Chapter Text
There was one thing Micah knew how to do well, and that was fade into the background. As the slave of an artist with a fickle muse, he'd done absolutely everything in his power to stay out of Willard's way. On any typical day, Micah rose without an alarm, dressed in absolute darkness, slunk down the stairwell, stood at the sink forever while water dribbled into the carafe he used to fill the coffee pot and warmed the chia-seed pudding on the stove. He'd take the breakfast tray into the studio where Williard was either wild or bleary-eyed but cursing at his latest work nevertheless.
Then, Micah would go about the household duties, cleaning and tending the houseparents plants until it was time for morning tea. If Willard's muse was cooperative, he would work through the lunch Micah had put together; often soup or a light salad. If the muse was silent, Willard would eat in a rush and go onto the patio to smoke and gesticulate at the city rushing by below them.
Most afternoons, Willard napped and Micah took care of the out-of-the-house errands and shopping. Willard often took a late dinner, and this was fortunate because it gave Micah ample time to prepare and cook the more intricate dishes that Willard preferred.
In the evenings, Willard would read although of late, he had taken to swilling wine by the bottle full. It was a rare occasion that he spoke to Micah, let alone acknowledge his presence, and though it was his right, Willard had only engaged Micah sexually a handful of times in all fifteen years that Micah had served him. It was a quiet, routine existence but Micah knew that he could have had things much worse so he counted his blessings, made sure not to anger Willard and life went on as usual.
Until one day, it didn't.
"Micah..." Willard said in his awkward and lilting fashion as Micah carried in the breakfast tray, looking up for once from his painting which was a dark and ugly piece in shades of black and grey.
Looking at his Master and his art gave Micah an unsettling sense of foreboding in the pit of his stomach and he busied himself with unpacking Willard's breakfast onto the small table in the corner of the room. "Sir..." he said softly and with a respectful cant of his head.
Willard actually got up from his paint-splattered stool and crossed the room. He laid his hand on Micah's shoulder for a moment and there was a strange, distant sort of look in his eye. Briefly, Micah thought that this was going to be another one of those rare moments of awkward fumbling and clammy hands on his skin, but Willard only pulled a bundle of correspondence from his apron pocket and placed it on the table. His index finger lingered on the top envelope for far longer than necessary, but Micah was used to Willard's dramatic streak by now. "I'll trust you to deliver these to the post office. You can go now, and take care of any other errands you might have. I won't be needing tea today, and I trust you won't be back until late this afternoon. I need the quiet, you understand."
"Of course, Sir," Micah took care not to outwardly frown and collected the letters from the tabletop. "If you'll allow me just a moment to get my things together Sir..."
Willard wandered back toward his painting, cocking his head to look at it and murmuring, almost as an afterthought, "That's a good boy." Although, that seemed like an odd turn of phrase. Micah was in his mid-thirties by now, and he had hardly considered himself a boy for the last fifteen years, at the very least.
With a bow, Micah let himself out of the studio and quickly gathered the things he would require for a long outing. He glanced at the dirty dishes in the sink but resigned himself to the fact that they would require a good scrubbing later and that not so much the act but the sound of pots being scoured might just send Willard over the edge. Some days, there just wasn't any coming out ahead.
Micah donned his white jacket with the cropped neckline meant to display a collar that Micah didn't have. It was the traditional style for slaves that no one had bothered to update even though they had been chipping them for the last ten years. No one but the very elite cared if their slaves were fashionable. Micah was presentable, and that was all Willard had ever required of him for these daily public jaunts, which were a privilege that Micah both enjoyed and depended on for his very sanity.
The post office was farthest away and Micah went there first, using his authorized household credit card to purchase the necessary postage. Then, he meandered through the shopping district, perusing the storefront wares for well over an hour. When he was hungry, he bought a simple snack of bread and cheese from one of the vendors and took it down to the wharf to watch the cargo being unloaded from the big ships.
After Micah felt as though he had wasted enough time, he circled back to the market to do his shopping for the evening meal. He took his time, chatting with the vendors about what was good and what to pass over, ultimately deciding on the fish and some lovely looking asparagus. He also picked up some cream and two bottles of white wine, and some lemons. Sure that Willard would be pleased with the dish he had in mind, Micah headed back home. He hoped that his Master's muse had been cooperative or at ths very least, that Willard would not be too disgruntled about the noise in the kitchen as Micah set to cooking and cleaning.
