Not Products
Inspired by @gottawhump and many other wonderful BBU writers. My first piece diving deeper into the safehouse system.
This is set some years in the future of Angel's timeline, and far into her recovery. (Yet right before a certain... setback)
Content - BBU, debts, mafia structures, implied human trafficking, implied forced prostitution, threats, noncon touching, BBU romantic.
The building that Kayleigh stopped in front of was large, elegant modern structures of carefully twisted glass, to make it shimmer in the sunlight.
Orange letters were running down the side of the building, and Angel fought the nausea rising up from looking at them too long, she could read, she just needed to be strong. Coo- Coopers and - and Bard. Att-
She didn't go on trying to decipher the letters of the remaining words. Attorneys at Law. She could deduce those ones.
'Lawyers. Worst kind of people', a voice echoed in her head, followed by hearty laugh. 'But we need them, don't we?'
She didn't know whose voice it was, one of the ghosts that lived on inside her, and she'd learned to live with.
"Wow", Kayleigh whispered, putting her head back and squinting up at the sheer size of the building. "Still can't believe it. Wouldn't have thought that someone like Coopers finds an interest in helping us out."
"They wouldn't if it didn't support their business," Angel remarked dryly. "People like Coopers? They're just the ones who'd still happily own pets if it had remained en vogue."
"Angel," Kayleigh hissed. "I know you hate rich people. Your owner hurt you, I get that, I -"
"Do not go down this road with me ." Angel clenched her teeth. "This is not about me, or my past. I am your colleague, not your charge. This is about the future of our house, and the question, if we want someone like Coopers can help us. All I'm saying is: He has a price, and we'll need to decide if we want to pay it."
"Maybe he just has a conscience?"
"He works with organised crime. We're both aware of this, aren't we?"
"Well, we're criminals, too. You even more than I am. What we're doing is highly illegal. Doesn't make it wrong."
"Well, what Coopers and Bard have their fingers in, is pretty wrong often enough."
"Shut up." Anger flared up in Kayleigh's eyes. "I didn't bring you to talk me out of this. You couldn't - haven't seen our numbers, how bad it looks. We need him, or we'll have to shut down the safe house."
Angel hadn't seen the numbers indeed, she had tried once, but the headache had grown too bad. She had however seen the clumsy system Kayleigh used to track the safehouse's finances. She shouldn't judge her, for doing her best. But she did judge her for her rejection of any advice.
"Yeah," she said, somewhat of a bitter laugh on her lips. "You brought me because I look good in business attire."
She held Kayleigh's gaze, while she pinned a button to the lapel of her blazer. People, not products.
"Don't flash this to me like this." Kayleigh sighed. "I brought you because you know how to read a room."
"Soft skills," Angel intonated with a little sing song. "Yeah. That tracks." She stepped back and gestured at the door. "After you. Boss."
*
Philip Coopers was a tall man with warm eyes and a firm handshake. Auburn hair, a little longer than usually considered appropriate for a business like this, a tailored navy coloured suit, probably from London, expensive leather shoes - Angel couldn't tell how she knew all this, but the she did.
"My assistant, Mx Carter," he introduced the thin person next to him. "Nice to meet you again, Kayleigh, and this is your friend?"
"Colleague," Angel corrected. "Angelina Harris. I am in charge of the practical side of things at our... house."
She felt his gaze take him in, shortly rest on her hands as she shook his. There was a thin silver chain dangling around her wrist, a tiny bracelet, that could hide nothing underneath. And there wasn't anything to hide either. Her skin had healed, the scars from the tattoo removal so tiny they could only be seen when light caught them from a specific angle. Nothing but a faint memory.
"Well, it's a pleasure." He invited them to sit at a conference table set up in his impressive office. "I am looking forward to support you, and to do my part to help you continuing your important work."
Angel bit her tongue to hold back a sarcastic return. This was Kayleigh's turf. Even though it sometimes felt like her own.
"We've talked about the general idea, let's just nail down the specifics." He gestured at his assistant, who took over, and Angel listened - rates, book keeping, conditions, existing and future contacts that needed to be covered.
It was all too easy. Too high amounts, too few conditions. Too good to be true, not from a man like this, running a business like his.
"Oh, and before I forget", he said, and Angel's gaze perked up. He'd never forget anything, his behaviour had made that abundantly clear. This was going to be the thing she'd been waiting for. "We'd like to employ the services of a psychological consultant. To make sure the... refugees are treated according to their needs."
"They are," Angel said. "We're making sure of that."
"That's a little different," Coopers insisted with a condescending little smile. "We would want them to meet the consultant right upon arrival, so they can determine which place is best equipped for them."
Angel frowned. "Are there more safehouses that you support?"
The assistant tilted their head. "*Places*," they said. "Safe spaces."
"And what's the criteria?"
"For the safehouses?"
"No. For the people, contacting *us*, arriving at our doorstep, to be let in or turned down."
"They're not turned down, Ms Harris. On the contrary. They're going to be cared for."
"So. Your only condition for funding us is to be allowed to psychologically screen runaways and then determine whether they go to us or somewhere else." She narrowed her eyes. "Why?"
"Angel," Kayleigh mumbled. "Calm down."
She didn't intent to. "Running a safehouse is expensive. Food, rent, medical bills, therapies, compensations for the volunteers."
"It is."
"What's your gain?"
"Doing the right thing is not enough?"
