This was originally a fill for a prompt on the meme and it's been received so well, I've decided to crosspost it to each of my accounts on here and AO3. This is un-beta'd as always and not brit-picked. I've changed some of the larger things but small spelling differences I've left alone.

This fic deals with slavery, explanation of wounds, past abuse, and some minor violence. Please heed the warnings here, I will warn for one chapter but that's it :).

Anyway, enjoy the story~


"On time today, then, are we, Douglas?" Herc asks as he walks through the door to the portacabin and hangs his jacket. Though he places it like a question, the knowing look in his eyes betrays him - he understands perfectly well why Douglas is here early today.

Douglas leans back in his chair, not particularly keen to be the recipient of any form of pity or commiseration the other pilot might provide. It's not as if it's his first divorce, after all.

"Unfortunately I was kicked out of my own home today; Elise was coming over with some of her friends to retrieve the last of her things," Douglas says, completely at ease.

"I never did hear what exactly you got from all this," Herc says with the air of camaraderie only an experienced divorcee can manage. "You got to keep the house? That's surprising."

Douglas eyes him suspiciously - he's confused about what Herc is trying to glean from this conversation. He decides, however, that the man has no ulterior motives so he shrugs and says, "The house, most of the furniture...I came out of this pretty clean. Whatever she's playing at, she's losing. The only things she was intent on obtaining were the slaves."

Herc purses his lips as his eyebrows shoot up. The expression reminds Douglas of a surprised duck, which amuses him to no end. He can tell he's hit a nerve, though: Herc isn't exactly fond of slavery, though he won't do anything about it. No, Hercules Shipwright is content with displaying disdain and contempt for slave owners but won't work at all to free them.

"However will you survive," he says, surprisingly with only a hint of sarcasm peeking through his tone.

Douglas raises an eyebrow. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

"Please, Douglas," Herc says while rolling his eyes. "You had six slaves, all of which maintained that ridiculously large house of yours and who cooked for you. What do you expect to do now that they're gone? Slaves don't come cheap anymore, especially not to a recently divorced pilot with a second foreboding alimony in his near future."

"Hercules, I'm a forty-six year old man, I know how to prepare a meal and how to properly clean a home." He scoffs. "Six slaves aren't exactly a great loss. I'll be fine."

Herc shrugs and looks away, directing his attention to the large pile of paperwork on his desk. "Whatever you say, oh First Officer mine."
Douglas clenches his teeth and turns back to his own papers. It's going to be a long day, at this rate.

Surprisingly enough, however, Herc drops the subject entirely once Arthur runs in moments later, pretending to be an aeroplane. Carolyn strides in after her son, looking for all the world as if she deserves to have a personal storm cloud above her head.

"Oh look, both my useless pilots here on time today," she says testily.

"Ah, Carolyn, lovely to see you as well on this fine morning. Might I ask who or what we have to thank for your cheery mood?" Herc asks, amusement coloring his voice.

"Can it, Hercules, I am not in the mood today."

"Oh and whyever not? Is our idiosyncratic passenger not cooperating? Or perhaps it's something else entirely."

Carolyn hangs her jacket and grabs Arthur to halt his crazed running in one fluid motion. "Here's an idea, why don't the pilots allow the grownups, namely: me, to take care of the business while they continue to do the work they were supposed to have done three weeks ago. Does that sound good?"

Herc closes his eyes and raises his hands, strategically conceding. Douglas smiles from where he's been sitting. He won't admit it, but the two have a certain underlying chemistry that will never cease to entertain him. If not for Herc's wife - his fourth now - he suspects they may make an interesting couple.

"Speaking of paperwork, Carolyn, I'm done," Douglas says as he stands to leave. "I figure with your sour mood, we won't actually be flying today so I'm going to make my way over to the nearest pub."

Carolyn huffs. "Now see here, Douglas, you won't be leaving until I allow you to. Strangely enough, I haven't yet. Not to mention the fact that it's only one in the afternoon. While I don't like to intrude on my pilot's personal lives, nor do I care enough to want to do so, I have an obligation as a boss who doesn't want her employee to inconveniently find himself in jail by tonight to inform you of basic social protocol. Most people, Douglas - and by most I mean all normal humans - aren't drunk by three p.m."

