It'll get better, I swear
Okay, so I had a lot of time to plot things out in my head today. Which was fun. And it kept me entertained. Yay for NaNoWriMo.
I still don't like my charcters much, though.
Today's wallpaper is http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/17610051/
And onto the next part.
He who has suffer'd you to impose on him knows you.
~William Blake, excerpted from The Proverbs of Hell
Title: Brother's Keeper, Part Two
Rating: PG-13 for language, scenes depicting violence, and non-PC terminology.
Genre: Annoyingly teenage-boy angsty.
Word count: 4157
Total word count so far: 5763
Author's notes that most likely no one will read: Van's definition of "sulking" was stolen from dictionary.reference.com, pretty much verbatim, and Panthera onca is the Latin name for the Jaguar. Which just happens to have a melanistic form we might otherwise call a black panther.
Greg glowered at his master, silently defying Riordan to get any closer. Three months of captivity hadn’t softened his hate a single iota. He had only wanted to help, damn it, and this was his reward? Slavery more absolute than physical bonds could ever be, house arrest of indefinite length, and being subjected to Riordan’s damnable smirking, day in and day out.
He rather thought it was the smirking that would drive him mad, personally. The house arrest chafed, but he could handle it. (His enslavement, however, he did not touch. He wasn’t ready to think about that yet.) The smirking made Greg’s palms itch. He’d have punched Riordan if he could have. (Slaves couldn’t, though. Riordan had explained that to him, in the early days of his captivity, crouching just outside of the cell Greg had been placed in. “This is how it’s going to be,” he’d said, and there had been no emotion in his voice at all. Like he didn’t care that he - quite literally - held Greg’s life in the palm of his hand. Sometimes, late at night, Greg could still hear the flat recitation of restrictions and rules that now made up his world. It made it hard to sleep, and Greg made sure to be extra difficult the next day in retaliation.)
Of course, some days he was just difficult on general principles. “It’s really annoying when you make that face,” he informed Riordan. His jailer wasn’t making any particular sort of face. He looked much as he always did. Expressionless. Did anything touch the man?
Greg doubted it.
“I’ve been told that before,” Riordan acknowledged.
Greg snorted. Of course he had. Greg had told him so himself, just this morning when Riordan had dropped off his breakfast. Of course, bastard that he was, Riordan probably had people telling him that all the time.
“You’re entitled to your opinion,” the man continued. “Just like I’m entitled to find you an annoying brat. How long are you going to keep sulking?”
Greg spluttered. “Sulking?” he repeated. “Sulking?!”
“‘To be sullenly aloof or withdrawn,’” his captor supplied. “‘As if in silent resentment or protest.’” He regarded Greg levelly. “Well, perhaps not so very silently, in your case.”
“Fuck you!”
“Pederasty doesn’t appeal to me,” Riordan murmured. He arched one ebon-dark eyebrow and examined Greg. His level expression didn’t change, but Greg thought he could detect thoughtful curiosity. Three months around someone would teach you their moods, even if that someone was someone you hated.
Maybe especially if it was someone you hated. Greg had a vested interest in knowing what Riordan’s moods were, after all.
“How would you like to get out of here for a bit?” Riordan asked.
Greg eyed the man with distrust. “What’s in it for you?” he asked. Everyone had their price. Even him, when it came down to it. How desperate was he to get out of this room for awhile? Was it worth whatever Riordan could demand?
Probably not. Particularly if the man was demanding sexual favors. Oh, sure, Riordan said he wouldn’t, but Greg had heard that before. Men who thought he’d be an easy mark just because he wasn’t fully grown yet usually regretted meeting him… thought none of those men could make him service them just by ordering him to.
He wondered whether or not he appreciated (albeit grudgingly) the illusion of choice, or if he hated Riordan even more for trying to pretend. It was hard to decide.
Riordan sighed. You had to have been paying close attention to catch it - the very briefest twitch of his lips downward as he exhaled just a little more audibly than normal.
“A headache,” he said finally.
Greg stared. “What?”
“I get a headache out of all of this,” Riordan said, which still didn’t make any sense, damn it. “Do you want to get out of here for a bit, or not?”
To see open sky again… “Yes.”
“Do you promise to behave?”
Greg’s skin itched. He ignored it. That was the master-slave bond nagging at him. If he promised, he’d be compelled to behave just as much as if he’d been ordered to. “Define ‘behave’,” he said.
Riordan considered the matter. “A minimum of swearing would be appreciate,” he said evenly. “Not fighting me over every little thing would be quite pleasant as well. I’m just asking for basic courtesy, Grigori. Not miracles.”
Greg bristled. God, would it kill Riordan to call him Greg? Or Antrobus? Hell, “kid” was better than that other. “I don’t like you,” he snapped. “And I don’t want to pretend to like you, either.”
“No one said that you had to,” Riordan pointed out. “All I’m asking for is that you be polite. It’s amazing how much dislike you can get across and still be polite.”
“Fine,” Greg snarled. “I’ll be polite.” He hadn’t promised - wouldn’t make any oaths to Riordan if he could help it - but Riordan seemed to think that it was good enough.
“Follow me,” he said.
Greg bristled at the command, but didn’t say anything. He followed Riordan out of his room and through the hallways, examining the surroundings as they went. Despite having lived under Riordan’s roof for three months, he’d seen very little of the place. He’d been mostly confined to his room; Riordan brought him his meals, or had them left outside his door. Greg knew someone else lived with Riordan - he could sense another presence, naggingly familiar and alien all at once. And there were little touches all over the place that seemed too expressive to be Riordan’s idea - but he hadn’t met that other person yet.
