Author's notes: Adult content in this chapter, gang. At long last.

Martha always watched. Always listened. When George or Cleaves would smoke, laughing their boredom and cold away, or Knox would drink himself into sickly stupors, she watched. When Toffler would pray over their meals, and Colonel Hart would regale them with his clumsily translated paragraphs of ancient Greek battles, she would listen. Last night, this morning, and well into the afternoon she did both.

When the first ring of black smoke kissed the sky, she watched.

When the gunshot rang out into the cool morning, she listened.

Then, finally, she tucked a piece of pemmican into her mouth, shouldered her rifle, and climbed towards the skyline.

It wasn't easy, picking his way through the trees with a throbbing shoulder. Each step drove the rhythm of the throbbing through Boyd's skull, while Ives strode ahead of him far too easily. What's more, he had the General's body slung over his shoulder like a freshly-slain deer, and each time Ives had to step over a rock or fallen branch, Slauson's head would bob up just enough for Boyd to catch a glimpse of those dead accusing eyes.

All the while, he wondered why he kept following. Boyd attempted to reason with himself, crowding his head with dark thoughts of repentance, of keeping Ives' evil from spreading, but who was he to judge now? He had stepped into the fire, and he had been judged. His hunger had burned far too much for Boyd to ignore it.

Worse, now, he craved more. It was becoming harder to care. So much harder.

"It really is beautiful out here, isn't it?" Ives called back to him, somehow managing to break through the sound of Boyd's racing heart.

"It's cold," he replied, having no intention to play the game of civility, despite their temporary agreement not to kill each other. Maybe tonight once they had a roof over their heads, or wherever Ives was leading him, he would catch the man unaware. Bind him so he couldn't fight. Strangle him. Stab him. Lick the blood from the knife...cut Ives to ribbons and suck on the wounds while he bled out.

Boyd huffed, angry with himself for letting those thoughts come back, despite his best efforts to push them away.

Ives came to an abrupt halt, and Boyd almost stumbled into him, as focused as he'd been on his own traitorous mind.

"Here we are," Ives nodded ahead of him, using his one free arm to steady Boyd on his feet. "My home away from home. Something like that." The smile he gave Boyd was almost pleasant.

It was a cabin. Small and rough, packed into the wilds as if some large hand had pressed the trees around it to the ground just enough to fit the shabby building to the ground, before letting the trees fly back up to crowd the outer walls, bowing the sides and coming very close to caving the roof in. Boyd wouldn't be surprised at all if they found a nest of venomous snakes inside lying in wait.

Ives seemed to have no such trepidations, however, as he cheerfully strode towards the front door, tossing Slauson's body to the ground. "Come on, Boyd. I can feel another cold front coming in," he stepped inside, disappearing into darkness.

Boyd stared down at the dead General, growing more agitated by those eyes now than sorry, as the man really had never shown him anything but professional contempt. It was wrong, and he knew it, but for a moment Boyd began to actually feel glad the man was gone, and in his stead they were left with what would make for a few good meals.

"Are you coming?" Ives inquired from inside the cabin. There was a faint light coming from the doorway now. He must have lit a few candles.

Boyd reluctantly stepped over Slauson's corpse, and went inside. It was far too late to turn back now.

Despite the poor state of the outside, the cabin was almost fastidiously clean, with the very thinnest layers of dust coating a piece of furniture here and there. Boyd noted the smell of old rust and blood, his eyes settling on a coat of furs slung over a wooden chair near the fireplace, the sewn-together patches of hide seeming to undulate under the dancing shadows of Ives' candles he'd placed at a round table crowded against the opposite wall. A pile of logs waited beside the hearth, a tinder box on the table.

Then, of course, there was the bed. Sturdier than the pathetic cots at Fort Spencer, and far softer-looking than those he'd had to make for himself traveling on the field, or any bed Boyd had encountered since he had enlisted. Still, there was only one. He wasn't sure whether he had the energy right now to fight for it.

He felt a warm hand on his shoulder, far too warm for a man who'd been stalking through the snow for the past hour, but Boyd managed to remain indifferent to the touch.

"Lay down," Ives advised, nodding towards the hearth, "it'll be awhile before I get a fire going-" he paused, leaning a little closer to whisper into Boyd's ear, "you'll be safe until then. I promise."

Boyd was getting far too used to the man's dark humor; he hardly even batted an eyelid at that remark before he threw himself to the bed, despite the fact that the fibres of his shirt and coat were still clinging to the sticky wound on his shoulder. The skin had tried to heal, but he could feel the shards of the bullet pressed beneath his red, raw flesh.

Days, weeks, months of rough living seemed to melt away from his muscles. He wasn't sure how long he floated at the edge of sleep, aware of Ive's presence and hardly able to care enough to watch him any more. Boyd was tired in so very many ways.

Distantly, he heard a match striking, and he couldn't tell whether the soft hymn being sung was the ghost of Toffler or the mocking voice of Ives.

