"That's my baby. That's him."

I stood at the foot of the casket, hands clasped in front of me as I watched the elderly woman with thick glasses and greying blonde hair extend a hand down to stroke her son's cheek. Hesitating for a moment, she turned to me with a pleading look.

"Could I kiss him?"

There was never a way to say no to that. Forcing the tiniest of smiles, I slowly nodded and took a step forward, just in case she needed assistance. Her arms shook with effort as she inclined deeply, brushing back the hair on his head. Furtively, I turned my gaze to the floor as she placed several audible kisses on his wide forehead.

As anticipated, the sound of smothered sobs followed. Snatching the box of tissues from a nearby table, I pulled out several and handed them over to her as she struggled to inhale through the clutter of tears and snot.

"I-I'm sorry, i-it's just that... " Taking off her spectacles and wiping at her dripping nose, she looked to me with deep, jade eyes that were bloodshot around the edges of her irises. "He was my best friend for thirty-three years. The only family I had left."

If Sam wasn't busy arguing with the wedding planner Roger had picked out for their officially dated event in June, I would've been inclined to excuse myself and make him deal with this. The rest of my family had taken on the assumption that I had a weak stomach for devastated families, just as Sam couldn't deal with strange odors and 'degloving'. Even worse, my father had the renewed notion that sticking me back out in the front of the funeral home on occasion would rebuild a resistance, like sensitivity to formaldehyde.

He was so wrong. As I struggled to not wince while watching the sixty-something woman in front of me double over in near convulsions, I edgily stretched out a hand and rubbed her shuddering back. It was all I could do to not see Corin Darcy's mother in the same position. Shiny, taupe curls covering her face, instead of limp, flaxen waves.

"I'm so sorry, Ms. Ludwig. Burying a child isn't something anyone should have to do."

Slowly, her sobs began to subside. Turning to eye me warily, she dabbed at her nose again and spoke in a defeated tone. "It was always going to be this way. No one would've wanted to care for a grown man. No matter how sweet and innocent."

I couldn't argue with her, considering I didn't know what it was like to have a child with Down syndrome. The collage of photos set on the table nearby, lovely and happy as they were, only consisted of a mother and her adult child.

"I knew this day would come. He had heart problems his whole life." She looked away and smiled sadly, twisting the crumpled tissue in her trembling hands. "I always said it was too big for this world."

With a solemn nod, I took a few steps back in the direction of the chapel entrance. "I'll let you have some time alone, before your visitors arrive for the viewing." At her acknowledgement of a nod, I was free to go. Halfway down the aisle, I stopped in my stride as she called after me with a sudden and urgent tone.

"Miss Rothschild?"

'Damn.' Closing my eyes briefly, I turned on my heels to face her. Her expression was scrunched up, eyes shining with new tears as she struggled to maintain her composure. "Tell the man who fixed my baby... thank you. He looks perfect."

Presuming a man to do the handiwork. An old-fashioned assumption, but I couldn't blame her, accounting for her age. A small wave of sick amusement rose in my chest as I nodded emphatically, noting her compliment away in the back of my mind as I kept a straight face.

"I will."

There are things in life that cast the illusion of time as something that slips away too quickly, like water running through one's fingers. Biannual dental cleanings. End of semester ten page essays. Psychological torture sessions conducted by sociopathic dickwads who take advantage of troubled girls, and then mercilessly taunt them for it.

Maybe I was just coming off a little bitter. The sun hadn't been out for a solid four weeks, and there was this whole rage about 'seasonal depression'. People were out buying lamps that imitated sunlight, desperate for some remnant of natural warmth to cling to as the holidays began their descent, dragging everyone and their wallets down with them.

Instead of madly scrambling the streets for last minute gifts, I stood alone in front of the warehouse of 'Litham Bros. Lighting', sporting the bulkiest, most unattractive clothes I could find. A thick puffy jacket worn over an olive turtleneck, which when contrasted with my hair, made me look like a bit of a leprechaun. My rain boots from work had a slight spatter of blood on them, though I supposed Crane wouldn't mind too much. And the half of an inch my hair managed to grow gave me the ability to pin it back into a severe bun, though some of the shorter curls effectively came loose and stuck out like frazzled imitations of sun flares.

