Authors note: Something a little different.

Rating: T for language and innuendo.

Disclaimer: Monster is not mine. Etc etc .

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The Spider and the Fly

Chapter one

On Religious Matters

"This thing called death," Hartmann asks. "What do you think about it?"

Johan looks up from the chess board. His pale eyebrow is arched; a very quizzical, adult expression on such a childish face.

The room is dark, and silent. They are alone, surrounded by the sort of standard issue military furniture usually found in a senior official's quarters; a small single bed, a desk and two rather uncomfortable armchairs. Drinks are on the table. A bottle has been opened. It is a surprisingly expensive vintage. In the soft yellow light it glows as red as blood. On the wall above Johan's head are two rather expensive paintings. One is of racehorses. The other is of an exquisitely voluptuous female nude.

Johan is having a glass of lemonade. A glass of the red wine sits beside his lemonade, full, sipped at, but otherwise untouched.

"What do you think it is?" Hartmann clarifies.

"Rest, probably… or maybe not. At any rate, it is… different."

Johan moves one of his pawns forward. It is slender, white, elaborately carved, and doomed to be sacrificed soon, for the greater good, of course.

"It does not frighten you?" Hartmann looks at him, his voice is quiet, questioning.

He captures Johan's pawn.

"We will all die one day. Fear will not change that."

"You do not believe then, in God or Heaven or hell?"

Johan's smile is patronizing.

"Do you?"

"No". He says decisively, "I believe in nothing. Now answer my question, boy."

"I wouldn't know." Johan replies. "Metaphysical speculation is not really my thing. It serves no purpose that I can see."

This reply startles Hartman. Johan takes his knight as he stares. Hartmann moves a pawn forward.

"Your little sister does." He says. "She kneels to pray sometimes by her bedside at night, whenever she remembers; at least, so her supervisor tells me."

The boy goes very still.

Then ever so slowly, a small smile creeps onto his lips.

"She would do something like that." He says. His voice is soft, and slightly wistful.

The affection in the boy's eyes and the warmth in his tiny smile visibly surprise Hartmann.

"You do miss her." Hartmann says. His astonishment shows itself clearly in his soft, vaguely incredulous tone.

Johan looks up at Hartman. His eyes are slightly narrowed; all traces of his earlier tenderness have completely vanished.

"Yes" he admits, quite frankly, almost challengingly.

He moves his knight forward. Hartmann considers him, then looks down at the chessboard.

"From what I hear, the two of you are very similar, and yet, you are very different from her, aren't you? Your sister believes in God for instance, but you do not."

Johan looks amused.

"I never told you what I did or did not believe."

"But you said earlier…"

"I said that metaphysical speculation serves no practical purpose. People generally believe what is most comforting to them."

"So tell me then, what is it that you believe in?" Hartmann moves a pawn forward. What comforts you?"

Johan leans forward, indifferently studies the chessboard.

He does not reply.

"Do not ignore me, boy." Hartman says, clearly growing angry.

"Forgive me," Johan's voice although polite, is firm. He moves another pawn. "But you have not earned the right to learn anything that personal about me."

The man scowls. He is clearly infuriated by Johan's answer.

"Cheeky brat." He mutters. "I should whip you for your rudeness."

Johan smiles again. This time, it is the smile Hartmann is used to; the slow, shark like movement of cruel, inappropriately, no, abominably sensual lips, with no corresponding warmth in hard, steely blue eyes.

It never ceases to amaze Hartmann that a child can smile that way.

But then, he reminds himself, he is not dealing with a child, but a demon with a beautiful face, a young murderer whose hands are stained with almost as much blood as his own, and he is a hardened veteran of war.

"You would enjoy that, wouldn't you, Mr. Hartmann?" The boy observes. He sounds infinitely amused and vaguely contemptuous. "Whipping me?"

No. Hartmann thinks. This thing definitely is no child, no matter how young and fragile the body it lives inside seems to be.

And it is a beautiful body, Hartman decides as he studies the boy, extremely beautiful indeed.

Its beauty becomes even more apparent when looked upon with the eyes of a connoisseur.

He feels himself begin to grow hard at the thought of that pristine beauty; and how it would look, naked and sweaty and bent under him.

He hardens even more when he looks up and sees the steel in those eyes. The child's eyes are not the eyes of a submissive plaything, no matter what lies his sheer beauty tells.

They are the eyes of a master, a leader born to dominate.

The boy will be devastating in so many ways when he finally becomes a man, dangerously so.

"Yes," He admits at last, almost without thinking, "nearly as much as I would enjoy fucking you."

Johan laughs then. His laughter is derisive, and cold.

"Your honesty is quite touching, Mr. Hartmann."

"…but not enough to convince you?"

"No."

"What would convince you then, boy?" The slight edge of frustration is carefully hidden from his voice, but it is revealed by the vehemence with which he puts his knight down, and takes Johan's pawn.

"Figure it out yourself." The boy answers ruthlessly.

"You do know you would have absolutely no defense against me if I decided to take you right now, like all the others."

Johan looks up. His eyes lock unto the older man's.

The air is suddenly very thick with tension.

It is a battle of wills, each male relentlessly attempting to stare the other down.

The silence is broken when Johan finally speaks; though he does not move an inch, does not blink.

"I know." He agrees quietly. "I would have no defense whatsoever. You are older, and bigger, and stronger than I am. If you held me down, and forced me, I would not be able to break free, no matter how hard I fought."

Hartmann feels his erection grow. He is grateful for the table between them that hides it. The boy needs no further confirmation of his power over him. It is embarrassing enough that they are here, together, talking like this. He is the orphanage supervisor for goodness sake. Fraternizing like this with one of the bloody test subjects is not a good thing.

