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pigeonwhumps · 2 hours

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Angie Has A Cold

CW: colds and associated symptoms, but nothing major. This is just good old-fashioned sickfic and fluff.

Advice from the Box Boy Liberation Movement:

Although it can be difficult to do, try to find time for yourself. Continue your hobbies if possible and take advantage of opportunities for self care. You still have needs and taking care of yourself is not only a smart choice, but also models good boundaries for rescuees.

Angie had only been away for a long weekend for her sister's wedding, but Tim found that he was looking forward to having her back. Of course, it wasn't that he couldn't handle the work of taking care of the rescuees and they were all perfectly happy to pitch in when they could, anyway. But Tim missed having someone else to talk to who saw the world the way he did, who he could interact with without having to put all his words through what he thought of as "the Pet filter".

When he heard Angie's car pull into the driveway, Tim found himself grinning ear to ear. He went to open the door for her- it was raining hard and she had a suitcase to manage. You needed to pack a lot of things to be a bridesmaid, it turned out.

Tim wasn't a moment too soon and opened the door to find Angie standing there, shifting her heavy suitcase to her left hand so that she could fumble for her key.

"Thanks!" she gasped as she ducked into the safety of the front hall. "Whew. It's really coming down! Would you believe I was dry until I got out of the car just now?"

"I might," Tim said.

"And how are the guys? And you? Did you guys do okay?" She set the suitcase down and wiped wet hair out of her face.

"Yeah, we were fine. We watched a lot of movies. The weather's making everyone feel a little... achy. Not quite themselves, I guess. We're just passing the ibuprofen around the room every few hours and that helps."

"Good." Angie sneezed into the crook of her arm and then straightened up and stretched. "I'll take this upstairs and change into something less... soaked. Be right back!"

She was downstairs in just a few minutes and settled onto the couch in her usual spot to watch the end of their movie before joining Tim in the kitchen to cook dinner.

"Anything in particular sound good to you?" Tim asked, standing in front of the open pantry with his arms crossed. "I didn't get to the store this weekend, so ingredients are a little scarce right now."

"It's fine," Angie assured him. "I'll go tomorrow." She peered at the shelves. "How about soup and sandwiches? We have enough for everyone and it sounds amazing." She shivered and added, "I just can't seem to get warm."

Tim peered at her. "Are you okay? You don't think you're getting sick?"

"Nah, I'm fine. It's just cold out."

Tim accepted the answer, but found himself studying her closely when, later in the evening, she sneezed again and began coughing. She swore that she had swallowed something wrong, but when she went to bed immediately after the rescuees were settled for the night, Tim had his doubts.

Sure enough, the next morning, Angie was nowhere to be seen. Tim helped Francis downstairs, saw the rescuees settled in their usual spots, and made breakfast for all five of them before he began to worry.

"No Angie this morning?" Nathan asked. "Think she's jet lagged?"

"She might be," Tim said doubtfully. "I'll go check on her after breakfast."

They ate and then Tim stood and said, in the most casual voice he could, to hide his worry, "Still no Angie- I guess I'll go knock on her door and make sure everything's okay." He tried to seem unconcerned and ignored the anxious look that Francis and Mikey exchanged.

Tim strolled out of the room, but as soon as he had rounded the corner, he picked up the pace. He wasn't sure why he was so nervous, he thought. Then he silently admonished himself for lying. He did know why- it wasn’t that he was afraid something uniquely awful had happened, only that Angie was the one person in the house he could count on to be well and normal. She was always cheerful and energetic, even when she was tired and it would just be so strange if she were to be anything else.

Then, stopping in front of her door, Tim gave himself a mental shake. Angie was not required to perform, he reminded himself. She was allowed to have an off day, too, and he would do whatever she needed. If that was even what was happening.

Tim knocked on the door and Angie's gravelly voice answered. "Come in."

He opened the door a little tentatively to find her still in bed, wrapped up in a blanket and looking thoroughly miserable. A box of tissues sat on her nightstand and some of its contents was now wadded up in and around a wastebasket.

"Morning," Tim said, entering very slowly and picking his way around the tissues to sit lightly on the edge of her bed. "Just came to see how you're doing."

