*XXV*

10:27 P.M.
It was a long way from the front of the 
house to the hall in the back. Indifferent 
light spilled from crystal chandeliers, 
keeping the night at bay. Jim's skin jumped 
at the small sounds from the kitchen. The 
air wasn't cold but he shivered. The shadows 
of furniture felt moonlight sharp. 

He looked down the hall toward the 
infirmary's cool white light, his own hunger 
propelling him toward what he shouldn't do, 
but would-- but must-- consequences be 
damned. His soul be damned...maybe. His 
master didn't think Jim's pathology was too 
extreme and Dr. Taylor was an educated man. 
Even so, Jim knew it wasn't right. What he 
wanted was unnatural. Babcia had said that 
her book said so, and he smelled her 
rosewater and heard her whisper, "Zdrowas 
Mario, laskis pelna Pan z Toba...." The 
little ghost-jangle of her rosary almost 
overwhelmed him.

At the doorway to the infirmary, Jim's 
nostrils flared at the smell of astringents. 
Bill was sprawled in a chair, reading 
'Ronin' magazine. He glanced at Jim then 
uncrossed his legs and stood up. "He's all 
ready for you, Jimbo."

"Good. Come back in a half hour. And keep an 
ear tuned for Him."

"And I get Marta tomorrow night, right?"

He sighed. "Have I ever double-dealt you?"

Bill didn't respond; he just strode off, but 
quietly, this time, his boots barely 
sounding on the floor. Across the small 
room, on his stomach on the cot, his 
master's patient was deep in drugged sleep. 
Jim stared down at him, noticing the bluish 
fingernails on the hand into which the IV 
ran, studying the smudges under closed eyes 
with dark lashes laying thick and heavy. 
White teeth shone through full, barely 
parted pale lips, and Jim thought he saw the 
pink tongue. Carefully, he placed a 
fingertip between the lips, pressing down to 
feel the tip of that tongue and the hardness 
of the teeth. The wet warmth sent a shiver 
through him. His buttocks tightened and the 
blood throbbed in his cock and balls. 

The air chilled his wet finger when he 
pulled it out of the sleeping man's mouth. 
There was lubricant in a drawer, and Jim 
uncapped it, squeezing the gel onto his 
palm. He tossed the tube onto the counter 
and turned back to the bed. The blanket 
caught just a little on long scabs as he 
pulled it off the man's back. The cuts were 
startling and vivid, dark brown with a 
delicate edge of scarlet. Blue-black streaks 
marked the patient's skin from shoulders to 
knees, some neat and straight and others 
wild-angled across the white flesh. At the 
buttocks the top layers of epidermis were 
flayed off leaving red, raw patches, 
inflamed and wet looking. Jim spread one 
hand over the injured flesh, squeezing just 
a little, savoring the loose weight of 
muscles and bone in the unconscious body 
under his hands. 

The patient's face was turned to the side as 
he slept on his stomach. He looked gentle 
and young without the obstinate hostility 
that sharpened the waking man's expressions. 
Jim sighed, shaking his head. Whoever 
touched Fox Mulder next would have the 
warning of scars but the Master had taken 
this one in unaware. 

The space heater clicked on, whirring to 
life, making Jim jitter then feel goosebumps 
raise on his arms and scalp. But the 
possibility of being caught was part of the 
thrill, part of the ultimate satisfaction. 
Jim slid his thumbs between the muscled 
curves of buttocks, enjoying the touch that 
would send the waking man into a screaming 
rage. His thumb found the puffy anus, 
swollen, red, and scabbed where it was 
abraded, and stroked and played over it. The 
hot, little pucker yielded to the tip of his 
finger now slick with lubricant. Jim pushed 
at the soft flesh until in its center he 
felt the hard ring of muscle that was the 
sphincter. He twisted his wrist and pushed 
down against it, letting it engulf his 
fingertip. A shiver ran through him as the 
patient's anus tightened. Jim held still, 
finger in the patient's body to the first 
knuckle, stomach churning as he heard a low 
moan and felt the body under his hand shift, 
but Fox Mulder's eyes didn't open and he 
didn't move again. The assistant smiled, 
pushed and felt his finger sink into snug 
heat all the way to the last knuckle. 

