The Slave Auction Meme

[justformemes]

The Slave Auction Meme


* Leave a comment with the character's name, fandom, and whether your character will be playing the part of 'slave' or 'master', plus preferences for scenarios if you have any.
* Respond to others with one of the scenarios below or feel free to make up your own.
* Please remember to be respectful of others while you play

Warning: Be aware that this meme deals with dark subjects like slavery and may also contain non-consensual/dubiously consensual sex, violence, and kink.

SLAVES

1. The Newbie - This is your very first auction and you don't quite know what to expect. Hopefully you remember your training and don't disgrace yourself in front of your new master. Hopefully someone thinks you're worth buying at all.

2. The Oldtimer - You've been bought and sold and bought again so many times. You've seen it all before and don't think this time is going to be much different. In fact, the only real anxiety you've got is whether or not someone's going to pay for a more than slightly used slave.

3. The Pet - You're a pleasure slave. A bed warmer. A decorative piece of artwork. You're meant to look pretty and be pleasing and not much else.

4. The Guard - Your master hired you because of your ability to swing a sword or shoot a gun, not your looks.

5. The Escape Artist - Somehow you always manage to squirm out of your master's chains. Too bad you seem to get caught after a while. Maybe your next daring escape will be permanent. Then again, maybe your next master has special ways of keeping you locked up.

6. The Undercover - You aren't a slave at all, you're just pretending to be one. Why? Well that's up to you. Either way, your cover is blown if you don't act the part.

7. The Specialist - You have a skill that no one else has. Something rare and valuable. Something your master needs more than anything else.

MASTERS

1. The Customer - You've owned slaves before and this trip to the market is nothing new to you. Still, you're hoping to find something worth your while.

2. The Gift - Someone bought a pet for you, isn't that nice of them? Or maybe it isn't so nice. Did you even want a slave in the first place? Well you're stuck with one now.

3. The Giver - You're selecting a slave for someone else, and they need to be perfect. Perhaps you'd better test them out first to make sure you're getting your money's worth.

4. The Trainer - You specialize in taming unruly slaves and making them over into perfect, obedient, well-trained pets.

5. The Rebel - You hate the idea of slavery, but the system isn't going to go away any time soon, so the next best thing is to buy up any slave you can get your hands on and free them, right?

6. The Companion - You want someone to be with you always, someone you can talk to and depend on, someone who will never leave your side. It's a good thing that money can buy that these days.

7. The Undercover - You're not actually a Master. You're at the auction for an entirely different reason. Maybe it's special policework, maybe you're trying to hunt down a certain someone. Either way, your cover is blown unless you act the part.

As always, feel free to use a combination of scenarios or make up your own if you have other ideas.

Comments

[terrorisms]

So this is the way things are gonna go, then.

He's been waiting to die for a long time. Been waiting for it since before they ever dragged his ass into this hellhole of a collar kill-shelter, it just kept on not happening. Here he was thinking he was finally at the end of his rope, that there was nobody on the planet crazy enough or stupid enough to intercede on his behalf. He made his peace with it, he really had. He'd just been impatiently waiting for them to get it over with already.

But no. Nah, no, not him. He never really can, can he? And the thing is, he hasn't decided yet if watching this lady punk out a cop is a worthy consolation prize for taking away that ending right on the cusp of actually hitting it — so close he could taste it this time. He's not suicidal. He's just ready. There's a difference — but not that big of a difference. The line is razor-thin, narrow enough that he's not sure if he's supposed to feel gratitude or resentment. He'll decide later.

For now... for now, they're on the same team. He's nothing if not willing to back her up for the next five minutes for the worthy endeavor of flipping the middle finger to this cop in particular, and how things progress after that will depend on her. On whether or not she actually follows through with the paperwork, or if she snaps to her senses in time to get a refund.

But she's the first person to say please to him in years, and that's not nothing. That's a kindness and a respect not often afforded to collars of his status, or many collars at all these days.

Give respect, get respect. It's a matter of fucking principal. Just 'cause he's a glorified slave doesn't mean he's too low to have those himself. Hell, if a man owns absolutely nothing else in life, he can at least own those. That's the kind of thing no owner can take away — and they've tried.

At that second please, he pulls his hands away from the bars — stiffly, slowly, in the case of his injured fingers. His arms settle at the small of his back, one hand clasping the opposite wrist, feet shoulder-width apart, eyes dropping deferentially away from her and down to the middle distance somewhere closer to waist-height. The military at-ease stance of a former armed services collar.

"Ma'am," is his level answer, perfectly tone-neutral. No hint of that smug attitude anymore, no sharp barbs hidden inside it. This isn't his first rodeo, and his time in the service taught him the kind of discipline free of ego necessary to only further unsettle the cop at this sudden, abrupt obedience. Days of pounding him in, trying to break him, and not once have any of them managed to earn anything resembling this kind of subservience.

[reexamines]

In the silence after her first low plea, Karen feels her eyes start to burn. Tears come easy to her, and she knows there's no shame in it, okay? But in these kinds of situations (like she's ever been in a situation like this before) she hates it. She can practically hear the saltwater dripping from her second, slightly more desperate, please. Maybe that's why he complies. Falls back into line like it's second nature. Like someone hit a switch somewhere.

Whatever it is, she isn't going to spend any time questioning it. Perhaps it'll only last until she's out of ear shot, but she has to take that risk or they'll be stuck here all day. She doesn't know about him, but she's definitely ready to smell some fresh air and grab a shower or five.

"Thank you," she tells him, taking a shuddered breath and letting the tension flow out of her muscles like water. By the time she's turned around to face the cops again, she's composed herself and she gives them a too tight smile.

"Shall we?" she asks with a gesture towards the processing side of the warehouse, pretending that the idea of going anywhere with Shiny-Badge doesn't make her skin crawl.

Shiny-Badge and his older -- more composed -- colleague trade looks. A cop a couple of cages further back visibly snaps his mouth back shut. They've seen a lot of the Punisher these last couple of days. But they haven't seen him even remotely close to compliant despite their best efforts.

"I'll stay right here," Shiny-Badge says, "Keep an eye on him for you. Miss."

Karen's mouth tightens, but she gives him a nod. Not like she's in much of a bargaining position here.

"I'll walk you," the other cop volunteers, before glancing over at Shiny-Badge. "Officer Lantz here will make sure your property stays in the same condition you left him. Won't you, Lantz?"

"Yessir," Shiny-Badge replies with a mock salute.

Karen's eyes dart between the two cops and Frank. She doesn't trust Shiny-Badge-Fife-Lantz, but she has to go to processing. So. She just has to hope it all turns out well.

"Thank you, officer," she says. She tugs her purse up higher on her shoulder, clutching the strap and then she follows the other cop, gingerly picking out a path between the grime and the wet puddles on the floor towards processing.

The moment the door to the processing office closes behind Karen, officer Lantz walks up to the cage.

"Putting up a pretty act for the pretty girl, huh?" he asks, voice low but edged with vitriol. "She's gonna see what kind of man you are real soon, isn't she? You know, I hope off her real fucking slow. Make it hurt. Then when you come back here, we'll give you a warm welcome before we send you off to slaughter. Sound good, asshole?" He spits straight into the cage, aiming at Frank's lowered head.

[terrorisms]

In a way, a switch has been flipped. Rather, it might be more accurate to say that a button has been pushed; the moment she pressed the confirmation for her purchase is the moment ownership transferred, and nearly a lifetime of conditioning set in. Frank's been a collar since before he was legally old enough to drink. Taking the necklace and agreeing to a laughably lengthy contract of military service to earn his way back out of it again was the only thing that kept his ass out of prison. There's nothing quite like the marines to break in a fresh collar with delusions of rebellion.

But the truth is, he got used to it. More than — he excelled at it. For nearly a decade, it seemed like maybe taking this deal was the smartest thing he ever could've done with his life, like he found his calling, like he learned how to turn himself into a person that actually deserved to walk around with a clear neck and a clear arrest record. The angry, violent little punk ass he'd been as a young adult got battered down, melted, and reforged into something just about respectable.

