SFB: VI
Marcus has been gone most of the morning, and if Theirn's honest with himself that's been somewhat of a relief. Most of this assignment has involved very little private time, and he'd begun to miss that.
He's in the bedroom, sitting by the window and reading an old copy of The Three Musketeers. Not in its original French, but still a good book, and distracting.
There's the noise of a car outside, and a moment later the door opens and closes downstairs.
He stays where he is. Marcus will let him know if he's needed for anything.
A moment later, the door slams closed again, and the car starts up once more.
Theirn looks up for a moment, mildly surprised, then shrugs. Whatever's going on downstairs, if Marcus doesn't need him to play the part of the toy right now, it's a relief.
He's perhaps four chapters further in before he hears the car again.
He glances out the window, but there's only the limo there, so it's not as though they have company he needs to pretend for. And Marcus has been good about not making him stay downstairs when he feels like being on his own.
Feet on the stairs, and then his door opens, without Marcus asking. The older man comes inside, still dressed for Mr. Goldberg, watching him silently.
Theirn looks up, putting the book down.
"Hey, Marcus."
Marcus doesn't reply, picking his way across the room towards the window.
This is potentially bad. He stands, frowning.
"The meeting didn't go badly, did it?"
"No." His voice is rather cold.
"Then what's wrong?"
"You're useless."
He blinks, taken aback. "Wh-what?"
"I thought you were supposed to be good at what you do, mon petit. But none of them believe you."
Theirn is taller than Marcus, by a few inches. It doesn't feel like it.
He takes a step back, swallowing. "I... I'm doing my best, Marcus, it's not like this is easy..."
"Don't back away from me." Flatly.
He stops backing up, biting his lip "Marcus, I-"
Marcus reaches up, backhanding him, quite hard. He's still wearing his gloves.
Theirn involuntarily takes another step back, staring at Marcus, silent.
"You don't have permission to use that name, mon petit. Not if you don't want to be sent away in disgrace for failing the mission."
He looks away, hating himself for the way his voice shakes when he whispers, "I'm sorry."
"Mmm. We'll see." Marcus doesn't sound particularly believing.
His voice is still barely above a whisper, and he's not looking up. "Did you need me for anything this afternoon?"
"Oh yes," he says, voice still cold, empty. "As I said, mon petit, they don't particularly believe you. They've asked for a demonstration."
He does look up now, almost more frightened by the tone in Marcus's voice than the words.
"Wh-what sort of demonstration?"
"You're supposed to be a work of art. You're not even a very good pet."
Marcus said not to back away. But Marcus like this is frightening, and Theirn can't quite keep himself from taking another step back, the backs of his knees hitting the windowseat.
Marcus lifts a hand, showing Theirn the contents.
Black leather and steel. A collar, obviously meant for a human, not a dog.
Theirn swallows, shaking his head.
"Marcus, no. I -- that's going too far."
"Lift your head, mon petit," he says, flatly.
"No. Marcus--" He shakes his head again. "Marcus, this's too much. I-I'll do better, just-"
"Don't make me tell you again."
His handheld is downstairs, along with most of his other things. He doesn't want to back out, but this is starting to scare him.
Marcus is between him and the door.
Marcus is frowning.
"Lift. Your. Head."
"No."
It's barely a whisper.
Marcus' hand closes into a fist around the collar, and strikes him again.
He hits the already-bruised cheek, and Theirn stumbles backwards, sprawling across the windowseat and biting back a cry as his back hits the windowsill.
Marcus doesn't speak, this time. He just grabs Theirn's chin, roughly, forcing his head back. And he's expressionless, as he places the collar around Theirn's neck, the buckle clicking with a curious finality.
He can feel blood dripping from a cut on his cheek, but that doesn't matter as much as getting this thing off. He scrabbles at the buckle, whimpering softly when it won't come undone.
"Stop that," Mr. Goldberg says, sharply. "You're smarter than this, pet. Don't prove me wrong."
There's more than a hint of panic in Theirn's eyes.
"Marcus, don't, please-"
Calmly, the older man backhands him again.
"Remember your place, pet, or I will continue to remind you of it. Or let our friends Daniels and Stewart do the same."
He shies away from Marcus, biting back a sob. His hair has come loose from its ponytail, sticking to the blood on his cheek as he closes his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing.
