Print/Shot AU. In which Ben speaks.
“Wait—what happened there?” Lee pinched Ben’s wrist between a finger and thumb, pulling his arm out to see.
He said it to himself and clearly didn’t expect an answer, considering Ben hadn’t spoken at all in the entire week he’d been there. But there was concern in Lee’s gaze—something Ben hadn’t anticipated. It was the lack of pressure, the lack of expectation, that made something unlodge in his throat:
Lee’s eyes accosted him. His fingers tensed on Ben’s wrist, as if he might try to run away with those precious words. “What did you say?”
His voice was rough and creaky from being out of use for months. Once, when his Facility handler was distracted, he’d caught a glimpse of his file on a screen. Subject does not volunteer to speak. Selective mutism. Not a diagnosis to treat a patient, but a friendly heads up to whoever wanted to own him.
“They. Give. Us. Check ups. Before. A new. Owner.” Ben tried to tug his wrist free, hoping Lee would be satisfied. “Let go.”
Lee didn’t let go, frowning at the needle tracks. His other hand approached to brush a fingertip along the raised marks. “Well, whoever did this sucks at their job.”
“New nurse. Blamed me. For squirming. But I wasn’t.” He swallowed hard, his arm shivering under the warmth of Lee’s finger. “Doctor said. It was okay. That she did good. For her first time.” Clenching his jaw, he pulled again and shut his eyes. “Let go. Please.”
Lee responded by stubbornly tightening his hold, and all at once, Ben wasn’t there anymore.
He was at the estate, hunted down in the halls, in the garden, under the cold and indifferent stars. Fingers clawed, eager to grab any part of him, drag him out of his hiding place. Giant hands locked around him, ignoring his desperate pleas.
His breathing quickened, his heart threatened to burst. Subject is prone to panic attacks. Post-traumatic stress disorder.
“Let go,” he whispered, his shuddering voice growing softer. “Let go, let go, letgo, letgo, letgo…”
Something shifted in Lee’s tone, his concern morphing into conceit. “Sheesh, okay. Settle down. I knew I’d get you talking within two weeks.” He let go of Ben, grinning at him as if they were co-conspirators. “Finish getting dressed. Got a few bets I’m due to collect thanks to you.”
Emptied of both panic and hope, Ben retreated back into himself. He did not speak again for weeks.