Title: Subtitles
Fandom: Being Human
Spoilers: All series 4
Warnings: Swearing. Explicit sex. Slight dub-con. Potential psychological triggers.
Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Quote taken from John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath.

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Summary: Detox is only the first step towards recovery.

I slip beneath the surface. The water closes over my head like distorted glass, dimming the glare, muffling the noise. The air bubbles out of my lungs and the glass shatters. Unsettling quiet, my chest poised to swell with the in breath – but it doesn't come, and the old, human instinct shrieks that I need air, that I need it now, that I'm going to die if I don't breathe. Instinct hasn't caught up with the fact that I'm already dead. I sink deeper.

The house has truly revolting décor, and the heating is temperamental, but the place does have a good, deep bath. Cleanliness; warmth; space to breathe, even if that isn't a good idea right now. The tension is softening out of my muscles; the indignities of the chair are starting to fade. I close my eyes and let the water gently rock me. I drift.

Hands, cold under my armpits; I struggle, choking on water. An upwards heave – light, air. Noise: a Scottish shriek.

"– do you think you're doing?"

I wrench free of her grasp, coughing against the burn in my throat. Water sloshes onto the floor but I don't care. "Can't you leave me alone for more than five minutes, you stupid, fucking bitch?" That earns me a glare, but she startled me – how the hell did she expect me to react?

Alex folds her arms. "Oh, we're back to this again, are we?"

"Back to what? I can't even swear now, is that it?"

"It's never just swearing, not with you. It's not like Tourette's, or something."

It's difficult having an argument when you're propped up in the bath, so I haul myself to my feet and – Jesus, she's staring. Openly, unashamedly staring, and clearly I'm not even allowed my privacy in the bathroom any more. The bloody woman is leaning against the towel rail – against my towel – and Christ knows how these things work, but the ghost is drenched, the front of her dress soaked with bath water. It leaves very little to the imagination, and I have a good imagination.

"All right you two, pack it in." And, just when I thought my evening couldn't get any more perfect, Tom decides to join us.

Alex shakes her head. "What a waste." Apparently, my genitals are now the topic of discussion. "Look at us. I can't, and you won't" – And, finally, she hands me my towel – "and Tom..."

Tom's staring at me too, and his ears are turning a delicious shade of pink. But his eyes follow my hand as it brushes down my stomach, flicking away the excess water. He's just too easy to taunt. It was one of the weapons I honed while they kept me prisoner. The way I'd suck my water through the straw, the way I licked my lips, or a suggestive comment delivered in just the right tone of voice – how I made the poor boy run. There's no reason to keep doing it, and Tom deserves better, but I just can't seem to stop.

"Are we done here?" If I'm lucky, she'll take the hint. But there's welling moisture in her eyes, and her mouth is all pinched, and, dear god, she's about to get emotional on me.

"I thought you were trying to drown yourself." Drown myself – how fucking stupid is she? "Some sort of weird vampire suicide." Well, there have been times they've nearly driven me to it. "Just don't do anything like that, will you?" The silly girl actually cares. About me.

Of course she cares: that's why she's doing this, why Tom and her are doing all of this. I do know that, but I'm tired. We're all tired, and it's not their fault: they're only doing what I asked them to do. To keep control when I can't be sure that I can control myself.

"Alex, I didn't –"

But Alex is gone.

The mattress is lumpy; or maybe the sheet is rumpled. Or perhaps there's nothing wrong with the bed apart from the fact that it's not in Southend, with Leo snoring softly next door. I hold myself still, fight the urge to thrash, to fling the covers off, to punch the pillow. It's always worse at night, when the others go to their rooms and lock me in mine. As annoying as they are the rest of the time, at least they help to take my mind off things.

Over on the mantelpiece there's a gleam of streetlight on glass. I can't see the photograph; I don't need to. I can feel Leo smiling at me in the darkness, and I'm not going to let him down. I can do it. I know I can: I've done it before, wrenching myself away from the blood and the pain and the pleasure. Every day bringing another warm body. It's been so long since anyone touched me – since I let them touch me – and I'm tired of wanting, of aching. Of feeling nothing but the phantom caress of old lovers on my skin.

Cutler: he welcomed me back with an open smile, and he wrapped his arms around me. Would he still have been the same? Pliant. Pink and sweating. Freckles and nimble fingers, and an eager, eager mouth. Cutler, holding out a glass of blood, and it was sweet, and it burned – too much and not enough: never, ever enough – and it felt like being reborn all over again. Her blood: Alex. She tasted so good, even stale and gritty. How much better would it have been, fresh from the vein?

