Chapter Four Jonah #2
I clean myself up in the bathroom, stare at my reflection for a while. The man in the mirror looks like shit; hollow cheeks, dark circles, a bruise on his lower lip where Jagger bit him. But there's something in his eyes that wasn't there three days ago. Something alive.
Apparently all it takes to feel human again is getting jerked off by your kidnapper in his fancy kitchen. Really says something about my standards.
I spend the afternoon in his library, because what else am I going to do? The books are arranged by subject, then by author, then by publication date, because of course they are. The man probably alphabetizes his socks.
I wander the shelves, pulling out volumes at random. All of it is boring as shit, but he does have some rare collector editions. Three different translations of The Art of War. A comprehensive history of interrogation techniques that I flip through before putting back, my stomach turning.
But there's other stuff too. Poetry, a worn copy of Mary Oliver. A whole shelf of philosophy that is worn with the pages dog-eared. Fiction that surprises me: Emily Bronte, Mary Shelley, a collection of Japanese short stories with annotations in the margins.
The annotations are what get me.
His handwriting is everywhere. Cramped notes in pencil, arguments with the author, questions that don't have answers.
In a random novel I plucked off the shelf, he's circled a passage about how you can't have freedom without the possibility of suffering, and written underneath: "Is the inverse also true? "
In a poem about transformation, he underlined one sentence. The one about how every dragon that's slain becomes a princess held captive, and we're afraid to face our fears because they might turn into something beautiful.
Underneath, in handwriting that's shakier than the rest: "What if the dragon IS the princess?"
I stare at that for a long time.
Then I pull down the Dostoevsky. The one I found with his notes inside.
"The question is not whether we are guilty, but whether we can bear the weight of our guilt."
I trace the words with my finger. His handwriting is angular, precise, each letter formed with the same deliberate control he applies to everything else. But there's something underneath the precision. A pressure that pushed too hard, left grooves in the page.
He wrote this like it hurt.
I flip through the rest of the book, looking for more annotations.
There aren't many, but the ones I find are telling.
Passages about suffering, about punishment, about the impossibility of redemption.
He's underlined a paragraph about how some men are born for destruction, how they become instruments of violence by nature rather than choice.
The word "nature" has a question mark next to it. The ink is smudged, like he touched it while it was still wet.
I close the book and put it back on the shelf.
Jagger Harrison thinks he's a monster. A weapon designed for a purpose, with no more agency than a gun or a knife. He thinks whatever made him this way, stripped out everything human and left only the pain he can inflict.
But monsters don't annotate literature and they don't stop interrogations when their subjects need a break. Monsters don't kiss people like they're drowning and fighting for air at the same time.
He's wrong about himself.
And somehow, that makes me want him even more.
I'm so fucked.
Around seven, I make dinner. Not because I'm particularly domestic, but because I'm hungry and the man clearly isn't going to feed me while he's in full avoidance mode.
His kitchen has ingredients for about a hundred meals I don't know how to make, so I settle for pasta.
Boil water, add noodles, pour jar sauce over the result.
Gordon Ramsay would weep, but it's edible.
I make enough for two because I'm either an optimist or a masochist. Probably both.
The smell must travel, because I hear his office door open when I'm draining the pasta. Footsteps in the hallway. A pause outside the kitchen.
I don't turn around. Just dump the sauce over the noodles and stir.
"There's food," I say. "If you're done with the dramatic sulking."
"I wasn't sulking."
"Right. You were strategically reassessing the situation. My mistake." I grab two plates from the cabinet, divide the pasta, and finally turn to face him. "You want parmesan on that, or are you one of those people who thinks cheese is too emotionally complicated?"
He's standing in the doorway, arms crossed, looking at me like I'm a particularly difficult man-child. His shirt is different, and his hair is back to its usual controlled state. But his eyes are red-rimmed, and there's a tension in his jaw that tells me he's been grinding his teeth for hours.
"You made dinner," he says.
"I made pasta. Don't get excited, it's basically just hot carbs with tomatoes."
"Why?"
"Because I was hungry? And also because watching you starve yourself while you spiral into existential crisis seemed counterproductive." I shove his plate across the counter. "Eat. You look like a malnourished plant."
