Velvet Need

by Sean Michael

  He wasn't gone more than two minutes, announcing himself as he came back into the room. “It's me, Dent. I'm back. You see. No one else."

  Dent stared at him, blinking slow. “Hey."

  Oh, that looked like Dent knew who he was. “Hello, Dent.” He crouched next to the bed, holding the straw to the man's dry, cracked lips. “Your juice."

  Those lips wrapped around the straw, Dent pulling hard, almost desperate.

  "Careful, now,” he murmured, easing the straw away. “You can't take it too quickly or you'll make yourself sick."

  "So good.” Dent panted, chest heaving.

  "And you can have some more in a moment.” He cleaned a drop of juice from Dent's lip. “Did they feed you at all?"

  Dent blushed dark, face turned away from him and into the pillow.

  "No, no. Do not turn away from me. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Never, my dear."

  He saw the thin shoulders shake in a broken sob, but the tears ended before they began as Dent retreated into a restless doze.

  Lutrell sighed and put the glass down on the small table with the food. He got into the bed, careful not to disturb Dent. He lay close, hand reaching out to rest on Dent's bicep. He did not think he would sleep, as he was too busy watching Dent breathe.

  Chapter Six

  Time, as a concept, lost importance for Lutrell.

  Dent would wake, moaning and whimpering with pain, and he would check the wounds for infection, re-spray them and feed Dent a bite or two, then let him have a few sips of juice. Most of the time, there was very little in Dent's eyes, other than the glaze of shock and pain. And the periods of wakefulness never lasted very long.

  Lutrell slept whenever Dent did, knowing that once Dent's body had begun to heal, once nutrition and liquid had begun to return, the shock and need to sleep constantly would fade and that was when Dent would need him most. He would sleep close to Dent, hand touching him somewhere, even if it was only to hold onto the little finger on one hand.

  Once or twice, he remembered to send updates to Hercules, and he figured he'd done it often enough as there hadn't been anyone banging on the door, demanding to know if they were all right.

  It was more sleep than he needed, and he had begun to lie fitfully, dreaming strange dreams as he lay on alert for any sound coming from Dent.

  Dent shifted, slid away from him, moaning and sitting up.

  He was awake right away, blinking and turning toward Dent. “How are you, my dear? Is anything hurting worse today? Are you thirsty?"

  "Bathroom."

  "Of course, of course."

  He climbed off the bed without disturbing Dent and came around. “How much help do you need getting up?” He was trying to let Dent be as autonomous as possible, but also hoping to spare Dent from directly asking for help.

  Dent held out one hand and let Lutrell get him up and moving. Then Dent went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

  Lutrell bit his lip, hating to have that door closed to him. Before this had happened, he wouldn't have allowed it, he would have just gone in.

  He tilted his head, gave Dent a minute to do his business, and then knocked and went in, as he would have if everything were normal.

  Dent was leaning against the sink, head bowed, shoulders moving as he panted.

  Lutrell took care of his own needs, flushing when he was done, acting casually and keeping an eye on Dent.

  Dent moved toward the shower, tottering. “Can I get wet?"

  "Let me check the gash on your leg. If it's clean enough that I can put some nuskin on it, then yes.” He guided Dent to the seat he'd had installed in the shower and took the bandages off Dent's thigh. Oh, the wound was looking good, the seepage all clear, as it should have been. “It's healing nicely, Dent."

  He gave the man a smile and took the nuskin from the cupboard, carefully sealing off the wound. He'd need to fix it later—nuskin wasn't meant to go on top of stitches and it couldn't keep a gash like this closed, but it would keep the water and soap out of the wound.

  "How about you just keep sitting there and I'll get the shower all turned on and just the way you like it."

  "Okay. Thank you.” Dent wasn't looking at him, wasn't really looking at anything.

  Lutrell turned on the shower, adjusting the water temperature to a little hotter than he himself liked and adjusting the spray flow to a fine mist that would wet Dent down completely without battering at him.

  He knelt before Dent to reassure him. “I have some nice soap to wash you with. You remember the one that smelled of the ocean?"

