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The examination room was small—just a pallet and enough bare deck to walk around it. And a heavy, heavy door.
Anat tried to tell himself that he might have set things up the same way, if he’d needed to examine a patient alone. Tried again to at least remember that Temechi had had him alone this morning and nothing had happened. But all he could think was that it was a bed, and soundproofed walls, and—
For a shameful moment Anat couldn’t bring himself to let go.
Shivering on the pallet, he couldn’t think what had come over him. Wasn’t it Temechi he was afraid of? Why cling to him, when…
He stripped off his tunic before Temechi could order him to, and had his hands on the waistband of his trousers when Temechi said, “Keep those on for now.”
Anat froze. For now…
He’d never belonged to an apothecary before, but the Space Wolves’ medics had seen to him more often than his brothers, and they’d always made it worth their while. Sometimes the captain had stayed to watch.
“It’s cold for you,” Temechi was saying in that gentle tone of his.
Don’t hope, he told himself as Temechi began. Temechi would do… what he would do, and there was no point in being disappointed when it happened. Not when Temechi had already been so merciful.
Each touch was preceded by a murmured warning; each time Anat fought to relax, to cooperate. He kept himself as still as he could while Temechi inspected his body, listened to his hearts and lungs, looked over his chest—could he feel the plate through the scant remaining muscle?—and hollow stomach. Temechi touched only where he warned he would; each time his touch was gentle and mercifully brief.
It was a mercy, even if he dared not believe it would last. A dozen mercies. And yet…
Temechi reached his back, touching ever more lightly now that he was behind Anat, merely asking him to hold his hair out of the way. His hands did not linger at Anat’s hips; instead, he moved on to his right arm, asking Anat to move this way and that.
He should be relieved.
(But was he being found wanting?)
Temechi finished with the right arm and started on the left, still briskly taking stock of old injuries, occasionally applying a bandage or a salve to a newer one. That left—his head, and his neck.
The jewelry. Of course, the jewelry. It would be in the way. He should have spent that waiting time taking it off instead of reading—
Temechi showed him a length of cloth, and gently said, “I’d like to wrap this around the jewelry, so that I can lift it out of the way.”
It looked like a scarf. Or a strangler’s weapon.
… “May I?”
Temechi handed it over without hesitation, and Anat teased it under the mass of necklaces, wrapped it around. At Temechi’s direction he raised it and lowered it, so that he could get a good look at all of Anat’s neck, and pronounce it in no need of tending.
(It had been a long time since Anat had struggled against the collar, except… except when the captain had made him spasm. And the captain had liked to threaten strangulation, but the thing itself had not been one of his favorite torments.)
It wasn’t so bad when Temechi moved on to checking his jaw, or his remaining eye, or even his mouth. But when he moved on to the socket—
Anat pulled the fabric strip from around his neck and wound it tight around his hands, focusing on that discomfort as much as he could.
His remaining eye he kept closed, once Temechi was done with it. The other Temechi had to hold open, open on nothing. (He’d thought at the time that the captain had taken the lid too, but it had looked normal in this morning’s mirror. Perhaps the pain had addled him back then.)
Temechi moved on to checking his scalp for injuries or open sores—the tangles were giving him some trouble, but it was almost the kind of contact Anat had been teaching himself to lean into, with Sogetai. Anat was grateful, at least, for the buffer between his eye and—what must come later.
“You can put your tunic back on,” Temechi said—gentle, still gentle—and Anat did so before he slipped out of his trousers.
He saw his own bruised and dirty thighs and had to look away for shame. His gene-sire’s image reduced to this—
“If you need to take a break, that’s fine.”
“No. Please—please get it over with.” Without meaning to Anat made a rough gesture with his hand—obscene, he would have said once.
That was blunter than he should be. It wasn’t as if he had the status to express dislike of anything his masters might choose to do to him. But Temechi just nodded and helped him move into position.
(When they were ready to use him, would Temechi do the same then?)
No use. No use. He mouthed the Enumerations while Temechi’s hands were busy between his legs—powerless words now, and he dared not speak them aloud.
By the time Temechi told him he was done he’d lost track of the repetitions, and didn’t understand that he was to sit again until Temechi took his hand to pull him upright.
At least Temechi wasn’t annoyed by his slowness. He just moved on to checking Anat’s legs for injuries and then for range of motion, matter-of-fact as always. Anat let his eye unfocus and tried to control his breathing again, though the Enumerations were too great a risk now that Temechi could see his face.
When Temechi reached his ankles he let Anat put his trousers back on. He rushed to do so, and startled afterwards as Temechi started inspecting his feet. He’d almost forgotten about the injuries that had started this. They hurt, still, but this was easier than—than what he’d just done.
The bandages Temechi wrapped around Anat’s feet were probably mostly intended to remind him not to walk. As if Anat needed to be reminded of his orders. He’d been a hard patient once, but he knew better than to cause trouble now.
“All done,” said Temechi, and put a hand on Anat’s shoulder.
So. Not today, then.
Almost on impulse, Anat leaned his cheek against Temechi’s hand. Through his half-lidded eye he thought he saw Temechi’s expression soften in response.