When the front door finally opened, I quickly came to realize that all of my deliberate fashion choices were fruitless. The corners of his lips curved upwards as he eyed my appearance appraisingly. Was that a smile? Oh, God. He was actually in a good mood.

"You should wear your hair back more often. It suits you."

"You should shut the fuck up, so we can get this over with." I replied ungraciously, passing him with a rough shove of my shoulder as I entered. My nose was stuffy and numb, forcing me to cup a hand over my face and generate warmth with my breath. How he could stay in a place without central heating baffled me. Then again, in Dante's Inferno, Satan sat waist deep in ice at the center of Hell. Obviously branching off from the same family, this was probably a comfort to him.

Without any further exchanges, I followed him as he made his way to the far corner of the warehouse. Stepping gently around the strewn tarps, so as not to trip and make a complete fool of myself, I kept my eyes trained to the floor as he began his inquiries.

"I'm presuming that we won't be interrupted for the time being. Have you taken all proper precautions?"

I paused in my stride, mulling his question over. Had I? Probably not as best as I could've. I had called John while on transit to the warehouse, hoping we could talk for a few minutes to avoid any later, interrupting calls. He didn't answer, which wasn't uncommon when he was working after hours. Giving a half-hearted shrug, I stopped halfway and reinforced my wordless answer with a slow, lying nod as I saw Crane's look of speculation quickly darken into a glower. After eyeing me for a long moment, he broke the gaze, seemingly satisfied.

"Then we can begin."

He came to a stop beside the ratty stuffed chair I had noticed during my last visit, a metal tray perched next to it with several objects laid on display. There was a stethoscope, a manual blood pressure monitor with an inflatable cuff, and a flashlight the size of a pen.

"Those don't look like torture devices." I quipped, staring down at the medical equipment with scrutiny. He made no effort to explain further. I let his cryptic silence slide as my attention turned to something small and rather beautiful on the edge of the metal tray. Reaching out, I took it delicately between my fingers.

It was a dried flower, brittle and crumbling to the touch. The calyx was large, pointed-edged and extending outwards in a fashion that reminded me of old illustrations of the menacing, open mouth of the Kraken before it consumed sailors whole. Blue petals cupped within softened the appearance, delicate and brightly azure. Like Crane's eyes. Twirling it between my fingers, I turned to him with a trenchant smile.

"If you're trying to be cute, you're failing. Miserably."

Tilting his head upward, he mirrored my look, that forced smile on his face a hair's breadth from a snarl. "Shame. It was rather difficult to procure."

"Well, don't let your efforts go wasted on my behalf." I said casually, bringing the flower to my face and taking a quick sniff. I immediately regretted it. "Oh my God, that's awful," I forced out, my eyes watering as I bit back a hacking cough. A nasty effort to remove the sharp scent from my nostrils. "What the hell is this?!"

"That," he eyed me, wickedly grinning at my violent reaction to the scent, "is the compound you've heard so much about."

"What?" I dropped the thing, letting it fall to the table with a thump. "You killed people with a flower?"

"The substance is weaker in it's natural form. That's where we'll be starting."

"But... I don't... " Glancing back and forth between the tiny dried plant and the man who claimed to use it, I couldn't find myself easily drawing the connection. I'd seen all types of poisons used, from wood alcohol in a mobster's drink, to arsenic tucked into vitamin capsules. Vapor from some sort of minuscule blue flower? Now, that was a first.

Without making eye contact, he spoke casually as he stuck a hand into his inner coat pocket. "It's an organic hallucinogen, absorbed into the bloodstream when inhaled through the lungs."

"Um... sounds like you made me come halfway across the city for some kind of toking session." I said in a sarcastic tone, raising an eyebrow at his unamused expression. Within seconds, I found myself eating my words as he pulled out a chestnut colored pipe, extending his arm out in my direction. The curved tail was glossy and ebony, connecting to an ample, bulbous end. I took it from his outstretched hand, examining it with scrutiny. There was no residue in the bowl, nor burn marks from any lighters, indicating it had never been used. I looked up to openly frown at him with disapproval.

