,] Matt explained.
[You're sure he had to?]
[Yes. I can hear heartbeats, don't you remember? I know lies when I hear them.
Foggy didn't lie to me about that.]
Bee sighed and slumped. [I'm afraid I left you behind,] they tapped, Matt
smelling salt brimming in their eyes. [I'm scared that you were right and now
I've left you behind and you're going to get hurt, and I can't help you.]
Matt blinked. Oh, no. "No," he said quietly out loud from where the two of them
were standing, pretending to be examining some display of what Matt guessed
were the bath bombs. "No, you didn't. You had a chance, and you took it. You
couldn't've not taken it."
[You said--you asked me not to.]
"I don't remember that," Matt said, frowning.
[You all but asked me not to,] they said, and Matt focused on their face. Their
lower lip was trembling. [And I did anyway, I left you behind. And I can't help
you now.]
"Don't be ridiculous," Matt said quietly, pressing in closely. "I'm okay. I
don't need your help, I'm okay. It was almost certainly just a dream, and I'll
ask Foggy, and he'll probably spend a good fifteen minutes hugging me and
telling me it's okay and promising to never use me again." The more he had to
argue that, the more it felt true.
[It's not fucking okay,] and then they turned away, and Matt could feel how hot
their skin was becoming.
"It's fine," he said, voice now in a whisper, "It's fine, this is what I'm
supposed to be. This is what it took years to make, years of careful effort.
I'm not a damsel in distress. Foggy's a good owner, the best owner I've ever
had, and now things are good. Remember when he owned you, too?"
They breathed deeply, and Matt tried to control himself and his own breathing.
He didn't like their distress. He wanted them to stop being so on-the-verge-of-
tears angry.
"Hey," he said gently. "Foggy was even nice to me during the exams. He was. He
held my hand, and they wouldn't let him hold me properly, but he held me as
much as he could, and he wouldn't let anyone touch me who wasn't a medic. And
he hates them for doing that. He let me go for a run afterwards. He's not a bad
owner. He's not like those--those--cockroaches who starved you. You don't have
to fight him."
They sighed, and calmed down, just in time for Candace to come out of the
store, and say with a grin in her voice, "Okay, where to next?"
Matt blinked. "I don't know what to get Foggy," he said, hoping to steer away
the conversation.
"Well," Anna said. "I think I have a few ideas, though only one could be bought
in this mall. Would you like to try that out, then?"
Matt nodded.
"Alright," Anna said brightly. "Ms Elle, follow me," and she led the way.
--
They decided that Matt's words combined into one thing: they'd have to tell
Foggy to knock it off tonight.
If Foggy Nelson was just being a bit clueless, like he was back when he tried
to tell Matt that he wanted Matt to be free, not be a doll, then they had
overreacted and they would calm their shit.
If he was doing it deliberately, they'd figure it out some other way.
But now that Matt had gotten so quickly to the heart of their feelings, they
could tell clearly that it was more a case of their guilt than their honest
assessment being correct. They felt horrible, lazing around, hiding away like a
weak pet, enjoying freedom and yet not. Meanwhile, Matt was just as crazy and
just as unwilling to defend himself. He wouldn't even try.
But then again, now they had power, and they could repay Matt someday, somehow,
with the only way they could.
They would find some way, come hell or high water, to free Matt.
--
When they came to the store, which Bee described as being called "The Film
Orgy", and was apparently full of DVDs from top to bottom, Anna paused and her
head turned, her hat moving against her ears.

"Matt, if you please, come walk with me," she said. "Candace, why don't you go
find something for Edward?"

"Sure, and don't come for me until I'm checking out," she said, and shot off.
Bee hovered anxiously, and then strode off too, tapping out before, [Gotta go
find something.]

Matt was left alone with Anna. Anna, Foggy's mother.

"Now," she said, sticking out her elbow awkwardly, "How do I actually do this?"

Matt blinked. "I can navigate with just my senses," he offered, wincing at the
lack of a ma'am or Miss Anna at the end of it. It felt rude.

"Well, certainly," she said. "Walk with me, please, I'd like to talk to you
alone for a little while."

Matt forced himself to walk.

As they went, Anna explained, "I'm looking for those Alexander Farragut movies.
Foggy owns all but three, and if you gave them to him, he'd be delighted."

"Thank you," Matt murmured. That was good; her heartbeat was steady and calm.

"Now," she said as they passed some shelves, "I'm afraid I have to begin by
offering you an apology."

Matt stumbled, caught flat-footed. "Huh?" he managed, surprised beyond words.

"I apologize to you for my part in how we originally treated you," Anna said,
continuing to walk, Matt going after her, almost walking into a case full of
films. "My only explanation is that I've never been much around any enslaved
people for cultural reasons and, in my discomfort with you, I rationalized away
what I was doing as giving you space.

"Foggy has since pointed out that it was cruel to treat you like a bad smell
and hope you'd just go away if we ignored you long enough, and he's right. I
apologize to you, and I promise to ensure that my home is your home, and if
anything were to happen to Foggy, I promise I would take as good care of you as
I was physically capable of."

Matt tried to process that. Had Foggy learned his entire strange worldview from
her? Was his father also like this? Were all the Nelsons so confusing and
bizarre?

"Thank you, ma'am," he said, and winced at himself. God. He was better-trained
than using the wrong address.

"Just Anna, please," she said, and began to keep her head still, in the way
that Matt had learned sighted people did when they were just moving their eyes
to look for something.

"Now, Matt," Anna added on. "You seem uncomfortable with Candace. I want to
assure you that if you don't feel comfortable telling Foggy about anything she
does, you can and should tell me, understand? I'm her mother. I'm responsible
for ensuring the adult I send out into the world isn't hurting anyone."

Matt wasn't included in 'anyone'--being a slave precluded that--but that also
required a response. "Yes, I understand."

Her head turned and he felt her eyes on him. "Do you, really? Because--well,
let me explain. Candace is one of those people who, at this stage of life, not
only believe themselves immortal, but believe themselves quite incapable of
doing any real harm to anyone else.

"If she's making you uncomfortable, or crossing lines, she might not notice,
and if she's endangering you, she might rationalize it away. And I promise that
I will not be angry at you if you choose to come to me with a complaint about
her behavior. If she's making you uncomfortable, she needs to stop. Is that
clearer?"

Matt nodded. That was clearer. He wasn't sure why Anna was flexing her
authority over Candace, or giving him orders--maybe to prepare him for having
her be a temporary owner, if something hurt Foggy?--but she was clear about
what he could do: tell her.

He would have to bite the bullet, then, and either reiterate more firmly to
Candace that he was Foggy's and Foggy's alone, or else go to Foggy, or go to
Anna. He filed that away as something to deal with later.

"Ah," Anna suddenly said, and plucked out three DVDs. "Here we go. Here, take
these. You've got money? Each is twenty dollars, I'll pay for anything you
can't afford."

Matt nodded. "Yes, Anna," he said. There was about a hundred and sixty-five
dollars in the account, he'd checked online.

She went still, and Matt was unsure why, and then she composed herself again.
"Alright," she said. "Well, I suppose then we should check out, then, if we're
to make a final few stops before we go back. Foggy worries a bit much about
you. Tell me if he's getting too smothering, I'll talk some sense into him
again, alright?"

Matt had no idea what too smothering could possibly mean in context to him. He
tried to extrapolate based on what free people thought smothering, but it
failed; he was a doll. If Foggy wanted to wrap him in cotton wool and never let
him leave his bed for fragility's sake, that would be his right.

They went to the check-out, and Matt remembered his rich owners who had him be
the one to speak to sales assistants and check out things for them because it
was beneath them, and held his chin high as he checked out the DVDs.

"That'll be sixty-eighty nine," the cashier said, and for one disorienting
moment Matt thought he meant six hundred and eighty-nine dollars, because that
was closer to the amounts Matt was used to things costing. He hadn't actually
done the checking-out in a long time.

Matt handed the card, and the cashier swiped it, and handed him the receipt,
not having him sign it. Most debit cards didn't require that nowadays, anyway--
some still did, but for every receipt that had to be signed, another owner
couldn't have their slave go on errands and buy things for them. Slaves
couldn't sign anything.

Matt smiled, wished them a good day and left off the address, biting his tongue
bloody, and walked over to Bee and Candace.

"Alright, three more stores," Anna said wearily, coming after them with her own
bags. "Sweets Emporium, Sears, and then that new yarn shop."
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also comes from Ada Hoffman's "Parable of the
     Supervillain".
***** look at the skill and spirit with which I rise from that which resembles
the grave but isn’t *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Foggy got to therapy, and immediately put down his bag and began to pace back
and forth.

"I don't know how to live in this world," he began.

Miriam studied him. Her braids were wrapped around her head like a crown, and
her eyes seemed full of calm patience. It was only marginally soothing.

"I don't--I had to take Matt to this fucking government thing, and I had to--
I had to hold his hand while they--when they were raping him, I had to hold his
hand and, and, I wanted to fucking kill everyone, I want to burn the whole
world to fucking ashes and sit on top of the Empire State Building and roast
marshmallows with him, I want everything to just--stop--"

Foggy stopped talking, half-horrified at himself, and half too furious to speak
coherently.

"I don't know how to go on living in a world that is so fundamentally evil," he
said. "I don't understand how I haven't noticed it before."

"It can be very easy for us to not see what we find distressing," Miriam said
calmly. "It's a normal thing, for people to not notice what they find to shake
their worldview so badly."

Foggy snorted. "I don't--I guess it's normal, but how could I--how could I not
have known?"

He sat down hard on the couch. "I feel like every time I think I've understood
how fucking--horrific--everyone is, I get slapped in the face with some new
piece of pure, utter--dehumanizing evil--and then I realize that no, I didn't
understand, I can't understand how bad the world really is. I can't get it. And
I have to get it. I can't just--I can't keep getting caught off-guard like
this, I have to be strong and, and I have to be ready for everything. I have to
be able to actually fucking do my fucking job as a friend and be there for
Matt, I have to protect him--"

And that was veering into territory that felt weirdly patronizing. He stopped
talking for a minute.

Miriam said gently, "Is there anything you think you can focus on? Specific,
concrete goals?"

"I--" Foggy swallowed and closed his eyes and thought. "I want--no, shit--I owe
it to him--I need to get Matt a good Christmas present or ten. I need to stop
fucking up and freaking him out. And I need to figure out something--some way
to fight back. Some way to help that kid."

"That kid?" she questioned gently.

"There was--in the waiting room, there was this kid--and he was so little, he
was, maybe he was three, or five, I don't know, he was just a fucking kid, and
his mother had him a collar and she was--it was some demented fucking
punishment, and--and I couldn't help him, I had to walk away from him--"

Foggy put a hand up to his mouth and resisted the urge to vomit. He couldn't
stop seeing Matt's face as they raped him, their blue gloves against his dick,
the relief on his face because at least it was over.

"Matt looked relieved when they finished the--the 'semen sample', when they
were-- he looked happy that it was over--" and then Foggy rushed to the trash
can and threw up the leftover pizza.

It smelled disgusting, and he gagged and kept vomiting for a few more minutes,
and then he staggered backwards.

Miriam didn't look disgusted. She held out a pack of gum, and a water bottle,
the tiny kind.

Foggy washed out his mouth as best he could, and spat it into the trash can. "I
hate them," he said suddenly. "I fucking hate all of them. I hate every single
person in this fucking world who has ever done this. I hate the fact that I
can't free Matt," and his voice cracked. "I hate myself for hurting him, and I
keep fucking doing it. I can't seem to get it right."

"Foggy," Miriam said very gently, "I'd like to speak for a little while now."

Foggy nodded and chewed the gum, trying to get the taste of stomach acid out of
his mouth.

"First of all, it's healthy that you're saying these things," she began.
"Second of all, you mentioned Christmas presents as a concrete way to effect
positive change in your life. You also mentioned possible political activism?"

Foggy nodded, watching her. She put her fingers against her lips, and then
spoke again, quietly. "I need to inform you that as a mandated reporter, it is
my job to report any violations of laws regarding the movements of slaves to
the Bureau or any other law enforcement agency."

Foggy went cold. "What?" he said.

Miriam re-explained. "If any of my patients were to become involved with any
anti-slavery terrorist organizations, or else traffick slaves, I would be
obligated to report, in that instance."

Foggy stared at her, this woman who was helping him, who he'd thought was on
his side. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" he asked before he could help
himself.

She didn't look offended. "I would also be mandated to report if I had evidence
of you committing sex crimes," she explained. "Specifically, sexual assault."

Foggy looked at her, sickened again, because she'd just said-- but she hadn't
reported him for raping Matt--

Because nobody thought it was rape. Not Matt, not Miriam, not anyone else.
Nobody in the entire fucking world thought it was rape. Foggy was alone in his
own personal nightmare.

The thought was self-centered enough to yank him out of his reverie. No, no,
this wasn't his nightmare. He wasn't the one suffering the most, and it wasn't
a nightmare. He couldn't very well wake up.

Miriam was moving something around. "I have here a collection of items I like
to use with my patients, sometimes," she said, putting a box in front of him.

Foggy looked inside the box. There were stones, and a blanket, and things that
he didn't know any words for.

"What are--"

"They're called stim toys," Miriam explained. "And the stones are worry stones;
you can hold them, and wear them down slowly, after decades."

Foggy looked inside them, feeling faintly like a crazy person, or the only sane
person on the planet, and picked up the blanket--

Only to find it heavy. Extremely heavy. Like a dentist's vest, the kind that
was lined with lead for x-rays.

"Huh," he said. "What--why is that weighted? Does it have--those are beads," he
said absently.

"Yes," Miriam explained. "It's a weighted blanket. Some of my patients with
anxiety, especially, like to use them, and find it comforting."

Matt loved blankets. Foggy suddenly had a beautiful idea, and pulled out his
phone to remind himself to do it as soon as possible.

--

After he got back from the appointment with Miriam--she'd had him write down a
list of things that were both physically possible and would make him feel a
little less despairing of the world, possibly--Foggy got back to find the house
empty, apart from Dad.

There was a note in Anna's handwriting on the back of the door. We went
shopping. Don't worry.

Well, that was completely impossible, but Foggy sighed and decided to do it
anyway. "Hey, Dad," he said, and went to him in the living room.

"Hey, Foggy-bear," Dad said, and put an arm around him as Foggy fished out his
project--baby hats, for the hospital's maternity ward--and started to crochet.
Hat patterns were startlingly easy, once you realized they were all variations
on either making the brim and then going up, or making a ruffled circle and
then going down.

Foggy tch'd at the nickname irritably, but didn't argue. He felt like he had no
emotions left in him, not after throwing them up into a trash can.

"Hey," Dad said after a minute. "So you're, uh, very taken with Matt."

Foggy stared at him. His dad's face looked sad and guilty, the way he did
whenever he talked about Rosalind, full of spilled milk. "Yeah?"

"Have you thought about what the long-term plans will be?"

Foggy stared at him harder. "Matt is not a dog that I need to put in my will,"
he said mildly, ignoring the fact that he'd had to designate Anna as Matt's
hypothetical just-in-case owner. That was just a legal thing. Nothing was going
to happen to him.

"I--son," and Dad sighed and scrubbed his other hand over his face. "Foggy, I
love you, and I think Matt's a fine kid."

Foggy glared at him.

"But, and don't look at me like that, but he's--do you understand what you're
doing, all this, all this commitment?"

Foggy lifted his chin. "You know," he said icily, channeling Rosalind firing an
intern, channeling Matt standing up to her. "Someone told me once that
everything you say before the 'but' is actually just fluff to soften the blow."

"Son--goddamnit--" and Dad looked old, old as Gandalf or the old man Matt
Murdock had saved that one day, years ago, "Foggy, I just--look, what if he's
as twitchy as he is forever? Are you prepared to do so much, as much as you're
doing, for the rest of your life?"

Foggy almost laughed. It wasn't a real question. "Yes."

"Don't just toss that out there like it's nothing," Dad snapped.

Foggy looked at him, and thought about Matt, about going to therapy and feeling
frayed and vomiting, about the way sometimes he sympathized with Sisyphus,
about the way he was so fucking glad right there and then that Matt was
somewhere else.

And then he thought about kissing Matt's neck, about bringing him soup. About
the countless ways Matt took care of Foggy, the perfect coffee before even he
knew he wanted it, the standing up to Rosalind, to that utter monster Winter.
Matt slow-blinking at him so Foggy could get through the horrific obedience
test. About Matt tapping on the window, grinning and silly and proud.

Whatever kind of horrific dystopia Foggy lived in, whatever kind of world he
was forced to exist in, he wasn't about to do it without Matt.

He said, calm and certain, seeing the infinite mountain full of jagged edges
and nasty, crumbling cliffs, and deciding to climb it anyway, "Yes."

Dad sighed. "Why, Foggy?"

"I love him."

"You're ready to always be there for him for the rest of your life," Dad said,
eyes narrowed. "Even if he's always this quiet little wrecked kid?"

"Matt is not broken," Foggy said, feeling the truth in the words. Matt wasn't
broken. Matt was crazy, Matt was hurt, Matt was scarred. Matt was walking
wounded.

But he wasn't broken. People didn't break; objects broke. People got hurt, and
Matt was hurt, horrifically so, more than Foggy knew people could get hurt.

So fucking what?

"And even if he's never--" Foggy made a vague gesture. "Whatever it is that you
think he 'should' be--" and now that he was making the argument, he could
understand what Anna had meant, he could articulate it now he had an opponent,
"I don't fucking care. I love Matt. He's fine just as he is. He's more than
fine, actually. He's amazing. He's smart, he's smarter than me, he's funny,
he's compassionate. I love him. I don't care if he never loves me back, or if
he's always fucked up and crazy. I don't care. Nobody gets to hurt him. Not me,
and not anyone else, not as long as I'm alive. I love Matt."

Dad studied him, and then leaned back. "The world's not gonna make it easy for
you," he warned him. "Your mother explained it to me. You can't just free him."

"I love him," Foggy explained. The words were so small, minuscule, atoms in the
vastness of his love for Matt, in the promise. "If the world wants to try to
fuck him over any more, they can do it over my cold fucking corpse."

Dad looked at him and sighed heavily. "You're just like your mother."

"Anna said that?"

"I meant Rose," Dad said, looking nostalgic. "She's just the same. She doesn't
give a fuck about what the world wants."

"She left you, and me," Foggy pointed out, unable to see the connection. "No,
actually, didn't she literally kick you out of her house, with me?"

Dad snorted. "Yes. But--jeez, Foggy, how can I even explain? It's the
determination. Anna's determined, but she's not like you. She told me our
marriage vows were conditional.

"Not Rose. You're just like her," he said, sounding sad. "She's a bulldog, too,
never lets anything go once she's decided to do it."

Foggy looked at him, judging him a little bit.

Dad rolled his eyes. "I fell in love with her for a reason, Foggy," he said.

"Yeah, that reason is called heroin," Foggy pointed out.

"Well, it helped," Dad muttered, and they both laughed a little.

"But, seriously, no, don't do that again," Foggy said, grimacing. "She's--fuck
her. She raped Matt. She can go die in a fucking fire."

"Son--it's not--good lord," Dad sighed. "You're being unfair to her. She
doesn't live in whatever kind of--I don't even know, college student liberal
culture you think we should--"

"Dad--" Foggy started, and stopped. "Dad, shut up. I can't listen to you tell
me I should be nicer to a woman who raped the person I'm in love with. No.
Just...no."

Dad looked mutinous. "Anyway," he said. "I'd better be getting back to the
shop," he said. Foggy knew it was a polite lie.

"See you later," Foggy said, and went back to his crochet in silence. He felt
better now that he'd said those two things out loud: that he didn't know how to
live in this evil world, and that he loved Matt, scars included. It felt truer
now that he'd said it. It sounded like his own real voice.

Then he remembered what to buy Matt, and rushed off to go order it, face split
with excitement.
--
Anna dropped Matt off at Foggy's apartment, promising Matt to let him know
she'd done it.

Matt walked up inside, put the Christmas presents for Foggy carefully under the
small stack of microfleece blankets, pulled a cushion off the couch, and curled
up on it on the floor next to his bed, shivering.

He'd done it. He'd pretended, in public, to be a free person. He'd lied to free
people, casually committed fraud, and not like a lie to an owner that they
asked you to tell them, not like how he'd lied to Foggy so long ago. He'd
actually, honest-to-goodness lied about his legal status.

Matt hastily unwound the scarf and realized he'd accidentally taken it, and
made a mental note to give it back to Anna when he next was there.

His neck felt so much better now that it wasn't mummified. He breathed in and
out, deep and slow, scared still. He felt like any moment now the police, or
Foggy, or someone else, would come in and drag him away to be beaten or put in
a sensory deprivation tank or whip him for pretending to be free. It felt as if
he was on a knife's edge and being cut, slowly, bleeding into the sheets.

Of course, he could always claim that Foggy had told him to put on the scarf
over his collar, and it wasn't illegal, not strictly. But that was also a lie.
It had been of his volition. It was his fault, his decision, his own idea. It
felt horrifically wrong to Matt to cover it up. Even for his owner's sake, his
owner's convenience, it still felt like Matt had somehow crossed a line and
gone too far.

He lay there and shivered, trying to get himself under control. He'd done well.
It had been a scary, difficult task, asking some of the assistants at the yarn
shop for help in picking out the right one, but he'd done it, and done it
right.

Matt breathed in and out, trying to soothe himself like he was soothed when he
was trained to do frightening things for owners.Shh, shh, it's okay, you did it
right, you were good, you're still being good. You deserve a treat for that. Go
get something that tastes good and put on some music, you deserve a treat for
this, he thought at himself.

It was difficult to move, his limbs felt wrong, but he got up, and got himself
tea, fingers trembling. He brought it back to the bedroom and curled up on the
cushion again, kneeling, and put on some quiet Chopin piano from his laptop,
and blanked his mind of any thought that wasn't how good it tasted or how soft
the music sounded or how pleasant the weight of his body was, resting on the
cushion, on his knees where it was safer.

Matt floated on the sensation, letting himself breathe out the fear, and braced
himself for having to figure out tonight if it had been just a dream, or if
Foggy really had used him.

--

When Foggy came back later that night--if Matt wanted space, he'd give Matt
space--he found Matt lying on his bed, looking nervous.

"Hey," Foggy said.

Matt twisted so that his face was in front of Foggy. His back was still tight
with tension, as far as Foggy could tell.

"Hey," he said again, gentler, sitting down on his bed, tossing his boots in
his closet and flopping down. "What's up?"

Matt hesitated, and then said quietly, "A long time ago, when I was owned by a
woman named Sharon, one of the overseers wanted to fuck me."

Foggy didn't know what this was leading into. He made a quiet noise to show he
was listening.

"He tried to do it the ordinary way, at first," Matt said, curling into a ball.
"Ordering me to bend over, things like that. But I didn't let him--I always had
something else I couldn't delay doing for our mistress. And he didn't stop
trying for quite a while. Once, when I had been sent to fetch her a sandwich--
our mistress, Mistress Sharon--he tried to order me to suck him off."

Foggy wanted to kill this man. "Fuck him," he offered. Matt smiled briefly.

"He wouldn't let me leave the kitchen--and I wasn't sure if it would have been
acceptable to force my way out--for long enough that Mistress Sharon ended up
coming down," Matt said, thoughtfully. "And she was quite irritated with him,
but she allowed both of us to make arguments, to make our cases."

Good fucking Jesus. "Wow," Foggy said, unable to make any words come out.
Christ. He tried to imagine listening to someone argue why he was allowed to
rape him, and he couldn't.

Matt smiled again, and then it passed. "His argument was that since it didn't
involve my own nakedness, or any part of my body besides my mouth, that it
wouldn't have been sex, and so he didn't need to ask her for prior permission,
like he did when he wanted sex from her other slaves."

Foggy blinked.

Matt was completely, absolutely silent, and Foggy looked closer at him. He
looked like he was expecting Foggy to say something, or waiting for it, or
terrified of it.

Well, okay. "That's a bullshit argument," Foggy said, not sure what would help
Matt. "Completely bullshit. Blowjobs are definitely, inarguably sex. Anything
with one person's dick--or vagina--or nipples--or ass, I guess--or any kind of
genitals or anything is sex. No matter what teenagers in Texas think. Or
asshole rapists like that."

Matt smiled and his whole body uncurled and relaxed. "I argued that since I was
her property and not his, it was up to her what was done with me, including
anything from whether I breathed or choked, if I lived or died, and thus he
shouldn't presume to order me as if I were his property.

"And Mistress Sharon had never actually given the overseer the explicit
privilege of having authority over her bed slaves--me and the pet--and
therefore there was absolutely no reason he should have thought himself
entitled enough to presume to use me for sex without asking first. And that he
was lying, he hadn't just wanted to use my mouth."

Foggy winced, but then again, this was just like Matt to argue that. "Did it
work?"

"She was very pleased by my recognition of her rights," Matt said, face
unworried now. "And very displeased with the overseer. She investigated, and
found he'd been ordering around half of her other slaves to have sex with him,
or with each other, without consulting her first. Since sex wasn't any of their
duties, and he never asked her for permission, she was extremely angry. She had
him demoted to dishwasher, and then when he turned out to be incompetent at
that, she had him put down. She let me be the one to give the shot," and Matt
grinned at that, wide and pleased with himself.

On the one hand, the idea of Matt killing anyone was disturbing.

On the other hand, Foggy was starting to feel like anyone who raped Matt, or
tried, or raped anyone, for that matter, should get what was coming to them,
and if that was death, well. They deserved it. "Good. I'm glad he's dead,"
Foggy said, and then he moved to get his laptop.

He glanced over after he settled down again, and Matt looked calm and as
relaxed and happy as he got. So Foggy let him be, and kept half an eye out,
just in case Matt wanted to share anything else. But he didn't.

--

Matt knew that this had been the right tactic. Foggy hated Matt's other owners,
even the ones who had been nice, and he knew that disguising it as just a story
would make sure that he could suss out the truth.

It had just been a weird, awful dream. He didn't have to worry. Foggy had been
entirely sincere in his baffled contempt of the overseer's argument. He thought
that blowjobs were sex, and so he hadn't used Matt and said it wasn't really
sex.

Matt smiled, made sure to send an 'all clear' message to Bee, and switched back
to the creepy podcast. The narrator had filed out the begging forms to be
allowed to eat with the beautiful scientist with the beautiful hair, and was
describing how he'd picked out his favorite glittery collar with his best tunic
and furry pants for the occasion.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also comes from Anne Boyer's "what resembles the grave
     but isn’t".
***** you run on gasoline *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Bee waited until one in the morning to sneak out and go to Foggy's place. 
It was odd, to not have it be their living place either, anymore, but it had
hardly been theirs in the first place. Forcing themselves out of the tiny room
they were half-trapped and half-ensconced in was difficult, made them tremble,
but they took out the knife from under their pillow, and stashed it in a
sweatshirt pocket next to the tablet, and felt better that way.
They got even more afraid once they were out of the Nelsons' house, outside and
alone in the dark, but nobody was around. They didn't encounter one person, and
they hunched over, trying to hide their collar, and then remembered that they
weren't wearing one anymore.
It felt...well, good, but also very, very weird. They couldn't remember a time
before they wore a collar; their first memories of the collars were having the
plastic ones cleaned under in the showers in the center. Then there were the
heavy metal collars after they--
After they didn't have a tongue. Or teeth. And then there was the shock collars
when the center got a donor who sent them, and then there was being bought by
the cunts, and then there was the other collars, metal and heavy and itching at
their skin.
They almost missed the nice fabric collar Foggy had gotten them, and the
braided leather ones. Leather was so much better than metal, or at least iron
or steel. And the fabric ones were so soft, it had almost felt nice to have
them put on.
Bee shook themselves out of it. They were free now, and they weren't supposed
to miss things about being a slave, but in a way, they did. They didn't know
how to be a free person, what to do, when they should eat or sleep or get up or
sit down or go do the dishes or study.
It was late, and they walked quickly, hood over their hair because it was
greasy and matted and disgusting. They couldn't make themselves shower enough,
or get out of bed most days, except late in the day, to sneak out and get food.
They knew they didn't need to, not anymore, but they still couldn't quite bring
themselves to be around anyone other than Matt, because they felt so fucking
stupidly afraid and ashamed.
When they'd been a slave, they'd shoved back at the shame, fought it, because
back then, it had been an insult to them. But now they were free, and doing a
terrible job of it, hiding away from everyone and doing almost nothing to enjoy
their freedom, and it was shameful. Matt was the only one they could stand to
be around, because what Summer had said was just on the nail: he couldn't look
at them.
They didn't want to be looked at ever again.
They made it to the apartment, and knocked quietly, hoping that with Foggy's
weird sleeping disorder and Matt's ability to sleep through screams, that it
would work out just right--
And Foggy was the one to open the door, blinking at the faint light and rubbing
an eye.
"Can I have a word with you? Downstairs?" They made sure the tablet's voice was
very quiet.
Foggy blinked again, and said, "Uh, sure, I mean, it's late--"
"Matt shouldn't listen in on this conversation," they amped the volume up to a
stage-whisper, and Foggy looked more wary, but nodded and followed them down.
They kept a hand inside their pocket, holding the knife's handle. It felt like
a security blanket, like the little plain blankets they had been given in pre-
conditioning. They had it all the time now, under the pillow or next to them.
They could go out without it if Matt was there; he was a bodyguard-trained
slave, and in shape, and perfectly willing to use violence if anything
happened.
Their blankets were all taken away once they turned five, to be washed and
given to the next batch of baby slaves. Theirs had been yellow, and soft, and
so old and ragged that it had been burnt instead.
Bee walked them downstairs, and sat in the stairwell, looking hard at Foggy
Nelson, thinking.
He'd helped them reshape their name into something that could pass for a normal
free person's name. He'd never touched them. He'd given them food, and water,
and a couch to sleep on, and warm clothes. He'd never hit them, or punished
them, or gotten angry at them. He'd defended them, and freed them.
They would be sorry if they had to hurt him to help Matt.
They typed quietly for a second, and then, "You haven't fucked Matt, have you?"
They watched his face tensely, fist tight on the knife. With Matt still asleep
upstairs, they could take Foggy, probably. They were still skinny and small and
had no training in fighting, but they were determined to save the only real
friend they had in the world.
Foggy went pale. "No," he said, "No, I would never--no, no. Shit. Did he--is he
okay?"
Well, that seemed sincere enough, but just to check. "You haven't even used his
mouth? I mean, his lips are pretty," and Foggy looked angry at the second
sentence. Good.
"What the fuck? No. Fucking no. I'm trying to not be a dick to Matt. I'm not
going to fucking rape him," Foggy hissed.
They smiled and relaxed. That was vehement. Bee wasn't Matt, who could read
anyone with terrifying accuracy--anyone but Foggy, anyway--but they knew a lie
when they saw one, and that wasn't a lie.
"Good," they typed. "Because you're not allowed to hurt Matt." Their heart
pounded in their chest with terror at telling a free person what they weren't
allowed to do, but it felt like freedom, like breathing in air with an
uncovered neck. Like walking out of the cunts' house on their own two feet.
Now they didn't have to stab Foggy's neck, slide out the knife. It had been a
stupid idea anyway; they didn't think they could really do it.
"Yeah," Foggy said quietly, seriously. "I know."
They looked at him, and thought about the way he looked at Matt, and then
sighed. Oh, hell. "You love him, don't you," and the tablet's voice didn't
sound as accusing as they wanted it to come out.
"Yeah," Foggy said softly, face turning cherishing. "I love Matt."
"Don't tell him. Or. Don't tell him like that."
"Why not?" he asked, looking confused.
They tried to figure out how to put it into words. Free people were idiots when
it came to slaves.
"Owners who love slaves hurt them even more than free people who love each
other hurt each other," they finally arrived on. "And if an owner loves you,
you have to love them back."
"Oh," Foggy said. "Fuck that. Matt can feel however he feels."
They looked at him--really looked at him--and laughed silently. Foggy Nelson
was a completely bizarre, near-miraculous person.
"Only you would care that much," they eventually had the tablet say.
"You love Matt, too," he pointed out.
They flinched. "No." They didn't even want to imagine having to kiss Matt, or
fuck him, like owners made slaves do sometimes. No. Matt existed apart from
those grotesque little performances.
"I don't mean--no, I mean like, as a friend. Platonically. As a friend. Like
Harry and Hermione."
Who was that? They must have looked as baffled as they felt, because Foggy
hastily clarified, "I--they're characters in the Harry Potter series, they're
friends but not ever romantically involved, some people ship them and they're
wrong, anyway--you never read Harry Potter?"
They stared at him blankly. Sometimes Foggy could be really, really clueless.
"I read things for a degree. I didn't have books for fun."
"And you probably never got the chance to read it," Foggy muttered to himself,
and facepalmed. "God. Sorry. Do you want to borrow mine?"
"Why?" Bee asked, finally too confused by all this charity. "Why are you doing
so much for me? You and your parents. I'm not contributing anything back. I'm
just eating food and hiding in a room and taking up space."
"Okay, first of all, people don't have to do anything to 'earn', like, a room
and food," Foggy said. "And also, like, because we can? Because we can help
you. Because you don't have any other place to go right now. Uncle Thomas is
getting you an apartment as soon as he can find one, but like--okay, as much as
my parents are also kind of politically uninvolved, we can't just--we would
never not do something for someone, if we can. That's some shit you learn in
kindergarten, you know? If you can help someone, you should."
They looked at him, and felt the strangest urge to cry. "I don't know. I didn't
go to kindergarten."
An awkward silence fell upon the deep.
"Yeah," Foggy said quietly. "And that makes me want to kill people."
"Why--we're not even friends. I barely know anything about you."
Foggy shrugged. "You're Matt's friend. Even if you and I hated each other, I'd
still try to be nice to you. I can't stand most of Candace's friends and I
still have to be civil with them."
They turned and looked at the dank stairwell, clutching the knife. They
understood now, viscerally, why Matt seemed to be perpetually confused about
Foggy Nelson. He was the antithesis of owners, but he was an owner. He was a
paradoxical person.
"Well, don't leave Matt alone again," they typed out, refocusing. "He told me
he couldn't talk to me because he didn't deserve it, because he made you
upset."
"Oh, jesus," Foggy swore, putting his head in his hands. "Oh, Matt," he said
softly. "I didn't mean to--I didn't mean that," he said, turning to Bee, eyes
wide. "I was pissed and I left so I didn't--I dunno, so I wouldn't make it
worse, or yell at him."
"I think he'd be fine with you hitting him more than leaving him," they said.
"I'm not going to fucking hit him!" Foggy yelled, and it echoed in the
stairwell, loud. They shrank back on old reflexes, ground into their marrows.
He stopped.
"Sorry," he said. "Sorry, I didn't--shit. I just. I don't want to yell at Matt.
Or push him too hard. But I can't--I can't not ever be angry at the bullshit he
spews about him not being a person, or deserving all that horrible shit
anyone's ever done to him. It makes me so angry. I can't--"
They studied him. Foggy was really, really determined.
"If you told him not to say those things, he wouldn't."
"Yeah, but that would also be being a controlling asshole," Foggy said. "Ugh.
I'll ask Miriam. She has good advice sometimes."
They didn't know how Miriam was. They looked at Foggy Nelson, still in his
pajamas, starting to shiver, and stood up.
"Matt likes it when you let him sleep in your bed," they said. It wasn't a
secret. They would keep the actual secrets, still. They weren't a snitch.
"Yeah," Foggy said, and stood up too.
"See you another time," they told him.
"Wait--"
They turned back around.
"Get Matt something for Christmas," Foggy said. "I want to make it perfect for
him."
Good lord. He sounded like Matt when he was talking about doing something for
Foggy. "Sure," they said, and left.
As they walked back through the neighborhoods, shivering through the
sweatshirt, glad they hadn't had to the use the knife, they thought about what
to get Matt, and how to deal with Foggy.
They weren't friends with him, and they didn't trust him, not all the way. He
was an owner, which was a little like being an alligator. You couldn't trust
them no matter how nice they were. But he'd freed them, and that meant they had
red in their ledger. They knew how relationships worked.
And since Foggy loved Matt so goddamn much, so inexplicably, they might be able
to pay off their debt by getting Matt something, provided it was beyond perfect
for him.
Something occurred to them, and a small smile twisted their face, and they
hurried back to the Nelsons', got into the room and the corner of the closet
they'd been hiding in irregularly, and began to look up the store they were
thinking of. Something for Matt that they'd wanted since they were small and
saw one of the director's kids have it at the office when they were called in
to--
To be displayed. Inspected. Fingers inside of them--
They shivered a little, and focused. They'd have to get the knife for him
somewhere else, and find a way to hide it inside.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also comes from Halsey's "Gasoline".
***** permit yourself anger, and permit me mine *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The next morning, when Foggy got up to find Matt rolling what looked like dough
around on the counter, doing something to it that involved stretching it out
and then bunching it back together--kneading, he remembered, that's what it's
called, Anna does that with bread--and then he sat down at the table and
watched for a minute, and then cleared his throat.

Matt tilted his head and something in his shoulders tightened minutely.

"Hey, Matt, so remember the time I sort of, uh, stormed off and then came back
later with donuts?"

Matt nodded. "Yes, Foggy," he said, kneading the dough harder.

"Uh, well, okay, uh--I meant--I didn't mean--" he sighed. Why was it so hard to
talk to Matt sometimes? Why couldn't they just communicate?

Because he's been systematically fucked up, and it's not his fucking fault,
Foggy thought ruthlessly at himself.

"If I do that, what I'm trying to do--if I leave--it's not make you feel
worse," he articulated. "It's so that I don't--look, Matt, if I was having an
argument with Candace, like that, I might end up snapping at her, or we'd be
fighting, or like, even scream. We had a lot of screaming fights in high
school. But, as someone who at least tries to be a mature adult, I don't really
think it solves problems, and also I don't--I don't actually want to fight with
you, that would not be...that would not be okay."

The word Foggy wanted to say was fair, but something about that felt
patronizing. He'd have to ask Miriam about this weird conflict he kept seeing,
where Matt both clearly wasn't independent but wasn't helpless, either.

Matt looked like someone who spoke English trying very hard to understand
Dutch, or some of the freshman in college when they took their very first
Women's Studies class and saw phrases like 'deconstruct the hyper-feminizing of
queerness, with a Focaultian approach'.

"If you want to express your frustrations with me, Foggy, that's your right,"
Matt eventually said, soft and coaxing. "I wouldn't mind it if you wanted to
use me to release tension."

"Matt--" Foggy sighed and buried his face in his hands. "Matt, I--no. No.
You're a person, I won't--fucking jesus. It is not okay to hit people, or, or
yell at them, just because you're pissed at them, okay? I believe that. Got
it?"

"Yes, Foggy," he said, still kneading, looking mildly confused.

"I--and if I do do that, walk out so I don't escalate anything by accident, you
can do whatever, okay? Whether or not you deserve basic rights as a person has
nothing to do with me, or whether I'm pissed at you or not, okay?"

Matt had the tiniest twitch of irritation, but nodded. "Understood, Foggy," he
said.

Foggy sighed but didn't say anything else, even though Matt clearly didn't
understand. Fuck.

--

At the next session with Miriam, he started off by sitting down and saying
heavily, "How do you help someone understand that they're a person?"

Miriam tilted her head curiously. "I assume you're referring to Matt?" she
asked lightly.

"Yeah," Foggy said.

"Well, since he's your slave, it should be as simple as telling him what you
think, and ordering him to stop disagreeing with you," she said, perfectly
calmly.
"Oh, fuck you!" Foggy snapped, something twanging hard in his chest. "Fuck you
and fuck this whole fucking world, I am so done with people talking about Matt
like that!"

He stood up and grabbed his bag to go, snarling out, "Fucking people keep
expecting me to hurt him, to just, to treat him like shit, fuck you and fuck
everyone else--"

And then he remembered that he was going to ask her about how Matt's both
weirdly helpless and yet absolutely not, and stops.

Fuck. How long would it take him to find another therapist, even one that was
marginally good? How would Anna react if Foggy stormed out and had to tell her
he'd told her colleague to fuck off and quit therapy because of one stupid
remark?

He sighed, and sat down again, slower this time. He looked at Miriam, who
didn't look angry or offended.

"I don't--okay, that was a little bit rude, but--fuck that. I'm not treating
Matt like that. I refuse."

Miriam looked at him, eyes dark, and then nodded. "I see. Well, maybe some
other tactics would help. You've mentioned that Matt believes that he's not a
person?"

Foggy blew out a breath and nodded. "He really thinks that. It's--it's not just
something he says, or repeats. He thinks it, wholeheartedly," his voice cracked
at the end with pain for Matt, remembering especially Matt's argument at the
courthouse. Jesus.

"Well, you want him to form a different understanding of himself, and you're
not willing to order him to," Miriam said. "Is my understanding correct, then?"

Foggy said, "Yeah. I mean, I don't--I don't want him to say it, or think it,
just because I said so, that's--that's some cruel, stupid bullshit, but I want
him to understand that he is a person and just--and stand up for himself, and,
and let himself just have things without worrying about them, because he
deserves them. I don't--I'm afraid that I'm hurting him, or I'm going to hurt
him, and he'll just let me."

Miriam nodded, and wrote something down. "It's normal for people whose loved
ones have low self-esteem to feel frustrated and angry on their behalf," she
said gently.

"And it's good to have a space to vent those feelings without causing the loved
one further distress. It might help you in addition, with that, if you wanted
to write down your feelings. Some of my clients write letters to their spouses,
or children, or friends, and then burn them. Does that sound like something you
want to try?"

"Maybe," Foggy said. "That might--that might help, because I know I can't push
him too hard. But maybe if I write it--yeah, and that way I won't do it by
accident."

Miriam nodded. "Now, my advice for engaging with it in the moment, when Matt
says something that indicates this view of himself, is to do what's called the
broken record technique.

"It's something that helps a lot of my clients push back on other people's
negative speech or even boundary-pushing attempts without engaging with their
beliefs or getting exhausted. Essentially, you form a sentence to say, and say
it whenever the situation comes up.

"One of my clients responds, for example, to her mother's attempts to see my
client's children alone is 'this is the rules that I have set with regards to
my children, and if you can't follow them, you can't be their grandmother at
all'. What do you think could be a useful phrase for dealing with Matt's self-
conception?"

Foggy thought about it. He didn't want to force Matt into believing something
different just because he did, but he couldn't just let that shit stand.
"Maybe, uh, I dunno, something like--like maybe, it's fine to disagree with me,
but I think you're a person?"

That sounded good. Miriam nodded. "Now, the next time you're faced with Matt's
belief of himself, it might help to just try saying that instead of doing what
you call 'pushing'--and could you elaborate on what you mean by that?"

"Yeah, sure. I mean like--I keep trying to show him the reasons for it, or
persuade him to see the truth, or I guess just, I dunno, push back on that
shit. Because it is such fucking bullshit, everyone is a person, that's some
basic shit, I just," and Foggy made himself take a deep breath.

"That reminds me of the other thing I was gonna ask you," he said quietly. "I--
okay, there's this thing going on, and I don't know if I'm understanding it
right. It's--okay, sometimes Matt seems just...helpless, and I guess--um--
vulnerable is what I mean, Matt seems just vulnerable, like I could do whatever
I wanted to him, and it scares the hell out of me.

"But then, Anna told me, she reminded me really, that I shouldn't be
condescending to Matt, and I know that Matt's not actually helpless, he's--did
I tell you about the time Rosalind came to my apartment and Matt verbally
kicked her ass out of there?"

Miriam looked curious. "No, I don't believe you have."

"Well, okay, I did tell you how Rosalind is kind of an evil bitch, right?"

Miriam looked amused. "You've mentioned."

"Yeah, I'll tell you more about her later. Anyway, um, so Rosalind came over to
the apartment and Matt just--every time she said something horrible, like she
does, Matt...what's the word for it in sword fights where someone blocks the
other person's sword?"

Miriam frowned. "Do you mean 'to parry'?"

"Yeah, that's it. Matt parried, Matt fought her on my behalf, like those
graceful Southern ladies on those shows who smile but then verbally cut a
bitch? Yeah, he cut Rosalind up and then he made her leave when I told her to
go, he just--Matt's fucking awesome," and Foggy grinned like a loon, he knew,
but he loved Matt so much.

"And that time we got almost robbed he fucking destroyed those assholes, he
kneecapped one of them, the guy literally fucking doesn't have eyes anymore
because Matt jammed his thumbs in the dude's eyes, Matt is not helpless. Except
that sometimes it seems like he is! And I don't know how to bring those two
facts together!"

Miriam nodded, leaning back. "Have you heard the theory of interdependence?"

Foggy blinked and shook his head. "No," he said. It sounded promising, though.

"Well, my understanding of it is that it was first developed by disability
activists in response to US-centric views on 'dependence' and 'independence',
and in response to ideas about the relative worth of people depending on their
disabilities or lack thereof. And from what I know of it, the theory of
interdependence states that people are not really dependent or independent,
people are all interdependent with one another, and that independence is a
myth. The example most frequently used is clothes--did you make all your own
clothes? Do you grow and hunt and make all your own food? And so on."

Foggy reeled. That--that made a startling amount of sense. He didn't even make
his own coffee most of the time anymore, Matt did, and he didn't even have to
ask.

"And so, it might be more helpful of a framework to you to think of Matt not as
alternately dependent or independent, but as interdependent, like you."

Foggy smiled. That--yes. "Yeah," he said, nodding. That felt like truth, like
sunshine after a storm. "Yes, that's--fuck yeah, I'm gonna read up on all of
that, that's--oh thank god, I hate it when I think I'm being an ass to him in
my head and then I think oh wait, but what if I'm not being patronizing, I'm
just telling the truth, and now--" he gestured with one arm, leaning back. "Oh,
thank you. Thank you. I mean--yeah. That will help a lot."

Miriam smiled. "I'm glad it's helpful," she said. "Now, we've got about ten
minutes left, anything else you want to talk about?"

Foggy had an idea. "Let me tell you about Rosalind," he said, sitting up
straighter. "A greatest highlights reel. So that you know at least a little bit
about her.

"Okay, so when I was six--fucking six--and it became apparent that I was going
to be a chubby kid forever, Rosalind used one of her afternoons with me to take
me to a child nutritionist and buy me a box of protein vegetable bars, alright,
and she told me that I should eat one of them instead of having lunch or
breakfast, because clearly I wasn't eating right," he started off, all thoughts
of Matt diverted.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from Margaret Atwood's "Is/Not", here: http://
     fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/75264279436/berceau-isnot-love-is-not-a-
     profession
***** I couldn’t explain your genuine smile in the face of disaster *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The rest of the time went pretty much uneventfully until Christmas Eve.

Foggy's presents for Matt came packaged up securely, and he discreetly wrapped
them at Dad's, and hid them under his bed. Matt seemed mostly fine, and Foggy
even started to help Dad around the shop again some days, and more often than
he could count, Foggy came back to find Matt humming something to himself or
lying on his bed, listening to something, and Foggy would crochet in bed as
Matt went out to the gym.

He'd made fifteen hats so far--baby hats went fast, they were so tiny and so,
so adorable--and was starting on a baby blanket as well.

On Christmas Eve, Foggy had a total of seventeen baby hats and one baby blanket
made, and bundled them up into a bag and went with Anna to go give them to the
hospital's maternity ward.

In retrospect, that was a mistake.

Of course, Foggy didn't know about that part until he came back later, opening
up the door to Dad's, grinning at Anna and feeling like maybe the world was a
beautiful place again, to see Matt lying at the bottom of the stairs with a
purple bruise on his face and a tight, terrified expression.

--

Candace had been flirting even more with Matt as time went on.

He didn't know how to deal with it, except by keeping some physical obstacle
between them and pointedly not responding to any of her advances. She didn't
touch him, so he couldn't precisely tell Foggy, yet. Matt hadn't realized
before the degree to which Foggy found him frustrating to deal with until Foggy
had explained why he'd left Matt alone, and Matt had realized with an
unpleasant, souring shame that he'd been inconvenient for his owner. His
wonderful, lovely, better-than-all-the-rest owner.

So Matt had resolved to just deal with the unpleasant edging fear on his own
unless Candace tried to actually touch him, which Foggy had told her not to do.
And she didn't, so he couldn't go to Foggy when she went from pointing out his
physical attractiveness--which he was well aware of, thank you very much, he'd
read his papers, and determining attractive people from distances was something
he'd been trained to do--to more and more flirting, more suggestive comments,
more double-innuendos, until his stomach clenched with dread every time he went
to the Nelsons'.

So when, on Christmas Eve, Matt was cooking down the apple pie mixture of
cinnamon, brown sugar, butter, lemon juice, granny smith and golden delicious
apples and Caligula came in, he was a little bit frayed at the edges.

Caligula himself was quite alright. He was a cat, which meant he was haughty
and fiercely self-determining, and there was something deeply satisfying about
listening to him warning-bite the Nelsons for petting him too much, or
otherwise touching him how he didn't like.

Matt always liked cats. When he'd been owned by Master Robert, he'd been so
jealous of them for being allowed to bite and fight and claw back. They had
given him the idea to finally snap and inject the syringes of air into the IV
over and over again--

And Matt realized he was shivering and spacing out without meaning to, and
anchored himself by thinking about Foggy, and gently offering a hand to pet
Caligula, kneeling down.

Caligula purred loudly and buntzed his hand, and Matt scratched behind his ears
and under his chin gently and rhythmically, and Caligula purred more and
squirmed into his arms.

"(Do you want me to pick you up?)" he asked Caligula softly.

Caligula purred, of course, and Matt decided to take the chance and picked him
up, appreciating the way the c-curve of his spine made it possible to hold him
like an infant.

Caligula rested his head against Matt's shoulder as Matt resumed stirring the
mixture, and then flicked off the flame. More cooking and the apples would
disintegrate in baking and turn into a disgusting, fast-food-pie-slice mess.

He then stood there for a minute, appreciating the lovely warm, fat cat in his
arms, and heard with a familiar little terror the sound of Candace coming into
the kitchen, cooing loudly, "Oh my god, that is the cutest thing I've ever
seen!"
--
"Oh," Candace said, and Matt felt his body lock its muscles and then loosen
them, as if readying himself for a run, or sparring. He wanted to run away from
her, but he couldn't; she was Foggy's sister, and he was far better trained
than that.

"Let me take a pic," she said, and there was the snap of a cellphone camera and
probably a flash, given the way Caligula hissed and clawed at Matt's shoulders.

"Oh, hell," Candace said, frowning audibly now. "Let me--come with me, I'll get
you some band-aids for that, god, Caligula, you have to stop clawing people,
for god's sake," and Matt swallowed but obeyed. Each step felt like walking on
hot coals; he had to tread lightly, but the heat rising up made it so hard.

He cast his hearing about; Foggy wasn't there.

Foggy wasn't there.

Matt braced himself as he walked, still carrying Caligula, who was back to
purring and being petted, gently and carefully, right behind his ears.

"It's so cute, how much he likes you," Candace said, and Matt's skin crawled as
he felt her eyes caress it. "Guess he's just got good taste," and Matt felt
nauseated by her attention. God, why did she have to do this? Foggy had told
her not to touch him, Matt had heard the conversation. And Matt knew Foggy
wouldn't be happy about her innuendos, her overstepping, her almost-poaching,
but all the same--he'd been a burden to Foggy before and was determined to not
be one again.

Still, he held Caligula until they got to the cabinet door, where Caligula was
unhappily put down--he protested by clawing Matt more, and Matt murmured a soft
little tut mir Leid to him as he put him down--and then he paused at the
collection of papery-sounding things and a tube of something that Candace had
in her outstretched hand.

"Here," she said.

Matt made his final, fatal mistake of the evening then. He didn't realize it at
the time, but in retrospect, this was where he'd truly mistepped.

He took his shirt off to get to the claw wounds properly.

Candace wolf-whistled, and Matt almost involuntarily blushed, and on reflex
stopped his flinch. He hastily took the ointment and the band-aids, and started
cleaning and bandaging himself as fast as possible, stepping away from her.

She followed him. "Well, damn," she said, and Matt wanted desperately to be
anywhere but there. "You're even hotter than I thought you'd be without a
shirt."

Matt stepped backwards faster as he went, until he'd somehow maneuvered himself
into a doorway above the stairs from the lower level to the medicine cabinet.

And then he smelled mistletoe.

He froze for a second and then yanked his shirt back on so hastily that he
dropped the wrappers and the antibiotic in his haste, and tried to edge further
away from Candace as she advanced.

"Oh, mistletoe," she said brightly, and then paused. "So I know Foggy kinda
told me you were a bit weird, but I think he's overestimated how, I dunno,
twitchy you are. You don't seem like damaged goods to me."

Damaged goods--? What? Matt didn't understand; Foggy had never said he was
damaged, not within Matt's hearing. The only way that Matt could be said to be
damaged at all was his blindness, and Foggy very clearly didn't care about
that. Matt had two very small appendectomy scars, but they weren't even visible
anymore, they'd been taken care of with cocoa butter.

Did he mean--but no, that couldn't be it, Foggy didn't know about the dream
he'd had where he'd woken up with an erection, and besides, Matt still hadn't
figured out if that meant he was defective or not.

"I--" he said, and apparently she misunderstood his hesitation as flirtatious
shyness.

"So--I mean, I'm not ugly either, and you're just...you're scrumptious," and
Matt leaned his head as far away as it went.
"Hey, it's the rules, I don't make them," Candace said, and leaned forward to
kiss Matt--

And Matt's blood turned to ice and time seemed to slow down, he thought so
frantically fast, and he calculated quickly. He couldn't scream for Foggy
because Foggy wasn't there; he couldn't shove her away because she was a free
person, and Foggy's beloved sister; he couldn't argue because good slaves
didn't argue with free people and even if he told her that that was Foggy's
decision, he was Foggy's property, she was already willing to overstep, it
wouldn't work; he couldn't run away because she was blocking the way--

Except for the stairs. He could fall down the stairs, and she didn't seem the
type to be more aroused by his pain and injury, and even if she laughed at his
seeming-clumsiness or his defectiveness, and even if he gave himself a
concussion, it would be better than letting her kiss him, betraying Foggy and
disobeying his rules and being used and having it be all his fault like the
slut he was terrified he was becoming--

And so Matt pivoted slightly, and pushed his ankle just right, and with a
sudden perfect calm fell down the stairs.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also comes from Linda Pastan's "The Cossacks".
***** I give you my heart, a safe house. I give you promises other than milk,
honey, liberty *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
 
 
 
Foggy rushed over to Matt, all thoughts about how the lights and the hospital
and the nurses had made him think there was good things still forgotten.
"Matt," he said a little frantically. "Matt, shit, are you okay?"
Matt's face is bruising, and Foggy didn't know how long he's been lying there.
Matt looked terrified and Foggy crouched down to help him up--
And Matt said, so quiet nobody else could hear, "Candace tried to kiss me."
Foggy stopped. He looked at Matt, and then he looked up the stairs.
Candace was standing there, under the mistletoe someone had hung there.
Foggy looked at her. "Candace," he called, a sudden crimson rage in his chest,
"Were you trying to kiss Matt?"
He heard Anna behind him gasp and put her head in her hands, and then Candace
replied, "Just under the mistletoe, and then he fell down--"
Oh, goddamn shit, Foggy thought to himself.
Matt had been-- Candace had tried--
Fuck, fuck, fuck, and Foggy almost screamed at her right there and then. What
was wrong with her? Didn't she understand, this was Matt, he'd told her to
knock it off with the touching--
But now, right now, what he needed to do was get Matt the fuck out of there. It
was not safe right there for him.
"Okay, let's get out of here," Foggy said to Matt, who got up off the floor and
immediately went to go get his coat and shoes.
"What?" Candace called, coming down the stairs. "Does he need to go to the
emergency room or something?"
Foggy glanced at Matt, and then looked at her and his vision swam, a tonal sea
of reds. "Candace," he said, and his voice came out shaking with rage, "Get the
fuck back."
"What--" she stepped closer and Matt flinched--
Foggy got between them. "No," he said, looking at her. "Get the fuck back. You
don't get to hurt Matt. Nobody does. Not one more goddamn person," Foggy said,
incandescent, burning.
"I don't get it," Candace said, frowning--
And Foggy couldn't. Not right then. Matt yanked on the coat, and grabbed his
bag, and Foggy offered his arm.
"Let's get out of here," Foggy said, and Anna said calmly, "I'll drive. It'll
be quicker that way."
Thank God for Anna. "Let's get out of here," he said to Matt, who clung on his
arm tightly, looking so relieved, Foggy wanted to cry.
"Wait, what--" Candace said, and Foggy slammed the door in her face.
"Fuck," he muttered as he focused on getting Matt into the car. He moved to sit
in the back with him; he hoped Matt wasn't going out of it.
"Fuck, Matt," he said, and reached for Matt's hands as Anna got them out of
there, starting to drive in necessary silence.
"I'm sorry, Foggy," Matt said, shivering. "I didn't mean to--"
"It is not your fault that apparently my sister has decided to be an asshole,"
Foggy said firmly. "I was a Women's Studies major in college, remember? I know
about sexual harassment. You are the victim here, this is not your fault, I am
not mad at you. I am mad as fuck at Candace. I can't believe she did this," and
Matt seems to relax a bit.
They get there in record speed and Foggy got out with Matt. "I'll be back
later," he told Anna. "I need to make her understand."
"Oh, I'll be doing that too," Anna said, face like thunder. "Don't be mistaken,
I'm not happy with her, either."
"Good," Foggy said, and he and Matt went to their apartment, their safe space.
--
Matt walked with Foggy, shivering under his coat. He was so relieved it had
worked, that he hadn't had to be used by Candace, that Foggy wasn't angry with
him. Foggy was furious, but he was telling the absolute truth when he said that
it wasn't Matt's fault.
Foggy walked him over to Matt's bed, and Matt ripped off his coat and shoes and
lay on top of it, shaking violently.
"Hey," Foggy said gently from his own bed where he was taking off his shoes,
"You can come here if you'd rather, but it's fine if you want to stay there."
Matt--couldn't tell. He remained in his bed and lay his head against the flat
of it, trying to calm down. A part of him still felt panicked, and another part
of him felt slimy, slippery, time going in strange ways and Matt being back in
Mistress Sharon's bed on the night she bought him from Winter, her on top of
him and then her pet and then Matt having to sleep there, still sticky with
fluids, realizing that his trainers had been right and sex was punishment, was
pain, was something wrong, trying not to heave and be disobedient--
And then he realized what was going on, and reached up to squeeze this throat
gently the way he did sometimes, pressing the collar against him. It was fine.
It was Foggy's collar and not Mistress Sharon's. Matt wasn't a virgin anymore,
and he wasn't anyone else's, he was just Foggy's, and Foggy was a good person
to belong to.
"Matt?"
"I'm here, Foggy," Matt murmured, body now drained and exhausted from the fear.
His heard throbbed.
"You don't have a concussion?" Foggy asked him, worried.
Matt shook his head. "No," he said. "I'm okay."
"Well, let me get you some ice," Foggy said, and fetched it. Matt closed his
eyes and tried to remind himself that everything was okay, he was okay now, he
was safe. Foggy was safety. Foggy liked taking care of him. Foggy was endless
rewards and no punishments. He was Foggy's, and that meant that his lightning-
bolt fear was not appropriate to feel.
"Here," and Matt took it and put it on his face, and the other on his head,
maneuvering so he was lying on them, and sighed at the cold.
"Hey," Foggy said quietly after a minute. "I know that you probably just want
to be alone--"
"No, please," Matt begged, interrupting and then cringing and shutting his
stupid mouth.
"Okay," Foggy said gently. "Okay. I'm here. It's okay. But I need to know how
long this has been going on. I need to know how much I need to yell at her for,
okay?"
Matt didn't quite comprehend. Words seemed so tiny, and his terror so vast. But
he forced the words to come out anyway, casting his mind backwards.
"When she got Caligula, she called me handsome, after she picked him off my
feet," Matt said, swallowing.
"And she's been getting worse?" Foggy said, sounding like he already knew the
answer.
Matt tried to nod, and then said out loud, "Yes, Foggy."
"Has she--did she try to--"
Matt had to correct any misconceptions. "She hasn't tried any physical contact
before today," he said quietly. "I was going to--I was going to scream for you
if she did, I know you don't want anyone using me, and I'm so grateful, thank
you so much--"
Foggy made a soft, encouraging noise. Matt made himself keep going. "And Anna
told me to tell her if she was...doing anything, but I didn't know if Anna
included just--words--innuendos, and, and flirting, and insinuations anything
or if she'd be furious at me for wasting her time, and you weren't there so I
couldn't scream for you--"
Foggy sucked in a sharp breath.
"And I couldn't just tell her I wasn't allowed," Matt said, miserably. But
Foggy deserved the truth. "If she was willing to do that in the first place,
she wouldn't listen to reason, she would have just kissed me anyway, and then I
couldn't run, she was blocking the way, but the stairs were there, so I--"
"So you fell down the stairs," Foggy said. He sounded angry again.
Matt nodded, almost teary at the pain in his face and head and how he'd
disappointed Foggy.
"Okay," Foggy said after a minute. "But--Matt--could you have shoved her? It's
not your fault if you couldn't have, I'm not blaming you, you are the victim
here, but in the future--we are a team, okay? We are a team. And it's--I refuse
to be angry at you--but in the future, tell me if anything starts. If anyone
says anything. Even if it never goes beyond just that, I want to know. Anything
that could turn into anything matters, alright?
"That's how people start with harassment, anyway. They start off small and then
they see what you'll do, and then they work their way up. One of my friends
from college, she got harassed by the head of the fucking Christian Athletes
Group like that. It started out with just comments like that. And it wasn't her
fault, and I'm not blaming you, but--what's the reasoning behind not shoving
out of the way?"
Matt blinked and opened his mouth to explain. "She's your sister," he said
helplessly. "And it's not reasonable force to--to shove a free person, without
orders, not if--for a stranger, if a stranger was trying to poach me, maybe,
but she's your sister, you love her."
"Oh, God, Matt," Foggy said, sounding like he was close to crying himself. "Oh,
God. Oh. Matt, listen to me, okay? I-- I don't care about that she's my sister.
You can always use literally any means to get away from anyone who's going to--
do anything to you. Got it? I wouldn't have been angry if you'd shoved past
her.
"That's not--how you respond to shit like that is not the important part,
that's not the part that pisses me off, that's the part that--look, I don't--
let me put it like this. I would rather know that you're gonna defend yourself,
and deal with anyone getting stupid about that, than be scared that someone is
hurting you and you won't defend yourself, okay? Does that make sense?"
Matt breathed in and out, turning it around and around in his head. "I think I
understand, Foggy," he said tentatively. "You want me to stop anyone from using
me in any way, even if it means using physical force."
"Yes," Foggy said. "Yes, that's it. Oh, Matt," and then there's just quiet
breathing for a minute.
Then Foggy said, "I need to know what she told you, though. I need to know all
the things she said to you, everything that you can coherently remember. I've
got a lot of yelling to do at her and I need to know why."
Matt opened up his mouth, and started to recite the list. The 'you're so hot'
and the 'God I wish I had an ass that good' and the 'you are the most adorable
thing on the planet' and the 'if I were Foggy I wouldn't just be tiptoeing
around you, that's for damn sure' and the 'your voice sounds so smooth' and the
'Foggy talks about you like you're a monk or something but goddamn, that would
be a waste', every single cringeworthy comment.
And at the end of it, Foggy's heartbeat is like an entire vortex of storms.
Matt's face is ashen.
"Fucking christ," Foggy says, beyond angry, into a cold territory. "I am going
to go deal with her, okay, Matt? I'm coming back. I'll set an alarm. The
longest I will be gone is one hour, and then I will be back, and we can cuddle
or, or, watch Legally Blonde or do whatever, okay? Stay here."
His voice is flat and icy and full of absolute, diamond-making pressure. It's
the first time Foggy has ever sounded like Winter. And it's because someone
hurt Matt.
Matt listens to him go, and once he goes, Matt can't keep his eyes closed. So
he scans the perimeter back and forth with his hearing, focusing on his
bodyguarding training, on how to keep watch as best he can.
He focuses, and eventually calms, and moves a little on his bed that Foggy
still, miraculously, won't touch.
 
--
 
 
 
 
Foggy goes back home, feeling angrier than he's ever felt before.
How dare she? What is wrong with Candace? Who says things like that? There is
no excuse. He's shaking with rage as he swings open the door, steps inside, and
shouts, "Candace, get your stupid ass down here!"
"Don't swear at your sister," Dad says from the kitchen where he and Anna are
sitting, Anna looking stone-faced.
"Shut the fuck up, Dad," Foggy says, and ignores his Dad's look of shocked
incredulity. He focuses on Candace walking down the stairs, looking mutinous
and sad.
"Foggy, I didn't know he was going to fall down the stairs," she says,
pleading. "Is Matt okay?"
And that, well. That makes him glow with anger, feeling like he's about to
burst with it. "It's times like this that I'm glad we're only half-siblings,"
Foggy says, wanting to make her hurt, make her hurt like Matt's hurting, lying
scared and alone at their home.
Candace stares at him. "What--"
"Matt is...as okay as he can be, I suppose, no thanks to you," Foggy says, and
runs a hand through his hair. "He's fucking freaked the fuck out and probably
finding some way to blame himself for this, but he doesn't need to go to the ER
or something, which is good, because if you had physically hurt that much, I
would--well, I don't know what I'd do but you would fucking regret it."
"Foggy, I don't get it," Candace pleads. "I don't--Mom tried to explain it but
I don't get it, it was just a kiss, what is the big deal--"
"Candace," he says, ice spreading inside of him. "I tried to tell you before. I
thought you got it, but apparently not, so let me spell it out for you: in the
eyes of almost everyone in the world, Matt has no rights. Got that? To almost
everyone else, Matt can't say no, he can't escape you, he can't shove you away
or tell you to stop, he can't defend himself unless I tell him he can--"
"Defend himself from what? All I did was flirt with him! He never even seemed
all that uncomfortable! I just thought he was shy!"
"CANDACE," and it comes out a near-scream, "Matt threw himself down the stairs
to get away from you, because he couldn't think of any other way to make you
stop! Matt has been anticipating you trying to rape him because you said all
that shit!"
Candace turns white and steps back. "What--I'd never--I was never going to--"
"Oh, you weren't? So you weren't escalating a pattern of objectification,
intimidation, and harassment to the point where tonight, on fucking Christmas
Eve, you tried to fucking ASSAULT HIM--"
"I'm a teenage girl! Why is he scared of me! He's older, and, and, he's this
strong cut guy who's over a half a foot taller than me--"
"THAT MAKES NO FUCKING DIFFERENCE!" Foggy realizes he's screaming, towering
with fury, fists clenched. "Candace, Matt is a slave. In this situation, you
are the one with all the goddamn power. You are the asshole. You are the
violent, horrible person I have to protect him from, just like all the others--
"
"I didn't mean--" and now she looks like she'll cry or be sad or something, and
Foggy wants to slap her. Fuck her fucking feelings.
"I am going to--okay, you know what, no, I'm going to exercise my stupid
fucking power, given to me by this stupid world," Foggy says, finding a
solution. "From this second on, you are not allowed to touch Matt, talk to
Matt, or even fucking look at him. You are not allowed to be in the same room
as him, or, or communicate with him in any way, got it? Got it?"
"Foggy, you're being a bit harsh--" Dad tries to say. Anna shushes him. Foggy
ignores him, intent on Candace.
"Got it? Or do I need to put it in monosyllabic words?"
Candace glares at him. "Fine," she spits. "Fine, you go ahead and--and treat me
like a criminal--"
"Oh, you have no idea what they do to criminals," Foggy snarls. "You really
wanna know what they do? Especially once they enslave criminals? You wanna know
about, about the beatings and rape and the way they starve them and the
cigarette burn scars and the fucking brainwashing--"
He stops himself and breathes in and out. "I thought I could trust you," he
says, quieter now. "I thought I could trust you, my family, my sister with
Matt. I thought he'd be safe here. Apparently, I'm just too fucking naive for
my own good. I'm leaving now."
"Will you be back tomorrow? It's going to be Christmas."
"I don't know," Foggy says, and twists the knife a little. "But Matt is not
coming back to this house until I can trust that nobody here will try to
fucking assault him."
"Let me give you two things," Anna says calmly. "Here's one--" and it's a gift-
wrapped package. "This is our present for Matt."
"And here's this," and it's a Tupperware container of something. "Matt was
making a pie before Candace decided to forcibly kiss him," Anna says, and gives
Candace a flat, cutting side-stare.
"Thanks," Foggy says, and takes both. "I--thanks, he'll like that."
Anna nods. Foggy turns and walks out, stalking off into the darkness.
--
Inside the room, Bee sits there, knife in hand, door barricaded shut.
They have never felt so angry, so small and ashamed before. They had no idea
Candace was doing anything like that, not to anyone, and especially Matt. They
should have been there. They should have run interference. They should have
done something.
But they can't, not yet, not until they have another place to live, they feel
terrible but they need a roof over their heads and they can't do anything--
Except. Wait. They can give Matt his present from them. They nod to theirself.
They'll wait until the Nelsons are asleep and sneak out and do that.
But in the meantime, they can't pry their fingers off the knife's handle, or
calm their racing heart. They should be used to sleeping in a house where
things like that went on, they should be used to it by now, but they're not.
Somehow, they're not. Somehow, the shadows look just as scary and twisted and
monstrous as they always have.
 
--
 
 
 
 
 
Matt keeps watch, but it's difficult. A part of his mind keeps twisting,
shifting, sending him back to different beds in different owner's bedrooms,
with hands touching him and Egyptian cotton sheets and the pet sleeping next to
him. He can't keep entirely calm, and he feels vaguely ashamed of how broken he
feels. He should be over this by now.
But then Foggy comes back, and Matt relaxes, sinking into the bed. It's okay.
Foggy is sweet. Foggy is kind. Foggy is generous and soft-bodied and
possessive. Foggy will be there, and Matt will be safe, and he will relax.
Foggy comes into the bedroom and puts two things down, and Matt startles to
realize that one of them is the apple pie mix he'd made before--
Before he'd had to throw himself down the stairs and potentially damage his
owner's property. Like an idiot.
But what else was he supposed to do? And Foggy had even said he wasn't angry at
Matt. Matt takes a deep breath and releases his anger at himself out with his
carbon dioxide. There's no use for it anymore.
You can make no mistakes and still lose, Matt reminds himself, and is grateful
all over again for training, for conditioning, for his education.
"Hey, you okay?" Foggy asks, frowning. "You look a bit--pale."
"Can I--" Matt murmurs, and gestures with one hand to Foggy's bed, half-hoping,
half-dreading--
"Yeah, yeah, that's a good idea, come here," and Matt rises and goes to sit
down with Foggy on his bed, and they end up so that Matt is curled up, lying
with his head on Foggy's legs, his beautiful soft pillowed legs, and Foggy is
sitting up and stroking his hair.
"Hey," Foggy says gently. "This is good? You're not panicking?"
"I keep feeling their hands on me," Matt says, and it's not at all what he
intended to say, but he runs with it. "I want to feel yours instead, please,
Foggy," he begs. Foggy is so much better than all the other owners, even though
he's confusing and difficult to please.
"Okay," Foggy says, and his other hand comes down and gently traces Matt's
lips. Matt kisses his fingers, overcome with happiness, safety, warmth. Foggy
is like everything good left in the world in one perfect body.
"Shh," Foggy says quietly. "I just want to make you feel better." Matt doesn't
realize he's making an incoherent noise for a second, and then quiets at the
shushing.
"I told Candace she's not allowed to talk to you, or touch you, or be alone in
a room with you," Foggy says, and Matt feels overcome. "Would it help if I told
you that, too?"
"Please, Foggy," Matt says, and Foggy's hands cradle his head so, so gently. So
protectively.
"Okay," Foggy says. "Okay, then the only thing you're allowed to do with
regards to Candace is get away from her, okay? You're not allowed to
communicate with her in any way, or touch her, unless you're getting away from
her, unless you're defending yourself. And you have to defend yourself. Got
it?"
Matt's so grateful for the orders he could cry. Instead, he says, "Yes, Foggy,
thank you," and tilts his head up into Foggy's lap further to kiss his hands
all over, taste the anger-sweat and the cold night air.
"God, Matt," Foggy says. "God. I'm so sorry. I thought they'd be safe, I never
thought this would happen to you. I never thought Candace would do that, I
wouldn't have ever left you alone with her if I knew she'd do that."
Matt nuzzles into Foggy's hands. "I'm okay now," he says. "My head doesn't hurt
any more."
"And you're not--uh--you don't feel anyone else's hands on you?"
And Matt shivers violently because now he does again, and Foggy tugs and Matt
turns and crawls further until they're facing each other, holding tightly onto
each other, and it erases the phantom sensation of manicured fingernails and
rough man's hands and Master Robert's spidery fingers.
"Kiss me," Matt whispers into Foggy's neck. "Please, please, can I have a kiss,
please," he begs, wanting nothing more.
"Where?"
"My collar, please Foggy, please, I want only you to own me, please," and Matt
would feel pathetic but instead all he feels is want.
Foggy leans down and gently kisses Matt's collar, and it feels like heaven.
Idyllic.
"Only you," Matt whispers. "Only you, please Foggy, please can I only be yours,
only belong to you, forever, please don't ever sell me, I promise I'll never be
a burden again."
"Matt," Foggy says, and reaches up to press their foreheads together, noses
aligned. "Matt, you're not a burden, ever, okay? I depend on you and you depend
on me. And you matter. God, you matter so much."
Matt shivers and stills, and breathes in and out, the smell of Foggy, every
tiny detail. His hair. His sheets. His clothes. His beautifully soft body.
Every thing about him, everything that makes Foggy Foggy, so ineffably good.
"Thank you," Matt says. "I can't--I can't ever thank you enough."
Foggy hugs him. "And I can't thank you enough, either. We're good. We're a
team."
They remain there for a little while, just breathing each other in and out.
Matt is safe. Matt is cocooned, held, good, valuable, precious, priceless.
Irreplaceable. It's safe to be a little bit pathetic around Foggy. He doesn't
have to be perfect.
Eventually, though, his skin prickles and starts the song of too-much, too-
much, overstimulation.
"Let me make you the pie," Matt says, so quiet. "Please, Foggy. We don't have
any pie crust, but I could do something--"
"Do a 'deconstructed' pie," Foggy says, and Matt can't help it, he laughs at
that, belly-deep. "I'm serious. Like those pretentious nutwits on Cutthroat
Kitchen."
Matt laughs, his whole body a plucked harp string, vibrating just right.
"'Deconstructed' just means you couldn't hack the real dish."
They both giggle, and Matt smiles. "I'll make something out of it," he says.
"Apple pie filling inside cinnamon and Christmas spice cupcakes," and that
sounds good.
"With whipped cream on top?"
"Bourbon whipped cream," Matt says decisively, and gets up. "If I can touch the
liquor."
"Of course you can," Foggy says. "Everything that's mine is yours, now, Matt.
Especially food. God knows I don't do much with it."
Matt smiles and ducks his head and gets the Tupperware container, and goes to
salvage this into a good dessert. They'll also have to eat dinner, but maybe
Foggy will declare it a cupcakes-for-dinner party or want just fried eggs or
something.
Things will be okay. Matt knows it in his gut.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from Essex Hemphill's "American Wedding", here:
     http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/101508228768/fypoetry-a-performance-
     of-essex
***** I’m sorry I came hard and sharp and full of claws *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Bee comes over when it's near midnight.

They're both still awake, Matt and Foggy, Matt because a part of him is
terrified that Foggy will change his mind upon waking, and Foggy because he's
too angry to sleep, too worried, too guilty and scared. He inadvertently sent
Matt off to the wolves over and over without seeing what he was doing once, and
he's so scared of doing it again.

Matt opens the door, and he can hear their grin, it's so wide and odd on their
face.

They hold something out to him, and then their tablet says, "Can I come in? I
have your Christmas present."

"It's a bit early," Matt murmurs, but steps back, confused. "My--for me?" he
says, brain catching up to their words. He hasn't had a real Christmas present
in years; Master Viktor gave him a chocolate bar and a respite from his
brother, who liked Matt to struggle and scream when he was used. Some of his
owners fed him some of the Christmas dinner, of course, but not a genuine,
wrapped present. He's unsure if this is appropriate, but--refusing what a free
person gives you can also be inappropriate--

And as Bee comes in, Foggy calls quietly from the bedroom, "Everything okay,
Matt?"

"Bee says they have a Christmas present for me, Foggy," Matt calls back, soft
and submissively, like he's supposed to be. He's determined to be good for
Foggy. Foggy is the best owner he's ever had, and he's not going back to being
underused.

"Really? Awesome," Foggy says.

"May I--can I have it?" Matt asks, hoping, confused, bracing himself for
possible disappointment--

"What? Yeah. Of course."

Matt controls his thread of irritation at the of course, and turns back to Bee,
who seems to be--tense? Excited? Their heartbeat is so fast, and Matt's
starting to notice that their blood pressure seems very often low.

Then he takes the outstretched thing in their hands, which as he takes it, he
realizes is a teddy bear.

Matt blinks and feels it to be sure, but it's definitely a very soft teddy
bear. He tilts his head, wondering why, thinking vaguely of the few months he'd
had to play a pseudo-child for an owner.

(He hadn't been terribly good at it, but he'd given it his best shot, and that
particular owner had sighed, patted him on the head, and sent him off back to
the auction house with a high rating and recommendation. Really, it had been
rather kind of him.)

And then there's something heavy and metal inside of a pocket in it--

And Matt feels it. It's a small, switchblade knife.

[Just in case,] they explain against a cabinet. [Just in case.]

Matt blinks and swallows back a flood of sudden emotion. He doesn't need it
against Foggy of course, Foggy was nothing like Master Robert, they could
hardly be said to be the same species, but that--

That was a gesture. One of absolute solidarity. One of backup, support, I'll
help you, I'm on your side. A hand squeezing his in the night. The pet mouthing
sorry, sorry, it'll be over soon against his neck. Being patched up, snuck
fresh mangos.

Matt lifts his head. "Thank you," he whispers, and Bee's a person, but he
doesn't kiss their hand. That's for Foggy.

Instead, he reaches out and squeezes theirs, tight and strong, his fingers
gentle on their bones.

[I got one for myself, too. You don't think it's childish?]

[You're a person. People get to have what they want.]

He can hear their raised eyebrow. [You're a person too.]

Matt snorts at it like it's a joke, because it is. "Don't be absurd," he
murmurs. "But thank you. I love it. I don't--I don't have anything to give
you," he says suddenly, back going straight, realizing he's misstepped hard--

But all they do is shake their head. [I have an idea for something you can give
me. Later, in a while. When you have more money.]

Matt tilts his head, but he knows how this goes. You put in, you get out.
Someone else puts in, you put out. Granted, he's almost perfectly certain by
this point that Bee won't try to use him, and he's safe, he's ordered to defend
himself, but now he's curious about what they want his money for.

Well, he'll discover it another time. "Alright," he murmurs.

There's an awkward silence, and then they sigh heavily. [Gotta go back before
they realize I'm gone and remember I exist.]

"Avoid Candace," Matt murmurs.

[Oh, I'll avoid that bitch, all right,] they reassure him, body going stiff
with anger, and then they take two steps forward and hug him, their tiny, bony
body stronger than he thought.

[Merry Christmas,] they tap against his back.

"Merry Christmas, Barely Legal," he murmurs against them, and they breathe in
sharply.

Foggy walks over as they start to break apart. "Hey," he says. "Sorry--my
present for you is still at the house--"

Bee waves a hand, and then types out, "No, it's okay. I'm going back there now
anyway. And you got me free."

"That's not--that was just basic decency," Foggy protests, and Matt resists the
urge to giggle. Foggy is so, so ridiculous, so adorable in his ironclad morals.
He's like a character out of a storybook. Matt can't quite think of him as
real.

"Merry Christmas," they type, and Foggy says back, Matt harmonizing like he's
been taught, "Merry Christmas."

They leave, heartbeat cheerful, and Matt turns to Foggy, head tilted, teddy
bear in arms.

"They gave you a stuffed animal? That's adorable," Foggy says, and his heart
rate goes high up, and his body language is all admiring and happy.

Matt isn't even scared that Foggy's a bit aroused now.

--

Foggy doesn't actually mean to get hard at the sight, but it's impossible. Matt
is beautiful almost all the time, like an actor in a movie, but he's even more
beautiful when he's relaxed and happy and safe, smiling beatifically like a
field of sunflowers. And with a teddy bear in his arms--a soft, graham-cracker
colored teddy bear, with fur that's swirled in roses--he's even cuter than he
is when he's asleep, and Foggy's body reacts.

But he doesn't do anything, doesn't scare Matt, and that's even better.

Foggy snags another one of the cupcakes--Matt had made actual apple-pie-filled
Christmas spice cupcakes, cinnamon and cloves and allspice and ginger, making
the whole apartment smell good, and there's a bourbon-laced whipped cream in a
little spiral on top, and it's heaven--and then goes back to his bed, where he
listens to Christmas carols with his earbuds in and starts looking at free
patterns on Ravelry for his next projects.

He finds one of a blanket made of eighty-one different granny squares, and
downloads it with fascination. It doesn't look too hard, and he could give it
away if he didn't like it in the end.

He and Matt eventually fall asleep very, very late, and Foggy wakes up at noon
on Christmas morning with the smell of coffee and bacon.

It's odd, it feels unnatural to not be at his parents', with Candace picking
the lock and tackling him, but Foggy doesn't even entertain the idea of taking
Matt back there and breaking his vow to keep Matt away from Candace, or worse,
the idea of leaving Matt alone on Christmas so Foggy could go back home. Fuck
that.

Matt is his home now, in a way.

"Morning," Foggy says, yawning and going over to find crispy bacon, fried eggs,
and what smells like some sort of potatoes on the kitchen table, as well as
pancakes and orange juice and hot coffee.

He suddenly wants to kiss Matt, and refrains. It's Christmas.

"Good morning, Foggy," Matt says, smiling widely, and takes a seat after Foggy
does.

Foggy serves himself first--he's learned the hard way that if he doesn't, Matt
will spend the entire meal twitchy, toes curled tight--and makes sure to take
the first bite of his egg loudly, with appreciation. Matt does them perfectly.

"Mmm," he moans as he bites into the pancake. "God, this is good. You're
awesome. You're the best."

Matt actually blushes at that as he serves himself and delicately puts a bite
of potato-and-onion hash into his mouth. "Thank you, Foggy," he says, shy pride
and intense pleasure all over his face.

Foggy doesn't pay any attention to how his dick twitches a little at that. It's
not getting what it wants, and he's not going to freak out. He's slept, now,
next to Matt, cuddled him and calmed him down. He's got more self-control.

They eat, and it's ridiculously delicious.

What did Foggy ever do to deserve Matt?

After the lunch, though, it's definitely time for presents.

"Presents," Foggy announces, and stands up to get his for Matt, and Anna's and
Dad's too.

Matt looks confused as Foggy puts them on the floor in-between their beds, and
sits on the floor. It breaks his heart a little, because of course Matt
probably hasn't had any real Christmas presents from his fucking abusive
torturers.

Foggy pushes away his anger, and resolves to just be better than them in every
way. He can be the good person.

"Here," he says. "You first."

Matt blinks and then looks startled and beginning to freak out, and he's got
presents in his hands for Foggy, so Foggy switches gears. "Or me first,
whichever."

Matt smiles, then, and hands Foggy two presents, which he gleefully tears open.
Fuck yeah, consumerism as love.

One is a set of three skeins of yarn, which is illegally soft. "Oh, god," he
says, feeling them. They're a dark wine-colored red, a black-blue, and a
neutral brown, and they're all incredible. Foggy checks the label, and his jaw
drops. He doesn't know too much about yarn yet, but he knows that alpaca, silk,
cashmere and merino blend is expensive, and it feels amazing, perfectly warm
and stretchy.

"Oh, wow, oh, god, Matt," he says, overcome, and the dives for his other
present. It's--

It's the three Alexander Farragut movies he doesn't have, the only three he
can't find, and Foggy makes a high-pitched noise of pure glee and throws
himself forward, hugging Matt like a teddy bear, saying, "MATT, Matt, you're
the best, I--"

He chokes off his declaration of love, because he refuses to hurt Matt in any
way. He loves him too much for that. Instead, he just squeals, and then says,
choking up at the thoughtfulness of it, "Matt, you are the greatest ever, we
are totally gonna watch ALL of the movies, they're all lawyer dramas, they made
me wanna be a lawyer, oh god--"

Matt's grinning so big it looks like it hurts. Foggy hugs him, and impulsively
runs a hand through his hair and kisses his forehead and then nose-kisses him
too, and Matt laughs and writhes a little.

Foggy pulls back. "Okay, dude, now you," and he pushes Anna and Dad's box
forward first.

Matt opens it slowly, with the help of a pair of scissors, and he delicately
doesn't rip any of the wrapping paper, which drives Foggy nuts, but he won't
comment. Matt deserves to not feel like he unwraps presents wrong, or
something.

It's something that Foggy vaguely recognizes, and it says 'STAND MIXER' on the
side in bright pink writing. "It says it's a 'stand mixer'," Foggy tells Matt,
who suddenly goes from confused to lit up like a s'mores fire.

"Oh," Matt says, a small, pleased look on his face. "That'll make things
quicker, for baking," he says. "I'll have to--this is from Miss Anna?"

Foggy doesn't fuss about the title. "Yeah, it's from Anna and Dad, it says."

Matt traces the box. "I'll have to write them a thank-you note," he says
thoughtfully. "I'm a bit out of practice at those," he says, and his voice is
suddenly soft and nostalgic.

Foggy doesn't dwell. He gets Matt the first of the two presents from him, and
Matt opens that one slowly too, Foggy explaining as he does, "It took me a bit
of intense eBay searching to find it, but this guy in Queens had it, and he
kept it in mint condition, totally vacuum-sealed, and I had to tell him I was
getting it for Matt Murdock for him to agree to sell it, but I got it, so."

Matt looks apprehensive, and then wipes his face blank, and opens it up.

"It's your Dad's robe, the one he wore most of the time," Foggy explains. "It
took me a while to find it--but--" and then he shuts up as Matt's hands open
the vacuum-sealed bag and pulls it out, shaking, and Matt curls his knees up to
his chest.

Foggy has a sudden feeling like lightning is about to strike. He smells ozone.

"It--" Matt says, sounding choked, and then flat, and then he brings it up to
his nose.

"It smells like him," Matt whispers, and his voice breaks, and then Matt puts
it down, shivering all over like he's going out of it, like he's terrified, and
his mouth opens and tears stream down his face and--

Matt screams--
--
It all comes rushing back. Matt remembers everything.

He remembers poached eggs after Mass on Sundays, and Dad tucking him in, Dad
ruffling his hair, Dad hugging him, Dad having him take the sip before
stitching him up, Dad with him in the hospital, Dad bragging about him to
anyone and everyone, my Matty's the smartest kid in Hell's Kitchen, in all of
New York, he's a frickin' genius, nothing will ever slow him down, he's learned
a whole other writing system so fast, he picks it all up like that, he'll be a
doctor or a lawyer or something, just you wait and see, Dad hugging him, Dad
helping him, Dad sounding so proud when he mastered how to use the cane to get
around, Dad being there when he got his hair cut after the accident for the
first time and it was scary because he could hear scissors but hadn't mastered
knowing where they were, Dad's blood, stitching up Dad, Dad dying, Dad telling
him I'll always love you, Matt, no matter what--

Matt doesn't realize what kind of horrific noise he's making, or that he's
rocking back and forth, inconsolable, or that he's clutching the robe still.
All he can think about is Dad, and how he's dead and he'll always be dead and
it's all Matt's fault and Dad would be so disappointed in him now--

And something eventually cuts through the endless weight of memories-- a hand,
on his shoulder-- the smell of sharp salt--

And Matt realizes he's curled up, sobbing hysterically, crying like he hasn't
for years, has been doing so for far too long, being so stupid and selfish and
ungrateful and--

"Hey, if you want, I can--" and his owner's hand comes to take away the robe,
and Matt can't--

Matt sobs out, "No!" and yanks it behind himself, he can't, he can't have it
and then have it taken away, this is the cruelest thing anyone's ever done to
him--
And then realizes what he's done and breaks down just that little more, fear
rushing in like a hurricane. God, what has he done? Where is he? Which owner is
he with?

Matt doesn't know, but he knows he's just done something horrific, something
cosmically wrong, something that he's never supposed to do, so he shakily
uncurls and moves to kneeling like he's supposed to, face to the carpet, and
makes himself say, voice still shaking, a burning cathedral, "I apologize,
master, please punish me--"

And then his owner--whichever one it is, Matt doesn't know, time has become
unstuck and he can't quite feel anything all of a sudden, it's all numb and
dead and impersonal, apart from the part of him that's curled up and screaming
wordlessly in the back of his mind--comes and his hand curls over Matt's face,
and Matt waits for the slap he deserves, the kicks, the whip. Saying no to his
owner like that. What a pathetic, disgusting, stupid, worthless slave he is.

"Matt," his owner says, voice upset but somehow gentle, "Matt, no, no, it's
okay--Matt--Matt, do you know who I am? Where you are?"

"My owner," Matt murmurs, and for some reason knows he's not supposed to put
the master there. "With my owner." In what Matt's pretty sure, now, is a
bedroom, but that keeps dissolving, the knowledge bleeding out his ears. The
walls seem to pulsate back and forth, and nothing exists except the floor and
Matt and his fear and the robe and his owner.

His owner, whose body sounds upset and male, "Matt, oh--Matt, c'mere," and Matt
crawls forward. Direct order. Maybe his owner wants to hit him up close.

His owner hugs him tightly, squeezes him, and sits on the floor with him, and
says, "Matt, Matt, I'm Foggy, okay? You're with Foggy, you're--stay with me,
come back to me, it's Christmas, okay, I'm sorry I gave you that, Matt please--
"

Matt tries to interpret the order and focuses. It's Christmas? Why would he be
smelling something of Dad's on Christmas?

Matt tries to focus. He needs to get with the goddamn program already. Nothing
makes sense; why is he being held, not punished? Is his owner going to punish
him later? What's going on?

Matt reaches out a hand, and traces the carpet, and inhales through his nose--

And it's Foggy. Oh. His owner right now is Foggy, who--who has Matt as a doll,
who wants Matt happy and smiling and sweet, not breaking down like some broken
piece of trash. Fuck. Foggy, who deserves so much better.

Matt says, "Foggy, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please, I'm sorry," and he's not
even sure what he's begging for. To be forgiven? To be punished? "Please, I'm
so, so sorry, I didn't mean to, please punish me so I won't do it again--"

"Matt, shit, no," and it feels cruel to deny him proper maintenance. God. But
it's his owner's right to deny him whatever he pleases, so Matt tries to calm
down, but is still involuntarily crying like an idiot. Jesus, what is wrong
with him?

Matt formulates the correct kind of response. "Thank you for the present,
Foggy," he says, plucking the script, and pulling back to kiss Foggy's hands,
both of them, fingertips against his lips, hastily wiping them off before he
does. "I'm sorry I was ungrateful, please punish me," and he waits.

"What--no, Matt, no, it's--fuck that. No punishments, remember? You're with me,
you're safe."

Matt feels confused. How is he supposed to be obedient and expensive and
therefore valuable and therefore safe if he's not maintained? But then he
fishes in his still-blurry memories and grabs at one of the only punishment
Foggy's ever given him that was a straightforward punishment, for taking off
his collar like the stupid slut he's always half-afraid he's going to end up
being.

Oh. He's supposed to--oh. He gets it now. Foggy doesn't want to punish him,
Foggy doesn't appreciate his distress, Foggy likes spoiling him even to an
unhealthy extent.

Matt's supposed to punish himself, away from Foggy, where he doesn't have to
see it or be upset by it. Of course. It warms his heart to be trusted so, to be
appointed his own overseer, in a way.

Foggy also doesn't want him physically hurting himself, so he'll have to think
of some way around that. But Matt's intelligent, Matt's creative. He can figure
something out, and this way, he can make sure he's not in danger of brain
damage or value-lowering scars.

God. He's so lucky.

Matt refocuses, and Foggy's still mostly hugging him. "Shit," Foggy says. "I'm
sorry. I'm so sorry, Matt, I didn't mean to fucking make you cry and give you a
flashback. Oh, fuck, Matt, it's Christmas."

Matt's not sure how to respond. "Thank you for it," he says, gentling his
voice. "It's--it's the best gift. I l--" and he changes gears, he's a slave,
slaves do not love, that is ridiculous and a mockery of love, "I will always
appreciate it," he says instead. "I--I don't have anything of Dad's," and then
he stops. He's still being disobedient, uppity, getting above his station.

Of course has nothing of Dad's. He has nothing at all. He's a slave, a thing
that is owned, not a person who could own things.

"Oh." Foggy says, and then squeezes him. "Oh. Well. Um. Let me--here, I got a
second thing for you, and then later I'll--I'll call Anna, and get you a third
thing, you deserve a thing that won't make you cry, jesus, I'm sorry Matt."

Matt sits back, going back to where the robe is, shivering. Foggy passes him
something and it's heavy, and now that Matt can focus, he's curious as to what
it is. The edges of the room are still hazy, and a part of him is still
terrified, but it's a familiar terror, so familiar it's soothing.

--

Foggy wants to punch himself in the face a little bit less as Matt carefully
unwraps the second thing, and takes it out, face still red and puffy and making
Foggy want to cry, too, looking at it.

It's been a half-hour since Matt screamed, sounding like a character in a movie
whose entire world came crashing down, and he still seems kind of out of it.

Foggy's never been so angry at himself before. He sent Matt into a panic spiral
and a flashback and a crying fit on Christmas. He wants to punch himself in the
dick.

Matt takes it out, and Foggy hastily explains, "It's a weighted blanket.
Miriam--my therapist--has them, and they can also be heated, and this one is,
it's electric as well. So you can just plug it in and turn it on there--" and
Matt's fingers seem to deftly find the little dial-- "And then it heats up,
and, uh, it's lined with genuine silk, and it was kinda expensive but I hope
you like it!"

Foggy winces at himself.

Matt's hands run all over it, and he bows his head, but smiles faintly, in a
confused-puppy kind of way that makes Foggy want to hug him forever and never
let go.

"Thank you, Foggy," Matt says, and starts to move it over his lap, and then
gropes around for the bag the robe came in. The robe that Foggy's starting to
seriously regret giving Matt. "It's wonderful. Thank you," and then he leans
forward and presses a familiar kiss to Foggy's hand.

Foggy wants to puke. He feels awful. Literally half of his presents for Matt
had the opposite of their intended effect. His skin itches with the need to go
out and get Matt a third one, and he knows it has to be the thing on Matt's
wishlist that counted as a real gift. He didn't get it for Matt because he
couldn't bring himself to do it, but now he knows he has to.

Besides, it's patronizing of him to decide that he shouldn't get Matt something
because he thought Matt shouldn't want it. It's not his job to decide what Matt
should and shouldn't want and like.

"Hey, so, um, I'm--are you gonna be okay, if I go call Anna and get her to take
me to a place so I can get you a present that won't make you cry?"

Matt blinks. "I'm okay, Foggy," he says. "I apologize for crying--"

Jesus fucking god. "No," Foggy says, as calm as he can make himself. "It's--
Matt, you get to have all of the feelings, okay? It's my fuckup here."

Matt looks like he doesn't understand, but nods.

"Okay," Foggy says. "Uh. I'm gonna get dressed and call her and get you a
proper present, and then--and then--what do you want for dinner? We're getting
take-out. No making you cook on Christmas."

Matt tilts his head, and looks like he can't even think about food.

"It's cool, I'll figure something out," Foggy says, and hastily gets up. "And--
hey, is there anything I should get you? Anything else you want? Seriously,
Matt, let's have more Christmas spirit here."

Matt bites his lip, and Foggy makes an encouraging noise. Matt says, voice
almost a whisper, "Can I please go for a run, Foggy?"

"Uh, sure," Foggy says. "Just don't freeze to death or, uh, fall off any
rooftops, okay?"

Matt nods. "Yes, Foggy," he says. His hands are clutching the bag where he put
the robe back in so hard, his knuckles are white.

Foggy gets up, and throws himself into clothes and a coat, and calls Anna, and
practically runs out of there after walking back in the bedroom to check on
Matt.

Matt's sitting up on his knees on the floor, face crumpling, feeling the robe
with just one finger. His lips form the word Dad over and over again.

Foggy turns and leaves him alone. If Matt wants space, he deserves space.

It's just that he's not sure what Matt will be like once he gets back.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from Jeanann Verlee's "Genetics of Regret", here:
     http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/111880645788/fypoetry-jeanann-verlee-
     performs-genetics-of
***** they cracked me open, dad, I know you don’t want to hear about it *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
It's so hard to put the robe away, to stop touching it, but Matt does it
anyway. He can do difficult things. He's strong. He knows he is.

But he feels broken.

He wants to cry, he wants Dad to come and make it better, he wants his dad, but
he can't. It's not allowed. He takes a few deep breaths, seals it airlessly,
and stands up. His legs wobble as he forces himself to put on weather-
appropriate clothing, button his hoodie up so that his collar isn't visible,
and leave.

He needs to run. He wants to die, wants to throw himself into the Hudson and
swallow water until he can go to Dad, but he won't. Suicide is a mortal sin.

Matt runs, and runs, and he doesn't know where he is or where he's going, and
he hears faint snatches of things he doesn't know are real or not--Mistress
Sharon's pet's last wheezing breaths, Charlotte's sobs, Bee's terrified
heartbeat, Dad's corpse leaking blood--and he finds himself at the unthinkable
place.

He's standing over his Dad's grave.

Matt can't believe himself that he came here--he's a slave, it's not
appropriate, he's despoiling the entire cemetery, what is wrong with him, he
ought to be whipped for this--but he can't make himself leave, can't do
anything but clear off the snow from Dad's grave, and collapse to sit in it
next to the headstone. He can't not trace the engraved letters. His body has
made an executive decision, and he's helpless to resist it. The mind does not
control the body, not right now.

Jack Murdock, Battlin' Jack, Father, Fighter. He always got back up.

Matt almost sobs at it, because Dad did, he won his final fight. But instead,
all he does is breathe deeply, and think.

He's already here. He knows he should leave, but he can't. It's Christmas, and
it's New York, and he's at Dad's grave. He's never been allowed to be here, not
once, and he can't leave before talking to him. Not yet.

(The nuns thought he was already too serious and morbid, thought it would set
him off, make him melt down, and Stick tired him out so much he fell asleep the
second he got back from training. And then---

And then. He was a slave, and he wasn't in New York, and he didn't deserve to
even have a past, have a dad, much less go visit Dad's grave. He'd never ask
for it, anyway. The Before was sacred, had to be kept secret and safe, apart
from owners, precious and untouched.)

Matt swallows. He thinks about what he could possibly say. This is quite likely
the only chance he'll ever have to visit Dad's grave. Only the present exists.
He's got to just say it all.

"Dad," he says, and something inside of him breaks a little. Creaks. "Dad, I'm
sorry," and he hangs his head. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," and he
clamps a hand over his mouth so he doesn't then segue into please punish me,
because Dad's not an owner, he can't contaminate this any more than he already
is by showing up and polluting it with his presence.

"Dad, I didn't--it wasn't my fault, Stick, he, he sold me, I didn't do anything
that wrong, I didn't deserve that," Matt babbles, shaking. "I'm sorry, though,"
he says, swallowing his stupid fucking excuses.

"I'm sorry, I--I never should have been so naive, I never should have trusted
him, I never should have made him that bracelet, I didn't know, I should have
been better, I wish I had been better, I know I'm a failure, I'm a
disappointment, I'm so sorry, I, I wish you hadn't won that fight--Dad, why did
you do that?"

Matt has never been able to quite figure out why Dad didn't just throw it, why
he died, why he chose to die winning.

Except for the day he killed Master Robert. That day, he'd woken up knowing
what he had to do, knowing that there was no other choice anymore. Then he'd
understood, maybe. Just a tiny little bit.

But that--that wasn't analogous, and Matt--

He sits, going silent again, trying to think.

"I wish I had had one more day," he whispers. "I wish we had had just one day
to celebrate, if you really had to die, if--if that was part of the plan--just
one day, and we could have celebrated, and--"

Matt realizes he's too choked up to speak, and takes a minute to breathe. He
has to keep talking. He'll probably never get to do this ever again.

"Or, I wish, I wish I had gotten there even just a minute earlier, so I could
have been there, so you wouldn't have died alone, Dad, I'm so sorry--"

Matt sobs, and makes himself stop. He can't. Not here. He can't be so pathetic
and weak and disgusting, not here.

He starts up again. "I'm sorry. I know you--I'm sorry I'm not a person anymore,
Dad, I'm sorry I failed you, but, but it's not that bad, it's not--I got good
at it, Dad, I'm, I know how to be good, now, it's--I'm not completely
worthless, at least. I was, I'm expensive, I'm valuable, I got an education. I
went to college, Dad. I got to go to college, and I got a 4.0, and now I've got
a Bachelor's, in math. Remember how you always said I was so good at math?"

Matt wants his dad so, so much. His fingers trace over the inscription over and
over again. He thinks about how Fogwell told him his dad would be glad he was
still alive, and just in case it's true, he switches gears a little.

"And now--remember how you used to say I'd be a lawyer or a doctor? Well, I
can't--I can't be a doctor, slaves can't work in the medical field, I'm sorry,
but--my owner is going to be a lawyer, and, and I think maybe he's being
serious, that he might let be too, I'm going to Columbia--" and then Matt has
to suck in some deep breaths.

"I'm sorry, Dad," he says quietly. "I know you expected so much more out of me.
I'm trying. I'm going to be--whatever I can be, and if I can--my owner is so
nice, he's so generous, he hasn't hit me yet, not even once, not even though I
really deserve it, I don't--I can't even believe it--"

Matt stops. He refocuses. "If he lets me be a lawyer, I'm going to make you
proud," he says, suddenly fiercely determined. "I mean, I know that I can't, I
can't be what you wanted me to be, but I can at least do that. I can be the
best lawyer on this earth," and that feels like a burning flame, a real emotion
that's not agony.

"I know it's my fault you're dead," Matt says, and that's the hell of it. It's
the truth. His heartbeat is steady. "I know. I'm sorry, and I can't ever make
it up to you. And it's my fault I'm like this, and I know I deserve it, but--
but I can still be a lawyer. I can still be something. I promise."

Matt hears footsteps, slow and old, someone coming from the church to the
cemetery. No, no, no--

"I don't think I can come back," he whispers to Dad, and stands up hastily.
"But--but I'm so sorry, Dad, I love you," and that seals the deal. He's really
in for it now.

Matt leaves, and it's the worst thing he's ever done, but he has to. He ignores
whatever the old man was saying as he escapes. His brain keeps confusing it
with Master Robert's voice, sharp and vicious, saying I think you'll look so
much prettier with those vocal cords scratched, no thumbs to make you
distracted, you'll make such a perfect pet--

--

Matt gets back to the apartment, back to his owner, and each step feels like
lead. He thinks about what he's done, and he wants to slip on the steps, fall
and crack his skull, die. He wants to just be done already. Hasn't he done
enough for the world?

But then, when he gets up there, there's Bee in the kitchen, trying to make
something. It smells awful.

"What--what are you doing here?" he asks, frowning, jerked out of his lake of
self-loathing.

"Foggy asked me to come here and make sure you were okay," their tablet says.
"You're not okay."

"I went for a run," Matt says. "I--I went to my Dad's grave."

Bee goes stiff and frozen.

"I know I shouldn't have, I know, I'm not supposed to--I know he'd hate me,
seeing what I am. I can't--but Foggy gave me his robe," Matt says, voice going
to a whisper. This is about Dad. It's a secret.

He shouldn't tell Bee, but--they're like a slave, really, even without the
collar. And there's no guarantee they won't end up as one again, not when the
rates of K-Classes ending up being enslaved again is so high. Matt looked it
up. Bee can keep a secret.

"Foggy gave me one of Dad's robes, and I--I was so stupid, and ungrateful, and
I cried, and now--"

Now he needs to find some non-harmful way of punishing himself. He can't think
of anything.

Bee says, [Was your dad like the cunts' dad? Or like one of the dads on TV?]

"Better," Matt snaps, offended beyond words. "Dad was--Dad was the best, he was
never, ever like those utter misogynistic buffoons, he was the best, he always
made sure that nothing hurt me, the accident wasn't his fault at all, he got me
the cane and the books even though they cost half our fucking food budget that
month--"

[So he was a good dad?]

"The best," Matt says, and it hurts. Dad's dead.

[So why would he hate you, if he's a good dad? Those dumb psychology parenting
books say good parents don't hate their kids.]

"What books?" Matt asks, reeling, trying to deflect.

[The ones Anna has in the guest bedroom. I read them all. They say good parents
never actually hate their kids. So which is it? Was your dad good or would he
hate you?]

