Aus Liebe und Angst

by the.eye.does.not.SEE

He was all she had left. [Joe/Claire, season 1]

Title: Aus Liebe und Angst (Out of Love and Fear)

Universe: The Following present, season 1

Rating: R/NC-17

Pairing: Joe Carroll/Claire Matthews

Summary: He was all she had left.

Author's Note: This was quite an experiment, and I'm honestly kind of terrified as to how it will come across to readers, which is why I've been sitting on it for so many, many months (almost half a year). If you have a few minutes to read, I would really, really appreciate hearing your thoughts on the story.

The title comes from Erna Petri's defense.

Soundtrack: "Heavy In Your Arms" by Florence + the Machine.

. . .

. . .

She would have liked to have been able to say, looking back, that she didn't know how it had happened between them. She would have liked to have been able to say it had been all him—that she had had no choice, no say, and that he had silenced all her protests and taken what he'd believed to be his without thought or care for her own wants.

But none of that would be true, of course.

Because he hadn't ignored what few protests she'd had. He hadn't done anything she hadn't wanted or explicitly invited. And he hadn't taken anything that had not already been his.

They would call her insane, she knew, once this was all over and everything came to light. Brainwashed and seduced and duped and crazy would be their accusations of choice. And maybe they would be right; maybe she was some of those things. Maybe she was even all of them.

But it did not matter to her anymore.

Ever since this nightmare circus had started up again all those months ago, when Joe had first escaped, other people's opinions had stopped mattering to her as much as they once did. She had spent too many sleepless nights these past ten years suffering beneath others' condemnations, and too few days living her own life because of them. But things had changed now. She no longer had the luxury of being able to spend her time worrying about others' impressions of her; her own concerns were too present, too pressing. What mattered most to her now was no longer how others viewed her, but how she viewed herself. Life was fleeting; hers especially, she knew. Why not lead a life you enjoyed, no matter how wrong it might be, no matter how much others disparaged you for it?

They would call her insane, she knew. But she also knew that there were worse things to be.

. . .

. . .

Joe had been in some sort of meeting when she'd burst into his office, screaming and crying at the same time, her arms and hair flying as if swept up in a hurricane. The explanations tumbled out of her in a hysterical waterfall of unintelligible sobs and broken sentences, in a language it appeared only she could properly understand.

The handful of men surrounding Joe's desk stopped what they were talking about and stared when she came in. They looked at her as if she were mad, and—this would have been funny, if she hadn't been so terrified—as if she were dangerous. One of them even inched away from her, like her particular brand of crazy was contagious, and markedly worse than his. Joe was the only one to approach her, the only one to move nearer to the raving beast. He was before her in a few quick strides, but even that felt too long. Too much time was being wasted here. Too much time had already passed. Oh, God.

"Tell me what's wrong," he instructed, and his voice was so calm when he spoke, so in contrast to hers, that it cut right through her hysterics, bringing them both straight to the core of it all.

And just as suddenly, she didn't want to say it any more, she didn't want to tell him, because that would make it real. She just wanted to scream and cry and she wanted to keep running after that car that had just sped away with her son locked in the backseat and she didn't want to involve Joe. She didn't want to be blamed, again, for not keeping her own child safe.

"He took Joey." No matter how she wanted to keep them in, the words ended up ripping their way out of her throat nonetheless, scraping at her heart and stomach as they did so. Hands shaking, she added, choking on the words, "He—He took Joey in his car and he drove away and I tried to run after him but—" She screwed up her eyes, but that didn't keep the tears in. It didn't shift the blame, either. "But I couldn't reach him," she finished in a whisper.

When she did finally forced her eyes open, Joe was staring silently at her. He blinked a few times, but even through her blurry vision she could tell that it wasn't out of shock. He looked angry, yes. Fearful, yes. But not surprised at this turn of events.

Looking at him, Claire found herself wondering if he'd spent the last ten years of his life expecting the worst at every turn, too. She wondered if he ever let himself hope for anything.

"Who took him?" Joe asked, breaking the silence, though she knew now that he didn't need to be told. But there was an audience waiting, so she answered.

"The sheriff. Roderick."

Shock finally came then, but not from Joe. The men clustered around the desk all started, and looked at her dumbfounded; no doubt none of them had ever expected to hear word of their second-in-command committing mutiny on such a grand scale.

One of the men still congregated around the desk made a strangled noise of surprise, and another, breaking an unspoken rule by addressing her directly, caught Claire's eye and asked breathlessly, "Are you sure? You're sure it was him?"

Before Claire could even think to reply, a redheaded man stepped forward at once, breaking away from the pack and offering himself to his leader with a practiced bit of abrupt footwork that reminded Claire of a seasoned soldier. "I'll go, sir," he said, directing his words and all his attention to Joe. His head was held high as he spoke and Claire hardly had to strain to imagine him snapping a salute to go along with his life.

Joe deliberated for no more than half a second. "Take Tyler and Brady with you," he replied. "Oliver, too. And make sure everyone comes back alive," he added sternly. The redheaded man nodded curtly, and then immediately dashed out of the room, in search of his colleagues-in-arms.

The other men crowded closer then, eager for their own instructions. Joe doled them out, quickly and succinctly, and each ran off, one after the other, like competitors is a staggered race. Claire wondered what the finish line was. Already, she could not picture any one of those men returning with her child alive.

A tiny voice in her head implored her to stop thinking like that, to try to stay positive, but she'd spent months, years of her life, even, trying to stay positive. It was exhausting. And, in her experience, it was useless.

Lost in her tumble towards what she hoped was emotional and physical numbness, Claire jumped when she felt a light touch on the middle of her back. Joe, still at her side, apologized at once, and removed his hand. He gestured in the air then, instead, for her to sit down at one of the armchairs in front of his desk. She sank into its cushioned depths gratefully, thinking she could easily float away in such a setting. Numbness, indeed.

But then the sound of revving engines and spraying gravel cut through the thin panes of glass behind his desk, and suddenly she was energized. Suddenly, she wanted to do nothing else but get up and run after that redheaded private and the other burly men piled into that car with him. She wanted to go out and hunt down the man that had kidnapped her son and she wanted to kill him with her bare hands so she could watch the life leave his eyes.

But she knew Joe would never allow her do that. After five long months here at the mansion he'd christened as both his headquarters and their home, she did had certain freedoms, certain rights. But leaving its grounds was not one of them. For the merest fraction of a second, she envied her son, who was at least getting to see the outside world, for the first time in nearly half a year. And then she remembered the reason he was getting that privilege, and she wondered why the Virginia courts had ever deemed her a fit mother.

He might not even be seeing anything, she found herself thinking as she spiraled. He might be unconscious. He might already be dead.

She didn't realize her hands were shaking uncontrollably until Joe reached out to still them. He'd taken to occupying the chair next to hers, and he'd canted it at an angle so that they were nearly face-to-face. He held her fingers lightly between his for a couple minutes in silence before she managed to settle them of her own accord. Then he let go.

She stared at her hands for some time afterward; she could feel his eyes on hers, but she did not want to look up to meet his. She knew what would be in his gaze. She already knew how she'd failed; she didn't need to hear it from him.

But when he finally spoke, it was not with anger or condemnation. She could almost feel the concern that emanated from his lips; it was nearly like a kiss—a first kiss: soft and gentle and unsure. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she bit out shortly, not wanting to elaborate. In truth, her knees stung from when the sheriff had pushed her to the ground, just before taking Joey. Her arms hurt, too, from trying and failing to break her fall. And her chest and throat ached from crying and screaming so much. But she knew those pains were nothing in comparison to what the sheriff could have done to her. To what people like him, like Joe, were capable of.

"Will you please tell me what happened?"

There was that concern again, consuming his voice, overtaking his features. She looked up at him and she wondered why he wasn't angry with her yet. Was he just biding his time? Lulling her into a false sense of security before delivering his damning judgment?

