Archive of Our Own

Blood, dripping into the sawdust. Drops making craters, seeping into the dry sand underneath, mixing and disappearing, leaving dark spots that disappear under your boot as you take a step forward, trying to keep your balance. There's a lot of spots here. A lot of blood. At least some of it isn't yours.

Your nose broke a while ago, and it's getting hard to breathe. You can feel the viscous mixture of blood and snot at the back of your throat, gummy and thick. Your snort it down, then spit a red ball of phlegm to the side. It doesn't help much, but at least there isn't that insistent tickling anymore. The audience cheers. Fuck the fact that you're obviously losing, this is what they came to see: blood on the ground, mingling with the sawdust. You're providing.

You take another tottering step to the side, then right yourself. Okay. Okay. Time to focus. Analyse the situation.

VISUAL CALCULUS – Certainly, sir. You're in a deep pit, filled with sand and sawdust, approximately ten meters in diameter. The sides of it are made of sturdy wood planks that rise like an amphitheatre, filled with people. On the other side of the pit is your opponent, leaned against the side, getting water sprayed in his face by his... manager? Friend? Trainer? You don't know. There's nothing in the pit except you and him.

EMPATHY – Your side of the pit is empty. There's no-one to rub your shoulders, no-one to hand you water. Did you come here alone? Or did you come with someone who left?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – What's this, bummer town? What's there to analyse? Your head is swimming with adrenaline, buzzing with it, all hopped up on the fight-fuck-survival train. Just go with the flow, man!

ENDURANCE – The adrenaline is the only thing holding you up, that and possibly some substances that aren't your body's own. Your throat is parched, your muscles aching. You're exhausted. Too exhausted for this to be the first fight of the night.

You shake your battered head. It's not...? But...

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – Let's look at the opposition, son. Take a little gander. He's a head taller than you and broader over the shoulders to boot, all lean muscle and visible tendons – but you're sturdier, with a longer reach, and years of experience.

LOGIC – That is to say, you're older and fatter than him, and far more out of shape. The reach isn't much of an advantage at this point. Why in the name of every Innocence you decided that this was a good idea...

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – It's the best fucking idea you ever had, son! It was always a good idea, every time you did this.

I've done this before?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Again and again and again.

Why can't I remember?

LOGIC – In general? You destroyed your mind. But the reason you can't remember things right now?

ENCYCLOPEDIA – Concussions are frequently accompanied by minor memory loss. And your brain, as we know, isn't the most plastic of organs. If this isn't the first fight, who knows what you've been subjected to so far?

REACTION SPEED – That left hook was too fucking fast, man. Sorry about that.

You shake your head again, trying to focus through the pain, through the pounding headache, through the insistent ringing noise. No, this is fine. It's fine. This is a Contact Mike moment. 5000-to-1 rank outsider, coming from nowhere, taking them all by surprise. Vaulting an impassable gulf of finance and privilege. This is you.

The man on the other side rolls his shoulders and shoves the water bottle out of his face. You square up as he approaches, the leather straps over your knuckles creaking. You squint your eyes and try to anticipate his moves. You feel like you should know what he’s about to do, like you've been fighting him a while – that's what you do, right? Analyse your opponent, come up with a strategy?

VISUAL CALCULUS – Normally, yes. But right now, your brain is swelling up rapidly, most of its higher functions already impaired. Honestly, it's a miracle you're still talking to us. Regretfully, sir, there's no more analysis to be had.

HALF LIGHT – Fuck that shit, just do it, rip into him! Kill him, kill him, kill him!

You spit a bit more blood. Yeah, fuck it. Just wing it. Feint left, then a fist to the solar plexus, then an elbow to the chin as he collapses...

You do the thing, faster than he expected you to. He must have assumed you were out for the count already, either from the way you'd been fighting so far or from the amount of damage you've taken. But the feint works, and the hits land like perfect clockwork – chest, chin – and then you sweep the leg, neat as you please. Your opponent goes down like a sack of flour, making the floor shake underneath your feet. The audience cheers again, smelling blood, rattling the edges of the deathtrap of an amphitheatre. It bolsters you. For someone to cheer for you – when did that ever happen? Did it ever happen? There's no recollection of it. For a second, you take your eyes off your opponent and look up into the screaming faces above you.

The fist in your side is unexpected, and you can't manage to roll with it. It connects with the speed of light and the sound of a tenderising hammer slapping into meat. You've no air in our lungs anymore, it's all forced out of you.

The fist slams in again as you collapse in on yourself. Something tears within you.

REACTION SPEED – Shit, not again.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – Oh damn, that wasn't good, something went wrong – son? Hey, come on now. Come on, stay upright, no time for this-

PAIN THRESHOLD – it's too much too much too bad there's something wrong something broke something ruptured it shouldn't feel like this you shouldn't be able to be alive and be in this much pain-

ENDURANCE – Hang on! Just a little, come on, you can do it, bröther.

No. You can't. The floor comes up to meet you, your face thudding into the sawdust hard enough to nock a fracture in the bone beneath your eye. It's nothing. Nothing at all compared to the throbbing, hot, all-encompassing ache that is your side. Tears blurs your vision, red tinged with black. Black and blood red, black blood on sawdust, black...

Blackness.

Your eyes blink open, squinting against harsh, unfiltered lights.

White. There's white all around you – the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the bedsheets.

A bed. You're in a bed. There's something in your nose, blocking it, making you breathe through your mouth, heaving through dry lips and a parched throat.

Then, there's a black thing in your field of vision. A very familiar black thing. A very angry, familiar, black thing.

Jean stares at you, his face contorted with rage – being a Jean-rage-connoisseur, it’s a kind you recognise, the kind that comes when you've endangered yourself. And worse, done it without him present to help you. You blink and try to focus on his screaming face, try to parse the garbled words coming out of it, stretched like taffy. It doesn't work.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Part of it is the concussion, some of it is the pain. Most of it is the really top-notch pain killer cocktail they've got you on. Groovy.

You try and tell him to stop and wait, for fuck's sake, you need him to slow down. But all that comes out is an incoherent mess. You wave at him with a hand that's connected up to something. A drip. At least it makes him stop. The look on his face isn't worth it, though. You've done so much not to see that look again. You close your eyes so you can't see it anymore.

The next time you open your eyes he's still here, or again. Not screaming, thank God. Not alone, though. There's a nurse. And Kim.

They talk for a while as you drowse and return from the painkiller haze. Finally, the nurse sits you upright and leave the room. The minute she leaves, Jean turns on you, thunderclouds in his eyes.

“Harry, what the absolute shit? What the fuck possessed you to do this?”

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – The itch. It was in you so bad. You needed something, anything, some kind of outlet, something to happen. And there was nothing else, nothing that wouldn't set off the rest of these fuckers, anyway. I mean, I'd have advocated getting drunk, but that's me.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – Not an option, Party Animal. You know how progressed our alcoholism is. We're probably less than a bottle of wine away from a ruptured oesophagus.

LOGIC – Hey, sure, and here we are with a ruptured spleen instead. Much better.

VOLITION – We could have avoided this entirely.

Things are coming back to you, slowly. The pit, the fight – some of it, at least. But nothing before it. The days preceding it are as black and empty as your entire life before half a year ago. It feels horrible. Your head hurts. Your side hurts. Your face hurts.

“Well?”

You shrug sullenly. Before Jean can continue, Kim's voice cuts through the air.

“Harry.”

There is so much disappointment in just that word, your name in his mouth, undeserved to be there. You cringe, wishing you could sink into the pillows and disappear. Like any time Kim is disappointed in you, it’s like your whole world is condensed to just that, his disapproval. Nothing else matters. You can't be petulant in the face of that, can't try and run away from it. He wants an answer.

RHETORIC – Too bad you can't give him one that doesn't sound like you're a complete maniac.

SUGGESTION – A little diversion, perhaps?

“Hey.” You clear your throat of phlegm. “Remember that time we talked about the SRV? About wrestling bears?” You laugh, and regret it immediately. It's like knives in your side. “You- you liked that. You liked the thought of me fighting a bear.”

He frowns, not appeased by your little attempt at a joke. “I wasn't being serious, Harry.”

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Apparently, you were. Or serious about the next best thing, at least.

Jean rubs his face and sits down. “Fuck, Harry... I hoped you'd stopped doing this shit. You're old, you dense fucker! You're lucky you got out of there as easy as you did!”

Kim sits up straight. “Stopped doing it? He's done this before?”

“Yeah.” Jean starts to fumble with a cigarette, but gives a glance to the oxygen tank beside the bed and thinks better of it. “Fucking idiot.”

AUTHORITY – Hey! What's this now? He used to think it was great fun! Everyone did. There was a fucking betting pool! Does he think he's better than you all of a sudden?

There had been a betting pool. The memory flashes suddenly, dredged up by his comment. It happens like this sometimes, an old association pathway sparking to life by stimulating one end of it. You can see it clearly, half the precinct clamouring around a table, Oldboy holding court as he takes down bets, putting numbers on a well-used blackboard. Your name wasn't always on it, but when it was there was more action, more money going around. No matter your reputation, you fought for the 41st. Or that's what they thought, anyway.

“Fuck you, Vic,” you mutter. “I made you good money.”

Jean frowns at you, jaw working as he tries to come up with a retort. Kim looks between the both of you, disappointment written large on his face now. He's not even trying to hide it anymore.

“Money? You had a betting pool?”

“It just... I mean. Sometimes.”

Jean actually looks ashamed, fiddling with his unlit cigarette. Caught out, Kim's disapproval focused on him now. And you know he'd do anything to avoid that, just like you. You feel smug about it until Kim frowns at you instead.

“I don't actually remember that much of it,” you try.

Kim sits back, arms folded, disapproving eyes flitting between the both of you. “Then tell me what you do remember.”

Jean squirms in his seat. You rub your neck and avoid Kim's gaze, like a reprimanded child.

AUTHORITY – God, I hate us when we're like this! You know he likes it better when you stand up for yourself, too. Why cringe like this?

EMPATHY – Because he might get angry for real. We don't want to disappoint him.

Kim sighs. “Fine. Jean, could I have a word with Harry in private, please?”

Jean flees without a backwards glance. Kim sits back in the chair, one leg crossed over the other, studying you in silence. You still don't want to meet his eyes. You let them wander instead, looking at the drip, the bare, white room, the sideboard. There's a little vase of flowers – fresh. A card in them. Beside them, a glass of water and little bowl with the skeletal remains of a cluster of grapes.

PERCEPTION – The card says 'Get well soon, idiot. Love, Judit.'

ESPRIT DE CORPS – Satellite-officer Minot puts another paper to the side in the over-burdened OUT tray on hers and lieutenant Kitsuragi's double desk. She rubs her eyes and looks at the clock on the wall. The lieutenant has been gone far too long, leaving her to take up the slacks on their reports. She's trying her best not to blame you for it.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Oh, shit, water, hey, um, you're so goddamn thirsty for some reason-

You grab the glass and down it, forcing yourself to go slow. The last time you drank something that tasted this good, Kim was also beside you. This time, he's not holding the glass – just looks at you, sternly, waiting for you to finish. Still trying to avoid his eyes, you gesture at the bowl.

“Khm. Who brought me grapes?”

“Trant.” He snorts. “Then Jean ate them. While you were still sedated.”

“Bastard.”

“Yes. Well. I think we have more important things to talk about than grapes, Harry.” He rests a hand on his knee and stares at you. “What's this about a betting pool? Is this a regular occurrence, you fighting like this?”

You shrug and wince. Your mind is a blank, still. You remember this time, and the betting, and the idea that you've done it before, confirmed by Jean telling you off for it. That's it. All else you know is that fighting feels good, that getting hit feels good.

PAIN THRESHOLD – There's an itch behind your eyeballs, deep in the pit of your stomach. It lives in your spinal fluid and in your knuckles, at the bottom of your lungs and at the back of your throat. It's relentless. It wants the hits to land, wants the bruises to form, wants the blood to drip down.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – It only stops when fists hit flesh, when the adrenaline hits the receptors. Then, for a blessed while, it’s gone.

“I just... I like fighting,” you mumble. “I think I've done it before. A lot. I can't really remember. I know people betted on it, so... that much?”

He sighs. “I always knew you had a tendency to push boundaries, but... you need to be beaten up this badly?”

You squirm like a worm on a hook. His eyes are sharp, boring into you, flaying you. Taking you apart. Analysing you. You're not surprised he sees this for what it is. You can't do anything but shrug again.

“I guess.”

He sits back and taps his fingers on the armrest. You swallow and try to relax, try to ignore his piercing gaze. He's wearing that look he has when he's trying to tease apart a problem, or thinking out a strategy to beat you at Raubritter. It's fucking adorable, and extremely intimidating. Your nervous system recognises it as a precursor to getting beaten into the ground.

Something itches at the base of your spine.

“You know there's better ways to get what you need?”

You grip the water glass tighter and try to ignore the insistent need welling up. “Like... like what?”

Tap. Tap. Tap. He tilts his head to the side, studying you. Taking in the plaster over your nose, the swelling under your eye, the way you hold yourself – uncomfortable, trying not to move for the pain in your side. The damage you've done to yourself.

“If you can go until you're fully healed, then a month after that. I'll show you.”

“Why that long?”

He arches an eyebrow. You sink back into the pillows immediately, whipped into submission.

“Because I need you to show me that you can follow instructions. Your record on that front has been spotty so far.”

