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It had been well over 3 months since Dr Henry Jekyll had last taken his transforming potion, and a month or so since he had last taken the antidote. After the months of endless suffering and sickness, the months of tourment and terror at the hands of his counterpart, he had been entirely prepared for and at peace with the idea of the end. Had been entirely willing to passively fall into that thorough nothingness he so craved, to let Hyde take the reins of their somehow shared physicality. He thought, though he had never come to terms with such thought, that he had entirely brought this fate upon himself. That Hyde was his, he had created Hyde from the very depths of his own soul, that all he was was the personification of his own evil, his own depravity that he had pushed and pushed down for all his time. He prayed, often, for forgiveness. Forgiveness from a God that allowed him this in the first place, a God that had so carefully placed that evil within him and woven it into every corner and crevice of his soul, trialing him against temptation. He had believed this all to his very core, had began to surrender to it.
Yet there was still something within him telling him to push on, to not let Hyde overcome him. A selfish, desperate thought, that he was somehow worth more than his experiment. That he was somehow a good man despite Hyde's existance directly proving this untrue. Every time he thought of this, every time he reminded himself to push on, he felt a stinging pain under his ribs. As if Hyde were telling him no, stop. As if the man were protesting against this state of mind.
Dr Jekyll had found himself in that same situation once again as he sat at the desk of his cabinet to make a faint attempt at anything. He had decided to write Mr Utterson a letter to apologise for yet another cancelled dinner plan. He had only just started writing when he felt a familiar cool chill in his bones, meaning Hyde was awake, for lack of a better term. He was concious, watching through Jekylls eyes at the letter. Only recently had they discovered this ability, that they could each share one body and each be aware and responsive at one time. However, whoever the body really belonged to, would always have a slight part more control. This time, that was Dr Jekyll.
Jekyll felt the vibration at the back of his throat as Hyde let out a low growl upon reading the letter. Hyde was not fond of Mr Utterson, infact he was the only reason why Jekyll had to cancel so many plans with the lawyer. He tried to ignore the growing anger and contempt he felt, unmistakably belonging to Hyde, but overflowing into Jekyll's conciousness aswell. Hyde was upset, furious, that the doctor would even think of communicating with the lawyer again, after Hyde had made it undeniably clear that he did not want this, did not want Jekyll to remain anyhow connected to his ruined social life. Hyde wanted to isolate him, that much was evident. Hyde wanted Jekyll to depend on him like he depended on the doctor.
Jekyll continued to write in spite of this, until he felt a sharp pain shoot up his arm like lightning. His hand and wrist cramped, unmoving, as the ink from his pen wept and bled into the paper until it soaked right through. It would be highly disagreeable to send Mr Utterson a letter that had been ruined quite like this. He scowled, tossing the pen to the floor in frustration. Damn you, Hyde, he thought.
Then, a wave of warmth washed over him, sending a shiver down his spine. He felt the ghost of an arm wrap delicately around his torso, and a hand over his own. A single thought burrowed into his brain and made its home there, a thought that he knew was not his. 'Relax.' He frowned. 'Let me take care of you'.
He hated this.
Dr Jekyll hated when Hyde did this to him.
Usually Hyde would express his anger through violence. He would go and find helpless rodents to mutilate, or stalk and frighten an innocent traveller. Jekyll knew his habits, knew what to expect when Hyde was bothered by something. But with the doctor, it was different. He could not hurt him. Hyde needed him, needed the hiding place within his being and his home. Hyde was too afraid of nothingness to indulge in suicide, and Jekyll knew this. So instead of lashing out, he would turn to this. This unnatural, unnerving softness he would fall into. A gentle demon, a cruel saint within the doctors bones.
Jekyll knew what he wanted. Knew that this was nothing more than a manipulation technique, nothing more than a furious Hyde attempting to pull Jekyll back under his control in the way he knew worked best.
And God, did it work.
The doctor relaxed completely in his chair, giving in to the gentle, half-existant touches of the other. He felt the ghost of a hand over his chest, and he let out a breath he was unaware he'd even been holding in. The hand moved up to his cheek, cradling his face, and he melted at the sweet whispers that met his ear, telling him again to relax. He obliged.
He knew what would happen if he kept letting Hyde take control over him like this. He knew that every second he wasn't fighting back, every moment he didn't push Hyde down and away, that Hyde was becoming more powerful. He knew that soon, the doctor would become the ghost-like counterpart, and Hyde would have all the control. At first, the thought of this horrified him. But now, after all these months of isolation and depression, that didn't seem so bad. Infact, the idea of simply becoming a passenger of life and letting this tender, loving monster he had created take over, take care of his home and their bodies, sounded far superior to his current situation.
So, when Hyde told him to forget about the letter and return to bed, that's just what he did. He pulled the thick, cool sheets up over his head and waited desperately for more. For more hands on him, more sweet whispers in his ear. But he was met with nothing.
Hyde had gotten what he wanted. Jekyll was dependant on Hyde's affection, just as the creature was dependant on him as a place of hiding. The demon knew exactly how to play the doctor like an instrument, and what miserable music they made. It only took one touch, one word from his counterpart for the doctor to give in.
In his case, to be tempted, however slightly, was to fall.