And then everything went to shit, that whole earning out concept went up in fucking smoke in a single afternoon, and he's been bounced from owner to owner ever since. The kinds of people interested in purchasing a collar with a decade of experience as a soldier are generally an entirely different breed than Karen Page seems to be. A lot of them disagreed pretty strongly with those principals they didn't seem to think he was entitled to.

So far, they've all started like this: with a purchase agreement, with his hands behind his back, with a sir or ma'am, and they've all ended bloodier and worse than any of them could anticipate. When things inevitably go awry, he maintains that it isn't his fault. He's well-trained and disciplined and used to following orders, but he has lines. Things only go to shit when they're crossed. Until then, he's a model collar, just like he'd been a model soldier.

What all that means right here, right now, is that he doesn't even so much as glance Fife's direction during his little monologue. There isn't a glare, there isn't a flicker, there isn't a flinch — not even when that asshole spits on him. Five minutes ago, he'd have reached through the bars and done more damage to that guy than ten men in an ass-kicking competition could've. Now, he doesn't even break stance to wipe that spit off his face. He might as well be a King's Guard sentry at Buckingham Palace.

Right up until Karen comes back with Good Cop, at which point he breaks the silence to speak crisply and pragmatically.

"Ma'am. As the legal owner of my personhood and property, it's my duty and obligation to oversee your safety, and to take all reasonable precaution to preserve that safety. Officer Fife issued a verbal command that I kill you slowly. Using the most basic definitions of common god damn sense and logical reasoning, I've determined this to be a threat. Requesting permission to dispatch it."

Fucking asshole.

Does he actually think she's going to grant permission? No. Is it petty of him to spill all that out in front of his senior coworker like this is grade school? Yes. Does he maybe want to make Lantz shit himself a little, just for a second? Also yes.

[reexamines]

Turns out the processing office has space heaters to make up for the lack of insulation, and little plug-in air freshers to combat the smell. The former work a little too well, the heat making Karen's skin bead with sweat until she works off her coat and drapes it over her purse. The latter-- Well, there's not enough "tropical orchid" scent in the world to cover up the stench of humanity at its worst.

The cloying scent sticks inside of Karen's nose and by the time she makes it to the counter nausea is climbing down her throat and settling in her stomach.

There's a lot of paperwork. A lot. Everything in triplicate. Liability waivers, assurances, accepting full legal responsibility for the actions of her "collar". At least she's used to paperwork. Paperwork, she can handle.

She's on maybe page 64 out of 206 when the clerk in front of her clears his throat.

"You sure you want this one?" he says, and there's a condescending gentleness to his tone.

Karen's sure he means well. But the fabric of her blouse is scritchy where it sticks against her skin, and her bones feel hollow after the flush of adrenaline faded from her system. She doesn't have much patience for well-meaning men right now.

"Yeah," she says tersely without so much as a glance up.

"It's just that his record is-- There's quite a lot of it."

Karen doesn't rise to the bait. Doesn't ask, doesn't acknowledge, just scratches her initials at the bottom of the page, and turns it over to the next one. She traces the lines with the back of the pen as she skims through the agreement.

"Quite violent too," the clerk adds, casting a look at the cop who accompanied her in. Like maybe they could join forces here.

"This'd go faster if you let me read it in silence," Karen says without looking up.

"Usually," the clerk persists, little beads of sweat gathering on his upper lip, "the people who buy the violent collars have the means to keep them in line. No offense, ma'am but--"

Karen sighs heavily, lowers the pen, and refocuses her full attention on him.

"Are you about to tell me I can't buy him because I'm just a weak little girl?"

"No, no, no, that's not it," the clerk backtracks immediately.

"Good." Karen looks back down at the papers and initials point one through fifteen in rapid succession. "Then if you don't mind, let's just assume I know what I'm doing."

She really, really doesn't. But that doesn't stop her from signing on each dotted line and handing the stack of papers back to the clerk once she's done.

Wordlessly, he sorts through the papers, staples her copies together and slides them into a beaten up manila folder that's crammed full of papers. The little label on the tab says CASTLE, F. He throws a pamphlet on top of the folder (Caring for Collars with Criminal Charges).

"Next!" he calls out as he pushes the folder across the counter to her. She's barely had a chance to pick it up before a man twice her size shoulders her out of the way.

The cop who walked her in shrugs and grabs a leash from a hook on the wall by the door on the way out. The leash is woven plastic. Once upon a time it may have been white and blue, but years of accumulated grime has rendered it closer to grey and grey. With his free hand, he clicks the button on his radio as they walk back down to the cages.

"Transfer team to 279. Collar to be processed for buyer," he says.

Static hisses from the radio, and then there's a faint. Roger that.

No one expects the words out of Frank's mouth when Karen returns, struggling to untangle her coat from her purse straps so she can jam his too thick file into her purse. Least of all Karen. She stops mid-motion, her eyes going from Frank to officer Lantz, a pulse of something unpleasant shooting through her chest.

Decent cop glares at officer Lantz -- who does actually look like he might shit himself -- and clears his throat.

"What? No. No!" Karen responds. "Uh. Permission denied?"

Decent cop and Lantz both look relieved at that.

"Officer Lantz," decent cop says, "take a break. Sarge'll want to chat with you before you go off shift."

Lantz shoots Frank a look that's equal measures pissed and scared shitless. This isn't the reactionary Frank Castle any of them have met in the days leading up to this. He was so fucking sure he could make Castle lose his temper enough to void the sale. But here they are now.

"Now!" decent cop barks and Lantz slinks away just as the transfer team gets there.

As it turns out, the transfer team consists of four people in as close to SWAT gear as Karen's ever seen. They all have honest-to-god cattle prods hanging from their belts and one of them is holding chains with wrist and ankle cuffs.

Karen gives up on her coat and her purse and clutches the file closer to her chest.

"Is this really necessary?" she asks. Once he's done with his part of the process, she's going to be walking him out of here alone, and she sure as heck isn't wearing a bulletproof vest.

"Standard procedure for collars like this," the decent cop answers as one of the transfer team unlocks the cage. "They'll have him back to you in no time."

Just gotta hose him down, give him a clean set of clothes, and inject the microchip tracker between his shoulder blades first.

[terrorisms]

Permission denied; he's not surprised. There's no protest from him, no withering glare, nothing but the terse, dangerous look he levels at Lantz as the guy slinks away — baiting him into maintaining eye contact the entire time. Everything in Frank's stormy countenance reads yeah, come find me later, I dare you. Let that punk-ass idiot asshole show up one night looking to get a little ill-advised revenge, let him fuck around and find out, let him take things too far. Let him come hunting for Karen Page because he thinks he can get the jump on them. Frank hopes that's how it goes, hopes his ego gets the best of him. There's nothing in the world he'd like more right now than to catch that asshole breaking in one night. There wouldn't be enough left of his teeth for the fucking dental records.

But Lantz is gone, and odds are that really is the last time they'll be seeing him. Realistically speaking, slighted jerks don't go on vengeance sprees over the people who wronged them. That's more of a Frank thing — and in is defense, his whole deal was a lot less petty than a dick-measuring contest through a set of cage bars.

He walks out mildly, steadily, seemingly unconcerned by the cattle prods or the escort team. Perfectly willing to go where he's led, without resistance or commentary — something that continues to unsettle the few men who've had to deal with his bullshit for the past few days.

He knows what's coming. He's never been processed by this joint before, this is where assholes like him usually go to die, not get adopted, but the routine's similar to the last two places that bounced him. Rougher, though. All pretense is stripped from the exchange as he's hosed down with enough force to leave his skin red and over-wrought and frigid. They expect him to make some kinda noise, some protest to the indignity of it or the pain of it, but his blank expression never changes.