"That's better," Marcus says softly, and reaches over to run one gloved hand lightly over Theirn's hair. "Come now, mon petit, I know that you're intelligent enough to manage this. Why do you think I chose you, hmm? Now, we get to show you off a bit this evening, and if you're very good I'll leave you some more time to yourself again."
"Yes, sir."
His voice is quiet and dispassionate, a match for the carefully blank expression in his eyes. He stiffens a little as Marcus touches his hair, and something inside him fiercely decides that he's cutting it short as soon as they get back from this assignment.
Marcus pulls back for a moment, long enough to tug off his gloves and stow them away next to Theirn's glasses, before one hand is wrapped in Theirn's hair, tugging his head back just a bit once more. One fingertip traces along the edge of the collar for a moment before trailing up the line of his neck, cupping his bruised cheek gently as he smoothes away the trickle of blood.
"Very good, mon petit," he says, still speaking softly.
He flinches very slightly as Marcus touches the collar, and he's almost grateful that his eyesight is as bad as it is, because without his glasses on Marcus's face is blurred enough that Theirn can't see him clearly.
"Daniels says you don't fear me," he continues, tone dry and almost curious. "Do you?"
"D-do you want me to?"
Not entirely a safe answer, but safer than any other he can think of right now.
The gentle touch at his cheek is not quite as gentle, now.
"You know better than to try to answer me with more questions, mon petit. Answer me."
"Yes. I do."
It's something of a shock, and not a welcome one, to discover that he's telling the truth.
Marcus' hand drops from Theirn's cheek, the other tightening in his hair just slightly as he walks around behind the younger man. "Very good," he says softly, almost a whisper, against Theirn's neck.
"You will always tell the truth to me, mon petit. Say it."
He closes his eyes, biting his lip.
"I will always tell you the truth. Sir."
His hand tightens again in Theirn's hair, tugging sharply. "Don't try to hide from me, mon petit. You know what you are, and you know what I am, and you know that there's no use in trying to hide. Say it."
"There's no use in trying to hide from you."
Marcus' hand does not loosen again. "You won't try to hide from me."
"I won't try to hide from you, sir."
"Good," he says, with a soft smile, hand pulling Theirn's hair back, out of the way. A moment later he presses a soft kiss to Theirn's neck, just above the collar.
Theirn forces himself not to react.
"When is tonight's meeting, sir?"
"In due course," Marcus says mildly, one hand still in Theirn's hair, the other slipping under the scrap of fabric pretending to be a shirt, to rest against his chest. "We'll leave when we're done here."
His instinct is to pull away, and only the thought that there might be someone watching - because he really can't think of any other reason for Marcus to be acting this way - stops him.
"As you say."
"You don't really know what you're doing, do you, mon petit?" he asks softly, with that quiet and dangerous voice he has been using so often on this mission, that Theirn had never heard before they came here.
"No. I don't."
"Do you think you're talented enough to pull this off, mon petit? Talented enough to trick someone who has broken most likely at least dozens of promising young fools just the same as you, someone who thinks that there is no fear in you, and no joy, and no love, only revulsion? Do you think you're talented enough to do that, when you admit you don't know what you're doing, hmm?"
The touch at his chest, the hand smoothing through his hair, even the lips pressed to his neck; none of these touches are sexual, and somehow almost they are meant to comfort, instead.
Perhaps that's what they're meant to do. It's not what they do, and perhaps if Daniels was in this room now, he wouldn't doubt that there is fear.
"If I have to be, I can."
"What should I do with you, Theirn?" he asks, softly, voice still just as dangerous.
"Show me how to trick him."
"Do you know what he wants, Theirn, mon petit?"
"No."
True enough; he doesn't know for sure.
"Would you like to know?" Marcus asks quietly, fingers still combing through Theirn's hair. He has not moved from behind Theirn's shoulder, either, standing just out of view of anything but the barest peripheral vision.
"If you want to tell me."
"That isn't what I asked."
"No. I don't want to know."
Which is truth; he doesn't want to know. He possibly should, but that does not mean he wants to.
"Do you think I should tell you anyway, mon petit?"
"Probably."
"He thinks you are my pet, mon petit. And a man such as the Mr. Goldberg who runs crime in this city, well... he would have a pet for only two reasons, now wouldn't he? Most such crimelords, at least. For sex, or for violence. But there are just a few who are artists, and Mr. Goldberg is one such. Unfortunately for the sake of simplicity, so is Mr. Daniels."
He stiffens again, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from saying anything.