"Claire, I just want to know what happened," he pressed, as if he could sense her thoughts.

She was reminded, as he spoke, of the way the FBI agents had questioned her all those years ago, just after his first arrest. If you could please tell us what you were doing earlier this evening, Ms. Matthews… If you would be able to tell us anything about your husband's recent habits, it would be extremely helpful… Did you speak with him before he left the house tonight? Did he seem agitated for any reason? …We're just curious; perhaps you can you tell us if you were aware of…

She wanted to scream now as she had then. All of this seemed like nothing short of a twisted, horrible nightmare. One impossibility thrown upon another impossibility. Her son was already being kidnapped at this place—how could he have been stolen from her again? And why, for Christ's sake?

Rage at the unfairness of it all flashed in her again, and with it, her mouth opened and the whole story came pouring out: how Joey had been snatched, literally from her arms, without any explanation; how Roderick hadn't said a single word before or after he pushed her to the ground and hauled her child away; how she had tried to run after his car but had fallen behind, had failed, and had let her child be taken from her. Again.

"I just don't get it," she kept saying, wiping at the corners of her eyes obsessively, as the tears refused to stop falling despite her better efforts to keep them in. "Why'd he take Joey? What did Joey do to him, or—" the thought suddenly occurred to her "—or what did I do? Was it about me?" Her voice rose as she considered the possibility that, once more, her kind, innocent child would suffer for his mother's sins. "Oh, God, why didn't he just take me?" She could hear herself wailing, but she could not quiet herself. "Why did he leave me behind when I was right there—" She broke off with a strangled cry, realizing the logic that must've been behind the attack. Realizing how much easier it would be for a grown man to control a small child rather than another adult. Realizing how easy a body of that size would be to dispose of. "If he's going to hurt Joey—"

Joe quieted her with a shake of his head before she'd even gotten the words out. "He isn't going to be hurt," he declared solemnly.

For a second, Claire was thrown off by his certainty. But only for a second. "How do you know that?" she demanded a moment later, her eyes boring into his, searching for the truth. "How could you possibly know—"

"I just do."

His tone left no room for argument, and, for once, she didn't fight him. She could feel the shock and fear passing now, the adrenaline lessening. The exhaustion was setting in in earnest now, and she no longer had the strength to fight. If he was certain Joey wasn't going to be harmed, then so be it. Obviously, she was not capable of protecting him even if he was going to be harmed; what could she hope to do otherwise?

Taking advantage of her momentary silence, Joe rose to his feet. "I'm going to go check in with the boys," he informed her softly, and she nodded numbly. She couldn't help but think that boys was the last word she'd ever use to describe the redheaded soldier and the three other muscled men she'd seen running out to that van and peeling away down the gravel driveway. She found herself wondering what Joe's definition of a real man was, and if Joey would ever attain such a status in his father's eyes.

If he lives that long, her cruel inner voice reminded her, and she wrapped her arms around herself as if to keep it out, drawing her knees to her chest.

"I'll be back," Joe added at her silence, his voice inflected with something she couldn't quite place. Was that a warning he was trying to give her? Or… a comfort?

She stared at her dirty and cut-up knees, not wanting to puzzle it out. Her head hurt too much to think about such unanswerable questions right now; it hurt too much to think about much of anything, in fact. Focusing instead on the muted world around her, Claire listened intently as Joe walked away and then closed the door softly behind him as he left. She waited for the accompanying click of the lock that would keep her caged, but it never came.

. . .

Though Joe must have been gone for over an hour, Claire never left the room in his absence. His office was the one place where she knew she would be assured privacy to grieve, and she would not give up that privilege for anything. Here, in this room, no one would speak to her, no one would look at her, no one would come in—not without Joe's express permission, at least. And she knew that he would not allow anyone to intrude on her, not tonight. So she entombed herself in her temporary sanctuary and waited, waited, waited.

It was not an ideal place to wait for someone's return. The room itself was silent without any other occupants, but, like many rooms in this enormous, old mansion, the wooden floorboards that stretched across the building's expanse seemed to creak of their own accord every few minutes. She was continually being taunted by the sounds of others moving about upstairs and outside the door—walking, running, simply breathing—and each time she heard them, her heart leapt, thinking Joey was back.

Or thinking he was dead.

She sat alone in that room for so long that she eventually had to cover her ears to block out the sounds, to ease her overactive mind, and to try to train herself to calm down. Her old therapist had taught her how to use meditation as a way to calm her mind, in order to find some sort of peace in her life, if only for a few minutes. She tried the steps—tried to slow her breathing, tried to empty her mind, tried to simply just exist instead of live—but it was impossible to complete the routine. It was impossible to keep her mind clear, not when it was so full of Joey and where he might be and whether or not he was hurt. If he was crying. If he was screaming for her.

Or if he had already been silenced.

She spent what must have been nearly an hour in that position, curled in on herself, eyes shut against the world, ears covered, until finally—she let go. She cried for what seemed like days, letting the sobs tear through her until she felt like she'd been torn apart from the inside out. Her stomach hurt so bad from the wracking convulsions that she was worried she might throw up. She opened her eyes to steady herself, seeking a solid point to focus on as she cleared her eyes.

Almost immediately, she noticed a figure at the far end of the room. She wiped her eyes once more, and there—Joe was standing just inside the door, his hand resting on the knob as if he needed something with which to steady himself, too. Claire stared at him blankly, wondering how long he'd been there, how much he'd seen.

It must have been a long time, she realized as she looked him over, for he wasn't just holding onto that doorknob, he was white-knuckling it. She could tell even from this distance. And she had no idea why. Why would he keep himself away like that, why force himself to watch from the sidelines? He always liked being in the middle of the action.

It was then that she remembered what she'd told him the moment she'd arrived here all those months ago. He'd stepped forward eagerly to greet her that night, but before he could even get a word out, she'd said all that would be said that night: Do not touch me. He'd taken an immediate step back then at her vicious words, and said hello quietly, instead, before departing. Claire almost laughed, now, as she watched him exercise such discipline on her account. She hadn't realized—had never even dreamed—that her words were capable of having such an effect on him.

Wiping her face one last time, she let her feet fall back to the floor as she turned her head to address him. "If you're going to stay and watch," she called out dispassionately, "you might as well sit and get comfortable."

She knew she had no real right to tell him to leave—especially not here, in his personal domain—but inviting him to stay gave her some small bit of control and satisfaction. No matter how illusory it was.

Facing towards the windows again, she could only listen to the sound of his approaching footsteps. As he neared her, he surprised her by settling into the identical armchair at her side, and not his lavish leatherbound one behind the desk.

For a couple minutes, they sat in a strained, uncomfortable silence. Claire could feel his eyes on her the entire time, but she refused to look at him. She knew eye contact would be his excuse for starting a conversation, and there was nothing she wanted to talk about. All she wanted was news of Joey, but if he'd had it when he'd walked in, he would have told her; she knew that. She began counting the loose threads in her dress for a distraction. It was new—Joe had bought it for her the week before last—but after her fall earlier, it was no longer pristine as it had been. She tried to smooth it out over her thighs to hide some of the damage, but it was no use. You could tell by looking at it that it was ruined beyond repair. And you could do the same with me, she thought uncharitably. Before she could stop herself, she glanced up, wondering if that's what Joe saw when he looked at her. Surely he didn't want to look so intently at something so torn apart?

Too late, she remembered herself, and by then, Joe was already speaking, leaning forward to address her.

"Claire, I know you're—" he began.

"What?" she cut in sharply, drawing herself back instinctually, and lifting her chin as if it were a shield. "You know I'm what? How can you possibly claim know or understand what I'm feeling, when you have no idea what it's like to have your child ripped out of your own arms and stolen from you?"

Her outburst was greeted with silence—stunned silence on his part, she liked to think—and for a couple seconds, neither of them said anything. Behind her mask of seething outrage, she was grinning inside. It felt so goddamn good to put him in his place.

