Chapter Text
Jackie really shouldn't be here. Elladine Lambert has a certain reputation amongst the Dorley girls, one that ought to keep her far, far away. But Jackie is a curious woman. Always has been; it's what got her into Saints, then trouble, and then the basement. It got her out of there, too. She graduated, moved away, got a job, became an example of the programme's effectiveness, lost contact, lost her job. She's been living off the stipend. Her stipend.
Dorley gave her a second chance, and she blew it.
And then, Ms. Lambert calls. Tells her she's worried. Tells her she wants to help.
The suite is surprisingly tasteful. Spotless. Jackie hasn't ever stayed in a hotel this nice before. She's not staying now. She hopes she's not staying, that is. This woman is a known pervert but, judging from what she's put together, mostly harmless. She can't very well take her balls again.
So she sits, and waits. Ms. Lambert excused herself about ten minutes ago. Went into the office. Locked the door. Overestimated the soundproofing. Jackie's been fiddling with her iPod, trying to find something to drown out those sounds, as well as her creeping dread.
She could just go. There's nothing actually stopping her. Except, of course, the scorn of the woman who holds her entire life in the palms of her sweaty little hands. Ms. Lambert promised that there would be no consequences, should she decide against whatever it is she's here for. She's already gone through all the trouble of getting those medical tests done and coming here. Even signed an NDA. Might as well find out what she's agreed not to disclose.
The lock clicks open and, a few moments later, Ms. Lambert comes out, looking rather flushed. “Apologies, Ms. Field. I had an urgent, ah,” she clears her throat and tucks and errant strand of hair behind her ear, which does nothing to hide the overall state of her once-tight bun. “Phone call. Would you like anything to drink?”
“Just water for me, thank you.”
“Take a seat inside, please. I'll be right with you.”
The office alone is half the size of her flat. Sparse, like the rest of the suite, with shelves displaying of a glaring lack of paperwork. Not a place actual work gets done. She decides against indulging her curiosity for once and doesn't peek over the desk to check for stains, instead taking her seat across from the imposing leather chair.
It dawns on Jackie that a woman like Ms. Lambert ought to have someone serving her. Why is she getting her a drink? There's not a soul in here besides the two of them. The whole floor is hers. Nobody to witness anything unwholesome. You never want to have a private moment with someone like—
The door shuts behind her. Was that the lock, or the latch? That dread is starting to look like panic, and Jackie is starting to look for an exit.
“Anything else, Ms. Field?” Ms. Lambert sets down the most expensive-looking glass Jackie's ever seen on a wooden coaster. She takes it and drinks half to calm herself and hopes the pervert washed her hands first.
“No, thank you.”
“Excellent.” She takes her seat, looking frankly adorable framed by the looming black leather. Can you call a woman like that adorable? No, it's disarming. Ms. Lambert fumbles around in her desk for a folder, which she lays down in front of her and folds open. She looks Jackie in the eye and says, “I remind you that you have signed a non-disclosure agreement, and that I will not hold your decision against you. All your regular benefits will remain.”
Jackie replies, “I understand and agree, Ms. Lambert,” with a light mocking tone.
She slides the stack of documents over, the tension in her neck clear. “Read thoroughly. I can leave the room, should you want to read privately.”
“I'm good,” she says. Ms. Lambert nods, and watches as Jackie takes the bundle to read.
First page. Results from the blood test. She knows most of these numbers, and that they're good numbers. Some doctor signed off on it. No adverse health effects expected, it says. Effects of what? Is this supposed to comfort her? She looks up at the woman behind the desk, who looks back at her wide-eyed, nervously fiddling with a pen. Not comforting.
Second page. Twenty-four deposits, upon delivery of... something. It doesn't say. Amounting to a total of—Christ. Two point seven million. Million. What does she have to offer that's worth millions? Again she looks up at Ms. Lambert, who appears a single twitch away from biting clean through her bottom lip.
Third page. Domperidone, it says. Off label use.
Jackie drops the papers. Takes a deep breath.
To induce lactation.
Ms. Lambert swallows, fails to hide the creeping smile. “Something wrong, Ms. Field?”
“I knew you were a pervert, Ms. Lambert, but this?”
“You are under no obligation to sign,” she says, seemingly unbothered by the accusation. Leans back in her comically oversized chair. “I do bid you read further. To make an informed decision, Ms. Field.”
Jackie sighs.
Lactation. Is that even possible for a woman like herself? Ms. Lambert would know. Jackie's probably not even the first—this whole document looks awfully standardised. Dosages, production quotas. No schedule, just twenty-four deliveries of two bottles, one litre each.
Jackie finds Ms. Lambert's gaze following along on the page.
“I travel, Ms. Field, and it would be cruel were I to make you follow me around. Whenever I return to England I'll arrange a visit, first thing, to keep my fridge stocked.”
“You want me on call to deliver my own milk to your door.”
“Would you prefer one of my gir—people comes to yours for collection? It can be arranged, if you sign the third party handling waiver.”
Jackie looks for that waiver and finds it alongside two other options, Waste prevention and—God, no—direct access. She turns the page before she can register the amount of zeroes attached to the latter.
