Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Master’s rules are the last thing in Aiden’s head right now.

For once, the feeling of cool, comfortable leather instead of the hard floor mats of the car isn’t as unnerving, isn’t as wrong and scary. Aiden couldn’t care less about where his ass is placed right now. It’s hard to think about anything else, when all his awareness is around Cam’s hand, gripping his own with vice-like intensity, when the sheer desperation radiating off of the strongest person Aiden knows is almost suffocating. Not to mention a weirdly quiet, introspective Daniel sitting and fidgeting in the front seat.

You know what? Aiden isn’t even that worried about the fact that Daniel hasn’t spoken to him since Saturday. Since that… interaction, which had ended with Daniel sprinting out of the room like Aiden had just sprouted horns.

Aiden’s mind has- for once - pushed aside the fact that his new owner has been ignoring him, seems almost scared of him, and keeps glancing back at him with some bizarre expression that he could almost mistake for guilt.

“Fifteen more minutes,” Daniel mumbles from the front seat, shooting Aiden a quick glance from the rearview mirror, before quickly focusing on his own knuckles. That has been going on ever since they sat down in the car. Aiden is too fucking tired to know what to make of it.

“Yes, sir,” he replies automatically, squeezing Cam’s hand.

Daniel’s silence isn’t as unnerving as Cam’s. Because Cam has barely said a word to Aiden since that conversation. 

That conversation.

Even now, when Aiden keeps staring intently at Cam, willing him to look up from the floor, to smile reassuringly or promise that it would all be alright, all Cam does is study the rubber floormats. The only acknowledgement Cam lends to Aiden’s existence is an occasional tightening of his fingers around Aiden’s hand, or an absent rub on Aiden’s knuckles.

For the past two days, ever since that conversation, ever word Cam had uttered had been soft, tentative, thought out and painfully apologetic.

“ Aiden, I’m so sorry. I just wanted you to know.”
“ Aiden, I know it was dumb. But please don’t- I just- I regret it, I really do. You know that, right? ”

It had been nearly forty hours of an eerie silence- a silence Aiden had desperately needed, trying to really, truly understand everything - a silence occasionally interrupted by a slave bringing in soups and food and water, and by Cam’s whispered explanations.

And Aiden hadn’t exactly been able to reassure Cam, to tell him that Aiden didn’t blame him or hate him or think he was stupid. Not soon enough, anyway. Aiden hadn’t really said anything until a whole twelve hours later. And even that hadn’t been substantial.

But he doesn’t blame himself.

Aiden sucks in a breath through his teeth, watching sidewalks and pedestrians and other cars whiz past them through his window.

He doesn’t blame himself, and he shouldn’t, either. Right?

“ I… tried to kill myself. I was an idiot. It was three years ago. They caught me in time. It’s why I’m so fucked up. I’m sorry, Aiden. ”

He hadn’t been able to understand.

The details hadn’t made it any easier.

How could he have expected that ?

Aiden digs his nails into the palm of his free hand- the one not intwined with Cam’s- trying to keep his breaths, which are beginning to quicken, as silent as possible.

He can’t think about that now. He’ll just break down in Cam’s arms again . In front of Daniel this time. He can’t do that. He’s already pushed his luck this far, is already walking on a tightrope.

He has to be good. He has to be strong. For Cam’s sake- Cam, who is pale and trembling and visibly in agony, sitting so close to Aiden- practically glued to his side, clinging on like a dying man to a raft. 

It’s usually the other way around, always been the other way around, with Aiden’s latching on to Cam for strength, security, sanity- everything.

Aiden’s not used to being the strong one.

But Cam is more scared than Aiden’s ever seen him. Seemingly of the doctor, the one Daniel swears is kind and good and ‘not, like, a pervert’. 

Cam hasn’t admitted it yet, but Aiden thinks that Cam is afraid of the doctor saying he’ll never heal.

That’s not true. That can’t be true.

Aiden shuts his eyes, taking measured, slow, noiseless breaths.

Cam has to get better. 

