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bakerstreet2025-02-12 08:54 am
justformemes) wrote in bakerstreet2025-02-12 08:54 am
Entry tags:
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.
no subject
The pause that follows her speech is pregnant, its own living entity burrowing into eye contact and too-quick heartbeats. Stretching.
"Arm me or don't, that's your call," He says at last, his voice low and rough like jagged glass — hoarse, but quiet. He doesn't say the next part, but maybe she can feel it in the air: but if you don't, I'll arm myself, you just won't know about it. Because— "Either way, I'll do my job. Semper Fidelis, ma'am."
Always faithful.
Marine collars don't swear to serve; they're already serving. They swear to defend. Until such time as he's proven wrong — and he doesn't think he will be — he's going to operate with the belief that he knows more about how to do that part than she does. None of this is likely to be terribly reassuring, and it's probably swiftly clear why he's never managed to be permanently placed after the military.
He's great at following orders.
Usually.
Until he isn't.
There's a certain subset.
Lower, gentler, "...but for what it's worth, I don't plan to drag any legal trouble your direction. I'm not gonna screw you over. I think your heart's in the right place. I just also think it's gonna get you killed eventually. Ma'am."
no subject
This close, she is all too aware of the smell of her soap on his skin, mixing with sweat, and the cheap plastic they must've kept the standard-issue collar wear in before handing it to him. The split lip and the bruises don't exactly improve on closer viewing and something deep in her gut clenches.
Her heartbeat is tangled with her breath, chest rising and falling too quickly in the silence that follows. This isn't what she expected. It feels like standing right at the top of a rollercoaster, the moment before it plunges down that first hill. A soft and gentle ache rolls through her in response. It would be the easiest thing in the world to reach out and put two fingers on his hip to steady herself, and it's the hardest to keep her hands to herself.
His voice drags over her skin, and she just barely suppresses a shudder. Her breath stills, and she has no control over the way her eyes widen in response.
Frank Castle is a dangerous man.
Karen knew that. But for the first time, she's realizing that dangers come in many different shapes. She swallows thickly, her lips parting slightly as she draws in a shaky breath.
The pamphlet is pretty clear that his job is supposed to be whatever she tells him it is, but it's obvious he's got a different idea. And equally obvious that they're going to fight over what it entails until she can figure out how to free him. (Which is still the goal, right? Karen might not think first and act later often. But she's already thinking about next steps here. The door stopper. Looking for a new apartment she can afford that gives them at least some more space. All of that seems like pretty longterm thinking, if she lets herself dwell on it. Good thing she doesn't.)
His voice softens, and it drags through her insides this time, leaving them in knots. Now it's her eyes that dip down to his mouth for a fraction of a second before dipping down to the heavy collar around his throat, and snapping right back up.
Another heavy swallow. She supposes she should be grateful that he's not planning on getting them both in trouble, But, she's starting to think that perhaps she's in deeper than she thought.
"Everyone dies," she tells him, surprised at the soft rasp in her own voice. "And I'd rather die with my heart in the right place than survive without it."
The closeness is tangled and complicated; Karen takes a step back and runs both hands through her hair. Shit. It takes her a moment to find her breath and regulate it again. Hands tucked against either side of her throat, she nods at the desk behind him, and the bag that's toppled over on top of it.
"I got you clothes. You should get changed. Then we can talk logistics."
no subject
She's right about at least one thing: everyone dies. The only thing he has any control over on that regard is maybe helping influence when that happens. Namely, later rather than sooner for her. Sooner rather than later for the hypothetical pissed-off friends of Grotto, potentially.
He knows what that guy was all about. Knows the people he rolled with. Knows about the basement full of slave-trade collars so far from even the wishy-washy loose legality that surrounds collars already. She's got a connection to him on paperwork, in public records. She better hope he didn't leave anyone alive that happens to be smart enough to look into it.
But that's not what's on his mind as he watches her smooth her hair back, affected. Recovering from something.
Sparks a few questions. Sparks something.
"Yes ma'am," comes the mild answer, tone lighter, crisp and efficient. He breezes past her close enough for their arms to brush, and there's not so much as a flicker on his face to suggest he thinks anything about what just happened one way or another. He's eager to change out of these bullshit prison scrubs, eager to wear something that smells like clean laundry detergent instead of whatever bullshit bulk cheap vinegar-based solution they use in those facilities.
