Current mood:	weird
Current music:	Jonatha Brooke - Steady Pull

Fic: A Kept Boy 71/?
Fandom: CWRPS
Pairing: Jeff/Jensen, Jared/Jensen
Rating: Adult
Warnings: Slavefic AU. Sexual, mental and physical abuse of adults and minors. Dark themes, adult concepts and language.
Disclaimer: This is in no way a true story.
Word Count: 2,800
AN: Master list of previous chapters found here. Cast of characters can be found here. Banner by the lovely and generous bloodquartz. Podfic version read by the amazing superstitiousme (found here, courtesy of the very kind general_jinjur). And don't forget the other really awesome stories to be found at whatwekeep.

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"What did you tell Joe?"

Jensen had thought that Mary-Louise would be packing, as eager as her new master to get gone while the going was good—and before Madam Morgan returned. But, of course, she's not doing any such thing, ensconced in the bed and halfway through one of Sam's giant garbage salads, a dish of strawberries and whipped cream awaiting her attention. At Jensen's question, the corner of her mouth curls up and she puts her fork down with a crisp clink.

"I told him the truth," Mary-Louise answers calmly. "I told him I'm leaving. Is that a secret?"

"No." As usual, Jensen has no good idea of what he's doing here. He hates these conversations with Mary-Louise; he's this close to never needing to, ever again. And yet he finds himself here anyway, opening himself up yet again to Mary-Louise's lavish scorn. He wishes for some better idea of why he keeps doing this to himself.

"Then what do you want, Jensen?" He has a difficult time imagining that Mary-Louise can speak without sounding mocking, but something in her expression makes Jensen think the question is sincere.

"I don't know," Jensen admits, scratching the doorway's wood with one fingernail. "Joe, he— He's worried."

Mary-Louise snorts, picking through the strawberries with her fingers. "We both know that Jeff has no intention of selling him off. He's too soft-hearted for that." She picks her strawberry and dips it in the whipped cream, twisting it for maximum coverage. "Joe just needs something else to worry about. Something that isn't me."

Jensen's mouth screws up into a smile of his own. "You are a full-time job."

"Ha!" Mary-Louise's laugh is as sharp and jagged as the woman herself. "Fair enough."

"Why are you doing this?" Jensen asks suddenly. "You can't possibly think you're better off with Master Bardem?"

"No?" Mary-Louise licks the whipped cream off her strawberry before dipping it deep again. "Why can't I think that?"

It's such a ludicrous question that Jensen doesn't even know where to begin answering it. Everything about Master Bardem speaks of such incredible danger; as a master, Jensen imagines how capricious Bardem would be, easily bored, involved in his own pleasure above all else and without any apparent loyalty. There's no real reason for Master Bardem to be any different, but it would make him a difficult and challenging master to serve and Mary-Louise is enough like Bardem that Jensen doesn't understand why she would sacrifice her own indolence and pleasure for his. Unless…?

"Do you love him?" There was a time when Jensen could think of things without them tumbling from his lips, he knows there was, but it's a skill that seems to be steadily abandoning him, especially in the scouring presence of Mary-Louise. "Is that why? You're in love with him?"

Mary-Louise spit-takes, fingers fluttering to her mouth to catch the dribble of strawberry. Jensen crosses the room to pick up and shake out the linen napkin next to her on the coverlet, offering it to her. She laughs again when she takes it from him, deeper and earthier than before. "No," she says finally, tonguing the corner of her mouth before blotting her lips against each other. Her fingers leave pink stains on the linen. "No, I'm not in love with him." Her eyes darken and shift as she tilts her head. "Though… I should've expected that question from you."

"Why from me?"

"Because you're That Slave. You need to feel something for them and you need to call what you feel love because you're too scared to hate them."

"And so…what? You're going with Master Bardem because you hate him? Or…what? You hate Jeff? You hate him so much you had to get knocked up by his brother? I don't buy it. I don't believe that you hate anyone enough to sacrifice your own pleasure."

Mary-Louise rolls her eyes and shakes her head. "No, you're missing the point…" She spreads her hands, palms out: stop. "Never mind. And you're not wrong. Hate is…useful, but only to a point. But you're never going to understand what it is that would draw me to Javier, or him to me. It's not in you to…to get that. And you're only going to hurt yourself trying. So don't."

Jensen shakes his head. "You love your baby. I know that you do," he insists. "You like to pretend you're so steel-hard, and…and maybe you are. But not about that baby. Your baby. And even if you're willing to trust yourself to Master Bardem—even if—are you seriously going to trust him with your baby?"

"Javier is not going to hurt his own child," Mary-Louise scoffs contemptuously, rolling her eyes again. "Jesus, you and Jeff. Chicken Littles, the both of you. 'Oh, the sky is falling, the sky is falling!'" She waves her hands in mock panic, eyes wide. "I've got it under control, Jensen, now leave it the fuck alone."

Jensen raises his hands in surrender. "Fine. Have it your own way. That's what you're used to, right? But you should know: Jeff had a clause written into the contract that he has first buy-back rights. So when you need to come crawling back, the door is open."

