One last time

Tom did nothing. Told no one. They hadn’t spoken since — only crossed paths in the corridors, exchanged glances, waited. She — naturally — was waiting for him to give her up. To anyone. Her shoulders tensed whenever he came into view; she stilled, watched, kept silent — but her eyes alone betrayed her, like a fox startled by a lurking predator. He was waiting for a knife in the back. Quite literally. At the very least, he considered it a possibility. Perhaps a welcomed one. But nothing happened. No one made a move in this game of secrets. Privately, Tommy had started calling her Jim-Boy. And he was curious… …Did the doctor know? “I’d like a pair of glasses.” He broke the silence, once again stretched thin in the doctor’s office during their “sessions,” while the doctor, in turn, scratched at that silence with the irritating scrape of his pen. “Hard to read without them.” The silence was never comfortable. But it was still better than that grating, worn-out scratching of paper. Waters stopped immediately the moment Tom spoke. Even set the pen aside, as if such a small request invited a longer conversation. “You sound like a hostage trying to negotiate with his captor,” the doctor smiled dryly. “Isn’t that what this is?” Thomas lifted his eyes to him, though his head remained low. “Well, if such an attitude is necessary for treating your condition…” “What condition?..” There wasn’t even a question in Tommy’s indifferent voice, yet he lowered his gaze again, as though he already knew the answer. “You are ill, Mr. Shelby.” Waters tapped his temple meaningfully. “Not with tumors or tuberculomas. You suffer from a rather typical, unfortunate soldier’s illness.” At that, Tommy’s shoulders tensed, and he blinked away the image of his little girl. “I’m afraid I have matters to attend to, and our session is coming to an end. However, we will soon begin working on you in earnest.” It sounded so firm, so resolute, that Thomas could have taken it for a threat. He only stared through the lenses at those grey, lifeless eyes, trying to understand how their owner was capable of healing anything at all. “You don’t trust me. But you are a very resonable man, and I hope you will come to understand that you need help. And that, in our time, I am the only one who can give it to you.” Waters’s face had long since lost even that dry smile; now it bore the expression of a commander drafting a new plan after his previous one had cost his own soldiers dearly. Something uncertain shifted inside Tommy. A flicker of recognition stirred — right then, in those words, in that look. The Second World War was over… had Dr. Waters fought in it?.. But more importantly… what did Waters know about him? Tuberculoma.  

Tickna mora o’beng.

  Thomas rubbed his eyes hard, pinching the bridge of his nose. Even if Waters hadn’t fought, he might well have been prepared for war. “You’re free to go. We’ll examine your eyes. You’ll have your glasses.” For a few seconds more, Thomas kept looking at him. But Waters had already returned to his notes, as though nothing had happened. Bloody hell, the man had pulled him out of the fire — and though it wasn’t yet clear why, it was obvious he was far from an ordinary doctor. Tommy stood abruptly and left without a word. A sudden unease crept in — that he might grab Waters by the throat and not let go until he got answers — and something inside him whispered that even then, he wouldn’t get them. “You should listen to Clarkson, I’ll tell you that.” Thomas hadn’t even turned away from the closed door when he heard Jim-Boy’s false voice. She was sitting on a small sofa by the door, staring into a fresh newspaper through slightly smudged glasses. Tom couldn’t make out the headline. Clarkson — that was Waters. Tommy had heard him called that a couple of times. “He’s an innovator in his field. Far more progressive and capable than his contemporaries.” She didn’t look at him. Turned the page. Kept her tone casual. “Yeah,” Tommy said simply, and left the «waiting room.» She didn’t call after him. He didn’t stop. But this time he didn’t go to his room. Instead, another door opened before him — almost mockingly — a drawing room, it seemed. Elegant cabinets packed with books, a fireplace, a table at the center, a television set, and various armchairs and sofas. In short, a perfect bright room for collecting grey dust. And that was precisely why the maid he already knew was often there, feather duster in hand. She only pretended to clean, really — just stirred the dust around. All of his former maids, from seasoned to new, had worked ten times more professionally. But he hadn’t come to criticize. When she saw him standing in the doorway, she immediately began flicking the duster faster, like a schoolgirl caught daydreaming. “I want to apologize, love,” Tommy spoke first. Carefully, so as not to startle her. “Oh no, it’s nothing! I was just… you’re not disturbing me at all!” She replied in a soft but ringing voice, pressing the duster to her apron-covered chest. A white cap barely concealed her dark, glossy curls. Small curvy body wrapped in a strict green dress. She truly looked very beautiful. “I meant something else,” Thomas clarified, stepping into the room, which suddenly felt a little too warm despite the dead fireplace. The girl shifted uncertainly. She grew shy. Nervous. “I pushed you, remember? You were crying. Because of me.” Now a blush joined her awkward posture, her gaze dropping. “Oh, no! I-it’s nothing. It’s just that the doctor… he shouted at me, that’s…” “Because of me.” He stepped closer and finally caught her gaze. Brown, frozen like that of an enchanted bird. Too glassy for her innocent manner. Tom knew that look. And he knew what to do next, even though she said nothing more. He gently took her hand. The feather duster slipped from her fingers, hitting the floor and making her flinch. Then she froze again as Tom’s lips brushed softly against her delicate knuckles. Her back straightened, tense, her eyes flickering with the rush of sensation. “Call me Tommy, if you like,” he introduced himself, his gaze deepening with quiet intent. “I… I… I have to work!” she pulled her hand away abruptly, though the flicker in her eyes betrayed regret. “I’m sorry!” She hurried out of the room, leaving the duster forgotten at his feet.  

