All That's Foul, All That's Stained...

So, since the Contest seems to have died with *my* topic (which I would very much like to have answered, by the way), I'd like to try to breathe some life back into it. Though this isn't really an entry, as it's not even on the right community for them, I thought it might provide a little inspiration for the fandom. On with the show!


Title: House Calls
Author: comrade_sir
Rating: Probably R, as there is some dalliance with a minor, though the action does not go all the way
Pairing: Rutledge/Hall, of sorts
Warnings: This fic will be cutesy. I warn you now. If you liked my entry "Anonymity" on Secret Delegate, then you'll probably be into this. If you only like my more warped stuff...well, I'll write something up your alley before too long, I'm sure.
Background: So, while tooling around on the Internet, my dear friend and I found out that after being excused from the ministry in CT for "charges against his moral character," our dear Dr. Hall got a second doctorate, this time in medicine, and began practicing in Charleston, SC. At this time, our equally dear Mr. Rutledge would have been a teenager who was very precocious, very pretty, and very sickly. I have a feeling that something like this may have happened if Dr. Hall actually was Neddy's physician for a while.


House Calls


Edward Rutledge was going insane. No, the young aristocrat thought, that wasn't right. After all, to be in the process of "going insane" would imply that one was not already, in fact, insane. Which, given the evidence, Rutledge had to be.


It all started when the youth caught one of his typical fevers. Edward lay shivering in his bed with a cool, damp cloth over his forehead when his older brother, John, threw open the door with a great clatter, his hair frizzled on one side and his eyes narrowing into slits.


"Are you quite sure that this fever of yours merits a doctor's attention, Edward?" John clipped. Young Edward heaved out a sigh and drew himself up high enough to make eye contact with his brother.


"John, I've been tryin' to fight through it, ya know that, but it's been gettin' worse ovah the past few days no mattah what I do. I've been tryin', the nurse has been tryin', an' all to no avail. It's Springtime, John; you know that pestilence spreads through the mist round about this time. I just want to be cautious is all."


John massaged his own temples as though he were the one with the fever. "I know what season it is, Edward," John muttered. He must have been really irritated, his younger brother noticed, to be calling him "Edward" twice in a row rather than the usual "Ned" or "Neddy." "The problem is, both I and every doctor in Charleston know that you fall ill at least a dozen times each year regardless of the season. They've all said they've got other appointments today--probably because they're tired of dealin' with your weak constitution that'll break as soon as they fix it."


Edward felt his jaw clench at his brother's dig at his physical strength; he'd endured more taunting, teasing, and prodding from his brother about his "delicate constitution", the thinly veiled code for "effeminacy" in the Rutledge household, than any human being on God's Earth should have to endure for any subject under the sun. Nonetheless, he chose to ignore the jab in order to delve into his brother's more surprising and disturbing words.


"Not a single doctah in Charleston?!" Edward scoffed--at least, it would have been a scoff if it weren't ever-so-slightly tinged with hysteria. "That's absurd! There's got to be someone in the city willin' to take our money!"


John shuffled his feet a bit.


"Well, I suppose there is the one who just moved here from up north. Brand new doctor--just now set up his first practice--"


"Send for him!" Edward demanded, fixing a sour look on his brother. "Honestly, John, I don't care right now whether he moved here from the moon and got his doctorate, yesterday; I just want a doctah's opinion on this!"


John sucked in a testy breath through his bared teeth; now *his* face was beginning to turn red. "All right, Edward," John finally conceded. "I'll send for the new doctor. Just spare me the histrionics until you're well enough for me to deal with them properly." With that, John left, muttering something about "needy" and something else about "mom and dad would have never gone to this trouble for us" until he was out of earshot.


The next time the door opened, it was with a slow, deliberate creak--ample indication for Edward that it was the new doctor opening the door, and not John. Through bleary eyes Edward could make out a lean build of medium height with fair skin and wavy, brown hair tied back wit a ribbon.


