Insane. Bloody insane.

He supposes that he knew something like that would happen, that he'd be witness to some new and gruesome shade of brutality, but it hadn't made Adams' mutilation any less terrifying to behold.

Had he made an involuntary face? Made a noise? The drugged and complacent whore would probably not have looked on the scene with anything more than mild dismay, but Haytham isn't that good of an actor. He doubts anyone is. He feels sick, panic gnawing at his chest and he jams his hands between his knees to keep them from shaking. Adams makes low guttural noises that may have once been speech but now just dissolve into inarticulate, animal howls of rage and pain, echoing off the walls.

Jefferson takes Adams under the arm and hustles him out. The other delegates have already fled, made a run for the doors before Washington inspired more mutilations. Haytham wonders if the Adams will live to see Philadelphia.

His mind spins around the figure Washington had so casually bandied about: Sixty thousand. He was certain the remaining Philadelphia regiments and French troops were well trained and armed, but what would they do against men that were compelled to keep fighting unto death? Could they bring themselves to kill women bearing muskets? Children wielding knives and axes? And still, the larger question; how was that sort of power even possible? He'd studied accounts of Precursor technologies extensively, the Pieces of Eden in particular, but no where had he ever heard of anything capable of directly controlling more than a few hundred at a time. Washington was bluffing. He had to be. At least, that's Haytham's fervent wish.

Washington sighs, shifts in his seat, leans an elbow on the throne and rests his forehead in his hand, tense.

“Fools. Utter fools,” he growls, “How dare they? What do they even hope to accomplish by defying me?”

“Highness?” asks Thomas.

“Yes, Captain Hickey?” is Washington's weary acknowledgment.

“You want we should put a tail on 'em?”

“I doubt that will be necessary. It's an eight day ride to Philadelphia; we'll know their response soon enough.”

He calls out to his servants, to the other soldiers. He barks out commands. Ride into the country and collect all the horses that can be mustered, be they thoroughbreds, plow horses or ponies. Kill as many bears and wolves as they could find; they would dress as Russians if need be for a winter campaign. Have construction halted on his palace; they would need every laborer for the war effort.

Haytham is barely listening, though. He's staring at the last five inches of Adams' tongue on the carpet before the throne. He wonders if Washington specifiably chose red for the carpet in order to better hide the blood. Finally, one of the servants reaches down, covers the bit of human meat in a square of cloth, and takes it away with an offended grimace.

Haytham feels a hand brush against his neck, near the collar, and shivers. The fingers leave a burning trail in their wake thanks to the aphrodisiac that's been reintroduced into his system, but He can't feel the lick of pleasure over the revulsion and fear that churn his guts. Damn. Haytham was hoping that he would be forgotten in all the confusion, but fate was not on his side today.

“Collect as many natives as can be found in the frontier, they can be compelled to serve as cannon fodder if need be. No sense in letting good Christians be killed in the first volley.”

“Aye, Highness.”

Good thing Connor isn't present; no doubt he'd get himself killed upon hearing that. Haytham wonders where his son is. When they marched Haytham into the throne room, the guards had dragged the boy further down the hall.

All thoughts of Connor evaporate when Washington coils Haytham's chain around his fingers and jerks it slightly. Not an attempt to choke him, then, but a command. Wincing, he crawls on hands and knees to the front of the throne.

Washington reaches out and caresses Haytham's stubble-rough jaw, suspiciously, creepily gentle. He can see the tension in the muscles of the man's hand.

“Are you well?” Washington asks, all false concern.

No. He most assuredly is not. He feels nauseous, especially after witnessing Adams' mutilation, still feels weak, lightheaded, and regrettably lucid after being subjected to Connor's 'help.' He nods anyway, though.

“Did you enjoy your little reprieve?” Haytham doesn't know what to do—does he nod 'yes?' Shake his head 'no?' He doesn't know which Washington wants, so he just crimps his lips and stares at Washington's chest. Powerful fingers grip his chin, force his gaze back upwards. He settles his gaze at Washington's mouth, not daring to look him in the eyes. He wills his face to be as blank and his eyes as vapid as possible.

“I asked you a question, pet,” he says, that dangerous bite of steel lurking beneath his mild tone. He grips Haytham's chin tighter. “Did you miss me?”

Haytham nods, guessing that was what Washington wanted. He guessed correctly, apparently, because the self-made king grins and runs his fingers along Haytham's neck, rubs the back of his spine and Haytham feels a weak tingle that might be pleasure beneath his mounting unease.

