PIECE BY PIECE

"Well," the doctor says, readying his screwdriver. "Shall we begin the internal exam?"

Farrow sighs. "Get it over with."

After a weapon's test gone wrong, Captain Farrow went from military to private security in the wake of his life-saving surgery. Farrow has been remade, thanks to the brilliant Dr. Hayes. His damaged limbs have been replaced by smart prosthetics, his blood mixed with a self-cleaning agent that keeps contaminants away, though his wounded pride has yet to be recovered.

Kinks!

• Bottom POV
• Medical fetish
• Drug induced somnophilia
• Noncon
• Eroguro
• Doctor/patient
• Amputee/Cyborg
• Cis male with a vagina

These appointments make him uncomfortable.

It's not the way the doctor methodically categorizes every metallic piece of him. It's not the sounds of the circuits in his chest, or the sight of the iridescent binding fluid that keeps his robotic parts functioning alongside human flesh, though that doesn't help.

It's the way the doctor looks at him.

"Captain," the doctor says when he enters the room—always with the same subdued smile.

"Doc," is his curt reply.

They have a routine, at the very least, and Farrow is grateful for that. Relying on the doctor's habits is what gets him through these little checkups.

The doctor offers a hospitable smile as he pats the table where Farrow is meant to sit. It's only a little ironic, given that they're not in a hospital, but in the basement of their company's office building. This whole floor belongs to the medical development branch.

"Good afternoon," the doctor says as he puts on his gloves. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

Farrow sits on the table, watching out of the corner of his eye as the doctor wheels over a small stand with his tools, a stethoscope and a screwdriver among others. There aren't any windows in this room.

"Yeah," Farrow says back.

He's never loved the way his feet don't touch the ground on this table, but that feels like nothing compared to the part where he's on his back with his ribs held open.

The doctor stands right in front of Farrow and tilts his head. "I'm recording the audio from our sessions as usual. May I have your consent for this?"

"Yeah, it's fine," Farrow grumbles back, gaze darting away in response to the doctor trying to look him in the eye.

"Thank you," the doctor says, coming closer.

His name is Everett Hayes, but Farrow isn't interested in getting to know him. They've been doing this for the better part of two years, and Farrow sees no reason to change the routine now.

"This is a maintenance check," the doctor says to Farrow. "Ordered by your immediate superior after you were involved in a firefight, is that correct?"

"Yeah," Farrow says. "Boss doesn't want to take any chances on the tech."

"Or you," the doctor says, and Farrow catches the doctor's lips curving up before he glances away again. "You are not just a machine."

"I know," Farrow snaps. Of course he knows he's not just a damn machine. People love to remind him of that at the oddest times.

"Each system depends heavily on the other," the doctor goes on, either blissfully unaware of Farrow's annoyance, or possibly just in love with the sound of his own melodic voice. "The machine may as well be a secondary nervous system at this point. You cannot function without it, but it cannot function without the rest of you either."

Farrow just nods. He fucking knows this. He heard this explanation a billion damn times after he woke up from the first lifesaving surgery. It was an experimental procedure that he agreed to because the alternative was dying a painful death. He's not really sure if he made the right call, but he can rattle off an alphabetical list of functions and parts better than anyone.

Though, if anyone on earth knows that list better than he does, it would probably be the man who installed everything.

The doctor sets the stethoscope against Farrow's back and a hand on Farrow's shoulder.

"Deep breaths for me."

Farrow's lips thin as he inhales. Normal enough. Any doctor would do this, but no other doctor would be simultaneously listening to the tech under his skin, quite literally figuring out what makes Farrow tick.

"Nice and healthy," the doctor says, moving the stethoscope around underneath his old t-shirt, leaving cold spots that feel like they should burn.

When he switches to stand in front of Farrow in order to listen to his chest, Farrow keeps his eyes on the high collar of the doctor's light blue sweater. Farrow's not a fan of the doctor being taller than him, or their proximity to each other, or the scent of vanilla coming from his cologne that Farrow's internal sensors have determined the exact brand and price of. More expensive than he expected, but he supposes the good doctor might get paid twice over for his love of flesh and metal.

"Lung function seems normal," the doctor says, hooking the stethoscope around his neck. "Are you experiencing any pain right now?"

Farrow shakes his head and then remembers the audio recording. "No."

"Good." The doctor lifts a penlight up to Farrow's left ear. "What about numbness?"

Farrow's brow furrows. "I…don't think so."

The doctor chuckles and switches to Farrow's right side. "Well, let's hope that's accurate."

He always sounds so amiable, this doctor turned engineer. It's almost a surprise that he's not full of metal himself, given his interest in it, but he doesn't even have any piercings. Farrow can tell. His HUD doesn't detect any metal on the doctor. In fact, there's nothing out of place about his body—just his six-foot-one height, and signs of a childhood fracture in his left ulnar.

"Have your readouts been accurate?" the doctor asks as he flashes the penlight into Farrow's fake eye and then his real one.

"Yes," Farrow says. "Least I haven't noticed anything off."

As the doctor peers into Farrow's nostrils, and then down his throat, the aforementioned readout latches onto the doctor's facial features and identifies him for Farrow's convenience, displaying his full name, official government ID, and several other useless facts that Farrow banishes from his sight with a pointed blink. He doesn't need the HUD to tell him about Hayes's white-blond hair, or hazel eyes that break more blue than green, or the smattering of freckles over the bridge of his nose. He's spent enough real-life minutes ignoring those in the flesh.

"Well," the doctor says, readying his screwdriver. "Shall we begin the internal exam?"

Farrow sighs. "Get it over with."

"Lie down for me, would you?" the doctor asks. "I'll start with your arm."

Gearing up for the worst of it, Farrow lies back, lifting his legs so the doctor can extend the table out to catch his boots. The doctor stands over Farrow's left arm and begins to unscrew the access panel along the chunk of shiny, dark metal in his wrist. From this angle, Farrow can see the doctor's long hair tied back in a neat bun, a pencil stuck through it. He is probably what some people might call pretty, but Farrow has trouble applying that word to the man who sticks tools inside of him on the regular.

"Nerve check in 3…2…"

Farrow grits his teeth as an electric shock jolts through his arm, radiating up through his shoulder and down his flank. It's not so much painful as it is uncomfortable, the loss of control.

"Normal."

"Good," the doctor goes on. "I'm going to disconnect the optional nerves in your arm for a moment. There."

The prosthetic parts of Farrow's hand, wrist, and bicep become muted as the doctor presses a switch inside the tech. It's a bit like pins and needles, but felt through a sheet.

"Just checking in on the muscle," the doctor mutters as he leans down closer with the penlight.

Jaw clenched, Farrow stares hard at the particle board ceiling and waits for the moment of impact—the featherlight touch of the doctor's index finger covered in latex, stroking down the length of his exposed muscle. Farrow's mouth twitches, right thigh clenching at the softest press against his insides.

"Good, good," the doctor soothes. "No atrophy."

A mistaken glance in the doctor's direction reveals heavily lidded eyes that look like they belong to someone trying to undress him in a bedroom. Frowning, Farrow looks away, even as the doctor's touch rings underneath his skin. When he reactivates the nerves in Farrow's arm, Farrow flexes his fingers out of habit, to make sure they still obey him. One down.

"What happened in the firefight?" the doctor asks, pulling red-tipped fingers out of Farrow's arm.

A shiver passes over him at the empty air on his muscle, and Farrow tries to remember what to say. "They sent me in as insurance. Client was late on payments, usual stuff. Turns out we caught them as they were trying to flee. They were armed and desperate. Nothing I haven't dealt with before."

"And where were you injured?" the doctor asks, closing up the panel on Farrow's arm and discarding his now-bloodied gloves into a bin under the table.

"Thigh. Just a graze, but it hit the metal, and you know how Boss gets."

The doctor smiles, a little less pleasant and a little more sardonic. "I certainly do. Nothing else hit you, then? Just a bullet to the thigh."

"Not a bullet," Farrow says.

The doctor pauses mid-circle around the table. He's standing at Farrow's shoulder, and he leans forward to look Farrow in the eye. Brows furrowed, his fingertips graze Farrow's other bicep, skin to skin, soft as blades of grass. "Not a bullet?"

"Knife," Farrow says. "He couldn't see the prosthetic. Probably thought he was going for an artery."

"Well, I see why your appointment was rushed," the doctor says. "You've made an art of omitting details on mission reports, Captain."

Farrow suddenly feels like an ant under a magnifying glass, pinned down by the doctor's calm gaze, and he pointedly readjusts his metal leg so it thunks loudly against the table.

"Knife or bullet, what does it matter?"

With a smile, the doctor continues his path to Farrow's metal thigh. "Your plating was designed to deflect high-velocity objects like bullets. Knives can do more harm than you might think. I'll have to take a closer look. Would you mind removing your outer layers?"

Heaving a sigh, Farrow starts to sit up. "Turn around."

The doctor gives him an amused look. "It's nothing I haven't seen before, Captain."

"Just do it," Farrow snaps.

Smirking, the doctor turns his back to Farrow with his arms crossed, and Farrow shucks off his pants. He knew this was going to happen, so he made sure to wear a newer pair of underwear. The plating tends to chew through fabric pretty easily, and the last thing he wants is Everett Hayes commenting on the holes in his cheap briefs.

"All good?" the doctor asks, head tilted.

"Mm." Farrow lies back down with his arms folded and his gaze screwed into the ceiling.

The doctor turns back and gently taps his finger on Farrow's bent knee. "Straighten this out for me."

Farrow lays his legs flat over the table again, the harsh fluorescents catching on the surface of his prosthetics and bringing the deep, dark red to the surface—the Prostec Industries color of choice for all its security models. "It's really not that big a deal. Guy wasn't even that strong."