It would have been so easy: she was practically begging for it. I could have taken her right there in the bar, up against the counter, driving into the slick, tight clench of her. I'd have made her moan while I drained her. Drunk my fill and let a wine glass catch the rest. Killed the barman when he tried to stop me. Killed every last one of them. Slick redness skidding underfoot, sticky on my hands, my face.

I'm hard. But I'm not going to look at it, not going to touch it. Don't even want to think about it, but the friction of the blankets sets it throbbing – throbbing with stolen blood, but I'm not going to think about Alex. The way the bath water glued the fabric to her skin, clutching the weight of her breasts, her peeking nipples. The way she plucked the dripping skirts from between her thighs. I wonder if Cutler fucked her before he killed her.

I vault to my feet, fumbling with the lamp, and wince into the sudden brightness. I wipe the sweat from my forehead, from my top lip. A book – grab one at random, anything will do – and I ease myself carefully onto the sofa. A deep breath: I don't need the oxygen but there's something comforting, something human, about the simple act of drawing air into my lungs. I turn to the first page.

'To the red country and part of the gray country of Oklahoma, the last rains came gently, and they did not cut the scarred earth.'

Five hundred and thirty-five pages to go.

I check the mileometer: eighteen miles. I'm weak, muscles snarled from all those days in the chair. Everything burns: my calves, my thighs, my lungs. Breathe through it, and keep going.

Nineteen miles. Sweat stings the grazes and cuts from those bloody straps. Keep going. But I'm going nowhere, struggling and struggling and never moving forwards. I can't let myself slip back: keep going.

A soft tap on the door. Ignore it. I already know who it is: I can smell him from here. My watchdog. My knuckles whiten on the handlebars; the pedals whir faster. Turn up the resistance and keep going.

"You're back on the bike, then."

"You really do have a remarkable talent for stating the obvious." I'm being petty, but petty is good. Petty is better than ripping his fucking throat out.

"I just wanted to be sure you were okay, like."

"I will be when you let me out of this fucking house."

He's surprised, and he's not the only one. Refuge, prison, safety, freedom: sometimes I forget how quickly the lines can blur. I'm suffocating. Like the early days in the little flat above the barber's shop, with the four walls closing in.

Four walls, nineteen rooms, and every one except mine has a stake lying somewhere handy.

"In case of emergency," Tom said. As if I wouldn't realise that I am the emergency; as if I'm as stupid as he is.

He's topless, wearing shorts. So much flesh on display, and it's like he's doing it deliberately, rubbing my nose in the possibilities open to him, flaunting his ability to have what I can't. What I daren't.

The alarm beeps: twenty miles. Bugger the rota – keep going. Turn up the resistance and burn through the urge to punch, bite, kick. Keep those feet moving, push and pull, drive the pedals round and round. I lift my head up and grit my teeth.

Tom's still there, staring at me dumbly. He's always there. Watching me disgrace myself in that fucking chair; waiting for me to fail. Judging me – always bloody judging me.

Turn up the – but it's already as high as it will go. Go faster. My muscles are screaming. Go faster, until they scream louder than the hunger. I want to hurl myself at the dog, to ram his head into the wall. My hands tighten until they ache, but I hold myself in place. Twenty-one miles.

"I've been thinkin'. Mebbe I ought to spend more time with you." That's it –

My feet hit the floor, but my legs are shaking: they won't hold me up, certainly won't launch me across the room. I don't really want them to. I sag against the handlebars.

Tom smiles at me. "Let's see how you're feelin' tomorrow, shall we?"

I step outside. The fresh air hits my lungs, cool and salt sharp. Possibilities; choices. The world expands around me and I have the strongest urge to run – to run away, or to run back inside, I'm not sure which.

The side gate creaks open and Tom wheels his bike out. "Come on, then."

And, with that, he's off. Up the hill, not looking back to see if I'm behind him. He trusts me. Down the hill: the easier route. Cars rumble along the main road. Cars; cyclists; pedestrians. Shops and houses. People – prey. I start to run.

