beanside | FIC: Just Another Word

Title: Just Another Word
Authors:

beanside
Pairing: Eventual JA/JDM/JP (and others)
Rating: R (future installments will range from PG-13 to NC-17.
Disclaimer: This never happened. Never will. No offense intended.
Summary: This is an RPS Post Apocalyptic AU, set 50+ years in the future.
Warnings: References to non-con and slavery. Violence.
A/N:

mona1347 continues to be awesome and do amazing betas for us. *MWAH*

The floor was cold under Jensen's knees. He stared at the safest place, the feet of his Mistress, and let her icy disapproval roll over him.

So she'd turn him away, too. Alan, his latest merchant, had wasted the day again. There'd be more beatings. This woman had been Alan's best chance of offloading his white elephant. Jensen was too old for the perverts, too young for a stable; gawky, long-limbed, clumsy. His only opportunity lay with sentimentality.

Alan had been wasting his time, thinking this woman sentimental. She hadn't touched him or taken his jacket off. She had barely looked at him, hadn't checked for scars or glanced at his teeth or anything at all.

"So you're best they can offer me," she said. Her voice was rich and dry, leather and champagne and old money.

"No, ma'am," Jensen murmured. "Not if I displease you."

The woman paused, then paced a restless circle around Jensen, staring now, her hands folded tightly behind her back. When she stopped again, his eyes fixed on her muddy boots.

"Not a bad answer, I'll admit, but rather political for a slave."

Jensen's head hurt dully in the unfiltered light of her apartment. Elsewhere, he could hear the ritual of tea being prepared. (While his stomach was knotting with hunger, she made tea and Alan smoked opium-- Christ, he hated these people.) There were no right answers, no shield to deflect their anger, but he tried, "I'm sorry, mistress."

"Are you?" she asked. "Then you're of no use to me. I don't need a broken puppet. I need someone with the sense to hate me."

He blinked at her boots, stopping himself just short of looking at her face. In the corner of his vision, Jensen saw Alan's bleary scowl. He'd be beaten because Alan couldn't hit her. "Mrs. Coulson," Alan began irritably.

"Yes," the woman said curtly, ignoring Alan, "you heard me correctly. Hate me. Hate this addled bastard for selling you."

"Madam-!"

Cool fingers gripped Jensen's chin and tilted his face up. The woman's stare drilled into his, her mouth moving in hard words. "Hate this country for betraying you. Hate your parents for selling you to save their own skin. Can you give me that?"

Jensen looked up at her. He could feel his heart throbbing, and her grip bruising his skin. It was the first time he'd met anyone's eyes in five years, and it hurt. "Thank you for your permission, Mistress."

The woman rubbed her thumb over the corner of Jensen's mouth. Her smile was sad. "You'll do," she murmured. "My name is--"

****

Jensen woke with his heart thundering in his ears and her name in his mouth. It welled up for a moment, threatening to choke him with bitter memories. But under it, there was still the lingering sweetness. His first home. Someone who had cared about him. There were bodies around him, warm skin and cool sheets and steady breath. Sleep. Vancouver. Jared.

Jeff.

Cracking an eye open, Jensen glanced at both of them and found them still sleeping. Good. It'd make things easier. It wasn't like things wouldn't be easy anyway. He'd prepared for this job, braced himself for every possible contingent, but he hadn't been expecting to find Jeff this... open. This weak.

Which of them would his Mistress be more ashamed of? Jensen had the feeling he knew. She embraced treachery when it suited her; weakness was another matter.

Jensen had rested his head in Jeff's hands. Jeff could've snapped his damn neck. He'd been doped from the sedatives, yeah, but that was no excuse. Something about Jeff made Jensen's instincts draw tight, his heart racing faster, every breath shallow. Jeff's presence violated Jensen's space, throwing him off balance. Jensen was used to pain, but real fear? That was new.

But, if he was afraid, why the hell had he put his life in Jeff's hands?

Buying trust. Deepening his cover. That was all.

Yeah. This kind of confusion was all the more reason to finish things quickly and get the hell out of here. The deal had its expiration date.

