He'd lost track of the last time he'd eaten. They'd served up more pain than he'd experienced in a long time and drained him of more blood than he'd thought it possible to lose.

But the most pressing thing for him at the moment was food. He closed his eyes, trying to smell anything but the horrible scent of the basement. Countless days and nights chained up inside this cage. The sporadic feedings, and the torture. If it wasn't for the no blood or water for days thing, he'd actually like it here in this frozen, damp and dank dungeon.

It had been a long time since his last vacation.

Lying on the cold floor where he'd been when they finished trying to drown him, he shifted his weight gingerly from his swollen left side to the equally swollen right. His throat burned from the pressure of the chains that had been wrapped around his neck. His ankles. His wrists. They all hurt. He wouldn't be surprised if his fingers were broken. They were useless now from him grabbing and twisting on the chains.

There was no way he could get on his feet, not with the chains or the way his entire body hurt, but he suspected his legs would be useless in holding him up.

The sound of steady footsteps against the cement floor made him twitch, but he could do nothing more except lay there and wait. The smell of food hit him just as a heavy boot landed on his back.

It wasn't James.

He didn't have to open his eyes to know the newcomer was Conner, with the anger and the snake-like quality.

"Up,"

Conner barked. He kicked the back of Tom' head.

It hurt—what didn't hurt anymore? But making a sound took too much effort. Plus, he didn't want to do anything that could make the fresh blood he smelled go away. His stomach cramped, raw and painful. He rolled as much as he could onto his belly, wincing, biting the inside of his cheek. Then struggled to a crouch before lifting his head.

Conner had turned on the light above the gate of the cage, and he stood there, a wine glass full of blood in his hand as he watched Tom. He wasn't a tall man, that Conner. He reminded Tom of a steroid-riddled bodybuilder, barrel-chested, back rounded off as he walked with his heels barely touching the ground. Small shaved head, face in a perpetual scowl, muscles bulging, veins protruding.

He didn't speak much, following the orders of the man in charge. Those orders seemed to keep an otherwise unhinged Conner in check.

"Hungry, huh?"

Conner's accent was thick, difficult to cut through. At his question, Tom shrugged,

"I wouldn't turn down fresh blood."

His words emerged slurred and slow, but there was nothing he could do about that.

"You can have this."

Conner held out the wine glass, and Tom's taste buds immediately came alive, flooding his mouth with saliva at the sight of the crimson blood,

"If you beg."

Oh. Well then,

"I don't know if you're aware of this,"

He leaned forward, speaking softly as though sharing a secret,

"But I don't beg. Not for anything. Or anyone."

Conner chuckled,

"If you want this…"

The laughter went away quickly,

"You beg."

Tom sighed… Obviously he'd be getting no sustenance any time soon,

"Listen, tell your boss hiding out there if he wants me to beg, he can try to make me, himself. I'm not going anywhere."

He blamed his swollen right eye for his inability to see Conner's booted foot headed his way. The kick to his face knocked Tom backward and as he fell, so did the kicks.

He tried to curl into a ball, to cover his face, but the chains restricted his movement, leaving him open and more than vulnerable to the steel-toed boots. Blood flooded his mouth and slid down his throat, choking him. He coughed and sputtered, dragging his battered body along the cold floor in an attempt to get away from Conner's insistent boot, but there was only so far he could go.

There was no fighting back, no escaping. Which meant he had to lay there and get kicked within an inch of his life. Of course, because Evans didn't want him dead.

Not yet.

The pain blinded him. His moans, ragged and wet, hit his ears and Tom cringed at that sound as much as the pain itself. He hated being weak and vulnerable. This situation was the epitome of it.

No way out. No escape.

Just this, day in and day out.

A particularly vicious blow slammed his head down onto the concrete, and he must have blacked out because he faded on that cold floor, body broken, soaked in blood. He faded as Conner exited the cage with the glass.

He snapped awake coughing, throat and mouth so dry they felt tight, cracked. Tom tried lifting his head and a small cry left him when pain assaulted him. He dropped back onto the floor as he panted.

He dry-heaved.

Water.

He needed water.

His throat hurt, it was so dry. He didn't have to touch his face to know layers of blood were caked on there. Again, he brought his head up, ready for the pain, but still unable to smother the snarl that ache brought to his lips. He managed a semi-sitting position and looked around.