She shouldn't. She really shouldn't. She should just go back to her regular pervert-funded life and try to forget this ever happened, just like she tried to forget about Dorley. Maybe get some therapy. Figure out some elaborate metaphorical backstory to explain away all the new and exciting complexes she developed at her eighteen month stay in the basement. Hope that a professional therapist doesn't figure out that she's clearly lying. Maybe that stipend wouldn't sting so much. Maybe she can bloody well get over herself.
That is a lot of money. Retire-at-twenty-four money? Completely-cut-yourself-off-from-Dorley money? Get-a-house-somwhere-far-away—Europe, maybe—and-live-your-new-life-as-a-woman-in-peace money? Fifty-six thousand for every delivery—it takes her genuine effort not to make a comment about 'the price of milk these days'— times twenty-four comes to one point thirty-five million. She gets that total doubled as a lump sum when she completes the contract. No, if. If she completes the contract. Which she won't, because this is ridiculous, and she's not signing it.
She should stop ruminating. Ms. Lambert is clearly getting off on her internal conflict. Probably trying to memorize the exact mix of shock and disgust on her face. Breathe, Jackie, just tell her no. And don't be too indignant about it, or she'll slip right off that chair.
She straightens, looks the little woman right in her dilated eyes, and says, “I would like some time to consider.”
XXX
Jackie needs a bigger flat. There's not a single spot to keep this thing where it won't either constantly appear in her periphery or get lost in The Mess. She's considered throwing it out, but she'd feel bad for the paper or something. She's been like that forever. Everything's got a use, eventually. Something even Dorley couldn't fix. Actually, the fact that even she got a second chance despite definitely belonging in the bin only gives credence to her little hoarding compulsion; you never know what that bit of rubbish might turn out to be.
Not that she keeps actual rubbish. It's not that bad. Sure, her definition of rubbish might be a little different than most people's. She'll admit to that. Nothing that'll stink, or rot, or attract bugs. Nice cardboard, though? Styrofoam? Interestingly shaped plastic?
It's not rubbish if you can use it.
Not that she uses any of it. She hasn't partaken in her crafting hobby in years. While arts and crafts are considered ladylike enough to keep, her particular interest in wargaming terrain certainly is not. So they made her quit, even after she insisted on only playing the girl armies. Trish then joked that calling it 'the girl armies' meant she needed another week in the basement, which shut Jackie right up.
Looking around, maybe she does need some remedial basementing. This place was once a two-bedroom. Dreams of a home office, now buried in The Big Mess, which puts the regular Mess in the living room to shame. It was so much easier keeping it all in check at the Hall, with all the inspections and withering glares from the sponsors.
Ugh. On the kitchen counter it goes. Go to bed, Jacqueline.
XXX
Where the fuck did she put that bloody contract? It's not in her bag, it's not on the table, her desk, the floor under the desk.
It's a contract. Goes with the documents. Surely Past Jackie made the right call and put the document with the other documents . She ignores the fact that this would be extremely out-of-character for Past Jackie. She looks over at The Door, beyond which lies The Big Mess, within which she keeps the Dread Tome (The Dread Tome being the folder within which she keeps her records, sealed away, never to be seen again). Takes a deep breath.
Nope.
Not doing it.
Coffee time. She turns to her dinky little coffee maker to find the pristine contract resting right beside it on the counter.
She should—no. Bad Jackie. She should not do that. She should be nicer to herself, that's what she should do. Make that coffee, get caffeinated, then read it again. To make sure she didn't miss anything.
When she feels the caffeine kick in, she takes her seat and opens the folder.
Ms. Lambert gave her a dummy contract to take home. No names, no place to sign, and watermarked with block letters reading CONCEPT. Can't be traced back to her that way. Just Jackie getting weird looks, should anyone find it.
It was a good call not to take those optional waivers. She'd manage to convince herself of the reasonableness of the basic arrangement in contrast to whatever direct access means. She'd end up signing the damned thing like that. No, much better like this. Just don't think about all those other options and focus on the simple yes/no question, the answer to which is a decisive 'no' and an hour or so looking for that shredder she bought last month.
There's a section labelled what you can expect. That's new. New and interesting, and so are those numbers. Eight hundred millilitres? A day? She might experience some growth too, which she's not not excited about.
When the sponsors started explaining hormones, and the other guy-at-the-time's... guys-at-the-time? Her fellow inmates. They were upset. She was, too. Obviously. But what could she do? Not like fighting it worked for the others. Might as well lean in. So she pestered Trish for weeks about every little thing. This never crossed her mind, though. She could have deduced that it should be possible; her breasts are completely identical to those of cisgender women—a little on the small side, but she's not bitter about that, thank you—and therefore capable of lactation. She remembers how her chest felt when she first started budding. That itch that just wouldn't go away. She tried to squeeze and scratch but it only stung more. Would this feel any different?
Her thumb scrolls through her contacts, looking for Ms. Lambert.
What if she doesn't come through? Jackie's got nothing on her. It's not like this contract actually holds water. Its purpose is to provide justification to withhold payment, should she fail to keep up. Which is exactly why she should not sign.
God, but what if she does?
She could hire a cleaner.
The dial tone hurts her ears.