Marcus steps back, completely. "Look at me, Theirn," he says calmly.
He turns to look at Marcus, still silent.
"Right now, at this moment, you have three options. Do you want to know what they are?"
"Yes. Please."
"You can leave. Abort the mission, fail. It's possible I'll manage to succeed without your help, I don't know. It's possible that Perez and his company won't trust me without proof in the form of your body. But that is one of your options; you can leave. Thacker will transfer you out.
"You can stay, and let Daniels break you, because I do not believe there is time enough for me to twist your perception enough that you could persuade them that you are what we have said you are, and yet be able to bring you back to yourself when we are finished with our little demonstration."
He swallows. "And... and the third option?"
"We lie," Marcus says, and his smile is much more the smile given on the porch of a house in upstate New York.
"It will probably hurt, quite a lot, considering your reaction to magic. But we can lie, and hopefully it will hold. If it doesn't, well... both of us will be leaving, with no other options left."
He closes his eyes for a moment, drawing in a deep breath.
"All right. Do whatever you need to do."
"Take off your shirt," he orders, and his tone is once again emotionless.
This time, at least, it's not the emotionlessness of a boy playing with pins and still-living butterflies.
He shrugs off the shirt, folding it and putting it on the chair by the window.
"Lie down on the bed, on your stomach."
Still silent, Theirn goes over to the bed and lies down, resting his chin on his folded arms.
He's got some idea of what's going to happen, and it'll be far from pleasant.
There's the scrape of a chair, being pulled up beside the bed, and Marcus' hand rests on his shoulder for a very brief moment.
Then there's warmth on his back, at first, but it quickly moves from "warmth" to the flicker of flames against his skin.
Not quite painful, not yet, but Marcus has barely begun.
The heat isn't the most painful part, and won't be the most painful part, no matter how hot Marcus has to make it. He can feel his own magic responding to the foreign magic entering his system, the faint, growing buzzing-tingling sensation in his blood and nerve endings.
The heat is also not the purpose of the magic, but rather a side effect; Marcus, after all, is a Master of Fire, not of some other element, and so the burns he is drawing on Theirn's back must be drawn with flame.
Some of these new scars are drawn old, and some fresh, skin somewhere between dark red and charred black, although there's little enough of that. Some scars are knife-thin, and others wider, circular with a diameter equal to the length of the first knuckle of his thumb. Not all of the scars look like burns, either, although there are few enough that aren't.
Mr. Goldberg is an artist, after all, and fire is his medium.
Theirn's breathing speeds up, growing harsh and ragged, and he closes his eyes, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood that almost sparks with the strength of his magic rejecting the hostile magic Marcus is using.
Marcus pauses, eyes still focused on the energy held against the other man's back. "Theirn?" he says, softly.
"Keep going." He forces the words through gritted teeth. "Just keep going 'til you're done."
Marcus doesn't pause again.
He doesn't stop when (after perhaps twenty minutes) Theirn starts to scream. The neighbors won't notice, after all, and who would care if they did?
He doesn't stop when (after another fifteen or twenty minutes, with Theirn's screams ignored) the younger man falls unconscious, either.
It is something like ten minutes after that, and an hour after he started, that he lowers his hands again, and lowers his head to rest in them, not looking at his work.
Theirn's back is a mess of scars upon scars, with very little flesh left unmarked. Someone who knew how to judge the age of burn scars would say that, if Marcus' hand was behind every scar, Theirn has been under his control since the young man was at most ten years old. And of course that is what everyone knows of Mr. Goldberg and his little pet, isn't it?
Mr. Goldberg is an artist.
Marcus' stomach twists, and he stands, carefully, and quickly exits Theirn's room.
The scars won't fade for weeks.
There's an odd sensation of disjointedness when Theirn wakes, and for a moment he doesn't quite remember the assignment or why he's lying on his stomach. Memory floods back as soon as he moves, though, and he can't quite keep back a low cry of pain.
Just by his elbow rest his glasses and a note. He picks up his glasses shakily and slides them on, reaching over for the note.
Theirn--
I apologize for many things, not least of which is the amount of pain you're most likely in right now.
Try to get dressed, if you can, and meet me downstairs as quickly as possible.
Yours, etc.
He gets up slowly, wincing, and manages to dress, albeit slowly. By the time he's dressed his face is pale and he can barely see for tears, and he spends a few minutes steeling himself before heading downstairs.
