New SGA fic: Forget Me Not (1 of 5)
Title: Forget Me Not
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: McShep
Rating: R, bordering on NC-17 but not quite there, I think. Though I personally wouldn't read it at work.
Length: ~47,000 words. Um. ::blinks:: Yeah.
Disclaimer: I only wish they belonged to me.
Spoilers: S4 casting
Acknowledgments: A huge thank you to
sapphiresmuse who did her usual sterling beta job. She cuts my excess commas with unmatched enthusiasm and skill (plus has been suffering with the gazillion unfinished fics I have out there). It's nice that I can actually post one for her. This one's for you, baby!
Summary: John the servant turns out not to be anything like Rodney would have imagined.
Author's note: All I can say about this story is, it would not exist if I had not been incredibly blocked on another story I'm writing for
sapphiresmuse . Where John's in leather. And so is Rodney. Mmm.
Sapphire's Beta Notes: I've been betaing stories for Maisie for many years now. And while I'm always glad to beta for her, this one was a pure joy. Not because it didn't have its problems (what with dropped ending quotes and a plethora of commas I was forced to decimate in the name of all good Betas everywhere) but because the story told here is that enjoyable. I predict some of you out there are going to adore Maisie for writing this. And look for Riday. I'm not certain if Maisie ended up using Riday as planned but there's a story there that she needs to 'fess up to. (Author's note: Maisie did not end up using Riday, and one day I shall 'fess up, but not today.) Oh, and whatever you do, please don't ask Maisie about the pubic parks. Good god, you just never know what she's going to pull out of her hat. And, finally, go forth and read this lovely tale, fellow SGA lovers. There is much to love about it. Much John. Much Rodney. And both without some of the usual walls between them that can tend to lead to miscommunications.
Being a convicted criminal, Rodney thinks, has not really turned out to be all that bad. He's got his own small apartment which locks from the inside, a private lavatory with bathing facilities, a mattress which doesn't hurt his back, and three meals a day, plus snacks. The work he's doing is challenging, and interesting enough that he doesn't always want to leave when it's time for meals or exercise or rest, and the other prisoners he's living and working with are a lot like him: brainy and non-violent. It's not really a bad life, all in all.
Although this is a new wrinkle he hadn't expected, 'this' being the servant he has somehow earned. "I don't understand," he says helplessly to Raku, who is gazing at him with a placid, pleasant expression. "I haven't even been here that long."
"Nearly three seasons," Raku says. "And your progress has been excellent. The council is most pleased with your work. You have earned this, Rodney. You should be honored."
"But ..." Rodney waves his hand around at his small quarters. "What will he do?"
"Tend to you," Raku says. He looks bemused. "Fetch your meals, clean your rooms, do your washing. Anything else you can think of that you do not wish to do yourself." He crosses his hands behind his back, looks grave. "This is not just for you, Rodney. It is an opportunity for him as well. He has been in the mines."
"Oh." The prisoners in the mines don't have half the amenities the Class Fives do. Manual labor, cramped quarters, no recreation time-they're the violent offenders, the ones that can't be easily controlled even after Treatment.
"Don't worry," Raku says. "He had a rough time of it, but his behavior has much improved in the past month. You will not be in any danger. And if he does relapse, you will have this." He hands Rodney a slim, small metal device.
Rodney takes it with a small frown of distaste. "Isn't this a subduer?"
"A personal one," Raku says. "Keyed specifically to his implant, and incapable of causing severe harm."
Rodney turns it over and over in his hand. "I still don't think I'd be comfortable using it."
"It is only for emergencies, if he should become violent or dangerous. We do not believe it will be necessary, but we prefer to have the safety precaution in place. Its use will be monitored to ensure that you are not abusing your position, not that I expect that to be an issue with you."
"Okay," Rodney says, because really, he does not have much of a choice here. They give him the trappings of freedom but he is just as much a prisoner as this new servant is. He sticks the device in his pocket. "Maybe he can help me with my work."
"I don't think you will find him suited for that," Raku says noncommittally, turning to leave. "But he should serve you well enough here." He pauses at the door. "It is only temporary, Rodney. A season, maybe two. If he does well here, he may be promoted to Class Three."
Class Three, Rodney knows, is where life begins to get bearable: semi-private rooms in comfortable dorms, personal lavatory cubicles instead of communal showers, recreation facilities that offer enjoyment as well as exercise. He's heard the Class Twos will work themselves into the ground trying to get promoted. It's sort of unsettling to think of himself as the hurdle this other person needs to get past. Rodney wonders if he's ever had a servant before. Going by the queasiness in his stomach, he doesn't think so.
"What kind of name is John, anyway?" he blurts out. "I've never heard of it."
"And you have heard all possible names in your time here?" Raku asks with a small smile.
"Well, no. Obviously not. But it's different."
"It's not common," Raku concedes. "But then again, neither is your name."
"At least mine has two syllables."
"I hope," Raku says dryly, "that you will give him a chance here, despite the oddity of his name."
Grumpy now, Rodney says, "It's not like I have a choice."
"No," Raku says blithely as he leaves. "You do not."
~~
John the servant turns out not to be anything like Rodney would have imagined. He's tall and thin, with fading bruises on his face Rodney knows better than to ask about, and the slightly perplexed expression Rodney's come to associate with people who've recently been Treated, even though Raku says it's been over a month.
Predictably, on the day John is due to start work, Rodney gets stuck in the lab and gets home later than usual; his first clue that John's arrived is when he walks through the door and sees that his apartment, which he had always assumed was too small to get messy, is unrecognizably immaculate.
"Hello?" he calls out uncertainly. He fumbles for the control device Raku gave him. He doesn't want to use it-ever, really-but if its purpose is to serve as a deterrent, John needs to know he has it so it can, presumably, deter him.
A man emerges from the bathroom, a dirty rag in one hand and a bottle of cleaning solution in the other. He dips his head deferentially. "Are you Rodney? I'm John." Then he looks up a little hesitantly, gripping the rag so hard his fingers turn white. "Raku let me in. You weren't here."
"No," Rodney says. "No, I wasn't. I was working late. I do that a lot. It's, uh ... you'll have to expect that. So." He waves his hand in general at the apartment. "You cleaned."
John looks panicked for a second, and Rodney realizes with amazement that John is by far the more nervous one here. That he is making John nervous. Rodney's never been in that sort of position of power before. At least, he doesn't think so. Anything could have been possible before he came here, but speculating about the infinite possibilities of his past existence is one sure way to speed the pace at which he's heading for a nervous breakdown, so Rodney, in general, prefers to assume his life before incarceration was pretty much the same as it is now, at least in all the significant ways that don't have to do with being locked up and having no memory.
"Yes," John says, swallowing hard, like cleaning is potentially a really bad thing for him to have done. "Raku said I was supposed to ... I mean, he said that it's part of my responsibilities here, and I just thought since you weren't here to tell me what to do, I should start with that. I didn't move anything around, or anything. I dusted."
There is something very unnatural about the rapid stream of words coming from John's mouth, and something more unnatural still about John's hesitant, diffident manner. Rodney wonders if it's a side effect of Treatment, if John was so violent before that eliminating those facets of his personality has changed him in some very fundamental manner, so much that even Rodney can tell. It's as if John's wearing this personality like a suit of clothing that doesn't fit, obvious even to a casual observer. Then Rodney thinks he's probably just being ridiculous.
"It's fine," Rodney says. He slips the controller back in his pocket. If its primary function is to serve as a deterrent, it will apparently be useless, because if John is deterred any more, he might not be able to function. "It looks good in here. I guess I didn't realize how dirty it had gotten."
"I've seen worse," John says.
Since John can only possibly be referencing the mines, Rodney is sure that is true, though it's also quite possibly nothing more than an attempt at obsequiousness. He goes into his bedroom and sees that the bed's been made as well. The covers are straight and flat, like they've been ironed; the corners are perfectly square. He's almost afraid to touch it and mess it up. He settles for running his fingers lightly over the comforter. "Wow," he says, with unfeigned admiration. "That's impressive. Where'd you learn that?"
It is a stupid question, which he realizes as soon as it's out of his mouth. John just shrugs and does not point out Rodney's obvious idiocy. "I don't know. It's just how I make my bed." He grins, which makes him look less dazed and nervous, but also highlights the bruises around his mouth. "Maybe I worked in a hotel before."
Somehow, Rodney doubts it.
~~
Rodney's class and ranking award him home cooking privileges for five meals out of every ten. He rarely takes advantage of it because it's easier to go to the commissary, even if there is less choice there. But John seems eager to cook for him, so Rodney sends him off to get supplies, with a signed requisition slip and detailed instructions on which ingredients to avoid, "because it would be tragic if I died of anaphylactic shock on your first day here."
When John doesn't make it back in what Rodney considers to be a reasonable amount of time, he goes looking for him. He is expecting a long, possibly traumatic search (his mind has already conjured the many terrible things that could have happened to a recently Treated Class Two on the way to and from the Class Five commissary), so he's a little taken aback to find John before he's even left the building. John is hovering in the foyer of the apartment building, two bags of supplies clenched tightly in his fists, and he is staring perplexedly at the board with the resident inmates' names listed on it.
"What happened? Did you get lost?" Rodney grabs one of the bags of food from John's unresisting hand. "I was about to call security."
"Sorry," John says. He looks uncomfortable, and follows Rodney up the stairs. "I forgot which apartment you lived in."
"Third four, southwest corner," Rodney says. "Which is listed right next to my name on the board."
"Yeah," John says. "I was just looking at that. I'd have been up in a minute." Then they get inside and John brightens. "Hey, they had real meat!"
"It's Fourth Day. We always have meat on Fourth Day. Bisa steaks or livian patties, usually. Didn't you have meat, uh, before?" This is Rodney's attempt at being tactful. It's unclear to him if it is okay to talk about what life was like in the mines. Rodney has no factual information about the mines at all, just supposition and rumor that is occasionally bandied about the lab, but he guesses it's kind of like being in prison in the first place, only worse; not something you really want to talk about to people who haven't experienced it themselves.
"No." John doesn't seem particularly upset at the oblique reference to the mines. He's unloading the meat-bisa steaks, Rodney sees, but big ones, thick and bloody, still attached to the bone. "Not real meat, anyway. Oola stew, sometimes, but Bolu-he shared my cot-he told me that it wasn't real meat, just the parts of the animal you'd never actually eat." He loads the steaks into a pan Rodney didn't even know he had, and starts opening jar after jar of spices, sniffing each one in turn. "I can't remember the last time I had real meat."
He says that without irony, which Rodney thinks is pretty impressive, considering.
~~
John hums to himself while he's cooking. Rodney finds this very disconcerting, not at all fitting with his mental image of what a violent offender should be like, even one who has had the violent parts of his personality deactivated. Soon there is steak, and salad, and some sort of chewy grain. At the first bite, Rodney decides that this servant business will work out fine after all.
They are sitting together at Rodney's small dining table, which John had protested but Rodney had insisted upon. "It's bad enough," he had said, "that I have to have a servant. I'm not going to compound it by making you eat by yourself off in a corner somewhere."
"Bad enough?" John had repeated. He lifted one eyebrow way, way up. "Isn't it a huge status symbol? I though most Class Fives wanted servants."
"I am not most people. Anyway," Rodney had added, "I don't have another table." Which had pretty much been the end of the debate.
The meal is amazing. Rodney has never much liked the food here, though it hasn't stopped him from eating it. He'd assumed that the slightly unpleasant cuisine was part and parcel of being incarcerated; after all, if everything was so great inside the prison, everyone would be breaking the law to get in. Now he's wondering if it's maybe just the fault of the prisoners they've got assigned to commissary duty, even though, in theory, they've been assigned there on the basis of proclivity and aptitude. He's not sure what it is, exactly, but from the first meal he had here, the food's just tasted wrong, overspiced or underspiced or just wrongly spiced. This though, is just right, and he doesn't know if it's fluke (which would be sad) or if John's a culinary genius (which would be great).
"This is amazing," he says around a mouthful of steak.
John looks up, and he's got a strange, pensive expression on his face as he chews. "I didn't realize how awful the food was in the mines until now. If people knew what you get to eat in the upper classes, they'd be rioting."
"The food can't be the worst of it," Rodney says reasonably. "I don't think anybody would riot just for bisa steaks."
"You've obviously never eaten oola stew," John says, and since this is true so far as Rodney can recall, he lets the matter drop.