"Hello, Mr. Rutledge," the figure spoke. His voice was soft, its cadence soothing. "My name is Doctor Hall. I hear you have a temperature."


Edward rubbed the sleep from his eyes and blinked until the doctor came into focus. He could now make out large, not-quite-round hazel eyes--eyes that were obviously trained to be concerned, but through which the glint of mischief still shone. Weak as he was in his current condition, Edward could not stop his trademark Rutledge smirk from breaking onto his face.


"Hello, Doctah Hall," Edward replied. "You've heard correctly, suh; I do have a temperature--well into the hundreds, most likely. By the way, Doctah, my name is Edward. I hear you have a first name." The teen's cheek elicited a surprised chuckle from Doctor Hall and a snort from John.


"You've heard correctly, Mr. Rutledge," the doctor conceded. "My first name is Lyman. However, I would prefer for you to address me as Doctor Hall while you are my patient, if that is acceptable to you."


"Well, I suppose if we must be formal, Doctah Hall..." Edward sighed before flopping back down to his prior horizontal state on the bed. Doctor Hall directed his attention toward John.


"If you would prefer continuing with your daily tasks to waiting here for my prognosis, I can send your nurse for you when I am finished examining your brother," he offered. So, with a curt "Thank you, Doctor," John was once again out of sight.


Doctor Hall walked over to the bed and sat down on it with his new patient. He noticed the youth had become extremely exhausted all of a sudden; he hadn't even opened his eyes when the mattress shifted. The doctor pressed his hand against his patient's forehead and began to rub. He rubbed in little circular motions until his hand tangled in red curls. Blue-grey eyes fluttered open, jarring against their background of flushed cheeks and pale brow. Doctor Hall could tell those eyes were striking, even as puffy and bloodshot as they were at the moment. The youth did not say anything; he merely watched his new physician as he continued the gentle massage. After a few silent moments, Doctor Hall pulled his hand away from Edward's forehead. He noted that his hand now felt clammy and was covered with cold sweat.


"First thing's first, Mr. Rutledge," Doctor Hall began, his voice soft. "Let's check that temperature." Doctor Hall produced a mercury thermometer and slipped it underneath the boy's tongue. There was no gagging, no struggle--just quiet resignation. Doctor Hall inferred with dismay that this procedure had become routine for the sickly youth before him. After several moments, Doctor Hall removed the thermometer and studied it.


"Impressive, Mr. Rutledge," Doctor Hall announced. "Almost one hundred and four degrees. I hope you'll understand that a temperature this high does require further examination." Edward simply lay shivering.


"I understand, Doctah Hall," he agreed. The next moment, Edward felt his bedclothes being pulled back. As he was nude under them, this caused his shivers to increase until he broke out in goosebumps. He quickly began to change his mind about understanding. "Why, if I may ask, is this necessary, Doctah Hall?"


"I know you're cold, Edward," Doctor Hall soothed. For some reason at that moment, he felt it necessary to use the boy's Christian name. "I have to see whether you have a rash or blotches."


Edward nodded in defeat and sank back into the mattress. He continued to shiver until he felt warm hands on the sides of his neck, probing, feeling, applying gentle pressure. Those same hands massaged and prodded under both arms, along his abdomen, and, finally, in the junctures on both sides where the thigh meets the groin. Edward knew the doctor was simply testing for Scarlet Fever--he had been tested for it before--but that was with an elderly practitioner when Edward was a child of six or seven. This doctor, though...This doctor was a younger man with gentle hands, shimmering hair, and a hidden fire in his eyes. And Edward...well, now Edward was sixteen. Sixteen and in the throes of adolescence. It was only as an afterthought that Edward noticed he was no longer as cold. He was more concerned with the blood rushing to his face, coloring red the spots that had been pallid and coloring fuchsia his cheeks, which had already been red. He was more concerned with the pulse thumping in his ears, drowning out anything the doctor might be saying. Moreover, Edward was more concerned with the tingling sensation between his thighs that was slowly becoming a dull throb as the doctor continued his exam. The youth closed his eyes and pretended not to be there; after all, if he weren't there, then *that* couldn't be there, and if *that* weren't there, then his brand new doctor wouldn't see it.