***

 

The pills didn’t help. Waters, without unnecessary words or questions, had given Tommy some kind of sleeping aid after an examination by a nameless ophthalmologist — but it did nothing. Not a fucking thing. Despite the dull weight and exhaustion pressing down on his mind, his eyelids refused even to lower. And Thomas lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling like a shell-shocked man, unable to hide from reality or its pain. Clinging to pathetic attempts to convince himself that any moment now, the medicine would take effect. All he managed was to squeeze his eyes shut once they began to ache. To see the darkness — and feel sick at the thought that it was all he had left. He lay there, no longer thinking about time. Trying to feel it, to taste whatever remained to him in that darkness. But all that cut through it were flashes. Arthur, gone limp in his arms… Ada’s tangled hair… John on a metal table… Polly, wrapped in a shroud by her own killers… His own face — calm, almost smiling — in the dance of fire, as though he were looking at it from somewhere above. “In the bleak midwinter…” “Sorry, what?” Tommy’s eyes snapped open. She stood by the door. Only now without the apron or cap; in the dim glow of a small lamp, her curls gleamed like brass, and the shyness in her posture — though still modest — had eased. “I’m sorry, did I wake you?” the maid asked, a hint of guilt in her voice as she smoothed her green dress. “No,” Tommy replied, studying the change in her. “I didn’t hear you knock.” “I did knock…” she said, though there was no guilt or anxiety in her voice, as if she weren’t concerned, he might accuse her of being unprofessional. Thomas slowly sat up on the bed, assessing her with his gaze. “My name is Clara,” the maid added gently, though not quietly, taking a step toward him from the closed door. “And why are you here, Clara?” Thomas asked directly. She fidgeted with a button on her sleeve. Her shoulders were a little straighter now, and a soft expression played on her lips — almost a smile. “I wanted to apologize…” She took another careful step forward and stopped, leaving a proper distance between them. “—for running away. I didn’t want to.” And then it clicked. “Didn’t you?” He rose from the bed. Took a step toward her, closing the polite distance she had left. It didn’t seem like she was forcing herself past the shyness she’d shown before. But then again — he didn’t know what her usual behavior was. He could find out. He stopped, leaving only the slightest space — leaving her the choice to pull back. “Still don’t want to?” he asked quietly, when Clara could see nothing but him now — his face, his darkened eyes. She nodded. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t try to push him off. Then his rough, large hand gently touched her soft, firm cheek, and he held back the tremor those long-forgotten sensations stirred in him. He tilted her face slightly by the chin, taking in her warmth. “Still don’t want to?” he repeated. One last chance. Her small hands came to rest against his chest, her nails lightly grazing the coarse fabric of his shirt — he could feel it through to his skin. “Still don’t want to,” she confirmed — — and then she kissed him, hungry, breaking the image of a timid girl completely.  