He will. Aiden isn’t going to let himself imagine otherwise. 

He presses his head against his seat, plunging the nail of his thumb into the tips of his index, then his middle finger, then the-

“We’re- yeah- we’re basically here,” Daniel pipes up again, scratching the back of his neck. “Just one more turn.”

Aiden opens his eyes, sits up straight. Hopefully, he doesn’t look as stupidly anxious as he feels. “Yes, sir.” 

Aiden turns to look at Cam. Again.

No eye contact, no signs that Cam’s aware of his surroundings, no nothing.

Aiden feels like a million bricks are being stacked on top of his shoulders, a new one added every second, just waiting for him to buckle and crumble and fail.

He can carry the load this time, he reminds himself. God knows Cam’s done it long enough.

Because Aiden’s not a kid anymore. And Cam’s not- not whole anymore- not yet.

So Aiden squeezes Cam’s hand for the hundredth time, forces a smile, and tries to look confident. It’s gonna be okay, he mouths. 

Even though he knows Cam doesn’t notice, that Cam’s too far gone in his head- maybe wondering what it would be like to live with this pain forever, to never be able to drink water or eat food or walk or speak or hold a fucking spoon without it taking every ounce of will power.

Shut up. Shut the fuck up . Aiden looks away.

He’s going to try to be strong for both of them, he is , but he sure as hell isn’t strong enough to contemplate any of those possibilities.

Daniel clears his throat, just as Aiden registers the car slowly coming to a stop. “And… we’re here. I’ll, uh, help Cam out. Yeah?”

“Yes, thank you, sir,” Aiden recites, slowly removing his hand from Cam’s grip.

Cam’s hand falls limply onto his lap.

Aiden’s fingers feel cold. He feels cold. His hand is starting to shake. 

“Okay. Okay, cool,” Daniel mumbles, stumbling out of the door to his seat.

“Cam,” Aiden quickly whispers, trying to say what he wants to in the few seconds they have alone- or at least, when it’s just them and the chauffeur- “it’ll be okay. I swear. I’m here. We’re safe. Promise.”

Cam doesn’t reply. He nods- well, or so Aiden chooses to believe- because the movement is barely noticeable.

“We’ll be fine, Cam,” Aiden tries again, forcing a smile that’s faker than anything he’s worn during Master’s parties. “I promise. You can count on me this time.”

It’s not cold anymore.

Aiden’s sweating.

He can’t get Cam out of it, out of whatever dark spiral he’s trapped in. Aiden’s not as good at this as Cam is. He never was. 

God, you’re useless.

Daniel unceremoniously lugs the door to Cam’s seat open, standing awkwardly for a few seconds before stretching out his arms.

“I’ll just- uh- yeah.”

All Aiden can do is watch Daniel gingerly hoist Cam up, wordlessly follow them out, and try not to crack at the way Cam flinches at the door being shut behind Aiden.

“ Remember, Aiden, when you hear something real loud and you’re around your owners, don’t let ‘em know you’re scared, okay? Try to keep it all in your head. Or they’ll get mad.”

Aiden starts digging his nails into his other palm, the one that still feels warm, like Cam.

Every step behind Daniel feels like his legs are made out of lead.

He’s just walking a few yards. It shouldn’t be that hard. None of this should be this hard. 

Maybe Aiden can’t do this.

He has to try. Fuck, he has to try. For Cam.

Daniel can’t tell which is more confusing- Cam’s blank, dazed expression or the doctor’s. 

“You have… improved, kid, that’s for sure,” Dr. Clayman mutters, eyeing Cam, who’s slouching on the examination bed. Clayman looks… constipated.

Daniel can’t put it a better way. The doc looks like he’s perplexed and disappointed and annoyed, all at once. 

“Thank you, sir,” Cam replies softly, staring fixedly at his lap.

Clayman nods, but still, something about the look in his eyes is… far from reassuring.

“No need to thank me, son. Your body’s the one doing the healing. It’s clear you’ve put on some weight. And you can speak with less pain, I’m assuming. So we are making some progress.”