"Not great," Angie admitted. She took another tissue and blew her nose, then leaned back against the pillows with a tired groan. "You were right," she admitted. "I guess I was getting sick."

"Poor you," Tim said sympathetically. He stood, left the room, and returned a moment later with a thermometer. "May I?"

"Go ahead." Angie accepted the thermometer under her tongue and held her head while they waited for it to beep. When it did, she watched him expectantly.

"Yeah, you definitely have a fever. Not bad- not, like, Francis-bad, but it's there."

"I can tell. I'm hot and cold and everything aches." Tim patted her hand and she sniffed and smiled at him.

"Think you can keep some breakfast down if I bring it to you?"

"I can come downstairs," she said, but she didn't look like she meant it and Tim shook his head.

"I'll be right back," he said and it was a sign of exactly how she felt that Angie lay quietly back against her pillows and watched him go.

Downstairs, Tim put some bread in the toaster and checked in with the rescuees. They had looked up in an almost synchronized movement when he came down the stairs and then watched him, waiting for news.

"She's sick, all right," he confirmed. To the nervous look that flashed across Mikey's face, he added, "Nothing too serious. She just has a little feverish cold. We'll take good care of her and she'll be better soon."

"Poor Ma'am," Francis murmured.

"If there's anything we can do to help, we will," Nathan told Tim, and Mikey nodded, ignoring the casts on his hands that would make it hard for him to help anyone. Tim smiled.

"Thanks, guys. I'll pass on the good wishes and start her off with some breakfast."

Angie didn't appear to have moved since Tim left. This was worrying, but he pushed it aside. She was sick; she was allowed to act unlike herself if she needed to. Besides, he noted, she pushed herself up in the bed when he came in and gave him a thin smile. He stayed and kept her company while she drank some of the juice and nibbled at the toast.

"Sorry," she said when she had put the second piece of toast back on the plate half-eaten. "I don't think I can take any more right now."

"That's okay," he replied in his most soothing voice. "You rest and I'll come back up in a little while to see if you need anything and check on your fever."

"My fever will probably be right here waiting for you," Angie said dryly. "But I'll be okay. I promise."

"I'll hold you to it."

Angie slid down again in the bed, shivering, and smiled as Tim reached over and tucked the comforter around her.

Tim tried not to be exasperated later that morning when Francis asked, for what seemed like the tenth time, "Sir, ought we not to go and see to Ma'am? Francis would be more than willing to sit with her, if she is in need..." he trailed off, unsure.

"I'm pretty sure she's fine," Tim said, also for the tenth time. He looked at the clock and shrugged. "But you know, it has been two hours. I'll go up and just see if she's even awake. Will that make you all feel better?"

Francis wasn't able to answer such a direct question, but Mikey nodded and Nathan grinned sympathetically at Tim. He had memories of being sick in a similar way and was more sure that Angie really would recover without long-term adverse effects.

Tim tried not to sigh as he went upstairs. The questions were only annoying because he was asking himself the same thing, he had to admit. And if he took another perspective, it was really a positive thing that Francis was able to ask repeatedly for something he felt was important. It was progress.

Once again, Tim tapped very lightly at the door. He half hoped Angie wouldn't answer, which would mean she was sleeping.

"Come in." No such luck, and she sounded horribly congested.

As he had suspected, the pile of tissues was noticeably higher. She had also thrown her blankets aside and was clutching a sheet to her chest as she coughed into her elbow.

"At least I got sick after the wedding," Angie managed to say. She closed her eyes and pressed a hand over them. "Sorry. My head hurts."

"And your face is bright red," Tim noted. "Your fever must be up."

"Yeah, probably. It feels worse. I'm all dizzy." Then, illogically, she swung her feet over the side of the bed. "I should get some medicine, though."

"Already brought you some." Tim was anxious to keep her from exerting herself and he held out the pills and a small cup of water.

"You're the best." She took them and laid back with a sigh. "Sorry I'm not more help around the house today. Are the guys okay?"

"They're worried about you," Tim told her. "Francis is almost being annoying about it- not that I really mind, of course. But he got very insistent that I should come check on you."