Tom has a head start, but I narrow the gap. He leads the way, up through terraced streets, then left: towards the park. The park, not the woods where he could lose me – where I could lose him – where he'd find it harder to catch me on that bike. He doesn't trust me entirely. I let my arms hang slack and roll the anger out of my shoulders. I've yet to earn his trust.

I pick up my pace and draw level with Tom, but he grins at me and speeds away again. The old hunting instinct pulls me after him – run, chase, catch – but that's all right. I can use that energy, let it drive me forwards; I lengthen my stride and really stretch my legs for the first time in weeks. We're out into the green, open spaces now, and the breeze blows fresh from the sea. No dogs, no courting couples, no truant children. Head up, back straight, feet pounding like a metronome. I settle into the rhythm.

The top of the hill, and Tom accelerates away down the other side, flying past – her: tight shorts; running vest. Breasts bouncing with every step as she powers up the slope towards me. Closer. I can hear her panting, see the muscles working in her thighs. Closer still. She's glistening with sweat. And her heart – it's thumping so hard, so loud – it's the sound of terror, of the moment when they see my eyes, my fangs. She races past, and my mouth begins to water.

I've stopped. She stops, too, lifting a foot onto the back of a bench and leaning into the stretch, the fabric pulling taut across the swell of her arse. I'm moving again: walking back, walking towards her. She's wearing headphones; she can't hear me. Careless; trusting; an invitation. I want her, all of her: slick skin, yielding heat, adrenaline and endorphins: the rich soup of her blood.

Behind me: Tom's bike, crashing to the floor. Tom's arms, closing around me, trapping my own against my sides. The woman's close, so close, just a few feet away, and no fucking dog is going to stop me. I dig my heels in and shove back, but Tom's grip never eases. Someone's snarling, and it might be me.

Tom wrestles me away, spins us round, shoves me hard against a tree. Over his shoulder, the jogger's face startles in our direction. Wide eyes; slack mouth; body tensed for fight-or-flight. Remembered pleasure ignites in my blood and sends it pulsing into my groin. Bark grates against my spine: Tom has me pinned with bruising hands and the pressure of his body.

I close my eyes. The hunger clamours inside me – of course it does: it's always there – but it's no longer in control. I won't allow it. I blink, and I'm seeing the world through human eyes again. The woman is sprinting away, and Tom is scowling at me. He lets go of my arms. His weight shifts, and eases, and his thigh rubs against my swelling cock.

Tom leaps back. "What was that?"

But I can't answer – can't stay. I need to get away from here, to get back to the house. To the safety of walls and doors and locks.

"Hal, come back."

I ignore him. I run.

My hands are shaking and I fumble with the keys. I wrench the front door open and try not to slam it behind me. I'm not entirely successful.

"What are you doing back so soon? Is everything okay?" No, it's not remotely okay, and the last thing I need right now is a conversation with the woman whose blood I drank.

I toss my keys onto the bar and take the stairs two at a time. There's a sheet of newspaper laid out ready, and I place my trainers on it. I should clean them: a simple task to focus on, something to take my mind off – the emptiness, the ache, the arousal pumping through my veins. Every kind of hunger, jittering beneath my skin.

Urgent hammering; the door opens, and I clench my jaw at the intrusion. Tom. Why is it always him witnessing my failure, my humiliation? Forcing it on me: pulling those straps tighter, keeping me in that damned chair for days, so I had no choice but to –

"Tom, I think you should –" Fuck off. Leave me alone. And if I had been alone, there in the park, without anyone to stop me – I clamp my mouth shut and let the breath sigh out of my nose. "Was there something you wanted?"

"Look, about what 'appened …" Before or after he pinned me to that tree? If I'm lucky Tom will be too embarrassed to mention that again, but he steps closer and, clearly, this isn't my lucky day. "About … you know. When you …" God, is he ever going to manage a coherent sentence? "I just wanted to say it's okay, cos I think I feel the same."

Horrible, paralysing incomprehension. Then laughter chokes out of me: the boy thinks it was him. That tussle, that moment of inadvertent discovery – he actually thinks I wanted him. That I want him. Tom takes my hand – and it's just too ridiculous. It's clumsy, and there shouldn't be anything remotely sensual about it, but the touch of hot flesh against mine makes my skin tingle.

"You know I said you was my best friend." He flushes and ducks his head. "It's more than that. I ain't never felt like this about anyone before."