Daniel swallows a sigh, shifting on his feet, trying to not let his disgruntledness show. 

Christ, he wants the doctor to go ahead and blurt out whatever the fuck is going on in his mind. It’s maddening, trying to figure out why he looks so wary while narrating seemingly good news. Aren’t doctors supposed to have positive demeanours while examining patients and shit? This fucker must have failed that test.

Daniel shoves his hands into his pockets, and dares a glance at Aiden (for the five hundredth time today). The slave is sitting on the very edge of the chair in front of Clayman’s desk, eyes glued to Cam, practically chewing off his lower lip. 

Jeez. And Daniel thought he was worried. Aiden’s gone three shades paler, creating a hole in his lip, with his knee bobbing like Daniel’s after seven cups of coffee. And he’s even frowning - a proper, worried, imperfect frown. Daniel’s so far only seen Aiden wear pretty smiles, or be close to a breakdown because of something Daniel did.

“Doc,” Daniel says, tearing his gaze from the nervous, beautiful wreck, hoping what he’s about to say doesn’t come off as rude or inconsiderate or biased. “Uh, Aiden- this is Aiden, by the way-” Daniel gestures unnecessarily, “-he’s here for a check up, too.”

Clayman looks up from the clipboard in his hand, giving Daniel a thoroughly sceptical once over. Does this bloody doctor dislike Daniel, too?

“Hmm, yes,” Dr. Clayman says, directing his gaze to Aiden- who suddenly looks a lot shorter, a lot smaller, hunched into himself and staring at the floor. “He is your personal, isn’t he?”

Your personal. That sounds so wrong . If Dad ever heard someone address a slave as ‘ Daniel’s’ , he’d hate his son more than he already does. 

Daniel hasn’t been able to stop thinking about Dad.

Two days, two whole days since that call, without a single word from the man. Nothing as much as a ‘hello, son,’; ‘don’t worry son, I still love you,’; ‘yes, you fucked up, but I’ll help you pick up the pieces,’; or even, ‘don’t worry, I could never hate you as much as I do Michael’.

Focus, Daniel.

His fists clench inside his pockets. Managing to mess up a doctor’s visit and get in the way of getting these slaves healthcare will not make Daniel’s case any better. Back to the matter at hand. 

“Yes, yes, he is,” Daniel replies, several moments too late for it to be anything but awkward. Still, he valiantly carries on, “And he was… drugged. Really bad. Just a few days ago. God knows what else they did to him. Plus, you know, couple years living with my brother’s probably fucked him up a lot. So, you know, I… brought him here. With Cam.”

He doesn’t have to explain it this much. He really doesn’t. But when he’s nervous- which he definitely is right now, about Dad, about Aiden, about his whole fucking life- he can’t stop talking.

“I see,” Clayman says, peering at Aiden as though he’s a specimen in a glass jar. “You want me to examine him first?”

Now, what the fuck is Daniel supposed to say to that ? He clenches his fists, half hidden behind Aiden’s chair, feet seemingly stuck to the carpet.

If he says yes, he’s being a dick to Cam. But- and okay, it’s a mean thought- there’s only so much Dr. Clayman can do for Cam. It’s a longer, slower, more painful process. The doc can, however, quickly run some tests and make sure Aiden’s okay, that Daniel’s actions didn’t cause Aiden any long lasting harm.

It isn’t even that selfish. Clayman’s gonna need a while to check up on Cam, and that’s perfectly fine. It would just be better for everyone- Aiden included, and hell, maybe even Cam, because he gets some more time to compose himself or snap out of whatever daze he’s in- if they get Aiden’s stuff out of the way first.

Daniel musters the courage to reply honestly when- it startles everyone in the room- when Aiden speaks.

“Yes, sir,” he says, so softly that Daniel barely hears him. “Please. If the doctor could look at me first.”
Aiden’s head is now turned to face Daniel, a pleading expression on his face- lips fixed in a stupidly perfect pout, eyes wide and almost tremulous.

