interlude: arch

[helens78]

Interlude: Arch
Arc: between Cruelty and Captivation, part of Chiaroscuro
Authors: dragonkal and helens78
Pairing: Christian Bale/Sean Bean/Viggo Mortensen
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Bale makes a phone call, and Sean finds himself in a new situation altogether.
Disclaimer: Fictional. Not real.

As promised, I'm getting started posting the pieces of "Captivation" over here. Links to Cruelty available above; jumping in here is possible but probably not advisable.

Warnings: Christian Bale. BDSM, and I mean heavy BDSM -- a lot of mental domination, almost guaranteed to squick those who are uncomfortable with rough, domineering boys making their subs whimper. References to a very rough, brutal caning. And for all of this, it's good. It works for the characters involved. It is not nonconsensual play.



Bale only makes it a few blocks before pulling over and picking up his cellphone, dialing a number he knows by heart with shaking fingers.

"Hello?" Quiet, calm voice.

Bale closes his eyes, comforted already. "Master," he breathes.

"Mmm," Viggo murmurs. "Hello, Christian."

"I need your help," Bale admits, sighing shakily.

"What's going on?"

"I bought a boy, and, uh, God, I broke him last night -- cracked the cane you gave me across his bottom -- and I started -- I fell for him, Viggo. I wanted to make love to him. I wanted him to call me Christian. I wanted him to feel good."

"You fell in love with him," Viggo agrees calmly.

"Yeah," Bale shudders out.

"What was his reaction to that?"

Bale rests his head in his hand. "He doesn't feel the same."

"Mm."

"I don't think we can continue. I tried -- but he -- he tells me he loves me, because he doesn't know how else to express his gratitude, but...he knows it's not what I want, not the level I want." Bale is babbling now, too anguished to mind it. "When I took him in my arms and told him I wanted him to focus on the pleasure this time, not the pain -- Master, he tried everything to stop me. Begged me not to. Tried to safeword. He knew it would be a mistake, and I didn't fucking listen."

"Christian," Viggo murmurs. "Calm."

The old order still changes Bale's behavior, Bale's very thought patterns in an instant; he blows out a breath and relaxes his shoulders. "Yes, Master."

"Listen to me. Taking obvious verbal cues from a slave is very tricky business." There is light mirth in Viggo's voice as he adds, "I should know, shouldn't I? Don't beat up on yourself too hard for choosing incorrectly. That's graduate-level shit, and even then, it's only a crapshoot."

"Viggo," Bale whispers, "he's begging me not to send him away. He wants to stay here with me. But I can't see how, not with this between us."

Viggo is quiet for long moments, thinking; Bale is familiar enough with the process that he doesn't intrude. "Is the problem that the situation's unresolved, or does the problem lie in the very existence of the situation?"

"I don't know. God help me, I don't know."

"Christian, I'd be willing to come by and observe, try to give you some useful direction. And if it does come to cutting ties...I'm without a boy at the moment, and I like to think of emotionally confused slaves as my specialty."

Bale's face heats; even with the distance of years between present day and his training, the reminder that Bale was once as stupefied as Sean is an embarrassment. A useful one, he hopes. "Yes, Master," he breathes. "He won't be capable of much. The slightest movement sends him into agony." Bale's voice quiets. "I gave him the Zen beating last night."

"Ah," Viggo murmurs; he coined the phrase himself, once he'd developed the peculiar irrhythmic structure and laid it across Bale's ass a few times.

"I don't..." Bale stops himself, tries to collect himself a little, raising his head. "He was much better than he is now. I don't want you to come by and see him in this state and think this is representative of my skills."

Viggo merely laughs at that. "I think we both know where your skills lie, Christian. As for the boy's capacity, you should also remember that a good deal of submission can be extracted from someone without causing any physical stress at all."

"Yes. Yes, I know." Bale quiets himself further, swallows his pride. "Can you come now?"

Viggo tut-tuts gently. "Gauging from the fact that it's your cellphone coming up on my caller ID and the tremor in your voice when you first said hello, I suspect that you've just executed some sort of runaway scenario?"

