Author's Chapter Notes:

Unbeta'd, as usual. This part contains crude language, violence, descriptions of torture, and... smut... you got it, smut. Rough sex and implied dub-con.

OOO

He is so tired. He remembered the strange description Ben had given him… shaking, heart thumping, that was how he felt now. He'd never felt it before. He had never been a tired person; he had always had energy enough to complete the day and then some. It was why he hardly ever slept. He was always buzzing, spinning, working, something to do, something to do!

He hasn't moved in days and he's so tired of living that he just wants to stop breathing… He has actually. Tachypnea, dyspnea, cyanosis, tachycardia, cardiac arrest, grand mal seizure, tube thoracostomy, they all seem so stiff and clinical for what is really happening to him. His arms are pinned to the sides, filled with IV's and there are so many bags hanging above him. The little brown mouse has become a constant fixture in the room. He looks as tired as Jack feels, monitoring him constantly. The machines beep and measure his breathing, his pulse. They keep him alive and then try to beat him to death everyday. It's been days, it must be, they've gone to sleep and Jack hasn't and he's never been so tired.

"You should just make this easy on yourself," the little brown mouse speaks and Jack turns his head, wiggles his fingers and his toes just to watch him squirm. Little slivers of bamboo protrude from his digits, and he'd taken him on a veritable world trip, hadn't he? Jordan to Vietnam. "Just give him the passwords. That's all you have to do. Make this easy on all of us. It isn't healthy breathing this air; those bodies are rotting right beside us. Just give up."

Jack laughs, throws back his head and wails until blood is burbling past his lips with each peal, and the little brown mouse is the one to give up, retreating to the far side of the room, far from Jack and the increasingly high pile of dead soldiers that is all that remains of the boys… his boys. He wants to scream and rave and wail and he has, he has already because he can't take this anymore. He wants to scream, and he has… hasn't done him any good, though.

It's morning. It must be morning, because he's back. He knows his name, has heard it from some of the little scurrying underlings, but Jack can't think of it. All he can think is how much he'd love to have that knife in his hands right now, how he wants to carve out his fucking eye and make him pop it like a little grape with his own fucking teeth, those little straight white teeth. He thinks he'd like to make a necklace out of those teeth, and then he speaks.

"I'm getting tired of this. It stinks in here." It's a personal jab. They haven't let him move from this spot in days. "More than just that… though… I hate the smell of dead bodies… dead Spic in particular. I'm getting tired of being here, I'm getting tired of doing this. This isn't my cup of tea, you know… I don't particularly like doing this to you."

"You're missing out," Jack says solicitously.

"What are you holding out for? Who are you protecting? They sold you out, Napier, they sent me here. What is this? I never would have figured you the type for misguided loyalty."

"It's not loyalty," Jack says brightly, though his voice is barely more than a whisper these days. "I just like pissing you off."

The man is turning his back to him, hands fisting at hair that isn't long enough to even grab, just an old reflex.

"I'll tell you what you need to know," he says quickly, and the man whirls on him. He waits until he's right in front of him before he begins to speak, all eager and expecting. "You really need to lighten up. Have you ever considered yoga?"

The kick lands squarely on his chin and his head cracks against the wall, and everything goes fuzzy, disappearing beneath a shower of sparks.

"Alright," he rasps, "so maybe you're more of a Pilates guy… you could have just said so."

He goes entirely under for a moment and the man is shaking him when he comes to, has pulled him as far away from the chains as he can be pulled.

"You wake the fuck up!"

The brown mouse checks the monitor, then injects something into one of the IV's and Jack is, he is instantly awake and shivering. The smug fuck is advancing on him, and it is glittering in the air, so beautiful but it's coming for him.

"You think you're so fucking funny, don't you? A regular fucking clown, that's what you are. I'll tell you what, pretty boy, I'm gonna help you out with this new career choice of yours…. Every clown's gotta have his cosmetic. You got the… got the eyes already there, so let's finish it up. Let's put a smile on that face."

OOO

She's getting just a little dizzy at this point, she thinks.

He is no longer speaking, and she thinks that surely he must be willing to release her soon. The shaking of his shoulders has ceased and the dampness on her blouse is beginning to cool, now. She has tried talking to him, but he is either not capable of hearing, or simply not listening. In the end, the result is the same, and her ribs are beginning to bruise because of how tightly his arms are wrapped around her. She buries her face and her fingers in his hair and tries to ignore the pain, or rather more importantly, the distressing, incongruous response that she has to it. Much more difficult is trying to ignore how her entire body feels flooded with heat. Only years of training a perpetual rigidity into her posture keep her from trembling within his crushing embrace, but it is becoming impossible not to pant against his scalp.

