~Sanders~
People often thought “Sanders” was Sanders' last name; it wasn't – his last name was Dashkevich. Sanders was the name of some long forgotten relative. Kind of exotic, really. But he never explained this story, he just let people think what they wanted. That always seemed to work out best for him.
He was thirteen when Mr. Jameson Kane found him, starving on the streets of London. He had tried to steal from Jameson. He had been very bad at pickpocketing, and Jameson had grabbed him by the collar, held him against a wall. But then he'd looked at Sanders in the strangest way, and instead of getting angry, he had offered to buy Sanders lunch.
After the meal, Jameson informed him that if Sanders was at the same spot every day, he would continue buying meals for him. Sanders was sure to be there, every day. After two weeks, they finally got to talking. Jameson asked why he was starving, living on the streets.
“I ran away from home,” was Sanders' only explanation. Jameson had nodded.
“I know how you feel.”
“You ran away, too?
“Sort of. I did something very bad to someone back home.”
“And you felt bad, so you ran away?”
“No, I didn't feel bad, and that's why I ran away.”
They kept meeting for lunch. Jameson would have him run the odd errand, then pay him for it. Jameson would laugh - “you're my assistant now, Sanders, so we have to work out a salary.” Rented out a hotel room for Sanders to stay in, bought him new clothes.
Sanders couldn't figure it out. Who was this guy? What did he want? For a long time, Sanders thought it was sex. He kept waiting to hear his hotel room door open, see a silhouette in the light. It's what had always happened to him, in his old home. But it never happened with this man. It became very obvious, very quickly, that Jameson was not attracted to him, at all. Sure, Jameson was very adventurous, and Sanders could see that he lived by a “I'll try anything once” kind of creedo – but he wasn't gay. Jameson loved women.
“The perfect woman, Sanders. That's what I'm on a quest for - the perfect woman. Don't know if I'll ever find her,” he had slurred late one night, very drunk.
“Have you ever met a perfect woman?” Sanders asked. Jameson thought long and hard about it.
“I think I might have. But I didn't know it at the time. And she wasn't quite perfect yet.”
“Was it a long time ago?”
“Not long enough.”
Sanders wasn't gay either, but he didn't really have any interest in sex. He'd never done it. Well, at least not consensually; and never with a girl. He had always been too busy hiding his secret. Then after Jameson came along, Sanders had been too in awe of his new world, too in shock, to think about girls.
He told Jameson about the family he'd grown up with – his aunt's family, in South London. Sanders was originally from Belarus, but his parents moved to England when he was five. His family got deported, but they managed to leave him at his mother's sister's house. He never heard from his mother or father again. His aunt's husband was an Englishman, and not a very nice one. Sanders didn't want to tell Jameson that whole story.
So how could Jameson have known?
He had wanted to do something nice for Sanders. Wanted Sanders' family to see how well their nephew was doing, the kind of life he was now leading. Let Sanders show off a little. His family owned a small bed and breakfast, and Jameson surprised him by getting them rooms there for a night.
Something snapped in Sanders. When his uncle came to his room, tried to hold him down, tried to tell him that he would never be more than what he was in that moment, Sanders fought back – the first time he had ever done so. He was much smaller than his uncle, but rage completely overtook him. It wasn't until Jameson was standing over him, pulling him away, that Sanders even realized he had completely beaten his uncle's head in against a radiator.
His life would be over. He would at best be deported back to Belarus. At worst, and most likely, spend the rest of his life in prison. Sanders sat in the middle of the blood and gore, and just sobbed. Jameson knelt down and grabbed onto him, held him still against his chest. Told him everything would be okay, that he didn't have to worry, that Jameson would take care of everything. And when Sanders finally calmed down, Jameson kept his promise. He managed to magically have the body disposed of; cleaned up the room. Left a large sum of money with Sanders' aunt, who never even seemed to question her husband going missing. Apparently he wasn't a nice man to anyone else, either.
They never spoke of that night again. Jameson didn't even ask, just arranged for Sanders to come back to America. Paid for him to attend the best private schools. Sanders was very smart, it turned out. He spoke fluent English, Russian, Belarusian, Polish, and German; as well as conversational French and Spanish. He could play the piano, and got as high as a Master level in competitive chess before he gave it up. Took classes in sharp shooting. Learned how to rebuild automobile engines.
While in school, Sanders was also diagnosed with a mild form of Asperger's syndrome. It explained some of his intense focus, why he never really wanted to talk, and his minimal OCD. He hadn't thought much of it, and Jameson had just laughed, said it would give him a leg up in the world.
Because of Jameson, Sanders was able to do anything he wanted; was allowed to do anything he wanted. Jameson never questioned his choices. When Sanders turned eighteen, Jameson offered to pay for him to go to college, but he declined. He wanted to stay with Jameson. He wanted a real job with him. He wanted to be wherever Jameson was, and the best way was to take a real position as his assistant.