He could do this, he told himself.
Anat tried to tell himself that he might have set things up the same way, if he’d needed to examine a patient alone. Tried again to at least remember that Temechi had had him alone this morning and nothing had happened. But all he could think was that it was a bed, and soundproofed walls, and—
For a shameful moment Anat couldn’t bring himself to let go.
Shivering on the pallet, he couldn’t think what had come over him. Wasn’t it Temechi he was afraid of? Why cling to him, when…
He stripped off his tunic before Temechi could order him to, and had his hands on the waistband of his trousers when Temechi said, “Keep those on for now.”
Anat froze. For now…
He’d never belonged to an apothecary before, but the Space Wolves’ medics had seen to him more often than his brothers, and they’d always made it worth their while. Sometimes the captain had stayed to watch.
“It’s cold for you,” Temechi was saying in that gentle tone of his.
Don’t hope, he told himself as Temechi began. Temechi would do… what he would do, and there was no point in being disappointed when it happened. Not when Temechi had already been so merciful.
Each touch was preceded by a murmured warning; each time Anat fought to relax, to cooperate. He kept himself as still as he could while Temechi inspected his body, listened to his hearts and lungs, looked over his chest—could he feel the plate through the scant remaining muscle?—and hollow stomach. Temechi touched only where he warned he would; each time his touch was gentle and mercifully brief.
It was a mercy, even if he dared not believe it would last. A dozen mercies. And yet…
Temechi reached his back, touching ever more lightly now that he was behind Anat, merely asking him to hold his hair out of the way. His hands did not linger at Anat’s hips; instead, he moved on to his right arm, asking Anat to move this way and that.
He should be relieved.
(But was he being found wanting?)
Temechi finished with the right arm and started on the left, still briskly taking stock of old injuries, occasionally applying a bandage or a salve to a newer one. That left—his head, and his neck.
The jewelry. Of course, the jewelry. It would be in the way. He should have spent that waiting time taking it off instead of reading—
Temechi showed him a length of cloth, and gently said, “I’d like to wrap this around the jewelry, so that I can lift it out of the way.”
It looked like a scarf. Or a strangler’s weapon.
… “May I?”
Temechi handed it over without hesitation, and Anat teased it under the mass of necklaces, wrapped it around. At Temechi’s direction he raised it and lowered it, so that he could get a good look at all of Anat’s neck, and pronounce it in no need of tending.
(It had been a long time since Anat had struggled against the collar, except… except when the captain had made him spasm. And the captain had liked to threaten strangulation, but the thing itself had not been one of his favorite torments.)
It wasn’t so bad when Temechi moved on to checking his jaw, or his remaining eye, or even his mouth. But when he moved on to the socket—
Anat pulled the fabric strip from around his neck and wound it tight around his hands, focusing on that discomfort as much as he could.
His remaining eye he kept closed, once Temechi was done with it. The other Temechi had to hold open, open on nothing. (He’d thought at the time that the captain had taken the lid too, but it had looked normal in this morning’s mirror. Perhaps the pain had addled him back then.)
Temechi moved on to checking his scalp for injuries or open sores—the tangles were giving him some trouble, but it was almost the kind of contact Anat had been teaching himself to lean into, with Sogetai. Anat was grateful, at least, for the buffer between his eye and—what must come later.
“You can put your tunic back on,” Temechi said—gentle, still gentle—and Anat did so before he slipped out of his trousers.
He saw his own bruised and dirty thighs and had to look away for shame. His gene-sire’s image reduced to this—
“If you need to take a break, that’s fine.”
“No. Please—please get it over with.” Without meaning to Anat made a rough gesture with his hand—obscene, he would have said once.
That was blunter than he should be. It wasn’t as if he had the status to express dislike of anything his masters might choose to do to him. But Temechi just nodded and helped him move into position.
(When they were ready to use him, would Temechi do the same then?)
No use. No use. He mouthed the Enumerations while Temechi’s hands were busy between his legs—powerless words now, and he dared not speak them aloud.
By the time Temechi told him he was done he’d lost track of the repetitions, and didn’t understand that he was to sit again until Temechi took his hand to pull him upright.
At least Temechi wasn’t annoyed by his slowness. He just moved on to checking Anat’s legs for injuries and then for range of motion, matter-of-fact as always. Anat let his eye unfocus and tried to control his breathing again, though the Enumerations were too great a risk now that Temechi could see his face.
When Temechi reached his ankles he let Anat put his trousers back on. He rushed to do so, and startled afterwards as Temechi started inspecting his feet. He’d almost forgotten about the injuries that had started this. They hurt, still, but this was easier than—than what he’d just done.
The bandages Temechi wrapped around Anat’s feet were probably mostly intended to remind him not to walk. As if Anat needed to be reminded of his orders. He’d been a hard patient once, but he knew better than to cause trouble now.
“All done,” said Temechi, and put a hand on Anat’s shoulder.
So. Not today, then.
Almost on impulse, Anat leaned his cheek against Temechi’s hand. Through his half-lidded eye he thought he saw Temechi’s expression soften in response.
He could do this, he told himself.