"Good for him," Angie hummed with a small smile. Tim had known she would understand. Then she sighed. "Tell them I'm fine- more or less- and I'm going back to sleep. If I get bored later, I'll come downstairs."

"I'll leave you alone," Tim agreed. "Want me to come check on you at lunchtime? You should probably try to eat again then, if you can. There's always more toast, or I can make soup. Those are classics for a reason and we have a lot of soup in the backup pantry."

"Ugh," Angie groaned. She held her stomach and looked a little green. "Don't talk to me about food. But thanks."

"Sorry. I'll see you in a few hours." She murmured some inaudible assent and Tim saw himself out.

Tim's report from the sickroom kept the rescuees' anxiety at bay almost until the agreed-upon next visit at lunch. As the hour approached, though, Tim couldn't help noticing Mikey and Francis glancing over at him every few minutes, clearly waiting for him to leave the room.

When Tim stood up, they visibly relaxed and then tensed again as he walked into the kitchen instead of upstairs. Tim, who hadn't done it on purpose, felt guilty at this.

"I'm going to put some soup on," he told them, "and then I'll go look in on her. I know you're worried, but she really will be okay and we all have to eat lunch, after all."

There was no grumbling, of course, but Tim suspected that if they hadn't once been Pets, Francis and Mikey would have protested. Everyone would be fine, Tim reminded himself, and put the soup on to warm before finally heading up the stairs.

This time, he knocked and let himself in without waiting for an answer. Angie was sitting up again, dozing against her pillows, and opened her eyes when she heard him come in.

"Welcome back."

"Thanks, I think. How are you feeling now?"

She shrugged listlessly. "About the same, but bored. Is it lunchtime already?"

"It is. Do you think you could eat something?"

She grimaced but said, "Maybe a little. It doesn't sound great, but I should eat, even if I don't want to."

"That's the spirit."

"Can I come downstairs?" Angie asked, sounding like a child who was prepared to plead for what she wanted.

"If you feel up to it," Tim said. He didn't want to pressure her, but he hoped she would come downstairs. It would help Mikey and Francis relax if they could see her, he was sure.

"Okay, great. Give me one second." Tim turned his gaze slightly aside so that he wasn't staring awkwardly at her as she climbed out of bed and made her way across the room to retrieve a flannel robe that was hung over the back of a chair. She drew it tightly around her and shivered, but headed for the door.

"You need a hand?" Tim asked in the same fake-casual voice he felt like he had been using all day.

Angie’s feverish head felt faint and she was a little unsteady on her feet. She reached one hand out to brace herself on the doorframe and pressed the other hand to her brow.

"I think so," she replied reluctantly. "My poor head's all dizzy, still."

"Well, let's get you downstairs and settled on the couch, then." Tim gave her his arm to lean on and they made their way very slowly down the stairs.

When she entered the room, all three rescuees- even Nathan, who had not been so nervous- brightened up.

"Hi guys," Angie croaked and made sure to smile at them. Mikey beamed at her and Francis smiled warmly. They both looked happy to see her and more relaxed than they had been yet that day.

"Come sit down," Nathan said in a concerned voice, gesturing to the other end of the couch. "You look like you're gonna fall over."

"I'll be okay," Angie assured him, but she kept a hold on Tim's arm and let him help her across the room. She tucked her feet under her as she eased herself down onto the couch and leaned back with a light sigh.

"I'll get everyone lunch," Tim said, not that anyone was listening, and bustled off.

"Francis is very sorry that you're ill, Ma'am," Francis said in a shy voice. "He hopes you are not suffering very much."

"Nah, it's not that bad." She made the effort to smile. "Just... not quite myself today, that's all. It happens."

Tim returned with bowls of soup for Nathan and Francis and then set up a tray in front of Angie. She found that she didn't have much stomach for food and stopped after a few spoonfuls until she felt something brush her leg.

When she looked down, it was Mikey, touching her knee lightly to get her attention. She smiled wanly at him but he looked concerned. He reached up with his heavily bandaged right hand and tapped his mouth, telling her that she should eat.

Angie almost explained that she didn't want to, but then she took another look at Mikey's wide, earnest eyes and he tapped his mouth more insistently, then gestured clumsily at her bowl.

