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FIC: Seed (Deathknell, 1/1)
Title: Seed
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nilchance
A/N: A snapshot from Deathknell, Under Wandering Stars. Jensen eats a peach.
The stall was small and dense, an oasis in the middle of the bustling crowd. The air smelled like wax and bleach, sweat and sawdust. Jensen's shoulders ached from hunching. Not enough air in the market, too many people around to close in on him. He could feel eyes on his back. That wasn't paranoia or the flash-fire nightmares that kept rising up to blind him; they had a tail, a man strolling behind them to take Jensen's kill. Keeping his distance for now, until they had fewer witnesses. Chancellor's man, not Bentley's, a silent confirmation of what Jonas's death had only hinted. Their game had been made, and now Chancellor thought he could play, too.
Mine, Jensen thought savagely, trying to radiate it through the stiffness of his spine. If he met an attack dog with a hard stare and his own rattling snarl, there was a chance they might back off. It was better than dying with empty hands raised and a simpering 'nice doggy' on his lips. My kill, my quarry, mine.
As long as Jeff was alive, Jensen had time to develop an exit strategy. It was as simple as that. Anything else was Jensen's cover, only an act, only the job. It had to be. A mistake like last night couldn't happen again. He would hold himself together with glue and tape if he had to, but the center would damn well hold until this was over. He could break when he was free.
Jeff was a hot line against Jensen's back.
"Here," the woman called Samantha said, smiling as she held out her hand. "We just got this in today."
The peach lay small and fuzzy in her palm, a strange echo of the huge cartoon fruit portrayed on the outside of AgriBox cans. Jensen remembered chunks of orange swimming in chemical sap, crouching in the corner and sucking his sticky fingers clean. There was still a leaf jutting from the peach's stem. Somewhere far from here, there were orchards full of fruit trees, but Jensen couldn't picture it.
Warily, Jensen stretched out and took the peach from Samantha's hand. Her wrist was smooth and unmarked. Their fingers brushed. Jensen managed not to drop anything while his heart jerked hard against his ribs. This wasn't the gutter or the slavehold, and he wouldn't dart back to hide his prize. She was letting him have it, a lure for the rest of the sale. He managed a smile and ducked his head, trying for shy, probably looking spastic.
Believe me. Believe that I'm just a simple screwed-up slave, even if I don't, even if I wish I could--
His thumb dug a little into the dark, supple curve where stem gave way to flesh. He rolled the peach over to hide that imperfection and felt the juice bleed into his palm.
"Go on," Samantha coaxed.
The smell was sharp and clean, the fuzz ticklish against his lips. It was unpleasantly like pubic hair, and he barely kept from choking on memory. Then it yielded beneath his teeth, and juice flooded his mouth. Startled, he closed his eyes. It felt intimate, the wetness on his tongue so sweet it almost hurt. It was good, pure, and he was hungry. The taste seemed to resonate, pulling a low noise from his throat.
For a moment, there was nothing else. For a moment, he could forget.
Then Samantha laughed. Still swallowing, trying to get the last bit of sweetness out of the flesh and off his fingertips, Jensen opened his eyes and found Jeff watching him. Jeff's smile was nothing he recognized; Jensen's face felt hot.
It was an act. It was his cover, the crowd, the heat, the drugging sweetness of the peach. He wasn't lost. He wasn't drowning. It was fine, he was fine, of course he was fine.
Mine, Jensen thought traitorously, and looked away, rubbing his thumb over the knotted stone of the peach. The flesh around its heart was red as blood.
Author:
nilchanceA/N: A snapshot from Deathknell, Under Wandering Stars. Jensen eats a peach.
The stall was small and dense, an oasis in the middle of the bustling crowd. The air smelled like wax and bleach, sweat and sawdust. Jensen's shoulders ached from hunching. Not enough air in the market, too many people around to close in on him. He could feel eyes on his back. That wasn't paranoia or the flash-fire nightmares that kept rising up to blind him; they had a tail, a man strolling behind them to take Jensen's kill. Keeping his distance for now, until they had fewer witnesses. Chancellor's man, not Bentley's, a silent confirmation of what Jonas's death had only hinted. Their game had been made, and now Chancellor thought he could play, too.
Mine, Jensen thought savagely, trying to radiate it through the stiffness of his spine. If he met an attack dog with a hard stare and his own rattling snarl, there was a chance they might back off. It was better than dying with empty hands raised and a simpering 'nice doggy' on his lips. My kill, my quarry, mine.
As long as Jeff was alive, Jensen had time to develop an exit strategy. It was as simple as that. Anything else was Jensen's cover, only an act, only the job. It had to be. A mistake like last night couldn't happen again. He would hold himself together with glue and tape if he had to, but the center would damn well hold until this was over. He could break when he was free.
Jeff was a hot line against Jensen's back.
"Here," the woman called Samantha said, smiling as she held out her hand. "We just got this in today."
The peach lay small and fuzzy in her palm, a strange echo of the huge cartoon fruit portrayed on the outside of AgriBox cans. Jensen remembered chunks of orange swimming in chemical sap, crouching in the corner and sucking his sticky fingers clean. There was still a leaf jutting from the peach's stem. Somewhere far from here, there were orchards full of fruit trees, but Jensen couldn't picture it.
Warily, Jensen stretched out and took the peach from Samantha's hand. Her wrist was smooth and unmarked. Their fingers brushed. Jensen managed not to drop anything while his heart jerked hard against his ribs. This wasn't the gutter or the slavehold, and he wouldn't dart back to hide his prize. She was letting him have it, a lure for the rest of the sale. He managed a smile and ducked his head, trying for shy, probably looking spastic.
Believe me. Believe that I'm just a simple screwed-up slave, even if I don't, even if I wish I could--
His thumb dug a little into the dark, supple curve where stem gave way to flesh. He rolled the peach over to hide that imperfection and felt the juice bleed into his palm.
"Go on," Samantha coaxed.
The smell was sharp and clean, the fuzz ticklish against his lips. It was unpleasantly like pubic hair, and he barely kept from choking on memory. Then it yielded beneath his teeth, and juice flooded his mouth. Startled, he closed his eyes. It felt intimate, the wetness on his tongue so sweet it almost hurt. It was good, pure, and he was hungry. The taste seemed to resonate, pulling a low noise from his throat.
For a moment, there was nothing else. For a moment, he could forget.
Then Samantha laughed. Still swallowing, trying to get the last bit of sweetness out of the flesh and off his fingertips, Jensen opened his eyes and found Jeff watching him. Jeff's smile was nothing he recognized; Jensen's face felt hot.
It was an act. It was his cover, the crowd, the heat, the drugging sweetness of the peach. He wasn't lost. He wasn't drowning. It was fine, he was fine, of course he was fine.
Mine, Jensen thought traitorously, and looked away, rubbing his thumb over the knotted stone of the peach. The flesh around its heart was red as blood.