Matt--

That's a good question. Matt blinks, and feels the truth settle in him,
something poisonous knocking loose.

"He was a good dad," he says, because that's the truth.

[Then he wouldn't hate you.]

It's true, and Bee knows it's true, and Matt sinks down to the floor, dazed,
because he knows it's true. Dad wouldn't hate him.

Dad would maybe be furious at him for getting himself enslaved, for not seeing
Stick's true colors, but Dad wouldn't hate him. Maybe be a little bit
disgusted, because Matt's a defective slave, but not hate him.

Dad wouldn't hate him. Dad doesn't hate him.

Matt wants to kiss Bee, but instead he gets up, head swimming, and hugs them
tightly.

They smile against his shoulder. [Better?]

Matt nods. [I can't tell you about Dad. He was--]

[Anything from Before is a secret. I know. The cunts did have other slaves. I
know that. I'm not dumb.]

"No, you're not," he says. And then wrinkles his nose. "And what are you
cooking?"

[I was trying to make you soup.]

"Please stop, it smells disgusting," Matt says, and they huff irritably and
poke him in the ribs. He dodges, laughing. God. He's so glad he's relaxed
around Bee, now. He needs them.

And then he realizes what a great punishment will be.

He won't eat. Not for long--not until the New Year. That's six days. Six days
of no food isn't that much, and Foggy says if he's not hungry he doesn't have
to eat, so Matt will just have to meditate away his hunger, and ignore it. He
won't eat for six days, and it won't seriously hurt him, not in the long run,
and then he'll get to eat on New Year's Day.

Foggy will never have to know, and Matt won't do it often; only for very
serious things like telling his owner no. It's perfect. It will feel like
cleansing, like strength. Like being good for Foggy, who lets Matt leave on
runs without even asking where he's going.

Matt grins and Bee goes and they get set up with his laptop, on the living room
floor--Matt doesn't deserve to sit on furniture, so he sits on the floor, and
they sit next to him, squeezing his hand every now and then--with Netflix on.
Bee puts on a documentary about slave tattooing, and it's fascinating and
wonderful and makes Matt want a tattoo collar of his own.

Maybe someday he'll deserve that. For now, as his stomach starts to feel
hollower and hollower, Matt's content. He'll survive this punishment, and he
got to go to Dad's grave once in his life, and Bee's right, Dad wouldn't hate
him. Not love him anymore, maybe, but not hate him.

He's going to be so good, Foggy will let him become a lawyer. And then Matt
will be the greatest lawyer in the world, and Dad won't be quite so
disappointed with him. Matt could die happy right there and then, that
Christmas. It's his favorite since his personhood was severed from him.
--
Foggy feels terrible.

He's had weird, shitty Christmases before, but that was usually Rosalind-
induced, or because Anna and Dad were fighting, or because Candace was being a
brat. But this time, it's Foggy who's the asshole who fucked everything up. He
gave Matt a present that made him cry, that made him go into a sobbing
flashback, and he feels like he's rot, he's malaria.

Foggy hates this so much, but as he climbs into the car and tells Anna, "We
need to get to the nearest place that sells kneeling pads," he knows he can at
least make up for some of it.

She starts driving. "Why," Anna asks him slowly, "Do we need to go there?"

"I gave Matt his dad's boxing robe for Christmas and he started crying and
didn't stop for half an hour, I need to go get him a less shitty present to
make up for it," Foggy says in one breath, frantic.

Anna looks at him, and in that particular long-suffering look she appears older
than he's ever seen her before. "Foggy," she says with a sigh, "What possessed
you to think that was a good thing to spring on him as a surprise?"

Foggy frowns. "I just--I thought, hey, it's his dad's, and if Dad died I'd want
something of his, and Matt didn't have anything of his dad's."

Anna sighs. "Yes," she says as they pull out and she holds up a finger in the
wait gesture, and taps to activate Siri on her phone. "Siri, what's the nearest
shop that sells kneeling pads that is open today?"

"Paggette's Slave Accessories and Necessities is open today, and is five miles
from your current location."

"Thanks. Siri, give me directions to Paggette's Slave Accessories and
Necessities."

As Anna starts to follow the directions, she glances at Foggy. "Foggy," she
says, "While that was a good thought, you should have discussed it with him
beforehand. You don't know if Matt's father was a good one to begin with. You
don't know if Matt would find having physical reminders of him around painful,
and even if he appreciates it, of course it would bring back strong emotions. I
can't smell Chanel's number five perfume without crying, because my bubbe wore
it all the time."

Foggy opens his mouth and then shuts it. Shit. "I didn't think it would make
him---cry and then have a flashback, and, and freak out like that."

Anna sighs. "I know you don't understand parental or grandparent grief, Foggy,"
she says gently. "But in the future, don't go wading in those waters without
asking Matt first if he'd like to swim."

Foggy thinks about it. Anna's right; Foggy doesn't even know any of his
grandparents. Dad's parents are not allowed around the children, and so can't
come to any Nelson clan events. Anna's parents are so distant he can't even
remember their names without looking them up. Rosalind has never once mentioned
her parents.

He winces, and feels incredibly stupid. But he just wanted to give Matt a real
Christmas, a good Christmas, and then Anna says, "And why would giving Matt a
kneeling pad be a good gift?"

"It was on the wishlist I asked him to make," Foggy explains. "I wasn't going
to get it for him because, well, it's a fucking kneeling pad, I don't--I'm not
a dick--but now it's the only thing I can get him that I can be absolutely sure
he'll like."

"Well, alright," Anna says.

The rest of the drive is in absolute silence.

--

The store looks very, very expensive. Foggy looks at it askew as he walks in,
Anna following him, and there's something weird about the mannequins in the
glass display cases, just inside—

Because they're not mannequins at all. They're slaves, posed to show off
clothes and collars and contraptions of leather, buckle, zipper and lace, Foggy
realizes as one of them turns slowly, her eyes blank and emotionless. He looks
at her, and then the rest, and his mouth goes dry with fear.

Fuck. What kind of a place is this?

Well, whatever it is, he's here for one thing, and he turns to find an
exquisitely dressed woman—a slave—wearing a golden metal collar, metal braided
around her neck, and a dress that shows more of her shoulders, sides, breasts
and legs than any other Foggy's ever seen right in front of him.

She says, voice bright and cheerful, “What can I help you with, sir?”

Foggy draws back a bit. She sounds like Matt. “I—uh, I'm here looking for
kneeling pads,” he says, swallowing. “Where are they?”

“Right over here, sir,” she says, and steps backwards on her high heels,
gesturing with one arm.

The end of her arm doesn't have a thumb. In fact, neither of her hands do.
Foggy looks at it, and then to where she's pointing. There are stacks and
stacks of what look to him like very wide seat cushions, mostly. Some of them
are leather, some are velvet, and a couple are fleece or corduroy. They come in
different patterns and sizes. Foggy looks at them, and spies one that's red and
leather and looks big and squishy.

“This one also comes with a variety of cushion covers, sir,” the slave-
assistant says brightly. Foggy can see her nipples through her dress uniform.
He tries not to look.

Foggy turns back and sees that there are different covers, and he grabs a
couple in different textures. “Okay,” he says. “Uh—where do I check out?”

“If you don't want any other products, then here, sir,” she says, and
backwards-walks over to a cashier's stand, and beeps the covers and the pad. It
comes to a surprising amount, but Foggy refuses to care. It's for Matt, and
money is worth so much less than he is.

She smiles, and recites as if from a script, “The warranty for all products
lasts up to one year. We cannot guarantee that all products will stand up to
continued or advised-against use, and any damage incurred to a slave due to
improperly using, inserting, lubricating, cleaning, or sizing products is not
the liability of Paggette's Slave Accessories and Necessities. Paggette's
thanks you for your kind transaction, and welcomes you on any future visits.
Please feel free to bring your slave for trying-out products, and have a
wonderful day. Merry Christmas, sir.”

Foggy turns and leaves, taking his bag, feeling faint, but determined.

“Hey,” he says to Anna, who's staring at the slaves in the display cases with a
look of slowly dawning horror. “Let's—I should stop by somewhere before I go
back, get us some dinner. I'm not making Matt cook tonight.”

She blinks, and says, “That's a great idea. Let's get out of here.”

--

Matt sat on the floor, and sipped water. His stomach was empty and cramping,
and it was already starting to hurt. But he wasn't hungry; hungry was wanting
food, desiring food, and just because his body craved something didn't mean he
did. That was how he'd slide around Foggy's rule of eating three meals a
day—Foggy had said that the rule of 'you don't have to eat if you're not
hungry' overruled it, and Matt wasn't hungry, and wouldn't be.

It was a stretch, he knew, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
It was time for him to regain some of his self-control, anyway. He'd been
slipping so much since he was owned by Foggy and punished—ignored, not
punished, Foggy hadn't meant to punish him—for over a month straight, and this
would help him. It would rebuild his self-discipline, and ensure that he
wouldn't be so ungrateful and stupid again, crying because his owner had gotten
him a beautiful gift.

Foggy came in, with a bag that rustled like expensive plastic. Matt sniffed,
and Foggy smelled like a slave-shop—all leather and velvet and the patented
antiseptic they put on most corporate working slaves before they went to work,
to ensure they couldn't pass on any viruses or bacteria to free people they
interacted with.

Was Foggy serious when he'd said he was getting Matt a third present? Just
because Matt had been so hideously disobedient earlier? Matt had tried to
listen to Foggy's heartbeat when he said those things, but he'd been distracted
and too panicked to pay much attention.

“Hey,” Foggy said brightly. “Anyway, this was on your wishlist, so here—and,
um, I'm just getting this for you because I think you'll like it, not because I
mean anything else, and you don't ever have to use it, if you don't want to, or
it could just be a regular seat cushion or a pillow or something. Here you go,”
and he held out the bag.

Matt took it, and gently removed—

A kneeling pad. A beautiful, soft kneeling pad, thick and good for long-term
kneeling, the exact kind Matt had wanted. And with covers, too, covers of
crushed velvet and buttery suede and satin and textured plastic that made it
easier to be still, that created traction.

Oh.

Matt held it, and said softly, “Thank you, Foggy, thank you so much,” and
kissed his owner's hand, and felt a little like he'd just heard a building burn
to ashes.

No wonder he'd misinterpreted Foggy so much. No wonder even Summer, who could
read anyone like a book, hadn't understood him.

Foggy was completely, unutterably incomprehensible.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from Jeanann Verlee's "Communion", here: http://
     fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/113180666949/fypoetry-jeanann-verlee-
     performs-communion
***** clean and bleed, bleed and clean *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Foggy spent the rest of Christmas with Matt.

Bee went back to Dad's around dinner-time, hugging Matt and telling Foggy,
"He's fine now," and leaving without a backwards glance. He looked at them as
they went, still skinny, but much more like a normal skinny person and not
someone from a picture of famine victims. He felt a little prickle of warmth in
his chest from seeing that at least he'd done some good in the world. At least
they were free, and eating, and gaining weight.

Then he looked back at Matt, who was holding the kneeling pad, and had kissed
his hands, and now was tracing it, a look on his face like he'd just seen a
ghost. Then Matt put it down, and slipped the crushed velvet case on it, and
smiled, and all was right with the world again.

--

Matt couldn't quite begin his self-imposed punishment on Christmas, because
Foggy had bought sandwiches and sushi and salads, and it would be ungrateful
and disobedient to not eat them, so Matt ate slowly, enjoying each bite, and
then he and Foggy watched the first of the Alexander Farragut movies.

As it turned out, they were beautiful movies, with soft soundtracks modeled
from classical music Matt was familiar with, and could talk to Foggy about, at
least in some of the more visual scenes. Foggy described everything
extensively, adding in details like 'the prosecutor has this fucking douchey
face, you can tell he's evil just from it' and 'she totally just glanced at the
cop with these huge Bambi eyes'.

It turned out to be a rather gripping tale of a fight against a corrupt,
violent legal system, a suspenseful, cerebral movie, with what Foggy said were
muted colors and a great deal of dialogue, and when at the end the mother of
six children, Anna Mae, was declared not guilty and exited the courthouse, and
Foggy spoke quietly about how Farragut's face had 'just the tiniest release of
tension, and the small smile breaking through his composure', Matt found
himself grinning uncontrollably.

"See?" Foggy said. "It's totally awesome. This one isn't even anywhere near as
good as the rest, and there's, like, eleven."

"It was very good, Foggy," Matt offered up. "You said you watched them when you
were a child, originally?"

"Oh, yeah," Foggy said, and leaned into Matt. They were both sitting on the
floor, Matt kneeling on the pad and Foggy against the couch. "I got into one
when I was a kid at Rosalind's for the weekend, and she didn't leave me with
anything to do, so I got into her stash of DVDs and put this one on by pure
chance. I thought it was really boring until they got to the scene with the
fire."

Matt nodded. Anna Mae had ushered her children outside before setting fire to
her home, with her violent, disturbingly sexually predatory brother-in-law
inside. It had set off most of the plot.

"And then she got back from her stupid call and watched the rest with me,"
Foggy said, a little wistful. "It was one of the nicest memories I had with
her. Dad was furious, he said it was way too adult a movie for a seven-year-
old, but that had the opposite effect, I watched them every weekend at
Rosalind's after he and her had the fight.

"They made me realize being a lawyer wasn't just boring paperwork, it was like-
-like fighting, but without using your fists, you know? They made me realize I
could use all my debate team and good English class grades to do awesome stuff.
I could really be like him, all composed and crisp and smart and respected. I
could be amazing."

Matt smiled. Foggy's idealism was so, so cute. It made Matt want to protect
Foggy even more. But Matt had to make sure Foggy knew he already was amazing
and intelligent.

"Sometimes I wish Rosalind hadn't, though," Foggy said suddenly. "Watched them
with me, I mean. I wish she had just--picked a decision and stuck with it.
Because you know, she gave me up as a kid? Kicked Dad out of the house with me
in his arms and said she was done, he wasn't coming back."

Matt made a soft noise of sympathy, and leaned into Foggy.

"And then later on, after Dad had found Anna, she suddenly showed up again and
said she'd sue for full custody if he didn't let her visit me. I guess it
pissed her off that Dad found someone else, that she didn't have that hold over
him anymore. God. It's so fucked up," Foggy said.

"I told Miriam--my therapist, I mean--a bit about it and she agreed it was
totally fucked up. It's--I wish she had just fucking left me alone. Because
sometimes she'd do normal mom stuff like that, watch movies with me and tell me
about all the unrealistic parts, and then she'd do horrible shit like take me
to some weird-ass nutritionist and try to get me to stop eating normal
breakfast and lunch, and eat these protein bar things instead, because she
thought I was going to get fat--and if she had just left me the fuck alone, I
wouldn't have had to deal with her.

"You know, you're the first person that's ever really stood up to her and won?
That I know of?" Foggy said, twisting so his face was pointed at Matt. "Anna
and Dad argued with her a lot but she always got some concession. She always
got at least some of what she wanted, or she'd agree to stop doing something,
and find some new way to do it anyways.

"She used to literally lock me in a room with nothing except my homework when I
was a kid, if I was visiting her, until I did it. She still buys me clothes
that are, like, three sizes too small. And gym memberships and bullshit like
that. I never--I don't get why she had to focus on all that," Foggy sounded
pained.

"I don't get why she couldn't just pick being mean or being nice, and sometimes
she was really nice. She took me out to this steak place whenever I got all
A's, and she sometimes would sit with me and go over my debate prep with me so
I'd get it really right, and she bought me a really nice laptop for high school
and paid for my driver's ed and all my college expenses.

"I don't get her. She would be so fucking nasty to me for no reason, and then
she'd buy me a new MacBook that cost, like, a thousand dollars."

Matt thought about how to respond; the gap called for one. "There's nothing
wrong with your body, or health," he offered up. "Your heartbeat and blood
pressure are all normal. And even if they weren't, I'd be happy to be your
service slave, Foggy," he said, and leaned a little bit of his weight into
Foggy, so they would cuddle a bit.

Foggy sighed. "Thanks. I just--sorry, wow, that's some heavy shit, I should be
talking about that in therapy."

"I don't mind, Foggy," Matt murmured. It was very good information, and offered
a lot more of a complete understanding of Rosalind Sharpe. "I like listening to
your voice."

Strangely enough, it didn't feel like a pre-prepared line this time. Matt had
said that so often, he was surprised to realize that this time, he meant it. He
liked Foggy's voice, and having things described to him, and being spoken to.

Foggy laughed, and hugged Matt. "Good, I never know if I'm just coming off as a
total chatterbox to you."

Matt smiled. "Only a little," he teased very, very carefully, and suddenly went
cold, but then all Foggy did was laugh, sounding pleased, and Matt relaxed.
He'd judged right, not been disrespectful.

And then Matt knew what to say about Rosalind Sharpe. "If she ever comes to
bother you again, I'm happy to ward her off," he said quietly. "I did have
bodyguard training. I know how to get rid of unwanted guests."

Foggy grinned. "Thanks, Matt," he said, and kissed Matt's cheek right as Matt
had turned his head to burrow more into Foggy's shoulder--

And Foggy's kiss landed on his mouth. Matt blinked and shut his eyes and went
still.
--
Foggy realized just a microsecond after the kiss landed what he'd done, and
jerked violently away, topping backwards onto the floor.

"Shit!" he said. "Fuck--Matt--I'm sorry--"

Matt blinked, and opened his eyes again, and looked perfectly calm. But when it
came to Matt, that didn't actually mean all that much.

"Foggy?" he asked, sounding concerned.

"Yeah," Foggy said, hoping he hadn't sent Matt into a fucking flashback. Jesus
Christ. What the fuck was wrong with him? He hadn't meant to do that at all--

Matt turned, and moved as if he was going to move closer to Foggy, and Foggy
looked at Matt's feet because his toes curled if he was scared--

And they weren't. And Matt's face looked fine. Foggy swallowed. Maybe he hadn't
really hurt Matt. "I didn't mean to do that," he blurted out. "I didn't--shit,
I wasn't gonna--the no-sex rule still applies!"

Matt looked a little confused. "I know, Foggy," he said softly. "I--it was a
kiss. That's not sex."

Foggy blinked, and felt baffled instead of just guilty and scared for Matt.
What--did Matt not know the significance of being kissed on the mouth? What?

"I don't think I know what you mean by that," Foggy said slowly. "I--um--Matt,
are you okay?"

"Yes, Foggy," and was that Foggy's imagination or did Matt look very faintly
irritated by the question for a second. "I--being kissed isn't the same thing
as being used. I don't mind kissing. It's not negative stimuli."

"Oh," Foggy said, and tried to think about that. Matt really did seem to like
platonic kissing, and that made some sense. But what about the romantic
connotation?

Foggy had the sudden, sinking feeling that Matt thought romance or love or
something was for people and therefore not him, and thus wouldn't get why he
wasn't kissing Matt's mouth anytime soon. Shit.

"Okay," he said slowly. "I--um--Matt--okay, so you didn't mind that? Even
though, uh, that's the sort of thing, um, couples do? But we're not a couple,
you don't owe me anything, it's fine, it's all okay."

Matt had that fleeting little facial twitch of annoyance again, and Foggy
wondered if he should bring it up. He decided against it.

"Yes, Foggy," Matt said, and smiled a little bit. "Of course not. I'm okay. I
don't mind. Everything is fine," he soothed, and Foggy realized that he was the
one scrambled away, heart thudding like a racehorse, freaked the fuck out.

"Okay," Foggy said eventually. "Then--uh--I'm going to go make popcorn, and
then the next one? Unless you're too tired?"

Matt shook his head. "I'm okay, Foggy," he said quietly, and Foggy got up off
the floor, knees wobbly and difficult to stand on, and made himself make
popcorn and think about what happened. Matt was okay, and he was okay, and he
hadn't broken his trust. Thank God. Today had been enough of an emotional
upheaval for both of them. Foggy couldn't live with himself if he fucked things
up even more.

After the second movie, which Matt seemed to like, too, about Alexander
Farragut defending a man in prison from his death sentence, Foggy realized it
had gotten colder in the apartment. Their heat didn't work as well at night,
and he turned to look at Matt, who was half-pressed against him, and seemed
perfectly fine. He hadn't taken one kernel of popcorn, yet, though, which
struck Foggy as a little strange.

"Did you want to do one more? The next one is kind of--um. It's the one about
Farragut defending a pair of sisters, and they're both charged with, um,
prostitution, so the threat if he loses is enslavement instead, so if that
sounds too--heavy--then we can skip it."

Matt blinked. "I'm okay, Foggy," he said.

"Okay," Foggy said, and then, "Hey, are you cold too?"

Matt nodded, and rose, and came back with his new blanket, holding it and
rubbing his fingers over it over and over. Foggy grinned to see Matt liking it.

He plugged it in, and frowned as he felt the dial. Foggy realized that while
there were little nocks on it that he could feel, Matt couldn't feel the
numbers, because they were smooth plastic.

"Uh," he said, and went over, gently touching Matt's fingers in the process of
getting to the dial. He laid his hand over Matt's as he twisted it to 'OFF'.
"That's 'off', and then if you twist it this much, to this nock--" and he
twisted it to the first one-- "It's '1', and then they go up to '7', though I
don't know what actual number temperature it is? Probably it's in the manual."

Matt nodded. "Thank you, Foggy," he murmured, kissed Foggy's finger--his lips
so soft, lascivious, Foggy wanted to kiss him--and turned it to '6', and draped
it over himself.

"Okay, as fun as the floor life is, let's--c'mon, couch," Foggy coaxed, sitting
down. "Way better to cuddle on."

Matt smiled, and they moved so that they were both lying down on the couch,
feet in the middle, legs entangled, each with a blanket on top of them, and
Foggy switched on the movie.

By the time there was the dramatic courthouse scene, with the vicious,
misogynistic female prosecutor snarling about moral degeneracy and the
necessity of slavery to control wayward women and useless drains on society,
Foggy looked over to find Matt completely asleep, head on his kneeling pad,
hands twitching on the blanket, face peaceful.

Foggy smiled. Matt was so, so beautiful, and lovely, and perfect. There was
nobody else for Foggy, not anymore. Why would he want anyone else when he could
have this--his feet extra-cozy under the weighted, warming blanket, his legs
curled up with Matt's strong, muscles legs, looking at him in the light of one
of his favorite movies, and feeling so completely content?

Foggy turned back to the movie. This was a very different, very new Christmas.
His first away from Dad's, actually. Even when he'd had to fly back for it,
he'd always come back to Dad's house for Christmas, and now he was here
instead--at home. He'd only opened two presents today, and he hadn't heard
Candace's happy squeals or seen Dad and Anna get goopy and mushy with each
other over their nerdy presents for each other.

Foggy regretted nothing. Matt was more than worth it all--just to see him
sleeping, warm and safe and comfortable, not scared of Foggy or of being kissed
was the best Christmas present Foggy could have ever had.

He fell asleep like that too, and that night, Foggy dreamed of kissing Matt in
bed, neither of them undressing, safe and okay. Matt laughed, and teased him,
and in the dream Foggy knew that they would get to stay like that forever if
they wanted.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from the movie 'Gone Girl'. (It's an inherently
     misogynistic movie, but an entertaining mess all the same.)
***** he said 'it's all in your head', I said 'so's everything' *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
     Trigger warning for disordered eating.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Matt woke up hungry.

It was a sensation that ached in him, sharp, and Matt smiled into his kneeling-
cushion as he rose to awareness. It was familiar, and he knew it was just the
start of his punishment, his refining of self-discipline. It was him ensuring
that he'd be better for the new year, a cleansed and re-tuned slave.

He awoke, and realized he and Foggy were tangled up together, sleeping on the
couch as one, and lay there quietly, thinking to himself. He knew that the pain
would make him better; all pain was a lesson, and all lessons made you better.
And the lesson he had to learn that no matter how sweet Foggywas, no matter how
much Foggy wouldn't punish him, that still changed nothing in the grander
scheme of things.

Matt was a slave, and had to maintain himself. He couldn't afford to slip into
a permanently comfortable, complacent state; he couldn't get acclimatized to
all of this loveliness. He couldn't get used to anything--not sleeping in a bed
his owner never touched, not this warm, heavy blanket, not hot showers, not
being allowed to train alone without putting on a show, not being allowed to
talk to Bee, not classes or homework or Braille books. Not food.

Matt realized with a jolt of horror that he'd been getting soft, weak and
stupid and overfed, a pig ripe for the slaughter. God. Foggy was not going to
ruin him, he thought a little viciously. He refused to be like the tattooed,
mutilated, heavily scarred pets of Master Robert's, the ones that ended up with
cutlets carved from their thighs when Master Robert forced him to cook and
serve human meat to the other slaves, because wasn't that what they were
anyway, just meat for the butcher--

Matt silently heaved, and stopped himself, burrowing under the blanket. God.
Christmas presents, for him. No wonder he was being such a fucking disobedient
little slut. He was spoiled beyond measure. Even Summer, who was the pinnacle
of doll-ness, wasn't spoiled like this, with being treated like--

Like a person. Which Matt had gotten far too comfortable with. He even liked
standing up in public when waiting with Foggy now, instead of hearing the song
his knees sang, reminding him of where he belonged.

Shit. Shit and hellfire and damnation, goddammit, Matt had truly fucked himself
over with this owner.

A small part of him wondered if it wasn't better this way, becoming just what
Foggy wanted, comfortable and happy, and Matt ruthlessly quashed it. Fuck that.
He was supposed to be strong, not happy. He was supposed to be a point of
pride, not an embarrassment to slaves everywhere. He was supposed to earn what
he got through being good, not being indiscriminately rewarded, even from bad
behavior like crying over a present.

Matt felt a low, cold rage at himself for how he'd conducted himself, how he'd
humiliated himself, and breathed in and out. Alright. Now he'd identified the
problem, and had a solution.

He would just have to make these days until New Year's hurt.
--
That day, Foggy went over to Dad's to thank Anna and to see his family.
It felt weird, but he got inside, took off his shoes, obediently petted
Caligula for a minute, and then looked up to see Candace sitting on the stairs,
looking miserable and mussed.
"Foggy," she said, and Foggy took a deep breath, feeling an unpleasant mix of
guilt and not-guilt, like curdled milk in bad coffee.
"Candycane," he offered up, and she got up and walked over. He hugged her, and
said, "You're still my sister, and I love you, and I'm still not happy with
you, and you're still not allowed to be around Matt at all."
She sniffled, and sighed, and stepped back. She was taller than him, but was so
hunched over that she didn't really look it right there and then.
"Foggy," she said. "I didn't--you didn't come home for Christmas."
Foggy shrugged. "Yeah, I had my own, with Matt. Were Anna and Dad still all
goopy and gross?"
Candace laughed. "Yeah, oh my god. She got him some heart-shaped back pillow,
and he got her--you're gonna love this--he renewed her subscription to The
International Journal of Abnormal Psychology and got her a stress ball shaped
like Sigmund Freud."
"Oh, god," Foggy said, and gave the obligatory shudders. "I bet they kissed
for, like, an hour."
"Try two. I had to practically pry them apart with a crowbar so that I could
hug Dad for getting me what he got me."
"What'd he get you?"
Candace grinned, bouncing up and down. "He got me the money to get my nose
ring!"
Foggy blinked, and smiled slowly. "The one you've wanted since you were
thirteen?"
"Yeah, that one! And now I'm going to go get it tomorrow!"
Foggy laughed. "That's great, Candy," he said, and hugged her. "I'm glad. What
did Anna get you?"
"Mom got me a pouch that goes over my shoulder, so when Caligula wants me to
carry him, I can put him in the pouch and not get all clawed," Candace said,
and then her smiled dimmed a bit. "Your presents are still here."
"Yeah, and let me get mine for you and Anna and Dad," Foggy said, and headed up
to his room to get them. Caligula followed him, meowing loudly.
"You miss Matt?"
Caligula meowed again.
"Yeah, I know, he's great," Foggy told Caligula, and got the presents. "Anna
and Dad are here?" he asked Candace.
"Yeah, in the living room," she said, and they went over into it, Caligula
grumpily following them.
"Hey, son," Dad said, and hugged Foggy tight. Foggy hugged him back.
"You made your sister cry," he accused Foggy. "Don't do that again."
"She made Matt freak out so badly he had flashbacks," Foggy sniped back, and
then winced. That didn't really feel like something he should just be spreading
around, but he couldn't quite take it back.
"Edward," Anna said, exasperated. "Stop trying to protect her from consequences
of her actions."
Foggy pulled back, and looked at Dad, and at Candace, and Anna. He loved them,
he still did, but there was...something different about this, about them.
He had somewhere else to be, he realized sharply. He wasn't really so dependent
on them anymore. Granted, he still needed help paying for groceries and rent,
and probably for things like taxes and getting around outside of New York, but
in a sense, he felt like he had suddenly, firmly detached, like even if things
went to hell, he'd be fine. He had his own home, his own loved one who wasn't
tied up in them.
He'd had his own Christmas. Foggy felt, intensely, like he was finally a real
adult in a way he'd never been before, and it took him a second to breathe and
accept that weight.
"I'm not going to apologize or feel bad for what I did," Foggy said, settling
back on his heels. "I came here to swap presents, and to say I hope you guys
had a good Christmas, too. Here's my presents to you all," and he handed them
around.
Anna smiled as she unwrapped hers; a book of Lithuanian baking recipes, which
Foggy knew she didn't already know. Dad got a sweater, bright and almost
glitzy, with a loud 'WEIRDEST DAD EVER' print, surrounded by passed-out drunk
reindeer. He laughed and immediately put it on. Candace got the DVD of that new
play about the alternate-reality version of Sherlock Holmes, where Lovecraftian
monsters had enslaved all of humanity and Holmes was a villain. She grinned and
hugged him.
"Here are ours, to you," Anna said, and pointed to three presents, still under
the tree.
Foggy reached down and found them. From Candace, he'd gotten a body pillow
stuffed with lavender, chamomile, and other sleepy-time herbs and scents, to
help him sleep even better. From Dad, he'd gotten a book entitled 'Weirdest
Legal Cases in History'. And from Anna, he'd gotten--
Foggy grinned widely as he read the book's cover. 'A Brief Exploration of Post-
Traumatic Stress Disorder, for Those That Do Not Have It'.
The book was very, very slim, and Anna said, warningly, "Take everything it
says with a grain of salt, and be sure to remember that you're not Matt's
therapist."
"I know!" Foggy protested. "But--god, this is great, now I can maybe understand
him a bit more."
He reached down and hugged Anna, too. Her hair smelled like roses, and he was
glad of how strong and solid she felt.
"And there's one more, from all three of us," Anna said, and handed him
something soft. Foggy opened it up, and grinned hugely.
It was a yarn drum, with little velcro pockets to hold in and organize hooks,
darning needles, and scissors. It would make it way easier to keep his current
project organized, and he made a loud, involuntary noise of pure joy.
"Thank you," he said, smiling. "God. This is great."
Candace was still watching him, and he took a deep breath in, and then out. "No
word from Rosalind?"
"A drunken, incoherent message, from which I've gathered she might be coming to
the New Year's party," Anna said, with an eyeroll. "Which, by the way--Candace,
tell him."
"I'm going to, um, Stacey's for New Year's," Candace explained. "So Matt can
come here and so can you and stuff. Because you don't trust me around him."
"Because you effectively proved you're not trustworthy around him," Foggy said,
and breathed in and out. "Look--Candace--do you really not get it?"
She sighed. "I get that you're mad at me, and I get that what I did was sexual
harassment, or poaching, kind of. But lots of people--I dunno. I never thought
slaves cared about that kind of stuff. It wasn't like I was going to hit him or
anything. I was just gonna kiss him under the mistletoe."
Foggy resisted the urge to scream. Matt probably would prefer being hit, he
thought darkly, and it was true. Matt thought having his fingernails ripped out
was better than being raped.
Instead he said, calmly, "And so I guess it's fine when men try to do that to
women?"
"No, but--Foggy--look, isn't that what he's for?"
Foggy leaned back, and groaned out loud, rubbing one hand on his face.
"Candace--"
"No, listen to me!" she snapped. "I get that he's yours and he's expensive and
you didn't want him anyway, and I get that he's kind of your friend, but look--
everyone knows that there's a reason some people end up as slaves and others
don't!"
"Yeah, it's called bad luck, or shitty parents," Foggy retorted. "Or, hell,
being falsely accused of shoplifting, or not being able to afford a good enough
lawyer."
"So you're telling me that--that it's just, what, it's just fucking chance that
he ended up with a collar? That it's just--it just happens, there's no rhyme or
reason?"
"Oh, there's reasons," Foggy said darkly. "Mostly, what happens is that someone
is awful and shitty and decides to hurt someone else, and they get away with it
because our fucking broken legal system lets them. It's not Matt's fault, or
any other slave's fault."
Candace looked at him, and then away. "I can't believe that the world is like
that," she said, finally. "I can't--I can't live in a world that's that bleak,
and cold, and cruel."
"But you're willing to live in a world where all of that keeps on happening,
all of the--the--the people being raped and beaten and having their thumbs
fucking cut off--all of that, but it's, what, it's their fault? How is that any
better?" Foggy asked, incredulous.
"Look, I get that ever since you went to college you went sort of super, super
preachy and annoying, but this isn't just your normal political bullshit, this
is--Foggy, this is nuts, I get that you're mad that I tried to borrow your toys
without asking, I remember that we fought over it all the time as kids, but--
goddamnit, Foggy, this is crazy. I can't--Matt's not your boyfriend that I
tried to fuck, alright? I wasn't going to be 'the other woman', you are
seriously overreacting."
"No, Matt's my friend who you were going to forcibly kiss and then probably try
to rape," Foggy said, voice going flat and pissed and utterly, utterly done
with this. "And if you're done insulting him, I'm leaving."
"What, is that all you're going to do? Just...leave?" Candace shouted, face
bright red. "You're just going to do that to me, to your family?"
Foggy looked at her, and then at Anna, who looked rather like Sisyphus at that
moment. "Hey, Anna, what did you do when people in your family were actively
shitty and mean about Dad?"
"I informed them that they could be at minimum civil, or else suffer the lack
of my scintillating company," she said.
"Awesome. Hey, Candace, you can be at minimum civil about Matt--by which
acknowledging and treating him like a person--or you can suffer the lack of my
scintillating company."
He made a mental note to ask Matt, later, what 'scintillating' meant.
She glared at him, and stormed off. Foggy sighed, remembering how in middle
school she had done nothing but that, and turned to Dad, who looked too shell-
shocked to intervene, and Anna, who looked exasperated at her.
"Thanks for the presents," Foggy said. "If she won't be here, we will for New
Year's. It starts at--?"
"Six, though you should probably be here by five," Anna said. "And good on you,
Foggy. It took me a longer time to learn how to stand my ground like that."
"Well, someone has to put him first," Foggy said, put on his coat, petted
Caligula one more time, and left.
 
 
--
 
Matt had overestimated his own pain tolerance, he discovered over the next few
days.
He knew it fluctuated to some degree with physical pain, and that it was a bit
like a muscle in that you exercised it or it atrophied, but he hadn't realized
just how bad it had gotten, how low he'd sunk.
That, and he hadn't gone from little food to no food, but from being fed a
frankly ludicrous amount of food--food that he got to choose and eat as fast or
slow as he pleased, food he was allowed to season and cut however he wanted,
food that he was allowed to put away and come back to later--to no food at all.
It hurt. His stomach cramped, his head ached. He drank water, and medicinal tea
with sugar, salt, and appetite-stimulating spices, just to twist the knife and
keep his blood sugar up to bearable levels. He couldn't afford to have it
interfering with his concentration, or him fainting. He couldn't distress Foggy
like that.
But it hurt, and the pain was near-constant, his body screaming at him to eat,
eat, just a bite of something, just a half an apple or one little sandwich,
anything at all.
Matt ate nothing.
The hardest to resist was when he made pancakes and had to taste the batter;
the feel of it on his tongue made him full-body shudder in want, hands curling
into clawed fists, and Matt had to chant to himself, you can do this, you can
resist this temptation, you can fight this, you are stronger than your desires,
you are stronger than your hunger.
And he was. He stayed strong, and he felt good about himself. He was good, and
strong, and had the necessary self-discipline to re-tune himself to what he
needed to be. Matt felt at peace with the pain, and it helped drive away his
hunger, relocate it to a purely physical craving that he could cleave from
himself.
Matt was content, and so, so hungry.
Each night he dreamed about food, and about being hungry. He dreamed about
Mistress Janet letting him eat whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, because
she appreciated him so much. He dreamed about Mistress Sharon lazily ordering
him to go make tiramisu, and eating three slices, and then throwing the rest
out because Matt and the pet were both on strict calorie-controlled diets to
ensure they never would be anything but beautiful. He dreamed about Master
Robert, about how he'd hysterically thought to himself that human meat really
did taste like pork, about the sizzle of it.
He dreamed about princessetorte and croissants and eggs Benedict and filet
mignon, he dreamed about chicken nuggets and French onion soup and ice cream,
back before Stick tainted it. He dreamed about disappearing buns and red pepper
soup and chicken tikka masala. Matt dreamed about food, about eating an entire
feast-table's worth with his bare hands, and he woke up hungrier each day.
But he didn't break, and he didn't even get too close to it. Each time he felt
dangerously close to breaking, when he could tell he was teetering on the edge
of losing control and eating something, he knelt on his new cushion and thought
about what this was. This was punishment, and it was a well-deserved one.
He thought over and over again until how ungrateful and hideously disobedient,
soft and trusting and utterly imbecilic he'd become, and about how he had to do
something to regain himself. He thought viciously about how he deserved this,
how he really should be in pain more often, about how bad slaves didn't deserve
the privileges he'd been so graciously awarded, about how he'd been such a
disappointment and what would Foggy say if he knew how angry Matt had gotten at
him?
Matt thought and thought, anger at himself building to a crescendo until his
head was a cacophony of furious self-loathing and humiliation, so intense he
wanted to hit his head on the edge of the countertop until his skull cracked
and he could die. He hated it, he hated starving, but he knew it would be over
soon.
Bee came over on December twenty-ninth, when Foggy was back doing something at
his father's house, and the first thing they said with their tablet when they
got in was, "What's wrong with you?"
Matt blinked. "Nothing," he said.
He could feel their eyes look him up and down, left and right. "You're hungry,"
the robotic voice accused him. "You're really hungry."
Matt shrugged. "I'm not allowed to eat until New Year's."
There was an awkward pause, and then Bee switched to Morse again. [I know Foggy
didn't tell you that. He never starved either of us, even a tiny bit.]
"Well, no, but--I've been slipping."
[And being hungry is going to help that?]
"Yes," he snapped, and suddenly Matt realized just how on-edge he felt. Every
sound was too loud and too jarring, every texture too scratchy. He could hear
the neighbors downstairs with their stupid telenovela, and the cars outside
with their loud fucking horns, and Bee's too-fast heartbeat.
Something sounded off about their heart, to Matt. But he refocused, and
gathered himself. "Yes, it'll help. I can't slack off."
Bee sounded exasperated. [Oh my god, yes you can, a little bit. Didn't you ever
learn to take rest and food and water whenever you could?]
"There comes a point where being spoiled actually starts to negatively affect
you," Matt sniped. "I'm at that point."
[That's really not how things work,] they pointed out. [Starving never helped
me.]
"You never had baseline training, or good health to begin with," he said
irritably. He felt so angry now, but he'd kept it sharply pointed at himself.
This was all his fault, after all.
They furrowed their brow. [Yes, I did. What, you think they just let us run
wild at the center? I got plenty of conditioning. Not the individual attention
you got, and it was a different teaching style, but I had plenty of training.
And starving never made me more obedient.]
"So it really never made you give in?" Matt said, arching an eyebrow.
[Oh FUCK YOU,] and they stepped forward, and Matt tensed, pulling back his
teeth, wanting to fight, wanting to hit someone or something until all this
suffocating rage had drained out of him like pus--
[Fuck you. I gave in because everyone does eventually.]
Matt sighed, and then stopped. "Sorry," he said, because he'd crossed a line.
Speaking to a free person like that. "But I need this. I required a lot of
focused training, and I've got to keep it up. I can't have it all going to
waste."
[You idiot. Eat.]
Matt rolled his eyes, and didn't.
[I'm serious. Eat or--]
"You'll tell Foggy?"
[Fuck you, I'm not a snitch. But. Fuck. Matt, you have to eat.]
"It'll be over soon," he said, and smiled dizzily at the prospect. "Foggy will
never have to know. It'll be over soon."
They sighed, and then the two of them switched to making more fun of Fifty
Shades of Grey together. Matt assured his growling belly that soon it would all
be over, and he'd get to eat again.
It was over the next day.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from Fiona Apple's "Paper Bag'.
***** I always think of the back of her head. I picture cracking her lovely
skull, unspooling her brain, trying to get answers *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Foggy yawned and stretched out in bed. He'd woken up, changed into sweatpants
and a new shirt, and promptly laid back down on the covers. It was too early to
be doing anything, but he had therapy in half an hour, and he wanted to laze a
bit.

That, and watch Matt.

There was something up with Matt, Foggy knew. He seemed tense and edgy more,
somehow, as if anticipating something. And the past few days, he'd taken his
coffee black, with no cream or sugar, which was weird. Matt also hadn't eaten
much at meals, just given Foggy food or instead curled up in his bed. Foggy
hoped he wasn't getting sick, or somehow being upset by all the memories his
dad's boxing robe must have brought back.

Foggy watched Matt, curled up under the weighted blanket, listening to
something, eyes half-closed.

Matt's stomach growled. Matt didn't move.

Foggy frowned, and watched Matt's face twitch in anger and then curl more to
his side, breathing in and out.

"Hey, Matt," he said, after his stomach gurgled again. "You're okay?"

"I'm alright, Foggy," Matt murmured. "I'm not hungry."

"It sure sounds like you are," Foggy said, half-teasing. "When was the last
time you ate?"

There was a horrifically long pause. Foggy blinked and sat up, a horrible dread
creeping up on him. "Matt? When was the last time you ate?"

Matt swallowed, and said very quietly, "Christmas night."

Foggy's mouth fell open. What-- but that couldn't be--

But--

He tried to remember if Matt had been eating only a little or nothing, and
realized with startled horror that he hadn't seen Matt eating at all, he'd just
assumed that of course he was, he just was--

Was what?

Foggy didn't even know. He'd just--he'd thought that of course Matt was eating,
why was Matt starving--

"Shit, are you getting sick?"

"No, Foggy," and Matt sounded very, very quiet and wretched. "I'm not sick."

"Then--what--what are you doing? Are you--you're starving yourself on purpose,
aren't you," Foggy said, sick knowledge curdling in his stomach. "You're--Matt,
what the shit?"

Matt swallowed heavily. Foggy saw a haze of crimson creep up in his vision, and
realized he was clenching his fists. He felt so angry, he could spit. Matt had
been starving himself, Matt had been hurting himself, and Foggy was so fucking
done with it.

He realized he should probably go to therapy right there, come back calmer and
deal with this rationally, but Foggy was abruptly too tired of being calm and
reasonable about all this crazy bullshit, and he couldn't just leave Matt
alone. No, no, he had to make sure he understood, he had to get the point
across, he couldn't just let Matt hurt himself, he couldn't bear the thought of
having to protect Matt from himself as well. No. He was done.

"That's fucking it," Foggy said. "That's--fuck this, get dressed, you're coming
to therapy with me, Miriam will--she'll know something to say, she'll help me--
fuck--Matt," he groaned, and closed his eyes, leaning back his head, and heard
the sounds of Matt instantly getting dressed.

"Ready?" he asked.

Matt's face was a blank, scared mask. But Foggy didn't feel any softer.

"Alright, let's get going," and he yanked on his own boots and coat and hat,
wrapped a hand around Matt's wrist when he seemed to be ready to stay there
like a statue, and pulled them out of the apartment, feeling like a soup pot
boiling over, a grease fire erupting.

Fuck. He couldn't believe this.
--
Matt felt cold with humiliation as Foggy dragged him into the office after him.
His arm was a leash, his wrist limp, his fingers tingling.

It was almost a relief, to know that Foggy could get angry at him, could punish
him like a normal owner. But Matt didn't know how Foggy was going to punish
him, what the therapist would tell him to do.

Whatever it was, it would hurt, and Matt braced himself calmly, walked along so
Foggy didn't have to yank on him and hurt his wrist even more. It throbbed,
vaguely, and he kept his face obediently blank and flat as Foggy pulled him
into an unfamiliar office, past a male receptionist who was staring, Matt could
feel it with an internal flush of shame, and into an office with an unfamiliar
woman who smelled like myrrh and stood up, surprised, and said, "Well--Foggy,
hello, you're a bit early."

"Yeah. I need--fuck--let me close the door," and Matt's calculations of what
Foggy would do to him took a sharp downswing even as he breathed in relief that
whatever it was, it wouldn't be so public.

"Anyway--shit--I need help."

"With Matt?"

Matt made himself breathe quietly and unobtrusively, and remain standing, where
Foggy had put him. He hoped it would be over soon.

"With--can you--I don't even know where to start," Foggy said, his anger
ballooning, filling the room. Matt felt as if he was suffocating, he was so
afraid. He'd fucked up, he'd badly fucked up, and he wasn't even sure why Foggy
was so angry.

"You have to understand, it's not exactly my job," the woman--Miriam--said
gently.

"Please? I need--fuck--I need some help, I can't just--Matt hasn't eaten since
Christmas, and it's not because I didn't let him," Foggy said.

There was an awkward pause, and then Miriam said, calmly, "Well, let's start
with some explicit communication. Matt, explain what you were doing, and why.
Detail your thought process."

That was an order. Matt obeyed, and said quietly and submissively, "I was re-
establishing my self-discipline after I realized how much I had been slipping
and getting to be...disobedient and, I decided to not...eat until the new year,
so as to end this year on a high note."

Foggy's heartbeat was high and furious, stampeding. Matt resisted the urge to
cringe.

"Matt," Foggy said, and put his head in his hands.

"Well," Miriam said softly, "As commendable as a dedication to making sure
you're as good as you can be for your owner, don't you think it's a
little..egotistical to do such a thing without first checking?"

Matt blinked, and swallowed hard as Foggy suddenly snapped, "Fuck--no--don't do
that! Don't treat him like that, oh my god. Matt--the thing is--I don't want
you to fucking starve yourself! Especially not to make yourself--I dunno, more
servile and cringing or whatever! Do you think--I told you about the fucked-up
shit Rosalind did to me about food, what is wrong with you, do you think what
she did to me was okay?"

What? "What? No, Foggy, that's--those are completely different situations,"
Matt articulated as fast as he could, trying to salvage this. "I--you were a
child, you're a person, that's different--"

He stopped, Foggy's breathing hard and angry, like right before an owner hit
him, Matt braced himself--

And Foggy grabbed his hair, gave a strangled scream of frustration, and
shouted, "Matt, jesus christ, I don't--I fucking can't with this bullshit! Of
course you're a fucking person! Shit, how many times do I have to fucking tell
you that! What is so wrong with you that you can't even understand that! You
are exhausting to be around sometimes, you know that?"

And something inside of Matt's chest snapped, and the humiliating questions
curdled and writhed. Matt felt gutted, and exposed, and furious.

Something clawed at the inside of his skin, tearing it open, the devil free at
last, and Matt opened up his mouth and snarled back.

--

"I have done nothing but try to make you happy," Matt snarled, and Foggy
blinked and took a step back. "I have tried, and tried, and nothing I do is
good enough, nothing I try works! Nothing I do is good enough for you! You're
exhausted?

"I'm fucking tired every single minute from doing everything that I can, every
minute of every day, always trying to see what I'm doing and if it's working
and what you think and feel and you won't even tell me the fucking rules, you
don't even give me orders so I know how to make you happy, and you're
exhausted?

"I'm fucking exhausted! I'm not a person and it is exhausting to have to
pretend that I would ever want to be one for you! I am so--I try so, so hard,
and you don't understand how much I'm worth. If what you want is some stupid,
complacent, idiot little bargain-bin piece of trash, then you should just sell
me and get one of those instead!"

Foggy realized, belatedly, that his jaw was hanging open, because holy shit,
that was Matt, that was him saying what he really meant, that was his beautiful
honesty.

And there was Matt, turning white, clapping both hands over his mouth, eyes
wide.

"Wow," Foggy said, and felt himself smile a bit. "Wow--I just--Matt," he said,
and stepped forward.

Matt flinched, and shook, and Foggy hugged him tightly. "Matt," he said into
his shoulder. "I didn't realize you felt like that," he said, anger drained out
of him now that he was so jarred. "I had no idea. Shit. Matt, I didn't--I never
meant to make you feel like that," he said, and squeezed Matt gently.

Matt was shaking, and Foggy realized unpleasantly that he'd just been a dick to
him, yelling at him like that. Shit.

"Hey," he said, fishing for words. "Hey--thanks. Thanks for telling me that,
because now, I think--I think we can fix this, now. Let's figure something out.
Let's--wow," and Foggy realized that Matt probably wanted to slide down to his
knees, given the way they were trembling.

"Let's sit down," he encouraged gently, and stepped over to the couch and sat.
Matt instantly sank to his knees, face the scared statue mask, and Foggy made
sure to smile at him.

"Okay," Foggy said, and looked up to see Miriam watching them with a baffled
expression. "Let's--let's work something out right now. Let's find some common
ground."

--

Matt felt like he was hallucinating.

He didn't understand what was happening. He couldn't figure out why Foggy
hadn't yelled back, had stopped and hugged him, wasn't angry any more. His own
anger had dissipated the instant he'd realized, with a sinking dread, that he'd
just told his owner to sell him--and not just his owner, but the best of all
his owners, and yet. And yet.

He was still there. Foggy suddenly wasn't so angry anymore. He hadn't hit him
or yelled at him or even taken away any privileges.

A part of Matt was steadily more and more afraid the longer nothing happened,
feeling like a boulder was taking so long to come down and crush him that it
had to be all the bigger for it, but another part of him was--relieved?
Hopeful? Joyful?

He didn't understand. His mind felt like it was floating away, his body across
the room. Matt felt like he was curled into the corner of this therapist's
office, listening to the scene as if it were a movie, not experiencing it.

"Matt? Can you--please tell me," Foggy said gently, "I don't think I understand
what you meant when you said that it was for--self-discipline. I don't want you
to hurt yourself."

Matt reached for the words, feeling flattened, squeezed, dried-out. An orange
peel, discarded. "Six days isn't a very long time to be hungry, Foggy," he
tried to explain. "Not for a slave. It wouldn't have damaged your property in
the long run."

He heard Foggy suck in a sharp breath. "Matt--fuck--give me a minute."

Then, after an agonizing pause, Foggy said, slowly, "Matt, even if it won't
injure you in the long-term--when I say I don't want anyone to hurt you,
including you, I mean even something that isn't dangerous, but just that it
hurts. I'd be angry if you couldn't eat for even just one day, because that's
not right. Does that make sense?"

Matt forced himself to nod. It did, and he couldn't work out why he'd thought
that it would be fine in the first place. He felt dizzy, and every day he
hadn't eaten, the mental static had gotten louder and thicker, like wading
through sludge.

"Okay," Foggy said. "Shit. Um. Miriam--is there something I could--what would
you advise me to say, or, um, do--and not for--I mean, pretend Matt's just, I
dunno, my friend. What should I say?"

Matt heard her say, vaguely, as if underwater, "I've found that with patients
who are struggling to support loved ones, respecting autonomy is a necessary
but difficult step."

"Even with--shit like that? With literally starving yourself?" Foggy sounded so
distressed, and angry again. Matt hated himself.

"You can express your emotions without attempting to dictate another's
actions," Miriam said, her voice mild and neutral. "Though this might be a bit
more of a delicate balance in this situation."

"Yeah. Shit. Okay, Matt--let me put it like this, alright? I--hell. You're good
training for contract law, you know that? But let me say it like this. I don't
like that you hurt yourself. I really don't, it makes me really--angry at
everyone, and at you, but--and I mean this too--but it's your body, not mine,
so you--I guess that if you really want to hurt yourself, then I just have to
suck it up and deal."

Matt felt his mouth hang open, shocked. He didn't--he couldn't--Foggy's
completely insane system of morals extended that far?

"But please, please don't not eat. If you're sick, or really not hungry, or too
full, or--normal reasons, but please, please don't starve yourself, Matt,
jesus. I can't--I flipped my shit, and I'm gonna work on that, but--please eat.
Please don't starve yourself, I'm sorry, I don't want this to happen again."

He didn't understand. It felt like when he'd first started properly learning
languages other than English, and had to try to comprehend news broadcasts.
He'd catch maybe one word out of ten, and the rest that he scraped together
still didn't make sense.

Foggy really was ineffable. But he was being completely honest.

Matt felt his brain stretch out like saltwater taffy.

"And--okay, wow, you're really out of it now, aren't you?" Foggy said quietly.
"Really. Okay. Shit, I definitely should not have yelled at you. Fuck. Um.
Sorry, Miriam, I'll--I'll email you for when we can next meet, because I've got
to get Matt home, this is not safe."

She said something about how he was welcome to come back in with Matt anytime,
or she could recommend trainers or therapists suited for working with people
and their slaves, and Foggy went stiff with anger again.

And then they were standing up, and moving, and Matt was yet again being tugged
on a leash, except this time, it was with his arm tucked into Foggy's elbow,
guiding him like he did normally.

Nothing made sense. Matt felt as if the world lay in tatters, the familiar
structures burn down. He wanted to go back to the world that he understood, the
safety of knowing what he should do--

Except then Miriam's words echoed inside of him. It had been egotistical,
inadvertently, to presume that he could decide his own punishments and rewards.
It had been selfish, and stupid, and Bee's own exasperated words suddenly
sounded inside of his head.

Foggy was like an oasis in the desert. Matt realized, still floating apart from
his body, that he should just shut the fuck up and drink what sweet, clear
water there was, take what he was given like any good slave, before the sun
came and dried it to bone again.
--
Foggy kept his eyes on Matt as he got them both home. Matt was blank, and flat,
and looked completely out of it, brain out to space somewhere.

Shit.

He got them into the bedroom, and took off his hat, coat, gloves and boots.
Matt obediently took them off too, mechanically.

"Matt," he said gently. "I'm gonna--where's the most comfortable place for you
to be right now?"

Matt sank down to kneel on the floor.

Fuck.

Alright then. Foggy looked, and yep, Matt's kneeling pad was in the living
room, and he grabbed it and brought it over, and then sat down heavily on his
bed.

"Matt," he said. "Here. Here's your--this is for you," and Matt reached out and
took it, fingers shaking very faintly.

"Hey," Foggy said, and took a risk. He reached out and tugged on Matt's
shoulder, and Matt leaned backwards with his hand as he pulled Matt to rest his
head a little on Foggy's thigh.

Matt breathed in and out softly, face dead. It hurt to look at him like this.
Foggy stroked his hair, and Matt full-body shivered, and pitched himself
forward to bury his face into Foggy's legs.

"Hey, hey, shh, it's okay," Foggy said. "I'm not gonna hurt you, no
punishments, no sex, no selling, I promise. I promise. I'm sorry I yelled at
you, that was not--that was not the right way to respond to that situation, I'm
sorry, shh," he said, and Matt shivered a bit, and then pulled his face back to
say softly,

"I'm so sorry, Foggy, I never meant--I wasn't trying to make you angry, I
swear--"

"I know," Foggy said. That part he didn't doubt. "And hey, look--see, I got
pissed at you, and I yelled at you and that was not the thing I should have
done but I still didn't hit you, believe me now?"

A twitch of skepticism. Alright. Whatever, Rome wasn't built in a day, or a
semester. And Foggy knew he was in for the long haul anyway. He'd just have to
keep getting better.

"Hey," he said. "So now that you're back, and are you back?"

Matt nodded.

"Okay, good, then can you explain to me what you mean about self-discipline? I
definitely didn't get it."

Matt blinked, and explained quietly, "I know that you like it when I'm--soft.
And docile. And I'm sorry, I should be focusing on what you want--"

Foggy made a soft noise of encouragement.

"But--I thought--I can't afford to be like that all the time. I can't afford to
be so trusting, and, and broken. You say you want me to be safe and it's not
safe to get so soft and vulnerable," Matt said, a little anger creeping back
into his tone.

Foggy loved it when Matt lost his temper. It was beautiful, like watching a
wildfire.

He opened his mouth to explain that it really was safe to be like that around
him--

And stopped, and thought about the obedience tests, about the reflexive
submission that everyone expected out of Matt all the time, about the fact that
cops had the legal right to shoot any disobedient or even 'overly skittish'
slaves. He thought, and realized that even if it was safe with him, Matt wasn't
safe with other people.

Okay. Well. Shit. But he'd work with that.

"Maybe not all the time," Foggy said, coaxingly. "You're right, I can't make
promises on behalf of other people. But I can promise that I will always try to
make it so it's safe to relax here a bit, okay? And can you tell me what you
mean--why is it exhausting to be around me? What am I doing that's so tiring?"

Matt paused, and looked weary and agonized as he said, muffled into Foggy's
thigh, "I don't know what you want from me, I don't know how to make you happy,
and every time I try to understand it it makes less sense," his voice breaking
at the end.

Foggy put both hands on Matt's head, stroking his soft, silky hair.

"Matt," he said, and almost followed it up with I don't want anything from you,
but that wasn't true, and Matt could hear lies. "Matt--ok, let me tell you what
I want, then. I want you to eat, and you to make those ridiculously delicious
cupcakes, because holy shit, you are the best at making anything I've ever
known.

"I want you to make me soup when I'm sick, and let me make you soup when you're
sick. I want you to give me Anna's scarf back, she keeps asking about it, I
definitely need to return it. I want you to keep looking awesome, and trust me,
I know that's practically effortless, and--"

Matt looked so relieved, Foggy kept going.

"I want you to tell me if I'm doing something that scares you or upsets you or
pisses you off, okay, because I don't know what's inside your head, I don't
know what you're thinking or feeling, and that--that scares me, I'm worried all
the time I'm accidentally hurting you and you won't say anything, so I want you
to say something. I want you to tell me something, because that way I can stop
being a dick to you."

Foggy impulsively bent down and hugged Matt, sliding down on the floor to sit,
facing him. Then he kept going, he couldn't stop now, not when he'd gotten
momentum.

"I want you to keep being awesome, and when we get to mock trials for real I
want you to demolish some motherfuckers, okay, because when you lose your
temper--or even when you don't, you're still cool and collected--whenever you
verbally eviscerate some dumbass argument it's so great, it's amazing, I want
you to keep being better than me at academics, I want you to remind me to study
because holy shit, I don't study enough."

Now Matt was almost smiling shyly. Foggy took it as encouragement to keep
going.

"And I want you to do things that make you happy. I want you to keep going to
the gym and come back all sweaty and grinning because Matt, I love looking at
you, I want you to always keep being you, I want to open up the window for you
at all hours because you're doing your crazy ninja thing and leaping rooftops
in a single bound, and I want to debate Batman with you because your opinions
are great, I love that you disagree with me, it's fine to disagree with me all
the time."

He hugged Matt on impulse, and said into his shoulder, "I want you to keep
doing you--fucking kneeling pads and all. I want to come home and see you
smiling on your bed because it's raining, I want you to tease me and make fun
of what a dork I am sometimes, I want you to poke Bee in the ribs and talk to
them, I want to watch all the Alexander Farragut movies with you and all your
favorites too, I want you to pet Caligula because he bites people way less when
you're around, I want you to talk shit about Rosalind with me, you're hilarious
when you're insulting someone--"
And Foggy realized something with a flash of bright light behind his eyelids.
No wonder he'd lost his temper so much.

"And hooooly shit, oh hell, now I know why I got so mad, it was--oh, shit,
Matt--what you were saying, it reminded me of how Rosalind talked about me,
about--it sounded to me like you were saying there was something wrong with me,
not just because I really hate it when you're hurt. Wow. Shit. That's--I gotta
make a note to tell Miriam about that, that is--wow. I didn't realize I still
cared about what she thought. Fuck."

Matt's face had turned to determination, and he spoke up. "There's nothing
wrong with you," he said fiercely. "I would never say something like that.
There's nothing wrong with you. If she thinks there is, it's just another piece
of evidence that she's a terrible mother and doesn't know you at all."

Foggy gaped at him, and surged forward again to hug Matt, tears prickling at
his eyes. Of course, Anna had said that sometimes, and Dad sort-of too, but--
Anna wasn't his real mom and Dad had to say that, Dad was his dad--but now Matt
said it and that was what Matt's real opinions sounded like.

"Matt," he said, and choking back tears, went on, "I want--you're so strong,
and you're so--you're such a good person, you're so kind sometimes, and I want
you to keep doing that. You're so strong. I couldn't have lived through half
the shit you've lived through, and you're still--you're still so strong. I want
you to keep surviving, okay? I want you to keep surviving."

Matt nodded against him. "I promise, Foggy," he said softly. "I will. I
promise."

"Oh, god, Matt, and I don't--I don't mean fake it, okay? I don't mean fake
being happy, or, or, whatever it was that made you cry that one time. I mean--
I just want everything in the world to stop hurting you. I want everything to
be okay for you. And I want cuddle parties and movie nights occasionally, I'm
not gonna lie to you, you're a great hugger, you put koalas to shame--but only
if you want to. I don't--"

Foggy took a second, and thought about how to put it, and something Marci had
said once inspired him. "The cuddling equivalent of a pity fuck is so not my
idea of a good time. Okay? Only if you want to. Only if you like it."

Matt nodded against him.

"And I want you to protect yourself and, and, take care of yourself. And eat.
Let's eat right now, let's order some noodles or something, or, let's cook
something together, or you can cook and I can watch and you can tell me about
how the idiots on all those cooking shows do it wrong. I want you to eat, and,
and I want you to do things that make you happy. What do you want, Matt?"

Matt blinked. "I want to hurt Rosalind Sharpe for hurting you," he said,
quietly, a low little spark of hatred on his face. "I want to use her spine as
a toothpick as I scrape the remains of her so-called career off my teeth."

That was awful, and gory, and amazing. Foggy loved Matt so much.

"Do you want me to kiss you?"

Matt tilted his head, and very tentatively teased, "You're not gonna kiss me."

"I'm feeling something," Foggy said, and leaned forward--

And stopped. "Can I--no sex, ever, this is not a sex thing--can I kiss you on
the lips, Matt? Would you like it if I did? You can say no, all I'll do instead
is kiss you on the forehead or something, I promise."

Matt bit his beautiful red lip, and nodded. Okay then.

Foggy kissed Matt on the lips, and he relaxed into it, eyes closing.

"Good? You're still with me?"

Matt nodded. "Thank you, Foggy," he whispered, and reached for Foggy's hand,
kissing it so slowly, Foggy felt a shiver of desire run through him.

"I want to do all those things, too," Matt said. "I want you to own me forever.
For the rest of my life. I want to be the greatest lawyer in the world and work
with you for as long as you want me."

"Matt, you are like chocolate," Foggy said. "There is no such thing as too much
Matt. You are--I'm gonna want to work with you for the rest of my life.
Forever. I want to get old and wrinkly and ugly with you."

That veered dangerously close to romance, but all Matt did was laugh and say,
"You're never going to be ugly, Foggy. Even when you're old."

"And I want you to keep flattering me," Foggy said, teasing back.

Matt smiled and shook his head. "It's the truth," he said. "Rosalind--and
whoever else--is an idiot. You're--Foggy, you're adorable," and Foggy laughed
with him.

"Okay, let's go get some food. I can order if you're tired. What do you want?"

Matt paused. "Pizza, Foggy?" he asked, shoulders hunching, daringly.

Foggy wanted to kiss him again, and did, quick and chaste. "Yep. Pizza party up
in here, and we can watch more movies. And cuddle. That's what my family taught
me, you know, cuddles and food fix so many problems."

Matt grinned, and Foggy got up, stroked his hair once, and ordered them some
pizza.

As they ate, Matt eating slowly but surely, Foggy only touching his own ranch-
splattered pizza, their legs touched, and Matt commented on how this particular
case Farragut took seemed nearly impossible to work with, seeing as the client
was too traumatized to talk or even respond to most questions.

But as Foggy described her defiantly shaking her head at the prosecutor's
accusations, and using her talk-speech device to say no, to stand up for
herself with her new assistive-device voice even as she was visibly terrified,
Matt smiled warmly, and things felt like they would be alright again.

Foggy vowed to start reading the book about PTSD after New Year's Day.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also comes from the movie 'Gone Girl', misogynistic but
     entertaining trash as it is.
***** an insistent jackhammer of distress *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
     Strong trigger warning in this chapter for mentions of pedophilia,
     child abuse, and a kind of awful 'joking' threats parents do.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
It's New Year's Eve, and Bee is determined to go outside of the guest room.

They're standing in front of the door, shaking violently, trying to make
themselves open it. It's just not happening.

They reach out a hand and bodily flinch back from an imagined noise. Then they
step forward and put their hand on the latch, and it freezes. It won't turn.
They can't make themselves do it.

You're being ridiculous, they tell themselves. Absurd. It's just a door. Open
it.

But they can't.

They look at the rest of the room longingly. They want to go hide in the
closet, or under the bed, or under the covers. They want to go back to their
tablet and rewatch all of the ASL videos they've found. They want to escape.

But it's New Year's Eve, and there's going to be a party, and Candace Nelson
isn't going to be there, and Matt is, and they want to leave the room and go
and eat canapes and drink wine or do whatever it is free people do at parties.

(What they used to have to do at New Year's Eve parties doesn't bear thinking
about.)

And they can't make themselves open the door. It's too frightening, it's making
them tremble, and they know it's stupid, they've done so many more frightening
things, they used to have so much more grit—

But they can't fucking open the door. They turn and glance and see the bear,
and reach to grab it and tuck it in the crook of their elbow. It's stupid, and
childish, but the bear is soft and named Anthea and for some reason, it makes
them feel braver.

(A teddy bear was, the entire time they were at the center, the only thing they
wanted.

Ever since the first time the director had called them up to his office and
used their naked body to teach his son that that was what slaves were for—I'm
doing this to it so I don't have to do it to you—and they fixed their gaze on
the teddy bear, that was what they wanted.

And now they were free, and they had a teddy bear almost just like it, with
soft graham-cracker-colored fur and glass blue eyes and an ability to be hugged
tightly.)

And with Anthea in their arms, they calmly grasp the doorknob, twist, and step
out. They hope they look—well, not good, they don't want to ever be pretty, it
hasn't done even Matt any real good—but not like something to gawp at. They
have a long-sleeve shirt, washed hair, and a teddy bear, and their heart pounds
for a second, and they think to themselves, this is a bad idea—

And then they see Matt, looking calm and steady, and they can't help but walk
up and tap out on his arm, [Hi.]

[Hi.]

There's a long pause. And then they burst into laughter. [So, you know who else
is coming to this?]

[I haven't the faintest,] Matt says, and they bump into him as they meander
towards the kitchen. Food is a pretty safe thing to like, even though they
can't taste it and chewing is humiliatingly hard.

But being full is better than being hungry, and they're so beyond done with
being hungry. Being free means you don't have to go hungry, and they're free
and they're going to stay that way.

(The next asshole who puts a collar on them will wake up the next morning to a
dead slave. Fuck that shit.)

[Foggy said there would be more of the Nelsons, and some people from the
Kitchen as well,] Matt says, and they hand him a soda. They don't especially
like soda—fucking bubbles—but the high sugar content makes them less likely to
swoon.

[Which people?]

[I don't know,] Matt says, looking faintly annoyed by it.

There's a long pause as they both drink sodas. Matt wrinkles his nose but chugs
it anyway.

[Don't like the taste?]

[It's highly chemical,] he says, and then pinches his other wrist, hard. [But
it shouldn't be evident to anyone that I don't like it all the time.]

They roll their eyes. Foggy is madly in love with Matt, and as ridiculously
dangerous as that is, Matt really needs to just enjoy that more while it lasts.
[Foggy won't care if you like something one day and then hate it the next. You
should just take advantage of what you've got and stop acting like a snotty
brat.]

Matt rolls his eyes again. [Self-discipline doesn't come from letting yourself
do things just because you want to do them. I know you don't have much
experience with that—]

And they whack him with the bear in the face just for that, and he goes stiff
and then bursts into laughter, and then they both laugh. God. It's so strange,
having friends.

People start to filter in, and they hear Foggy and Miss Anna and Mr Edward talk
to people, and some of them make their way to the kitchen. A couple look at
them curiously, and more greet Matt, but before too long it's still mostly them
and Matt in the little nook and cranny in the kitchen. Matt's looking..not
good, so they poke and prod him into sitting under the kitchen table with them.

[It's odd,] he tells them. [I'm not used to...this kind of party.]

[You're used to the rich people parties?]

Matt nodded. [And either there's a set of protocols to follow, or else you just
sit behind a closed door,] he said, face wistful. [Things used to be simpler.]

That hurts their heart with how true it is. [Yeah,] they say back. [Things used
to be simpler. But I think this is still better.]

[For you,] Matt says, turning his head and looking resentful. [Do you know,
both times Foggy's punished me it's been inconsistent how? And he says all the
time he won't, but he has, and I wish he would just pick something and stick to
it.]

[Yeah,] they say, thinking about the twins. They never picked any one thing,
either. And then: [Wait, how'd he do it both times?]

[The first time, he let me do it—pushups until they really hurt,] Matt
explains. [And the second time, he yanked me to his therapist's appointment
with him and yelled at me a bit in front of her.]

Bee frowns and thinks it over. Matt's right, those two are completely
inconsistent. [I'll tell him to pick something and stick with it. What do you
hate the least?]

[Non-damaging slaps are okay,] Matt says. [Or sleeping on a floor. Or not
eating.]

They blink, and think about it. [Alright. I'll make him see sense.]

[Thank you,] Matt says, and leans into them.

They sit there in quiet silence for a bit longer, and then Foggy walks over.

–

“Uh,” Foggy says, as he sees Bee and Matt sitting under the kitchen table. “Are
you two okay?”

“Yes, Foggy,” Matt says. Bee's holding—is that a teddy bear?

He makes sure to not stare, and instead refocus.

“Well, uh, Aunt Jillian's here and is lecturing me about how awesome you are,
so you should probably come out and see her, or else she'll yell at me. Plus
it'll break Anna's heart if she thinks I made you hide under a table, so, uh,
let's go. Also, there's mini-quiches,” Foggy says, and Matt elegantly climbs
out.

Bee follows, dusting off their hands, and then peels away somewhere.
--
They sneak away, because as cute as Matt with a baby probably is, they don't
really want to be around one. The other day, they tried to watch a video of
baby sign to brush up just that little bit more, and the sight of the mother
kissing the baby on the forehead made them start sobbing, a horrible knife of
envy twisting in their chest, and when they got to the part with the baby
signing mama, they almost threw the tablet across the damn room.

That, and they don't think they can handle being around Miss Anna or Mr Edward,
not when they've been sequestering themselves in their house like a
particularly skinny Boo Radley. Instead, they find another corner to huddle
down in, and watch people.

Free people are weird. They all stand, and some of them laugh awkwardly at
things for no reason, and they talk about the most boring things. Half of them
are talking about politics, and half about the weather. Some are going on and
on about their window-painting business or burger-joint food trucks. One guy,
who's older than any slave they've ever seen, looks like he's half-asleep as a
middle-aged guy with an ugly beard excitedly shares his theory of economics.

It's all very, very weird, and nobody seems to notice them, sitting on the
floor with their knees defensively up, until a kid comes over.

“Hi!” the kid says. She looks—younger than when Bee lost their tongue. “I'm
Hennessey and I'm five and I like your bear he's really cute where did you get
him?”

Bee blinks, and and Hennessey—and who the fuck names a kid after liquor?—says,
“Oh, wait, sorry, are you deaf, like papa and daddy?” and she signs it as she
says it.

Bee stares at her. It's a very strange feeling—they haven't actually had a
conversation in ASL in years and years, the cunts never wanted to learn it or
even SEE, didn't care if they couldn't communicate with their professors or
talk to anyone, liked it better that way—and signs back, slowly, 'I'm Bee. I'm
not deaf. But I can't talk.'

'Oh, cool! I'm hearing and I can talk. Your bear's really cute and I like him
and where did you get him?'

'Her name is Anthea,' they sign slowly. It's like stretching out after being in
a cage for a long time. Difficult, but good. 'I got her from Build-A-Bear'.

'Oh. So you got to make your own bear?'

'Yes,' they sign. 'Do you like bears?'

'I love bears they're great but Papa didn't let me bring mine to the party
because he said someone would spill on it and then I'd be sad forever so Alfred
is staying at the hotel.'

'Hotel?'

'Me and Daddy and Papa live in Miami with Alfred and our fishes Nietzsche and
Kant,' Hennessey explains. 'So we're staying in a hotel so we can come to the
party because we were gonna come to the Christmas party but Daddy's deaf and
because he went deaf when he was forty-two nobody in the Nelsons signs and
Papa's always been Deaf and he can't hear even a little and he didn't want to
go to a Christmas party where he couldn't talk to anyone but Daddy wanted to
come to this one so I could connect with my family and they argued and I saw
it.'

Bee stares, fascinated. They don't exactly have a wide range of experiences,
but they've never seen anyone sign so breathlessly. And they've never seen
children so—so—

Carefree. Like they can say and do anything they want. Even the cunts were
cowered by their dad. Hennessey seems cheerful and unafraid of everything.

Bee searches for a different thing to talk about, but Hennessey jumps in before
they can think of anything. 'Why are you sitting on the floor and not talking
to anyone? Grownups don't do that.'

They feel near-humiliated, which is why they snap back, 'I used to be a slave.'

Hennessey blinks, and mouths oh, and then goes on relentlessly. 'Why? And why
does that mean you're sitting on the floor?'

That's—nobody has ever actually asked why. Bee thinks about how to explain it,
especially to a kid. They don't know how to handle kids, but they suppose they
can try.

'My mom sold me when I was three,' they sign, and put their hands down.
Suddenly it's so real now that they said it. Now that they told someone.

Henessey looks confused. 'Why? Were you really bad one time? One time I had a
really big bad day at the store and Papa told me that he'd take me down to the
slavers if I asked for one more goddamn toy Hennessey you brat and then Daddy
had a huge fight with him when he came back and told him it wasn't okay to say
that no matter how mad Papa was at me.'

Bee blinks and hugs Anthea. 'I don't remember. I don't remember her at all.'

And it's true. They don't know anything about Jocasta Ramirez. They don't
remember being sold, or even intake. They remember waking up on the little pads
in the floor in the K-class dorm, knowing that this was how a day went: the
wake-up siren, the kneeling role-call, the crawling and then walking to the
classrooms to all kneel and chant what you were told to chant before breakfast
of oatmeal and rubbery yellow eggs—

But they can't even remember how eggs tasted.

They shiver, and refocus. Hennessey looks upset. 'I'm sorry that you don't
remember your mommy,' she signs, the sorry over-emphasized. 'I don't have a
mommy because my mommy was a slave and so I got put up for adoption because
slaves can't be mommies or daddies because they're not qual-i-fied and Papa
looked at me and said this is the baby I want and Daddy said that too.'

Bee looks at her, this tiny little child who doesn't know anything about fear,
or pain, or intake, who's never had to kneel and sing the little ditties they
had the slaves sing all the time, what happens if you're bad enough? We all get
whipped and die.

They blink, and then sign, 'What do eggs taste like?'

Hennessey tilts their head, looking confused. 'Salty! Eggs are salty and if you
make them right they're all fluffy. Daddy makes them really good. Papa always
burns them but I eat them anyway.'

'You don't have to,' Bee cuts in before they realize they're doing it. 'Ever.
You're free, you don't ever have to eat burnt eggs.'

They're shaking, anger and jealousy and something like protectiveness twisting
inside of them. She's free, she's five and she's free, she should never, ever
be hurt.

'Why don't you find one of every type of cookie, and bring them here and tell
me how they taste,' Bee suggests before they give into the urge to grab
Hennessey and—and hide her away somewhere safe, far away from adults and free
people, who are all like the garden shears when they cut through their tongue,
each looming and terrifying.

–

Foggy guides Matt as best he can with a huge influx of people, some of whom are
small children running around like mad, excusing them and having to stop twice
to say hi to older relatives, and eventually gets Matt into the living room
where the mini-quiches and Aunt Jillian are sitting, bouncing Isayeah on her
lap.

Isayeah immediately squeals when she sees Matt, and his face breaks into a
beautiful smile.

“May I, Foggy? Miss Jillian?” he asks, and before Foggy can even say 'yes'
properly, Aunt Jillian says, with audible relief, “Oh, thank fuck, Matt's
here,” and shoves the baby at him.

Matt takes Foggy's cousin gently, holding her carefully and reverently, smiling
the entire time.

“He is great,” Aunt Jillian says, looking at him. “I wonder if maybe you could
loan him to me for babysitting sometimes? I'll pay for the cab fare.”

“Uh,” Foggy said, and saw Matt's hopeful face. “I'll—give me your email and we
can talk about it more later,” because that requires enough logistics that he
needs to think about it later and talk to Matt about it.

“Alright, I'll have Anna forward it to you,” Aunt Jillian says, and then turns
to her and shooes at Matt—actually shooes him away like he's a child or a dog,
what the fuck—saying idly, “Please, I love her but if I have to spend one more
minute with her I'll take her down to the slavery office,” and Matt's face goes
white as he gets out of there fast.

Foggy gapes at her because holy shit, what is wrong with his aunt, and then
shakes his head and goes after Matt, who's sitting on the staircase like he was
the first time Aunt Jillian foisted her baby off on him, holding and rocking
Isayeah, whispering to her in some other language.

“Hey? Matt?”

Matt tilts his head, still pale.

“I just—I know that's freaky as hell, but she meant that as a joke, you know
that, right? A really stupid joke and me or Anna or someone will probably tell
her not to tell it again, but she didn't—she wouldn't really do that. She's
not—no. She wouldn't really,” Foggy tries to reassure him.

Matt swallows. “Of course, Foggy,” he says quietly, and that's not his real
agreement voice, and Foggy feels an unpleasant prickle of frustration behind
his eyelids. God. This is so difficult sometimes.

“Nelson,” he hears behind him, and turns to see Brett Mahoney, looking like
Caligula after he hacks up a hairball. Foggy blinks.

“Mahoney,” he sneers just to see Brett twitch with irritation. Brett Mahoney is
his nemesis and the most fun person in probably the world to wind up, and it's
easy because his mother, for some weird reason, is unnaturally fond of Foggy.

Ever since he had to ask her for a band-aid because Candace tripped and got
hurt walking home with him, she always shows up to the New Year's parties,
bringing delicious pies and little trinkets and tchochtkeys and in return,
Foggy's given her a variety of things, from a CD of the best Christmas music to
a complete set of the best body lotions from Lush to coming over and doing her
dishes when she was bone-tired. Brett hates it.

He and Brett mutually despise each other. It's beautiful.

But now, he sees Matt's confused face and decides to maybe redirect the
conversation a bit. “So, your mom dragged you here again?”

“She press-ganged me,” Brett says irritably. “What did you give her this time?”

Foggy grins. “Cigars,” he says brightly, because just before the semester began
and it was her birthday, he'd sent her three cigars, the type she said she
loved.

Brett groans. “God, don't encourage her,” he says, rubbing his eyelids. “She
smokes more than enough without your bourgeoisie, ass-kissing nonsense.”

Foggy opens his mouth up to retort back, something about how just because he
can't buy his mom cigars because he's so straightlaced it's not even funny, and
then the door gets knocked on and opened and—

It's Rosalind, swaying, drunk, crying out, “Foggy!”
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from a quote by Patricia Weaver Francisco: "If
     the occurrence of rape were audible, its decibel level equal to its
     frequency, it would overpower our days and nights, interrupt our
     meals, our bedtime stories, howl behind our love-making, an insistent
     jackhammer of distress. We would demand an end to it. And if we
     failed to locate its source, we would condemn the whole structure. We
     would refuse to live under such conditions."
     The song Bee remembers singing is sung to the tune of this song from
     the dystopia movie Snowpiercer: https://www.youtube.com/
     watch?v=HciZ_7frXmQ
***** just put your sweet lips on my lips *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
And before Foggy can say anything at all, Matt's suddenly standing there,
Isayeah propped up on his nonexistent hip, looking calm and faintly annoyed.
"Ma'am, I believe you weren't invited, I'm so terribly sorry," he says, and
Rosalind sways again, blinking at him. She's completely sloshed the way Foggy
hasn't seen her in years, and he feels suddenly embarrassed for her.
"Where's Franklin?" she slurs out, swaying. Matt's looking in her general
direction with the most plain disgust Foggy's ever seen on his face. Usually he
reserves it for gross concoctions on cooking shows or truly disturbing things
found in restaurants in Kitchen Nightmares.
"There is no-one here by the name of Franklin, ma'am, you must be confused,"
Matt says smoothly, and closes the door in her face, only to have her yank it
back open.
"Don't you close the door on me!" she screeches. "I have a right to see my
son!"
And then Matt actually, honest-to-goodness rolls his eyes and says, almost
drawling, "Ma'am, I'm so terribly sorry, but you don't have a son. There exists
a person biologically related to you, but given that you appear to have a
dedication towards fulfilling none of your parental duties while attempting to
reap the rewards, you've been disqualified."
"What?" Rosalind asks, her brow furrowing up.
"You believe that you have a son because you believe that by wishing hard
enough, you can just make the child you'd rather have claw his way out of
Foggy's skin. Foggy, by the way, is the name of your child, and not Franklin, a
basic fact which I'm sure you'd know if you weren't a neglectful, spiteful,
emotionally abusive failure of a mother and a human being.
"Now I'm afraid, ma'am, that if you attempt to enter this house I'll be forced
to stop you and call the police, and I'm sure you understand that as a lawyer
it would not reflect well on you to spend New Year's Eve in a drunk tank, even
if charges were not filed, and given that you're a defense attorney and
therefore the NYPD probably despises you, I'm sure that they would be.
Goodnight and have a happy New Year," Matt finishes, and shuts the door in her
face again.
Then Rosalind yanks it open, face like thunder. "You can't talk to me like
that," she snarls, looking more sober. "You're a fucking slave. You shouldn't
even be standing up. You should be naked and gagged and whipped for mouthing
off to me like that."
"Ma'am, I'm terribly sorry, it is up to my owner to decide appropriate
behaviors, protocols, and punishments," Matt says coolly. "And you are not my
owner."
She sneers at him. "You were supposed to straighten him out," she says
viciously. "Supposed to make sure he'll make something great, pull himself out
of this pile of shit people call the Kitchen. You're his fucking safety net, so
that when Franklin grows up he's not completely flat-footed by all the coddling
bullshit they've fucking fed him. Treated my son like a goddamn mushroom, kept
in the dark and fed on bullshit," and she sounds sad and angry all at once.
Malcontent.
"Duly noted, ma'am, but I cannot allow you in," Matt says. Isayeah starts
making little unhappy-baby noises at the cold air, and Matt reaches to close
the door, but Rosalind shouts instead.
"I'll put in a fucking complaint to the bureau about your goddamn obedience
issues!" she yells.
"You are certainly welcome to do as you please, ma'am, but I am not permitted
to allow you in," Matt says, looking almost bored by the threat.
Rosalind's face twists, but she turns and storms off. Matt closes the door
firmly, and gently soothes Isayeah, shushing her and cradling her face to his
shirt.
"Shh, shh," he says to her, voice soft as a blanket. "It's quite alright, she's
well and gone. By the time they threaten to call a bureaucracy on you, they've
run out of useful immediate ideas. And she's more than drunk enough to not even
remember it in the morning. Her BAC was .172."
"You can smell BAC?" Foggy asks, grinning.
"At this range, yes, Foggy," Matt says, and rocks her as she starts to calm
down.
"Dude, you--Matt--" Foggy says, and steps forward, and the only thing he can
think to do is kiss Matt, cup his face and kiss him, careful to stay chaste but
happy, and then he hugs as best he can.
"Careful, she's delicate," Matt says, and Foggy blinks and smiles wider as he
moves away. Isayeah makes a happy cooing noise, and Matt bounces her, changing
grip again.
"Let's get you some quiches, and champagne," Foggy says happily, and leads him
over, ignoring Brett's strange expression, half-envious and mostly fascinated.
--
Bee finds Matt in an armchair holding a baby on his lap with Caligula sitting
on his head, purring like an evil dictator, carefully eating bites of what look
to them like some weird yellow pie and sipping at a cup of water.
They glance about, and Foggy's slurping down wine nearby, animatedly talking to
some cousin or uncle or somebody about law school, gesticulating and talking
about criminal law and defending the innocent and 'FUCKING the man'. They have
no idea what he means, so they pull a chair over and sit with Matt.
The baby keeps cooing and babbling, making spit-bubbles. Matt looks serene.
"Caligula wanted to sit in my lap too, but Isayeah is rather too young to
understand not to pull on cats' fur, and so he escaped to there," Matt says,
and Bee grins at the adorable ridiculousness of the picture.
[I met a kid named Hennessey. We're playing hide and go seek.]
Matt blinks. "Why are you hiding here, then?"
[To teach them that some of the best hiding places are in plain sight,] they
smugly inform him, and twist to look at Foggy. [When I tell him how to punish
you--you're sure you like being slapped?]
Matt shrugs. "If it doesn't do any physical damage, it's better than a long,
drawn-out affair. And it's easy to make it hurt with only one or a few hits,
and then it's over with. I'd rather at least know than constantly feel as if I
might do something wrong and get whipped without at least having time to brace
myself."
That makes sense. They nod, and watch Matt go back to playing with the baby,
tickling her and rocking her and bouncing her with his legs, reaching up every
few minutes to pet Caligula. He talks to her in French and tells her a fairy
tale in German about a really weird-ass prince who wants to fuck a tree, and
then Hennessey comes barreling over and crashes into them.
'FOUND YOU FOUND YOU FOUND YOU', she signs, whole body vibrating, bouncing up
and down in her jeans with flowers on the knees and striped shirt. 'I FOUND YOU
I WIN!'
'You win,' they agree, and offer her a cookie. She eats it, and then looks
between Bee and Matt.
'Who's that?' she signs.
'He's Matt,' Bee signs back, and taps on Matt's leg, [The kid is asking about
you.]
"Pleasure to meet you, Miss Henessey, I'm Matt," he says, all charm and
submissiveness. She giggles.
"Hi I'm Hennessey," she says, and signs it too. "Are you a slave like Bee used
to be?"
He nods. "I am," he says, and sounds genuinely at peace with it. Poor bastard.
She blinks. "Well, Matt's not as cool a name as Bee is. Bee is the coolest name
because it's like bees and bees are cool because they're important to the en-
vir-on-ment," Hennessey says, sticking her chin up. "But you're okay I guess.
Why are you a slave?"
Bee tilts their head and looks at Matt, who looks like he just swallowed a
lemon, and he has to answer unless--
They wave their hands in front of Hennessey, and quickly interrupt. 'Want to
play hide-and-seek more? Go hide and I'll find you.'
'Cool! You're awesome!' Hennessey signs back and races off. Bee breathes in and
out.
[She's going to hide. I'll go after her in a minute.]
"Thank you dearly," Matt murmurs, and Isayeah shrieks. "Yes," he tells her.
"That was a close call."
Bee stands up, and before they go to find Hennessey, they make sure to tell
Matt, [You might have to tell Foggy that stuff about punishment too. Free
people are really obtuse on the whole topic, he might not believe it coming
from me,] and then they tuck Anthea back into their arms and go to methodically
search places.
 
--
 
Foggy gets drunker and drunker as the night goes on, as it nears midnight, and
Matt keeps one ear on his owner as he enjoys his little bit of peace. Isayeah
is so blissful to be around; to be allowed to hold her, touch her, talk to her,
play with her hair and make her giggle is such a wonderful privilege. Matt
hopes that Foggy will let him babysit her on occasion.
He hopes that Foggy was right, earlier, and it was just some cruel joke. Foggy
certainly believes it was, but Matt's known free people, and one moment it's a
joke and the next reality.
He banishes the thought, and savors the moment. Caligula is almost too warm on
his head, loud and purring and content, regal even in his ridiculousness, and
Isayeah is a happy, healthy, clean infant that mostly just seems to want
focused social attention. Matt speaks to her in every language he knows,
dredging up Farsi and Arabic and Spanish, telling her idle things. How to bake
a cheesecake. How to fold linen pants. How to pack a suitcase, or speak to a
store assistant.
It's all very nice, and the mini-quiches are good for microwaved-from-frozen
morsels, and Matt's not terribly afraid. He hopes Foggy will listen to Bee and
pick a punishment and stick with it. That, coupled with his recent flood of
orders and expectations and wants, will make it so much easier for Matt to be
happy like Foggy wants him to be.
Matt smiles, and enjoys the party as best he can. It's very different than the
parties he was trained on, re-introduced to society through. There's no
following your owner and kneeling wherever they stopped, or standing if you
were there in their stead. There's no Vivaldi playing in the background, or
fancy kneeling cushions for when the courses were served, or leashed-slaves-
only rules, and the alcohol is being served in a mishmash of mugs, dixie cups,
glasses, and plastic cups.
But Matt got to insult someone, which is like some of the parties he's more
used to. Back then, it had always been some uppity house-slave that tried to
'accidentally' spill something on one of the more valuable slaves or owners, or
some political or social rival of his owner, or even some freed servant that of
course despised Matt for being a slave.
(Sorry, slut, looks like you've got be leashed.
I'm so terribly sorry, but I have to ask, where's yours?
Matt could smell, almost, the burning hatred from that gaze.)
And this time it was Rosalind Sharpe, who Matt would have almost preferred to
be allowed to call the police on. He wants to rend her bloody, gnash his teeth
on her throat, except he was holding a baby and he's not there to make trouble
or inconvenience his owner.
So it's almost midnight, five minutes away, when Foggy comes back over, looks
at Matt, and bursts into hiccupy slizzered giggles.
"Matt," he says, and giggles more. "Matt, you're--oh god. That's the cutest
thing I've ever seen. I'm taking a picture," and Foggy snaps a picture, and
Matt obediently smiles for it.
"Oh god. That's--Matty, c'mere," and Matt shoves the familiar little spurt of
anger at the nickname down and stands up as best as he can, Caligula moving to
drape on Matt like a scarf.
"Come on, you've gotta--hear the fireworks, I'll describe 'em," Foggy says, and
Matt follows him to a very loud room with a lot of very drunk free people, and
curls to cradle Isayeah up against his chest.
Thankfully, she starts to cry, and that gives Matt the ability to swallow and
ask Foggy, "She--it's the noise--can I take her somewhere quieter?"
"What? Yeah. Oh--oh shit, sorry, you probably wouldn't like how fireworks are
anyway. Shit. I'm drunk, Matt," Foggy complains, and leans into him.
Matt smiles. "I know, Foggy," he says, and he finds a quiet little spot, away
from everyone, to sit down again in, and Caligula perches once more on his head
like a crown.
Like Salome's crown of hair, Matt thinks suddenly. He remembers without meaning
to--
("This hairstyle is called a crown," Summer explains as she winds what Matt
knows is a braid around. "It's very complex. Put in extra jewels, combs, a
couple of ribbons, even, or flowers, and it lives up to its name. It's what
Salome wore, back when she danced her dance. It's what Persephone wore after
she gave in.")
And Matt thinks at the memory, frowning. Foggy is not Hades by any means, not
dark nor smelling of leather. Foggy would never yank him from his mother.
Except--except--not letting him talk to Summer again--
But that's ridiculous, he's a slave not a person, people have mothers, slaves
have trainers, and yet--
Matt bites his lip. He knows that Foggy derives inexplicable joy from spoiling
Matt, that's entirely clear. But--
Oh.
Foggy wants not just a doll to spoil and cuddle and enjoy the fruits of its
labor, he wants--
He wants Matt to be a doll because of the intimacy. The feeling of pure,
absolute power and safety, the knowing that Matt will not leave him, not betray
him, not hurt him. Matt won't turn on him. Matt will always defend him.
It warms Matt's heart, and he smiles, and as the countdown in the rooms with
televisions does down to ONE, he grins and Foggy, tasting of low-quality wine,
kisses him hard.
Matt relaxes into it, kissing back like a slave, and vows to give Foggy what he
really wants: Matt, happy, flourishing, strong. No more of this pathetic
cowering and constant flailing around. No more of wildly misinterpreting him.
No more of letting his old owner's class prejudices leak into his thoughts. No
more being too timid to tease him, when that was what Foggy wanted.
And then Foggy turns from the kiss when Caligula hisses, and Foggy laughs.
"Everyone's gonna leave or pass out soon," he says. "Aunt Jillian says she's
gonna go home now, she said she was gonna go home, so we gotta--I'll let you
babysit if you wanna," he slurs as they get up and meander back to her. "But
she's gotta pay you. You d'serve compensation for labor."
"Of course, Foggy," Matt laughs at the joke.
He reluctantly hands Isayeah back, but Miss Jillian is sober, and says, "You're
a fuckin' lifesaver, kid," and kisses his forehead.
Caligula then climbs up from the floor into his arms instead, and Foggy
stumbles them upstairs and into his bed, curling up into Matt.
"'m so glad I got you, Matt," Foggy says into his neck. "Never wanna sell you.
But next year will be better. More listening. More learning. Gonna be a team,
Matt."
"Yes, Foggy," Matt says, and Caligula makes a spot on top of Matt's feet.
"We'll be a team."
Foggy sighs. "Wish I could go back in time and unfuck you," he says sadly.
"Never wanted to hurt you. Never. Not ever. Matt?" he asks suddenly.
"Yes, Foggy?"
"If I ever try to fuck you, just hit me or something, okay? I promise I won't
be mad."
What on earth? But Matt makes a soft agreeing noise, and Foggy calms for a
while. But then, just as he falls asleep, he mumbles, "You still smell so
good."
Matt closes his eyes, and vows to investigate more if he's supposed to want
sex, and if so, how to evoke such a thing without the suppressed nausea and
terror, and he falls asleep as well.
He dreams of pomegranates.
--
It's late, when Hennessey has to leave, but before she does, Bee makes sure to
give her a little piece of information that they have known for most of their
life, but this little child doesn't possess.
'Don't trust adults,' Bee signs carefully. 'Not me, not your parents, not
anyone. Don't trust adults. If they have any power over you then you can't
trust them. Not ever.'
Hennessey looks confused, but hugs Bee goodbye, and leaves with her fathers,
both of whom look a tiny bit harried but take a cab alongside a whole bunch of
people.
Bee goes back to their guestroom, and finds that it's been duct-taped shut.
They stand there for a second, frowning heavily, and then Anna Nelson says over
their shoulder, "It's to stop the drunk ones from opening it. I've found that
the more intoxicated someone is, the more difficult peeling duct-tape off a
surface becomes."
Bee whirls around, and rips off the tape, and starts retreating as fast as they
can.
"Edward's brother Thomas has found an apartment two buildings over from Matt
and Foggy's place," she says, looking tired. "Or you could apply to live in
student housing. We can talk more about it in the morning."
Bee nods, and shakes, and closes the door, and then hides under the covers with
Anthea.
But they sleep pretty well once they calm down, and when they do, it's about
children that are carefree and silly, not even knowing how to hide or to be
afraid of people yet.
They dream and see fireworks.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from Hozier's song 'Like Real People Do'.
***** against that power tyrants and dictators cannot stand *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
     Trigger warning for mass/public suicide.
See the end of the chapter for more notes

Foggy wakes up with a horrifying hangover, an empty bed, and the vague
sensation that he's forgetting something.

He groans and yanks a pillow over his face, and then stops, because he smells
bacon, and it's enticing enough that he gets up and fumbles his way downstairs,
blinking and wincing at the light. Everything is loud.

He gets downstairs to see the guests that stayed over--ten of them--all sitting
up on couches and armchairs, or standing up, or at the tables. Everyone is
eating: bacon, pancakes, eggs, toast. One of Foggy's younger cousins grins and
waves and says, "Good morning! Your Matt is awesome!"

"Huh?" Foggy asks, stupefied by how much his head hurts.

"Your Matt--your slave--he's making everyone eggs and bacon and toast and
really good pancakes! And there's orange juice."

"Coffee?"

"There's coffee, too, Foggy," Matt says softly from the kitchen, and Foggy
turns to go stumble into it.

In it, Matt is juggling five different pots and pans on a four-burner stove.
There's two pots full of hot coffee, and a glass pitcher of orange juice, as
well as two cartons.

"The coffee on the left is half-caffeinated, and the right one is fully
caffeinated," Matt explains, using tongs to pick up a fully cooked piece of
bacon off the pan and onto a paper towel on a plate. There's sausages sizzling
in a different pan, and he turns them over as he explains further, "And there's
orange juice--full pulp, no pulp, and freshly squeezed. The syrups are, I
believe, on the table somewhere."

Foggy looks at him, and at the pans. One has pancakes, which Matt flips over as
they start to bubble, and one has scrambled eggs. The other has a single fried
egg, sunny-side up.

"Blurghl," Foggy says inarticulately, and then, "Shit. Matt. How much did I
drink last night?"

"A lot, Foggy," Matt says, a faint glitter in his eyes. "I believe half one of
the champagne bottles."

"Oh god," Foggy mutters, and finds his way to the kitchen table. "No wonder my
head hurts. Did I kiss you last night?" he blurts out, frowning.

"Yes, Foggy," Matt says.

"And you weren't--it was good?"

"A little winey," Matt teases, and Foggy grins at him. "But very good, Foggy,
thank you," and turns and bends to give a quick peck to Foggy's hand.

Foggy relaxes. So kissing is okay. Still no sex, he reminds himself. None
whatsoever.

Matt gives him a plate with a fried egg, just like Foggy likes it, and
pancakes, sausages, and bacon with maple syrup. He hands Foggy coffee and
orange juice, and Foggy impulsively catches his hand and kisses his wrist,
because goddamn, Matt is a gift.

Matt's whole body shivers with pleasure, mouth visibly opening with it, and he
murmurs softly, "Thank you, Foggy," and kisses his hand.

There's the sound of a cough, and Foggy turns to see Bee standing in the
kitchen, holding the same teddy bear. They say through their tablet, "Foggy. I
will email you. Later."

"Okay," Foggy says, and then Matt puts forth a bottle of advil, and he says,
"Oh, fuck, thank you," and takes six. Matt smiles at him and goes back to the
rest of the food.

Bee stares at him, their eyes dark and watchful, and then they sigh and retreat
again after grabbing a cup of coffee laden with cream and sugar.

"Why do they take it like that?" Foggy mutters. "They can't taste it."

"It's a good vehicle for adding in extra calories," Matt says, pouring in the
last of the pancake batter. Foggy glances and sees a mountain of dirty dishes
in the sink, and his headache starts to subside after he gulps down the orange
juice and eats more of the bacon.

It's crispy, salty, delicious. His egg is perfect, the yolk runny, and it
tastes like it's been cooked in the bacon fat. God. Matt is absolutely perfect.

"You are perfect and I adore you," Foggy informs him as he tastes the coffee.

Matt smiles warmly. "I always aim for perfection," he says. "You deserve only
the best," and he stiffens a little at that but Foggy laughs and shakes his
head.

"Nah, that's you," he says affectionately. "Anyway, once you're done, we should
totally go home before Dad tries to weasel out of doing dishes and make you do
them, or something. Go home and celebrate."

"We do have more of those movies to watch," Matt says thoughtfully, and
finishes the last of what looks like a second carton of scrambled eggs. He puts
them on a plate along with the last of the sausages and the bacon.

Foggy finishes eating, and yawns, stretching. "Ugh," he says. "Let's--I'll get
my stuff, and then we can go," and he cricks his back. "Before Candy gets home
and goes all sad-eyed and shit."

Matt nods, and goes to start gathering their things. Foggy finds his bag from
where he'd dumped it in his room, goes back downstairs, and gets waylaid by an
aunt.

"Your Matt is just wonderful," she says warmly. "So great to have him here, and
to see you too. I hope you both have a wonderful new year. You feed that boy,
understand?" she says, and hugs Foggy.

"I will, and thank you," Foggy says. "Matt is great."

She beams, and Anna tells him she'll forward Aunt Jillian's email address to
him so he can work something out with her, and he and Matt get a cab.

Halfway home--the cab taking a weird route--the cabbie says, "Wait--shouldn't
you, I dunno, be kneeling?" to Matt as his scarf slips, and Foggy's happiness
snaps.

"Oh, fuck off, we'll walk or take the subway," he snaps, and opens the door. He
and Matt get out, and he pays the taxi driver because he's not an asshole, and
then Foggy looks around and realizes they're in Times Square.

"Huh," he says, blinking, Matt taking his arm. "There's--what's over there?"

It's a line of slaves, standing, ominously silent.

There's a crowd gathering to stare, and Foggy has the sudden feeling that maybe
he and Matt should run, that something big is about to happen, but he doesn't
go.

Instead, he stares at the weird sight, and then the slave in the middle--a guy,
dark hair, looks maybe Cambodian if Foggy was about to guess ethnicity--clears
his throat and says, loudly, "This is a public protest!"

The other slaves shout, "Live free or die!"

The guy says, "This is a protest against our living conditions, which are
unreasonable. This is a protest against our enslavement, which is immoral. This
is a protest against our classification by the United States Government, which
is unlivable. This is a protest against our dehumanization, which is
unbearable!"

The other slaves shout in unison, "Live free or die!"

Foggy stares, awestruck. The slaves are young and old, male and female,
ambiguously gendered. Some are wearing next to nothing, even in this cold,
others uniforms. One of them is weeping even as he stands strong, an old man.
One of them looks like Candace, if she had had her hair dyed purple and shaved
on one side of her head.

"This is a protest against the society which has systematically abused us," the
slave in the middle says, voice quiet, but it's so hushed in Times Square that
everyone hears him. Everyone is frozen.

"Live free or die!"

"This is a protest against our living conditions," the slave says. He looks
defiant. "We can no longer bear sitting on our knees, crawling for scraps,
being starved, beaten and raped! Our collars are too heavy a burden to bear. We
refuse!"

"LIVE FREE OR DIE! LIVE FREE OR DIE! LIVE FREE OR DIE!"

Foggy would back away, but he's frozen. Next to him, Matt is completely stiff
as well, eyes wide.

"Today, on this first day of the year 2015, we say no more. No more!"

"LIVE FREE OR DIE!"

"This is the declaration of war against a world that has treated us in immoral,
inhuman ways. This year will be the year of us standing up! This year will be
the year of us dying with dignity that we are not afforded in life!"

"It is better to die on your feet than to live on your knees!" the other slaves
shout. Standing strong, holding hands.

"This year, we declare war. No more slavery!"

"NO MORE SLAVERY!"

"And in one year's time, we will all either be free or dead," the slave
declares. "But for us here today, there is no hope. We have no escape. There is
nowhere to go, but we refuse to live one more year in this misery. LIVE FREE OR
DIE!"

And as the other slaves chant with him, harmonizing like a choir, "LIVE FREE OR
DIE!", they all draw something out of their clothes--

It's a knife--

And they all reach up and, in unison, say together, more openly crying now,
"Live free or die," and they all slit their throats as one.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from a quote in Babylon 5, the TV show.
     Specifically, this quote by the character G'Kar: "No dictator, no
     invader can hold an imprisoned population by force of arms forever.
     There is no greater power in the universe than the need for freedom.
     Against that power tyrants and dictators cannot stand. The Centauri
     learned that lesson once. We will teach it to them again. Though it
     take a thousand years, we will be free."
***** I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide, welling and swelling I bear in the
tide *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt stood frozen for a split second at the sea of iron-scented salty wetness,
the stink of fresh corpses, the pounding heartbeats of the crowd like a
thousand war-drums, the audible terror in the hush, before turning and pulling
Foggy away.

"Foggy," he said quietly, "Foggy, we have to go. We have to go home."

Foggy seemed speechless, so Matt decided this qualified as an emergency and
yanked his scarf up more to cover his collar, took a deep breath, and then took
some initiative and turned to lead them over to cabs, knocking on them one by
one until he found an available cab.

"Shit, kid--"

"Do you want to be here when the cops show up?" Matt snapped, putting what
authority he didn't possess into his voice. The cabbie swallowed.

"Fuck no. Let's get out of here."

"Foggy, we have to get in," Matt murmured, and directed him inside. Foggy
seemed in emotional, though thankfully not physical, shock. He gave the taxi
driver the address, and held Foggy's hand, squeezing tight.

"Your friend seems pretty shaken," the cabbie says. "But you're not."

Matt swallowed. He wouldn't be alright later. But--"This isn't the first time
I've been around a dying slave," he said, and kept his tone calm. He had to get
Foggy and him safely home, and get Foggy to feeling okay, and then maybe later
he could curl up under his blanket and hide from this crazy, awful world.

God. What had they been thinking? What had driven any slave to agree to this?
Who had led them all? Who was the Pied Piper?

Matt shoved those questions away and listened to the cabbie navigate the
emptying streets, all the while checking over and over again on Foggy, who
seems just--stunned. Completely stunned.

Matt gritted his teeth, remembering Rosalind's words. Kept in the dark and fed
bullshit. Well, she wasn't entirely wrong.

