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Apparently this world has weirder things than interdimensional vortices. That's a positive. Also a positive is that this world has a Daily Show and they take him in as soon as they hear about him. They send their own Jon to get him – Jon assumes, anyway. Maybe OtherJon found out and came after him on his own. No one at the studio seems surprised, at least.
He spends the day Not Freaking Out in OtherJon's office, which looks pretty much like his but with a nicer chair and sofa, better carpet, and a sturdier lock. There's also a list of prominent conservatives low and discrete on one wall by the desk – a running list, it looks like, over a few years. It takes up three sheets of yellow legal pad paper, two columns each, with a few names crossed off, and around two thirds check marked. Most of them are familiar from his own world.
The news sounds pretty much the same, too, except gay marriage was okayed in 95' so they're fighting over polygamy, now, and things with tentacles are helping with flood clean-up. It's possible that Jon's in shock, but neither of those seem like a big deal.
OtherJon is in and out all day and they talk some and he seems like a cool guy. Much less stressed, for all he seems to be doing all the same things, and less self-conscious. He changes clothes in the middle of the room, talking to Jon, and answers the door half-dressed and Jon has no problem stripping down for a laugh but he'd have a hard time being that casual about it.
Something keeps him, all day, from asking about Stephen. He doesn't know – he knows exactly what it is. He knows, or he thinks he knows, that him and Stephen have been building up to something, reaching a point where change is going to happen (and not fall flat once the votes are counted, please), and if this Jon's already made it there with his Stephen he's not sure he wants to know. Especially since he's pretty sure there are hickeys going from OtherJon's jaw down to his collarbone and chest and he can't decide if he's more afraid to find out that OtherStephen's responsible for them or that somebody else is.
On his way out back for a cigarette, close to showtime, he overhears OtherJon talking to OtherSam.
“These are going to be a pain in the ass to cover up.”
“Thought you'd be used to it, by now.”
“Slips my mind.”
“I bet. You should keep better control of your paramours. How many were there, this weekend, to soothe the sting of rejection?”
“Just the one, actually.”
“. . . Seriously?”
It's about then Jon books it because there are a couple of ways to interpret that and he'd rather not interpret it at all because there's no way to look at it that doesn't mean his counterpart is definitely getting laid a lot more than he is a that's just not cool.
With that in mind, he seals himself up in the private bathroom in the office and thinks of home, of Stephen, of Stephen the way the last saw him, leaning against the office doorframe, smugly smiling, eyes shining, and then of Stephen as he hopes to see him, pale skin a contrast to Jon's midnight blue sheets.
He jerks off in his counterpart's bathroom then falls asleep on his couch. It seems like the most productive possible use of his time in an alternate reality.
Jon wakes up because the phone rings. OtherJon answers on the first ring and he lies there half-awake as he speaks low, trying not to disturb him. That's sweet.
“Hello?” he says. “Hey, baby, what – Yeah, that's right. We've got him here.”
Oh, good, he's being discussed. Maybe he should wake up now. So Jon shifts and stretches, rousing himself more fully as OtherJon continues.
“He's just waking up from a nap. Yes, of course. Not yet.” Jon looks over and OtherJon is out of his suit, shirtless again, still drying his hair with one hand. He waves with the towel and Jon smiles back. He slept through the whole taping. Great.
“You'll be the first – yeah, safe bet. I won't know until – uh-huh, right. See you then, barring disaster. Bye, babe.” He hangs up and looks at Jon, again, smiling. “Welcome back.”
“Charmed,” Jon says. “Does interdimensional travel always wreck you like this?”
“No idea. It's not what you call an everyday occurrence.”
“No? You didn't seem particularly fazed by it.”
“Eh.” He shrugs then pulls on a t-shirt from the bag by the desk. “You good to go?”
Jon blinks at him.
“Go where?”
“Well, you could sleep here all night but I figured you might as well come crash with me. If you want to, I mean.”
“You sure I won't be in the way or something?”
“Wouldn't be offering if you were.” He runs a hand through his damp hair and Jon sees a flash of familiar exhaustion in his smile. “Come on, dude. Let's get out of here. We can get pizza on the way.”
The very mention makes Jon's stomach groan audibly. OtherJon gives a quiet laugh, covering it with his hand.
“That a yes?” he asks.