The tracking chip is thrust in raw, with nothing to numb the feeling of a needle embedding metal directly under layers of skin. There's no reaction to that, either — nor the faux-jolly slap on the back he gets directly over the spot from an escort officer 'congratulating' him on his new home.

It's all just nothing. Just bluster. Just bullshit. Just what a bunch of idiots think constitutes torture because they don't know any better, because they've never had worse. Because they haven't had parts of themselves stripped off or pulled out or hammered to shit. They've never pulled bullets out of their own bodies. All they do is make themselves look weaker with every little passive-aggressive attempt to pierce his armor.

When he's turned over to her, it's in a set of standard-issue collar wear, not terribly unlike scrubs. His hands are bound behind his back, and between the cuffs, a length of chain stretches up to hook into the collar wrapped around his throat. The cuffs cost extra, but they're also apparently a non-negotiable line item on that bill she already paid for. Good news, she gets to keep them, along with the key and the leash they hand over to her. Some grim-faced guy offers up a flat, "All yours," to her that sounds more like better you than me.

And then it's over. They're free to go. Karen's the proud new owner of a collared murderer that's staring at the ground in front of her with an unreadable expression and absolute silence.

[reexamines]

It would've been more efficient, Karen thinks, to process Frank while she signed all the paperwork. They could be done already. Instead, she's left standing awkwardly by his empty cage in the chilly din of the warehouse. The cops who were primed to come to Lantz's defense have long since wandered away. Even decent cop makes a vague excuse and leaves her.

The memory of the stuffy heat in the processing office leaches from her skin, the sweat pooled at the small of her back turning into a lightning rod for the cold air. Careful not to make eye contact with any of the other 'customers' (Jesus Christ. She bought a person. She owns a person now. There's paperwork and everything), Karen finally manages to untangle her coat from her purse strap. A man with barn door shoulders and a cellphone glued to his ear barges down the path in front of her her, speaking loudly in what might be Russian but certainly is Eastern European. The woman in the cage just past Frank's shrinks in on herself, facing away from the bars, and Karen's a coward because she lets herself look away.

There's this whole world she never even knew about. Sure, she knows about collars. Considered becoming one herself more than once. In college, after... everything it was tempting. Turning over responsibility to someone else. Never having to worry about money again. Hell, there were times back at her dad's diner when she figured it'd be the quickest way to pay for his last idiotic purchase they couldn't afford. Point is. She knows about collars. Knows about the auction houses and the glorified shelters, and the court workers with slim leather bands around their throats. But this is-- brand new territory. And maybe she's as naive as Matt thinks she is, but she didn't think legal collar trade could look like this. Not in the US.

The soft-hard vowels of maybe-Russian fades away as the man continues down the line. The woman in the cage relaxes, pressing her forehead against the bars for a moment before remembering herself and straightening. Karen puts her coat back on in a slow and awkward dance of passing purse and file between her hands as she works her hands through the sleeves. The black-and-white, photo-copied pamphlet slips from the manila folder and flutters to the ground.

Karen considers the thick file in her hand, the mess of papers threatening to tumble to the ground in solidarity. It would pass the time, but she's not sure she's ready to know everything inside of it yet. Careful not to catch the folder or any of its papers on the zipper, she jams the whole thing into her purse before bending and grabbing the pamphlet. A shout goes up from somewhere in the row of cages in front of her, and Karen straightens quickly. She crumples the pamphlet in her hand and shoves it into her coat pocket like she's been caught doing something illegal.

Frank's not gone long. Just long enough for the cold and the smell and the noise to start to get to Karen. The wailing from one of the cages isn't even the worst. It should be. Sobs torn from the throat of an otherwise tough-looking man too despondent to care that he's openly crying. No. The worst is the sounds of fists or leather straps thunking into bodies and the gasps or yelps that follow. It's so routine.

(This can't be legal. But it is. But it shouldn't be.)

Karen looks up at the sound of boots on muddy concrete announcing Frank's return with the processing team. The nausea from earlier never really left her, and it sits pretty in her throat now, growing with each passing moment. She's tugged the coat closed around herself, holding it in place and hunching her shoulders forward. Her shoes -- shouldn't have worn heels today -- scuff against the floor as she switches her weight from one foot to the other.

Frank looks better, and worse, than earlier. Without the layer of grime, the bruises stand out more. Startling exclamation points on skin that's washed out beneath the neutral collar wear. (Beige clearly isn't his color.)

He'll need a coat. The protest dies a silent death before even making it to Karen's throat. The processing team don't seem like they care, and she doesn't really want to stick around long enough for someone to scrounge something up. It doesn't seem like they have standard issue outerwear for their collars. Karen would offer up her own coat, but his shoulders would split the seams.

Her hand startles around the leash that's pressed into her palm, fingers closing around it automatically. It feels heavier than it has any right to, just like the key which sits heavy in her other hand.

"Thank you," she says, the phrase as automatic as her hands accepting what she was just handed. The team leaves without another word and she's left standing alone with a murderer. Her murderer, to be exact.

It's easier to think about the warehouse and all its implications than it is to think about what will happen when Frank is returned to her. Easier to rage against an unfair system than consider what will happen when she brings him home. Her plan begins and ends right here.

They stand in silence. Frank's eyes on the floor. Karen's eyes on Frank.

"Okay," she finally says. She can do this. They're expecting her to walk him out just like this. Maybe she should. Maybe it'd be easier. But there's no way she's walking him out with his hands cuffed behind his back. Something inside of her balks at the very idea. One misstep, a slick of ice or mud, and he could fall on his face with no way to catch himself. It's a short distance from here to her car, he'd probably be fine. But probably doesn't cut it. (And honestly, the longer she keeps him cuffed, the longer she'll be tempted to keep him that way. There's a flutter of fear in throat that she refuses to listen to.)

Karen loops the leash around her wrist -- he's not a dog bound to wander off or make a run for it if she lets go of his leash, but there are expectations and maybe she needs to keep that false sense of control for herself -- and walks around him. Could've ordered him to turn, but she's not sure he would have, so here she is now. Staring at his split and bruised knuckles and fighting the ever-present nausea trying to climb up her throat.

He's a mess. (Her mess. Her responsibility.)

Her fingers are less steady than she wants them to be, and she brushes them against metal and skin both as she unlocks first one cuff and then the other. They fall with a soft rattle, stopping short at the end of the chain.

Karen's eyes lift to the nape of Frank's neck. His hair is still damp, presumably from the shower they made him take, and she frowns at it. Cold hair and no coat. Thank god she parked close. Gently, she unhooks the chain from his collar, fingertips accidentally brushing against his skin.

"Sorry," she mumbles as she jumbles the chain and the cuffs up in her hands with a sharp rattle. The leash may be humiliating, but at least it's not as dehumanizing as the cuffs.

Her purse is full, so she has to keep the awkward bundle of chains in her hands.

"Ready?" She touches his elbow, rather than tugging on the leash, in a gentle prompt towards the door to the outside. She's so ready to smell fresh air again. Even if it's full of rotting sea weed.

[terrorisms]

You'd be amazed how many separate little worlds exist out there alongside the normal one every day civilians get to see. He's been in a few himself; some by choice, some not so much. People don't like to have their bubbles popped. Hell, entire structures are in place depending on that — people crave the illusion. She'd be happier if she never showed her face here, if she never saw. It's already occurred to him, it's something turning over inside his mind along with about a dozen other thoughts and questions that he's not putting a voice to. It's not his place anymore. That's not how this works.

She unshackles his hands, and they don't immediately go for her throat. Hell, they don't even come out from behind his back; they just fold more comfortably over one another at his waist, at ease until she gives the order-disguised-as-a-question to move.

"Ma'am," he answers in the affirmative, simple, straightforward.

The touch to the elbow's different. Has him casting a look over at her — more over than down, she's taller than most women he's been owned by. It's a nice change. Not that it matters. Normally, he'd be yanked along by that tether in her hand, or they'd stride off and just assume he's set to follow them dutifully — which he would, without question. That unruly insubordination bullshit is for teenagers and idiots who think they're proving something by kicking up an attitude like it changes their place in life. The only difference between them and him is that it takes them longer to get to the same conclusion. Have some god damn dignity.

