Don't like, don't read. It's fairly dark, there is abuse, discipline, dubcon, noncon, etc, etc, etc. This story is set in a universe where there are slaves, and Greg House is one of them. The story starts where "Seven Stages" leaves off, and you probably need to read that first: this is the story of Greg House's first sixteen days at PPTH in the Collar Redux universe.
Day Nine (Saturday)
1. Jon
By Saturday both pairs of jeans were always pretty crunchy. There wasn't much to choose between them. Jon was dressed and leaving the dorm before he noticed that instead of dressing in his fancy clothes and heading upstairs as fast as he could, Greg was wearing work jeans and regular shoes and a standard-issue t-shirt - cleaner than Jon's because Greg had done no work all week, but just the same as all the other Sanitation slaves: and he was trudging at the same early-morning pace as everyone else to get the cleaning-kit.
The night-shift supervisor handing out the kits looked them over with tired eyes until he came to Greg. "Need a starter, big boy?"
Greg hesitated, he clearly had no idea what the right answer was. "Yes, sir...?"
"Take down your pants and bend over, big boy, I'll give you that starter right on your cheeks!" The supervisor laughed, and Jon, waiting in line behind Greg, made himself grin widely, as if the joke was funny. Greg should have laughed too, but he didn't: he was clutching his cleaning kit and standing still, not even moving on.
"Move it," the supervisor said, ending his laugh. "Take that sulky look off your face, big boy, you've got work to do, and we'll see that you do it."
So Greg was on punishment detail this weekend. Jon wondered what he'd done: maybe nothing except not please Doctor Cuddy. Working with a slave who'd been assigned to Sanitation as a punishment could be pretty bad - petty inspections of every detail, fault-finding crackdowns, and a supervisor with a cane standing right there didn't make anyone's work day better. Greg had worked okay when he was assigned to Sanitation last week, though he'd done nothing but slack off since Doctor Cuddy let him, so maybe this would be okay. And maybe it was just that Doctor Cuddy wasn't in the hospital this weekend, and Greg was now to make up for wasted time.
Greg never talked much at mealtimes - he reacted to taunting, sometimes, but mostly he just sat there and shovelled his food in and went back upstairs or back to the dorm as soon as possible. Jon was talking quietly with Rob about the chances of rain later, but he saw Greg had left some of the vegetable mess in his bowl when he stood up, and Jon tapped his arm as a warning. "Clean your bowl," he said quietly.
Greg looked down at him. He was frowning.
"Clean your bowl," Jon said again, still quietly, and wiped his piece of bread round the bowl in illustration. Greg hadn't had to be told before, but there was no point his getting into trouble now.
"It's disgusting," Greg said, also quietly.
"Aw," Kev said, across the table. He'd promised to quit taunting Greg at mealtimes, Jon and the Peach had both asked him to, but that was an opening hard to resist. "Doctor Cuddy feeds you good, fancy boy." He opened his mouth and made an explicit gesture with his tongue, and several of the other slaves laughed.
Jon didn't. "Sit down and clean your bowl," Jon said, glancing at the supervisor, then at the door. Slaves sitting down and eating could talk and laugh, but Greg was on his feet, and they didn't like that in the canteen.
Greg got the message. He sat down. He ignored Kev and Jon and the others at the table. He'd finished his bread already, but he spooned the rest of the mess into his mouth, and got up again, just as if the signal had gone. He put his bowl and spoon into the used dish tray, and said to the canteen supervisor, "Please may I be excused, sir?"
"When you've licked your bowl clean, boy," the supervisor said, amused. "'Disgusting', is it? Good food, you should be grateful."
Jon couldn't see and didn't turn, but Kev told him afterwards that Greg licked the bowl as docile as a dog and handed it back for inspection: and Jon heard him say, monotone, "Thank you for the food, sir" and saw Greg waiting on all fours for the supervisor to release him when Jon got up as the signal went. A supervisor who didn't have a sense of humor might just have called security; this one, grinning, gave Greg a light kick in the butt and told him to get moving.
They were doing the fourth floor bathrooms when Jon saw Greg glance at a clock - it was half of seven - and turn away, holding his kit so it didn't rattle, heading down the hall to the stairs. Jon stared after him in surprise. Not his problem if Greg got into trouble for dodging work, but the speed Greg was going, someone was going to notice.
He didn't see Greg again for most of the day: but about half past two, as they were heading from the ground floor to the second floor, Jon realized through the steady tiredness that Greg was there again, dressed in his work clothes, holding his kit, cleaner than he would be than if he'd been at work for eight hours. Maybe he'd gone and hidden in the second-floor office where he sat and read on the days Doctor Cuddy was in: and maybe he'd got away with it. No one said anything to him as they jogged round the exercise field. At least it wasn't raining and Mr Flores liked women, so he'd probably had someone from one of the other dorms if he wanted a screw. No new cane marks on Greg's ass, just the fading ones from earlier in the week, so he hadn't been caught. Yet.