***

 

A blind, hungry dance of hands over bodies. The faint salt of skin on the tongue. It all came in flashes, like bursts across a night sky, and Tommy didn’t even notice when they were stripped of their clothes. He only realized when his skin finally breathed free, and he found himself falling onto the bed over Clara. The last remnants of reason, not yet clouded by lust, reminded him to be careful — he kept his weight in check, not to crush her. But her palms, gliding over his muscles, his chest, his nipples, set his blood ablaze so fiercely that he had almost forgotten the sensation — now relearning it with fervor. Clara’s tongue — skilled, impossibly so for someone who had seemed so modest — slid along the curve of his ear. The heat of her breath scorched his skin, pulling a breath from his throat, sending a pleasant tension through his groin that made his abdomen tighten reflexively. Her body was soft, warm; his hips settled comfortably between her parted thighs. He was impatient — but he still didn’t rush. First, he needed to know if she was ready… …And, truth be told, he didn’t want to rush. He wanted to bathe in her warmth, wanted her touch, wanted— Lightly wetting his finger, he traced a line down to her folds before brushing against her heated clit. Her sharp inhale, the way her hips trembled and pressed closer to his hand, only spurred him on. He slipped into a familiar rhythm — his finger pressing more firmly now, his movements testing, learning exactly how she liked it. He didn’t rush to change the pace, careful not to ruin anything. For now, her soft, melodic moans, the scent of sex, the sounds, the half-dark, the lamplight outlining her body, the slick heat enveloping his fingers — all of it held him firmly in the moment. Tom learned her responses quickly — experience saw to that — and soon his fingers were inside her, almost instinctively. He closed his eyes at the sensation. Curved his hand, moved within her, not neglecting her clit. With a darkened gaze, he focused on her face, absorbing every emotion, every movement of her body yielding to his hand. Her parted lips, shaped by her moans, drew him in — and he didn’t resist, pressing his mouth to hers without stopping the motion of his fingers. Her throat trembled with broken sounds as she lifted slightly, her hand wrapping around his cock, tracing his size — pulling a low, rough sound from his chest. Clara’s fingers teased the sensitive head, and Tommy, no longer holding back, pushed her back onto the bed. He took himself in hand, sliding between her thighs, gathering her wetness before spitting, spreading it along his length. Then he guided himself into her. His head fell back at the sensation — her velvet walls eagerly yielding, closing around him from all sides. Clara whimpered, biting her lower lip, and for a fleeting second, something like déjà vu brushed Tommy’s mind. Despite the rush of blood and heat, something about it all felt… familiar. Like a ritual repeated. Like movements learned by heart. But he cast the thought aside and began to thrust. Sex was nothing more than a dance of practiced steps, wasn’t it?.. Clara’s moans easily drowned out the confusion in his head. Tom breathed through parted lips, his eyes locked on hers. Her warm, yielding body fit his so perfectly, felt so right beneath his rough hands, arched so beautifully beneath the thrusts of his heated body. He needed this. This living, tender warmth. This pleasure that made his body feel alive again — made it tremble, forget pain, forget the scars that only grew with time — on his skin, and deeper still. Sex, like a drug, offered absolution. Too brief to be a cure. And he felt himself nearing the edge. Sharp pleasure coiled tighter in his groin. He shifted his angle, arching slightly as the head of him brushed deeper within her, intensifying it further. When Clara’s moans turned desperate, louder, when she tightened around him— he let go, spilling into her with broken breaths. The orgasm washed everything away into white noise — only the pulsing of his cock, the contraction of muscles driving his cum through it, reminded his nerves that he was still, truly alive.  