~~
It's quite late when they finish eating, past the point when Rodney's usually in bed, if he's not at the labs. Socializing after working hours is tolerated within certain strict limits, but Rodney doesn't often take advantage of it. He's friendly enough with the people in his lab, but doesn't feel any particular need to spend additional time with them after hours.
John insists on doing all the cleaning. "It's my job," he says, brow furrowed. "That's why I'm here." Rodney lets him because, even in four hours, he can tell how important it is to John that he is useful, that he does a good job at this. It makes Rodney feel superfluous in his own apartment, having someone else washing dishes and sweeping his floor (not that he sweeps his floor very often on his own), but because for John, it's either this or the mines, Rodney lets him take care of everything. He wanders around a little aimlessly, fingering the books he's been allotted but has never bothered to read. Then he spots an unfamiliar bag placed inconspicuously in the corner, and wanders back into the kitchen where John is drying the dishes with a dishtowel Rodney had no idea he owned.
"I saw your bag," he says to John's back.
John's muscles tense, and he turns around slowly, wearing a guarded expression and keeping his eyes glued to some place just above and to the right of Rodney's head. "It's just a couple of changes of clothing," he says defensively. "I didn't bring anything I wouldn't need. It won't get in your way."
"Hey," Rodney says, hands up to placate. John's slightly off-center stare is unnerving and strange. "It's not a big deal. I just wasn't thinking ..." He trails off, thinking things through a little bit. "I need to find you a place to sleep." This shouldn't be as startling as it is. Raku had told him, after all; he'd known that John as a Class Two didn't qualify for dormitory housing. It's just that he hadn't really considered that having a servant also meant having a roommate.
"I don't have to stay here. I just thought it'd be easier if I were here when you woke up, so I could get your breakfast for you, prepare your clothes ...." John shrugs like it doesn't matter. "I doubt Bolu's found anybody to share the cot yet. He doesn't speak to most of the day-shifters, and we didn't really have all that great of a location. I can always go back to the mines to sleep. I could get one of the guards to wake me early. Transports start at 400."
Rodney's a lot more horrified at the idea than he thinks he should be, considering he's just met John this afternoon, but he is not going to be the one responsible for sending anybody to the mines, even if it's only for sleeping. "No," he says firmly. "No. You'll sleep here. I can make up the couch."
John turns and looks at the couch, which is probably half as long as it would need to be for John to sleep comfortably on it. "I'll just sleep on the floor. I don't mind."
And that's what they end up doing, because Rodney's bed is not big enough to share (not that John would share, anyway; it's pretty clear that he has fixed ideas of what's appropriate, and bed-sharing probably wouldn't qualify), and he doesn't have guest furniture. He wonders what his other colleagues do; a couple of the people in the science department have qualified for servants, and he doubts their apartments are any bigger than his. He guesses he will ask tomorrow. For now, he pulls his extra blanket out of the closet and folds up a towel to serve as a pillow.
"It's fine," John insists. He turned down the sheets on Rodney's bed, and is hovering at the door to Rodney's bedroom now, holding the blanket in one hand. He doesn't seem at all upset at the prospect of sleeping on the floor. If anything, he is disconcerted at Rodney's discomfort. "I'll wrap it around me like a sleeping bag. It'll be better than the cot. No bugs."
"Bugs!" Rodney's horrified again. "Do you ... I mean, are you ..."
"No." John looks amused. Sort of. "They deloused me this morning. I'm clean as can be."
"Oh," Rodney says. "Good. How about-"
"They sterilized my clothing too. Don't worry."
Rodney thinks he'll stop by to see the quartermaster in the morning and get some bug spray, just in case.
~~
John's already in the kitchen when Rodney wakes up the next morning, and there is a heavenly smell wafting through the apartment. "What," Rodney says, "is that?"
John turns around and smiles. "Something called tava beans. The quartermaster was trying to get rid of them yesterday, so I got them cheap. They're not good for eating, but I had this idea of brewing them up, like a tea."
"Yes, okay," Rodney says desperately. "Please tell me you're done brewing them now."
"Here." John hands him a mug, and it is like a little sip of paradise in a cup. "Oh, my god," Rodney moans. "I missed this." And then he freezes, because he knows he's never had it before, but the certainty that he has is sudden and unshakeable. It's an itch he can't scratch, something just visible out of the corner of his eye, gone when he grabs for it.
"They cost next to nothing," John says blithely. He's at the stove, busy with some kind of egg concoction, and he doesn't seem to have noticed Rodney's little epiphany. "Maybe a twentieth of your weekly rations for a huge bag. You can have it every day, if you like."
"I think," Rodney says slowly, "that I just remembered something." Because it is important enough to mention, he thinks, more important than anything else they could be discussing.
"Oh?" John turns around, a big fork in his hand. It's covered with half-cooked egg and a red vegetable of some sort. "Are you late for work? I thought you didn't have to be there until 750." He frowns speculatively at the fork. "I can give you some omelet to take with you. I don't know how well it will travel, though."
"No," Rodney says. "I remembered something from before."
John freezes, omelet forgotten now. "You-is that even possible? They told me Treatment was permanent."
"Me too." Rodney strains for it, but it's just out of reach, a vague evocation of taste and smell, someone laughing off to one side, a hot mug clenched tightly in one hand.
"Don't tell anyone." John's face is pale, his hand white-knuckled on the fork. "If they know, they might Treat you again, and you'll lose everything."
Rodney tilts his head to one side, studying him. "Is that what they did to you?"
John laughs a little helplessly. "I don't know. I can't remember." He chews at his lips, looks nervously at Rodney, like he's telling him a dangerous secret. Rodney wonders why John would trust him with any kind of confidence so soon after they've met; maybe it's the same reason he's already done the same himself. "Bolu said I'd been in the mines for two full seasons."
Rodney feels a chill. "You don't remember?"
"I only remember the past month. And Jeznel-she's one of the trusties there-she says I came from the quarry before that. But Bolu says I never mentioned it, not once. And I would have, wouldn't I? If I'd remembered?"
"But that means you've had three Treatments," Rodney says. "One after you were convicted, one when you left the quarry, one in the mines. At least three. Why would they do that?"
"People try to escape sometimes," John says. "Especially from the mines, because they're so close to the fence. I think they Treat them when they catch them."
To Rodney, attempting escape is unfathomable. He doesn't know what's beyond the fence, except they talk about monsters out there, creatures that can suck your life right out of your body, how there's no protection outside the penal colony. Rodney doesn't remember having a life to go back to, and apparently he wasn't living it very well anyway, if it ended up getting him convicted and exiled, so he's never felt much of an urge to leave. "You think you tried to escape?"
"Maybe," John says uneasily. He turns back to the stove, poking listlessly at the pan. "It was stupid, if that's what I did. Treatment messes you up."
Rodney waits a minute for clarification, but John doesn't seem to want to say any more. He turns around instead and gestures at the table. "The omelet's ready, if you're hungry."
"I have no idea what an omelet is," Rodney says. "But I'm always hungry."
John laughs, and it sounds mostly genuine. "I'll keep that in mind."
It hits Rodney at that moment for the first time (though it will not be the last) just how handsome John is. Maybe, Rodney thinks, the smell of roasted tava is clouding his judgment, but standing there laughing, hair still tousled from sleep, face covered in swaths of stubble, sleep shirt open at the neck, John is unreasonably, inhumanly attractive. It makes Rodney nervous, because there is a part of him that is already claiming, Mine! Rodney considers this a very dangerous thing to be thinking about a servant, no matter how good he looks in the morning. So Rodney takes a big sip of tava to distract himself, which works fairly well because, oh my god, good. Then John gives him his omelet, which is even better, and Rodney forgets all about how good looking John is. At least for the moment.
~~
Later, when Rodney's ready to leave for work, he's casting his eyes all over his apartment. For the life of him, he can't think what John's going to do all day. It seems to him that this plan of his having a servant was not especially well thought out on someone's part.
"Laundry," John says. "And your rugs could use cleaning."
"Okay, realistically," Rodney says, "you could clean this apartment for a day or two, but then it will be cleaner than it was when I moved in. You can't cook for me all day; I don't have the rations for that, especially if we're both eating here."
"I can eat in the commissary," John says. "I've got a temporary pass. It's got to be better than the food in the mines."
"That's not the point." Rodney sighs. "Look, the fact of the matter is, I'm one man with a couple of rooms, and I only eat half my meals at home. I don't really need a servant all the time. Honestly, what are you going to do? You can't keep cleaning the bathroom."
"If you don't have enough work for me," John says, "I'm supposed to go back to the mines."
"What? No, no, no. That is a bad idea. You just left the mines."
"I don't mean going back permanently," John says. "Just until you get home. It's okay," he adds, apparently at seeing the (presumably horrified) look on Rodney's face. "I don't mind."
"I'd rather it didn't come to that," Rodney says grumpily. It bothers him that he is somehow managing to fail at this master business, and it hasn't even been a full day.
John just shrugs. "Hey, from where I'm standing, this is a big improvement."
~~
Two nights later, Rodney comes home and John is not there. Rodney does not panic, because John is an adult and he has already proved to be reasonably intelligent. Rodney usually gets home later than this, so John is probably just out buying food for dinner. But an hour later, John still has not arrived. Rodney calls Raku in a panic.
"Did he go back to the mines?" Rodney says. He is just a little bit hysterical. "It's not safe there. He's told me stories. Is he hurt? Oh god, is he dead? I could have given him more laundry!"
John is not dead. John appears fifteen minutes later, holding bags of food and looking sheepish, escorted by a security guard who does not acknowledge either of them.
"What happened?" Rodney screeches in a manly, dignified manner. "I thought you went back to the mines and they wouldn't let you back out." He doesn't mention the fact that he'd actually been worrying that John was dead. He thinks it's possible that that's a little bit neurotic.
"I did go back to the mines," John says. "For an hour. Maybe two, tops. Bolu found someone else to share the cot already. Some guy from the fourth level moved up. But they have to let me back out. I have a pass." He holds up the shiny card that's on a chain around his neck. It's got his unsmiling picture on it, grainy and grim, and some annotation affording John the travel privileges of a Class Three.
"So, what? You lost track of time? Because I know I'm a little lax with the whole servant-master relationship, and it's not like I actually need you to cook me dinner, but I was expecting you to be here when I got home, and you weren't. I have a very overactive imagination, and in my head you were cold and lying on a slab somewhere waiting to be autopsied." And okay, the neurosis just slipped out. His verbal filters are somewhat lax. He likes to think this is a side effect of Treatment, even though no one else he's met in the compound suffers from the same affliction.
John blinks. "Okay," he says. "Next time I'll leave a note. It's just, I kind of got lost, and none of the security guards would even talk to me so I was kind of wandering around hoping I'd find the right building."
Rodney stares at him. "You can't ..." he says, floundering. "You can't get lost here. It's not a real city. Everything's numbered. In order."
"Yeah," John says. His face is flushed, color high in his cheeks, and he is looking everywhere but at Rodney. "I couldn't remember which building you live in." ("You live in", Rodney notes distractedly, not "we live in," and that says something significant, though he is not exactly sure what, but it is something he is going to ponder later, when John has gone to bed and Rodney is alone in his room and can think about it in private.) "I should have written it down, but I made it back okay the other night when I went to the commissary and I figured I'd be all right."
"But you weren't all right," Rodney says. "And you weren't all right the other night either, come to think of it. It took you an hour to get to the quartermaster's and back, which is ridiculous, especially because you had a map and I know you know how to read one. How long were you waiting down by the door, anyway, before I came and got you?"
"A few minutes," John says defensively. "I told you, I forgot the apartment number."
"My apartment number is on the board right next to my name." Rodney stares at him. "Which means you forgot my name. Do you know it now? What is it?"
"Rodney," John says with a sigh. "Your name is Rodney."
"Fine, but that doesn't prove anything," Rodney scoffs. "You've had days to learn it. The question is, did you know it the other night? Because either you forgot it then or you can't read, and I'm pretty sure I've seen you reading."
John frowns sullenly. "I can read."
"You just can't remember anything. Worse than the rest of us, I mean."
"I remember that I work for you, and that you can't eat citrus," John says. He is scowling, and shoulders past Rodney to get to the kitchen. Physical contact of that sort, Rodney thinks, was not foreseen in the servant rulebook, but he has already learned that John only follows the rules he likes. "The rest doesn't really matter."