She tries to convince herself it is only because it is also impossible to draw a full breath.

He moves suddenly, seems to burrow his face against her, and this catches her attention, more so as he begins to mouth at a part of her body that he has no business touching at all. She squirms within the tight circle of his arms, trying to get some distance between her body and his, and suddenly his arms tighten further, squeezing a fresh protest from her bruised ribs. Her breath is forced out in a hollow squeak, and her struggles increase in vigor, trying to move away from him in earnest as the damp fabric is wetted completely, his mouth clamping over her breast, the suction rough.

"Captain, please," she whimpers, hands shoving weakly at his shoulders. She has no idea what she is asking for.

He gives a quiet grunt, and she squeaks again as his laughter sends puffs of warmth over her sensitized flesh, and it is no longer his lips, but his teeth that have found her nipple, tugging roughly at it suddenly, the pain dull only because of the layers of fabric between them.

"You can keep doing that… but I don't think it's… gonna have… quite the effect you're looking for." He arches against her to prove his point and she freezes. There is suddenly no containing her trembling: a shudder tears through her for she can quite clearly feel the bulge of his erection pressing into her. He growls in satisfaction, hips thrusting again, rubbing his rigid cock against her unabashedly, and she can feel the vibrations of his voice within her flesh as his lips, teeth, and tongue return to their former work.

"Stop it." Her voice is barely a whisper, but she can breathe now, he has released her. One arm falls around her lower back, reaches around her, fingers hooking under the hem of her skirt and tugging it higher, around her hips, and her cheeks burn in humiliation as her panties flash, white and lace and nearly transparent with wetness.

"A thong? So blatant, Dr. Quinzel, I think you've wanted this for a while." She struggles against him and squeezes her knees together, but the fingers of each hand force between them, pulling them apart so roughly the muscles in her hips scream against it.

She whimpers again, tries to lean away from him, hoping to fall out of his lap, but he has too much strength in the arm wrapped around her waist: her efforts do little more than press her tighter against him and she realizes with an agonized mewl that through the thin fabric of his hospital pants she can feel him throbbing against her bare bottom.

"Please don't do this," she begs, throwing her head back as though it might all go away if she simply closes her eyes, but his hand has already slid higher, pressing into her cleft and her hips jump forward as the roughness of the lace slides over her already swollen clit.

"No, please, please don't… You can't." She sobs helplessly and the tears feel blisteringly hot on her face, sliding back into her hair.

"No, no more, oh no, don't, stop, no, oh, no, more, don't stop!" he whispers against her, the high falsetto as mocking as his soft laughter, and the pain is sharp this time when it comes: the buttons fly away as the silk of her shirt is torn open, his hand wrenching down the cups of her bra to expose each globe of her breast and she feels obscene, like some naughty secretary in a snuff film, and her nipple blooms red in the wake of his teeth. She grits hers against the scream, bucking against him but he presses with his fingertips, hard and fast as he grinds against her again, and how could he know to do it that way, how could he know? Her body has already learned to blend the two; she moans softly and cannot tell where one begins and the next ends: the pain, the pleasure, the attraction, the revulsion.

"Oh god," she groans, and her face falls forward, his tilting up to meet hers in the same moment and their teeth click together briefly before his mouth seems to devour hers. Her glasses smash hard into the bridge of her nose. Her blood is on his tongue, salty and metallic and still warm and unbidden her hips arch into the rhythm of his touch: he accepts the invitation and his hand glides beneath the waistband of her panties, slipping in two fingers. She gasps into his mouth and tries to deny how easily they slid inside, how tight her muscles clench around them, how good it feels to be filled somehow… how good it feels that he is the one to do it.

"Jack, stop, please," she sobs again, brokenly, and her hips fall into rhythm so easily as he pounds his fingers into her, grinding the heel of his palm into just the right spot and, no, God, no!

He wrenches her spectacles away, hinges catching and tearing strands of her hair as they pass, and she doesn't have free mind enough to worry whether they might have broken when they hit the wall.