"Do I look like Gandalf to you?"

Judging by his lack of concern, he had obviously expected me to say something from the beginning. He turned his attention to the metal tray and picked up a small pad of yellow lined paper he had left sitting on the edge. As if I could really let him ignore me so blatantly. "This is some low class shit, even for you." I added with a withering look.

"One mustn't be too critical of compromises made during hardships." He replied tonelessly, pulling a pen out of his front coat pocket and clicking it twice, before deciding to jot down a short note. Sucking the inside of my cheek, I set the pipe on the metal tray and sat down in the tattered chair, hearing it protest under my weight with a short creak and groan.

"Hardships." I muttered. Eyes never leaving the note pad, he spoke in a renewed, astringent air, like someone of position giving their first command. "Take off your jacket."

"What?" Turning to him with a weary eye, I grabbed onto the lapels of my thick insulation and pulled it tighter around me. "No, you never told me I had to do that."

At my refusal, he redirected his attention to me with a slightly aggravated look. "There mustn't be anything in the way while I monitor your vitals. We need to start the preliminary figures."

"But it's freezing in here, there isn't any heat!"

Upper lip curling with reeling disdain, I watched as his good mood began to visibly curdle under my protests. "Perhaps if you'd not whimper for the entirety of this session, I might be so inclined to accommodate your evident need for comfort during your next visit."

'Your next visit.' My nose scrunched in distaste at his words. I'd almost forgotten that this wasn't a solitary incident. In deliberate, hateful movements, I peeled off my thick jacket, folding it over in my lap and pulling my sleeves down over my thumbs.

"Roll up your right sleeve."

Jaw clenched in a desperate attempt to quell the chattering of my teeth from the nippy air, I pushed my sleeve up past my elbow. He clasped a hand around my wrist roughly, raising my arm as he wrapped the cuff of the monitor around it. When the bell of the stethoscope pressed just above the crook of my elbow, I winced.

"It's cold." I gasped, flexing my fingers in discomfort. I heard him mutter something incoherent under his breath, his patience stretching precariously thin. The bell stayed on my arm, painfully for a moment, before he pulled back and blew on it. When it came back, it was warm to the touch. Nothing could stop the clammy disturbance that spread down my arm and into my fingertips as I watched him move the diaphragm across the faint blue paths of my veins, his index finger absentmindedly brushing back and forth across my skin as he silently counted each beat of my heart.

I'd forgotten what it felt like to have his hands on me. Not wanting to acknowledge the intimacy of his touch, I turned my face away. As the longest minute of my life trickled by, I closed my eyes and focused in on other senses, like the sound of faint currents buzzing through old electrical wiring, and the light ticking of the watch on his wrist. It wasn't long until I detected a faint echo of strings, stemming from some sort of classical composition. From where I was sitting, it seemed like the music was seeping down from the ceiling, though that couldn't be right.

"Where's that music coming from?"

"Don't speak." He answered sharply, fingers clutching around my elbow a little tighter. I turned my head to meet his strikingly severe and harrowing gaze. Christ, did he know how to shoot a look. That focused stare of his held for a few seconds, lips twitching in a stiff ghost of a grin as he pulled away to place the instruments back on the table.

"Your blood pressure and heart rate are slightly elevated, though I suppose that might be the stress of anticipation."

I sniffed at his veiled remark, feigning heavy disinterest. "Sure." When he turned back to me, the pipe was in his left hand, flower crushed into the bowl and ready for use. I took it from him without any further remarks. As of that moment, I was determined to get our first session over with as quickly as possible. Producing a small lighter in his free hand, he pressed it into my open palm and inclined his head.

"I'm sure you already know what to do."

It was then when I realized that my cheeks were burning hot under his scrutiny. His fingertips lightly traced the lines of my palm as he pulled back a bit too slowly, those full lips of his pursing viciously as he knew damn well what he was doing. Fuck him. I had a lump the size of lime in my throat, and it was definitely due to the fact that I could see the way his adam's apple bobbed just above the collar of his shirt as he spoke. The worst part was, he was clearly aware of it all. "Yeah." I croaked, mouth dry and voice void of conviction.