"All due respect, Captain, but I'll still need to take a look. If he damaged any artificial nerves, you may not even know there's a problem."

The snap of new gloves on the doctor's hands calls something more intimate to mind, even as Farrow averts his eyes. The doctor leans down to inspect Farrow's thigh, and Farrow can't help but think about how long it's been since someone went down on him. When the doctor touches the indent from the tip of the knife where Farrow was struck, Farrow's metallic plating sends a signal to his brain to inform him that he's being touched, lightly, right on a damaged area. The HUD over his eyes shows a yellow circle in the corner of his vision as the doctor traces a circle with his fingertip around the scrapes with a frown.

A strand of white-blond hair loosens from the doctor's bun as he bends down closer to study the wound.

"He must have been very angry with you."

"I wasn't exactly there to help him."

Getting his screwdriver back from his coat pocket, the doctor begins to remove the panel in question. "Are your sensors picking this up?"

"Yes."

"Good."

He drops the dented piece of metal out of sight underneath where Farrow is sprawled, opening a series of drawers to find a new piece to replace it, which he sets beside Farrow's leg. He gets his penlight back out, bracing a hand above Farrow's knee and peering in closer to look at the tech tucked away.

"Just need to make sure it didn't damage any wiring," the doctor says, as if Farrow cares.

That strand of white hair begins to slide further and further from its place. Farrow is staring so intently at it, his HUD begins to spew more information about Doctor Everett Hayes—the university he went to, his time with the military, articles he's published about intelligent prosthetics, the future of the techno-medical field, his departure from the last hospital he worked with, and a slew of pictures of him as his pale hair slowly grows longer and longer over the years.

Farrow's hand darts out on instinct, catching the strand of white hair just before it falls inside his open thigh. Doctor Hayes goes still, and his gaze finds Farrow's, white brows arched high. He smiles, his hands half hidden in the shadow of Farrow's gears.

"Good catch," Doctor Hayes says. "Thank you."

"Just don't want your hair inside my leg," Farrow mutters.

"No." Doctor Hayes lifts his head up, pulling his reddened hands out of Farrow's thigh.

"Would you mind tucking that behind my ear, Captain?"

Frowning, Farrow loops the strand of silky hair behind the doctor's ear while Hayes carefully removes his sullied gloves.

"Apologies," Hayes says, standing up with bare hands. He steps away from the table before he pulls his hair free, a curtain of white-blond falling over his back. Methodically, he rearranges all that hair back into a tightly kept knot at the top of his head, not bothering with the pencil he had in there before, and retrieves a thin black headband from his coat pocket to keep the rest of his hair in place. Farrow has fond memories of an old girlfriend who would ask him to play with her hair when she was stressed. It wasn't as long as Hayes's, but Farrow liked the feel of it between his fingers.

When Doctor Hayes returns to Farrow's thigh, he pats the metal. "You have my favorite gear. It distracts me."

Farrow narrows his eyes. "Hope you're not so distracted that you're leaving tools inside me."

Hayes smiles, picking up his screwdriver. "I had a mechanic who did that to my car once. Left a pair of pliers under the hood. It's a miracle I survived."

He leans down, no more loose strands of hair, and begins to unscrew something Farrow can't see.

"Hope you took him to court," Farrow mutters.

"We worked it out amicably," Hayes replies in that even voice of his, leaving an ocean of possibility in his words. Farrow wouldn't be surprised to learn that Hayes forgave the man for a stupid mistake, or that Hayes tortured the man himself just to make sure he never made another error. He doesn't know anything about how Hayes operates when he's not poking around Farrow's body.

"One of your wires is pinched," Hayes says with a slight frown. "This is a tough location. I'm worried it will spark if you're not perfectly still."

"Can't you just turn off the nerves?" Farrow tries to sit up on his elbows and feels a hot sensation, like a rubber band snapping in his thigh. "Fuck."

"Please don't move," Hayes says immediately. "This is a union wire, it's partially connected to your organic muscles. It will be easiest if you allow me to give you a numbing agent." He picks his head up to look Farrow in the eyes, brows knit ever so slightly. "Is that alright? I'd prefer to replace this as soon as possible."

"Fine," Farrow mutters. "Better to get it all done in one go, right?"

"Great," Hayes says, setting his tools down once again. He returns to the drawers underneath Farrow and pulls out a small vial and a syringe. "Just a small dose. It's local, so it should only affect your leg. I'd rather not put you through any more distress."

Farrow tips his head back and stares at the ceiling again. The distribution of metal and meat throughout his body is his least favorite equation to think about. The fact that there are bits of flesh surviving inside the metal casing makes him feel like a walking test tube. And the parts of him that look like flesh almost always have some metal lurking underneath, like his handcrafted spine, or his jointed ribs, or the reinforcements in his pelvis that connect to his fake leg. That he now only has an approximation of his reproductive organs is just a cruel joke.

He hardly notices the numbing agent, only a cool sensation sinking into his leg.

"Feel that?" the doctor asks.

Farrow's HUD informs him that someone is touching his leg, and he can hear the soft, rhythmic tapping against the metal, but he can't feel anything.

"No," Farrow says, sitting up on his elbows. No pinching greets him this time, and Hayes smiles.

"It'll only be a moment to replace the wire. Relax, Captain."

He goes fishing for more supplies, and Farrow takes a deep breath as his body settles into the numbness. He's not as self-conscious as he was before, but something about Hayes hovering around his groin gives him a sudden urge to small-talk.

"How'd you wind up at this company anyway?" Farrow asks. "An academic like you?

Seems like you could have gone anywhere."

"Yes, well, not everyone is as accepting of my research as it might seem," Hayes tells him, pulling a new wire up out of his cabinet of wares, and in the corner of Farrow's vision, it sort of looks like a snake. "Our boss made the highest offer, and allowed me room to perform more testing on new models. I wouldn't have had the time to continue studying at a proper hospital, and I can't say I'm thrilled at the idea of returning to the military."

Farrow gives a harsh laugh at that. "Don't blame you. You know you're the only one here who calls me Captain, right?"

Hayes chuckles softly. "You call me Doctor. It seems only right that I call you by your title as well."

"Well, that's a boring reason," Farrow mumbles. His HUD flashes a warning into his line of sight—numbing agent, yeah he fuckin' knows, he gave permission—and he blinks it away. He can't feel it at all as Hayes swaps the damaged wire for another. Small blessings.

"Would you prefer it if I called you by your name?" Hayes asks. He's real close to Farrow's thigh, lips slightly parted as he focuses on threading the new wire into place. Hayes has a long face, but it's all in proportion, and Farrow can't stop himself from looking at the doctor's mouth.

He always has such a serene expression while he works. Farrow wonders if he looks like that with partners too. He doesn't wear any rings. He's probably someone who cares more about his work than his love life anyway.

"Captain's fine," Farrow says.

Hayes's mouth just barely quirks up into the hint of a smile as he gets his screwdriver to reach back inside Farrow's thigh. "I wouldn't mind if you called me Everett."

A voice like silk, spoken into the meat of his body. Farrow snorts. "You sound like you're trying to sweet-talk me."

"I am."

Hayes states it so matter-of-factly, Farrow peeks up at him again. After he finishes reattaching the new panel on the front of Farrow's thigh, Hayes traces the edges of it with his bare finger. When did he take his gloves off?

Hayes meets Farrow's gaze, hand splayed over his metal thigh. "Both of our lives will be easier if you like me. Professionalism isn't getting me very far with you. Casual is the next option."

Farrow feels the tiniest spike in his own pulse at the doctor's cool gaze, and those long fingers not registering at all in his nerves. He could almost be touching someone else's disgrace of a leg. Farrow doesn't mind so much.

"I'm not used to people like you," Farrow mumbles, buckling under the pressure of Hayes's direct gaze.

"Is that you being polite?" Hayes asks with a smile. He shifts his focus to the rest of Farrow's leg, examining all the joints and taking note of any scratches or dents.

"I'm just not very…social," Farrow blunders into an excuse. "You're my doctor, anyway. Isn't that a thing? Me being your patient?"

Hayes gives a very soft laugh as he begins to unlace the boot on Farrow's metal foot. "It might be, at a regular hospital. You and I are more like coworkers here, and everyone knows it's better to get along with coworkers."

"Sorry," Farrow hears himself say as Hayes removes his thick work boot, revealing a thinned-down sock underneath. "The metal practically eats fabric."

Hayes peels the sock off with a fond look. "It's charming that you bother to put socks onto metal at all. Don't worry, Captain, it's not as though your prosthetics have body odor."

Farrow's still leaning on his elbows, watching Hayes as he shines his penlight at the bottom of Farrow's fake foot.

"Does your HUD register my touch?" Hayes asks, pressing his thumb into Farrow's big toe.

The pressure shows in the corner of his vision as a slight pip in his readout. "Yeah."

"Good." Hayes takes Farrow's foot in both hands, rolling his ankle and watching the joint glide. "It's always a good idea to closely monitor foot units. They're more prone to wear and tear."

Farrow nods, the disconnect growing as he sees with his own eyes that Hayes is touching him, and not feeling it at all. There's a corresponding itch stabbing the bottom of his human foot, and he flexes his toes in his boot as it skitters over him. That same girl who liked when Farrow touched her hair had a habit of sticking her fingers between his toes when they were watching TV.

"Sure." He forgot what Hayes said.

"Would you mind lying on your stomach, Captain?" Hayes asks, setting Farrow's foot gently on the heel. "I'll move your numbed leg."