Jim's jeans were tight across his swelling 
cock as he slowly worked his second finger 
and thumb into that pretty little hole, 
savoring the heat, imagining that fierce 
clasp of muscle around his shaft instead of 
his finger. Moaning, he fumbled to unbutton 
his jeans, squeezing his own cock, pumping 
it, pushing more fingers as deep into the 
man's rectum as he could get. The patient's 
anus constricted his fingers, sending pulses 
of aching pleasure up his arm as he pushed 
into that delicious hole in time to the 
pumping of his hand up and down his own 
shaft. 

He was rocking the patient's body back and 
forth, tingling waves of ecstasy rolling 
over him as the need in his balls built and 
built. The desperate pressure was rising in 
the head of his cock, too, and his fist 
worked the hard thickness of his penis as he 
pushed in twisted his fingers inside the 
patient's ass to feel the bulge of the 
prostate and the smoothness of the interior 
lining. He was hungry, wishing, wanting to 
shove his cock deep into that hole and 
surround himself with the smooth and the 
pressure and it hurt because he wanted to 
come so much... He was going to... going 
to... moaning and squeezing and pumping and 
coming and coming and he clenched his teeth 
on the heady groans as his cum spurted, 
squirting wild streamers on the bed and the 
patient's side. 

The blood was still pounding behind Jim's 
eyes as he sagged over the side of the 
hospital cot, the smooth metal railing 
digging into his ribs, his forehead against 
Fox Mulder's slack thigh. Around his 
fingers, he could feel the patient's pulse, 
and his own blood pounded in his ears. 

Thin streaks of cum were drying on Mulder's 
skin. Jim shoved his flaccid penis back into 
his jeans, moaning as the cloth rubbed 
sensitive skin, trying to button himself one 
handed. He turned and stumbled to the sink. 
Warm water steamed gently and he rubbed soap 
over his hands, scrubbed the scents of his 
own passion and Mulder's body from himself. 
His tongue was dry from the desperate pants 
of his open-mouthed orgasm. He soaked a 
towel and turned back, wiping his semen off 
the patient's skin, scrubbing at the stuff 
that had glazed the cotton of the sheet. 
Then he lifted the edge of the blanket and 
spread it carefully over the man, stroking 
the tousled hair off his face and watching 
the way color was slowly, gradually 
returning to pale cheeks. A small line 
darkened the smooth skin between the 
eyebrows and the hands that had lain flat 
now weakly flexed.

It was time to go; time to get Bill. Time to 
tell the small, dark-haired woman in the 
kitchen that Persephone was awaking and in 
need of pomegranate seeds.


When Jim returned, the old standing clock in 
the foyer was striking half past eleven. It 
had done so since 1814, according to the 
inscription on the face. It had dinged and 
dinged the hours for 130 odd years before 
his master was born, and it would continue 
to do so when Dr. Taylor was gone and this 
house was Jim's. With a preemptive smile, 
Jim surveyed the elegant furniture, 
paintings, and decorations that he passed. 
And to think that only six years ago he'd 
been a patient in that little room at the 
end of the plain hallway-- a broken, 
blubbering youth. Now he was a man, a 
trainer, and Dr. Taylor's heir.

Jim found Bill sitting sullenly in his chair 
in the corner, the space heater turned away 
from the patient toward himself. Only the 
crown of Bill's blond head was visible above 
the top edge of the magazine, light 
reflecting off the gelled coiffure as if it 
was made of molded plastic. Bill had to hold 
the magazine that close to see it; he needed 
glasses but he dared Jim or Marta to tell 
their master so. Dr. Taylor might find 
myopia a sign of weakness and fuck if Bill 
would stand that. It was his place in this 
house to be strong and cruel; it was Bill's 
place and his vocation.

Jim looked away, toward the patient who 
apparently still struggled to retain 
consciousness. Jim watched the gentle lines 
of Fox Mulder's face blur as another waking 
marred them. His long fingers drew up like 
rising spiders then sagged, flattened out. 
In a moment, they were twitching again.