It takes him a moment to find Marcus, but it's the smoke that gives him away; he's sitting by one of the windows, almost invisible in the deepening twilight, curled up into a surprisingly compact ball on the couch, ashtray with the crushed ends of several slender cigars on the table by his side.
He looks up when Theirn enters the room, and sits up a bit, stretching out his legs in front of him.
"Good evening, Theirn," he says, and he is almost calm.
"M-Marcus."
It's almost a hiss through gritted teeth; moving hurts.
"How long until we have to leave for this meeting?"
"As soon as we can, but you have as long as you need, if no longer than that," is the quiet reply, as Marcus looks out the window again, away from Theirn.
"I don't need long. Just let me get some water and I'll be fine."
"Kitchen's open, unless you'd like a hand."
He hesitates. "I'll be fine."
Which may turn out to be a lie, since moving his shoulders enough to open the cabinet with the glasses in it proves a lot more painful than he expected, and again he can't quite keep back a cry of pain.
Marcus is on the other side of the counter from him a moment later, when he looks again.
"Something you can take to dull it?"
"Mostly it's the overload. They're working on something to make it easier to bleed off, but nothing's worked yet. Just have to ride it out."
He pours a glass of water, waiting for his hands to stop shaking before drinking.
"At least," Marcus says with an almost-silent sigh, "it'll add to the realism, then. I need to go change, we'll leave when you're ready."
"'Kay. I don't need long."
Marcus smiles a little, stiffly, and turns away. Barefoot, he's quiet as he crosses the room, and even the stairs refrain from creaking much. He's tying his hair into a knot at the back of his neck as he disappears from view.
He reappears a few minutes later, and the man who was somewhat upset and somewhat worried and rather awkward, in the situation, is replaced with Mr. Goldberg, with his cane hooked over one elbow, tugging on his gloves.
"Are you ready?"
Theirn straightens, putting the glass in the sink.
"Yes, sir."
He glances at Theirn quickly, studying him for a very brief moment, and then turns and walks out the front door.
For once, it isn't raining; a minor blessing.
A few quiet words with the driver, and then Marcus gets into the limousine.
Theirn follows him, settling onto the floor and making sure his back doesn't touch the seat behind him.
Silence, most of the way toward their little rendezvous.
The warehouse, again, not the hotel.
Perez and his associates are expecting an exhibition, after all, and such things are generally rather messy.
Theirn mostly focuses on drawing his chameleonic magic to the fore, pouring it into the role. He hasn't done this often, and having foreign magic in his system makes it harder, but it's something to focus on.
The car pulls into the parking garage again, and after another few moments comes to a halt.
Marcus does not call the driver, not yet.
"Mon petit?" he asks, instead.
He looks up.
"Yes, sir?"
He studies Theirn for a moment, reaching over to trace lightly over his features, over the bit of dried blood at the corner of his mouth, split again from his screaming.
Satisfied, he smiles slightly. "You won't speak to them," he orders quietly, and then knocks on the glass divider with the end of his cane.
The driver opens the door a moment later, and he steps out of the car, adjusting his hat.
Theirn follows, linking his hands loosely behind his back and staying just beside and behind Marcus.
The warehouse is empty, as before, with one light lit above the office door, the same room as that where they received their orders to deal with Wrede.
Marcus knocks, once.
"Enter."
Perez is seated at a long table, Daniels and Stewart with him.
Marcus does not sit.
"Gentlemen," says he, with a polite enough nod to Perez.
"Mr. Goldberg." Perez nods politely. "I apologise for the inconvenience. We won't be keeping you longer than necessary to assure ourselves of your intentions."
"Lovely news, that, considering that... well. Your other request, we've discovered, would be best taken care of tonight. Quite soon, actually. I'm afraid I don't know if I'll have time to give you fellows a proper show."
Daniels raises an eyebrow. "How disappointing."
"I've taken the liberty of doing most of my work this afternoon, when I had the time to give my full attention to the task," he continues calmly.
"Is that so?"
He smiles, blandly.
"Mon petit," he orders, voice soft and at odds with the blank politeness of his voice, "take off your shirt."
Theirn nods and unbuttons his shirt, sliding it back off his shoulders and loosely folding it over one arm.
He's still facing them, since Marcus didn't say to turn around.
Marcus ignores Theirn for the moment, pulling out another of his cigars, cupping his hands to hide the fact that he technically has no source of flame.
