1910

"James, what have you done?"

The ten year-old looked up, startled. He hadn't even heard the pantry door open. "Father," he started, quickly standing up and trying to hide his mess behind him. "I can explain!"

The tall man narrowed his eyes and in one swift move, he knocked the small boy to the side. Behind him were two baby kittens lapping at a small bowl of milk. They had made quite the mess, tearing up parcels and unraveling bags. He scowled, eyes going back to his son. "What did I say about bringing animals into the house?"

"It's cold!" James protested, moving to stand in front of the small creatures again. "They would've died if I were to just leave them—" His voice was cut off as a hand struck his face. Tears sung his eyes and he barely had time to process the burning in his cheek before his father's fingers curled into his hair. "Father, please!" He didn't know why he bothered pleading, he'd rather the man beat him than the animals anyway.

"I'm sorry," the boy tried, but he was thrown to the floor. He scrambled into a corner as his father pulled out his toolbox, absently reciting verses as he dug around. James' lower lip began to tremble as the man pulled out a crop. "Please," he tried meekly, . "I just wanted—"

"Ah, ah, ah." His father wagged a finger at him, a small smile playing at his lips. "The Lord is my shepard, I shall not want. You're disrespecting Him, Jimmy. You're weak, boy. Weak to the temptations of the earth." the man claimed, grabbing the child's wrist and pulling him to his feet. He held up the whip, ghosting it over James' cheek. "I'm going to make you strong again. Now, strip."

James hesitated only briefly before shutting his eyes and slowly unbuttoning his shirt. Tears rushed down his cheeks by the time he slid off his pants and slowly turned around. The first one was always the worst, he told himself. His father would wait for what felt like ages before actually delivering the hit, always taking James by surprise and signifying that the torture had begun. He could hear his father yelling at him, telling him to repent for his sins. For his disobedience. He was disappointed, God was disappointed. James could only scream. It made his father angrier, made him hit harder, yell louder. He beat the boy until his skin was torn and his legs gave out from underneath him. He would make him stronger. Eventually.

When James opened his eyes, it was bright. He had clearly remembered the sun being down when he had been taken into the bedroom, but it appeared he had been lying on the cold floor for hours. As if on cue, he suddenly became aware of the welts and sores decorating his body. The pain kicked in all at once and it took all of his strength to keep from screaming. He knew he wasn't supposed to scream — he wasn't supposed to cry either, but he had mastered the silent trembles and tears. He refused to move, his skin feeling as though it was going to split if he did.

He wasn't sure how long he stayed there, whimpering and fighting to steady his breath. The pain didn't cease, but he grew tolerant enough to force himself onto his feet. He gathered his clothes from the floor, the fabric stinging his skin as he put them on. He would have taken a bath, his normal routine, but he didn't think he could make it to the bathroom. He would sleep, maybe for a short time before breakfast, in the comfort of his own—

James froze as he reached his bed. He had almost forgotten why he was punished in the first place, but now he was clearly reminded. Tears began to blur his vision, but he could still see red. It stained his blankets and his pillows had drowned in it. He felt his stomach lurch and he swallowed down the bile that burned his throat. He thought that his father would have gotten rid of them. Of course he wouldn't be so kind.

James shakily extended a hand, choking out a sob when the pads of his fingers met with the soft fluff he remembered doting over before. One of the kittens heads was resting on his pillow, the rest of its body dismembered and scattered about the bed. The other one had been so brutally torn to shreds, it was simply a mess of fur and bloodied remnants. This time he heard the door open, and he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth to stifle his crying.

"You'll learn, James," his father murmured. "To respect and obey." James managed a nod, and suddenly a hand clapped down on his throbbing shoulder. He bit his lip to keep from crying out, teeth sinking into his flesh until a metallic taste filled his mouth. "Honor thy father and mother."

2015

There were not many things that scared James March. In fact, he often claimed that nothing scared him at all. He had always preferred that he be the cause of the terror for others. To show fear was to show weakness, and James was certainly not weak. However, underneath the sadism, the power hungry cravings and homicidal tendencies, there was something that occasionally frightened James.

Himself. His mind and the thoughts inside it.

What James really feared was losing control. He wasn't the type to blame his dark acts on some voice in his head, or prompting from the devil. He was aware of what he did, and he enjoyed doing it. Or, at least, he thought he did. Killing had become natural, it was a second nature to him. He could look at a person and immediately know how he would take their lives. Strangling, stabbing, bashing, a bullet to the brain — those were just the basics. There was so much possibility and James wanted to explore every one. It was one of the things about his that made what he did so alluring. He had life in his hands, and he could take it away without thinking twice. He had complete control.

Then she had to barge in.

With her doe eyes and subtle smirks, Zoe Benson was exactly James' type. It was no surprise that he targeted her. He imagined his hands around her slender neck as soon as he laid eyes on it, her large eyes growing glassy as she tried to breathe under the pressure. He thought of how her dainty figure would write underneath him, a blade later following the invisible trail his lips left behind. He would drag it out, play with her. He would have her wrapped around his finger before he completely destroyed her.