Jared snuffled into his pillow and squirmed closer, tucking Jensen back against him. One of his hands could practically span Jensen's stomach. Jared rubbed his belly like Jensen was a second pet. Maybe a third: the dog, the devoted boyfriend, the recovering slave. It was almost quaint.

Slowly, painfully, Jensen eased his way out from under Jared's arm. It took some gymnastics, arching into positions that made his back scream, but he finally worked his way upright. He sat on the edge of the bed, barely breathing, watching.

Jared grumbled, snuggling deeper into his pillow. Rumbling low in his throat, still dead asleep, Jeff flung an arm over Bisou and Jared. Bisou, now caught under Jeff's arm, gave Jensen a particularly baleful stare. Cracking a smile, Jensen put a finger to his mouth for silence. He'd have to remember to sneak her scraps later. Being on a dog's good side had saved Jensen's skin more than once.

At least until he killed Jeff.

Might have to lock Bisou in the bedroom for that; like Jared, she couldn't help who owned her.

The carpet muffled Jensen's footsteps as he padded out of the bedroom, down the hall. With the sedative out of his system, he reassessed the house's potential exits. The fact that it was huge helped. That it was out in the middle of nowhere might come back to bite him in the ass. He was too used to working in a city, on his back. It was never easier to kill a mark than when they were... distracted.

Jeff was waiting for something there. Maybe he couldn't get it up for a slave with his boyfriend in the house. Maybe Jensen was too scrawny for him. God knew, the weight he'd lost since his Mistress had died didn't exactly thrill Jensen either; too many years on his knees since her death had stripped the muscle away, dulled the edge of his training. He wasn't the same weapon he had been when she held his leash. Right now, weak-minded or not, Jeff could take him down in seconds.

Jensen's path took him into the living room. Sudden motion in the corner of the room jerked his nerves tight, at least until he realized it was only his reflection in their television screen. The idiot box; then again, Jensen had heard that other countries got more than propaganda with their TV viewing. In the US, it was a constant, lulling stream of babble approved by the President for Life himself. Trust us. Everything will be fine.

He hadn't believed that crap when he was seven.

The living room opened up into an admittedly beautiful view of the mountainside. The dense forest hid any way down. Beyond the mountain, they were waiting for him to fuck up.

Rationally he knew that they couldn't see him, but it still felt like they were jerking the leash when the implant they'd insisted on activated; a bright sizzle of pain jerked through his shoulder. He hissed as the pain gave way to an ache of static all the way down to his fingertips, effectively murdering his coordination for a few seconds. He'd take it as a reminder. A warning shot.

He'd heard their terms the first time around. If he killed Jeff, he'd earn his freedom. Until then, he was effectively still shackled. If he didn't finish the job, if they even thought he'd turned soft, they'd drag his ass back across the border and sell him in a real black band auction next time. If he ran, the little implant would release its neurotoxin, and he'd be dead before he hit the floor. Admittedly, the deal had looked a lot better when Jensen was newly flogged and nearly bleeding to death. Blood loss aside, it was a better deal than anyone else was offering, with the bonus of a little revenge on the side.

Jensen steadied himself against the wall until the adrenaline stutter of his pulse eased back to normal. When he pushed back upright to continue casing the house, his first steps wobbled a little. Just a quick walk down the hall and he felt as drained as if he'd run a marathon.

The loft was a studio, dropcloths rising over canvases like silent sentinels. It'd be easy for a man to fall from the loft's rickety ladder. Easier still for a man with too many secrets to hang himself from the banister. There were file cabinets up in the loft, locked up tight.

The kitchen was next, all cool opulence with marble counters and dark tiled floors. It gleamed like new, the hanging copper pots and pans barely used. Jensen skimmed his fingers over them and felt the bite of envy. Nice cookware for people who said they could burn water.

There was a knife-block on the counter, most of its slots empty. Jensen slid free the remaining two knives and found the edges dulled down. He'd have to saw at his wrists for an hour to get anywhere. Never mind that he could bury one in Jeff's eye and kill him fairly easy; no, they were worried about him.

Right. She had taught Jensen enough about suicide bullets and protecting his secrets. If he was inclined, he'd find a way out. He wouldn't fuck it up this time, either.

