Earning Your Keep, part 1
For the first time in quite some time, we're getting a flashback, people!
Thank you beta reading team @whumped-by-glitter and @generic-whumperz
TW/CW: whump aftermath, recovery whump, conditioned whumpee, minor whump (at time of flashback), slave whump, mentions of nightmares, negative self-talk, and all those fun bits of healing and learning how to be a person again
A week. It had been an entire week since Thomas Costa had died, and now four days since heâd begun to live with the roommates. Khaled was alive, he was safe, and the roommates were⊠well, they were acting strange. Nobody had asked him to do anything he was uncomfortable withânot that he wouldâve objected, of course. But, more confusingly, nobody had asked him to do anything at all. Sure, the trio would ask for his opinions, or if he wanted to do something or other, but theyâd never explicitly told him to do anything, leaving him guessing as to what these peopleâs true motives were.
It had been four days, the roommates treated him so well, and Khaled had done nothing for them in return. It was more than weird; it was unacceptable! The first group of people in a very long time to treat him with a modicum of respect, and how was he repaying them? By doing fuck-all all day and tormenting them with his nightmares? When Khaled would have nightmaresâvivid nightmares that wracked the whole house with screamsâthey would each take turns checking on him and settling him down until he could sleep again. And in the morning, when theyâd yawn and shamble tiredly around the kitchen to get ready for the day, they reassured Khaled that he had nothing to apologize for, and that their visible exhaustion was not his fault. It was nice of them to lie like that, but completely unnecessary.
Khaled knew that, if not for the roommateâs grace and generosity, he would be out on the streets right now. Maybe thatâs what you deserve, freeloader, the intrusive thoughts told him. But instead, he chose to focus on earning his keep. I can at least be useful to them while Iâm here, he reasoned.
Make yourself useful. That was what he told himself the first day he was left alone at his masterâs apartment all those years ago. The day after his master had bought him was a weekday, where the man had to go to work. He left Khaled at the apartment alone, and for the better half of the day, the boy tried to figure out why the mafia boss bought him and what he was expected to do. From all the stories heâd heard in history classes and dramatized Bollywood movies, the slaves to wealthy masters mostly did domestic chores, so he started on that premise. Khaled tried to cook, twice, which resulted in the fire alarm going off each time. (He only knew how to make a few simple things like buttered toast and instant noodles, and he wasnât familiar with the induction cooktop.) He tried to do a load of laundry, but only got as far as putting the dirty clothes into the washing machine. He did not understand the settings on the washing machine well enough to even venture a guess on how it worked, so that chore was abandoned too. At least he did dishes; that was one chore the fifteen-year-old knew how to do correctly, regardless of language. He tried to organize the canned goods and the foods in the refrigerator, first by name (if he could read them), then by color/size/how they smelled. He wanted to vacuum and mop the floors, but he couldnât find so much as a broom in the apartment anywhere. At least he found some rags in the linen closet.
Once he finished wiping clean every flat surface in the apartment, Khaled realized he ran out of things to do. So, he spent the next nearly four hours sitting on the living room floor, watching the city from the wide windows, wondering what else he could do/what else was expected of him to do, and worrying that he did not do enough. Occasionally heâd follow the movements of the odd sparrow or pigeon that landed on the balcony.
After he finished fajr, Khaled quietly slinked to the kitchen. He flicked the lights on, looked over his shoulder, and silently stalked to the fridge and cracked it open to see what was inside. Eggs, butter, half an onion, a jar of kimchi, a jar of pickles, two rasgullas, a carton of Chinese takeout, and a package of baby carrotsânot much to work with, but Iâve worked with less. He turned his attention to the coffee maker next. It was far less complicated than the artisanal contraption his late master used to keep on his countertop. He vaguely remembered using a coffee machine just like that one, a long time ago, when he was much younger, and more innocent, and far less damagedâ
Enough of the self-pity, he mentally scolded. Within moments, he got the coffee machine to begin brewing dark, fragrant, caffeinated liquid. Now all that was left was the breakfastâmaybe an omelet? After rummaging around as quietly as he could, he took out eggs, a frying pan and the other tools he needed, faced the stove⊠and realized it was gas-powered.