“That's a yes,” Jon says. As he follows OtherJon out, it finally occurs to him to ask the question everybody wants to ask their alternate reality counterpart. “Is it still borrowing if I bum clothes from you?”
“Yes,” OtherJon says. “And if you don't give them back, it's still stealing.”
For the sheer hell of it, Jon says, “You talk with a lot of authority for a guy who doesn't have much experience with interdimensional travel.”
They argue about it. It's kind of fun.
OtherJon breaks first, when the pizza's gone and they're both contemplating a third beer. (One advantage of hanging out with your alternate reality counterpart: They're probably going to have your brand of beer on hand.) They're on the couch with their shoes off and Fox News playing with the sound on low. It's creeping up on eleven thirty; habit dictates changing the channel, soon, and Jon's eying the remote, feeling weird about it.
OtherJon says, “Okay. Cards on the table. How's Stephen doing?”
Jon coughs and rubs his chest. OtherJon is looking at him but he can't look back.
“Top rated comedy show,” he says. “Millions of followers who hang on his every word and offer him giant piles of money they should be spending on weed. Way fewer Emmys than he deserves. But, I'll still have to say 'not bad'.”
“Sounds about right,” OtherJon says.
“So the Emmy thing – ?”
“Is a multiversal constant.”
“Motherfucker.”
They pause to meditate on incompetence unbound by time, space, and existence itself.
There's a moment of Zen for you.
Jon snorts then glances at OtherJon, who echoes his rueful smile.
OtherJon says, “Now that that's out of the way. We both know he would've come up sooner if he were just the dude with the spinoff.”
Jon grants it.
“Stephen's not just anything,” he says.
“You don't have to tell me.” Another brief pause. “Are you fucking him?”
Even expecting it, Jon can't fight the torrent of giggles that bursts forth. He buries his face in his hands and says, “No. Oh, god. No. Are you?”
“Fuck, yes. Frequently. All last weekend. Since, like – since thirty-six hours after we met. Why the hell not?”
Jon peeks out through his fingers and finds OtherJon giggling, too, through an expression of unbridled incredulity. Laughter overwhelms him again.
“Seriously,” OtherJon forces out between giggles. “Why the – How the hell not? Is he – Is he less hot over there? Did he fucking – Did he get married? Is he a priest? Is he – He can't be straight.”
Jon chokes, the horrified fascination of his counterpart's voice somehow one of the funniest things he's ever heard.
“Dude,” he says. “Come on. You know there's gotta be a world out there where he's, like, living in some fancy-ass suburb with a wife and a load of kids.”
“Yeah, and I bet we are, too. I also bet he still can't keep his hands off us. And that's not your world, right? So why not?”
“Why isn't he married with a bunch of kids?”
OtherJon elbows him hard in the ribs. He pushes back and the ensuing scuffle ends only when they fall off the couch. Jon lands on top and, as he levers himself up, OtherJon blinks up at him twice.
“What?” he says.
OtherJon shakes his head, a little too quickly, and says, “Nothing,” then shoves Jon up. “Smartass.”
For all the shoving, he flops down a lot closer than before. Jon doesn't mind; if OtherJon shares in his somewhat embarrassing tenancy to cuddle after a couple of beers, better for him.
Once settled, OtherJon shuts off the TV and says, again, “Why not? And no evading, this time. We are too old and in too poor health to do that shit again.”
“Fair enough,” Jon says. He'd kind of like another beer but OtherJon is leaning on his arm and moving seems like too much effort. “But, I mean – I don't really know.” He frowns as he thinks back. “It's like – I was his boss. And I was just coming off a bad break up. And – I got over it but I was still his boss and – Then it's ten years later and he's still totally gorgeous and I still haven't had sex with him.”
“Huh.”
Jon chances a glance over and finds OtherJon staring at middle distance.
“Bad break up?”
Jon makes a face.
“I really don't like to talk about it.”
“And you're over it?”
He sounds skeptical. Jon shrugs.
“I mean, I am. It's not like I'm hung up on it. It's just embarrassing is all.”
“Ah.” OtherJon leans a little more weight on him. “And we – don't deal well with personal embarrassment.”
“Are there any multiversal constants that don't suck?”
“Stephen's hot in your world?”
“Really, really hot.”
“There you go. Though I guess that only counts if you're actually doing him.”
Jon sputters.