When he hones in on the car she's leading him to, it's equally as natural for him to stride toward the driver's side door. There's an awkward moment of fumbling, probably, as she makes to lead him somewhere else and he makes to head for the left front side. When it becomes clear they're not on the same page about that at all, he goes still, folds his arms back again, and waits for instructions instead.

It's just that driving people around is usually one of the unspoken, automatic parts of the job. It's one of the reasons he's been put through so many defensive driving courses over the last couple decades. Maybe she wants that, maybe she doesn't. It's her call.

But his fingers twitch about it all the same — not that she can see them from this angle. He'd rather be behind the wheel. What he wants matters about as much as Lantz's high school diploma these days.

[reexamines]

Karen feels more than sees the glance he throws her way, and she pretends she doesn't. Just like she pretends the relief when he didn't try to attack her (or anyone else) the moment he got the chance hasn't turned her knees to jelly. He told her he won't hurt her, and she believes that. Believes it enough to buy him and let him into her car, and her home, and her life. But trust? That will have to come gradually.

Karen doesn't tug on the leash, or really lead him by it. She just happens to hold one end of the leash, the other one attached to his collar. Unless he puts it there by striding ahead of her, there's no tension in the leash. And even then, her pace will quicken to match. She doesn't want her shoulder wrenched any more than she wants the collar to jerk around his throat.

The leash just exists, tethering them together, like an afterthought as any real directing towards her inherited (and yeah, okay, pretty shitty) car is done by gestures or him picking up on the physical cues she's not even aware she's giving.

The metal wire, twisted tight around Karen's spine uncoils when they step into the sharp daylight. The weight that's been sitting heavy on her chest eases enough to let her draw her first full breath since she stepped into the warehouse. The worst part of the ocean smell like paradise compared to what they just left.

She spent less than an hour in there. Collars, and cops, and clerks are there for days. The thought is enough to send a shudder through her and she draws another deep breath, her shoulders finally relaxing a little.

They make it to the car without incident, but once there it becomes clear that they have very different expectations for the car ride they're about to go on together. Karen's aiming at the back passenger side, and he's headed for the complete opposite. The leash comes tight around her wrist as a warning and she stops just as he does.

An awkward silence follows.

Karen clears her throat and gestures vaguely towards the car.

"I'll, uh, drive. It's my car, and I don't know how the-- you're not on my insurance yet." All true, except it's also a lie. It's another little bit of control she's just not willing to give up. (Yet? Ever?)

The car keys are in the front pocket of her purse and she reaches down to grab them, looking down to hide the brief flash of guilt in her eyes. (Feeling guilty about this is dumb. She knows that. So she squashes the feeling down.) Except when her fingers reach in the pocket, it's suspiciously devoid of keys. She finds a handful of wrapped cough drops, a couple of stray bobby pins and a hair tie. But no keys.

Which means she just dropped them in the purse on her way in.

Shit.

Her purse is full of paperwork and Frank Castle's life and misdeeds and her hands are full of chains and his leash. Without really thinking, she hands him the chains, complete with cuffs and the key still stuck in one of the keyholes.

"Hold this, please," she says, even as she lets go of the rattling bundle. One hand on the strap of the purse for resistance, she reaches into its depths in search of the quite jangle of her stupid car keys.

Karen loves her purse. It's a great purse. But everything has a tendency to migrate down to the bottom. Correction, everything she needs out of it tends to migrate to the bottom. Like it can tell what would inconvenience her most.

Just as her fingers close around the fob, her arm nudges the folder just wrong and a portion of worn and yellowed papers from the middle tumble out of it and onto the ground.

"Shit." Fingers wrapped around her key, Karen slips her hand out of the leash and crouches down in front of Frank to gather up the papers before the wind catches them. At least the ground is relatively dry, the only puddle near the back wheel on the other side of the car.

If he makes a move to help, she'll wave him off with a quiet I've got it.

Her eyes catch a couple of words as she unceremoniously shuffle the papers together. Enough to recognize them as military service records, but she doesn't pause to read before jamming them back in her purse. Maybe he catches a glimpse of her gun before she stands up and the contents are hidden from view.

"You can, uh," she offers with another gesture at the car. Heat crawls up the back of her neck. Of all the things to feel today, she's embarrassed. The fob hasn't actually worked for a bit, so she unlocks the driver's side door manually. All the locks click open when she does. "Passenger seat, if you want."

[terrorisms]

You're not on my insurance yet, he doesn't comment, but he doesn't really need to. The ever-so-faint arch of an eyebrow makes it perfectly clear what he thinks of that excuse. Namely, that it's complete and total bullshit. The bigger question is why she feels the need to justify herself. It's not like she's gotta have a valid reason to say no, that's not how this whole thing works. She doesn't want it to happen, it doesn't happen, end of story.

He doesn't spell that out either. Not yet. Maybe he will, later, if she keeps on being so goddamn nice about it all. Even her next order comes with a please at the end, and it takes monumental effort not to shake his head as he holds on to the bundle of his own chain and cuffs.

It's frankly hilarious. Not that he's laughing out loud. It's just-

Who the hell is Karen Page, anyway? Why'd she drag her ass all the way down here, drop a stupid amount of money on a jackass that she thinks might kill her? And why, oh why, especially why, does she have a handgun in her purse? That one sends him for a second, far more interesting than the scattered paperwork of his own history — paperwork she doesn't even let him help pick up. That's not even a collar thing, that's a basic human decency thing.

Christ almighty, what did she rope them both into?

The next few awkward seconds find Frank in the back seat of her car, a pile of chains and cuffs discarded in the seat beside him, no seatbelt, elbows on his knees, leaning forward to study her profile as she stuffs the keys into the ignition. He chimes in after the rumble of her dubiously maintained engine turns over, a mild, casual, "It's not to late to make a return. Just for the record. Ma'am."

He can spot buyer's remorse from a mile away. That's how most of his previous owners ended their tenure with him.

[reexamines]

The heat finishes the slow creep up Karen's neck and continues to her cheeks; red splotches blossoming on pale skin. But she's just going to ignore how spectacularly bad this is going and power through. Getting in the car and setting her purse on the floor of the passenger seat is almost one smooth motion, well practiced and easy.

Karen turns the key, and holds her breath at the final twist. Usually, she releases it the moment the engine starts, but his voice startles him and her chest locks around her held breath. Her eyes flicker up to the rear view mirror giving him a quick look somewhere between surprised and incredulous.

Her eyes dip down, and her coat, trapped beneath and behind her as it is, tugs at her shoulder when she reaches forward and turns the heat on full blast, angling the vents backwards to give him the brunt of the rush of slowly-warming air.

Maybe later, she'll regret not taking her coat off before getting in the car (really, she knows better), but she's locked in the decision now so she's just going to go with it. Theme of today, really.

"I'm not going to return you," she says, slow and evenly measured over the roar of the air vents. The first (second, technically) impression she's making on him really is stellar, isn't it? Must be if he's offering to return to his impending execution. "You're not a pair of shoes that pinch in the toes."

Karen tucks her hair behind both ears, nervous and quick. The cup holder in the central console holds a half-full cup of coffee, and she almost reaches for it before remembering that it's days old at this point. She settles her hands on the steering wheel and takes a deep breath. She casts a quick glance over her shoulder, brows pinching together in a frown. Her right hand slips from the steering wheel to the gear stick, but she doesn't move it just yet.

"Put your seatbelt on." Yes, that's an actual order, and no she's not driving away until he does.

[terrorisms]

She's something else.

It's clear by the intent look in his eyes that he's got thoughts, even if his expression stays mostly blank and carefully guarded. Even though he doesn't say anything. The sharpness in his perception as he studies her profile, visible in the rearview mirror, is plenty telling if she knows how to look.