AUTHORITY – That's entirely true. Both in Martinaise and since, you've had a tendency to fly off the handle, to circumvent the rules. It irritates him. And it irritates him when you're too much of a doormat, too. The seesawing of it is a constant source of frustration for him.

“And you need to heal. Yes?” He leans over and looks at the chart pinned to your bed.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – It wasn't that bad, all things considered. Had you been in better shape it probably wouldn’t have hurt as much. But it's still organ damage bad. You need to take it easy for a while.

He puts the chart back and leans back, hands folded neatly in his lap. “I've spoken to captain Pryce. We decided that it was best if you were to be confined to desk duty for a while.”

AUTHORITY – Wait, wait, wait, forget all of the other shit! What the fuck, he's been going behind your back?

VOLITION – If we're too stubborn to do it ourselves, to the point of almost getting mauled to death, is that not the better option?

“That way you can heal, you can take care of the backlog that's still there, and I can see that you can actually keep yourself calm and collected for a period of time. I'm sure Jean will agree with me.”

You pick at the blanket. It stings, both them going behind you back about it, and being consigned to desk duty. But your side hurts more and more with each minute, and your mind is buzzing with the thought of... whatever it is that he knows. You give him a glance. Even though his face is kept carefully blank you know there's a little note of triumph in there, too. Him and Jean have been trying to get you to do that paperwork for months, and you just handed a perfect excuse to him on a silver platter.

“Fine. Sure.”

He nods and stands up, then takes the glass from your unresistant hands and refills it from the tap. “Good. Rest up. The doctor said you'll be out of here in a day or two. Then you're on sick leave for a week. And then we'll see how you manage.”

He puts the glass on the sideboard and leaves, taking the skeletal remains of the grapes with him. You lay back and try to relax, to ignore the persistent itch.

The following two months feel like the longest in your entire life. Healing from the injuries takes some time – besides the rupture, you have a cracked rib, a broken nose and a fracture in your zygomatic bone, plus numerous little cuts and scrapes, not to mention the concussion. That's the bit that gets everyone nervous, losing your memory again, even for just a couple days. It's all black. After the week off to take care of the worst of it, you start to ask around, piece it together, both the last few days and some hints of what you did the years before Martinaise.

The week before the match you'd been acting jittery, nervous. Jean was on full alert. He thought that you were going to relapse. Instead you did this – something you've apparently done before when you got ungovernably hyperactive. Turns out there's a sizeable underground fighting ring network in Revachol, something that's largely ignored by the RCM even if the MI would prefer that it doesn't exist. The gambling isn't illegal, and if people want to meet up and beat the shit out of each other, fine. When the besmerties use it for their turf wars, you take notes; if it's used as a way of getting rid of undesirables, you... well. You usually scrape the remains up afterwards, unless someone is nice enough to tip you off. Point is, it's rare that you need to be professional about it. And there are few officers who haven't been there at least once, trying to supplement their income or relax.

You, however. You want to be in the ring. There are different kinds, but the bare-knuckle boxing was always your favourite. Two guys, no shirts, no holds barred, first one ten seconds down loses. Easy. Simple. Apparently you won often, in the beginning. It was a bit of a point of pride for the precinct, even. Less so the older and more fucked up you got. For you, winning was never the point, though. In fact, it was almost better the more you got the shit kicked out of you. It stilled the itch better that way.

This night, you'd gone three rounds against three different opponents, back to back to back. You try to cast back to find the reason why – there was something... you can't remember. The week before the bout is a blur, and nobody can recall an event that would have set you off. Maybe it wasn't even something specific. It could just have been the jitters.

The concussion came from the last one, the broken nose from the second. You actually won the first, that's how they let you go another round immediately after. Bad fucking idea. The second round went shitty. You lost, badly. But there was this guy, the third guy, the tall motherfucker. Shaved bald, muscular, stupid tattoos. Reminded you of someone you fucked up once. You were shit-talking him.

RHETORIC – Don't blame me. I had nothing to do with it. There was no finesse in those arguments whatsoever, just macho posturing.

Yeah, no. It was mostly just insults, jabs, needling him until he basically begged the judges to let him fight you. In the end they let him do it so you both would shut the fuck up already and concede the floor to someone else. And then it went the way it did, predictably. The last thing you remember is his face, grinning as he stood over you. Then blackness, and the hospital bed.

ENCYCLOPEDIA – Presto. Nailed it. Look at what we can do with a little help from our friends, here? Like a nicely assembled puzzle. I like it when we remember things, don't you?

VOLITION – Even when we get sad about it? I'm quite sure the whole reason we're having trouble remembering things is because we decided that it wasn't worth it. Was this worth it, do you think?

You do get pretty maudlin about it, during the following weeks. That, and having to sit at your desk, healing up, and the itch returning with a fucking vengeance – and trying to do it all without fighting again. You're not the best of company those two months. But despite growling like an angry bear at everyone who comes too close you manage to do it. Kim sitting across the room from you, giving silent encouragement, is at least half of your willpower.

You've come to rely on him a lot, these last few months. If he hadn’t decided to go through with the transfer... you're not sure if you'd actually made it. But the fact that he's here, something to break your routine, someone that doesn't immediately judge you for what you've done before but judges you for what you're doing now – it helps. Not that you haven't fallen off a few wagons. Not the big one, though. You've actually managed to keep off the booze.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Yeah, well, guess you can't win 'em all. Good thing we started doing the fighty-fighty again instead, right?

VOLITION – Did the concussion scramble you too or something? We could have died from internal bleeding.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – But we didn't!

ENDURANCE – He has a pöint.

You groan and slap a casefile over your face, then wince as it hurts your nose. On the other side of the office, Kim grins.

A couple weeks later, Kim comes up to your desk, waiting patiently until you finish the sentence you're typing. When you look up, there's the faintest hint of a smile on his face.

“Do you know what day it is, Harry?”

ENCYCLOPEDIA – Oh no, did we forget something? Let's see, it's Interisolary Babka Day... did you forget to buy him a babka? Is it an anniversary? Did you promise to finish something and didn't?

LOGIC – He's talking about the fact that it's a month on the day since the doctor signed off on your injuries.

You push back from the desk and try to play it cool. “Been a month, now, right? You said you had something to show me?”

“I did.” He taps the desk with a finger. “Come over to my place, tonight.”

“Oh. Your place?”

You've been there before, several time. It's nice, much nicer than your overburdened depression nest. Usually you play board games or go over notes. You even slept over once when the tram tracks flooded. His sofa was too short for you, but you still slept better there than in your own bed. Still. Somehow it feels intimate and strange now, with whatever secret he’s going to show you.

“Yes. It'll give us space to talk. So. At six?”

“You got it.”

You fire off a couple finger guns, pew-pew, to make him understand you're not nervous in the slightest. He smiles a bit wider to let you know he's well aware of how nervous you are.

“Good. Here's the notes on the Josquin stabbings.”

He leaves a fat case file on your desk. You try to focus on the stabbing case, and all the other things you need to do to get through the day. It's nearly impossible to focus. It's like walking on glass. Glass and wet mice.

REACTION SPEED – Nice metaphor.

CONCEPTUALISATION – Thank you. I try.

Kim greets you calmly as you show up at five minutes to six. You didn't know if you were supposed to bring anything, so you ducked into the little bakery on the corner and bought a couple babkas, just in case. If it's a bad time he can always have them for breakfast. He takes the paper bag with a surprised look, opening it as you take your shoes off.

“Thank you, Harry. What a nice thought. I'll put them in the fridge for later.”

SUGGESTION – Score! That was the right choice.

You give him a nervous smile when he returns from the kitchen. You really have no idea about what's going to happen. You scratch the back of your head sheepishly.

“So, should we sit down, or...?”

“No. Stand here.”

He points to a spot in the middle of the living room. You obey, your feet padding softly against his carpeted floors. He likes having rag rugs everywhere, covering the bare boards, muting the sounds. High, sudden noises make him nervous. He makes his home quiet and calm. When you're in position, he nods, pleased.

“Remove your shirt.”

You do so, a bit nervously, pulling your tie off with it and folding both over a chair. When you're done, he circles you, studying you. You're suddenly acutely aware of your aging body and its many flaws – the remains of the injuries, what the years of substance abuse and neglect has done to you. You're far from the fit pit fighter you were in your youth. His eyes bore into you. It would have been easier if he just hit you, but he doesn't. He just looks at you.

“What is this, to you?”

He's standing behind you, now. You can't see his face, the expression he has when he looks at you. Is it disgust? Interest? You try to focus on the question.

“What d'you mean?”

“Fighting. Is it punishment?”

HALF LIGHT – No. That's not it. It feels like it should be, maybe, considering how you feel about yourself most of the time. Like your fat, old, broken body deserves this. But it isn't.

PAIN THRESHOLD – It's the itch. The thing that lives in your spine. You're pretty sure it'd be there even if you were the pinnacle of health and male beauty standards.

“I just... I get restless.”

He comes around and stops in front of you, hands folded neatly behind his back. “Restless how? Explain to me.”

“It's like there's an itch,” you try. “Under my skin. Something needs to happen. This. Fighting.”

“Fighting, or getting hurt?”

You shift uncomfortably under his gaze. The room feels smaller suddenly, the walls closer. He doesn't let up, just looks at you in silence as you twist your fingers into knots behind your back. His full attention on you is hard to bear.

PAIN THRESHOLD – It's the pain. Just fighting isn't enough. It has to hurt.

“... getting hurt.”

“Getting hurt, or losing?”

You hadn't thought about it like that. If you had to think about it...

AUTHORITY – You don't like losing. You hate it. You hate it so much that you need to experience how it feels, just so you can avoid it. Better to experience it really well, so you know what to avoid.

LOGIC – That makes no sense.

AUTHORITY – It makes perfect sense. Shut up.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – No, that's not it. You like losing. You like it when they beat you into the dirt. It uses the same pathways as when you drink, or fuck, or eat something sweet. They're intertwined. It's pleasure to you.

You can't even look at him anymore. When you speak, it's like the words are dragged out of you, syllable by syllable.

“Losing... makes it better.”

“Hm.”

He doesn't say anything more, just looks you up and down.

Then he slaps you.

It's an open palmed slap to the face, forceful but not too much. Despite that, it stings as your head snaps to the side. Warmth blossoms on your skin in seconds. The inside of your mouth hurts a little where the teeth scraped against the flesh. You flex your jaw with a little exhale and pop your neck. Kim stares at you, intently, gauging your reaction.

PAIN THRESHOLD – It scratches, just in the right spot. Just a little.

He flexes his fingers, no doubt to get rid of the tingling you know he's feeling. “Good?”

“Yeah.” You feel like you should make it clear to him. “More.”

“Hm.”

He doesn't give you more. Just looks you over, considering, still flexing his fingers. You fidget again, impatient, thinking about asking him again. Beg him, maybe.

“When you fight, what do you look for? What kind of pain? Where?”

PAIN THRESHOLD – Pain. Nothing more.

“It's just... anything,” you mumble. “I just need it to hurt.”

He snorts dismissively. “That's shooting mosquitos with a howitzer. No precision. And exceedingly dangerous.”

He reaches out and pushes gently at your side, over your newly healed spleen. It's still a little tender. You twitch away from his touch, almost involuntarily. He frowns.

“This isn't the only injury you've gotten that way, is it?”

ENDURANCE – No. You've had far too many injuries this way. A broken nose, before; cracked ribs, before. Split skin, dislocated collarbone, black eyes, twisted ankle. This is the first organ damage you've sustained, höwever. So that's something.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – That's just because you were in better shape, before.

“No. It isn't.”

“Hm.” He pushes again, this time higher, over your ribs. Again, you twitch. “Do you like the injuries?”

You grunt as he twists his finger. “Not particularly, no.”

PAIN THRESHOLD – No. It's good that they hurt, and continue to hurt. It takes the edge off. But they take time to heal, and slow you down. And distract from other things.

“If you could do without them, you would?”

You shrug. You're not sure you understand him correctly. “I mean, sure. But that's how it hurts. So.”

He takes a step back and folds his arms over his chest. “There are ways of causing pain without causing injury.”

EMPATHY – This distinction is very important to him.

ESPRIT DE CORPS – The lieutenant is no stranger to causing harm. It's part of the job, regretfully. But that's in the line of duty, as a last resort – or what he fervently wants to be a last resort, rather than the first-line knee-jerk reaction it too often is, with him. This is something else entirely.

You look at him, the itch tenfold suddenly, like there's something inside you sniffing blood in the water. “Could you. Uh. Could you show me?”

He taps his fingers on his arm, considering, weighing the pros and cons of taking you into this. Then he nods.

“On your knees.”

It's embarrassing how fast you obey. The itch is in your whole body now, commandeering you, chomping at the bit. You kneel before him on the soft carpet, hands on your thighs, looking up at him.

When he reaches out, you flinch, instinctively, and he stops for a second. Then he puts his hand on your head, on your hair. Petting you, slowly. You sit still, let him do it, tense, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It doesn't. He doesn’t hit you again, or pull at your hair, or anything else he could do to you like this.

His hands on you are good. You realise you can't remember when the last time was that someone touched you like this – soft and calm, just for the sake of the touch. Your shoulders start to relax.

That's when the other hand comes down and pinches the sensitive inside of your upper arm, hard. He keeps one hand on your head as he twists, making you whine. Then he lets go, and keeps petting you. You swear quietly under your breath. A little of the itch is gone, replaced by equal irritation and gratitude. He looks down at you and smirks.