"Okay, I'll have some more," she agreed. "You're right. It'll be good for me." For his sake, she finished most of the bowl, although the meal was heavy in her belly and made her a little sick. Mikey and Francis- and Tim, she noticed- looked satisfied, which mostly made it worth it.

After lunch, Angie sat shivering on the couch while Tim cleared away the dishes. When he returned, he was carrying the thermometer.

"Time for another temperature check," he announced cheerfully, and stuck it under her tongue.

Angie's fever had apparently become a spectator sport, and she wasn't too sick to feel awkward with all four of them watching her as the number on the thermometer climbed.

"101.7," Tim announced. "And time for the patient to take her medicine."

"Francis would like to help," Francis said. He looked nervously from Angie to Tim and clasped his hands, which were shaking slightly. It made him nervous to speak up like that, but he was desperate to do something for poor Ma'am, who had so often comforted him when he was ill.

"Sure," Tim said, putting on his casual voice again so that Francis would know he was welcome to express himself freely. "I bet Angie would appreciate that. Right?"

"Sure," she agreed. "Thank you, Francis."

Tim got the bottle of medicine and helped Francis cross the room to sit in a chair next to Angie.

"Sir, could you please bring a cool washcloth?" Francis asked. "For Ma'am," he hastened to add.

Angie almost couldn't believe the sudden change in Francis, who had actually managed to communicate an intention and was now very nearly taking charge of something. He had even made a direct request of Tim. She realized why and her heart was so full that she almost cried. The slight red tint around Tim's eyes when he returned from the kitchen suggested that he had cried. Francis, who couldn't even refer to himself in first person, had asserted himself for Angie's sake.

She knew she would be thinking about the implications of that for a long time, but for now she tried to remain in the present.

Francis poured Angie's medicine into a spoon and held it out. At first, she started to raise her hand to take it, and then realized he was holding it towards her mouth. She tried not to smile as she let him administer it to her, just the way he fed Mikey when it was his turn to do so.

When the spoon was empty, Francis lay it neatly down on a napkin and took up the damp washcloth, folding it into a long rectangle. He leaned towards Angie and pressed it to her brow.

"This is an excellent thing to do when you are feverish," he said, looking very gentle and solemn. She wondered if he knew a cold washcloth was an ordinary fever treatment, or if he thought it was something special that only Tim knew about. "Francis found it very beneficial when he had a fever." He held the cloth in place for her, as if she was too feeble to do it herself, and Angie remembered how many hours Tim had sat with Francis just like this.

"Thanks, Francis," Angie said. "It does feel good."

"Francis is very sorry to see Ma'am so poorly," he replied in that same caring tone. "He hopes you will be much better soon."

Angie smiled around the room. "With all of you to take care of me, I know I will."

Master List

Notes: I've got so many ideas for the Safehouse characters, but some of them fall outside of any specific spot on the timeline. Also, to be honest, I don't want to have to worry about the passage of time for every story I do in that series. So, while I'm definitely going to continue doing longer plot arcs, those plot arcs won't always have to follow one after the other. I'm also going to start letting myself just do standalone stories or short arcs like this one. Enjoy!

Tag list: @pigeonwhumps, @cepheusgalaxy, @i-eat-worlds, @honeycollectswhump @taterswhump,

@starfields08000 @whumpsday, @fruitypinapple00, @currentlyinthesprial

#aww francis

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pigeonwhumps · 11 hours

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Wiping a tear away with the tip of a knife

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pigeonwhumps · 11 hours

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no one ever chooses to be the flawed design

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pigeonwhumps · 11 hours

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Writing Prompt 116

A high hero, drugged either by an enemy or by choice, stumbling into the villain's hq looking for their parent, Supervillain.

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pigeonwhumps · 13 hours

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Your whump word(s) of the day

"Just... put the gun down, ok? No one has to get hurt."

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pigeonwhumps · 15 hours

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vampire caretaker feels like an absolute piece of shit for feeding off of human whumpee, even though human whumpee has expressed being fine with it several times. but caretaker still worries - that whumpee is only complying because they're afraid not to, or because they feel obligated to repay caretaker for saving them, that whumpee really isn't okay with being fed on and caretaker has become just as bad as whumper. they need to feed off whumpee to live, but god they hate themself for it every time

content: vampire caretaker, consensual biting, comfort

Whumpee dabbed away the blood from their neck with a paper towel, then gently applied some antiseptic cream. They couldn’t see their friend in the mirror, but they could just sense that their mood had plummeted again.