He inventoried the drawers, trying to keep quiet. His search only got him another few butter knives and a moderately sharp fork, which he pocketed. There was one drawer that wouldn't open, with no visible lock. It was segmented like a puzzle box. Clever. Annoying, but clever. He'd bet that was where they hid the good knives and the medication.

Jensen wasted a few minutes running his fingertips over the corners, searching for one that gave. All that earned him were sore fingers. He tried prying at the segments with the dull butter knife, but nothing gave, and he had to stop before he scratched anything. His head pounded steadily in time with the gashes on his back, eyes burning from trying to find a seam.

Goddamn it, he'd lost his edge. He couldn't afford to be this screwed up, not on this job, not when everything hinged on his ability to be a weapon again.

Scrubbing at his face, Jensen went for their refrigerator. The shock of cool air eased him. Most of their fridge was barren, but what was there made his stomach knot with jealousy. He'd known they had milk, something that was rationed out in the States, but bacon? Eggs? Fuck, strawberries?

He drummed his fingers on the fridge door, considering. The smile crept up on him.

This, he could do.

***

Dawn came as a surprise. Jensen pushed a hand across his eyes and blinked at the light filtering in through their kitchen window, then at his audience, who had wandered out around three. "You were supposed to keep me from zoning out."

Bisou tipped her head, ears perking up in anticipation of Jensen dropping some more bacon into her bowl.

"Yeah, I know." Jensen considered the trays of muffins sitting on the stove. Once, that would've taken him less than an hour. It'd been a while since he had cooked anything that wasn't an AgriBox prepared meal. He'd fumbled the flour, and he'd dropped eggshells in the batter, and generally made mistakes that would've gotten him beaten if anyone was watching. More tired than he'd thought, maybe.

Whatever. He'd made them breakfast like a good little fixer-upper slave. He needed to seem functional, to earn their trust, in order to get access to the good knives.

Muffins were functional, goddamn it.

The floor creaked under new weight. Jensen forced his posture to stay loose and easy, and didn't turn to watch Jared's approach. He heard Jared pause in the doorway, then sigh. "There you are. Couldn't sleep?"

Jensen looked over his shoulder. He had to be careful about the smile: caution was expected, but fear might set them on their guard. "I thought I'd make breakfast."

Jared leaned his hip against the doorframe, arms crossed. Last night, layers had hidden Jared's shape. In daylight, dressed in running gear, he was huge. Broad shoulders-- hell, broad everything-- and tall, long body. He could do serious damage. His expression went through a few shifts before settling into patient concern. "You don't have to do that anymore."

Jensen wasn't sure if he hid his surprise quickly enough. "I know," he said carefully. "I just-- I like cooking. And you've been so... I wanted to thank you."

Head tilting, Jared looked at him. There was real warmth in his smile. "Jen, stop trying so hard, okay? You're doing fine. You're gonna be fine."

The sad thing was, Jared seemed to believe that. Though really, why wouldn't he? Pampered house slave of a rich man. And none of that bullshit about being free. Jared had just traded one shackle for another.

Glancing away, Jensen nodded and started wiping the counter down. "Okay. Sorry."

"No, no. Hey." In a few strides, Jared crossed the kitchen and was in Jensen's space. He caught Jensen's hand and cupped it between his own. His skin was warm. He still smelled like sleep. "Thank you," Jared said. "I appreciate it. It smells great. But you're supposed to be lazy right now. Hell, you've earned it. Lay around for a few days, eat a lot and let us take care of you."

Jensen's hands felt small. He stared up at Jared and tried to hate him. When that didn't work, he settled for taking deeper, slower breaths. This was an act. This was not real. "I can't do that."

"See, there's the good part." Moving slowly, Jared touched Jensen's shoulder and nudged him away from the stove. "You're with me now, and I'm a lazy bastard. I'll teach you everything I know."