Unlike most of his cigars, this one is not so slender, but instead is nearly as wide as the first knuckle of his thumb is long.
He exhales smoke towards the ceiling in a steady stream, smiling again faintly at the three men at the table. "Mon petit, turn around and show the kind gentlemen my work."
When Theirn does turn, Stewart swears softly, and Perez looks vaguely ill. Daniels, however, stands and looks questioningly at Marcus.
"If I may have a closer look, Mr. Goldberg...? I do like to view artwork up close."
"Oh, but of course," says Mr. Goldberg. "I'd expect nothing less."
Daniels smiles and approaches Theirn, head tilted a little to the side as though he's examining a sculpture.
It's something like five minutes before he steps away smoothly, returning to his seat.
"I apologise, Mr. Goldberg, but you do of course understand the need for sometimes excessive caution, in our line of work."
"Of course," he reassures Daniels. "As I say, I would expect nothing less from an obvious expert such as yourself." He taps ash onto the floor of the warehouse, so very absently, and surely it's not on purpose that he draws the eyes of Perez and Stewart to the glowing tip of his cigar, the same size and shape as several of Theirn's scars.
"You have decided to take care of Wrede tonight?" Perez asks as Daniels sits down and sips his water.
"Seems like the best idea, yes."
Marcus lets his hand rest on Theirn's shoulder, for a brief moment. Long enough, of course.
"Put your shirt back on and turn around, mon petit, I think the nice gentlemen have seen enough."
He nods quietly and pulls the shirt back on, wincing only briefly as the fabric rubs over the fresh burns.
"Is there anything else you wanted, Mr. Perez?"
"I believe that was all, Mr. Goldberg. Thank you for your time. Gentlemen, we are finished for the night."
Mr. Goldberg smiles, and nods his farewells to the others. He drops the cigar to the floor, grinding it out as he turns on his heel to return to the limousine.
Theirn follows quietly, expression blank.
It's still not raining.
The limousine driver is not, however, expecting to be relieved of his keys, and told to find his own way to the house.
Marcus slips behind the wheel with a smile that is not visible on his face, at least, but he knows the way back to the house, and even if he gets lost... well, it's not raining, and that means that tonight, at least, is his.
Theirn glances at Marcus, unsure if he's supposed to get in the back or the passenger seat.
Marcus leans over and opens the passenger side door.
After all, even if someone's watching, it's hardly likely that Mr. Goldberg would leave his pet in the back unsupervised, now is it?
Theirn slides into the passenger seat, biting back a soft cry as his back touches the seat, and closes the door behind him.
A faint whisper of power, and then Marcus is smiling again as he strips off the damn gloves, starting the engine.
"Try to get comfortable, Theirn, there's no reason to keep hurting now if you can avoid it."
He's not really going to be comfortable until he's back home, or at least until he can take off this excuse for a shirt - and silk sticks to burns, something he hadn't thought of when he'd gotten dressed - but he does what he can to lessen the pain, leaning forward so his back isn't touching the seat. Coincidentally - or not - this allows his hair to fall forward, hiding his face.
The drive back to the house is quiet, and Marcus seems almost to be in a good mood again. Traffic is... not light, not exactly, but he has no trouble driving, for all that he has not in fact ever driven a limousine before.
He's always enjoyed driving, and he's never driven in the rain.
Marcus parks haphazardly by the door, leaving the keys in the ignition as he exits to walk inside.
Again, Theirn follows him, not bothering to brush his hair back from his face.
Marcus is, perhaps, walking somewhat more quickly than Theirn; regardless, by the time Theirn reaches the stairwell, the only sign of Marcus is the fact that his shirt has been dumped over the railing.
Marcus is definitely walking faster than Theirn. Not that he really minds; if he's entirely honest he'd prefer not having to see Marcus right now. He shrugs off his shirt again, grimacing as the silk pulls at the burns, and heads upstairs to the bathroom.
When he returns to the bedroom, eventually, there's another note.
Theirn--
Wrede is taken care of. The rest of this should be wrapped up, more or less, in perhaps a week's time.
I don't think they'll ask for you again, and I can probably get by without requiring you to accompany me to these damn meetings.
Let me know if there's anything I can get you, to help.
Thank you.
Yours, etc.
Theirn looks at the note for a few moments, then calmly turns, goes back into the bathroom and throws up.
There'll be a reply for Marcus in the morning.