  Dent blinked down at him, focusing suddenly. “I do."

  He beamed up at Dent, even laughed a little. “Excellent! That's the one I'll use then.” He rubbed the soap between his hands, making it bubbly, letting Dent enjoy the heat and the water. He would imagine there had been precious few showers in captivity.

  Dent's eyes closed, head falling back to soak up the water.

  Lutrell made a very careful job of washing Dent's body, fingers dancing lightly over each injury. “So strong,” he murmured as he was careful around yet another burn, yet another bruise. “So very very strong."

  "I didn't feel strong."

  "You're still alive,” Lutrell pointed out. He stepped back, letting the water spray flow against Dent again, slowly rinsing away the soap.

  Dent nodded. “I am."

  "Yes. You are alive and you are here with me.” He chuckled a little, Dent's continued lucidity making him somewhat giddy. And he couldn't help but tease lightly. “Not that here with me is ever your first choice."

  Dent looked at him again, eyes still, serious. “You don't know that."

  His breath caught in his throat. “You're right. I don't.” He went down onto his knees so they were face to face, the water misting gently around them. “I had hoped you would know that you were in a safe place once you saw me. A place to heal, to hide.” He laughed softly. “Yes, I do realize the irony of that.” After all, hadn't he been working so hard to make Dent stop hiding from himself?

  Dent stared at him, a wealth of emotion in those eyes bare and raw between them.

  "You are here for as long as you want, my dear,” Lutrell whispered. “For as long as you need.” Leaning in, he pressed his lips softly against Dent's to seal the promise.

  One tear slipped from Dent's eye, hot and salty as it wet his lips.

  He pressed another kiss to Dent's lips, and then one on Dent's forehead. “You will get past what happened to you, my dear. With time, with your strength, with my help. It will eventually be just a bad dream."

  "I never want to dream again.” Dent shuddered, stood so slowly.

  He wrapped his arms around Dent's waist, daring to press close, to trust that Dent would not panic if this was too much contact, too soon. “It is my hope that you will one day feel differently."

  Dent went stiff, then, before he could pull away, leaned into him, letting Lutrell support his spare weight.

  Lutrell hummed softly, just holding the man. He didn't try to push Dent to do more, didn't try to take more for himself, though his fingers itched to stroke and pet and soothe.

  "Come,” he said finally, the fine misting water slowly becoming annoying against his skin. “Maybe you feel up to having a bit to eat and drink in the kitchen today?"

  Dent shook his head, sighed. “Not right now. I'm not hungry."

  "Back to bed, then? Or perhaps you'll sit on the couch with me? If you remember, the cushions were quite soft and I have new blankets—thick and warm. We could talk. Or watch vids. Or just be quiet together.” And he could coax some juice into Dent, perhaps even a bite or two. Moffat had sent up some amazing little pastries to tempt Dent's appetite.

  "The couch.” Dent nodded. “Please."

  "Oh, wonderful.” He clapped his hands together, that hopeful feeling in his belly spreading.

  Turning off the water, he drew Dent out of the shower and made quick work of drying them both off. He wrapped
a fresh towel around Dent's waist, pushing one end of the thick, soft terry in so it stayed up. Normally he would have insisted that Dent walk around quite naked, but it wasn't a normal time. One day they would be able to do that again, he was convinced of that. He had faith in Dent's strength.

  Dent leaned heavily on him as they made their way to the living room with his large and comfortable couch. His poor abused body just hadn't had enough sustenance or time to walk on his own yet.

  Lutrell took the towel off just before Dent sat, wrapping him in the blanket instead, knowing it would feel better against Dent's skin.

  Dent hummed and settled, eyes closing again. “Do you know if I have to do anything?"

  "No, my dear, nothing at all. Hercules has taken care of everything. He said...” Lutrell thought back to exactly what it was the boss had said. “Oh, yes. He'll happily put everything back in your lap as soon as you ask for it.” Lutrell leaned in and whispered. “He's got some lackey taking care of it all, really, so you take your time."

  "Oh. Good.” Dent relaxed. “I'm not ready."

  He was pleased to see Dent accepting that, not trying to jump back into things.

