#bbu oc

Querencia BBU AU - Exhaustion

(Day 16 of Angstpril 2022)

Today we’re back to the regular BBU AU, no Kestrel Sisters involved. :)

Taglist:@justplainwhump,@painful-pooch

Previous | Next | Masterlist

Warnings: lady whumpee, BBU, whumper POV, creepy/intimate whumper (seriously this guy is a real creeper), mild blood, scars, implied future torture, noncon touch (non-sexual)

.

.

The fighting ring is not Manuel Beckham’s favorite place to be. Yes, he owns it. Yes, he makes sure that it’s a respectable establishment, as far as illegal pet fighting rings go, that it’s kept as clean and presentable as any of his offices. Yes, many of his esteemed colleagues can be found here on any given night. And yes, the fights here bring in as much money in a week as some of his legal companies.

But personally, he finds all the blood and sweat and cheering for pain a bit…distasteful.

Not that he’s against pain. But pain should be something beautiful, something carefully crafted with expert hands and enjoyed more privately. It’s wasted on these dogs, and on their owners who roar for more.

Still, he’s obligated to drop by once in a while. The employees always make a huge ordeal out of it, scurrying around like ants trying to make sure everything is perfect for him, always giving him the, “Oh, we weren’t expecting you, we would have had something special prepared for you,” speech.

Of course they weren’t expecting him. If he announced when he was visiting, they could make sure to clean up their act before he arrived. This way he sees everything raw, exactly how it happens on the nights he isn’there.

They sit him in his own private box, though someone is constantly in and out, offering him food and drinks and the chance to place bets. More than one person stopped him on the way there, shaking hands and giving fake smiles and faker compliments. They all want a chance to sit in the box with him, to claim that they’re best friends with Manuel Beckham. He’s yet to invite any of them in.

“You’ll be happy to know,” one of the managers tells him halfway through the night, after one of the dogs takes a brutal beating, “that the new healing program has taken off. We’ve been making nearly ten percent extra each week from healings alone.”

Beckham gives a non-committal hum, sipping his drink. “Healing program?”

“Yes, sir, the new healer pet you ordered. It’s been doing its job well. Your clients are very pleased.”

Healer pet. Right, he vaguely remembers signing off on such a thing. It had to have been at least a year ago by now.

“Well, that’s good to hear.” The concept intrigues him, actually. A pet with magic? He knows they exist, but has yet to come across one.

He makes an impulsive decision in that moment, a rarity for him. “I’d like to see it in action. Once the fights are over, someone can escort me downstairs to watch.”

The manager’s eyes widen almost comically, but he nods eagerly. “Yes, sir, of course! I’ll take you down there myself!”

It’s been years since he ventured into the belly of the beast. As long as the upstairs, the place where all of the business takes place, is presentable, he honestly doesn’t care what happens behind the scenes. He’s still pleased to see as he descends the echoing staircase into a long, grey hallway that they’ve kept it clean and tidy down here. The proximity to a bunch of snarling, filthy mutts is a bit too close for his tastes, but he can ignore that for his curiosity’s sake.

“Just down here is where we have it set up.” The manager - Beckham can’t be bothered to remember his name at the moment - leads the way past closed office doors and several owners tugging their dogs out on leashes. Thankfully most of them are too busy either reveling in their wins or wallowing in their losses to notice his presence.

“Pierce!” A black man built like a bouncer turns at the call of his name. “Mr. Beckham is here. He’d like to see the healer pet at work.”

Pierce merely gives a polite nod to Beckham, who decides immediately that he likes him. No groveling or fake smiles, just business.

“Perfect timing. I’m about to take the next dog in.” Pierce gestures toward the people standing there, a woman he thankfully doesn’t recognize and her female dog that’s nearly covered in blood.