And then something changed.

He hadn't expected her to be different. To have a sense of humor that he understood, or intelligence, determination. Certainly hadn't expected her to harbor the same anger at the world and the ignorance in it that he did. He hadn't expected to enjoy her company. Maybe he was just lonely — it had been so long since anyone had paid him the same attention. He hadn't had to trail after Zoe as he planned, she came to him. She wanted to spend time with him, get to know him. Most importantly, she wasn't afraid of him. Even with the knowledge that he had killed two men directly in front of her. Even with his uncontrolled outbursts, voicing homicidal thoughts that he tried to keep locked up.

What made the situation so frustrating was the fact that now James was caught in something that he truly didn't understand. Something that threatened how much control he had over himself.

James March was supposed to be the textbook definition of a sociopath, criminology professors referenced him in their lectures. He lacked sympathy, empathy — one couldn't murder such a multitude of people if they felt bad. After Elizabeth, after her betrayal, James concluded that his father had been right about one thing. Emotions were the equivalent to weakness. To allow yourself to feel, especially for another person, was a sign that you were headed down a road of helpless self-destruction.

And yet here James was, trying to understand why, after ten minutes of meeting her, he had just sewn a woman's mouth shut, cut off her hands and ripped out her intestines and uterus and yet Zoe Benson was very much alive and untouched on the lower floor.

Four days, he had told himself when he first saw her. He would let her live for four days, much longer than he granted any of the other females that so blindly wandered into his path. Four days in itself felt like over a week. It was the Cortez's way of selfishly toying with her residents. Today was the sixth day and he hadn't laid a hand on her.

Normally, he was excited. He was eager to follow through with his fantasies, ecstatic to make them a bloody reality. Now, he was hesitant. His fantasies with Zoe were blurred. The concept of tearing her apart wasn't as arousing as it had been and that alone made him nervous. It made him lash out.

He hadn't planned on killing that girl. He really hadn't. Then again, he rarely ever planned on killing someone — he just did it. There was something about this time, though. Something that made him sick to his stomach about the mess he had created. He wanted to a prove a point. He wanted to prove that he wasn't going soft, that he was still the James Patrick March people feared. He was still one of the first and most successful serial killers of all time. And no Baltimore blonde was going to rip that persona away from him.

He knew what he had to do. But now he struggled with whether or not he could actually do it.

It had only been six days. And yet something about Zoe Benson was making him weak.

He was losing control.

"Do you believe in Hell?"

James blinked, the question taking him by surprise. Zoe hadn't said anything since he took her downstairs, and he certainly hadn't expected those to be her first words. "Yes," he admitted. "Though not in the traditional sense." He pulled out his cigarette case, offering one to the blonde before lighting his own. "I don't think it's run by a man with horns and a tail," he chuckled. "I think hell looks like the world we know. It is the world we know. I think hell is different for each person..." He paused, leaning back in his chair. He suddenly felt like the hotel walls were closing in on him, reminding him of where he was. "Some people don't even know they're there."

Zoe hadn't expected such an in-depth response. She wasn't even sure she had seen James so serious since meeting him. She knew something was wrong, but sh also knew better than to pry just yet. She occupied herself with her cigarette, leaning forward as James held up his lighter. She watched the flame closely, sighing when it went out. "I think I was there this morning," she admitted quietly. She recalled her trip to hell when she was performing the Seven Wonders. Now that she thought about it, it was quite like the experience she had earlier. Her worst fears, her built up emotions; they came to life with no other purpose than to her.

"You did seem shaken," James hummed, his curiosity captured. Zoe certainly was an interesting woman — far more unique than any he had encountered in the last century. "What did you see?"

Zoe hesitated. Part of her wanted to tell him, but she couldn't seem to find a sentence that wouldn't make her sound absolutely insane to any normal human being. "Well, you see, you happen to look like my dead boyfriend and I think, because of that, I'm attracted to you. These feelings—they're probably not even real. Anyway, I hallucinated that said dead boyfriend was trying to kill me this morning because of my own pathetic guilt." Yeah. That would go over well. Finally, she decided on shaking her head ever-so-slightly. James looked disappointed, so Zoe quickly put on a smile. The subject had been on her far too long. "Do you even own a pair of jeans?"

Startled, James pulled a face. "What—Miss Benson, I must say, if you are trying to put me in an equally sour mood by insulting my choice in apparel—"

"I'm not insulting," Zoe rolled her eyes. "I'm done talking about my problems and just curious as to why you always look like you're about to head to some Roarin' Twenties-themed dinner party."

"This," he gestured to his suit, "is far from dinner party attire." He gave her an incredulous look. "This is more suited for, I don't know, a walk in the park."

Zoe couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips. One thing she could admit, for sure, about James was that he had an interesting sense of humor, to say the least. The mood had already significantly lifted, in her opinion, and she was grateful for the distraction. "When was the last time you went to the park?" she joked, but she noticed the way James stiffened. She blinked, pursing her lips. "James, do you even—I mean, do you even have any other clothes?"

