Pain was all Tom knew. His brain was foggy with it. Everything hurt, inside and out. He didn't know where, how or on what to focus. His eyelids trembled when he tried lifting them, and the bright lights all around him burned them until they watered.

So, he wasn't dead? Was that disappointment in his gut, or simply more pain from Conner's bullet? He tried sitting up, and a hand settled on the back of his neck.

"Easy… Easy."

James.

Tom had to rethink the not being dead part, because James Evans was what? Taking care of him? He stared, blinking furiously to make his jittery vision focus as his captor knelt next to him, and tipped Tom's face up.

"Are you all right?"

Felt as if he'd died and woken up in an alternate universe,

"I'm fine."

He was beyond hoarse. Throat on fire.

James's lips twitched the tiniest bit,

"Are you?"

He'd have shrugged, except his shoulder was having none of it,

"You're on your knees before me, and you know how I feel about that, so yes."

His voice wasn't up to its usual snark, but he made it work,

"I'm fine."

James's gaze stayed on him for a few heartbeats, where Tom held his breath and tried not to let his confusion show. He was safe when James wanted to kill him, when they were playing that messed up game of torture as foreplay. This?

This was out of his wheelhouse.

"So, Conner shot me, huh?"

He asked, because he didn't know how to deal with this. No bloodshed. No anger. No threat of death. Just James Evans with a calm hand on the back of his neck, holding him upright. Keeping him steady.

"Yes."

If he hadn't been busy getting lost in the murky dark of James's eyes, Tom would have missed the flash of anger that burned bright for a quick second then disappeared, he muttered softly,

"I'd have thought that would make you happy."

James's nostrils flared,

"You should give him a raise or something."

He should shut his mouth, but he didn't know when to quit where James was concerned. When the other man didn't respond to that, Tom asked,

"Do you know Conner is in love with you?"

James dropped his hand from Tom's neck,

"Yes."

He got to his feet and stared down at Tom in silence, hands fisted at his sides, expression as smooth as glass,

"Where am I?"

Tom looked around for the first time. He was on a bed. An actual bed, in what looked like a bedroom. At least the beginnings of one. The place was empty save for the bed, the pale blue walls spotless. There was one window to the far left corner of the room, but it had no curtains and he made out the thick bars covering it.

James didn't answer his query. Instead he held up his hand then opened it palm up. Two white pills,

"For the pain."

Tom snorted. For the pain, huh?

"Why aren't I dead?"

He tried to rise again, but his body wasn't having it. He fell backward onto the pillows, and James was right there. Helping him. What kind of sick alternate reality was this?

"You need to take it easy."

James murmured as he slid a finger over the bloodied bandage covering the wound to Tom's upper left shoulder,

"Take the pain medication and rest."

"No."

Tom grabbed his wrist when James made to pull away. The other man flinched under his touch, but he didn't resist much,

"Why am I alive? What is this?"

He looked around quickly before meeting James's expressionless eyes,

"Another sick way to try and break me? Because it won't work, I can promise you that."

Never mind that his body felt very much like that of a broken doll at the moment.

"Your death is mine,"

James said simply. He pulled his hand from Tom's grip slowly, until only their fingertips touched. Until they were connected by just that, the barest brush of fingertips,

"I decide when and how."

"Yet you put a fox to guard the hen house."

Tom cocked his head,

"Or was he acting on your orders?"

"Don't try to figure me out, Mr. Voldemort."

James broke their flimsy connection, placing the two pills next to Tom on the mattress. Then he picked up a bottle of water from the floor, and positioned it next to the painkillers,

"Take the medication, I need you back in fighting form."

Tom licked his chapped lips at James's retreating back,

"You should know by now, I'm always in fighting form, James."

James's disbelieving snort lingered long after the door closed behind him. Tom stared up at the ceiling as he lay on his back. No way was he taking any medication that could dull his senses more than they'd already been dulled.

James Evans was taking care of him. Dressing his wounds. Giving him medication. What was his captor's angle?

He stayed like that, doing what James warned him not to do. Trying to figure the man out. Until he fell asleep.

A sleep filled with breath-stealing pain and chills that warped his mind until he didn't know who he was or the identity of the man talking softly to him. Touching him gently, forcing liquid down his throat. He alternated between flashing hot and trembling cold, curled up on the soft mattress that still seemed to find every bruise on his body and press just so on it.

Pain surrounded him, and Tom simply floated on it. Trying desperately to grasp on to anything that appeared solid to him. Like the raspy drone of the man wiping his brow. He knew that man, knew even in his lost, fevered state to be wary of him. But he represented something Tom desperately wanted.

Something he wasn't brave enough to take.

Yet.