Of course, pretend very rarely translates to reality. Edward *was* there, and he *was* becoming aroused. Worse yet, he could tell by what happened next that Doctor Hall *had* seen it. The doctor removed his hands from Edward's loins and relocated them to his neck, then his wrist. After a few moments, the doctor finally spoke.


"Mr. Rutledge, have you had previous problems with blood pressure?"


Edward gulped so hard that he choked on the air. "N-no, suh," he stammered. "Well, a bit, but nothin' serious, I suppose. That's what the last doctah said. Just a bit high, that's all!" Edward turned his face to avoid Doctor Hall's eyes. Doctor Hall, however, would have none of it. He placed a finger under Edward's chin and tilted his face back toward him. He was smiling his gentlest smile--the sort of smile one might use for a child getting his first vaccine.


"It's all right," Doctor Hall assured. "You don't have Scarlet Fever or Typhoid Fever, which leaves Influenza. That would explain the exhaustion and the high fever." He made sure that Edward was looking directly into his eyes. "Look at me, Edward. Influenza can also raise blood pressure. It's perfectly normal. No need to be embarrassed." Nonetheless, Doctor Hall took mercy on the youth, allowing him to pull the covers back up until they almost reached his chin.


"Unfortunately, there is not much that I can do for Influenza. Though it seems to be a bad case, it does not look critical. Drink fluids, preferably clean water, many times every day. Stay in bed. Eat if you are able. Apply a cold compress as needed until the fever breaks to reduce the pain. I am sorry that there is not more that I can do. However, I am quite sure that you will live and that the illness should run its course in another week or so." Doctor Hall never moved his gaze from the youth, who was still blushing and was now curled on his side. He smiled and ran another hand through the boy's curls. "Thank you for cooperating, Mr. Rutledge. I will send for your brother now." And after he had exchanged words and received his payment from John, and after he had once again bid both brothers goodbye, Doctor Hall left the Rutledge household, leaving Edward with the warm glow of both affection and arousal and with ample fodder to fuel his last week's worth of fever dreams.


The insanity began a few months later when Edward had begun to realize that a terrible thing was happening to him: he had stopped getting sick. He had always dreamed of the day when he would no longer be confined to his hometown by his illness, but now that that day had come, he was distinctly underwhelmed. His parents had died long ago, and most of his other siblings had either died or moved out, meaning that Edward's sole company was his brother John. Though John would usually humor his little brother with conversation, it soon became clear to Edward that John was a quick-tempered man whose patience wore down very, very quickly. More often than not, he would send Edward on errands or odd jobs, and, occasionally, he would raise his voice with the teen or even deflect his pestering with a swift swat.


After about a month of this, Edward grew so desperate that he began to talk to his house slaves--extensively. He talked to them so extensively, in fact, that by the end of another month they had all learned his favorite passtimes, his favorite passages from his Latin and Greek lessons, his grievances against his brother, his plans for when he would inherit the plantation, that he liked the smells of cotton blossoms and fresh rain, that he preferred dogs to cats and horses to either of the above, and that he was allergic to bee stings. They also learned a few things--childhood trespasses, strange habits, and secret infatuations--that could easily be used against the young Master Rutledge as blackmail. Thus, all it took was one good, firm, "Child, you'd better give me some peace this minute, or I'll tell your brother about...", and Edward was lonely again.