Also probably visible is his scathing amusement at the seatbelt thing — still no argument from him, but everything in his body language is facetious, sarcastically flippant, as he pulls the belt over from where it hangs and deliberately clicks it into place. Look, see. All buckled in. Safe and sound.

Like going head-first out the windshield would be the worst thing in the world for a man who just made it clear he'd be fine with swallowing a bullet.

The ride's quiet for a while. Maybe awkward or tense for her, but no such tension shows in him. He reclines in the seat, legs comfortably spread, elbow perched on the faux leather of the window frame, eyes never really leaving her for very long throughout the length of the drive. Not like there's much to see out the window; shitty warehouses and shitty projects and shitty buildings. The grime coating this city on an atomic level doesn't make for a particularly compelling view, and anyway, it's not the city he's trying to understand right now. Every little shift in her body language is a glimpse of deeper insight into what's going on in her head.

She might wanna get used to it. She's the person he's going to be keyed in to until she either passes him off or he bites the bullet. Every scrap of that scrutiny's going to her until he feels like he knows her, because that's how this works. You learn to read your owner. You learn to figure out what they want before they ask for it. It's a survival mechanism, sometimes. It's a weapon other times.

What he's reading from her right now, what he's picking up on that she wants, is for him to not be in the back of her fucking car. It's guilt, or obligation — either way, it's misplaced. The question is how long she plans on doubling down despite that, how committed she is to tethering herself to this lost cause. How deep does that stubbornness really run?

Unless he's spoken to first, he doesn't speak again.

[reexamines]

Karen hates the way he puts on the seat belt. It's a visceral feeling, and her jaw clenches around it as she watches him through the rear view mirror. Her fingers tighten around the steering wheel until her knuckles blanche and the tension creeps all the way up to her shoulders. But she stays quiet.

Look, she gets it. He's a badass. He doesn't give a shit about himself. But car safety is important. (The world flickers and for a moment she's in a different car, the too sharp sunlight replaced with the gentle glow of street lamps and her stomach flips just as the wheels hit the guard rail and the world changes forever.) She's in charge of his well-being now. It's all on her.

The belt clicks into place, and she breaks eye contact with the mirror and shifts the gear into drive kicking the car into motion.

The problem with the silence is that her mind fills it with all the thoughts she hasn't let herself think so far. Every doubt and second-guess rattling around the inside of her skull like the echoing din of the warehouse earlier.

It doesn't make it better that she can feel his eyes on her. It makes sense that he'd watch her, and if you think about it, it's only fair; every time they hit traffic or a red light, her eyes pops right up to the rear view mirror so she can observe him in turn. But it feels invasive, all the same. Like he's digging through her underwear drawer or looking at her search history or something.

It's uncomfortable as hell and she hates it almost as much as his attitude about the seat belt. Technically, she could order him to look away, or look at his shoes or something. But how shitty would that be?

The temperature in the car has been steadily creeping up until it's stifling. Her flushed cheeks are as much embarrassment as fair complexion reacting to the warmth.

At the next red light, Karen starts shrugging out of her coat. One arm at a time, other hand locked tight on the steering wheel, awkwardly maneuvering around the seat belt. Once it's off, still trapped between her and the car seat, she takes a deep breath.

"Look," she says as the light turns and she inches the car forward, her voice more measured than expected, "I'm not doing this for you. It's not some charitable impulse on my part."

It wasn't the time or the place to tell him in the warehouse in front of the bad cop-decent cop duo and representatives from practically every criminal element in the state of New York. And she didn't exactly have the words for it then either. Perks of an uncomfortable silence, she supposes.

"This is for me." The kind of person she wants to be. She can't be part of the reason someone is executed without due process. "I need to do this. And I don't think for a second you'd be better off dead. No one is."

Sure, the world might be. There are some people the world would be better without. But their lives won't be better for being cut short. No matter how shitty they are. Where there's life there's hope and all that motivational poster bullshit.

"So we're just going to make the best of it and-- figure it out together." This isn't some philosophical discussion she wants to get drawn into. It's just the way things are.

The brake lights of the car ahead of them light up, and Karen shifts her foot from the gas to the brake, slowing down. She dares a quick glance behind her, a fresh resolve on her face.

"When's the last time you ate? Used the restroom? Had a good night's sleep?" She's in charge of his well-being, and she can do logistics. She's good at logistics.

[terrorisms]

She's got an issue with cars, he can peg that much. The tension in her shoulders, that look hiding in her features, tucked away in her expression. It's not just about the way he did it; Frank's been an asshole since the moment she walked up to his cage, and he never got a look quite like that. It's something about this order specifically, he thinks — but tucks the concept away in the back of his mind. Later. Maybe later. If this lasts any length of time, he'll watch, he'll observe, he'll listen. Maybe he'll ask. That's a big stretch, but they'll see.

Judging by the way she gets to talking, all he's gotta do is exist silently around her and eventually the explanations will come pouring out on their own. More than that, what she says feels real. Like she's being honest, or at least she thinks she's being honest. Volunteering information is giving a gift; most owners don't bother.

Just like most owners aren't so considerate about his needs, his discomfort, the quality of his sleep.

He appreciates the gesture enough that some of that flippant, resting disinterest slips out of his features, leaving his expression a little more gentle. A little more thoughtful.

"Been a while, ma'am," he answers after a beat, settling back against the seat a little more. If their dynamic was different, if this were a conversation between peers, he'd say something like you ever try sleeping in a place like that? It's worse than a military barracks. The screaming, the sobbing, the blunt impact of force on flesh, banging on metal bars, every other sound under the sun you can imagine. Not to mention the assholes on night watch swinging by to give him shit any time he found himself drifting off — payback, for what an unruly and uncontrollable shit he'd been since arriving.

As for food, well, he got some — but why waste much of it on a dead man? Cut costs, property doesn't need a last meal. He's running on fumes, and it shows; some of those bruises under his eyes aren't actual bruises. They're sleeplessness, they're wear and tear.

He needs to eat, to rest, to shower. He needs a lot of things he wouldn't have expected to get an hour ago, but now... now, looking at Karen Page, he's starting to suspect she's not only going to offer it, she's going to insist on it.

He's not just a principal to her, he's a goddamn rescue dog. The kind with behavioral problems that they can't just foster out to anyone, the kind a kill shelter would've already had injections lined up for. And here she is, the stubborn type that doesn't believe in putting things down even when they're beyond saving, risking getting bitten for a mutt she probably won't even wind up liking.

The thing about abused dogs is sometimes, once in a while, they turn out to be the most loyal kind you can get.

[reexamines]

There's a reason Karen asked when he last had a good night's sleep. Between the size of the cages -- she'd like to imagine the cages are just for exhibition, and that there's a block of dormitories where the collars are brought for sleep at night, but she's not that naive -- and the conditions in the warehouse, she can't imagine any sleep there could qualify as good. Not that it matters much when the answer to all three questions is a vague a while.

Karen makes a face at the windshield, half at the lack of detail half at her confirmed suspicions. At least the asshole-armor he's wrapped himself in is beginning to slip. Something softer peeking through. Or perhaps she's just imagining it. Hard to tell from stolen glances through the rearview mirror or over her shoulder.

A while. Jesus.

Karen's unformed plans of stopping at a diner or hitting up a goodwill for a set of real clothes flicker into nothing. In their place, only one option remains: Her apartment.

"Okay. That's step one then."

Clearly, Frank's suspicion is correct; Karen is going to insist on meeting his basic human needs. No matter how much he compares himself to a dog, she'll be the first one to correct him. He's a person. A person she just happens to own.

At the next light, she takes a left turn, and soon they pull into the garage below her apartment building.

In her regular parking spot, Karen cuts the engine. The sudden silence is deafening. Fingers wrapped around the car keys, her other hand still on the steering wheel, she hesitates. Just a moment of stillness before she leans over the center console and grabs her purse from the floor.

"You can unclip the leash," she tells him as she slips out of the car in a gentle flurry of purse and coat. The click of her heels echo in the vast emptiness of the parking garage. If he wants to escape her, he can. A cord of twined plastic isn't going to stop him. "Leave it and the cuffs."

