…

2011

Tate was cold but it didn't bother him. He had none of the physical discomfort that usually came with being cold: No shivers, no muscles tightness, no ache in the bones. It was like the black rubber suit had replaced his skin rather than covered it. It moved him. What it felt, he wasn't sure. Within it he was the cold.

When he first thrust into Vivien his dick was still semi-soft but that quickly changed as he experienced the sensation of being inside a woman for the first time. And she was a woman who knew how to have sex. She moved in exciting ways and made exciting sounds. But it was strange to be used like a puppet by the bondage suit to perform the act. Tate couldn't speak. He couldn't even make noise, even as the pleasure intensified. He couldn't blink. Frozen, yet moving. Grinding. Fucking.

It scared him when he saw his gloved hands move over her pretty throat without his permission. He wondered why she didn't stop him. He thought maybe she was under the same sort of control he was experiencing. He hadn't spent much time watching her yet but she didn't strike him as the sort to enjoy that sort of thing. Now, in the moment, she seemed to love the dark passion of the act. She encouraged it by lifting her chin to expose more of that slender neck.

His hands didn't actually hurt her or even touch her that roughly. And as his thrusts grew deeper he felt a strange sensation inside him, like lightning building up within. It wasn't an orgasm exactly. He'd had plenty of those alone with his hand to know that. It wasn't quite enjoyable either. It was uncomfortable though it didn't hurt by the standard definition of pain. It was intense and electric, like a strong magnet pulling on his very core. He tried to stop himself, to stop feeling, but there was no stopping.

He could tell she was undergoing something intense as well. It looked like she was experiencing a similar not-quite-pain intensity herself. The closer he got to orgasm, the stronger the pull became, and when he came it burned through him like a blowtorch. He would have screamed if he could have made a sound. He felt her buck hard against him when his seed spilled into her and she made a strange, strangled noise. He hoped he hadn't hurt her.

Tate lay on top of her for a few seconds afterward then he pulled out and away. He left the room as quietly as he entered. It wasn't until he was in the downstairs bathroom that his hands took the hood off and he could move on his own again. He looked at himself in the mirror, stunned and horrified.

What had he just done?

…

2018

After the crack was patched, Chad called a break to allow it to dry before he painted over it. He was still busy with color touch-ups that could be done around the wet patch job but he agreed to let his help go clean up until he was ready to direct them to a new chore.

Tate had a shower in the upstairs bathroom while Patrick took the lower one. Showers were funny to the blond boy. Technically, as a ghost, he shouldn't have to get clean that way but his pervasive subconscious accepted the very real drywall and so the easiest way to get the sludge off was by bathing. He wasn't a bath lover so he hurried the job as much as he could. Even still, Pat finished first; Tate was surprised to find the man in his bedroom when he got back from the bathroom.

"Hey," Tate greeted as he crossed the room to his dresser. He dug around in the top drawer, searching for a pair of underpants he wanted to wear.

"Hey," said Patrick in return. "You know, things have been pretty crazy since Halloween-"

"Tell me about it," Tate interrupted with a short, humorless laugh.

He put on a pair of briefs and let his towel drop to the floor. He immediately started digging for a pair of jeans as he didn't like being seen in his underpants. It was a quirk that he couldn't shake any better than he could the drywall mud.

"But that doesn't mean I've forgotten about what I said that night," the other guy finished.

Tate paused in his search and looked over at the bigger man, confused. He didn't know what Pat was talking about. A lot had been said that night.

"Tate, you blew up a school," reminded Patrick, reading his expression.

The teen got a sinking feeling in his middle. "But-"

"No," Pat cut him off. "What you did has consequences - for lots of people. You probably won't have to see all of it because you're stuck in this house but there are a lot of people who have to clean up that mess and figure out where they're going to work and what to do for school. And… one of your victims somehow ended up stuck here."

Tate frowned. "What? Which one?"