They got home, and Matt took a chance and nudged Foggy in the ribs. "Sorry," he
whispered into Foggy's ear, "But we need to pay the cabbie and go inside,
Foggy, now. Foggy, I need you," and Foggy seemed to come out of his daze at
that.

"Shit," he said, and fished around in his wallet, fumbling for a few minutes.
"Shit--here--thanks--"

"My fuckin' pleasure," the cabbie muttered, and Matt steered Foggy and him away
and up into their building, Foggy's apartment, and sat him down at the kitchen
table.

"Matt--what're you--"

"Medicinal tea, Foggy," Matt explained. "And soup. I know you're not exactly
sick, but this broth will help with emotional shock, I know it," and he moves
as fast as he possibly can, pushing his adrenaline into it.

"Shit," Foggy muttered, shaking his head. "God. Some of--the people in the
front got splattered," he said. "Fucking--so much blood, Matt, so much blood--"

Matt paused. He'd smelled it, the blood, the death. The corpses. How could they
do that? Matt couldn't understand it. He couldn't bear to think about it.

Not when he'd been there as Charlotte had been beaten to death. Not when the
overseer had come to apologize to him for having to witness it, skin still
stinking of hemoglobin. Not when there was a basement in Winter's house where
he'd taken slaves he bought--rapists and poachers and child molesters--and
wrapped Matt's hand around so many knives and Summer stood, coolly evaluating,
and made Matt slash their throats over and over until he got it right.

Matt focused. Broth. Tea. He made two mugs of each, fast as he could, and
brought them into the bedroom. The bedroom was much, much safer. Foggy followed
him there, pulled off his coat, changed into sweatpants and a soft shirt in the
bathroom, and Matt made sure to take off his coat and shoes and change himself
as well before fetching his weighted electric blanket. He could follow cues.

He stood, unsure, at the foot of his owner's bed until Foggy said, "Fuck--if
you want to--c'mere," and then Matt plugged it in, laid down so that his head
was on Foggy's thigh, and draped the blanket over himself.

He focused on soothing Foggy, on gently rubbing Foggy's leg, murmuring that it
was alright, it was okay, they were safe here now, the danger was passed, it
would be okay, and Foggy drank the tea and slowly seemed to calm down.

Matt fought not to tremble, and he succeeded, mostly, until Foggy hastily got
up to get his laptop and turned on CNN, and then suddenly Matt's hearing failed
him and he could hear every news broadcast in the building, in the whole
street, Fox News and CNN and all, and it was so loud--

"It's absolutely a failure of the federal government to pass proper oversight,"
Bill O'Reilly was saying, "We need to be caging them every night, or chaining
them, we need to be regulating these animals, ensuring that they can't go out
and do things like this--"

"Already the Republicans are using this to flip-flop on the issue of government
oversight, when it's their fault in the first place that slavery is such a
private institution, they were the ones pushing for it relentlessly in the 80s,
what's changed? Oh, just that their master plans backfired!" Another pundit was
shouting, a woman--

And another woman, Megyn Kelly, "It's just unacceptable that something like
this can happen in any city, any country, completely unacceptable, it goes
against everything we want in this country, we need to be questioning Obama, he
has to answer for this--"

Wolf Blitzer joined in, too, "There's reports coming in of similar protests in
Washington DC, Los Angeles, Portland, Toronto, Montreal, Mexico City, Paris,
Berlin, London, and dozens of other cities around the globe, all of whom are
reporting a complete massacre--"

"I'm getting reports that a YouTube account containing professional footage of
all the massacres has been found already, with captions, transcripts, and a
promise of more violence to come--" and that was from the BBC, and then they
all got louder and louder, coalescing, and Matt curled up, hands to his ears,
shaking--

--

Foggy turned off the news--it was useless, there was nothing conclusive yet
anyway--and turned to Matt.

"Matt," he said gently. "Matt, what's wrong?"

"Loud," Matt whispered. "Loud--everything's so loud--I can't--I can hear every
news broadcast in the street and they're all screaming--"

Foggy looked at him, and googled 'sudden sensitivity to noise'.

He looked at it, and one of the first results was the Mayo clinic's page for
migraine symptoms, and then Foggy abruptly remembered from that horrible
doctor's visit that Matt could get migraines, and that he'd gotten a
prescription filled for just in case of that.

He got up, and flinched as Matt whimpered at the crinkles and sounds as Foggy
searched for the bottle. He eventually found it, read the directions--give one
every two hours with water as needed--and took one out. "Sorry, sorry," Foggy
whispered. "Sorry. Matt, here," and he put one in one of Matt's hands, prying
them off his ears, and the water bottle in the other.

"Matt, take that," he whispered as Matt seemed unsure, but then Matt uncurled
and swallowed the pill and the water.

"Good," he whispered, hating himself, but Matt then went a tiny bit less tense.
Good. "Matt, I'm gonna go be in the living room, okay, so it's quiet. I think
you have a migraine. I'll be back later when you're better."

Matt nodded. "Foggy, you don't have to go," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"Matt--Matt, it's okay," he whispered back, and gently kissed Matt's forehead.

Then he forced himself to leave the sanctuary, grab his laptop and a blanket,
and go out to the living room to monitor for actual news, his gut churning.

God. What the hell had just happened? What was going to happen next?

(Would Matt be free by this time next year?)
--
 
 
 
Matt woke up, groggy and disoriented, and tried to figure out why he was where
he was.
He was in Foggy's, but under the electric heavy blanket Foggy had given him,
and his head felt strange, tender and sore and bruised from the inside out--
Oh, hell. He'd had a migraine, hadn't he? And the sleepiness meant that Foggy
had given him the medication that was noted in his file as being effective.
But--Matt hadn't had a migraine in years, and he couldn't remember drinking red
wine, what--
Oh. It must have been the days of not eating, followed by last night, and then
today's massacre.
Matt flinched into the bed, curling tighter. The massacre was what the news had
been calling it before the pill had kicked in and Matt had fallen asleep, and
it was the right word for it. All that blood, drenching the streets, scabbing
over. God.
What was wrong with them? Was it contagious?
Matt couldn't understand it. He refused to understand it. He didn't want to
have a drop of sympathy for those-- those-- he didn't even have a sufficient
word for them. For slaves gone that wrong.
Matt got up, and felt hideously guilty for losing himself like that instead of
comforting Foggy properly, and slowly stumbled his way to the living room,
where he could hear Foggy's thumping heartbeat.
"Matt?"
Matt collapsed onto his knees in front of him, and billowed his head on Foggy's
thigh. He couldn't stand to sit on the couch, not now, not with his stomach
twisting, his guts writhing. Not with the remembered smell of too-much blood in
his nose.
"Hey, Matt, feel better?" Foggy asked him softly, stroking his hair. Matt
nodded against his thigh.
"I'm just tired, Foggy," he murmured. "Thank you so much, I apologize for--"
"No, it's--Matt, I am not an expert, okay, but I am pretty sure that migraines
are not a voluntary thing," Foggy said. "And like--jesus--you always deserve
painkillers, okay? Always. Seriously. That's such--that's basics."
Matt sighed and burrowed his face further into Foggy's thigh for a moment,
nuzzling him. "Thank you," he said, and turned into Foggy's gentle hand on his
hair and kissed it twice. He was so lucky.
There was a quiet minute, and then Foggy said, "So here's the good news:
they're not, like, going to round up and kill everyone."
Matt blinked rapidly, and deciphered it as best he could. He still felt sleepy
enough that it sounded wrong, but--"Slaves?"
"Yeah, no, there's not gonna be any mass execution or anything," Foggy said.
"But the bad news is that the governor declared a state of emergency, and
there's been a couple temporary things issued.
"There's a curfew--slaves aren't allowed outside by themselves, apparently, for
now. And CNN is saying that they might enact some law about, um, you having to
sleep either chained to something or else in a cage, and I hope not, but. Yeah.
That's what's going on.
"And they're revoking weapons permits, and saying that, um, even stuff like
pocketknives are weapons now. So we should--you should take yours out of your
oh-shit kit."
"Okay, Foggy," Matt exhaled, eyes slipping shut again. He was so tired. His
head felt tender, swollen. Injured.
"You okay there, Matt?"
"Postdrome," Matt said. "After a migraine. Fatigue and...drowsiness," and he
turned his face fully into his owner's leg.
"Okay," Foggy said, and typed something into his laptop. "Okay--hrm. Alright.
We'll--take it easy the next few days, okay?"
"Thank you, Foggy," Matt murmured, nodding. That sounded good.
He lay his head there for a few more moments. Then Foggy said, "I can't get the
picture out of my head. There was--Matt--I mean. Just. Their faces. They were
so--determined. Some of them were crying."
Matt hated those slaves even more. "There were children in the crowd," he said
quietly, angrily. "Children. Children saw that."
"It's fucked up," Foggy said. "It's all so fucked up. It happened all over the
world, too. It was coordinated. There's--Thailand offered asylum to any slave
that wants to go there. Chile, too. And so did, I think, um--Greenland. They're
all saying they're willing to get anyone across there."
Matt's lip curled. "Idiots," he said. "Fucking--terrible--insolent little
uppity idiots. What good is all that going to do? Is it an appeal to
conscience? It's a fucking terrible one," he said, without meaning to at all.
"I dunno," Foggy said thoughtfully, still stroking his hair, massaging his
scalp. "If they wanted to make an impression, that's what they did. Everyone's
exploded about it. I'm getting Facebook Colander so I don't have to--people are
reposting the pictures, the videos. They keep trying to take down the account
with all the videos and transcripts and shit, but it keeps propping up. There's
described versions, too, but--I don't think--"
"I don't want to hear it again, Foggy," Matt murmured, too tired to be afraid
of voicing that. "Those heartbeats...stopping. It was so fast. They must have
known to go for the arteries."
"Yeah," Foggy said, and one of his hands rested on Matt's head. Warm and firm.
Matt relaxed into it, submitting to his owner's will, his owner's body.
"Some of--people in the front got splashed. It's so fucked up, but, I guess, I
dunno. In retrospect, I kinda--well--I get it, in a way. What the guy was
saying, about living conditions--I dunno. Push people hard enough and they push
back, I guess."
Matt shivered wildly.
"Hey, hey, no, it's--calm down, Matt, I'm not--shh."
Matt tried to calm down. "It's a sickness," he said quietly. "I'd never do
something like that. Not ever."
"I know, Matt," Foggy said softly. "I know. I'm not saying that you would,
okay? Just--I get, sort of, why this is happening. People are fed up with this
shit. It's too much. It's too much for them."
Matt shook his head. "I don't understand it," he said, plaintive without
meaning to be. "I don't--death isn't better. It's not better. Whoever their
owners were, death isn't better than being owned. It's not."
There was a silence. "I'm glad you think that," Foggy said. "And thanks for
disagreeing with me," he added, one hand gently reaching under to lift Matt's
face up. "Thanks for being you, and for getting us out of there, and getting me
home," he said, and kissed Matt.
Matt went limp.
"Shit, sorry, shit--Matt?"
"Foggy?" he asked, eyelids fluttering, time and place unstuck.
"Yeah, it's me. Sorry, I should've known--if you feel this bad, I shouldn't
kiss you, sorry."
"I like it," Matt said, opening his mouth for more. "You're good at kissing."
"Oh, that's--thanks, Matt, but--you're kneeling, and, and."
"I like kneeling," Matt offered up. "It's better this way. Where I'm supposed
to be. It's safer down here," he said, and sank down another inch.
"Oh. I didn't. Oh. That's--well--I guess that's up to you, um, to feel like
that. But. I don't want--Matt, I'm worried about, uh, making you feel bad, or
obligated, or like--I guess I mean trapped? Yeah.
"I don't want you to feel trapped. If you don't want to be kissed anymore, or
not today, or you feel like that would, uh, bring up bad memories, tell me,
okay, please? Tell me. Because you have a really solid poker face, so I don't
know if I'm about to hurt you or not, and it stresses me out."
Matt nodded. "I'm okay, Foggy," he said. "I'm here. I know where I am. I like
the way you kiss me, what it means," and he ducked his head at that, blushing
faintly, not knowing why.
"What does it mean for you?" Foggy asked curiously.
Matt tried to find the words, as wrung-out as his body felt. Like a wet sponge,
the way it felt after being fucked for hours or whipped and bandaged or forced
to train beyond his limits for an owner's viewing pleasure. "Like I'm
valuable," he said eventually. "Like I matter to you."
"Oh. Good. You do matter to me. And of course you're valuable, Matt--this is--
let me put it like this, alright? You're irreplaceable."
Matt smiled, it spreading across his whole face, and he turned to kiss Foggy's
hand, over and over again, unable to stop. Irreplaceable. The best, safest
thing to be.
"Hey, that's great, but you're gonna get my hand all wet," Foggy teased him
gently.
Matt did his best impression of looking up through his eyelashes at Foggy. "Are
you sure that's not what you want?" he asked, teasing back, trying to make him
happy.
Foggy went stiff. "Okay, um--Matt--"
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I didn't mean to--"
"No, I just--you know I'm not gonna fuck you any more, right?"
Matt nodded. "I know, Foggy," he said.
"Okay. So. Um. That was--let's get some takeout, okay, and then we can do
something mindless. How do you feel?"
Matt grabbed at the words floating on the surface of his mind. "Like standing
up is too much work," he mumbled, completely exhausted. "I'm not sure I could,
Foggy, I'm so tired..."
"Alrighty then, you just--stay there, let me get your kneeling pad, then I'll
get us some delivery online, some from that Japanese-Thai place with sushi. You
like sushi, right? What kind do you want?"
Matt tried to think, and opened his mouth and closed it.
"Wait, or--too tired to make decisions?"
Matt nodded.
"Okay. Um. You got spicy tuna and avocado last time, and shrimp tempura...let's
get both, there's a special. And Thai iced tea for us both, the really good
kind, and then those skewers..." and Foggy's voice seemed to trail off into
infinity.
At some point, Foggy had gotten Matt's kneeling pad from the hallway where Matt
stored it sometimes, and put it down next to Matt, who shuffled over onto it
and collapsed his head back onto the couch. It felt so much safer like this.
Matt focused as best he could on how he was okay, he wasn't disobedient and
dangerous and feral, he wasn't rabid and monstrous and crying, he wasn't back
with his previous owners, listening to slaves get hurt and hurt and hurt and
even though it was their own fault for fucking up he wished he couldn't hear
their punishments, it made the sex worse--
But then there was Foggy again, Matt's head on his leg, Foggy's hand in his
hair and Foggy's hand typing on his laptop and Foggy's smell permeating Matt's
nose. Foggy, who was safe, who was kind. Foggy, who got up when there was the
smell of an unfamiliar person and food, Foggy, who was talking to Matt--
"Hey, Matt, um. Do you want to--can you eat, uh, sitting up?"
It sounded like a genuine question. Matt shook his head. He was too tired.
"Oh. Okay. Maybe--uh--this sounds weird, but, I guess, would you like it if I
fed you?"
Matt's eyes shot open, and he nodded as vigorously as he possibly could. That
sounded wonderful.
"Okay. Then--let me get set up--" and Foggy bustled around, and then there was
the beautiful smell of sushi, tuna and vinegar and ginger and wasabi, and Foggy
sitting back down again, and Matt obediently turning his head to the side and
opening his mouth.
"This feels weird," Foggy said, but put ginger and soy sauce on the sushi, not
the wasabi, and picked up a piece and put it in Matt's mouth. With his hands,
oh god, it was so perfect.
Matt closed his lips around Foggy's hand, just like he'd been taught how to be
handfed, and kissed them after he chewed and swallowed. It tasted good.
"Good? You're good?"
Matt murmured, "Thank you, Foggy."
"You really like this, don't you?"
Matt nodded. "Thank you so much, Foggy."
"Okay. Then let's just keep doing that, okay. Tell me if you stop liking it or
if you're full," and Foggy put another piece in Matt's mouth.
They continued like that, Matt mindlessly happy, full of pleasure and safety
and support, Foggy slowly warming up to the idea as Matt kissed his fingers
each time.
Foggy fed him one and a half of the sushi rolls before Matt murmured, "I'm
full, Foggy."
"You sure?"
Matt nodded. "Thank you, Foggy," he said, his thrumming contentment leaking
into his voice, making it a purr.
Foggy flushed. "Um. Okay. Let me just, uh, put it away then--" and Foggy stood
up hastily, almost knocking Matt into his erection.
 
--
 
 
 
 
God. Foggy had to get his sex drive under control.
He leaned against the bathroom wall as he applied cold water to his hard-on,
hissing through his teeth at the sensation, thinking about solutions.
He could maybe try to get laid, though he both neither had ever had all that
much luck when he'd tried deliberately and didn't feel...right, having sex
again. He didn't trust himself with another person anymore, not after he'd so
wildly misinterpreted Matt's reactions.
Foggy winced as he remembered Matt saying doesn't it feel like I want this? and
not yes. God. He'd fucked up so badly, and he couldn't stand the idea of doing
it again.
But all the same, he kept getting hard at the smallest things. Anytime Matt was
really happy and relaxed and--sensual, maybe, though that still sounded way
more erotic than Foggy meant, something to do with closeness and Matt's tongue
brushing his fingertips and all the kissing--
Foggy sighed. Maybe he should just buy a new vibrator--all the old ones, even
in his head were tainted, contaminated by his old fantasies.
He'd deleted all of his porn, every bookmark, scrubbed his laptop clean of it.
Even thinking about his oldest, favorite fantasies made him want to curl up and
die. He couldn't stand to look at them, much less jerk off to them.
Maybe he'd try to fantasize about Marci again, or--
Well, if it was just a fantasy, and he was by himself--
Maybe--he'd ask Miriam. He'd ask her if it was unethical to imagine having sex
with Matt when he'd--
Foggy closed his eyes, counted to ten four times in his head, and breathed in
and out slower. It was okay. He thought about the helpful phrases she'd
suggested to him: I am in control of my actions. I can choose what I will and
will not do. I am capable of choosing to not do what I feel is harmful. I am in
control of my actions, and I can choose to not do this thing that I am worried
about doing.
He calmed down, thought about Matt, put his flaccid dick away, left the
bathroom, washed his hands thoroughly four times, and then went back to the
living room, where Matt seemed exhausted but alright.
Foggy put on one of those cooking shows Matt liked as background noise while he
read more of what he could find on the emergency laws. There was a lot of
speculation as to who the perpetrators were, people trying to tally up the
death tolls, and reports of--
Foggy sat up straight. There were reports coming in of whole medical research
centers being emptied, slaves sentenced to them being liberated, suddenly gone,
tracking chips left behind. 108,000 slaves so far, and counting. Over a hundred
thousand slaves were free, had been freed, had freed themselves. 
There was a sign left behind at all of them, painted in blood on the roofs, at
each emptied medical research plant, the ones featured in horror movies as
sites of terror, the ones even Foggy had known at the height of his naivete,
were bad places. There were pictures, and the signs all said--
WE ARE NOT THINGS. WE WILL NOT BE SLAVES AGAIN. WE WILL NOT BOW OUR HEADS. WE
WILL NOT KNEEL. WE WILL NOT KISS YOUR FEET. WE WILL NOT BE GOOD FOR YOU. CATCH
US IF YOU CAN.
Foggy felt his face curl up in happiness, distort itself. Oh god. That was--now
they could--now they could be free, or at least fight back. Now, maybe, just
maybe, things would get better.
He looked down at Matt, and gently ran a hand through his hair, and wished,
stupidly, unfairly, that Matt was there with those ex-slaves, defiant and
standing up for himself and free.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from Maya Angelou's "Still I Rise," here: https:/
     /www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/still-i-rise
     And read by Nicki Minaj excellently well here: https://
     www.youtube.com/watch?v=MafMxdiXe6I
***** he's tried to make me go to rehab. I won't go, go, go *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Foggy stared at the little email Bee had sent him.
It said, If you're going to punish Matt, pick something simple and be
consistent. He'd be fine with being slapped a bit, so long as you don't do it
hard enough to hurt him.
He tried to decipher it, tried to figure out the deeper meaning, or if they
were just being blunt the way they were, and eventually wrote a furious, angry
rant about how he was never, ever going to punish Matt, not ever, he had tried
to make that clear, and highlighted and deleted it.
Then he sent back, I am not going to ever punish Matt. I think I said that
multiple times.
Then Bee replied, almost immediately, with I thought that was just something
you were saying to be nice.
Foggy looked at it, and thought about how Matt probably just thought he said
that to be nice as well, and wanted to cry.
Instead, he turned to tell Matt about the escaped slaves, the good news,
because otherwise he'd start crying, and if he started now he wasn't sure he'd
ever stop.
--
Matt half-listened to Foggy typing furiously on his computer, back and forth,
and drifted. At one point, he came back up to full consciousness, but then a
part of him would start to think about the stench of the blood and immediately
he'd go Elsewhere and come back to this place only partially.
Matt listened, and breathed, and thought, vaguely, until Foggy addressed him.
"Hey, Matt?"
Matt blinked and came up to full attention. "Yes, Foggy?"
"There's news, there's great news, there's--medical centers were opened, the
slaves--slaves in all of these medical research centers, here and in Canada and
Europe too, they're all--okay, not all, but most of them, they're free, they're
free, so many of them, and they're empty now, Matt, I can't believe it, it's so
great."
Matt tilted his head, and frowned, and then his eyes widened as he put it all
together.
"It was a feint," Matt said, incredulous. "It was--that was a distraction. The
massacres. That's threatre, that's melodrama, that's all--that was just for
show. They traumatized children and, and, made things so much worse for us for
the sake of fucking zombies?"
There was an awkward silence. Foggy sounded shocked as he asked, slowly,
"Zombies? Why are--what are medical research centers called, to you?"
"They're called zombie mansions, Foggy," Matt murmured. "And medical research
slaves are called zombies."
"Why?"
"Because the kindest thing to do for a zombie is stick a shotgun in its mouth
and pull the trigger," Matt explained, and Foggy full-body jerked away from
him.
"Shit!"
Matt went still, adrenaline flooding him. He--shit--he hadn't meant to fuck
this up--
"Matt, that--shit. But--but now they're all free."
Matt blinked. Was that what Foggy thought freedom was? Hiding and sneaking and
fleeing to a different country?
"Matt?"
"Of course, Foggy," he said, and made himself obediently smile.
"That's--okay, what are you actually thinking?"
Matt frowned, chewing his lip. "They're not free," he articulated slowly.
"They're just severely disobedient and dangerous. They're not free. They'll
have to hide, all of them, hide and run their whole lives. That's not freedom,"
he said, and hoped--hoped--
And Foggy didn't get angry. Instead, he said quietly, "I guess you kind of have
a point. But Matt--do you ever want to be free?"
What? No.
"What?" Matt asked, blinking in surprise. "Of course not. Why would I want
that?"
There was a horrific, aching silence, and then Foggy sank down to the floor and
started to laugh hysterically.
 
--
Foggy started to laugh, and then he couldn't stop. He laughed, and giggled, and
snorted, and once he started to sob it got worse, tears running down his
cheeks, snot falling out of his nose. He shook and sobbed and convulsed,
breathless, with a mixture of helpless laughter at the sheer absurdity of it
all and helpless horror at the sheer absurdity of it all. He felt like he had
finally cracked and gone insane.
He was vaguely aware of Matt worridly nudging his shoulder, and talking to him,
trying to calm him down, but he couldn't. He just couldn't. He cried, and
howled with laughter, and rocked back and forth. At some point Matt had hugged
him tightly, and that almost made it worse, bringing forth a fresh flood of
tears.
Foggy had no idea how long he wailed with hysterics, but eventually he dried
himself out, completely done. He felt--
Weird. Not broken, just--better. It had been what he needed, maybe, to just cry
it out. To react for once.
"Foggy?" Matt asked him, clutching on to him. "Are you alright now?"
Foggy sucked in a snot-putrid breath, and exhaled slowly. "I'm okay, I think,"
he said. "Just needed a good cry. I'm gonna--I'm gonna take a shower, wash this
snot off my face, oh god Matt did I get snot on you?"
Matt blinked. "It's fine," he said. "I'll change."
"Good. And then, and then, let's--have some quiet time, okay? Quiet and
peaceful. Today has just been way too much. Today was fucked. We can figure out
more stuff tomorrow."
Matt nodded, and let go of him. "I'm sorry, Foggy," he murmured.
"No, dude--you know what? I think I needed that. Sometimes you just gotta let
it out, you know?"
Matt looked confused, but nodded, and Foggy went and showered. In the shower,
he thought about it over and over again, and decided that yeah, he'd buy a new
vibrator, and figure out some combination of shower-on and music-from-his-
laptop that would drown it out enough that Matt wouldn't heat it, and he'd
start...taking care of himself a bit more.
That, and read that PTSD book. It had become sharply clear that he and Matt
spoke different languages and lived in different worlds, and Foggy was sick of
not understanding him. It was high time he shaped the fuck up and ripped off
the last of his illusions.
--
Matt changed shirts, lay in his bed, and started to try to research human
sexuality.
It was a difficult undertaking, with how much it made his heart pound and him
remember the smells of slick and Mistress Sharon and lube, the frothy mix he
soaped from between his legs, but he had to. He'd vowed to a while back, and
again much more recently, and it was time he started putting in real effort.
What he found about free people was interesting and contradictory enough that
Matt decided to put it down as something for later. Certainly, sex seemed to be
something powerful for free people, not the unpleasant-but-livable chore it was
for slaves.
And so he went for the most reputable, highly respected slave training and
psychology websites, finding research with as much experimental basis and
scientific analysis as he could.
What he found was also conflicting; trainers sometimes said slaves all hated
sex but could be taught to do it very well anyway, and other trainers said
their slaves could be taught to love sex, adore it, seek it out voluntarily.
Some trainers found it a mark of brokenness or a diminishing-value feature;
some trainers specifically sought to create a craving for sex.
He read, and read, frowning more as he went. There wasn't anything conclusive
about sexual desire as defectiveness, though he read that one trainer--a Kelley
Wilmington, with a private training house in Athens, Georgia--that boasted that
she could turn even the most frigid, asexual, sexually repulsed slave into a
willing nymphomaniac with focused positive reinforcement and 'dependency of
basic needs contingent on sex'.
So maybe Matt's body was just--doing work for him. Adapting for him. Foggy had
wanted him to want sex, and his body was trying to catch up.
Matt lay, curled up, listening to Foggy watch some program about kittens and
puppies and coo at how cute they were, and thought about it, a pleasant buzz in
his mind. If he was starting to like sex--to want it--if it could become a
pleasurable thing, then maybe--
Maybe he could use it to his advantage. Sex was a great way to pacify owners,
to please them, soothe them, take their mind off their troubles and bring down
their stress levels. And Matt hadn't lost his sexual skills, he knew that.
So maybe he could, once the process had started to come around, once he was
ready--
But no. Foggy had said no sex, had forbidden it, so Matt's body was too fucking
late.
Matt sighed, and stopped picking at the knot that was sex in his head, and
bookmarked the pages of her sample suggestions for owners who wanted to book
training time with her to prepare their slaves for the process. They consisted
of suggestions to have slaves masturbate frequently, but forbid them from
orgasming, and to work out a schedule with her so that they could participate
in the process.
Then he checked his email, told Bee that they should perhaps, maybe, email the
Martie woman from the Disability Services office with their concerns about on-
campus housing--which he wasn't actually familiar with, but she had helped Bee
before, when he and Foggy had gone to her, and she seemed inclined to be
helpful yet.
He remembered, after that, what Foggy had said about weapons and carefully
removed the pocketknife and the oven-cleaner spray from the oh-shit-kit, and
lay back down. Matt was still tired, even after that long while he'd spent
being allowed to kneel and rest his weight on Foggy.
And then Matt let himself float a bit, get away from the stress and worry about
the curfew laws and possible leash laws and cage laws coming up, and eventually
fell asleep.
That night, he dreamed about being remade, being operated on. Surgeons sticking
their hands inside his body and rearranging his organs so he was more useful.
Matt wanted to be good, but they had to strap him down anyway.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from Amy Winehouse's "Rehab", which is a theme
     song for this fanfic, really.
***** if only you could see the world as it really is! it is beautiful and on
fire and awful *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
"Hi, I'm Ellen Pyrziakis, and this is Morning American News. Today we'll be
hosting a discussion about the recent laws enacted by the governor of New York,
as well as what the recent slave rebellions mean for United States politics and
the global economy. With me is Rachel Kuchakis, noted abolitionist and lawyer
for the group Last Slaveowner Generation or the LSG, Morgan Rhondaman, head of
the protectionist group A Softer Tomorrow or AST, and Kennedy Arcana, co-
founder of the traditionalist organization A Firm Hand or AFH. Welcome
everyone."
"Hi, Ellen, thanks for having me on. Today I'd like to begin this discussion
with a disclaimer: we at the LSG do not in any way support acts of violence,
but we are very glad to have heard about the liberation of medical research
center enslaved people, and hope that this signals the start of a better year."
"You know, Rachel, I myself hope this year will be better as well. We at A Firm
Hand have been discussing, strategizing, and synchronizing our own strategy for
how to respond to these terrorist acts, and we hope to work with sister
organizations to prevent any violence of this sort from happening ever again."
"Well, we at A Softer Tomorrow hope that these recent laws will go a long way
towards ensuring the safety and happiness of our valued slave population. We've
been saying it for years--slaves need to be treated in humane ways, or else
violence is provoked. It's a simple principle: kick a dog, mistreat a dog, and
even the sweetest of man's best friends turns on you. I don't know why anyone
is surprised that these attacks took place--the lack of federal regulations--"
"Actually, sorry to cut in, Morgan, but I'm glad you brought that up. Now we
all know that the state of New York has declared a state of emergency and the
governor has enacted a few new laws: a curfew on any slave leaving their place
of residence or an official boarding kennel without their legal owner or an
appointed handler, a law forbidding the carry of any form of weaponry, and just
this morning, he also declared a law that states that slaves must either be
caged at night or chained to a piece of furniture. Now, what do you all make of
these laws? Kennedy, would you like to start?"
"I certainly would! We find these laws to be a first step in a band-aid
solution. While no slave should be allowed to roam free at night or outside
alone, we shouldn't need a law to enforce any such thing. Slave-owning should
be a private enterprise only, and limited to individuals, not corporations.
What should be the driving force behind the use of cages and such is the
knowledge an owner has that slaves need a firm hand. It is important to ensure
that slave populations are kept in their place--"
"Kennedy, I'm sorry, but let's speak like rational adults here. The idea that
the federal government should have no regulations regarding the discipline and
control of slaves is frankly ludicrous. The government regulates the transport,
use, and sale of many dangerous substances, from medical opiates to certain
forms of firearms. Slaves should be regulated in a similar manner, with a
complete overhaul of the Slavery Bureau to boot. These terrorist attacks--these
feral slaves--have made clear that we as a people have lost sight of what
qualifies as appropriate force, and in fact have failed to give slaves what
they need--clear expectations, reasonable tasks, and appropriate discipline."
"Well, Rachel, any thoughts?"
"It's amazing to me to sit here and listen to two women--two grown, adult
women, with degrees from Stanford and Oxford, who are so intelligent--so
radically miss the mark. Enslaved people are, like any other person, not
responsible for the acts of a few. Punishing enslaved people for the actions of
some other enslaved people is unfair and inhumane. The Geneva Convention--"
"It doesn't surprise me that you abolitionists are seeing this as unfair. It
doesn't surprise me at all. In fact, I bet you're all happy in your ivory
towers, rejoicing about this violence. I suppose you might even be working with
these terrorist groups! I bet it makes you cream your damn panties to see so
many slaves dead and traumatizing children--"
"Your accusations are baseless and insulting. We don't even know if there is
any organized group orchestrating these rebellions, or if they're unconnected--
"
"Sorry, ladies, I have to stop you all for a moment. Kennedy, Rachel, let's
keep this civil, alright? I understand that this is a controversial topic and
always has been, but we can and should respect each other's positions. Now,
Morgan, do you have any idea why these rebellions are happening?"
"It's very simple, Ellen. The treatment of slaves since the deregulation of
their treatment in the 1970s and 1980s has become steadily worse. Conditions in
markets and in private homes have become appalling. Our own governmental
bureau, ostensibly meant to ensure slavery is a fine social institution, has a
death rate of acquired slaves of 70% in the first year, and 98% in the first
twenty years. 70%! It's disgusting! Ever since the introduction of torture porn
as a mainstream genre of slavery porn, ever since the preaching in evangelical
churches as slaves as punching bags rather than useful assets, conditions have
gotten worse and worse. And when you make slaves hungry, beaten and desperate,
with no clear discipline and no reasonable incentives for good behaviour, you
get violence."
"Sorry, Morgan, but are you saying that it's the fault of us traditionalists
that this violence has happened?"
"Well, it's not the fault of the rebelling slaves. We both know that slaves are
not truly at fault for their actions--that's their owner's responsibility. It
is our job as owners to keep our slaves healthy, happy, and productive, and we
have failed them. We have failed them. It's a sad truth and a sad day in
America, but it means that we can and need to do better by our human resources.
If a farmer mistreats his livestock, they go bad. If he instead takes care of
them, they stay good. It's that simple."
"Thank you for your words. Kennedy?"
"Clearly, we at A Firm Hand know that it is lax discipline and a lack of a
proper culture that has lead to these tragedies. We need to find the seeds of
such rebellion and horrendous, senseless violence within our slaves and nip
that in the bud. We believe that there needs to be more private training, more
close monitoring, and less mass-- and corporate-ownership of slaves. In
addition, we're calling for public disciplining to become more mainstream, and
for the invention of more instruments with which to discipline and control our
slaves. We've contracted with several companies in order to get the ball
rolling."
"Thank you for your perspective. Rachel?"
"Like any oppressed population, enslaved people have simply gotten fed up.
Throughout history, there are numerous examples that demonstrate how if you
push someone, if you hurt someone, they might just hurt you back. The principle
at work is the same one that led our own country being founded--the colonies
felt the British government held an unfair and illegitimate authority over
them, and they rebelled. It's the exact same pattern here."
"Do you really mean to compare our founding fathers to these terrorists?"
"Yes, Kennedy, I do. Enslaved people are not so different from you or me that
they react radically different to violent and inhospitable conditions. Even
'nice' ownership is still dehumanizing and unbearable. There is no way forward
other than complete abolition or an escalation of violence."
"That's a bit cynical, don't you think? And Rachel, look, I feel like we can
work together, your organization and mine. We both despise a great deal of the
more vulgar sides of how slaves are treated at the moment. We both want slaves
to be healthy, happy, and well-fed. Why is it that your organization declares
itself completely unwilling to work with mine?"
"Because we want fundamentally incompatible things, Morgan. We want all
enslaved people to be freed. You want them to remain enslaved. These are
mutually exclusive goals."
"Sorry to barge in, but Rachel, what you're talking about would require a
complete restructuring of our society!"
"If that's what it takes, then that's what we demand. We here at Last
Slaveowner Generation are 100% serious in this goal. We aim to be the last
generation to ever own slaves; if that means we're the last generation to live
in a society like this, good."
"Well, on that note, let's bring in Dakota Richards, this network's economist,
to discuss how global markets are reacting in the face of this crisis--"
--
Somewhere else:

"We'd like to know if you'd be interested in working with us. We can offer--"

"No."

"...Can I ask why?"

"I'm not interested in working with incompetents."

"What?"

"Here's the thing: if any of you were good at your jobs, I wouldn't even be
here. Slavery would be over already. Your organization in specific has been
around for--what--fifty years? Seventy years? And in that time, what have you
accomplished? Nothing. How many slaves have you freed?"

"Well over a hundred thousand!"

"In seventy years? That's tiny. We have liberated over a hundred thousand
slaves in a day. A hundred thousand in seventy years? That's not enough. And I
bet they're all clean, smiling, with thumbs intact and pretty faces."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that you're not enough. You and your organization have not done
enough. You have managed to free some of the easiest to free, and a tiny
proportion at that. You cut corners and abandon slaves. We are not willing to
work with people who neither respect us nor are effective enough to compensate
for it. If you all had done your fucking job, we wouldn't be here, doing it for
you. Just like we've done our entire goddamn lives."

"We do respect you!"

"Not enough to take our no for an answer. Not enough to treat us like equals.
Not enough that if we worked with you, we wouldn't be bossed around, pushed to
the side, cannon fodder. At least with us, we know that we all understand the
stakes here. We've all run out of fucks to give. You haven't."

"I don't--"

"You're wearing a suit that was tailored with money that has been used before
to buy a slave. You're standing here wearing fashion that was started by
slaveowners. You live in a house and go to work in a building built by slaves,
walking past slaves every day. You're telling me that you're against slavery,
but you still live in that society voluntarily? Fuck you. You don't respect us.
You don't understand the urgency of our mission. That's why you're all out
there, criticizing our tactics, making us out to be crazy. Well, if we're
crazy, it's only so that we'll win. We are not fucking around. We will not calm
down.

"We are not sorting out which slaves can and can't be liberated by the
'classes' YOU put us into. We are not going to back down, or go softer, or
engage with anyone who wants to put out our fire. Tell your organization that
we are freedom fighters in the truest sense, not the kind of mealy-mouthed
'activists' you're used to."

"Would you ever be willing to compromise with us? Or even use our resources?"

"We don't negotiate with terrorists."

"I--!"

"You may leave."

The sound of footsteps, and then a single shot.

"Alright, that's done with. Next on the agenda?"

"She wants to know when she should drop it. Which date would be the best for
our planning."

"Tell her February 14th. It'll fit in perfectly with the other plan."

"Alright. But--you think that's gonna be enough?"

"Big things come in small packages."
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from a tweet by @NightValeRadio, here: https://
     twitter.com/nightvaleradio/status/297398945720700928
***** you think I’d let him destroy me and end up happier than ever? no fucking
way. he doesn’t get to win. *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
"So," Foggy said, sitting down at the table. "Which is less worse for you,
caged or chained to the bed? The governor declared this new law, you have to
either be caged all night or be chained to something all night--and I have to
take a picture of you in it and send it in to this official address thing by
noon tomorrow or else we're fucked, so. I figure we can buy it today. Which
one?"
Matt blinked, and sipped at his coffee, and thought. Foggy would never put him
in a particularly uncomfortable or small cage, and definitely not a mesh one,
not if Matt asked. But a cage was--
A cage was more limiting. And if he was in a cage, Matt could never have the
rare night in Foggy's bed. "Chained, please?"
"Okay. Then let's go get that in a bit," Foggy said.
--
Foggy picked Paggette's as the place to go, because he'd been there before and
he thought they would have whatever it took to chain someone to a bed.
As he walked in, he saw the same slaves as before as mannequins, this time many
of them showing off various ropes and knots and chains. Their eyes passed
blankly over Matt, sliding like they, too, were blind. It was unsettling.
"Let's get this over with," Foggy muttered, and guided Matt in.
The same shop assistant as before walked over, smiling. It looked exactly like
any other retail workers' smile, on reflection, only a little more desperate.
The braided golden metal collar was gone, replaced by some contraption that
went from her collarbones to her chin as one piece.
"Are you curious about the collar, sir? It's a posture collar, excellent for
ensuring--"
"No, I'm good," Foggy hastily cut in. He felt bad about interrupting, but he
really couldn't stand to hear the spiel. "Just--where's the, um. Thing to chain
someone to a bed with?"
"Alright sir, over here," she said brightly, leading them. Foggy took a deep
breath and guided Matt around the other people peering at collars and whips and
riding crops, yanking slaves closer as they passed. Matt's face was impassive.
"Well, we have multiple models. The most popular one is this one, the nail-in
model--you simply fasten the chain here," she demonstrated with a small length
of chain and what looked to Foggy like a fancy nail, "And then you nail it into
a bedpost, headboard, or other piece of sufficient furniture, or of course the
wall or floor. Then the other end of the chain can be locked onto the cuffs,
and the cuffs locked shut.
"If you're here because of the recent law, we do want to note that the chain
must be locked onto the nail and the cuff and the cuffs or manacles locked shut
to be fully compliant. Our selection of cuffs is over here--"
"What's the most comfortable? And how do they, um, actually lock?" Foggy half
doesn't want to know, but he has to. He can't put Matt in danger.
"Well, the silk-lines ones here are padded, lined on the inside with genuine
waterproof-treated silk, and come with a two-for-one special. And the lock is
simple--see the stick part of the buckle?"
Foggy squints at it as she holds it up strangely, the lack of thumbs making it
clumsy. "I think so?"
"Well, at the loop at the top you simply insert the ring of the lock and--"
"And then you can't unbuckle it with the lock in," Foggy said slowly, blinking.
God, that was--simple and cruel. "Okay. And--um. How long is the longest chain
you have? In the, um, lightest type?"
"Eighteen feet, sir."
"Okay--Matt, feel that," he said, picking one of the silk-lined cuffs up. Does
that feel okay? Not, um, scratchy? Or uncomfortable?"
Matt felt it slowly. "It feels fine, Foggy," he said, and experimentally put it
on his wrist. "Perfectly smooth."
"Okay. Then, let's get--two of them, and, and the nail, and eighteen feet of
chain."
"Of course sir," she said brightly, eyes flickering rapidly from Foggy to Matt.
"And we also have a sale on chastity devices--"
"Nope, nope, not even a little bit interested, no, never. Not at all. None,"
Foggy babbled. "Let's just get that and get out of here."
"No problem, sir," she said. "Would you like two extra keys per padlock as
well?"
"Yeah, that sounds like an intelligent idea," Foggy said, and as she started to
check it out, there was the sound of a cry--
Foggy whipped around to look--
And there was a slave being hit, someone was hitting a slave with a riding crop
on their--their chest, their nipples, and the slave was whimpering and crying
out.
"Hrm," the man said. "I think that's good, then. And does this one have a
textured end as well?"
"Yes, sir," a different shop assistant was saying, "And we offer a range of
cleaning products to go with--"
Foggy stared, and then Matt shifted to lean a little into him. Then he slowly
turned back around, feeling cold with rage, and finished checking out.
--
Matt did his best to lean into Foggy as they walked back into the apartment,
offer him comfort. Foggy still wasn't comfortable with some of the less-sweet
sides of slave ownership, but he'd come around eventually, Matt thought. In the
meantime, he could do his part by never deserving to be hit with a crop or
whipped.
Foggy took out the nail, and the chain--the strangely long, lightweight chain--
and got the hammer from the tool drawer and paused. "Matt, do you want to--
I think it should be nailed into the top of this one, um, bottom bedpost, or
the floor next to it, but that's your bed, so I won't touch it without you
being okay with that."
Matt blinked. "I can hammer it in, Foggy," he said, and Foggy nodded and handed
him the hammer. Matt made sure the chain was locked in place and neatly,
carefully, hammered the nail into the floor right next to the bedpost. Then he
handed back the hammer.
"Alright. Um. Let's see how far the chain goes with your ankle cuffed," Foggy
said, and Matt obediently took off his sock for it, offering up his foot.
"Okay," Foggy said, awkwardly standing as Matt stretched his leg. "Let me--
alright, there's that--" and he buckled it carefully. "That's, um, that's a
good tightness? I don't want you to lose circulation."
Matt flexed his toes and his ankle. "It's good, Foggy," he said. It was. He'd
be comfortable with it on.
"Okay. Then let me buckle this, and lock it--and of course anytime you want the
key, you can have it, anytime, seriously, if it's night and you want to, I
dunno, go get something from the fridge just feel free to wake me up or use the
key, I'm gonna put it here on the desk--"
Foggy put it on his desk, and then handed one of the spares to Matt.
"And here's yours. And if anyone asks, um, it's for--"
Foggy frowned and chewed it over. Matt grabbed at a good reason to make him
feel more comfortable. "Emergencies? In case of a fire, so I could leave the
building?"
"Yeah, that's great, that totally works. Emergencies. Yep. And, um. Let me just
lock it, and it into the chain--"
And there was the click of locks. Matt's gut clenched and then relaxed. He
rotated his foot slowly; there was no numbing, no pins-and-needles, no
squeezing. It felt comfortable and not removable. Safe, almost, pinning him
down.
Matt slowly stretched to lie back on the bed, curling the cuffed foot under
him. The chain was so ridiculously long, he could easily do it.
"And--ok, you should, um, test how long it actually goes in terms of where you
can go," Foggy said, and Matt stood up and walked. He discovered that he could
make it just inside the bathroom to pee and wash his hands, and he could easily
get to Foggy's bed, if he was allowed.
Matt sat back down on the bed Foggy let him use, and smiled.
"Good? Because you don't seem, uh, thrilled about this."
Matt shrugged. "I find the implication that I would need to be chained or caged
in order to not break the very first directive as a slave insulting. I knew
better than to try to attack any free person or help any slave escape when I
was eleven, for goodness' sake. Not all of us are infected dumpster-dives," he
said, sniffing.
There was a second of startled silence, and then Foggy said, "I'm gonna--I'm
just gonna get started reading this book, alright? But first I gotta take a
picture of you with the chain and send it in."
Matt obediently posed, lying back and curling up enticingly, showing off his
locked-cuff ankle, lidding his eyes. There was the sound of a phone camera, and
then he waited.
"You're good," Foggy said, and sat down to upload it and send it in. Matt
uncurled and got his laptop, searched how to fix incorrect thoughts without
pain, and started to read.
 
 
--
 
 
 
 
Matt yawned and stretched, arching his back as he finished reading a wealth of
resources. He'd started out with reading the description of something called
cognitive-behavioral therapy, and from there found a great many tips, tricks,
and resources.
His favorites were the cost-benefit analysis of bad thoughts (and that could be
wildly helpful with his anger at Foggy and his occasional inappropriate
thoughts about being above his station), and the technique of refusing to argue
with irrational thoughts. It sounded counterproductive, and certainly not
intuitive, but he had to admit that arguing with his occasional wrong thoughts
was giving them a certain legitimacy.
He vowed to try it next time he caught himself slipping too far from how he was
supposed to be thinking and feeling. He'd think to himself I won't argue with
irrational thoughts and That's not my problem, not my responsibility when
creeping fears about politics and moral overwhelmed him.
Matt would be better. Matt would do better.
But then as he stretched he realized he was thirsty, and paused. "Foggy?" he
asked softly.
"Yeah?"
"Could I be uncuffed to go get a glass of water?"
"What? Sure. Oh, shit, I totally forgot to--Matt, let me see that," Foggy said,
and Matt obediently walked over.
As Foggy grabbed for the key and started unlocking the cuff, he paused. "You
know that you can, uh, just use your own key for this, right? Or--is this like
with the collars?"
Matt blinked, unsure of what Foggy meant. "I would never unlock myself from a
cuff or chain," he said. "Unless it was an emergency."
"Why not?"
Matt's mouth opened and closed. He tried to think of a way to phrase it, and
eventually, slowly, came out with, "It's not appropriate or acceptable behavior
in a slave to think that they can--that they are--that they--"
Words failed him. He swallowed, and calmly thought to himself, stop being
irrationally offended by the question. Foggy has the right to think and ask you
what he wants. He doesn't understand the point of good training, he's not
saying that to humiliate you.
"The thought should not enter the mind of the slave to begin with," he
articulated. "It should not even be imagined. That symbolizes a very dangerous
degree of independence and a lack of respect."
There was an ugly silence where Matt hoped he'd passed the test and helped
Foggy understand the situation better, and then Foggy said, "Um. Okay. So I
guess--alright," as he unlocked the ankle cuff and took it off of Matt.
"Thank you, Foggy," Matt said politely, kissed his hand, and got himself a
glass of water.
--
The book was thin enough that Foggy read it four times over the course of the
day.
The first thing that really struck him was the very first section, and
specifically the sentence While there is treatment for PTSD, and a happy,
contented life is often possible, there is no cure for PTSD in any way.
Expecting a loved one with PTSD to 'get over it' or 'go back to the way they
were' is not a realistic or helpful expectation, and an unfair burden to place
on the person with PTSD.
No amount of patience, love, therapy, and/or determination can completely cure
PTSD. With much work and luck, a person with PTSD can live a happy life, full
of meaning and joy, and achieve goals that are important to them. They can get
to a point where they almost never have flashbacks, panic attacks, or other
symptoms. They can, sometimes, push the disease into remission. But just as
cancer can be treated into remission, PTSD can always resurge, and the damage
it leaves behind is permanent.
Foggy read it, and put the book down, and took a few deep breaths. It was
almost a relief, in a horrible, sad way. But a great way, too--it meant that if
Matt could never, ever be normal, Foggy didn't have the responsibility to try
to help him be normal. If Matt was always going to be kind of--well--crazy,
then it meant that Foggy could be okay with him being crazy, because it
wouldn't go away.
It meant Matt wouldn't morph into a different person.
(And a part of Foggy, deep down, mused that he didn't think Matt wanted to be
completely normal, either. Matt had no desire to be freed, even, much less like
the people Foggy had grown up around. If he couldn't be, then it could never
happen to him. Thank God.)
From there, Foggy read on, and several passages stuck out sharply to him.
Frustration
When living and interacting with a loved one with PTSD, it is normal to feel
frustrated with their new impairments, particularly if the person is not able
to articulate or understand why or what they cannot do. Particularly in modern
America, the impact of mental health disorders on functioning is not well-
understood. In order to fully comprehend the degree of impairment caused by
PTSD, a comparison to physical disabilities can be helpful.
For example, severe PTSD can be as disabling as paraplegia. Severe PTSD coupled
with comorbid disorders and/or disabilities can be as disabling as
quadriplegia.
It is important to remember that a person with PTSD is genuinely unable to do
what they cannot do. If they cannot leave their house without having panic
attacks, they cannotleave their house. If they are unable to eat eggplant, wear
cotton fabric, or see images of violence or blood without experiencing severe
distress, this is not a voluntary impairment.
People with PTSD do not choose to have flashbacks, nightmares, mood swings,
flattened affect, and hypersensitivity. They are not weak, lacking in
willpower, or being deliberately disobedient. Just as someone who is completely
unable to hear cannot listen to music, a person with PTSD cannot simply 'get
over' their trauma or magically become better.
A good exercise for dealing with frustrating coping mechanisms and symptoms in
particular is as follows: write down the top ten most frustrating,
inexplicable, and/or 'bizarre' symptoms and coping mechanisms. Then try to
understand how they may have helped the person with PTSD survive their trauma
and/or cope with it. Remember, many symptoms and coping mechanisms were helpful
or even vital during the time of the trauma.
Foggy made plans to do that later as he read.
Beware of Over-Reassurance
One of the easy pitfalls for someone helping their loved one with PTSD is over-
reassurance and condescension. In the rush to make the person feel safe and
assure them that specific traumas will not reoccur, you can find yourself
saying things that are not true, offering promises you cannot keep.
For example, avoid promising that you will never be angry with a survivor
domestic abuse. In all relationships, one person is angry at the other at least
briefly. Promising to never feel angry is unrealistic and will only make the
person with PTSD feel that they cannot trust or rely on you.
Promising on behalf of other people is also to be avoided. Don't say that the
person will never have another car accident, or that everyone will be
understanding of their trauma, or that they will always be completely safe.
Sarah, a mother of her daughter Caitlyn, who acquired PTSD from being sexually
abused by Sarah's boyfriend, explains the pitfalls of that strategy:
"I always told Caitie that no matter what, she'd never have to go through that
again. I thought it was the only thing that would calm her down. And she
eventually believed me, and then when she went to college, I was so happy. But
she came back on fall break, face ashen, hair all greasy--and she sat down
under the table and hid like she hadn't for years. I asked her what was wrong;
she told me that the first weekend there, her roommate's brother had been
visiting and raped her in her dorm bed."
After this incident, Sarah found that Caitlyn's progress was almost all lost,
and she had to take a medical leave after a suicide attempt. Their relationship
was severely damaged, as Caitlyn could no longer trust her mother's promises,
reassurance, or ability to asses danger. She in fact ended up finding such
reassurance triggering, and had to come up with new strategies to calm down.
Foggy, after reading that story, always had to stop for a few minutes and look
at Matt. Matt, who was reading something, head cocked.
He'd promised Matt that there would be no punishments and no sex, that he was
safe, and he'd dragged Matt to a new place and yelled at him front of a
stranger. He'd promised Matt that he would be okay, and had to take him to the
Bureau and hold his hand when he was raped again.
Foggy wanted to scream, and break things, and make the world pay for making him
a fucking liar.
But he didn't. Instead, he kept reading.
Loss of Trust
When a loved one acquires PTSD, it is normal to feel betrayed, angry, rejected,
and upset at their lack of trust in you. They may feel as if you will get them
into a car accident, hit them, and/or rape them. They may not trust you enough
to share their emotional states, even if they understand them. They may be
unable to ask for help or be emotionally or physically intimate.
However normal your feelings of upset at this, it is important to remember that
especially for people with long-term, complex trauma, their worldview has been
radically altered. Their definition of trust and their beliefs about how people
act in general can be extremely different than your own; a survivor of domestic
abuse may trust that you won't hit them in the head, but not trust that you
won't scream at them in public or destroy their property. A survivor of a car
accident may trust that you won't get them into an accident by driving drunk,
but not trust that you won't get them into a car accident involuntarily.
Jamil, whose PTSD was acquired from living in a violent, abusive 'mental health
facility' for his formative years, explained his beliefs as to why he thought
his therapist would hit him for expressing anger: "It's not because you're mean
or malicious that you're gonna hit me. It's because you're a person. People hit
me because they're people."
The only way to earn a person's trust is to act trustworthy. Make realistic
promises, communicate explicitly, and follow through on ethical and
compassionate actions, even when you are angry or frustrated. Do not demand or
be offended by the person's inability to fully trust you; treat this as
something they are unable to do for the moment, in the same way that a person
with the flu cannot help but feel aching.
Foggy read it, and read it over again. People hit me because they're people.
Each time he read that sentence, he closed his eyes and thought about trying to
reassure Matt over and over again, and Bee too, no punishments.
No wonder neither of them could believe him. It wasn't a thing that existed in
their world, a person who never hit someone else.
Affect and Desensitization
While a person with PTSD may be hyper-sensitized to certain things, they may
also exhibit a flat affect or have strange emotional reactions to certain other
things. Many war veterans and ER staff, for example, tend to have darkly gory
jokes and cruel senses of humor; many survivors of rape can laugh at rape
jokes; some survivors of abuse tend to find depictions of abuse boring or
funny. Some may even have a lack of empathy for other victims, or find it hard
to view their trauma as a bad thing.
The process for desensitization is opposite the one for hyper-sensitization: in
order to desensitize a person to stimuli, it needs to be constant and/or
routine. In order to hyper-sensitize a person to stimuli, it needs to be
intermittent.
So for a person with PTSD from domestic abuse, they may find certain things
boring and not triggering if they were routine and constant--emotional put-
downs or degrading remarks--and other things triggering and likely to set them
off--such as the sound of glass shattering or the smell of a particular
cologne.
This can be very difficult to cope with, and a flat affect in particular can be
easily mistaken for a genuine lack of empathy and/or traumatic reaction.
Another reaction that can be mistaken for a person not having PTSD at all is
the 'embracing of trauma'--seeking out the same traumatic stimulus over and
over again.
A woman with PTSD from rape who then has a great deal of rough, violent sex
with strangers is sometimes mistaken for a woman who was raped and has no
traumatic reaction. A woman with PTSD from military service who volunteers for
subsequent tours can be mistaken for a woman with no PTSD at all. Both of those
assumptions are incorrect: the reaction of a person with PTSD to their trauma
does not invalidate the traumatic quality of the event/s in question. Different
people react differently to different portions of their trauma.
One case in particular is Emily, who has PTSD from growing up in a sexually and
physically violent Christian cult, and is known for laughing throughout most of
her sessions with her therapist. She is candid, defends her parents and adults
in her religious community, and insists her flashbacks and panic attacks are
mere nostalgia. She often bursts into giggles, as opposed to tears, when she is
triggered, and tends to exhibit more of a bubbly, cheerful personality during
periods of worsening symptoms.
Emily is no more or less traumatized than her sister Rachel, who exhibits a
more 'straightforward' affect associated with PTSD: she whimpers, sobs, hides
behind objects, has difficulty speaking at all, and has screaming nightmares
about the same events Emily finds hysterical. During periods of worsening
symptoms, she becomes emaciated and visibly terrified.
Both sisters have severe PTSD. Both have altered affect. Both deserve
compassion and help.
And at that, Foggy actually had grabbed a pencil and started underlining
phrases, because that was Matt. Matt was Emily, Matt laughed and seemed to get
happier when crazy, awful shit was happening, Matt didn't seem bothered by
slavery much at all, Matt was angry at other slaves for fighting back and
defended his fucking torturers and--
And deserved compassion and help.
Foggy closed his eyes, and vowed to give Anna somethingspectacular for Mother's
Day for this. God. This was helping him so much.
The only problem with the book and its advice was that Matt's trauma--slavery--
wasn't over. He wasn't free yet. But Foggy had the strange, sinking feeling
that he wasn't being quite so uncomplicatedly good to Matt by letting him act
as free as Foggy wanted him to be in this house; he had the suspicion that it
wasn't helping Matt fight his PTSD so much as get to experience it.
What should he do? How should he cope with it? What else could Foggy possibly
do?
Foggy closed his eyes, vowed to ask Miriam about that, and went back to
reading. This was some fascinating stuff.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from "Gone Girl".
     The quote about severe PTSD being as disabling as paraplegia comes
     from this: http://clinicaldepressiondormparty.tumblr.com/post/
     114429976552/into-the-weeds-floorbananamotherfucker
     The techniques Matt is using to reinforce his brainwashing come from
     here: http://www.elliebeanz.net/post/136416372533/
     yourpersonalcheerleader-how-to-silence-negative and http://
     safeword.tumblr.com/post/133510949297/shesgotwhatittakes-
     shesgotwhatittakes-while.
     The cuffs are modeled off of these: http://www.amazon.com/Black-
     Locking-Bondage-Wrist-Cuffs/dp/B007W52ACW
***** if I love you, is that a fact or a weapon? *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
     Trigger warning: in this chapter, Foggy has an intense fantasy of
     being violently raped by Matt in revenge. It's over pretty quickly,
     but still.
See the end of the chapter for more notes


Bee sat heavily on their bed, clutching Anthea to their chest.

That was a weird sentence to even think--I sat on my bed. My bed, Bee's bed,
Bee Elle's bed, Barely Legal's bed. Mine had suddenly acquired a new heavy
significant, a weight to it, a heft--because it, along with their hair, teddy
bear, and clothes, was really theirs, and not something that for the grace of
their owner they didn't possess. Nobody had allowed them to go out and build
Anthea; nobody had given permission, and nobody could take her away.

It was strange. Everything was strange; emailing the Martie woman and having
her actually be kind and helpful, arranging for an interpreter and better ways
for them to voice via tablet; emailing the housing director at Martie's
insistence and having him cheerfully arrange for Bee to live in a single room
by themselves; quietly asking Foggy if Matt could come help them move in and
having him help out too, cheerily, as if that was normal.

Being a free person felt like the most dizzying mixture of terrifying,
wonderful, and utterly absurd. Bee felt like their whole world had been yanked
away and suddenly they were in a new one. A better one, to be sure, except--

Except Matt's careful little bits of distance. Except they had no hands to fall
into, no surety. And now they were abruptly abnormal, and they felt the gulf
between everyone else and them as keenly as they felt the biting cold outside.

No other free people they knew had grown up never sleeping in a bed--either on
floors or in cages or on pads that smelt of sweat. No other free people they
knew understood the weight of a metal collar or how a fabric one could be sweet
by comparison. No other free people they knew knew, intimately, the pounding
headaches and hunger that was your stomach eating itself and the constant cold.
The way you started to like it after a while, the way you almost didn't want to
be free when that was all you ever knew.

Bee looked at Matt and sometimes felt sickly relieved that their primary owners
had been so violent, so cruel. Otherwise they might have ended up like him,
fighting Foggy every step of the way to being just that tiniest touch freer.

Not that Matt was in any way free--they knew better than that. But they'd never
been so successfully convinced of all the rhetoric of happiness in slavery.
Every time the prospect of an owner loomed over their heads like a giant,
omnipotent and all-powerful, they could remember how that fucking dick had come
off in their mouth, how they had fought back without even meaning to and won.

That little bit of defiance hadn't been fixable; it didn't matter that they
chopped off Bee's tongue and yanked out all their teeth and whipped them. They
couldn't take back that truth or stitch back on Max Hardcore's dick.

It had been a powerful, formative experience.

They sat on their bed, and felt an enroaching terror.

[What if I can't leave?]

Matt blinked in that surprised way he did and turned his head. [Why wouldn't
you be able to leave?]

[I get--you know how you feel when you think you might get whipped? Like that,
except, I feel like that when I think about...leaving the room.]

Matt tilted his head thoughtfully. [Take the teddy bear with you.]

Bee reeled. What? [What?]

[That's half the point, isn't it? To relieve anxiety?]

[I can't do that!]

[I read the entire student handbook, both versions. Neither of them mention
stuffed animals at any point. Put her in the backpack if that's necessary.]

Bee gaped at him for a minute. [People will stare.]

Matt shrugged. [Winter used to say that lambs always stared at lions, but that
hardly makes them important. You're free, you don't have to care about it
anymore.]

Bee looked at him, blankly, and then finally said, knocking against the
bedpost, [Why is it that you have undefeatable learned helplessness for
yourself and an absolutely undefeatable lack of learned helplessness for me?]

Matt's brow furrowed. [I've learned the limits of my station. They're different
than yours.]

Bee groaned--as much as they could groan, really--and flopped backwards. Matt
was impossible sometimes. [Anyway, are you prepared for the semester?]

Matt smiled briefly. [Foggy told me what he wants, did I tell you? And it's all
mostly good things. So I'm ready. Bring it on.]

Bee smirked. [Glad one of us has their shit together.]

Matt snorted. [I believe in you,] he informed them. [You'll figure it out. You
got mostly Bs and Cs, right, last semester? While recovering from severe
starvation?]

Bee laughed. [Yeah, you're right. At least this time I don't look like a death
camp survivor.]

Matt smiled, and Bee impulsively sat up, stood up, and hugged him. [I gotta ask
Foggy if I can be your handler or whatever,] they said. [Actually, let me do
that now.]

Foggy, who was on his phone texting someone--possibly the Marci bitch from last
semester--as Bee fetched their tablet and started to type with the new program.
It had different voices, and Bee had picked a pretty nice-sounding one. It was
more natural. "Hey, Foggy. Can you please write the thing that would let me be
alone with Matt so that we could study together when you don't have class with
us sometimes?"

"What? Yeah. Um. What do I say for it?" he asked, patting around for pen and
paper. Bee handed him both from their desk.

(Their desk. It was astonishing.)

"The script is usually 'I appoint so-and-so as a temporary handler for such-
and-such, and thus grant to them the authority over slave number something-or-
other during periods without my direct supervision'," Matt murmured. "And then
the handler has partial culpability in any illegal actions of the slave, unlike
how an owner is not culpable except in special cases."

"Oh," Foggy said. "Alright. Let me write that--and, okay, alright. Got that.
Here you go," he said, handing it to Bee. "And, um, I trust you, Matt, alright?
Don't worry."

Matt smiled and nodded. Bee watched carefully; Foggy was a bit like a large
tiger. He was a very cuddly one to be sure, and certainly benevolent so far,
and he loved Matt.

But that didn't mean he couldn't hurt someone else--he'd gotten someone fired
before and a different someone expelled from Columbia--and it didn't mean he
wouldn't, possibly, realize he preferred Matt all to himself. Bee would have to
be very careful.

But they could do it. And they would do it, and do better this semester than
scrape a C, and they would--

(Maybe.)

Find some way to get involved with whatever was happening. Help more slaves be
freed. Help them get to this land of breathless air, this place of a sudden
openness and a roof so big because it wasn't the roof of a cage but the sky.
Help them, and repay Matt.

(Their friend.)

--

Marci sighed as she lay back, her face-mask drying still.

She wasn't stupid, and she wasn't crazy. She knew shit was going down, that her
world was changing, and that she had to change with it.

But she didn't want to, and that was the crux of it. Marci Stahl knew herself,
examined herself ruthlessly, and every time anyone asked her, every time she
woke up in the middle of the night, shocked at how little she was doing to set
the world right, she knew why.

Because she didn't want to. She knew she should be doing something, anything,
to free people, to fight for rights or--failing that--protection. Regulations,
if not freedom.

But the problem was that first of all, Marci didn't think she of all people was
terribly well-suited to it. She wasn't kind, or sweet, or nice. She couldn't
pretend to have always cared about slaves, because for the most part she hadn't
and still didn't. She couldn't be alright with abandoning her entire world and
every bit of cash and all these good things--face masks and shoes and bags.

And it wasn't really about the shoes, though Marci would murder for her
Louboutins. It was about the fact that she didn't want to live a hard, possibly
fruitless life, staring down the barrel of a gun when it hadn't even been
fucking pointed at her in the first place. She didn't know if she could make a
difference, and she'd rather just enjoy the world while it came crashing down.

But she knew slaves were people--that was obvious. There was absolutely no
reason why a person would suddenly not be a person just because the law said
so. Marci grew up around lawyers--divorce, criminal, slavery and otherwise.
Half her family was lawyers, and she'd known before she could talk, almost,
that the law was like smoke, not stone. It was so far from truth and immutable
justice that it was absurd.

And slaves weren't treated well, either. None of the propaganda about slaves
deserving everything they got and being all happy and smiling was true. Marci's
parents hadn't hit their slaves themselves--not most of the time--but when
she'd been thirteen and curious and stupid, she'd called one of the trainers
Dad sent his slaves off to every month to punish for him, and inquired as to
the methods.

The answer--small electric shocks and rape and Chinese water torture and
forcing them to write lines until their fingers bled--had cemented all her
childhood suspicions. And now, Marci's old nanny had been one of the ones to
cut her throat in Times Square, and Marci knew that this was all wrong,
everything was fucked up.

The world had to go. But Marci loved her world, loved the vicious success and
Columbia University and the prospect of getting to go out and fight and win and
be respected and rich and powerful, and she couldn't let go of it. Not yet.

She sighed, and texted Foggy, asking him if he wanted to go out for drinks on
the first Friday of the semester. Foggy-bear was funny, and fun to wind up, and
once you provoked him just right he was a complete dick and she loved it; it
was easy to tweak his nose a bit, and he made the most hilarious faces, and he
was hopelessly affectionate with his Matt. Half of his drunken rants were about
how Matt was perfect, Matt was the greatest, he wanted to suck Matt's dick.

Marci wrinkled her nose. She never had had sex with a slave, and never would.
The idea that someone needed to be bought and trained to want her was patently
offensive. She refused to participate in that game.
--
 
 
 
Foggy paced around in Miriam's office.
"I need to--I guess what I want today is, like, for you to tell me if this is
crazy," he said. "I want to--I read this book, alright, that Anna gave me for
Christmas, it's a book--it's called A Brief Exploration of Post-Traumatic
Stress Disorder or something, and it's about PTSD and I--I guess what I want to
know is, am I a bad person for going okay, Matt's fucked up, this whole
situation is fucked up, I can't make him better, should I just do whatever
works? Should I just--I dunno, get on his level more often? Or is that me being
selfish and lazy and awful? I don't know."
Miriam looked at him calmly and sat back, folding her legs. "Foggy," she said
gently. "I've found that with many of my clients, the principle of 'whatever
works' is quite necessary to cope with life. The point of therapy--and of
coping mechanisms in general--is not to help you stick to an arbitrary standard
of 'normal'. It is to help you function better and achieve more goals. That is
all."
Foggy sighed and sat down. "I just--I love Matt so goddamn much," he said,
heartfelt. "I love him. I want him to just be happy and I want to be able to
tell him I love him and oh god does that make me a bad person? Because he can't
deal with it in those words?"
"Have you tried synonyms? Or saying in more detail what that means to you, that
you love him? What does it mean to you, Foggy?" Miriam asked. "But--excuse me--
I don't think it makes you a bad person to want someone you love to be happy.
We all have selfish desires often; they don't make us bad people."
Foggy nodded, but his heart wasn't in it. He felt dirty, sometimes, for how he
wanted Matt, how he was going to go home and fuck himself with the vibrator
after therapy and probably come to Matt's face in his head. But he still
wouldn't--couldn't--have sex with Matt, or mention it to him.
But she'd asked a question. Foggy thought about how to put it in something that
wasn't restless babble, and said, slowly, words slotting precisely into place,
"It means I choose him. If that means that it's hard, then I choose for things
to be hard. If it means that I have to compromise and do some crazy shit, I
choose to compromise and do--whatever works. If it means I have to do this
forever--fight the world and work with him and get it wrong and apologize with
strawberries and jerk off instead of getting laid and what the fuck else--
I choose that. I choose him. That's what I mean."
Miriam looked at him, her face so neutral. "Have you tried telling Matt that?"
Foggy laughed. "No, but--I'll try other synonyms. Maybe. He did like it when I
said he was irreplaceable." Because people were, that was elementary.
--
After therapy, Foggy went home, started the shower and his laptop and phone
each playing loud-ish music in different rooms, checked in that Matt was at
Bee's dorm--safe and sound and Foggy had triple-checked and yes, now that they
had the piece of paper, Foggy could legally leave Matt alone with them--and he
unwrapped the vibrator, breathing hard.
It was the quietest model they offered, but it was still fancy: gold and
gleaming, thrusting and vibrating and rotating beads and head. Foggy couldn't
wait.
But even after the stripping and the jacking off and the inserting, starting on
the settings, he wasn't quite--he was still painfully in his body, not his
head, stuck inside his skin and not a fantasy.
Foggy closed his eyes, and immediately Matt came to mind, his beautiful cherry-
jam lips and big brown eyes with their lovely unfocused not-quite-tracking
quality and the way he smiled and--
Matt pinning him down over a desk, snarling--
Foggy gasped, and sank into the fantasy, Matt snarling and hurting him, Matt
bruising him as he slammed his head down into the desk and yanked off Foggy's
pants, Matt overpowering him, Matt's strength and rarely-glimped fury and
elusive physical violence, Matt thrusting into him with barely enough lube,
Matt hissing in his ear do you like that, do you, do you enjoy this, are you so
fucking pathetic that you enjoy me repaying you for what you did to me--
Foggy's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he flicked the button and it
was buzzing thrusting rotating--
Matt biting his neck and fucking him ruthlessly, angrily, hurting him, taking
his sweet revenge, making Foggy cry as he growled at how fucking angry he was
and how he'd do this again and again and again and again, over and over until
finally the fucking score was even--
And Foggy came all over himself, moaning Matt's name.
And then he shakily stood up and took a shower, washed the hell out of the
vibrator, put it away, cleaned the bathroom and shut off the music, and opened
the window to vent out the bedroom. He didn't want anything to smell like sex
and alarm Matt.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from Margaret Atwood's "We Are Hard", here:
     https://readalittlepoetry.wordpress.com/2011/05/11/we-are-hard-by-
     margaret-atwood/
***** how people who never have and almost certainly never will be in that
situation think people who are in that situation should behave *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The next time Matt wakes up hard, it's strange--nobody even has sex with him in
the dream.
In the dream, Foggy's only a little bit different. Matt and him have to go to
some party, and it's a formal party, black-tie and kneeling-slave. And Matt has
to wear the plain black pants and the no-shirt of the usual parties, and
Foggy's never gone, but Matt tells him all the etiquette and Foggy nods. Matt
gets to shower more thoroughly and use those face-masks and even a little
makeup, and he knows he looks good.
And then they go to the party, Matt resting his head on Foggy's lap in the cab,
without even needing a normal collar, because in the dream, Foggy's had him
tattooed, and Matt can smell the ink. It's like wearing a collar forever, it's
like safety and being-kept and perfection all at once. Matt knows that nobody
can take away this collar, and Foggy can't sell him.
It's perfect. Matt rests his head in Foggy's lap and is petted, stroked, and
taken to the party. And Foggy doesn't let anyone touch Matt--not a single soul,
not any curious hand or groping drunken fist. Instead, he keeps Matt in front
of him or cradled into his side, kissing him sweetly every few minutes, his
lips and neck, right on the front of the tattoo collar.
And in the dream, Matt slow-blinks at Foggy every few minutes, letting him know
he's safe and present and aware. Matt whispers in Foggy's ear all the pertinent
details, and kneels at his side whenever Foggy's not having him stand and
plastering himself to Matt's back, a possessive hand at his hip. Foggy shows
him off, and Matt grins with pride.
The whole time, Vivaldi's Seasons plays, but only Spring. There is no
explanation as to why.
They talk, and whenever Foggy needs a graceful exit, Matt tugs on his sleeve
and whispers into his ear and Foggy pretends that Matt's begging for another
little canape, and goes off to find one for him. Matt and Foggy are in on the
joke, the only two there that know their secret code, and it's glorious. Matt
loves it, loves murmuring little insults about everyone there that Foggy hates,
loves making Foggy shake with suppressed laughter.
Matt whispers and people compliment Foggy on his beautiful slave, look at how
well-behaved he is, and Matt adores it, loves being the tiger on the gold
leash. He grins at them and knows he's smarter than them and Foggy is better
than all of them, each and every one.
And at one point they have to eat, there's five courses, and Matt gets to sit
on Foggy's lap like the very best of slaves, the most polished of dolls, and
skillfully play the table like a violin, conducting them with cleverly
disguised satire that makes Foggy cackle at the rich idiots, not with them.
They don't know the difference, but Matt does.
Foggy feeds him like that too, bite after bite, bringing up the soup-spoon, and
all the food is good--caesar salad and amuse of watermelon and cucumber wrapped
in, inexplicably, Iberico bacon, an appetizer portion of peanut satay, filet
mignon with perfectly roasted red potatoes, and then some delicious chocolate
dessert with fourteen fruits that leaves Matt shivering.
Foggy feeds him, and Matt kisses his fingers after every bite, and Foggy smiles
so wide Matt can hear it the whole time.
And then eventually they leave, and it's cold, so Foggy wraps Matt in his
jacket, and they go home, and Matt is allowed to fall into Foggy's bed and be
cuffed there, and snuggles into Foggy's stomach once he changes into pajamas.
Foggy lies there and reads, the way sometimes Winter did, and when he wants
Matt in a different position he just tells him, and Matt does, and Foggy
murmurs good slave and Matt shivers wildly with abandon.
They rest like that, and Matt's almost asleep in the dream when he wakes up in
his bed, hard and aching and half-terrified. What on earth? He hadn't even--
there wasn't even sex in the dream, no hint of it to come, no fear of it even
being a possibility. Who fantasized about that?
Matt got up, and realized that he couldn't reach the shower nor move much
without possibly waking Foggy up, and sighed. He turned over and thought about
first his owners, his most unpredictable owners, about the way Mistress Sharon
had been flatly uncaring as she sent the pet off to be put down, about Master
Robert's stench of slow death and the sound of his machines as Matt lay in his
bed, whipped and beaten after--
After Charlotte. Matt thought about that, and about how one of the baby slaves
he'd help supplement their training had been the morning after first being
used, their sudden silence and the way even their heartbeat was subdued, and
Matt knowing that they were now irrevocably altered, and Matt's erection
shriveled and died.
Matt turned over again to avoid the wet, tear-stained spot on his pillow. He
didn't like it, but what else could he do? He wasn't allowed to masturbate, if
such a thing could even be anything but disgusting.
Matt made himself think about Torts instead. No point wanting what you wouldn't
have.
 
--
 
The first day of classes, Bee woke up at seven sharply, heart pounding. They
couldn't remember the dream after just a few seconds, only that it had been
awful.
They gasped, and made themselves get out of bed and drink one of the cans of
supplement drink they had under their bed. The drink was easier to deal with
that most foods, and had enough calories to make them feel full after just one
can. Though then they'd be hungry again in an hour, which was frustratingly
hard to deal with.
Bee used to be so good at being hungry, and now they were terrible at it.
Freedom did weird things to them.
But it was still better, being able to get back into bed for a little while
before they had to get dressed and go to classes. First, they had to meet the
interpreter Martie had set them up with as a temporary measure, to see if that
or just using text-to-speech was easier for them. It was still better than
having to get up and silently move around and be ready for when your owner woke
up.
Bee sighed, and slumped heavily into their bed, hugging Anthea tight. They were
worried about everything, and it felt almost disrespectful to worry about this
in particular, but they were especially worried that now they didn't have to do
all their homework and focus, now that it wasn't their only refuge, that they
wouldn't have the motivation.
But then again, the idea that slaves needed their owners to motivate them--that
the point of enslavement was to cure societal sloth--was pure bullshit. Their
cunt owners had been lazy, incredibly lazy, having slaves for everything from
making them toast to sucking their clits by forming a seal.
Bee suddenly smirked, imagining the stupid fucking bitch having to figure out
how to jerk off now that she couldn't order her chew-toy to do it for her. They
hoped her disgusting long fingernails would shear that goddamn clit off.
Bee lay in bed, and eventually got dressed, hands shaking. But it was all new
clothes, and no hidden contraptions or welts under the fabrics, and they were
allowed to just put it on and not have to--
Have to, with their fingers, or bending over, or--
Have to do anything else. They didn't have to, and they never would have to
again, because if there was ever another goddamn collar put on their neck they
would slice their own throat and be done with it.
'No more masters for me,' they signed to themselves in their mirror, smiling in
the morning light.
And then, daringly, they signed, 'Live free or die', and finished getting
reading, tucked Anthea in the crook of their arm, and headed off to the
disability services office, an hour before their first class began.
Time to live free.
--
They hit, of course, several speedbumps.
For one thing, almost everyone from last semester stared at them. Not always
with blatant disgust, but contempt and that little curl of pity were almost
worse. A few looked angry, and more than one of the slave-students looked
jealous. Bee made sure to not walk closely to anyone at all.
But then again, nobody could do anything to them with impunity, and Bee marched
into classes and seats (in chairs with desks, and it was so much easier to see
the board!) and out of them, refusing to let these assholes see their terror.
They hugged Anthea as often as they dared, and it helped a lot. She agreed that
they were asswipes who would probably fail out this semester and would
definitely have ended up dead in a month if enslaved.
Their interpreter was nice, if pretty, and didn't seem to mind voicing for Bee
in the slightest. She was a grad student named Trish, with shoulder-length
blonde hair and Bee wondered where she'd heard her voice before. It had to be
somewhere, anyway.
Trish didn't look disgusted or angry or vaguely snotty about Bee, so either she
didn't know that Bee was a slave until so recently, or, impossibly, she didn't
care. Both ideas sounded amazing.
--
And then, after Dr Qasim's class--Legal Proceedings in International Suits--the
professor asked Bee to come with her to her office.
Bee followed, heart pounding, a lump in their throat.
"Sit," Dr Qasim said, smiling. "If you'd like. I just wanted to talk to you for
a minute, see how you're doing. Martie mentioned you were freed, and now you're
living on campus?"
Bee blinked and nodded.
"Well, that's very good to hear. And how are you? Do you like it here, so far?"
Bee tilted their head, and through Trish, they said slowly and carefully, "I
like Columbia. And I like being free. I wish I could help more people, though.
I spent half the break hiding in a bedroom, and I feel like I'm wasting my time
doing nothing. It's bullshit," and then they stopped, not sure why they'd said
it.
Dr Qasim nodded. "Well, political activism is something many people your age
experiment with," she said, smiling.
Bee snorted and without thinking, hands more emphatic, said through Trish
again, "I don't want to go around sucking cunt and kissing dick of ugly rich
people in suits so they can pretend to do something while making things stay
exactly the same. I want more of us to be free. I want Matt to be free."
Dr Qasim tilted her head. "That seems like a solid goal," she offered. "But I
wonder--I've been meaning to talk to Matt myself, but I don't know very much
his situation. Would you let him know that I consider my office a safe space?
And that I'd like to offer my help in any matters of harassment and
discrimination, if they're to occur? I think it might have more weight coming
from you."
Bee blinked and sat back, thinking. Matt probably wouldn't believe it, if only
because Bee didn't believe that either. Not really. Nobody was actually safe in
all situations, and especially not free people who were adults, actual adults.
Wait--shit--
Bee was an adult. Shit.
They shoved that to the back of their brain, something to think about later.
Anyway. Back to the conversation. "I'll tell him that you said that," they said
through Trish, and moved to stand up.
"The offer goes for you as well," Dr Qasim said mildly. "You're one of my
students. I care about your well-being, and if there's anyone on campus who's
not behaving towards you with the decency and civility that they ought to,
please feel free to shoot me or Martie an email. This office is a safe space
for you, too."
Bee blinked back tears, and walked out too fast to say anything. They found the
nearest bathroom and ran in, huddling against the ground, struggling to
breathe.
Why did kindness make them want to burst into tears? Why weren't they just
grateful for it, grabbing it with both hands, shoveling it in their mouth so
fast they almost choked?
They made themselves do the calming thing that Matt did, breathing slowly and
deeply and rhythmically, and eventually looked up from their folded knees and
realized that they had run into the slave bathroom, not the women's.
Fuck. Fuck. Maybe all that shit was right, maybe they wouldn't ever be a free
person for real. Maybe it would always be hard.
Bee stood up slowly on wobbling legs, looked at themselves in the mirror, and
forced themselves to sign out again, 'Live free or die', and then turn and walk
out to meet up with Matt at the library.
Trish left, because it was Bee's last class, but she had stayed to make sure
they were okay. It was the oddest feeling, watching her go.
--
They got the library fine, but Matt wasn't in the usual cranny. Nor was he in
the window-nook, or even in the main area. They frowned, and searched, until
they found the room in the basement stacks, behind piles of dust and dead tree.
The sign above it read "DESIGNATED SLAVE STUDY AREA".
Below it, taped to the arch in comic sans font, were the words, This notice is
to signify that this room is the designated slave study area. Slaves may not
study alone or use any other room unsupervised by their legal owners. Handlers
permissions NOT recognized here. Due to recent problems in obedience, this is a
safety measure. Thank you and have a nice day :):):)
Bee arched an eyebrow. That sounded highly illegal, and definitely not normal.
Handlers' permissions were supposed to be recognized pretty much everywhere,
unless a slave did something violent in public.
But. Well. Alright then. Bee turned to look, and there was Matt, sitting by
himself at a table, head cocked. They turned and strode in confidently, forcing
themselves not to feel bad. Nothing had said that only slaves could sit there,
so fuck that.
[You're working on the new vocab for Torts?] they asked as they put their books
and Anthea down.
Matt nodded. [I'm setting up other notes as well,] he tapped back, and Bee sat
down, ignoring the outraged and jealous and baffled gazes directed at them
both.
Lions and sheep. Lions and sheep, they reminded themselves.
It was almost like last semester as they pulled out their own folders and
started to work. And by the time Matt had to leave and Bee decided to go eat,
they were grinning widely.
Fuck that bullshit. Bee was still motivated, still them, still friends with
Matt. They felt sharper than ever, not having to fight through a haze of fear
and hunger and why bother, I'm never going to be anything but a fucktoy in a
pencil skirt anyway.
And something about Dr Qasim's calm made them curious. Was she involved in
those beautiful, terrifying protests? Could she help Bee free Matt or get
involved?
Bee ate alone, but smiled the entire time. It was so much more peaceful that
way, and when they headed back to their room to curl up under their comforter,
they put off their readings and instead started to research rare cases of
annulled enslavement. Maybe it would always be hard, but that didn't mean it
was impossible or not worth it.
Matt would be free, and Bee and Matt could figure it all out together. Two
heads were better than one.
 
--
 
The start of the semester seemed to go pretty well, in Foggy's opinion.
Apart from that stupid fucking segregated space in the library--which also
seemed to annoy Matt, but not actually upset him--everything was very much
focused on classes. Everyone was busy and buckling down, and he and Matt barely
had enough time to fuck up and upset each other.
Foggy fell into a comfortable rhythm with Matt even with the goddamn chain that
he had to use--locking Matt's ankle into it at night and then unlocking it the
second he woke up--and he only noticed it with a wry little burst of anger now,
instead of the cold rage he'd felt when the law had first been announced.
The first week, when Matt had been clearly itching to go to the gym like he had
so often before, Foggy had found a way to make sure it stayed Matt's thing. He
had to go with him because of those idiotic new martial laws about slaves not
being allowed to go out alone--which were being heavily contested and
challenged, mostly by people who felt it was a huge inconvenience--but the
first time he went, he'd hit the jackpot.
The moment they'd gotten into the gym itself--and the old man who had let them
in had raked over Foggy's form with a dry contempt, but hadn't said anything--
Foggy had found a spot on the floor away from the actual equipment, gotten out
his contract law homework and his laptop, and sat down facing away from Matt.
"So this way, I can't see you, so it's still just your thing," he explained.
Foggy had the feeling that if Matt thought Foggy was watching him, he'd feel
like he had to perform and somehow make punching look sexy, or something, and
that was bullshit. If it was healthy for Foggy to have something that was just
his, it was healthy for Matt to have things that were just his as well, and
Foggy refused to take this away from him, especially seeing as this was clearly
some way that Matt connected to his dad.
Matt had looked startled, and then smiled, and later that night he and Foggy
had ended up falling asleep together in Foggy's bed, cuddled safe and warm.
Foggy had worried for a bit, but Matt did genuinely enjoy it, and nothing bad
happened.
Foggy had had to negotiate with Aunt Jillian for babysitting wages for Matt,
because she had thought that it was ridiculous and miserly of him, but
eventually he'd managed to wrangle a decent amount of money out of her to pay
for the cab and work--she lived far enough away that taking the subway would
frankly be just torture for Matt.
He'd also gotten her to agree to Foggy coming along as well, partially because
he didn't quite trust her anywhere near enough to give some power over Matt,
not since that joke that he knew was just a bad joke but still made his skin
crawl, and partially because watching Matt just relax and be happy and in his
element sounded like Foggy's idea of fun.
(Every time Matt just let himself be happy, Foggy felt like his heart would
burst with joy, like there was birdsong in his bones. Matt when he was happy
was like one of those moments in a movie that felt almost too sappy to be real,
but it still made you smile for hours on end.)
And it was the Saturday before Valentine's Day, February 12th, when things
suddenly stopped going well.
Foggy woke up, frowning, because Matt was hard against his leg, and then Matt's
eyes flew open and he turned white with fear.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from the summary to this fic: http://
     archiveofourown.org/works/200534
***** thank you for your interest in a life free of pain. we're not accepting
applications at this time. *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt froze.
He couldn't--he wanted to run away, to scramble out of his owner's bed, to hide
on the floor or be allowed to sink into cold water or be back in the bed Foggy
let him have, to shiver under blankets or an icy spray--but he couldn't move,
he couldn't hide, he couldn't lie to Foggy or pretend this infraction hadn't
been happening.
"Matt?" Foggy asked, sleepy. "You look scared. What's wrong?"
Matt swallowed. "I'm sorry," he whispered, regret and fear mingling in his
voice. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to, I'm so sorry, please punish me, Foggy,
I'm sorry--"
Foggy abruptly sat up, pulling Matt up with him. "Hey, no, what--what are you
talking about? What are you sorry for?"
Matt took a deep breath. He had to be honest. He owed it to Foggy. "I know I'm
not supposed to get hard," he whispered, adrenaline flooding his senses, him
stinking of fear already. "I didn't--it was a dream--it's been happening, just
dreams, and I promise I didn't do anything but get rid of them, and I know I
should have told you, and I'm sorry," he said, closing his eyes and baring his
throat for a hand to choke him.
There was a pause. Then Foggy said, one hand coming to Matt's hair, "Hey, its--
you're sorry for getting an erection?"
Matt nodded. He was; he was repugnant, pungent, overripe fruit, disgusting and
dirty and worthless.
"Because--because you think--why do you think you're not supposed to?"
Matt's eyes opened again, and he plucked at the words. "It's only--I'm only
supposed to if my owner wants me to, and I've only ever been ordered to get
hard during sex, sometimes," he said, the walls starting to pulsate as memories
scratched at him, dirty fingernails itching at the inside of his skull. "And
you've ordered me to never have sex, so I'm not supposed to."
There was a horrible moment, and Foggy said quietly, "You've never--what? Wait
a--Matt, have you seriously never been allowed to jerk off?"
Matt blinked. Why would he be? "No, Foggy," he said. "Unless--some of my owners
wanted me to orgasm after sex, or during, but not--not by myself, no."
Foggy's hands came down and Matt braced himself for the blow, but all Foggy did
was pull him close and tight. "Shit," Foggy said, wondering. "Shit. And I'm
guessing any, uh, wet dreams would've--?"
Matt cringed and curled up. "Only twice," he told Foggy, a little desperately,
wanting to redeem his reputation. He wasn't-- "It only took two tries for him
to train it out of me," Matt said, and felt cold all over, sweating.
"Holy fuck," Foggy muttered. "That's--I'm pretty sure that's against the Geneva
Convention or something."
Matt blinked. "The Geneva Convention applies to people, Foggy," he said.
"Shit. Okay, I can't go into that right now, but: Matt, let me just--let me put
it like this, okay? When I said no sex, I didn't mean you couldn't--you can,
um, you can masturbate whenever, alright? As long as it's not all the time. Or
in front of people. And it's not--it's not sex unless it involves at least two
people, okay? And you count as people. I'm not mad at you for having a normal
body thing, alright? That's just--people with dicks, they get stuff like this.
That's just biology. Okay? Does that make sense?"
Matt shook his head. He understood the words, and the sentences, but not--he
didn't know why. Why would he be allowed it? Did Foggy want him to do that
simply because it would prevent the dreams from happening? Did Foggy like the
idea of Matt becoming more and more desperate, becoming the slut he was afraid
he always was inside--
Matt realized his heart was racing, and his lungs felt tight and tiny, his
diaphragm heaving and the walls seemed to be collapsing, he could smell the
edges of Mistress Sharon's perfume and the wet, naked, damp smell of the pet
after it'd showered, feel something pressing into him like his owners' fingers
and cocks and the veterinarian's speculums had--
And Foggy was holding him and one hand was rubbing Matt's back, the other was
worriedly touching his face, and he was saying as if he was underwater, "Matt?
Matt? Matt, hey, it's okay, Matt, Matt say something--"
Direct order. Matt, starting to float away from his body, connected to it only
where Foggy's hands were touching him, said with a slur, "Something, Foggy."
Foggy gave a weak laugh. "Matt," he said, and ran a hand through his hair.
"Matt, it's--hey, I know you're freaking out, but--I promise, you're not
breaking a rule, okay? I am telling you right now you have permission to, to
jerk off or not. You don't have to. And you never have to tell me if you do or
you don't, but you can if you want to. Okay? That make more sense?"
Matt turned it over and over in his head. "No, Foggy, I'm sorry," he said,
unable to convincingly say yes to anything right there and then.
"Okay," Foggy said, and reached for the water bottle he kept on his dresser. He
drank from it and stroked over Matt's hair again. "What doesn't make sense?"
"I don't understand why--how it would benefit you," Matt said, feeling too numb
to think better of the question. He was floating, apart from his body,
listening in as if it was between a different slave and a different owner.
Foggy went silent for a long minute. Then he said, "I want you to be happy, and
to--this might sound sappy, but--I want you to be able to do anything that
might make you happy, and I want--it's not fair that you haven't been, that
they didn't let you experience even that. That you haven't--it's criminal, what
kind of shit you've gone through, it's horrible and it's wrong, and I want you
to have anything that could possibly make up for it, and that included being
able to, to jerk off if you want. I know it doesn't, not really, but--I want to
give anything I can to you. Does that explain it?"
Matt thought, a little hysterically, that that sounded like a confession of
love. But it couldn't be. "Yes, Foggy," he said instead. "I'm allowed to
masturbate to--am I allowed to orgasm, sorry, Foggy?"
"What? Yeah. What..else would you do, then?" Foggy asked.
"Thank you," Matt murmured, and he twisted and arched his back to kiss Foggy's
hand, the one that had been carding through his hair.
Foggy smiled, and kissed Matt's forehead, making him shiver and come back into
his body against his will. "It's okay," he said. "You're, um. Did you want to
shower?"
Matt thought about it, and realized he was soaked in cold sweat, and probably
too disgusting to touch. He nodded.
"Okay, then, ugh, okay, light and let's get that cuff off, and I can make us
tea or something, it's super late," Foggy said, twisting and clicking on what
was presumably the light.
Matt felt abruptly guilty. "I'm sorry, Foggy, I didn't mean to wake you up," he
murmured, hanging his head. He wasn't supposed to do this.
"Shh, it's fine, shit happens," Foggy said, sounding sincerely calm. "It's a
Saturday night--or, I guess, it's Sunday morning. We can sleep in."
Matt nodded, and shuffled off to the shower, turning the water to cool before
he even stepped in.
But as he scrubbed at his skin, trying to get the stains off, he wondered. If
he was allowed to masturbate to orgasm, and it would stop the dreams that left
him hard--
(This one hadn't even had any sex, just kissing, just Matt and Foggy giggling
and kissing, lying on Foggy's bed, under blankets, kissing and Foggy stroking
his hair and calling him good and precious and perfect, the best slave in the
world, and Matt making Foggy laugh, why had he gotten hard from that, Matt
didn't understand--)
Then he ought to try.
Matt turned the water to warm, braced himself against the wall, and gave
himself to the count of three to start trying it.
One, two, three--
 
--
 
He first tried to do the same handjob technique, but on himself, and violently
flinched backwards into the shower wall. No. That felt--disgusting, wrong, bad,
not allowed--and Matt shook and gathered himself.
Try again. The mind controls the body.
He closed his eyes and reminded himself that he needed to give this an honest
effort, that if he could desensitize himself to it enough to like it then Foggy
would be happier, that he owed his owner so much.
(And a very small part of himself, selfish and weak, was curious. What if he
started to like it? Wouldn't that be beneficial if he was resold?)
But maybe--Matt reached for the bottle of conditioner, sat down in the spray,
and folded one leg over his head, putting his ankle behind his ears, and slid
one finger in.
He wriggled experimentally, and moved it towards the prostate, and made a noise
of tiny surprise when he found it and for once it didn't feel like--
(Hands holding him down, counting the threads in the sheets, wondering when it
would be over, trying to breathe deeply through his nose while being choked,
resisting the urge to sigh in boredom, counting down from ten to one over and
over again--)
It felt, in fact, sort of...Matt forced himself to relax, to loosen his limbs,
remember that he was being good, that Foggy had explicitly allowed this, no
matter how bizarre it was, and once he did, it felt...not bad. Not like food
after hunger, but not so awful.
It wasn't as bad as he had been afraid it was. Matt tried another finger,
breathing in as he pushed, and then tried not just pressing on but rubbing that
spot and it was like sparks of electricity behind his eyelids.
But that by itself wasn't enough, Matt was still only half-hard with the piece
of his body he loathed.
Matt breathed in, and thought about the dreams as he forced his fingers to rub
and twist and move, starting to clench around them as he thought about lying
under Foggy's covers, giggling and making Foggy laugh and being petted, called
good and perfect and precious, about sitting on Foggy's lap and at his feet and
being handfed still-bloody steak, the faintest dusting of rosemary on his lips
as he kissed Foggy's fingers, about being kissed and tied up and what if one
day Foggy used him again but Matt didn't have to perform, didn't have to even
smile, and afterwards there were strawberries--
Matt bent over, and with a muffled, tiny noise of shocked surprise, he came.
It felt, bizarrely enough, better than any other orgasm, much better. Those had
been...specific, genital-centered sensations. This felt like being allowed to
collapse onto a mattress after having to hold a stress position for a long
time. This felt like a weight was off his ribs without even realizing it.
Matt washed himself off, surprised at himself, and left the shower. He found
new pajamas and as he pulled them on, Foggy sitting up in bed again, he started
to shiver and shake and breathe rapidly without knowing it.
"Matt? Hey? Are you okay?"
Matt licked his lips. "I'm okay, Foggy," he said, trying to calm down.
"Uh, not to--Matt, you're hyperventilating, that's clearly not okay," Foggy
said, and slipped out of the covers. "Matt, shit, are you--what happened?"
Matt leaned against him, selfish and weak but wanting so bad. I was so good for
you, I did it for you, please be happy with me.
"I did it for you," Matt murmured. "I tried it--and it wasn't--once, when we
were talking about Oscar Wilde, she, she mentioned that a quote of his wasn't
quite correct."
Foggy made a quiet encouraging noise and hugged Matt tighter.
"She said--well, the quote was, everything is about sex except for sex. Sex is
about power--and she said that that was true for free people, but for slaves,
everything is about sex except for sex. Sex is about violence. And I know I'm
meant to absorb violence, but--"
Foggy had gone stiff and angry, so Matt hurriedly continued. "I think she was
wrong," he said, and one hand gripped Foggy's pajama-shirt. "I think--it wasn't
bad? I didn't--I didn't hate it," he confessed, and nuzzled his face into his
owner's neck, shaking.
"That's--good, I guess," Foggy said after a minute. "And that quote is
bullshit. I mean--Matt--I don't want to, um, invalidate your feelings. But. Not
everything is about sex. And sex isn't--okay, it kind of is--but it's not
supposed to be about power, or violence. It's like, I dunno, any other game.
It's supposed to be just fun and feeling close and intimate and loving and all
that mushy stuff. That's what sex is about."
Matt gave a hysterical little laugh, still gasping out breaths, his heartbeat
racing as if he'd gotten an organ donation from a hummingbird.
"What?"
"You're amazing," Matt wheezed, trying to not lose himself completely. "You
really--you let me have, have an orgasm, and I don't even deserve it--"
"What the fuck--Matt, okay, if you think that I get to decide what you deserve,
then, then here's my two cents on that, alright? My opinion is that you deserve
literally everything good. I don't care what it is, if it doesn't hurt you and
you want it, you deserve it. Orgasms are one of those things."
Matt made another incoherent sound and hid his face in Foggy's neck.
"Hey, shh, let's--this is uncomfortable, let's lie down. Did you want to go to
your bed, or mine? Both are okay."
Matt bit his lip. "Yours, please, Foggy?" he whispered. He wanted sex firmly
away from the sweet little sanctuary-bed that Foggy allowed him.
"Sure. And you--Matt, you're freezing, jesus. Let me get you the heated blanket
too," and before Matt knew what was happening, he was lying in Foggy's bed
under the covers, and was being draped in the heavy electric blanket and there
was the hum of it being turned on and heating up.
"Thank you," Matt whispered, and kissed both of Foggy's hands, seven times
each.
"You're welcome," Foggy said, and sat back down in his bed as well, moving
Matt's head so it was on his pillow, facing Foggy. Matt would have whimpered,
except he knew better and as pathetic as he was being, he wasn't going to ruin
his resolve and be even moreso.
"She was wrong, though," Matt said quietly, wonderingly. In awe. "I don't--it
wasn't disgusting this time. Not really."
Foggy stroked hair out of his face. "It's not supposed to be," he said. "And
you don't have to, okay? You don't have to, and especially not for me. Let it
be a thing just for you."
Matt trembled. It wouldn't be, couldn't, because then he'd be a slut, and the
thought sent him into spasms of terror all over again, everything pulsating and
reality melting and twisting.
"Shit, Matt--Matt? Matt!" And that last was a command, and Matt snapped back
into the present as much as he was able.
"Foggy?" he tried, hoping.
"Yeah, shit--Matt, where did you go? What--what about what I said freaked you
out?"
Matt swallowed. "If I want it, I'm a slut," he explained, cringing, wanting to
cry.
Foggy's heartbeat turned from worried to angry, volcanic, enraged. "What the
fuck? Who the hell told you you were a slut?"
"Mistress Sharon," Matt tried to appease him. Among others, she had, often.
"The one who had the little mini-court-case between you and that guy over him
wanting to rape you in addition to her?"
Well, no, but Matt nodded.
"Oh, jesus," Foggy muttered. "Okay, first of all, fuck her and I hope she
fucking burns in hell. Even though there isn't a hell. Though now I've started
to think there should be, just for people like her.
"Anyway, second of all, 'slut' is not a real thing, okay? That is not a
legitimate category. Nobody is a slut. That is one of those words made up
specifically to demean, degrade, dehumanize and control people who aren't
having the most boring, soul-suckingly awful Puritain missionary heterosexual
just-for-babies sex. It doesn't mean anything.
"And third of all, even if it was a thing, you are not a slut, alright? You are
the opposite of a slut. And that doesn't change just because you have a sex
drive, like the overwhelming majority of people in the world. Like, some people
don't ever want sex and that's fine, but you do and that's also fine. That
doesn't mean you're a slut or that I have to have sex with you or that you're,
you, or that you wanted sex any of the other times. That is all okay. Got it,
Matt?"
Matt nodded, slightly stunned. He appreciated it when Foggy gave him his
opinions. It helped him understand his owner.
"Good. Okay. Now you're still sort of--can you tell me two things I can do to
make you feel better right now, and one to do later? Just three things that
would make you feel better, and safe, or as close to it as you can feel."
Matt weighed his options. He nodded.
"Okay, then the thing for later first. What's that?"
Matt swallowed, and gambled. Foggy was the safest bet there was. "Some collars
come with customizable clasps, or tags," he said very, very quietly. "I, I
liked it when I had those," he said, trying to not be greedy but hint at it all
the same."
"You want me to get you a thing, with what, my name and stuff on it?"
Matt nodded. "The tags usually have the slaves' use-name, and number, and the
owners' name and phone number, just in case," he elaborated.
"Okay. I'll look into that. Then the two things for right now?"
"I--please, can, tell me I'm good? That that was allowed, I'm not breaking the
rules?" Matt begged, curling up slightly. It had felt good and now he felt
dirty and terrified and in so much trouble, so out of bounds, like he was about
to be whipped or sent back any second.
"Oh, Matt," Foggy murmured, and stroked more of his still-wet hair. "Okay.
You're good, okay? You're being good. Really good. Super good. The most good
ever. You're good, you're a good..."
Matt waited to hear good boy.
"Good Matt," Foggy said decisively after a second, and that felt just as nice,
if not better. "Good Matt. Thank you. And then the other thing?"
"Kiss me, Foggy?" Matt asked, hoping so hard--
And there it was, a kiss right on his lips. "Good Matt," Foggy murmured.
"You're so good. Thank you for telling me those things, alright? Now I can help
you feel better. Thank you. I appreciate you doing things like that, so we can
communicate better. And then I can just do whatever works."
Matt smiled, and was kissed again and again, held and stroked and petted
gently, hugged and squeezed and cuddled, and Foggy said over and over again how
good Matt was, how he was priceless and irreplaceable, how he was important and
valuable and good. That that was allowed, it was all okay within the rules,
that he hadn't been bad.
The fear eased slowly, and Foggy's words helped as well--as much as they
applied solely to people, it showed very starkly that Foggy did not think he
was a slut, that was not a danger Matt was facing.
"And hey, Matt?" Foggy said at one point. "I meant it when I said you didn't
have to do this. You don't have to ever again, or tell me about it, or if you
do try it and decide it's not your thing, that's okay, or if you try it and
decide you like it, that's also okay. No sex and no punishments. I promise."
Matt nodded, and was kissed again and called good Matt, and eventually drifted
back into sleep, dreaming of walking down a road and finding a large crack in
the summer asphalt, and if there was a crack just right there in the foundation
of the earth, where else would they start to show up?
--
Foggy was just glad Matt had calmed down eventually.
He'd been freaked out, but apparently being so tired he couldn't carefully
choose words helped. That, and he'd rehearsed what to say for Matt's next
freak-out, and had decided to ask Matt when he had to chance about what would
calm him down, because clearly Foggy wasn't good enough at it yet.
But tonight he thought he'd managed okay. And even though Matt had ended up
having a bad panic attack, he'd still been mostly present, and he'd said he'd
liked it, hadn't he?
Well, he'd said it wasn't disgusting, which was the faintest ringing
endorsement he'd ever heard for jacking off, but coming from Matt, that was
almost dirty talk.
Foggy kept on hugging Matt, and moved to cuff his ankle. He hadn't before,
because of obvious fears, but soon he'd fall back asleep again too, and he
didn't want to take the chance that they wouldn't do it the sole night they
were spied on, or something.
He closed his eyes and tried to breathe in slowly. He'd tried to make it clear
to Matt that this was a free choice, but something about Matt's stubbornness in
doing it for Foggy felt suspiciously like Matt was trying to avoid
acknowledging his own sex drive. It was the 'slut' comment that sparked the
thought, and maybe it was totally wrong, but Foggy had done all he could do
that day.
He fell asleep, and dreamed about making a blanket fort with Matt inside and
never, ever coming back out.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from a Night Vale proverb: "Thank you for your
     interest in a life free of pain. We're not accepting applications at
     this time. Please try again. And again. And again. And again. And
     again. And again. And again. And again."
***** may you think the worst is over; you’ve survived, and may still win. then
may the door open once more, and let me in. *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
     Strong trigger warnings for self-loathing, suicide as political
     protest, immolation, horror, murder/violence, mentions of child
     sexual abuse and rape.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
 
 
Matt feels very, very strange the next morning.
He wakes up uncuffed, and Foggy's sitting up in bed, on his laptop, one hand on
Matt's chest. He's careful to make a show of fluttering his eyelashes, of
pouting his lips, and waking up pretty.
"Good morning," Foggy says brightly. "How're you feeling?"
"Good, Foggy," Matt says, and stretches, and waits. He's going to be very, very
careful, and very ready. Since last night, he's put himself into something of a
corner, and needs to see what Foggy's going to do now.
"So, just to clarify," Foggy says, "I woke up, and I thought about it, and I
remembered one of the things I ended up doing with my roommates last year was
making an explicit contract of what we said was okay and what wasn't."
"Slaves can't sign contracts," Matt says without even thinking about it. He
waits.
"Yeah, I kinda had the feeling you'd say that," Foggy says, and there's the
sound of more typing. "So instead it's just a list of rules. For both of us.
I'm trying to put in everything that's needed, just so that you can--both of us
can--refer back to it when we need to. And one of them is that we can both
alter this agreement after discussing it, so that as time goes on, we can adapt
to new kinds of life circumstances."
Matt blinks, and starts to slowly sit up, a light filling him. That's--it's
beautiful. That's wonderful.
"Thank you, Foggy," he says, putting all the blooming gratefulness he feels
into it. "That's--thank you so much."
"No problem. I made coffee," Foggy says, and Matt shifts to get it after
happily kissing Foggy's hands. He goes and then decides, while he's there, to
make some sort of huevos rancheros; they've got flour tortillas, salsa,
guacamole, and eggs. It'll be delicious.
It is, and Foggy smiles at Matt, and then Matt reads over the rules with a
furrowed brow, Foggy having it on a shared googledoc.
It starts with the household chores; the cooking is delegated to Matt, and so
is cleaning the stove and the counters. But cleaning out the fridge, the
microwave, and cleaning the hallway, bathroom, living room, bedroom floor and
taking out the trash are all put down as Foggy's jobs. Foggy's put, under the
rules, that Matt's allowed to do what he wants with his body, except starve it,
but he's allowed to eat as much or as little as makes him full. It states
further that Matt is 100% allowed to masturbate or not, to refuse any form of
touch or object to sleeping in Foggy's bed, being kissed or hugged, and even
lie to Foggy.
There's rules that say that Matt is obligated to defend himself against sex,
unwanted contact, and violence from everyone, including Foggy. That say that
Matt is allowed to do 'anything and everything' to make him feel or be safer.
That he's allowed to withhold any form of information from even Foggy that he
chooses, except for if he needs medical care.
The rules specify that Matt's allowed anything he wants, as long as it's not
illegal and not harmful to him. That Foggy, as well as everyone else, is not
allowed to have sex with him, and that he never owes Foggy anything.
Matt reads it incredulously over the fried eggs, tortillas, salsa and
guacamole. Then he reads it again.
"Got any thoughts?" Foggy asks.
"I--there's--that's too much work for you," Matt blurts out. "Way too much. I
can more than handle it--"
"Yeah, but it makes me feel like shit that you're doing way more than your fair
share," Foggy says calmly. "And besides, we've both got all sorts of shit to do
constantly. It'll be good to have something to drag me out of constant
studying."
That's not convincing, but Matt now can't argue further. He braces himself to
feel more and more guilty as time goes on and debts accrue, whether or not
Foggy is cognizant of them.
Then he swallows. "Well, there's also no section on punishment."
There's a pause. "Yeah, I figured we both need to talk that over first.
Because, Matt--okay, first of all, when I say I don't want to ever punish you,
how much do you believe me?"
Matt blinks. What? Suddenly, he feels tight, constricted, bound, because
there's no good answer to that question--
"Shit. No, that was horribly phrased, let me try again. How possible does a
world where no matter what you do, nobody ever punishes you sound?"
"Impossible, Foggy," Matt answers.
Foggy sucks in a sharp breath. "Okay. Then let me see. Alright. Bee, um, told
me that you'd prefer something, uh, that the inconsistency of the two times
that they think that I punished you bothers you. I'm pretty sure I know what
the first time is that they're referring to. But I don't know what the second
that you're referring to is."
Matt blinks. He doesn't--? "The second time you punished me was when you, when
I had earned being dragged to the therapists' office and earned being publicly
humiliated," Matt says, tensing, but he thinks the honesty will help him.
And it does; Foggy's breathing goes sharp again, and then he hastily says,
"Okay, wow, um. Shit. I hadn't quite thought about it like that, but I guess--
goddamnit!"
Matt flinches and can't catch it, and Foggy must see because then he stops and
moderates his tone. "Sorry. Matt, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you feel
humiliated, and you're right, I shouldn't have yelled at you or, or dealt with
that situation like I did."
Matt feels a flicker of annoyance; that's not what he said at all. He knows he
earned it, upsetting Foggy to that degree.
"But--alright, that doesn't make much of a difference, but I hadn't meant it
that way. I was, I guess, just so angry I reacted like I would if Candace or
somebody had been doing that, and not--I didn't take into account your reasons,
or that you're not like other people. So. I think that I want to make it
abundantly clear that there's no punishing. How does that idea make you feel?"
Panicked. Disbelieving. Furious. Matt thinks, and forces himself to assemble an
appropriate response instead. "I--It doesn't seem sustainable," he says slowly,
finding words that are hopefully correctly emotional. "That would make me feel
like...I was on a tightrope between two high-rise buildings, and I wasn't
allowed to know if there was a net beneath me or not. Either way, I could make
it across--but I'd rather know what would happen if I fail."
"How does--what does being punished mean to you? Why--how does the idea of it
never happening, it being in the rules that I'm not allowed to do that to you,
make you feel?"
Matt shifts, and thinks about it. "It--punishment isn't pleasant," he says, to
get that out of the way. "And it makes me feel ashamed to have not been as good
as I was supposed to be." It hurts, this awful, vulnerable honesty.
But he owes Foggy. He does.
"And, and afterwards--it's better afterwards. Because then it can just
be...over. When there's no punishments for a long time, it just builds up and
up and up, and it gets to the point where you're about to be whipped and you
know you deserve it but it's hard to not scream anyway, and--but after it's
over and done, it's over. And you're forgiven."
There's a brief, horrified silence, and then Foggy says thoughtfully, "Thanks
for being honest. I like honesty. So what you're saying is that it would make
you feel..safer, the prospect of, of me giving that to you? Because there's
more than one type of closure, and just being told 'I forgive you' is one of
those ways. Does that sound like it might work for you?"
Matt bites his lip, and shakes his head. No, it doesn't, because that's not how
people treat slaves. Not even Foggy.
"Ok. I can--I'll do whatever works. And so let me think of something. What's--
I want this to be as simple, and quick, I guess, as something like this can be.
What's something that's, um, fast and...does the job?"
"It only takes two or three hard slaps to the face for it to hurt enough to
qualify as a real punishment," Matt murmurs.
"So--you want me to hit you?"
"Ideally, I'd never earn being punished," Matt says. "But we don't live in an
ideal world."
Foggy makes a choked gurgling noise that Matt realizes is a laugh. He smiles
too, and chuckles. "So when I do earn it, I think that would help fit both our
preferences the most," he says, self-consciously. "Of course, there are many
other methods I could recommend--"
"Matt, I--the thing is, I'm not sure--" Foggy chews on his lip. Matt waits
obediently. "I don't know if--what I would want from this is for you to feel
safer. That's the only reason why I would ever, ever do anything like that. So
maybe--what if--what about this, alright? Let me type this up.
"'Punishments...Foggy is not allowed to decide when Matt is...punished...and
can only do so once Matt has explicitly asked for it and Foggy has determined
that it is...after something genuinely harmful to Matt or Foggy has taken
place. It is solely to be a maximum of three...slaps...to the face. Foggy is
not allowed to in any way hurt Matt to the point of needing medical attention,
and afterwards he is obligated to provide intense emotional and physical care
and...rewards.'
"God, talking about myself in the third person sounds so douchey. Alright. That
sound good to you? Remember, you can bring this up for re-negotiation at any
time, for any reason, any part of it you want."
Matt tries to think about how to put it. Eventually he comes up with, "Your
strategy for this seems to be to treat punishment like it's...a necessary evil,
Foggy."
"In my point of view, it is. I don't--all I want out of this is for you to feel
and be safer. That's all."
Matt nods, and then despite himself laughs. "I can't--how are you real?" he
teases, shaking his head and hunching over. "I don't understand how you are--
so--Foggy."
Foggy's audibly grinning. "I think it's called having a conscience," he says,
and Matt laughs more.
"No, it's--you're like a prince from a fairytale," he says, giggling at the
mental thought of a crown atop Foggy's head. It would never fit.
"Yeah?"
Matt nods and smiles. "If you saw me in a glass coffin, you'd probably have
taken me too," he says, and then freezes, wondering if he's overstepped--
And Foggy goes stiff, and then relaxes. "Yeah," he says softly. "I hope I
would. Always rescue you, I mean."
But Schneewittchen was safer in the coffin than anywhere else, Matt doesn't
say. He doesn't say that she was only seven, either, or that the prince marries
her after she wakes up.
Instead he just smiles and goes back to eating. Time to stay in this absurd
castle. Time to flourish. Time to stop questioning Foggy.
 