And then—

"I have had my child stolen from me," Joe pointed out quietly.

"That was your own fault," she spat at once, fury flaring inside her immediately, as hot and as wild as an uncontrolled flame. "You brought that on yourself; you know that. That was you."

Joe said nothing to that, but Claire couldn't keep herself silent.

"You don't even know him," she spat out, rage boiling through her, venom piercing her words. She wanted to pick a fight, and dear God, he was such an easy target. Such a deserving target. "You've barely met that boy you try to call your son. So don't you talk to me like your loss of him somehow equals mine. Don't talk to me like you're capable of understanding what it feels like."

She expected to hear him fight back, to argue, to make clear once again that Joey was not just her child.

But he was quiet instead.

"You're right," he admitted finally, sighing heavily. "I don't know him. I… I'm still a stranger to him. Even after all this time."

She didn't want them to, but his words sunk into her, clawing at her heart and pricking her with guilt. She could see, even while he avoided her gaze, how saying those words aloud to her pained him. How recognizing the truth tore at some long-dead, still-human part of him.

It was his fault he didn't know his own son, yes, but it was also her fault. He was the one that got himself put in prison for the rest of his life, but she could've visited, she could've brought Joey. She could've at least allowed her boy to have some semblance of a relationship with his own father.

But she'd refused to. She'd been scared and angry and—yes—petty and vengeful. He had sent her letters every week asking to see her, to see Joey, to explain everything that had happened, but she had refused each and every one of them. She had hung up on the phone calls and she had changed all her numbers. She had moved across the state. She had cut them off from each other as completely as possible, and now here she was, separated—possibly forever—from her only son.

She recognized, not for the first time, that karma was a cruel and self-righteous bitch.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him struggling. The words she knew she should say to him were on the tip of her tongue—I'm sorry—but years of fury and sorrow and an unquenchable need for vengeance kept her mouth closed. She turned her head away from him, not wanting to have to look at him or talk to him any more, and for a long while, they sat in silence, their minds flooded with the sounds of quiet footsteps upstairs while their ears strained in vain to hear a car approaching.

Lost in worry and endless nightmarish daydreams, Claire hardly noticed the time passing. It could've been minutes, or days; she was not aware that time had moved at all until he called attention to the darkness outside.

"You should try to get some sleep," he said finally, rising to his feet and gesturing for her to do the same.

Claire rebelled at once, shaking her head and latching onto the armrests as if he were threatening to physically pull her from the chair. "No. I'm not going back to that room until Joey's there with me."

"You can sleep somewhere else," Joe suggested, stepping towards her to lead her to the door. "You don't have to go back to that room. You can—" He broke off when he saw the disgusted glare his ex-wife shot him, and then he sighed wearily, backing away with his hands held up in surrender. "I did not mean to imply that you should sleep with me, Claire."

"Yeah, sure you didn't," she muttered, half under her breath, but still loud enough for him to hear. She could see a twitch of what she knew must be anger at the corner of his mouth, but she was past caring if he was angry. He was angry all the time, it seemed; how much angrier could he get? And the little drop of vindication she got out of insulting him was sadly so very worth it. The things she lived for these days, good God…

"I just want you to rest," he told her earnestly, his dark eyes flickering across her face as he attempted to entreat her. "You've been awake for far too long, and the stress of Joey being gone isn't helping anything—"

"If you don't want to put up with me anymore, you can leave, Joe." Claire folded her arms, as if to make herself as immovable as a marble statue. "But I'm staying here until my son arrives."

With a heavy sigh—one that Claire took, with some satisfaction, to be one of defeat—Joe rose to stand. He hesitated for a moment, waiting for her to look at him, but she refused. She stared straight to her left, across his desk, through the large latticed windows behind it, and out into the blind darkness of the night. She kept her eyes trained on the view as if by simply looking hard enough, she could will her son to appear in the middle of it.

"I know you're worried and I know you're angry," Joe began quietly, "but I promise you that I will bring him home, Claire, all right? I told you already and you saw—I've sent men out searching. They've been in contact with the sheriff's station to track the cruiser. It won't take them much longer now. Besides, Roderick can't get far, not with Joey screaming in the back of the car."

"You don't know if he's screaming or not," Claire snapped, angry enough to tear her eyes away from the dark landscape to glare at him. "You don't know what that—that psycho has done to him. He's probably hurt him by now, or—or k-killed him—"

"No, he has not." Joe's voice was unshakably firm, and she turned towards the sound of it, simultaneously awed and disgusted at his level of confidence in this matter.

"How…" Her voice faltered as a lone hope began rising from the depths of her mind. Could he be right? Would the sheriff keep Joey alive? "How do you know that?" she demanded, breathless.

"Well, I know Roderick," Joe answered patiently. "I've known him for years; we're—we were—very close." He paused for a moment and looked down, as if in mourning. Claire wanted to slap him in the face. "We're rather alike in some ways, he and I. One of those ways is being able to quickly realize the inherent value of a person. After everything that's happened, Roderick's knows very well by this point that Joey will be much more valuable to him as a live hostage, rather than a dead body. He'll keep him alive until he gets what he wants."

"Which is?"

Joe shrugged, putting his hands in his pockets. "I don't know," he answered, knocking her off-guard for a moment with his forthright honesty. "I thought by now he'd call me with demands, but…" He frowned. "We had a bit of a disagreement earlier, just before he ran off, but I… I figured he'd cool down and come back into the fold…"

Claire's heart lurched, her stomach dropping at the realization. "He's angry with you? Roderick is angry with you, that's why he stormed out and took Joey the way he did? Jesus, Joe, why didn't you say—"

"He isn't usually this impulsive," Joe reasoned aloud, continuing his train of thought as if she hadn't spoken. "He's very intelligent and he understands very well the benefits of long-term planning and long-term rewards. He should have recognized that there would be no benefit from doing what he did; he should have known to run off his steam by himself, not involve others." Joe shook his head. "He hasn't acted like this in years, not since he leveled out."

"Leveled… out?" Claire repeated hollowly, not liking the sound of the term.

Joe nodded, finally seeming to hear her. He eyed her only briefly. "When I… met him," he began reluctantly, "Roderick was a rather reckless character. He had… urges and he acted on them without discerning whether or not it was appropriate or safe to do so at the time. It got him into a fair bit of trouble; he was under investigation from Internal Affairs, and they nearly let him go from the police force in Richmond. He was barely even a pencil-pusher when I met him."

Claire shut her eyes, willing his words away. She began to shake as the truth of them settled into her. "S-So you are saying that the man who kidnapped my child—a child whose father he hates and whose mother he doesn't even deem to be a person—that man is not only a murderer, but he is mentally unstable and incapable of controlling himself when he gets angry? That man has my baby?"

"Claire, that's not—"

"Is Joey or is he not in danger?" Claire screeched, suddenly hitting her breaking point, her fingers balled up into fists at her sides as she jumped to her feet. She was a second away from hitting Joe if he downplayed one more thing, regardless of what he would do to her afterwards. Connecting her fist with his flesh would be more than enough of a reward to balance out whatever the consequences might be.

"I… would like to tell you something that won't upset you further," Joe began slowly, "but I know you won't abide by that," he added quickly, catching her eye. "So I'll be honest with you, Claire: yes, he is in danger. Yes, there is a chance Roderick could hurt him. It's possible that—"

"He could die out there," Claire whispered, her voice cracking, as she sank, boneless, back into her chair. All thoughts of her committing violence herself were gone; all she could picture was her baby being beaten, murdered, his little body tossed by the side of the road. "He could die out there, alone and scared and—and—without me." Her chin began to tremble, and then her hands, and then her whole body was shaking uncontrollably as she forced out the worst thought, the one that was eating away at her brain and heart: "He could already be dead and I—I might never know."

"I will not allow that to happen," Joe countered firmly.

