Fic: Trouble in Mind

[beanside]

Title: Trouble in Mind
Rating: R
Authors: nilchance
Disclaimer: Didn't happen, never will. All fiction.
A/N: Thanks again to the lovely and amazing embroiderama and topaz119 for their excellent beta.




"Wh-How can you let him fuck you?"

The moment the words were out of his mouth, Jensen was kicking himself. But he needed to know. How could Jared let Jeff call him a slut and do... that to him? Hurt him like that?

Christ, he was an idiot. For a minute there, he'd let his guard slip. He'd fallen asleep on their couch, for fuck's sake. What had he been thinking? They could have done anything. He couldn't trust that they'd keep up the nice act forever.

Jared studied him for a long moment, then smiled. If Jared wasn't so damned nice, so fucking deluded, Jensen would call it condescending. But it wasn't his fault. God only knew the ways Jeff had twisted him, warped Jared until he believed anything that Jeff would tell him to. "It's not like what you're thinking, Jen."

"It isn't," Jensen said, voice hard. "It's not like being ripped in half."

Jared winced, and Jensen felt instantly like an asshole. You are an asshole, he reminded himself. Remember? Here to kill his boyfriend?

"No. If it's done right, the worst you feel is a little burn. No real pain. Sex," Jared started, then glanced up at the loft where Jeff was still painting or torturing kittens or whatever he did, then smiled softly. "When it's with someone who cares, who'll treat you right--it's the best thing on earth."

Dammit. There was no way Jensen could do this with Jared around. Not with the way he was towards Jeff. Maybe afterwards... maybe he could get Jared out of this. Run like hell. Maybe he could salvage something of Jared's mind.

"I--I'll take your word on it," Jensen finally muttered.

"But you won't believe a word of it," Jared grinned. "It's okay. When the time is right, you'll find out."

"Um. Yeah. Whatever." Glancing up at the loft to make sure that Jeff was still safely upstairs, Jensen lowered his voice. "Jared. It's okay. He forces you, right? This can't be healthy. I mean, he's not a monster, sure." As far as Jared knew. As far as Jared needed to know. " But that doesn't mean you don't deserve to be free-"

Jared held up a hand, his eyes dark with the first stirring of anger. "Look. I know you don't get it. But that doesn't mean it's not okay. I am free. When Jeff and I got together, I had moved out. I was in college. I was planning to move back in for two weeks, until my apartment was ready. I was on my own. I made the first move, not Jeff."

Christ, he was brainwashed. Jared had convinced himself-- Jensen swallowed. "Why?"

"I like sex," Jared shrugged. "It's not like Jeff was the first guy I slept with after I was freed. I was really kind of a slut for a while."

"Slut. Whore. This is why that old bitch chose you, isn't it? Because you love a good hard fuck until you bleed. Just right for Jeff, that sick bastard, better be glad I got you instead. He loves making little boys like you cry-"

Jensen considered Jared. The knot in his stomach wound tighter as he thought about it, Jared under a string of anonymous bodies, being used again and again, convincing himself that it felt good. It happened that way sometimes, slaves telling themselves that the pain and the shackles were love. "Did they pay him for you?"

Jared blinked. "No! Of course not."

"Oh." That was something, anyway. Jensen frowned. "...did you pay for them?"

"Nope. I bought a couple of them dinner, but that was about it." A smile tugged up one corner of Jared's mouth. "I enjoyed their company. Got to see a few movies and talk with interesting people. I learned what I liked and what I didn't. If I didn't want to put out, I didn't have to."

Cold fingers drew up Jensen's spine. Jared talked about high crimes like they were nothing: sodomy, escaping to Canada, soiling the body. Men owed it to the species to father the next generation. Women were born to bear the children of their community.

Slaves weren't human enough to do either. Most were sterilized. In the rare instance that a female slave got pregnant, it was the legal duty of her master to free her or to abort the pregnancy.

It was also their legal duty not to sell slaves who had been declared dead; Jensen knew damned well how little duty meant to a slaver.

He'd seen more than one pregnant slave sold. He'd always wondered what the kind of life the child would have. Raised to be a personal slave, most likely. Invisible, off the record, anyone's meat. Like Jensen. Like Nikki.

"Jensen," Jared said softly, like it wasn't the first time he'd said it.

Jensen looked up, shaking his head. "Sorry. Thinking."