Daniel wants to scream, thank you !

Instead, he clears his throat, very composed, very relaxed. “Sure,” he agrees, nodding briskly. “That sounds good. Doc, would you do as he asked, please?”

Clayman looks like he’s on the verge of cracking a smile. Like he sees right through Daniel. It’s so fucking maddening. Daniel’s never gotten pissed at a doctor’s visit before. “Sure,” Clayman replies easily. “Come on up here, son. Next to your friend.”

Aiden stands up after just a moment of hesitation, ambling over to the paper-covered bed and gingerly sitting down, close to Cam. Very close to Cam. Daniel may be imagining it, but, as he takes Aiden’s seat, he can see Cam’s shoulders relax, just by a little bit.

Maybe that’s why Aiden’s so eager to sit next to Cam. Not because he’s impatient, like Daniel, but because he’s a good person who wants to be there for his friend.

Right now, public consensus violently disagrees with the idea of Daniel being a good person.

“How old are you?” Dr. Clayman asks, flashing Aiden a cheery ol’ grin. 

Aiden, for some reason, takes a few seconds to consider the question. After a pause- why pause? Is he calculating his age to the hour?- Aiden replies softly, “Around nineteen, sir.”

Clayman jots that down. “Good, good. Any previous history of ownership before your current master?”

Aiden shakes his head immediately. “No, sir. Straight from the House to my master, sir.”

“Alrighty, then. Mr. Colefield over here mentioned something about you being drugged recently. Care to explain the context, son?” Clayman’s entire attitude- the way he speaks, his posture- it’s all far too relaxed and happy for that grim question. 

Aiden bites at his lip again- shit, most of it is just raw - before replying. “It was for a party, sir. A sedative, I think. Not sure what exactly.”

Clayman nods, scribbling down something. “Did it knock you out immediately? Or did it take a while to kick in.”

“It- well- it made me feel a little… disoriented almost immediately, sir,” Aiden says, his voice dipping to a level that Daniel can’t hear unless he leans forward. “I think it kicked in after ten minutes, or so. And I think I was unconscious for… maybe sixteen hours, sir.”

Clayman jots this down furiously. Daniel can just about see the notepad from his half-off-the-chair position. God save the nurse who has to decode that.

“Was it a pill? Or dissolved into your food, or water? Notice any aftertaste?”

Aiden shakes his head. “I think it was put in my food, sir. And the food tasted the same, sir.”

Clayman nods, sighing. “Benzodiazepines, probably. Well, you’ll be fine, son. Nothing to worry about, considering you’ve probably been through worse. Let’s move on to the more fun parts of the examination, shall we?”

The weirdly flippant attitude makes Daniel want to flip the doctor’s table over. How can he be fine after being drugged by fucking benzodiazepines? Daniel didn’t take pharmacology, but he vaguely remembers something about benzene being carcinogenic, or was it phenol-

“Step on the scale for me, son. Right over here, please.” Clayman instructs, pointing to the small scale, peeking out from under the bed, just like last time.

The only thing Daniel can think of, when he sees that cursed object, is the sheer agony on Cam’s expression when he’d had to stand on it for less than a minute.

Daniel shoves that image out of his head.

Aiden just… looks at it for a second. Like it’s his archnemesis. Once he’s won the one-sided staring contest, after taking a deep breath, Aiden closes his eyes and steps on top of the scale. He doesn’t look down to check the reading.

“A hundred and ten pounds,” Clayman loudly reads out, dashing Aiden’s efforts. “Alright, son. You can get back up on the bed.”

Aiden quickly does just that, scooching even closer to Cam this time. Looking ashamed. For what fucking joy?

Dr. Clayman’s attitude is even more annoying. He doesn’t look as concerned as he had when Cam’s weight was read out. Even though one ten is still ridiculously low.

The man seems to- to trivialise Aiden’s issues. To think they aren’t as important as Cam’s.

That pisses Daniel off.