There was a police vehicle and an ambulence outside of the building when Micah arrived, but being a large building, there often was. He paid them no mind and headed in, then toward the elevator. The doors opened for his floor and he stepped off into a bevy of confusion. Residents had come out of the units and were milling about, whispering to one another.
Micah's first thought was that Willard was going to be in a mood because of all the noise. Then, he realized that the activity was concentrated outside of the door to Willard's unit and that people were staring at him as he passed.
"What do you want?" An officer snapped as Micah approached.
In a daze of speculation of the possibilities, Micah set shook his head, set down his grocery sacks and pulled of the sleeve of his jacket to expose his left forearm. He extended it so that his chip could be scanned. "I li...I mean, my Master lives here."
The officer waved the scanner over his arm and glancing at the screen only momentarily, reached out and grabbed hold of Micah, hollering into the unit, "Carl! We found 'im. Bring the kit!"
Micah's eyes widened. "Sir, please, what is going on? Is my Master alright?"
Instead of receiving a response, Micah found himself subjected to a thorough swabbing of his hands and the confiscation of the very clothes he wore, all in front of their neighbors. Trying to feign an air of indifference, Micah stared into the distance and allowed himself to be manhandled. What other choice did he have?
And no one had answered his question, but at this point, they didn't have to. Micah wasn't stupid. His Master was gone and the authorities thought he had done it. Protesting or otherwise calling attention to himself went against everything he had ever been taught, so he just sat against the wall in the hallway with his hands strapped behind himself, pushing away the hysteria that kept trying to creep in. Micah had never been overly fond of his Master who was distant and eccentric at the best of times but neither had he hated the man, and after fifteen years he supposed that they had had a bond after all, in their own special way.
Nearly an hour passed and suddenly, Micah was being tugged to his feet, the plastic cord on his wrists cut and a blanket tucked around him.
"You're cleared," an officer told him perfunctorily. "But we're going to have to transport you to the holding facility until they can sort out whether or not your Master has outstanding debts -in which case you'll be sold- or if he's listed an executor of estate. If that's the case, we'll issue a transferral of ownership unless the executor relinquishes the claim, which would put you back at the market, again. Come along."
What Micah gleaned from that as he pulled the scratchy woolen blanket around himself was that there was a very good chance he was going back to the auction block. He would have liked to shrug off the wave of anxiety that crashed over him at the thought of it but he still remembered how horrid it was to be human stock, tethered and left for the scrutiny by would-be buyers who had no qualms or contentions about where they put their fingers in the name of examination but was really just entitlement.
***
For three days, he sat in the holding facility, passing the hours between bowls of tasteless gruel with sleep or quiet reflection. He moved when they told him to, slept when they told him to, ate when they told him to. Micah was a good slave and he wanted nothing less than a glowing report of his behavior the file they would post in the market.
On the fourth day, the warden came, bringing with him a thin but clean cotton tunic. "Rest easy there boy, you've been bequeathed. Just put this on and we'll take you to meet your new owner and update your chip."
Micah wasn't sure that statement brought any relief but he did as he was told, leaving the old shift on the cot that had been afforded him. He followed the warden out to a holding area, trying not to look too frequently nor too long at the only other person in the room; a man younger than himself by at least a decade. He had curly strawberry-blonde hair shoved back from his face, which was lean with a strong and stubbled jaw. The man wore a worn, black leather jacket, denim pants heavily stained with grease and scuffed leather boots that had seen better days.
It wasn't until the warden scanned Micah's chip, typed in the authorization code and passed the electronic pad to the young man to sign that Micah realized this scruffy young man wasn't just a transporting agent but his new master. With a sense of dismay and mounting fear, Micah fell to his knees before him and bowed his head.
"You got pants for this guy?" Micah's new Master said, touching his head with two fingers. "I only got the bike."
"They come as-is," the warden shrugged. "I don't have much concern for what you do with them once they're off the premesis 'long as you keep them in line. This one here won't be any trouble though, he's quality stock."
"Wouldn't know a damn thing about it. Come on then, uh..." The New Master glanced at the scanner still in the warden's hand and frowned. "...Micah. Gonna be an uncomfortable ride at best, do what I can to make it a short one."