"I saw that." Jared stood, heading for the kitchen. "Have you eaten yet?"

"No--" Pushing himself up, Jensen winced at the spasm of pain down his arm and into the tips of his fingers. It stole his breath, making his voice weak when he protested, "I can get you breakfast." Fucking implant.

"Jensen. Relax. You don't have to be this guy. You can be not okay." Turning back, Jared stretched out his long damn arm and rested a hand on Jensen's shoulder. "C'mon, I'll fix you breakfast. How do you feel about bacon?"

"Bacon is okay," Jensen hedged. Then Jared pulled meat out of the package Jensen'd seen marked as bacon, and it didn't look much like anything Jensen had ever seen. He paused, then asked warily, "What is that?"

"Bacon. Y'know, smoked dead pig?" As Jensen took a step back, Jared sighed. "You don't, I guess."

Jensen leaned against the counter, watching the meat through narrowed eyes. He'd eaten out of garbage cans and off the floor. The bacon looked harmless enough, but... "Isn't that unclean?"

"That's why you have to fry it good." Jeff's voice came from the hall outside the kitchen, where Jensen hadn't even heard him coming. He moved into the kitchen, and the tension in Jensen's body drew tighter with every step. Giving Jensen a lopsided smile, Jeff took the bacon out of Jared's hands. Good. Jensen hoped he got the fucking plague. "Nah. That's more propaganda bullshit. Leviticus. Pigs had nothing to do with the outbreak."

Leviticus; the word hit like a slap, unexpected in the bright open air of their kitchen. It was a word for the killing floor, for Bentley's bedroom and the fury of God, but here--

He had brought it here.

Jensen forced his shoulders out of their guilty flinch.

"Oh, hell no, you don't." Jared snatched the package back. "I am not eating charred bacon again, bitch."

The air left Jensen's lungs as Jeff advanced on Jared, leaving the eerie calm of adrenaline. Was there something he could use? Fuck! Jeff was between him and the butter knives.

Jared- the stupid jackass- was just standing there, defiantly holding the meat out of Jeff's way. Would he tell himself that the backhand was for love?

Jeff stopped in front of Jared, balancing on his tiptoes. Jared went up on his toes, grinning and holding it just out of Jeff's reach. Finally, Jeff sighed, shrugging and started to turn. Jared relaxed, and Jensen wanted to scream at him. That was the last time goddamn time to relax. They were always watching, waiting for a mistake.

Sure enough, Jeff turned back, hand moving with the speed of a striking cobra towards Jared's neck.

Jensen had taken a step forward when he realized that Jeff's hand was pulling Jared down for a kiss. A quick, messy, open-mouthed one that Jared enthusiastically returned. Leaning back against the counter, Jensen stared fixedly at the cabinet behind their heads and waited for them to stop. Let Jared get the plague, too; he didn't fucking care. Dumb bastard.

"Fine," Jeff murmured when he lifted his head again. "At least make a few slices crispy for me."

Jared grinned his victory against Jeff's mouth, flashing dimples. "If you get eggs for me."

"I suppose." Stepping back, Jeff looked at Jensen. His lower lip looked bitten, vulnerable against the line of his jaw. He didn't look much like the pictures Jensen had memorized for his Mistress; he'd aged hard, lines on his face and his hands, gray beginning at his temples. "Since bacon is out, would you want a steak?"

Jensen didn't have to fake surprise. Steak had been a precious commodity in the States, to the point that his owners even hoarded the bones for themselves. He hadn't tasted the food last night, too lost in what he was ordered to do, but now that he thought about it, it had been beef too. These people played loose with their luxuries. "Sure," he hedged. "It doesn't matter- I can eat whatever. Really."

"Steak it is," Jeff said firmly. "You're not in survival mode anymore, sweetheart."

Smug asshole. Jensen gave him a sunny, grateful smile. "No, I know. Thank you. Steak would be...good."

The sunlight slanted in from the bay windows, obscuring what was written on Jeff's face as he turned away. Jensen rolled his shoulders to ease the killing tension there. Not now. Not with Jared here. He was a bastard, but he wasn't cruel.

