Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For a while, all John can see of his latest potential acquirer are his shoes. Shoes, polished, and the pant legs of what must be a suit, and a metal-tipped cane. For his life experience, John’s not exactly a connoisseur, but he was (is?) an agent. He can recognize work of this level when he sees it - the quality, the expense. Can recognize the way the man talks, above him. He’s important, and he knows it, and he’s no supervisory agent, almost certainly. But he’s permitted to possibly posses an operative Ward, or he wouldn’t be here. So not just a civilian, either.

That leaves a question, which John of course has no way to answer at the moment. As generally happens at these presentations, John hasn’t even been addressed yet. Is mostly here for now to show off his form, his obedience to that default order of staying still and out of the way and ready to serve.

“Certified for companionship and as domestic?” By the sound of papers, the man is looking through his file.

“Yes, Mr. Heron. In addition to his operative certification, which you are of course welcome to review our material on.” More papers, another pause.

“His past seems - uneven.” John can imagine the rep throwing a look at Hersh. Most of the potential acquirers got to that, at some point. From his place at the wall, Hersh answers as he usually does.

“He was mismanaged, in his last placing. An unfortunate occurrence. We have corrected it.” Hersh, of course, is too much of a professional to state his actual opinion of the CIA and their training (‘or what passed for it’) in front of a potential acquirer. The rep continues the pitch, showing off his stats, describing their training philosophy. “We can provide a demonstration, if you wish,” Hersh states at the end. The man - Mr. Heron - pauses a moment, while John does his usual best not to shrink in on himself.

“Slightly later, perhaps. The operational material is my first priority, I should prefer to start with that.”

“Of course, Mr. Heron.” The rep presumably sets him up at the video station, brings up the files for him - John on the shooting range, in the practice ring, in simulations, the non-classified versions of his fuller mission reports. John can see Mr. Heron’s legs, the cane move as he settles himself. He reviews videos for maybe an hour. Asks questions occasionally, which the rep hurries to answer. John stays on his knees with his head down, waits for the parts that will require his action.

Papers sound again. “The medical report mentions a personal inspection, should I desire?”

“Of course, Mr. Heron.” There’s a pause and a snapping sound - gloves, presumably. John still doesn’t move - he hasn’t actually been told to, yet. Watches as the shoes and the cane approach him. He can see more of the suit this way. Same quality, of course, immaculate. Blue nitrile touches his lips and he opens his mouth for the fingers under it. Doesn’t try anything, lets them explore as they will.

“John, then?” The fingers remove themselves again. The voice, of course, is also closer now.

“Yes, sir.”

“Stand up.” John rises - one motion, still the best of forms. Stands at that somewhat approximation of parade rest, hands at the back of his head instead of behind his back, looking still at the floor. He’s wearing what more or less amount to scrubs - easy to take off, easy to leave on if the potential acquirers aren’t interested. This one is interested.

“Strip,” he says in the same voice of his. John’s good at this too, can do it quickly, perfectly, everything folded and then back in position in seconds. He can’t tell if Mr. Heron is impressed - probably not. At his level, he wouldn’t even be looking at Wards who would do any less. Blue-gloved hands touch him here and there, handle him.

“Bend over the table.” This time the hands are more direct. Two fingers push into him, move deliberately inside. John stays perfectly still, makes no sound.

“Get dressed.” Mr. Heron moves away from him again, back to the rep. “You had mentioned a demonstration?”

“Of course Mr. Heron.” She yields the floor to Hersh again. John finishes dressing, gets back on his knees. His heart feels like it’s beating harder, invisible shiver over his skin. Knows they haven’t even started yet, this isn’t in his programming. It doesn’t help.

“The collar is the latest model,” says Hersh. “Serviceable for casual reprimands.” He must press the button he has, because the collar comes to life at his words. Bites into him, runs barbed wire down his spine and out from it in jagged branches. Takes his vocal cords and most of his ability to move, leaves him doubled over, trying not to breathe loud enough to be heard. “It can be keyed to a variety of inputs including voiced commands.” Hersh continues. John knows it all already. Tries not to think ahead. Directs his imagination at what he can. At voice commands, apparently. At, invariably, Kara.

With the collar, training’s been kinder to him than Kara. Never used it for longer than minutes, almost. They had better, for that, which is hardly an advantage. But he can swallow without pain, usually, except when doing oral training. Doesn’t have to watch for tremors when trying to work.

”And for more formal situations?” Mr. Heron seems to have finished with the collar details.  And that’s the problem with distracting himself, of course. It doesn’t actually help for long.

John doesn’t listen to this part of the speech either. Knows perfectly well what it says. (- Synthetic triggered response, reinforced on itself-) It doesn’t matter how those who have him wish to correct him. What matters is that they wish it.