She waits for him by the open driver's side door. When she hears his door close behind him, she flicks the lock on her door -- and the other three doors follow suit immediately -- and slams it shut.

Unless he speaks first, the elevator ride and the short walk to her apartment are spent in silence. Fresh tension creeping into Karen's hands where they're curled around the strap of her purse and the crumpled bulk of her coat.

Not for the first time, she thinks that perhaps she should have planned for beyond buying him. But the urgency of an actual deadline burrowed into her chest. (What's non-floral shampoo or a spare bed to a dead man?) So she didn't. But now the fervor that fueled her is giving way to common sense and she thinks she really should've thought of the realities of her apartment.

The door swings open on her efficiency apartment, her tidy sitting area, and the metal framed queen bed behind it clearly visible, the kitchenette obvious once they've both stepped through. Not much space for two people. Not much privacy.

"Bathroom is through there," she tells him with a gesture to a closed door. Like it's not even a thing she turns her back to him to untangle her coat and hang it on a coat hook by the door. Like her heart isn't still pounding, and her hands aren't trembling.

"Fresh towels under the sink. You can use my soap and shampoo for now. I'll get started on lunch."

[terrorisms]

She's damn right about one thing — that little leash wouldn't do shit. If he wanted to bolt, it'd take laughably little effort for him to rip that out of her hands. If he wanted to hurt her, it'd be wrapped around her neck in a second, more useful to him than it ever was to her. Neither of those things happen. He unclips the leash, winds it neatly up like it's a length of rope or a power cable, and tosses it absently onto the abandoned pile of cuffs. No ensuing escape attempts follow.

At least he stops staring at her once they get out. His eyes, instead, track through the parking garage. Mapping all the corners, taking note of the cars. Considering all the worst places somebody could hide, and the angles they could get away with. Same for the first floor. The elevator ride passes in awkward, unbroken silence. His hands stay behind his back; maybe that's a comfort. Wouldn't be hard for him to wrap them around her throat in here, at close quarters, where nobody could do a damn thing about it.

By the time they're through the door and he's invading her personal space, he could've killed her a dozen times over. If he was gonna do it, surely he'd have done it by now. What would the point be in waiting?

When he surveys the landscape of his new home — for however temporary or permanent it may turn out to be — one thing becomes even clearer than he'd already been suspecting: she is not prepared for what she's gotten herself into. How much thought could she really have put into this, knowing she'd have to sleep without even a wall between them? Without a door she could lock for the illusion of safety, or for the bare minimum of privacy at least? The struggle not to let his head start shaking is both immense and necessary, because god knows once he starts he'll find too many reasons to keep shaking it, and it'll never goddamn stop.

But he's not complaining. It's better than a cage. Hell, even getting sprung out long enough for a real goddamn shower's worth the trouble, and he doesn't hesitate to disappear into the bathroom with no sound but the quiet click of a door behind him. It's every contrast in the world to the blast of frigid hose-water they put him through, soapless, efficient, practically pointless. Phoned in, just to meet some arbitrary hygiene standard, exactly by legal definition.

He doesn't linger long. Military efficiency's drilled into him as a lifelong habit now, and even the extra two minutes he steals just letting the hot spray rain down on his shoulders feels like a luxury.

There's no spare toothbrush, but it's not the first time he's made do with stolen toothpaste, a fingertip, and good intentions. Doesn't accomplish much, but it's something.

Those scrubs he pulls back on were clean enough when he got them, but they still smell like the industrial-strength bulk detergent and recycled air of that place. They stick to his skin unpleasantly, ill-fitting and a touch too tight, but he doesn't have much choice. It's not like anything she's got is gonna fit him. It is what it is.

Only maybe ten minutes pass before he pads out again smelling like her soap, her shampoo, and somebody else's clothes. She's still doing whatever she's doing to make lunch, and he's got no standing orders. Smart money's on none coming immediately either, so he falls back on an old default: security check. Stalking purposefully around her small apartment checking closet doors, checking windows, testing the locks on her door. Wordlessly categorizing the failure points and the places that could be improved. The shadowed spots he'll need to check in the future.

It's some sorry shit. Boy, she better hope she doesn't piss off somebody with any degree of talent and any level of motivation, because they could be in here and on her in no time if she's on her own. Seeing as she already pissed off at least one cop literally this morning, he's not optimistic.

[reexamines]

If Karen knew Frank was cataloging all the ways in which he could end her on the way from the car to her apartment perhaps it would put a dent in her resolve. The resolve, by the way, which is keeping her from doing the very same thing every step on the way.

But, he doesn't kill her. Or try to hurt her. He told her he wouldn't in the warehouse. If he meant to take advantage of her kindness the moment he could-- Well, she's given him plenty of moments. He could be on his way out of state in her car about now. He wouldn't even have to kill her. He could use the cuffs to tie her up somewhere safe. Somewhere she won't be found until he's ditched her car and stolen a new one. Three or four states over depending on which direction he runs.

The cynical part of Karen -- the one Matt doesn't see -- thinks maybe Frank's just waiting until he's got a clean set of clothes and a belly full of food. Why run exhausted with limited resources when just a little bit of patience will get him a long way?

Except he told her she has nothing to fear from him, and if she can't trust him, what is she even doing here?

(God. What is she doing here? What did she do?)

The pipes whistle, jerking Karen out of the loop of burgeoning panic. The sound of the shower running follows, muted through the closed door, and she shakes herself out of frozen inaction. Doesn't do her any good to dwell on what-ifs and might-bes. Just has to focus on the here and now.

By the time he exits the bathroom -- far sooner than she expected; if she was him, she would've relished the privacy for as long as she could -- she's got a carton of eggs waiting on the small counter, a pot of coffee brewing, and she's whipping up a batch of pancake batter. In another addition to the list of things she didn't plan before upending her life, she's between grocery store runs. Her fridge isn't exactly brimming with options.

But who doesn't like breakfast?

Coffee. Pancakes. Scrambled eggs. Toast. Food she can make on auto-pilot. No thought involved, just muscle memory. It gives her plenty of time to watch as he goes through her apartment, one hip leaned against the counter, spatula in hand and waiting to flip another pancake.

His hair curls with damp, and there's that freshly-showered quality to his skin. If it wasn't for the standard-issue clothes looking like something between scrubs and a colorless version of a prison uniform, he'd look almost like someone she brought home after a long night out.

If she did that anymore.

"I keep cash in an envelope under the mattress," she tells him matter of factly. He's bound to find it sooner or later. Might as well be up front."Not much. Just a couple of hundred dollars. In case."

Not wanting to make eye contact, she turns her full attention back to the stove.

"Bottom of the closet, there's a go bag. Black backpack with a red strap." He'll have to dump out her clean underwear, but the protein bars, water, and meds might come in handy.

Two slices of toast pop out of the toaster, right on time. She grabs one and then the other with her fingertips, tossing them on the plain IKEA plate she's got waiting on the counter before they have a chance to burn her fingertips.

"Underwear is in the top drawer of the dresser," she adds. "I'd appreciate if you stayed out of there."

The coffee gurgles in the pot. Karen gives the scrambled eggs a stir, adding a quick pinch of salt.

"I don't have people over much," she tells him, a hint of apology to her voice. No need for a kitchen table. She usually sits at the coffee table. If she eats in at all. "If you clear off the desk, it makes a decent table."

[terrorisms]

She'd have his immediate attention the moment she started speaking regardless, but there's something especially arresting about how she starts things off. Cash in an envelope. The location of a go-bag. She think he's gonna run? That she's doing him some kinda favor by supplying him, that he'll take the bag and the cash and take off in the middle of the night? Is that what this whole little speech means? Or is she dropping bullet points for a just in case of emergency, since she's clocked him doing an inventory of the place?

He doesn't know her well enough, he can't tell.

