A/N: I'm not sure how long this story will be or how long I'll continue it. It's going to be canon-based, and not necessarily in chronological order. American Horror Story: Asylum does not in any way belong to me.

This…wasn't supposed to happen.

Those were Oliver's thoughts at eleven o'clock on a Sunday night. He was standing in the shower, feeling the icy water rain down on his sweaty skin. He was standing completely still, not even moving his arms to wash himself.

What he was feeling, what was sitting heavily in his stomach and washing over him more powerfully than the water, was shame. The man in him denied it as fervently as he denied Kit Walker's accusations, but the psychiatrist in him knew that it was true. He was deeply, deeply ashamed of himself and his deplorable actions that might have ruined everything.

Oliver had always possessed more self-control than his peers, even when he was just a boy in the orphanage. His fellow orphans were often caned for touching themselves. He would watch as they cried out in their pain and humiliation, but he himself was never subjected to their punishment. Not that he never erred; he was human after all, but he was always more discrete about it. Then, when he was an adult, he never had time for women or relationships. He had to work his ass off to maintain his scholarships and earn enough money to put himself through college and med school. His classmates came from wealthy families and so could indulge in whatever frivolities they wished. They would mock him and sneer at him, but they never realized how spoiled they were, how much they had had handed to them.

Lana was his first. Well, his first if he didn't count Wendy (sometimes he did and sometimes he didn't. It had been an unusually long day). Lana was the first woman he'd felt any real connection with. Sure, there had been some bumps in the beginning, but he now saw that was his fault as much as hers; truth be told, they were both still figuring things out, still adjusting to their new roles.

Things had changed. He couldn't begin to describe the joy that he had felt in his last two days with her. He could talk to her and she would listen, never judging or criticizing like so many of the others. When he was upset, she comforted him, as any good mother would.

If he had to pinpoint the moment when the shift first occurred, he'd say that it was as he lay with his face pressed against Lana's chest, after he had finished suckling. He felt her chest rise and fall with each rapid breath, felt their shared tears and skin mingle against each other.

"I'm sorry, Mommy," he said thickly, into the nape of her neck.

"Don't be, baby," she answered softly, "it's okay now."

He'd sat up then, searching for the key. Lana was lying before him, limbs chained down, night gown torn and exposing her near-naked body. He quickly unlocked her arms, then immediately fell back into her embrace. The stirrings rose up then, the desire that he was usually so diligent to suppress, more intensely than he ever felt before.

He remembered Lana stroking his hair, whispering again and again, "everything's going to be okay now."

He turned the shower off abruptly. He was unnerved by the sudden silence, but that was stupid of him. He was used to silence. Hell, he reveled in silence. Silence enveloped his house, unless he had the television turned up loud or could hear the screams of partially-skinned women. But this night the silence was nothing but a reminder of his inadequacies, of his weakness and his terrible mistake.

He needed to go to bed now. As hard as it was to imagine, he actually had some appointments scheduled for tomorrow.

His bedroom was hardly any different from his living room. It had the same brown coloring, the same catalog furniture, the same meticulous neatness. There was even a skin-shade lamp, though this one was smaller. He crawled into his bed wearing nothing but his underwear and beater, pulled the blankets over his body, and turned to the side.

Sleep wouldn't come.

Lana didn't do it because she wanted to, the psychiatrist in him whispered. She did it because she didn't want to hurt your feelings.

This realization caused the shame to crash over him again, along with another, equally potent, feeling—perhaps guilt?

She hadn't wanted you, you idiot, he told himself bitterly. She was supposed to be your mother, not your lover.

Oliver kicked the covers off angrily, groping around for the light switch. As soon as the lights were on, he lit a cigarette.

God, he had ruined everything, hadn't he? Things had been perfect. He had a mother, for the first time in his life. How could he have thrown all of that away?

Against his will, his mind went back to Lana's face. The look on her face wasn't pleasure or happiness, but more akin to endurance. It hadn't registered with him during the act itself—he was too focused on his own pleasure to notice what was going on around him—but now that his head was clear he saw it as it had been.

Of course, Lana would submit to him. Of course. She was willing to do whatever he wanted. She probably thought it would make him happy, and what good mother wouldn't put her child's happiness above all else?

He put his hands roughly to the sides of his head, gripping his fingers through his hair. How could he face her again? What was he supposed to do, waltz back down the basement all bright and chipper and go, "oh, hey, Mommy, how are you?" as if nothing happened! Or maybe he could snuggle up in bed and promise to be a good boy from now on?

The very thought embarrassed him so much that he blushed. He must disgust her now. She had seen him at his basest form, his weakest moment. He let out a low groan. How could he ever face her again? She must hate him now—no, no, she wouldn't hate him, surely not, but she must feel disappointed at the very least.

And then a strange sobriety passed over him. It had been a mistake to bring her here in the first place. He saw that now. He had been behaving as if he had expected Lana to stay chained up in the basement until one or both of them died. He had been so preoccupied with the mechanics of whisking Lana from the asylum and setting up her new space that he hadn't fathomed the long term. Now, the reality of the situation came creeping back in.

He didn't relish the thought of ending Lana's life. There was a time when, in his anger and his hurt, he had been prepared to treat her as he treated the other women, but that was before. Nonetheless, he couldn't very well let her live. She was loyal, yes, but…it was still too great a risk.

It had to be quick and painless for the both of them. Slitting her throat would work—his medical proficiency would ensure that he didn't botch the job—but it would certainly be messy. There was also strangulation, but that was slower, and he didn't think he could stomach the sight of her gorgeous fair skin turning blue.

He let out a sigh, then started to get dressed, all thoughts of sleep forgotten. It was best to do it now, before he lost the courage. He needed to make the decision and make it now. Or, wait; as a matter of fact, he didn't. He would let Lana decide. He couldn't think of a better way to show his respect and devotion then by entrusting Lana to make what was arguably one of the most important decisions of her life. Yes, it was fitting this way. He felt the burden lift off of his shoulders.

He lit another cigarette, inhaling deeply.