"Oh, yeah." Farrow starts to turn over, and Hayes guides his now completely numb leg underneath him to get him into place. Farrow rests his head on his human arm while Hayes starts to examine the panel on the back of his calf. His system informs him when the metal is opened, but Farrow blinks it away.

"I try to take care of it, ya know?" Farrow mumbles.

"Mostly you do," Hayes chirps back, and Farrow heaves a sigh.

"Sometimes I want to take it all off and dump it in the fucking ocean."

Hayes pats Farrow's adjacent ankle once, skin to skin. "That's normal."

"Yeah? You fish a lot of prosthetics out of the sea?" Farrow laughs at his own mental image of a fisherman reeling up a shiny PROSTEC INDUSTRIES hand from the waves. It'd probably sell for more than any fish.

"Are you having trouble adjusting, Captain?" Hayes asks, and his voice is pure honey.

Farrow shrugs, closing his eyes. "Dunno, Doc, how's a guy supposed to adjust to getting half his body destroyed? Wasn't even in combat. How stupid is that? Weapons testing. Fucking idiots."

"Do you wish you were still in the military?" Hayes is touching his human leg again, fingers pressing lightly into the thickest part of his calf.

"No," Farrow grumbles. "I wish I could fuck a girl without it being a problem."

"Ah."

Hayes sounds amused, tapping the back of Farrow's leg as he walks around the table, his finger cresting toward the underside of Farrow's knee.

"Do you feel this?"

"Yeah," Farrow says into his arm. Usually it would depress him to realize how starved he's been, that a doctor giving him a physical exam is almost pleasurable, but he's too relaxed to care.

"Maybe you're missing some much-needed stress relief," Hayes says.

Farrow nods. "Probably."

Fingertips skim up Farrow's spine. Hayes has both his hands under Farrow's shirt again, and fuck him, it's been a long time since someone did that. He stands with his hips at Farrow's eye level, probably checking the alignment of the metal reinforcements in Farrow's back, but his skin is very soft. And warm. Something about Farrow's shirt still being there makes it feel worse, or better. It would be a soothing gesture from someone else.

"Spinal column looks normal," Hayes notes, smoothing Farrow's shirt back into place.

He draws a line from between Farrow's shoulder blades to the seam where his metal arm attaches to his shoulder. If he were anyone else, this might be a nice way to touch Farrow. Hayes carefully traces along the skin as it melds into the prosthetic, and Farrow tries to get a sneaking glance at his fascinated expression.

Any-fucking-body else, and he might not mind if they were a little too obsessed. It's better than revulsion. There's an odd reverence to the way Hayes runs his hands over Farrow's parts, something Farrow hadn't even experienced before his surgeries.

Hayes catches Farrow's eye and smiles. "Are you in there, Captain?"

"Yeah," Farrow says, but he can feel how tired he sounds. "Sorry. Just…zoning out."

"Let's get you on your back again," Hayes says, his voice quieter. "Only a few more stops before I can set you free."

"Mm."

Farrow starts to push himself up, and Hayes darts away to shift his leg for him again.

"Is the numbing supposed to last this long?" Farrow asks, letting his head fall back and his eyes slide shut. "Or am I just tired?"

"Sometimes the numbing agent hits a little harder than normal. Especially if you're already tired. Nothing to be concerned about," Hayes assures him. He stands at Farrow's side.

"Would you remove your shirt for me?"

Farrow reaches for the edges of the fabric and pulls it off without complaint. Hayes takes it from him and puts the shirt onto his rolling table before reaching for the panel in Farrow's chest. The screws over his rib cage are harder to pry open, and Hayes has to change the attachment on his screwdriver before he starts to loosen them. Farrow's HUD warns him of the intrusion, and he dismisses the notification with a sigh.

"If you could work somewhere else, where would you work?" Hayes asks.

Farrow's eyes barely open, letting in a sliver of light to see Hayes's serene expression as he removes a metal plate from the center of Farrow's chest.

"Fuck if I know," Farrow says. "I'm only good at this security shit now."

"You're quite skilled at pretending you're fine," Hayes quips, and Farrow snorts at the bad joke.

"Fuck off," he mutters with a smirk. "I am fine."

Hayes smiles as he sets aside Farrow's false sternum and begins to open up the hinged panel that sits over the left side of his chest. One by one, Hayes peels back Farrow's jointed ribs, allowing access to his chest cavity to inspect organs and controls alike. "You know, if it weren't for you, I wouldn't have been allowed to perfect this binding fluid. And now, it keeps your insides so clean, you don't even have to worry about sterile environments. Isn't that incredible?"

Hayes perches on the edge of the table where Farrow lies and leans toward his exposed insides, shining the penlight at everything that keeps Farrow alive. That heavy-lidded look is back on Hayes's face, and Farrow wonders what the fake heart inside of his body looks like to get an expression like that out of him.

"No matter how dirty you are," Hayes says, leaning his hand on the other side of Farrow's hip. "Your insides can clean themselves. You could get almost anything in here and survive it."

Farrow blinks slowly up at him. "Shouldn't you…have gloves on?"

Hayes reaches up to brush the edges of Farrow's bangs away from his forehead. "If I have gloves on, you won't feel it as clearly. Wouldn't you rather have a human touch?"

Farrow's body feels unnaturally heavy, but he nods his head. He does want a human touch. He really does. If other humans still want to touch him, that must mean he's still human himself.

"Are you still mad at me for electing to reshape your body?" Hayes asks. "You know it was the only way to preserve sensitivity."

"I know," Farrow mumbles with a thick tongue. "I don't have to like it."

Hayes smiles the way you might with a child refusing to do their homework. "As soon as you accept it, I'm sure you'll be able to find people you trust to—"

"You seriously giving me dating advice with my ribs cracked open?" Farrow starts to laugh and Hayes's smile turns warm, affectionate even.

The doctor draws a circle on Farrow's hip with a long finger, and goosebumps skitter down Farrow's good arm. He closes his eyes on instinct before he remembers this is Hayes, but it's getting harder and harder to see the difference between him and someone Farrow would like.

"It must seem very egotistical to you, hm?" Hayes's face is swimming in Farrow's vision, and his HUD works to correct the distortion. "I swear I'm not just admiring my own work. You are much beyond that now. Your body turns my alterations into something entirely new, just by virtue of you being alive."

Farrow's HUD is trying to warn him about drugs in his system, but it's like a wasp buzzing in his eye, so he shuts it all off with a heavy blink. When he looks back up at Hayes, no more scans or numbers line the edges of his sight. It is only Hayes smiling at him, his hip touching Farrow's from his perch on the table, Farrow's metal ribs like the half-curled legs of an insect between them.

"Nothing I put inside you will stay mine," Hayes tells him. "Your body will process it, adopt or convert it, and turn it into something else."

Farrow is hardly listening to him. Every inch of his awareness is focused on the shape of Hayes's hand on his waist.

"Men like you always care so deeply about being the leader. The man." Hayes runs his finger tips up Farrow's flank, and a shiver chases up the human parts of Farrow's body, creating a constellation of goosebumps across the diagonal of his flesh limbs. "But you're helpless on my table."

Farrow feels like he's dreaming. Figures he probably is. He must be. The HUD isn't there, and a doctor would never play with him like this. He fell asleep in the middle of the exam, that's all. And now in this dream, Hayes is touching the ends of his mechanical ribs like he's plucking the strings on a violin. He looks like someone who plays violin. Elegant. Refined. Sadistic.

"Do you…play any instruments?" Farrow asks, mouth full of imaginary marbles.

Hayes's soft expression turns to delight, crinkling around his sharp eyes, and he leans closer to cup Farrow's cheek in his hand, bringing their faces close enough that Farrow can hear him whisper.

"I'm so glad you remembered," Hayes says. "Would you like me to show you sometime?"

Farrow can only see his hazel eyes, but he feels four long fingers on the edge of his open chest cavity, slowly sinking into his body. Farrow nods. He likes music. Always has. A guy like Hayes is probably pretty talented. The pressure of the hand inside him is nothing more than a little bit of warmth in the void Farrow's been carrying with him for two years, maybe more. Long, elegant fingers sliding through meat.

"Go to sleep now, Captain," Hayes says. "I'll finish up out here."

He starts to hum quietly, not anything recognizable, but a soft melody that lulls Farrow back into a dreamless sleep.

Farrow wakes up with a chill in his human limbs and a fog in his head. He startles, realizing he's still in Hayes's office, lying on his exam table.

"Oh, shit," he mumbles, rubbing his eyes. "Did I pass out?"

Hayes looks at him from a stool on the other side of the room, tapping away on a small computer. "Ah, back from the dead, I see. You really should eat more before you come to these appointments."

Farrow shivers again, forcing himself up to swing his legs over the side of the table. "Sorry."

Hayes crosses the room, tipping Farrow's chin back to look into his eyes. "When did I lose you?"

"Uh, somewhere around flipping me over," Farrow says.

Hayes steps back with a small smile. "Well, you must have needed the nap. Everything looks good. As soon as you're steady on your feet, you're free to leave whenever you like."

"Just the new wire, then?" Farrows asks.

Hayes nods, sliding his hands into his pockets with a smirk. "That, and what I now assume to be an offer made in an altered state to hear some piano music."

"Sorry?" Farrow looks at him with brows raised.

Chuckling, Hayes steps out of Farrow's way so he can test his legs on solid ground again.

"You were quite tired, asking me if I played music. You're more than welcome to come and hear me play whenever you like, of course, but I'm guessing that wasn't the same Captain Farrow who asked me."

Farrow feels his balancing mechanism kicking in, anchoring his metal leg to take more of his weight while he comes out of the haze.

"Guess I was pretty loopy," Farrow says. "Sorry about that."

Hayes just shakes his head. "Nothing to be concerned about. Consider it a standing invitation, in case this Farrow decides he likes live music."