It was entirely possible that the other person was just as much a slave as he. Greg wanted to ask, but he wasn’t about to give Riordan the satisfaction of seeming curious about his personal life.
Riordan locked the front door behind them and headed briskly for the stairs. Greg frowned. If memory served, they were on the fourth floor of the complex. Why didn’t they take the elevator?
*There’s psionic scanning systems in the elevator,* Riordan said suddenly. His mental voice was every bit as expressionless as his physically vocal one. It felt flat and stark in his head. Alien. Greg had never encountered a mind so absolutely locked away and controlled.
*How Big Brother,* he observed sarcastically. *I thought you people were all about love and trust.*
Riordan laughed silently. *Don’t be naïve. There is no such thing as trust in a house with no walls.*
Greg blinked. *The hell does that mean?* he demanded. *And why aren’t there scanning systems in the stairwells, too? We’ll be in them longer - there’d be more of an opportunity to catch a longer conversation.*
*There are,* Riordan said, blithely ignoring Greg’s first question. *The stairs are healthier, though.*
Greg gave up. The man was obviously deranged. Besides, five flights of stairs wasn’t bad going down. (Going back up was another story.) He followed Riordan into the basement level parking lot, surprised by the black Honda Civic Riordan led them to. He’d expected a more … Well, alright, he wasn’t sure what kind of car expressionless slave-owning bastards with monochromatic wardrobes were supposed to own. The Civic worked as good as anything else might have, though.
“Where are we going?” he asked as soon as the doors were closed.
Riordan arched an eyebrow, as if to say, ‘Why are you asking questions after I told you it’s not safe to?’
Greg snorted. “Please. If you really expect me to believe you’re not paranoid enough to shield your own car from being listened in on, you are way dumber than I gave you credit for being. That, or you think I am, which I don’t find terribly likely, either.”
“Cocky little brat, aren’t you?” murmured Riordan. “Although you’re right. I am shielding the car… For as much good as it will do me, should we encounter a stronger mind.” He backed smoothly out of the parking spot and exited the garage. “But we’re going to the gym.”
“…We’re what now?”
“The gym,” Riordan repeated. “You know, one of those ‘manly’ places where you pay money to go work out?”
Greg put his head in his hands. “I am so confused.” He glared at Riordan when it looked like the man wanted to say something. “And so help me, if you say that working out is a simple concept, I will put my fist through the window.”
“I don’t feel like a visit to Dr. Richards, if it’s all the same to you.”
Neither did Greg, actually. Riordan might have been a creepy bastard of the first order, but Dr. Richards was just plain creepy. He was kind of hoping he wouldn’t actually have to go through with the whole fist-through-the-window threat.
“Then why are you doing this? Why the gym? Is that psycho-bastard code for a love motel, or something? Because if fucking was all you wanted, you could have done that back at the apartment. You don’t have to try and bribe me into liking you, because I’m never going to. I don’t get you!” Three months worth of frustration poured out. “You act like you don’t give a shit, but then you pretend to give me choices. You won’t let me out of my room, but you serve my meals and clean up after me and do my fucking laundry like some kind of damn servant. What kind of sick fucking game are you playing, anyway?” He sat back in his seat, panting for air.
Riordan didn’t say anything.
“Damn it, answer me!” Greg yelled. “I’m talking to you, you bastard. Answer me.” He was appalled to find himself near tears. He took a deep breath and forced his emotions back. He would not cry in front of his jailer.
“Grigori,” the man said. “Be silent.”
The uncaring casual nearly broke him with its casual cruelty. Greg took another deep breath and closed his eyes. He should have been savoring every second of this rare chance to see the outside world, but Riordan had ruined that. I hate you, he thought, forbidden by the command to even telepath the thought to Riordan without his master’s permission. I really hate you.
The drive was all too long, but when he heard the engine turn off a glance at Riordan’s watch told him not more than ten minutes had passed.
“Come on,” Riordan ordered carelessly, as though it didn’t matter that Greg was dragging his heels like a reluctant puppy. “Speak if you must, but mind your manners.”
“I hate you.”
“Fine,” Riordan said. He nodded to the man at the desk as he breezed through the double-doors. “Is Castor in?”
The man at the desk grunted. It was a very nondescript sort of noise that could have meant ‘yes’ or ‘no’ with equal credibility.
Riordan got that annoying little smirk. “Excellent,” he said. “Come, Grigori. You’ll like Castor.”
Greg very much doubted that. He followed Riordan anyway, because he’d been told to.
Castor turned out to be a wiry looking old man about three inches shorter than Greg. His face lit up in a broad smile when he set eyes on
Riordan, for reasons Greg couldn’t fathom.
“Van,” the old man said warmly. “It’s good to see you, boy.” He clasped Riordan’s hand and pulled him into a half-hug, slapping Riordan on the back with enough force to send a lesser man into a nosedive. Riordan, Greg noticed with some disgruntlement, just returned the half-hug. His sullen reflection was interrupted by sharp green eyes examining him. “A youngster, and not little Sophia, either.” He approached Greg, looking him up and down. “Hold out your arms, boy.”
Greg did so, mildly bemused when Castor squeezed his biceps and poked him in the ribs. He felt like a horse facing a prospective buyer. So far it was amusing, but if Castor asked to see his teeth, they were going to have some serious smart ass issues.