Jim set the mug of warm broth on the counter 
and stepped up to the head of the cot. He 
spoke clearly and slowly, mimicking his 
master's cadence. "Fox, you're still in the 
infirmary. You're not restrained, but I 
don't want you to move too much. You'll feel 
pain if you do. We don't want you to hurt. 
Shhhhhhhhh." 

He touched the back of the man's hand 
softly, grounding the patient, then found 
the pulse under the blue-black skin. Jim 
nodded at the steady thump. Then tendons 
suddenly flexed as Fox Mulder's hand balled 
into a tight fist, the wrist twisted, and he 
made a strangled squawk. The hazel eyes were 
wide and dazed as they tracked up to Jim's 
face.

"Jim?" the patient's voice trembled and Jim 
let a brief smile cross his lips. Good. 
There was just bafflement-- no memories that 
would lead to snarls and screams. The Master 
was still an enemy to this newly broken man, 
but Jim wasn't; he'd bonded with him before 
Dr, Taylor had. He could continue to draw 
him in now. "Yeah, it's Jim. Don't be 
frightened," he reassured softly. "I'm going 
to take your temperature. Stay calm." 

Jim felt the patient tense as he tucked the 
thermoscan into his ear. Mulder turned his 
head as far as he could, hazel irises in the 
corners of his eyes as he tried to see Jim. 
Mulder flinched at the click then shivered, 
goosebumps rising on bruised skin. 

Jim looked down at the reading. The 
pateint's temperature was still above 101, 
but down a half degree so he need not wake 
the Master. The thermoscan fit neatly back 
into its drawer, and Jim reached up to the 
open cabinet to pull down the log Dr. Taylor 
kept on each of his patients. He thought his 
own notation looked clumsy next to Taylor's 
precise, nearly microscopic script.

When he turned back, Mulder was watching 
Bill while the other man flipped a page and 
enjoyed warmth not meant for him. Jim leaned 
back against the counter, settling with the 
hard edge against his lower back. "No one's 
going to hurt you, Mr. Mulder. Bill, turn 
that heater around. The patient is cold."

The blond man looked up, eyes narrowing out 
of near-sightedness and pride. He knew Bill 
was thinking 'Fuck you, Jimbo' as he kicked 
the heater around. Mulder winced at the thud 
of the boot against the little machine and 
when Jim stepped towards him Mulder drew 
away. Jim scratched his fingernails through 
the short beard under his chin. "You look 
jumpy. Do you need more Valium? He said I 
could give you more if you can't stay calm. 
It's no demerit if you want it." 

The patient's reply was small and Jim had to 
strain to hear it. "No. I'm... I don'want 
the drugs." 

Jim picked up the mug of broth from the 
counter and tucked a straw in it. He kept 
his hands steady as he brought the mug down 
by Mulder's face and pushed the straw 
between his lips. "Drink it."

The patient shut his eyes, sucking until the 
mug was half-emptied, then pushed the straw 
out. "Good, good," he parroted Dr. Taylor 
again as he smoothed the blanket over the 
curve of Mulder's rear, noting the intake of 
breath and the twitch of muscles. "Really 
hurts, huh?" He straightened up to check the 
IV bag. "I can give you the Valium now, but 
no more pain meds for awhile yet."

"No more drugs. I need... I need to think--"

"You need to lay there and shut up, Meat. 
Let that sweet asshole heal so they can tear 
it up again." Bill stared coldly at the 
patient then one side of his mouth pulled up 
into a sneer. "Life's a bitch, ain't it?"

"Bill, shut up," Jim ordered with 
exasperation then looked down at Mulder. 
"Relax. Don't listen to him. Now, I want you 
to finish this broth."

But the patient was shivering. His nose had 
turned red and his voice was choked. "No...I 
can't."

"C'mon. It'll warm you up. Drink this for 
me."

Stubborn. "No."

Jim was annoyed, but he smiled patiently, as 
his master would. Mulder was testing him and 
to deviate from the established rules would 
be detrimental. "All right then. The 
restraints go back on. Bill, help me."

