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Archie is on his knees, and suddenly Cook isn’t sure who’s the Slave between them.
“Let me take care of you,” Archie whispers, and Cook can’t help but obey.
He can never deny his Master.
Archie is on his knees, and Cook’s vision turns dangerously red.
“Let go of him,” he snarls at the men holding the boy down. His eyes flicker at the bruises and scratches marring his Master’s previously pristine skin, and all his carefully constructed reasons to suppress his killer instincts vanish at the sight of his Master’s bloodied, beaten body.
“Cook, no,” the boy pleads, “Stay back. That’s—” and the boy stutters, visibly loathing himself for having to say: “That’s an order.”
Cook merely draws his sword.
“You can punish me later, Master,” Cook says lowly, quietly—viciously. “But this time, I cannot obey you.”
For the first time, he doesn’t apologise.
Archie is on his knees, and Cook hisses at the sting of the antiseptic as his Master cleans his wounds.
“I’m sorry,” Archie mumbles, and the apology infuriates Cook.
He waits for his Master’s eyes to meet his, before asking: “Permission to speak.”
Archie stiffens, then sighs, resignedly bracing himself. “You may.”
Cook’s bandaged hands curl into fists. “Why aren’t you punishing me for failing to protect you?”
Archie blinks at him, clearly not expecting that question. Cook is trembling, his throat is tightening, and his vision is suspiciously blurring.
Archie looks at him for a long moment, before his curious expression melts into one of understanding. He leans up and presses his forehead to Cook’s, and the Slave feels himself unravelling.
“You didn’t fail, Cook,” Archie tells him softly, and wipes the dampness off his cheeks. “And besides, that’s not your job. That’s mine.”
Cook doesn’t understand. “What are you talking about?”
Archie’s thumb brushes his cheekbone, and the tenderness of the gesture undoes him.
“You belong to me now,” Archie declares. “And therefore, it is my duty as your Master…”
And Cook’s eyes widen as Archie cups his face in both hands.
“It is my duty to take care of you.”
Archie is on his knees, and amidst the coppery tang of blood in his mouth, Cook blearily gazes up from his prone position on the ground to see the boy spreading his arms out—protecting him.
“I’ll buy him,” Cook hears the boy speak, and Cook instantly hates him for it—hates him for the reminder that he’s nothing more than a possession. “Just please stop hurting him.”
The leader of the Slave traders merely arches an eyebrow at him. “He isn’t worth much, that one, but judging by the looks of you, boy, you don’t even have enough to bargain with.”
Cook sees the boy raise his chin defiantly, even as his lower lip trembles. “I do.” He looks toward the corner of his house pointedly.
The Slave trader follows his gaze. Her eyes widen in surprise, before her features settle into a smirk.
“Now that’s unexpected. You’re willing to sell your dear old piano? That’s the only thing you have left of your father.”
Cook sees the boy hesitate and glance back at him. And even though their society’s caste system dictates that it is improper, Cook meets his soon-to-be-new-Master’s gaze evenly—challengingly.
The boy’s face hardens in determination.
“My father,” he says quietly, “would’ve sold his very soul to fight for the dignity of every human being.”
Archie is on his knees, and Cook frowns at him. “I don’t owe you anything,” he bites out, and it’s probably not fair of him to lash out at his saviour, but then nothing about this situation—this fucked-up society—is ever fair.
Archie merely offers him a small smile. “Of course you don’t,” he says simply. “But I think… I owe you this.”
Cook glances down at what his new Master has deposited on his bed… and his mouth drops open in surprise.
He is so stupefied that he doesn’t even notice that his Master has already left the room, leaving on Cook’s bed a fresh set of new, clean clothes.
Society’s caste system dictates that it is improper, too.
Archie is on his knees, gently laying the bouquet of white flowers against the stone.
“I’m sorry I don’t have much,” his Master tells him, “but I can only offer you what I have, and there’s not much left, except for…”
Cook waits, his heart in his throat, as Archie takes a deep breath and continues shakily: “Except for my voice.”
Archie stands, giving the unspoken permission for Cook’s turn to kneel.
“May I sing for your brother?” Archie offers softly, and Cook is eternally grateful for the way his Master deliberately chooses not to look at him.
Cook can only nod in silence as he lets his Master’s voice wrap around him like a blanket, shielding his grief from the outside world — and it’s the first time in years that he doesn’t cry in front of his brother’s grave. This time, he simply sends a silent prayer to the sentinel he knows is always watching over him:
I’m not alone anymore, Adam.
Archie sings, and David finally lets himself smile.
I’m not alone anymore.
Archie is on his knees, his shoulders shaking as he dissolves into a coughing fit, and Cook has never felt more helpless in his life.
“I’m losing my voice, Cook,” Archie says miserably, “And I can’t—I can’t support us anymore. Singing is my only means of livelihood, and once I can’t do that anymore, I can’t—”
Cook knows what Archie’s next words are going to be, and he doesn’t want to hear them. “No,” he interrupts his Master, even though he knows he should be punished for it.
Archie looks at him sharply, but continues anyway: “I can’t keep you anymore.”
It’s the single most horrifying thought Cook has ever had. “No,” he repeats, more vehemently this time.
Archie squares his shoulders, trying his best to look intimidating, and Cook doesn’t have the heart to tell him that it has never worked on him. “I’ll—I’ll find you a new Master.”
“I don’t want a new Master,” Cook declares—it’s insubordination, and his previous Masters would’ve beaten him for it.
Archie simply looks deflated. “You’ll die if I keep you with me.”
“Then I choose death.”
“Cook!”
“I am not leaving you, Master,” Cook vows fiercely: “Not now, not ever.”
Archie is lost for words at the solid strength of the grip on his shoulders, and belatedly Cook realises that he has failed to ask: ‘Permission to touch.’
He shakes his head and presses his lips together, steeling himself.
“What are you doing?” Archie asks, his voice small.
Cook’s hands slide down his Master’s arms, revelling in the smoothness of an Elite’s unblemished skin and basking in the shivering goosebumps the touch of his work-callused fingers leave in their wake.
“Permission…” Cook swallows against the lump forming in his throat as he threads his fingers through Archie’s. “Permission to take care of you, Master.”
Archie squeezes his eyes shut, curls his fingers inward to grip Cook’s tightly, and finally concedes defeat.
“Please,” Archie whispers.
Cook wraps his arms around the young boy, and it takes every ounce of his willpower to stop himself from asking:
‘Permission to love you.’