But I don't want to hear his confessions. I don't want to do this – no matter what the heat in my belly is telling me – and I jerk my hand free. Tom grabs my arm, and now it's my turn to slam him against the wall. He doesn't yell, doesn't fight, just drags me closer. His fingers knead into my back, my hip, and the heat sparks and ignites inside of me. It's wrong. It's lust and loneliness, and there's no way that this is going to end well, but I can feel the hardness twitching against my thigh, and I know that the desperation on his face is a mirror for my own.

Then I'm shoving him onto the bed, and I actually hear him gulp. "What you gonna do?"

"Relax. We won't get that far." Neither of us is going to last that long.

The cord on my trousers is knotted. I scrabble at it with clumsy fingers and shove them down – trousers and pants together – down to my knees, and Tom is staring at my cock. I grab his hand and wrap it around me, and at least he knows how to do this. I'm hard and I'm ready, more than ready, and I want to pin him down, to tear into him. I unbutton his fly and yank his clothes out of the way. Dog stink; musky arousal; a trace of fear. His fingers dig into my shoulders, deep enough to sting.

I line us up and settle my weight down onto him, and we both groan at the wonderful, tantalising pressure. I spit into my hand and curl it around us, good and tight, and I start to move. Fast, relentless, and it's too dry, friction edging into burn, but this might just be the best thing I've ever felt.

I'm thrusting and thrusting, and Tom's squirming against me. He flings his head back, baring his throat, and my teeth itch to fasten in his flesh – but the wolf smell is stronger than ever, sweating from his pores. And then he's twitching in my hand, spurting, hot and sticky, and I slick myself with it, and I'm nearly there and yes – my orgasm shudders out of me, a white-hot pleasure on the border of pain.

It leaves me hollow, but it's a sated kind of empty. There's a sort of tentative smile on Tom's face, then he looks at me and he brightens into a grin. It was hardly my best performance, but he seems happy enough. I suppose he would, with nothing to compare against, and the realisation lodges queasily in the pit of my stomach. Tom reaches for me but I roll away, roll onto my feet – there's no room for two in my bed – and I hoist my trousers back up.

"I need to shower." To get away.

What's done is done, and talking about it isn't going to change anything. Anyway, there's no real harm done. We both got what we wanted, and he must know the way this works. Of course he does. I close the door behind me: can't be too careful, not with Alex around. Hopefully, Tom will be gone by the time I get back.

Tom shovels down his last spoonful of cereal. He lifts the bowl to his mouth and gulps the remaining milk – dear god, he has no table manners, and that sugary slop must taste vile. I should be revolted, but he's making a slurping sound that's positively obscene, and I can see the muscles in his throat working as he swallows. There's a creamy froth on his top lip, and his tongue darts out, moist and mobile, and licks it off. I want his mouth on me. Want the stubbly rasp of his scalp under my fingers, holding his head –

I pick up a piece of toast: it's cold and soggy, condensation pooling on the plate. I put it down again. Alex quirks an eyebrow, and apparently she's started trying to police what I bloody eat. It's not like I need to worry about nutrition. She doesn't, either, and I really don't know why she hangs around at meal times. Doesn't she get tired of watching other people doing things she can't? I open my mouth, and a dozen sharp retorts prickle on my tongue.

What I say is, "I'm not hungry." It's not entirely true: I am hungry, just not for food.

My plate screeches on the tabletop as I push it away; Tom startles and looks right at me, and there are shadows under his eyes that never used to be there. I shouldn't have done it, should have known that he'd take it to heart. He's staring at me. He does that a lot – when he's not avoiding me. It's a miracle that Alex hasn't noticed, but Alex is worrying about other things.

"You're grumpy today, mister. Maybe you should go out running again."

Tom blushes a spectacular shade of red, and he only salvages the situation by grabbing his bowl and scrambling for the kitchen. As he disappears through the double doors, I can see the blood rushing to his ears and the back of his neck. I imagine the flush is spreading down his chest, the chest I've seen but never touched. Smooth skin, a soft layer of fat, and the hardness of muscle underneath. My fingers flex against that imagined firmness.

"If you'll excuse me."

I flee to my room. It's still hours until I'm supposed to do my press ups, but I need to do something, to work off the energy that's heating every cell of my body. I slip my shoes off and pull my shirt over my head. Just the brush of fabric is enough to make my skin tingle. It feels like I'm choking, and I raise my arm to pelt the shirt across the room. I stop; I breathe. Fold the shirt in half and lay it on the ottoman. Settle onto the worn patch of carpet. I drop into position, and already I can feel a measure of calm returning.