The old man abruptly knocked Greg off-balance, then swept his feet out from under him. Greg hit the mats covering the floor with an angry yelp, rolling away and scrambling to his feet to avoid another attack. None was immediately forthcoming, which did nothing for Greg’s Riordan-soured mood. “What the hell was that?” he demanded, at the same time Riordan snapped, “Don’t play games with him!’
Oh, that was rich. Riordan had done nothing but play head games with Greg, but apparently other people weren’t allowed that privilege. Greg stared at both of them, not sure of which one to yell at first. The hypocritical bastard or the crazy old man who didn’t look nearly as harmless as his warm smile initially made him seem?
“Van,” Castor said. “Go work out.”
Riordan’s black-on-black eyes narrowed just a little. “No games,” he repeated, and stalked off.
Greg eyed Castor with a newfound sort of wary respect. Anyone who could tell Riordan off was alright in his book, but he was admittedly biased.
Castor caught his look and smiled, just a little. “You’ve had training,” he noted.
Greg thought of large fists and lightning-quick anger. “Nothing formal.”
Castor nodded. “See what I did?”
If he said no, odds were he’d get knocked on his ass again. Greg considered. It had seemed simple enough. He’d already been off-balance from the shove - it hadn’t taken much to get him down. “Yeah, kinda.”
Castor nodded, then grinned. “Want to learn how to do that to Van?”
Greg felt his face split into his first real grin in over three months. “Hell yeah.”
The old man looked pleased by his enthusiastic response. “Okay. Let’s start with the basics.”
~*~*~*~*~
Some two hours later, Greg was still grinning, despite the fact that he hurt all over. He was no closer to being able to pitch anyone but a raw beginner around than when he’d started, but he thought he’d almost gotten the knack of landing on the ground. If he could come back for more lessons…
His grin faded. The odds of Riordan letting him come back here weren’t good.
I hate him, he thought again. Cruelty wasn’t supposed to seem this indifferently kind.
Castor clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Not bad, boy. Keep practicing your falls.”
“I doubt the people in the apartment below Riordan’s will appreciate that,” Greg muttered, trying desperately to quash his disappointment.
Castor blinked. “Van’s got his own practice room, didn’t you know? It’s specially insulated. No one will hear anything.”
How big was Riordan’s apartment, anyway? He really needed to explore. But more importantly, he needed to figure out how to get away with sneaking out of his room to practice.
“Just ask him. Van’s pretty easy going. He’ll say yes.”
Greg snorted. Riordan didn’t seem all that easy going to him. Of course, soul-bound slaves probably didn’t merit much in the way of basic courtesy.
Castor surprised him with a crooked grin. “Oh, he likes to put on this hard-ass image, but he’s a big pussy-cat, I promise.”
A pussy-cat. Right. Greg could believe that, as long as the pussy-cat was some two hundred pounds and went by the name of Panthera onca.
“Hells bells, boy, he can’t be barking at you that bad,” the old man grumbled, sensing Greg’s skepticism. “Van! Get your lazy ass in here!”
“Uh, you really don’t need to-” Greg began.
“The boy wants to use the practice room,” Castor informed the Riordan as the other man wandered into the room, somber-faced and sweaty. “You might try letting him practice with Sophia."
Riordan must have been surprised; he actually had an expression of mild alarm. “Uh…” he said. “Maybe once he and Sophia have a little more experience under their belts. He can practice with me.”
Oh great, Greg thought. More time in Riordan’s company. Although at least it would be out of his room…
“Good,” Castor said. “Come practice with me, first.”
Riordan nodded. He headed onto the mats, and waited.
Castor eyed him. “Don’t be disrespectful, boy.”
Riordan smirked. Then he moved. There was no hesitation, no warning, just swift, intent violence. Castor blocked Riordan’s first series of attacks, landing a blow of his own in an opening Greg hadn’t even seen. Riordan grunted and backed off slightly.
Greg watched the two men circle one another, so intent on watching the match he barely wanted to breathe. Physical aggression hadn’t been a stranger in his short lifespan, but he could safely say that this particular breed of violence was completely alien - and also completely fascinating. There was no malice in it, no rage, but for all that it was just as terrifying as violence born of either. This was … something else entirely. Something stronger. Something that would let two men hurt each other as a demonstration - though Greg would have been lying if he said he didn’t enjoy watching Riordan get knocked on his ass repeatedly. He was grudgingly admiring of the man’s ability to get right back up again. He definitely didn’t want to take Riordan on in a fair fight. Not if he could help it.
Castor sent Riordan flying over his shoulder. He shook his head when Riordan flipped back up onto his feet and landed in a grouch, ready to launch another attack. Riordan relaxed - slowly, Greg noticed, but not completely; he’d never actually seen Riordan completely relaxed, come to think of it - and stood up. “Thank you,” Riordan murmured.
Castor nodded, smiling just a little. “You’ve been gone so long there were bets you’d go soft.”
“Hah,” said Riordan.
Greg frowned. How long had Riordan been gone? He wondered if Riordan had skipped out on coming here through the past three months.
Maybe coming here today was just as much a treat for Riordan as it was for Greg.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
“You going to go back to your regular training schedule?” Castor asked.
Riordan shook his head. “Things are a little interesting at home right now.”
Understatement of the year, Greg thought darkly.
“I don’t want to set up a regular schedule until everything settles down,” his jailer concluded.
“Fine.” Castor waved this away, unconcerned. “Come when you can. And bring the boy. His reflexes are as good as yours were, in the beginning.”
“Mm,” Riordan said, noncommittal. “Yes, they should be.”