*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*
2. Clinic Duty
Doctor Bergeron intended to pursue Emergency Medicine as a career: it had been clear to him since taking up the ER fellowship at PPTH, that Doctor Cuddy, though currently fairly junior in the hospital administration, was the kind of person who knew how to pull strings, who had connections and used them and understood about exchanging favors: he would not be surprised if she ended up moving on from this hospital to a much bigger hospital, with the kind of ER he intended to be running when he was a consultant, but she would be useful and he wanted her to remember him. So he volunteered two hours at the free clinic, Doctor Cuddy's pet project, on his days off, consistently and with every appearance of enthusiasm.
Doctor Bergeron was on from ten till noon (which, unfortunately, meant that he would likely be there till one or later - Nurse Brenda closed the doors at noon, but expected all the patients already in the waiting room to be treated).
The slave was sitting behind the admissions desk, wearing a rolltop and a white labcoat, handing out the admissions forms to the patients as they came in, and doing filing. Doctor Bergeron had got in a few minutes early: he studied the slave, thinking that a keen observer would certainly see the line of the collar underneath the rolltop. The white coat was a further distraction, though - in a hospital, when you see a white coat, you think doctor. You certainly don't think slave.
"We should get him a stethoscope," he told Nurse Brenda, signing himself in on the clinic hours sheet. "And a pocket protector and maybe some free pens from a pharma company. It's all he needs to be really convincing."
Nurse Brenda glared at him: she didn't have a sense of humor at work, Bergeron had long since discovered.
"You have a patient waiting in exam room one since five of ten, Doctor," was all she said.
The rest of the morning went normally enough: the usual range of people who'd had unprotected sex and thought they might have an STD, people who had coughs and sniffles and wanted advice on the common cold, one girl with an impressive case of acne who thought she had skin cancer, and five anxious moms - Bergeron was thinking about going into pediatric emergency medicine, and he prided himself on dealing well with anxious parents as well as children. At noon, Bergeron popped his head out of the exam room to check the waiting area: it was full. They'd be here till one, then. The slave was coming back to the reception desk, he'd closed the doors.
"I want a cup of coffee." There was a small coffee maker in the tiny room behind the waiting area. Bergeron pointed, to be clear. He couldn't remember the slave's name, just that Nurse Brenda had said they were to call him "Doctor House" in front of the patients. Technically they were in front of the patients - the waiting room collection could see them from here - and Bergeron grinned a little. "Get me one, 'Doctor House'. Cream, no sugar."
The slave said nothing. He was quick about fetching the coffee: Bergeron only realised as he handed it to him that the boy was about five inches taller than him, and no more than three or four years older. Bergeron nodded, as if that hadn't disconcerted him: the slave said, very quietly, "Doctor Bergeron, can I ask you about the third patient you saw, the twenty-seven year old woman with lung cancer?"
There hadn't been any patients with cancer this morning. Bergeron drank his coffee. He wondered what he was supposed to say in response to a comment like that: the slave stood still, staring down at him. Finally Bergeron nodded to Nurse Brenda, who moved over and said quietly, "Doctor, are you quite finished having your coffee break?"
"Not quite, thank you, Nurse," Doctor Bergeron said politely. "Your 'Doctor House' needs more work to do: he's inventing patients with cancer."
"The third patient Doctor Bergeron saw, ma'am," the slave said, still quietly. "Nurse Previn," he added, with a scared look. "I'm sorry."
"Go on, Greg," Nurse Brenda said.
"She'd recently lost a lot of weight and she had a persistent cough," the slave said. "A different kind of cough from the other patients who have seasonal bronchitis. I would have sent her for an x-ray. I don't think Doctor Bergeron did."
Nurse Brenda looked at him. Bergeron felt himself color up. He was annoyed. "I saw at least nine patients with coughs or sniffles this morning," he said. "Of course I didn't send them to X-ray!"
"Can you find her details?" Nurse Brenda asked. Greg produced an admissions form in a few minutes behind the desk.
"Are you taking this seriously?" Bergeron asked.
"Are you finished your coffee break, Doctor?" Nurse Brenda asked. "We have a full waiting room."
It took another hour to clear the waiting room. The other doctor who'd volunteered from ten to noon, Jenkins, had gone off about quarter past, claiming he had an "urgent appointment" apparently: with beer, Bergeron guessed. Jenkins had only recently finished his internship. He still acted a lot like a medical student.
One of the other nurses, Sanchez, who worked in pediatrics, had also stayed to the end: Bergeron offered to buy her lunch. By mutual agreement they headed for the staff canteen, and ate together. They'd discovered a mutual dislike for Doctor Jenkins some time ago, and this morning's failings took up most of their sandwiches.
