AN: Collection of many neglected fics in my sentbox. Trying to get all out of the way so I can quit with relatively few regrets.

Servitude

Grace has never approved of people fetching and carrying for others. She's always raised her children to do for themselves, even the boys. Not to expect others to do for them.

Her friends tell her of the joys of waiting on their men and children, but she has no respect for those who let others do for them. Cool, perfect, blonde housewives with their cool, perfect, blonde children, leaving their dirty laundry for other hands to wash, their dirty floors for other hands to mop. Some see it as the natural order of things, but she's never believed in 'the rich man in his castle, the poor man at his gate' much, and even less in Mudsill. And in her own family, having anyone play the role of servant is – They had to wait on their father sometimes of course, and children who are very young do need it, but she weaned them off expecting anyone to fetch and carry and do for them at an early age. Some of the church ladies said she was carrying it too far, but she didn't think it was bad to teach her kids that they'd better not expect anyone to wait on them. The very notion repulsed her. Still does.

Which is why she's surprised that it doesn't repulse her, only makes her blink in surprise, when Kelly Robinson appears on her doorstep, carrying his bags and Alexander's both. He deposits them quickly inside, then swings gracefully down the stairs; when he reappears a few minutes later, he's moving much more slowly and carefully, taking the steps one at a time, with his arm round Alexander's waist, a hand cupped under his elbow, his whole body curved towards her son as though to protect him and shield him, from what she doesn't know. (She can guess, but she mustn't know.)

She watches as Kelly supports Alexander up the stairs, and she holds the door open as he helps him limp into the apartment, half bent over – what have they done to him? – and gets him settled lying down on the couch. Kelly, smiling distractedly at her, fetches a couple of cushions and tucks them behind Alexander's neck to make him comfortable, then rummages in their suitcase and gets out some painkillers, darting into the kitchen for water, kneeling by the couch, pressing the pills into her son's hand, white hands wrapping around Alexander's unsteady ones as he raises the glass and drinks. He plucks the glass out of Alexander's fingers, sets it aside, smoothes his hair, murmurs softly to him, and gratefully takes the afghan she's holding out (when did she go get that?), spreading it as gently over Alexander as she herself would have, smoothing it out, tucking it in.

When Kelly hurries out of the room and reappears with a pair of pajamas, starting to reach under the afghan to undo Alexander's belt, she withdraws to the kitchen. Alexander's clearly in good hands, and Kelly will be in to tell her how her son is later. But for now, the boys are going to need soup, and Kelly needs to keep his strength up if he's going to be waiting on Alexander hand and foot like this until he's back on his feet.

As she chops the vegetables, she smiles.

It's nearly a year later when Alexander steps heavily through her door, holding up a grudging Kelly. The poor boy's face is like death, eyes barely visible beneath drooping lids. "Long story," Alexander gasps, breathing hard. "St… stubborn cuss insisting he don't need…"

"It's all right. Come on in, hurry up, now." She keeps her voice calm, although she's shocked as she runs on ahead of Alexander, turning down the sheets on Kelly's bed; her son bends to lay him down gently, taking off his shoes for him, undressing him as he lies there. As soon as Kelly's head hits the pillow, his eyes close with a sigh of relief, as though merely staying upright has been taxing beyond endurance.

She's fortunate that she manages to hold back her gasp as Alexander removes Kelly's shirt. Bruising looks strange and unfamiliar on a white man, standing out downright eerily – the flesh changes color completely, the roots of the fine down on the skin forming a little spotted pattern of white against darkened, swollen patches of extraordinarily vivid black and blue and purple. Land sakes, what kind of accident–Only it's not an accident, it's a beating; heaven forgive her, she knows the difference.

A beating, and a brutal one at that. She wonders how much Alexander saw of it. As she watches, he mirrors Kelly's ministrations of a year ago, except that Kelly can't sit up, as Alexander could back then, and he's too weak to grip the glass; Alexander has to place the pills between his lips, supporting Kelly's head with one hand and raising the glass to Kelly's mouth with the other. Then he dresses him, just as Kelly once put him in his pajamas, and slides his hands under him to turn him on his side. There's a muted chill of shock when Grace realizes that Kelly is so sore and bruised that he can't turn from one side to the other – and realizes that Alexander knows it, manipulating the beaten body with tenderness and care. Kelly can't help the way his mouth opens in silent gasps of pain, and Alexander is equally unable to hide his sympathetic flinches, the way his brow furrows and his lips press together in a thin line to hide his reaction. Her son by birth is less open about showing his love than her adopted son – she still remembers the naked emotion in Kelly's face as he sat by Alexander and stroked his temples and smiled and joked and crooned soft words to him until he fell asleep – but there's concern in the forced casualness of her Alexander's every move, worry in the set of his jaw, tension in his every coiled and corded line of his body.

Kelly mutters something, and Alexander bends close, whispering in his ear, adjusting his pillows, pulling the covers up over him, admonishing him, as far as she can hear, to rest. The boy's eyes close almost instantly, and Alexander takes a deep breath, sitting on the edge of Kelly's bed, laying a hand lightly on his shoulder.

"How about a bath and a change of clothes?" Grace says brightly, as though nothing is wrong, as though her son's best friend in the whole world isn't lying helpless in bed after being beaten half to death.

"Uh…" Alexander blinks up at her. "Sure. I…" He trails off, rising and glancing back at the sleeping man, looking lost.

"Come on," she smiles. "Get cleaned up while I make some soup. You can feed it to him when he wakes up."

Alexander brightens at the prospect, thanking her distractedly. She manages to shepherd him out of the room and steer him towards the bathroom. Once she hears the sound of water running, she heads downstairs to the kitchen. It's not until she's there that she realizes what she's said.

'Feed it to him.' Like a little child.

She pauses, the words running through her head, accompanied by images. Kelly giving Alexander his pills. Alexander taking Kelly's shoes off for him. Kelly carrying Alexander's bags in, and Alexander doing the same for Kelly. She adds to it the mental picture of Alexander bringing soup up to Kelly, raising his battered partner to a sitting position, helping him lift the mug to his lips. Come to think of it, Alexander will have to do everything for Kelly for at least a week; the poor boy is in too much pain to even turn over in bed, he'll need Alexander to help him to the bathroom, to move him in bed, to…

To do for him. Grace finds herself smiling at the thought; Alexander will do everything for Kelly, as Kelly does for Alexander when he needs it. They do for one another, lovingly.

And she doesn't mind, not one little bit.