"What..? No! No! Don't!" Mulder cried as 
they moved to lock him down, Bill doing so 
with gloating glee that was unseemly. Bill 
would never be a trainer, just a lackey, Jim 
mentally tisked. He would never know what it 
was like to turn the hatred and rage of a 
patient into devotion and love.

Mulder didn't struggle or rage aloud as the 
restraints were buckled. He clamped his lips 
on angry words, shut his eyes, and pulled 
into himself, burying his face against the 
sheets. That was good. It meant he was still 
in control and would earn his way out of the 
cuffs sooner than later.

Jim frowned, listening to Mulder's faint 
sniffles. He turned to the counter for a 
tissue. "You're getting all stuffed up by 
crying. Look at me. Here. Blow." Mulder 
turned his head toward Jim, wet eyes 
glimmering. "Go on," Jim urged. You've got 
to learn to let us help you sometime." 

"You don't want to help me." The patient's 
words were tiny. "You'll just keep hurting 
me and hurting me and all I want is to get 
my sister and go home."

"Poor little Fox," Bill jeered. "You're not 
the only one who got a crappy deal out of 
life. You know the score here and you're the 
one making it so hard."

"Get him away!" Mulder snarled then his 
repetition raised an octave, "Get him away!"

Jim pushed Bill back toward his chair with a 
long-suffering sigh, ignoring the blond's 
resultant bluster. Jim reached down to pet 
the patient's dark hair. "It's all right. 
It's okay. Blow your nose."
The tissue was damp in Jim's hand after 
Mulder acquiesced. Jim wadded it up and 
tossed it into the wastebasket. He picked up 
the mug and leaned down to nudge the straw 
between those full, pale lips. Mulder didn't 
push it out; he just let it sit there. 
"That's good. All right. Drink it and we'll 
talk about taking the restraints off," Jim 
coaxed.

The patient shut his eyes and his cheeks 
caved a little as he drew the broth in. Jim 
watched, pleased and readying to praise him 
again. He barely had an instant's warning as 
Mulder coughed then vomited down the side of 
the cot onto the floor.

"God damn it, fucking little shit!" Bill 
shouted.

"Shut up," Jim ordered as he sat the broth 
cup in the sink, wet a towel, then turned 
back to wipe Mulder's face. "Go get the 
mop."

"I'm not cleaning that up unless He makes 
me." Bill crossed his arms on his chest.

Jim watched him for a moment, controlling 
his temper with a clenched jaw. He finally 
replied, "I won't put up with this shit from 
you. I don't know why He lets you get away 
with it. When this is my house, you won't." 
Bill's eyes grew wider and Jim was pleased 
by the menace he'd mustered.

Mulder made a little moan. Jim looked down 
to see him squinting in fear of punishment 
and understood again that he'd earned the 
patient's respect. "It's not your fault, Mr. 
Mulder. Your stomach is upset, I 
understand," Jim reassured. "The drugs made 
it too hard for you to explain why you 
didn't want more broth. You haven't been 
bad. I'm going to go get some clean bedding. 
When I come back, I'll take off the cuffs 
and we'll get you comfortable again. Bill, 
while I'm gone you get this floor cleaned 
up." He ended with a meaningful look at the 
blond man then walked out straight-spined, 
like a master would. 

Down the hall, just as Jim reached into the 
linen cupboard, he heard the commotion 
start. In an instantaneous, almost out-of-
body retrospect, he knew that leaving Mulder 
alone with Bill was the most foolish thing 
he could have done. Hearing the shouts, 
Marta came hurrying from the kitchen to 
pause by Jim, to look to him for her cue. He 
handed her the stack of folded sheets, told 
her to wait, and ran on ahead, only to 
freeze in the doorway to the infirmary, his 
mouth dropping open.

Bill was holding the patient down, 
straddling him, pressing him into the 
mattress with a sneer lingering on his lips 
but with surprise in his eyes. The patient 
was thrashing against him, against the 
restraints, his own eyes out of focus and 
his mouth screaming, 
"I'llkillyoufuckingbastardI'llkillyouall!" 