Dread curled deep in the pit of my stomach as I closed my lips over the end of the pipe, flicking the lighter several times till a flame ignited. Even with my eyes focused on the flickering glow, I could feel his stare burning holes through me. The petals shrunk and curled as they caught fire, that scent intensifying to a sickening miasma as I inhaled deeply, letting the fumes fully permeate through my lunges. The smoke was thick, cloying, and had an aftertaste of what I imagined floor cleaner to taste like.

Then came the nagging irritation that burned through my chest. Coughing violently, my eyes began to tear up as my cheeks started to tingle with a strange sensation. I would've been lying if I said that I didn't anticipate the effects of the awful smelling plant to be something akin to a strong stash of bud. Unfortunately, it was anything but.

First, came an incredible tightening sensation that gripped my chest. Then followed a deep gurgle in my throat, which prompted me to cough out a large gush of painfully icy water. I could feel it run down my chin, dampening the front of my shirt. Panicked, I lurched forward, dropping the pipe and letting it fall to the ground with an echoing crack.

"Oh my God," I clamped a hand to my mouth, unexpectedly touching dry skin. Moving my hand down, I felt no trace of water. My chest was heaving under my shaking fingers. I could hear my own gasping breaths as I struggled to breathe, not making sense of what was happening.

"I didn't have you come here to destroy the compound like a brainless twit during the experiment." Taking my chin by two fingers, he forcibly turned my face in his direction, though his scowl wasn't as effective as he probably intended. In that moment, I couldn't tell if I was seeing him properly or not. Everything seemed to grow brighter, the contrast of the fluorescent lighting washing out any shadows in view and outlining his figure in a rippling motion. His eyes were glowing, blue washed out by a luminous amber. Why were they glowing?

"I-I'm trying to not, I just... it's just hard to-" My useless words were caught short as I felt the constriction in my chest again. The sensation of liquid churned right over my windpipe, forcing me to gasp and choke like some sort of stupid fish. His fingers slowly drew across my jawline, causing me to audibly draw in a sharp breath. The warming touch of his fingertips radiated and throbbed in time with my heartbeat, which I could hear pounding away and ringing loudly in my ears.

"Are you drowning, Winifred?"

"I don't know, a-am I?" I panted heavily, feeling nausea roil in my stomach as he began to oscillate in my vision. With his free hand, he briefly passed the flashlight over my eyes, washing out the creeping visions momentarily. When my sight refocused, I finally saw his unpleasant stare. He let go of my face and turned away, murmuring under his breath, as if creating notes in his mind before taking them to paper. "Dilated pupils, with slight vibrations... "

Being a lab rat was harder than I thought. Spots were forming in my eyes, darkening the edges of everything I saw and narrowing it to a jagged tunnel vision. Tugging at the collar of my turtleneck, I spoke in a raspy ghost of a voice. "... I think I'm gonna pass out."

"It's because you're hyperventilating." Without bothering to face me, he kept prattling off commands. "Become conscious of your breathing."

He was right. I was imagining things, and I needed to take control. Closing my eyes, I still felt my consciousness swimming as I began to build a mantra in the back of my mind. 'Breathe normally. Just breathe.' Clenching my fists tightly, I began to draw in air gradually, then let it out slow. In. Out. In. Out.

Those hands of his found themselves returning to me, this time on either side of my head, thumbs pressed to the raging pulse in my carotids at the junction of my neck and jaw. If I could guess, he was standing behind the chair, taking in the sight of me as I writhed slowly against the cushions in an effort to control myself. I felt a deep and urgent need to curl up in a ball and wait for these horrible feelings to wash over. But, I knew that wasn't what I was here to do. A whimper escaped my throat, forcing me to bite my lower lip. I couldn't let myself crumble so easily.

One of his fingers traced the edge of my right earlobe as he spoke, his voice deeper than I'd ever heard it. It was ominous. "When you fell off the bridge, and water was filling your lungs... what did you feel?"