“Truly? Well, then, perhaps you would like to show me how much?”

It's said as a question, but Haytham knows a command when he hears it. He tries to swallow his anxieties but his throat feels like it's lined with sawdust. He hesitates. This was so much easier when he hadn't the slightest clue what was going on, when he couldn't even remember his own name, much less the abuses that he'd been subjected to the day before.

Connor. Damn him, how was he supposed to be able to do this? Interfering bastard...

He doesn't want to know what the consequences will be if—no, when Washington finds out Haytham isn't the docile, dumb play thing he once was. He has to do it, though, has to make it convincing or they'll realize what Connor has done. He doesn't know why he gives a damn about what happens to the fool boy. Obviously, Connor doesn't exactly hold Haytham in the highest regard, judging from the way the boy stabbed him in the throat in their previous lives. Haytham shouldn't care less what happens to him, but... there's something between them, something that snide comments, hateful words, spilled blood and an all-out war hadn't been able to completely annihilate.

For a moment, Haytham wants to laugh. He must be going insane himself. It's just that the world has become so absurd, so twisted, that his life and the life of his son depend on how well Haytham preforms between Washington's legs.

Speaking of which.

He shuffles forward as Washington sits back and lets his knees fall wide apart. Haytham undoes the front of the man's breeches, his fingers feeling stiff and clumsy. Washington isn't wearing any small clothes. Haytham can't help but dumbly stare at his cock. For a brief moment he panics, mind racing, but if Washington notices he doesn't react. The king reaches down and gives himself a few quick pumps, and it's still only at half mast, but Haytham can tell that it's of an impressive width and length, not unlike the rest of the man.

“Well?” Washington prompts, traces the head of it along Haytham's lips. He can't afford to be reluctant; he has to play the part of the obedient, wanton little whore. Nothing he hasn't done before, apparently. Cursing himself, he leans forward and takes the head into his mouth. Washington sighs appreciatively, bucking his hips.

He doesn't know what to do. He had hoped that some part of him would remember how the act is done, what Washington prefers, but everything is so hazy from the time before, so he thinks further back, tries to remember what he himself had enjoyed, but he can't concentrate hard enough to recall those times either. He remembers to sheath his lips over his teeth, at least, and goes down as far as is comfortable, lapping at the thick shaft as he goes. He bobs his head up and down, trying to take in as much as he can, but when the head touches the back of his throat he recoils. He tries not to think of how much of a whore this makes him. It's one thing to be forced into doing this filthy act, quite another to be a willing—if coerced—participant. He tries to make his mind as blank as his face, to retreat further into himself, to make it as if this is happening to some unfortunate stranger.

Washington sighs. It's not the sigh of someone deeply contented and in the throws of passion—it's disappointed, agitated, the sound one might make while waiting for a carriage that's late. Haytham looks up at him discretely though his lashes. And against all common sense, all reason, and despite the fear that constricts his chest and threatens to strangle him, Haytham feels—well, weirdly indignant, because Washington looks apathetic—bored, even. More bored than anyone with their cock in someone's mouth had any right to look.

That, Haytham thinks, is a very bad sign.

He thinks back to what Church had said that morning, about how Haytham had “ceased to be amusing” and how he doubted that he would need to see to the king's pet much longer. Were they going to replace him with someone else? He didn't want to know what happened to Washington's cast offs.

He tries to redouble his efforts, to make up for his evident lack of finesse with faked enthusiasm, but it's apparently not enough. The man grabs Haytham by the hair and pulls him back. Haytham lets the flesh slide from his mouth. A strand of saliva and precome connect his lips to the head of Washington's cock. The fist clenches and Haytham's face is forced upwards. For the briefest of moments, their eyes meet. Washington stares at him, frowning, brow furrowed, and Haytham can feel the panic rise in his throat and set his heart to pounding—he knows, good God, he knows everything—but the man says nothing and Haytham forces his face to be as inscrutable as stone.

“Captain Hickey,” Washington says, and Thomas emerges from behind the throne.

“Y'Highness?”

“You did very well today. Would you like a little reward for your service?” asks Washington.

Oh, no, Thomas would never... But the eyes that rake over Haytham are hungry and malicious. Haytham had never in his life anticipated being on the receiving end of his Brother's lascivious smile; it makes his skin crawl.

“I think tha'd be right generous of you,” he replies and ambles forward with a swagger.