It's one of the few times Jensen's ever seen Mary-Louise openly taken off-guard and the sight is just as satisfying as he could've hoped for. He leaves before she can say anything else, smug at having gotten the last word for once.

This puts him back at loose ends, though, with Jeff tied up until nightfall. Jeff makes sure that Jensen has some free time every day in his schedule, but Jensen's still struggling to fill it up and he's still not sure what's the point.

Though, lately, it gives him the time to talk with Misha without feeling it's taking away from his regular duties. Misha's having as much trouble establishing a sexual relationship with Jeremy as Jensen did with Jeff, complicated by his appalling inexperience.

It's not Jensen's place to criticize Lord Price's choices, but it didn't help Misha's salability any to keep him so ignorant. Virginity may be prized in an especially pretty child; plenty of owners like to be the first, mold a child to their likes, but in a man of Misha's age, it's strange and unnatural, creating doubt about his qualifications, his suitability.

Not that it matters much, Jensen guesses, now that he's been bought by Jeremy—and The Trust. But it does make it more difficult for Misha to be an effective seducer.

Currently they're discussing the relative merits of different butt plugs.

Jensen's sent off his latest email—a list of links, with his personal commentary on both the sites and their products—when his phone rings. Surprisingly, it's Crispin, Madam Morgan's body-slave.

"This is Jensen."

"Madam Morgan has made dinner reservations for herself and Lady Zoe Saldana at Precis for eight o'clock," Crispin says without preamble, his rather high voice cutting each word precisely. "She would like Master Morgan to attend." There is a burst of feminine laughter in the background above a staticky chatter of conversation.

Jensen confines his sigh to an inward twinge. Another matchmaking attempt; he can guess what Jeff's reaction is going to be. At least Madam Saldana is a bit older than the other prospects. "I'll have to confirm that with my master," Jensen says, flicking away from his email to look up the restaurant.

"Of course. I'll await your call." Crispin hangs up. Jensen gives vent to the building sigh and logs off the computer.

Jeff and Kane are in the middle of their usual squabbling about the contracts but Jeff, at least, breaks off when Jensen comes in. Jensen's heard of someone 'lighting up' when another person comes into the room; certainly, that's how he's always felt with his masters, but looking at Jeff now is the first time he's getting to see that look from the other side, seeing it directed at him.

Fortunately, Jeff gestures him over, giving Jensen time to get over the flustered, tongue-tied feeling. Jeff slings an arm casually around Jensen's hips and Jensen puts his hand on Jeff's shoulder—just to steady himself. The look on Kane's face—somewhere between sour-suck and fondly amused—only makes it better.

"What's up?" Jeff asks, fingers hooked through Jensen's belt loop and scratching idly at Jensen's hip.

"Your mother wants to have dinner out," Jensen explains. "Eight p.m."

Jeff groans, fingers briefly biting into Jensen's hip. He knows the score. "And who's the Mystery Date this time?"

"Zoe Saldana."

Kane whistles through his teeth. Jeff gives him a curious look. "Wealthy," Kane explains briefly. "Sickeningly wealthy. And she's made it all in the last five or six years."

"What does she do?"

"Her company has security contracts from the BIS. They design and manufacture the chips for slave collars and the readers," Jensen supplies.

"Quite the coup for Mom," Jeff says dryly.

"You've really got to mind your p's and q's with this, Jeff," Kane warns, as if Jeff's too stupid to grasp that on his own. Jensen bristles on Jeff's behalf. "The Bureau…we don't even want to start to fuck with that."

"Yeah, I got that, Chris." Jeff's tone sounds lazy, but it's rare that he ever calls Kane by his first name, showing he's more agitated than he wants to seem. His fingers flex on Jensen's hip again and Jensen grips Jeff's shoulder in silent support. "I'll be on my best behavior." He glances up and sideways at Jensen, the lines at the corners of his eyes softening. "Jensen will keep me in line."

Kane snorts and slouches lower in his seat, radiating discontent. "He'd better," he mutters ungraciously.

Jeff untangles his fingers from Jensen's slacks and pats him on the hip. "Will you go tell Sam we won't be around for dinner? If we're going out, Kane and I need to get this contract hammered out."

"Yes, of course," Jensen says.

"Oh, and Jensen—"

"Yes?" Halfway to the door, Jensen turns back to Jeff, who's making puppy eyes at him. He's not as good at it as Jared, but he's not half bad. He can definitely see where Jared got it from.

"What should I wear?"

Jensen is startled into a grin, a feeling moving through him like a rush of bubbles. "I'll pick something out."

The kitchen is always pretty busy, but the hours before dinner are often the busiest of the day. So it's unexpected and a little alarming for Jensen to find the big room empty, the radio chattering quietly to itself. A saucepan of melted butter is pushed off the burner, another—half-full of water—sits placidly with blob of olive oil pooled on the surface. The mise en place is a less en place than usual.

"Sam?"