It was very messy work, but Ives had long gotten used to the mundanities of preparing his meals. While he had no qualms with simply stripping a piece of flesh from the bone and popping it into his mouth, there was something to be said for presentation. Style. Etiquette. He may be a monster, but he'd like to think he was a civilized one.

While Boyd slept, he made record time dealing with the former General as best he could, digging through supplies he'd left in the cabin to at least wrap the meat he could gather in tanned buckskins to keep the flies away. Not that they'd have any chances in this weather. Fresh snow was already beginning to fall. Very strange weather, but Ives had seen worse.

He washed himself in an icy stream, cracking the thin ice with a sharp rock; Ives scrubbed himself until his skin was raw and flushed. He used an old bucket to gather water for later. He was glad for the lodging he'd adopted over the spring, ever thankful that trappers were so plentiful that he could rarely travel far without at least having one good meal or shelter to stay in. Company and conversation until he got hungry, too. He wondered if perhaps he could enjoy the former now to distract himself a little for rougher winters. For there were still weeks Ives had gone without anything but game or roots.

Wishful thinking? Maybe. So far, none of Ives' plans had seemed to work as well as he'd liked. Boyd, perhaps, was more trouble than he was worth, and yet-

Ives stood up, just as he'd finished buttoning his trousers, squinting through the snow. Early evening, and he could hear branches cracking. Heavy breath-falls. Not like an animal's. The fresh scent of sweat. A woman. He smirked, kneeling down to pick up his shirt, tossing it over his shoulder.

"Join us for dinner, Martha," he called out, "there's always room for...one more." He would let the threat speak for itself. She was smart. He wouldn't put it past her. Let her decide how smart she actually was tonight. Ives had better things to do than wait around.

"Safe travel to you, then!" He called out behind him, jogging towards the cabin. In truth, the cold was getting to him.

Hart was cracking walnuts when Boyd walked into the room. Undeterred, he continued with his work, "welcome to Fort Spencer, Boyd," the dead man invited him to sit with a swift gesture towards the chair in front of his desk.

"Colonel?"

He grinned back at Boyd, pressing a hand to his head to cover the mangled half of his face, "sorry about that, but you remember how it was. Can't get any good doctors here. Like I said, don't get sick, Boyd. I still can't say you shouldn't eat though, can I?" He smiled, or tried to. It was difficult with only half a jaw. He tossed one of his books aside and used his free hand to pick through the walnut shreds on his desk.

"Most of us have to," Boyd repeated, jerking up in bed. He was beginning to doubt he'd get any peace in his sleep. It was warm, now, though. God, he'd begun to forget what that felt like. He could see Ives crouched in front of the fireplace stoking the logs. How long had he slept?

"Awake, Boyd?" Ives inquired, setting his poker aside and dusting off his hands. He wasn't…

"You're not wearing a shirt," he replied flatly. There was no heat left in his words. No accusation. What was the point?

"No," Ives stood up, turning slowly to face him, a glowing knife in hand. "I'm not. You'll want to take yours off. It'll be easier that way."

"WHAT?!" Boyd yelped, standing up and nearly leaping towards the door.

Ives was faster than him, a hand on his neck before he could properly react, as he slammed Boyd back down onto the bed. "I've got to cut the bullet out," Ives explained calmly, "unless you want that little souvenir in there for the rest of your life."

"You're shirtless!" Boyd hissed back at him, trying to yank and pull at the hand wrapped firmly around his neck.

"I don't want to get blood on it," Ives replied, exasperated. "You're a man, John, act like one. You saw my ass the first night we met. Now, take off your shirt or I will rip it off."

Faced with the choice of a pointless fight he knew he'd lose, and the possibility of having to wear those bloodied furs on the chair later once his shirt was no longer serviceable, Boyd reluctantly settled back, "fine," he mumbled between gritted teeth.

That was all Ives needed to relax his hand and pull back, straddling him so he couldn't change his mind and make another escape attempt. At least, that was what Boyd told himself so he could focus on peeling his coat away, flinching slightly when he moved his affected arm. He could feel the shards of metal poking into his muscle and skin. The fresh air felt good, though, once he'd finally shaken his shirt off and dropped it beside the bed.

"There," Ives gave his cheek a good, patronizing little pinch. "Good boy," he praised him, reaching down towards Boyd's belt.

"What're you-"

"You need to bite down on something. This is going to hurt," Ives shoved Boyd's hands away, quickly unbuckling him and shoving the cheap material into Boyd's mouth. "Now, bite."

The pain was excruciating. Boyd screamed the moment the blade cut into his skin, gouged and tore. A surgeon Ives most definitely wasn't. He felt the digging. The scraping. It seemed endless, and maybe it was, but then he heard the blade clatter to the ground and he spat the belt out to breathe in deep gulps.

A warm hand brushed sweaty hair from his brow, while lips pressed against his wound and a tongue lapped at the bloody shreds of skin. Ives moaned against his shoulder, and, god, Boyd was ashamed to whimper and press himself up against the monster in response.