A trip to the bathroom gives him the opportunity to re-center, hands on the sink in front of the mirror, exhaling slowly.
In the reflection, that titanium collar around his neck stands out starkly, and kindly recontextualizes everything that just was. It feels unusually good to cover the thing up with the hoodie he pulls on over top of everything; the extra padding of fitted fabric makes him look a little softer than he did in in the unflattering uniform. Rounds out his shoulders, brings something casual to a vibe that cuts harshly by default.
When he walks out, it's with the old scrubs bundled in his hands, and a careful, "What should I do with these, ma'am?"
Keep them for when she goes for her thirty day return policy, or burn them on principle? Good riddance.
no subject
She feels, rather than sees, the suggestion of a forward sway and her heart lodges at the base of her throat until he rocks backwards instead. It's not fear. That much she knows for certain. Beyond that, she's going to leave it unexamined.
Yes ma'am, he says and Karen's back straightens. It's a good reminder of who they are. Who she is to him. He moves past her, she stands her ground, daring only one curious look at him; she might as well kept staring at her wallpaper for all the insight it gives her. His arm brushes against hers and her breath trips over her heart and sticks again.
The bathroom door closes behind him, and Karen exhales shakily. Heat rushes up her cheeks and she scrubs her hands over her skirt to ease the aching tension from her fingers.
By the time he comes out of the bathroom, she has stepped out of her heels and she's sitting on the couch, legs pulled up beneath herself. Skirt firmly tucked over her knees. She has an honest to god yellow legal pad in her lap, and a pen. Her purse is nowhere to be seen (tucked into her underwear drawer for now), and his thick file sits on the center of the small coffee table next to the crumpled and re-flattened pamphlet. His still mostly-full glass of water sits on the sink, but hers is almost empty in her hand.
In the time it's taken him to get dressed and re-centered, she's obviously done the same. Well. The re-centering at least. The door opening sent tension vibrating through her spine, but she doesn't flinch when he addresses her, just looks up and over.
"Toss them," she says decisively with a nod over at the kitchen trash can. It's got a lid at least. If she had the means to burn them, she would. He looks different in real clothes. Closer to what he looked like before the warehouse, but softer somehow. He looks like a real person. Not a prisoner and not a killer. Just a guy.
It helps that the hoodie covers up all but the occasional glimpse of his collar.
Karen finds herself looking at him a moment too long, and she cuts her glance away. While he disposes of the bundle of can't-believe-they're-not-clothes, she finishes her water. She leans forward and sets the empty glass down on the edge of the coffee table. When she leans back, she gestures towards the other side of the couch. There's no way she's having this conversation sitting with him towering above her.
First thing, they should figure out the sleeping arrangement. He's too tall for her couch -- heck, she's too tall for her couch -- they're obviously not sharing the bed, and it seems he's not into the idea of taking turns with it either. So they'll have to get something. Air mattress? Cot? Sleeping bag? One of those dumb and frankly demeaning "collar beds"? She figures she'll let him pick. But, when it comes down to it, she can't make herself bring it up. Not right now. Maybe later.
"How does this usually work?" she asks him instead, honestly curious though she doubts most of what he's used to will work for her or her lifestyle. Much less her morals.
no subject
it does shed a different light on things, seeing her in her natural state. Not gearing up to go toe-to-toe with a cop or a criminal, but relaxed, comfortable, barefoot. Looking soft, looking human, looking vulnerable — and every bit like somebody that makes for an appealing target to men looking for a woman to victimize. For a second, it becomes clear to him. All of it, this whole thing, this circumstance he's in, it crystallizes into a realization.
Out of everybody he's ever served since his discharge, all the people who bought him for muscle and murder or for protection from the consequences of their own actions, every hand he's passed through, hers is the first (and probably the last) one actually worth protecting. She'll be the first one who he'll cover willingly, the first who deserves it. This is the first time serving someone hasn't been in direct opposition with his morals, and inevitably doomed to fail from the start.
Unless her whole act turns out to be bullshit, and he doesn't think it will, this'll be the first time since he was a marine that he won't resent being always faithful.
Okay, then.
