Title: Carrot and Stick
Author/Artist: Crabapplered
Pairing: Krauser/Leon
Warnings: Rated NC17. Rape, light bondage, violence.
Disclaimer: Don't own. No money being made.
Summary: Sequel to Flashback. Sometimes it just takes that one event to put everything else into proper perspective.
Author's note: Please take note of the shift in warnings! Also, last fic got posted right before Halloween, so if you missed it, please make sure to read it or this part won't make as much sense. All previous parts can be found here



BACK TO PART 04

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Back when Leon had first been recruited by the government, before even meeting Krauser, they'd put him through survival training in case he'd ever been captured. Those classes are vivid in his mind these days, mostly because he's pretty sure that he's fucked up every single point.

This thing growing between him and Krauser being the main issue. He knows it's toxic - every favour is paid for in dignity, in dependence. But there just aren't any other options. And as much as he knows he should resist, sometimes it just seems pointless. Why fight so hard against having to ask for second pair of pants? Why let his hair grow wild when Krauser's more then willing to bring in a company barber to give Leon a quick trim? The only alternative is to the humiliation of wallowing in his own filth.

It's all carrot and stick. Leon knows it but he still he takes the bait, over, and over, and over. Because he's been in this cell for over four months now, and he's still having those damn dreams.

When you wake in blind panic every other night, soaked with sweat and shaking, when the oddest things throw you back to a time filled with blood and ashes and primal, soul-rending fear, when you're ready to puke from the adrenaline roller coaster of jumping at shadows you know aren't real . . . something as basic as orange juice with your breakfast can make all the difference. Leon's reduced to clinging to the simple stuff, the small joys of life, to get him through each day. And it's Krauser who provides them. Not for free, but for little things: A please. A thank you. An admission of dependence.

The words come easier to Leon now, and he doesn't know how he feels about it. Sick, mostly. Ashamed. He can look Krauser in the face and say 'I need you' like he means it because he does. For the better food, for the nail trimmers. For the clothing he wears and the gun magazines. But more then that: for good conversation. For thoughts that aren't his own, for card games, for sex. Krauser's become Leon's only source of decent human contact at this point. The guards who bring him food will linger, but only to stare with eerie focus. The other prisoners are still being assholes, mocking him, trying their best to trigger a flashback. Even his memories are ugly things.

Unless they're about Krauser.

A lot of them are about Krauser. Too many, maybe, but they're better then the other ones, right? And it's so easy to fall back into that time and place while the drugs are running through his blood and he's wearing Krauser's clothing, sleeping in the bed where Krauser fucks him. Krauser's smell is on everything, even soaking into Leon's skin and hair, and Leon can't help but welcome it because it keeps him in the good times. Keeps the nightmares at bay.

It makes him feel safe, and isn't that just great? He does his best to ignore it, but the truth still surfaces in his brain late at night. He trusts Krauser. He depends on Krauser. He feels safe surrounded by Krauser's smell, wearing Krauser's clothes. He's- he's becoming Krauser's kept toy, and the obedience, the submission that's being coaxed from him in slow stages both pisses him off and scares the shit out of him. So far all he's been asked to give are words, but how long until Krauser pushes for more? How long until Leon's willing to go that far?

Is he willing to go that far now?

He doesn't know, and that scares him most of all. There are a hell of a lot of nasty possibilities for Leon in this place, most of which Leon has seen first hand, and read reports of others. Umbrella scientists like to cut people's heads open, put out their eyes, let them wander lost in their compounds just for laughs. Take bets on how long it'll take before the poor sap dies, and write up mock research papers on it. They're sick, dangerous, and horrifically creative, and Leon knows that he'll sink to all kinds of lows to keep out of their hands. Suicide would be an incredibly attractive option if he wasn't convinced they'd bring him right back to life.

So all that's left to him is escape. And in the meantime, Krauser. Krauser's protection.

Thing is, years ago Krauser protected Leon - it's actually how they met, Krauser the spotter to Leon's sniper during one of the government training programs. And Leon still remembers the ease he'd had in trusting Krauser to watch his back. That memory lingers at the edge of Leon's mind, and it's a dark temptation to give in to it's resurrection in this hellpit, achingly so. He'd probably already have given in if it wasn't for the title Krauser wants to hang around Leon's neck.