“Precision, Harrier. I don't wield a howitzer. I wield a Kiejl Armistice. And even then, I have to admit that I do miss.” He reaches down and rubs his thumb over the tender spot on your arm. “Here, however? It's very important to me that I never miss.”

He takes your chin in his hand, tilting it back and forth. There's the notion of inspection there. Looking at the tendons of your throat, how they flex as he moves your head; at the pulsing of the blood under the skin. You're on full alert now, knowing he could do something at any second, but no idea what, just that it'll hurt.

PAIN THRESHOLD – Precision.

“You remember I used to work in Processing?”

“Yeah?”

“It's a shitty job, Harry. Extremely shitty. I hated it. But it gave me a very good working knowledge of how bodies work. How they bend. How they flex. How much they can take before they break.”

“... yeah?”

“You have none of that, I think.” He tilts your head even further to the side, stretching it as far as it can go. His fingers press just beneath your ear, then along the muscle, bleeding the tension out of it. “You just... do things, until you collapse.”

VOLITION – You did know, though. At one point. You taught it, even. How to pace yourself, how to start small – walking before jogging, jogging before running. Low weights first, at many reps. Whatever happened with that? You used to know how to do that.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – ...

PAIN THRESHOLD – Because you stopped feeling things. So you needed more of everything, faster, all at once and until you broke. That was the only way to feel something. And then, to stop feeling.

His fingers on your neck are impossibly good, forcing then tension out of the muscle, wringing it like a wet rag. Despite yourself you're letting your guard down again. A little part of you is still coiled and ready, but a bigger part just wants to give in, to feel the tension bleed out no matter what may come.

“I think you need to relearn that, Harry.” He pushes down on a particularly sore spot, digs his thumb into it until it hurts. “To know where your limits are.”

Your groan. “I don't know if I can. I don't... maybe I'm too broken.”

“I don't think you are. I think that you think you are. But I think you're wrong.” He removes his hand and forces you to look him in the eye. “I’m willing to try and help you. But only if you're willing to actually try to get better. Not because of any other reason.”

He tilts your head to the other side, does the same thing there – massaging the muscles until your shoulder descends, defeated. The he tilts your head back, looking into your face. His thumb runs across the bridge of your nose, feeling the bone and the cartilage, thick with breaks. Then around your eyes, gently tracing the ocular sockets. You relax into his touch, your shoulders descending another fraction more – giving in to whatever it is he's doing. It the pain comes, it comes. His lips twitch a bit. One finger runs through your sideburns on either side, tracing the line of them from ear to chin.

“Ever broken your jaw?”

“No. Dislocated it, once. Hurts, most days,” you add, when he raises his eyebrows.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – No glass jaw on this one! Just that pesky polio thing.

“Good to know.” He looks into your right eye, pulling the lower eyelid down. “How many concussions?”

You snort. “No idea. Too many, probably. This peapod has been rattled way before I started to try and pull the peas out.”

He pauses, thumb under your eye, resting uncomfortably just over the fracture. He looks displeased with you not knowing.

EMPATHY – He wants you to take this seriously. It pains him when you make light of your suffering.

You shuffle a bit. “Sorry. You know how it is in here.”

There's an almost pleading note to your voice. You want him not to be angry with you. You can take him hitting you, you want him to, desperately, but angry? No. Absolutely not.

He looks into your other eye and sighs. “Fair enough. We'll have to work with what you do remember, and what's apparent.” He sinks down in front of you. “Arms? Elbows?”

You do a little flex, just because, and get rewarded with an exasperated eyeroll. You grin and lower your arms.

“Nah, they're good.” You tap the left elbow. “This one twinges a bit sometimes.”

“Hm. Then it's not good, is it? I need you to tell me everything, Harry. No sugar-coating.”

“Okay,” you say, meekly. “It twinges after I've been writing too long.”

“Good. Hands?” He takes your hands in his and turns them over, tracing the bones and sinews.

You flex them thoughtfully. The joints on your right hand ache when there's a thunderstorm coming. The skin is marred by scars – the spiderweb that you still have no idea where it came from, as well as thick pads of tissue over the knuckles on both hands. Sometimes you wore wraps, but mostly not. Or you just beat the shit out of things and people anyway, without them. You flex again. It's weird. Your body has so many memories that your mind has forgotten. Etched into the skin, into the bone, into muscle and fat and organs, all these little moments that carry enough weight to be permanent – but not enough to stick where they should.

Kim is watching you. His palms are warm against the rough pads of your fingers.

“This one hurts a bit in heavy weather,” you say and raise your right hand. “The other is fine.”

He nods and lets go, obviously pleased with you telling him. He goes around your back and runs his hands over your shoulders, moving them in their sockets, rolling them back. Something stirs. A memory of someone doing a similar motion, stretching your arm... just for a second. Then it's gone.

“How's your shoulder?”

You jump a bit, surprised by his voice. You were far away, this time. “Fine. Back to normal.”

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – The armour took the brunt of it. The bruise took a month to go away, and you had to be careful doing reps on that side. But it healed.

He makes a pleased sound and pulls his hands down your back. You sit up straighter, trying to correct your abysmal posture.

“Back pain?”

You sigh. “Yup. And hips. More on the left. But both are bad. Need to keep moving.”

Enough that the two months consigned to a desk has made it a lot worse. Enough that you feel even more like an old man, most days. Still. It feels good to admit it, somehow, here, to him. It was bad before you got shot, too, but the complications from the wound made it worse. It hasn't let up much since it healed. Sitting definitely makes it way shittier than it can be.

He pushes his thumbs into your lower back, then drags them to the sides, over the curve of your hips. You stretch out a bit, painfully aware of your flaws; the fat rolls, the patchy back hair and saggy skin. But his touch is soothing, releasing tension there too. Another memory: a pair of hands on your back, professional. A massage, at some point.

“Hm.” You can hear the frown in his voice. “Is that why you run so much?”

“Ah- a bit. It helps.” You try to ignore how good it feels to be able to answer his question. “But mostly I just like running.”

REACTION SPEED – That's another itch entirely, one that has nothing to do with the one you're here for. The fact that your body is always on the move, that you somehow think better when you're moving – running, pacing...

HAND/EYE COORDINATION – ... gesticulating, fiddling with things, snapping your fingers, tapping. Your brain is powered by the movement of your body. You’re a dynamo. Jean hated it. Still irritates him, but at least you're not doing it in his face as much. You're someone else's problem, now.

EMPATHY – You've detected no similar irritation from Kim, now that you think about it.

“Hm.” He comes around and hunkers down in front of you. You miss his fingers already. “Is it hard for you, sitting still like this?”

REACTION SPEED – Yes!

HAND/EYE COORDINATION – Uh huh.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – God yes.

COMPOSURE – I'm trying so hard.

VOLITION – ... we're managing. Barely.

You grin a bit sheepishly. His lips twitch again. “All right. You can stand.”

You stand up immediately, bouncing on your feet a little before settling down again. The dynamo fires up, sparking something – that was two memories, just now. Small, insignificant. Short, barely glimpses. But they were memories, and not bad ones, either. Kim watches you move. He nods, thoughtfully. It's like he's itemising everything that's happening, chalking up some kind of plan where things change depending on your answers. He waits until you're able to stand still again.

“Right. Let's continue.”

He runs his hands over your sides, down to your hips. His thumbs brush the sides of your gut. You fight down the fresh impulse of hiding from him, welling up like a Jack-in-the-box made of insecurities.

“Besides the most recent incident... how's your insides?”

You shrug. Your liver is scarred, your kidneys halfway to failing. Not much to be done about it. It's not getting any worse. Perhaps getting incrementally better, every day you don't drink, every day you manage to go without drugs. At least your belly and sides don't hurt when you try to sleep anymore. You eat a little better, sleep a little better; back away from the edge, day by day.

VOLITION – See? I told you it would get better. You probably won't ever get entirely well again, but at least it's not getting worse.

“It's shit, Kim. You know it's shit.”

You try to keep the cynicism out of your voice. You've gone through self-flagellation already, and it didn't help. You went through a period of unnecessarily frantic positivity too, which just made everyone tired. By now you've landed in some sort of forced acceptance of the fact that there's a limit to what a person can do to themselves without it coming back and biting them in the ass.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Come on, don't be like that. You know there were reasons we did all that. Main ones being, the pain and the loneliness and the stress, and all the other things. We just tried to deal with that.

You shrug again, unclear at what.

Kim sighs. “I'm proud of you for getting this far, Harry. Don't put yourself down for not getting further.”

You look away. You've talked about this, multiple times. You don't want that, not now.

He looks like he wants to says something more, then changes his mind. Instead, he kneels in front of you. Despite your positions being reversed, you still feel like he's the one in charge, completely. He pulls his hands down your clothed legs, lingering a little on your upper thigh, over the bullet hole.

“Here?”

“It aches,” you reply, happy for the change of subject. “But you did a good job.”

There's the hint of a smile. He's proud of that, of having been able to keep you alive. “Mhm. Knees? Feet?”

“They're fine.”

Your legs are about the only thing on you that's been working without a hitch so a far, if you don't count the bullet wound. It makes it a bit hard to get going, hips stiffening up as soon as you slow down, but when you move...

REACTION SPEED – Dynamo time!

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – That's what I've been saying! It's the running, son, running and stretching. Good for you!

“No injuries? No pain?”

“I mean, I've twisted my ankles a couple times over the years.” You reach out with your left foot and twiddle our toes a bit inside your socks. “And I broke my pinkie toe. But that was a long time ago.”

He actually fully smiles, this time. “Kicking something?”

You grin back. “How could you guess?”

He sighs and stands up. “Harrier Du Bois, scourge of inanimate objects everywhere. I suppose it could have been worse, considering.”

He stands back again and looks you over, head to toe. You try to let the relaxation in our shoulders remain, to not let them draw back up with anxiety. Whatever this was, this little moment of intimacy – you miss it already, wish it would have been longer.

“So. Did I pass?”

“This wasn't about failing or passing, Harry. This was me understanding your limitations and needs. For instance, now I know not to hit your head any more, and to not have you in one position too long. And I know where you hurt without me causing it.” He cocks his head to the side. “But if you still want it, there's ways that I can help you. On one condition.”

“Sure. Anything.”

“I need you to think more about why, before I can show you how. I know it's hard for you,” he continues, before you can say anything. “But try. Do one of your things.”

You chuckle. “A mind project?”

He's actually been interested in the concept, when you explained it to him. He's always been equally fascinated and frustrated with the way your mind works, the twists and turns of it. He doesn’t conceptualise the world nearly as metaphorically as you. You haven’t had the guts to tell him about all of it, about the voices, no more than in the broadest of terms – 'I talk to myself, sometimes'. Semi-normal stuff. But the way you structure new information, new concepts? That, he can grasp. In fact, he does it himself, in a way, with him writing things down; itemising them, making everything into lists and stories, neatly contained on paper.

“Yes,” he says. “One of your little thought experiments.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

He nods, a pleased little quirk to his mouth. “Good. That's good.” He hands you your shirt and tie. “We’ll take this up when you feel ready. Just tell me.”

Another week goes by as you think about it, on and off during the busy days and long, lonely nights. You have the explanations that were given to you – 'you're just a fucking maniac, shitkid, that's all there is to it.' 'What the fuck are you, Mullen, a masochist?' 'You seemed to like it... a bit excessively, one might say.' Their memories of what you used to do was just that. You fought, and you liked it whether you won or lost, and nobody knows when you started doing it, much less why.

You try to dredge the depths as your fingers work and your feet move, trying to give it space and room to surface by not poking it too much. You've done this before. Trying to will the memories into existence. You feel like they're there somewhere, just out of reach – not gone, but shuffled away. During the days, nothing comes. There's too much of everything else.

In the evening, you lay back in your bed, trying to relax, trying to think back past the empty spots in your mind. You rub your eyelids and sigh. It's like trying to reach through a dark pit full of mud, grasping sightlessly for the things you know are in there. But here's no direction, no connection, no red thread to follow. No fantastic insights that hit you. The only thing that's even remotely reminiscent of that is the little glimpses from when he touched you – memories of other hands, touching you. Not hits.

You put your hands on your neck and close your eyes, trying to replicate the thing he did: dragging your fingers along the muscle, loosening the tension. It's hard to do on yourself. There's a lot of stiffness. The fresh memory stirs right under the surface, right below your skin, almost within reach. Then it bobs under again.

Frustrated, you throw your hands up. You hold them there, black against black in the darkness, looking at the scars you can't see but that you know are there.

DRAMA – Can you be honest with yourself, sire? Or do you want to lie again? Why do you want this?

Because it itches.

VOLITION – But what is that? Why does it? When did it start?

I don't know. I can't remember.

You let your hands fall to your sides and just lay there, feeling the weight of yourself sinking into the mattress. It's like there's a weight on your chest as well, pushing you down. Someone sitting on top of you. A little twinge in your jaw, under your eye. And the smell of cigarettes and cheap aftershave.

ESPRIT DE CORPS – Satellite-officer Vicquemare is standing in his bathroom, brushing his teeth while thumbing through a small, slim book. It has a lot of underlined passages and notes scribbled in the margins, clearly well-read if not by him, then by someone else. It's a book of poems, most of them dealing with the question of what makes life worth living. He spits in the sink, rinses his mouth, then drags his hands through his hair. There’s grey strands there. He tries not to think about it. The backs of his hands are scarred like yours, although not as badly.