Castor’s eyes widened. “We’ll talk about this later,” he said, and Greg got the feeling that the old man wasn’t pleased. “Get cooled off and get some rest.”
Riordan nodded. “Let’s go, Grigori.”
Greg winced. So far they’d avoided the unfortunate aspect of his name. He didn’t miss the way Castor stiffened when he said his name - the old man knew something about the Nastar and the Nephilim-born after all, then. He’d wondered.
He hunched in on himself. He was going to miss the warm old man he’d met earlier today. Even if Castor himself wasn’t Natsar - and he didn’t seem like it; his presence lacked the resonant tone all the Natsar seemed to have in Greg’s mental awareness - he probably knew enough to share their prejudices. He risked a glance at Castor, bracing himself for the impending disappointment - and blinked.
Castor looked angry at Riordan.
What was going on here?
Riordan didn’t give him any time to ponder the matter. The command tugged Greg along.
“I don’t really feel like going home sweaty,” Riordan said, off-handedly. “There are private showers here, if you’d like to use one.”
“I don’t have anything with me.”
“Towels and other toiletries are provided.”
“I don’t have any clothing to change into, either.”
“That can be taken care of.” Go-stone dark eyes studied Greg. “Are you going to argue about where we eat if we go out to dinner, too?”
“Yes,” Greg said promptly. “I don’t trust you to pick somewhere good.”
“Brat,” Riordan muttered, but his tone lacked malice. It seemed almost … well, almost amused, really, which was plainly preposterous. “If I let you pick, will you shower?”
Greg considered. He did want a shower, actually, but he didn’t want to acquiesce to Riordan’s requests too easily. He still hated the man, and making life difficult for his master was one of the few free pleasures he had left. “Any place I want?”
“Within reason. And I’ll decide what’s reasonable, before you ask.”
He hadn’t really expected otherwise, but it had been worth a shot. “Deal,” he said.
“Glad to hear it. The showers are this way.”
What would he pick? Assuming Riordan would keep his side of the bargain. It had been so long since he’d been out anywhere…
Someplace with junk food, he decided. Riordan, for all that he was an insufferable smirking bastard, was a good cook. (Or maybe the other person who lived in Riordan’s apartment was. Greg didn’t know. He hadn’t actually seen the kitchen yet. It could have been some kind of home-style take-out, though he doubted it.) But three months of home cooked meals made junk sound somewhat tempting. Plus, Riordan couldn’t say that it wasn’t within reason. Junk food was cheap.
He took his time in the shower, enjoying the hot water on muscles that hadn’t realized how tired they were yet. Three months might not have done much damage to Riordan’s conditioning, but it had put a big dent in Greg’s. Being forbidden to leave his room made it hard to work out. He’d have to work on that. If he was going to make any kind of escape attempt at all, he’d have to be in good shape.
How far would he have to go to escape the Natsar? He’d avoided them for seventeen years, but they hadn’t been looking for him then. They would, if he managed to escape. That, or they’d have him killed for making the attempt. Greg had no illusions about how Nephilim-born slaves would be treated. Frankly, it was amazing he’d made it this far without an unpleasant altercation. He might have had Riordan to thank for that, but Greg couldn’t bring himself to be grateful.
Greg sighed and shut the water off. He wrapped the provided towel around his waist and wondered that the hell he was going to do about clothing.
“Finished?” Riordan called.
Greg stepped out of the private shower cubicle. “Clothes,” he said firmly, by way of answer.
Riordan smirked. Like Greg, he had one of the gym’s towels wrapped around his waist. The change was startling - Riordan always wore black. The change in color schemes made Riordan look less sinister and more…
Well, more like he’d imagined the Natsar would look, listening to Adam’s stories as a child too young to know better. Invincibly strong. Maybe even a little badass, with the Thorn Scars marking him as one undeniably Natsar across his back, but still one of the good guys.
Not, Greg thought bitterly, that Riordan qualifies as one of the good guys in any way, shape or form. The good guys weren’t supposed to bind people’s souls so that they had no free will of their own. Riordan was an asshole, plain and simple.
“Over there,” Riordan said. He gestured vaguely at the benches behind him and went back to the all-important task of shaving.
The clothes were soft and new. They looked like they’d fit, too. “Thanks,” Greg said, surprised by the consideration.
“You’re welcome,” Riordan replied.
Greg padded into one of the changing rooms and dressed quickly. Not that it did much good, since Riordan hadn’t finished dressing yet. Although at least he had pants on now, which was a distinctive improvement. He looked more like himself now, and less like someone Greg could admire.
There was probably something fundamentally wrong about being able to admire a man in a towel in a completely non-sexual fashion. Greg blamed the Renaissance era depictions of angels that had featured so prominently in his childhood for that one.
Riordan turned away from the sink to face Greg. Greg could still see the Thorn Scars in the mirror. Their shapes were almost comforting in their familiarity. He had identical Scars of his own, after all.
For a moment, he remembered being young. Five, maybe six years old. Peering curiously at the Thorn Scars on a different back.
“What happened?” the child he’d been had asked. “Why you hurt?”
“I’m not hurt. They’re marks, Greg. You’ve got them too.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes us brothers.”
Riordan drew him out of the memory. “So, where are we eating?” he asked.
“Someplace with a shirt and shoes policy,” Greg muttered.
Riordan snorted.
“I was thinking McDonalds.”
He was rewarded with an actual look of confusion. Then Riordan laughed. “Alright. You’re calling the shots. McDonalds it its.”
I’m calling the shots, Greg thought. Riiiight. Which one of us is the slave again?
