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writereleaserepeat · 1 year

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Hear No Evil - Chapter 5

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CW: bbu, bbu-adjacent, pet whump, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization, dehumanizing intent by using it/its pronouns, ableism, blood mention, scar mention, non-sexual nudity

It felt wrong to touch the boy’s face. It felt wrong to touch a person who had been endlessly abused into mindless submission, someone who had been trained through pain and suffering that they had to exist at the will and command of another. It felt wrong that the boy was still sitting naked, all but skin and bones, entirely unmoving on Rowan’s floor.

What other choice did Rowan have? Was there another way to communicate with this boy, one that wasn’t as direct as physical contact? Necessity, Rowan reminded himself as the boy’s face turned upward in his palm. I’m doing this out of necessity.

Even as he gently guided the boy’s face to look upwards, he refused to meet Rowan’s eyes, his gaze directed towards the floor. That was alright. It was going to have to be alright for a while, Rowan suspected.

After a moment he let his fingers fall away from the boy’s chin. He wouldn’t have admitted it, but he was relieved when his new houseguest held the position rather than dropping back to the ground.

“Hey there,” Rowan greeted. He did his best to smile. “I don’t know if you remember, but my name’s Rowan. I know this is new for you, but it’s new for me too. It’s new for both of us. I’m sure you’re probably scared, but we’re going to get through this. We’re going to have to learn together, alright?”

The boy didn’t even blink.

---

Master didn’t seem upset that Pet was holding still and looking up at him. By the hint of a smile on Master’s lips, it seemed that he was pleased by the unusual posture.

It didn’t dare meet Master’s eyes, of course, but now it could try and read his lips. Even if it couldn’t decipher the words that Master was speaking, it had already come to enjoy the soft murmur of Master’s speech. The kindness and warmth was enough for it to relax.

New… new… new for both of us… learn together…

Pet knew that it could do that. Pet was happy to learn new things for its Master, and it was going to try its very best to do them well. Failure meant punishment, but even worse, failure meant disappointing Master. Disappointing its old Master is what got Pet into this mess to begin with. It could handle any amount of pain, however Master chose to train it, but disappointment always burned the deepest.

Pet can be good. Pet can learn with Master.

---

It struck Rowan that now only was the boy still naked, but the stench of waste and sweat clung to his body. The putrid odor of the liquidation event had begun to seep into the room at no fault of the boy’s own.

Of course - Rowan privately scolded himself for forgetting. The facility never gave its victims the luxury of proper hygiene, and this one had been stuck at the liquidation event for days, before eventually being stuffed in a box. There was no wonder that the boy’s curls were slicked down with grease and dirt.

Rowan attempted a smile. He knew it didn’t reach his eyes, but how could it, when he knew how much pain this person had been through?

“How does a bath sound, yeah? Can we do that?” Rowan offered this enthusiastically. Rowan also knew that his bathroom was a bit of a disaster, scattered with half-empty shampoo bottles and skin care products he hadn’t used in weeks. He tried to soothe himself by rationalizing that the boy wouldn’t particularly care about the room’s cleanliness.

There was no reaction to Rowan’s offer, not a nod, not so much as a twitch. It was all he could do not to sigh, worried that any sighs would be interpreted as misplaced frustration. The last thing he wanted to do was set the boy on edge.

He remembered what worked earlier, the very gestures that had lured the boy to his bedroom in his first place. After giving himself a determined nod, Rowan took a few steps backwards, and gestured with a low hand to invite the victim to follow along.

Much to Rowan’s relief, the boy understood. He scampered forward on his hands and knees, eyes glued back to the ground, every bone on his gaunt frame showing. As much as Rowan would have preferred him to walk on two feet, this was going to have to do for the moment. Just enough to get him cleaned and settled in, nothing more. Then they would begin work on rehabilitation.

As soon as Rowan opened the door to the bathroom, the boy bolted forward and into the tub in a tangle of limbs and apparent enthusiasm. Rowan hadn’t spoken a single word or made a gesture. He smiled in spite of himself, and cocked his head to the side.

“Alright, I guess baths are okay? That’ll make this easier.” Rowan thought about the many victims that had been tormented by water, scalded or frozen at inhumane temperatures, or held beneath the surface until they drew mouthfuls into their lungs. To have a victim who was at least amiable to the cleaning process would relieve the burden on them both.

The boy had resumed the typical kneeling position in the tub, seemingly unbothered by the hard porcelain. Rowan figured it was best not to try and correct that for the time being. One step at a time. Be encouraging.

Rowan leaned over to the spigot and slowly turned it on, carefully easing the handle towards “H,” and diligently checked the temperature as water began to flow. Once it was comfortably warm he plugged the drain and watched as the clear liquid began to pool around the boy’s legs. Rowan almost swore he heard a contented sigh as the boy’s eyes slipped closed.

For the first time in more than a day, Rowan felt himself smile, a genuine smile. And for the first time, he felt that maybe he was cut out for this.