You stare up into the darkness.

I fought with him too.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – You did, yes. A lot. I think it was good for both of you.

EMPATHY – It absolutely wasn’t good for either of you. Not in the long run. Maybe in the moment. It let some steam out.

Before that?

ENCYCLOPEDIA – You can't remember. Not a lot, anyway. You have some dim memories of boxing, before... not in the ring, as a teacher. The ring fights must have started when you were in the RCM. How early, you don't know. Before Dora? Or after? It's a blur.

You sigh. You drag your hands down your face, feeling the bridge of your nose like Kim did. It's been broken several times. Something about the movement, feeling your face under your fingers – it triggers another memory. You on your back, like this, clutching your nose, eyes filled with tears.

SAVOIR FAIRE – Way before the RCM, and before being a teacher...? Before that, you learned the moves. That's how you knew how to fight at all, to begin with. The Fifteenth Indotribe. Being a street kid, growing up in the wrong part of Jamrock. Always hustling. It taught you a valuable lesson. You fought dirty in the ring.

AUTHORITY – Not the most honourable of methods, but effective. Winning is key, after all.

PAIN THRESHOLD – No it wasn't.

No, it wasn't.

Your hands fall to your sides again. If there's one thing you can find here, it's that you can't find any boundaries. Nothing to circumvent the need. The ring fights... you found the most lawless ones. And fighting with Jean, and others. Just limitless hurt and failure by design. Because you wanted it.

EMPATHY - Because something was missing, too.

You turn over and pull the covers over you. It feels like this is what you're going to get, this and nothing more.

“Kim?”

He puts down the notebook and leans on the desk. “Yes?”

It's been a couple of days, and nothing more. No more memories, and no new insights. You didn't give up, per se, but you decided that enough was enough.

“I, uh. I've been doing the thinking. Like you said to.”

“And?” He's looking at you expectantly.

You sit down on the edge of the desk. “So. I can't remember why it feels like this. When it started. It just is. I can remember having done boxing before, back when I taught gym...” You rub your nose distantly. He follows the movement of your hand, closely. “When I was a kid, too. But that's it. Also... fighting outside the ring. Just, you know. Scrapping.”

You don't say who with. Or anything about the other memories. They were so small, after all, so insignificant. Maybe it's nothing. Nothing worth mentioning, anyway, just little blip.

“Maybe it'll come back to me later,” you say with an apologetic smile.

He leans back and waves a hand dismissively. “That's fair. It's good to know that you've been fighting outside the ring as well, even if you don't know why. It's not always something you can pinpoint, anyway. It's useful but not essential knowledge.”

ENCYCLOPEDIA – Isn't all knowledge essential?

INLAND EMPIRE – Not really. Some things can be inferred.

“But... you're right,” you continue. “About the limits. I don't have them. Know them.” You bite your lip. “I wanna learn.”

“All right, then.” He looks around. There's nobody within hearing distance, or within sight, either, for that matter. Still, he lowers his voice to the point where it's barely audible. “One last question.”

“Yeah?”

“Is it sexual, for you? Or just physical.”

You stare at him, unsure if he actually said what you heard him say. It crashes right into a whole slew of unresolved thoughts and feelings, vague memories, fantasies – you digging your fingers into the soft meat of your thigh as you touch yourself, then try to forget about it – the immense relief of falling to your knees and giving yourself up to some kind of radiance, for it to do with you as it wills, to the point of oblivion. Fear and revulsion and desperate urge.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – ... you don't know. I don't know. It's... complicated. Things are pulling in both directions.

PAIN THRESHOLD – You feel like it could be. But you haven't dared try. Not properly. You're afraid of what you might find if you did.

You stare helplessly at him. “I don't know.”

“Hm.” He leans back and considers you. “Well. We'll have to see, in that case.”

“Does that- do you not want to, if I...?”

He waves his hand. “It's not a problem, either way.”

“Okay.” You lick your lips. “So...?”

He snorts, just a little puff of air through his nostrils. “I'll come to your flat. Tomorrow?”

“Why not tonight,” you blurt out, eager.

He regards you coolly, a little smile in his eyes. “I need some time to prepare.”

“Yeah. Okay. Good.”

“You can wait, right? Surely, you can wait.”

PAIN THRESHOLD – No you can't. No way. The itch is in you, now, worse than before. Something is smelling blood in the water, and it's chomping at the bit at the thought of what might happen.

VOLITION – No. You can wait. What’s another day? Nothing. You can do it.

You stand up and nod stoically. “Tomorrow.”

You swear you can hear him snickering as you leave.

The rest of the day goes by slowly. You try your best to focus. That was never your strong suit, and now it's completely worthless. You putter around trying to get work done until you go home and collapse from nervousness, only to dream weird and strange scenarios where you chase your own memories around the streets of Jamrock, only to have them slip out of your fingers again and again. You wake up frustrated and a little relieved that it wasn't one of the bad ones, at least.

The next day is just as bad. It's Kim's day off, so at least you don't have to watch him go about the office. But it does make you more scatterbrained, since this way, you can't pester him with questions. You almost burn your hand slopping hot coffee on it as you stand in the little office kitchenette, lost in imagining what Kim has planned. Only Judit grabbing your hand saves you from having to go to Gottlieb with second degree burns. Then, you space out doing interviews with Jean, and him chewing you out for it afterwards. It gets even worse when you space out during that too, denying him the solace of blowing up in our face. In the end he throws up his hands and storms out. By then the day has almost ended. With your partner off in a huff, you mop up the rest of the paperwork and head home a bit early.

Your flat is... not as bad as it was. There was a hoarder situation when you came back. You still have way too much stuff, all kinds of it – books, posters, knickknacks, games, movie reels, music reels, vinyls. Every conceivable item, you probably have at least one of it, like your closet, full of precious things you can't bear getting rid of. Most of it you can't remember where it came from. They can't have been very expensive, judging from the state of most of them. But at least you've used up some of the abundant reserves of nervous energy you get from not drinking on organising all of it. Still, it looks like a thrift shop in here.

You do your best to stow away some of the more esoteric items in the hope that Kim won't think you're a complete maniac, then do the dishes and throw out the trash. Afterwards, you spend some time on your hands and knees, hunting for dirty laundry under the sofa.

VOLITION – Do we really think he'll mind? He knows you're a bachelor. He's one too. Surely he won't judge you for a dirty sock or two.

HALF LIGHT – But what if he does? We don't want to jeopardise... well. Whatever this is.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – He's coming over to beat the crap out of you, or something to that effect. Think he'll get put off by laundry?

A knock on the door derails your train of thought. It's a moot point, now. Whatever he sees is what he'll get. You roll your shoulders nervously, then open the door.

For some reason you thought he would be wearing black. But it's just his normal clothes, and a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, bulging with something that stretches the fabric in odd ways. You stare at him, lost for words. He looks back, then quirks an eyebrow.

“Are you going to let me in?”

“Sorry! Of course, sorry. I just... come in.” You take a step back and let him cross the threshold.

He looks around surreptitiously, not very good at hiding it. He doesn’t look like he's judging you, at least. A bit surprised, perhaps.

EMPATHY – He's not surprised by the amount of stuff you have. Your penchant for picking up trash has clued him in to that already. But the fact that it's neatly organised – that surprises him.

You grin. “I've, uh, had a lot of energy. Lately.”

“Useful.”

Kim fiddles with the strap on the bag, looking closer at your belongings, like he's trying to pick out a pattern, or a clue, from the way you’ve organised them.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – He's wondering if energy is some sort of euphemism, for speed, or something else.

“Harry.” He puts the bag down. “If we're doing this. I need you to be sober, while doing it.”

“Yeah! No, I get that. Don't worry. I am.” You wave vaguely at the room. “This isn't... I've just been restless, you know. Without booze. Organising things is nice. Calming, you know?”

He relaxes visibly. “Ah. Good.”

“So.” You shift in place. “Can I get you anything?”

“Some water.”

You light up. “I think I can do you one better.”

You hurry over to your freezer and pull out an old ice cream box full of yellowish slush. It was there when you came back. You weren’t sure what it was, in the beginning – it looked weird, but smelled extremely familiar, cloyingly sweet and a bit sharp. You were afraid you'd been trying to freeze-distil something, at first. It turned out to be something much more benign.

You take a couple spoonfuls of the slush, then fill the glass up with water. Kim accepts it with raised eyebrows and wait while you make one for yourself. You stir it a bit and take a sip.

“Try it.”

He sips it, a bit hesitantly at first, then with obvious delight. “Wait. Don't tell me. ... elderberry?”

“Elderflower.” You nod at the backyard, visible through your kitchen window. There's a few trees there. It’s just leaves now, but in summer they were heavy with barely sprung blooms, clusters of white flowers that smelled sweet and pungent. “It was there when I came back. I don't have a pot big enough to make it, so I'm guessing one of my neighbours gave it to me.”

He sips a bit more. “It's very good. There's lemon in it too?”

“Yup. And some ginger, I think. Just a hint.”

“Mm. Very good,” he repeats.

You sit down at the table, sipping on the elderflower squash. You tap your fingers nervously on the wood, fiddle with the spoon. Kim stirs his glass slowly, watching you. It strikes you how much you like him, here, at your table – how little you care about the mess and the peeling wallpaper and the stray socks just by him being here. Suddenly, you place feels a lot more like his. Safe. Secure.

“So.” He puts the spoon down. “This is how we're going to do this. I need you to be a gym teacher now, Harry. The good kind. The kind that helps a kid build up strength over time, not throw them into the deep end of the pool day one. I don't know which kind you were, but this is the kind you need to be.”

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – Okay, no, the bino does not get to tell us the way to be a good teacher! Sometimes a kid just needs to experience the full weight of life all at once, that's how you learn! Not this namby-pamby a little at a time shit.

VOLITION – Ah, yes. That approach. The one that lead us to being in the fighting pit to begin with. That approach? Uh-huh. Do you even remember what we were talking about before?

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – ... swimming?

VOLITION – Limits!

“Do you understand?”

“Yeah.” 

“Good. So. The moment something hurts, you tell me. How much. What kind. How it makes you feel. It won't mean you won't get more later. But I need to know how it feels for you. And you need to, too. You need to experience it entirely, not just let it pass you by and ask for more. Understood?”

His gaze is intense and stern. You nod. He could have asked you anything right now and you'd have agreed. You finish the last of the elderflower squash in silence. You're happy for the little reprieve. It gives you time to breathe and prepare, and to enjoy the feeling of him filling up your room with his presence.

Finally, he stands up and puts his glass in the sink, then takes the chair and puts it in the middle of the living room. You watch him. There’s a ritual to it, like there was at his place. You, placed in a spot where he can move freely around you, see you from all sides.

When he's positioned the chair to his liking, he gestures to it.

“Strip to your underwear. Then sit. Hands behind your back.”

You obey just as fast as the last time he told you to do something, your almost-finished drink forgotten. He watches you tug your clothing off nervously, putting each part on the sofa until you're in nothing but your boxers. You thank everything sacred that you put on a fresh pair this morning.

Being this unclothed next to him is... well. It's not unfamiliar. Back in Martinaise you were a bit manic, changing clothes constantly because you needed the control, because the voices told you things would go better if you did. Something about trying to boost your confidence.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – That, and you were pretty sauced. That helped.

Kim had been infinitely patient about it, only mentioning it a few times, which must have taken an immense amount of willpower considering some of the things you wore. You still have all of it, in your closet, unable to part with it like all the rest of your junk. 

INTERFACING – Losing the pen was bad enough. We're not getting rid of more things. I like the things.

HALF LIGHT – Yeah! Stuff is cosy. Stuff is safe. Like building a nest.

There's a little polite cough, and you realise you've been spacing out instead of sitting down like you were told. You blush and plop yourself down, continuing the train of thought from before. Yeah, you've been basically naked in front of him before, and he's dug a bullet out of you, stitched you back together. But right now you're sober, unhurt, and he's here with the intention of causing you pain because you asked him to. It makes you feel raw, like you've not only stripped your clothes off but a layer of skin as well.

“Good. Now.” He squats down in front of you, hands on your knees. “Like I said. We'll start slow. Considering the things you've done to yourself so far I'm guessing some of this will barely register. You're going to concentrate on feeling it precisely because of that. And I want you to describe it to me.”

“Okay.” You squirm a little in your set, trying to get comfortable, trying to ignore the fact that he's touching you again.

He pats your knee. “Don't worry.”

“I'll try not to.” You give him a lopsided grin.

He stands up, takes one of his gloves off and slaps it against his palm a couple of times, testing it. You follow the movement. Precise. Sharp. Another slap to his palm, and then-

It smacks right across your thigh, soft leather stinging against naked skin. You make a little huffing sound. He watches you with raised eyebrows, waiting.

CONCEPTUALISATION – Well? Describe it.

PAIN THRESHOLD – A light surface pain, with a little sting at the edges, where the velocity was highest.

“It felt light. A little stingy. Lingers a little. I like it.”

He smiles a bit. “But? I sense there's a but, Harry.”

“I mean... it's not a lot.”

“That's the point. But very good. That was a good description. For being so good, you get three more.”