Micah inclined his head in acknowledgment and kept his eyes trained on the heels of the man's boots as he followed them out the door. In the parking lot, Micah startled to realize that the bike in question was not a bicycle at all but a motorcycle.
The New Master turned toward Micah and sighed. Then, he shrugged out of his jacket and held it out. "Better put it on or you'll freeze to death. That slip isn't worth the time they wasted in making it."
"Master?" Micah's eyebrows furrowed and stepped back. Beneath the jacket, the man had on a faded green, long sleeved shirt. It didn't look very warm either.
Snorting, the man shook his head. "Joe's fine. Go on and take it, I'm used to the wind." Micah felt his master's eyes boring into him until he shrugged into it, the leather warm, supple and smelling of aftershave, sweat, and grease. Micah zipped the jacket up and tried not to wrinkle his nose. Next, Joe handed him a helmet.
Alarmed, Micah's head snapped up, but he found Joe working one over his own head as well. When he was finished, he flipped up the visor. "Haven't you worn one before?"
Micah looked at the helmet and shook his head. He'd walked everywhere save the few times that Willard had hired a car, and that had been in the early days before he'd started refusing to leave the unit. Joe took the helmet from him and began working it over Micah's head. Micah felt enclosed and stifled, his own breath washing back on him. He swallowed down the panic as Joe cinched a strap beneath his chin and then turned, sliding his leg over the machine. He looked over his shoulder and beckoned to Micah, instructing him to climb up and where to place his feet so they wouldn't get burned.
The last thing he said before snapping both of their visors into place was, "Hold on," but Micah didn't know what to hold on to. When the motor rumbled to life beneath him and the bike lurched forward, Micah cried out in alarm and flung his arms around Joe's waist. Propriety was lost in the face of danger such as this.
Joe didn't seem to mind or notice and as the motorcycle picked up speed, the wind began to bite into Micah's fingers, his legs, his bare feet. He was grateful now for the jacket and unconsciously inched forward, soon finding himself molded to his Master's back. As they began to weave in and out of traffic, Micah had to shut his eyes, and without the distraction of the scenery whipping by, the thrumming and vibrating of the machine between his thighs seemed to grow stronger. Though it was strangely erotic at first, then borderline painful, by the time they rolled to a stop, the sensation had petered out to an itching sort of numbness altogether.
The motorcycle lurched to one side as Joe put out the kickstand and Micah stumbled off, hastily jerking his tunic down to cover himself. He struggled with the helmet for a moment, afraid he was somehow stuck inside when he couldn't pull it off. A hand gripped his shoulder, stilling him, and then warm fingers were stroking the underside of Micah's chin.
Flushing, Micah realized that he'd forgotten about the strap securing the helmet to his head. Joe loosened it and then the helmet easily slid off. He handed it to Micah, squeezed his shoulder again, then steered them toward the building ahead. "That place had me on edge too. I've seen nicer animal shelters, for fuck's sake.
Micah nodded, glancing at the storefront that they passed by in favor of a set of stairs on the side. Joe moved ahead and keyed into the door at the top of the steps, holding it open for Micah. "That's my shop. I fix up bikes and scooters, sometimes cars. Toasters. Whatever anyone brings me, really. Just a bay and a lotta tools, but it brings in enough credits to pay the bills, usually. And this ain't much either, but it's home. Get you a key eventually. S'not the splendor that you're used to but I reckon you'll get used to it."
"It's not my place to question you, Sir..." Micah demurred softly as he flicked his eyes around the darkened unit. Joe switched on the lights just inside the door, illuminating the main room. A ten-second glance told Micah everything he needed to know. Joe did not have a slave; to say he was disorganized would be a generous understatement, and Micah had his work cut out for him.
Joe showed him around the unit, which was so small that it would have fit inside of Willard’s at least twice. Aside from the living room, there was a barely adequate kitchen (which by Joe's own admission had seen neither vegetable nor scrubbing in some time) a small bedroom largely occupied by a queen-sized bed and a dresser, and a bathroom that seemed overly crowded with just the basic amenities. There were greasy handprints on everything.