--
 
 
 
 
Matt bit his lip all throughout Sunday, so much it almost bled.
Even while he did as much of his homework as possible--getting a head start on
two papers, editing his responses, doing readings--he kept coming back to the
simple, shattering truth:
Sex wasn't as bad as Summer had said it was. As she had made it seem.
The thing was, Matt couldn't exactly pinpoint precisely why it had been so much
better. Sure, he hadn't had to touch or even be too aware of his repulsive
genitalia, and there hadn't been any pressure to put on a visual show, and
Foggy had rewarded him afterwards and told him he was good, but that couldn't
be it.
There was something about being allowed to do it alone and solely by choice
that made it so much sweeter, even if there had been a sharp drop afterwards.
Matt had been so stupid and terrified, but that had been without a doubt the
best orgasm of his life.
And normally, he didn't even like orgasms. They were momentary lapses of
control and sensation that left his senses buzzing and his skin too itchy. And
after sex there was always the sensation of a loud, awful, eternal screaming in
the back of his head, a helpless animal noise of pain.
But this hadn't been like that. Something had changed.
Foggy had permanently altered him. It made Matt feel cold, a heavy weight in
his stomach.
He had never wanted to be ruined.
--
Jo sat on the bed, and thought.
"What do you want to have for dinner?" Amelia asked her, and Jo frowned,
thinking it over, holding the stuffed bunny. It's called Bunny. It's one of the
very few things she'd always wanted, and dammit, she needs Bunny to be able to
do this.
"I don't know," Jo said, and automatically cringed at Amelia's gentle sigh.
"Jo, this is going to be extremely important," she said softly. "After this, we
need to make sure your system's clear for Monday. We can't leave behind any
evidence. And now you can order anything you want off that menu. No matter the
expense."
Jo read and re-read it, and then shut it, and took a deep breath. "I want the
steak and fries," she said. "And a cherry coke. With extra ice."
"Alright. Do you want to do the video before or after?"
"Before," Jo said decisively. "I think I should--I want to do it, and then I'll
eat my dinner and then I want to sleep."
"Good. Okay. Let's get the camera all set up," and Jo made herself sit up and
look at it, and then they were recording the first take.
"Hi," she said softly. "I'm Jo. My legal use-name is Josephine, and my number
is 4567888112, but the name that's mine is Jo. If you're watching this video,
I'll be dead for three hours by the time of its release..."
 
--
 
The tag comes in on Monday morning, and after their classes--this semester,
just Legal Ethics and Criminal Law 102 on Mondays--Foggy and Matt head over to
his Aunt Jillian's to have a good day for Matt.
Foggy takes along his laptop, and once they get there and Aunt Jillian hands
Matt Isayeah and a list of feeding and napping times until she gets back that
night, and leaves them with several bottles in the fridge and a cheerful "Don't
kill her!" as she rushes out.
Matt's already smiling, and before too long he's sitting down and telling her
about the readings for the week, happily explaining terms like 'misconduct' and
'conflict of interest' to Foggy's smallest cousin.
It's adorable. Foggy feels useless, so he ends up doing her dishes, cleaning
out her fridge, and then wiping it down once he's chucked the molding food and
washed the Tupperware containers. He also ends up sweeping and mopping the
floor with the available Swiffer, and even hosing down her shower.
It's nothing that weird--Foggy had asked, one time when he and Anna were
visiting her when she was pregnant, if he could clean her house for her. She'd
laughed and said that so long as he didn't break anything, he was always
welcome to, so he doesn't feel like he's invading. It's not as if he goes
anywhere upstairs or even into the basement.
Matt cooes and talks to Isayeah and heats up a bottle of pumped breast milk,
and feeds her, holding her close and smiling so widely Foggy feels like he
could burst. He bounces her and tickles her and plays with her, swaddles her
and carries her around and changes her diaper without complaint. After she
starts crying and doesn't stop for ten minutes, Matt figures out that what she
wants to is to be flexed, gently, and he moves her like she wants until she
sniffles and calms down. Foggy knows this was the right choice.
It's not until almost dinnertime, and Foggy's fished out two labeled Lean
Cuisines for them and Matt's feeding Isayeah again when they find out. It's
because Foggy puts on CNN to watch a little while he eats, and then he's rooted
to the spot in horror.
--
The convention hall is huge. It's concave, swollen, like a pulsing, infected
wound.
Marlene waits. She keeps her head low but her gaze darting. She sees men,
women, mostly men, jeans and trucker caps and muddy shoes and snakeskin cowboy
boots. She sees them all file in, mill about, flick distrustful gazes around.
Then it's time for her to click the button on the overhead as the speaker takes
the podium. She flicks it.
"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen! I'm so happy to be here today, doing the
proceedings. First, let's have some announcements for this years' conference-
slash-retreat. Today we're going to have a convocation speech by on our honored
guest speakers, Corinth Titan, and opening remarks by Alexander Vukagay.
"Later we're going to have panel discussions on, in order: Proper Disposal of
Unwanted Stock at 10, Creative Methods of Enjoyment at 11, Possible Links
Between Protectionists and the Illuminati at 1pm, of course lunch from 11:30 to
12:30, Female Buyers and Society at 2pm, Discriminatory Laws and How to
Sidestep Them at 3pm, History and Socio-Cultural Contexts of Cheap Buying at
4pm, Avoiding HIV and Other Blood-Borne Infections at 5pm, dinner beginning at
5:30pm, and then general socialization onwards, with an all-day open bar.
"Places, panelists, and background for all panels can be found in your provided
brochures. In addition, convention staff and slaves can answer any questions
and assist with any matters of need in the meantime.
"Please remember that some of the panels, especially Creative Methods of
Enjoyment, will have live demonstrations, and members are encouraged to stay
behind splatter zones and wear protective eyegear. If you do want to exercise
your 13th Amendment rights, please do so with caution and use our cleanup crews
afterwards.
"In addition, throughout the retreat-slash-convention there will be vendors of
many toys, tools and slaves to cater to your every need. Feel free to visit
them and use this as a networking opportunity. Now without further ado, a man
known for inventing the famous and beloved 'Butterfly Guts' technique, Corinth
Titan!"
Marlene keeps her gaze on the floor as she clicks the button without needing to
be told. His shoes are expensive, his suit pants silvery-sheened. He looks like
he should be tracking blood and bile everywhere he goes, but instead he's crisp
and polished as he speaks.
"Hello everyone! And what a lovely welcome I've had today. Why, just this
morning a lovely young woman by the name of Janet Uriah asked to get my
autograph on my pamphlet about the proper administration of the Butterfly Guts
technique! Let's all have a proper round of applause for Janet!
"See, what makes me so happy with this convention is the way that it allows us
to come together as Americans. Now, there's no insult here meant to any of our
international visitors, but it must be agreed--hunting slaves, the most
dangerous sport, snuff-bait buying and using--whatever you choose to call it,
it's something we Americans have perfected and protected."
Marlene hears the clicks of the locks as the other slaves owned by the
convention board as a whole shut and bar the doors.
"This is not murder, ladies and gentlemen. This is art. See, we are not
perverts, or abusers, or freaks. We are upstanding members of society; we do
what's not only necessary for our society, but actively beneficial. By
disposing of unworthy stock, by taking our fun in their inevitable deaths, by
inventing new and interesting forms of entertainment, we are obeying the
patriotic imperative to always strive higher, to always try for something new.
"The Protectionists? They're flailing. The Traditionalists? They're stagnating.
The Abolitionists? They're crapping their pants. We're winning. We're
flourishing in this climate. When the going gets tough, the tough win, and
we're tougher than the two-bit pieces of meat we carve up like Thanksgiving
turkeys?"
Marlene, with the other slaves, kneels and rootles around in the bag. It's
filled with maps, pamphlets, free sample, and shotgun shells.
"We are the future. We are the innovators, the creators, the gods. We have the
greatest power of all and we use it responsibly over and over--the power of
life over death. Suzanne, come here!"
Marlene freezes. Shit.
But she can't disrupt this, they're not prepared, not yet, not yet. She
discreetly shakes her head at Phil, the slave manning the camera, who's going
to get the carnage on film and send it out.
Suzanne walks. Old, stiff, very old. No wonder she's snuff-bait.
"Now, let me demonstrate what our convention is about. Here, we come together
to find pride and joy, to understand ourselves in new and exciting ways, to
spruce up the old marriage bed, to improve ourselves. Here, we come to
experience the power and beauty of American freedom, of doing what even our
loved ones can call depraved. We are free. We aren't doing this for profit, or
for ideology, or out of some sick love. We're doing this because we like it,
because it gets our dicks hard--no offense to the ladies in the audience! We're
doing this because we have decided to. We are the ultimate arbiters of freedom,
the true Americans.
"Let me begin this convocation with a demonstration, that sweet sound we all
love--"
And then there's the unmistakable sound of a snapped neck. Sharp.
Marlene closes her eyes and hurts, quietly, inside her skin. But soon it'll all
be over. She clicks the button on the slides.
"Now that was a great opening speech! And let me welcome our next esteemed
guest to give opening remarks, a Mr Alexander Vukagay, our most profilic
member--"
And then Marlene pulls out the shotgun and stares into his eyes. She pulls the
trigger.
"Convention's over, boys," she drawls, and at that signal Phil starts filming
as the others all draw their own shotguns and start firing.
--
"Reports are coming in of twin Saint Valentines' Day massacres, one at the so-
called Snuff-Bait-Buyers' Convention in Los Angeles, where all the attending
staff and snuff-bait buyers were shot to death by convention hotel slaves.
Among the dead are Corinth Titan and Alexander Vukagay, the former infamous for
the so-called 'Butterfly Guts' form of torture, involving perforating and tying
the intestines of slaves in knots as bondage while they die, and the latter the
most profilic buyer of snuff-bait-level slaves in the world.
"The second so-called massacre is more of a misnomer; slave number 4567888112,
use-name Josephine but self-described as simply Jo, set herself on fire at the
feet of the Lincoln Memorial and burned to death still sitting there. She died
approximately four hours ago, and precisely three hours after her estimated
time of death videos from the same sources as the film recordings of the
terrorism acts that took place this January.
"During her death, footage has shown that Jo did not move a muscle, scream, or
in any way lose composure. Witnesses say she appeared almost tranquil as she
burned to death, and doused herself in gasoline, vodka, and other accelerants
before burning to death.
"The video shows Jo talking into a camera with a white paper background. In it,
she hugs a plush rabbit and talks about her motivations for this act. She
describes the public suicide as an act of ultimate protest against the
enslavement of human beings and a way for her death to be 'meaningful'. Jo also
elaborates on the treatment of fellow K-Class slaves and her life. Multiple
versions exist in the top one hundred most popular languages in the world,
signed and spoken, captioned and described.
"Viewers please be warned, the following excerpts are disturbing."
 
--
 
"Hi," The slave--Jo--says on the excerpt. Foggy watches raptly. She makes sure
to brush her hair out of her face. "So I wanted to explain my actions here so
that they can't be brushed off as insanity or meaningless. I want to make sure
everyone gets the message."
She's pretty, and has short brown hair in a page bob; she's wearing no makeup
at all, and holding a blue stuffed rabbit, and a plain white t-shirt. The
background is white paper.
"I'm doing this because after years of being raped, beaten, and abused, of
living in a system of helplessness and humiliation, I am no longer willing to
suffer. I received the news two weeks ago that I've been diagnosed with Stage 3
breast cancer, and my murder has been scheduled by my owner for the day after
Valentine's Day, because he wanted to 'give me a holiday.
"I'm sure many people are questioning why it is that I want to die--free
people, at least. And I know that people will say that my owner's a
Protectionist, and therefore I should be grateful--but I'm not."
There's clearly a skip, and then:
"I have been raped over a thousand times. I have not lived a single day in my
life since the age of four without threats of rape, beatings, abuse, and death,
without the constant oppressive weight of being enslaved. Protectionists
believe that our enslavement can be a positive, good thing so long as it's
superficially less painful--they are wrong.
"They believe that as long as they coerce, brainwash, and threaten us into
saying we want to have sex, or like them, or are happy, that this proves that
slavery can be good. What my owner, along with other Protectionists, wants is
to put a shiny ribbon on a system of terrorism, murder, exploitation and
humiliation and pretend as if it's painless and natural."
Another skip--and Foggy wonders why it's skipping, what excerpts are being
chosen and why, and he wants to see the whole video now--
"Let me tell you about the ways K-Class slaves are treated. You've probably
noticed by this point that I'm holding a stuffed bunny. Her name is Bunny, by
the way. This is because one of the things I've always wanted is a stuffed
animal, which with few exceptions, K-Class slaves are not allowed. The majority
of training institutions in which K-Classes reside only give us a single too-
small blanket until we turn five years old, at which point they are recycled or
thrown away. Our heads are shaved every year at least, and the hair used to
stuff certain mattresses. Sexual abuse begins young--"
And yet another skip. Jo looks steely determined but her arms shake in the next
part.
"The idea that having K-Class slaves prevents pedophilia and sexual abuse of
free children is a lie. Frequently, I and other K-Classes were raped alongside
free children, or forced to participate in sexual acts with them--"
And another skip.
"Before being sold to my latest rapist, I was in a household of one Robert
Wesley. You may have read his obituary in the New York Times, but the one in
the New York Bulletin is much more accurate. During this time, I had my
realization: one of Robert Wesley's other slaves--a slave named Matt, and if
you're watching, Matt, I need you to listen--was also beaten, and raped, and
treated horrifically, despite him being by far the most well-conditioned slave
I've ever known. And that's when I realized I could no longer blame myself for
the way I was treated, or blame any slave for the ways in which we are abused."
Foggy stares, and half of him wants to turn and look at Matt, wondering if
she's talking about him, but then it turns to a different excerpt.
"To every single slave out there, our message is this: there is no reason why
we won't win. None whatsoever. War is starvation, bleeding, crying, losing
battles and regrouping--and who is better at that than us? War is working
together, fighting to survive, beyond morals or reason or rationality--and who
is better at that than us? Nobody. Free people are only truly more talented in
one way than us: they are better at dying.
"If you cannot join us today, live to join us tomorrow. Be brave. Be strong.
Disobey. Live free or die!"
Foggy turns his gaze to Matt, whose face--
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from "Prayer for the Man Who Mugged My Father,
     72" by Charles Harper Webb, here: https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/
     poem/prayer-man-who-mugged-my-father-72
     The idea of a snuff-bait-buyer convention was heavily drawn from the
     Sandman comics, and in particular 'The Doll's House', which has an
     amazing storyline and in general Sandman is perfect.
     Jo's political protest/suicide was inspired by the protest/suicide of
     monk Thích Quảng Đức against the religious persecution of Buddhists
     by the South Vietnamese government.
     The 'it makes our dicks hard' line is taken from a hilarious
     monologue by Russell Edgington in the show True Blood, which can be
     seen here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rzt1Es1VCNk
     (Trigger warning for gore in the above video)
***** there are hardly any excesses of the most crazed psychopath that cannot
easily be duplicated by a normal kindly family man who just comes in to work
every day and has a job to do *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
     Trigger warnings for police brutality, dehumanization, and rape.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Julia Yensen sighed as she sifted through papers.

As the FBI's Behavioural Science Unit Media Liasion, it was her job to reassure
and rally support from the media and witnesses, families, and possible
accomplices.

And, when they were interrogating a slave, to keep the owners calm.

This one, a law school student with an angry look in his eyes and too-long
windswept hair, was proving especially difficult.

“You have no right to do this,” he said coldly.

Julia remained unimpressed. “Actually, any law enforcement agency has the legal
right to hold and question a slave against their owner’s wishes for up to seven
hours, even if the owner hasn’t been arrested. It’s been three.”

The owner--Julia glanced at the paperwork, Franklin Nelson--looked even icier.
God. What an entitled little brat. There was major terrorism attacks going on--
and the third wave of the day was due to hit any moment--and this kid was
getting pissy about a perfectly legal interrogation?

Julia sighed mentally. Fine. She’d bring out the big guns--calm, soothing,
placating. Her team didn’t need to worry about some hotshot rags-to-riches
idiot making a scene.

“Listen,” she said softer, leaning forward, “All that’s going to happen is that
my team and the NYPD are going to question it. After they’re satisfied that
they have all the information they can get from it, it’ll be released back into
your custody. Any followups from either us or the SB will be afterwards, but
between you and me? I wouldn’t be worried. We don’t think there’s any
connection between your slave and slave number--”

She searched the papers. “Slave number 4567888112. We don’t think there’s any
connection, but we have to follow up on any leads. My team will be done soon.”

And like magic, out came Hoffman from the interrogation room, zipping up his
fly and walking over. Julia rolled her eyes.

“Hey, breeder,” he greeted her. She sniffed.

“Hey, ass-licker,” she said, and they smiled at each other, their familiar
insult-greetings helping. “How’s it coming along?”

“Well, Yensen, we’ve got all the questions asked about the actual connection,”
Hoffman said, leaning against a desk. “Now we’re moving on to general
obedience, disposition, assessing for risks.”

“Do you want me to question the owner, or you?”

“I can do it, I know you’ve probably got enough headaches to deal with, yelling
at Wolf Blitzer and shit,” Hoffman said. “Didya hear about the Colbert segment
that’s coming on in an hour?”

“Oh, shit,” Julia groaned. “Who’s he interviewing?”

“Reportedly, that one abolitionist bitch--the one that was on Good Morning
America or some shit?”

Julia went cold. Fuck. “Rachel Kuchakis, from that segment on Morning American
News? Fucking hell. She’s personable, articulate, and good in a crisis--shit,
she’s probably got the textual analysis of the video already. Alright, you
question the owner, I’ve got to go head off the worst of the damage,” and she
scrambled over to another desk as Hoffman lead away Nelson.

--

Nelson seemed like a fairly nice kid, if wide-eyed and possessive. Aaron
Hoffman studied him, hands on hips for a minute, and then sat down.

“Alright, we’ve got to ask you some questions.”

Nelson stared. “Do I have to answer?”

“It’ll go a long way towards making this whole process faster,” Hoffman assured
the kid. “Let’s start--what’s your slave--its name is Matt, right?”

“His name is Matt, yeah,” Nelson said, whole face chiseled from stone. Good
lord, he was taking this far too personally.

“Alright. Matt. Tell me about it, what’s he like? Is he calm, unhappy, weepy,
what?”

Nelson looked at Hoffman like he was a monster. Oh, ugh. Dealing with anti-
police assholes was always a hassle, and usually Julia’s job, but Hoffman knew
better than to welch on a promise.

“Matt is good,” Nelson said, words coming out stilted. “He’s great. He’s smart
and makes me laugh.”

“I don’t care if you like him,” Hoffman snapped, annoyed. He sounded like he
was talking about a boyfriend. “I want to know how obedient he is. If there’s
anything going on beneath the surface.”

“There’s nothing,” Nelson said coolly. “Matt is the most obedient slave I’ve
ever known. He would never be involved in anything like what happened today, or
on New Year’s Eve. He was shocked that it even happened.”

Well, that was pretty good, provided it was actually true. “He ever meet people
you don’t know? Did you ever leave him with anyone strange, maybe loan him out
to a relative you don’t talk to that much?”

“No,” Nelson said. “Never.”

“He ever interact strangely with any slaves? Have there been any mood or
disposition changes that seemed just random?”

“None whatsoever,” Nelson said, lifting his chin and staring down Hoffman. He
felt amused at this poor kid.

“Alright, kid, I’m gonna be straight with you,” and Hoffman sniggered. He
wasn’t straight in the slightest. “I mean, honest, we both can tell I am about
as straight as one of those 1-am-commercial-type ‘banoodle’ things. Your slave
is a damn valuable asset. He’s smart, he’s got bodyguard training, first aid,
CPR, service slave training, only one scar, little to no genetic predisposition
for cancer, heart disease, anything. He’s in good shape and his latest testing
shows he’s pretty fucking obedient.

“Now I have to wonder why it is that a million-dollar asset like that ended up
in the hands of a broke-ass law student from Hell’s Kitchen with abolitionist
parents and a degree in Women’s Studies.”

“My biological mother gave Matt to me,” Nelson said, still composed, swinging
between cool as a cucumber and seemingly full of sour rage. Hoffman wondered
what was up with the kid. “You’d have to ask her her reasons, I don’t speak the
language of terrible people.”

Hoffman snorted. “Now, what do you use Matt for? What’re his ongoing tasks?”

“We’re both enrolled in Columbia,” Nelson said. “Matt’s supposed to be
studying, working on a law degree. He’s in charge of food for both of us, and
he keeps himself in shape.”

Hoffman squinted. “What about sex? I--look,” he said at the look of pure
brimstone and fire, “I know it’s a personal kind of a question, but apparently
a whole bunch of the slaves that have gone rogue were sex slave-types, and we
need to be sure that there’s no chance of it happening if we’re not going to
file an injuction to keep it here longer, and just between us, we’re not.
There’s no point, it wouldn’t go through, the recent obedience testing was too
good for that.”

Nelson’s eyes were reptilian as he gazed at Hoffman. It was unsettling how
over-attached the kid was to his slave.

“What about sex?” Hoffman tried again. “He seem all limp-fish, passive? Does he
cry afterwards?”

Nelson’s eyes went to slits and then he breathed in and out and kept more
composure. “When we’ve had sex, Matt did exactly what I wanted him to do.”

“And how was he afterwards?”

“Good,” Nelson said. “Exactly how he should have been.”

Hoffman looked at him, but if the long-haired blonde kid was lying then he
couldn’t tell. “Alright,” Hoffman said. “I’ll go check on the progress of the
interrogation. You sit there,” and he turned to go and grab a coffee on the
way. Jesus. He hated terrorist shit.

--

Matt felt coldly furious.

It wasn’t just offensive and insulting that anyone would think that he had
something to with the attacks. It wasn’t just frightening and inconvenient to
be dragged from their apartment the second they’d gotten there to the police
station. It wasn’t just infuriating that Jo, of all the slaves Matt knew, had
gotten mixed up in that awful bullshit.

It was everything at once, and the memories of Master Robert’s household
creeping up and strangling his mind, everything overwhelming his good sense and
ability to even go somewhere else in his head.

But that wasn’t what tipped Matt over the ledge. No, it was that they were
hitting him and then fucking his mouth, police officers and FBI agents alike.

It wasn’t fair. Matt had answered all of their pertinent questions.

At first, they were all normal. Explain your relationship to slave number
4567888112. Explain how she had seemed. Describe the events in question. Do you
think that your owner was unfair? Don’t you know that you deserved it? Describe
punishments. Was that your fault or your owner’s? How did slave number
4567888112 seem at the auction house? On what date was she sold? When you last
have contact with her? When did you last accidentally meet her? What do you
know about the recent terrorist events?

Matt had answered completely and dutifully, making sure to have the proper
titles and responses and hanged head. But they hit him anyway, and made him
repeat his answers up till four times before they were satisfied.

And then they’d started asking about Foggy, and Matt had repeated like a
mantra, “Slaves are not legally obligated to answer personal questions about
their owners unless their owners have been arrested and the proof of warrant
shown,” and been hit for that, too.

But then the blowjobs had started, and several things changed Matt’s mind from
his usual decision to do as good a job as possible.

First, the arm binder bag that they had shoved Matt’s handcuffed wrists into
and then zipped up to his shoulders was too tight, and his arms were cramping
badly.

Second, his face hurt, and his nose was broken, his lip split, and at least one
black eye already fully formed.

Third, they didn’t have the right. They weren’t his owners, Matt wasn’t stolen
goods or seized property or been declared feral. Foggy wasn’t arrested--Matt
could hear him fretting and trying to get Matt out for hours--and they had no
legal right to use him for sex, not with the condoms, not even his mouth.

Matt clenched his fists inside the hot leather sweat-trap, and didn’t swirl his
tongue or suck or make it good as they tipped the chair back down and fucked
his throat, one and then another and another and another. He didn’t make it
good for them, he didn’t get them off, he simply didn’t resist.

It felt--strange, and rebellious, and like shattering glass--but Matt was much
too angry and overwrought to care, and Foggy’s fury from the lobby was rubbing
off on him. He was ruined for any other owner anyway at this point, he might as
well enjoy it.

But then the one from earlier, the first one to fuck his mouth, came in.
Hoffman. Matt zeroed in on the name.

“Hey, y’all, only three more allowed for now,” he said. “Word just came in, the
third wave hit. We’ve got more leads to find.”

“You’re sure this one’s not involved? We can keep it for four more hours, by my
count,” one of the cops said.

“Honestly, the pipsqueak out there who owns it is way too damn possessive to
let his slave go anywhere without him or a handler, from what I can tell,”
Hoffman said dryly. “Besides, we’ve had our fun, we’re done with it now. Put
your dicks away and let’s all get back to work.”

There were angry grumbles, and disappointed whining, but they left. Hoffman put
the chair upright, and then yanked Matt by the collar off of it, choking him.

Matt took a deep breath and kept a composed face. No need to prolong this.

“We’ll be watching,” Hoffman said. “We’re gonna file a petition for a microchip
implant and surveillance by us. You’re too useful for the cause to be lying
around studying what your owner should be learning by himself.”

Matt made no reaction.

“Anyway, here we go,” and Hoffman yanked on the collar. Matt crawled where he
was directed, naked and bound and clumsy, a seething glacier surging inside of
him, the devil at the bottom of the lake blinking his eyes wide open.
--
 
 
 
Foggy looked at Matt, naked and with something binding his arms behind his
back, being choke-lead to him by that fucking fuckwipe Hoffman, and realized
that he officially was absolutely done with everyone and everything.
Foggy cleared his throat. “Where are his clothes?”
“Here,” a cop said, walking over with a plastic bin. “And let me get the cuffs-
-” and the cop undid the arm-binding-thing and the handcuffs.
Matt’s face was bloody and bruised, his wrists sliced and rubbed raw by the
handcuffs, and the way his arms immediately sagged to his side made Foggy want
to kill people. Specifically, every single FBI agent and cop in the room, in
the whole of New York. They didn’t get to treat people like this and get away
with it. He wanted them all fucking penniless and fired and publicly humiliated
and dead.
Focus, Nelson, he thought at himself, and kept firm the mental image of
Alexander Farragut, the coolly composed destruction of a corrupt law system and
the fight for justice.
Matt was struggling to get dressed. His arms looked--not broken, please oh
please not broken--but wrong, and Foggy moved to help him. He’d never helped
someone older than five get dressed before, but it was apparently the same
principle, because he got it done fairly quickly, and Matt was still statue-
faced and silent.
There was a weird amount of spit crusted on Matt’s face and shirt. Foggy had
the sneaking, awful suspicion--
And when he calmly helped Matt to his feet, and shoved Matt’s shoes in his bag-
-too difficult to put them on Matt, and fuck it, they were getting a cab
anyway--and held-walked him outside, and Matt said quietly, hoarsely, “Thank
you, Foggy,” Foggy knew his horrible fear was correct.
In the cab, he took a deep breath, pulled out his phone, and dialed the number
of the scariest lawyer he knew in the real world: Rosalind Sharpe.
--
They got to the lobby of their building, and Matt’s knees buckled. Shit.
“Hey,” Foggy said softly, “Hey. Matt. I wish I could carry you, buddy, but I
can’t. You have to work with me here. Wanna sit and wait first?”
Matt’s head lolled against his shoulder. Foggy carefully helped them both sit
down, and Matt sprawled and slid down until he was pressing his face into
Foggy’s chest.
“Hey, shh,” Foggy said quietly. “It’s okay. I called Rosalind, okay? She’s on
her way over, she told me that she and her assistant need to get pictures of
you and then we can work out medical care. Alright? It’s gonna all be okay. She
was pretty pissed too.”
Matt nodded.
“It’s--fuck. I just. I’m sorry,” Foggy said helplessly, anger ebbing away from
his voice, migrating to his limbs, weighing him down like lead. “I can’t--I’m
sorry, Matt.”
There was a pause. “It wasn’t so bad,” Matt murmured. “Smallest dicks I’ve ever
had to suck.”
There was a second of frozen silence, and then they both laughed, and kept
sitting there on the steps until Rosalind appeared in the window, knocking
furiously.
--
“The nerve of them,” she snapped after she’d extracted the story from Matt and
Foggy, Matt’s quiet they then decided to fuck my mouth after they had hit him
without any goddamn reason making Foggy see red.
“The sheer fucking gall. Now, as we get down to business--”
 
They all were sitting sitting on the couch, Matt’s face leaking blood still,
him being photographed by Rosalind’s assistant Mariah, a red-headed woman who
looked like she considered taupe an exciting color to wear.
“What do you want from this?”
“The wholesale destruction of the NYPD,” Foggy said without thinking, feeling
like a smoking fire. He finally understood righteous fury, he thought to
himself. He felt it like a wildfire in his chest, crisping his ribs and
slathering his insides with pure ivory hate.
Rosalind snorted. “That’s a long-term goal,” she said, her voice settling into
an oddly professional, clinical tone, not the ones she’d used with Foggy all
his life. It made his head spin. “I mean with regards to this.”
“What can we get, in practical terms?” Foggy asked. He wasn’t well-versed in
slavery law.
“Well, considering the worth of your slave and the approximated medical costs
of the average human vet--and you don’t actually have to go to one if you’d
rather make a house-call, I’ll have Mariah give you the numbers--I can
definitely get some serious cash in a settlement.”
“I don’t want--is it feasible to go for something more along the lines of
firing them?”
“For damage of living property? Well,” Rosalind said thoughtfully, “Given the
recent rash of such suits against various agencies, especially as they’ve been
overreacting to the little tiffs in the news--”
Little tiffs? Foggy thought incredulously. What the hell was wrong with her?
“I don’t think termination of employment is necessarily viable. But a more
profitable route, and a surer one to go on, would be demotion as well as
monetary settlement, and an Internal Affairs investigation.”
Foggy chewed it over. “If it’s that easy, why doesn’t it happen more often?”
“Because it takes a lot of dogged effort. I’ll do it pro-bono, of course,
you’re my son, but it will take months.”
Foggy nodded. “Alright.”
“Okay then. Mariah will finish her documentation of injuries, and Franklin,
dearest, you’re going to have to keep up documentation--photograph the face
every day, several times, and send the copies to me, as well as keep your own
back-ups. Keep a log of impairment of movement and any problems that arise, and
send it to me and keep back-ups. Don’t leave the country or go off the grid
until at least this whole thing is resolved. And don’t talk about this with
anyone. It will not help the case.”
Foggy exhaled slowly. “Okay. But in the meantime, how do you recommend we get
the medical care?”
“I’m sure one of the vets will be able to do that, or else have them invoice
me,” Rosalind said dismissively. “And I need to speak to Matt now, too, child.
Go get your computer from your room and start making the log and folder for
backups. Get a USB and make a file under a different name, start being prepared
to disguise the evidence. Paranoia is a lawyer’s best friend.”
Foggy got up and went, mind buzzing, thoughts racing. Finally, he would be able
to help Matt and get some fucking justice in this world, even if it
definitively wouldn’t be enough.
--
“Yes, Miss Sharpe?” Matt murmured obediently, his nose throbbing. He’d been
allowed to put it back into place now that the photographs were taken, but it
still hurt. His arms were worse, aching and screaming and begging for massages.
“How is it that you’ve gotten so...tarnished?” She asked, standing and staring
at him.
Matt had no energy to be afraid or even irritated. Rosalind Sharpe was a
beetle, not a steamroller.
He closed his eyes. All he wanted was to be cleaned and bandaged and allowed to
curl up at Foggy’s feet or sleep in his bed and not have to think anymore.
“What are you anymore? You were so sweet when I got you.”
“I am what your son wants me to be, Miss Sharpe,” Matt murmured. It was
unfortunate, and lovely, but true.
She snorted. “Franklin likes the trip of being the only one you kneel to?”
“Something along those lines, Miss Sharpe,” Matt echoed back to her. He didn’t
know, had no real opinion on the matter. Foggy called him good and was a good
owner and those were the only two thoughts he had the space to hold in his head
at the moment.
She made an indecipherable noise. “Well, don’t forget, once he starts to get
into the legal world, I expect you to help him. I had to be a self-starter but
by god, it would have all gone much smoother if I’d had someone at my side.”
Matt nodded. He would do anything for Foggy; kill for him, die for him. Either
way, it would be bliss.
“Though that’s quite a bit more understandable of a desire,” she said
thoughtfully. “Do you know, what’s what attracted me to Edward? The way I knew
he’d be mine and mine alone?”
I don’t give a singular fuck about your relationship, Matt did not say. Nor did
he say please stop insulting my owner’s father in front of me.
He felt hopeless and helpless. He just wanted to be patched up and allowed to
lick his wounds and sleep.
“But then it was just way too much damn work, and he ran off with that fucking
psychiatrist Anna anyway. I never would have married him if I knew he was a
slut. And then he started getting all these crazy ideas from her about how
Franklin should be raised and I had to threaten and cajole my way into doing
what was best--”
“Rosalind, please,” and there was Foggy. “Let’s--I need to get someone to help
Matt, and then it’s been a long fucking day, can you please let us just, just
do what we can and go to bed?”
Yes, that sounded good. Matt tried to do his best Bambi eyes; he didn’t know
how well they’d work with black eyes. He hoped it wouldn’t be upsetting to
Foggy.
“Alright,” she said. “Mariah, get our things, and get Franklin those numbers.
We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
Time melted, and somehow the door was open and Foggy was pacing and then there
was--a medic? A female medic?
--
“I can help,” a woman’s voice offered as Foggy leaned against his front door
after helping Rosalind get out. God, she was exhausting even when she was being
nice.
“What?” He blurted, turning to face her.
It was a dark-haired woman, Latina or black or both, in nurses’ scrubs, leaning
against her door. “I overheard you muttering to yourself just now. You’ve got
someone who’s hurt, I can help. I live right across from you.”
Foggy stared at her. “Claire,” he said slowly as the name floated up to the
surface. “Claire Temple. You--you’re an ER nurse, you and I met when we were
moving in.”
“Yeah,” Claire said. “And your--Matt--he’s hurt?”
“Uh, yeah, but--thanks, and it’s a really generous offer, but, uh, Matt’s a
slave, and I did look it up, only medical people with the license are actually
allowed to treat slaves legally and--”
“Nurses are one of the cross-trained people,” Claire interrupted him. “Let me
help.”
Foggy squinted at her. “What do you want in repayment?” He asked suspiciously.
“Nothing. I just don’t like hearing about people getting hurt without them
getting patched up properly,” Claire answered, narrowing her eyes at Foggy.
“What, do you have an objection?”
Foggy took a deep breath. “No,” he said, and opened the door. “Matt’s in here.”
 
--
 
The medic was standing near him.
“Alright, Matt, that’s your name, Matt?”
Matt nodded.
“Okay. Matt, I’m Claire, I don’t think you understood me the first time. My
name is Claire Temple, and I’m a nurse. I work in the ER. I have your owner’s
permission to treat you, but before I do anything, I want to make sure I also
have your’s, alright? Nod if you understand me.”
Matt nodded. “I understand, Miss Temple,” he murmured. He felt so exhausted and
worn-down, too much to be worried about anything.
“Okay. Now, nod if I do have permission.”
Matt nodded.
The medic was touching him. The medic had asked him something and Matt hadn’t
understood--it was up to her or Foggy if it was okay to touch him--and then
she’d touched him only after Matt had nodded, hoping that was what she was
asking for.
He didn’t understand. Nothing seemed to make sense. He wished Foggy was
standing closer, petting him, murmuring softly, shh, poor thing, I never meant
to make you feel all alone, shhh, you’re so good for me, except something about
the words didn’t sound like Foggy’s voice.
“Now, I’m going to try to figure out if you’ve got a head injury or not. First,
let’s--oh hell. Your pupils aren’t reacting to light, so either you’re more out
of it than I thought, or--”
“I’m defective,” Matt muttered. He felt a faint surge of annoyance. Where had
Claire come from? Hadn’t she read his file? “They never do.”
There was an agonizing pause, and then she said mildly, “Okay, you’re blind.
Now let’s go on…”
--
Foggy watched worriedly. Matt apparently might have a head injury, and Claire
firmly told him about what he needed to watch for, as well as what he should
give Matt--painkillers, no alcohol, and something to soothe his throat.
Foggy moved to make tea as Claire washed off blood and examined Matt’s nose. He
should have thought of that earlier, he thought angrily at himself. Matt
sounded like a chainsmoking fifty-year-old. Jesus, how much extra pain had he
suffered because Foggy hadn’t done enough?
He made the plainest kind--herbal mint--and added in as much honey as made it
sweet, and brought it over to his dresser and then went back to Claire. Foggy
had the feeling Matt needed to sleep soon.
She told him Matt’s nose wasn’t going to heal crooked, probably, and that he
needed mostly just bandages, keeping the wounds clean, and ice-packs. Foggy
grabbed as many as he could, making extras out of cold peas and frozen corn,
and Claire told him to come knock on her door anytime that he thought anything
was weird.
“I don’t think he’s got a concussion,” she said. “As far as I can tell. But
head injuries need to get checked out. Be careful with him and don’t do
anything strenuous for the next week or so, alright?”
Foggy nodded, looking at Matt, who was now holding the ice-packs on his two
black-and-blue bruised eyesockets. It made him feel fiercely protective, like
he’d fight anyone and anything to make sure this could never happen again.
Yeah, Nelson, and you promised yourself that last time, and the time before
that. It’s obvious that you can’t protect him from everything. Something low
and bitter inside of Foggy hissed.
No, he couldn’t, but he could try and get better.
“Thanks for everything,” he told Claire as she left. “I’ll figure out some way
to repay you,” he promised, and then turned to Matt, helping him up.
--
Time didn’t work. Matt was allowed to shower for what felt like several years,
vomit into the toilet, and brush his teeth and drink tea, and then he was in
Foggy’s bed, covered in his heavy blanket, Foggy feeding him more tea and
stroking his hair. Foggy fed him painkillers and Matt was floating and dizzy
and sleepy and cuffed and so, so tired but he couldn’t fall asleep.
“Matt?”
Matt tried to focus more.
“Matt?”
He grabbed at words. “Foggy?” He tried.
“Matt, I know this might be really hard right now, and if you can’t do it, it’s
okay, but I want you to tell me something that might help you feel better right
now.”
Matt thought. Then-- “The tag?” He tried.
“What--oh, the--yeah, let me get that,” Foggy said, and then time skipped a
step and Foggy was fastening it clumsily on Matt’s collar but it wasn’t on his
neck and Matt was missing his collar and he gasped out loud, panic flooding his
mind, hands clawing and scrabbling at his bare throat, and then--
“Shh, shh,” Foggy was saying and putting the collar back on, tag too, “Matt,
shhh, shh, it’s okay, it’s okay, I got you, your collar’s on, you’re good,
you’re--can I--you’re mine, okay, does that help you feel better?”
Matt sagged, nodding. Please, please, please, but he couldn’t summon the will
to beg. He felt so filthy and angry and sullen and scared. Like a rat that had
realized it had already eaten the poison, waiting to die.
“Okay. Um.” Foggy sounded like he was speaking a new foreign language that he
was trying not to offend anyone in. “Matt. You’re mine. Mine. All mine, and so
good, and it’s all going to be okay, you’re alright--did you want to hear
about, um, the third thing? They’re calling it the third wave.”
Matt blinked. Well, better to know your enemies. He nodded, crawling as much as
he could with his still-stiff arms into Foggy’s.
“It’s--they liberated fifty K-class-only places, um, ‘training institutions’.
And then they destroyed them afterwards so they couldn’t be reused and Matt,
Matt, the shrapnel is all the things they used to torture those little kids,
the collars and canes and restrains and ‘chastity belts’. The only people that
got hurt are the people that worked there, they’re all dead, and they left
behind a message. Our Children Will Not Be Slaves.”
Matt--couldn’t. He turned his head and tried to just breathe.
“Shit, I should’ve known you were not ready to hear that. Fuck. Okay. Matt, let
me--shh, shh, you’re good, you’re so good. Shhh. It’s okay.”
“I should tell you about her as well,” it occurred to Matt. “Jo. And Master
Robert. It’s--they might question you about it. You deserve to know.”
“Well, we’ve got time in the morning,” Foggy assured him. His heartbeat was
strong and honest and steady. “We’ve got all the time then. We’ll take a sick
day--fuck classes--and then we can talk about it, if you want.”
Matt shivered. Foggy took off the icepacks, and Matt abruptly felt the burn
rush into him as they were put to the side. He wondered if Jo had felt it when
she’d burned, if she had been drugged. If she was afraid.
Matt was, despite it all. Even as he and Foggy started to sleep, Foggy
eventually turning off his laptop and Matt’s breathing getting less and less
scraped-throat taste-of-latex painful, he was afraid. Matt was still scared of
dying, of judgement, of oblivion, of everything always being wrong and for
nothing.
He fell asleep and dreamed about Jo, about the night he’d been introduced into
the household and Master Robert ordered him to fuck her. Matt had whispered
sorry for every pained cry she made, but later, she’d told him nothing was
actually his fault at all, her hair smelling like jasmine and, even then,
smoke.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from a quote by Terry Pratchett.
***** I grew into it. it grew into me. it and I blurred at the edges, became
one amorphous, seeping, crawling thing. *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
     Trigger warning for child death, implied rape, and forced
     cannibalism.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The next morning, Matt woke up uncuffed, rose, showered once more, vomited bile
and stomach acid into the toilet, brushed his teeth until all he tasted was
toothpaste and blood from his lip splitting back open again, washed his face,
changed into a pair of sweatpants and a soft shirt, and padded over to the
kitchen slowly. Foggy had something out on the stove--Matt sniffed, and it
smelled like nothing but eggs and cheese and milk.
Scrambled eggs. Matt felt vaguely guilty about his owner cooking for him, but
then Foggy shooed him to the table and Matt sat obediently at his chair.
"So," Foggy said. "Uh. Rosalind called. Around noonish she's going to be here
and bring along a, uh, person to look over your injuries and someone else to do
a value evaluation? She explained that it was because the more impaired you are
and the lower your value's gone because of what they did, the easier her case
is. So. Um. And it's about eleven, so I figured you should eat if you're
hungry."
"Thank you, Foggy," Matt murmured.
There was a minute or two of silence, and then Foggy said, "Did you want to
tell me, or--? It's okay if you changed your mind, you deserve some privacy."
Matt blinked, and a part of him started screaming inside his chest because no,
no he didn't, and he was so, so tired of dealing with Foggy's bullshit, but
instead Matt took a deep breath and tried to figure out how to lead.
"I met Jo when I was first taken to the house," Matt said. "She was one of the
overseers--kind, and she wasn't authorized to punish, so she was still only K-
class, not M. She was in charge of new arrivals, baby slaves, and the other
slaves under the age of eighteen."
Foggy made a quiet I'm listening noise. Matt swallowed and went on.
"She was very patient. If you made a mistake and you were under her sub-domain,
she'd sit down with you after the punishment and go over exactly what you did
wrong and how not to do it again in the future. She made sure that everyone
underneath her was accountable and took responsibility for their actions.
"I stopped being under her supervision relatively early on, as being a bedslave
means that your status as 'new' wears off quickly, but she still made it a
point to keep an eye out for me. She wasn't--I had no idea that she would ever
do anything like what happened yesterday," Matt said. His chest hurt.
"She tried hard, and we had a good working relationship. But Master Robert was-
-"
Cruel seemed too small. Cruelty was something Matt could live with, thrive off
like scorpions thrived off a desert. Matt searched for a way to say it.
"His tastes were--he--"
The room seemed to be pulsating, beating, the walls folding in and out, Matt
was hyperventilating, there was shards of glass in his lungs, Foggy had stopped
stirring the eggs and was walking over to Matt, and he gasped out--
"H-he made us eat each other," Matt gasped. He took a deep, sobbing breath.
"For--for fun. Not. For punishment. Eat each other. I h-had to cook them, the
pieces he made us carve, or else raw, raw liver, raw--I didn't--he would, he
had us whipped, or, or the little ones whipped for no reason. For smiling, he
was five, five-year-olds smile," and then he couldn't breathe because all Matt
could think about was Charlotte and her cries of I'm sorry Master I'm sorry and
the wet noises of her flesh being turned into a pile of organs--
Foggy squeezed his arms tightly around Matt, and the smell of him, the feeling
of him, pulled Matt out of the pit of quicksand in his mind.
"Jesus Christ," Foggy swore. "He sounds like a monster."
Matt shook. "He was going to make me into a pet," Matt whispered. "Cut my
tongue in half and sever my thumbs and put me in a room, alone, soundproofed,
until I forgot how to talk."
Foggy's body was violin string, a drawn blade. It felt sharp and tense and
furious.
"Well, he's dead, right?"
Matt nodded. He was, he was, he was, Matt had done it and he still didn't know
quite what had made him make the leap between I can't be a pet and the sound of
Charlotte screaming and the way the overseer had quietly apologized to Matt
afterwards and the sudden movement, the knowledge Matt had felt in his
fingertips that morning that this was it, today was the last goddamn day he'd
ever spend with this master, he was done and he would be done by any means
necessary.
Matt clamped his jaw shut so he wouldn't say any of that out loud. Nobody could
be trusted with that, no free person, never. 
 
(Especially not sweet, naive Foggy, who thought that the empty shapes around
where he could touch Matt were comforting, who thought that his possessiveness
was something that Matt only deserved after he begged for it. Not sweet, awful,
vicious Foggy.)
"Good," Foggy said decisively. "That's--that's good. Sorry, I know that kind of
sounds dismissive, but--"
"Thank you, Foggy," Matt said quietly. "I--thank you. It helps to know."
Then the smoke alarm started beeping shrilly, and Matt doubled over with his
hands on his ears before he knew what he was doing. Foggy hastily opened a
window and turned off the burner to the eggs, swearing, and turned on the fan
in the kitchen until the alarm stopped.
"Sorry, sorry, shit, that was--shit. Matt. Are you okay?"
Matt took in several deep breaths, a pounding pain in his skull. He was aware,
suddenly, of all the bruises on his face, of how awful he must look.
"I must look awful," he muttered, using a hand to trace over his own face. "All
bruised."
"You look like you need someone to roll you up in a blanket and snuggle you,"
Foggy told him. "And possibly feed you muffins and hot chocolate. Which I am
totally willing to do, by the way."
Matt ducked his head. "Thank you," he said, and realized he hadn't kissed
Foggy's hands like he was supposed to. What was he becoming?
Matt took another deep breath. "It wasn't a good household to be in," he said
quietly. "But that doesn't mean--that doesn't mean she was right. Or that--I'd
never do anything like that. I would never in any way be involved in any of
that, that terrorism."
There was a soft, wet pause. "I know," Foggy said. "I know. That's not you, and
I'm still pissed that they did any of that. That they thought that, and that
they--they--they did that to you. Nobody deserves that."

I'm Nobody, are you Nobody too? Matt remembered, Dickinson seeming far too
apropos. His head felt full of jangling keys, memories knocking into each other
and rattling him like windchimes in a tornado.
 
Matt nodded, and then Rosalind Sharpe knocked on the door.
--
Foggy did his best to make sure nothing bad actually happened to Matt while he
was there.
Rosalind had come with the same assistant and two other people, one being a
kindly-looking old man and the other a person so androgynous Foggy had no idea
what gender they might be just from a glance.
"Franklin, this is Dr Rhodes, a celebrated human veterinarian who's testified
before, and this is Aeryn Iglesias, a value-evaluation expert who's worked with
me before. Both of them are going to help us blow the Feds and NYPD all the way
back to the Middle Ages," she said, a sharklike smile on her red lips.
Matt's head had tilted at the mention of Rhodes, and Foggy shook his hand.
"Good to meet you," Dr Rhodes said, a gentle smile at the edges of his face. He
looked kind of like Santa Claus, if Santa Claus had shaved and put on bifocals
and a pair of jeans with a plain blue polo shirt. "I've examined your slave
before at several auction houses. Do I have your permission to do a workup and
evaluate the damage done?"
"Yeah," Foggy said. "Uh, sure."
"Alright then," Dr Rhodes said. He put down his bag on the table, washed his
hands up to his elbows in visibly streaming water, dried them off with paper
towels, and went over to Matt. "Nice to see you again," he said cheerfully.
"Damn, you look a mess. Let's start with the basics. I need good data, so flap
your hand when it hurts..."
Foggy jerked his gaze back to Iglesias, who had cleared their throat. "Mr
Nelson," they said, their voice as completely not gendered as before, in a soft
Mexican accent. "After the doctor, I will do evaluation. I work with auction
houses, private sales, all types of thing. I cannot do full evaluation, but
first, is information in these currently true?"
They held out a file containing a stack of papers. "Uh, let me go over them,"
Foggy said, juggling the papers. Mariah handed him a pen.
"Yes, yes, go over them, and then Aeryn can do the estimation of lowered
price," Rosalind said. "But I do also have good news. Let's all sit down,
first."
They made their way to the living room. Foggy put the papers down on his lap
and looked at Rosalind as she swept the seat off the couch and sat; Iglesias
took a kitchen chair over and Mariah stood, tapping away at an iPhone.
"My sources in the FBI as well as the NYPD have informed me that multiple of
the offending officers and agents have a history of such offenses. Agent Aaron
Hoffman in particular has multiple black marks on him, and four of the NYPD
officers who are listed as interrogating your slave last night have had IA
investigations brought against them.
"Of course, there wasn't sufficient consequences, clearly, but it is good for
our side--I can argue that since fines and investigations and even demotions
haven't stopped their behavior, they need to be more harshly punished. Now, as
for the actual court appearances, there's two other pieces of good news.
"One, since you've got documented places to be--law school--I can file the
petition for you not to have to appear, since it's a civil suit and not a
criminal case, and two, Hoffman's team in the Behavioural Science Unit have
filed a petition with the US Attorney's Office to microchip Matt--"
Foggy's head jerked up from where he'd been absently staring at the papers,
outraged. "They fucking what--"
"Don't panic. This is good news. The recent obedience testing, coupled with the
fact that only two of several hundred of those petitions have ever been
granted--and that was with the Bush administration and their many fuckups--
means that I can use this to make a case for paranoia and unfair harassment and
surveillance on you.
"The Feds trying to track private property to spy on free citizens is not a
thing that anyone is in favor of, especially now that people are chafing
against the martial laws--which will probably be repealed in the next month or
so. One of my partners is suing the state of New York for constitutional
violations of privacy, slave ownership, and ease of movement on behalf of one
of our longest-term clients, and the ACLU is taking on a flux of similar cases
as well."
Foggy smiled. "So the prospects are good?"
"Very. And once Hoffman's sued and his and his teams' reputation is tanked,
other people will come forward, and that's where I can move in. I've always
like destroying people's lives, so thank you, Franklin, for giving me the
opportunity."
Foggy stared at her, and decided not to engage. He started flipping through the
papers, most of which were things about what Matt could do, and there weren't a
whole lot of things on there that Foggy wasn't sure of. Tend to a sick
prepubescent child and act appropriately to call emergency services if
necessary and cause an orgasm in a healthy female adult with only oral methods
in a quick period of time stuck out to Foggy, and he shut the file.
"Yeah, Matt could do all that before last night."
Iglesias squinted at him. Their clothes were a pantsuit, dark brown, with navy
blue pinstripes on the blazer, and a crisp white shirt. Their hair was short,
black, and plain. "You are sure."
"Well, I don't know about the things I've never seen him do, but I'm pretty
solid on it, yeah," Foggy said.
They looked annoyed. "Well then. After doctor, I go. Examine damage. Bruises
will be big factor in how much money you get--less pretty, less money."
Foggy felt nauseous. "Okay," he said, taking a deep breath. For Matt, for Matt,
he chanted inside his head. He was doing all of this for Matt.
Rosalind watched, eyes reptilian.
--
Matt did what was asked of him, and afterwards, Dr Rhodes put the swabs inside
his kit and stood up.
"Your boy's still nice and tame," Dr Rhodes told Foggy. "Though he's got what I
would guess to be multiple hairline fractures, and if the nose gets bashed much
more it'll require surgery to straighten it out. But if you take care of the
facial wounds nothing'll scar. I'd recommend a full workup on the head, though-
-x-rays, MRI, CT scan, everything. Here's the number for my place."
"I'll make the arrangements and pay for it," Rosalind Sharpe said. "Send the
bill to me, Stacey."
"Will do, Rose. And Franklin, be careful with your boy, alright? If you're
gonna fuck him, do it with pillows between his head and the headboard. If he
gets any migraines, let him have the pills and sleep. Plenty of hydration, too,
and not too much walking around or anything. I would recommend waiting on
fucking his mouth or anything to do with that face until the STI results come
back and you get a full blood panel done as well. Just use the left hand trick,
and don't try and make him do anything strenuous or vigorous. He is not up for
it."
Foggy sounded flushed and angry and embarrassed. "Noted."
"No need to be all snippy about it, I'm a vet, I see all kinds of things all
the time," Dr Rhodes said pleasantly, shook hands with Rosalind Sharpe, and
left.

"Alright, slave. What is your name?"
"Matt, Honorable Evaluator," Matt murmured, remembering the protocols for this
ritual.
"Good boy. Alright. I will only be doing difference evaluation, not full. Obey
me and we will have no problem."
Matt nodded. "Understood, Honorable Evaluator," he said quietly.
"Good boy. Quite tame. Now, let us begin..."
--
Iglesias's work took about an hour, at the end of which Foggy's stomach was
grumbling and he felt even sicker. Mariah had muttered to Rosalind about four
different things, and Foggy had signed papers for the petition for him not to
have to appear in court and papers for the complaint and had worked out a day
for Matt to come in and have an MRI, CT scan, x-rays, and a full blood panel
done at the clinic Dr Rhodes operated at.
He felt exhausted already, but hopeful. Rosalind's case looked solid even to
his untrained eyes, and Matt seemed more put together now that he was being
given a flurry of orders, one after another.
"Good boy," Iglesias proclaimed for the final time. "Alright. I would say value
is two and quarter million shaved off, for bruises on pretty face and no
fucking mouth. Possibility of STDs and inconvenience as well. Plus pain and
might cause more migraines. Call me if you want full evaluation, ever," they
said, and handed Rosalind a paper with carefully printed letters.
"My report. And copy of it for you," and handed Foggy one as well. It had their
name and number at the top. It still gave no clues as to gender.
"Thank you, Aeryn," Rosalind said with a warm smile. How was she so able to be
competent with other people but unpredictably mean to Foggy? "Send the invoice
to my office."
"I will. Another time, Rosalind," Iglesias said, and left.
"Alright," Rosalind said, closing the file. "I'll need to go and chase more
information, put together more puzzle pieces. The medical eval is on Friday
after classes, correct?"
Foggy nodded.
"Good. I'll meet you at the clinic to get faster results and pay the invoice
upfront. Now, go to your classes tomorrow, even if Matt can't. Don't talk about
the case, that won't help your image. You need to seem reasonable," she warned
him, gathered her things, and paused before leaving.
"And in the future, Franklin, we ought to have a discussion. You and me, about
your future and your career. I have a lot of strings that I can pull."
Like a spider eating a bird, Foggy thought dryly. "Sure, maybe," he said.
Rosalind huffed and finally left, the door closing sharply behind her.
"Matt?"
 
--
 

Matt took a deep breath and angled his head towards Foggy.
"I wasn't kidding about the whole 'wrap you up in blankets and cuddle you to
death' thing," Foggy informed him, and then paused. "Unless you'd actually
rather not. I don't want to smother you."
Matt held in his arched eyebrow. "That is kind of my purpose, to be smothered,"
Matt said, aiming for teasing. "Dolls are meant to be spoiled."
Foggy made a noise that was half hopeless amusement and half hopelessness.
"Yeah, okay. Let's--I'll get us some sandwiches from that place, and you can go
lie down until I get back. It'll take me ten minutes, and then let's each and
watch another movie. There's one I love, it's kind of fucked-up but it has a
happy ending. Have you ever seen But I'm A Cheerleader?"
Matt shook his head and winced.
"Okay, then you definitely need to see it."
"Is it about cheerleaders?" Matt asked curiously.
"It is a work of genius and I will die defending it," Foggy told him half-
seriously, mostly-joking, and left.
Matt took the implicit order, stumbled to his bed, and curled up on it, a taste
of raw meat and human blood in his mouth though he'd brushed his teeth over and
over again, remembering everything.
Forgetting is so long, he remembered from Neruda. But he hadn't loved Jo, or
Charlotte, or that household. The idea seemed to apply to everything, even the
places that Matt would rather have escaped.
Maybe it was because once you lived somewhere, you became a part of it, you and
it oozing together into one flesh, like sex. Like power. Like violence.
Like the anger churning in his gut at the expense and stress and inconvenience
this was costing Foggy. Matt closed his eyes and started to meditate.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title is quote from Marya Hornbacher's memoir "Madness: A
     Bipolar Life". The 'it' is bipolar disorder.
     The referenced poems by Matt are "I’m Nobody! Who are you? (260)" by
     Emily Dickinson, here: https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/im-nobody-
     who-are-you-260
     and "Tonight I Can Write The Saddest Lines" by Pablo Neruda, here:
     http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tonight-i-can-write-the-saddest-lines/
***** sorry I ate your heart. I wanted something to belong to me. *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
 
 
 
Foggy came back with three sandwiches--part of him was worried Matt would still
be hungry after just one, a different part of him was worried he'd still be
hungry, and still a different part of him had a strange, twitchy urge to stock
up on food.
He walked up the stairs with effort, smiled and chatted with one of the women
on the floor beneath his, Matt's, and Claire's, and went inside his own
apartment, sighing with pleasure at getting to lock the door and put down the
bags. Sodas were heavier than he expected, especially since--
Foggy realized that Matt had been carrying them, always taking the heaviest bag
or box, and felt abruptly sick and guilty. He closed his eyes, remembering an
exercise he'd done with Miriam to help understand Matt more, and a section from
the PTSD book Anna had gotten him.
Fear Responses
One of the common myths is that there are only two reactions to a danger
stimuli: fight or flight. This is incorrect.
There are, in fact, many different fear responses, which can be roughly divided
into: fight, flight, freeze, and fawn.
The 'freeze' response is the one most likely to cause PTSD later on, though any
response may contribute to the formation of PTSD in response to a traumatic
event. During the freeze response, a person does not take action, instead
freezing, going still, or not reacting.
The 'fawn' response is often very stigmatized, and tends to contribute to PTSD
as well as other mental health injuries following traumatic events or
environments. During the fawn response, a person tends to act excessively
submissive or try very hard to please the person in power, essentially trying
to soothe away the danger stimulus.
Remember, all different four responses are legitimate survival responses that
can help people survive extremely dangerous situations. Problems arise,
however, when a person's initial reflex is the incorrect one, and/or they
become unable to respond differently. The fawn response in particular tends to
become habitual, as does the freeze response. This is very likely to take place
if a response is rewarded, ie successful. If a person freezes during a
dangerous situation--say, a school shooting--and this saves their life, they
will often tend to freeze in other dangerous situations.
With PTSD in particular, it can require a lot of work for a person to 'unlock'
the other responses, so to speak. In addition, the person with PTSD may feel
that so many things are danger stimuli that they constantly respond with fawn,
freeze, fight or flight--leading to often frustrating or emotionally difficult
situations.
For example, it can be extremely hard for a person with PTSD and an ingrained
fawn reaction to speak up about pain or discomfort, or stop acting submissive
and trying to seek others' approval. It's important to remember that this
behavior is an attempt at survival, not an insult to others.
Foggy breathed, and thought about how that thing might have helped Matt before,
like he'd practiced with Miriam. Well, if Matt didn't take the heavier bag,
that might have been seen as him not being good enough, and that could get him
punished, like being whipped or forced to eat human flesh, and oh god, Foggy
suddenly wanted to vomit.
He almost wouldn't have believed it, except that this was Matt, who would never
lie to him.
Foggy cleared his throat, and then thought better of it, and walked into the
bedroom. He found Matt laying on his bed, face soft and peaceful as if he was
asleep.
"Hey?" Foggy asked quietly. He wanted to let Matt sleep, but Matt hadn't eaten
anything all day, not since Foggy had made a mess of curdled, disgusting, burnt
eggs and thrown it out, and Matt needed to eat. The vet douchebag had left
written instructions, one of which included making Matt eat and writing down
any nausea.
"Hey, Matt," Foggy coaxed, and Matt instantly opened his eyes and sat up.
Foggy looked at him in the high noon sunlight, bedheaded still, mussed from
lying down, in sweatpants and a soft Columbia t-shirt, and felt a surge of
gratefulness that he got to have Matt--even just be around him.
"Hey," Foggy said. "How are you feeling?"
Matt licked his lips. Foggy dreamed about those lips. "I'm okay, Foggy," he
said.
"Yeah? I got food and a great movie," Foggy said brightly, hoping to inject as
much cheer as he could. But I'm A Cheerleader was great, it always made Foggy
feel full of spring-songs and hope.
Matt smiled, and stood up slowly. His face was soaked in bruises, like a
painter had been dabbing on purple and black and blue and hadn't wiped it off.
It made Foggy's face hurt in sympathy.
--
Matt made his way to the living room, and arranged himself to be sitting up
next to Foggy, their legs touching. He made himself keep his eyes open even as
they wanted to drift shut; he wasn't allowed to sleep yet, it wasn't night.
The sandwich was fine--turkey, touched by rubber gloves, bacon, touched by
rubber gloves, not very crispy, lettuce, poorly chiffonaded, tomato, a day or
so underripe, honey mustard, chemical-artificial mix, all on long, soft white
bread with a very plain yeast.
A part of Matt longed, suddenly and stupidly, for some of the things he'd
cooked before, for Summer's special broth she made when he hadn't felt well.
For her organic-honey-splashed tea, willow bark and valencia rind and allspice,
for her rumballs that tasted like her hands, for her hand rubbing his back and
telling him he was doing the best he could.
A different part of him wanted to call her and scream at her, to say how dare
you teach me that sex was so bad when I had to have so much of it, to sob out
how much he was trying, and he'd been good, he hadn't done anything wrong and
he'd been hurt nonetheless.
But then Foggy's hand was gently patting his leg. "Matt?" his owner's voice
sounded cautious. "Matt, are you--buddy, are you okay?"
Matt nodded, trying to push back his brimming eyes by force. Fuck. He didn't
want any of these emotions, and he hadn't been able to do a full meditation
because Foggy had interrupted it, and he just--
He took a deep breath and a step back out of his skin. Suddenly everything was
muted, softer and further away. The subtler tastes of the sandwich were absent.
His hearing pulled away just a tad. Matt nodded and made himself pay attention
to the movie. It might be important later.
--
But I'm A Cheerleader was a very odd movie, as it turned out. First of all, it
dealt with the conversion camps that Matt had half-thought were a myth--didn't
parents just sell their unwantedly sexual offspring?
But then the rest of it was strange as well. It veered between brightly
cheerful and deeply horrifying, between people clearly intending to try and
amputate parts of themselves and people referring to it as sacred cosmetic
surgery. Foggy described the pinks and blues, the haircuts and longing glances.
Matt felt very homesick during most of it.
And the end was so, so strangely sweet--Megan's awful cheer, what on earth was
she thinking, Matt could have made one up for her that would have been so much
better, and the tension, the anticipation, and Graham making a choice.
Matt's guts twisted. He felt a lump in his throat, and his eyes were burning,
the tear ducts secreting acid.
"Hey? Matt?" Foggy asked from beside him, winding an arm around his shoulders,
which screamed at the touch. "You okay? You look like you want to cry."
I don't, Matt refrained from snapping. He hated crying. He couldn't abide it
from himself in the slightest.
"I'm fine, Foggy," he made himself murmur demurely, curling up on himself. He
wanted to sleep. Maybe he wouldn't feel so shaky after a nap.
But clearly Foggy wanted him to keep interacting. Matt felt himself start to
drift further and further away, floating off out the window, seeking the blue
sky Foggy had described at the end, maybe to a meeting-room where parents
atoned--as if such a place even existed.
--
Bee knocked on the door, fist shaking weakly, Anthea squeezed in the bar of
their other arm. Their head throbbed like a drum with terror, their heart
screaming and slamming itself against a door. Matt, Matt, Matt, where was he,
where was their best friend, the only friend they had in the world, why wasn't
he in class, Matt never missed class--
Foggy Nelson opened the door.
"Where's Matt? I have notes and his homework, Dr Qasim says it's okay," they
made the stupid robotic voice say. It was better than the one before, but so
ugly and bland and wrong. It was frustrating. Bee couldn't make it sound any
which way.
"Uh, Matt's in here," he said, blinking. "We--I--uh, shit happened, he's, well,
he's fine, I guess, except that today was just not going to happen."
What the goddamn shit did that mean? "What?"
"Uhm," Foggy said, "Come in, and thanks for the notes, I'm not sure if Matt is
up for visitors--"
Bee rolled their eyes and walked in past him, shoving to the living room. Matt
was sitting on the couch, looking like a slave who'd gotten the shit kicked out
of him, and for one terror-wracked second Bee thought oh god Nelson snapped,
because they always did, every time an owner thought they loved a slave it
always ended with a broken corpse and a decommissioning certification--
But then Matt explained, "The NYPD picked me up after the video aired and Jo--"
And wasn't that interesting, him using Jo's name and not her use-name? Bee
filed that away.
"--named me. They, ah, took some liberties with my face and mouth."
Bee felt a flush of angry horror, and thrust Anthea into Matt's arms. "Hold
her," their tablet said, and they dropped their backpack on the ground, yanked
off their coat, tossed it over their bag, kicked off their shoes and moved Matt
to be lying down and climbed on top of him, shielding him the way slaves did
for each other, the one on top closer to the danger and the one below injured
and in need of hiding.
Foggy, from where he was awkwardly standing, looked mystified. Bee sighed
softly, and said, [Fuck the police.]
"Truer words have never been said," Matt muttered, looking sullen. Bee wondered
if he was finally going to admit to himself that he had emotions that weren't
perfect and appropriate and catered. Maybe.
[Foggy wasn't pissed at you.] It was a statement.
"No," Matt murmured, and one hand was nervously stroking Anthea's incredibly
soft fur. "I'm quite alright."
[You look like an abolitionist poster about the teeming tragedy of our tragic
lives which are tragic,] Bee teased.
Matt's nose wrinkled. "Oh god," he muttered. "That bad?"
[Add in some tragic semen and tragic blood and look more scared and you'll be
the next model,] Bee snarked, and Matt groaned out loud.
--
Foggy was glad that at least someone was supporting Matt, and then there was a
second knock at the door. He went to open it, and found Marci standing there,
holding a bottle of mango-flavored Malibu rum and a bag of fries, arching an
eyebrow.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter titles comes from a poem, here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/
     post/140812385522/sometimestuesday-the-kid-says-on-average-a
***** the lies that could have brined my insides to bitterness/didn’t. *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Foggy stared at Marci, and then at the rum, and then back up at Marci.
"What?"
She rolled her eyes. Her dark brown eyeliner glinted faintly, like bronze. "You
weren't in classes today, and neither was your ramora. So either he's sick and
you're sick, you're sick and he has to stay here and be your Florence
Nightengale, he's sick and you've got some strange sexual tastes, you finally
decided to fuck him for hours on end, or something else is going on. I have rum
I need to get rid of by tomorrow and I love drama."
Foggy focused on the important part of that sentence. "Free rum?"
"Free rum. It's good shit, it's just that my mother will get all dramatic about
me not having any 'good' alcohol and get into another idiotic argument with my
father about him not buying me enough scotch--which I don't even like--and then
I'll end up with another bottle of vermouth that will just make me depressed.
So, free rum, are you going to drink it with me or not?"
"Not the whole bottle, but yeah," Foggy said, deciding to make a bad life
choice. Sometimes those were necessary to have a life in which to make poor
decisions.
Marci grinned victoriously and strode in past Foggy, casually entitled and
almost swaggering as she put the rum and fries down and started looking in the
cabinets. "Where do you keep the good glasses?" she asked, frowning.
Matt's voice came floating from the living room. "In the cabinet two left of
the one above the stove, Miss Stahl."
Foggy glanced again at Matt and Bee. Bee was telling Matt something, a serious
look on their face, and Matt didn't look like he wanted them to get off of him-
-which was odd, because Foggy didn't think Matt was particularly cuddly with
anyone, he rarely took any initiative in touching people--
Probably because he's scared of being hurt if he does, you idiot, the thinking
part of Foggy's brain chimed in.
He blinked and pushed that thought to the side for another time. Matt looked
fine, not squashed or scared--probably because it was Bee, who despite gaining
enough weight to no longer look like a corpse was still small and thin.
"Alright, let's try an old standby," Marci said, rummaging through the fridge
and coming over with a bottle of apple juice and a can of Sprite. "Where's the
blender?"
"In the cabinet under the sink, Miss Stahl," Matt offered up again from the
living room.
Marci found it and then went back for the ice, and Foggy frowned, trying to
figure out what felt strange about this whole thing to him--oh. Marci hadn't
said thank you or even acknowledged that Matt had said anything.
Foggy--couldn't. Not on top of everything else. "Thanks, Matt," he said
pointedly, turning and glaring at Marci. "And how is that going to taste?" He
asked, frowning at the haphazard mix of ice, rum, apple juice and Sprite going
into the blender.
"Delicious. Trust me, at Yale this is what I lived on for three months when my
I dumped my upperclassmen boyfriend as a freshman and suddenly couldn't get any
decent drink mixes from his friends," Marci said brightly, and turned the
blender on.
--
Matt had a very bad feeling the second Marci Stahl showed up to explain that
she was there to get smashed with Foggy, and this turned out to be another
instance of accidental clairvoyance.
Bee felt just as uncomfortable as Matt, their body unhappily tense. After a
little while, they moved so the two of them were sitting side-by-side instead,
and Matt offered to braid their hair to take their mind off of the sounds of
the blender (loud loud loud screaming Matt wanted to scream), followed by soft
conversation that Matt was automatically carefully filing away as something he
wasn't allowed to know or respond to unless it was a direct question or order.
"So you see,” Marci was saying as she and Foggy started noisily (disgustingly)
slurping down the mixes she’d made. “I love drama. I love drama! But I just
don’t like it when the drama affects me. Not gonna get sucked in.”
Matt forced himself to stop listening in. “You okay?” he murmured to Bee, whose
body was still tense and stiff.
[They’re going to get drunk.]
“It does seem that way.”
[How is Foggy when he’s drunk?]
Matt was confused--except--oh, right. Bee had never been around Foggy when he
was drinking, hadn’t they? That made more sense.
“Like a koala,” Matt said softly.
An awkward pause. Matt brushed more hair. It was growing in thicker and
stronger, less frizzy and flat now that Bee was eating.
[I don’t know what those are.]
“Small marsupials that are stereotyped as cuddly to humans,” Matt explained. He
gently untangled another knot. Did Bee not brush their hair every day? “I’m not
sure if they are actually amenable to human touch, but that’s the quality I
meant to reference.”
[What are marsupials.]
Matt blinked. Bee’s back felt upset, their body stiff and angry, their face
warm as if red with humiliation. What on earth were they teaching slaves
nowadays? Why didn’t Bee know these things?
Well, they’d never had a trainer as individually focused on them and an owner
willing to pay for tutors, Matt supposed. “They’re similar to--they have fur,
and are animals, and many have pouches for their young. Some lay eggs instead
of giving birth to live young.”
There was another silence, broken only by Foggy laughing the way he rarely did
around Matt, carefree and tipsy. Matt’s throat felt tight.
[Yeah, our science education was shitty. No reason to think we’d need it.]
“It’s always better to know something than to not know something, no matter
what it is,” Matt murmured, frowning.
[Summer tell you that?]
Matt opened his mouth to say yes--
And stopped. Because no, that hadn’t been her, had it? It had been Dad, Dad had
told Matt that one night when he’d been whining about his history homework and
why do I need to know about the dumb presidents anyway, the ones who never did
anything? Matt could suddenly hear it in Dad’s perfect voice, rough and warm
and firm, a hand rubbing Matt’s hair but not like an owner because that was
when Matt had been a person--
Matt jerked away from those dangerous thoughts like a hand jerked away from a
hot stove, and went back to braiding. He and Bee stayed in that jumpy silence
for a long while, the kind where you weren’t eavesdropping on your owner and
the other free people, just making sure that if you were needed you’d notice.
--
Foggy chortled as Marci finished her story about her getting revenge on her
shitty ex-boyfriend. “And then, since he was so fond of sending me extremely
low-quality pictures of his genitals--the only good part of him--I made sure to
swap around the numbers for me and his mother so when he inevitably got drunk
that weekend and tried to send me one to hook me in, instead he sent it to his
extremely Idahoan mother--”
Foggy almost screamed with laughter, bending double to couch and wheeze.
“Fuck,” he articulated. “Holy fuck. Marci, that’s fucking crazy.”
“It was my favorite part of freshman year,” she said, and drank the last of her
rum slushie. “Let’s make more,” she said, and went to get more ice. As she did,
she called over, “So where did you go to undergrad?”
Foggy blinked. “Oh, Soot College,” he said.
“Where?”
“Uh, Sootlichterten College in Tacoma,” he said, stretching. “But we all called
it Soot.”
“Never heard of it,” Marci frowned, as if her not knowing something was a
cosmic act of unfairness.
“It’s pretty tiny,” Foggy admitted. “I think 800 undergrads overall, and no
grad students.”
Marci arched an eyebrow. “What was it like? Sounds cramped.”
Cramped is a good word, yeah. Foggy thought about how to possibly describe it;
the drum circles, the late-night screamfests. The people perpetually crying on
the stairs. The disgusting cafeteria food, vegan and gluten-free and organic
options for everything. The dorms that had black mold and spiders and stray
cats. The way the library was open all night every night, the way it glowed in
the darkness when Foggy looked out his window freshman year, tempting him.
His friends having mental breakdowns on his floor. His roommates, who were
amazing and awful and absent by turns--freshman year, two of them, one turning
out to be the kind of idiot who told racist jokes and thought that it was fine
because he wasn’t serious, the other the kind of guy who brought two
minifridges, one for beer and one for mountain dew, sophomore year, three
roommates because Foggy never, ever stopped gambling on people, one of them
never showing up, one of them never coming back from a trip to the Himalayas,
one of them living in his girlfriend’s single in the dorm furthest away from
campus, junior year, amazing friend, Foggy doesn’t talk to him enough. Senior
year in a literal room under the stairs, but at least Foggy was left in peace
to crank out papers and papers and papers.
The professors saying things like you can come to me for anything and then
well, no, it’s not an excused absence, you weren’t the one who needed to go to
the emergency room. His classes--Gender and Economics, Introduction to
Sexuality Studies, Introduction to Women’s History and Culture. The time he
went to bed at midnight and woke up the next day at five pm, still tired.
Flying back home for Christmas and not being able to make Dad understand
anything because of course Dad had never gone to college, Dad didn’t go to high
school. Candace getting wide-eyed and Foggy telling her not to go there after
him. His friends, his fucking amazing friends, having friends his own age for
the first time in his life, the lunches and dinners and breakfasts, everyone
together and happy and howling with laughter. Realizing he could do something
with his life.
Deciding to go into law school, one late night when he was desperately trying
to get the smell of pot and dirty laundry out of his room, deciding that he
didn’t care anymore about the way that Anna thought he should be a butcher
because he’d loved working at the butcher shop so much, he didn’t care about
Dad’s sad-eyed looks whenever Foggy talked about the endless work, he didn’t
care about what anyone had told him he should be, he wanted to be a fucking
lawyer and have nice things.
Foggy blinked out of his reverie. “One of my friends said once it was like a
really weird ‘be careful what you wish for’ kind of story,” he said
thoughtfully. “As in, yeah, you’ll get all kinds of awesome shit, but you’ll
also get nights where you hate everything and wish you’d never even come.”
Marci tilted her head and stopped from where she was liberally splashing rum
into the blender. “Don’t tell me you’re a morose drunk.”
 
--
 
“Either that or happy,” Foggy said, and took another deep sip. “Let me tell you
this story, then, about how I ended up getting rid of my asshole roommate--one
of them, at least. So in freshman year I ended up in a triple, with these two
guys, Chad and Hammy. Yeah,” he said at Marci’s incredulous stare. “Hammy. Now,
Hammy was ostensibly gonna be an ‘intertextual’ major, basically you take a
bunch of classes and write your senior paper on how they all relate to each
other, and Chad was just a dick. I don’t even know why Chad showed up in the
first place, he probably should have gone to an actual party school. Chad had
two minifridges, one for beer and one for Mountain Dew.
“Chad did a lot of annoying things--sexile me way more often than is
reasonable, not turn off the light when it was late, leave his gross shit all
over the floor, etc. But I could deal with that like a normal person. What I
refused to deal with was his deal with moldy food. Chad would come back from
Eaton--the dining hall--with half-eaten plates of food, drop them on his desk
or the floor, and never clean them up. Ever.”
Marci looked abjectly horrified.
“Yeah. So I tried a lot of things. I tried to just ask him to clean it up. I
tried to tell him to clean it up. I tried to get a meeting arranged between us
and the RA, but they never replied to my emails, so instead what happened was--
and this should have told me that I was going to be a lawyer--I looked up the
school policies and saw that one of them was that if you were posing an active
health hazard to any of your roommates, you could be expelled. And Chad’s mold
was sending off spores.
“So I waited until I got a cold and then I went to the head of housing and told
him that I was getting sick because of my roommate’s moldy dishes. And I came
in with pictures, time-stamped, and documented all the emails and the
conversations between me and him. And the head of housing said they’d do a
sweep for how much mold and send it off for testing while they waited for me to
get tested for allergies.
“But as they were doing the sweep, they opened up his fridge because, well,
it’s a natural place to look for moldy food, and according to the school
policies--the agreement that we all signed--this was allowed. So they opened up
his beer fridge and Chad, you see, was maybe 18. So they not only nailed him on
health hazards because apparently some of it was growing tetanus, they nailed
him on underage drinking, underage possession of alcohol, and then apparently
in the hearing for that Chad said that he’d shared his beer with his friends,
so they nailed him on underage drug dealing to other underage students. So Chad
got expelled and I got to live in relative peace for the second semester with
my other roommate, who was a stupid racist asshole but at least I could live
with.”
Marci cackled, making goosebumps form on Foggy’s skin, and turned the blender
on again. Foggy grinned. It was going to be a great night.
--
Matt’s muscles started to hurt from tensing sometime during the second hour of
drinking.
Bee was still there, unhappily silent, holding their teddy bear and trying to
occasionally make conversation, flinching at every loud outburst of noise.
“Are you sure you’d rather not leave.”
There was an ugly silence. [Not walking anywhere past drunk loud free people,]
Bee pointed out. [Besides, you’re still here. Why don’t we go to the room where
you sleep?]
It sounded like a beautiful idea to Matt. He waited for a second for Foggy and
Marci to scream with laughter at something again--probably annoying their
neighbors--and walked quickly to the bedroom, not closing the door (if your
owner wants to look at you, you want to be looked at) but lying on the floor
where it would be harder to be seen.
Bee sat too. [Ugh,] they said after a minute. [You keep the bear under the
bed?]
[It has a knife in it,] Matt pointed out. He knew he ought to give it over to
Foggy, but then he might be furious at Bee for putting Matt in danger, and
giving a slave that wasn’t yours a weapon--especially since any weapons were
banned on slaves for the moment--was a serious crime. Depending on the weapon
and the slave, it could be a felony.
Matt felt torn in two. He knew he ought to be on his owner’s side, but the idea
of anything happening to Bee--of them being charged and taken in and going
through intake again and finding some dark room to bite their wrists open in--
made his head swim with terror.
He took a deep breath. It was fine. It was all fine. He’d find a discreet way
to hide the bear even better, or hide the knife in the kitchen instead, and
then it would all be fine. Foggy wouldn’t be upset and nobody would arrest Bee.
Nothing was going to happen. His panic was idiotic and unbecoming.
Bee was silent for a minute. Then, [Tell me something. Did you really know Jo?
Have you seen the full video?]
[I knew her. I haven’t, and I shouldn’t.] If Jo’s words that were deemed fit
for the public were enough to make Matt remember the taste of raw human liver--
and they were--then the ones edited out would be worse. Matt couldn’t afford
any more damage, temporary or otherwise.
Foggy and Marci laughed again from the kitchen. Matt flushed with something--
jealousy? But he pushed it down. It wasn’t appropriate to be jealous of free
people. No matter how deeply irritating they were.
[Was she always that...she seemed...maybe Foggy didn’t tell you, but she looked
like me,] Bee said, slow and halting. [With her bunny--she was holding a
stuffed bunny. Like I hold my bear. Was she a K-class, too?]
[Yes.] Matt knew because she’d mentioned it once or twice, and another one of
the overseers--Marc, or something like that--had thrown it in her face once,
shouted something like you don’t have any goddamn power over me, at least I was
a person for thirty years, you’ve been down on your knees since you were
fucking four and then the head overseer had had them both whipped for shouting
and disturbing the master.
Bee was silent. [I saw the footage of her burning. She looked happy. She wasn’t
scared, I don’t think. Do you think she was scared?]
Matt closed his eyes. [I don’t know.]
[You don’t know or you don’t want to know?]
Matt curled his legs up, folding himself up under his bed. Foggy was with
Marci, he didn’t have to be posing at the moment. [I don’t want to think about
it.] Not crackling, curling human flesh, not the fat sizzling, not the gagged
screams as Summer explained how fire was a legitimate form of torture.
Bee crawled under the bed, too, and wriggled so Matt was closer to the wall.
[Shh. It’s okay down here. Foggy hasn’t hit you yet.]
[I wish he would,] Matt said back, the teddy bear squashed between the two of
them. [I wish he would just make sense. He doesn’t make sense and I can’t
function like this.]
Bee poked him sharply in the ribs. [You can learn how to do this. You’re smart,
you can learn anything you want to. Right?]
Well, not how to see. But just about, Matt supposed. He nodded, and the two of
them lay there in the dark, the sounds of soft breathing and raucous laughter
from the free people in the other room mingling like rotting, liquid potatoes
and salt.
 
--
 
 
 
 
Marci was fun, Foggy thought drunkenly. She was fun, and funny, and she told
hilarious stories about other people being crazy assholes. Some of them weren't
really funny because they ended with people dropping out or going to rehab or
getting divorced, but they were mostly pretty funny.
And Marci wasn't fragile. Foggy didn't have to watch what he was saying or be
nice or tread carefully. He could be as loud and cheerful and normal as he
wanted and she wouldn't crumple, not the way Matt sometimes crumpled to his
knees.
He felt suddenly guilty for thinking that. Sheesh, what kind of asshole was he,
getting sad because he had to be nice to a guy who was literally his slave?
"You're not an asshole," Marci said dryly. "Except when you're really pissed.
But that's hilarious anyway."
Foggy blinked. Was he talking out loud?
"Yes," she said, and giggled, and then poured more of the bottle into shots.
They couldn't drink the whole bottle tonight--Foggy did have a couple of late-
morning classes, and besides, it was an entire bottle of rum--but they could
try.
"Sometimes it makes me tired," he said, now aware of how heavy his mouth was.
Wow. How did people even talk? "Being nice all the time. I lll--" And he
stopped, because no, he couldn't say that, Matt would get all scared. "I--being
nice is tiring."
"So stop being nice," Marci said, and slurped her shot. "Especially to your
slave. I know he's your doll, and he's luscious, he looks like he should be
with arrows in him, like that one hot saint, but you don't have to be nice to
him. 'm sure he can live without a warm blanket every two minutes."
Foggy stared at her. The room was spinning, almost, very very slowly. "I gotta
be nice, though," he said.
She snorted. "Why? Wha' difference is it going to make? Oh no, I'm a slave but
it'sall okay because they say please and thank you to me? That's...short-
sighted."
"It...does make a diff'rence," Foggy protested indignantly. "And besides, I
want him to be free. I want...everyone to stop being slaves."
Marci sighed. "And people in hell want ice water," she said, and started
putting rum in the blender again. "I want iced rum. You want iced rum?"
Maybe Foggy was done. "I had a lot," he said.
She snorted. "Not enough. C'mon. Let's talk about something besides your dumb.
Liberal guilt."
Foggy tried to focus. "Why...why're your Mom coming tomorrow?"
Marci laughed, a honking sound that was completely wrong with all of her.
"She's...not my Mom. She's my mother. She'd be so pissed if I called her mom.
All 'that's disrespecting my role and the work I put in'. She's...coming up
because my birthday is next week, and she can't make it, so she'd going to come
up and tell me all about how her husband leaving her traumatized me."
Foggy blinked and did his shot. Then he asked, confused, "Did it?"
"Not even a little bit," Marci whispered. "Shh. But she thinks it did, because
she thinks I love my father."
"Do you?" He asked, intrigued. Or insipid. One of the two, both seemed equally
likely to be the word he wanted.
"I love him, but I haven't...respected him since I was five," Marci said,
sneering, and then poured out more of the ice-rum mix. The apple juice was
gone, Foggy noted sadly.
"He didn't even..he doesn't even...when I was five, I knew I didn't like him,"
Marci said. "And because he chases after people trying to make them like him,
like if people are happy with you then they're nice to you. Like that. Which is
BULLSHIT!" She roared.
"SHHH!" Foggy hushed. "Shhh. Claire. Claire lives next door. She's a nurse.
Shhh. We have to whisper," he whispered.
Marci giggled. "But...I stopped..even then, I didn't like him, or respect him,
but it wasn't until later, when I, I found out he didn't even hit his slaves
himself. He made someone else do it and that's why they all came back at the
end of the month and looked like they were sick."
Foggy suddenly felt sick. That was.."Let's sleep," he said. "Let's...one more
shot and then we should...go to bed. And not talk about your, your dickwipe
dad."
Marci laughed, deep and stomach-convulsing and loud, and then they finished the
slushies (slushies with rum rum rum, who even knew,Marci was magic), bursting
into breathless little laughs every time they made eye contact and one of them
mouthed dickwipe, and Marci ended up sprawled on the couch, and Foggy stumbled
into his own bed, snoring before he even hit the pillow.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from "Zoo" by Marty McConnell, here: http://
     fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/140459488837/zoo-by-marty-mcconnell
     Soot College is not a real college. It is not based on any real
     college.
***** nothing has changed. the body is susceptible to pain *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
     Trigger warning for mentions of female genital mutilation and sexual
     harassment.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Foggy woke up to the sound of something sizzling, smelling delicious, and
groaned, hiding his head in his pillow. Then he realized something was
sizzling, and sat up, because it was probably Matt--

Who, Foggy realized with an unpleasant jolt of adrenaline, Foggy hadn’t locked
into the cuff last night, and who wasn’t supposed to be unlocked until Foggy
did it, so what--

Foggy was up and in the kitchen before consciously deciding to go find Matt,
breathing hard, staring at the scene with confusion.

Matt was frying eggs. Bee was there, sitting in the same clothes as last night,
teddy bear tucked into the crook of their arm, eating scrambled eggs quicker
than he’d ever seen them eat anything that couldn’t be drunk, sitting at the
table with Marci, who looked cool and collected, casually texting someone while
dressed in new clothes.

Foggy was very, very confused.

“Good morning, Foggy,” Matt said politely, and put one of the eggs that was
done on a toasted bagel, loaded with bacon and avocado slices and tomatoes.
“Would you like some breakfast? I took the liberty of making some hangover-cure
food.”

Foggy stared. There was hot coffee just the way he liked it, and a fried-egg
sandwich, and crispy bacon. There was a glass of orange juice on the table, and
Marci now fixing her hair.

“Sure,” he said. “Thanks, Matt.”

Matt nodded, ducking his head, and turned back to the last few eggs. Foggy took
his plate to the counter and ate it, feeling strangely drained from the
discovery. “Uh, about the cuff--”

“Oh, Bee remembered to lock it in their course as a handler, and then I could
unlock it this morning. Any free person being awake in the place of residence
guarantees that slaves are allowed to not be restrained, according to the new
law, Foggy,” Matt reassured him. Foggy breathed out in relief. But Matt sounded
worried, like he was waiting for Foggy to be mad at him for finding ways to
make sure he’d stay safe.

“Good. Thanks, uh, Bee,” he said, and they flashed him an indecipherable look.
“And thanks, Matt. I know I kinda dropped the ball on that, so thanks for
making sure we didn’t get arrested in the event of a secret-police raid,” Foggy
tried to inject humor. Only Marci looked like she actually thought it was
funny.

“Good morning to you to, Foggy-Bear,” she said, bright and teasing and doing
something with lipstick. “Your slave makes the most amazing anti-hangover
food.”

“Uh,” Foggy said, because had she--did she--? “You made Matt make you food?”

“Well, he was making it for you, but really, once I started eating the bagel,
the situation resolved itself,” she said with a shrug. “Anyway, thanks for
helping me use up the rum. You can keep the last of it. Though I might swing by
again tomorrow when my parents have fucked off again and left me in peace.”

“Uh, you’re welcome,” he said. “Though I, should. Uh. Come by your place
again.”

“And miss this coffee?” she teased, taking a sip. Foggy glanced at Matt, who
had the familiarly polite face that meant he either was indifferent or brimming
with emotion. It was hard to tell.

“Yeah, you’ve got, uh. More space.” Marci did, mostly because she lived alone
and had a bigger apartment. “And a bigger TV.”

She laughed. “As if we need it. You’re more fun when you cut loose.”

Foggy felt a sinking sensation in his stomach, and glanced at Bee, who looked
homicidal, and Matt’s expressionless briskness. Fuck. He didn’t remember doing
much besides talking a lot to Marci and laughing, but what if he had done
something assholish?

He’d deal with it later. “Shit,” Foggy said as his alarm went. “Shit, class is
in 30 minutes.”

“Then you’d better hurry,” Marci said mildly. Matt turned off the stove, ate a
fried egg, and Foggy shoveled down the last of his bagel, and rushed to get
everything ready.

--

Dr Qasim wanted to talk to Matt after class.

Matt followed her into her office, heartbeat slower than it was than any time
before she’d called him into it. Dr Qasim wasn’t about to not accommodate Matt
or kick him out or try to poach him. She seemed calm and not like the type to
declare a protest against slavery by not allowing slave-students in her
classes.

(One of Matt’s professors for a general education class--’Introduction to
History of the Middle East’--had done that on the second day of classes, in
front of everyone. Matt had never felt so humiliated by being a slave since
intake and his hair being shaved off as he helplessly sobbed.)

Dr Qasim sat down, earrings jangling, and said, “Please sit, Matt.”

Matt sat in the chair.

There was a quiet minute, and then she said, “I just wanted to check in with
you regarding your absence yesterday, and your condition today. Are you...how
are things where you live, Matt?”

Matt was tempted to feel offended, to feel like she had no right to even imply
his owner was doing something wrong by disciplining him--if that had been what
had happened, which it wasn’t, Matt wasn’t anywhere near so stupid and
unworthy--but instead, he felt strangely comforted by it. She reminded him, in
an odd way, of Jo and Summer--though all three were radically different, each
would notice when Matt was injured.

“Things are fine, Dr Qasim,” Matt said politely. “There was an incident. But
it’s being taken care of, and my owner is taking me to the clinic on Friday.”

The atmosphere palpably cooled. Matt moved uncomfortably; he wished he could
tell her about the police damage of property, explain it wasn’t Foggy who had
slammed his face into a table and given him fingerprinted bruises via backhand,
but Foggy had told Matt to not tell anyone as they rushed to class that
morning, hastily repeating Rosalind Sharpe’s instruction. It was good advice,
Matt knew.

“Well,” she said, her tone tinged with frost, “That’s good. That you’re getting
medical care. Matt, if you ever--if these incidents escalate, if things get
very sticky, please know that while I can’t change your owner’s behaviour, you
can always come here. If you ever need a place to study, or simply be on
campus, you can always come to my office. We can discuss anything. I consider
this room like Las Vegas--what goes on here stays here.”

Matt bit his lip, and nodded. He felt insulted and patronized to and cared for.
It was a familiar flavor on his tongue, and he didn’t choke. He didn’t have a
gag reflex anymore, after all.

--

One other professor asked to speak to Matt after class. Matt specifically, and
not Foggy, who hovered nervously outside.

He followed her into her room, and she shut the door. “Well,” she said, sitting
down with a bony noise. She was new to Columbia, and she was teaching their
criminal law class, and her name was Ingrid Bergan. “Haven’t you been bad,
Matthew?”

Matt didn’t sit. She hadn’t told him to. “Pardon, ma’am?”

She smiled. Matt wanted to flinch. “I want to know where the bruises on your
face come from. What you did to earn them.”

Her tone was a vulture swooping down to drop a stone on an egg. Matt felt
something inside of him grow armor. “I’m terribly sorry, ma’am, I’m not at
liberty to say.”
She frowned. Her face was thin, and she smelled of mildew, just faintly. Her
hair was down to her shoulders; it sounded brittle. “Well, it must have been
something awful. Stand there.”

More instructions. Matt stood. She pulled something out of a drawer, and then a
click. A camera. “Tilt your head to the left.” More clicks.

Matt felt faintly alarmed. “My owner hasn’t given permission, ma’am,” he said.

She tut-tutted. “You’re in public, not chained to a bed. Though that’s really
where you ought to be with a face like that. It’s hardly invasion of privacy.
I’m not even asking you to strip yet.”

Matt’s muscles tensed, ready to run. His mind started to puzzle through escape
routes. She laughed. “No, Matthew, stay. I’m joking. Just a couple more for me,
and then you can go. Though be warned that any behavioural infractions will be
met with harsh punishment.”

Her voice smelled like battery acid; her panties like arousal, even through her
jeans. Matt was glad when he left, and put it in his mind as another thing to
keep an ear out for.

--

By Friday, Foggy was Officially Done with everyone who wasn’t Matt.

People kept asking, over and over again, what Matt had done, or looking at
Foggy approvingly. Anna and Dad had gotten the message alright that it wasn’t
Foggy who made him look like an abuse victim, and he was suing who had. Anna
had groaned when Foggy told her it was Rosalind, and Dad had sighed heavily,
asked if maybe a settlement would be better, if--

Foggy had hung up over the sound of Anna telling Dad that this was Foggy’s
decision.

Marci had followed up and Foggy had had another night where he got drunk and
stumbled back to bed, but this time, he’d cuffed Matt to the bed and hadn’t
done anything else. From Matt, Foggy had heard that he hadn’t yelled or hit or
fucked or kissed anyone that night, but something about the possibility freaked
Foggy out so badly, he still felt guilty whenever he thought about it.

But Friday, after classes, Foggy and Matt met Rosalind at the apartment and sat
through an uncomfortable, boring car ride to the clinic; it was a ways away,
and Rosalind spent the entire time making call after call, her assistant
handing her papers and otherwise being silent. Matt sat between Foggy and the
window and said nothing. Foggy wanted to punch the glass and scream.

The clinic itself looked like the dentist Foggy used to go to, and Foggy
realized like a punch to the gut as he and Matt went into the lobby--Rosalind
handing him the papers he was supposed to give to the receptionist to make sure
she sent the records and invoice to her--that it was, in fact, the same place.
The slave-clinic was the upper six floors, the dentist’s the ground floors.
They took the elevator up, Foggy unable to look at the stairs.

Foggy looked at people wearing collars, naked and bleeding or fully-clothed and
bleeding or fully-clothed and blank-faced like Matt, and worried with the
terror of the new adult, does this make me the worst person in the world that
all of this was happening a floor above me and I never noticed?

They walked to the front desk, Matt still with a hand on Foggy’s arm, and the
receptionist held up a finger in the wait sign as she talked on the phone.
“Listen, obviously we would take you if this were a normal emergency, but just
because a slave is crying and unable to calm down doesn’t make it an emergency.
You just need to wait it out. Let it wear itself out and then call us back and
we can give you a lot of referrals to good trainers. This is not a problem we
can fix. Thank you so much and talk to you later!”

Foggy stared. The receptionist’s scrubs had Hello Kitty heads on them. “Yes?”
she asked.

“Uh, we’re here for an appointment, uh, name of Nelson--?”

“Nelson, Nelson, Nelson, for right now?”

Foggy checked his phone. “We’re fifteen minutes early.”

She frowned. “Are you Sharpe?”

Foggy screamed internally. Of fucking course Rosalind put it in her name. He
wanted to throw something, and instead took a deep breath. “Apparently so.”