Farrow just nods and fixes his clothes.

He spends the walk back to his apartment with a strange feeling in his hips, and memories of his drug-induced dream swimming through his head. It's not just his hips, it's his groin. That numbing agent must have relaxed his muscles or something. It feels like an echo of pleasure, not actually good in the moment, but some part of him is clearly trying to remember how that goes.

The fog lingers the whole way home, and Farrow takes a shower just so he can get back into bed and sleep the rest of this off. They always let him take the day when he's got appointments with Hayes, just in case there's side effects. Hayes was actually the one who argued for that particular amenity. It's probably so he can take his time with his favorite gear.

The light throbbing between his legs never really goes away, but at least he's alone now. Standing under the shower, Farrow has the idle thought to jerk off, but he still hates touching his own body. Ever since he woke up and had it explained to him, he hasn't been able to stomach an attempt. For a while, he tried to tell himself that it'd just feel like touching a woman, but that's all well and good until he's confronting it. He can't fool himself when he can feel his own hands on his body in a shape that it's not supposed to be in. Annoyed, he tells himself he's washing, and passes his fingers quickly over what used to be his cock. It doesn't feel good or bad to him, but there is something slick on his fingers when he pulls away. It looks a little like binding fluid, or cum.

A sudden chill races over Farrow's skin and he finishes showering with a bad taste in his mouth. Damp and cold, he sits down on the edge of his bed, but he can't relax, not when he's missing time. Farrow closes his eyes, sorting through visuals that definitely happened—Hayes's hair nearly falling into Farrow's leg, the nerve check in his arm—and ones that couldn't have happened—Hayes leaning over him with blood-red lips and his ribs set wide open. The drugs must have done a number on his head, but he rarely ever drinks as much water as he should.

Hayes told him that ages ago.

Hydration is important for maintaining the positive effects of the binding fluid.

The miracle synthetic blood that keeps Farrow functioning smoothly requires minimal upkeep, but even when Farrow is at his worst, he doesn't find binding fluid mysteriously outside his body. What the fuck did Hayes inject into him? Farrow stares at his flesh and armored knees side by side, his human hand tapping against the inorganic material, his rigid fingers adjusting weight distribution so as not to accidentally bruise his human thigh.

So many subconscious actions, performed without him even knowing…

You have my favorite gear.

Farrow scrubs his hand through his hair, clenching his teeth.

You're a walking time bomb, Farrow. We can't employ you like this. Half the tech inside you isn't even approved for medical use, let alone civilian. It's too risky for us.

Rising to his feet, Farrow starts dressing again, knowing he can't let this go. He's been under Hayes's knife more times than he can count. If something happened today, who's to say it doesn't happen every time? It's too disturbing not to investigate, but he doesn't want to put Hayes on the defensive, so he grabs his phone to send a different message.

Farrow [3:24 pm] Where do I go to hear music?

Hayes [3:30 pm] I'm thrilled to hear you're interested. I'll send along my address but I won't be able to receive you until about 8 pm. I hope you can wait that long.

Farrow [3:31 pm] I'll survive.

Farrow isn't surprised to learn that Hayes lives in a nice house in one of the wealthier suburbs outside the city. Hayes seems like someone who does better in quiet environments, but nowadays Farrow can't imagine trying to sleep without ambient city noise. Silence puts him on edge, like he's bracing for action.

It's a short train ride to get to Hayes's neighborhood, and Farrow walks up the sidewalk to his front door feeling terribly out of place in his sweatshirt and jeans. There was a time when getting invited to this area would have meant putting on a dress uniform, but even if Hayes still calls him Captain, Farrow isn't one, and there's no use pretending. At least it's dark outside.

Farrow knocks with his prosthetic hand, and Hayes doesn't keep him waiting.

"Good to see you, Captain," Hayes says, extending his arm in invitation. "Normally I ask guests to remove their shoes, but if you're not comfortable with that, I understand."

Farrow kneels down to unlace his boots. "It's fine. I have socks without holes in 'em this time."

Hayes smiles and shuts the door behind Farrow. "If you'd like advice on tear-resistant fabrics, I can help with that."

"Sure," Farrow says, setting his boots on the nearby mat and sticking his hands into his pockets. He came here with visions of confronting Hayes, but standing in the guy's house in his socks steadily skims Farrow's confidence away.

"Have you eaten, Captain?" Hayes asks. He starts walking through a hall lined with art that Farrow is sure he could spend time admiring, but his eyes are fixed on Hayes. His long, pale hair hangs loose down his back like a white scarf. Farrow only ever sees this look in brief glimpses at the office, if he needs to fix his hair, which he rarely does.

"Not very hungry," Farrow says as they enter an intimidatingly clean, angular kitchen.

The counters are all dark stone, and the cabinets a crisp white.

Hayes turns to Farrow with a patient but amused look. "That doesn't inspire confidence. You passed out earlier. That's rarely a sign that you've eaten too much."

"Fair enough."

Smiling, Hayes leans his arms on an island in the center of the room, pushing a half-full plate of what his HUD identifies for him as some kind of flatbread with a bunch of toppings he's not interested in reading nutritional information about. Farrow picks up a piece, and points at the empty half of the dish.

"Someone beat me here?"

Hayes props his chin on his knuckles. "Just attempting to impress someone from a medical journal on behalf of our employer. You know how the boss likes good press."

Farrow gives a closed-mouth laugh before popping the bite of bread into his mouth. It's good, good enough to compliment if this were someone else, but Farrow doesn't want to get sidetracked again.

"Thanks," he mutters, wiping his hand off on his jeans. "Listen, Hayes, I gotta talk to you."

"I'm all ears, Captain," Hayes says, staring up at Farrow, comfortable as always. It's more difficult to speak here than it is at the office. Farrow wasn't thinking about the discomfort of facing someone in their own home and accusing them of malpractice, and Hayes's serene smile isn't helping Farrow buck up.

"Is there any chance that today…" Farrow flexes his human hand, and then his metal one. "Did you really give me the drugs you meant to? Or…was the dosing accurate?"

Hayes tilts his head a few degrees, his contentedness turning to curiosity. "Did you notice something out of place when you got home today? Symptoms?"

Farrow moves his weight onto his metal leg. "It just doesn't really seem like I was weak enough to pass out. It was a normal day for me before your appointment. I've had local anesthetics before. Didn't make me lose time like that."

"So you suspect I might have accidentally given you the wrong medication?" Hayes asks.

Farrow braces himself for the accusation to bounce back on him. He's used to the brash men who take bringing up their mistakes as a worse sin than making them in the first place, but Hayes is calm—even the HUD confirms it in his heart rate. He pushes back up to his full height, considering Farrow with the same curiosity. The only weapon he wields is the several inches he has on Farrow, but Farrow still feels cornered.

Hayes's pale brows rise up and down, and he taps a long finger onto his own chin, like he's having a grand revelation. "Or perhaps you think I gave you the wrong medication on purpose, to render you immobile on my table."

Farrow stares back at him, equal parts impressed and disturbed that he just came right out and said it. Hayes gives a gentle laugh, and Farrow's HUD informs him that the doctor's pulse is as even as it always is, no telltale liar's spike of anxiety.

"You must think I'm a monster," Hayes says. "Did you have trouble with doctors in your youth as well? Or did I win all of your animosity as a prize for saving your life?"

Farrow groans quietly, realizing now just how insane he sounds. "Listen, I found binding fluid on me in the shower after I got home. Just put a bad thought in my head, that's all."

"Ah." Hayes nods. "There was a small mess from changing your wire. Perhaps you didn't feel it getting on you because of the numbing agent. I'm sorry I wasn't able to fully contain it."

"No, it's fine. Sorry for jumping to conclusions."

Leaning his hip against the counter, Hayes folds his arms. "Have I upset you, Captain?"

"No, I'm just not used to guys like you," Farrow says. "It's a bad habit from years of service. Not personal, just me."

Hayes considers that and gives Farrow a woeful look. "You're still looking for a mission. An enemy to fight. I can't say our employer puts you to very good use as it is, so I can hardly blame you for chasing shadows. Do you have nightmares as well, Captain?"

Farrow squares his shoulders. "I didn't come here so you could listen to me."

With a laugh, Hayes pushes away from the island. "You're right. My mistake. This way. You'll get your concert, even if you did accuse me of malpractice."

The glint in his eyes is conspiratorial, friendly even, but Farrow still feels a threatening undercurrent, like he's walking on ice that might crack at any moment.

Farrow shuffles after him. "Maybe it's like PTSD, you know?"

"Of course," Hayes says. "It would honestly be shocking to me if you didn't have some form of it, considering what you went through. The fact that we're only two years out and you're tolerating my bad jokes is wonderful progress, in my opinion."

Farrow follows Hayes into a freakishly presentable living room with a small but no less impressive piano in one corner of the room. The whole house hardly looks lived in, and Farrow catches himself scanning with his HUD for signs of humanity—stains on the coffee table, tears in the sofa, dents in the entertainment system, stray hairs—but nothing shows up.

"Your house is…very beautiful," Farrow says. "Magazine worthy."

Hayes sits down on the piano bench, turning his body to face the keys, but he looks over his shoulder with a wry smile. "You sound disappointed."

"You're just putting me to shame, is all," Farrow says, shoving his hands back into his pockets like he's holstering a gun out of habit.

Hayes dots a few of the keys, easing into a couple of notes that don't sound like a song but are still melodic enough to show that he knows how to show off. "Do you have a favorite song, Captain?"

"Not really," Farrow replies, standing awkwardly to the side of him.

"Maybe after tonight, you'll have one." Hayes tests out a chord or two, and then pats the bench beside him. "Standing there is reminding me of an old instructor. At least sit on my level."