“It’s low, sure,” the doctor mutters, more to himself than anyone else in the room, “but it’s about typical for personals. A BMI of around sixteen. That’s almost the average for male personals under the age of twenty. It’s far from ideal, I know. But nothing I can do about it.”

Daniel doesn’t hold back his scoff- containing the rush of expletives is hard enough. “What does that mean ?” He demands, toeing the line to ‘screaming’.
“He can eat , can’t he? Of course there’s something you can do about it.”

The doctor looks up at Daniel from his notepad, cocking an eyebrow.
“Mr. Colefield,” he begins slowly, like explaining something to a slightly stupid child, “Aiden here isn’t going to ‘ eat ’. Those Training Houses teach these lads more anorexia than they do anything else. Isn’t that right, Aiden, dear? Would you be willing to, as Mr. Colefield so emphatically puts it, eat ?”

Daniel’s head snaps to look at Aiden, expecting support- and his heart sinks immediately.

Aiden looks terrified . It hurts Daniel’s head, how wide his eyes have suddenly become, how the colour has drained from his face, like someone has just sentenced him to death, rather than making him eat like a normal human.

Christ, even Cam looks alarmed, looking to his side at Aiden with quiet alarm.

“I- I can’t, sir,” Aiden whispers, his voice strained. “Really, I can’t. I’m not allowed to. I’m sorry.”

Not allowed to . By Michael, of course. Only that fucking piece of shit would make-

“See?” Clayman shoots Daniel an exasperated look, forcing Daniel to look at the old geezer again. “Told you. Anyway, back to you, Aiden.”

Daniel does not consider the conversation to be over. But he doesn’t interrupt now. He leans back against his seat, lips pinched together in a pale line, arms crossed over his chest.

He’ll talk to Aiden in the car. He’ll deal with this the second they get out of here.

“Tell me, son, any general pain, fatigue, anything of the sort?”

Aiden shakes his head, clearly eager to move on from discussing his weight. “No, sir. Just my… hips. And thighs. And neck. And wrists. But nothing out of the ordinary, sir.”

Daniel is going to puke. Just… half of his body. Nothing out of the ordinary. Great. Just fucking great.

Clayman doesn’t seem surprised in the least. “I see. And you get your STD panel done on the regular?”
Aiden nods again. “Yes, sir. Once a month.”

Clayman makes a satisfied sound, finally putting his clickpad down on his desk. “Well, son, there’s not much I can do for you , is there?” He turns to Daniel and shrugs. The nonchalance is fucking infuriating .

“Listen, Mr. Colefield. Aiden here is in the condition most personals are in. Whatever I do, all of that progress will likely be reversed in less than a week. Best I can do is prescribe painkillers, and some vitamin supplements. Would you like me to do that?”

Daniel doesn’t reply for a good minute. He squeezes the armrests, his knuckles white, and takes several long, deep breaths. 

Screaming won’t help him. Screaming only makes things worse. He has to deal with this like an adult. A sane, rational adult.

“Are you saying Aiden is healthy ? Look at him,” Daniel says, sharply enunciating each word, his voice successfully not a violent yell. “He’s- he’s so pale, and he was just drugged , and raped, and he’s clearly too skinny-”

Clayman raises a hand, stopping Daniel immediately. “Like I said, there’s nothing I can do.” He offers Daniel a sympathetic smile that only makes things worse. “Aiden’s pale, yes, because he’s probably anemic and doesn’t go outside much. He was drugged and raped? I hate to break it to you, Mr. Colefield, but he’s probably been drugged and raped more , by people who leave far more visceral evidence. Your brother is one of them. The kids get used to it. Besides, the drug concentrations administered to slaves are typically nowhere near lethal. Owners like to keep their property functioning, you know. And as for him being too skinny, that’s part of his job description. Kid’s probably never had more than a thousand calories a day in his entire life. Again , supplements and painkillers is the best I can do.”

Daniel doesn’t know what to say to that. He can’t say anything to that. It’s not fair, it’s not right. And he doesn’t know how he can possibly counter the doctor’s statements.