No answer.

Sam isn't in her room, either. No one's in the laundry room, either, though the iron is steaming querulously to itself.

He finds the three women gathered in front of the living room TV, as well as Joe—who should be packing Mary-Louise's things—and Chad, whose sunburned shoulders suggest he was outside doing the gardening. No one's supposed to be here, and the fact that they're all quiet, rapt, none of the usual kidding and side-talk that characterizes the normal group gatherings, prickles the hair on the back of Jensen's neck.

Jensen's glance at the TV is perfunctory, but the words 'slave revolt in Marin County' hooks his attention—as it was meant to—reeling him in like a fish, even as a reflexive shudder slithers down his spine.

"Jensen." Sam's face is somber, bordering on stricken, as she turns her head, scooting closer to Sandy on the couch and patting the cushion for him to join them. "C'mon."

"Who?" It lacks a lot in eloquence, but it's as much as Jensen feels capable of, feeling his way around the couch's arm and sinking down without taking his eyes off the TV. Strobing police cars form a loose cordon around the front of a big plantation-like house nestled in the curve of some scrubby foothills. There's two vans sitting nearly off-frame, as well, a SWAT vehicle and the ominous, understated black of a Commerce repossession team. They'll take the survivors, if there are any.

"Polanski." Adrianne looks up from chewing her knuckle, her eyes watery and red-rimmed, though she's not crying. "Fucker deserved it, but…"

"Dead? Definitely dead?" Jensen asks, his voice a little high above normal.

"They put his body out on the lawn," Chad says, grim satisfaction sharpening his voice. "It was unreal, grotesque. They fuckin'…"

"Yeah, and now every one of them is going to get shitcanned because of it," Sam says sharply. "They'll be lucky to end up as some pharma's horse."

"…can see, the windows have been barricaded from the inside, making it difficult for the police to gauge how many remain inside," the announcer on the screen says, a petite woman in eye-catching red, "or where the remaining hostages are being held. Polanski's wife and children are still unaccounted for as we enter the fourth hour of the crisis.

"It's further unclear whether this is a concerted effort by Lord Polanski's slaves or the result of a disgruntled few. Polanski had recently been at the center of legal and financial woes, amid an investigation by the BIS for breeding violations and unregistered slave labor. As a result, sources from within Polanski's organization claimed that Polanski had leveraged a significant portion of his assets—including the majority of his slaves—to finance his next project. It's possible that this atmosphere of instability and potential abuse led to this startling outburst of violence."

"That's why they even let it on the news," Sam opines, her lips pinching thin. "He was a baby-farmer. Let him serve as an object lesson to the rest: follow Commerce's rules or you, too, could end up dead on the grass with your dick in your mouth."

"Really?" Jensen glances sideways at her, queasiness threading through his already churning stomach. He can't imagine anyone carrying out that kind of violence on an owner, can't even imagine wanting to.

Because you're That Slave, Mary-Louise's voice jeers. You need to feel something for them and you need to call what you feel love because you're too scared to hate them.

But how do you hate anyone that much?

"I remember when Lord Lenox's slaves turned on him," Sam says quietly. Her hand moves sideways to grasp Jensen's loosely, lightly, as if she's unaware she's doing it.

"I don't remember that," Jensen says hesitantly. Though there's nothing much happening on the screen, he can't look away, half-mesmerized by the flash of the squad cars.

"I don't either," Adrianne says, sounding interested, like they're settling in for ghost stories around the bonfire. Which Jensen guesses they sort of are.

"It was a long time ago," Sam says. "Before any of you were born. When it was still new, all of this."

"You mean before people were too chickenshit to fight back," Chad argues.

"They hung all of Lord Lenox's slaves." Sam doesn't raise her voice, but her tone could flay skin from the bone. "All of them, whether they had anything to do with it or not. Hung them. Secret Service shot two of President Kennedy's slaves for just saying—saying—they'd like to see him dead and Commerce didn't make them pay so much as a fine for 'abuse of property.'" Sam nods toward the TV. "And I don't know that's not better or merciful than whatever's going to happen with to any slave that makes it out of there alive."

"Hey, Jensen, I thought we're supposed to be going to din…"

Everyone shushes Jeff. Kane curses foully under his breath as he catches sight of the broadcast. Nothing needs to be said; they all know they're looking at the countdown to an execution.

A moment later, Jeff settles on the couch's arm next to Jensen and Kane plops down with Joe and Chad on the other couch. Jensen creeps his fingers up to touch the side of Jeff's hand and Jeff turns it to slide his fingers through Jensen's.

This.

With the ghost of Mary-Louise's words still circling in his ears and the scene being played out in front of them, Jensen feels a sliver-thin pang of…something, that just Jeff's touch can steady him, fill him with a sense of warm relief, but mostly Jensen's just grateful for it, for Jeff there next to him.

" The standoff shows no sign of ending any time soon, and as it continues, the chances for a peaceful resolution decrease dramatically. We can only hope that Polanski's wife and children will be recovered safely…"