Resisting Jared's firm steering was like trying to put the brakes on an avalanche. Thrown, Jensen let himself be pushed out of the kitchen. Bisou tagged along, nails clicking. "Jared-"

"We'll take it slow. You're going back to bed. You don't have to sleep or anything. Just watch TV." Jared stroked his shoulders while he talked and steered, overriding Jensen. "I know, it's tough trying to get more than four hours at a time. It'll get better."

Bemused, Jensen let himself be walked back into the bedroom. Their television was on low, painting flickering shadows on the wall as a made-up woman read the news. Jeff was a lump under the blankets, barely visible. Jared had used his legs to prop up Jared's running shoes.

"You're shivering," Jared said quietly. "C'mon, get under the covers where it's warm. There we go."

Jeff stirred as Jared pulled the sheets back, one eye opening. With a drowsy noise, Jeff held the sheets up and let Jensen slide under them. The sheets were still warm from the trapped heat of their bodies. "Mornin', sweetheart," Jeff mumbled. "You've got flour on your nose."

Jared grinned fondly at him. "Speaking of lazy bastards. Every damn morning, he's here in bed while I have to haul ass to work."

"Yeah, yeah." Rolling to face Jensen, Jeff pulled the covers up to his nose and snuggled in. There was a pillow crease along his cheek. Fucker was in Jensen's space again.

There was no good reason for that to bother Jensen. He'd taken floggings that could kill a man. He'd been fucked bloody. He was past fear. He had never been goddamn nervous over a job.

The air between them felt tight, Jensen's skin humming where he could feel Jeff sprawled beside him. His pulse stuttered. He was too aware of Jeff's breathing, his scent, the way his body radiated heat. He wanted to run. He wanted-

"Here." Jared put the remote control in Jensen's open hand. "If you want, try going through the channels and see if there's anything you like. There's no 24-7 propaganda channel up here, but there might be a movie on."

Jensen closed his fingers around the remote.

No running feed of Chancelor's speeches. No happy pictures of slaves living productive, sheltered lives. No parade of broken women smiling prettily in the camera and swearing up and down that they were happy to be the government's broodmares. No Bible readings over public executions.

Jared sat on the edge of the bed to lace his shoes, giving Jensen a sidelong smile. "I know. It's a different world up here, huh?"

"Yes," Jensen said. After a moment, he added, "What do you watch?"

"Guess." Jared grinned. Even in the dark, his happiness was brilliant. "I'll be back in a few. I'm begging off work for the day, so we'll have plenty of time to lounge around. If you need anything before I get back, Jeff'll take care of you."

"Sure," Jensen murmured. "Thanks."

Rising, Jared gave Jeff's leg a fond thump, then left the room. Jensen followed the sound of his footsteps down the hall, Bisou following, then heard the door open and close.

Jared and Bisou were gone. They were alone. Now was the time to move.

Quietly, Jensen gripped one of the pillows littering the bed. Smothering was too good for the bastard, but he didn't have the luxury of taking things slow. Jensen forced a yawn and shifted closer to Jeff, gritting his teeth against the instinct to shy back. His fingers knotted on the pillow, body coiling to pounce-

Jeff opened his eyes.

Jensen stilled, heart in his throat. Jeff's sleepy stare pierced through him. Did Jeff know? No, hell, he couldn't-- so was this when the real story started, the fucking and the pain? He could still smother Jeff, kneel on the pillow until he managed to grab the letter opener on Jared's side of the bed, but his body wouldn't fucking move.

Finally, Jeff stretched out and touched Jensen's face with his fingertips. It was supposed to be a slap; Jensen didn't want this. "You're freezing."

Jensen nodded. Moving closer to Jeff felt like dragging himself over glass, but he did it. He'd earn their trust. He'd-- Jeff's skin was a brand against his belly and his thighs-- finish the job.

"Okay, sweetheart. C'mere." Jeff wrapped him up, careful of his back, cupping the nape of Jensen's neck. Surrounding him. Drowning him.

I hate you, Jensen thought. When he pressed his forehead against Jeff, the rich scent of Jeff's skin made his stomach knot. I wish I had time to gut you slow.

"Better?" Jeff asked quietly.

You killed my sister. Fuck you. I won't hesitate again.

"Yes," Jensen said, smiling against Jeff's throat. "Much."