He stays on his knees, still and obedient (which won’t help). Controls his breathing, for now, which also won’t help.

Hersh finishes his explanation to Mr. Heron. John gets maybe half a second more, as Hersh redirects part of his attention to John.

“John, ---,” says Hersh.

John doesn’t get to hear the word. Doesn’t get to know what it is, so he couldn’t tell it to anyone, even if it wasn’t keyed to his masters only, even if he would somehow want to. John couldn’t care barely less about the word.

The terror, the wave of it, hits him everywhere at once. Presses into his chest, stabs into the base of his skull, sinks hooks below his diaphragm. Runs through his body, spirals out in his mind like fragmentation explosive.

He’s standing in front of a door, an abyss, and the worst thing in the world curls behind it, below him, and any moment will sent him over the edge and into it. (There’s nothing in the world he knows of, in reality, that would terrify him quite this much, like this. It doesn’t matter.)

Hersh beckons him over, barely a gesture, and of course it’s nothing as kind as that. He won’t be falling over the edge, he won’t be pushed. Every step is his.

He doesn’t stand, moves over on his knees. Kisses Hersh’s belt, buckle, leather. Undoes the buckle, pulls it out. Kneels further down and raises his hands to present it.

Another gesture; John moves away again. Every step is edging along towards a cliff, is seeing a wall ahead and forcing himself to steer directly at it, is being pushed inexorably, horribly, and having to drag himself hand over hand anyway.

A few feet away and turned, he reaches for hem of his shirt again. Unlike scrubs, his shirt has buttons. He can take it off over his head, when he’s allowed to, told to. That isn’t now. He finds them half by feel, like he can’t see them, has to put in effort so his hands don’t shake on them. (They do. He makes them keep going anyway).

He folds his shirt again, lays it to the side. Waits. Can’t say anything - can’t swear to be better; this isn’t punishment, there’s nothing he can promise, nothing he did, nothing he could tear himself to pieces not to do again. Can’t beg, not with the acquirer here, conditioning stopping the words, desperate formations. Can’t ask them why, why can’t this be a video too, why every single time, he’s been good, he hasn’t done anything, please .

Hersh says something to Mr. Heron. John doesn’t hear it, doesn’t hear anything until the air behind him and the belt lashes across his back.

It hurts, of course; Hersh doesn’t pull his strength. It doesn’t matter that it hurts. John shakes with them, every one, flinches, almost sobs. John would take every one, gladly, for the next hour, hours, if only it was only that, only his body, only pain. His flinches don’t move him more than inches. He forces himself back, still, form, position. Waiting for the next.

“John, ----.” He lost track, of course he did. The other word, unheard, brings him back. Terror drains out of him, like a whirlpool that becomes water, trickling out through sand. Leaves him behind it like empty pieces.

By practice, conditioning, he stays upright. Doesn’t take his eyes off the floor. Moves on his knees again back to Hersh. Kisses his shoes, the belt again. Cuffs of his sleeves, the hem of his jacket. With a pause in case permission is not granted, presses his lips below where the buckle had rested, heat even through the cloth. At another gesture, drops back down, crawls to Mr. Heron to kiss his shoes as well. Returns to Hersh, something between proper kneeling form and curling in on himself. The pull that comes after punishment is like hunger, wanting more, brush his lips against the jacket hem again, the buttons at his wrists, press himself against Hersh’s leg, curl and stay. He feels the air between them like emptiness, like a reminder of what’s permitted. Doesn’t move.

“I hope that was adequate?”

Cane, polished shoes, in front of his eyes again. “Quite. Thank you.” John can’t read anything in the voice, still.

Part of John’s brain seems to have forgotten the rep enough that her walking into his sight again almost startles him. “We fully recognize concerns over his prior record. But we’ve had excellent success rates with even far more difficult cases. Highest satisfaction. We’ve run the full panel of tests repeatedly, all the results attest stability and reliability. And as always, if there is any trouble, we remain on call at any time. A few occasions requiring retraining are very normal in the first few months, and our process is highly regarded, interruption to your work minimized to every possible extent-”

“Thank you, I’ve seen the files.” The rep falls silent for a moment. John isn’t sure if this is a good sign. Isn’t sure, at this point, what set of signs would be good. A potential acquirer who wants him means new masters, the full spectrum of fates that could bring him (Mark might have looked through files on him, once. Kara.) A potential acquirer who doesn’t want him means repeating all of this, again, in a day, in a few. Means another round of the penalty for not being wanted, even if there’s nothing in his behavior to reproach, compound it. (Not that that’s likely, for him). (Not correction though at least, not correction, however soon another dose of it might come it won’t be yet- )

The rep is talking again. “Anything else you would like to see, Mr. Heron? Anything we can provide for you?”