Claire shook her head, turning away from him. His words meant nothing now. She could feel herself breaking, feel herself spinning into the depths, and she did not want to look at him while she did it. She did not want to be in his presence, either, but who was she to order him away? This was his space. This was his world, now. She wrapped her arms around herself to quell the convulsions, but they only intensified. Visions of her child, bruised and beaten and dead, burst in her mind like bombs, shaking her to her core, and tearing her apart.

"Claire." Joe's voice was quiet, and seemed to come to her from miles away. She turned further away from it, not wanting to hear him or have him see her like this. But he persisted. "Claire. Claire, look at me. Listen to me. Please—"

He reached out to touch her, but she threw him off violently, retreating further to the corner of the room, her body hunching in on itself as it tried to stop the convulsions that wracked her. Joe trailed behind her, anxious and desperate; wanting to reach out to her but also fearing she might lash out if he did so.

"Claire, come on, believe me, please. Just this once. He'll be fine. Roderick won't be kind to him, but he won't hurt him, either, not if he's stopped to think just once since he's left. He knows what's waiting for him if he harms our child." His voice lowered menacingly, as if Roderick were in the room to hear him. "He knows exactly what will happen to him if I get word that Joey's been hurt in any way."

The thought calmed her convulsions. "What…" She cleared her constricted throat so she could speak plainly. She remembered Joe's orders to the men before: Make sure everyone comes back alive. It hadn't just been about Joey. And it hadn't just been about his warmongering neophytes, either. "What will you do to him, once you have him back? Roderick?"

Joe stared silently into her eyes for a long time, and for once, it was not a struggle for her to keep eye contact. She was genuinely curious. She was desperately curious.

Finally, after too many silent seconds of deliberation, he spoke. "I don't really think it's something you need to hear, Claire. Suffice to say that… he will suffer greatly."

"Do not be vague with me about this, Joe."

He turned towards her, surprised at the tenacity in her voice, at the cool fire in her eyes. At her use of his name. He had assumed this would not be a subject she'd want to linger on in detail. He stared at her, taking in her solid, firm stance, as she rose to her full height and planted her feet in the space between the armchair she'd been cowering in and his desk. He wondered if it was strictly wrong of him, to think predominantly of her beauty at this moment.

"If he kills our baby, I want to know that the punishment that's waiting for him is worse than death. I don't just want to know that he will suffer, Joe, I want to know how."

Joe nodded slowly, digesting this as he took his seat once more. She did the same, though he noticed that she sat on the edge of hers. He supposed it was an acceptable, natural desire to know such a thing. He just had not expected it to come from her. He closed his eyes for a moment, clearing his mind.

"I've…been thinking about it," he murmured, quickly growing pensive. "Trying to find something that will fit him, that will last…" He broke off, and then abruptly started anew. "You know, he's stood by me for a long time. You can't imagine…" Joe shook his head. "The things he's done for me over the years…"

"You mean the people he's killed for you."

Joe did not shy away from the accusation, but nodded calmly. He had come into his true skin here, in his own little kingdom, Claire noticed, and he no longer attempted to pretend he was someone he was not. There was an odd relief in that, for Claire. "Yes, he killed people for me," Joe agreed. "Roderick did a lot of work for me while I was locked up."

Claire bristled at the implication of his quiet words. "You want to let him off easy," she snarled, disgusted. "You think he deserves something for—for his service."

"No and yes," Joe answered measuredly, turning to meet her furious eyes with his calm ones. "You're right, I do think he deserves some reward for all he's done for me. I would not be here if it weren't for him, and his unwavering loyalty to me." Joe paused, and eyed Claire very carefully for a moment before continuing. "But I also want the punishment to fit the crime. He kidnapped my child and he terrified my wife; he deserves to pay for that."

She let the possessiveness of his words blanket her without protest. They almost felt like a comfort, if she didn't think too much about where they came from. "How will you make him pay?" she asked.

Joe stared at her for some time before speaking. Claire knew he was sizing her up, trying to judge what she could and couldn't hear without cringing. She sat tall and straight and met his eyes without blinking. She could take it, whatever it was. She could be as strong as him when it came to protecting her child.

"He's very fond of his looks," Joe began. "They've gotten him many places, earned him many admirers… He's charming in his speech, as well, but it's that smile, that look in his eyes that wins people over to his side without them even realizing what's happened or what they're really in for…" Joe trailed off for a moment, lost in memories, and Claire had to bite her tongue so she wouldn't hurry him. She tapped her fingers together in a nervous beat, waiting, waiting, waiting—

"So I've been thinking I'll flay him alive."

Claire blinked at the declaration, momentarily stupefied by the idea. It sounded so medieval, so barbaric, so… cruel, that it almost didn't even seem real. But the calmly resolute look on Joe's face told her that modern men were more than capable of such savage practices. It just took determination, and he had plenty of that. She swallowed, and forced herself to speak. "H-How long will it take, for him to die from… from that?" She found she had a hard time saying the word flay aloud. She wasn't even sure she was picturing it right in her head. She wasn't sure if she wanted to.

"It will take however long I want it to take."

Joe had been looking down at his hands, folded loosely between his knees, but now he lifted his head to meet her eyes. His gaze lingered on her for a silent moment before he spoke. "That's why I like this option," he explained quietly. "I can keep him as close to death or as far from death as I want, for however long I want. I can always make him suffer. And I can always make him heal, so he can suffer again. I can keep him on the knife's edge, so to speak, between life and death, for however long I want."

Claire knew his words were meant to soothe her, to show her how very fitting this type of death would be for such a criminal, but all she could think was that the longer he was alive, the more chances he would have of talking his way out of his punishment. The thought made her heart drum fearfully in her chest. If he got away again…

"Will you silence him first?" she blurted out, unable to quell the fear.

Joe stared at her, his face blank and open with confusion. "Silence him?" he repeated.

Claire nodded, straightening up and fixing her eyes on him resolutely. "I think you should," she said. "I think it would be a good precaution. I—" I've been thinking I'll flay him alive. The words ran through her mind again, and now they gave her her own barbarous idea: "I think you should cut out his tongue first."

Joe blinked at her, visibly taken aback by her words, though Claire did not know if he was astounded by the cruelty of the act (she doubted that) or the fact that the suggestion of it was coming from his wife.

"That…" Joe drew in a breath. "Now that's an idea, Claire."

She watched him carefully, wondering if she'd imagined the appreciative, pleasurable lift to his voice. But no, there was that greedy look in his eyes, that miniscule upturn of the corners of his lips…

Why did she feel a rush of satisfaction at his approval? Why did she feel so good right now, as they discussed how best to torture another human being?

She rushed to explain herself aloud, though whether it was for his sake or hers or God's, even she didn't know. "It's just that—you said before, that he's a smooth talker. I don't want him to talk his way out of his punishment. I don't want him to get away with anything, not after what he's done."

"Oh, no, Claire…" Joe shook his head, his smile fully evident now as he got to his feet and leaned back against the front of his desk. "That will not be happening, not to worry." And then his voice dropped, and the smile fell away. "He will not get away with this, I can promise you that. He will suffer. And he will not be let off the hook before it's time."

"How will you know when it's time? What if something goes wrong and you're too early?"

Joe took the dubiousness of her voice in stride, allowing her to have her doubts for the moment. "I will know," he told her, meeting her gaze for a moment across the short space that separated them before averting his eyes. "I have, after all, been doing this sort of thing for quite a long time."

Claire did not feel the fright that such a statement would have usually elicited in her. Instead, she felt a comforting certitude. He was practiced at this; he was a perfectionist, too. Hurting others was, for lack of a better term, his life's work. He would make sure it was done right.

"You'll make him beg for death," Claire said. The sentence was not a question, and not merely a statement.

Joe offered her a small smile, nodding as he took in the order. "Yes, I will, Claire. And I'll make him beg for plenty of other things, too. I'll make him forget his name."

"Thank you."