The door opens, and Beckham immediately spots the healer, despite the fact that she’s tucked herself neatly into the corner. He’s hooked right away. Her big grey eyes stand out from her gaunt face, dark circles underneath making them even more prominent. Freckles dot her nose and cheeks. Her dark brown curls are a mess, falling just below her shoulders, but he can tell they’d be gorgeous with proper care. A scar bisects her full, perfect pink lips and runs up her cheek. Everything about her, including the way she folds her hands tightly in front of her and ducks her head just so, is perfect. She’s like a little mouse. He can’t stop staring at her.

When the Guard Dog has been properly restrained, she finally emerges from her corner, head still respectfully down. She doesn’t even need to be told what needs healing. Her hands move gracefully around the dog’s body, mesmerizing blue light spilling from her fingertips, stitching up the deepest of wounds with the slightest of touches.

Once she’s done, she steps back into her corner. The owner takes out a wet wipe and cleans off some of the blood here and there, checking the wounds, but there’s nothing to be found but a few, small white scars. She pays her dues and leaves satisfied.

“Pretty amazing, huh?” the manager asks.

“Yes,” Beckham hums. “She is. Tell me, does she have a name?” He still can’t take his eyes off of her.

“Um…”

“Her trainers called her 472,” Pierce offers. “But some of the guards here have taken to calling her Freckles.”

“How’d she get that scar on her face?” Freckles and a number won’t do at all. Little Mouse, that’s how he’s going to think of her.

Pierce shrugs. “Some dog she healed a few months ago. That’s how her magic works, she takes on the pain of whatever she’s healing, and she gets matching scars.”

She takes on the pain. How completely fascinating. He can see it now, watching her work on the next dog. The slight stiffness to her movements, the way she favors one leg almost imperceptibly. A weariness that weighs down her shoulders. She does an excellent job of keeping it to herself, though. He’d never have noticed if he hadn’t been told. Now he can’t stop noticing, though, can’t stop wondering where she’s hiding invisible injuries, what parts of her are hurting. It must be strange, carrying someone else’s pain. She must be exhausted.

It just adds to her perfection.

Beckham stays until the last dog is healed, watching. He can tell that she knows, but she’s a good pet, never raising her eyes except to look at injuries, never speaking at all, never making even the slightest pained noise even as she heals a broken collarbone and a sprained wrist. He wants to know what her voice sounds like. Wants to know what it would take to make that voice cry out, to make tears fill those impassive eyes.

As soon as he gets home that night, despite the late hour, he locks himself in his office and searches his records until he finds every single piece of paperwork that Beckham Solutions, Inc. has on the Little Mouse. Designation 521472, trained as a Platonic, with an emphasis in healing magic and a little bit of Romantic training thrown in to boot. She was lauded by WRU as being ‘highly obedient’ and received high marks in every aspect of her training.

She’s meant to be a companion. To be petted, and held, and loved. And now she’s trapped in the bowels of the fighting ring, carrying the burden of so many injuries so that the Guard Dogs of a bunch of rich, entitled owners won’t have to.

The more he learns of her story, the more delighted he is.

Hewantsher.

But of course he can’t just go and take her. Yes, she technically belongs to him, but what would his employees think if he snatched away the source of a ten percent increase in earnings just for his own whims? He’s a businessman first and foremost. If he’s going to have the Little Mouse for himself, he needs to make sure there’s a way to replace the money she brings in.

So he contacts WRU the very next day. Informs them that he’s in need of another pet with healing magic, and no, he doesn’t mind paying extra for a custom order. Drops plenty of hints that if they don’t have one that has signed up by conventional methods, they should most certainly pursue unconventional methods of procuring one. Yes, he’s alright with waiting as long as it takes. He wants his Little Mouse now, but he’s a patient man. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, after all.

Months pass. He stays away from the fighting ring altogether, not wanting to tempt himself to act rashly. He finally gets a call from WRU, telling him that they’ve found a candidate. His training will begin immediately, this time strictly focused on obedience and healing. Beckham inquires a little into this new pet’s story, out of curiosity, and finds that his magic works quite differently from Little Mouse’s. No taking on pain involved. Much less interesting. He promptly forgets about him, other than occasionally wondering how close his training is to being completed.

