The dog was across the street and tearing into Sewell's upper thigh before Murphy even realised the beast had moved. He twisted around, following the after-blur of movement, the wet trail of paws in sludge, and laid his eyes on the steps leading into the gas station. Sewell was struggling to pry the mutt's jaws apart, a frantic, borderline panicked look on his face. Even his swollen eye was wide and alarmed, and fixated on the steady press of teeth burrowing through his own flesh.

Murphy watched him rear back his free leg, and kick. The dog growled as the blow struck him hard in the middle of its skull, but it did not let go. In retaliation it seemed only to crush its jaws tighter, the decayed white of sharp fangs disappearing beneath ripped fabric and the steady gush of blood as skin was broken. Sewell threw back his head, a cry of pained anguish tumbling from his lips as he tried to land a second blow.

It finally dawned on his legs what his eyes were seeing, and Murphy sprang into action. He went first for the beast's barrel-shaped torso, attempting to wrap its arms around it girth and simply heave it up and off, but the creature was having none of that; it shook violently, its bank-end rearing up and kicking out, loosening the fragile grip Murphy had gained. He fell away into the sludge, grunting. Something cold touched the tips of his fingers in the dirt.

"Get-Get it off o' me!" Sewell was pleading, voice strained and breathless. There was blood on his own hands as he fought against the cracked incisors buried in the sinew of his leg. Murphy caught his eye, swollen and black and desperate. "Please!" Sewell was well beyond the point of hiding just how afraid he was, it was in the way his body jerked and trembled, and the way his lips quivered as blow after blow at the heels of his boot refused to budge the grip this thing had on him.

But Murphy was overcome with an entirely different urge, as he held the man's gaze. There was pity, and there was sympathy, but more than that he felt desire. Seeing the C.O like this, wet-eyed, powerless and afraid, it bypassed his heart entirely and sent a jolt of interest straight to his cock.

"Muph-" Whatever plea Sewell might have been attempting died in place of a shriek; the dog had tugged him down the steps and was beginning to drag him through the sludge, away from the station door. He stretched out, arms flailing as they struggled to find purchase and pull away. Murphy reacted quicker this time, jumping forwards to grab Sewell's grasping hands. The grip was weak, wet with mud and rain, but he tightened his hold and jerked back. Over the shrill cry of pain, the sound of fabric splitting could be heard.

Their eyes locked again, and Murphy could see in Sewell's dark ones the doubt and the despair. He felt his stomach flutter, his legs were like jelly under him, and he was getting the most inappropriate hard-on of his life. He caught himself, grounding his thoughts in the here and now, and pulled back with all the strength he had in him.

At the same time, Sewell aimed another kick. The dog jerked and whimpered as the heel of his boot caught the soft white of its eye hidden under its dirty mane. It was enough of an opening for Murphy to drag the C.O free. Sewell immediately stumbled back up the steps, the bells above the door jingling as he threw himself through into the relative safety of the gas station. And maybe it was the wind, or the sound of the rain against metal, but it sounded to Murphy like maybe the man had sobbed as staggered away.

Lying in the dirt where he had been knocked back, Murphy spotted what had touched his hand. A rusted wrench lay there, half submerged in a puddle of dirty water. He leaped for it as the dog proceeded to chase after Sewell, growling and barking at ruined remains of the door that blocked its path. Murphy heard Sewell from the other side, too far in to be braced against the thin plywood, but he couldn't make out anything intelligible. He took advantage of the creature's momentary distraction, managing to sneak up on it and land the first blow before it yowled and turned its attention to him, snapping its stained maw in rage.

Again, Murphy landed a blow, this time hitting the beast hard atop its skull. It shrieked and leaped forward in retaliation, taking him down into the sludge where it went straight for his throat. If it hadn't been for his experience dealing with similar monstrosities in this town, Murphy suspected he'd be watching his vocal chords ripped out in front of him, but he'd faced his own monsters in Silent Hill, and this one was for Sewell. So he held the thing back, pushing his fist into its jugular and holding it away, and with his other hand he struck it once, twice, and a third time across the eye. It whimpered and whined, but conceded, rolling away and bounding back across the street from the direction it had come.