It is even worse to acknowledge that he wants... craves, the child's approval.

He looks away, breaking off the stare down, and losing the battle.

The boy continues quietly, his eyes still fixed on the older man.

"But then, you would never do that, because in my case, you do not want a subordinate; you want an equal who'd willingly accept you. That is why we are here, discussing religion while the other boys are asleep. It is why you have very commendably made an effort to keep your hands to yourself, which is quite unlike you, from what the others say."

Hartmann snorted.

"You really think very highly of yourself, don't you?"

Johan responds with an indifferent shrug. "Not particularly," He says."You are the one who thinks highly of me, for whatever reason."

"Don't push your luck boy." Hartman sneers. "You may be a smart kid, but you are really no different from the others."

"Then why am I here, drinking with you as if we are both adults, and equal."

"Perhaps my goal was to get you drunk, and seduce you."

"You would not waste such an expensive wine doing that. You are trying to impress me, then persuade me to sleep with you."

The boy looks down then, and moves his rook forward.

"But even so, having me as a partner would not be enough for you would it?" He looks up at the older man again. "It isn't really what you want, but what you are willing to settle for, at least until I grow a little older. If I were capable of sexual intercourse right now, you would want me to dominate you. You would not be satisfied being inside me. Because, the truth is, as young as I am, you see me as your superior. You want me inside you."

The blow, when it comes, is heavy, it flings the boy's fair head back with great violence. The chess pieces clatter and bounce off the wooden floor as the boy falls, thudding noisily as he hits the ground.

"No one, talks to me that way, Boy." He hisses. His eyes are narrowed, menacing. "Not even you."

Johan spits blood out from between his lips, looks up at Hartmann and smiles.

His lips are red and swollen, and stained with his own blood.

Hartmann fights down the urge to move closer, to lick the blood off the child's contemptuously smiling mouth. His erection twitches again. The sense of anger, of humiliation that he feels is insufficient to kill his arousal.

And the boy knows. He glances at the bulge in the man's pants with quiet derision, and then looks up at his angry, reddened face.

His voice is polite when he speaks again.

"I wonder, would you be so violent, if what I said wasn't true?"

Hartmann grabs him by the collar of his shirt, pulls him up to his face, and hits him again with his clenched fist.

"You need to learn, boy," Another blow. "Learn when it is wise to shut the fuck up."

Johan is silent under this abuse, but the disdainful smile still twists his mouth.

Hartmann pushes him away. The boy stumbles, and grasps the edge of the table to keep himself from falling. The blows were heavy. Blood seeps from a corner of his mouth. His face will be covered in bruises in the morning.

And yet he is still so excruciatingly beautiful.

Hartmann still wants to hit the boy. He wants to grab him, throw him on the ground and fuck the haughty disdain out of him. But he does not. Hitting the boy earlier had been a mistake, he feels it as soon as he sees the coldly amused contempt in the child's gaze. He cannot allow himself to make this mistake again, no matter how provoking the boy is, because if he does, he will prove the boy right to hold him in such contempt. It would mean, essentially, that the boy has won.

He is damned if he is going to be beaten by a ten year old.

"Get the hell out of my quarters."

Johan turns to go, but at the door, he stops and looks back.

"You asked me what I believed in, Mr. Hartmann, and what comforts me" He says "I cannot tell you what comforts me, because, like I said, you have not earned the right to learn anything that personal," he touches his injured face rather cautiously, " and I seriously doubt you ever will at this rate. But your honesty has persuaded me to tell you one thing I do believe, even if I draw no comfort from it."

The shark like smile appears again.

"I do not pretend to know about Gods or Angels or Devils, but I believe in the existence of Evil, Mr. Hartmann. It is a powerful, relentless thing. It lives inside all human beings. You say you believe in nothing, so I am going to prove to you that it exists, someday. You will know when it happens. We shall watch it happen together, I promise." His smile is very childlike and sweet. "Goodnight, Mr. Hartmann."

The older man watches the boy leave. His hands are shaking. His eyes are narrowed and his heart pounds with barely suppressed rage... among other things.

He stands rooted to that spot, staring at the closed door long after the boy has left.

Slowly, the anger begins to fade.

He walks back to the table, sits down with a sigh.

Another failure.

He picks up the boy's half empty glass of lemonade, studies it silently it in the yellow light of the room. Almost unconsciously, he lifts it up to his mouth, and takes a small sip of the now tepid, watery liquid.

His lips rest on the exact spot the mouth of the boy touched.

That small, careless, scornful, cold, cruel, but shamelessly sensual mouth, how well it went with eyes as cold as steel.

He drinks again, even though he feels no thirst, then he puts down the glass. His fingers unconsciously trace the rim. He is lost in thought.

"Dominate me indeed," he murmurs to himself, and then laughs. "Audacious, impertinent little brat…"

He closes his eyes.

The boy has no fear of anything at all, is not cowed by threats or beating or intimidation, and is unfazed by darkness, he glories in it, in fact.

The last person standing at the end of the world, when all the chaos is finally over,

the one who will survive…

A child born to lead, to rule, to enchant and murder, and in essence, to subdue and to dominate…

He shudders.

The murderous little bastard is right after all, he thinks ruefully.

But he will never admit this shameful thought to anyone else. It is degrading enough that the boy himself knows.

The boy is truly a monster, a disease that infects his blood.

A disease…

In a sudden fit of anger, he flings the glass at the wall and curses, swearing volubly as it shatters into a thousand little pieces.

He is still painfully hard.

End

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