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“Really like,” Ace emphasizes.
Travis fiddles with a slice of bacon, breaking it into smaller and smaller pieces. He tries not to remember how Carter would light up whenever he was fed bacon. Or how he’d suck and lick his fingers clean after strawberry juice covered them. Or how that same mouth would feel wrapped around his cock.
He fails miserably, of course.
Forgetting about the bacon, he moves on to violently slicing his pancakes.
It starts to dawn on him that he may be an angry individual.
And that Ace and Jake might have a point.
“How about I just cover everything with a light blanket of worry and call it good?” Travis offers.
His friends look at each other again.
Travis frowns. “Really? That’s not enough? I’m not going to stop worrying about Carter. Or Mica. Or Elliot. Or the survivors. Or Maison. Or-”
“Dr. Singh is here,” Jake interrupts.
Travis exchanges his fork for his coffee, realizing he’s going to need it. And probably a few refills. “That’s the therapist, right?”
“You know it’s the therapist, asshole.”
“And you have an appointment with him,” Ace adds. “At 1500 tomorrow.”
“I’ll pass.”
Ace shakes his head. “It’s really not a choice. You agreed to therapy when you first took the job, remember?”
There are a lot of things from when he first took the job that Travis doesn’t remember. Like who he was as a human being. But he doesn't say that.
“Fine. 1500 tomorrow.” Travis doesn’t feel like eating anymore, but he forces himself to take a few more bites before dumping the rest and adding some more coffee to his mug. He does it with very little spillage, just a few drops on the counter. It’s unfortunately not enough to boost his suddenly dark mood. “I’m going to shower. Then maybe go for a walk.”
It’s code for going to spy on Carter, something they both clearly pick up on from the smirks on their faces, but they don’t call him out on it.
Travis doesn’t make it outside to Carter, though.
He doesn’t even make it to his shower.
Two young men come around the corner at the same time Travis is leaving the kitchen, both familiar faces, one more than the other. It’s Gabe, the slave who was only in the house shortly before the bust, and Nolan.
Gabe visibly flinches.
Nolan drops straight to his knees with a gasped, “Master Roarke!”
The words slam Travis right back into his Nathan headspace, his entire stance changing as he takes in the slave on the floor.
It only lasts a second or two. Then he remembers this isn’t a slave, or 3, it’s Nolan, and he’s not Nathan, he’s Travis, and this is a traumatized young man at his feet.
Bile burns at the back of Travis’s throat.
“Nolan,” he forces himself to say, his voice like gravel. His hands twitch at his sides as he tries to figure out if he should reach for the young man or give him space. He clears his throat and tries again. “Nolan. You - you can get up.”
The young man rolls onto his ass and draws his knees to his chest, hugging them close. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Shit. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Travis starts to reach for him, desperate to provide some comfort.
“Don’t touch me!” Nolan shouts just before their skin can touch. He violently lurches backward, hitting his head on the wall. “D-don’t. Don’t touch me. They - they promised you can’t touch me anymore.”