~~
Rodney does some surreptitious reading over the next few weeks. "Well," he says one night, waiting in the kitchen for John to finish preparing dessert-"It's called ice cream," John says. "You'll love it."-"They're selectively disconnecting certain neural pathways."
"Who is?" John asks. He puts a bowl in front of Rodney and hands him a spoon. "Watch it, it's cold. Be careful of your tooth."
Rodney scowls at him. "I thought servants were supposed to be more deferential, and not so much with the nagging."
"I tried being deferential," John says, "but you didn't seem to like it. And you need the nagging."
Rodney takes a bite of the ice cream and instantly forgives John his lack of deference. "This is incredible."
John beams at him. "Can you believe I tested this out on Jeznel, and she didn't like it? Said it was too sweet."
"Jeznel. That's the woman from the mines? Likes oola stew? Obviously she has no taste." (John snuck a portion of oola stew back one day, just to prove to Rodney it was really as bad as he claimed. It was, Rodney decided, even worse than that, and he resolves never ever to let John do anything that will cause him to get sent back to the mines for long enough to have to eat a meal.) He points to a paragraph in the report he's reading. "This," he says, with a mouthful of ice cream, "explains why your short-term memory is impaired."
"My short-term memory is impaired?" John says, deadpan. "I don't remember that."
Rodney ignores him. "I mean, they're going into your brain and physically severing the connections. Cut enough of them and you're going to get serious side effects."
"At least I can still cook. Can the damage be repaired?"
"Their literature says no," Rodney says. He's a bit skeptical. "I'm no doctor, but it seems to me that the information is still there, somewhere."
"Sure. You remembered something," John points out.
"Just once," Rodney says. "And it wasn't even a real memory."
"It was better than nothing," John says. To Rodney, he sounds hopeful.
~~
Rodney wonders about the pattern of John's days sometimes, what he does to fill the hours that aren't taken up with all the things he does for Rodney.
"I've been working on these," John says when Rodney finally works up the nerve to ask (and yes, Rodney is fully self-aware enough to recognize the significant self-esteem issue implied by the fact that he has to work up the nerve to ask his servant a question). John pulls out a pair of wooden rods from behind the couch, and holds them up for scrutiny, a little guiltily. "I carved them from scrap wood the quartermaster had lying around. They're taking longer than I thought."
"They're very nice," Rodney says, managing to be both sincere and insincere at the same time, because the wood is lovely, and the rods have been carefully whittled into shape, and they will be flawless when polished, but still. They are wooden sticks. "What are they, exactly?"
"I'm not really sure," John says curiously. He grips one stick in his hand, swings it tentatively through the air. "But I've got some ideas."
A few days later when Rodney comes home, the sticks are propped up in corner of the living room, treated with oil and gleaming. Rodney wonders if John has figured out what they are for.
"Maybe," John says. He picks them up and holds them as he runs through a series of movements, slow and lithe and graceful, beautiful enough to cause something to twist painfully in Rodney's chest.
"It's some kind of exercise," John says breathlessly. "The weird thing is, if I think about it, I can't do it." Just to prove his point, maybe, he twirls the rod and makes a misstep, obvious even to Rodney who has no idea at all what John is supposed to be doing, and suddenly it's not graceful at all, it's awkward and lumbering, and John nearly ends up on his ass.
"Something sort of like that, anyway," John says ruefully. He bends over to pick up the stick from the floor, and caresses the wood speculatively with his fingers. "It's like my body remembers this, even though my brain doesn't."
"Muscle memory," Rodney says sagely, and then he adds, "You didn't tell anyone else about this, did you?"
John gives him a look of extreme exasperation that is very un-servant-like. "I'm not an idiot, Rodney."
"No," Rodney says, "I know you're not."
~~
"Prime," John says, sounding bored. "This is a stupid game."
"Humor me," Rodney says.
"Yes, master," John says. "Ten."
"Don't," Rodney says, "screw around."
"Who cares if it's prime or not?" John says irritably. "I don't see the entertainment value. Where did you learn this game, anyway? Did Kelji teach it to you? You told me he was a moron."
"Everyone I work with is a moron. And nobody taught it to me," Rodney says. "Just like nobody taught you to make ice cream, or how to do those exercises you do with the sticks. I think we're remembering things."
John doesn't seem too interested. "If we are," he says, "it seems like it's only the useless stuff. Except for the ice cream."
"But it's something," Rodney says. "It's better than nothing. Nobody else I've spoken to can remember a thing."
"Or else they're smart enough not to admit it if they are," John says with a scowl.
"I thought you wanted to remember things."
"I do," John says. "But useful things, like who we are, and where we come from."
"I know who I am," Rodney says.
"You don't even know if Rodney's your real name," John says, and stalks out of the kitchen.
~~
The first time Rodney kisses John is a Sixth Day towards the end of the season. Rodney's recently been upranked to third, which means he gets an extra half day off every other week, the rights to an additional meal each week at home, and a small increase in his weekly rations. They are celebrating with a meal of livian patties, served John's way: reground and mixed with spices, shaped back into patties and broiled, then served between two thick slices of toasted bread. Each bite is a little taste of a home that Rodney can't remember but now knows he's lost, and after the plates are cleared Rodney pushes John up against the sink and kisses him hard.
"Finally," John says breathlessly, and kisses him back, which is a relief that eases an ache in his chest Rodney didn't even know he had.
Kissing John is familiar and exotic all at the same time. Rodney is sure he's kissed people before, and if the way his body is responding is any indication, at least some of them have been men, but the thing is, he can't remember kissing anybody else. He's-god, he wants to take it slow, to make it count, because if there is nothing else good that comes from Treatment, he gets to be a virgin all over again, and he wants to make this first time memorable. Except his body is not with the program; his body wants this fast and hard and now, and does not appear inclined to take it slow and allow the leisurely, lingering exploration he sort of wants.
John is pushy and demanding, hungry and aggressive. He wrangles Rodney out of the kitchen and into bed in a manner that's not very servant-like at all.
This thought makes Rodney freeze, and he glances down at John's back, all tight, corded muscle, glistening with sweat and trembling. "John," Rodney says, voice cracking, "you're not doing this because you're my servant and you think you have to, are you?"
"Fuck," John grinds out, which means-something, Rodney knows. It means something, even if he can't remember what. John is panting, chest heaving irregularly, and he surely doesn't seem to be acting under duress. "Are you kidding me? Can we talk about this later?"
"No," Rodney says, "no, we really can't. John, I have to know. It's important."
John groans, and twists out from under him, rolling over onto his back. He flops back on the bed and throws an arm over his eyes. "No," John says. He speaks very slowly and distinctly. "I am not doing this because I have to."
"But you would, wouldn't you? If I wanted it, and you didn't."
John sighs. "Yes, Rodney. It's part of the deal. You're Class Five, I'm Class Two. You've got privileges I don't. I'm assigned to work for you. If you ask for something within reason, I'm supposed to give it to you."
"But that's not-I mean, if you really didn't want to-"
"I don't think you're allowed to tie me down and rape me, if that's what you're asking. I'm pretty sure I could contest that."
"But then they'd throw you back in the mines."
"I suppose," John says. He lifts his arm away from his eyes, tucks it under his head. "That's not really-I mean, I wanted this, Rodney. I was waiting for it."
That is ... that is kind of incredible, actually, to think that John's been anticipating this as much as Rodney has, and also a little frustrating, because apparently they've been wasting time. "Were you really?"
"Sure. When Raku told me I was being reassigned, he asked me if I cared that you were a man. I don't know why else that would matter, if you weren't going to ask for this."
Rodney feels a little sick, the livian patties suddenly sitting heavily in his stomach, because maybe John's anticipation hadn't been like Rodney's after all. "So you are only doing this because you have to."
"No! Do you ever actually listen to what people tell you, or do you just hear what you want? I said I wanted this. Are you only doing this because you can?"
Rodney is a little offended. "No. Of course not."
John is staring up at him with hot, hazel eyes. "You're Class Five, so you get a lot of privileges, but free socialization isn't one of them. You're not allowed to have a sexual relationship with anyone but your servant unless you clear it with the Board." He waits a minute. "You did know that, didn't you? That's why all the Fives want servants, isn't it?"
"I think you inhaled too much silian dust in the mines, is what I think. Who told you that Fives are restricted from having sexual relationships?"
Now John looks uncertain. "I don't know. Everybody knows that."
"Define everybody."
John is mulish. "I don't know."
"It wasn't the all-knowing, all-seeing Bolu, was it? He of the mighty, mighty intellect and vast wisdom?"
"Hey," John says hotly, "Bolu's a good guy. And let me tell you, jealous is not a good look for you."
"I'm not jealous. Why should I be jealous? Class Twos can't have sexual relationships. Everybody knows that."
"But we all had sex anyway," John fires back. "Which is more than you can say, apparently."
Rodney stares at him, eyes narrowed. "You're lying. You're totally lying. Class Twos don't have sex. In the mines? With the lice? I don't believe it."
"Fine," John says. His mouth is set in a thin, tight line. "Fine. Forget it. This was obviously a terrible idea." He sits up, shoulders locked and tense, apparently oblivious to his nudity. "I'm going to go finish cleaning the kitchen, if that's all right with you, master?"
"No, it's not all right!" Rodney reaches out, and touches John's shoulder, which shakes a little under his touch. "I just don't want you to feel coerced, all right? This whole master-servant thing is bad enough without thinking I'm forcing you to sleep with me."
"Stop thinking it," John says simply. "I'd tell you if you were forcing me. When I had to make you those grotesque iza fruit pancakes, I complained about it for two days. And when you made me scrub the shower with silonia cream I called Raku and said you were abusing your position, remember?"
Rodney grins a little. "He wasn't very sympathetic."
"Not even a little bit. Rodney, you have to trust me on this. Just because I have to do what you tell me doesn't mean I have to pretend to like it. And that, before? With all the panting and moaning? That wasn't me pretending. All right?"
"All right," Rodney says. "But I swear, if for one second I think that you are only doing this because you think you have to, I'll-"
"You'll what?" John sounds genuinely amused, and he lies back down, looking up at Rodney through heavy-lidded, flirtatious eyes. "You'll punish me?"
Rodney snorts. "Don't tempt me."
~~
Rodney only punishes John once, and it is entirely by accident and not in any real way Rodney's fault (or so he says, although the fact of the matter is, he blames himself entirely). He stopped carrying around the "behavior modification device" (the polite name for the personal subduer) by the end of John's first week; he likes to think he is a pretty good judge of character, and also, if the authorities' claims are to be believed, violent impulses are almost entirely eliminated by Treatment. Certainly Rodney never feels threatened in any way by John; exactly the opposite, in fact. John makes him feel secure and comfortable in a way he hadn't known was possible. Even in this place, without his memories, he feels he can relax so long as John is around.
So it's only natural that he grows complacent over time as he and John get comfortable around each other. The controller, unnecessary, migrates from Rodney's pocket to a desk drawer, then from a desk drawer to his underwear drawer, then to a shelf in the linen closet where Rodney kind of hopes he will forget about it. Instead, it gets tangled up in some sheets, which is how, John, one day, accidentally stumbles across it.
"Hey," John says, when Rodney comes home from work, distracted and irritated by a project that's not going well, mainly because his boss and all his coworkers are complete and utter imbeciles. John looks a little guilty, and is doing that thing where he looks at Rodney without actually focusing on him. "I, uh, might have broken something today."
Rodney looks around the small apartment. There is very little in it that could conceivably be broken. He has nothing of real value, certainly nothing delicate for art's sake. "What was it? A glass? A plate? We can get more." It's a little bit of a waste spending rations on plates that could be spent on food, but Rodney's enough of a realist to recognize that things get broken sometimes, even by someone as compulsively vigilant as John.
"No," John says. "Not a plate." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small metal cylinder which Rodney doesn't even recognize at first. (This is one part Rodney doesn't forgive himself for later, for not recognizing it right away, for not telling John to put the thing the hell down.) "It was on the top shelf in the closet, behind the sheets. I didn't even see it until it hit the floor. Cracked me in the head on the way down." John turns it around in his hands, still looking guilty. "I don't know what it's supposed to do, but it doesn't seem to do it anymore. I'm sorry."
