James had finished eating by the time that Thomas returned to the main room, quite obviously concealing something behind his back. James didn't like that one bit. He nervously chuckled at the older man. "I thought that you were going to go to bed…"

Thomas bent down to be level with the smaller man's sitting height. From behind his back, he pulled out a leather bound book. He sat it on James's lap, then looked at him expectantly.

He hadn't said anything, as per usual, but James understood what he had meant. He had been figured out, and Thomas was angry.

"I… I'm sorry," He choked out nervously.

Thomas pulled the journal off of James's lap, lazily throwing it onto the counter with a thud. He grabbed his wrist and pulled James to his feet, nearly throwing him onto his stomach on top of a table.

James stayed on the table, legs dangling over the edge, while Thomas came up behind him. He winced as he felt the first of many blows land on his back. It definitely wasn't a hand. This was leather.

As they continued to rain down, James's eyes started to tear up. "Thomas," He sobbed, "Please stop…" He wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

Thomas, using the little compassion that he was starting to have for the younger man, stopped and set the strap on the table. He placed a hand on James's shoulder and pulled him to stand. He wrapped his arms around James, being careful to avoid where he had been hit. He held him close, stroking his hair.

James cried into Thomas's chest. He didn't seem to notice that he was being held by a serial killer. Or care, honestly.

It took a moment for James to process what was going on. He quickly stepped back, giving Thomas one last glance before he hurried into his small sat on his bed, lying back to stare at the ceiling.

Thomas stomped into his own room, swiftly shoving the strap back into the proper drawer and placing the journal back where it belonged. Did he feel kinda bad? Sure. Maybe there was a better way he could have handled that, but inflicting pain is all he had ever really known. Did he regret it? Not exactly. He figured that James had deserved it.

The next day, as they sat around, Thomas began to scribble into another book. James knew that this was probably his current journal. He could understand why he wrote. Living the way Thomas did could drive a man crazy and James knew that writing could help, especially when it was all you had.

Thomas occasionally glanced up to look at James, then quickly looked back down. James sighed softly. "I really am sorry Thomas… I should have respected your privacy a bit more."

Thomas didn't reply. It's not like James had expected him to. He just kept writing.

I'm a real sick bastard, aren't I? I shouldn't feel like this. I shouldn't. Not about anyone. No man, no hostage, no victim. But I do. What's wrong with me? I'm sick of it! I can't take it any longer! I have to get rid of him. I have to. But… I can't. I've tried to do it. Multiple times. But I can never even convince myself to pick up the knife…

Why is this happening to me? I've never had a problem like this. I've never had a feeling like this. This is pathetic. I am an apathetic, cold-hearted killer. Not a lovesick Romeo.

James Madison… I wish I had never come across you. You are my biggest mistake.

He cleared his throat, causing James to look up. That had never happened before.

"You are my biggest mistake, James." He spoke, his voice raspy with unuse. James's eyes widened.

"Thomas, what do you mean?" He whispered, "Kidnapping me?"

The older man didn't say anything. Instead, he stood, threw the journal at James, then walked out, disappearing into his bedroom.

James whimpered softly as he rubbed his now sore forehead. He watched Thomas walk away, then flipped the book open to the bookmarked page. As he read, his brain couldn't seem to process any of it. He had to read it multiple times, and his scholarly mind still couldn't figure it out. 'Not a lovesick Romeo?' That sounded like Thomas was in love with him. But that was ridiculous… right? James certainly thought so. Thomas had said so himself. He was an 'apathetic, cold-blooded killer.' He couldn't love.

Meanwhile, Thomas whipped out another book. His victim log. He saw the newest line.

17 September 1876 - James Madison, age 24, brown hair, blue eyes,

On top of the crossed out '17', he wrote '28'. Three days. Three days to mentally prepare himself for the task that he knew he would have to do. He would give James three more days.

The next day, James stayed in his room. Thomas was definitely not in the mood to see him. He sat on his bed for the entire day, even when meals came around. Sure, he probably could have come out to collect his food, but he instead ignored his growling stomach and toughed through it.

As the sun began to set, though James wouldn't know due to his lack of windows, Thomas appeared at the doorway to his room. James looked at him nervously.

Thomas simply beckoned him with his finger. James stood from his bed and made his way over to Thomas, making sure not to meet his eyes. Thomas took James by the wrist and nearly dragged him toward the front door before throwing it open and bringing him outside with him.

James looked around and inhaled deeply. He hadn't had a taste of fresh air since Thomas had trapped him. His moment didn't last long, as Thomas soon put a hand under his chin, tilted James's head up, and pressed his own lips to James's.

A/N: I cannot write for anything right now. I'm so sorry, cygnes.