---

Pet was grateful for the washing before it even began. Its old Master was so particular in keeping Pet clean, and would have his servants scrub Pet down every day beneath a stream of hot water. Sometimes the soap was floral, other times it was citrus, but it always left Pet smelling wonderful. Handler never gave it such luxuries when it was sent back to the training facilities.

The water rose ever higher, first over its thighs, then over the pale skin of its stomach, until the water finally came to a stop right above its navel. It could have groaned with how pleasant the warm water felt on its aching legs and bruised knees. For a moment it nearly dared to speak, express its gratitude for the kindness, but knew better than to open its mouth without being told.

Still, it was a treat to have Master wash it rather than a servant.

Master gently cupped warm water over its head, and Pet closed its eyes tight to keep the water out. With each new splash of water Master continued to talk away, his voice nearly as warm as the water, wrapping around Pet’s shoulders along with the suds. Of course, the words were still indistinct, and Pet listened in case there was a command it could discern, but it was already starting to think that maybe Master just liked to talk. Pet wouldn’t mind that at all.

---

“I’ve never really had anything to name before,” Rowan mused aloud as he worked his fingers through the boy’s curls. The texture was so much deeper than his own, the ringlets rich with weight. He made a quick mental note that the dollar-store shampoo he used for his own pin-straight hair would most certainly not do in the future.

“You see, I had to name a goldfish when I was a kid,” Rowan continued as he began to rinse the shampoo out. “I had to name it, and I stalled for weeks. My parents kept asking me, and my sister kept bugging me about it, but I just didn’t have anything. My mom eventually suggested ‘Goldy,’ and I just went with it. But if you can’t tell me what you want to be called, at least not yet, you deserve a name. A proper one, something with a bit of dignity.”

He wondered if there were websites to help with such a thing. namesforyourbrainwashedhumanslave.com? It wouldn’t surprise him.

“You’re going to have to learn to wash yourself in the future.” Rowan gently wrung some of the water from the boy’s thick head of hair and hoped he wasn’t pulling on the roots. “It’s okay if that doesn’t happen right away. I’m more than happy to help, but I want you to feel comfortable doing things on your own, without having to ask me. You can come in here and have a bath whenever you want. The apartment incorporates the cost of utilities into the monthly rent already, which means we can use as much as we want at no extra cost. It’s nice to have almost unlimited heat in the winters, especially this far north.”

As he began to carefully wipe away the grime on the boy’s face with a warm cloth, Rowan nearly startled when the boy leaned into the touch. He hadn’t expected to feel pressure returned against his hand. After pausing long enough to pull himself out of the shock, Rowan pressed on and began to scrub at the dried blood on the side of the victim’s face. Flakes of muddy brown and deep crimson scabs covered the deep gouges that ran from his temples, down his ears and jawline, almost down to his neck. Given the extent of the damage, it was a wonder there was any skin left.

“I hope one day you can tell me how these got here,” Rowan murmured as he got a good look at the wounds for the first time. Blood flaked away and fell in hues of brown into the water, mixed with fresh red from the most recent and still-weeping wounds.

“I’m sorry,” Rowan whispered before he could stop himself, because he knew he had to be hurting the boy, no matter how gently he tried to proceed. The wounds were deep, and Rowan wondered if they needed stitches. How was he supposed to tell? Maybe they were too wide for stitches, maybe the scar tissue was already too well-formed.

They were different than the scars that Rowan had seen on other victims before, and he had seen the aftermath of many instruments of torture in his time. These scars were jagged, and they were as wide as three fingers across, as though they had been continually torn open. It was the first time Rowan saw them this close up, and he noted that the cartilage of the ears was warped and knobbed. Again, something like he had never seen before.

The water had turned a translucent copper color, and Rowan tried not to be sick as he reached in to drain the bathtub. A quick hand gesture and the boy got out of the tub and knelt back down on the bath mat.

Right, towels. Dry him off.

“Let’s get you dry, huh?” Rowan spoke. Maybe it would help ease whatever tensions were running through the boy’s mind if Rowan kept narrating what he was doing. He imagined it would be beneficial to take away some of the nerve-wracking suspense, and instead replace it with vocalized certainty.

Forcing a smile on his lips, Rowan grabbed the freshly-laundered towel he had set aside, and held it out in the boy’s line of sight.

“I’ve got a clean towel here. If you want to do it yourself, just grab the towel, and I’ll stop. Otherwise, here we go.”

As soon as the terry cloth made contact with the boy’s shoulders, he leaned into the touch, his upper body shifting a few centimeters closer to Rowan’s own. Again. This time, Rowan didn’t startle quite so easily. In fact, he was surprised at himself, and the happiness that blossomed in his stomach.

He knew he couldn’t take happiness in this forever. There was no joy to be taken in a human being that acted on inhumane training, a human who sought other human contact because they were told to, not because they wanted it. But if the boy wasn’t afraid of him and his touch, that was one small victory. Rowan had a feeling he was going to have to take the little victories for what they were.