Bale breathes deeper still, more firmly, knowing he needs not to let Viggo rattle him. "Yes."

"Then you have to go back alone and re-establish dominance. Bringing me with you immediately will do nothing but undermine you further."

Bale nods; there's sense in that. "Alright."

"I'll come by later today. And I want him blindfolded when I come in. I don't want you telling him I'm coming."

Though Bale can't for the life of him parse out Viggo's reasoning, he knows better than to ask. "Yes, Master. I'll be ready with the blindfold when you knock on the door."

"Good. Christian...some advice till then..."

"Yes?"

"Don't come in and go cold on him. Don't pretend none of this happened. It's the surest way to sour his stomach and turn him against you. Even if you turn him loose, it's always better -- for the slave as well as the master -- to leave the slave wishing he'd had just a little more of your time. Make it worth his while to be there today."

"Yes, Master," Bale murmurs, at an utter loss as to how to implement such an idea.

"I'll see you this afternoon then, Christian." Click.

---

Bale enters the house with his lips set in a firm line, tossing his keys into the tray. "Boy?" he calls, deliberately not using Sean's earned title, and then calls out a little more sharply, "Boy?"

Sean isn't sure he's hearing it at first. It takes both times before it sinks in, and then he lifts his head off the pillow, craning his neck around to face the doorway. He's still in bed. It's the last place Bale asked him to go, and he wasn't planning on moving until Bale came back -- or until he was sure Bale wasn't going to come back.

God. Can he move? He's not just bruised, he's shattered; every breath has been half-impossible since Bale left. He closes his eyes. He's back. He's calling me 'boy', but he's back.

"Master," he calls back. His voice breaks on it; he hasn't spoken a word since Bale left, and he's been having so much trouble drawing breath. He clears his throat, steadies his voice. "Yes, Master," this time stronger.

"Get your arse down here and present at my feet," Bale calls up the staircase. "Now."

Christ. Sean nods, as if Bale can see him, and struggles his way off the side of the bed. God, he's going to have to kneel. Do it, he thinks, and he manages to make his way slowly, painfully, down the stairs.

He doesn't even try to meet Bale's eyes when he makes it to the foot of the staircase; his eyes are planted on the floor, and he clenches his teeth hard as he lets himself down, using his arms as much as he can for support. Having to kneel in Bale's preferred position draws tears to his eyes; he blinks them back, ignores them, pushes his hands under his ankles.

Bale pushes aside every emotion Sean's appearance invokes in him -- pity, love, anger, fear, arousal, dismay -- and places himself firmly in the unemotional place from where he likes to dominate. "Do you know what the word 'insolent' means?"

"Yes, Master," Sean whispers. He's struggling to keep himself together; the kneeling is bad, but Bale's tone is worse.

"You. Are. Insolent." And Bale bends down to take Sean's cock in his hand, not stroking it, simply holding it. "You seem intent," he says calmly, "in offering behavior you believe will cause me to send you away. And that won't happen. You're not going away. You're stuck. The harder you try to pull away, the more I want to play with you."

The relief rises up in Sean's chest and literally knocks the wind from him; his heart twists, his chest aches, and his cock jumps in Bale's hand. "Your slave is sorry, Master -- your slave is grateful, Master." Sean's voice breaks again, and he goes quiet.

"No." But Bale gives Sean's cock a stroke despite the word. "You're my boy. Slaves are not insolent. Do you understand?"

Sean swallows and closes his eyes. He nods. "Yes, Master," he whispers. He's beginning to tremble.

Another stroke; Bale kneels down in front of Sean, realizing he's going to stay here a while. "Slaves do not speak out of turn." Another stroke.

It's a trick question. Or rather, the trick lies in that it's not a question. Sean could say 'No, Master,' but that would be speaking out of turn. Being silent will be just as wrong. He's back to square one with Bale: every choice he makes leads him to the wrong decision. It's dizzying, but being at square one is so much better than being thrown out that he doesn't care. The strokes on his cock are distracting, and half-miserable in their pleasant, relaxing nature. Sean doesn't know how to react to any of this.