The youth sat up in his bedroom looking glumly at his daily lessons. John was already tired of brotherly banter. Edward had already far surpassed his brother in matters of classical lessons, Ciceronian oratory, philosophy, and legal knowledge, so the possibility of debate was out (because John was rather sore about this, if for no other reason). He had already blabbed enough to whomever came into view that even his slaves had a measure of power over him. Edward tossed his Ovid to the side and sat back in his chair. He didn't mean to be a pest; he just hadn't realized before how much he needed company. It had always been at his bedside, tending and talking to him, at least once a month. And what pleasant company it could be! Edward thought back to the last time he had been bedridden with Influenza--to the doctor who examined him, who ran his gentle hands over every plane of the youth's flesh.


Edward felt his face flush, just as it had those months ago. His jacket and waistcoat suddenly became too confining, so he removed them. He felt a familiar tightening of his breeches and tingling of his groin, coupled with a heat that had nothing to do with the South Carolina summer. Edward slouched a bit in the chair and ran his fingertips in light circles over himself through his breeches. He wouldn't finish himself yet. Oh, no. The teen had quickly learned the pleasure to be had by drawing out the process, letting the fantasies play out, teasing oneself until the breaking point. As images of the doctor in various states of undress grew more vivid, Edward realized that he could no longer prop himself up in his chair. He sprinted to the other side of the room and threw himself onto the bed. He had never been affected like this before, not from a mere mental image. As the doctor in his mind joined him on the bed and leaned over the teen's prone body, Edward could not help but spread himself wide. It was then that Edward made up his mind; he would not waste another day alone.


The sun was orange and low in the sky when Dr. Hall heard the thumping on his door; it was setting by the time the doctor and John Rutledge had arrived by carriage at the Rutledges' plantation home. Doctor Hall made his way up the stairs, much as he had before, and once again sent John away. Once again, Doctor Hall was greeted with the sight of a nude Edward Rutledge lying beneath his light cotton sheets; only, this time, Rutledge did not have his eyes closed. No, Edward was staring intently at the doctor this time, unable to keep a nervous smile off his face. He was flushed again, but this time it was apparent that his rosy cheeks were not the product of a high fever. Doctor Hall had seen many young men fake illnesses before in order to avoid school or household chores; but, as Rutledge was enraptured with learning and had slaves to do manual labor around the house, Hall surmised that he would have to play along for awhile in order to learn the devious youth's game.


"Your brother tells me that you are not feeling well today, Edward," Doctor Hall started casually. "I am sorry to hear that. Has your fever from last month returned?"

"Oh, no, Doctah," Edward replied rather too brightly. "I merely believe I have a--sniffle, cough--slight cold."

"Ah, but it can't be too slight if you're willing to subject yourself to a doctor's scrutiny on its account, can it, Mr. Rutledge?" Doctor Hall probed.

Edward opened and closed his mouth a few times, looking rather like a goldfish, while he wracked his brain for a reply. "I suppose not, suh," he muttered lamely.


"Well then," Doctor Hall clapped his hands together, "Let's take your temperature, shall we?"


Edward's breath quickened as he saw the doctor advancing toward his bed. He lay back and prayed that his body did not react before the doctor even got to his side. "Yes, doctah," he acquiesced.


Doctor Hall sat on Edward's bed and again rested the back of his hand against the teen's forehead. Edward's eyes fluttered shut, and his breathing grew even shallower.


"Hmmm...your face is indeed flushed, Mr. Rutledge," Doctor Hall remarked,"but you do not feel chilled or clammy, as you did last time you were stricken with fever." The doctor continued his examination by massaging the glands on the youth's neck and listening to his heart rate and breathing. Edward's entire body became as rosy as his cheeks when the soft touching became too much and he began to feel the familiar stirring in his loins. When the doctor ran a curious hand over the teen's abdomen, Edward could no longer control his body; if the doctor moved his hand or his gaze just a few inches downward, he would encounter the evidence that the boy below him was very, very aroused.

