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actionreactionSo I added more to that last story. Changed a bit. Here it is now.
Donovan awoke to the sunlight streaming in the un-curtained window. Un-curtained? He shielded his face and peeked an eye open. Why were there no curtains? As his eyes grew accustomed to the bright light, he realized why. This wasn't his room. He groaned slightly and shifted. And realized several things at once. First, he was completely naked under the sheets. Which wasn't that big a surprise, since he sometimes slept in the nude, [or rather sometimes awoke in the nude] but not in random rooms he wasn't quite sure how he got into in the first place. Second, there was someone in the bed with him. Someone who was also naked. Bad. And apparently also male. REALLY bad. That's when he realized two more earth-shattering things. He was handcuffed to the other man. And the other man was dead.
Donovan swore impressively [who knew a priest could use those words?]; the events of last night were a complete blank. A cold sweat broke out as he reached over cautiously and rolled the other man's face towards him. Rigor mortis hadn't set in yet and his skin was only slightly cool. What made Donovan swear again, and then apologize profusely to God, was the fact that he didn't recognize the man's face. He sat up, trying desperately to remember what had happened, why he was in bed, handcuffed to a dead naked stranger, in a place he didn't even recognize.
When the panic attack started, Collins rose from within with an almost comforting caress, hushed Donovan, and sent him away. Collins was the one who'd created this mess anyway; he might as well clean it up. And once again, Donovan wouldn't remember a thing.
Sweet and still as night was Donovan’s slumber. Collins liked to make it that way. Donovan was the only being he treated with care. Care and feral protection. No one was allowed to harm him. To speak ill of him. To touch him. Collins lifted his lip in an angry sneer at the memory of the pale hand drifting down Donovan’s arm, the obvious invitation in dark brown eyes. The same dark brown eyes that were now forever closed. He sang a tune as he dug the key to the handcuffs out of the nightstand where he’d stored it the night before. “Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation. Darkness wakes and stirs imagination. Silently the senses abandon their defenses…”
An hour later Donovan awoke, at home, in a state of confusion. He’d had an odd dream he couldn’t remember. And there was a tune stuck in his head. What was that? Oh yes. Music of the Night from Phantom of the Opera. How the heck did he get that stuck in his head? He wasn’t really big on show tunes. He sat up slowly, trying to remember the dream. He could only remember something about handcuffs and for some reason that made him blush. Shaking it off he got up and showered, donning black pants and a black button down shirt, and of course his collar. It was Wednesday. Bible study that night. His small congregation was growing a bit larger and more people were there every week. It made him happy.
He headed towards the grocery store, absently rubbing his left wrist as though it had been chafed. Probably rubbed against something in his sleep. Someone gave him an odd look as he walked past. Donovan’s brow furrowed, unsure of the meaning behind the half-curved lip and the twinkle in the eye, and the definite look of recognition, mingled with a slight bit of surprise on the other man’s face. He got that a lot. More frequently lately. As if people recognized him, but then seemed… a bit confused. It’s not like it was the collar. If the really did know him, they should know he was a priest. Right? Maybe he just had “one of those faces.”
Collins recognized the man. He knew him. Well. Biblically even. And he had been one hell of a lay. Well, not quite biblically, he supposed. That sort of thing was completely against the church. Sodom and all that. But that explained the look Donovan was getting now. I fucked a priest? Was written all over his face. No, Collins thought savagely. You fucked me. I wouldn’t have let you touch Donovan. No one touches him. Not anymore.
Even though Donovan was so very soft spoken normally, his voice was strong when he preached. The Lord lent him strength, he said, if anyone asked how he managed to have such a powerful sound on Sundays alone. And he thanked God for it everyday. Didn’t know he was thanking the wrong person. That that voice came from someone inside. He had no idea. Yet. He was starting to notice a few things. Things weren’t always where he left them. People who he didn’t seem to know recognized him. He wrote that off as them simply recognizing the priest, and his own poor recognition of faces. But most striking were the small periods of time he couldn’t account for. And if that wasn’t bad enough, they were getting longer.
Collins tried to cover his tracks. He was usually quite good at it. But he couldn’t always control when Donovan came back. Collins was definitely stronger that him now. It took years to get that way, but it had happened. But Donovan was still dominant. And for the most part, Collins liked it that way. He knew full well he was too much the sociopath to be the dominant personality. He was just there for protection. And suppression.
And revenge.
The bishop was coming. Donovan was nervous. Really nervous. He’d know the bishop for years, when he was still a priest and Donovan his eager altar boy. He’d shaped much of Donovan’s early life. And now he was coming to Donovan’s church, to see how things were going. Donovan of course, decided to have a big welcome for him, prepared a special sermon, had the church women plan a reception everything of the sort. As the day grew closer, Donovan grew steadily more nervous.
Collins, however, grew steadily angrier. Not like he could blame Donovan. He didn’t remember. Thanks to Collins. He didn’t remember just how Bishop Egan had “shaped” his life. Their lives. If not for Egan, Donovan wouldn’t have needed Collins. He wouldn’t have to exist. He wouldn’t have to watch over Donovan with such feral protection. Donovan wouldn’t have had to create an entirely new personality just to forget. And move on.
It wasn’t going to be easy with the Bishop here. Collins was going to have to remain near the surface, ready to take over as the first sign of… discomfort. Hell he was more than tempted to just take over entirely, during the length of Egan’s visit. But he knew well Donovan would panic if he lost that much time. No, Donovan's welfare was always Collins’ first concern. Practically his only concern.