It doesn't matter. It's only ever gonna be used for the latter. He's not going anywhere. He's not about to run like a pussy, like he's delusional, like he's got a shot in hell of passing state lines, let alone crossing the goddamn border. First authority figure to spot him and flag his collar will call it in, and he'll wind up with his ass right back in that holding center waiting to find out if she's willing to pay the fine to recover him, or if she'd run out of patience finally and let him rot until they put him down.

It's pointless, there's nothing for him anywhere else. Not anymore. He's never earning his way out of the collar, and he's never fleeing like a coward. Better or worse, she gets what she asked for: him.

He clears off the desk. Resists the urge to perch on the edge of it and instead falls back into at ease, posture loose, just on the threshold where kitchenette becomes living area-slash-work area. Finally, finally, after this whole bullshit charade, the awkward ride, the tense silence smothering them since they got here, his voice breaks through.

"Ma'am, all due respect... what the hell are you doin'?"

It's as mild as it is blunt.

Did you wake up drunk this morning, do you have some kind of head injury, or is your sense of social justice really just that wildly out of pocket and off-base? — things he'd say if she were just some lady on the other side of the bars, and not the person he's duty-bound to serve.

[reexamines]

There will come a time when Karen has to leave Frank alone in her apartment. Hell, she'll need a shower at some point and her showers aren't the quick ten minutes his are. Judging by how comfortable he feels going over her things while she's watching, she has no doubt he'll find everything and anything she's hiding. (Shit. She'll have to move her vibrator from the nightstand drawer to her underwear drawer the next time he's in the bathroom.)

So she might as well tell him, show him all her cards. Trust him. Then, if he does take advantage of her kindness, it says more about him than it does her.

(Though, perhaps the trust only goes so far: She doesn't tell him about the gun in her purse, or where she keeps her spare ammo. Maybe that makes her a hypocrite. Don't worry, she'll have that conversation with herself later. Once she's done figuring out what the hell she's doing here.)

It's almost domestic, flipping pancakes while listening to him move things off her desk to make space for a plate. The smell of fresh coffee mingles with the smell of the eggs and pancakes and a wave of homesickness hits her hard. She braces a hand against the counter, as if the next wave might knock her clean off her feet. But there's nothing, just an empty ache. She lifts the latest pancake out of the pan, adds it to the growing stack on the plate.

The question hits her off guard after his whole silent-unless-spoken-to routine, and the surprise is evident on her face when she looks over at him. He'll get a flicker of emotions chasing through her eyes. There's the surprise. A flash of anger. Incredulity. The urge to laugh until she cries. Maybe a flash of embarrassment.

Then the eggs hiss in the pan, a bit of smoke curling out from underneath them, and she turns her attention back to the stove.

Making you a hot meal, what does it look like? She jabs at the eggs with the spatula, giving them a quick stir.

I already told you in the car.

Saving your goddamn life.

I don't even know.

My best?

Karen grabs the kitchen table and wraps it around the handle of the egg pan, uses it to pour the hard scrambled eggs onto his plate, next to the toast and the short stack. Pan back on the stove, she turns the heat off and turns back to face him. One hip cocked against the counter, she wipes her hands on the kitchen table and watches him.

He doesn't deserve sass or her snapping at him. It's not his fault he's here. It's hers.

He deserves the truth.

"We -- uh, the people I work with and I -- we helped the FBI. The set-up with Grotto... That was us." Things went so wrong, so quick. Karen can still feel Grotto's blood, thick and warm, coating her hands. Absently, she twists the towel between and over her hands, like she can wipe some of it away. She wasn't even supposed to be there.

"We're-- I'm the reason you were caught." It's not that she doesn't believe in justice, or consequences for crimes, she does. But justice without due process isn't justice at all. Her heart thrums a familiar beat in her chest. The song that drove her all the way to the warehouse and ended them both up here. "I thought you'd go to trial. I didn't know--"

Karen swallows and looks away for the first time. Over at her window first, then down at her hands, frowning when she realizes she's still wiping her hands with the towel.

"I couldn't let them execute you. I couldn't live with--" She falls quiet. He knows all that already. She balls the towel up in her hands and tosses it on the counter. When she looks back at him, it's with that same defiant tilt to her chin as when she first approached his cage.

"Time was running out, and you've made some powerful enemies in New York." Like every single crime syndicate. What if one of them had bought them first? "I couldn't think of any other way to keep you alive. At least this way, we have time to figure it out."

[terrorisms]

He'd beg to differ about a lot of things, but especially about what he deserves. Her sass, her snapping, they're low on the egregious offenses list and definitely well within the realm of shit he deserves to have to put up with. But she's good, she's better than him, she's a good person — at least, that's what his instincts are telling him. That's every signal he's gotten from her since the moment she walked up to his cage. Before, even, just from her willingness to go to bat for a piece of filth like Grotto.

He watches her face as she answers. Neither a flicker of surprise nor a hint of affront passes across his contemplative expression.

So this explains it. This is why. This is her reasoning. It all clicks into place with a fresh, comprehensive sense of understanding.

"Lady-" he starts, then stops. Shakes his head, ducks his eyes for a second — a little glimpse at something that resembles contrition, and when he looks back up again, it's milder. A touch apologetic, if only for a beat. "Ma'am... generally speaking it's not my place to correct the person that owns me, but in this particular case, I've just gotta say... bullshit."

Which is also not a word he's supposed to say to the person that owns him, but it is what it is. He'd rather be blunt, clear, and honest than pussyfoot around what he feels he needs to communicate.

"Nobody gets the blame for me getting caught but me. I know what I did. I know the consequences for my actions. I knew going into it there was a chance, and that if I got brought in I'd get put down in a heartbeat. Hell, I'm surprised they didn't kill on-sight. I knew all that, and I did it anyway. Just 'cause you happened to be there when it all finally caught up to me doesn't make you responsible for a god damn thing."

He owns his actions. He owns every hint of anything bad that happens to him as a result of them. Blaming her, letting her bear any guilt for it, is a cop-out.

[reexamines]

It's a good thing that he corrects himself. Being called lady is getting real old, real fast and Karen's struggling to keep her frustration with her own choices to spill over. She crosses her arms over her chest, fingertips snagging in the satin of her shirt.

A whisper of something softer crosses the blank wall of his face, and Karen shifts her shoulders. A knot loosens between her shoulder blades. Where his expression whispers, hers shouts. Frustration is chased away by a softening understanding-- which is obliterated by fresh anger following tight on the heels of his bullshit.

Karen shifts from one foot to the other, jaw tightening as he speaks. He's not wrong, but he's not right either. His actions are his own, but knowing the consequences is not the same as--

"A dog that bites gets put down," Karen retorts sharply, anger sparking in her eyes as they find and hold his. "A person who commits a crime goes to trial. You may be a killer, but you are not a dog, Frank."

Maybe it should scare her, a killer cursing her out, but she holds her ground. Hot-headed, Matt might say. Reckless. But Matt can go fuck himself.

"I can't be part of treating someone like they're not a person." Maybe she can free him -- that's a thing right? -- and then he can stand trial and she can figure out just what it is about him that doesn't make sense. There's something niggling at her, and she can't shake it but she can't quite figure it out either.

The air shifts, a change in the smell, and Karen bites back a curse of her own. She twirls around and pulls the pan off the stove. The pancake in it is charred on the bottom. She shouldn't have looked away.

"Whatever," she says, dumping the burnt remnants in the trash decisively. "Doesn't matter anymore. It's done. I'm responsible for you now."

There're legal papers in triplicate binding her to that.

[terrorisms]

Feels like they almost have an entire conversation in that series of fleeting looks — almost, like the potential is there. Like two matching pieces very nearly locked into place, only to go scattering to the wind a second before the latch. Then again, hell, maybe he's losing it. Maybe he's so starved for interactions that aren't outright hostile anymore, even the slightest hint of something soft is enough for his brain to look for patterns where there aren't any. And how god damn sad is that shit?