“You’re doing great,” he said, not for the first time that hour. But this time, Rowan knew he might have been talking to himself as well.

---

Taglist: @honey-is-mesi @aswallowimprisoned @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @honeycollectswhump @rekiroyalstraightprincemaru @tragedyinblue @clairelsonao3 @octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @peachy-panic @whumplr-reader @dislexiher @cc1010foxy @onlybadendings @panstardalia @tempoghast @whumpzone

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thetomorrowshow · 2 years

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poisoned rats in a pot of grain - ch. 10

Masterlist - Previous - Next

ok i know i said last chapter was the penultimate one but i lied this is actually the penultimate one jsdhfj

cw: brief psych ward setting, mentioned past suicide attempts, panic attacks, non-graphic flashbacks

“I’m glad you’re here, Major, because he’s not doing well.”

Scott nods, fidgets with his mask. It’s strange, being out as Major in jeans and a t-shirt, but full superhero getup had seemed inappropriate for a psych ward. “I’m just glad he’s agreed to see me.”

The man—Josh, not just someone random, but Solidarity’s therapist—gives him a tired smile. “He’s gotten better, but this just isn’t the right environment for his recovery. We’re doing all we can.”

“I understand.”

He frowns, and Scott can tell that he doesn’t think Scott does understand. And maybe he’s right. Scott hasn’t seen Solidarity in almost a month. He doesn’t know anything about him.

They’ve been given special allowances to meet privately, for anonymity purposes. Without much further discussion, Josh leads him out of his office and into what appears to be a vacant residential room, a card table and two folding chairs set up beside the bunk.

When Scott enters, Solidarity is already in the room. He looks up, and Scott can’t help but swallow back a wave of nausea at his appearance.

There are deep purple bruises ringing his dull eyes, set into a waxy, thin face. His hair is at an awkward length, too short to pull back but too long to let lie without styling, which clearly isn’t an option here. He fidgets with the sleeve of the grey hoodie that almost swallows his emaciated frame. He’s not wearing a mask—again intended to help with anonymity—and he seems self-conscious about that, hand going up to pull at nothing every once in a while.

Scott doesn’t know what he’d expected—someone who looked less like a corpse, he supposes. Someone who was doing poorly, as Josh had said, but better than this.

Scott sits down opposite him at the card table as Josh eases the door shut behind him. It’s just him and Solidarity, and Scott occupies himself with the table for a few moments to stall whatever type of conversation he has to have. There’s very little on the table—what looks like a protein shake in a styrofoam cup, a couple of sheets of looseleaf paper with colored markers. The papers are all blank. Nothing that would usually grab his attention for very long.

There’s no more putting it off. Scott’s not sure what’s going to happen—if Solidarity will be calm and coherent, or if he’ll scream so terribly like he did when Xornoth died, echoing the fight that still haunts Scott’s nightmares.

“Hi,” Scott greets eventually, settling in and brushing his hair behind his ear. Solidarity’s eyes follow the movement. “Thanks for meeting with me.”

Solidarity doesn’t move.

It’s slightly disconcerting to not get a response, but Scott forges on. “Your therapist told me you haven’t been doing well. Do you want to tell me about that?”

Solidarity stares at him blankly. Scott waits.

He sort of wishes that they’d warned him about how he would behave.

“It’s okay if not. You don’t have to answer any questions you’re uncomfortable with. Are they treating you well? Feeding you enough?”

Solidarity’s eyes are still dead, but his lips twist into a wry imitation of a smile as he gestures to the protein drink. Finally, a response of some sort. Scott picks up the cup, waits for Solidarity’s nod before bringing the beige mixture to his nose to sniff.

“Yuck,” he grimaces. “They expect you to drink this stuff?”

Solidarity clears his throat, mutters something.

“Sorry?”

He says it again, barely louder. “Not exactly fine dining.”

Scott can’t help it—he laughs. He laughs probably harder and longer than necessary, trailing off with a conspiratorial, “When I bust you out of here, we’ll stop at McDonald’s or something. Get a burger and fries.”

Solidarity freezes. Looks up at him. Looks him in the eyes. “Out?”

He hadn’t meant to say that immediately. He was supposed to ease it into the conversation, wait until Solidarity was somewhat comfortable before bringing it up. No hope of that now.

“Yeah,” he says. “Like I said, they told me you aren’t doing great here. Your therapist said he thinks you’ll do better outside of this environment. So I offered to be the supervision or whatever you need for a while. If that’s okay with you.”

Solidarity doesn’t answer, but unlike his blank stare from a moment earlier, he’s clearly thinking. After a minute, he absently uncaps a blue colored marker and scribbles a couple of words onto the paper, the position of his arm blocking Scott from being able to see it.

“What would that look like?”

It’s a good question. A smart question, and just him asking that is giving Scott hope for improvement. He takes a moment himself to gather his thoughts—he’s been considering this for about a week now, officially—though his first thoughts of bringing Solidarity into his home (for protection then rather than recuperation) had occurred approximately a year ago.