The words left her lips automatically, and though he glanced down at her with some surprise when they did, she did not take them back. The words felt right; they felt needed. She only wished she had more to say; she wished she had another way to show him what his protracted vengeance against their son's kidnapper would mean to her.

Then, without a thought, she got to her feet and hugged him. She didn't know how to explain the urge—except that she needed Joe to know how important this was to her, and she had no words left—and even that was hardly a real explanation. Later, she would find herself wondering if it had just been an excuse.

He didn't return the hug for a number of seconds, but when she didn't immediately pull away, he lifted his hands to cup her back. He did so hesitantly, almost awkwardly, but when she didn't shy away from his touch, he held her in earnest, letting his palms lay flat against the warm, smooth plane of her back.

In the chill of his drafty office, made even colder now by the fallen sun, she found herself leaning instinctually into the heat of his body. When he adjusted his arms around her and pulled her closer into him, she did not flinch, but succumbed—to the warmth, to the comfort, to the mere feeling of being held by another human being who cared about her and would protect her. She could not remember the last time someone had held her like this, giving her promises she could believe in.

For a long time, they stood unmoving in one another's arms. She listened to the beat of his heart, hidden deep inside his chest, and closed her eyes as she took in the rhythm. It was a little fast, she noted after half a minute of counting, and she smiled at the discovery. Even after all these years, even after all she and he had done, together and apart, he was still nervous around her. The realization made her laugh out loud.

"What?" he sounded amused, too, if only at her laughter, and she decided to indulge him with the truth.

"You're nervous," she told him.

"Am I?" he wondered aloud. She could tell just from his tone of voice that he'd cocked an eyebrow at her. She pressed her face against him to hide her smile. "And that's funny to you, is it?"

"Yeah, a bit, actually," she answered truthfully, a light laugh still buoying her words. She couldn't imagine someone as powerful as him ever being nervous, especially not now that he no longer had to hide who he was from the world. She turned her head more fully to place her ear against his chest, to hear him better. As she moved, she felt him move with her, mirroring her shifting with his own. Once she found a place to rest her head, and the sound of his most vital organ pumping away filled her ears again, she closed her eyes again.

"I can hear your heart," she informed him quietly. "That's what's nervous. I'm listening to it go."

"And what does it sound like, my heart?" he asked. "Besides nervous?"

She was silent a moment, considering his question, trying to think of a way of describing the once-familiar commotion in her ear.

"It sounds like it always has," she answered finally, the realization not creating fear in her, but instead spreading warmth. Some things, truly, never did change. "It sounds just like I remember."

Lifting her head from his chest, she stepped back to look at him. As she did so, she felt his arms tighten reflexively around her body, as if he was scared she wanted to leave and he wanted to prevent her from doing so. It was just the lightest burst of pressure—for he relaxed the moment her knowing eyes met his—but in it, all his wants were spelled out.

"Claire…" There was an apology in his eyes as he tried to explain, a plea for understanding.

But to her, it didn't matter what he had to say. The truth she sought now could never been found in his words; his words could lie about this, but his body could not. And his body told her all she needed to know, whether or not she wanted it. The knowledge he gave her now was uncontestable, and she did not need to hear it in audible form for it to be true. And so, before he could say another word, she lifted her head and kissed him on the mouth.

Her stomach clenched as she did so, with a flurry of desire and just a splash of fear, and it was only then that she realized just how long she had been waiting for this—for anything. Her body convulsed and tightened internally, anticipating what it knew was to come as his lips began responding to hers, searching in and consuming whole her being. She had spent the last five months waiting for this. The last ten years.

"Oh, love…" He breathed into her mouth, parting their lips for just a second as their arms wrapped around each other. His hot breath sparked further connections between them, making her mind as dizzy as her body in its sudden and overwhelming desperation for him.

Her mouth dropped slightly open—out of shock at her own desire or out of said desire itself, she did not know and she did not care—and he took the invitation immediately. She expected his mouth to turn rough and frantic against hers, seeking all that it had been denied this past decade, but his tongue was gentle as it caressed hers. He did not push into her mouth demanding entrance or declaring ownership, but teased at the edges of her boundary, waiting, hoping, for her to allow him entry as she had so many times in the past.

She did not disappoint.

When her tongue reached out tentatively to connect with his, her stomach clenched with pleasure and she reached out for him immediately, fisting his shirt and pulling him close, opening her mouth to his, and taking him in. She was desperate to feel—to feel good; to feel wanted; to feel happy, even if for just a few mindless minutes as their bodies sought completion in each other. She was desperate to be who she used to be, all those years ago, before her entire identity had been shattered and consumed by the reveal of his. She was desperate to feel some release from the fear, the tension, and the anger. She was desperate to have her son back, alive in her arms.

And she knew she could only find all those things in him.

Her mind could not remember the last time she'd had sex, it truly could not, but her body did not have the same problem. It remembered him. It remembered every man who had brought her pleasure, and for so long, he had been at the top of the list. In this moment, her body would argue he was the list, and always had been. Perhaps he always would be.

"What do you want?" Joe asked, tearing his lips from hers to speak, all the while letting them migrate to her neck. She closed her eyes when she felt his nose nuzzle against her flushed neck; she knew what he was doing, what he was searching for. He pressed eager kisses against the hot flesh of her throat, searching for that crook in between her tendons that made her back bow and her mouth spew lusty curses. She waited impatiently, tilting her head to the side for him, her body tensed for the pleasure it knew he was so very capable of giving her, until—

"Ohh," she moaned aloud, throwing her head back at once to grant him more access once his lips latched on. He took advantage immediately, and she could feel his lips smile against her skin before he resumed sucking on a particular patch of skin that still made her go wild with desire, even after all these years apart. Even after all the other lovers.

"That isn't an answer, sweetheart," he whispered against her neck, laughing softly, before bending down to feast on her flesh once more. The words sent a shiver up her spine, but any leftover chill was quickly dispelled—his body was hot against hers; her own hot against his; and his mouth was so warm and wet on her skin she felt like she might pass out from heat exposure. The pressure he was putting on her was both altogether too much and somehow just enough to keep her on the edge.

In the haze of desire, she wondered briefly if he could make her come, just by putting his mouth on her neck. It certainly felt like he could, and she would not complain if he did.

"Tell me," he murmured, painting the skin of her neck red with kisses. "Tell me what you want from me, my love. Tell me what you need, and I will give it to you always." The arms that had tightened around her back now grew loose as they caressed the curves of her ribs and shoulderblades through the fabric of her thin black dress. "I will give you anything, everything, you want. Just name it."

"Anything?" The word sparked endless possibilities in her mind, and she pulled back, holding him at bay so she could look into his eyes. "Really?"

He nodded, his hands cupping her waist as he stepped closer. "Anything in the world," he murmured, ignoring her hand on his chest and leaning forward to kiss her anyway. "Anything you want in the world," he whispered against her lips, sweeping her mouth with his tongue, "I will hand-deliver to you."

She waited until he drew back to speak. She looked into those eyes of his—so dark, so confident, so deceptive—and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was telling the truth. The fact that she was here with him, doing this, was simple proof that there was not one thing in this world that he could not make happen. There was not one thing outside of his infinite reach or patient, pliable influence. Except—

"Joey."

She watched the desire fade from his eyes instantaneously with a mixture of sour regret and sick satisfaction. This is what he deserves, she thought. But it did not stop her from wanting his arms back around her once they fell away. It did not stop her from continuing to feel achingly empty inside.

"I told you," he began heavily, suddenly looking very weary and much older than his years. "I've already sent men out—"

"Well, send more," Claire cut in viciously. "If you can give me anything, give me my son back. That's the only thing I want in this world. The only thing I care about."

Joe closed his eyes for a moment and pressed his lips together, tightly enough that Claire could tell he was struggling to hold back some reply that she, no doubt, would be offended by. She glared at him more fiercely in response, willing the comment to the surface. Willing him to insult her, just so she could fight him, just so she'd have some place to put this destructive fury he fostered in her.