"There," Ives rasped, pulling back, teeth stained with Boyd's blood, "feeling better?"

"You can get off now."

"Can I?" Ives asked, idly reaching running his thumb along the wound. Boyd took in a deep breath, even as he leaned down to press his mouth to Boyd's neck, licking and nibbling on the skin there. "Is that what you really want?"

"Y-" Boyd whimpered, involuntarily lifting his hips when Ives pressed down to grind against him. "Yes!" He demanded, finally letting go. He was, of course. Answering an entirely different question. The pain and hunger had driven him mad.

Uncharacteristically, Ives didn't say a word, though that may have been because his mouth was too busy trailing down from Boyd's neck to his shoulder for one last lick before he used one hand to deftly jerk Boyd's pants open and grasp his hard, aching member.

"Do you want me to keep going?" Ives panted, lowering himself until his lips just barely brushed the tip. Boyd couldn't believe he was even asking, given the man's nature. He should say no. Stop this before it went any further. Fortunately for him, Ives wasn't patient enough to wait for Boyd's inner battle to come to a head, figuratively, of course.

He gasped when Ives' mouth engulfed him, employing far more skill than Boyd would have expected from another man. Better than the few desperate afternoons as a youth he'd spent sneaking behind his mother's house with mayfly loves. This was the same monster who'd murdered, eaten, left a bloody trail in his wake across the frontier, and he didn't know why he'd wanted this so desperately.

Boyd tried to writhe, move, press himself further into Ives' mouth, but one firm arm reached up to press at his chest, keeping him pinned to the bed. He whimpered, then, curling fingers into dark, cold hair. Wet...had he just washed?

The pain in his shoulder was numb, now, completely washed away then by a scream of release, and the arm on his chest relaxed.

"That was-" Boyd began to speak, his voice cracking.

"I'm not done," Ives informed him, once he'd pulled back and greedily licked his lips. "You'll never leave me." His voice was deep, menacing, as he yanked Boyd's pants down and off, which he hardly had the energy left to fight. Or the desire.

"What?" Boyd slung and arm over his face, groaning. He didn't want to have another chat about morality and humanity. He was tired of it. Tired of fighting.

"You're mine," Ives clarified, peeling his own pants off and tossing them to the ground.

Boyd stared up at the stronger Wendigo, lowering his arm with one half-hearted glare, "I said I'd kill you. I will." Even to himself, the words sounded like an empty threat now. A joke. A trite little line from a threepenny opera.

Ives snorted, his hands quickly snaking down to pin Boyd's arms above his head, "I promise I'll die inside you." His kiss was rough, hot, and long while he bore down on Boyd, grinding against him with a beastial growl of need.

He smells delicious, and there's little fear this time, much like their greatest fight when he and Boyd had been forced into the deadly embrace of the trap, blood and flesh mingling together, labored breaths rattling through punctured lungs. Ives had never craved another so desperately as he did then and now.

Food. Sex. Pleasure. A Wendigo thrived on satisfaction, taking what it wanted, seeing little difference between desire and need. This was so much more. He needed Boyd. He needed that delicate thread of semi-sanity to break up his days of monotony, of chasing the highs of a new slaughter. Ives did not hate his lifestyle. He reveled in it. Still-he was lonely.

Boyd bit his bottom lip, drawing out a surprised groan from Ives as he felt John's tongue dart out to lick at the pink flesh there, drawing in the taste of him. A taste he gladly gave, before breaking away so he could push Boyd's legs to his chest. Dazed, he tried to wriggle free from the strange position he's held in, but Ives won't let go. Never.

"I could hurt you," Ives taunted, unable to hold back the small laugh he'd been holding in since the moment he pressed the blade to Boyd's skin, felt his cock grow hard even as his last scrap of patience burned away. Tender words didn't come easy to Ives, not in the way of any normal lover. He was a killer. He took...never gave…

But now, with one flinch and intake of breath from his reluctant lover, he somehow softened a little. "I won't," Ives promised, leaned down again to press his lips to the man's chest while he drew a hand to Boyd's hole, stroking, and slowly pressing a finger into him. The look of near surprise on the man's pleasure-drunk face was enough to urge him further, gradually working him open with patience so razor-thin, Ives had to bite back a growl of frustration.

The dancing shadows of the fire cast strange shapes over Boyd's arms as he twisted fingers into the furs beneath them, letting out shallow, satisfying gasps.

When he was finally ready, Ives was not nearly so sweet or patient, driving his cock into the man with feverish need. He took him hard, fast, and greedily. Then when Boyd finally seemed to find a rhythm with him, halfway between panicked and almost as desperate for the same pleasured race to completion. This time, it was Ives who screamed as he buried himself with one final, almost painful thrust, crushing his lips into Boyd's once he'd caught his breath.

By the time the fire in the hearth had been reduced to a thousand glowing eyes, they were fast asleep, crushed in each other's embrace.