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Jan 22, 2019 11:31 AM
jean goes shopping
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“Yes, Sky.”

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"I'm curious what my file said. I never got to look."

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"'Not suitable to supervise other slaves.'"

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"I'm going to let you help me decide."

 

"Go to the kitchen, and find something there, and bring it to me."

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"...yes, Sky."

He goes to the kitchen.

 

He doesn't come back for some time. There's faint noises, even through the excellent soundproofing.

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...clearly he's doing something out there.

Sky can wait for him. He'll trust him a little.

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When he finally returns, he's carrying a tray.

On the tray, there's a plate with a heaping stack of pancakes, and a mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows.

He offers it to Sky, with visible trepidation.

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He thought Jean might come back bleeding. He thought he might come back with hot iron. If he was really good.

He takes it, and looks at the tray, and then back at Jean, like he doesn't quite understand.

Slowly, his hands drift to the mug, to cradle it.

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...he kneels by the side of the bed. Makes himself keep his head bowed, rather than watching Sky's reaction.

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He lifts the mug to his lips and tastes.

The marshmallows are a little melty.

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There's a tiny hiccuping noise from the bed.

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He stops breathing, just for a moment, before he catches himself at it.

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There's some more sipping, and faint sniffles and hiccups.

 

"Up," he says, after a minute.

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He forgets entirely to be graceful in his rush to scramble onto the bed.

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"Feed me pancakes," he says, quietly, in the same way someone might say "bring me the moon".

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He can do that. He can do that while looking at Sky like he's trying to figure out how one obtains a moon for delivery.

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He closes his eyes, and lets Jean feed him, and occasionally makes a soft sound of total bliss around a bite of pancake.

(It's like being in a dream.)

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Lucky, lucky, he's so lucky ... he can't let himself forget that he's on probation, here, Sky is testing him, he has to be so good, but for as long as he has this it's more than he could ever ask for.

Eventually the pancakes are gone.

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"...you wouldn't sell for very much. But I think you might be special."

He picks up the mug, again, holds it close to his chest.

"Could you be good?"

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Oh.

 

 

"No."

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This face invites further elaboration.

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"I'm not. Good. If that's what you want you should buy someone else."

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"I don't think we're talking about the same kind of good."

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"...what kind of not good are you?"

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"Not everyone follows Marketplace rules, you know. Some people lie to slaves, or blackmail them, threaten them, deny them legal resource, trap them in contracts they never consented to, torture them in ways they never wanted. Try to pass themselves off as us. Buy our slaves, even, or sell theirs to us, without anyone knowing what they're getting into."

"There's a ring of them I've been looking into. Needed to get closer, pass as one of them. Needed a slave I could treat like they treat theirs, so they'd trust me. The things they do -- well. Sometimes they're mundane evil, small cruelties inflicted on unwilling prisoners. But sometimes they're not petty. And if I was to convince them they could trust me -- I couldn't be petty. Had to be willing to participate in the worst of what they do."

"And I was willing. Am willing. Don't mind doing that to someone."

 

"'s why I bought you."

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