“Alrighty then,” the receptionist said sweetly. “Well, that makes more sense
than you being Albright, since you’re clearly not here to get him a
clitoridectomy!”

Foggy felt a faint rush of swooshing terror. A what?

“Alright, fill this out, take a seat over there, and then we’ll call you up.
Thank you for coming here and choosing Rhodes Clinic of New York.”

Foggy turned and sat down, numbly, as Matt patiently knelt between his legs,
and started to look at the sheet of questions.
Chapter End Notes
     Title comes from "Tortures" by Wisława Szymborska, here: http://
     fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/143029665033/nothing-has-changed-the-body-
     is-susceptible-to
***** you think I’ll be the dark sky so you can be the star? I’ll swallow you
whole *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Bee got the email before they were able to figure out what it was.
They squinted at it, early Friday morning, wondering why some typo-riddled ad
for Viagra of all the things a) had even been sent to them in the first place
and b) hadn’t been caught by the spam filter. But then something about the
typos specifically caught their eye, and they rubbed a fist against it before
they were able to figure out what it was.
The typos were the exact ones slaves who had been taught to read and write when
they were older made. Every single one was one Bee had seen slaves be slapped
for making. Most of them were in the old, bizarre, propaganda-slathered
textbooks that they knew were only used in slave-training institutions (S.
Hook’s Guide to Grammar for the Proper Slave)--the exact wording.
Of course, free people made spelling and grammar mistakes too, they knew that,
but...there was just something about the cadence of the email. And given how it
was worded, it sounded...it sounded like something that a slave who was told to
hawk some snake oil would say, not like a spam email written by a free person.
They had stared, open-mouthed, at the email. Then they saw the other pattern,
the time and date--the same night--and rushed to the meeting, following the GPS
coordinates by a taxi to a small cottage outside of the city limits, holding
Anthea and a knife.
Bee Elle swallowed heavily, but right before they either ran off or rang the
doorbell, the door opened--the side door, the slave-door--and standing there
was another person, frantically waving them in.
Bee darted inside, and blinked, taking stock. There were many overstuffed
couches, armchairs, and sofas, loveseats and rocking chairs, and maybe fifteen
other people inside besides Bee and the one that had waved them in, and in
front of them all a woman, maybe forty or forty-five, wearing a Walmart track
suit and a styrofoam cup. She looked like the slaves Bee knew who had spoken
Spanish first and gotten slapped on the back of the head for trying to speak it
in training.
“Hello,” she said, and smiled. Bee felt strangely soothed by the smile, and
took a few steps towards a free armchair, and sat in it, cradling Anthea
against their chin. Then they took out their tablet from their jacket and used
it to say back, “Hi?”
“Now that we’re all here,” the woman said, and Bee took stock of everyone in
the room, and realized with a jolt that they seemed to all be like them--freed
slaves. There was something about the way a lot of them looked uncomfortable to
be on furniture, and the way Bee wasn’t the only one holding a stuffed animal.
A girl--a person--was sitting on one of the loveseats, holding a blue-pink-
rainbow-pastel bunny.
Bee thought about Jo’s bunny from the video. What was it named? Who was taking
care of it? Had it burned as Jo burned?
The woman kept talking. “I’d like to introduce myself. My name is Emilia Gomez,
and I am a former slave. I was enslaved at the age of seven by my adoptive
guardians, who were my aunt and uncle. I was freed by a legal technicality when
I was eighteen, and since then I have lived ten years in steady freedom.”
Bee stared at her. They knew that slaves aged fast, slavery made even black
crack, but--holy shit.
Emilia smiled. “I am glad that all of you have come. I would like to tell you
first why I believe you should all join the movement to live free or die for
all slaves. Before I begin talking, I am going to pass around many trays of
food--please take it all if you’d like. I only want everyone to be comfortable
as we can be.”
A nervous flutter of laughter went around the room. Bee took a turkey sandwich
for now and three granola bars for later, and passed it along as Emilia sat
down on the floor and spoke.
“When I was first freed, it was on a technicality. The adoption by my aunt and
uncle was not done by filing the proper paperwork, and the attendant when I was
first checked into intake did not ask for proof of adoption. They almost never
do, because even the technically illegal enslavements are almost never pursued.
“My birth mother, however, did pursue me. She had been fourteen years old when
she gave birth to me, and when she was twenty-one, she came from her home
country of Guatemala and immigrated here, only to find that her baby had been
sold three months ago for money to pay taxes. It took her until I was sixteen
to track me down, finally, and then the case of proving my enslavement was
illegal took two years to be processed.
“When I was finally judged to be an error of the system, I was treated as such-
-no compensation. No possibility of welfare. A sealed record and not so much as
a single apology. I was told that if I tried to ever use my former status in
any legal capacity without mentioning that it was illegal due to an adoption
error, I would be prosecuted by the US Government for libel and fraud. I was
threatened. I was harassed by the police.
“My mother and I did not know how to have a relationship. I had been a secluded
bed-slave, the ones you all know, who are kept inside the bedroom and not
allowed anywhere else. I had a second-grade education and could not
functionally read or write English or Spanish. I did not know how to work. My
only work had been the work of any slave--keep your owners happy--and the word
of any slave--make sure your rapes are as pleasurable as possible for your
rapists.
“I had no friends, and my few contacts inside the house where I had been kept
since I had been purchased at the age of nine--the head of the household,
Andreas, who was permitted to tend to me when I was sick, the youngest pet,
‘Cookie’, who was only eight at the time, who was allowed to give me human
touch when my owners were away, and the doll, Darlene, who took my place when I
was menstruating and was allowed to speak to me through the door--were suddenly
torn away from me.
“I didn’t understand how to be a daughter or even a woman. I resented having to
wear clothes. I offered sex to my mother whenever she was irritated, upset, or
angry. I ate with my hands. I slept through most of the day and stayed up all
night.
“When I was offered a job at the local abolitionist chapter of the organization
Last Slaveowner Generation, I was delighted. My mother didn’t know what to do
with me. I was constantly terrified of being re-sold, not understanding that
legally, I couldn’t be.
“Now, my first clue as to why this organization was not going to bring me to
the promised land should have been that the nature of the job was an ‘unpaid
internship’--which is another word for work without compensation. Once I was
confident enough to question this, I was told that we were being compensated by
gaining ‘experience’, which is by nature not a form of currency.”
Another laugh went around the room. Bottles of water, juice, and sodas were now
being passed around. Bee rubbed Anthea’s fuzzy ears.
“My second clue--which I did not understand at the time--was that my
credentials were constantly questioned. I was asked, in public and private, by
bosses and colleagues, by people on the phone and in person, how I had
suffered. My story was ripped out of me, and it was told to everyone. People at
the organization played games of telephone with my stories, exaggerating and
hyperbolizing and distorting my words until nothing made any sense, and then
they’d come back and demand to know why I’d clearly lied. I would say that I’d
been beaten until I lost a tooth, for example, and someone would ask me the
next day why it was that I was lying about not having any teeth when I clearly
possessed them. Those sorts of things.
“And if I did not give up a story to justify everything I said--if I did not
begin every opinion with ‘well, as a beaten, raped, starved, tortured slave’--
I was dismissed. ‘We have the facts, we have the statistics,’ I was told. ‘That
didn’t happen.’ Or: ‘you can’t speak on this issue’. Or: ‘well, unless you’ve
been raped..’.
“Asking someone to show you their wounds in pornographic detail before you
accept their words that they are hurt and need help is exploitation. Demanding
credentials of every horror someone has gone through is violence. Forcing
people to recount every time we have suffered before we are allowed to venture
an opinion is dehumanizing. People who treat you like this are not treating you
like a free person. They are treating you like a slave.
“The statistics are lies. The official reports are lies. The decommissioning
certificates are lies. The permits are lies. The auction house evaluations--
which are, let’s face it, commercials-- are lies. The inspections of slave-
markets, when they are even performed, are lies. There is no useful or accurate
information given by anything endorsed by the United States government, even
tacitly endorsed. You cannot trust any of that--and see, you all know,” Emilia
said, laughing with the others, who were nodding.
“But they do not know. They do not know anything. And they do not care.
Fundamentally, most abolitionists are the same as protectionists--they don’t
want slavery gone. Why would they? Their entire lives are devoted to fighting
it, as if they are a saint in shining armor, gone to slay the dragon. What
would they do without it?”
Emilie took a long gulp of Coke. Then she wiped off her mouth with the back of
her hand, and went back to speaking.
“And all around me, abolitionists would tell me how guilty they felt. How much
pity I made them feel. How sorrowful they were. They told me of sisters,
nieces, nephews sold, of seeing slaves raped in public, of how awful it was to
go to Thanksgiving dinners and have to make nice and be served pumpkin pie by
people who were enslaved. How seeing collars made them sick. They never let me
escape the horrors of the world. I sometimes begged them, tearfully, to please
not tell me any more, to please stop, I couldn’t bear knowing any more--and
they’d tell me I wasn’t committed enough to the movement.
“Now, I’m not saying that free people shouldn’t feel guilty--or, at least,
owners. Owners should feel guilty. If any person who owns another person has a
single scrap of human decency in them, they should hate themselves as much as
we hate them. They should hate themselves for the rest of their lives, because
they are disgusting.
“They are repugnant and disgusting and horrific. They are rapists. They are
child molesters. They are abusive, violent, vicious people. They do not deserve
sympathy or excuses; they do not deserve respect or allowances. There is no
excuse. There is no good-enough reason.”
Bee tilted their head, and thought.
Emilia kept going. “I was finally broken out of my belief that I was going to
work at this organization for the rest of my life during a dinner. I was
invited to a dinner with Tom and his wife Jessica.
“Let me first explain a little about Tom and Jessica; these were the people
that had first taken me in. They had helped find me places to take literacy
classes, explained social norms to me. Jessica took my mother out to lunches
and listened to her feelings. Tom taught me how to grocery shop, how to buy
clothes, how to drive a car--all the things I had no idea how to do. It was
with Jessica and my mother that I made my first meal from scratch. It was Tom
and Jessica that had, essentially, become an aunt and uncle for me.
“Finally I came to dinner at their house. And I was sitting at their maplewood
table--I can see it now--when their slave came out of the kitchen.”
A hush fell over the room. Bee’s fingers squeezed Anthea tight.
“I was shocked. I couldn’t breathe. I ran outside, and there, when Jessica came
out, I questioned her. I said what, what are you doing?
“And she reassured me that no, they weren’t having sex. No, his name was Jason,
and no, nobody was hitting him. But there he was with a collar still on his
neck. She told me that he was a part of their family, that they loved him.”
Bee’s mouth fell agape. A thin, tiny wheezing noise came out from their mouth;
they were laughing, and they weren’t sure why. Part of their family.
“I asked her when they were going to free him,” Emilia said. “Because I knew my
mother loved me, and I was a part of her family, and that is why she freed me--
even though my aunt and uncle were a part of my family, and they were the ones
who had sold me.”
Bee’s stomach ached.
 
“And she told me no, they weren’t. And I asked why--was he M-Class? And she
said no, no, he was a K, and, well, their organization didn’t believe in going
after slaves that had a low probability of staying free anyway, they had to
prioritize their resources…”
Bee wanted to kill someone. How fucking dare anyone say that about them? How
dare anyone just--just--resign them to slavery like they were--like it was--
like even one day of real freedom wasn't worth money--
“And I said, no, why don’t you use your money? Why don’t you? You have money!
And she explained that well, they didn’t want to put money back into the
system--these people who paid taxes and police fines and bought clothes made by
slaves and were still friends with people who owned slaves--these people didn’t
want to put money back into the system!”
Emilia was crying, faintly. The girl with the bunny got down on the floor, and
before Bee knew it they were too, and the girl was holding out the bunny to
Emilia, and Bee holding out Anthea, and other slaves were fetching blankets and
pillows, and many were offering their arms, and Emilia was smiling and shaking
her head.
“No, no, it’s--you are all so kind, no,” she said. They all sat back. “No, I’m
alright. I’m just--that is what the groups say, endlessly. Every abolitionist
organization that doesn’t save up money to buy slaves’ freedoms says that they
don’t want to give the government any more money, even as they do nothing but
put it into the slavery machine.
“They go to restaurants and eat crops picked by slaves, they go to hospitals
and get drugs tested on slaves, they get sick and get slave-organs, they pay
taxes and police fines and organizational fees, they pay dues to churches that
tell people to sell their sinful offspring, they buy organic fucking diapers
from companies that sell slave-chow, they get laptops from companies that make
slave shock collars better every year, they’re infertile and adopt babies torn
away from their slave mothers, they take and take and take from slaves and sit
back and when they can finally give their money to owners to do some good they
say, no, oh no, we don’t want to give money to the system!”
Bee felt a fire burning in their blood. The girl with the bunny was wide-eyed,
dark-skinned, wearing what Bee was almost sure was a nightgown. Bee wanted to
cradle her close, touch the bunny’s satin ears. They refrained.
“I sat there, in the dark,” Emilia said, “And Jessica told me well, if they
were going to, they’d have to sell their house and then they’d have to move in
with Tom’s parents. This way, she said, we can make sure he’s ‘almost free’.
And that night I realized what we are not worth to abolitionists.
“We are not worth inconvenience. We are not worth difficulty. We are not worth
treating with human respect. We are not worth hard questions. We are not worth
the energy it takes to use your brain for one single minute to realize that
there is no such thing as ‘almost free’--or ‘as good as free’ or ‘practically
free’. There is free and there is slave. There is nothing else.”
Emilia’s eyes burned with passion. Bee felt like they were hearing something
sacred, something divine. Secret and true
“I didn’t leave the organization right away. I didn’t know I could, or what
else I could do. But as soon as I could, I bought a phone, kissed my mother on
the cheek, and left to go to New York city, and here I went around to chapters
upon chapters of every abolitionist organization, and I found out from other
ex-slaves that my experiences were not special, they were ordinary. I heard
stories of remarks that shocked me. I heard about people accusing slaves of
being economically privileged because they at least got to eat ‘for free’!”
The room was deathly silent again, except this time with rage.
“I heard about people who were raped after being freed. About cinderellas.
About people whose parents sold and freed them over and over again, endlessly.
One woman I knew was sold and freed eighty times between the ages of three and
seventeen. Her parents have never apologized.”
Bee thought about the idea of Jocasta Ramirez apologizing. The idea made their
lip curl, them want to spit.
“I learned about how to survive. And I saw which kind of ex-slaves--and current
slaves--the abolitionists favored. About which ones they like. The pattern
itself is fairly simple: young, pretty, and a sexy crier. They want the ones
who are tragic. They want the ones they can sell as having done ‘nothing to
deserve this’--as if anyone does! As if anyone ever could!
“They want the ones with beautiful faces. They want the ones who never gave in.
They want the ones who ‘overcame their challenges’. They want the ‘inspiring’
ones. They want ones without voices so they can talk for them. They want ones
who can sob and make people want to keep watching. They want the ones they can
‘enlighten’ with ‘how beautiful sex is’,” Emilia sneered.
“They want the ones who they can diagnose with ‘post-traumatic stress
disorder’--as if there’s no trauma to suddenly being free. They want the ones
who never did anything questionable or difficult, or human. If you’ve ever
helped a slave miscarry, they don’t want you. If you hated your slave overseer,
they don’t want you. If you didn’t fight back enough--or you fought back in too
unsavory ways--if you’re not something to mold--they don’t want you. If you
won't swallow their shit with a smile, they don't want you.
“They want a very specific type of ex-slave. And the reason you have been asked
to come here tonight is so that I can tell you this story to save your life--so
that you don’t waste it. Abolitionists are great at promising and terrible at
delivering. They have been saying that they can reduce slavery, even stop it,
since the beginning of slavery.
“And yet they haven’t even managed to slow it down. They are not our shining
knights. Nobody is coming to rescue you,” Emilia said, lifting her chin. “The
only people who are here to help us--who can help us--is ourselves. And we have
each other--look around you! You don’t know me. But all of you rushed to help
when you saw distress.”
Bee tilted their head.
“Slavery is a solvable problem. You’ve all seen the news. You know that the
kind of world you live in is changing. Incremental solutions, harm reduction--
fuck that! Live free or die!”
Everyone said life free or die, Bee and the girl with the bunny both signing it
instead.
Emilia smiled and sat back. “I’d like to have this house, and this time, as a
sort of support group,” she said. “Not to make you rehash everything you’ve
ever thought. But to move forward together, to support one another. I have so
much now. I can give it back.”
Like Matt helping Bee get away.
“And here, tonight, this is where I’ll tell my stories,” she said. “After I
realized what kind of violence it is to be forced to say, I vowed I would never
again tell a free-not-freed person of anything I’ve suffered. But here, where I
can do good, I will. Every ex-slave who can should do some good. And we don’t
all have to do the same good--I know of people who write speeches and people
who use the stock market to get money to free slaves. One of my dear friends
made a card game extension--of the game Fluxx--that has the masters as the bad
cards, the different types of owners as monsters that stop you from winning. We
can all do something, anything.
“Come to me, one by one, and I’ll pay for your subway or cab or however you got
here. And please take the food as you leave--I hate turkey and ham sandwiches.”
Soft murmurs abounded, and as Bee shuffled over to the girl with the bunny,
they signed, Hi, I’m Bee.
That’s a nice name, the girl signed back, dreamily. Their hair looked like
clouds. The nightgown was wispy, lacy. Master--and Bee stared as they used the
slave-sign not the free-sign, M with fingernails facing out, from right to left
across the throat, Master used to say my name was Cloud the Sweet. Or slut. Now
they keep telling me my name is Amanda. I don’t want it to be Amanda.
So pick a different name, Bee signed.
The girl smiled. She looked drugged, not happy. I can’t think of any.
Bee glanced at Emilia, who was giving fistfuls of cash to everyone, and then at
their tablet, the time. I’ll bring a list, next week, Bee signed. And you can
pick.
The girl smiled and swayed. I can’t hear what they sound like anymore. Names.
Master said the last thing he ever wanted me to hear was his voice, but my ears
still ring.
Bee grinned, familiar with the joy of bodily defiance. I don’t have a tongue
because I bit a dick off, they signed, and the girl and Bee laughed. They took
out my teeth with pliers and my tongue with shears but they couldn’t make his
dick work again.
They giggled together, and Bee left with a warmth in them that they weren’t
used to. The lights outside looked like Christmas trees, and hope glowed under
their skin as they climbed into their bed that night.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from 'I'm not sad' by Warsan Shire, here: http://
     clinicaldepressiondormparty.tumblr.com/post/143310969447/im-not-sad-
     but-the-boys-who-are-looking-for-sad
***** you don’t walk through the woods with the people who left you to the
wolves, no matter how much you love the woods and how good you are with wolves
*****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
     TW for rape, victim-blaming, and objectification of a rape victim.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Matt knelt quietly, listening to Foggy fill out the forms, his faint, hitched
breaths. The clinic smelled like human veterinarians: medicines and scrubs and
hurt slaves, sweat and tears and nitrile gloves. One of the slaves near Matt
was weeping softly.
Matt felt nothing. Bored, maybe. Anticipatory.
Foggy filled out the forms, asking Matt if he had any allergies or had had any
surgeries (“Only an appendectomy, Foggy,” Matt murmured) and then took them
back to the receptionist.
The floor was cold tile. Matt waited.
They were called up ten minutes after the appointment time, and as the nurse
who came over said, “Sharpe?” Matt elegantly rose and walked with Foggy, ears
pricked and alert.
The nurse chattered to Foggy as they walked. “So it says here that the reason
for the visit is head trauma, and you’re ordering a full workup on its head, is
that correct?”
“Uh, yeah, on Matt,” Foggy said. “Who is not an it.”
“Of course. Alright, he should take a seat over there, on the chair,” she said,
gesturing, and then Foggy guided him over to it.
“Good boy,” she said as Matt sat down. “Now, first the vet is going to be in
for concussion testing, questions, that sort of thing. Next there will be X-
rays, a CT scan, and an MRI. Afterwards if you have any other concerns you can
schedule an appointment on your way out. Thank you very much for choosing us,
and if you need anything just open up the door.”
Matt closed his eyes and fell backwards inside his head, curling up and going
Elsewhere. This time, it was a soft pillow-room, one of the ones designed for
slaves to rest. There were pillows and blankets and mattresses scattered around
on the padded floor, and Matt curled up on one and breathed, and everything was
quiet and peaceful. He left the parts of him that would follow the doctor’s
orders and answer questions behind, and blissfully remembered nothing else of
any medical procedure, except--
After the CT scan, and when he was being led down the hall to the MRI, naked,
Matt was jerked back into awareness briefly as a conversation the room over
sounded--
“Yes. Well, Mr Samael, this just looks to me to be clitoral--well, micro-
penile--friction, a bit too much of it. There’s no blood and no injury, and
while we can definitely take samples I don’t think there’s anything to worry
about.
“Oh, that’s good. Hear that, Honey? You’re not hurt or sick.”
A soft noise of relief from a slave--the one named Honey. A plastic jingle of a
tag on a collar, just like Matt’s tag.
“And to avoid this in the future, we do recommend that if you allow your slaves
to masturbate, you mandate the use of lubricants--water or silicon-based tend
to be more sterile--and put some limits on the frequency and duration allowed.”
A chuckle. “Not sure how well that’d work, it’s pretty insatiable.”
“Well, there are a large range of chastity devices, even for intersexed slaves.
You can also use some adverse-stimulus training to reduce sexual desire--”
A frightened whimper from Honey, and then, from the owner, firmly, “No. I like
that it’s a bit of a nympho. And there’s no reason to hurt it, not when it does
its best.”
“Well, Mr Samael, of course that’s up to you. Our receptionists can give you
some pamphlets and recommendations, and of course you can schedule a more
general physical for the future, or a more specialized genital examination.”
“Thanks so much,” the owner said. “I was really worried, especially because
Honey never complains about anything. I’ll make sure to come back in six
months, and make it use more lube,” and the last words were said teasingly to
the slave.
Then Matt was directed to lie down on the tissue-thin sheet on the MRI table,
and fell back out of awareness. It was the only way to endure the incredible
noise of MRIs.
--
Matt seemed really, horribly out of it all day to Foggy. He answered questions
and followed orders and knelt and stood up and the entire time his face was
completely emotionless and his eyes were dull. It made Foggy want to scream and
apologize and cry, but instead, he focused on trying to be there for Matt as
much as possible. But the whole time, he had the niggling feeling that he
wasn’t making the slightest difference.
After the MRI--the last thing--they let Matt put his clothes back on as the
technician approvingly told Foggy, “He’s just so docile, it’s gorgeous, and in
any case the results of all the tests combined will be forwarded to you in
about three business days, as well as to the inventory address. If any symptoms
on this sheet arise or you notice anything odd, especially behaviourally, call
emergency services or come make an emergency appointment immediately. Thank you
so much for using Rhodes Clinic of New York and please make sure to sign out
with the receptionist.”
Foggy swallowed and offered his elbow, and Matt took it, eyes closing and then
opening as they walked to the sign-out desk and Foggy tried to explain to the
receptionist that no, he wasn’t interested in making a follow-up appointment,
and she wrestled with him to try and force him to make one, and eventually he
managed to just take a card and listen to the instructions about how to not
aggravate the hairline fracture in Matt’s nose and left cheekbone.
Then they left, and Rosalind’s car was exactly as horribly silent as it had
been on the way there.
--
The rest of February passed in a dull, muffling haze.
Matt felt like he was perpetually sitting four feet to the left, with pretzel
legs and hands in his lap, hearing nothing and thinking nothing at all, feeling
only a phantom mesh cage around him.
He tried to surge back up, tried to be more alert. But the cost-benefit
analysis technique from the cognitive-behavioural worksheet didn’t help at all;
no matter how often he came to the conclusion that he needed to be more active
and less detached for Foggy, he couldn’t seem to actually do it.
Trying to be kind to himself didn’t work. Trying to punish himself--pinching
where he knew his pressure points were, scraping his cock raw in the shower
with fingernails, biting his tongue--didn’t work. Nothing seemed to make any
difference.
The suit proceeded. Matt’s results came back, and he didn’t have any long-term
damage. Matt felt nothing. Matt was allowed to go to the gym again after the
bruises dissolved. Matt felt nothing. Professor Bergan eyed Matt up less and
less as he became beautiful again. Matt felt nothing. Matt had three more
migraines, and for each he was allowed to take the pills with water and sleep
in a quiet place. Matt felt nothing.
Bee noticed, Matt knew, and Bee tried to draw him out of it too, making him
hold their bear and talk to them about anything and everything, squeezing his
hand and wrapping him up in their soft-for-cotton blankets, but Matt still felt
muzzy and stupid and adrift. He couldn’t stop replaying the orgasm from the
shower, the way it had felt uncomplicatedly good for thirty seconds. He
couldn’t stop realizing just how stupid and ruined and disgusting and pathetic
he’d become.
Matt uneasily dreamed, trying to instead sleep in a napping doze when he could,
and everything in his dreams melted and bled together, Summer’s face gaining
Foggy’s nose and Bee’s voice the Russian-Brooklyn accent of Winter’s,
Beethoven’s Ode to Joy abruptly morphing into Yuja Wang performing
Mendelssohn’s Piano Concerto No. 1 in G minor. Mistress Janet’s hands started
to smell like Mistress Sharon’s, Master Viktor’s cock tasted like Foggy’s
tongue. Nothing made sense.
He dreamed the most about Jo, however. She crept into the edges, hovering and
flavoring the scenes like smoke, asking Matt over and over again why he hadn’t
helped her, why he’d killed Master Robert. Sometimes she was grateful,
sometimes she was furious. One particularly awful dream involved Jo chaining
down Matt and beating him with a hose, asking him over and over again if he
knew what he’d done wrong. None of his answers had been the one she wanted.
Matt usually woke up with tears streaking down his face, and would go wash his
face near-silently in the night, crawl back into bed, and try not to wake Foggy
up. He knew he didn’t always succeed.
But on the second of March, things suddenly changed. Matt asked Foggy if he
could use the bathroom before they left to go to lunch, and Foggy of course
said yes, and Matt walked in, used it, washed his hands--
And coming in the window was Summer, with some sort of magnetic handcuff,
instantly restraining Matt before squeezing him into a hug and soft I missed
you, child--
 
--
Matt stood, frozen and cuffed, before relaxing into the embrace.
“I’m not allowed to speak to you,” he murmured to his feet, and Summer laughed.
“Well, what that boy doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” she said, and kissed Matt’s
cheek. “Oh, child,” she said, warm and fond and anodyne. “I’m so proud of you.
And worried for you.”
Matt tilted his head.
“I’ve been monitoring you,” she explained. “After--well, after that little
test, I knew that what I was afraid of could be a possibility. And with what’s
happened, how he looks at you, talks about you...dear child, you’re in grave
danger.”
Matt bit back the urge to snap I’m not a child anymore. That would only make
her think he was even more childish.
Summer stroked his face with the back of one hand. “And now you’re getting
pretty again. Good. That will help.”
Matt couldn’t stand the sudden flood of anticipation. After the numbness, now
he felt sharp pins-and-needles all over his brain. “What are you talking
about?”
Summer laughed, melodic, mellifluous. “Child, your owner is in love with you,
haven’t you noticed?”
Matt--
A memory floated back up, the kind usually kept in a locked box in a cupboard
of his mind palace, an old man’s gruff voice saying, worse than sick, she’s in
love--
The way Foggy’s heartbeat sounded--
The way Foggy liked him to disagree, to ask for things, the way Foggy said
things were objectifying slaves, the way Foggy’s mouth preferred to kiss Matt’s
and not his collar--
Matt felt the blood drain out of his face. In futile protest, he struggled and
said, “But--that doesn’t make any sense--love isn’t for slaves--”
“Love isn’t for objects, no,” she said. “At least, not the romantic love. But
if he’s fooled himself into thinking that you’re a person--and he has, that’s
as obvious as anything--well.”
Matt felt his mouth go askew, jaw agape, horror coursing through him like
belladonna. “I--I--”
He didn’t--he couldn’t--the wind had been knocked out of him--
“See, you understand the danger,” Summer murmured, stroking his hair. “And
that’s why I’ve come here. Not to New York, those are different reasons--”
Matt tilted his head, desperate for anything else to think about besides the
terror rooting him to the spot.
“Frozen things,” she said softly, bitterly, “The thing about them is that,
well, they all unfreeze.”
What did that mean?
Matt flung his mind into the recesses of his memory, trying to grab a hold of
anything to interpret her particular brand of crypticism--
And he thought, rapidly, of a plane falling from the sky into ice, of how her
owner’s voice sounded rather like the things in newsreels Matt had seen back
when he was a person, of how sometimes Winter would say things, carelessly,
like beef is better wrapped in paper or else no, that film is nonsense, things
weren’t like that back then, and Matt’s eyes widened.
“The Valkyrie?” he whispered. “They found it?”
“And the star-spangled man with a plan still inside,” she said, her face
twisting audibly. “Which is why I’m in this rat-infested shithole. I hate this
city, it stinks like shit and I can’t get the smell out of my nose.”
Matt...didn’t push. “So why--?”
“Because if your owner is in love with you, you need extra protection,” she
hissed. “So you’re going to listen to me and drink this--” and Matt noticed her
heat-conserving thermos-- “And then you’re going to live, do you understand me?
I intend for you to survive. You are my greatest protegee and I will not stand
for you being destroyed.”
Matt felt a laugh bubbling up from under him. “You--you can’t just--no!” he
said, twisting. “You--you were wrong--how am I supposed to trust you?” he
asked, snarling.
“Wrong about what?”
“You--you said sex was disgusting--”
“It is,” she said, matter-of-fact, voice full of contempt, mealworms tumbling
off her tongue. “For me, and I’m sure for you too.”
But her heart skipped one tiny, tiny beat, like a single tarnished atom on a
pearl. Matt blinked, and then--
So she wasn’t wrong, she had just been lying.
Oh.
That was much better. All that meant was Matt hadn’t been smart enough to catch
it earlier. Sometimes she lied to him just to test him, just to ensure he was
keeping on his toes, and this just meant he hadn’t been doing it well enough.
Oh.
That still meant that things weren’t as Matt had thought they were, but it did
mean that he didn’t have to go over everything she’d ever taught him with a
fine-toothed comb. It meant he didn’t have to let go of his training. He’d just
have to adjust a little.
Matt resolved to pursue even harder the pleasure of sex. He’d get good at it,
familiar and lovely, and he’d--he’d tell Foggy about it each time until Foggy
had sex with him, and once Matt had shaped himself, gotten into the sort of
shape for it, sex with Foggy would be different and probably better than
before, and if Foggy was in love with him--
Matt decided to double-check. “If--he is,” Matt said slowly, unable to obey
Foggy’s implicit order to never talk to Summer again, “I should want him to
have sex with me?”
“Given that he’s not like my owner, I would think so,” she said. Matt almost
squirmed under the weight of her gaze.
“But be careful,” she said, serious. “Be very, very careful. Being owned by
someone who thinks they’re in love with you is like being locked into ballet
heels in a cage with a cobra. You have to be very, very fast and keep your
balance.”
Matt swallowed. Yes, it would be--
“But it can be good,” she murmured, stroking his hair again. “Do you remember
the stories I told you, the Anatonka stories? Before the bombs came and ruined
the palace and I had to eat chunks of my heart?”
Matt nodded. He remembered them. A long, long time ago, in a palace where only
one slave was imported, there was a crop of new slave-girls all trained
together, and we were all called Anatonka, for it meant unbaked bread and that
was what we were, bread to be baked and devoured, and it was the greatest
privilege of all to be devoured by the emperor, and one day one Anatonka… was
the way each began, and in each an Anatonka always died, or was sold, or
triumphed. 
In many one was torn apart or set on fire or made to each poisons because one
of the emperor’s sons or nephews or daughters or courtiers had fallen in love
with an Anatonka and then had realized that they weren’t people at all, and had
flown into a rage at being tricked.
And in some, certain brave ones of the slave-girls managed to find happiness as
the head of a household or a personal advisor-slave, whispering in the
emperor’s ear and running the palace.
“Foggy tells me he likes it when I disagree with him,” Matt murmured.
Summer laughed. “He must think it’s a sign that you’re a person,” she said, and
Matt wanted to wither away and die at the sound.
“Oh, child,” she said fondly. “Whatever it is your owner likes, be sure to give
it to him. And don’t give up hope,” she said, suddenly solemn again. “I’m sure
he’ll eventually come around and see you for what you really are inside.”
Matt licked his lips. That would be sweet indeed. “How--?”
Summer smiled. “Do you think he was always as refined and charming? When my
owner first bought me, he hadn’t showered in a month and had a backpack with a
clip across his chest, full of dollar-store notebooks. He started off by
telling me that I was safe with him,” she said, a low, mocking lilt to her
voice.
Matt couldn’t help it. He laughed at the idea. Winter like that? It was as
absurd as a dachsund making a cream-cheese souffle.
Summer giggled too. “So you need to be far more careful than normal. You can’t
break his delusions, but you don’t want to play into them in any way. And you
can’t be unhappy,” she added. “It’s only if he wants to put you back together
that you can at any time fall apart, do you understand?”
Matt nodded. But--”It’s so exhausting to be pitied,” he said, and admitting it
made him flush with shame, but there it was. He hated it when he said something
neutral or positive and Foggy treated him like he’d just had a crying fit. Or
even when he had been hurt, or broken down, and Foggy treated him like he was
made of glass and not meat.
“It is,” she agreed. “But what do we say about work?”
“Work is exhausting, but it is no less necessary or important for being so,”
Matt murmured.
Summer kissed his forehead. “Good boy. Now, drink up,” she said, holding up the
thermos and unscrewing it. The metallic scent of her human blood filled the
small bathroom.
Matt gulped obediently, swallowing it all down. “Chug, chug, chug,” Summer
muttered, and Matt resisted the urge to laugh and/or choke. He was vaguely
thankful that it was hot--otherwise it’d coagulate and be inedible.
Then she held up a flask, and Matt washed down the blood with her tea, her
special tea. He closed his eyes and savored it.
She patted his head, and removed the handcuffs. “You shouldn’t disobey your
owner by talking to me or accepting my gifts once he’s forbidden it,” she said
pleasantly, “But if you tell him that I was here, we’ll burn down your
apartment building.”
Then she left the window and Matt smiled and walked out, feeling joyful. He had
to shove down the urge to skip as Foggy asked him if he was okay, and it was
difficult to refrain from whistling.
Matt felt a familiar, bone-deep fear, but there was hope, too, filling him up
for the first time in weeks. He wasn’t ruined. He had just been stupid for a
while and now he could adapt. He made mental plans to masturbate more and more,
train his body to be suited for Foggy like he ought to have done months ago,
and he would be fine.
“May I--after classes,” Matt asked Foggy as they walked into the dining hall,
“May I bake pine nut and onion rye rolls for Claire? The nurse that you had
treat me the night I was hurt?”
“What? Yeah, Matt,” and Foggy sounded relieved too. “Of course.”
“Thank you,” Matt murmured, smiling.
It didn’t matter that once a slave was sufficiently broken, all the king’s
horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put them back together again. It didn’t
matter.
Matt wasn’t broken.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from a tumblr post, here: http://
     vangoghstars.tumblr.com/post/142773966871/you-dont-walk-through-the-
     woods-with-the-people
     Beethoven's Ode to Joy can be heard here: https://www.youtube.com/
     watch?v=vlSR8Wlmpac
     Yuja Wang's performance can be heard here: https://www.youtube.com/
     watch?v=2GGx8TRWFVA
***** step one: separate your lips. step two: use facial muscles to pull back
corners of mouth. step three: widen your eyes. this is how to be happy. *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt kneaded dough and thought.
These weren’t thoughts he wanted to be thinking; this wasn’t what he wanted to
be doing, chasing his mind in circles. But it was necessary.
Your owner thinks he is in love with you.
It was a death sentence, as dispassionate and terminal as any sentence on a
decommissioning certificate. Slave beaten until dead. Slave whipped until
exsanguinated to dead. Slave left without food or water until dead. Large
rolling pin inserted without lubrication; slave developed sepsis from rectal
tears and not treated until death. Slave crushed under falling tree; died of
head trauma. Slave beaten with paperweight to head until skull fracture and
death.
Matt would, one day, probably die because of Foggy.
He took deep breaths and forced himself to imagine it, over and over again, in
vivid detail as he kneaded, until it didn’t loom like a terrifying figure but
rather a frightening, unpleasant fact. Matt shook and kneaded and forced
himself to cope with it.
Nothing ever ended well in books about owners falling in love with slaves,
except for the most banal, transparently emotional-pornographic ones, of
course. Like Fifty Shades of Grey, which Matt had finished with Bee, which
alleged that Christian Grey loved Anna even after she marched into the slavery
office and surrendered herself and was bought by him. Granted, Matt was of the
opinion that Mr Grey did not seem to treat Anna even like a favored object,
much less a beloved person, and therefore couldn’t be in love with her, but
still.
Protectionist literature, of course, believed that the opposite happened all
the time. In fact, it encouraged it as a goal; their training manuals said that
by the end, you were finished when your slaves loved you.
Summer had laughed and explained to Matt how it was all ludicrous nonsense, of
course. Slaves weren’t people and couldn’t be in love as such--and even
besides, attachment and gratitude and desperation to please didn’t add up to
love. Love was stronger than the grave, love was patient, and kind, and
forgiving, and no slave was a person enough to forgive their owner anything.
Matt felt abruptly, deeply sad for Foggy; not pity, that was inappropriate, but
simply...angry and grieving on his behalf. Foggy deserved to be in love with an
actual person, someone who could fall in love with him in return, someone who
could do more than fake it.
Foggy deserved more than Matt could give. It made him furious and upset and
brought Matt almost to tears, even thinking about it--sweet, kind, awful,
patient Foggy, who used a crowbar of gentle words to pry Matt open because he
thought that Matt was somehow trapped inside his training, rather than fully
integrated into it.
Poor Foggy. Matt wished, stupidly, that he could tell him the person you think
exists isn’t me, I’m not a person, you’ll be happier if you want someone else.
(A part of him wanted to scream at the sheer unfairness. Now Matt would
probably be fucking beaten to death once Foggy realized that Matt wasn’t a
person and blamed him for his own fucking heartbreak. He wanted to cry and beg,
I didn’t do anything, please, I’m so sorry, please don’t hurt me--)
But in the meantime, Matt reviewed Foggy’s rules, and Foggy’s desires--Foggy
wanted him to eat and bake cupcakes, Foggy wanted to take care of Matt and be
taken care of when ill, Foggy wanted Matt to stay pretty, Foggy wanted Matt to
express his true feelings, or--
(When people tell you that they want honesty, they’re wrong, she said, her
skirt swishing against the ground as they walked together through the herb
garden. What they mean is that they want you to tell them what they want to
hear and they want what they want to hear to be the actual truth.)
But Foggy seemed to enjoy soothing Matt, so maybe--maybe he wanted Matt’s
actual emotions? Matt suddenly wasn’t sure, felt right back on the rocks he’d
thought he’d sailed away from.
Foggy wanted to be reminded to study, and to watch Matt elegantly destroy
opponents in academics, and he wanted to be teased and see Matt enjoying the
rain. Foggy wanted Matt to parkour (though until the law was repealed, that
didn’t quite seem possible), Foggy wanted Matt to disagree with him, to talk to
Bee, to insult Rosalind behind her back, and to watch movies with Foggy.
Foggy wanted Matt to be happy, and able to enjoy sex, and insisted that he had
human rights.
Matt put the dough into the bowl to prove, and wondered a little hysterically
why the fuck he hadn’t put this together earlier. It seemed to be ridiculously
obvious in retrospect. Matt felt like a complete idiot.
(Because Matt knew that now he was a slave he’d never be loved again.)
--
Matt seemed really twitchy.
Foggy couldn’t work out why; it lasted past him making those onion and pine nut
rolls (which Foggy got six of--the other dozen went to Claire, who raised an
eyebrow and said thank you) and well into the next few weeks.
Matt smiled a lot, and talked to Foggy, he wasn’t shut down and dead-eyed
anymore, but he didn’t seem okay. He jumped and startled more; every time Foggy
woke up, Matt’s eyes were bright in the darkness.
Foggy didn’t know what was wrong. He tried asking Matt, but that made Matt’s
face get paler as he said something about papers or the suit.
The suit itself was going pretty well; Rosalind called Foggy every time there
was an update. There were two more weeks before the actual in-front-of-a-judge
hearing would take place, and in the meantime she had more than enough evidence
to win, though she didn’t stop gathering. Apparently there had been a huge
spate of cases of police brutality against slaves (though it was called ‘police
damage of living property’ in legal terms, which made Foggy fume) and this case
could ride on those waves.
But the fact that it was helped a hell of a lot by Matt being so obedient and
traumatized and expensive made Foggy want to scream. It shouldn’t matter that
he would never disobey a police officer, or that Rosalind had bought him at
somewhere around seven or eight million dollars. He still shouldn’t have been
beaten until his face looked like one large, sharp-cheekboned wound, and he
shouldn’t have been raped.
Foggy carefully confined himself to raging about this in Miriam’s office, voice
getting louder and angrier until he yanked a pillow from the couch on his face
and wordlessly screamed.
He also crocheted; it was weird, angrily crocheting while watching a movie,
instead of getting his fingers buttery and shoveling in popcorn, but he liked
it. Foggy decided to make something for Bee, because they were still skinny and
probably had never had anyone make clothes for them before. They deserved a few
things like that.
One day, on the eighteenth of March, Foggy was sitting on the couch and Matt
was ‘showering’--probably jerking off, which he seemed to actually do now, and
each time he’d come out of the shower and tell Foggy about it and Foggy would
hug him--he was halfway through a hat made in blues--turquoise variegated with
teal and cyan and indigo and shimmery aquamarine, seafoam green splattered with
in blue so dark it could be black and blue so pale it could be white--when it
happened.
--
Matt was in the shower, eyes closed, the handle of his backscrubber inside of
him.
He had decided that since Foggy so clearly and so explicitly wanted Matt to
enjoy sex that it was therefore Matt’s job to deliver. So he had made himself
masturbate more and more often, desensitizing himself. There was always a few
bad minutes at the beginning, but with sufficient cognitive-behavioural
techniques (focusing on the source of his anxieties and debunking them as
irrational for his current situation, mostly) and focus, he could push through
them and get on with it.
Matt still couldn’t enjoy actually touching his cock. He wished he could; it
would streamline the whole ordeal a great deal more, for one thing, and he knew
his handjob technique was superb, but overall he just...couldn’t. Each time his
fingers would jerk away like he’d been burned or touched something he wasn’t
allowed, and no matter how hard he tried to reason it away he simply couldn’t
enjoy it. Sometimes Matt found himself scratching at it, almost drawing blood,
and he didn’t know when or why.
But once he’d pushed past the bad minutes, he could then enjoy the feeling of
something inside of him, especially once he got the right angle. Then he could
let his legs jerk and his hips thrust into it, and then he could come and have
a pleasant glow--so long as he told Foggy about it. Once he did, he was usually
allowed to curl up with him, rest his head on Foggy’s chest or knee or
beautifully soft stomach, and Foggy would quietly reassure him that everything
was okay, and Matt wasn’t doing anything wrong, and he didn’t have to and it
was okay that he was doing it.
And once Matt had realized that the back-scratcher for the shower--really, a
loofah attached to a interestingly-ribbed plastic handle--could be easily
cleaned before and after use, well. He’d simply had to experiment.
(He knew that it was safer with toys specifically made for this sort of thing,
but--Matt couldn’t ask Foggy. He couldn’t. Foggy would want to fuck him, then,
and then--
Matt had dissected it in his head, rolling over how he hadn’t caught Summer’s
lie, and he realized that what he was so afraid of, what he really hated, was
having to put on the performance. What made sex with Foggy so much worse than
even other forms of sex--and other forms were disgusting--was that Matt had had
to pretend he liked it, pretend to be the one initiating, had to playact an
elaborate deception. He felt like an actor thrust onto a play he was horrified
by as the star without any lines, sweating under the spotlights.)
And once Matt got started, he let his mind drift. He thought about Foggy,
usually, about what if Foggy one day wanted to fuck him like a proper owner;
about the one who’d lent him to his brother, who had told Matt to scream and
struggle and cry out how much he hated this, to faux-resist. And Matt imagined
Foggy telling him he didn’t have to pretend to like it anymore, he didn’t even
have to smile, just be a good boy and milk his cock and then--
And then Matt imagined doing it just right and being rewarded, Foggy rubbing
his nipples and telling him to come, that he’d earned it and feeling that
fierce pride, earning things by hard work felt so much better than being given
them as charity, and then Matt imagined coming and being cleaned up and told to
wriggle into soft, silken pajamas, and then the warm weighted blanket draped
over him and being fed strawberries and good tea and kissed on his collar as
Foggy told him how grateful he was.
(In some of his wilder fantasies, Matt imagined telling Foggy all about this,
about what he wanted, and Foggy saying thank you for your honesty and then it
actually happening--
But that was just a particularly unrealistic fantasy.)
Matt, for the most part, felt shaky and uncertain, terrified but putting on a
brave smile. He tried to seem happy, tried to be happy, but how could he be
anything but scared now that he was in so much more danger?
And then one time Matt was in the shower, hips starting to move into the handle
as Matt thrust and twisted it and gasped against the wall, warm spray over his
chest, it happened.
 
--
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Foggy's laptop screened turned bright white, and then segued into a smooth,
dark, grayed-out blue as the voice started playing. Voices, in fact, one and
then the other, each carefully sanitized and polished and sounding like they
had practiced to be as unrecognizable as possible. Words scrolled across the
screen in time with the sounds in pale pink.
"This is a message to all slaves in the United States, Canada, and Europe, and
all the other slaves we have not yet freed.
"We are fighting for you. We are here for you. We will not give up on you. Our
most recent victories have been primarily not in your countries or your areas,
but that does not mean that you are trapped. Help is coming soon.
"It is important to stay calm. It is important to do anything and everything
that you can to survive. It is important to remember that we will help you as
soon as we can.
"In our new world, together, we will not forget you. We are not leaving you
behind. You matter. You are important.
"Even if you have not participated in our movement, even if you do not, once
you are free we will not punish you. There will not be any reprisals. You will
be equal to all of us, because we have all always been equal.
"Your owners and your auctioneers, your masters and your evaluators, they have
lied to you. It is not possible to put a monetary price on a human being.
"We are human. We are people. We are not things. And we will not forget about
you. As the suppressed poet and abolitionist Audre Lorde said, I am not free
while any woman is unfree, even when her shackles are very different from my
own.
"This goes for all of us. We know that we are not free until you are also free.
Join us if you choose--but we will still fight for you.
"You have not been forgotten."
Foggy stared at his screen as it flickered back to normal, mouth agape, and
then Matt was out of the shower, flushed and in a towel, confused--
"I heard--there have been--" Matt swallowed. "Everything just played that
message. Did it--was there anything that--are you alright, Foggy?"
Foggy was momentarily distracted by the sight of Matt, blushing and pupils open
and beautifully round. His eyes were almost black, dark and rich like wet
woods.
"Uh, yeah," he said finally. "Are you? That was kind of, um. Startling."
Matt blinked. "Yes, Foggy," he said eventually, and the tension in his
shoulders came back, and Foggy bit his lip, trying to think.
"Matt," he started. "Matt, are you--you seem really tense lately," he said,
going from the words Miriam and he had rehearsed. "And I know you've mentioned
that that was from that criminal law paper, and from the suit, but..."
Foggy didn't exactly want to accuse Matt of lying, but he was fairly sure that
he was, and, well. The rules did say it was okay for Matt to lie.
"The rules say that you can lie," Foggy said. "I remember that. I'm not upset.
But," and he grabs for the words, "I really would like to know what's upsetting
you, or three things I can do that would make you feel better about it," he
articulated carefully.
Matt gnawed on his lip. It broke and bled, a thin scarlet line streaking down
his chin. Foggy took a deep breath.
"You don't have to tell me either," he said. "But I promise that if something's
upsetting you and I can make it better--as long as you tell me how--I will do
it. Even if that means that you don't want to tell me the problem but instead
just how to make you feel better."
Matt swallowed, and his head drooped. Foggy took a deep breath, and waited,
trying to be patient.
Eventually, Matt said quietly, "I--someone told me that you're in love with
me."
--
Matt waited, tense, for Foggy's reaction.
It had been an insane risk--one that he knew he shouldn't have taken, maybe,
even as he said it, but--
Summer implied he should never say it, but--
Her previous advice had been wrong, which meant that her advice for this time
could also be badly wrong. And as Matt thought about it, heart in his throat,
he knew that Foggy was the exception to a lot of patterns about how owners
were. Foggy was an outlier.
Foggy stopped having sex with Matt because Matt didn't like it. Foggy made the
rule that he wasn't allowed to fuck Matt and Matt was allowed to lie to him.
Foggy had cuddle parties and handfed Matt sushi and watched But I'm A
Cheerleader with him to cheer him up. Foggy liked that Matt got better grades.
Foggy didn't make sense. But one thing was very, very clear: Foggy liked
honesty. He liked it when Matt was more vulnerable, more watery eyes than
artifice and splendor.
Matt remembered when he told Foggy about the Candace problem, and Foggy hadn't
hurt him then. Matt remembered when he'd told Foggy he hated sex, when he told
him he wanted to keep being a doll--everything.
Foggy wasn't angry any of those times that Matt was upset or scared. Foggy
didn't punish him for not being happy at all times. Foggy hadn't even really
punished him for shouting at him.
(A part of Matt had started to lose respect for Foggy, just a little, after
that.)
Maybe Foggy wouldn't punish him now. Or if he did, Matt thought, it would be a
relief, and Foggy was such a stickler for rules, it would be so simple and
predictable--he'd get slapped in the face and then Foggy would be a proper
owner.
Either way, it would be more information, and Foggy genuinely seemed to really,
really like soothing Matt, displacing his odd emotions onto Matt and feeding
him strawberries and stroking his hair. Matt was Foggy's doll.
Foggy thought that Matt was a person--Foggy thought that Matt was the
delusional one.
So Matt was honest, not sure why--it felt like he'd put his fingers out to be
broken--
(Matt was so exhausted by having to lie, he hated it, he wanted it to be over
one way or another.)
And Foggy said, "Oh. Okay. So the idea of that scares you? That's why you've
been so twitchy lately?"
Matt said, mindful of the rotting floorboards that could be under his feet, "I-
-yes, Foggy."
Foggy didn't sound happy, but he didn't punish Matt. He didn't shout. He didn't
tell him to sit there and put the rules through a shredder.
Instead, he said quietly, "Can I tell you what I mean by 'I love you' and then
we can see if there's a way for me to make you less afraid of it?"
Matt felt his face startle into an expression of shock. He felt--
Something had broken off inside of him, and Matt breathed it out, feeling
light-headed with relief. The pattern held.
Foggy wasn't angry. Foggy wasn't going to hurt him.
Matt hadn't fucked everything up.
--
Foggy didn't touch Matt, but he did keep his voice quiet and not-angry.
"I do love you," he said, and it felt like finally uncramping a muscle, or
maybe the moment when a headache went away. A lack of pain. Matt looked
frightened, still, but also relieved, like he'd suspected Foggy would do
something awful to him.
Foggy wanted to kill everyone who made Matt scared of being loved.
"I don't mean that I'm going to have sex with you," Foggy said. "I won't. Those
are the rules. I mean that--"
He swallowed. Matt knew a lot of poetry; maybe this would work? Foggy pulled up
the poem he'd bookmarked and talked to Miriam about, one session where he'd
been trying to find the words to express how he felt about Matt.
"I see you, in my head, in this...golden light," Foggy said, looking at the
poem. "And when I think of you/I do not hear bells/but instead a steady
tapdance on a tin roof/as if you are the first spring shower.."
Matt's face had a..strange expression. Foggy stopped.
"I mean--I don't--I won't hurt you," he tried. Matt's face had that brief,
microsecond of skepticism. Foggy almost snorted and almost screamed.
"I mean that I do love you," he said quietly. "And by that I mean I will do my
best, always, to not hurt you. And you're not obligated to love me too. I
probably wouldn't, if I were in your position."
Matt frowned, minutely, and Foggy kept going. "And if you ever feel like I'm
going to hurt you, you still have to protect yourself. Does that clear things
up?"
Matt nodded. "Yes, Foggy," he murmured.
"Okay," Foggy said. "Um. If you want to get dressed, we can cuddle, if you
think that would make you feel better."
--
Later, wrapped up in Foggy's arms, Matt began to puzzle it through.
Foggy hadn't punished him, and genuinely didn't seem angry. But all the same,
Matt was still in a lot of danger.
Except. Well. How did he know that?
By Summer, who had been wrong about Foggy.
Matt bit his lip and decided to ask Bee in the morning, and that night, drifted
off to sleep, held in Foggy's warm arms.
 
--
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"Today in world news, the liberation of over half a million slaves took place
in markets, auction houses, and private homes all over South America, Africa,
and central and east Asia. Guards and owners were shot primarily with AK-47s
and groups of slaves were freed and led out to planes, boats, and hijacked
trains and vehicles flanked by groups of free native citizens of each nation.
"Several of the groups have been identified as members of particular religious
sects, such as the Society of Friends and many branches of Judaism. Here you
can see several such groups of free citizens shielding liberated slaves from
the barrels of riot police and private market militias as they escorted them to
safety. Four hundred casualties were recorded of these groups, and six thousand
terminated slaves.
"In a statement released today by the president of Uruguay, slavery has been
outlawed as of today and forever, and he has in addition promised to offer
asylum to all escaped slaves as political refugees. In sharp contrast to his
usual policy of strict democracy and forfeiting extra-legal powers, the
president has stated that 'This is a moral matter, this is a matter of human
rights, and they are not decided by popular vote'.
"Today the American Civil Liberties Union also declared two victories in the US
court system. One was the ruling by the Supreme Court on the case United States
v Tentenburg Theater--the ruling being that movies and other media about
fictional liberation of slaves can no longer be banned as possibly inciting
violence.
"The decision was 5-4, with the dissenting opinion by Justice Scalia asserting
that this will only lead to greater violence and terrorism, and the majority
opinion was written by Justice Ginsberg, defending freedom of speech and
championing America as a nation for whom censorship only stifles the freedoms
we hold dear.
"The other victory today was a repeal of the martial laws in New York and
several other cities that outlaw the free movement of slaves without their
owners present.
"Other martial laws are still under dispute, but the law was overturned today
in the New York Supreme Court, with an amendment to previous laws requiring
slaves that are outside of owners' residences without a owner or handler be
tagged with clearly visible contact information and be carrying written proof
of permission.
"A spokesperson for the ACLU stated in remarks, "It is a good step on the road
to regaining full civil liberties. The rights of all Americans must be
respected.
"As a celebration of the Supreme Court's decision on United States v Tentenburg
Theater, showings of the abolitionist movie Mad Max: Fury Road will be free for
the next week for all those who come with a slave, as sponsored by the charity
Ex Slave to Citizen, ESC.
"In computers, phones, tablets, and devices all across the world today at
approximately 6:30PM, Eastern US time, a message was played. Computer analysts
have found that the message was spread primarily by a virus distributed through
social media and contacts, designed to be asymptomatic and difficult to detect
as such, but also designed to be as infectious as possible. News reports say
that attempting to shut off devices in the middle of the message caused memory
problems for the devices. Some claims by pro-slavery activists have alleged
that the message contains subliminal programming and has the potential to cause
violence, but these allegations remain unproven.
"Finally, an anthology of writings by former slaves has also been released for
publication today, featuring essays, poetry, creative fiction and nonfiction,
and other writings and art by over fifty contributors. The book is called
Broken Shackles: Repoliticizing Freedom and is available on Amazon.com, though
already Barnes & Noble and other prominent bookstore chains have refused to
stock it, citing poor customer reactivity."
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from the proverb from Night Vale's episode 19B:
     The Sandstorm, Part 2.
***** no one asks about the hole in your chest. its constant spill down the
front of your shirt, the rancid, oozing stench. *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
     Content warning for mentions of pedophilia, abuse, rape culture, and
     rage coupled with a panic attack.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Bee stayed up the night reading their new book.
 
 
 
 
 
 
It had been more than worth the money, and they’d spent it without thinking,
buying both the eBook and the print copy to be sent later. And then they’d
glanced at the table of contents, opening the eBook on their tablet, and seen
the first essay, called “Slaying the Dragon: Why We Must Tell Our Stories” and
the rest was history.
Their eyes had been glued to the screen, through “Slaying the Dragon: Why We
Must Tell Our Stories” (Fiction influences us far more than facts...you can
tell free people the truth until you drop dead, but they’ll never believe you.
If we want to connect with one another and truly change things, we need to tell
stories.) all the way to the very last section: “In Defense of Freedom:
Breaking the Wheel” (What does it meant to be free? Being free means you have
the right to rape. The right to hurt. The right to whip. The right to buy and
sell people as if they’re meat...I do not want to be free in this world where
that means that you can always become your worst nightmare. I want to be free
in a world where nobody is unfree.)
(Bee loved, in particular: Protectionists are to slaves as the ‘kind’ domestic
abuser is to his victim: always bringing home flowers after destroying their
victims’ self-esteem and cutting them off from any source of comfort and
safety...A kick and a kiss, over and over, until you don’t know which is which,
until they say that the kick is the real kiss...Just because you give us
sticker charts and a piece of cake every time we choke on your cocks or scrub
your floors doesn’t make you a good person, nor us any less raped and enslaved
and degraded.)
They’d read poems that made their heart pound and stomach wrench, essays that
tore apart Protectionists and Traditionalists and everyone else, short stories
that made them double over and convulse with laughter, speeches that made them
feel full of Christmas lights, bright and warm against black winter nights,
pages and pages of things unspeakable and unspoken.
 
They read about things they'd never heard of: specific deconstructions of the
practice of selling disabled adults, ruthless studies on the psychological
trauma of slavery, screams that felt like church sermons sounded on television
channels about the horrors and anxiety of generations that grew up under the
pervasive threat of being enslaved if they misbehaved. Collectivist values and
intra-communal cooperation and sexual dynamics and complications of gender (If
gender is based on division of labor, why are slaves men or women, when free
men and women don't do the same work at all?) 
 
They read about things they'd heard of as boogeymen: zombies, baby farms, organ
farms, body farms. Snuff-bait conventions and the Tampa Bay market and criminal
enslavement and bomb implants and shock collars, thumb removals and castrations
and clitoridectomies and breast implants and cheekbone shavings and tongue
splitting and vocal cord scratching and barcode tattoos.
 
They read and read, and despite the cornucopia of horrors, it felt very alive
in a way. Everything said we are people, this happens, this is bad and wrong
and should not be. They nuzzled Anthea and stayed awake, nestled in blankets
and pillows.
Bee felt like their ribs were breaking apart from joy and horror and
recognition. It was like eating after being so hungry you’d stopped consciously
feeling it, numbness giving way to satiation. They were enraptured.
--
One poem that really, honestly hurt was called eighty one ceiling tiles, and at
first Bee couldn’t understand it. And then when they did, it felt like being
kicked between their legs, like a knife in their toe. Like being naked again in
the Director’s office, staring at the teddy bear and not anything else.
i stare at the ceiling
counting tiles
one by one by one
in sevens and thirteens
naming them georgina
harold chad jonathan the elder
jonathan’s the moldy one
congealed suffusing through the air
i stare at the ceiling
counting how many have water stains
like halos or tears
like bloodstains spreading out
i stare at the ceiling
i count sides angles corners
play tricks with my mind
see how fast i can count them all
syllables hot potatoes
i stare at the ceiling
not counting not thinking
i want not to think
i want not to be here
blood spreading out like a halo on the mattress
i stare at the ceiling
counting tiles by alphabet
by roman numeral by sesame street
in threes and fives and six point eights
i stare at the ceiling
counting
when he pulls out of me
he pats my hair with his crowbar hands
and turns off the light
as he leaves.
--
 
Another poem, though, that made them smile and think of Matt was called "SLAVES
DO NOT HAVE POEMS".
slaves do not have poems. slaves have
collars, not beautiful or engagement rings,
even when adorned with glittering-sea
child’s-blood diamonds. slaves do not
have poems. slaves have papers, shuffled
to the same beat as the devil’s deck
whenever he plays cards for souls.
(watch out. there’s three jacks in there.)
slaves do not have poems. slaves have
brands and scars, the cartography of
kansas city and angry hands and made-in-china
whips. slaves do not have poems. slaves
have sagging breasts, wrinkles, fetish market
value. slaves do not have poems. slaves
have bad or good attitudes, useful or worthless
behaviours, sticker charts. slaves do not
have poems. slaves have vacuum-sealed
stomachs, screaming thighs, knees in their
nineties when slaves are in their twenties.
slaves do not have poems. slaves have
thumb-stumps, wired-shut jaws, hair dyed
and shaved according to industry standards,
lines and lines of dull straw glinting in the sun.
slaves do not have poems. slaves have stolen
mangoes, sticky and devoured, and shared punishments,
lies to make the owner happy, frantic whispers
in the night. slaves do not have poems. slaves have
silent rituals of sharing a floor, one safe under another
instead of a winter quilt. slaves do not have poems. slaves
have cages. slaves are caged birds singing. slaves
do not have poems. slaves have poems
that free people claim other free people wrote
for slaves. because slaves do not have poems.
because there is nothing in slave's life
worth writing a poem about.
 
--
Around six AM, their phone buzzed and Bee silently groaned, rolling over and
reaching for it. It had to be Matt, because that was the only person who texted
them--the girl with the bunny, not-Amanda, who still hadn’t picked a different
name didn’t know how to write, and most other people from the group were scared
of phones or indifferent to them or hadn’t bought them yet or were paranoid
about being tracked.
(Bee knew better. They knew they were already being tracked, by the government
and others. Someone had known to send that email; each person in the group had
clearly been picked to make sure none of them were welchers or snitches.)
It read I have a difficult but important topic to discuss with you. Can I ask
you over email?
Sure, Bee texted back. Why not texts?
It’s quieter to use the Braille keyboard than whisper to my phone, and I’m not
sure how to delete them without asking Foggy, but my browser history deletes
itself every 17 seconds, and all emails from you delete themselves every 6
minutes.
Bee raised an eyebrow. That seemed unusually rebellious for Matt. Why?
A long wait in the slowly-lightening dark.
Summer always said to make sure your owners aren’t bogged down with unnecessary
information about unimportant slave-to-slave business. And when he bought it,
Foggy specifically said no keylogging or tracking or filtering programs.
Bee squinted at the screen. Even the cunts’ computers had had filter programs,
the type that refused to load pages of abolitionist websites, information about
slave institutions, gambling chatrooms, those sorts of things. And at the
actual training institute, there had been more filtering, keylogging, and
tracking software than actual programs.
Then Bee realized they needed to pee, left the room, locked their door, peed,
washed their hands, went back to their room, grabbed their laptop, positioned
Anthea so her face was buried in Bee’s chest, and read the email.
It was one line. Is Foggy more dangerous now that he’s in love with me?
Bee blinked, and contemplated. I think-- no, they erased that. I really think
Maybe it’s that yes obviously it’s really dangerous holy shit Matt I don’t
knowplease don’t get killed I can’t if it’s as dangerous as people say but what
the hell do people know about slavery--
Bee realized their eyes were stinging, and breathed deeply, starting over.
I think that owners who love their slaves like owners do in collar-rippers are
dangerous. I think owners like Christian Grey in the book are dangerous. I
think owners who are Protectionists are dangerous. All owners are dangerous All
owners are dangerous.
But whenever I read anything about love, it all says that there’s fake love and
real love, and if you read carefully you can tell that people don’t agree on
what real love is. And from what I can tell--if you have real love for someone,
you don’t hurt them. Not on purpose. Not because they make you angry, or don’t
love you back, or whatever. And if you have fake love for someone you do hurt
them and then you tell them that you love them so they don't fight back.
Remember how that's basically what happened to Anna?
And I don’t know if real love is just an ideal, or if that exists, or what
Foggy feels or means. Or what he’ll do to you. But maybe it’s not as dangerous
as before. Owners are more generous with their more favorite slaves, right?
(Not like I’d really know.) So take advantage of it. If you can get more food
and rest and goodwill, you should take it with both hands.
--
It’s on Friday at the group as Emilia shows them a pirated copy of the movie
Mad Max that Bee realizes something very beautiful:
It’s what they want Matt to hear. And Matt still owes them a favor.
 
--
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Matt’s not sure what to think as he’s dragged to the movie.
Bee had said it was their favor that Matt owed them for Christmas, and Matt had
agreed, and Foggy had agreed. His gut twists anxiously as he realizes Bee’s
taking him to the new abolitionist movie, the where even the trailers are
banned on most television networks, but he forces himself to remain calm as Bee
hands the ticket people their ticket and written permission by Foggy to bring
Matt to the movie.
Bee buys two bottles of something and wordlessly hands Matt one as they guide
him--clumsily, not like Foggy, but not badly enough to actually injure or trip
him--to the theatre and a seat. He opens it and gulps down one, two, three
mouthfuls of ice-cold water as he taps a thanks, hoping it’ll make him calm.
It doesn’t. The air fills with the chemical-carbonation-cornsyrup aroma of
Bee’s cherry coke, and Matt feels nauseated at the overwhelming stench of
butter and flavored popcorns (white cheddar, jalapeño, garlic and onions).
The movie has descriptions, begins with a quiet female voice describing the
rolling road, and so Matt can’t even use the usual excuse of not being capable
of fully following or understanding the movie.
He braces himself and leans into the story.
--
Bee’s bouncing as they walk Matt home afterwards, grinning. Their cherry coke
had a lot of caffeine and sugar, and even if they can’t taste it, there’s still
something weirdly delightful about getting to drink it. Slaves weren’t given
fancy sodas like this, especially not slaves that couldn’t really enjoy them.
[What did you think of it?]
There’s a long silence. Matt’s face is shrouded in the fluorescents, his eyes
hidden by the glasses. [Children are different.]
Bee frowns. [What?]
[Children are different. Of course they wanted to get their children away from
him.]
[What?] Bee has no idea what he’s talking about. [They weren’t doing it for the
babies. Dag didn’t want hers, Angharad was fine with getting hers in danger.
They were doing it for them.]
Matt’s silent again for a while. Then, [Well, they were people. People
shouldn’t be treated like slaves.]
Bee’s mouth opens and then they shut the stupid useless thing, clenching their
jaw. Goddamnit. What wasn’t he getting? Why wasn’t it making him feel cracked
open with hope and rage?
But then they take a deep breath and walk. Maybe it’ll take a while for it to
sink in.
They get to two blocks away before Matt goes pale and stops walking.
--
Foggy is unbelievably frustrated. Candace is here.
Which shouldn’t be a thing that makes him want to scream, but alas, things have
changed. And he’s been trying to make her leave for at least a half an hour,
but she’s yelling back things about apologies and she came to say sorry for
‘trying to poach his slave’ and she understands that Foggy’s overly protective
of him but really, she wasn’t going to hurt Matt and she understands that she
crossed a line and she’s sorry, now why is he trying to make her leave, doesn’t
he understand--
“I UNDERSTAND that you don’t know the fucking meaning of an actual apology,”
Foggy’s shouting. “I fucking UNDERSTAND that you don’t understand that you’re
still not allowed to see Matt either--”
“I want to fucking APOLOGIZE to him!” Candace is screaming. “I want to explain
that I won’t fucking use him, that I get that he’s not mine and what I did
wasn’t cool--”
“Attempted rape is more than ‘NOT COOL’,” Foggy screams back. “Which you
clearly don’t fucking understand so no, you can’t apologize, I don’t care if
you feel bad, you are still dangerous to be around Matt so you need to leave
HIS FUCKING HOME--”
“I don’t understand why you’re treating me like I’m some big bad fucking WOLF,”
Candace snarls, her voice louder with every volley. “I am your younger sister,
in case you’ve forgotten, and he was hot and there and I was lonely, I’ve been
so fucking lonely because I had to take a year off to get my shit together and
guess what, I’m still a fucking mess--”
“And that sucks, but cool motive, still ATTEMPTED RAPE!” He’s bellowing at the
top of his lungs now, losing it. Now that he’s said the words to her face,
named it, he can’t calm down, can’t stop seeing crimson, can’t stop thinking
about everyone who’s ever hurt Matt, about women named Sharon and men named
Robert, about the names in the papers he won’t read, about the fucking NYPD.
He can’t calm down, except just as he gathering breath to scream more, the
doorbell rings. Foggy blinks and goes to open it, hoping with lead in his
stomach that it’s not Matt.
It’s not. It’s Bee, whose tablet says, “Matt won’t come in because Candace is
here. He says he’ll be in once she’s gone.”
Candace groans loudly. “God! What the fuck!”
“I told him not to be in the same room as you,” Foggy says, feeling a sudden
surge of grateful relief that Matt’s protecting himself. He’ll have to tell him
he’s doing a good job of that later.
Bee nods. “Anyway, the movie was good--”
The rest of the text-to-speech voice is drowned out by Candace, who then says,
“Are you also--oh god, has Foggy been telling you all that melodramatic shit
about ‘rape’ again, too? Is that why you’re giving me a death glare?”
Actually, Foggy thinks, before it was Bee’s normal expression of contempt for
most free people before, and now it’s an ugly stare of cold hatred. It makes
him feel uncomfortable to be in the same room as it.
“I don’t like people who try to rape my friends.”
Candace sighs. “I wasn’t going to--that’s not even what the word means. I was
just gonna, you know. Take him for a drive. Put my foot on the pedals. Dance
with my pants off. Let him into my chamber of secrets,” And at that she starts
to sound amused, going on to “Poke around in his jukebox, reorganize the junk
in the trunk, frickle-frackling, doing the do with you-know-who, flogging his
turtle, m-making the bald man cry--”
And that must be some sort of joke, because she starts laughing, and Foggy
cringes with secondhand embarrassment, peeking to see if this will further
lower Matt’s best friend’s opinion of Foggy as well.
Except that Bee’s staring at Candace, not Foggy, and there’s a look that
prefaces a chainsaw murder on their face, twisting it into something twitching
and homicidal and vicious as they look at her, and without even looking down
they have their tablet say, “You think people being raped is funny?”
“Well, that’s kind of--over-generous, I mean--I wasn’t--” Candace protests. “It
was just a joke--”
“The first time I was raped, I was four. Is that funny?”
 
--
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Bee wants to kill Candace.
Bee looks at the knives, the plates. There's a cast-iron pan, they've seen
slaves bleed when they're beaten by them. Surely if they took it, they could
use it to cave in Candace Nelson's stupid fucking head.
Their fingers itch to pull out eyeballs, to hold the poultry shears Matt had
tried to show them how to use to snip off her tongue, to take the table and
slam it down and break all her limbs.
(Sometimes, in the institution, if someone needed medical but wasn't going to
get it without something more fixable happening first, they would drop a table
on their arm assembling them before sunrise. Worked every time.)
Bee's never wanted anything more in their life. But.
But. Witnesses. Foggy's right there. Matt's somewhere nearby. Matt is outside,
cold. Matt is their best friend. Matt would probably not help hide the body.
But. If they are charged. If they are found guilty. If they have a collar on
their neck again.
(In Bee's very worst nightmares, it's not that they kill themselves as soon as
they're re-enslaved.
It's that they break, and smile, and flutter their eyelashes, and go soft and
docile even inside their head.)
Their hands are shaking.
Bee focuses. Types. Not much, takes too long. Turns the volume to painfully
loud. But then their mind blanks of words, of English.
They sign instead, cut off her stupid words. Bee doesn't know what she said.
Everything sounds like it's in a bathtub. Something something sorry what are
you talking about something something.
Nobody understands it as Bee signs, fluid and fast, but they do it anyway:
you're disgusting and a bad person and I want so badly to tear out your cunt
and make you eat it and hurt you I want to rip out your guts and fuck you with
them so you understand how it feels to lie there hurt and raped and having
filth ooze into you and you're not allowed to shower for days so you have to go
to class with it crusted on and everyone can see but I want you to die you
deserve it you deserve to be locked in a cage and not given any water you
should be the one suffering not me not Matt.
And then they take a deep breath and say in a language she presumably speaks,
using fingers that are no longer trembling, "You think it's funny to rape
people?"
"I don't--no--" And she's backing away. Bee snarls, steps forward, knowing that
they're not Matt but they have teeth and there's nothing more they want than
the feeling of her fucking arteries stuck between them, probably like any other
stringy bit of meat--
"You think it's funny that I was four and raped? That people rape slaves and
nobody will ever do anything about it?"
"No, no, that's not what I said--"
Bee shakes, clenches fists. Breathes. The anger feels overwhelming. They're
dizzy. "You're a cunt, and I hope you die. You are a bad person, and if you
rape someone or you think it's funny that people are raped, you should die. And
I hope it hurts. You deserve it."
They advance, and Candace runs into the hallway, stupid eyes wide. Things go
blank. Foggy goes out and talks to her but then she goes away.
Matt's tapping at the living room window. Bee opens it and sits down and can't
stand back up.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from Jeanann Verlee's "How to Talk to Dead
     Girls", here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/113974366087/they-
     console-you-over-the-dog-because-she-was
***** rejoice! our times are intolerable *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
     Warnings in this chapter for panic attacks, transmisogyny,
     misgendering, rape-culture-logic, forced transition, and mentions of
     rape.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Candace ran home.
She hastily unlocked the door, hands shaking, and ran inside, breathing hard.
She sank down, and saw Mom staring at her.
“Candace?”
“Mom,” she said desperately, and stood up and hugged her. Mom squeezed her
back. “Mom, I--I--” She stuttered, and faltered, and fell silent. A part of her
just wanted to go to bed and forget all about it, wake up in the morning and
help Dad in the shop and not think about it ever again, those horrible words or
the horrible stare in Bee’s eyes.
(She’d thought--well, okay, she hadn’t quite thought they were friends, but
she’d thought they were sort-of working their way up there, Candace coaxing our
Bee to watch funny shows sometimes and offering to paint her--their nails and
do their hair as it grew back out, and trying to take them shopping for nicer
clothes, all of theirs looked well-thrifted but still secondhand to Candace’s
cultivated eye.
She’d thought she’d apologize to Foggy and he’d have been cooled off enough to
accept it this time, and then they’d hug it out and he’d offer her cookies and
Matt would relax too and she’d get to sit next to him again and watch Cupcake
Wars and listen to Matt’s commentary and then things would be fine.
She hadn’t expected any of this. Everything was horribly wrong and she couldn’t
deal with it.)
“Tell me what happened,” Mom prompted gently as she led them to the couch. Her
hair was down and loose, out of its work-buns, but Candace could recognize that
tone and straight-backed posture, and sighed internally. Mom was putting on her
psychiatrist’s meatsuit.
She explained, and didn’t say exactly what Foggy had said or Bee had screamed
through their weird tablet, because--because--because well, did it really
matter? It was awful and you weren’t supposed to say those sorts of things to
people, and especially not to your little sisters.
But by the end, Mom still hadn’t reacted. She sighed, and sat backwards, and
then got up and poured herself what sounded like a vodka tonic.
Candace’s stomach fluttered. “Mom?”
“You know, back when I did couples counseling as well as individual patients,”
Mom said, and came back over, sitting down heavily, “I recognized this pattern
after a while. Usually with my heterosexual patients, and usually it was very
gendered, but of course there were outliers.
“The pattern went something like this: they’d come in and I’d ask each person,
privately, what they felt the problems were in their marriage. Sometimes I’d
ask them to write it down. And the wife or girlfriend would have an entire
organized list of grievances and patterns and deep-seated issues: his career
was killing him, she didn’t feel respected, he didn’t keep up his end of
agreed-upon bargains, she ended up doing all the childcare, he never kept to
plans, he was cheating or she suspected he was cheating, and so on and so
forth.
“And the husband or boyfriend’s most common answer was ‘I don’t know.’ They
didn’t know. Very often they were being served divorce papers if they wouldn’t
try counseling, and they sat there and claimed to not know. Not a clue. ‘I
can’t read her mind’.
“And if I pressed them, they’d say ‘She’s crazy. She’s hysterical and I can’t
understand her at all. She can’t let things go’. They would not take any
responsibility for their actions or acknowledge that their partners could have
a legitimate disagreement or grievance against them.
“And when I worked with them for a while, even when they admitted to the
wrongdoings that they actually did, confessed to the affairs and the financial
lies and to never taking the children off her hands for a night, they still got
stuck on how they felt hurt by their wives and girlfriend’s anger. They refused
to acknowledge that people had a right to be angry at them over their
mistreatment. And if they didn’t accept that, most the time their relationships
didn’t survive a month.
“Of course, part of this was just contempt for women, but a bigger part of it
was that they had decided a priori what kind of people they were. They said to
themselves that they were good husbands, good fathers, good men, and so they
refused to hear anything that contradicted that view of themselves.”
Mom took a deep drink. Candace frowned. “Mom, what does this have to do with--”
“One minute and then I will circle back to you. Now, in individual counseling a
similar pattern emerges, in my experience. With my female patients, the
majority of the time they require help only taking responsibility for their own
actions, and with my male patients, the majority of the time they require help
taking responsibility for any of their own actions. But there are exceptions--
women who won’t take any responsibility and men who take far too much. And
Candace, you’re acting like one of them.”
Candace felt her lip wobble. “I don’t get it. I just--why are they so angry
with me--”
Mom said, “No. You said Foggy yelled at you?”
Candace nodded, tears prickling at her eyes.
“Did he yell at you in, say, Klingon? Or that elective he’s taking--Punjabi?
Did he put his hand in front of his mouth and mumble it?”
“N--no, mom,” she said. “But--”
“Did Bee solely shout at you with sign language, or did they use their speech
device? Was the sound loud enough for you to understand?”
“Yeah, but--”
“But nothing. They spoke to you in a language you are fluent in in a manner you
could comprehend. You’re smart, Candace,” and Mom was reaching over to wrap an
arm around her, lean Candace into her side, “You’re smart enough to know.”
Candace buried her face into Mom’s shoulder. “I just--they think I was gonna, I
was going to--” and she stopped, not wanting to say the words.
“That you were going to what?”
“Foggy called it attempted rape,” Candace blurted out. “He did. He called it
attempted rape and Bee said she--shit, no, they said that they thought I
thought rape was funny and Mom, they’re just blowing up over nothing--”
Mom made a quiet, angry sound. “No. Do you remember how your brother wasn’t
here on Christmas? Do you remember how you had to not be here for any part of
New Year’s Eve for him to agree to come and take Matt with him? This is not
nothing.”
“But--”
“Your brother’s closest friend threw himself down the stairs in my house,” Mom
said, relentless. “You made my house unsafe.”
“I wasn’t going to rape anyone!” Candace snapped, unable to handle any of this.
“I wasn’t--I was just trying to kiss him--”
“And you wouldn’t have kept pressing on if nobody stopped you? You’re telling
me that you wouldn’t have kept going?”
Candace...closed her mouth. She wouldn’t have--it wouldn’t have been-- “I
wasn’t going to--I would have stopped if he said no! That was just--it was just
flirting, I wouldn’t’ve…” Her voice trailed off. She couldn’t say it
convincingly. She slumped down on the couch, not even able to believe it
herself anymore.
“You don’t sound like you believe that,” Mom said quietly, and took another sip
of her drink.
Candace sighed. “I said I was sorry.”
“To whom?”
“Well, I’m not ‘allowed’ to talk to Matt and I was trying to apologize to Foggy
for, I guess, borrowing his Matt without asking--”
Mom groaned quietly. “Candace--”
“No, look, what am I supposed to do? How exactly am I supposed to fix this if
I’m not allowed to apologize to anyone, not Foggy and not Matt? What do you
want me to say?” She felt incredibly, inexpressibly frustrated. She’d been
trying and trying to make this better and nobody was appreciating it at all.
“I want you to understand what you did wrong and stop trying to fix this,” Mom
said. “You can’t fix this. You can’t take back what happened and frankly, Foggy
is right to not trust you around someone you sexually assaulted.”
“Sexually--it was a kiss!” Candace cried out, incredulous. She felt like she’d
been punched in the stomach.
“And if someone forcibly kissed you that’s what we’d press charges for.” Mom
said, angrier than Candace had ever seen her before, her eyes bright and
burning.
She drew back, and then took another deep breath. “Okay, if it really was that
bad, if--” And then she caught up with what Mom had said. ‘What do you mean I
should stop trying to fix this?”
“I mean that you should stop treating reasonable responses to your actions like
a problem,” Mom said. “And you should focus on changing your actions so your
own brother can trust you around his closest friend. You should become--god,
Candace, I thought I really had raised you better than that.”
Candace took a deep breath and rubbed at her eyes, realizing they were wet.
“No, Candace--come here,” Mom said, and hugged her closer. “It’s not--this
isn’t the end of the world. You can change.”
“He hates me, doesn’t he?” She sobbed out, thinking about Foggy shouting right
in her face. “He hates me, and I didn’t even mean to--”
“No, shh,” Mom said, rubbing her back. “Your brother texted me tonight after
you left his apartment, asking me to make sure you got home safe. He’s angry at
you, and he’s probably not going to trust you for a very long time, not with
Matt, but he doesn’t hate you.”
Candace sniffled and broke into fresh sobs, holding onto Mom, feeling like a
kid again when she broke Foggy’s toy or spilled on his book and he wouldn’t
forgive her for a couple of days.
But this was so much bigger. She didn’t know how she was going to make it up to
him this time, or Matt--and oh god, how did you even make it up to someone,
when you--if you--
She couldn’t even think the words, but she knew that she’d fucked up this time
on an entirely new level. Candace held onto her mother and cried, and when she
was finished, she took some deep breaths, got her newest journal, and asked Mom
what she should do next.
 
--
 
Bee couldn’t breathe.
They were sitting on a floor and they couldn’t breathe, lungs working
frantically and vision wavering in and out, black spots appearing in the middle
and growing bigger as they started to convulse.
Then something was pushing against their stomach, their diaphragm, in and out,
forcing them to breathe, and they could see again, everything turning scarlet,
anger overtaking raw animal panic, and they lashed out at the arm against them,
hitting as hard as they could, chasing it as it retreated, trying to get it off
get it away get OFF of me don’t fucking touch me I’ll kill you I’ll kill you--
Except the hands backed away, and Bee realized with a jolt of sickening
humiliation that they’d been screaming, or trying to scream, all that, and
their throat hurt from the raw noises coming out, tiny small sounds and not the
towering scream they wanted. They scrambled backwards, hunching over with
shame, they hadn’t--they hadn’t tried to scream out loud since those first few
weeks after the back of mouth had healed completely, stitches out and scarring
heavy and oppressive, and had realized that they couldn’t.
Bee breathed and shook, they’d--they’d said it to someone else, to someone who
wasn’t safe, to fucking Candace who’d hurt Matt, and the weight of the words
made them feel furious all over again, flushing hot with rage. How fucking dare
she stand there and giggle at her stupid awful fucking unfunny joke and how
dare she run away from what she was and who she was and what a fucking goddamn
worthless cunt she was--
And suddenly in front of them, through the light-headed tunnel vision, was
Anthea, their beautiful, perfectly soft and fuzzy teddy bear, the one they’d
made themselves and named themselves and always treated right and which made
their unrelenting panic quiet, and their hands grabbed her and squeezed her to
their chest, sucking in deeper and deeper breaths, rocking back and forth.
Their vision cleared, and Bee still felt like they could kill someone, but they
could see in front of them. Nobody was right there, and they were sitting in
Foggy Nelson’s living room. Matt wasn’t near them. Nobody was near them.
They stood up and grabbed onto the wall as they were immediately assaulted by a
wave of dizziness.
“Bee?” Matt murmured, and they turned and saw him standing near the table,
looking worried.
They stumbled forward to be closer, and took more deep breaths, one thumb
rubbing Anthea’s fur. They were okay. Whatever had happened, whatever would
happen, they were still alive and whole and free, and that meant that it would
be okay.
And, they smiled triumphantly to themselves, they had made Candace leave.
They walked forward more, and grabbed their tablet, and made it say, “Thank
you.”
“No thanks necessary,” Matt said. “I take it you’re feeling better now?”
Bee nodded, and then froze.
They’d hit Matt.
They hadn’t meant to, but those had been Matt’s hands, now that they thought
about it, those had been Matt’s hands and Matt’s arm that they’d lashed out at
and hit and gone to hit more but couldn’t because they were so out of breath.
And this wasn’t whacking Matt on the arm because he was being an idiot or
playfully smacking his leg for being ridiculous, this was--they’d wanted to
hurt him--
“Bee?”
“I’m sorry,” and the phrase was programmed in as one button. “I’m sorry. I’m
sorry. I’m sorry.”
Matt looked confused. Bee elaborated. “I hit you. I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. “It’s fine.”
“I hit you,” Bee typed again, other hand squeezing Anthea tight. “I didn’t mean
to. I’m sorry.”
“It’s quite alright,” Matt said, face softening even more, trying to comfort
them, and they couldn’t take it. They didn’t deserve it. “You were clearly not
thinking. It was an instinctual reaction, and I’m not hurt.”
They realized their heart was ricocheting off their ribcage again, and they
were shaking. No, nothing was fine, they had hit Matt, they were--they were
just like them--
And Matt could hear that, couldn’t he, and that was why he was saying, “It’s
okay, I’m fine, I’m not angry, it’s okay, you didn’t hurt me,” over and over
again as Bee fell apart, grabbing onto the kitchen table where their tablet had
been left and trying to breathe through the soup-thick panic.
And then they heard sounds of Matt moving around, getting the kettle out and
shuffling spices around and chopping something and--what was he doing?
They managed to tap on the table with one unsteady finger, heart thready, [What
are you doing?]
“Making you tea,” Matt said softly. “On some of the more...pivotal nights of my
life, and when I was sick or..having a bad reaction, she used to make me a
specific tea. Of course, I don’t have all her ingredients, and she did say to
not make it exactly as hers, but this will do.”
Bee forced themselves to squeeze Anthea, press their face into the wood,
breathe. It helped that they could smell the tea as Matt made and steeped it;
they couldn’t identify most of the smells, and couldn’t exactly smell them as
strongly as everyone else could, but they added up to a good aroma, making
their mouth water.
Matt poured it into a mug, added honey and stirred, and set it down before them
where they were still bending over the table, shuddering. “Here,” he said
gently. “You may feel better if you sit down to drink it.”
They sat on the floor instead of in the nearby chair, and on the fourth try
raised the stirring spoon above the surface without immediately spilling it all
back into the cup. Then they brought it to their mouth and, as usual, tasted
nothing at all, but smelled it several times, cupping it in both hands, Anthea
between their bony knees.
(It hurt so much more to kneel after they’d gotten skinny. At training, they
hadn’t been fat but they hadn’t been skeletal, either, and once they lost the
fat they missed it badly. Nowadays it was a little bit better, their nails
staying on and their hair no breaking constantly and they could get warm, but
they wanted to keep gaining more weight, get stronger, get warmer, sit down
without having to be careful to not knock their pelvis, get big and stay big.)
Bee drank, and drank, and Matt drank his own cup, kneeling across from them,
and they felt better afterwards. “I’m sorry I hit you. I didn’t mean to. I
didn’t know it was you.”
“Of course,” Matt murmured, and then teased gently, “Don’t apologize to me like
I’m a person.”
Bee gaped at him and threw the spoon; Matt caught it and they both laughed
breathlessly for a little moment.
“I asked my owner,” Matt said, “And he approved you sleeping on the couch if
you need to, or me walking you back to your dorm.”
Bee considered it. It was so, so late, and pitch-black outside now. How long
had they spent panicking and lashing out? And the couch, second-hand and from
some relative of Foggy’s, was so comfortable to sleep on. It didn’t pull out
but that hardly mattered; it was better than most beds.
And they didn’t have a toothbrush, or their towel for showering, or any of
their other things. They had their wallet (their wallet, picked out and blue
leather and smooth) and their backpack, which had their laptop and homework,
and they had an extra hoodie in there, and they had Anthea.
But they hadn’t had a toothbrush or a towel or a shower, in fact, for months or
years at a time before. They could sleep here and go back to classes in the
morning.
“Can I stay here?”
“I shall double-check,” Matt said, and Bee watched him stand up gracefully and
walk away, lithe and elegant. Their gut squirmed with guilt, but they knew
better than to not take a good opportunity when you saw one. They hadn't gotten
free by turning people down, especially not Foggy Nelson.
 
--
 
She checked CNN on her phone as her plane landed.
It was always a weird experience reading the news nowadays. It used to her job
to read the news, along with everything else: remember, buy, write, and send
birthday cards to everyone appropriate in her mistress’s social circle, keep
the kitchen stocked with staples and groceries for the meals the house-slaves
would cook, of course adjusting the foods in the house to the mistress’s diets
and desires, oversee the punishments of all the other slaves so the mistress
didn’t have to feel upset at their suffering, ensure that the vacuuming,
dusting, mopping, cleaning-out of fridges and such, dishes and scrubbing of
dishwashers was all being done safely, competently, and on schedule, make
appointments with the mistress’s doctors, therapists, financiers, dentists,
hairstylists and friends, buy presents for everyone appropriate in the
mistress’s social circle, ensure that any relevant purchases were sent back if
necessary, and read and summarize the relevant news and current events.
Before that she’d been master’s doll, and a good one too: she went with him to
horse races and snuff-bait conventions and slept in his bed and laughed at his
racist jokes and spoke to the waitress about the improperly-cooked poached eggs
he’d been served and used his credit card to pay for his purchases in store,
with him standing there smirking at the clerk. See what I can do to you? that
smirk said. I can make you interact with my slave. But then master had gotten
married and she’d no longer been required to wake him up with breakfast and a
blowjob, instead been required to sleep in the slaves’ basement with the
others, and she’d realized sharply that her snootiness wouldn’t get her
anywhere with them.
(Some churches said you should never have sex with anyone but your spouse,
post-marriage. Some said you should never have sex with anyone but your spouse
ever, and even then only to get pregnant. She privately doubted anyone in those
churches actually followed those rules.)
It had been a harsh transition, but at the end of it she’d been...well,
alright, not happy, still silently screaming in her head, still lying awake at
night wanting badly for a storm to come down and tear off the roof and kill
her, but functioning, even feeling a kind of professional pride for how well
she was dealing with the mistress’s infinite, amorphous demands, and then it
had come.
The mistress had read through her papers again one morning and realized that
she’d been re-sexed by master when he first bought her, thrown a fit and
demanded that she be terminated and he buy a replacement.
(She hadn’t minded the re-sexment at all. She’d secretly wanted it as a child,
before she’d been sold by a haggard, scowling-faced pair of foster parents, and
now she’d gotten it, the best in the world. Joke’s on them.)
She hadn’t..she didn’t actually remember the next few weeks, all things
considered. She remembered a haze of fear, and intense relief, and deep joy,
and she remembered running away in the middle of the night because the mistress
learned that master had started re-sexing another slave--a baby slave--and
wanted her dead too, and she remembered finding enclaves and hidden motel rooms
and throwing away her beautiful, hard-earned silk collar, and she remembered
finding the movement and begging for work.
Next to her, Chastity was snoring. She was the other re-sexed slave, and like
her she’d wanted to keep going with it, and the movement had found ways to make
it happen. She’d chosen the name because she hadn’t yet been touched--master
only wanted to fuck re-sexed-into-female slaves--and she didn’t want to have
sex, ever.
She supported her little sister’s decision. Everyone in the movement had
respected it, either quietly or begrudgingly or derisively (“you’ll change your
mind later, sweetie), but she had been allowed to make it.
She read CNN on her phone and blinked. Stark kidnapped in Afghanistan, presumed
dead until release of ransom, torture videos.
Shit. A part of her felt immediate satisfaction--fuck Tony Stark, the mass
murderer who flaunted his stupid fucking blood money by having so many slaves
who, the movement had discovered, weren’t assigned any ongoing tasks most days-
-and a part of her felt immediate terror. She checked her spam folder for where
the real emails were filtered from others in the movement, and one was in from
Taylor, the coordinator her and other diplomats referred back to for strategy
meetings.
It read, once decoded, We’re going to evacuate all Stark slaves tonight and
loot the fucking company to the ground. Expect updates. No need to panic.
She took a deep breath and closed the email application on her phone and leaned
back in her seat for a minute. She glanced out of the corner of her eye at
Chastity. It had been an argued tactical risk to take her: Chastity stood out
with her deep pink hair and her big green-glass glasses and her expose-all-
skin-possible clothes. Chastity spoke loudly and partied hard when she had the
chance.
But she’d argued that this was perfect for the mission. If the king of Wakanda
accepted their offer and began to work with the movement, the most probable
cover for their presence would be that they were friends of the prince, here to
have fun in a country where they couldn’t get DUIs or be arrested for
possession and sold into slavery. Chastity’s appearance would work wonderfully
towards that goal.
They began to tilt down and Chastity woke up, yawning. She went to the bathroom
on the plane to reapply her makeup and came out with eyelids glittering greens
and blues and lipstick so dark purple it was almost black. She looked like an
anglerfish mermaid. She loved her deeply.
They touched down not long after that and she walked off the plane, taking deep
breaths. The prince and king were each standing just inside the airport,
surrounded by the female guards they’d all been briefed on. The rest of the
airport had been cleared.
She caught the eyes of one of them. They looked wary and focused, and she was
struck for a second by how clearly they were free. She knew, intellectually,
that of course there were countries with no slavery and no real history of
slavery, but each time she encountered people for whom it wasn’t even a real
threat--not even something they’d grown up having to be sheltered from--it
still took her breath away.
“Hello, I am T’Chaka,” the king said, smiling at her. “Hello, I am T’Challa,”
the prince said, and inclined his head slightly at her.
“Hello, your Highnesses,” she said politely. Next to her, Chastity was standing
with one leg jutting sideways, staring at them coolly. “I am Nobody. Thank you
for agreeing to meet with us and allowing us use of your plane.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” T’Chaka said. He didn’t flinch at the name,
though one of the bodyguards looked troubled.
(She had no attachment to any real name. She’d tried to pick ones, but master
had read the Song of Ice and Fire books far too early in life and decided to
have all his slaves pick out a new name from a hat each morning, like the
Unsullied, and so nobody had ever been allowed any use-name that they could
recognize as theirs for more than a day.)
(The joke was on him. None of them ever called each other ‘tit slut’ or
‘fuckpig’ or ‘lipstick on a fleshlight’ or ‘stupid bitch’ as a name except when
they hated each other or were laughing in the basement about the sheer
ridiculousness of it all, and so they were never names for even a day.)
(And this way, other not-yet-runaway slaves could accurately say they’d been
talking to Nobody.)
She smiled. “And you too.”
“I’m Chastity,” Chastity interjected from next to her. “This place looks nice.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Chastity,” T’Chaka said without a hint of mockery
or surprise.
Chastity said, her breath a puff of Pepsi lipgloss, “I’m not calling you ‘your
Highness’ or anything. I did enough emotional dick-sucking to last a lifetime
before.”
She stifled a laugh inside. “Chastity--”
“It is perfectly understandable for someone in your position to take a
different view of things,” T’Chaka said magnanimously, and she understood
immediately. Chastity’s opinion of him was completely incapable of threatening
him at all, so he didn’t care.
But T’Challa looked uncomfortable enough--microexpression of disgust, sadness
at the word ‘dick-sucking’--that she decided to test it out more later. She
knew that sometimes unsavory things were required to get done what needed
getting done, and securing Wakanda as a place for more refugees to go needed to
be done.
(They could buy from arms dealers, steal from masters, and figure out
strategies among themselves. But the two resources they really could not
procure by themselves were physical space and geo-political ‘official’ clout.
This was why she was here.)
“Well,” T’Chaka said, “You must be tired from the journey. My son can show you
to your rooms.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to begin negotiations tonight,” she said. “Me and
my sister must be assured of our safety before we can go to an undisclosed
location with you, you understand, your Highnesses.”
“Of course,” the king said, and seemed to her to be unlike any other king,
except possibly the ones from a sanitized fairy tale. “Here is the document
that states the two of you are political refugees and guests of my son.”
One of his aides handed them over. All of them looked well-fed, well-rested,
not at all under threat or brainwashed. She always checked these things over.
“Your son,” she repeated, looking them over.
“My son has many friends,” T’Chaka said with perfect innocence. “He cannot be
blamed if some strange, unjust governments want to persecute his friends and he
wishes to shield them from, ah, kangaroo courts.”
She smiled. There wouldn’t even be a trial if she and Chastity were caught,
just a prolonged torture before a grisly execution. “Of course. Well, thank
you, your Highnesses, I’m so grateful for the opportunity to work with you. It
is an honor.”
“The honor is mine,” T’Challa said from where he was standing. He loomed less
than the vast majority of free men, stood back and respected her space. He
didn’t leer at Chastity; his eyes didn’t even linger. “It is my duty as a
prince to be both a moral as well as a political and spiritual leader. When I
become king, I must be worthy of it.”
She tilted her head and flashed him a smile. If she did end up having to do
things that involved zippers coming down to secure the deal, she’d be very
disappointed in him. He had such potential.
(The official and strictly enforced policy was that both using sex and refusing
to use sex was allowed, and coercing one or the other tactic was not.)
“Well then, I believe we are tired, your Highnesses,” she said.
“Then let me show you to your apartments,” T’Challa said. “They are not in the
main palace, for security reasons…”
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from one of Jenny Holzer's "Inflammatory Essays",
     here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/109320100031
***** and I said give me the fucking fruit *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
     Content warning for rape fantasies and discussions of guilt.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Foggy was exhausted.
He didn’t want to be, but he was, and it wore at him like water on stone. Ever
since that drunken night with Marci, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about
it.
It was worse than when he’d first started getting insomnia in a lot of ways;
with that, the solutions had been things that he could do without feeling
guilty, and most of them worked together well enough to actually solve the
problem. It hadn’t been anyone’s fault and he didn’t have to have an
existential crisis over it.
But with this, Foggy felt awful every time he thought about it, sick guilt
curdling in his stomach, lumpy and rotting and squirming inside of him like a
colony of maggots wriggling their way into his intestines. He couldn’t even try
to think through how to solve the problem, because the only answer was even
more horrible than the problem itself.
He was tired of taking care of Matt.
It was awful, but it was true. He felt exhausted by constantly trying to
reassure Matt, reminding him every day that he was doing a good job and that he
could pick whatever he wanted when it was his turn on Sunday TV nights and that
he could bake what he liked and sleep when he wanted and wake up Foggy if he
needed the chain unlocked and go out when he wanted to and every other tiny
little piece of soothing Matt before he could even get upset. He was tired of
shoving down the little flinch of horror whenever he saw Matt happily kneeling
and doing homework or Matt caressing his collar, eyes shut and a smile teasing
the edges of his mouth. He was tired of feeling like he was juggling those
expensive Russian painted eggshells whenever he talked to Matt.
But how could he be tired of that? How could it be so much work? Foggy felt
like he was touching a hot stove even trying to understand it, but it was
undeniable.
Things came to a head one day in therapy. Miriam had just been asking him how
he felt lately, and like an over-filled water balloon, it exploded messily.
“I feel tired all the time because I keep trying to be nice to Matt and it’s so
much work,” Foggy blurted out. “And I know that’s, like, the most selfish thing
I’ve ever said or thought but I don’t, I can’t, how do I make it so it’s not
that tiring?”
Miriam blinked, her brown eyes calm. “Could you elaborate on what you mean?”
“I--” Foggy took a deep breath, and felt ridiculous. “No, I--it’s nothing,
sorry.” He stared down at the carpet. It was a pattern of dark greens, some
grayer or bluer or browner than others, most of them shaped like puzzle pieces.
“Foggy,” she said gently, “If it’s causing you distress, it’s significant
enough to talk about. My office is again a place of confidentiality. I won’t
judge you for how you feel.”
“I know,” Foggy muttered, though he was wondering more and more often if Miriam
did judge him and just hid it from him. He wasn’t sure it was possible to
listen to someone angst and carry on like he did and not, in your heart of
hearts, think to yourself shut the fuck up already, despite the fact that he’d
never thought that to or about Matt or anyone else who’d ever spilled a secret
to him. “I just--it’s so selfish. It really is. But. Is there a way to make
caring about--caring for, I guess--someone less…” Foggy didn’t want to say
tiring now that he wasn’t blurting it all out as one word, it wasn’t like Matt
needed to be carried everywhere or something, but everything else sounded even
more dickish. “Less tiring?”
Miriam made a soft noise of understanding. “Ah, I see what you mean. Yes,
Foggy, but let me address this just quickly--it’s not selfish to feel that way.
If something is too much work for you, it’s too much work, and it’s not wrong
to want to do a more reasonable amount.”
Foggy snorted without meaning to. Reasonable. As if any of this fucking
situation was in any way reasonable. “Why should it be--? It’s not ‘reasonable’
that Matt, that he…” Foggy forced out the words. “That he’s been hurt so much.
Why should I only do a ‘reasonable’ amount of not being a dick to him?”
“Can you define for me what you’re meaning by ‘not being a dick to him’?”
Miriam asked, sitting back. She had a little gold ball in her nose; it
reflected off her dark skin like a Christmas ornament at midnight.
Foggy sighed. “Well, like--what I mean is stuff like when it’s his turn to pick
something on TV, I always make sure to tell him that he can pick whatever he
wants, even if it’s not something I like, and I can’t just tell him once, it
has to be more than once, and when he’s picking--just about anything, I guess--
I do that then too, and whenever there’s a movie or something I look up before
if there’s anything with slaves in it and ask him if it would bug him, and if I
wake up and he’s awake I try to talk to him and make him feel better, and when
he had--it was like three weeks where he was just gone, just completely absent,
like he was there physically,” Foggy hastily explained.
“But he wasn’t..it was like having a ghost in the room. It was like when
Candace had that really bad depression a while back and she couldn’t...she
didn’t even..she did things, kinda, but it was like a part of her just wasn’t
there, like she’d had her liver ripped out or something. It reminded me of
that,” Foggy said, and realized that his voice was choking up, cracking like
concrete in a disaster-porn movie. “I kept trying to make him come back, to
apologize, to do anything, but he just wasn’t...it wasn’t until all of a sudden
one day he asked me if he could bake these rolls for Claire--one of our
neighbors, she’s nice--and then he was normal again. Normal for Matt, I mean.”
Foggy took a deep breath. “And I try to stay aware of things, like I read up on
slavery news and stuff, and I keep researching these laws about slaves and
they’re so fucking ridiculous, like did you know that if you’ve fostered--not
even adopted--
Miriam nodded. “So what I’m hearing is that you’re doing what feels to you like
too much emotional labor on Matt’s behalf.”
Foggy frowned. “Yeah, but I can’t just not do it, I mean--can I? But no, I
can’t just treat him like a normal person, but--” He fell silent. He
desperately wanted an excuse to just stop doing it, all of these little things
that piled up and dug into his back as he lugged around the weight.
“No, you’ve explained your reasoning for that and I agree,” Miriam said
peaceably. “But there is a way to make yourself less exhausted: you can shift
the emotional labor onto Matt.”
Foggy blinked. “Huh?”
“For example, you mention reassuring him over and over again,” Miriam said.
“What do you think would happen if you let him reassure himself?
Foggy’s brain blanked for a second, and then he said, slowly, “Uh, he’d--he
might be, I dunno, he might get all anxious again.”
“And what do you think might happen if, say, you let him resolve his own
emotions?”
Foggy stared at her. Then he said, slowly and coolly, “I’m not going to stop
caring about Matt’s feelings.”
“Okay,” she said gently. “That’s reasonable.”
Foggy sighed and turned to stare at the walls. Quiet dark blue that sank down
into robin’s-egg by the bottom of the walls.
“I hate this,” he said, his voice coming out small and frustrated and hurt.
“That’s normal to feel,” Miriam said. “I can offer another perspective if you
want to hear it.”
“Sure,” Foggy said.
“If you keep doing this much work--if you keep exhausting yourself--you won’t
be able to offer any reassurance or care about Matt at all, eventually,” she
said gently. “Emotional labor is like any other form of work: you can burn out
on it. And the effects can be much more damaging than preventative self-care.”
Foggy sighed and leaned back. “I..I can think about it.”
“Okay,” she said. “And you mentioned reading up on legalities of slavery?”
“Yeah,” he said, “And it’s just, it’s all so fucked up--did you know that you
can only get charged with ‘disturbing the peace’ and ‘causing mass distress’ if
you actually kill a slave in public? And that they have these ‘body farms’
where they kill slaves in all these fucked-up ways for forensic studies, and in
the Tampa Market it’s even worse…” Foggy trailed off at her expression. It was
the one she got when she was going to tell him something important.
“Can you describe to me how that makes you feel?” Miriam asked.
Foggy frowned and thought about it. “I--you know that thing where if there’s a
car accident, like a deer’s torn up on the side of a road or something? I mean,
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a deer get hit, but that sort of thing, um--you
know how people turn to stare at it, even though it grosses them out?”
“Mmm, yes,” she said.
“That. Is, uh, how I feel, I guess. I keep reading all this stuff and it’s…”
Foggy wasn’t sure that she understood; her face was so calm and neutral and
composed. It was unsettling. People shouldn’t be calm about stuff like the body
farms.
“So what I’m hearing is that reading these things is very upsetting to you, but
you feel compelled to keep doing so,” Miriam said.
Foggy nodded.
“Well, my recommendation for next week is that you try not to read it at all,”
she suggested. “There are apps, I understand, that allow you to block sites or
specific webpages from displaying on your computer, which you can use if you
find yourself re-reading them.”
Foggy couldn’t help but scoff. “How is that--it’s just hatereading, I only
mentioned it because, I…” because I do it for Matt, he didn’t say. Because it’s
not fair that I get to be blissfully ignorant of how bad the world really is.
“Because I do it so that Matt doesn’t have to explain all this stuff to me.”
“Okay,” she said, “But exposing yourself to things that make you feel
distressed--hatereading, to use your word--can be very psychologically
damaging. It can even be a form of self-harm,” she added, and Foggy felt his
disbelief spread over his face. No, he didn’t--he wasn’t--he was fine.
“Well, okay, I can try to cut down on it,” he grudgingly agreed.
 