That makes things clear — clearer than they were a few minutes ago. It's good. Means he's got some idea of a path forward, how he wants to handle this. Incentive to help her do this right, make things smooth for her. Incentive to prove his value, rather than bide his time waiting to be returned.
"Which part?" He asks, and there's a certain kind of humor in his tone, aloof and casual, as he rounds the couch and lowers himself down into it, knees splayed open wide, elbows on his thighs. His back slopes forward, but his head's canted her direction, turned to look at her directly, leaning into the angle. It's a small couch; the way his knees are spread, they nearly brush against the fabric of her skirt. "Ownership? Depends on the owner. There's not exactly a quality control department. I'm sure they make handbooks, but either they didn't read it or they all read different ones. I think the bigger question is, how do you want it to work, ma'am?"
no subject
(It strikes her that, for the foreseeable future, her days of being alone are over. The chill winding its way down the length of her spine battles against a surprising warmth fanning out across her chest. The idea isn't all bad.)
A smile curves her mouth at the easy humor in his voice. He feels so much more real now. Maybe it's just the change of clothes, shifting her perception. Maybe it's him relaxing around her.
The couch dips beneath him when he sits, and Karen turns her body towards him, tucking her back against the corner between the armrest and the back of the couch. All too aware of the proximity between them, how little it would take for them to brush against each other.
The absurdity of the situation is inescapable. Two days ago -- heck, even an hour ago -- she wouldn't have expected she would be sitting on her couch with a killer. Even just skimming his thick folder, she's becoming aware that his kill-count is even higher than she thought. She should be scared. But it feels so normal. Other than the bruises, he could be anyone.
Karen makes a face at him, a scrunching up of her nose and mouth at his final question. Want is a strong word in this situation. None of this is what she wants. It's something she needs to learn to live with. For now. Until they can think of something better.
"I don't know. Logistics, I guess. The public facing part." Earlier, he said she wasn't ready for it. "What you think your job is here."
Clearly, he's already decided what it is since he aims to do it whether she arms him or not.
"For me--" Karen frowns and taps the back of the pen against her notepad absently as she thinks. "I don't want you to forget that I'm responsible for both of us. But, even though I'm in charge--"
She has to be, or this whole thing will explode in her face.
"I want you to have the space to be a person. With your own thoughts and feelings. Your own shampoo in the bathroom, you know?"
no subject
Funny how putting down dangerous, bad men is perfectly respectable and heroic when it's done "over there", but when he does it on US soil instead suddenly he's a psychopath. If you ask him, people just don't want to see reality. That's all it boils down to. They wanna be safe, but they don't wanna know about it, and when you force them to confront what that looks like, all hell starts breaking loose. He fails to see how that's his problem.
He listens to her lay it all out, an interesting mix of confident and uncertain. Willing to charge ahead with this, just inexperienced, unsure of her footing. It's clear enough she's never owned a collar before, clear enough she's trying to understand lines and boundaries that may not even exist to other people — that very few of them have ever even bothered to consider.
Some owners ignored his autonomy. Some tried (and failed) to dismantle it. She's trying to reinforce it, and that's new. Vaguely amusing, considering how little he gives a shit about things like his own shampoo and what clothes he wears and the shape of his bed. Irrelevant details, things you learn not to care about after a couple years in uniform looking and smelling and sounding like whatever the government needs you to look and smell and sound like.
He elects to focus on that first part, because he gets the feeling she wouldn't like hearing about the last one. They can circle back to logistics after.
"My job," he says slowly, with the rattled-off enunciation of a man reciting something from memory, "Is to serve, honor, and obey the legal owner of my personhood and property, and to put them before myself, Above all else, it's my duty and obligation to oversee their safety, and to take all reasonable precaution to preserve that safety."
Above all else, meaning that comes first. That comes before obedience. That comes before serving — hell, that is serving. He's been trained specifically to be an expert on the ins and outs of what safety means; she hasn't. Following a bad order that'll get her killed when he knows better is tantamount to choosing to kill her himself.
"You're in charge, ma'am." Right up until that calls her well-being into question. "I'll do whatever you ask me to do. You want me to sit on my ass and eat pancakes, I'll do it. You want me scrubbing dishes, fixing your siding, standing guard at the foot of your bed, or helping your neighbor's daughter with her homework, it's your call. But I'll go ahead and tell you now, you ask for my thoughts and feelings, you're not gonna like most of 'em. Ma'am."
no subject
Is it the soldier training or a switch that's been flipped in his brain? Does killing come easy to him because he was a good soldier? Or was he a good soldier because killing came easy to him?