Before it can register properly, he delivers another slap to the same leg, and then two more to the other, all in quick succession. You bite your lip and take it. It's not hard. It barely hurts. You concentrate on feeling it as much as you can, to savour the slight burn and the warmth from the impact. It leaves red marks. As he takes a step back, you go to touch it.

“Ah. Did I say you could?”

HAND/EYE COORDINATION – But-

VOLITION – He didn't say we could.

You stop, fingers centimetres from the mark. He slaps the glove against his palm again, head cocked to the side.

“I forget how much you like to touch things. This is a conundrum. Normally, I'd tell you not to. But since we want you to experience it fully...” He considers you for a moment, then nods. “You may.”

HAND/EYE COORDINATION – Yes!

You immediately poke at the marks, let your fingers brush over them. Heat blossoms on your skin, a little welt on one thigh after where a hard seam hit at high speed. It smarts a little, then it dies down. A little of the itch stills, like you’re scratching at it though the sensitive nerve endings. You rub your finger over the welt again and look at him.

“This is... this is good. I like this.”

He leans in and looks at it. “This? Good to know. We can make sure you get more of those. Sit back.”

You tuck your hands behind your back again and lean against the backrest. He smiles and slaps the glove against his open palm.

“Let's see. Five to each leg for telling me what you liked most about it. Yes?”

You nod eagerly.

He keeps on like that for a while, alternating where he hits so that you can feel the difference, giving you time to feel each hit properly. The outsides are more like dull slaps; the insides, sharp and more painful where the skin is thinner. You hiss a little as he hits there. It makes him stop and force you to describe it in detail. You obey, running a finger along the raised bumps forming, hot and painful. Then he does it again. The same force that felt like nothing in the beginning actually hurts now, more and more the more sensitive your skin gets. Your thighs are red and crisscrossed with little lines. One last hit, to the inside just above your knee, and you whimper and put a hand up.

“Stop, Kim, fuck!”

He steps back. “Enough?”

“Yeah. Damn.”

PAIN THRESHOLD – Your thighs are throbbing, the skin hot and swollen. You don't think any of it was hard enough to bruise, and certainly not enough to break skin. Still, you're in pain.

Kim squats down in front of you again, hands on your knees, careful not to agitate the marks. “You took a lot. But you're not harmed. Yes?”

“Yeah.”

“And you told me when it was enough. Very good. What made you stop there?”

VOLITION – It was like a little flag went up in your head, somehow. Doing it like that, a little at a time, feeling all of it as it happened... there was a wall there you didn't know existed, a wall you’ve been bulldozing across with abandon so far.

“I just... I hit a wall.”

“Hm.” He looks at you a little, then nods. “Okay. Sit here a bit. I'll just go to the bathroom, and I'll be right back.”

Him leaving feels almost worse than him hitting you, somehow. The comfortable presence of him in your home leaves, taking the colours with it, leaving everything grey and dull. The tap turns on in the bathroom. You fidget on the chair, fervently wishing for him to come back. When he does, you look up like an abandoned puppy. He digs around in his bag and takes out a bottle.

“This’ll probably hurt a little, but it'll feel good too.”

He takes some lotion and rubs it slowly across your thighs, soothing the heat. It does hurt. But it chills at the same time. You hiss and sigh as he rubs his fingers lightly over the welts. It strikes you that this is probably not the first time he's touched your thighs – he must have done so before, too, when he stitched you up. You never asked. But you know the trousers you had at the tribunal were cut open, your skin washed to avoid infection.

He gives you knee a little pat. “That's enough for today.” He hauls you up and pulls you over to the sofa. “Sit here for a while.”

You sit down, thankful for the softness. Your thighs are throbbing, still, but less than before. You run your fingers over the dark red lines. He watches the movement of your hands ghosting over yourself.

“Describe to me what you feel now, too.”

CONCEPTUALISATION – It's a strange feeling. Your thighs hurt, but the rest of you feels... light. A bit slow.

“I dunno. It's weird. I feel a bit light-headed.”

He nods, like your answer was something he expected. “Mhm. Did you feel like this after fighting, before?”

ENCYCLOPEDIA – You don't remember. You'd think something like this would stick especially hard in your mind, but evidently, it didn't.

“No idea. Sorry,” you add as he frowns.

“It's fine. We'll just have to handle this as if you’ve never done it before. Is there something you feel like you'd want, right now?”

PERCEPTION – Your throat is parched. Something to drink would be nice.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – God, yeah. And if he could maybe... pet your hair...? Like he did before?

“Um. I still have some squash on the table.”

He chuckles. “I'll make you a fresh glass.”

You watch him putter around in your kitchen, pulling out the old plastic box, scooping some more of the yellow slush into your glass and filling it up with cold water. It's entirely domestic, a weird counterpoint to the throbbing in your thighs. The sense of peace and safety is there again.

He hands you the glass and sits down. “Anything else you need?”

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – His hand on your hair. Stroking you, slowly.

VOLITION – You can't ask that of him. That's too intimate.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – And, what? Him thrashing us isn’t? Besides, he did it before.

VOLITION – Only as a precursor to hurting us. It's not the same thing. Him hitting us is functionality. He doesn't want us to hurt ourself doing it the wrong way.

You look away and sip on the squash. “No. I'm good.”

He leans his head in his hand and studies you, your reactions. You feel light, relaxed. That floating feeling is still there, your brain embedded in soft cotton. The drink is wonderfully cool in your mouth. Somehow, you can taste the ginger so clearly. You take another sip and slosh it around, just for the novelty of the sensation.

Then he reaches out and puts a hand on your shoulder.

The light touch is electrifying, travelling along the nerve paths up into your brain, out into your body. You almost lose your grip on the glass as a memory flashes into your mind. A hand on your shoulder – someone leaning over you, showing you something in a book. You're young. In school. Biology. You're doing a project on the trees of Le Caillou. Elderberry, birch, beech, fir, oak – the pages flash by as you flip them, looking for something.

And then it's gone.

You manage to swallow before the squash drips out of your mouth. Kim takes the glass from your hand and puts it away, concerned.

“Are you okay, Harry?”

You wipe your mouth, then your brow. You're sweating, suddenly. “Yeah. Yeah. I just... I remembered something.”

“You did? What was it?”

“I- I was... in school. Reading a book on trees. Nothing big, it was just... a memory.”

“Why did you remember it now?”

“It was... I dunno. You touching me. Somebody did that, in the memory. The squash, I guess, the taste.”

He looks interested. “Has it happened like this before?”

“I've had a couple... little flashes, recently. Um. Before, the other day, when you...” You give him a sidelong glance. “When you did the, um, the check-up thing.”

“Hm.” He rubs his chin pensively. “I see.”

In the sudden silence you're cold, suddenly, and aware of the fact that you're in your underwear while he's fully clothed. You get up, a bit stiffly, and grab your bathrobe from its hook on the bathroom door. Kim watches you do it. There's something searching in his gaze – again, that notion of inspection, gauging your reactions.

“Are you feeling okay?” 

“Yeah. I'm fine. I was just a bit cold.”

“All right.” He hesitates. “Not feeling down, or sad...?”

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – The nice floaty feeling has almost dissipated. You're feeling heavy and a bit tired, but not sadder than usual.

“Nah. I'm good.” You wrap the bathrobe around you and tie it off, feeling awkward. “So... do you want to do this again?”

He looks like he's not entirely satisfied with your answer, but lets it go. “Do you want to?”

“Fuck yeah! I mean, yeah. Uh-huh.”

The corners of his mouth twitches. “All right. Then tell me the next time the... urge arises. Your itch.”

He gets up and packs the lotion back into the bag. You're curious to know the rest of what's in there.

PAIN THRESHOLD – You get the feeling you'll learn, sooner than later.

Just as he goes to leave, you clear your throat. “Kim?”

“Yes?” He stops, one hand on the door handle.

“Thank you.”

He fully smiles, this time. “You're welcome.”

The next day is agony. Even though you choose the most loose-fitting pair of trousers you own, they still chafe painfully against your thighs, especially on the insides. It's distracting, but a relief at the same time. There's no trace of the itch. You slink away a couple of times during the day to rub them with more lotion. It helps a bit, at least. Kim's mouth twitches when he notices you do it. Once, he gives you a slap across the thigh after having talked to you at your desk – just a normal thing to do. You grit your teeth and bear it.

The sting and the ache last a day or two more. Things go about as usual, with you in a much better mood. You can concentrate a bit better, less of the black tendrils that always tap at the edges of your mind. It lasts about a week before the itch comes back with a vengeance.

After a day of arguing with Jean and snapping at your subordinate officers, you're back in front of Kim's desk.

“Um. Hey. Got a minute?”

He looks up with a slight smirk. “Are you asking me if I've got a minute, or if my evening's free?”

You stamp your foot like a nervous horse. “Fuck. The second.”

“I guessed as much. Next time, tell me as soon as you start to feel antsy.” He leans back in the chair. “Let's make that part of the deal, too. If nothing else, it'll make things easier if you don't yell at my sergeants.”

You rub the back of your head and grin awkwardly. “Fuck. Yeah. Sure. Sorry.”

“Good. Six o' clock. Your place.”

“Sure.”

The anticipation alone makes you relax a little. That, and the thought of spending time with him – any time, in any way, to have him in your home again, lighting it up.

He starts the same way: positioning the chair, telling you to strip. It feels almost familiar now. This time, he doesn’t remove his gloves. Instead, he digs into the bag and takes out a bag of clothespins. You eye them warily as he picks out a handful and shows them to you.

“Have you had anything like this before?”

“Nope.”

“All right. It'll be a bit different, then. We'll see if you like it.”

He puts a row of them on the underside of your arms, then on the insides of your thighs. It's not that bad, to begin with. But the more of them there are, the longer they stay on, the more it hurts. By the time he's put the last ones on, close to your crotch, the ones on your arms burn, insistent and intense. It's like the itch was inverted. He watches you squirm as the pain intensifies, little by little.

“Tell me how it feels.”

PAIN THRESHOLD – Burning pinpricks, like the time he pinched you but worse – a pressure that doesn't let up.

HALF LIGHT – Off, off, off, they need to come off! Augh, it's unbearable!

You huff out a short breath through your nose. “It's like it's burning. Fuck, it's- it's so hard not to rip them off!”

“Hm. Maybe I should tie your hands, the next time we do this. Is it too much yet?”

VOLITION – You haven't quite reached that wall.

“Not yet.”

“Good.”

He reaches out and holds your arm out, then pulls the one closest to your armpit off, without opening it first. You swear in surprise as there's a fresh surge of pain, both from the pull and from the blood returning. 

PAIN THRESHOLD – This is a deeper, pulsing ache, just as insistent as the burn, but throbbing and hot. This is why he took them off now. If you'd waited until it was too much, this would have been excruciating.

Before you can say anything, he pulls the rest off in quick succession, then swiftly grabs your other wrist. You hadn't even realised you were going to rub it.

REACTION SPEED - Ooooh, good catch.

You give him a pleading look. “Kim, fuck-”

“No,” he says calmly. “Not this time. Describe it first.”

“Shit, it's throbbing, okay? It's- it's still itching and burning, ah- it's hot.”

“Good. I'll pull them all, and then you can rub it.”

You barely have time of steel yourself before he rips them off your other arm. There's a loud snap-snap-snap of them closing after tugging on your skin. You grip the bottom of the chair to keep your hands from immediately touching it. He kneels down and parts your legs, and you let out a little whine as you realise what's going to happen. He taps on a clothespin and looks up at you.

“Do you want me to pull them off, or open them carefully?”

AUTHORITY – Giving you a little semblance of control? A good call.

PAIN THRESHOLD – The skin there is just as sensitive as on your arms, maybe a bit more. It'll hurt worse than it did, just now.

You grip the chair and take a deep breath. “Pull.”

There's a sigh. Barely audible. For just a moment, the hand on your knee grips harder, strokes you a little. Then he takes hold of the pin.

Snap-snap-snap-snap, quick and practiced, one after the other, and the inside of your left thigh bursts into agony. Then the other side. You swear again, fingers tight around the wood. Tears burn behind your eyelids. He pats your knees and stands up.

“There.”

You frantically go to rub it, to try and take some of the burning, itching sensation away, but it's too much. All it does is make it smart worse as you agitate it. You pull your hands away and hold them up, useless, then smack them into your knees in frustration.

“Ah, goddamnit!”

“I know. Breathe through it.”

You try to, fingers tightly clenched around your knees. You sit there until the insistent itching has translated into a more familiar hot throbbing, and you can finally think again. Kim grabs your hands and pulls you up, and over to the sofa, where the lotion is waiting. You try not to whine as he rubs it on your thighs.

“How was it?”

“God! Fucking frustrating.”

“Mhm.” He takes a bit more and starts on your arms. “How much of that was being forced to sit there and take it?”

You have to think about it. It was frustrating, tense, not the anticipation before the hit but a slowly building agony. Not pleasant but more like the feeling of losing, of being forced to your knees.

“Like... half? Something like that. A third, maybe,” you add, wincing as he pulls his nails over the row of deep red marks. “Yeah. A third.”

“Good to know. Do you want to do it again?”

His fingers knead the underside of your arm as you think about it. He's being very thorough and slow, rubbing in a soothing rhythm. You watch him work. There's that touch of lightness again, blossoming as he moves his hands over you. He looks at you, searching for something as he touches you. Waiting for something.

VOLITION – Do you want to do it again?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – To have him touch us like this afterwards? Hell yes.