As the next part of Doctor Hall's obligatory check-up was a probing of the glands in the boy's pelvic region, the doctor did indeed lay eyes upon Edward's arousal. He stared at it for three long seconds before daring to glance back up into the young man's eyes. Whereas last time this happened they were screwed shut, this time they were wide open, unblinking and terrified. Doctor Hall cocked his head, allowing his eyes to narrow due to the questions racing through his mind. The youth before him clenched his jaw, flipped his red curls, and set his trademark smirk firmly into place. The only thing that gave away his nervousness was the visible gulp that he took before speaking.

"D'ya like what ya see, Doctah?" Doctor Hall declined to answer the question.

"You aren't really sick, are you?" the doctor accused. Rutledge snorted, and let out a self-deprecating chuckle.

"Oh, I'm sick, Doctah. You can bet your life on that, suh. This kind of sickness just isn't somethin' you can fix is all. It's somethin' you caused, if ya want the truth."

It was Doctor Hall's turn to gulp. His mind flashed back to his congregation in Connecticut, to clandestine kisses shared with a younger man, to being caught by the man's parents, to writing a confession, to being removed... But none of these ghosts could overpower the visions of red hair playing against silk sheets, of pink lips half-opened in a gasp, of legs spread wide to reveal virgin flesh...of the siren that was Edward Rutledge. It was minutes before he spoke.

"You deliberately called me away from my duties in order to tempt me," Doctor Hall pointed out, more as a statement of fact than as an accusation. "Do you confess, Edward Morningstar?"

Edward, recognizing one of the many names of Lucifer, could no longer hold the doctor's gaze. He twined his fingers together and chewed on his lower lip. He hadn't taken into account how much trouble he could find himself in, especially if the doctor was a religious man.

"I suppose so, suh, but I didn't mean any harm," Edward pleaded earnestly. "I hope you're not too mad, doctah." Doctor Hall let a dark chuckle rise from his throat.

"Mad? I must be," Doctor Hall conceded, climbing ever closer to the youth on the bed. With no more hesitation or contemplation, he bestowed a soft kiss upon Edward's lips. The pair simply held that position until Edward let out a moan that sounded a bit like a squeak and pushed more deeply into the kiss. Doctor Hall ran his tongue across the youth's lips and sighed with pleasure when he was allowed to enter. As their tongues stroked each other, Edward's hands began to explore Doctor Hall's body through his clothing. Eager palms smoothed over a brocaded waistcoat, and hungry fingers clenched into a heavy jacket. Edward proceeded to pull the jacket down over Doctor Hall's shoulders, signaling for the doctor to remove it. Doctor Hall obliged, and took this as a sign that the youth wanted their exploration to advance.

With tremulous fingers, Doctor Hall reached down to touch the nude form below him. He let his hands play over the youth's prone body. He glided his palms over Edward's heaving chest, taking special care to gently graze the pert nipples. He dipped his fingers into the delicate curve of Edward's waist and further downward, allowing them to dig into the flesh of the youth's hips. By now, Edward was moaning a delirious mixture of praises and obscenities, along with Doctor Hall's name. The youth brought his hips up to meet Doctor Hall's, and he commenced a grinding motion. Doctor Hall, unable to resist the little minx before him, ground back down into Edward's hips, causing the redhead to throw his head back with a cry. Doctor Hall peppered Edward's face and neck with frantic kisses, reveling in the friction of his clothed erection against Edward's bare one. Edward brought his legs up to twine around Doctor Hall's hips, and he began to clench his entire body. Doctor Hall was also getting close, his erection heavy and throbbing in the confines of his breeches. Their mutual orgasm was impending, they could sense it, feel it, taste it, until they were interrupted by a sharp rap on the bedroom door.

Doctor Hall sprang out of the bed and set to adjusting himself as Edward pulled the sheets up to his chin. Doctor Hall took only a few short moments to gather his jacket and smooth his hair before opening the door.

"May I help you, Mr. Rutledge?" Doctor Hall inquired politely.

"I was just starting to get curious," John explained. "You have been examining my brother for quite a while, Doctor. Is he terribly unwell?" Doctor Hall was surprised and rather pleased to see a flicker of concern cross John Rutledge's face as he asked the last question.