"No." Angel shook her head. "Not from you. You know what I think? Prices for a well trained guard dog from WRU start at about 250k, as far as I know. Romantics, similar. Can be much more, depending on specifics. Seven figures, even." She leaned in. "Is that your return? Acquisition for your preferred clients? Private security? Prostitution?"
"Interesting." His mouth twisted into a smile. "You've looked into the more hidden corners of our client list."
She shrugged. "I like to be thorough." She still heard the monotonous voice of the screen reader. Even set high speed, it had cost her many sleepless nights finding the names she'd been looking for.
"I see." He smirked. "But let me ask you. What if these... wild theories were right? Worst case scenario. You'd still run a safe house, one that as I understand it has absolutely no funds otherwise. One that Kayleigh here has put her college fund into, and bet her grandmother's house on."
Metal scrapped on wood when Kayleigh pushed her chair back, pale and trembling. "I... That's..." She shook her head, gaze to the floor, almost feverish in her movements as she pressed her hand to her mouth. "I... need to use the washroom, please?"
Upon their boss' gesture, the assistant jumped to their feet and opened the door. "Of course, Miss. I'll show you the way."
Coopers looked past the two of them, before he turned back to Angel.
"Sacrifices," he said, all but savoring the word. "That's what keeps your system running. That's what saves dozens of runaways, who already found shelter in your place, who you managed to get to safety and into a fulfilling life. Your friend sacrificed all she had for the case. And you refuse to reroute a single one of these... sluts, to a place that suits them better?" Carefully embedded between well chosen words, the slur cut into her like a hidden blade.
"Yes," she whispered. Her throat was constricted all of a sudden.
"What is your problem, Ms Harris? We give them shelter, warmth, food, company - they're having each other there, something I hear some of them have missed desperately in their past lives." He cocked his head as he said it, with a soft smile, that mocked understanding and was everything but. These has been her own words once, she herself had talked like that about her past, feeling constantly alone and desperate for company. He couldn't possibly know, she told herself. She was here with Kayleigh, with her colleague, she was an activist with a spotless wrist and a normal past. And she wouldn't let him get through with this.
She raised her chin decidedly. "You want to sell them out. Abuse their conditioning, instead of helping them overcome it."
"Ah," he tutted. "Shush. Selling them out, that's a strong word. They work for a living, like the safehouse system prepares everyone for. Like normal people do. According to their specific... qualifications."
She took a breath, trying to calm her racing heart, setting out to speak, but he talked over her. "Imagine one of them trying to do my job." He reached for a one of the documents scattered over his desk and held it up, presenting it to her. Little letters danced over the paper, twisting and turning, a garbled mess in front of her eyes, all but mocking her. It was sickening. She averted her gaze, and he chuckled. "Some people are made to think, Angelina. To make decisions, to manage large businesses, to read and understand things, you know. Others, however..." He waited until she looked up, holding her gaze for another moment. She couldn't breathe. "Others," he went on, "are simply made to fuck."
She stumbled to her feet, shaking her head. Her elegant blouse was too tight, the collar tightening around her neck. "We're not," she struggled to say, fighting the voices in her head, Handler Nguyen, Handler Parker, Sir, telling her the same words. "We... They, they're not, nobody is."
The man was grinning now, and it took her too long to realize. She'd played right into his hand. "Oh, Angelina. You're making this about yourself, aren't you? How come you're relating so hard, hm?" He closed in, the sort of casual, measured steps that she knew should make her run, but they made her freeze instead. "Tell me," he whispered, tucking a strand of her hair back behind her ear. His touch was soft, almost gentle, his hand warm on her skin, and she knew how she should react, and she knew she shouldn't. "Tell me, Angel, what were you made for?"
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wrote this on discord last night at 1 AM when i couldn't sleep. guess you guys can have it too. a li'l bit of comfort? or something?
---
Grian can't sleep. And he goes to mumbo.
Mumbo's working on some redstone, he's not asleep yet, but it startles him when grian comes anyway. At first he doesn't know what to expect. What kind of visit is it? Will it be a prank? But then he takes a proper look and sees how tired and miserable grian looks, and he knows.
Grian makes a whiny noise (dissatisfaction that mumbo's not in bed), and heads for mumbo's bed without a word.
Mumbo finishes up, making sure to stop at a point that he'll know how to continue the next day, before following him. He's also tired, and he has a friend to look after. So he goes.
Grian is curled up in the bed, at the edge, so small. Mumbo lays down and he looks at him and… It looks like grian doesn't want to be touched. So after a while, mumbo rolls over. His back to Grian. (they're back to back now)
It gives him space while remaining close.
He asks quietly if grian wants to talk about it, what's wrong. But gets no answer. Still, he has a feeling grian is still awake.
So he plunges on and in a quiet voice, he starts rambling, little things about his day. (he thinks he is terrible at it. Scar would've been so much better at this)
(but Grian did not come to scar, he came to him)
Mumbo fumbles and talks and trails off and talks again. He thinks it's bad, but he tries to offer what he has anyway.
After the longest while, there's a shift. Grian still hasn't said a word, but… He rolls over.
He presses his forehead against mumbo's back. It's the smallest touch. But it's there.
Mumbo asks if he should turn around? Does grian want a hug?
But Grian stays quiet, and mumbo doesn't push it. He tries to read between the lines, even if grian isn't giving him much.
Then after another while, grian touches mumbo's side, snaking a hand over mumbo's waist.
Mumbo lifts up his own hand, and lets his fingers meet grian's. They hook their fingers together, lightly, softly. It's not a full hand holding. It's something smaller. But so, so important.
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