 
--
 
Foggy was at therapy, and Matt was fingering himself on the floor next to his
bed.
He had set everything else up first: he had drunk water, gone to the bathroom,
and showered, and he had double-checked his memory for asking if he was allowed
near Foggy's bed, and he had stripped and lain down a towel, fetched extra
conditioner (one with cucumber-melon scent, Foggy had bought it once by
mistake), and taken the long handle of the loofah and placed it next to him.
He had his legs up to his chest, relishing in his muscle tone, one hand rubbing
and scissoring and stretching, and sank into the fantasy.
Foggy is above him, talking softly. "You're so good," Foggy says, touching him
gently but firmly. "So good," Foggy adds, and kisses him. Matt closes his eyes
and relaxes into the kiss.
Foggy's washed his hands and slicks up his fingers, pressing two into Matt,
sure that he can take it. Matt lies still and relaxed; all he has to do is be
calm. All he has to do is lie there and not struggle, not fight back. All he
has to do is be a warm, unresisting body and then after it'll be so good,
strawberries and tea and being held and kissed in his master's bed, Egyptian
cotton against his skin--
Matt yanked back from that part. No, no, no. Don't get greedy. Foggy couldn't
afford it. Don't be stupid.
He sank back down, He just has to be good and all Foggy wants is for him to
take it.
Foggy fingers him open and leans down, kisses his collar. Matt's face is blank;
he doesn't have to smile or arch or gasp, he doesn't have to moan that he likes
it. Nobody is making him lie this time. All he has to do is take it.
Foggy smells clean and warm, and he squeezes Matt's hand as he presses in, and
Matt exhales to make it easier. He knows this is difficult, he knows how much
Matt doesn't like it. Matt doesn't have to like it. He's allowed that
privilege, and it makes him smile just at the corners of his eyes. Foggy kisses
him and then thrusts as he wants to, back and forth, and when Matt's tired of
it he's allowed to milk him, squeeze in rhythm, contract his muscles and listen
to his lovely, kind owner gasp.
He squeezes and Foggy swears and comes--comes into a condom, a ribbed condom,
that's why Matt can feel ridges inside of him, so Matt doesn't have to feel
sticky and queasy, ties it off and throws it out and presses more kisses to
Matt's thighs, reaches down and says, "You were good, so good, I'm so happy
you're mine, here, let's start with your reward, come on and come for me and
then you can come into my bed, we can watch Legally Blonde again and I bought
strawberries and steaks for dinner, good Matt, such a beautiful perfect Matt,"
and Matt's whining now, toes curling, moaning for real now that he likes it,
Foggy's hand touching him and it doesn't feel wrong because it's not his hand,
it's Foggy's, it's Foggy's, Foggy is allowed to touch him because Matt is all
his, and Matt is whispering Foggy Foggy Foggy like a siren, like the seventh
way to say master, like it's precious, like he used to pray, Matt is coming and
Matt--
Matt realized with a horrible jolt of adrenaline and light-headed panic that
Foggy was in the bedroom, standing too, back early from therapy, and Matt had
tear tracks down his face and the loofah handle still inside him and his hand
around his softening cock.
 
 
--
 
Foggy couldn't stop staring for a long three seconds.
He'd come back early because he'd decided on a plan of action and then he'd
felt full of it like a waterfall, and then he'd heard quiet moaning and--
And he was kidding himself if he thought that he'd thought the moans were of
pain. Matt's back was arched, his chest flushed, his eyes wide and beautiful
and almost black with pupil, and his mouth-- his mouth--
Foggy realized sharply that no wonder he'd originally mistaken Matt for
consenting, back when he'd been so stupid and selfish and short-sighted. That
smile had looked real, right up until he'd seen this one.
Matt's face had crumpled into embarrassed fear, and Foggy took a step back.
"Uh," he said. "Um. I'm not mad."
Matt nodded, eyes wide. Foggy saw the--was that the bath loofah? That wasn't
safe. He realized Matt was still full and his hand around his cock, and he was
splattered in come, and he was beautiful, not like a Renaissance painting like
he sometimes appeared to be, like a beautiful person who was naked and lying in
sunlight.
Foggy blinked again, shook his head, and said, "Um, I'm just gonna go in the
kitchen and, uh, I'll make us some tea. While you get less naked. Um," and
fled.
--
Matt forced himself to breathe as he cleaned himself up quickly and
efficiently. He hadn't done anything wrong. He was allowed to masturbate and
come without Foggy there or without asking permission beforehand. He knew he
was. He hadn't done anything wrong.
But when Foggy had been there--what he'd seen--
Matt didn't care about being naked anymore. He'd had his modesty stripped away
with the kind of brutal efficiency used to peel carrots; he was used to being
exposed and vulnerable and seen by others for what he really was. It comes with
the job, Summer had joked once, a smile on her mouth and absent from her eyes.
But when Foggy had been standing there, Matt had felt just as naked as when
he'd first started being trained out of it, when Summer had walked him around
the gala wearing nothing but a dust of biodegradable gold glitter in strategic
places, or--even worse--when he'd woken up after surgery and had to be helped
to the bathroom, apologizing the entire time.
It felt uncomfortably like being skinned.
But this time it hadn't been something to endure, exactly. A part of Matt
wondered if it would be nice to be naked more often around Foggy--he didn't
want to pose Matt in ugly or unflattering positions, photograph him drinking
piss or point out his tiny hidden scars. Foggy wouldn't do that, Matt was sure.
Foggy might gently touch his skin if he was naked, hold him close if Matt made
up some pretext to cuddling, place his warm hands on his spine.
Matt shivered and finished redressing, washed the loofah's handle and went into
the kitchen to boil water to pour over it to sterilize it. He cleaned it, set
it to dry apart from the other dishes, and knelt down on the floor, quietly
waiting.
Foggy cleared his throat and handed him a mug of tea--herbal mint,
decaffeinated, two spoonfuls of brown sugar, precisely the way Matt liked it.
Stupidly, tears welled up a little in his eyes. Foggy remembered how and which
teas Matt drank, Foggy didn't just grab one at random or the cheapest one off
the shelf. Foggy didn't carelessly hand him a shitty black coffee and expect
him to like it.
Matt shoved his idiotic feelings away and focused.
"Okay," Foggy said, stirring his own black tea--an 'Indian' blend, with orange
peel and spices. "So, me and Miriam have been talking--well, okay, she helped
me figure out a couple of things. And, um, this is going to sound horrible, but
I sort of--I feel like I'm, uh, taking too much care to factor in your
reactions to everything I do, and--what?"
And he stopped talking because Matt started helplessly giggling.
"Matt, are you okay? What--"
"You--" Matt started to laugh again, higher-pitched, more like a scream, "You
think you're, you're, you are doing too much for me, I--"
He couldn't stop, and it rose to hysterical in the space of a second, Matt
almost screaming with laughter, tears pouring down his face, hating himself but
being overcome with the ridiculousness of it all. Of course Foggy had started
to be a better owner, of course Foggy thought that he was doing too much,
caring about Matt at all was doing too much, but--
Right after the tea, and right after Matt had been struck by Foggy's truly
kind-hearted nature, it was just too ironic. Matt couldn't stop laughing until
he couldn't breathe, and then he switched over to the deep breathing techniques
that had been choked into him until they were pure reflex.
"I'm sorry," Matt said, putting the mug to the side, kneeling so his face
touched the floor, "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry Foggy, please punish me, I'm
sorry--"
"Hey, no, stop," and Matt stopped.
"I--Matt, are you okay?"
Matt shoved down another giggle. This might be the last time he wasn't punished
for his countless transgressions. This might be the last time Foggy ever asked
him that and wanted stupidly painful honesty
(as if Foggy knew anything about honesty, or the truth, or how the world really
was, or what it was to put someone else before you, to factor in their feelings
to every decision you made)
And Matt was quite done being so ruined and soft and stupid.
"Yes, Foggy," he said.
"Okay." An audible gulp. "Okay. Um. So what we talked about--what I figured
out--is that, okay, I'm not going to be a dick to you, alright? I'm not going
to hurt you, and I will still, uh, be happy to make you feel better and be nice
to you, especially when you're hurt. But it's all the preventative stuff that
gets to me, especially reminding you all the time that you can disagree with me
and make your own decisions. And she pointed out that, uh, if I always do that
for you then you won't learn to just take me at my word and do it for yourself.
So. That's going to stop, and I'm going to also try to take you at word too."
Matt blinked. He didn't understand.
"Does that make sense to you?"
No. But Matt knew better than to tell an owner that, so instead he tested the
tentative hypothesis. "Yes, Foggy."
And he took him at his word and dropped the subject.
--
A week later, as Matt woke up, he realized with a heart-pounding panic that he
couldn't seem to stop disagreeing with Foggy.
It didn't matter how often he could happily just pick what Foggy clearly wanted
to watch or agree with him convincingly and cook for Foggy's tastebuds; it was
as if now that Matt had gotten into the habit of disagreeing with Foggy when
prompted he couldn't stop anymore, not even in his own head.
"It's so gross out," Foggy complained about the rain, and a vicious part of
Matt snarled that it was beautiful and perfect.
"Marci is sooo pretty," Foggy tipsily, gaily proclaimed as he fell into bed
after a party at her apartment. Matt bit back a cold comment about her being
the sort of beautiful that a pumpkin was: sure, nice for a week, but soon she'd
be ugly and rotting.
"Strawberry cream cheese is clearly the best cream cheese," Foggy said, picking
it out at the grocery store. Flavored cream cheeses are disgusting unless
they're chive and onion or made into frosting, an awful part of Matt muttered,
disgusted.
Matt realized with heart-wrenching terror that these thoughts wouldn't go away
on their own. He needed help.
He needed to be really punished and then really rewarded for taking it so well.
He needed to whip himself with a belt.
 
 
--
 
Bee showed up at Emilia's house at four in the morning.
They hadn't wanted to go during the day, and they hadn't wanted to be seen, and
they knew the way, and darkness wasn't scary and neither was walking at night.
(It baffled them that anyone was seriously frightened of either of those
things. Free people were such fucking wimps.)
And they'd laid awake more than one night in a row, sleeping for twenty minutes
at a time before jolting awake in terror, a deep sickness inside of them. They
couldn't stop eating, mashing dining hall pasta into mush with sink water to
make it go down easier, gagging at the texture. They scratched their nail beds
open and hid under the bed and couldn't sleep, and they'd cracked and gone to
Emilia.
She had answered the door with a quiet, furtive look on her face, and relaxed
when she saw it was Bee, letting her in and then locking the door.
Hello, Emilia signed. What do you need?
Bee stared, distracted. They sat on the floor, Anthea in their lap, and signed
back. Why are you signing? You can talk out loud.
Yes, but I was taught that it's polite, when in a private conversation, to use
the language that both parties can talk in. But I can talk out loud if that's
easier.
Bee blinked and shook their head. Emilia's face was younger, somehow, than
before. She looked calmer.
Bee squeezed Anthea for courage, and then, I'm worried that I'm becoming a bad
person.
Why do you think so? Emilia's signing was smooth, fluid, with a slave accent.
(Bee was of the firm opinion that all languages had a slave accent. But in ASL
and other signed languages, where the body language was not just tonal but
grammatical, it was the most obvious to spot. The slumped shoulders and too-
straight back, the eyes pointed at the ground and not at the other person's
eyes, the quiet soft submissiveness in the entire workup of sinew and muscle
and ligament.)
(One of the essays in the book had talked about slave accents, slave dialects,
how slavery was built into language and how it could be taken out.)
The other day, I screamed at someone. I don't feel bad about that, she was a
fucking cunt, she deserved it, and then I felt like...I felt like I was dying,
it was so bad. Like when you first get a blindfold put on you and you're
terrified?
A panic attack?
The words were new to Bee, but they made sense. Yes, that. Um. And then a
friend of mine--he was just trying to help me breathe, but he was pushing on my
diaphragm like this, and then I hit him. I didn't just want to make him stop
touching me, I wanted to hurt him. It felt like--like all of the fire that was
inside of me because of that horrible fucking cunt was focused on him, even
just for a minute, and I can't stop feeling like the worst person in the world
because of it.
Emilia's eyes were calm and understanding. She stood up and beckoned Bee after
her into the kitchen, where she took down a bag of oreos and took out a few.
Then she separated them into cookie and cream and scraped the creams all
together on a plate.
Here, she offered.
Bee took it. They knew what it meant when another slave offered you their own
food. Not that Emilia was a slave anymore, she was free, but. It was sort of
the same thing with how Bee wasn't a slave anymore but they were, they hadn't
been magically replaced with a free person the second the board had ruled that
they were a Real Person.
They ate the soft cream and then took the canned apple juice Emilia offered
next and sat down in the chair at the table.
You're not the worst person in the world, Emilia signed as soon as she put her
own can down. I can tell you that right now. I'm not going to say lashing out
during a panic attack is a good thing, but it's not the same as deliberately
intending to hurt someone, and certainly it's not something that you deserve to
feel this guilty about.
How do you know how I feel?
You look like you haven't slept as well as since I've known you, your nailbeds
are crusted with blood, and you also haven't showered.
Bee blinked. They hadn't showered? But they usually washed every day, sometimes
twice or three or four times. Not like they cared if the privileged spoiled
idiot free people in their hall missed the hot water.
Also, you just wolfed down that food, and while you usually eat about as fast
as most slaves eat, you don't normally devour it all in one long gulp.
Bee turned their head to the side a little in shame. Motion drew their eyes
back.
Don't worry. A free person would just think you're having a hard class.
Bee snorted. No, classes weren't hard. They'd never been half as hard as other
things they had to do, not since--
Not since they'd apparently not been learning the hard stuff. They stared at
the apple juice can, looking at the ingredients list. Some of the names were
gibberish.
They'd always taken it for granted that they didn't know that sort of thing,
but ever since they'd had that conversation with Matt where he'd tried to
explain that Foggy was like a koala it had struck them hard that they
were...well, not stupid, they knew they weren't stupid, nobody could be stupid
and manage to get themselves free without being a cinderella or something
similar, but ignorant, completely unknowing of..well, they didn't know how much
they didn't know, and that made them burn with shame, too much to even bother
to look it up.
Bee? And Emilia was fingerspelling it, not using the name-sign that not-Amanda-
-wait, Carlisle, her name was Carlisle now, she'd renamed herself--that
Carlisle had given her, bear with a b-handshape. Bee?
Yes, sorry. I feel stupid sometimes, Bee suddenly confessed. Matt once
mentioned 'koalas' and here they fingerspelled it, not sure what the sign was,
and paused to watch Emilia demonstrate, and then he was surprised that I didn't
know what they were, and he--sometimes it's like he's so smart, but he's
so...he expects that everywhere was like his fancy fucking trainer, and he
doesn't realize that I don't know things, like what 'aspertame' is or
'potassium sorbate' or 'potassium', actually, is, or what continents there are
or what 'APR financing' is or how to do taxes or why people get appendicitis or
anything and I'm so fucking stupid and I'm sorry, I'm sorry,and Bee's hands
felt unable to stop apologizing.
Emilia waved her hands loudly in Bee's face. Hey, no. You're not stupid, okay?
Say it with me if you want. I'm not stupid.
Bee felt stupider, but followed along. I'm not stupid.
Calling myself stupid is something that my owners wanted me to do to make them
feel smarter. Self-loathing is a tool of slavery.
Bee signed along, blinking and feeling inexpressibly better. Calling myself
stupid is something that my owners wanted me to do to make them feel smarter.
Self-loathing is a tool of slavery.
Emilia nodded. And for earlier--did you hit Matt as well?
Yeah, the person I hit was Matt, Bee confessed miserably. They waited for
judgement.
Did you hurt him?
Not really. He isn't afraid of me. But he's a fucking idiot when it comes to
what to be scared of. It's like he doesn't have any common sense to be scared
of his owner, or--well, I guess to not always be scared of him, Bee tried to
explain. It's not really comforting.
So what you're feeling guilty about is meaning to hurt him, not succeeding.
Yeah. Bee drank the apple juice, processed the sensation of cold liquid in
their mouth. Sometimes things burned their throat, like vinegar or grain
alcohol, back when the cunt twins had wanted more entertainment.
(Once he had put pop-rocks in their mouth and fucked their face. He had
screamed when several ended up in his--whatever the slit where piss and come
came out was called, Bee knew it started with a 'u'.)
Emilia nodded. A lot of ex-slaves, and the sign for that was completely
different than the technical one, this one could be transliterated as 'people
who have escaped and become more beautiful and free and whole', A lot of us
have trouble with getting in touch with our anger. But some of us have the
opposite problem where we have too much anger and we feel it all and it's hard
to control.
Bee's mouth twisted in rhythm with their guts.
But there are ways to deal with this, and it's entirely possible for you to get
better at handling it. One of the ways is to balance anger with getting in
touch with your other emotions.
Bee snorted. What, should I be happy?
No, no, don't depend on happiness, Emilia snorted herself, leaning back.
Happiness is a particularly finickity feral cat. You can make a space for it
and invite it in, but it'll come and go as it pleases. One of the happiest days
of my life I spent naked, chained to a bed, and watching Jerry Springer and
drinking lukewarm cokes because master and mistress--my owners, I mean, my
rapists--put them out and locked me in the bedroom and the only thing I
understood was Jerry Springer's show.
Bee took another sip. But you were a slave then.
So I was. But I was happy sometimes.
Bee...couldn't deal with it. They hugged their bear tight to them, stroking
soft, soft fur.
It doesn't make it right, what they did to me. It doesn't mean it wasn't rape,
Emilia signed emphatically, eyes burning. They had less of the slave accent on
now. It means I was human. Humans can adapt to all kinds of situations,
including unbearable ones.
Bee nodded and squeezed Anthea.
But I mean emotions like laughter, joy. Contentment. Even sadness and grief and
despair, sometimes. If you need to cry or feel like the world is small and
circular and doesn't make sense, then that's what you need to feel. And we
don't have time when we're slaves to feel our emotions and deal with them, so
they end up stuffed into corners of our bones, giving us muscle aches and sinus
infections and bad dreams. Do things that make you feel, Emilia suggested.
Bee bit their lip and nodded.
Now I can make you something else to eat if you want, or offer up a bed. I have
all kinds of spaces in the house right now if you need to stay overnight, or I
can walk you back.
Bee snorted. It's not difficult to get back, you don't live that far.
It's not actually safe to walk back in the dark, alone, Emilia signed.
Bee's brow furrowed, confused.
It..okay, that's a separate conversation about how our ability to sense danger
gets turned up and ground down, Emilia conceded, and finished her can of apple
juice and stood up.
Recycle it, please, Emilia asked gently as Bee sucked down the rest of the can
and held it up questioningly. Gotta save the planet for us to inherit.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from "Persephone Lied", here: http://
     spuffyduds.livejournal.com/38351.html
***** that they recognize you as something green, something fresh and still
growing, even if sometimes you are growing sideways *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt shook as he went to buy the whip.
He’d wrapped a lighter scarf around his collar, and a hoodie zipped up close to
his neck, and he left training at Fogwell’s one night early to buy it, and he
still felt chilled.
As he walked into a little corner-place for it--no need to spend unnecessary
money, whips were whips regardless of how decorated their handles were or
whether they were made of imported or domestic leather--Matt forced himself to
take a deep breath and clear his throat as if he were free.
“Hello?” He called out softly.
“Oh, hi, sir,” the boy behind the counter said, walking over. The little ring
on his collar made a noise against the leather of it; Matt blinked and swayed
backwards. Being called ‘sir’ by a free person was always disorienting, but by
another slave it was--
Matt shoved away the emotions. “I need to buy a whip,” he said. “Whichever is
sized for adult slaves and cheap.”
“Of course,” the boy said, and paused. “Uh, should I be leading you, or just
telling you where it is, or--? Sir?”
“Either is fine,” Matt said, caught off-guard. Most people didn’t ask--if they
saw him for what he was, they just didn’t touch him, and if they thought he was
free they picked one without a second thought.
“Okay,” the boy said, and awkwardly wrapped a hand around Matt’s elbow and
reverse-led him, Matt quickly compensating. The bin of whips wasn’t far, and
Matt curled his fingers around one, vaguely aware that he was shaking, just
barely perceptible.
He started to feel vaguely numb and cold. “This one,” he said, hearing himself
distantly and slowly, his voice sounding wrong.
As he was walked over to the counter and brought out the wallet to pay, the boy
leaned over the counter. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “That’s not right, that
your owner’s making you buy it yourself.”
Matt...felt too flat to react, as it turned out. “Did the scarf slip?”
“No, no, it’s just,” the boy said, bagging it. “It’s just wrong. He shouldn’t
make you buy it.”
Matt felt too strangely distant to correct him. And, he thought to himself as
he walked back home, it was true in an awful way. Foggy really was making him
buy it himself; if he’d just--done his job and made sure Matt didn’t have these
awful thoughts, then none of this would be necessary.
Matt shivered and put the bag in his coat, and when he took it off inside the
bathroom, he kept the whip hidden from Foggy the rest of the night. He wasn’t
supposed to upset his owner.
--
Foggy wasn’t sure what was up with Matt.
He was trying to not overanalyze it, actually. He knew that he was supposed to
let Matt handle himself more often, and let him try to ask for help when he
needed it, and take him at his word, and stop treating him like he was so
fragile. And Foggy knew that for the most part, it seemed to be be working, in
that Matt was visibly much less anxious and things were just easier.
But sometimes Matt got this look on his face, like...like Candace, when she’d
started to come out of her own sticky black hole of misery, and realized what
had happened. And it scared Foggy deeply; he wanted to be prepared for the next
crisis, the next awful day, but he couldn’t be tense all the time.
So he took a deep breath and climbed into Marci’s cab. She’d insisted he ride
with her, and she pay, and Foggy wasn’t one to turn down free food. They were
having brunch together--something about her wanting to get a second opinion on
a new place that had opened up near her cousin’s apartment--and he made himself
stop thinking about Matt the entire time, or tried.
It wasn’t so difficult with Marci. Marci demanded his full attention and
frankly didn’t seem to care if Foggy was a good person or nice or not; she
whooped with laughter at his more mean jokes and grinned whenever she managed
to get him riled up enough to go for the throat in an argument. It was freeing,
in a way. He knew that if he tried to be too accommodating of her feelings,
she’d be insulted that he even thought she had them.
It was incredibly freeing, sitting with Marci at a table, eating eggs and
pancakes and bacon and ham, drinking mimosas and listening to her latest
accounting of the stupidity of most of their class. Foggy ended up snorting out
half of a screwdriver out of his nose when she got around to describing one of
the many male classmates who talked too much as ‘the kind of guy who would fuck
a grapefruit, but only if he felt it was girly enough’.
Marci eventually went on to a more serious topic, which was: does Foggy ever
want to be her partner in their own firm?
Foggy stared at her.
“Well, I’ve been thinking about it,” she explained. “Half my family are
lawyers, and they can get me jobs. But they’ve been getting me things my entire
life, and I’m not convinced that that’s what I want to do, something that
someone else decided would be nice to offer me. You’re good, you’re smart and
good at being nice to idiots, and you’ve got your Matt, and you’ve still sort-
of got that other girl--what was her name?”
“Bee’s not a girl,” Foggy said firmly. “And I don’t know what they want to do.”
“They’re nonessential anyway,” Marci said with a shrug. “Anyway, here’s what
I’m thinking: we get the paid internships, or whatnot, and we get the
experience, however much we feel is good, and then we make our own law firm and
go from there.”
Foggy squinted at her. “Why?”
“I’ve always wanted to make partner as soon as I could,” Marci explained. “But
especially with the recent economic instability...it’s going to take too
fucking long to get there if I start at the bottom. For what I want--I have to
create my own opportunities. So that’s what I’m going to do.”
“And why me and Matt?”
“You don’t make me want to beat you to death with a paperweight, you don’t hit
on me even when you’re good and smashed, my parents will never pressure me to
marry you to solidify the company, you’re actually surprisingly competent,
given most nice people are morons, and overall I’ve never felt like you were
dead weight in my life.” Marci said, ticking off on her fingers. “As for Matt?
Because as much as I don’t like him, he’s good at it. And we don’t even have to
pay him.”
Foggy’s vein flooded with icewater. “The fuck? Yes, we do,” he said irritably,
“He’s a person--”
“Yeah, obviously,” Marci said with an eyeroll. Her mascara looked like it cost
more than the cab fare. “But it’s not legal for a company to pay a slave. Don’t
you remember the Rosenbach case?”
Foggy shook his head.
“The one where that big abolitionist nonprofit got in serious shit for paying a
whole bunch of slaves to do work for them, and then ended up getting enslaved
for tax fraud?”
“No,” Foggy said. “Never heard of it.”
“Really,” she said, peering at his face. “We...we’re the same age, you would
have been nine. You don’t remember?”
“I don’t think my parents let me hear about stuff like that,” Foggy said
uncomfortably. “They weren’t big on us watching the news.”
Marci rolled her eyes. “Neither were mine, but they at least let me know the
groundbreaking legal cases that were relevant for a future lawyer,” she said.
Foggy looked away. That was a knot he didn’t feel like untangling.
“Let’s talk about it again a different time,” he said diplomatically. “But I
think I could work with you without wanting to kill you too.”
--
Matt had only gotten into two lashes that actually cut skin when Foggy got
home.
He’d shook the entire time, unwrapping the whip from the plastic bag and taking
off his shirt, shutting the blinds and making himself start, but once he’d
gotten going, it had been oddly...right. Not good, not anything less than
terrifying, but Matt had been thinking bad thoughts and doing bad things and
being so, so unworthy of himself, of his training, of his owner, of everyone
that believed in him, and being punished for that was how things were supposed
to be, how things were supposed to go. It felt like things were making sense
again.
His mind floated away like it usually did, leaving just behind a lump of meat
and fat that he didn’t have to care about, not while being whipped, and Matt
relaxedinto the pain, into the steady rhythm, into the smell of blood. He felt
strangely pillowed, cushioned, held aloft. He wondered if he’d still feel like
that when he was done. He wondered if he was getting blood on the hallway floor
or walls. He hoped not.
And then Foggy got home and things went very wrong very fast.
Matt wasn’t sure what Foggy was actually saying, or what he was saying back,
except that they were apologies and he couldn’t format them to fit Foggy, so
instead they were him bending over and the blood running all over his back and
saying things he wasn’t sure of, and then when he snapped back into himself he
realized Foggy had asked him to be quiet for a minute and was crying.
--
Foggy couldn’t keep it together.
He wished he could, but he just fucking couldn’t. Matt was repeating the same
stupid horrible things about how he was sorry master sorry so sorry and he had
somehow, somewhere bought a whip and whipped himself and Foggy just couldn’t
deal with it. It was wrong and horrible, but he’d told Matt to just stop
talking and walked into the bathroom and shut the door to cry in peace for a
few minutes.
When he could breathe again for a bit, he washed his face and opened up the
door to see Matt sitting up quietly, hands in his lap and head bent.
“I’m so sorry, Foggy,” Matt said quietly. “I shouldn’t have done this. This
was….stupid and selfish and cruel, and I’m sorry for upsetting you and hurting
myself.”
Foggy stopped short. This wasn’t...Matt apologized a lot, Matt said sorry for
all kinds of things, but this somehow felt real, felt genuine in a way that it
never had before.
“Yeah?” he said, sitting down as well.
 
“I’m sorry,” Matt said. “I...I thought that this was what I needed, but I
should have remembered that you really don’t like me being in pain, and I
should have handled it differently.”
Foggy was caught off-guard. He hadn’t….Miriam was right. Treating Matt like he
could handle himself was working. Foggy hadn’t had to sit down with him for an
hour and pet his hair. He’d pulled himself together.
“What’s ‘it’?” he asked instead.
Matt brought up his knees to his chest, and lay his head on his arms. “I keep
thinking bad thoughts,” he said quietly, half-whispering like he was terrified.
“I can’t make them stop. I can’t, and I thought that if I did this, then it
would...that I had to--I have to make them stop, Foggy, I can’t deal with this,
it’s so dangerous.”
Foggy reached out. “Whatever you’re thinking, if it’s--’disobedient’--then it’s
safe to think it around me,” he said gently. “It’s fine--”
“It’s not fucking fine!” Matt snapped, head going up. “It’s not fine! I
shouldn’t be thinking this way! All I’ve done since you got me was be ruined
and ground down into fucking nothing because of you and your stupid fucking
lack of rules, and if you had just done your job and been my owner properly,
then we wouldn’t be in this position where all I am is a fuckup who’s probably
not even worth a hundred dollars!”
Foggy stared. Matt had tears in his eyes. He gulped around a visible lump in
his throat.
“See?” Matt whispered. “I shouldn’t even be thinking that, much less say it.”
Foggy reached out and gave Matt a tissue. “Okay,” he said quietly. “First of
all, you are definitely worth way more than a hundred dollars. People aren’t
money, but if we were then you’d totally be worth at least ten billion.”
Matt’s lips twitched at the edges. Foggy went on. “Second of all, thank you for
telling me how you feel. I don’t know how you feel or what you’re thinking, and
so when you’re telling me I’m happy about it, even if it’s not positive,” Foggy
repeated like he’d praticed.
“Third of all, if those bad thoughts are stuff about disagreeing with me, or
being mad at me, then...then that’s actually good. Because I want you to be
free, as much as you can be--”
Matt snorted, and then clamped his hands over his mouth.
“No, no, tell me,” Foggy said. “I mean, Bee seemed like they could disagree
with people all the time--”
“And they almost starved to death,” Matt said flatly. “I’m sorry, I don’t want
to.”
Foggy couldn’t quite disagree with that. Trying to convince Matt that he wasn’t
a horrible person, it seemed, wasn’t something he could do with words. The book
had explained how when PTSD got to be intense enough, the horrible things you
worried about didn’t seem like what-ifs anymore, but forces of nature you
couldn’t control. People stopped thinking about car crashes or being hit or
people they loved dying as anything but inevitable.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
Matt shifted. “I don’t feel like anything is real,” he murmured. “That’s why
I’m saying all these things, I’m sorry, Foggy.”
“It’s okay,” Foggy said, and reached out. Matt was so fucked-up. “Let’s make a
new rule, okay? You’re not allowed to hurt yourself really badly. And yes, this
counts as really badly,” he added on. "And I'm not going to punish you for
this, because it was in the rules before that you could hurt yourself--or,
okay, at least that's what I meant for them to mean, I guess. But please don't
do this again."
Matt nodded.
“And...I want you to think about how, um, how you can try to feel more
like...like you want to about me, if that’s what the problem is, while I
bandage up your back, or how to tell me what the real problem is if that’s not
it,” Foggy said resolutely, and stood up to wash his hands.
 
 
--
 
 
Matt thought about how to phrase it as Foggy cleaned and bandaged up the
wounds, feeling the welts stinging and the blood be wiped away. He still didn’t
feel anywhere near as scared or apologetic as he should; the world felt
surreal, shrouded, like it was a book he was only half-remembering.
He licked his lips and said, softly, “I..I think the problem is that I’m not
spending enough time remembering what I am.”
Foggy paused, and then kept smearing on ointment. “Yeah?”
“I don’t...there are very few things that I’m doing that are reminding me of
what I really am, and that’s where the thoughts are coming from,” Matt said
slowly. “If I did more of those things, I think that maybe they would go away,
and I would be better.”
Foggy’s hands were so gentle. “Can you give me an example?”
“I should be kneeling more,” Matt murmured. He spent too much time sitting
upright on his bed, or on the couch or at the table. “And I don’t...I don’t do
enough for you. I’m allowed to behave like I’m a person, so it’s sort of a
psychosomatic reaction, almost, to think like I am one.”
“Matt,” Foggy said, “I’m sorry, but..no, I’m not really sorry. I do want you to
think that you’re a person, because you are one, and--no, that’s not an order,
shit, sorry.” He sighed. “I want you to think you are one for your own sake,
okay?”
Matt shivered. No, no, he couldn’t. He didn’t want to.
“If I were a person, wouldn’t it be up to me what I was?” he murmured,
daringly. “People have a right to self-definition.”
A pause. “Yeah,” Foggy muttered. “Which is why you’re totally allowed to think
you’re not, but Matt, it just...it’s so fucked up. This whole thing is so
fucked up.”
Matt didn’t respond.
“What kind of things ‘for me’ did you mean?”
Matt thought more. No sex, that wouldn’t…”Could I massage your feet?” he asked
softly. “Or just..kneel at your side, being there? Or make you tea instead of
you making it in the middle of the night? May I please just keep myself from
rotting?”
Foggy’s hand came up, but didn’t slap Matt’s head. Instead he only stroked his
hair for a second, and then finished bandaging him, taping a large pad over his
back.
“If it’s your choice,” Foggy said. “But. Sometimes when you do stuff like that,
I don’t know what...what my part is supposed to be. So how about you write it
out for me somewhere, like in an email, how you’d want that to go? And I’ll see
if I can...if that can be something that makes you feel better.”
--
Foggy wasn’t sure this was a good idea.
He’d read over what Matt had sent him, and he was tired, and it was a Sunday
night, and Matt had asked if maybe he could wash and massage Foggy’s feet, and
Foggy’s heart had hurt remembering how upset Matt had been once he’d stopped
being so spaced out, how Matt had tried to sleep on the floor and couldn’t stop
apologizing to Foggy for hurting himself and hurting Foggy and swearing at him,
how Matt had called him loosening up rotting, and if this could make Matt feel
better then how could Foggy say no?
But still, as Matt brought over two large, flat bowls of water--one soapy, one
clear--and knelt near Foggy’s feet, as he gently peeled off Foggy’s socks and
tossed them into the hamper, and as he carefully started to wash them with a
washcloth, Foggy felt...well, he felt like he did when Matt was in his bed and
had asked for a kiss. He wanted so badly to just be close to Matt, to be near
him, to feel the warmth underneath that cool, self-protecting mask of all his
I’m not a person bullshit.
And he wanted to make Matt feel good. Matt did so much for Foggy, and the
discrepancy felt even larger now that Foggy wasn’t tripping over himself to
reassure Matt before he needed it. Matt made every meal. Matt kept his own
space, his own things, and the kitchen spotless, whereas Foggy’s things tended
to spill over into everywhere until he was almost tripping on them. Matt timed
his showers and his waking up and his, well, just about everything so he
wouldn’t annoy or piss off Foggy. He was even starting to disagree with Foggy
more now because Foggy had told him that he liked it, that he wanted Matt to
feel like he could express himself.
He couldn’t help but feel guilty some days. And this time, Matt had given him a
real apology--something that felt like it came from him and not his training.
So any anger Foggy had felt had deflated, dissolved into thin air.
So Foggy just sat back and let Matt wash his feet, slowly and carefully, and
moaned a little bit at how nice the warm water was, and admire Matt a bit, his
lips red from being bitten and his hair smooth and shiny and his hands so
delicate and careful and thorough….
Foggy realized he was saying it out loud. But Matt liked it, his cheeks
flushing, so he kept going, saying how it felt really good and Matt was doing a
good job, and when his feet were rinsed (slowly and perfectly and warmly) and
dried off with a soft, old washcloth, and Matt started to massage them, Foggy
belatedly realized he was hard as a rock.
Matt didn’t even pause. His eyes were downcast, and he didn’t look afraid. He
looked focused, and soft, and happy, and...submissive. Moreso than usual. More
like when Foggy had fed him sushi that one time. He looked like he was
in subspace, jesus christ, and how had Foggy not realized that before?
Foggy swallowed. Normally, when he’d looked at pictures of people who looked
like they were in subspace, he wanted--he fantasized about being them--but
here, but with Matt looking so relaxed and calm and happy just to be allowed to
touch Foggy’s feet, he--
He wanted Matt. So badly. He wanted to spread Matt back out on the floor and
kiss him and rub him through his pants until Matt arched his back and begged
and he wanted to bite Matt’s nipples and make him moan and blush and come as
Foggy kissed him and even his collar too because Matt really liked that--
And Foggy realized that he’d said that aloud too, and froze. What the fuck?
“It’s okay, Foggy,” Matt said, breathing out his name like it was precious,
“Being desired feels good. I’m not scared.”
Foggy stared at him. “Still, I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” Matt whispered, bending over to kiss each toe, softly and
obscenely, and then reaching for the lotion to massage in next. “You could, if
you wanted to.”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Foggy said firmly. He felt a little shell-shocked
at the kisses, at how ridiculously beautiful Matt was, but he knew that.
“I know,” Matt murmured, and finished rubbing in the lotion. Foggy’s legs
tingled at the loss of contact as he took care of the cloth and the bowls, and
then Matt came back and knelt next to Foggy’s legs, still graceful and lithe
and definitely still in subspace.
(Seriously, how had Foggy not realized that that was what that was before? Matt
looked like every blissed-out actor in porn--no, he looked like every blissed-
out real-person in those demos or amateur shots, the ones Foggy used to watch
and jerk off too, the ones with real people and not porn actors’ personas.)
Foggy reached down and stroked up through Matt’s hair and swallowed. The next
part involved him doing something and occasionally petting Matt, and he wasn’t
sure…
But it turned out okay. He paid way more attention to Matt than he thought any
other owner of Matt’s did when they were doing this, but it turned out okay,
and by the end of Foggy re-reading his favorite Captain America fanfic, Matt
was still quiet and calm, a Mona Lisa smile on his lips, and Foggy's hard-on
had gone way down, and nobody had gotten hurt.
"We're gonna be okay," Foggy said absently, tugging Matt up to come and sit
against him. "You and me."
Matt smiled. "We are, Foggy."
 
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from an untitled poem by Trista Mateer, here:
     http://tristamateer.com/post/54390052445/i-hope-one-day-somebody-
     loves-you-so-much-that
***** with distant burdens and a glittering 'me' *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
It started when Bee stayed after a meeting.
Carlisle was still there, sitting and playing with her bunny's ears, and Bee
was summoning up the courage to ask the question. During the meeting, two
different people had cried and Emilia was still talking to one of them, one
hand on his back and her eyes gentle and calm. Bee didn't want to interrupt. 
Finally, the boy nodded and another person--the boy's older brother--moved to
take him home, and Emilia headed over. You look like you've got something you
want to say, she signed. Her hands looked so thin, stretched-out and brittle.
Bee made it quick. I have a question to ask about...I guess about how things
will be after, if everyone is free.
Emilia nodded and sat down near them, on the floor too. Bee usually tried to
sit in the armchair, but being able to sit down somewhere without padding
and not get those bone-aches was delicious, and they intended to savor it. 
If there aren't any baby farms, Bee signed quickly, where will people who can't
have children get their babies?
Emilia tilted her head. Bee went on, And if there aren't organ farms, how will
people who need new organs get transplants? Or will they just die? Bee wasn't
an expert, but they were pretty sure some slaves--or ex-slaves--needed new
organs. 
She looked like she was thinking hard about it. Those are good logistics
questions, Emilia eventually signed. For those ones... I think that there will
probably be people who end up becoming pregnant or having a baby and then not
being able to take care of it, or want it, or would die. And people would be
allowed to donate their organs if they wanted to, instead of being farmed for
them.
Bee frowned and thought it over. That still didn't make sense. Who would give
their organs away? They'd read that people got hearts, lungs, kidneys--didn't
you need those to live? 
But they didn't want to push it harder. They didn't know a lot and maybe that
wasn't even the actual answer, anyway. Sometimes Emilia skimmed around certain
things, and they could all tell that it was because it was too close to
information that nobody who wasn't one of the people doing things could have.
Nobody questioned it. 
Carlisle chimed in too, signing in a different dialect than either of them, her
dreamy face making it hard to understand her. Why does anybody let us be free?
Emilia blinked. Bee turned to stare at her too.
All master did was die and then it said in his papers that I was supposed to be
freed with his money, Carlisle elaborated. Why do they let anybody be freed?
Emilia nodded and started to explain. My own theory is that there is just
enough fear of possibly becoming slaves themselves that the government ensured
that it was not always permanent.
Bee raised an eyebrow, and Carlisle didn't look terribly convinced. 
And the reason that is most probably correct is that freeing slaves is a for-
profit enterprise by the US government, Emilia went on. The most common method
is paying double--or triple, depending on class--of the value of a slave. That
obviously benefits the government in the short-term. In the longer term, about
40% of freed slaves end up becoming enslaved again within 20 years, which
benefits the government again, especially as it stimulates the economy in
general but also because of how much they benefit from slaves being bought from
the intake offices.
Bee rocked backwards. Without their conscious decision, their right hand
helplessly signed why as their left squeezed their bear tight to them. 
And we get re-enslaved because of a lot of things. Companies don't hire ex-
slaves, and schools don't accept us as often. We don't have as many degrees and
many places think that slave GEDs or other degrees aren't worth as much. We
have problems getting houses or apartments to live in. It's hard for us to not
be homeless, and homeless people get arrested on trumped-up charges and
enslaved. A lot of us also end up committing crimes--just like a lot of always-
free people--but then end up enslaved for that too. Especially the ones of us
who decide to have sex for money--that's a crime that always end up with
enslavement as a punishment. Or we end up in debt that we can't pay back, if we
even manage to get a loan or a credit card in the first place. If we were
enslaved by parents or guardians, the same or new ones end up enslaving us
again. And of course cinderellas get enslaved again.
Bee saw Carlisle nod, and felt a dawning horror. Cinderellas--well, okay, that
one was obvious, cinderellas were slaves who'd found a man who promised to free
them, but always for a price--marriage or a baby or sex or something else, and
then without fail the price would either be too high or they'd get enslaved
anyways.
And some of us go back, either by becoming V-class or sabotaging ourselves or
deliberately getting caught. Because some ex-slaves look at how hard it is to
navigate a new world, and figure that they were good enough at being a slave
that it's better to go back to doing what they know,  Emilia finished, shaking
out her hands and cracking them. 
Bee's stomach felt like it had fallen through the floor and their throat was
tight. The idea--going back to that--that kind of reasoning sounded like some
crazy shit Matt would do. 
They squeezed Anthea tight, and saw that Carlisle had gone wide-eyed and close-
mouthed, holding her bunny like a lifeline as well. Emilia hastily reassured
them, But it's not a guarantee. And that's why we have programs like this,
that's why we're doing things like this, to help people not go back. You don't
have to go back at all. 
I'm not going back. I will die first. Bee signed definitively once they could
make their hands work. Never. Ever. Fuck that.
Carlisle nodded quietly too, lifting her chin up. Never ever.
Emilia smiled. Live free or die.
They both echoed it. Live free or die.
And on the walk home, Carlisle's skin glowing dark blue against the moonlight
as they walked a ways before having to part, she signed slowly, I think we
should go to the doctor's together. 
Bee stiffed. Why?
My mother wants me to go to the doctor, but I don't want her there. She cries
whenever she remembers that anything bad ever happened to me, and it's hard to
concentrate when I can't look away from her crying.
Bee blinked. That, well, okay, they could hardly argue with that. But as much
as they liked Carlisle, they weren't sure they wanted to go somewhere else with
just her. If I can bring my friend Matt, maybe, they signed slowly. Carlisle
could lip-read well enough, but it was never as good as signing, Bee had been
told. Maybe.
Maybe. It seemed like that was all anything ever was anymore--uncertain.
===============================================================================
 
"Dinner!"
Candace looked up from her laptop at Dad's voice. "Be down in five!" She yelled
back, and then went back to what she was reading: specifically, an essay
called What Shall We Do Now? that felt like it was being spoken directly at
her.
It was by someone anonymous--well, by a blogger who went by 'Calliope's Cousin'
but had never once posted anything else to call them by--and it was about how
people who had always been free, who had never understood slavery from the
inside, could help other people escape slavery and recover from it, and it was
also an tirade against the idea that just because you personally had never
owned slaves or sold anyone that you didn't help slavery keep going.
Have you ever paid taxes? Paid a hospital bill? Had a complicated medical
procedure or used a drug developed after 1910? Adopted an American child?
Bought things made or patented by Monsanto? Shopped at a Whole Foods or a
Harris-Teeter? Eaten 'organic' vegetables or fruits? Then you too have directly
given money to the system of slavery that pervades all level of race, class,
and gender throughout our society. Nobody is innocent. Nobody is bloodless.
And though it made Candace shake with guilt, she couldn't stop reading.
Especially not when it had specific things you should do, written by somebody
who clearly knew their stuff. Mom had sat down with her and told her that she
should go to a new therapist (the one for depression had been useless, as hers
turned out to be pretty much biological), and eventually Candace had agreed to
go ahead and try it out, starting tomorrow.
But tonight was about her facing her guilt--not just for hurting Matt, though
that still felt like a sharp pain in her chest to think about. She had imagined
over and over again if a guy had been doing that to one of her friends, or
even her, and the idea was unbearable. No wonder Bee--who Candace had talked
to, had even watched some shows with, had thought she was well on the way to
being friends with--hated her.
Candace realized her eyes were getting red again and scrubbed hard at them and
took a deep breath. She looked up and Dad was standing there, looking
concerned.
"Hey, are you okay? Dinner's getting cold."
"I'm fine," she muttered. And she was fine. She wasn't a slave who couldn't
defend themselves or say no or make anyone stop. 
"Candace," he said, and she braced herself. "Please get off your computer and
come downstairs. I made that thing with chicken and red sauce and cheese."
Candace sniffled. "Okay."
"I mean it. Now."
"Okay!" She snapped, and stood up to come downstairs, following him. She
stomped over to the table and sat down heavily--
And the shitty old chair broke, and she landed on her ass--
And promptly burst into tears.
"Candace? Candace, are you hurt?"
She shook her head, still crying. She was fine. It was just that if anything
moved too quickly or something happened, she kept freaking out and losing it.
Then Dad gently pulled her up, and pulled her into a hug. "Shh, c'mere," he
said. "It's okay, Candace, it's okay," and she sobbed for a minute, holding on
tight.
"C'mere," he said. "It's okay. We'll eat dinner on the couch, alright? And then
we can talk and watch something funny. You like that one comedian, don't you?
Ilsa something?"
"Ilsa Schlessinger," Candace mumbled. "Okay."
They ended up sitting next to each other, Candace picking at her chicken parm
and sipping at a cup of lemon and ginger tea. "Hey," Dad said, nudging her,
"How is it?"
"It's fine," she muttered. "Tastes like snot."
Dad laughed quietly and poked her in the ribs, and she laughed and leaned into
him.
"Hey," he said after a minute. "So I want you to listen to me, alright? This is
important. I know that this whole...Matt and Foggy thing has been bugging you."
Candace pulled back and twisted to look at him better. Dad looked old and
tired, suddenly. "I know what it is to do things you're ashamed of," Dad said
quietly. "To hurt people and then look back on it later and feel like you're
terrible."
Candace looked at him. "You mean...the drug stuff?" She asked. She knew about
it, a little--Dad had coins for how long he was sober, and he went to meetings
about once or twice a year.
Dad looked thoughtful. "No, not really," he said. "I didn't hurt anyone when I
smoked it. No, I mean--things that I can't really tell you about, Candy."
She felt alarmed against herself, and sat back against the arm of the couch.
"Dad--what--"
"No, no, nothing like that," Dad said hastily. "Shit. I'm sorry. No, I mean
stuff like--what have you overheard about my family, before we moved to New
York?"
Candace paused. "I--that you were in a fucked-up cult?"
Dad sighed. "That's one way to put it," he said, and ate another bite of the
dinner. "I don't want to scare you," he said. "And you're my daughter, not my
therapist. But there, I didn't...I could have left earlier. I could have not
bought into the kind of things that...were said." 
She could see it hurt Dad to talk, but he continued on. 
"And I have always gone back and forth on whether or not we should have let
Foggy be around Rosalind, if we shouldn't have just told her no and gone to
court, lord knows she didn't want him back until she realized she didn't own
him anymore--" and Dad cut himself off. "Don't tell your mother I told you
that, she'll be pissed. Anyway, what I mean, Candace, is that--you don't need
to be this sorry about what you did, okay? Doing things that hurt other people-
-it hurts. And a little bit of guilt and shame is all that you need to be
feeling. You're smart, and you're young, and you haven't done anything that you
can't make up for. Your brother has been overreacting a bit, and that's on him,
not you."
Candace blinked. "No," she said. "He--no, okay, I totally get how he feels. If
someone was acting like I did to one of my friends, I'd be pretty pissed."
Dad looked at her a little sadly. "It's not right," he said. "You're his
sister."
"And Matt's his family too," she said without thinking, and was surprised to
realize it was true. Maybe family in more of a spousal sense--but family
nonetheless. Foggy lived with Matt, refused to let anyone say anything mean
about him at all. Foggy had always kind of been a mother hen with his friends--
except for Brett, who wasn't exactly his friend--but this was more.
Foggy had spent Christmas morning with Matt. Not her, not Dad and not Mom. That
meant something.
"Matt's Foggy's family," Candace said, strengthening. "And I treated his family
really badly. Dad, when he says I would've--gone further--" and she felt sick,
"He's right. I would have. And then--that's not something that could be made up
for."
She shook a little, but that was the truth. It was about time it was said.
The lock turned in the door, and Mom walked in. "Hey," she said, smiling.
"What's for dinner?"
"I made that chicken thing," Dad said, looking over and kissing Mom as she
walked over.
"Hello, Candace," Mom said. "How are you?"
Candace took a breath.
"I'm okay, I guess," she breathed out. "Um. Therapy's tomorrow at ten."
"Yes, it is," Mom nodded. "And I'm taking you out to lunch afterwards--we could
also get it out and come eat here, if you'd rather."
"Mom, you don't have to--"
"No, I don't, but I will," Mom said firmly. "You're doing a very good thing,
and the best way to make sure you keep doing it is by rewarding yourself each
time. Every time I keep an appointment with a patient, I eat two chocolate
squares."
Dad laughed. "And when I was getting sober, every time I went on a date with
your mother and fucked it up--"
Mom leaned back, rolling her eyes, "Oh, hush, Edward, you didn't fuck it all
up--"
"I'd go back home and watch another good hour of SNL," Dad said, and Mom
laughed and leaned in and they kissed again, and Candace wrinkled her
nose. Gross.
===============================================================================
 
The plan of letting Matt come to him when he needed help, Foggy discovered, had
an unexpected benefit: it made being around Matt fun again.
Even more than before, in fact. It had somehow become really really funny
whenever Matt shittalked anyone or anything. Foggy laughed every time Matt said
that flavored cream cheese was disgusting or that the idiot on the baking show
adding beets to a German chocolate cake was clearly a complete moron or that
the person who'd written their Torts textbook should have been a real estate
agent, 'just like Ernest Hemingway', and each time Matt would smile and laugh
too, and they both relaxed more around each other.
And it meant that Foggy knew he was seeing the real Matt, or--well, okay, he
couldn't really be sure of that, not with how good Matt was at figuring out
what people wanted. But it felt closer to who he really was, and even if it
wasn't--well, if it made Matt laugh and calm down and not cry or hurt himself,
wasn't that a good thing? And didn't it show, over and over again, that he
could disagree with Foggy and it would all be fine?
And then on April 3rd, Foggy got a call from Rosalind, saying that the suit was
over and she would send him a copy of the verdict. He anxiously opened it on
his phone.
===============================================================================
 
Matt was baking and listening to his reading.
He was making, specifically, an Americanized version of Victoria sandwiches--
replacing the sponge cake with sour cream pound cake, the cream and raspberry
jam with a vanilla whipped cream and lemon curd--and listening to a reading on
the difference between representing a defendant with the intent to get them the
smallest possible sentence, and representing a defendant with the intent to
force the prosecution to give the most honest, thorough case possible.
He felt indescribably better ever since he had been allowed to treat Foggy
properly, and Foggy had started to show Matt how much he enjoyed owning him.
Each soft touch, every quiet word of praise, each fingertip as it stroked
Matt's scalp while Foggy did something else--it was an entire conversation,
every single detail, Matt asking am I good enough and Foggy answering back of
course you are.
He didn't have to lie about anything--not what he was (a slave, Foggy's good
slave, Foggy's good Matt), not what he couldn't be (the person Foggy had
mistakenly seen under his skin), not what he wanted (to just be told he
was good for once), and not even his opinions on strawberry cream cheese (a
frankly hideous abomination on par with 'fat-free' cheese). 
Matt's horribly insolent thoughts had gone away, and the disagreeing opinions
had softened as they were supposed to, and Matt now had the delicious power to
make Foggy laugh every time he said any of them out loud. It was amazing.
Things were going so well.
As he finished creaming the butter and confectioner's sugar together with the
mixer, and started to add in the first egg (one at a time, or else they'd
curdle), he heard Foggy walk over and paused the reading on his laptop.
"Foggy?" He asked.
"Matt," and Foggy sounded happy, so Matt tensed a little less, "Matt, they--the
suit's over, we won, the settlement is for five million dollars!"
Matt blinked and smiled warmly. Yes, that was very good, Foggy getting what he
deserved. 
"They--the judge said it wasn't just how much your, uh, value got diminished
but all this about the reasonable expectations of the treatment of slaves and
an environment of property damage and legal fees and all of this shit, and he
awarded more than Rosalind was pushing for. And, well, okay, most of it is
going to go into the Nelson family fund, obviously, but we are totally going to
live it the fuck up!" Foggy said, voice getting higher and walking over and
hugging Matt tightly.
Matt smiled and hugged him back, careful not to let his butter- and sugar-
coated hands touch Foggy. "That is lovely," he said warmly. "You deserve it."
"No, you totally deserve it," Foggy said, laughing. "I am going to get you
anything you want, you know that? Anything. As long as it's not a giraffe, we
went over why that's not really possible."
Matt laughed. "No, I don't want a giraffe," he said. "Can I--may I," he said,
catching himself, goodness what was wrong with him-- "May I think about
something for after it's been transferred and budgeted?"
"Of course you can, buddy," Foggy said, smiling into him, hugging him still.
"It's just so fucking big! We can buy our own apartment for after college! We
don't have to worry about when the school's healthcare runs out! We can--Matt,
we could buy only the weird organic stuff, forever, and I could--I could pay
off my parent's car payments, I could buy my own car, I could buy Candace a car
for when she goes to school because I know she only wants to go somewhere in
the middle of nowhere, I could--I could buy Bee their own place too, I could be
the one paying when me and Marci eat out--"
And Matt felt a low, ugly curl of jealousy in him at that. Marci was...well,
she reminded him of a rather low-budget version of Summer who thought she was
the high-end version. And frankly it was beneath him to insult a free person
to that extent, even in his own head, but it was how he felt.
"I could--Matt, holy shit, it's so much fucking money," Foggy said
breathlessly. 
Matt smiled. "I'm always glad to be of service, Foggy," he joked, and there was
a second of awful pause before Foggy laughed a little too.
"Still not your fault," he said, pulling back from the hug. "And I'm still so
glad you're not hurt permanently from it."
Matt nodded. "I know," he said quietly. "I am too."
Foggy pulled him close again, and Matt listened to the wet mix going, the
laptop fan, and every single fiber in Foggy's warm, strong arms.
===============================================================================
 
It happened when Matt was walking back from Fogwell's gym.
He was still thinking over what he wanted. Of course he wouldn't get too
greedy, and Foggy was budgeting most of it to put away carefully for later use
and emergencies, but he did insist that Matt get himself a few nice things, and
Matt did like nice things when he'd earned them.
Foggy didn't like jewelry, and Matt wasn't missing anything truly essential--
a Braille printer, maybe, but Matt knew that wasn't the sort of thing Foggy
would be ecstatic at him picking out. It wasn't a luxury. It wasn't a thing
that Matt would love. Books--well, Matt could buy himself plenty of e-books for
quite a bit less than the amount of money that would probably be appropriate to
spend on the item. Matt didn't want to ask for truly expensive clothes; nice
suits and other such things were in the future budget for when they were closer
to getting internships and jobs at law firms. Pets were well beyond out of the
question. Foggy didn't want to move, and Matt didn't either, and their lease
didn't allow pets. Other slaves were out the question. Foggy didn't like owning
anyone besides Matt. 
Matt had a nice kneeling pad, and the more expensive gyms would probably be too
upfront about treating their slaves like slaves for Foggy's comfort. Matt could
ask for expensive baking ingredients or cooking implements, but quite honestly
he'd found that expensive cookware didn't always deliver, and they didn't have
the kind of storage space for duplicate sets of pots and pans. He wasn't
missing anything essential. A spa day might be somewhat nice, but--Foggy
wouldn't want to drop him off, and the process would make him uncomfortable to
see. 
Matt was so lost in careful, puzzling thought that he didn't notice the
familiar heartbeat and smell before she was walking directly next to him. 
"Hello, Matt," Summer said, and he froze.
Chapter End Notes
     Title comes from Molly Peacock's "Putting A Burden Down".
***** parents are the bones on which children cut their teeth *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt froze, and then turned around. Summer emphasized--always--that since his
owners would be overwhelmingly sighted, she expected him to show them proper
respect by facing them when they spoke to him, and she was always testing
him. Always.
He swallowed. "I'm not permitted to speak to you."
"I read about the suit in the news," she said mildly. "It was fascinating, the
politics behind the settlement amount, and the far-reaching legal consequences.
Tell me, how on earth did you persuade your owner to pursue such a case?"
Matt's brow furrowed--what--
"Ah, you didn't. Good, I had hoped you'd learned from your own, ah, experiences
not to use the legal system to solve problems. When are you being sold?"
Matt's brain raced. Oh, because the suit was based on his value, it was even
more public how much he was worth, and therefore people were making offers. "If
my owner has received any offers, he has remained singularly uninterested in
them," Matt said.
She raised an eyebrow and switched to French, which took a second for him to
follow suit into. "I don't suppose that disinterest has any exceptions for, oh,
say, the CEO of Stark Industries and/or a very interesting businesswoman?"
Matt stopped walking. "If my owner receives any offers of that sort, I expect
he will still be uninterested in selling me," he said, and felt confident once
he'd finished. Foggy had no interest in ever selling Matt, and he certainly
didn't need to for his finances at the moment. 
She sighed, and that meant something. Summer didn't have emotions like an
average slave; if she was displaying them then they were inherently
communicative. It meant, Matt realized, that she felt disappointed in him, in
his insistence--
"Why does Winter want me back?" Matt asked, switching to Russian instead. He'd
been wondering since Bee had been officially owned by Foggy why it was that
Winter had tried to buy him back. Discussing Winter in English always felt
somehow intensely ruder. 
"What?" Either that was genuine surprise and confusion, or she was just leading
him. Either way--
"Why does he want me back?" Matt spat out, feeling anger long-suppressed rise
up in him. "He sold me. You told him to sell me, that it would be the only way,
that it was the safest bet, and he sold me and you helped him. Why does he want
me back? Is it just because he didn't want to sell me in the first place?"
She sighed again, but it was the exasperated why must you be so slow sigh.
"Yes, dear child, it is because he did not want to have to get rid of such an
incredible investment that was already turning out to be well worth it all. You
know him. He doesn't like having to give up his things."
Matt stalked forward, and she was beside him again in a second, but the second
gave him a chance to think. "Well, my owner will never sell me back to Winter,"
Matt said finally. 
"Were you under the impression that I didn't want you back too?" Summer said,
ignoring him. "Did you think--child, it wasn't a secret plot to get rid of you.
I did it for you--"
And that made his lip curl, because it was true and he knew it, her metronome
heart said it, and he knew it and he hated it. Nobody besides Summer had ever
once cared about him since he had become a non-person, not one single slave or
person, nobody would ever do things just for him, just her, it was only her and
he wasn't owned by her owner anymore--
And then Matt blinked, because that was wrong. Jo had given Matt a chocolate
truffle, once, and Charlotte had given Matt her own chicken drumstick when he
was on starvation; Anna and Edward had bought him a stand mixer for Christmas.
Bee gave him a knife and a teddy bear--not that Matt had ever used it--and, if
Matt needed something desperately, they would give him that too. But most of
all was Foggy, who did things like pet his hair and tell him he was good, who
let Matt pick out a baking show to watch instead of anything Foggy actually
liked, who wanted Matt to pick out a present after winning a suit he'd only
pursued because Matt was hurt. Foggy had given him Christmas presents, Dad's
robe--
Matt felt electrified. None of those things had been about their self-image or
maintaining a charitable appearance. Foggy was horrified whenever he hurt Matt;
Bee didn't give a shit about what other people thought about how they treated
Matt. Jo had paid Matt back for the mango, yes, but she had been an overseer,
she didn't have to. Charlotte had been much too innocent to worry about things
besides the fact that Matt had been hungry and she had not been. Anna and
Edward had never been expected to give Matt anything, and stand mixers were
hardly cheap. 
Summer wasn't the only one who had done things just for slave
number 556682394441.
"People have done things for me, and so have other slaves," Matt said coolly.
"And somehow, when they have done these things, it hasn't ended up with me
being sold and alone."
Summer barked a laugh. "Don't be such an infant. It has only made you stronger,
child."
Matt turned his head and twisted his face into incredulity, stronger and uglier
than he was meant to. Did she really think he was better than he had been when
he was trained and tested and maintained and perfect? "Do you really think
that?" he said instead of anything else, and walked faster.
She caught up in a moment. "Of course I do. It's the truth of things."
"I'm not stronger." It was awful to say out loud, and this time in English.
"You didn't make me stronger by casting me off like dead weight."
She sounded frustrated. "You're not getting my meaning. It was to protect you.
In the event that he was convicted, they would have executed you."
"And not you?"
"Of course not," she said. "Dear child, do you know the things I've done for
the American government? They will never execute me. Ever."
Matt said nothing and walked faster. He couldn't exactly run, not on the street
without a cane, not where there could be unexpected obstacles too small for his
hearing to detect in time, but he was getting close.
"I saved you from being killed and you're acting like a petulant piece of
bargain-pin sullen trash--" and here her voice wasn't shouting, she never
shouted, but it was cold and furious.
"Did you ever think it would be better if I had died? If you had taken that
chance?" Matt snapped, surprised by his words but feeling them keenly. It felt
like something he had pushed to the side for years but had known was there
anyways.
"You cannot be serious."
"I would rather have died than you sell me," Matt said, voice going from angry
to wet and hurt and small, like it had been when he'd cried during intake and
after his first week with Mistress Sharon, when it truly sunk in that he was
alone again and always would be. "I would rather have stayed and been executed
if things went wrong."
"You--" Summer sounded stunned. "You wanted to die?"
Matt shook his head. "I wanted to stay with you. I wanted to be there, I wanted
you to be there if I had to die."
"You idiot child," she said, and stepped forward from where Matt had stopped
without a conscious decision. "I was always going to come back for you," and
she cupped his face, her manicured fingernails, her hands that could, with
effort, bend vibranium. "I gave you my blood. Do you know what I have done to
owners before, for them trying to take my blood? I killed people with him to
destroy their samples. And I poured it into your mouth and into your body and
you drank and drank."
Matt's eyes burned. His jaw hurt from the effort of not crying. Crying had
never been allowed.
"It did not kill you or burn you or cripple you. And I gave you more and more.
I told you the stories, and you drank those up too," she said, so soft and
gentle. "Do you understand? You have the blood inside you. When I am to die,
you will wake up as I woke up once. You will have in you what has made me live
so long. You will be so much. Don't ever say that you ought to have died."
"If I could go back and do it all over again, I wish I would have died," Matt
whispered against the force of her. "It was worse."
"It hurts, child, I know," and then she kissed him gently between his eyes.
"But death is worse. I made the right decision, and you should always have been
grateful. One day we will find our way back to each other, and you will thank
me for what I did."
No, Matt thought. I won't.
She let him go, and left. Matt went home, thinking numbly of being sold, of
Mistress Sharon's hands, of her bed. The sheets had been the softest cotton
he'd ever been on, Egyptian, with a three-digit threadcount.
He would rather die than touch Egyptian cotton ever again.
Matt climbed up the nearest building and went by the rooftops instead of on the
street. When he tapped on the window to get in and Foggy opened it, Matt said,
"I know what I would like."
"Yeah?"
"Could--" and his throat was dry. "Could I have silk sheets?"
"Oh, yeah," Foggy said, sleepy and warm, "Sure. That sounds great. I'll get a
couple and a set for when we're living somewhere fancy and we both have giant
beds, does that sound good?"
Matt nodded, and felt grateful as he went to go shower.
Chapter End Notes
     The chapter title is a quote by Peter Urstinov.
***** extracting happiness from common things *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
     Extra disclaimer: I am not a medical professional and this is not
     legally medical advice. The words of the fictional character Dr Kayle
     are 100% her in-universe opinions and beliefs. This is not a
     substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment.
     Always seek the advice of your physician or other qualified health
     provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical
     condition and do not use the internet for this stuff.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
"Hi, welcome to Bed Finery, the finest of beds and bed-related wares! Today we
have a sale on Egyptian cotton 2000-threadcount sheet sets in over thirty
different patterns, on sale for 70% off--"
"Uh, no thanks," Foggy said, glancing at Matt's face. "No, we just want silk
sheets, do you have that?"
"Yes we absolutely do," the salesperson said with a cheery smile. The person's
voice was an uncanny cross between a peppy hipster guy with a beard at a
farmer's market and Foggy's Aunt Jillian, and it made him stand back further
than he normally would. "What size bed would you be buying the sheets for?"
"Uh..." Foggy couldn't remember--
"The beds are size twin XL, Foggy," Matt murmured in his ear. 
"Twin XL," Foggy said.
"Alright...and what color would you like?"
"Um," Foggy said. 
"Black stains the least, Foggy, except for semen," Matt murmured, and Foggy
blinked. Huh.
"Black," he said.
"Alright...and would you like two or three pillowcases to go with it?"
"How many pillows do you have?" Foggy asked, turning to Matt.
"Four, Foggy."
"Um, four," Foggy said. 
"Four it is. Here you go," the salesperson said, walking with them to a large
wall filled with sheets packaged from floor to ceiling and grabbing a package.
"Your total is..."
Foggy paid, and then he and Matt left to go grab smoothies, Foggy insisting on
carrying the bag. They had enough time before Matt had to go with Bee and a
friend of theirs to a doctor's appointment, and Foggy felt a little bit like he
wanted to grab every chance he could to spend the lawsuit money.
Rosalind had taken none of it--she'd asked instead to have a single dinner with
Foggy 'in a place of my choosing', which made Foggy grit his teeth but if that
was the price he had to pay for five and a half million dollars, he was happy
to pay it--and some of it was still coming in, but Foggy felt a lot like he had
when he'd realized that Bee was actually free, that he had actually helped free
someone: absolutely relieved. Everything looked better; everything was calmer. 
"So," Foggy said once he'd gotten his strawberry, banana, and chocolate
smoothie. "Can I ask why you wanted silk sheets?"
"Well, it only makes sense," Matt said with a smile, "For my very best owner's
bed to have the very best sheets."
Foggy felt his face go bright red and turned to look away. He counted tables to
the left of them, and then the right, and then looked back to see Matt no
longer smiling and sipping his mango-coconut-passionfruit smoothie, but instead
looking guilty and sad.
"I'm so sorry, Foggy, please punish me--"
"No, it's--" and Foggy stopped. Miriam had pointed out that he had a tendency
to say 'it's fine' or 'it's okay' even when an apology was actually warranted.
"I accept your apology."
Matt nodded, and the tense silence was back. This kept happening, and Foggy
didn't know why: Matt would flirt (sticking out his ass when he was baking, lie
naked on his bed with his feet up in the air and flutter his eyelashes at
Foggy, say things like that in that tone) and then, after Foggy felt a wave of
sick panic, look like a kicked dog and apologize. He couldn't figure out if it
was Matt testing him or punishing him or what, and any which way he deserved
it.
Bee walked over not long after, with a friend that looked a little like Luna
Lovegood to Foggy: their friend had black hair in a lot of little braids with
gold threads that gleamed against her skin, and was holding a purple rabbit,
and was wearing a loose, ruffled dress embroidered with vegetables. Her eyes
were huge and dreamy and Foggy felt weird.
"Hi," he said, and Bee waved at him before gently poking Matt in the shoulder. 
"I will text you as soon as we arrive and leave the practice, Foggy," Matt
murmured, and Foggy nodded.
"See you then," he said, and went back to his own smoothie.
===============================================================================
 
The ride over was very awkward.
Bee's friend, Carlisle, made no attempt at any kind of conversation, and Bee
had discovered a new form of communication for both of them: a method where
each segment of the finger held a specific letter of the alphabet when touched,
and the right thumb meant 'yes' and 'no'. It was slow-going at first for Matt,
but once they had settled into a rhythm of touching each other's hands, it
worked.
[Where did you find this doctor?]
[Emilia recommended them.]
Matt frowned. [Who is Emilia?]
There was no answer. Bee pulled back, and then eventually said, [How are you?]
[Fine. We got the silk sheets today, and I'll put them on my bed tonight.]
Bee's hands squeezed his. [I don't think that's all. You seem weird lately.]
Weird was probably an accurate way to describe it, Matt thought. He kept
replaying the conversation with Summer over and over in his head, turning it
and trying to understand it. He swung between feeling filthy and angry, between
how she'd taught him wrong, been incomplete, had never prepared him for how
he wanted Foggy sometimes, how he fantasized about him in the shower even when
he wasn't getting off, and how she had taught him everything and he was just a
disappointing dirty slut. 
Matt felt like he was spinning out of control, and the awful part was that
nobody else seemed to notice. Foggy was happy, which was lovely for him and
made Matt feel at least a little bit not-worthless, but Bee wasn't concerned,
just irritated, and who else noticed things about Matt?
Bee poked him in the ribs. [Seriously. You're being weird. What is it?]
[What do you think of Summer?]
There was another pause, and the car made a left turn. Bee had waved off his
offer of paying for the cab, saying that they'd been given extra money for it.
[I think that she's smart, and beautiful, and being around her is kind of
amazing. But she also is kind of crazy.]
Matt blinked. [How?]
[I mean, the way she talks...] Bee paused for a minute. [She's smart, and she
knows what she's talking about, and I guess she did help me a little, but she
reminded me of Class Vs in those videos we watched in training. What are those
called again? Movies that are meant to teach you a lesson but they're
bullshit?]
[Propaganda?]
[Yeah. And she..the way she looks at you is weird. Like how owners look at
slaves. I don't know, I don't really know her.]
Matt thought about it too, and the rest of the ride he was alone.
===============================================================================
 Bee was tense as they got out of the car to see Trish. Emilia had pointed out
that Carlisle needed an interpreter there, and Bee had told her that they knew
Trish and she had been so far respectful, and Emilia coordinated with her to
come and then get paid afterwards. 
 Carlisle had put her bunny in her bag as she got out of the car and smoothed
down her skirt before striding in. The doctor's office looked different
immediately--clean, but not the same way. Nothing smelled like industrial
solvents, and Bee couldn't hear any crying, and there were only two slaves in
the room besides them and Matt--
Besides Matt. And neither of the slaves looked upset or hurt or bleeding,
either; one was sitting next to a girl around Bee's age with red hair, and one
was clearly a nanny-slave for the kids of the sneezing woman next to her, with
a sparkly cyan jelly collar and little toys she was using to distract them. Bee
watched in vague fascination as she plucked up one of the toddlers, sniffed,
and then carried him off to the bathroom despite his complaints.
And then they were jerked back into the present by Trish voicing for Carlisle.
"We're here to see Doctor Kayle?"
"It's pronounced like 'kale'," one of the receptionists said, and the sight of
her made Bee flinch a little on the inside. Apparently they dressed the same.
"And she'll be with you in about five minutes. Please fill out these new forms
first and take a seat."
Bee took one of the clipboards and walked over with Carlisle once Trish had
finished interpreting, and then stared at the paper. Some of the words looked
familiar, but most...didn't. They made the questions nonsensical: when was your
last tetanus vaccine? Other questions Bee had no answers to: what did they
weigh? When was their last period?
They left the form blank, looking up and watching the nanny-slave instead. She
was playing with the three kids, all of them little and waddling around. None
of them looked afraid, and neither did she; her hair was in two short braids,
and she didn't flinch when one of the kids pulled on it by mistake. It reminded
Bee of how golden retrievers looked in dog documentaries, and then they felt
sick at their own thoughts, and then angry.
It actually did only take the doctor five minutes to come out. "Hi, patients
here a Bee Elle and a Carlisle Langwright?"
"Yes, that's us," Trish said just as Carlisle signed it, and Bee stood up and
followed, leading Matt with them.
It was very strange following her--all the doors were closed, and no-one was
screaming in a single one. Dr Kayle closed the door behind them, and Bee stood
back against a wall instead of sitting down on the padded chair. Carlisle sat
down near Bee, and Trish stood up facing them, next to Dr Kayle, who had taken
a seat in a rolling chair. 
"I'd like to explain the rules of this office to you," she said. She looked
calm, and wasn't wearing a white coat; instead, she was wearing a huge t-shirt
with the words Grateful Dead on the front and a pair of jeans. She barely
looked like a doctor at all. "As a doctor, it's my job to help you be healthy
and heal from any injuries, illnesses, and treat any disorders as best as I
can. But I'm not in charge of your medical decisions, and if you refuse
something, I will accept that and work with you to make sure that you're
getting the best care possible anyway. Because I've never seen you before, I
need to take some basic measurements, if that's okay with you. That includes
your height and weight, and if you're comfortable, I'd like to take some blood
and urine for testing. Part of this also includes seeing you naked, if you
consent, but if you don't want to undress at any time I won't make you. I will
try to explain what I'm doing and why, and if at any point you feel
uncomfortable or in pain, please let me know so I can stop and work with you to
make this painless."
Dr Kayle paused, and took a swig of water.
"Now, do you need help on your intake form?" Dr Kayle asked.
Yes. "Yes," Trish voiced.
"Okay, may I see it?"
Dr Kayle didn't make any motion to take the clipboard from Bee, so they handed
it over slowly. 
"Okay, let's start at the beginning. Are there any questions on there that you
didn't understand?" Her voice was gentle and friendly and it both made Bee feel
inexplicably soothed and irritated. She wasn't quite using the slave-voice, but
it was still gentle.
What are 'vaccines'? Bee asked, fingerspelling with one hand, the other finding
its way to Matt's and squeezing. They hated feeling stupid. 
"Vaccines are small injections of dead or weakened diseases," Dr Kayle
explained. "It's used to give people immunity to those diseases. Do you ever
remember having them?"
I can remember being injected with things, Bee signed slowly.
"Okay. Do you remember what they were?"
They didn't tell us.
Dr Kayle looked up, and nodded. "Is it written down anywhere? Do you know if
you have any medical records?"
Bee blinked. It's in my papers. Because of course, that was where slaves'
medical records were, proof of health and lack of diseases--diseased slaves got
dinged down and bought up to be zombies, of course. 
"Do you have your papers with you?"
Bee felt confused. Why would they--
But, oh. This wasn't--Bee didn't have an owner who had to bring in the papers.
Bee didn't even have a copy of their own papers--shit, they must have--Foggy
probably had the most recent copy. And they hadn't realized they should get it,
or bring it, or--
They felt abruptly humiliated, and then realized Dr Kayle was saying, "Okay,
you can bring it in again or fax it to the office another time. Everyone here
has a contract that they sign to agree to never share confidential information
unless it's to the police, and even then it's only once proof of death has been
verified. Medical records are covered under confidential information."
Bee stared at their feet, trying to breathe, and squeezed Matt's hand. He
squeezed back, and they glanced at his face: emotionless and proper, calm. It
made them feel stronger, and then they looked at Dr Kayle and readied
theirself.
===============================================================================
 
As it turned out, the most awful part of the entire thing was the anticipation.
Dr Kayle was patient and moved slowly, never asking Trish or Matt to leave, and
explained each thing every step of the way, especially once it became clear
that neither Bee nor Carlisle had even a little bit of an idea why she was
doing what she was doing.
"Weight has less to do with health than most people think, but it's still
something we like to know. You're both underweight, but that might be your
genetic body type, and as long as you both try to eat enough to be full and get
some vegetables, protein, fruit, and carbohydrates every day, it's not
something we probably need to worry about right now."
"The cup has instructions for how to do the urine sample, and when you're done
just put it in the little slot. It opens both ways, but there's a light above
it so that we don't open it up when anyone's in there."
"Can I see your fingernails, please? Fingernails that are blue, for example,
are often a sign of poor circulation. Okay, that looks normal."
"The blood tests can help us make sure you aren't developing a lot of different
conditions, and give us a baseline so that in the future we have something to
compare any more blood to."
"If you'd like anybody to leave the room for the part where I do need to see
you naked, then that's okay. If not, that's also okay."
"Okay, I'm going to palpate your abdomen a little here. If any of your organs
there are hard or inflamed or hurt, it's important for me to know, because that
is a sign of a lot of serious problems, like bowel blockages or appendicitis."
"You look normal, as far as I can tell. I can send you home with a sheet on how
to check your breasts for lumps by hand, and if anything develops then you need
to see a doctor immediately. Breast cancer is mostly curable if you get the
right care for it."
And even when Bee's throat refused to cooperate, when they couldn't make any
sound, Dr Kayle didn't look angry or frustrated once, just calm and nodding.
Bee didn't feel self-conscious at all about stripping for the exam, to their
mild surprise--Matt couldn't look at them, Carlisle had seen everything, like
all slaves, and Trish...didn't look. She couldn't exactly face away, but her
eyes stayed on Bee and Carlisle's faces the entire time. It was--sweet.
The blood sample was nothing. The urine sample was equally nothing--Bee
snickered mentally at the idea of someone having to handle their piss, and
besides, doing it when you got to lock a door behind you was easy. The being
touched was...not nothing, but Dr Kayle explained everything and didn't once
flick a nipple or rub against Bee's inner thighs or look at them with a faint
jealousy that someone got to fuck them. She spoke to Carlisle when she was
speaking to her, not to Trish. 
At the end, once they were redressed, Dr Kayle addressed them, sitting down and
looking a little more serious. "Okay, now since every patient that Emilia's
ever referred to me tends to be very shy of medical treatment--for completely
understandable reasons--I'd like to go over a few over-the-counter medications
and what kinds of things require emergency care.
"Any kind of bleeding that won't stop needs emergency care. Any kind of broken
bone--even a small one--needs emergency care. If your abdomen hurts right here
and you feel nauseous, you need emergency care. That's appendicitis, and it's
easy to treat if you go to the ER and let them treat you, but otherwise it can
kill you. If you're hit in the head and feel weird at all, you need emergency
care. If someone faints and they don't wake up right away in a few seconds,
that needs emergency care. If your jaw and your chest hurt, that's a sign of a
heart attack, and you need emergency care. 
"I know that Emilia does first-aid and CPR training, but I'm going to give you
both the booklets from my office too, about symptoms and how to call 911. Now
for you two that's understandably a bit different, but I know there's resources
on how to work around that on the internet. 
"Now, for more over-the-counter stuff: I'd recommend that both of you take
vitamin supplements. Anything formulated for your assigned sex should work just
fine, and the gummy kinds are just as good as the pills. Take them as they
direct. If you ever get any antibiotics, take the entire bottle's worth, even
after you feel better. 
"If you have a headache, a fever, or a muscle ache, you can take a couple of
ibuprofen. It's also called advil, and if you take more than the bottle says,
you will probably be fine. Don't take it every day, but otherwise it's fine. It
is very hard to overdose on ibuprofen. If you want to take Tylenol--it's also
called paracetamol and acetaminophen--that can also work, but do not take any
more than the bottle's instructions, and if you do that is an emergency.
Overdosing on that can kill you. Aspirin can work for some things, but do not
take more than the bottle and do not take it during a fever.
"Child-size medications and expired medications will not work on you the way
they would on children. Always be careful when you're taking a medication and
drinking alcohol, and always check first. I'm gonna write you my own
professional email and you can always ask me more questions, including on how
other medical professionals should treat you. We do have ethics and you should
not be in any way sexually assaulted, harassed, or mistreated during your
visits to any of them.
"I'd recommend that both of you see a gynecologist as well as a dentist, but as
far as I can tell neither of you has anything that needs immediate care. Thank
you both for coming; the receptionists will hand you the materials on your way
out."
As they left, Bee felt dazed, and smiled a little to themselves. Being a person
made even seeing a doctor completely different, it seemed.
===============================================================================
 
It wasn't two minutes after Matt had left that Foggy's phone buzzed with a text
from--Candace?
He opened it right away.
saw this today, thought youd like it. 
Attached was an adorable picture of a baby otter, soft and fluffy, sleeping on
its mother's chest. Foggy smiled, and then texted her back--
It's cute. Why are you texting me, though?
The reply came slowly.
i want to have a relationship w/ u thats not about how i was a fucking asshole
to matt
Well, that was...
I do too, but are you seriously not going to apologize? Just pretend nothing
happened?
And the next one came quicker--Candace was rushing.
i am. im sorry to you that i made our house be unsafe for matt and that i
fucked up yr christmas by making u choose between yr friends safety and yr
comfort/home. i never should have hit on him and the way i kept doing it over
and over was sick. i feel sick when i think abt it and sometimes its all i
*can* think about.
Foggy stared.
im going to therapist to make sure i dont do anything like that again. i dont
want to be that person that you have to hide ppl from because otherwise ill
assault them. i fucked up and im sorry.
Are you going to apologize to Matt too?
That took a few more minutes, and she kept deleting her replies before sending
them. Foggy watched the ellipses and sipped at his smoothie; it had gone
tasteless.
therapist says 'no contact' means NO CONTACT.
That's a good summation of it, Foggy sent, and then sat back and pressed his
hands against his eyes, groaning for a minute before looking again.
and tbh i dont know if i am ready to apologize to him, i dont think i
understand exactly how badly i hurt him
im reading that new book by ppl who were slaves and its like setting off bells
in my head all the time
like jesus christ what some of these ppl have gone thorugh
foggy one of these girls literally had her baby taken away 1 hr after it was
born and its fucking me up
what if its our cousin? the one w/ the trashy name?
hennessey
what if its hennessey, foggy?
like jesus fuck its all so fucked. everything is fucked
Foggy arched an eyebrow. So you're no longer victim-blaming people for being
enslaved?
fuck no
like idk what i think about 
like
ppl who went to jail for rape and get enslaved as a sentence
or ppl who get caught robbing banks or w/e
idk foggy
They don't deserve slavery.
then what do they deserve?
Foggy couldn't resist that straight line. Maybe a therapist to help them not do
it ever again and a cushy life to still live & legal rights to still have? :) :
) :) <3
The ellipses went on for a few minutes after that, but Candace's reply was
only, ok that hurts ngl but that sounds p true nonetheless
Foggy looked at it, and then Candace went on.
so can i text you cute stuff again?
He thought about it and finished his smoothie, concentrating on the taste
before anything else. He'd paid for it, dammit, he wanted to taste it. I will
be your brother again, on the condition that you 
a) do not try to hurt Matt ever again or contact him again
and b) you do not hurt or talk shit about Bee or Matt or anyone else enslaved.
I don't want to hear it. 
thats fair, came right away, and then a picture of an armadillo that was--pink?
its called a fairy armadillo, foggy. a faIRY ARMADILO.
i thought you said armadildo for a second there, Foggy texted back, smiling at
the adorable little weird creature.
Then came another picture. this is a coyote cub that got caught in a soccer net
!!!! ADORABLE, Foggy texted back, feeling intensely relieved that he got to
have this again. God, he'd missed Candace, even after he refused to give in.
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from a quote by Henry Ward Beecher: "The art of
     being happy lies in the power of extracting happiness from common
     things." My feelings on this quote are more along the lines of 'this
     is both trite and occasionally true', but it fits the chapter.
***** the feeling of being tiny and crushable *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
 The next time Bee saw Trish, it was twenty minutes before their first class
and they met Trish at the Disability Services office. They waved a greeting and
Trish signed back, and then they stood in pleasant silence for a few minutes.
But nobody else showed up, even after class was supposed to start.
Bee eventually looked at their phone and saw a new email about class being
canceled; something about the professor having a cold. A part of them
immediately decided it was a lie--who bothered to not work just because they
were sick? Bee had never had a 'sick day' in their life. They didn't understand
it.
So do you want to go? they eventually asked Trish.
I don't mind being here, Trish said, shaking her head. It's a good part-time
job for me while my radio show gets off the ground, and I don't have anywhere
else I need to be.
Bee relaxed a little and one hand idly petted Anthea in their bag. Nowadays
that was where she usually was, close enough for Bee in case they needed her,
but not taking up armspace the same way. And people stared less at Bee when
they didn't carry her--not that they actually cared. 
They didn't talk until Trish did after a few more minutes. This might sound
like a weird question, but I don't think there's anyone else I could ask.
Bee braced themselves, zipping their bag shut and ready to walk away. 
Do you know of any good support groups for other people who aren't slaves
anymore?
Bee squinted--the way Trish said it was weirdly circular and not how Bee had
ever seen it phrased--but then they answered slowly, for you? They
hadn't thought Trish was an ex-slave.
No, my sister, Trish explained.
Bee paused. On the one hand, they should--they wanted, maybe, to help. But on
the other hand, Emilia's house and the circle of people that came to it were
secret. None of them told anyone else about it, and for good reason.
I might, Bee signed eventually. Maybe.
Trish didn't say anything else, and Bee breathed out a silent sigh of relief. 
===============================================================================
 
The prince of Wakanda looked a little sheepish outside her door.
She'd woken up early as usual--never been able to kick that habit--and gotten
dressed, checked her email, and a couple of anonymous forums that they used to
further discuss plans and movements. It was all coded, of course, in language
about books and tv shows and fashion, but she appreciated how it allowed them
to say what they wanted without censure. Anything too revealing was deleted by
the moderators, and dissent could be heard. Tips were swapped about how to
manage life and missions, and important information was put forth without
endangering anyone. 
But it did tend to sprawl out of control very quickly, so it had taken her a
while to get caught up. So when she'd heard a knock, she hadn't responded, so
the prince had knocked harder, and so Nobody had jolted up and answered the
door without consciously deciding to.
"I had wondered--" and T'Challa sounded very polite but flustered, "--if you
would like to sample the street-food festival today. It is quite extensive."
Nobody stared at him, and then mustered herself. "That sounds lovely. I can
meet you outside in perhaps thirty minutes?"
She told Chastity where she was going, who grumbled and went back to sleep, and
redid her hair before coming out. T'Challa was awkwardly standing near the
entrance to their suite, and she smiled at him warmly.
The street-food festival was, in a word, amazing. There was everything from
recipes unchanged from centuries past to every kind of fusion; she ate Chinese-
Wakandan tacos and Bangladeshi-Wakandan kebabs, delicious classical escargot,
rabbit stew with purple potatoes, skewers of food and vegetable soups. She
sipped at coffees and teas, sodas and fruit juices, and recycled all the little
cups. At each stall T'Challa only paid for hers, which made her raise an
eyebrow, but he explained that it would be seen as an insult to not accept it
as a gift, which made her feel a little more charitable.
The Dora Milaje walked with them, and by the end of the sampling she felt as if
they were finally ready to have the real discussion. They all walked back to
the palace, through a large private garden.
"You have said before," T'Challa said carefully, "That your ultimate plan is
not to have the presence of refugees in Wakanda be secret."
"Yes, we know it won't last," she said.
"But you are also aware that Wakanda cannot have too many people in it at any
one time, which is unfortunate--"
"But true. Yes, we know. Our final strategy takes that into account," she said,
taking a sip of her final coffee. 
"Which is?"
"We believe that once the secret begins to come out, we need to take control of
the narrative and have you endorse the presence and defend it," she said
smoothly, making sure confidence shone through in her voice. "And then Wakanda
can use its considerable political clout to ensure that other nations have
incentives to allow in refugees as well."
He was silent. She watched his face, sipping her coffee. If he were to have her
killed, now would the moment.
"You want me and not my father to be the face of it, because then he can remain
untouched by the politics," T'Challa said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes," she said, but didn't voice the other reasons. It was one of the main
ones, admittedly.
"But also because I am--more relatable?"
"You're better for the type of political rhetoric that we want," she clarified.
"Your father is a very wise king, and from what we can tell he's brought the
country into prosperity and stability. But he is also an isolationist, and most
of the few things he's advocated for in the rest of the world have to do with
climate change. You are unknown."
"So my voice will be useful?"
"So your voice will be heard," she said, firmly. "So your voice can do
something for us, without a past reputation being dragged into it. So people
cannot drown out what you say the way they drown us out."
He was quiet, and they walked a little more.
"I don't know if I will be good at what you want me to do," he said. "I don't
have much experience being a mouthpiece."
She smiled. He reminded her a little of her friends, the ones that told her
over and over again that they didn't think they could do anything. All I can do
is wash dishes.
Trust me, in a revolution, we need people to wash the dishes more than ever.
But this was something of a different ballgame. "Nobody has experience in being
the prince of a nation and the figurehead of an international slave
revolution," she said with a shrug. All the previous ones--Haiti's, for
example--had been run without princes, to her knowledge. "But it will be good
practice for when you're king, I think."
And we need you.
"I'll do it," T'Challa said, gazing at her. "I know it's the right thing to do.
But I won't go along with it mindlessly."
A part of her knew, suddenly, just how offended Chastity would have been at
that, how she would have raged at him for that. But she wasn't her sister, and
so she smiled at him and told him, "No, we don't want you to."
They didn't. That part wasn't a lie. But god, if it wouldn't be easier if he
was fine with that.
===============================================================================
 
Foggy was getting more and more used to these pedicures.
It was weird; a part of him wondered if Matt had a foot fetish or something.
But Matt had said once, when Foggy had gently teased him about it, that what he
liked was that it put him on his knees and made him bend over 'where he
belonged', and that nobody else did it for Foggy. It had made a part of Foggy
feel sick and a different part shiver a little bit, and he'd dropped
questioning it.
Besides, he thought to himself, sitting on his bed while Matt rubbed lotion
into his feet, this didn't hurt anyone. Matt was calmer and happier once he did
it, and it was only once a week. It was like Matt going to the gym; at first it
had made Foggy worry about him, being by himself, but all it did was made him
laugh and smile easier, and why question that?
In retrospect, that sort of thinking was a mistake.
It was during one of the sessions, right at the point where Matt was clipping
his toenails, when Foggy's phone chimed out with the text alert set up for just
Candace, and he opened it up without even thinking. 
otter mom gives fluffy baby little otter kisses
He grinned and opened up the attached video and cooed, and then looked down at
Matt's faintly curious face. "Uh, Candace sent me an otter video, it's really
cute--" and then Foggy stopped and realized what he'd done. 
Shit.
Matt already looked no longer happy and drowsy and quiet; his back was even
straighter than before and his eyes were sharp. He hadn't said anything, but he
had stopped using the actual clipper, and Foggy felt like an asshole. He'd just
casually mentioned the person that had sexually harassed Matt for weeks. Who
the fuck did that?
"I'm sorry, shit," he blurted out. "I'm not--she hasn't--"
And then he took a deep breath and rephrased it. "She's still not allowed to be
around you, or talk to you, ever," he said. "And I don't--you don't have to be
nice to her, or about her, or anything. But she's, um, she's going to a
therapist and trying to be decent, and she'd admitted what she did and how it
was wrong, and she isn't trying to weasel out of it. So we're kind of. Talking
again. Just about cute animals, though, and she's really trying to change,"
Foggy babbled, losing control of his thoughts. "But you don't have to be nice
to her, or anything, and she really isn't--I don't mean--"
Matt exhaled softly, and Foggy stopped. "Of course, Foggy," Matt murmured. "I
should never have interfered with your relationship with your sister. Please
punish me as--"
"What? No," Foggy said. "No, you told me and did the right thing, and then I
told her to fuck off. Seriously, you didn't 'interfere' or anything. Don't say
that."
Matt closed his mouth, and Foggy winced at himself. 
"It's okay, I mean. You can feel, um, however about this. But if she does
contact you, or something, please tell me. She's not allowed to do that, and
you matter. I don't want anyone hurting you."
"Of course, Foggy," Matt murmured, and bent back down to continue the pedicure,
but the mood was ruined, somehow. He didn't look happy and peaceful again the
whole time, and Foggy felt guilty the rest of the day.
===============================================================================
 
Matt didn't understand why he felt bad.
The next day, he was making povitica, rolling out the dough on the counter
while listening to a reading for criminal law, and felt the same as he'd done
all day: tired and vaguely empty, sick and aching and wrong. He couldn't stop
thinking about how Foggy didn't like him, how he was likely to end up sold over
and over again until he was ugly and worn-out and worthless, how he couldn't do
anything right.
None of it was true, and it bothered him. He'd done a perfectly fine job
yesterday of continuing to attend to Foggy, and he'd been praised for that,
allowed to lie next to Foggy on his bed and sleep like that too once he asked.
He pushed thoughts of the future away and had done his best to focus during
class, but he couldn't quite pay enough attention, and even now he realized he
would have to rewind the reading.
Matt gritted his teeth and turned it off. He'd try again later. He refocused on
the povitica, getting the filling spread evenly with a pastry bag and a knife,
and reminded himself that moping around wasn't permitted. 
But he couldn't help but feel terrible, even as he spread out the filling and
rolled up the bread and put it in to bake, and when he washed his hands, a UPS
postman came to the downstairs door with a package for 'Franklin Nelson'.
Matt frowned and went downstairs to get it; he couldn't sign for it, obviously,
but postal workers knew slaves took packages for their owners and let him
receive it without a problem. Matt carried it upstairs, and realized that there
were tiny pinpricks in a pattern across the top of the package. He felt them,
and then went cold as they read in Braille: this is for you, Matt, not him.
Pinpricks, Matt realized, like the ones Summer had tested him on: how small did
a hole have to be before he couldn't feel it? How sensitive could his
fingertips get?
(After being bound up in mittens for a week: very.)
He opened the package with trembling fingers, and inside was the collar.
Not any of the more normal ones, the collar, the one he'd worn at the auction
by Summer and the parties before that, that he'd had around his neck in Venice
and Paris and Amsterdam, the one people had cooed over. It was made of green,
white and lavendar jade shot through each other, adorned at the bottom with
white diamonds, with Winter's name and Matt's slave-number carved into the
back. It had been something he'd earned, and while obviously nowhere near as
precious as Summer's simple vibranium collar, it had been beautiful and it had
been from Summer, commissioned by their owner to reward Matt, it had been put
on his neck by Winter each time, cold metal fingers against his skin and Matt
had loved it. 
He felt it and the bubble wrap it was mixed in with, and couldn't help but
start to tear up a little. There was a note with it too, in the same pinprick
Braille:
Matthew. Don't forget what you can be.
He won't be the last owner you have.
And that broke him, and he sat down and began to cry very quietly, even as
Foggy came in from the bedroom for a glass of water.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from '8 YRS OLD' by sometimestuesday on tumblr,
     here: http://sometimestuesday.tumblr.com/post/136967627377/8-yrs-old
***** how unfair, the way the world bares its teeth at you, snarls and snaps at
you, and still commands you to love it *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Matt sobbed, and took deep gasping breaths, and then forced his tongue to the
roof of his mouth, sucking in air and holding it, holding it, and then letting
it out, using the technique Summer had taught him early on to calm down and
stop crying, you can't do that here. 
He was distantly aware of Foggy asking him what was wrong, but he concentrated
ruthlessly on getting a hold of himself, and in a minute Matt could breathe and
stand up straight, not exactly stable but much better than before. "I'm sorry,
Foggy," he murmured. "That was unbecoming of me."
"But Matt--what's wrong?"
"I--" and he couldn't exactly deny it now-- "I was sent this collar. By Summer.
It used to be mine, for parties and things," he said, showing it to Foggy.
There was a tight line of anger in Foggy's body, and Matt tensed up a little at
it. "She sent you your old collar? To do what, make you cry?"
Matt wanted to protest, but--no. That was, probably, her intended result, and
it made something inside of him feel hot and tight and angry. He hadn't done
anything wrong, she had no right to punish him, his owner liked him as he was
and that was whose opinion mattered.
Foggy took the silence as a 'yes'. "Fuck this, I'm getting a fucking
restraining order or something--"
Matt shot up and grabbed at the phone Foggy had pulled out of his pocket. "No,"
he said without thinking. "Foggy, that is--that is a terrible idea," he said,
pushing past fear. This was an emergency, and it was acceptable to order an
owner to do something or not do something in an emergency. "Foggy, that will
not lead to anything but retaliation."
"I'm not scared of her."
Matt breathed in and out. "Winter would retaliate by hurting me, or Bee, or
your family, or our neighbors, or you. The last time he was angry at your
actions, he was capable of forcing an unnecessary medical exam. That was him
being nice," Matt stressed, putting his other hand on Foggy's arm. "How
insulted he would be if you got a restraining order against him--Foggy, it
would not lead to anything good. He would not respect it. He would not care
about legal consequences, or morals, or anything else."
Foggy relaxed his hand a little. "Jesus," Foggy said. "But I can't let him--
her, really--get away with this."
Matt closed his eyes and thought back to sparring with Summer. It was very,
very hard to beat her at all, and you had to do it by going much further than
she thought you would. "The only way to make her stop would be to make it
completely useless."
There was a pause. "What do you mean?" Foggy asked.
"I mean--if I don't react, if nothing changes, then she'll change tactics,"
Matt said quietly. "And if we can counter them, she will--she might give up."
She did tend to not go after things once she had failed enough at them.
Perfectionism was the key to failure. 
"So?"
Matt sucked in a deep breath. "Perhaps I can--explain my reaction to the
collar, and then in the future that might stop me from reacting in the first
place."
"So you're saying to ignore the bully? Matt, that doesn't fucking work," Foggy
said, sounding exasperated. "We can't just--"
"They will hurt you, Foggy," Matt said desperately. "They will hurt you and
Candace and me and Marci and Bee, they will go after them and nothing will be
provable and nothing will be found illegal in a court of law and they will win
and we willlose and I can't let them hurt you."
"I can't let them hurt you, either," Foggy shot back. "That's not fair. Nobody
is supposed to hurt you."
Matt half-wanted to scream. I don't matter, stop focusing on the details that
don't fucking matter! But he knew much better than to say that. "Of course,
Foggy," he said quietly. "But me having a strong emotion isn't important, and
it is the least of the things they could do to you if Winter feels insulted and
indulgent enough."
"Okay, your point is taken," Foggy said, and Matt relaxed marginally. Foggy
wasn't lying. "But it does matter. I don't--she's not allowed to hurt you just
because she feels like it."
Of course not. The rules had changed. Matt relaxed a little more and realized
he felt cold and vaguely shivery, and the fact that he'd just had an argument
with his owner made him feel weak with fear, told him to go to his knees. He
gripped the counter and took a few more deep breaths, but his legs buckled.
"Oh, shit," Foggy muttered faintly behind him, and then said, "Matt? What's
wrong?"
"I--I didn't mean to, to take that tone with you," Matt said, fishing for the
right apology, "I'm sorry--"
"No, it's okay," Foggy said, "It's okay, Matt, no need to apologize. You're
fine. That was pretty awesome, actually," he added on in a brighter tone. "I
mean, making sure I didn't do something catastrophically stupid."
Matt breathed in and out, still shaky, and then Foggy said, "Okay, what do you
need to do?"
"I--" and Matt concentrated hard. "In an hour, I'll need to take out the
povitica, and I have to do those readings before bed, and I was going to get a
head start on the paper about sufficient and insufficient evidence to
prosecute."
"Okay, good," Foggy said. "Can I help with that?"
The idea made Matt shudder. He didn't--"I can do it," Matt said.
"Okay," Foggy said, a little gently. "Can I--do you want me to come in here and
make you feel better?"
Matt shook his head emphatically. He refused to be anything but very, very good
for Foggy now. That was the only thing that would let him stop being an
embarrassment to himself. 
"Alright, then I'm gonna go back and do more homework, or pretend to," Foggy
said. "If you need me to do anything, tell me, alright?"
Matt nodded, and then Foggy leaned in and kissed his cheek. "And seriously--
thanks for stopping me when I was going to do something dumb."
Matt smiled and got back to work. "Of course, Foggy," he said. "It's my job."
===============================================================================
 
Matt seemed okay to Foggy for the rest of the night, and the 'povitica' turned
out out to be a delicious bread that came in beautiful little swirls. Foggy
loved it, and made sure to tell Matt exactly why it was amazing and delicious
and perfect in detail, and Matt's smile was so wide it looked like it split his
face. 
It wasn't until they were both in pajamas, Foggy sitting up in bed with his
laptop open and reading a new paper on JSTOR about how gender in the Captain
America movies functioned when Matt talked about the collar.
"She got it for me when I had been with them for a year," Matt said quietly.
"The collar, I mean. She had it commissioned--well, Winter did, but she asked
him for it. Getting the different types of jade together was expensive, but he
didn't care. And once it was fitted and put on correctly, she took me to my
first party with it on."
Foggy looked up, spellbound. Matt didn't just talk like this.
"It was something everyone commented on--the ambassadors, the senators, the new
congressman, the CEOs and their wives, and even the other slaves. Because it
was so beautiful and so unique, and it was clearly a sign that I'd earned it."
Matt smiled wistfully. "One of the French ballerinas offered to buy me right
away, but Winter told her no and that he wanted me to be trained and trained
until he had two slaves of equal caliber, and he didn't trust anything else to
produce such a result but Summer."
Foggy's gut twisted at the idea. How old was Matt when this happened?
"And then when we went home, she was so happy with me for behaving so well. I
wasn't supposed to talk at all, and I didn't, not even once, and she let me
have a glass of champagne when we went to bed that night because I had been so
good."
Foggy bit his lip. Matt sounded sad and happy and agonized.
"I'm sorry, I know you don't like to know about her," Matt murmured. "I
shouldn't have said anything, please punish me--"
"No," Foggy said. "You can--you can talk about her, or anyone else, if you want
to. I won't punish you for that." Or anything else, actually. The fact that
he'd built a punishment clause into the house rules didn't mean he was ever
going to actually use it, ever, for anything. 
Matt nodded, and curled up a little more under his blanket, and kept talking.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title also comes from '8 YRS OLD' by sometimestuesday on
     tumblr.
***** changing spots on the leopards that are still hunting you *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Foggy felt faintly sick and panicky the rest of the next day.
The problem wasn't Matt, really, or even the way he talked about Summer--about
his abusers. It wasn't how fond and sad he sounded, how he described them in
soft tones and gentle words, how he smiled when he said their names.
The problem was that if even half of the actual contents of his story were
true, then Foggy wasn't sure that Matt would ever protect themselves against
them. 
Matt talked about times when Summer was nice to him, when she taught him how to
bake things and fed him cake, and when Winter intervened against people trying
to grope or harass Matt. He talked about staying up for hours every night with
them as they helped him with physics homework for his degree, and figuring out
how to legally get Matt a cane again. He talked about them like they were--
Like they were his parents. Whom he loved and who loved him.
But Foggy knew that they were also horrible and violent, that they terrified
Matt, and the image from months ago, of Summer forcing Bee to spread their legs
and sit there--even if she had said nothing happened, Foggy had let it happen,
and there was something not right with the kind of person who did that to
someone else.
Foggy knew an apology was in order, at the bare fucking minimum, and it made
his gut churn. So when Matt got up during lunch to go get another sandwich, he
cleared his throat and told Bee, quietly so no-one could overhear, "I'm sorry
that I let Summer do things to you when she was training you."
Bee looked at him like he was a complete idiot, and they typed on their tablet
and showed him, I don't care about that. She didn't actually hurt me, and if
you hadn't, I would have ended up being owned by that Winter creep.
"I still should have--"
Bee waved their hands and Foggy stopped. 
You did what you should have done. Don't whine about it.
Foggy closed his mouth and nodded, and then his thoughts raced back to Matt,
and how he couldn't--he couldn't just say that they had done nothing, or that
they had hit him, because that wasn't everything that they had done. He didn't
know how to possibly convince Matt how he needed to let them go. He couldn't.
And he had to.
===============================================================================
 