“Hey,” he says. “I am perfectly capable of appreciating Stephen's hotness without putting my dick in him.”
“Well, obviously.”
“Damn righ – wait, what?”
“I said, 'obviously'.”
OtherJon's smile is so smug there should probably be some kind of law against it. Jon's not sure where this conversation is going or if he's going to like it but he is intrigued.
“Which, in this context, would imply – what?”
“Would imply,” OtherJon says and looks him directly in the eye, “that I know you're capable of it because I've done it. Or haven't done it.”
“But, wait.” He did say 'since we met'. Jon knows he did. He heard him. “You mean – in ten years – ”
OtherJon is grinning, now, the breathless, almost giddy grin of someone with a hell of a story to tell.
“Here,” he says. “Let me show you.”
“Well. That would certainly explain it.”
“Thought it might.”
“. . . May I ask – ?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
So, now Jon is sitting here with his alternate universe counterpart and his alternate universe counterpart is sitting here with his pants (pants Jon owns in his world, with less belt loops torn loose) around his knees and he's smirking but Jon knows that more owing to his tone of voice than anything because he hasn't been able to look away from the total lack of dick between his legs. OtherJon doesn't seem to mind; after a few long moments, he hitches up his hips to kick his pants off entirely and spreads his legs a little so Jon can see – so Jon can see. Jesus.
“You know, it's really impolite to let your host go naked alone.”
“Huh?”
Jon is distracted by what he can't quite see, by his deep desire to see, and by his concern over whether he should want to see. It takes a second or two to look up.
“Sorry, what?”
OtherJon has gone a little red, eyes shining, and he's still smiling.
“Wait, you mean – ?”
“Pants off,” he says. “I showed you mine.”
In a couple of bewildered seconds, Jon is undoing his own pants.
“This is so fucking weird,” he says.
OtherJon is watching his progress more closely than he is and replies, “Doesn't seem like it's bothering you all that much.”
“What?” He looks down at his open fly. “I can't believe I'm getting turned on by this.”
“Go with it,” OtherJon says and in the next moment he's in Jon's space, helping him drag his pants down. Jon hears him sigh a little as his half-formed erection is released and when he glances over he finds him with one knee drawn up on the couch and – he's definitely wet down there. Okay.
Go with it.
“Dude,” Jon says and reaches out to touch his hips. “Are we about to have sex?”
“God, I hope so.”
Maybe it's because it's weird it's so hot. The next moments are a jumble of warmth and surreality as Jon fumbles his hands up OtherJon's shirt, touching skin and hair that's so familiar it's almost alien, and he squirms to cooperate in getting his pants the rest of the way off. He catches at the hair around OtherJon's nipples and hears him suck in air through his teeth; somehow that reminds him.
“Hey,” Jon says.
“What?” OtherJon looks up, mind visibly on other things.
“Uh – Won't Stephen mind?”
“St – What? Why would he? Shift, dammit.”
Jon shifts and OtherJon has to lean over to get rid of his pants.
“I mean – Aren't you – ?”
“Fucking him? Yes. But I'm also – Fuck. Okay.”
OtherJon catches his arms and sits back to look him in the face. Jon's hands linger under his shirt, at his waist, and he feels his grip at his biceps tighten, telling him they're okay as they are. (Another advantage of alternate reality counterparts: It's remarkably easy to interpret your own body language.)
“Look,” OtherJon says. “I fuck people. It's kind of a hobby I have.”
“A hobby.”
“Or a habit. I don't know, it's fun.” Jon flexes his fingers at his waist and OtherJon shifts a little closer. “Brian Williams,” he says. “Fuck him every time he comes on. Bill O'Reilly. Same. Glenn Beck. Tucker Carlson – which was horrible, by the way, he has no idea what he's doing.”
Jon lets out a giggle. It sounds kind of hysterical and OtherJon's hands move up to his shoulders and squeeze.
“Part of me loves knowing that,” Jon says. “The rest is horrified by the idea of getting close enough to find out. No offense.”
“None taken,” OtherJon says. Jon's not really expecting an explanation and maybe that's why he gets one. “Those assholes are so smug and superior but at the end of the day they're whores just like the rest of us. Someone needs to remind them of that.”
Jon shakes his head and tugs him a little closer.
“Humiliating them with reason isn't enough?” he asks.