It's then Rodney recognizes it, and panics, because John's playing with the damn thing, and obviously doesn't know what it is, which means maybe it's not the deterrent Rodney's always assumed it is, but that's not the point at the moment; that is something to take up with Raku later, after Rodney's gotten it far, far away from John's restless, inquisitive hands. Rodney's proud of himself for keeping his voice level when he speaks. "I'm sure it's fine, but why don't you let me take a look at it? I'll check it out."
And then (this is something else Rodney doesn't forgive himself for later, for sounding so damn casual that John thinks nothing of what he does next) John tosses it over, with perfect aim, trusting Rodney to catch it, which he does, because Rodney's not athletic but he's got good reflexes where technology is concerned.
The thing is, the thing that Rodney doesn't know, can't know since no one has ever bothered to tell him, is that the damn thing's keyed to his DNA, that John could turn the power supply on and off all day and the device still wouldn't activate for him, but that Rodney, in catching it, can activate it without even meaning to.
John's scream is terrible, ear-shattering, and there's a heart-stopping moment when Rodney is so startled he does nothing at all except watch John collapse to the floor, convulsing. Then his brain catches up, leaps ahead, and he fumbles at the device, hitting the single button, squeezing it as hard as he can, praying to whatever god will listen that he turns it off instead of accidentally turning it up.
There's a buzzing in the room that Rodney doesn't even notice until it stops. John goes instantly limp on the floor, motionless. For a horrible second, Rodney thinks he's killed him. But he finds a pulse when he places trembling fingers on John's neck, and it only takes a minute before John opens his eyes, which are wide, green and bewildered, and filled with tears.
John stares at him blankly, "What-? Who-?"
"God," Rodney says, panicked. This is so very, very not good. "John, are you okay?"
"I-" John swallows, looks around with nothing but confusion in his eyes. "What's going on? What happened?"
Rodney doesn't have an answer, but stares down at the device in his hand. "I'm sorry, John, I'm so sorry."
"Why- why are you sorry? Why am I on the floor? What happened?" John struggles to his feet, wincing. "Jesus, I have the worst headache."
"Jesus?" Rodney repeats faintly. "Who is-John, it's me. You know me, right?"
John turns around, still bewildered. "Of course I do. What happened, Rodney? Did I faint or something?"
Sometimes, Rodney knows, people who have been through traumatic incidents won't remember what happened. He presumes that's what going on here, and he's kind of relieved about it, because really, what good would it do John to remember screaming his way through some kind of accidental punishment? None at all. "You didn't faint," Rodney says. "There was an accident." That is not exactly inaccurate.
"An accident," John repeats. He still sounds dazed, and he's staring around the room, blinking. "I don't remember ... when did you get home? God," he adds, collapsing on the couch and dropping his head in his hands, "my head is killing me." He swallows once, then again, and when he looks up his face is tinged green. "I think I'm going to be sick."
He makes it to the bathroom before he throws up, but when it happens, it's violent and unrelenting for three long minutes.
"Okay," Rodney says shakily, when the worst seems to have passed and he judges that he's done all the therapeutic back-patting that is necessary at the moment, "all right. Are you all right now?"
John manages a weak nod and lets Rodney clean him up and lead him back to the couch. "I don't-" John closes his eyes, lets his head drop back against the pillows. "I feel awful. What happened, Rodney?"
"I told you," Rodney says helplessly. "There was an accident."
"You did?" John's still confused, still in pain, and Rodney's starting to get seriously frightened, because he doesn't think Raku ever actually told him what the subduer was meant to do, and he has no idea if this is normal or not. "I don't remember. What happened?"
"You, uh, you found this thing in my closet, and-" Rodney stops, and stares at John for a minute, starting to wonder how far the confusion and forgetfulness go. "John," he says, speaking carefully, "do you know what day it is?"
"Second," John says. "Isn't it? I got cheese. I was going to make that cheese bread you liked, with the sauce." He stares back at Rodney, his expression clearing. "Why are you home so early, anyway?"
"It's not early," Rodney says. "I got home late, actually."
"But it's the middle of the afternoon. Isn't it?" At Rodney's shake of the head, John says helplessly, "I don't understand what's going on." But then his gaze, still restless, falls upon the metal controller, lying on the floor where Rodney dropped it. John stares at it for a second and goes still and pale, horrible comprehension flooding his face. "Is that- did you have to punish me?"
"I- no," Rodney says weakly. "Not on purpose."
"Shit," John says. His voice is low and horrified. "What did I do?"
"You didn't. You didn't," Rodney says.
John doesn't seem to hear him. He jumps to his feet, pacing, and his eyes skitter around the room. He looks trapped, caged. "Why would I-I can't even remember."
"You didn't do anything," Rodney insists. He crosses the room and grabs John's arm. "It was an accident, John, I swear."
"An accident," John repeats dully. He laughs a little, but it's choked and muted. "They're going to take me back to the mines. They're going to Treat me again." He laughs again, but now it's verging on hysterical. "I'm going to forget everything. You, all of this ... I'm going to be even more messed up. Probably won't be able to remember my own name. If it's even really John."
"No," Rodney says, "none of that is going to happen. You're not listening to me. You didn't do anything. It was an accident. We don't even have to tell them."
John looks utterly defeated, like he's already resigned to losing the tenuous foothold he's managed to gain here. "They already know. They monitor those devices, you know that. Want to make sure you're not torturing the staff. They're probably on their way here already."
This is true. Rodney remembers Raku telling him this, remembers some of his coworkers whispering rumors about other Fives who've been demoted for being unduly harsh to their servants. Some have even been completely declassified and sent to the mines themselves. By the time the chime rings a few minutes later, Rodney's worked himself up into a complete panic. John is sitting on the couch, head in his hands, and doesn't even look up when Rodney opens the door. It is Raku, accompanied by three burly security guards armed with subduers-the big ones that don't pretend to be anything other than what they are.
"It was an accident!" Rodney says, before Raku's even all the way into the apartment. "He didn't do anything. I didn't mean to punish him. This is just a big, unfortunate, painful misunderstanding."
Raku is checking out the apartment with clinical, dispassionate eyes. His gaze, when it comes to rest back on Rodney, is not overtly hostile but it's not friendly, either. This is as opposed to the security guards, who definitely look mean. "An accident." His voice is flat, completely unemotional.
"It would almost be a funny story if it didn't involve me inadvertently torturing John for a few seconds, but yes, really, it was an accident. The controller was on a shelf, John knocked it down, long story, but there was no intent on either of our sides."
Raku draws in a long deep breath through his nose, then shifts his attention to where John is sitting on the couch. "How much time did he lose?"
Rodney has no idea what Raku's asking. "He ... it was only a few seconds before I realized and turned it off."
"Memory," Raku says, mouth tight. "How much memory did he lose? Did he recognize you? Did he know what day it was?"
"Oh. Yes. He knew what day it was. He-he didn't recognize me at first, I think, but that was only briefly, right afterwards. He knew the day. He might have lost a couple of hours."
Raku seems satisfied, if not happy. "Physical symptoms?"
"Well, he has an awful headache, but-"
"Did he lose consciousness?" Raku interrupts impatiently. "Did he have any seizures? Delusions? Nose bleed?"
"He was unconscious, but only for a second. He woke up right away. He ... when the device was on he had convulsions but they stopped as soon as I turned it off. He threw up a few times immediately afterwards. No seizures or nose bleeds."
"Has he spoken? Is he coherent?"
"Yes, yes, perfectly coherent. A little confused, I think, but nothing worse. You can ask him yourself. He's right there."
Raku's mouth twists into a small frown, but he crosses over to the couch and kneels down in front of John. "Can you open your eyes for me?" He's considerate and gentle, which Rodney takes as a good sign.
John raises his head. His eyes are dull and a little glassy, but he follows Raku's finger across his field of vision, and he's able to provide his name, class, and rank.
"Well," Raku says, standing up, "I don't think there's any need to call in the medics. He'll have the headache for a few days. Do you have any analgesics here?"
"Three kinds," Rodney says. "Some are better than others for-"
"Give him any of them so long as it's buffered," Raku says. "Maximum dose, at least for tonight. Tomorrow as well, probably. You'll want to hold off on dinner for at least an hour, John, and don't eat anything that's likely to upset your stomach."
John nods mutely.
"You'll need to come with me," Raku says to Rodney, without the solicitousness he showed to John, but without overt hostility either. "You three," he says to the security guards, "stay here until I get back."
"But I told you," Rodney insists, "it was just an accident." Now that John is apparently okay, and presumably not going to be punished, Rodney lets himself worry for his own safety.
"Surely you realize that we can't take your word for it," Raku answers neutrally. "Rodney, it is not that I doubt you, but we have procedures in place for your protection as well as for John's. He can't be witness to anything today after what happened, obviously, and I can not just accept your story as truth. There's no need to worry," he adds, in what he probably means as reassurance. "The procedure is quite painless."
"Procedure!"
John looks up at this, but he doesn't say anything.
"Come," Raku says. "You'll be back in time for a late dinner."
~~
When Rodney arrives back at his apartment, he can smell the cheese pie cooking. It's a relief to notice something so normal. Raku sniffs and makes a face, eyebrows raised. "Is that your dinner? Occasionally the confusion can last for a few hours, even after so short a punishment. Perhaps John should not have attempted to cook so soon."
"Are you crazy? He's making cheese pie. It's fantastic." After the words are out of his mouth, it occurs to Rodney that accusing Raku of insanity, even in jest, is not the best idea, but Raku doesn't seem to mind.
"If that is what you think," Raku agrees dubiously.
Raku is all brusque business when they enter Rodney's apartment (although he does make a face at the smell of the cheese pies, even stronger inside the apartment than without) and Rodney, who normally likes Raku as much as a prisoner can like a jailor, finds himself wishing Raku would just hurry up and leave. The security guards are looming presences, radiating indifference if not outright hostility, and John is busy in the kitchen, restless and sloppy, clanging plates and dropping utensils, in what is a direct contrast to his usual quiet efficiency.
Raku nods at the guards and says, "You can return to your posts." They leave without acknowledging Rodney at all, which is fine so far as Rodney is concerned.
"John," Raku calls, "come here for a moment, please."
John emerges, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He looks calm, self-assured, but Rodney can see that his hands are shaking. "Sir," John says deferentially.
"I'll keep this brief," Raku says with a polite nod, so unlike the guards' studied indifference. "We've found no evidence of wrong-doing here on either of your parts, so there will be no punishment for either of you: no demerits, no downranking. However, Rodney, as the superior in this arrangement, bears the responsibility for incidents such as this one. If there is another accidental activation of the device, you will be held accountable for both instances."
"There won't be another instance," Rodney says fervently. "If it were up to me, I'd bury the damn thing."
Raku looks amused. "As you please," he says. "Though you are required to return it when John's service with you ends. How are you feeling, John?"
"Okay," John says neutrally. "I took something for the headache."
"Very good." Raku smiles, then, looking them both in the eyes. "Then I don't think there is any reason for me to keep you from your dinner." With that, he leaves. Rodney waits a short, barely suitable interval before locking the door.
"That won't keep him out, you know," John says from behind him. "They've got keys to all the locks."
"It makes me feel better," Rodney says, following John back into the kitchen. "Okay, so this was officially the worst day I can remember."
John snorts. "Out of all the 200 or so days you can remember, you mean."
"That doesn't make it any less horrendous," Rodney says. He comes up behind John and wraps his arms around him, feels the tremors still running through John's frame. "Are you really okay?"
John shrugs, tense in Rodney's arms. "My head hurts, and I nearly took off my fingers slicing the keeza fruit for sauce, but other than that, I'm all right." He sighs, and relaxes back into Rodney's arms. "What I'd really like is to go to bed and forget this day ever happened. I don't even remember it and I still want to forget it."
"You're better off not remembering. You were screaming, and then you collapsed and I thought you died. It was awful."
John turns around, searches Rodney's face. "Are you sure I didn't do anything wrong? I know you told Raku it was an accident, but-"
"After we left here, Raku took me to a little room in the security office," Rodney interrupts. "And a medic came in and gave me a shot of something and then they hooked me up to a machine and asked me questions and I couldn't stop myself from answering. I would have told them anything they wanted to know. And what I told them was that when you threw me the controller, it turned on, and it was an accident. All right? If it had been anything else, one of us wouldn't be here right now. Stop looking for ways to take the blame for this."
"Okay," John says, nodding slowly, although he still doesn't look convinced. "Okay."