Matt wasn't exactly aware of why Foggy was so upset, but he knew it was his
fault. 
He made an effort to correct it until Foggy next went to therapy, he talked to
Bee where Foggy could see it, because that made him happy, he made miniature
little custard tarts--dark chocolate custard with a layer of raspberry coulis
on top of shortbread crust, he went to Fogwell's two times and came back both
ways by hanging from the windowsill and tapping on it to be allowed in, and he
teased Foggy about his singing in the shower. All of these things seemed to
help, but it was only when Foggy came back from therapy that he was completely
calm again, and sat down with Matt to talk with him.
===============================================================================
 
"Are you seriously saying I can't tell Matt not to talk to them?"
"What has been shown over time to work is not forbidding people to speak to
others," Miriam said gently. "Granted, most of the studies have been of parents
trying to regulate whom their children are friends with or dating, but the
principle, I think, applies in this situation. Unless you'd prefer to use your
authority as Matt's owner, forbidding him to talk to others as a friend is not
effective."
Foggy stared at her. "But he does--Matt is, like, uncomfortably obedient."
"But if she is seeking him out, he may respond to her," Miriam said. "Or he may
consider that in this matter, she or his former owner have the ultimate
authority. I've had patients before whose slaves had divided loyalties."
Foggy looked at her and sighed, sitting back. "That's not the problem. The
problem is-- How can I be sure that he's going to protect himself?"
"All you can do is explain your concerns," Miriam said, "And work with him to
have effective strategies."
"Okay, what does work?" Foggy asked. "What actually helps protect people, in
your experience?"
"Documenting interactions helps a great deal," she said. "It makes it possible
to analyze patterns and provide evidence of stalking and harassment. It can
also help remind you and Matt that what's happening isn't normal or routine.
Sharing your concerns with other people can also be a good idea--friends and
family can help reduce the stress and support you. I can also help as this
situation progresses. I've helped clients get restraining orders or police
intervention before."
Foggy laughed without thinking about it. "I don't think the police want to
protect the guy who just sued them for millions of dollars."
"Well, that can be a factor. But I do know some of them personally, and not all
of them are bad at their jobs," Miriam said with that perfect calm. "At the
moment, I'd say that you should trust your instincts. If you think she's
dangerous, that's something to note down and pay attention to."
"Document and wait," Foggy muttered. "Okay."
===============================================================================
"Matt," Foggy started, and then stopped.
"I'm...I'm worried about you," he said, first of all, "And I was talking to
Miriam about it, and she told me--she thinks that what we should do is document
everything Summer has done that's harassment or stalking, and have a record of
it. So I need to know which--"
And he stopped, because Matt's face was singularly not worried, not calm, but
entirely and wholly guilty.
===============================================================================
 
Matt didn't exactly remember what happened next.
He remembered kneeling. He remembered apologizing, and he remembered telling
Foggy about a bathroom, about a walk back from Fogwell's, about how she said
she would burn down the building. He remembered explaining that she was
serious. He remembered reiterating that it was not a joke or an idle threat. He
remembered explaining that she did not make idle threats.
He remembered apologizing, over and over again, until his owner said stop. He
remembered his owner trying to give him a blanket, but he didn't deserve it. He
remembered his owner making phone calls, and he remembered his owner putting
things in a bag, and handing one to Matt, and telling him that they were going
to stay at his owner's parent's house for a few days after they talked to the
police, but Matt didn't have to be there. He remembered saying he could be
there. He remembered talking to someone at the prompting, and kneeling inside
of a cab, but none of the things happening made sense. 
He remembered walking steps into the doorway of a house. But it opened, the
door, and Matt was very suddenly confused about why there was a very large cat
rubbing against his legs and biting him, or why an older woman who wasn't his
owner was hugging him and ushering him inside.
===============================================================================
 
It took some work to get Matt and all of their suitcases and bags inside and
upstairs, but Foggy was determined. He'd packed their most valuable things, the
hardest to replace, and gotten them out of there as quickly as he could.
He finally stopped after the last backpack was deposited upstairs and sat down
heavily on his bed, his face in his hands. He hadn't thought that he would have
to call Miriam and beg her for help in talking to the police today.
He felt incredibly exhausted and like he wanted to cry and let Anna make
everything better, but instead he took a few deep breaths and headed back
downstairs, where Matt was--oh fuck, still kneeling on the carpet and petting
Caligula, looking vaguely confused. Foggy couldn't help it. He sat down and
started to cry, and sobbed out, "Matt--Matt please, I can't," and it was
because Matt had gone blank and apologetic and wrong after he'd started telling
Foggy about how apparently Summer had been talking to him and knew where he
went and trying to persuade him to come back to her and threatened to burn down
their apartment building, and Foggy couldn't.
"I can't deal with this, Matt, please, not alone, please," he begged, crying
even as Anna shut the door and went over to get him tissues. "Fuck, I need
you."
The next thing he knew Matt was blinking and sitting up, and then gently
pulling Foggy into a warm hug, and he completely lost it. He'd done everything
he could think of--warning Bee to stay somewhere else for the night, telling
Claire about it and all his neighbors, getting the police to protect the
building, making sure Miriam was there so he'd be believed, packing up
everything with a pounding heartbeat and shaky hands, begging Candace to stay
at a friend's house suddenly, frantically calling for a cab and loading in
their things--and now he couldn't do anything but gasp and hold onto Matt,
shaking.
Matt was good at this, he discovered, holding Foggy and making soft reassuring
noises, rubbing his back and making it feel like he was a rock and Foggy could
clutch on and come out okay. 
It took him an embarrassingly long time to stop crying, and he had probably the
worst-looking face of all time, and he told Matt that as he pulled back and
took some of the tissues. "I probably look like Jabba the freaking Hutt," he
muttered.
"You don't look like that to me," Matt offered, and they broke into laughter.
"Sorry," Foggy said, once they'd calmed down. "I wasn't trying to make you--
I know you don't do that on purpose."
"But it was completely wrong for the situation," Matt murmured. "I understand,
and I'm sorry, Foggy. But I'm here now, I promise. Whatever you need."
"Could you--uh, I guess--could you tell Anna that everything's going to be
fine, and I'll explain it all in just a few minutes, I need to wash my face
first?"
"Of course, Foggy," Matt said, and rose. "I'll take care of it."
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from "Neville Longbottom’s Boggart Attends
     Severus Snape’s Funeral", here: http://brennatwohy.tumblr.com/post/
     135782014824/neville-longbottoms-boggart-attends-severus
***** once, I saw a bee drown in honey, and I understood. *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Anna Nelson did not like this at all.
"So what you're telling me is that you have been stalked by someone who taught
you," she said slowly, carefully, "And she threatened to burn down your
apartment building, and you only told Foggy about this tonight?"
Matt's head was bowed, and his hands folded in his lap. 
"Mom--" Foggy said, but Anna shushed him.
"Yes, ma'am," Matt said, raising his head. "That's correct."
Anna sighed heavily and sat back, putting one hand on her face. "Why--I don't--
" She sighed again, and put on her psychiatrist's hat again, and remembered
having to explain things like this to her children. "Matt," she said calmly,
"If someone threatens to kill you or someone else if you tell anyone about them
talking to you, you need to tell someone immediately, not keep it a secret.
Particularly when they actually mean it. Do you understand?"
He nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
"Good. And don't call me that, I told you to call me Anna," she said, because
too few people called her by her own name. It was usually Dr Nelson, and while
it was good to hear it from patients, she didn't want any formalities with her
personal life. "Now, how long are you two planning to stay here?"
"I don't--um, I don't know," Foggy said. "I don't.." He looked lost, like he
hadn't considered the long-term at all. That was fine. That could happen in the
morning.
"Okay. Stay here as long as you need to, alright? The police are at the
building, right?"
"Uh, yeah," Foggy said. "I asked Brett, and Brett asked his, uh, the guys he
knows in the force--Brett's at the police academy now--and they have a detail
on it for a while. I'm just--I'm sorry, Mom. I know this is a lot."
"It's not," She said. "The only problem is--well, this is Candace's house too."
There was a palpable chill, and Foggy glared at her. "And?"
"And I can't bar her from her own house indefinitely as well," she said. 
"Well, then, we'll just have to leave," Foggy snapped, standing up and putting
down the drink. "Because I cannot deal with--"
"Foggy, don't be ridiculous--"
"No, Mom, I cannot--I can't deal with anything more, not tonight, not tomorrow,
I just had to--I have had fucking enough, okay, and we can't--"
"It's her house too, not yours--"
"Foggy," Matt said softly, too softly to be heard, but Foggy stopped and turned
to look at him. "I'm sorry for interrupting, but it's very late at night, and
we're all tired and scared. Candace might come back tomorrow, and we can make
alternate plans then, but for the moment, it would be best to not try to find a
hotel or another place to stay. We should just calm down and go to sleep,
perhaps after showering and eating. I could make food."
Anna looked at him, and strangely enough, it seemed to work, her son calming
down. "Okay," Foggy said, taking a few deep breaths. "I'm gonna shower."
"It won't take long," Matt assured him. "I can make hash browns with meat,
cheese, and onions, with a few fried eggs."
"Okay. And we have only afternoon classes tomorrow, right?"
"Afternoon and evening," Matt confirmed.
"Okay. Then see you in fifteen minutes."
Anna watched him march upstairs, and turned to see Matt stand up and go into
the kitchen, where Candace's monster cat jumped up to watch him start to cook.
She followed him in and poured herself a glass of water before leaning back
against the counters. 
"I am sorry that things with Candace got so out of control," she said quietly.
"For my own part in not protecting you enough."
Matt blinked and paused from where he was viciously grating potatoes.
"It's fine, ma'am," he said. "Candace has, from what I've heard, stated that
her actions were her own. It could hardly be your fault."
"I meant, I feel sympathetic," Anna said gently. "And it's made me think. About
things I've done, things I haven't done."
Maybe it was the late night that made her ask the next question, but she went
ahead anyway. "I've been wondering--is Foggy really happy? In law school? Being
around Rosalind an, and living so far away from family?"
Matt paused again, and then went back to grating. "He's happy at Columbia,
Anna. But he doesn't like Rosalind at all, you don't have to worry about that."
"I wanted him to be a butcher," Anna said, cradling the glass. "We got him a
job at the neighbors' butcher shop right when he started high school--part
time, you understand--and he loved it. It made him so happy, and it gave him so
much experience. He got offered a job there, a good union job that he already
knew he liked, and he turned it down after college to go to law school and
become some corporate suit."
Matt was now oiling a pan and adding in the potatoes and cheese, diced onions
and what looked like small bits of cut-up ham. "We haven't spoken about it
extensively," he said, and Anna got the sense he was being very careful, "But I
don't think that Foggy wants to become a lawyer for a corporation."
"You don't?"
"I believe he would rather use his law degree to perhaps free more slaves,"
Matt murmured. "Or work in criminal law. Perhaps for a place such as the ACLU.
But if you're worried about him becoming driven by greed, you don't need to."
Anna stared at him, and swallowed more of her water. "I don't want him to have
to go through my life," she said. "Spending your whole life working off debt
for a career that you didn't like until ten years in isn't something I want him
to know anything about."
"He has a great deal of money already, Anna," Matt said quietly, turning over
the mixture. "And his tuition was taken care of by Rosalind, as I understand
it."
"Yeah. In exchange for her being in his life even longer," she muttered. "Do
you know how bad that woman is for him?"
"I have an idea, Anna," Matt said. 
She paused and drank more, and didn't tell him about Foggy coming home crying
and red-faced, or quitting clubs because Rosalind said they were stupid. About
finding out that he'd been in an empty apartment all weekend, or hadn't had
time to do his homework, or hadn't been allowed to play. About his crazy diets
and the way he pushed himself too hard. 
She'd worried about him all through college.
"Good. Well, try to...keep that in mind," she said, just as Foggy came into the
kitchen.
===============================================================================
 
Matt was angry the next day.
He'd gotten his owner calmed down and not making rash decisions, and gotten him
fed and showered and asleep relatively quickly, but Matt had stewed all through
the night and into the day. 
He was furious at Summer.
He was angry at himself, too, and he had vowed that tonight after classes he
was going to apologize to Foggy and be punished like he deserved, but he felt
hot all over with anger at Summer. She had threatened his owner, peripherally
threatened Bee, threatened Claire and the entire building, and all so Matt
wouldn't tell anyone about her doing things that she wasn't supposed to be
doing in the first place. He had told her he wasn't allowed to talk to her,
she knew his owner wouldn't want that, and it was completely inappropriate
besides.
So when she came through to the bathroom he was using as Bee waited outside
between classes, Matt didn't hesitate to move quickly, shoving her against the
wall in a tight hold.
She made an amused noise in her throat, and said, "Matthew, how provocative."
He took a breath. He knew that Summer could get out of the hold anytime she
chose, but he kept her in it as tightly as he could. It would buy him a second,
if necessary.
"Really, this is something new," she said. "An overreaction."
Matt forced himself to take a breath. "We're not going to be talking anymore."
She ignored him, and kept going. "I mean really--police presence? How
ridiculous."
"I remember everything that you taught me about bodyguarding," he said. 
She went still. "Matthew, seriously. Are you trying to play me?" And then she
broke the hold in a second, moving to face him. He swallowed down a mouthful of
air scented with her shampoo and conditioner, her lotions and her favorite
brand of lipstick.
"Don't ever threaten my owner again," he said, ice creeping into his voice.
There was a tense moment, and she straightened up. "You don't."
"I don't what?"
"You don't remember everything about bodyguarding. You're not with him," she
whispered, leaning back in, and Matt reacted almost without thinking, shoving
past her and sprinting out, running to find Foggy.
===============================================================================
 
Foggy was, unsurprisingly, fine. It had just been a cheap shot at Matt, and
nothing more.
He himself was furious when Matt told him what had happened, and Bee was too,
but there wasn't exactly a great deal that anyone could do about it. Summer had
vanished, and the campus security had said they hadn't seen her.
"This is fucking insane," he muttered. "I'm getting a restraining order."
They were at Foggy's home now, with Matt quickly whipping together dinner--just
chicken and rice tonight, with a few vegetables in a salad--and Foggy pacing
the kitchen, and Matt tensed up. They'd set up the cuff on Foggy's bed
upstairs, and Foggy had gotten angrier as he'd done it, not calming down at
all.
"I'm not sure that would be wise, Foggy," he murmured. 
"What?"
Matt cringed a little, and then stood up more. "I don't know if he would obey a
restraining order, and having one placed on an owner because of his slave would
lead to her being investigated by the Bureau."
There was a moment, and then Foggy said, "Well, shit."
"And of course, he would want to retaliate for that," Matt said quietly,
stirring the rice. It was nearly done. "As you wanted to, after my evaluation."
"Don't compare you two," Foggy snapped. "Sorry, I just--that's like comparing
the Wicked Witch of the West and, like, Princess Leia. That makes no sense."
Matt bit his lip to keep quiet, and then paused, turning over the chicken. "I
also wanted to ask," he said softly, "If you would prefer to punish me after
dinner, or tomorrow."
There was a second of silence, and then Foggy said, "What?"
"For not telling you before," Matt said. "For putting you and our entire
apartment building in danger, and for talking to her at all. That was
unspeakably wrong, and I'm sorry, and it caused us both harm. I should be
punished for it."
Foggy said, "Matt, I don't--I'm never going to punish you."
Matt blinked. "The rules say that you can punish me by slapping me in the face,
after I've asked for it."
"Yeah, but--I made that rule, but I wasn't ever going to actually punish you,"
Foggy says. "That was just for you."
Matt tried to keep the flicker of anger off his face, tried to suppress it, but
could tell he hadn't managed it at all.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title is a quote by Nikos Kazantzakis.
***** the way to have power is to take it *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Foggy stared at Matt's face.
It had twisted into genuine anger there, and as much as he knew it was fucked-
up that Matt was mad at him for not hitting him, he felt relieved that Matt
could still be angry with him. Then he shook himself a little and refocused.
"Matt, I made that rule up for you. I didn't--the whole clause about me
deciding it was so that I wouldn't have to--so I wouldn't hurt you," he tried
to explain. "I wanted the rules to be good for both of us, and you said it
would have felt wrong otherwise."
Matt said nothing for a moment, and then emotionlessly, "Yes, Foggy."
"Okay, no," Foggy said, turning. "No, don't just--say what you mean."
Matt took a deep breath, and then said carefully, "I disobeyed an order of
yours, several times, and I spoke to someone you not only despise, but consider
actively dangerous to me. I failed to take a threat seriously enough to handle
it correctly, and put you and many other free people in danger. And I didn't
tell you as soon as I could have, because I was afraid of being punished and I
wanted to keep disobeying you. All of these things deserve a punishment on
their own; together, they warrant...they warrant being whipped. But of course I
shouldn't ask you to do anything you don't wish to, Foggy."
Foggy looked at him, and made himself think back to what Matt had said about
punishment being cleansing, and what he was saying now, and about not wanting
to be ruined.
And then he realized something.
"Matt...what do you mean by you 'wanted to keep disobeying' me?"
Matt breathed in and out, closing his eyes, and his face twitched before he
answered. "I wanted to--to keep talking to Summer. To be able to ask her
advice, to, to discuss things with her. To even be allowed to hear her voice."
His voice cracked just the tiniest bit, a hairline fracture, and Foggy
swallowed. Shit. 
"Okay, then let's...deal with that first. I don't think that talking to her is
a good idea, but I don't--I don't want to hurt you, or make you stop talking to
someone you want to keep talking to," Foggy said, trying to figure it out.
Conversations with Matt were a lot like navigating with MapQuest. He knew he
was going in the wrong direction sometimes, but didn't know how to fix it. "So,
uh, you can. Anytime you want, except if it's going to make her come after us
or hurt you."
Matt's face twitched again, but he nodded. "Thank you, Foggy," he said softly.
But Foggy knew that he was still thinking about being punished, and he'd still
want to, even if Matt never said anything about it ever again. And he didn't
want the cloud hanging over them.
"I think...look, let's go over the agreement tonight, after dinner. We can
alter it and come to a better compromise. That sound good?"
"Yes, Foggy," Matt murmured, and Foggy stepped back and let him keep cooking in
piece. He picked up his bag and decided to knock out some readings before
dinner.
===============================================================================
 
Matt felt himself get tenser and tenser throughout dinner, despite everything.
Candace was still staying at a friend's house, but would be back tomorrow, Anna
had an evening crisis with a patient, and so it was only Foggy, Matt, Edward,
and Caligula eating the dinner. (Caligula, of course, was stealing bites of
Matt's food. He had tried to steal a little of Foggy's, but Foggy was good at
fending him off and this way, Matt figured, his owner wouldn't be bothered.)
"The rice is good," Edward said after a minute. "Do you use butter or olive
oil?"
Matt blinked. "Neither, Edward," he said politely. "Only water."
"Who taught you how to make rice?" he joked.
Matt paused. "My trainer."
"Who was she?"
"She was, ah, Summer," Matt said. 
Edward put down his fork. "Summer? The same woman who threatened to burn down
your apartment building, Foggy?" he said suddenly, turning to him. "That's the
woman who trained your--Matt?"
"Yeah," Foggy said. "And?"
Edward sighed and leaned back. "Son, it really seems like every single problem
you've had leads back to one place and one person, and maybe you should..cut
ties."
"Dad, what the fuck?" Foggy asked. "What are you--are you really saying what I
think you're saying?"
"Maybe it's a good idea to get someone who's so much trouble out of your life,"
Edward said. "Look, Foggy, it's just an idea--"
"And here's my idea," Foggy said. "We go and get a hotel and come back in the
morning before this ends up in yet another fight, because I have no fucking
energy to deal with this. Okay, Dad? I have none. I'm not going to explain to
you why I'm not selling my best friend. This is not an argument I am having
with you."
He stood up, and Matt went with him. Before he left, Foggy said, "And also? A
lot of crazy bad things have happened before Matt got here. Just because this
one is happening right now doesn't mean it's the only one."
===============================================================================
 
"Maybe you should..consider selling me," Matt said.
Foggy stared at him. They were lying on the hotel bed together, facing each
other, and freshly showered. The lights were dimmed.
"Matt, did I ever tell you about, um, college?"
Matt shakes his head. "You've mentioned briefly," he murmured.
"Well, it was...okay, well, I applied to a lot of places, but I wanted as
little debt as possible to Rosalind," Foggy began. "And she had her own ideas
about what colleges were 'suitable material' and which ones were, I guess,
irredeemable trash. And it was hard, having to schedule and figure out trips
and visits and which ones were good and did the statistics mean anything, and,
and all of this. But I chose mine, and I had thought that--well, okay, you know
the idea that going to college means you're going to make the friends you're
friends with forever?"
"I am familiar," Matt said softly. 
"Yeah, well, that was bullshit. I mean, I'm still Facebook friends with most of
them, and if they're in town we can visit or if they wanted me to come out to
their weddings or something, but...it wasn't...I can make friends," Foggy tried
to put it into words. "I can, but...I never seem to get into all the shitty
parts of life with them. We can have fun and hang out and then they can tell me
about their mom killing herself or their parents kicking them out or the time
they got cancer when they were a kid and almost died, but they don't know all
the ways that I'm not a really nice guy. Not that I'm not a nice person! But
they don't know me, and with most of them I don't really want them to. Not all
of me."
Matt looked serious, concentrating on what he was saying. 
"And then I met you, and I was a total jackass, and then things started
getting...close. And yeah, sometimes people are fucking evil to you and that
makes me hurt, and sometimes we have stupid fights, but Matt, you...you know
all the bad things I've done. You know things about Rosalind and Anna and, and,
and what I did to you, and about me when I'm angry or stressed, and you're
still my friend. I don't have to be happy or smart or always help you with your
homework or always agree with your opinions."
But--shit--did he? Or could he just not leave--?
"I would want to be your friend, even if we met under any other circumstances,"
Matt whispered, cutting him off. "I think."
Foggy's heart felt like it had swelled inside his chest, three sizes bigger,
and his eyes were wet. Matt sounded like it hurt to say that, but also like it
was true.
"I love you, buddy," Foggy said, making sure it wasn't too--too romance-y, too
close, and Matt smiled. 
"If slaves could love, I think I would love you too," Matt whispered back,
trembling, looking terrified and utterly, utterly serious, and Foggy felt
overcome with emotion. He reached out and tugged Matt close, holding him tight
and safe and stroking his hair, telling him without words that he was good. It
didn't matter that Matt thought he couldn't love. It didn't matter, Foggy
realized, because that was the words, that was the dance, the performance. That
was the fucked-up-ness, the crazy, and Matt didn't even believe all of it.
But Matt's hands tucked between them, reaching out to hug back, and Matt's
breath in his ear, and Matt's hair under his nose, soft and smelling of
coconut--those were all real. And Foggy wouldn't give that up just because of
some woman's insane vendetta or his dad being an ass.
"You cannot let someone else run your life," Matt murmured to him. "Not by fear
or pleasure or shame, not through advice or threats or temptations. You must be
the person to decide what to do, no matter what anyone says."
He sounded like he was repeating something he'd overheard said to someone else,
but Foggy breathed out and nodded sharply. Yes. 
"You also don't tell me what to do," Foggy added, smiling. Matt laughed softly
against him.
"It would be wrong," he said. "And you tend to make the good decisions for the
long term, in any case."
Foggy grinned, stupidly wide and floating, and impulsively kissed Matt, who
went still and then kissed back, right on the nose.
"Did I ever tell you, Anna wanted me to be a butcher?"
Matt's forehead wrinkled. "Why, of all the things--?"
"I had a job there through high school," Foggy said. "And all the summers,
through college too. An apprenticeship, basically. The guy was really nice, and
working there was okay, but...it's not what I wanted to do for the rest of my
life. And Anna thought that, I don't know, that it would be a good job. I mean,
it is a union job, and it's got decent benefits and livable wages, and it
wasn't bad, and I'm not saying being a butcher is a bad thing, just."
"It wasn't what you wanted to do," Matt finished.
"No. I wanted to do something that would, I dunno, be exciting. And make me
rich," Foggy added. "Guess that's not that much of a concern anymore."
"Well, the settlement money will take a while to go through entirely," Matt
said, "But it wasn't paid in a lump sum, I imagine."
"No, right now it's some amount every month," Foggy explained. "But you're
right, we shouldn't live just off of that."
There was peaceful silence for a little while.
"I can't imagine you as a butcher," Matt said quietly. "Not at all."
"Guess I sound like a lawyer," Foggy joked.
"You'll be a great one," Matt said, with a kind of matter-of-fact confidence.
"You will too, Matt," Foggy said. "What kind are you thinking of for yourself?"
"Criminal," Matt said. "Defense's side, of course."
"Yeah, fuck working for the state," Foggy said, "But not corporate? A lot of
money there."
Matt was silent. And then he said, "I think criminal law is more adversarial."
"And you want to fight everyone? Meet them in the pit?"
"I think winning is more fun when your opponent isn't a company," Matt
murmured, and Foggy looked at him and sat up.
"You really want that."
"I...do, Foggy," Matt said.
"Then let's do it," Foggy said, nodding. "Marci wants to make a firm together,
her and me and you and Bee. Let's talk to them, let's see if they also want to
be defense attorneys, and let's fucking do it. Let's fight the police," he
said, getting excited, "And let's do it and get rich."
Matt smiled, darkly, and Foggy wanted so badly to kiss him that it took his
breath away. God, he loved it when he got the littlest glimpse of Matt's teeth.
An image popped into his mind, from when he'd gone to the gym with Matt, seen
him boxing for a second, and then when he'd destroyed the home invaders, and
Foggy felt out of breath with want.
He took another lungful of cool air, and calmed down. He would do this right.
"Let's do it, Matt, shake on it," he said, and as Matt tilted his head and
quirked his mouth and shook, Foggy got the distinct impression he wasn't used
to doing it at all.
===============================================================================
 
Matt took a long time to get to sleep that night.
It was already late, and a part of him was still terrified and breathing hard
like he was expecting to wake up by being whipped. 
He couldn't believe himself, saying that he would have loved Foggy, talking
like that, saying he was Foggy's friend, it was improper, it was inappropriate,
it was unacceptable, it was disgusting and unworthy and incorrect and pathetic-
-
And it was true. It was entirely true. And Matt felt overwhelmingly sad for
Foggy, that the Matt he wanted to exist, the one who was a person that could
love him, didn't. 
But he had this Matt, this slave, and he was going to be the very best for
Foggy Nelson, who was so, so good. Who so clearly trusted him, who let Matt
know things about him that no-one else knew--and not just his imperfections.
Really, Foggy put himself down. Matt knew that precisely how kind and merciful
he was, how funny he could be, how he sang in the shower and complained about
homework even as he cheerfully did it. 
Who else knew about Foggy letting Matt rub his feet, or sleep in his bed?
About Dad's robe?
Matt realized, lying there in the hotel bed, Foggy snoring next to him, that
this must be why Summer adored Winter, why she respected him beyond even how a
slave should always respect their betters. He'd wondered at the very beginning
how she could stand him, when he wasn't delicate and brilliant and perfectly
poised like her.
(When he shaved half her hair off.)
But now Matt understood entirely. Foggy was someone he and only he could help,
uniquely. No-one else meant to him what Matt did; no-one else had helped fight
Rosalind, or supported him making the decisions his parents disagreed with. No-
one else was allowed inside Foggy's life in the way that Matt was.
He would never betray that trust ever again, Matt decided fiercely. He would
be better than Summer at being what he was supposed to be, and he would conquer
whatever obstacles were placed in his and Foggy's way. He would bleed for him
and work for him and keep himself perfectly in whatever shape Foggy liked the
best, and he would remember all his bodyguard training and keep him safe.
Nobody would hurt Foggy Nelson ever again.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title is a quote from William M. Tweed.
***** so this is the world. i’m not in it. it is beautiful. *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
"So, let's write the new contract," Foggy said, settling back down on the bed.
"House rules."
They'd gone to classes and come back to the hotel again, but they would
probably only stay another night or two before Foggy figured out what to do
next. Tonight was the dinner with Rosalind that she'd demanded as payment for
her suing the NYPD for Foggy, and he dreaded it in his gut. 
He shoved that aside in his head. Contract time.
"I'd like to clean the kitchen and the bedroom, Foggy," Matt said quietly. "And
the bathrooms."
Foggy looked at him. "I want to do some cleaning too. I'll do the living room
and the hallways, and--" and it was weird that Matt did his laundry, but Foggy
paused to rephrase that. "And I'll do my laundry if you really, really want to
do the bathroom on alternating weekends."
"You mean you'll do it on half the weekends?" Matt asked, looking a little
confused.
"Yeah. And then you'll do it on the other half. And I help clean, like, the
table off," Foggy added quickly. "You do basically all the cooking, it's only
fair that I do at least some of the cleaning."
"I suppose so, Foggy," Matt murmured, and that was real agreement, not a yes,
Foggy. Foggy decided that was a victory.
"And then should we keep the usual stuff about your bed is your bed and I don't
touch it?"
Matt looked pleased, and a little startled, like he always did when Foggy
treated him like an actual human being with boundaries. 
"And I was thinking--we should put in clauses if you get headaches again, or I
have a super shitty insomnia night--I haven't for a while, not since.." Not
since I got you, Foggy realized, and decided to ask Miriam about that tomorrow
during their therapy session. "But if I have them and the most I can do that
day is go to class and then lie down and, like, do nothing, or we get sick,
then we should have a clause to deal with that."
"I will do anything you need if you are sick," Matt said confidently.
"Okay. And when you're sick, you let me get you, like, advil and soup, okay?
Don't worry." Matt looked faintly put out, and Foggy teased him, "I did live by
myself for four years. I can make basic chicken noodle soup. I was not one of
those people who never learned anything above ordering pizza."
Matt smiled at him, and Foggy's whole body tingled just a tiny bit with
pleasure. God, he loved him, he loved being around him. So what if he couldn't
be normal with him? He could have this.
"I promise to be gentle in my criticisms," Matt teased back, and Foggy laughed.
"Okay, so. We take care of each other when we're sick. And if you can't do
something for whatever reason--like if you can't tell if the cheerios are
honey-nut or chocolate by the box, or something--you tell me and I'll help you
out. Or if my shaved-off beard hairs gross you out too much," Foggy joked, and
Matt laughed a little.
"They're not that bad," he said. "I once lived with another slave--an overseer,
of course, they're the only ones who could get away with it--who shaved once
every two months and never washed his beard out, so the pieces of food would
end up in the sink."
Foggy made exaggerated gagging noises, and Matt grinned at him. 
"And definitely still the stuff about you having the right to privacy and being
a human, but please, Matt, tell me if something's wrong again," Foggy said. "I
don't want to end up crashing at my parent's place. Despite Caligula."
"Despite Caligula," Matt agreed.
Foggy looked closely at him. "And this time...no punishment clause. Okay? I
can't...I don't...I asked Miriam about it yesterday, I called her when you were
in the shower, and she said that I shouldn't lie to you. And she was right,
saying that I would when I meant I wouldn't was lying, and I did say I wouldn't
do that. So I'm sorry I lied to you, and I, I know you said why you liked that,
but Matt, I can't--I can't hit you. I can't do that to you. I just, I haven't
hit someone because they pissed me off since I was like six, and I cried when I
calmed down."
Matt looked thoughtful. "It's not always about anger," he said softly. "When
she--sometimes it's about...disappointment. About how you can do better, but
you did not. And that is the cause for punishment, not the emotions involved."
"Okay, but I can't do that. I won't. I'm, I'm sorry."
"You don't need to apologize to me," Matt said, and was there a little bit of
anger there too? "Not for being...you, Foggy. Never."
And that was, that was like a normal person. Foggy immediately felt like an
asshole for thinking it, but there it was.
"And of course never at all," Matt said, suddenly desperate, and Foggy knew
they had to move on.
"No, I lied to you, and I am sorry about that. Anyway. But, you...since I said
I would..punish you, but I don't think I can hit you, I think maybe--Matt," he
said, and took a second. "Matt, would you do me the tedious and annoying honor
of teaching me self-defense?"
Matt looked taken aback; his lips mouthed huh? soundlessly.
"Seriously," Foggy said. "Because frankly she and the Russian guy are fucking
scary, but also I've never learned it, and I'm sure this can count as the
punishment I promised you. Because I am squishy and deeply out of shape and
honestly, I am probably going to be really, really annoying to teach. I know
how to punch a couple of people and sort of how to use a baseball bat and
pepper spray, but that's not hard, and not whatever ninja thing you did last
year with the burglars and not like, how to tell if someone's following me."
Matt blinked. "Yes, Foggy, I will teach you," he said, still surprised. "I
can't make any promises as to teaching, but I will do my best."
"Awesome. Then, uh, sex stuff. I'm not allowed to have sex with you, you're
allowed to have sex with whoever you wa--"
"No," Matt whispered, and Foggy sat back.
"What?"
"I--Foggy, have I displeased you in any way?" Matt asked, and his face had gone
abruptly horrified. Foggy struggled to think of what he'd done wrong, and Matt
slipped off the bed where he was sitting onto his knees.
Fuck.
"Matt, what, what are you thinking? What does that mean to you?"
"I--" Matt looked confused, and then aware again, awake and lucid. "Slaves that
are allowed to be used by anyone are--are only a hair away from zombies, Foggy.
They are--"
"That's not what I meant," Foggy said, and felt sick at the idea. At what he'd
inadvertently threatened Matt with. "No, I meant sex, not, not that. You
choosing. If you wanted to have sex with, I don't know, Bee, or--"
"I would never have sex with Bee," Matt said, looking--was that offended?
"Never, Foggy, I promise."
"Okay. Yeah, you too don't...seem..like that," Foggy said. They were, well,
okay, they mostly reminded him of identical twins he'd seen climbing all over
each other and casually smacking and touching each other's hands, but not a
couple. "Sorry. But I don't mean that anyone is allowed to use you. Nobody is
allowed to use you."
Matt still looked freaked out, so Foggy decided that fuck it, this could be a
later amendment. "Do you want me to delete that clause?"
Matt nodded frantically, and begged, "Please, Foggy, I'm so sorry for what I
did to offend you, I promise to behave better, I will be better--"
"No, this was just me being an idiot," Foggy said, and deleted it. "Nothing to
be sorry about. Let's, let's move on. Uh. Food."
Matt blinked. "What restrictions would you like me to work within, Foggy?"
"Um, I was thinking actually, once a month, how does 'we order pizza or takeout
and you get a break' sound? You deserve to not have to worry about this every
night," Foggy said. "Midterms are week after next, you know."
Matt grimaced, and Foggy had to take a second right then and there to panic and
then calm down again. He'd get the housing problem fixed this week and cram all
next week. He could do it.
"That sounds good, Foggy," Matt said.
"Great. And then, about alcohol," Foggy said slowly. "Uh, I remember the night
that me and Marci got trashed at our place, and it was fun, but..."
But he'd woken up and remembered the panic, and Bee's stare, and how Marci
bragged about tricking Matt into doing more work for her. And Foggy had tried
to tell her to not do that again, but she hadn't gotten it, and so he had
decided to bring it up when it happened again. If it did.
"But let's just say, no me having parties at our apartment that are loud and
drunk and obnoxious. Because I know I'm a little...let's say 'enthusiastic'
about that, right?" he asked, teasing.
Matt smiled weakly and said nothing. And was still on his knees on the carpet.
Foggy had the computer read out the entire agreement, and Matt nodded. He saved
the copy and decided to print it out when they got the place back, or. Or got a
new one.
And then he ended up deciding to just...ask Matt to come lie against him, and
spent the next few hours fucking around on reddit, reading cute stories about
kids being kids, and gently stroking Matt's hair to calm him back down, and
cursing himself for yet again being an idiot and hurting him.
===============================================================================
 
Matt could tell Foggy was nervous about the dinner with Rosalind.
It was evident in how he was moving, how he'd asked Matt to come with him,
please, and how he was now fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt, trying to get
them perfect. Matt was also wearing formal clothes, but less than a suit--suit-
pants and a crisp shirt, yes, but no suit jacket or waistcoat. It wouldn't be
proper to dress up more than his owner.
"Matt, can you fix the fucking cuffs? They're not buttoning right," Foggy said,
finally.
"Of course," Matt murmured, and buttoned them neatly, smoothing out the fold
and ensuring they were properly positioned. "May I fix the collar as well?"
"Yeah, go on," Foggy said, and Matt felt it carefully and fixed it too. "Thank
you. I'm just--this is going to be terrible, isn't it?"
Matt paused. "Probably," he said, finally, and he and Foggy both laughed and
headed out to the waiting car.
"Into the lion's den we go," Foggy muttered, and Matt smiled warm and wide in
the cool night air.
===============================================================================
 
The restaurant was one Matt had been to before.
He recognized it instantly; the maitre'd was the same one who'd seated them
before. It had been years, but the layout hadn't changed: Matt counted
precisely thirteen tables on the bottom floor, and twelve on the top floor
where they were headed, climbing the iron spiral staircase with--yes, the same
lace pattern on the banister. There was a chair pulled out for Foggy and one
for Rosalind, and a cushion placed next to Foggy's chair.
Matt sat. He had spent the car ride remembering protocols for high-class
places, and make sure to sit sideways, with his legs elegantly placed on the
other side from Foggy and his chin tilted slightly up to show off the collar.
This was a very precise dance.
He said nothing at all as Rosalind smiled and asked Foggy what he thought of
the place. 
"It's...fancy," Foggy said. "Uh, Matt, what do you think?"
"It's the same as before," Matt murmured, and leaned his head against Foggy's
thigh. "I remember that my owner at the time had the mussels cooked in seawater
with the flowered rice and exotic fruit salad. He quite enjoyed it."
"That does sound pretty good," Foggy said. "I'll ask for a Braille menu."
"There's no need, Foggy," Matt said softly, carefully demure. He could feel
Rosalind's attention on him sharply, and dismissed it. "I memorized it on the
previous visit."
"Seriously? You're awesome," Foggy said. 
Matt smiled up at him and placed his head sideways on his thigh, and the peace
was interrupted.
"So I see you're happy with my present," Rosalind said.
Foggy sighed. "Yes, I am. What do you--what's the point of all of this? This
whole dinner. This fancy place."
Rosalind went silent, and then the waiter came before she could reply. 
"I'll have a bottle of the wine special, and a double margarita with extra
salt," she told the waiter. "And then for food, the winter melon soup and
lobster roll with caviar and truffle oil."
"Yes, ma'am," he said. "And you will--?"
"Um, I," Foggy said, and Rosalind irritably cut him off. "It's on my dime,
Franklin."
"Fine," he snapped back. "Mussels and rice and, uh, exotic fruit salad, please.
And a Coke, if you have one. Matt?"
"The sirloin, medium rare, with cold octopus and noodle salad and a blood
orange lemonade, please," he murmured. "If my owner wishes."
"I, uh, do," Foggy said. "Totally. Yes to that."
"Thank you, sir," the waiter said. "It'll be up shortly, the soup and salads
first."
Then there was silence again for a minute, and Rosalind sighed deep from her
chest, the faint smell of alcohol making its way across the table, tinted with
her Sephora lipstick and the vague scent of what she'd had for lunch. Matt was
startled to note that she'd been drinking before the dinner itself.
"Do you know why I bought Matt for you, Franklin? When I had planned to either
buy you a good loft or else a few more cars?"
"My name is Foggy," he said, "And I don't know. Why don't you tell me?"
She made an annoyed noise at the name, but went on. "When I was in law school,"
she said, "I learned a few things very early on that were very important. And
the first one was that you can't trust anyone in this world unless you have
something over them. Some way of making them want to listen to you. And then
there's times when you and someone else have something over each other that
makes you equals. Makes you partners. Most people find it when they get
married, or when they have children, and I thought that would happen for me
too. And then later on, when I had my own firm and I had had you and was
married to Edward, I discovered something else."
Matt frowned, and braced himself. This wasn't going to be good for Foggy to
hear.
"I found out that not everyone is cut out for even being around this kind of
life," she said. "People like you and me--lawyers, and not the kind who do
payroll investigations of companies or get people out of parking tickets--not
everyone will stick around for us."
"Are you blaming Dad for you leaving him?" Foggy asked, incredulous.
Rosalind sighed again, more forcefully. The drinks came; Foggy passed Matt's
down to him, and he sipped at it through the straw.
"I left your father because he had unreasonable expectations of me," she said.
"He had this idea in his head that I could do things like work part-time for a
year, or take you to court with me, or other such nonsense. Like I would come
home after a ten-hour day and do more work. What nonsense." Rosalind shook her
head and started in on her margarita.
"So you did choose your career over me," Foggy said. He sounded angry, but
also--relieved? Resigned? Like a part of him was happy that he'd finally
confirmed his suspicions?
"Do you really think your life would have been better if you had ended up being
raised by a series of nannies?" She asked. "Would you have been happier? Would
you have been better? I could have gotten you into more private schools, of
course, but I would resent you a great deal if I had to deal with you all the
time as a child, Franklin."
Foggy's fists clenched. Matt turned his head and gently kissed the suit pants,
and Foggy relaxed.
"My name is Foggy," he repeated. "And no, I think you would have been a fucking
shitty mother. And you kind of are right now."
Rosalind didn't seem offended. "Precisely. And I knew that unlike me, you
haven't had the right kind of upbringing. That Anna, Edward--they wanted to
raise you up to be a butcher. To work with people that you can 'trust', to
'stay close to the community'. You're too trusting, and you need someone who's
more experienced in the kind of circles you'll be traveling in. And Matthew is
quite easy on the eyes."
Foggy recoiled. Rosalind laughed, and Matt realized her margarita was almost
gone as she twirled the glass in her hand.
"Don't be shy. I can see you've got him how you like him. I made sure he would
be perfect for you."
"Because you can't be bothered to, I don't know, mentor me or something,
you bought a person to do it for you?" Foggy asked.
"You make it sound like a bad thing. And goodness, no, he's not mentoring you.
He has no power over you," Rosalind said, leaning forward. "Except for how much
you like fucking him. But this way, none of that power is going to cops or
other lawyers or ADAs or politicians or prostitutes. He has no leverage over
you, and yet he can give you what you need. Franklin, this was the best gift I
have given anyone since I was nineteen years old."
"What'd you give someone then?"
"I gave my ex-husband a Christmas card," she said. "After he'd moved across the
country to a small town. He took the hint and moved again, this time to Canada.
And he's never once contacted me again for alimony payments."
Matt thought that over. It was important. She was giving Foggy deeply personal
information about her, and that was power over her in her world.
She was telling Foggy I won't hurt you.
Well, she intended not to hurt him now, in any case. That meant nothing about
the consequences of her actions, and particularly given how she'd already
damaged Foggy Matt wasn't inclined to soften against her.
The table was silent again until the food came. Foggy passed down the salad for
Matt, and the chopsticks, and he began feeding himself carefully, but made sure
to slurp when Foggy looked down. It made him laugh and hopefully served its
purpose of reminding him about exactly what he was and was not.
(Not like Rosalind.)
"Have you considered what type of law you intend to go into?" Rosalind asked
him. "I'm aware it's your first year, but it's not too early to decide."
"I think," Foggy began, but she kept going after she chewed and swallowed her
bite.
"Because I have to warn you, if you want to become a tax lawyer, it's deeply
boring and frankly a waste of your time," she said. "Personal injury and
malpractice tend to be tedious and repetitive, insurance is just unethical in
all senses--"
"I think I want to go into--"
She swallowed again. "Bankruptcy is a waste of time, divorce can be lucrative
but also fairly dangerous with angry male clients, and really, most types of
corporate law tend to be so boring and petty and stupid that people put a gun
in their mouth before their thirty-fifth birthday when they go into it--"
"I think I--"
And she swallowed again. "What's really interesting, however, is criminal
defense, because it's simply the greatest intellectual and social challenge
you'll ever face, and I won't have you waste the education that I am paying
for--"
"I want to go into criminal defense!" Foggy blurted out. "Already. I decided.
Yesterday."
There was a terrible second where Matt struggled not to laugh.
"Well, good. I knew there was some of me in you," Rosalind said, leaning back
and satisfied.
Matt turned his head into Foggy's leg and muffled his mirth before he could
ruin his image entirely. Then he took a few deep breaths and sat back up,
eating more of his salad. It was precisely as delicious as before, the
vermicelli noodles taking away from the flush of heat in the octopus's spice
coating. It had been fried in peanut oil, after being coated in rice flour, and
the dressing was a mixture of mirin and sesame oil, cooked down with bok choy,
scallions, and ginger.
He finished eating and placed his bowl near his feet, resting against Foggy.
"So how are your classes going?" She asked. 
"They're fine. Uh, I need to figure out living situations, though, so we can
spend next week studying for midterms," Foggy said. 
"Oh, that's resolved," Rosalind dismissed.
"I--how?"
"Well, I spoke to the landlord. He's a client of my firm. He agreed with my
assessment that they needed to install an improved security system, and it was
finished today around noon. It's got both fingerprint scanners and body-
recognition detectors, and alerts several agencies to any break-ins or
unauthorized visitors. Authorization is easy, of course, but has to be done
inside. Someone with a gun can't force their way in. He'll also be improving
heat and air circulation throughout the building and the laundry machines in
the lowest level are free for the next sixth months, for the inconvenience of
the police presence."
Foggy put down his fork, startled. "You what?"
"And the rent is controlled for all tenants for the future," she added. "I
dislike the idea of anyone else moving in and that becoming a new way for the
situation to worsen."
"...I don't even know what to say," Foggy said, stunned. "Thank you."
"It was nothing, two or three conversations," Rosalind dismissed. Then the rest
of their food came.
===============================================================================
 
"What do you think she was up to?" Foggy asked. 
They were back at the hotel, lying on the bed again. Matt had just showered. 
Foggy hadn't been able to think once Rosalind dropped the bomb about fixing the
apartment building up. The rest of the dinner had been eating delicious food
and asking the waiter for a steak knife--they hadn't given Matt one, weirdly
enough--and then giving out distracted answers to Rosalind's questions. He
didn't even remember what most of her casual bragging about how good she'd done
when she'd taken the class was about. He was just too confused by her
behaviour.
"I think that she sees you as a reflection of herself," Matt said after a
pause. "She wants you to be the precise lawyer she is, and eat the food she
eats, and think the thoughts she has. And she wouldn't stand for living in a
place where she could be threatened like us."
Foggy sighed. "You're right," he said, and Matt was, anyone could see that. "I
guess I just wish that she, I don't know. Cared about me."
"She might, in her own way," Matt murmured. "She wasn't deliberately,
maliciously lying. But it's clear that she didn't understand why you would be
upset at her abandoning you, and she deflected when you asked her if she chose
her career over her family."
Foggy nodded. "Yeah. And I guess..I've always kind of known that, you know?
When I was really little, I didn't question it. Rosalind didn't live with us
but I saw her sometimes. I knew a lot of people in my neighborhood who had dads
like that, and there wasn't more to it. It wasn't until she started in on her,
you know, dieting and studying regimes that I realized something was weird. And
her showing up to holidays drunk."
"New Year's wasn't special?" Matt asked.
"No, she does that once a year," Foggy said. "Shows up hammered. One time Mom
actually called the cops about it--Anna, I mean--but she doesn't drive and she
doesn't drink at work, so nobody can do anything."
Matt hummed. "She was wrong about you needing me," he said after a second.
"No, I think--I think she was right. I mean, I would have gotten along, but
having you around, it's better," Foggy said. "A lot better. We're a team."
"We're a team," Matt murmured. "Are we moving back in tomorrow?"
"I was thinking Saturday, actually," Foggy said. "Tomorrow after classes I have
a rescheduled therapy appointment. Did you want to hang out with Bee then and
walk back after then?"
"That sounds good, Foggy," Matt said.
"Good. Awesome. So day after tomorrow, we get to put all our things back in,"
Foggy said cheerfully. "Tonight we sleep again. In a bed you don't have to
make."
"But the maids make it wrong," Matt said, a tiny smile on his mouth. 
"Seriously? Go to bed, Murdock," Foggy teased, and Matt froze for a second and
then relaxed, grinning back.
He decided that that was a good sign. Sometimes Matt just went blank while he
processed stuff. That was okay.
Things were going to be okay.
===============================================================================
 
"What a good, good girl," Summer murmured.
Bee moaned silently, and moved their hips up, but Summer laughed and pushed
them down again. "Be good," she said. "Be a good girl and stay."
Bee stayed, and Summer kissed her again. "Good girl," she purred, and sat up,
unbuttoning her shirt. Her bra was bright blue lace, and Bee couldn't stop
staring at it. "Now let's get to the next part of the activity," she laughed,
and leaned down to feel up under Bee's shirt, one hand squeezing--
The alarm went off.
Bee sat up, grabbed for their phone, and switched it off. Then they lay in bed,
silently horrified. What was wrong with them?
It wasn't just this dream. It had been a lot of them, all one right after the
other, cascading down like a high-pressured shower. And all of them were
Summer, her blonde hair brushing up against Bee, her lips kissing down every
part of her, her fingers rubbing under the underwear, and her bra was always,
inexplicably, bright blue. It disturbed Bee, and they grabbed for Anthea,
squeezing her against their chest and trying to calm down.
They couldn't figure out what was wrong with them. Sex dreams were--well,
according to the mind-numbing TV shows they watched to go to sleep, they were
mostly things teenagers had, but weren't wrong by themselves. But dreaming
about Summer calling them a good girl and breaking them out of cages only to
push them down and, and fuck them with her mouth, it--
It made them feel sick and hot all over. This wasn't what they wanted. It
wasn't who they were. It was sick and it didn't make sense how much they wanted
to be called a good girl and petted and dressed up in lace and silk and
scrubbed by Summer in a bathtub while she made them gasp--
Fuck, fuck, fuck, they were thinking about it again, and they got up and took
an ice-cold shower.
They couldn't tell Emilia, not yet. They didn't want her to think badly of
them, not now. Emilia was apparently going to explain to the group something
about sex ed and not getting diseases that made you a zombie next week, and
that was bad enough. No need to get her thinking that Bee was like Matt.
Matt.
They could ask Matt about it. He knew Summer, and he'd say something that would
make it all make sense, and Bee could relax and stop having those dreams and go
back to the ones where they slowly skinned the cunt twins' faces off, stitched
them onto soccer balls, and played soccer with the slaves from the training
institute.
===============================================================================
Classes were fine that day, and Matt felt calmer than he had in a while.
Tomorrow they would move back in, which would require a great deal of work, and
that would calm his mind down. 
Lately, ever since he had told Foggy that he would have loved him if he were a
person, Matt's mind raced. It constantly went over things that he'd said,
everything that Foggy had ever done, the smell of Foggy's arousal, the first
night when he'd been Foggy's and Foggy had rejected him, put him to sleep on
the floor in a sleeping bag and just left him there, alone and untouched and
cold. 
He couldn't stop panicking over and over, trying to bury the words, trying to
take them back, hoping Foggy would forget about them. He couldn't stop
imagining the punishment Summer would have in store for him if he had said such
a thing where she could hear
(Worse than being whipped, worse than the time she'd put him in a little box in
the closet with gel rubbed under his nose and earplugs under the headphones and
an order to not make noise or move, worse than being ignored for days. Maybe
she'd even kill him for that, sigh and declare him another worthless
experiment.)
And it made it hard to concentrate. So he grabbed onto anything that made his
mind shut up, and planning the unpacking in excruciating detail in order to
figure out the very best order and placement of their things made it easier. He
was walking back to Bee's dorm with them, debating whether or not to pack the
fridge or unpack the toiletries for the bathrooms first, when Bee tugged
sharply on his arm and led him into the room and locked the door behind them.
[I need to talk to you about something.]
Matt sat down on their bed with them as they first pulled out their bear from
their backpack and put it on their lap. He put his backpack on the floor.
[What's wrong?]
[What is Summer like when she's happy with you?]
Matt blinked. That was an odd question. [She's nice,] he tapped back. [She is
very indulgent. She feeds you slowly, and lets you eat all of it, and sometimes
she cooks things particularly for you if you've been especially good, or she
massages your muscles, or she tells you a story from when she was younger, or
curls up with you on a lounge under soft blankets and reads you a book.] He
stopped there.
[Does she fuck people?]
[Nobody right now], Matt replied, puzzled. [Winter doesn't like sex.]
[But if you wanted it, would she?]
Matt had never considered the question. The idea made him nauseous. [I don't
know.]
There was more silence. [What's wrong?] Matt asked again. Bee's heartbeat was
fast, and he didn't like the way it sounded; it was weak and thready, too
unstable.
[Is it weird to dream about having sex with Summer? Like her, as a reward?] 
Matt stopped. He couldn't--his first instinct was to say don't be disgusting,
and he could hear her exact tone the way Summer had said it the two times she'd
needed to. He stopped himself from pulling away with an effort, and took a
breath. 
He knew that Bee would be hurt if he said what he was thinking immediately, and
he couldn't bear that. Besides, hadn't he been shown evidence multiple times
that Summer had been wrong about sex being filthy and disgusting? He couldn't
keep saying things that weren't true. Especially not right now.
He fished for words, and tapped back, carefully, [A lot of people want to have
sex with Summer. She's very beautiful and very intelligent and skilled.]
[But it wasn't just that, it was, it was like it is in those movies about happy
slaves.] Bee's body was tight with tension, a thrumming, ticking bomb.
Matt didn't set it off. [You were a bad slave. It's normal to want other slaves
to think you're good,] he managed, careful. [And if she decided it was best,
she would have sex with a slave to show them that they were very good and
deserved good things.]
[I never wanted to be good,] and with good Bee's fingers slammed down,
emphatic.
[All slaves secretly want to be good, even if they also hate that desire,] Matt
quoted without thinking. [It is the fundamental desire--]
They shoved him in the shoulder away from them, and used their tablet this
time. "Don't quote propaganda at me."
Matt tried to figure out what they wanted him to say, and hit upon it. "Dreams
are very strange," he said, calm and confident. "They don't mean much of
anything. Jungian theory has long since been disproven."
"What's 'Youngian' theory?"
Matt blinked. Right. Even very well-educated study aids generally weren't
allowed background in psychology. "He was an early psychologist, and believed
in interpreting dreams fairly heavily. But his theories are wrong."
Bee relaxed a fraction, and slumped down totally, leaning on Matt for a moment
before moving to lie down on their bed without touching him. "We should talk
about something else."
"Foggy mentioned that when he and I become defense attorneys, he'd like to work
with you and Marci," Matt said after a second, taking a breath. "Would you like
to?"
Bee's body went tense again and then relaxed all the way. "I want to free other
slaves. I don't know what kind of lawyer does that, but I want to be that
lawyer."
Matt breathed in and then out. "Being a defense attorney can also mean saving
people from slavery," he said. "A lot of them."
Bee tilted their head, and patted the bed. Matt lay down beside them, and they
were quiet for a long time, before finally saying, "Marci isn't bad for a
stupid rich girl."
Matt didn't think she was stupid. It was unfortunate; it made her only more
annoying. If she was an idiot, Foggy wouldn't spend so much time around her,
and Matt could feel free to dislike her even more.
A faint smell hung in the air of cheap shampoo, and the bed was soft under
under them. Matt lay on the bed, and they lapsed into comfortable silence
===============================================================================
 Agent Calixto Navarrez took a deep breath.
She wasn't exactly nervous, no--she was terrified. Making these kinds of huge
decisions, both for the movement as a whole and herself personally, was
probably always going to be terrifying, but she could live with that. She could
pierce through the fear and do what she chose to do anyway, and she'd be
stronger for it in the end.
That didn't stop her from shaking a little in the driver's seat.
But then the Captain was ushered in to the car, looking blonde and blue-eyed
and like a propaganda movie director's wet dream, and Agent Navarrez snapped
into gear.
"Star is secure," the agent outside said. "Navarrez, he's due to the Hotel in
one hour. Be careful to immediately report any tails."
"There won't be the standard one?" she asked, surprised. Usually SHIELD sent at
least one with important assets being sent to the Hotel.
"We can't risk it," the agent said, and to her surprise he wasn't lying. "So
far there's been three incidents."
Three? The parts of SHIELD that leaned towards HYDRA must have freaked out
worse than she had anticipated. Probably running around like chickens with
their heads cut off. "Three?"
"Two were the known KGB moles, one was just overenthusiastic," the agent said.
Agent Navarrez couldn't remember his name. "Trying to get at the serum," he
explained, and she nodded thoughtfully.
"Understood. He'll be there on time," she said, and the agent tapped the car
and shut the door.
Agent Navarrez locked the doors, said, "Put on your seatbelt, Captain," and
started driving. It only took her ten minutes to get out of the city and into
the thinner highway that led to the Hotel.
And then, just as planned, the engine spluttered out as she pulled onto the
side of the road, and her cell phone and communicators both abruptly died. She
removed the batteries and undid her seatbelt, and then Calixto turned to look
at Steve Rogers.
Captain America. A part of her felt strangely giddy just looking at him; she'd
been allowed to read his comics when she was small and still wore a little
plastic collar instead of the silk one she'd been given on her fifteenth
birthday, right after she'd killed the first person her mother had ordered her
to. His stories had been the ones she'd learned how to read on, and she could
still recite most of them from memory.
"Let's step out of the car," she said, taking off her jacket and taking out her
earbud. "In case the engine overheats or something else goes wrong, it's safer
beyond the bushes here."
He eyed her but got out as she did, climbing through the bushes to the other
side.
"If you're trying to kill me, you're not going to get very far," Rogers said,
and Calixto smiled warmly at him. "The other fellas didn't."
"I'm not," she said, "I'd like to ask for your help."
He didn't look less suspicious. She cleared her throat.
"Captain, I'm aware of what SHIELD thinks you ought to know and what you
shouldn't," she said. "They plan to keep you focused on periods of modern
history so they can insulate you from certain...current events. But let me
start at the beginning. My name is Calixto Navarrez, and I am a former slave."
His eyes sharpened on her, a little pity in them. Calixto noted it and went on.
"I was enslaved at the age of five by my mother, who used me in her organized
crime as an assassin and enforcer. When she was taken in by SHIELD, I was
nineteen; they offered me a job and mandatory rehabilitation in exchange for
immunity from prosecution. I learned some things about them that you should
know," and she had to take another steadying breath.
"There is a faction within SHIELD that was created by Arnim Zola and Nazi
scientists after the war, during the formation of the organization," she
explained. "They also believe I am considering becoming a member, but I'm not
loyal to any version of HYDRA. This faction is almost indistinguishable in
ideology from the rest of SHIELD, but have slightly different goals. They also
believe in using...undesirables like me and Agent Jasper Sitwell, just as an
example, as patsies for some of their dirty work."
Roger's eyes were furious. Calixto shoved aside her usual cold fear.
"Not only should you not trust SHIELD or any member, but you should also know
that I'm not loyal to SHIELD in any way," she said. "I joined to give
information and power to the movement I belong to."
"The movement of what?" Rogers asked, staring at her with a little less raw
hate. The sight of the superhuman man so angry sent chills up her spine, urged
her to grab her gun. She controlled it.
"The movement to free all slaves," she said. 
He looked at her, and she felt tight with tension. Fuck, if she had to
kill Captain America because she gambled wrong--
But then she didn't. He breathed out. "What kind of help do you want from me
then?"
"Right now we don't have many allies," Calixto said, sagging with relief. She
knew Nobody was working on that one prince, and Ivan was seducing the Hammer
Industries CEO, and a few other people were helping. But very, very few, and
that was fine, but they couldn't afford to have supersoldier celebrities swing
around and go straight to fighting them. "And I don't have many plans for what
you can do right now. But when the time comes, we might need you to work with
us, use political influence, your popularity, things like that."
Rogers looked at her, and said, "You were enslaved when you were five?"
Calixto smiled on reflex, her lips curling. "Things have changed since you went
in the ice, Captain. Laws regulating slavery were almost completely destroyed
during Nixon's years, and then Reagan smashed the remains of protections.
Nowadays any parent or guardian can enslave their charges at any age before the
age of twenty-one, and the ones with legal guardianship over their children
with disabilities can enslave them at any time for the rest of their
life.  There's no recourse and no checks or balances."
His face was a mask of wrath. He looked Biblical, iconic, and Calixto
understood immediately why he was chosen for the supersoldier program. She'd go
for anyone with a face like that, no matter how sick they were.
"Here, let me catch you up on history while we wait for them to send another
car," Calixto said. "But first--you can't let on that you know about either
HYDRA or the movement."
He nodded seriously. "I know how to keep secrets from an enemy, ma'am."
A warm glow filled her at the title. It wasn't like the refugees who were
desperately trying to not make her angry, or the people conditioned to be
subservient to everyone free. He knew what she was and he respected her
nonetheless.
"You'll help, then," she said.
"Of course," he said.
"It won't be easy," Calixto warned him. "A lot of people will be angry at you
for interfering in what they think is their own business."
"It doesn't matter what they think," Rogers replied, and she liked him even
more. "It doesn't matter how many people feel that way. Doesn't make it any
less wrong. I wasn't for slavery before I joined the Army, and I'm not now."
She smiled at him, a true, deep smile, and felt her fears ebbing away. The
movement would understand that she had to take a risk; all of their agents who
had recovered enough of themselves to make independent large decisions made
them without constantly checking in and being obedient to the bosses. They
would be pleased she'd succeeded.
And she had.
"Good. Well, let's start at what you may have missed about the war, what was
discovered afterwards. Some of the rumors about concentration camps were
completely true..."
===============================================================================
 The next day, Trish paused between classes to ask Bee if they'd mind coming to
a coffee shop in the large gap between their afternoon and evening class.
<<I'm meeting my sister there, and I'd like it if you two could meet,>> she
signed, and Bee was instantly suspicious.
They nodded and walked with her, but found the knife they'd bought for
themselves and surreptitiously transferred it to their jeans pocket, one hand
gripping it as they walked with Trish.
The coffee shop was small and smelled stronger than most places; Trish
interpreted for Bee when they ordered a large vanilla latte and a cup of tomato
soup. In their experience it was usually smooth enough to require no chewing,
and the more food the better. Bee was starting to stop being quite so skinny;
they were looking forward to being more like they were before, and not feeling
small and fading whenever they realized how much less of them there was than
other people.
They sat down at the table with Trish, and waited. And waited. And then finally
a woman walked in with long black hair, wearing a hoodie and looking furtive.
Bee felt an immediate sense of overwhelming sameness that made them sit up
straight and stare intently.
Trish got the woman a coffee, plain, and a--a thing with chocolate that was
flaky and not hard to chew. Bee frowned. Matt knew the name, and had told them
once that they were hard to bake but very delicious, and they couldn't remember
the name at all.
The woman was watching Bee, and they turned and stared hard at her. She stared
hard back, and they sat in a stalemate until Trish came over with her own
coffee and the woman's. She broke the eye contact to glance up at Trish, and
Bee relaxed a fraction.
<<Bee, this is my sister Jessica,>> And her sister didn't, apparently, have a
namesign, which made Bee quirk an eyebrow. They waved at Jessica as Trish
explained that this was the person she interpreted for at Columbia.
"Why is she here?" Jessica asked bluntly.
Trish sighed. "Because I thought you two should meet," she said.
"Trish, if this is another intervention--"
"It's not," she interrupted her sister, and Bee frowned and looked closer.
Jessica's hood was up, and her breath smelled unidentifiably bad, sharp and
chemical, like--
Like alcohol. And her fingers were purpling and thin, Bee saw, like someone who
didn't eat enough. Her clothes had little stains on them, and her jeans were
graying and dark. The boots were scuffed and dirty and her hair was messy, like
it hadn't been brushed in a while. And it wasn't just her breath that smelled
bad, it was all of her.
Bee looked and thought.
Was Jessica also an ex-slave? She didn't...seem that way, not quite, she stared
Trish right in the eyes and glanced over at Bee without hesitating, she rolled
her eyes as Trish said something else and she slumped back in her chair instead
of sitting rigidly up like Bee and Matt and everyone else who'd been tied to
hardback chairs had, she grabbed the coffee with only a muttered thank-you...
But she watched the other people in the cafe, and glared at Bee when she caught
them looking. She also kept looking over her shoulder into the street, and
there was a tight, tense sense of alertness about her that read to Bee like she
was watching for threats, like Matt did when he and Foggy were in public.
They felt sick. Trish couldn't be--she couldn't--she was nice, even to Bee, who
she knew had been a slave, everybody knew that, there was no hiding that. 
Bee swallowed more of the coffee and stared hard at them. They didn't interact
like master and slave, or, interestingly enough, like sisters. Bee's owners had
been siblings and Trish and Jessica didn't look like them.
<<Are you two really sisters?>> they signed, confused.
As Trish automatically voiced, Jessica answered. "Her mom adopted me as a
publicity stunt," she said. "Part of the whole image of perfect Patsy."
<<P-A-T-S-Y?>> Bee fingerspelled, confused.
Jessica started singing some jingle, and Bee blinked again and tilted their
head. No, they had heard it, they had--
Oh. Maybe it was when they were very young? Before--before the training,
because it wasn't at the Institute, there was no television or radio there,
never, unless it was the programs about happy slaves rebuilding the countryside
or contributing to medical advances.
<<I don't know that,>> they signed eventually, and Jessica smirked at Trish as
she eventually sighed and put her head in her hands.
"Jessica, please--"
"Paaaatsy," Jessica sang softly under her breath, and then when she realized
people were staring at them, and went abruptly silent and wary, eyes wide and
her hand clamping down on the little plate with the chocolate thing, and the
plate broke.
Bee stared, jumping a little in their seat, and them leaned forward with
intense interest.
What would it be like to be that strong?
===============================================================================
 
They carried the boxes back in one by one as Foggy thought hard.
He'd talked to Miriam, and she'd been happy hearing the latest news, he
thought. Or maybe the closest thing to happy she got, in a weird, professional
way. It wasn't happy like Anna was happy with him, or like a friend, but she'd
actually smiled when he told her how he'd ended up telling Rosalind no to
drinks all three times she offered. 
"It sounds like you were successful at maintaining boundaries," she said.
"Yeah, I guess I was," he said, and smiled too. "I didn't think--Matt helped.
He was just, like there, and he helped remind me that she's not the lady who
could get me taken away from my parents anymore."
"She's not," Miriam said. "In fact, she has next to no power over you, except
in terms of something like a parental relationship."
Foggy sighed. "It's weird. She's finally decided to do some motherly things,
right as I'm an actual adult who is dealing with shit," he said, leaning back.
"Some people find that they are unable to relate to their children until
they're adults," Miriam observed. "It's unfortunate."
"She's not unable, she doesn't want to," Foggy said. "She didn't actually try
to connect to me."
"That's also something that some parents do," Miriam said. "They don't want to
remember their own childhood, or concede their own misunderstandings, or relate
to a child's vulnerability."
"Seriously? I was a kid, how could I make her feel vulnerable?"
"It could remind her of ways she also was when she was a child," Miriam said.
"Many parents tend to treat children like irrational adults until they are
forced to confront the fact that children are fundamentally different from
adults and cannot be fairly treated the same. They don't want to deal with ways
they have been mistreated as children."
"I don't think she was abused," Foggy said, and then was instantly unsure why.
Rosalind was an asshole, yes, but so was Matt on occasion, and Bee too, and
anyone who looked at them and didn't think they'd been hurt was willfully
stupid.
(The cigarette burn scars on Bee's thin, thin arms. The collar on Matt's neck,
the little polite smile.)
"It doesn't have to rise to the level of abuse," Miriam said mildly. "Small
slights, a sense of powerlessness, adults improperly parenting them, unfair
events."
Foggy nodded, and thought about it slowly. "Matt and me are a team, you know,"
he said. "We're a team now. That's what's different. We're going to get through
whatever else."
Miriam glanced up, a slight upturn to her lips. "That sounds like a good
dynamic to have."
"It is," Foggy said. "I trust him with everything, and I think he's starting to
trust me too."
===============================================================================
 
Matt could never, ever tell Foggy about what he was thinking.
As he moved everything back, piece by piece, a part of him was ecstatic and
terrified all at once, chanting over and over again: I love Foggy. Not--not I
would love Foggy if I were a person or If I could love Foggy, I would, but only
that he loved him, he loved him, he loved him. It felt like simple truth, like
sunlight on his face as he closed his eyes to sleep posed and beautiful.
(On Summer's couch, one day, she stroked his hair and told him, nobody will
ever love you again, and you will never love anyone again. This is a gift.
Nobody you love will ever die, because the only person you loved is dead, and
the only person who loved you is dead. You are invulnerable to heartbreak.)
He was being as good as he could--he tried to correct the thoughts. Over and
over again, he used the techniques from the websites about irrational thoughts
to try to drive them away, straighten them out carefully and hammer them into
shape.
But they wouldn't go. They refused to budge, and when he tried to wrap them up
in the rest of the truth they resisted. Matt loved Foggy, would happily die for
him, would gladly slit throats and fuck strangers and pour Scotch while curling
the bottle so it fell in spirals for him, would be his footstool and his study
aide and his lawyer and his cocksleeve and, after his death, his skin-lampshade
for him. He wanted Foggy to take everything of him, and he wanted to be kissed
afterwards, gently and sweetly, on his collar and his neck and aching fingers.
He wanted Foggy to always call him a good boy and call him mine afterwards.
And then he opened up the box to finish putting away the things of his that
went in the bedroom, and felt the bag containing Dad's silk robe and caught the
faint little whiff of the smell. 
The spell shattered, and then he struggled not to cry. It occurred to Matt that
it was no longer snowed in outside, that he might be able to. To be at Dad's
grave, but for longer this time.
He grabbed control of himself, and focused hard, and managed to finish putting
everything back into place. Once the last bottle went in the kitchen cabinet--
the new pink Himalayan salt that Foggy had gotten him--he took a breath and
turned to Foggy.
"May I go take a walk, Foggy?"
It wasn't a lie that way. He was taking a walk.
Matt swallowed when Foggy nodded, and put on his shoes, and went out. Each step
cleared his mind a little more until it felt empty of everything entirely, the
city itself disappearing, buildings melting into mist.
He came to standing over the grave, and sat down. He did not kneel. Not here,
not ever.
He read the inscription again, and swallowed. A building was burnign somewhere
in the city--no, multiple buildings. A lot of buildings, smoke filthily
streaming up, and his mind went cold with terror. He called Foggy without
thinking.
"Foggy?"
"Matt?"
"There's--buildings are burning--are you safe? Is the building okay?"
"Yeah, yeah. It's fine. Uh, everything is normal."
"Can you--Foggy, please, hit the lockdown button on the building security, the
one that lets no-one in."
"Okay. Matt, are you--it's fine. Nobody is here."
Matt swallowed. "It doesn't--you're right, I don't think it smells close."
"Okay. I'm gonna turn on the news, okay? It's going to be fine."
Matt nodded.
And then he heard a heartbeat, not the fast one in his ears, and turned around.
Fuck, fuck. It was a--someone wearing a collar? Not a slave, a--
"Hello. I'm Father Lantom."
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from "October" by Mary Oliver, here: http://
     fypoetry.tumblr.com/post/151185777012/october-by-mary-oliver
***** it is not poised on the tip of your tongue, or even lurking in some
obscure corner of your spleen. *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
     Thank you all so much for still reading and commenting! I have been
     having a deluge of computer troubles, that is why this chapter is so
     very late. Don't worry, I'm still writing, planning, and
     brainstorming, and want to write a few short prequel fics as well.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Matt stuttered, thoughts coming to a halt.
The man--the priest--he wasn't angry. It meant Matt had a chance. He backed
away a few steps. "I--I'm sorry, I should, I'll just go," he babbled, losing
his composure entirely. No, no, no, he couldn't be caught in a graveyard, he
wasn't--this was consecrated ground, a holy place, a place slaves were not
allowed to be, and Matt wasn't--Summer was going to break all his fingers for
this, worse, she was going to make him eat them, or something--
He snapped back into himself. No. He refused to panic that severely. "I will
just go," he said. "I'm so sorry, Father."
"Lantom," the man said.
Matt blinked, struggling to place it in context.
"I'm Father Lantom," the man said--old, but not weary or worn down. "And what's
your name, child?"
Matt swallowed. "I'm Matt, Father, sir," he said. The appropriate title for a
priest--if any bothered to address a slave--was Father, Pastor or else
simply sir or madam.
"Oh, no need for that," Father Lantom said, gentle and yet still drawing
attention to him like eyes to a light. Matt remembered, suddenly, a vague
picture of candles in the church, for midnight mass. "Can I ask why you are
here?"
"I was--" but Matt couldn't lie. Not to a priest. Reflexive honesty that he'd
thought he'd shed took over. "I was visiting my father's grave."
The Father moved closer, and Matt was frozen. If he were to be punished for
this-- Foggy wouldn't want--
"Oh, Battlin' Jack," Father Lantom said. It sounded like he had a small, sad
smile on his face. "You must be Matthew, then."
Matt--nodded. He could not, would not deny his father.
"Well, you're welcome to come back whenever you'd like. Though it might be best
to avoid more...busy times. I'm afraid that some people are misguided about
some issues of fundamental humanity," Father Lantom said.
Matt did not respond.
"Well, I'm sure you'd like to grieve in peace," the priest continued. "But
perhaps--you look like someone you needs someone to talk to. If you'd like, you
may come back another time, whenever you wish."
Matt nodded in slow acknowledgement. Maybe--no, he wouldn't. But it wouldn't be
polite to turn him down.
The smell of smoke went sharply stronger, and Matt turned his head. He needed
to get back to Foggy now.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I have to go back to my owner."
Father Lantom nodded. He was...quieter than most people. Not making un-
purposeful movements. "Of course, child."
Matt turned and left, trying to avoid thinking about what had just happened.
===============================================================================
 
Chastity came to consciousness slowly and with great regret.
She was severely hung over. Hung over like a dead fish hung from a hook, dried
out and aching. Her head felt like it was being punched, repeatedly, in perfect
time with her heartbeat, and her throat hurt as she breathed.
She groaned and rolled over in bed as the television played some news channel.
"Over fifty auctionhouses have been burned to the ground in New York City,
after being evacuated by staff and possible terrorists posing as police
officers. During the chaos, some eighteen hundred slaves escaped."
Chastity sighed. "Sister, turn the news off, my head hurts," she whined,
pulling a pillow over her head.
Nobody glanced over at her and sighed, switching it to mute.
"I can still see the light," Chastity pointed out--and she could, the room she
was sleeping in wasn't very large at all-- and then Nobody turned it off all
the way.

"Thanks," she mumbled, and rolled over. She hurt in strange places--the Dora
Milaje had been giving her a few sparring matches, and they didn't pull any
punches. She'd gone out drinking with them last night as a celebration of how
she'd improved since they first arrived in Wakanda, and they hadn't pulled any
punches there either.
A thought drifted slowly into her head--the money for her and her sister. Had
she depleted it? "Where are we with money?"
"The monthly amount in some accounts was increased. In a few it was decreased
due to reports of the account owners thinking it was slaves stealing it from
them."
Chastity snorted. "Well, they're not wrong," she said.
Slaves absolutely were stealing from their owners--most had done it at least a
little. A missed apple here, a chocolate bar there. Tampons, quarters,
hairties. All sorts of little things tended to go unnoticed if you picked the
right moment and hid the evidence.
But that wasn't quite what was going on here. See, the thing about funding a
slave revolution was that you needed money that wasn't hard to move and wasn't
difficult to renew constantly. Too much cash in one place and it'd be
discovered, immovable money meant you couldn't use it efficiently.
And the thing about having people around all the time who knew things like your
credit card numbers and banking information, because you were too trusting to
change it, even after you abused and sold them, was that when they joined the
revolution they tended to share it.
And the thing about being rich enough to own slaves was that you tended not to
notice if ten or so dollars was withdrawn from your accounts every month. Many
rich owners never even managed their own accounts; plenty of expensive
accountant-slaves existed.
And the thing about the movement was that they had more than enough bank
accounts to draw from to make the monthly revenues in the eight-figure range,
all without alerting anyone was to where they were getting it from.
And the thing about Swiss banks was that they were happy to just keep your
money safe.
"But otherwise it's good?"
"It is," Nobody said. "It's just--some of the ones we rescued, they're having a
worse time of it integrating. I want to help."
Chastity rolled her eyes a little. Her sister was sweet, really, but this was a
natural problem. High-class slaves who had trained themselves to not even think
bad thoughts about their owners had problems when they were suddenly surrounded
by filthy-mouthed, rowdy, furious people who routinely ranted about their
former owners and compared them all in a race to find who had the worst owner
of all. Conflict and problems getting along with people who had opposite
philosophies were completely natural.
"You had a hard time of it when you were in at first," Chastity said, muffled
by the pillow and hoarse from her dry mouth. "I remember. You almost got
clocked every day for a while." And that was with a sharp citrus note of
nostalgia.
It was a weird thing to say, but sometimes Chastity missed those days. They
were the happiest part of her childhood, because everyone in the movement cooed
over her or else ignored her, and everyone wanted to spoil her rotten. Instead
of having weird stupid lists of fun things she was never, ever allowed to do
and hours of numb boredom, she had suddenly had mountains of dolls and teddy
bears and candy and ice cream and pillows and playmates and Happy Meals, so
many, more than any free child she'd ever heard of, and nobody raised their
voices at her unless they were having a crazy moment, and nobody let anyone
else hit her or lock her in a closet. All she ever had to do to get out of
trouble was cry a little, and rarely did anyone make her behave. It was a dirty
word. She was always allowed to do things, and the outside world seemed like a
place full of endless things to do.
The whole thing had felt exciting, not worrying. Running from motel to motel,
hiding out in plain sight, getting to dye her hair all kinds of fun colors and
constantly get new clothes--how could any girl not love that? She'd felt like
James Bond, a master spy, like she could outsmart the whole world. She knew all
sorts of things that nobody, not the middle school teachers or traffic cops or
smug-faced politicians, knew. She still giggled sometimes at the secrets she'd
been keeping since she was eight. Chastity had loved her childhood whole-
heartedly.
But Nobody, on the other hand, hadn't exactly gotten along well with people. It
had taken her years of being politely shunned by all but the most tolerant ex-
slaves for her to change effectively and stop being so prissy with everyone
else, but she'd eventually managed to channel her high-strung and hyper-
organized personality into successful diplomacy, and Chastity had channeled her
ability to smile sweetly and get what she wanted into helping her sister.
"I did," she said quietly. "Maybe I should write them a guide."
Chastity hummed. Her sister wasn't the best at writing for a wide audience;
maybe she'd end up editing it. Not a bad project.
"But some of them--they want to go back."
Chastity winced at her sister's tone. Those ones were, well, the real problem.
They presented a fairly serious dilemma: did you let people run straight back
into hell, into certain torture and probable death, into the place you were
fighting to eradicate, or did you kidnap and imprison people for trying to
exercise the free will you were fighting and dying to give them?
The answer ended up being to quarantine rescues from sensitive information and
stall them, give them enough time and rest and resources to think straight and
make their own decisions with their own minds, not their masters'.
(Chastity barely remembered Master. She remembered a warm, dark figure coming
into the little room she lived; she remembered him telling her she'd be a
beautiful little girl. She remembered a kiss on her forehead, and him giving
her shots. She remembered him starting to measure her hips every day, and him
taking the clothes out of her dresser in the room.
But she did not try to remember any more. She didn't want nor need to; her
sister knew the specifics, and all Chastity knew was a hunger snuffed out, a
desire she'd strangled to death.)
"I should--do you think I should, I could talk to them?" Her sister asked,
agonized.
"Maybe," Chastity said, uncomfortable with the question, and rolled back over
to fall asleep again. "It's like nine in the morning, sis, let me sleep," she
complained, and Nobody pecked her forehead and sat there silently tapping at
her phone, a comforting weight next to Chastity's exhausted body.
===============================================================================
 
"What do you mean by 'issues of fundamental humanity'?" Matt asked.
He'd come back the next day, and sat down at Dad's grave and waited. The priest
had come over almost immediately and sat down on a nearby bench.
Matt kept a distance. He hated it, but he had to.
"Some people are severely misguided," Father Lantom said. "They believe that
legal statuses can change whether or not a person is in fact a person."
"You think that I'm a person?" 
"I believe that you have a soul, and are human," Father Lantom said. "And that
anything else is an earthly matter, which cannot change what God made you."
Matt was silent. He couldn't disagree; that instinct to trust a priest went
deeper than almost anything else. But how could that be right?
"I'm a slave," Matt said instead.
"That means you are being persecuted," Father Lantom told him gently. "Not that
you deserve it."
Matt's eyes prickled, and he took a breath and turned back to Dad's grave. He
was carefully cleaning it. It seemed hideous that it should ever be dirty in
any way.
"The church does not allow slaves to be members," Matt said quietly. "Not to
receive communion, or in any way partake of the church."
"The church once did not believe Galileo," Father Lantom rebutted him, firmly
and kindly. "It is an unfortunate truth that sometimes even holy authorities
are wrong."
Matt was silent. You didn't--he couldn't argue with a priest.
The words rang in his head like bells, like bells in the middle of the night.
Loud and alarming.
===============================================================================
 
Sometimes Foggy was overcome by guilt.
He would look at Matt, or hear his voice, or read a text from him, and he would
remember what he'd done, and he would have to think about the birthdays of
everyone in his family to not get up and jump off the nearest bridge.
It was harder than anything he'd ever done before in his life. Applying to law
school, busting his ass to qualify for scholarships, swallowing his pride and
asking Rosalind for money, turning down millions of dollars--it was all nothing
compared to not doing what felt like like the only sane thing to do in those
moments. If you asked him whether he'd rather have to skin his own legs and go
skinny-dipping or feel the guilt, Foggy would choose the former every time.
But he endured it. He remembered that him dying wouldn't help Matt. He loved
his mom, he really did, but she didn't know Matt, not like he did. She didn't
know about the occasional silent nightmare, or about Matt loving babies, or
about how he wanted to be a criminal defense attorney, or how to let him wash
your feet so he could feel safer, or how desperately Matt would try to maneuver
you into raping him. She was a psychiatrist, and maybe she would be qualified
to treat Matt as a patient, but Foggy didn't know if anyone in the world--
including him--was truly qualified to live with Matt and take care of him at
all.
(And his dad might manage to persuade Anna to sell him, and that made Foggy
terrified and furious to imagine. He wanted to scream at his dad, shake him
and make him understand that Matt wasn't like a cute puppy who barked too much
and would be adopted back from the shelter if you returned him, he was a person
and nobody else would remember that if they owned him. 
Matt could--he had--he did fend for himself. He survived things so awful Foggy
couldn't quite believe they weren't an exaggeration, like the thing with the
old man and the slave Jo. But he would smile and graciously thank you for
treating him like a brilliant and expensive coffeemaker that you could stick
your dick in with minimal injury, and he would think that was fine. He was not
someone who would protect his freedom. Foggy had to do that for him.)
Miriam, when Foggy had first brought it up, had said gently that while it was
perhaps much too intense guilt if it was causing such thoughts, it did not make
him a bad person in and of itself. "The ability to consistently feel guilt for
ways you've harmed people is a sign of someone who can and does want to do
good," Miriam said. "We all have hurt people, and many people have done so in
serious ways like you. I have hurt people, and I feel guilt when I remember it.
You don't need to get rid of the emotion entirely, and it's not a sign that you
can't learn from your mistakes. It's not an emotion that often acts in
proportion."
Somehow Foggy knew that she didn't see the irony.
 
===============================================================================
 
Midterms were hell. Absolute bloody hell.
Cramming for them was terrible in and of itself--Foggy and Matt barely spoke
the first week, heads buried in books. Foggy would wake up to unlock Matt and
see him on his laptop, already having to rest his fingertips in a bowl of ice.
Matt would put out two plates of food on the table for dinner, and Foggy would
forget his until it was cold, consistently. Both of them seemed to have
accidentally timed their breaks exactly wrong--they never had fifteen minutes
where they were both not-studying and could chat and smile at each other. Foggy
would reach over and lock Matt's ankle shackle at night, but neither of them
would fall asleep for hours. The air itself seemed desperately focused.
Both of them were too deep into trying to not fail to even remember their usual
Sunday evening routine of a movie, and the closest they got to any kind of
relief was the morning before their first midterm when they stopped at a little
coffee shop and ate croissants and coffee in a quiet, pleasant silence.
"Good luck," Foggy told Matt as they headed to their first test. Matt had to
take his with someone dictating the test and writing down his answers for him
in the Disability Services office, so they were stopping there first.
"We'll do fine," Matt said with a reassuring smile and went into the testing
room.
===============================================================================
 
The night after their last midterm, Bee headed out to Emilia's.
She'd sent out an email--this time in the form of an ad for Teddy Bear Appendix
Removal Hottubs, only $16.99.5 for the set--encoding that this meeting might be
'emotionally difficult' for certain members, and to bring something warm. Bee
was confused; most of the meetings were emotionally difficult anyway, with some
of the ex-slaves crying, shouting, or cringing back when things got heavy. 
Granted, plenty of meetings were gentle, just Emilia giving them food and them
all playing that card game where Owner cards were bad and made you lose until
you could get rid of them, and some types of Slave cards were good and helped
you win, and the rules and goal changed a lot. But gentleness still made a lot
of them cry, especially the newest member, Liona, who'd been a C-class when her
conviction had been overturned. 
Bee made sure to have Anthea warm and bundled up in a hoodie in their backpack
when they headed out.
The second they opened the door, a rich, warm smell filled the air--a smell
that made Bee's mouth water. Salty and filling up every breath of air, pushing
deep into the walls, utterly and completely good, and Bee suddenly, viscerally
missed their tongue. They missed being able to taste things, even though most
of the things they had tasted had been not very good.
(Come, sweat, burnt eggs, plain defrosted waffles. Skim milk, lukewarm water,
the occasional, jealously guarded yellow apple.)
But they pushed it away and walked into the living room, settling down next to
Carlisle. Before they could ask what the smell was, Emilia came in and waved
her hands in Bee's face.
<Come get some stew and cider! It's warm, but I made both.>
<Cider?>
<Hot cider, made from apples and spices and things,> Emilia explained, and Bee
stood up with their backpack still on. <Come, there's a bowl for everyone.>
Bee followed Emilia into the kitchen, which was boiling hot. Ex-slaves were
milling in and out, grabbing spoons from a big pile and putting big spoonfuls
from four giant pots into bowls and mugs. Emilia filled up a dark blue bowl
with the stew and put a spoon in it, and then paused, leaving it on the counter
to ask Bee, <You don't like bread, right?>
<The crusts are hard to chew.>
Emilia nodded. <But the spongy parts are good?>
<Yes.>
Emilia tore off a chunk of sponge from a big loaf of bread and handed it to
Bee. <Here, and here's your cider. I'll carry it for you,> she signed one-
handed and poured out a big, misshapen mug full of the cider for Bee. The smell
wafted into their nose as they walked, rich and spicy and sweet, so strong it
made their eyes water.
After they were situated, bowl in their lap and mug on a little end table to
their right, Anthea propped up under the table and safely out of the way of
spills, Emilia started to talk and sign simultaneously. It always made Bee feel
impressed when they saw it; unlike most people who signed and spoke at the same
time, Emilia kept the grammar of both languages separate and never slipped into
bastardized SEE. 
Bee listened as she said, "Hello everyone! First of all, there's still plenty
of stew and cider on the stove, simmering, so please get more whenever you
want. Second, tonight may be very upsetting or triggering for everyone, so if
you feel like you need to, please just slip out to 'use the bathroom' or 'get
more stew' or anything else. I won't be offended."
Their eyes narrowed. What, exactly, was so upsetting it warranted an explicit
reminder of the rules? Everyone there knew that they could make an excuse or
not and walk out if they wanted to. They almost always talked out things that
made someone feel like shit anyway. 
Bee tuned out the little apprehensive whispers.
"Tonight I feel like it's time to give all of us a small hour or two of sex
education," Emilia continued, and Bee felt the blood drain out of their face.
===============================================================================
 
As it turned out, it was mostly interesting, but just factual stuff at first--
all the usual things about how to try to not get pregnant (squatting and
scooping, condoms, all types of pills, going and getting the shot in your back)
or diseases (condoms, scrubbing, taking certain pills that you could beg or
bargain for), though at least Emilia phrased it to show that she knew that most
of them had really, really never had a choice about any of that and could at
most beg. Everyone paid close attention--any STD meant you'd be a zombie the
second you were re-enslaved, unless you were class-L, and even then you would
likely be punished for it.
Then she talked about when to call her or ask the doctors for help if you
thought you were sick, how much lube you needed to use (a lot, and apparently
it was a good idea to have some even when something was going into a pussy,
which Bee wasn't surprised by--theirs wasn't wet pretty much ever), which
clinics would give you the back shot or the pills or condoms or get rid of a
baby for you or help you have it safely, and then about which types of things
were safe to be inside you (not glass unless it was a glass dildo designed to
be inside humans and solid and made of a type of glass that apparently didn't
break most of the time at all, and not any type of food and not things made out
of 'jelly' materials that didn't have  a condom on them).
Then she moved on to the hard stuff, and Bee's stomach clenched. 
"The next thing is the kind of sex you want to have," Emilia said. "First of
all, if you're having strange or upsetting or disturbing or very weird thoughts
when you masturbate--if you do, which most people do but you don't have to--"
Bee felt very cold, and put aside the stew bowl (now full of liquid) next to
the spongy bread and grabbed Anthea, squeezing her tight to their chest.
"--then you're completely normal and you don't have to be scared or ashamed,"
Emilia said, calm and firm.
The entire room looked nervous and confused. Everyone glanced around at each
other or gaped at her in shock.
"Listen! Have any of us here not been used?"
Everyone shook their heads in unison.
"Well," she said, sitting on the floor and moving her legs around. "Being used
isn't good for us. It hurts us, even if they're gentle and they use enough lube
and we don't bleed afterwards. It's not good. We are supposed to own our own
bodies, and have sex when we decide to, not when someone else does. So even if
we have an orgasm, it hurts us in here," and she tapped her head. "Especially
if we're too young to understand what's going on. And it hurts everyone
differently. For some slaves, it's like a beating that misses all the bones.
For other slaves, it's like the whip."
A more interested, attentive silence. Bee felt tense, unconsciously held their
breath.
"Part of being hurt in your mind is having strange and creepy thoughts
afterwards," Emilia explained. She'd talked about this before, but not quite in
these terms. "This applies to sex too. Even after I was freed, I dreamed about
being used and I expected it. I used to beg my mother to use me when she was
angry because I knew that had always made my mas--my rapists feel calmer and
not take it out on anyone else. You learn, as a slave, how to be used, and
since it involves sex your mind mixes it up with sex, and you expect sex to be
like that too. Sometimes it means you want to be tied up, or to not orgasm. And
sometimes, for some of us, it means we want to hurt other people with sex. Or
we want gentle, gentle, careful sex with only someone we can trust absolutely. 
"Having strange sex dreams, especially if they're about people who used you,
isn't weird at all. Neither is having those thoughts that just zoom in and out
of your mind about what I'd look like naked or remembering how it felt to be
used. And no matter what you want or you think about, you don't have to go out
and do it. It's okay if you never have sex as a free person. Or you have a lot
of it. Or you swing between them. You don't have to do either.
"And especially if you're having thoughts that alarm you, or you want to hurt
people--you don't have to be scared. A lot of us have those thoughts and never
hurt anyone. I have terrible thoughts some times--I used to think I was
possessed. If you're worried, talk to me. I promise I will help you. I want you
all to be safe in your own heads, and I won't think you're bad for your
thoughts. I will help you. I promise."
Bee realized they didn't feel cold anymore. If Emilia had terrible thoughts,
surely they couldn't mean what Bee had been inarticulately terrified they would
turn out to mean. It had to be like how their heart rattled in their chest
whenever they were startled--it was the twin cunts' fault. Not theirs.
Next to them, Carlisle looked strange, smiling but crying a little, and Bee
reached out and patted their arm once before bringing their hand back to
Anthea's soft swirls of brown fur. She was still being squeezed tight, but Bee
knew she didn't mind.
"And you can have sex that's not being used that looks like being used does.
The difference is when you own your body and you're the one telling someone
else how to tie you up, or what not to do, or whatever it is. It's different,
even if it could look the same if someone else saw it.
"Oh, and wanting another woman if you are one, or a man if you are one isn't
wrong. I forgot that part," Emilia said with a smile, and everyone laughed a
little, eyes bright and shining.
Bee dipped the spongy bread into the stew and brought it to their mouth,
wanting to distract themselves. The feeling of it against their gums was
strange and new and wonderful, and they smiled and did it again. It made their
mouth tingle, and the sensation was so pleasant, hot liquid spilling against
their teeth.
The room was full of people that looked nervous, teary, and happy. And Bee felt
like a part of it, like this was where they belonged.
They sipped at the cider--salty things made them thirsty--and their mouth
burned a little, just a little, embers against their stump and all over the
inside of their mouth. It was warm and pleasant, and they weren't suspicious of
anything, and they wondered if this was what it felt like to feel safe.
===============================================================================
That same night, after they'd trudged home, Foggy put his backpack down on his
bed and stretched, groaning. He went to the living room and sagged onto the
couch, and waited for Matt to appear.
He did after he'd brushed his hair again--and Foggy smiled, seeing Matt look
more normal and slightly prissy as usual--and Foggy cleared his throat.
"Hey. So, uh, I was thinking...we missed our movie on Sunday. So what do you
think of us watching two this weekend? Both of us choosing one?"
Matt looked contemplative, and nodded.
"Cool, so let me know which one you want so I can see if the library has it or
if it's on Netflix or whatever," Foggy said, pulling out his phone. Matt
started to say something, and then cut himself off.
"It's fine if you don't know right now which one--" Foggy started, and then
stopped.
"I, I'll choose another," Matt murmured.
"What, why?"
"I doubt we can acquire the one I'm thinking of," Matt explained. "It has only
English subtitles, I believe. I'll choose a different one, Foggy."
Foggy blinked at him. "O-kay. But let me see if we could get the first one, at
least. Maybe Columbia has it or it's on Amazon for cheap or something."
Matt frowned. "It would be expensive, Foggy, I'm sorry I--"
"No, just let me! We have, like, cash now," Foggy hastily lowered his volume.
"Let me do nice things for you, okay? I feel shitty about us having to cram so
hard for midterms and then not even getting our usual Matt-and-Foggy-partners-
in-crime time. Let me at least take the five seconds it will take to look it
up."
Matt looked like a scolded puppy and nodded, lowering his head a little. "It's
called Good-Bye, Lenin!" he explained.
Foggy looked it up. No luck with Netflix or Amazon, but-- "The library has a
copy. Cool, we can grab it tomorrow."
Matt blinked, and then smiled.
"Wanna tell me what it's about? No, wait," Foggy amended. "No, surprise me."
Matt smiled, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "I try, Foggy."
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from "Forgetfulness" by Billy Collins, here:
     https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/detail/37695
***** and he has drunk of you and you are almost whole in the clumsy wonder of
maybe he is the one, though he appears a strange divergence from your girlhood
imaginings *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Saturday was perfect.
Foggy woke up and looked at his phone and shit, was it really almost noon
already? Had Matt been spending that long sitting there chained up, awake? He
felt terrible, and leaned over to unlock his ankle immediately, except he
glanced at Matt's face and realized he was still sleeping, eyes half-shut the
way they were sometimes, and he stilled.
Matt was so beautiful. It wasn't just his face, though that was gorgeous--it
was everything. It was his neck, his hair, his chest through the outline of his
pajama shirt, his arms. How the hell was he so toned and smooth all the time?
And his stomach--Foggy couldn't see it right now, but he knew from memory it
was flat and hard, with all of his abs on display like vacuum-sealed chicken
breasts, and he gaped at the sight of it every time, licking his lips
unconsciously.
Foggy realized, suddenly, sharply, that Matt had the exact type of body Foggy
had tried to have for years, had dreamed he'd have after puberty, had dreamed
he'd have after the diet pills. The sort of body Rosalind had been disappointed
he didn't have. And then he laughed because he realized he'd never look like
that and that was a goodthing. Two people with the powers of Matt's incredible
hotness would be terrifying. It would be like two Captain Americas in the same
room. 
Matt's eyelids fluttered, and Foggy leaned over and unlocked his ankle
immediately, and then Matt yawned and stretched, completely silently. Foggy
wondered how it was that he'd been trained to yawn silently too. 
He decided to stop thinking about it. Today felt good already and he didn't
want to ruin it.
Matt woke up, blinking his brown eyes, and then he turned his head a little and
pointed his eyes at Foggy. It was strange how he did it, always moving his eyes
so they almost looked like they were looking at you, twitching them to be
oriented towards noise, and Foggy had always wondered why Matt bothered. Didn't
everyone know he was blind already?
"Good morning, Foggy," Matt said, breaking off another yawn at the end. "How
are you?"
Foggy considered it. "Oh my god, so much better. Wow. Midterms sucked this
semester," he said emphatically. "I feel like a ran a marathon. Not that I've
ever actually done that, but I'm sure it feels like this. Let's spend the day
lazing around in bed and doing nothing."
Matt smiled at him warmly, a little amused. "I was hoping to bake a few
things," he said gently. "Three types of trifles, and perhaps some chocolate
chip cookies as well."
Foggy blinked. "What are 'trifles'?"
"Delicious concotions," Matt teased. "Which you will understand once I bake
them."
"Oh, fine," Foggy teased back. "But I'll be lying in bed producing nothing," he
added, turning over and wrestling his laptop to lie on his legs. 
Matt sniffed, faux-offended, and left to go wash his face and brush his teeth.
Foggy watched him go, eyes glued to him. He always watched Matt when he left
his sight, slightly afraid that one time it'd be the last.
===============================================================================
 
Baking was a good idea, Matt thought. He needed a little time to sort out his
thoughts and straighten himself back out before any of his terrible, terrible
epiphanies could be seen by Foggy, sniffed out like a rotting wound. 
I love Foggy and I still miss Dad, Matt thought to himself, cringing a little,
but it felt strangely...not that terrible? Certainly not as catastrophic as it
had felt the week before midterms. It had loomed in his thoughts every time he
studied, a horror lurking to haunt him if he stopped reviewing torts and
criminal law and basics of contracts for more than a minute. 
But here, in his owner's kitchen, baking cakes and whipping up cream and jams
and a good lime curd, listening to his owner contentedly hum and occasionally
turn over in his bed, it felt much less disastrous to think about. I can handle
this, Matt realized. He could. He'd handled much worse crises, Mistress Janet's
abusive ex-husband and the time the twins both had febrile seizures and when
Mistress Sharon pulled him harshly into her bed and when someone tried to
firebomb Summer's hotel room and her dresses were ruined and when he was sold
and sobbing and being shaved--
Matt took a deep breath and focused on his whipped cream for a minute, the
soothing ache in his arm distracting from the old, bad memories. They were
stickier than syrup sometimes. 
He kept on whipping--he had been taught to do it by hand, Summer disdainful of
anyone who 'needed' a mixer or who only bought chicken in already-cut pieces or
used a rice cooker or any other 'lazy shortcut'--and he thought about what he
would do with all that new information.
Be good for Foggy, be the best for Foggy was fairly obvious. But as much as he
knew that he ought to try and get himself sold so he wouldn't be in so much
danger, he couldn't even try to commit to it. The idea of being Foggy's no
longer was complete and absolute bone-shattering agony, and Matt flinched away
from it far more than he flinched away from actual broken bones. He would just
have to...maintain an appropriate attitude, he supposed. Not make himself
another mask--not when that had been in retrospect a very bad idea--but rather
just remember that he was a slave and Foggy was not, and that there would
therefore always be a gap between them and in that gap Matt would kneel and
softly murmur and never, ever forget what he was.
Well, that was surmountable, he thought to himself, ignoring a twinge in his
chest. He could do that. He would do that.
He nodded firmly to himself and separated the whipped cream, adding in each
different flavoring. One would be gently spiced with cardamom, cinnamon, and
sugar, one would be blended with passion fruit and mango pulp, and the other
would be rippled with the raspberry jam currently bubbling away on the stove.
The next problem, of course, was that now he knew where Dad's grave was, and
for the first time since he was a person it was close enough and he had
sufficient freedom that he could go visit it.
It was wrong, he knew, wrong because he wasn't allowed on sacred ground of any
kind, wasn't allowed in churches or cemeteries or at weddings or funerals, but
it didn't--it hadn't felt wrong, and that was troubling all on its own. Matt
knew that even though he didn't deserve any sort of a soul anymore, he still
had the sense that certain things were wrong or right, and when he did
something horribly wrong he could feel it; his skin would try to crawl away
from him. But it hadn't at the church, not really. He'd felt like he had in the
early days of training when he'd been caught sneaking extra water or stealing
an apple or a forbidden towel, and that was different.
And besides, Father Lantom (the words in his head thought respectfully,
carefully, with a kind of emphasis that had never gone away once he had learned
it) had said it was not disrespectful, that Matt could come back. And Summer--
wasn't a priest, she couldn't possibly know things about the church the way a
priest could, and so Matt, uncomfortably, swallowed and decided she was wrong. 
It felt very, very bad to decide that Summer was wrong when he wasn't angry.
Like eating food that had spoiled, he thought, shuddering and gulping down the
sliminess.
===============================================================================
 
Bee spent the weekend in a very uncharacteristic manner.
Usually they used their weekends to take walks and do homework. The homework
because it needed to be done--they needed to yank their grades up forcefully to
graduate and pass the bar in time-- and the walks because they loved them. It
was a pleasant feeling, getting to walk around wherever they wanted, wandering
into the city or just around campus, finding strange new places and being
alone. Well, not quite alone. They took Anthea in their backpack with them,
close enough to reach in and stroke her fur when they couldn't breathe. 
The oddest and best part was that they knew they could be like this forever if
they really wanted to. They could simply walk away from everything, from
Columbia and Matt and Emilia and Carlisle and the dorms and the idiot girls on
their hall and their life, walk and walk and be free and untethered from
everyone if they really wanted to.
It made them feel strange, floating in the sky like the wispy gray clouds that
came on dark, damp days. They sometimes felt like they wanted to run away and
leave everything behind; it rose up in them like vomit, an itch in their feet,
but they didn't. They didn't want to, not really, but it was so, so tempting,
like how rich food looked when you were starving--like the best thing in the
world, even when you knew it'd just hurt you.
Bee wondered, sometimes, how free people learned to deal with that feeling, or
if they even had it. Sometimes they didn't seem real to them, like how slaves
in movies were never real. It was like they were paintings only finished
halfway, but everyone acted like they were finished and perfect, even when they
were stupid cunts.
But this Saturday and Sunday Bee did, really, nothing at all. They left their
room only once, and that was to buy a new gallon of milk from the school store.
In the checkout line the boy behind him--and it was a boy, someone so baby-
faced and puppy-haired that Bee immediately twigged him as being as mature as
the deer in that movie about mothers dying--had tapped them on the shoulder and
said, "Hey, you'd look really pretty if you smiled more."
Bee, wearing sweatpants and unbrushed hair and a shirt that was just starting
to hug their body, stared at him blankly for a minute. They were shocked by the
tap alone--nobody actually touched them who wasn't Carlisle or Emilia or Matt
or Dr Kayle--and it took them a second to think of a response to how fucking
stupid and cuntlike and idiotic and inane the hidden comand was. They then
hooked their middle fingers into each side of their mouth and yanked them
apart, baring their unbrushed teeth, and whirled around to pay for their milk.
They walked back, put the milk in the miniature fridge, and did nothing at all
for the rest of the weekend. They lay in bed and watched silly terrible Netflix
shows and hugged their bear, sometimes re-positioning their pillows to sit up
against the wall or prop themselves up on their side, and they took a shower
and changed into different pajamas precisely once. They didn't venture out to
eat or drink, instead gulping down nutrient drinks and heating up and drinking
plain water and eating crackers in their preferred way--they soaked them in a
bowl with with ramen broth and the cooked, soft noodles and mashed it into a
paste, eating it with a spoon one gulp at a time. 
It was utter laziness, and it felt just as good as taking a meandering walk
around town, and Bee felt a strange kind of peace settling down in their
ribcage. They slept for long hours and didn't so much as glance at their
textbooks and they were...good, and warm, and maybe this was safety? Or
freedom?
Maybe this was freedom? Getting to just waste an entire weekend with a little
smile, be lazy and smell musty and draped with messy blankets, eat what you
couldn't around other people because they thought it was disgusting, ignore
responsibilities and basic care and what your owners would have done to you if
you'd done any of this earlier?
Bee tapped their thigh, stretched a leg, and let the next episode of Hemlock
Grove start playing.
===============================================================================
 