Donovan awoke to the sunlight streaming in the un-curtained window. Un-curtained? He shielded his face and peeked an eye open. Why were there no curtains? As his eyes grew accustomed to the bright light, he realized why. This wasn't his room. He groaned slightly and shifted. And realized several things at once. First, he was completely naked under the sheets. Which wasn't that big a surprise, since he sometimes slept in the nude, [or rather sometimes awoke in the nude] but not in random rooms he wasn't quite sure how he got into in the first place. Second, there was someone in the bed with him. Someone who was also naked. Bad. And apparently also male. REALLY bad. That's when he realized two more earth-shattering things. He was handcuffed to the other man. And the other man was dead.
Donovan swore impressively [who knew a priest could use those words?]; the events of last night were a complete blank. A cold sweat broke out as he reached over cautiously and rolled the other man's face towards him. Rigor mortis hadn't set in yet and his skin was only slightly cool. What made Donovan swear again, and then apologize profusely to God, was the fact that he didn't recognize the man's face. He sat up, trying desperately to remember what had happened, why he was in bed, handcuffed to a dead naked stranger, in a place he didn't even recognize.
When the panic attack started, Collins rose from within with an almost comforting caress, hushed Donovan, and sent him away. Collins was the one who'd created this mess anyway; he might as well clean it up. And once again, Donovan wouldn't remember a thing.
Sweet and still as night was Donovan’s slumber. Collins liked to make it that way. Donovan was the only being he treated with care. Care and feral protection. No one was allowed to harm him. To speak ill of him. To touch him. Collins lifted his lip in an angry sneer at the memory of the pale hand drifting down Donovan’s arm, the obvious invitation in dark brown eyes. The same dark brown eyes that were now forever closed. He sang a tune as he dug the key to the handcuffs out of the nightstand where he’d stored it the night before. “Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation. Darkness wakes and stirs imagination. Silently the senses abandon their defenses…”
An hour later Donovan awoke, at home, in a state of confusion. He’d had an odd dream he couldn’t remember. And there was a tune stuck in his head. What was that? Oh yes. Music of the Night from Phantom of the Opera. How the heck did he get that stuck in his head? He wasn’t really big on show tunes. He sat up slowly, trying to remember the dream. He could only remember something about handcuffs and for some reason that made him blush. Shaking it off he got up and showered, donning black pants and a black button down shirt, and of course his collar. It was Wednesday. Bible study that night. His small congregation was growing a bit larger and more people were there every week. It made him happy.
He headed towards the grocery store, absently rubbing his left wrist as though it had been chafed. Probably rubbed against something in his sleep. Someone gave him an odd look as he walked past. Donovan’s brow furrowed, unsure of the meaning behind the half-curved lip and the twinkle in the eye, and the definite look of recognition, mingled with a slight bit of surprise on the other man’s face. He got that a lot. More frequently lately. As if people recognized him, but then seemed… a bit confused. It’s not like it was the collar. If the really did know him, they should know he was a priest. Right? Maybe he just had “one of those faces.”
Collins recognized the man. He knew him. Well. Biblically even. And he had been one hell of a lay. Well, not quite biblically, he supposed. That sort of thing was completely against the church. Sodom and all that. But that explained the look Donovan was getting now. I fucked a priest? Was written all over his face. No, Collins thought savagely. You fucked me. I wouldn’t have let you touch Donovan. No one touches him. Not anymore.
Even though Donovan was so very soft spoken normally, his voice was strong when he preached. The Lord lent him strength, he said, if anyone asked how he managed to have such a powerful sound on Sundays alone. And he thanked God for it everyday. Didn’t know he was thanking the wrong person. That that voice came from someone inside. He had no idea. Yet. He was starting to notice a few things. Things weren’t always where he left them. People who he didn’t seem to know recognized him. He wrote that off as them simply recognizing the priest, and his own poor recognition of faces. But most striking were the small periods of time he couldn’t account for. And if that wasn’t bad enough, they were getting longer.
Collins tried to cover his tracks. He was usually quite good at it. But he couldn’t always control when Donovan came back. Collins was definitely stronger that him now. It took years to get that way, but it had happened. But Donovan was still dominant. And for the most part, Collins liked it that way. He knew full well he was too much the sociopath to be the dominant personality. He was just there for protection. And suppression.
And revenge.
The bishop was coming. Donovan was nervous. Really nervous. He’d know the bishop for years, when he was still a priest and Donovan his eager altar boy. He’d shaped much of Donovan’s early life. And now he was coming to Donovan’s church, to see how things were going. Donovan of course, decided to have a big welcome for him, prepared a special sermon, had the church women plan a reception everything of the sort. As the day grew closer, Donovan grew steadily more nervous.
Collins, however, grew steadily angrier. Not like he could blame Donovan. He didn’t remember. Thanks to Collins. He didn’t remember just how Bishop Egan had “shaped” his life. Their lives. If not for Egan, Donovan wouldn’t have needed Collins. He wouldn’t have to exist. He wouldn’t have to watch over Donovan with such feral protection. Donovan wouldn’t have had to create an entirely new personality just to forget. And move on.
It wasn’t going to be easy with the Bishop here. Collins was going to have to remain near the surface, ready to take over as the first sign of… discomfort. Hell he was more than tempted to just take over entirely, during the length of Egan’s visit. But he knew well Donovan would panic if he lost that much time. No, Donovan's welfare was always Collins’ first concern. Practically his only concern.