"I want you to bring my baby home to me. Why is that so hard for you to understand? Why is that so hard for you to accomplish? Jesus, Joe, it's the one thing I want!"

"Claire…"

She could hear a warning tone in his voice, but she ignored it, blowing past him.

"I ask one thing of you, Joe! One thing! You get to have me and Joey here with you, you get to have everything you want, but you have to keep us safe. You want to act like we're a family again? Why don't you try protecting your family for once? Why don't you stop your own son from being kidnapped by one of your psycho lackeys and murdered on your front step—"

"Hey." Joe's hands shot out to clutch her shoulders firmly and, for a frozen, fearful second, she thought he was going to attack her. And she would have no one but herself to blame, for driving him over the edge, if he did so. But then he spoke, and his voice was soft again. Soothing. "Hey, don't say that. Don't even think like that, please. Claire…" His hands tightened on her again, but it was not out of anger, nor of lust, merely out of worry. He wanted her to hear him. He wanted her to believe him so he could believe himself. "He will be okay, all right? He will be returned to us. Don't think anything else but that. Don't even imagine anything else but that. He will be here, he will be okay; he will be smiling and happy to see you…"

She let his words wash over her, through her, and found herself floating gently in the dreamy future he painted. She could see herself with her son: she could feel the light pressure of his little arms around her waist when he hugged her; she could hear his high-pitched child's laugh.

"You'll bring him home to me?" she mumbled through the haze of dreams, keeping her eyes shut tight to prolong the memories, the fantasies. "You promise?"

"Yes." There was a pause. "I promise."

Joe's voice was strained but struggling for calm, and she focused on the struggle, making it her own. She did not want to think about if he was lying to her again. She did not want to think at all.

"Good," she murmured. Then she cleared her throat, and opened her eyes. His dark ones were anxiously awaiting hers, wanting to know what was next. "Well… Until you do that, help me forget where he is. Help me forget what's happening to him."

Joe's face twisted. "Claire, please—"

"Help me—" Her voice broke, but she ignored it, and fought to force the words that needed to be said out of her mouth. "Help me forget that my baby's going to die. Please," she whispered, crying now. "Please, Joe."

He stared at her, powerless for once, and speechless to boot, and allowed her to collapse into his arms without protest or invitation. She convulsed against him for a full three minutes before her sobs began to subside and her breathing evened out. He wrapped his arms around her as she lifted her head from his chest to wipe her face with the back of her hand. When she settled back into his embrace, she rested her head on his shoulder and tucked her arms snugly around his sides. He could feel the chill of her leftover tears when she pressed her face into his neck and whispered, "Help me forget, please."

The words were like a magic command, which drew him close around her at once and forged their bodies nearly into one. She buried herself into him, clutching at his back and shoulders as he wrapped his arms so tightly around her slim form that he could run his fingers along the lengths of her ribcages.

"I will help you," he whispered in her ear, his voice deep and hot and husky against her skin. He brushed his nose against the shell of her ear, causing her to shiver against him, but not in grief this time. "I will help you forget anything and everything in this world. I swear to you, Claire, your mind will be blank when we are finished."

For half a minute, she said nothing. And then:

"You swear it?"

He took her earlobe in his teeth. "On my life," he growled, and then he backed her up against the desk.

Her head was already spinning, from his lips and hands in some many places—from the sheer reality of what was happening—that she almost didn't hear what he said next. His mouth was already submerged in the flesh of her neck, absorbed completely in fashioning her a necklace of love bites, that she almost thought she'd made it up. But it was the sound of his voice saying the words, and not her own imaginings, that would ring in her ears the rest of the night: "And I will bring your son home to you, I swear."

She melted into his arms then, mindless already, just as he'd promised, and she didn't come back to herself until he pulled his lips from her skin and loosened his arms around her and she grew cold without his touch.

"What…?" she wondered aloud, opening her eyes, ready to search for him only to find him still standing right in front of her. She blinked in surprise. "What's wrong?" she asked.

When he shook his head, she noticed he was smiling. "Nothing," he told her. "You just left me there for a moment."

"I'm here," she assured him.

He stared at her for a long, quiet moment. "Yeah?" he wondered finally, his voice pitched much lower than usual. His eyes uncertain as they met hers.

She nodded at once, taking his hands and pulling him back to her. She knew what he was really asking. "Yes, I'm here. I'm with you." She tried out a smile of her own, and it wasn't nearly as hard to do as she'd anticipated. "Where else would I be?"

He flashed a brief smile back, and linked his hands around her again. She allowed herself to be drawn, carefully, back into his embrace. He kissed her slowly now, probingly, whispering half-audible sweet little nothings to her as their mouths joined and parted, becoming whole and halved in equal measure. He was still kissing her when he asked it.

"Do you want me to get down on my knees for you?"

Her eyes flew open at the question, but he didn't wait for an answer. "Joe," she choked out in shock, watching, speechless, as he lowered himself before her without another word. With her body separated as it was from her mind, she could not stop the flood of arousal that hit her at the sight of him on his knees, between her legs. Her body knew exactly what was coming, and it was already shaking in anticipation of the otherworldly pleasure he would give her. "Oh, my God, Joe…"

"Yes," he murmured, greedy and reverent all at once as he reached out to cup the bare backs of her calves. He bent his forehead before her knees, as if in worship. "Yes, love, it's me." He pushed the hem of her fitted dress up an inch, past her knees, and kissed the beginnings of her thighs as they became exposed to his hungry mouth. "It's me here with you," he whispered, kissing his way up between her legs as she squirmed beneath him, panting and silently begging for more. Her dress was up past her waist now, but she had no shame, not even when he reached up to pull her underwear down and nothing but a seeping lake of naked desire was left in its place. She wriggled against the desk, whimpering for him as he drew closer. "Only me," he murmured, kissing the tops of her thighs as his fingers pushed through the wetness at the entrance to the aching cavern it seemed only he could fill, causing her to cry out. Her body parted for him at once, as if in expectation. As if it had been waiting, all this time. "Only I do this to you, my sweet, sweet wife."

"Please…" Claire tried to articulate her thoughts, tried to translate her body's wants to words he could understand, but it was impossible now that his tongue had joined his fingers inside her. He was taking her over completely with pleasure, destroying any thought process she might have been able to create. "Please," was all she could whisper again and again as she braced herself up against his desk and gave herself over to him, her back bowing beneath his tongue. "Please, God… Please—oh—don't stop… Please, Joe…"

If he felt superior by being able to reduce her to an incoherent, begging mess beneath his tongue and fingers, he didn't show it. Instead, he simply absorbed her moans of satisfaction and her pleas for more, and gave her all that she could not bring herself to ask for aloud. In mere moments, she fell apart, pushed to the edge by it all, clutching the desk with one hand and his hair with the other as she flooded into his mouth and screamed aloud in shrill completion.

Her mind was fuzzy when she came down; all she could hear was her own breathing coming in and out of her mouth and the sound of her heart pounding furiously fast in her chest. She smiled, half-delirious, and clumsily brought his hand up to rest just beneath her left breast. "Do you feel…?" she started to ask, but he cut her off with a fierce kiss and greedy hands that grabbed at her waist to haul her to him.

He was not gentle this time, but she no longer required gentility from him. They were past that now. When his tongue pushed roughly into her mouth, hers met it instinctually, and they tangled together as he yanked her into his embrace. Her body melted beneath his as he ravaged her with his mouth and knotted his hands in her hair. When he fisted his hands in her hair, she moaned wantonly into his mouth, and when he pulled sharply on the strands, she bucked against him and cried out wordlessly in want. She could feel his erection, so hard against her now, and she ground herself against that steely flesh of his, mindless in her desperation for him to be inside her, like an animal in heat would be.

