Manufacturing Consent
James stalked out of Tina's rooms, hurt and rage flooding him, his responses just barely in check. He could almost feel her skin under his palms, perhaps her throat, perhaps her body, soft and yielding as he fucked her until she wanted him again.
But no. He'd never wanted that. He wanted her the way she was, the way she'd been, warm and willing and sweet. They way he'd never wanted anyone before. Mere days ago, McCoy had asked if he had considered staying, and now... now Tina was accusing him of one thing he knew he'd never want from her.
He knew what the word meant. It meant coercion, force. It meant discipline and pain. It meant taking something the other person didn't want to give. It meant being thirteen and alone and hungry, before he'd learned what he needed to do and done it, if not willingly, at least with something like consent.
The night he'd shown up at Tina's door, for reasons he still could not fathom, and she'd mistaken him for Jim... That night had changed his life. The sex, not spectacular by most measures, had been moving beyond his experience, and ever since he'd not been able to look on another woman with the same desire. It had led to everything. It had led to his becoming the sort of person she could clear a drawer for.
And she was calling it rape.
His motives, at this remove, were cloudy. What had he wanted? To get back at Jim, perhaps. To humiliate him. He'd been using her, taking advantage of her trust, her disorientation. But was that the same thing? Was that the same as fighting and clawing and not taking "no"--the real no, not the other one--for an answer?
He didn't understand.
Dimly, he knew he wouldn't do it again. To her, anyway. Now, who he was, how he felt, it would not have interested him half so much, to take her believing he was Jim. It had changed his life but it had been hollow, too, knowing he had only been granted that haven because she thought he was a man he hated. And he had worked to become "James," to be his own man in her eyes.
Well, he'd succeeded.
But no. He'd never wanted that. He wanted her the way she was, the way she'd been, warm and willing and sweet. They way he'd never wanted anyone before. Mere days ago, McCoy had asked if he had considered staying, and now... now Tina was accusing him of one thing he knew he'd never want from her.
He knew what the word meant. It meant coercion, force. It meant discipline and pain. It meant taking something the other person didn't want to give. It meant being thirteen and alone and hungry, before he'd learned what he needed to do and done it, if not willingly, at least with something like consent.
The night he'd shown up at Tina's door, for reasons he still could not fathom, and she'd mistaken him for Jim... That night had changed his life. The sex, not spectacular by most measures, had been moving beyond his experience, and ever since he'd not been able to look on another woman with the same desire. It had led to everything. It had led to his becoming the sort of person she could clear a drawer for.
And she was calling it rape.
His motives, at this remove, were cloudy. What had he wanted? To get back at Jim, perhaps. To humiliate him. He'd been using her, taking advantage of her trust, her disorientation. But was that the same thing? Was that the same as fighting and clawing and not taking "no"--the real no, not the other one--for an answer?
He didn't understand.
Dimly, he knew he wouldn't do it again. To her, anyway. Now, who he was, how he felt, it would not have interested him half so much, to take her believing he was Jim. It had changed his life but it had been hollow, too, knowing he had only been granted that haven because she thought he was a man he hated. And he had worked to become "James," to be his own man in her eyes.
Well, he'd succeeded.