“You’d live in my house,” Scott tells him, shifting a bit in his seat. Solidarity nods, writes something else. “There wouldn’t be someone constantly watching you, and your bedroom would actually have a lock. You’d be free to go about the house as you liked, but I would have to ask that if you wanted to go someplace outside, you would let me accompany you.”

He has no clue what Solidarity is thinking. He has to take a breath to remind himself that just because he isn’t talking doesn’t mean he isn’t listening. Maybe it’s for the best that he doesn’t know what’s going on in his head.

“You would continue with therapy and whatever medications they’ve prescribed you since being here, of course. We would shift you to a new therapist—probably mine, for secrecy type stuff. Otherwise, we would try to get you back into a normal lifestyle, get you to a place where you feel comfortable and safe living on your own again.”

Solidarity writes on his paper, caps the blue marker, and reaches for a red one instead. He writes a bit more, crosses something out. He looks up suddenly, gaze piercing.

“I don’t—I don’t cause accidents, anymore,” he says, and the hand not holding the red marker seems to unconsciously drift to rub at the back of his neck. “They—I can control it, now. They fixed that.”

Scott highly doubts that anything was fixed by Xornoth ever, but he nods to show Solidarity that he understands. “What does that mean for you?”

Solidarity shifts uncomfortably. “I feel safer, I guess. Being around people. And places.” He writes something down, twiddles the marker between his fingers. “How soon?”

“Until we would hypothetically leave?”

A short nod.

“I think they told me they need about four days to get your discharge stuff worked out,” answers Scott. He leans forward. “They also told me it would be really nice if you could speak up during a group therapy session, but that it’s okay if you don’t feel ready for that yet.”

Solidarity’s eyes narrow. “If I talk during group, can they make it three days?”

Oh. He actually . . . wants to go with Scott. Either Solidarity’s opinion of him is quite a lot higher than Scott had assumed, or he really hates this place.

“I can ask them about it. There’s one more condition to you coming home with me, though.”

Quicker than quick, Solidarity’s expression becomes guarded. He sets down the marker, stares down at his paper.

Scott smiles as gently as he can manage. “I need you to sign a medical release form—meaning that I get to see your records. It won’t tell me anything that you’ve talked about in therapy,” he’s quick to add, “it’ll just give me your diagnoses, medical history, and give your doctors permission to talk to me about concerns. Is that all right?”

Another long pause, but Scott’s beginning to be okay with it. If this is how Solidarity communicates, then he can get used to giving him time to think. Solidarity picks up the marker again, writes one more word, then clicks the cap on.

“That’s fine,” he says, and Scott’s heart leaps. He finally can help him in a way that matters. He can finally start to repay him for all that Xornoth did.

Solidarity stands, quite suddenly, and steps away toward the door. “Remember to ask about the group thing,” he tells Scott quietly, and then he’s gone.

Scott sits for several more seconds, then stands as well. On Solidarity’s paper, in blue and red marker, are random, disconnected words and fragmented sentences, surrounded by absent little squiggles.

Anxious. Person. Leaving? I have autonomy. Outside sources. I have autonomy. Nervous, but okay. No panic attack. Hopeful.

Hopeful. Scott thinks he’s pretty hopeful, too.

Scott’s hand shakes when he dials the number scribbled onto Solidarity’s—Jimmy, his name is Jimmy, he’d heard it once a month ago and now he has permission to use it—discharge papers. Jimmy’s in the shower, door locked, and Scott has no plans to interrupt him.

When a vaguely familiar voice answers, it’s barely a moment before Scott starts speaking.

“It’s Major. You said I could call with any questions?”

“Of course, what’s up?”

“His papers.” Scott’s still holding the one that bothers him, the one that nobody had mentioned to him. “It says—it says four suicide attempts. Wh—can I know—why did no one—?”

A long sigh from Josh on the other end. “Look, as his therapist I’m not allowed to say much. But all of those attempts occurred when he was still in the hospital recovering, before we moved him to the inpatient mental health unit. TJ expressed to me that he didn’t know what was happening and that he finds hospitals incredibly distressing. My evaluations found him to not be a danger to himself at the moment.”

The knot in Scott’s chest loosens slightly at the words. “So he’s not on any sort of watch?”

“Nothing like that. You can ask him about it, I’m sure he would be honest.”

Scott ends the conversation after a few more unnecessary questions, then places all of the papers back into a neat pile on the dining room table.

It’s weird having Jimmy living here. It’s only been a few days, but Scott hasn’t had a roommate in a long time.

Not that he and Jimmy interact much. Jimmy stays in his room more often than not, but a ground rule Scott had laid down requires him to eat at least one meal a day with Scott—just to make sure he’s eating. Scott always tries to cook, or else get take-out, to try and get Jimmy into the habit of enjoying food. He makes sure to label in the fridge or cabinets if there’s anything he’s planning a meal for, but otherwise Jimmy knows that food is up for grabs at all times of the day. Scott thinks he eats relatively frequently. It’s hard to tell—again, it’s only been a few days.