OtherJon makes a soft sound of acknowledgment.
“It's all right,” he says. “But getting fucked is pretty awesome.”
Jon can agree with that and nods without thinking about it. OtherJon smiles.
“Denis,” he says. “Obviously. Every unmarried correspondent and some of the married ones. With spousal consent, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Or spousal collaboration. Whichever.”
Jon giggles again. OtherJon continues his list.
“Anderson Cooper. Jimmy Fallon. Rahm Emanuel. Austan Goolsbee. Gordon Brown.” He grins and adds, “Bruce Springsteen.”
“Motherfucker!”
OtherJon laughs. He slides his hands down to rest on Jon's chest and focuses his eyes on them, going quiet for a moment before continuing.
“The point is,” he says, “I fuck a lot of people.” Jon watches his face and feels something – affection – connection, maybe, if that's too narcissistic – something that makes him spread his hands against his sides and hold on a little tighter.
“I fuck a lot of people,” he says again, slow, deliberate. “And Stephen.”
Jon sees his lips form the words, sees the smile that flickers over them and the softness in his eyes, tender, private things, and it takes him a moment to get past the strangeness of seeing so much in his own face to say, “Oh.”
OtherJon smiles and moves his hands back up to curl around his shoulders.
“Yeah,” he says and meets Jon's eyes. “Oh.”
There's another of those moments, that surreal connected feeling, that feeling that's something like affection but it's himself he's talking about, more or less, the self he might have been. OtherJon smiles back at him and draws him in and in the next moment they're kissing.
Strange. Wet and deep, warm mouths connecting, both new and familiar and Jon already knows just what to do, knows just how this partner likes to be kissed before they ever begin. They're both doing it, slow and searching, tongues pressing and sliding and there's something close to magic about knowing and being known, like this, something fascinating and otherworldly, and it goes on for a while.
Jon is pulled down on top of his counterpart, touching and kissing, coaxing little moans from each other, building slow heat and pressure. Jon is hard, has been hard, and suddenly he's so hard it's painful and when he slips a hand down to touch, OtherJon is just as wet. A part of him wants to go ahead and do it, just push in and fuck him slow and deep, just like this, and the way he moans and arches up and holds tighter at his back is a temptation. But Jon's curious, still. He wants to know. So he pulls back from his mouth and looks down at him, both of them panting out loud, and holds one of his shoulders still as he fingers his clitoris.
“Ah – ” OtherJon's eyes fall closed and his hips shift up, short, needy little thrusts as Jon strokes around and over, gently teasing until he's gasping and squirming, hands digging into Jon's skin. Then his fingers slip down and in, penetrating in a moment. OtherJon gives another little shout and his legs spread wider, thrusting up as two slide in to the hilt.
“Oh – Ah – Fuck – ”
Jon presses his thumb to his clitoris and OtherJon jerks up, groaning in earnest, then fumbles a hand down to wrap around Jon's swollen dick. “F – Fuck – ” Jon's rhythm shudders inside him and OtherJon grunts, squeezing as he strokes and making Jon moan.
“C'mon,” he says. “Do it – Put it – Put it in me.”
“Fuck – ” Jon thrusts into his hand.
OtherJon is shifting underneath him and in a moment he's got his knees up around Jon and he's grunting and writhing under his shivering hand.
“C'mon,” he says, voice getting louder and needier with very passing moment. “C'mon, do it. Do – ah – ”
Jon pushes in another finger as he shifts his thumb up and OtherJon moans aloud, hand dropping from his cock to clutch at the couch cushion. The loss is frustrating but Jon can almost focus, now, on thrusting his fingers and rubbing with the pad of his thumb as OtherJon shudders and moans. He pulls away from his grasping hands and down where he can see shining pink skin, graying hair, can lick his swollen clitoris, the wet folds of his labia, and OtherJon is whimpering, now, squirming in his grip.
To a moan of distress, Jon pulls his fingers out and begins to rain brief, close-mouthed kisses over his damp skin, against his opening and up, almost to his clitoris, then back down. OtherJon is making needy, frustrated noises and cursing at him, which makes Jon smile before he darts out his tongue to lap up some of his wetness then begins kissing, again, over his vagina then out, against the joint where his thigh begins. He's enjoying his counterpart's ragged breathing, the heat of his body, the flex of his muscles. Their body hair is another multiversal constant and Jon doesn't really mind. He runs the tip of his tongue along the crease of his leg, close beside his vagina, and hears OtherJon moan, again.
