The Obligatory Spiel: All characters, names, places, plots, and many of the lines herein belong to their respective creators and actors. I am merely playing in their fictional world. All credit for creation especially goes to Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuck. Thanks for reading, responses are always appreciated.

Touching Evil

I: Christmas 1964

"Sister Mary Eunice is quite a treasure," he'd said. And she was. It was nothing he could put his finger on (though he'd like to), but she'd broken his skin. The skin that was supposed to be righteous, piteous, holy. The eyes that were for God were now for her, and she was everywhere. How had he gone these past years hardly noticing her? But she hadn't always been the lascivious, commanding, and tantalizingly frightening figure she was now. He remembered the young, quiet girl with sunshine bangs hiding behind Sister Jude; she only spoke up when asked questions, and he'd overlooked her entirely.

Lately, he couldn't look enough, had even woken up in a drenched sweat, hard and hot, her smell still somehow in his nostrils; he'd seen her so clearly in his dream. He'd felt her as if she really were on top of him, sliding her body along his seductively, forcefully. He could see it, the slender body underneath the wretched black habit that no one had ever seen. In his dream, she'd been wearing a red slip.

…

He shut his eyes for a moment, willing the image to go away and his robes to cover the growing hints of his excitement. Here he was, addressing her personally for what felt like the first time, and all he could do was compliment her morbid excuse for a Christmas tree. She wasn't just making do, she was enjoying the pure perversion of it: her eyes glowed as they swept the toilet-paper strewn branches, pausing now and then proudly on a lock of hair, the hanging 'd called it a 'triumph.' The things she could make these people do…

"It reminds me of Marcel Duchamp, and the School of Found Object Art," he blathered, wondering where his train of thought was hurtling, detesting his own voice in her presence. "So clever and forward-thinking… just what's been missing."

"Thank you monsignor," her eyes were darker than he remembered. "I've had these ideas for a while."

Those eyes flickered down his chest, then back up. Had she seen his bulge? He felt suddenly mortified, fought to change the subject. The serial killer. He'd segued into the serial killer. But her eyes didn't dim. In fact, they flickered brighter. He excused himself to Dr. Arden, a sure-cure for his present ailment. But his eyes kept wandering back to her; and she was addressing him.

"I wanna hang the star," she was moving towards him; excited, childish, unpredictable. "Before the entertainment portion of our party! We are watching Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer!"

She leaned into him slightly, patting his chest, and he sputtered out a response he heard through a fog. The rest of the encounter became a fog, until all he knew was his hands wrapping around hers, and the smell of her hair so close to him. It was the same smell, but how could he have known it? His duties pressed against his conscious, while his desire pressed against his pants.

"I have to go now, Sister," he was whispering, as if saying it silently would erase his obligations.

"Can't you just stay for the beginning of the film? It's one of my favourites," she said, clutching his hand tighter, that childishness in her features again.

He could care less about Rudolph. The only nose he was thinking about was hers, rosy and cute, pointing towards his feet as she bowed her head. At first, he thought she was intimidated by him, ashamed of asking him to forsake his clerical duties to watch cartoons with her. But her spare hand was sliding down his robes, and suddenly clutched the most tender area in a grasp that was at once stimulating, painful, invasive and liberating. He clenched her hand tighter and she raised her head.

"I suppose I can't be selfish on Christmas, can I monsignor?"