“Shall I move on to this young man now, then?” Dr. Clayman asks, pointing exaggeratedly at Cam. 

Daniel just nods. Jerky, aggressive, terse.

“Wonderful,” the doc proclaims drily. “Return to your seat, son,” he tells Aiden, reassuringly patting him on the shoulder. 

Aiden hesitates this time, looking at Cam for a long, silent moment- Cam doesn’t look back at him; Cam’s too engrossed with the floor tiles- before getting up and taking the seat next to Daniel’s.

Daniel has the bizarre urge to reach out and squeeze Aiden’s hand, to wrap an arm around his shoulder. But he doesn’t do that. That would be truly mental.

Daniel shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat. Stay there .

Clayman picks up his notepad again, tapping the back of his pen against his chin. “Well, Cam. Thanks for waiting it out like a champ. I won’t be taking any blood today, you’re still too underweight and malnourished for that. Maybe next month, if your owner here permits it.”

He shoots Daniel a pointed, highly unnecessary look.

“Yeah, of course ,” Daniel grits out. “‘Course I’ll bring him here next week.”
Jesus, does the doctor also think Daniel’s a heartless, whip-wielding asshole now? After two thirty-minute interactions? Why would he feel the need to ask that?

“Good,” Clayman says, scribbling down something on one of the post-its scattered on his table- something that vaguely resembles ‘ser al’, if Daniel squints.

“That would be very helpful. As for today, Cam, have a few questions you need to answer, okay? They’re rather… private. But you should be honest. If you want, we can have Mr. Colefield and your friend here leave the room. Would you like them to do that, son?”

Cam’s eyes dart up for the briefest second, flickering with confusion- the first sign of life Daniel’s seen from him all day-  before lowering again. “No, sir.”

Clayman tuts. “Your choice,” he says, sounding like he disagrees with Cam’s choice, but not pressing.

Poising his pen, he begins. “Have you faced any radiating pain- as in tingling, burning, anything that spreads- coming from your foot? The injured one?”

Cam nods.

“Alright. Have you experienced any stomach pain after eating? And is it a regular thing?”

Cam hesitates, then shakes his head. “Not a regular thing, sir.”

“Hmm. Have you felt a sudden pang of pain, anywhere in your body? As in, it occurs without being triggered, without that area being stimulated or even touched. And, if yes, how often?”

Cam thinks this one over. “Yes, sir,” he says after a moment. “But usually only from my foot. And not that often. Doesn’t happen every day.”

Clayman jots it all down, before moving on with his questionnaire. Asking Cam about random stuff- hair fall, toothache, frequent colds, any allergies, quality of his sleep, any STDs he’d contracted while in the Shack (thank God the answer to that one was ‘none, sir’)- all while writing furiously like a college student in the last ten minutes of an exam.

Whatever he’s writing is far beyond Cam’s simple ‘yes, no’ answers.

The whole thing takes too long. Does this all really matter that much? Daniel can’t, for the life of him, figure out why Clayman’s giving Cam a pop quiz instead of doing anything to actually help him, like performing an X-ray or prescribing pills or measuring blood pressure, or whatever.

He’s starting to doubt this guy’s credibility. Maybe Dad sent Daniel to the wrong place.

“Alright, alright, that’s all the questions you had to answer, son,” Clayman finally announces, putting his stupid fucking notepad back on the table. Daniel only just stops himself from demanding what the point of it all was.

“Sorry if this is all a bit… anticipatory, Mr. Colefield,” Dr. Clayman says, as though he’d just read Daniel’s mind, sitting down across them. “But us old docs need to be sure of a few things. I’ll just need you and Cam to do one more thing before we can cut to the crux of it all.”

“Okay…” Daniel says slowly, uncrossing his legs. “What’s that?”

Clayman points to the other end of the room. “We got a new scale!” He says, with a fair bit of pride. Sure enough, a slightly bigger, shinier, black scale is pressed against the wall, right next to the door.