Shit. It wasnât as if Khaled hadnât cooked on a gas stovetop before, but for the past ten years of using a fancy induction-based system, he wasnât exactly sure how to proceed. He turned the knob, listening for the hiss of the gas, but frowned when it wouldnât ignite. A bright red lighter strategically placed next to the faulty burner caught his eye. He reached for it, held it as close to the gas source as he thought reasonable, and flicked it on.
He yelped in a cry of pain and dropped the lighter as the flames blazed to life, then quickly turned the knob to dial back the heat and fanned the stovetop with his other hand. Once he had assured that the fire alarm wouldnât go off and alert the roommates to his early morning struggles, Khaled peeked at his hand. The burns werenât serious, from his experience, but they did hurt. He rushed to the sink and stuck his hand under cold, running water. âItâs no big deal, itâs just a small burn, you can power through this, come on,â he told himself.
âKhaled? What are you doing? Are you okay?â a sleep-heavy voice asked behind him.
He whipped around, drawing his still-wet hand to his chest protectively as Vikash stood there, hair mussed up and eyes heavy with sleep, but slowly coming to his senses as he pieced together what happened. âLet me see,â he directed him. Reluctantly, Khaled extended his burnt hand to the doctor, who examined it carefully. âYeah, we usually donât use that burner for this exact reason,â he belatedly warned. Vikash turned off the stove and retrieved a first aid kit from one of the cupboards.
âWhat are you doing up so early and burning yourself for?â he asked as he treated his hand.
âI-I wanted to make breakfast,â he said. He gestured toward the eggs on the counter and the coffee machine that just beeped.
âReally?â Vik hummed. He threw a glance at the window above the kitchen sink, noting it was not yet dawn. âItâs kinda early, though isnât it?â
âI know you and Eric work early, so I wanted to make it for you while you were still here,â Khaled explained.
âO-oh, thatâsâthatâs really sweet, but you donât have to do that!â
âI wanted to. Besides,â he murmured into the floor, âitâs the least I could do.â
Vik paused, then sighed. âKhaled, I appreciate the gesture, but itâs okay. Eric and I can look after ourselves, you donât have to feed us.â
Khaledâs brow creased with confusion. âBut, how else can I repay you? I donât pay rentââ
Vik took down a mug from the cupboard before re-lighting the troublesome burner on the stove. âFor now, just focus on getting better. Both physically, and mentally, okay?â he answered. Once heâd gotten a reluctant âokayâ from Khaled, Vik cracked the eggs into the bowl Khaled took out.
His master came home that night, unhelpfully silent as he scrutinized everything from the pile of undone laundry to the trash can full of burnt or half-cooked food. Khaled didnât say a word as he nervously awaited either a scolding or a punishment.
âWhat did you do all day?â his new owner had asked him.
âI fulfill my purpose, sir,â the boy replied awkwardly.
âYour purpose?â he echoed.
âWhat you buy me for, sir.â
âSo, you cleaned? You tried to do laundry? You⊠cooked?â Attempted to, anyway.
Khaled nodded, holding his breath.
âWhat?â The boss shook his head. âNo, you donât get itâI hire people to do this! I have a cleaning service that comes twice a week, and I rarely cook myself! Why did you justââ he let out a loud, gravelly sound between a groan and a sigh.
âThen why buy me?â the boy asked, cocking his head like a confused puppy. âWhat is my purpose?â
âYour purpose is toâum, is toââ The man shook his head, as if he was trying to dispel a fly or an invasive thought. In hindsight, Khaled would look back on this moment with disgust and dread, but at that time, he didnât know what to make of his masterâs reluctance to answer. âThatâs not important right now. Just bag up the trash and put my laundry back. Iâll order us some takeout,â Thomas Costa said.
Khaled watched dejectedly as Vik whisked the eggs and poured them into the hot pan. The roommates were being way too generous with him. This kind and benevolent façade was sure to crack eventually, just like last time, and he didnât want to be accused of being some ungrateful, parasitic freeloader once it did. Surely there must be some way to repay them, preferably before they came up with a payment themselves. Heâd just have to try harder until then.
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