Part 2
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: McShep
Rating: R, bordering on NC-17 but not quite there, I think. Though I personally wouldn't read it at work.
Length: ~47,000 words. Um. ::blinks:: Yeah.
Disclaimer: I only wish they belonged to me.
Spoilers: S4 casting
Acknowledgments: A huge thank you to
sapphiresmuse who did her usual sterling beta job. She cuts my excess commas with unmatched enthusiasm and skill (plus has been suffering with the gazillion unfinished fics I have out there). It's nice that I can actually post one for her. This one's for you, baby!
Summary: John the servant turns out not to be anything like Rodney would have imagined.
Author's note: All I can say about this story is, it would not exist if I had not been incredibly blocked on another story I'm writing for
sapphiresmuse . Where John's in leather. And so is Rodney. Mmm.
Sapphire's Beta Notes: I've been betaing stories for Maisie for many years now. And while I'm always glad to beta for her, this one was a pure joy. Not because it didn't have its problems (what with dropped ending quotes and a plethora of commas I was forced to decimate in the name of all good Betas everywhere) but because the story told here is that enjoyable. I predict some of you out there are going to adore Maisie for writing this. And look for Riday. I'm not certain if Maisie ended up using Riday as planned but there's a story there that she needs to 'fess up to. (Author's note: Maisie did not end up using Riday, and one day I shall 'fess up, but not today.) Oh, and whatever you do, please don't ask Maisie about the pubic parks. Good god, you just never know what she's going to pull out of her hat. And, finally, go forth and read this lovely tale, fellow SGA lovers. There is much to love about it. Much John. Much Rodney. And both without some of the usual walls between them that can tend to lead to miscommunications.
Being a convicted criminal, Rodney thinks, has not really turned out to be all that bad. He's got his own small apartment which locks from the inside, a private lavatory with bathing facilities, a mattress which doesn't hurt his back, and three meals a day, plus snacks. The work he's doing is challenging, and interesting enough that he doesn't always want to leave when it's time for meals or exercise or rest, and the other prisoners he's living and working with are a lot like him: brainy and non-violent. It's not really a bad life, all in all.
Although this is a new wrinkle he hadn't expected, 'this' being the servant he has somehow earned. "I don't understand," he says helplessly to Raku, who is gazing at him with a placid, pleasant expression. "I haven't even been here that long."
"Nearly three seasons," Raku says. "And your progress has been excellent. The council is most pleased with your work. You have earned this, Rodney. You should be honored."
"But ..." Rodney waves his hand around at his small quarters. "What will he do?"
"Tend to you," Raku says. He looks bemused. "Fetch your meals, clean your rooms, do your washing. Anything else you can think of that you do not wish to do yourself." He crosses his hands behind his back, looks grave. "This is not just for you, Rodney. It is an opportunity for him as well. He has been in the mines."
"Oh." The prisoners in the mines don't have half the amenities the Class Fives do. Manual labor, cramped quarters, no recreation time-they're the violent offenders, the ones that can't be easily controlled even after Treatment.
"Don't worry," Raku says. "He had a rough time of it, but his behavior has much improved in the past month. You will not be in any danger. And if he does relapse, you will have this." He hands Rodney a slim, small metal device.
Rodney takes it with a small frown of distaste. "Isn't this a subduer?"
"A personal one," Raku says. "Keyed specifically to his implant, and incapable of causing severe harm."
Rodney turns it over and over in his hand. "I still don't think I'd be comfortable using it."
"It is only for emergencies, if he should become violent or dangerous. We do not believe it will be necessary, but we prefer to have the safety precaution in place. Its use will be monitored to ensure that you are not abusing your position, not that I expect that to be an issue with you."
"Okay," Rodney says, because really, he does not have much of a choice here. They give him the trappings of freedom but he is just as much a prisoner as this new servant is. He sticks the device in his pocket. "Maybe he can help me with my work."
"I don't think you will find him suited for that," Raku says noncommittally, turning to leave. "But he should serve you well enough here." He pauses at the door. "It is only temporary, Rodney. A season, maybe two. If he does well here, he may be promoted to Class Three."
Class Three, Rodney knows, is where life begins to get bearable: semi-private rooms in comfortable dorms, personal lavatory cubicles instead of communal showers, recreation facilities that offer enjoyment as well as exercise. He's heard the Class Twos will work themselves into the ground trying to get promoted. It's sort of unsettling to think of himself as the hurdle this other person needs to get past. Rodney wonders if he's ever had a servant before. Going by the queasiness in his stomach, he doesn't think so.
"What kind of name is John, anyway?" he blurts out. "I've never heard of it."
"And you have heard all possible names in your time here?" Raku asks with a small smile.
"Well, no. Obviously not. But it's different."
"It's not common," Raku concedes. "But then again, neither is your name."
"At least mine has two syllables."
"I hope," Raku says dryly, "that you will give him a chance here, despite the oddity of his name."
Grumpy now, Rodney says, "It's not like I have a choice."
"No," Raku says blithely as he leaves. "You do not."
~~
John the servant turns out not to be anything like Rodney would have imagined. He's tall and thin, with fading bruises on his face Rodney knows better than to ask about, and the slightly perplexed expression Rodney's come to associate with people who've recently been Treated, even though Raku says it's been over a month.
Predictably, on the day John is due to start work, Rodney gets stuck in the lab and gets home later than usual; his first clue that John's arrived is when he walks through the door and sees that his apartment, which he had always assumed was too small to get messy, is unrecognizably immaculate.
"Hello?" he calls out uncertainly. He fumbles for the control device Raku gave him. He doesn't want to use it-ever, really-but if its purpose is to serve as a deterrent, John needs to know he has it so it can, presumably, deter him.
A man emerges from the bathroom, a dirty rag in one hand and a bottle of cleaning solution in the other. He dips his head deferentially. "Are you Rodney? I'm John." Then he looks up a little hesitantly, gripping the rag so hard his fingers turn white. "Raku let me in. You weren't here."
"No," Rodney says. "No, I wasn't. I was working late. I do that a lot. It's, uh ... you'll have to expect that. So." He waves his hand in general at the apartment. "You cleaned."
John looks panicked for a second, and Rodney realizes with amazement that John is by far the more nervous one here. That he is making John nervous. Rodney's never been in that sort of position of power before. At least, he doesn't think so. Anything could have been possible before he came here, but speculating about the infinite possibilities of his past existence is one sure way to speed the pace at which he's heading for a nervous breakdown, so Rodney, in general, prefers to assume his life before incarceration was pretty much the same as it is now, at least in all the significant ways that don't have to do with being locked up and having no memory.
"Yes," John says, swallowing hard, like cleaning is potentially a really bad thing for him to have done. "Raku said I was supposed to ... I mean, he said that it's part of my responsibilities here, and I just thought since you weren't here to tell me what to do, I should start with that. I didn't move anything around, or anything. I dusted."
There is something very unnatural about the rapid stream of words coming from John's mouth, and something more unnatural still about John's hesitant, diffident manner. Rodney wonders if it's a side effect of Treatment, if John was so violent before that eliminating those facets of his personality has changed him in some very fundamental manner, so much that even Rodney can tell. It's as if John's wearing this personality like a suit of clothing that doesn't fit, obvious even to a casual observer. Then Rodney thinks he's probably just being ridiculous.
"It's fine," Rodney says. He slips the controller back in his pocket. If its primary function is to serve as a deterrent, it will apparently be useless, because if John is deterred any more, he might not be able to function. "It looks good in here. I guess I didn't realize how dirty it had gotten."
"I've seen worse," John says.
Since John can only possibly be referencing the mines, Rodney is sure that is true, though it's also quite possibly nothing more than an attempt at obsequiousness. He goes into his bedroom and sees that the bed's been made as well. The covers are straight and flat, like they've been ironed; the corners are perfectly square. He's almost afraid to touch it and mess it up. He settles for running his fingers lightly over the comforter. "Wow," he says, with unfeigned admiration. "That's impressive. Where'd you learn that?"
It is a stupid question, which he realizes as soon as it's out of his mouth. John just shrugs and does not point out Rodney's obvious idiocy. "I don't know. It's just how I make my bed." He grins, which makes him look less dazed and nervous, but also highlights the bruises around his mouth. "Maybe I worked in a hotel before."
Somehow, Rodney doubts it.
~~
Rodney's class and ranking award him home cooking privileges for five meals out of every ten. He rarely takes advantage of it because it's easier to go to the commissary, even if there is less choice there. But John seems eager to cook for him, so Rodney sends him off to get supplies, with a signed requisition slip and detailed instructions on which ingredients to avoid, "because it would be tragic if I died of anaphylactic shock on your first day here."
When John doesn't make it back in what Rodney considers to be a reasonable amount of time, he goes looking for him. He is expecting a long, possibly traumatic search (his mind has already conjured the many terrible things that could have happened to a recently Treated Class Two on the way to and from the Class Five commissary), so he's a little taken aback to find John before he's even left the building. John is hovering in the foyer of the apartment building, two bags of supplies clenched tightly in his fists, and he is staring perplexedly at the board with the resident inmates' names listed on it.
"What happened? Did you get lost?" Rodney grabs one of the bags of food from John's unresisting hand. "I was about to call security."
"Sorry," John says. He looks uncomfortable, and follows Rodney up the stairs. "I forgot which apartment you lived in."
"Third four, southwest corner," Rodney says. "Which is listed right next to my name on the board."
"Yeah," John says. "I was just looking at that. I'd have been up in a minute." Then they get inside and John brightens. "Hey, they had real meat!"
"It's Fourth Day. We always have meat on Fourth Day. Bisa steaks or livian patties, usually. Didn't you have meat, uh, before?" This is Rodney's attempt at being tactful. It's unclear to him if it is okay to talk about what life was like in the mines. Rodney has no factual information about the mines at all, just supposition and rumor that is occasionally bandied about the lab, but he guesses it's kind of like being in prison in the first place, only worse; not something you really want to talk about to people who haven't experienced it themselves.
"No." John doesn't seem particularly upset at the oblique reference to the mines. He's unloading the meat-bisa steaks, Rodney sees, but big ones, thick and bloody, still attached to the bone. "Not real meat, anyway. Oola stew, sometimes, but Bolu-he shared my cot-he told me that it wasn't real meat, just the parts of the animal you'd never actually eat." He loads the steaks into a pan Rodney didn't even know he had, and starts opening jar after jar of spices, sniffing each one in turn. "I can't remember the last time I had real meat."
He says that without irony, which Rodney thinks is pretty impressive, considering.
~~
John hums to himself while he's cooking. Rodney finds this very disconcerting, not at all fitting with his mental image of what a violent offender should be like, even one who has had the violent parts of his personality deactivated. Soon there is steak, and salad, and some sort of chewy grain. At the first bite, Rodney decides that this servant business will work out fine after all.
They are sitting together at Rodney's small dining table, which John had protested but Rodney had insisted upon. "It's bad enough," he had said, "that I have to have a servant. I'm not going to compound it by making you eat by yourself off in a corner somewhere."
"Bad enough?" John had repeated. He lifted one eyebrow way, way up. "Isn't it a huge status symbol? I though most Class Fives wanted servants."
"I am not most people. Anyway," Rodney had added, "I don't have another table." Which had pretty much been the end of the debate.
The meal is amazing. Rodney has never much liked the food here, though it hasn't stopped him from eating it. He'd assumed that the slightly unpleasant cuisine was part and parcel of being incarcerated; after all, if everything was so great inside the prison, everyone would be breaking the law to get in. Now he's wondering if it's maybe just the fault of the prisoners they've got assigned to commissary duty, even though, in theory, they've been assigned there on the basis of proclivity and aptitude. He's not sure what it is, exactly, but from the first meal he had here, the food's just tasted wrong, overspiced or underspiced or just wrongly spiced. This though, is just right, and he doesn't know if it's fluke (which would be sad) or if John's a culinary genius (which would be great).
"This is amazing," he says around a mouthful of steak.
John looks up, and he's got a strange, pensive expression on his face as he chews. "I didn't realize how awful the food was in the mines until now. If people knew what you get to eat in the upper classes, they'd be rioting."
"The food can't be the worst of it," Rodney says reasonably. "I don't think anybody would riot just for bisa steaks."
"You've obviously never eaten oola stew," John says, and since this is true so far as Rodney can recall, he lets the matter drop.