“Caretaker…” they sighed as they turned around. “Stop moping.”

Caretaker didn’t even look at them. “How can you say that? I just bit you.”

“Consensually. I agreed to be bitten.”

“How can you agree to something like that?” they snapped. “If I don’t drink, I’ll die! Neither of us get a real choice in this!”

Whumpee rolled their eyes. “Even if the only consequence was some mild discomfort, I’d still let you drink. Maybe even if there was no consequence at all.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I’m not a child. I can decide who to give my blood to.” They walked over to their dejected companion and cupped their face. “And I choose to give it to you, okay? Tonight, tomorrow night, all the nights I have left. Because you’re my friend and I love you dearly.” They let go and stepped away, grabbing the roll of bandages. “Now, come help me with this part.”

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pigeonwhumps · 15 hours

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Nice whumpy thing: when people are intensely pragmatic about their injuries illnesses.

“Listen, if I pass out…”

“If you let up pressure, I’ll bleed out. So just, don’t move.”

“I know it ill hurt, just do what you need to.”

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pigeonwhumps · 18 hours

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pigeonwhumps · 18 hours

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Strong/powerful whumpees being held as trophies. They are showcased in front of anyone the Whumper wants to in-still fear in.

Whumper doesn’t ask Whumpee to do anything. Just stay silent. Stay still.

Maybe Whumpee is chained up, kept in a glass box?

Maybe Whumpee is muzzled?

Whumpee is kept weak so they can’t fight back. Drugged? Starved? Your choice.

Whumper wants them displayed to show their dominance. The ability to contain someone so powerful like it’s nothing.

Do with that what you will, besties x

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pigeonwhumps · 18 hours

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BBU Community Days: fanwork

For my most beloved BBU OC, the least I can do is make a little moodboard for @bbu-on-the-side Fanwork day.

(pictures from unsplash)

Lourdes by @wildfaewhump

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pigeonwhumps · 19 hours

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BBU Community Days 2024, Day 13

April 26 / Writing Prompt: "MADE FOR IT" / Write a BBU story based on the prompt and share it!

CW: for institutionalized slavery, whipping, foot injury, blood, emotional abuse

Most boxboys were transported to their new owners after purchase in the boxes that inspired the term- long, narrow crates into which they were packed and shipped- but not KV1946. On the day he was sent to his Master, KV1946 was washed and dressed in slacks and a sport coat and ordered into the back seat of a car. He was careful not to wrinkle the clothing when he fastened the seat belt and he folded his hands carefully in front of him and sat very still during the ride.

He would have liked to spend more time looking out the window, but he had been instructed to sit properly, which meant straightening his spine and looking directly ahead. KV1946 tried not to feel nervous and instead focused on remembering his training. There would be cleaning to do, household management, serving at meals... he could do those things. He had been trained. Perhaps he would be able to please his Master.

It was slightly more than an hour before KV1946 saw a large house come into view. It was situated in the middle of extensive, beautifully manicured grounds and the car pulled up in a circular drive out front. KV1946 sat very still until the WRU employee who was driving ordered him to get out and stood to greet her client.

Someone had opened the door and his Master was coming down the wide front steps, smiling broadly. He was in middle age, dressed in a fine suit and adjusting his cuffs in a way that suggested he didn't need to adjust them but wanted the WRU lady to know he was the kind of man who wore cufflinks on a Tuesday morning.

"Welcome, welcome," he said, spreading his hands wide as if showing the WRU lady that the grounds were hers to enjoy, for the minutes she would be present on them. "Is this my young man, then?" He strode over to KV1946 and peered closely at him with a smile that was as much a show as the cufflinks.

KV1946 stood quietly, as he had been trained, with his hands clasped loosely in front of him; his new Master circled him very slowly, examining the merchandise.