Krauser's kept woman. His kept woman, and that brings with it all kinds of sick images. Nothing like Ada, or even nurturing Claire - it's for women of another class entirely. Pearl necklaces and barefoot in the kitchen. Keep your mouth shut and do as your man says, and Leon's teeth grind just thinking about it. He's not that creature. He's not property, he's not some domesticated, broken wife, and though he's pretty sure Krauser doesn't want him in frilly aprons and summer dresses he knows that Jack wants him in that second-tier place. Something to be fucked at will and shown off to others, pet and pampered and caged. Obedient and hemmed in. Off limits to anyone else.

Utterly dependent.

He's already more then halfway there, asking Jack for anything he needs or wants, needing Jack to keep him in the present, or at least the better memories. Trapped in this cage, and embarrassingly willing each time Jack puts his hands on Leon's dick. All he's got left at this point is his pride, his identity. Leon still belongs to Leon, is still the Leon he's made of himself.

But as the days drift past that truth fades by degrees. Leon is wearing down. Getting desperate. So much so that when Krauser tells him he'll be away for a few weeks on assignment, Leon is grateful despite the looming prospect of delirium. He might go out of his mind, but at least he'll be himself, and safe from kneeling to Krauser's demands.

So for the first time in days he doesn't see Krauser. Just the other inmates and the guards who bring him his food and the inescapable ghosts of his past. The next day is like that, too, and the day after, and Leon's too busy adjusting to the change to really notice anything outside his drug-fogged brain. But on the fourth day, something shifts, and Leon notices just how long the guards are lingering outside his cell.

He frowns at them. They come in pairs, usually, but today there are twice that number. Big men. Not as big as Krauser, but they have the bulky physique of weightlifters and fighters, easily filling their Umbrella uniforms. Except for their colouring - two brunets, but one dark and the other pale, a blond, and the last a redhead with more freckles then clear skin - they could be clones of one another, with the same crew cuts and square-jawed faces.

They haven't seen combat - Leon can tell with a glance. They move all wrong for it, too much spit and polish and attitude. Probably spend all their time holding up walls and safeguarding doors, watching people stuck in cages and going nowhere.

Like they're watching him now.

They make his skin prickle. Something not right in the way they stand, the way they finger the bars and drag their gazes over him. He glares at them, refuses to be intimidated and stubbornly sets to eating his tainted food. It may be drugged, but it's good quality stuff now - salad and two kinds of sandwich, a pear. They leave, but they're back with his supper and they watch him again, and that night his dreams are filled with memories of dark rooms and ambushes. Glittering eyes in the dark.

He's a wreck the next day, pressing himself against the wall to try to keep touch with what's real. No use, though, because when those same four guards linger after giving him his breakfast and he finally puts his finger on what's bothering him the flashback hits him like an eighteen wheeler going over a snake, just mows him flat with visions of dead people pawing at windows, trying to break through.

He comes back to reality with a gasp, finds himself plastered to the back wall of his cell and digging his fingers so hard into the concrete his nails have cracked, are bleeding. He swallows, hard, blinks to clear his eyes and the guards are still standing there, but now they've pressed themselves right up against the bars, arms reaching through, and Leon looks away before he sees something else.

Like the zombies of Raccoon, they're hungry. For his flesh, for his screams. That's what's got Leon on edge, though they want something a bit different then simply to eat him.

He dares another look at them. Flash of recognition, and the darker of the two brunets is suddenly smiling because he's realized that Leon knows. What they want, and how little he can do about it.

"You scared, Kennedy? You should be. Big man Krauser's gone away for a whole two weeks," the guard croons at him. "Don't think he'll care much if we play with his current toy since he left you behind. You're so pretty, Kennedy, and I've seen the tapes. Krauser's got you trained up all nice, don't he? We'd sure like to find out how well trained you really are."

Low laughter greets his announcement, and not just from the other guards.

"Hey, hey! If the big man's gone, why not let him out to play with us, huh? Give him some exercise," calls one of the other prisoners.

"He's always locked up," agrees another. "He aughta have the chance to be more social."

The paler of the brunet guards snorts. "Like you animals would know what to do with such a choice cut of meat. Tear him to pieces - you'd ruin him."

"Might be nice to watch, though, once we're done," muses red-head.