~~
It's quite late when they finish eating, past the point when Rodney's usually in bed, if he's not at the labs. Socializing after working hours is tolerated within certain strict limits, but Rodney doesn't often take advantage of it. He's friendly enough with the people in his lab, but doesn't feel any particular need to spend additional time with them after hours.
John insists on doing all the cleaning. "It's my job," he says, brow furrowed. "That's why I'm here." Rodney lets him because, even in four hours, he can tell how important it is to John that he is useful, that he does a good job at this. It makes Rodney feel superfluous in his own apartment, having someone else washing dishes and sweeping his floor (not that he sweeps his floor very often on his own), but because for John, it's either this or the mines, Rodney lets him take care of everything. He wanders around a little aimlessly, fingering the books he's been allotted but has never bothered to read. Then he spots an unfamiliar bag placed inconspicuously in the corner, and wanders back into the kitchen where John is drying the dishes with a dishtowel Rodney had no idea he owned.
"I saw your bag," he says to John's back.
John's muscles tense, and he turns around slowly, wearing a guarded expression and keeping his eyes glued to some place just above and to the right of Rodney's head. "It's just a couple of changes of clothing," he says defensively. "I didn't bring anything I wouldn't need. It won't get in your way."
"Hey," Rodney says, hands up to placate. John's slightly off-center stare is unnerving and strange. "It's not a big deal. I just wasn't thinking ..." He trails off, thinking things through a little bit. "I need to find you a place to sleep." This shouldn't be as startling as it is. Raku had told him, after all; he'd known that John as a Class Two didn't qualify for dormitory housing. It's just that he hadn't really considered that having a servant also meant having a roommate.
"I don't have to stay here. I just thought it'd be easier if I were here when you woke up, so I could get your breakfast for you, prepare your clothes ...." John shrugs like it doesn't matter. "I doubt Bolu's found anybody to share the cot yet. He doesn't speak to most of the day-shifters, and we didn't really have all that great of a location. I can always go back to the mines to sleep. I could get one of the guards to wake me early. Transports start at 400."
Rodney's a lot more horrified at the idea than he thinks he should be, considering he's just met John this afternoon, but he is not going to be the one responsible for sending anybody to the mines, even if it's only for sleeping. "No," he says firmly. "No. You'll sleep here. I can make up the couch."
John turns and looks at the couch, which is probably half as long as it would need to be for John to sleep comfortably on it. "I'll just sleep on the floor. I don't mind."
And that's what they end up doing, because Rodney's bed is not big enough to share (not that John would share, anyway; it's pretty clear that he has fixed ideas of what's appropriate, and bed-sharing probably wouldn't qualify), and he doesn't have guest furniture. He wonders what his other colleagues do; a couple of the people in the science department have qualified for servants, and he doubts their apartments are any bigger than his. He guesses he will ask tomorrow. For now, he pulls his extra blanket out of the closet and folds up a towel to serve as a pillow.
"It's fine," John insists. He turned down the sheets on Rodney's bed, and is hovering at the door to Rodney's bedroom now, holding the blanket in one hand. He doesn't seem at all upset at the prospect of sleeping on the floor. If anything, he is disconcerted at Rodney's discomfort. "I'll wrap it around me like a sleeping bag. It'll be better than the cot. No bugs."
"Bugs!" Rodney's horrified again. "Do you ... I mean, are you ..."
"No." John looks amused. Sort of. "They deloused me this morning. I'm clean as can be."
"Oh," Rodney says. "Good. How about-"
"They sterilized my clothing too. Don't worry."
Rodney thinks he'll stop by to see the quartermaster in the morning and get some bug spray, just in case.
~~
John's already in the kitchen when Rodney wakes up the next morning, and there is a heavenly smell wafting through the apartment. "What," Rodney says, "is that?"
John turns around and smiles. "Something called tava beans. The quartermaster was trying to get rid of them yesterday, so I got them cheap. They're not good for eating, but I had this idea of brewing them up, like a tea."
"Yes, okay," Rodney says desperately. "Please tell me you're done brewing them now."
"Here." John hands him a mug, and it is like a little sip of paradise in a cup. "Oh, my god," Rodney moans. "I missed this." And then he freezes, because he knows he's never had it before, but the certainty that he has is sudden and unshakeable. It's an itch he can't scratch, something just visible out of the corner of his eye, gone when he grabs for it.
"They cost next to nothing," John says blithely. He's at the stove, busy with some kind of egg concoction, and he doesn't seem to have noticed Rodney's little epiphany. "Maybe a twentieth of your weekly rations for a huge bag. You can have it every day, if you like."
"I think," Rodney says slowly, "that I just remembered something." Because it is important enough to mention, he thinks, more important than anything else they could be discussing.
"Oh?" John turns around, a big fork in his hand. It's covered with half-cooked egg and a red vegetable of some sort. "Are you late for work? I thought you didn't have to be there until 750." He frowns speculatively at the fork. "I can give you some omelet to take with you. I don't know how well it will travel, though."
"No," Rodney says. "I remembered something from before."
John freezes, omelet forgotten now. "You-is that even possible? They told me Treatment was permanent."
"Me too." Rodney strains for it, but it's just out of reach, a vague evocation of taste and smell, someone laughing off to one side, a hot mug clenched tightly in one hand.
"Don't tell anyone." John's face is pale, his hand white-knuckled on the fork. "If they know, they might Treat you again, and you'll lose everything."
Rodney tilts his head to one side, studying him. "Is that what they did to you?"
John laughs a little helplessly. "I don't know. I can't remember." He chews at his lips, looks nervously at Rodney, like he's telling him a dangerous secret. Rodney wonders why John would trust him with any kind of confidence so soon after they've met; maybe it's the same reason he's already done the same himself. "Bolu said I'd been in the mines for two full seasons."
Rodney feels a chill. "You don't remember?"
"I only remember the past month. And Jeznel-she's one of the trusties there-she says I came from the quarry before that. But Bolu says I never mentioned it, not once. And I would have, wouldn't I? If I'd remembered?"
"But that means you've had three Treatments," Rodney says. "One after you were convicted, one when you left the quarry, one in the mines. At least three. Why would they do that?"
"People try to escape sometimes," John says. "Especially from the mines, because they're so close to the fence. I think they Treat them when they catch them."
To Rodney, attempting escape is unfathomable. He doesn't know what's beyond the fence, except they talk about monsters out there, creatures that can suck your life right out of your body, how there's no protection outside the penal colony. Rodney doesn't remember having a life to go back to, and apparently he wasn't living it very well anyway, if it ended up getting him convicted and exiled, so he's never felt much of an urge to leave. "You think you tried to escape?"
"Maybe," John says uneasily. He turns back to the stove, poking listlessly at the pan. "It was stupid, if that's what I did. Treatment messes you up."
Rodney waits a minute for clarification, but John doesn't seem to want to say any more. He turns around instead and gestures at the table. "The omelet's ready, if you're hungry."
"I have no idea what an omelet is," Rodney says. "But I'm always hungry."
John laughs, and it sounds mostly genuine. "I'll keep that in mind."
It hits Rodney at that moment for the first time (though it will not be the last) just how handsome John is. Maybe, Rodney thinks, the smell of roasted tava is clouding his judgment, but standing there laughing, hair still tousled from sleep, face covered in swaths of stubble, sleep shirt open at the neck, John is unreasonably, inhumanly attractive. It makes Rodney nervous, because there is a part of him that is already claiming, Mine! Rodney considers this a very dangerous thing to be thinking about a servant, no matter how good he looks in the morning. So Rodney takes a big sip of tava to distract himself, which works fairly well because, oh my god, good. Then John gives him his omelet, which is even better, and Rodney forgets all about how good looking John is. At least for the moment.
~~
Later, when Rodney's ready to leave for work, he's casting his eyes all over his apartment. For the life of him, he can't think what John's going to do all day. It seems to him that this plan of his having a servant was not especially well thought out on someone's part.
"Laundry," John says. "And your rugs could use cleaning."
"Okay, realistically," Rodney says, "you could clean this apartment for a day or two, but then it will be cleaner than it was when I moved in. You can't cook for me all day; I don't have the rations for that, especially if we're both eating here."
"I can eat in the commissary," John says. "I've got a temporary pass. It's got to be better than the food in the mines."
"That's not the point." Rodney sighs. "Look, the fact of the matter is, I'm one man with a couple of rooms, and I only eat half my meals at home. I don't really need a servant all the time. Honestly, what are you going to do? You can't keep cleaning the bathroom."
"If you don't have enough work for me," John says, "I'm supposed to go back to the mines."
"What? No, no, no. That is a bad idea. You just left the mines."
"I don't mean going back permanently," John says. "Just until you get home. It's okay," he adds, apparently at seeing the (presumably horrified) look on Rodney's face. "I don't mind."
"I'd rather it didn't come to that," Rodney says grumpily. It bothers him that he is somehow managing to fail at this master business, and it hasn't even been a full day.
John just shrugs. "Hey, from where I'm standing, this is a big improvement."
~~
Two nights later, Rodney comes home and John is not there. Rodney does not panic, because John is an adult and he has already proved to be reasonably intelligent. Rodney usually gets home later than this, so John is probably just out buying food for dinner. But an hour later, John still has not arrived. Rodney calls Raku in a panic.
"Did he go back to the mines?" Rodney says. He is just a little bit hysterical. "It's not safe there. He's told me stories. Is he hurt? Oh god, is he dead? I could have given him more laundry!"
John is not dead. John appears fifteen minutes later, holding bags of food and looking sheepish, escorted by a security guard who does not acknowledge either of them.
"What happened?" Rodney screeches in a manly, dignified manner. "I thought you went back to the mines and they wouldn't let you back out." He doesn't mention the fact that he'd actually been worrying that John was dead. He thinks it's possible that that's a little bit neurotic.
"I did go back to the mines," John says. "For an hour. Maybe two, tops. Bolu found someone else to share the cot already. Some guy from the fourth level moved up. But they have to let me back out. I have a pass." He holds up the shiny card that's on a chain around his neck. It's got his unsmiling picture on it, grainy and grim, and some annotation affording John the travel privileges of a Class Three.
"So, what? You lost track of time? Because I know I'm a little lax with the whole servant-master relationship, and it's not like I actually need you to cook me dinner, but I was expecting you to be here when I got home, and you weren't. I have a very overactive imagination, and in my head you were cold and lying on a slab somewhere waiting to be autopsied." And okay, the neurosis just slipped out. His verbal filters are somewhat lax. He likes to think this is a side effect of Treatment, even though no one else he's met in the compound suffers from the same affliction.
John blinks. "Okay," he says. "Next time I'll leave a note. It's just, I kind of got lost, and none of the security guards would even talk to me so I was kind of wandering around hoping I'd find the right building."
Rodney stares at him. "You can't ..." he says, floundering. "You can't get lost here. It's not a real city. Everything's numbered. In order."
"Yeah," John says. His face is flushed, color high in his cheeks, and he is looking everywhere but at Rodney. "I couldn't remember which building you live in." ("You live in", Rodney notes distractedly, not "we live in," and that says something significant, though he is not exactly sure what, but it is something he is going to ponder later, when John has gone to bed and Rodney is alone in his room and can think about it in private.) "I should have written it down, but I made it back okay the other night when I went to the commissary and I figured I'd be all right."
"But you weren't all right," Rodney says. "And you weren't all right the other night either, come to think of it. It took you an hour to get to the quartermaster's and back, which is ridiculous, especially because you had a map and I know you know how to read one. How long were you waiting down by the door, anyway, before I came and got you?"
"A few minutes," John says defensively. "I told you, I forgot the apartment number."
"My apartment number is on the board right next to my name." Rodney stares at him. "Which means you forgot my name. Do you know it now? What is it?"
"Rodney," John says with a sigh. "Your name is Rodney."
"Fine, but that doesn't prove anything," Rodney scoffs. "You've had days to learn it. The question is, did you know it the other night? Because either you forgot it then or you can't read, and I'm pretty sure I've seen you reading."
John frowns sullenly. "I can read."
"You just can't remember anything. Worse than the rest of us, I mean."
"I remember that I work for you, and that you can't eat citrus," John says. He is scowling, and shoulders past Rodney to get to the kitchen. Physical contact of that sort, Rodney thinks, was not foreseen in the servant rulebook, but he has already learned that John only follows the rules he likes. "The rest doesn't really matter."