"I'm told you did very well in your training," he said. "I was pleased to hear it. We hold very high standards, here." He looked KV1946 in the eye in a way that seemed to require a response. KV1946 lowered his eyes deferentially and said quietly, "Yes, Master."

The man gave a delighted little laugh. "Very good! Very good, indeed." Then he ignored KV1946 to speak briefly to the WRU employee and hand her an envelope with a discreet but substantial tip.

When KV1946's Master had finished speaking, even though the WRU lady was still right there, standing outside her car, he turned away from her and shifted his attention to the Pet as thoroughly as if she had never existed.

"Come inside," he ordered his newest purchase. "I will show you the house and acquaint you with your tasks. Referring to you by serial number is vulgar; you will be called Francis." And off he swept with KV1946- now Francis- following as quickly as he could.

The next hour was a whirlwind tour of the home and, to an extent, the grounds. Francis' responsibilities lay entirely inside, but Master wanted him to know where things were around the property, in case of some need. Francis hoped desperately that he could remember all of it and when he was told to go begin fixing lunch, was relieved to find that he knew the way to the kitchen.

Lunch was served without any particular difficulty and then Francis cleaned the kitchen until it sparkled. Afterwards, he retrieved Master's laundry and spent some time treating stains and loading the washing machine. After that, there was dusting in the office.

All the while, Master sat on the porch in the sunshine with a long-stemmed glass in hand. When he saw Francis, he looked very satisfied and said, "I don't know why I didn't get one of you a long time ago."

The satisfaction made Francis' heart leap. Master's happiness was his own sense of security and he found that he desperately wanted to hear another approving word. He would be perfect for Master. Master would like him and keep him and he would never be sent back to the WRU, like bad Pets were. Even the thought made Francis shiver. He had seen, at least enough to have an idea, what happened to Pets who were sent back.

Late that evening, Francis began to feel overwhelmed. It was hard to remember the long list of chores and the order in which they were to be completed. He wracked his brain, ignoring a slight headache, to remember whether he was to do the ironing before setting out Master's clothes for the following day, or after.

He guessed incorrectly and Master, now dressed in a smoking jacket, entered his room and frowned. "Where are my clothes?" he demanded of Francis, who froze and tried not to look as nervous as he felt.

"Master?"

"No, no 'Master'. You were to lay out a suit and then begin the ironing. I want to have my room all to myself, not spend my evening waiting on your pleasure to have clean clothes." He shook his head. "This is not what I was led to expect when I purchased you."

"This Pet is very sorry, Master." Francis hung his head. He could hear the rough, nervous edge in his voice.

"Finish the ironing and then go to the basement," Master said in a very firm tone.

Francis' hands were shaking as he finished the last few items and although he wasn't sure what would happen in the basement, he did know that he wasn't looking forward to finding out.

When he got there, Master was already standing at the bottom of the stairs, his arms crossed, with a small switch in his hand. There was a chair in the center of the room, away from the walls and the bit of bedding Francis was allowed- or would have been allowed, he thought. He would have to see if Master took it away for his infraction.

"I am going to be lenient on you, because it's your first day here," Master explained. "Sit in that chair and hold up one foot."

For a moment, Francis was mystified, and then he realized what Master planned to do. He sat and gripped the sides of the chair so that Master wouldn't see his hands trembling. Master took Francis' heel in one hand and raised the small whip, bringing it down on the sole of Francis' right foot with surprising force.

Francis let out a soft cry and then clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the noise. Master looked at him with something like disgust.

"What are you crying for already?" he asked. "It can't possibly hurt that badly. You were made for this, after all." He didn't seem to want a reply, which was as well. Francis kept his hand over his mouth as the whip connected again with the sole of his foot.

On the third blow, Master let out a small cry of his own and jumped back suddenly, letting Francis' foot fall to the floor.

"I've cut myself," Master exclaimed. He was holding up his left hand, which was bleeding from a single laceration across the backs of his fingers. Master made a noise of frustration and pain and then said through gritted teeth, "Wait here, I don't want you making a mess."

He disappeared for a moment and returned with a plastic box, which he thrust towards Francis. "It's a first aid kit. Bandage my hand for me."