Quiet fell as they worked at the stove, side by side. Here, Jared bumped Jeff with his hip. There, Jeff laid his hand on Jared's back as he reached past to grab the teapot from where it hung. The kitchen filled with breakfast scents, coffee and egg and meat. Shadows brushed the edge of Jensen's mind at the crackle of the bacon hitting the stove, darker memories threatening. He pushed that aside. Not now. Not ever, if at all possible, but definitely not in the house of his enemy.

After a while, Jeff returned with a mug and a teapot. Jensen had a second to see the teaball before the memory rose and hit him all at once: the scent of his Mistress, good Irish tea and clean linen, the crows-foot crinkle of her dark eyes and the competent rhythm of her hands.

Jesus. Of course Jeff would have that, too. He's her grandson, asshole. Shake it off.

Tearing his eyes off the steeping tea, Jensen looked Jeff in the face. Jeff smiled. "You want some? Figure it's a little more palatable than coffee."

And of course a slave wouldn't have had it before--wouldn't be sitting here, stomach knotting with hunger for something long dead. Jensen smiled back. "Why not?"

"There you go." With steady hands, Jeff poured tea and reached for a sugar bowl. He made it like she had, sugar and lemon, as if there was no other way to drink it. Like her, he kept up a steady stream of talk. "I called a friend of ours this morning. TR. He's a tattoo artist. He agreed to come over and do your freedom bar today, if that's good for you."

For a long moment, Jensen just stared. His freedom bar. Theoretically, that would be it. He would be a free man once the bar was laid over his slave tattoo. But with his shoulder aching from the most recent pulse of his implant, he had trouble believing it.

Still it was a nice thing to do--to drag a guy over to the house on a Sunday so it would be done as soon as possible. As hard as Jensen looked, he couldn't see the catch, so he labeled it under general 'garnering trust' and moved on.

"Thanks. Yeah. That would be...good."

Jeff smiled, sliding the tea onto the table in front of Jensen. "There you go. Steak'll be done in a moment or two.

It seemed like barely a minute later when the table in front of Jensen was occupied by a plate bearing a large slab of meat and an equally large pile of eggs and cheese.

He'd eaten meat in the office at the agency, but that was kind of a blur. This time, when he put the first bite in his mouth, the flavor--rich and salty and perfect-- nearly overwhelmed him.

Jeff grinned as he quickly sliced off a second piece--with another knife, for fuck's sake! In Jensen's reach? How stupid were these people? "Taste okay?"

Apparently no less stupid than Jensen for not using the sharp knife while he had a chance.

"Yeah," he murmured grudgingly. "It's good. Thank you."

Breakfast was accomplished quickly, Jeff and Jared chowing down on the bacon. It smelled kind of good, actually. But the thought of eating it still turned Jensen's stomach.

Then there was a knock at the door, and Jensen felt his fingers tightening on the butter knife. "That'll be TR," Jeff murmured, coming to his feet and heading towards the door.

TR entered the kitchen, a harmless-looking man with a dark mop of hair. He set down a leather case on the kitchen counter and held out his hand. Automatically, Jensen leaned away from it. TR smiled and let his hand drop back to his side. "Hi. You must be Jensen."

"Yes," Jensen said, warily.

"Nice to meet you." TR didn't seem at all fazed by Jensen's behavior. He'd probably seen worse, but damn, Jensen needed to get his act together again. "So, you ready to get tattooed?"

Jensen forced a smile and rolled his sleeve up. "I've been ready for years."

TR laughed, a good sound, and unzipped his leather bag. He laid his kit open on the counter like gutted prey, and cold metal gleamed in the sunlight. Jensen felt that cold all the way up his spine. "I bet you have been," TR said warmly, and nodded at Jensen's arm. "May I?"

"Whatever you want," Jensen said, and tried not to notice the look Jeff traded with Jared.

TR turned his arm over with firm fingers and looked over the slave tattoo. The ink had faded and blurred, bleeding over its lines. "Any preference on design?" TR asked. "I have flash you can look over."

"No." It didn't matter. Another day of this and Jensen would be gone, tucked away in Japan or Alaska, a player off the board. Jonas would be out of custody now and waiting for him to finish the job. His freedom was in the knife, not the needle. "The basic is fine."

"Cool. Rather just have it over with, huh?" TR let him go, rubbing his thumb over the knob of Jensen's wristbone. "I'll go ahead and set up. In the meantime, get some orange juice to drink. This is going to burn through bloodsugar like a son of a bitch."

"I just had breakfast."