Bale leans close, pressing his lips to Sean's ear, and he strokes steadily, wanting the chasm between the pleasure his hand offers and the cruelty of his words as wide as possible. "Slaves," he murmurs very quietly, "do not. Try to exploit. The weaknesses. Of their Masters."

Sean lets out half a sob before he manages to contain himself. He doesn't try to defend himself. He doesn't try to deny it. His chest is twisted into knots, his breath is catching, and he's glad his eyes are closed. ...the weaknesses of their Masters. Sean is sorry -- he is so far beyond sorry that he wouldn't know what to say even if he weren't so certain that speaking is the wrong thing to do now. And God, Bale's hand is steady, and strong, and it feels good. Sean starts timing his breaths to try to get them back in order. Three seconds to take a breath in. Two seconds to let it out.

"You can't do it," Bale breathes. "You can't make me fit into a rhythm. I won't let you." He strokes faster, harder, and slides his free hand around to cup the flesh just above Sean's topmost welt, a dangerous, warning caress.

What does that mean? What in God's name does that mean? Sean's eyes squeeze tighter, and his breath hisses out through his teeth. Pain. Pleasure. Fear. And Bale telling him You're stuck with me. Sean's breath stutters out of rhythm, and he concentrates on holding still and staying silent.

"Open your eyes," Bale growls. "Make noise." He shifts his hand subtly on Sean's cock, making fast hard strokes against the sensitive inch just below the head.

"Oh-- ohh--" Sean's eyes fly open, but he's not seeing anything; he can't focus on Bale when he's like this, can't focus on anything. He can't tell whether he's crying out in pain or pleasure. Both. Either. God. He struggles not to let his eyes close again.

Bale turns his head abruptly and sinks his teeth into the upper curve of Sean's ear, teeth pressing sharply into cartilage as his thumb sweeps up and over the head of Sean's cock.

"Aahh-- God-- Master-- Master, please, please," Sean pants, eyes narrowing, vision dimming; he lets out several harsh breaths and then closes his teeth over a desperate, keening whimper.

"Do you really think," Bale breathes, "that you deserve it?" Abruptly he lets go of Sean, gets to his feet, looking down at Sean, waiting for an answer.

Sean shudders out breath, several times, quickly. "Your -- your boy -- no, Master, and your boy is sorry, Master."

"My boy," Bale growls, drawing out the word boy, "has no idea what's in store for him. Get up. Go upstairs. Fetch a blindfold from the closet. The padded one. God knows I can't trust you not to peek."

"Yes, Master." Sean closes his eyes, briefly, and then pulls his hands out from under his ankles. He pushes himself up to his feet, hissing hard as his skin stretches; he wonders if he's tearing any of his cuts. Fuck. The stairs again. And back down the stairs again. This is going to take some time. He puts his hand on the banister and starts making his way up the staircase.

Bale stands at the foot of the stairs, watching impassively.

Sean's legs are shaking by the time he makes it up the stairs. He's pulling himself up with his arm far more than he's pushing himself with his legs, and even that's not enough to help. He gets himself up to the top of the stairs and makes his way to the closet. He finds the blindfold -- tries not to think about the last time Bale blindfolded him, the first time Bale fucked him with nothing in between them. God. Sean wonders if Bale had started feeling anything for him then. How long has this been coming? Sean wonders. He has no idea. From the beginning? It's possible. Why did he even take me, if he thought this might happen? He can't imagine.

He makes his way back downstairs, hissing and letting out gasps with every step. It's a slow return, and Bale is watching; Sean tries to take the steps with as much good grace as possible.

"Knees," Bale orders impassively as Sean draws nearer. He knows Sean probably would have done it already, by way of properly presenting the blindfold, but he wants to impress upon Sean that their training has been delayed now, set back by his behavior, and so he is receiving more basic instructions.