Still on his back, Murphy watched it round a corner and disappear from sight entirely.

He stayed like that for a moment, content to let the rain wash the grime from his body, even as he still lay in it. There was blood on his hands, drying between his fingers, and when he brought them to his nose, sniffing curiously, he was assaulted by the bitter scent of rust and copper. He let the wrench slip from his grasp, it made a wet slop as it hit a puddle of rain water, and struggled upright. The dirt, heavy from the damp, dragged him down as he braced himself against an empty oil drum and heaved himself to his feet. A cold chill settled deep in his bones and he headed towards the shelter of the gas station, eager to warm up and dry off, but he paused instead at the doorway, pressing his face against the cold slab of its perimeter, and tried to gather himself.

He was still hard. Hearing Sewell cry out for his help, it was everything he'd ever dreamed about for so long after Frank. And although his opinion had changed on the matter over time, as the years ate away at the anger and injustice he felt, he couldn't deny that the thought of having the C.O powerless, submissive, and put in his place, was one that his libido very much appreciated.

Sewell glanced at him when he finally did enter. He was at the far end of the station, cushioned within stacks of rubbish and debris, as far back in the shadows as he had managed to work himself before his spine encountered wall. He was clutching his thigh, wincing. "You..." he gasped, "... fucking moron."

It was comforting to know that he was in a good enough state to be angry and offended. Murphy stepped over the threshold and closed the door, shutting out the ongoing downpour. A single column of light hit the corner where Sewell was hiding, and he flinched from it, his gaze momentarily unfocused as it drifted sharply across the expanse of the store, in search of anything else that might take a leap at him.

As Murphy drew closer, Sewell's gaze sharpened and fixed itself once more solely on him. He pressed himself flush with the wall, his uncertainty was clear in the way his fingers twitched as though to grasp for something to wield. No doubt he had convinced himself that Murphy's lack of reaction when the dog had attacked was not borne of surprise, but of a momentary satisfaction.

"I'm sorry." said Murphy. But he wasn't. Not really. Not when he had Sewell looking so vulnerable just inches in front of him. Not for the first time, he was inclined to press his palm against the man's colourful neck. He did so, his touch gentle-his intentions? Not so much. He let the pads of his fingers drift across the expanse of skin, keeping his gaze trained on Sewell, who looked at once afraid, but entirely interested.

"How's your leg doing?" he asked.

His fingers had reached the open collar of Sewell's shirt. They plucked idly at a loose button.

"It'd be a lot fuckin' better if you'd been quicker." was the heated, eventual response. Followed by a sharp intake of breath those fingers delved beyond cloth and wandered the bruised plane of skin beneath. "Dumbass." Despite the man's tone of voice, Murphy wasn't blind to the way Sewell's body relaxed under his touch.

It was by no means the time nor the place for this, with Silent Hill's first move of the game still out there, alive and seething and no doubt ready for round two, but Murphy couldn't bring himself to care much. Getting Sewell out of the town had dropped from his high list of priorities for the day. Getting Sewell off, however, was ranking quite high.

"There's no blood." whispered Sewell, so quiet Murphy almost didn't catch it.

He paused his wandering hand, resting his palm against skin just beginning to heat as arousal set in.

"What?" He saw nothing but blood when he looked at Sewell's beaten face (and that's what it was; someone had taken him from his car and given him the hiding of his life, Murphy would stake his life on it). He followed his gaze downwards, past the un-tucked shirt stained with mud and all other manners of filth, to the trembling hand clasped tight around the top of wounded thigh. Even under the thin shaft of light, Murphy saw no signs of an attack. The fabric of his jeans was intact, and so too, it seemed, was the limb covered within. The sight produced a question in his own mind, and he retracted his hand from Sewell's shirt to gaze between his fingers where the rust and the blood had begun to cake outside. There was nothing there.