One, two, three. Lose myself in the repetition, in the count. Twenty-five, twenty-six. Feel the muscles warm and loosen. Forty, forty-one. I want to feel Tom's solid heat pressed against me. Fifty-three, fifty-four. The air rasps heavily out of my lungs, and I want it to be Tom's breath, panting in my ear. Sixty-seven, sixty-eight. My arms are trembling, but it's not exhaustion. I close my eyes.

Click of the door catch – ignore it. Ignore him. I keep my eyes closed; I hold my stomach taut and focus on bending and straightening my arms. Footsteps, padding closer, and I can't shut them out. Rapid, eager breathing. I'm on my feet; I'm glaring.

"Have you forgotten how to knock?"

"I thought you might wanna … you know." And I do. I want him in my bed; I want him on his knees. I want him to go away before this whole thing gets worse than it already is. Once was an accident. More than that, and it's in danger of becoming a habit.

"Isn't it time you were at the café?"

He should leave, really he should. And I should let him – make him – but my fingers are hooked into his belt loops and I'm pulling him closer. He presses his palm against the front of my jeans, and I remember the grip of those calloused hands. I'm already half-hard. I pull free, just enough to drag his t-shirt off. His skin is fever hot, and I map the ridges on his back where the monster tore his skin. I want to score fresh scratches on top of the old, to put my own mark on him.

I slide my hands inside his waistband, dig my fingers into mounded muscle, pull him against me. Let him feel what he does to me. What he makes me do. Buried instinct claws its way to the surface: to take, to possess – to be the first. I graze the tight pucker and it flutters against my fingertips. My cock twitches at the prospect of him clenching around me. I steer him towards the bed.

"Do you want to?" I hardly know my own voice, it's so hoarse, so breathless. Tom swallows, his whole throat convulsing, and next time, I'm going to –

"Okay, then." But he's not sure.

It doesn't matter: I'm going to make him enjoy it.

It's a little tea caddy, the sort of thing that the lady of the house would bring out for the guests, back in the days when tea was a luxury and preparing it a ritual. A bloody tedious ritual, just for a drink – although it wasn't tea that I was drinking, at the time. And some of those straitlaced Regency women –

I fix my eyes on the screen. "What do you think?"

Tom's staring at me, and his forehead crinkles as though I've asked him something difficult. As though he has a question of his own. He doesn't answer, and his silence snaps taut between us. Tom slides closer. But I don't want this, not now: the Antiques Roadshow is part of my routine, and he knows how important it is that I stick to my routine. He's disrupted it enough already.

Tom shrugs. "I dunno. Fifty quid."

My spine softens against the cushions. It's worth more than that, I'm sure of it. It's a nice mahogany caddy with a marquetry lid. It's in good condition, too.

"Three hundred."

Another silence, but this time it's fine: we're waiting for the expert's valuation. A crash from a kitchen, followed by some very unladylike language – Alex, going through the cupboards. Spring cleaning, she calls it. Trying to make her mark on the place, and they say that men are the territorial ones. No, that's not fair. I understand the need to keep busy.

Tom sits up a little straighter. Here we go: "At auction, I'd expect it to fetch in the region of three hundred to three hundred and fifty pounds."

I was right. I try not to smile: it shouldn't matter, but it does. This is the scale of my life now: little victories, petty defeats. Sometimes that's all it takes to make it a good day, or a bad one.

The presenter is giving a potted history of the little market town. I forget the woman's name: so many have come and gone since the early days. The early days: I refuse to think about the black and white television, about the way the picture would roll and crackle, and Pearl would bicker with Leo about how best to tune it. I won't think about the three of us gathered in front of it, our chairs drawn close together in the little sitting room of the flat. What was his name, that first presenter? It doesn't matter: he's dead now. But the program goes on, and new faces replace the old. It's continuity, of sorts.

Sudden weight on my shoulder. I flinch; I freeze. It's Tom, leaning against me, resting his head on me. I manage to keep my voice level.

"What are you doing?"

"Dunno. I just thought it would be nice." Nice? Since when was this supposed to be nice?

He's touched me before – everywhere, with hands and lips and tongue – but this feels personal, intimate. Invasive. My hand is lifted, ready to shove him away, but I stop it, place it on my knee. Tom is oblivious. Oblivious to the way my knuckles are whitening, to the quivering stillness in every angry muscle. He wriggles, his elbow digging into my ribs, and I can't stay silent.