Sean's eyes flick up to Bale's, and he grits his teeth and goes to his knees. He shouldn't say this. Shouldn't even be thinking this. But that little maneuver by Bale is just enough to get under his skin -- his very raw, very bruised, broken skin -- and he says, under his breath, "Your desperation is showing, Master."

Calm, Bale reminds himself after the initial flash of anger. He realizes, now, that he must invent a response that is both painful to Sean and a reasonable suggestion that he himself has been unruffled by the slam.

Christ. Domination hasn't always been this hard.

Eventually, Bale smiles.

"There's the door," he announces, pointing to the front door. "You're welcome to leave through it, assuming you can move well enough with the welts you adored receiving at my hand."

"You want me to walk out of your door naked and bruised and bleeding? Are you ready to retire from your career, Christian?"

Oh, God. Bale refuses to let himself feel overwhelmed by Sean's lip, not this time. Again, a host of replies are entertained and discarded. He realizes, now, that he needs more hardware.

Without a word, he sidesteps Sean and heads up the stairs, into the bedroom.

This is not going to get him anywhere, Sean realizes. He has to stop this. He was so relieved to have Bale back that he was determined to be good. For about two minutes. Sean lets out a long breath. Bale was right -- You just couldn't be good. It's not in your nature, is it? -- and the way things are fracturing isn't only because of Bale's unwelcome feelings for Sean, it also has to do with Sean's inability to do any of this properly. He doesn't belong here. Doesn't belong on his knees. Doesn't deserve to be on his knees.

The front door is beginning to look like the right decision. Sean tilts his head to look up the staircase, then stands and heads for the laundry room. Slow, painful steps.

Bale comes back down with an armful of bondage gear and stops abruptly at the sight of the empty foyer. His stomach drops at the thought that perhaps Sean really did take him up on the offer -- and then he hears a soft, muffled groan from the hall leading to the laundry and storage, and his lips settle into that determined line again. He turns into that hallway and barks at Sean's back, "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"I'm dressing." Sean digs through the laundry, and he finds a pair of boxers that, while used, are at least loose. He can't even contemplate the idea of putting them on -- God, he's going to fucking die, doing this -- but he meets Bale's eyes, and his expression is furious. "I'm going."

Bale swallows hard before he can stop himself, and then he hears, faintly, the knock at the front door. Oh fucking hell.

There's something in Bale's expression that Sean has never seen before. It's over, as far as Sean can tell; it's done, and there's no going back from it. And for all that he's not in love with Bale, for all that he's never intended to fall for Bale -- Sean has felt more for Bale, in a broad fascination of ways, than he's ever imagined possible.

His role is gone, damaged, destroyed, and he's standing in the laundry room of Bale's house, sorting through what clothes of his are available. This is as close as man-to-man as he is ever going to get with Bale, and he knows it.


Sean reaches for Bale, and his arms jerk Bale forward, pulling him off-balance, up against Sean's chest. "Thank you," he whispers, "'Master'." And he closes that last inch between them, kissing Bale hard, letting what feelings he does have come fully to the surface.

Startled, Bale doesn't respond, stiff in Sean's arms, then pulls away, staring into Sean's eyes with sheer confusion. He sets Sean away from him a little, then manages to get enough saliva into his mouth to say, "Stay here," hopefully, not an order at all. He goes to get the door.

Stay here. Sean closes his eyes, draws his hands through his hair. Stay here. He exhales. All right.

Bale pulls open the door, already talking. "I lost him. He's putting on his clothes and he's going to leave. He mouthed off at me and I said 'There's the door' and he's taking me up on it, but -- Christ -- he's not blindfolded," Bale adds lamely.

Viggo simply nods. "I suspected you might lose him before I got here."

Bale just shakes his head, angry at himself, hurting, lost; Viggo gives him a rough pat on the arm.

"Take me to him," Viggo requests quietly.

Sean has decided that getting a shirt on will be easier than tackling the boxers and the pants right away; he's got the shirt halfway over his head when he hears footsteps in the hallway. Bastard, Sean thinks -- not without a trace of amused, resentful fondness -- and finishes pulling the shirt on, reaching for the boxers next. God, this is going to hurt. He finally decides simply to curse his way into them, the hell with whoever's going to hear him.