Hoots and hollers of approval to that, banging on the cell bars and catcalls, and Leon's teeth grind with rage. Assholes. Bastards. Psychopathic fuckers. His hands ache for a gun, for a knife, to see them all with slit throats and gutted bellies, blood pooling at his feet, but he's unarmed and his head swims. Too much of this and he'll forget himself. Can already feel the adrenaline lacing his blood and the memories tugging at his brain.

Dark-brunet presses his thumb to the lock, and it opens. The door to Leon's cell swings wide. He steps inside, saying, "C'mon. Let's help Kennedy loosen up a bit."

"Hey, no! We can't see fuck all if you do it in there!"

The guards trade looks, half-smiles and easy shrugs. Sure, why not, they're thinking. Let's drag him out to put on a show. Like it's a game. Like it'll be easy.

Like Leon isn't a trained killer who even Krauser makes sure to keep handcuffed at all times. These guys are idiots.

Which is why they don't know what's hit them when Leon breaks from the wall and rushes them. Head on as if to tackle, only to spin into a roundhouse kick at the last minute. His foot connects, a solid hit to the jaw that sends the leader flying back into the rest. Three of them go down into a tumble, and Leon dives over them and out of his cell.

Blondie starts swearing, and lunges. It's the last mistake he ever makes. Leon ducks and grabs and then moves with the man's momentum, arching backwards in a graceful suplex. Wet crunch. The guard's neck is broken, and Leon's on his knees beside him and scrambling at the man's belt to take his weapon.

Yelling, cussing. The other prisoners are in shock. The guards are pissed off, enraged. None of them can believe what Leon's just done, and Leon himself is slipping again. Too much noise and the smell of blood. As his fingers close around the baton on the guard's hip and pull it from it's holster he finally loses it.

He's not in the now anymore. He's back in Raccoon, and somehow he's lost his gun, his knife. He just got a standard-issue police baton he's salvaged from the precinct and the dead have him trapped.

His brain pastes the death-masks of zombies over the guards' faces as the haul themselves to their feet. His body falls into combat stance but it feels strange because his memory tells him he hasn't learned it yet. Body and mind clashing, and it's enough of a distraction to let the trio come at him. Their own batons are out, and theirs spit lightening.

It's not enough, though, to take him down. He dances back and they get tangled up in avoiding each other. Dodges in at the one in the lead and blocks its blow with his own stick, other hand swinging a brutal uppercut into the creature's jaw. It staggers back, trips over the feet of the one behind it, and goes back down.

The third is more canny, and it ducks and weaves, lunges for him, forcing his retreat to avoid the crackling electricity of its shock-rod. He lets it drive him back and back, all the way to the end of the cell block, then ducks under its next wild swing, is behind it and kicks it in the ass to send it flying headfirst at the wall. It hits and lies still. Doesn't even moan as Leon dashes to its side and crunches his boot heel down on its neck, breaking it.

Just the two brunets left. They sway, side by side in the hall, the one with its face mashed in from Leon's uppercut, the other blank-eyed and gape-mouthed. It keeps trying to say something, but all Leon can hear is a shapeless wail, barely heard past the groans of the things locked in the cells around them. He shifts his grip on the baton, and readies himself.

This time, they come at him together.

He kicks out, heavy combat boot smashing the knee of one of them and it goes down, but he has to make a frantic lunge to the side to dodge its shock-rod, and that's his undoing. Because he crashes into the bars of one of the jail cells, and in the moment he stands there stunned, the second creature takes a wild swing. Barely misses him. Doesn't miss the bars.

Pain. Blue-white-hot along his nerves as electricity crackles through the bars and arcs into his body. He can't scream, can't even breathe, just hang blind in that moment until the current dies and he collapses to the floor, suck in great gasping breaths, eyes streaming tears.

Something connects with his ribs, smashing into them. Cracking them, probably, and he struggles to get back to his feet but the shock-rod comes down again, this time full across his back and that's it, he's gone. Flat on the floor and gasping. All he can do is try to breathe.

A hand grabs him by the back of his oversized t-shirt, hauls him up. Someone's yelling in his face but he can't understand them. Can't even see straight. He's tossed to the ground again, and this time there's two of them, one holding him down, the other yanking at his clothing.