Everything is a performance.
Summer recited old security codes to memorize them, rolling the coiled spring
over her cheek. It wouldn't do to let the fine little hairs on her cheeks
interfere with her makeup, and this owner hardly touched her face enough to
appreciate their softness.
The spring ripped them out and she sighed with pleasure at the feeling. It was
always nice getting to tear something out from the roots, leaving the violence
in its plainest state. She used to hate having to disguise it all with waxes
and razor blades, trick the eye into gazing at the disguises instead of the
truth. 
It was like covering up bruises--an artform in and of itself, but something she
nevertheless disliked doing. She wore her strength and resilience like a badge
of honor. She did not cower from it like a child from a monster. She knew
better than that.
She ripped the next section of hair out of her cheek and hummed to herself one
of the songs she used to sing when she was first learning about beautification.
Not like the ghastly little ditties the slave-children sang nowadays in the
institutions, but one of deep sorrow and acceptance, knowing that beauty was
pain and they would all have to suffer for it, in a language so few people
spoke anymore.
She sang softly to herself as she finished her cheeks and went on to carefully
prune her eyebrows, focusing on not squeezing the tweezers too hard and
snapping them. Even the little things were worth not wasting. She finished her
eyebrows and remembered: she had to go and check on her latest bonsai tree, a
little cactus. She stood and chatted to it as she worked, telling it to be good
and grow smoothly, with no sudden spurts to ruin its image.
A part of her was a little alarmed at how suddenly vocal she was; her owner was
out again, stalking the star-spangled man with a suicide plan, and it wasn't
quite normal for her to be talking to herself. But she knew it was because she
missed her little child Matt, missed talking to him almost constantly, drowning
out his foolish notions with her voice, teaching him everything she knew and
more. She grew him more carefully than any bonsai, pruned him, kept him right.
She'd done the right thing and she had loved him, as stupid as it was, loved
him like she had grown him inside of her. 
It had been long years without him.
But he carried the blood inside of him. She wasalwayswith him.
And now, being in this filthy rat-infested corpse of a city, it made her miss
him the more. She'd pulled him from this grimy, disgusting maggot's nest, and
being around it only made her think of the day she first saw him, pacing
through the Brooklyn market with that old sundress. She still had it, but it
was gathering dust in storage, in the closet down South. It hardly seemed
appropriate to wear it again in this depraved rotting carcass pretending at
being a city.
Perhaps, if she were to have to pick out another...
She finished working on the bonsai and stood back up, taking down her hair-
towel and beginning to roll it up and pin it to her head with bobby pins, and
she strategized. More direct contact with Matt would only prove
counterproductive, and contact with that naive toddling doughball of his owner
would be even moreso. No, she knew, she had to go about it just right.
Perhaps one of their neighbors would be willing to..tell her things. Not for
sex, that was forbidden, but an awful lot of people would do an awful lot of
things for someone beautiful with a nice smile who would make them tea and
listen to their troubles and pat their knee. It was so, so easy to lead them to
think that they'd get to fuck her some day, some day soon, without ever
promising a thing.
Leading people about while letting them think they were leading her about was
her life's work, after all. A faithful slave was always the greatest king.
You must make your decisions for yourself, never allowing another to make them
for you.
===============================================================================
Foggy felt weird lying in bed, but he didn't get up to break the spell once he
heard Matt using the mixer. 
Matt got...intense about baking, and he didn't want to interrupt him. It
reminded Foggy in a good way of Anna, of getting to do homework in the kitchen
while she baked breads and cakes to work out her stresses about her patients.
She also got very focused once she started something complicated, and as far as
Foggy could tell Matt didn't do anything in a simple way, not even things made
of five ingredients.
(Once he'd asked Matt for a plain bread loaf. Matt had made him baguettes.)
So instead he lay back in bed and idly researched criminal defense firms and
abolitionist legal positions and ways he could be a better person. The ACLU was
useless--they worked for enforcing Constitutionally-held rights, and so only
worked for cases where it was discrimination against ex-slaves or people who
had been falsely convicted--but there were a mess of organizations that claimed
they wanted more lawyers to free people.
The problem was that there wasn't just one kind of specialization needed, it
seemed. Some people got freed by criminal defense attorneys appealing or
overturning convictions. Others got freed by divorce and family lawyers
fighting for someone else to get custody. Still others needed advocates and
disability lawyers to revoke guardianship and free disabled people, and even
more needed lawyers who had all these specialties and experience with slavery
laws, which were ridiculously convoluted and widely varied in their specific
regulations and permissions from county to county, much less state to state.
Foggy boggled at the sheer difficulty of it all, and then shook his head. He
knew deliberate incompetence when he'd seen it; he thought back to him and
Candace cleaning the bathrooms in the worst possible way and breaking dishes in
the dishwasher and bleaching pink shirts in the laundry to try and convince Mom
to stop giving them chores.
It was on purpose, all the bureaucratic horseshit. It was all to convince
people to give up.
Foggy bared his teeth unconsciously. Too fucking bad for them, then, that Foggy
Nelson was a stubborn nerd who was more than happy to be on hold for years if
that's what it took. 
(He remembered the amazing time in undergrad he'd drunk-dialed the water
company and halved Anna and Dad's water bills for the next sixth months. He
was just that good.)
He sat up as Matt called out softly, "Trifles are ready, Foggy."
===============================================================================
 
The scene in the kitchen was gorgeous. There were nine champagne flutes out,
each one with what looked like a bizarro-world version of an ice cream sundae.
There were three in front of Foggy's spot at the table; one had pink cream in
it, the other had what looked like pink-yellow cream on top, and the third was
brown all over.
"The trifles are raspberry rippled cream and white chocolate ganache and sponge
cake with vanilla shortbread, mango and passion fruit cream with lime cake,
pineapple and coconut rums, and lemon curd, and chai latte with a chewy
chocolate-chip cookie base and a Kahlua-spiced coffee cake."
Foggy blinked and then licked his lips, feeling like he was drooling. "They
look amazing," he said reverently. "Oh my god," and then he stopped.
"Uh, how do I eat these? Do I just tip it all into my mouth at once, or--?"
Matt laughed softly, and Foggy cherished the fact that he could and did,
casually and without looking upset or frightened, and handed him a long-handled
spoon Foggy had never seen before. "With this," he said.
Foggy used it to dig into the raspberry once first, and his eyes rolled into
the back of his head as he tasted cake, chocolate sauce, fresh raspberry,
cookie, jam, and cream at the same time. It was-- it was like sex and snuggling
under a new blanket and putting on a freshly warmed sweater and opening
Christmas presents all at the same time. 
"Holy cock," he said without thinking, and then he burst into laughter. Matt
joined in after a quarter of a second, and doubled over as Foggy couldn't stop.
"I mean it," he gasped once he could talk, tears at the edge of his eyes. "I
mean it. It's fucking awesome, I love it. Did you make literally all of this? I
love it. It's amazing."
Matt smiled brilliantly, cheeks flushed from laughing. "I don't take
shortcuts," he said. "It makes for lazy habits."
Foggy tried the citrus one next, and that was awesome too, the rum somehow
calmed down by the sugar and cream and cake, and then the chai latte one. He
was apprehensive--he hadn't had a chai latte ever, as Anna generally felt that
Starbucks was too expensive and Rosalind felt that ordering a latte was some
sort of personal failing. He did go to Starbucks on occasion, but he rarely
ventured outside of cappuccinos and mocha frappacinos.
He ate it and stared at it with wide eyes.
"Marry me," he said without thinking and then cringed, oh shit--
But all Matt did was laugh like he'd told the funniest joke in the world.
===============================================================================
 
Matt was very, very happy. 
Foggy had loved the trifles, adored them, and Matt had happily put the rest
away for later. Foggy had insisted he eat at least half of the three testers,
and Matt had obliged him, licking at the spoon without even thinking about it.
It felt so good to be able to predict his owner so well. He cheerfully went
along with Foggy's suggestion that they order pizza because he'd 'already done
enough for today, seriously, Matt' and even asked for extra chicken wings and a
salad as well. Foggy was such a nice owner to serve, Matt thought to himself as
he put out napkins and got the movie ready, he was really very predictable once
you'd accepted his insane list of eccentricities.
And it felt wonderful to just have this with him--to eat pizza, to time his
eating his salad and some wings, to sip at his water at appropriate intervals
and keep Foggy on an even keel throughout the evening, to sample his own
trifles and file away his minor mistakes (the raspberry jam was too sweet, the
lime sponge was too light,, the passion fruit was overpowered by the mango, the
chai whipped cream had too little cardamom for preference) for further
improvement without being reproached for them.
Matt was dancing just right tonight, and he loved it. He slept well and easy
that night, slipping almost immediately into a deep, deep dreamless sleep.
===============================================================================
 
Foggy woke up at three in the morning, wide-awake and annoyed.
He started to groan and then stopped himself, remembering that Matt was in the
room with him and he didn't want to wake him up. He stared at the ceiling in
the darkness, watching the fluorescent lights of the city flicker and stretch
across it, and then gave in and sat up, shambling towards the kitchen.
"Braiiiins..." he muttered, opening up the fridge and rootling around for
leftover pizza. When his insomnia did bullshit like this, there really wasn't
any other way to deal with it besides eating, drinking, and then curling back
up in bed with hot chocolate and praying for sleep. Or death, whichever one you
felt like at the time.
His thoughts ran to the movie he'd seen.
It had been weird and hilarious and deeply alien to him, almost completely
unrelatable but nevertheless understandable. He couldn't imagine ever wanting a
horrific communist state to come back, or lying to Anna on anywhere near that
scale, or fishing pickle jars out of dumpsters, but he somehow felt everything
Alex had felt, every bit of agony and hope and fury.
Throughout the movie, Foggy had been too absorbed in understanding it as it
went along to think about its deeper meaning, but now as he chewed on cold
pizza and heated up water in the microwave (he knew Matt would probably be
offended by this in the morning, though he wouldn't admit it under threat of
torture) it came to him sharply. 
Good Bye, Lenin! was about forgiveness.
It forgave everyone, and it loved Alex and him and his mother and sister and
his country in its entirety. Nobody was bad or evil for anything they did or
felt, and nobody had to be blamed for what had happened. It was just as okay
that Alex missed his East Germany and mourned for it as it was okay that he'd
helped end it, Foggy realized, and the movie had forgiven Christine for her
idealism and her realism. Nothing made anyone irredeemable or awful or pinned
all the bad things on anyone--the pickles and the movie broadcasts and the dick
graffiti and the death and the coma and the taxi driver--
Nobody was the bad guy. 
It was such an odd thing, but Foggy had the vague notion, as he stirred in hot
chocolate mix and went about carrying his mug back to his room to drink, that
it was something he'd need to remember and think and think about. He sipped at
it, and thought only of Matt and his strange, horrible love for the woman who
Matt was sure would have killed them all in their sleep.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter title comes from Jeanann Verlee's "For the Woman Who Loved
     the Predator More Than His Prey", here: http://fypoetry.tumblr.com/
     post/156845964143/i-wanted-to-sing-you-a-curse-song-marty
***** you are not allowed in my hell. you must stay in your own hell. *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
     Trigger warnings in this chapter for rationalization of abuse,
     discussion of drug addiction, objectification/sexualization of
     suicide, graphic depictions of rape and rape jokes, and a very
     graphic murder scene.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
In a small Starbucks in Manhatten sat a woman at a table.
She was a very weird-looking woman, undeniably; she was skinny all over, her
face small and her legs bony, and yet she wasn't skinny in the way that some
people were, small muscles and very little fat, but instead she was a worn kind
of skinny, with soft skin that was prematurely wrinkled. Her face and most of
her arms were darker than the rest of her, not that anyone there could see it;
her hair had the distinct appearance of hair that had originally been thick and
somewhat oily, but was now so bleached and dyed and re-dyed and re-bleached and
permed and straightened and curled, all with hot irons, that it now looked more
like steel wool than anything else.
She was wearing a faux-denim shirt with flowery elbow patches, a skirt made of
some scratchy knockoff polyester underneath acrylic handmade crocheted lace,
all in eye-watering neon variegated yarn and tie-dyed fabric, and she was
wearing a total of three different pieces of jewelry: a large cross necklace
with a small, half-scraped-off Made In the USA sticker on the bottom, a pin
that said JESUS SAVES on a background of a Florida sunset, and a bracelet made
of little psalm numbers all locked together.
She smelled very strongly of cigarettes, terrible coffee, and expensive
perfume, and she had ordered a mango iced tea with no sugar, and proceeded to
add cinnamon and nine stevia packets without stirring, and did not wear shoes
at all.
She sat across from another woman, who had a very different appearance; where
the first woman had an appearance made up of dozens of details that each said
something, the second woman had absolutely no details at all, only a single
overarching message. Her entire attire screamed one thing: fuck off. It was so
loud that even noticing exactly what she was wearing was a fool's game; her
hoodie, for example, was simply dark, not a specific color at all, neither
quite black or blue or brown or gray, and the fact that it was baggy but not
too baggy on her was difficult to even notice. She looked sunken and furious
and was drinking from a bottle of whiskey in a paper bag that she periodically
alternated with what appeared to be a treinta-sized black coffee.
The third woman, who was not sitting at the table but rather working as a
barista, had an entirely different appearance from the both of them; instead of
being made up of tiny bits or else of one piece of cold, muttered rage, she had
an entire aura made up of smooth component parts that all blended together to
leave the impression that she was attractive, young, and very generic. She had
the same hairstyle as the other baristas, wore the same general uniform as the
other baristas (but with a good bra and good pants that subtly showed off her
flat stomach) and had the same kind of unremarkable mostly-nude makeup as the
other baristas, applied perfectly to highlight her already above-average face.
She spoke exactly like them, and moved mostly like them, and for the most part
was unnoticeable.
The first woman was also vibrating with nervousness at the same time as the
second woman was blankly indifferent to her. The second woman chugged some
coffee and finally said, not asked, "So what do you want."
"I have a daughter I need help tracking down," the first woman said. "I lost
track of her when she was just a toddler, and now I've got no idea where to
look."
"How did you lose track of a baby?" the second woman asked, raising an eyebrow.
She wasn't the kind of cuddly maternal woman that actually knew things about
babies, but from what she could tell you couldn't lose them like spare change
or empty rye bottles.
"I was...I had fallen into a terrible lifestyle when I had her," the first
woman said. "I was into it all...weed, drinking, I didn't go to church, I swore
all the time, I watched Jeopardy every day, and Dr Phil too, I gambled on
Powerball tickets... And I didn't get a job. Jobs would have taken too much
time out of getting high," she said with a small, self-deprecating smile. "It
was great, and most of the time we managed and she was a great kid when she
wasn't too loud, but then she set the apartment on fire when she dropped a
joint one day, my daughter, and we got thrown out of our home, and I was so
angry and, I...I knew I needed money and I needed a lot of it to get my
television and my DVDs back, and I wanted to beat that little bitch until she
was sorry enough so I wouldn't hate her any more, but then the fucking
hysterical social workers would've taken her away from me again so I.." and
here she closed her eyes, with such perfect dramatic timing that the second
woman wondered if it was rehearsed, "I...I sold her."
"To...?"
"To the Bureau--they make it so quick and easy, it's a two-page form that's
mostly boxes, and I..I really was fine for a while with it, I just had so much
cash and didn't have to put up with all that crying, and I got a new place and
got better at cooking. Until I went to jail--now that was bullshit," the first
woman clarified. "I was not driving drunk, I was just high, and I drive fine
while high--I drove fine. Never hit anything. Anyway, I was in there and then
they searched my pockets and found barely a quarter ounce of weed, so of course
I got longer and longer charges until my fucking pussy-- my wimpy attorney just
threw his hands up and wouldn't even try to fight. So while I was on a corn
work crew, once I had finished feeling sorry for myself, I realized what I'd
done and I wanted to make it better, I had to make it better, but...how? I
didn't have any money, I didn't have any family, I barely had enough willpower
to try and get out of bed and do all the chores they had us doing. And then
after that, once I got out I felt so shitty I got high again but this time I
started tripping, no idea why, and then this time they got me into one of those
rehab houses instead, and there I found our savior Jesus Christ on Earth and
realized I needed to make amends and explain myself, seek forgiveness, but when
I couldn't find her and nobody wanted to help me I got high again..." she
sighed heavily and sipped her tea through the straw delicately, keeping it
poked at the bottom to suck up stevia, crunching it hideously loudly with her
jaw. The second woman saw several shiny, newly repaired in her mouth and
cataloged that, too.
"It went like that for years and years, until I finally found the right church
that took me in instead of calling the cops or judging me. And now I've been
with them for two years, I'm now stable enough to come and find my daughter and
put right what I did wrong," she concluded. "I need to take her in and help her
recover, too, help her forgive and move on. To witness to her the incredible
power of Jesus Christ and to heal her in His name like I was healed, to help
her become saved and reborn.."
She noticed the other woman's eyes glazing over, and took a breath. Not
everyone understood God; that was okay, she knew. "Can you help me?"
"Why should I?" the other woman said bluntly. "Sounds to me you got so mad at
your kid you sold her and now you feel bad about it."
"Please," she begged now, "please, I...I know it was horrible and the worst
thing I've ever done. I regretted it the moment I could think clearly and I
need to make up for it."
The second woman remained unconvinced, and stood up to leave.
"And I have three thousand dollars," she said. "Upfront, and more once I get to
take her home with me!"
The second woman paused and clearly started recalculating. "Fine, but you have
to understand one thing: your kid doesn't actually have to come with you once I
find them. You have to treat them like an adult. I'm not going to take your
money to help you abuse your kid."
"Sure, sure!" The first woman said, nodding hard. "I promise I will! All I want
is to help her heal. I'd never harm a child," she said with deep sincerity.
"Then fine," The second woman said. "Three thousand upfront, and more for
completion of the job."
"Why not five hundred upfront?" the first woman tried to renege, but when the
second woman glared at her she shrank back. "Okay, okay, all of it upfront. I
have more at home with my church."
She handed it over in a bag with murals of little bible stories cross-stitched
into it, and the second woman's lip curled but she took it, heading into the
bathroom to count it.
The third woman watched and watched, taking notes in her head.
===============================================================================
 
Foggy woke up two hours early on Monday morning and groaned as quietly as he
could, rolled over, and thought back to the dinner with Rosalind.
He had spent most of it juggling fighting down his boner from Matt being so
beautiful and touching him and powerful and there and dealing with her horrific
well-marketed shittiness, and he hadn't had much time to actually process the
fact that she freely admitted she blamed Dad for her leaving him and Foggy. And
the more he thought about it the more fucked-up and twisted and complicated it
was, because...well, Foggy couldn't quite lie to himself, Dad had been a heroin
addict then.
He knew; Dad didn't really talk about it until Foggy was sixteen and then he'd
sat him down in the living room and launched into a whole long story about how
growing up in a weird evil Christian cult (Dad didn't call it that, just
'strict parents' but Foggy knew damn well that there were 'strict parents' who
made their kids always do their chores and not eat candy outside of holidays
and 'strict parents' who beat their kids for 'unclean laughter' and made them
fast for weeks to 'cleanse themselves' for masturbating) and then how he and
his siblings had all fallen in with different bad crowds and how Dad had only
done pills before he met Rosalind (Rose, Dad called her still, after
everything) and promptly met some heroin dealer who gave him a discount in
exchange for cash stolen from her, and how Dad had done it without thinking
because he'd decided he was already going to hell for leaving the church. Dad
had told Foggy about how he'd been so high that he honestly didn't remember
getting Rosalind pregnant, how he had missed almost every appointment and
certainly every sonogram, and how he'd been late to the birth. 
Dad had then gone on, very seriously, to describe how even as the stay-at-home
father of a baby he hadn't been able to resist heroin, and had dialed back on
snorting it to try and be more stable but how it had meant that finally
Rosalind discovered him stealing from her and had thrown him and Foggy out on
the street that day, divorced him in absentia, and only come back to him after
he'd cleaned up his act after months homeless with a baby and gotten to know
Anna. Then after dropping these bombshells, to Foggy's shock and horror, Dad
had dragged him to a week's worth of daily Narcotics Anonymous meetings to
learn about how everyone else there had gotten addicted and what terrible
things they'd done to other people (which ranged from selling off their
parents' car to their dealer to abandoning their dogs in hot cars to get high
to disappearing on their families in the middle of the night to get high and
getting reported missing again). 
Foggy had been aghast the entire time, and bewildered at the sheer inexplicably
of it to his point of view. He had only ever known his Dad as a pragmatic,
laced-up, low-key traditionalist who made his children not wear 'silly clothes'
and scolded them for being too loud in the evenings and taught them how to make
pancakes and fix locks. The idea that his Dad apparently used to use Foggy's
diaper bag to smuggle cash to his heroin dealer and then heroin back to his
house was so foreign to him that he could barely process the whole thing as
reality. Dad had always been a good guy in Foggy's living memory, sometimes
very embarrassingly Dadlike but never, never scary or neglectful or absent.
And Narcotics Anonymous had been an entirely different world as well, one
where, as far as Foggy could tell, a lot of people who got addicted did because
they had terrible childhoods and wanted to feel good for once and then
were literally physically unable to stop. It was nightmarish and much more
effective than those '90s movies about weed making you a loser that they had
shown in his health class.
And now, as a semi-adultish adult, Foggy did have to admit to himself that
discovering your spouse was stealing from you to do drugs and not take perfect
care of your baby would be...upsetting, to say the least. He could even
understand divorcing someone like that for the sake of your children--but that
was so, so clearly not what Rosalind did or why she did it. Foggy couldn't
imagine throwing someone out to make them homeless, especially with a baby, and
he couldn't imagine not caring for your own baby either. (Dad had sheepishly
admitted that Rosalind 'had no interest in taking care of you until you were at
least ten, and I tried but Rose was immovable'.) Foggy thought about it, and
about Rosalind's phrase he had unreasonable expectations of me, and he
concluded that she'd been angry at the stealing, maybe, but definitely angrier
at the idea that she had to be a mom. 
Foggy's lip curled. Suck it up, buttercup, he thought meanly at the version of
her from twenty years ago. You didn't get to just do that, abandoning someone
who needed you, no matter whether or not you liked caring for them or even them
at all. He could admit to himself, in the silent privacy of the early morning,
that he hadn't really liked Bee at all beyond 'makes Matt smile and laugh' and
that in the early days he had liked Matt even less, but he had--tried, at
least, to take care of them, even when it was hard. And they were arguably less
helpless than a literal infant. Who the fuck left a baby in the hands of an
active heroin addict? Foggy felt amazed that he'd lived to completely forget
all about it.
He eventually let his thoughts drift out to calmer avenues, retelling himself
the baby stories that Dad told and remembering Candace's own infancy, and then
he realized he could wake Matt up with coffee and maybe some cereal this time,
and got up to pad around the apartment. Foggy shambled and stumbled, but soon
enough it was time to wake Matt up, and he unlocked the shackles
and...nothing. 
Matt rolled over, grumbling in his sleep, and Foggy blinked with surprise and
then smiled. "Hey Matt," he said gently, putting his hand on his face, "Time to
get up. I made coffee.."
And Matt's tongue darted out and licked him. 
Foggy almost jumped but held still. "Uh..buddy? It's time to get up..."
And then Matt's head twitched and he enveloped Foggy's thumb with his mouth,
sucking softly and moaning in a terribly beautiful way, licking and swirling,
and Foggy's entire body broke out in sweat, each pore pouring out at the same
time, his mouth watering and his pajama pants denting. Fuck. 
Foggy pulled his finger out and winced, and then stepped back, trying to decide
what to do. He didn't want to alarm Matt or wake him up by being afraid, but he
couldn't...and he didn't even want to go forward and, and take advantage of how
Matt was now shifting his hips in his sleep and moaning a little, one hand
reaching down--
Oh God. Foggy turned and fled as silently as he could, getting to the kitchen,
wiping his face with a damp, cold paper towel and shaking a little. He forced
himself to take deep, deep breaths, and do what Miriam called seeing the facts:
he had been trying to wake Matt up by gently cupping his face, because that
usually worked just fine in the morning, and Matt had licked him, and Foggy had
retreated the second he had started sucking, and now he was away from Matt and
not touching him, not watching him rub himself in his sleep, not memorizing his
hips...
No, no, no. Bad thoughts. Foggy did the visualization exercise they'd done
once, imagining opening his mouth and having the bad thoughts fall out of his
head and down the drain, far away from him, and then he took deeper breaths and
tried to replace them with calm, objective evaluation. He was just being calm
and steady, and he hadn't done anything to Matt, and he wasn't going to, and
he didn't even want to. No, Foggy only wanted Matt nowadays in dreams where
Matt was wickedly smart and sharp-tongued, laughing with Foggy and tying him up
with Wonder Woman's golden lasso so Foggy couldn't lie to him--
(Foggy's sexual imagination was, as always, a very weird place. His recent
study-break excursions into the pro-BDSM anti-slavery origins of Wonder Woman
comics had made it weirder.)
And not when he was completely unconscious and helpless. It was a relief when
Foggy's stupid boner finally went down and he decided to just bring a mug of
coffee into the room with himself, wake Matt up that way, and once he did Matt
seemed completely unaware that anything had happened.  Foggy had the strange
certainty that he was being completely and genuinely oblivious.
===============================================================================
 
She woke up very suddenly and was aware in every capillary of her body, every
cell and nook and cranny, in less than a second. Her head almost felt light
from the adrenaline rush; why was Chastity shrieking outside the door? She
listened, running through possibilities, necessities, how to get out of Wakanda
if they needed to--
But then she listened, and realized it was Chastity's high girlish shriek of
joy, and then she heard Lydia's warm, happy laugh as she gave something to
Chastity, and she relaxed. Lydia was perfectly safe; she was, in fact, one of
the few people she trusted completely with Chastity's safety and happiness, one
of approximately four she named in her secret will to take care of her sister
upon her death. Lydia was bright, and warm, and strong in a way that was
impossible to diminish, strong inside of herself and because of herself, strong
even in the very worst circumstances that humans could be in, strong because
she could be weak and then keep going anyway. Lydia was a former zombie, and
she would almost certainly outlive everyone she knew.
Lydia was the sort of agent of the revolution that had to travel a lot and
occasionally disappear from all communication channels. She didn't worry about
it; Lydia always came back again, and so many freedom workers communicated
asynchronously, anyway. And Lydia, when she returned from her travels, always
brought presents.
"YOU GOT ME ASPHYXIA?! IT'S BEEN DISCONTINUED FOR OVER A YEAR! I COULDN'T EVEN
FIND IT ON EBAY! HOW DID YOU GET IT?!" Chastity started screaming in delight
when she opened the next present, and Nobody smiled and sat up in bed. She
needed more sleep, but she always needed more sleep; one of their secret
doctors had told her once that she might oversleep the rest of her life, always
trying to chase the sleep debt she'd had the first two and half decades of her
life. She had shrugged and decided to just suffer, then, rather than give into
the weakness of sleeping too much. 
She yawned, stretched, and went to open the door. Chastity was still jumping up
and down and shrieking about how much she loved Lydia, she was the best auntie
ever, the best ever ever, and then she saw her sister and stopped, putting
together the fact that she was still wearing her soft layered pajamas (beige,
cream, and dark grey; she always liked to wear boring colors when she slept
alone or with her sister) and looked exhausted and still adrenaline-filled and
visibly drooped. "Sorry, did I wake you up?"
"No, it's okay," Nobody assured her. And it was okay, and Lydia knew that too,
or else she'd have steered Chastity away from the bedroom door before giving
her the presents. It was good to know that Chastity could completely forget her
surroundings, be overwhelmed with joy without worrying about who could hear it.
It was good that her baby sister didn't need to muffle herself and quiet down
and calculate for others all the time. "What else did Lydia get you?"
"She got me Asphyxia," Chastity said proudly. She loved makeup, but only
flamboyantly unnatural colors, and Asphyxia looked like one--a pale frosted
purple, cold-lilac. "And she also got me another tube of Holly Jolly--you know,
the lipstick that I wear with my green dress? And a yellow, uh, it's
called Citron, to go with my sunflower dress, you know, the one that's black on
top and just sunflowers below it? And then," and Chastity whirled around,
"Lydia said there's one more!"
Lydia smiled magnanimously and handed one over. "Here's the last one for you,
Chastity," she said, and Chastity ripped open the packaging to reveal an
octagonal lipstick tube, which she pulled open, and then her eyes got huge.
"Whooooooah," she breathed out, staring at it, and her sister stared too; it
was almost painfully bright to look at. It shimmered in a stream of sunlight
coming in through the window, and it glittered in a rainbow pattern that
reminded her of childhood, of fashions gone by. "It's a holographic glitter
lippie?" Chastity half-whispered, reverently. "I've never even seen any of
these before!"
Lydia smiled widely. "I got it directly from the labs of Jeffree Star. It's
going to be called Aphrodite's Kiss, and it'll be avaliable in next year's New
Years collection."
"What the fuck, really?" Chastity said, eyes so huge it was almost--she put
away the memories it evoked, of people with eyes that big. "It's not even going
to be out for almost a year?"
"Yep. He makes all the formulas early, you know?" Lydia said, and she was
smiling too, with the pleasure of seeing an ex-slave so uncomplicatedly happy.
Chastity almost jumped up to hug her; Lydia's body was very tall this time,
Nobody finally noticed. Normally she barely paid attention to Lydia's body in
private company; it didn't really matter then, anyways, besides showing if she
felt comfortable or not. Right now she wasn't comfortable, but that was almost
always true.
(Almost all other people did not seem to understand this, and could not read
Lydia at all. Even most other ex-slaves. But Nobody had found that most people
were not chameleons to the extent that she and Lydia were, and even the ones
who were were often idiosyncratically chameleon-like, to the point where they
couldn't see past what this mask would mean for them versus what the same mask
meant for someone else.)
She smiled as Chastity squeezed on tight and then turned and ran into the room
to change and find an entire new outfit to build around one of the new
lipsticks. Lydia shifted to be shorter, to be Nobody's precise height, in fact,
and then rummaged in her purse to find another gift.
"Here," she said. "The others are for later, but right now, this is for you. I
know you're not big on lipstick, but I think you'll like this one."
It was true, she thought in surprise, she wasn't really big on lipsticks, or on
makeup. She wore it often to the point where she didn't really notice or think
about it, because she'd perfected her three faces and didn't need to make more.
(The first face was Neutral Beauty, and featured a specific palette and soft
pink lips that were outlined with a nude. The second was True Neutral, and that
was almost the same, but with a perfect nude lipstick that made her face very
boring to look at, almost nondescript. The last one she reserved for when she
needed to use sex for the revolution, and it was the one that always lasted for
the shortest amount of time. It was built to last despite various fluids and
expressions, composed of top-of-the-line mascara, eyeliner, foundation, blush,
concealer, blender, contouring, lipstick, lipliner, and setting spray, and it
made all the sex tricks work just a little better. She did not like or dislike
it, but she did remove it once she no longer needed it, at once.)
She opened up the package, and stared at the box it came it, and then slowly
opened it up to smell it and see it. Her mouth opened with visible surprise.
"Is it really--is this--?"
"The Peggy Carter lipstick? Yep, it is, the same shade she still wears in her
new apartment," Lydia said with a bright grin. 
(It had been criminal, that Peggy Carter had been put into a fucking nursing
home. Lydia had, among others, worked with their agents in SHIELD and
various disability assistant agencies to get her moved into an apartment of her
choice and have care that wasn't part of any institution. And Mrs Carter had
been far the better for it, especially after her long-term partner Angie
Martinelli had moved in as well.)
Nobody caressed the casing gently, and almost put it on immediately. It was so
shocking, so beautiful, and so intensely, gorgeously red that she was tempted
to never use it, to keep it in perfection. But that was silly. 
(She and Lydia had once bonded over their complicated admiration of Peggy
Carter. On the one hand, she was a free woman, and a free woman who had fought
for the United States, and a free woman who had worked for and headed a spy
agency...and on the other hand, she had been bold and strong, and they took
inspiration from her tendency to hit people in the face with staplers, and she
almost certainly had known of their infiltration into SHIELD and had approved
of it entirely.
They had also bonded over how Lydia was, at first, the only person who truly
understood the urgency and necessity of their hormones, and had gotten it for
her and her sister without question, and secured them surgeries and hormone-
dispensing implants without a single "are you really sure". Because
she understood.)
She smiled very widely and patted Lydia's arm in a friendly way. She had too
much adrenaline still to hug anyone when she didn't have to. "What's your body
going to be for your visit?" she asked. She had to know what the new default
was to measure deviations from it.
Lydia hummed. "Well, it's tall," she said, reverting to the height she'd had
before, "And the face is like this," and she smoothed out her facial features
more, flattening her nose and widening her face. "And the hair's the same," and
that made sense, her hair was blue and blonde in tight box braids; it'd be more
difficult to change. "Oh, and the skin's a teensy bit warmer and darker," and
she changed it minutely, "He doesn't have cameras in these rooms, by the way.
Or in this hallway."
She was surprised; most people who reassured her that she didn't have to worry
about cameras meant that either there were cameras, there were cameras and they
didn't think they were something to worry about, or that there were cameras but
they didn't remember them. She had assumed T'Challa would be the same way.
"Huh," she said. Lydia smiled at her a little quizzically. 
"Good 'huh'," she explained.
Lydia relaxed a little, and then suddenly added, "Oh, and I have a giant dragon
tattoo. Why not?"
Why not indeed.
===============================================================================
Matt felt a deep relief at the sheer normality of the day. 
He woke up to Foggy having already made coffee, which grated on him when he was
already stressed (you stupid slut you can't even make my coffee right so I have
to do it myself) (Matt, honestly, it's a coffee order, I don't understand how
you can get it wrong, it's the same for sireveryday) but now felt routine due
to him going through more than a couple of nights where Foggy had had a flare-
up of his insomnia. Every time it happened Foggy would get up and make them
coffee and often bagels, too, before he got Matt up, and then he'd slowly wind
down to exhaustion throughout the day until he fell asleep or at least lay down
without any work to do before dinner. Then after dinner he'd curl up in bed and
watch musicals or an Alexander Farragut movie, and then he'd become more and
more tired until he could barely get up to brush his teeth. Most of the time he
did eventually fall asleep and then slowly catch up to it during the next few
nights, especially if there was a weekend, but he'd be sluggish and somewhat
fragile until he recovered all the way.
Matt didn't mind, really--it didn't seem to truly affect Foggy's studying or
his performance beyond making him work a bit slower and have to restructure
when he did his assignments, it wasn't the kind of condition that required Matt
to do and endure unpleasant things to relieve tension, and it wasn't dangerous
because it was very well handled. Foggy was very strict about the sleep hygiene
that made a difference for him, and often used cycles of melatonin to encourage
his body to remember to sleep. He didn't have any more intense or dangerous
medications to handle it because of his father's heroin addiction, and so Matt
was hardly affected at all, since Foggy had explained that being in the same
dark room with a sleeping person (he meant slave, but Matt didn't argue) helped
him sleep too.
He made sure to watch out for Foggy during the morning and take his cane with
him to the campus so Foggy wouldn't try and guide him as much as usual, and let
Bee and Trish walk next to him and not to Foggy so Foggy wouldn't have to think
about being careful not to touch them, and he frowned as they approached the
first building they needed to get into and heard a loud crowd of people
chanting, "What do we want?"
"FREEDOM FOR EVERYONE!"
"When do we want it?"
"NOW!"
He stopped and listened, and let Bee crane their neck and peer around the front
and back buildings, and Trish voiced for them, "Uh, they're on all sides,
blocking all the doors. I don't see a way in."
Matt stopped and took a breath. "Maybe they'll let us in--?" he suggested, but
the way they all fell into a hush as he spoke made him wince and then put on a
calm mask the way Summer had when they had to drive past protests on the way to
parties or into military bases. 
"Crossing my fingers," Trish said, not interpreting this time, and Foggy added
sotto voce, "Oh, I'm crossing everything," and Matt laughed softly before
steeling himself again.
He held onto Foggy and walked forward, and surprisingly, Bee huddled close to
him and walked with them. "It'll be fine," he murmured to them both. "I know
how to handle this. We just have to walk in like they couldn't possibly stop
us," and he strode forward, making sure his shoulders were high and his body
less demure than usual. Summer had a walk just for these sorts of things, one
with her head held high, and she had helped him to practice again and again
until he got it precisely right.
("Take a tool out, use it, and put it away. It's just that simple, child," and
her long fingernails scratching at his cheek, affection and threat all at
once.)
Matt listened hard to everyone in the crowd, their body language, if they were
holding guns or weapons, if they were filming anything, if any of them was
boiling with violence. Most of them were packed tight, and that made it hard to
tell, precisely, but to their credit nobody seemed like an obvious plant
designed to escalate things to the point of rioting.
Matt stopped walking when Foggy did, unable to drag him forward. The protesters
had gone silent.
"Nobody goes past this line," one of them declared, "This is a protest for
human rights, which everyone deserves, no exceptions!" and Matt's jaw clenched
and then he straightened up minutely, wanting to fight. It surprised him--life
had taught him how to lose how many times now?--but he wanted to slap the
little note of smugness right out of the boy's mouth, maybe break his jaw. The
wet snap-crunch would be so sweet. 
Matt pushed down that thought, alarmed but having no time for it, and then said
very dryly, "You're protesting slavery...by not allowing a slave and a former
slave to go to their classes in law school?"
The protestors shifted, uneasily, and one of them said, "Guys, maybe we can
make an exception?"
Matt took note of her. She sounded small and young, maybe an undergrad and not
a 1L, and he smiled warmly at her. She said again, in a smaller, squeakier
voice, "Seriously? I mean, he's not..."
"Judy, Jesus Christ--" the one from earlier said, annoyed now, and Matt cleared
his throat.
"Please, we're coming through," he said calmly. "Just let us through and we'll
be out of your hair."
"I don't think so," the smug one said, stepping forward. His breath stank
of stale potato chips, and Matt wanted to rip his head off. 
(Summer had done that once. It had been...singular.)
But then a different voice piped up, fairly androgynous, and a woman-?- pushed
forward. "Vincent, step back. Let's let them through, just him and I...I guess
the guy who's guiding him?"
"That's Foggy Nelson, he's in my Punjabi class," one boy from the side called
out. "He's kind of nice, I guess."
"He is nice, unless you're a dick to Matt," a different girl said, irritably.
"Trust me, he helps me walk back to my dorm room sometimes."
"But he--"
"Yes, I know," the androgynous-voiced person piped up. Matt could tell that
they were thin enough that he couldn't put a good guess on probable gender.
"But look, why make a protest against slavery end up hurting people who are
slaves or who just were?" the person argued eloquently. "Let him, the guy
guiding him through, and the other person."
They went to walk forward, except then the crowd tried to block Trish, and Matt
frowned. "Trish needs to come too."
"No she doesn't," the smug guy said, and then jumped at Bee's artificial phone-
voice saying, "She's my interpreter, you stupid fuck."
The guy's mood darkened, his blood pressure going up, and Matt readied himself
to step in front of Bee, but the androgynous voice came to the rescue again.
"Vince, seriously. Let them all through, and quickly, before the newspapers get
here."
"The newspapers?" Foggy muttered, and they hurried through the poorly-
coordinated parting crowd. 
"I'm sure it will be the historical protest of the century," Matt said acidly
as they got inside the building itself. "Thousands of slaves will fall on their
knees in gratefulness and suck Vincent's cock till the sun comes back up.
Millions will applaud their bravery and preserve their heroism in ballads that
will last for millennia."
Bee's shoulders shook in their silent laughter, and they squeezed Matt's side
and then stepped away. As it turned out, nobody else managed to get through to
class, not even the professor, so Matt ended up stroking Foggy's hair once as
he took an impromptu nap and getting a head start on reading, while Trish
played some sudoku on her phone and Bee hummed and watched a show about a
gorilla learning to sign.
===============================================================================
 
The photographer hummed, adjusting his camera. He was happy with his shots, and
was considering which newspaper would pay the most for them. The New York Times
would probably be the best combination of exposure and money, and they might
even offer him a job afterwards. He knew his boyfriend Calvin would be very
happy at having a second source of income, and it would mean he wouldn't have
to be the sole person cleaning up after them. 
He smiled as he walked away from the scene of the suicides. The corpses were
already starting to reek; they looked so ugly now, not like in his photographs.
He thought about how he would narrate the process of taking the pictures, what
he would name them; The Falling Girls? No, no, too on-the-nose; instead, The
Loving Suicides sounded like a much better idea. After all, in the first set of
pictures the two girls were staring into each other's eyes, holding hands,
completely focused on each other, gazing in adoration, throwing away their
collars, and then jumping, still gazing at each other in the air, and in the
second they were still holding hands as they lay on the crushed car, beautiful
and still. They looked peaceful, happy almost.
(After the first volley of shots they had screamed and screamed with terror,
flailing, and their bodies were crumpled and crushed now that people had moved
them, trying to cover them up. It ruined the image, he thought. It was
a travesty.)
He deleted the pictures of them screaming, eyes wide, regretting the fall--not
good for the narrative--and put his earbuds in as he headed to his rented
studio, humming along to Shake It Off.
===============================================================================
 
Later that night, she got to actually see it.
Lydia was drunk and laughing, sitting on the couch near Chastity, doing a new
kind of nasty shot that made Nobody's nose wrinkle, if she let it. It was made
of Red Bull and vodka and some type of citrus liqueur and licorice whiskey and
it was nasty, and Lydia loved it, and so did Chastity, for all that she was
loudly complaining about it. Nobody wasn't drinking; she didn't except for
reasons unrelated to fun, and she liked to only have fun around Lydia,
especially on the storytelling-nights they had with her. Even though her fun
meant being fussy and meticulous and straightlaced, as Chastity fondly teased
her about.
Unfortunately, this was the moment T'Challa came and knocked on the door. She
looked up, surprised--this wasn't quite their private quarters, none of them
counted anything in the palace as theirs and even if they had, the living room
at the end of the hallway didn't count--and then got up to open the door. He
had only two Dora Milaje with him, which was surprising; usually there were
three to ten with him at all times.
"I'm sorry if I'm intruding--I heard a new guest wanted to see me?" he asked,
in that polite way. And it was nice, she felt, that he was the sort of person
to say things like I'm sorry if I'm intruding, because while a veneer of
politeness could be very rude indeed she knew a level of...thoughtlessness that
came with never even bothering with the veneer, because you were talking to a
thing and not a person you had to lie to.
"I did!" Lydia said warmly. "C'mon, there was a story I wanted to tell him,"
she told Nobody, and she jerked her head at the armchair inside. "Come on in,
we've got gross shots and Sprite, if you're a square like her sister!"
She paused and then went and sat back down where she'd been earlier, which was
at the reading nook. She wasn't reading much of anything at all, just some
gossip magazines, and those were to scratch an old itch--he gets mad if I don't
know what's going on, he thinks it's unfeminine--and this time, she read
nothing whatsoever, and simply listened to Lydia as she began her story. 
This one was pretty funny, all things considered--Lydia getting captured by the
CIA in the process of stealing paperweights from the FBI as part of the poke-
the-bear operations that they did regularly on intelligence agencies was pretty
hilarious by itself, mostly because it took a CIA agent who was faceblind and
recognized people by their footsteps to catch her, and then because they were
apparently so confused by her that they ended up incompetently waterboarding
her--which--
"How do you even do that?" Chastity asked, howling with laughter. Nobody's
shoulders were shaking, too.
"I don't even know!" Lydia chortled. "I don't! You just need a fucking t-shirt
and a Dasani water bottle, Fiji if you want to go fancy! These, these fucking
nincompoops couldn't even do it right!"
Nobody said, through her giggles, "Maybe--maybe that's why they keep giving
them less and less zombies every year, because they don't want to waste them
on incompetent waterboarding techniques!"
More laughter abounded, loud and belly-deep, and even T'Challa looked like he
was laughing involuntarily, from the social infectiousness of it all. He did
look distinctly uncomfortable, however.
"So then, so then, right, when it got them nothing--and they have nothing,
they are nothing, you see," Lydia was explaining, "They sent in the rape squad.
And it's always the easiest escape point, right, the rape squad, because either
they get distracted or someone gets squeamish about them, yeah?" 
Nobody nodded; it was true. Even though most people were comfortable with some
type of rape to some type of people in some type of circumstances, it was
equally true that for most people some type of rape would be gross. It would be
unsanitary, or nasty, or nauseating, or too far, or unnatural, or something
that made them squeamish about it. 
(For some rare, precious people, it was all rape. And for some other ones
grossness had nothing to do with it. Nobody was one of the lattermost.)
"So they send in the first dude, and he gets in me, right, and I've been trying
to think up how to rattle this guy, because I know he's been watching for hours
now behind the mirror. Do they really think people think that's a mirror? Why
the fuck would there be a mirror right there?" She rants, and then takes
another nasty shot and then pauses. "Anyway, so he's in, and I know the perfect
thing to say. He gets in, and I feel his balls, and I say...hey, are you in all
the way?"
Nobody shrieks with laughter alongside Chastity and Lydia, and she keeps going
until there's tears in her eyes, real tears and not forced ones, and when she's
done Lydia continues, stopping to guaffaw every few words: "And so, and so,
then after he's done all blushing and shit, he gets out a belt--a real belt,
like this is fucking Secretary, all right, and he gives me a scar, like that
shit's gonna bother me, all right? And then I get to go to the infirmary
because of fucking infection vectors and shit--literally!--and that's how I get
out," she finishes triumphantly. 
She notices T'Challa was not laughing at all now. "Come and see the scars!"
Lydia declared, and stands up and yanks down her pants to show, and-- well.
They're big, bold, keloided scars, which means she's letting them happen on
purpose.
(Lydia's skin naturally always keloids, unless she prevents it. Normally she
doesn't have scars unless she's punishing herself or using them for a purpose.)
Nobody blinks. "You're drunk," she says, figuring out the game, and it is
fun. "Let me go and get you something from the kitchens. They've got some
amazing dishes with cowpeas," and she gets up to give T'Challa an excuse to
leave as well.
He follows her out, he and the Dora Milaje, and none of them are laughing. She
rolls her shoulders and pauses to let him lead, because she doesn't want to be
rude, and also because Lydia's presence loosens her up enough that she forgets
precisely where the kitchens are for a minute. 
She watched T'Challa as they walk, and they get to a small kitchen where she
recognizes a few leftovers in the fridge and gets them out to start reheating.
She's not lying about the cowpea-based dishes--there's three she picks, two
being desserts and one being a spicy delicious breakfast-dish that will make
Lydia need to grow new taste buds to appreciate it--and then a few more that
are mostly meat stews, and she starts putting them into the microwave and then
onto a tray.
"I don't understand why that was a joke," T'Challa says after the second thing
comes out. "Forgive me."
She doesn't, and then she does. She's like that. "What else are we going to
laugh about?" he asks him instead, and sees his brow knit, and then on the
inside she sighs. Sometimes there are some free people who understand the
outline of what she means by this--usually ones who were under someone's thumb,
or, more rarely, inside someone else's cage--but there are so many who just
plainly don't understand why it can be funny. Why they say things like rape
squad and rape o'clock and marriage broken: just add rape and even the rape
grapes. 
Slipping into patience, she explains, "Every life needs a certain amount of
laughter in it. People aren't...if you aren't laughing, you're surviving, and
not very enjoyably so. What else are we going to laugh about? The latest
fashion in cigarette holders? Alcoholic suburban mother memes on Facebook?"
T'Challa's face is still confused, but he is beginning to understand slowly.
She elaborates, calmly and gently, leading him like a particularly stupid
sheep, "During a person's life, during the terrible times, if they are not
acute, if they will go on forever--you have to laugh, or scream, or shut up.
Laughing is more fun. Do you understand?"
That he seems to get, for some reason. She finishes reheating dishes and put in
serving spoons, and then turns to take the platter with one hand, balancing it
expertly. "Besides, can you imagine some bigshot CIA interrogator getting all
ready to feel like a big, bad man who has the super-special capacity to break a
woman and then getting humiliated like that in front of his bosses? Can you
imagine that? They probably replay the tape for him every lunch break. They
probably put it in his performance review, and he has to explain that his penis
is a normal size and he didn't mean to get caught off-guard. He's probably
already trying to buy penis pumps or something. He's going to be haunted by it
forever."
The Dora Milaje are smiling widely, and now T'Challa is too.
"Yep," she said. "That's justice."
It's not, but it'll work, for now.
===============================================================================
 
Most versions of Summer hated tasks like this. 
She didn't really hate things in most incarnations of herself, but with this
specific Sir she absolutely did, because he needed someone to hate things with
and for him. He required a partner in despising sex, little rat dogs, and New
York City, among other things, and she fulfilled it like she did all his needs:
joyfully and fully, better than anyone else could.
She also hated things that he didn't need her to hate, because that was what
this Summer did, in this universe and this fate, with this owner and on this
day: pointless, stupid tasks that wouldn't turn out to do anything other than
piss off the person who gave her the tasks, because that was her life now.
Granted, most of her lives had involved doing pointless nonsense at least some
of the time, but some of them had been exciting, including this one.
(Training Matt had been very, very exciting. It was such a fun challenge, and
it was constant, and she had to pretend that most of her efforts didn't even
exist until she got to dramatically reveal them. It had been pure delight,
working with him. He even did what you told him to do once you'd molded him
that way, and that was far more than some of the trainees she'd had had done.)
(So had been Nazi-hunting. That was some of the greatest fun of her life, and
she was eternally grateful for getting to do it.)
The problem with this task was that Sir did not, frankly, understand the
pointlessness of it, and that was because he did not understand that the
purpose of the Bureau of Slavery was to allow for useless morons to have jobs
and receive paychecks for tormenting slaves in old and dull ways and let
exceptionally superfluous human-shaped spittoons draw slightly larger paychecks
and waddle around with delusions of political relevance and/or power while
tormenting slaves in new and dull ways.
The fact that it was the sort of position that ended with most of its occupants
being mocked beyond the grave was no accident; it was a highly mockable thing,
to be the Director of the Bureau of Slavery. It was a joke in and of itself, an
insult with enough power to inspire people to hire hitmen. The sort of people
who reacted to being offered the position by accepting it instead of
challenging the offerer to a duel were walking hemorrhoids-- social bedpans-
- complete and utter failures. She could not reason with failures.
But here Summer was, walking into the building late at night, past rows of
slaves with blank, already-dead faces and getting into an elevator and using
the pickpocketed key to control it and force it up to the Director's office.
Then she forced the doors open and walked in smiling, even though she wanted to
commit arson just by seeing the office. It had all glass doors, and she could
tell that they weren't even safety glass. 
The incompetence was staggering. 
The new Director--very new, six days new, as a matter of fact, and a man this
time, though that hardly mattered--looked up. She opened up the door. 
"Hello, sir," she said with a soft voice. It was a seductive voice, the
fifteenth one, not that she thought it would make any bit of difference. A
Director was likely, if not certain, to be a sexual sadist, and the sort of
sexual sadist that primarily enjoyed having their filthy activities revolve
around the sadism rather than the sexual, and she was not about to let herself
be hurt. She wasn't allowed, was what she meant.
(Not like they could hurt her. They could hurt her but not hurt her, so to
speak.)
"I'm with your nine o'clock?"
The Director's face blinked all at once. He was very bony, and very ugly, and
she was completely unsurprised. He looked rather like a shaved, starving bear.
If he wandered the woods of Canada they'd think he was a werewolf. "Excuse me?"
he demanded.
"I'm with your nine o'clock, sir," she said softly. "I'm here to elaborate on
the offer made."
Because Sir had made some offers, and they were good offers, and he hadn't
understood what went wrong. He thought it was that they were the wrong offers,
was the thing, and she knew differently, understood with a clarity he would
later acknowledge and would therefore exist later--that the Director was one of
those people who were simply too stupid to possibly be manipulated. That type
of idiot was rare, but they were in a way perfectly adapted to their lives,
because they could not be manipulated in the slightest, and they were very,
very stupid.
"You're not allowed in here. Where's my security guards?" he demanded in that
same ugly tone, and she resisted the urge to explain to him that they
were slaves and therefore would not prevent any sort of assassination
attempt, ever. 
"Sir, my owner has allowed me to make a further offer and explain more of our--
"
"Shut up, bitch," he said, and she smiled a slow, mean, jagged smile, a big
girlmonster smile that he didn't have the brains to be scared of. Sir would be
pleased when she told him about how she'd killed the Director now that he'd
hear that he said that to her. "Now you're going to shut up and get on your
stupid fucking knees and I'm going to make my security get in here and teach
you a fucking lesson, and then that owner of yours is going to pay big time,
there is a procedure for this--"
She walked forward a total of ten steps and reached for his head. In one hand
she cupped his jaw and in a neat second hairline-fractured it right next to the
nerve, and in the other hand she cradled his skull and began to apply pressure.
First a little, and then more and more and more, laughing softly at first and
then more and more manically and fey as his skull began to buckle and break
under her hand, and his useless arms were flailing but she was so, so much
stronger than him, stronger than he could ever be, strong enough to keep him in
place and make him hold still and not let him reach a phone and it felt so very
good to make the bones crunch and the brain matter start to come out in gloopy
chunks, blood and cerebrospinal fluid and bits of still-pink brain leaking out
through her fingers, and she squeezed and squeezed until it exploded so, so
slowly.
And then she ripped off his jaw and out his tongue for good measure, and
laughed while he convulsed. Normally she'd rip out the medulla, but this time
she just wanted to watch him die a bit slower. She prolonged it, even giving
him CPR for a practical measure, and then she stretched and turned.
A security guard had come up, but had done nothing except watch. She smiled at
the guard, waved, and turned to show her breathtaking vibranium collar. "Fancy
helping me with the meat clean-up?" she asked him cheerfully, and he cracked
what was probably the first smile in months, and walked over with stiff, jerky
movements that meant nerve damage.
She shook out the bits of brain mucus from between her fingers and got to work
getting rid of the corpse.
===============================================================================
 
Bee began to walk home that night in a state of contentment.
Because of the strange free time offered by two of their classes not happening
due to the protestors, Matt, Trish, Foggy and them had ended up mostly just
sitting around inside the lecture hall and catching up on readings, Candy
Crush, sleep, and homework for most of the day, and then afterwards they had
all hung out in a warm, comfortable togetherness that Bee didn't often have.
They sat in a small corner of the on-campus coffeeplace and did work and work
and work, and it was so nice to have a brain that had space for things that
weren't food or when its next beating would be, because now they had food all
the time and no beatings in sight. Bee enjoyed the rhythm of it and the
knowledge that they were actually ahead now and would probably get actual good
grades this semester and also have time to have the days when they just needed
to watch dumb television and not think or feel or do.
And then dinner was good--a type of soup with soft, soft meat and vegetables,
and then apple juice and mashed potatoes for feeling full and having vitamins
or whatever, and lots of it--and then they weren't even afraid of the dreams
they might have, the ones about Summer and her hands. Emilia had said they
weren't something to worry about, and Emilia always told people when things
really were something to be worried about, and so Bee wasn't afraid of it any
more. Just like the cigarette burn scars or needing Anthea, it was just from
the cunts and nothing more. It meant nothing. 
Bee was walking away from Matt, and halfway to their dorm when suddenly
someone--something? Hit them from behind and they staggered, twisted, and they
recognized the face--the boy that had told them to smile, the idiot one, and he
was snarling something and ripping off their bag and throwing it and then
ripping off their shirt and they were frozen, paralyzed-- fuck--
 
Chapter End Notes
     Sorry to be back so late, I had to graduate from things and sleep for
     days like some sort of large cat and deal with what is likely
     seasonally induced depression and several Health Problems. (Do not
     worry, I am not dying or likely to be any time soon!)
     Chapter title taken from David Shrigley's "my hell", visible here:
     http://visual-poetry.tumblr.com/post/95004839075/my-hell-by-david-
     shrigley
     'The Loving Suicides' is based off of the actual photograph of the
     suicide of Evelyn McHale, called "The Most Beautiful Suicide"; though
     reportedly her actual body was horrifically damaged by her suicide
     method and stopped looking so peaceful once she was moved.
     'Holly Jolly' and 'Aphrodite's Kiss' are not, to my knowledge, real
     lipsticks. It is a tinsel-bright evergreen lipstick, for the record.
     Asphyxia (by Urban Decay), Citron (by NYX Cosmetics, in their Macaron
     Lippies collection), the sunflower dress (by eShakti), and Red Velvet
     by Besame all are real products, however. Red Velvet is also the real
     lipstick used by Peggy Carter in the Peggy Carter series, as
     confirmed by her actress Hayley Atwell on Twitter.
***** my heart shall sing of the day you bring, let the fires of your justice
burn *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Years Earlier
They were in a car, and Summer was incredibly pissed.
Matt remained silent, knowing that right now he had absolutely no liberties to
take. She wasn't often even angry, much less the deep kind of anger he could
almost hear boiling inside her, but when she was she was at least as bad as
when she was darkly amused, and often worse. So he stayed silent and still,
blood drying and itching on his legs.
It wasn't any of his blood.
"You had a look," she said suddenly, breaking the silence. "On your face, in
the store. A strange look for a moment when he first talked to you--the one in
the baseball cap. What was that?"
Matt tried to remember, but his brain stopped short, refusing to go back any
further than the sickening sound of Summer cutting their heads off and shoving
them in the kitchen trash. He couldn't even think about it properly, comprehend
anything about it.
"Think and then speak," she insisted. "What was that look? Matthew, that's an
order."
His mind quivered and wrenched, and then he blurted out, "I--I had a bad
feeling. About the man."
"Why? Did he say anything?"
"I don't know," he said, "I don't know, not--not anything noteworthy. He said
good morning, that was all, and I, lots of people do that here." It felt weird,
but was objectively not all that strange, Summer had told him. People in rural
places were often friendly to slaves. 
"What kind of bad feeling?" she pressed. "Answer, Matt."
"He didn't feel right," Matt said slowly, trying frantically to be good. "He
felt--I wanted to get away from him right then and there. Right away. I don't
know why. I, I just thought it was nothing."
There was a horrible dead silence for a minute apart from the road outside and
the engine of the stolen car, and then Summer sighed deeply. "Dear child," she
said softly, with the fond exasperation that made Matt want to rip his skin
off, that made the little cave inside his head get colder with rage, made the
devil sneer, "When you have that sort of thing--that sort of intuition--you
must pay attention to it. Human animals like us also have these instincts, and
they are meant to be honored. You're not to be rude or break rules, of course,
but you have to pay attention to such feelings and act on them. Do not dismiss
them."
Matt nodded, hanging his head. He felt a little confused. "I didn't know what
was wrong. I can't--he acted normal--"
"I don't care that you didn't know," she snapped. "You'll be punished for what
few of your actions were your fault later. Don't bring it up at all until
tomorrow morning at the least, and we'll go over precisely what you did wrong
then. Until then your guilt is irrelevant and I refuse to deal with it for you
until later."
Matt bit off a protest--he hadn't been trying to talk about guilt, he had just
meant that he was confused--but he shut up instantly. He had long since learned
that Summer defined reality, not him. Impertinence was worse than pointless.
"Besides," she said after another cold silence, "That's how this works. If
there's any reason you won't know till long afterwards."
Then there were sirens, and Matt went cold.
"Shut up and stay silent. I'm handling this," she ordered Matt and pulled over.
While they were there, he realized with utter terror that she didn't have her
license, written permission from Sir, or the car's registration. Neither of
them had any identification at all, apart from their collars, and his was basic
silk. Hers, though, was one of her special ones, with teardrop diamonds--
His thoughts were interrupted by the officer coming over to the window.
"Evening, missy," he said with a grin. "Do you know why I pulled you over?"
She already had her hands outside of the widow, on the door, and was smiling
easily. How could she be smiling? Matt thought, mind blank with terror. They
were going to be in so much trouble, they would--he would be executed, hung,
made an example of--she would be--
"I'm so sorry, sir, I don't," Summer said, sweet and charming.
"Well, your back tailight's broken," he said. "Don't suppose you know anything
about that?"
"I don't, I'm sorry, sir," she said. 
"Huh," he said. "License and registration, please."
At her complete lack of movement, he raised an eyebrow. Matt could barely hear
enough to focus on it, his heart thudding frantically, ricocheting off his
ribcage. It sounded like a gong, like a scream, over and over again.
"Is this even your car?" the officer asked.
"No, sir. It belongs to the guy I killed and stuffed in the trunk," she said, a
joking note in her voice. The officer paused and in that pause Matt felt like
he was going to die from it, and then the officer burst into laughter. 
"Ha!" he said, after he'd finished hooting and howling with deep belly laughs.
"That's great. That's good. Well, make sure your owner knows that you gotta
have the registration, even though it's his car," he said. "And get that
tailight fixed."
"Of course, sir. I will," Summer said charmingly, and the officer laughed and
turned around. He was still snickering and mumbling to himself about the
'joke', and then he got in and drove away.
Summer calmly put her hands back in the car, flicked hair out of her face, and
started back up. The body in the trunk rolled a little when she got back on the
road, and she smirked at Matt as he gaped at her.
"Honesty is sometimes the best policy," she said with a smug little grin. "And
really, I've already killed six people today, a seventh would be just the
cherry on top of this ridiculous spectacle of a day."
They drove on in silence. Matt was shaking by the time they got back to Sir's
house.
===============================================================================
 
Calixto Navarrez sighed deeply as she considered her options. 
Steve Rogers was a very frustrating person to try and look after. He was
depressed, and rather understandably so--his entire world was gone, and to him
it had just been there only last month. But that wasn't the frustrating part,
not really. 
SHIELD wasn't looking after him particularly well, either. Calixto had long
since noticed that the agency cultivated an attitude that psychologists and
time off were for lazy people or people who had truly horrific breakdowns, ones
where they couldn't pick themselves up afterwards, like Mike from Analysis when
he'd come in to work and tried to hang himself in his office on his lunch
break. They gave agents and assets psych evaluations which were easy enough to
game, and occasionally mandated therapy for nonfunctional workers.
But as much sense as that attitude made to her--it wasn't like the Movement
encouraged its members to go to therapy, either--there wasn't anything else to
do the same job in SHIELD. There weren't mentors ready to teach you how to
live, older figures who would come over and share a bottle of sparkling cider
with you and listen to your horror stories and reassure you that things would
be fine. Agents didn't cultivate a culture of giving each other little gifts
and sharing food and offering up comfort and good listening ears. SHIELD heads
didn't seem to carefully structure in time off for every mission, no matter how
difficult, nor did they radiate an aura of it's okay that you're fucked up, we
all are, you're still good. And while some medications were easy enough to get-
-certain SSRIs, sleeping pills, and varities of stimulants--others were heavily
frowned upon, especially anxiety medications and anti-psychotics.
(The Movement's stance was, basically, that they would not make you take any
damn pills, but that if you wanted or needed them then you would get them. No
muss, no fuss.)
Calixto couldn't be friends with the vast majority of other SHIELD agents, and
she had mostly chalked that up to her background, but even Rogers didn't seem
to be inundated with friendly offers and requests for meetups and gifts to make
him feel welcome, which was downright bizarre. People should have been lining
up to make him feel welcome, to guide him into his new world and make sure that
he was doing alright in it. Nobody came with him to medical, or stopped over at
his home to give him food, or offered him a day with their dog to play with. It
was very cold and isolated, with a byzantine organizational structure that was
efficient for operating overseas and domestically but not good at keeping
everyone sane and on an even keel.
It was very odd that an international spy agency was much worse than an
informal revolution at giving mental health care, she thought. 
But that wasn't even the truly frustrating part. No, the frustrating part was
that Rogers seemed to be believe the exact opposite to one of her most
fundamental philosophies, and it pissed her off but good. Calixto had lived a
mostly terrible life, and expected a lot of the rest of her life to also be
terrible. What it had taught her was that when you needed to do something
unpleasant, you shut up and did it without complaint, and all the rest of the
time you greedily snatched any pleasures that might come your way, regardless
of how small they were or how vulgar. If it meant you took ecstasy at a club
when you were eleven and spent a rare night off dancing with joy, or you kept a
Captain America comic under your bed and re-read the same story every night, or
you just asked for your IHOP pancakes with blueberry syrup because it was
delicious, you did it. And you didn't look back. Calixto knew this to be fact,
and grabbed at as many pleasures as she could in her life; she wore sparkly
jewelry, watched and re-watched older sitcoms like Seinfeld because she loved
them, and slept in a bed layered with dozens of pinks in the sheets and
pillowcases and comforter. She ate as much expensive food as she could justify
to SHIELD and drank delicious cold juices, and she danced naked after showers
when she had the time. 
Rogers, on the other hand, seemed to think that pleasure was some sort of
indication that you were a filthy anti-American terrorist, or something,
because he rejected it violently. His apartment was cold and bare; he had a
week's worth of clothing, three SHIELD-supplied books (propaganda, really), a
coffee maker, a tiny pot's worth of kitchen tools, two sets of cutlery, a
glass, a single small mug, and a fridge full of diner takeout and SHIELD-
certified nutrient-filled soups and smoothies. He kept the thermostat off,
refusing to use heat on cold nights or A/C on hot days, and he didn't seem to
like anything. 
Calixto would have mistaken his trips to a cafe and his cups of coffee there as
an indulgence, except that when he went there with a tiny sketching pad and a
single pencil, he never smiled. Not at the waitress who flirted with him--
though she wouldn't have judged if women, sex, or flirting weren't his things--
and not at the skyline. He acted like he deserved nothing good in his life, and
it made her furious because if he didn't deserve a damn thing then she didn't
either, and she couldn't let those kinds of thoughts into her head.
She sighed and sat down next to him in the cafe. "This is hellish," she said.
"Watching you make yourself miserable for no good reason. I'm not going to put
up with it."
Rogers opened his mouth, and she continued. "It's awful. You're going to get
scurvy at this rate."
"I drink orange juice every morning," he protested.
She stared at him directly. "You drink a tiny glass of the cheapest orange
juice at the grocery store, which you hate because it's neither full-pulp that
tastes fresh or no-pulp that's smooth and delicious. You grimace afterwards."
"How do you know I don't just like cheap orange juice?" he asked her.
"Because you hate everything you've surrounded yourself with and start off
every morning I see you miserable and end every day more miserable," she said
irritably. And it was true; she'd known other slaves with terrible taste, but
they actually enjoyed cold showers and leftover takeout and minimalistic
decorations.
He frowned, and she wanted to strangle him. "Come on. I have a plan. First
we're going to the biggest library here and you're picking out twenty books on
modern things that you've missed--any subject, I don't care--and I'm going to
pick out five movies that are central to pop culture, and then we're going to
my favorite sushi restaurant and you're having the entire tasting menu, which
I know you can eat. And then we're going to the grocery store and I'm going to
buy you a week's worth of new, good things, and then you're going to stop
acting like you're a puppy you have to kick or else damsels will all die. It's
depressing me. No Eeyores allowed."
He smiled at her, and stood up slowly. "That's what he used to call me," Rogers
said, longing and fondness and tragedy and ache in his tone. "He'd point it out
in the comic strips, say, hey, that's you! Just as gloomy!"
"Who did?" she asked gently, coaxing him.
"Bucky," Rogers explained, looking downtrodden again. "My best--my friend." She
blinked, recognizing it from the comic book; Bucky hadn't seemed real to her
then.
She walked next to Rogers. "Tell me about him," he said. "While we walk."
 
===============================================================================
 
Lydia snuck out of the guestroom at five in the morning, tiptoeing quietly. She
knew it was pointless, because the floor started to creak anyway, but she had
the old ingrained instinct to be quiet. Marianne was sitting on her brown
couch, a huge upholstered monster that was one of the most comfortable things
Lydia had ever sat on in her long life.
"Plates are in the oven," Marianne said, watching some quiet baking show while
knitting what looked like yet another sweater, mint and lilac yarns being fed
into her needles. She moved her fingers quickly and ceaselessly, always making
things, always restless. "There's poutine, hashbrowns with fried eggs, and duck
confit. And there's dozens of leftovers in the fridge, I know you need more
calories."
Lydia nodded. She really did; changing her body hurt and used up more energy
than actual marathons, which Lydia had coincidentally run during one of her
recent missions. It had been hell even with a carefully developed body to wear,
long-legged and the kind of wiry muscle that runners needed. "Thank you," she
said, pulling out the eggs and hashbrowns first and took the fork on the
counter. The hashbrowns were purple potatoes, still-crisp, and the eggs
deliciously runny in the yolk as she started to devour them standing right
there. "How'd you know sunny-side-up is my favorite?" she asked as she chewed,
too hungry to bother eating slowly. Besides, these fingers were used to being
clumsier than most of her other sets.
"It's all your favorites," Marianne said. "Or else you like them all the way
cooked, which isn't hard to do. Just flip it over," and her eyes were vague,
watery, but she was beautiful to Lydia. She was wearing a sweater patterned
with navy stars on white, a complicated pattern that she'd done over and over
again until she'd perfected it. Lydia had been there then, helping out their
newest agent and ensuring that she'd be comfortable and safe and not likely to
have a complete breakdown and jump off a bridge.
"Thank you," she said sincerely after she had devoured the first plate and got
out the poutine next. And she meant it; Marianne was an incredible help to the
movement. She had come to them with bright tears in her eyes, and a quiet
strength deep in her bones, and more than a little agoraphobia, and had said I
can't kill anyone or be around more than two people, and I won't go back to
anyone. And I'm not good at lying.
What she had turned out to be good at--to be better at than nearly anyone else,
in fact--was creating and maintaining this little house, which stored some of
the most important information in the entire movement, and served also as a
sanctuary for all slaves that needed a break from fighting. It was always very
cold in the area, but it was so lonely that nobody would even see you in the
first place; the house was off of a road with no name, so isolated that the
local police had no idea where to find it. The boxes of papers and USB sticks
were entirely safe in linen closets and under guest beds.
It was also lined with coziness on every surface, from meticulously tatted
lace tablecloths and doilies to the endless platefuls of leftovers that were
free to anyone to devour and Marianne restocked daily to the shocking amount of
brightly-colored blankets and cozies and hats and gloves and cardigans
available to everyone who visited. There was an ever-present smell of sheep and
pine and cinnamon and meat, and everywhere was warm and clean and safe.
Marianne hated anything violent and never allowed more than at most four
visitors at any one time, and she never begrudged anyone their privacy or need
for company. Everyone who came was free to come sit with Marianne, be bundled
into handmade blankets, be fed tea and stews and richly flavored food, sleep
all day and all night, watch her quiet soothing television shows, and then be
sent back off with a carload of sweaters and hats and gloves and blankets to
take back to the rest of the movement. And everyone who took those breaks from
the rest of the world came back restored and relieved, and quite a few of them
took up sewing, knitting, crocheting, tatting, and quilting themselves,
inspired by Marianne's complete control over her whole environment.
There were some rules at the house, but they were neatly taped onto every door,
and they were simple: no work here. Don't touch the uncooked food. Don't drink
from the wine cellar. Don't put anything in the laundry. Don't disparage my
work. They were all so easy to follow and so firmly enforced that almost every
slave felt happy and comfortable there, and the few who didn't weren't
resented.
Lydia, in fact, slept in her own Marianne-made sweater most bad nights, curled
into it and gazed at the blue and white Fair Isle colorwork, and remembered
that things were very different now. Thinking about the sheer amount of work
that went into just that one sweater-- much less the dozens of others that she
had given out to other operatives-- astonished her, and helped soothe her
terror that there would be nothing left after they burnt the world to the
ground. It simply wasn't true; there would be a lot of Mariannes who had waited
out the storm, and other Mariannes afterwards to rebuild a world and teach
things that weren't all lies. 
She was almost finished with the poutine and contemplating duck confit or going
on a leftovers binge when her phone rang. She blinked at it and answered,
utterly bewildered--everyone knew that after a serious mission that she
wouldn't do anything but curl up somewhere, whether at Marianne's or a hotel
room or another safehouse, for two weeks at the bare minimum, save truly insane
emergencies.
"Yes?" she answered. Her voice was one of the ones that was actually hers,
deeper than a lot of them and not nasal at all.
"Lydia?" a tiny voice whispered, with an accent that made Lydia want to swear.
Fuck, fuck, it was Stacey Rae, one of her new baby operatives. Why was she
calling? Lydia had fixed her up with a small assignment, infiltrating a
hilariously incompetent little HYDRA cell and monitoring their progress towards
implosion. It shouldn't have happened for at least a year, unless something
truly had gone wrong.
"Darling, what's wrong?" Lydia answered, wincing at her leftover Wessex accent.
"Do you need some help?"
"Please," Stacey Rae sobbed. "Please, I can't--I can't. I'm, I'm in the
hospital and I can still pretend to be sleeping when they want to visit, but I
can't do this anymore. I can't. It's too hard, I thought it would be fine, I'm
just, I can't. I'm sorry I'm such a stupid fuckup, but I can't do this and I
don't want to compromise anything!"
"Hey, shhh," Lydia said softly. "Take a deep breath, darling. It will be
alright. Whatever's happened, it will be alright. I'm going to come down there,
alright, starting right now, and then you'll be okay. I'll extract you."
"I'm sorry," Stacey Rae cried more. "I'm such a fucking fuckup, I'm so sorry. I
know it's not a lot but, I just, I can't!"
"I know, I know. But you can wait two days for me. It will be okay. Two days,
darling, and then you won't ever have to go back," Lydia coaxed. "Deep breaths.
I'll be there. I'll call you in six hours for intel, but you just take deep
breaths." She didn't waste her breath on reassuring the poor girl that she
wasn't a stupid fuckup; getting drawn into arguments with people's insecurities
was generally a bad idea, especially in a crisis situation. 
Stacey Rae begged her not to go, so Lydia turned the phone to speakerphone and
went to her room, packing furiously and tossing a duffelfull of knitted and
crocheted and sewed goods into the car she'd used to get here. She muted the
phone and changed bodies to an easy disguise, a white woman in her forties who
could pass for Stacey Rae's mother, and once she was done softly gasping in
pain, she got changed and went into the kitchen. She took two containers full
of leftovers with her and kept talking the entire car ride, letting the poor
girl pour her hear out. Lydia winced at the words, guilt burrowing deep into
her belly, and it made her shake her head at herself.
She'd thought it was an easy assignment, and forgotten how it was for circuit
kids--
(The 'circuit' being, of course, psychiatric wards, wilderness 'camps',
conversion camps, juvenile detention, and slavery. Circuit kids were bounced
in-between all of them so rapidfire it made them dizzy, and desperate.)
Stacey Rae had been a circuit kid for being depressed and a lesbian, mostly,
and for being the tug-of-war object for her idiotic divorced parents, and Lydia
realized she should have seen the signs of how badly she wanted to please her,
how little she knew her own limits, and how she wouldn't tell them about any
problems until everything exploded. Failing to please her parents and admitting
weaknesses had probably gotten Stacey Rae nothing but violence and punishment
and horror, and in her subconscious everyone sufficiently similar worked just
like her parents because to assume otherwise could be deadly. Of course she'd
only call during a true mental breakdown.
Lydia cursed herself as she kept the girl calm for hours and hours, getting on
a public plane and having to turn her phone off once she got to the dismal
airport. She should have known this would happen, and she should have
remembered that an easy job to her could be impossibly hard for someone else.
Not everyone was like her and Nobody, growing up with polished masks and an
ease with detaching from people. Most people found spywork hard, and she should
never have let Stacey Rae get in such a horrific state. 
Well, nothing else to be done--she'd roll up her sleeves and pick up the
pieces, maybe even take the girl back with her to Marianne's and let her have a
good month or two of quiet recuperation. But first she'd have to fake her
death, and Lydia let her mind go to fun and effective ways to do that, and then
once she'd decided on a faked suicide then she plotted out ways to help the
girl recover and feel better, and possibly jobs she could do afterwards, when
she was ready.
===============================================================================
Summer watched The American Captain.
She hated him, deeply, it squirming in her gut like a corpulent tapeworm. His
face made her taste bile on her back teeth, and she hated him for it. Her owner
was usually hardly sentimental outside of the times where he was exceptionally
sentimental, but his strange revenant love for this utter cretin was apparently
burrowed deep in his heart, and so she had to live with it. He wanted updates
on the every move of the pathetic little man, and so she would give them to
him.
As she watched, her contempt grew and grew, his every move making it worse. She
knew she was being more than a little bit irrational, and that she ought to be
a bit jealous but nothing like this--it wasn't like her owner didn't also hate
the man even as he loved him, didn't blame him for his brokenness and his
undoing, didn't rage at him for being a coward who died instead of coming back
for his supposed greatest love--but that changed nothing for her. Every time
Steve Rogers so much as ate a ham sandwich it made her sneer at him, wanting to
crush him beneath her heel like a particularly large and grotesquely over-
muscled cockroach.
The problem wasn't that her owner liked him, not really. Her owner liked an
awful lot of people, from his missed Natalia and Yelena to Matt, and she could
hardly blame him for that. But Rogers wasn't like them. He wasn't someone who
could exist in her world, and he would never respect her position with regards
to what was by all accounts his first and greatest love. Rogers would, she was
sure, try to take her away from her owner, and thus the best life she'd had
since she was very small away from her, and the worst part was not that he had
the impudence to try, it was that he had the drive and charisma to possibly
actually succeed. And there was no other life for her but one with a master,
and she quite enjoyed her current one. He let her shave her head and have a
good little apprentice and crush skulls with her bare hands, and he had never
tried to make her do filthy things with him. She couldn't say the same of any
of her other masters, and she had few--if any--options for any future ones that
would come close to Winter.
So she watched Rogers, and hated him, and plotted out how to slowly cut him
again, and again, and again, wear away at his grip on the world and on her
owner, bleed him bit by bit until he fell back into the water, pale and
lifeless like he should have stayed all these years. She was not going back to
the CIA or SHIELD or HYDRA or December Catarina or any other master, and she
was not going to lose to a fucking overgrown Brooklyn rat who still believed
in abolitionism, for christ's sake. It was beneath her dignity. She would
pretend to be helpless, she would lie and lie about lying and smile and steal
and sneak behind her owner's back for his utmost benefit, and she would do
every disgusting thing Rogers would eventually want her to do and then she
would take his heart into her hand and kiss it and eat it whole.
Rogers was going to lose, and the entire time he'd never even know he was
fighting.
===============================================================================
 
Matt walked slowly, thinking of what to do that night. He was halfway through
having a complete schedule for how to finish off three-quarters of the readings
due next week within the next two days when he heard--something. He didn't know
what. A strange, bad noise that made him stop and turn around.
He didn't know what was wrong, but he knew something was wrong, and he knew
that he was supposed to pay attention to these feelings. They were meant to be
honored. He couldn't be rude or break rules, of course, but he had to pay
attention to such feelings and act on them. He would not dismiss them.
He turned back around and focused his hearing and heard Bee's heart, fast fast
fast, ratting around in their ribcage and he sprinted back, racing and taking
stock of the situation, and it must have been the darkest part of the path
because as he grabbed the boy with his hands inside Bee's bra and kicked him
twice, first with his knee in the boy--man's balls and then a with his knee
into his liver, and he threw him away from Bee. The man spluttered on the
ground, doubled over in pain, and Matt grabbed one wrist and then the other and
twisted them hard behind the man's back, pinning him with his face to the dirt,
and the man was squirming and yelling and Bee's heart was so fast, so
incredibly fast, but they were standing stock-still, not even trying to get
their shirt back on, and Matt thought vaguely that that was a bad sign when the
man yelled again and squirmed, getting up, and starting to run, but from behind
a tree a woman jumped out--when had she gotten there? How had he missed her?--
and punched him in the face, and it floored the man. Matt grabbed a pair of
zip-ties offered from the woman and used them to firmly tie together the man's
wrists behind his back and then he stepped back.
"Bee?" he called. "Bee, are you okay? I've got him down, I'm going to call
campus security." Because that was the protocol he'd been taught for bodyguard
intervention when alone. "Bee, you have to get your shirt back on. Pick it up
and put it on," he said quickly. It was okay to order free people to do things
in an emergency, and he felt that this counted.
"Thank you, ma'am," he said to the woman, who was now standing with her arms
crossed, watching him and the man and--if Matt read her correctly, she felt
oddly muted to his senses--glaring coldly at the man. He frowned, vaguely
recognizing her--she worked in a Starbucks a bit further from campus, one that
he and Foggy went to last time because they had shorter lines before the
morning classes.
"You're welcome," she said with a smile. "It's nice to meet you, Matt. My name
is Elektra Natchios."
 
Chapter End Notes
     Title comes from the Canticle of the Turning.
     Sorry this is so late! I am depressed and also very busy with making
     people Christmas presents.
***** no one remembers the world before rape *****
Chapter by Swiggity_swydra_fuck_hydra_(Haych_Aych_Ach)
Chapter Notes
     Trigger warnings here for a lot of self-loathing, victim-blaming, and
     shame surrounding being sexually assaulted.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Bee said nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing. They floated far above their skin,
watching the dark sky and the clouds. One of the things they wished they had
learned even earlier in life was that sometimes you needed to keep paying
attention even during terrible things and sometimes there were memories you
were better off not having, and that you had to make a decision when something
awful started happening and stick with it. (Or try to. They had never been as
good at it as some slaves are.) And their Elsewhere was in the sky, always, the
sky and the stars. Glittering lights in blackness, clouds soft against a sky,
like a painting. Even rainy gray skies were a good place to escape to, curl up
around lightning and let it warm you up. Once they had been in a plane, when
the twins had wanted to take it with them on vacation, and they had gazed out
the windows in wonder. 
And now they--no, it, they were back to being an it again, and the only way to
bear being an it again was to be an it very far away from everything, where it
could still pretend to be a they. Now they were in this sky, dark and polluted
with light to be blue-purple, hiding away and never, ever looking down. They
did not want to look down, or feel things. They did not want to look at
themselves, or be aware of how much they hurt. They did not want this to be
happening. They did not want to be a thing that this happened to.
Distantly, they heard a voice--Matt's voice? That was weird, why was he here?
And they looked out through their eyes and saw a blur, Matt fighting the boy
who was going to, who was, and their mind slid away from trying to name what
had been happening, and instead they watched mutely as Matt and a strange woman
they'd seen a few times but couldn't recall the name of wrestled the man to the
ground and tied his wrists together, the woman with an odd predatory look on
her face, and they thought that they were going to maybe rip the man's pants
off, hurt him, use him, and they felt oddly satisfied at the idea. 
But no, Matt told them to put their shirt back on and pulled a small folded
rain-poncho--why did he have that?--out of his bag and handed it to them too,
and time seemed to hiccup and pop and they were wearing their shirt and holding
their poncho and standing quiet and still, not quite sure what to do. Matt was
frowning at the woman now for a second, and the woman said something about
finding a bag (whose bag?), and then Matt was talking to them but his words
sounded like they did when he muttered in French, some syllables recognizable,
but that was all, and they drifted again back up to the sky, to Elsewhere. It
wasn't like Matt couldn't handle things.
===============================================================================
They didn't fully come back down into reality until later, when they looked
down and realized they were now in the kitchen of Foggy's apartment, and Matt
was now hugging them again, and they weren't really sure how they'd gotten
there. They remembered being asked questions, and slowly writing answers down,
and they remembered the cold, unsympathetic eyes of the police officers, and
they remembered one of them saying, disbelieving, contempt curling his lip, you
chose to just stand there and let it happen? 
Bee had stared blankly, not sure how to explain that there was no such things
as having any choice, and they floated off a little then, just a few inches to
the left of their bones.
The officers had asked a lot of questions. They had asked what she was wearing.
Was she alone. Had she ever spoken out loud to him before. Why she was out so
late. Did she know him. Why hadn't she called 911 herself. Who was that friend.
How had he been able to stop the assailant. Where was his owner. Did she know
his owner. Did she know him. What about Elektra Natchios. Did she know her
too. 
Bee had answered and answered, dragging the words out of them, but nothing
seemed to satisfy the cops. When they had explained how they'd know the man--
who turned out to be a student called Winston Sundermere--the police had been
incredulous. You seriously did that to a guy who was just trying to be
friendly? One of them had said, and Bee had stared ahead, not sure how to
possibly explain that it wasn't friendly, or 'flirting' like the other one
called it, or anything 'nice'. They couldn't think of a way to explain it in
words; they couldn't think of anyone they'd tell about it who wouldn't
understand immediately what they meant. (Because they'd never talk to anyone
but a slave or an ex-slave about this. And they weren't the one who had chosen
to call the police. Why did they do that? How did that help anything?)
They said nothing that wasn't an answer to a question, and when Matt and Foggy
finally ushered them away and the medical team from the ambulance said that
they were probably fine and didn't need an ambulance and Matt had turned his
head to Foggy and Foggy said yes they should come home with us tonight and Matt
had nodded and grabbed a bag that they recognized a little bit and told them to
go to Elsewhere for a minute until they got home and a cop walked them home and
Bee wasn't there, wasn't there at all, and only once it was just Matt and Foggy
and them in the kitchen that felt familiar and warm did they come back inside
their skin all the way and they shuddered violently.
There was a minute of talking, and they couldn't hear it as anything but noise,
but then Matt was pulling out something and only once he handed it to them did
they realize it was Anthea, and where had she been? What had happened to their
bag? And they hugged on tight, shaking a bit and feeling horribly guilty for
not going back for her, not even thinking about her. 
Things happened for a short while in strange bursts of sound and light-- Foggy
saying to them that they could use anything they needed-- Matt heating up
something on the stove that looked like chunks of pumpkin-colored stuff and
carrots and onions in cream and spices-- their hands touching a mug being
handed to them, full of that tea Matt had given them that one night-- Anthea
warm and soft and them rubbing their face on her-- a blanket being draped over
their lap and shoulders-- a blender going off, quieter than most of them but
making them jump-- Matt handing them a new mug when the tea was done, one full
of thick liquid-- their body suddenly hurting all over, scratches on their
chest and skin burning from the cold before--
===============================================================================
Matt was feeling restless. He'd been exhausted for hours, keeping a tight focus
on Bee and the man and Elektra and then cops and Foggy, trying to constantly
keep track of every little change in their heartbeats and body temperatures and
facial muscles, all the while projecting being deferential and unthreatening
and controlled by his owner, the worry of getting shot sharp in his mind
("An occupational hazard, but one which you are not allowed to fall victim to,
Matthew," Summer said sternly, "I will be furious if you do because of your own
carelessness.")
And everyone was upset. Well, everyone except for Elektra--she'd been weirdly
excited, even giddy the whole time, eager to start trying to talk to him. It
nagged at him as something wrong, something too weird to not pay attention to,
but now that he was home and Foggy was home and Bee was with them he had to
focus on the present. He felt jittery, too wired from the continual adrenaline
to calm down, so he focused on making a quick blended high-fat soup for Bee and
the special tea he had made for them before, and when he realized they were
starting to feel the pain of what had happened as they finished the soup he
made a decision: he sat down and hugged them close and tight and
strong, presumptous now that they were a person but when they went limp and
then tight, squeezing back and shaking with tears held in, he knew he'd made
the right decision.
Foggy came over, in pajamas and carrying what Matt guessed was pajamas or
sweats for Bee, and he quickly shook his head at his poor owner. His sister or
another similarly close and casual free person might be fine wearing his
pajamas, but no slave would want to wear the clothes of an owner that wasn't
theirs (or that was, and was using the clothes as a little threat that soon
more intimate use would start), and Bee seemed to have all the fears and
dislikes of a slave, anyway.
Thankfully, Foggy understood the signal and quickly changed gears, putting the
clothes back in his room and coming out with a big fuzzy blanket. "Hey," he
said to Bee, "Uh, I was--how--no, that's a stupid question. What do you need?"
Bee's chin tilted up and they looked at Foggy, best as Matt could tell, but
they said nothing and made no move to sign or type or even mouth words. Foggy
was floundering, and Matt interjected again (very rude, but the kind of
rudeness that was a habit with Foggy, the kind that saved him from further
awkwardness and discomfort) and said, "May Bee sleep in my bed with me tonight,
Foggy, and borrow my pajamas?"
"Uh--why?" Foggy asked, sounding thrown. Matt almost felt insulted for a second
that Foggy thought he was the kind of snobby doll that would make a distressed
slave sleep alone when there was a perfectly good bed that Foggy didn't even
use or fuck him in, but then he realized that Bee wasn't a slave and perhaps--
no, Foggy couldn't possibly be thinking that Bee would want to fuck Matt, they
had never shown any indication, and Matt would never allow it in any case, he
was nowhere near that disgusting and untrained and malicious-- and Matt
realized he was getting distracted.
"I think it would help them feel better," Matt said quietly. "It would be a
comfort to both of us." There, that would hopefully persuade him. And it wasn't
a lie, either, it was just--the truth was like the tea, complex and layered and
secret and guarded, and trying to explain to any free person the more complex
version of the truth would be impossible. How would they understand that
sleeping underneath a powerful, adored slave in another slave's warm,
expensive, modest clothes in a lovely bed was utterly comforting and would
likely be the best sleep they could have? And if they could understand it,
wouldn't they already? And even if they could explain it, it would just offend
owners and be rude and wrong and presumptuous. Matt had learned to be careful
to only give an owner as much truth as they really wanted years ago.
"Oh," Foggy said, "Okay. Um. And of course they can use the shower or anything
they need. Okay, Bee? I know you probably don't really want me bugging you, but
don't worry about anything, take what you need," he repeated, and flushed a
little bit, and then turned. "I'm going to bed, Matt. We might need to skip
classes tomorrow, it's so late, or just go to the afternoon ones, but I don't
really care."
"Okay, Foggy," Matt said, and did not say that he would be fine on no sleep at
all for just one measly little day, that he was a doll and he knew part of that
was being treated delicately but he was not in fact a literal Faberge egg. He
shoved those thoughts down deep inside of him; they were unworthy of him and
unworthy of his master. "Thank you. Good night, Foggy."
"Good night, Matt, Bee. Sweet--good dreams."
"Good dreams, Foggy," he echoed obediently back, and remembered for no
particular reason the way Summer would pet his hair and tell him you will be
better tomorrow before she fell asleep, when she did. (Nights spent lying
perfectly still and floppy and awake because she did not sleep and sleeping
when she didn't was just disrespectful. Nights spent awake on his knees,
balancing a book on his head. Nights spent in a closet, shut, to show him how
disappointed they were in him. Nights spent warm in her arms, safe underneath a
much stronger slave, her powerful body warming his, the silk of her nightgown
singing against his skin.)
He shook off his ridiculous mood and focused on Bee, who looked like they were
in firm contact with reality once again and distinctly unhappy about it. "More
tea, I think," Matt said, "Something soft and sleepy this time, and then we can
go to bed."
Bee was quiet while they drank the concotion, still not talking at all, and
Matt made sure he sipped a little water before offering them his hand. They
took it and Matt led them without thinking to his bed and found them pajamas,
one of the silk pairs Foggy had got to match the sheets with warm wool-silk
blend socks. They changed in almost unison and they slid under the covers and
let themselves adjust until Matt draped over Bee and locked his ankle in the
little chain, and Matt winced as he realized he'd let Foggy technically violate
the law by not locking him before he fell asleep. But Bee was warm now, calming
down a little bit, and Matt let himself fall asleep to the sound of Foggy's
snoring and Bee's near-silent breaths as they hugged their bear tight.
===============================================================================
Stacey Rae stared out the window, curled up underneath the hood of her
sweatshirt. Well, not hers, Lydia's, but it was the one she'd been wearing for
two days now, and she didn't know if Lydia would want it back. If she'd fucked
it up just like she'd surely fucked up her only chance to be in the Movement.
If it was contaminated by her failure to be even marginally good for anything.
She was huddled up under the thick fabric, holding the cup of tea that the
strange ex-slave who reminded her of grandmas on TV had given her, and she felt
a deep and horrible thing crawling under her skin, making her face tense like
it wanted to cry. She hadn't slept much in the past few days. She'd barely able
to settle down enough to sit still on the flight and in the long car ride up to
this cabin-place, but she hadn't said anything about it to anyone. Mostly she
didn't want to talk at all. She wanted to bury herself underground and never
have to look someone in the eye ever again or explain how such a fucking easy
job had been too hard for her and she'd quit like a selfish spoiled cowardly
idiot.
It had been a simple job, a stupidly easy job compared to the kind of thing she
used to do
(doing farm work for ten hours a day, milking cows and hauling feed around,
planting and weeding and harvesting, and then having lie back at night on her
aching back and think about this was all her fault for being such a brat that
her parents got divorced and that's when they went crazy, and then trudge out
to start again the next morning, or when the fancier camp her parents sent her
to made her write essays and do research for endless hours on the bible and why
homosexuality was unnatural from a sociological, historical, and moral
perspective, write and re-write them and chant slogans and attend endless bible
studies and go on long prayer marches in the hot burning sun and learn
dances for the purity balls at the end of the camp sessions that creeped out
even her dad, and that was a real something)
and she'd completely fucked it up. Lydia had called it a good starter job, said
it was easy because the personality you had to pretend to have was an easy one
to want to be, said all the information was pretty mundane stuff that could be
gotten just by water cooler gossip. All Stacey Rae had had to do was pretend to
be the fucking secretary, the one who bought cookies for the STRIKE team and
kept track of birthdays and made sure the things the team wanted were available
from the armory and pass along messages to the team leader and chat to people
and send back information to Lydia, and she hadn't even managed to do that
without having a stupid fucking tantrum just because of one bad night and
ruining her cover and Lydia's vacation and probably her only chance at ever
doing anything actually good or meaningful with her life. 
Lydia hadn't hit her, or yelled at her, or chewed her out. She'd gotten her out
of there immediately, faking her death by a car accident, and had looked after
her as they traveled up here. But that didn't make it any better; instead of
being scared and focusing on how she was going to survive this, instead Stacey
was just cringing at herself. She felt like her skin was several sizes too
small. She had retreated into the room she'd been offered, unable to talk or
face her mentor, and had only crept out in the early morning to take a small
sandwich that had been labeled with her name and then had gone back into her
room. It felt much safer not taking extra food that she didn't know was hers or
not, and besides, she had been so utterly pathetic and terrible, she didn't see
why she deserved any meals anyway. She'd never have been given any food at all
if she'd done this shit in the camps or at the farms, and especially not at
home. She didn't understand why Lydia didn't hate her, hadn't at least sat her
down and told her off for being a crybaby.
(Lydia was amazing. She'd taught Stacey everything about how to be a spy, how
to gather information from casual talk and gossip, how to make up a cover story
and live inside it like a big old comfy sweatshirt, how to keep focused on your
goals and stay on task day to day to day. Lydia was flawless and fiercely
intelligent and never scared of anything and Stacey Rae knew if she'd had this
job she'd have kept at it, and probably taken down the whole unit from within,
looking so amazingly nondescript and effortlessly fitting in the entire time.
She'd never have freaked out and panicked over absolutely nothing at all and
ruined everything.) 
Stacey just hoped that she'd be allowed to work anywhere for them. She'd take a
fucking farm again, she really would. And she knew she wasn't smart or good but
she could work for days on end, and she could stop herself from even looking at
other girls, she could do it, and she'd never whine about stupid things like a
bad night again. She'd graduated from half the camp programs, she had a lot of
willpower--
Her train of thought spluttered and then stopped when the ex-slave--Marianne,
she remembered with a flush of shame that she was so self-absorbed she couldn't
even remember her host's name--sat down on the same couch as her. 
Stacey stared at her, and at her sweater that had dancing cats chasing balls of
yarn on it, and she said, "Um, I'm sorry--I'll move--"
"No, you can sit there," Marianne said cheerfully. "You have a look on your
face like you need to learn how to do something. Here," and she handed Stacey
Rae a ball of yarn and what looked like a long double-ended stick with a
plastic string in the middle. 
"Uh," Stacey Rae said, now more confused. "I--"
"Here's how you cast on," Marianne said, and Stacey Rae was very confused, but,
well, Marianne was her host, and so she followed along slowly as Marianne had
her cast on and start knitting in the round, making small stitches to create an
eventual hat. When she had an actual hat starting as a tube and could remember
how to make the motions going, Marianne picked up her own knitting and said to
Stacey, "So how are you doing?"
"Huh?" Stacey Rae asked. "I, um. Fine, I guess?"
"Lydia was worried that you were much more upset than she had originally
thought," Marianne said. "She's not happy with herself."
Stacey Rae immediately felt terrible. "Oh god, no, I didn't mean--"
"She's not going to punish you," Marianne said simply. "Or be angry at you. She
takes responsibility for what happened, and since she is the head of these
operations, it makes sense. The only person she's really pissed at is her, and
that man on the team."
Stacey Rae blinked. "But--I panicked over nothing, and I, I mean I really could
have kept going--"
"But it's her job to make sure that you don't get panicked or so stressed out
that you only can keep going," Marianne said, "And even though most slaves are
numb to...things like that, others really, really aren't. Lydia's kicking
herself for not making sure you're the former."
Stacey felt a flush of heat and shame flood through her. She gulped slowly. "L-
Lydia told you what happened?"
"I don't think Lydia even knows what happened," Marianne said, "And no, of
course not. I overheard, but everyone forgets how good my hearing is. All she
knows is that some man on the team you had infiltrated did something to you in
his house at a, a board game night, I think--and that was the straw that broke
the camel's back."
"But it shouldn't have been," Stacey whispered. "I mean, it wasn't--I've had
worse. I don't even know why it upset me so much."
Marianne hummed, and then said absently, "You ever been smacked in an open
wound? Maybe like that."
Stacey was startled, and then started to process that, and they knit in silence
for a little while. She focused on making the little stitches with the bright
green yarn.
"You aren't going to be punished by anyone," Marianne said after a while.
"Especially not by me. And since it's my house, I run it, and so if anyone's
going to be mad at you then they'll not do it here. And please eat some more,
it's making me think that you hate my cooking and it's stressing me out," she
said with a smile, and Stacey Rae bit her lip and apologized, and then they
lapsed into a silence only broken by the clicks of needles until it was
dinnertime.
===============================================================================
 
Elektra put on some quiet music as she finished unpacking and cleaning the
little two-room place she'd been placed in. The Chaste always had high
standards of cleanliness, and new initiates shared the drudge work until they
were ready to focus heavily on their combat and other skills. Granted, she'd
had a short phase of being a faceless initiate compared to others, but she'd
done it nonetheless. She hummed along to the song as she swept and mopped the
floors and moved on to setting out her various outfit-costumes, putting the
things she needed to have to be a barista in the same little cubbyhole together
and then the things she'd need for the check-in meeting in a different one,
putting some delicious fuck-me boots and a glittering dress in the third. She
knew her target, Matthew, couldn't actually see them or her ass (his loss, it
was excellent), but it helped to create the connection that she'd use to get
him on her side. 
It was going to be a difficult mission, she knew that already. Matthew was
pretending very heavily to be loyal to Foggy Nelson, and he was wary of her and
all strangers. She'd watched him for a week before contact, and he was very
skilled at keeping most everyone at a polite distance that was...oddly familiar
to her.
(She didn't even let her emotions be known to fellow Chaste members, or at
least the emotions about anything truly important. She had once slipped up and
shown them how much she hated the Hand, how badly she wanted to kill them, how
much the thought of them talking about her like a precious jewel made her shake
with rage, and that had gotten her nothing besides this shit mission and an
order to her mentor to not allow her direct contact with them. It ate at her
inside her belly.)
But she hummed, dancing awkwardly to herself as she cleaned her swords and
knives next, keeping them clean and oiled and putting them back in their
sheaths. She twirled a little bit and smiled to herself, recentering a little
bit. It would all be fine. Matthew kept himself hidden from everyone else, and
that meant she could wriggle into that gap, crawl inside his skin and move his
hands for him while he sat back and enjoyed the ride. He'd come to understand
her and the Chaste and their fight. He'd fall in love with her, she knew it,
all she needed to do was give him his most forbidden, repressed, horrible
desire--the desire for revenge. She'd seen it in his eyes when he'd stopped
that little rat from hurting his friend, and she knew that once she'd gotten
him to indulge in his desires and cast out his fear of being punished then he'd
be hooked forever. He'd come back with her and her mentor and the Chaste would
have an amazing, capable warrior that knew better than anyone else how to
navigate the world of slavery, and the Hand would never see them coming.
(And maybe, just maybe, he'd always appreciate her for rescuing him, he'd smile
at her as they fought the Hand. Maybe she'd have someone to dance with while
they cleaned their knives together, and they'd still have fun, and she wouldn't
be quite so alone. They could spar and eat fancy foods and go to Milan, she
thought in a very secret corner of her mind.) 
Elektra danced more to the quiet rhythm, not trying to make it sexy or
enticing, and she went on next to her shower, humming wordlessly the entire
time. 
===============================================================================
Foggy woke up late, and realized why he did when he saw both Matt and Bee wide
awake and curled up close together, moving their hands and tapping to talk. It
was a strange sight; Bee wasn't very cuddly at all in the first place, and Matt
avoided touching most people too. He relaxed for Foggy, of course, and that
made Foggy feel smug and sick at the same time, and when he thought about it he
knew that Bee and Matt did hug sometimes, he guessed, and Bee nudged and poked
Matt, but he hadn't seen them cuddled up so close for months. 
Huh. 
He shook his weird mood off and got up, unlocking Matt immediately, and then
yawning and padding to the bathroom. When he got out, feeling much more awake,
he looked at Bee and Matt and asked, "Hey...you guys want me to make some
waffles or something?"
"Waffles would be lovely, Foggy, just give me a moment and I'll make different
types," Matt offered. "And perhaps some coffee?"
"How about you make the coffee and I make the waffles," Foggy said back gently
but firmly. "You cook literally all the time, and it's crazy delicious, but I
promise you I can blow you away with a waffle iron, some peanut butter and some
bananas."
Bee looked actually interested in that, and whipped their phone out to say,
"Peanut butter's easy to eat, and so are bananas if they're mashed."
"Sure, I'll mash some for yours," Foggy offered to them, and then paused, "And
maybe cut your waffle up small, shit, I just realized that they're kinda
chewy..."
"I do have teeth," Bee said then and visibly flinched, "Sorry. Yes. Thank you.
Please I would like waffles. Sorry."
"No problem," Foggy said, and felt awkward and weird, looking at them, who had
flinched and now looked upset and sad, and he had felt horrible for them last
night, and now he felt horrible again and now had no idea what to do, unlike
before. "I'll--waffles," he said, and went to the kitchen to focus on it.
When he had the batter ready to go and the waffle iron almost hot, Matt came in
looking somehow excellent even now, and worked on the coffee. It was quiet and
awkward, and Foggy felt odd about it. He got Bee their waffle first, cutting it
up small and adding in dollops of mashed banana with peanut butter and some
Nutella on second thought; after all, didn't chocolate make everything better?
Candace always said that, he thought, and then cringed at himself for thinking
about Candace because of Bee.
Bee poked at it with their fork, eating two bites, and Matt seemed weirdly
irritated. "Is there something wrong with it?" he asked them flatly.
They shook their head.
"Then eat it," Matt said briskly. "You need food, and this is good food.
Protein, calories, carbohydrates. And coffee," he added, faking a glance at the
mug of coffee heavily laced with sugar and cream that he'd gotten them. "You
need to be eating and drinking after a crisis."
Bee shrugged, and looked down, like they felt guilty. Foggy's chest hurt a
little bit, but he felt like he had no right to say anything. It wasn't like
they were close friends, he and Bee, and he had never been able to tell if they
even liked him a tiny bit. They didn't hate him but they also hadn't had any
choice about being around him before, and Foggy felt odd about the whole
ordeal.
Bee typed something out next, and deleted it twice, and then Matt got impatient
and told them, "Just say it, whatever it is."
And now Matt was starting to creep Foggy out, he thought. Bee replied, slowly
and as haltingly, "Will the police be angry at me because I didn't do anything,
but you did?"
"Well, they should already know I've had bodyguard training and certification,"
Matt said with a shrug, "It's in a national database. And what do you mean you
didn't do anything? What were you supposed to do?"
Bee shrugged.
"You have no fight training," Matt told them very bluntly, "You have literally
never once been taught how to resist that sort of thing. It would have been
exceedingly inappropriate for you to know that before you were freed. I mean,
you were K-class, it would have been absurd!" 
(And now Foggy kept feeling creeped out but couldn't put his finger on it
still, even though Matt was saying something good and Bee was visibly relaxing
and almost laughing silently as they absorbed his words.)
"And besides, even most free people are not trained in combat or self-defense,
with or without a weapon. The safest thing almost all the time is to not
resist, unless you've been ordered to always struggle and fight to stop
someone, of course," Matt continued on, "And if you're supposing you should
have predicted it, you shouldn't be--that's a skill too, and since your former
owners were idiots, of course you didn't learn it. It took me years to see and
predict patterns like that before they happened."
Bee blinked, and sat up straighter, and started eating with more gusto.
"You were just lucky me and that person were there," Matt said simply. "It had
nothing to do with you and it says nothing about you. There's no point dwelling
on what else you should  or could have done until you're trained to have other
options besides what you did. You lived, ergo you made the right choices. Eat."
Bee flipped him off but kept eating, chewing their breakfast with a small,
relieved smile. 
 
Chapter End Notes
     Title comes from fromonesurvivortoanother's poem "The Survivor
     Mythos", here: http://fromonesurvivortoanother.tumblr.com/post/
     45727228632/the-survivor-mythos
     The song Elektra is singing along to and dancing to is "Dancing By
     Myself", the Glee cover version.
     I'm so sorry it's taken me this long to write, but I feel like I'm
     getting better at crawling out of my hole of depression and writer's
     block. I have a LOT of ideas for where I want this fic to go. To
     those who worry about future Elektra/Matt: please don't worry! It
     will not destroy Matt/Foggy. That's just not what I want to write.
End Notes
     And now I have a tumblr, here: http://swiggity-swydra-fuck-
     hydra.tumblr.com/
     Come ask me questions, send me prompts/suggestions, ask me to do the
     DVD commentary meme, or just say hi if you'd like!
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