"You don't want me to stop," he laughs again and licks her ear, sloppy, slick, and warm, then blows into it, giggles as she shudders, and closes his teeth over her earlobe, flicking his tongue against it, whispering to her, voice a silky whine, "No, I don't think you do… I think you want me to make you come, don't you? Does my good little girl want to come, hmm? Show Daddy why you're his good girl," he whispers, and she whimpers, keens quietly as his fingers twist within her, and she feels as though she could stop breathing before she could stop herself from obeying him. He wraps an arm around her shoulders, breathes into the crook of her neck as she leans back against it for leverage, increasing the pace of her hips, slamming against his hand. "That's it, Harley-girl, ride it, hmm? Pretend it's my cock, deep inside that tight little pussy, right? Filling you and stretching you, I could fuck you till your teeth rattle, would you like that, baby?"

Her moan is too loud as she thrashes against him, undulating against his palm, and he clamps his free hand over her mouth, fingers and thumb digging bruises into her jaw as the other hand continues to work brutally within her, nails scraping, almost gouging, and she wants to scream and cannot; the breaths panting through her nose are pitching higher and higher. The world begins to sparkle, she is nearing hyperventilation, dizzy again, and her scream is muffled as the coiling spring within her shatters, its tension complete.

She sinks her teeth into the meat of his palm, he snarls into her ear and she comes harder than she ever has in her life, shudders nearing convulsive, shout caught in her throat, eyes rolling back as the tang of his blood fills her mouth completely.

He works her until the last of the tremors subside, and she whimpers helplessly, for her flesh has become painfully sensitive, and he laughs as she tries to squirm away again, parched throat emitting a low whine. He pulls his fingers from her finally, giving her a pointed look as he wipes them clean on the exposed skin of her thigh: they leave a glistening trail that is vaguely pink. She swallows weakly, blushing furiously, looks down to avoid his eyes, must look up again to avoid the sight of his hand clenched on her thigh possessively and Harley can feel the delicate band of scars on his right wrist pressing just over the knee of her left leg.

Her mouth works prematurely, but she cannot think of a single word to fill it with.

"You talk far too much, Harley," he says brightly, "if I'd known this was all it took to shut you up, I would have done it a long time ago."

"Are-are you going to let me go now, Jack?"

"Nope, there it goes again… But I don't really think you're done, do you?" She doesn't need any pointed motion from him; she can still very easily feel the heat of his flesh straining against the fabric. She could scream for help, she could scream and guards would come and they would lock him away, and she would never have to see him again, never have to deal with him again. She tosses the thought about in her mind, is devastated by how sad it makes her. She doesn't want him to go away, not ever. Oh God… Pam had been right.

She is falling in love with him.

She feels as though something has shattered within her, and the tears begin again, even as she leans forward and gives in to the urge she has been fighting for days upon days. She splays kisses across the breadth of his face, feels the length and contour of each scar press intimately against her lips, and he stiffens at first, angered at her daring. She knows he is very possessive of the scars themselves, but she has wanted to do this for so long. He relaxes finally as she lavishes attention upon them, awed and worshipful, and she moans softly as she is allowed to dip her tongue into the hollow of his left cheek. He closes his eyes, a noise like purring rumbling in his chest and she turns her attention to the other, tongue curling around the curve at the top, following the arc of it until she reaches his lips, slipping her tongue right between them.

He laughs into her mouth and goes still, she whines but he will not kiss her back, and Harley must be content to work his mouth for herself.

"What do you want me to do?" she is gasping as she pulls back, mascara has long ago melted down her cheeks with tears and perspiration but he looks so unruffled, so calm, and, as she swings a leg over his thighs and splays her hands over his chest, his heart has barely picked up speed at all, but he smiles finally, tugging her forward, and his hands are between her legs again, fingers hooking around the thin material of her underwear and dragging it aside. The command is implicit in his expression, and her cheeks go red again even as her fingers do not fumble as they tug down the waistband of his pants. He lifts his hips to aid her and the chair groans as he presses back against it, but it is obvious he has no trouble lifting her weight as well and she flushes further at the knowledge of the power his hands contain, what he could do if he turned them against her. She grits her teeth together as she moans helplessly and she sees only a flash of him but she could stare for hours if only he would let her, but his other hand is tugging her forward and down and she obeys, breath catching in her lungs as he enters her abused flesh for the first, blissful time and—

The doorknob turns, clicks as the lock catches.

"You have got to be kidding me," Harley hisses.

There is a pause, then a heavy knock at the door.

OOO

Chapter End Notes:

The medical terms were all retrieved from Wikipedia.