It's all too big for him. Hand-me-downs. So it comes off easy, and he's naked on the floor beside a dead man. God, no. Can't stay there. Too easy to get bitten when it comes back to life, but he's pinned and weak. He can't even begin to understand what's happening before fingers are thrust into his mouth. He bites on reflex, hard. The rod comes back. He's limp afterwards, limp and too stunned to do anything as he's used, hauled around so his mouth can be opened and a cock thrust into it. He gags and chokes as it's roughly fucked, the taste awful and strange, his head held in place by the hair.

This- this isn't Jack. He's sucked Jack's cock before but it's nothing like this and his body rebels, retches and cramps up and tries to vomit out the invader. Tongue pushing frantically against it but that only seems to make it worse. And finally he has to swallow because semen gushes into his throat and it's that or choke and die.

The cock is pulled from his mouth, limp. He gasps for breath in the pause. Feels the drool and the come dripping from his lips. Tries to clear his head but he hurts. And where the fuck is Krauser? Isn't he supposed to watch Leon's back? He keeps talking about it, keeps saying how they should. He's made promises to Leon.

Promises, promises. 'I'll take good care of you,' and he certainly took better care of Leon then this. The concrete is cold under Leon's bare skin as he's dropped to the ground again, and this time his legs are kicked open. Fingers are thrust into his ass. He gasps, eyes flying wide and his fingers claw at the ground. And when the cock goes into his body this time his mouth is free so he screams. Howls. Swears and sobs as he's thrust into, a burning pain as muscles are forced wider against his will. Moans as they pull on his dick, a dead thing in their hands. But despite the pain he's too weak to do anything more then wriggle in the grip of his captors. Bigger and stronger and pining him down. Leon can't get away from them.

He can't get away. No matter what he does or how hard he fights.

He's trapped.

He- he needs help. More then any other time before. Even in Raccoon he'd been able to run and kill, but he's past that point now, isn't he? Because he's helpless, and without that edge of self-agency everything else just falls away. For the first time in his life he can't fight back in any way, and because of that he feels his control slip, crack - and finally, feels it shatter along with some indefinable part of himself as he gives in and gives up and calls out for somebody, anybody. Needs someone to save him and is desperate for that help. Reaching out, and in the fog of pain all he's got left is that one anchor, that one chance at safety:

"Krauser! Krauser, you bastard! You promised- Jack, you promised to take care of me!"

And he breaks. Crying and snarling, nothing but a mindless animal as his ass is used first by one, then the other, as they beat him and fuck him again and again there beside the body of their fellow guard. He drifts in and out of it, and the drugs muddy his mind until it's zombies that are raping him, biting him and bloodying his thighs, and as they thrust their rotten dicks into him he shuts down completely, and blacks out.

He stays unconscious for a long time. There are no dreams in that blackness, and his battered soul wallows in the respite. But in time he's pulled from that tar pit, forced back into consciousness by simple thirst, and when he wakes he feels damaged, raw, in so very many ways.

He stirs, and the first thing he notices is the handcuffs binding his wrists in front. Not entirely unexpected, but the wash of relief, of actual joy at their cold clasp is. Because handcuffs mean-

-his eyes crack open to slits, and yes, there's Jack, sitting on the bed beside Leon, face thunderous and body tense. His knife is in his hand, twirling slowly between his fingers. He's watching Leon. He knows Leon's awake.

"Hey. Welcome back."

And Leon feels a swell of rage and pain and humiliation at those casual words, an elemental storm of emotion that roars through his body and mind. Hatred is sharp on his tongue because Krauser put him in this damn cage in the first place, because despite all his promises the- the rape still happened, because as far as Leon knows Krauser could have set this up deliberately to break him, because even knowing all of this Leon is still so achingly happy to see him, so glad to hear his voice and feel his heat beside him. Hate, hate for that warping of Leon's thoughts and heart, and most of all, hate because-

"You're late," Leon snarls. His voice is harsh and broken from all the screaming. "Real great job watching my back, Krauser. Good thing they just wanted to fuck my ass and not kill me, 'cause otherwise you'd have come home to a hell of a mess."

The scowl on Krauser's face deepens, his brows twitch, his shoulders tense - it's the closest he ever comes to a flinch. "I know," is all he says, but the knife stops twirling. Drops into his palm hilt first, and his knuckles go white as his fingers clench tight, tight around the grip, a mirror to the brutal clench of his jaw. He's more then angry, he's seething, a boiling kind of rage that lurks just under the surface looking for any excuse to lash out, and something in Leon eases at the sight of it.