You are not a dog, Frank — if he weren't so well-trained, he'd say something like, well shit, that's the nicest thing anybody's said to me in years. He doesn't; he swallows it, but it's there.

Bad news about that freedom bit, but she'll find that out herself soon enough. It's a little bit of knowledge Frank's already plenty informed about.

"Yeah, sure, I guess that's one way to look at it," he responds mildly, folding his arms over his chest and watching her give a short funeral to a pancake that barely even got its time in the sun. "But ma'am, I think you've got this twisted around a little. See, the way this should work is I'm responsible for you. You doing this- feeding me, fussing, fretting over it in your head so loud I can practically see the smoke comin' out of your ears, that's supposed to be my job. Collars are caretakers, they're guardians, they're laborers. That's what we do, that's what we're for. We drive you around, we cook you breakfast for dinner. I say this because I get the feeling you're not ready for the public-facing dynamic you signed up for."

[reexamines]

The pan goes in the sink gently despite the general jerkiness of Karen's motions; she might be simmering with mostly self-inflicted anger but she's still mindful of the thin walls and her neighbors. After turning the stove off, she turns to face him again -- honoring the fact that he's speaking by actively listening to him -- crossing her arms over her chest, unintentionally mirroring his stance.

As far as Karen's concerned it's a question of semantics. Collars work for whoever owns them, sure. But an owner is responsible for their well-being. An owner keeps them clothed, fed, and meets (at the very least) their basic needs. As much as she loathes the analogy it's like owning a working dog. They do the work. But the owner still has to care for them.

He calls out her "fretting" and Karen scowls. It only deepens when he reaches the end of his little speech.

"I know what I signed up for," she bites back. Which-- Okay, she does and she doesn't. She might not have owned a collar before, but she understands the collar dynamic (mostly). She turns and tugs out the cutlery drawer with a sharp rattle.

"You follow orders. I give them." Which means this dynamic? Can look however she wants it to, she's pretty sure. She grabs a knife and a fork from the drawer with one hand and the plate laden with pancakes, toast, and eggs with the other. Any instinct she had to keep her distance between them has been smothered in defiant frustration. She crosses the floor to where he stands and jams the plate against his chest.

Standing this close, separated only by the width of a plate, it's obvious how worn thin he is. Bruises and scrapes standing out starkly against his clean skin. An ache spiders across her chest, and her jaw tightens with defiance. She is not fretting. She is just-- cognizant of his current condition.

"Let's get you back to baseline before we start worrying about public-facing, okay?" A good meal. A night's sleep. At least one set of clothes that look like they're his. Heck, maybe add in a couple of advil and a band-aid or two while they're at it.

[terrorisms]

You follow orders, I give them — there's a flicker in his brow, subtle, difficult to read. Neither negative nor positive, not exactly amusement, not exactly affront. The expressive equivalent of a soft huff without the noise or the breath to accompany it. Yeah, she's right, that's exactly how it goes, and he's got no problem acknowledging the truth. It's an echo of something he's heard before; I point, you go shoot, except he's not entirely convinced she believes what she's saying.

But they'll see. The more he irritates her, the stronger her spine seems to get, and the less afraid of him she seems. That's something. Good, he thinks, and hell, maybe he might even admire her for it a little. It's a dangerous personality trait to have, in terms of her own well-being, but one he respects all the same.

So when she bumps that plate against his chest, he unfolds his arms automatically to take it, to support to compliantly from beneath rather than leaving her with the burden of holding it up. Not trying to challenge her authoritative move. Not provoking her into proving it. Nothing of the sort.

He just takes it, and he looks her in the eyes when he answers a mild, steady, "Yes ma'am."

Thank you, ma'am.

The gratitude goes unspoken as of yet; he's still feeling her out. Still too on his guard looking for the catch, for ulterior motives he knows don't exist but that his twice-bitten mind refuses to believe. He shows it instead by sitting at the desk, bending over the plate, and dutifully digging in to the meal she took the time to make for him — with efficiency and gusto.

Can't pretend like it isn't the best damn thing he's had in... what, weeks? Months?

He'll clear the entire damn plate without a word, unless she initiates something.

[reexamines]

The definition of their roles is perhaps overly simplified for a dynamic that is bound to be complex. Karen doesn't truly expect obedience from him. She hopes he'll keep out of trouble, and not run away from her first chance he gets. (Give her a chance to figure things out.) But she's not exactly holding her breath.

Though somehow, in the past hour or so of knowing him, she's pretty darn certain she's not risking her own safety at least. Given that there won't be any locked doors between them at night, that's definitely on the plus side.

Of all the things she expects, Frank actually taking the plate without further prompting isn't on the list. Neither is the calm eye contact or the gentle agreement. It knocks the wind out of her sails, steals that burn of anger fueling her. It does something else too. Something she can't quite quantify, and her heart knocks hard against the inside of her ribcage.

He steps away, and she lowers her eyes instinctively. Grateful that his back is turn, she traces the grain of the warped floorboards with her eyes, swallows, and works to calm her heart that's still trying to outrun her lungs.

It doesn't really help. So she grabs him a glass of water -- it'd be orange juice if she had any, but it's one of those little luxuries she's had to cut down on lately -- and a cup of fresh brewed coffee and sets them down in front of him. Maple syrup (the cheap kind, 'cause she never got used to the real deal), butter, sugar, salt, and a carton of half-and-half that's just a day or so on the wrong side of the expiration date, join moments later.

He eats like a long haul trucker eager to get back on the road.

"For the record," she says, the previous sharpness gone from her voice, on her way back to the coffee maker. She pours herself half a cup of coffee, realizes that her sugar is and creamer are sitting in front of him and decides against doctoring it. "It's not breakfast for dinner. It's not even three o'clock yet. We're still in brunch territory."

The coffee is bitter in her mouth, but it's hot and it'll keep her going, so she swallows it down with only a little bit of a wince. With her free hand, she digs out a pen and a notepad from the little junk drawer that has somehow accumulated in the tiny kitchenette despite her limited space. When he's finished eating, she sets them down on the desk in front of him.

"If you, uh, write down your clothing sizes, I'll go get you a set." They'll shop properly later. But she's not bringing him to a store dressed like this. "You can grab some sleep while I'm gone."

[terrorisms]

She starts piling shit up around him like he's a god damn Christmas tree, and he doesn't even know what the hell to say about it. The water's fine. The coffee's a bonus. Then comes maple syrup and coffee creamer, and all this other shit crowding her desk. Shit he hasn't had the privilege of putting in his face in longer than he can remember, just- shoved at him like it's nothing.

Hell, nine times outta ten he doesn't even put creamer or sugar in his coffee, but he does today, just because it's there and he can. Learned a long time ago not to take shit like this for granted, who knows when the next time might be? Maybe she'll change her mind about him tomorrow, and he'll be back on the chopping block — or sold to somebody that doesn't waste peripherals on collars.

Brunch time takes him aback. He didn't have a clock in the cage. Doesn't own a phone, obviously. Hadn't see the time on the car stereo from the back seat. He's just been guessing, and apparently having his circadian rhythm fucked by the constant overhead lighting — dimmed as it may be at night, barely — has apparently done him no favors.

He's learning, at least, not to push back on these things she's offering. Learning to keep his mouth firmly shut when she asks for his clothing size, when she offers him a fucking nap in the middle of the day, which is a whole new level of unprecedented.

She keeps this up, he's gonna wind up round and lazy and useless like one of those overfed house cats that doesn't even bother chasing mice.

When he's done, he scribbles down the numbers and offers them over with a soft, ma'am. As soon as she takes the paper, he's on the move — cleaning up his own dishes before she can get the chance to even ask, or god forbid make a move to clean that shit herself. He's gotta have something to do, he can't just sit around like the world's worst piece of modern art, a walking bruise like a floor lamp roomba'ing his way around her living room. Nah, fuck that. He'll wash his dishes, and the dishes she used to cook with, and any that're left in the sink, too. All that before he'll even consider that sleep she was pitching.