Without warning, he suddenly grasped her roughly by the shoulders and spun her around, so fast that the wind was knocked out of her and she was left gasping, bent over his desk with only her arms to support herself, braced as they were against that beautiful, polished wooden plane. He held her up against it with nothing more than the force of his weighty body, and she squirmed under him, gasping as she tried to regain the breath he'd stolen from her and waited for what was going to come.

She could feel his erection, so big and hard pressed up against the cleft her ass, and with her heart pounding in a heady mix of arousal and fear, she wondered if was he going to fuck her like this. Her dress was still on, but only partially; it was pushed above her hips and her underwear was gone from between her legs and she was his for the taking, if this was how he wanted her after all these years: rough and from behind and up against a desk, like some slutty student-teacher fantasy. The thought of it aroused her even as it frightened her—perhaps it aroused her because it frightened her; that was a novel experience for her—and she began to understand why he was the way he was, why he was so good at being that way, and why so many people followed behind him down this path so willingly. It was intoxicating to feel this good, and it thrilled her to lace pleasure so closely with fear. She could understand why people called his disciples crazy—it would make a person go mad, to feel this good, all of the time.

When she heard the sound of a zipper being pulled down, her whole body tensed, waiting for him, but then she felt the cool air of the room on her back and she knew it was not his zipper he was undoing but hers. She let out the breath she'd been unintentionally holding as he dragged the zipper down its track to the bottom and then she relaxed, releasing her full weight onto the desk with a sigh. With a quick tug of his hands on either side of her waist, the dress fell around her feet in a heap, and the second it was gone from her body, she felt his lips on her skin.

He kissed her back, her shoulders, her spine. He kissed her as he undid her bra; he kissed her as she shook it off. He kissed the moles and freckles he had not seen for ten years; he guided his lips around the curves of her shoulder blades. He kissed her reverently and thoroughly, as if trying to map out her body with his mouth. As if trying to apologize.

The only time he stopped kissing her was when she started to turn around to face him.

She supposed it was silly of her, but she couldn't help it—her heart pounded in her chest as she started to pivot. With every second that passed, she was becoming more and more aware how long it had been since they'd last seen each other naked; how long it had been since they'd last made love. She had not even been in her thirties then, and these last ten years had not been kind on her body. Her breasts sagged in a way they never had when she'd been married to him; her stomach had taken on an inerasable little paunch following Joey's birth, and the rest of her… Well, nothing had changed for the better, to say the least.

But when she finally lifted her eyes to meet his, she was thunderstruck by the look in them. He was looking at her the way he had the first time they'd made love: like she was still some beautiful, mysterious being to him. Like she was still someone to be lusted after and loved in equal measure.

She blushed deeply at the thought, embarrassed at her own romanticism, and ducked her head down so he wouldn't see. But it was too late.

"Don't turn away from me," he begged. "Don't hide."

With strong arms but surprisingly gentle hands, he reached up and took her face in his hands, turning it to face him.

"I want you," he declared. "Always. No matter what you look like, or how long it's been." He closed his eyes and bent his forehead to hers. She could feel the warmth of his breath when he exhaled, and it made her mouth fall open, so she could taste. "You do know, Claire, that all this has been for you. All of it."

She closed her eyes, taking in his words at face value for the first time on months. Before, they had always been used as a threat, as a guilt trip. But now she saw the declaration for what it meant. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, tighter and tighter, until nonsensical patterns of light and shadow danced behind her eyelids, until she could see everything and nothing. She let the truth of his words wash over her in that place of nothingness and possibility.

"You want this, don't you?" he asked quietly, gently rocking his body against hers, as if she might not grasp the innuendo in full without a demonstration. His erection was large and firm against the softness of her lower stomach. When he snuck a hand between her thighs to cup her core, her legs immediately parted for him out of instinct, out of muscle memory. And out of genuine desire.

"You do," he whispered warmly, as if her desire was still a secret that he had only just discovered. "You do want it. You want me." He pressed his face against her neck and breathed in deeply, ingesting her natural perfume as she shuddered beneath him. "There's no shame in that, love. I want you, too." His hands stroked the sides of her hips and back, and his mouth kissed the side of her jaw gently. "There's no shame in a husband and wife wanting each other, making love together. No shame at all." He reached out a hand to turn her chin so her eye might meet his. "Not even in God's eyes," he continued, holding her gaze, "is what we are doing here together a sin."

Anger flared hot and fierce in her at his words, in the message—the excuse—he was using. She wanted to scream at him, to shove him away, for how dare he try to use her beliefs against her in order to seduce her?

But when she looked at him, her fiery eyes finding his, she did not see malice or trickery there. She looked into his eyes and she saw only worry in them, and concern, and she knew he was just trying to reassure her, to make her feel comfortable in one of the few ways he still knew how.

We're not married anymore, she almost said to him, but the weak protest died somewhere in her throat before ever even reaching her tongue, let alone her lips. It was a silly thing to say, after all. Maybe the court documents said otherwise, but here, now, together, they were still married. It wasn't just in his mind that she had remained his wife over the years. With the exception of what they were doing now, he and she had virtually resumed being married months ago. They inhabited the same house, they had their meals together, they talked to one another civilly—they even put their child to bed together, like any other married couple would.

"What's holding you back?" Joe asked, sensing her trepidation easily. "What are you scared of, love?" He pulled back to look her square in the eyes. "Is it me?" he wondered quietly. The hand that had been caressing her cheek suddenly fell away, and again, her earlier words rang in her ears as sharply they must have in his: Do not touch me.

She shook her head at his question, and as if she could dispel her earlier order. While months ago, it would have been God's honest truth that she was frightened of him, now things had changed. After all this time together, she did not fear him anymore; she even found it too tiring to hate him. What was the point in it all, anyway? If he'd wanted to hurt her, he would have already; if he'd wanted to kill her, he'd had every opportunity to do so for the last five months.

But all these months together had proven that he only wanted one thing; the same thing he'd wanted in all the years she'd known him: to be with her. Not to hold her as his captive or to force himself on her night after night, but to live a life with her, like they'd used to. And it wasn't like she'd ever be leaving this place—so why not embrace the role he'd set aside for her? Why not take what bit of power and normalcy he was offering? Why not just give in to what she still, deep down, wanted so badly?

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of him and of herself as she did so. "I'm not scared," she finally said, opening her eyes and meeting his. "I'm…" She tried to search for the right words as his eyes bored into hers, so curious and worried and already understanding, but nothing came to mind.

Instead, she found herself thinking of things she hadn't thought of in years: of their wedding day, of the evening they'd brought home their beautiful baby, of the first time they'd met.

She remembered how she used to feel when he was so close to her like this; not just desire, but… love. She remembered the excitement she'd felt every time she saw him, when they'd first begun dating, and the crushing loneliness she'd felt when they'd had to part, and after she'd gone back home to America. They had once been destined to be together forever, to grow old beside one another, and die at each other's sides.

Well, Claire thought darkly, her eyes returning to his, that last part will probably come true regardless.

It was then that she realized she didn't care. Maybe he would end up killing her at the end of all this, maybe he wouldn't—but now that her son was gone from her side and likely dead by now, what did it all matter? She could die tonight, or tomorrow, or twenty years from now. All that would matter at the end was that she'd led a life—was it necessarily important for that life to have been a good one? Or was it enough that she had tried her best to simply enjoy it, trapped inside dire circumstances as she had been? Wasn't it enough, in her case, that she'd even found a way to enjoy life? Didn't that feat alone make it somehow good, such as it was?

She was looking for an out, she knew that. In the same heartbeat, she accepted it. She was who she was. And she would live what little of her life was left however she wanted to.

She looked at Joe before her, waiting, in equal parts earnest and anxious, and she thought that maybe he was her future, as well as her past. Maybe they had never truly been meant to be apart. Maybe circumstances had always been conspiring to draw them back together, to reunite their family. Maybe the final act was yet to come. One thing was certain, at least: with her son gone, his father was all she had left in this world of her old life.