Such conjuring words. At the very mention of that bridge, I could begin to feel the bitter wind whipping at my face. Even in the thick haze of my skewed cognizance, I could feel icy water lapping at my ankles, prickling my skin with every swell. It ignited a familiar rush of elation that swelled in my veins. If I let myself believe it, I could almost taste that brief escape from the never-ending replay of burdened regret that plagued me.

My words were heavy, strenuous to form, and even more difficult to enunciate. "Relief. I was... unbound."

Those tiny ministrations against my skin stopped. He was mulling over this, as if momentarily perplexed. Despite his effort, I could hear the uncertainty in his voice. "You didn't panic the moment you submerged. It was when you surfaced."

As if it couldn't be said any plainer. Opening my eyes, I saw a flickering vision of that hunter hovering over me, worry etched deep into his face, his hands gripping the sides of my head imploringly. I reached up with a gasp and wrenched Crane's hands away, lurching forward and burying my face into my jacket. Those imaginary sensations swiftly receded, pulling me back into reality.

"I didn't want to go back," I bit out, hearing a pitiful, hollow sound of a muffled sob catch in my throat. "They should have left me to die."

I heard footsteps recede as he made his way around the chair, echoing with a reverberation I could feel in my bones. If he thought I was trying to reach out to him for sympathy, he didn't embrace it. "And here you are, smothering yourself again in your own, small, complacent life. Managing your demons so poorly."

"Talk about the pot... calling the kettle black." I forced out, using a substantial amount of effort to simply sit up and stare him down with a cold look. My sight was still heavily unfocused, but I could see his hard, pale features illuminated against unruly, inky locks of hair. As I saw him take a step forward, I instinctively shrunk back into the chair. My reaction elicited a deceptive, yet fairly amused smile.

"True, though it's the underlying reason you always come back to me. To get a taste of familiarity." He brought his hands out from behind him, that thin black pen fiddling mindlessly between his right thumb and forefinger. "I didn't really have to bribe you with gifts, you would've come here anyway."

Incoherent as I was, his ego was still palpable enough to irritate me. Riding on his high horse like Napoleon on a Shetland Pony. "I came... because you offered to leave me alone." Straightening in my seat, I squinted my eyes to keep focus as I scowled down my nose in his wavering direction. "Do you... really want to leave me alone?"

He placed the pen down on the metal tray and turned his head to shoot me an unreadable look. "It's a sensible resolution to make, when one finds themselves at an impasse." Adjusting the cuffs of his shirt, he rubbed his open palms together vigorously to generate heat. "Control is only absolute when given. If you so adamantly refuse to give... "

I flinched as he reached out, pressing the back of his hand against my temple. Surprisingly, his fingers felt cool against my skin. "... Then you shall not receive."

"I don't want anything from you." I retorted, pulling on my shirt to air out the clammy stick of perspiration. Despite the frigid conditions, I was becoming uncomfortably warm. This shirt was too hot. I was getting too hot.

He seemed to notice this as well, the amusement in his tone betraying his feigned words of concern. "Your temperature is rather warm. Taking off the knit might help."

"I'm not wearing anything under this, you dolt!" Enraged, I made an uncoordinated swipe to smack his hand away from my forehead. And missed. By the time my palm reached my face, I swatted myself in the eye instead.

The resulting pain throbbed mercilessly as he took advantage of my moment of lapsed focus, grabbing my upper arms with enough force to immediately alarm me. I struggled against him, a gag of unease stuck in my throat as he spoke slowly, his words enticing and edged. "If you learned to sacrifice this hesitancy you've accustomed yourself to... you could become something formidable."

With those coaxing words, a gloomy realization set itself deep into my bones. I paused in my struggle, not sure what to say.

This well-rooted preoccupation he had of gaining control of himself had obviously distorted into a full-blown fixation over time, like an injured patient allowing their painkiller prescriptions to become an addiction. This was beyond a simple experiment to find a solution. It was a seething, active crusade against the other persona who occupied his mind, and anyone else who decided to get in his way.

His proposal frightened me beyond this chemically induced adrenaline rush that aggressively swam in my veins. This wasn't what I came here for. Rolling my shoulders painfully, I moved against his vice-like grip and swallowed hard.

"... I don't want to." I rasped. My mouth was dry, lips cracking from my rapid intakes of air and profuse sweating.