  Lutrell sat close, fingers stroking Dent's hand where it sat outside of the blanket. “Is there anything you'd like to talk about?"

  "No. No, I just want to sit."

  "We can do that."

  They sat quietly together, his hand stroking Dent's. He thought it would be a good idea in the future to make sure he left juice or at least water in here, as he was loathe to get up and break the peace Dent had momentarily found.

  Eventually, Dent leaned and shifted until that poor head was on his lap, Dent falling almost immediately back to sleep, hand curled around his knee. Lutrell sighed, fingers stroking over Dent's scalp as he relaxed back into the couch's embrace. It had been a good wakeful period, longer than most so far, and certainly, Dent had been far more lucid.

  Things were moving so very slowly, but as evidenced by today, they were moving.

  * * * *

  He slept as long as he could and when he couldn't sleep, he bathed. Dent refused to talk about what happened to him, refused to dream about it, refused to think about it. He simply slept and bathed and then slept again.

  Bertoli was always there, hand on him when he slept, helping him to bathe, feeding him juice, water, and some food that he couldn't taste. He had no idea how long the circle had continued.

  "You can't hide forever, you know, my dear."

  Dent closed his eyes, turned his face to the water.

  Bertoli's hands were soft on his skin, quiet. “This is no way to live, Dent. And I won't allow it."

  He wanted to hurt, to respond. He didn't. He didn't care. He couldn't care.

  "I said, I won't allow it.” Bertoli turned him, lips pressing against his own, tongue pushing into his mouth.

  He moaned, turned his head. “I'm not ready to wake up."

  "You'll never wake up if you wait until you're ready.” Bertoli chased his mouth down, kissing him again.

  He scooted back, shaking his head. “Please don't kiss me. I don't want to feel right now."

  "Do you have any idea how long it has been? How long you've been home here with me?"

  "No.” No, he didn't know anything.

  "Four weeks.” Bertoli's hands slid on his shoulders, his arms. “Four long weeks, Dent. How much longer will you continue this way?"

  "I don't know.” Years. Forever. He didn't know.

  "I won't let you. The shower is over. Come with me.” Bertoli turned off the water and took his hand, tugging him along.

  He followed until they passed the bedroom window, then resisted. “I'm tired.” He was. He was so tired.

  "You'll be able to lie down on my table."

  "You can't fit there with me."

  "I won't be lying down with you. I will be washing you. You remember our ritual, my dear? How we always begin?"

  "I'm clean. I'm still wet."

  "Oh, I'll dry you first. And you aren't ritual clean. There is a difference."

  He was led right into the room with the surgical table, the cuffs attached to the boards that moved. There he stopped, faced Bertoli, met those unusual, beautiful eyes. “Please. Bertoli. Listen to me. I'm not ready. Please."

  "Will you take a step in another direction, then? Talk to me. I am not asking for a full confessional, but something. I cannot let you sleep forever. I will not."

  "I don't want to think about it. Never again.” He stepped closer to Bertoli, chilled, needing to feel his lover close. Oh. Needed.

  Bertoli's hands slid along his arms, up and down in slow, soft movements. “You will never get past it if you do not think about it."

  He leaned in, breathing in deep as his arms slid around Bertoli. “I don't think I will get past it."

  Bertoli held him, fingers stroking along his spine now, the man hot. “You will. I insist."

  "You're so warm. I was so tired of being cold."

  "Was it cold there? Come and sit with me. The blankets are warm. We'll sit close."

  He nodded, following Bertoli, trusting the man. Bertoli heard him. Listened.

  They went to the kitchen first, Bertoli grabbing a tray before leading him through to the pristine living room. The couch was comfortable, warm, Bertoli wrapping him in covers and Bertoli's long body.

  "Thank you.” He kept his eyes open, but he pressed close, letting Bertoli hold him.

  Bertoli hummed softly. “I want only to help you, you know this, yes? To make you whole again. To have my Dent back."

  "I know. I missed you."

  "Oh. Oh, thank you, my dear.” Bertoli kissed his forehead, his nose, and his lips.

  Dent sighed a little and relaxed into the warmth.