The light was out, but a small puddle of liquid glistened over in the corner, near the drain. A tight clicking sound echoed in his ears when he attempted to swallow. The pain in his stomach went beyond hunger, beyond anything. The emptiness seemed to settle into his bones.

But water.

He needed water. So, he crawled toward that small puddle, a little bigger than the size of a silver dollar. Water that must have settled there after his semi-drowning earlier. Once he reached his goal, Tom bent and lapped at it. For a moment, his leftover pride forced him to raise his head but the overwhelming thirst drowned it and he bent again, refusing to acknowledge what he was doing. How low he crouched, literally and figuratively. Tongue scraping at the ground, he lapped.

Soon it was all gone, but he stayed bent over, tongue to the floor, heaving.

Refusing to believe this was him…

"Mr. Voldemort."

The light in the cage clicked on,

"You don't look so good."

Tom stiffened at James's voice, but he didn't lift his head, too angry at himself at getting like this. Even chained and bloodied, he'd had a sort of advantage. Now, it was gone.

"Nothing to say?"

James's footsteps grew closer until he was inside the cage with Tom, standing just a few paces away.

Tom remained on his hands and knees, but he did look up into James's mocking daze and rasped,

"You should kill me… The sooner, the better."

"Oh?"

James's lips quirked as he pushed away from his position and crouched down next to Tom,

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I'll kill you,"

Tom told him,

"But not before I gut Conner and hang him up by his entrails."

James's nose wrinkled,

"That is very specific. But you know, Mr. Voldemort, I'm not going to kill you. Not yet anyway."

Tom sat up fully, gritting his teeth at the energy that simple action took. Energy he didn't have,

"Your plan is to starve me to death slowly?"

"Conner brought you sustenance earlier, did he not?"

James lifted an eyebrow,

"I'm told you didn't accept it. Something about refusing to beg for it."

He eyed Tom up and down,

"Shame."

"You watched me, didn't you?"

Tom asked him,

"You think you know me, don't you? You've been watching him…Have you ever seen anything that made you think I was the one who did the begging?"

"No."

James leaned over, so close Tom could smell the cigarette smoke on his breath,

"I also didn't see anything about you that would make me think that you'd stoop this low but here we are…"

He nodded to where Tom had been crouched not even a minute ago,

"Dragging your tongue all over my floor in search of water."

The laughter in his tone was hard to miss, so Tom allowed the humiliation to wash over him for only a second. Just that, because he didn't have the time for anything else,

"We do what we have to in order to survive."

"I agree."

James cocked his head and licked his delectable lips… damn his lips… before his teeth flashed,

"But I think it's funny… in a hilarious sort of way… that you think you can survive me."

His confidence was the most attractive thing Tom had ever witnessed. He'd been around the most gorgeous men and women. But it was the cool and calm way that James Evans talked about killing him that had Tom' battered body attempting to stir.

They had moved way beyond twisted and were flirting with sick now.

Unsurprisingly, he was completely okay with that.

"How long do you plan on keeping me here?"

He'd asked the question before. He'd ask it again.

"How long do you think?"

James shifted, gaze mocking,

"I don't need to know anything from you. There are no questions I need answered, no information I seek."

His mouth curved even as that familiar darkness in his eyes got deeper, pulling at Tom,

"This is pleasure. I'm taking from you because you took from me."

"To make yourself feel better."

Sadness flashed in James's eyes for a second,

"Nothing will ever make me feel better. I know enough to know that."

Tom brought his bound hands up and to his credit, James didn't move or even bat an eyelash when Tom touched his chin with bloodied and broken fingers,

"I like your voice…"

He whispered,

"Did you ever tell him that you used to talk to me every night?"

He remembered all those nights that James had spent in that cellar with him…Talking to him,

"Did you ever tell him that you were the one who kissed me and woke me up?"

James grinned. And damn him, but it was vicious. No way that grin didn't taste the way it looked. Tom's mouth watered.

"I don't regret waking you"

James said softly. Succinctly. He moved away from Tom' touch then,

"But you will not survive me."

Tom wanted to punish him for that, but there was nothing he could do except watch as James got to his feet and motioned toward the entrance of the cage.

Conner appeared, and Tom stared daggers at the bastard while Conner grinned back at him.

"Time for your bath, Mr. Voldemort,"

James said,

"You smell like hunger."

He turned away then paused, looking back at Tom over his shoulder,

"Enjoy."

The force of the hose hit him.

Painful. Yes, of course.

But water.

So, he gave a mental shrug and curled up on the floor until it was over.