I know I change tenses halfway through this, but I honestly couldn't work with all the "I wills" at a certain point and didn't have the heart to change it because I liked the way it sounded. Just pretend Medic's so insane he doesn't even know what he's talking about anymore.



I've always loved the way you hate needles. No one else squirms quite like you do, my dear, at the sight of them, and I can't even begin to tell you the joy I feel when it's your turn for an examination. It's like clockwork, the way you walk in, so confused and ashamed and scared, holding your arms close to your sides like some sort of child without his mother. You think I don't see you during those times, and you think I have no idea that you're biting your nails after you take off those gloves, that you're letting your eyes dart around in such a horrified way. I think I saw you begin to sweat the other day.

It's really quite beautiful, Herr Spy.

You should know all about how lovely fear can be. I've seen the things you do on the battlefield. I've found the bodies of your victims, disposed where you thought they would never be found. I have to say, mein liebling, you do things that I would never even dream of. They call ME crazy, and yet...

The way you cut up that Scout was ingenious. Those cuts you made were still fresh when I found him, all along his face and across his neck, just deep enough so that he could still breathe. Blood was leaking down his shirt and his arms and he looked so, so embarrassed that I had seen it. He begged, pleaded with me to just finish him off. He grabbed onto my boot and said, so earnestly, "Please, doc, you gotta kill me."

But, you know what, Spy? I didn't. I left him alive because I felt that was what you wanted. I didn't want to intrude on your territory.

You're a monster for letting that boy live. He must've suffered so much.

This is why I like you.

Yet, here you are, cowering like a fool at nothing. I'm embarrassed for you, Herr Spy, and to be honest very disappointed. It's understandable that you'd be nervous your first few times coming in here - we all are - but you have been in here more times than I can count. Burns, bullets, arrows. You've had them all in your body at some point, in your legs and arms and even in your guts, Spy, and I have taken them all out for you.

If anything, you should be pleased to come here. You should be happy that I choose to perform this service for you.

In fact, you'll be pleased to know that I am even /happy/ to do this for you. You're an excellent specimen, if you don't mind me saying; lean and quick, with such a handsome face and eyes that could make anyone faint. The other members of our team are highly flawed in some way, their skin marred by scars, or their mental conditions not exactly where I would like them. But you, my dear, you've escaped all this somehow. Is it because you are this way naturally? Or is it your cloaking device? Are you just such a wonder, perhaps, that you can evade things that most men wouldn't even see coming? It fascinates me.

But, as I said, there are no words to describe the respect I have for you, or the giddiness I feel whenever I see you walk by me. I always wonder if there's something inside of you then, be it bullet or arrow or semen.

And, yes, I know exactly who you've been bedding. It comes up in my tests, you fool, and each time I smash my vials and rip up the papers and I can't handle it, Spy, I just can't. You say hello to me every morning, you share the same breakfast table with me, you look out for me during battles, and yet you do not sleep with me? Not even once?! Do you not even consider me a potential partner? I'm the one who cares the most about you, Spy, about your well being. Not that filthy Australian or that inbred Engineer.

Don't mention that idiotic Russian. I don't care for him. You think I would tolerate such a man in my bed? What I need, my friend, is a man like you. Someone suave, calculating, a man who knows what he's doing.

But it's clear from your face that we aren't seeing eye-to-eye. This is alright.

I love you, Spy.

The only thing I want is to feel your skin against mine, hear your heartbeat in my ears. I want my scalpel to be covered with your blood. I want to taste it.

When I think about all the ways to mutilate you, to ruin your perfect body, my heart soars; I'm unable to stop thinking about it. Your screams, your lovely, lovely screams... I want them echoing in my ears and in my office, your body flat against the examination table, lights all around, illuminating everything. At first you won't want to take off your clothing, of course. I understand your hesitation. But I'll insist, gently, that it's for your own good and it's company procedure; you must do this.

And as you strip you'll tremble, as you tend to do, gingerly taking off your expertly-tailored suit and setting it aside. You won't take off your balaclava, and I'll tell you off softly, pretending to be angry while my eyes say I'm joking. When you fail to strip completely I'll do it for you, sliding my thumbs between the waistband and your pale skin, and when my gloves make contact you'll cringe and look at me.

"Docteur," you'll say, eyes wide with something - fear? admiration? Maybe this is what you've always wanted - and you'll put your hand on my head. "Be gentle."

I will nod, though secretly we both know nothing of the sort is going to happen, and gently I pull your underwear down, my breath hot against your cock. You'll try to ignore it, closing your eyes and perhaps clenching your fists and attempting to think of something else, as I push you gently onto the table. The lights will go on, bright and blinding above you, and I will proceed as normal.

"Stick our your tongue."

You will do so.

"Take a deep breath."

You will listen to me.

"Lay on the table, Herr Spy."

You will do exactly as I say.

As you lay there and gaze at the lights you'll wonder what I'm about to do. I won't say a word, my breath quiet, my demeanor professional, but you can almost feel how excited I am. You can see how my eyes soften for you, and it is then you begin to understand exactly what I think of you. The lights will force you to close your eyes and nearly lull you to sleep, humming gently in the background as I run my hand over your chest, just barely touching your lower region, and though you desperately want me to I refuse, telling you to relax. Your eyes will flutter open for a moment, taking in your surroundings again, before shutting. Inevitably, I will note how ethereal you look under the harsh lights. Something will stir inside me that I'm not sure should stir, but I won't care. I'll take up my scalpel and begin my work.