Still, however tenuous the illusion of freedom was, for the moment, he would take what he could get.
I still don't like my charcters much, though.
Today's wallpaper is http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/17610051/
And onto the next part.
He who has suffer'd you to impose on him knows you.
~William Blake, excerpted from The Proverbs of Hell
Title: Brother's Keeper, Part Two
Rating: PG-13 for language, scenes depicting violence, and non-PC terminology.
Genre: Annoyingly teenage-boy angsty.
Word count: 4157
Total word count so far: 5763
Author's notes that most likely no one will read: Van's definition of "sulking" was stolen from dictionary.reference.com, pretty much verbatim, and Panthera onca is the Latin name for the Jaguar. Which just happens to have a melanistic form we might otherwise call a black panther.
Greg glowered at his master, silently defying Riordan to get any closer. Three months of captivity hadn’t softened his hate a single iota. He had only wanted to help, damn it, and this was his reward? Slavery more absolute than physical bonds could ever be, house arrest of indefinite length, and being subjected to Riordan’s damnable smirking, day in and day out.
He rather thought it was the smirking that would drive him mad, personally. The house arrest chafed, but he could handle it. (His enslavement, however, he did not touch. He wasn’t ready to think about that yet.) The smirking made Greg’s palms itch. He’d have punched Riordan if he could have. (Slaves couldn’t, though. Riordan had explained that to him, in the early days of his captivity, crouching just outside of the cell Greg had been placed in. “This is how it’s going to be,” he’d said, and there had been no emotion in his voice at all. Like he didn’t care that he - quite literally - held Greg’s life in the palm of his hand. Sometimes, late at night, Greg could still hear the flat recitation of restrictions and rules that now made up his world. It made it hard to sleep, and Greg made sure to be extra difficult the next day in retaliation.)
Of course, some days he was just difficult on general principles. “It’s really annoying when you make that face,” he informed Riordan. His jailer wasn’t making any particular sort of face. He looked much as he always did. Expressionless. Did anything touch the man?
Greg doubted it.
“I’ve been told that before,” Riordan acknowledged.
Greg snorted. Of course he had. Greg had told him so himself, just this morning when Riordan had dropped off his breakfast. Of course, bastard that he was, Riordan probably had people telling him that all the time.
“You’re entitled to your opinion,” the man continued. “Just like I’m entitled to find you an annoying brat. How long are you going to keep sulking?”
Greg spluttered. “Sulking?” he repeated. “Sulking?!”
“‘To be sullenly aloof or withdrawn,’” his captor supplied. “‘As if in silent resentment or protest.’” He regarded Greg levelly. “Well, perhaps not so very silently, in your case.”
“Fuck you!”
“Pederasty doesn’t appeal to me,” Riordan murmured. He arched one ebon-dark eyebrow and examined Greg. His level expression didn’t change, but Greg thought he could detect thoughtful curiosity. Three months around someone would teach you their moods, even if that someone was someone you hated.
Maybe especially if it was someone you hated. Greg had a vested interest in knowing what Riordan’s moods were, after all.
“How would you like to get out of here for a bit?” Riordan asked.
Greg eyed the man with distrust. “What’s in it for you?” he asked. Everyone had their price. Even him, when it came down to it. How desperate was he to get out of this room for awhile? Was it worth whatever Riordan could demand?
Probably not. Particularly if the man was demanding sexual favors. Oh, sure, Riordan said he wouldn’t, but Greg had heard that before. Men who thought he’d be an easy mark just because he wasn’t fully grown yet usually regretted meeting him… thought none of those men could make him service them just by ordering him to.
He wondered whether or not he appreciated (albeit grudgingly) the illusion of choice, or if he hated Riordan even more for trying to pretend. It was hard to decide.
Riordan sighed. You had to have been paying close attention to catch it - the very briefest twitch of his lips downward as he exhaled just a little more audibly than normal.
“A headache,” he said finally.
Greg stared. “What?”
“I get a headache out of all of this,” Riordan said, which still didn’t make any sense, damn it. “Do you want to get out of here for a bit, or not?”
To see open sky again… “Yes.”
“Do you promise to behave?”
Greg’s skin itched. He ignored it. That was the master-slave bond nagging at him. If he promised, he’d be compelled to behave just as much as if he’d been ordered to. “Define ‘behave’,” he said.
Riordan considered the matter. “A minimum of swearing would be appreciate,” he said evenly. “Not fighting me over every little thing would be quite pleasant as well. I’m just asking for basic courtesy, Grigori. Not miracles.”
Greg bristled. God, would it kill Riordan to call him Greg? Or Antrobus? Hell, “kid” was better than that other. “I don’t like you,” he snapped. “And I don’t want to pretend to like you, either.”
“No one said that you had to,” Riordan pointed out. “All I’m asking for is that you be polite. It’s amazing how much dislike you can get across and still be polite.”
“Fine,” Greg snarled. “I’ll be polite.” He hadn’t promised - wouldn’t make any oaths to Riordan if he could help it - but Riordan seemed to think that it was good enough.
“Follow me,” he said.
Greg bristled at the command, but didn’t say anything. He followed Riordan out of his room and through the hallways, examining the surroundings as they went. Despite having lived under Riordan’s roof for three months, he’d seen very little of the place. He’d been mostly confined to his room; Riordan brought him his meals, or had them left outside his door. Greg knew someone else lived with Riordan - he could sense another presence, naggingly familiar and alien all at once. And there were little touches all over the place that seemed too expressive to be Riordan’s idea - but he hadn’t met that other person yet.