Not the answer he wanted to hear. He inclined his head ever so slowly, staring me down with a predatory look. At this proximity, I could begin to see a bit of azure in those luminescent eyes.

"... Liar."

"What?" I tried to furrow my brows, but I couldn't tell if I was doing it properly. Muscles were randomly convulsing in my body, and I was having difficulty controlling the way my eyes twitched, or the infrequent puckering pulls at the corners of my mouth. If I ever thought I looked like a hot mess, this evening conquered any unfortunate circumstances by a landslide. As I watched his lips part to elaborate, my phone began to ring, chanting away in my back pocket.

'Shit.'

If anything could sour the moment further, that was it. His expression became absolutely murderous as I wrenched my arms out of his grip, placing an unsteady finger over my lips as I opened the phone and put it against my ear. Averting my eyes from his seething glare, I cleared my throat nervously.

"... Hello?"

"Hey, saw you called me. What're you up to?"

It was John. As if this could get any worse. My mind was still incredibly hazy, forcing me to pause for a sickening moment as I struggled to think of something to say. "Uh... nothing, I was just... reorganizing my closet."

"Really?" To my dismay, he didn't sound so convinced. "At seven-thirty at night?"

Faking a conversation on a normal basis was painful. Lying to someone when high off of some deregulated substance was damn near impossible. My heart was pounding away, sitting at the base of my throat as I struggled to speak. "Yeah. I think I might've caught OCD... or something."

That comment elicited a sharp sigh from Crane. When I looked up, I saw him dramatically rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. I frowned at him, silently mouthing 'What?', before shaking my head and deciding to ignore him. There was shuffling and faint voices on the other side of the line, which meant he was just leaving work.

"So, did you call me to ask for help with... 'reorganizing your closet'?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Crane's frown downturn a bit harder at John's innuendo, clearly indicating that he was listening in. "No! No, uh... " I forced a laugh, which sounded more grating than usual in the presence of an angry audience. "I'm really pacific about where I put things."

"Specific." Crane corrected sardonically, openly impatient with my phone call. I waved a hand insistently, mouthing 'shut up', before turning my back to him and cupping the phone. "I'm gonna call you when I'm done, uh... " Biting my lip, I squeezed my eyes shut out of frustration from my muddled thoughts, and the highly pressured stress of finding a way to wrap up the conversation.

'Just pretend it's Mom on the other line.' That thought took the pressure off. Feeling my brow relax, I sighed and scratched my nose as I mumbled my closing words. "... Alright, uh, I love you. Bye."

It didn't occur to me what I'd done until John immediately sputtered on the other end of the line. "Wait, what?!"

'Oh God, what?' My eyes snapped open, stomach dropping straight down to my toes as the realization of my awful mistake sunk in. It was how I usually ended my phone calls with my parents and Sam, but most certainty not John.

I'd said it. I accidentally said the "L" word. As I ground my teeth, I heard a sharp intake of breath behind me, the air electrifying with enough charge to make the hairs on my arms stand on end. Sweet baby Jesus, I fucked up. I'd fucked up.

I couldn't take it back.

"Damn, Freddie, I didn't... " A short laugh of disbelief came out of the receiver. He was clearly pleased, to my profound horror. "I... love you too."

This was the exact reason why I never answered the phone when my parents called when I was high or drunk off my ass. My upper lip was moist with sweat, which I wiped off as I shook my head emphatically. 'He's not in front of you. Stop acting.' My voice was weak, faltering with each second. "Cool. I'll call you later."

Cool. 'Cool?' I was almost a hundred percent sure that the last time someone said that to "I love you", Bill Cosby was still advertising pudding pops, and Skip-It was still a thing. Without waiting for a reply, I immediately hung up before I could do any further damage.

The complete and utter silence behind me was something I really, really didn't want to acknowledge. Instead of turning around like an honorable human being, I pretended to fumble around with the collar of my shirt like a time wasting coward. When he finally spoke, his voice was toneless, devoid of emotion.

"... You love him."