"Alex might come in." She's still in the kitchen, and, mercifully, she's making enough noise that there's no chance of her overhearing this conversation.

"So what if she hears? I think we should tell her."

"Tell her what?" There's nothing to tell.

Yes, we're having sex, but it's not as if she needs to know. I doubt she'd even want to know – and I certainly don't want her to. It's bad enough that it's gone on this long, that we have all the restraint of a pair of teenagers – and at least Tom has an excuse – without making things any more awkward. Tom isn't going to become a part of my rota.

Tom retreats, but now he's staring at me again. There's something different about him – or maybe it's just the cold light of the television, making him look older. What we have isn't about cuddling on the sofa. It's not about kissing or holding hands. What we have belongs in the bedroom. Or the bathroom. Or up in the woods while I'm supposed to be jogging: chill air and hot hands pulling me onto the earth; the scent of sweat and sex, the zest of crushed greenery. That's all there is to it. Tom doesn't want anything more, doesn't expect anything more. He's never spoken about it.

I pick up the remote control and turn the volume up. Tom is a looming darkness in the corner of my eye as I focus on the screen. It's a mother and daughter with an emerald pendant: a family heirloom, but the jewel looks like paste to me.

"Thirty pounds."

Tom stares at the thing. His forehead wrinkles, and his eyebrows tighten into hard lines, and I can almost hear him thinking. But it doesn't take this long to guess the value of a piece of jewellery.

Anyway, the verdict is in: "This really is a lovely stone. It has that deep blue-green colour you only see in emeralds of the very best quality. I think you should insure it for at least fifteen hundred pounds."

This time, I'm wrong.

We scramble up the last few stairs, and then Tom is pulling me along the landing. Or maybe I'm pushing him, because his hands are under my shirt, and I'm stumbling forwards blindly as he drags it over my head. Tom's leg sneaks between mine, and his thigh is grinding against me – it's a good job Alex is out – and, Christ, we'll be lucky if we make it to my room. My room: I fumble with the handle, shove the door open. My room – my bed.

I stop so abruptly that Tom ploughs into me. "What's up?"

I grab his arm and turn him around. "Your room."

Tom frowns. He doesn't understand, and I'm not going to explain. He frowns, but I nudge him down the landing until we're outside his door. He's still so pliable: he's not yet built defences against me. He doesn't know that he ought to. When I drop my hand to his crotch he gasps, and the frown melts into something hungrier. I lock the door behind us – it won't do much to keep a ghost out, but it's better than nothing.

Tom drops his clothing where he stands; I take the briefest moment to drape mine over the chair. Tom's already sprawled on the bed, teasing a hand over his cock, legs spread and waiting for me. He knows what to expect now, and it doesn't take long to have him stretched and squirming for me. But he grips me so tightly that I swear I can feel the throb of his pulse. All that taunting, toxic blood.

I need a moment, need to keep control. But Tom's fingers are clutching the back of my head and his lips are on mine, clumsy, greedy, demanding. We don't kiss; I don't kiss. I pull back and we're poised for one awful, ridiculous moment, the muscles straining in my neck as Tom tries to drag me closer. The he lets go and I jerk back so hard that I nearly slip out of him.

It's almost funny, but – god, his face. Confusion twisting into hurt, and all the time he's looking at me with those wide, trusting eyes. Silent, smothering devotion. It's like Cutler, all over again, like those last delirious months before I ran. I'm looking at Tom, but I'm seeing blue eyes and wavy hair that sweated into curls. A nostalgic pang of guilt. And the urge to fuck him into the mattress, to fuck him hard, again and again, chasing the fleeting oblivion of exhaustion.

This is wrong. I need to stop; I need to say something. To tell him why we're in his bedroom in the first place. That I've noticed the way he lingers in my bed, and I know it's only a matter of time before he wants to sleep with me. But Tom shifts, and pushes, and I'm buried to the hilt inside him again. Perhaps this isn't the time.

Then Tom squeezes – and, Jesus, that feels good – and my hips are thrusting and I'm reaching for his cock. This really isn't the time.

I creep along the landing. There's a creaky floorboard outside of Annie's old room – can't stop to worry about that now – and I sneak down the stairs on the balls of my feet. It's still early, but Alex doesn't sleep, and I won't be able to do this if she's hanging around. I ease the front door shut behind me.