~~
Rodney does some surreptitious reading over the next few weeks. "Well," he says one night, waiting in the kitchen for John to finish preparing dessert-"It's called ice cream," John says. "You'll love it."-"They're selectively disconnecting certain neural pathways."
"Who is?" John asks. He puts a bowl in front of Rodney and hands him a spoon. "Watch it, it's cold. Be careful of your tooth."
Rodney scowls at him. "I thought servants were supposed to be more deferential, and not so much with the nagging."
"I tried being deferential," John says, "but you didn't seem to like it. And you need the nagging."
Rodney takes a bite of the ice cream and instantly forgives John his lack of deference. "This is incredible."
John beams at him. "Can you believe I tested this out on Jeznel, and she didn't like it? Said it was too sweet."
"Jeznel. That's the woman from the mines? Likes oola stew? Obviously she has no taste." (John snuck a portion of oola stew back one day, just to prove to Rodney it was really as bad as he claimed. It was, Rodney decided, even worse than that, and he resolves never ever to let John do anything that will cause him to get sent back to the mines for long enough to have to eat a meal.) He points to a paragraph in the report he's reading. "This," he says, with a mouthful of ice cream, "explains why your short-term memory is impaired."
"My short-term memory is impaired?" John says, deadpan. "I don't remember that."
Rodney ignores him. "I mean, they're going into your brain and physically severing the connections. Cut enough of them and you're going to get serious side effects."
"At least I can still cook. Can the damage be repaired?"
"Their literature says no," Rodney says. He's a bit skeptical. "I'm no doctor, but it seems to me that the information is still there, somewhere."
"Sure. You remembered something," John points out.
"Just once," Rodney says. "And it wasn't even a real memory."
"It was better than nothing," John says. To Rodney, he sounds hopeful.
~~
Rodney wonders about the pattern of John's days sometimes, what he does to fill the hours that aren't taken up with all the things he does for Rodney.
"I've been working on these," John says when Rodney finally works up the nerve to ask (and yes, Rodney is fully self-aware enough to recognize the significant self-esteem issue implied by the fact that he has to work up the nerve to ask his servant a question). John pulls out a pair of wooden rods from behind the couch, and holds them up for scrutiny, a little guiltily. "I carved them from scrap wood the quartermaster had lying around. They're taking longer than I thought."
"They're very nice," Rodney says, managing to be both sincere and insincere at the same time, because the wood is lovely, and the rods have been carefully whittled into shape, and they will be flawless when polished, but still. They are wooden sticks. "What are they, exactly?"
"I'm not really sure," John says curiously. He grips one stick in his hand, swings it tentatively through the air. "But I've got some ideas."
A few days later when Rodney comes home, the sticks are propped up in corner of the living room, treated with oil and gleaming. Rodney wonders if John has figured out what they are for.
"Maybe," John says. He picks them up and holds them as he runs through a series of movements, slow and lithe and graceful, beautiful enough to cause something to twist painfully in Rodney's chest.
"It's some kind of exercise," John says breathlessly. "The weird thing is, if I think about it, I can't do it." Just to prove his point, maybe, he twirls the rod and makes a misstep, obvious even to Rodney who has no idea at all what John is supposed to be doing, and suddenly it's not graceful at all, it's awkward and lumbering, and John nearly ends up on his ass.
"Something sort of like that, anyway," John says ruefully. He bends over to pick up the stick from the floor, and caresses the wood speculatively with his fingers. "It's like my body remembers this, even though my brain doesn't."
"Muscle memory," Rodney says sagely, and then he adds, "You didn't tell anyone else about this, did you?"
John gives him a look of extreme exasperation that is very un-servant-like. "I'm not an idiot, Rodney."
"No," Rodney says, "I know you're not."
~~
"Prime," John says, sounding bored. "This is a stupid game."
"Humor me," Rodney says.
"Yes, master," John says. "Ten."
"Don't," Rodney says, "screw around."
"Who cares if it's prime or not?" John says irritably. "I don't see the entertainment value. Where did you learn this game, anyway? Did Kelji teach it to you? You told me he was a moron."
"Everyone I work with is a moron. And nobody taught it to me," Rodney says. "Just like nobody taught you to make ice cream, or how to do those exercises you do with the sticks. I think we're remembering things."
John doesn't seem too interested. "If we are," he says, "it seems like it's only the useless stuff. Except for the ice cream."
"But it's something," Rodney says. "It's better than nothing. Nobody else I've spoken to can remember a thing."
"Or else they're smart enough not to admit it if they are," John says with a scowl.
"I thought you wanted to remember things."
"I do," John says. "But useful things, like who we are, and where we come from."
"I know who I am," Rodney says.
"You don't even know if Rodney's your real name," John says, and stalks out of the kitchen.
~~
The first time Rodney kisses John is a Sixth Day towards the end of the season. Rodney's recently been upranked to third, which means he gets an extra half day off every other week, the rights to an additional meal each week at home, and a small increase in his weekly rations. They are celebrating with a meal of livian patties, served John's way: reground and mixed with spices, shaped back into patties and broiled, then served between two thick slices of toasted bread. Each bite is a little taste of a home that Rodney can't remember but now knows he's lost, and after the plates are cleared Rodney pushes John up against the sink and kisses him hard.
"Finally," John says breathlessly, and kisses him back, which is a relief that eases an ache in his chest Rodney didn't even know he had.
Kissing John is familiar and exotic all at the same time. Rodney is sure he's kissed people before, and if the way his body is responding is any indication, at least some of them have been men, but the thing is, he can't remember kissing anybody else. He's-god, he wants to take it slow, to make it count, because if there is nothing else good that comes from Treatment, he gets to be a virgin all over again, and he wants to make this first time memorable. Except his body is not with the program; his body wants this fast and hard and now, and does not appear inclined to take it slow and allow the leisurely, lingering exploration he sort of wants.
John is pushy and demanding, hungry and aggressive. He wrangles Rodney out of the kitchen and into bed in a manner that's not very servant-like at all.
This thought makes Rodney freeze, and he glances down at John's back, all tight, corded muscle, glistening with sweat and trembling. "John," Rodney says, voice cracking, "you're not doing this because you're my servant and you think you have to, are you?"
"Fuck," John grinds out, which means-something, Rodney knows. It means something, even if he can't remember what. John is panting, chest heaving irregularly, and he surely doesn't seem to be acting under duress. "Are you kidding me? Can we talk about this later?"
"No," Rodney says, "no, we really can't. John, I have to know. It's important."
John groans, and twists out from under him, rolling over onto his back. He flops back on the bed and throws an arm over his eyes. "No," John says. He speaks very slowly and distinctly. "I am not doing this because I have to."
"But you would, wouldn't you? If I wanted it, and you didn't."
John sighs. "Yes, Rodney. It's part of the deal. You're Class Five, I'm Class Two. You've got privileges I don't. I'm assigned to work for you. If you ask for something within reason, I'm supposed to give it to you."
"But that's not-I mean, if you really didn't want to-"
"I don't think you're allowed to tie me down and rape me, if that's what you're asking. I'm pretty sure I could contest that."
"But then they'd throw you back in the mines."
"I suppose," John says. He lifts his arm away from his eyes, tucks it under his head. "That's not really-I mean, I wanted this, Rodney. I was waiting for it."
That is ... that is kind of incredible, actually, to think that John's been anticipating this as much as Rodney has, and also a little frustrating, because apparently they've been wasting time. "Were you really?"
"Sure. When Raku told me I was being reassigned, he asked me if I cared that you were a man. I don't know why else that would matter, if you weren't going to ask for this."
Rodney feels a little sick, the livian patties suddenly sitting heavily in his stomach, because maybe John's anticipation hadn't been like Rodney's after all. "So you are only doing this because you have to."
"No! Do you ever actually listen to what people tell you, or do you just hear what you want? I said I wanted this. Are you only doing this because you can?"
Rodney is a little offended. "No. Of course not."
John is staring up at him with hot, hazel eyes. "You're Class Five, so you get a lot of privileges, but free socialization isn't one of them. You're not allowed to have a sexual relationship with anyone but your servant unless you clear it with the Board." He waits a minute. "You did know that, didn't you? That's why all the Fives want servants, isn't it?"
"I think you inhaled too much silian dust in the mines, is what I think. Who told you that Fives are restricted from having sexual relationships?"
Now John looks uncertain. "I don't know. Everybody knows that."
"Define everybody."
John is mulish. "I don't know."
"It wasn't the all-knowing, all-seeing Bolu, was it? He of the mighty, mighty intellect and vast wisdom?"
"Hey," John says hotly, "Bolu's a good guy. And let me tell you, jealous is not a good look for you."
"I'm not jealous. Why should I be jealous? Class Twos can't have sexual relationships. Everybody knows that."
"But we all had sex anyway," John fires back. "Which is more than you can say, apparently."
Rodney stares at him, eyes narrowed. "You're lying. You're totally lying. Class Twos don't have sex. In the mines? With the lice? I don't believe it."
"Fine," John says. His mouth is set in a thin, tight line. "Fine. Forget it. This was obviously a terrible idea." He sits up, shoulders locked and tense, apparently oblivious to his nudity. "I'm going to go finish cleaning the kitchen, if that's all right with you, master?"
"No, it's not all right!" Rodney reaches out, and touches John's shoulder, which shakes a little under his touch. "I just don't want you to feel coerced, all right? This whole master-servant thing is bad enough without thinking I'm forcing you to sleep with me."
"Stop thinking it," John says simply. "I'd tell you if you were forcing me. When I had to make you those grotesque iza fruit pancakes, I complained about it for two days. And when you made me scrub the shower with silonia cream I called Raku and said you were abusing your position, remember?"
Rodney grins a little. "He wasn't very sympathetic."
"Not even a little bit. Rodney, you have to trust me on this. Just because I have to do what you tell me doesn't mean I have to pretend to like it. And that, before? With all the panting and moaning? That wasn't me pretending. All right?"
"All right," Rodney says. "But I swear, if for one second I think that you are only doing this because you think you have to, I'll-"
"You'll what?" John sounds genuinely amused, and he lies back down, looking up at Rodney through heavy-lidded, flirtatious eyes. "You'll punish me?"
Rodney snorts. "Don't tempt me."
~~
Rodney only punishes John once, and it is entirely by accident and not in any real way Rodney's fault (or so he says, although the fact of the matter is, he blames himself entirely). He stopped carrying around the "behavior modification device" (the polite name for the personal subduer) by the end of John's first week; he likes to think he is a pretty good judge of character, and also, if the authorities' claims are to be believed, violent impulses are almost entirely eliminated by Treatment. Certainly Rodney never feels threatened in any way by John; exactly the opposite, in fact. John makes him feel secure and comfortable in a way he hadn't known was possible. Even in this place, without his memories, he feels he can relax so long as John is around.
So it's only natural that he grows complacent over time as he and John get comfortable around each other. The controller, unnecessary, migrates from Rodney's pocket to a desk drawer, then from a desk drawer to his underwear drawer, then to a shelf in the linen closet where Rodney kind of hopes he will forget about it. Instead, it gets tangled up in some sheets, which is how, John, one day, accidentally stumbles across it.
"Hey," John says, when Rodney comes home from work, distracted and irritated by a project that's not going well, mainly because his boss and all his coworkers are complete and utter imbeciles. John looks a little guilty, and is doing that thing where he looks at Rodney without actually focusing on him. "I, uh, might have broken something today."
Rodney looks around the small apartment. There is very little in it that could conceivably be broken. He has nothing of real value, certainly nothing delicate for art's sake. "What was it? A glass? A plate? We can get more." It's a little bit of a waste spending rations on plates that could be spent on food, but Rodney's enough of a realist to recognize that things get broken sometimes, even by someone as compulsively vigilant as John.
"No," John says. "Not a plate." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small metal cylinder which Rodney doesn't even recognize at first. (This is one part Rodney doesn't forgive himself for later, for not recognizing it right away, for not telling John to put the thing the hell down.) "It was on the top shelf in the closet, behind the sheets. I didn't even see it until it hit the floor. Cracked me in the head on the way down." John turns it around in his hands, still looking guilty. "I don't know what it's supposed to do, but it doesn't seem to do it anymore. I'm sorry."