Nature or nurture? Is this really him, or just what they made him? And if it's what they made him, could the right owner unmake it?
On the top of the legal pad, Karen has scribbled a stream of consciousness line of questions in slanted cursive: toiletries? food restrictions? coffee v tea? sleeping???
Frank might not care about any of it, but Karen does. A lot. She wants him to have his own scent, not just hers. His own sense of self. A baseline to build on. Perhaps they're important to her because they're all tangible things. Easy to figure out and just do. Easier, for certain, than to figure out what she is going to do with the human being she just bought.
Truth be told, she hasn't even properly read his file yet, because it seems an intrusion on his privacy. Technically she knows -- knew even before the pamphlet spelled it out for her -- that collars don't have rights in the same way that free people do. There are consequences for maiming or killing a collar (less so, if they're yours -- if you hurt someone else's collar, property damage gets tacked on) but beyond that it's a grayscape.
Frank recites his job description, and while he speaks Karen jots down:
serve
honor
obey
safety
They almost sound like wedding vows. Very, very messed up wedding vows. But all the same.
The soft frown smooths away when he confirms that she's in charge. Even though his list of imagined orders aren't things she'd actually ask for -- other than the pancakes, she supposes -- it settles something in her chest. Her shoulders soften and she sinks back a little into the couch.
"I don't care if I won't like them," she tells him, and maybe she'll come to regret that. But she can't imagine living with someone and not knowing the first thing about what's going on in their heads. "I still want to know them."
Karen leans forward and snags the pamphlet from the coffee table. It's obviously a copy of a copy, the image on the front inked in wrong and blurred to the point it's hard to tell what it's supposed to be. Karen thinks it's a stylized set of shoulders and a collared neck with a pair of handcuffs below.
The movement presses her knee against his thigh until she leans back again and re-establishes that fraction of an inch gap between them. Karen is just going to pretend it didn't happen, and if it did, that it doesn't mean anything. She holds the simple trifold paper pamphlet out to him.
Caring for Collars with Criminal Charges
"These are the guidelines we have to follow. I want you to memorize them and keep us both out of trouble." Notice how she doesn't say follow. Some of them are dumb. Just don't go obviously flaunting them, please.
"And what if I don't want you to protect me?" she asks, pretty sure she knows the answer already. But if her word is supposed to be law, can't she just order him not to do it?
no subject
In any case, the education program for military collars is a little bit different than in the public sector. The focus is different, the training's more comprehensive, and budget is not an issue. They take as long as they take, they're regularly reinforced with or without an inciting infraction as a matter of routine. He'd been through mandatory re-education a half-dozen times despite having a spotless service record; he could practically recite the damn speeches by now.
So yeah, he takes it seriously. Takes those words to heart. They're not just words, they're something to live by. Something he signed up for. They're a choice he made, and if you can't commit to your decisions, what the hell can you commit to? Maybe that's partly why he respects her for this stubbornness, somewhere in the back of his mind. She might've made the choice to buy him by impulse alone, but she seems bound and damn determined to stand by it.
He takes the pamphlet. Turns it over in his hand, a subtle little knit of concentration in his brow as he reads over the words, the guidelines — similar but different than the ones he's used to. And yeah, he caught that word. Memorize, not obey. Noted.
"Well, then, you have every right to punish me as you see fit to," he drawls, eyes on the pamphlet, tone perfectly casual — and then he looks pointedly back up to her and says, "Afterward. Ma'am."
In other words, ordering him not to comply with that tenant is not on the table. He will ask for forgiveness, not permission.
no subject
She's already frowning by the time he gives her his (honestly, expected) answer. The frown just deepens. First when he mentions punishment, and again when he adds that afterward. She has no desire to punish him. Doesn't mean that she won't if it becomes necessary. But she's not about to -- how do people even punish collars? -- whip him or whatever for protecting her if she needs it.
"Okay." As in, she won't ask that of him. Karen's not about to set him up for failure. Not when the protection thing seems non-negotiable. But she has non-negotiables too.
