"This isn't very funny."

"Yes, it actually kind of is~."

"No, no it's not," Eyes wandering up to see how tightly his hands were to the head of the bed, Neku scowled. After deciding that he was completely helpless in that direction, he looked back down towards his feet. "Let me go right now."

Another pair of eyes met his, as the hands attached to them tied the final knot around Neku's ankles. "I have to say, it's much too entertaining to see you squirming around like that to let you go."

"Damnit, Josh, seriously --." A few more yanks on the ropes around his arms. Nothing. Shit, now what? Neku thought to himself, twisting his feet around, trying to find some slack. Still nothing.

Joshua just smiled that stupid, I-know-everything smile down at his captured proxy. Neku gave him a fierce glare, which just made him grin wider. Great job, Neku, he thought angrily to himself, keep giving him what he wants.

Settling himself beside Neku's legs, the Composer gently ran a hand up and down Neku's thigh, feeling the muscles in it twitch along the path of his fingers. His hand slid up and over where Neku's body was fiercely fighting to let out a YES! against the better judgement his mind was saying as NO!

Josh's palm was warm against his hardening cock, it was just barely touching him. He was still clothed and he could feel Josh's body heat. You're tied down by the guy who killed you -- twice -- and he's practically having his way with you, and you're getting turned on by this, Neku berated himself, I am such a fucking moron.

"You know, by the way you seem to be pressing into my hand, I think you're beginning to enjoy this~." Josh's voice was light, teasing. Neku hadn't even been aware that he had been trying to push his lower half against the other's hand. Good one, he thought angrily.

The Composer was on the move again, this time reaching his hands under the bottom of Neku's shirt and pulling them up past his proxy's head. Since his hands were tied, he couldn't get it off all the way, but Josh had to admit to himself that seeing Neku not all the way naked, displayed for him like this was enticing.

"I can't do it," I whispered. I wasn't sure why I was whispering - there was no one around after all. Just me and my patient.

"Please," he croaked, voice strained with effort. I shuddered inside, thinking of the pain he must be in. "Please, you'll be doing me good." Reason. I knew the logical thing would be to do it. Could I do it?

I shook my head, trembling as I picked up his medical charts. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Peterson, I can't do it," I took a deep breath, then continued, "I can, however, give you some pain reducing medication that-"

"Drugs haven't worked for a week now," he cut me off, waving a weak, liver stained hand in the air. I picked it up and laid it back on the bed, biting my lip. I had no idea what to do.

Looking at his face, I noticed how weathered, how worn it seemed. Like rough leather that had sat in the sun too long. Sharp blue eyes peered out from under bushy white brows at me. I couldn't do it.

I left the hospital that night, feeling cold and clammy. I was jittery, jumping at every noise as I walked to my car, everything felt so compact around me, the air cutting my lungs and the wind blasting my face. I wiped my eyes, then opened my car door and set myself in.

At home, I felt better. My seven year old son, Alan, was sitting in the living room with his sitter. I relieved her, handed her forty dollars, and thanked her, before heading in. "Hey, buddy. How was your day?" I asked him, forcing a smile.

He looked up at me and smiled, "I drew a lot of pictures. And lunch was good. Bobby was jealous of my cheesecake!" he told me. He sounded so proud of that cheesecake. We had baked it on the weekend, and as a gift for being good I had placed the final piece in his lunchbox before heading out to work this morning.

"That's great!" I replied, feeling a bit over enthusiastic. There was a churning feeling in the pit of my stomach, reminding me of what I had been asked to do.


I had to work again the next day.

Heading up the stairs to Mr. Peterson's room, I felt a sense of dread, wondering as to what I would find. Dead?

He wasn't. He was alive, and laying back, looking as sickly as ever, eyes half closed, breathing light. I steeled myself before walking up to him, and plastered another fake smile on.

"Good morning, sir. How do you feel today?" I asked cheerfully, taking a look at his IV bag.

"Like shit, but thanks for asking," he grumped at me. I continued my fake happy, even though it got harder. He was crabby as I took his temperature, and replaced his urine bag. Nobody is ever happy when you change their urine bags.

That night, I expected him to ask again. The answer would have still been the same, but it was surprising that he didn't ask. Maybe he had changed his mind? I hoped so.