For a moment, Murphy found himself alarmed and confused, but it was brief collapse in his assurance when he recalled almost immediately all the other strange things this town had thrown at him. A disappearing wound was little enough to raise a brow at. For Sewell, however, this was probably enough that he was beginning to question his own sanity.

He considered showing Sewell the note that he had found attached to him, but one look at the pleading in his eyes; the want for consolation and reassurance, and he decided that it was something to save for another time. No need to feed the fires of his growing paranoia.

"That happened right? You hit that thing, it was real? I didn't just-" he floundered for a moment, his mouth working in silence as his brain tried too hard to figure it out.

Murphy didn't answer-how could he? Even he didn't know what had happened. Instead, he pressed his body flush with Sewell's, earning a bark of surprise, and placed a kiss against the trembling pulse of his throat. His tenderness was rewarded first with a weakened shove against his shoulders, that turned into a desperate clutch in the folds of his shirt when he added teeth and sucked gently at the wounded expanse. It quickly became obvious that Sewell was an easy man to distract. He smiled at the begrudging surrender of hands circling his back in loose embrace.

He rolled his hips then, as he traced a path of kisses to the shell of Sewell's ear, and curled his hands around his sides to slide down to his ass. The answering pressure of nails in his shoulders drove Murphy to tighten his hold, his fingers curving into the shape. He'd been hoping to see how far this thing between them would go, and wondered how Sewell would react if he forced him to face the wall and took him there and then.

He imagined there would be a fight; Sewell would feel obligated to press his own dominance, but wounded as he was, there would be little challenge to pinning him down and getting him to submit. Murphy flushed at the thought, and in his eagerness to bring their bodies closer, he managed to twist them until Sewell clambered backwards into a pile of old tires, cursing and spitting when he landed hard on his tailbone. Murphy wasted no time in sliding between the man's open legs and resuming his exploration of every inch of him. He pressed his hands to the waistband of Sewell's trousers and tugged at the zipper.

He managed to get them an inch over Sewell's hips before a hand flew out to grasp his wrist.

In question, he glanced up. Sewell's face was flushed, his mouth parted and a look of surprise in his dark eyes. There was lust there too, dark and obvious as they steadied their focus.

"Murphy." his voice breathless, an unsure protest in his tone. "Am I going crazy?"

Murphy stilled. So, Sewell had more focus in him than he'd give him credit for. He kept his hands at the waistband of his trousers, tugging at them almost imperceptibly; he was horny, and if he wanted this to go somewhere, he needed to choose his next words wisely. Wisely likely meant foregoing his own experiences in Silent Hill, at least for now.

He settled for a firm "No", and pulled more deliberately at the fabric in his hands. Sewell glared and tightened his grip, but he allowed Murphy to continue until his trousers were at his knees.

The oversized shirt did little to hide the man's prominent interest in this, but Murphy looked past the straining erection and found his eyes resting on the old scar tissue of his inner thigh, exactly where the dog had bitten him. When he glanced up, Sewell had arched his brow, a cold look on his face. "That thing couldn't have been real." he spat, his grip on Murphy's wrist beginning to tremble. "I killed it. I bashed its fucking head in with an axe."

The alarmed confusion must have shown on Murphy's face, for Sewell huffed and pressed on, "I was seven years old when my dad came home one day with that thing."

Given any other time, Murphy would have been eager to find out all he could about Sewell, but it seemed ridiculous for a heart to heart right now, with both of their dicks standing tall and unsatisfied. Nevertheless, he hid his disappointment well as he started to lean back.

Sewell's grip just tightened around him. "I didn't tell you to stop." he hissed.

Murphy didn't think he had ever been harder in his life.