Bale appears at the doorway, and Viggo with him, shoulder to shoulder; Bale says nothing, his gaze on Sean quite flat and resigned. Viggo, too, says nothing, though his gaze is a good deal sharper.

Sean freezes. Blinks. Blinks again, as if he can't quite force himself to believe what he's seeing.

"Viggo," he says. "Good to see you again." His voice is at absolute zero: it could not possibly be colder. He raises an eyebrow at Bale.

Bale says nothing, deferring to Viggo's greater experience; Viggo also says nothing, staring at Sean steadily.

Sean goes back to the laundry, finding pants; he drops them over his arm, finally having decided that he'd be happier leaving in a shirt and boxers, barefoot, than try to find a way into pants and socks and shoes. Particularly in front of Viggo fucking Mortensen. No, Sean's had more than enough here; he's done. He walks up to them, waiting for one or the other to move out of his way so he can go.

Bale glances at Viggo, utterly lost on how to proceed; Viggo is the one who steps aside to give Sean room. "Would you do us the courtesy of sitting down at the table for a few minutes before you leave, Sean?" Viggo asks quietly.

"No," Sean answers, and he raises his hand to rub at his eyes, "but I'll stand."

Viggo nods, accepting the slight humor in that but not responding to it, and motions to Bale to clear out to the table.

Bale heads for his usual seat, then quickly sidesteps and chooses another chair, unwilling to use the one in which he sat for Sean's deliveries of coffee and croissants. Viggo seats himself across from Bale, his attitude one of unending, unfathomable calm.

Uncertain what to do, where to stand, why in hell's name Viggo is here at Bale's house, now, today, Sean simply stands at Bale's left, the same relative position to where he'd ordinarily have knelt at Bale's side.

"What takes you out of Christian's home?" Viggo asks simply.

A sharp retort comes to Sean's lips, and he bites it back. "An inability to connect, I suppose," Sean says. He exhales, and his eyes lower to the floor in front of him.

Viggo keeps to himself the fact that inability to connect is a common reason why Bale's boys leave. "Are there any other areas of his training which you find lacking?"

"No--" And Sean has to choke off the urge to finish it with Sir. His eyes stay on the floor.

"You would classify your experience here as satisfactory and useful, and a place in which you would stay, were you able to find an emotional connection suitable to you?"

Half of Sean wants to correct Viggo and tell him no, it's more a matter of finding an emotional detachment suitable to me; the other half of him is damned if he's going to say one more word to Viggo about his experience with Bale than he has to. He still can't quite wrap his mind around the fact that it's Viggo Mortensen, here in this room, talking to him, speaking as if he's known Bale for years.

In any event, Sean is unwilling to say anything that could possibly reflect negatively on Bale; an odd feeling of protectiveness wells up in him, and so he only nods. "Yes."

Viggo considers that, lets the agreement settle in for a while. He glances at Bale, who is staring at the tabletop before him, listening but withdrawn. "Where do you plan to go when you leave here?" Viggo asks.

Sean's eyes close at that, and he tilts his face away from both of them. "I don't know," he murmurs. "I haven't had a home of my own in several years now. The hotel where I stayed before I came here, I imagine, until such a time as I can gather enough resources to leave the country and head back to England." He's going to need to extricate himself from Bale financially. There are so many details he hasn't considered. He tries not to let it overwhelm him.

"You've been owned, for those several years?"

"Yes."

Viggo nods; that decides it for him. "I would like to purchase your contract from Christian."

Sean looks back up at Viggo, eyes narrowed, teeth gritted together. "Why?"

For the first time, Viggo moves; he leans forward, over the table, toward Sean. "I believe we may suit one another's interests."

"You--" Sean is struck dumb. "Can't be serious," he manages, finally. He looks to Bale, staring. "Did you call him here for this?" he asks.

"I called him here knowing it was a possibility," Bale answers honestly, quietly.