"I guess so," I replied carelessly, smoothing back the stray curls from my face. In that moment, two hands dragged me out of the chair, forcing me to my feet ungraciously. While the initial rush of the drug had run its course, I was still hit heavy with the lingering effects. I swayed precariously on quivering legs, ready to hit the ground, if it wasn't for Crane grabbing me by the front of my shirt to prevent me from toppling over like a lopsided tiered cake. When I met his enraged expression, I mirrored it with one of my own. Making a clumsy swipe at his head, I spat at him like a hissing cat.

"What the hell's your fucking problem?!"

I could hear the fabric of my shirt stretch out, popping under the force of my weight and his countering pull. His lip curled as he began rattling off his complaints. "I will not allow this agreement of ours to become compromised. You were supposed to take precautionary measures-"

"And you should have kept your mouth shut!" Finding ground in my stance, I whacked his hand away and adjusted my ruined shirt. "Don't be snarky with me, even when I'm high, I can smell resentment from a mile away."

His eyes widened momentarily, mouth forming a ferocious sneer. "Are you daring to imply something you've conjured up in that ridiculous head of yours?"

"It ain't conjured, dickface. This," I gestured with open palms across my chest, moving them ungracefully in an up and down motion. His expression couldn't have become more dead pan than a robot with the switch off. "Is off limits to you. Permanently."

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he gave me the once over and scoffed. "Not really a burden on my end."

My eyes narrowed as I leaned forward on my ankles, legs straight and my center of gravity ready to shift at any moment. "... What?"

He was savoring the seething look on my face. Those teeth of his flashed as he tauntingly enunciated his words, eyes widening in fractions with each syllable. "Not. That. Great."

As I lurched towards him with a retracted open palm, several things came to mind. The same night he pillaged Gotham, he came to my apartment, even when the first place the GPD would go was just one floor above. When he first saw John, he took it upon himself to find a copy of Corin's obituary and stick it in a doll that someone couldn't just find around the corner, just to taunt me. And now, despite the fact that he clearly knew I didn't mean to tell John that I loved him, he was throwing a fit like a bratty five year old.

"You're a goddamned liar, you stupid asshole," I slurred, deciding to use my hand to grab onto his tie, instead of slapping him across the face. Yanking him down towards me, I closed the distance and attacked him full on the mouth.

In all honesty, I expected him to throw me off of him as if I were some flea ridden prostitute. The way he looked at me was as much. To my utter surprise, fervent lips moved back against mine, his hands sure and steady, as if well prepared for my assault.

And he was. When we crumpled to the floor in a painfully tangled mess, I heaved in deep gasps as he reached up under my shirt, his hands fluctuating in sensations of ice and fire. If there was a silver lining to this compound, I could let it own up to the fact that it gave me the ability to feel everything. My back throbbed against the hard concrete, arms outstretched and fingers splayed as my conscience began to flicker in and out of my mind, like a dying lightbulb.

This was so wrong. I'd just sent John down one misleading path, while another man was currently slipping a hand down the front of my pants, simultaneously trailing his lips across the valley of my breasts. 'Not a man. He's a monster. But this feels so damn good.'

As I writhed against him, I could begin to hear that faint music again. In the void of my expanded sense, it steadily grew louder, encompassing me, as if I was swimming in it. I knew this piece, it was Rachmaninov's 'Morceaux de fantaisie'.

Fervently, it echoed in the ecstasy of this mingling of arousal and agony that coursed through me. I saw myself standing on the edge of an abyss of unhinged and horrific pleasure, beckoning me forth in a chorus of strings. And in that moment, I knew. This was deliverance. An escape I'd been searching for.

"No hesitation," I murmured, locking my gaze with those luminous eyes and letting myself fall.

Disclaimer: Nolanverse and DC characters/settings are not mine. Profuse apologies for the week-long delay, darlings! I recently received a promotion at my job, which is fantastic for my daily life, but cuts down a bit on my writing time. This might be my last (semi) regular Sunday update, but do continue to expect (relatively) timely chapters. As for Freddie's first experience, I related it a bit to Bruce Wayne's first whiff of the drug while in training. Seemed a bit reasonable to test the water temperature before diving in, though, going headfirst is quite exhilarating sometimes. Just not with fear toxin. Until next time...