•••

"She doesn't really love you."

Deckard didn't turn around; it would have been pointless to do so. His replicant quarry moved far too quickly to be caught in such a maneuver anyway. "How would you know?" He asked instead, eyes scanning for a suitable place to use as bait for Roy.

Roy laughed. "She's a replicant, and we're not programmed to love."

"You learned to hate. Besides, Pris loved you," Deckard pointed out, slipping into a side room.

"I was taught to hate," Roy corrected, his voice a disembodied hand wrapping around Deckard's neck. "There's a difference, you know."

Deckard paused, focusing in on the sound of footsteps. They were too light to be Roy's, too... feminine.

"Pris didn't love me; she fucked me," Were the next words, practically whispered in Deckard's ears. "There's a difference there, too."

Deckard let himself smirk. "I know," He replied. "If you've been taught to hate, she can be taught to love."

This time, Roy just laughed. "By you? The first prerequisite of education is that the teacher must know the subject."

Deckard's only response was a brief grimace. He waited for Roy to say something else, to continue taunting him.

Nothing happened. Silence echoed in the condemned hotel, water trickling down the broken windows.

"You think you know love?" Roy asked, kicking Deckard's gun away from the detective. Deckard found himself slammed against a decaying wall, Roy Batty pressed against him, arm across Deckard's neck.

"More than you do," Deckard wheezed, fighting the replicant's grip.

Roy laughed again. "We'll see..." Deckard froze as an inhumanly strong hand slid between his thighs. Fresh waves of rage flowed through him as his body reacted, not caring in the least who was providing the stimulation.

And then cool, moist lips were pressed against Deckard's ear, even as rain-slickened fingers grasped his erection. "Maybe this is love," Roy hissed, stroking Deckard off with short, hard strokes. "Body wanting and mind wishing it was dead. Anything to wake up from a dream so real it makes you puke out your childhood?"

"Or is it this?" Roy inquired as he shifted lower, pressing up on Deckard's perineum before sliding a finger up inside the detective. The blonde had unerring aim and a second later, Deckard was swearing as his cock jumped and his knees buckled. "Forcing yourself to come, just so you can roll over and kill your lover. Maybe that's love."

Deckard gritted his teeth against the onslaught, but Roy had no mercy on the man. He didn't let up until Deckard was a limp, panting pile of boneless limbs, sinking into the muck on the floor. "We can always ask her, I suppose," Roy murmured as he stepped back and turned to leave.

"If you touch so much as a--"

Roy cut Deckard off by throwing a broken chair at him. "Don't bother threatening me, Deckard. I won't do a thing to her." With that, Roy was gone, a blonde shadow fading into blackness.

Deckard was pulling himself together when he heard Roy's voice again.

"It's not like I have to, anyway."