James glared at the table, then at her. "If I may, I believe your venture into hell proved to be a far more interesting conversation topic."

Okay, that was a no. Zoe stared at him in disbelief. "How old are you again?"

James' eyebrow twitched. "Twenty-five." Give or take ninety years.

Zoe raised her eyebrows and put out her cigarette. She hesitated for a moment before taking a deep breath. "Why don't we go shopping?" James didn't respond, but his glare dissolved into something less readable. "I mean, not like... a date or anything," she added, fearing that his response was due to her inferring something that he wasn't prepared for. "I mean, I think it'd be good for both of us to get out of the hotel for a bit, right? And you probably know Los Angeles better than I do."

Oh yes, the Los Angeles from 1924. He had no idea what was outside the hotel, he wasn't even sure he knew what businesses were on either side of the building. "What's wrong with the hotel?" James' voice was low, but Zoe could sense the upset lurking just underneath the surface.

"What? Nothing, I just thought you might wanna—" Zoe watched as the man's demeanor changed entirely. His back stiffened and he set another icy glare on the table. "Are you okay? Did I say something?"

James was, oh-so-desperately, trying to keep himself in check. There were people in the lounge, he had to keep his temper at bay. But damn, was it difficult. He wasn't angry at Zoe, no. He was frustrated with himself for having allowed himself to fall into this situation. Had he just killed the girl when he initially planned, he wouldn't have to worry about tedious things like her wanting to leave. The hotel was growing exceedingly selfish each day and James had no doubts that, while she would retain the pitiful receptionist and charismatic bartender, Zoe would have no recollection of the man in front of her when she came back. Even from a thirty minute shopping spree. But then again, why should he care if she remembered him or not? Of what importance was she other than a new toy? But, she was more than that, wasn't she? No. Maybe? Shit, not again.

"I don't need new clothes," he finally managed to force through his teeth. He felt his head throbbing and his thoughts became a jumbled mess. He had been doing so well, he thought. Now, he could feel everyone staring at him. The guests, Liz; they were all watching him. Waiting for him to take one wrong step. Judging him.

"Are you scared?"

James suddenly plummeted back to reality. He opened his eyes, focusing on Zoe's face. The paranoia, the hatred, the rage - it settled, dissolving into confusion and unease. She wasn't apprehensive, she was, again, prepared for his sudden change. She was also concerned. About him. That was something he was certainly not expecting, nor was he used to.

"Scared of what?" he asked, trying to remain indifferent.

"Of leaving the hotel," she finally offered. She slowly extended her hand, placing it on top of his. "I get it. I've heard of people like that. Agoraphobia, right? Fear of going outside?" James blinked at her, an incredulous expression settling on his features. She took his blank look as confirmation and gave him a small smile. "I can go myself, you know. I could pick you up a couple tees. If I keep the receipts and you don't like them, I can take them back."

James was fairly sure that he had no idea what she was talking about. Tea, receipts — her voice was distant. His gaze was focused on her hand; her pale, dainty hand that she had draped over his as a comforting gesture. She was trying to make him feel better, to fix him. She cared.

But she was so wrong.

James pulled his hand back. He stared at it for a moment before he closed his eyes. He inhaled slowly, remaining silent for what Zoe thought felt like an hour. Finally he laughed. It started out as a breathy, almost wheezing sound, but it soon escalated into a full blown laugh. This time Liz actually did look at him. She hadn't heard the owner laugh like that before, and something about it was unnerving.

Zoe stared at him, suddenly feeling the slightest bit uncomfortable. Definitely far from what she had expected. She had pictured this ending with a hug, maybe a little more emotion. She was anticipating tears, maybe even another outburst. But laughter that danced along the lines of a hysterical cackle? That had not been in consideration. "What?" she asked hesitantly. "I'm serious, if you're too scared to go outside then I can go get you—"

"I'm not afraid of the outside, Miss Benson." He said it as though it were obvious, the amusement still in his eyes.

Zoe almost felt offended, but it was really out of embarrassment. Maybe she had misread the signs — well, obviously she had. "I mean, I just thought—I wouldn't blame you if you were. The world can be a scary place."

James sighed. The thread was wearing thin. He was definitely in need of another cigarette, and possibly a drink. "Miss Benson, I will be completely and utterly honest with you." He plucked another cigarette from its holster. "You have more to be afraid of in this very room, than you do if you step outside the front door."

Author's Note: Well, I was trying to have a James-centric chapter (though it probably won't be the only one) that may have shed some light on his feelings and plans relating to Zoe. That being said, it is incredibly confusing to try and write feelings for someone who has very little and also happens to be mentally unstable. I was trying to add that little bit of confusion and craziness into the writing, but I really think it's a mess.

I also wanted to reference the show where James said that his father would "kill a cat for purring too loud" and the Ten Commandments aspect (which will have a point, considering it has much to do with James' thought process). If you also noticed, I made James 5 years younger (I think Tristan said he was born in 1895, well now it's 1900) for the sake of Zames having less of an age-difference. Kind of. Sort of. Not really. He's still old as hell.