"I'm shorter than you," Farrow says. "I can't be on your level."

Hayes plays a few more notes, keeping his touch light so the music stays quiet enough to keep talking. "Ah, have I stumbled on the root of the problem?"

Farrow studies the side of Hayes's face, looking at the keys of the piano with much the same serenity as when he's opening up Farrow's insides. "I'm not so petty that I'd hate someone just for being taller than me."

"Well, that's a comfort," Hayes says, gaze flicking over to Farrow and back to his song. Even his feet know how to work the pedals beneath without pausing. Whatever he's playing isn't anything Farrow recognizes, but it's a lovely tune, and his slender fingers look suited to the task just as much as they do when he's examining wires and veins.

"Seems hardly fair that you're good at everything you do," Farrow says.

Hayes's mouth pulls into a wide smile, his music filling the room like the scent of fresh food. "That's hardly a fair way to look at it. You've only ever seen me in my chosen fields. I'm sure if I came along with you on a job, I would feel similarly."

"Being good at hurting people isn't exactly the same as medicine or music."

Hayes's fingers seem like they're moving impossibly fast. "I feel like we're getting closer every day, Captain. Would it make you laugh to know that I admire you?"

"Why?" Farrow asks, a little more incredulity heating his voice than he intended.

Hayes brings his song to a sharp close, pulling his fingers away as one keening note rings around them. "You're a good man, Farrow. You believe yourself to be completely useless, and yet, all you want to do is help others. Even when those people try to hurt you, you cover for them, and downplay the injuries they give you. Captain, how many people have you allowed to slip away from you when they couldn't afford their new prosthetics?"

Farrow stiffens, tilting his chin away like he's expecting Hayes to lash out with his fists.

Hayes raises his hand. "Please, Farrow, I'm not here to turn you in. Like I said, I admire you. Your position would wear on anyone with a real human heart."

"I don't have one of those either," Farrow quips, and Hayes rises back to his feet with a smile.

He pats Farrow on the shoulder, and he really does tower over Farrow, even more so in his own home. "It makes no difference to me if a few fish swim free of the net. If I told our boss now, I would only be admitting to being your accomplice."

Farrow's brows pinch, some of the panic ebbing from around his throat. "What do you mean?"

Hayes just laughs, as pretty and elegant as his piano music. "You're not a good liar, Farrow. But I am. I'm happy to continue allowing you to omit details on your mission reports."

"Don't you record our sessions?" Farrow asks.

Hayes pats his shoulder again. "Our boss trusts me as his employee. I want you to trust me as a friend."

Through his narrowed eyes, Farrow's HUD locks in on Hayes's pretty hazel eyes and white-blond brows. "Are you doctoring your own recordings for him?"

"Have a drink with me, Captain," Hayes says. "Ask me whatever you like."

Farrow manages a smile at the very corner of his mouth. "You really don't care what I do on the job?"

"I would prefer you not put yourself in harm's way, but beggars can't be choosers. Beer? Wine? What do you drink?"

His hand doesn't feel so heavy on Farrow's shoulder. "The tech processes booze twice as fast as I used to, so it doesn't matter to me."

"Have a seat," Hayes says, walking back in the direction of the kitchen.

Farrow sinks down onto the couch, half stunned that he went from thinking Hayes was fucking with him intentionally to realizing he's been covering Farrow's ass for the better part of eighteen months. Farrow might even be grateful. No wonder he's been trying to get Farrow to open up to him.

When Hayes returns with two glasses held in one hand and a bottle in the other, Farrow starts to laugh. "Does this count as celebrating?"

"I'm more than happy to mark this as an anniversary of sorts," Hayes says. "The day you stopped looking at me like I'm the devil himself."

Farrow scoffs. "It wasn't that bad."

Hayes sits down on the coffee table across from Farrow. "Speak for yourself. I know the look of a doomed man all too well, Farrow. Yours are the eyes of a predator forced into another's trap."

"Prostec isn't the company I wanted to work for, but like you said, they pay well and they don't ask a lot of questions," Farrow says.

Hayes pours him a generous portion of wine, and Farrow accepts the glass from him with his good hand.

"I don't have a lot of spare time for things like this," Hayes admits, swirling his own glass around and staring into it like a crystal ball. "And yet, for some reason, I'm inundated with bottles of wine. People love to gift me with wine."

Farrow waits for him to take a sip before he does too, the sting of it prickling down his tongue as he swallows.

"I bet people don't gift you wine," Hayes says, looking over at Farrow. He crosses one long leg over another, his grey trousers cuffed above his bare feet.

"No," Farrow says. "I get a lot of socks. Gift cards. Last year it was all supplies to shine my prosthetics, like I'm a fuckin' car."

Hayes is caught off guard by a laugh, turning his face slightly to the left, shoulders jumping. "I'm sorry."

Farrow lets himself laugh, too, and takes a longer drink. "It's alright. No one knows what to do with me anymore. I guess I'm not helping them figure it out."

"Would you like help with that?" Hayes asks, leaning his arms onto his thighs. When he stares directly at Farrow, all that silky hair falling around his face, Farrow gets the distinct echo of adrenaline he used to get when a night out would escalate into a date. This isn't that, it can't be, but Farrow still feels like something is ramping up.

"Help with what?" Farrow asks, lifting the wineglass but not drinking yet.

"Figuring yourself out," Hayes says, spinning the stem of his glass between his fingers. "Don't think I haven't picked up on your frustration. You think you're half the man you used to be just because you had your body reconstructed."

Farrow takes a deep breath, and it's full of the scent of wine.

Hayes gives him a thoughtful look, touching his own lip. "You think you've lost something intrinsic to your identity because, what, you can't penetrate someone the way you used to?"

Farrow takes another gulp of wine.

"You know you can still do that, right?" Hayes asks. It's half amusement and half sincerity in his eyes as he says it. "You have two hands, don't you? One set of fingers that'll never get tired, and the most advanced screening technology that, if you wanted it to, could pinpoint the exact moment someone goes from interested to aroused. You could monitor an orgasm as it happened from the inside out, with their vitals displayed in your vision while you touched them."

Farrow blinks at him, letting his hand rest on the arm of the couch with his nearly empty glass gripped tight. "You've thought about this."

Hayes cups his own cheek in his hand. "The grass is always greener on the other side, I suppose."

Farrow quirks an eyebrow and looks at the dregs of his wine. "It's, uh, an interesting line of thought."

Before he can even think about it, Hayes tops off Farrow's glass with more wine. "Just something to consider. We all yearn for what we don't have."

"Hard to think someone would want metal fingers inside them," Farrow mutters, lifting the glass back to his lips on autopilot.

"You'd be surprised what people find exciting, Captain," Hayes tells him before he matches Farrow for another swig.

Farrow lowers his glass slowly, feeling the slight fuzziness of the wine competing with a sudden spike in his own pulse. He looks at Hayes, at his near colorless hair, in his spotless house, drinking wine no doubt gifted to him from the hands of a person whose life he saved.

"Like looking into someone's exposed chest cavity?" Farrow asks.

Hayes sets his glass down on the table beside his thigh, and his gaze cuts over to Farrow's with a shy sort of smile—caught with his hand in a jar of cookies, or elbow deep in Farrow's guts.

"Regular people are so fragile," Hayes says to him. "And then there's you. Hard on the outside, soft on the inside."

Farrow's HUD shows Hayes's heart rate slowly increasing like an earthquake brewing on a fault line.

"Tell me the truth. Did you touch me today?"

Hayes has the slightest bit of pink in the very tops of his angular cheeks, and it could be the booze, or the way that he's talking. "I have to touch you, Captain. It's my job as your doctor."

"You know that's not what I mean," Farrow shoots back at him.

Hayes gives a quiet laugh and reaches out to touch the top of Farrow's closest knee. "What's the use in asking someone who knows exactly how to fool your lie detectors?"

"I just wanna hear you say it," Farrow says. "Even if it is a lie."

Hayes moves slowly, splaying both his hands out and laying them gently over each of Farrow's knees, in much the same way he did to the piano. Their faces are nearly level when he looks into Farrow's eyes, smiling as his pulse beats in the corner of Farrow's display.

"You want to hear me say that I dosed you with a sedative so that I could put my hands inside your body. Or that I opened up your ribs just to put my mouth on your heart. Would that vindicate you, Captain? Would you find that an acceptable price for lying to our boss about your rather loose sense of responsibility for the last year and a half? Or maybe I should say it was for recommending you into his employment in the first place."

It's the calm pulse of a practiced liar, but Hayes's dilated pupils tell Farrow something else. Hayes slides his hands up Farrow's organic and inorganic thighs with the same diligent care to study every dip and curve in the design of each limb.

"I could tell you I knew about you during your days in active service," Hayes says. "Or that I went to your high school, or maybe your university. Maybe we used to work together. Why don't you tell me what kind of lies you like to hear, Captain? I have all night."

Farrow doesn't know which possibility disgusts him more: the doctor getting himself excited just by telling Farrow lies, or from touching the fake limbs he crafted himself?

"I can't tell if you're more hard for skin or tech," Farrow says.

Hayes looks back up at Farrow's eyes, his own blatant arousal like a smear of paint over an untouched canvas. "Which upsets you more? That I might like the false parts of you, or the real ones? Or are you only worried that I see you as a woma—"

Farrow doesn't even register a desire to do anything, just finds his metal hand clasped around Hayes's throat, squeezing into his very real flesh. Hayes's eyes are like glass marbles in his face, lids wide open, gaze fixed on Farrow, processing the shock and whatever else makes him tick. Commanding himself to relax his grip, Farrow slowly opens his fingers again, watching Hayes's Adam's apple bob as he swallows.