God. From Pierce to Bale. And now Bale to Viggo. Sean shakes his head. "If you thought I hated you when I first came here -- Christian -- God." And Sean knows exactly how far he's come since then; far enough to know that whatever twisted, unpleasant feelings he may have when looking at Viggo now, it will only be a matter of time before they, too, are gone. If he says yes. If he goes with Viggo.

"Suit each other's interests," Sean repeats to Viggo. "You have absolutely no idea what you're looking at, and neither do I. Are you more given to impulse than I assumed?"

"I know that you've been searching for several years," Viggo murmurs, "deeply enough that you haven't maintained your own home in that time. You seek with complete abandon. I have sought, and have been unable to find, the level of commitment I need in a submissive. As for what you need, I consider emotions to be another tool at a Master's disposal, and not the other way around."

God. Sean is floored. Absolutely floored. Uncertain, unsteady, and floored. His expression must show it; he is horribly rocked, horribly startled, both by Viggo's words and by how immediate and intense his response to them is.

"How much time do I get to think about it?" Sean asks, very softly.

Viggo checks his watch. "Five minutes."

Sean is ticking off seconds in his mind as soon as Viggo gives him the time limit. And unlike earlier, unlike when he tried to perform his morning routine, he's completely certain of his ability to count them off. He meets Viggo's eyes for the duration of those minutes, and remains steady. He knows the answer, and he supposes Viggo knew it before he so much as asked.

Four minutes and forty-five seconds.

"All right. Sir. I'm yours."

Bale lowers his head a little in pain. "Sign his contract over to me," Viggo says, maintaining the eye contact with Sean all the while. Yes. What he wants is here.

Bale gets to his feet and fetches the contract, then a piece of his personal stationery, upon which he scrawls I give this slave to Viggo Mortensen, freely and of my own will, with apologies to said slave for lacking the values he requires in a Master. He signs his name and pushes the stack of paper toward Viggo, embarrassed at what he's written there, and not quite certain why he has; Sean will likely never see it.

A very small, ironic smile plays over Sean's features: his selling price has gone down. Six thousand dollars, and now nothing. And he's never felt so certain of his own worth.

Viggo accepts the contract and gets to his feet; there is no reason to linger. "Can he leave with those clothes?" he asks Bale, nodding toward Sean.

"Of course," Bale murmurs, extending his hand. "I appreciate your assistance."

Viggo shakes Christian's hand warmly, one corner of his mouth tipping upward affectionately. "I hardly think thanks are called for when the 'assistance' ends with the acquiring of a new boy." Nonetheless, he swiftly reaches out and grabs Bale at the nape of the neck, pulling him in for a hug he knows Bale would not accept otherwise.

The affection between his Masters surprises Sean, but he knows it shouldn't; whatever relationship they have, it was enough to draw Viggo into this crisis when Bale most needed him. Sean keeps his eyes on their embrace; he will give up his ability to look where he pleases when he's ordered to do so, and until then, he wants to find out as much as he can about this part of Viggo. This is a part of him Sean never expected, much less expected to belong to. He lets out a breath. None of this has been what he expected.

A surprisingly traditional show of shoulder-slapping finishes the embrace; Bale withdraws with a sense of acceptance, stepping back as Viggo comes around the table to address Sean as his boy for the first time.

"There are no restrictions on your behavior," he says simply. "Come on out to the car."

"Sir, a moment, if I may," Sean replies, eyes going from Viggo to Bale.

Viggo nods. "Come to the car when you're ready," he murmurs, and heads out quietly.

Bale doesn't look at Sean, eyes cast downward, swallowing heavily. He wishes, very fervently, that Sean had not asked for a minute, and at the same time yearns for whatever it is Sean wishes to give him now.

"Christian?" Sean asks. He steps closer, not reaching out, not this time. "I wish -- I wanted--" He lets his hands clench and unclench, and then tries again. "I'm going to miss you," he says, simply, honestly, with no leftover emotion. "You were a good Master." Left unsaid is ...but not for me.