“No, I believe this should be everything.” Paper, again - he’s picked up the file, or a different one. ”He should be satisfactory to my purposes. Certainly for the trial period. If you’ll take me back to the office, I’d like to get through the paperwork. The sooner I can begin, the better - actualization is a higher virtue than patience, in my work-” The shoes and cane, the rep’s shoes, move away.

John stays where he is.

(In an office he cannot enter, between people whose faces he’s never seen, his life changes hands yet again.)

Chapter Text

John thinks he’s in the back of the truck for about five hours. His hands and ankles are cuffed, and there’s a guard there with him, but John knows it’s mostly for protocol. The guard spends more time on his phone than paying any attention to John, and leaves him alone for a good ten minutes when they stop, presumably at a reststop. But of course even aside from his trackers he’d never have been cleared for leasing if his trainers thought he’d jump out of a truck, moving or otherwise.

Since he doesn’t really have much to look at, he ends up looking repeatedly at his clothes. Not the kind-of-scrubs, anymore. He’d been brought a new outfit before being packed up to transport, soft brown slacks and a proper button down shirt, white with matching brown crosshatch lines. Your new master sent them. Hurry up. They fit perfectly, almost unbelievably so. John wonders if Mr. Heron - Harold , he corrects himself in his head. This is his master now and his name is Harold. John wonders if Harold is planning to send him off on a mission right away, doesn’t want him to stop to change clothes.

He shifts his feet against the floor of the truck. No socks or shoes, of course. Even if the mission’s immediate, no one’s going to let him wear them until it actually gets to that part.

John leans back against the wall as well as he can with his hands cuffed behind him. Does breathing exercises, mental focus. If there’s a mission, he’s going to be ready. If there’s not a mission he’ll also be ready; he’ll be good for Harold, he’ll be excellent, he’ll find out what Harold wants and he’ll do it, and Harold won’t need to send him back to training or re-leasing, won’t need to correct him too often-.

He can tell they’re in a city again because the truck stops moving consistently, stops and starts, the sounds of horns and heavier traffic penetrating through the back walls to him. He pictures maps in his head, considers cities the right distance away. He can tell when they stop for good because the guard gets a call and then gets up, crossing to John to undo his ankle restraints, unfasten his wrist restraints from the bench. John waits until the guard moves away again to stretch his legs, his arms as much as he can when they’re still bound, watches as the guard pulls a set of slippers out of the bag next to him. Backless, the kind John gets to wear outside when he’s not on a mission and it’s not too cold - no need for him to be stepping on broken glass or streets that presume shoes, but he couldn’t run in them like he can in proper shoes, would be at a disadvantage in a fight. Reminders, as always. (And not straight into a mission after all, then.) He puts them on when he’s indicated to them, picks up his bag when the guard unlocks his cuffs all the way, waits for the guard to open the back and escort him onto the street.

He figures out where they are almost immediately - New York, one of the cities he’s worked in before, domestically. Upscale place, upscale neighborhood. John’s expecting serving staff, maybe, but instead it’s Harold himself who opens the door, lets them into the entrance hall. John looks down, properly, doesn’t start looking around yet. Harold’s still in a suit (a different one, of course), though he doesn’t have his cane. The guard and Harold exchange pleasantries before getting into the formalities. John waits for his part; when it arrives he puts down his bag, gets to his knees. Kisses each of Harold’s shoes, straightens up partially.

“Master, I am in your possession, sir I am in your possession, sir control of me is yours.”

“And I assume it and take it on,” says Harold. The implant in his spine sparks - not pain but something else - and that’s it, it’s done in a way beyond and in addition to all the official paperwork. Everything that’s been done to his head will recognize Harold, now.

John stays on his knees for the other part, the guard giving Harold controllers for the collar. Harold pauses for longer than most people do before trying it - studying it, John thinks, from his pose. Isn’t sadistic, with the test, but isn’t tentative either - John gets the distinct impression that if there is a guide somewhere explaining the setting and duration best suited for testing a been-recalcitrant operational Ward’s collar, Harold had hit him with exactly that. (Once he’s through the part where he’s mostly too distracted by his nerve systems turning to lighting to think much, John’s glad, altogether. If the guard thought Harold might be too lenient with him, he’d have to report it in).

“John,” Harold says after that. Gives John part of a moment to get himself together again, even.

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t see a need to waste time. There’s a door with an orange band in the back hallway. You may arrange your things there and wait for me in the living room. Leave your shoes on the rack.”

“Yes, sir.” John doesn’t need to say anything to the guard - training had made their farewells to him, so to speak, before he’d left. He picks up his bag again and heads further inside.