Joe dug a pair of sweatpants out of his dresser and gave them to Micah, along with the promise of retrieving his things from Willard's place later. It turned out that Joe, as next of kin, had inherited everything but the unit itself, which was a rental. He had the rest of the month to clean it out and would be requiring Micah’s help with the task.
“Why don’t you come to the shop with me? I’ve got a few projects to finish up and when I’m done we’ll grab something to eat.” Joe said, making it sound like a casual proposal instead of an order and pulled another flannel shirt from a hook on the back side of the door. “Gets a little chilly in there, I don’t like to run the heat if I can avoid it.”
Micah took the shirt and pulled it on, once more finding himself immersed in the strange combination of scents that was Joe.
“Not very talkative, are you?” Joe quipped, leading Micah back out of the unit and down the stairs.
“No, Sir.” Micah proudly responded and was met with an odd look.
“Can you read?” Joe asked as he used his card to key into the door of the shop.
“No, but I’ve got a good handle on numbers, Sir. I managed Master Willard’s shopping and banking and I’d be happy to do the same for you, if you’ll let me.” Micah’s chest swelled with pride and he lifted his chin a little higher. Not every slave was at the receiving end of such trust from their masters and he knew it spoke of his better qualities.
Joe looked at him with burgeoning interest and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Oh, really? I imagine that would be quite useful, although the market’s a bit far from here. Maybe I can set you up with a scooter though...”
Micah pulled a face, he knew he did, but he couldn’t help it. Joe only laughed at him and set to switching on the lights. “Pull up that stool and you can keep me company while I rebuild this engine...”
***
Four hours later, Joe was still talking and Micah’s head was throbbing but he tried to maintain a visage of interest. The truth was, Micah had probably been talked at more in the span of a half-day than the sum total of the time he’d been with Willard, and he was no good at holding up his end of the conversation when it didn’t pertain to seasonal goods at the market or the weather trends. He was feeling overwhelmed despite the fact that Joe required little of him thus far. He wanted to shut himself inside of a dark room, quiet room and let the buzzing in his brain settle down.
“Micah?” Joe said in a voice that implied he was repeating himself.
“Sorry, Sir.” Micah flushed as he startled on the stool and he slid off it it to hang his head. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“I asked if you wanted to fetch the helmets while I cleaned my hands? We can head out for something to eat now. That took longer than I thought it was going to...You do remember where they are?”
How could Micah forget? Joe had left them on the cluttered bench just inside the door, atop a pile of rags and magazines. He nodded and took the card-key, making his way back inside the apartment and trying not to be distracted by the disarray that he felt so compelled to tidy. He grabbed up the helmets and made his way carefully back down the stairs.
Joe met Micah by the motorcycle and fitted two empty backpacks onto him, explaining that after they had eaten, they would go by Willard’s, pick up some of Micah’s things, and do some cleaning. Micah nodded and worked one of the helmets over his head, although Joe had to help him with the buckle once more.
The ride this time around was much colder than the last one despite the pants that Micah sported, and he found himself wrapped around Joe’s furnace-like body again. He made a mental note to pack his warmest clothes, although he did wonder about the state of his jacket. He hated to ask Joe for one if he could avoid it.
They stopped for burgers at a place that Joe claimed to enjoy but between the fear of catching hepatitis and the heavy, soggy fare that Micah was unused to, he hadn't been able to eat much. What he had managed sat like a brick in his stomach, each corner they took on the motorcycle making ground meat-flavored bile rise in his throat.
When the bike rumbled to a stop, Micah slid off before Joe had even put down the kickstand and he ripped the visor up, drinking in great breaths of cool fresh air with his head tipped back. Joe pulled off his helmet and shook out his hair before quirking an eye at him. "My driving that bad?"
There was only one proper response to that and thankfully it was the truth, otherwise Micah would have found himself in quite the predicament. He unbuckled and tugged off his own gear, averting his eyes respectfully before responding, "No, Sir."
Joe noisily puffed as if he didn't believe Micah but said nothing more, simply escorting him into the complex as though Micah had never been there before. In the elevator, Micah's finger pressed the floor key out of habit and he had to force his hands behind his back so that he wouldn't do anything else without explicit instruction.
"Pack as much of your clothes as you can," Joe said as they entered the unit. "We'll come back tomorrow for the rest of your things, but I don't want to take too many trips with the backpacks, it throws off the balance of the bike.