The absurdity of the situation never occurred to Francis; he simply opened the kit, found an individually wrapped wipe to clean the wound and then the gauze and medical tape. While he dabbed away the blood, Master hissed and swore under his breath and when Francis had taped on the bandage, he shook his hand as if it smarted.

Francis almost dared to hope he would give up on the rest of the punishment, but there was no such luck. "Hold your foot out," Master said. Francis did so, holding his leg up with both hands under his knee. Using only one hand, Master continued the flogging, ignoring the drops of blood that fell to the floor. Francis pressed his lips tightly together to prevent another upsetting display of emotion that would only make this worse and waited for it to be over. When he thought he might not be able to stand any more, Master finally straightened up and nodded once.

"Clean that up," he said, gesturing to the blood spatters on the floor. "And I expect you on duty as I told you in the morning." Then he stalked up the stairs, taking the whip with him.

In the basement, Francis sat in the chair and tried to collect himself. His breath coming in shuddering sighs but he squeezed his eyes shut and fought to stay quiet and controlled. When he rose to clean the floor, he walked gingerly on the outside of his foot. His vision closed to a pinprick of light as he worked, shutting him off from the pain, pushing it away so that it felt almost like another entity. But when he finally lowered himself carefully to his cot, the agony washed up over Francis and he hugged his knee to his chest and cried himself to sleep.

In the morning, Francis was woken early by the pain. He was still clutching his knee and his foot still stung so badly that he was almost afraid to look at it. When he worked up the courage, the news was not good. The foot and ankle were badly swollen and the sole of his foot was covered in dried blood.

When he dressed, slowly and painfully, Francis found that his sock fit, though tightly, but he couldn't get his shoe on over it. He pulled at the shoe, tugging at the tongue and trying to force the heel, until he was crying again and was about to risk being late for his duties. At last, Francis gave up and ascended the stairs, fully dressed except for his wounded foot in its soft, white sock.

Master wasn't downstairs yet and Francis began the first chores of the day, limping badly as he made the rounds of the house to water the plants and then headed back to the kitchen to begin breakfast. He cooked eggs, toast and sausage and fried some tomatoes and arranged it all on a large plate. He brewed coffee and set a place at the dining room table with understated-but-elegant china and a crystal glass for orange juice. He placed a newspaper above Master's place and kept the food warm until Master seated himself at the table and rang for it.

Francis brought out the plate and went back for a mug of coffee and then for the orange juice, ready in a clear carafe to be poured fresh for Master. It was on the third trip that Master, nearing the end of the page he was reading, caught sight of Francis out of the corner of his eye and looked up in displeasure.

"What is that?" He asked, gesturing dismissively at Francis' feet.

"This Pet was unable to get his shoe on," Francis said in a very small voice. He found that his mouth had gone dry and it was hard to speak.

"This Pet has orders not to appear above stairs in less than immaculate condition," Master corrected him coldly. "I took care that you would be fit to serve. Go below stairs at once and fix the issue. Do not appear above stairs under-dressed again. My guests will be here for a morning garden party in one hour. I expect the porch swept and mimosas staged on the table. There will be finger sandwiches for lunch and you will stay outside to serve." He turned back to his newspaper, which meant that Francis was dismissed.

Shaking in the aftermath of his fear, Francis limped back down the stairs and almost fell onto his pallet, where the odd shoe sat. He eyed it with distaste for a moment, but there was no time to waste. It was going to be a busy morning and he would need to use all of the time to prepare. Francis tried again to put the shoe on, but still without success.

He took a moment for a deep breath and a sigh and then began to unlace the shoe completely. With the laces off, he was able to place his foot inside it and lace the shoe up, after a fashion. His foot was already beginning to throb and when he stood, it took all his training to keep him on his feet and headed up the stairs.

Francis was driven nearly to distraction by the pain, but he was somehow still upright and had even managed to put out a clean, white tablecloth and a vase of flowers to display the mimosas before Master's guests arrived. As ordered, Francis stationed himself next to the table with a tray to collect empty glasses and to keep the table supplied with drinks and light canapes.

Master greeted the guests and showed them to the back porch, handing each a drink as they passed through the door to mill about on the flagstones of the porch. The hand he had injured while punishing Francis remained bandaged and Master had placed it in a narrow black sling to go with his morning coat.