Though it will feel cool and sharp against your skin you won't gasp, merely inhale sharply, your fingers curling under your palms. Your toes will do the same, uncurling quickly after, and I will ask if you're embarrassed about that.

"Oui," you'll say, smiling a little. Your teeth are perfection. "It is a habit I have had since childhood."

"Cute," I'll reply. The point of my scalpel finds its way down your chest. You shiver.

"I have been trying to stop."

"Perhaps I can help."

As I move to your feet you'll laugh a little, unsure about whether or not I'm joking. I'll smile, and though you can't see me you'll somehow know and feel a bit unsettled. This is what I want. I remark that I never, ever take off my gloves for anyone, but for you I'd like to make an exception. You can hear the slap of the rubber against the tile, and I see you flinch. Clearly, you do not like that sound. Your toes curl again.

I take your big toe between my forefinger and thumb, and examine it for a bit. There is a silence, tense and serious, while I do so. You finally speak up.

"Well, docteur?"

"Not a big problem," I say, and bring my instrument to your foot. I prod it gently with the point, at first, right in the middle. The arch of your foot.

Suddenly, I jam the point into your foot, cleanly and precisely. Blood leaks from the wound as you cry out in pain, as I have heard you do many times, and it's so much better close up - loud, angry, and absolutely tortured. Your voice and the sound of your hands pounding against the examination table ring in my ears, more musical than any orchestra I've ever heard before. Your eyes are open and you're looking at me, shouting for me to stop and asking me what I'm doing. I grin at you, pulling my scalpel down the line of your foot, through the flesh. It's tough at first, and I have to wiggle it to get it going smoothly, but once it's moving it slides through until I reach your heel. Since that part of the foot is such a bother to work with I don't even try to keep going; I take out the scalpel with a quick motion, blood splattering below your foot and onto the floor.

Your screaming starts again, and over the echoes I yell for you to shut up, that part wasn't even worthy of such a cry. You don't listen, and this makes me angry. I was beginning to think you understood.

Without a word I turn and grab your foot by the ankle, holding it under my armpit to steady it, and carve away at your heel, my scalpel sliding in and out of your tough, worn flesh over and over and over. Blood appears in tiny fountains each time I strike, your skin looking more and more sliver-like as I go - soon I can almost see into your foot. When I am done I set it down, blood pouring from the cracks and from your arch, pooling under you and spreading around as you write and moan, teeth clenched in agonized silence.

I ask you how you're doing.

Your lips trembling, you look at me with watering eyes. I pat you on the cheek and say that this is still no cause for tears. You gulp air loudly, whimpering and raising your arm in protest. I put my hand on your wrist and grip it softly, murmuring disgusting sweet nothings to calm you down and sliding my other hand along your thigh comfortingly, my scalpel held between my other fingers. I let it drag along your skin lightly. Your other hand has migrated to your mouth, and you're biting on your knuckles furiously, crying into it and rocking your head back and forth slowly. You are no longer curling your toes.

I point this out to you and you look at me, eyes wide with fear and something I suspect to be admiration. I nod my head and say you're welcome.

And as I take your hand from your mouth and place my lips there instead, you whimper again, pathetically and like a dog, clinging to me as though you've never known anyone else. My hand slides down your face and neck, resting on your chest as I part your lips with my tongue, our wet and warm muscles twisting around each other. You moan slightly, gasping for breath as your foot continues to ache, and you wrap your arms around me to keep yourself stable. After a moment I push you back down gently, and though your whole body is trembling from the delicious pain you're feeling you're quiet once more, blinking away tears and watching me. With just a few moments of kissing, you trust me again. You are mine.

I flash my scalpel again as I run a few fingers along your chest and over your bellybutton. You tense again and begin to scream at me, surprised! In spite of myself I smile at you, holding you down by the throat with my other hand. You choke for air and claw at me. I begin again.

I raise my hand in the air, scalpel pointed toward you at such a dangerous angle, and strike. It pierces your abdomen, straight through your navel and into your intestines. There's a definite squishing noise as I retract the blade, and before you realize what happened you are silent. But then, the screaming begins again.

I think I'm going to go deaf for a moment, that's how loud you are, but quickly I learn to cherish it, and it only makes the blood better. You claw at me and hiss and bite, something of an animal, and as I laugh I carve into your abdomen even more, spreading the blood around as I stick my fingers deep into your flesh. I feel a certain sense of power as I wind my finger around, the scalpel touching your innards, scraping against the tender, red insides of your body. You're crying again, full-on tears this time, convulsing and trying to grab a handful of something to hang on to; as I glance up I think I see you biting your tongue off. There's blood up there, too.

I can't smile any wider at this point. I've got you where I want you, shrieking and crying under my control. You're begging and pleading in French and English and in any other language you can manage but I hear none of it. All I can see is red.

Soon, I've gone too far and you fall quiet. The color fades from your eyes just as I have up until my wrist inside of you. Blood looks like it's pouring out of you, my darling. The last thing you say to me before you lose consciousness are words of hate, but I know you don't mean them. I withdraw my hand, licking some of the blood from my index finger. I am not sure if your heart is beating any longer, though I do not care to check.

I lean over and kiss your lips tenderly, a symbol of my affection; I am kind enough to lick the blood from your lips.

I love you, Spy.