PAIN THRESHOLD – It wasn't pleasant, like the other kind was. But it served a purpose.

“Ah- yeah. A bit less, this was... it was intense. Fewer, next time.”

“That's very good, Harry.” He gently puts your hand into your lap. “Dialling it back is part of learning your limits, too.”

He gets up and makes you a glass of squash, then fetches your bathrobe. You sit and just talk for a while, this time, as the itching and throbbing settles a little. There's still that searching look in his eyes, him analysing you, looking for some kind of sign you're not really sure what it is. He lingers, looking for it. You don't mind. Having him here is relaxing.

When he finally gets up, you're getting a bit tired, stiff in the shoulders.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – You tensed up much more than you realised, doing that. Next time you need to stretch, son, or get a massage.  

“Everything all right?”

“A bit stiff. I'll be fine.”

“Okay. See you tomorrow, then.”

He leaves, taking the light with him. You try to shower, then stretch, and eat a bit. It's not until you go to bed you realise there were no memories this time.

The next week is different. The clothespins still the itch in another way than getting hit does. It's more the memories of it, memories you can wake up again by touching the marks he left. Too bad they're practically in your armpits and groin. Jean growls at you to stop fucking groping yourself.

“You got fucking crabs or something, shitkid? No, don't answer that. I don't wanna know. Just wash your hands, for fuck's sake.”

LOGIC – Next time perhaps put them in a less intimate spot?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Not as good then, is it?

Mostly it itches, just a normal kind of itch, and your shoulders and neck are stiff. It tides you over less, too. It only takes three days to start feeling the urge again, but as soon as you do you go to him immediately. He gives you a satisfied look.

“Good. This time didn't last you as long, did it?”

“No.” You fidget. “It was... it didn't go as deep, somehow.”

“Mhm. I noticed. This is really good, Harry. You're learning things.”

His calm reassurance makes it better, makes you feel less like a junkie jonesing for the next hit. Sure. This is you learning things. Utilitarian. That's all it is.

VOLITION – It truly is, though. Even if there's... ulterior motives, this is you trying to find an outlet that works long term. Something that won't result in you becoming a vegetable from too many hits to the head, or bleeding out.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – And feeling good. Finding what feels really, really good.

EMPATHY – I think you already know what feels good.

“So. Um. Tonight?”

He chuckles. “Sure. Tonight.”

You immediately notice a difference this time. He places the chair in the middle of the room like always, but then he takes a cushion from the sofa and puts it in front of it. You consider it for a second, not really understanding. He smiles and nods at it.

“Strip to your underwear and kneel.”

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Ooooh. Oh, okay. Aha.

As you obey, he rummages in the bag until he takes out a belt. Your eyes follow it warily. It's just a normal belt, broad, no metal details. You kneel on the cushion and look back at him.

“Last time didn't really do much for you, I think. Yes?”

“Yeah.”

“Mhm. That was a very surface kind of pain. So I think we should try something else. Something deeper, and sharper.”

You swallow and nod. There's a hand on your upper back, pushing you down, forcing you onto the chair. You wrap your arms around the backrest and try to get comfortable against the thin cushion.

“I'll start with just one.” He folds the belt over. “And you'll describe it for me.”

His hand leaves you, but the spot where he held you still remembers it, a ghostly echo of the pressure he exerted. You close your eyes and grip the chair, breathing deeply. There's a little snap as he tests the belt. You take another breath. A moment of anticipation, and then-

The noise as it hits reminds you of a horsewhip. A memory flashes – of a parade, at some point, who thought an RCM parade in Jamrock was a good idea – and then you're aware of the pain.

PAIN THRESHOLD – Sharp, cutting, hot – not as deep as a punch, but deeper than the gloves and the clothespins. More spread out and intense.

“God, fuck!”

You grip the chair tight and try to breathe calmly. The back of your right thigh is agony. You hear a shuffling behind you – he's moving, crouching, perhaps, to look at you. For a second you think that he's going to touch you.

“How does it feel?”

“Like- like you cut me.” You push down the urge to turn and look. “Did you cut me?”

“No. It didn't break skin. But you'll have a mark for a good while.”

The thought of it makes you exhale, a long, shuddering breath. “Fuck. It was, it was sharp, deeper. Broad. All at once.”

“Mhm.” The shuffling, again. “You're good at this. So good, Harry. So good with your words.”

The praise washes over you, a warm feeling enveloping you. You look up. He's leaned over you, hands on his knees, looking at you kneeling there, crouched, trembling. There's a warm smile on his face.

Everything is good. Everything is fine. Everything is as it should be.

He holds the belt up. “More?”

“Yeah,” you breathe.

You close your eyes again, holding on to the warm, soft feeling.

The next hit lands on your other thigh, because all things are even, and the lieutenant likes symmetry and neatness. The next two goes to your ass – lighter, slightly softened by the fabric. Each hit is still hard enough to send you jerking forward, slightly. The chair scrapes on the floor.

CONCEPTUALISATION – He's always claimed that he doesn't have much of an imagination. How is it that he can use you as a canvas like this? He's painting a picture with the broadest of strokes, livid reds and purples on an off-white background. The sound of it is a symphony of whipcracks and hurried breaths.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – That's because besides the neatness, the lieutenant also like things that are hard and fast and loud. He knows the beat.

PAIN THRESHOLD – You're aching. It's so good.

VOLITION – Too good. Focus. You're about to bulldoze over yourself again.

Two more to your ass. You hold on to the chair and try to feel it completely, to ignore that soft cloud in your head, no matter how much you crave it. Another to the thigh, then to the other-

The wall comes up, sharply, suddenly.

“Stop, stop stop stop, Kim, fuck, stop!”

He lets go of the belt and sinks down immediately, looking you in the eye. “Are you okay?”

“God, yeah, it was-” You take a shaky breath. “It was too good.”

Your words are slurred. The warm feeling is rolling in, a cloud of pale, enveloping you. You clutch the chair. His gentle hands are on you, pulling you up, supporting you. You take a few tottering steps, then collapse on the sofa, on your side. He sinks down on the floor and rubs your shoulder.

“I'm so proud, Harry. Look at you. It was good for you, but you set the limit anyway. You should be proud of yourself.”

You stare at him. He's radiant like the sun. His hand on your shoulder is heavier than anything you've ever felt. It's sinking into you, clutching around the bones.

“What do you need right now?”

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – His hand. Our hair. We need it.

EMPATHY – You know what you want.

VOLITION – I told you. You can't ask that of him.

You hesitate. But you need it too much. It's like it's an itch all of its own.

“Can you... pet me? Like you did. When we started?”

The look on his face is hard for you to parse. It's something you've never seen before.

ENCYCLOPEDIA – No. That's not right. You've seen something like this. When you sat on the swings, waiting for your car to emerge from the icy water. When you finally saw it, when you realised – the look on his face was something like this. And a memory you didn't know you had. Tinged with red, smelling of infection. From somewhere in the delirium after the tribunal. A brief glimpse of lucidity, where you looked up at him, your hand on his face, over the bandage. The way he looked at you then, as you slipped back into unconsciousness.

Without a word, he sits beside you on the sofa, then takes your head in his lap and slowly starts to card his fingers through your hair. You melt into it, press your head into his thighs and revel in it, close your eyes and take it in.

The moment you relax, you start feeling it again, the throbbing ache in your backside. It mingles with the feeling of his hands on you, gentle, hesitant, unsure; with the cloud of pale cushioning your mind, making you buoyant and light. You overflow. You start crying. It drips onto his trousers, into his lap. You can't stop.

“Sorry. I'm sorry, Kim, sorry...”

“This is good. You're doing fine, Harry. It's okay.”

You close your eyes and sob, face buried in his trousers. Slowly, slowly, his hand untangles your hair, separating strand from strand.

The memory comes slowly, too, pouring out from his hands. Other hands, brushing your hair; lively, wiry hands. It was long, then, too, before you cut it to start your RCM training. You sat in the barber chair in that little place on Les Arcs, talking to your favourite guy – Dauid. He was always so much fun to talk to, doing all these little pantomimes of customers he'd had before, retelling the wild fucking stories he'd heard from them. You discussed a good look. Something professional. Short hair and a mustache. And an hour later your ponytail was gone, the beard was gone – fuck, you'd worked hard for that beard. But you looked ten years older. It was perfect. He insisted on giving you a hug for good luck.

The next time you saw him you had the muttonchops and a greasy mullet, and he was face down in a pool of his own blood. He never was the kind of guy to cave in to a protection racket. In hindsight, he probably should have. You stole a straight razor from his shop to remember him by. A month later you had it at your throat, just a few days before being assigned to a pissing contest in the district nobody wants.

It settles into your mind like a lead weight. The tears have dried up, leaving nothing but a soft emptiness. Kim's hand comes to a halt.

“Are you okay, Harry?”

“I had... I used to go to this guy. To cut my hair. He cut it just before I joined the RCM.” You sniffle a bit, and he leans over and pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. “He died a month before Martinaise... one of the besmerties was running a protection racket.”

“They do that.” Kim's voice is level. “Was it because of me touching your hair?”

“Yeah. I think.” You wipe your nose. “And the... yeah.”

“Yes.” He pats your shoulder. “I'm going to fetch some water. And then I'm going to stay here a bit. In case you need me.”

You drowse on the sofa while he fetches the water and tidies up, stowing his gear away. He comes by and looks at you, touches you, checks on you. The ache gets worse, and he takes care of it. Slowly, the cloud in your mind recedes, and you feel cold and tired, limbs heavy. Before you fall asleep, he helps you to the bed. All of it is pulling tiny little memories. All of it, him helping you another time – Martinaise, the few moments you lost in the haze. All lined up now, neat and sorted.

“Kim.”

“Yes?”

You look up at him. You can barely see him in the dark. “Did I say thank you? For keeping me alive? I can't remember.”

“You did. Don't worry.”

“I'm sorry I'm so fucking much, Kim,” you mumble. “All this.”

He hesitates a little. Then he strokes the hair out of your eyes with a sigh. “I wouldn't have offered if I didn't want to do the work, Harry. I know what this entails.”

The last thing you hear before you fall asleep is your front door, closing and locking.

Slowly, time passes. You settle into a comfortable rhythm of tension and release. Every time, you do it at your place. You've begun to realise why. It's not that he feels that his place would be somehow sullied by it, it's that he wants you to be in a safe and familiar place afterwards, and so he won't have to pour you into the Kineema and drive you home. The first bit is something you could correct him on but won't, the fact that his place feels safer and more secure to you than your own. But it's not a big thing. Mainly because the second bit is right on the money. Some sessions leave you completely drained, staring at the ceiling or sobbing, curled up on the sofa. Better to have you close to your bed when that happens.  

Slowly, you find out what works. He heaps abuse on your thighs and ass – pinching you, using the riding crop, the ruler, the belt, the clothespins. They all hurt in different ways. He avoids your lower back and most of your torso. Your hair gets its fair share of attention, with him tugging on it, holding you by it, pulling you by it once in a while. He never touches your face again like he did the very first time, at least not hard. Your arms and tits are fair game. The former get welts and pinches as well, especially on the sensitive insides of your biceps. The latter, slaps. Open-palmed, stinging, mostly. They don't leave much in the way of marks, but it hurts so good in the moment.

Slowly, you find out where the limits are. You can't take much of the deep thudding of the paddle and the broad, hot pain of the belt, but you do like it. It sends you deep inside your own head. When he pets you afterward, the memories always come, like he's pulled them to the surface with the hits and then lets them go with the gentle caresses. You almost always cry from those. You can take a lot of the thin, sharp pain and the hot slaps. You find that you most like the things that leave marks, painful little reminders that you can touch in the days after, when the itch returns. The ruler and the riding crop stills it the best, but don't give you as many memories.

But, you soon find, they make your dick very interested.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Yeah, well. I was wondering when that would happen.

It takes about two months of it before you come in your underwear the first time. Kim had been dedicating this session to your tits, exclusively – slapping them, pinching them. You got hard. It was humiliating. You hoped he wouldn't notice. That got you harder. Then harder and harder the longer he went. Still, the pain wasn’t bad enough that you wanted to stop yet. Then he put the clothespins directly on your nipples for the first time. You let them sit there until you could feel the alarm bells going off in your head. Problem was, when he removed them, you weren't prepared for how intense the new surge of pain would be. It was way worse than in any of the other places he'd placed them before. It made you double over, eyes stinging with tears, your cock pulsing between your legs. You stayed doubled over like that until he leaned down, worry in his eyes.

“Harry?”

You whimper and dig your nails into your knees. “Fuck. Fuck. Shit. I'm sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” He leans in a bit more, trying to straighten you out. Then he sees the spreading stain on the front of your underwear. “Oh. I see.”

HALF LIGHT – Did you ruin it? Shit, is this going to scare him off? Is he going to cut you off now?

VOLITION – He said he wouldn't. He said he didn't care.

He pushes your torso back gently until you're sitting leaned against the chair again. “So. You liked that, did you?”

“Y-yeah.”

He gently pulls your head up, forcing you to look him in the eye. “Did you let me leave them on too long? Because it felt good?”

“No! No, I- I told you when it was enough. I thought I knew.” You squirm. “But then you took them off, and, fuck, it was...”