  "Did they keep you naked?” Bertoli asked him softly, fingers drawing little patterns on his skin.

  "No. I had my pants. The black ones with the silver threads."

  "But you were cold? I won't let you be cold. I've had the heat turned up since you've been here.” Bertoli chuckled a little, the sound an echo from ... before. “I'm beginning to find myself enjoying it."

  "I was in an airlock on a ship. It was frigid."

  "Oh how...” Bertoli shuddered. “Confining.” He was tugged closer to Bertoli's long body, the soft blanket pulled tighter around them both. “Were you scared?"

  "Not at first. At first I was just angry.” At first he thought it would be over quickly.

  "Yes. That I can see. I imagine you were very angry. I can just hear you.” A gentle kiss landed on his forehead, the hands on him also becoming gentler. “How did they manage to capture you?"

  "A stun blast. I was going from one building to another on Tief IV and they hit me.” That was the beginning. When he'd woken up he'd been on a ship already.

  "Animals.” Bertoli clipped the word, almost sniffed, his body tight before a breath or two relaxed him again. “Why you? Was it just because you're rich or was it ... personal?"

  "Both.” They'd been hired by someone who wanted his assets and his assent to a sale of a particular item. They'd kept him for more and more money.

  "So strong, my dear. You held out for so long. And from what I have been told you were not abandoned, though I am sure it felt that way. Your company paid them and in the end, the military had to be called in to effect a rescue. Such unscrupulous men deserve to rot."

  "I didn't feel strong. I couldn't think.” He couldn't focus.

  "Still, you lived, you survived. Based solely on your injuries, I imagine many men would have died.” Bertoli drew back and looked over his body, fingers finding faded scars from bites, burns and cuts. “All you need is to regain your weight and no one would ever know. Aside from your eyes. I can see in them how it haunts you, even if you would rather push it away and pretend it had never happened."

  "They...” They had broken him.

  "They hurt you, yes? Again and again and again.” Bertoli's fingers moved over him. “I want to go back to ou
r work, Dent. What you and I were becoming together before this happened. I want to bind you and wash you and give you an enema and know that you know all you have to do is say ‘nightlight’ and I will release you and hold you and everything will be okay.” He was held tight. “I want to show them they have not taken your life from you."

  "I'm afraid.” He couldn't say the words loudly, could only whisper them.

  "I know. I would worry that there was something wrong with you if you weren't.” Bertoli's lips pressed suddenly against his own. “But you know I will stop if you need me to. No matter what we are doing."

  "I ... I don't know if I can. If I can feel."

  "But you'll try for me."

  It wasn't a question. Bertoli kissed him gently, tongue sliding along his lips and teasing in between them. He pushed closer, let Bertoli touch him, hold him. He didn't try to escape it.

  His features were traced, lips explored, and then his neck caressed as their lips were joined together. Bertoli's breath was sweet as it filled his mouth, pushing life into his lungs. Every second that passed relaxed him, eased him. Healed him.

  Bertoli shifted, the heat of an erection pressing against his side. He wasn't hard. He didn't think he could be anymore, but it felt good, sensing Bertoli's need.

  "I want you,” murmured Bertoli. “Like I have never wanted anyone."

  "Why?” The question was important, somehow.

  Bertoli stopped, gave his question due consideration. “Because you touch me as no one else ever has.” A finger slid along his breastbone. “I mean inside, as well as out."

  He didn't answer. He couldn't. It wouldn't matter now, that he loved Bertoli. It wouldn't make a difference.

  Bertoli kissed him again and then drew back, holding his eyes. “Come with me. I know what you need."

  "I don't know if I can."

  "But you'll try. And if you need to, you'll say your safeword and I will stop.” Bertoli stood, hand reached out to him.

  "You'll stop.” His chest pounded, ached.

  Bertoli's hand wrapped around his, tugged him up. “Yes. Tell me your safeword now so I know you remember it."

  "Nightlight.” It was nightlight. He didn't want to do this.

  "That's right. All you have to do is say nightlight at any point and I will stop. I will not stop if you tell me no or if you say stop. You must say nightlight."