Slanted Light, Spilled Gold
Tags: servant whump, domestic whump, burns, restraints | Words: 1.8k
Seven stirred when he felt something sliding across his face. There was pressure around his ankles—he hardly registered that he was being dragged.
He jarred awake with a cry when his bruised face hit the floor. The carpet—gracious carpet—certainly could’ve been worse. He tried to bring his hands to his face—tried to cup the bruised eye socket that screamed against yet another impact, but his arms didn't budge—they stayed stuck to the small of his back, locked in place by the cinching metal. His wrists were numb.
What time was it? Seven blinked and squinted against the bright light that hit the side of his face that wasn’t pressed to the floor. Sunlight peered through the blinds.
“Get up.” Wes gave Seven a good-morning kick in the ribs.
Seven tried to move but was immediately stopped by Wes’ foot stepping down on his head.
“And for the record, I’m still mad at you.”
Wes bent down to unlock the cuffs, sparing no weight to grind Seven’s face into the floor with the sole of his foot. Seven groaned as his bruised eye was ground hard into the rug. It was agony on the wound, all tiny rough fragments that dug into his purpled flesh.
Freeing Seven’s reddened wrists, Wes slid the cuffs into the back pocket of his jeans. Seven gasped as he slowly brought his arms in front of him for the first time since last night. He saw angry red at his wrists—rings of raw flesh—what looked to be dried blood cracked over in a few places.
His shoulders seared in pain at the position change. He’d slept all night like this. No wonder it hurt so bad. His breath caught in his chest as he tried to flex his stiff muscles. He clenched his teeth, sucking air through the gaps between them like water through the jaws of a whale.
He clenched his fists. Made a point of moving all his fingers around. Each movement sent pins and needles stabbing up his arms.
Wes wasn’t patient today—no more than any other day—and gave Seven’s ribs another hard kick, earning himself a choked cry. It’d hit just atop the still forming bruises from the night before.
“I don’t have all fucking day!” Wes shouted, even though Seven could hear him just fine.
Wes turned and slammed the door behind him.
Another bright morning in the penthouse.
Groaning against the protest in his arms, Seven pushed himself off the floor. He rose, staggering a little, aiming to address his wardrobe and the general—he looked down at his bloody wrists—state of himself.
He washed his wrists and face in the adjacent bathroom, wincing at the way his face looked—his left eye was swollen, a deep red ring formed beneath his eye, like the markings of a red raccoon. More discoloration darkened his brow bone, deep reds and purples and blues. Seven touched the skin, experimentally. His jaw tightened. It felt tender and hot.
There were other bruises on his face, but that eye stood out like a bright red beam. There was absolutely no hiding it. It would be there for a while.
Wes didn’t normally hurt him this badly, not anything this visible anyway. Seven figured he’d wanted to make a statement. Not that he’d needed to, but that fine detail was as dead in the dirt as Seven’s hope for a pain-free morning.
He slipped into a soft t-shirt and some loose-ish jeans. Old clothes from Wes. They were a little big on him, but Wes had told him not to wear his manor uniform since they’d moved into the penthouse. Inclined towards casual joggers and t-shirts himself, one might infer that Wes didn’t want to be out-dressed in his own home, especially not by his own servant. The theory remained unspoken, though no doubt Wes would have had choice words for anyone with such a presumptuous opinion.
Seven ran his fingers through his hair before opening the door with a slight groan. Making a noise helped, sometimes. When Wes wasn’t around to hear him. Praying that Wes was open to bribery this morning, Seven padded down the hall and made his way towards the kitchen.
There was a science to the Apology Breakfast. Emulsifying the hollandaise just so. Getting the bacon to that perfect stage of crispiness, cooking the hash brown into a perfect, crisp pancake. It was the same meal every time, and after this many apologies, Seven had it down pat.
But he didn’t find his usual rhythm today.
The ache in his arms didn’t subside as he prepped the ingredients— it seemed to grow worse with every minute that passed since he’d first moved them.
It wasn’t supposed to be that labor intensive, Eggs benedict. He’d made it a hundred times. But his arms ached—and between the strain of cracking the eggs and stirring and flipping and roasting and chopping, he found his shoulders slowly starting to go numb. His hands shook as he held the spatula.
He just needed a moment. Everything was cooking. Ignoring the mess on the island behind him and leaning against the counter by the stove, he let his arms drop, his head fell to his chest, his eyes fell shut. He was so fucking tired. And sore. So so sore.
He blinked up in a panic when he heard a noise that was not correct. The high pitched sizzling of the sauce—too hot—overheated. His hand jolted to the burner dial but it was too late—seconds passed and the boiling didn’t subside. In a rush to save it, Seven opted to remove the pot from the flame entirely.
