Chapter Text
Leland had taken to his role at Murkoff for a few months by this point. He was promised that he would be important here. That he’d make a difference major enough to be remembered by history, but he wasn’t so sure that was why he was here.
On the surface, he was doing something grand. Taking orders, creating change, enforcing this place’s version of the law. He killed druggies, beatniks, perverts, rapists, whores, and communists. This place was his own little haven, where he got to feign the role of a leader. Of a warden maintaining order.
Yet, there was one thought always hanging over his head like a sword held by the thinnest of threads; and everyday, that thread splintered and grew thinner. He knew that one day he’d let his guard down for too long and that sword would come crashing down and split him down the center. Then he’d have died with no purpose and no awe-inspiring contribution to this country.
That thought, shiny and sharp, was Dr. Easterman. The real leader of this facility; hidden behind monitors and shrouded in shadows, but with a voice that proved inescapable. He watched Leland with a gaze that was predatory, but his words preached about purpose. He had this way about him that created fanatics, and Leland had no intention on falling victim.
He had come close when he first arrived here. He let the doctor’s words fill his head with haze and paint his glasses with a blinding, rosy tint. He carved out a deep pit within the officer’s stomach and filled it to the brim with a poison that made him crave the sort of praise that only he could deliver.
On the darkest of nights in his cell, on nights where the AC hummed off-key and footsteps clacked with too much force, Leland could feel that pit sloshing around; a grim concoction of honey flavored bile that made his eyes burn and caused a tingling discomfort between his legs.
That first day he met Easterman had been one made up of grave mistakes. The doctor wasn’t handsome in a conventional sort of way; he was lanky and gaunt with thinning hair that had started greying far too early in life. He dressed sharp with well fitted suits and nice shoes, but his glasses sat too low on the bridge of his nose.
Leland’s unfortunate attractive towards that man hadn’t been founded on something vein like lust. It wasn’t his appearance- it was his voice. It was the promise laced between every word he uttered in a soft, praising voice.
Leland had let the doctor place his hands across his bare skin; he tasted the man, let him fill him with warmth. He had gotten caught up in the moment and allowed things to get out of hand. He knew it was a mistake, one that he’d pay for when his clock ticked its last; but he didn’t regret it, and that was the worst part.
Since that day, Leland had swallowed down every word from Easterman like communion wine filled with poison; it was bitter and hard to choke down, but he forced it past his gullet for the sake of devotion.
He didn’t sleep much. He just stared at the camera mounted on his wall. Wondered if Easterman listened intently for every sound Leland made. If he watched every shiver that crawled its way across his skin. He wanted to know if Easterman was just as obsessed with him as he had found himself to be.
He hoped the answer was no. He needed the answer to be no. Because if the answer was yes, then Leland didn’t think he’d be able to stop himself from wanting him. He’d have damned himself further. He’d feel hellfire nipping at his heels and Easterman would push him down for the flames to engulf, all the while telling him to embrace his purpose.
He’d wrap Leland’s trauma and problems in a neat little package and kiss a bow onto it while claiming it was love. He wanted to hear Easterman spit venomous hate. Spit enough cruelty that Leland would be able to walk away and forget about lithe fingers trailing across his body.
He prayed until his throat was raw and his voice cracked. Until his knees were sore and aching. He prayed that Easterman would cast him aside like he was filth so his life could be easier. He needed for the doctor to make him feel worthless because he didn’t know what to do with genuine admiration.
He knew what to do with lust. Lust allowed you take what you wanted then get out without a scratch. He knew what to do with fear. Fear could be twisted into pseudo loyalty. You could paint fear into devotion, but never into worship; no matter which way you spun it.
He sat in Easterman’s office, slouched over in the chair across from the doctor. A piece of his mind was chipped away every time Easterman moved or spoke and replaced with some horribly wrong form of worship.
He didn’t know why he was here. Easterman had done nothing to insinuate his purpose yet. He sat there in silence, barking back sarcastic jabs when Easterman’s banter called for it; but he didn’t rest easy. He needed to know what Easterman thought of him, and he needed to know how God would view him for it.