"What do you think of that slave?" Sanchez said quietly, towards the end of the meal.
"'Doctor House'?" Bergeron said.
"Are you going to call him that?"
Bergeron laughed. "I suppose it doesn't matter what a slave's called. So long as he does what he's told. He did something pretty out of key this morning, though." He told the story about the 'lung cancer', amused now it was over.
"He really is a qualified doctor," Sanchez said. "Doctor Cuddy spoke to us about him yesterday. She's got plans to start a Department of Diagnostics here, and he'll be working for it." She finished the last bite of her sandwich. "I felt sorry for him," she said. "Jenkins was dropping stuff on purpose and telling him to pick it up, and of course he had to, until Brenda stopped him."
Sanchez went back to work: Bergeron went into the ground floor men's room to take a leak. There was a cleaning slave wiping down the urinals, but he ducked his head and moved away, almost silently, and when Bergeron glanced round again, caught by a sudden thought, the slave was gone.
*housemd*housemd*housemd*housemd*
3. Overseer
Doctor Cuddy's boy was on punishment detail this weekend, except for a stint he was doing in the clinic from eight till two, for which he was supposed to dress up in his fancy clothes and he was allowed to take a rolltop and white labcoat upstairs. Torres inspected him thoroughly before he allowed the boy to dress again in his nice clothes, after cleaning off under a cold shower.
"Report back to me when Nurse Previn says you can go," Torres told him. "If you're later than two, I'll be calling her to check up on you."
He was back at five of two, and Torres had him stripped, inspected, into his work clothes, and back upstairs with the cleaning kit by ten after. "Clean up the ground floor bathrooms by the canteen, they always need cleaning, before you go up to the second floor. I'll be looking for you. No slacking off."
Normally when a slave was put on punishment detail, it was for laziness or sometimes for pushing the boundaries - some supervisors thought slaves learned better from being put to hard work than from a quick caning. Certainly this slave didn't seem to be lazy or a boundary-pusher; he worked hard, he was quiet, he was docile. Torres checked with the exercise supervisor and found he'd shown up on time and not tried to slack off there, either.
The morning supervisor in the canteen had a story: Greg had got up and tried to walk out without finishing his food, making some comment about it. Rather than call security, which would have upset all the slaves who were eating quietly, the supervisor had made a joke of it: got him to lick his dish clean, made him wait on all fours like a dog for the signal to go. So maybe that was it: the slave was spoiled, getting used to being handfed treats.
When Greg came in for his evening meal, Torres called him aside into the overseer's office and told him to kneel. "Hear you don't think much of the food, boy."
Greg sounded and looked perfectly docile. "Sorry, sir."
"Slaves need to eat to do their work. We feed you well here."
"Yes, sir," Greg said.
Torres took a bowl out of his cupboard, and the bag of slave chow. He filled the bowl. "If you don't like the food, you can always get this instead."
Slaves hated being fed on chow, though Torres had tried a bit once and didn't think it was that bad: the worst part was it didn't really taste of anything. But it was guaranteed nourishing.
"Now you're going to eat this in ten minutes, by my clock," Torres said. "I'll tell you when to start. If you're not done in ten, you get one with the cane for every minute after that. If you're not happy with what you get in the canteen, you can always get fed in here, and get caned for dessert." He glanced at the clock, waiting for the second hand to reach the minute. "Okay, start now."
He didn't want the slave to choke: he sat and checked through some memos, keeping at least half an eye on the slave. After a reluctant start, Doctor Cuddy's boy went at it, and had finished the bowl before ten minutes were up. Torres had kept one piece of chow back in his hand, and when he saw the slave finish, he said "Here, Greg - " and held out his hand. "You're not done yet."
He made clear with a nod what he expected the slave to do: Greg crawled over on hands and knees and took the bit of chow with his lips. Torres uncapped a bottle of water and let Greg have some, then waited, as Greg licked his lips.
"Thank you, sir," Greg said finally.
Torres nodded. "All right, go shower and go to your dorm." The slaves had their own ways of spending these more or less free hours, before lights out, and Mrs Foster's ruling was that they didn't interfere so long as whatever the slaves did, didn't interfere with their work: but Greg should just lie down and think for a while about the difference between being a well-behaved slave and one in disgrace. "Don't even think about leaving the dorm tonight. Work hard tomorrow."
With a subdued glance, as if for permission, Greg got to his feet and left. Torres nodded, satisfied. He'd check the camera for that dorm to make sure Greg hadn't gone running off, but that looked like a lesson that had taken.
tbc
As usual: Tailkinker's "Greg's Story" for Saturday will be posted tomorrow. That's the parallel story told from Greg's POV over at Tailkinker's profile: we're posting alternate days.