“Fuck – fu – can you – ”
Jon urges OtherJon's legs over his shoulders and lets himself be drawn in, his mouth pressing deeper into wet folds of flesh. He pushes his tongue in, at last, licks his way down into his vagina as deep as he can go.
OtherJon moans and his thighs tremble and tense around Jon as he flexes his tongue, twisting and licking in deep, then out again, and around. Jon's fingers return to work him inside as his mouth moves back to his clitoris, giving light, flickering licks that make his breath catch then delicate sucks around and finally against it. All the time his counterpart is moaning and gasping, hands dug into the couch, cries growing louder and harsher until orgasm finally hits, slow and heavy.
When Jon sits up, OtherJon, with a dazed smile, uses his fingers to wipe fluid from his face then wraps them around his cock. Jon's been ignoring it, heavy and aching, but now he groans, hard, and makes a grab for OtherJon's arm. OtherJon stays with it, for a moment, and keeps his eyes fixed on Jon's cock as he gives it two long strokes. Jon shudders and moans as OtherJon lets goes then shakes off his grip.
“Come on,” he says. “Fuck me. It's all yours.”
Jon knows, on some level, he shouldn't, but he starts giggling. OtherJon makes a sound that's either annoyed or amused then drags him down and kisses him, again, rolling up his hips so Jon can feel his wetness against his erection. He cuts off with a hiss and OtherJon swallows the sound, arching his back, then groans loud into his mouth as he pushes in.
“Yes. Fuck. Yes.” He shudders, hands tight at Jon's shoulders. “Harder.”
Jon catches him by the hips and thrusts harder, pushing deep into slickness and heat. He can feel his muscles shift and contract from within and his own voice is moaning, both of them are, and he can't tell which is which. He pushes his face into OtherJon's neck while OtherJon puts his arms tight around him, pushing up to meet every thrust and when he gasps and whimpers Jon knows he's found the right angle.
He thrusts harder, deeper, and hears the whimpers get louder. Jon's getting closer, maybe getting there too fast, groaning into skin as he shoves himself in ever harder and OtherJon is saying, “fuck, fuck, yes, yes, like that, yes, little more, yes, yes, just a – just – ”
And then he's shuddering beneath him, moaning, again, and Jon can feel another orgasm rippling through him, feel his body, warm and restless, muscles flexing around him in release, and he thrusts hard, keeps thrusting through it and he feels it happen, again, another rising at the end of the last and OtherJon is moaning louder, now, almost as loud as Jon is and he can tell the difference now, knows which is which, and lost in the last fluttering tremors of OtherJon's orgasm, he comes, too, deep underneath.
Jon lies with his head against his counterpart's shoulder, breathing in deep, ragged gasps as warm fingers scratch up his back and through his hair. OtherJon's pants even out before his and he says, “Okay, that was – fuck, dude. Okay. I'm taking you to bed with me and then – I'm going to cuddle the shit out of you and then – we're doing that again.”
Jon bursts at once into crazed giggles and shoves his face into his neck, squeezing tighter. In a moment, OtherJon dissolves with him into breathless laughter and hugs him close.
“Is this,” Jon says. “Is this really – really narcissistic?”
“No.” OtherJon's lips touch his head. “What would be narcissistic is if I said I always knew I'd be fantastic fuck.”
“Did you?”
“Didn't you?”
Jon hesitates for all of half a second before admitting, “It had crossed my mind.”
OtherJon starts giggling again.
“I can't believe I thought you might not be up for it,” he says. “You slut.”
“Me? Who here fucked Tucker Carlson?”
“Hey, that was for the greater good! And also – Springsteen!”
Another advantage of hanging out with yourself? You know all your own weak spots. Jon is in convenient reach of his own ticklish zones and barely thinks before he attacks. His counterpart shrieks – he really does have the girliest laugh ever, shit – and flails and manages to retaliate and more minutes are lost before they're somehow making out again and it's nice and hot and OtherJon's a really, really good kisser but it's still so fucking weird and apparently he agrees because they break, again, into simultaneous fits of giggles.