It was entirely possible that the other person was just as much a slave as he. Greg wanted to ask, but he wasn’t about to give Riordan the satisfaction of seeming curious about his personal life.
Riordan locked the front door behind them and headed briskly for the stairs. Greg frowned. If memory served, they were on the fourth floor of the complex. Why didn’t they take the elevator?
*There’s psionic scanning systems in the elevator,* Riordan said suddenly. His mental voice was every bit as expressionless as his physically vocal one. It felt flat and stark in his head. Alien. Greg had never encountered a mind so absolutely locked away and controlled.
*How Big Brother,* he observed sarcastically. *I thought you people were all about love and trust.*
Riordan laughed silently. *Don’t be naïve. There is no such thing as trust in a house with no walls.*
Greg blinked. *The hell does that mean?* he demanded. *And why aren’t there scanning systems in the stairwells, too? We’ll be in them longer - there’d be more of an opportunity to catch a longer conversation.*
*There are,* Riordan said, blithely ignoring Greg’s first question. *The stairs are healthier, though.*
Greg gave up. The man was obviously deranged. Besides, five flights of stairs wasn’t bad going down. (Going back up was another story.) He followed Riordan into the basement level parking lot, surprised by the black Honda Civic Riordan led them to. He’d expected a more … Well, alright, he wasn’t sure what kind of car expressionless slave-owning bastards with monochromatic wardrobes were supposed to own. The Civic worked as good as anything else might have, though.
“Where are we going?” he asked as soon as the doors were closed.
Riordan arched an eyebrow, as if to say, ‘Why are you asking questions after I told you it’s not safe to?’
Greg snorted. “Please. If you really expect me to believe you’re not paranoid enough to shield your own car from being listened in on, you are way dumber than I gave you credit for being. That, or you think I am, which I don’t find terribly likely, either.”
“Cocky little brat, aren’t you?” murmured Riordan. “Although you’re right. I am shielding the car… For as much good as it will do me, should we encounter a stronger mind.” He backed smoothly out of the parking spot and exited the garage. “But we’re going to the gym.”
“…We’re what now?”
“The gym,” Riordan repeated. “You know, one of those ‘manly’ places where you pay money to go work out?”
Greg put his head in his hands. “I am so confused.” He glared at Riordan when it looked like the man wanted to say something. “And so help me, if you say that working out is a simple concept, I will put my fist through the window.”
“I don’t feel like a visit to Dr. Richards, if it’s all the same to you.”
Neither did Greg, actually. Riordan might have been a creepy bastard of the first order, but Dr. Richards was just plain creepy. He was kind of hoping he wouldn’t actually have to go through with the whole fist-through-the-window threat.
“Then why are you doing this? Why the gym? Is that psycho-bastard code for a love motel, or something? Because if fucking was all you wanted, you could have done that back at the apartment. You don’t have to try and bribe me into liking you, because I’m never going to. I don’t get you!” Three months worth of frustration poured out. “You act like you don’t give a shit, but then you pretend to give me choices. You won’t let me out of my room, but you serve my meals and clean up after me and do my fucking laundry like some kind of damn servant. What kind of sick fucking game are you playing, anyway?” He sat back in his seat, panting for air.
Riordan didn’t say anything.
“Damn it, answer me!” Greg yelled. “I’m talking to you, you bastard. Answer me.” He was appalled to find himself near tears. He took a deep breath and forced his emotions back. He would not cry in front of his jailer.
“Grigori,” the man said. “Be silent.”
The uncaring casual nearly broke him with its casual cruelty. Greg took another deep breath and closed his eyes. He should have been savoring every second of this rare chance to see the outside world, but Riordan had ruined that. I hate you, he thought, forbidden by the command to even telepath the thought to Riordan without his master’s permission. I really hate you.
The drive was all too long, but when he heard the engine turn off a glance at Riordan’s watch told him not more than ten minutes had passed.
“Come on,” Riordan ordered carelessly, as though it didn’t matter that Greg was dragging his heels like a reluctant puppy. “Speak if you must, but mind your manners.”
“I hate you.”
“Fine,” Riordan said. He nodded to the man at the desk as he breezed through the double-doors. “Is Castor in?”
The man at the desk grunted. It was a very nondescript sort of noise that could have meant ‘yes’ or ‘no’ with equal credibility.
Riordan got that annoying little smirk. “Excellent,” he said. “Come, Grigori. You’ll like Castor.”
Greg very much doubted that. He followed Riordan anyway, because he’d been told to.
Castor turned out to be a wiry looking old man about three inches shorter than Greg. His face lit up in a broad smile when he set eyes on
Riordan, for reasons Greg couldn’t fathom.
“Van,” the old man said warmly. “It’s good to see you, boy.” He clasped Riordan’s hand and pulled him into a half-hug, slapping Riordan on the back with enough force to send a lesser man into a nosedive. Riordan, Greg noticed with some disgruntlement, just returned the half-hug. His sullen reflection was interrupted by sharp green eyes examining him. “A youngster, and not little Sophia, either.” He approached Greg, looking him up and down. “Hold out your arms, boy.”
Greg did so, mildly bemused when Castor squeezed his biceps and poked him in the ribs. He felt like a horse facing a prospective buyer. So far it was amusing, but if Castor asked to see his teeth, they were going to have some serious smart ass issues.
The old man abruptly knocked Greg off-balance, then swept his feet out from under him. Greg hit the mats covering the floor with an angry yelp, rolling away and scrambling to his feet to avoid another attack. None was immediately forthcoming, which did nothing for Greg’s Riordan-soured mood. “What the hell was that?” he demanded, at the same time Riordan snapped, “Don’t play games with him!’