It's then Rodney recognizes it, and panics, because John's playing with the damn thing, and obviously doesn't know what it is, which means maybe it's not the deterrent Rodney's always assumed it is, but that's not the point at the moment; that is something to take up with Raku later, after Rodney's gotten it far, far away from John's restless, inquisitive hands. Rodney's proud of himself for keeping his voice level when he speaks. "I'm sure it's fine, but why don't you let me take a look at it? I'll check it out."
And then (this is something else Rodney doesn't forgive himself for later, for sounding so damn casual that John thinks nothing of what he does next) John tosses it over, with perfect aim, trusting Rodney to catch it, which he does, because Rodney's not athletic but he's got good reflexes where technology is concerned.
The thing is, the thing that Rodney doesn't know, can't know since no one has ever bothered to tell him, is that the damn thing's keyed to his DNA, that John could turn the power supply on and off all day and the device still wouldn't activate for him, but that Rodney, in catching it, can activate it without even meaning to.
John's scream is terrible, ear-shattering, and there's a heart-stopping moment when Rodney is so startled he does nothing at all except watch John collapse to the floor, convulsing. Then his brain catches up, leaps ahead, and he fumbles at the device, hitting the single button, squeezing it as hard as he can, praying to whatever god will listen that he turns it off instead of accidentally turning it up.
There's a buzzing in the room that Rodney doesn't even notice until it stops. John goes instantly limp on the floor, motionless. For a horrible second, Rodney thinks he's killed him. But he finds a pulse when he places trembling fingers on John's neck, and it only takes a minute before John opens his eyes, which are wide, green and bewildered, and filled with tears.
John stares at him blankly, "What-? Who-?"
"God," Rodney says, panicked. This is so very, very not good. "John, are you okay?"
"I-" John swallows, looks around with nothing but confusion in his eyes. "What's going on? What happened?"
Rodney doesn't have an answer, but stares down at the device in his hand. "I'm sorry, John, I'm so sorry."
"Why- why are you sorry? Why am I on the floor? What happened?" John struggles to his feet, wincing. "Jesus, I have the worst headache."
"Jesus?" Rodney repeats faintly. "Who is-John, it's me. You know me, right?"
John turns around, still bewildered. "Of course I do. What happened, Rodney? Did I faint or something?"
Sometimes, Rodney knows, people who have been through traumatic incidents won't remember what happened. He presumes that's what going on here, and he's kind of relieved about it, because really, what good would it do John to remember screaming his way through some kind of accidental punishment? None at all. "You didn't faint," Rodney says. "There was an accident." That is not exactly inaccurate.
"An accident," John repeats. He still sounds dazed, and he's staring around the room, blinking. "I don't remember ... when did you get home? God," he adds, collapsing on the couch and dropping his head in his hands, "my head is killing me." He swallows once, then again, and when he looks up his face is tinged green. "I think I'm going to be sick."
He makes it to the bathroom before he throws up, but when it happens, it's violent and unrelenting for three long minutes.
"Okay," Rodney says shakily, when the worst seems to have passed and he judges that he's done all the therapeutic back-patting that is necessary at the moment, "all right. Are you all right now?"
John manages a weak nod and lets Rodney clean him up and lead him back to the couch. "I don't-" John closes his eyes, lets his head drop back against the pillows. "I feel awful. What happened, Rodney?"
"I told you," Rodney says helplessly. "There was an accident."
"You did?" John's still confused, still in pain, and Rodney's starting to get seriously frightened, because he doesn't think Raku ever actually told him what the subduer was meant to do, and he has no idea if this is normal or not. "I don't remember. What happened?"
"You, uh, you found this thing in my closet, and-" Rodney stops, and stares at John for a minute, starting to wonder how far the confusion and forgetfulness go. "John," he says, speaking carefully, "do you know what day it is?"
"Second," John says. "Isn't it? I got cheese. I was going to make that cheese bread you liked, with the sauce." He stares back at Rodney, his expression clearing. "Why are you home so early, anyway?"
"It's not early," Rodney says. "I got home late, actually."
"But it's the middle of the afternoon. Isn't it?" At Rodney's shake of the head, John says helplessly, "I don't understand what's going on." But then his gaze, still restless, falls upon the metal controller, lying on the floor where Rodney dropped it. John stares at it for a second and goes still and pale, horrible comprehension flooding his face. "Is that- did you have to punish me?"
"I- no," Rodney says weakly. "Not on purpose."
"Shit," John says. His voice is low and horrified. "What did I do?"
"You didn't. You didn't," Rodney says.
John doesn't seem to hear him. He jumps to his feet, pacing, and his eyes skitter around the room. He looks trapped, caged. "Why would I-I can't even remember."
"You didn't do anything," Rodney insists. He crosses the room and grabs John's arm. "It was an accident, John, I swear."
"An accident," John repeats dully. He laughs a little, but it's choked and muted. "They're going to take me back to the mines. They're going to Treat me again." He laughs again, but now it's verging on hysterical. "I'm going to forget everything. You, all of this ... I'm going to be even more messed up. Probably won't be able to remember my own name. If it's even really John."
"No," Rodney says, "none of that is going to happen. You're not listening to me. You didn't do anything. It was an accident. We don't even have to tell them."
John looks utterly defeated, like he's already resigned to losing the tenuous foothold he's managed to gain here. "They already know. They monitor those devices, you know that. Want to make sure you're not torturing the staff. They're probably on their way here already."
This is true. Rodney remembers Raku telling him this, remembers some of his coworkers whispering rumors about other Fives who've been demoted for being unduly harsh to their servants. Some have even been completely declassified and sent to the mines themselves. By the time the chime rings a few minutes later, Rodney's worked himself up into a complete panic. John is sitting on the couch, head in his hands, and doesn't even look up when Rodney opens the door. It is Raku, accompanied by three burly security guards armed with subduers-the big ones that don't pretend to be anything other than what they are.
"It was an accident!" Rodney says, before Raku's even all the way into the apartment. "He didn't do anything. I didn't mean to punish him. This is just a big, unfortunate, painful misunderstanding."
Raku is checking out the apartment with clinical, dispassionate eyes. His gaze, when it comes to rest back on Rodney, is not overtly hostile but it's not friendly, either. This is as opposed to the security guards, who definitely look mean. "An accident." His voice is flat, completely unemotional.
"It would almost be a funny story if it didn't involve me inadvertently torturing John for a few seconds, but yes, really, it was an accident. The controller was on a shelf, John knocked it down, long story, but there was no intent on either of our sides."
Raku draws in a long deep breath through his nose, then shifts his attention to where John is sitting on the couch. "How much time did he lose?"
Rodney has no idea what Raku's asking. "He ... it was only a few seconds before I realized and turned it off."
"Memory," Raku says, mouth tight. "How much memory did he lose? Did he recognize you? Did he know what day it was?"
"Oh. Yes. He knew what day it was. He-he didn't recognize me at first, I think, but that was only briefly, right afterwards. He knew the day. He might have lost a couple of hours."
Raku seems satisfied, if not happy. "Physical symptoms?"
"Well, he has an awful headache, but-"
"Did he lose consciousness?" Raku interrupts impatiently. "Did he have any seizures? Delusions? Nose bleed?"
"He was unconscious, but only for a second. He woke up right away. He ... when the device was on he had convulsions but they stopped as soon as I turned it off. He threw up a few times immediately afterwards. No seizures or nose bleeds."
"Has he spoken? Is he coherent?"
"Yes, yes, perfectly coherent. A little confused, I think, but nothing worse. You can ask him yourself. He's right there."
Raku's mouth twists into a small frown, but he crosses over to the couch and kneels down in front of John. "Can you open your eyes for me?" He's considerate and gentle, which Rodney takes as a good sign.
John raises his head. His eyes are dull and a little glassy, but he follows Raku's finger across his field of vision, and he's able to provide his name, class, and rank.
"Well," Raku says, standing up, "I don't think there's any need to call in the medics. He'll have the headache for a few days. Do you have any analgesics here?"
"Three kinds," Rodney says. "Some are better than others for-"
"Give him any of them so long as it's buffered," Raku says. "Maximum dose, at least for tonight. Tomorrow as well, probably. You'll want to hold off on dinner for at least an hour, John, and don't eat anything that's likely to upset your stomach."
John nods mutely.
"You'll need to come with me," Raku says to Rodney, without the solicitousness he showed to John, but without overt hostility either. "You three," he says to the security guards, "stay here until I get back."
"But I told you," Rodney insists, "it was just an accident." Now that John is apparently okay, and presumably not going to be punished, Rodney lets himself worry for his own safety.
"Surely you realize that we can't take your word for it," Raku answers neutrally. "Rodney, it is not that I doubt you, but we have procedures in place for your protection as well as for John's. He can't be witness to anything today after what happened, obviously, and I can not just accept your story as truth. There's no need to worry," he adds, in what he probably means as reassurance. "The procedure is quite painless."
"Procedure!"
John looks up at this, but he doesn't say anything.
"Come," Raku says. "You'll be back in time for a late dinner."
~~
When Rodney arrives back at his apartment, he can smell the cheese pie cooking. It's a relief to notice something so normal. Raku sniffs and makes a face, eyebrows raised. "Is that your dinner? Occasionally the confusion can last for a few hours, even after so short a punishment. Perhaps John should not have attempted to cook so soon."
"Are you crazy? He's making cheese pie. It's fantastic." After the words are out of his mouth, it occurs to Rodney that accusing Raku of insanity, even in jest, is not the best idea, but Raku doesn't seem to mind.
"If that is what you think," Raku agrees dubiously.
Raku is all brusque business when they enter Rodney's apartment (although he does make a face at the smell of the cheese pies, even stronger inside the apartment than without) and Rodney, who normally likes Raku as much as a prisoner can like a jailor, finds himself wishing Raku would just hurry up and leave. The security guards are looming presences, radiating indifference if not outright hostility, and John is busy in the kitchen, restless and sloppy, clanging plates and dropping utensils, in what is a direct contrast to his usual quiet efficiency.
Raku nods at the guards and says, "You can return to your posts." They leave without acknowledging Rodney at all, which is fine so far as Rodney is concerned.
"John," Raku calls, "come here for a moment, please."
John emerges, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He looks calm, self-assured, but Rodney can see that his hands are shaking. "Sir," John says deferentially.
"I'll keep this brief," Raku says with a polite nod, so unlike the guards' studied indifference. "We've found no evidence of wrong-doing here on either of your parts, so there will be no punishment for either of you: no demerits, no downranking. However, Rodney, as the superior in this arrangement, bears the responsibility for incidents such as this one. If there is another accidental activation of the device, you will be held accountable for both instances."
"There won't be another instance," Rodney says fervently. "If it were up to me, I'd bury the damn thing."
Raku looks amused. "As you please," he says. "Though you are required to return it when John's service with you ends. How are you feeling, John?"
"Okay," John says neutrally. "I took something for the headache."
"Very good." Raku smiles, then, looking them both in the eyes. "Then I don't think there is any reason for me to keep you from your dinner." With that, he leaves. Rodney waits a short, barely suitable interval before locking the door.
"That won't keep him out, you know," John says from behind him. "They've got keys to all the locks."
"It makes me feel better," Rodney says, following John back into the kitchen. "Okay, so this was officially the worst day I can remember."
John snorts. "Out of all the 200 or so days you can remember, you mean."
"That doesn't make it any less horrendous," Rodney says. He comes up behind John and wraps his arms around him, feels the tremors still running through John's frame. "Are you really okay?"
John shrugs, tense in Rodney's arms. "My head hurts, and I nearly took off my fingers slicing the keeza fruit for sauce, but other than that, I'm all right." He sighs, and relaxes back into Rodney's arms. "What I'd really like is to go to bed and forget this day ever happened. I don't even remember it and I still want to forget it."
"You're better off not remembering. You were screaming, and then you collapsed and I thought you died. It was awful."
John turns around, searches Rodney's face. "Are you sure I didn't do anything wrong? I know you told Raku it was an accident, but-"
"After we left here, Raku took me to a little room in the security office," Rodney interrupts. "And a medic came in and gave me a shot of something and then they hooked me up to a machine and asked me questions and I couldn't stop myself from answering. I would have told them anything they wanted to know. And what I told them was that when you threw me the controller, it turned on, and it was an accident. All right? If it had been anything else, one of us wouldn't be here right now. Stop looking for ways to take the blame for this."
"Okay," John says, nodding slowly, although he still doesn't look convinced. "Okay."
Part 2