He’s still rattled by the words on the highly confidential paper—four attempts—so he shifts his attention to cooking. Vegetarian lasagna, he’s thinking—sweet potatoes and spinach and a white sauce with noodles and cheese. That sounds fine.

The shower shuts off while Scott is layering the ingredients. That’s good; he can ask Jimmy about his diagnoses while the lasagna cooks.

A phone call from yesterday nags at his mind, and Scott knows he needs to talk to Jimmy about that as well.

When Jimmy enters the kitchen ten minutes later, hair toweled dry and clothes slightly sticking to him, Scott smiles the best he can.

“Hi, Jimmy! I’m making lasagna for dinner. Feel up to joining me?”

Jimmy’s eyes dart around Scott’s head, looking anywhere but at him directly. “Uh, yeah, sure,” he says eventually. He carefully, quietly pulls out a chair at the dining table and perches on the edge of it, as if uncertain of his welcome.

Scott knows the moment he notices the papers, because his idle fidgeting ceases. Jimmy goes oddly still, looks down at his knees. Scott shoots him several glances, trying to discern what emotion his face is displaying.

Maybe he’s nervous. “I thought it might be helpful to go over your papers quickly, if that’s all right,” Scott tells him, foiling the top of the lasagna and putting the whole pan in the oven. He sets the timer for twenty minutes and pulls up his own seat at the table, shuffles through the papers for a moment. Jimmy doesn’t move, which Scott takes as an affirmative answer.

“First off, it lists your medications. It looks like you’re on an anti-anxiety and an antidepressant, as well as a couple of vitamin supplements. Have you been taking those as instructed?”

A nod.

“Good. Any bad side effects?”

“Nothing I’ve noticed,” Jimmy says. Scott almost pumps his fist. It’s only been two days, yet those are probably the most words Jimmy’s spoken strung together.

“Great.” Scott sets aside the prescription sheet. “Let me know when you get down to about three days left, yeah? Then we can go pick up the prescription—wait, Paxil?” He looks closer at the medication names, some strange feeling bubbling up within him. “I take Paxil, too, that’s hilarious.”

That catches Jimmy’s attention, and finally his eyes leave his lap. “You—er, you take antidepressants?”

“Have since I was a teenager.” His own dose is lower than Jimmy’s, but it’s funny in some strange way. It’s a bonding moment. “That’s so weird, I love that. We can get our prescriptions at the same time!”

For the first time that Scott thinks he’s ever seen, Jimmy smiles. It’s a small smile, and it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and it vanishes quickly, but to Scott it’s the most beautiful smile he’s ever seen. In a totally normal, platonic way. And in a totally normal, platonic way, he wants to see that smile again.

“Right. So according to this, you’re diagnosed with. . . .” Scott finds the right paper, reads it off: “PTSD, anxiety, depression, selective mutism, and possible BPD. Does that sound about right?”

Jimmy snorts. “Yeah, apparently ‘tortured and forced to be a psychotic maniac’s pet’ isn’t in the DSM-5, so that cocktail is what’s wrong with me.”

Scott blinks. He’s—how is he—?

Almost without his input, his mouth drops into a horrified O shape and his hands shoot up to cover it, eyes wide. “Jimmy—”

“That was a joke!” Jimmy says quickly, hands coming up defensively—but Scott can see that he’s starting to smile again. “Sorry. It’s easier to cope sometimes if I joke. I can stop.”

Scott opens his mouth to reassure him, but what comes out instead is incredulous laughter. He cuts it off quickly, still totally shaken by what Jimmy’s just said. “No, please joke,” Scott says. “It’s—it was a good joke, it was just—I shouldn’t have laughed, it was a really inappropriate thing for me to laugh at.” He takes a moment to compose himself. “But seriously, if you ever need someone to talk to—and I need to get you an appointment with Nora, she’s a great therapist—but other than that, I’m here. You don’t have to tell me anything, but I’m willing to listen and help any way I can.”

Jimmy shrugs, but Scott thinks it’s a positive shrug. Then, as if bracing himself, he speaks. “I’m quiet sometimes. That’s the mutism thing. Yeah. Um, I have panic attacks a lot, and flashbacks. And both at once. That’s—I think that’s all that’s important for you to know right now.”

That’s entirely fair, and a lot more than Scott had expected to get. Scott turns to the next page, the one that details Jimmy’s stay in the emergency room. . . .

He turns that page as well. He hasn’t noticed any concerning behavior. If it comes up, he’ll ask Jimmy about it. For now, he’ll trust what he’s been told.

“Any allergies?”

Jimmy shrugs again. “Not that I know of. You?”

That takes Scott aback. This isn’t—what is this, speed-dating? He’s supposed to be asking the questions!