"Some girl," said Patrick. "A cheerleader, I think. Ben brought her in here on Halloween and now she can't leave."

"Great," grumped Tate. He threw on a shirt because he was starting to get cold. "Well. That's not my fault."

His attitude rubbed Patrick the wrong way. "Yes, Tate. It is your fault. You killed her then you destroyed the place she was haunting. She wouldn't have been hanging around here to begin with if it wasn't for you."

Tate didn't want to hear that. It made him sulk.

"There's nothing we can do about the school now," said Pat. "It's gone. But it is time for some consequences."

Tate's frown grew deeper, injected with martyred pain. "Having to live with her is a consequence enough. Isn't it?"

"No," said Patrick firmly. "You can avoid her all you want. Forever, if you choose. But I'm not going to let all of this slide. Chad and I discussed it and we both agree that you need to be punished."

"Oh, come on!" Tate whined, frustration boiling over. "I was- I did get punished! Those guys at Westfield-"

"I know you had it rough with them and I don't think what they did was right. But I'm sorry to say that, too, is a direct consequence of your killing them in the first place."

Tate shot him a hurt and nasty glare. He didn't like hearing about how he killed anyone and he certainly didn't like Patrick making it sound like he deserved what those jocks did to him.

Patrick refused to be swayed by the expression. "Do you want to keep talking about this?" he asked patiently. "Or do you want to get this over with?"

The teen's expression clouded further as tears welled up. He wanted to say that it wasn't fair but he didn't want to hear again about how it was all his fault.

"Well?" Pat prompted.

"God!" Tate exclaimed. A tear broke free and slid down his cheek. He swiped it away angrily. "Fine. Whatever. Fuck!"

Patrick gave a short sigh and got up. He hadn't expected Tate to take the situation heroically but he had hoped the boy would at least own up to why it was happening. But accepting his actions had never come easily to the reckless teen and this was no exception. The man had to take comfort in knowing that, if nothing else, the moment itself was likely uncomfortable enough for trouble-prone Tate to consider his actions more carefully in the future.

He went to the closet - which was still torn apart thanks to Violet's removing the clothes rod - and took the belt off the nail on the wall. When he turned back Tate was still standing where he'd been all along, looking very unhappy with his arms folded tightly and tears dripping off his chin.

"Hands on the bed," said Pat, gesturing to it with the looped belt.

"Fuck!" Tate exclaimed. "This isn't fair!" He hadn't meant to say that but it just came out, like a hot lava rock ejected from a volcano. It couldn't be contained.

Patrick arched his brows. "Do you really want to go there?"

Tate glowered at him but looked away quickly. "No," he grumped. Because he really didn't. So he moved to the side of the bed where he bent over and put palms on the mattress with more force than was necessary. More hot tears slipped free and dripped on the blanket.

Patrick joined him beside the bed and positioned himself next to the unhappy teenager. "If you were alive, you'd go to jail for what you did," he noted. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of the underpants Tate had just put on and tugged them down. "You should count yourself lucky."

"Yeah, right," grumbled Tate. He was not going to think of the situation as a fortunate one, no matter how it was put to him. It wasn't fair, as far as he saw things. Not at all. He just hoped the punishment would be over quickly.

He felt Patrick's free hand settle on the small of his back. He tried to brace himself. The man didn't go easy on him though and it wasn't long before he was yelping in pain. Each humiliating stroke of the belt brought fresh agony. He tried to cling to his indignation as a shield. On Halloween he'd done what he had to do; he was sure of that. But he knew deep down that Patrick was also right. The repercussions of his actions at Westfield - even the ones he couldn't consciously remember - were safely locked outside by the house. His existence wouldn't change just because the school was gone. But he had singlehandedly overturned the lives and existences of a lot of people. Again.

When Patrick finally stopped and let Tate up, the teen straightened and, crying like a kid, hastily rubbed the burning flesh in a futile attempt to soothe the pain. It felt like a thousand wasps stinging over and over but he knew better than to heal it up. That would only invite a longer session with the brown leather strap.