“Oh my god,” Jon says and drops his head back onto OtherJon's shoulder. Arms rise and wrap around him, warm and firm. “Am I – Are we – Am I in shock?”
“Maybe.” OtherJon hugs him tighter and his lips touch Jon's temple. “But I hope not. There are ethical problems with banging the emotionally disturbed.”
Jon laughs again, more quietly now, and settles down against him. A few minutes pass in silence; OtherJon's hands wander over his shoulders, and his heartbeat is solid, reassuring under his ear. The surreality of snuggling with himself lurks in the corners of his awareness and he ignores it by force. Whatever the case, he's comfortable. Astonishingly comfortable. It had never occurred to him to wonder if he was himself comfortable to cuddle up to but now he knows. He just hopes that, when he gets home, Stephen will agree.
The vortex spits Jon out again at one AM on a Sunday. At one-thirty he's banging on Stephen's front door. He's less worried about his reception than about the possibility he'll chicken out if he waits for a reasonable, human hour.
Stephen answers with his eyes wide and his hair sticking up, the wrinkles of his pillowcase recorded in pink across his cheek. He looks confused, alarmed, not entirely awake, and he is the single most desirable thing Jon has ever seen.
Jon has just the presence of mind to ask, “Are you alone?” and receive a dazed affirmation before he's pushing Stephen back and following him though the door. He hears it swing shut with a wooden snick then pulls him down.
There's a pause of maybe three seconds within which all Jon can hear is Stephen's gasp, warm and moist where their lips meet, and the thundering of his own heart. It's enough time to think 'maybe waiting to chicken out would have been the better plan' and enough time to feel the human heat of Stephen's body through his t-shirt, the solidity of bone and muscle under his skin, to feel his lips, the shape and width of them, how well they fit against Jon's, and it's more than he ever seriously thought he might get so whatever else happens, this can't be the worst decision he's ever made.
And then it becomes the very best because Stepen's arms are closing around his waist, pulling them closer together, and their bodies fit as well as their lips do, better, warm and secure, molding against each other, and Stephen welcomes Jon's tongue into his mouth, takes it, sucks on it, and that's it, that's done it. It's Jon's gasp, this time, muffled and choked, and he breaks away to bury his face in Stephen's neck.
Oh, shit. Holy shit, he thinks and he's never wanted anything in the whole world more than he wants this, has always wanted this, has always –
“Ten – Ten fucking year,” Stephen's saying, his voice rough and low against Jon's ear, “and you couldn't wait until I'd brushed my teeth?”
Jon bursts into giggles, half-hysterical, and hugs Stephen harder.
“Should I – Should I have made an appointment?” he asks. “I thought spontaneity was romantic.”
“There's spontaneity,” Stephen tells him, “and then there's guerrilla warfare. For future reference? Guerrilla warfare is not romantic.”
They're still standing there, embracing in Stephen's entryway, Jon's head against Stephen's shoulder, Stephen's hands running firm tracks along Jon's back, and their hearts aren't beating so loud, now. There's something bright and shivery in Jon's chest that might soon settle into peace which is, next to Stephen, the only thing Jon has ever really wanted out of this world. Figures they'd amount to the same thing.
He sighs and snuggles closer.
“I'll bear it in mind,” he says and there's a voice in his brain, both him and not him, saying, Why did we never do this before?
I don't know, he tells it. Maybe because I'm an idiot?
That's what you get for having a cock.
He giggles again and feels Stephen's lips against his temple. It makes Jon melt a little and he wants to feel a few hundred more times, see if it always will. The voice has an opinion on the subject but Jon doesn't get to hear it.
Stephen says, “Hey,” and right now that's more important. Probably it always will be.
Jon shakes the other him off and tips his head back to meet Stephen's eyes, palms sliding down to overlay his clavicle.
“Hey,” he says and smiles. Stephen smiles back, so soft and sweet Jon has to kiss him again. It's shorter, closer to chaste, and afterward their foreheads rest together.
“Okay?” Jon asks. It means a lot of things. Stephen laughs.
“Yeah,” he says and his hands slip into Jon's and squeeze. “Coming?” he asks and Jon refrains from making it profane.
Instead he teases, “You want me?”
Stephen's already stepping back, tugging him along. His smile is like the sunrise from space, making art of the whole globe.
“Always,” he says and Jon lets himself be pulled along, through the darkened apartment, and into the bedroom.