“The old one couldn’t read anything beyond two hundred pounds, but this one can read up to six hundred! I’m going to need you to stand on the scale and check your weight. Then, you can carry Cam and get back on it. That way, we’ll see how much Cam’s  gained without having to put him through an ordeal again.”

Daniel’s jaw drops. “You couldn’t have had this on you last time?”
Clayman winces apologetically. “No, most of our clients barely cross the one-forty mark, you understand. We don’t deal with people of your size. Ever.”

Your size. As though Daniel’s height and weight is to blame for this stupid, unprepared clinic.
Daniel begrudgingly strides over and gets on the scale. “Two ten,” he announces.

He’s lost five pounds. It’s not a lot, but still. Constant stress and annoyance does that to a person, I guess.

“Good job. Come on over and take Cam with you now,” Clayman says, his tone revealing none of the patronisation Daniel can’t help but feel.
“And subtract the new weight from your old-”

“Yeah, I know,” Daniel snaps, getting off the scale with a little too much aggression.

He’s a bit too riled up now. Not even his fault. This doctor’s a fucking quack.

Daniel squeezes his eyes shut, not moving away from the door, and exhales slowly. He’s not going to go near Cam- or even Aiden- when he’s mad and tense and probably glowering.

He only moves towards Cam once he’s sure most of the tension has left his body. He extends his arms when he reaches the bed, letting them awkwardly hover in the air. “Can I-” he starts, before Cam cuts him off by nodding quickly. “Okay, then.”

Carefully picking Cam up, holding him in a hopefully appropriate way- not too close to his chest, but not far enough to cause discomfort- Daniel steps on the scale again, and glances down once he hears the beep. 

Three hundred and seven pounds.

Which means Cam is ninety seven pounds.

He’s gained seven pounds.

That’s… something. Even if it’s underwhelming, it’s progress.

Daniel glances down to look at Cam- but the slave isn’t even bothering to check the scale himself. His eyes are squeezed shut, his arms wrapped around himself.

Like he’s trapped in a nightmare. Like this entire day has been a nightmare.

Daniel swallows, quickly walking back to Clayman and placing Cam down as gingerly as he can.

“He’s ninety seven,” Daniel announces softly, still standing by the bed.

Clayman considers this, writing something down again. “That’s good news. Please sit.” 

Daniel plops down next to Aiden. At least Aiden’s face shows some expression. He looks surprised. Brow furrowed, lips pursed, fingers tapping against his clavicle.
Maybe trying to figure out if Cam gaining seven pounds is good or bad news.

Dr. Clayman ostentatiously clears his throat, and leans forwards on his elbows, fingers steepled together in an oh-so-serious manner that doesn’t suit the sunny smile he’s flashing to Cam.

“Well, Mr. Colefield, Aiden, Cam, I have… potentially good news.”

God, stop fucking teasing .

Dr. Clayman takes a deep breath, his grin becoming even wider. “I’ve been reading up a lot about recent developments, and… to cut a long story short… well, if certain other factors play out well, and the timing is right, and we find a facility that’s able- and, of course, willing- to-”

“Can you spit it out ?”

It wasn’t Daniel that snapped.

No. It was fucking Aiden .

Aiden’s flushed and staring at the doctor with a kind of determination that seems alien on his face.

Aiden had snapped, had cut someone off mid sentence, had almost yelled .

Aiden looks pained , but not apologetic. 

Daniel’s so taken aback, he almost doesn’t hear the doctor’s low chuckle. “You’re right, son, I’m sorry.”

Aiden’s eye twitches- but he doesn’t back down. Doesn’t curl into himself and beg for forgiveness. He… he holds his ground. He looks scared, nervous, more worried than angry, yes, but also strangely sure of himself.

Daniel wants to capture this expression on Aiden’s face. He doesn’t think he’ll get to see it again. He can’t help but stare, can’t tear his-

“I’ll give it to you straight,” Dr. Clayman says, snapping Daniel’s attention back to him.

Clayman leans back in his sit and utters, with bizarre casualness, “I think I can get your friend walking again.”