***

 

La petite mort. An amusing euphemism — the little death. He didn’t quite understand why his thoughts had drifted there, but he made no effort to fight the passing notion. His fingers moved lazily, carefully tracing circles over Clara’s shoulder as she slept, pressed against him as though what had happened between them truly meant something. He understood perfectly well that it was only an illusion — one best indulged with a clear and sober mind. Enjoy it, but don't believe it. Dark curls were scattered across his chest, her sleepy breath brushing against tattooed skin. He waited for her to wake, preparing his questions. Hoping to be unobtrusive. Not to raise suspicion. But the little death, as the French called it, pulled his thoughts away — led them into something more philosophical. He found himself thinking how strange it was that he received absolution and pleasure only through what people called “death.” Clara shifted under his hand, and his body gave a faint jolt, dragging his thoughts back into discipline and focus. His hands trembled too — from the sharp urge to smoke, which he had somehow managed to ignore until now, wandering through his own mind like through Birmingham fog. But there were no cigarettes, nothing to fill the narcotic irritation he had no other way of releasing now. “Oh…” Clara murmured, realizing herself in Thomas’s arms. “I… I’m not in the way, am I? Do you want me to leave?” “No,” Tommy said without looking at her. His eyes drifted along the far wall, as though something was there. “Stay.” Her body visibly relaxed, and the slightly raised head settled back onto his chest. “I should be starting work soon,” the girl warned. She lay on him motionless, like a soft cushion rather than a person. As if fulfilling a duty. There was something familiar in it… some long-forgotten little cogs stirred in his mind under the weight of another déjà vu. “Back to dusting?” Tommy asked, almost casually. “Not just dusting,” she let out a quiet laugh, but didn’t elaborate, falling silent again. Tommy said thoughtfully: “How do you even find your way around here? I still don’t understand why there are so many locked rooms.” Truth be told, everything that had happened between them had only been leading up to these questions. Selfish. Even cruel. But not for the first time. Besides, he had no doubt that for Clara, this night was nothing more than an adventure in the arms of a mysterious man — and that kind of attitude, toward sex and toward himself, was nothing new to him. They didn’t know each other at all. Everything mutually beneficial. Clara was silent for a while, then said quietly: “You’ll get used to it, Mr. Shelby.” The sudden shift in tone and form of address surprised him more than her bold openness the night before. And at the same time, the turning cogs in his mind finally clicked loudly into place. No wonder he had almost felt it in his skin during the night — as something routine. A ritual. And it wasn’t even about the usual, familiar interest some women had in him and his bed. There was a certain type of women he spent time with far more often than any others. “I’m sorry. I have to go.” Clara got up — moved away quickly, as if she wanted to run. To slip out of his personal space as fast as possible. “M… Mhm.” He nearly let slip the usual “money’s on the bedside table” — a phrase etched into his very soul deeper than any memorized biblical prayer. Whores. He watched her back, trying to understand — were instincts speaking to him, or just a stirred imagination?..  

***

 

They had been expecting him. The moment Tommy saw Jim-Boy and Waters lounging across the sofas, he already knew they were here for him — even before their sharp attention turned to his presence. “Mr. Shelby,” the doctor greeted, as Tommy stopped in the doorway, his gaze sweeping over the odd pair. Waters reeked of tobacco, and Tommy clenched his jaw. “Sleep well?” Jim-Boy asked in turn, a faint smirk playing on her lips. Tom ignored them both. The mansion once again offered him only a straight path to Waters’s office, so it was no surprise he had run into them during his “walk.” “What do you want?” He got straight to the point, noting with suspicion the peculiar looks directed at him from behind the glasses. “I wished to inform you,” the doctor began, raising his voice slightly, as if trying to lend it some formality, “that from now on you are permitted to leave the mansion and visit the city. Under Jim’s supervision, of course.” Tom arched a brow. “And what have I done to earn such trust?” Waters adjusted his glasses, giving him a meaningful look. “You are not a prisoner here. Your condition is stable, but we are not releasing you — your health still requires observation and supervision.” He paused briefly, then added with detached neutrality: “Considering that you are becoming more mobile, your muscles have recovered well and you are now sexually active…” Jim-Boy’s grin widened, while Tom’s eyes flickered with indifferent irony. “In that case, I won’t refuse. A bit of space wouldn’t hurt,” he replied dryly, earning an amused chuckle from Jim-Boy. “I’ll take care of you,” she promised, shaking her head. “I’m glad. And I trust in your good judgment,” the doctor replied, just as ambiguously. The smell of cigarettes soaked into his faded coat was unbearably strong. Tommy gave a silent nod. Good judgment… in exchange for space — and a few packs of nicotine. Nothing less.