"I don't look like—"
"You really do. Very tragic. Like a tortured hero who just discovered he has feelings. It's almost cute, if you ignore the whole kidnapping situation."
He stares at the plate. At me. Back at the plate. Back at me. Then he sighs and rolls his eyes.
Then he sits down and picks up a fork.
We eat in silence for a few minutes. The pasta is mediocre at best, but he cleans his plate like it's the best thing he's ever tasted. I wonder when he last ate. I wonder if he remembers to do basic human maintenance when he's not performing for someone else.
"About this morning," he starts.
"We don't have to talk about it."
"I think we do."
"No, really. We don't." I set down my fork.
"Look, Harrison. I'm not under any illusions about what this is.
You're keeping me here because I might have information you need.
Eventually you'll either get that information or decide I'm useless, and then I'll either be killed or processed again. That's the reality."
His jaw tightens. "That's not—"
"Let me finish." I hold up a hand. "What happened this morning doesn't change any of that. It doesn't mean you owe me anything. It doesn't mean I expect anything. Two people with too much tension and not enough outlets did something stupid. It happens."
"So you're saying it meant nothing."
"I'm saying it doesn't have to mean anything if you don't want it to."
He's quiet for a long moment. His fingers tap against the counter, a rhythm I've come to recognize as his version of fidgeting. For someone who claims to basically be perfect, he has a lot of nervous habits.
"And if I want to do it again?"
The question hangs in the air between us.
I should say no. Should remind him that he's my captor, that this dynamic is inherently fucked, that whatever connection we're forming is built on a foundation of coercion and trauma and really terrible circumstances.
Instead, I say, "You tortured me half to death, never mind the fact that you also kidnapped me, whatever you want from me, just remember I still hold anger towards you and won’t take it easy on you."
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. "That's not very reassuring."
"I'm not a reassuring person." I stand up, take both plates to the sink, start washing them because I need something to do with my hands.
"For what it's worth, I don't think you're a death machine. Well, not entirely. Mostly, maybe. But there’s a sweet little pumpkin pookie in there, waiting to be set free. "
"You don't know what I am."
"I know what you've done. I know what you did to me.
" I turn off the water, dry my hands on a towel, and face him.
"I should hate you. By every logical measure, I should want you dead.
But here's the thing, Harrison—I don't. I am angry, but I don’t hate you.
And I don't think that's Stockholm syndrome or trauma bonding or whatever clinical term you want to slap on it. "
"Then what is it?"
"I think..." I pause, searching for words that don't sound insane. "I think you see me. Not as someone whose programming failed. As a person. And I think that scares the shit out of you."
He stands. Crosses to where I'm standing by the sink. Stops close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body, smell the faint trace of my cum that he apparently didn't quite wash off his hands.
"It does," he says quietly. "You terrify me."
"Good." I tip my chin up, meeting his eyes. "I'd hate to be the only one."
He doesn't kiss me this time. His hand comes up, hovers near my face, and I watch his fingers tremble before he lets it drop. The muscle in his jaw works. His throat bobs as he swallows.
Then he turns and walks away.
But he doesn't go to his office.
He goes to the couch in the living room, picks up a book, and starts to read. In the open. Where I can see him.
I lean against the kitchen counter and watch him. He's not actually reading—his eyes aren't moving across the page, and he hasn't turned it in five minutes. He's just... sitting there. Existing in the same space as me.
For Jagger Harrison, that's practically a declaration of love.
I grab my own book from the library. The one with the dragon annotation, and settle into the armchair across from him. The silence between us is different now. Not the cold, calculated silence of an interrogator and his subject. It’s almost… warm.
We read, or pretend to read, until the sun goes down and the city lights flicker on outside the window. At some point, he gets up and makes tea. Brings me a cup without asking. Our fingers brush when I take it, and neither of us pulls away.
It's the smallest gesture. The tiniest crack in his walls.
But it's a start.
And when I finally go to bed that night, I don't dream about white rooms and needles and screaming. I dream about gray eyes and shaking hands and a man who writes poetry annotations like he's begging for someone to understand him.
I wake up at three again, sweating through the sheets, my cock hard and aching.
But for the first time in three years, it's not from fear.
Progress.