"Oh, no, Mr. Rutledge," Doctor Hall answered pleasantly. "In fact, it's quite the opposite; I was just making absolutely sure that I had not missed anything. It's just a slight cold; your brother should recover in a matter of days."

John eyed the doctor quizzically. "Cold?" he pressed. "Edward told me he was having stomach pains." Doctor Hall gaped. His mouth could not form words, which was probably fortunate, as his mind could not supply them at the moment.

"Perhaps you need to rethink your diagnosis, Doctor," John supplied. "Or perhaps..." John's manner turned immediately menacing. "Perhaps you can be forgiven, as you had no symptoms to observe, did you?" John smirked, and it made both Doctor Hall and Edward's blood run cold.

"I don't blame you, of course, Doctor Hall," John supplied with false geniality before turning his attention onto Edward. The rage radiating from John was almost palpable; Doctor Hall almost expected him to start shooting off burning cinders, like a volcano. "My brother is quite the little tart, isn't he?" Edward did nothing in response to the accusation; he merely glared defiantly at his older brother.

"Leave us, Doctor Hall," John commanded, "and I do hope you don't expect payment for...services rendered." With that, John pushed Doctor Hall into the hallway and closed the bedroom door.

Doctor Hall could hear the slap from all the way downstairs. He left before he could hear the rest.

Three weeks later, Edward sat in his room looking glumly out the window. He ached. He ached not only in his loins, but also in his chest. His very heart ached. Edward Rutledge was indisputably, undeniably insane. He would have to be. After the slaps and backhands from his brother; after tasting the lash of the whip; after the verbal degradation, the shouts of "disgrace" and "disgusting" that still echoed in his head; Edward had still done it. He had fallen in love with Doctor Lyman Hall.

That night found a cloaked Edward Rutledge sneaking into his own home. In his hands, Edward held a little glass vial, which he turned over and over in his fingertips. All sorts of misgivings were racing through his mind: reputable apothecaries were not open in the dead of night; on that note, reputable apothecaries did not sell vials of medication to children in cloaks.

Edward watched the moonlight from the window dance upon the glass. The apothecary didn't really need to be reputable, Edward thought. After all, the point of this medicine was to make him ill--so ill that John would have no choice but to let Edward see Dr. Lyman Hall one more time. That was what John had said, wasn't it? "You will never see another doctor unless you're exceptionally ill--even for you." With this memory in mind and courage back in his heart, Edward tucked the vial under his pillow and went to sleep.

Edward was roused early the next morning by the sun beaming in through the window. He reached under the pillow and extracted the little glass vial. The apothecary had said that a small dose, a single swallow, would do the trick. Edward furrowed his brow. That wasn't good enough; he needed "the trick" to last long enough for John to grow concerned enough to call the one person that he had banished from the house for eternity. Wincing at the taste, Edward downed the entire contents of the vial.

John rolled his eyes when he heard his younger brother coughing half an hour later. He didn't even lift his glance from the newspaper that he was reading.

"You can cease the theatrics, Edward. I'm not calling that doctor," he supplied boredly.

The coughing did not cease. Instead, it grew more intense, and Edward crumpled to his knees under the force of it before he began gagging. John slapped the paper down onto his lap, finally looking at his brother. He crossed the room in a second and grabbed Edward by the hair in order to stare right into his face.

"I swear to all things holy, Edward, if you're trying to fake sick again, I'm going to--"

John never did express what he was going to do, as Edward's body chose that moment to heave up everything he had even contemplated eating that morning. John realized too late that it might be unwise to loom over someone for a face-to-face chat when that someone was on the floor and retching.

"Edward, my shoes!"