That was when he fucked up. Grabbing the handle in one hand, his arm muscles suddenly gave out when he tried to lift. The pot was going to tip, he could feel it. That was his second mistake—sticking his other hand out to steady the pot, and yanking it back immediately when it felt his skin sizzle against the heat of the metal. He lurched, his other arm flying to protect his freshly burned hand and flinging the pot of sauce in the process.
He watched it happen in slow motion. Right in front of his eyes. As the pot tipped on the side of the stove and went down. A loud clang echoed through the penthouse when the pot hit the floor. Seven’s whole world froze. His heart had stopped working, he was sure. He was sure he would die right then and there.
But he noticed a heat creeping on his toes and was forced back to the realization that this had indeed happened—and there was sauce everywhere. On the stove, on the floor, it was starting to seep up onto his toes when he scrambled back instinctively, grabbing the paper towels but knowing an entire roll wouldn’t be enough.
He could feel tears pricking his eyes as he scrubbed at the floor, using large bundles of paper towel to soak everything up before—
“Why am I even fucking surprised.”
Seven’s blood ran cold. Wes wasn’t even yelling. His tone was low, angry, but eerily calm. Seven could handle the yelling, expected the yelling, but the fake calmness almost scared him more.
“I—I’m sorry sir,” Seven choked out, scrubbing the floor with his burned hand and watching his tears fall into the tile below.
“Why the fuck did i think you could handle anything?”
Seven cringed at the sharpness. There was the edge he’d expected. “I,” Seven’s tongue felt too thick for his mouth. “I—I’ll fix it. I’ll clean it up.”
“Yes. You fucking will. And if you burn anything or fuck anything else up, you can spend the rest of the day on your knees.”
“Yes, sir,” came Seven’s frantic response. Anything to appease him.
He could smell the food starting to burn.
“Please just, just let me fix it, sir,” he raised his hands in a show of innocence, afraid to rise off his knees without Wes’ permission.
“Fucking do it, then,” Wes hissed, turning and stomping back to the living room, vowing to think of a way to punish Seven accordingly, after he had his Apology Breakfast, of course.
Seven scrambled to mop up what he could—the deep clean could come later. There was no time to tend to the burn—he washed his hands and wiped his forehead, before turning back to the stove. Apart from the complete collapse of the hollandaise sauce, everything else seemed to be okay. A little overdone, maybe, but not quite burnt. Seven wasted no time plating the meal and placing it on the table where Wes now impatiently sat, monitoring Seven’s progress from across the room.
Wes considered the plate in front of him, then considered Seven. His gaze made Seven squirm, and he could read that something was wrong. Hoping to appease him, Seven dropped to his knees by Wes’ chair. He was only met with more tense, heavy silence.
Wes looked back at the plate before he spoke.
“There’s no sauce,” Wes’ voice was casual and dry.
“I—y-yes, sir, I’m sorry. I would remake it but I—” Seven struggled to explain himself, as though caught in a lie, despite the fact that Wes had witnessed the whole thing. “I didn’t want the rest to get cold, sir. Or, or burn…”
The beat of silence that hung only made Seven tenser. Wes just stared down at him.
“I could make some more if you—”
“No,” Wes cut him off. “It’s fine.”
Seven was about to lower his head, arguably out of respect or mostly just desperately wanting to escape this situation, but he froze when he saw Wes’ hand approach his face.
He flinched back, expecting to be hit, but no hit came. Wes simply slid his finger down Seven’s cheek. A small drop of sauce still lingered there, he hadn’t noticed, with everything else. Even worse, Wes brought his finger to his mouth and licked his fingertip clean.
“It’s a shame,” he remarked, “It's actually really good.”
Seven felt an awkward twinge of both pride and shame. He knew why this was the Apology Breakfast. Wes liked it. It made Seven proud when Wes liked his cooking. Like he was being useful. Like he could do something right, for once in his stupid life.
But this had been a disaster. He supposed he could’ve burned it. That would’ve been worse. At least Wes hadn’t beaten him for it, yet.
Seven knelt on the floor in silence while Wes ate his food, until at some point, Wes seemed to remember he was there.
“Fuck are you just sitting there for. Don’t you have a mess to clean up?”
Seven had enjoyed the brief respite—his arms were more than thankful. But yes, he did.
“Yes sir,” he said, rising to his feet.
Wes was being so nice about this. Really, Seven was lucky.
“Thank you, sir,” he added, quieter this time, before shuffling back to the kitchen.
“Don’t think you’re off the hook for all this shit. I just want you out of my sight.”
Seven should’ve expected that. Of course it wouldn’t be enough. Cleaning the kitchen wouldn’t be enough—it was merely the first in a long line of steps to eventual repentance. He could only be grateful that Wes was giving him a chance.
I dont know, was he mean enough to him yet - i dont think he was. Might have to continue this and Make it Worse