Micah nodded and disappeared into the room that had been his for the last fifteen years. It was little more than a walk-in closet, but it had been large enough for a single bed and his clothes rack. It was more than many slaves were afforded and Micah had always been grateful for his own private space to retreat to. He had desperately missed it in the last three days, and the loss was going to be felt for some time, he knew.
Micah rolled his clothes to compress them and he managed to fit them all in the two packs, secretly hoping that Joe would be pleased with him. There wasn't much else he had to his name save a few coffee table books with brightly colored prints that Willard had given him years ago. They were well thumbed but in good condition and Micah hated to leave them behind, but he didn't imagine that was the sort of thing that Joe would appreciate in his already cluttered home.
A crashing sound drew Micah from his reverie and he scampered down the hallway only to find Joe clearing the shelves of Willard's studio directly into a trash bag. Paintbrushes, paint, mixing spatulas and texture wheels, clay pots and cups and palettes, all gone with long sweeps of his muscular arms.
Willard would have been screaming, were he here, not just at the callous treatment of his tools but at the godforsaken noise. Logically, Micah knew that Willard was dead and gone, nothing left to fuss him. But it felt wrong, disrespectful and ignorant of who Willard had been. His life's work was in this room. He had lived and possibly died in this room, and Willard deserved more.
Micah was angry. "What are you doing with Master's things?" He blurted.
Joe paused, levelling a gaze at Micah. "He's not your Master- he's dead, and this is all just a bunch of used, dirty shit. No one is going to buy this stuff. It's trash, Micah. We have to get rid of it. I have to get this place cleaned out, or they're going to charge me. I'm not paying for this."
Micah crossed to Joe, surprising them both by pulling the bag from his hand. "These are his tools. This is is his life. He wouldn't want you to do this. He wouldn't want you in here."
"Micah..." Joe said with a shake of his head. "We don't have time for this. I have a business to run..."
"Let me do it. Let me take care of all of it." Micah interrupted. There were priceless antiques mixed in with worthless trash and he was willing to bet that Joe wouldn't be able to tell them apart. "You can drop me off in the morning and pick me back up when you're ready. It shouldn't take me more than a few days and then you can arrange a broker."
"Micah," Joe said again as though he wanted to say something but hadn't the words.
Micah knew that feeling well. He sank to his knees, prepared to beg. He wasn't sure why it was so important to him. Willard was gone and Joe was responsible for looking after his own affairs, but it seemed salient so he went with it. A lot of his actions were negotiated between his head and his gut. "Please...you shouldn't have to do it. You have me now. This is what I'm for."
Joe looked dubiously at Micah for what seemed like forever and it made Micah's skin prickle with discomfort. He had crossed a line and he knew it, but Joe still said nothing.
"I won't run away, if that's what you're thinking. I served Master Willard inside his home and outside of it for years. I have been afforded these privileges and I would like to continue as such for you. I would be stupid to, anyway. How far would I get on foot and with the tracking chip?"
"I think that's the most you've said at once since I've met you," Joe's look morphed into a grin. "That wasn't what I was worried about though. ..I just...you know what? No. That's fine. That's great. You got your stuff? Let's get the fuck outta here then, 'cause I got shit I could be doing at the shop."
On the ride back, Micah worried that he'd be relegated to more of Joe's idle chatter but instead was blessed with offers of the shower and sleep although Micah would never dare to retire before his Master had, and not without an allocated place to lay his head. When he was clean and invigorated from the cold water, he set to work in Joe's kitchen. First and foremost was having a clean and organized place to prepare meals, and Micah was looking forward to feeding his master good foods.
It was late when Joe tramped up the stairs, flinging open the door and knuckling his eyes with dirty hands. He went into the bathroom and stayed there for some time, clouds of hot steam billowing out and warming the chill of the apartment.
Micah was scouring the stove when Joe, clad only in a towel, came out and and frowned at him. "It's too late for that sort of shit. Aren't you tired?"
Canting his head in agreement, Micah moved to the sink and wet a rag in order to wipe down the burners. Joe watched Micah until he finished up, thoroughly washing his hands and drying them. Then, Joe beckoned Micah to follow him into the bedroom and Micah's heart began to hammer in his chest.