"Frank--" she shifts and the note pad slides on her skirt. She catches it last minute and set it down on the table before straightening again. Shoulders squared, she seeks eye contact trying to imbue the importance of the next words out of her mouth. "I don't want you killing anyone."
If he kills someone now, their death will be on her conscience and she really doesn't want to have to bear that added weight.
"That's a standing order. No killing." Even if he thinks it's necessary. That one he should consider written in stone. "No pretending it was an accident, or covering it up, or taking your punishment later. No. Killing. Do you understand?"
no subject
He looks back at her, meeting her gaze, eye contact direct and unflinching.
All he says is, "Understood, ma'am."
Loud and clear. He heard her, he knows exactly what she wants from him, he knows on no uncertain terms that it is not permissible to her. Gee, if only any of the other people he's bounced through had told him not to kill people. If only the ones he put down himself had said something like don't kill me. Surely his sordid history could have all been avoided with this one simple trick!
He's not promising shit. He's not lying to her. Fortunately, as of this moment, she hasn't asked him to. Message received is the best she's going to get on this one.
There's a reason he wound up where he did.
There's a reason his file has him listed as unable to rehabilitate.
He likes Karen. Her heart's good, and he'd never raise a single hand to her, not ever. He'd never do anything to hurt her and, generally speaking, has no intentions of disrespecting or disobeying her. But her words alone here probably won't be strong enough to stop him from doing what he thinks needs to be done in the heat of the moment. Best they can do is just hope that moment never comes.
no subject
In the moment, she hears him agree and just like when he told her that he won't hurt her, she believes him. It's not even the eye contact that sells it. It's his answer to her previous question. She doesn't think he would lie to her now when he didn't then.
It doesn't occur to her that it's something he can't give. She just assumes she's the first one who hasn't wanted him to kill. He's alluded often enough to the kind of people who normally buy collars like him. People like that have no reason to stop him from killing.
"Good." The hard line of Karen's jaw softens and she nods, glad they're on the same page. She reaches out and touches his wrist gently, if he doesn't pull away, she squeezes it briefly through the thick cuffs of the hoodie. "Thank you."
Relief and gratitude both steeped in her voice.
Ground rules down -- don't get caught breaking the rules in the pamphlet, don't kill -- Karen leans forward and grabs her note pad again. She gestures towards the thick file on the table.
"Anything in there I should know about?" She meets his eyes, gives him a quick flutter of a smile. "Anything not in there I should know about?"
no subject
Until then, it doesn't have to be like that. Until then, it doesn't have to be combative. This is, hands down, the cushiest and easiest living situation he's had since he was a god damn teenager. This is an easier life than he deserves, if things keep going the way they have today. Every single day he gets of this is him living on borrowed time, so he'll do his best to appreciate it until that time runs out.
But his eyes do drop away from hers at the gratitude, at that soft touch to his wrist; they slide off to the side, affix on nothing, and he offers no acknowledgement. No you're welcome, nothing. Let it never be said that he fostered any kind of encouragement over this. He meant, and means, exactly what he said — nothing more, nothing less.
(When's the last time somebody touched him with kindness? He can't remember. Was it Maria? Christ Almighty, isn't that sad?)
And then they're moving on.
He eyes his record levelly, and offers up an unhelpful shrug.
"Couldn't tell you, ma'am. I'm not sure what they put in there, I've never read it, but I can hazard a few guesses. Most of 'em ain't pretty." A perfect, sterling, exemplary record all the way up until just a couple short years ago, and then black mark after black mark after black mark following the accident that got him discharged from the military — if a bullet to the head can be called an accident. An appeal to be uncollared that was initially approved, and then swiftly revoked around the same time. A sizable list of owners, largely incarcerated or deceased. A few months unaccounted for wherein he went rogue and fled after the most recent owner, only to get caught days ago over the Grotto incident. "What I can tell you is that I never did anything to anybody that didn't deserve it.
no subject
"You can't know that for sure." There's nothing harsh or argumentative in Karen's voice. She's just stating a fact. Her fingers are curled around the pen, resting against the note pad, and her eyes are on him. Fully focused. Intent on listening and hearing him.
Frank might think that, might believe it with his whole chest. But he was military. Even if she hadn't already guessed from his baseline stance and the way he carries himself, Karen's quick and guilty skim of the odd page in his file confirmed it.