Oh, that was rich. Riordan had done nothing but play head games with Greg, but apparently other people weren’t allowed that privilege. Greg stared at both of them, not sure of which one to yell at first. The hypocritical bastard or the crazy old man who didn’t look nearly as harmless as his warm smile initially made him seem?
“Van,” Castor said. “Go work out.”
Riordan’s black-on-black eyes narrowed just a little. “No games,” he repeated, and stalked off.
Greg eyed Castor with a newfound sort of wary respect. Anyone who could tell Riordan off was alright in his book, but he was admittedly biased.
Castor caught his look and smiled, just a little. “You’ve had training,” he noted.
Greg thought of large fists and lightning-quick anger. “Nothing formal.”
Castor nodded. “See what I did?”
If he said no, odds were he’d get knocked on his ass again. Greg considered. It had seemed simple enough. He’d already been off-balance from the shove - it hadn’t taken much to get him down. “Yeah, kinda.”
Castor nodded, then grinned. “Want to learn how to do that to Van?”
Greg felt his face split into his first real grin in over three months. “Hell yeah.”
The old man looked pleased by his enthusiastic response. “Okay. Let’s start with the basics.”
~*~*~*~*~
Some two hours later, Greg was still grinning, despite the fact that he hurt all over. He was no closer to being able to pitch anyone but a raw beginner around than when he’d started, but he thought he’d almost gotten the knack of landing on the ground. If he could come back for more lessons…
His grin faded. The odds of Riordan letting him come back here weren’t good.
I hate him, he thought again. Cruelty wasn’t supposed to seem this indifferently kind.
Castor clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Not bad, boy. Keep practicing your falls.”
“I doubt the people in the apartment below Riordan’s will appreciate that,” Greg muttered, trying desperately to quash his disappointment.
Castor blinked. “Van’s got his own practice room, didn’t you know? It’s specially insulated. No one will hear anything.”
How big was Riordan’s apartment, anyway? He really needed to explore. But more importantly, he needed to figure out how to get away with sneaking out of his room to practice.
“Just ask him. Van’s pretty easy going. He’ll say yes.”
Greg snorted. Riordan didn’t seem all that easy going to him. Of course, soul-bound slaves probably didn’t merit much in the way of basic courtesy.
Castor surprised him with a crooked grin. “Oh, he likes to put on this hard-ass image, but he’s a big pussy-cat, I promise.”
A pussy-cat. Right. Greg could believe that, as long as the pussy-cat was some two hundred pounds and went by the name of Panthera onca.
“Hells bells, boy, he can’t be barking at you that bad,” the old man grumbled, sensing Greg’s skepticism. “Van! Get your lazy ass in here!”
“Uh, you really don’t need to-” Greg began.
“The boy wants to use the practice room,” Castor informed the Riordan as the other man wandered into the room, somber-faced and sweaty. “You might try letting him practice with Sophia."
Riordan must have been surprised; he actually had an expression of mild alarm. “Uh…” he said. “Maybe once he and Sophia have a little more experience under their belts. He can practice with me.”
Oh great, Greg thought. More time in Riordan’s company. Although at least it would be out of his room…
“Good,” Castor said. “Come practice with me, first.”
Riordan nodded. He headed onto the mats, and waited.
Castor eyed him. “Don’t be disrespectful, boy.”
Riordan smirked. Then he moved. There was no hesitation, no warning, just swift, intent violence. Castor blocked Riordan’s first series of attacks, landing a blow of his own in an opening Greg hadn’t even seen. Riordan grunted and backed off slightly.
Greg watched the two men circle one another, so intent on watching the match he barely wanted to breathe. Physical aggression hadn’t been a stranger in his short lifespan, but he could safely say that this particular breed of violence was completely alien - and also completely fascinating. There was no malice in it, no rage, but for all that it was just as terrifying as violence born of either. This was … something else entirely. Something stronger. Something that would let two men hurt each other as a demonstration - though Greg would have been lying if he said he didn’t enjoy watching Riordan get knocked on his ass repeatedly. He was grudgingly admiring of the man’s ability to get right back up again. He definitely didn’t want to take Riordan on in a fair fight. Not if he could help it.
Castor sent Riordan flying over his shoulder. He shook his head when Riordan flipped back up onto his feet and landed in a grouch, ready to launch another attack. Riordan relaxed - slowly, Greg noticed, but not completely; he’d never actually seen Riordan completely relaxed, come to think of it - and stood up. “Thank you,” Riordan murmured.
Castor nodded, smiling just a little. “You’ve been gone so long there were bets you’d go soft.”
“Hah,” said Riordan.
Greg frowned. How long had Riordan been gone? He wondered if Riordan had skipped out on coming here through the past three months.
Maybe coming here today was just as much a treat for Riordan as it was for Greg.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
“You going to go back to your regular training schedule?” Castor asked.
Riordan shook his head. “Things are a little interesting at home right now.”
Understatement of the year, Greg thought darkly.
“I don’t want to set up a regular schedule until everything settles down,” his jailer concluded.
“Fine.” Castor waved this away, unconcerned. “Come when you can. And bring the boy. His reflexes are as good as yours were, in the beginning.”
“Mm,” Riordan said, noncommittal. “Yes, they should be.”
Castor’s eyes widened. “We’ll talk about this later,” he said, and Greg got the feeling that the old man wasn’t pleased. “Get cooled off and get some rest.”