Jim felt a dizzy terror as he heard that vow 
along with leather and steel cracking and 
rattling as Mulder wrenched against the 
restraints, his muscles in sharp relief. A 
new scream drove Jim across room to fling 
open cabinets and scramble through bottles 
to seize the right one and then a syringe. 
Mulder was snarling behind him and so was 
Bill. The bedframe creaked and cracked as if 
it was about to break then Jim heard a wet 
thwap and a clatter that must have been the 
IV pole hitting the floor.

Suddenly, long, callused hands closed over 
his and Jim nearly shrieked. The Master 
plucked the bottle and syringe from him and 
drew the dose quickly. Jim turned to see 
Mulder bucking wildly under Bill, twisting 
his wrists in the leather cuffs. The IV port 
was stuck to an X of torn-away surgical tape 
that dangled from the back of Mulder's left 
hand. Blood dripping from the wound where 
the needle had been. The Master pushed the 
blanket and Bill's shirt tails away from 
Mulder's naked skin. When he plunged the 
needle into a tense gluteal muscle, the 
patient's cry was strong and guttural then 
it collapsed into sobs.

The Master's bathrobe hung open to reveal 
his lean nude body as he leaned down, 
rubbing the injection site with his fingers. 
As Mulder's sobs quieted and his body 
stilled, the Master straightened, wrapped 
the ocean-blue silk around himself, tied the 
sash, and walked to the cabinets to retrieve 
a sterile gauze pad. Jim winced at the crisp 
tear of the paper wrapper but the Master 
spoke to him softly. "James, why on Earth 
did this happen?"

"I--I really don't know, Sir. Mr. Mulder 
vomited. I left the room to get clean 
sheets. Then I heard him yelling."

"I see." He squatted by Mulder's bleeding 
hand and pressed down on the wound with the 
folded square of gauze. "William?" 

"Sir. I--um...." Bill's voice trailed into 
the quiet of the room, into the waiting 
space that smelled of medicine and a sick 
man's sweat, puke, and blood.

"You what? What did you do?" 

Bill dismounted Mulder and pulled himself 
upright. The faux frown, the dark twinkle in 
the eyes--Jim knew the look on Bill's face 
too well. Come what may-- no matter how 
harshly the Master would punish him-- Bill 
failed to give a shit. Whatever he'd done to 
spawn Mulder's rage had been his own brand 
of too much fun.

"William, I'm waiting."

"I told him they gave the tape they made to 
his partner."

The Master stared up, his mouth slack. Shock 
and anger and something else flickered over 
his face then was shuttered away. "Go to 
your room."

"Yes, sir."

After Bill had turned and walked out, Dr. 
Taylor unbuckled the leather cuffs one by 
one. Beneath them, the old gauze was twisted 
and bloody, and Mulder's skin was rubbed to 
tatters. The Master returned to the counter, 
opening a drawer with careful deliberation. 
Jim watched him choose a pair scissors, 
betadine, cottonballs, and thick roll of 
gauze. He trembled when Taylor turned and 
brushed past him, wondering if Bill, in the 
throes of agony he'd soon experience, might 
reveal the trades the two men made, they 
ways in which they helped each other. "I'm 
so sorry, Sir. I'm so sorry," Jim was moved 
say, imaging the burn from a turn of the 
rack, the searing cut of the lash....

Surgical scissors flashed as the Master 
snipped off ruined dressings then began to 
swab Mulder's wrist with cotton soaked by 
the brown betadine. "You know, it was a 
stupid thing young William just did. A 
bungle, a real one." His master wrapped 
clean gauze around the injured wrist, around 
and around, until what protected it was 
fluffy and thick. He looked up at Jim with 
flat, hazy eyes. Taylor shook his head a 
little as if to clear it. "Well. We'll see 
how Fox is when he's awake again. Go to bed, 
my boy. I'll finish dressing his wounds then 
I'll sit with him awhile."

"Yes, sir."

Before Jim was two steps into the hall, Dr. 
Taylor called, "Good night, my good boy. My 
best boy. That's what you are--my pride."

Jim felt heat rise in his cheeks. He 
stuttered as he thanked his master and took 
another step, but Taylor's voice hooked him 
again. "I trust you and depend on you more 
than you know, James."

Again, Jim choked on his thanks as finally 
the Master let him go.