Flexing his neck, Hayes takes a deep breath. "Don't worry, Captain. I know what you are."

Farrow sees burst blood vessels under the skin of Hayes's neck, five red impressions in the shape of his prosthetic fingers. Forcing himself to lower his hand back to the couch, Farrow leans away from Hayes, the wrong kind of adrenaline still coursing through him. It feels much better than it should to have put any kind of mark on Hayes.

Hayes touches his soon-to-be bruises and, god, he's still smiling.

"Nothing upsets you, huh?" Farrow asks.

"Not if it's you," Hayes answers, then catches himself, readjusting to put his hands back on the table beside his legs. "I'm sorry, we're being dishonest tonight, aren't we? Would you like me to be angry with you instead? I know how much you like to have enemies. They provide rigid structure for a man like you."

"Are you drunk, or…or is this just how you really are?" Farrow asks.

Hayes tucks some of his hair behind his ear, an ineffectual gesture with so much of it, but Farrow finds himself tracking the gesture from start to finish.

"All my attempts have been useless," Hayes says. "You always find something to distrust about me. So why don't we just forgo all the pretending and I'll give you what you're looking for."

Farrow's head tilts. He doesn't know what to do when it feels like talking is just as threatening as a weapon in someone's hand. It's more threatening, because he can't disarm a man like Hayes. He can only listen, or walk away, or hurt him.

"You want to believe that I drugged you in my office," Hayes says, leaning back on his hands and smiling like he's posing for a fucking magazine cover. "That would be a waste of medicine, Captain. Our boss cares more about missing vials of morphine than he does missing persons. And besides, I don't need drugs to make you do what I say."

Farrow feels like someone dropped an ice cube down his spine. "What?"

Hayes laughs, covering his mouth with his fist, a delighted, almost boyish look on his face. It's the first time Farrow has ever seen him look anything less than composed and intentional, eyes crinkling with genuine humor. This moment belongs between old friends, not whatever the fuck is happening now.

"Captain," Hayes starts, his voice lightened by his own amusement. "I personally installed every bit of tech inside you. You're designed to respond to me. That was part of the deal when we brought you on board. In case you went rogue or something like that."

He waves his hand so casually, like the very thought is absurd, but Farrow feels oily nausea churning in his gut.

"Well, if I didn't have a reason before, I sure fucking do now," Farrow says back, jaw clenching.

"Oh, we're well past that," Hayes says. "Relax, Captain. I certainly have no interest in clipping your wings."

"Then what the fuck do you want from me?" Farrow asks, grateful the wineglass isn't in his other hand or he'd have surely ground it into shards by now.

Hayes reaches forward with both hands, and Farrow braces himself, but he only places them on the couch on either side of Farrow's legs. Not touching him at all, but he doesn't really have to anymore. "I want more music."

Farrow holds his gaze, confusion and discomfort pulsing through him. "You already played."

"Not the piano," Hayes says. He raises his hand, fingers beginning to curl as he reaches toward Farrow's chest.

Farrow jerks away from him, teeth grit as he realizes there is an armrest on his right side, and Hayes's arm on his left, boxing him in. "Don't."

Hayes pauses, considering him with an alien curiosity. For a brief moment, he looks like he might actually stop, but he only smiles warmly and flattens his hand to the left of Farrow's chest, right where the metal panel is.

"Let me listen to you," Hayes says. "And I will so conveniently forget about any clients you let slip away. I'll be sure to fix up today's tapes as well, so no one hears the sound you made with my arm inside you."

Farrow feels a cold sweat breaking over his neck, his own panicked heart rate displayed along the edges of his vision in a yellow warning sign. The HUD scans Hayes the way it would for a hostile on the field, and it assures Farrow that the man is unarmed, but that's not true at all. The hand on his chest may as well be the barrel of a gun.

"Relax," Hayes says. "I'm only telling lies, remember? I would never feel around inside you while you were under the influence. And if I did, surely you would never make such a shameless noise. You'd certainly never get yourself wet over it."

Farrow knows how easily he could snap the good doctor's wrist, crush his windpipe, stab a line straight through to an artery in his thigh. He's got a sharp edge under the plating along the flat edge of his palm and pinkie finger for that. But he doesn't, because he knows how quickly they'd pin him for it. If Hayes is half as prepared as he seems to be, he probably already has some fucked-up fail-safe for that possibility too.

Hayes lifts his hand up to lightly pinch Farrow's jaw between his index finger and thumb. "Look at you. You'd rather take a bullet than get on your knees. Charming. Take your shirt off, Captain."

He pulls his hands away, leaning back on the table, waiting for Farrow with a roguish smile that probably works wonders on anyone who doesn't know what this man is made of.

Farrow takes a deep breath, all his anger starting to cool against the resignation that he doesn't really have a choice but to do as he's told. If he turns on the company, he knows exactly which team they'll send after him to collect the payment he was never able to make for all the tech they jammed inside him. They won't be as kind on Farrow as he is to his own clients.

Wrenching up the bottom of his sweatshirt, Farrow asks him, "You enjoying the fact that I don't want to be here?"

He shoves the fabric onto the cushion beside him, fixing Hayes with a withering glare that he's used on countless others to intimidate, but Hayes just smiles back at him. "If only that were true, I might feel a little worse. Easy now."

Hayes holds his hand out in warning before he starts to slide off the coffee table, like he's approaching a feral dog. He kneels in front of Farrow, right between his thighs, hands still held up in that placating gesture that only makes Farrow want to act more like a dog. Even as Hayes cautiously approaches, he does so with his usual grace, slowly closing the space between them with no hesitation. Despite how gnarled Farrow's expression must be, Hayes holds his gaze right until he turns his head so he can place his ear directly on the front of Farrow's chest plate.

"It doesn't excite you at all?" Hayes asks, nestling his face to the metal and skin. "To think you get to become something new?"

"I didn't ask for this," Farrow says. He can't stop himself from arguing even when he knows it's probably best not to give Hayes anything right now.

Hayes shifts his cheek slightly and puts one of his hands on Farrow's hip, right above the waist of his pants. It's a gentle touch that nevertheless feels like restraints wrapped tight around his body. The bizarre intimacy of someone listening with such reverence to his insides fits Farrow like a too-tight suit that he can't rip off. Nothing Farrow can do will change whatever Hayes has decided is here for him.

"You and I made something," Hayes says, his fingers skimming lightly along Farrow's flank. Farrow's anger isn't sharp enough to will the goosebumps away. "The old Farrow has been broken down and pumped through organs and machines, shaped under my knife into a brand-new person."

Hayes lifts his head back up, and there is nothing short of fascination strung through the light in his eyes.

"You're the only one who thinks like that," Farrow tells him, once again unable to stop himself from biting back.

"We're always hardest on ourselves," Hayes says, patting his shoulder before sweeping his hand down over the soft skin of Farrow's chest and stomach—traitorous skin that responds to an appreciative touch, even when he commands it not to. Hayes watches every hair standing on end with the patient gaze of a wolf who isn't quite hungry enough.

Rising back to his feet, Hayes holds his hand out to Farrow in an invitation. "Come with me. I can't open you up in here."

Looking at Hayes with as much contempt as he can possibly muster, Farrow grabs his sweatshirt off the couch and rises to his feet, snubbing the offered hand. "How long are you going to keep me here?"

Putting his scorned hand into his pocket instead, Hayes starts leading Farrow out of the living room. "Well, if you can walk when I'm done, I certainly won't stop you."

"What, are you going to remove my damn leg?" Farrow asks.

"Of course not," Hayes says, smiling over his shoulder. "You wouldn't be you without it."

Farrow glares at the back of his head for the rest of the walk up a flight of stairs and into a spotlessly clean bedroom. Stomach dropping, Farrow hesitates in the doorway.

"I thought you were gonna put me on another table."

Hayes walks over and pats the taut covers on a perfectly made bed. "You think I'm some mad scientist with a private laboratory in my own home. That's an impressive imagination for someone so bad at lying. Lie down, Captain."

As Farrow crosses the room, one heavy step at a time, he has the distinct feeling of hands pressing into his back, even though he knows no one is behind him. No matter how many times he tells himself that it's not worth it to let Hayes do whatever he wants to Farrow, he still sits on the edge of that neat bed with its clean white covers. The room smells faintly of oil and his sensors inform him of the ylang-ylang before Farrow can signal that he doesn't give a shit.

Hayes is making him do this. Not just with blackmail. With the tech. That must be why, when he tells himself over and over that nothing good will come of this, Farrow lies down on his back, like he does for every appointment with Everett Hayes. He said it himself, didn't he? That Farrow was designed to respond to him. Farrow assumed he was referring to fail-safes and emergency protocols, but no, it's not just that. It's not just the metal either. Hayes can turn Farrow's entire body against him with only his voice. Maybe it's why he insists on calling Farrow Captain.

The sweatshirt falls from Farrow's clenched hand as he realizes there was never any fight to be had. Hayes was always going to win. And there's no reason to fight now either.

It's almost a relief to know it.

Hayes sits down beside Farrow, brushing the bangs away from Farrow's forehead before trailing a finger from his temple to his jaw. "Thank you."

Farrow looks away from him. "Just get it over with."

He hears a quiet laugh as Hayes touches his mouth. "You stay right there. I need my tools."

The word tools sends an uncomfortable shiver straight down Farrow's fake spine. Hayes is only gone for a minute, and Farrow spends every second wrestling with how stupid it would be to make a break for it, but he is weighed down and shackled by memories he thought were fake, memories of Hayes's hands.

It's been too long, and Farrow knows he'd always rather put himself in danger than anyone else.

It's been too long.