Riordan nodded. “Let’s go, Grigori.”
Greg winced. So far they’d avoided the unfortunate aspect of his name. He didn’t miss the way Castor stiffened when he said his name - the old man knew something about the Nastar and the Nephilim-born after all, then. He’d wondered.
He hunched in on himself. He was going to miss the warm old man he’d met earlier today. Even if Castor himself wasn’t Natsar - and he didn’t seem like it; his presence lacked the resonant tone all the Natsar seemed to have in Greg’s mental awareness - he probably knew enough to share their prejudices. He risked a glance at Castor, bracing himself for the impending disappointment - and blinked.
Castor looked angry at Riordan.
What was going on here?
Riordan didn’t give him any time to ponder the matter. The command tugged Greg along.
“I don’t really feel like going home sweaty,” Riordan said, off-handedly. “There are private showers here, if you’d like to use one.”
“I don’t have anything with me.”
“Towels and other toiletries are provided.”
“I don’t have any clothing to change into, either.”
“That can be taken care of.” Go-stone dark eyes studied Greg. “Are you going to argue about where we eat if we go out to dinner, too?”
“Yes,” Greg said promptly. “I don’t trust you to pick somewhere good.”
“Brat,” Riordan muttered, but his tone lacked malice. It seemed almost … well, almost amused, really, which was plainly preposterous. “If I let you pick, will you shower?”
Greg considered. He did want a shower, actually, but he didn’t want to acquiesce to Riordan’s requests too easily. He still hated the man, and making life difficult for his master was one of the few free pleasures he had left. “Any place I want?”
“Within reason. And I’ll decide what’s reasonable, before you ask.”
He hadn’t really expected otherwise, but it had been worth a shot. “Deal,” he said.
“Glad to hear it. The showers are this way.”
What would he pick? Assuming Riordan would keep his side of the bargain. It had been so long since he’d been out anywhere…
Someplace with junk food, he decided. Riordan, for all that he was an insufferable smirking bastard, was a good cook. (Or maybe the other person who lived in Riordan’s apartment was. Greg didn’t know. He hadn’t actually seen the kitchen yet. It could have been some kind of home-style take-out, though he doubted it.) But three months of home cooked meals made junk sound somewhat tempting. Plus, Riordan couldn’t say that it wasn’t within reason. Junk food was cheap.
He took his time in the shower, enjoying the hot water on muscles that hadn’t realized how tired they were yet. Three months might not have done much damage to Riordan’s conditioning, but it had put a big dent in Greg’s. Being forbidden to leave his room made it hard to work out. He’d have to work on that. If he was going to make any kind of escape attempt at all, he’d have to be in good shape.
How far would he have to go to escape the Natsar? He’d avoided them for seventeen years, but they hadn’t been looking for him then. They would, if he managed to escape. That, or they’d have him killed for making the attempt. Greg had no illusions about how Nephilim-born slaves would be treated. Frankly, it was amazing he’d made it this far without an unpleasant altercation. He might have had Riordan to thank for that, but Greg couldn’t bring himself to be grateful.
Greg sighed and shut the water off. He wrapped the provided towel around his waist and wondered that the hell he was going to do about clothing.
“Finished?” Riordan called.
Greg stepped out of the private shower cubicle. “Clothes,” he said firmly, by way of answer.
Riordan smirked. Like Greg, he had one of the gym’s towels wrapped around his waist. The change was startling - Riordan always wore black. The change in color schemes made Riordan look less sinister and more…
Well, more like he’d imagined the Natsar would look, listening to Adam’s stories as a child too young to know better. Invincibly strong. Maybe even a little badass, with the Thorn Scars marking him as one undeniably Natsar across his back, but still one of the good guys.
Not, Greg thought bitterly, that Riordan qualifies as one of the good guys in any way, shape or form. The good guys weren’t supposed to bind people’s souls so that they had no free will of their own. Riordan was an asshole, plain and simple.
“Over there,” Riordan said. He gestured vaguely at the benches behind him and went back to the all-important task of shaving.
The clothes were soft and new. They looked like they’d fit, too. “Thanks,” Greg said, surprised by the consideration.
“You’re welcome,” Riordan replied.
Greg padded into one of the changing rooms and dressed quickly. Not that it did much good, since Riordan hadn’t finished dressing yet. Although at least he had pants on now, which was a distinctive improvement. He looked more like himself now, and less like someone Greg could admire.
There was probably something fundamentally wrong about being able to admire a man in a towel in a completely non-sexual fashion. Greg blamed the Renaissance era depictions of angels that had featured so prominently in his childhood for that one.
Riordan turned away from the sink to face Greg. Greg could still see the Thorn Scars in the mirror. Their shapes were almost comforting in their familiarity. He had identical Scars of his own, after all.
For a moment, he remembered being young. Five, maybe six years old. Peering curiously at the Thorn Scars on a different back.
“What happened?” the child he’d been had asked. “Why you hurt?”
“I’m not hurt. They’re marks, Greg. You’ve got them too.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes us brothers.”
Riordan drew him out of the memory. “So, where are we eating?” he asked.
“Someplace with a shirt and shoes policy,” Greg muttered.
Riordan snorted.
“I was thinking McDonalds.”
He was rewarded with an actual look of confusion. Then Riordan laughed. “Alright. You’re calling the shots. McDonalds it its.”
I’m calling the shots, Greg thought. Riiiight. Which one of us is the slave again?
Still, however tenuous the illusion of freedom was, for the moment, he would take what he could get.