"Yeah, well." TR shrugged. "You could stand to have breakfast, lunch, dinner and a few rounds of dessert. You don't have much fat to burn off, so this might be harsh. Not as harsh as you've had, I know, but harsh. So yeah. Orange juice or cola or something."

Before Jensen even felt his attention drift, he was looking at Jared for confirmation.

Jared nodded, wry sympathy in his smile. "Dude, I nearly keeled over like Scarlett in a swoon."

"Scarlett?" Jensen echoed.

"Oh. Yeah. Scarlett O'Hara. 20th century film heroine," Jared began. "Gone with the Wind-"

"There was a book first," Jeff said, looking distinctly pained.



"And both of them sucked," TR agreed.

"Well, yeah," Jeff muttered. "I'm kind of surprised they don't still show that one in the US. All the great portrayals of happy slaves, working in the fields. It was a big thing when I was little, whether it deserved to be on the list of truly great movies or not."


Jared shrugged. "It sucked, agreed. Though I watched it with Allie, so I got the running commentary on how misogynistic it was, and how she would have kicked Scarlett, Rhett andAshley's asses. It was pretty entertaining."

"I'll just bet," Jeff muttered.

Jared gave Jensen a grin. "Jeff's just pissed cause he lost fifty credits to her at the last poker night at Christian's place."

Jensen nodded, internally reeling. Gambling? Another of the high crimes, dropped in conversation like it was nothing more than a way to pass the time with friends. Even the slave cage fights were illegal, though everyone knew they went on. And yet here they were, drunk on freedom, so damn sure they couldn't be touched even though they were so close to the border.

Bentley would've torn Jared to pieces before he killed him.

"Hey," TR's voice broke in. Jensen looked up into a professional smile. "You doing okay?"

His fingers were drumming on the table, and he didn't know when he'd started. He couldn't afford any uncalculated moves. Jensen stilled his hands. "Yes. Fine. Sorry."

TR shook his head firmly, smoothing out a pad of sanitized plastic over the kitchen counter. "Do you mind if I put the radio on?" he asked. "I work better with background noise."

"I can chatter," Jared volunteered with a grin, swatting Jeff when he rolled his eyes.

"The radio is fine." Another of a thousand decisions that didn't matter. Was this how they kept themselves busy, worrying about background noise and old movies, the taste of coffee and the opinions of those who couldn't hurt them? Useless clutter.

Worse, the clutter seemed to be spilling over. Jensen's mind felt littered. He fell back on TR's orders and went to fetch juice. Sunlight spilled through clean glass and off the surface of the juice; the radio turned on low, letting in a murmur of... music. Jazz.

Her music, spilling over her library of banned books as she taught him to read, taught him to whore, taught him to kill. Hers; it didn't belong here, the music of ghosts. His mistress, dead; his sister, buried with her. All gone, and this was his to finish.

If he'd had a knife in his hand, Jeff would've died right then. Jensen's fingers clenched hard around the glass. He closed his eyes, feeling the faint warmth of sunlight on his face, breathing until rage gave way to stillness again.

The tattoo needle hummed behind him. TR asked, "Are you ready to go?"

Jensen nodded and turned back to the chair, eyes still closed as he sat and offered out his arm. The shock of pain startled him, but it was cleansing, too. Cleared his mind, let him think. Let him breathe.

Breathing, it turned out, was a bad option. The acrid smell of the machine, the oil and steel wafted into his senses; familiar, but far from soothing.

Bentley. The prayer room, white walls awash in blood. His blood, others' blood. Didn't matter. It ran together in the drains. "Bid slaves to be submissive to their masters and to give satisfaction in every respect; they are not to be refractory, nor to pilfer, but to show entire and true fidelity." The words slid into Jensen's mind unbidden, Bentley's smooth, slick voice staining his mind.

"Blessed be pain! Glorified be pain! Sanctified be pain!"

The scent of hyssop wafting through the air, astringent and sharp, purifying him, bathing his wounds in agony. Cleanse me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me and I shall be whiter than snow. His own voice, tight with pain and fear. He didn't hate Bentley; you couldn't hate death.

"I will turn my hand against you, I will purge your dross and remove your impurities. In his blood you will be sanctified."

Then, when he thought he would die from the pain, his blood joining the stains on the wall again, Bentley's voice. "Don't you have something to say to me?"