“Intense. I see.” He carefully pushes at the edge of your areola, making you twitch. “I apologise, that was my mistake. I should have realised what would happen, considering how... sensitive you are there. We'll dial that back next time.” He stands up, fiddling with his glasses. “We'll stop here. I want you to take a shower and put some new underwear on. Then come and sit.”

EMPATHY – He's a bit embarrassed. He feels like he's the one that's made a breach of contract here, not you.

You grab some new boxers and hurry to the bathroom. The hot water stings, too much for your abused chest to handle. You shower with your back to the spray, soaping up your sticky crotch. The embarrassment surges through you at the memory, at the thought of you coming from just having him hurt you like this. Of you succumbing to what he's giving you. Your limp cock stirs a little. You swear quietly and try to concentrate on getting clean so you can join him on the sofa.

He looks completely relaxed, lounging against the cushions, reading a magazine. As you sit, you notice that it's one of the old TipTop serials you bought from the local antiquarian, hoping that he’d notice. For some reason, it makes your stomach flutter. He closes it and puts it back on the table.

“You look better.”

You rub your chest. “Yeah. Gonna bruise this time, though.”

“I hope so.”

You shift stiffly and give him a sidelong glance. “Are you still... okay with this?”

He pushes his glasses up his nose again. “Khm. I said I would be. And I am. If you don't want me mentioning it, I won't.”

“Maybe, um. Maybe best not to.”

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Maybe it's a one-time thing?

VOLITION – Let's hope so.

There’s no memories this time, no floating feeling, just a lingering sense of embarrassment and confusion. For both of you. He leaves without much fanfare. You have trouble falling asleep. For some reason, the thing that comes back to you is him on your sofa, relaxed, reading a magazine you bought just for him.

He's true to his word. He doesn't mention it again. Problem is, as soon as your body finds out how good it is, it's like opening a pair of floodgates. Suddenly, you get hard from the flogging too. And the hair-pulling, and just him ordering you around. Dialling it back doesn't help. There's a connection now.

He doesn't seem to care about it, like he said he wouldn't. Ignores your erections, lets it be just another part of how your body reacts. If you do come he takes it as a signal to stop; if you don't, he makes sure you don't ask for too much just to make it happen.

The rhythm has changed. The itch is less, even with him taking it easier, especially when it gets you hard. A session like that can last you almost two weeks, now. Other things change, too. Your dreams start taking new paths; old recriminations get less and less impactful, the nightmares get fewer. You dream about him, now, more frequently than not.

It makes the sessions worse. Now all you can think about is the fact that it's him doing it, him making you hard, him scratching your itch. You ache for the moments afterwards. His hands on you, rubbing away the pain, grounding you, reminding you of the world, tethering you as you soar. It becomes less and less about the pain and more and more about that, and about the pleasure. It makes it harder to concentrate on the pain. You really need to focus now, to make sure you don't ignore your hard-won limits. In a way, it's useful. It hones your mental fortitude.

VOLITION – I really didn't think this would be a good idea, but... well. It is working.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – Yeah, you're really giving Crownhead a workout here!

It comes to a head when he decides to use the riding crop on you again. He has you tied up, this time – he started doing that more and more since you got hard, to help you control yourself – and on your stomach, on the floor. You know you can take a lot of it. You know what it does to you. He knows, too. There's a blanket of tension in the room. You squirm in front of him, your hard dick grinding against the floorboards. He hits you more than you've taken before, this way. You still can't feel the wall approaching. All you can see is his face, outlined against the setting sun.

He stops, kneeling beside you, one hand in your hair. “You're distracted, Harry.”

You look down. “Sorry.”

“Can you explain why?”

HALF LIGHT – Don't, absolutely don't! He may be okay with you getting off on this, but getting off to him? Never, he'd never accept that.

“It's... it feels good, with the...”

You stop. It's too embarrassing.

“I told you. I don't mind.”

He looks at you, that same look in his eyes as when you asked him to pet you. It's almost pleading.

EMPATHY – There's something he wants you to say. Something he wants you to admit.

You look away. “I... I think I want to stop now. For today.”

“Okay. Whatever you say.”

His hand hovers over your arm, just centimetres from connecting. The heat of his palm tickles the hairs. And then he pulls it away and starts untying you. You stand up, rubbing your arms. Again, no blessed cloud, no relief. Just tension and frustration.

“Yeah, I... I think I'm gonna take a shower.”

“Of course. See you tomorrow.”

He packs his things away as you stand awkwardly, waiting for him to leave. As soon as he does, you duck into the shower and jerk off, trying and failing to not think about him as you do it. You come hard, pushing your forehead into the wet tiles.

Later you lie in bed and try and fail to fall asleep. Whatever you tried didn't work; no amount of jerking off or stretching or rubbing yourself releases the tension. You know what you need and you didn't allow yourself to get it tonight.

LOGIC – There's a thing you haven't asked yourself here.

What?

 LOGIC – What does he get out of it?

It's such a big question you feel stupid for not asking it earlier.

VOLITION – It's been in here for quite a while. You just haven't wanted to take it out and turn it over yet.

HALF LIGHT – That's because the answers are so frightening. What if he gets nothing out of it? What if he's just doing it because he pities you?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – He'd have stopped by now if that were the case. I think he does it because he gets off on it too. I think he likes thrashing us, seeing us whine and squirm and cum.

EMPATHY – There's something he wants you to say. Something he wants you to admit.

You said that. Before.

EMPATHY – Yes. I did.

ESPRIT DE CORPS - Lieutenant Kitsuragi sits by his kitchen table, nursing a cup of tea. There's a notebook in front of him on the table, filled with hurried scribbles. It's not one of the ones he uses at work. You recognise those, they’re much more organised than this. This is chaotic and messy, several of the sentences struck through with deep lines, repeated and crossed out. He writes a few more words, then hesitates – then puts the pen down with force and rubs his face.

EMPATHY – He's frustrated.

You groan and rub your face in a copy of his gesture, roll over, try to think about nothing. Try to not think about his face backlit by the setting sun, of his hands stroking you.

This time you let it go for far too long before you ask him again, almost a month. The itch returns, much less manageable than it's been – it's like your body remembers how it used to be before, laments it, tries to force you to do the things it needs. You try your best to handle it on your own. You take a few clothespins off the drying rack in your bathroom and use them at night, steal a ruler from work and rap it across your thighs. It's not nearly as good as when he does it. It lacks the anticipation, the loss of control. But most importantly, it lacks his hands afterwards, his touch soothing the sting. All it gives is the pain, like the fighting used to do. It tides you over for a day or two, then it stops working altogether.

Work is bad. Kim is in a strange mood. Tightly wound, irritated. It makes you nervous. It's a shitty month overall, violent and depressing. Everyone is all nerves, but you're sure that most of Kim's issues are due to you, and whatever is going on. You were kinda hoping that not asking him would make the dreams calm down, but it hasn't. All it's done is made them more desperate, more involved. You replay sessions you had, meetings, scenarios. They all end the same way – with his hands on you. Holding you, stroking you. With that feeling of everything being right and correct. Your heart aches. Your body aches with it. Finally, you can't take it anymore.

You wait until the office is mostly empty for lunch.

“Hey.”

He takes a deep breath before he puts his hands on the desk and looks at you. “Yes?”

“Um. So. It's been a while.”

“It has, yes. I was wondering if you lost interest.”

He looks almost wounded. That old feeling rises again, where you need to throw yourself off the top of one of the skyscrapers of La Delta for even thinking of making him angry or disappointed in any way.

VOLITION – You know he doesn't thank you for that feeling.

“Fuck, no, I just... it's been... it's been a hell of a month. Yeah?”

He sighs. “Yes. It has.”

“You free this evening?”

It comes out hurried, desperate, with you leaning on the desk, looming over him like some sort of crazed lunatic. For a second, it looks like he's contemplating saying no. Then he rubs his eyes and nods.

“... I am, yes. Six o' clock. My place this time.”

You're all wound up with tension. This bastard of a month, his weird mood, your weird mood. He's barely said a word since you came, just nodded and made the same preparations as he would at yours: a chair in its usual position, then put a cushion on the floor. All right. The belt, then, or the flogger. The ruler, maybe. A little bit of the tension unwinds into anticipation, a craving that hasn't been satisfied for a while.

Then he has you strip completely naked.

It's the first time.

You obey, because there's not enough of you left with a loud enough voice to protest. Every other part of you wants to, desperately. He's already seen so much of you. What’s this last thing?

HALF LIGHT – Everything.

You undress slowly, putting each item neatly on the sofa. He watches you do it, eyes intent, body relaxed. There's not a single line of nervousness in him. When you pull your underwear off, he looks at you openly, just as calmly as before. You sigh and close your eyes, arms behind your back. You don't need to see him to feel his eyes on you, to feel them roaming over your body, over your half-hard cock. It feels like an eternity before he takes pity on you.

“Kneel.”

You sink down and hide your face in your arms. There's the sound of springy wood against an open palm. The ruler, then. You breathe calmly and try to relax, try to ignore the fact that the mere sound of it has you getting harder, that Kim can see it this time, clear as day – nothing to hide you, nothing to help him politely ignore that you're getting off on this.

Then he starts.

It's familiar at first, a few good hits to the thighs. Just warming up. You can almost see him rolling his shoulder before he takes aim. You accept each hit in silence, jumping a little as it connects, leaving a bright red mark delineated by purple stripes. Then, it lands on the bare skin of your ass.

You hadn't really understood how much the fabric helped dampen the feeling. This is sweetly intense, a warm stripe right across the muscle. He's joked about it before, how bony your ass is, how he has to be careful not to hurt you, right when he was rubbing lotion into the sore skin. The memory of his bare hand kneading your ass makes your cock twitch and swell. You think about it as another hit lands, how you missed his hands on you, how it'll feel this time, after this pain-

The memory dissolves as the ruler smacks into your balls.

“Fuck!”

You can feel yourself dripping on the floor. It's a testament to how well trained you've become that you don't scream or draw away. It's a testament to how deep of an ache it is that your hand goes between your legs, almost unconsciously, despite how many times he's told you not to.

The ruler comes down on your fingers, lightly.

“No. No touching yourself.”

You whine and pull your hand up as he nudges your legs apart a little. Two more hits land on your asscheeks. Then, another solid thwack between them.

PAIN THRESHOLD – This is a completely new kind of pain. Deep, aching thuds that lance through your groin, into your stomach.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Each hit goes right to your cock, unbearably intense. You're aching to jerk off, to do something about it. Instead, you just drip uselessly, getting harder and harder.

You sob and burrow your face into your arms. His bare hand comes down and caresses your ass. He almost never does this, almost never touches you when he hits you, only afterwards. His fingers are cool against the hot skin, his nails sharp on the stripes.

“How does it feel, Harrier?”

You shrink away from his touch, the ability to describe it for him completely gone. “God, it's... ah, shit, it fucking hurts.” He digs deeper, fingers pushing into muscle, dragging across the stripes. “Kim, fuck!”

“Mhm.”

His hand withdraws. Then the ruler comes down across your ass again, in the same spots as before, twice, hard – and then, a third hit across your balls. This time, you jerk forward, leaving a string of milky white drops on the cushion and the floor. Not enough to make you come, but goddamn fucking close. His hand comes down again, aggravating the stripes. He's making it worse for you on purpose, getting you more off balance than you've ever been, trying to provoke you into something. You grip the chair so hard your fingers ache with it.

Then his cool fingers cup your abused ballsack, two fingers rubbing gently on your shaft. You freeze, fingers digging into your arm. An animal in the headlights. Any composure you still had is out the window in an instant.

“Say yes,” he breathes, voice tight. “If you want me to.”

EMPATHY – There's something he wants you to say. Something he wants you to admit.

You feel him kneel on the cushion, between your legs. A light tap of wood on wood when he lets go of the ruler, and his other hand strokes your back, slowly, gently. His clothes chafe unbearably against your backside. His hand between your legs doesn't move, just stays there, pressing you up into yourself. He leans in. You can feel his breath on your shoulder blade.

“Say yes if you want my hand here, Harrier.”

You bite your clenched fist to stop yourself from moaning. Somehow you know it's not the hand between your legs he means, it's the one of your back, the one that traces your vertebrae one by one, counting each one with the utmost care.

Still. You can't say it.

PAIN THRESHOLD – You forgot to feel for the wall. It hurts, so bad. You're aching.

 ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Fuck yeah, you are. Your ass is throbbing, your cock is pulsing, so goddamn close-

INLAND EMPIRE – Yes, but your soul is aching too, and much worse.

His hand on your back moves down, up, across your shoulder, over your neck – down again, along your spine – comes to rest in the small of your back, splayed as he leans on you. You can feel it tremble. Otherwise he's still, entirely still, pressed against you.

“Harry. Please. If you don't want this...” His voice wavers, just a little. “We'll stop. But I don't... I don't think I can go on like this. I can't...”

You break.

You want him so bad, you want his hands on you, his gentle touches, you want his face backlit by the sun, you want him sipping squash at your kitchen table; you want him beating you at boardgames and talking about his stupid car, to have him trade jabs with you and work late nights; you want to fuck him and kiss him and have him show you what he likes, how he likes to be touched; you want him, you want him, you want him.

You turn around and grab him by the shoulders, dig your fingers in and pull him close, press your lips against his. The ruler clatters away across the floor, forgotten. He locks his fingers around your neck and holds you there, drinking in your breath, tasting you. He's not gentle. He can't be. He finally has your answer.

“The bed,” he pants.