But Edward could take no notice. He continued gagging and retching until he brought up stomach contents from the day prior. And, when that was over, he began vomiting stomach acid, followed by several rounds of dry heaving, followed by more stomach acid. Meanwhile, John had tried to hold a glass of water to his brother's lips, but Edward could not cease his heaving long enough to take swallow. When the two finally made eye contact, Edward's eyes were bloodshot, glazed, and as wide as saucers. John knew what he had to do; there was only one doctor in the area who was certain to drop everything to take this case at a moment's notice. He grabbed the first slave to pass by the room.

"Make certain he doesn't die!" were his shouted orders to the slave as he dashed out the door and mounted his horse.

Ten minutes later, John Rutledge and Dr. Lyman Hall burst through the front door. John's legs burned from riding at that speed, and his hands were blistered to the point of bleeding, but he barely noticed. Both men gasped when they saw that Edward was gone from the living room. John took hold of the slave by the door and shook her.

"Where's Edward?!" he demanded.

"He fell unconscious, sir," she managed through the shaking. "They took him upstairs to his room."

The two men raced up the stairs and threw open Edward's bedroom door. Edward's complexion was a pale grey-green. His breathing was shallow. He had vomit caked into his hair, and a mix of blood and vomit trailed from his white lips.

Doctor Hall first opened Edward's mouth to make sure he wasn't choking on anything that would still be in his throat. Determining that that danger, at least, had been averted, he attempted to rouse Edward. After a few attempts, the youth finally opened his eyes.

"Doctah Hall?" he asked. His voice was raspy from the corrosive effects of stomach acid.

"Edward," Doctor Hall sighed with relief.

"I didn't mean for this to happen, suh," Edward confessed.

"Neither did I," muttered Doctor Hall.

"What do ya mean, suh?" Edward inquired.

"You're too young for what I gave you," Doctor Hall choked out, trying valiantly to hold back tears. "You couldn't see me again by faking sick, so you made yourself sick. I know the effects of Ipecac when I see them, Edward!" Doctor Hall cut off any protests coming from the youth before him.

"It...seemed like a good idea at the time, doctah," Edward admitted sheepishly.

"But, why, Edward?" Doctor Hall asked.

"Because I needed to draw ya back," Edward answered simply. "Because I love you, Doctah Hall."

"I..." Doctor Hall stammered. He was going insane. He knew that now. "I love you too, Edward." And with that, as confirmation of both his love and his insanity, he pressed a gentle kiss onto Edward's lips. Doctor Hall then turned to face John, who was slumped, speechless, into a chair.

"Give him some water; he looks dehydrated," Doctor Hall ordered. John nodded dumbly, left the room, and returned to Edward's bedside with a glass of water. Edward glanced appreciatively up at John. Then, his eyes clouded over as he began to weep. The young doctor realized at that moment that, due to Edward's usual maturity, it was easy to forget that a child hid under those bekoning eyes--a child who had nearly killed himself nursing the delusion that he and Doctor Hall could be together. The last thing Doctor Hall heard in the Rutledge household was two voices repeating "I'm sorry" and "I love you" through choked sobs.

Ten years later, Doctor Hall was standing in the middle of the Congressional Chamber when he heard it. That voice. His voice. But smiling at him from the doorway was not the sickly youth he knew from ages past. A confident man with flair and a swagger had taken his place. The Edward Rutledge that Doctor Hall knew was recognizable only by the flaming red hair that still fell in loose curls. Apparently Doctor Hall had aged as well; Edward did not seem to recognize him. Edward didn't recognize him, that is, until he heard his name and shook his hand--that gentle hand, that had saved his life, awakened his sexuality, shown him what it was to love. And then, Doctor Hall saw it: Edward's soft blue eyes met his own, eyes that still gazed upon him with awe and wonder; eyes that still burned with passion even while being wide with innocence. Doctor Hall couldn't help breaking out into a grin when he saw the Rutledge smirk creep once more onto his Edward's countenance. He knew then that their affair was to begin anew. He knew then that, in his most secret fantasies, their affair had never ended.

Doctor Lyman Hall was going insane.