Krauser's a sadistic, brutal bastard, and hovers dangerously close to being a mad dog on occasions. But for all of that he's surprisingly honest. And Leon knows him well. This- this is the real thing. Jack is angry about what happened. About being late to the rescue, and about the damage done to Leon. If this was a setup, it wasn't one of Jack's.

The realization helps ease some of Leon's rage. He huffs a sigh looks away. "How bad was it?"

"Bad enough. No scaring though. Those fuckers would still be alive and screaming if they'd left any permanent damage."

"Still be alive, huh?" Leon mutters. "So they're dead?" Can't help the twist of bitter hope.

Krauser lifts a brow nods toward the front corner of the room, by the bars. Leon lifts himself up on the bed, low hiss as the stiff muscles of his back work and- and there are heads piled there. Four of them, neatly severed and stacked in a little pyramid. Leon recognizes the faces turned toward him.

And the sight of it is- Leon's isn't sure, but it brings an ugly, satisfied smile to his face to see them there. He falls back on the bed, eyes closed, and laughs soundlessly because this is perfect, right? This is just as it should be. "You killed them for me," he says. "This a love token, Jack, or is it just your way of apologizing? Either way it's a hell of an upgrade on the box of chocolates routine."

"Heh. I considered bringing you back a souvenir, but some cheap wooden giraffe just didn't seem like your style. And then I had to rush back before I got the chance to browse . . . " Jack's voice trails off into grim silence.

Leon looks at him sharply. That's right, Krauser was supposed to be away for two weeks. There's no way it's been that long, so- so Jack came back early for Leon? Because of what happened? "How'd you know to come back, anyway?" he asks.

Krauser jabs a thumb in the direction of the bars. "Your camera's hooked up to my personal feed. I can access it pretty much anywhere. Check past recordings, too. Soon as I saw what happened I hopped flight back, but even Umbrella can't get me here from West Africa faster then eleven hours."

Another thing Leon isn't sure how to take. Being watched makes him sick. Being watched over by Jack, though? That's become something different, he realizes.

Uneasy, he turns the thought over and over in his mind and plays with the cuffs. Snuggles down further into bed. He's dressed, he finally notices, in an oversized white tanktop and sweatpants. Wonders if it was Jack who did that, too. Jack looking after him while he was out. Jack flying back early. Jack killing those bastards, the best apology he can make. He's even decapitated them, stacked the skulls up neatly and that's an unexpectedly pleasing touch - it soothes the paranoia Leon's got left over from Raccoon, since there's no way for a body to rise again without its head.

Like roses with the thorns peeled off. Jack knows him just that well, and really does take good care of him.

The thought makes something twist inside him, and he squeezes his eyes shut against the ache in his chest. He knows where this is going. Hates himself for it, but can't stop it. The knife games, the memories, the rape. The rough care that's just the right shade of fucked up. It's all taken its toll, pushed Leon closer and closer to the edge, and he's so tired of teetering there.

"Leon . . ."

"Get the fuck out of my cell, Jack," he says. Because just having Krauser there makes him hate himself for his weakness. Because he wants time to alone before he makes that leap.

Krauser says nothing for a long moment, and Leon can feel the weight of his gaze. Refuses to look at him. "Fine. Come over to the bars and I'll uncuff you for the night."

The words are out before Leon can stop them. "I'll keep them for now, thanks."

As a security blanket, if he's honest. A reminder of Jack's presence, of Jack's touch. And beyond that, as a vote of confidence - despite the rape Jack still respects Leon enough to keep him bound even now.

God, he's so fucked up for needing it. For liking it.

And apparently he's given away too much because Krauser grabs him by the shoulder and forces him onto his back. Grips Leon's chin, and Leon's eyes open, stare into Krauser's.

Jack says nothing. Just searches Leon's face for a long moment, then kisses him. It's brief and hard and edged with pain, and then he stands and strides out of the cell, letting the door clang shut behind him and leaving Leon alone for the night.

Alone, but for the heads piled in the corner and his thoughts.

Jack still respects him. Jack still wants him. Jack's killed for him.

And studying those severed heads Leon can't help think that if he'd been Jack's woman -if everyone had known he was the special property of a murderous psychotic bastard, instead of just another disposable Umbrella project that Jack favoured- those fuckers wouldn't have dared touch him in the first place.

* * *

TBC~