“Just get into bed, Micah,” Joe said wearily as he dropped his towel on the floor.
Micah’s entire body went rigid and he had to force himself into action. Stiffly, he pushed down the pajama bottoms he wore. He retrieved them from the floor and folded them loosely, leaving them atop the dresser. After doing the same with his top, he lowered his head. “How do you want me, Sir?”
“What?" Joe looked up from where he had been rearranging the messy pile of blankets and pillows on the bed. Micah started to repeat himself but stopped when Joe’s mouth formed a thin line of disapproval.
As Joe approached him, Micah couldn’t help but flinch. But instead of cuffing him, Joe only laid his hand on Micah’s shoulder as he handed him the pajamas again. “I didn’t mean like that. I just meant to sleep. I’d give you the couch but I don’t have any extras. Look, Micah, I don’t know what my uncle did to you, but he was a crazy sonofabitch and I like to think I’m a decent guy, okay?”
“He wasn’t crazy,” Micah grumbled defensively and tugged the pants back on.
“No?” Joe snorted and bent to retrieve a pair of sweatpants from the floor. He pulled them on. “Fucking blew his own brains out all over the painting he was working on, didn’t he? A little too avant garde, even for him, I’d say."
The knowledge of his former master’s manner of demise hit Micah like a kick to the stomach and it was the last straw on his overburdened donkey of emotions. The strength went out of his legs and his knees hit the floor, sending a jarring shock wave through him, but it wasn’t that which brought the tears to his eyes, blurring his vision, and streaking his cheeks. “I-I didn’t know. I didn’t know!”
Joe swore beneath his breath and he hauled Micah onto the bed before wrapping his arms around him. At first, the embrace seemed all encompassing, restrictive, and smothering. Micah struggled against it without meaning to, but Joe only pressed him closer, his large hand warm against Micah’s spine, the skin of his chest searing Micah where their bodies were flush. “S’Okay...Not gonna hurt you.”
After a minute, Micah realized that there was absolutely nothing threatening about Joe; neither his stance nor his disposition gave cause for alarm and both despite his somewhat-menacing exterior. He let himself sag against Joe, his face fitting easily into the side of the man’s neck. Though recently showered, Joe still smelled vaguely of grease, though Micah was already becoming accustomed to it. It had an allure of its own, in a way that the air of turpentine surrounding Willard never had.
A few more minutes later, Micah pulled himself together, embarrassed by his display and sorry that Joe had had to witness it. With some reluctance, he eased away, scrubbing his face with his hands as he made his apologies. “I'm sorry for the trouble, Master, I don't know what came over me."
“I don’t know about you, Man, but today has been a weird fucking day. Maybe I’ve been going about it all wrong, but I’m trying to do right by you. Do you want to sleep on the couch? I can jack the heat for the night and we’ll get a cot in the morning. Now that I’ve gotten that inheritance, it isn’t gonna break me.”
“If you want me to, Master.” Micah heard himself say in a small voice.
Joe wiped a hand over his face. “Look Micah, I know that’s probably ingrained in you or something, but I’m not anyone’s master save my own. So, ‘Sir’, if you absolutely must, but really, ‘Joe’ is fine...”
Micah blinked slowly. “Are you an abolitionist, Sir?”
“No,” Joe sighed. “Not exactly. I think our society is much too dependant on slaves for us to ever go back. The system doesn’t function well when the division of labor isn’t regulated by the government. But you’re still a person, and there’s no reason to treat you like anything other than one. You know, I never saw myself owning a slave, but when the lawyer told me about my Uncle Willard’s will, I told myself that you’d be better off here and I still think that’s true. But if you can’t abide by that, if you prefer a different sort of arrangement...I’ll take you to the market in the morning.”
“No!” Micah bolted upright, but the startled look on Joe’s face made him lower his eyes contritely. “I mean, please. I’d like to stay.”
Joe nodded and squeezed Micah’s shoulder. “Alright, then. It’s gonna take awhile, but we’ll get used to each other. I got a good feeling about you, Micah.”
Glancing up, Micah found that Joe was smiling at him, and he offered a tentative one in turn. “Thank you, Joe.”
“There you go,” Joe clapped Micah on the back. “We’re gonna get on just great. Just wait and see."