Dawn hush. Lights are still glowing behind bedroom curtains. Round the corner, a man in a suit is juggling with an apple and his briefcase and his keys. I slow down, and he's in his car and safely away before I get too close. Onto the main road. A woman, a few yards ahead of me: slim, blonde, young. Far too much make up, and cheap perfume that I can smell from here – her skin would taste of chemicals. I cross the road; I keep walking.

The café is all lit up, beckoning the hungry in out of the dark. I hold back – watch Tom carrying trays of eggs, filling the water boiler – but I'm stalling. The door's still locked, but I have a key, and Tom startles at the sound of the bell.

"You gonna give me a hand today, then?"

I shake my head. "I came to see you." To talk.

"Oh." He smiles, actually beams at me, and he's only making this harder. "Oh, right."

Tom moves closer, settles a hand on my hip – and that's not what I meant, not at all. But Tom's leaning back against the sink, and I can hear the way his heart is starting to race.

"This is a really bad idea."

"Why? We're closed." Tom's unzipping his fly. "I thought you could, you know …"

"It's unhygenic." It's wrong. "Look, Tom, I …" Why can't I just say it?

Because he's my friend, and somewhere along the way I've lost sight of that. I need to tell him, but I don't want to hurt him – and not just him. I can still see the gleam of Kirby's knowing smile. Out on my ear, he said. Lock up your daughters. What if Tom decides to throw me out?

I sink to my knees; I wrap my fingers around him. The breath sighs out of him, and I look up to see his head fall back and his eyes squeeze shut. He looks happy. I use my tongue on him, and he swells and thickens, the skin sliding easier now, as he hardens in my hand. I'm careful to roll my lips over my teeth before I take him into my mouth.

"Tom? Where are you?"

Tom jumps, driving himself deeper, hitting the back of my throat, and I pull back, gagging.

"Just a sec."

It's a good job one of us can still talk; I swallow down the urge to retch. I clamber to my feet, but there's nowhere to hide and the only way out is past Alex.

"What are you doing in there?"

Tom tucks himself away, and manages to fasten his zip, but there's no way that Alex is going to miss that bloody great bulge. He grabs his apron and rattles the fly curtain aside.

"There you are. Have you seen Hal? I can't find him anywhere. You don't think he's done a runner, do you?"

Tom's silence tells me everything I need to know about where this conversation is heading. He really is the worst liar I've ever known – and I don't want that to change. Not because of me. I step out of the kitchen. Tom is flushed, and the apron is doing nothing to hide his erection. He belatedly stuffs his hands into his pockets, but that just draws attention to it. Alex stares at him; she stares at me. Her mouth is a perfect, frozen oval. She disappears.

Shit. "Wait here. I'll go and find her."

It doesn't take long: she's just around the corner, pacing furiously, and she rounds on me before I get the chance to speak.

"I bloody knew it! I knew the two of you were sharing a bed."

Oh, she knew, did she? "Because anyone who doesn't fancy you must automatically be gay?" And now she's going to start interfering, as if things aren't fucked up enough already.

I hang my head, focus on the familiar pattern. Little finger, ring, middle, index; index, middle, ring –

"Alex, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"No, you shouldn't." A smile battles with her frown.

Alex opens her arms, and I brace for a hug. She hits me on the shoulder. Hard enough to make me wince, but I suppose I deserve it.

Her frown wins the battle. "You'd better not hurt him." But it's far too late for that.

The bell rings again as I walk back into the café, but this time Tom is waiting for me. "How'd she take it?"

"Not as badly as I might have expected."

"Don't you feel better, not pretending any more?" Tom does. He grins, and I'm starting to realise what I've done to the man – what I'm still doing.

"Sit down." But Tom stays on his feet, full of fidgety energy. Excitement. He actually laughs. "What's so funny?"

"Remember when you pretended to be my boyfriend? For that doctor." I wish I could forget. "And now you really are my boyfriend." His hand closes around mine.

I flinch away, snatch my hand back, and for the first time I see Tom's face cloud over. "What's wrong? Have I annoyed you?"

No. It's not him, it's me – I want to laugh at the cliché, but it's not funny. He deserves better, deserves more, but I can't – won't; don't want to – give it to him.

"Tom, sit down." This time, he hears something in my voice that makes him go still. "There's something I have to say."