If it makes Jimmy feel less like he’s being interrogated, though. . . .

“Almonds,” Scott says, then amends, “it’s not exactly an allergy yet, though. More of a sensitivity. Anything you won’t eat?”

Again, Jimmy shrugs. Scott thinks he’d best get used to this form of communication. “Not a huge fan of peanut butter sandwiches. To be fair, I’ve not really had much for the better part of a year, so I’ll eat anything.”

“Great, because I’ve got a vegetarian lasagna in the oven right now and it would be awkward if you weren’t gonna eat spinach. Is Nutella good in the realm of sandwiches, or would you prefer lunch meat?”

Another almost-smile, but this one Jimmy covers by looking away. “Whatever you prefer. I’m not picky, I swear.”

That about wraps up Scott’s questions, all but one. The one that’s been on his mind since he received the phone call yesterday evening.

“Jimmy,” he starts, pulling all the papers together and pushing them to the side, “I got a call yesterday. From Lizzie.”

He notices the way Jimmy flinches, the guilt that suddenly lines his face. He wants to ask what happened between them, how they got separated in the first place. That’s none of his business, though. “She wants to meet with you, if you feel up to that. She says it’s okay if not, but she reassured me that if you agreed to meet, there would be no murder.”

And he’d asked. Several times.

“She just wants to talk. That’s what she told me. If you agreed, she would come here alone some day next week. The two of you would talk in the nice living room. I would be present if you want me to, but otherwise just somewhere else in the house. Would that be okay?”

Jimmy’s quiet for a long moment. Long enough that Scott starts to wonder if he should check on the lasagna. Agonizingly slowly, he asks,

“Do I have to?”

“Not at all,” Scott responds instantly. “I can tell her you don’t want to, it’s not a problem.”

Jimmy’s shoulders slump, and Scott realizes just how scared he’d been in those few minutes. “I need to,” he explains, voice trembling, “but . . . I will, I promise, it’s just so hard. I owe it to her, but my head is too messed up right now.”

“You don’t owe anyone anything.”

“I owe Lizzie this,” Jimmy says firmly. “You don’t know what happened, you don’t get to pass judgment on it. But she deserves to hear it right, and I don’t—I don’t think I can yet. Can you tell her that?”

Scott smiles. “Of course.” he doesn’t quite understand, but he knows (of course he knows, how could he not) that Jimmy is going through a lot in his head. He isn’t necessarily privy to any of it. Nora had told him only last week that it’s possible Jimmy is fighting his own brain just to wear clothes, speak, or even move. Jimmy’s right. It’s not up to him to pass judgment. All he can do is have compassion.

The lasagna beeps and Scott hops up. And if he accidentally frosts over the counter in his excitement when Jimmy asks about how he made the lasagna, nobody needs to know.

Jimmy stays in his room more often than not. It’s not until one day, close to a month into his stay, that Scott realizes all he does in there is stare at the wall.

If he thinks about that for too long, Scott wants to throw up.

So he makes more of an effort to invite him out of the room. The suggestion that seems to actually entice him is the in-home gym, so Scott shows Jimmy how to use the equipment in there and monitors his work-outs. He’d called Jimmy’s primary physician to clear exercise, and she’d said that as long as he started out with only half an hour, three times a week, he’d be fine to build up naturally as his body recovered.

Jimmy seems frustrated by the restriction, but follows it anyway. And every time the timer goes off, he silently packs up whatever he’d been doing and waits at the door with his head bowed. Scott doesn’t know why, but it makes him uncomfortable. Every time he does that, Scott opens the door and calls him by his name when asking him what he wants to snack on. He’s not sure if it helps.

With the gym bringing Jimmy out of his room more and more frequently, Scott starts to just do things around the house in the hopes he’ll join in. One afternoon he rearranges the entire kitchen, and Jimmy sorts through all of the silverware to see which pieces had come from matching sets. He puts on movies and makes a far-too-large bowl of popcorn every other day (and eventually, Jimmy starts slinking in and curling up on the couch a good two feet away from Scott). He washes dishes and asks Jimmy to dry, or vice versa. And slowly, Jimmy begins to warm up to him.

He’s not cured. It’s the worst feeling in the world when Scott’s chatting idly with him, dusting the nice living room, and suddenly Jimmy’s on the floor with his head in his arms, crying silently.Scott never knows what to do in those moments. He usually ends up waiting it out, asking every so often if Jimmy knows he’s okay. He makes a mental note to himself to learn how to better help when someone has flashbacks or panic attacks.

His current methods don’t seem to be too bad, though, because even with those road bumps Jimmy seems healthier. His skin isn’t so pale anymore, his eyes a bit brighter, his jokes less cautious and comments less careful.

As he learns more about his personality and who he really is, Scott has to admit it to himself: when Jimmy isn’t trying to kill you (or vice versa), the man is . . . endearing.

(He's more than endearing, he’s downright cute, but Scott can’t let himself think that because Jimmy’s not okay with any of that.)