Washington smiles in a way that makes Haytham even more uneasy. He pushes Haytham's head back down. Haytham takes the hint and reluctantly resumes. Haytham flinches when Thomas yanks down his pants down around knees, exposing him to the chill of the air and the scrutiny of the entire room.

“Not bad, for an old bloke,” he chuckles, and Haytham can feel the panic starting to bubble inside him. It's Thomas Hickey, for God's sake. He would never... he preferred women, exclusively. Thomas may not have been especially discerning about the quality of the wenches he would take to bed, but it was always women. But it's not Thomas anymore, not really, Haytham has to remind himself. It's a highly dexterous marionette; Washington using Thomas' body as yet another object of abuse, as effective and hurtful as any whip or thumbscrew. It's really Washington's burning touch that skims possessively from the small of Haytham's back to his ass cheek, Washington's hand that gives his skin a ringing slap, Washington's dark chuckle when Haytham flinches.

Nothing I haven't done before. Nothing I haven't...

He hears Thomas spit into his hand, presumably to slick himself, then wet fingers slide along the cleft of Haytham's spread cheeks, making him shiver. Thomas gives his entrance only the most cursory of attention, almost as an afterthought. Then, Haytham feels something blunt and hot and far, far thicker than fingers press against his hole.

He can't mean to... Oh, no. No no no that wasn't nearly enough preparation he couldn't—

When Thomas' cock presses forward he feels the burn of skin against skin. He pushes and pushes, slow but unfaltering, relentless, sinking himself deeper by fractions of inches. The aphrodisiac isn't enough to mask the pain of it, not even close, and he wants to bite and scream, kick and punch out, but he can't, has to settle for clenching his fists in the fabric of Washington's breeches and moaning pleadingly around the flesh in his mouth.

He can't pretend to enjoy this. It's not possible. But Haytham's pleasure had never been the point, had it? Thomas sinks to the hilt with a grunt, his coarse hair ticking Haytham's overly sensitive flesh. Thomas pulls up Haytham's shirt and runs his hands over his scarred, quivering back, like he's trying to gentle a skittish horse. So this is what it's come to; on his knees, in public, one man in his mouth, the other in his ass, taken like a whore—no, worse, like an animal. Hickey pulls back, and part of Haytham feels like he's being pulled back along with him and he stifles a whimper at the friction.

“Always thought 'e was a tight-arse,” Hickey chuckles darkly. “Won't be, time I'm done wit' 'im.”

The hands settle on his hips, thumbs caressing the sharp ridge of bone for an instant, and then Thomas grips him hard enough to bruise, and mercilessly impales him.

He gasps around the cock in his mouth, thrashes, but Washington grabs a fistful of his hair, keeping him in place.

“Mind those teeth,” he growls, “or I'll take them from you one by one.”

He tries to scrabble forward, to escape the severity of Hickey's thrusts, only to have Washington's cock strike his tonsils, making him choke and sputter, eyes welling with tears. Washington's fingers knot in his hair and force his head up and down on the length of his cock.

“You like that, 'Atham?” Hickey hisses. “How's it feel to be the one gettin' fucked for once?”

Hickey's thrusts are agonizing. It's not the most pain he's ever endured before, but God, every push feels like the man is rubbing sand into an open wound. He's trapped between the two men, rocked back and forth between them, Hickey setting a brutal pace that Washington mirrors exactly.

“Always looked down on me and mine, didn't'cha?” he continues, “Walked around like your shit didn' stink. Treated us like we was scum. Well who's the scum now?”

It's not Thomas. It's not. They were never close enough to be friends, certainly, but Thomas had been loyal, one of the most effective tools in Haytham's arsenal, and Haytham had always given him credit where credit was due, always compensated him generously. He'd never misused him, treated him badly... had he?

“Whas that word you bandied about? Ah. Expendable.” He rests his weight on Haytham's back, the cold buttons and buckles of his uniform digging into his skin. He feels Hickey's hot breath against the shell of his ear. “You left me an' Charlie in the woods to die. Was worried more about that savage slut o' yours then your own Brothers.”

No, he wants to tell him, it's not true, I tried—but he knows better than to try to respond. Hickey's mouth goes to where Haytham's neck meets his shoulder, tongue lathing at his racing pulse.

“You brought this upon yourself, you know,” Washington says, a touch breathlessly. “If you were not so damnably willful and stubborn...”

Hickey then bites down, hard, sucking, gnawing at his flesh until the skin splits, and Haytham shudders, repressing the urge to scream.

“I wouldn't have to do this, if you would just let me in...”