The military isn't exactly known for giving each soldier -- especially the collared ones -- the whole truth and nothing but the truth about targets. Even if they did (and they really, really don't) there's always the risk of collateral damage. Civilians caught in the crossfire, or unintended ripple effects.
"Who decides if they deserve it? You? What's your process? How do you prove it? What if you're wrong? What if an owner ordered you to hurt someone you never encountered before? Would you pause to make sure they're a bad person or take your owner's word for it? Were all your owners people with good judgement? People you could trust to only hurt the deserving?" Karen doesn't expect him to answer any of the questions, really. She just wants him to think about it.
"How bad do they have to be to deserve to die? Is there a sliding scale? What's the minimum offense that carries the death penalty?" They have judges and juries for a reason. People are messy and complicated. So are crimes. There are extenuating circumstances everywhere. It's why there needs to be a process. And the process can't just be one man and his gun.
"Like Grotto." There's a gentle tremble to her voice at his name. Grotto wasn't a good man, but he was trying. "Seems to me, his biggest crime was seeing your face."
The singleminded determination with which Frank pursued him... Was it to tie up loose ends, or was he simply hell-bent on collecting the whole set of kills from the Irish mob right down to the glorified errand boy?
"And you say you wouldn't have hurt me, but you were shooting at a moving car." There's such a thing as stray bullets. "What if you slipped? Would you have found a reason why I deserved it then? After the fact? Or, I don't know, what happens if I do something bad now? Do you decide I have to die?"
The shiver that runs up her spine has nothing really to do with the conversation or fear of Frank. It's just that memories of Grotto staring unseeing up at the dark sky mix with memories of Kevin's crumpled body on the asphalt, and the dark red blossoming on Wesley's shirt each time she put a bullet in him. Her fingers tighten around the pen.
"How bad does someone have to be to deserve to be executed? No jury of their peers. No appeals. No shot at redemption."
no subject
"Ma'am, first off, if my owner told me to kill someone I never met before, I killed my owner," simple as that — and exactly what got him set loose this latest time. "Anybody that buys a collar and expects to use them like a gun to do their dirty work just so they can pretend like they're not a murderer themselves? Deserves it."
He'll go ahead and put that on record, even though part of him knows already she won't use him for that. Didn't buy him for that. At least they've got that boundary established.
"Second off, the people I killed since I've been stateside are murderers, rapists, heroin dealers. They're the kind of people that sell other people, collar or no collar. They're the kind that buy us to do shit you can't even imagine, shit I've seen with my own eyes, shit you'd spend the rest of your life having nightmares about. They deserved it." He believes that with everything in him. She's right about the military — he can't know if the targets they assigned to him were fair or not, but those weren't his choice. Those were orders from the god damn government, and he was both a soldier and a collar. Doubly unable to question them, or push back against them. He did what his commanding officers told him to do. The ones he takes accountability for are the ones he chose to do himself.
Then, a little more firmly, "Third, I was a scout sniper for the USMC, ma'am. Our motto is one shot, one kill. We're trained to hit a quarter from a half-mile in a wind storm. If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead. I don't slip and miss. You were never in any danger. Not even for a second."
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It makes her shift on the couch, sitting up straighter and untucking her feet, settling them on the floor instead. Enforcing her own distance. But she doesn't look away, doesn't interrupt. Doesn't take notes either. This is not something to be put down in writing. But it is something she needs to hear.
The chill creeps out into her limbs when he mentions killing an owner. There's no would in that sentence, taking it out of the realm of the hypothetical. Not that it scares her for herself. She would never tell him to kill anyone. If she did-- she imagines it would be a last resort, desperate measures for desperate times, and she'd ask. The army may have used him as a weapon, aiming him at targets and pulling the trigger, but that's not who he is, and it's not who she needs him to be.
Grotto didn't, the argument sits heavy on her tongue. Grotto was a low-life, but he didn't deserve to die for it. Death is final. It takes away everything a person could be or grow into. But she's getting the sense that this is an argument that's not worth pursuing. It'll only drive a wedge between them, increase that distance. Karen can't imagine they'll never see eye to eye on this, but it's a moot point, because all his killing is in the past. At least for as long as he's hers.
Maybe it's something they'll revisit, but this is the first day. No need to dig into him over ethics on day one.