Douglas throws on his jacket as she talks. "Drunk? I'm wounded, Carolyn. Your faith in my abilities to hold my liquor is obviously not quite at the level it should be."

"Douglas..."

"Frankly, I deserve a drink and I'm going to have one. Good afternoon, Carolyn, I will see you in three days."

He turns and closes the door, muffling the sounds of Arthur's goodbye and effectively cutting off Carolyn's protest.


Douglas truly did deserve a drink; in fact, he deserved at least four or five. Which is why nearly four hours later he found himself walking in the vague direction of his house, having had his car keys taken from him.

Honestly, though, he's not even that drunk. He's perfectly capable of driving in this state - he's done it plenty of times before. Nonetheless, the proprietor of the small bar refused to let him go without a fight. He reaches his household a half an hour later, taking much too long to open the door with his cold-numbed fingers.

For some reason, he expects to find a mess of some sort: Elise's last act of spite before officially walking out of his life forever. Instead, he finds the place spotless, just as he'd left it this morning.

He throws his keys down and heads for the coffee machine, wasting no time in getting it started before he collapses at the island as he waits.

If there's one thing he misses, it's when Luisa would have his coffee ready for him upon arrival, handing it over without a word as he entered, no matter what time that may have been. There's no use in lamenting about it now, though. They're all gone with Elise, and he's fine with it. He, frankly, couldn't care less.

The machine beeps its completion and he shuffles over to grab it up and slurp it down on his way to the couch. He's not in the mood to do much else besides watch crap telly this evening. Eventually, as he flips mindlessly through the channels, he falls asleep, some of the remaining coffee spilling onto the floor as he tilts sideways into unconsciousness.

The next morning Douglas finds himself with a much larger hangover than he'd originally anticipated and an extremely sticky sock. Opening bleary eyes, Douglas inspects his foot to find that it's half-drenched in some of the spilled coffee from last night. He growls incoherently, preparing to call Nicholas to come clean up the spot on the pristine white carpet before he catches himself. Nicholas, like Luisa, is gone.

He sighs as he lifts himself slowly to a sitting position. He ponders, for a moment, where the proper cleaning supplies for this would be before he stands and makes his way to the hallway closet. However, even after a good fifteen minutes, the spot on the carpet refuses to come away and he's left weary and severely annoyed.

Throwing the rag down, Douglas makes his way to his bedroom. He'll simply deal with the spot later when he has time and energy to steam clean it as he needs to. He leaves his clothes strewn behind him as he makes his way to the bathroom to take a long, relaxing bath.

Later, Douglas once again finds himself on the couch, this time with a book and a cup of tea (not as good as Luisa makes, but he won't admit that to himself). He spends his entire free afternoon reading. It takes him until about six o'clock to realize that he doesn't smell any food being prepared. He stands with a groan, walking to the kitchen to prepare his own dinner for the first time in years.

He'd told Herc that he's fully capable of taking care of himself, and he believes that. The most difficult part of this whole process will be remembering that he has to do so in the first place; thereby ridding himself of long-standing instinct and tradition.

He'd had all of his slaves since the middle of his first marriage nearly twelve years before. Eventually, his first wife had become entranced by the fight for freedom of slaves and left him when she realized he wasn't interested in activism. He kept them and moved on to bigger and better things.

Luisa and Cameron had taken care of the kitchen and food while Nicholas and Timothy tended to the inside of the house, leaving Becky and Serah to care for the yard.

He hadn't grown particularly attached to any one of them, though now that they're gone he's slowly coming to appreciate all that they did. He sits with his meagre bowl of pasta and garlic bread and contemplates all that he has to take care of now. Not surprisingly, he doesn't like the numbers.

Slowly, it's dawning on him just how much work was covered by the six beings that he had owned. It's nothing he can't handle, it just meant less time lounging and more time working.

He finishes his meal and places the dishes in the dishwasher before going upstairs to pick up his discarded clothes. After placing those in what he's now deemed the "dirty basket" he returns to the living room, sitting himself on the couch. The stain from before can wait until there's more to clean, he decides.