Scott thinks his favorite moment in the first month is when Jimmy scares himself using the garbage disposal.

“It’s—why would you have one of these in your sink?” he demands, pointing at the drain accusingly. “It tried to take my fingers off, all because I flipped a switch I thought would turn on the light—”

“Your hand wasn’t anywhere near it—”

“It’s dangerous,” Jimmy says stubbornly. “Like I’m ever going to wash dishes again.”

“Did you not have one before this?”

Jimmy throws his hands up. “How am I supposed to know? None of my kitchen appliances ever worked!”

Scott almost asks about what life was like before Jimmy’s powers, but cuts himself off. He doesn’t know anything about the man’s past—anything more than apparently Lizzie is his long-lost sister—and he doesn’t want to overstep any boundaries. But he laughs it off, and Jimmy, after a moment, laughs as well.

His laugh is a little scratchy, very quiet. It’s almost as if he’s not sure how to laugh, like he doesn’t remember the last time he did.

With a surge of protectiveness, Scott vows to do nothing ever to hurt Jimmy. He refuses to make Jimmy feel like he can’t do something as human as laugh. He will never make him feel unsafe, even if it costs him everything.

Scott breaks that vow the very next day.

It’s a no-words day for Jimmy, which have occurred often enough to set a precedent. Scott doesn’t press him to speak, accepts when Jimmy turns down the offer to accompany him to the grocery store, and goes about the day like nothing is different. That goes as normal.

The problem occurs when that night, as they both finish eating dinner, Scott calls for Elle to get some food that he’d dropped.

“Come over here, darling!” he says, accompanied with a click of his tongue, and before he knows what’s happening Jimmy’s pushed his chair back and has fallen to his knees beside Scott.

For a moment, Scott doesn’t react. He’s not sure how he could.

Then Jimmy rests his head on Scott’s lap, and Scott knows what’s happened—he sees it again in his head, Xornoth waiting at the end of a ballroom with the Canary beside him on the floor just like this—

When Scott moves, he moves in disgust and panic.

He shoves Jimmy away, off of him, scrambles back. He’s not sure what happened—but Jimmy had moved so stiffly, so automatically, and the careful tensing of his jaw in his otherwise perfectly blank face tells Scott that he’s in a flashback.

Jimmy stays where Scott had pushed him, head bowed slightly, hands loosely clasped in front of him. “‘M sorry,” Jimmy whispers, voice quavering.

No. No no no no no. He’s gone about this all wrong, hasn’t he? He’s made it worse, he’s scared Jimmy—he’s hurt Jimmy—

He needs to keep a clear head, but Scott’s hands are shaking and he can’t get his brain to form words right. He’s neglected to do any research on how to help with these since the last one he’d witnessed, about a week prior.

“Jimmy?” he manages eventually. Jimmy doesn’t respond. “It’s okay, you’re safe. You’re not with them anymore. Do you—do you know where you are?”

His instinct is to sweep Jimmy into a hug, but he can’t do that. Not without permission. Not when he’s already in a flashback.

Scott doesn’t know the details of what happened while under Xornoth’s control. All he knows is that Jimmy was kept against his will and trained to act like a pet. Since living with him, Scott’s picked up on some other things—complete subservience, medical malpractice, and some kind of punishments that Jimmy only whispers of in the deepest throes of panic.

Now, Scott asks the only thing he can think to ask. “What can I do to help you feel safe?”

Jimmy blinks. “Scott?” he asks after a moment, the word small and terrified.

He could cry in relief. “Yeah, it’s me,” he says, sliding to the floor beside Jimmy. The man’s position hasn’t changed, still stiff and holding form. “I think you’re having a flashback.” Jimmy’s had several, probably more than Scott knows, yet each time he’s absolutely blindsided. What is he supposed to do? All he remembers from therapy when he was having a panic attack is how to do breathing exercises, but this is something entirely different.

Maybe it could still work?

“Jimmy, can you follow my breathing? I’m gonna count, okay?”

He runs through the breathing exercise seven times before Jimmy’s face starts to relax. It helps Scott, too, helps him center himself back in the situation.

“What can I do to help?” he asks again, and after a moment, Jimmy whispers a question.

“Sing? Maybe?”

And there’s no way Scott can say no. He stalls for a moment, trying to find something in his repertoire that isn’t Disney or showtunes—curse his gayness—but there’s nothing else in his brain right now so he just hopes that this isn’t a secret camera show and goes with a classic.

“Some day, my prince will come . . .

Some day we’ll meet again—

And away to his castle we’ll go,

To be happy forever I know. . . .

Some day, when spring is here . . .

We’ll—um, Idon’tknowthewords—”

Jimmy laughs, and his shoulders ease as he leans back on his hands and untucks his legs from under him. “Thanks,” he mutters, grimaces.

Scott’s not sure if he has the right to ask what that face means. Instead, he offers a smile. “Anytime. Really, if it helps, I’m happy to sing.”