She looked at him now, her blinders and her rosy glasses gone, and she knew without a doubt that she could do a hell of a lot better. But she also knew she could do plenty, plenty worse.

He was what she had, all she had, and she would take him for what he was, as he had her. There was no other option.

Having made her decision, Claire did not hesitate to act. In a few swift movements, she undid his pants and pulled them down from around his waist. Before he could say a word or even kick them off, she'd reached beneath his briefs and taken ahold of his erection, making him grunt sharply. She ran a purposeful hand along the stiff length of his erection, watching his entire body shake with anticipation as she did so. He was so hard and so thick in her hand; she had forgotten how big he was when aroused. Now, as she looked at him, she could feel her mouth water, just thinking about how he would taste in her mouth; how he would feel inside her; how he would lose all of his carefully held control under her manipulations; and how he would give it all to her, every last bit…

"Do you want me to get down on my knees, too?" she wondered aloud, looking up at him. She wouldn't be averse to it, all things considered. In fact, she would very much like to see what he was like when he let go and surrendered all of his power and control to her. Would he be the same man afterwards?

Although he shook his head at her offer, she noticed with satisfaction that he did so jerkily, with apparent difficulty. "I… I want you on your back, love." He bent forward to press kisses to either side of her neck. "Lay back for me and let me see you," he instructed in a strained whisper. "Please, Claire."

Maybe it was the Please that did it. Maybe it was the hoarseness of his voice, or the potency of the need in his eyes. Maybe it was the way he said her name, with equal parts reverence and desperation, confessing without even meaning to where the status quo rested now. Or maybe it was nothing but her own self-restraint finally reaching its breaking point, and her grief pushing her over the edge, that did it.

Whatever the catalyst, the result was final and indisputable: she laid back on the desk and pulled him to her, grateful for the distraction, the fulfillment, and the comfort that she knew only he could offer her.

. . .

It took a long while, after they'd finished, for each to untangle their bodies from one another's. For minutes afterward, she could still feel him filling her, soft now but still warm, and she relished in the presence of him insider her like that. She didn't want his warmth to leave her; she didn't want her body to be hers alone anymore, a breeding ground for worries and insecurities. She needed him there, to drive all the darkness from her mind.

When he finally moved off of her, and collapsed slowly on the ground in front of his desk, she let out a low moan of loss. She could still feel the remnants of him, dripping down from between her legs, but they were no longer warm and no longer as fulfilling as they'd been in the heat of the moment. Without a word, she slid down to the floor beside him. The sweat from her back left streaks across the perfectly polished wood of his desk, but he didn't complain.

For what must have been a very long time, neither of them spoke as they sat side by side on the floor. Their shoulders and hips touched, but neither drew the other into an embrace. Each was locked, it seemed, in some sort of confusing post-coitus limbo, no longer aware of what the etiquette was now that there were no base urges driving them to act anymore. When she grew cool enough to shiver, however, he rose without a word and brought her a blanket from the back of the armchair in the corner of the room. She let him drape in around her without moving, leaving him to tuck it in all the right places so it was secure before he resumed his spot at her side.

To her surprise, she found she liked being coddled by him; at least, in this strange, seemingly boneless state, she did. Her final orgasmic high had long since faded, and yet she still sat, frozen and unfocused, unable to do much of anything as her mind buzzed without really formulating any coherent thoughts. She wondered what this mindlessness was that remained behind. Was this what shock felt like, actual medical shock?

She should ask him, she thought. No doubt he'd seen his fair share of shock in those college girls, just before he'd murdered them.

That thought roused her to reality a bit, and she turned to look at him. She found moving her head was still a somewhat dizzying, taxing experience, and she rested her forehead against the front of the desk as she looked at him.

He caught her staring, and turned to offer her a small smile before bending forward and kissing her gently on the lips.

She closed her eyes as he kissed her and she reciprocated, letting herself fall once more into that pleasurable gray abyss they had created together. When he reached a hand around to cup the side of her neck and draw her closer, she did not pull away. And when his tongue briefly left his mouth to trace the curvatures of her lips, she did not quiet the moan that rose from her. Instead, she listened to him whisper her name, and allowed him to draw an arm around her and pull her to him. She found she very much liked the feel of his body against hers. The familiarity he offered her was staggering in its ease. It took so little on her part, and yet he gave her everything. She found herself wondering, had he never been arrested and they'd stayed married, if he would still be so courteous a husband.

As if sensing her train of thought, Joe gently broke their kiss and pulled away from her. He combed her hair away from her face and back behind her ears for a few minutes before straightening her blanket around her so she remained covered. Part of it had fallen onto the floor while they'd kissed, though she hadn't noticed at the time. He kept her running warm.

He surveyed her for a moment after he finished tending to her, and then asked softly, "Will you try to get some sleep now, at least?"

She almost laughed at the question, remembering their discussion from earlier. Had that only been an hour or two ago? It felt like days in the past now.

Feeling the exhaustion settle heavily on her at the mere mention of rest, Claire nodded, her laughter leaving her as quickly as it had arrived. But she did not get up immediately. She had a few things to set straight before she found a bed. She turned to Joe, making sure she had his full attention before speaking. "When I wake," she told him, "Joey will be with me."

Joe nodded his assent with determination, promising without missing a beat, "Yes, Claire, he will."

"And I will speak with Roderick before you start with him."

After a moment's hesitation, Joe nodded once more. "As you wish, Claire."

She nodded to herself then, their business finished, and rose to her feet. Still clutching the blanket around her, she stepped over her discarded dress and soiled underwear, not stooping to pick up either as she headed to the door. Joe's eyes followed her for a second before calling out.

"Claire, wait a minute. We should talk about—"

"There's nothing to talk about," she interrupted, continuing to walk towards the exit without turning to face him. "I'm going to bed."

He accepted this in silence, and said not a word to stop her as she made her way to the door. His lack of argument surprised her, and when she reached the door, she paused, and turned to look back at him.

He was still sitting where she'd left him, his shoulders hunched against the desk and his folded hands resting between his bent knees. His head was bowed between them, too, and it shocked her to see him like that. For as long as she had known him, he had never looked so downtrodden or weary. She tried to tell herself that he was just tired from their exertions, but she knew it was something more. For a few seconds she watched him, wondering what this feeling was that tore at her from beneath her skin as she looked at him.

It took her some time. And then she realized, for the same feeling had eaten at her before, and pierced her with its needling tendrils: she pitied him.

He was just as alone as she was; it was horribly, painfully clear now. He might be kept company by his faithful legion of murderers, but at the end of the day, he had nothing more than she did now. He had nothing and no one to come home to, not even here, in his gigantic hideaway. She wondered if he felt like nothing, too, the way she did sometimes.

She stared at him for perhaps a quarter of a minute more before deciding. Despite her orders to Joe, Claire was more than aware of the likely possibility that Joey was likely not ever to be coming back. Without him, she had nothing in this world. Nothing except the dejected man in front of her, shown now to be as powerless, in the end, as she was. Why not embrace him? she thought. Why not take what little was left for her to have, and enjoy it here while she could?

Loosening her grip on the blanket, Claire let it fall down around her shoulders, baring some of her skin to him, but still hiding everything between her breasts and her calves. She watched as his eyes looked up at the sound of rustling fabric, watched as his eyes traced every inch of her newly exposed skin—as if he hadn't just spent the better part of a half-hour face-to-face with much more intimate regions of her body. His inexhaustible attentions caused her desire to flare up again—and her pride, too. She hadn't known she could still turn his head.

"Well?" she called out to him from the door. "Are you coming with me or not?"

. . .

Author's Note: Thank you for reading! Reviews would be greatly, greatly appreciated! As I mentioned above, I'm rather nervous to hear how this one went down with readers. It changed a lot from what I'd first envisioned (and got a hell of a lot longer). I'd love to get some reactions. Again, thank you so much for reading.