"Okay," she says with a soft nod. Acknowledging what he's saying, even though she doesn't agree with it. One person can't be judge, jury, and executioner. Life is too complex for that. Circumstances too complicated.
(Wasn't she though? When she put seven bullets in Wesley and watched the life flicker out in his eyes? A shadow flickers across her expression. She doesn't have his poker face, not by a long shot. But she suppresses the feeling before it can anchor itself in her chest, chases the memory off.)
"I felt in danger," she admits to him. It's not admonishment, as much as it is acknowledgement. He frightened her. She clasps her hands together on the note pad. "I was really, really scared."
Not scared enough to leave Grotto and let him die. Fear isn't a reason not to do something.
There's a part of her that's scared now. Not because he might hurt her, she honestly believes he won't, but because of the way he's retreated into himself. Because of the things he must've seen to get to the point where he feels he has to pull away from the world. She wants the walls to come back down so she can see the real person behind them again.
Karen leans forward over her clasped hands, elbows tucked in against her belly. Closing some of the distance between them.
"I'd really appreciate if you try not to scare me again, Frank." He's not responsible for her feelings, but there are things he can do. Like not pull a knife on her when she enters the apartment.
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He's there. He's in there. He doesn't feel bad about killing the people who he thinks deserve it, but he does feel bad about the way she looks right now, the sincerity in her tone. She's brave. She stuck it out in the face of that fear, and she did her best to help a man who didn't deserve a second of her effort despite it.
"I'm sorry," He says, and it's honest. He's never lied to her, he doesn't plan to start — and even that little miscommunication a moment ago that'll almost certainly come back to bite them hadn't been a lie. He'd figured, when he said it, that she'd see right through to the implication. Thought he was being transparent, right up until she thanked him. Not correcting her is the closest to bullshitting her he'll ever get, and he doesn't feel good about even that much. "It was never about scaring you. I meant it when I said you got nothin' to fear from me, ma'am. I don't touch people who don't deserve it. I'm an asshole, but I'm not the kind that puts his hands on a woman. I will never hurt you."
Nothing will, not as long as he's here to do something about it.
Not physically, anyway. Emotionally... that one's harder, but he's not thinking in terms of emotions right now. He's not even considering a world where they're close enough for his actions to impact her on any deep, permanent kind of level.
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Which is ridiculous. They're the same damn person. But it's a completely different feeling. No, she can't quite explain it. She just knows it, feels it deep inside of her.
"I know, I know," she says, soft and soothing, her fingers working against each other where they're clasped in her lap. She knows that he's sorry, that scaring her wasn't his intention (his tunnel-vision was aimed squarely at Grotto, she was just a complication), and that he won't hurt her. She's not going to point out the misogyny inherent to his belief that men who hurt women are somehow worse than men who hit other men. It's pervasive enough a notion, and it's one of the more harmless ones, all things considered. (Though he might notice the quick knit in her brow when he mentions it.)
"I believe you." He's got plenty of reason to lie to her, but she doesn't think that he is.
"Look-- from here on out, what you do affects me. Just like what I do affects you," Karen tells him, slowly picking out the words as she reaches out to touch him again. Only this time, she doesn't rest her hand on the thick cuff covering his wrist. Her fingers curve gently around his fingers, thumb brushing ever-so-carefully across his bruised knuckles. She frowns down at them. Unhappy with the fact that he's injured, even though she technically had nothing to do with it. Still, she remembers the sound of the baton slamming across the bars and catching Frank's fingers in the process, and the frown deepens before smoothing out.
When she looks back up at him, the frown is gone, replaced by a smile that's only a little too tight around the edges.
"I need us to be a team." Is that a preposterous notion? She's sure Matt and Foggy will think so when she tells them what she did. (Jesus, that's going to be a fun conversation.) Her fingers tighten around his and she holds his gaze with hers. "I want you to tell me what you think, argue back if you disagree with me. I will always listen to you. But when it comes down to it, at the end of the day, my word is final."
That's how she wants ownership to work between them. A partnership, of sorts. Just one where she has final say.
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Even despite this tender moment, how delicate he's treating her touch, there's still a little cynical something in the scoff of a laugh he lets out, turning his face away from her to half-smile bitterly at nothing in particular. A team.