Barely clinging to civility, Bale nods. "You're a good slave." He lets himself look Sean in the eyes; his own shine with tears he is utterly determined not to shed.

There's nothing more to say; nothing more that Sean can do without reaching for the connection that isn't there. He nods, looks away. He takes his pants and slowly winces his way into them; he has the sudden thought that not only did his asking price go down in this latest sale, he's leaving with less than he started with -- last time, at least, he left with shoes.

He turns away from Bale, and an odd ache that marks the finality of the transaction hits him. He heads outside, to Viggo's car. To his new life.

Viggo starts the car as Sean eases himself into the passenger seat. "Do you like hamburgers?" he asks as he backs out of the driveway.

Sean lets a soft hiss of breath out from between his teeth, amused. "Yes, Sir," he answers.

Viggo shakes his head as he heads down the road. "I told you. No restrictions on behavior. You don't have to use a title when you address me, unless you feel like it."

"As you please, Sir," Sean says, still half-grinning. He looks out at the road; over at Viggo's hands on the wheel, on the gearshift. There are dozens of questions, but he needs more time to sort out the ones he wants to ask first. And he probably won't get answers, even when he asks. This is going to be interesting.

Viggo pulls in to a little drive-through. "What d'you want?" he asks, pulling out his wallet.

Sean can't decide whether to be nervous about making a wrong decision or not; he glances at the menu, feeling very odd about selecting his own meal, odder still about it coming from a fast-food restaurant, and says, "Fish sandwich, plain, chips, water."

Viggo nods, smiling a little at Sean's obvious discomfort at such a regular-world thing, and smiles at the girl waiting for him at the window. "Hi there. We need a plain fish sandwich, a burger with extra pickles, two chips, a water, and...hmm. Raspberry iced tea, thanks."

Sean clasps his hands in his lap and stares at them. He shifts a little in his seat, wincing at the feel of his injuries, clinging to the sensation -- it's the only thing that feels sane to him at the moment.

"Tell me what you like," Viggo asks Sean casually as they wait for the food. He looks over at Sean, assesses him frankly; he's come out of this more whole than some of Christian's others. Christian is improving, and he suspects Sean is a damn sight stronger than any other boy to catch Christian's eye.

"In what context, Sir?" Sean asks. He turns, meets Viggo's eyes for a moment; turns away again. Turns back, finally. This is not what he expected, and he's been thinking that nonstop since Viggo appeared, and he's going to have to keep on thinking that, because, he suspects, Viggo is never going to do what Sean expects from him.

"What kinds of orders do you like to hear preceding your name?"

Sean huffs out a breath. "Kneeling. Providing comfort. Providing pleasure. Pain." He's being very broad about it, but he's also wondering how much he should give away so early. Hell, even Bale had to work for it, even if he did make it look effortless.

Viggo nods. "That's good. Did Christian put some salve on your stripes?"

"Yes."

"Good. You should see the pain lessen pretty drastically in a couple days. We'll take it easy till then."

"All right. What constitutes 'easy' for you?" Sean is finding it more comfortable to address Viggo out of formal voice for the time being; he should, he thinks, force himself into it anyway, so as not to lull himself into a false sense of security here. He'll worry about that later, when his mind isn't reeling quite so much.

"I won't etch my initials into your ass just yet," Viggo jokes as their food arrives. He hands Sean his portion and keeps his own in his lap, balancing it all precariously so he can eat and drive.

Sean raises an eyebrow at the arrangement. "Might it not be easier if you have your new acquisition feed you, Sir?" he asks.

"No," Viggo replies casually, humming happily at a bite of burger with just the right amount of pickles.

"Your new acquisition would be terribly distressed if his new owner's distraction with his food causes the both of them to end up in some kind of automotive accident," Sean presses, eyebrows drawing together, growing steadily more irritated. "Out of a sense of self-preservation, your new acquisition asks permission to handle your lunch, Sir."

Viggo grins lopsidedly. "'My new acquisition'?"

"If Sir would prefer his new acquisition address himself some other way, Sir is welcome to specify it." Sean is not going to be amused by this conversation. He is not.