It’s a habit of Jimmy’s to rub the back of his neck, and when he does his hand lingers on a scar there, one of the only scars Scott’s seen on him (he’s certain there’s more, but Jimmy only wears long sleeves and long pants, thereby hiding any marks from Scott’s view). There’s a strange look on his face, almost contemplative, as he regards Scott.

Jimmy doesn’t speak, so Scott assumes that he’s still a little thrown from the flashback and moves to stand, ready to help Jimmy up from the floor. As he’s supporting him, though, Jimmy opens his mouth.

“They never sang, or anything,” he says, voice terribly vulnerable and shaky. “Only classical music. If—I remember thinking if I had to hear Danse Macabre one more time I’d go insane.”

Scott chuckles at the joke, grunts when Jimmy’s left leg slips out from under him. They both halt for a moment, Jimmy hissing curses under his breath as he tries to steady himself.

“Anyway, heard you singing the other day,” Jimmy continues once they’ve made it to the living room sofa. “I was having a bit of a rough time in my room, and you were singing, and . . . it helped. To remind me that I’m not there.”

There’s a feeling in Scott’s chest, something squeezing at his heart and making it leap into his throat. As he sits next to him on the sofa and Jimmy leans lightly against him, he decides he’s just particularly protective of Jimmy and learning new ways he can help makes him want to do his best.

Exactly three minutes and twenty-two seconds later, Scott has to revise that.

He has a crush on Jimmy.

He can’t have a crush on Jimmy. It just—he can’t like him. After all, it was an accident caused by Jimmy that killed Aeor.

But that excuse feels flimsier and flimsier as the days pass and Scott becomes more and more enamoured with Jimmy. He’s just—he’s—

Well, for one thing, he’s really funny. He’s the funniest person Scott’s ever met, from remarking drily after burning toast well, it’s not like the toaster’s ever made it this far so I think this is an improvement; to eyeing the TV through slitted eyes like a wary cat after admitting he doesn’t trust it not to explode.

For another, he’s so strong. Maybe not physically, at the moment—although Scott’s been hard-pressed to keep Jimmy from overworking himself in the home gym—but Scott’s never met a more driven individual. Despite everything he’s been through, Jimmy keeps getting up in the morning. He shoulders flashbacks and panic attacks like they’re nothing, eats meals with Scott even when he clearly feels uncomfortable about the food, and fights daily to even remember who and where he is. Scott’s never met anyone stronger, and he doesn’t mean that in a performative way. He genuinely respects and looks up to Jimmy, to the point where he finds himself nervous about impressing him.

And—well. Jimmy’s a bit of a himbo, and—Scott’s never been able to resist a good himbo, okay? Muscles are quickly building, and that combined with his (albeit usually hidden) puppy-dog nature and good looks and everything else make him all Scott’s ever wanted in a romantic partner.

He’s perfect, he’s absolutely perfect, and Scott knows it every time he helps Jimmy recover from a flashback and every time he teaches Jimmy how to prepare a new meal and every time Jimmy smiles and all the times in the between. Normally, Scott would feel confused by just how quickly this crush has formed, what with Jimmy only having lived here for about a month—but to be fair, he has sort of been obsessing over the man for the better part of a year. Maybe it’s to be expected.

He can’t have a crush, though.

Scott will always care so very deeply about Aeor. He will always mourn him. But what happened to Aeor was never Jimmy’s fault, and Scott finds himself thinking that maybe it’s okay to move on in this way. Maybe it’s okay to acknowledge that what happened wasn’t anything that anyone could control or prevent.

That doesn’t mean he has to have anything with Jimmy.

That doesn’t mean he should have anything with Jimmy. Because when it really comes down to it, when Aeor is set aside and Scott asks himself what’s stopping him, there’s a rather glaring roadblock.

Scott is Jimmy’s conservator. He holds a frankly unfair amount of power over the man, deciding when he’s in his right mind to perform even the most basic of independent tasks. The control is terrifying to be the holder of, and he can’t help but think not only is it entirely inappropriate to seek a romantic relationship with the person he holds conservatorship over, but also that it could be very bad for Jimmy mentally to receive advances from someone in a position of power.

Scott agonizes over it for an entire month, even as he helps Jimmy make arrangements to meet up with Lizzie and then helps him gather the courage to actually do it. And in the aftermath, seeing Jimmy and Lizzie awkwardly (but lovingly) embrace before she leaves, he starts to wonder about something.

It’s only then that he thinks to maybe bring up his concerns to his therapist. To her credit, Nora doesn’t seem at all surprised by his confession, guilt, and feelings of dirtiness for wanting Jimmy that way when it could very well be seen as abusive.

She talks him through it, and though she agrees that pursuing anything while conservator would be inappropriate, she begins listing suggestions—namely, the one Scott had first wondered about when he saw the reunification of the siblings.

So two weeks after that, with shaking hands, Scott calls up Lizzie and asks her how far along she is on becoming a registered citizen.

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