Lady-
It's hard to take that as a real possibility when you've been through the owners that he has. Not a whole lot of teamwork in that, just I point, you do what you're told. But she's been different in every other way so far, so he swallows down his commentary. Elects to give her the (admittedly dubious) benefit of the doubt, and fixes his eyes back on her again.
"Yes, ma'am. Go team."
They'll see how that whole thing stacks up in actual practice later on, he figures. He isn't holding his breath that it's a concept that'll last long, but that's fine. He never asked for equality here, he never insinuated desires for autonomy or personhood. If she fails to follow through, it's not like he's gonna be losing out on something he never asked for in the first place.
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The something from earlier rushes up to fill her throat, the gentle crackle of electricity super-charging her skin. Powered by the their connected hands, it doesn't fade when he scoffs at her, or when he looks away.
Go team.
Karen gives him an unamused look. But she gets it. It's a big concept. And she's only human, plus brand new at this. She's bound to slip up, take a wrong step here or there. She's not making promises, just setting up the guidelines.
She'll look after him, while he looks out for her. (With or without her consent, apparently; as written in stone as her no killing rule.)
"Work in progress," she tells him, giving his fingers a final, light squeeze and pulling her hand back. The broken connection doesn't completely cut the thickness of the air between them, but it eases the feeling crowding in Karen's chest.
The pen has rolled off the note pad and onto the floor. Karen leans forward, her hair falling forward and accidentally brushing against Frank's knee, and grabs it. When she straightens, she also tucks her feet back beneath herself. Getting comfortable again. Signaling, perhaps, that the hard part of this conversation is over. For now.
They have a lot to go through, and a limited number of hours to get through it. Karen's eyes stay on the note pad, pen tapping gently at the top scribbles of things to go through. None of which they have even mentioned yet.
And, yeah, maybe she's deflecting to avoid thinking about that moment just now.
"I figured we'd go shopping together. I need to stock up on groceries, and we can pick up the essentials for you." Soap. Shampoo. A couple of changes of clothes. His preferred kind of underwear. All, Karen realizes, the things she would want someone to offer her if she was a collar. "Something for you to sleep on that's not the floor--"
Karen glances up at him, frowns at his bruised face.
"I should've asked you this in the car, sorry. Do you need medical attention? I can take you to, uh, a clinic. Or--" She makes a vague gesture with the pen. "Dig out the first aid kit."
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Groceries he understands. Essentials for himself... sure, maybe if she doesn't want him using her soap and her shampoo, he can see getting him something a little more basic and separate from her things. He gets the feeling her definition's going to be a little more personalized than his. Sleeping arrangements, though... that's a curious one. He's got no problem sprawling out on the rug, got no problem trying to squeeze his mass onto the couch, but if she wants to give him a designated placet to be that isn't hogging her couch, he's not gonna argue.
Then comes the sudden concern for his health, and he can't help but bark out a laugh.
"No, ma'am. I'm fine. This is nothing. Those candy-ass rental cops wouldn't know how to throw a punch if their lives depended on it. They didn't do anything I can't deal with on my own. But thank you, ma'am."
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"Okay," she says, trying to stuff her concern away. "Good."
She flips over the first page of the notepad and starts fresh. This time it's not scribbles though. She writes in big, clearly defined letters with a slight slant that he'll come to recognize as her handwriting.
STANDING RULES
1. No Killing
2.
"As the legal owner of your personhood and property--" See? She pays attention when he speaks. He said it back in the cage and repeated it when rattling off his primary purpose. "Your physical well-being is important to me."
Karen looks up at him steadily.
"I know what your primary purpose is, but your secondary is to take care of my property." No matter how accurate the term, it feels strange to refer to another human being as property. But she needs him to take this one seriously. "That means you try not to get hurt. If you're hurt or sick, you tell me so I can take care of it."
It would be nice to think that now that he's in her care (briefly, she reminds herself) he'll be less prone to injuries. But truth be told, her life hasn't exactly been violence free lately.
"It means you hydrate and eat nutritious meals." Meals she'll provide, but he has to eat enough for his body mass.
Karen looks down at the pad again, carefully adding the second standing rule:
Take Care of Yourself.
Once they're done here, she's going to add the list to her small fridge. Make sure they both remember it.
"Understood?" The question is gentler than the last time she asked it, but no less important.