When Hayes sits back down beside Farrow on the bed, their hips nestled uncomfortably close together, he lays a towel above Farrow's head and sets about unscrewing the pieces in Farrow's chest.

"How does this excite you?" Farrow asks, his flesh leg bouncing up and down as Hayes leans over him. "I don't get it. You're a doctor, you see this shit all the time."

Hayes puts the screwdriver down, and Farrow hears the screws clinking together out of sight on the towel. "You're not just a pile of viscera, Captain." Prying up the metal plate, he sets

it down with the other tools, and completely removes the door over Farrow's heart with both hands. "You're an ecosystem." Hayes lays a hand flat on Farrow's stomach, always so damn gentle. It makes Farrow's skin crawl. It's been two years and he still expects this man to turn vicious, even though he knows that's not how Hayes works.

"What does that make you then, huh?" Farrow asks, trying to maintain a hold on his own anger as Hayes plays with the joints of his ribs once again, opening and closing them like a child fidgeting with a toy.

Hayes meets Farrow's stare, his fingers resting on the opening of his chest. There are several warnings blinking in the edges of Farrow's vision, but he can't look away from Hayes.

"Heraclitus," Hayes answers in a hushed voice.

"What?" Farrow's brows pinch.

Hayes only laughs, dropping his gaze from Farrow's eyes to his beating heart. "Don't worry yourself over it. I bet your sensors are giving you a light show right about now."

Farrow turns the HUD off. "Obviously. There's a freak pulling open my ribs. Would be a pretty major flaw in the design if they didn't."

"You're not stopping me," Hayes says. Farrow feels sweat gathering under his neck as those elegant pianist fingers begin to slip inside his chest cavity. He can't see where they're going, but he can feel pressure where there shouldn't be any, pressure that shouldn't ever exist. "Is that your flaw or mine?"

Farrow starts panting as he comes to grips with how much damage Hayes could do to him with almost no effort. Turning the HUD back on would only ramp up his anxiety about where exactly Hayes is sticking his fingers, but the alternative is blindly trusting Hayes not to hurt him. The urge to sit up and assess is immediately clipped by the fear that any movement at all might ruin an organ.

"Captain, you look distressed," Hayes says. "Would you like me to help you relax?"

Farrow feels something shift in his torso as he looks at Hayes's drunken expression. The light and the heat in his eyes shouldn't be there, not from this, but Farrow still has the wild thought that maybe this is better than nothing. Maybe this is what he deserves now. Maybe he can learn to like the feeling of someone else's obsession.

Hayes pushes his clean hand over Farrow's stomach and up his flank, a warm brushstroke of skin that raises more goosebumps in its path. Farrow grits his teeth through his own manic breathing, so keenly aware of the fingers inside of him, burrowing around organ and bone. The dry hand on his skin brings a soft pleasure that Farrow has been starved of for much too long, but the hand in his chest is an anchor dragging him underneath a rapid current of raw fear.

With a tilt of his head, all of Hayes's long hair falls to one side, and he leans across the open wound of Farrow's chest to press a kiss to Farrow's nipple. Both Farrow's hands snap down in the covers, and Farrow turns his face away. He doesn't want to feel anything from this, let alone the twitchy sparks of arousal firing off in his hips. Much to his disappointment, he finds himself looking at the two of them in a mirror affixed to the door of the closet across from them.

The wrongness of Hayes's hand inside his rib cage completely distracts Farrow from anything else. He doesn't see Hayes open his mouth, just feels his wet tongue cresting over the bead of Farrow's hardened nipple. A groan forces its way up Farrow's throat, and he has to turn away again so he doesn't accidentally get a look at his own face reacting to this. The sheet of white hair in the corner of his vision could almost be a woman's, and he tells himself that's the reason for his aching groin.

Farrow stares at the part in Hayes's hair, transfixed while Hayes busies himself touching skin and blood. One knuckle at a time, Farrow's good hand begins to unclench, and he reaches in stuttering slow motion for Hayes's scalp. Hayes's fingernail pries up the button on Farrow's jeans as Farrow touches the silk of his hair, letting his fingers sink through all his memories of past girlfriends.

He hasn't had that many. His couple of multiyear stints wound up steadily slowing to a crawl while Farrow silently watched the spark dampen, wondering what was distracting his partners while he was at work. Thinking about asking a man like Hayes if he were cheating feels like willingly putting on horns in front of a matador. Hayes would probably get off on the accusation.

Farrow's shoulders jump as he feels teeth scraping over his nipple, and the corresponding pulse radiating out from what used to be his cock. Hayes lifts his head back up with a smile, all his hair hanging to one side like a privacy curtain, with a few strands caught like spider silk around Farrow's fingers.

"Let me get you out of these," Hayes says, pulling Farrow's zipper down.

The hand lifting up out of Farrow's chest takes his breath with it as he feels parts of him settling without the intrusion. Hayes is left with a red glove of blood clinging to his skin, which he lets drip a few times into Farrow's body.

"Help me out, would you?" Hayes asks, tugging on denim with his clean hand. "I'd hate to ruin your clothes."

"Close my chest," Farrow says back, his voice caught in the blood on Hayes's hand. He can see the shine of the binding fluid mixed in with it, unnaturally lustrous.

"I will ruin your clothes if you're just going to be obstinate," Hayes says, reaching with

his wet hand, and Farrow jump-starts, shoving at the waist of his pants.

"Fuckin' maniac," he breathes at Hayes.

Hayes gives him a dazzling smile, just as pearly as the binding fluid.

Farrow doesn't want to move around too much with his chest still exposed, but between the two of them, he manages to get the rest of his clothes kicked off onto the floor. Nothing about this feels like a date, and Farrow certainly isn't thinking about Hayes like a partner. Sitting on a bed with no clothes on still feels clinical, even when he knows Hayes isn't trying to be a doctor here. When Hayes reaches for Farrow with his blood-covered hand, Farrow jerks his hips away, but Hayes simply lays his clean hand on Farrow's stomach to keep him still as he shifts down the bed.

"Surgeries like yours make it a little harder, you know?" Hayes says, swiping his clean thumb across the patch of raw nerves embedded in Farrow's groin.

"What the fuck." Farrow tips his head back, gritting his teeth at the shockwave of feeling rippling up his spine.

"You can't self-lubricate in the same way," Hayes murmurs, sheathing a bloody finger inside the slit in Farrow's body.

Farrow's breath stutters, his entire chest heaving as he tries to stay calm. Hayes swirls his thumb around the folds of skin he sculpted himself, and Farrow drags his metal heel across the carpet underneath the bed. This skin is disarmingly sensitive, and something about the finger tucked away inside of him is making it resonate twice as loudly.

You're designed to respond to me.

Fighting won't get him anywhere, but Farrow still feels the urge to push back in some way. Or he does until Hayes starts to slip more slick fingers inside of him.

"Put my—fucking panels back." Farrow chokes on his own breath midway through the sentence, but grinds out the words through sheer force of will.

"Fine, fine." Hayes sounds like he's allowing the most generous concession, pulling his wet hand free of Farrow's cunt—he can't get around the truth of that anymore—and reaches up to make sure Farrow's jointed ribs are where they should be before he replaces the door to Farrow's chest cavity. "It's a shame, though. I do love watching your heart race."

"Shut the fuck up." Farrow pants through the unyielding pressure of Hayes's thumb on his clit.

Hayes gives a soft chuckle, like he's being thoroughly charmed, and reinserts the chest plate. "You're not quite where I want you to be."

He wastes no time replacing his fingers inside Farrow's slit, two this time, dropping his gaze down to look at what he's doing. "You haven't consented to a full physical since you healed. It's not wise to ignore entire sections of your body, you know?"

"Jesus, at least stop being my doctor for f-five fucking minutes." Farrow barely gets the words out as a shiver picks up in his human leg and arm. Hayes's eyes are unfairly calm while he works his fingers over Farrow's clit. This isn't the look of a man aroused, but of an engineer testing a machine. Even the way he keeps dutifully adding more fingers to the tangle inside Farrow doesn't feel like escalation, but process.

Farrow turns away, vision going hazy over the shape of Hayes tuning him in the mirror, his hips twitching with no grace as he tries not to get overwhelmed.

"Still fighting, hm?" Hayes tilts his head. "Is it too dry?"

That's not the problem, but Farrow doesn't want to speak to him like this. He's got four bloody fingers fucking into him with the steadiness of a goddamn piston, and Hayes has his diagnostic voice on.

"Would you be so kind as to hold my hair?" Hayes asks, and Farrow almost doesn't hear what he says, but the sight of his head sinking down toward Farrow's hips gets him to listen.

The same instinct that took over at their appointment has Farrow snatching up Hayes's sheet of hair in his human hand, twisting it all around his palm like a rope. Only after Hayes pushes apart the lips of skin to lick his clit does Farrow realize he could have yanked Hayes's head away to stop him. The press of Hayes's tongue leaves a stain of dark pleasure on Farrow's body, pleasure he doesn't want, but it twists through him all the same. He's only vaguely aware of Hayes sliding off the bed to kneel at Farrow's hips, pushing on his metal leg, probably because he knows it can spread wider. Scissoring his fingers open inside Farrow so he can get his tongue in too, working up spit to get Farrow even wetter—it shouldn't feel so fucking clinical, and it definitely shouldn't numb Farrow's brain to the wrongness of this whole damn scene.

It would be easier to hate this if Hayes weren't so fucking thorough. Farrow can't even bring himself to pull on Hayes's hair. He might if it were a woman, but something about this keeps his metal hand weighted to the covers, and his other gripped tight to silken hair, but he never moves. It's probably the searing-hot liquid sensation brewing in his groin. When normally he'd feel his balls tightening, now he feels like he's uselessly scrabbling to hold a door closed. Hayes has his fucking nose pressed in against Farrow's body as he probes his tongue and his fingers in deeper. That man has no idea what shame even is, and he plays Farrow's clit with a precision that says he couldn't care about anyone else's.