Pat went and hung the belt back on the nail in the closet, taking his time about it so Tate could have a few moments to cry it out. When he came back over, the youth had stopped sobbing though his face was wet from the tears and he was sniffling with a runny nose. Pat grabbed a tissue from the box on the nightstand and rubbed Tate's face with it then left the crumpled thing in his hands to take care of his nose himself.

"I'm going to go see what Chad wants done next," he said then. "Get dressed and come down when you're ready." He started to head for the door then but he paused just before leaving. "Don't forget to age down this time."

With that, he left.

…

Vivien didn't know how long it had been since she put Joshua down and sat down in the Boston rocker that was positioned next to his crib. She had dozed off, lulled by the soft autumn sunlight shining hazily through the sheer curtains. But that hint of warmth had faded with the afternoon sun and the lengthening shadows brought a chill with them that stirred her from her rest.

The baby was still sleeping soundly; she suspected his delicate system was overtaxed by the week's hectic events and whatever had happened to him before she'd arrived in the basement. Vivien stretched and scooted to the edge of the rocking chair and froze. The shadows just outside the door moved.

It only took her an instant to identify the source.

"I know you're there," she said, unafraid. She got to her feet.

He came fully into the room then and she looked at him, mouth setting in a hard, unforgiving line.

"Vivien," said Ben. He wasn't wearing the black rubber suit any longer. He looked like himself, dressed in a simple dark blue Henley thermal shirt and a pair of black pants. Years ago - even just days ago - she would have found him handsome. "Viv…"

"I don't want you here," she said without sympathy. "We don't need you."

The pain those simple words caused him was evident in his broken expression. But she hardened her heart against the tears that brightened his blue eyes.

"Please, Vivien," he said. "What happened… That wasn't- It wasn't me. You have to believe that. You know me!"

"Yeah, Ben," she nodded but the gesture was almost circular because she wanted to shake her head at the same time, denying him. "I know you. I thought I did before. Before we came here. Before Hayden." That last word was poison in her mouth. "Before all of this… this bullshit. Now I really know you. And I don't want you here. We don't want you here."

"Please, Viv. Don't do this," he begged. He moved closer to her and she took a noticeable step backward, away from him. The look of disgust on her face broke his heart all over again. "I love you!"

"No. You don't," she said coldly. Now she was fighting tears. She didn't want to cry. Not for him, not because of him, ever again. "You love you. Hell, I don't even know if you have that much love in you."

"That's not true!" he flared. Tears trickled down his stubbly cheeks, but he didn't brush them away. "You and Violet and Joshua... You're the only light I've ever known. I don't want to lose it."

"It's too late, Ben," she said, folding her arms tightly under her breasts. "There's just too much… It's just too much. I can't. I can't do this. Not anymore."

"Vivien, please!"

She steeled herself against his lost puppy look. "Go away, Ben," she said and though her voice trembled with emotion, she meant it. She shut her eyes and a lone tear slid out beneath her lashes against her will. "Go away and leave us alone."

When she opened her eyes again, he was gone.

…

Author's Note:

So. That was supposed to answer the 'What is Rubber Man?' question, but I guess it only partly did. Sorry... I warned you that I was going to leave us all with more questions despite my attempts to answer them all. This particular subject is one that still has me wondering. Is the force part of what Father Jeremiah believes to be controlling the house? Is it Charles Montgomery, controlling what's in his home?

As for Tate... I'm afraid he'll never fully accept any of the bad things he's done. He might say it to someone, if he thought that's what they needed to hear. But inside he will always feel divorced from his actions and their consequences, even if he isn't being powered by the suit. Between his overbearing mother and the control the house has had on him for so long, he'll always feel like a victim himself.

Next chapter: Tate takes on Chloe and Constance deals with the Ambrose situation.