You obey, like any time he asks you to do anything at all.

You could just as well have teleported again. There's no recollection of a transition. You're there, sprawling on it, ignoring the insistent ache in your ass as it thuds into the mattress.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Who the fuck cares! There's more important things going on, finally!

He presses you down on your back and climbs on top of you, pulling his glasses off and opening his shirt as he does. You stare up at him, fumble to open his belt, watch him as the throws his shirt away and pulls his tank top over his head. Your hands pull up his sides, like they had minds of their own, like they have mouths that want to taste him, want to take in the wiry muscles, the dusting of dark hair, the unexpected sight of the scars around his nipples. He sighs and rubs up against you. You slide your hands down again and open his trousers, pull them halfway down his hips. He gets off you and lets you pull them off completely.

You take him in, the whole of him, narrow hips and bony knees. He's coiled and tense, stomach a little soft with age; the hair between his legs curly and dark, framing his cock, short and red and just as unexpected as the scars. You look up at him. There's an unreadable expression on his face.

VOLITION – What kind of a man are you?

EMPATHY – A man who loves him.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – A man who knows a good fucking cock when he sees one.

You slide off the bed and take him by the thighs, pulling him towards you. He lets you, looking down at you as you position him just on the edge of the bed. His hand is on your cheek, carding through your sideburns. Still unreadable. You look up at him, at his face with its worry lines and weak chin, looking vulnerable without the familiar glasses.

“Harry... you don't-”

You never get to know what you don't. You bury your face between his legs and let your muscle memory take over.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – You haven't done this before, not exactly this, but something very similar. The taste and smell of him is familiar, musky, salty and acidic. Your tongue moulds perfectly to his cock, large enough that you can suck it, small enough that you can use your lips with precision. It's the most delicious thing you've ever tasted.

His legs clench across your back, pulling you in. His hands are in your hair, tugging at it, pulling you where he wants you to go. You're flooded with memories. Someone else's legs holding you, your tongue lapping at someone else's cock – another memory, another time, a clit, twitching in your mouth. Giving pleasure like this, hard wood against your knees, fingers gripping at a warm body, pulling it close.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – There were a lot of those times, Harry-boy. You put that tongue of yours to better use than to say stupid things. Or sometimes you said the stupid things and it got you this position. Fancy that, huh?

You pant and pull yourself back to here and now. He's moaning above you, pulling you down. You slide your tongue into him, tasting more of him, feeling him drip into your chops. He yanks at your hair, frustrated.

“Harry, fingers, please-”   

You pull up and lap at his cock again, sliding two thick fingers into him. Your own cock throbs as he clenches around you, pushing your face against him, fucking into your mouth. The tremors start in his hips, then into his crotch, and he thrusts erratically against you. You massage him through it, suck at him until he pulls you off, panting.

His legs shake. Your hands are on him in an instant, stroking him, soothing the tremors. He lets you paw at him as he sits breathing, looking down at you. You kiss his thighs. You want to live here, at his feet, looking up at him. It would be the best thing to ever happen to you, if he would let you. But he pulls you up. He always pulls you up, helps you from kneeling, helps you stand – he never asked you for anything else.

“Lay back.”

He climbs on top of you again. His hands take you in like yours did with him, trying to experience all of you. The first time he moved his hands over your body you cringed away from it. There's no need any more. There's no part of you he hasn't touched in some way. Your soft belly, your thinning hair and crooked jaw are just bits of a body he loves, and they're beautiful because of it. His fingers move across the places where he's hurt you: over the insides of your arms, over your tits, over your thighs. Each place they brush over is like pulling a nail across the taut sting of an instrument, a twanging resonance with the associated pain-memory.

PAIN THRESHOLD – Here, and here, and here – there aren't many places on you by now that he hasn't marked as his. Over the months, he's made you his own. Rewired you like the engine of a motor carriage. He pushes the levers and you rev your engine.

INTERFACING – Clever hands. Clever man.

He circles your nipples with is thumbs, pinching them lightly, mimicking the feel of the clothespins. Even this light of a touch goes right to your pleasure centre. You squirm underneath him, craving more. The connection is still there – will always be there, now. He's made sure of it.

“Kim, God, can you, please...?”

His open smile is radiant, joyful, hungry. “Gladly.”

He slaps you right across the tit. Hard. You let out a moan. Then he does it again, on the other side, the back again, back and forth, again and again until you whimper. It's much less than you know you can take, but tonight even the lightest touch is harrowing.

VOLITION – The wall, right in front of you. You know it.

“Stop!”

He stops immediately and strokes your cheek. “Good. You've learned it so well. I'm so proud of you.”

He leans down and kisses the reddened skin. All the times he's done this he's left it alone, let it dissipate and calm on its own or with the lotion. This time he licks across it, his spit and the salt on your skin aggravating the burn. He drags his tongue across the marks as you hiss and twitch.

Then he sucks a nipple into his mouth. It's sensitive already from him slapping you, and you groan – it's wet, warm, a constant pressure; sucking you in towards the roof of his mouth, shooting little stabs of pleasure through you. A light, hard nip. His teeth, testing the give of your hairy flesh. He settles down, chest against your belly so that he can enjoy you properly. You pull your hands through his hair and arch up against him.

“Fuck, Kim... you like that?”

He mumbles something, not breaking contact. His hands grip your ribcage, pull you up towards him eagerly. You wonder how long he's wanted to do this – was it every time he hit you, every time he put the clothespins on you? Every time he massaged you afterwards, pushing his fingers into the fat and muscle, soothing the bruises? Or earlier than that, the first time you undressed in front of him in Martinaise?

EMPATHY – However early it was, how often he's wanted it before, he's taking it all in now.

His eyes are closed, blissful, panting around your nipple. You feel his tongue swirl, then he swallows. The tugging, deep pressure translates into a slow heat in your groin. You grip his shoulders and push your hard cock against his stomach.

“God, fucking... sucking on me like I'm some kind of animal...”

He moans into your chest, bucking his hips against you. His fingers dig in, reminding you that you're his, the thing he's made. He swirls his tongue again, then comes of you with a little pop and sits up and wipes his lips, licks them like he's just eaten the best meal of his life. Your nipple is red and swollen. He blows on it with a little smirk. 

PAIN THRESHOLD – It's not... painful, per se. Just extremely intense.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – It's fucking cheeky is what it is.

He gives it a little lick. Then he goes for the other one.

You push your head back into the pillows and hold on to his shoulders, moaning. The way he's enjoying your body – a starving animal digging into a fresh carcass, hungry, limitless. The way his fingers explore you as he sucks, pushing deep, mapping out the contours of your torso and arms. The way his touch reaches deep into you and scratches the itch so thoroughly that it may never surface again.

He rubs up against you again, his cock against yours; then reaches down and slides you inside him.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Wet and warm and tight, and his lips still on your tit – you don't even need to move. He could just have you like this, you sheathed in him, sucking on you until you come.

“Kim,” you whimper. “Kim, fuck, you're gonna make me-”

He lets go with a grin and looks down at you, squirming. “I know. Why do you think I'm doing it? I know what it does to you. I know how sensitive you are. You come from just me hitting you here.”

He pinches your swollen nipples, rolls them between thumb and forefinger, pulls on them until you sob and buck up into him.

“Fuck!”

He leans down, hands still on you, torturing you. “I want you to come in me, Harry. I want you to fill me up.” He pulls again. “I want you to come from this. I want to see it.”

“Fuck, God- are you sure?”

He grabs your hands and puts your fingers on his lower stomach, tracing the little scars there. “I'm sure, Harry. Come in me.”

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – You wanted to know what he likes. You know some of it. He likes to hit you, to order you around. He likes sucking on your tits. And he likes to be filled up. And you want to give all of it to him, allow him everything just for the joy of his hands on you.

You groan and grip his hips tighter. He rocks against you, pushing his cock against the base of yours, chasing the friction. He leans down and drags his tongue over your tit, licking the hairs smooth. And then he sucks you in again.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – This is torture. Why did he ever bother to use his hands or anything else, when he could make you feel like this with just his mouth?

ENDURANCE – You won't last much longer. Come when you need to. He wants to feel it. He'll follow.

He clenches around you, feels you move inside him, staving it off, riding it out. You moan as he sits up again, twisting your nipples, pinching and tugging at them. The pain pushes you over the edge. You fuck up into him, whimpering, holding him against you as you finish.

He looks down at himself, at your cum dripping out of him. He groans and forces the last from you as he strokes himself to coming, slicking himself up, shuddering, clenching around your flagging cock. You stare up at him. He's backlit again, haloed by the lamp on the ceiling and the light from the window, and if you died now there would be nowhere you could go that would be better than this.

Slowly, he slides off you and stretches out beside you. As the clouds clear, your body comes back to you. Painfully so. Your abused ass is making itself known again. The way he hit you this time, hurried, a bit sloppy – too many hits in the same place, too hard.

PAIN THRESHOLD – You won't be sitting down for a few days. You'll be stiff. There'll be bruises. Not to mention your balls.

You groan a bit and turn over, shifting uncomfortably. He reaches around and strokes your thighs, then cups your ass, brushing over the painful stripes. You choke back a pitiful whine at the burning sensation.

“Damn it. I'm sorry, Harry.” He frowns and puts his hand in the small of your back instead, pulling you close. “I got carried away.”

You snuggle into his arms. “It's okay,” you try. “It's not like I haven't had worse.”

“Still.” His body is stiff against yours, regret in every line. “The point was for you not to get harmed any more. If I can't compose myself...”

“Kim. It's just bruises. You made a mistake. It's okay for you to be human, you know.”

He relaxes a little at that, enough for you to realise how tightly wound he's been for months – not only here, but in every part of your relationship, the professional as well. Your hand comes up and feels the back of his neck. His muscles are hard as stone.

EMPATHY – You gave in. He hasn't, yet. Not fully.

You sit up and gently press him down, turning him on his stomach. He doesn't protest, but looks at you oddly as you sit down across his back. You ignore the way his hips press on your too-sore backside, and press the heels of your hands into his neck muscles.

The sound he makes is nothing you've heard from him before, not even just now, when you should have heard every sound of pleasure possible. This is a sobbing sigh, a sound of pained release. You try to replicate the motions he made in the beginning, when he examined you – sliding your thumbs along the neck, milking the tension from it. Your fingers catch on the little hairs, tugging.

“Harry, ah, stop.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Just- in the drawer. There's massage oil.”

To be able to rummage around in his private drawers is stupidly satisfying. You find the bottle of massage oil, along with one of lube, some expired condoms, a half-empty pack of tissues and a bookmark from a local bookstore, one that specialises in sci-fi and fantastique. It has a little tassel on it that looks like a lion's tail.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Think about all the nice things you can do with a light touch, too. To pull that tassel over his skin. Make him writhe...

EMPATHY – Something to think about, for another time. But the notion is useful for right now, too.

You warm the oil in your palms before you spread it on his neck and shoulders. He sighs and buries his face in his arms, waiting for you to continue. You take it slow, move your fingertips over him, barley touching - just waking his body to being handled like this.

HAND/EYE COORDINATION – That's right. That's the way. Start slowly to get the blood flowing, then go deeper, little by little.

VOLITION – Strange how that comes back again and again, isn't it?

He sighs again, deeper, and you press in, mimicking his movements until he makes that sound again, and you know you've hit the right spot. Little by little, you unwind him. Your big hands caress him, using a lifetime of disparate experiences and knowledge to find where the tension lies, to navigate the map of his body.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – You know how the muscles lie under the skin. The trapezius connects here, and all the way up into his neck – yes. His lats and delts are tight, too.

The memory comes to you slowly, brought to life by your palms against his ribcage, pressing out the knots.

She sat above you like you're sitting above Kim now, in a room full of people, paired up. She wasn't massaging you. She had her arm across your neck, your arm in a tight grip. There were a few people clustered around you. Watching her instruction, taking note of her technique. She gripped you and pulled, and you had to roll with it so that your arm wouldn't get wrenched out of its socket. Afterwards, she helped you up – not pulling you up, she was far too small and slight for that, but steadying you as you leapt to your feet. Your body didn't ache as much, then. The jaw did – it always did – and your hips, a little. She gave you a slap on the arm, thanked you for being a good sport and acting as a training dummy. Tanja. She'd forgotten more about unarmed combat than you ever learned in your twenty years on the force. The last time you saw her was at her retirement party. She walked with a cane. You got too drunk, but managed not to do something stupid. The last thing you remember is her slapping your arm again, a look of sorrow in her eyes.

You wipe the moisture from your eyes and try to concentrate on the living, breathing human beneath you and not the ghosts in your mind. You continue until you feel him loosen up and sink into the mattress underneath you, and your hips can't take any more. He barely moves as you climb off him stiffly and lie down beside him with a sigh of relief.

“Hey. Kim. You awake?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles. 

“I want to do this more. The other things too. But this...”

You stroke his upper back slowly. Doing it satiates the itch in a way the fighting never really did, that the pain helped with but never got to the root of. Your hands have mouths and they're drinking him in, devouring him without him being consumed. He smiles sleepily and reach out to stroke your hair. He's devouring you in turn, with his eyes, with his hands.

VOLITION – It'll come back. But now you know what it is. Where it comes from. How to sate it.

“Yes. I want that, Harry.”

You pull him in to rest against you, his slack, relaxed body cradled in your arms, and tug the covers up to cover you both. Skin against skin. Good and right.