The first bit of wetness sliding through to answer Hayes's beckoning gives Farrow a sickening feeling, like he swallowed something he shouldn't have. The next wave hits him like a wrench to the skull. He hears the thunk of his own leg smacking into the bed frame as his vision doesn't exactly go away, it simply stops meaning anything. He can see the ceiling of this bedroom, the nightstand in the corner, and the closet across the way, but everything is dull in the face of getting an orgasm methodically stolen from inside him.

All that merciless professionalism culminates as Farrow forgets to hate how good it feels.

"There we go." Hayes speaks calmly while Farrow comes apart on his hand, personally removing Farrow's limiters inch by inch. "Everything seems to be working as intended."

When Hayes retracts his hands, Farrow doesn't move, just tries to catch his breath through the deafening echoes still ringing through him. Hayes knows better than to bother asking if Farrow liked it, just admires his own work, studying Farrow's blood-slicked cunt with a smile as his hair slides free of Farrow's limp fingers.

"You could easily be mistaken for a woman like this," Hayes says, and there isn't any malice or judgment in his voice, just facts that he lays at Farrow's feet with obnoxious enthusiasm.

"That's your fucking problem," Farrow says.

"It's not a problem at all," Hayes says, smoothing his hand over Farrow's flesh thigh, and fuck every goosebump that springs up under his touch. "I wonder how much more of you I'd have to replace before you saw it too. Maybe next time you're under my knife, I'll shape your chest as well."

"You really are fucking insane," Farrow says through panting breaths.

"Only a joke," Hayes soothes, leaning down to press a red-stained kiss to Farrow's stomach. "Let me properly close your chest."

He wipes his hands on the towel before straddling Farrow's hips so he can put Farrow's plates back in order.

"You've been so pliant this evening," Hayes says with a smile. There's still a mess of fluids on the backs of his knuckles as he replaces each screw. "How should I thank you?"

Farrow holds his breath, knowing full well that nothing he'd actually ask for will be offered or given.

"Ah, you're such a worrier," Hayes says. "Don't worry, I like your chest the way it is."

He pats the now-sealed metal panel, and Farrow finally looks at his face again. "I always knew you were a freak."

Hayes smiles. "And here you are, in my bed. Funny that."

Farrow glares. "This what you wanted from me?"

Hayes leans down to pinch Farrow's jaw again, between his thumb and middle finger, his skin now sticky as the fluid starts to dry. "I want to know what I can possibly give to you, so that you'll come back and see me again without me leaving bread crumbs for you to follow."

Farrow's brows furrow, his whole face drawing in annoyance. "Should have known you wouldn't be satisfied with one evening."

"I'm offering you a gift, Captain," Hayes says, touching Farrow's lips one at a time. "What would it take? Working off your debt to the boss? Killing him, and sparing everyone he's been extorting? I could put you in charge instead, if you wanted."

Farrow's annoyance gives way to confusion as he listens to these outlandish offers. "You don't have that power."

"Businesses are just like bodies, Captain," Hayes says, tracing the stubble on Farrow's jaw. "Nothing that can't be reshaped."

Farrow just barely bites back the urge to accuse him of being a monster for having this power and choosing not to use it. Searching Hayes's face for any indication whatsoever that he's lying, knowing it's useless anyway, Farrow tries as hard as he can to swallow his own anger. If Hayes has shown him anything, it's that patience will serve him better.

"You asking to work with me to fix up the company?" Farrow asks.

"I'm asking to be your benefactor," Hayes says, hands easing around Farrow's face. "Would you like to be my weapon?"

Farrow's heart skips an uncomfortable beat at those words.

"I need terms," Farrow says. "Tell me exactly what you're offering."

Farrow can't see anything else in the room except for Hayes's face, inches from his own, another drunken smile smeared over his lips, the fingerprints on his neck deepening in shade. Hayes wears this look better than he should, considering it's nothing but trouble for Farrow, but Farrow feels himself tipping past the point of pretending. Hayes is captivating in the same way that a collapsing building is captivating—an adrenaline rush as Farrow wonders if he's standing too close to the destruction, or maybe just close enough.

"I'll give you my resources," Hayes says. "My mind, my tools, connections, whatever you need. And in exchange, you give me your body."

"Can't be all the time," Farrow says back. "That's too much."

"Once a week," Hayes amends, and Farrow can feel Hayes getting hard from his straddle across Farrow's stomach. "Spend the night with me, once a week. You can lie to me all you want while you're here, but you'll let me touch you anyway."

Farrow swallows, knowing exactly where this is going. Hayes may as well already be inside of him, telling him god-awful things veiled as compliments, threatening to pull him apart so he can fuck Farrow over in brand-new ways. It won't be normal, because nothing is normal anymore, but really, what's worse? Wanting normal and never getting it, or erasing that word and letting Hayes build him a new one out of alloys and reverent hands.

There's a version of Farrow who takes advantage of Hayes's rapturous focus to grab him by the throat and crush, come what may. Maybe he gets away with it, or maybe Hayes stops him with whatever fail-safe he claims to have in place. Maybe he becomes a prisoner, formally demoted to a lab rat and never allowed outside again, or made into a true robot, only mimicking humanity at Hayes's command.

But he lost that Farrow somewhere along the curve of his spine, the impulse of broken bones swapped out for the patience of rigid metal.

"You want me that bad?" Farrow asks. "You'd turn on everyone just like that?"

Hayes's smile is blissful, devoted, and starved. It cleaves his face, and Farrow gets a glimpse of the thing underneath all that poise and precision and planning, right before Hayes kisses Farrow, holding his face still with both hands. Farrow has a vision of biting through Hayes's filthy tongue, swallowing it so his wretched body can turn it to acid.

Instead, he puts his hand in Hayes's hair, gentle like he never used to be, and he swallows Hayes's moan. The shiver radiating up Hayes's spine is like putting his hand over a sparking wire, savoring the chance to feel some part of Hayes finally coming undone. Farrow slides his prosthetic hand down Hayes's back, cradling the back of his head with his good hand, letting Hayes kiss him with red-stained lips, like the animal he is.

There's time for Farrow to study him, learn his ways, and draw a map of the soft parts of him, like a rotten apple. But not yet. First, he needs to inure himself to the sight of Hayes losing some of his ironclad control. Watching him pull his shirt off, chest rising and falling with excited breaths, eyes lit up with his prize so close, there's a certain kind of stainless-steel splendor to Everett Hayes. Corralling Farrow further up onto his neatly made bed, leaving smears of red across pristine white covers, knocking the bloodied towel aside and sending the screwdriver clattering into the nightstand, Hayes devolves into chaos when he knows Farrow won't fight back.

This would normally be the time when Farrow turned his HUD on to search for an opening, a weakness, anything to get himself back on top. He doesn't need a computer to tell him that he could so easily grab the lamp off the nightstand and smash it over Hayes's head, or shift the plating in his prosthetic leg to create a sharp edge, but the thought alone is enough to make Farrow's heart race. After getting the last of his clothes off, Hayes kneels between Farrow's thighs, and Farrow looks over the expanse of pale, naked, flawless skin, far more lithe than Farrow expected, but all in proportion. Staring up at Hayes with endless bloody scenarios playing out in his head feels like standing in a museum and plotting to slash open every priceless painting.

Hayes puts his hand on Farrow's arched metal leg, running his thumb right over the seam in his thigh that could split open into a blade. His cock is hard, already wet as he runs his nail along the lip in Farrow's plating, practically inviting Farrow to take his shot. When he reaches the smooth plane of metal, and still Farrow doesn't move, Hayes looks nothing short of elated, his smile spread with the delirium of Farrow's obedience. Hayes pours himself over top of Farrow, one hand between his legs to line their bodies up, and his mouth on Farrow's ear.

"So good today," he whispers, his hair half strewn over Farrow's neck as he holds the head of his cock against Farrow's slit.

Farrow braces himself, not for the penetration, but to keep himself quiet through it, so he doesn't give Hayes any more fuel.

"Don't worry," Hayes speaks around a pleased smile, shoving himself inside Farrow a few inches at a time. His dry skin stutters and catches as he pushes deeper, and Farrow grits his teeth through the pressure. "I know exactly how much you can take."

Farrow lets him think his expression is concerned, and not the warped relief that it really is. This is what obsession feels like, lovingly drawn across every inch of his body. Farrow's breath is punched from his chest as Hayes comes to a stop with their hips flush, his neat, white body hair nestled against Farrow's thatch of dark curls. Maybe it's the shock of the tight fit, but

Farrow has the distinct impression that he can feel Hayes's heartbeat pulsing inside of his cunt. Is this what Hayes feels when he puts his hand around Farrow's actual heart? No wonder he's so hard for it. Hayes moves slowly, poised over top of Farrow so he can watch what getting fucked does to Farrow's face. Whatever it looks like—the effort of poorly disguised pleasure as

Farrow clenches around Hayes's cock in lieu of his throat—reflects back on Hayes in a dewy sheen of awe. Farrow has to shut his eyes, because there's no way he can stop this, and he doesn't want to either. When else could he possibly get the chance to let someone with a hand in his creation worship him?

It'll hurt him in the end, he's already sure of that. Farrow knows that Hayes's love comes with a knife and a screwdriver attached. But it is love. Farrow will take this, like he takes everything from Hayes, and let his body process it, adopt or convert it, and turn it into something new.

All he can do now is arch his back and wait to see whose weapon it becomes.

---

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