Little Mouse, on the other hand, he thinks about every single day. He quietly begins making preparations for her arrival, whenever that may be, much to the curiosity of his other pets, he’s sure. They don’t need an explanation from him, though. They’re just pets. They’ll find out what’s happening eventually.

At last, almost a year later, when he’s practically worn thin from the waiting, he gets the call. His new Box Boy is ready and will be delivered to the fighting ring the next day.

Beckham doesn’t waste any time. He’s waiting down the hall from the healing room that night half an hour after the fights end, waiting for his Little Mouse to emerge from her very last night working here. The fact that she has no idea makes him a little bit giddy. He’s already set everything up for the new pet’s arrival with Kara, who will be the one in charge of unboxing him and putting him to work. All that’s left is to take her home.

He’s purposely set himself up a little ways away from the door so that he can watch her for a moment when she comes out. It’s a struggle to keep himself from breaking into a smile when she does. She’s just as perfect as he remembers. Time has changed her, though. His Little Mouse has turned into something of a ghost, haunting the basement halls of this establishment. There’s no longer a light, airy quality to the way she walks. The exhaustion he’d seen on her before weighs even heavier now, dragging her down. She moves more stiffly than before, less able to hide the amount of pain she’s constantly in. Her skin is paler than it should be. The bags under her eyes have grown even darker.

But she’s still perfect, and she’s his. Give him a little time, and he’ll bring all of that grace and beauty back to life.

He steps forward, intercepting the path of the guard, though he pays them little attention. His eyes are only on her. “Hello, Little Mouse. Do you know who I am?”

Her throat bobs as she swallows. “No, sir.” It’s the first time he’s heard her voice. It’s quiet and demure, as it should be, barely above a whisper. She shakes her head, but leaves it tipped down toward the floor.

“My name is Manuel Beckham.” There’s a visible, physical reaction to that name. She’s heard it before, somewhere. “I’m the owner of this fighting ring.”

Stepping in closer, he reaches out with two fingers, nearly trembling with excitement, and tips her chin up. It’s been so long since he’s been able to see this face. He takes it all in now, burning it into his memory, relishing the fact that he’ll get to see it every day from now on. Her eyes stay locked somewhere around his chin, thick eyelashes nearly covering them.

“Which means I’m also yourowner.”

Her lips part, and she sucks in a barely audible gasp of air. Perfect, she’s entirely perfect.

“Look at me, Mouse.” Grey eyes slowly move up to meet his own. There’s a million thoughts and emotions shining in them, feelings that are kept dutifully hidden from any other portion of her body. He makes a note of that - her eyes are where the truth is held.

“I’m here to take you home. You don’t belong in this place any longer, toiling away so that stupid Guard Dogs don’t have to deal with their own pain. You’re coming home with me, to finally become the beloved pet that you deserve to be.”

Her carefully controlled demeanor is cracking. No one else would see it, perhaps, but as close as he is he can feel the way she’s shaking, can see the tears form in the corners of her eyes. She’s so, incredibly weary, and this is the one thing that she’s been waiting on since completing her training. A pity, some would say, that so much time was wasted training her for companionship only for her to end up here. Others might feel sorry for the pet herself and how disappointed she must have been, though anyone assigning that much weight to a pet’s feelings is an idiot.

For Beckham, though, it’s all exactly how it should be. She was placed here, fulfilling only half of her purpose, so that she would need him as much as he wants her. They’re perfect for one another.

“Come, little one.” He releases her chin, only to slide his hands behind her neck and unbuckle the ugly black shock collar around her neck. Without looking, he drops it into the hand of the flabbergasted guard, then reaches into his inner jacket pocket and brings out the new collar he’d purchased just for her. It’s thin and delicate, genuine leather dyed pink and embedded with pink diamonds. Just one of many fine pieces that she’ll wear in the coming days.

He brushes a strand of messy hair back from her face, and she melts, eyes fluttering shut. Beckham finally allows a smile onto his lips.

“It’s time to go home.”