"I've just never heard anyone use that before." He takes another bite of his burger, free hand firmly on the wheel.

"Your new acquisition is pleased to offer his new owner novelty," Sean says, rolling his eyes. He tugs his seat belt a little more firmly into place and decides to start in on his own lunch.

"Well, good," Viggo grins, "because you're providing it, whether you're pleased or not." He takes another bite, washes it down with tea, and says, "Alright. Enough pussyfooting. What do you really like?"

"God, do you need that much of a head start on me?" Sean asks. "Are you that bad at this?"

That makes Viggo smile. "Takes longer to get what you like that way. But if you need me to prove myself to you first, we can do it that way."

"Fine. Christ. Kneeling. Sucking cock. Choking. Leather restraints. Canes. Being fucked. Being fisted. Do you want more?"

Viggo washes down another bite. "Sure."

"Biting, scratching, humiliation, rimming, being held back from orgasm. The taste of shame on my skin. For fuck's sake, Sir, would you please hand over your lunch so you can use your turn indicators? If you get us both killed before you get us home, I'm going to be incredibly disappointed with you."

"The taste of shame on your skin," Viggo repeats, intrigued by that and uninterested in Sean's concerns about his driving.

Sean's eyes close. He meant to let that out -- he did -- but having Viggo repeat it that way, as if he knows exactly how to give Sean's skin that distinctive flavor, is thrilling and terribly intimidating, all at once.

"I think we'll get along fine," Viggo says quietly, finishing his burger.

"That would certainly be an interesting change," Sean murmurs. He rests his elbow on the car door and settles his forehead into his hand.

"Almost there," Viggo explains, pointing ahead to his house. "Here come the rules, alright?"

Sean sits upright, wincing again at the movement, and looks straight ahead. "Yes, Sir."

"Mi casa es su casa. Eat whenever you want; kitchen's always open. You can hang out wherever you want in the house, or the yard, except for the master bedroom. Your bedroom has a private bathroom. You take tea, right?"

"Yes, Sir." It's a very open invitation; Sean is nervous. The fewer overt rules there are, the more leeway Viggo has to get under his skin at random. There's less distinction between Sean-as-himself and Sean-as-Viggo's-new-acquisition this way, and Sean finds the idea disturbing.

"You mind electric kettles?"

Sean laughs a bit at that. "No, Sir."

Viggo grins back as he parks the car. "Good. We'll put one in your room so you can have your tea first thing, in privacy if you want. Okay?"

"Yes, Sir." Sean is convinced now that the other shoe is going to drop at any moment. Except that he isn't wearing shoes. God, he has me confused so badly even my mental metaphors aren't working properly, Sean thinks, rubbing at his eyes with both hands.

Viggo nods, noticing that the more freedom he assures Sean he has, the more formal Sean becomes. "Take some time and explore the house, take a nap, take a shower, whatever suits you. We'll get back together in a couple hours, alright? I'll probably be in the backyard."

"Yes, Sir," Sean says. "A nap, Sir, if you have no need of me immediately, Sir."

"Like I said," Viggo agrees, "you've got a couple hours."

"Two hours; yes, Sir." Sean is already setting his internal alarm clock; it's accurate, though he usually wakes up fifteen minutes before he means to.

Viggo gets out of the car, leaving it unlocked. "Upstairs, first door on the left," he calls to Sean. "Freshly made." He disappears into the house, headed into the backyard immediately.

Sean is intensely curious about Viggo's house, even more so about what Viggo's gone off to do. Still, he said he intended to take a nap, and he plans to do exactly that -- if only to live up to his promise. If only to prove he's not that curious about his new owner.

Viggo sprawls out in the hammock out back, settling himself so he faces the house. Sean's going to be difficult, but not in a way that bothers Viggo; he knows Sean's type, knows hands-off behavior drives them batty. He doubts they'll make it through the "couple of days" of easy stuff; Sean will probably need something hard and mean before then.

And that suits Viggo just fine.