"You poor thing!" one of his guests cooed. "Whatever have you done to your hand?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing," Master said, clearly pleased at the attention. "Just a little cut, the doctor says everything ought to be fine before many weeks have passed." He waved the other hand languidly, dismissing the opinions of doctors who, he implied, fussed too much.

"You bear it very bravely, I'm sure," the woman assured him, patting his shoulder sympathetically. She finished her drink and held it out, secure in the knowledge that the help would be by to collect it immediately.

Francis moved away from the safety of the table to take the glass. He tried not to shuffle, which would probably make Master angry, but his foot was throbbing so badly that he could hardly think of anything else. He hoped he could go back and stand behind the table, in the shade, and put all his weight on his left foot for just a few minutes.

"Doesn't your pet mind just standing there like that?" another woman asked his Master. "Won't he get bored?" Master looked over as if he had only just noticed Francis standing there, as if he was so used to Francis that he was no more noticeable than the trees.

"I can't imagine so," Master said in a musing voice. "After all, isn't that what they're made for?"

The party lasted for a few hours and by the time he brought out the finger sandwiches, Francis was shaking and sick with pain. At each step, he wondered whether his leg would give way and drop him- and, more importantly, the sandwiches- to the ground, right there in front of all of Master's guests.

Somehow, he got through the rest of the morning and then the afternoon as well; luckily, Master seemed to be tired out by the effort of hosting and went to take a nap. Francis could limp as much as he needed and stand on his left foot only while he cooked and cleaned. The day went by very slowly, but in a strange haze. The foot went numb after several hours and Francis was a little relieved, although the numbness made it hard to balance when he walked.

At last, Master turned in for the night and Francis went back to the basement. He sat down on the top step and eased himself down with his right foot held in the air. At the bottom, he very carefully untied and unlaced the shoe and drew it off, his heart pounding uncomfortably as feeling came back into the swollen flesh. With feeling came terrible pain and Francis could feel the small supper he had been allowed turn over in his stomach. He hopped desperately to the toilet in the corner of the room, but nothing came up and after a few long moments, he finally collapsed onto his cot.

Later, Francis barely remembered that day. It was not so different from many of the ones that came after it and working while he was in pain became the most ordinary thing in the world for him. But it was one late night, in a different house entirely, that Master's words came back to him.

It had been a long day; Francis was still expending more energy than he knew in trying to understand his new home. Sir and Ma'am were kind, but could be confusing sometimes. Francis was always waiting for them to change, to become angry, to begin ordering him about. He did not expect to live without fear, but the relentless struggle to make sense of his new life was taking its toll.

That night, Sir carried Francis up to bed while Mikey and Nathan stayed downstairs with Ma'am. It was not so late, really, and the sun had only just dipped below the horizon, but Francis had been running hot all day and the pain in his feet was making him restless.

"I'm so sorry you aren't feeling better yet," Sir said, sounding like he meant it.

"Francis will be in working order soon," Francis replied. He hoped it was true.

"Don't worry about working," Sir said, for some reason, but it was in a cheerful tone that might almost have been a joke and Francis was more confused than frightened by the words. He wasn't sure how to respond, and so he didn't. Instead, he lay still and watched Sir bustle about.

Sir straightened his blankets so they laid across his shins, not over his bandaged feet where they would feel heavy and hurt Francis. Then Sir put a thermometer in his mouth and waited patiently for the result. After three minutes, he removed it, peered at it, and shook his head.

"It's about what I expected," he said and then placed a cool water bottle on Francis' head. It was soothing to his hot skin and racing mind and almost made Francis feel like he might be able to fall asleep.

Maybe it was the high fever that made him so bold, but Francis looked up at Sir, sitting there quietly, watching him with such worry on his face and he dared to ask a question.

"Sir- if Francis might be permitted- er- why are you and Ma'am doing all of this?"

"What, taking care of you guys?" Francis nodded and worried that maybe he shouldn't have spoken, in case Sir thought he was ungrateful.

Instead, Sir smiled and shrugged a little. "Humans take care of each other- it's just what we do. I guess we were made for it."

Master List

Notes: Some backstory for Francis!

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