Lifting his head, feeling the blood sliding down his back, Jensen could still hear his voice, tiny and hoarse. "I have thoroughly tested your promises, and your servant loves them."

Cold steel against his lips, the cup lifted for him. Wine; his mouth was so dry it could've been blood or tears. "Drink, my child, and be saved."

And so he was saved. He was clean enough to survive, when so many of Bentley's slaves died in the execution chamber. He was clean enough to wash Bentley's instruments clean when they were clotted thick, gashing his fingers on the razors and the saws trying to find the metal beneath the blood. So much goddamn blood-

"Jensen," someone barked, voice hard in his ear.

The pain was duller now, cutting into his shoulders instead of his wrist. The kitchen seemed dim, bright spots on its edges, the radio underwater-distant. A hard shake came, rattling his teeth, almost unseating him. He tipped back against a solid body and grabbed blindly, caught hold and held on.

The tattoo needle had stopped. His arm was burning in a hot, unfinished line. TR was staring at him, eyes wide, bruises forming on his wrist in the shape of Jensen's fingers.

"Hey," Jared crooned, voice softer now, still holding Jensen up against him. "Hey, there. Nod if you're back."

There were words locked in the meat of Jensen's throat. He nodded, choking on apologies, and tried to gauge TR. He could've broken the man's arm. His own shoulder hurt like hell where Jared had wrangled him back.

TR gave him a lopsided smile back. "Hell of a grip there." Turning his attention to Jeff, he murmured, "Could've said you had another cage fighter, you fucker."

Jeff's attention flicked over Jensen, gone with a quick reassuring smile. Then he took TR by the arm and drew him off a few steps, talking low. Jensen wanted to lean in and listen, but his head swam when he tried to push away from Jared.

Jared reeled him back his head, breath close and intimate against the nape of Jensen's neck. "Flashbacks. They're a real bitch, huh?"

No flashbacks. Hadn't even been 48 hours. Wasn't over yet. "Yes," Jensen agreed, because it was simpler that way. "I'm okay."

"I see." Jared stroked his hair lightly, soothing. His fingers were cool on Jensen's face. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Jensen hesitated. Talking; it would be the smart, functional thing to do, offering up his pain for them to leaf through. He didn't know how much Jonas had put into his file. He didn't know whether he could keep truth and lies delineated.

He didn't know why he hadn't killed Jeff already.

"I," he began haltingly, but Jared's attention wasn't on him anymore. The music had stopped. Jared stroked his arms absently, still restraining, listening hard. Even Jeff and TR had looked up.

"-incident occurred last night," the announcer intoned. "A slaver awaiting UN transport was executed by an unknown party within the grounds of the Agency itself. The Agency has yet to release a name, but the deceased was a high priority target involved in hundreds of black band auctions-"

Jonas.

His exit was dead. He was alone on the wrong damn side of the border.

Too many people, too close, not enough air. "Gotta splash cold water on my face," Jensen gritted, lurching to his feet. "Excuse me. Be back."

Jared steadied him back to his feet, big hands cupping Jensen's elbows. His expression was distant, attention already elsewhere.

Someone trailed him to the bathroom, keeping their distance. From the weight of their footsteps, it was Jeff. Thankfully, he let Jensen shut the bathroom door in their face. He didn't push things as far as triggering the lock.

This wasn't happening. This couldn't--he was supposed to--

Shit.

Someone had found out about Bentley's plan. Jensen's mind raced, thinking over the possibilities. Chancellor? Maybe. He wasn't nearly as broken as Bentley liked to think. They deserved each other. Two old men playing chess against each other while they ran a separate game against the world at large.

Either way, Jonas' death could only mean one thing. Jensen was a dead man, unless he got his shit together and found his own way out.

Okay. He had to think. What were his strengths right now?

He was next to the target. They thought he was helpless. If Chancellor's people came, they would protect him. Good. Work with that to start. Until he knew how to proceed, the important thing was keeping himself and his target alive. Bentley wouldn't deactivate the implant until he brought him proof that he'd killed Jeff.

For now, Chancellor was the enemy.

It was like Morgan had always said. My enemy's enemy is my friend.

Jensen smiled at the mirror.

It was time to go make friends.

Comments

[beanside.livejournal.com]

*grin* That's kinda what we wanted, to make it feel belivable. I'm glad it worked for you!

Thank you!