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Taym had paused to take some pictures of Horace's immediate condition, dispassionate, disgusted. He wouldn't need them--there'd be records, files, video of Horace being carried into the infirmary in the state that he was in--but he had long since stopped putting faith in the willingness of the organization to keep up with these things.

Keeping up with them himself accomplished nothing, but he so rarely felt, any longer, that he had any control, and it was easier to pretend that in some small way and delude him he did than to give in to the more dangerous if more tangible methods: hunger pains and flesh receding from his ribs over the course of days, weeks, months. And there was, too, a desperate need to prove to himself: this is real. People will look the other way and people will deny but this is real. This happened. You saw it. You have proof.

As for Lawrence's delicate skin, Taym was paying it no heed, half-shoving him along in front of him, occasionally giving him an ungentle cuff alongside the head when his attention strayed too hungrily to America, like a wayward horse ridden to slaughter and sniffing a mare through a fence, getting his reins yanked until the bit dug in.

He let himself into H's office as usual, but for once he wasn't alone doing it, wasn't restless with anticipation. He was dead-eyed, careful, flat of voice and demeanor, and he spoke up before America could.

"Apologies for interrupting but your colleagues," he said, "are all indisposed, and I suspect you might like that you're going to hear this before Caelius, anyway: this one, who has a history I'm happy to regale you with should you be unaware, has a boytoy who failed to keep his appointments today. Given that history and some suspect text messages, we were concerned and went out looking, and we found said boytoy barely alive with, interestingly enough, an O carved in his chest." A pause. Generally Taym was all nervous tension and agitated hands, especially around H, but he was nothing now, as automaton and detached as Lawrence himself. "Dwight may have relayed some of this to you already, not sure if he realized the gravity of the situation. Forgive any redundancies," he said, toneless.

Lawr smiled cordially behind the gag and shook his head at H. The phone was with the bag he'd been carrying and he was not about to admit that. He did not gesture to have it removed, simply returned his attention straight back to America. He was not surprised that Dr H himself seemed moderately inclined towards speaking with the huntress on more private terms. He could not fault him and perhaps if he too found her agreeable it just might get rid of Taym.

America just gave a terse nod at the offer, quietly relieved that incident wasn't going to come up further that day.

With a sigh, the doctor went on, "Then I'll have his rooms searched." He turned an apologetic glance toward Lawrence, "I will be increasingly irritated the longer it takes to find it mind you." He sounded happy about it. "Carving an O into somebody rather complicates things, you understand. Do take out the gag," a little flap of the hand at Taym.

Taym's face visibly strained around the effort of not rolling his eyes, or possibly murdering Lawrence, or both. He mouthed the word semibreve at the ceiling.

All the friendliness went out of Lawr's smile at the use of his surname and the smile faded. If he had been unbound, he would have summoned Butch there and then, with no self preservation to stop it. It was an affront coming from a man who went without a name, who had been permitted to persist without a name, but he knew this game, this was his island and he was despite everything a prisoner.

He instead moved his attention to America and smiled politely. "There is no need to yell., missy. I am right here and my hearing is perfectly adequate."

Looking back to H he went on. "She is quite right about the raw facts of those statements, and I am sure the evidence will support those things but as for the motivation I think you will find the truth of the matter quite different. The fact is that he wanted to be treated like Miss Jones here, asked specificially for it. It was his deepest aspiration to experience what happened to her. I am the generous sort, so I indulged him. "

There was a rictus edge to his smile as he added. "Some people do request some odd things, you understand. Of course you do. It is frankly absurd to me that a man who lives under a cryptic pseudonym should not understand deviant behaviour quite intimately."

With a grin, all teeth and good cheer, the doctor got up from his chair. "It was given to me by someone I loved, and as such, the least deviant part of me." Glancing at America, the doctor briefly raised his eyebrows and then turned attention back to the captive man.

"Follow me, the two of you as well if you wish, otherwise you may consider your job done."

Compressing her lips, America glanced at Taym as the doctor ushered Lawr out of the office.

As soon as Lawr spoke to America again, given that he couldn't yank him around by the hair any more, Taym deigned to mutely spit in his face a third time (third time's the charm), right in front of H, completely apathetic and disregarding entirely Lawrence's input. Spitting in Lawrence's face didn't actually help, but it felt like it should help, and so he did it anyway, on principle and because if for no other reason Lawrence's face more or less constantly looked like it needed spitting on.

He hesitated, torn between seeing this through and getting out of the contact filth of Lawrence's presence, but in the end exhaustion--and worry for America and a desperate need to pry up the corner of her non-expressions and outbursts and see what was festering underneath, see if it was something he could fix somehow--won out. Unthinkingly wiping his hands on his jeans like they had been slimed from such prolonged contact with what he undoubtedly considered a human slug, he was almost apologetic as he reached to wrap an arm around her waist, pulling her protectively to his side and jerking his chin at the door.